Remembering Losing You

When I was seven my parents took me and my two brothers on a round the world trip for the best part of a year. This was 1987. As I age my memories of this trip fade, mostly what sticks with me are emotional memories, feelings, like sensing magic prickling on my skin in the lime green light of Sherwood forest.

On this trip we went to Singapore and to a busy market there. The market sold foods of every kind, and none that I had seen before. The stone paved floor laquered with a crust of hardened sweat, dirt and fallen food crumbs that could not be swept from the spaces between stones. A cacophony of market noises pressing up against the skin thick in the soup of humidity, the smells of foreign asian foods, pungent, salty, rotten and sweet. Up to that point in my life I don't think I would have ever even have seen an Asian person. Singpore was a world of strange. When I see this market in my mind, I am waist height. Remember when it was easier to see peoples knee's, shins and feet than their faces? It was back then.

Dad was in charge of me and he was holding my hand. Remember the days when when you went out, someone was in charge of holding your hand and making sure you didn't get lost? I miss those days, i'd have that back in a heartbeat.

Mum had put dad in charge of me that day, dad is usually quite conscientious about his children... but then something caught my eye, asking for closer inspection. It was a tank of water containing several large, live crayfish cramped in a small freshwater tank, inert in their orange spiked armor except for the slight opening of a claw, a small movement in one black eye. The tank and it's inhabitants drew me closer, I leaned in, as my confidence grew I placed my palms on the side of the tank and my eyes poured over their encrusted bodies with curiosity and strange sadness.

After sating my curiosity I remembered my family, and turned around and looked into the market. The market was an ant hill of activity, and everyone of those people were short, singaporean people, in shorts and tshirts with black hair and skinny legs.
And everyone of those people, was not my family.
My eyes scanned and scanned the throng of people, sweat prickled on my palms now dangling at myside on limp arms, a thud of my heart picking up pace in it's chest.
Gone.
I'm seven years old and three billion light years from home and everything I know and my whole family is gone. I am saturated for the first but not last time in my life, in the sensation of being entirely alone in the world.

I imagine I took a large volume of air into my lungs first because then I began to bellow and cry and after not too long a voluptuously overweight American woman came over, swept me up onto her hip, and took me the few paces to her table where she was eating a large volume of oily food. Oil was everywhere, on my skin, on her hands. I reeled with the texture of this experience, her fat cushiony sweaty lap.

She sat me on her lap like a handbag dog or a doll, and said 'there, there', and 'have something to eat', 'it'll be alright'. This stupid fat lady with NO idea of the intensity of my situation. Or perhaps at seven, lost for the first time, I had no idea what she knew, which was that my parents would come find me. To me, this was it, and 'it' was me, lost, alone forever.
Not like when you run away from home with a bandana full of sandwiches, properly lost, and no way back to all that you love.

I couldn't regard her with anything but that sick contempt you have for people who are NOT your mum or dad, and who are trying to tell you what to do or how to feel when they clearly have no authority in the matter.

Finally - and it can't have been long, but being lost is too long - my dad appeared out of the crowd. And with hot wet tears on my cheeks, and a stirring of resentment in my chest, I went back to being found.

When I sense a relationships end, now, as an adult (sort of)the feeling of being lost in the market that day returns to me. Sticky and sick.

Our family have funny 'sleep things'. We walk, talk, sing, shout, and fight off imaginery attackers in our sleep. It's not all that funny. My eldest brother has it the worst and can't share a bed with his partner's. Once he woke in a violent defense against an attacker about to throw his clothes horse through a large glass window. He's taken the skin off his shins down to the bone fighting people in his sleep. I have slept in the room adjacent to him and heard him yelling and batting away flying bat/spiders. When you call out to wake him, his voice goes from yells of rage, to the docile, sedated sleepy voice of someone who has just woken. It is strange.

