Ear Pools

Why is it easier to write about sadness and trauma? I’ve been thinking on this for some time. Perhaps all my life. If I reflect upon any of my half completed diaries that I so spiritedly started only to slowly stop the momentum. Ultimately coming to a final halt with the blank lined pages. I tried reigniting them, sometimes within the same year. Sometimes years later. Never took. It could be a sign of happiness I think. I seldom take the time to jot down joy. Rather to saviour and experience it, I suppose. With sadness and general feelings of despair there’s more of a coping element assigned to them.

How do we cope with joy and happiness? 

When I started this relationship I was awestruck. I felt lucky. I felt a kind of smile in my eyes. Like, the corners of my eyes would curl up and create Buddha-face-half-moon-smiles. I think, perhaps that was joy? I still feel it, I conjure it up through memories of our firsts. And I feel it when we have our routines.

I think, boy, this is nice. 

Initially though, it was a weird feeling. I would ask him if he felt the same. This ‘at-odds at happiness’ feeling. He did. At times I thought that I didn’t deserve happiness and so it was much easier to say, I feel lucky. I suppose we both felt similar. I remember what drew us close was listening to each others tales of survival. He would talk of his adventures touring, the energy and the excitement. I spoke of my fearless wanting to explore. It felt very close and very far away all the same.

It’ll take some time for me to trust it -joy and happiness. I think that’s due to life experience there. Emotional scars and all that. In my younger years, I just did. I was compulsive and flighty. When are you going to grow up? When are you going to settle down? It served me well in many many instances, it also had me in unusual and dark times. What’s unusual though? What’s light without darkness?

I’m working on accepting joy. Moving away from questioning it and lean into feeling it. It’s terrifying!

We are in joy now. Joy in the form of scans and heartbeats. Joy in lying down, watching a tv screen filled with blobs and shadows, seeing the blobs dance about to form a body, with a head, and limbs. And a heartbeat!

Why are my ears filled with my tears?

Why is my heart pounding so so fast?

Why do I laugh uncontrollably, blinking the tears down my cheeks to my ears?

I know why. I smile and feel a huge relief. I feel lighter and lucky. No not lucky, I am happy. 

28.08.23

The appointment was for 10.15am but we needed to be there at 9.15am. That meant we should leave home around 7.15am, in case of traffic. On Thursday I had collected the pre-op meds, the instructions read:

Place two under the tongue 4 hours prior to surgery. 

Noted, I should do this at 6.15am. 

Fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen fifteen. 

I set my alarm for 5.45am, but lay on my back staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and full, awake at 3am. 

The pills weren’t dissolving. I had placed the hexagon shaped discs under my tongue and thought, isn’t this where you put pills to hide them? Thinking of every scene in asylums where patients want to dupe staff. I looked at the pill packet. No name. Just Pfizer and a series of numbers. FL2032A  I googled them and found Cytotec, Misoprostol tablets. The abortion pill alternative. 

“Pharmacies in New York are stock piling these pills…”

I kept them under my tongue and turned the shower on. I stood under the water with my eyes open letting the water go in them. It masked my tears. The pills were turning into paste. I swallowed it. It was a bit chalky so I had some water to wash it down. 

Only have sips of water until 7.15am. Another pre-op rule.

By the time I stepped out of the shower the pills were dissolved. No turning back. I took some mouth wash and gargled. I brushed my teeth and passed Jon in the bathroom. We didn’t say anything to each other. Yesterday we were laughing in the bathroom. There was a tube of toothpaste on the vanity, wretched. Every last lick of toothpaste had been squeezed out of it. Jon was brushing his teeth. I pulled my brush from its holder and automatically opened up my drawer to pull out the spare tube of toothpaste. Jon burst out laughing. 

“What a dirty move”! He laughed. I laughed feigning innocence.

“What?! Whaaaat? I-thought-you-knew-this-was-in-here”? I giggled. 

That was a good belly mint laugh.

I got dressed and made the bed. I fluffed the pillows and tucked in the sheets. The bed looked good. All of a sudden I had a sharp pain in my stomach, gripping it tightly I ran for the upstairs toilet. I sat there in agony as my body was expelling the insides. I cramped and contorted. This was ten times more painful than a period cramp. I stayed on the toilet for a while. Not knowing if it had finished. I remembered the receptionist when handing the pills to me saying you should wear a pad once you take the pills. I put one on and made my way downstairs, still holding my stomach.

Jon was having breakfast. I could tell he was trying to quickly eat something without me seeing it, as I had to fast from midnight. I’m glad he didn’t make a coffee. I think he thinks I don’t notice the small acts of kindness he does, but I do. This week I’ve been difficult I know, I feel guilty. It feels like I haven’t been able to reciprocate kindness. I’ve been so sad. It sucks all your energy and all that you’re left with is quiet acknowledgment of each other. 

Sharp pains again. I snap out of my thoughts. I duck to the laundry toilet. Nothing was coming out but I was in so much pain. 

It was a little before 7am. I asked if we could leave early, in case there was traffic. I could barely walk to the car. All I could do is grip my stomach and wince. Jon got me a pillow and I laid the seat backwards. The 90 minute drive I will never forget. Exhausted and in pain. Mindful not to complain, I try to suppress any sounds of pain. What’s the point. We both knew I was uncomfortable, and all I do is complain. The pain hit me in waves. When in full motion I held my breath in an effort to hold the pain in one area. I held my breath until I couldn’t any longer and would exhale in time for it to subside. I took another breath in and out, then another one would start. I clenched the seatbelt and closed my eyes. Slowly the waves grew distant between them.

We listened to Conan O’Brien’s podcast. I chose the episode that he interviews Harrison Ford. Harrison’s voice was so low we couldn’t hear what he was saying over the sound of the engine. We turned it up real loud. I thought of this car propelling us across Sydney. Two people in mourning listening to Conan barking insults at Harrison Ford. It was a strange reality to be in. Listening to people laughing when you’re sad is odd. In one way I’m glad we had it on, it did offer some distraction, but equally it made me realise just how sad I was.

We found the parking lot. It was just a block from the clinic. We stayed in the car until a little after 8.30am, then made our slow way to our destination. I had to hold on to Jon as we walked the block, as I was unsteady, but I just wanted to be near him.

We walk into the surgery wing within the clinic, Louise who I had come to know, was speaking with someone else and said that she’d be right with us. 

“Take a seat”, her voice was warm and polite. 

I was shivering. A nurse walked past as I slowly lowered myself down into the chair, she saw me grimace with pain and asked if I was alright. I said that I was freezing, I couldn’t stop the shivers, and it was as though she was next to me the whole time, there was Louise announcing that she would get me a warm blanket. She arrived back with a heat pack and a heated hospital blanket. I let the warmth of the blanket wrap around me. She gave me a big hug and I let tears fall. 

Jon went up to the counter and paid for our treatment and the nurse with the arthritis came in and asked me if I wanted to lie down. The last time I saw her it was for the extraction, a time of hope. 

“I have a good feeling about you”. She had said to me. 

I’d been talking about our journey, how it had been so fast, from the time we decided our plan, to this day. She talked about her time as a fertility nurse. How she had arthritis in her fingers and in the winter it gave her pain. She struggled with separating the sheets of paper I had to sign. I helped her with it not making a thing of it, I think she appreciated. She had blonde sun kissed hair tied up in a pony tail and had a face full of wrinkles, her eyes smiled as she spoke, and she looked like she would have a cup of tea with you and tell you her tales. She hadn’t remembered me initially this time but it came to her soon after. 

“I remember you, what’s your name honey”? 

“It’s Karen”. 

“That’s right. I’m sorry you’re here today but we will look after you”. 

She held my hands in her misshapen hands and I felt her care. I hadn’t remembered her name either and asked her for it. Glenda. Glenda the good witch from the Wizard of Oz? 

I laid on the bed with the curtain pulled around to offer a little privacy, Jon was in the chair. There was a woman laying in a bed next to us, we could hear through the thin hospital Constantine curtains. She had just had the extraction procedure. I remember being where she was. She was coming out of the anaesthesia. Her nurse explained that she was having a wonderful dream and that she was talking to them but they couldn’t make out what she was trying to say. They both laughed. It felt like a life time ago for us. 

I felt a damp sensation and knew what it was. I needed to get to the bathroom. I told Jon and he helped me out of bed and put my shoes on. I stood up and saw Louise. I whispered to her

“I think I’m bleeding”. 

“That will be the medicine”. She said reassuringly.

“I’ll take you to the bathroom”.

I crept to the bathroom and sat down. Crimson red. Big drum-like pains in my abdomen. I remember this feeling. I flushed it down the toilet. 

“Are you alright”?

“Yes, but my pad is full, there’s a lot of blood, is that normal”? I was worried that it would all be gone before the surgery.

“Yes, it’s okay, there’s pads in there, you can change yours, it’s okay”. She squeezed my hand.

I made it back to the bed and spotted some blood on the sheets. I covered it up, it made me feel shameful for some reason. We waited, Jon in the chair and me in the bed, still holding my stomach. Jon helped me into my hospital clothes, we both laughed at my confusion, how do I put this gown on? 

“I don’t think there’s an inside and outside part to it”. Jon said. I tiredly giggled. 

Eris the anaesthetist arrived and talked through his role. Was it Eris or Ares? Isn’t that the God of War. I had to focus on what he was saying. Soon after Justin arrived to brief us on what was to happen next.

“G’day guys, not a great reason to be here today, but we’ll get through it yeah”.

He had a habit of ending each sentence with a “yeah”. Whether it was a “yeah”? Or a “yeah”. Was unknown. He told us that it will be a quick procedure, he will take some of the tissue to test, it won’t change our pathway, but it is knowledge nonetheless, and he will give us some tissue to take home. I thanked him for seeing us today, and he left just as fast as he arrived.

It was time to go. I didn’t want to go. Maybe Jon sensed that. He gave me a big embrace and we just held onto each other and held onto that moment. A nurse peered in and It was time. 

Lyn, Lynnette and Elizabeth. I tried to remember all of their names. I entered the operating room, Eris was there, and laid on the bed. They put warm blankets on me and I wriggled my underwear off. Eris told me to wiggle my toes, and applied the anaesthetic drip to my right arm. 

“You’ll feel sleepy soon, you’re doing very well”. He said

I didn’t want to do it, tears started to form so I closed my eyes. Lyn squeezed my hand, you’re doing well. I’m just going to put some discs on to monitor your heart. She kept telling me I was doing well. I said thank you under my breath, and then I was out.

I woke up in agony. My eyes still closed but my abdomen was screaming out. I must have looked in pain, a nurse announced that she was giving me some pain medication. She narrated her actions. 

“I can see you’re in some pain Karen, I’m giving you some Fentanyl for the pain”. 

I knew that drug, I had heard of it, it was strong. It made me feel relief that I was getting some.  The voice was back, but it didn’t feel like any time had passed. 

“Are you still in pain Karen, what number out of ten can you give it”?

“Yes, seven”.

“I’m going to give you some more Fentanyl, it will help”.

I opened my eyes for the first time. I was back in the room from before. The other woman must have left by now. It was almost 12pm. I saw the nurse, it was a new face. 

“My name is Lisa, how’s the pain now”? 

I thought I had just answered that, but I guess some time had passed. 

“About a five”. I said as I refocused my eyes. 

“You’ve had two lots of Fentanyl, so I’ll give you some Codine. This will help with the pain for a few hours. After this wears off you can have some Paracetamol, but the pain should start to ease up soon”.

I just nodded. My tummy hurt. Lisa slowly tilted the bed upwards and explained that the surgery went well. She asked if I was okay to get up try to walk to the toilet. I said I could do it. I gripped her arm and made my way to the bathroom. More blood. I returned to the bed and noticed the sheets were red too. I felt bad. I explained to Lisa that there was bloody on the sheets but she said for me not to worry about it. 

“Try and get your clothes on, hold on to the bed rail to steady yourself, I will be right outside if you need any help”.

