Probe

Chrome coloured metallic tip on a long needle, taste the light thrill-buzz of electricity on my tongue to check that you are working. Cold to the touch. I move around, finding the perfect point of balance to rest your tip on the contacts. When there is continuity you beep. A thicker more corroded metal tip is also placed on the contacts, but this time there is heat. Strong enough to feel a centimetre away from my fingertips. I can sense the radius of that heat. When the solder melts and the flux is released, an acrid smell of smoke and electronic parts rises and I need to move my head away from the poisonous curls. Or I can go back to an earlier time, where a similar tip is made of glass and a bulb on the end is filled with a drop of mercury. I place it on my tongue when it is cold and let my own natural heat transfer, watching the mercury rise like a needle to a point that tells me I have a fever. To go back to another time, the electric contact is at the end of a small, red plastic wand, tethered to the game's box by a red wire. I need the utmost concentration and control over my hand. No shaking, just accuracy. This is the only way to navigate the metal route laid out through the painted body's parts. One deviation from the route and the wand and the track make contact and the red light in the nose glows bright red and the buzzer sounds, sending a thrill of failure through me.

Wooden Floor

Long pale panels, nailed together like criminals lined up for execution. Length-wise grain and fingerprint whorls and knots and dots of yet more nails. Scratched from wear and tear and the movement of furniture. Sometimes dark rosewood and glossy and sticky to the touch, sometimes pale beech and satin finished smooth on the fingertips. Where the planks aren't lined up perfectly are gaps that are minor speed bumps to my fingers running perpendicular along the surface. Smells of older woods that are dry and musty, covered in the future by potent lacquers that penetrate. Parquetry of smaller tiles all criss-crossed with random shades of wood, fit together in larger tiles that make for a floor that feels unbreakable under the heel of my boot, clonking throughout the house, creaking in spots I learn to remember and avoid. This wooden floor is raised metres above the ground and through a small hole in the wood come the earthy smells of hidden dirt, the wood cool to the touch for the river of breeze always flowing beneath.

Tar Road

Thin rubber wheel of the bicycle rolls smoothly over the dark surface, digging in gently, gripping the black porous dried tar. Still fresh from being laid, the earthy chemicals waft up on the wavering heat of the day. Walking barefoot is like cooking feet in a cast iron pan. Smooth to the eye, but when close up, laying hands on the bitumen is rough and sticky and hot. I remember riding my bicycle with milk crate filled to the brim with newspapers, making the mistake of pressing the front brake handle too hard, flipping forward over the handlebars and conking my head down on the tar. Dirty and grazed, I pulled myself to my feet and got back on the bike again. There was no one around and nothing else to do. Work had to be done. The wide and busy street has a constant noise of the sea of vehicles, broken every so often by buses or trucks. Here, where the street is narrow and one way only, all you can hear is the intermittent woosh of a car swinging by.

Bubble Bath

Warble of bathtub filling with water, mass production of bubbles rising to overflowing, fingertip dipped in wet heat, comes out covered in white foam. Turn the warm metal tap digging into my palm until the sound stops, punctuated by a drip into the cloudy mass of bubbles on the surface, hiding the water from view. Dipping my toes in, feeling them tickled by the fine bubbles up my ankle, the hot water envelops and caresses, dipping slowly in and out until I can stand in the tub. Artificial bubble gum smell from the blank and green bubble bath bottle, something based on Halloween, a toy I cannot remember. Fingertips becoming prunes, stifled by steam and heat until the bubbles slowly dissipate. Large white fluffy towel comforts and surrounds me, wiping away the last remnants of bubble.

Rose Water

Hiss of spray speckles the face with tiny, sweet smelling, refreshing droplets. Under the constant flow of drying air from the plane's fans, the water soaks quickly into my skin, feeding it with moisture. It's a temporary reprieve. The air conditioning begins its work on my skin again immediately. Inside this flying box of circulating air, I have flashes and pangs of being trapped, of claustrophobia. Another couple of sprays of rose water, this time on my neck and my arms. Some of the droplets catch on the hair on my arms, like bulbous insects on early morning dew covered leaves. I rub it in with my hands, soothing my palms as well this time. The small metal lid goes back on the 100ml atomiser bottle, sanctioned by airport security. I hold it up to the light and watch the liquid sway inside as I swirl the bottle around. It is clear through the porcelain translucence and I wonder exactly how much rose is in the rose water. An image of petals falling from a rose bush onto the surface of a pond appears in my mind's eye, quickly replaced by boots stomping on a collection of dead roses, droplets of essence falling through a grating into water below in a well.

