Innocence Lost?

Seeing as you seemed to like that last anecdote.

I was at a bar once, this happened a lot at the time, most of the memories I have of this particular bar have no beginning, I was just there. I was just there at this bar and I had just gotten paid so all the drinks appeared flimsy and cheap to me as I reeled them off, like fake nails I ripped from my fingers. It was in the weeks before winter when everybody gets this sense of impending loneliness so they flock to whatever vantage point they can to see the sun. Or in this case the red lights hanging over the liquor display, what is it with amber mood lighting in would-be-dives? It’s pretty condescending actually, this mock-warmth. Regardless, all of the best people I knew had climbed the stairs to join me and at one point I was ‘vogue-ing’ on the dance floor with this guy I was or had been sleeping with, he may or may not have picked me up to spin me around that night, though it could have been the week after. He actually did it a few times now that I think about it. Why am I thinking about it. 
This bar happened to be my favourite bar, it was three minutes away from my place and it was known to be the ‘hip’ spot in my city, also non-conforming-gender-friendly, not that I was openly dating girls then, but it was always nice to see a couple of gay guys making eyes at each other from respective corners of the room. I went there a lot, maybe twice or three times a week to blow my load, so to speak, that’s what it felt like at the time, a sweet and sweaty release after a week at the job I hated but was dying to love. It was a Friday or a Saturday, I remember that much, nobody had work in the morning so the times that blinked on our phones rubbed us up the wrong way. That is until everybody I knew left. Everybody but me and this girl I barely knew, in a sea of black-clad bodies. The lights went on at three am and that’s the last thing I remember until I keyed in the combination for the door to my apartment building and tripped on the art-deco-style spiral staircase no less than four times. On jamming my key into my front door I breathed an audible sigh of relief and hobbled inside. Needing to pee after drinking maybe nine vodka-sodas and a cocktail they set on fire for me (‘Make me anything you want to!’), I stumbled into my bathroom and started pulling off all of my clothes until I was completely naked. Then I made the mistake of turning the light off.

You know that feeling of reaching under your bed for something you’ve just glimpsed beneath it but when you go to reach for it it seems to have vanished? That was me, naked in my bathroom amidst the burgeoning winter, scrabbling at the walls aiming to find either the door handle or the light-switch. At first I had complete faith I would find one or the other so I just cursed myself and my drunk appendages for lacking the aim I so desperately needed. After a solid minute of pawing at the walls and door I was in complete disbelief, how could I not be able to find two objects against a two meter wide expanse of wall? I was starting to get really cold, I lived in a studio apartment with thin windows and seeing as I was spending most of my paycheck on booze and new tights (from falling over under the influence of said booze), I couldn’t afford to run my dryer too many nights a week let alone heat the place up. Mostly I relied on the fact my apartment was a level above the street and the knowledge that ‘heat rises’, whatever. The three rooms (one with a tasteful split level) were equally frigid bitches. My bathroom, for whatever reason, was particularly wintry this morning and if I hadn’t have been drunk I would have mused over how maybe it was a cloudless night, so the heat couldn’t be held against the sky-line. That said if I hadn’t have been drunk I wouldn’t have been pressing my naked body against the door in the hopes I would ‘feel out’ the handle. 
At some point, maybe five minutes in, I began to get animalistic. First I began to weep softly, muttering ‘why?’ to myself or maybe God or whoever the fuck was controlling the lack of palpable door-handles or light-switches in my life. Then I began to reiterate how cold I was, aloud, and began stating my intentions- ‘I just want to get into bed!’, again, to who I have no idea. The God of the less-than-sober who might normally be watching over hospital emergency wards on the weekends. After a decent eight minutes or so of fairly pretty crying, combined with a shaking that was increasing in its urgency, shit got real. My hopelessness turned into a raging frustration, with me spread-eagling my naked body across all of the walls while simultaneously sobbing and cursing, my face twisted into an expression I’m actually somewhat glad I didn’t have to see in the mirror above the sink. At points I would tell myself to calm the fuck down because that’s how people solve things, right? They take deep breaths and think methodically and they always find what they’re looking for or resolve the situation or whatever. When this failed though, my fury would increase ten fold and it felt like the dark was collaborating with the house-hold appendages my bathroom usually had ownership of. I was howling, the cold had now wrapped its dying-child fingers around my bones and I was scratching not only at the wall I knew normally housed the light-switch but also at the walls surrounding and next to my toilet, the mirror, the washing machine, any available space I knew might possess some object I might be able to use.
With one last defiant lunge I threw my body at the door and with a flash of light (as it seemed to me at the time), the door miraculously opened and I collapsed out into my kitchen, only to trip down the tasteful stairs that led into the lounge , pushed through my bedroom door and smashed my face against my bed, where I got my first case of the spins as I turned over to look at the ceiling, safely enclosed in a nest of duvets, all of them too small for my queen bed. 

