a fly in my eye

static hum forever. every empty moment filled with someone else’s will and whim. dreams of drowning and not knowing what to buy for dinner. catch a fly in my eye on the way to the lake round the mall they made out of the jail. my Dad used to lay mousetraps in the cells and round the grounds to pay the bills. now I can buy coffee or a luxury apartment within the same stone walls. does anyone know what happened to the mice?

expectations slide: a report left unread and now we need to wait some more. I open the fridge to news I never asked for. listen to the time drain through the sink until the rain returns. it’s nice to hear your voice again.

then the laundry

eyes open to tomorrow; then the laundry. I throw my clothes in and would join them if only I could fit. dream of a machine to rinse me free of filth and thought. no doubt someone else has wanted this before. patterns on and on and then some more. what a shame we’re all the same beneath the skin.

I clean the kitchen of the house I’m breaking into. press buttons and the machines sing and talk more than the people using them to cook and store the meals they never finish. labels on every other surface and instructions ask too much. a foreign logic in this place to laugh about with someone else. we don’t always need a home: a roof and a bed is more than enough. there is milk in the fridge and dreams wait on clean sheets.

hope is a pill I knew much better than to reach for. regret is the consoling hug that never leaves me waiting. clouds come and roll regardless. I dry teacups and think about you.

the bill and a smile

morbid premonitions of tomorrow til it comes. untrusted others read my memoir and I am hunted down for answers. pitchforks and punches in the side to stir eyes open. another day to sweat through. lady tripping on tram line finds her feet in time to see another Saturday. three hours of men in suits shooting windows and each other. nod off into phantom headrest and the empty spaces. questions for you I cover in old sheets in the attic. the light won’t get in anymore. clear the dishes and nudge me off with the bill and a smile. I free the chair for someone else.

just like that

anticipation sours. I occupy familiar shapes in dread or doubt. read someone else’s nonsense to escape my own. every sentence blurred or muffled by offensive thought or feeling. eyes closed pen on paper and a fragment of a dream: plead the angry man away from the last safe place. neighbour turning pages on the pillow over. dusk birds chirp to the rattle of cutlery in the sink and every sound that isn’t yours. I want to seal the space between with glass. trap the words before they go and play back over everything. timid rain against windows and someone washing dishes in the kitchen. master of none decrees nothing at all now (forever).

current affairs

Tuesday night spits me back into the rhythm of a city I haven't made the time to get to know. the driver and I can't find each other and I'm chasing his directions through the multi-storey carpark. when I find the car he's waiting at the spot where I first called him. apologies and we both blame the maps on our phones. back on the doorstep of the rental in a matter of minutes. no surprises in the kitchen or the letterbox. everything untouched since I left. it feels a little like a break in til the bags are emptied. catch myself slipping into the fractures in the corner of the bathroom mirror. saved by a familiar knock at the door.

the waiting room is a zoo of foreign voices and misguided glares. the receptionist can't hear me answering her questions through the plastic shield. cling to notes for reassured faith in the facts of the story so far, relayed to someone new again. sympathies and cautious promises that she can help me get to where I want to be. injections of rehearsed gratitude on the way out the door to fund her expert validation. alpacas on the television underscored by economists predicting America's collapse and the weather. spell my surname once more for the front desk.

I wait for a friend on the bench in the shadow of Saint George and the dragon at the feet of his horse. phone floods with footage of the flames of another school bombed far away enough to be forgotten with a swipe for something less confronting. another birthday and proposal. someone else's dreams. musical messiah dances for the masses on a table in the square. I've walked through that park between important paintings and the subway to a friend I miss. nostalgia heralds a welcome release from the confines of doubt. your name hangs over my fingertips and I resist while I can. have you listened yet? I want to ask what you think of the song and wonder if you'd dance along when it plays. maybe you'll be out dancing tonight. I envy every eye that gets to see you move. what bliss to want again.

strangers and their languages

Dad takes down the fence in the front yard to use for firewood. he managed the whole thing whilst I was out tying new strings to friends I can’t hold on to. the fence has been there since before they bought the house and most likely predates me. I don’t know what made him want do take it down or how much time he gave the thought, though the sticks and planks never really looked good or did much to keep the rabbits out. I listen to the crackle and crumble of fence posts to coal in the lounge room under absentminded conversation. the pope dies and someone wins the football. Mum’s happy til she hears the news. he used his final sermon to plead for an end to the slaughter of children. I wait for the kettle to boil and heap another spoon of powdered chai.

