It will be four months until my arm is good as new, the doctor says. I’ve managed to get to this age without scars but this is going to be different, I usually rub bio-oil on nasty cuts, but nasty cuts aren’t stab wounds. I like scars though, I have a few of them, but they are fine and you’d have to look hard, one that runs from the bottom of my nose to my lip, I like a lot, I wonder if its more memory than actual its very thin but significant. It’s the birthday of revolution, as opposed to a rebellion or failure, which the rest, visible or remembered are.
People talk about bravery like its a fizzy drink – you call those pop – “I feel like a hero today”, you hand over five dollars and the bar tender hands you a tall effervescent glass fresh from the fridge, and the bottle, just because he thinks he’s in with a chance he squeezes one of the wedges meant for an accountant’s Corona into it, and winks.
I’ve noticed that the difference between a hard man and you or me is between 15 to 30 seconds of mouth, retort, mouth, punch and tears or outright K.O. Men are born cocky, it seems to us not born with balls or whatever gives you the – balls – to court violence like that. Women need an amount of alcohol or your unswerving submission – ok hint’s of it – to get cocky. Though usually it doesn’t take as much to shut us up it does take consistent threat to subdue us. I’ve noticed this, like the Attenborough documentaries is how the wild is.
Come breeding season – which for humans is all the time, imagine if it was once a year? 11 months of peace followed by total war, like that movie “the Purge.” It’s on, men punch it out, the women swoon, nature takes it’s course then he beats her so she should leave. In the wild, not in our hyper-civilisation, money, charisma, how good you look in a t-shirt, this is the new field of Mars. Or that’s what the gossip mags say. It’s actually piss on until you get the courage, to approach one that breaks off from the pack. That’s now brave, horrifying isn’t it.
We are there, you are there because we are alone, and most are too frightened to do anything about it. One line can crush, wound you, hilarious, sweetie you need to get your lip split or the wind punched out of you by a two meter tall hundred kilo predator to know what crush is.
I have two containers full of these kinds of memories, I like minimal living, a post-modern girl who secretly loves modernism. When you’ve lost your past you tend to make keepsakes of the oddest things. Australia lacks the 4 season regularity, the dew this morning tells me winter is coming, February will be like living in the furnace but march is close, by then I’ll be at uni and too busy. I’ve gone to retrieve my holiday things, snorkel, flippers, buoyancy vest, skinny sinks you know, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, unless there is a shark, I’m sure he’d go for the one that’ll make at least a decent meal.
At the bottom of the storage tub I find an old t-shirt, it reads ‘nice ride’ Aloha surfboards. It’s old, I was still a teen when I bought it, I bought it when I got my mini-malibu – fuck tall people – I saw it on a rack at the counter, the men’s bit, there was a small that sort of fit me, I can wear it as an off the shoulder, over my ‘kini. Rebellion, a t-shirt, a scar, that day you stop avoiding his eyes in case he slaps you, you raise your chin to where your mum taught you it should be and you walk over that line in the sand.
Fuck you, this is what I am. I remember I was 17, I’d had enough and I took back, slowly what had been taken from me, bit by bit. I miss that, I miss knowing what I was, accepting I was on the outer and embracing it, wearing it on a t-shirt and not giving a damn.
It was shoved in a sneaker to keep it’s shape, I’m nothing if not anal about things like that, its got holes, its grubby, smells like a chuck that’s been in the sun for too long and salt, wrinkled to the shit house but I took off the ‘nice’ shirt I picked wore it – I am, a fucking great ride.