grey gardens

escaping my own company I watch a movie in the end room with my housemate. it's a documentary she's been wanting to watch for a while. an elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter spend their days arguing and commiserating the past over old photos / relics / lazy snacking / dancing and singing about death in the dark damp rooms of an all but derelict estate in Long Island. over the course of maybe a decade we watch them spiral further into their own nostalgic disillusions, never leaving the mansion they call home. the house clutters further into disrepair with each passing season.

the daughter is first cousin to first lady of a since assassinated president. she wears a different coloured outfit every day. no matter what she's wearing her hair remains completely covered, even in her bathing suit. we can't quite tell if this is modesty or vanity. she often talks about wanting to leave the estate, to find her own life and spread her wings into the world. there are dreams of a life in the city, in New York, where she can be herself on her own terms, away from her mother, away from the black hole that is their home and the history she can't quite seem to escape. her mother finds this funny. she says her daughter will never leave and she never does.

she dances for the camera: sometimes giddy and free as a child without care or agenda, otherwise serious and grave, cursed by something haunted lingering beneath her gaze. some kind of sadness wants to rupture from her eyes, as though the dance is not enough to exorcise the dark. she tells us she only cares about singing, dancing, and the Catholic Church. I think about my mother and her mother. I wonder if they'll dance and sing together in another life.

recharge and survival

the doctor asks me what I want to talk about. I ask if she can remember what was worrying me last time. she takes notes so she can and I can pick up what I want to. we had started to talk about my habits and where they came from. no luck finding any answers yet. today I want to ask for help. dread dooms the day; a lighter to a gas tank. empty time and space is only room for fire to fester. I build a funeral pyre of dreams from my own misinterpretations. nightmares run on tap and scare me into corners in the dark. I scream at myself in silence.

she tells me to list how I knew I was anxious. I watch her write along on the whiteboard on my screen: inability to focus, shaking, tightness (in the arms, the jaw, the chest), headache, the pit in my stomach, inability to sit comfortably, feeling hot, restricted breathing, catastrophising silence. there are no surprises here. from offscreen she presents a sculpture of the brain, which she breaks in half to show the plastic layers in their artificial colours. the changes I've mentioned all make sense to her and she has an explanation.

a lesson in biology: anxiety is charged by the amygdala, which only wants me to survive. to do so all eleven systems in my body change at once. according to design my body is doing what it is meant to. on the whiteboard she draws a scale, explaining that every response I make exists on the spectrum between recharge and survival:

0 calm

1 aware

2 present

3 performance

4 the zone

5 the edge

6 change

7 wobbly

8 holding on

9 panic

10 survival

too often the brain rushes to the past to predict the present. in the rush it struggles to reach the logic that protects us in less dire situations. control is an illusion. in uncertainty stakes heighten and my conscious self is lost to the amygdala. according to the whiteboard autopilot will not hear sense. the rib cage tightens to protect my vital organs. muscles tense for action. the body is ready to run from the beast.

the doctor reminds me that anxiety lives in the gut. she ties it all back to me and my habits. we can only digest when we feel calm. survival mode changes every system in the hopes of giving every chance to survive the given threat. digestion takes a lot of energy. anxiety asks us to prioritise. if I don't refuel, the body starts to feel as though it's under threat. anxiety continues to simmer. but I can reclaim the respiratory system with deep breaths. keep them slow and long. climb back to yourself gently. anxiety keeps us alive. oxygen keeps us living. I think about the end and I think about you. I wish they taught us this at school.

pink in the morning

but morning comes to church

the sounds of choir hymns

over traffic

under you

I study your face in the light through the blind

we make dreams under stars but I want to see you in the sun

are we the end of winter?

breath that feels a little warmer

the first blossoms start to bleed from trees crying over asphalt

pink in the morning

I pass them on the ride to school

I hope you see them too. 

never hard to find

but where do they all go? and what is it that sends them running home? if one would leave a note maybe I'd be left better equipped to face the silence of the empty spaces they leave behind. most often it's without a word. being ghosts I still care for, I can only wish them well. what good is cursing what meant mountains for a moment?

when you leave, you are followed by my care and wishes. neither one of us can have a say in this. no doubt your train will take you where you need to be. my door is never hard to find. I will always leave a light on.

the other fish and you

I take a friend to see you and the other fish. it's a novelty for both of us. we haven't been to an aquarium in years. the tanks are just as big as I remembered, stretching over us in arches of water and other creatures I don't understand. the jellyfish glow fluorescent in dark tanks, moving effortless as breathing. I think about glowing in the dark with you. we rode our bikes through the witching hours to the park by the prison. I sang my silly songs into the wind who carried them to you. by the lake I raced you to the top of the playground. you glowed through my hands and I didn't think about the rug / the water / tomorrow. you glowed so much that there was nothing else and I was glowing too.

we find you at the rock pools teaching kids about the starfish. your face opens for their questions with a warmth I want to bottle. we wait our turn and follow you back through the tunnels of tanks. you introduce us to some of your favourite fish, calling them your friends. walking slowly by your side our hands brush and your little finger coils in mine. we listen to you talk about the crocodile before you say goodbye.

on the other side of the river we lie on the bank in the dregs of the afternoon sun. I think about how unremarkable it is to feel this way, to care and want and dream and dread. I think about becoming an afterthought and then a stranger again. I think about the fact I never think about these things until you're gone. the sun sinks and we move a little further to take as much as we can before it goes. we talk about not knowing how to be with ourselves and our constant need to fill every moment with some kind of sound. a funny thought to be so scared of our thoughts / something we can never truly shake. at least it's nice to laugh about.

I bury treasure under the railway bridge. you don't find it. I hope it's still waiting there for you tomorrow.

  

scenes at Green Refectory, 22.08.2026

mother sits baby on the table.

boy in beanie plays with spoon with glass half listening to young Uma Thurman. 

man in sportswear hunches over laptop. he is writing an assignment about the murder of Kumanjayi Walker.

couple sits at bench at window watching moving traffic. buses replacing trams on Sydney Rd. they laugh and listen to a voicenote together, leaning into one of their phones. 

man in green cap swirls the dregs of his mug nodding along to girl in black cap. she stands to leave first. he offers to carry her bag. they leave behind a clear view of the notice board.

'a new way to learn Spanish has arrived'. 'Spanish vibes 2.0'. 'rent me and explore Victoria'. 'titani-accs'. 'gender drugs and rock and roll'.

baby laughs with mother.

waitress scrapes chairs back into place. she picks a pillow from the floor.

man with beard talks about money and job prospects. patient lady with a fringe drinks purple something from a glass and feeds him chocolate cake.

lady in back scribes pen into a notebook.

plastic bottle. double heart. giraffes and geese and flowers. mother eats a biscuit. baby drinks the milk.

the gold

and I worry about ending something good with my own hands, spoiling what I dream of with the fear of that same loss. the gold is fragile. feel it ripple gently in the cups made with my fingers. mesmerising enough to never want to look away. intoxicating sunshine through the skin. I know the before: a steady rhythmic pulse through cool tones tasks and screen time. there is laughter and music, though it never lasts half as long as the boulders in between. the liminal is cold. I much prefer our hologram.

preempting the end I flounder in the well and nearly spill the gold. you're somewhere playing dress-up making other people laugh. I think about your eyes and I don't want to know the after.