Fly Swatter

Gripped tightly in fist, the lines from the plastic handle like rail road tracks on my palm. I swing hard enough to almost lose my balance. The air is separated like spaghetti, noodles caress my other hand as I bring the swatter down. The rough plastic holes are like a cheese grater on my palm. The colours are all cheap like the plastic, pale pastel yellows and blues, oranges and greens, worn and shabby from rubbing the other utensils in the drawer. Flashes of frustration as the fly escapes each time, maybe the only use for a swatter is to scare the damned things away. But this time the swatter hits, knocking the fly to the kitchen floor, struggling on the 70s linoleum, finding a crack to roll around in. I crouch and bring the swatter down to end the insect's misery. Tiny traces of blood and guts spread out on the tile, blending in to its nondescript pattern of browns and darker browns. Squeeze the trigger of cleaning spray, its environmentally approved chemicals shoved into my nose. Pad the wad of paper towel across, wiping away the evidence.

Pillow Case

Pale yellow pillow case, inexpertly sewed together by myself in primary school. Thin material, almost translucent, cheap. Not smooth, not too rough. Slight plastic odour coming from the dye, disappeared when washed. A rush of pride at having made it myself, at operating the sewing machine, sitting down, pedalling with foot the staccato whir of the needle punching in and out of the fabric. If I chewed on the pillow case, which I most probably did, it would be a gentle brush across my teeth, saliva pooling in the fabric, wet and dark when set free from my mouth. When slept on for too long, the stale rancidity of sweat and oils, dark yellow stains on the previously pure pillow inside the case. The pillow would always have to be tall enough and solid enough to keep my head above the mattress, but in later years I find I need two pillows. Else my balance is swayed and I feel as if my head is falling behind the bed, a feeling that persists. Turning over, sometimes taking the thinner pillow and holding it between my legs to stop the sweat from the heat of skin on skin.

Big White Towel

Wrapped up in rough white comfort, hiding in the huge white cave, protected from the world or at the very least hidden. Fabric softener pervading the air, wrapping my arms around my dad's knees while he dried my hair. Rough hands on head, the world shaking inside my skull, trying not to move at all, waiting for it to be over. And there were other colours. Reds and blues and yellows and greens, purples and oranges, softer towels laid flat on the sand. Sunlight reflecting all around, a sense of stillness with waves gently crashing a hundred metres away. Muffled conversations, voices thrown across the sand, bouncing once or twice before being buried. A second towel or the corner of my beach towel curled up over my head, almost stifling in the glare of heat but at least my eyes would have their reprieve. Always a memory of a mother or a sister or a girlfriend, wrapping up their long hair in a towel, a makeshift turban, curled perfectly and poised atop, designed to avoid falling over the eyes. Now the towels are smaller, they no longer cover me from head to toe, even the larger ones are just enough to pull the water from my skin so I can hang them back on the rack. And they remind me when they need to be replaced by their musty smell, their damp mouldish odour. Nothing as satisfying as a high thread count Egyptian cotton, fresh from the washing machine to dry me and make me presentable again.

Tiled Balcony

Large balcony, enough to fit a small party of chatting, laughing, smoking drinking people. The tiled floor is a reflector of heat during the whole of the afternoon, but right now I am safe, the square grey tiles are covered in shadow. Each tile is cool to the touch, big enough to fit an entire flattened hand. Dirt from the elements is dry and subtle, resting in minute crevices on the partially rough surface. To stand on the balcony is to listen to the constant stream of traffic from the street. Petrol powered waves crashing on a bitumen beach. Every now and then a large set of buses breaks at the traffic light sandbank. Sometimes punctuated by the deep throated roar of a motorbike exhaust. Overhead planes are like a sudden rain crashing down on the balcony as I lean over the glass edge to let the breeze buffet my face. Petrol, tar, pollution, a slight whiff of nature from the tree across the road. Cicadas rise up, synchronised against the tyranny of the auto-mobile. Painted white concrete on the edge of the tiles supports the glass barricades that display my imprisonment up here, three floors above the road. More gatherings of dirt and pollution, rougher than tiles. If I imagine touching the concrete, I imagine the white powder of paint covering my palms.

