Tuesday, February 28, 2006
"You know how I owe you $800, well, you see, my hairdresser won't cut my hair again until I pay him what I owe him, so can we make it an even thousand... that I owe you."
"No," I said.
Manny has insisted that he is doing okay, surviving on the dole, no need for him to go go back to work.
"But, you're not doing okay," I said. "You owe money to everyone you know."
"Only you and if I can't borrow money from a lover..."
"You told me last week that you owe Johnny $700. And how much do you owe Greg... how many thousand?"
"But Greg doesn't expect it back."
"Only because he knows he won't get it back."
Silence on the other end. I was getting a bit terse by now.
"And how much do you owe your mum?"
"But she doesn't expect it..."
"But you are still borrowing money from everyone to survive."
"Can you help me out with fifty then?"
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
He's lost 25 kilos, so, as you can guess, he looks a little different.
It broke up his second uni degree, but he hopes to go back to it next year.
It'll be good to see him. I love him dearly.
He's smart, he's caring, he's interested in people. He's someone who could make a difference in the world. He's one of the good ones, it is so unfair.
He nearly died, a few months ago. The closest he's ever got. The most intereting thing about that was people's reaction. Two very good friends said, He should just go, as he lay in ICU in a critical condition. He's been through too much, he'll never be the same, it is, finally, his time, they said.
I was shocked. I marched right down there to ICU, as soon as I was allowed and whispered in his ear. You can do it, you are the strongest person I know. I love you.
Tom's driving up to the city, for, practically, the first time since he's been out of hospital. We're off to visit old partying buddies, part of our old clubbing crowd, now good friends, with who we had more fun than I thought was ever possible.
So many parties, so many people, so many drugs. We had the most fantastic time, we were fun sluts, to be sure, as well as the other kind.
But, she is Tim's cat really, no matter what the agreement. And that was before Tim met Nicholas, who loves animals, even if he does feed Missy twice as much as she needs. A fat cat is a healthy cat, Nicholas says. At thirteen years old, a fat cat is a dangerous situation, that' what I reckon.
You see, Missy adores me, which is no surprise to me, as cats always do. I have the cat thing going on, they recognise it immediately, even cats I have never met before. Don't know why. Maybe I was a cat in a previous life?
And you see, Tim mistreats Missy, not badly, but he does. She hates being picked up and held and all Tim ever wants to do with her is cuddle her. Get a dog, I say. Even when she is moaning with displeasure, he still holds her.
So she comes to me. She is always curled up wherever I am. Tim doesn't like it, all though he doesn't say. But more often, than not, he'll come and collect her from my side and carry her off to wherever he is, moaning all the way.
I just pat her. I never pick her up. Were friends Missy and me. I so hope she isn't taken away. Even if I do say so myself, she likes it here. And I like her.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
He walked the same distance away from her again.
"You okay?" he said.
"Yes," she said nervously. "What are we doing?"
"Just hold the tin out in front of you." She held it up with both hands. "Don't worry," he said.
He took a box of matches out of his jean's pocket.
"What are you going to do with those?" she asked.
"Oh just a little experiment, hold still."
He bent down and picked up a bottle of beer that was on the ground by his feet. "Just a little something to settle my nervous," he said with a half-formed smile on his face.
He held the box by its ends, between his thumb and ring finger on his left hand. He placed the match, phosphorous down, on the striking side. He lined it up with the petrol can, by closing his left eye and focussing through his right eye only. He flicked the match hard by flicking it with his pointer finger and his thumb on his right hand.
The match struck as it flicked off the side of the box and lit as it flew through the air, making a hissing sound as the phosphorous ignited.
The burnt end of the match struck her thigh, where it stung like a bee sting.
“Ouch,” she flinched by pulling her leg off the ground.
“Keep still,” he said. “You’re spilling it.” The petrol had splashed out of the open tin and onto her hands.
He flicked another match; it stung her leg again.
“Ooucch,” she squealed. She flung the can of petrol to the ground. “I’m not doing this anymore.” She started to run back down the path towards the house.
He flicked another match.
huddled by themselves because of the cold,
sitting cross legged each with a story.
Long, long faces for the long night a head.
They make a long job of it
sitting in corridors forgotten
all looking it seems for somebody late
or looking for somebody who’ll never arrive.
The wind whistles through, the grey concrete depresses
and the cleaners come late in their long torn dresses
sweeping around as they did the night before,
train station waiters with their futile cause.
For they see them each morning
with their cans and broken glasses
and the old seats divided into classes
the billboards and the signs are all very old.
The time ticks away, the hours go
and the night lifts and the morning moves slow.
The faces show boredom with the long cold wait
in amongst the workers who rush ‘cause they’re late.
The day folk don’t see different faces in the crowd
who sit and look unhappy, hour after hour.
They don’t even notice how the conditions are bad
for the people who sit and sit and look sad.
And since Christian Fletcher is a fictional name, where does he stand?
Why should we all suffer at this government playing loose and fast with certain ethnic minorities for their own short-term political gain, without having a say? You can't demonise certain parts of society and expect them just to say, oh that's okay, we realise you have a political term to make a success of. No hard feelings.
All is acceptable in politics and war, otherwise it isn’t a democracy.
She is so beautiful.
It confused them at work, of course. So then I gave them the lowdown, I never have before.
Alex, school boy crush. He was vice captain of the school and the football team. He's dead now, I was shocked to read, in the old grammarian. The last I heard he had three sons, Alex, Charlie and James.
I daydreamed - the last time I saw him at an old boys dinner, I got really close to his ear and said, how about one more time, mate. He looked good. I wasn't serious. He took his wife's hand and didn't let go of it for the whole night, after that. He laughed and smiled, as if I'd just told him a joke. Then he said Christian, they way he always did, guttural and assertive, as he surveyed the crowd. His eyes said, I can't believe you.
Leah, the most beautiful blond you would ever see. We studied at uni together, in my aborted attempt at Economics. She went on to run corporations. She's smarter than me. We're still close. When I was first thinking about experimenting with guys, Leah would, some times, come around Sunday mornings and we'd sleep together. We found it very hard to let go. I thought it was forever. We were going to get married, everybody expected it. In every one's eyes, we were meant to be. The first great love of my life.
Aaron was a complete headcase, but beautiful. So sweet in his sober moments, but they got further and further apart. His time and Leah's crossed over. But really, I wasn't going out with Leah then. So I would have been cheating on Aaron, but I wasn't really going out with him either. Sex a handful of times does not a relationship make. We had great sex and he took all the alphabet drugs, way before I did, they sounded exotic, but that was really it. We both had Cooper S' then, his blue, mine green.
I was shocked when I saw him in the city recently and he didn't, appear, to know who I was. One of the lost souls hanging like a skeleton in the conscience of my past.
