The Red Shoes

The Red Shoes

They had only made it half way to the front door. I’d remembered to bring them down from my bedroom but left them on the half-height wall in the lounge. It was a habit we had gotten into - leaving things by the stairs to be taken up or down.  Our cats had other plans for things left on the walls. Like brave hunters protecting their masters, they would bat items off the wall and onto the floor, forcing the object to submit to their feline dominance. 

So, I had moved the shoes in case they should suffer the same fate, the heavy wood heels marking the wood floor. Our landlords were cautious and had forced us to sign extra documents in our rental contract. We would not allow anyone to wear stiletto heels on the timber floor. Do I even know anyone who wears stilettos? We would not have any dogs or cats. Whoops.

The red leather shoes got put on top of a crate in my painting area. I don’t have a studio but a small area lined with a tarp then drop-sheet to protect the beloved floorboards. Plastic crates held my paints, rags and jars with brushes in varying stages of utility. Balanced upon a bar stool, an old tile served as my palette.

One evening alone and half a bottle of pink wine later, the urge struck. I didn’t have an image in mind like I often do. I looked around saw the shoes and thought why not. Loosely sketching the image onto the canvas, I got to thinking about such an everyday object in my life. I’d never been one of those women who own loads of shoes. I only wear shoes that are absolutely comfortable. I prefer flats over heels. Barefoot most of the time, any heels I do own must be able to be run in if the need arose.

There was a well dressed man who I briefly dated. He was a gentleman, sending a car to pick me up for our second date, where upon I met his best friend and wife. It was a well-reviewed bayside restaurant with an indulgent wine list and meal usually beyond my modest budget. I talked comfortably with the driver on the way to dinner. Working in a service industry myself, I’ve always chatted easily with waiters, bar staff and customer service assistants. They often know the best places for a drink or meal.

Over a few weeks, he wined and dined me. One afternoon, he turned up at my work to surprise me with a fancy dinner after work. We walked along the street after I finished up, me giving him the tour of the small country town in which I worked. Holding hands, we looked in the shop windows finally stopping at a popular bar for a glass of cold, white wine – a welcome perk of working in a fabulous wine region.

In the window of one store that I rarely entered due to my tight budget, we stopped and admired a pair of red heels. He asked if I liked them; I responded that I did. The store was closed so I knew he wasn’t going to buy them for me. I assumed he was just trying to learn more about what I liked and didn’t like. The seed had been sown though. I liked the shoes but I knew I didn’t need the shoes. I did, however, envision myself wearing them with jeans, with dresses, floral skirts - anything.

After we broke up, I decided to buy them. It wasn’t retail therapy to cheer myself up as I wasn’t really upset that we’d broken up. There had been something about the relationship that had felt a bit off. Maybe it was that he owned more beauty products and shoes than I did.

It was around this time that I began to reflect on what I had learned from the men that I had dated since my marriage dissolved. From one, I learned that I didn’t like being organized by others. From another, I learned that it is important to me to hear the words ‘I love you’. From the aforementioned gentleman, I learned that I could treat myself to some of the finer things in life.

So I went and spent more money on a pair of shoes than I had ever in my life. I slipped my feet inside and they were perfect – no pinching, no rubbing. And I did wear them with dresses, floral skirts and jeans. I loved wearing them. I felt special. Occasionally people noticed them and I would bend my knee, raise my hem and look down to admire them also. I smiled and said - thank you, I love them too.

I remember one night at a gypsy music bar in the inner north – you probably know it, it only serves crepes, two savory and two sweet options. Red-checked table cloths, velvet-clad chairs, and only one wine glass. If you are early enough you’ll get the wine glass, otherwise it’s a tumbler for you. I’m one of those early type people and while that doesn’t help with my social anxiety that the event won’t even happen, it did mean that the wine glass was generally mine.

 I found the bar via a piano-accordion player I briefly tried dating though things never seemed to quite work out there. We seemed to continually miss each other somehow.  I did, however, fall in love with the whole bohemian music scene. The swirling cacophony of notes, plaintive vocals and impassioned dancing hypnotized me. I was hooked and kept schlepping from middle suburbia into this exotic other world. My shoes brought me here. They belonged here.

One sultry summer evening, I didn’t feel like going out but had read in a well-meaning friend’s book on dating rules that the first step is just showing up. So I climbed into the low cut black dress that celebrated my curves and my comfortable, reliable red shoes. I did get compliments on my shoes. Small positive words buoyed me. The glass full of wine didn’t hurt either.

Then there was the Italian chef I had previously dated. I was now single. Again, it had been a relationship that didn’t pan out for any apparent reason. I wasn’t hung up on it. We’d both been invited to a party up country by the chef who had originally set us up on our first date. Not exactly a blind date, we had known each other through mutual friends.

Now country parties don’t normally seem like a heels kind of occasion but they had hired a function space and bungalows for the event. And I wanted to impress. I wanted to be the one who was in control. I wanted to be the one to choose to sleep with him or not.

It was going to be a great weekend. I’d taken the time off work, which was rare for me. Parties thrown by chefs are always good. Hospitality people like to drink and I’m not talking casks of Jacobs Creek. Platters groaned with piles of antipasto, cheese, seafood and more. Each surface offered up something delightful to eat or drink.

 It was late summer and the drive north was through some dry land indeed. Different shades of brown stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. Bushfires had raged across the hills only a year or two prior and many of the guests were somewhat twitchy. The firestorm was still a very real memory for most.

