Words

I enjoy finding something you have written a while after it has been committed to the page. At the same time I find the words disconcerting and awkward, as if they hold far more meanings than I can remember. I never know what to do with them. Anyway, I woke up this morning and read that the socceroos are finished in their WC campaign and I reckon they did a good job. AS much as I deplore this Government's attitude to sport and the arts in this country, it upsets me that I take it out on my love of sport.
Anyway, the temporarily lost beginning of a story:

There is this odd contradiction of going bush. You leave the city to get away from it all, but end up in a place where monsters lurk and the loudest, most terrifying sounds imaginable cause physical pain. I never thought I would see the day where I would say that my comfort zone lies in the paved and dirty streets of the city.

I guess it comes from being old and weary. Worn out. Not that I am really. Those of you in the know will scoff when you hear me say that I am thirty. I know I am a terrible cliché of a waning youth, but my cynicism is all I’ve got. And you’ve got to have something these days or you are just simply suburban.

Anyway, off the topic as usual. I am lying here in this ditch I dug, feeling the dryness of the earth and hoping to be at one with it. Hoping for grounding, so I can deal with the world when I open my eyes and drive back into the city. it’s my comfort and my punishment. I love Melbourne, but its tall grey buildings and secret alleyways play havoc on my sense of self. I feel like Melbourne is always hiding something from me and regardless of how fast I get into the latest club without a name in a dark festy alley filled with junkies, I’ll always be late.

My companion on my journey is also on a path of self-discovery disguised as loathing. It’s just not cool to be cool. He embraces it with the versatility youth brings. I even sneer at myself when I derride the young, knowing that my companion, loving called The Boy, is 10 years younger than me. But for any of you who remember their twenties, you will know and understand that the difference between 20 and 30 is a more than a wide yawn. It is a an uncrossable divide.

So what makes me pack up and leave my beloved city for 28 days to spend time with the youf of the country? Sex. It’s plain and simple really. Well at least I thought it was until by the 5^th day I had not got any and didn’t know if I had enough energy to not refuse another night. I would have to go about this one with all the intelligence a thirty year old woman can muster. And my manipulating pants pulled up tight.

I am thinking about all of this whilst laying in my shallow grave in the dirt. Eyes closed because I know he is out there and I want him to surprise me because I know it will be physical. Sometimes I even exhaust myself with my machinations. I wonder how I can make a move that is not a dedicated move, but is obvious, but is not pushy.

This is where the age difference is important. I don’t necessarily feel ten years older than the boy, but in fact I am therefore have a reputation within society to uphold. I was never really into out and out debauchery, despite the parties in my early twenties where we ripped off each others clothes and bed hopped all night. This boy was different anyway, he was a challenge. I had to make him want it so much that he lost control of himself. It’s all about winning with him, but you’ll gather more about that later.