On waking up the next day I could remember only the bathroom incident and on my trip to the kitchen to retrieve some diet ginger-ale for my churning stomach, I wandered into the bathroom to survey the damage. There were hand-shaped black marks on all of the walls, where I had pressed my palms against my face in emotional agony, blotting them with my running mascara. All of the items that were usually so aesthetically placed on my sink were on the floor and I had broken the toilet roll holder off the wall completely. In fact it looked like I had ripped it out. Accompanying this were several gouge-marks made by my nails which, as I looked down at my blotchy alcohol-swollen hands, still held remnants of the paint and plaster. There was a broken nail in one of the holes.
After drinking the bottle of ginger-ale in bed and wondering at the strange collection of bruises scattered across my entire body, I returned to the scene to shower as I was meeting two of the friends who had been at the bar with me the night before for lunch, where I got a strange urge I hadn’t felt for years. That was the first time I had vomited from drinking. It tasted like ginger, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

On leaving my apartment, though, I turned to check the door was locked and found a note stuck to it, from my neighbour who lived in the apartment to the right of mine, sharing my bedroom and bathroom walls. It read something like:
‘Are you OK? Marie and I heard screaming coming from your place in the early hours of this morning. Please let us know you are alright or we will have to call either the landlord or the police. Peter.’

It took me six days to find out the girl I barely knew had walked me home. After apologising and thanking her, she graciously accepted the apology, saying ‘it’s not like I could leave you there!’

TN

Coming Of Age

My Father likes to quote lines from the self-help books my nigh-on-billionaire uncle gives him. All the men on my Father’s side of the family are millionaires. My Father has a second lounge with a projector screen. The uncle who sends the books has a mansion in Melbourne, in one of the spare bedrooms there is a wardrobe brimming with expensive suits and shirts, blu-tacked to the wardrobe door there is a laminated sheet displaying which suits go with which shirts, in high-resolution colour. My Sister and I giggled over it but as I grow older I realise that kind of thing is time-consuming and you doubt yourself increasingly with every year so, no, not everything looks good all the time. 
My Father’s favourite line from the books is ‘Live In The Moment’. He actually gave me the book for my eighteenth birthday, not his copy, a brand new one. I always believed everybody’s emotions were justified and therefore these declarations and ‘rules-to-live-by’ were invalid. 
Like when somebody says ‘You Might Enjoy It When You Get There’. My Mother says this. I never enjoy it when I get there. In fact I spend a lot of time wondering when the ‘there’ in ‘get there’ actually is and why aren’t I enjoying it yet? Calling her out on her bluff would be mean, sometimes I do it anyway, as if it’s her fault. In a way, to me, it is. I wouldn’t have gone if she hadn’t have given me the false hope I might grasp a strange glimmer of joy from whatever evening somebody else has planned for me. 
Whatever, the point is, unless you are clinically delusional (I mean diagnosed), your feelings are fairly trustworthy. In the same way that if you don’t think you’ll enjoy something, you probably won’t and if you think something might make you happy, it probably will. 
I accept sometimes the books and talk-shows etc are there to give you the ideas of things that might make you happy, but really, you don’t need to spend thirty dollars on a book with some ridiculous sickly beamingface (usually male) on the cover to discover how to be happy. 
How To Be Happy: Do Things That Make You Happy.
Nothing Makes You Happy Anymore: Find The Things That Are Making You Unhappiest And Cut Them Out Slowly.
Or whatever.

I did actually have a point to this. 
I thought of it while I was brushing my teeth. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this but my new flatmate reminds me of a man crossing over to become a woman. She is very thin with unembellished features. Though I did see her wearing makeup today and I think that looked nice. That’s not the point I was trying to make either.  
I have a very good home-life at the moment. That’s not it. 
All of the women on my Father’s side of the family are almost shit poor? Unless they married into money. One of them actually lives in this miniature gated-community. It is uninviting at its most seductive. Oh, he comes from a family of eleven? 
It was something about my Father. Or not. It doesn’t really matter.

I found an ice-cream container filled with condoms on top of the bathroom cabinet. It was fairly disappointing, I was looking for tampons. It was also intriguing, though. Who keeps condoms in the bathroom? It got me thinking about sex in the shower which I haven’t done in at least two years or sex on a washing machine, which I’ve never done at all. That kind of thing just sounds unsexily difficult. They haven’t expired so they’re mine now, regardless. 