 I’m not a country girl though I worked out that way for many years and had grown to have an understanding of why people chose to live in such an area even though it was remote from the city with the very real threat of bushfire each summer. For me, I was always happy to return to my middle suburban life.

So I brought my shoes along with me. My red wrap dress and the heels worked their magic. I loved that evening. An entertaining group of people - I was with my tribe. I belonged even though I’d only met a handful of them before. I ate and drank with vigor, even danced to delightfully daggy 1980’s music. We did spend the night together. Though nothing further eventuated between us, I was fine with that.

Ten years on the shoes have seen better days – chunks out of the wooden heel, paint rubbed off the rear piece of leather, straps loose and soles very thin. Can they be rehabilitated? Should they be rehabilitated? Are they still relevant in my life? Am I painting a souvenir of times gone by or immortalizing a beloved item in my life?

A few days later, I find myself at the cobbler.  She is a short, spunky woman about my age who I slightly want to be. She seems to have found a trade she believes in and loves, that tires her but makes her feel useful. Her calloused, stained hands turn the shoes over and over, evaluating them while I try and explain what I hope for them. I’m not sure if what I’m asking is possible. How can I explain to her in just a few minutes what these mean to me, why I can’t seem to accept that they may have reached the end of their life? She finally looks up and smiles. I think things are going to be okay.

Gretel - prologue to a graphic novel I'm working on

She couldn’t help it. It was part of her. It wasn’t something that she one day decided to do or something that she could turn on or off. All her life, people had told her to just ignore it. You couldn’t just ignore it. It was distracting. People were distracting. It wasn’t a simple thing to walk down to the shops for a newspaper. She liked to wear smudged sunglasses and an old cap low on her head to avoid any unwanted attention from people. She mostly wore drab grey loose clothing. Her eyes looked only a few steps ahead so she didn’t actively walk into someone. That would be the worst. Catching someone’s eye or having to engage in conversation was bad enough. Physical touch was too much.

She read somewhere that it had something to do with extra links in the brain. Doctors had wanted to study her brain but she had no interest in submitting herself to endless rounds of tests and scans. Letting her body go into one of those huge expensive machines wasn’t part of her plan. Not that she really had a plan. Her plans usually went as far as what work and other obligations she had that week. Family birthdays, sure, were kind of hard to get out of but she avoided appointments where possible. She hadn’t been to the dentist in five years and had started to worry if that sensitivity in her top right teeth was actually a problem. The thought of someone’s hands in her mouth was more than she could bare.

Who knows what the dentist or their assistant would taste like? Thirty year old carpet, skin that has spent too many hours in the sun all sweaty and salty or over-heated milk sickly sweet and sour. They never tasted like warm cherry pie or straight from the oven chocolate cookies. With all of the possible tastes in this world, why was it that she encountered more unpleasant than pleasant ones. Did other taste synesthetics experience the same thing? She didn’t know anyone else with her gift so couldn’t answer the question.

She’d never met another taste synesthetic. She first learned the term when she was a teenager. Wikipedia and internet chat rooms were her salvation. A doctor had declared his diagnosis one day after years of visits. Lexical-gustatory synaesthesia to be precise. As a baby, the notes on her Maternal Child record book noted that she had been ‘failing to thrive’. Her mother had always fussed over her poor eating habits as a child and hoped that things would improve when she started school. Surely her peer group would provide a positive influence. They didn’t.

 She was petit and found it easy to fade into the corners. At recess and lunch time she managed to appear occupied with packing up classroom activities, tidying her desk or taking a trip to the bathroom. Her teachers never seemed to notice that she spent more time unpacking her individually wrapped lunch items than she did consuming them.

The crackers and the carrot sticks had to be in separate containers. Cheese slices had to be a particular brand and kept cool. Cross contamination and possible food spoilage were easy excuses for food to be put in the large round file in the corner of the classroom. Other kids turfed their dry crusts and browned apple cores amongst the scrunched waxed paper and plastic scraps. Gretel became adept at hiding her mother’s homemade treats in between the foil and brown paper bags of the class’ detritus.

After school she would retire to her room and sit with her favourite blanket under the desk that her mother had kept from her own childhood. Her mother envisioned the little girl at the desk reading her beloved books saved from her own childhood, cutting and gluing artistic creations or drawing grand designs on endless supplies of paper. Instead, Gretel would sit leaning against the wooden desk, with the afternoon sun streaming through dusty net curtains onto her legs until she succumbed to snooze-land.

Her mother was grateful that Gretel didn’t come home from school and plop in front of the TV like other children she knew. She assumed that the school day exhausted her sweet little girl. Gretel lacked energy partly due to her lack of food consumption but also because she found interaction with other people so energy zapping. They were too stimulating, too distracting, too much. She couldn’t watch TV or go to the movies. All those people, all those words and sounds each with their own taste. Everything got too much. One would be lid ice-cream, another would be defrosted bread, synthetic maple syrup, damp grass, raw potato, and ear-wax or week old kitty litter.

She could understand the appeal of texture and temperature when it came to food but flavour as embodied in food was a foreign concept to Gretel. She would taste flavours thousands of times a day and so didn’t experience hunger as others did. Flavour went beyond sweet, salty, sour, bitter and umami. She had tried and failed to describe the taste of vinyl car upholstery after hours in the sun. Oily, sweaty and flaccid went only part way there. It was also earthy and sweet with a lingering hint of musty leaves. It was only the recurrent grumble of her stomach and weakness in her limbs that defined hunger for Gretel.

