The number 16 tram. Midday, so fairly quiet, a scattering of elderly passengers. One man climbed the tram steps, finally getting to the top, and I found myself wondering why this route used such an old tram. These steep stairs, on a stretch that runs through an area full of older people going one stop at a time. He went one stop, in front of the 7 Eleven. Fair enough, assume the climb is worth it.

The tram shuffled into an area that is only 15 mins from where I live but that I rarely visit. I was looking at all the different buildings, having no association with them. Whole neighbourhoods existing just outside the edges of your usual loop.

As we got closer to the hospital and into the main street, I was checking the map every now and then — making sure I wasn’t about to miss my stop. I assumed everyone on the tram was also headed the hospital. Whether that was to make it comforting, like an entourage.

I arrived after walking through a leafy street, likely where doctors lived, and navigated the maze of the hospital to find day procedures. The first woman I spoke to at reception was a little short with me, understandably, she says the same thing all day. I gave my name and was told they’d call me shortly.

I scanned, found a solo seat sat, giving me access to view the whole waiting room. It smelled of waiting room. That specific smell, a mix of someone’s choice of perfume, hovering with disinfectant and paper. It was very quiet for the number of people in it. No television, I was grateful for that. I hate arriving at a waiting room and finding a television on that no one asked for and no one is watching.

A female couple sat down nearby, and suddenly one of their phones went off — the influencer voice came from the speaker loud, talking loudly about microblading eyebrows. Some kind of reel. Both of them frantically fumbling to turn the sound off, both completely mortified once they finally managed it and sat in silence. One huffed at the other.

They called my name, reception just needed to confirm who was picking me up. I said Lucy, gave her number. I lied, like everyone does, that my pickup person is staying with me that night.

A few minutes later an older nurse came out, Nancy. She said my name, I gestured it was me, and she walked over clutching her hands. She seemed to have forgotten what she was going to say, and fumbled through her words introducing herself as my intake nurse. She told me to follow her, but wasn’t quite sure where she was going either. I almost walked into her a couple of times because I wasn’t sure who was supposed to be leading. A gentle uncertainty between the two of us.

The gown was an upgrade from what I remembered — twenty years ago, maybe more. This one tied from the side, not the back. Someone had clearly worked out that the side is easier, and that it probably also stops your bare arse appearing in places you don’t realise. Nancy put it over the front of me and tied it before I took my clothes off underneath. Then she left, to go check her notes on next steps.

I had seen others before me coming out in the gown. Suddenly uniformed and vulnerable, I didn’t feel vulnerable in it. I’ve spent enough time in onsens, enough time in gowns. Different context, different purpose but something about it feels almost natural now. If anything, it settled me a little. The gown smelled of warm linen. It was enormous — way too big, though they don’t exactly list sizes. It was made to envelop someone much larger than me. And much much larger than Nancy.

Nancy had very old hands. I couldn’t tell how old she was exactly, but her hands gave something away. There was something about her too — the way she moved, the way she searched for words — like she was either catching up with her own brain, or her brain was catching up with her. I wasn’t sure which direction it was going in.

She followed me through into the little intake room. We sat down. Lots of questions. Then she took my weight. And said I looked familiar, she surely has seen to me before.

When I mentioned I’d never been to this hospital, Rose said I just have one of those faces. She then noticed my Invisalign, asked how much it cost, and declared she wanted to get some herself. She muttered, told herself to “keep nursing, Nancy — save up those pennies.”

Nancy then escorted me to the patient waiting lounge, where I had my own tiny room with an old recliner couch. She tucked me in with a hot blanket.

The smell of it felt safe. I don’t know how else to say it — it smelled safe. And I found myself wondering about it. Where it came from. How it’s cleaned. Who touched it before me, who folded it. How does it even get heated? Does it come out of some kind of warmer, a cupboard somewhere in the back? Who put it in there and when? There would have been a whole invisible chain of people between wherever that blanket started and Nancy tucking it around me, and I’ll never know any of them.

She handed me the TV remote and said, all the best.

After a while, another nurse appeared — Lana. Warm, like the others. She introduced herself as the anaesthetic nurse and said she’d take me to the bed. She couldn’t work out how to put the recliner back up, said it was old. I said it was still comfy. She said that’s probably why they’d kept it and asked me to get up.

I followed Lana through. She noticed I didn’t have a dressing gown on — didn’t you get one? — and quickly ran to fetch one. Said it was for later if I wanted. I didn’t put it on and I got into the bed. She tucked me in, said I could still use my phone, and that the anaesthetist would come find me soon.

I lay there facing a large wall covered in laminated pictures, I had to squint with no glasses. Staff pets, I assumed. Mostly dogs, a few cats. I scanned for the cats. Most of the dogs were the kind that probably wouldn’t and couldn’t exist in the wild.

Through the thin curtains I could overhear the other patients either side of me. To my left, an older woman answering intake questions. She mentioned she didn’t have a spleen. Then that she had a special oesophagus, because she choked on steak once and had to call an ambulance. She doesn’t eat steak anymore. She just knows she has a special oesophagus now. The nurse speaking quietly corrected her with the medical term. To my right, an old man saying he couldn’t get out of the bed, and a kind voice telling him that was okay.

About ten minutes later, the anaesthetist walked in. I’d spoken to him on the phone the day before, he’d sounded kind and handsome, and here he was, both of those things. Mack. Floppy hair tucked under his surgical cap. He asked about allergies, asked if I’d been under anaesthetic before. Not since 2005, I said. Any bad reactions? No. He explained that these days they don’t put you fully under for this procedure. He ran through the disclaimers — some people react badly, very low risk — and mentioned I might even have foggy recollections of it.

Then, surprisingly, he was the one who said: alright, let’s wheel you in. He pushed me down the hall and turned left, and someone called out, no, no, no, the other way, reverse. It’s a colonoscopy. So I went head-first through the doors instead.

The doctor, who I’d met a few months previously — was sitting at a desk in the corner, writing. He turned quickly and said, hello, sorry, I’ll be with you in a minute. Mack started chatting to me about live music, discovered what I did for work, connected with me on it. I understood what they were doing. They talk. They make small talk. They distract you from the strangeness of it all, the things you only see on TV shows, or when someone you know is sick or has died. He found a vein on my hand and said, sharp prick. I felt it then saw the red bloom of blood. He apologised and taped up my hand.

The doctor came over. I’ll see you after the procedure, a minute for you,probably a little longer for the medical team. They rolled me onto my side. You’ll wake up in a second, they said. I lay there with an oxygen mask on the bipping of the machine for faster and faster. My heart beat, and I felt a nurse’s hand on my shoulder. We’re looking after you. It’s okay. We’re looking after you.

It’s hard to explain, that waiting, once they tell you the chemical is going in. It’s in your veins and you don’t know what happens next. You just wait. And you wonder, quietly, if this is what death is like. Not frightening. Just a fading. A gradual losing of the edges.

And somewhere in it, or maybe I just heard it again from memory, the repeated word of “we’re looking after you.”

I hear my therapist in my head. Five senses, what do you smell? The smell of metal. The smell of clean chemical.

Then I felt a gentle shaking. My name being called. The kind of voice you hear in a half-dream, a mother waking you up softly. I gradually opened my eyes. For a moment I thought something had gone wrong, that the anaesthetic hadn’t worked and they were still trying to put me to sleep — but I realised I was in the recovery ward, on my back. The nurse was asking how I was. I don’t remember what I said.

