Blogger Blues

I haven't been able to access any .blogspot.com sites for the last couple of days. Not sure if it's my technology or theirs, but I fee like I'm grounded and not allowed to talk to any of my friends.

I hope I get back online soon, this is just too frustrating.

Might I suggest, that while a work dinner at a Greek restaurant, with lovely food, unlimited alcohol, and a fun loving group of workmates, might sound like a lovely evening, the following on to a karaoke room in what seems to be a converted brothel, with a group of heavily smoking co-workers skulling tequila in a token "lick sip suck" might not be such a well thought out plan.

I escaped early (1 am), with, hopefully, minimal damage to my remaining brain cells. The damage to my ears may be permanent!

Verbal Diarrhea in a Hot Bath

Warning: High Blathering Content

Begin recording...

I thought I’d try something a little different…

…I thought… I’d try something a little different…

I find myself in my bathroom, in the bath, in the hot hot bath, rexona bath salts dissolved in the water, making it slippery, and the book that I’ve been reading is discarded now. And rather than trying to write in a notebook, I thought I’d record but it seems very, very strange to actually have a voice spoken… I’m so used to hearing my voice inside my head and somehow that voice has more validity than the voice that I’m hearing now, the voice that’s echoing around the bathroom walls.

Somehow the voice inside my head is more familiar than the voice I’m hearing now. And somehow it feels as though I’m intruding, or… as though I’m doing something that, perhaps I shouldn’t be ashamed of, but somehow is going to… impose on other people, and I can’t really explain where that feeling comes from. This isn’t a home that’s used to voices I suppose. It’s used to the bark of the television, used to music being played, and its’ used to me talking silly conversations with the cats, but it’s not actually used to any sort of conversation or stream or thought, just like I’m not really used to trying to voice things. Thoughts are much easier if they’re about inside my head rather than actually trying to compose them and express them vocally. And for some reason this is more difficult than me actually sitting down and putting my thoughts down on a keyboard as well.

I was going to lie here and describe the white and, I don’t know what you’d this green, it’s a pastel colour, a "duck egg blue" perhaps, and try to talk about the cobwebs in the corner and the black house spider that lives above my shower that comes out when the steam rises from my shower in the morning, and the cracks that’s developed along the edge of the walls from the house settling due to the drought…

I was sitting down during my lunch break the other day thinking that I wanted to write something that seemed a little more positive, that focused on the positive, and I was going to focus on the good things that I’ve received from the men that I’ve been lucky enough to know in my life, and it was a great idea until it led back to my father, and for some bizarre reason I wasn’t able to tie anything positive directly to him and I find that quite sad, so I have my list because I am grateful for the people that I’ve known. which I will put up in a day or so

And I was going to try to keep the tape recorder next to my bed so maybe I could jot down ideas of dreams that I have because I’m not very good at writing them down, but then again I’m not sure that I’m going to be comfortable with my voice breaking into the dark. This at least I have sound of the water dribbling into the bath tub to break it all a little bit so it doesn’t sound quite so imposing. Still it’s not easy, it’s much harder than I thought it was going to be…

I guess I’m feeling better than I was last week. It’s not so much that I’m feeling happy, just that I’m feeling less sad. It’s… I’m reading a book at the moment, it’s a book by Jeanette Winterson, and it’s… it’s a book about love, which the books of hers that I’ve read so far tend to be about love, or passion, and Passion is a book that, if you ever want to read a beautiful story, I’d recommend. But it talks about living your life. And I know that it’s a cliché that it’s not a dress rehearsal, that you only get one chance at it, and I know it’s something I’ve said before about wanting to live my life bravely, but I’ve found that it’s something that people around me are raising. That it’s not something that I’m prompting, but M, one of the women I work with, who sits next to me, she asked me about whether I was disappointed or whether life was what I expected, and we had a conversation about what she’d hoped for in her life and it’s amazing the people that you can work with and you have no idea about them. And she was quite amazing. She finished high school at 14 and missed out on getting into medicine by 4 marks, and the disappointment, because she so wanted to be a surgeon, caused a spiralling, into a bit of a depression, but she ended up falling into art and studying design instead, and still managed to finishz her degree by the time she was 19. It seems that I’m surrounded by very talented people, very intelligent people, people that remind me, I suppose, of how ordinary I am and, I don’t know, maybe there’s something in it, even if these very special people are having trouble finding their way, finding satisfying lives, then maybe it’s not so unusual and maybe I’m just going through what everyone goes through and bleh bleh bleh because it’s me it seems more important…

Maybe there’s a project in there for me: who would I be if I could be anyone I wanted to be, what would I do, what would my life be.

