Interview

Preferably naked

 I love being naked. I love feeling everything breathe and stretch and glow. I love the shivery warmth and the kisses of the cold brushing against my arms and legs intermittently.

I love how vulnerable I feel, yet, comfortable and safe in my body. There’s a calmness to knowing that you are okay with how you look. And when I look into the rippling glass, there’s a me who looks back, and there’s something otherworldly in my eyes. The expression of someone else looking in, of assessing and admiring with disconnectedness, but understanding.

I can feel the air hitting every inch of my skin as I step forward, one leg up and over the half wall and sinking into a pool of swirling galaxies. I love bath bombs too. I love how they froth and bubble and vanish in my hands, the more intricate ones bobbing back and forth in the water like a firecracker.

                                                                      Firecracker

My best friend says I’m a firecracker. She says that I’m a strong woman, but when I get angry it’s like watching the fire burn low on a string, a pause of tension where I’m processing my feelings.  Then suddenly, I’m a molten red explosion, beautiful, but loud and overwhelming.

I don’t get angry very often, so just like watching firecrackers, it’s a special occasion. My anger is quick, but soon is fizzled up and swallowed by darkness and silence.

If my best friend is right, and I am a firecracker, then I must have been left in the rain, because right now there is nothing to burn. I wish I could light up, and give a show, but there’s nothing that can ignite a passion or anger inside of me.

It was over six months ago, but I’m still not the same. It’s all because of the people I’m done with.

                                                                   The people I’m done with

I’m done with you. That means no touching, no speaking, no nothing. That means being on the other side of the planet. That means radio silence.

Being done with you is hard.

What can I give you, when I haven’t got anything left? Why is it that I’m supposed to forget you, and yet, there’s more to me that I want to give away?

I’m done with your friends too. Your friends were once my friends, but you can have them. A few of them have tried to speak to me, but they just link back up to you, and I can’t have any links, only severed strings.

You seem to have a poison that is spreading through every part of my body, it’s burning through my toes and fingers, racing through the pulse of my throat, my lips and eyes are clouded by it, even my once long and beautiful hair has been scorched, chopped from the neck down. It’s a bad poison, but now I feel buoyancy. Lightheaded.

To combat the lightheadedness, I put on music. I thrash around in my bedroom hoping to jumpstart something inside me, but it comes up hollow. I listen to something miserable instead, hoping to bring tears and then I could just be over with it, but I remain icy and hard.

Maybe I need warmth.

                                               

                                                                                Warmth

I love baths. They make me warm. The water is invasive, and laps at any part of me that I give it. But it is warm, and I haven’t felt truly warm yet this winter.

The hot water is melting me. It hurts but it’s a relieving feeling. Maybe I’ll join the glitter and the lavender scented pink foam, and I’ll go down the drain and become something new.

I look at my reflection in the water. She knows me, and I know her, and we share a knowing look.

I slide as deep into the bath as I can. I feel like a small crab nestled in a shell, water covering my mouth and prodding my nose. My hair lazily floats around me like golden seaweed.

Baths are good, because there are bubbles and wine, and they make me think deeply about aspects of my life.

I take a photo of them, post it on Instagram, and pretend my life is great. My reflection tells me that one day soon it will be.  

Full Hearts

I squeeze my hands till red marks appear as the line dwindles. There are four people in front of me, all waiting to board the hovering ship just across the glass doors. I wonder if they saved up for it, I wonder how long they have worked. Together our dreams will be a reality we will finally get to go.

          Aboard the ship, I watch the waves crash. I’m hoping to see a dolphin until I remember that they went extinct five years ago. I never got to swim with one. Or swim at all, the water has been too filled with nuclear waste since I was born. The past is the number one place I wish I could visit. And since I know I never can, I write myself into the world that once was.

         I draw myself sitting under trees that I am told used to line the streets. I write poems about hearing the birds sing and dawn and almost believe I can hear their chirps ringing in my ears. But here is where fiction leaves me.

         My reflection in the doors frowns at me, telling me of a future that no one had the motivation to nip in the bud. I am the child of questions with no answers, of living in a wasteland that is host to nothing except divine dying. I frown at the never-ending sequence of events that dug out my grave, and I look on gravely as if I had nothing at all to do with it at all.

        At any cost, let me know I’m a gift; not a burden, give me a touch of hope in this gilded off sign. I make peace. I forgive myself, my mother, my father from bringing me into this mess. 

       I pray for the earth to find salvation, for all humans to leave this world with full hearts. 

Haven

I know every stone on this pathway. Every twist and turn of dirt. I know every dip and ravine in this small bush. Every wet creek lapping at the moss.