Deanne, so beautiful. My wog gene was kicking in for sure around the time I met her. Half Italian, dark and sultry. It was a meeting of the minds. It burned soft and low. Her passion was Ladderback Chairs, mine was Frank Loyd Wright, as we discussed design together. We are two of a kind. She used to shiver when she came with me inside her.
Mark changed my world forever. He stepped into my life one night and has never, really, gone away. I thought it was forever.
Lauri's green Italian eyes are the most beautiful you will ever see. Lorenzo Florentino Garcia, I love saying his name. Catch him running from the bedroom to the shower and you'll see that beauty didn't just stop at his face. He moved to new Zealand, broken hearted by the time I'd finished with him. We text often. See each other once a year.
Luke fell in love with both Mark and I. I adore Luke. He and Mark set up house together, in the country. I kind of drifted away, before I realised I had.
Josh was mischievous and fun. He stepped into my life, just when it all started to fall a part, after Mark left. Josh grabbed me, spun me around and set me down again. He's smart too. Amazing general knowledge, even though he doesn't see it himself. I tell him to go on How to be a Millionaire. He scoffs. He lives in Berlin.
Manny, sweet, good, uncomplicated.
Deanne sat opposite me, on the footpath in the sun and laughed that laugh. How many years have passed? We still look at each other the same way. She still feels good in my arms, when I hug her good bye. She's living in Paris, she was only home for a few days. There's no particular French man in her life, although she's liked a few, she said with a coy smile.
There are ladderback chairs in her Parisian apartment. She wants me to have at least visited a Frank Lloyd Wright, a down payment is probably out of the question, before we see each other again. She couldn't say when that would be. She came home for her grandfather's funeral. She has no plans to return.
See you when another grandparent dies, she said with a smile. I've only got two left.
I watched her walk up Flinder's Lane, until she disappeared. She still walks the same way, one foot in front of the other, with a little swish. Like Audrey Hepburn.
She looked sexy. Chuckie remembered and rolled around to have a look. Nah. But good to know.
Friday, February 24, 2006
…it’s just in here, this way.
Oh yes, she looks like she’s seen better days all right.
You see, as I said, I’m afraid it’s hopeless, gone in the legs, as they say.
Well…this sure is a beautiful room.
She looks at the man and then at her hands.
He walks around the table, running his hand over the surface of the table. He bends and looks underneath.
Yes, I love coming in here in the afternoons, I read a lot. Do you?
He looks out from under the table.
Read. Do you read?
Ah, no. Don’t have time.
No, most men don’t have time.
He ducks his head under the table again.
It’s hard to get, a good man…
From under the table.
Tradesman. When you’re on your own, like I am.
That’s what we’re here for.
Yes, but so hard to find. One that knows what he’s doing, who can do the job.
He stands up and faces her
I think you are being a little hard on…tradesman in general.
Are you interested? Should she be put out to pasture, gone in the legs
Oh no. There’s not much needed here, but a little TLC.
They are the words I’ve been waiting to here.
She runs her fingers over the tabletop.
She was beautiful once, I suppose that’s hard to believe now.
No, that’s not hard to believe. She still is.
I completely wore out that joy. Drugs. It just doesn't do it for my like that any more.
I can't do it any more. Don't want to do it. Been there, done that. It's good, great, but there's more to life. It's all consuming. It's something you get bored of, when your thirty something. Don't worry parents, it's just normally a stage we're going through. Rite of passage. Encourage them to do drugs at home, at least you'll know where they are. Although, seriously, my mother is the last person I wanted to see when I was high.
Saturn returns. Grow up, be an adult. Get serious. Get a house... um... get a portfolio.
You could publish it though, asked Jason. You know, the whole journal?
Sure I could, I guess.
He looked nervous.
Jason delt us all our drugs. He made a tidy sum. He's played the stockmarket ever since, pretty sucessfully from all accounts.
She took over the commission flat from her old man. She says she's got million dollar views. She has.
She sells her art now.
She stills likes speed intravenously, only when she's working, though. Sometimes a little heroin, depending on her creative mood. Her flat is her studio, she never takes anybody there, except Ethan. She's always coming down from working.
She says that Christopher is her only friend. He doesn't know if that is true.
He laughed at her living with him because his housemates, George and Tony have just said they are moving out. They want their own place. Not that Christopher is happy that they are going, that's just life.
He was, suddenly, looking forward to living alone, his own place.
George transfers all the money out of their account, whenever Tony goes down the street for too long. Tony smiles and says honey, I didn't bet away all our money. George doesn't get Tony's humour, it so often annoys him. Tony and Christopher smile at each other behind George's back, they always get the joke. George is so possessive, how could anyone live that way. Co-dependant is George, strange for a big, Greek guy? Mostly they just seem pissed off with each other. George's normally pissed off that Tony is stoned all the time. Tony free and open, George crowding in.
It's so often a sign of George breaking up, moving in with them, getting their own place. Tom. Beau. Ben?
Christopher didn’t tell her they were moving out. Full up, is what he said instead.
Oh well, said Anna. They are just not that... um... creative... er... interesting. Oh you know what I mean. She looks around Christopher's house. "This is a great place for one. You can support yourself, can't you?"
Anna had supported herself since she was sixteen.
"Sure," said Christopher. He just wasn't sure he wanted to.
It was easy for me, she once said. I had nothing to lose, so I could follow my dream.
She waits table's in between, with cynicism.
Christopher swats a fly, managing to blow everything out of the mull bowl in the process.
Fuck! says Anna.
All I could think of was dope, as the yanky chick opened her mobile telephone conversation with a squeal, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel! Giggle, giggle. Ohhhhh, it's soooooo narce to hear your voice, as she beat her feet on the opposite seat with glee. At which point I got up and changed seats on the tram.
Pet hate! I'd rather see people who talk (loudly, incessantly, enthusiastically) on mobile phones, on public transport, get hung in Singapore than drug dealers. At least drug dealers have a willing audience.
I'd had a hell of a week. I was over it, I had been planning this escape since Wednesday. Everything done for the week by midday. I still went to lunch. I didn't try to look sick.
It was a beautiful day, sun shining, cool breeze.
I took a tram instead of walking. Get me out of here, Scotty!
I should say, before someone picks me up on it, that Love of My Life and Taking Over the World, are based on internet jokes of a few years ago. But, as I've written the vast majority of both of them in their current form, under their current names, I claim them as mine, with that disclaimer. I've just fattened them up and sent them on their way. Go on add more, we'll write a cyber novel.
I'm on to my fifth joint. In four hours. I burnt my coffee pot dry, didn't hear it, didn't smell it. Fuck. Kind of doubled the price of the dope.
What do I care, it's the weekend.
I wonder if Manny will come over?
My little brother was suddenly able to hold me down when we’d jostled for sibling supremacy. Where, up until that point, I was easily able to overpower him. And like every other girl at that age, I had one of life’s realisations that he, as with every other boy, would be forever stronger than me. Nooooooo, screamed the voice in my head, at the inequality of life, as I lay pinned to the ground with him smiling on top.