End recording...

Who would you be?

Pathetic but true.

Heading
Earlier this week…
I’ve been a bit quiet lately. Sunk into a mood that I prefer to try to keep to myself. How often can I write about these things, until even I am bored to hear about it, over and over again. Although maybe the words are just tumbling about in the small window of my mind, and I need to get it out. It. I cannot really even define it.

When I was a teenager, one of my favourite books was The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin. About the young Sparrowhawk, who, with so much promise, in a moment of pride unleashes a darkness upon the world, which he then spends the rest of his life chasing, trying to control it again. Even at 12 or 13 I understood my potential for darkness. Although I think my darkness threatens only myself, turned inwards. And here I am, broaching 37, and I still haven’t managed to wrestle my darkness. In the dark of night, it sits on my chest and teases the soft of my neck with its razor-sharp talons.

Even saying the words in my head makes me feel that I need to hide them away. That they’re shameful. "I am unhappy" What’s the matter with you? What’s wrong with you? You must be faulty. You must be damaged. You must be responsible for your own unhappiness. Just be happy!

And yet happiness seems as unnatural to me as… I can slip it on as a temporary mask for a phone call or a drink with an acquaintance. But I make sure I hide away ‘it’ from those around me (and make sure I don’t see them too often) because noone wants to be around a miserable person. My misery is my responsibility.

Tonight…

I haven’t had the notebook out all week. It’s been as though my whole concentration has been on surviving at work, not stuffing up, keeping up a cheerful disposition, not getting caught up in my own irritation.

Last week wasn’t an easy week. The anniversary that would have celebrated my 9th year, if the marriage had survived. A phone call out of the blue from the ex, not to acknowledge the above, but to ask about ABNs (Australian Business Numbers, tax stuff). After five months of no contact. Initially it was a message on the machine. It was unexpected and I admit I was irritated. I’d resigned myself to not hearing from him and was comfortable with it. Another message flashed the following day, and I knew I had to call him back. It was a harmless conversation. Pleasantries were exchanged. A token interest is each other’s welfare. But I find it so unsettling. It simply brings home to me how far I haven’t moved, how boring and static my life is. I wish I could find a new life and get on with it. But I seem to be stuck with this one. The feeling was simply compounded by going back to work in the studio. In six months I haven’t done anything, met anyone, or in anyway improved my lot in life. In fact, I’ve simply slipped back. And being back in the studio reminded me of my friend Amy. A while ago I wrote how frustrated I was getting that she was arranging to meet me and then not following through. Three weekends in a row she cancelled at the last moment. Or simply was out of contact so meeting times couldn’t be confirmed. And when we finally did arrange a get together with some other mutual friends, I travelled two hours to get into to town to see her, only to hear that she had a dentist appointment and wouldn’t be there. Except that she told me the following night (online) that she hadn’t gone because she knew I’d be there and she thought I was cross with her. Well, yes, I was frustrated, but I thought it was obvious I wanted to see her by the effort I was making to get into town. Anyway, she didn’t think I had any right to be upset, as she was going through ‘stuff’ (yes she is going through a difficult time, and had been for the last six months, and I acknowledge that.) Anyway, at the time I was going through a bit of ‘stuff’ of my own, so I just decided to stop putting in the effort to see her. And she didn’t bother contacting me.

Last week she came into town and had lunch and drinks on different days with our mutual friends, and I wasn’t invited ono either occasion, so I guess I’m officially wiped. I’m in good company. I put in a lot of effort to get her talking to some of our other friends in the past, after she had misunderstood something and taken it as a slight. Oh, the irony. It all makes me sad. But there you go. I’m obviously completely retarded at personal relationships, and that’s why I’m alone and lonely and becoming increasingly depressed and bitter, which of course is terribly unpleasant to be around, making me more isolated, making me more depressed and bitter.

To the world I joke and smile and get on just fine on my pat malone. But to you, I’ll rant and scream and cry out the unsaid words.

