“Right.”
“It’s one of those things, you know? Ships in the night.”
“Oh, ok.”
“I’m really happy to be sitting with you, though.”
“Ok.”
“You’re really beautiful.”
“Ok . . . Thank you.”
“You’re . . . unusual.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“Well. I’m glad we got your blatant need to gloss over awkward things with niceties out of the way.”
“Ha. Right.”
“What star sign are you?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Guess.”
“Give me a second. I need to sense your energy.”
“Ok.”
“Virgo?”
“No.”
“Aquarius?”
“No.”
“Leo?”
“Yep.”
“Ooh.”
“Ooh.”
“A natural-born leader.”
“Hmm.”
“You look a bit like a lion.”
“Yeah.”
“It explains the signet ring.”
“What?”
“It’s a lion, right?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s my family’s.”
“Do you know much about your star sign?”
“Just that I’m a Leo.”
“My what?”
“A natal chart. You go to an astrologer, and they tell you where all of the planets were and what they were up to when you were born. Different alignments mean different things. I love it.”
“I sense that.”
“Once I was talking with my dad about astrology and he was like, ‘Look, darling. I like to keep two feet on the ground.’ And I was like, yeah, well, the ground is on the earth, which is a planet, that’s part of a galaxy, which is in a universe, that’s a tiny fraction of the cosmos, and he said nothing. It’s just that we’re so deeply affected by the sun, and by the moon. I don’t see how all of the other planets could just be . . . ornamental.”
“I see what he means.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He just wants to focus on what’s in front of him. Not what’s out of his control.”
“Hmm.”
40.
He keeps sweeping this bit of hair back from his face, and as he does his signet ring glistens. His hands are so angular and large. They must make things. Although he’s definitely not a tradesman. He has very artistic, very delicate, very long, very visionary fingers. They don’t have a firm grasp on the world. It’s as if his soul was a bit unsure about whether or not it wanted to be here. I wonder if he was a cesarean baby, like me. My head was riding up Mum’s spine during the labor, so they knocked her out, and Dad freaked out before they tore me out.
His eyes are emerald green. Or maybe they’re hazel? They change. He’s very intense up close. More intense than at first glance. There are deep lines across his forehead when he raises his eyebrows, and more subtle ones around his mouth. If he spent a lot of time in the sun I don’t think he’d burn. I wonder what his ancestry is? Lion insignia could be associated with England, or Ethiopia, or Sweden, or Jerusalem.
“My mum wears kimonos.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Not, like, out, though.”
“I like the sound of your mum.”
“Yeah, she’s great. She’s . . . really great.”
“What are her kimonos like? What colors are they?”
“Maybe green or red.”
“Maybe green or red?”
“I’m color blind, so.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I struggle with red and green mainly.”
“Right. This one is red.”
“Yeah, I probably would’ve guessed that.”
“Hmm.”
“So. Anyway. What d’you do?”
“As in . . . what are my gifts and how am I using them to serve the world?”
“Sure.”
“Well, it’s a constant process of unfoldment.”
“I can imagine.”
“Right now, I’m spending a lot of time with myself because I’m drawn to doing that.”
“So . . . you’re not working?”
“I am. Just not in the traditional sense. It’s not like I clock on, and clock off, and have a salary, and a manager, and a lunch break for an allotted amount of time, five days a week.”
“So definitely not working then.”
“No. I guess not.”
“Is it?”
“Yep.”
“How?”
“You must be loaded. Like, your family must be supporting you or something. Or you’re on welfare. Or you must have savings.”
“Or maybe it’s just my divine right to do nothing when I’m called to do nothing, because it’s my world, too, you know?”
“You got an inheritance or something, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The universe ‘provided.’”
“In a way. In other ways, it didn’t.”
“I see.”
“What about you. What are your gifts and how are they serving the world?”
“I’m working as a draftsman at this architecture firm in the city. I’ve been there for too long.”
“Why?”
“I’m tired of working for other people. I want to design what I want to design, you know? I might just get another beer. Do you want another water?”
“Ok? Thanks.”
“Or maybe we can move on? Do you want to sit somewhere else, or . . . ?”
“Ok, so, the topic of work just completely spun you out.”
“What? No, it didn’t. I’m just . . . thirsty.”
“Right.”
“I’ll just go get that beer and be right back.”
“Ok.”
We must have been sitting on these cement steps in between these two pot plants for a while now. One of the pots is holding a struggling fern, and the other is filled with dirt, and cigarette butts, and a half-drunk bottle of beer. A breeze has just rolled in, although it’s still pretty steamy. The storm mustn’t be too far off. I wonder how close we are to the lunar eclipse. I have no idea what time it is, and I can’t see the moon. I haven’t seen it all night. The house has emptied out a bit, and that girl has moved on. They’re playing acoustic music.