          I walk this pathway every morning. It’s the shortcut to my town, connecting my desolate farmland to cars and shops and people. I go to work, collecting papercuts from the dusty library books, and I take them home through the pathway, letting the wood of the trees kiss them better.

I used to think the small bush was magical. It certainly holds an energy of its own. You enter, and you can feel the life humming around you, you can hear it in the buzzing of crickets, smell it in the wildflowers that grow here, and the eucalyptus.

         I could ride my bike to get through here quicker like I did when I was in school. Back then, it felt like the small bush was chasing me, every shadow held an evil man with a knife or a crazed woman with a gun. I’d pedal through every winding corner, feeling the cold breath of the ghosts at the back of my neck, only safe until I was skidding down my driveway.

        Now I like closing my eyes and feeling the motion of wandering all through my body. There’s the tree that I hid behind when my mum tried to make me do the dishes, years ago. Here’s the bark beneath my feet that gave me my first splinter. Under the sun that is interrupted by leaves is where I bathed in childhood and lost the cold of other people.

       Back then, I was terrified of darkness and lived jumping out of my own skin. Now I like the cool of the shade and welcome the reprieve from the socializing, the interactions, the smiles that prick at my skin. Where is my safety, if not alone, without a tree trunk to anchor me? The prospect of sunlight, unfiltered, hitting my cheeks is enough to slow my pace and quicken my breaths.

       Once, my mum took me to the next town over to buy oranges. She wanted to make freshly squeezed orange juice and had heard about the brilliant crop just a fifteen-minute drive away. The drive there made my stomach hate itself and I leaned my head back just enough relieve my back, wincing as we turned another sharp corner. When we got to the farm, there were paddocks just like ours and sheep that gazed plaintively over the fence at me as I sat down to put my head between my knees. Those were turns in the road that made me long for my sanctuary; there was no relief from movement and no filtering of feeling.

        I heaved but nothing except a thin line of saliva dribbled down my chin. My mum was there with me, I remember, she pats my back the way a mother would to a newborn child. I remembered her shadow looming over me, shielding me from the claws on sunlight. When I was steady enough to stand up, we walked to the spot where a couple of people were reaching across baskets of oranges.            We bought a couple and I brace myself for the journey back home where my stomach betrayed me once again. The journey wasn’t even worth it, the orange was a tad too sour and the skin was too hard.

      “Mum, we should plant our own,” I said as I spat out the seed of the orange into my palm.

      “It’s not that easy, our backyard’s too small,”

       But I know a place.

       I sat by it now. The seed that was once in the pit of the ripe fruit, now resting within my palm. I stuck a thumb into the soil and placed the seed in.

      Watching the earth takes patience. There’s an awful lot of waiting before that first tender, tendril springs into the air. But when it does it was really not what I expected. Sure, It’s an orange tree. But that’s it. I envisioned the moment they grew and I proudly grabbed mum to show her. I could picture the pride in her eyes, not quite believing her own daughter could create such a marvel. That was until         I actually saw it and realized it was just a tree. And an ugly one at that. I had ruined my beautiful haven with my creation, it didn’t fit in here. Too bright for one thing. I loved this place for its unassuming mess of plants and flowers.

      Why had I gone and changed it?

Stolen Dogs

My best friend Amy and I haven’t spoken in 3 months. It was probably to do with her new boyfriend, and the Uni she got into and the apartment she’s planning on moving into. Year 12 was long gone and she was starting a new life and leaving me behind. 

           Her Facebook posts for the last week sound a lot like this:

         “Someone has stolen my 4-Year-old Jack Russel Terrier! Please anyone if you see him, call me, or my family, or the police. His name is Harry. Please, please, bring him home!”

            I feel awful for her, even though she had told me she didn’t want to be friends anymore. Harry is a good puppy. I reach out to her, not expecting an answer.

Amy. I know you said you didn’t want to talk to me, but I wanted to make sure you were okay after losing harry?

           I’m fine. I just want to find him.

           Ok. Sorry to bother you.

           It’s fine. It’s nice of you to ask.

           I hate how formal it sounds. How disconnected. How strange.

           Did you want any help looking for him?

           I don’t know. We already have a pretty fair effort going. All I can do now is keep checking the pounds and hope he comes home.

         Are you sure? I really want to help. I know what Harry means to you.

         ...

        Please.

       Ok.

Saturday, 7 am, I shower quickly, dry my hair, put on a strawberry red crop top with blue high waisted jeans.

        I grab my keys, and shut my bedroom door, locking it.

        My brother won’t be awake yet. I walk through the living room, and see Mum asleep on the couch, a half bottle of beer still in her hand. I take it off her. I walk out the door, to my Mum’s Hyundai, flip the red P plates on, and head towards my best friend’s house.