my bag is packed with clothes I think I’ll want to wear through winter. I dress for the cold and end up shedding layers in the queue. always overwhelmed at the departure gate. it’s the same no matter where I’m going. maybe it’s the way I end up thinking when I’m here. there’s a certain shade or feeling that only seems to surface through my vision when I’m leaving; a filter or bug on the front of the lens that I can’t quite remove or see through. some confused, diluted solution of longing or dread for nothing in particular. with enough thinking I’d find the surface of answers and icebergs I’d rather leave melting for now. no doubt they’ll find me next time. children cry from too long waiting for the hostess to tag their bags. I watch the clock and listen to strangers and their languages I can’t even name.

Picasso etc.

I drive through the cloud to the gallery first thing to beat the traffic. make a beeline down the stairs for the closing show before I’m called back home. follow former footsteps down the asphalt, life size replica of liberty’s armpit where the waterfall once spat out headlines. there are gold plated plastic chairs and paintings of sleeping naked figures and Jesus dining in an inner-Melbourne pub. shelves of misshapen vases with hard to read faces made priceless by their potter’s name. I walk round a deflated military tank I’ve seen in photos and a gallery in Sydney. the leather sculpture is to scale and I wonder what it takes to move something so big and precious. visitors talk and take photos to share with the people on their phones. I buy a postcard from the gift shop to send to somebody on mine. back in the car through the cloud in the blink of a light.

forever in a cup

the owner of my favourite thai place remembers my name and order for the table. she’s fed me there since I was twelve and never fails to make my parents laugh. we demolish the dishes between us with room enough for ice cream on the waterfront: a family ritual unweathered by years of growing pains and independence. same flavour as forever in a cup.

I embrace the familiar with open arms and seek comfort in what could be claustrophobic. infant thoughts and feelings are cradled safely in the blankets on my childhood mattress. take time to introduce my bedroom walls and ceiling to my case of new delusions. I take what I can from fleeting allusions to meaning in dreams I can’t control. sometimes I remember and sometimes it’s all passing water in my hands. the stories mean less every time I try to tell them. I wish we could talk a little more without words.

just sprinkles

in therapy we use metaphors to draw some sense from my confusion. we talk about the body. ‘our main functions’ she explains between analogies ‘are to breathe and reproduce. everything else is just sprinkles.’ it makes enough sense to provoke a spike in nervous thought. ‘the body conserves its resources for these functions, and will do what it must to keep them going.’ I want to ask about long term consequences but can’t stand the thought of answers I don’t want to hear. 

everybody needs their own reason to move. maybe I needed to face what I want and can’t have from the depths of the well that I’ve dug. maybe just a thought of how we could have worked is all I need. it doesn’t matter what you’re doing or if you ever think of me. you’ve done the most already just by being known beyond a cause to check my phone. I wonder what you’re doing without needing confirmation. it’s enough to want to know between the static and the sprinkles.

loathing and perspective

nearly time to go home. I pack my bag with clothes I don't want to wear anymore. on the phone I lean on Mum and Dad and so often take for granted the luxury of being loved no matter how I am. they count down the sleeps and I catch myself doing the same. 

there are days with less loathing, when the clouds are softer and the colours bleed more freely. I catch glimpses of the afternoon sun on the back of my head and stop to remember that I am one of the lucky ones. sometimes the grasp of the parasite loosens and thoughts are kinder. my body can be my own and there are flowers to pick. I harvest dreams and memories and can choose to be swayed by the gold in my beautiful blue bucket. I play with hope, perched on my wrist like a bird I shouldn't feed. she wants to know my secrets and I surrender myself freely: everything I have and want means nothing to tomorrow. which of us can transcend their hopeless insignificance in the face of the headlines and a world that keeps burning?

there are days with less perspective. I take comfort in reminders of what matters and the different ways I feel. claw for meaning between emails and demands that thread a case for the stencil on the treadmill. I dream of drifting down the creek to watch the trees pass over me. the leaves fall and I miss being held by something other than myself.

ajar

you make a case for waking up without even trying. the most wonderful waste of time and taxes. between daydreams and confessions there’s hope enough to dilute any doubt or distance. leave the answers room to change with what we wanted on the floor. I keep the door ajar for next time if it comes. there are worse things I could want.

something for everyone

the prison is more than just a shopping mall. you can watch the football in the garden or go out for Italian. dimly lit restaurants and offices. a chemist and a branch of the bank I need to leave. they’re even selling apartments. if you have the money you can buy a home above the cells they used to hide the monsters and the misperceived. there’s a playground in the courtyard. children hang from monkey bars and ice creams. parents on the bench fall into their phones. there’s coffee inside if they need it. the prison has something for everyone now.

