FRIDAY 10 MARCH 1989

I hope my ekphrasis assignment doesn’t get me sent back to the psychologist. We had to choose a painting from the ‘Handbook of Art’ & write a commentary about it. I chose Edouard Manet’s ‘A Bar at the Folies-Bergere’. The ‘Handbook of Art’ doesn’t say anything interesting really about the painting — the invention of the camera had a big impact on artists, but not on Manet, who was interested in pattern, light, colour & texture, which went beyond the realm of photography blah, blah, blah. “The solitary dejected looking attendant & the happy scene in front of her are reflected in the wall mirror that extends across the full width of the picture” (p109, ‘Handbook of Art’, Graham Hopwood). Manet’s model for the barmaid was a woman called Suzon (another book at the library says she was a prostitute). She has the same amber-coloured eyes as me. I don’t think she looks ‘dejected’; I think she’s clever, & distracted, far away, thinking about somebody, the one she loves — why isn’t he there instead of the shadowy guy in the top hat she’s talking to? The more I look at the picture of the painting, the more things don’t seem to be where they should be. The bottles on the bar are different in the mirror. The gold frame of the mirror is lower on the right side behind Suzon — there’s no way the two parts could join up. In the mirror, Suzon leans forward, talking to the shadow-guy, but in ‘reality’ she stands straight, leaning on the bar. The guy isn’t even on ‘our’ side of the bar. Which is real: the reflection in the mirror or the ‘reality’? Was Manet mad or a genius?

My ekphrasis piece is a collage poem — descriptions of the painting blended with words taken from Leonard Cohen’s poem ‘Suzanne Takes You Down’ with the name changed to ‘Suzon’. I’m worried because it says Suzon was half-crazy, but it’s too late now — I’ve already handed it in.

Speaking of reality & illusion: In ‘The Great Gatsby’, Gatsby & Daisy were reunited. Daisy cried when Gatsby showed her his shirts — I think she’s half-crazy too. At one stage Gatsby broke a clock. That’s got to be a metaphor for something. Trying to stop time? Getting the past back? I wish I could get the past back. I would do more to make Dean want me, somehow. & I would never, ever go near Christos.

We can’t recover the past. Reality can never live up to the illusion of the memories we create.

FRIDAY SATURDAY 11 MARCH 1989

I was wrong. Reality can be better than the illusion of the past! Everything is amazing. I’ve never been happier in my life.

Kim & I went to Jay Jays tonight last night, but it was dead. We wanted to go to The Exchange, but didn’t have enough money for a taxi, so Kim chatted up this guy called Tony, & he drove us there. Tony paid for us to get in.

The Exchange is up a long, steep staircase. There was some sort of light-projector casting multi-coloured stars on the stairs: a galaxy of red, purple, yellow & green.

Mahersy was there, so Kim went off with him, & left me with Tony. Groffy, from the radio, was DJ-ing up on stage! It was ‘retro hour’ — songs from the 60s & 70s, & he was taking requests. I was dancing with Tony to ‘American Pie’ (I hate that song) when I saw Dean Cola walking through the crowd. He went up to the stage & said something in Groffy’s ear. I just left poor Tony standing there when Dean took my hand. I felt like such a bitch — well, I didn’t at the time, but I do now. Tony’s from Melbourne, so I guess I’ll never see him again anyway. ‘This song’s for Sizzle,’ Groffy said. I play-punched Dean’s shoulder. I couldn’t believe it: it was the poem ‘Suzanne Takes You Down’ — it’s also a song called ‘Suzanne’. Why would Dean choose that? So weird. Definitely a sign. Dean knew all the words, & he sang them to me (exchanging ‘Suzanne’ for ‘Sizzle’ — so silly) as we danced. Groffy cut it short when everybody else left the dance floor because the song was too slow.

I got on with Dean & everything was wonderful, just like it was on New Year’s Eve. But he’d had too much to drink & he spewed up everywhere. The bouncers threw him out. I helped him down the staircase — it seemed as though there were more stairs than when Kim & I had come in. & stars. Star-lit stairs. Dean missed one & we both almost fell down the Milky Way.

He said he’d just broken his parents’ hearts by telling them he wasn’t going to take over the business — he’d been offered a Bachelor of Science midyear intake place at Melbourne Uni. That’s why he was so drunk. He spewed up again in the green-&-white ivy in the garden out front. I rubbed his back & told him that his parents would be proud of him for getting into uni. I loved him again/still, & tried to help him sober up by walking with him up & down the street.

When he felt better, I made him sit down in the ivy (Hedera helix — he knew the botanical name of the ivy, & of all the other plants) while I called Mum from the phone box across the road. I told her I’d lost my taxi money & needed a lift. She was too drunk to drive, so she sent Pop to pick me up. By the look of him he was only slightly more sober. We drove Dean home. I sat in the back seat with him, & he raved on about escaping the town, achieving something worthwhile, not settling for mediocrity like everybody else. Then he started singing & trying to kiss me & saying he loved me. & Pop was singing too & laughing & asking Dean about football & calling him ‘big fella’. I pictured Pop & Frank Cola bantering over Christmas lunch at the Colas’ house. What do Italians do for Christmas? It would have to be better than ours, where everybody gets drunk & argumentative before midday. Last year The year before last Pop fell off the pool table, on which he was dancing, & broke his big toe.

If Dean doesn’t ring today to thank us for getting him home safely THERE WILL BE TROUBLE!

Couldn’t sleep last night. Kept thinking about Dean, & tossing & turning, then thinking about Dean again, & tossing & turning. I felt sick, thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. Then I thought about Dean some more, & tossed & turned until after 5 a.m.

I found a Leonard Cohen record in Mum’s collection. It has ‘Suzanne’ on it! I’ve been playing it over & over & over in my room. Our song. I feel so happy, but I will die if Dean doesn’t ring today.

4.10 p.m. Dean didn’t ring. I didn’t die. I rang him (I feel confident doing that now; our relationship is stronger after last night) but he wasn’t home. Anna took a message. She’s so nice — definitely not Mafia.

5.15 p.m. He hasn’t returned my call. Nobody else would have stayed with him last night, or helped him get home. He just used me. He needed somebody & I happened to be there. He’s leaving (‘escaping’) anyway — if what he said about uni was true. Good. Fuck him! Why do I have to be such a dumb, gullible bitch? Why didn’t I just stay with Tony? Or go out with Christos? Because I AM STUPID. Well, the next time Dean needs me, he can go to hell. I won’t even talk to him. I will never let him hurt me again. I’m such a liar, even to you — you know I’d follow that bastard anywhere. I’m working on a new poem (a villanelle) about last night. I’ll write it in here when it’s ready.

6 p.m. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to return my call? I love him. Love feels like a punch in the guts, a physical ache, & God I don’t want to hurt this much.

Why did I have to pick him when there are so many other guys to choose from? I don’t understand him. Does he want me or doesn’t he? It feels like he wants me if I happen to be there, but if I’m not it doesn’t worry him. How am I to know? Next time I see him I’m going to ask him to be honest & tell me how he really feels. Maybe he still thinks I’m too young. I can’t believe he hasn’t called to thank me & Pop for taking him home.

6.15 p.m. When the phone rang I almost died. It was Kim asking me to sleep over at her house tonight (she said to bring bathers — they must have a pool). I said I would. Can’t sit around here forever, writing bad poetry, listening to ‘Suzanne’, & waiting for Dean to ring.