Emma Jones’s Diary: November

1 November, 11.00am. Thornbury: my bedroom. Every part of body, mind, spirit flatlining except heartbeat. Open eyes, check phone, see blonde wig lying on floor like lil sleeping Pomeranian. Remember last night. Wish heartbeat flatlining too.

11.45am. Thornbury: my garage. When sad, clean. Something soothing abt methodical nature of tipping beer out of bottles, putting bottles in plastic bags. Something comfortingly pathetic abt vacuuming polystyrene innards of dragon of positivity from garage floor while marinating in own misery. W each small, white bean sucked into vacuum cleaner I whisper internally: fuck u, positivity. What did u ever do for anyone?

7.45pm. Thornbury: my living room. Housemate M and Clare v effective nursemaids for sadness/hangover/comedown combo. M prepares selection of beverages using blender, coffeepot; Clare downloads lineup of movies w zero romance. M and Clare generously ply self w hydration, affection, snacks. Thank u moon and stars 4 these two angels. Would die without.
(⑅˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈ )

6 November, 10.56pm. Thornbury: my living room. U kno that feelin when u were a lil kid and it was xmas eve and u wld lie in ur bed so excited and full of energy that u would just have to like kick ur legs around to expel it all???? Well in 3 hours my bestie of 10 years Chelsea will arrive from London and that is kind of exactly how I’m feelin rn!!!

2.00am. Thornbury: my garage. Chelsea’s p jetlagged and she has this tiny lil English accent which is just the cutest thing and when she first got here she hugged me near the fridge and we both cried and now we’re smoking a joint and splitting a valium do u even KNOW how HAPPY I AM RN U GUYS

7 November, 11.00am. Thornbury: my living room. TFW u ask ur bestie what she wants to do today and her response is let’s just stay on the couch in our pyjamas and ur like omg well I kno why I picked u from the bunch 10 years ago lol

tfw ur bestie back in the au @newfang_

A photo posted by emma marie jones (@emmacones) on

November 8, 11.30pm. Thornbury: my garage. Do u ever do that thing when ur stoned and u retreat into urself like a lil sea anemone and start observing the things around u instead of engaging w them? Like the salty hot chips and a tall tower of those red plastic cups w the white insides, like the ones frat boys in the movies drink from, all piled inside one another like shells. It cost us 80 bux for a quarter ounce and the guy who dealt the shit is stickin around telling us abt how his dog bit him on the arm one time oh yeah cool and talking a lot (like, A LOT) abt Justin Bieber’s dick. How it could tear. How much it wld hurt for his dick to tear. Why do men always wanna talk abt their dicks so much?? Chelsea’s like sorry guys idk how to get rid of him either. He eventually greens out on our couch to Dr. Oz. RIP.

1.30am. OMG crush sat so close to self tonite. Our arms touched like in that way that ppl’s arms touch when they tryin 2 make it look like it could b accidental but it isn’t is this a thing? WHAT DOES THIS MEANNNNNN

November 11, 4.30pm. Melbourne: Southern Cross Station. Feel like spend so much of own time at Skybus terminal, collecting and depositing friends. Why must friends live so far away? Why not possible to gather all friends together in single-location commune? Why not all get along like used to in middle school, bake cake filled w rainbows and smiles, everyone eat and be happy? Chelsea leaving, but coming back in 2 weeks. Least traumatic type of Skybus goodbye.

November 13, 4.30pm. Thornbury: my bedroom. IT’S HERE. PURPOSE HAS DROPPED. I’ve got a bieber fever of like 44 degrees.

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7.30pm. Preston: Liquorland. We go w Smirnoff. There’s something super Bieby abt Smirnoff. But what mixers wld the Biebs choose? Housemate M suggests Fanta. I suggest Mother Energy. He suggests Mountain Dew. We buy all three.

8.00pm. Thornbury: my backyard. Smirnoff and Mountain Dew: gross combination. 3/10. Do not advise u try.

10.00pm. Thornbury: my garage. Listening party begins w song-by-song rating system but fast devolves into drinking & occasionally commenting on terribleness of slow, piano-based tracks. My personal fav: album’s title track opens w lyric “feeling like I’m breathing my last breath” followed by rly loud, emotion-fuelled breath. Aw, bb Bieb. We get it. U breathe. U miss Selena. Ur lil heart is broken. But stick to the bangers k? (Just btwn u and me tho, tbh I fkn love ALL the tracks. Even “Life Is Worth Living”.) Bieber bonus: these pap pics r from December but shut up I kno u have all ruined at least one pair of undies lookin at them already.

November 15, 4.00pm. Melbourne: Joy FM Studios. Am appearing on Joy FM’s Sunday Arts Magazine programme to talk non-fiction, Scribe Prize and my budding career. Listen here, if u feelin it. I’m on around the 45 min mark. Luckily u can’t hear how hungover I look tehe ~(◡‿⊙✿)

November 18, 10.30am. Thornbury: my bedroom. Have just committed to lifestyle of freelance poet without day job and used fb groups to sell half of wardrobe. So far have made $350 (a.k.a. half month’s rent). RIP mom jeans and duster coat. U were loved and will be missed but a girl’s gotta eat and more importantly buy a pouch of tobacco.

