23 Jan 1995

Dear S,

Howdy. Dropped your load yet? I’m getting impatient. What is it, five months to go? In this age of instant soup and TV dinners, you’d think they could speed up the process a little. Eventually, I see all pregnancies starting and concluding within half an hour, allowing you to get back to work for the end of your lunch break. It’s the way of the future. Maybe we could grow them in vats, kind of like fish.

24 Jan 1995

It’s Tuesday now, I shouldn’t have started the letter so late yesterday. I was interrupted by a phone call from Leah. She asks me “Do you want to hear some red hot gossip?” and I of course do, I’m always interested in gossip, and so she commences to give me some intimate details of her rather unhygienic sexual exploits with her new boyfriend. First of all, when you talk about yourself you’re confiding, not gossiping. I just don’t understand her motives, she knows I’m not the jealous type, so I don’t think she was trying to make me jealous, and she still goes out of her way to invite me out to places (I never go though) so I don’t really think she’s trying to be horrible, at least not consciously. I mean, I’m not upset, I just want to know what her game is, I don’t like the idea of her trying to fuck with my head, if you know what I mean. It’s unusual behaviour, and it’s roused my curiosity. I’m also alarmed at the indiscretion of it, if she tells me this about him, what does she tell others about me? Until now, I had always considered Leah trustworthy. It is not human nature to keep secrets, we are a gregarious animal, we socialize, we judge our own standards by those of whom we are surrounded by. Therefore, we want to know what other people do, think, feel, believe. We don’t trust our own ideas, they have to mesh with those of a social group, which is why people don’t like social aberration, it challenges their idea of what is normal, it challenges their choices. Anyway, I’m considering telling Leah to bugger off, it would simplify my life. But it would also cut off any access I have to group socializing. Josh’s friends are a bit racy for me, I can’t be bothered going out to see bands all the time (most of which are crap anyway and Brett’s friends are all death-metal maniacs, who also spend most of their time seeing crap bands. While admittedly, I always turn down Leah’s entreaties to join her at nightclubs and to go over to her house, at least I have the choice. Maybe all this isolation won’t be so desirable if it’s imposed upon me rather than chosen. The whole thing is so tiresome, I’m sick of it.

25 Jan 1995

Jeez, sorry for being such a sour-puss yesterday. Bit of a storm in a tea-cup really. It’s Australia Day tomorrow, so I don’t have to go to work, which is a good thing because I’m going to Brett’s gig tonight. He has a new band, I’ve heard their demo tape. Real death-metal stuff, not the kind of thing you could waltz to. I love a good waltz, me. Brett’s girlfriend Lara is giving me a ride there. She’s picking me up after she finishes work at the tattoo parlor. She’s been working there for a few months now, she wants to be a tattooist. They make buckets of money, they just don’t declare it to the tax man. She told me that the way to practice is on fruit. Oranges, specifically. I don’t know why, but I find that extremely amusing. Josh will be there tonight thankfully. I didn’t want to be standing on my own, heavy metal gigs are not renowned for their congenial atmosphere.

Christopher Watts (remember him from school) rang me yesterday, which was freaky as I was only thinking about him the night before, and invited me to a party he’s having this weekend. I’m going over to his house tomorrow for lunch. It was really good talking to him. We exchanged old school friend stories, which were a bit horrifying. Seems they’re all getting engaged or married. It’s downright spooky that in this day and age people can make the same mistakes as the previous generation. I wonder how many  people from school will be at his party. If any do come, I hope they’re all hopeless failures and heavy smokers. Maybe I’ll meet some old school chum and realize it’s her I’ve been longing for all this time. Simon is adamant that I wont go to the party and he’s bet me $5 I wont. I intend to though.

27 Jan 1995

Whoopee, it’s Friday, payday. It feels like a Monday though, which is good – that means tomorrow will feel like a holiday rather than a weekend. Went to Brett’s gig on Wednesday night. Wow. I’ve never really been to a heavy-metal gig before. So much hair!  And they really fling it around, you know? Headbangers!! Hair fight!! It was fun, the crowd was surprisingly friendly, and the atrocious opening band provided plenty of fodder for laffs. The lead singer came out of a coffin to the opening stains of ditty number one. They were a gas! Then Brett’s band came on and blitzed the crowd, they did really well for a debut gig. Brett really looked the part, long hair, black guitar, tattoos hangin’ out, I dug the scene. Not something I want to do all the time though. Not the sort of place to discuss Genet or Baudelaire if you know what I mean. After the gig we went back to Josh’s in Port Melbourne, pissed as newts, ordered pizza and I fell asleep in the spare room.  Woke up with a hangover and watched TV before I realized I was supposed to go to Christopher’s place. I rang him and said I was too hung-over and it would take me too long to get to his house and that I’d see him at his party on Saturday. Damn it. Now, because I’ve bailed on meeting him yesterday, I can’t bail on going to his party tomorrow or he’ll be really offended. Christopher says on the phone “You’ll only know me and SK at the party, so you’d better wear your socializing hat – ha-ha.” So my plan is to get pissed before I go and hopefully get out before midnight. It’s going to be full of unemployed photographers talking pretentious arty crap and wishing they had Chardonnay but swilling bourbon so it looks like they’re not out of touch with the common man. All shaved heads and round glasses, you know the type. Maybe I should turn up and make an absolute ass of myself so I never get invited to this sort of thing again. Mmm now that’s tempting. Maybe I’ll shout at the top of my lungs that photography is a poor man’s painting. That’d probably get me into a fight, they’re so sensitive, these arty types. I’ve never been in a fight before. If it happens, I’ll make sure I try to break all their fingers so they can’t take any more photos.

Anyway, gotta go…

J