r​I was lying on my bed just now, awake and mellow, mind drifting from thing to thing after a half hour early evening, post-dinner, pre-slumber nap (a rare but occasional indulgence) when my mind traversed back to a time around the year 2K when I briefly dated a twin. I cannot remember her name but she was petite, fit, blonde, somewhat chirpy, somewhat ordinary and just as complex and undefinable as all of us. (Covered my bases with that description!) I met her at the Middle Bar in Sydney during a time when it was customary for me to go out to bars and clubs regularly and seek out exciting and engaging encounters with women. I was around forty, single, I had my own (rented) pad in Bondi, a steady, disposable (evidently) income and a new found passion for the nightlife. It was a good time in Sydney to be doing this with some great clubs and bars around Kings Cross and Oxford Street.
 
On this particular night, I had already spent a few hours at my favourite, super-classy, lush, delightful bar called The International. It was always my starting point. I would get there at about 9pm, dressed in all black - slacks, shirt, jacket and (cowboy or motorcycle) boots. I would wear interesting necklaces (purchased from market jewellers in Sydney and overseas), a thick leather wrist band, chunky rings (including a gold one that used to belong to my grandfather). I had long hair and a goatee. I wore a single rose gold encrusted diamond (were they real?) in each ear. Before going out I would have a shower, spray or  dab on one or two eau de colognes (Burberry, CK, Acqua di Gio, Hugo Boss... I had twenty or more mini bottles lined up to choose from), blow dry my hair, slick it back a little with coconut oil, and sometimes dab some glitter gel on my temples. For a while there I even took to applying temporary tattoos on either side of my face - simple line motifs a la Mike Tyson. I was not a wall flower, let's put it that way. For me it was theatre. I was playing a role. Romeo, the pirate, the seducer, the poet, the lothario, the lover. Dressing up like this was part of my confidence and my bravado - an identity I could assume; one that made things clear to the women I met: I was available. Fantasies fulfilled - apply here. A sense of danger - but safe. Street - but articulate. Mysterious - but accessible. A dark loner - but not if you join me. Etc.
 
The International closed at midnight. I knew the managers, the doorman and all the bar staff. I was a regular and a good tipper. Years later, one of the managers told me that I was their best and most regular patron. I had a spot at the bar, right on the corner, just outside the enclosure that became my spot. There was joking talk of putting a plaque there. Drinks were not cheap but they were worth it. Cocktails. My drink of choice was the Cadillac. A margherita base in a heavy tumbler glass, over ice, salt rimmed, with a splash of Grand Marnier. Mmmm...  I loved them. Every second or third drink was free - courtesy of the barmen. Although the first one often went down pretty quickly, I paced myself over the three hours. I enjoyed getting to the perfect point, thoroughly relaxed but completely alert. After all, I was on a mission. Sometimes, I would go home with a lady straight from the International after closing, but often, I would, friend in hand or solo, at the Middle Bar - walking distance, at the top of Oxford Street.
 
There, too, I knew all the staff, and had the pleasure of being able to forego the queue and be waved through by the doorman and duty manager. It's a great feeling, I won't lie. I was sixteen when Saturday Night Fever was released, after all, and Tony Manero taught me how to float on air. So, it was at the Middle Bar, at maybe two or three (closing time) when I sat down on a couch next to the pretty girl in a dress. She had been out with some friends celebrating something. She was a little tipsy and she wasn't ready to call it a night. We connected pretty quickly, effortlessly, seeing in each other a similar need and desire, a way out of the regretful and defeating return home alone when spirits are still high and willing. We held hands as we sat there. It was kind of innocent and almost cute. It certainly felt natural and meant-to-be and yet, at the same time, exciting and promising. We went back to my place, straight to the bedroom, straight into bed. We went from the first kiss to having made love in about an hour. Sex with (relative) strangers is always different. This time was unique in the sense that it felt like we were in high school for some reason. She worked in a bank and lived a pretty straight forward life. She liked going for runs and going to the gym. She liked cooking, too, and invited me to her place for dinner the next night. I accepted. In the morning, she caught a taxi home - she had something to do - and left me sleeping in my bed.
 
The next week she invited me for dinner at her apartment. We ate and then had sex. Later, her flatmate, came home. It was her twin sister. We were introduced. It was pleasant but there were many unspoken undercurrents. I didn't really think to much about it at the time, but tonight, lying there on my bed, for some reason I thought about it. About twins and their sex lives and how people react to them.
 
Here's what I was thinking. What I would say to the duplicate diva: For starters, if I am attracted to your identical sister, I am attracted to you. You know this. It's not the first time for you, I'm sure. I'm a decent person, so I surpress any flirting. You love your sister, so you don't flirt either. But, that just makes things more heightened. Our thoughts are naughty. What happens if I tire of your sister and you and I find ourselves alone together? What if you and your sister are well ahead of me and I have already slept with you without knowing? (Unlikely - but what if?!) You are in the next room, while your sister and I are making love. Is that uncomfortable? Are you tempted to ask for a turn? The original sister must know that each of their boyfriends will, at some stage, at least fantasise about being with the other sister while doing it. Is this bothersome? Do you discuss it? I know these thoughts are a bit schoolboy and perhaps unfitting, but I thought them. It is a strange scenario/dynamic. In my case, I didn't stay in the picture long enough for complications to evolve... but part of me wishes I had. Just to experience it. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, but I wouldn't have minded seeing what it was like sleeping with a replica.
 