I glanced across at the wall. One of those long, wide digital clocks with red numbers. It read 15:05. But the first digits said 2002. I stared at it. Stared a little longer. Then asked the nurse why it said 2002 on the clock. She looked at me, then glanced up at the clock. Looked at it for a moment. Then said: it’s the 20th of February. I said, good. I’d hoped I hadn’t gone back in time to 2002. That wasn’t a year I wanted to relive.

I was offered a lemonade icy pole. Said yes, of course, it would have been the first thing I’d eaten in a while. I wasn’t even that hungry. I looked around the room and everyone else was asleep. Something in me went, yes. I won. I woke up first. To be fair, I was probably the youngest in the room.

I had a vague, fuzzy recollection, half-conscious, like after a nap, that I needed to do a CT scan. But waking up from anaesthetic you feel a little confused anyway.

Then the doctor came around. The nurse drew the curtains closed, unprompted. He sat beside me and said: Okay. Two things.

One — we found a little polyp. A little lump. He pulled out printouts — high-res colour, much better than what came out of inkjet printers back in the day. Very clear. He pointed to a small lump with some kind of instrument beside it. We found this, he said. I burnt it off. Not concerned by it.

Then he said: this other thing, I am concerned by. And he pointed to another image, a few pictures down.

It looked like a tongue. Like when you deliberately poke your tongue out — cheekily. It just sat there, poking out into whatever canal of flesh I was looking at. Pink, and soft like a marshmallow.

He said again, I’m really concerned by this. It’s about a 20 cent piece, like a golf ball size. I’m getting you into a CT scan right now to find out more. I also took a biopsy. But I want to be clear — this isn’t good. It could be what you might think it is.

It’s unusual for me to push for more, but I said: can you please speak plainly?

He said: cancer.

It’s funny — it’s like hearing a news reporter say it. I heard the word and went: okay. The weight of it was meant to land, looking around, I waited for it to land. I felt the somberness in the nurse standing beside him.

One step at a time, he said. I’ll see you after the CT scan. Do you understand what I’ve told you?

I nodded.

They opened the curtains. The brightness of the room came back. Some of the others had started waking up, sucking on their lemonade icy poles.

I asked for my phone. The nurse reached under the bed and handed it to me. I had a message from Lucy, asking if I was awake. I let her know they are worried. She replied: shit. Fuck.

I noticed I was passed from one person to the next for the entire afternooon. And with every handover, the care came too — it transferred with me, like it was part of the package. I started to notice it. The nurses clearly knew my news, or enough of it. And something shifted in how they touched things. An extra squeeze. An extra press of the blanket down at the edges. Nothing said. Just that.

Not long after, a man appeared — someone I’d seen around the hospital earlier as I was lost. Older, kind face, the look of someone who’d been there a long time but still loved the job. He had a nurse with him. They were here to take me to the CT. But they weren’t entirely sure which direction to take me, and they brought out a kind of pallet jack to push the bed. I thought: geesh, am I that heavy? Standard procedure, apparently.

Then I was out in the public corridors. Someone carrying flowers going somewhere. Another person holding a laptop. A woman who couldn’t decide whether to go left or right, caught in her own head, trying to avoid the bed coming toward her. She apologised. I said sorry back. Not sure why.

We arrived at the CT ward. They left me there and said they’d come back. A woman handed me a clipboard — another intake form. Some of the questions I scribbled over, crossed out, wrote the opposite. Yes or no — I wasn’t sure. I don’t think they even read the sheet before they wheeled me in.

I was grateful they were quick. Into the room with the big circle. They wrestled with the cannula in my hand — they needed to put iodine in, and I’d never had it before. They told me it would make me feel like I’d wet myself. I said, will I though? They said no. Unless I actually needed to. I wasn’t entirely sure about that.

The handrails on the bed were pink. The ginger technician, noticed this and felt it was his duty to highlight this, whether he was making a joke or not — said, oh, it’s the Barbie version. Maybe the Ken version was out today. I said, well, I used to love playing with my sister’s Barbies. So it probably suits me better. Light weird chuckle followed.

A memory surfaced then — the doctor had mentioned earlier that he’d tattooed a spot next to the lump to mark it. For the future. My immediate thought spoken out loud was: that’s the first tattoo in my family. He’d laughed and said, don’t worry — I’m the only one who’ll ever see it.

Back in the CT room, I listened to a deep Australian voice tell me to hold my breath. Then release. Something about it made me feel dizzy and calm at once. Then the iodine went in. It didn’t make me feel like I’d wet myself. It made my lungs feel full of hot air — like I’d taken a pre-workout. And then it was over, and I was wheeled back to wait.

I lay there a while longer, until I actually did need to use the bathroom. I asked the nurse, who gave me one of those poles on wheels for the drip. I wheeled myself to the bathroom without realising the back of my gown was open. Who knows who saw my butt. That’s okay.

On the way back, I looked down and saw deep red. The front of my gown was soaked in it. That strange numb moment of not being sure if it was mine — and then realising the cannula had come loose and bled everywhere. The nurse had clearly seen this before. She took it away, put a bandage on, wiped me up, got me a new gown, wiped the pole, wiped the floor.

I waited a bit longer, then with some force asked if I could just walk back — I was disconnected from the drip, I felt fine, and I just wanted to move.

That seemed to kick something into gear. Thirty seconds later the gentleman from before appeared with another nurse, and they wheeled me back toward the recovery lounge.

But first I texted Lucy. You’ll see me — I’ll be going past the waiting room. Look out for me!

And as I came around the corner, there she was. Black broad brim hat, backpack. She waved her arms like a T-Rex — that pure, awkward, wholehearted Lucy glee. It never changes. I love that it never changes.

Back in the lounge, the nurse said the doctor wanted to see me again. Somewhere in there I was given a sandwich — avocado or chicken, I think — and I tucked my Invisalign under my thigh to keep it safe while I ate. Gross, I know.

The doctor came and explained everything again. One step at a time. A week for the CT and biopsy results to come back. The hospital would call on Monday about an MRI. His office would call for an urgent appointment. He asked if I understood — I remembered him asking the first time too — and I said yes.

He asked if I wanted him to speak to the person waiting for me.

I said, I think I’ve got it. She’d nerd out about it. But I’ve got it.

I didn’t have to go back to the recovery lounge. The kind nurse let me change right there. She’d watched me eat and said I was good to go. I walked out with her, then quickly walked back — I’d forgotten my Invisalign.

Back through the doors and I saw Lucy. We looked at each other briefly and kept moving, through the ward, both of us trying to find our way outside. A mission, something to push through before processing everything. Down a corridor I saw a door open, and through it — a green tree. We headed for that.

I chose to get an Uber. No matter how much I romanticised the tram earlier.

The driver looked kind. Said a quiet hello. Lucy got in the other side and said something like — oh, you have a fancy car — and he just smiled. Then stayed silent the whole trip.

I found myself wondering what else he hears, driving strangers around all day. What other weight has been carried in that back seat. Grief, probably. Relief. People on the phone getting news. People trying to hold it together. We were just one more. I wondered what the average Uber driver accumulates — not just kilometres, but the things overheard.

And then we started to talk — what it felt like, what if it was cancer. Lucy, no surprise, had already researched everything. She started: do you know the four stages of cancer? Stage one —

I said, sorry, Lucy. I don’t want to hear that right now. She said she would shut the fuck up then! In a jovial understanding way.

