Hooray For Love

You will survive the most fucked up thing you can think of, or not really because you’ve seen movies in which the unimaginable is true, but life will suck and you’ll survive and expect a good turn. But instead you should expect a long line of suck, of not quite cope and creative surgery.

And there will be nothing to do, enjoy or understand. And the coping mechanisms on offer like alcohol and god and marijuana are a repetition argument you had in 2003 when everyone changed more than you could fathom and your indoctrination began to unravel.

If there was something you could sell, a CD, house or a heart, you would do it. You’d even provide the tupperware box to put it in.20120910-010903.jpg

I’m a Sales Catalogue

They say your selection is less the older you get, and I agree in part – Christmas chocolate boxes are definitely smaller than when we were kids and Easter eggs shrink, fitting smaller hands than the hands they did fit.

But my selection’s not small now. At least, the offer’s are more than my uni first year, high school career, than propositions I got when I worked in the cinema.

You’d think the number of asks wouldn’t matter exactly, that quality would be the concern. But I count up the shall-we-fucks, the should-we, the stay-over-if-you-likes, the go-ons and why-nots and half-lipped kisses doing the convincing.

I like the collection, savour the things I could do if I chose them, not that I’ll choose them, but I enjoy knowing life could change simply with a misplaced finger, locating somebody’s back pocket, licking a neck in a supermarket queue or dropping my hand on a bus lap or a metro leg or reaching for a waiter’s crotch as he jots my order in his notebook. Any of these would make a killer story to tell my husband.


Hot State

Jack wants to be Ethan Hawke, has since we saw Reality Bites when we were 12, after Nicki asked us for recommendations for a Saturday sleepover we thought we’d be invited to, or I was sure. Naively sure, the way I entered each of my first eight relationships. Instead, Monday morning in Geography, Vicky and Cherry and Jo relayed how shit the film was. They’d never been more bored. My gut tore, and I wondered if my legs would work later. But they worked when the bell went, because betrayal’s not a cancer or fatal sickness, although both those betray you, betray me right now.

So Jack and I hired it, the one copy from Flicks, the store we got before Blockbuster, or iTunes, or illegal downloads, and we put it on our Dad’s card before we had our own cards, when they never even asked for digits, or proof, or telephone numbers. Or ID. And I get asked for ID now, 15 years on, and sense isn’t a self-filled bucket that’s topped up.

And we saw Before Sunrise, Sunset, him seduce Angelina before Brad did, pretend to be Jude Law in Gattaca and we read him wondering if he’d read us and we watched every thing that he crafted, when he played his own dad in the film of the book and Jack never got over and I never could get.

And once he evolves, knows every crease, repetition, ex-wife, I’ll learn every Winona Ryder line, imply that I made him the man that he is the space of an 80 minute film that Jo hates, a Smash Hits’ recommend that Kim didn’t like. But we.