Nocturnal

Posted by Kristina Yenko , Friday, June 12, 2009 12:56 PM



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Illumination

Posted by Kristina Yenko 12:21 PM

Lately I’ve been asking myself questions.
I suppose you could call me Neurotic- Absurd, even. But of course, everybody would like to think they are Unforgettable. A name. I need a name. Amory Blaine or Anthony Pach- clever onomastics thought up on a whim. But no, let you know me as I am.
Through days of anguish, months of torment, years of longing to lead myself back there where no idea is stale and passion cold. Oh those nights drowned in liquor, stretched for days. It was there that I moved silently through my world, drifting between people and places; dissociated from any surrounding. Conversation: muffled, distorted.
Twisted houses, washed with age, wade in pools of dust, spuming clouds of charcoaled smoke. The distant ghastly creak of a train sliding into the station. Adrupt, with an unsightly fizz, the crimson glow of suburbs fade and simpers against the obscurity of ashen fields. The horizon ebbs and flows as the stagnant browns of a Sydney dusk stain the dimming sky.
I explore the house with verve of naivety, shouting echoes to greetings and chasing my own shadows past candlelit rooms where bodies grind tangled in honeysuckle. Outside the cigarette smoke wafts like steam from the surface of a boiling tub, swirling and swinging in the soft summer breeze, and melts into the haze of powdered white faces. Bathed in a sickly yellow of a dying sun, guests bob and sway like rubber ducks in a sinful pool of bottles and music. Bubbles of beer ooze up from murky suds, sinuous and soapy; they rise high above the greasy garden and burst with a resounding wheeze.
The kitchen is tight: all the guys and girls arranged in clusters, conversational bouquets. Not a solitary figure, not a lonely face but mine. The surest cure to vanity, as I understood it, was loneliness. They would pin their meals with steely forks- tearing flesh with boiling teeth and spitting sin like a sumptuous sauce while I tried desperately to eat soup with a fork. Photographs of sickly white wisps hung on rosed walls- the narcissist mirror of families with too much.
Words float through empty rooms, unabated; they drift eternally away from meaning. The corridors gradually fill with silence as the early morning drifts in waif-like strands. Tiny lights soak through the lace curtains. For everyone, this is where another chapter ends. All that’s left now is a cold apartment harboured by sour walls.

Alone.

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