I was aware of the Uber driver in the front seat, again. Worried I would make him uncomfortable. And then I thought — no. This is life. And I stopped caring.

---

At work on Monday. Some staff came to me with complaints, wanting to put something together, and I just — I could feel my eyes wanting to close. I couldn’t access what the issue was. It all seemed so mundane. In some ways it felt like a strange freedom, being reminded of all the things that don’t matter.

I went home earlier than usual. Sitting on the couch with my laptop. At about 5:17, a call came through. Unknown number. I’d already gotten used to that — it was the doctor.

I answered. He said, oh, you got a sec?

Yep. Yep. Sure. Yes. And I stood up, walking up and down my hallway.

Okay. The results came back. You’ve got cancer.

You don’t expect to be told that standing in your living room on a phone call. I was walking around — through the study, into the living room, back through the study. I do that a lot on the phone anyway. I just kept moving.

He explained that he’d already started talking to specialists, forming a cancer team. He’d be meeting with people at the hospital the following week, and not long after that I’d start having my own meetings to discuss a treatment plan.

And I just kept walking, not really feeling like he was talking about me.

He said, one step at a time, remember. And hung up.

I sat there briefly. Just — okay. That moment just happened. The moment you hear about. The moment of being told you have cancer. How do you react? I don’t know. I genuinely didn’t know. Is it a minor thing? Is it going to be completely life-changing? I didn’t know any of it yet.

I called Cal. Straight away, he was down the road at his house. I simply said: I’ve been told I have cancer. He said, I’m on my way to your house. And hung up.

I then called Lucy. Told her the same thing. She said, shitty, shitty. Fuck. Fuck.

And then I met both of them, and we walked along the beach with Cal’s dogs. Three people bumbling along, genuinely unsure what to do in that moment other than put one foot in front of the other and talk about what the doctor said.

Trying to remember exactly what the doctor had said and relay it accurately — that became part of the process. A way of processing it. Though I still don’t know if I really took everything in.

That day and into the night I called the people I loved. Called my family. The whole time I felt like a reporter delivering news about something happening to someone else. I think I really just wanted to see people’s reactions, feel their reactions — to help me make sense of what my own reaction was supposed to be.

And then I just felt very tired.

I arrive at the gym each morning at six, and she’s already there. Always there. I’ve started calling her Ruby in my head, those worn red leather slip-ons gave her the name. Though they’re about as appropriate for a gym as you can get. But somehow they’re perfect for her.

I walk toward my usual warm-up spot and catch sight of her legs poking out from the leg press machine, black socks pulled up neat and covering her toes poking out the front of her slip ons, that grey tracksuit that matches her perfectly maintained bob. She gets that hair cut every week, I’d bet money on it. The precision of it, the way it sits - it tells you everything about someone who still takes care of herself, still has standards, still shows up.
But here’s the thing: she doesn’t really exercise. She sits on that leg press, maybe moves between two machines total, but mostly she just… exists there. No phone, no earbuds, just staring somewhere I can’t see. It’s not about the workout - it’s about being there, about starting her day acknowledging her body, respecting what it still does for her.

I wonder what drives someone to need that six AM anchor point. Maybe she goes home to a house full of memories and silence. Maybe there’s a husband who’s checked out, or children who never call, or worst of all, a child who can’t call anymore. And perhaps if I am not being overly dramatic, a pretty standard life with a husband and kids and grandkids. But she shows up anyway, says her hellos to the gym regulars, probably stops at the supermarket, waves to her neighbour walking by.

Though Ruby with her ruby slippers, clicking them together not to go home, but to stay present in a world that might feel like it’s moving on without her. Focussed on ripped abs, selfies, and not yet seeing what she sees.

I’m sitting here with my suitcase by the door, laptop packed away, and Keith doing that thing cats do when they sense disruption—following me around with those knowing eyes that seem to say, “I see what’s happening here.” There’s something about leaving him that always hits differently than leaving anyone else. Maybe it’s because he can’t understand the concept of “two weeks” or “I’ll be back.” To him, I’m just… gone.

I need to head to the office first, get through a morning of meetings before catching the afternoon flight. There’s something exhausting about that routine now—the packing, the airport rituals, the small talk with taxi drivers about where I’m headed. I used to find travel energizing, but lately it feels heavier somehow. Maybe it’s just the accumulation of all the coming and going, all the temporary arrangements and borrowed beds.

But Brisbane feels like possibility right now, in that way places do when you’re testing them out as potential homes rather than just visiting. Two weeks of actual life there—morning coffee runs, evening grocery shops, figuring out which train gets me to the office without being that person who clearly doesn’t belong. I want to see how the city feels when it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m tired from work, not just when it’s Saturday morning and everything feels optimistic.

And there are other things to explore too, personal connections that might be worth understanding better. Two weeks should give me enough ordinary moments to figure out what’s actually there—both with the city and with the possibilities it might hold.

The morning meetings start in an hour. Keith has moved to his favorite spot by the window, probably planning to spend the next two weeks judging my empty chair. Fair enough, really.

Unsure why I just made the title, Bruise. Maybe that constant feeling, watching the colours change inside myself. The purples, the greens, the yellows through the thin layers of skin that my soul oft

en feels. Bruises heal. We continue to show different colours. These colours reflect what the day, the month, and the year bring.

Another year around the sun. I am 41. Visually looking at that number, makes me want to go to 42. I am a numbers guy (not in the good at maths way) and I consider milestones. And 41 feels uneven. Yet so is the table, I am trying to write on.

20 years since my 21st. I stood on my front porch with my birthday cake. Family gave tender speeches. Meanwhile, people huddled in the car port around open fires. I remember crying, overwhelmed with gratitude as my life began to spill apart.

1 year since I was 40. Where Taiwan introduced me to the new decade. And I finished the day in Bangkok. And finished the year back in Melbourne.

Its been 6 years since the concept of trust broke away completely. And I cement a new grain of sand each day, to believe I maybe will have someone beside me again. In a new and full way. And until then, I know each day I do not need that.

Several dates are occurring around me in this cafe. Its fun to see if its a first one, or second. Not a third. One is a friend date. They talk of their girlfriends, yet also know nothing about each other. They ask the basics like “when did you move to Melbourne” and “what do you do for work.” Or maybe not a friend date? On another table, they are learning if they can manage silence together, one buttering their toast way too slow.

I am going to close this laptop, as my coffee is cold and people start to queue for tables. I will find my cat Keith in a little mound in my blankets. I will continue to hear the rain outside. Autumn is giving us a show today, and it gives us permission to nest.

When I was about five, the concept of anything far away was the top of the street. It felt like the edge of the world back then. The trees seemed to stop growing. The sky stretched out, and the sun baked the cracked road beneath it. In my part of town, the road had been worn smooth by years of use. Jagged patches crept along the sides where the asphalt had crumbled away. These patches left no room for a curb. Grass and gravel started to blur together. They were scattered with the glint of broken glass and a ring pull from a can. It looked like the remnants of a world that had long stopped caring. Everything felt abandoned under the dry, sky.

Almost at the top of the street stood a yellow fibro house, simple and unremarkable, with no front garden to soften it—just a patch of mustard-coloured grass that crunched underfoot. I knew I was almost too far when that house came into view. It was the marker. The sign that I had wandered close to the boundary of safety, to the point where I wasn’t sure I should be. I never went that far alone. I always made sure my older brother was with me or that I was gripping my Dad’s hand. That house and what lay beyond it were too unknown to face without someone beside me.

