The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

Strange that social media should remind me of a quote from Cicero.

This week, I received one of those, ‘your friend XX has a birthday on 30 January’ reminders. ‘Write a message on their Facebook wall!’ There, in living colour, was the ever-smiling face of a friend, loved and lost, far too soon.

I will always remember my friend and that huge smile and heart; but the email made me think of something else. I don’t have a will. To be honest, I don’t have any material possessions of value. I have lived a life rich in memories, not things.

Something I have prepared is a digital will. I want the executor of this will to have access to all of my social media accounts, so they can be shut down. I made this decision after seeing how difficult it can be to navigate a person’s digital footprint, and get platforms to close accounts. Facebook, for example, demands copies of birth and death certificates, and will not provide login information, which would make deactivating an account easier and less traumatic for grieving relatives.

It may not seem like a big deal, but I don’t want my Facebook page to be ‘memorialised’. I don’t want my Twitter account to sit idle, collecting spam followers, let alone the apps with access, and my email addresses, to suck the marrow out of my online self. If I’m no longer here ‘IRL’, I don’t want to be an empty status update, or let 140 characters represent all that I have been.

You know that place between sleep and awake, the place you can still remember dreaming?

“And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say.

They think everyone else does too.”

― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

To paraphrase Hemingway, I need to bleed on a page so I can be your smiley tennis correspondent tonight.

That self-deprecating funny thing I do? It’s part of my extensive, ‘more front than Mark Foys’ repertoire. That, ‘I’m over myself, I’m sorry I really, really want to be friends & I’ll show you with, ‘hey, I’m really an idiot and here are three more self-deprecating examples of how Speedy Gonzales I bounce back to form’? I sat there, holding hands & I put that great big lioness heart of mine out because feelings and you don’t have them. Never. Let. Them. See. You Cry.

You don’t remember that kiss last September, not the one where you turned your head to mine in a moment you can see the surprise on my face in the photo? It was a kiss in the cold of a day so close to heaven, a kiss hard and gentle and you and me and it happened.

It happened in that place, Peter Pan, that place between sleep and awake, that place you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I will always love you, that’s where I’ll be waiting.

- J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

I hate crying in front of people, let alone that whole body-wracking sob where the bodywork becomes a clinch with the person who has just hit you in the solar plexus just to bring you close so they can taunt you some more. I may have a reputation as the Ice Queen of the Boys to maintain, but I’m the Foreman in this Rumble in the Jungle. I punched myself out. This rope-a-dope business? You yelled at me when I couldn’t raise a glove, when there was nothing left, and you danced off those ropes and the only thing keeping me upright was pride. I focused on the canvas of the heat until I staggered once more. I stagger, in this 4am fight with myself, until I can dance off the ropes.

Choking on your cornflakes

Warren Mundine must have been choking on his cornflakes.

The former President of the Australian Labor Party quit the party last year after his Senate hopes were dashed as Bob Carr strode into Federal Parliament, Senator-elect for NSW and Foreign Minister-in-waiting, following the resignation of Mark Arbib and the failure of Kevin Rudd’s challenge for the parliamentary party leadership.

Today, Mundine came out in support of the Prime Minister’s decision to endorse indigenous Australian, Nova Peris OAM for the party’s number one Senate ticket spot in the Northern Territory.

“Righting a wrong,” Mundine said.

While Peris waited for her party membership to be approved by the party’s National Executive (which does not include a member from the NT), a few others let fly.

Let’s start with the closest thing to a Scottish rocket launcher known to man, Senator Doug Cameron.

After he’d recovered sufficiently from choking on his porridge, Cameron kept it classy by invoking the ‘night of the long knives’ to describe the dumping of the incumbent, Senator Trish Crossin.

A “brutal exercise of political power,” Doug called it.

Despite receiving calls from the Prime Minister to prevent them choking on their Weeties, Senator Crossin, and her would-be preselection challenger, Marion Scrymgour, both had a vent.

