Had to admit to themself that the ethical life, no matter how dull it may sound, got results. Ethical, which was not to say any more pure or holy, or morally sound, but, as in: derived from one of Sidney’s stupid Russian men who was always going on about devoting your life to things like a wife and child and Ploughing the Same Old Field or something horrendous. A Quiet Life and etcetera. A Boring Life and etcetera. Or, in Govita’s interpretation: Yawn. As in: if you got up each day and worked at something and did not allow your day-to-day emotions or lack thereof about your job and existence and aggressively boring wife and child make you want to End It All, if you found yourself with obligations to something outside yourself, you would make a Life Worth Living. As in: if you were consistent, and didn’t do anything that might raise your heart rate, which was to say anything that made life actually worth living, i.e. if you devoted yourself to something, heart, body, soul, in the end your spoils would be rich and meaningful—you would find deep significance in the things around you and etcetera. As in: if they had only gotten up each day as the afternoon had settled in, the time of day their mind felt most rested and alive with potential, when a quiet lazy lull settled briefly before the onset of twilight agitated the birds and pedestrians and marsupials, when the promise of an evening unravelled itself across the sprawling city of Sydney; if they had made themselves a black sludge of coffee, and sat down to evaluate what they had accomplished the day before, and then, after finishing said assessment, got back to work, and not stopped working until the prospect of midnight approached and their body began to reject its circumstances—when Govita’s gnawing stomach would no longer be ignored and their senses began to pick up the sour twang of organic scraps, when their body needed, with an urgency approaching an emergency, sustenance—they might have made something resembling art. As in: if they had committed to some sort of routine, right then, in early October, just over a month into their eight-month residency, Govita would have a decent body of work, which, as it stood, they did not.
Which was not to say they hadn’t done anything, but it was to say that they had a lot of disparate pieces they were unsatisfied with. A song half mixed, a loose sheet half-heartedly spray-painted, a projector they had sometimes used to superimpose videos of their body onto different surfaces—walls, the window, the rubbish bin, the dirty laundry—which they would then spend hours staring at, i.e. staring at their body. And then there was the day they had spent staring at the large primed blank canvass, which had begun, in its blankness, to torture them, and which they had, at some point, stopped staring at to determine what they would paint, and instead begun to fantasize what limb, exactly, they should propel through it. A fist, a leg—they’d wondered if they shouldn’t just headbutt it. They could film it, laughing manically while they exploded through the canvass à la Jack Nicolson in The Shining.
Govita had then become so preoccupied trying to recall the plot points of The Shining that, eventually, they’d opened their laptop, directed themselves to an illegal streaming site which kept telling them Jennifer Was Horny and In Their Area, which just made them think, me too, Jennifer, me too, so that by the time they were cowering behind their pillow, and Jack Nicolson’s creepy little RED RUM routine had started up, they had forgotten all the business about smashing their face through the canvas and filming it.
But, going off people’s reactions to encountering Govita’s face for the first time, the result might actually have been horrifying, more so than Jack’s display, even. Sometimes Govita forgot this. They did not have a Very Good Grasp of how they looked, or the reality of their body and its urges, and would regularly find themselves irritated only to realise that they desperately needed to piss or eat or fuck or smoke a cigarette. They never remembered to drink water, for instance, and instead, twice a day, would find themselves with the beginning of a headache, feeling parched and depleted, at which point they would go to the sink and down two pints of quite literally reviving water. Which was to say: they did not know, or, more truthfully, regularly forgot, the material reality of their body, ipso facto the effect their appearance had on others. And this was why they had started to experiment, during this residency, with things like projecting their face onto the wall. They thought if they did this that they would become more acquainted with the physicality of themselves, as perceived by others. It would be a continuation of the last series, the queer body, but not a collection of others, not a reflection on community, simply a reflection—Narcissus, leaning over the water, but trying to gaze below the surface, looking for something they hadn’t seen before.
And there was something to this. Because, Govita knew, how others saw them was not precisely the same as how they saw themself in the mirror, a concept that brought on a vague feeling of horror: that the version of themselves they were most familiar with, staring back at them over basins, in change rooms, or in shiny surfaces at high-end restaurants and supermarkets, was not Govita as other people experienced them, but a private inverted shadow-self that only they were well acquainted with, a twin lurking in the un-space, waiting to appear.
Govita was quite fond of this twin. Govita had even found, from time to time, when forced to justify their art or existence—when they found themself reminding someone of their pronouns for the third time in the space of five minutes, when someone asked very pointed and frankly obscene questions about who they slept with, or what was in their pants, or, even when they were forced to participate in small talk that refused to either end or develop to something interesting—that they would look for their own reflection, this twin, in the surface of a window, or in the reflection of someone else’s glasses, and have to suppress the overwhelming urge to wink, like they were stepping outside of the narrative of life, breaking the fourth wall—looking to camera.
So then: the projecting of the picture, the trying to step outside themself to see themself. But this in practice had not done what Govita had wanted it to do, had in fact the opposite effect, and instead of making them more aware or comfortable with their face, made their face look like it was melting or stretching into oblique angles. Which was to say: they had once again found themself at a strange-making practice, one that had them feeling distorted and weird, and unable to comprehend their exterior self at all. Yes, they found in this self-assessment a dead end, art-wise.
Their previous show had been a series of portraits of queer Antipodean legends accompanied with snippets of audio recordings from interviews they’d conducted with each subject, cut between an abstract sound work. These were all just accompaniments though, for the centrepiece. Their Frankenstein’s monster; an oblique, towering sculpture made with casts of body parts of two dozen or so queer friends and friends of friends that they’d gone on to forge into a gigantic, monstrous, beautiful looming entity. They’d placed a cast of their own head on top of it, as the final piece, and doing so reminded them of decorating the Christmas tree as a child. Their older brother holding them up by the waist so they could affix the golden star. Constructing that body had been an act of liberation. But the current line of enquiry re: themself was not reaping the same rewards. In fact, all this self-regarding made them feel like they were made not of skin and bones and blood and guts filled with organic matter and churning acid and organs working overtime, but play dough or silicone, tubes and wire running at high efficiency, like they were not human at all, but something that had been manufactured to replace them; the act of staring at their face too long having the effect on their sense of self that saying the same word over and over had on a word’s meaning.