Two older ladies lived there—twins. They sat out on the large air conditioner unit, every day, always silent. They never spoke, not to each other and certainly not to me or anyone else who ventured near. They just sat, their wrinkled faces tight and scrunched up, like the cracked surface of the road, watching. Always watching. Their eyes would follow you, quiet and unblinking, as though they knew something about you that you didn’t yet understand. They wore woolen sweaters, despite the heat, with dresses underneath and brown socks that never quite stayed pulled up. I never stayed long enough to figure out much else about them. As soon as I felt their gaze, I’d hurry back down the hill, feeling the weight of their eyes still on me until the curve of the road finally hid me from view. And me and my brothers would pretend to be them, giggling together, they were this unknown we felt we could mock as kids. Mock the unknown.

These days, I know they were just two quiet women, probably as old as my Dad. Sweet, really. They kept to themselves, as people do, and that was all there was to it. But I didn’t know that back then. Back then, they were sentinels, watching over the end of the street, keeping me from going too far. And sometimes, now, I feel like them—sitting quietly, looking out at the world as people try to push themselves past the barren parts. Trying to get a little further, beyond whatever desolation they’re caught in, whether it’s a quiet cool corner store, a still and dusty bush track leading to a swimming hole, or even an airport to somewhere far away. I know that feeling now—of being too far. Of feeling like, if I shouted, no one would hear me. That it doesn’t really matter what I do, because, in the end, I just need to find my way back home. Down the hill.

But what if home is gone? What if you make it back down the hill, and nothing is where it used to be? That’s where I am now, back in Melbourne. Working, moving from one day to the next. But I still don’t know what home is. I could place all my belongings out in the street, and it wouldn’t make a difference. I’d still feel the same. Too far away from something I once knew as home, and yet so close to the place that should be it. Though I tell myself, usually its then that you are too close to an old home. And very far from your new home, whatever that may be. A physical place, or a love you have never known yet. And the twins are watching you verge onto that new place, down the hill. Safe.

The feelings and words float past, bobbing in the river that rushes by me. After so many days of rain, the river near my childhood town is very alive. I am sitting beside a man who has many memories of someone who used to be me.

Fifteen years since we sat and watched this river flow by. In the air the pulsating sound of cicadas on a hot day. The gum tree's leaves could not hang lower, shy and tired from the heat. Sitting in the grooves of the flat rock bed, shaped by the endless time of water and seasons. I don't even know how the situation allowed for this moment as we chuckle that it was almost exactly to the day he experienced Australia for the first time. Usually, he is in the US, and I am in Thailand. But our visits neatly collided. At that other time, it was my wise idea to pick him up from the airport from his early morning landing and take him straight to the middle of the bush, to my quiet place. Others may have questioned what this crazy Aussie was doing. It was an innocent and simple expression. That guy who was and is me, showing someone the first place he wanted this man from South Dakota to feel, touch and see. And now I see that same wonder reflected in his eyes, and nothing had changed in that look.

I always find that the best way to honour moments is through words. And very rarely in the moment, as most find it odd or too intense. I leave it until the thoughts have settled downstream, amongst the shade and moss of the next day or so. As you write, more thoughts catch up with you, and you watch each one arrive, allowing yourself to smile at the echo of a past burst of laughter or sigh at a wound that used to hurt so bad.

After spending so much time walking our separate paths over the past fifteen years, I was incredibly grateful to have spent a day sitting by the river with him, reflecting on how we had grown up. There is the residual pain, like the underwater grooves in the rocks. They are there but no longer jagged. Their importance is no longer. So we catch up, embrace the moment, and step up and away from the still bushland; it fills us with happiness as we return to the worlds we now find ourselves in with a leaf stowed away in my shoe.

My rental bike groaned every time the wheel spun. It may not have been happy, but I was. Slow at first, then as I sped up, the groaning was more constant. A little creak in the yellow faded plastic handle, to add to it, if I wobbled around a slow walker. Id be slow too, the scenery was beautiful. Taipei, a city I never thought I would see, was where I was spending the final days of my thirties. Here I was, peddling a river bike path, admiring the green hills scattered with houses and condos. The air was warm, the breeze moving with me and filling my senses with the joy every city feels when the cold days are over. I cheated, I did not persevere through those cold months to really enjoy this reward, but it is always surreal as a southern hemisphere May baby that warmth is around me. And its wonderful.

My few days in Taiwan were spent tasting food I had never known. Walking streets filled with stories I never learned. Seeing the place so many called home, the place, that to my limited knowledge, just knew that caused so much international tension.

Burke, my dear wise friend said to me yesterday, “While a birthday can be used as a marker of some sort, it’s a reminder of mortality. In reality, it has little to do with one’s artistic life. If you have something to communicate, you will. If not, you won’t. And the form of communication can vary. An artist isn’t just communicating. They feel they are acting as a witness to something. They must look while others turn away.” As I accept my milestone of forty today, I am reminded of those dear to me. Chatting and speaking to all who share connections, journeys and lessons here on this planet.

I have been mostly solo for over five years now, and I really have learnt to be OK in my own company. I step into my forties, not seeking or needing love. But continuing to strive to do my part to make this world better. Which can be so hard to do, when you are overwhelmed with the horror and pain of what is happening in our world. But you see the effort, the good, all around the world. Sparks you to keep the tightrope walk going.

I then looked up the paragraph before and tried not to deceive myself. I often feel alone. I am surrounded by those who love me, but it is easy to push and slip through to another lonely room—filling it with fun, new experiences and memories. Then, hopping across space, above the emptiness, into another room of potential and feeding on the what if, the possibility of something new. Which quickly dries with cracks and fades in the heat, and those exciting parts are crying out for water and that moment with no disappointment. How quickly people show their patterns, and when you have been here long enough, you know that pattern. And choose to adopt and embrace it, or step out of the room, down the hallway and into a forest with maybe a snake or two. The snakes you have studied are in nature books and meeting rooms. Across from you at the restaurant, reaching out for your hand. Their scales are tightly linked and glossy, lightly holding your hand. Back then, when you were a fawn, you would hold on, even though the warmth is being taken from you, into their cold. Though now, you pat the hand, pay for dinner and say nice to meet you, but I have a cat to feed.

So I walked down the alleyway in Taipei, a few cats curiously looking out from some stacks of beer bottles. They always need to be fed. And I walk into my forties, a 7 11 slushie in hand, with some sneaky vodka, embracing the cracks, the disappointment and the beauty of existence.

I start writing this, just after I moved seats. The chatter, even though joyful, rebounded too much inside my head. All four wore pastel yellows and whites. They must have discussed this before all leaving their hotel rooms. One had a sharp bob style haircut, and she was taking selfies, a pinky pulling one corner of her mouth downwards. Cheeky, fake sad. Perfect content. They began getting up from their table, they had brought in their lunch from a food stall outside, leaving their leftovers for the cafe owner to clean up. Their clothing was like capes, light and flowing, though nothing personal about them, nothing to say what their superpowers would be other than selfish, unaware. Their capes flowed out the door behind them, their big brimmed hats leading the way, to whatever else they were to go explore outside as the traffic noise peaked in from the door.

My table has polka dots on it. Try and look at polka dots and feel sad. Even black and white ones like these, begin to move with a funk or shuffle of a joyful song. Those sorts of songs patter across the soundscape here, like a lofi track you put on when trying to write and pretend you are in a sleepy Bangkok cafe.