My shared twenty-first was last night. Slipped into a state of obnoxious-drunk and was crass to almost everybody. Nobody ever says anything but I think I must be worryingly unpredictable at times. I am also becoming slightly more aware of my laugh. It doesn’t suit my face. Like the word Fuck. 

Bloodletting

Inner thigh bruises. The perfect brand of war wounds, this is simple; It was a war. She had a short dress, long hair and legs and I was armed only with a sly courage so liquid it was nautical. Tee-shirt and jeans, swimming close to the skyline, a quick-wit superlative perhaps but also faltering. She is waiting for me to leave but he grabs me in the dark and maybe there are victory bells, or maybe the drunk kids are screaming into the ether like the stars won’t last but they will. 
We laugh as we leave, as if getting hit on is the most natural thing and I come home mid-morning and feel I must be bluffing because since when do I win? And how is it that easy? With a hand on a knee and a short glance to leave me unstable. The brave have fallen but I remain.

And feeling very myself again. 
As if myself is a state so recognisable, anybody could fit it.

Stay Away From Me

Half-past ten, my legs are crossed. Reminds me of isosceles triangles. Reminds me of my maths class at fifteen, the soccer teacher with sweat-stains on his tailored shirts, his thin and lovely wife. Accusing me of swearing too much, but never flinching at my curses. All brash and legs. Tight singlets and hips, and these ugly over-pronounced words spilling from my scarred bottom lip.

Something I wish I’d said a while ago now: I’m leaving. 
I curse over that, a lot.

Pride is like a cake I baked but burned and had no time for.

Man do I love being alone in the evenings. Not even sarcastic. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with that. I hear people fucking around outside every night, so happy to be around other people and for whatever reason I just can’t imagine them alone in bed at night. I can’t produce their routines or even comprehend how they manage not blathering on about some guy or some restaurant or some joke or not throwing up under the steps outside, blind drunk and reeling.

Licking an envelope I’m not too sure I’m supposed to lick. Not too sure I’m supposed to be sending it anyway.

‘So, what are you, like, a lesbian now?’
Oh. Well you’re rude. 
Probably know how to go down on a girl better than you anyway. 
You just.. Yeah. Fucker.

Haven’t been drunk in a long time. I feel I am missing out on something, again. I squint at this thought. Like through narrowed eyes I might illuminate the faults. Like liver cirrhosis. Uh, stomach upsets. Headaches. Dry-mouth. Over-sexualised conversation. Kilojoules. Loud and obnoxious wrong impressions. Spilling secrets. Bottle-store wallet-emptying. 

Ok well I’ve bored you enough, good night.
TN 

Ramble & The Walk Home

Before you go any further: I am drunk right now.

I’m not the type to delete something after I’ve written it though, I don’t go back and freak the fuck out. After the most important people have seen it anyway.

Hello.

Ok so here’s some un-‘cryptic’ stuff, for you. 

I am twenty. No, really. 
I just miss everyone.

You’d think that after you spend a certain amount of time being in close contact with a number of people, they would endeavour to keep in contact. I hasten to add, I may be extremely flaky at times, but I think I am a good person. Plus I take the piss out of myself on the reg and most of the time you can laugh at the faces I am making.  I never missed anyone until this year. I didn’t understand the concept of ‘missing’ someone. When friends said ‘oh, I’ve missed you.’ I just thought it was something you said. A kindness. Now..

I miss Him. His arms crossed over my back heavy hand on my shoulder. He knew me when I was a shriveled, scaly mess of prominent bones and desperation. I miss his photographs and smile. 
I miss Her, when she is working or working on herself. Building a life, so to speak. I miss her banter and clever conversation. I fear she will find someone more interesting to spend time with.
I miss Him. Golden syrup on spoons at fourteen. The heady atmosphere First Love creates. His tawny mop of hair and the gentle shedding of layers. My bedroom floor and his shirt. I miss his twenty-one year old face in all its genteel frankness. I miss his stammering heart. 
I miss Her, when she avoids me avidly for weeks. I miss the first sullen ceiling of stars, my back against the panels of a house I’d never visited. I miss her interest and her worries and her wide-eyed smile.
I miss Him. His lean, taut frame. The light on but dimmed. How he watched me and the slow rhythm of evenings together. His skin like the underside of leather. I miss pleasure and lust and his waist and my fingers curled around his neck.
I miss Them. The fun that we had, or no fun at all. I miss the repetition of jokes and the open-mouthed laugher of seventeen-eighteen-nineteen.
I miss Him. Maybe only tonight, maybe the next. Maybe for a week or two. The safety. The security. The incredible care and mind-blowing passion and the taking care of.