Govita remembered there was a phrase for this phenomenon and opened their eyes, sat up in bed. They began to frisk their sheets until they located the slate rectangle of their phone and opened it to Google. As soon as they did this, they forgot what they were doing, as they often did after opening an app: it was like walking through a metaphysical doorway; it shrouded them with a temporary amnesia that made them question why they’d gone in there in the first place. Dumbfounded, they instead stared at the Wikipedia page for Kierkegaard that had been left open from the night before, the antiquity of the writer’s portrait trapped in the confines of a diode screen.
Govita’s eyes felt both gluggy and dry; Govita was really fucking thirsty. They shucked themself from their sheets and leapt off the bed that was not really a bed but a mattress on the floor, mould growing undiscovered on its underside. Govita poured themself a pint glass of water from the sink, which they then swallowed almost whole, water dribbling down their front. Behind them, their phone went to sleep. With it, the morning’s enquiry went dark also.
In the metal pipe of the tap Govita saw a distorted version of their reflection, cylinders of elongated nostrils, and again began to think about their projects, and just what art they should be making, and how they should go about making it, and how they would know what art they should make.
Their last show, which had gone down very well, was in fact a large part of the reason they had received the residency and stipend from which they were now benefitting, but they had expended so much energy on making that series, they had, Govita was beginning to realise, exhausted all they had to say.
The process of that work, Govita felt, had been the process of liberating themself from gender—gender roles, gender expression, gender expectations.
And, so, but—what now?
A rim of glass sat translucent at the bottom of the sink. Govita frowned and then they remembered: coming home drunk last night, pouring themselves a water, dropping the glass in the sink, shattering. They looked in the corner. Their head throbbed. A broom lay discarded next to a pile of glass and debris. Govita made a mental note to sweep that up later. Govita made a mental note to nick another pint glass.
Govita spun round and walked flatfooted across the studio. They picked up the desiccated shell of a dissolvable Panadol and sighed. They plucked the shirt they had on yesterday from its position on top of a chair, smelled it, scrunched up their nose, threw it into the milk crate in the corner, and then began looking round for more viable shirt options—behind canvases, under sheets, swallowed within other items of clothing.
Govita had not actually read the book, or books, that Sidney had been talking about—the ones that explored questions regarding how and if one should live an ethical or aesthetic life—but last night, Govita had been at the bar with their friends, Honour and Madison. Govita had been listening to Madison talk about her favourite topic: herself, the way she had organised her sock draw, the exact steps of her beauty regime. Govita was actually quite sympathetic to this topic, finding Madison’s mild narcissism and admittedly shallow outlook on life charming. Madison was a person for whom the simple act of looking beautiful, every day, living in a beautiful house in this beautiful, cursed city, was enough for her to lead a fulfilling life. There was something attractive about the simplicity of this. Not everyone who had everything they ever wanted managed to be happy about it. But last night, admittedly, Govita had been too caught up in their own shit, anxious as all hell about the art they should have made by now, and had zoned out, instead remembering a throwaway comment Sidney had said months if not years earlier. Sidney, who Govita had not messaged or called in weeks, which they then felt a little guilty about, but, and, so, they opened their phone under the table and messaged Sidney to ask what writer they had been going on about vis à vis the half-remembered comment, and, without waiting for a reply, went to the toilet, and, coming out of the stall, realised they didn’t want to be there, felt too anxious about the lifestyle they were living, about the quality of sleep they were going to have. And so: an Irish-goodbye to their friends, who had no doubt moved on to Honour’s favourite topic, i.e. her open relationship with her on-again, off-again girlfriend (off, for now). If Govita had stayed they would, of course, at some point, have moved on to Govita’s favourite topic, which at the moment was not unrelated to their current anxieties re: art. How should the artist live? How to find a balance between work and play when they were admittedly someone prone to more play than work.
Bowie knew when to go out, when to stay in.
Govita—Govita was admittedly having trouble with it.
So off they went, without a goodbye. Knowing, of course, that they would be forgiven.
Govita had walked, convinced of their sobriety, back to the studio. At the door, Govita fumbled, dropped their keys, shushed themselves. Once upstairs and inside they broke a glass, tried to sweep it up, then flopped on the bed. They’d opened their laptop and pressed the button to bring it to life then put their legs vertically up against the wall. Once it was working, they googled, and found, with little effort, who they were looking for, forgetting all about the text message to Sidney, then flung themselves headlong into the vortex of the internet, laptop illuminating their face.
Govita watched YouTube videos on the aesthetic life while simultaneously Wikipedia-ing tangential information on their phone. When Sidney responded, with follow up questions about How They Were and What They’d Been Up To, Govita barely registered the messages. They’d found a groove: Govita opened articles or listicles or more obscure videos. They opened Instagram, scrolled, then shut Instagram. Their laptop begun to groan and protest at the too-many open tabs, some of which they had read or half-read, but most of which they had simply opened up for reading at some unspecific ‘later’ date, which if they really thought about it was not later at all, but never, the tabs staying open until the ancient laptop, whirring in pain, shut itself down. Whenever this happened, after Govita coaxed their laptop back to life, the internet tab would open, saying that Chrome Had Shut Down Incorrectly, and asking if they would they like to Restore Pages? Govita, believing it to be fate, clicked No, propelling all their half-appraised tangents into the ever-growing black hole of information they were Aware Of But Not Very Versed In.
This position—technological failure as an opportunity for rebirth—was one Govita stuck to with an almost religious zeal. If their laptop shut down in the middle of a project they had not saved, they did not become anguished and think themselves hard done by, but instead took this as divine intervention. The technology has spoken.
In fact, they craved these moments of rebirth. They had found themself, this last year, obsessed with the idea of divine intervention. It was this line of inquiry—thoughts about what artistic inspiration was, how the artist came to be involved in the themes they were involved in—that had engulfed Govita’s waking mind so completely as to compel them to write an entire proposal to the residency on moments of divinity, on lightning bolts of inspiration and how the artist should position themselves so as to be the best possible conduit. Their project being less about a solid idea than about the ideas behind the art making process itself. Which was to say that this was part of the reason Govita was here, in the studio, but it was also why, unable to induce the very moment of insight they were interested in exploring, they had no meaningful work to stand by.
Yes, they were here because of that, and, they could not help but think, because the residency was looking to fill its diversity quota. Govita, hungover enough to know how quickly their anxiety could spiral, put the brakes on this line of thinking.