Of course this all just base level fantasy. It does not take into account emotions and personalities, proper relationship stuff. It was only an extended one-night stand - lasted a few weeks, I guess. She seemed equally un-attached to the notion of longer term and equally as free spirited and promiscuous (that word! Hmmm...) as I was, so letting it fade wasn't an issue. I remember a few details of our union vividly, mostly I have forgotten. Like I said, it was mutual, almost high-school romance like. Better than not doing nothing, that's for sure.
 
I remember the special moments with each of the women I was with during that period. There was everything: the flirting, the sometimes salacious glory of seduction, the surprising tenderness, desire, lust, fulfillment, connection, thrill, thoughtfullness, playfulness... All the stuff that our sentient species gets up to when they choose to give of and explore each other physically. Most of the unions began after midnight and peaked around 4 or 5am. Some lasted but a night - others for a few weeks. I got a lot from that time, more than memories. For me, it was about the intimacy. Going from zero to, not a hundred, but say eighty or even ninety in a short time. Jumping off a cliff together, into the wild sea. It was thrilling and rewarding. Some say it leaves them empty - but I never found that. I appreciated each person for who they were and felt lucky to go deep with them, even for just a short time. There were no motives beyond feeling an attraction and acting on it. Being bold. Cheeky. Free. It was a mini - sixties recreation! In Bondi. And Kings Cross. At my place and theirs. In the car, in stairwells, in parks, on couches. But mostly in beds. Beds. How great are they, just generally? A place to escape to.  And if you can do it with another - with a bit of friction, some fiction, heat and coolness, skin on skin, secretions and sweat.... well, bring it on! Loving is good. Anytime, anyplace. Makes you feel alive.

Something I do, once or twice a week around dinner time is park my car somewhere pleasant, quiet, out of the way, and compose a tasty salad from items purchased from Woolies. The usual mix is rocket, coleslaw, avocado, lentils and a freshly squeezed lemon. I use my fork (I have three, op shop purchases, each with unique handle) to puncture the lemon - about a third of the diameter, insert it and maneuver the juice out. I also use the fork to punch tiny holes length ways around the avo and twist it, access the luscious pulp. I toss it all together in my large, fluoro green salad bowl (op shop, $3) and eat it while reading whatever book I am into at the time. 

I am currently reading and enjoying John Lyndon's autobio, "Anger is an Energy'. I was reading some this evening, down by the river, but my repast was not the usual salad, but a Christmas eve treat - pizza. It was a vego pizza with extra garlic, anchovies and pineapple - my fave. The plan was to eat half and have the other half when I got home. Of course, that was not going to happen. Num, num, num...

Johnny (Rotten) was writing about a period when he was living in Brixton, UK. He said at the time it was quite a rough area. It made me think of Kings Cross in Sydney, an area I gravitated towards in the late eighties and early nineties. It was definitely seedier then, much more interesting than now, and did have an element of danger to it. As I was driving home, I thought about my own experiences there and tried to remember any dangerous encounters. One that I had not thought of for quite a long time, floated back into my awareness. 

It was 1989, and I was recently divorced. I would frequent a cafe called Michelangelo's which was located right on the corner of Victoria Rd and William street. It had good coffee and focaccia as well as an ample balcony that looked over the west entry to the KX tunnel as well as the ubiquitous Coke sign off to the left. The cafe eventually shut up shop and became a nightclub/bar called Haste. Ten years later, I would again frequent the same location - swapping espresso for mojito and focaccia for kissing girls.

But in 1989, I had not yet graduated to player and was single. I would sit on the balcony in the afternoons and read my book, drinking my coffee. This one afternoon, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, late twenties maybe, sat a few tables away, facing me. She looked like a Cherokee Indian squaw, or the semblance of. She had a very unusual dynamic about her. I was intrigued. She sat alone and we shared some eye contact. I remember as I was eating my croissant, I looked down and consciously tried to mimic her vibe, give off a similar energy - in the way I moved, the pace, the attitude. I was experimenting. Being a little trippy, indulging a bit in a different level of connection. I did not look up at her for a while but somehow felt that she was watching me. 

I suspected that she may have been a drug user, although I can't say exactly why. Something. But, as I said, she was breathtakingly beautiful in her face and body, so much so that it overrode any hesitation or prejudice, wariness I might have normally felt. In fact, I recall, I kind of acted as though I was a user, too, relishing my flakey pastry while high. It was pure conjugation, I had no first hand experience with heroin.

I was pretty startled when she appeared beside me. Truly shocked, really.

'Got a light, have ya?' In those days you could smoke anywhere. I didn't. But the chasm had been crossed. We had connected. She sat down opposite me. Seeing her close up only served to impress and entice me more. She was quite a presence. I felt all kinds of things... attraction, doubt, excitement, challenge...

We talked for about 45 minutes about all kinds of things. Although I felt a little out of my league, I was being as cool as I could and playing the flirtation game. Eventually she said she had to go and do something - but why don't I come down to her place nearby in Rushcutters Bay in a couple of hours for a drink at sunset. She gave me the address. Sure.