Older white men, often stroll inside. They often just look tired, like they were just used to scrub down the stubborn grease on a pan. Whether they have lived in Bangkok for two months or seven years. Their clothes are clean, but their bodies worn, mottled red and patchy. I dont want to assume, though it is unlikely a greasy pan that caused this, but many afternoons in a lane way dive bar, drinking the Singha to stop the life they had left. But today they have found their way, to read the paper and have caffeine. Almost dormant, to start their day, even if it usually leads to the bar directly.

A young, handsome German tourist, wont leave the cashier alone. He is using the opportunity to speak the four words in Thai he has learnt since he arrived yesterday. The cashier is polite, she talks to him, partly looking at the wall behind him. There are no other customers to serve, so she nods and smiles. Probably the third man today using her as his practice. He tells her of the Australian guy who he follows on Instagram who speaks Thai, like a Thai. And ONLY been living in Thailand two years. His English and choice of words are so earnest. You cannot fault him for wanting to simply be engaging and showing interest in language. Eventually he sits quietly, smiling at his phone at something. His glasses on his head, looking up at the spinning ceiling fans.

Bangkok is so easy to drift. Like those coming in and out of the door of this sleepy cafe. Just drift, whether in the snow or river, to what makes you happy. Its what is always learnt, from even just sitting in a cafe in my home of Bangkok.

I am just happy at how much warmth came from what I shared. The story of Alexis and I, in some ways, was a very common one. It made others think about their own past love. Their own discoveries that were unknown to them. People I didn’t know. Then others who do know me, but never knew about that chapter. Its inspired others to write, and others to move on. Thats all that matters. Us sharing and encouraging others. Keep walking that path and avoiding the gum, admiring the flowers or taking them with us. And I am always here to give someone a big hug.

I was in Melbourne for a visit, after relocating to Bangkok. During a hang out with my friend Alberto, a photo memory popped up on my phone. He saw me smile and asked what I was looking at. I showed him a photo of Ivan, the child of one of my ex-partners, with whom I used to bake. In the photo it was during one of the many times we would spend in the kitchen, on a cold morning. To keep him and his twin sister Sophie entertained, less stir-crazy. Ivan’s face was brimming with joy, and it reminded me of those moments of pure happiness in New York City.

Alberto asked me if he could see photos of the kids. I had talked about my time in NYC, and he knew it was a delicate topic. I was happy to share, as there were so many great times during that period. I scrolled through some photos, of both Ivan and Sophie. Some had my ex in them. Alexis Bittar. I have never until now, mentioned his name in my writing. Not because it had power over me but just simply to respect privacy. Though I now question why, as so often, I was not respected.

Alberto mentioned he had also not seen a photo of my ex before. It really did show how much I had just swept along to the next place I could find a home. He asked me what he did, and I quickly googled him to show him that he ran his own jewellery design business, Alexis Bittar. Faster that way. Though in the process, google’s top search result was a New York Times article about Alexis Bittar, getting married. Alberto asked me another question but I didn’t hear, I had froze and wondered if I click on the article. (You can click on the article at end of this post).

Only earlier this year, Alexis had tried to DM me on Instagram. To apologise to me once again for hurting me. And that I was one of the best people he had ever met. That he had wished he had ended it better. I once again ignored it simply because I did not see the point, and it was self-centred on why he was reaching out. It had nothing to do with considering how I was or how it would impact me to get his messages. It was about getting a release that what he did was maybe forgiven.

I clicked on the article, the headline “After a Single Glance, an Unspoken Connection Blossomed“, and the byline – “Six months after seeing Alexis Bittar at the gym, Jack Miner remained intentionally “aloof” toward him. Once the silence was broken, a relationship and a family followed.”

I closed it. I had to go to dinner with some friends. I left Alberto to his work and began walking. My head was spinning; I didn’t too often dwell on him these days and the pain. The day we met after he requested we have a break in May 2019, as summer began to hint it was coming. In those three weeks, I navigated my birthday without him, in the city I moved from Australia to be with him for. And when we met up again in Prospect Park, he let me know he didn’t want to do this anymore. I asked him why, and he didn’t really provide me with answers. He hinted at topics like, I should have helped him more and been more proactive with his kids. To show I was ready to step up and co-parent. The same man who asked to take it slow, that hesitated when taking photos of the four of us. Who was concerned by our age difference of 15 years.

He walked me back to Carrol Gardens where I lived, and I could barely see through the tears and clung to him. I sobbed and begged him not to go. He had to shake me off, and walk off down the road back to Brooklyn Heights. Thankfully my wonderful friends I had made in NYC helped me through the next few days, weeks and months. And finally moving back home to Australia. I wrote about it at the time on here, poetically. Was only way I could. And now writing about the actual facts, closes it out.

I want to note that this entry is not written out of spite or anger. It is simply for me to be honest and open about that chapter. I was very much not a lot of things, just like Alexis was not. He also chose to share his day with one of the most well-known newspapers in the world.

Let me rewind and give some backstory about Alexis and me to everyone. We met on Grindr in February 2017. I visited my hometown in Sydney, and he was there on holiday. He was charming and insisted on going on a date with me. I declined, as why would I go on a date with a tourist? Then, after two weeks of his vacation and some more charm, I said yes. We met outside the gym where he had just worked out and went down the escalators to the Sushi Train. He had intense blue eyes, and his hand rubbed the top of mine. After that first meeting, we saw each other several times before he flew home. One of those was to meet his kids in the playground; he wanted to show me that gay men could have kids, too. This is a beautiful sentiment to share after so many of us think we must walk away from that construct.

We said our goodbyes, but he suggested that he could fly me to New York City a few days later to spend some time together since I was in between jobs. I agreed, and a few days later, I found myself in NYC in the snow, experiencing a whirlwind romance that you usually see in hundreds of NYC films. I spent time with him, his kids and got to meet his friends. My sense of adventure was on fire, and this felt true to my approach to life, without any regard for what was coming next. We had some excellent, realistic conversations, and over the next year, we discussed a plan that I would relocate to NYC to give our relationship a real try. It was easier for me to move to NYC than for him to move with his kids to Australia. During that time, we met in Hawaii, Australia, or NYC every few months for that in person face time, instead of just video FaceTime. We had that luxury.

I resigned from my job, sold most of my belongings (including my piano), and was all in. I landed in January 2018 into my new life. We always said that me going there was giving it a shot. I wasn’t moving in with him. And I wanted to set up my own life and job, etc. I did all that, maybe outside the job or industry I wanted, but it was a start. I fought the classic NYC rat race in parallel with experiencing the unique world of Galas, dinner parties and socialites. This was also the world of children’s playgrounds, museums, and nannies. I discovered that the kids’ needs set out the entire day’s agendas. And the mental effort needed to focus and be present with them. It was an excellent learning experience. And after some time, I realised this could be life for me. I could be a Dad with him.

By the time I had secured a work visa, settled in and started making my own friends and world, it turns out this NY Times article has told me more about that time. The article was a series the NY Times does on Vows. Weddings.  So this was all about Alexis’ wedding day and the romance behind the lead-up to this day. Now, I am sure you have worked out why it ended. Someone else.

I am not even mad about that. Life happens; we meet and fall for people. It’s an everyday story. Someone else comes along when everyday life ticks over. I asked him through my sobs and through painful texts in the days that followed, was there someone else? No, he said.