I did as I was told. I felt a bit better being in my clothes again. I made my way to the recliner chair where there was some food prepared for me, and a brown paper bag on the seat. Jon came in and gave me a hug. He pointed to the bag and asked if that was the little one. I hadn’t thought about it, but just nodded. I slowly ate some food and listened to the aftercare instructions. I didn’t want to stay to eat everything so we took it with us and confirmed that I was okay to leave. We slowly walked back to the car and started the drive home. Jon put on music and I let it come in and out as I closed my eyes. 

I sat on the couch exhausted. We watched the last episode of Black Mirror and I drifted in and out of sleep. I flicked through the platforms after the show ended, now awake. Wanting to watch something else. I found American Ultra, an action, bloody movie and decided this would work. Jon started on dinner. 

“Do you want to go for this walk now”? Jon called out. I knew what he meant by this walk. 

“Yes please, somewhere not too far”. We agreed on a spot we could drive to, to make the walk a bit shorter. Jon packed the paper bag and we headed out. 

We got to the rocks and started scaling them. We passed a couple of teenagers with their dog, and another guy listening to some music on his phone. We kept going. We found a big rock to climb up onto, submerged in the water. The tide was coming in. We sat on the rock and Jon asked me if I wanted to do it or say anything. I shook my head. He took the container out of the bag and crouched down. He emptied the container into the water and I watched the red beads disperse into the water so quickly. I just caught it. Little read beads like bulbs in a lava lamp randomly floating away. I can’t remember exactly what Jon said, but he said that in your short life you had brought us so much joy. I looked up at the moon in the light sky, and out to the sea and said goodbye. 

Don’t Wear My Socks, You Will Stretch Them

When we started out there was a fascination with each other physically, mentally, socially. We looked different, we came from different countries, and spoke different languages. It was a chance meeting of course. There were so many possibilities for it never to happen, but then again looking back and reviewing it all, we often discussed how we were bound to meet up eventually. We had gone to the same parties and knew the same people. In fact, it was remarkable that it took as long as it did for us to finally meet.

I remember it mostly.

My mind skips over some of the details. Like, was it raining that day, or just cold? I think it was cold, a crisp autumn evening in Osaka. I had spent the earlier part of the evening with my friend Takako at dinner. We had met in Umeda; the busy shopping hub filled with above and underground restaurants, bookstores, clothing stores, galleries and pretty much anything you wanted to find. Umeda was the less sleazy of the two hubs, Namba and Umeda, with Shinsaibashi the cousin that was cool, but not quite. I lived in Namba, naturally. We met under the “Big Man” screen at the station. There were two Big Man screens, which were two large TV screens sponsored by the company Big Man, whatever that was. One was slightly bigger than the other one. We always met there. Every foreigner knew the Big Man meet up spot.
Big Man.
Sometimes, in the rare occasion when I was early, I would tuck away and just watch all of the rendezvous among friends. It was better than being at the airport. I loved watching Japanese people meeting each other. Each party member would walk towards the other and wave persistently and continually as they approached the other, in full sight. The waving would never faulter or stop. Feverish quick snappy waves matched with big toothy smiles. It was as though each person couldn’t really see the other until they were about ten centimetres from the other. The waving would just continue until they hugged or bowed hello. I would adopt this meeting custom soon enough, and would find it difficult to shed when leaving.

Hai, hai, Big Man telebini mitemasu, ja mate ne...

She signed off from the call. Takako was a character. Was the character. She was a bundle of weird experiences all bound together in a small frame, and about seven years older, but looked the same age as me, if not she looked younger. It’s those genes! And well, someone who actually took care of their skin, not subjecting it to the harsh Australian sun. Someone who avoids getting sunburnt every summer, just to peel off dead skin, shedding it like a reptile. Lucky bitch!
She was from Osaka, but lived in the Kobe area, which was around 40 minutes away by train. Less if you take the Shinkansen of course, but who spends that kind of money just to go to Kobe! If Namba, Umeda and Shinsaibashi were all closely related by way of aesthetic, nightlife, shopping and fun things to do, Kobe was a distant distant cousin twice removed. A relatively new place, for Japan at least, it was mainly residential, with a main downtown area, but nothing really noteworthy to spend a load of time in to do. It has a port, so if you were a boat enthusiast of the shipping variety, it’s definitely your place.

Takako had a British accent, but every now and then she had a few words that popped out with an Australian accent. I loved it. She had studied in the UK, and had spent some time in Australia apparently. I didn’t really listen to the whole back story. All I knew was, she was a riot. We would go to karaoke bars together along with the rest of her crew; Masa, Masaki, Akko, Yu-chan, and Yuko typically were the repeat offenders. She of course could sing, they all could. Me not so much, not for lack of trying however! We would drink and smoke and cackle and roar with laughter every single time we got together. Now, looking back it felt like all we did was sing, eat and drink and laugh. We were punks and misfits and weirdos and boozers and the life of the party. This particular night, meeting rendezvous set at Big Man, the night was dining, with some drinks.

We arrived, waved and met. Just as all of the others had, and decided best to have a quick drink, we had just finished work after all, and went to a standing bar around a few streets away from the station, underground. She knew all of the cool little bars and eateries. We hadn’t caught up in a while and so had a bit to talk about. But mainly the theme of the night was men, usually was.

Where were all the men! I exclaimed rather than asked.

It’s so hard to date here! Japanese guys are intimidated of foreign women, especially Australian women. They think we are all like Xena Warrior Princess. In fairness we all are; warrior princesses.

Reductive and sweeping statement disclosure! Foreign men mainly were interested in Japanese women, I mean, that’s why they were there. There was no market for a foreign female minx, such as myself, I was deep in my compelling argument. She nodded and added a few:

…So nah… 

…Muzukoshi desho!

Our conversations were mostly in English, Takako’s was practically perfect, she’d like to tell you it wasn’t, but it was. Definitely much better than my Japanese at the very least. The way we communicated, which was the same way with most of my Japanese friends, was rhythmic and flowing. Conversations would have an almost natural sing-song to them; someone would speak, the other person would listen and think about what was said and offer a response. That could be a comment, thought, sound effect. But it would always, whatever was said by each person, be received. It had the rhythm of a good poem. I loved it so much, I miss it now. I often wonder if my life in Japan has impacted the way I am. Impacted the choices I make now, how I respond to others. I romanticize it a lot. I like to think that my time living in Japan makes me more polite and more intrigued of others. It does to an extent I suppose, but my natural state always comes back.

Lament! Lament! Lament! This was before internet dating. Actually, it probably wasn’t, Japan always did things first. I am sure there was a fully fledged internet dating scene, I was just unaware of it. I had decided to call it quits; I had lived in Japan for almost 2 years. I broke up with my ex after 3 months of arrival, and the remainder time was just floating about exploring the country. It wasn’t like all I wanted was a boyfriend, but a little interest would be nice! I told Takako that I had booked flights home via Vietnam. I wouldn’t be leaving for another 4 months, but it was a goal. Takako nodded and agreed. Men sucked and were so elusive. Ha! We were debating continuing the night further, more drinks? I’d been invited to some live music in Shinsaibashi area, and I was debating going, Takako politely passed, but encouraged me to go. You may as well, nothing else is happening tonight!

We walked back to the station together, jumped on the same train for a few stops. Just as we met, we said goodbye in the same fashion, waving feverishly and continually, until we were out of sight. It always made me beam with glee. Maybe that was the point?

Peter, James’ friend had invited me to the gig. It was live drum and bass in a tiny café in Amekumura, the American village, a few streets away from Shinsaibashi. Pete and James were from New Zealand. James was part of my Sydney crew, so family. Pete went to art school with James, and I had just met him in Japan. He was pretty tall, taller than both James and I, and wore dress shirts and jeans. Definitely cut from a different fashion rug to James and I, who dressed like a five year old had chosen the outfits. At least in my case. Layers! Colours! Big, beaded necklaces. Nothing was understated. Oh, I miss nineties fashion. Luckily this is my first revival, and I get to experience it again.

I absolutely love drum and bass. I love LIVE drum and bass even more. I love how it is just so hard to dance to it, without giving your whole self to the sounds. You just respond to the beats. In fact, this would be the first time for me to see a live set. I swanned into the bar area and found someone to get me a beer. I spotted Pete pretty quickly. Being over 6 foot, big blue eyes and no hair, made him stand out. Instead of waving maniacally, we just bowed and nodded and cheered our glasses. We exchanged pleasantries, oh how it was wonderful it being the weekend, and the music was great and the such. It was early on, so the flow of the booze hadn’t enhanced my conversational skills just yet. Out of nowhere a young Japanese guy moved towards us. He smiled as Pete recognised him.

Oh, hey man, how you doing?

I couldn’t really catch their conversation, but I knew it would just be much of what was just said between Pete and me. I focused on the music. It was so amazing! There was one guy with electronic drum pads, absolutely going nuts. I wanted to just move my body along with the music and do nothing else, but there wasn’t really a dancing area. So, I just moved a little bit. My feet were tapping wildly though.

Where did Pete go? I saw in the distance he was moving through the crowd, working it. He was a constant networker that’s for sure. The young Japanese man leaned in, he was a bit shorter than me, but that was fairly common. I’m not 6 foot, but definitely taller than the average person in Japan. Plus, I was wearing wedges so had some height tonight.

Hey, what’s your name?

Who me?

Yeah!

I’m Karen. 

As I said my name, he nodded and smiled, I wondered if he had heard correctly. It was as if he was expecting me to say that.

How about you?

I’m Kei, nice to meet you!

Nice to meet you too! How do you know Pete? I asked.

I don’t think I ever really got how he knew Pete, I definitely didn’t get it that night, the music was so loud, and our encounter was so brief. I remember thinking he was pretty cute, but it didn’t really extend past the pleasantries. I’d later find out that when he heard my name, it had just confirmed to him that we were destined to meet. He loved the Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s and Karen O was one of his crushes. He claimed that I looked like her. Tall, skinny, black jeans, red lips. Out of his league, but he was curious, nonetheless. Before the night was over, he had asked for my number. I didn’t really think much of it actually, it was a party, and everyone was there to meet people. I think it took him a few days to actually text me, and a few days after that for us to go on a date. Well, it wasn’t really a date. More a scheduled rendezvous. I had actually invited another guy I had well… a bit of an appreciation of. Yoshi, he was an aspiring music photographer, and was cute. A little reserved, but that was most guys I had discovered. But in the end Kei won out. Yoshi was too shy, and Kei was this young confident guy who seemed to know a lot about music. A reoccurring theme in my guy list.

What proceeded would be an intense courtship, one where we would be inseparable for the next few months. He was younger than me, I could tell. I was 23 and he said he was 21, which was a lie, but I wouldn’t know that until much later. We liked the same music, we both loved Radiohead, and of course the Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s. We adopted Maps as our song, and would always play it when at house parties. He’d always stay at my place, saying that he still lived with his parents, which of course wasn’t uncommon, so it was just convenient. We’d been together for around two months, seeing each other every other day. Looking back at the timeline, it was indeed intense, but I guess that’s what you did when you were in your twenties.  I told Kei that I had decided to leave Japan, and I was going to Vietnam for a few weeks before heading home. It was annoying timing; I didn’t really know or want to think about what that meant for a relationship starting out. He said that he was finishing his uni, he was studying engineering, was naturally smart acing his assignments and just had to submit one or two more assignments. He asked if he could come to Vietnam with me, and I said,

Sure, why not.

I’ve often said, or someone has, holidaying can make or break a relationship. You can gel extremely well together as you navigate new environments, or it can be one long argument. We thankfully worked so well together, in the beginning of course. I thought one seamless holiday meant all seamless holidays.

We traveled throughout Vietnam from the bottom to the top and back down again. We had arrived in Ho Chi Minh City during monsoon season and the streets were flooded. It was exhilarating wading through the streets to our hotel with our luggage on our heads. We hired motor bikes and zigzagged through the landscaped mountains of Sapa. We doubled and tripled back after I had lost my Raybans, all the while he calmly just went along and lead the way ahead. It was romantic and fun, perhaps because I was heading home at the end of it and he was heading back to Japan. As the time neared to our departure dates, we promised each other to do distant relationship, until one of us moved to the others’ country. Perhaps I’d go back to Japan, or he would come to Australia.