Her sixth grade teacher had tasted of vanilla ice cream. Mr Whitehall gave her a brain freeze. She found it difficult to concentrate as she held her head back, pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and covered her mouth and nose with her hands. WikiHow users voted these the most effective methods for dealing with brain freeze. She wasn’t so sure.

Her Landscape - short fiction

Her Landscape - short fiction by Amanda Kennedy

Okay, I’m in bed.

It’s dark. It’s night.

I’m naked.

She curls her legs up instinctively and rolls to her right side.

Owww – that hurts. What the hell?

Her right hand finds her neck and firmly rubs the muscle as she turns her head first to the right and then to the left. Running her hands up through her hair she finds a large bruise on the crown of her head.  Cupping this egg, she realises that she has no idea how it got there.

Quickly she shoots a glance to her bedside table and is relieved to see her phone there plugged in.

That’s right, my phone battery died during the afternoon.

She checks the time. It’s 11.30. She can see a couple of missed calls and messages. She’ll check them later when she feels up to it.

Draining the last of the water in her glass, she feels the first bit of relief since she woke.

This is my bed. This is my room.

With the help of the street lights shining in through the open curtains she can see her shoes, her coat and her scarf on the floor next to her handbag. The clothes she had been wearing were draped across the chair as they were every evening. Swinging her feet onto the floor with some effort, she levers her body into a standing position.  Her full bladder starts to cause her discomfort.

At first she can’t stand to turn on the bathroom light so in the dark she slumps onto the toilet seat and lets her head hang into her hands.

Okay, right. What do I know? I went out in the afternoon. I met up with Rachel. We had a few wines. I had pink. She had white. Then I hopped on the train to come home around peak hour. That’s right the train was crowded – standing room only.

Flicking the fluorescent light on, she pays witness to what she sees reflected in the large wall mirror. Her eye make is smudged giving her panda eyes and her hair is certainly in need of at least a brush if not a wash. She turns to view her back in the mirror to take stock of her entire body, checking for any new marks or bruises.

Okay, that’s good. Nothing scary.

Opening the cabinet door, she fumbles for painkillers as she starts to fully accept the pounding present inside her head. The bright yellow cardboard box yields up its last two tablets from the foil sleeve. More water guzzled down. One. Two full glasses plus a refill for the bedside table.

She climbs back into the inviting warmth of her bed.

How much did I really drink that much? Two wines as we sat in the sun overlooking the river.  No, three wines. We had that other one after we moved inside away from the rain. Oh, yeah and the pork belly sliders. She then left to go that conference and I walked across the river to catch the train home like the sensible woman I was going to be. Oh yeah, I did stop at the new bar on the corner after I got off the train.

Of course, she was there too early and there was only one other person in the bar. An old guy in a dark blue leather jacket was propped up at one end of the bar, nursing his pint. Bowls of peanuts sat on the tables ready for the shelling. A thin white ponytail hanging down the middle of his back. She managed to cajole him to play a game of darts with her, not that she was any good but she liked the idea of being a darts fiend. He wanted to play billiards but she knew that would take too long and she was on her way home - just stopping in for a quick one to check this warehouse bar she had walked past often but never inside.

It was only happy hour for another 20 minutes so she finished up her pot of lacklustre tasting beer and offered to buy her new friend Nick another one. An hour later, the bar had filled up and she rugged up with her coat, scarf and gloves to brave the icy wind and drizzle outside.

It was dark and cold and I remember it had been raining. Was it actually raining when I walked home? I’m not sure. I don’t think so.

Reluctantly getting out of her nest again she checks through her clothes for clues. On her trousers she finds green marks at her knees.

Grass stains?

Her jacket has dust marks all over it. Her pale leather shoes are mostly clean though. Her handbag sits on the chair untouched and unmarked. She opens it up in a moment of panic but finds her purse, cash and credit cards intact.

 Jumper, singlet, bra - check.  Socks? Over there.

Picking up her scarf, a lone earring and a handful of empty peanut shells fall out onto the carpet. She surrenders, having accounted for her things, climbs back into bed and switches off the light wishing for the sweet nothingness of sleep.

Okay. I left the bar alone. I was tipsy sure but I wasn’t pissed. Yeah, I was definitely alone. It was dark. Not much street lighting so I crossed the road to make sure that I walked under the lights. I was being safe. So up to the end of the road, across the grass – was that where I fell? But my trousers would be wet and my shoes would be muddy. Maybe I tripped over one of those rocks by the start of the ramp?

She again rubs her legs and arms, this time finding a tender spot by her wrist. Holding the bruised top of her head, she fantasises about the oblivion state of sleep. No pain, no blank spots, no questioning monkey mind.

Slowly, gradually the colour of the sky changes as dawn takes over and she stops fighting for slumber. A large cup of tea helps lull her pounding head while she gathers the laundry and trudges down the stairs to the machine. Pausing to spray the grass stains on her trousers, her confusion doubles.

They’re not at all wet. Maybe it wasn’t grass?

Imagining talking to Rachel later that day she ran over the evening or what she could recount of it for sure.