After seeing glimpses of the article, I had dinner with my friends. I told them that I had just read he got married. That confirmed what I had always wondered, something that I wish I had just been told about. And when I returned home after dinner, I googled a way to get around the paywall (sorry, NY Times, but as an Aussie, I rarely need to read your articles). And then read the article.

When I say read, I had to skim as it began pulling up the road I had paved over the memories. And the small grabs of information I processed just plugged light into the mystery I had to let go of four years ago.

They spoke at the gym six months after seeing each other there. The November after I moved to NYC for him.

They went on their first date a few blocks from my home, around the same time I co-hosted Thanksgiving at Alexis’ house for all his friends. In the same month, Alexis thought I needed a personal trainer, so he hired one for me (without me asking) at his gym, where he had already met his new husband.

The article mentioned a relationship ensued after those first few dates in late 2018. Which would have been when he bought me, for Christmas, flights to Morocco for 2019 adventure. Why? Why keep me going? Why pretend?

Based on the article, his now husband met the kids just after we went on a romantic trip to Puerto Rico. I can now imagine the conversations going on behind my awareness. “When will you end it, Alexis?”, “Why did you just buy his mother flights over to visit from Australia?” “Why is he still going to Morocco with you?”

Alexis would often talk about how he never wanted to get married. He didn’t believe in the institution. It’s OK that it’s just that he didn’t want to marry me. I am glad, for his sake, he changed his mind. I am also happy that Sophie and Ivan have a family unit and a new little sister. May it be a long-lasting connection and full of joy. I really do hope for that.

I do not understand why, to this day, when he would try to message me, he never simply told me the truth that he met his love elsewhere when we were together.

It was never because of who I was, what I looked like, or because I was too passive about parenting. Or the hundreds of other reasons that went through my head in the month after. And I just was never going to find that out, until I began reading the New York Times on a whim in my Melbourne apartment four and a half years later. And now publish this near my new home, on a beach in Thailand. On a Macbook Air, by Apple. Wearing navy sports shorts, by my good friends at Kmart.

I am thankful for NYC, Alexis and seeing what having a family would be like. I met some of my closest friends and was flung back to Australia when I needed to come home. And once I recovered from the heartache, I was so thankful I was finally let go. Free to keep moving, keep living through the dark times and the light. I look at the photos of that wedding day and know I would not have fit in. I would have been an accessory, like the rings or the designer tablecloth. Stylised for the camera, yet not living an authentic life.

A friend said, NYC is where everything and nothing changes. I walked the blocks towards my old place on 4th Place. Remembering a good eats spot and the best Thai restaurant in NYC (not that hard to do). My street appears and I turn down it. The front yards where I remember seeing Halloween displays, and I start to see the distinct grey and red walk up apartment. It looks exactly the same. And the obese old man who I assumed would have died by now, sitting on the front step. I even imagined him specifically when I thought about NYC during the pandemic, was the one that would have definitely not made it. He always left his door open on the first floor, a news broadcast murmuring from his hallways.

I came, to remind myself this chapter happened. The people and the places all moved and turned in reality, not just in the mazes in my head. I am so thankful I get these chapters. I sit here in my favourite local cafe, the smell of huevos rancheros and filtered coffee and say hello to my ghost. Now off to step into another chapter, but the good thing is, you can always turn back a page and smile before the next.

I had been very casually seeing a guy when I was about 22 in Sydney. Around 2006. He introduced me to “The Devil Wears Prada”, had a thick English accent, a tattoo of a pair of woman’s lips above his belly button and I cannot remember his name. He proudly showed me his one hit wonder single, that made it in the UK in the early 90s. He looked like Peter Andre.

He called me one Saturday afternoon, asked me if I wanted to do something random. I said why yes, of course! Everyone who knows me, knows I cannot help dive into something spontaneous. He (let’s call this guy Mark) said he had a friend invite us to his country house, out west of Sydney for the night.

We got into his friends car, it was a fancy old convertible. Very squashy. I shook hands with Mark’s friend (lets call him Bert), he was an older, fairly obese man. Grey hair, flushed cheeks and he wore a chequered shirt, smart pants. Quite proper for a Saturday afternoon. The trip is a blur now, couldn’t even tell you where or how far it took to get there. He said his wife and kids were away for weekend and so he had the place to himself. It was very open planned, big sweeping property. Lawns, a lot of gums and modern glass square architecture. A lot of corrugated iron was used in a fancy way. I remember it was cold, and we went in and started cooking a roast. Wine all round. It felt very adult, but also just a tad weird. I knew Mark for a few weeks, didn’t know Bert. How did they know each other? Mark was chuckling a lot, they both acted like besties. There was books scattered on the coffee table, cow hide on the ground on top of the polished concrete.

Turns out Bert was a politician. He was a member of parliament. At 22 I had zero interest or care for politics and so don’t recall his views or whether he was left or right. I’d take a stab now that he was definitely right. I just smiled and nodded at politics, and inside chuckled at how Mark and I were with this random mid fifties politician, on his posh country property. And being young and full on spontaneity, I lived for this stuff. A story. Funnily enough, not one I have told until now, 14 years later.

I remember classical music playing through a stereo that was hidden in the walls. Eating dinner in a sterile and minimal space. Kept being given wine. I remember being quickly bored. Sitting after dinner on couches next to a fire, until I hinted at Mark that it was time for sleep. We thanked him for the dinner and he showed us to the seperate side cottage that was for guests.

Was a cute floral bedspread, old spring bread. Was cosy and had a bed and breakfast vibe. Mark commented on how it was such a lovely night. I asked him what the go with Bert was, Mark just chuckled and said he was a nice generous guy. Getting into my boxers, I slid into bed with Mark. Turned off the light. Closed my eyes, I was starting to look forward to getting back home in the morning.

A few minutes later, I heard creaking. The floor boards beside the door outside. I lifted my head, was that real? The door then was opening in the dark, my back was facing the door. Mark didn’t seem to budge, I was a little frozen. I felt Bert’s presence, and he slid back the covers on my side and got into the bed. I felt him reach his arm around me, chuckle quietly, like this was all planned. He didn’t say anything, my instinct was to act like I was asleep.

I did not know what to do. I was staring at the back of Mark’s head, and beyond that the curtain with a little light peeking in. I was so polite. He had given us dinner and offered us a place on his beautiful property. As his hand slid into my pants, my stomach slid to the floor. I was baffled, whether it was then or later, that Mark did nothing.

I felt his hand exploring, groping, feeling in my boxer shorts. I never invited this. Did I? But then I also wasn’t giving him a bad signal. I felt sick. My stomach was under the bed by now, I felt like a lost little kid. And also like an idiot, for not seeing this ahead of time.

And then, my sub conscious kicked in. I was outside of my body, looking in. I stood up. Literally just stood up in the middle of the bed and said “I don’t like this”. “I don’t like this, I don’t like this.” I kept repeating it, standing in the saggy old bed, two men either side of me. The darkness was thick.

Bert jumped out of the bed, gasped his surprise and left the room. As quickly as he came in, I had shone the headlights on what lurked. This wasn’t done, I got that sense.

Mark rolled over, sheepishly told me to calm down, it was just a bit of fun and he was an old drunk man. He was baffled at how I had “overreacted”. Not to worry. He turned back over, as I looked at the door. I heard only wind in the trees outside, and I heard that wind the rest of the night as I lay there until light. Scolding myself for being so… for being so nice.

