izzy

I’m imagining light can burrow
that it’s made its way under your skin
that the way it shines outta your eyeballs,
flows from the back of your neck and your navel
is with the satisfaction of nesting
of resting in a place that finally makes sense

*

sarah

I have painted you an icon in my own image
for you to worship when I am not at home
I’ve popped in a halo behind my hair
just in case you forget who’s the holy one around here
I’ve clothed me in your favourite dress
the one with the tits out to here
and underneath, I painted that bra I want from Myer
you can’t see it, but now you know it’s there
if you flaked all the oils off, you’d find it there waiting.
if you light a candle in the votive sconce I’ve helpfully provided
it means the flicker just catches in my eyes
and I look cruel and stormy
a worthy judgmental god
for the times when you’re just scrolling through Facebook
and need a little divine intervention
and when your ceiling leaks when it rains
the water trickles down through my open left hand
so that you may lay your head beneath it
and be baptized in my name
I’ve also placed a box of tissues at my feet
for the times when you need to make a sacrificial offering
to sputter and sin in the presence of god
I will stare into your frantic eyes
I will not look away

*

izzy

she salutes the driver, jumps off the bus
long grey skivvy and black stockings under her
short summer dress, checked blue and yellow

trailing listless down Rathdowne
backpack swinging, dyed-red ponytail bobbing
in this 40-degree heat

*

sarah

There is something unfurling in me
stretching out like a cat nap
sending yawning arms out into the world
with bright shining eyes in tow
bringing back a face I think I could learn to trace
lips whose curve I could take a shy soft tongue to
a voice whose morning timbre and late night whispers
are a mystery to be unboxed in secret.
in my chest, the neighbourhood is being rattled
bits and pieces shuffling to the side to make a little room
for a snuffle-nosed little love to take up residence
rent free, and greeted with wine and welcome

*

izzy

I moved to a cave.
I have become very small.

the patch of sun at the mouth of my cave
catches motes of dust;
throws them back at the sun like
‘fuck you, I don’t want this’

I scrub the walls of my cave and I fill it with echoes
of Burt Bacharach and Beyoncé

you can look but don’t touch
I’m like a rainbow
in that I am a beautiful mirage

I’ve lost track of what day it is, and the year
I kept the bones from what I ate
to carve into beautiful weapons

still nothing has changed, really
still I prefer to belong to myself
so don’t touch me unless I say

I say to the mountain on Wednesdays
from the mouth of my cave,
‘my god, you are beautiful!’
it helps us both to get over hump day
to get through the week together.

