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    A Room Called Earth

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      “Was this his property?”

      “Yeah. He had heaps of siblings and his parents, and his parents’ parents, owned real estate around the country. Mainly in Western Australia. They were miners, and developers. They bought up heaps of land in the 1800s and then over the next couple of hundred years big industrial companies rented it, or bought it, or developed farms on it.

      “Dad’s dad was the only one of the siblings who was drawn to the Big Smoke. He loved Melbourne. He was an artist at heart and he adored being so close to the galleries, and to the theaters, and everything. His favorite place to eat was Pellegrini’s on Bourke Street. He liked the feeling of being in Europe without actually having to be in Europe.

      “He always sat in the kitchen area of the restaurant out the back. They’d make up a special dish for him: mushroom risotto with this truffle oil that they kept in a special cupboard or something. He’d have that, and a glass of white wine. He had friends in Parliament and they’d occasionally dine with him. I have a feeling that he might have been attracted to men. I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling. Anyway. He bought this property and cared for it before passing it onto Dad. And Dad was an only child, like me. So. He lived here, and now I do.”

      “Where’s your extended family?”

      “In different places.”

      “Do you ever see them?”

      “Not really.”

      “Not even for Christmas?”

      “No. They’re fine. I tried to do a couple of Christmases with them in Perth. I just can’t stand the sense of loss when they look at me. A person can only take so much pity, you know? Actually, it’s not even that. It just doesn’t feel like Christmas with them. Christmas for me is . . . being here.”

      “Right.”

      “Hmm.”

      “I can imagine that a lot of planning and consideration goes into this garden. It’s still got a mind of its own, though. I really like that it’s plant-centric rather than landscaping-centric. So many of the properties I work on are the opposite.”

      “Can I show you something?”

      “Sure.”

      “Do you have any coins?”

      “Ah, no. I don’t, like, carry loose change.”

      “That doesn’t matter. Follow me.”

      “Is there a bore water system?”

      “Yeah. And three rainwater tanks.”

      “Cool.”

      “Oh, wow! Thunder!”

      “Very dramatic.”

      “Yeah. Ok. Here she is.”

      “Whoa.”

      “Meet Aphrodite of Ephesus. She’s based on the fountain at Villa d’Este, in Italy. My parents went there for their anniversary one year and when they came back they had her built.”

      “Oh my god.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Or, oh my goddess, I should say.”

      “Yes.”

      “She looks so . . . fertile.”

      “I know.”

      “Hmm.”

      “Make a wish.”

      “Ok.”

      “Choose wisely. It’ll come true. She’s very powerful.”

      “Ok.”

      “Don’t tell me what it is.”

      “Ok.”

      “Wow, the moon.”

      “Cool.”

      “Done?”

      “Done.”

      “Follow me.”

      “Is this the same path that we took to get to the fountain?”

      “No.”

      “Oh. Ok.”

      47.

      I’m not sure how to go about introducing him to the house. I feel a strong desire to talk a lot and to explain everything, kind of like a tour guide. I also want to quickly run up to my room, and put all of my shit away, and make sure that all of the toilets are flushed, and that my bed is made, and that the most fragrant candles are lit, and that the best chandeliers are dimmed, and that doors to all of the rooms that I don’t want him to go into are shut. Yet I can’t control his experience of me. No matter how many sinks I clean, or lights I turn off, or eclectic pieces of furniture I attempt to elucidate the history of, his experience of me shall remain his.

      One time I went to MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) in Hobart, Tasmania. Forty percent of all the convicts that were sent to Australia were sent there, and, I swear, the rolling hills and dense, dark-green forests still hold their unsettled energy. Aboriginal Tasmanians are known as Palawa, and, up until recently, they were wrongly thought to have died out. Everywhere I went, and everyone I saw, or met, seemed to be in on some secret. I’d look up at houses, and blinds would abruptly shut or lights would turn off. Every night I dreamed of people in hoods traipsing underground walkways, and knocking in code, and tattooing each other in blood.

      The day I was going to MONA it was raining heavily, and I asked for an umbrella at the reception desk of my motel, and, without blinking, the woman with acrylic nails looked at me and said, “Sorry, love. We dun ’ave any a’those ’ere. You’ll just ’ave ta . . . make do.” I went outside, stood in the rain, looked back, and saw her watching me.

      Soaked, I took the MR-II ferry to the gallery. The attendants at the entrance—who were dressed in black from head to toe—handed me a headset, which was supposed to be my virtual tour guide. It was going to talk me through all of the pieces and installations across the gallery’s multiple levels. My parents had been to MONA many years prior to this and they’d talked about how amazing the virtual-tour-guide headsets were. Like, it was a main attraction for them. “There’re such interesting stories behind each of the pieces!” they’d said.

      I looked around at the other members of the public swarming the foyer and traversing the various spaces, ascending upward into the ether, all dutifully plugged into their complimentary devices, brows furrowed, moving quickly and purposefully.