But the opposite sex didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to know that I was alive. I was a late developer, well, later than most of my girlfriends around me. They seemed to understand the boy girl thing much quicker than me. It seemed to be a secret that I was forever waiting to come clear. Boys made me nervous; it took me a while before I could relax in their company.
Then suddenly I shot up, my puppy fat fell away and my plainness seemed to be a thing of the past. I learned that boys liked tits and I got good at jiggling them around.
When I was sixteen, I got a boyfriend, his name was Dean. We kind of drifted together, the last people in our group of friends without partners. We were two wallflowers tentatively reaching for each other and our hands slipped together, warm and nervously. I thought he was nice. We spent our days together, we watched movies and rode our skateboards on the weekends. We spent our holidays surfing down the coast where his parents camped each year. The sun, in my teenage years, set like a giant glass ball shimmering as it descended into the sea. The days and nights were golden. We thought we’d live forever, the never ending days of youth.
But there was no passion, just best mates, that’s all we really were. We lost our virginity by the beach in a tent on the sand, one New Years eve, drunk on beer and cask wine, in a whimper it was gone.
In college, I dated a passionate guy. His name was Joe, short for Joseph. We got a flat together to save money as we studied for our degrees. He made me his life. We wore each other’s cloths and we always had to be touching wherever we went. Most weekends we’d be found draped all over each other, semi-naked, studying in bed together, the TV on, smoking dope, just the two of us.
But he was too emotional. Everything was an emergency. If I was late back from work, or too long out in the car shopping, he’d be hysterical when I got home, crippled with fear. He was a drama queen, cried all the time and sulked if I didn’t pay him enough attention and in the end he threatened suicide when I said I was leaving him. So I decided I needed a boy with stability.
When I was twenty-five, I found a very stable mate, his name was Casey. He had a plan, worked out when he was eighteen, to be an IT manager for a medium size company that was going somewhere. He was right on target when we met. He got his degree with honours, he picked the right company, he was on track, he was on the way up. He worked long hours, working late most nights and when he didn’t, he played Volley ball with the guy’s on Tuesdays, the same guys from school that he’d played with for seven years. We both drank out on Friday nights, together, with an assortment of friends. Pretty soon my life was sailing along as steadily as Casey’s was.
But he was boring. He was totally predictable and never got excited about anything. We had Foxtel, which came with thirty-five channels. Every other night we’d crash in front of the television, late and he’d channel surf, relentlessly. We stopped talking and we seemed distant there on the couch. We had sex in the dark, sporadically, suddenly, without talking and then we’d roll over and go to sleep.
We’d have fish and chips every Sunday night, our only night off from the gym.
Life became so dull that I decided I needed a boy with some excitement.
When I was twenty-eight I found an exciting boy, his name was Andrew. He was dark and handsome; he drove a sports car and had money in the bank. He loved to party. We partied hard together.
I got a tattoo.
We rushed from one party to another, never settling on anything for too long. We picked up girls, we picked up boys, and we had dirty sex in all sorts of locales. He did mad, impetuous things and flirted with everyone he met. He introduced me to drugs, ecstasy, MDA and cocaine and some sexual escapades that I’m still not at all sure were legal.
His favourite drugged out fantasy, now that raw sex was out of the question, was “The Rainbow kiss.” When I had my first period around him, in the first few months of our relationship, he got all excited in bed that morning. It was a drug-fucked moment, one of many. There had been a major party the night before from which we’d only just come home. We were tripping at daybreak as we lay in our bed.
The rainbow kiss is oral sex, the sixty-nine position to be exact. He licked my pussy and I sucked his cock until he came in my mouth. And then we’d kiss, me taking my blood from his lips and he his cum from my mouth. It drove him nuts.
But I couldn't keep up with him, with his energy, his sexual appetite. I had a boob job; one cup size bigger, a B to a C. He made me miserable as often as he made me happy, as his attention continually wandered elsewhere. He was great fun and energetic, and as sexy as hell. But he was direction-less and we were rapidly dissolving into just a series of drug related cycles, one after the other. Coming down hard on a Tuesday became my reality. I had to take six months off work to travel to Europe to get over him and my addictions.
So I decided to find a boy with some ambition.
When I turned thirty-one, I found a smart ambitious boy with his feet planted firmly on the ground. His name was Sam. I called him Sammy and I loved him without reserve. He was about to make partner in his Architecture firm, my IT consultancy was just getting off the ground. So I moved in with him, it just seemed the natural progression.
We had the perfect life, matching Saab’s and an option on bigger premises for my venture. We had a block of land in the Ottways on which we camped with our Rottweiler dogs, in the summer when the weather was hot.
We got married over looking the sea; our two dogs were attendants and our close friends gathered around. The surf crashed just below and a cool breeze blew. We built a mud brick house over looking the sea. We even talked about children.
We bought a bigger house every other year and the latest cars. We borrowed heavily. We were on the “A” list socially.
He was so ambitious that he fell in love with a multimillionaire’s daughter, a corporate lawyer and he dumped me. I lost everything with our fancy mortgages and contractual obligations. What I had left he took as a parting gesture, with the letters of assurity that he had me signed, just before it all feel apart. That was last stupid thing I did, right before I realised our marriage was over.
He’s now running a design company, an arm of a global construction conglomeration, owned by his father-in-law, with little miss charity queen giving the orders by his side.
I am forty now and I am doing consultancy work. All my friends are having children and seem as happy as can be. Natural childbirth for the first kid, as responsible thirty-something mothers should. And then knocked out on whatever the doctors would give them, for the second birth, remembering how much the first one hurt.
I met Dean the other day, the first time I’d seen him since we split. He’s looking good and doing well and his boyfriend, Damien, seems nice.
Joe committed suicide; apparently his family was shocked and just kept asking why? Andrew got caught dealing drugs and he is now doing time.
I made a packet from the 2YK bug. I work for myself. I work my own hours; I prefer it that way. I own my own terrace house, which I renovate when I get time.
I am in high demand.
I work four days a week and on the fifth, I do as I please. I still work more hours a week, than most people do in five days. I make a good living and I have some treasured friends.
I think I am going to write.
I had a nose job. I got that pesky bump, which I’ve always hated, removed.
Now I am looking for a man with a nice smile, interesting whit, a life of his own and a big, hard dick.
Essentially, she just kept telling me that she was offended, she seemed so determined to be offended.
Some might say, had an eye for it. Others might say, she was making a great ta-do over nothing. I suspect she had been told what to look for. Worded up, one might say. So I was, really, none the wiser, after her call, to what it was that she was offended by.
I know I’ve been spoken to for my emails, I’m blunt, I know. But not since Kate’s been here. She’s been speaking with the white ants, they are still around. Who’s watching you, says the ATM. It’s all true. Still, I wouldn’t have thought Kate could risk lying down with dogs.
After I had apologised twice, I just stopped talking. An embarrassing silence fell between us. That got her off the phone.
