The lounge has never been cleaned, curtains only occasionally parted and the dim light mutes the stains, the disrepair, us. We sprawl on yuppie rubbish nicked from out front of the Sallies; no matter that the legs are all busted now cos enough crap's migrated underneath to support us. Some wit has penned ‘the good ship WINZ’ along the remaining arm; our primary sponsors.
Tacked on the walls are creased photos of our mates on the waste, happy drunks all wonky and blurred. Holiday snaps you could say: at the park, somewhere on Cuba Street, out back of The Valve. Also pictures cut from zines and records; black and white, hard scary shit. Their reality. Our response.
A smorgasbord of smells assaults the visitor, but you get used to it after a few hours, or a few beers, which ever comes first. I’d rank them (no pun intended) like so: the toilet, puke, burnt food, dogs, boys, stale smoke and hanging in at lucky last, the sweet yeast of the brew barrels. Hmm, maybe you should scull up and have another beer?
Ok; cool, that's the scene set. As for us, well we’re all here as bloody usual and there's (have you noticed yet?) a crisis. Always a fucking crisis.
On the surface and getting us all bitchy is the daily trivia just waiting for a roll of the dice: money, WINZ, a lost boot or smokes, sore kidneys, visiting parents, no food, a late period, or maybe love going horribly wrong.
Don't laugh; I know.
But pick’n’scratch at these scabs and you’ll find the blackest fucking depression, confusion, and self-esteem so low it crawls. Bottom-feeders. But you can call this shit what ever you want; it doesn't help, doesn't make it go away.
Trust me.
Not much point in just knowing anyway. Smoking will kill you, I know. So anyway, we're here chit-chatting away about this bum trip flippantly called 'life', making plans to... nah, nice idea, but mostly we never really talk. Not honestly anyway. It’s just blah blah blah until it fucking ruptures, screams, is thrown with rage against a wall, against a friend; or bottled tighter and tighter inside till you need to slice your arms open and let it all that 'low self-esteem' spew out onto the floor. In the privacy of your bedroom of course. It’s never resolved. Ever. It stays right here; like us.
The other day I read that intense heavy rock music fractures water crystals and drives them insane; our bodies are 80% water. There was no mention of beer. My mum is constantly telling me that the colour black psychologically draws you in and down. Probably. My boots, tights, skirt and t-shirt are, but my undies are green and my bra is red: the last line of defense against the dark side.
Y'know in winter when the damp clings like an all day hangover, the best place to hide out is at the library. All the bums are there: really good chairs, awesome heaters, and obviously heaps to read. I pretty much stick to magazines, my special interest topics (that's sex, drugs, music, and comics) and then go hang out at the CD listening posts or maybe try table diving at the cafe upstairs. Sometimes tourists forget to log off the internet so I get to YouTube old punk bands which is cool. Makes for a pretty good day out all up.
Anyway, right after I'd finished flicking through Masaru Emoto's book on water I read a short interview with Jia Jing; he’s cute, 17, lives in Beijing and has this to say: “I've given up hoping; I hate this world”. He couldn't decide whether to kill himself in a dramatic public way or just go quietly so that no one would notice.
F'sure.
I moved on to some straight-as Government drug pamphlets with hysterical lists of side effects and tales of sick depravity - they're really quite funny. Well more fun than wondering if Jia Jing was still kicking about. Believe it or not (yeah truly, I’m walking on air), but smoking oil off aluminum tinfoil seriously buggers your lungs. Government literature? Not! Offering a safer option like smearing it on a zigzag paper or using a needle on a hot knife would be logical/sensible eh? I mean we are talking to teenagers right? “Just say no” duh; that's prohibition for you.
Knowledge is power right? Yeah but, nah. I know alcohol is a depressant and that dribbling munters are not sexy. I know cannabis fucks with your motivation.
I know, but not really. Not yet.
BANG!
That’s the library door. I’m the last one out and get a grunt of recognition from security. Our front door sags in the frame like an old homeless man and needs a good hard swing to close: BANG! The needle screeches across the record in shock, but it’s not one of mine thankfully. Home sweet home provides still crunchy roast veggies, a bummed smoke and a cup of peppermint tea to wake me up. The soundtrack with dinner is Misery. Here's a sample: “ You know deep inside you're losing in life, you pray for riches and you fight to survive; You work on, dream on, believe on, you're shit upon. Who drives the slaves, you and me; we work on, dream on, starve on, die on..." Betcha can't wait for pudding eh?
In here it’s cold, heavy, like we’re underground or something and as I stare blankly at friends I wish for someone else’s reality – or twenty-four hour libraries. Look at Paul across the room; he's sucked so much crap into his lungs he sounds like a forty-year-old as he harps on about some shit. Looks like one too. I couldn't imagine anything worse than kissing him and I swear on the grave of my dear Nana never to get so pissed for that to be debatable. Next to him is Casper who is drinking an abandoned beer he's found on the floor. By the look on his face I bet someone’s dropped their butts into it. Yummy. His pants are so ripped I can see one of his bollocks which is a little more that I've ever wanted to see of him (as much as I do love him). Casper and I went to school together; or rather we survived school. Not being rich, sporty, spunky or exceptionally bright you may not have noticed us quietly waiting for something, anything. Still waiting. Anyway, right next to me is my current ‘boyfriend’ but he's gonna be my ex soon so lets just stop right now eh. Boys are so not cracking up to be what I’d hoped for and if I cop any more duds they may well be the first thing I officially ‘give up’. Cool. On my right is our new flattie Ruby who smells terrible, looks terrible but tells me she's "alright". Her thumb is a blur across her cellphone – fuck knows who she texts, don't really give a flying fuck to be honest.
From my pocket I pull a scrap of paper torn from a book. It’s show and tell time:
“If I had a nickel for every piece of someone’s spit
I’ve ever scraped off myself
I’d buy another planet to live on.”
“Who?” asks Paul.
“Henry Rollins, of course,” I reply smugly, like he wrote it for me.
Casper has already begun writing it onto the wall with his fat graffiti pen and while the letters are all wobbly and child-like his voice is hard, old. “He’ll never get of this planet alive.”
Yeah, I know. Thanks.
Today is our 'day after'. We self-medicated ourselves through the shock, the invasion, and the accusations. Now - the vacuum - we just sit and think. For those of you lucky enough to have clear reasoned thoughts and a full support crew, this may seem bizarre, but when a flatmate swallows handfuls of carefully saved anti-depressants and dies alone in their bedroom - believe it or not - it can seem like a good idea. Don’t bother trying… no scratch that, you should try to understand.
Outside our broken front door prowls judgment, expectations and responsibility. The lions den from which we ran; only to end up here, a sanctuary of sorts, a prison of sorts. But still they got him. Or rather they got to him. Our friend Simon.
Knock Knock; Who's there? Dunno, we don't answer knocks, strangers knock.
Y'know, when everyday is exactly the same, from passing in to passing out and you just start to wonder why,
IT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA
Was that loud enough? Are you listening? Slice those words; slow, deep (in suicide-razor font) into soft white skin, a hasty post-it note, a reminder of the options available. Okay, maybe I’m just tired. Yeah. Definitely tired of playing my part in the game of this reality/fiction though. Y'know that tidal wave of human shit we're all wading through like good donkeys? Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go... beam me the fuck outta here. Paper rock scissors; c'mon c'mon, the record has almost ended and the last of the beer decanted…
Ha! This is where parallel stories in the movie merge into edge of seat tension. Will she? Will they? Are you listening? Can you shut the fuck up long enough? Well,
((Help. Please.))
Knock knock knock; you hear something? Nah, not me.
It's not for me.
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