Friday, March 31, 2006


David Shrigley is one of my favourite artists. I like art that has ideas, and his is full of funny ways of looking at things. It has been so spring-like this week I've got blisters all over my feet. It hurts not to limp. When it's sunny I wear dresses and heels, It makes me feel graceful and womanly. Men spring to attention, doors fly open, presentations become smoother. It's funny, I like it.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Upside-down land

I like this boutique a lot. And yes, it's actually upside down. They even have an upside-down chandalier. Turn down the sound & check out their site.
  • Viktor+Rolf
  • Goodbye for good

    At the airport we both cried. I would have cried harder if I'd known what I knew now. I never would have left. Never let his hand go. My big, strong best friend. Sweet smelling. That smell is in my mind. The T-shirt they sent me had been washed too well. No matter how hard I breathe, his smell is gone. I got the phone call on the other side of the world, just as dessert was being served. And many phone calls after that. His coffin was too small for him, they said. He was cremated barefoot. Scattered, gone. What about that time we went skinny-dipping in his parent's pool? His mum teasing him about me, never believing he was gay. Nights out, everyone always thought we were a couple. Matching outfits. Holding hands. Sleep overs, curled together whispering secrets into the night. He would brush my hair, do my make up. Driving with both our hands on the wheel after too much champagne. Young and stupid. But alive.

    Monday, March 27, 2006


    Ice Cream
    Making out with my boyfriend
    Thrift store shopping
    Ice cream
    Murder mysteries
    New Zealand beaches


    Public Transport
    8.30am meetings
    Canadian TV
    My dealers are all assholes


    "Miss, your dress looks beautiful, but be careful. If that drapey think around your neck gets caught, it will rip right off you and you'll finish the race naked."

    Of course I was the only one wearing a floaty dress and heels go-karting. That's just me. And the circumstances leading up to the race hadn't exactly been ideal.

    3 hours earlier, we'd had a big shot and fallen into a deep, deep sleep. We were supposed to leave the house at 5pm, to make it to a surprise party at 6pm. There were only a few people invited, so it was important we were on time. 5.55pm, the phone rang, waking us up. I flew into a panic, we ran out the door dressed in whatever we had fallen asleep in (I had been swanning around the house in a new, knee-length dress). First, we had to stop at the pharmacy for our done, in case we weren't back by 10pm when it shut. Of course the pharmacist took eternity. Everyone around us was in slow motion. Then we had to buy beer for the party and get to the race track, located somewhere industrial, a long way away. I ran along the side of the road hailing a cab and brushing my hair at the same time. It was horrible and stressful, I cursed drugs the whole way there.

    But we made it. My dress showed my track marks so I had to keep my coat on, but we made it.

    Friday, March 24, 2006

    Damn 129

    8.55am every icy morning, five to ten people wait for bus 55 at the stop nearest my appartment. There's one girl I recognize, but everyone else varies. A hospital is close by, and many of the people waiting are elderly, or wearing those pale blue nurses pants with big jackets and bleary eyes, they must be going home to bed, post-nightshift. All the people going to work are running late. Everyone is impatient. Anxiously checking the time, bus tickets ready in ungloved hands. Bus 55 is so irregular, often two or three will arrive in a row, and then none for 25 minutes. At last, way off on the horizen... a blurry little bus! Every one perks up, jostling to curb. Then the number of the bus comes into sight, at the last minute, just as stress is melting away. 129. One of the old men snorts. We all want bus 55, everyone always wants 55. I wonder how the 129 bus driver feels, turning excitement and relief to bitter disappointment where ever he goes. Does he even notice?

    Thursday, March 23, 2006

    Being blunt

    The needle I have at home is blunt, blunt, blunt. All the numbers up the side are rubbed off, and it has to be used with massive amounts of force for something so delicate. I should buy new ones, it's only $1 for four (and today is payday so I'm temporarily rich). But to buy new ones I have to go and ask the same man who gives me my methadone. Pierre. For some reason he really likes me, and cares a lot about my habit. He's very sweet, lanky with dark shaggy hair. He's seen me struggle through three reduction programs and now a maintenance in the past nine months. He thinks I'm doing well at the moment, and he's always so happy for me. If I ask him for a prevention pack his eyes will change, he'll pretend to be cool about it, but he'll be sad, or something. My own sadness is enough, I don't need anyone elses, so I'll just use the same needle till it breaks.

    Tuesday, March 21, 2006


    After a nice, decent sized shot, I get itchy all over. The bigger the shot, the itchier... You know what I mean. Who knows why?
    ...And, this really creeps me out... sometimes, if I'm really high, my eyes look in different directions. They don't focus. Does that happen to you too?