Don’t bother me pest.
I did the only thing left for me to do, I made a doll of her and stuck pins in its eyes, as the fire burned and the herbs wafted. I left it hanging from a noose from the rafters, after I had finished.
I saw Kate, this morning, she was complaining of a sore neck. Perhaps it was the way you slept, I said. That's ironic, I thought, usually she is just a pain in mine.
Corn-dollies are best, they burn better than anything. A bit of a problem, granted, if you are not intending to burn your quarry.
I decided on the old see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, routine. I was tempted to go for the rush-of-thrush incantation, but, quite frankly, thinking about Kate's nether regions gave me pain where I wanted only pleasure. Besides, watching her clutching at her knickers all day may just have been too much for me.
The ice-spike tempted me, but eyeballs suddenly on sharp, crystal prisms, jutting out from the forehead region, is always a shock, even if you are expecting it. Not that discreet. It could have improved her looks.
I decided just to go for the old favourite, in the end. It affects people differently. I was eagerly at my desk in the morning to see how it affected Kate bark-like-a-dog.
Kate was suffering laryngitis, she said she had an ear-ache and I saw her bump into the wall between my office and hers several times. I had to really stymie my laughter when she appeared to knock her shin, on the portable filing cabinet, she does insist on keeping in the most inconvenient place, just outside my office door. I thought I even heard it. (But that may have just been wishful thinking. Always going for the jackpot) Bugger! That's got to hurt, I thought. I tiny yelp of a laugh escaped from me, as she did it, causing her to spin her head around in my direction, squinting noticeably. If it had spun around completely, I wouldn't have been surprised. I mean, I've already watched her spew green bile over employees, when they displease her. Not bad for an HR manager, huh? She's as about as touchy feely as a sea anemone. Busy building castles to their own importance, blinding everyone to their incompetence. The staff are just superfluous.
Getting a strand of hair was easy, as she malts like the dog she is. Getting something that was special to her, was easy too. The only photo she had of her beloved grandmother that she kept on her desk, in my brief case with just a single hand movement, as I left the office.
Rumour has it, that when she works late, she gets down on the floor and rubs her snatch across the carpet like a dog. The only satisfaction she would ever get, I'm sure. Now I can’t vouch for that being true, but I can vouch for myself having spread it around.
She gets loud and inexcusably boring, when she’s had a few drinks and wants to be buddies with everyone and show her mastectomy scar around. She always makes a fool of herself. She always touches me and tells me I’m her best buddy. She calls me Chris, which she knows I hate, in away that comes out all breathy and makes me want to retch. Fond of a hug, is our Kate once she’s had a few. (35, single, plain, still calls herself miss. You get the picture) Now there’s a fucking laugh. After a few. Party girl. Confidant. Jesus!
Let’s just say that her cunt would turn into a baboon's arse the minute any man showed interest in her.
She always manages to forget, when the alcohol has worn off.
It’s sad, we plan Friday night drinks in whispers, so she doesn’t hear. Technically illegal under discrimination law. We design houses, we're not lawyers.
She can’t go tonight, though. Sore throat, blocked ears, you’re coming down with a cold, Kate. Best you go home.
When did that get decided?
The Australian Flag becomes a symbol of ignorance. Patriotism justifies everyone's stupidity, because it gives it a name, something to flash around. Watch out any one who is different or doesn't fit in, under one flag.
Patriotism gives the ignorant permission to hate. Patriotism should give people pride in their differences, not a weapon to wield indiscriminately.
They died for that flag. They went to war for that flag. Your great great great, you wouldn't have the freedom you have now if...blah, blah, blah. Last Century mate.
When you have government policy that actually fosters racial hatred - dob in a muslim today. We'll save you from those arabic terrorists - what can you do? Howard can't see that the fisticuffs on the beach was a direct result of his policies. I say we do what they do when the temperatuer gets too hot. Change the debate.
I think we need a new flag. The one we've got now, is like hand me down clothes, not really sure if it is England's, or Aussie, or New Zealand, for the universe sake. It's a flag that leaves its residents unsure.
Test it. Line up all the flags that were derived like ours, there's more than us and the Kiwis, you know and then get Australians to chose.
You'd never misplace your pride, under any test in the world, if you were Canadian, gazing upon that unmistakable leaf.
My eyes crack open and everything is hazy. It is morning. My head is thick, a foggy cloud has settled behind my eyes in the night. It doesn’t feel as though it is going to shift any time soon. I wonder where I am. I contemplate headache tablets.
The sheets feel nice; they could almost be my Egyptian cotton. I snuggle down. I’m in good hands.
Oh my god, it is my own bed and these are my sheets. It has taken me how long to realise? I drag myself up on to one arm and survey the room. I see that I’m not alone, although I have no memory of that particular fact. He has his back to me and I gaze over his shoulder to see his face. “Phew,” I exhale audibly. Not bad. I congratulate myself and wonder what his name is?
I wake the stranger and tell him I am late for work, so I won't be able to have breakfast with him. I apologise as I help him look for his underwear.
I remember the material of his boxer shorts tearing as I ripped them off him last night. I remember his arse. My single memory; I hope more will come back to me as I search. I find the torn boxers at the end of a pile of clothes, strewn from the door to the edge of the bed. We must have been good.
His boxers are fucked, though one leg is nearly ripped off them.
I loan him a pair of briefs, an old pair just in case I never see him again.
He looks good in them as he stands in front of me pulling on his shirt.
His name still eludes me, “See you,” I say. We kiss. His lips are soft. His stubble is sharp. “I’ll give you a call,” I say, as I usher him out the door. My bare feet are cold on the doorstep.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “That would be cool,” and he smiles. He has a nice smile. He gives me that morning-after look, when there is an awkward moment of silence. That look is somewhere between submissive and nervous, angelic and scared.
His jeans look good on him as I watch him walk away.
I fold the piece of paper with his telephone number on it and put it in the wooden box on the mantelpiece, where I keep all of my phone numbers. They are all together, but I rarely call any of them, too many men, too little time. They are just trophies, memento’s. Once I got them all out and counted them. There was fifty-five.
His name is Mathew. It is written on the scrap of paper that has his phone number on it. I try to remember how many Mathew’s I have slept with.
I remember my new loofa as I step into the shower. I remind myself again why I live alone, as I pick up the loofa from exactly where I left it, in exactly the same condition that I left it in.
I remember that I live alone when I reach for my Lime body- wash, as I gaze down I see that the soap scum is now forming layers on the tiles.
Pinstriped or plain suit, what sort of day is it? I decide to go with my new the three-button black, as it is the only suit that will go with the only shirt that is clean and ironed.
I make a mental note to get the phone number of whoever does Nick’s laundry.
I make a high protein breakfast while watching the “Today show”. I wonder if the stories I've heard about Tracy Grimshaw are true. Maybe?
I’m cross with myself for not going to the gym, yesterday. It’s now been three days.