I know I drank but really I only had what, five drinks over four or five hours. I wasn’t that drunk that I blacked out. Was I? We had food. Thank god, I’m mostly okay. Just my head really. My phone, my purse, my credit cards are all here.  I’ve gotta go walk my steps and see if I recall anything else.

Pulling on a different warm coat and long leather boots, she grabs her keys and heads out.

Wow at least I didn’t leave my keys in the door like I did that time we went to that gallery opening in Brunswick.

Locking the door behind her, she drags down her sunglasses as a barrier against unwanted conversation. Head down and off into the cold winter day she strides.

I remember how cold it was crossing the freeway last night. It’s always freezing up there on the overpass. Do I really remember or do I just want to remember?

After having crossed a few driveways, her eye catches something glinting in the small sliver of morning sun. Her earring. It’s broken. They were only a couple of dollars from the cheap Asian store but she liked them. People complimented her in them. She squats to pick it up and it is then that she notices the moss growing along the footpath. She touches it and it is cold and damp. She looks along the pavement and it’s then that she sees scuff marks in the slippery lichen covered concrete.

Her Landscape - episode 3 of podcast The Middle Third

Forging ahead with my podcast, this is a short fiction piece about things that can and do happen to women I know in this day. I hope you enjoy it.

I'd love to hear from you so leave a comment here or on Facebook or send me an email at artbyamandakennedy@gmail.com

And here it is - Episode 3

All artwork original by me and for sale. Message me for details.

episode 2 of the podcast

So I've uploaded a new episode of the podcast. That's exciting you say. Thanks - I think so.

In this episode I talk about the concept behind this podcast and also some possible episode ideas.

I also learn that I say 'ah' and 'umm' a lot. Someting to work on for sure. 

I would love to hear from you by either commenting at Podbean or on Facebook or send me an email - artbyamandakennedy@gmail.com

Here are the links to some articles that prompted thought.

This is the link to late sleeper discrimination

The article that prompted me to think about how people view the world differently

 A lovely selection of seaweed collection

Confronting but important interviews to watch. This one started it for me

and here's a pretty painting I did a few ago of a woman laying in some grass in the sun. My hands and feet are feeling the cold this winter and I can reminisce about how it feels for the sun's rays to warm your skin.

NSFW - I don't do this sort of thing

The following piece was written a few years ago for an erotica night that I was asked to perform at. Maybe read it out aloud to get the idea.

I don't do this sort of thing  

So where to start, how to explain

I don’t do this sort of thing.

You need to know that.

I barely knew him. We’d only briefly emailed, talked once, but the moment his hand touched my cheek my breathing slowed and my voice changed timbre.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

He knew he could reach inside my dress, gently bring out my breast and gradually pinch my nipple. He looked me in the eye the entire time.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

As a gentleman, he walked me to my car. We kissed passionately, with hands wandering. He said “Next time you won’t wear any panties”. I retorted “Is that so?” and secretly thought “He is probably right”.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

He sent me a diagram of a self-bondage tie I was to wear out that evening. I pleaded to be excused and he granted my request. I asked if I could wear my silver jewellery collar instead. He agreed.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

Every time my collar moved or became uncomfortable during the evening, I was reminded of the reason I was wearing it. When I came home, I achieved the rope tie, took a photo of myself in it and sent it to him. I slept like that.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

That afternoon he arrived with only a few minutes’ notice. All morning I had found myself cleaning my house….preparing.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

I opened the door and let him in. He took the rope from his bag and firmly bound my breasts. With nipple clamps attached, he guided me to my knees.
I don’t do this sort of thing.

Clearly I do.

Duty

‘Thanks. Just here at the corner will do.’ She thanked the Uber driver. She turned to walk up the cobbled one way street. She was fairly sure that she remembered which house was his. The moon was hiding this evening and the street lights weren’t helping but as she got closer she heard the primal beats of his electronica music. She messaged him, ‘I’m here.’

He opened the door and stood to the side to let her in ‘Hey. Long time no see.’ His gravelly voice and soft smile put her immediately at ease.  

Following him up the stairs into familiar scents, she stared at his hips, her mind imagining them rocking against hers.  She ran her hand along the large piece of street art that he had commissioned for his staircase wall. Its orange and yellow swirls almost seemed to loop in time to the music. She could feel the bass beat in her chest, filling her from inside. The gas fire glowing in the corner and the cream shag pile rug in front of it added to the porn set feel of his bachelor pad.

 He resumed his position perched on the edge of a dining chair, its white plastic seat cold on his naked thighs though he didn’t feel it. All his concentration was on his hands, shaking as they rubbed the bud between his fingers sprinkling the herb evenly across the tobacco. Talking at her, she could only just distinguish his voice from the glitch electronica samples that permeated the room. A door and window were both open trying to help ventilate the smoke from the room. The gas fire kept igniting trying to keep the room at an even comfortable temperature.

 She sat unmoving, contained on her chair inches away from the table. The wine she’d brought still in its crumpled brown paper bag on the edge of the concrete table. His special plastic container had its illegal contents spewed upon the surface; small plastic bags and paper parcels with varying chemicals and substances. She didn’t know exactly what they were or how they were ingested and she was content to remain uninformed.

He’d had a tough week and was looking for a distraction. She was happy to be that distraction. Without asking, she poured them both a glass of the French rosé she had picked up from the shop on the corner. She knew he didn’t drink much but she needed a prop to help things along. He lit up and steadily drew the smoke in. It was as though she’d caught him mid-conversation.