    Friday, March 17, 2006

    Why fruit sucks

    Okay, now it's eight days since pay day. Six to go. I have 15 cents and nothing in the fridge, or anywhere. There are peaches and bananas, expresso, chocolate milk and red bull at work. That's what I eat for breakfast and lunch... if I just got here at 8.30am they put on full breakfasts each morning, but at 7.30am (alarm-time), I prefer sleep to food. Now, this daily diet would probably be fine except for one thing. Every night, my boyfriend goes to get his methadone from the pharmacy and comes back with his jacket stuffed with treats. Chocolate bars, chips and lately, 'Fruit To Go' this dried fruit roll-up style thing. All the things available in the only camera-free aisle. One or two of these 'Fruit To Go' is good, but as a meal replacement thirty or so start to feel very strange in the stomach. Rumbling and cramping. I'm not used to having my belly do much of anything, frozen from opiates. Well that has all changed, big time.

    Thursday, March 16, 2006

    Walking home

    Another walking home post. Does that say something about how thrilling my life is? Anyway, I was. It was warmish and very peaceful, until I saw the flashing lights. Two blocks in every direction, police lights. And then I heard the roar of the punks.
    One sign was in English STOP POLICE BRUTALITY. I agree with that. The punks, fully pierced and extreme, about 200 of them, turned the corner right as I did. All of a sudden I was leading the protest. I'm not a protesting kind of person, I never have been, but I did agree with the cause, so whatever. Then someone yelled "fuck the police!" and then they all started chanting it, destroying everything in their path. Recycling boxes were on the side of the road, so they started to smash up the plastic boxes and throw the glass wine and beer bottles on the sidewalk. They were tipping over and jumping on signs, aggressive eyes looking for trouble. Then the leader, a guy with a loudspeaker, stopped in front of a fancy restaurant, "this is where the rich people go, the rich who run the city, who fuck you..." the crowd started to roar. The police had closed off the street but were hanging back at a blocks distance. I kept walking.

    Wednesday, March 15, 2006


    I was walking home yesterday and the whole city seemed painted grey. Concretized. As if concrete had just been poured over every smidgen of green or brown, and looking up, even the blue sky was blocked by skyscrapers. It's strange I can feel so comfortable in this. Me who grew up sleeping to the sound of the waves and getting stung by bees, barefoot in grass. Fossicking in the vege garden for strawberries and climbing trees for plums. Hiding away under bushes on cliffs over the sea.
    I always loved to hide. Anyway, I was walking through the grey, the rain spitting on my face and a girl was curled up sobbing in a doorway. A policeman was bending down, in her face. They spoke in French of course but I understood the gist. He wanted her to move on. She was detracting from the environment. Environment? She was literally sitting in trash, on cracked concrete, graffiti scrawled across broken glass. But she should be removed, because she's the thing no one wants to see.

    Tuesday, March 14, 2006

    Five minutes

    Whenever we call the dealer my boyfriend starts to vomit. Wrapped around the toilet bowl he passes the phone to me. I put in our order. Sometimes he can revive enough to meet the dealer, but often it's me who runs to the corner, doing up my jacket zipper as I go. Then I have to cook it. He tries to but he just keeps retching, big violent full body shakes. I move swiftly. This is the ritual, the process I love. I run to him, fit in my mouth, I can feel the warmth of the liquid through the plastic syringe. Like a relay I pass his to him in the bathroom and run back to the bed. Every particle of me wants what's in my hand more than anything. The ultimate decadence is to have a big shot and then a bowl of ice cream, sweet and melty, with chocolate chips. It's already prepared, waiting for me beside the bed. My vein is delicate and hard to find. At last it's done. A burst of itchyness attacks me. The itchier the better, it means the shot is strong. I disconnect. And I'm floating and blood-smeared with creamy sweetness on a spoon. My boyfriend vomits one last time after his shot. Now it's with relief. He joins me on the bed, I offer him my sticky bowl of ice cream. These are the moments that are worth everything.

    Monday, March 13, 2006


    I can still smell the flowers in my parents back yard. I was running barefoot as fast as my small, tanned legs could go. A puffy red floral skirt stiff around me. The tip of my tangled long brown hair in my mouth, wet with saliva. The plants in the garden towered above me. I was loved more than anything. Smart, clever, beautiful. Special. I knew without a doubt I was destined for great things. It was the day before my fifth birthday party. Excitement bubbled in my chest.

    just nothing

    Yesterday I did normal things for the first time in months. I met a friend for coffee, we ate key lime pie, went shopping. I tried on some clothes, bought an earring. We went to another café, tea this time and peanut butter/chocolate squares. Then a Dario Argento film, not as good as Suspiria and Opera, but it was okay. I was empty and very bland, as though thinking through a thick fog, my thoughts came slowly and blurred. But I put one sentence in front of another, as if learning to walk. And it got easier the more sentences I put behind me.

    Friday, March 10, 2006

    Second love

    I knew his name, I knew what he did. He had status. Bar-owner, player, heartbreaker and heart throb. I hate guys like that, their big puppy eyes, trying anything to get in your pants. "I've never felt like this before" etc. I'd seen him looking at me, I heard the way he said my name and I swore he'd never get me.

    The night it happened started out with a box of wine, followed by vodka and sake. I don't know how I got to the bar or how we started kissing. I do remember we were kissing so hard we fell on the floor. I bumped my head. His open relationship girlfriend stood watching angrily. I was oblivious. Then I was in the cab with him, swooping through the snow to his house. He was trying so hard to be charming, all big brown eyes and fluttering touches. It made me laugh. Girls actually get taken in by this? On his mattress, no sheets he stroked my cheek. "I can't believe we're here, having sex. I've dreamt about this moment since I first saw you. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen." "Oh, I'm not going to have sex with you," I reminded him.