It took a holiday back in Japan, and a holiday in Australia before we decided that Kei was going to come to Australia to live. During my holiday in Japan Kei had bought me a gift, it must have been for my birthday. Expensive perfume. Who was this guy? I remember opening it, smelling it, and surprisingly loving it. As I opened it, he leant in and said

I love you.

I thought when I heard someone say that to me, I would warm up inside and have an in surge of feeling. I didn’t. I felt immediate responsibility. I need to say something in return, it’s only polite.

I love you too.

I knew I didn’t. I knew I loved spending time with him. It was enjoyable, but was it actually love? I had no idea what that was, but I didn’t think I was feeling it. I felt like a fraud, and puzzled at what could be wrong with me. I chose to ignore this. Which is my only regret. I don’t regret spending the ten years with him. I don’t regret our fights, him yelling at me for wearing his socks, me yelling at him for putting his friends first. I don’t regret our intimate and personal adventures we took throughout Japan and Australia, trekking throughout the village where Ponyo was set, driving along the Great Ocean road, to almost colliding with an emu late at night. I remember all of it with fondness. I don’t regret breaking up with him after just a few months of his arrival, because he was so dependent on me, I just freaked out. Only to get back together again a few months later. I don’t regret any of our memories at all. But I do regret not being honest with myself, and ultimately him. It would’ve made for a better relationship. All a learning experience I suppose, and the lesson took a long time for me to learn.

I look down at my ankles and wonder if I would’ve actually stretched them out. Probably. I smile thinking about his warped socks falling into his shoes.

The Girl with the Lion Mane Hair

I think about her quite often. Instantly her image flashes to my mind. Her coarse Japanese hair, bleached orange, long and thick, cut at different lengths. It looked heavy. Her arm tattoos were faded and blurred. I think about her when I see my hairdresser. Simultaneously I think about her and gab on about how I need more volume, more foils, more treatment and yes more wine.

“Pour the wine!” I say.

I know that I am being excessive and indulgent, and I remember when I didn’t have that ability, just as she doesn’t, and will not have, ever. I feel like an imposter sometimes, but I still order the wine.  I think about how she is locked up. Still and until the end of her time. I fight feeling the guilts, I shove them back downward where they tend to lurk. Such a flurry of emotions so rapidly filter through me as the gabbing continues. Oh yes, I know! Being locked up in your apartment is like prison. My facetiousness is dripping, she doesn’t notice as she tussles my hair. It’s a strange feeling to project functionality when your mind is elsewhere. Do people notice? I try to stay present and engaging with others, but my mind is always elsewhere. Usually over there in the small cell with her.

I didn’t look up. I knew what that sound meant. Heavy keys jangled around as they turned through the lock. It was loud and always surprising, but my mind was so dull I didn’t jut or flinch as the heavy iron lock slid open. The sound of the metal bar as it pulled through the rings was distinctive, I hear it now as the foils are folded onto my hair. The door swung open; I raise my head just slightly to take in the newcomer. She flipped her slippers off as told and stepped into the cell. The guard barked at her to make sure her plastic footwear were kept neat and tidy, and she did so as she bent down and paired them and tucked them under the entrance. She was holding her face towel and a wad of tissue paper. They’d given her a large bundle of paper; I wonder if that had been intentional. Just like that, the door banged shut. The sound echoed and was definite. There was no way out.

I remained seated on the floor in the corner, with my book open, I re-read the sentence again, just to let it fade away. The cheap carpet had left its mark on my butt cheeks. I had the same ridges indented from sitting on the floor for so long. I had only noticed the wavy bumps last week after the showers. This week’s shower I scrubbed harder, but the ridges remained.  I watched the other girls interact with the new girl from my corner. Hellos were exchanged, no one dare mentioned real names, that was forbidden. The conversation quickly turns to me, it was rare for a white foreigner to be here supposedly. As naturally as it had come to be now, I bowed my head to say hello, the reverse western gesture I once did, flicking my head upwards with a “What’s up” meaning, was no longer an automated gesture. That thought held my attention. Had I changed to fit in? As a child in primary school sitting in the school hall, on the wooden floorboards, listening to the assembly, I could never sit cross legged, as it hurt my legs. I’d fidget from one position to the next. Now I sit on the floor 18 hours each day. Now I only speak when someone asks me something, and now I have learnt to fade into the background.

4864 was her name. She was to sleep next to me then. She looked rough as guts. That was Australian. That was something I remembered. I knew what that expression meant. She acknowledged my bow and continued the conversation with the other girls. 4893 and 4845 explained some of the rules of the place. They softly added in a few details of why they were here strategically. This wasn’t allowed either. 4893 explained she had broken the terms of her visa. She worked in a hostess bar and had worked more than 20 hours. The charge was bullshit, she had been here about two weeks before I arrived and would stay for a few more weeks. Duration of stay tended to be more than less time. Soon we would have roll call, so they went through what was required.

• You must sit facing the bars, in two rows. High numbers in the first row, lower numbers in the second.

• You must sit on folded knees

• Your possessions must be displayed in front of you, each book should be clearly seen by the guards

• Your tissues must be in front of you kept neat

• Your hands must be placed palms up and open

• When they call your number, you must clearly reply “Hai!” for roll call

• You cannot talk

• You must remain seated not moving until all cells are cleared

They usually happen twice a day, sometimes we have more, depending on who is doing the inspection. One of the guards appeared at the bars. She flicked in the library folder.

“You have five minutes!”

One by one the girls quickly flicked through the book to find a title they wanted to read. The newcomer chose a Snoopy comic. The folder was given to me. There were only three English titles (with the exception to Snoopy) and I had read them all.

• Memoirs of a Geisha

• The Twelfth Angel

• The Da Vinci Code

None of the titles evoked a reaction in me, but it would be foolish to pass up having a book. I had my own books that Kei had dropped off in my locker, but the days were long. Every second was felt and focused on. The Twelfth Angel didn’t really captivate me. It was about hope and endurance, and I had neither. I danced between the other two and landed on The Da Vinci Code. Perhaps a second time round I would discover new clues. I fantasised being able to somehow think my way out of my situation. I suppose that’s what got me here in the first place. Testing boundaries, pushing limits. Thinking I had the ability to talk my way out of any situation. I was bound to take it too far. I told the guard my choice and she whisked the folder out through the bars to the next cell.

The day passed like the one that had preceded it, and as the next day would. At eleven o’clock we had access to our lockers, through the guards of course. We were never allowed out of our cell. Twenty four hours day in and day out. With the exception of shower day, which was every four days, and trips to the courthouse, not to mention interrogation. Toshirabe.

“Yon-ju Hachi, oede! Toshirabe!”

You there, come here, you have interrogation now. I was learning new words, words I wouldn’t have thought to know. I was grilled over and over and over, and I would continue to be interrogated up until my last day. It was painful to relive my stupidity. I play the entire day over and over in my mind, and then get asked to retell it for the investigators. I wonder if they could tell I regretted it. It didn’t matter if I had I suppose.

I asked for my writing paper, my Japanese language book and dictionary, as well as one of the books Kei had brought. Actually, I had been given some new titles from friends and colleagues. Colleagues doesn’t really describe these people. They were my family. They came, each of them. Took turns visiting me, chatting in the visitor room, separated by Perspex and closely watched by a guard. Always closely watched, patted down, pockets emptied, cell searched, yelled at. We would talk in Japanese during the visits. Usually it revolved around me apologising, and them telling me I needn’t to. We’d gossip about other staff, and they’d find a way to make me laugh. I chose The Sellout, by Paul Betty. I wondered which of them chose this. Was it Ted? Leon? Perhaps it was Shane? Maybe it was Jeff. The write up in the book had an NPR program reference. Jeff would be an NPR kind of guy maybe. He was a young American after all. I thought about Bowie for a bit. Music. Fuck I miss it. Listening to anything other than noises made by other people. I have a pretty good music mental catalogue, but my brain felt so fried it was hard to conjure up songs to hear.

I tended to finish books quickly so having a few inside the cell was always good. I could take in the details much more, an effort to distract my brain away from the stress. It churned all the time, worried that I would be locked up for years. It was as though I could feel my brain thinking, I paid attention to it allowing thoughts to overpower me. I would have the word YEARS YEARS YEARS YEARS etched. The conversation I had with my lawyer on the first night, when he read out the charges and the maximum amount of time I could potentially spend. I played back the translator unemotionally relaying the numbers. Up to ten for that charge. Maximum of ten for that charge. This charge would be maybe four or five. I played back my brain adding them all up. I couldn’t fathom what that would mean, but somehow, I knew it meant, I was in trouble. I played back the translator telling me that it would be alright. That, they would just send me home. They will make an example of you and send you home. Don’t worry. He had seen the colour drain out of my face. I felt it, but I wondered what it would’ve looked like. I wished it was as easy as that; to cast my worries aside. They defined me now.

The guard handed me my writing paper, and a pen, and said I could get the other items after I had finished writing. It was so I couldn’t mark any of the books. It was a deterrent from writing messages to other inmates. We weren’t allowed to know anything about the other inmates. In the end we knew so much about each other. In the end we shared mobile numbers and found a way to communicate. If we ever got out, we promised, we would contact each other. We memorised each other’s birthdays, favourite food, family members and lives. What the hell else were we to do.

I started on my letter. I was writing to my lawyer. All of my letters went to him, so I could write in English. I wasn’t allowed to write to my mother in English because the guards couldn’t understand it. If I wanted to write to anyone in English other than my lawyer, I would have to pay for the translation, which would be around one hundred dollars a sheet. The work around was to write to him and in the body of text simply ask him to relay the following message. The guards weren’t allowed to read letters to your legal team. They did anyway. I wrote my letter. It was the same as the last letter I had written. In it I explained how sorry I was, and how ashamed I was and how I must have let my family down. So rapidly this guilt took over. It was as though I had always felt it, and now, finally I had just done something to warrant the feeling. I handed my items back through the bars, and moments later the guard handed me my book, my language book and my dictionary. I took them and moved back to my corner. I had claimed this area, it was the most comfortable, I could lean against the only two wall intersection. Sometimes I would face the corner, so the guards couldn’t see what I was doing. Sometimes I would take one of my tissues and rip them up to use to count the days. I would have to conceal what I was doing though.

The guards yelled through the halls. They announced that it was time to check attendance, as though there would be a chance someone could escape. More control. We obediently moved into the configuration, and I carefully placed my items in front of me. I was in the front row, with 4864 and 4893, because we had the highest numbers. I had four items in total, my Japanese to English dictionary, my language book, my novel and the library book, as well as my face towel and my toilet tissues. It was a lot. Most of the other girls had one or two things. Today’s roll call would be carried out by the male guards. They were on a different floor, and they were a lot stricter. We sat silently, kneeling with our palms up. We could hear the guards work through the floor, calling out all of the inmates’ numbers, with the inmates returning with a hai.

Three male guards stood in front of our cell. The head guard called through all of our numbers, and we yelled out accordingly, not too loudly and not to softly. He didn’t move though. He tapped on the bar and called my number again. Why do you have so many books here? He barked at me. I explained that one was a dictionary, and one was a language book. These were deemed different to fiction books, and under their rules it was allowed. He paused. He told me to make my palms flatter, and to lift my head up so they could see my face. He told me to answer more clearly next time. I simply answered with

Hai.

Thankfully that was the right response and they moved on. All of our breaths had been held it seemed. We all let out a sigh, and the female guards told us to be quiet for a little longer. They looked like they were fearful of the male guards as well. If the roll call didn’t go well, they would be punished. We had passed the test and soon we could move back to our own areas within the cell.

