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Miranda Michalowski
‘Big Eye’ & ‘Puzzling’
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Big EyeDo you ever think about going way down under? Like under the water, down to the Big Eye?
I read a story where there was a Big Eye down there and I know that it’s true, frankly. We all do.
Whenever I’m buying an overpriced oat dirty chai in the coffee shop and the nice man forgets my order, I know it’s because he’s thinking about it. And so am I, can’t stop. It’s hard to forget, sometimes.
The guy who wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four thought he knew all about the Big Eye, but actually it’s way different than that. Besides, he was mean to his wife. And so was the guy who stole the paintings. Those portraits of the little children with the Big Eyes, and the lawsuit. But it’s not like that either. She got closer.
It’s not God, by the way. You know that’s not what I’m talking about, and we don’t have to be hush-hush about it. We all know what this is.
Hidden under the seaweed. Lurking with all the weird creatures, with the hot-dangle-bits. The ones they didn’t cast in Finding Nemo.
The problem is, we’re all assuming it’s evil. We have a habit of assuming that about Big Things. The other problem is it probably can’t speak human, and I’m not a deep sea explorer. I can barely swim breaststroke, and I failed Year 9 Biology.
I want someone to talk to the Eye. Someone who won’t shoot at it. Or shave its eyelashes off. Someone like my Year 1 teacher who brought injured possums to class, in a blanket.
In the meantime, I know that you and I, and the man at the coffee shop, are thinking about the Eye. And so is Margaret Keane, who did those paintings, except I looked her up and she died in 2022. And so are the fishes, probably.
Puzzling
Let me say this and let me say it now and let me not cross my fingers:
I don’t understand electricity. I forget the name of the new Pope. I’ve been taught poker too many times to count and yet I’ve still got the same face.
I think all ants are the same ant that we met that one time at Dead Horse Bay when you cut your toe on an oyster and I said it was like coming-of-age. I know this doesn’t make sense.
My sister was always better at puzzles. Lazy Christmas evenings. Quilting fucking Santa. Not as bad as Paris in the Rain, but still.
I draw symbols in the sand. I think about fighting with you about movies I don’t understand. It’s always twins. I never realise when there are twins. It isn’t fair.
That the faces in the trees won’t talk to me. I ask kindly. I send threats. I send love letters. I Google photosynthesis. An ant winds its way around my ankle. I don’t say hello.
Let me say this and let me say it now and let me not cross my fingers:
I don’t understand electricity. I forget the name of the new Pope. I’ve been taught poker too many times to count and yet I’ve still got the same face.
I think all ants are the same ant that we met that one time at Dead Horse Bay when you cut your toe on an oyster and I said it was like coming-of-age. I know this doesn’t make sense.
My sister was always better at puzzles. Lazy Christmas evenings. Quilting fucking Santa. Not as bad as Paris in the Rain, but still.
I draw symbols in the sand. I think about fighting with you about movies I don’t understand. It’s always twins. I never realise when there are twins. It isn’t fair.
That the faces in the trees won’t talk to me. I ask kindly. I send threats. I send love letters. I Google photosynthesis. An ant winds its way around my ankle. I don’t say hello.
Miranda is a writer based on Wangal land, whose plays include Young Bodies/Somebody's (published: Playlab), Saturday Girls (Belvoir 25a, 2023), and Macaroni and Dead Things (winner: 2024 Silver Gull Play Award). Her poetry appears in Defunkt, Red Ogre and Many Nice Donkeys.
Miranda is featured in our issue 01 print . Get your copy here!