*

sarah

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?
Yes.
Pinky swear?
Sure.
Do you want to come to my slumber party?
Sure.
Close your eyes like this so it’s night time. No peeking. Can I ask you a secret?
Sure.
How about I ask you one, and you ask me one, and when we get to ten each, we stop.
Okay.
I’ll go first. Do you love anyone right now?
Yes.
Do you hate anyone right now?
Ooh. I don’t think I hate anyone. I dislike people.
When was the happiest that you’ve been this year?
Ah. Gosh. I think maybe last summer. The end of last summer. Relaxed and comfortable and down the beach and enjoying not having any weight or any pressure to do anything. It’s hard not to ask the opposite of what you just asked.
What was the biggest hurdle you had this year?
When I was in Europe, I had really bad anxiety, and it was kind of shit being away from everybody and away from home and having to come over that. Yeah.
What is the best book you’ve ever read?
I find it really hard to have best of anythings.
What’s a good book that you’ve read this year?
So I usually just default to the last thing that I’ve read that I quite enjoyed. Which I did read ‘The Goldfinch.’
Ah, by Donna Tartt.
Yeah, but I actually preferred her first book more.
The Secret History.
The Secret History. It’s good.
Do you ever talk to yourself in private?
Yeah, all the time. Often in public too. (Laughter).
How many people have you ever loved?
Fallen in love with, or just loved?
Either.
I don’t think I could count the ones that I’ve loved. There’s plenty that I loved and also hated at the same time.
How many have you fallen in love with?
I would say five…six…five people.
What are you doing here?
Well, so I’m photographing tomorrow night –
No, okay, let me ask that question again. Why are you doing the thing you’re doing here?
Because just before – whenever anyone’s in my bed, just before I fall asleep, I always seem to start asking people stupid questions, and I like hearing what comes out when peoples’ eyes are closed.
If you were asked to go to Mars, to start a new colony, and you knew you could never come back, would you go?
Is Mars a tropical, wonderful island?
No, it’s Mars. (Laughter).
No, I wouldn’t go.
What’s the hardest thing you think you’d ever have to give up, if someone made you give it up?
Probably being able to work. Or, being able to make work. Being able to make art. I’m a photographer, so if someone said I wasn’t allowed to do that, to have that outlet, I think that would be really hard.
Who do you think has the most important job in the world?
No-one.
Fair.
Who’s someone that’s been inspirational to you, and why?
I’m inspired by people all the time, for little things. I’m inspired by my friend Lucy, who has fairly full on mental illness, and still gets up every day, and pushes through when it’s really shit.
Which celebrity would you most like to kiss?
Male or female?
Either.
Maybe Julianne Moore.
Awesome.
Which celebrity would you like to slap the most?
Oh my god. Does Tony Abbott count? Is he a celebrity?
Yeah, he’s a celebrity.
Great. Oh, what joy I would take in that.
When you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?
Cremated. I don’t want to take up any space.
What are one of the things you’re most afraid of?
Heights. I get really vertiginous around heights. Even when they’re quite small. Even when I’m going up a small ladder I get very dizzy.
And this is the last question. What is the most beautiful thing?
Nothing is the most beautiful thing. Nothing. There’s too many beautiful things.
Do I get one last question? What questions do you usually ask people in bed before they fall asleep?
Questions like these.
Really?
Yeah.
Do they answer coherently?
It depends how tired they are. Sometimes they don’t answer. But a lot of the time they do. Sometimes they say silly things, sometimes they say beautiful things.
Do they tell you to shut up?
Sometimes. (Laughter). Sometimes they tell me to go to sleep, which I think is fair. You can open your eyes now.
Cheers. Thanks.
Thank you for coming.

*

Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?
Yes.
Do you pinky swear?
No.
Do you promise to tell the truth, except when you need to lie?
Yes.
Pinky swear?
Yep.
Do you want to come to my slumber party?
Yep.
Okay. Close your eyes like this, so it’s night time. Can I ask you a secret?
Yes.
Okay. How about I ask you, and then you ask me –
Okay.
And then when we get to ten each, we’ll stop.
Okay.
Okay. Which is better, out of cats and dogs?
Dogs.
Have you ever been in love?
Yes.
When was the last time you held a baby?
A week ago?
Do you want to have a baby?
I change my mind on that about every week. I don’t know. I think at the moment, I’m slightly more towards yes, but next week it’s probably going to be a definitive no. (Laughter).
What’s the best smell in the world?
I like the smell of freesias, which is my favourite flower, and reminds me that Spring is here.
What food do you hate to eat?
I don’t like dill. The herb. I have this weird aversion to dill. I don’t know what that’s about.
Interesting.
How many people have you written love letters to?
One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…(laughter). Nine?
Awesome.
How many people have you written love letters to?
I think four. Maybe five.
What is the New Year’s Resolution that you make the most often?
To do more exercise. What about you?
Yeah, it’s either exercise, or lose weight.
What are three words that describe how you want to be as a person?
Funny. Subversive. Brave.
How old are you?
Twenty-six.
What is your favourite song right now?
That makes me feel nervous. (Laughter). I just saw my old friend play a gig, and so his song has been in my head for the last couple of weeks, and it’s called Chevy Beretta.
Why did you want to make live art?
Because most of what I do is documenting someone else’s creation, and so I wanted to see what it was like from the other side.
Do you have any recurring dreams?
Mainly I dream about the same people. And get visits from people that are no longer with me. How about you?
When I was a little kid, I had a dream that, putting adult thought processes on it, kind of felt as though I was kind of still in the room and I could hear my mother talking. And since then, I think, I occasionally have a friend of mine who died kind of rock up and be profound.
That’s interesting.
Yeah. When in your life have you felt the most grown up?
Probably at job interviews. Or…or handling stuff with lawyers and accountants sometimes makes me feel grown up, but also really un-grown up. (Laughter).
Are you in love at the moment?
Y…yeah. (Laughter). Yes. Yes. In a complex sort of way. This is the last question, and then you can ask me one last one. What is the most beautiful thing?
Maybe swimming in the ocean surrounded by friends on a hot day that’s not too hot. (Laughter).
Do you ever feel like being in the arts is a waste of time?
Yeah. I do. I kind of vacillate halfway between going ‘Oh, no, the arts is what makes life worth living’ and thinking, well, I don’t think anyone’s ever really been improved by anything I’ve done. (Laughter). You know, no-one’s…everyone’s still got cancer, and I didn’t help anyone have more money or really even be happier. Especially with photos, I think, ‘cause they’re so saturated, people just sort of look and them and go ‘Oh, that’s cool’ and then immediately forget about it. I think sometimes live art can be more transformative. Yeah. You can open your eyes now. Thank you for coming.
Thank you.