Yes. Govita had spent the first month of the residency either drunk, hungover, listening to YouTube playlists, scrolling through second-hand clothing apps, lurking three years deep into Kyle’s Instagram page (why did he have to have such a wretched name—Kyle), and the like. Which was to say, in trying to find the right circumstances for inspiration to strike, they knew (knew even at the time) that they were failing to produce art in favour of devising the situation in which it would be possible to fuck Kyle, and what clothes and fragrance would best bring that about. Perhaps that was a type of art itself.
And then last night—Govita had the language to articulate it now—they had realised that they believed, or had previously believed, that the artist should be devoted to the aesthetic life. And wasn’t that really very truthfully what they wanted, a mode of being that was around the edges, something thrilling, something with love and sex and heartbreak? The ability—nay, the necessity—to follow any inspiration or desire? Wasn’t that what being an artist was about? Moments of play, not confining themselves to any preconceived ideas or structures of how a person should live. The problem was that—they saw this now, as clearly as sunlight breaking through the blinds, illuminating their dirty clothes—in practically following through with this logic they had lost interest and abandoned most every whim they’d taken up. (A month ago, for instance, it was not Kyle but Pearl they had wanted to fuck, who they had fucked, and then they had not much thought about Pearl, or even the fucking, since.) Yes, they had believed, conceived, that the artistic life was an aesthetic life, but it was turning out that if you wanted to be an artist, which was to say if you wanted to make art, rather than simply present as artistic, then you had to live your life more in line with the Ethical Life, which was to say have some discipline, which was, maybe, to be a bit boring.
Or something like that.
And hadn’t they known this? Hadn’t they been here before? Hadn’t they procrastinated and faffed about, and lived the life they thought the artist should, but then, whenever they actually had to get work done, when they had approached a deadline at art school, or for a gallery, become very hermit-like and, well, a bit boring? Hadn’t they always made the most art when they were trapped at home to visit their mum and older siblings who still, grown adults as they were, never experienced an urge to move from the small town from whence they hailed, and so lived ten minutes from their family home among the vegetation that made up the South Island of New Zealand? Family whom they loved a lot, yes, sure, but also whom the prospect of visiting for extended periods of time made them brim with an existentially-gnawing dread. And had they felt boring during these moments? No, they had found in it, this time in bum-fuck nowhere, some of the most creativity-inducing and fulfilling moments of their life. In the last two visits alone they’d finished three paintings and recorded an EP respectively. Govita had even found, for the first time—after an adolescence spent misunderstood and angry and depressed in the sparse aloneness of New Zealand’s South Island, its sparser small-town ideals—that the vast expanses of cleared land and vaster expanses of uncleared virginial bush were not oppressive, but clearing. Their mind had found moments of stillness, and they could attend, not just to their mother and siblings and nieces and nephews, but also to their art. Weren’t they times of deep inner peace?
The problem, right now, was that they were stuck inside, in the mind. They needed to go out, see people, friends, walk the streets of Sydney, breathe in its questionable air. Inhabit their body.
All their shirts smelled like shit. Govita picked up yesterday’s shirt again, located some socks and then stomped themselves into their sneakers. Govita pulled on their jeans over their shoes—a move that was, they realised, hopping around the studio while trying to push their size-tens through the leg hole, extremely stupid. Once successful, they patted themselves down until they felt their wallet and the L-bend of their inhaler, heard the jingle of their keys, snatched their phone off the bed, their headphones off the ground, and left.
They had to stop by the bathroom downstairs, since the studio was not, per se, the kind of studio that you worked and lived at. Meaning what they had been doing, i.e. living there, was probably actually technically prohibited, but rent in Sydney was properly fucked. And, so, but, because Govita did not want to commute over an hour each way from their old share house in the outer reaches of the western suburbs, and because this was probably their only chance to ever properly live in the inner west, they had thrown caution to the wind, most of their earthly possessions in the bin, and moved themselves and what little they had left into the studio.
And in the studio there was a kettle and a microwave and a sink and a sink-sized amount of kitchen bench space. Meaning: it was more than sufficient for their needs, if living there didn’t also at first fill them with anxiety that caused them, at the start of their occupation, to obsessively imagine scenarios in which authorities unknown confronted them over their living in the studio.
But the first week no one had said anything, and then the second no one had said anything, and all parties involved had continued to say nothing, in fact, no one appeared to really be around aside from the two other artists in the adjoining studios, one of which Govita was pretty certain was also living there. It was not long before Govita convinced themselves they were doing nothing wrong, or at the very least nothing that hadn’t been done before, and the worries ceased.
So: Govita lived in the inner west. And because they did not pay rent, they were free to spend their small stipend on essentials: two minutes noodles and bánh mi and ice coffee—but, and, mostly, they were free to spend it on alcohol and ketamine—they were free to live an artistic life.
In the bathroom Govita let out an angry, prolonged, amber piss accompanied with a groan of relief, then, finished, burst out the lobby door to the street where they found the day was hot and lovely, trees adorned with new leaves elegantly ruffling in the playful breeze, white cockatoos flying overhead. If they did not desperately need to be caffeinated they would have yelped in delight. They strolled down the street, turned left onto another, then another, and then propelled themself onto the main drag, already dewy with sweat.
Lisa at the Vietnamese bakery scolded them for coming when they were about to close, but then smiled and produced a pork belly bánh mì from behind the counter. Govita paid and blew her a kiss and then went out onto the street again in search of a café that would serve them an ice latte at three-thirty in the afternoon, meanwhile inhaling a lukewarm bánh mì—a not unpleasant experience in the well-over lukewarm weather.
On the street, people walked and strolled and pottered up and down. They stared at windows and then went into stores, or stared at windows and then, as if in physical pain, turned away and kept walking. Teenagers exited vintage stores with bags filled with overpriced clothing, mothers strolled with elaborate prams and converged to block the pathway, yuppies walked, delighted at their own basicness, into overpriced artisanals, and old punks prowled, scowling, ready, at the slightest provocation, to harangue the younger generation over how things were Not What They Once Were.
Govita found an open café and wandered in. They took the last bite of their bánh mì. Their mouth filled with hot chilli; they coughed violently. While ordering their ice latte, Govita wondered for a second if it was the smartest idea, tried to count the amount of drinks they’d had last night, considered, fleetingly the delicate nature of their gut biome. The barista asked them if they had a keep cup, and then, when they said they did not have a keep cup, asked if they would like to buy one at which point Govita grew so tired looking that the barista proceeded with the transaction, speechless. When the coffee was done a separate café worker called out ‘Gina’, which confused both Govita and the café worker. The café worker looked around for someone who would better fit the description ‘Gina’, before, with the adequate amount of resignation, forfeiting the coffee to Govita.
