10:31 pm . bluebandwrist
[it seems i wrote an entry about the formal but didn't bother posting it.]

((i am tired; about to fall in love with lewis carroll. i've decided that i can't take caffiene withdrawls; two days of headaches and sleeping was quite enough; i will make a daily pilgrimige to gabriels. the people there think i'm either crazy or cute. i am hoping for the latter. my mum saw some untalented loser from australian idol today. i bought a plain-white-paper-fan.))

teeter into
jovana's house.
spend ten minutes
competing with
rosanne's cries of
"i look like shit".

walk into the street with
things spilling from
my bag. i am barefoot;
carrying my shoes
in my arms.

jump into a rolls royce;
the most expensive car i
will ever have the chance
to sit in.

fifteen minutes
dedicated to
putting my stupid shoes on;
missing the awe-struck
expressions of
the pedestrians.

begin stories
of "the worst day
of my life". rosie
caught the bus,
in her socks.
jovana has cried
twice.

somehow we begin to
talk of hollywood tape
& mary-jane's new bra.
the ((male)) driver is very quiet,
and stares intently
out the window.

wander the foyer
of the swiss grand
waiting for
an arrival

find the bathrooms &
scream blue-bloody-murder.

i am hungry. i
lose my camera
before the night
even begins.

saunter past security;
grittyhard stares.

in the foyer, i
search for my
blasted belonging.
the table where
i have left it
is bare

except for;
a complimentary
mint.

i swear & clasp
the mint in
my hand.
storm back into
the formal.

((later in the night nicole will return my camera. i will grab her and yell "thank you!". throw the mint into the sink.))

before dinner i
tap the bread
against the table.
you could kill someone with this stuff.

all is a blend of
socialising, staring,
photographs &
dim lighting.
dim people.

swing open
the bathroom door;
chattering, hairflicking,
lipgloss & madness.

i don't know how to
get to the mirror

i
lean against the wall,
and slide onto the floor.
pull out my make-up
and yawn.

alina talks to me
while she
floats
out the door.

when she says;
"you look so pretty..."
i think to myself;
sure i look pretty, crouching here on the tiles with bacteria breeding incessantlyforever. i feel so-goddamn-pretty, beginning to reek of bleach, because the smell is simply echoing off the walls you know. pretty in a place like this; toilets and sanitary bins as far as the eye can comprehend...

somehow, sitting
on the bathroom floor &
struggling with a tube of lipstick, is
exactly how i imagined the formal would be.

spend the last half of
the night, sitting in
the corner;
spilling soft drinks on
the carpet; hiding behind
a collection of red
& black balloons;
insisting i
will never dance, as i
have toasted
to cynicism.

i end up dancing.
((i was dragged out there, i swear))

exit swiftly,
short on
time.

return to jovana's in
a white limousine with
an emergency exit.

i rejoice for not
falling over
in front of my friends.
we make tired
conversation.
red & black balloons
are filling up the floor.

find that i get nauseous
from having to face
the windows.

((the streets are empty and solemn))

spend most of the trip
back to kensington,
staring at the ceiling
of a white limousine.
((i touch the ceiling and find it is padded for some odd reason))

end up in ms. jong's
four-wheel-drive.
listening to
polka music.

leave my jacket behind,
underneath the hem
of lili's princess-dress.

((why wasn't i named cinderella?))

drop my things on
the table & find
the bathroom mirror.

face my
reflection

smudgedeyes & a frown,
tortured hair & something wintry.

wait for the tapwater
to run hot

wait for the tapwater
to run hot

wait for the tapwater
to run hot

all dressed up & nowhere to be.

nostalgia . uncertainty