As a child I used to wake up standing up out of bed getting clothes out to get ready for school. I talk alot in my sleep and have woken myself up singing. That is when I'm happy. When i'm not happy, I come to consciousness with my heart pounding so hard in my chest that it aches for the entire day afterwards, gasping for air, stricken with panic, running my hands feverishly along the walls looking for a window, a door, or any way out, eyes wide open and unseeing in the dark, straining to see, straining to see and seeing only black. Blind and terrified.

I don't know if you've heard of this happening, but twice I've woken up paralysed, genuinely awake, but totally paralysed. You have to relax and go back to sleep and then you'll wake up able to move again. There's no describing this feeling. Films like My Left Foot fill me with terror.

Twice I've woken up without my memories.
It might only last a few seconds, maybe six or ten, but for those seconds you are staring at a world that has no names. Chair, window, bed, all those words are gone.
Earth, home, house, your address, the date. All gone.
I have no name, and the first question you ask yourself is: who am I?! That is the first thing you want to know. And the realisation that you don't know...it is a heavy one. What is my name? Who am I?!! But asking doesn't make it come.

This loss of memory means you have no childhood, no memories to make you happy, you have no parents, no friends, no siblings and nobody that loves you. There is just a piercing, unbearable nothingness.

When a relationship ends, this feeling returns to me. It is phasic, on and off throughout the days that follow that final conversation. I feel suddenly that I'm going to throw up.

Once, I had a dream, that when i woke up there had been an apocolyptic earth wide disaster that had wiped out the entire human race, every. single. human. being. Except me. I stood and stared over the devestation and I knew that I could carry on, find a way to carry on with my life, that there was almost a responsibility to carry on, but that in the absence of every other person, the loneliness was so extreme and acute, and I knew that I didn't want to go on. That it was other people that made life worth living.

Funny how it can seem so the opposite as we rush about our busy lives, must eat, must work, must sleep, get out of my way, must drive, must work, must have my hobbies, accomplish tasks so that i can feel worthy of this life I have, so that I can sleep tonight and not be kept awake by an internal itch that says I am not good enough I am not good enough. And all the while bush whacking people aside, especially those we love, because they are the closest, and so can seem the most in the way.

But the truth is if you woke up tomorrow and they were gone, you would not eat, sleep, work, drive or do anything.
You would fall to the ground with solace only in the hope that there will be grace in death, the only saviour from this terrible loneliness.

When you look at the end of a relationship, take it in your hands, shake it like a snow globe and watch the white gently fall, trying to decide whether to stay put or go forward, out of the snow globe into the unknown, I am reminded of this choice I ace in the dream, knowing you should go on but wanting to fall to it's knee's and be taken by grace.

When I had my car accident the windows on the passenger side of the car shattered. Much later that day after everything was said and done, I looked into the mirror and my face had a sparkling sheen to it like sea with the sun on it seen from far away.

I reached up to brush my face and there was a coarseness to my cheek. I peered into the mirror and realised the glass had shattered into such fine particles it had landed on my face like a dust that was invisible unless it caught the right light, and even though it was that small in size it was still sharp.

I think this is what happens to the feelings inside a relationship, the interest, curiousity, attraction, affection, desire... those feelings don't die, they are obliterated, by the words you say in the heat of anger, by the pushing away you do when you're steeped in fear of rejection.. those feelings are exploded into miniscule pieces that cover you, and yet it is not possible to pick up a single piece, to turn over in your hands for joy or press to your lips for comfort.

And even then you do not want to wash the abrasive, glittering sheen from your face.

Death Metal

I promise to keep this one as short as I can. Beauty is in brevity.

So we picked one guy to move in. Mike. He seemed down to earth, smart, studying ethics and ecology at University (but more of a grown up student than a couch surfing, tui swilling, shower-phobic one), and he rubbed moosh'es tummy for a good long while. Moosh took me aside afterwards adn said she friended him. In truth, he was the only person we liked at all. Slim pickings out there!

