Irrevocably entwined –
Fuck, you’re always on my mind.
I think of days spent in your bed,
Records scratching out the soundtrack to our love story
‘I’ve pillowed you so many times this week’
I think of baths so bubbly I’d get lost in the foam
As we clinked glasses of cheap wine,
Laughing in dismay at the taste
The excesses of our lust always made a mess of Sundays
This site has been lying dormant for quite some time. I still remember when I started it, nearly a decade ago. I had just started writing poetry in earnest, and I simply wanted to share the missives that were falling out of me. In honesty though, I didn’t expect that I’d be sharing them with that many people (if any). So, this unexpected followship – humble in number as it may be – really meant so much to me. Still does.
In the years since I started writing on here – furiously and often, and then gently and infrequently (ha) – I’m happy to report that I have continued to write. In fact, I published my first poetry chapbook earlier this year. And I would like to thank you – my subscribers, my early ‘fans’ – for that. You gave me the first flush of confidence and affirmation I needed to continue writing poetry.
If you like my writing and still want to support me, you can buy my chapbook or follow me on Medium – I write creative non-fiction over there, and am running a monthly series called ‘Slice of Life’ at the moment.
In terms of my poetry, I also have lots of new poems to share – however, I have designs on a second poetry chapbook so I’m keeping them close to my heart for now.
Lastly, this may be my final post on this blog, but please revisit whenever you like (I’d be honoured). I will certainly revisit myself from time to time.
Thank you again for your support. ❤️
EGW 2014-2023
Like all the great days, it dragged until it didn’t. The minutes trickled by slowly; then suddenly, the hours consumed each other vociferously until the night was all but gone.
It was my wedding day.
I waited as long as possible before donning my long, simple white dress. My great-grandmother’s blue and silver earrings. And the crowning glory: my Doc Martens, 10 years old and about to tread their way through another (arguably, the most) auspicious occasion. Then I wrapped the whole concoction up in my floor-sweeping, salmon-pink ‘Hepburn robe’; a gift from my best friend on her own wedding day a year prior.
My husband-to-be drifted in and out of view; we were eloping after all, so there was no separation as we readied ourselves together – yet apart – in our little house. My sister arrived and set about decorating the dining room, draping silver streamers and shooing cats away from balloons and flowers.
(The cats were in tuxedos, of course.)
I did my own makeup, so I could recognise the freckled face in the mirror. But I sprung for a hair stylist, and I gazed at my softly-curled hair in quiet awe when she was done. It had been too long between haircuts, but you couldn’t tell.
The small number of family we had invited to be part of the day began to arrive. P and I shared a sneaky ‘first look’ and cuddle in our bedroom, before joining the fray. My grandma was dismayed over my shoes. P’s mum burst into tears as soon as she locked eyes with her son, in his powder-blue suit jacket and Converse. The celebrant and photographer arrived – and it was time.
With both our mothers in tow – the sole witnesses to the ceremony – we led our motley crew down side streets and alleyways to Hyde Park, where our marriage would begin. It was an unusually hot Spring day, even by Australian standards, and as we passed a man unpacking his car he tipped his hat to us all and exclaimed “what a day for it!”
My cheeks ached from smiling.
As we entered the park, I did what I always do and exclaimed over its beauty. I never, ever tire of it. On this particular day, long shadows cast by the towering trees gave us respite from the humidity – and we picked a sun-dappled spot by the lake almost immediately.
Our audience:
And of course, our celebrant – a lady of warmth and pure class, who brought our story to life. It’s strange to think that only 10 people in the whole world – the majority of whom were strangers – bore witness to our nuptials in the hush of that Friday afternoon. But even then, it felt like the vows we spoke to one another fell on our ears alone.
I rarely lose myself in a moment. But I truly lost myself in this one – a single, golden, magical hour.
We’d jokily rehearsed our kiss just once (“you have to put your hand on my face – you know I love that”) (“ew, you taste like cheese”), but the dress rehearsal paled in comparison to the main event. And then – we were ‘partners in marriage’.