Crossin, who has sat on the red benches for 15 years, issued a statement yesterday, pointing out the bleeding obvious – that she was facing a long walk off a short plank – but would not comment further until she had spoken with and consulted NT branch members and her colleagues.

Consultation, negotiation, input, trust, respect. All carefully inserted into five paragraphs. Very deft. I feel the hand of Rudd guiding the keyboard.

Former Deputy Chief Minister of the Northern Territory, Marion Scrymgour, was less guarded, shall we say:

“At the end of the day, yes the Prime Minister has her way,” she said.

“But she had her way with Warren Mundine, she had her way with Kevin Rudd.”

The Territory’s former deputy leader, Syd Sterling, labelled the move, ‘an appalling overreach of power by the Prime Minister’.

Ouch.

Being late to the party, I asked the Twitters what was going on. One of the replies (since deleted) attributed the move as a way of circumventing some nutcase (or words to that effect) from winning preselection. I don’t know any of the players, but assumed the unwanted would-be candidate was Scrymgour. Having once held the highest office of any indigenous MP in the country, Scrymgour was variously promoted, demoted, quit the party then returned. She wanted a crack at Crossin, now dismissed as yet another timeserver on the backbench. True enough; then again, most MPs spend the bulk of their time on the backbench. If you’re a Senate backbencher, that’s pretty much what you do for your term, especially if you’re in Opposition. As I said, I don’t know any of the players. I really have no idea whether Trish Crossin does a good job or not. I sometimes watch Senate question time and think, ‘who the fuck is that’? That made the subsequent spouting of, ‘nothing to see here, move along’ quite interesting:

“Doubt 1 in a thousand cares who the NT ALP Senator is. Classic beltway obsession overcoming news values.” tweeted Channel 10′s (and former ALP staffer), Stephen Spencer (@sspencer_63).

‘Beltway’? Canberra’s roundabouts do not a Dupont Circle make; and while one in a thousand people might not care who the NT Senator is, holding a Prime Ministerial press conference to announce a candidate is newsworthy. See ‘Carr strode into Federal Parliament’. That was a bit of news, AMIRITE? It’s the delivery and interpretation of news which bothers people – left, right, and as more than one in one thousand people feel, left right out.

There are many people of merit, or lacking it, who have been ‘parachuted’ into Parliament by all sides. In NSW, the ‘N 40′ rule was regularly exercised over the ALP’s rank-and-file membership by the Administrative Committee to exorcise deadwood, sometimes for more deadwood. There are some cracking people who have entered politics with a little help from the backroom. Nova Peris may prove to be one of them. I hope that if she is elected, she serves the Northern Territory with distinction; but the way this has been handled plays into the tired narrative of the Prime Minister’s prime ministership from critics within and without. Perception matters. The narrative could have played out differently had Peris been a member of the party before the presser was held, for a start. That’s just dumb.