Why is it that there are so many more abnormal, neurotic, obnoxious, ugly people than normal, nice looking, relaxed people? It worries me. Anyway.

So Mike is also musical. Tick. Is in two bands. They're not big here, but they're tour overseas. Tick - will be away for extended periods. Would I know them? I ask. probably not unless you like metal? Overwhelming understatement: i don't. Well he tells me one of the bands is called Ulcerated. That word, ulcerated? Makes me want to cry. But in contrast to my usually ASTUTE gut feeling, I do a Michael-Jacksons-Kid and BLANK IT! I blank it from my awareness because mike is nice and we need someone to move in pronto.

So later Date One suggests I listen to ulcerated on youtube. My, what a clever suggestion. Can't imagine why I didn't think of that, say, two days ago.

I don't know how to describe this 'music' to you. And I have to take a moment to say, i'm sure mike is a great guy and very talented, and i mean no slur on their muscial ABILITY. And each to their own and ALL that but...

The sound that comes out of the computer literally makes every one of my cells recoil in horror, my brain starts firing off terror signals, i start uncontrollably crawling backwards across the bed not unlike Jackie O when JFK got shot, nausea rises in my chest, fear sweat is starting to prickle my skin. The feeling that music gives me is a supersize me combo deal of sick, afraid and upset. Possibly who you would feel if a guy in a hockey mask with a machete has just come through your bedroom door covered in the warm blood of your entire, now deceased family. We're talking the nail in the well in silence of the lambs here people. I'm sorry if that is all too graphic, but there it is. I know of NOTHING, i cannot bear more, than death metal. It is ULCERATING my mind.

I remember when everyone got into Korn. That word still irks me. I bought the CD (oh nostaglia) from REal Groovy (Oh nostaglia) and listened to it in my CD walkman (oh nostalgia) on the way home from town on the bus (nostalgia, you get it). And by the time i'd gotten home i could physically feel that in some previously untampered with part of my brain, mental unwellness had been dangerously close to being permanently triggered. The next opporutnity i got i took the cd back to real groovy to get my money back, when asked why, I couldn't like, I looked at the tattoo'd young funksta behind the counter and said: i just can't have this in my life. and he nodded in understanding and gave me my $24.95 back.

So here I am in my room pressing my hands into my ears, feeling a surge of hysteria at the realisation that my new flattie is going to play this 'music' in the house.
I have to call him up and say awkwardly, ah, that i hate that music and ah, are you going to, inflict it upon us?
To his great, great credit he says two things, that he is fully aware that no one else likes it, and that he does not intend to practise or play it at home.

Are there any other important questions you need to ask? he asks me.
Yes, i say, are you a serial killer?
No, he says, not that i know of, but then, they never know that they are do they?
Well played.

Let's just hope he really was joking.
Flatting, it's a crazy world out there.
In many ways, like living in a bus stop.

These are the people in your neighbourhood

Today we interviewed for flatmates.

There is always something to laugh about when you interview for flatmates.

Like Alex. Alex comes in and I can hear his voice from the front door even though I am standing on the back deck. Soo let's him in while I perform social acrobatics with the potential flatties, keeping everyone talking, finding out information, reading energy, interpreting the movement of hands, the changing of stance, the mirroring of body language. Moosh, my cat, is lying quietly alert on the deck, helping me sieve people out by offering her soft, shiny, appealing coat up for scratching, to see if we have any lovers in the bunch.

Alex bowls, really bowls, out the french doors on the deck and I say: hi (big warm smile like you know i do), i'm clare. he shakes my hand and says; YEAH, so DO YOU WORK NORMAL HOURS THEN OR LIKE WHAT?

He is wearing a crisp white v neck tshirt, reminiscent of dylan perry circa 1991, crisp blue jeans, a silver snake chain, and spikey aggresive hair. Not that any of that matters, but just to paint a picture. By aggressive I mean the type of hair that looks as if it has been puuuuuuled, and pulled, in straining, tense fists.

