Mingus on the record player – I don’t know what the name of the album is or what he’s on about, but it feels right to write to
I am somewhere between love and cry. Maybe they are the same thing, I don’t know. I have realised over the last few months that I know less and less than I ever thought I did.
Especially about love. I’ve learnt a lot about crying though.
Mars and I finished up with each other 12 months ago today. I spent almost twice as long in my life with him than without.
I’m sitting in my studio in Ballarat writing this – I have been here, “on” since about 9.30 this morning. It’s almost 3.30. I have drawn and printed and fussed and cleaned and eaten and fussed and just now I gave myself a moment to stop and write and have a little cry.
Just as the first stinging tear was melting out of my lower eyelashes, Arky bing bonged the front door and swept in , bubbling on about $400 street lamps, fake plants and not having any furniture to put in her office, which is in the back room of our studio space.
I hope she didn’t see the moisture. I’m pretty good at hiding.
12 months is a blink or a bloody long time – depends on what you’re waiting or living for, or hoping will never end.
12 months is a good stint to explore and be silly and do dumb shit and kiss people you thought about kissing but wouldn’t in the past because you were too jaded and the thought of having to hide it or explain it was just too fucking exhausting to contemplate.
In 12 months I have drunk rather a lot of wine, certainly more than I should have. I have smoked cigarettes most days in the last 9 months after a good 4 years of not smoking at all.
I have ruined my makeup on at least one day each week for the last 12 months.
I have worried about Mars daily for the first 3 or so months.
I have yelled at Mars 3 times, which is 3 times more than I have yelled at him in the past 10 years or more
I have not actually missed being with him or in a relationship for a single second.
I have realised that what I thought was love, was in fact dependence, and that I may not have ever been truly known or loved before, and that makes me cry more than all of the things.
I have always been highly sceptical about life changes that occur on a particular date, unless of course you are talking about death or loss of function, but making changes to a more positive style of life is not something you can change on a single day. As in “And that was the day I gave up smoking and my life changed forever. I have since given up alcohol, wheat, sugar and potatoes. Fruit is evil and I now subsist, entirely happily, on beetroots and kale. It’s been 3 days and I feel FANTASTIC” Fuck right off, after you have written an article for a women’s health magazine, published an E book and signed a deal to write a cook book aimed at fat suburban mums with massive guilt complexes, and who will believe your bullshit – and then become even more depressed when they fail to make it to day 4.