‘I can’t believe some people can do this. What makes anyone think they’ve got the right to hurt another human being?’ He was choosing his words carefully. He knew that he couldn’t talk case specifics. He could be in trouble for a simple stray word. She could see the pressure of the knowledge he held inside. He had no strategy for containment and the pot wasn’t helping. She kept repeating, ‘I hear you.’

 She knew she couldn’t say that she understood because she knew that she didn’t. The bottom of the wine glass showed itself so she grabbed the bottle to remedy the situation.

‘This dj, he splices samples of Austrailiana into the tracks. Listen . . .hear that bit. It’s “Skippy”.’ He cocks his head to the side a wry smile slowly growing on is face. Tapping her glass, the ambient layers of rhythm build and swirl with the heady smoke, the room crushing in on her. She breathes deliberately and deeply anchoring herself in the chair.

‘You don’t know what it’s like to hold the fate of another human being in your hands. You can’t even imagine what it’s like. I have to do this thing. It’s my duty as a member of this free and democratic society. We all have to do this thing. It’s hard and it’s exhausting but we can’t just walk away.’

Not knowing whether to distract or allow him to ramble, she nodded and ventured, ‘I’ve always been kind of fascinated by the process and felt that I’d like to do jury duty.’ Shaking his head slowly, ‘You don’t want to be on this case. It’s violent and it’s bloody. It’s just awful. We got taken out to the crime scene yesterday. It’s a whole other world out there.‘  He licks his lips, leans forward and swigs some wine to assuage his dry mouth.

His head hangs forward as he takes another drag. ‘Six weeks. Six weeks we have to be there. And they made me the fucking jury foreman.’ Through the pungent smoke his red, creased eyes betray his anguish. He coughs, straightens up and forces a smile her way.

‘Did I ever tell you about when I renovated the bathroom? I thought that between work and the public toilet opposite, it would be fine. One morning though it wasn’t fine, was it? One morning I really needed to go. I grabbed whatever clothes were on the floor, launched myself out the front door and crossed the road. Approaching the loo from behind, everything looked okay. I only saw the ‘out of order’ sign after I’d pressed the button a few times. What now?

I looked around the park. What now?  Then I saw it. The council had just installed a dog litter removal point. I grabbed one of those small plastic bags and found a bush big enough to provide some camouflage. Bag spread as wide as I could, I pulled down my trackie pants and assumed the position. Oddly, the council hadn’t provided any paper product to finish the job so I sacrificed a sock to the greater good. As I exited from behind said bush, an older couple walking their dachshund passed.

‘“Nice morning for it,” we said as we passed each other.’

She laughs, drains the wine from her glass. More coughing as he sinks back into his chair. ‘I think it’s time for some coke.’

more short fiction

Samantha, I just want you to know that this time last year, I considered you a good friend, and potentially someone who could become a close friend. I considered it an honour to turn up at your birthday party to help you celebrate. I was willing to engage, support, brainstorm creative ideas, talk out relationship concerns, have coffee catch-ups, see exhibitions, whatever, to develop our friendship. I would have been there for you with anything. Then I broke up with my boyfriend. The job I thought I had didn't come thru. I was so broke I couldn't feed myself some weeks. I went through a prolonged shock / identity crisis because I had been living a lifestyle that never really suited me. I was understandably sad, and sometimes vulnerable. I tried reaching out to you as a friend many times. After that one (very kind) visit you made, I don't ever recall you actually reaching out to ask how I was. I'd try and talk to you. You seemed OK about it, but you never followed up, never checked in. I've been a fucking mess, and I needed my girlfriends. Not just someone who would randomly, casually engage on FB when the mood or the subject took her. I thought we had more of a friendship than that. I really did. I kept waiting, understanding everyone has busy periods in their life. But you know - I feel like a friend who cared would call a person occasionally, suggest to meet up. That's what I'd certainly do. By the time your birthday came around this year, I pretty much had had no real personal contact with you for at least 8 months. 8 months. You were one of the few people who had any idea what an incredibly tough time I was going through. Yet no coffee invite, no invite to your new place, no phone call to see how I was faring. Just group invites, when I'd told you how bad my social anxiety was. This is the behaviour of an acquaintance, and not even a particularly caring one, not a friend. Just because there's a green dot on your screen next to a person's name, does not mean all is necessarily OK. I really thought more of you as a person. I really did... So when your birthday came around this year, and you proved yourself perfectly capable of sending me a text msg (the first in about 10 months), I did get it. But by then, I was hurt, and actually under the impression our connection had moved from a real life friendship to an online acquaintanceship. I didn't feel like being the equivalent of people poly-filler for your birthday do, when you couldn't just ask me as a friend just ONCE in 6 months - "Hey, how are you? Let alone 'let's catch up." When we first met, you seemed very keen for us to be friends. So, I guess I disappointed you somewhere along the line for your enthusiasm to wane so. Sorry for whatever it was I did- but I can't stay silent about how hurt I am anymore, Samantha. And now, I lose my bike - and what do I get from you - "good luck". Seriously ... do you have any idea how your behaviour looks like from the outside? I risk you unfriending me from sending this - but I'm tired of actually being hurt by your nonchalance. If you can't take this on board, and see that you've really hurt someone who considered you a friend, then yeah - I don't know where to next. Love, a sad and hurt friend. Xo

wow. I'm sorry that you're hurt. I could launch into an explanation of my life these last 12 months but you're probably not interested, so I won't. I'll back out. I often can't find the words I want. I wish you all the best and I'm sorry that you feel I've let you down.