*

izzy

She gets on the bus in her school uniform, and her backpack is almost as big as she is. Careful blonde ponytail with a white ribbon, starched socks (the long ones but rolled down because she’s not a rebel or a goody-two-shoes), pale blue checks, skinny wrists and Mary Janes. REM’s ‘Losing My Religion’ is creeping through the speakers when the drivers change over, the bus thrumming under a canopy of European green. The new driver cranks the volume and Taylor Swift comes blasting down the aisle Shakin’ it Off. We both bob or heads slightly, self-consciously, and my shoes start to feel too big for my feet and the seat I am in is swallowing me. I want to lean forward, conspirational, and tell her everything will be ok, but what do I know.

*

sarah

Kefir in my belly. Kombucha guts. Tiny little bubbles dancing away, sparkling water, sparkling wine. Some bacteria are good, and some nerves are exciting, and some days are the days to just be brave.

*

izzy

He covers his coughs with a kind of harrumph. Somehow it has the same effect as if he was standing there shifting from foot to foot. Underneath that slightly offended sound, he still has pockets full of rocks and shells, still swinging arms and crooked, toothy grin.

*

sarah

On this mountaintop, I can see for days. The eucalypts twist in the heat and press their scent into the palms of the wind, and the clouds turn their faces to the sun. I can see sheep dusted like icing sugar in the dry dead grass. I can see the spires of the cities bouncing light back where it came from. And I can see you. You are wrapped in a dust cloud, storming behind your sturdy thoughtful face. I can hear the life buzzing in your chest, blowflies and big ideas. Here in the sky I am perched on the tower of Babel, watching this confusion of tongues rattle through the night, bouncing off faces and falling into translationless laughter. I am far away and silent and looking at your face and liking what I see.

*

izzy

there is a child’s bike nestled in the fallen leaves and rainwater runoff of a second-storey roof, and all I can think is that for it to have gotten there, somebody must have had to throw it.

*

sarah

I dreamed of you again, and you were beautiful, as ever, and profound.
The last time, I was dying, and you came to claim me. Stood in a storm of light and wind to guide me away, and seeing you filled me with such love and anguish I almost burst. Halfway between you who I had lost and the ones I would leave, I held you and thought ‘This must be what dying feels like – all the sadness and all the joy in one moment.’ You folded me up and I woke sobbing, sobbing, while a man held me and kissed my head and told me it was okay.
Last night, it was summer. A beautiful warm day, and you were there almost casually, with a man you’d once loved, the light in your hair. ‘I saw you!’ I said, ‘in a dream.’ But that didn’t feel right, and you smiled, and said ‘Next to a dream’, and I knew that was a better way to say it. You held out your hand. You were holding a tiny tomato, which grew as I watched. I could see the insides, embryonic and swirling, like watching a galaxy grow in slow motion. The universe inside a cherry tomato. I was enchanted, and we stood and smiled and breathed in the day and the sweet bitter tomato smell and it was good and simple and easy.
Still I see you on street corners and crowded train platforms. Even when I haven’t thought of you in ages, realising with a guilty pang that today’s the day I thought I’d never forget, and I did. You’ve not been on my mind so much as under it. Trying on faces to see if they fit.