It felt weird, actually. Something was not quite right. Was it too easy? Why was she interested in me? There was something about her that I could not quite work out. And yet... 

Did I consider not going? Yes.
Did I consider it for long? No.
Should I have considered it for longer? Maybe.

But I was not to know. I could not possibly turn down an opportunity like this. She was one of the most beguiling, alluring and mysterious presences I had ever met. It wasn't a love feeling, it was more lust, but it was strong. And what could go wrong, anyway? No need to be paranoid. All I was doing was going for a drink.

I found the place without trouble. A block of about thirty units, spread long and wide, about three stories high. Underground parking. She buzzed me in. I parked the car - it was actually a Tarago - I had just finished working on a Japanese TVC shoot and had it  for the weekend. I found the apartment, up three flights. When I got to the door, I noticed in the wood, several distinct crescent shaped indentations around head level. Hmmm... they seemed to be made by a hammer. Strange. I knocked and she answered, opened the door. Motioned me in.

Three things struck me immediately. 

One: she was wearing only a bath towel. 
This is like the movies, I thought. I cannot believe it. It's like a fantasy coming true. It's all being handed to me.

Two: her vibe had changed significantly.
I can't exactly explain it, but there was a noticeable shift. Almost like she was a different person. Some of the natural warmth was gone, the pure Indian spirit - and it was replaced by something a bit more calculated, detached. I don't know, maybe she was high, I thought.

Three: On the inside of the door was a second door. A cast iron security door. OK. Yeah. But it's on the inside...? And when I stepped in, she locked it. With a key.

Alarm bells started going off in my head. Not full volume, just muffled ones. 

Come in, come in... She got me a drink. Vodka orange? Something like that. We sat on the couch. I'll just be a sec, she said and got up, went into the bathroom. OK, sure. She's going to get dressed. Don't panic. It's a bit unusual but nothing amazing happens without a bit of uncertainty. The vodka took a bit of the buzz off. Gulp, gulp. I stood up, walked over the balcony. It was sliding large frame glass doors. Perhaps I'll step out, take a few deep breaths. I stepped closer to reach and open them. What I saw, truly shocked me.

They were joined together by a short, heavy duty chain. And on the chain was a padlock. Locked.

Just as I noticed she came out of the bathroom and headed towards me.  She was still in her towel! 

Everything alright?

Ah, yeah. Um... 

Then, to add to the surreal-ness, the tension in the air, as if by magic, her towel fell to the floor. She was completely naked. I didn't want to stare, so I looked away.

Ooops, she said, like Marilyn woulda.

She must have sensed my rising anxiety, so she came and sat down beside me, towel back on. 

Tell me about the job you were on....

My mind was racing. It was all just too, too weird. Now it felt like she was just stalling. Trying to keep me there, distract me.

Something was very, very wrong. I was sure that any minute some dude, or dudes would be arriving and I was going to be in some serious danger. 

"Hey, you know, what..." I said, as casually as I possibly could, downplaying any panic. "I've got some photos in the Tarago. Why don't I go and get them... "

"Oh, that's OK," she said, "you can just tell me..."

I stood up, acted enthusiastic, innocent. "No, no, you're going to love them..." I stepped towards the double doors. She hesitated then unlocked it.

I think she still thought I was good, unaware. Not letting me get them would show her hand.

"Don't be long!" she whispered, touching my face.

"I won't..." I said, keeping the act up, being cheerful. 

I didn't even look back at her. Whoever it was that lured me there had shape shifted and revealed her true self. I had brushed up against desperation, evil.

I got in the Tarago and drove the fuck out of there.

I was lucky. I had escaped what possibly could have been a seriously unfortunate incident. I cannot begin to even imagine what would have happened when the muscle turned up, playing the enraged boyfriend, or whatever the scam was. Important things was, I made it out.

I didn't go back to Michelangelo's. Found a better spot - just around the corner. The Tropicana. I became a regular. There I made some great new friends. And never looked back.

I was married in my twenties. It was for less than a few years and we didn't have kids. Sometimes I think back to my girlfriends since then and speculate about how, if I were doing it again, which of them I would marry/have children with. I consider things like whether it could be a lasting relationship and what kind of mums they would be. I also think about which of them I would stay with, given a second chance, a redo.

There are only three who meet the requirements of both categories. I'm not really in contact with any of them. I could probably track down one of them, but the other two, well, I have forgotten their family names and they are from other countries. Probably for the best. Nothing worse than getting a drunken text or fb msg from your boyfriend from 20 years ago, seeing if you want to mate.

Anyway, this story, true story, involves one of them. She was a truly lovely girl and we were very close. It was one of those relationships that just got unlucky. If we had made it over a very testing third year hump, I believe we would possibly still be together. But this is just fantasy because, since then I have experienced some amazing relationships and encounters and none of it would have happened if I had been married to her. And you can't have both. I made my choices, it seems, and I will live with them. No regrets. But just sometimes.... what if...? You know how it is!

I'll call her A. (She deserves top marks.) We had such a close connection and shared some wonderful times and adventures. At the time, we were both into investigating the spiritual side of life. We decided to attend a weekend seminar held in Kings Cross that was about past lives and connecting with them. It was helmed by Denise Linn, a deeply spiritual woman of Native American descent. (She is still active today in spiritual guidance and teaches across the globe, with seventeen books to her credit.)