We were meant to have breakfast in the morning, but Bert had to get back early and if we needed a lift we had to go now. He said he could drop us off at the nearby train station. He was hiding in the front seat as we got to the car with our overnight bag. I slid in the back, he said something along the lines of “sorry, I forgot what bed I was going into, I was so drunk” and chuckled. Then why were you driving Bert..? It was a silent ride, mixed with Mark’s attempts at making chatter. The train station arrived, we got out.

Then we spent the train ride home, with Mark telling me don’t worry, it was a lesson for me to accept some men just don’t know their boundaries. He didn’t mean any harm.

Then I blotted it out, every now and then I recall, then I blot out his face more. How sad he is, whoever that unknown man is. But also wonder how often he set that up, and how many other men, how many other men and women felt they invited it, they must have. No, you didn’t.

As I sat there, I could see through the opaque door of the flap and saw flashes of pink. That was instantly odd, usually I just see wood colour. Sometimes wet wood colour. I crouched down and it looked like a stuffed toy. Curious, I stood up and opened the door. Leaning against said door, was a four foot Minnie Mouse stuffed toy. What is was doing there? Then I looked down to the courtyard gate, which is my back gate onto the side street. The gate was wide open. I never have this gate open to ensure Keith doesn’t leave. I was panicked, forgetting the fact someone walked into my backyard with a giant mouse toy and left it there. Where was Keith??! I ran down the side and round the corner. Keith was sunning himself, mid lick, looking back at me a little startled. Oh thank fuck for that. Well that also proves he doesn’t have an interest in leaving anytime soon. Or that day at least.

This led me to now go back to the toy. It had the tags still on it, it didn’t look dirty, just a little wet from some rain overnight. The weird thing was, I don’t use this gate or door as my entry and friends don’t either. I also usually lock the gate. But someone brought it through, and not just threw it there but placed it then left leaving the gate wide open. It made me feel a bit sick, Keith just started sleeping under Minnie’s dress.

I took a photo and posted it on the local residents page. Maybe someone put it at my house by mistake? Maybe it was a drug drop off but they confused the address? Was Minnie full of cash? Or drugs? I picked her up, mindful that my yard faces onto a bunch of units, some probably seeing their grown neighbour holding up a large Disney toy in his yard, with no children on a weekday morning. Maybe I will wait for darkness, to inspect further. Do I stab her, cut her open and see if there is a secret message? Am I overthinking this? You are overthinking this.

The responses began, on the Facebook page. So many theories, most I had thought of and some were even worse. Some told me I should not stay at my house until this is solved as it could be a marker that robbers were casing the joint. I thought then about sneaking Minnie into the bin at night, then felt sad, such a waste of a toy. She didn’t deserve that. And thenoOne of the comments then chimed in:

“Hi, my grandaugther would love this! Can I have it, if you don’t want it?”

Maureen had also direct messaged me. Her granddaughter was turning five soon and loved Minnie Mouse. This was pretty much destiny. I didn’t want this gross thing anywhere near my life. By the next morning I was convinced I had a stalker or was now accidentally mixed up in a drug ring that used Disney toys as codes. The grandmother can take this shit on, not me.

So I said, sure.

I gave her my address, though what if she was the drug mule, all part of the plan? I didn’t care. I was deliberately out jogging when she messaged me to say she was there to pickup. I had left my gate open again, for her to go in and get it out of the yard. Hey why not have another stranger just go in right? I didn’t want to have to engage directly in case Maureen was a drug mule. She messaged to say she was surprised by how big Minnie was, but she took it. As my yard was free of the mouse on my return,

I now get text updates, about how many weeks until her granddaughters birthday. And that she promises to take photo. Sorry Maureen, but I never asked and don’t want photos of your granddaughter and a giant Minnie Mouse that stalked my house. I may have blocked a grandmother. And every morning since, I go on my tippy toes, look outside to see if I can see a stuffed toy. If the coast is clear, I open the cat flap and Keith goes to guard the gate. Fuck all he will do, but it’s something.

I would spend hours as a kid, sitting on the end of my bed, with the CD insert booklet well worn in my hand. I’d be playing the whole album, and mouthing or singing the words of every song, tracing with my finger the lyrics in the booklet. I imagined the visuals of the video I would make, I would imagine the moves to the music. I’d imagine who would be in it. I’d chuckle at the imagery and the silliness of the music video I’d made completely inside my head.

Then without warning, the fear would boom over me like a giant wave over a little stone on the beach. Completely covered and wet with fear. Rolling around in shame. The idea would wash away as fast as it came to me. My ideas were not good enough. You deserve to be forever punished for how pathetic you are. Everyone will laugh at your ideas, even worse, no one will even notice them. God loves you but also hates who you are. So without him, you won’t be carried anywhere.

I’d drop the CD booklet on the floor. The music kept playing and I’d just roll over and close my eyes. The people who were in the sunlight, creating the impossible, were already doing it through my speakers. And I was in my bedroom, a kid losing the light.

I had no idea, if I zoomed out, looking down on suburbs and cities and countries, so many kids were losing the light. So many were feeling alone. And we went through that, so we knew what light was. And knew what darkness was. So we can now share the spark, reach out and find those in the dark. The light was always with us, and we need to share it far and wide.

So I lay on this towel, on a beach by myself, the sun on my skin. And I pick up my words and send them out. Your idea is wonderful. Hold onto it, share them and those who have the light will hold you high.

Super annoyed that my suitcase I have, has a broken zipper.

I jump in a car, very sweetly loaned to me by Lucy, in a few days. I hold the wheel heading to Sydney, again. I will spend a few months definitely in a reflective and pondering mode as I work up there on a new contract whole I wonder if my world in Melbourne will remain. I will smell the Sydney sea breeze, I will hear the parrots in the trees outside the window. I will feel the humidity and so much of what I grew up with. A special time, where I will see family and also learn new things. And as always, am open. Open to whatever may come.

I also have the synopsis and structure developed enough for my new novel, apparently writing that here in this sentence will inspire me to keep going?

Well, your heart is mended. Thats one thing. Someone once told you, it takes twice as long as you are with someone to get over them. I thought this was crazy and some sort of numeric fact that should be assigned to a cake recipe, not your heart. And also probably the worst time to tell me this when my heart was breaking. Hey, it turns out it wasn’t the case for you. You were not a set of ingredients to be measured out in lots of love and pain. You always have some mending yes, when you are laying in the arms of someone else who seems to want to be there with you. And you wonder why. Time will show you why. Or even more so, you don’t need that person for you to know why. Because you are a spark, a force of joy and cheeky. You are giving and you dance in your own way.

You bring people in that like to dance in their own way too. And you can appreciate the other’s dance. You grin and clap, each step of the way. You have the eyes to see the invisible rhythm they move to. And love when they see your rhythm too. Whether it be in the rain or a heatwave.

So the chin you have, you keep up OK? You dance any moment you can and you also cry when it hits you. Dont swallow a cry. Thats the demons saying you should not. That it isn’t proper. A tear and a sob is a song in itself. You would never dare stifle a laugh song. Unless when you were back in church and your uncle farted right in front of you super loud. So never stifle what channels, what runs deep through you.

Love from Edwin in Brisbane, Australia. 2021.

As I chopped carrots, I heard my neighbours all chatting in the communal courtyard. Other than technically that’s probably not allowed in this current pandemic, I felt the FOMO (Fear of Missing Out, for those who must know). I looked out and saw them in camping chairs in a circle with beers. They were doing what I had always hoped to have, a fun group of neighbours who socialised. Right, how do I get involved? And why wasn’t I already? Did I not nod enough when leaving my apartment?