So, you are backing out of an opportunity for honesty to make a friendship more real, more authentic? Do you think I risked saying these raw, hard things because I wanted to end our connection? No - I wanted you to have some chance to know how I felt and some chance for you to give me your truth - your perspective... In my pain and my moving away from you because in the months of non-communication, I had given up trying to start a conversation with you. Of course I was aware that stuff might be going on for you - why do you think I waited so long to say something? I'm not asking anyone to fix my issues, I just hoped for some companionship through it -some lightness. If I didn't value you, I would have just stayed silent, continuing to have these feelings, and have less and less contact with you. If you want to talk through stuff, I'd be happy to listen. But I think it would be better to do it at least in a phone conversation - if not face to face. However, if you really feel that our connection doesn't deserve that, then I will sadly accept that, too. You surely must have been wondering why I was distant, and not making personal contact? As that is honestly where I felt our friendship was going anyway - but against my preference. In my opinion, it was worth pointing out what has been puzzling me, and hurting me - at least I've stopped pretending nothing was wrong.

I’m sorry that your version of our relationship didn’t tally with my version. People participate differently within friendships and for different periods of time.

To receive such a message from you feels like an assault. Did you stand back and aim your arrow high?  I know you are an accomplished writer. I like to read what you write usually. Your stories entertain and delight me – usually. Your version of our interactions is your version. I’m not sure I even have the energy to put up my side.

A year ago (your time construct not mine), I felt that we were starting to move from acquaintance to friend. Close friends don’t come easily to me.

I’m sorry that you feel that I disappointed you. Last year, for the first time in my life I experienced anxiety and depression. Yes, I’ve said the D-word. It was a draining and confusing time. I sought out a quiet nest far from the too noisy world. The whole experience was over-whelming and far more reaching than I could ever have projected. I’m sorry that you feel I let you down. I felt let down by life.

You are one of those people who stuff just happens to

You were supposed to be here. It is 1pm already and where are you? You always have an excuse of why you’re not on time, like it’s something the world has done to you. It’s never your fault. It’s the woman who stumbled getting on to the tram and the ambulance had to be called. It was the dog that you found without a collar or lead and what were you supposed to do, just walk away and leave it to wander off and get run over. What was it this time? Was it your friend who always happens to lose his wallet and just needs a few bucks for the train fare? Do you really think it is money for the train he wants? How do you know he’s not ducking into the Bottle-O for a long neck?

You are one of those people who stuff just happens to. Your car is always in at the mechanic. The phone company somehow didn’t get its last payment and they cut off your service. How is it that you get through life?

Remember the time your bathroom at home was being renovated. You said you’re a man and that between work and the playground opposite your house that it would be fine. One morning though it wasn’t fine, was it? One morning you really needed to go. You grabbed whatever clothes were on the floor, threw them on, launched yourself out the front door without locking it and crossed the road. No need for keys, you were only going to be a few minutes. Approaching the modern automated public restroom from behind, everything looked okay. You only saw the ‘out of order’ sign after you’d pressed the open button urgently a few times. What now?

You look around the park and the dew on the play equipment sparkles in the early morning sun. Shifting weight from left to right, time was running out. What now? If you go home, there’s nothing there to make this situation resolve itself. Then you see it. The council recently installed a dog litter removal point. Above the bin is a roll of small black plastic bags. You roughly grab one and find a bush big enough to provide some camouflage. Bag spread as wide as you can, you pull down your trackie pants and assume the position. Oddly the council hasn’t provided any paper product so you sacrifice a sock to the greater good. As you exit from behind said bush, an older couple walking their dachshund pass.

 ‘Nice morning for it,’ they chorus as you pass one another.

The photographer

English is not his first or even his second language. Born in Poland in 1946, he considers himself a miracle baby. His father had spent time in a Warsaw ghetto. After transportation to one of the Nazi concentration camps, 100 people staged a brave escape. He was one of only 2 survivors of the attempt. Not long after, his father met a Russian aviatrix. Nicknamed “Night Witches” this group of daring pilots flew multiple bombing missions every evening without parachutes. Living in various parts of Europe for most of his seventy years, he only recently arrived in Australia.

Listening to him speak as he holds his cooling latte in his wrinkled hand, I watch the foam on his coffee break up. His eyes seem to get stuck in the grain of the wooden table top.

It’s one of those cafes with reclaimed tables with matching faux-industrial chairs under Edison bulb lights hanging in bundles from too long black cables. The cafe used to be a slightly grubby, converted milk bar with mismatched chairs and tables that a designer would call eclectic. Cakes were ugly but tasty piled high with just the right amount of too much frosting. Coffee was spot on -always. Never bitter or weak and always the right drinkable temperature. The new owners are young and enthusiastic and unfortunately the juices now come in mason jars with handles. He is the most authentic thing in the place.

We connected through Facebook after I commented on one of the images of his work that he posted to a local artists’ group. The photo he had taken of himself first thing in the morning.

“I am working on a new collection” EXPOSURE OF HUMAN FACE” the idea is to capture the face as the dominant part of the art surrounded with elements to complement the shot or focus on the face only. To capture the beauty, elegance or venerability of expression and movement.
The first experiment was this self portrait this morning - expressing venerability
Yes I am brave but if you love me you will except this.
I am looking for BRAVE Facebook friends to be willing to be tested and submit to my lens and creative spirit to capture you.”