I am sad. And I am lonely.

30 second sketch of my week

Skin Deep

I don’t remember when my love of skin art, or tattooing, began. None of my immediate family had them, but somewhere along the line, I began to appreciate the artistry that goes into a good tattoo.

Of course, these days they are fashion accessories, but if anyone ever asks my opinion about getting one, I always say to go away for six months, and if you still want one after that, then go for it. Don’t be drunk or high when choosing one. And I personally don’t think it’s a good idea having them around the neck or wrists… but then, I like to be able to be discreet or respectful if necessary (and flashing around your new tattoo at your grandmother’s funeral might be something not really appreciated by your family).

Not that I have a lot myself. I only have two at the moment, but I’ve been feeling the niggling for a while to get a new one.

The first one I got was when I was 29 (I think). I had a rough idea of what I wanted and worked with a tattooist called Trish to make up a composite design. I went along to the Celtic Dragon in Newtown (where my husband at the time had had a couple done) and had this one done on the middle of my back, between my shoulder blades.
I reversed the idea that the sun and moon were masculine and feminine… after all, the sun is powerful and gives life. Sounds like a woman to me!



The funny thing is that, when I looked at this photo today (and I hadn’t really been able to look at it once it was on my back) it suddenly looked like me and my ex. I know this will sound particularly stupid, but hopefully not spiteful. Every time I’ve seen my ex over the last couple of years, he seems to have shrunk. Not only is he painfully thin these days, but he used to have a huge aura about him, and now he seems, well, a little pathetic. Looking at this tattoo, with a moon that reminded me of him, surviving only in the reflection of someone else (he needs an audience to be happy)… well, it gave me a bit of a shock!

The next one I got was when I was 31. My mother gave it to me for it for my birthday. And I got her one for hers (after always having wanted one) later that year.

I had given up basketball earlier that year, due to plantar fasciitis in both feet, and finally deciding my feet had had enough. I didn’t realise it at the time, but in hindsight, I really slumped into a big depression, and the weight gain from not being able to exercise the way I normally did, did nothing to help. So I decided that I needed something to help lift me out of myself, to give me a better body image, or something. I dunno. I just knew I wanted another one.

Anyway, I went back to the Celtic Dragon, this time planning on getting, yes, a Celtic dragon. I wanted something strong, powerful, and seeing as my surname betrays my Irish heritage, it seemed apt. Once I got there, I looked around the flash artwork on the walls, and through the design book, for something that I could base a design around. However there was one little design that I kept being drawn back to. It was a pony, just black ink, like a small Chinese pony. No matter how often I walked away from it, I found myself back in front of it again. It fitted. And so I got it, on my upper left arm.



The funny thing about this tattoo is that I hadn’t been near a horse for 10 years. I’d done a good job of wrapping myself around a tree trunk back then and decided that horses were not going to be a part of my future. But shortly after that tattoo, while on holidays, HATT (husband at the time) and I decided to go for a bush ride. It was due to that ride (my ankle seized up after half an hour in the stirrup) that I forced the issue with my doctors and they finally realised I had bone spurs in my ankle and needed surgery. Within months I was riding every week and working weekends at the stables in town. Something I could not have even imagined when I was choosing the tattoo.

And so, on to the next one.

I came across this image in a book on Mythology that I bought. It is (according to them) a stylised bird, probably a crow or raven, drawn from a Spanish Celtic pot of c.100BC.


With this image was a story.

The Washer at the Ford
At times rivers and streams possessed a sinister symbolism as the boundaries between life and death. One common theme is that of the Washer at the Ford – the war goddess who waited at a ford, sometimes in the form of a woman, sometimes as a crow or rave, and determined which of the warriors who passed would perish on the battlefield that day.

On their way to battle, a band of warriors stopped at a fod, where they beheld a terrible sight. A tall phantom woman, her eyes red and angry, glowered at them through grey, matted hair. At her feet, which were awash with blood, lay the mangled corpses of warriors, some so hideously disfigured that not even their mothers would have recognised them.