So, it wasn't cheap but from the available literature at the time and from, you know, vibe-ing it out, it seemed like a worthwhile adventure. These were pre-internet days, so there was no reading up online or anything. Things were done and decisions made trusting a more innate level of assessment. 

I had already done some interesting seminars like The Forum and Insight, as well as re-birthing and kinesiology sessions, so I was aware that having an open mind is important in this kind of engagement. 

Day one involved a lot of visualisations, meditations, group sharing. A and I were split up, mostly, by choice, not wanting to influence or hinder each other's immersion. In my opinion, because it was a relatively large group of attendees (over 100), the power and impact of the process was compromised. I really wasn't feeling it.

On the evening of that first day, Denise informed us that we would each be receiving a certificate of attendance. She wanted to have the names inscribed by volunteers from amongst the participants who felt confident enough with their calligraphic skills to fill in a share of them overnight. I raised my hand, along with two or three others and we each received a special pen plus a small pile of parchment - which included two or three extras in case of error.

I did mine that night when we got home. I only made one mistake. Just one of the names, I felt was not quite up to standard. I redid it and took the rest in, handing them in to the administrators that morning. All good.

Day two was a little better, but I still didn't get any experiences of personal breakthrough, epiphanies, wow! moments. While it felt, worthwhile and authentic, it lacked, for me at least, that bit of magic that you look for when you do these kind of processes.

Sunday evening and the seminar came to a close. A and I were gathering our belongings from along one of the walls of the auditorium, when we were approached by a gentle, kind faced older woman. 

"Sorry for intruding, but are you two together?, she asked meekly. 

"Yes," we said. 

"Are you a couple?" 

"Yes."

She kind of shuffled around a bit and seemed awkward. It was a little strange. We gave her a moment to compose her thoughts and express herself.

"This may seem a little strange, but we have all, the three of us been connected in a past life. It was back in England. You two were brother and sister. You went through some very hard times. I witnessed it. But you really loved and took care of each other. Your bond was incredible. Some things happened with your family that were rather horrible but you rose above it together and really looked after one another."

Well.

A and I were both a little shell shocked. It all seemed so random. But, but...

Before we could really assimilate what she was saying and think of anything to ask, she began to shuffle off.

We thanked her. 

"What is your name?"

"It's Mary. Mary Thomas. God bless you both. Your love back then was an inspiration. I am sorry I couldn't do more to help you back then... good bye."

It was mystifying. And beguiling. 

We soon forgot it, as we dug in to our bowls of Japanese ramen from a place up the road. Then we headed home. Ready for sleep and the new week ahead. 

In bed, we debriefed some more and discussed things. It was strange but kind of comforting what the old woman had said. In a funny way, our relationship did have a brother/sister quality to it. We were very protective of each other and sensitive to each others feelings and needs. What she had said was out of left field but somehow kind of made sense. 

When I got up, pre slumber, to get some water, I popped my head into my studio for some reason. There, in the middle of my workbench, lay a certificate from the seminar. It was not the one that either A or I had received. 

I went into the bedroom and stood at the door, a little stunned. A sensed my energy and asked what was up. 

I told her to come with me and led her to the desk. She saw the certificate and moved in closer. She read out the name inscribed on it:

Mary Thomas.

It's been over twenty five years now, so I feel like I can tell it.

It's a love story, a life story, a series of experiences and interactions between a man and woman over a one year full of passion, uncertainty, love, drama, excitement and romance.

It's a true story, one that I lived. An undeniably prominent and unforgettable relationship, unlike any other.

It was never ordinary.
It was never simple.
It was never boring.

A raging fire of a love affair that spanned three continents and oscillated between emotional highs and lows with wild abandon. I feel lucky and privileged to have lived it, to have been half of the equation but I am also aware that I paid the price. It was no free ride.

It began simply enough. A chance encounter at a dinner party. It was her last night in Sydney. It was an Italian restaurant in Kings Cross, there were more than twenty people present. Although she knew my brother, we had never met. Somehow, we were seated beside each other.

Looking back now, it all seems inevitable, really. Right from the start there were sparks, chemistry. We were both very different and neither of us entered the venue with any expectation of anything out of the ordinary occurring. But it did.

What was she like? She was a Californian girl, about thirty years of age. Italian American. Brunette. Olive skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. I never thought of her this way - but if I was to attempt to build a visual composite from old school beauties I would say that she was mix of Raquel Welch, Sophia Loren, and Ali McGraw. She was wounded. There was sadness and rage. She was proud and accomplished - a high achiever. A self-made success story with a little something missing in her life. And that thing was companionship, connection, love.

Enter me. At that time I was around the same age, a true free spirit, a poet, a painter. Living a bohemian lifestyle; I had been unshackled since my divorce two years ealier - staying with family and friends, in motels, hostels, couch surfing, travelling up and down the coast from Bondi to Byron, even sleeping in my car when I had to (a Cortina, ornately hand painted like a true hippy mobile). My possessions were few, my commitments fewer. 

Was there something missing in my life, too? That same thing, perhaps? Did I realise it at the time? Probably not, I was too busy being free. Did I realise it after we spent that first night together in her Sebel Townhouse hotel room and she left the next morning? Maybe, some. And in the subsequent days, did I notice her absence? Indeed. Had a fire been lit? Was something grand created and then suddenly taken away? Yes, yes and yes. But, she was gone far away - back to the States. I thought of it as a dream night. Perfect, sumptuous, unrepeatable. 