Purple Speaker Cone

Round, shiny plastic purple speaker cone. I remember carrying you in the backseat of a taxi, jostling around in the city traffic, a feeling of excitement in the pit of my stomach. The powdery dry touch of your cardboard box on my fingertips and palms. A slight twinge of anxiety related to your demo model status. I brought you home into my so-called studio, a second or third bedroom. You were heavier than I expected. I grunted as I lifted each of you up onto my desk. The desk was easily able to support your weight, after all, it was designed to hold poker machines. I found cables and plugged you in. I felt a chill of amazement pass through me as I heard the sound come from outside the speakers. I touched the purple plastic, wondering if there was actual noise coming out. My fingers vibrated in time with the beat and I was careful not to press too hard. I touch you now and feel the hammertone finish of you black outsides, rough and random. I follow it down to the raised ridges around your tweeter. The thin metal bar across them feels glossy and penetrating. Your outsides have no discernible odour but I recall opening your electronics and after noticing the slight browning around the pale blue foam padding, the familiar smell of electronic components soldered to a circuit board wafting out of your trapped cache of oxygen. Acrid, reminding me of melting flux from the heated tip of a soldering iron, smoke curling through the air and tickling my nostrils, making me recoil but not without some pleasure at the artificial smell.

Milk Shake Maker

Just over 500ml capacity. Markings up the side every 50ml, larger markings every 100ml. But the 200ml marker has faded. Do we hold our hands there too tightly, does our sweat work away at your solid blue paint? Three equally spaced ridges down the side help us to grip you. A screw thread at the top allows us to twist the blue plastic top into your clear plastic body. The top has a useless swinging lid that in theory would allow pouring of shaken liquid through a small hole. But we never use it that way. We screw, we shake, we unscrew, we drink. The soy and dietary supplement green mix I drink every morning with your help makes me think of the Incredible Hulk or Popeye. As if I imbibe liquid spinach or gamma rays to make me more like each of them every day. I find it difficult to clean the powder without my patented method of hot water and a sponge stuck deep inside you and swirled around your insides. But I never completely remove all traces of radioactive shakes and I always notice minute flecks of green powder in your body or darker areas of built-up reside in your lid, smashed into a crevice and impossible to remove with the usual patented method. Every so often, the dishwasher helps. Now I see more ridges inside your body, presumably for the same purpose as the curved ridges and ditches and divets and rivets in your lid. The soy or water must hit itself against these shapes, mashing the green powder into assimilation, making for a somewhat palatable drink. The furry, earthy liquid and solid mix hits my mouth, swirls around, scraping its way around my tongue and down my throat, delivering all the essential nutritional elements missing from my diet. Would I even need you if I ate properly in the first place?

Portable Air Conditioner

Pot bellied, leaves swinging, cool fire breathing, white midget plastic robot. Clammy and bulbous, you are strategically lit blue and green so we can avoid stepping on you in the night. Leaning over, I press your membranous button and feel it give under my finger tips, the thin layer of clear plastic still unpeeled from your panel. If I spread my fingers and push them between your alabaster fins, they will be tickled by four more dancing fins. And if I push further still, I will scrape against a cheese grater grill that lets out a constant blast of icy cold air, numbing my hand into eventual frostbite. Your new plastic, chemical odour is faint after use, but still wafts up into my nostrils, pushed by the stream of air. I open my mouth and taste the plastic artificiality blown onto my tongue. At your back, at your piped and coiled exhaust is a blast furnace of wasted air, pushed out onto the heat of the balcony, dissipating almost instantly, thankfully not returning into the room. Your fan constantly whirs, never slowing down as the job to cool the room is an uphill struggle. Below the whir and the woosh, I hear smaller, tickling sounds of water dripping, moisture being extracted from the air and collected, redistributed into the room, humdifiying it to avoid your tray overflowing. You cool me, you make me shake.