As the warrior band gaped in horror, the woman let out a hideous, shrieking laugh that sent a shiver of terror down their spines. Slowly, she raised her arm and pointed a bony finger at each man in turn. At last the chief of the band found the strength to approach the woman. With much effort, he forced himself to speak. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I?" she screeched, "I am the Morrigan, the Phantom Queen. Some call me the Washer at the Ford. I sleep on Mount Knocknarea, deep in the Cairn of Maeve. My work is to haunt all the streams of Ireland, washing away all the sins of men." "Who, then," asked the band’s war-chief, "are the sinful men who lie in this gory heap before us? Are they those you have killed and maimed today?"

The Morrigan cackled again. "I did not kill these men, nor have I so much as harmed a hair on their heads!" She peered deep into the warrior’s eyes.

"Look again at these dead warriors. They are the very men that stand behind you, as they will be this evening, after the battle. I am merely washing the bloody from their limbs."

The chieftan looked again at the corpses, and began to make out the features of some of the comrades accompanying him.

The Morrigan slowly bent down to rummage among her gory bounty, then held up an object for the chief to see. He turned to look and beheld, dangling by bloody locks, his own severed head.

-- Mythology General Editor C. Scott Littleton, Duncan Baird Publishers 2002

I don’t know about you, but that story just gave me chills.

I was going to go into a bit of a political blurt about decision makers facing the visceral consequences of their own actions, but I just can’t do it justice.

I feel rather lost now I don’t have a specific story to write anymore. I had worked out the rough chapter guide with music in my notebook (the infamous notebook) so all I needed to do was fill in the blanks. I really enjoyed the process. But now it’s back to me and my daily life again. *yawn*

Should I write about work? It has been unpredictable, if nothing else. As I’m sure most of you are aware, I’ve been freelancing for the last six months for the comfy undie company. My contract there was due to end, but they wanted me to stay on until they replaced someone who had resigned. It might have been for a fortnight, it might have been for months. Great! But at the same time, one of my agents put me forward for a permanent job. It sounded all right, and I know I need practice with interviews (I truly loathe the whole process) so I went along for the interview. It was good. Very good. And the job sounded interesting. A role that would allow me a lot of growth. The interviewer (manager of the department) asked when I could come in for a trial. I explained my commitment to Undies for the next fortnight, and we left it at that.

My agent later rang and said they were really keen to get me in for a trial, and we set a date in a fortnight’s time. Unfortunately, the Undies job ran overtime, and they begged for me to stay on an extra week. I rang my agent to see how her client would feel about me postponing the trial for a week, explaining that I was still very keen but felt badly for the undies people. They were fine with that, understood the situation, and looked forward to me starting my trial the following week.

So I work like a mad thing to get the undies jobs to the printer, and to train up the freelancer who was replacing me.

On the Thursday afternoon before I was due to start at this new place, I rang the agent to check on starting times and parking etc. The call back was that they now didn’t need me to come in the following week. WTF! I’d just turned myself inside out to get myself available, and turned down work for this trial, and now I had no work at all booked! I may have been a bit cross on the phone to my agent. OK, I was irritated as hell. Getting work lined up on a Friday before a long weekend is notoriously difficult. Luckily I had a meeting with one of my own clients the following week, so I managed to scratch up 15 hours work. Enough to cover the rent.

Anyway, during that week, I had a call from a different agent saying the studio I was in last year needed someone for the following week. So, at least I had work for that week. Until they called on the Friday morning to postpone a week. Shit! So now no work again. Until agent rings to say undies want me back in for at least the week. So back I went for a week (although there was little work so it was only 25 hours worth of work). Friday morning I get another call. My studio job was postponed again, until midweek. Crap. But I’ve managed to get some work from a freelance designer I’ve worked with.

So it all has sorta fallen into place, which is good news. Although my diary does look like it's been taken to by a mad woman. Oh... hang on...

The life of a freelancer. Never predictable. Sometimes stressful. I think I need a real job (how long have I been saying that??).

Conclusion (of sorts) (xiv)

Part XIV
The Triffids: Wide Open Road (1.6MB)

It’d be nice to be able to finish up this little series with a light hearted story about seeing the error of my ways and meeting the love of my life who rode off with me on a white charger… but we all know that’d be crap, don’t we.

There was love and laughter and loss and misery, an on-again off-again relationship that lasted 2 years, a brief passionate affair that made me realise I was worth so much more than I’d been giving myself. And little did I realise it, but I had already met the man I would marry years later. So, obviously the story doesn’t end.

