Everyone is talking about love, who loves them, or doesn't, or should, did or could or who they love or don't, or want to, will do or could. I'm not listening to them because as usual I am thinking about myself. I used to love and it was terrible.
Sometimes it was fine or good or mildly excellent but most of the time it was terrible. In theory it was good, someone to share the bills and the worries and the joys and the chores and the adventure but most of the men I have loved, even platonic love, were impractical creatures and more trouble than use in most matters. Almost all of them were deliberately selfish, except Artboy who was basically Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia but without the expensive wedding dress.
When I reflect on the compromises I used to make, the effort I used to go to, the time and energy and worry I gave away, I feel a little ill. Like a mild dose of flu of experienced at high speed but then it is gone and I am here again. When I say here I mean in The Peach, in the present, in my reading glasses and a damp towel with nothing on my mind or my to do list except what I want.
This is ideal. What I love is this, being able to sit around in my reading glasses and damp towel and know that I will remain undisturbed. Well at least until Grizelda shouts down the hallway about cupcakes. She is insisting on making red cupcakes with heart-shaped pink icing thingos to give to the people at her work tomorrow, because she is thinking about love.
I am thinking about stealing one of the cupcakes and how fortunate I am to own more than one towel. I plan on leaving both towel and cupcake wrapper on the floor overnight.
Showing posts with label Elliot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elliot. Show all posts
Some days are like houses
Some projects are long term, the kind that unfold as you age and become as essential as breathing. This project, my Safe As Houses project is like that. It us unhurried but permanent. Two days ago I remembered a house I once tried to forget, except for the part where Elliot and I got a horse truck stuck on the front lawn. We climbed things holding six-foot crowbars, we were sure this would help.
Two days ago Ben Rumble had a story about this house published in THE GROUP online magazine and I remembered that it is not easy to forget.
Two days ago Ben Rumble had a story about this house published in THE GROUP online magazine and I remembered that it is not easy to forget.
The only one who could ever reach me
Three drinks, one headache, two cigarettes and a codeine tablet. Its past midnight and blowing cold so I caught a rare taxi home after leaving Spencer on the corner outside the cafe Superman can't abide.
Things stopped making sense this morning. I turned on the stereo, sat down at my desk and took up my pen. Before words hit paper I got one text message from Elliot. Now I know that there are no mobile phones in rehab. I'm going to go and get a biscuit or something, hang on.
I have licorice. Licorice can be used as an antispasmodic, I think it only works on your belly, not your whole being so if you are running around being a spaz then eating licorice is not going to help you make better choices. Spencer and I were talking like we do, wandering around our ticking histories and rethreading ourselves through new needles and hallways. We tried building a case for something that others would have us tear down, we agreed that its effects were possible to discuss but that the thing itself defied all language and sound.
I was sitting in a cafe in Glebe last Sunday night with Spencer, Grizelda and Superman. The man at the next table was so drunk that he slid to the ground knocking over chairs and table. Superman hurried to help him like the only living thing in a hall of statues. While Superman grasped the man's arms and hauled him to his feet I set his table right and breathed carefully so as not to weep. He had bread in a paper bag, it was ruined by spilled coffee and I wondered if he had any money for more. I wanted to help but this was beyond my resources. I thought of Elliot sliding down walls and chairs and beds and halls and me. He's been sitting in my brain like a helicopter on a launch pad until this morning when suddenly there he was. I wonder if I conjured him somehow.
I looked at Elliot's message twice, he said simply "How are you Dale?". I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. I stood next to the kettle, one hand raised, and waited for the water to boil. Its not a steam filled ritual but the water must be boiling.
Things stopped making sense this morning. I turned on the stereo, sat down at my desk and took up my pen. Before words hit paper I got one text message from Elliot. Now I know that there are no mobile phones in rehab. I'm going to go and get a biscuit or something, hang on.
I have licorice. Licorice can be used as an antispasmodic, I think it only works on your belly, not your whole being so if you are running around being a spaz then eating licorice is not going to help you make better choices. Spencer and I were talking like we do, wandering around our ticking histories and rethreading ourselves through new needles and hallways. We tried building a case for something that others would have us tear down, we agreed that its effects were possible to discuss but that the thing itself defied all language and sound.
I was sitting in a cafe in Glebe last Sunday night with Spencer, Grizelda and Superman. The man at the next table was so drunk that he slid to the ground knocking over chairs and table. Superman hurried to help him like the only living thing in a hall of statues. While Superman grasped the man's arms and hauled him to his feet I set his table right and breathed carefully so as not to weep. He had bread in a paper bag, it was ruined by spilled coffee and I wondered if he had any money for more. I wanted to help but this was beyond my resources. I thought of Elliot sliding down walls and chairs and beds and halls and me. He's been sitting in my brain like a helicopter on a launch pad until this morning when suddenly there he was. I wonder if I conjured him somehow.
I looked at Elliot's message twice, he said simply "How are you Dale?". I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. I stood next to the kettle, one hand raised, and waited for the water to boil. Its not a steam filled ritual but the water must be boiling.
By christ you should have seen us
Breaking news: Gemma is shutting down Gempires.