I make friends with an orange cat on the front lawn of the house. he rolls around and melts into my pets as though he knows me and I’m safe. maybe he wants me to stay but I can’t. there’s time to fill and far too much to fit. watch me chase the sun until I nearly miss the tram. I’ll do my best and try to write about the clouds before they pass.

expectation at the door

we leave the moment to itself and expectation at the door. open the blinds to greet the day as it comes: a soft smile through morning clouds. with time and space for breathing all the edges round a little softer than before. look around and there are birds in the trees and flowers to pick from neighbours’ gardens. it’s really nice to see you. should we lie and watch the ceiling? nothing needs to mean more than a happy thought or moment. we can stop and be without wanting more than where or how we are (for now).

broken toys

words don’t work like before. ‘more than enough’ is a bandaid for the gaps I can’t fill. thoughts are wider than the fickle flakes of language they’re tied to. I’d let you read the prompter if I could tear it out. take a pen; make any change you like. write me over between what you see and what it is you want. maybe you don’t have the time. there’s much more on the way and you’ve been more than kind enough. happy boys leave broken toys where they belong. at least we were today and I heard you sing my song.

whatever’s next

I walk out of the house to find some sun before it disappears. wishful thinking brings a book to read. sitting under the tree at the top of a hill I pass on my runs. the sun casts tall shadows down the slope and washes autumn branches golden. it warms one side of my face as the other shivers for attention in my shadow. easy imbalance all within my control. change sits at my whim. I’ll turn when I need to (if I do).

focus falters. so much time poured into a screen at a desk. check the news to wake up and get over myself. they’re still bombing schools. I’m still sleeping every night. more footage of parents screaming over their children’s remains. I double tap and scroll on to holidays or haircuts or whatever’s next in line. sometimes I catch myself and think I’ll throw up but I don’t. conscious moments sobered to a dystopic state of being - all too rare and overwhelming. much better to chase distraction from the madness. leave the furnace at the door: the illness is safer than the cure.

feelings embellish moments to make mountains of thoughts passing with the clouds. I oscillate between sense and the absurd like a door in the breeze. close the window when the rain comes. listen to the shower empty through the pipes in the walls and lie on the floor to get to know my ceiling. I think about hope and the claws that fit so perfect round my wrist. why do I keep crawling back? dream of freedom from dreams that free me from facing myself in the mirror.

sound and motion

the tram spills out onto a street swarm of strangers streaming silent screams for something more than what’s within reach. I jump to join them and chase brief relief in the surrender of this paper-thin identity to a fluid mass of skin and cotton. we wait at the crossing for the flashing green man but I need not look for him or anything beyond the pavement beneath a pair of shoes I should replace. my movement follows someone else’s in the crowd. sound and motion somewhere. what joy to be excused from myself.

static anyway

days start with clouds and a cold nose before saying yes again. most mornings blue skies triumph in the end, though I can feel the seasons rolling on the breeze that shakes my window. the sound of leaves crunching on the sidewalk is a memory of making angels in the gardens. we fed the ducks bread and watched them dive under the moss. autumn. the days will get colder and we’ll start wearing more layers. I need to find a jacket for the rain.

the flames on my phone paint a picture of hell I can make the choice to witness. I disappoint myself in chasing other avenues of focus bent towards myself. only stop to reflect on my apathy in the dark and quiet stillness before I fall asleep. selective compassion or self preservation? am I deciding when or is my empathy depleting? the schools burn regardless.

dreams take me places I can’t reach and I slide absently through my subconscious, in and out of consequence and feeling. spat out the other end back into a frame I tire of wearing every day. sometimes I remember where I’ve been, though words are never quite enough to tell the story as it was. we could say the same for anything. it’s all static anyway.