But here’s where I’ll leave it.

I was walking along Manly Corso on a Sunday. I had spent the day enjoying the sun and the tourists, keeping myself occupied. I was lonely, missing Tony terribly, missing Sam (foolish, foolish girl), and wondering if I had it within me to be happy, ever.

As I walked past the shops, I slowed outside the new age shop. I am not one for crystals and the like, but for some reason I really felt like I was being drawn in, like I needed to go inside. I had nothing to lose. I had no answers. I had no direction. I went to the counter and asked if I could have a tarot reading. There was a free spot in 10 minutes, out of a fully booked day. I had no idea what to expect, and the cynic in me was certain I was not going to give anything away. He was going to have to earn his money.

I sat down at a small round wooden table. It had silk embroidered cloth in its centre, and around the edge it had been carved with square slots, which had ornate decorations in and around them. The man sitting opposite me was probably in his early 30s, rather ordinary looking. You certainly wouldn’t have taken him as a tarot reader if you saw him walking down the street. He might well have been a book store assistant in his day job.

He asked me to shuffle the cards, which I did. I then cut them and selected twelve for him. He placed them down on the table, in the carved spots around the perimeter. He stared at them, frowned, shook his head, and collected them up again. Handing them back to me, he said that they weren’t ‘clear’, and he asked me to shuffle, cut, and select twelve again.

When he laid out my second selection of cards, he looked down, frowned and rested his head on his fist, staring at the cards for a while. With a sigh he looked up at me. "These don’t seem to make any sense, but they’ve come up twice, so they must be right." He peered into my face, which was rather disconcerting. "You have the best cards and the worst cards that I have ever seen. And I’ve never seen them combined like this. I can tell that you are really creative. You are, aren’t you." I shrugged. "Well… it seems that there are some very dark things in your life, in your history. Things that you’ve blocked out, that you’ve built a brick wall in front of. But these things are weighing down all this fantastic stuff that I see in these other cards. You could be amazing, but you need to deal with this stuff, you need to break down the wall. And you need to do it with your creativity. Paint it, no… no… you should write it down. That’s where your creativity should be. Write it all down, everything behind that wall, and then burn it. Scatter it in the wind. Sacrifice it. You need to shed these dark things to be free."

I walked out of there feeling shaken, but also feeling like there was now a chance at something better. Did I write it all down and burn it? Nup.

But somehow, twelve years after the tarot reader gave me his advice, I suddenly feel like I’m ready to let this story go to the wind. And I’m really pleased that you were here to say goodbye to it with me.

Consequences (xiii)

Part XIII
Tori Amos: Precious Things (1.7MB)

It had been a month since I had last spoken to Sam. I’d been busy with Tony, with Trudy, with work. I was doing temp work for a large financial company, and my confidence was improving every day. The people there were impressed by my work, and said so. I was beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t the hopeless case I thought I was. And my health was doing well. I hadn’t had a hint of tonsillitis since my unceremonious departure from the publishing company.

Tony had helped me move my things into the new house. I still had some boxes left in my old apartment, but the bulk of the work had been done. It was Tony’s last week in Australia. He was flying out on the following Thursday. I didn’t like to think how much I was going to miss him. Tony and I had the sort of friendship that was based mainly on ruthless teasing of each other. I loved him like I would imagine I would love a brother. Not that I would have ever told him that, directly.
It was my 25th birthday on Monday and Trudy was taking me out tonight (Saturday) to celebrate. Tony couldn’t come along as he had a big family dinner. So it would be a girl’s night out.

After a few drinks with my new housemates, Trudy and I went along to one of her favourite bars. It was a long narrow room that led down to a dance floor, with a large beer garden out to the left. On the other side of the beer garden was the entrance to the sports bar, which was where the serious drinkers sat, away from the glitter ball lights and giggling princesses.

Trudy and I were both tall, me, 5’9" and she was 5’10". When wearing heels, we towered over most of the people around us. It gave us a good view to the bar though, and we found ourselves a good spot to stand between the dance floor and the bar.

Tony used to joke that when I drank vodka my whole personality would change. I would go from quiet, shy, defensive, to flirtatious, open, laughing and happy. It might explain why I liked to drink so much.