We should strive to have better people represent us in Canberra. If that means people get the arse when they don’t want to, or the ambitions of those who think they deserve a shot at the title are thwarted, so be it. I’m tired of political ‘dynasties’, personal fiefdoms and people who think they are owed something because it’s their ‘turn’. No, not so much. So, go for it Nova. Get stuck in and make a difference. Christ knows, we need it.

~~~

Meanwhile, on Sydney’s northern beaches, Tony Abbott’s Nutri-Grain may have been momentarily lodged in his oesophagus, but it quickly turned to a shit-eating grin for an unpopular leader under considerable pressure and scrutiny. After all, the Liberals and Australian Democrats have, or had, indigenous Australian representatives in Federal Parliament. The ALP was playing catch-up.

“It’s terrific that Labor might finally be getting its first Aboriginal representative in the Federal Parliament, so I’m all in favour of that,” he told Fairfax Radio.

If he has any sense, he’ll shut up and let the ALP’s latest fizzing and spluttering Catherine Wheel spin like topsy. Give it oxygen, Tony. Don’t suck it in with your blowhard ‘try’. That’s where you turn small victories into the dull thud of loss.

The Big Texan’s Telenovela, Pt II

In which I delve inside the mind of The Big Texan after the airing of the first chapter of ‘Oprah’s Next Chapter’: Oprah Winfrey’s new series of interviews with people looking for publicity on a network seeking people desperate for publicity: ‘Lance Armstrong admits to doping’.

Lance Armstrong admits doping: well knock me down & colour me purple, Oprah. It’s why he’s there. As an aside, one of the more interesting diversions was a Twitter exchange between Leigh Sales (@leighsales), Tracy Grimshaw (@tracygrimshaw), Monica Attard (@attardmon), Jenny Brockie (@JenBrockie), Wendy Carlisle (@wendycarlisle) & Mia Freedman (@MiaFreedman – who famously ‘didn’t care’ when Cadel Evans won the TdF, but was all over Oprah like a rash) over Oprah’s interviewing technique. I highly recommend you check it out. Personally, I’d prefer Lance to be in a courtroom, but hey, I’ll take what I can get. Oprah didn’t do a ‘bad’ job, but she let him off the hook a few times. Contrary to the pre-publicity, Armstrong didn’t answer every question and when he did, his answers were pure Lance:

• it wasn’t possible to win seven Tours de France ‘in that culture’ without doping
• he’d looked in the dictionary (probably one he wrote) and checked the definition of ‘cheating’. Nup, he concluded. He hadn’t gained an advantage over his fellow competitors; “… it was a level playing field …” 
• had he failed a test? ‘Technically, yes’. Not at the time, of course. Oh, those pesky retrospective EPO tests.

So … is Lance Armstrong a sociopath or psychopath? Given Armstrong ‘looked up the definition of cheating’, I’m delving into some pop psychiatry. Firstly, the labels are often interchangeable and shorthand for personality disorders as defined in the American Psychiatric Association’s ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders’ (DSM IV TR – fourth edition, text revision). What tips me toward ‘sociopath’ is Armstrong’s constant references to his childhood . ‘Mom had her back to the wall, we both had our backs to the wall,’ he told Winfrey. He has said as much throughout his career. It’s a statement of fact, not blame. In the good old days, this disorder was known as megalomania. Under the Hare Psychopathy Test, Armstrong’s behaviour fits Factors 1 (a) and (b), closely aligned with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).  Factors 2 (a) and (b) are more closely associated with Antisocial Behavioural Disorder, violence and criminality. NPD is indicated by five (or more) of the following:

(1) has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)  pre-cancer, Lance is a guy in the peloton. Post-cancer, he wins the world’s biggest cycling race. He becomes ‘Lance Armstrong’. He BEAT cancer. He smashed that bastard to a pulp. He is the resurrected, ‘Cancer Jesus’, peddling yellow bracelets. Not so much. No one ‘beats’ cancer in the same way that no one has CURED cancer. You are diagnosed, you might be treated, & the still inexact science might mean you go into remission, and you celebrate anniversaries – five, 10, 30 years’ cancer free; or the cancer just gives it the big, ‘fuck you’, & spreads, & you go through the treatment cycle again & you get some more time, or you die.