I say, oh like.. blah blah blah and explain my work hours. And he's like RIGHT YEAH WELL THE REASON I ASK IS..
The caps are to illustrate his voice, it's loud, much louder than is necessary, and it's rough, not sexy rough like those old guys in the speights ads (good on ya mate) but rough like one of those green pot scrubber cloths, and it's imbued with male aggressiveness, sorry boys, I can't think of another way to say it. Being male doesn't automatically make you aggressive, but there is no aggressiveness in a woman like the particular type of aggro you can get in a man.

His voice punches into you, little. swift. jabs. Like how a frenemy will punch you and say it's a joke but it hurts just a little too much to be funny and you still have to laugh it off.

I say, yeah why DO you ask? Because my radar has automatically identified him as someone I will never know or see past this few minutes, and I decide this has great potential to be entertaining.
And he says IT"S JUST THAT I"M NOT INTO ALL THAT NIGHT SHIFT TYPE OF SHIT.

He says it like there's some humour in it that we will all find. There isn't. He says it like he's talking to his mate at the pub, two guys sitting on bar stools commiserating about how shit everything is. I don't think he can even see me, though i'm standing before him, do i look like your whinging mate, mate?

(Interlude: It isn't until after finishing and posting this blog entry that the story is pieced together for me, soo tells me how he saw my massage table in the hallway and said who's was it and she said clare's and so he came bowling out the door essentially asking me if i was a PROSTITUTE. Yeah.)

Aha, i say in soothing tones, yes i completely understsand, well, no, not me! (friendly grin) I work perfectly normal hours. He nods, as if to say i've passed Assessment One.

Three other potential flatties are standing on the deck with me and everyone is silent in sheer delight of how obnoxious this guy is.

And I mean look, he's probably nervous, he's probaby really nice, his mum probably kept him in nappies too long, locked him in a cupboard, fed him only packeted risotto, put down his cat. But in the same breath, WHATEVER! he aint moving into my sanctuary of oestrogen and soft cats and quiet noises and caring smiles. Nosirreebobbamcdoodleydoo!

Unfortunately my brain is too full of holes to remember what he said next, but in essence he fired a few more testing jabs at me, little one to the nose, little soft one under the ribs, asking me how suitable i was to guage whether he might want to dein us with his presence on a permenant basis. And then, without even glancing at anyone else, says, WELL ALRIGHT THEN, YEAH SEEMS ALRIGHT, SO, YOU WANT MY NUMBER OR WHAT?
Oh delight.

I say yes definitely, write your name on that piece of paper and your number and specify which room you'd prefer with a tone that intimates that the world stopped turning the moment he turned up because i had never known perfection before this moment. And he does. Soo is so awesome too, she's all dancing around him light on her little dancing elf yoga feet pretty as a poppy shining in the sun, as if we are all just entranced, just so pleased to have met him.

And he STROPS on out the door. His legs are not close enough together. Isn't that a subtle but crystal clear body language signal. It says: I. Am. The. Boss. It says: i am in charge of you, me, and this whole business. It says, my balls are so big that i can't shut my knees, and by balls I do mean balls. It says: submit.
And you know what it is that I exactly don't do monday to friday or weekends, all public holidays and statutory days? Submit.

As soon as the 'viewing' was over Soo and i say simultaneously: so what did you think, then laugh, and then both say 'that guy ALEX!!' and do imitations of him in fits of laughter.

Also there is Anna. Oh anna. Anna is pretty, she has a very short 60's mod boy hair cut and a big black boho dress with a waist belt and a black cardy and those terrible but in fashion shoes that we all wore in the early nineties, the nothing shoes, no features, just a sole, canvas top, one lace. Anna is a fretter.

She is pretty and i want to like her because of it. Funny that ahy? But the truth is, like babies, we all like to look at pretty faces. And by god if you live with someone you more than have to look at their face, you know what i'm saying. It is So personal, living with someone. You touch their fallen dead hair. Need I say more.