Gemma used to exist for me as the alphabet rearranged and the vague memory of a woman sitting behind a desk on a panel at TINA. I sat in that audience and heard her speak and thought "Blog? What is blog?".
I found Gempires about a year later just when my life got smashed with a hammer and as I read Gemma's words I thought I could do that and so I did. At first it was an involuntary exhalation, a daily reminder to keep breathing and then it changed and I used this space to make a map of my existence as proof, for myself, that I was real.
People started reading my blog, I don't know how, I suspect that the link on Gempires was the cause of it. My soy cheese tastes of vinegar, this is not related to Gempires. This blog used to be the result of things but now sometimes it is the cause. It is the reason that Gemma suggested we meet for a drink when she came to visit Sydney last year, it is the reason Gemma now exists for me as a whole and wondrous human. It is the reason I had phone sex with a man I'd never met, had no less than five separate strangers write to me and tell me that I should kill myself. It is the reason I met the excellent Superman, I have eaten my very own packet of Dale Biscuits, performed social experiments on myself, been stalked, had enormous fallings out with people and been recognised by strangers in the street. Once a woman had a blog that seemed almost entirely devoted to slagging off both Gemma and myself. To say that these results are unexpected would be an enormous understatement.
Gemma did warn me, she told me how my freedom in this space would shrink. She told me how people would overreact when I write about them, how people would assume the worst. She was right, my freedom here is diminished, Artboy saw to that, then Elliot, then almost everyone I know found their way here some way or another even Superman has misunderstood my meaning but here I am typing into white void with my hair wrapped in a towel and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, just like at the beginning. Right now this blog is not my reason to breathe but I need it still, could not manage without these unedited spontaneous words and for that Gemma I thank you.
Gemma used to exist for me as the alphabet rearranged and the vague memory of a woman sitting behind a desk on a panel at TINA. I sat in that audience and heard her speak and thought "Blog? What is blog?".
I found Gempires about a year later just when my life got smashed with a hammer and as I read Gemma's words I thought I could do that and so I did. At first it was an involuntary exhalation, a daily reminder to keep breathing and then it changed and I used this space to make a map of my existence as proof, for myself, that I was real.
People started reading my blog, I don't know how, I suspect that the link on Gempires was the cause of it. My soy cheese tastes of vinegar, this is not related to Gempires. This blog used to be the result of things but now sometimes it is the cause. It is the reason that Gemma suggested we meet for a drink when she came to visit Sydney last year, it is the reason Gemma now exists for me as a whole and wondrous human. It is the reason I had phone sex with a man I'd never met, had no less than five separate strangers write to me and tell me that I should kill myself. It is the reason I met the excellent Superman, I have eaten my very own packet of Dale Biscuits, performed social experiments on myself, been stalked, had enormous fallings out with people and been recognised by strangers in the street. Once a woman had a blog that seemed almost entirely devoted to slagging off both Gemma and myself. To say that these results are unexpected would be an enormous understatement.
Gemma did warn me, she told me how my freedom in this space would shrink. She told me how people would overreact when I write about them, how people would assume the worst. She was right, my freedom here is diminished, Artboy saw to that, then Elliot, then almost everyone I know found their way here some way or another even Superman has misunderstood my meaning but here I am typing into white void with my hair wrapped in a towel and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, just like at the beginning. Right now this blog is not my reason to breathe but I need it still, could not manage without these unedited spontaneous words and for that Gemma I thank you.
Digital Mystery
Who is diehard3?
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
Tetris Restaurant
Newtown was full so I slid in and out of formation trailing The Peachettes feeling sorry as a hangover. Newtown was different tonight, I wanted to howl with the sirens or lay down in the gutter feeling nothing but cold and concrete. I tried sending a message to Spencer but the message wouldn't send, I tried phoning but the phone told me I hadn't paid my bill. I felt like a knocked and ignored ashtray.
I don't know why I didn't pay my phone bill, I don't remember opening the bill and thinking I must pay that. I don't remember opening the bill then setting it down again either. Some days tasks become heavy and I have wanted, desperately wanted to be a person who can slide over the edge.
I'm looking around this room and noticing things have been coming undone. My pants need repairing, there are piles of unopened mail, my sheets need changing, I have no winter coat, incomplete study puddles in corners, the books are unread, the washing not done, even my shelf in the fridge is empty, my calls to friends remain unreturned and over there on the floor by the heater is a knocked and ignored ashtray. It used to be lovely in here.
And now after showers and the brilliant revelation of clean teeth and warm water I have spotted something. The bad idea coffee was curious. He said "I like to walk around in Newtown and laugh at the Newtown people". I kept looking at him and expecting Elliot to be just to the left or coming up from behind, he felt like an empty chair at a dinner party.
Walking home after dinner I ran into someone I haven't seen since Artboy. She put a hand on my shoulder and it felt like sorrow. I think she was checking to see what pieces of my heart I held in my hands. I kept looking at her and memories flashed like a slide show.
The people tonight were bookmarks for pages I've already read so now I'm flipping things around stepping over my knocked and ignored ashtray, taking refuge in my clutter. I'm clanging things together just to hear what sound they make. I'm smoking all my cigarettes and spitting out mantras. I've spread out my pencils and books and magazines and newspapers. I'm wearing twelve mismatched accessories and thinking about pigeons and telephones and apples. I'm leaving the last sentence up to you.