Need to find a reason to leave my place, I cant just casually go out and bring my stool and a can of coconut water. Think… I could be doing a chore? I hadn’t checked the mail for a few hours? Even though mail isn’t delivered today.

I grab my mask, grab my keys and go outside. They turn and glance at me. I smile, forgetting that no one sees smiles with masks. I walk past their chatter; two dogs are also out playing together in the courtyard. I wave at no one directly, as I kneel down while the golden retriever puppy jumps up on me, knowing they will be looking. I knew that no one would know my name, but that still didn’t mean I thought to introduce myself. Just sort of do a puppy hello, the one where you are a few octaves higher than usual. The other dog was some sort of poodle puppy, no thanks.

Even though I loved this golden retriever puppy,  I had to keep looking like I was on a mission, the mailbox! I kept walking, and the puppies followed. I opened the gate, making sure they didn’t get through. Two of my neighbours did a bit of a half assed call out to their dogs, out of habit really. Though imagine if I had just left the gate open and called them to go, be free! Dick move neighbour, probably one that wouldn’t get invited to courtyard neighbour hangs.

Opening up the mailbox, oh surprise, no mail. Though I grabbed the few bits of junk mail I had ignored so I had that sense of purpose again, looked like I had gotten what I had come for. Pizza discount flyers! Important.  I then returned back to the courtyard, neighbours and puppies. Quick, engage with them! Opportunity is running out. Don’t be that recluse neighbour.

“Have they been desexed yet?”

One of them heard my question, shrugged and looked at someone else.

“What? Um, Oh, no, not yet”.

“Oh OK, my cat has been neutered.” That was a good opener right? I have a cat. I share interest of an animal too.

“Oh you have a cat!” A woman asked, choosing to accept this topic of desexing animals was normal. She was very forgiving, I liked her. She looked like a “Claire”. Maybe I just call her Claire.

“Yeah, he is in my house. But probably not a good idea if he came out here right, haha right Claire?” I said Claire in my head, don’t worry I am not a psycho.

They laughed politely. Two started their own conversation again. The puppies lost interest in me and swirled in their own fun off towards the other gate. I wasn’t getting an invite vibe from the others. Nor the dogs. I walked back to my front door. My cat Keith, he was doing his faint meows behind the door. He always knew when I was back, the jangling of my keys. Opening my door, I knelt down and picked Keith up. And turned around, held him high and said “this is my cat!!”

The others turn again in their camping chairs. They did a collective polite “aww”. Keith squirmed, I had brought him beyond the territory of his home, he was loving this shit and needed to get down and sniff. Plus there were two dog creatures nearby, must take a look. I quickly stepped back inside, with door open. To maybe calm Keith. One of the guys shouted out, “Whats his name?” YES, engagement! Interest!

“Keith!” I said, through my mask. The others kept talking to each other, the guy shook his head, “Sorry, whats his name?” Trying to cut his voice through the other conversation.

“Keith!” I leant out, trying to be louder, Keith still scrambling.

“Sorry, didn’t hear again, what?”

“Keith!”

“What?”

“KEITH!”

They all turned around.

“His name is Keith?”, he asked.

“Yeah!”

“Ha, cool!” as he sipped his beer.

“Yeah!”

Alright, I am closing the door. Standing in the coolness of the house, Keith got back down and put his forehead to the door. His chance, gone. So was mine.

An hour goes by, coffee gone and I feed the cat. I move my coffee table out of the way, unroll my gym mat and turn the fitness app on that streams to my TV. Thirty minutes later I am sweating and sore, I have a shower then heat up my breakfast. Usually an egg and vegetable bake that I made on Sunday for the week. After eating, I am on couch for another few hours. I play a colored jewel game on my iPad. The Golden Girls is a show I have only just begun watching, its on in the background giving comfort that the late 1980s seems to give people.

Enough time has gone by that I put my shoes on, mask on and keys in pocket. Walk out the door, tapping my watch to start tracking an outdoor walk. I see the sea, again. I see the shops, all shut up except those that offer take away food and coffee. My headphones block out the outside, I still remain muffled within my hoodie, pulled closely. My watch buzzes me to say I have hit my exercise goal and I walk home. I hang my mask up on the State of Liberty LEGO I made early in lockdown. I hang up my mask high, so Keith doesn’t find it and chew the elastic off. I have a graveyard of fabric masks with no elastics in a bowl beside Miss Liberty.

Glancing at the computer, I had written on my schedule that I was to write. But I pickup the playstation remote, I want to escape to ancient Greece and attack a Spartan fort. Then I say goodbye to the next four hours, I look outside. The sun tells me it is about 5pm, the remnants of my lunch still on the coffee table and my game remote still in hand. Another hour, and I will go for another walk. I conquered the region and killed the Spartans. Shoes back on, tapping my watch to track another walk. I know I will be well beyond my fitness goal today but I don’t increase the challenge. In case I have another day where I dont leave the couch. I cant count those.

More walkers now, everyone else who is finishing work. Those that have work. A lot more eye contact these days as people walk by, we all keep forgetting we cannot see the smiles or the knowing pressed lips beneath the masks. The sun begins to touch the sea, a reward for being here at this time. People sit in pairs, holding their phones to the sunset. Then I walk home, cat very loudly greeting me. Feed him, feed me. Now to watch three or four episodes of some drama show, the second last two in bed. I stack the cushions against the door, close it and say goodnight to Keith. Put my earplugs in, my meditation app on in the background and go find a dream or two.

Over the months that followed, we all knew many who were told they were stood down. Or those who were told their job was simply no more, full stop. And everyone thought the same thing, I could be next. As the lockdowns were introduced, reintroduced and then extended.

And now it is my turn, as I return to this city not even a year ago and haven't really had the opportunity to settle back into the work I love and the city I adore. My job is suspended until we see the light at the end of this dark night.

And so in the darkness, I turn on my desk lamp and draw up the tale. The story that has been brewing inside somewhere. It is my turn and will now take my turn to get these pages filled. We will all dance again and stand up.

Thats how I feel a lot of us feel right now. We were out and about, feeling the everyday around us. But now we are inside a vacuum. In a closed off space and we don't know when this will change. I don't usually do this but I imagine being able to tell my 2019 self, this time next year you can never guess where we will be. But guess anyway. I would have told myself, I would be in NYC and renewed my visa and in a job in theatre again. Fighting the humidity and stink of the city, escaping for weekend adventures with my buddy Joe.

But surprise, you are in Melbourne. Running a venue that cannot open because of this pandemic. Inside an apartment solo. Oh but you have a cat and you dress him up in sweaters. And talk him a lot. You struggle to exercise or have a routine, outside of sitting at your desk to work. People ask what could people working in theatre be possibly doing, working at home. You ignore them, they don't get it. You make yourself walk in the cold along the sea, because you never could really do that like this in Brookyn. And you imagined doing just that back here. And now you are here. So you do it.

Family are nearby, but not close enough. Cannot travel, cannot head north to Sydney. Its been made illegal. You cannot leave your house without a signed official permit that you are an essential service. Oh and there is a curfew, no-one can leave unless caring for someone or working, between the hours of 8pm and 5am. You turn on another episode of a show you swear you have seen before, but you haven't. It just feels the same.

And that, my past self, is your future. Its all for the good, we hope all this will help us get back on our feet sooner. Other places are operating like normal and we get messages of well wishes. And unsaid wishes that they do not become like us. But it will all be over soon. But who said?