*

izzy

Sophie’s Mum says lingerie is ‘made for speed,’ like you’re not meant to wear it for too long because it’s designed to be sexy not comfortable. I’m not really sure why it can’t be sexy and comfortable.
I get to your apartment and my butt’s burning. It’s a 40 degree day and I’ve been walking a lot, my undies riding up under my dress and chafing the delicate skin between my butt cheeks. It’s cool in your apartment and I take my shoes off to feel my feet flatten against the polished hardwood floors. The smell of coffee and sex and tobacco. I haven’t been home for days. I’ve started leaving a stash of underwear here, even though I like having an excuse to borrow your Calvin Klein boxer briefs so I can feel them gripping my thighs when I’m sitting in lectures. I only leave my sexy underwear here. Even though you must know I don’t wear it all the time, that it couldn’t be comfortable, I want to maintain the façade a little longer and I know you prefer it.
Today’s pair are Kaiser, so I think that makes them sort of the middle step between ‘sexy undies’ and ‘fancy lingerie’ because they look great, but they’re not French lace or anything. The top of them is opaque black nylon or something and then the boyleg part that curls around my front and over my butt is lace. I chose ones like this so they’d hide my pubes, because I don’t want to get rid of them. You say they’re sexy anyway.
I’m thinking about how Australia simultaneously dwarfs and suffocates me, like all its spaces are too far away, too vast for me to reach but all the people live in a goldfish bowl or a stacks-on pile and I can never be really invisible while you eat me out. I feel like I’m gonna go through the roof, or at least writhe around enough to mess up your perfect sheets. You see the welts between my butt cheeks from the lingerie and I am embarrassed and hiding my head under the pillows, writhing and squirming and trying to be as small and invisible as possible, but you fuck me anyway.

*

sarah

You make the street lights slow dance
and the clouds coalesce into picture book daydreams
you take a hammer to my heart and teach it new rhythms
drumming out my blood ready to rise in my cheeks and my ears
you are a slap in the face of my expectations
and I am rosy and reeling

*

izzy

There are two llamas strapped to the back of a ute, grinning at me in this mire of traffic and tarmac mirage. I don’t know if they’re to scale but their fat plastic heads seem huge, looming above the dashboard of my power blue Nissan Micra. The traffic stagnates, and I fester. My thoughts pool around my feet like porridge. The insistent honk of a horn startles me, and I put my foot down. In the moment before contact, as the car lurches forward, I realise my fly is open and my hand is down my pants. I’ve drifted so far far in the sea of cars, dribbling my brain over the dashboard, masturbating. My bumper crunches into the back of the ute’s trailer and the last thing I see are the fat grinning plastic llama faces smashing through the windshield into me.