In the beginning 4864 and I kept to ourselves. I was a little afraid of her. But in the end as it would be, we would have spent the most amount of time together. Some of the girls came but soon would go, in our time. We both remained. There was a time when it was only us. It was then she told me that she had cancer. Mouth cancer, that’s why she had false teeth. She constantly played with them; they must have given her discomfort. She explained that it didn’t really matter what happened to her she’d die in prison. At the time I didn’t understand the words she was saying. I recognised cancer (Gan), but every now and then I missed the meaning. I remember the nights she would have night terrors in her sleep. She would cry out. Sounds of regret. She was wrestling through something. I would always just lay awake. I was sleeping less and less. She explained that she was in a gang. Yakuza I suppose. I didn’t want to say that word to her though. Eventually I would learn why she was there. She had stabbed someone, and it was the second time she had been arrested, so it was likely they would lock her up for a while. We talked about the different prison systems. We were currently in a detention house. Most people started here, and when they were found guilty, they would go to prison, outside of Tokyo. It would be a few hours outside. She talked of that prison system. The cells there had a table inside, and the lights weren’t kept on. You would have to work there, labour to earn money to pay for any items you needed. She said it wasn’t as strict there, but it was a lot rougher. I was scared to go. I would be away from Tokyo, so that meant no visitors. She told me about her boyfriend. He was locked up as well. His trial date was one week before hers. But most of all I will never forget the day I said goodbye to her.

It was evening, around 8pm, we had finished with dinner and had just handed back our toothbrushes, when one of the guards tapped on the bars and told me the prosecutor wanted to see me tomorrow. I would be on the bus in the morning. What did he want I wondered? It just meant I would be woken early, released from the cell, and chained to around 20 other girls in a long line. We would be walked from the cells to the bus, to be chained to the bus. No way out ever. We would travel into Tokyo city to the courthouse and wait in the cells beneath the courtrooms, in handcuffs usually too tight. Ten girls in a room. The room would consist of two benches parallel, facing each other. Five girls on each staring at the other five girls. With a toilet at the back separated by two small swinging doors, covering the toilet bowl only. We tried not to go to the toilet, as it stank, but some girls did anyway.

Day 57.

Girls were called and taken from each cell. Our cell was close to where all of the girls would line up and be chained together ready to walk onto the bus. Swiftly all of the girls were called to the bench, checked and cuffed. They were all tied together with rope and escorted out. I wasn’t called. Did the guard get it wrong? I felt panic. They never made mistakes. Something must have happened. I asked the other girls what it might have meant. We didn’t know. I went up to the bar and asked one of the guards if my number was on the call sheet. It wasn’t and she told me to stop wasting her time. 4864 said not to fret, maybe the bus was too full or something. An hour passed and the cells quieted down. The newspaper was delivered, and we all took turns reading it. I would take a turn looking through it, even though I couldn’t read many kanjis. A guard came up to our cell and called my number.

“Toshirabe!” Let’s go!

I felt my heart go. More investigations? They knew absolutely everything. 4864 saw I was nervous. We had spent almost 50 days together, over a thousand consecutive hours in each other’s company. It will be alright, don’t worry. I collected my face towel and toilet tissues and moved to the front of the cell. The guard opened the door.

I met the prosecutor in the detention building. He had come here, instead of me going to the courthouse. He explained that we had to go through the case one more time. I had to read through the pages and give my deposition that all of my testimony was correct. I obeyed and followed his direction. We slowly went through all of the details. The pain pinged again. He closed the thick folder as we finished. He explained that my lawyer had applied for bail, and that it was up to him to consider it or not. And he had decided that he would accept the bail, and that I would be able to go home today. I burst into tears. He said that he understood it had been a long time, but it wasn’t over. I would have to go to court three times. He explained that the first date would be to hear my defence, the second would be the prosecutions arguments, and the third would be the outcome. My cheeks were wet with tears. He told me to look after myself and to try and have a rest. I thanked him for his kindness, and I promised him that I would be at court. I was handcuffed again and led back to the cells. The guard walked me back to my cell. The girls were each reading their books and the room was quiet. The door slid open, and I stepped in again. They could see I had been crying, and they asked what had happened.

“I’m going home! I blurted out. My bail was accepted!”

We weren’t allowed to hug or anything, but they all congratulated me. We were all happy. I could actually feel happiness. It was warm, and it felt loving. Well done they said! We decided to all order a dessert item at lunch, for an extra fee, as celebration. I was going home! I was going home! I was going home TODAY! I wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor with the light burning into my eyes tonight. I didn’t believe it. My mind was racing. The reality that I would be leaving soon was felt all around. We all started to reflect on how much time we had spent here. Life is long I said. 4864 said, well yes, it is long, but it will be short for me. I didn’t know what she meant and asked her to explain.

“Don’t you remember our conversation? I’m dying, so not matter my outcome I know I will die in prison.”

I finally understood what she had been saying all along. It made me feel so terrible for having a chance of freedom. The room fell silent, and we all just went to our thoughts. I moved to the front of the cell. I watched one of the guards move to the locker box and peel off my number from my locker. They opened it and took out my items. I was with 4847, the Obachan (grandma). She nudged me and said it’s actually happening! We had watched so many numbers being written up on the lockers to expect new girls, and we had seen so many girls leave, before us and finally it was my turn.

A guard came up to our cell. It had been only two hours since my meeting with the prosecutor. She unlocked the door and told me to step out. I looked around at all of the girls but stopped at 4864. We had spent so much time together, and now there was no time and no words to say goodbye. I had 4847’s phone number we promised to contact each other, on the outside, 4864 wouldn’t be out. I just said goodbye and was ushered out. I looked back as I was marched out, they were all standing at the front of the cell waving. My eyes met hers. We understood each other. We had had this weird moment in time where our paths had crossed, but just like that they had untangled and went their own way. She smiled and popped her teeth out, like she always did, which made her giggle. I let out a laugh, and then she was gone.

The Irony of it all

Is it me? I wondered.

It was. I have now, in the ripe old age of thirty-nine, embraced my single flaw, but it has indeed been one hell of a journey.

Fuck journeys eh.

I remember the first time I read Catch 22 by Joseph Heller, I was enthralled. The absurdity of it all somehow spoke so clearly and plainly to me. Also I fancied Yossarian a bit. The rogue thinker, determined to outsmart the system. I kind of wanted to be Yossarian. Maybe my whole life is one long character study. Every time he figured out a way out, every time he beat the system, he came up just that little bit short. I can relate.

When I saw the 1970’s film, all of the characters were just as I had imagined them to be. I enjoyed Art Garfunkel’s appearance too; the underdog. Years later I would see Art, with my mother, Simon there too. I was the youngest in the audience by decades, standing up clapping along to all the hits. Wincing at Art’s only solo hit Bright Eyes, not quite hitting his notes. Always the underdog I thought. Poor Art, poor me, and poor Yossarian.

Like Yossarian, I find myself trying to make sense of the situation I’m now in. Fruitless act, but I do it time and time again. This is when I decide to take stock, each time. I guess in a way by me telling you everything, I’m moving past it. Communication is the key I keep telling no one.

Cast your brains back to 2019, oh how carefree we all were. I certainly didn’t posses a care, nor looked to have one anytime soon. Living in Sydney, working like most, banking the paycheque, socialising in the pods of friends and family each week. I had decided that I had spent the right amount of time back in Australia, and that it was indeed time for me to travel again. You see, I have taken pleasure being the square peg. I am sure if I delved deep enough though, I would discover I am just as round as all of the other pegs, but I have made a life of choosing my own path. I’d been in Australia for around three and a half years, and that was long enough. I’d spent those years working on myself, getting better, puffing up my esteem, like an inflatable jacket. It was now full formed and ready to wear. Another journey I suppose. My sights were set on Berlin. My Hungarian passport had been burning a hole in my pocket all these years, after having spent so long getting the damned thing, I still hadn’t used it yet. Nevertheless, it was time now to embark on a new adventure, one that had been delayed by some years. Like always, by way of guarantee, I told everyone my plans to leave. It was insurance, I had to go if I told everyone that I was going. But this time with the announcement, action soon followed. I gave notice at my Redfern apartment, sold what I could and stored what I couldn’t at my mum’s place, and entered the world of House Sitting. Which oddly, was an easy world to enter.

By the end of 2019 I had lined up enough places to stay in for around six months, a good time to then move to Europe. It would be summer, and I would have saved enough money to allow to look for work on arrival. I told a few colleagues of my plans, but was conscience not to jeopardise my standing. I’m not an idiot. The year was coming close to an end and with an excessive amount of accrued leave in tow, I made plans to go to New Zealand to see one of my great old friends. I can say that, she is indeed older than me (by a year or two), and more importantly she is truly great. It was to mark our friend’s 40th. A big fanfare. The three of us were determined to spend time together, them leaving their respective families and me my own solitude, we would be there for around ten days. At the time, I was in between one my house sits, so I was staying at Kyla’s place. How to describe Kyla? Another square peg I suppose, a force, an enchantress with an endless amount of energy, support and crazy ideas. I am equal parts enamoured and in awe of her. She had this great big house in Petersham, with a spare room. So there I was. When I get a text from Naomi, the birthday girl.

Have you seen the news? I hadn’t.

No, what’s happening? A revolution I wondered, or hoped.

New Zealand have announced they’re not letting people into the country because of Covid. Something about the cricket being cancelled because it’s too dangerous. We’re checking our flights, but it doesn’t look good.

I could feel the frustration through the message. Fuck this sucks I thought. Actually, my first thought was, how do I figure this out? This can’t be right, surely there is a way around this -no matter how illogical?

Fast forward to all these months later, eighteen months in all. All these holidays, the freedoms, and the routines lost -later, we know that there was no way around the massive annoyance. But who could know it would end up being so many months, filled with lock-downs, isolation, discrimination, fear, pseudo-science, and great social change, that would follow? I didn’t see it coming. I remember at the time thinking, I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse. I have had all my freedoms taken away before, and I survived. I didn’t know that just because you overcome one battle, it doesn’t automatically give you the armour for the next.

Well, naturally the plans changed. Sure, I was homeless, but I had a job. I made it work. Like we all did. I left Sydney for the countryside, ready to take up residence with my mum. Work car and laptop bound I headed for Goulburn. Still hoping that miraculously things would just open up. The positive of it all was that I could indeed save money. We all could. My greatest expense was wine and the painkillers to combat the excessive wine consumption, but that was pretty minimal -the expense not the volume. I spent a few months living with mum, and I can say I am thankful we had that time together. We spent most evenings playing cards with wine, and reconnecting, with wine. Our relationship had taken a battering over the years, but we somehow always made an effort to support one and another. As rosy as all of that seems, no one can live with their mother for an extended period of time, moreover live in Goulburn. I decided after a few months that while my heart was set on leaving Australia this wouldn’t be feasible for some time, and that it was time for me to come back to Sydney and re-engage with my fellow winoes. I lugged my possessions back to Sydney from Goulburn, it was almost like a tradition I was forming. Back and forth like the great herds of the plains, constantly moving, seeking better grounds.

To my surprise I found a lovely little place in Erskineville, a stones throw from Naomi in my budget. I snapped it up and by the end of January I had created a cool little place to spend my lock-down in. Every now and then news of flights being released would peak my interest, but I knew there was no point to leave Australia unless I had a way back, if I needed it, and that was a long way off.

Where does Yossarian come into it?! You’re yelling no doubt. Well its this situation I’m in right now, that I find myself feeling like my ill-fated compadre. Beyond the eighteen months, now at the twenty-two months, the world for the most part was now opening up! Paul rang

Have you seen the news? Viva la revolución! I thought as I felt a sudden case of déjà vu.

Yes, it’s amazing! I lied. I wondered what a revolution in Australia might look like.

Oh yeah, time to get out the ol passport then eh? Paul added.

Okay, no! What’s happening? I haven’t been following much of anything.

Travel! Let’s book somewhere!

My heart jolted a bit. Well this is indeed good news. The restrictions in Australia had risen to no travel outside of a 5 kilometre parameter from your house, so I was pretty happy to hear not only travel but international travel was on the cards.

I wonder where my passport is? I pondered.

I better start looking for it. I added to fill in the silence on the phone.