When she rang me, from LA, a week or two later, I was surprised and delighted to hear her mellifluous, whispering, slightly raspy voice. She was someone who made things happen. A very successful TV commercial producer. She was not willing to let it go. File it under the most wonderful one night stand ever. She had a proposal...

Paris. She was headed there to shoot an ad the following week. She wanted me to join her. Would I? 

I can't afford it, I told her. I had less than a hundred dollars to my name. I'll pay, she said. For everything.

I was taken aback. I didn't expect that. I needed to think about it.

Don't think about it, she said. You have to tell me right now or it's off. Wow.

I've got to admit, on the plane going over, I was about as excited as I've ever been. I wrote poems, did sketches in my journal. I listened to CDs on my Walkman. It was a three leg, twenty four hour flight.... Singapore, Alaska, Paris. We disembarked at Anchorage. There was a massive bear in a glass case in the airport and a huge duty free shop. I couldn't afford to buy anything. But I didn't need anything. I was running on adrenaline and anticipation.

I got a taxi from Charles de Gaulle airport. As arranged, the concierge paid the driver. I went straight up to the room. There was a note. I'm working till seven. Go out, have some fun. When I get back we can go somewhere for dinner.

She loved good food and good restaurants. She smoked Marlboro Reds and drank Margaritas. Each night for the next ten days we would dine out somewhere exotic and special, drink and smoke, cab back to the hotel and make love. It was always tender and heartfelt. Never a showy or sporty or fancy kind of union. It was sex as a manifestation of emotion. Sex as a display of desire, yearning, opening up and tumbling into each other. After, we would fall asleep easily and quickly. In the mornings, she would be up early, ready for a challenging day shooting on location. Sometimes she would leave my some francs. One time, as a joke, she threw them on the bed as she was walking out. As though I was a whore. We laughed. I pulled her back onto the bed. She left late and her hair was messed.

In the days, I would roam the streets, go to art galleries and sit in cafes writing poems. I was the happiest poet in the world. Can you imagine one happier? No. I wrote a lot. She had a weekend off and I took her to my favourite spots - the Pompidou, a corner cafe in St Germaine, for a ride in the subways. 

It was perfect. Perfect. And then, it was over. We woke up after our most beautiful night together and suddenly it was time to go. She left early - meeting the crew downstairs, I left a few hours later. No one on her team even knew I was there. On the bus back to the airport I listened to Marvin Gaye, tears streaming down my face. It was immense. I was happy, sad, and everything in between. I was at the end of a dream. I didn't know if, or when, we would meet again. There were no promises made. But it was clear that what we had between us was precious and substantial.

We spoke on the phone when we could after that. This was the pre-mobile age. It was frustrating to be apart. We both missed each other. We came up with a solution. My parents were living in London at the time. She had a job coming up. A week in London and a week in Madrid. I didn't want her shouting me a second time, so I used what money I had saved and got across to London to visit my folks. When she arrived, I moved into the hotel with her. It was the same ritual - she would work during the days, we would go out to dinner at a high end restaurant, drink margaritas and wine, taxi back to the hotel and savour the rest of the night together. She introduced me to The Water Boys; her favourite band. 'The Whole of the Moon' was the theme song of not only that trip but our entire affair. It's poignant, emotional, a cry from deep within. 

One night towards the end of the London trip, one of the waitresses in one of the restaurants took a liking to me and could not conceal it. The atmosphere got quickly tense and jealousy reared it's ugly head. In the cab home, we had our first argument. I professed my devotion and honestly told her that there was nothing to be upset about. I was 100% committed. But, she fumed for a while. She was threatened that the slightest amount of my attention went elsewhere, even just for a moment. I saw a side of her previously undisclosed. Back in the room, she calmed down and our lovemaking was more intense than before.

Arriving in Madrid was exciting as well. I got there during the day. My job was to seek out some great places to dine. Again, it was pre-internet, so I used guide books. I found some hot spots and the food was amazing. As is the tradition in Spain, we ate later that elsewhere. This allowed us a few hours playtime before dinner as well. 

On the second or third night we were dining in a delightful Spanish restaurant, sitting in the courtyard. We were overlooked by stylish balconies of local residents. It was a community atmosphere. When we arrived a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, saw us and waved. She must have sensed how in love we were from our affectionate behaviour and she seemed somewhat captivated. She stayed in her place and gazed down at us from a distance. When we glanced up at her a few times, she returned a beaming smile, full of warmth and appreciation. 

Towards the end of the meal, while we were waiting for dessert an older woman came around with some roses. On impulse, I bought two. I ceremoniously gave the first one to my lover. The other one, I announced, I wanted to give to our devoted fan, still watching our every move. I stood up, walked a few steps towards the balcony and threw it up to her. She caught it and beamed with happiness and appreciation to have been acknowledged. When I turned around the table was empty. Thinking she had gone to the bathroom, I sat down and waited. She was not coming back. The maitre'd informed me that she had left, stormed off.

My heart sank. I felt that feeling when all the air is sucked out of the atmosphere. Oh, no. This is not good. Really not good. 