        I see people out walking their dogs early. That’s where Amy and Harry would probably be if someone hadn’t nicked him.

        I arrive at her house and see her already standing outside, dressed in a cap and her boyfriends’ shirt. I step out and meet her in a hug. She looks stressed and tearful.

       “Thanks for coming over here, Tars,” She says, and I hold back a smile at my nickname. It wasn’t a good time to be smiling.

        “Have you heard anything? Any news?” I ask, looking at her dark circled eyes. She shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest and looks out into the street.

        “Even if he did run, we haven’t heard anything from the neighborhood. There are two Jack Russel terriers at the pound. Neither of them had collars or microchips, so we need to go down and see if they’re Harry.”

         I nod encouragingly and squeeze her shoulder. Her mouth twitches into a feeble smile, and she makes her way out of my grip to my car. I follow quickly after.

“No, that’s not him either,” Amy says, her voice becoming brittle with emotion. She turns away from the cage where some strangers dog was starring back at us with hopeful eyes. Amy’s own eyes were just as watery. The staff woman looked at us with sympathy and led us back through the door, away from the lost dogs.

         In my car, Amy bit her lip and cried quietly. I had seen her cry only a handful of times during our friendship. One time when she broke her wrist playing basketball. One time when Grace Silvey called her a fat bitch in the playground of year eight. One time when the boyfriend she had broke up with her because he was moving states.

        I tried to put my hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

      “It’s okay, Amy,” I tried to soothe.

       “I just want to go home,” She bit back. “I just want my dog back.”

       We drove back in silence. At her house, I tried to speak again, but she was out of her seat before I had a chance. The car was silent, and I was by myself again.

I step through my front door at 1.30, to the angry look of my hungover mother, and the bewildered look of my little brother.

       “What is it?” I ask tensely.

       “You are in big trouble,” Mum seethes,“The neighbors came over complaining about the noise.”

       “What noise?”

         Just as it falls silent, I hear a loud bark coming from my room. I dash over to my door and quickly start unlocking it. Hearing my movement on the other side of my bedroom, Harry starts to yap, and scratch on my door.

        “What are you doing, silly dog?” I whisper, bobbing down so I can step into the room.

          My bedroom stank of shit and piss. Harry starts barking louder and louder.

         “Shut up stupid dog!” I hiss trying to hold him. It was okay. I could fix this. I could clean the shit out of the carpet, and then turn up to Amy’s house claiming I had found him. It would still work.

          Harry looks at me, beady dog eyes glinting in accusation. He knows what I have done.

          Suddenly, his tiny body jolted alive with a shock of energy. He ran around my room for a circuit, before pushing open my poorly closed bedroom door.

         “Stop!” I cried, watching as Mum opened the front door with her cigarette in her mouth and lighter in hand. Harry beelined past her and out onto the road.

          I chase after him, hands outstretched, just touching the hairs of his tail before watching him run.

         My heart beat painfully in my chest. I breathe heavily in, and heavily out, as the dog turns a corner and disappears. 

Multilingualism

Language is a beautiful thing. I have always been envious of people who grew up in multi-cultural households, people with Chinese mums and Spanish dads. With mixed brothers and sisters and grandfathers and grandmothers. I always wish that I could be bilingual, but my family are all born and bred true blue. I know how to count to 10 in Indonesian, the fruits of my labor in both high school and primary school, and a smattering of Japanese from my learning practice through university, but that's about it.

It’s funny how we automatically associate a foreign word with a familiar word. For example, even though when I concentrate, I can imagine the Japanese hiragana ‘chi’ as its own creation, but at just a glance, I can’t silence the voice in my head that says “five”.

Another amusing thing to note is how, due to Melbourne's melting pot of culture, or how we integrate into our societies, no matter where you come from, you surely know phrases in other languages, even if you don't realize you've learned them.  Bon Appetit, Ciao Bella, Sayonara, Gluten Tag. 

I can imagine that being multi-lingual would be an asset in a writer’s toolkit that would prove to be valuable. Not only do you have multiple streams of literature to read, you have the ability to mash them together. The downside? Readers would be a niche audience, and meanings from one word in one language may not always translate into another.

I’ve heard that Melbourne has its own subculture of half-Asian half-Australian people. They sound like a club, they even have their own hashtag on Instagram. #Halvers #Mixers. Banding together to feel selective rather than unwanted. Romanticizing being unable to fit into either culture. Certainly not a first.

I can imagine what their households would sound like to me. Garble. A whole new language created for only that family, some English, some other thing entirely. Spanglish, Japenglish, you name it.

Twice the language, twice the vocal power.