drrrrrrrugs

I used to believe in magic, crouched, in the garden, looking for fairys. Hand in hand with my invisible twin. Spending hours upon hours building bicycles for tooth fairys. That feeling on Christmas morning, the moment of waking up, of remembering. Of smelling Santa in the air.

Now I believe again. I've found my gate to la la land. But everyone that knows looks at me with sad eyes, and wants to save me. I wish I could lock myself in, bolt the gates behind me.

Flutter

Today was finished by 9.30 this morning. Trudding to work, boots scuffing sidewalk as the wet leather slouched lower. Grey streaks on grey sky. Machinary shrieked and screamed as roadworkers fixed the same piece of road they've been working on for a year and a half. And there was the end of my day, on the sidewalk, in my path. It looked like a furry thing at first, maybe a little mouse, soft and round. It was a tiny creature, with a full, smooth breast, a small bird, exquisitely beautiful, with delicate angular feet and soft speckled feathers, white flecks on black. I wanted to pick it up and hold it in my hand. It was so perfect, and whole. Not a scratch, or a ruffled feather. Lying on its back, a strange way for a bird to sleep.

Coming back from the methadone clinic, a month or so ago, I saw a different kind of bird, a sparrow, on the sidewalk in front of me. This one, was very much alive, struggling with something in its beak. This something resembled the biggest, juiciest slug a small bird could imagine. It was difficult for it to get a good grip, but the plain brown sparrow (cute, but plain), was determined. It made me sad. Its worm was bright, bright orange. They call them twisties, in NZ, and cheezies here. Those fat, cheeze puff chips that are just chemicals and dye. That's what it was taking home to its babies.

Back then

My great grandmother escaped to New Zealand from an abusive husband. A drunk. They were living in Ireland when she decided she couldn't take it anymore. It had to be a tricky, sneaky exit with her 13 children, trying to make it to that big boat on time, without the father's knowledge. They were at the end of the wharf when they saw him coming, my great grandmother pushing her children in front of her, climbing the plank to the ship. He was running, shouting, shaking with anger. But there on the wharf, lived a friendly, slippery patch of wood. Or maybe it was nothing at all. But he slipped, and broke his leg. And the family never looked back. Or they did, and cried.

Click Clack

There's something about this that's really nice. It's so clean. And hypnotic. Tell me, which ad works more on you? Which car would you prefer to buy?

HATE

Yaaaaa! I managed to upload a video. Yay for me. This is a car ad I love. It breaks all the silly rules of car advertising, mainly product shot, after product shot, after glossy product shot. Enjoy.

Brrr

My dose of methadone has been upped to 80mgs from 65. I slept all weekend. And yesterday, for the first time in months, I didn't score. This morning, before work, I couldn't risk taking my dose. I'd be fighting to stay awake, and I have some presentations, and a lot of work to get done today. But fuck I'm jittery, without it. It's like having 5 cups of coffee or a too-big shot of coke. My stomach is swimming with nerves. My hands fluttering. My bones are cold, my dress is stuck to me with sweat. I'm drinking chamomile tea, but it's not helping. God I want to run away and inject some warm yellow heroin, sunshine into my veins. Calm, warmth. Okayness.

chapter 2

It's been three days now, since IT happened. Working with him in private, nothing seems to have changed. Today, he joked that he wants to do the same drugs I do, so he can come up with fucked up ideas like mine... but that has been it. I think, I hope it's okay. Maybe it will come back to haunt me in a few months, but with distance and time, I can deny anything. Thanks for all your ideas.

Does anyone know how I can upload an mpeg? I couldn't find any info in the blogger help. Maybe we just can't with blogger... I had an ad I wanted to show you. It's pretty special. Instead, here's something interesting. It's the ceiling of a smoking room. I have no idea who did it, or where it's from.

Caught

I was working with a freelance art director yesterday, we have a huge campaign to create. He's crazy and fun, 50, but doesn't feel like it at all. He's always very friendly, very french, kissing my cheeks, hugging me, squeezing my hands.

Suddenly a good idea struck. I burbled it out, trying to speak as fast as my mind was turning. He laughed and gave me a high five. My sleeve rode up. "What's THAT" he teased, laughing and pointing at my arm. There was my fresh trackmark, I tried to twist it out of view. But it was obvious. His face quickly turned serious and he started to stammer as he realised what he saw. I turned hot, then cold. I couldn't say anything. I looked at my hands. This is it, I thought. It was a strange moment. The truth hung in the air between us. He tried to fill the silence, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. Now I'm worried about you. Want a band-aid? Was it good? Do you need to be alone now? This is awkward. Are you okay? Fuck, now I can't think." He swerved from humour to seriousness and back, unsure how to react. "Uh... I'm okay... lets talk about it later," I said, colleagues were near by, I didn't want to make a scene. I forced the hot tears down and swallowed and started breathing again. Somehow, we went back to brainstorming, trying to pretend we weren't both shocked and stiff. But as I gazed out of the window I realized that my future could go in any direction now. My career is out of my hands.

I don't know what drug he thinks I use. He knows I work hard and I'm good at my job. But will he try and save me? If he talks to my boss I'm fucked. Should I say I was just playing on the weekend? Should I admit an addiction? I'm a terrible liar. And if he catches me lying it will just reinforce the idea that now I can't be trusted. I wish I could see into his head. He's such a nice guy, but he's like a big kid, impulsive, friendly... If he lets my secret slip, it will be terrible. It's tempting, juicy gossip because it's so shocking. I'm probably the last person anyone at work would suspect of being a 'junky'. Fuck. I know he smokes weed, maybe takes acid. But shooting drugs? And heroin in particular. It's so taboo.