I might reapply my lipstick. I can’t actually see my face or lips, so I’m going to go by feel and allow the mental effort that that requires to calm and center me. There. I might fluff my hair with my hands, too. When I was younger, I was obsessed with fluffing my hair with my hands, and the girls at school nicknamed me Fluffy.
I’m going to stretch my shoulders and roll my neck around. No cracks, which is good. I read somewhere that bones cracking indicates dryness and rigidity in the body. So let’s channel the feeling of being fluid and supple. Yes, all of my muscles are juicy filet mignons and my bones are light, and strong, and melodic, like wind chimes. I’m redoing the positioning of my legs and I’ve pulled the spandex skirt down a touch. My legs are sticky. I’ve rolled my ankles around, and, we’re back.
“That was a big sigh.”
“Was it?”
“Something troubling you?”
“No. Just . . . existing.”
“Difficult?”
“No, I’m just . . . aware of it.”
“And it didn’t, by the way.”
“What didn’t? Do what?”
“When you asked me about work. It didn’t spin me out. Or maybe it did. I was thinking about it the ent
ire time as I was going to get the beer and I talked myself into this place where I was pretty sure that it had had no effect on me. Although, now, saying it out loud, I’m pretty sure that it did.”
“Right.”
“In fact, I’m certain.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“My favorite.”
“So I studied architecture after school. I didn’t get into Melbourne University so I went to Sydney. It was a huge deal. A massive move. Blah, blah, blah. I met a girl pretty quickly and that helped. We lived in a share house together. We were going through a lot of the same shit. I don’t think I could’ve gotten as far as I did without her. I quit a couple of years in. Getting an architecture degree, and your master’s on top of that takes, like, five years. More, even. She continued and I didn’t. I came back to Melbourne. We broke up. That was, like, three or four years ago. Since then I’ve been here, working under this guy in the city. Everyone tells me that I’m lucky to even have this position given I didn’t finish uni.
“My ex is now working for this huge architecture firm in Sydney. She’s one of the only people in our year that got in. I’m not sure how to say this diplomatically . . . basically, accomplishment was like a drug for her. It’s why I loved her, I guess. She got off on the status that came with ‘making her way up’ or whatever. So when I bailed on the course, you know. Our being together didn’t add up anymore.
“There was also this other super-hungry and high-achieving guy in the course who was constantly vying for her attention. He’d oi me out in front her, and in front of our friends, and during class, and in the fucking hallways before lectures. I almost fucking killed him once. I went to punch him and then pretended like I was joking. Seriously, though. I could’ve fucking killed him. Anyway. She seemed to empathize with me, and she hated on him, too, and we’d talk about what a douche he was.
“Then I heard that they were together and it fucking sucked. I mean, I don’t care. It’s just sad how predictable people are. They end up right where they start. I thought she’d kind of grow out of her obsession with hierarchy, and status. Like, once she progressed further along, she’d just want to express herself. I don’t know.”
“Is that what you want? To express yourself?”
“Definitely. Although I’m the guy who’s ‘lucky’ to be working under this fucking top-bun of an architect. He literally wears a top bun. I’m prone to them, on occasion, too. Usually when I’m exercising. It’s just that wearing a top bun is that guy’s fucking religion. He’s the younger brother of one of my mates. He did this epic presentation project thing in his final year at Melbourne, which got picked up by some law firm in the city and became their foyer. He got all of this media attention and interest from investors. So he started his own firm. Sorry, studio. Collective. Whatever. I don’t even know what it is. He’s two years younger than me. He’s all right. It’s just that people who receive copious amounts of validation freak me out.
“I’m the guy who had to move back in with his parents when he couldn’t handle shit. It was a fucking disaster. I fucking hated living with them again. I was in such a bad state. While I was trying to find a position in an architecture firm somewhere—with all of my zero credentials—I started working at this café. Man. I don’t know how people do it. I started going out with a girl who worked there. She was one of those people who’s super-content working in the service industry. She loved it and would just save, and go traveling, and save, and go traveling. She didn’t want anything more. She was, like, the total opposite of Sarah. My ex-girlfriend in Sydney.
“She was really into drugs, too. Traveling and drugs. They were the extent of her aspirations, and it was a relief for a while. Then it became a dead end. I put on so much fucking weight. Oh, man. It was the worst. I just ate and worked at this café and got rejection letters on a daily basis. I smoked like a chimney.
“My parents would look at me every morning and be like: Ahh, eggs this morning, mate? Bit of a sit-down and a chat, mate? And I’d be like, gah, NO DAD! I was fifteen again. I started to wonder why I had left Sydney. It just didn’t feel right, you know? I could never meet the criteria. I felt trapped. It seemed so at odds with what I knew to be the reality of working in the industry, you know? Not that I knew. I could just sense that it wouldn’t help beyond giving me a piece of paper. It seemed like such a waste of time. I can’t believe the lengths people go to for fucking pieces of paper.”
“So what do you do working for top-bun?”