I don't know why I didn't pay my phone bill, I don't remember opening the bill and thinking I must pay that. I don't remember opening the bill then setting it down again either. Some days tasks become heavy and I have wanted, desperately wanted to be a person who can slide over the edge.
I'm looking around this room and noticing things have been coming undone. My pants need repairing, there are piles of unopened mail, my sheets need changing, I have no winter coat, incomplete study puddles in corners, the books are unread, the washing not done, even my shelf in the fridge is empty, my calls to friends remain unreturned and over there on the floor by the heater is a knocked and ignored ashtray. It used to be lovely in here.
And now after showers and the brilliant revelation of clean teeth and warm water I have spotted something. The bad idea coffee was curious. He said "I like to walk around in Newtown and laugh at the Newtown people". I kept looking at him and expecting Elliot to be just to the left or coming up from behind, he felt like an empty chair at a dinner party.
Walking home after dinner I ran into someone I haven't seen since Artboy. She put a hand on my shoulder and it felt like sorrow. I think she was checking to see what pieces of my heart I held in my hands. I kept looking at her and memories flashed like a slide show.
The people tonight were bookmarks for pages I've already read so now I'm flipping things around stepping over my knocked and ignored ashtray, taking refuge in my clutter. I'm clanging things together just to hear what sound they make. I'm smoking all my cigarettes and spitting out mantras. I've spread out my pencils and books and magazines and newspapers. I'm wearing twelve mismatched accessories and thinking about pigeons and telephones and apples. I'm leaving the last sentence up to you.
I can't stop thinking
About Finnish rehearsal regulations. I don't have much else on my mind, other than the usual clattering obsessions and the haunting sentences flapping like bats. I'm going out for coffee and hoping to remember to come home with cat food. I'm going out for coffee even though I think it might be a bad idea. I've convinced The Peachettes to meet me for dinner after my bad idea coffee so I can fill my belly and walk the street silent amongst their chatter and the shop windows.
You see he emailed me out of the blue and gave me his phone number. I rang him straight away because he knows Elliot and I thought Elliot might be dead and I don't like not knowing. When he answered he was dismissive of Elliot, gave me a "He's back in rehab, I had to kick him out of the house, that sucked a bit. So you want to meet me for a coffee sometime?".
He's been suggesting days and times by text message. The first one I declined, the next one asked me to suggest when. I turned it over for a moment, put the phone down and walked out into the hallway. I'm not sure why, in the end, I settled on today. I've been thinking of reasons why he wants to meet up with me and I can't come up with any. Not one. I've met him two or three times, by accident when I've been visiting Elliot. I don't think I have anything to talk about with this man. He's some of sort tradesman, in recovery. The first time I met him he told me he used to be a junkie. A gutter junkie was what he said, a gutter junkie that robbed for a living.
So now I'm sitting here wondering why it is that I said yes and wondering what the hell we are going to talk about, wondering if I'm getting everything all wrong by assuming conversation will lapse into pockets of silence while I look left then down and stir my coffee.
You see he emailed me out of the blue and gave me his phone number. I rang him straight away because he knows Elliot and I thought Elliot might be dead and I don't like not knowing. When he answered he was dismissive of Elliot, gave me a "He's back in rehab, I had to kick him out of the house, that sucked a bit. So you want to meet me for a coffee sometime?".
He's been suggesting days and times by text message. The first one I declined, the next one asked me to suggest when. I turned it over for a moment, put the phone down and walked out into the hallway. I'm not sure why, in the end, I settled on today. I've been thinking of reasons why he wants to meet up with me and I can't come up with any. Not one. I've met him two or three times, by accident when I've been visiting Elliot. I don't think I have anything to talk about with this man. He's some of sort tradesman, in recovery. The first time I met him he told me he used to be a junkie. A gutter junkie was what he said, a gutter junkie that robbed for a living.
So now I'm sitting here wondering why it is that I said yes and wondering what the hell we are going to talk about, wondering if I'm getting everything all wrong by assuming conversation will lapse into pockets of silence while I look left then down and stir my coffee.
Scribe
There's a letter inside this desk. Ink on linen paper. The envelope is sky blue, small and squarer then the impersonal business size. I have addressed the envelope, it sits on top of the flat unfolded letter. The letter sits on the glass writing area of the desk, the glass covers green felt and is held down by brass butterflies. Superman says its the kind of desk you'd do cocaine off but I sit with my ridiculous candle dipping my pen into the inkwell writing letters and dreams.
It belonged to my mother, it was the first lovely piece of furniture she ever bought. I love this desk. It used to sit in the small slanted space beneath the stairs, there was a room there for the desk, a lamp, a leather chair and an old ammunition box full then of family photographs. I don't know how it happened but the drawers are full of generations of stationery. Uncle Bingo's letter opener, Great Aunt Kathy's hole punch, Papa Slamma's pencil box, Grandfather's linen envelopes, my father's rubber stamp with his name and address. I remember when he had that stamp made just after we moved into the big two storey house, he ordered a stamp and built me a bike shed. I was proud of him and his stamp.