I brush the cat fur off my suit for a second time, when I forget and sit back down again to contemplate Tracy’s sexuality.
Apparently, she has “Dyke icon” status.
I climb into my MX-5 and decide against the Gucci sunglasses. I’m trying not to look too much like that guy I saw the other day with his perfect sun tan, his perfect, matching, tipped hair and his perfect, black, SLK. I think his hair and his skin were exactly the same colour. He made me laugh spontaneously, out loud, as I glanced over at him, when he pulled up next to me at the lights. What a cliché?
And then my best friend Jason laughed when I told him the story and he said that I owned a girl’s car, too. I disagreed with him, but it has stayed on my mind since.
Perhaps I should get a new car?
I stroll into the office. I’m impressed with myself. I’m practically on time.
I close the door to my office and the phone is already ringing. I hesitate before I pick it up. Am I up to talking yet? It’s my drinking buddy Nick. He laughs about the guy who spent the night at my place and the fact that I couldn’t remember his name. “Hate that,” says Nick. “It would be much easier if we all had name tags or the same name, or no names at all, for fucks sake.”
“Fuck cards,” I say. “Standard issue, required to be given out before anyone gets... horny.” My head is still foggy.
“Issued at birth, “ Nick says.
“And you simply match the face to the ID,” I say.
“But you can’t even remember meeting him,” Nick points out, with his sarcastic laugh. It’s still too early for me for Nick’s, sarcastic, laugh. “So you wouldn’t remember the card even if he had given it to you, stupid.”
Nick is very competitive and his humour can border on being rude when he gets going. Translation: when he’s being witty than me. “No card would help you, too many brain cells gone on the night.”
I tell him that the word is that his boyfriend is sleeping around. But quickly add, “It‘s probably not true, as I only heard it third hand and from a very unreliable source.”
All my sources are unreliable, but only with keeping secrets.
I see that all my clients plans are back from the draftsmen, a day early. I suspected that I was going to have to spend the good part of today chasing up those plans.
I feel a bit woozy. I am still stoned from my late night with what’s his name.
I leave the office, telling my secretary that I am “meeting a client for lunch.” I pretend not to notice her roll her eyes and I just stop myself from reminding her that I am the boss in this situation. (although I haven’t yet made partner status).
I must be more hung over than I think.
I head to my hairdresser for my weekly appointment. I think I need colour too. It always makes me feel better, the morning after, when I’m feeling plain. Just sitting in the chair for an hour, doing nothing recharges me. I close my eyes and think about blue clouds and floating in mid air.
I purchase P.P.S. “Goop.” I have no idea how that is different to all the other products lined up in my bathroom, but if Tony recommends it...
I run into my personal trainer at the gym. I question him about Human Growth Hormone. I’ve been reading the reports about the Olympic games. Party season is about to begin, after all. Why should I be concerned about some mild liver damage, when I know it would make me look better?
I spend thirty minutes on the treadmill and thirty minutes on the machines; being intermittently disturbed by friends on my mobile phone. I prepare a mental-schedule of which men I want to sleep with and those who want to sleep with me. I try to organise the list alphabetically, but with the phone ringing constantly, who can think.
I have a ten-minute top up on my tan in the fly buzzer, as Jason calls it. I reassure myself that solariums are safer then the ozone, depleted sun. I schedule a waxing in time for Saturday night’s party, where I know I will end up shirtless.
I pay my trainer for the anabolic steroids, and half listen to his warnings and schedule a workout in two days.
I shower. The mildew has still not been wiped from the shower recess. I think about the Tinea I have just battled and defeated. I make a mental note to bring it up with the guy on the desk, or change gyms. I am still contemplating my options as my friend Nick’s boyfriend, Mark, enters the change rooms.
I decide on my first option.
I take ten minutes hunting for a mystery item that is lost somewhere in my gym bag, as I check out Nick’s boyfriend undressing with attitude. His hands run down his flat torso and slide under the elastic waistband of his briefs. He slides them down, all the time gazing down at himself, swaying his hips just slightly. As though the music is playing and he is the star in his very own peep show. He has a nice tiger tattoo on his arse and a highly defined tan line around the top of each leg and around his waist. He has a fine covering of black hair that extends from the top of the back of each thigh and disappears up the crack in his firm, round, white, arse. He bends over to pick up his shorts, from his sports bag, almost on queue.
I immediately regret turning him down at that bar, last week, when he was drunk and wanting it. Oh, best friend’s cute boyfriend’s...sisterly obligation, it’s a grey area, that’s for sure.
I meet a guy for lunch from Manline, the telephone chat line. The only facts I know about him are his height, weight and cock size. The waiter recognises me from a bar, we give each other the “secret” look, and I laugh to myself with the thought of it. I am whisked past the heterosexual couples who have been waiting patiently for a table, for thirty minutes. I smile all the way to my table. We’re taking over the world, I think to myself.
He arrives a few minutes later. He looks nice, as he approaches the table with the waiter, kind of thirties matinee idol, but with shaggy hair.
Well...that’s the image I’m going with.
He is wearing a suit; he has come straight from work. “I’ve got the afternoon off, I’m not due back in the office until tomorrow,” he says, as we drink our first glass of wine. I like him already.
His name is Luke. He’s an accountant. He seems smart. He’s had two serious boyfriends and a couple of not so serious ones. He has a “not so serious” one happening at present. I interpret “not so serious” as those it’s okay to cheat on.
He’s not as big as he said he was, I suddenly realise, in between sips of wine.
He had a girlfriend before he discovered his true sexuality, but he never went down on her. Which he is still relieved about, especially since it still seems to be a fairly strict yardstick, today, of the true quality of a young mans, particular, gay gene.
One of his parents is still alive, who he visits most weekends. He travelled around Europe last year, with his best friend, Rita. And he had twisted testicles as a child, which had to be operated on.
Jesus! I’m continually amazed by what you find out about a person when you actually have a conversation before sex.
“Coffee at my place,” he says. I soon find out people lie on phone lines.
It’s an awful moment when you’ve just got your hand inside some guy’s jocks and you realise it’s all over for you.
“I’m sorry, I’m too stoned,” I say. I make a mental note to always have a joint before sex so the excuses, at least, ring true to me.
I’m out of there in ten minutes making a mental note to give up phone chat lines once and for all.
I meet Jason for coffee and cake at Gluttony. We are both late.
We discuss IVF rights for Lesbians and single mothers.
“And you know what really gives me the shits,” says Jason. “This crap about the homosexual agenda.”
“Yeah, who came up with that?” I say, puffing on a Styvie.
“Like we all got together and drew up a plan,” he says, passing me the ashtray.”
“It’s just a nice face for bigotry and for the Christians to hide behind with their hate,” I say.
Jason laughs. “Like poof’s could get up early enough to be that organised?”
“It shit’s me that the Christian right can still event new terms like the whole “equal rights not special rights” campaign to mask their sad views.”