From here, time hastened. We traipsed around with the photographer for another half hour, taking shots in the park, the aforementioned alleyways, and (as pictured) inhaling donuts outside a local bakery. Suffice to say, I was hungry.
Then it was home – ever more photos, champagne toasts with a bottle of Moet I’d been saving since my birthday, and a million hugs. My teetotal mum had one and a half glasses of champagne and leaned against the wall, flushed and giggly. I confidently delivered the wrong walker to P’s grandma. Meanwhile, P wrestled with the sound system, while my sister topped up flutes.
Then, finally, we joined our dearest mates – and gamest family – at the pub. More photos. More toasts (this time with a fancy spritz cocktail that the beleaguered but cheerful bartender had to make en masse). About a million more hugs. We partied on for hours, ending the celebrations with slightly slurred speeches that I fail to recollect, and a very average pizza that tasted world-class to this dehydrated and underfed bride.
We awoke the next morning to a house filled with torn wrapping paper, empty champagne glasses and a confused, overdressed cat – still slinking around in his tux.
For two people who were never getting married, we sure did get married. And it means so much more to me than I ever believed possible. I’m still pinching myself over how lucky I am; lucky to have found love with a truly wonderful man, and to have built a life together. Lucky to have such caring friends and family, who gave us the freedom to be true to ourselves. Lucky to have had this one near-perfect day, that I will treasure forever in my memory. Lucky. Happy. And wondering if it’s too soon to renew our vows, just so we can do it all again!
It feels like this thought has been bouncing around my head for years. But lately, it’s more like hours; minutes; seconds.
The thought is: “am I alive enough?”
That’s the best way I know of describing it, anyway.
People talk about loving life…about someone being full of life. And I have considered myself to be a lover of life for, well, a good chunk of my own. Anxiety and neuroses aside, I feel lucky to be schlepping around on this big blue ball just about every day. Apart from a brief and ill-suited flirtation with youthful angst, I’d say I’m pretty optimistic – doggedly so, in fact.
But always, in the back of mind: “am I alive enough?”
Kate Winslet’s character in the brilliant Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – Clementine – perhaps summed it up most pertinently for me. Frenetically, she says “I’m always anxious, thinking I’m not living my life to the fullest, taking advantage of every possibility, making sure I’m not wasting one second of the little time I have.”
Yep.
Maybe THIS is what a mid-life crisis looks like (although 30 is surely too early for one of those), but as I said…this thought has been haunting me for a long, long time.
Increasingly, I seek out new experiences and – while I’m experiencing said experiences – remind myself to really feel it. Really live it. But it never quite feels like enough. Too often, the pressure of “making sure I’m not wasting one second of the little time I have” overwhelms the moment.
Ironically – but probably not surprisingly – the only moments I seem to truly lose myself in are the banal ones. Walking out of the house to a shock of new air (you know, when you don’t expect the air to smell quite so sweet or so fresh, but it does?) The heady rush of endorphins following a sweaty run or hard session at the gym. The first sip of a really delicious coffee. The twinge in my heart when my snoozing cat makes an adorable sleep-sound.
Yet, even in acknowledging the sweetness of these salt of the earth moments, I begin to put the pressure on myself to feel them ever more; to squeeze them to myself. For example – one of my favourite ‘life things’ is when me, my partner, and aforementioned cat all cosy up in bed together. Separately, they’re the two snuggliest creatures I’ve ever met; together, they form a veritable cuddle-monster. It’s blissful, and for every entwined second that we share, I know it’s inherently fleeting.
Maybe I’m not so optimistic after all.
For all my zealous planning of hikes, and trips, and sampling bizarre ice-cream flavours (that’s this weekend) and getting married in a pair of combat boots (that’s in Spring), I now realise that it’s past time I started planning to make no plans at all. My use of the word ‘meditation’ in this piece was no accident, although it was probably an insult to the practice given I don’t meditate. At all.