I keep meaning to fold the letter, to seal it shut with wax. I mean to affix a postage stamp and carry it carefully in my pocket. I mean to walk the seven hundred and three steps to the postbox and slide it in or maybe I'll pull the handle and place the letter on the little tray and watch it tumble as I let go of the handle, I haven't decided yet.
The letter has been there for one week and four days. It took me five days to decide to write the letter. This letter is proving to be problematic and I think this is because of all the other letters. The striped rectangular box in the cupboard next to my other desk, the square painted desk. The other letters are hand written, long and rambling. I used to wait for those letters. I used to hang my existence on the arrival of the next letter. I don't think it will happen again. I've snapped off the part of me that didn't breathe when his shadow crossed my mind but still I'm cautious. I'm counting the steps to the postbox and locking my desk before I sleep at night.
This letter is proving to be problematic.
Hey window pane
I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons. I've got window panes. I've mad ticking devices, holes for coffee pots, tampons, pineapples, cushions, telephones and I'm still lined with red velvet.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
In a drunken moment of clarity it hit me with force and for once I didn't lie about it
I am quiet now in an after storm mode of sitting curled in and sacred. I have done all the things I do not do. I have reacted and overreacted. I have apologised to myself, to Spencer and then to Artboy.
Spencer because I left a ridiculous drunken message on his Sfpazbook wall. Spencer replied with humour and not a trace of anger which would have been well within his rights.
Artboy because I unforgivably emailed him saying "Yep, drunk but anyway you should just not be detectable. That's it. Not detectable". He replied with such humility, grace and sorrow that I spent a day stranded on a chair unable to move or speak or do anything at all until I sent another email apologising. What possible right could I have to ask another person to be undetectable to me in this life.
Me. I apologised to myself because Elliot sent a message saying that he wants to approach me but is too scared. His typo made the scared into sacred and it was this more than anything that prompted me to reply. Now he has phoned, we have talked but not about anything at all. I let the silences rest and the pauses unwind into meaninglessness.
Now I sit quiet in the aftermath of doing all the things I do not do. I dropped my mask and it cracked. This is the year of holding up signs for others to read.
Spencer because I left a ridiculous drunken message on his Sfpazbook wall. Spencer replied with humour and not a trace of anger which would have been well within his rights.
Artboy because I unforgivably emailed him saying "Yep, drunk but anyway you should just not be detectable. That's it. Not detectable". He replied with such humility, grace and sorrow that I spent a day stranded on a chair unable to move or speak or do anything at all until I sent another email apologising. What possible right could I have to ask another person to be undetectable to me in this life.
Me. I apologised to myself because Elliot sent a message saying that he wants to approach me but is too scared. His typo made the scared into sacred and it was this more than anything that prompted me to reply. Now he has phoned, we have talked but not about anything at all. I let the silences rest and the pauses unwind into meaninglessness.
Now I sit quiet in the aftermath of doing all the things I do not do. I dropped my mask and it cracked. This is the year of holding up signs for others to read.
Definitive
Special request. A definitions list for the cast of characters in Slammatown. Easy. This I can do. Much simpler than trying to define just how exactly that snorkeling makes me happy or why today when I sat on the edge of this continent with the lemon light behind me and nothing, oh nothing but that ocean, that I felt stitches pull tighter and empty places pop and vanish. I used to be scared of the edge of this land.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Ok
Now is the time to shut up and think things through properly. This is what I will do. I will shut up and think things through.
There it is
Its not the cold weight of sorrow but something quite like it. I woke up with a headache and sore teeth from clenching my jaw all night in my sleep. I went to sleep sobbing but determined. There's bound to be a few problems with my decision to walk away from Elliot, him being one of them. Turns out he's being reading this blog all along but not telling me so imagine my surprise when I sat down with a nice cup of tea and feeling generally cheery about things to discover an email from Elliot equating my decision to walk away from him with one of the numerous times he got fired from a great job for being drunk. I really don't see the connection.
I have sent an email off to a chosen few for sensible feedback. Boli's response has just arrived, it is very short, he said that I have been a fucktard where Elliot is concerned, for a year or so, I really should listen to Boli more often. He told me more than a year ago that nothing good will come of this. I don't how he's always right but he is, the bastard.
I will now wait on more responses. It is time to be a collective. Oh, I better go to work actually. Its getting close to 9 and I'm not yet dressed, thankfully the sobbing has stopped.
I have sent an email off to a chosen few for sensible feedback. Boli's response has just arrived, it is very short, he said that I have been a fucktard where Elliot is concerned, for a year or so, I really should listen to Boli more often. He told me more than a year ago that nothing good will come of this. I don't how he's always right but he is, the bastard.
I will now wait on more responses. It is time to be a collective. Oh, I better go to work actually. Its getting close to 9 and I'm not yet dressed, thankfully the sobbing has stopped.
What kind of magic spell to use?