And it was bad on many levels. Just paying the bill used up more than half the money in my possession. Then there was one other thing. I did not take proper note of the name of the hotel we were staying at. I had no idea what to tell the taxi driver, one who spoke no English. Somehow, after driving around for close to an hour, using my internal GPS and a mix of luck, we found the place. The cab fare cleaned me out. I was pretty stressed and kind of angry. I was never a fan of drama and this was drama.

To make things worse, I had to key to the room and she refused to let me in. After arguing, negotiating through the closed door, she finally relented when I told her to just throw my bag out, that I was leaving. She let me in. She cried as I reassured her of my love, our love. She apologised for being insecure. It was the drink, she was tired, it was confusing... Of course, I forgave her and all was good for the rest of the stay in Spain. Leaving again was difficult and I returned to Sydney.

Three months later, she told me on the phone that she had booked me a ticket to New York City. She had a job there and wanted us to meet. I was leaving in three days. 

I decided that our love affair, our connection, was real, truly special. It demanded that I honour it, and her, with a proactive decision and action. I used my entire savings and bought her an engagement ring. It was just one diamond, but I spent a long time finding the best looking ring I could find within my means. I was going to ask her to marry me.

What I remember of New York in that trip is mostly the plush Park Avenue hotel room. We spent a lot of time there. I also remember studying that wine coloured Zagat guide, doing my job selecting and booking the evening's restaurant. It was a culinary indulgence, a luxurious treat. Money was never an issue. Not only did she pay for all our meals in every city, but she was a generous tipper. 

Is it OK to do what I am doing, I sometimes wondered. She is paying to have me around. Am I keeping within the boundries of my personal integrity, I would ask myself. 

But I felt I wasn't. It was just the way it was. I was extremely lucky to be where I was. It was fate. 

I never did anything that compromised my own morality. I was never fake, I never lied or acted any way other than was true. I was extremely grateful and always thanked her and let her know how much my sharing was appreciated. 

We talked about it. What else am I going to spend my money on? she would say. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You make me happy, you make me feel free. Being able to see you and be with you after a hard day's shoot means so much to me. It is as much a dream come true for you as it is for me. I believed her. Whatever the financial dynamics were, our emotional bond was undeniably based on equality, honesty, passion and deep, heartfelt desire. We had to be together.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted the timing to be right. I waited until our last night in New York. The restaurant I chose was the landmark, opulent Cafe Des Artistes on the upper West Side. We had finished our meal and were drinking champagne. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled it out. I can't recall my exact presentation procedure, but I am sure I attempted to make it as romantic as possible without being corny. She was surprised and delighted. She said yes. 

I can't recall the exact way things happened after that but when she was coming back from the bathroom I was chatting to a waitress. We might have been sharing a laugh or a brief moment. Whatever it was, my new 'fiancee' didn't like it one bit. She went into a rage, like a sudden cyclone. She took off the ring and threw it in her champagne glass. I was speechless. For a moment I considered leaving it there. But I picked it out. I went  outside. She was attempting to hail down a taxi. When one pulled up, I jumped in beside her. She started crying. I said nothing. We got to the hotel and went to the room in silence. It was tense and uncomfortable. And in my opinion, completely out of order and unnecessary. It was become clear that this was a pattern. A emotional anomaly. Something was out of whack. I realised that each time these things happened, we had consumed quite a few drinks. That was surely part of it. But the reactions were so extreme. The anger so fierce. The response inappropriate. It felt disrespectful, damaging. 

We went to bed together, after separate showers. Eventually we made up. In the morning, when I woke she was in tears. 

I left my ring behind. I can't believe what I have done...

I hugged her. I've got it. If you still want it.

Of course I do. I am so sorry.

Things were back in place. We were OK again. Another storm weathered. My flight out of NY was after hers. She got back to LA before me. My flight back to Sydney was through LA and I had an 8 hour lay over. She picked me up from the airport and we went to her house. It was interesting and kind of strange to actually be in her home. It seemed to me, from my observations, that it was somewhere she spent little time. It needed more attention, warmth. I got an idea.

Why don't I stay here? I suggested. In LA. We can live together. I have nothing that demands I immediately return to Australia. Why don't we try actually being with each other on a day to day basis, in a more grounded way. 

It felt like an opportunity in a way. It came to me in the moment and I shared it. 

She thought about it but I think it was too fast. My plane was supposed to be leaving in a few hours. It was a big decision either way. She went with maintaining the status quo.

Once again, I was up in the air. Heading back to Oz.

Six months passed. It was excruciating. A little heartbreaking. Talking on the phone was like a cruel tease. She was busy working on more shoots within the US. Arizona, NY again. I suggested she come visit, even stay. Or I could fly back over. But she wouldn't commit.

Long distance relationships are so, so hard. Two months is the limit, I believe. My limit anyway.

I could not put my life on hold. I just carried on as I would. Did my thing. Went to art gallery openings, plays, parties. Along the way I met some lovely women. None captivated me like she did, but a few times there was intense and immediate attraction. I didn't know what was going to happen, so I went with the flow. I went with what reality was presenting to me in the moment. That's the way I live.

Our communications had dwindled to just a trickle. I took it in stride. Glad for what we had had. But I knew she was a tied to her job and was afraid of letting it all go for love. I couldn't blame her, she had more to loose than me. 