I hung up the phone and went to the drawer under the stove to have a look. There was a wad of passports held together with a rubber band. I kept them like this, it made me feel like someone with multiple identities. Swiss today? No, maybe Dutch, or American. I flipped through each of the books, two old flimsy faded blue pads were my old passports. I moved on to the maroon one. My prized possession -the Hungarian passport. Still valid. I moved it to the top of the pile. I’ll be needing this when I’m in Europe no doubt. The final one was the sharp darken blue book, still firm from lack of use. A little too firm. That’s funny, I thought my book had a little bit more wear-and-tear to it. I flipped through the pages, to discover no stamps in them -even more strange. I doubled back to the second page, the photo page. Staring back at me, wasn’t myself, but my old dad smiling. Phillip Gordon, Gordon Phillip. What the!? Crap -I’ve picked up dad’s passport by mistake. He won’t be needing it, but how the hell did I get it? I shuffled through all the passports again. Faded blue, faded blue, maroon, and dark blue. Same number, same ones. More mystery. Where could it be? I had better give mum a call.

Hey Mum, have you seen my passport? I casually ask.

No! Surprised at the random question.

Should I have? She added.

I explained the situation, and asked her to take a look around the place, while I looked at my place. I for the life of me couldn’t think where it was.

What then proceeded over the next few months was a rigorous checking, re-checking, un-checking of every single inch of my Sydney apartment. I flipped through my countless books, records, bits of paper, clothing pockets, random boxes, but to no avail. My desperation was growing with each day. I implored mum to do the same at her place, and she promised that she had been searching, endlessly. It had just vanished.

Like I boasted before, I have spent my life following my own path. For the most part that path was overseas exploring. In all of my years travelling I HAVE NEVER LOST MY PASSPORT! Never! Well, okay that’s not entirely true. There was that one time in Thailand, when yes I did lose it, but after putting posters up around the island, the taxi driver discovered where I was and handed it back in, along with my iPod. It’s always found its way back to me. But not this time. The only time, when I have been in lock-down for twenty-odd months, house bound, flightless and first classless the whole time, my passport manages to disappear!

Hail Mary! The irony of it all! I hear Yossarian yell in my ear, as I opened the drawer for yet another look.

Spider? I hardly know her!

It started with the best intentions. It really did. I’m reviewing the past few days, and assessing my behaviour. Overall assessment;

Shows potential, needs to focus, distracts easily.

My second grade teachers’ jib carries to this day. Damnit. Odd that it pops into my mind as I think back just now, but it does. Damnit. Oh look there’s a shiny thing. Damnit again.

Start from the start and work from there.

Grand advice, thanks self. I try and shuffle my thoughts into the correct order.

Tuesday, let’s start there. It’s not really the start of it all, if I think back it’d be Paul’s birthday when we first mentioned You Am I, but fuck it, I can choose when I want to start when, can’t I? (Yep, totally allowed.)

3am Tuesday. Why am I awake? It’s a regular work day. I set my alarm for 6am, and close my eyes again. My work days are getting shorter and shorter. I feel myself sliding into a sludge. I am a slimy weird un-form, form. I’m out of focus. I am porridge. I am caring less and less. I churn out minimum. Less than. Under deliver. It’s the first time I have had, a bad work ethic. I’m untethered and lost, and it worries me. The last time I felt like this, I actively searched for ways to

Fuck

Things

Up

Which cost me immensely. Pull socks up, care more, focus. Focus! Focus! My daily mantra exhausted, and it was only 10am.

I’m at my desk. The corner desk in an alcove in an open planned office, filled with people, who have no respect for sound, smells or sanity. Nevertheless, there I sit. Earphones firmly plugged in, I type away at emails. It’s pointless, but I do it anyway.

Let’s blow forward, who wants to hear about the mundane? I cut out of there early, remember low work ethic, and get home around 3pm. I squeeze into my jeans, put on my double hoodies, can never be too warm, and strap on my platform Nikes boots. Lips red, and I bust out for ABC studios.

My happy place is the dance floor. Paul affirmed.

We are so alike in many ways, and so different. In this instant, we are simpatico. We ripped up the ABC studio dance floor, for the next few hours. Who cared who was playing, we just danced. To celebrate, we barrelled out of the venue as soon as they yelled “Cut!” and sprinted for the old Clare hotel. Wine, and plenty of it. STAT! We drank, and cheered and laughed and drank some more. Why were we so happy? The power of dance I suppose. We carried on until the last stool was placed on the table to let us know to leave.. Let’s go to Marly! This will be messy…

3am Wednesday morning. My eyes peel open.

Ugghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I need the day, doubtful anyone will notice. I don’t even bother to log on, and or off. I stay in bed all day. it’s sunny and bright outside, I don’t dare investigate. My eyes burn open, I force them shut and sleep the day away.

3am Thursday morning.

This is not good. I opt to work from home. I can’t bring myself to drive to the office. A lunch tryst presents itself, and reignites my energy. I get back home to log my 7.75hrs dutifully, and I get ready to tuck into bed. Sure it’s 4pm, but i’m tired!

Crap. Alice!

We had tickets to the immersive theatre cocktail thing in Potts Point. Oh I really wished I hadn’t bought these, of all weeks! I have my traffic assessment tomorrow early, and I’ve got to swing by the office to get my notes for the assessment. It’s a 5.30am start, to make it in time to pick up my study notes, cram what I need to know and get to the assessor. Just behave yourself tonight, and you will be fine tomorrow. The show is at 5.30pm, finishes at 7pm, so you’ll have loads of time to behave!

4am Friday morning.

A sleep in! Fuck I’ve got to get up. I can still taste the red wine. Get in the shower, and you’ll feel better. It’s still dark outside. I walk down the garden path to my work car. I plug my phones in, as I do every morning, and switch to AM radio. Like always, I drive out of my street parking spot and move through the streets of Newtown, faster than usual. No one is out and about at 6am Friday morning.

Take a left, past RPA, stop at the pedestrian strips and take another left. Parramatta road. Fuck I hate this road. Mad Max style, one car enters, zero cars leave. Thankfully, it’s bliss at this hour. Man I wish I didn’t have to go into the office. I should’ve just gone yesterday. I’m sleep deprived but I know this route. I take the same lane like always, and settle in to listen to the radio as I make my way towards Ashfield.

What the living fuck! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! Arrrrrrrrghhhh!

I’m screaming! I’m actually screaming. There is a huntsmen the size my of my hand crawling from the left side of the car ceiling, towards me.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

It was weird screaming to myself and driving. I tried to concentrate on driving. I couldn’t take my eyes off the spider. It was getting closer. I fling the hazard lights on, sweet fuck yes West street exit, Paul lives nearby, just make it there.

It’s above my head, it’s the size of my head. It. Is. The. Size. Of. My. Head.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ARHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I see his street and turn off. Fuck where did it go? I park the car and press the window down. Fuck should I leave it up? Is it on me? Fuck. All I can think is fuck. I wriggle out of the car and pat and shake everything. It’s 6am, what do I do? I’ll just knock on Paul’s door. No wait, I’ll ring him first. Straight to voicemail. Fuck. I ring my mum. Jesus. I’m thirty-eight years old and I’m ringing my mum at six in the morning because there was a spider in my car. No time to assess my lack of life skills. I find her number and ring.

You’re up early! She was oddly chipper.

Mum! There was a spider in my car, I was driving to work. It was massive. I’ve just pulled over. It was massive. I don’t know what to do. I’m outside Paul’s place. It was massive!

Okay, I sound like a lunatic.

Just knock on his door, get some spray, close the doors and let the gas settle. Mother’s always know best.

Okay. Yes. Yes. I’ll do that. Good. It was massive. Fuck. Sorry. I just can’t see it. Ugh. Okay. Thanks. I’ll call you later.

Jesus she puts up with a lot. I creep away from my parked car. Window still down. I turn my phone light on and make my way to Paul’s front door. I tap on the window pane. The lights are off. No answer. It’s freezing. Fuck what do I do? I’m trapped in indecision, about to turn away, when his door opens. A dark figure is in front of me.

Hi Paul. Sorry. It’s Karen. Everything is fine. There’s just a spider in my car, and I am terrified of spiders. I’m sorry, can I come in? Sorry to wake you!

He was half asleep, but calmly lets me in and receives my insanity.

Sure thing babe, come in. Do you want me to go take a look? He calmly asked.

Yes! Do you have some spray? My window is open, can you come out please! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, this is insane! I was shook!

The sun was coming up, the sky was getting lighter. Thank fuck. Paul picks up his can of bug spray and a spare thong. We make it back to my car, I shine my torch inside the car to try and spot the creeper. The image of it crawling closer and closer towards me on the ceiling is burning in my memory. Paul opens the door and ducks his head in. He sprays everywhere lining all of the front surfaces with glossy poisonous spray.

Can you turn it on and close the windows?! My voice was manic.

Sure thing babe.

How was he so calm?! It’s light now, and Paul closes the door behind him. The fume of gas stays inside the car. I’m exhausted.

I need a coffee! I blurt out, and a whiskey to calm my nerves I think.

Come inside, let’s give the car a while, I’ll make you a brew.

I’m inside Paul’s place. I fling off my layers, just to make sure it hasn’t crawled inside my jacket somehow. Paul is laughing at me, and moving around his kitchen clanging things together. He reappears clutching two mugs and two tumblers with a finger of whiskey.

I was thinking about having this anyway..

Like I said, simpatico.

Hiatus

“I’m taking a break from life. I’m taking a break from thinking, doing, being, working, eating, drinking, socialising, flossing, dating, but not sleeping”.

“You can’t not eat!” I hear my mother in my ear.

“Yes, sure, I guess I will be eating, sheesh. What I’m trying to say mum, if that is your real name, is that I’m feeling just a bit glum and not engaged, so i’m taking a break from it all”. I knew that that was her real name, or title at least but added it in my retort for good measure.

“Well the engagement part is kind of up to you isn’t it”? She said matter of factly.

My eyes rolled at her down the phone. I hate her sometimes. No, I don’t at all. I love her all of the times, she means the world to me. There was that time when I thought I had let her down, like really let her down, and I was riddled with guilt. The kind of guilt that lives in the pit of your stomach, pulling you down into the earth no matter where you are. I was Swiss cheese with guilt sized holes. I was a pepperoni-clad slice of remorse. I had thought I was living my biggest fear, that I had lost her love. I had made her so ashamed of me for stuffing up, that she wouldn’t want anything to do with me. My friends, with kids, tell me that that could never happen. Even when they’re little shits, they still love them.

“Oh it’s hard to explain, you don’t have kids, but let’s just say that your mum’s love will be there forever, okay…”

It’s not hard to explain, people are just lazy. But, you don’t know what you don’t know, I suppose. Don’t worry, I know all of that now. Well, for the most part. I don’t want to go and test out this theory by doing something murderous, just to see whether she’d still be in my corner. I have a pretty good idea nonetheless.

I get frustrated with her sometimes though. I get frustrated that she is her own person with her own feelings and thoughts and emotions, and they’re independent to mine. Actually, I love that about her, it’s just in this instance, it’s annoying me. I’m just in an anti-mood I suppose.

I started thinking about where precisely one’s pit of one’s stomach was. I imagined mine was a dimly lit lagoon with blue walls reflecting the cool liquids of my guts. It was probably a place that housed nothing, except for the Guilts, slimy shapeless lagoon monsters so vile and grotesque to look at, they blended in with the walls of my stomach. Sometimes the Guilts would multiply over and over and over again, that there would be so many they could hardly move. That was when I was at my lowest. My mind wandered into imagining what sounds they’d make; gurgles and groans, when my mother’s voice yanked me out of my head, on a bungee cord.

“Well, what’s caused this break all of a sudden? Do you still have your job? When does your contract finish? Have you asked them if it can be extended. You'll need a job to pay rent you know that, right?”

These were just statements, none of them needed me to respond to them really. So, instead I let the air sounds come to the surface of my ears, perhaps I could add speaking with my mother to my list, I pondered.

“Okay…”

She broke first. I could always hold out in silence the longest. Still, I felt a small victory.

“…How long does this hiatus last for then? Do you think you will be available next week, I need a hand with something?”