I responded” I don’t necessarily believe I am brave to make myself vulnerable in front of your lens but offer my services anyway. As an artist, I’m usually the one painting or drawing a model, not being a model myself. “

He’s very free with his compliments and I blush when he talks about my eyes and my smile. His directness is refreshing but also disarming.

“I will have to touch you as I move you into position. My camera will be right up in your face. You must be okay with this.” he explains as his large hands reach out towards my chin and turn it towards my right. I don’t stop him or even draw back. I can tell this is part of the test.

“We will need to meet and discuss this book again. I want you to think about clothing and locations. My neighbour has a wrecker’s yard and we can use that. On the outside life is a breeze and on inside is destruction. That is the concept".

“Okay” I agree with him as no doubt do most people. He has a charm that puts people around him at ease.

“This project will take maybe a year” he states matter-of-factly. “I’m also shooting a book about farmers in Gippsland.”

I didn’t ask any of this but he expounds anyway.

As we walk away from the cafe I start to comprehend that I will be more of a collaborator than a mannequin. At my front door, we smile and hug, his tall frame overwhelming mine. He turns and walks towards his car. I retreat inside.

“Everything good, my love?” Steve calls down from the lounge.

“Yeah, I reckon so”

Aurora - finished draft

It was an item on his bucket list. She was just a passenger along for the ride. He was travelling to the States for work and wanted to extend the trip to take advantage of the great Aurora season.

  “But it’s the best time of the month. And the best time of the year. We’d be in one of the best spots on earth to see it.” he debated his points vehemently. “It’d be a shame not go. We’ll go to Vancouver first for a few days to acclimatise, then on to Whitehorse in the Yukon. And, I promise,  we’ll go to Hawaii afterwards for a week. Let’s call it ‘The Fire and Ice Tour’?”

She nodded and even smiled at his enthusiasm. He was a completely different person when he was like this. This child-like enthusiasm was one of the first things she had liked when she met him.

 She’d been out with a girlfriend for dinner when her friend’s boyfriend turned up at the bar. They chatted briefly when he announced that he was off to a buck’s night at a strip club.

“Why don’t you ladies join me?” the boyfriend proposed with a cheeky grin.

“Go on, I’ve never been and I’ve always wondered what they’re really like” she convinced her friend, the wines and cocktails no doubt massaging their decision.

So minutes later they were in a taxi on their way to a strip club. Feeling quite excited by their libertine actions, the girls smiled broadly as they escorted the boyfriend in.  And that’s where they met -at a buck’s party in a strip club. When people asked how they met, they’d tag-team through the anecdote smiling as each took their turn. She never quite knew if people were somehow commenting on their obviously divergent lifestyles or just naturally curious.

Things were light and fun to begin with. They knew they had their differences. She had kids and lived in the suburbs. He lived in the city and didn’t want any kids of his own. He’d lived alone for eight years. She’d dated for the last five. They had a great time together going out with friends for dinner, drinks and parties. She long ago learnt not to bother planning a future too firmly as things never worked out that way. The only thing he planned ahead was holidays. She loved getting away though always looked forward to returning home. He put off returning to reality as long as he could.

Before they left Australia, she organised a joint counselling session. It was at her insistence. He couldn’t see any problem. She didn’t want things to go on like this. Stepping out of the dark cool counsellor’s office, she took his hand in hers and they both hid in the shade of the building while waiting for the pedestrian lights to change.

“So..” she coolly said ”should we go grab something to eat?”

“I’m not really hungry. Had a late lunch” he replied curtly as though his quota of words had been used up during the previous hour. He didn’t look at her but stared straight ahead wishing the lights to change by the sheer force of his will.

Lower back aching from sitting, she shifted her weight on her feet and looked down at the concrete footpath and noticed the speckles of rock shimmering in the afternoon sun, radiating heat up at them.

“We should organise the snow gear when we get back anyway” he reminded himself as much as her.

She knew when they got back to his apartment the chance to discuss how this first session had gone would be lost. She really liked their counsellor, Troy, with his purple checked shirt matching his purple socks.

“I think he’s gay, you know” she threw him a nibble hoping he’d comment and she could lead him on to further conversation. He didn’t bite. She carried on anyway. She was usually the one to lead things.

“Well I thought for a getting-to-know-you, housekeeping kind of session that went okay” she half asked as she let go of his hand and turned her body to face him, breaking his stare.

“Yeah I guess so” he admitted and leaned in for a peck of a kiss to seal the point. “We could get some take away noodles from the place downstairs if you like”

She clasped his hand again as they crossed the road towards his bright yellow Korean sports car. She didn’t love the car. He did. He’d had a plain black station wagon when they first starting going out. She had liked its anonymity.

“Short, tubby, balding man in a loud sports car. No clichés there.. At least, you can always find it in the car park” she reluctantly reminded herself as they approached.

It was only recently that things had started to turn sour. It was the little things. It usually is. He wanted to go out and some nights she wanted to stay in. She worked weekends. On Friday nights, he’d start drinking the moment he arrived home from work even when they had a big night out planned. His glass would never empty and he’d put on dance music so loud that the neighbours started to complain.

“It’s my Friday night” he said.”I can do what I like. I like a drink before I go out”

“to go out for more drinks “ she would say under her breath.