7.30pm. Brunswick: the house where Eloise is housesitting. This house is super luxe. Eloise and I spike our alcoholic ginger beers w gin and sit on private balcony drinking and smokin cigs. Did u kno that the names of emo and pop punk bands r much funnier if u insert the word “dad” into them?

November 19, 5.38pm. Thornbury: my bedroom. Sitting on my towel when I should b getting ready to go to this film screening thinkin abt my life and how politics of non-fiction, self-documentation apply to it. It’s a Chris Kraus film screening tho so I think this internal debate is relevant. The big Qs: is exclusion lying? Is fabrication and silence for the sake of protecting myself and the characters in this story who r also tru, loved ppl irl – in my rl – unethical? Does occasional fabrication make this column fiction? How do u even kno I’m telling u the truth? Would u like me or relate to me any less if u thought I wasn’t? The biggest Q of all is one I’ll need longer than a month to answer: what is truth? Who gets to define it? If truth’s subjective, what makes the words of this diary any truer than the daydreams I’m havin in between them? And why am I still in my towel when my tram leaves in 11 minutes?

8.00pm. Fitzroy: Grey Gardens Project. Tinnies of VB are only 5 bux and I’m on my third and the movie hasn’t even started yet weeeeeeee

10.30pm. Gravity and Grace is Chris Kraus’s only feature-length film and it was like a total flop in its time. I liked it tho. It’s abt alienation and actual aliens I mean like UFOs and cults and shit. It’s abt two women who are misunderstood by everyone around them and also by each other and also by themselves. It’s pretty good but I’m too drunk to stick around for the panel after even tho Aurelia Guo is on it and she’s one of my fav poets going rn. Instead I’m gonna go home and drink goon and juice w Housemate M and Housemate M and Clare.

21 November, 11.30pm. Brunswick: Izzy’s house. Just sat thru a rly beaut poetry reading in Izzy’s backyard, nursing an endless rotation of tinnies and sipping Amaryllis’s whiskey and smokin cigs w Else and Fi. I opened the readings w a pretty awkward rendition of this poem (among others). I say awkward cos I sat on a gutter and flashed everyone my undies for the whole duration of my reading but I guess if u have been reading this diary at all this year u will kno that’s kind of my aesthetic so whatever ~nail polish emoji~. The readings were closed by Sian who blew everyone away w a poem abt a dream that I’ll dream about 4 the rest of my life.

24 November, 10.30pm. Thornbury: my garage. Chelsea’s back! Petition to keep this girl in Melb 4eva pls?

25 November, 4.40pm. 11 tram. We’re on our way to the RMIT Fine Arts Grad Show cos Housemate M, Clare and Charlie are performing an improvised set. We gon b so drunk before we even get there and it’s not even close of business on a Wednesday. Clare is the queen of goon and juice.

 

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6.10pm. Melbourne: RMIT. These guys r KILLIN. IT. How did I get such cute and talented m8s :’)

10.30pm. Where did Chelsea get that joint? From the guy in the hat? We looked at some art? But now we’re back on the lawn? Beers are a buck apiece?

1.00am. Thornbury: my garage. Look I’m on the couch w crush and I think he’s gonna kiss me. I want him to kiss me. I want him 2 kiss me! He’s put one hand on the back of my neck and the other one on my knee. He’s gonna do it omg he’s gonna do it he’s doing it he’s—

1.30am. Shit gettin meta. Thinkin abt writing this diary column. Crush from Halloween party obv real person, has been real person whole time, continues to be real person, is real person on couch beside self rn as write this during mid-December heatwave. But some things r just too fragile to write abt. Building things. Imperceptibly shifting things. All year I’ve written openly in this diary abt my inner life but there are some things that grow better when they’re not exposed to open air. U might b curious abt who I’m kissing but I’m not gonna tell u cos idk how that might affect the kissing and the other things, the feeling things, feelings that I’m normally so good at articulating but rn can’t find words for and it could b nerves and it could b that there just aren’t any. This is hard! Diarising ur own real life publicly is fkn hard. Bridget had it easy ffs. She was fictional and so was all her pashing. Privately v glad am not snogging Colin Firth in xmas sweater tho. Thx but no thx.

26 November, 9.30pm. Thornbury: my living room. Chelsea’s headin back 2 London and her uber is 2 min away and idk what I’m gonna do without her. Some ppl are just meant 2 b in ur life. I just wish Chelsea cld be in mine from a distance of less than 17,000km. ˚‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ )‧º·˚

29 November, 3.30pm. Thornbury: my bedroom. Exit Chelsea, enter anxiety. When somebody u like kisses u it’s a good thing right? Right? What abt when they don’t do it again immediately the next day or the day after? How do u act totally norm around them when u have had their tongue inside ur mouth? STAY TUNED FOR THE REST OF THIS EXISTENTIAL MELTDOWN IN THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF MY 2015 DIARY LUV U ANGELS XOXO

 

Emma Marie Jones is a Melbourne-based poet and writer and the Sex Editor at SPOOK magazine. Her short fiction, poems, essays and criticism have appeared in SPOOK, Scum, The Lifted Brow, Stilts, The Suburban Review.

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