Govita walked into a second-hand book and record shop two doors down from the café, sipping their latte. They looked without commitment at the records, and then with even less focus at the books. At the counter the shop owner was in an excited conversation with a customer. Govita distinctly heard the word ‘fires’ and the word ‘devastating’ and the phrase ‘can’t believe it’. Govita saw a book they wanted then slipped the slim black volume into their pants, and themself out the door.
The past few days, all anyone would talk about was the fires. Everyone would simply not shut the fuck up about the fires. It made Govita feel drained of vital bodily fluids. It’s not like they didn’t think the fires were terrible and devastating, and it wasn’t that they did not believe in climate change—of course they did—it’s just that they felt, with everything else, with Trump and Scomo and Boris, and all the fucked up things that were happening to people around the world on the daily, they simply did not need any more evidence that the world was burning to the ground. Fires just seemed a bit on the nose.
If left to their own devices, Govita would have forgotten all about the fires. But as it was, the thing about being in the city—what they both loved and hated most about being in the city—was that they were surrounded by people, and as soon as they were out in public, those people, who were not compelled, as Govita was, to try and keep the amount of Horrible Things That Have Happened Today to the absolute barest minimum, forced Govita to remember that half the state looked likely to burn.
Here was the barest, boldest truth of it: all this swapping of grief about the fires felt, to Govita, lazy. To them it was like talking about the weather; no one had anything interesting or new to say; no one seemed like they really actually cared, or understood the depth of devastation caused by the fires—Govita certainly, even if they’d bothered to try, could not have comprehended it, and anyway hadn’t there always been forest fires? And why were people so worked up about this, when the city had been like this before, as recently as April, when backburning had filled the street with a pillowy haze, and Govita (along with half the residents of Sydney) had become reacquainted with an inhaler, something they thought they’d left behind in primary school?
To Govita it seemed more like everyone felt compelled to perform their grief, and that therefore, people declaring How Devastating was more about proving what good people they were, when what they were doing felt, to Govita, no more profound than an existential sort of rubbernecking, and so they refused to participate.
Govita hadn’t checked the news in days, not because they didn’t find it upsetting, or whatever—in fact, they had read an article about wombats being burnt to death, about the skin of wombats literally falling off, and found it so overwhelming and unnecessarily traumatising and Way Too Much and just A Bit Fucked, that they had decided they would no longer check the news. This happened sometimes, this wilful ignorance, when they were overwhelmed. Govita had a theory that the reason it felt like the end of the world was simply because people were being fed so much information all the time, an excess of information that surely the human brain was not actually designed to process. Like, of course it felt like The End Was Nigh if your brain was suffering from overload—a computer with too many open tabs. And, so, but, Govita had made the very intentional decision to not read everything fire related, to preserve what little mental bandwidth they had, and to simply try to live what little life they had. And through choosing not to think about the fires found that they did not think about them.
And like, why would anyone want to? That’s what Govita really didn’t understand. Why was it that all these inner city-ers with their 9-to-5s or with their arts degrees and intergenerational money went on and on about climate change? Govita could not see how it was important or even necessary to talk about the state of things—it just didn’t seem to have anything to do with them, or, for that matter, Govita. It seemed, to Govita, like it was none of their fucking business. Seemed like it was the business of politicians, or people in the way-distant future. It was, essentially, not their fucking job to care about climate change. After all, none of the people who fucked up the earth did. And what could they do, anyway? What power did Govita have? In the scheme of things, what Govita did had absolutely no tangible repercussions on the earth, and so they struggled to understand how it was relevant to them, how anything they did could possibly matter, and therefore any opinion they might have about it was actually null and void. They found the mental exercise of trying to comprehend the breadth and depth of the climate crisis, above all, tedious.
So much so that, in the months during which one of their oldest friends had become obsessed with the fate of the Great Barrier Reef, they had very deliberately let their friendship wane, changing the subject or ignoring her calls altogether. Although, no—if they were honest with themselves, they had withdrawn from the friendship way before then, when Sidney had started dating Lexi. Even though Govita liked Lexi, and had continued to like Lexi despite, or even because of, public opinion. Govita had the true soul of an artist; they never let anyone dictate their feelings towards something. They had been way ahead of the curve, too, when they realised early on how flattening and boring cancel culture had the potential to be. In their life they had never submitted—unlike, for instance, Sidney—to the practice of shitting on less informed people in order to feel superior or part of an in group. This was not to say they were always kind, but merely that it was their own feelings, and their own feelings alone, that dictated their behaviour.
Besides, Lexi was cool. She was spunky, and angry—not to mention hot—and, never adjusted herself to be liked, and this was what made Govita like her. She was the opposite of a people pleaser, which Govita loved, and Sidney had needed. And, but, also, the one time they had gone out to dinner with the now defunct couple, Govita had been bored to almost literal tears listening to the two of them talk in an endless doom-mongering type of way about how The World Was Ending—how frogs were dying or permafrost was melting and how said permafrost melting would not just raise ocean levels, but unleash an array of diseases and toxins and so on and so on to the point where Govita felt incredibly tired and depressed, and began to hope that the world would end, right then, starting in the cosy Afghani restaurant at which they were sharing a meal.
And anyway, if the world was ending, if they were truly hurtling toward mass extinction, not for the first, but the sixth time, according to Lexi—a fact she had related semi-naked while Govita sketched what would later become one of their favourite portraits from their show—then Govita felt they had the right to enjoy it.
Speaking of: it was actually so hot, so oppressively humid that Govita thought they might go for a swim. If they went now, they might catch some time in the water before the cool front came in. Right then, they came to bus stop and a bus pulled up that would eventually, after an hour and one connection, take them to a beach. Govita hopped on.
Air conditioning hit the sweat already pooling in their armpits, the small of their back, and cooled them. Govita put on their headphones and started listening to Caroline Polachek. They opened their new book and flicked idly through it, letting their eyes brush over the words, getting the gist of the plot, but not entirely taking in the rhythm of the prose. The people traipsing through the park alongside the bus route—fanning themselves in the heat, walking their dogs, loitering in school-uniform—distracted them, and Govita kept having to reread paragraphs, uncomprehending, until they gave up and closed the book.