Sundance Kid: “I can’t swim.” Butch Cassidy: “Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill you.”

(2) is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love … His tweet following the release of USADA’s ‘Reasoned Decision’ was classic – ‘ just kicking back enjoying life’. Kicking back, photographed lazing on the sofa below the seven mounted maillot jaune lining the wall. Living in LA LA Land, where, despite the weight of evidence pouring out, you’re still the man. Also, he wouldn’t be sitting with the Mighty Opes if he hadn’t come back to the sport. He would have gotten away with a great fraud. He was only undone by his own greatness.

(3) believes that he or she is “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)  ’Being Lance’ was an amazing gig, despite him downplaying it to Winfrey: ‘I didn’t know how big it would be.’ Get your hand off it, mate. How many of your peers are invited to rub shoulders with Presidents? Also, his dismissal of hardcore cycling fans as ‘the people outside the bus’. The great unwashed. Ugh. Today, it was evidenced by his refusal to answer questions about others implicated in the doping scandal, particularly his trainer, Dr Michele Ferrari, who is a ‘good man, a smart man’. He wasn’t opposed to delivering the occasional backhander, such as that handed out to former team mate, Christian Vande Velde, who alleged Armstrong had the power tell his team mates to dope, or they were off the team. ‘There was never a direct order,’ Armstrong said. Duh, VdV, you idiot. You just thought there was. Because Lance.

(4) requires excessive admiration … see the second coming of Cancer Jesus. Can you imagine training for triathlons (which, to be fair, he was pretty handy at as a young man before deciding it was all about the bike) while Floyd Landis, Alberto Contador & Carlos Sastre drank champagne on the road to Paris? Come on. To Winfrey, he concedes he’s a jerk, but makes sure he slips ‘humanitarian’ in at the same time. Jerk.

(5) has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations see the testimony of his fellow riders in USADA’s ‘Reasoned Decision’. In LA LA Land, the USADA investigation was ‘an unconstitutional witch hunt’ and a ‘waste of taxpayers’ money’. Actually, no, Lance. The waste of taxpayers’ money was the years your cycling squad was sponsored by the US Postal Service, when you and your squad broke a contractual obligation not to dope. In today’s interview, Armstrong was asked if he felt bad, whether his actions were wrong, whether he felt like a cheat? No. Non. Nyet. ’Hey, Travis (Tygart) – soz for all the bad stuff I said about you, or had my Orcs put out, bud; we can sort this out at a truth & reconciliation meeting – I’ll be there!’

(6) is interpersonally exploitative, i.e., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends Armstrong admitted to being a bully & trying to ‘control the narrative’. Fact: after the 2001 Tour de Suisse, Armstrong made out a cheque to the UCI for $25,000, pledging a further $100,000 in 2005 – to fight doping. They called it a donation. Tyler Hamilton called it hush money for Armstrong’s alleged 2001 Tour de Suisse positive test. Michael Ashenden, independent doping expert, calls it, ‘unconscionable’. Today, Armstrong said the UCI asked for a donation. The organisation was so poor it went to him & asked for money to assist its anti-doping efforts. Who knows? I think Armstrong used the words, ‘I’m no fan of the UCI,’ four or five times in the Winfrey interview. Get ready, Hein Verbruggen, Thomas Weisel, Johan Bruyneel, et al: you’re going under the bus. Lance. Does. Not. Want. To. Go. To. Prison.

