April 2, 3pm. Brunswick: Sydney Road/Glenlyon Road Tram Stop. Is it vulgar to have internal klaxon drown out all sensible thought when in vicinity of v sexy person? Sitting at bench near tram stop waiting for friend when ++gorgeous boy (v tall, long limbs, wearing black) sits next to me, rolls cigarette. Am not sure if talks to me because am cute or because am staring inappropriately. Reason inconsequential. Gorgeous boy asks my permission to smoke near me. Smile yes and ask gorgeous boy to roll cigarette for me to smoke near him. Gorgeous boy does so. Gorgeous boy named Jack from Queensland. Has recently used long, lovely arms to pick fruit and dance at magazine launch party also attended by me. Smoke cigarettes, talk books until tram comes. Jack gets on. Have not seen since. Jack if u are reading this call me for real. Scum editors will give u my number.
April 3, 7pm. Otway National Park: Aire Crossing Campground. Am deep in nature rn and feeling v strong, mystical feminine connections to river, to forest, to moonlight. (Moonlight extra bright in nature, and v kind to complexion: hot tip.) Have pitched tent, inflated air mattress, put on thermals and tucked jeans into socks for mosquito prevention. Currently rolling joint while Sarah and Nick prepare chilli and Sophie pours wine. Could live like this forever.
3pm. Otway National Park: Sequoia Plantation. V tall, thin, branchless trunks, crowded together. Underfoot: thick carpet of dropped leaves, orange. Silence like in padded room. Voices barely carry. Birdsong erupts loudly and does not echo. Surreal, lovely, bizarre. Sarah and Sophie clap out Steve Reich’s “Clapping Music” and each clap hangs in forest air, weirdly suspended like vapour.
11pm. Otway National Park: Aire Crossing Campground. Total lunar eclipse viewed thru forked, ghostly limbs of nearby stringybark. Pour wine, roll joint and arrange camp chairs for best view. Feel huge sense of personal consequence: am part of Earth, my shadow part of Earth’s shadow, cancelling moonlight. Milky Way appears as tho sprayed onto sky with MS Paint’s spray can tool. Am made wordless by sublime beauty and vastness of space. Understand Wordsworth for about 5 seconds before remembering Wordsworth obnoxious white man who can go in bin.
April 5, 9pm. Otway National Park: Aire Crossing Campground. Had group plans to investigate waterfall, hike trail, view ocean from scenic vantage point. Plans dissipated in wake of collective hangover. Have instead played lengthy and v competitive game of Settlers of Catan for most of day.
April 22, 1pm. Moonee Ponds: Base 9 Tattoo. Sian and I about to let artist named Sarah make matching indelible marks on skin. Look at naked fingers for last time, decide am bored w naked fingers and ready for friendship-related mystic symbol fingers. Will soon carry evidence of friendship w BFF on own fingers for rest of life. :’)
April 26, 11am. Brunswick: my bedroom. Last night’s Tinder date an overnighter. Date’s entire bedroom smelled like Armani Code. Suspect date sprayed Armani Code on sheets in anticipation of Tinder sex? If so has backfired because Armani Code honestly smells like mace and disappointment. Had p satisfactory sex, but as with Y.P.G. could not stop mentally comparing date to T (vegetable whisperer of yore). May actually have contemplated T’s lovely tight thighs while listening to Codesprayer snore. Why one person allowed to have such power over me? Why so intoxicated by T’s body/vegetable friends? Must clear head of T. Must clean skin of Code. Smell is beginning to infect own bedroom.
1pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Feel as though was unnecessarily cruel to Codesprayer in entry above. Is perfectly nice boy. But what is “nice”? “Nice” is weekend drinks, weeknight sex, but is not intoxicating mind parasite of true crush. Am bored with “nice”. Yearn for mind parasite. Can drink wine and reach orgasm perfectly well on own, thank you v much.
April 29, 11.30pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Somehow T is now on way to my house for cigarette and probable sex. Cannot deal. Willing self to be cool.
April 30, 10am. Brunswick: my kitchen. Am practically floating. Sex w T total opposite of “nice”. Is literally most beautiful human being have ever seen in life. Sexual chemistry through roof. Remember fragments: lips on armpit, finger on cheekbone, tooth on hip. T touched each one of tattoos w fingertips, smiling like each one familiar friend. Faces close under blanket in early morning light, staring and smiling and touching skin as though precious, precious thing. Could die of this feeling. Will die if this feeling goes away.
12pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Receive text from T. Over moon, but aware cannot stay here. Must return to earth.
1pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Remember feeling of disillusionment re T earlier this year, and decide to be honest re own feelings now to prevent self from future agony. Cannot maintain casual sex relationship w T without feeling feelings, so tell T this via text message. Am aware of many reasons why this will ruin everything, but feel must do it anyway because am under influence of crush and therefore expert at making irrational, bad decisions.
3pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. T responded as expected: is no go. Due to irrational crush, kindness in response makes “no” hurt more than if response was cruel. Understand T’s reasons completely and am grateful for honesty but am still p sad. Feel loss of chemistry, of blanket smiles and skin touch as tho physical, actual loss.
9pm. Brunswick: my couch. Have now cried into pillow, cat and burrito. Can confirm flavour of burrito not enhanced by addition of human tears.
11pm. Brunswick: my couch. Perhaps this afternoon’s text was mistake. Am addicted to that chemistry. Am willing to risk future agony for more of chemistry, probably. Perhaps misinterpreted chemistry and passion as real feeling, perhaps did not. Whatever it is, is confusing. But for now solution clear: must leave T alone as am certain unwanted feelings have acted as scare tactic. Must focus on positives: am glad something more than “nice” exists, can exist. Am glad can feel at all. Am glad made decision to purchase family-sized bag of M&Ms. Am glad last night happened. Must not wish to unsay things that have been said. Must not invalidate own feelings. Must not think about T’s eyes, hips, way mouth shapes around cute lil pleasure moan. Must instead shape own mouth around handful of M&Ms and look to future.
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.