Surprise! Well well, I have been dreading, ever since my tired eyes opened themselves this morning, the cold weight of sorrow but it hasn't arrived. Maybe it won't. It has suddenly occurred to me that I am not locked into a trajectory of torment. I don't have to wait and wait for Elliot to break my heart good and proper. I'm The Captain of What I Do and I can just fuck him off. Its a choice, I can pine and pine and wish until I fall in a heap (again) that things were different or I can go fuck that and set a course for happy town.
I don't know why but in my head it was inevitable that I would wait for Elliot then die of heartache when it came time for him to love and he didn't choose me. I really am a fucktard. This might be easier than I thought. It might be possible that one day I will find myself loved, by someone unexpected. Put on your happy hats kids and wish me well. Not once in my adult life have I not had someone to pine over, its the final frontier.
I don't know why but in my head it was inevitable that I would wait for Elliot then die of heartache when it came time for him to love and he didn't choose me. I really am a fucktard. This might be easier than I thought. It might be possible that one day I will find myself loved, by someone unexpected. Put on your happy hats kids and wish me well. Not once in my adult life have I not had someone to pine over, its the final frontier.
I'm a fucktard or I'm so lonely I could die or how do you accidentally fall in love it doesn't seem very sensible to do that sort of thing
And so is Elliot. I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time, the other bits of time I am determinedly doing the wrong thing, on purpose, whilst telling myself it will all be fine in the end so this time I have deleted all of Elliot's phone numbers and no, I don't remember them, not even a little bit.
I'm still sick. I'm not getting much better, hardly better at all and I've made the decision that if it turns out that I am after all suffering from something terrible then I will just let it kill me. Elliot says that the Dale he knows will simply rise to any challenge and find yet more reserves of strength but like I said, Elliot is a fucktard.
Elliot feels bad about the shagging, says it won't happen again. Says that its just not working for him because it doesn't fit with his choice to be sober and celibate.
My problem is a very simple one. I accidentally love him. I like the way he stands when he chops vegetables and I want to have him chopping vegetables in my kitchen every day I until I die. He lives in rehab, he is literally living the one day at a time dream, he is determined right down to his last molecule to do whatever it takes to live sober. Whatever it takes is living one day at a time and keeping things simple. Having a relationship is complicated so its just not on his list of options. This is the simple problem.
The cure is more complicated. Whenever I imagine growing older and living in a different house it is with Elliot. My imagined future is Elliot-based or its white void and I couldn't be angrier about it if I tried.
I am the person who has imagined, for my whole life, living and writing and working and doing things all by myself or with a cat. Not once did I dream of a big white wedding. I only dreamed of my book launch parties and how fabulous I would be at my book launch parties but now I have this clouded vision of an emptiness and a meaninglessness.
I have developed a tangible need to be loved. I am now a person who needs to be loved but I am not loved. My family is not a close family, my friends are not the kind that will just come and be with me. I have become lonely and isolated. I did try and fill my life with interesting things and people but the very moment I became ill it all fell away and I lay for days and days without signs of love or care from the people in my life. It is all a construct. When Artboy went mental Boli told me to keep busy, so I did. I enrolled in my community college, went to yoga classes, took guitar lessons, went to poetry things and gigs and arranged to meet friends as often as possible but it was all so constructed. Infrastructure will collapse.
I'm not imagining the possibility of a lonely future because it has already begun. It does not matter if I wear my nicest outfit and feel very happy and throw myself into life. Its like my universe has run out of people to offer me and finally finally I get it. Elliot will not be chopping vegetables in my kitchen and it doesn't matter how I feel about it, its not going to happen.
I'm still sick. I'm not getting much better, hardly better at all and I've made the decision that if it turns out that I am after all suffering from something terrible then I will just let it kill me. Elliot says that the Dale he knows will simply rise to any challenge and find yet more reserves of strength but like I said, Elliot is a fucktard.
Elliot feels bad about the shagging, says it won't happen again. Says that its just not working for him because it doesn't fit with his choice to be sober and celibate.
My problem is a very simple one. I accidentally love him. I like the way he stands when he chops vegetables and I want to have him chopping vegetables in my kitchen every day I until I die. He lives in rehab, he is literally living the one day at a time dream, he is determined right down to his last molecule to do whatever it takes to live sober. Whatever it takes is living one day at a time and keeping things simple. Having a relationship is complicated so its just not on his list of options. This is the simple problem.
The cure is more complicated. Whenever I imagine growing older and living in a different house it is with Elliot. My imagined future is Elliot-based or its white void and I couldn't be angrier about it if I tried.
I am the person who has imagined, for my whole life, living and writing and working and doing things all by myself or with a cat. Not once did I dream of a big white wedding. I only dreamed of my book launch parties and how fabulous I would be at my book launch parties but now I have this clouded vision of an emptiness and a meaninglessness.
I have developed a tangible need to be loved. I am now a person who needs to be loved but I am not loved. My family is not a close family, my friends are not the kind that will just come and be with me. I have become lonely and isolated. I did try and fill my life with interesting things and people but the very moment I became ill it all fell away and I lay for days and days without signs of love or care from the people in my life. It is all a construct. When Artboy went mental Boli told me to keep busy, so I did. I enrolled in my community college, went to yoga classes, took guitar lessons, went to poetry things and gigs and arranged to meet friends as often as possible but it was all so constructed. Infrastructure will collapse.