 Usually she gave in and went out, dressed in a new favourite party dress, low cut at the front just how he liked it. It was only when they were at the club that he became sullen. His chin inches from a drink; he’d look over the glass watching her. She loved the chance to meet new people or catch up with old friends. Middle suburban mum during the week, this was her chance to transform.

She smiled. People bought her drinks and admired her outfits. She preened and spun for her admirers, laughing all the while. He leaned against the bar in the corner and scowled. Occasionally he tried the same act but he came off more inebriated bumblebee than social butterfly. That was when his sulking would really kick in. How come she got the attention and he didn’t. He tried flirting with other women. Many times, people would ask her what he was on. Once his dance moves were enthusiastic and earnest. Now she just felt pity.

Watching the frozen world of Whitehorse go pass her fogged up taxi window, she sees a paddleboat stuck in the frozen Klondike River. Klondike was a name she’d heard of but without context, it had meant nothing. Stuck in winter ice, the historical wooden boat hadn’t gone anywhere in a long time and wasn’t going anywhere soon. Minus 21 degrees was going to be colder than she was used to or in fact had ever felt before. He had measured them up and organised the snow gear complete with boots to be there waiting for them.

Trying on the snow gear at the hotel on arrival, she couldn’t believe how ridiculous she felt in it. She never fitted into standard clothes easily. She was short and what was politely termed curvaceous. The jacket sleeves reached down passed her knees and the legs were bunched up over her boots so she found it difficult to walk. Of course, out there, there wouldn’t really be anything to walk to.

 “How come it’s so long in the arms and legs? Are you sure this is mine?” she felt hobbled at how little she could move in the padded jacket and pants.

His gear fit fine of course. She felt like an overgrown child learning to walk again.

“There’s no way I’m going out like this” she said

Plentiful supplies of booze and food were purchased from town to see them through their five days at the cabin. Dropped off by a large SUV, it would return almost a week later to pick them up. Far from any neighbours, they had their phones in case of emergencies. Deep wide tyre tracks were all that was left as the truck disappeared through the black, spiky forest. Expanses of endless white fields merged with the snow covered mountain ranges in the far distance. Soft pinks and lilacs filled the sky as the sun set on their first evening in the log cabin.

Retreating inside, he poured liberal amounts of wine whilst she put out a platter of cheese, meats and bread to nibble on, their wet snow gear draped across the simple wooden chairs in their tiny cabin.  No stereo system to fill the silence, they resorted to cable TV as their soundtrack for the evening. Food Network shows on repeat would amuse at first, only to grate in the coming days. Outside the darkness rolled in, blanketing the sparse forest surrounding their quaint little cabin.

Naturally the best viewing hours for the Aurora Borealis would be in the middle of the night. She said that she’d turn in and he promised to wake her if there was anything to see. Solar flares had been active these last few days so things looked promising. The wine bottle clanked in the sink as he reached for a second one. Lights were turned off and he methodically donned his snow gear before stepping out into the black moon-less night. He sat in his chair and hunkered down to wait and watch.

She tossed and turned on the too firm bed. She stretched out to use its full width. Her mind tossed and turned also as she thought back over the last few days. Busy with the machinations of travel and organising her parents to stay with her children, they’d not fought or discussed their counselling session the previous week. She didn’t know if this was a promising sign or not. Unable to easily drift into slumber land thanks to her active mind, she put on her snow boots by the door and threw a thick warm blanket around her. One step into the dry crunchy snow and despite her layers she feels too exposed.

 “Anything yet?” she asks, knowing the answer would be negative. He shakes his head as he looks up at her. She sits on the edge of his chair, his arms not moving to make any more room for her. He fills his glass with more wine but offers her none. It’s that kind of quiet that is deafening in its heavy solid silence.

“I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be out there either” she thinks when she realises she can’t hear the sounds of any wildlife. She stays only a few minutes and turns to go inside the sanctuary of the lighted warm cabin when she can bear the frigidity no longer. “Too cold. Too quiet. Too still.” she thinks.

Peeling off her layers and climbing back into bed, she thinks “at least there shouldn’t be any tantrums tonight”. Those nights they would return to his place after too many drinks at a club and he would start in. All she would want to do is sleep and all he would do is rage at her for her lack of attention. It seemed he would rather wait until things had gone too far before he said anything. She never knew when a night was going to turn on its head. She never saw any warning signs. At least with her children, she’d learnt to recognise the tells..

She only realises that she was asleep when he shouts from the open door  “Come quickly!” Groggy, she puts on her thick puffy jacket, grabs a scarf and beanie and threads her feet into the boots just inside the door. Switching the light off to enhance the view, she walks away from the veranda to maximise the view of the sky. Turning this way and that, she’s not sure exactly what she’s looking for. She’s seen photos of the Northern lights and knows they’re large wispy green waves of light. Do they move? Do they only last momentarily like lightning? There are some stories she’d read about eerie noises accompanying the lights. She can’t see anything. She can’t hear anything.

At last, he has put down his glass and takes her shoulders in his hands. He turns her slightly and points low towards the horizon. “There” he says quietly. Leaning against him, he rests his cold chin on her bed-warmed hair and without speaking they watch the ribbons of pale green light dance languidly in the sky. In the morning he will excitedly show her his photos of the evening and all she can think is – “sometimes the picture looks better than the reality.”