A collection of times now, I’ve swallowed hard, squared my shoulders and faced my fears. So it feels downright ridiculous to lump meditation into my ‘unconquerable’ basket – an unpleasant basket indeed, stuffed to the brim with spew-inducing rollercoaster rides and crawling with cockroaches. But as of writing this, it does seem unconquerable. I know (or at least, I’m pretty sure) learning to sit with my thoughts and embrace the ‘not-enoughness’ – the nagging question this whole diatribe is about – can only help.
But simply put, I don’t know if I’m capable.
God, I love living in Northbridge. Perth’s ‘seedy underbelly’; our red light district. That’s all it is to so many people, but to me it’s home – and it has a great big beating chunk of my heart.
After over four years of walking home through William Street, you think I’d be sick of it…but I’m not.
The souped up cars blasting ‘oontz oontz’ music and speeding up just to immediately brake hard at the reds.
The twinkling lights of the Moon.
The omnipresent line outside Good Fortune.
The melting pot of music as you walk past each establishment.
The dried piles of puke out the front of the Penthouse.
The professionals out for a drink; the students out for bubble tea; the young families, the old codgers, and the guy who’s been dressing like Slim Shady since 1998.
The ever-present, simmering energy that builds up to a broil as the week wears on.
Northbridge – and William Street in particular, I think – is a place where all are welcome, and none will bat an eye (and if they do, they’re surely not a local).
I used to get mad when people insulted my ramshackle, perfectly imperfect little piece of paradise – but now I just have to smile, because I know they don’t know it like I do.
Lani loved the song “Ride” by Lana Del Rey. I didn’t understand it myself – too melodramatic and ‘swoopy’ for me, somehow – but she had a soft spot for her, Lani did. I had an inkling it was because they (almost) shared a name.
When she eventually got too frail to move from the bed, she would entreat me to play it on repeat. She told me it made her feel bigger than the brittle bones of her body; like she really was out there riding, or flying. Her young eyes had yellowed with the sickness, but they shone with a lusty sort of light when she described the feeling to me.
Sometimes – too often – I caught Lani looking at old pictures of herself, and zooming in on the whites of her eyes. She had always been so beautiful. We did our research, when we first got the news; we knew the apples of her cheeks would rot, and the rolling waves of her hair would thin and then come out in tussocks. The arms she’d always deemed too fat got way too thin. But her eyes…neither of us were prepared for that.
In Lani’s last few days, I wanted desperately to help. I sat on the verandah and wrote some clumsy bullshit about stars making way for sunshine. I tried to read it to her, but I choked on the insincerity of it all. In the end I just played that bloody song for her again.
Before you,
I thought a home was
Bricks and mortar
Wood and plaster.
Home was a building –
A place you could
Touch with your hands
Point out on a map
Buy at a bank.
After you,
I know what a home is.
I can’t always touch it with my hands
It can’t be found on a map
Or bought in any currency.
Home is
The moments of laughter
We fall into together;
Your arms around me
When I’m making breakfast
You and Hendrix
Dozing in the early morning light.
Home is what we’ve built
Together
And I feel it,
Even when we’re
Apart.
Five years gone
And I never knew
Hurtled back to a past I’ve tried to bury
And forget;
I will not be broken again.
I sought solace in the arms of those who meant nothing,
And it didn’t make it better –
I learned, eventually.
But even those nameless faces
Reduced to faceless names
Made me feel more something than you.
You, who ripped me from the throne you built –
A throne I never asked to occupy
A throne I didn’t fit.
You who made me feel that I was less than nothing.
I carried a flaming torch
And for years it burned;
Through the storms of our division
The fleeting reconciliations
The acrimonious accusations
I knew in time the flames would engulf me whole.
Three years gone
I met a man who saw my past not as shame
But as a life dappled in light.
He looked in the dark corners and blew away the webs;
He loved me for it all.
I was not less
I was not damaged
I was not spoiled
And I had endless gifts to give.
The flame snuffed out a long time ago
My soul bears no marks
My heart, once charred, has
Grown pristine once more.
Eight years gone.
I don’t know that person now
But I love her all the same –
She was good, although
She was lost
She was just a child.