      There were families and friends and couples. I’d never been to a gallery with so many attendees first thing in the morning in the middle of the week. I subsequently learned that the gallery’s owner, David Walsh, allows Tasmanians to visit the gallery for free.

      So I paid the admission fees and walked a few tentative steps, headset in hand, before abruptly turning around and running straight back to the attendants. “I want to do it naked,” I said, without meeting their gazes.

      Then I walked through the carefully designed spaces, and absorbed each of the artworks, and felt my feelings, and thought my thoughts. I saw waterfalls, and tombs, and mirrored hallways, and neon lights, and darkened corners. I watched a mechanical intestine digest food. It stank. I waited in a queue. I got lost. I didn’t know any of the artists’ names, or any of the pieces’ histories or narratives. I had an experience, not a lesson.

      And I don’t want to teach him about me, I want him to experience me.

      “I’d like to invite you to take your shoes off at the door for sensory reasons, as distinct from cleanliness reasons, if you want. You don’t have to, though.”

      “What do you mean by ‘sensory reasons’?”

      “I like how the marble feels underfoot. It’s cooling and grounding. Someone once told me that in Japan they treat home like bed, and that’s why they take their shoes off at the door because they’re, like, getting into bed. Not because they’re worried about dirt being dragged in or whatever. I don’t care about that so much. Anyway, do whatever you want.”

      “Oh, shit.”

      “What?”

      “I just put my hoodie down and . . . he appeared.”

      “Porkchop.”

      “He came out of nowhere.”

      “He teleports.”

      “He’s huge.”

      “Is he?”

      “Yep. That is one. Fat. Cat.”

      “Come here, honey? Hmm. He’s a bit unsure about you.”

      “I can respect that.”

      “Maybe he can sense your fat phobia.”

    &
    nbsp; “Maybe. He seems to like my jumper, though.”

      “Yeah, I wouldn’t take that as a compliment. He’s just asserting his alpha-male status.”

      “Again, I can respect that.”

      “This way.”

      “Your Christmas tree looks red.”

      “Yeah.”

      “It’s glowing.”

      “Hmm.”

      “There are so many presents?”

      “Yeah. I . . . accumulate them throughout the year.”

      “Right. Like . . . For yourself?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Cool.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Do you open them on Christmas morning and everything?”

      “Of course.”

      “Is that your parents?”

      “That’s my favorite photo of them. They’re at the Dades Valley Rose Festival in Morocco.”

      “Wow.”

      “Mum loved roses.”

      “You’re very different from her.”

      “I know.”

      “The shape of your face is kind of like your dad’s, maybe?”

      “Maybe.”

      “And he’s looking pretty suave in that linen suit with the cigarette in his hand and everything!”

      “Hmm.”

      “What did you do while they were away?”

      “I’d spend time with my nana. Or a friend from school would stay. I don’t know.”

      “Right.”

      “I might just take this spandex off.”

      “You’ve taken off an item of clothing at every location.”

      “Oh, that’s better.”

      “Porkchop is following us.”

      “We’re going into the kitchen now, so. Yeah.”

      “Right.”

      “Hmm.”

      “Do you have people over for dinner often? Or for parties?”

      “Not really.”

      “It’s so set up for that.”

      “My parents entertained a lot. Dad would create a menu and buy nibbles from the Prahran market. Olives, and breadsticks, and eggplant dip, and potato crisps, and dolmades. He and Mum would carefully select the group of people, and get all stressed out and tense, and inevitably it’d rain when they wanted to barbecue. People would sit over there and then move into the dining room and then into the lounge for, like, dessert and cognac. Socializing is such a circus.”

      “You keep the place so clean and tidy, though? Every house that I’ve been to that’s this clean is either a display home, or the people living in it are motivated to keep it clean because people might come over or ‘drop by’ any second.”

      “Yuck. Droppers-by freak me out. Cleaning is a sacred rite. Do you clean?”

      “Umm . . . sure.”

      “Lol.”

      “Ha.”

      “Can I ask you a favor?”

      “Sure.”

      “Could you cut this for me? I don’t like cutting bread.”

      “Definitely.”

      “I mean, I obviously cut bread for myself, like, all the time. I just . . . it’d be nice if you did it.”

      “Sure.”

      Oh, a moment just happened. I mean, lots of moments are happening. It’s just that I experienced such a powerful charge in our electromagnetic field as I gave him the bread knife. It’s amazing what asking for help can create. I didn’t intend for that to happen. It just emerged like electricity. Zing!

      I always seem to have something in my hand when moments like that occur. It’s like if I’m too focused on them happening, or too busy desperately trying to make them happen, or feverishly anticipating them happening, there’s no space for them to actually happen. I have to be in the middle of doing something else and feeling detached and then . . . there they are.

      I stopped breathing for a second, and I read somewhere that shortness of breath or holding our breath stops the flow of sexual energy. So I’m going to keep breathing. Sexual energy is just a wave in the ocean between us. No need to flail about. Breathe. Breathe.