When I got back from buying the latest round, I saw that Trudy was no longer standing alone. Which was no surprise. She had that indefinable "something" that attracted men to the point where they would openly squabble over who got to talk to her. Fortunately, we weren’t attracted to the same men, so it never threatened our friendship, but still, it could be a little tough on the ego going out with her.

Standing with Trudy were two young men. Very tall, broadshouldered, handsome men. Trudy introduced me to the blonde one first. "Hooch, this is Paul." I shook his hand and said hello. "And this is Ben." As I extended my hand, Ben reached forward and gave me a big kiss square on the lips. "Happy Birthday Hooch," he said, grinning, with his arm still draped over my shoulder. My eyes had shot open and Trudy laughed at my shocked face. Ah, what the hell, if a gorgeous 23 year old wanted to spend the evening dancing with me, drinking with me, snogging with me… well, it was my birthday and it wasn’t doing anyone any harm. He was great fun, a little goofy, like a mischievous boy in this amazing man’s body. Personality-wise, I would probably have been more attracted to the quieter, moodier Paul, but he was very obviously smitten with Trudy. And she seemed keen too. They sat and talked all night while Ben and I took over the dance floor.

It finally got to closing time in the bar, and we moved on to a restaurant we knew that stayed open until after 3am. After we had all shared a pizza and a few more drinks there, I had started to sober up and was beginning to feel tired. I’d had a great night, more fun than I’d had in a long while, but it was time for this little black duck to get some sleep.

I did the typical female thing and dragged Trudy off to the Ladies for a chat. We had planned for her to crash at my place and then drive home in the morning. She lived about 40 minutes north of where I was living. I’d had an idea though. She was obviously really taken with Paul, so I suggested that they could take advantage of the privacy of my old apartment. I still had spare bedding in boxes there, so it was up to her, if she wanted. Her face lit up.
"But what about Ben?" she asked me.
"He can sleep on the lounge at the new place. Shouldn’t be a problem."

When we told the boys, they were keen, and relieved. They lived near Trudy, and getting a cab at that time was notoriously difficult. Fights were common in cab queues, and often the cabs didn’t want to head as far north as where they lived.

In a quiet moment as we were walking along the beachfront towards my place, I let Ben know that nothing was going to happen when we got to my place, that he was going to sleep on the couch. "Yeah, of course," he said, "that’s cool." I smiled, relieved, and we caught up with the others.

Once I had given Trudy the key and made sure she knew where to find the things in the boxes, Ben and I headed down the road and around the corner to the house. It was dark, and I quietly let us in. Paul and Peter must have been asleep and I didn’t want to wake them. I still hardly knew them, although I got the impression they enjoyed a pretty active social life. I ushered Ben past Peter’s room and into the living room. It was then that I realised my plan wasn’t going to work. I had stored a lot of my furniture away, and the living room furniture was all Peter’s and Paul’s. I hadn’t really paid any attention to it, as I’d been so frantic over the last few days between work shifts and moving that I hadn’t even had a chance to sit down in there. The lounge chairs were not your usual sofa style. They were heavy wooden frames with material slung in what might be described as a hammock fashion. As comfortable as they were to sit in, there was no way you could actually lie down on these chairs.

"Oh bugger," I said. "I didn’t realise. Look, you can crash in my room. But just remember, it’s just sleep. Nothing else." I looked at him to make sure he wasn’t reading anything into this that might be misconstrued. "No probs," he said. "I’m knackered. Need the sleep."

I changed into an oversized old t-shirt in the bathroom and quietly tiptoed into the bedroom. It was dark and Ben was turned towards the wall on the far side of the bed. I slid into the bed and perched myself as close to the edge as I could.

I felt Ben roll over and he whispered something to me, which I didn’t quite hear. I rolled onto my back. "What?"

I felt him lean over and try to kiss me, but I pulled away. "No, look, I was serious. I just want to get some sleep." "Sure," he said, and tried to kiss me again. This time I went to sit up, to get out of the bed, when he grabbed me by my wrists and pinned me back down onto my back.