I'm not imagining the possibility of a lonely future because it has already begun. It does not matter if I wear my nicest outfit and feel very happy and throw myself into life. Its like my universe has run out of people to offer me and finally finally I get it. Elliot will not be chopping vegetables in my kitchen and it doesn't matter how I feel about it, its not going to happen.
Hello
Is anybody out there?
I find it difficult to believe that there is. I have lost my imagination. I am hoping this is temporary.
It was a foolish hope, my imagination is back with a vengeance. I go to the doctor's for my test results in the morning. Elliot sent a message saying "Fortune favours the Rock", which is nice because he thinks that I am Rock! but I don't know about that, he used to be very Rock and now he lives in rehab. Still he's much better off being unRock but I digress, in the last half an hour I have discovered that I have lost most feeling in the tip of my left ring finger, the fingerprintitis seems to be spreading to the middle finger and horrifyingly the nail feels like it is coming loose from one finger. The lump in my neck is shrinking but is still there.
Today I sat all day and wept whilst watching movies. That was not ideal. I tried several times to do something but failed miserably. I don't know if its after-Elliot-shock or the mystery illness or both. I am exhausted, not a bored I didn't do anything all day exhausted but the kind of tired that climbs from bone to bone.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm no doctor, to my shame, but I don't think this fingerprintitis is as trivial as I first thought, I don't know if its connected to the lump. I don't know if I have made a terrible mistake. I tried to talk to myself, I tried to say that I knew that staying at home by myself day after day would start to get to me but that I could handle it but it didn't work. I feel like parts of me have been replaced with replicas made of cardboard and paint. I'm sitting here colouring in a new heart with my textas. Its only prudent to keep spare parts, just in case.
I find it difficult to believe that there is. I have lost my imagination. I am hoping this is temporary.
It was a foolish hope, my imagination is back with a vengeance. I go to the doctor's for my test results in the morning. Elliot sent a message saying "Fortune favours the Rock", which is nice because he thinks that I am Rock! but I don't know about that, he used to be very Rock and now he lives in rehab. Still he's much better off being unRock but I digress, in the last half an hour I have discovered that I have lost most feeling in the tip of my left ring finger, the fingerprintitis seems to be spreading to the middle finger and horrifyingly the nail feels like it is coming loose from one finger. The lump in my neck is shrinking but is still there.
Today I sat all day and wept whilst watching movies. That was not ideal. I tried several times to do something but failed miserably. I don't know if its after-Elliot-shock or the mystery illness or both. I am exhausted, not a bored I didn't do anything all day exhausted but the kind of tired that climbs from bone to bone.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm no doctor, to my shame, but I don't think this fingerprintitis is as trivial as I first thought, I don't know if its connected to the lump. I don't know if I have made a terrible mistake. I tried to talk to myself, I tried to say that I knew that staying at home by myself day after day would start to get to me but that I could handle it but it didn't work. I feel like parts of me have been replaced with replicas made of cardboard and paint. I'm sitting here colouring in a new heart with my textas. Its only prudent to keep spare parts, just in case.
Ah ha
I am developing a more complex plan, I think. I seem to have lost ways of saying things apart from this happened and next that. I am quiet and boring.
A simple plan
Well once again I have temporarily (I hope temporarily) shattered my independence bubble. The bubble that has allowed me to float happily alone. Happily enough to go and see a concert by myself with the greatest of ease but that was last week. Now I feel that burning band of tightness just under my ribcage, the slight shortening of breath that means I am alone and not entirely happy about it.
I slept all day because yesterday I accidentally exerted myself past the point of exhaustion. It didn't take much, firstly I stayed awake all day. I washed the dishes and helped The Spatula set up for our ladies afternoon tea. I then drank tea and cupcakes with ladies. Elliot arrived towards the end of the tea party with a present for me, a teapot with cup, for one.
Elliot helped me tidy up after the ladies left, he ate the last of the cucumber sandwiches then washed all the dishes. He was wearing sandals and carefully placing my elegant teacups on the bench. We walked up the street to have some dinner. I thought we might get the bus because where we were going was at the other end of King St but I stupidly walked the whole way. After dinner at the sorbet shop I realised what I had done. I was having difficulty sitting on my stool. I thought I might melt onto the floor and be absorbed into the tiles. Elliot suggested a taxi home.
Elliot told me to go and have a shower. He said go and have a shower and I will change the sheets for you. I was so grateful that I showed him where I keep my botanical shower foam. I had a very solid plan, I'd been thinking it through and making determinations, I ran through the plan once more while I was in the shower. My very solid plan was to not have sex. Here are the reasons. 1 I do not know what my illness is or if it is contagious. 2 I am not supposed to exert myself. 3 Last time I did not cope, the sudden giving then taking away of a person left me bereft. 4 Last time it wasn't really that good.
I have never been very good at following plans. He came up behind me while I was fusing over some thing or other, he wrapped his arms around me then lowered his face onto the back of my neck and smelled me. The plan wobbled a little. When he came back from the shower he smelt like botanical foam, he very calmly took off his clothes and climbed into bed. I thought fine all normal and running according to plan so far. Obviously hugging is allowed but very slowly finger by finger the plan went out the window and reason 4 no longer stands as a reason.
