A few days ago I had an image of myself, with my feet curled under me, reading, in your bed. And I thought to myself that if I was there, I could be happy. I thought that if I was allowed to curl up my feet and read and laugh with you, with one of your pencils in my hair and my glasses perched on my nose and the smell of you seeping into my skin, I'd be content.
I don't know if that's true. These moments rarely hold as much happiness as they promise. I might feel trapped by the sheets wrapping around my legs, I might kick them off. I don't really know what you smell like, I no longer remember, I don't know if it would seep into my skin.
I know the cure for unhappiness is happiness, that there is no other. And I know you can't give that to me. But I still wonder about your sheets snaking about my limbs.
valentine's day...
In her resting state her memories travel. She will be reading or writing or talking and realise that her mind is travelling to where he is, and that she can prevent herself from talking to him for days but she is still travelling to him through unfamiliar surroundings. She is looking above her, around her, seeing a colour palette that is different to the colour palette of the city she occupies. She sees leaves that are a different green. She realises that she is under a bridge; lost, trusting that someone else knows the way. She is in-between there and here. She hates it. She’d forget that journey if she could.
march03...
In front of me is a net of lights that shine, making all of the kilometres of space between us look like a plate of glass that reflects the stars, or undulating inky water logged nothing, with holes in it that let in points of illumination. Caught in the net are thousands of voices, talking, laughing, lying, singing, screaming, sighing, groaning, gasping. And you are out there somewhere in my city, with your own grumble added to the throng.
You are probably striding about in streets full of people, where the lights turn the sky blue after dark, where the sky isn't so inky because the lights bunch together there, as if for warmth. A sea of people and possibilities is churning before me and I search for only you. You, a buoy or a predator.
I am standing on a hill, where the light is sparse. I am looking backwards. My feet are in grubby shoes, scuffing on gravel. Where I am standing, the ground is still and silent. But I feel as if a wave of water is shifting the sands beneath my toes.
You are probably striding about in streets full of people, where the lights turn the sky blue after dark, where the sky isn't so inky because the lights bunch together there, as if for warmth. A sea of people and possibilities is churning before me and I search for only you. You, a buoy or a predator.
I am standing on a hill, where the light is sparse. I am looking backwards. My feet are in grubby shoes, scuffing on gravel. Where I am standing, the ground is still and silent. But I feel as if a wave of water is shifting the sands beneath my toes.
december 08...
There’s a small room. Cluttered like mine. White walls, red bedspread. Yesterday’s glass of water is on the bedside table, last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. The wardrobe doors are left open, photos are tacked up, the mirrors are spotty.
When he’s not there, she imagines him in it; watching her drink tea, and listen to her music, do her hair in the morning, smearing lipstick. She has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She isn’t able to predict his answers very well. She can really only dream up the best way to tell her stories, a way that will make her memorable to him. She imagines opening her door for him, hastily clearing a space on an ugly chair, gathering arms full of second-hand books and tights and unused diaries. She imagines him sprawling in the chair, not taking up as much physical space as he should. She tries to imagine his mental tally of the room’s shortcomings. His reaction to the books on her floor, his perusal of the things she gathers around her. She imagines him thinking; “no, not her. Not this one.”
The only place he really inhabits in her life is the space she clears for him, with apprehension. He may or may not sit in the cleared space. She tells herself this sternly by lamplight.
But then she whispers imaginary things to him when she turns the light off, again she has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She imagines his answers, strokes hair from his forehead, imagines what he’d look like underneath her sheets with his head on her pillow. Then she wakes up in a different place.
There is another small room that’s cluttered like hers. Yesterday’s glass of water on the bedside table. The wardrobe doors are open, there are little circles of paint peeled off the walls, where pictures have been tacked up then ripped down. The mirrors have spots. The bed is unmade, the books are not put back on the shelves. Here, the same imaginings take place, in an imaginary room after the light is turned off.
When he’s not there, she imagines him in it; watching her drink tea, and listen to her music, do her hair in the morning, smearing lipstick. She has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She isn’t able to predict his answers very well. She can really only dream up the best way to tell her stories, a way that will make her memorable to him. She imagines opening her door for him, hastily clearing a space on an ugly chair, gathering arms full of second-hand books and tights and unused diaries. She imagines him sprawling in the chair, not taking up as much physical space as he should. She tries to imagine his mental tally of the room’s shortcomings. His reaction to the books on her floor, his perusal of the things she gathers around her. She imagines him thinking; “no, not her. Not this one.”