Still fifteen minutes away from their connection something in their bowels moved painfully; they needed to shit. Govita clutched their stomach and stared out the window. The song they were listening to—by Amyl and the Sniffers—filled them with anxiety, the vibrating of the bass felt like it would induce the shit. Govita turned off the music.
After a few moments, the sensation passed, and they relaxed a little. Govita opened the book and speed-read another passage. Govita closed the book, pulled out their phone and texted Marcus to come to the beach. They opened Instagram then closed it. Outside the window, a yellow crested white cockatoo fussed at its feathers. Marcus replied.
idk isn’t it bit fucked outside today
?
like air quality and shit
oh fuck me not you too SHUTUP and come to the beach
where?
clovelly
boo
The dots ceased. There was a moment of stillness. But then:
when?
right now bring me towel
urg
please I almost just shit myself on the bus.
WHAT ARE YOU USING THE TOWEL FOR
Govita laughed out loud. A sharp pain seized their bowels again. Oh, the humiliation of having a body. What nobody ever factored in, what was often left out of books and movies and art: a commitment to enjoying your life will often result in chronic IBS. They locked their phone. Govita felt certain they were going to shit themselves, right there, on the bus. They put their phone in their pocket. Behind them, a man in boardshorts and a mullet that was not the fashionable kind started talking into his phone. The man said, ‘Listen, you cunt, come and pick me up, I’ve lost my wallet.’ Govita put their head on the seat in front of them and concentrated on breathing and clamping their arsehole shut.
The bus stopped and let out a hiss as it was lowered on one side to meet the curb. A woman in a mobility scooter came on. Govita looked out the window but found no obvious signs of a public toilet. They felt a prolapse, the beginning of a shit, starting to turtle, and clamped themselves hard, letting out little cry. The man on the phone started saying ‘Cunt’ again, and began to pace up and down. Govita put their head in their hands and concentrated on their breath.
At last the bus stopped at the depot. Govita ran stiffly out the door and directly into the miraculous nearness of the disabled toilet. They fumbled with their jeans and let out another a cry. Right when they managed to drop trow and ram their arse onto the seat, their insides unleased an epiphany-worthy shit. A tear streaked down their left cheek. Govita sighed in relief, wiped themselves (eye ducts and arse, not at the same time), pulled their pants up, washed their hands, and came out of the toilet, just in time to jump onto the connecting bus, without seeing the woman on the mobility scooter waiting for the toilet.
On the bus: some anxieties about their art and their living situation and some things they had said last night along with their Irish goodbye, and if they even should have been given the residency, and how Govita was maybe even bungling the—
No. Govita released the inside of their cheek—they hadn’t even realised they’d been gnawing it—put on an album by Arca, turned up the music and drowned out their thoughts. The music made quick work of soothing them: looking out onto the morning, Govita found they’d been given a new lease on life.
Then their headphones went dead; the anxieties began to gnaw. They pulled the headphones down around their neck and spent the rest of the bus ride thumbing through Instagram, watching stories, scrolling into the endless feed, like they were searching for some precious forgotten gem. Knew inherently as they were doing it that obsessive scrolling did not help with crushing anxiety long-term. But right then, hungover, head throbbing, whatever worked, worked.
Marcus was splayed out on the concrete in a pair of blue speedos, looking like a Greek god, rubbing coconut oil onto his bare chest, oversized sunglasses glinting in the sun. On the ground beside him were a bum- and tote bag. Govita took a picture of him as they approached.
‘About fucking time.’
‘Oh, I had the most incredible shit.’
Govita stripped down to their underwear. On the other side of the slim beach, a mother in a sun dress, protectively hovering over her offspring, raised her hand to block her eyes from the sun and squinted at Govita, perhaps unsure—taking in the strange shape of their torso—if they should be wearing a bikini top or not. Govita smiled, waved and called: ‘Yoo-hoo!’
‘The sky does look a bit fucked, though.’ Marcus had his glasses raised to appraise it properly, ‘don’t you think?’
‘Do you have a towel?’ It was hard to deny that there was a film of haze on the horizon. Marcus threw Govita a perfectly fluffy clean yellow towel.
‘Erg, is that your jerk off towel?’
Marcus laughed. ‘Fuck you.’
Govita sat down and asked Marcus if he thought he’d do well in a Mad Max type situation. They rolled one of Marcus’s cigarettes and lit it. Marcus put his glasses back on, turned over to sun his back and appeared in deep contemplation. ‘I think,’ Marcus said, ‘I’d fuck whoever I needed to make it work.’
‘You’d use your feminine good looks.’
‘Exactly.’ The mother dropped her hand but did not stop staring at the two of them.
‘I think I’d actually really thrive.’
Marcus nodded in agreement.
‘And the outfits would be fun.’
‘The scalp of your enemy is always hot.’
‘So buzzy. Expect it on the runways this June.’
They lapsed into silence. The sun glared. The mother, apparently convinced they were not perverts, sat down at the edge of the concrete and cooed at her children in the water. Marcus turned over again; so did Govita. Once they had both performed an entire rotation, Govita leapt up, ran to the edge of the concrete and plunged into the water. They surfaced with a satisfying yelp and beckoned to Marcus.
Marcus stretched, walked to the end of the concrete, then dove in a graceful arc into the surf. Govita called Marcus a show-off and splashed him. Despite their upbringing in a freezing rural town, Govita had swum competitively in high school, and so was more than able to match Marcus’s stroke, though he’d enjoyed the privilege of growing up adjacent to the sparkling, world-class blue of Bondi beach. The two of them swam out into the choppy surf until their belongings were a speck among a crowd. They splashed each other, then returned to the canal, and then to the concrete, where they sunned themselves some more.
Govita said: ‘I wish I had something to drink.’
Marcus said: ‘It’s an absolute waste to be sober on such a magnificent day,’ and then—as Govita had hoped he would—removed a six-pack of seltzers from his tote bag and presented one to Govita.
Govita drank the warm bubbles, said: ‘Bless you.’
They sat there and considered what they would do with the evening. The air had turned decidedly cold, Govita felt goosebumps rising on their arms.
‘There’s a party in Coogee.’
Govita pursed their lips.
‘No, it’ll be fun.’
‘Whose party?’
‘Do you remember Dan?’