      His belt brushed against my hip, and now I have a desire to rub myself all over him. I’m just going to quietly light the menorah with the shamash. We haven’t kissed, or even held each other except for when he carried me. Do I say something? No, no. Of course I don’t fucking say something! How absurd.

      The energy field that we create together is so full, and intimate. People must obsess over the physical act of sex when whatever this is, is lacking. It’s like sex becomes the outlet when we don’t feel connected to each other emotionally and energetically.

      I can also imagine how people would become completely fixated on sex if they were spending their days in jobs that they didn’t want to be doing, and in relationships that they didn’t want to be honest in. Sex would be a way of escaping, under the guise of meeting a need for comfort and closeness. Then the mere idea of sex, and of its release, would somehow make all other problems disappear for a minute—like a drug.

      I mean, my body wants sex. There are definitely vibrations and pulsations rippling across my nipples and clitoris, and goose bumps are rising on my arms and legs at random, and I want to lick and bite my lips to self-soothe.

      “Is he allowed to be up on the counter?”

      “Ah, yeah. It’s his counter.”

      “He’s staring at me.”

      “You’re new at the counter.”

      “True.”

      “He seems pretty chilled out, though. He’s stopped pacing, and when he sits still like that, and just watches, he’s holding space. He’s guarding us.”

      “Guarding you.”

      “Probably.”

      “You don’t toast it with the avocado in it?”

      “No, no. I put that in after. With the lettuce.”

      “Good idea.”

      “Yeah. Just a schmear of Vegemite?”

      “Just a schmear. Wow, your sandwich press is amazing.”

      “It was my nana’s.”

      “I love the shell shape.”

      “Yeah. It’s French. It does waffles, too.”

      “Do the handles get hot?”

      “No.”

      “And are these all right sliced like this?”

      “Yep.”

      “Is there anything else I can help with?”

      “No, just sit. The press is heating up. Did you want some juice?”

      “Yeah, thanks. In here?”

      “No, the next one. In the door.”

      “Cool—and the glasses? Sorry.”

      “That’s ok, in there.”

      “Oh, I could make you an alcoholic drink if you want?”

      “No, no. Juice is good.”

      “So, like, how have you . . . survived?”

      “Umm.”

      “I’m just . . . in awe. I think.”

      “Oh.”

      “Yeah.”

      “I don’t know. Grief is pretty trippy.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Is your nana still alive?”

      “No. She died four years ago. Transitioned. Whatever.”

      “Shit.”

      “Hmm.”

      “The house is so . . . quiet.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Does it unnerve you?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “That’s starting to smell pretty fucking good, isn’t it, Porkchop? I think I’m growing on him, don’t you think? He’s moved closer to me on the counter.”

      “Maybe. Oh, look at him. I always find it so funny being in the midst of a really intense conversation or in the throes of some really intense thoughts or feelings, and then I just look over and see . . . a cat. Like, this creature that is just blatantly witnessing me and my experiences. He has no shame or judgment. He just watches. I love it.”

      �
    ��Yeah.”

      “Do you live with pets?”

      “No. My parents have always had heaps of dogs, though. They have two now. Fred and Ginger. They’re poodles.”

      “Oh, I love poodles.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Are they big?”

      “Yeah. Big, dark, and curly haired.”

      “Like you.”

      “I guess.”

      “They must miss you.”

      “My parents?”

      “Since you moved out.”

      “I’m just across town.”

      “Yeah. Umm. It’s not about physical distance.”

      “Hmm.”

      “Maybe it’d be nice to eat our sandwiches in the library?”

      “The library. Sure.”

      “It’s just down that hallway. Second door on the left. I’ll meet you in there.”

      “Ok.”

      48.

      I always feel very self-conscious at this point in preparing a meal for someone. Like, when I’m finally assembling it all and plating it up. Most of the cooking process occurs without me having to think, and then I get to here, and I find myself questioning everything, and feeling pressure, and doubt, and second-guessing all of the steps I’ve taken, and hoping that it comes together in the way I imagined.

      I don’t follow recipes. I see them as propositions not rules. This attitude has driven almost every single one of my boyfriends nuts. Especially when the meals I’ve made haven’t turned out as expected. Or, more specifically, when the meals I’ve made haven’t turned out as they expected. I don’t usually have expectations, except for the fact that I want to be nourished and filled to the brim with life force and qi.

      I also require certain textures in my mouth, like iceberg lettuce, and peanut butter, and cold, crisp, dark chocolate, and spongy tofu, and thick avocado. Taste is of less importance. However, this has not been the case for most of my boyfriends or for my father. Taste was a status symbol for them. One boyfriend would roll mouthfuls of food around in his mouth and then spit them out if there was a touch too much turmeric, or pepper, or chili, or paprika, or not enough salt.

      Dad always peered over my shoulder as I was preparing meals and would offer a running commentary of what he saw, and what might better it, and what else I should use in it. The kitchen was his domain. He did most of the cooking and the market shopping, while occasionally Mum did the supermarket shopping. Every couple of weeks, she’d make her famous Vietnamese curry. It was the only dish she ever made, because it was the only dish that came out exactly the same every time.

     


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