Thoughts in Summer/Winter

Thoughts in Summer/Winter

I’ve borrowed a smirk from Tracy Emin. Older now, the summer flowers don’t melt my heart as they did at 27. If you were here I would do things differently.

But don’t we all say that? He crumples my touch, throws it to the corner next to the bin where a condom hangs like a man lynched

even at 7am in Wollongong the heat is a thief’s hand to the mouth. It is summer here, you’ve gone back to Nanjing.

Work is slow and I spent my last $10 on condoms – priorities. I cool myself with the breath of my lover and wonder

if you’re walking in the snow with her, it is winter there. Xiu Ling told me she was pregnant. You’d make a terrible father.

You’d think my smirk was typical white-girl coarseness. Always with the off-hand comments – white women fuck anyone. White women are rough.

That summer I was desperate for love in a yellow dress, blueberry beads, we held hands and hot chips by the lighthouse, at Christmas I wrapped brie in prosciutto

and made you wear that reindeer nose, we swapped presents, I bought you cologne, you bought me a stuffed toy. I was disappointed. I asked too much of you.

I tried to learn Mandarin but gave up. You tried to teach me but asked me to repeat phrases to your friends without telling me what they meant – I didn’t trust you.

Shen Yun said he overheard you with the boys likening my breasts to tofu, imitating the wobble – that was enough.

I hope she finds out you turned up in a taxi, drunk and tearful the night before your 6am flight. When you forced a kiss on me, called me your best girl.

I hope she sees the immaturity. You pose genteel in a too small tux, she’s a slender vision in your engagement photos.

She looks bright and young. She has the smile of a woman who adheres to expectations but maybe that’s the point.

 

 

 

 

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Ryan or Brian or Sean or Cheyne

Spring rain and JB on beige chinos. Leggy millennials squawk in the disco lit windows. I am young in face and old in dissatisfaction. My amaretto sour served without egg whites, too much orange rind is always a problem. I suck the cherry and try and tie the stem with my tongue – I was never that kind of woman. Waiting for my lover in the corner under the heater and birdcaged bare bulbs, the bar is honey-thick with noise and that lawyer from Market St with a name like Ryan or Brian or Sean or Cheyne, is drunk (constantly), and he’s punching above his weight again with the blonde in the middle, always the blondes. He thinks blonde equals gullible but she crosses her legs at him. I’ve bitten my tongue more than once on the topic of his 90’s spiked hair – frosted tips. He quotes Bruce Lee incorrectly and adds his spin on the severity of climate change and I want to mock his hair and correct him but he’d recognise me and then where would we be? Spring rain and beige chinos. Or the last thing we spoke of before the rape joke and the spilled drink and all that mistaken identity business, so I hide in this swamp of crocodiles and parrots, until your arms come and lift me in a hug. He looks with something like recognition, turns, and tells the one about the Jew and the German.

Love is Endless Oil

Love is Endless Oil

after John Tranter

 

Pulled taut, released, eternally splitting amoeba

under the microscope we are watchmakers

ticking away time like stars, gluttons for red enlightenment

blu blasphemy – I’d love them all, forever falling

into the arms of new men, new stories, a sundial splitting

my shadow. Your smiles leave breadcrumbs

hypnotic urgent monsters stir the pot – I’ll fake it

being without body most nights turning and vanishing

like a comet, philosophic and industrious we

put out the siren call for sailors – John Tranter said

love is endless oil and being water there is no hope for us

it’s our nature to want absolutes

to want the purest forms of experience, pushing existence

that patient god, to the brink of sanity. We don’t skydive

or hang ourselves by hooks for the crowds but after so many

stories we’re bent like a sculpture of paralysing and total fatalism.

 

 

 

(It started like this, from a previous post: https://goo.gl/v5ozG3)

collage_20160203233604167_20160203233612220.jpg

 

Down at Bar 52

Down at Bar 52

 

You don’t want to hear it.

Quaint women’s things

lotioned into the air

vanilla perfume emanating

declaring her woman-ness

god that’s dull

but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat

the moment’s there

Shhh her opinion

Shhh her telephone number

just get down to it, a hate-fuck

pure hate

so much it nearly asphyxiates you

a rock star way to go

and then

that stupid mustache

screaming microphone feedback

entitlement

is distilled into one sentence

“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.

Table-Talk Tuesday: Part 1 – Un-dating and levels of intensity

The universe is a wonderful jerk – Part One

Stop. Confetti time. I’m graduating this December.

It’s all happening. New beginnings, new phases of life. Happy Marc-Jacobs-ad-fields-of-flowers euphoria times; dating people, un-dating people, roommates moving out, intense family times, the threat of jingle bells, birthdays, weird neighbors, funky bars and  parties, being slightly less anti-social than usual. Lots of exciting things.

Right. So. I’m not good with feelings. “What?! I don’t believe that for a second!” says no one who knows me. So I’ve developed various methods of coping with these stressors and if you have similar goings on or just want a sarcastic guide to getting through break ups/holidays/family events/life changing moments without ripping your eye lashes out one at a time then read on.

I wrote this to seem less narcissistic just for you.

How to deal with un-dating someone: 

Step 1 – Locate heart-wrenching love song.