"Wait. No! Look, I don’t want to do this." I said, trying to squirm out from under him. But he just pushed more of his weight onto me, hurting me. "Stop. Ow. No, really, stop." I was trying to stay calm, to just figure out what was happening, to get him to slow down and understand what I was saying. But he drove his shoulder into my chest, pinning me with his weight while his hands pulled at my underwear. Oh god. Oh God! He’d lifted himself back off, back to pinning my arms, and leant himself down on his knee, against my thighs, forcing my legs open. Forcing me open. His sickly sweet bourbon breath grunted against my ear as I turned my face away, crying silently, whispering over and over again, like a mantra. "I can’t do this… I can’t do this… I can’t do this… I can’t do this…

After he had finished, I got up silently and let him out of the house. I’d deadlocked the door.



I spent what remained of the night curled up, staring at the wall, crying, trying to figure out what had happened. Why it had happened. How I could have let it happen. Why didn’t I fight back more? I knew he was much stronger than me. "Why didn’t I scream?" The humiliation of being found like that? Pinned under some grunting sweaty man. Spread. A victim. No, there was no way anyone was going to see that. At least this way, noone would ever need to know. By the time the blue light of dawn had started to make out the lines of the furniture in my room, I was beginning to wonder if I had it all wrong. If I’d completely misunderstood what had happened. Maybe it had been nothing. I could tell myself it just hadn’t happened. Until I got out of bed to go and have a shower. The angry red bruises all down the insides of my thighs said this was not ‘nothing’.

I got a phone call from Trudy that afternoon. I had hidden out in my room until Peter and Paul had gone out. She asked me if I was alright. "What do you mean?" I didn't want to ask. "Well, Ben came over really early and told Paul that he was going home. Did something happen between you guys?" "It’s nothing." "No, what’s going on? Paul said he was acting all weird." "He forced me," I whispered, as much to myself as to her. "What do you mean. Ben’s such a nice bloke, he’d never…" "He. Forced. Me." "Well… can’t you pretend it was just a one night stand?" Trudy really liked Paul.

I never mentioned that night again to anyone. It just was forced into a tiny little dusty box in the back of my memory; justified, rationalised, ridiculed. It was nothing. It didn’t matter. Who cared. If I didn’t acknowledge it, it never happened.

Obsession (xii)

Part XII
The Cruel Sea: Honeymoon is Over (1.2MB)

You think that you know what sort of person you are. What you would and wouldn’t do. What your standards are. And then you do something so incredibly stupid, you can only wonder what on earth would possess you. Blame the alcohol, blame the situation, blame whatever you want, but ultimately you have to wonder what makes you so self-destructive.

As it happens, not much happened. Whether it was the alcohol or the acid or the diabetes or me… whatever it was, Herb’s flesh wasn’t able to keep up with his desires. With a smile and a shrug, I suggested we walk up to Evan’s place and get some sleep.

It only took 5 minutes before Evan stormed inot the room.
"Tell me he’s fucking lying. Tell me you didn’t suck his fucking dick. Tell me!!"
I stood up and backed away from him as quickly as I could. I was still feeling the effects of all that alcohol.
"Did he tell you that?" I asked him. The world’s most stupid question. "I can’t believe he told you that."
And I couldn’t believe how devastated Evan looked. He had tears in his eyes and his face was black with fury. Thunderous.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." I sat back down again, with my head in my hands.
"With him? Why with him, Hooch? Why did it have to be him…" He might have cried then. I’m not sure. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my head, the sound of my shame.


There was a brief conversation with Sam the next day. I tried to explain that it didn’t mean anything, that I was drunk, that he’d gone off with those women.
"If it had been anyone else Hooch. Anyone. But Herb’s my best fucking friend."


It was easy to extricate myself from their lives. My friend Trudy was happy to have me back as her drinking buddy, and I no longer argued about going to the bars that she liked. Surfers and football players and the doof doof doof of the commercial top 20 while the peroxide blondes giggled and danced around their handbags. It wasn’t my kind of place, but with a tab of acid, it was bearable.

I was moving out of my apartment, into a share house just around the corner, even closer to the beach. I thought it was sensible while I still didn’t have a permanent day job. I was moving in with two men, in their early 40s, both divorced. Steady jobs. A joint business. Decent people, it seemed.

And I was spending a lot of time with Tony, preparing for his move to the States. Tony and I had met at the pizza place, working together. He was studying film production at the time, but was unsettled in Australia. He was brilliant, and had decided that America was where he would be able to spread his wings. We shopped for clothes, we saw movies, we went out to dinner, we watched B grade schlock videos late into the night, until our laughter drove his mother out to reprimand us like we were 10 year olds. He was my best friend and I was going to miss him terribly. I tried not to think what it would be like without him.