She does this all the time, speaks in riddles and when I ask for further information i’m the antagonistic one. I have learnt it’s best to just fire off all the questions all at once, in hope of hitting a dreadnaught-sized information boat and sinking it.

“What do you need a hand with, when do you need a hand with this said thing, and or does it involve me having to clean anything up? I waited patiently to see how I fared.

“Oh, never mind!”

My pit was filling up.

“I’m sorry, i’m in a mood. What’s up? Of course I will help.”

“Well-I-had-to-have-a-test-the-other-week-and-the-doctors-said-that-the-results-weren’t-good-so-then-I-had-to-have-another-test-the-doctors-said-that-I-would-get-the-results-on-Tuesday-and-that-I-should-take-a-family-member-with-me-when-I-get-the-results.”

It all just blurted out as one long sentence. She was clearly worried.

“Okay mum, slow down, I am catching up on something that has clearly already happened and has had some further information to the lead up to that, so you will need to explain a little slower and with more details please.”

“Well…” She started again her voice was soft and shaken, but she continued through all of the details.

And just like that my hiatus was over.

Dumpster Diving in a Pandemic

I would’ve been all moved in by then. Come!

She assured me it was a good time to visit. Sure, Dee had just moved (back) to the south coast, and it was merely a few weeks since the move. But good a time as any to visit.

Truth be told. Ha! What a stupid expression. Nevertheless, truth be told, the drive to Austinmer is bloody lovely, and considering I’m squatting in the Southern Highlands at the moment, it’s quite the middle ground to meet. So I’m at Dee’s place. It’s nice. Nice like spacious and coastal and adult. Dee gives me the tour of the homestead, I acknowledge; tip my social hat, and we agree we should explore her surroundings. We walk into town. This is an expression I have inherited from living in rural Australia. Basically, any place with a distance of 10kms, and holds more than one shop is “in town”. So we decided to head in town. It’s about a 15 min walk down a steep hill. It’s food eating time, so we head to the Thai restaurant, in town. Thankfully Sydney Covid law hasn’t hit, and its relatively easy to just walk in and get placed at a table.

Is this table alright?

The waiter gestures to the middle table in the large room.

Yes, this is lovely.

I think we both said. Let’s just say that we did. We ordered, side note; the food was fabulous, do go there seek it out, you won’t be disappointed.

Yes, it’s BYO.

He assured. With the bottle of red firmly placed in the centre of the table, his announcement was just a formality, the cap was off and glasses were-a-flowing. I think to myself, now is as good a time as any and in a flash I move my thumb to my mouth and wiggle my thumbnail at the base of my bottom teeth. I flip out my mouthpiece, it pops out and just as quick as that, its in my palm, out of my mouth, and i’m placing it in a napkin.

I can’t eat with it in.

I explain. I fold the napkin in half and tuck it under my plate. Dee watches me, and quietly assesses the situation.

Why don’t you put it in my bag?

No! No, its fine here!

I snort. I am an adult after all, and we are just out to dinner. Somehow I took her kindness as patronising, and just dismissed it. And with that snort and dismissal, we moved on and received our meals. We ate and drank and snorted and cackled the night away.

Despite the wine and beers and food that had been consumed throughout the day, it was at the end of the evening, both Dee and I thought best to activate living a healthier life. We both (at least this is how I recall it), insisted on walking home. The fact that home was up the hill, was even better! It will counteract all the gluttony we’d just endured.

At best, its a good, fifteen minutes up the hill. At drunk, its a good thirty. Nevertheless, we journeyed back, keen for a final nightcap to continue the fine art of rubbish talking. I like to think it was upon arrival I realised that I had left my plate at the restaurant, but I am sure it is most likely took a great deal of time, that I noticed my dental piece was AWOL.

QUICK! What’s the number?!

Google don’t fail me now! I tap a garbled search into my phone and somehow find the restaurant number, and ring. One of the wait staff answers, and I try my best to explain what’s missing and the importance of it.

It’s a mouthpiece, like a mouthguard but it shapes my teeth and it’s expensive, AND I’m almost finish the treatment!

It sounded like a prank.

Please! I realise, but we were just there. Can we come back and just check?

Reluctantly she agrees for us to come back to the restaurant, despite the fact they were closed and everything had been thrown away.

Just come straight to the alleyway!

With that, an Uber was called, no time for active lifestyles and walking down hills. We zip back down the street, direct to the alleyway. Just as we exit the car and enter the dimly lit garbage compound, we both realised just how stupid this was. We are in an alleyway about to rummage through garbage in the middle of a pandemic. Oh well, we were here, and with that the acknowledgement was dismissed. I must give credit to Dee, as she came along, all the while laughing but offering positive support

It’ll turn up…

But realistically knowing that it was futile, but the sooner we rummaged meant the sooner we were back at home. Also she had been through so many late night last minute frantic searches for a wallet, a phone, a set of keys. She knew I just had to at least try to find the stupid thing. The wait staff appeared out the back of the restaurant.

Thank you so much!

There were three large wheelie bins at the back of the alley.

Do you have gloves by any chance? Thank you so much for this!

I tried to sound like a sane person.

No problem, yes hang on a second.

They just wanted to get home. I get it, but we were already there. I gloved up. The male waiter gestured for the female waiter to get one of the large cardboard boxes from the recycle unit. She did so and laid it out, in front of one of the big wheelie bins. He flipped open the lid of the bin, which revealed the trash of the night. It was brimming in black bags filled with food. He scrutinises a few bags and chooses one and says that this one was from tonight. He yanks it from the bin, ripping it open and laying out the contents on the cardboard. And with that, we rummaged. Chicken bones, lettuce leaves and mounds of rice went from one hand to the other. I squeezed napkins.

It just looks like a mouthguard.

I tried to explain. He gestured to get another bag. Contents added to the pile. Bean sprouts, red, green and orange soups squishing through my gloves. Should I just give up?

Is that it?

He calls out. An inch from my right knee on the cardboard. If ever there was a divine moment, this was it. Was Dee shining the torch on the very spot? I’m not sure, but there it was.

Yes! Oh bloody yes!

I almost felt the instinct as I picked it up, to place it back into my mouth. But I (thankfully) kept it in my hand, which lead it to my pocket.

Thank you so much!

It was sincere and a joyous moment. Perhaps it was just a means to wrapping up a shift, but it felt like a real moment shared. We all flung our gloves off, washed our hands, and Dee and I swiftly exited the alleyway. As we called another Uber and I wondered what would be the best way to sterilise a mouthpiece. Dee offered alcohol and mouthwash, which after some thought, felt would suffice.

I think that after the excitement of the dive, we were both were ready to retire. Which meant a cup of tea. What a good way to finish the evening.

Thank you for that!

I offered to Dee. Boy that was out of the ordinary. We both laughed at the stupidity of the evening. I went to the kitchen and flicked on the jug, and as I flicked the switch, a thought popped into my head; this would be the best way to sterilise it! Just pop it in some hot water! Kills everything. Side note, science is not my strong suit and we had been consuming quite the volume of alcohol.

With the jug boiled, I poured a mug and as I tipped the mould into the water, it morphed and bent out of shape. It shrivelled up and instantly I knew what I had done was stupid.

Nooooooooooooooooo!

I flung it into my mouth hoping my teeth could mould it back to shape, but it was no good.

Umm…You’ll never guess what I’ve done…

I called out to Dee.

The Book of Segues

• Same!

• Me too!

• Well..

• So, I got this call the other day…

• Moving on…

• This is my Segway and I am sticking to it…

• That’s what I said!

• Have you ever noticed…

• Actually, my life is quite boring and routinely…

• You now that guy Otto Von Bismarck?

Mental, Health

I took the train this morning and sat in my regular carriage. Second from the front, seat on the left. Funny how easy it is to find routine. I had that locked up. There is routine everywhere. I guess it’s a way to make sense of things. Am I destined to just do as others do? 

I wrestle between yes and no. I enjoy doing my own thing. Always have. I’ve never really done as my peers. But if you compare wide enough I guess there will always be others like me. And it’s foolish to think I’m anything special. 

I like you. I know I love you but I like you. You made me feel as though I was a little bit special. Together we were different. Is that foolish? I wonder how I made you feel. I never know. I’ve never known the effect I’ve had on others. I suppose it’s important not to dwell on this. As this is ego just needing a good stroke. 

The train has pulled into Auburn. I imagine myself getting off and jumping on the tracks. I know I won’t. But I let my mind go there. Imagining the impact of the jump down. Maybe catching my ankle on a loose rock and collapsing hard. I imagine touching my forehead to feel sticky blood. I wish I could imagine the impact. But I can’t. The rain is still here. Should I get off? My chest is so heavy. I feel under a shroud of weight. I can’t figure it out. Did you do this? My brain just wants me to figure it all out. Just another problem to solve. If I get to the bottom of it, of you, you will go away. But, I know there isn’t any finding you. 

Next stop Clyde.

This time last month I was happy. How transient it all is. I suppose that would then mean, perhaps happiness will return and you will disappear. Fuck I left my sunglasses at home. I adjust my eyes, but keep my gaze pointed down. Did I leave them at home on purpose? In these final moments before arriving to work I let you take over my whole body. Like a question mark, I slowly point downwards.

I’m walking into the compound now. I’m typing these thoughts down on my phone. There’s a well dressed woman walking towards me and we dance a little both mis-stepping at the same time. She calls out abuse I can’t understand. I stop to try and registered the garbled words she’s spewed out.

She calls out

“Well! You’re bloody on your phone look where you’re going!” Almost in a snarl.  

I call back

“Thank you you old slag!”

Well the last part was in my mind. I make me laugh. She’s so angry and so early. Then I think perhaps she’s just a different type of question mark and I should not be so judgemental, at least not this early in the morning. I straighten my back. Take a deep breath in and take a step for the automatic doors to open.

Fuck I wish you’d call me. 

Unintentional Prejudice

A man in a NSW Rail uniform just prayed. The father son and Holy Ghost prayer. Im not religious so I’m not sure which one that is. I’m sitting in the thoroughfare section of the train because I have two Eskies I’m lugging to work. He’s in his early 40s. Neat hair. Touches of grey near the sideburns. He has a wedding band on his left middle finger. At least it looks like a wedding band. Thin. Good. Receding hair line. Could be Eastern European. Could be Turkish. 

I have an overwhelming sense of dread. I sit here looking around scanning and mentally going though my options. My options for what, say it. Say it out loud in your head. My options in a terrorist situation. But I’m a rational person. Why am I having these thoughts? Could I plead my way for life I think? I feel guilty for thinking this person could be bad. With each movement he makes my eyes draw over to him beneath my sunglasses. 

Was he simply just starting his day and having a moment of faith? 

His bag stays on the ground. Near the doors. He takes a seat opposite me. 

The station Clyde is announced. He has been seated for 3 stations. From Flemington to Clyde. Now he stands. Goes over to his bag. Rummages through for something. My heart quickens. But I freeze in my seat, now completely focused on him. He is bent over his bag still rummaging back towards me. Now would be the time to move away. But I don’t want to be rude. I have just succumbed to fear mongering, but I’m a smart person and I’m not a hysterical woman. Stop this. You’re being silly. Has it been 5 minutes? What is he looking for? I look around the compartment. There is a woman who works for council, same as me. Wearing headphones absorbed in her audio. 

Still he is looking for something. The doors open. 

He takes out his hi vis vest. Puts it on and leaves. 

The doors close. 

I feel foolish. But safe. 

Your Version, My Version

Our conversation turns to how I'm doing. I think for a bit and thoughtfully answer.

I don't know.

I am split into two, two processors dealing with a crazy situation. One of me, the worker bee self, pulls up my socks, delves into this strange reality; work, life and just accepts what is, is. The other me, the analytical emotional anxious me, is struggling. My mind is searching for reason. I’m searching for a moment that I can clearly identify, the moment when I could’ve chosen differently. As if there was just one, and what would it matter anyway?

You should write all of this down. You’ve lead an amazing life, you’ve done so many things, and so’ve been so fearless. In many ways, I’m envious you. You can do and you have done so many things. I think people would find all of this interesting.