“Oh it’s all the lies they tell,” says Jason. “Recruitment, special rights, protect the children...”
“Well, what about the gay children.” I say, beginning to feel the effect of my four, or was it five, glasses of red at lunch. “And what about their children and the Christian values they have stuffed down their throats from birth?”
“We should assume control,” says Jason with that sparkle appearing in his eye. “Of government, of the states, of local council.” He thumps his fist on the table. “There’s enough of us in all those jobs, now, to stage a coup. We should get an agenda, we should unite, we should show them all.”
“Destroy all Christian marriages,” I say.
“Recruit the children,” says Jason
“Only the gay ones, of course. We wouldn’t want to be hypocrites,” I say
“Fuck it, recruit them all. Kindergarten through to year twelve.” Jason thumps both his fists on the table. “Recruit them all into our amoral, filthy lifestyle.” The waiter appears beside Jason and asks if everything is all right.
I sip my coffee to stifle a laugh.
“Secure control of the media,” Jason whispers. “Isn’t one of those media moguls son’s gay?”
“Television has practically taken care of itself,” I say. “Even I’m sick of how many gay characters there are now.”
“You will have to molest the innocent children and I will give AIDS to as many people as I can,” says Jason, almost sounding triumphant. “See if we can get “The Pissed Christ” back. It can feature at a pornographic “art” exhibition that will be subliminally satanic and it’ll turn people away from Jesus without them ever realising why. They’ll burn in hell forever.”
Time permitting, we will solve all of society’s evils and the world will be a much nicer place. We will have, dancing girls and dancing boys and we will, no doubt, look like we are having way too much fun in the process.
I’m still laughing as I leave the café. I decide to head home; there’s no use going back to the office for only an hour.
I take a power-nap. I apply cucumber gel and draw the curtains and rest from the stress of world conquest and from being so fabulous.
The trams clunk, clunk rhythmically at the end of the street. Like the noise of a branch, with a rope-swing rocking below it, back and forwards, back and forwards. I’m in a beautiful forest; there’s a wood nymph, dressed in…
The joint is making me woozy and dazed…
I open a fabulous new bottle of Merlot and pick at the remains of the macrobiotic food containers, which litter the inside of my fridge. I contemplate an energy drink, but with the wineglass in the other hand, I decide maybe not.
I bake Special K for the weekend, which I get from my friendly vet. He was very formal and professional, when I first started to visit his surgery. That was until I dropped that I was going to Mardi Gras, one time when I was there with my cat. He shrieked and seemed to change physically, before my very eyes, when he realised we were in the same club, as he put it. Now he hugs and kisses me whenever I see him and offers to get me Special K, whenever I want it. As he feels me up during the consultation, on the white laminae, scrubbed very clean.
It’s not my favourite drug, but hey, when the cupboard is bare, what can you do?
My cat wasn’t even sick, last Thursday, when we went.
I bake it as per Nick’s instructions, scribbled on the back of a business card, when we were both in a sex-on-premises venue, late one Sunday morning, when the trade was bad.
I test the recipe. You only need the tinniest amount, I remind myself.
I make a mental note to quantify “tiny.”
I toss the empty wine bottle into the recycling bin and go to Saba. I need new shirts, my solution to the washing problem. I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet. The decor seems a bit surreal. I’m not sure if I’m amused or dizzy. I feel both. The only other shopper in the place seems to have six arms.
I snap out of my stupor, close my mouth and stop lecherously eyeing off the boy behind the counter, who is wearing tight jeans and a singlet torn all the way down to his navel. I begin to shop.
The racks are a blur of black and the hangers make a click, click sound, as I slide them across the chrome rack, like a drag queen’s heels on concrete.
I have dinner with bitchy friends, at a restaurant we will all be “over” before it gets popular. They are all chatting and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, when I get there. I am late.
Our orphan dinner club, for boys without partners. The foot-loose and fancy-free, the confirmed bachelors and the recently divorced. Mostly they are the recently divorced. We are all squeezing in a meal between working late, hitting the gym and heading out to a bar. When we realise we have forgotten the time, once again, it’s like last call at a singles night.
I decide on night-cap at a local bar, which mostly involves trying to avoid alcoholic queens who can't navigate a crowd with a lit cigarette in one hand and a Stoli in the other.
“Queens who still smoke are so last century,” says Nick, just as I reach into my jacket for my cigarettes. I make a mental note to at least try to make an attempt to stop on the weekend.
“They spend half their life at the gym and yet they still smoke,” says Nick. “I just don’t get it?”
“No, me either,” I say, but mostly I don’t get his point.
The bar is busy and smoky. The pool table is booked for the next few hours. The lighting is dim. The walls are painted black. Nick and I separate, no use looking as though you have a boyfriend in tow.
June Allyson is there, of course. An older gay man, who is always to be seen out in the bars, on any night I, or any of my friends, choose to go out drinking.
“She practically lives here. Dirty old bitch,” says Nick.
We call him June Allyson because he has white hair cut into a bob. He is always wearing a pin-striped shirt, normally blue and white. He always has a half filled glass in his hand, as he swans around the bar with a vacant expression, chatting to anyone who is unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him.
“He gives me the creeps,” I say, as I lick the beer froth from my top lip.
“Joint at your place?” he says. He is John, the six foot two, mountain of a carpenter I met at the same bar, last week. He says he works out every second day and chuckles when he says everything about him is big.
I scull what is left of my beer. I remember that my sheets aren’t exactly clean.
“How about your place, I say. “My flat mate’s got friends over.”
I find out, yet again, that men lie in bars, too.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Rex has a friend, Beth, her face is the white colour of death. She’s no friend of mine, she doesn’t drink vodka and she doesn’t drink wine.
Beth can eat you out of house and home. The poor girl has more fat than bone. All she does is eat all day long. The couches and beds have been made extra strong, deliberately.
Rex and Beth met in Dublin, ones very fat, ones very thin. The two of them make a weird pair. One fat and dark, one thin and fair.
One laughs like a hyena, playing decoy as the other slips in unnoticed. The fat girl who laughs and the boy who is shy; they party all night and sleep all day.
Beth’s breasts wobble whenever she is impressed. Her pancake makeup cracks when she laughs. Rex looks on, giaconda smile. Shinny lapels, a tie and the fresh face of confidence despite the world spinning madly around.
People say there is no party without Beth. But they call Rex when they want sympathy or advice…or a loan or a friend. They call Beth if they want pink lipstick, in shades that are obscure and hard to find.
Rex fiddles with his cuffs and Beth makes grand sweeping gestures of hello, even to people she hardly knows. Rex will smile and get you a beer and give you advice on what shares to buy. Beth will mix you a martini, as dry as the Simpson, all the while giving you hints about the outfit you are wearing. Smiling patronisingly at any bright ideas you might have.
“All the people who are hip, would have thought of it long ago.”
The music beats, the night whirr’s along.
