Chiang Mai, Anzac Day, 2008.April 25, 2008 at 5:31 pm | Posted in writing | 18 Comments
I’ld be lying if I said I cared but if it’s lies you want? He woke up on the floor of the hotel room and she was gone. Too many dead people, he thought. You should have answered your father’s letter, that was the missed opportunity, she said, pulling on her jeans, these chimeras have no source,
Elizabeth Genevieve Reece, Jillian Debra Carter, Wendy James, Regina West, Chrissie, Chrissie, where are you now that I know what you meant, that addiction is a comfort, a constant,
In my final year of high school we were set an assignment, to write a thousand words on any topic. I chose ‘mental illness’, arguing that it was merely a social construct. John Murray chose ‘honour’ and wrote about Anzac Day and the blood sacrifice from which our nation was born. John was killed in a car accident a few months later driving back from Duntroon, the nation’s most prestigious military academy, into which he had been accepted. I remember his astonishment when it was announced that we had both received perfect marks for our assignments. This is a true story but I have no idea why.
have no source, i am katoy, she whispered in his ear, you know this word?
Wendy James lived next door. Her ten year old son had died the previous year. The sheared end of a steel cable from a shark net had pierced his calf while he was surfing and held him just below the surface of the untameable ocean until he drowned. At the inquest the coroner said he had never seen such levels of lactic acid in the blood of one so young. Lactic acid is a measure of pain. Wendy was painting a huge surrealist canvas telling her entire life story. It was a work of tortured genius. Her husband from whom she had separated during the legal process hated me and I understood the ease of utility but I could not resist falling into her arms one night when we were drunk. The next day she said that it hurt and it never happened again.
perhaps you’ld care if you weren’t so drunk, brushing her fingertips over his cheek, words are not tears,
He woke up and she was gone. It’s Anzac Day again, he thought and we remember them. There is a knock on the door insistent and loud. He looks round the room but the drugs are all gone.