It was our first time abroad together. As the plane took off, P gave me his hand to squeeze (a mechanism learned from our brief jaunt to Sydney a year prior). We ordered a Bloody Mary each and smiled at each other – finally, finally our trip had arrived. Months of sacrificing and scrimping had culminated in this moment, and I was going to enjoy the shit out of my watery excuse for a cocktail.
At Singapore’s Changi Airport , we made a beeline for the Cactus Bar. P took me on a ‘guided tour’, making up stories about the different species of cacti circling the al fresco area. Laughing, we threw back beers and tried to ignore the stifling heat. After eight hours, two dinners and one very uncomfortable nap on the airport floor, we boarded our second and final flight. In a small victory, I slept through take-off.
On arrival, Tokyo was humid as hell. We sweated through our jeans as we took train after train, dragging our luggage behind us. I bartered with the hotel staff to let us into our room early and, 4000 yen poorer, we flopped onto the bed. Only a short stroll from our hotel was Golden Gai, a hub of bars and eateries like something out of ‘Blade Runner’. We’d been excited to check it out since booking flights, so we rallied and soon made our way there. It was only mid-afternoon, but we found one open bar – the aptly named ‘Hip’. The entrance to Hip was by way of a steep staircase, which we ascended first by foot, then on all fours. We crawled through the front door to find five stools and a quiet, floppy-haired man polishing glasses. The next few hours dawdled by in a haze of smoke, umeshu (plum wine) and laughter. It was my second time in Japan but P’s first, and seeing his delight at the strange and beautiful quirks of a country I love flooded my heart with joy. Afterwards, we shared our first katsudon experience and passed out cold in front of one of the Japanese game shows that would become our staple background noise.
As is usually the case when you stay in one place long enough, we found a few favourite haunts over our eight days in Shinjuku. There was the bakery a couple of doors down from the hotel, where the cashier was unfriendly but the iced coffee and egg bread was cheap and plentiful. There was the ‘Daily Yamazaki’ convenience store, which I mistakenly (and perhaps drunkenly) called the ‘Daily Yakuza’ – only once, but it stuck. Golden Gai was on the receiving end of many visits, of course. We loved metal bar ‘Deathmatch in Hell’, where all the drinks were priced at a very reasonable 666 yen. The three-storied bar ‘Albatross’ was another standout – I drank a liquefied cactus, and the bartender told me I was kawaii. There were other places we never got the chance to see, either due to circumstance or cover charge (“1000 yen just to sit there? Fuck that!”), but ever optimistic, we added them to a steadily-growing list for ‘next time’.
Thankfully, the list for next time was not as prolific as the list we were checking off THIS time. Our second night was spent in Kichijoji with a friend of mine who lived in Tokyo. We drank pints of beer at a small alleyway pub (one that had been kicking around since World War II, apparently) and ate ourselves stupid at a rock’n’roll themed izakaya. He then took us to a picturesque park, its tranquility disrupted by a lone man singing his heart out on the bridge. This was something many Japanese musicians did, he explained – they practiced in parks late at night, safe in the knowledge that no-one would interrupt them.
There was the ‘fancy izakaya’, just a stones’ throw from our hotel. A succession of strange and delicious foods were brought out to us, and we tried raw fish for the first time (feeling cultured, but probably looking hopelessly inept).
Then there was the day we rode a swan-shaped boat at Ueno Park, taking it in turns to peddle furiously and making jokes about the inferior ‘non-swan’ boats surrounding us.
We ate vegan ramen (sub-par), conveyor belt sushi (incredible) and green tea ice-cream at a ‘maid café’ in Akihabara (terrifying). The ‘8bitcafe’ in greater Shinjuku served up cocktails with names like ‘Princess Peach’ and ‘Metroid’, and even a stomach-turning incident with vending machine udon couldn’t ruin the memory of that night.