Just before I fell asleep I noticed a spider. A giant spider. Under threat of me going to fetch The Spatula to deal with it Elliot pulled on some clothes and I snuck out the door to find a container and sheet of cardboard. I met The Spatula in the hallway and soon enough there was a three person spider removal operation underway. My role was to bravely hide in the hallway while Elliot stood on a stool with his shirt on backwards and his hair on end, The Spatula cheered him on. The spider was released outside where hopefully it will run free and never bother me again.
Sleep was delayed for some time because Elliot oddly developed a bad case of the giggles. In the morning I thought I felt fine, fine enough to go along with further plan busting then cook bacon and eggs. Unfortunately the morning came to an abrupt conclusion when Elliot's brother phoned and asked where he was. The whole family was waiting for him in a cafe in Leichhardt. We forgot about daylight savings. I drove him to the cafe and god knows how I made it home again. I felt like my infrastructure had collapsed. I slept all day. Now that I am awake I have noticed the absence of the bubble, the tightening of that infernal band of sorrow and once again I am sitting cross legged and alone wondering how I managed to fool myself into believing that I can do this all by myself.
I slept all day because yesterday I accidentally exerted myself past the point of exhaustion. It didn't take much, firstly I stayed awake all day. I washed the dishes and helped The Spatula set up for our ladies afternoon tea. I then drank tea and cupcakes with ladies. Elliot arrived towards the end of the tea party with a present for me, a teapot with cup, for one.
Elliot helped me tidy up after the ladies left, he ate the last of the cucumber sandwiches then washed all the dishes. He was wearing sandals and carefully placing my elegant teacups on the bench. We walked up the street to have some dinner. I thought we might get the bus because where we were going was at the other end of King St but I stupidly walked the whole way. After dinner at the sorbet shop I realised what I had done. I was having difficulty sitting on my stool. I thought I might melt onto the floor and be absorbed into the tiles. Elliot suggested a taxi home.
Elliot told me to go and have a shower. He said go and have a shower and I will change the sheets for you. I was so grateful that I showed him where I keep my botanical shower foam. I had a very solid plan, I'd been thinking it through and making determinations, I ran through the plan once more while I was in the shower. My very solid plan was to not have sex. Here are the reasons. 1 I do not know what my illness is or if it is contagious. 2 I am not supposed to exert myself. 3 Last time I did not cope, the sudden giving then taking away of a person left me bereft. 4 Last time it wasn't really that good.
I have never been very good at following plans. He came up behind me while I was fusing over some thing or other, he wrapped his arms around me then lowered his face onto the back of my neck and smelled me. The plan wobbled a little. When he came back from the shower he smelt like botanical foam, he very calmly took off his clothes and climbed into bed. I thought fine all normal and running according to plan so far. Obviously hugging is allowed but very slowly finger by finger the plan went out the window and reason 4 no longer stands as a reason.
Just before I fell asleep I noticed a spider. A giant spider. Under threat of me going to fetch The Spatula to deal with it Elliot pulled on some clothes and I snuck out the door to find a container and sheet of cardboard. I met The Spatula in the hallway and soon enough there was a three person spider removal operation underway. My role was to bravely hide in the hallway while Elliot stood on a stool with his shirt on backwards and his hair on end, The Spatula cheered him on. The spider was released outside where hopefully it will run free and never bother me again.
Sleep was delayed for some time because Elliot oddly developed a bad case of the giggles. In the morning I thought I felt fine, fine enough to go along with further plan busting then cook bacon and eggs. Unfortunately the morning came to an abrupt conclusion when Elliot's brother phoned and asked where he was. The whole family was waiting for him in a cafe in Leichhardt. We forgot about daylight savings. I drove him to the cafe and god knows how I made it home again. I felt like my infrastructure had collapsed. I slept all day. Now that I am awake I have noticed the absence of the bubble, the tightening of that infernal band of sorrow and once again I am sitting cross legged and alone wondering how I managed to fool myself into believing that I can do this all by myself.
Raise your voice of hope
Newtown. My town. Better than any old town.
Only in Newtown could I walk down the street having sms sex in my new summer dress. No other town opens me to let the world rush in like Newtown does. I went to the movies with the Peachettes, we saw Once and it raised my voice of hope. I sent Elliot a message that just said "Raise your voice of hope" and he knew what I meant. He sent another message back saying his roommate had moved out of the rehab and so tonight he had a room to himself. He said he was naked and thinking about wanking and thinking about thinking about me while he was doing it. Me and a cake to be precise. He said "Do I need permission? Does this text count as sex?"
I told him to do it twice, told him I would join in, I told him this as I was walking past the bus stop on Enmore Rd just where it splits from King St. I said go ahead, wank away, do it twice expecting him to go off and um, do the business but as I approached the Enmore Theatre I received a detailed description of just exactly what business he was doing and the question "Are you naked yet?". I let out such a noise that Grizelda grabbed my phone and read the message, holding it up for The Spatula to see, that was not ideal.
