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it still matters, it will always matter

August 12, 2014

Dating. Still doing it. Getting better at it. In some ways, getting worse. Invited some guy from Tinder to my house the other night. I peered through the peep hole: a twirly mustachioed man stood on the other side. Mulled wine on the stove top. Purple inner lips. Face lips. Lilac cardigan. Nice to meet you, I said. Do you usually invite strangers to your house? he said. Yes, I thought. No, I said. I said it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter? he said. No, it doesn’t matter. You’re not allowed to matter. I can’t let you matter. All my matter’s mattered out. Met a guy who lived in a shed. Met a guy who lived above a yoga studio. Met a guy who lived in a six-person sharehouse. Met a guy with a dog. Met a guy who makes coffee: our fingers touched, felt the energy spread up my arm. What’s his name? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter anymore. In and out: goodbye kisses in the doorway, cold hugs in the driveway. Talking, whispering, storytelling, listening, not listening, laughing, touching, sexing, saying I don’t think we should do this anymore. Breakfast? Toast. Vegemite? Not too much. Strangers. Strangers standing in my kitchen, sitting in my living room, sleeping in my bed. It only matters if it matters, he said. Does it matter? Yes, I think it matters, I said. Of course it matters. It will always matter. I’m not mattered out, I’m made of matter.

2011 journal mash-ups

June 15, 2014

This is a mash-up of sentences found in my 2011 journal. Back then I was trying to use fiction to arrive at some kind of ‘truth’. I never arrived.

‘The pockets of time and light that are too transitory to be put into words or even catch the eye…’ – source unknown

If I had the chance to re-write my real-life narrative…

I’d stopped listening and started transcribing what she said onto the backboard in my head. I wrote, in capital letters, ‘We will have extraordinary lives.’ Our palms met and our fingers entwined and our arms widened above us like a setting sun. ‘I feel like I’m going to be young forever,’ she said. The irony caught in my throat. I knew she knew I was suffering. I was already starting to feel old. I wiped the tears from my stone face and walked out of the room. I was relying on there to be a next time, in the lazy assumption that she would always be there – for when, if ever, I decided to introduce her to the characters keeping company in my head. There wasn’t enough room inside me. I fell to the ground as though everything in the world was crashing and I was just falling with it. The desired perception is that we never hurt. But Depression met its match in Grief.  It was barbaric, violent and sickening. Saturday mornings won’t be the same. I will never walk shadowless again.

If I had the chance to re-write my real-life narrative…

June 2011: a journal entry

June 12, 2014

The other day I had a run-in with a babe skateboarder on Church Street. He did a trick. He fell over. He admitted he was trying to show off. He asked me if I’d been impressed. I said not really, and kept walking. He called out,

I like your pants.

The other morning, on my way to the station, I witnessed a couple having a fight. He was dropping her off at her office and he turned away form her without saying or doing anything. In a pitiful voice, the woman said, ‘At least give me a kiss goodbye – what will people think?’ So he did,

and my blood ran cold.

As an aside note, I just started writing in a brand new Moleskine journal. It feels almost criminal vandalising these beautiful pages with such mindless dribble.

this isn’t what I want

June 9, 2014

The words, spoken in my head, were bold and sure. I hadn’t searched for them, or wanted or expected them. They were catapulted from my unconscious as though from a bucking bull.

‘This isn’t what I want.’

I was lying awake in bed, edged closer to my side than usual, with the flannelette covers pulled high over my chest. Next to me was a man, naked and asleep. He kept pulling me into the little spoon position from which I’d again have to wriggle free: picking up limbs – driftwood weighing heavy on my body – and placing them to his adopted side.

‘This isn’t what I want.’

Unable to sleep I got up and stood in the bathroom, the tiles cold beneath my feet. I didn’t know much about him; I had seen him only a few times. When we first met at the pub and every time since at my place, during pockets of unused time and caked with end of day grit. It wasn’t serious, and wouldn’t be. He was absent and uninterested. I was unsure and guarded. Two caged people sharing a bed. But his in-sleep grabbing told me he wasn’t used to being alone.

‘This isn’t what I want.’

Read more…

the man who does not like to kiss

June 3, 2014

I’ve recently had several interactions with a man who, apparently, does not like kissing and so blocked most of my kissing attempts with a hard, closed mouth or by burrowing his head into his pillow. It was kind of like I was trying to kiss my brother and he was politely doing all that he could to barricade my tongue. But this man wasn’t my brother, or any other blood relation; he was supposed to be a lover.

I don’t believe I’m a bad kisser so I refused to take this weirdness as an insult to my technique, but I certainly did a few breath checks and gave my teeth an extra good flossing before seeing him. I’m not a Trojan horse; I’m a person.

Things did not improve, however. If anything, things got worse. No matter how clean my teeth!, the man kept a determined distance from my face. And it did not feel very nice. I doubt you, my reader, have ever been kiss-rejected in your own bed, but there are surely many other things you’d prefer to experience. Like endometriosis period pain.

Read more…

joyous smiles and ovarian cysts

May 16, 2014
this is the goddamn smock they make you wear

this is the goddamn smock they make you wear

Yesterday morning I walked out of Women’s Ultrasound Melbourne (WUMe) on Victoria Parade with a smile on my face. Anyone who saw me might’ve thought I was displaying the joy of an expectant mother.

But that was not why I was smiling. A Tinder baby inside me, I do not have. Or any other kind of baby, for that matter.

This time last year an odd-shaped peach – otherwise known as an ovarian cyst – was growing on my right ovary. After it refused to fall from the tree, I had it surgically removed before Christmas. And that was pretty much that, until a few weeks ago when I went to my GP and told her I had symptoms the same as when I was harvesting the peach. She asked me to describe those symptoms.

‘There’s a knowing-ness in my body,’ I told her, slowly gesticulating around my lower abdomen.

I’ve been seeing my GP for a while now; she has a great deal of patience with me.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Anything else?’

Read more…

on Tinder

May 7, 2014

Literally – I’m on Tinder. The other day I matched with a man named Russell. Russell wrote to me at 2am. He said, ‘Hi.’ Several days later I responded. I said, ‘Are you a man of many words, Russell?’ He said that he’d been told that he was. He asked me how I was going. I laughed but never got back to Russell. It seemed quite a lot of effort – where did I go from there? how was the conversation ever going to pick up momentum? was I really interested in telling Russell how I was? was I really interested in Russell?

Tinder date

this is not Russell

No, I wasn’t. Not really. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I’ve got a number of other open conversations with people I’ve ‘matched’ with and some of them are attractive men. I’d even go as far to say they are very attractive men. But I’ve never really gone for very attractive men before – only the funny ones, the interesting ones, the nice hands ones. How am I supposed to know if they are any of these things without engaging in long-winded, banal small talk with the lot of them? Obviously I’m still struggling with the Tinder concept.

Having said all that, I did go on a Tinder date on the weekend and I’d been the one to make the initial contact with him. The reasons for this being, he was good-looking and appeared to be interesting. And he proved to be an excellent texter – very funny – and his grammar was well above par. Well, I never! And the date was good, too, at least what I can remember of it – the hangover the next day was testament I’d been drunker than I thought I’d been. But now, in the aftermath, I’m not sure what to do. What happens after a Tinder date?

Read more…

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