‘Is that your finance bromance from high school?’
‘He’s cool though, I swear.’ Marcus took a sip and burped. ‘I mean, there’ll be drugs.’
They both agreed that they would go to the party to see if there were drugs. If there were not drugs, they would go to a bar, or, Govita said, to a gig back in Newtown, where Govita was hoping, but did not say, Kyle would be.
‘Who’s playing?’
‘I dunno, some old punk band. Could be fun.’
Marcus agreed in a way that was not convincing.
As the sun began to set, they set off walking around the beach, and up the hill that would take them along the coast. The sky filled with colour, and because it was so beautiful, and the moment threatened to be corny, Marcus said, ‘Ew,’ and Govita nodded and said, ‘Gross.’ They walked along the coastline and laughed at a seagull stealing a chip from a bin, at a child screaming in terror while a lizard chased them. They did not talk about the smoky horizon, or the end of the world, and Govita did not think of the fires or the impending sixth extinction, or for that matter about art or their living situation, or if their friends currently hated them, or anything structurally larger than themself, the heat of their sun-kissed shoulders, the smell of the dried salt on their body. Instead, they walked along the beach, and by the time they found themselves at the gates of an apartment building in Coogee with two more six packs and a bottle of cheap prosecco between them, the sky outside was royal blue and Govita was ready to have a good time.
Just as well. They walked up the stairs, and up the stairs, and up some more stairs, and into the insane apartment of Marcus’s rich friends, where they found the party in full swing.
Around the huge divans and elaborate lamps, hordes of gay men in button up shirts and shiny shoes stood like sculptures. Govita looked at Marcus and raised an eyebrow. Marcus was not paying attention, busy making a spectacle of his entrance. Govita located the kitchen, found an outlet brimming with chargers, plugged in their phone and headphones, and then opened a seltzer. They walked through the party and recognised almost no one. A man with a shirt unbuttoned to his navel cried out, ‘Govita!’ and planted a kiss on each of their cheeks.
Govita did not remember this man’s name so said: ‘Oh, hey.’
‘You look incredible!’ Govita looked like they had just been in the surf. ‘How’s the residency? I love what you’ve been doing.’
Before Govita could reply that it was going terribly, the man saw Marcus, squealed, and left Govita alone. Govita went to the balcony and asked a man leaning on the rail for a cigarette. The guy handed over one he’d just rolled himself, then turned to his friends. Govita stood leaning against the railing, looking out over at the dark ocean. The light outside had died, and the surface sparkled like powdered obsidian.
Nothing in the world could beat the smell of that ocean.
The balcony filled again, and someone tapped them on their shoulder and then handed them a warm plate with a line on it which Govita snorted, and then, thirty seconds later, discovered was coke. Probably they could have guessed it was coke. Govita remembered one of the lectures Sidney had given them about doing coke, and how objectively evil it was to do coke, and then did another line. Govita handed the plate back to the guy, who was wearing a corduroy shirt and honey coloured hair tucked behind his ears. He appeared to be the only straight guy at the party and had, in the way he proceeded to conduct himself, evidently mistaken Govita for a woman, or, perhaps, lacking an alternative, thought Govita would just have to do.
The man asked Govita what they did, and when Govita said they were an artist the man did not reply with follow up questions but instead lurched, forthrightly, into a monologue about the play he was writing, which, after some time—as Govita was contemplating how straight this guy might actually be and whether or not they might fuck this straight guy anyway—it became apparent he had not yet written, but was merely thinking of writing. When Govita pointed this out the man said, ‘Who has time for that anyway?’ and then asked about Govita’s finances.
Govita left the balcony, went to the kitchen and got another drink. They unplugged their headphones and placed them back round their neck. They finished that drink then opened a new one, and then found Marcus waiting in line for the bathroom, his pupils like discs.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
Marcus turned back to the guy he was talking to.
Through the bathroom door: thick liquid hitting porcelain.
Govita said: ‘Do either or you have ket?’
Marcus said: ‘Ask Dan.’
‘Who’s Dan?’
‘Straight Dan.’
From the bathroom: weeping.
Govita went back to the kitchen and grabbed another drink. They checked their charging phone and texted Honour. Back on the balcony, straight guy turned out to be Straight Dan. He did not have any ketamine, but he offered them another line of coke. Govita, morally opposed to refusing free drugs, accepted. It took twenty minutes being cornered into a talk about Straight Dan’s ex-girlfriend, and how said ex-girlfriend had cheated on him with his best friend, before they remembered the truth: there’s no such thing as free drugs. Govita looked down at their hands and found two empty cans, then excused themselves. In the kitchen they realised they were out of drinks. They then became convinced someone had drunk their drinks, but then, counting backwards, realised they were the culprit.
In one cupboard they found a bottle of tequila, then in another, a cup. They’d forgotten about the prosecco. They poured themselves a healthy glass. On the bench their phone lit up. Kyle asking if they were coming tonight. They checked their messages and found a string of incomprehensible texts from Honour. Govita frowned at the texts but could not decipher them. Govita unplugged their phone, thought for a second about taking the charger, but didn’t.
Out on the street they open-shut the door of the Uber behind themselves in one motion. When the driver did not greet them, Govita asked how their night was going.
The driver grunted.
Govita smiled.
‘Do you work often?’
Another grunt.
‘Family?’
Grunt.
‘What do you do for fun?’
The driver was silent. Govita’s smiled cracked wider. At the traffic lights, the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror caught Govita’s, held them. He said, without smiling, ‘Ten-Pin Bowling.’ His eyes shifted to the road and he went silent.
As they passed back through the inner suburbs, the urban sprawl was how Govita liked it best: illuminated in artificial light. Streets and cars and traffic lights led them further west where neon signs for Kebab shops and clubs and 7/11s and places making the unspecific promise of being OPEN took over.
Two blocks from the gig, Govita felt, for the second time that day, their body betraying them and told the driver to drop them off early.
‘Okay, just here?’
‘Anywhere is fine.’
‘Do you want me to pull up at this intersection?’ The driver drove through the intersection.
‘Just anywhere on the left is fine.’
The driver drove another ten metres. Govita closed their eyes.