Beth gets her coat, scarves, hats and bags. Rex nods his head, checks the time on his chunky watch, the one Jenna gave him before she ran off with that DJ and broke Rex’s heart. Then they are gone, in a swirl of Beth’s cape, black satin that licks at the doorframe, as they leave.
The music goes boom boom and there is an empty place where they had been. Boom boom, goes the night. The lights flash, red, blue and white. The strobe blurs the dance floor, they look as though they are dancing in double time.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I live in what was once the red light district. The house over the road was purpose-built as a brothel. I find that, somehow, comforting. All that pleasure that's come before me.
I was horrified when the Catholic university moved into the big vacant building on the corner of Victoria Parade. What a dichotomy, landing that in Fitzroy. The anti-pleasure brigade. My mother always said it was the religion of hypocrites. It has its benefits though. Good perving. Blue sky. Sunshine. At least they planted trees.
I walk up Nicholson and across Gertrude. So often walking towards me was the same man, every morning at 8am. He reminds me of Nigel Hawthorne, the actor. After passing each other each morning after morning for the longest time - don't you think it's strange when people do the same things as you, at the same time - we began to smile. A nod, a smile, recognition.
I'm not sure who said it first, I think he did. I'm usually a bit inward in the mornings, not talking until I have to, when someone requires an answer. Not that I'd say I'm bad in the mornings, like, you know, those people who always say they are putrid, unbearable, to who morning is always bad. Can't talk. Can't stand people talking to them. Those who have to stop giving people lifts to work, because they always insist on talking. I'm not one of those. Just quiet, taking it slow.
Good morning, he said.
Yes, good morning, I replied. I was secretly pleased. As pleased as the next person with a little recognition, lets be honest.
Good morning, we say every morning now.
If we're not within earshot, he lifts his hand with his finger pointed and I nod.
He's as pleased as I am, I can see it on his face.
I find I even look for him, if I don't see him around.
That made Christopher laugh more than Anna did. He wanted to say boo. He'd had a joint, natch. He was feeling relaxed. Instead, Anna and he stepped out of her way, both waving her threw, mocking her to be sure.
She kind of grunted and exhaled. She took the widest birth she could, eyeing each of them suspiciously, clutching the dogs lead back at those invisible pearls.
Anna poked out her tongue, as soon as the old girl looked away. Then she grabbed Christopher's hand and licked the back of it tenderly. He pulled it away.
Pinch her arse, she said, motioning to the old woman with her head. I dare you.
The old woman's pace quickened, as Christopher looked back at her pear-shaped rear.
Do you think she still has sex? said Anna. Can you picture that tweed skirt around her waist?
What do you think eighty year old skin feels like? he said.
Face to face?
He felt a chill down his spine.
Probably great, to other eighty year olds, Anna said. Did you hear about the gonorrhoea outbreak at the nursing home?
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
It's been four years.
Sure, we've both had sex with other guys. But not much. Only when the other one of us wasn't available. I mean, that's the monogamy I'm talking about. No one encroaches on the other's time. If we're together, we only have eyes for each other. Just naturally.
Manny had a boyfriend for a year, in there some where. He looked like a porn star. He eventually gave Manny scabies and Manny dumped him.
We used to tease each other about cheating on Manny's boyfriend, together. But we didn't. That was my rule, Manny went along. I didn't want that shit.
If you want to go and have some psycho drama by cheating on your boyfriend, breaking his heart. I tell him, I don't want to play that shit.
I love whispering in his ear, kind of close. His face flushes red. His black hair brushes against my face.
Gym every day. That's all he does. Some times, I've just got to sit back and concentrate on that.
Now there's a surprise.
She covers her ears and chants, if ever he tires to tell her about those special in his life.
That way she never has to hear.
Anna laughed when Christopher told her. She said he was a dreamer. She said never change.
But he's not perfect. His life is very small. Contained. Ordered. Routine. Middle. He goes to the gym. That's all he does.
He calls my cock Chucky. He calls his snoopy. I can't seriously have a relationship with that. I tell him that, it's okay.
He loves me.
I love him... like friends, who have sex. Like a brother, I guess.
A sexy little brother.
He says he wants to kill himself. His life has no future. Die young, before the rot sets in. I told him to see a doctor. He told me he was happy with his decision. Not to worry.
I told him he had to search out the happy place in his life. I told him that everyone loves him. They do. Everyone loves him, he's got such a sweet heart.
Just getting him to feel it?
He's got the most beautiful cock.
retarded girl today.
She was pulling
very strange faces
in a shop window,
We all walked past and stared.
Then I realised
she was the only one smiling,
we all had grim faces
and she was laughing.
We were all so serious
and she was full of enjoyment.
in the sun
and the power of springtime.
and the power of touch,
and everybody’s individuality.
there is more to life
than black and white
and that some things
truly can’t be explained.
in the spirit
and that man
somewhere deep down
is basically good,
even though it may be hard to find.
that everyone has the right to live
and nobody has the right
to take it away,
no matter what.
I try to remember how I feel, at exactly that moment. So often it is serene. Gazing through car windows marveling at the beautiful sky and clouds and glare, you, so often, only get leaving the city, heading north. Snuggling my head gently on my pillow in my favourite of all places to be, bed. Lazy Saturday brunch in Smith Street, at my favourite cafe; long Mac, Stuyvesant Soft-pack, warm sun, newspapers full of feature stories. Rolling in the park with my Rottweiler, a fur pillow under the elms, a gentle breeze, unconditional love. Driving my Alfa, fast, along The Great Ocean Road.
So often the time when a stranger asks me randomly... and then asks me for a dollar
I have an old clock that stopped working years ago, on my mantel piece. I set its hands to 11.11, naturally. It took the physical representation of the manifestation of 11.11, that old clock face, to bring someone to me, who told me it was alright. I'm not the only one who is this way.
Some one had moved the hands, unbeknownst to me. I hadn't noticed the change. An acquaintance who, on her second visit, noticed the change, bought it up. She asked me directly, if I was the one who'd set the clock to 11.11. I am not the only person who lives in my house. I don't know why, she just instinctively knew.
Fancy, I thought. I thought that was just my quirk. I never really spoke about it, other than in the intimacy of close relationships.
A gentle wind blows. I'm good at what I do.
If only it were that simple.
They hold rocks and sticks and trip ropes. They have agendas they won't speak of. They have grudges they have held since childhood. They have unhappy lives, I can only conclude. All those people standing along either side of the road.
They smile sweetly, as they hold their spears high. They extract their knives, brush lint off their shirts and retouch their hair, all at the same time. They collect evidence, as they adjust their happy faces. They tell you everything is alright, as they write out the complaint.
The road is still in front of me. Every day I am back at the beginning. Five o'clock is always at the other end.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
It was that kid's fault. He asked me for a cigarette at the tram stop. I was lost in the ethics of giving a fifteen year old, fourteen maybe, cigarettes and I just stuck one in my mouth, instinctively. I'd smoked half of it, watching the kid puffing clouds of smoke as he walked away, by the time I realised I was smoking too.
