Post 1

Standing, whiskey bottle in one hand, half smoked gauloises in the other, on my balcony, on a chair, with my breasts as bare as my rage.

Fuck you. You fucking French men. With your wives.

Fuck you. The love of my life for six years. For every cheating lying way you stole from me.

Fuck what has become and could have been. And never was. And what you thought I should have been.

I am the crazy woman. Who is treated for fits of nervosa. Whose mother pleads to see it his way. To calm it down and be pretty.

Bare breasted. Big headed. Loud mouthed and politically looped up the opinionated tube.

A little too loud. A little too… what the kids like to call… unique.

The years have been fun, since I wrote about John and Yoko intertwined.

We loved. God, how we loved. Dancing with Buda on her streets of Pest. Running across granites of lighting as we camped with noodles and wine. Closing off our friends. For just us. Until the whole continent couldn’t hold us. So we escaped, with our adventure elsewhere.

God, how we loved. While I sobbed on empty couches over Love Stories while he roamed the Outback with a pick and a camel. We clung. We threw half frozen mince at hungry walls. We were never certain. And spent three hours trying to do a grocery shop.

We found our feet. One by one by two steps back one.

I worked. And worked. And interviewed and worked and heaved along train lines to new places to answer your questions and calls and demands. And looked forward to years ahead when I would be home.

And you stressed. And counted. And hated.

And he died. Far away. We can never bring him back. And I am sorry that you were not there. I could not get the plane to fly any faster. And I tried. And my heart broke that you were here, in the darkness, in so much pain, and I could do nothing. I could always do something. But that night… Far away in a lighter time, I could do nothing.

And so you hated. And you raged. And you cheated. And you turned from me. And I interviewed. And I worked. And I applied after applying for an application to apply. I applied.

And you turned away.

And I realised. So I asked. And you denied. You accused. So I worked. I

Paid.

It got twisted. But not like John and Yoko.

It got dirty. And raging. And beating, my fists, on your chest, for answers. Any answers. I would be sober. I would be drunk. I would be anything you wanted, if you could just give me answers.

But you denied. And you hated. Me. Because, I hadn’t been there, when you were in the dark and I was so many time zones away, in the light.

And so we broke.   

In realisation. After too many screams while neighbours covered their heads with their 3am pillows. We gave up on us.

And we shook hands. Like worthy opponents after a satisfactory duel. Ready to sheath our weapons and walk away.

Until you realised. What you had done. And you said you had changed your mind. Could we go back. To couches and crying and Love Story and groceries and remembering why why why.

But I couldn’t I’d moved on I’d met old friends I’d shaken hands. You said we’d shaken hands.

So I put you on a plane. And I cried like the world. Of Six Years Of Age. Had ended. In front of my eyes. In front of the Qantas gate. At 7am. As people lifted up for work. And you walked down a gang plank with your green oversized backpack of years of weight. And I went back. To a world I never knew.

And I moved on.

So now here I was. Raging. With my cheap whiskey. And a man I thought I knew. Until he kissed me while his wife’s back was turned. And I raged. Like I used to do. And I liked the rage.

And I liked the words. Like wine they are seducing my fingers into telling. Tales. I have long since known but forgotten the rhythm. And so I type. Like old days.

And I welcome me back.

Though I still don’t know why I did it topless.