The car stopped. Govita got out and slammed the door by accident. They strode behind a dumpster where they hunched over, their head spinning, trying not to retch. Once they felt stable Govita stood up and looked at the building in front of them. It was a small church, with a modest cross of a steeple, stained glass windows of the Madonna and child secured behind a black grate. Govita looked up into the holy stained glass admiring how the lights left on in the church softly illuminated Mary. Govita sighed. They then stuck two fingers down their throat. The contents of their stomach lurched onto the front lawn of the church—a chewed up bánh mì, opaque bluish liquid. It was nine forty-five.
When Govita stood up they felt immediately better and set off down the street, checking their phone. Honour had sent another six messages asking where they were, if they were they coming.
Shit. The art show.
Govita stopped at an EzyMart, and bought gum, forty dollars’ worth of tobacco, then set off again down the street, where they popped themself a strip of gum and had the revelation they were recently prone to having three to four times a week—that they felt buzzed, and ready for the night, more alive than they had in months.
Govita came to the bus stop they had taken a bus from earlier, mentally completing a loop of the day. They smiled. They would go to the gig, they would meet Kyle, they would buy ket, and then they would convince Kyle to leave the gig for the art show. Brilliant. As they approached the bar they began to compose themselves. When they presented their ID the bouncer looked into their eyes then sighed, scanned the ID, looked into their eyes again, said, ‘Fine,’ and then let them in.
A band was playing. Govita lined up to buy a pint, the pour was terrible—no head. Govita lowered themself to the bench and sipped off the meniscus. They turned uncommittedly toward the band, took another sip, then marched to the smokers’ section. On the way they passed Greg, who would, twenty minutes from then, sell Govita 150 dollars’ worth of ketamine, and nodded in acknowledgment.
Govita was not entirely surprised to find Madison and Sadie (so they were on, at the moment) and sat down to general cheer. Govita one-arm hugged Madison then began to scope out the place like they were casing it. Kyle stood in the far corner. He was not much different to Dan in haircut or height, but he was better dressed, and, importantly, not a fucking finance dweeb. Govita looked away from Kyle then asked when the band was on.
Everyone shrugged.
They were not there to see the band, but a DJ, and then not really to see the DJ, not really, but merely to sit outside and smoke and talk shit, which Govita set about doing.
Madison went to get a round and Sadie asked shyly how Govita was going.
Govita said, ‘Fine,’ and then did not ask—because they knew they would regret it if they did—how Sadie was doing. This did not dissuade Sadie, who Govita had reason to believe could not be comfortable in silence, from answering the unasked question, and beginning to talk at anxiety-inducing speeds about what she’d had for breakfast that morning. Govita did not repress their sigh, they couldn’t. Govita did not want to be mean, not really, but sometimes—when forced to speak to people as uncomfortable with themselves as Sadie—found it almost impossible to be nice. As with anything in their life that went against their natural urges, they found it oppressive. Unreasonably taxing.
Govita had already stopped listening to Sadie being a bore and turned away from her. And wasn’t this, in a way, a sort of kindness? As in: if Sadie did not want to bore people to tears, and if Govita responded by looking bored to tears—which was to say if Govita responded authentically—maybe next time Sadie would say something more interesting than that they had made homemade jam on a fucking crumpet or whatever the fuck she was saying.
Sadie said she’d also made relish.
Govita stood up and said they had to say hi to someone, and then, feeling an honest squirm of guilt, a distant internal voice, said, ‘I’ll be right back.’
Now, being mean as a way of flirting? That was intentional. Govita approached Kyle and, stone faced, said, ‘Hey, haircut. You look like one of the little kids from Stranger Things.’
Kyle’s laugh did not entirely disguise his hurt. But he recovered in time: ‘Eighties virgin is exactly what I’m going for.’
Behind them, Madison appeared without the beer and said: ‘Shit, we’re late.’
Govita asked if you can be late to an illegal art show and Madison laughed.
Sadie was lingering awkwardly behind the group and Govita, feeling another squirm of guilt, hearing that voice that sometimes took on the cadence of Sidney’s, widened the circle to let them in. ‘Okay, we should go but give me second.’
Govita went to Greg and performed a transaction. Govita came back to the group and said: ‘Okay, ready.’
Madison had already called an Uber.
Govita, Kyle (who had joined, as Govita hoped he would, without their needing to convince him), Madison and Sadie piled into an Uber. Sadie sat in the front seat. In the back Govita held Kyle’s hand and said they went to the beach today.
Madison said: ‘You don’t say.’
Govita told everyone about the judgemental woman at the beach. They embellished the story of the judgemental woman at the beach to make it more entertaining.
The Uber stopped and they got out and began looking for the right house.
They stopped in front of a dilapidated terrace with no lights on but plenty of noise.
Govita said: ‘It must be here,’ then went through the unlocked front door. A crowd of drunk twenty-somethings gathered in a semi-circle watching a naked woman sitting eating fruit. Govita realised there was no seat, but that the woman was simply holding herself in position against a wall. They watched the woman as she finished her fruit, then slid herself to the floor and began roll around. The woman got up and put the fruit skin in a plastic bag, slung the bag over her shoulder, then bowed. The crowd clapped.
Govita, leaving Sadie and Madison behind, led Kyle into another room, where they found Honour, drunk and sitting on the floor, entertaining a small crowd of people. On the walls were drawings of buildings in a city—Sydney—but with the water from the harbour, overrunning the streets. While the urban sprawl was drawn in realist style, the river that flowed over the buildings was made of colourful dots that suggested an Indigenous framework.
Honour said, ‘You’re here!’ But did not move from the floor. The people she was just talking to stood awkwardly for a second before turning away.
Everyone agreed that they loved the art. Honour threw out her arm, and conjured a woman as if from nowhere. ‘Isn’t Emily amazing?’ Govita turned to Emily and did not have to lie when they said they loved the work and that they thought it should be in real gallery.
Emily smiled, said conspiratorially: ‘These are the rejects. Did you see the performance?’
Govita said: ‘It was amazing.’ They did not mean to sound so sarcastic; they were, in fact, too busy being transfixed by Emily’s artwork. They were struck there for a minute, or possibly twenty, staring, caught under some strange spell.
A loud crash sounded from a different room.
Govita’s centre of gravity shifted. Kyle held out a hand to stop them falling.
‘Whose house is this anyway?’
