Home
Is where the C-PTSD is. And wherever you'll find me walking. My entry into the 2024 RUSSH literary competition.
Even though I don’t really feel the Russh reader my audience, I’m trying this thing I saw on TikTok earlier this year about a “year of rejection,” so I thought I’d have a stab at it.
It turns out that you can’t and don’t win everything (though the year isn’t over yet ;)
I originally called this one ‘Home.’ A manifestation turned manifesto. But now that I just rejigged the last verse, I kinda like C-PTSD and power-walking.
It is something, though that I’ve been grappling with since before I came back to Australia last October; before I left. I really didn’t have an address for two years, between housesitting and living in hotels whilst taking care of Dad in Sydney.
And after returning to finally get one, the truth has come full circle again, and - for now - I’ve realised I don’t want one.
I’ve been meditating a lot on what I don’t want lately. To be honest, I’m unsure I want or care for anymore of a career. And even though it scares me, I’m looking forward to leaning into these feelings or for lack of a better word for it, I guess - authenticity - further. Maybe the peace I long for is on the other side. I’ll keep the wandering.
But my freedom really is the closest thing to four walls, and love; the love for and which I can give to myself, that I can relate to and put my metaphorical finger on.
Stay tuned. X
—
I bought Mona towels
and new coffee table books home from Greece
I even carried two fucking antefixes back in my hand luggage
(Google antefix so you know what I mean).
All after having a vision
of blending green things
and unpacking my Anna-Karina Elias everything
in a kitchen on a hill,
in my dream it seemed like Coorabell
looking over Myocum.
Of having an address for the first time in two years.
A home. And hopefully, somewhat belonging.
Right before it happened.
Where the running girl was still running
and the man who walks around fully clothed carrying a surfboard all day - still walking.
Though Billabong returning to its original branding, I noticed as I drove down Jonson Street one morning, the only thing in this town that remained comforting.
--
I considered the city
though cities kind of scare me.
All that stacked, sprawling suffering.
Hoarding.
Wanking
and secrets.
Mental illness.
Behind closed doors.
Next door
and upstairs.
Dad also passed there, not too long ago.
--
So (for now) I’m gonna say it’s somewhere in the vicinity
of my doctor, who more recently
I made search for brokenness that even he
was sure he would find;
and in close proximity to my mother, even though we are not close.
It’s where I speak the language. Which may sound ignorant,
but after 12 months abroad, it would become more important than you’d think.
It’s where I’m accountable to no one but my therapist
(it’s where you’ll also find me waiting for him to tell me something I don’t know).
To Kalm Springs; and Tom, my drum teacher.
Reliable only, and possibly quite sadly, to Married at First Sight and social media.
With no job other than to fill the space between fading Aegean tan lines.
For I am professional only these days in Shrinking Myself.
--
Though I have to say
that it is in losing the weight.
Carrying the weight of the world.
Waking up each day trying to get to the bottom of myself.
It’s obsession and perfectionism, though here they are good things.
Home is a poem.
Home is a conversation.
How I can connect with anyone.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
It’s unfortunately still in bad men,
who like chips and cigarettes - I can’t keep them in the house.
It’s secretiveness.
It’s loneliness.
It’s knowing that I’ve asked for it.
It’s a seat at the bar, again - preferably alone.
I really hate to say it but, ooft. This is home.
It’s Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.
Staring into my nephews faces.
It’s Mum’s couch.
It’s when Mum’s away.
It’s the inflight wine and cheese and bickies.
And the coffee so bad that it’s good, that is, if you’re flying in the morning.
It’s how Dance Fever makes me feel;
and just how Florence took all of those words out of my mouth.
It’s in moments when I think I too should be medicated
or wonder if maybe I’m just not listening to enough music.
It’s an oversized shirt, that’s both Sporty and Rich.
It’s in a list. Why, a manifestation list.
It’s relishing in the shadow of the basic bitch.
It’s my Notes app.
That week after Botox.
My sister’s kitchen, on the other side of the world.
Across the road.
It’s ofcourse, Greece.
So I feel I’ve got to stop saying that I am homeless after this.
Because I’m happy to belong to the barstools at my favourite restaurants, their maître d’s and that space above the Earth at about 38,000 feet.
Only from a height can I see all the possibilities.
The end.