When she rang, though, and told me she was coming back to Australia for a shoot, I was pretty happy. Mostly. Actually, a little conflicted. The suffering involved in a long distance relationship did not suit me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to re-ignite the flame, only to have it extinguished again. But she still had my ring, as well, it was far too special a relationship to give it every chance.

Her shoot was to be up in Cairns but her first night was in Sydney. She was staying at the same hotel, The Sebel Townhouse. Back where it all began. We met for dinner in a restaurant on Kellet Street, just nearby. Seeing each other again was electric. It was all still there. Dinner was wonderful.

I made the choice to be completely honest and up front with her. I told her that in the interim, during our time apart, although I had not gone out with any other women, that I did hook up briefly with three women. 

She seemed to take it well and said that she appreciated me being open and honest with her. She said that she had not been with anyone. We went back to the hotel and our night together was as though we had never been apart.

It was a long week, while she was in Cairns, waiting for her to return so that we could discuss a future. 

When she did come back we went for dinner and then went back to the hotel. Everything was beautiful. 

We made love. It was passionate.

Then, right in the final moments, right after the crescendo, in the space between hitting the highest high and floating back to earth, she looked me straight in the eyes, her hands around the back of my neck and said...

While I was away in Cairns on the shoot, I fucked a guy in the crew.

Bang.

I got off her. I got up and got dressed. I felt physically sick. My head was spinning. I will never forget the feeling of that moment.

I walked out. It was over.

A few weeks later, I get a call from LA. It's her. She is crying. She tells me how sorry she is. How wrong it was, what she did. She tells me she has to see me. We have to talk. In person. I tell her it's too late. She says, no, I am coming. I have to see you. I have already booked my ticket. I arrive tomorrow. Please, please, if even a skerrick of anything good remains, please come to The Sebel tomorrow night. Just to talk. Just so we can talk.

I tell her, don't come. I don't want to see you.

She says, I'm coming. I will be there.

I admired her conviction and gumption. There were some burnt embers still there but not much. Mostly it was a damp, smoldering, unpleasant heap of ash and wet coal.

But I went. I went to her room. She was lying on the bed. She tried to seduce me. I could not do it. I could not let it happen. What she had done was unforgivable. Once again, I walked away. This time, though, there was no anger. Just sadness.

A week later, I got an padded envelope in the mail. Inside was  a small dried rose and some barbed wire wrapped around it. Attached to the barbed wire was the ring.

Nice touch. I had to smile. 

I sold it at a hock shop the next day.

End of chapter. End of story.

Life.

It's what happens.

I mean, I've been paying attention. Close attention. I've been observing, pondering, recording, analysing, interpreting life since I was a wee tyke. Around the age of nine is when I started asking myself the big questions. Like 'What is this?' 'What are we doing here?' and 'Why?'

I remember one afternoon sitting up on the branches of an orange tree doing just that. No answers were forthcoming but I did eat a lot of oranges.

I remember around that same time marvelling at a neighbourhood girl who was thirteen. Thirteen. Thinking: how? And: will I ever be that mature? Plus, she had a dragster.

This procedure: Life. 

Can't be pinned down. And yet we want to. We need to. We try to give it shape and definition. We need borders and structures and clusters and titles. We attempt to make sense of things. We are by necessity satisfied by whatever we can come up with. Even though it is only temporary and illusory. 

Some people don't question too much. They just get into it. Let the adventure and drama play out around them. Buy into it. Invest themselves. This is a perfectly valid response. What else are you going to do? Sit around all day and try to solve an unsolvable puzzle while in the meantime it all passes you by? Doesn't sound wise. But, but... some of us cannot help but divest from the presentation and take a peek behind the curtains. Leave the comfort of the valley home and trek up that mountain. And the next. And the next. We have metaphysical wanderlust. We are existential nomads. Philosophical renegades. Perpetual travellers. Spiritual scientists. We are drawn to the edges of the accepted realms and driven to stepping that one step, two steps further, beyond the boundries. We need to know. We need to know.

The irony is - there is no rush. All is revealed in it's own time. In many ways it is much, much wiser simply to accept the way things are and enjoy the ride. Life will play itself out regardless of how you perceive, interpret it. Why waste time navel gazing when you could be white water rafting or parachuting out of a hot air balloon?

I took this tack for a while in my earlier years. I tried hang gliding, bungy jumping, scuba diving, long distance running. I spent a year eating only raw nuts, I travelled to distant places, I experimented with LSD, I did stand up comedy, spent time with punk rockers, mental patients, criminals. I got married and divorced. I watched my wife run off with a Japanese Elvis impersonator. I shared intense, fleeting intimacy with girls I met on the beach, in a restaurant, on a bus, on the way to the bathroom. I flew to Paris on love's command after a one night stand in Kings Cross. I was hungry, wild, free spirited. During much of this frantic period I remained slightly detached and philosophical, wrote poetry and recorded my musings, but being hyper involved with reality in a demanding way did lessen the questioning.

But then I slowed down. Gradually. 