    We saw each other a week later, he asked me if he could call me his girlfriend. He said he'd break off the open relationship. I was bored, freelancing in a small city. I hadn't made love in three months. He bought me a BMX. I said yes.

    I had no clue to how he would really make me feel, squished under his heel.

    Thursday, March 09, 2006

    Break up!

    He left last night. I caught him stealing again. $160 this time. He said he didn't tell me because I would have said no. But isn't that my option? As soon as he left I went out and bought treats. My favorite organic pear yoghurt, 4 grape licorice straps, molasses cookies, juice and three points. I had nightmares all night but there was something nice about sleeping on his side of the bed. For the past year and a half I haven't been alone except while travelling to and from work. No space. No me. That is all about to change, I'm back.

    Wednesday, March 08, 2006


    It's the worst day of the month. The day before payday. I have a new bank, maybe my pay will go in at midnight. Even if it does, all the dealers will be closed. Fuckers. I have to be so sneaky typing at work, I know if they want to they can watch my screen. Today has been insanely busy, and I'm so broke I have to eat the office food. Nectarines and oranges and lattés. That's what I live on. At home, I have condiments and limp carrots. Things have been better with my boyfriend, maybe some magic is still left. It's hard knowing when I always feel so numb. His touch feels very far away.

    Monday, March 06, 2006

    Empty office

    It's 7.30pm, I'm alone at the office, ears filled with music, as loud as it can get. Fill me up. I need to be filled up. Too empty. Veins open and pleading, eyes crying, blood from my heart dripping down my stomach, pooling in my belly button. Yes I'm all alone. I say goodnight to my boyfriend, I say goodmorning. But I'm not there. I'm not anywhere. See that shadow outside? maybe that's me. I'm lost, I can't even recognize myself right now. The work straps me in, safe. Keeps me on the road to somewhere. More pay, awards, promotions. I'm swimming, I'm drowning. If anyone really knew me they'd hate me. Take my keys and my title. Stop my pay. Wonder how I did it. Feel tricked.

    Sunday, March 05, 2006


    I love needles. That moment when the blood flowers, and the vein is mine. Connection. I'm real. As I push down, all my debts and worries turn to golden warmth, the tightest hug. Safe again.

    Saturday, March 04, 2006

    First love

    I'd seen him around, the blond boy with creamy, glowing skin, Armani sunglasses to hide his eyes. He was beautiful, angel-like, in ripped jeans and long sleeved shirts. In an awkward set-up I was invited to his house for dinner by his roommates. I remember the smell of spicy soup, not enough places to sit in the livingroom. He was in and out. Couldn't sit still, couldn't look at me. I liked to play back then, with a constant string of boyfriends, one would replace another. It was pre-heroin addiction, I was twenty and powerful with beauty. After dinner he came out with us, to my friend's party. We walked side by side into town, the roommates looked back at us giggling. I dug around, trying to get to know him. He was sweet and cute, a contrast to his bad boy image. When I suggested e, his eyes lit up. We went to score, our fingertips brushing as we walked. Waiting on the bench, he took my hand. My heart leapt. Once the drugs were in us, the party seemed too rowdy to talk. Conveniently, I lived two streets back, with a stack of nitrus beside my bed. It didn't take us long before we were there, on my soft white duvet, lying side by side. In each other's eyes. Both tall and slim with blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin we were like brother and sister. Drowning in love we lay naked and smooth-skinned, gasping through each kiss, magic sparkled around us. When he confided in me that he was a heroin addict, I already knew. I didn't know what a big deal it was going to be, or that even after we would break up, years later, it would still affect me. I was innocent and in love.

    Thursday, March 02, 2006

    Don't call me sweety

    My phone just rang and it was the dealer who slobbered all over me on Sunday night. (See three posts ago) He wanted to know why I hadn't rung. He said he was missing me. And he'd really liked the other night and he wanted it to happen again. I don't get it. Doesn't he realise I was pushing him off? How could he think I was into it when I kept saying "NO" and "take me home"? I wasn't playing hard to get. I just didn't want to. It makes me feel dirty and disgusting that he thinks I enjoyed that.


    I have to stop using on top of my methadone. The strange thing is, a part of me doesn't even want to use, It's just habit. I lie on my bed, shuffling, anxious. Bangs slicked to my forehead with sweat. And then finally I cave, it seems impossible but there's always a way. Just let that cheque bounce, pawn my ipod or my laptop, borrow it. $100 is happiness.

    Wednesday, March 01, 2006


    The first time I did heroin I was 18. My boyfriend at the time was into it. It was also my first needle. He shot me up lying down. Way too much. I sat up and puked all over him, then I ran to the bathroom and puked all over that. Then we went for a cool midnight walk, with me making a mess of every shopfront doorway. We ran to the top of a mountain with the wind in our hair. We lay down in the grass and kissed. We made love all night.