Mélange

I still despise routine, but in my current ataxia, certain rhythmic rituals are extraordinarily comforting. 12.07 a.m. A swirl of gin, two slices of kalamansi, and a splash of tonic on the rocks. No music, except the delicate clang of ice against glass.

The dogs two floors down barked pointlessly at the quiet moon. The last goldfish had cartwheeled itself; dead. I looked at it with slight pity, god-like in my compassionate indifference. You should clean it up, scoop it out, throw it away. But I left it there, doing its death curtsey as it bobbed about in the tank. You're definitely shit-faced when you think that a dead goldfish is a grand symbol, Jean.

I was quietly amused. Swigged my gin. Walked to the balcony; a balmy breeze gave wings to the night. Nightwatch―these are the closed-fisted, indulgent hours of my day, where I'm only required to breathe. No false pretense, no drama, no antics, no PR drivel. My thoughts are safe with me. I inhaled: the night-air whiffed of paganism, of old gods with their angry mugs and hangovers and genitals, presiding over this mortal mess with pitchforked passion.

I'm jobless, loveless, clueless. So why this irrepressible urge to―laugh?

Memories jostled and clashed, the drunken Titans of my mind. I was missing something―like a phantom arm, a surpressed amputee―and I kept leafing through my thoughts like a dog-eared brochure, looking for symbols and warning signs and meaning. Nothing turned up. Jetsam. I was an alcoholic wasteland.

Get a job. Bite the bullet. Help your folks. Your desperate disparity is uniformed. You're different because you're the same. Get off the fucking high-horse. Get real. La vie bohemé your way to the bank, baby, and then you can drink your absinthe and think vulgar, moneyless thoughts. This is hell du jour.

The moon, an ancient ballerina, glided across the sky. The clouds looked like discarded tu-tus, rumpled beyond care, and I kept wishing there was someone I could point this out to. Someone here, looking at my fitful tide, knowing that I could not help but to recede, but understanding that the washed-up debris is my only constant, my only honesty.

It couldn't be you, could it, you with your nectarine-flavoured promises. I've come so close to ripping my face off for you, to change, to engineer myself, to become your Lego lover, one which you could smash down and rebuild. Yet there is nothing from you except that weary masculinity, that wimpish want for love, shared by generations of half-witted romantics before. There is nothing from you. Your distance is like weightless helium, floating my sadness.

Nor could it be you―your smile has the ghost of Mona Lisa, lipped with enigma. Your kindness is a profile of an ancient statue, frozen in place, a captive of the moment, something deliberate, rather than instinctive. You encourage my imagination, yet our occasional intimacy is a crosspiece that barely supports my heart's gravid structure. You sail through my veins, a classy drug, and you have no idea how I despise myself for succumbing.

Nor you, I think. You are so heartbreakingly young―your earnestness has made you fragile. I think of myself as a rain-soaked parcel, turning up unnamed and muddied at your doorstep. My crass mystery, brown-papered, soiled and wrongly postaged, become your one grand draw. I've told you, warned you. Please stay away. The epilogue was inked despite the forgotten address: dear heart, please keep your bubble-wrapped security and not break itself all over my valueless void.

How kind my men have been to me. I'm so damned unpretty―all jagged edges, a hollowed-heart―but it seems I facilitate a sort of vertigo around men, a blackout, and they appear to like it. They ignore my past, trepass my present, and try in their gentle ways to augment a probable future. I sit like a lady-in-waiting―no, dear fools, I can never be your princess―and I listen. Songs strummed on old guitars. Excuses tossed out like faded couture pieces. Token pledges. Heartbroken goodbyes. Sheepish apologies. See you soon. How much love can one heart take? My arteries are clogged. I'm sorry.

My drink was done. Reality lapsed. Poetry came. Auden said he had never seen a wild thing felt sorry for itself. He obviously does not know me. Inward smirk. You think you're so smart. What did E say―you're a fucking elitist. Heyho, what a bitch. I walked past my father's room, and there he was, splayed on the mattress, a day-blind star, waiting for light. I felt the instinctive love of shared blood and tangled ties, a history that was born the day the doctor forceped me into this world. Who knew? From the warm womb to the voracious vacuum of this life. How we suffer. I slipped into the room and drew the curtains a little tighter. His snores traced my steps into my own room.

Too many thoughts for one day. People take jam with their toast, you take jeopardy. I chuckled outloud. I thanked René for her love, whispered a prayer to my dead grandfather, turned down my bed, and exchanged the wakeful slumber of my day for the sentinence of my interminable night.