Perhaps I should. I mean, I have always written my thoughts down. I have countless half filled journals. Initially entered in with frequency and gusto, to slowly trail off to quick scribbles of half thought out ideas, to finally a note pad where I jot down phone messages. They’re all the same. My thoughts trail off, perhaps that’s my own fate; grand intentions in my 20s, just to end up a scrunched up torn pad of a human. I blink away the idea, and respond.

Yeah, you’re not the only one telling me, my friend Vanessa, in Japan, suggested I record me just talking out my thoughts, to then go back and edit later.

I was dancing around whether I had the strength to do it. When, like any good friend, she seized the moment and gave me a further push of encouragement.

That’s a great idea! I think it will be cathartic! Do it!

Well, what have I got to lose? But how far back do I go, I ask.

All the way she says. All the way back.

My grandfather was a Hungarian count. I like to imagine he was like the character Count Laszlo De Almasy, the character Ralph Fiennes plays in The English Patient. I imagine him to be educated and regal. But there isn’t any evidence to suggest that this was so. I was convinced that my grandmother and grandfather’s story was a tale of star-crossed lovers, laced with passion and tragedy. My grandfather, Ferenc was the hero, rebelling against his family, by choosing love. I imagined his family protested their love and gave him an ultimatum. He heroically chose my grandmother, Irene a young common girl not deemed appropriate for the family, and they escaped to a faraway land. But I made all that up.

My grandfather was indeed a count in Hungary. He was married to a woman, not my grandmother. She was pregnant with their first child. There were complications with the pregnancy I’ve been told and she died in delivery. The child survived, but Ferenc so grief-stricken fled his home to Germany. There he met my grandmother. She was also was Hungarian, well had Hungarian parents, but they all lived in Germany. She was the youngest of five. She was to be married to a young man, who was a pilot and was away in the war. She had just received news that he had been killed. Now I don’t know under what circumstances these two met. What would they have talked about? Did they bond over their individual tragedies? Did their grief morph into love? I remember my grandmother would later say she had only ever loved the young man she was destined to marry, who had died. But this was after having had a lifetime of reflection. In any case a deal was struck I suppose and they decided upon making a life together.

They lived in Germany but were restless. There was talk of moving to another country. They had heard about America, but also this tropical land Australia. Supposedly there was a flick of a coin, and they packed their bags for Australia. A few years later my grandmother’s older sister Mia would follow her out to Sydney and join her in building a family. 

There is very little known about my grandfather, he died before any of the grandkids got to meet him. He had died a few weeks before my sister was born and she is the oldest of us lot. With my mother having had my sister and I, and my Aunt, Elvira having had four children. Mum doesn’t talk much about her childhood. Mum doesn’t talk about much actually. I was in England when I discovered I have a half-brother.

It was before you were born, it was during my life before I met your father.

 That seemed logical, I couldn’t argue with that. Still, it was weird to hear of new discoveries of my mum. I’d constantly pump her for information when I was a kid about her father. He was this mysterious character and I wanted to know more.

 But what was he like? Are you like him, or more like Nan? What did you talk about? Was he at home often? Did Nan ever tell you about living in Germany? About the war? Why did they choose Australia?

The questions were endless, like they are with all kids. She’d have the same response to all of them; I can’t remember. Occasionally she’d adjust it to; we didn’t really speak about those things. We didn’t do those things in those days.

So what did you do, then mum?

Oh you know, just kept busy.

I suppose I made up my own image of him, and he was gallant and ever so European. I loved my version of him. He wore a cape and chose love over life. If he was alive he would embrace my strangeness and tell me to go out and explore and never look back.

Small Victories

I’m not in a good state. It’s like my mind is a cotton bud, slowly being pulled apart. Getting thinner and thinner. It’s stretched out so far you can see straight through it. I am worn out and I feel defeated. I’m not eating, my appetite is gone. I feel like a ball in a pinball machine, just getting smacked from place to place. They single me out because I’m different and I’m easy to pick on. There is no point to react, but just let them claim control. As they yell at me, I bow, I do what they instruct and keep silent.

It’s Sunday today. That means no visitors. That means the day is so much harder to get through. Weekdays tend to go faster. People get called out for appointments, and the days have a buzz to them. Nights, any night, of course don’t count. I don’t sleep. Since 4873 arrived I am positioned under the fluorescent light. They keep it on. It’s just another way for them to exert control. I tried bending my elbow over my face, to shade my eyes. But they tap at the bars.

Da-me!

She barks that that isn’t allowed. I turn over to my left side, facing towards the front of the room, towards the bars but away from the light. It isn’t any good. The white light shines directly into my face. I roll onto my stomach and wedge the small rice pillow under my face and try to bury in it.

Da-me!

I can’t cover my face. So, I lie on my stomach, with my head bent forwards, propped up with my fists. I stare at the wall, I could extend my arm and touch it, but I don’t. I start counting. I count to one thousand, I continue the climb. I make it to twelve hundred, when my mind starts to wander. So I start again. Most nights I count until about eight thousand, mind focused on one task only. Just counting. I can’t ever get past eight thousand before my eyes start to slowly blink close or my mind wanders. I’m exhausted.

Today is day twenty-nine. Twenty nine. Each day I sink lower into my pit of shame. It’s shower day. We can only have showers every five days. More control. It’s worse if you have your period. You have to wait for all of the other women to use the shower and bath block. The bath is always cold by then. I never go in anyway. I just shower. I scrub extra hard my skin is always red. Have to make it count. Sometimes I sneak my bar of soap under my shirt to keep clean, under my armpits, during morning routines, without them seeing. But it’s a risk. I already have one penalty against my name.

My first night here I remember her face. It was round like the moon. Round with two big eyes. She didn’t say anything to me. She slept where I am now. I wonder if the light annoyed her too? It was late that first night I arrived. Everyone was asleep, and all the lights were out. All but one. I was positioned at the other end of the room, the darkened end. I thought that’s where I would stay, but with each new girl arriving and with girls leaving, your number dictated where you would end up. I'm 4875. I am the highest number now. So I would be under the light, next to the toilet.

Kyu ju-san

Most of the time they omitted the first two numbers. They called her number, (48)93, she had an appointment with her lawyer. She stood up and smiled at me, a big smile full of white teeth. Her moon face looked nice. But I had no idea. That first night was just shock.

In the coming weeks, I would learn she was in there for breaching a visa. She had a student visa, and worked in a hostess bar, talking to older men. She was Chinese, but her Japanese was pretty fluent. Her boyfriend was a wealthy Japanese man, who lived in Roppongi. Roppongi is the Kings Cross of Tokyo. Well, not really, as Sydney is a drop of water in comparison with the ocean-size of Tokyo. It’s known for its bars, hi end stores, and the red light district. There are so many red light districts in Tokyo, its hard to know where they all are, but Roppongi definitely has one.

I remember my friend Nathan, who was from Sydney and lived in Shanghai with me. Well he was there first. He went out to a club one night with a bunch of guys. He got separated from his friends which wasn’t all that unusual, but when the night ended with him waking up in a park outside with no memory and a bunch of receipts in his coat pocket, he knew he’d been scammed. They drugged him, and took him to a series of bars, and charged his credit card, AU$5,000 worth.

They give you the receipts, so it seems legit, and most of the time the guys don’t contest it, because they’re embarrassed, but there was no way I was letting them get away with it.

He rang up his bank in Australia to lodge the fraudulent charges on his card. It took about six months to reverse, but he won in the end.

She said that they were engaged, and as soon as she got out they would get married. Every time he came to visit her, she would get new magazines to read. Thick fashion magazines, she’d flip through. She’d just been given new magazines and she was flipping through the new pages. You were allowed three books at any one time, plus a dictionary. She had her three magazines. She was on a page reviewing make up brands and lipstick colours. If you knew the old me, you’d know that red is my signature colour. I love red lippy and it loves me. I always look good in it. She tapped on the page and asked if I liked that colour.

Kore, suki desuka?

It was a pinky colour, and not something I’d normally go for. I shrugged and said it was alright.

Mama.

4845 and I were intrigued, we edged a little closer to her, but still maintaining our distance. We weren’t allowed to be too close to each other. She tapped on another page with more colours.

Kore-wa?

Hmm, chotto suki desu. Aka-no daisuki desu.

I explained red was my look. In no time she was flipping through pages and we were talking about our best looks and styles. In a way, we so easily jumped into conversation as a way to ignore the current setting. I enjoyed that universally through any country, language, or situation, women will always be women and find something to talk about. For a split second it was like we were friends just catching up talking about makeup tips. The three of us were all seated around her magazine laughing. I hadn’t felt so close to another person in so long, despite speaking in another language and talking about trivial things. It was just a moment of comfort. I tried to savour it, but it quickly vanished.

Da-me! Issho ni hon o yomu koto wa dekimasen!

You cannot read that book together, she barked and tapped at the bars. We each were given a penalty. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I knew that I didn’t want to rack up points for bad behaviour. Just like that the room was silent and we each moved away from each other, all just looking down. Every now and then we’d give each other a look, like you would when being scolded in school, mocking the teacher. We’d have to keep it down.

My hair was still wet after returning to the room from the showers. We were one of the last groups to return back, and so the breakfast routine was rushed. The tatami mat was shoved through the bars. We obediently laid it down in order to receive the bento boxes and chopsticks. It would be the same thing we would get served every day. A bento with rice, pickles and croquette. I hate croquettes. Sometimes we’d get served meat ones, I would pick at, but generally it was always stale mash croquettes. We could choose from miso soup, one serving, hot tea, one serving, and hot water, unlimited. The drinks would be poured into small plastic bowls, they could be passed through the bars.

Like I said. Today was not a good day. I had been yelled at for taking too long in the shower, and when we entered the outside room where we could brush our hair and clip nails, it was freezing. It had been snowing outside. I was rushed from room to room to room, still half asleep. I was fighting back tears as I sat down at the tatami mat. She called out for the drink orders. With the others I called for miso soup. We placed our bowls on the ledge, she emptied the powder into each and poured the hot water. The bentos were distributed and I just sat mine at my knees, knowing what would be inside, not wanting to take the lid off. I drank my soup and placed the bowl back on the ledge.

Ocha.

I want tea. It was rude of me, I didn’t say please.

Ocha, ku-da-sai.

She called back making a point for me to ask for tea with manners. It was the same women who gave us that penalty the weeks before. Some of them were mean, some of them were nice. Unlucky for me, she wasn’t one of the nice ones. She filled my bowl up and I took it and drank. I opened my bento box and picked at the rice. I couldn’t stomach it. I tried to eat some of the pickles but turned back to my tea. I placed the bowl back on the ledge.

O mizu kudasai.

Hot water please. She grunted at me for saying please and filled my cup. Tears were splashing in my bowl as I drank. I tried to cover my face, I didn’t want anyone to see that I was upset, but there wasn’t anywhere to hide. The other girls offered support.

Ganbare!

You can do it! Try your best, they said. I finished my bowl, and dabbed at my face with my face towel. I closed my bento and placed it back on the ledge with my bowl. I couldn’t eat anything.

I’m finished.

She opened the lid and sees that I had barely touched anything and launches into a rage. She yells at me for not eating and being rude. She calls me a spoilt foreigner and that I should eat what I’m given. She tells me that she is going to write me up and she will go get the form for me to sign with my fingerprint. She snaps the lid close and walks off. The other girls try to console me. It’ll be alright, don’t show emotion, keep it together, they say. I try my best, but my face is all wet. Breakfast is packed away, and the mat is fed back through the bars. She returns with the form and gestures for me to come closer. She explains that I hadn’t had anything and that’s why I was getting written up. Something inside me snapped.

That’s not true! I had miso soup, hot tea and two bowls of water! I ate some rice and pickles! I cannot eat! I don’t eat breakfast, but I tried my best!

I’m explaining in broken Japanese because I am filled with emotion it’s hard to articulate the right words. Another guard walks past. She hears my explanation and pulls her aside. She tells her that since I had soup and tea and water and had made an effort with the food, this was fine, and that she couldn’t write me up. I try to see the look on her face, but I don’t dare look up. She rips the paper and walks off. I glance up. The other guard smiles at me and walks in the other direction. I am left kneeling at the front of the room in shock. The other girls slowly come up to me and pat me on my back.