At first I started writing a message telling the truth, that I was outside the Enmore sneaking a listen to Nick Cave and wearing my new blue dress but than I remembered the time I told Rupert I was wearing eyeore pyjamas and thought better of it so I said Yes. Yes I am naked and made up some stuff that a naked woman might do in the privacy of her own bedroom, with the door locked and the curtains drawn.
The reply I received was unbelievable, Elliot should write porn novels. I made sure to keep the phone well out of reach of the Peachettes this time. I think I was blushing and holding a hand up to my face. The combination of Nick Cave live floating out in the balmy air, the ticket to see Nick tomorrow night snugly in my purse and Elliot's increasingly erotic messages nearly sent me into a parallel universe.
By the time Nick Cave finished and I was almost home things were getting out of control. By the time I'd cleaned my teeth and checked the cat's water bowl I'd been tied up, flipped over, bitten, bruised, licked, fucked in five different positions and he was no showing no signs of stopping. By the time I was sitting on the bed in my socks and underpants there was honey and wax and a ten inch studded dildo. By the time I turned on my computer and rolled a cigarette he was shaking and soaked in sweat.
The last message I received said Good Night Miss D. Sleep long and deep. I think I might just do that, maybe I'll dream of Elliot and a cake...
Only in Newtown could I walk down the street having sms sex in my new summer dress. No other town opens me to let the world rush in like Newtown does. I went to the movies with the Peachettes, we saw Once and it raised my voice of hope. I sent Elliot a message that just said "Raise your voice of hope" and he knew what I meant. He sent another message back saying his roommate had moved out of the rehab and so tonight he had a room to himself. He said he was naked and thinking about wanking and thinking about thinking about me while he was doing it. Me and a cake to be precise. He said "Do I need permission? Does this text count as sex?"
I told him to do it twice, told him I would join in, I told him this as I was walking past the bus stop on Enmore Rd just where it splits from King St. I said go ahead, wank away, do it twice expecting him to go off and um, do the business but as I approached the Enmore Theatre I received a detailed description of just exactly what business he was doing and the question "Are you naked yet?". I let out such a noise that Grizelda grabbed my phone and read the message, holding it up for The Spatula to see, that was not ideal.
At first I started writing a message telling the truth, that I was outside the Enmore sneaking a listen to Nick Cave and wearing my new blue dress but than I remembered the time I told Rupert I was wearing eyeore pyjamas and thought better of it so I said Yes. Yes I am naked and made up some stuff that a naked woman might do in the privacy of her own bedroom, with the door locked and the curtains drawn.
The reply I received was unbelievable, Elliot should write porn novels. I made sure to keep the phone well out of reach of the Peachettes this time. I think I was blushing and holding a hand up to my face. The combination of Nick Cave live floating out in the balmy air, the ticket to see Nick tomorrow night snugly in my purse and Elliot's increasingly erotic messages nearly sent me into a parallel universe.
By the time Nick Cave finished and I was almost home things were getting out of control. By the time I'd cleaned my teeth and checked the cat's water bowl I'd been tied up, flipped over, bitten, bruised, licked, fucked in five different positions and he was no showing no signs of stopping. By the time I was sitting on the bed in my socks and underpants there was honey and wax and a ten inch studded dildo. By the time I turned on my computer and rolled a cigarette he was shaking and soaked in sweat.
The last message I received said Good Night Miss D. Sleep long and deep. I think I might just do that, maybe I'll dream of Elliot and a cake...
Elliotitis
Fuck that fucker he is over-complicating my brain and has me thinking how much is enough? I think I might have had enough. It is very plain that I adore him despite his almost infinite flaws. It is very plain that he possesses the unique ability to pull me inside out and scatter my innards across the Sydney basin any time he chooses and the problem is he chose today.
I telephoned him in a happy moment thinking to say hello and see how he is. He is with Mr X doing some sort of stupid cricket thing but he was walking as he was talking to me and waxing silly and I had to keep yelling What! because I could not understand what he was saying. Soon after that failed conversation I was listening to Lou Reed and and sent him some silly Lou Reed lyrics about honey bears shaving their hairs. His reply was odd at best and downright fucked at worst and as an aside at the very end included "I don't think I can do next weekend either, will let you know."
I don't know what he is doing to me but I don't like it. I don't like the way he pushes my buttons. I don't like the way he is always in my head. I don't like the way his message punctured my carefully constructed gas cylinder of emotion. I don't like the way I am throwing things and raging around The Peach yelling without reason. I don't know what to do.
I telephoned him in a happy moment thinking to say hello and see how he is. He is with Mr X doing some sort of stupid cricket thing but he was walking as he was talking to me and waxing silly and I had to keep yelling What! because I could not understand what he was saying. Soon after that failed conversation I was listening to Lou Reed and and sent him some silly Lou Reed lyrics about honey bears shaving their hairs. His reply was odd at best and downright fucked at worst and as an aside at the very end included "I don't think I can do next weekend either, will let you know."
I don't know what he is doing to me but I don't like it. I don't like the way he pushes my buttons. I don't like the way he is always in my head. I don't like the way his message punctured my carefully constructed gas cylinder of emotion. I don't like the way I am throwing things and raging around The Peach yelling without reason. I don't know what to do.
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