Anna talks in stops and starts. Anna's breathing pattern is not rhythmic. Anna is about 23. Anna looks past you when she talks. Anna plays constantly with a piece of paper in her hands, no not plays, that suggests enjoyment, anna's hands WORRY a piece of paper, they have twisted and twisted it until the paper has become first hard, and then soft.

Her hands are red raw from eczema, lined and sore looking. And I will tell you something that you won't know because you are not a naturopath. Disorders, diseases, and illnesses, belong to personalities. There is a 'chronic fatigue' type. There is a parkinsons type. There is a cancer type. There is an Alzheimer's type. There is a high blood pressure type, oh dudes, there is even a fat type, and the more it a person has in their personality, the fatter they get. I mean no disrespect in saying this, i only say what we all see. Repeatable enough events to be considered truth.

And there is an eczema type. And they are irritated by the world. They are irritated, and underneath it they angry. They seeth a little. Eczema is a volcano, it's crust shifting. My heart goes out to every one with this health condition, which includes my mother. And even she will tell you, when she gets really pushed to her limit at work or whatever it should be, eczema flare up.

Anna, dear anna, is negative. a real negative nelly. i ask her what she does and she says graphic design and then tells me how hard it is and how much it sux and she wishes she didn't have to do anything for money. I say oh it must be finished soon though? and she says: not til march, SEE YOU LATer summer! and rolls her eyes to the sky with a big 'gee i got ripped off' sigh. The young lady lives in a world with not even a speck of silver lining on any of her clouds. She complains about her house, house in general, the weather, moving, looking for flats, on and on she goes.

When she leaves soo and i look at each other and soo says, she's quite... critical.
And that is all that is needed to be said.

We get so savvy at meeting and judging people that the last girl who comes in, when she leaves i just turn my head and look at soo and she looks at me and that's all we say. Oh and then soo says, i liked her friend. I'm like yeah totally. At least WE are on the same page, same time zone, same universe.

The girl who's friend we liked, talks over me. I don't get it. Where do people get the idea that talking over somebody is okay? It says two things: one, it says i am not listening to you. There is no way you can be listening to someone when you are talking over them. Which in turn says, i don't count what you have to say as useful or beneficial, intersting or valuable. Two, it says, i don't respect you enough to even pretend that i am listening while you speak. Not even PRETEND. Shucks, we all formulate thoughts as other people talk, but if you are half decent you keep returning to their thread of speech, and give it at least a smattering of consideration. You AT LEAST make a small guesture of acknowledgment that they actually said something, a very tiny head nod, eyebrow elevation, say 'ahuh' or for god's sake just BLINK. The effort involved in blinking? Trust me, it's worth it to make you not look like an asshole.

So yeah. She's from belgium too. THis is an issue and I can't quite put my finger on why. It might be because our last flatmate was german and this was kind of an issue. She had a slightly skewed value system to ours. Like she borrowed my surfboard and covered it in this really aweful, glue stuff, that i suppose was meant to be wax, just like, shit loads of it, and got it full of black sand, and didn't try and clean it off. big lumps of it, it's a real F**king nuisance, and the board was freshly waxed, like, brand new wax job on it. Secondly, she broke a fin, but hey, she got it replaced, okay ones grey now but i'll get over it. But after that i said i didn't want to lend it out anymore, and she took it out anyway, without asking, for her german friend to use, who had never, ever surfed before. just like, so much nah bro. so i dunno, i don't want to tar every european with the brush she left me, but i'm cautious. It wasn't that more than the talking over me thing though. Come to think of it she stood with her legs to far apart too.

Okay well this blog entry is starting to go on a bit. Starting!? you snort. :)
And we still need a flatmate!
better get my hungover ass out of bed and go find one.
wish me luck baggins, wish me luck.