Step 2 – Apply extreme levels of cynicism.

Example:

1. Adele. Any Adele track.

I love Adele. But in these tough and trying times, you just have to take a step back. Whether her lyrics make sense or not, I firmly believe that a correctly timed Adele record has the power to pickle eight month fetuses in despair thick enough to drive them into the arms of hard liquor as soon as they’re born. Imagine a maternity ward full of tiny wrinkly newborns refusing the boob and reaching their stubby little hands desperately into the overworked nurse’s pockets for cigarettes. This isn’t normal, but on Adele it is.

Moving on.

Take your Adele track – I chose ‘Set fire to the rain’ because it is one of the most ridiculous songs of all time – now listen to the words very carefully – or read them, because there’s no audio here.

“But I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well, it burned while I cried
‘Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name!

I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
When we fell, something died
‘Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time!”

– Set fire to the rain, Adele.

2. Apply extreme cynicism. This is not hard.

You can not physically set fire to rain.

Even as a metaphor for erasing the pain of the past it’s weak as fuck – but for the sake of entertainment lets stick to the literal interpretation. There is no room for a balanced view here, these are desperate times. I’m not sure why she needs to touch their face as she watches her lighter go out in the rain that IS NOT BURNING in front of her. I feel like if I were her partner, this would be a defining moment in our post-relationship communications. I would possibly entertain the idea that she is not coping with this particular change of circumstances and perhaps refer her to some sort of professional.

Is the rain is screaming your ex-lover’s name as it burns? Oh it is? Perhaps you should put down the bath salts before you eat someone’s face.

Threw. Into. Flames. Rain flames. Something died. Last time. Rain flames.

STOP. Just stop. Adele, come on. Come on now Adele. Adele, Come on. No one thinks this is deep. You’re not rolling in the deep. You’re rolling in the run-out-of-metaphors-for-being-a-hot-mess. That is all.

Congratulations – you can now survive an Adele song. And sometimes, that’s half the battle.

Moving on.

How to deal with your roommate moving out:

If you’re like me and are a self-made, self-confessed, proud as punch loner fine with being alone, you won’t have a problem. Be sad that they’re gone but excited to have the Hermit Skank Pad (Skank pad… nothing to read into there… moving on) all to yourself. If you’re not like me and weirdly need 90% of your time filled with the noise, sweat and stench of regular human contact, read on.

Step 1. CATS. Practice your cat hoarder skills. Collect ’em all. Dress ’em up. Mumble to yourself. Twitch a little. Build the Sydney Harbour Bridge out of hairballs. There is no one to judge you but cats and the occasional pizza delivery guy, and they’ve probably seen worse at my house anyway.

Step 2. Internet. There is nothing it can’t solve. Learn how to do things on YouTube. Watch documentaries on how hotdogs are made, have hideous meat dreams and then become a vegetarian. Watch back to back episodes of Epic Meal Time and shot vodka every time Harley pulls a serial killer face. Watch viral videos and cry about the state of the world.

Step 3. Porn, I mean reality TV, I mean talking to your cat, I mean becoming an internet troll, I mean Wikipedia editor, I mean… blog on a variety of topics to entertain yourself a small audience.

Step 4. Put a bitch spin on nanna hobbies. Eg: cross-stitch cuss words on to cushions or frame your creations and give them to your family for Christmas (Spoilers: Joshua, I hope you like vagina euphemism-themed home decor).

Step 5. Alcohol, 1950’s style. In tea pots. At a tiny table. With egg cups full of caterpillars.  With your cat dressed in a bonnet. With you dressed in a bonnet. So you can feel proper when you’re getting properly hammered. Alice in wonderland fo’ life mother fuckers!

Bonnets. They’re a bad sign.

Step 6. Exercise. It’s good for you and it relieves stress. Seriously.

Commercial break – Hipster pictures:

My cactus is flowering… And this plant is in bloom too. Who says I can’t grow things (everyone)?
I call it ‘sexual frustration in overcast’. Deep as fuck.
Whimsical fox does whimsical things in a plant pot.

Back to our regular programming.

The Dos and Don’ts of awkward ideological clashes with a friend or loved one:

Depending on the level of intensity…

A family member strongly expresses intolerance towards your religion/lack of religion

Do – respectfully assert your right to believe what you want, agree to disagree and exit the situation.

Don’t – Mock their deity. Don’t talk about imaginary friends. Don’t quote religious texts. Avoid comments on their religious leaders dress sense. Don’t be patronising and avoid sarcasm.

Political differences with a friend

Do – have an adult discussion involving the calm exchange of ideas.

Don’t – yell “treason!” at the top of your lungs.

Psychotic levels of bigotry from someone close to you –

Do – Call them out on their behavior and try to separate the problematic view from them as a person to minimise blame and facilitate a healthy dialogue on the topic.

Don’t – Call them a ‘redneck’.

And so ends part one. Tune in next week for more fun ‘how to cope’ advice for real life hypothetical situations written for DIY therapy your entertainment.

Next week: Christmas carols ruin lives, Please return your ‘I’m a real adult’ card, Hanging out in Bars Vs the National Geographic Channel, and People who give birth close to Christmas are pricks.