Two Hundred and Eighty-Five.

12/10/14

Izzy circle

izzy

Katie wouldn’t do it anyway. I’m pushing through the bushes at the back of the oval and walking out onto the green is like coming up for air. I can feel the sting of the air floating up cold from the dewy grass and brushing over the grazes on my knees. My palms are burning. A shiver reverberates through my sternum, and my breasts bob a little as I walk fast through the goal posts. Scottie got one in last week, bouncing off the post – the kind of kick that looks like it couldn’t possibly go in. Won the game. Stupid prick.

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Sarah circle

sarah

Postcards from Indonesia:

‘Everyone is so friendly here’, my mother says, but I am too cynical to see it.
I see the smiles and the hellos and the palms pressed together, and I presume that as soon as our backs are turned, the eyes start rolling. Because that’s how I would be if I had to work for a bunch of fat Australian tourist idiots who keep wanting pointless shit all day, every day.
We drive through the mountains that look like storybooks, and ‘Bali Hai’ plays in my head.
We pass a wall with ‘BRUTAL UBUD’ graffitied on it in black, and I want to know who wrote it and why.
There are thousands and thousands of shops selling perfectly filigreed silver and beautiful wood carvings and vast stone statues and I have no idea who buys them all.
I am beginning to appreciate how overpriced ISHKA is.
Our driver stops every few kilometres, points at green sultry perfection and says ‘Stop here for photo, yes?’
We stop here for photo every time.
My mother steps into a ditch in front of a rice paddy and gets her foot all muddy, and the driver doesn’t even laugh at her. He becomes deeply concerned about our capacity to cross roads after that.
He waits for us for hours as we wander through temples and swim in holy springs and pretend to understand what all the fountains are for.
A temple guide asks if we want to make an offering, and we say no, and he says something that sounds like ‘You make me sick.’
Bartering stresses me out.
I always imagine the women at whom I am desperately saying numbers is thinking either
a) Fuck you, you entitled white bitch. You are haggling over money that is nothing to you and everything to me; or
b) You’re a fucking idiot. I am ripping you off so hard it’s not even fun any more.
Our bedroom door opened at 6 am this morning – the little click of the security card slot, then a spill of light onto the dark wall. I couldn’t see who it was, so I yelled ‘Hey!’ and the light disappeared and the door swung shut. By the time I got up and looked out, there was no-one there.

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