Omedetou!

Congratulations, you won that one! They all say. I let out a little sigh. I stuck up for myself. It was still a victory despite being a small one. I let a slight smile appear. It hangs around just for a moment. I wearily look up at the clock.

Seven forty-two.

It was going to be a long day.

The Lawyer

Its late, 11pm maybe. I had been through hours of interrogation at the police station, I was arrested just after midday. My period pain had started to really take hold. I feel so numb but still with heightened senses. I’ll get used to this feeling. Its the feeling of dread, and its hard to describe. Its as though your mind is in a frenzy, like you can feel chemicals increasing throughout your body. Your heartbeat is strong and deafening. In the silence that you’re in, is so loud. I’m so focused and in-tune with the sound of my own heartbeat, it appears I am docile. I’m sweating but without sweat. It feels like my hair is standing on end and my eyes are bulging out of my head. But to look at me, I just look tired.

I am a piece of meat that is being exchanged from one party to another. The police hand over custody of the slab to the facility, Wan Gan. A bunch of woman take ownership. They all look the same, with the same hair cut, a short bob or a neat pony tail, the same uniform, the same expression and the same mannerisms. No one has a name, they are all named Tanto-san.

I am taken into a small room with four tantos. The head tanto was a small older woman who looked like she was in her late 60s. She wore wire glasses on front part of her nose. She automatically introduces herself as the head tanto and that this was her place. Everyone is treated with respect, if I understand this I will get along fine, she explains. Now please take off your clothes.

Two of the tantos place a thin tatami mat on the floor, one tanto is positioned kneeling on the floor with big industrial paper rubbish bags. Clothing bags myself explains to myself. I’m told to take my shoes off before stepping onto the mat. I am brain dead, and follow simple instructions easily. I take of layer after layer. I explain that I have my period. The tanto in charge of patting down my naked body is kind and apologises before touching my skin. I don’t feel a thing. She acknowledges what I’ve said, and tells me I can get sanitary products soon. Every part of my body is inspected. Every part meticulously checked over. I’m asked to cough with my legs spread apart. I don’t feel a thing. I don’t feel a thing. I’m handed a light blue pair of underpants. A number is written on them, the number 4-875.

4, 8, 7, 5

Yon, hachi, nana, go

Four, eight hundred, Seven-ty-five

Yon, happiyaku, nana-ju-go

I will remember these numbers forever. I am given a pair of grey track pants, a grey t-shirt and a grey sweater. Do I want socks? Yes. They give me two light blue socks. They’re like the white socks you wear as a part of your school uniform. They’re ribbed. They’re too small for my feet and just go over my ankles, they should go to my calves.

“Now sit down on this bench and please read through these rules carefully.”

She speaks to me with authority and in an automated manner. She’s done this speech thousands of times before I’m sure. She hands me a folder with plastic slips, the kind I used in high school for presentations. My mind constantly goes back to my past, in comparison, to try and process whats happening. This is like that time back then. That object reminds me of that thing. I guess it was me just trying to get through the situation.

The file is filled with the rules, in Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and English. The English section is the lightest. I tell myself to read through this carefully, but nothing is sinking in. She hands me a menu with items that I can purchase. I purchase two pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear, a face towel, soap, toothbrush and paste, and sanitary pads.

She carefully goes through each of my possessions and itemises each one. Taking care to handle each of the items carefully. I confirm all the items are mine, and I sign them over. She takes out an ink pad and asks me to press fingerprints the openings of two small envelopes. They will hold my valuables; money in one, phones and others in the other. She explains that I am a guest here at Wan Gan for the next ten days. After which my fate will be determined by a prosecutor. He will decided whether there will be grounds for a criminal case. She explains that the guards at Wan Gan do not know about my case. They are here to keep order and ensure all the girls who stay here are safe. She tells me that I will be fine and that I should listen carefully and follow the rules. And just like that the three other tanto-sans are standing by the door in an orderly stands and I am told to stand up to go to my cell.

I follow the fast-paced guards, as they weave through the floor plan. I try to look around to see where I am but I focus on the guard in front of me. She takes me to a futon storage room. I’m told to pick up my futon. A heavy old futon, two brown heavy army blankets, the kind with satin borders, a small pillow and light blue bedding; a cushion cover, and a futon cover. My arms are out in front of me carrying the heavy pile of bedding. We arrive at the cell, where I am told to take my slippers off and slide them under the cell. My slippers are plastic and have my number written on them. I’m told to place the futon down. There is a slither of space closes to the bars, just outside the cell door. I do so. The guard gives me the sanitary pad and tells me to go to the toilet. I look blankly at her its as though my vision has been reduced to only what is in front of me. I don’t see an overview, I just look at the guard. She gestures again for me to move.

I look up and see four women sleeping on the floor on futons, taking up the whole space. This was a cell. The guard tells me to go to the toilet again, its at end of this rectangular room, and she tells me again to go put the sanitary pad on. I hug the side wall walking past the sleeping women, hoping I don’t disturb them, wondering if any of these women were dangerous, and how I would do in this room. My mind still erratic jumping from thought to thought trying to process all of this. This foreign environment I was thrusted into. It felt as though I was thrusted into it, with the last 6 hours melting into my history. Still being so recent, but also so distant. My mind was broken, I couldn’t really make sense of anything, thinking one way of it and then another. Maybe this is shock. I was a liquid mess.

I sit on the steel toilet. It stinks, but looks somewhat clean. It is Japan. There’s a paper bag, the size of a lunch bag you see in American sitcoms. The kind that kids in school take with their packed lunch. A sandwich, a fruit box, a red apple. The bag has the number 4 written with thick black marker on it, and is filled with toilet paper and sanitary pads.

The cubical has a door with a glass panel as entrance. The bottom section is wooden to offer little privacy, but the door itself doesn’t go to the floor or the ceiling. The right side there’s a glass window which faces the front of the cell, where the guards will often stare to make sure nothing happens in the bathroom that shouldn’t be. On the left is a steel facade that lines a faucet and small wall sink. Above it is the flush button. Should I flush? The women are sleeping, despite a bright fluorescent light lighting the toilet and sink area at this back end of the cell. This light will later give me headaches and start a series of events that would end with a frightening fight.

I flush the toilet, water spurts out of the side wall sink nozzle.

Side-wall-sink-nozzle.

I open the toilet door to the room washing sink. It's a big steel box, with a steel back wall that the faucet comes out from, above it is a sensor strip. Again I notice touches of Japan appearing through this dark scene. This may be prison, but it is still Japan, land of the sensor toilets. I wave my hand over the sensor and water comes out, I rinse my hands in the cold water and splash my face. There’s a mirror above the steal front. I look into the mirror. My face is puffy and my eyes look dead. I stared at myself but don’t see a thing. I robotically walk back to my spot on the floor. I’m wedged between the last woman sleeping and the cell bars. I sit on my futon. One of the guards comes back about 30 minutes later and says my lawyer is here. She gestures for me to get up quickly. I stand at the front cell door, the guard quietly gestures for me to pull my slippers out from beneath the cell, I do so, and step into them. She closes and locks the cell and tells me to follow.

I will never forget the sound of the cell door closing shut and being locked. Now as I remember these hard moments it takes over my thoughts. I hate the sound, but my memories are so strong with it, unable to let it go. The weight of the heavy door being slowly pulled into position with a clang to indicate its in position. The metal slide bar being scrapped across the metal door. You can hear the weight of it. The loud clang of connection. You know the clang is coming but it always shocks you. The padlock being threaded through the holes to connect the pieces together. Trapped. I am trapped and there is no way out.

Its now that I take in the facility, as we walk from the cell to the visitor room. The flours are orange linoleum, the walls white. It looks more like a hospital than a jail. More like an asylum. There are so many corridors we turn down a few, but I look at all the other corridors we don’t walk down. This place is very big. It is the 5th floor, women only. Orange floors white walls, white doors opening into private cells. I imagine crazy women in straight jackets in padded rooms screaming out. I’m scared, but I am still in such a daze still I don’t stay on the terrifying images flashing in my mind. The doors have small square windows, that have shutters covering the windows. They clank shut as well. We stop at a door suddenly, or maybe I just hadn’t noticed the guards slowly decreasing their speed as we approached.

My hands are placed on the wall and my legs are spread apart. The guard uses her hands to pat my body for any objects. Its invasive and excessive. It does its intended purpose, it makes me feel like a criminal. Like a piece of dirt. And I know who is charge, the guards control every aspect of life here. She nods that I am cleared. Explains that when I am finished with the lawyer I should knock on the door. She will open the door up then. The doors is pulled open, I peer inside the room.

I see a small room separated with a perspex panel from the bench all the way to the ceiling completely separating the two rooms. On my side there are two bucket chairs. In the perspex there are two circles with holes that have been cut through to allow for the two parties to speak and hear clearly. On the other side of the panel were two men sitting. A Japanese man on the left and a foreign or gaijin on the right. The Japanese man looked a bit rushed, it was nearly midnight. He had a bowl-type hair cut, and was at a guess in his 40s. The translator had white hair and what looked to be a lazy or glass eye. When speaking to me one eye was normal, with the right eye slightly positioned downwards.

Konnichiwa.

Konnichiwa.

My name is Sakashita.

He shows me his card by placing it up to the perspex. The translator explains accordingly. He asks me if I can pay for a lawyer, and if I know of any lawyers. I say that I can't afford a lawyer and that I don't know any. He explains that I will be given a court appointed attorney, and asks if I would like this. I say yes, and I ask if he will be my lawyer. He explains that it is by allocation, usually it is the first attorney that is called out, but he isn't sure. I ask him if he would mind being my lawyer. He said that he wouldn’t mind. But he cannot be sure if he will get this case. He tries to explain the legal system of court appointed lawyers. But then just says yes he will be my lawyer.

Did you do it?

Yes.

It was a definitive yes. Out of his leather briefcase shoulder bag, he takes a wad of A4 paper clipped together. It looks like recycled paper being repurposed as a notepad. He starts to make notes. He has a copy of the arrest report, and takes out a law book, to look up the crimes in his log. He looks up the first;

Attempted fraud, 2 months minimum, maximum 10 years.

He looks up the second;

Utterance of fraud securities; 3 months minimum, maximum 10 years.

My mind is vacant. I try to imagine what I might be given. Surely I wouldn't be given the maximum, but maybe somewhere in the middle, two charges though, so does that mean that will be 10 years of my life. 10 years. 10 YEARS. Like giant box letters on fire. The words ten years are burning bright, they sear into my brain. Ten years.

Ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten.

I would be 46. I start making lists in my mind, of all the things I will now miss out on

I guess I won't have children

Will I see my mum again

I guess I will die alone

10 years in prison in Japan

I stop at 10 years in Japan. I’m scared to imagine what it would be like. With the rhythm of my heart feverishly beating ,two thoughts drum continually.

What. Have. I. Done?

I. Thought. I. Was. A. Good. Person.

Terrence the Tumor

The only thing that made me special was a growth that found a pocket in my body.

Ironically, I can seldom find a pocket or bag or crevice to store my possessions in. Oh well. Forever lost.

Poignant maybe.

Terrence grew as I did. Less so though.

But nevertheless he or she did what I did.

When I burped. Terry burped. When I laughed Terry laughed. You get the idea.

I guess Terry and I had always known each other, except we didn’t.

Until, unnaturally, our lives were thrusted upon one another. It was when the dick decided to latch on to my right lung. Don’t blame him or her. I wouldn’t have minded so much except for the fact it impacted on my survival. Two will enter, but one will leave. Gladiator style. There was no question. I would come out on top.

So I thought.

Old Tezza-bear put up a fight in the end.

But, slowly and extensive surgery later, we (I) won.

That crisp Tokyo eve, I bid adieu to T-bone Mac Daddy Tanty-Loins.

12cm in diameter with an unnervingly green interior.

I am at a loss.

Literally.

Terry.

You were my opus.

My tumor.

My everything.