Living the simple life in an idyllic country town with a population of three and half thousand, I have returned to my ruminations. Attune to nature, mesmerised by it's beauty, surrounded by more spiritually minded folk, I have a precious commodity to play with. Time. Time to think. Time to take my time. Time to play. Time to waste. But I am paying attention. Looking for clues. I am still an agent of metaphysical aspirations. I want to know. I want to find as much meaning as I can. I have more to reflect upon now. More experience to draw upon in my calculations of esoteric algorithms. I have lived more than half a decade. Surely this must assist in my searching, seeking out.

But it doesn't. Not really. I am still a novice. 

I am still that kid sitting in a tree.

I do still love oranges. So juicy!

The future is coming at us, thicker and faster than ever. Every month now, amazing new discoveries and inventions; scientific, technological and biological... The advancements are arriving at a breathtaking pace. I don't have to convince anyone. Just browse through the net. No, not that old fisherman's net. That's just crab shell and a dead half fish carcass. I mean the internet. You must know it. It's one of the inventions that has changed the world. Forever. And for better. So long as we all shall live. Anyone who disagrees, go to the comment box now or forever hold your mouse. Or donate it to science. They are used in a lot of experiments.

A couple of things I remembered yesterday:

One: pinball. Played it every weekend for hours on end in my early teens, with my brothers in the game centres of Tokyo - Shibuya, Hibiya, Yurakucho, Azabu Juban.... somehow, if there was a decent game centre (geimu sentaa) tucked away in a basement, obscure building or mini mall, we'd find it. We had our skateboards and knew the public transport system inside out. We loved playing pinball. (Wizard, Fireball, TimeZone, etc... mid 70's were when pinball design peaked, I reckon). Each place would usually have ten, twenty of them lined up. Lots of choice. Lots of fun. We were all pretty good a getting free games, too. Nothing like that >crack< when you notch up a game.

Two: other play. I was driving to the beach and saw an import Tarago. Notice it as called Lucida. Thought about how Japanese come up with their names for things. Must've looked up the dictionary found lucid and added an a. Fair enough. If they put an 'n' in their, it'd be a nice girl's name... Lucinda. Then, flash!, I remembered that back in the late nineties, I had a relationship with a girl with that very name. I had completely forgotten about her. I met her in a bar in Kings Cross, the Bayswater Brasserie. It was a one night stand that kept going. She owned a house in Surrey Hills, Sydney. She worked in an ad agency as accounts manager. She liked vodka lime and sodas. She loved flowers and knew a lot about them. She was a great cook. One of her specialties was gnocchi. She was very pretty. Like a little doll. She had a great body, perfect proportions, silky skin, long straight hair. She was also very intelligent and successful. She never came to my place in Bondi. She liked her routines. She would often phone me after work, early evening and invite me over. Drinks, dinner, sex. All things I enjoy. Then I would go home in the morning, when she left for work. We didn't do many day time things together for some reason. After a few months of this routine, I was beckoned to Tokyo for a 3 month job. We did the phone and fax (yes, fax) 'I miss you' communication thing for a while and then just let it go. I never saw her again. And until yesterday, completely forgot about it. Interesting how it was sparked by an import Tarago parked at the beach. It was like finding a little treasure on the shores of my memory.

Remember?

We used to go poetry readings in the Cross, late 80's
Listen to Steve read his lucid stories in his accent
Frank would ramble, highly intelligent obviously, but still a rambler
We were captivated by the passion, the character, the honesty
We were enthralled by the words

The words selected
For their mystique and power
The words connected
Hubbed together like a daisy chain, droplets in a shower

The words intersected
Colliding with force
Voices rode hoarse
Arms swirling
Verbal symphonies
A concert of concepts spinning and twirling

Peter was one like that
He'd go into a trance it seemed
Some would be read, the rest ad-libbed
It was poetry his stuff, real poetry
Melodic and moving
Hypnotic and grooving

Joe was funny ha ha hilarious
A barrister, retired early
He'd write outrageous letters to council
Pompous tones
Read them out with the responses
Those suits got owned!

Others were good, too
Renee, the tree Davids, Captain Angus
Rob, of course, sharp as a whip
And Marla who danced with no undies at a party
In Bondi, in front of the full length mirror

Sometimes the surprise newbie
Talent like lightening
Out of nowhere, sharp and bright
Lots of red wine, from the cask
Two bucks in a plastic cup
Ciggie breaks, mostly rollies
Sprinkling of drug use
As habit or just to enhance, to amuse

Remember you'd get nervous
Before you went up those few stairs to the stage
Mouth dry, hands clammy
But once you made it to the mike
And got started 
It was like an old bike, riding downhill
Wind in your hair
Giggling on the inside
Suddenly unselfconscious, but intimately self aware

The Aquatic Club, on the hill there, mostly
Upstairs at a restaurant in Darlo
Sometimes at a pub or in a basement
Didn't matter
We were loose comrades, bygone bohemians
United by aspirations, dreams, love
Of ideas and spirit expressed in word
Tuneless song

It was a much simpler time,
No mobiles, no net, and yet
We communicated so much more
And with beauty and grace
Exposed, fearless and raw
Liberated and protected by prose
Uplifted by staccato rants
Seduced by mellifluous chants

We made it up, line at a time
We shared of each other
Gave what we had in syntax and rhyme
Those were some good nights, eh?
Just big kids at play - the outsiders, the rebels, the fray

My word
And yours
Something to listen to
Something to say

Things are different these days
Yeah, everything is different these days