(7) lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others see Armstrong’s treatment of anyone who stood up to him – journalists Paul Kimmage (@PaulKimmage) and David Walsh (@DavidWalshST) for a start. Armstrong called Emma O’Reilly an alcoholic prostitute & Betty Andreu a crazy bitch. Today, that dead-eye shark smirk as he refused to confirm her account of Armstrong’s admission to doctors on his cancer diagnosis that he was doping: ‘…but … I didn’t call her fat!’. Reference to cancer as ‘the disease’: ‘Cancer Jesus’ is exacting a big toll on LIVESTRONG. In its official statement after the airing of the Winfrey special, the organisation released this statement; he visited HQ on Monday and apologised for the stress he’d caused, not for lying. Stress caused because you lied, Lance. In the 2004 Tour, wearing the yellow jersey, he infamously, needlessly chased down a breakaway Simeoni was in because the Italian had testified against Ferrari. As he approaches Simeoni he gives him the sign of the omerta – seal your lips – & more. Simeoni drifts back through the pack, in his own words, ‘face wet with tears & the spit of others’. Some publicly mused on, and criticised the bizarre incident at the time; others, including then Australian professional rider, Scott Sunderland, said it was ‘stupid’ of Simeoni to speak out.

In 1999, Armstrong told Christophe Bassons – the only Festina rider cleared in the 1998 scandal – that he should leave the Tour for questioning Armstrong’s ascendency in a newspaper column. Armstrong confirmed the conversation on French television:

“His accusations aren’t good for cycling, for his team, for me, for anybody. If he thinks cycling works like that, he’s wrong and he would be better off going home.”

It worked. When Bassons transferred to Francaise des Jeux, he was persona non grata in the team, & the peloton. So he left.

(8) is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her among his many feuds, one of the nastiest is with Greg LeMond, the three-time Tour de France champion, not only the first American winner, but the first non-European cyclist to win. Was it not enough to ‘win’ seven consecutive tours? Armstrong had to stomp on LeMond’s achievements & bury his bike brand?  When Armstrong announced his return to professional cycling, and joined the same team as Contador, he announced that he ranked their team mate Levi Leipheimer on the same level as the Spaniard. Or he might even win again. Christ on a bike.

(9) shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes see all of the above. Armstrong speaks in the royal ‘we’;  his critics are ‘haters’ – questioning or criticising Lance meant you hated the entire sport; he blacklisted journalists; he sued, or announced he was suing, everyone from his former mechanic to the Sunday Times. He sledged Landis for almost a decade, now he wants to settle his whistleblower lawsuit. Little wonder. He doesn’t have the manpower to take on the Justice Department as well in the case, which centres on the alleged defrauding of the Federal Government.

I don’t think I’ll bother watching tomorrow’s ‘mesmerising’ insights. I think Lance Armstrong is mad, bad and dangerous to know. I don’t want to see his crocodile tears about being dropped by sponsors. I doubt we’ll see anything more probing, given the promo at the end of today’s show. Here are a few more highly recommended reads:

• If you missed the interview, Jane Aubrey (@janeaubrey) gives a good wrap-up on cyclingnews (@cyclingnewsfeed), & captures the reaction of WADA President, John Fahey
• Shane Stokes (@SSbike) interviews Bike Pure’s Andy Layhe for VeloNation (@Pro_Cycling)
• Everything by the New York Times’ Juliet Macur (@JulietMacur), who has consistently been ahead of the pack. Especially this
• Nice analysis in VeloNews (@velonews) by Matthew Beaudin (@matthewcbeaudin); Jake Stephens in VeloNation (@Pro_Cycling)
• .. and with so many cycling journalists & commentators in Australia for the upcoming Tour Down Under, check out these interviews (and compare the reactions): Rupert Guinness (@rupertguinness), Phil Liggett (@PhilLiggett) Paul Sherwen (@PaulSherwen) on SBS’ Cycling Central (@cyclingcentral) website
• USADA issued a two-paragraph statement. I think Trav wants to see Lance in another chair.
• … as opposed to the UCI. Pat McQuaid thought Lance did good, has the Truth & Reconciliation chair warming. Vomit.

The Big Texan’s Telenovela

DISCLAIMER: I started writing this post on 6 January (including the part about a brain-dump confession). I became distracted with other things before posting it. More to come (obviously) now a confession of sorts is coming …