A frustrating day in which everything went wrong was followed by a near-perfect night in bed, eating convenience store sandwiches, drinking whiskey and just being together. I think it’s important to have down time when you’re travelling – even in Japan 😉
Our last full day in Tokyo before departing for Kyoto was spent at a Sumo Wrestling tournament. It was a happy accident that we were there while it was on – I gifted P with tickets for his birthday, but it ended up being just as much of a present for me. The bouts were lightning fast and fascinating. There was an enormous Western Sumo Wrestler who had bigger breasts than any woman I can think of, and to our disgust, he used dirty tactics. We placed bets on each competitor, gravitating towards whoever looked bigger or more powerful. To my chagrin, P won by a landslide.
We were unusually organised for our trip to Kyoto, checking out early and arriving at Tokyo Station before noon. Armed with Levain crackers and DARS chocolates – the only ingredients required for an unholy abomination of a sandwich – I was looking forward to introducing P to the Shinkansen, Japan’s famed network of bullet trains. As the train gathered speed, it took my stomach a while to peel itself off the back of the cabin – but P said it was no better than the Eurail. Sniff. Fast forward three hours and we were making our way through a dubious looking neighbourhood to our first ever Airb’n’b. The affable and ever-enthusiastic Masanori had a charming little flat, replete with free postcards and seaweed crackers for his guests. We settled in for the night, ready for a big day of exploring to follow.
To cut to the chase – I fell on my ass at the first temple we visited. Moments earlier, I’d been observing the interior of Higashi Honganji in hushed awe; moments later, I was sliding bottom first down a ramp as gasps of horror echoed around me. P ran to my rescue and we laughed about it together, even as I wondered if my right hand was broken (it wasn’t). Thankfully, when a day begins like that, it’s only up from there – and we had a lovely time in the Gion district, checking out two different shrines, and eating matcha ice-cream. Thanks to a custom known as ‘Respect for the Aged Day’, every bar we tried to go to was closed, but the brilliance of a pure purple sky as we returned home more than made up for any disappointment.
Upon reflection, our time in Kyoto can be summarised by a small collection of words; beautiful landscapes. Serenity. Balcony (…we spent a LOT of time on Masanori’s balcony). With its mountainous surrounds and quaint vibes, Kyoto is truly unique. P was forthright about preferring the big city buzz of Tokyo, but I enjoyed the reprieve – even if my favourite night there was spent drinking at the Kyoto Tower Rooftop Bar and then crying at the ‘Aqua Fantasy’ water show afterwards. (Well, I cried anyway.) I have pictures on my phone from that night that still require explanation.
In between leaving Kyoto and going to Osaka, we spent a day in Nara. Our primary motivation was that it was the subject of a song by one of our favourite bands, alt-J – but nothing could have prepared me for the afternoon we spent there. P still laughs at the fact that I devoted a sizable chunk of time trying to take a picture of a deer behind a fence, when there was a big group of them right behind me. The deer of Nara wander around the city like people. We fed them, followed them and tried not to scare the fawns away. A true animal lover, P was in his element – “you’re a deer whisperer” I teased him, only half joking. I was easily intimidated by the stags with their antlers, but he would have happily taken one home if he could. We also visited Todaiji Temple, a monstrous monument to humanity’s occasional brilliance – built in 728 AD, it’s by far the largest and most impressive temple I’ve ever seen.
All too quickly, the last leg of our trip was upon us. Osaka was my favourite city last time I went to Japan, and in spite of a less-than-stellar first day there, it remains to be so. I’d had some unfortunate news from back home and was noticeably upset when P and I stumbled into a dingy cafe called ‘Almo’. We drowned my sorrows in stale beer and when the middle-aged waitress entreated us to join her in karaoke, we politely declined. She shrugged and proceeded to belt out a jaw-dropping rendition of ‘Stand By Me’. The next time she came around with the mic, ‘no’ was not an option and we both had a go. I mangled ‘We Are The World’, but left the cafe a much happier girl than I had been upon arrival. The people of Osaka are just so friendly – they will go out of their way to help you, to befriend you, and to speak English as best they can.