“He’s really into redo’s for cafés and bars, which is super–de rigueur. Lots of painted bricks and communal tables. I think he wants to work on art galleries eventually. He occasionally gets private jobs. Like, private houses. They’re good money. Not that he needs it. I’m always doing the drawings for him. Technically, I’m a draftsman not an architect. Although, I like doing shit by hand. I’m an old-fashioned guy. I can do designs in my head. I don’t need to draw stuff up. I get a feel for things and I can piece them together. That’s not on-trend, though. And it’s definitely not what they’re lecturing down at Melbourne Uni. Oh, no. You’ve gotta have all those pieces of paper flying about down at Melbourne Uni.
“The irony being that this guy, top-bun, is such a cretin. He studies the design sensibilities of other cultures and brings them here and knows how to make them appear is if they were, like, his own divine inspiration. He’s a good businessman, I guess. It’s just ironic that he sees himself moving into the art world: the crux of innovation and originality. Which he, certainly, is not.
“I don’t know. I just get tired of drawing up shit that he ultimately doesn’t want to be doing. He’s so over bars and cafés, and yet he keeps taking them on because he likes the street cred that they give him. It’s hard working for someone who wishes that something else was happening for him. He’s nice and he appreciates what I do. I’ve made suggestions outside of what he’s gotten me to draw up and he’s always incorporated them. It just doesn’t feel right. I need to go out on my own to do what I want to do, and there’s no way that’s going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Capital.”
“Oh. So. If you could have your way what would you be working on?”
“Houses. I’d like to work on communal-housing projects. I’m really into figuring out environmentally friendly ways of constructing something that allows for lots of natural light, and privacy, and heaps of garden, and vegetation. In, like, unexpected places. Also, like, structures that are relatively inexpensive to construct and economic in terms of their use of materials. Umm. You know those apartment blocks with courtyards in the middle? They’re kind of sprinkled throughout the city, and in Europe? This city totally needs more of those. Or at least the suburbs do. They create this combination of harmony, and community, and quiet that really appeals to me. The world needs more of that. Especially the world’s cities. The only problem is that cities are all about upward mobility, and building higher, on less. So, yeah. I’m interested in how people can live, and rest, and work, and operate harmoniously and environmentally. How they can feel safe, and held, while living in a densely populated area. There’s this architect in New Zealand who really homes in on that. I love his work. Top-bun has zero interest, though. So. I’m not exactly serving the world with my gifts. I’m serving fucking . . . top-bun.”
“You’re just accumulating knowledge.”
“Maybe. There’s just so much responsibility in starting something up. I don’t know if I can be fucked.”
“There’s a lot of responsibility serving top-bun, too.”
“True.”
“I have a belief that we, like, choose our problems. When I’m considering a challenge, or a change, it’s usually on the back of wanting new problems. Maybe when you reach the point of wanting new problems, you’ll be ready.”
“Hmm.”
“You drank that be
er pretty quickly.”
“I did.”
41.
Moving on from here seems logical, although I don’t know how to go about it. I’m not sure what I want or what direction I want to go in. A therapist once told me that when it comes to communicating with men, when I’m not sure what to say, to say nothing. I really liked the idea of this. It seemed so logical. However, there have been occasions where I’ve taken what she said so literally that it’s become dangerous, and absurd. Like, I’ve heard myself accepting that a man just needs to yell at me, and at life, in order to process his feelings, because apparently men struggle in the expressing-feelings-and-being-vulnerable department, and as a woman choosing to be in a relationship with a man, it must then be my responsibility to take him, and his inherently violent and egotistical nature, on.
I must be still, and silent, and know god whenever he’s hollering, and writhing, and pacing the well-worked neural pathway from anger to brutality and back again, over, and over, because he knows nothing else, and he isn’t about to stop, or learn how to change, without my help.
So rather than stating what I want directly, or doing what I want, when I want, I shall say very little, and go to the gym regularly, and meditate when stuck in traffic, and gather my thoughts before walking through the front door, and cry in the bathtub, because if I didn’t—and if I said and did what I wanted without restraint—the man in my life wouldn’t be able to comprehend it.
Because I’m supposed to be shy yet chatty, needy yet reserved, bitchy yet unassuming, emotional yet quiet, and, above all, the best at everything, across the board, at all times, always. And I’m supposed to have complete, sovereign, autonomous rule over my life. Because I do, and I am partly responsible for this. All of it. The silences, and the inertia, and the resentment, and the drama—and I must live with that.
Besides. I don’t want to overload a guy with my capacity for clarity and detachment because when I’m not around I can’t even expect him to clearly state that, let alone act like, he’s the co-creator of a sacred space with me. He’s not going to know the power or the value of that until he has destroyed it, which is a process that I’m inevitably going to have to live through, and be patient with, because I love him dearly, and frighteningly, and unconditionally, and fuck my life godfuckingdammit.