Should I talk to him about it, or should I act like nothing happened? Advice please. How would you react if you discovered a colleague had trackmarks? I just want him to know I'm still me.

Down deep

The pearl on my necklace has pealed, it's just cream coloured plastic now. I slunk around the Brian Jungen exhibition. It was very crowded, and I don't like places like that. The work was amazing. Especially the three enormous 'skeletons' hung from the ceiling. Made from generic white plastic chairs. Made up as he went along. Very prehistoric, sea monsterish. Here's a picture of one:


Ever since I was young I've had a deep fascination with sea monsters. The kind with the long neck, often seen on old maps. The kind that were around when mermaids were. I love the idea of sailing out so far, no land in sight, miles and miles and miles below you. Diving off, treading water, free and vulnerable. Like an offering. Anything could swoop up from the depths and whisk you away to another world.

Flying

I'm crazy for not having done it already. In my dreams I love it. Soon, I have to learn to hang glide. Imagine if I died tomorrow? I think all of you should too.





Amazing photos by Jan Von Holleben.

Bad! Bad!

I used to fantasize about my friends' fathers. And in the height of shame and secrecy, about my own. The more wrong I knew the feelings were, the more they excited me. That was from my early childhood on. My instincts were primed from as young as I can remember, I'd sneak away and rub my panties. I'd use my baby knife, small and dull, with a yellow plastic handle, rubbing with the flat side. Because I'd use it for that, I stopped eating with it, worried it was dirty.

I was about 5 when I was caught with my younger cousin, 3. I think we were naked, in bed. Not really sure what we were doing, just writhing. But I knew it was bad when his mother, a frighteningly religious woman, burst in, whipping the bed clothes off us, and hauling him out to scrub him down or something. However, it was usually girls that I'd play sex with, my parents too wary of boys to leave me alone with them, unless they were family.

That cousin is married now, to a religious girl. He was staunchly no-sex before marriage, with squeaky clean language and regular church attendance. His mother was mad because he dated without a chaperone, but hey, everyone rebels somehow.

The only way I can understand religion is to compare it to science. People believe in it as blindly as I believe in something that is "scientifically proven." Strange.

Trying to fall in love

It was 2000. Every Tuesday night you could find me at the same tiny, grimy bar, thick with smoke. Everyone wore black and the music was hard. It was one of those places, you open the door and everyone turns. They look you up and down, form an opinion and go back to their $2 pint (the reason we were all there). From my booth I had a good view of someone interesting. A punk. Not the kind of guy I usually like. But there was something about him. He was very beautiful, but somehow extremely masculine too. His clothes were very tailored, formal, dark. I was so blonde then, I shone. I caught his eye and looked down blushing. Looked back, held his gaze, not smiling, filling my eyes with lust. It was like a game back then. I had perfected it long before I met him. He came over right away. Bought me drink, tried to flirt. What do you think of the art? I asked, gesturing at the walls full of amateur paintings. They were all similar, bad perspective, ugly colours, actually painful to look at. "Oh wow I love them. I love art." Inwardly, I cringed. "I hate them," I said. "Yeah, actually they're pretty shitty," he agreed.
Lying on my bed, we swapped stories and shared a joint. "Did you know that cobwebs contain hemoglobin?" I asked. "And that's what hemophyliacs lack. So if you're with a hemophillac, and they cut themselves, you can stop them bleeding by putting cobwebs on the wound." I was fascinated with this idea. "Imagine, someone walks in on someone else stuffing cobwebs into a bloody wound... it would look so satanic, so suspicious." The punk boy was laughing his head off. Then he paused, "what's a hemo..um..philiac?" Oh fuck, why hadn't he asked me at the beginning of the conversation? I considered kicking him out. But I was drunk, and visually he was perfect. Naked he was glorious. He kissed my breasts... and came on my tummy. "Can I have your number?" He asked as I walked him to the door. "No."
I saw him a few weeks later, on the sidewalk outside my house. "Please give me another chance, I don't usually come like that, I was nervous." "No." The sex? was the least of it.
Tuesdays strung together all the same back then. That was just the way they were.

la

Cookie ice cream for dinner last night. Neopolitan for breakfast. Vanilla for lunch. It's too hot for much else. My fridge was broken for a couple of days. It sounded like it was screaming. But this morning I tested it, and it had quietened down. Maybe because I did the dishes. The kitchen was getting a bit much. The cat is hyper, biting my feet hourly throughout the night. His fleas are gone. It was a simple flea collar that did it. For some reason I thought the fleas just all relocated onto the tail (obviously an urban myth). The flea bus is finally out of service. Anyway ta ta I'm going home now, I feel like sorbet tonight.

mm

Sticky

Strong dreams stain my days. Chest tight with fear. Over and over, sexual and dark, violent, bloody. Thick and magical. I'm scared. I want pastel dreams. I want a pastel life.

bigs

For the larger sized woman. Maybe the one who eats the snacks below.

I remember one day at highschool my drink bottle leaked in my school bag, I pulled out the empty bottle of juice puzzled. There was no wetness. A box of tampons at the bottom of my bag had soaked up everything. They were huge and swollen and orange. My books were all dry.