leaving thorn street

19 days is not a lot of time.

Today I sent out invitations to our goodbye party. It made me sad.

As clichéd as it may be, there’s a lot of me in that flat. The place I lived, alone, for 18 months. The place where I buried and found myself, many times over, in many guises. A place of many significant moments and interactions. Thorn Street hosted many connections.

There’s Mark, nervous, next to me on the couch, wearing a suit and tie. His bag lies near the door. He’s here to stay the weekend – our first weekend. We kiss. It’s June 2005. Today he sits on the couch more relaxed, comfortable, at home. We still kiss. Or he’s in the shower as I brush my teeth. Or he taps away on his computer in the spare room, a silhouette before the window.

There’s Carly. We’re cooking dinner and drinking pinot noir. She makes noodles. Her car has broken down. We play music – Madonna’s ‘Burning Up’. We get stoned and watch Pretty in Pink.

There’s Alison. I’ve just moved in. There’s two small chairs in one large room. Cups of tea and awkward conversation between us, as she visits me in my home away from her.

There’s Tim. We’re lying on the mattresses on the bedroom floor. Or he’s standing naked at the sunroom window in the morning, smoking a cigarette.

There’s Chris. He’s sitting next to me on the lined carpet. We’re playing music. We’re talking theory. We’re wanting to touch each other, but we won’t. Tea on the roof as we sit, and then stand, leaning over the edge. He smokes many last cigarettes. I’m wishing he would stay.

There’s Ryan. He comes to me in words, via MSN chat or text messages – “I’m out. Where are you?” On our second meeting we eat pizza and drink from separate bottles of wine (red and white). On the loungeroom floor his leg is touching mine. After sex, he leaves.

There’s David. He’s staying in the spare room, about to move to Germany. The bathroom is being tiled, so we go to the ocean baths for morning showers. He’s reading in his room while Mark and I drink wine to a Britney Spears DVD. We speak of books and relationships.

There’s Anna. I’m sitting in the sunroom writing a thesis. She’s nearby on her laptop. She’s about to leave Newcastle, and it’s sad. We watch a series of Nip/Tuck and eat salted pumpkin seeds in her final week.

There’s Aaron. He’s speaking with his hands, loudly; boy dramas. We’re going thirds with Carly in a cheap carton of wine. He’s smoking on the roof while I take the washing off the line.

There’s Justine. She’s asleep on the couch as I tip-toe past.

There’s Mouchette. She’s chasing cockroaches. She’s running across the backs of our pillows. She’s fighting with Mark and I am referee. She’s under the covers, stretching out, momentarily putting her claws into skin.

There’s Carmen. In my bed, in my body. She’s wearing my jumper. It’s nice, but somewhat suffocating. To the point where I can’t speak.

There’s Tom. He’s in the next room. I hope he can’t hear us.

There’s Nicci, Craig, Ness and David, watching X-Men cartoons. Sitting, eating, and talking our way through a Wednesday night ritual.

There’s Mum and Dad, asleep in the next room while I exchange text messages with Tim; feeling secretive and naughty. Or we’re all eating stir fry noodles made in my birthday present wok.

There’s my brother, watching a Jim Carey film that nobody else finds funny.

There’s that guy who wears a wedding ring ‘for clients’, so they think he’s normal. We fuck on the loungeroom floor, without speaking; no eye contact.

There’s Jo. She’s cuddling Mouchette while we’re away. She’s feeding her, talking to her, watching DVDs with her. She draws us pictures. Or she’s drinking wine and filling her pockets with M&Ms, before we make our way to The Grand.

There’s ‘other Mark’. He’s dancing to Taylor Dayne with Jo and I. Or he’s watching Sons and Daughters – he’s Charlie to my Pat.

There’s Justin, asleep on the floor mattress. In the morning he gives massages. He laughs loudly. He argues with Mark about the ethics of a Rhianna song.

There’s Suz. We’re in the kitchen making pizzas with tofu. Or she’s on the couch next to me, visiting Australia from her new faraway home.

There’s Maire. She’s showing off her new playsuit.

There’s Jess. We head out for swims in the mornings. She dances with Mark near the door, as I take photos. We reminisce. We flick through zines.

There’s Gordon. He meets me downstairs, out the front, so we can go walking. He brings over a bottle of Rosé. He lends me a book that I never read.

There’s Shaye. We meet her unexpectedly in the mall and invite her over for a beer, before we head our separate ways.

There’s Matt. I’ve never been in the flat when he’s there, but sometimes his presence lingers. I think about him lying on my side of the bed.

There’s Keri, who sits beside the coffee table, with a bowl of ‘beanie tahini’. She tells us of the other Paul and Mark who lived above a shop.

There’s the flight attendant who shows me his liposuction scars.

There’s an Urchin editors meeting, with paper and bodies sprawled across the loungeroom floor.

There’s me alone. On the phone at 4am while she cries. Texting to avoid loneliness. Shedding tears of my own. Chatting online with strange men. Writing chapters. Singing to the music I play. Lying on the roof beckoning the sun to energise me. Doing the dishes, sweeping, taking out the trash. Cooking for myself, and for others. Writing in my blog. Drinking coffee in the sunroom with a book upon my lap.