~~~

A few sketchy thoughts on the latest episode in the telenovela that is the Big Texan, something I have covered previously in this post. Sticking to the ‘Five Ws’ …

Who? Lance Armstrong, the greatest sociopath never to win a Tour de France.

What? Armstrong is reported to be considering admitting to using PEDs (performance-enhancing drugs) and blood transfusions during his cycling career. ‘Considering admitting’. Is that even a thing? Yes. Think of the number of times you’ve seen expendable politician muse publicly on party leadership / policy. Create a shitstorm. See where the chips fall.

When? Armstrong’s camp launched the first salvo in the NYT on January 5, with a great tease: after denying that he had doped during his cycling career (in sworn testimony as well as to the media, the people ‘outside the bus’, himself), viciously denigrating anyone who said otherwise, and deploying an army of Armstrong Orcs (including athletes, authorities and Matthew McConaughey) against the ‘haters and cynics’, Lance is, according to people with direct knowledge of what goes on in his head (most likely Lance), thinking of telling the world & its mother that he’s been a cheatin’ & a lyin’.

Where? First reported in the New York Times, the ‘maybe, baby’ yarn tore through the media cycle (mainstream, sporting and social) faster than a barbed wire fence through lycra (apologies to Johnny Hoogerland).

Why? As I tweeted when the story broke, nothing this man does would surprise me, but here are a few motives, either reported (and my take on them) or invented by me (I’ll make those clear).

NYT:

“… he wants to persuade antidoping officials to restore his eligibility so he can resume his athletic career.” (Me: I don’t doubt this. Armstrong needs to compete. It’s his raison d’etre. Fake Twitter accounts won’t keep Juan Pelota happy for much longer).

“Wealthy supporters of Livestrong, the charity he founded after surviving testicular cancer, have been trying to persuade him to come forward so he could clear his conscience and save the organization from further damage, one person with knowledge of the situation said.” (Me: see below, under ‘Cancer Jesus’).

My theories:

Cash. Cash not here: In retirement, Armstrong relied on the continuing support of personal sponsorship from firms including Nike, Trek, SRAM & Oakley; lucrative ‘cycling with Lance Armstrong’ rides, and generally ‘Being Lance’ (South Australia, your tax dollars hard at work paying Armstrong’s Tour Down Under appearance fee). The sponsors have pulled the pin; dissatisfaction with his ‘riding for hire’ is being aired and ‘Being Lance’ isn’t what it was this time last year. Armstrong faces losing approximately $12.5 million in prizemoney, lawsuits and an estimated $30 million from endorsements alone. Despite a rumoured $100 million fortune, a tell-all book, complete with exclusive excerpt and interview deals, on the shelves in time for Father’s Day in the US (Sunday, 16 June … a nice tie-in with the cycling calendar, as well) will help a man ‘raising five children’. Mark the date in your diaries. Floral tributes gratefully accepted if I’m right. I’ll tweet, ‘I was wrong’ if I’m wrong.

Cancer Jesus: Apologies if you are offended by this sobriquet; I find it fitting. Armstrong has inspired many people (whether they have cancer, know someone with cancer, or just want to improve their lifestyle) to think positively, change, get healthy, but HE IS NOT THE BLOODY MESSIAH. He has not done more than anyone else to ‘fight cancer’ (copyright: Phil Liggett). Raising $500 million through LIVESTRONG is amazing; amazingly, the bulk of that money is not spent ‘fighting cancer’ at the frontline – in research labs, on nursing or palliative care, for example. It is spent ‘raising awareness’ of cancer and employing lobbyists to lobby governments for research funding and ‘cancer awareness’. Are you aware of cancer? Yes? Let’s move on.

Despite resigning as Chairman, The LIVESTRONG Foundation was, until recently,  ’The Lance Armstrong Foundation’. Not to be confused (although in all likelihood, very easily confused with http://www.lancearmstrong.com). Every day, its work is still associated with him. A confession may be the only thing that will guarantee its long-term credibility (see above paragraph from NYT). I doubt Lance will be getting many invitations to the Clinton Global Initiative or appear before state legislatures to ‘fight cancer’. Who still wears one of the formerly ubiquitous yellow bracelets or, more importantly, would buy one?

The Big House:

If the Justice Department joins Floyd Landis’ lawsuit, Lance is in trouble.

If the Justice Department decides the senior team (including Armstrong) which ran the US Postal squad defrauded the Federal Government by breaking the terms of its contract, Lance is in more trouble.

Facing time in the Big House is a very unappetising prospect. WWLD? (What Would Lance Do?). Throw everyone else under the bus. If I was Johan Bruyneel, I would be bricking it & moving to a country without an extradition treaty to the US.

cafuné (v. Portuguese)

cafuné: (m.) the act of fondling, or running one’s fingers through your lover’s hair.

“Cut it off.

“No, I don’t want to wait. I’ve been growing it for years, and for what purpose? None.

“I pull it up in a ponytail all of the time. That’s a sign that you should cut your hair.