*

sarah

The kids are out in force tonight, dressed in bed sheets and bad wigs and fairy wings, yelling ‘Trick or treat!’ at houses with no tricks up their sleeves at all. They shove fat hands into bowls and buckets and cooking pots and stuff lollies into their bags, fretting at their companions in front, getting the good bits. I look over the heads of candy-eyed eight year olds to the street beyond and there’s a boy there by himself. He’s shaken off the regal train of clucking parents and mouth-breathing cousins and is skulking by the fence. He’s wearing a laundry bag, brown paper, the sort you see in movies. It’s got a few holes torn in it for arms, a big gash for his neck, and he’s wearing it with the sort of fuck off expression I reserve for weekdays before coffee. The crowd of neighbourhood infants clatter down our steps to the houses beyond, and laundry bag kid slinks up, eyes down, breathing hard. He doesn’t say ‘Trick or treat.’ Doesn’t meet our gazes, just shoves his hot pink hand into our saucepan of Wizz Fizz and Snickers bars, draws out more than he can hold, shoves most of it awkwardly under the bag into a pocket. He drops a few things on the way but doesn’t stop to pick them up, just pulls his head into his shoulders and turns hard to go. Before he does, his eyes dart up and he stares at me, just for a second. It’s a look so fierce and harsh and frightened that I can’t help but smile at all this fury and terror in a body so small. He sees, and his face goes ugly, but he doesn’t run. Just turns on his heel and balls up his fists and kicks his way out our gate like a fat lipped old drunk on a thunder night. It’s not until he gets to the edge of the street that I see him start to sob.

*

izzy

an imagined conversation with two Kawaii girls:
Yeah, we’re the only ones who really do it here
Yeah, you know, like, the only two who are actually properly committed to it and stuff.
It’s kind of hard in Geelong/
It’s expensive-
We have to order most of our stuff off the internet.
Yeah, there used to be a sort of specialty store, like, an importer, but it closed down.
Yeah.
Sometimes we go to Melbourne
Yeah, some Sundays we go to Melbourne. There’s more stuff there.
There’s more different stuff there.
These hair pieces cost $10 in Melbourne
They would have been, like, way more than that here.
Yeah, ‘cause they’re actually from Japan.
Mm, we’re pretty committed to it. I just really love Japan, Japanese culture
Yeah, me too.
Love it.
I don’t ever want to change
I’m pretty happy how I am now, yeah.
I think I probably spend about $100 a week on maintaining this look
Yeah, I spend like $150 a week
It’s worth it
Yeah. Totally worth it.

*

sarah

light like lemon cheesecake in the air
fat and pale and creamy
dripping down the walls
lining the inside of his gums
seeping into his words with the tenacity of biscuit crumbs
his tongue flops onto the floor and oozes away
spit slides down his chin and pools in his beard hair
she rolls into his lap and grins and he just stares

*

izzy

Even Mum can’t remember when they brought the trailer or how they got it in. It’s way up the back paddock on blocks and the gums are so dense you can’t even see the road from there. Dad reckons the gums must have popped up after – that they cut a road through the bush and now it’s grown over. I don’t reckon gums grow that fast. They’re like our own Stone Henge, the Kaley family’s Easter Island. A whole train carriage languishing in the dirt, rusting. The doors have been ripped off, but the sheep won’t even go in there when it’s raining. One of them did once, but it got stuck between the seats and died. I wired the skull over the doorway. I moved out there for a bit, after I read ‘Into the Wild’. Alexander Supertramp’s desire for solitude and authentic experience really resonated with me I guess. The wind whipping through the doors used to get so feverish it sounded like someone screaming. The roof leaks, and my mattress got mouldy real fast so I moved back up to the house after about a month. Somewhere in there my copy of ‘Into the Wild’ is peeling and bloated with water.

*

sarah

Recording on my phone of the man in line behind me at Lentil as Anything, Abbotsford Convent.

‘Distinction awaits, believe me! And see the electric storm that happened Sunday night, after St Vincents lied about the blood test results – this incredible electric storm. I started to recover, I felt it – bang – the lightning starts. What is the cross made of? Love and suffering! Not love and violent lies, and violent collusion. And all the bullshit under the sun. Truth, not lies. The cross – you’re just sanctifying your own violence. Nothing more! Look, he knows it! They’ll say ‘No, no, no’ and then ‘Yeah’ cos they know it’s crap. The whole thing is a filthy, toxic lie. And they will go to hell for it, the whole lot of them. Extinction! A filthy, toxic lie. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows it’s the truth. It’ s a filthy, toxic lie. He’s with America. I bought his low country’s crap, it’s not low country at all, it’s America. What’s a murder between friends? Or a hundred murders?’

*