In my brain my thoughts are conversational. Back and forth. Finishing off its own sentences, meandering, tracking, back and forth. It is a huge discussion in here, a convention. Rattling away like a Morris Minor. Rattling away in neutral with the parking brake on-- no direction. Noncommittal. Like a boardroom meeting before the chairman arrives. Hesitantly waiting for the silence to come.
So I sit, and it churns out conversations, scenarios, hypotheses by the gallon, filling the empty air of my room...until it's brimming and teetering. Vibrant. One knock at the door and the bubble is burst, and I start again, piecing together a thought puzzle -- seeing what the final picture looks like. Dismantling. Start again. Work it right this time. Piecing, fitting, polishing. My fantasy realm.
It's spring in Australia. The blue-tack is melting off my walls, and I put the posters back up warped, crinkled. I stand outside naked in the night air, studying how the moon sits there, complacent, admiring how my breath moves the flame of the candle in little fitful swirls, scratching my balls, an armpit, and slipping in the earphones to hear guitars, piano and drums. The air is adolescent. Frisky, sliding past my skin and into the night to frolic with the leaves. So much night. I feel the weight of gravity -- the electricity of new smells, smells jettisoned out on the goose-pimple breeze, to nudge my nostrils. And I walk out, silver skin in the moon, to feel the season. The sheer change of season, like a giant cog shifting gear. My balls cringe up in the naked air, and I feel separate -- time is flitting by without me. Me looking in. But I am ignited... Clouds of insects fizz and spit around the light on the corner- the light that spills out like beer into the garden. The music travels with me, pumping my eardrums. I smell loneliness, laughter, youth and the oppressed obesity of the coming hot summer. I lie on the garden table, prickly scented wood, my dick flopping against my thigh, and stare at the yawning archway of the sky. I spot familiar stars. Spring gives them new clothes. A new perspective. I lie there a while, until a light goes on in someone's room, and I husk my way back to my bedroom, slink in the shadows, and turn my music up louder, blow out the candle and slip, pale into the room, to the shifting ceiling fan and my strewn moist bed sheets. Start again. Filling the room with thought, painting it on the walls with my mind.
It is school holidays. Too much time to sit by myself. Too much time to read the horoscope in the back of the trashy tabloid. Pieces- having a good week. Too much time to scrutinize cheap porn on the computer- the fascination wears off after the orgasm. Only a mess to clean up. Too much time to realize that your family interaction is just a game- knowing that separating yourself from it is all part of it. Too much time lying in bed nursing a half-erection into the late hours of the morning, ten o'clock, eleven o' clock, twelve, reading a book, and moving your pelvis to release the tension. School holidays- shifting, weighty, frustrating.
I am scared. About who I am. Where I'm going. Who will be there with me. I am scared about the vastness of this planet. Its enormity. Its detail. I am scared about my potential. About where it could take me, which hotel and what city, sitting by myself there and feeling the sheer change of season. I am scared that this is all there is, and I'm scared that there could be more. I am scared about my brain, its intelligence, its maturity, its separation, the way it engages me in crying and feeling and analyzing, without remorse. I am scared about the music- the way I see into it, explore the harmony, the tension, the anticipation. I am scared, and I guess that passes the time.
It's springtime in Australia. Not yet hot. Not yet humid. But moving at an accelerating pace toward it. In a week and a half I will be in my final year of school. It seems plastic to me. A certificate to hang on the wall- a ticket to a university, maybe overseas, a performing arts college. Just another booster shot to propel me on...immune me to the claustrophobia.
Where does my sexuality fit in? Why am I writing this, my first column for Oasis? I don't know on both accounts. Oh, it's there all right. My sexuality broods and flows through my life like a separate entity- fickle like the seasons.
It's more about me. There is no label, no box, no politics, and no soapbox. No discrimination.
It's me. Just me. And that's all there is.