One shoe lace was untied, it flopped around his ankle as he walked. He had his jeans around his thighs, practically. Belt tied. That look. I don't know how they walk like that.
I could have put it out, but, of course, I didn't. It crossed my mind. My brain was even telling my arm to just drop it on the ground and step on it, as my hand put it to my mouth again.
Now, of course, I've smoked the good part of twenty. Bloody kid.
The mauve coloured trees are laden with saffron bees, sucking the purple nectar from every lilac coloured bud. The mandarine cat is after the crimson canary; flip flap went its wings as it flew into the tree.
The melon dog chased the manderine cat up the red blackberry bush, where for a rainbow-coloured moment it just sat, hissing occasionally.
Past my indigo picket fence, the pink highways disappear over the blue horizon, rose-steel, silver worms stretching across the country, over the fields and into that shadowy gap in the charcoal hills far away.
Cotton wool clouds float by in a turquoise sky.
Purple postmen, on pokka-dot, dog-proof push bikes, deliver the letters just after sun up and just before lunch, when the yellow dog snaps at their wheels, as they ride by.
All dads have black dens with green settees, where they go after dinner and before they sleep. The front light burns like crystal on the porch in the night.
My bed is ten miles wide. It is brown the colour of steak, in it, from the world I hide, that special place, before I wake.
The world can go on it's all-consuming, all-faking, all-kidding way all it likes. The dim amongst us latch on - watch the news, read the paper, be a part of it all, global psycho-drama where cartoons are a reason to kill people, are a reason to curtail free speech - the intelligent amongst us feel their knuckles relax as they float gently away.
I sip my coffee and shake my head at the state of the world. And laugh. Out loud? We're all spiraling to our inevitable end, as people shake certain books and tell us this is the way, the only way - clouds, gates, virgins and turbans. Just as a note, I prefer my virgins to be about thirty years old - strong legs, strong shoulders, lips that kiss and eyes that say it all. And hair; but I guess that is given, no matter which side of the fence you sit on.
Just one thanks, I'm tending towards monogamy, after years of open relationships. They can put up or shut up, now that I've hit my third decade.
Don't get me wrong. Live and let live. Whatever gets you through. I'm sure it must be a comfort, if you can over look the delusional state. But why is it that those with the (perceived, imagined, manufactured) higher calling wont afford me the same respect?
My coffee has cooled. My teeth feel furry. My feet are cold. Come on Missy, come back all is forgiven. I'll even pur for you.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
She smiled when she saw him.
Anna said she was okay, but her sad, puppy dog eyes betrayed how she was really feeling. He couldn't see any marks on her arms. Any new marks.
It gets me through, she once said. What else is there to do?
He gave her a cigarette one Sunday morning, when he was coming home from clubbing off his face. That’s how they met, on the street.
“How out of it are you?” she asked, cheekily.
“Just enough,” replied Christopher, struggling to keep his eyelids open, struggling to focus.
“Got a spare fag?”
She was genuinely surprised. She said no one does, they've all got so mean. She said he didn't judge her, simply in his attitude towards her.
Besides, you're bloody cute, she said.
They'd been buddies ever since.
Her mother died when she was young. Her Uncle abused her, when her father was too drunk to notice. Care. Christopher was born to a middle class family. He was shocked in his middle class naivety that there was nobody else to look after her. She said nobody cared.
She said he looked so different, the day she first saw him in a suit. She whistled like she'd put both her fingers in her mouth, without putting fingers to her mouth. Instead, she curled her lip over her teeth, kind of twice. It looked weird. It made him laugh. But boy was it loud. She ran her fingers down his lapels and said nice.
That morning, he couldn't talk, he was running late for work, as usual. Her eyes looked vacant, as soon as he said he had to go.
He wondered if Ethan had told her anything, but dismissed the thought immediately. He wouldn’t have.
“I’m doing coffee instead of drugs,” said Anna. “Do you want to join me?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Christopher replied.
Friday, February 17, 2006
I called drug line and asked if fifteen serapax would kill someone, they said probably not, but he couldn't give medical advice – thank you to all the lawyers in the world for that one.
So, I drove over to Manny’. There was no answer at his door. I knocked and called out his name. There was a guy sitting on the step when I got there. When he heard me call out Manny’ name he said,
"The guy with well groomed black hair, who always wears jeans?" said the voice from down below.
"Yes, that's him," I said.
"He got taken away in an ambulance, mate. I walked down to where he was sitting. The guy with black hair who always wears jeans. Yes, that’s him. "Some time ago."
I contemplated going to the hospital, nearly did, but I decided that since I knew he was in safe hands, I wouldn't. I’d let him deal with the consequences of his own actions. I felt bad about him doing it on his own, but… You know what they say, if you take fifteen serapax and then call someone, you're trying to get noticed.
I don’t know, I guess I should have gone to the hospital, so he didn't feel so alone in the world. But really?
Dull light seeps through the cracks in the doors, the gaps in the curtains, the cat door left ajar by fat little Missy, after she has struggled through to the light, to the garden, to the nasty cat next door. She'd just been wrapped around my feet, as I checked on-line, keeping them warm. Now I only feel a chill where she has been. She's not a very good boyfriend replacement, but all I have. I wish she'd come back. He, he. Pathetic. I love the rough feel of her tongue on my skin. Short of putting cat food on my feet...
I love the feel of the Greek boyfriend's tongue on my feet. Perhaps, I could wrap them up like dolmades? He's too busy popping prescription pills and having his stomach pumped - ah Greeks, they are fond of the grand gesture - to feel the allure of rice and vine leaves. Good thing I've never committed.
Perhaps, I'll have a joint? Is (nearly) 7am too early to have a joint? A bong is too harsh for the fine delicacy of the crumbling evening light. Too twenty year old. Too much! Don't you just love the way that the conservative political dick heads are now starting with their demonisation of marijuana? The biggest industry in the world. They had a go at abortion, but failed thus far. Idiots! But, I guess we already knew that.
I've got the whole day to play. My cock jumps at the thought. Ah, so you are still with me. Good to know. Gotta love Sundays!
Perhaps, I'll just settle for more coffee? Don't you just love the smell of freshly ground coffee beans in the morning?
The quiet chill of being alone wraps around me and makes me feel like the only living point in reality. Me and you. The meaning of life.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The future is in front of you, everything else is behind.
How do you feel, getting to this point?
This is the stepping off point for the rest that is to come.
This is the beginning of the rest of your life.
This is where it crosses over, from private to public. This is where it all seeks out the rest of the world.
This is where it becomes known. This is best foot forward time. This is it!
How do you feel, buddy?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
You gotta love working in the C.B.D. Even if you don't have a boys in suits thing before you started there, you can't help but have enthusiasm afterwards. You'd have to be dead. Some are unbelievably handsome.