The next four days in Osaka were full of highlights. P fell in love with Dotonbori, a lively, super cool district, and we spent the majority of our time there. From meeting the cutest puppy in existence – Chii – at a Dog Café, to eating our combined weight in yakisoba and okonomiyaki, excellent moments abounded. We (sheepishly) frequented an Irish bar, but also spent time at an uber cool whiskey joint – complete with an elderly war veteran behind the counter serving drinks. We stumbled upon a bizarre wrestling match near Shinsekai, Osaka’s ‘crime capital’, and looked on in bemusement as locals ate raw chicken at a somewhat tacky izakaya. The greatest night by far was our last night there – a day in Amerikamura was followed by a spontaneous decision to stay out, and we bar-hopped for hours before inevitably landing at ‘Karaoke Room’, one of Japan’s premier karaoke chains. An hour seemed long enough when booking, but turned out to be painfully short as we rushed to belt out Journey, Seal and Coolio. P ripped his pants in a particularly spectacular move, and received an angry-sounding call on the room phone as a result of utilising the furniture too much. We rolled out of there still singing and with half a bottle of stolen wine in my bag. Needless to say, the ‘Karaoke Room’ is top of our list for next time – but with at least a couple more hours added on.
The day following this night-of-nights was another travel day – we were making our way back to Tokyo for two more nights. P was definitely worse for wear, as evidenced by a photo of him sunglassed and semi-comatose in McDonalds. We slept for most of the Shinkansen ride back and then muddled our way to Park Hyatt, arguing furiously about lunch. As many would know, Park Hyatt is the hotel featured in ‘Lost in Translation’. We’d agreed months before to splash out and have a ‘money is no object’ kind of night there, something we were definitely ready for after over a week of cute but poky Airb’n’bs. From the moment we set foot in the hotel, our petty hanger-fulled argument was forgotten. As the host showed us around our room, we tried to keep our cool – but the second she left we screamed and jumped all over the room and each other. We’d never known such luxury, and I can only hope that I will one day know it again. The storage space in the corner of the room was bigger than our whole place back home. The bathroom was exquisite; the bed fluffy and sprawling. I gazed out at Tokyo from the giant windows and sipped cheap Australian red wine (but for the sake of the story, let’s pretend it was French and expensive). We took our time getting ready, listening to music and drinking before ordering a room service dinner. The room attendant set up a table for us by the window and we clinked glasses silently, awed by the elevated position we suddenly found ourselves in. We eventually made our way to the famous Manhattan Bar, where we spent close to 9000 yen on four drinks and watched the house band – a jazz quartet from New York, naturally. In time we made it back to our room where *scene missing* ordered more room service and *scene missing*. I accidentally fell asleep before midnight – too much partying the night before – but it meant we could enjoy the room until 12pm the next day without feeling rushed.
Following such a sumptuous and incredible night, you would think a night spent at an airport hotel would be lacklustre in comparison. In a way, it was – but drinking wine, sharing chocolate and watching monster movies is still a pretty good way to farewell a place. Throughout the trip I’d commented on the lack of stars due to light pollution, and it was on this – our last night in Japan – that I saw my first star. It was a bittersweet moment.
In fact, I find reflecting on our time there as a whole is bittersweet. For three weeks we immersed ourselves in a wonderful and wholly different culture, spending (nearly) every moment together. P and I have been in a relationship for two years and live together as well, but it was this trip that really cemented my love for him. He was up for anything, (usually) patient to a fault and always let me choose where to eat. He serenaded me with little songs and regularly hid my phone just to make me smile and/or scream. But by far the most heart-warming thing for me was witnessing his love grow for a country that I love so deeply too. I’m saddened that our beautiful, incredible, amazing time there is over. Our next adventure can’t come soon enough.
An old lady in a trench coat leaned against a tree that winter had stripped bare. Her wizened face was softened by four o’clock sunlight; flooded with a kind of contemplative peace. I followed her gaze to see a black swan and its four cygnets, so close to adulthood you could almost see their grey down darkening. A father and daughter stopped to offer them bread. A young couple filmed their lazy descent into the lake. I watched from afar, music swelling in my ears – not a part of the moment, nor separate from it.
It was just an ordinary August afternoon, light and cold.
Eleanor Gulland Writes. 