‘It’s been empty for months. Honour found it.’ They left the room. At the bottom of the stairs a young man without a shirt was laughing, rocking back and forth on the bottom step. Down his spine, the purple and red skid of a bruise. They walked up the stairs past a crying girl. They went into a room that was full of large cotton genitals. In the genital room Govita and Kyle did a key of ket each, then walked into the adjourning room, which had very bad paintings of fairies, then another with ultraviolet lights that strobed on and off. In the dark, the room looked empty, but when the purple lights came on the walls lit up with a fluorescent mural. They did not look at the art long.
Govita and Kyle unclasped themselves. They went into another room where people were dancing, and they swayed like zombies back and forth for some amount of time. Govita asked if he wanted to go outside. On the way outside they passed the naked woman, who was now wearing clothes and telling the same group of people that had watched her: ‘It’s about capitalism.’
Outside, Govita passed Kyle their pouch of tobacco, asked: ‘What do you think about the art?’
Kyle frowned and considered the question. They heard a commotion inside. Someone from the back door yelled: ‘Cops!’
Govita and Kyle said, ‘Oh shit.’
Out on the street, being shuffled on like stunned cattle by two tired looking cops, Govita put their head back and watched as the stars above them sped closer and further away. They giggled down a few streets with Kyle, the both of them swaying over the road, until they found a garden. Being pushed up against something stone, Govita put their hand down to steady themselves, and found that it was wet. They discovered their hand resting in a bird bath. As the surface settled, they could see, haloed in streetlight, their own reflection. Govita winked.
Sitting on the edge of Kyle’s bed, kissing Kyle, the unmistakable pull of lust in their body, Govita wrenched themselves away and asked how they’d got there.
Kyle laughed, but looked confused and did not answer the question. He kissed Govita’s neck. Govita shrugged and lowered themself to kneel in front of him. Something in their left wrist felt strained so Govita used their right hand to unbutton his pants and unsheathed the largest, pinkest penis they had ever seen. At its tip: a drop of liquid, like a jewel. Govita gasped and covered their mouth. How did it look extra circumcised? ‘What am I supposed to do with that!’
‘What?’
‘You could impale someone with that thing!’ Govita shrieked with laughter and supressed the urge to pull out their phone and take a picture. Kyle laid back lazily or perhaps drunkenly and tried to laugh, but sounded upset. Govita got back on the bed and lay down beside him, then began to giggle. They covered their face with their hands and laughed in earnest. Govita said, ‘Just give me a moment,’ then again, ‘just give me a moment,’ but then Kyle was snoring… and Govita then found themself back at the doorway to the house where the art show had been, but the handle was not a doorknob but Kyle’s giant pink knob… they turned it and entered the door. The house was empty. They walked into the first room and found Honour on the floor, but it was not Honour but the residency manager sitting there drunkenly. The residency manager hiccupped, then patted the carpet in front of them. ‘Take. A. Seat.’ Govita remained standing. Now, the residency manager clapped, ‘Let’s go over your application’. Hiccup. ‘Do you think you got this residency on pure merit?’
‘What?’
‘Second question: Do you think you’re getting enough nutrients?’
‘What?’
‘I said,’ said the residency manager, who was suddenly also Govita, ‘do you have a pen?’ Then Govita the residency manager licked their finger and begun to ruffle through some pages. ‘Wait, I’ve found one, hold this,’ they said and then handed them Kyle’s erect penis. And then Govita was the Govita sitting on the floor, so they stood up and left.
Walking through the house, Govita went past the giant genital room where giant, pink, circumcised penises were unravelling themselves. Govita walked through it into another room which was full of sea. The judgemental mother in her sundress stood in the water and squinted toward the door, then she put her hands up over her eyes, and the mother, who was Sidney said, ‘Govita, are you coming in?’ Govita went to close the door and Sidney said, ‘Hey, come back here!’ Through the door Sidney yelled: ‘Hey, come look in here!’ Govita ran back through the genital room, now filled with piles of pink yarn, and back into the corridor where they opened another door and found a room filled with smoke. They closed it and opened the next door, and found they were alone in the house. The carpet thick and wet as moss. Govita came to the end of a hallway, they opened the last door and found they were in a church. They walked down the aisle and looked up into the stained-glass windows of Virgin Marys illuminated in sunlight. The Madonnas sighed, took off their ring of lights, then began to undress. Under their clothes they removed fruit, which they began to peel or shine against their naked skin. The Madonnas let themselves down from the windows onto the floor and began to roll around. When Govita arrived at the pew a minister appeared and asked Govita to kneel, so Govita knelt and the minister handed them a warm plate with a line on it. Govita looked up and saw that the minister was Kyle. Kyle said: ‘I’m going to need that back, if you don’t mind.’ Govita looked down and found that they were holding Kyle’s penis; they gave the fleshy rod back to him, and when they looked back down at the plate they found an asthma puffer.
Then they woke. Kyle had not drawn the curtains, and a thick blaze of white light filled the room. Govita groaned and sat up, feeling like their brain was lagging behind their skull by several seconds. Kyle had crawled up to the top of his bed, his pants still undone, his penis flopping in full view of the street. Govita collected their belongings. They could not find their headphones and did not remember the last time they’d had them the night before. Govita went urgently to the toilet. They went, and while there, pulled out their phone to see how far they were away from their own bed. A small miracle: they were ten-minute walk from the studio. They opened Instagram and saw that they’d posted a long story the night before, singing while they walked through the streets with Kyle.
Govita thought with pain of the future journey, the search for food and caffeine and sleep, and in thinking this did not notice the precise shade of the outside, the lack of birds, the eerie haze of the morning. And, but, so it was not until they left the house, groaning through their headache and starting up the hill, that they looked up and stopped, shocked at the smoke that had settled on the street, the burnt orange shade of the apocalypse, blanketing the trees and the houses, obscuring the cityscape they should have been able to see in the distance.
A movement from the top of the hill, something dark grey that looked like a piece of grammar, disconnected, or a demon, loose, moved from within smoke. Convinced that they were still dreaming, Govita began walking forward, and it was only when the beast emerged from the smog and became an ordinary grey dog galloping towards them that Govita understood they were awake. For a moment, the image of the grey dog running in the smoke obscuring the suburban streets burnt itself into Govita’s cortex, and all-at-once they understood they had to paint it, before this urge was overlaid with another, most pressing one: it was fear. Fear like they were going to hyperventilate.
The dog emerged finally and fully formed, and ran up to Govita, where it started licking their exposed calf hair. Govita erupted into a coughing fit. Bent over, wheezing, they understood they were hyperventilating in the regular way, and reached for their asthma puffer.