The only place he really inhabits in her life is the space she clears for him, with apprehension. He may or may not sit in the cleared space. She tells herself this sternly by lamplight.
But then she whispers imaginary things to him when she turns the light off, again she has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She imagines his answers, strokes hair from his forehead, imagines what he’d look like underneath her sheets with his head on her pillow. Then she wakes up in a different place.
There is another small room that’s cluttered like hers. Yesterday’s glass of water on the bedside table. The wardrobe doors are open, there are little circles of paint peeled off the walls, where pictures have been tacked up then ripped down. The mirrors have spots. The bed is unmade, the books are not put back on the shelves. Here, the same imaginings take place, in an imaginary room after the light is turned off.
november08...
Sometimes his voice is a sigh of relief. Other times it's just a sigh.
We are a telephone conversation heard from another room.
We are a telephone conversation heard from another room.
october08...
I remember years ago, sitting with my brother in a car. He had just fallen in love with the woman he was going to marry. She had told him that she loved him, compared that love to the distance from us to the stars. And he couldn't describe what he was feeling, he could only say "wonderful." I was supposed to be in love that day, but I knew I hadn't felt what he was feeling. I think about their wonderful often.
Their first child will be born tomorrow.
Their first child will be born tomorrow.
october08...
I'm listening to a song that I can imagine watching you sing. Your voice deep and raspy and an excellent mimic of the sounds that came out of your stereo. Your bedrooms were always spacious, with tasteful carpet littered with interests half forgotten. I used to lie on your bed as you did things, cluttered things up more, or finished things, or cut things up, or whatever you were doing that week. You moved with the grace of a carnivorous animal. You looked at yourself from every angle. You never left the house unless you knew how you would look from front on, sideways, behind. The light used to come into your room completely uninterrupted by curtains, and it never used to wake you up. You'd sleep through the sunlight. It used to wake me up immediately. I'd be lying there in a nightie I had borrowed from you and I'd look at you sleeping and you would look so little. I still have those nighties. Remember when everything you owned was orange and fluffy? Remember when you wore green every day? Remember when we'd drink champagne from milkshake glasses? Remember giggling, in a state of complete confusion, running through city streets? Me neither.
september08...
My hair is long again. For years I have had it hacked off, with a razor. I would feel the razor cutting through each strand like a caress on my scalp. He was happiest when my hair was short, when it did not brush against him, when it did not come out and stay on his pillow.
He liked to make the bed with mismatching pillowcases. Now all my pillowcases are white.
I remember another boy, young like me, exclaiming "look at your hair!" as it spread across his pillow and he pushed inside me, and pulled out; somewhere he had another girl. Her hair was yellow and she never brushed the kinks out.
I was always brushing the kinks out then. Before I chopped them all off.
When I was 12 it was long. I wore it scraped off my face everyday, and twisted back, when the fashion was to let it sweep heavily over the forehead, hiding flirtatious eyes. I didn't have any flirtatiousness in my eyes to hide.
But for him I chopped it all off. I butchered it with a straight razor. He had another girl, before me. She had yellow hair too; it was long and wild. She wasn't as smart as me. She let her hair free, and she didn't get to keep him. I did. But I didn't get to keep my wild hair.
He liked to make the bed with mismatching pillowcases. Now all my pillowcases are white.
I remember another boy, young like me, exclaiming "look at your hair!" as it spread across his pillow and he pushed inside me, and pulled out; somewhere he had another girl. Her hair was yellow and she never brushed the kinks out.
I was always brushing the kinks out then. Before I chopped them all off.
When I was 12 it was long. I wore it scraped off my face everyday, and twisted back, when the fashion was to let it sweep heavily over the forehead, hiding flirtatious eyes. I didn't have any flirtatiousness in my eyes to hide.
But for him I chopped it all off. I butchered it with a straight razor. He had another girl, before me. She had yellow hair too; it was long and wild. She wasn't as smart as me. She let her hair free, and she didn't get to keep him. I did. But I didn't get to keep my wild hair.
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