Neither Tony nor Trudy had asked much about what had happened with Sam. They hadn’t liked him and were glad that I was away from him at last. I still thought about him all the time, and would frequently have to drive past his house on my pizza deliveries. Sometimes I’d see him standing at the kitchen window, and I’d zoom past in the dark, wishing I didn’t still have this need to see him.

Obsession (xi)

Part XI
Deborah Conway: For all the wrong reasons (1.6MB)

A week later and I hadn’t heard anything from Sam. I was furious and frustrated. I couldn’t keep ringing his home. It wasn’t fair on his housemates. But I needed to know what was going on. I needed to understand. Why was I never good enough?

It was Saturday night and the club was packed, as per usual. And I was seriously trying to forget how awful I was feeling. I danced alone on the dancefloor, turning my back to the men that approached me. I didn’t want to know them, I just wanted to not feel anything.

On one of my trips to the bar I bumped into Herb. He looked like he had been drinking all afternoon, and his eyes had that slightly far away quality, as if he was being led through his own fairytale fantasy. When he saw me he laughed a childlike laugh and rushed over to give me a huge bear hug.
I looked behind him. "You here on your own?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Where are the others?"
"Dunno, we were going to a party, but I lost them, so I came here instead."

Herb was the rock star of the group. I had no idea if he could play a note. But with his looks, he didn’t need to. He was about my height, 5’9", 5’10", slim, with shoulder length curly brown hair. His skin and eyes hinted at the Moari heritage of one of his grandparents. Clothes sat on him in a way that could make anything look good. Leather wristbands brought attention to his masculine strong hands. He could have any woman he wanted. And frequently did. I’d never seen him arrive with a woman, and rarely saw him leave without one.

It was nice to have someone there to drink with, to dance with. I was determined not to ask after Sam at all, and we were having too much fun to think about anyone else. We were both drinking a lot, almost a challenge to see who could outpace the other.

Herb suddenly began to look unwell. His face was ashen and he seemed to be having trouble balancing. I instantly thought of his diabetes.
"Get me outside," he begged, and I propped him up and gently guided him down the stairs, into the cold night.
Once outside, Herb’s colour improved a bit.
"Are you OK? Do you need me to do anything?" I asked, looking into his face, my arm still under his in case he needed support again.
"I’m fine now. Just needed some fresh air."

"Come on," I said, guiding him across the road, "let’s go sit on the beach for a while." I was still worried about him, and we sat propped against the base of the wall that dropped from the walkway down to the sand. It was cold against the stone wall, and I huddled next to Herb a bit, rubbing his back gently, as we both stared out to the breakers.

Laughing voices would pass by, drunken shouts, girlish squeals, but we were unseen directly below them, in the dark shadows.

"Sam’s an idiot, you know?" he said out of the blue. I winced a little. Sam had been far from my thoughts, for a little while.
"Yeah, well, I’m sure he has his reasons. Maybe I’m just shit in the sack." I joked.
"Well, some women think they’re pretty fantastic. When they aren’t so good," Herb said seriously.
I looked at him. Was he shit-stirring me? He gave me a cheeky grin.
"Like kissing, some chicks think they’re shit hot kissers."
"Hmmm, well, I didn’t think I was that bad. Actually, I thought I was pretty good."
"Well Sam did say you kissed great, but what does he know."
"Whereas you would know a good kiss when you get one."
"Too fucking right."

I leant forward and kissed him, feeling out his lips, their softness, their taste.
"And how was that," I asked.
"Well… I’ve had better, but it wasn’t terrible," he taunted me.
"Wasn’t terribly, huh. OK then, how about this," and I cupped his face with my heads, teasing his tongue with mine, gently biting at his lips, pulling him closer as his response to my kiss became more frenzied, as we jostled over who was controlling the kiss.
"And that one?" I breathily whispered.
"Oh yeah, getting waaaaay better."

It felt so good, in that moment, to feel sexy again. To feel the natural reaction of a man’s body appreciating me. And when Herb whispered into my ear, "You know what would make me feel MUCH better," and guided my hand down to his belt, I knew exactly what he wanted. I knelt over his lap and began to unbuckle his belt.