I miss the what could and should have been. I miss the casual evenings and the wide-blown affairs. I need to stop this. I don’t know how to not miss anyone. Anymore.

I want you in my bed, right now. Extremely urgently. But you’ll never show up. Just out of the blue. Will you? 

Signal Busy

So instead of eating, it eats you.

Walking past establishment I know but have not had the chance to love and he calls me inside. He’s kind of beautiful. Now that I mention it.

I do not think of you a failure, you are a king.
That’s what angers me most, out of everything.

[Sometimes I think in rhyming stanzas] 

Oh fuck I’m drunk. RED WINE WHY MUST I BE ALLERGIC.

Recollection, Remembrancer

Something I remembered. Lucidity slapping me whilst in a gin-steeped-embrace.

Thirteen years old, you were fifteen. Leaning over to throw up all over your shirt. You Instantly grabbed my shoulder.
“Oh my god, are you ok? Holy shit how are you feeling? Do you want to go home?”
There was no recognition of the vomit all over your torso until you went to pick me up and acknowledged it would get on me.  You stopped to strip your shirt off, left it there in the middle of the floor, somebodies house, we didn’t even know who the fuck they were. You would never get your shirt back. Picking me up and sitting me in the front seat of your car. Driving home, pulling into a service station. Bottles of water and a toothbrush with toothpaste. Hair-ties. Tissues. Deodorant. It was a half-hour drive back to yours, my head spinning.

Waking up in between your sheets the next day, you upright on an armchair, a bucket resting against your forearm. A bucket full of my vomit. Eyes wide open all of a sudden.
“Are you ok? How are you feeling? You want something to eat?”
Already on your feet.

This bleeds into my sleep. Every recollection a nightmare.
You had so much to readily give.  

Never search for a name you detest

There is a girl table-dancing in my future. This girl has half the same face as me. The other half is drawn [charcoal etched and smudged, blurred lines with whorls of thumb-prints like sea-shells. Identity smeared everywhere], tired and dark-eyed.

Still getting wasted, though. I’m not a bad person I’m not a bad person I’m not I’m not.

I was going to walk a mile in your shoes. But we use the metric system. I could only guess how long a mile is. I’d be walking forever. And still feel no fucking sympathy for you.

Peter Sellers

Taking time to acknowledge my almost dead, soulless sister. The institution has transformed her into a harsh, misguided teenager of a woman. Like a great vacuum pulled her away from me and kept on at her chest. All her giggly ways extracted. We get left with the irritable shell of a human. I liked her better when she was fucked up.

I know what you’re thinking. That’s unnecessarily harsh. That is, in some way, ‘wrong’ for me to think this. Because she’s happy now? But she isn’t. She just isn’t sad anymore. Or crazy. She’s angry and immature instead. All she had to do, in my mind [naive as it is, I guess] was just stay close to me. Stop wandering off with these boys she called men but acted as mothers to. Take my advice because I’m a realist where she thinks she’s so fucking intelligent.

I honestly just can’t be fucked anymore. Family may be family, but good company is such as well.

My mother telling me about her first time on acid – “Peter sellers was sitting right next to me and I couldn’t stop laughing”.

My mother telling me about her second time on acid – “I think what I had was… We used to call it a ‘bad trip’ in those days.”

My mother on any kind of ailment I might be complaining about – “… You’re not pregnant, are you?”

My mother on calling a psychic whilst under the influence – “Oh no, I can’t do this. She’ll know I’m drunk. She’s psychic!”
And me – “Well, if she’s psychic she’ll know you’re about to call anyway.”

Awful Truths I May Have Denied

I heard my father knocking on my window, brunch with my brother before he left. I ran to check the door was locked, and sat on my kitchen bench. Swinging my feet until he left. All of my family in tow. Screaming younger siblings, and sister who maybe needed me. Still, I just watched my feet, the bones of my toes. Studied my knees, while the shadows of my fathers figure clambered all over my bedroom walls. Could only think of sleep and my not-yet-worn-in-sheets. Eating over the violence of my siblings sounded like torture to me. And they invade my space, when it is not theirs to invade.

I didn’t miss you as much as I said I did. I felt the need to control you. I was seventeen, and I don’t regret the terrible person I turned you into temporarily. You didn’t even seem to notice. So why the fuck should I?

We used to invent games to push the boring from drunk nights that had such potential. Parties of people we didn’t know, it was who could steal the quirkiest object. Four teenagers in the backseat, covered in spirulina powder. Or the massage oil of some dotty blonde girls middle-aged parents.