Yayoi Kusama

Chandelier. Chandelier. Chandelier. Chandelier. Chandelier. Empty ballroom, empty party. So decadent, for no one. So decadent, for someone, once.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. You, me, them, us, all of us, everyone.

She’s close now, she’s seen it take others. She’s ready, now, and now that I know her, I’m not.

Saw her, 10, saw her, 16. Saw her hopeful, saw her rebel. Saw her despair. Saw her holes, her dicks, her dresses, her flowers. Saw her despair. Saw her old, saw her ready. Saw her joy. Shared her joy.

Step outside, cold night air, huddle arms around me. See the dots on the trees now, all around, everywhere dot dot dot dot dot. Everyone, everywhere, dot dot dot dot dot.

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‘Is your outfit…’ she wrings her hands, ‘do we have new pronouns?’

I shake my head, my face flushed hot.

‘No, it’s just—I like it.’

It’s a denim pinafore, styled after overalls. I bought it in St. Kilda, at a yard sale one street away from the parade.

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Emerging out of a tunnel, daylight blooms through the windows. A forest of architectural sculptures, shining glass, concrete curves. Anything is possible. The train pulls in.

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Woke late—well, arose late. Still giving to someone I shouldn’t, still giving sweet words and time and patience. Therapy is expensive and imprecise. The day is departing and I must board.

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 ‘They are … little boys in hats … carrying … their lunchboxes.

   … they are referred to as… boys.

 dress up … lost to the boy’s … design

  attempted to catch’

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Faked sly smile. Imitating her style. Butting heads nightly. But shared life. Her, a different me. Me, a different her. Inside, outside, both-sides.

prompt: roam the streets

Trotting, swish, cobbles under foot. Tail lashes, dark fur blending into the night. A long, crooning cat call beckons, and more bodies join the mass. Flowing across the streets.

prompt: frozen smile

Yearbook. Rows of pimpled cheeks and smiles, braces glinting, frizzy hair unbrushed. Her, there, same as ever. The smile on her face, just as the day she brought it home.

I’ve photocopied it a thousand times. Paid professionals to scan and retouch it. Printed it until the ink ran dry.

prompt: touch the edge

Sharp. Infinitely thin edge. Glinting as I turn it over in my hands. I’m scared. But more than that, I’m done. I can’t hear anything but that thought, ‘I’m done’, over and over, screaming through my mind, louder than the music.

prompt: wild acts

The planning, the caution, the just-in-cases, all dulled as the world blurs and he comes into focus. We promised we’d be safe, to ourselves, to our parents, in a begrudging ‘ugh, ew, please stop talking to me’ way, but we really thought we were telling the truth, too.

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The fire that hardens the clay, a process of curing

The hands that mould the clay, a process of dedication

The heart that lets the clay go, a process of growth

prompt: seeing someone again after a long time

One night I was down by my koi pond. I hadn’t noticed the wind, or the temperature, or anything else one might describe when setting a scene. I couldn’t tell you.

And back into my life, Andy. At the door. Same face, different eyes. I couldn’t see past them anymore. Just black.

Then, I recall details. This is a scene I could properly set. It was cold out, and I could feel my face flushing. I immediately remark on the weather, lest they think I was blushing for them.

We said hi, and before we could say more, I handed them their necklace. They thanked me. They handed me a little game cartridge. It had been years, but somehow we still remained in the bottom of each other’s bags, in the gap between our couches and the wall, between the cushions, and beneath, where the dust and debris gathers.

I think it was their boyfriend’s car—the one they got into, after that, and I think he was driving. I didn’t see his face, and I didn’t really see much of Andy.

In that way, the moment passed into memory alongside every other that contained us, together. In the seconds after, it was catalogued away. Distant to my present self by a span of days, months, and years.

prompt: meeting a celebrity in real life

Hank Paige, stirring sugar into his coffee. Hank Paige, taking a tentative sip, burning his lip a little, and flinching. Hank Paige, who I’d read about for months, in his publicised legal battle for custody. Maria Paige (née Fulton) detailed in her Snapchat story the occasion on which he screamed that she was a whore, publicly. They’d been at a party in the hills, hosted by George Clooney.

When I glanced at him, my eyes searched for confirmation and found no purchase. At least at this moment, Hank Paige was drinking coffee. Not throwing it, not punching the wall. Hank Paige sat on a too-small stool, stooped over an economical bar table, and drank coffee.

When I told my friends, the first thing they asked was ‘how awful was he?’