“ I’m sure. Cut it.”

I run my fingers up my neck and into my hair, following the curve of my spine, grasping the crop until I reach the spot where my hair levels with my ears, the place where the length graduates. I close my eyes sometimes. I watch other people rub their necks. They close their eyes, but the way they rub their necks, impatiently, trying to start a car on a cold morning, is strange to me. Enough people pushing and pulling at their upper vertebrae for me to close my eyes and inhale as my fingers carve a pathway through the centimetres and brush my palm down again.

 ~~~

“Put your fingers through my hair.

“Feel the back of my neck and run your hand across my hair.”

The man took this as a sign that I wanted to be dominated. That I was somehow submitting. You’re so stupid. No, stop the thought. It’s not his fault. There’s a way to do it. How do you explain it? Imagine you’re standing beside a lioness? A great big cat who wanted to feel the rough tongue of another on her neck. They’re my favourite animals. The males, so showy with their manes. The lionesses, their coats as ready for a hunt as their hearts and eyes. I too can turn and flash my teeth, if you want to play, but I would prefer you coaxed me, make me arch my back and inhale as you hit the sweet spot, the soft skin that covers the side of my skull, behind my ears. There’s a way to do it and I can’t explain it so pull my hair instead and try and tame me.

~~~

“Honey, can I wash your hair?”

I dip my face underwater and roll around so I face you. I’m still learning how to let someone touch me without pulling away.

“Wash my hair? Why do you want to wash my hair? Oh, honestly, you make me laugh.”

I turn again, resting the back of my head on your chest. I close my eyes and make a mental snapshot of your legs, wrapped around mine in the cooling, soapy water.

“It is not a laughing thing. It’s very nice for you. I can’t explain. It’s not ‘wash’ like a shampoo. I’m not a hairdresser! Honey, come on, sit up.”

My hair is cut in a shortish bob. It curls into ringlets. There’s literally something in the water here. Unwillingly, I disentangle myself from you and sit up.

“Remember: no massages. I don’t like massages.”

The flesh of your palm is against my neck. I close my eyes and don’t pull away. You weave your fingers through the mass of dripping ringlets. Your hand keeps moving, slowly until my neck arches back, seeking your fingers, and I draw my knees up to my chest. Both of your hands caress my scalp. I inhale, understanding now. I don’t even want you to kiss me. Just run your fingers through my hair.

… that place, between sleep and awake …

You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming?

That’s where I will always love you, Peter Pan.

That’s where I will be waiting.

1 January, 2013, 5am: watching people stagger, swagger on the streets below and flicking through social media accounts, posting pictures of fireworks. Welcome to 2013. The century, someone writes, is a teenager. I’ve seen old years out the window in other places and nothing screams, ‘teenage century’ quite as effectively as a teenage city. Sydney is allowing you into her room, she wants to start kissing at 11.59pm and part at 12.01am. She’s awkward around you as you draw breath because she finds you attractive and she wants you to feel it. Sydney knows she’ll feature on New Year’s Eve celebration packages on a billion televisions, she knows the glint of her gap-toothed smile is captivating.

I’m captivated, content, and finally alone in the dark and my own head. I’ve caroused, parlaying a bottle of champagne on the roof into a party. The lift … of course, the lift is broken, but we make it down the fire stairs without skipping one or smashing anything. I never go to bed before I make an effort to sober up, so I sit by the window and watch, water bottle and lip balm on the sill. I watch and I write, sometimes I make short films about you in my head. Did you know that? Two young men turn the corner. Action. He’s awkward, the one with the folded arms, because he finds you attractive and hasn’t grasped your visual cues, your open stance, bottom lip fidgeting between your teeth. Someone walks past the corner and you both slouch along the wall. Cut! The story may need a rewrite. A drug deal? I preferred my tentative love story, the one where you kiss for two minutes before breaking away. These films rely on my actors’ movement and expression as much as my imagination. You’re giving me nothing to work with. I summon Peter Pan and send a still unanswered message.