Two dates: a beginning

this is the beginning of something i will write into a novel. if the subject of the novel finds it and gets angry i’d like to send him the following message: “hello! i miss you, but only a little. mostly i am angry. also, go listen to sharyn van witten give out, and arctic monkeys why’d you only call me when you’re high? and fuck off or jerk off thinking about me. i’d take that. send pics.” 

Two Dates

We circle each other, always ready and never really wanting. Or really wanting and knowing better. Wanting so badly and wanting more and to never see each other again. I smelled his scent by the harbour yesterday and stopped. It was a father, playing with a daughter on the pelican-shaped rocker. If that’s a sign then everything is.

I texted him at 10pm, knowing that sooner or later I would so it may as well be sooner. “D-floor debauchery at Fever?” He was keen, of course. He replied with a photo: the edge of a plate with a bumpy line, white on white. “Yep.”

I watched the coloured lights flying over my dress, I was happy. I threw my arms up and swayed. I caught the eye of a guy in a blue shirt. He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” I smiled thank you and brushed past. I felt for my phone in my bag. He was outside. I held the railing and took each stair on bambi legs, thinking of stability, of a yacht weighed down by an anchor.

“We were doing so well,” he said, laughing.

“We beat on, boats against the current,” I said. But he just threw the door open and put his lips on mine.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

bella, the girl

her name was not bella, of course, but she had a name that one would call a dog. she had matched her fluro orange blouse to her fluro orange patent pumps to her fluro orange bangle to her fluro orange handbag. she was blonde-blonde. big eyed. tattooed.

she drank quickly from a mixture in a water bottle, and when she was finished she went out to get vodka. she went missing and we watched her follow a guy in a singlet up the street, gesturing wildly. 

“i think i need to adopt her,” said my housemate, “she needs help sorting her shit out.”

she’d checked in to a hotel with her boyfriend. it didn’t work out, and she left him there to gather a debt in her name. she found this out when we were at a bar. i’d met my parents for an afternoon drink there earlier, and bella had arrived later with my housemate. they work together, bella and my housemate, at a leagues club.

at one point in the night bella turned to me and asked “where is your bra?!” i was wearing pink floral. no bra. hers was visible, straps protruding from her sleeves. her eyeliner, oh god, i imagined wiping it off.


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

clara-lou, psychotheraphist.

it was actually only about this time last year that i began seeing clara-lou (not her real name). clara-lou ran a practice from a second storey room in her inner-west terrace. she had a wonderful curly-haired maltese x poodle whose name i forget, who sat pensively in the corner of all therapy sessions. i would coddle the puppy, and clara-lou would take this as a sign of my own submissiveness. “animals must be tamed,” she would say. did she love the dog? it’s hard to know.

my gosh i cried in that little room overlooking a bunch of other geometrical pavered squares that pass for backyards. the lines of the yards didn’t quite line up the way i would have liked to see, and i’d imagine pushing them into neat parallels as i cried and clara-lou watched. i could feel my face burning and clara-lou watched. then she’d say something biting, and i’d think “holy shit, she’s right!” she shamed me into sorting my shit out.

clara-lou was a visionary. clara-lou was the antithesis to my teenage counsellor who used to look at me with such wide eyes, clasp her hands and announce “oh that must be so difficult!” clara-lou was not interested in me, she was interested in her own study, in bettering her own practice by fixing me. i was a result to her. she charted my progress on a graph. and yes, i improved. there was a line on clara-lou’s graph that marked the point where i was no longer drowning in sorrow but had my head above water again (clara-lou’s cliche, not mine).

whatever. clara-lou and i had a disagreement. she wanted me to see a health specialist for an illness i was sure i did not have. clara-lou would not accept my GP’s non-diagnosis of said illness.

“if it was your dog, you would get a second opinion!” said the woman whose dog has a homeopath.

“nope,” i said, “if it was my dog i would trust that her vet knows better than i do.”

clara-lou pressed on. i did not budge.

“your face is closed, like you feel resentment,” said clara-lou.

“no,” i said, “i’m just finished with this conversation.” i was not paying her $180 per session to talk about blood tests. that was our last session.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

the sign man and Amy Winey

it occurred to me today as i drove past that the man who holds the Burger King sign on the princes highway at sydenham is actually the grim reaper. HAPPY HOUR. BUY ONE BURGER GET ONE FREE. That’s what his sign says. Each afternoon he is there, holding his sign and waving to passers-by. His bike is always discarded on the footpath. I have noted with interest that he has fashioned a rope pulley with which to wobble his sign one-handed (thus leaving the other hand free to wave to the cars as they pass.) He wears an orange safety vest and has his moustache neatly combed.

Usually I drive past the sign man, biting my lip and switching between CDs, iPhone or radio stations. But I have noticed one thing: on the few occasions when i have lifted a few fingers from the steering wheel in vague acknowledgement, the sign man has not waved back but rather has turned his hand to the ground and motioned up and down. it at first looked to me like he was saying “slow down” but i am never speeding when i pass the sign man–god forbid the traffic would never allow it.

this year i will be 27 (ohmygodsofuckingoldright?) so it makes sense that i will join Kurt and Jim and Amy and Janis and Brian and Jimi in the 27 club. The year has not been kind to me so far (loss of 2 days per week of employment, 1 x car crash, 1 x flat tyre, financial dispair x infinity, poor decisions x 5ish, a couple of bad hangovers, 1 x spilled coffee, 1 x stained skirt and 1 x spilled salad). Though admittedly when i raised this point to my co-workers over burrito salad, they denied my level of genius places me in the same league as any of these musicians. They also, quite rudely, labelled me Amy Winey. Who are they to say that it is me, not Lena, who is the voice of this generation? or something.

point of the story: the sign man is only warning me of what i already know. i doubt i shall survive the year.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Help me find my grandfather



All I care about in the world right now is finishing my masters degree in      Autobiographical Journalism.  If you’re interested or want to find out more or help,  please visit:


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

you don’t need me

it’s not you, it’s me. you’ve been lovely.


but for realz. i’m done here, you’re done here.

the below clip is all you’ll ever need, ever.


also, in case you care: i’m happy.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized