Sometimes she thinks she falls asleep on a mattress thick with fluid hopes and warm arms draped over waists. She rests her head on pretty things and dreams of blueberry kuchen, wet noses and beer breath.

She doesn’t understand why she wakes up cold, in the dripping walls of her own igloo. She reminds herself that igloos are not always transient. Secretly, she likes the cast of the blue glow, and when she is honest she admits (if only to herself) that the circular shape of her dwelling comforts her. She thinks that there might be a metaphor in this, but her head is too fuzzy to be sure. She is surprised when in her research she discovers that the temperature inside an igloo is not as cold as one may think - depending on the heat source. She thinks that maybe, maybe, she is capable of generating enough body heat to thaw the air.

Other times, when she lies down, she thinks that perhaps she is adrift. Weightless and anchorless, her thoughts bob on the surface of a suprisingly dense liquid she would prefer to sink into. She doesn’t like this feeling of being adrift. She needs to be bound. To something, to someone, to a thought, an idea, even a signpost would do. She doesn’t know when she lost the ability to form knots. Her once dexterous fingers fumble and fail. She can’t tie herself to anything, not even sleep, and she wonders what all this means.

Funny little —— boy*. Big blue eyes. Greedy. Big strong arms, sexy pout, my beer swilling lout. Black Black hair, long lazy days, summer, hot, desire, meet you in bed, are you still my friend? Seperate, you and I. when i see you im spinning around coz its in your eyes and on a night like this i wanna stay forever coz you make the days brighter and my life a kylie song. Funny little —— boy miss you when you’re gone. Bad poetry. For you. Coz your not here and you’re never gonna know.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx always.

* * * * * *

I used to keep an online diary. A long time ago. I never wrote in it much. It was mainly about boys. I was talking to a friend recently, about expat life, about going back, about giving in and giving up. About fear and insecurity, freight costs and tails tucked between legs. The conversation turned to the reason we are both here, as it inevitably does, and we spoke about love. It was one of those rare moments when I catch myself speaking truths. One of those moments when clarity graces me with it’s presence. And I spoke of the person who has loved me best in this life. I don’t know that I loved him best. But, I do know that of all the people that I have known, of all the people that I have loved, of all the people that I have shared of myself with, he remains the one and only person who has been able to accept the whole of me. The good with the bad, the light with the dark, the anger and the sadness, the vulnerability and the strength, the crazy talk, the gentle (and furious) rocking of my hips. He is the one person by whom I have never felt judged. And it is an amazing gift that he has given me, that feeling of complete acceptance. Thanks to him I know how it feels to be loved, to be cherished. I know what it is to be held and to be soothed, to be wanted, unconditionally and without reservation. And because he gave without taking more than I wanted to give, because he loved without laying claim, because he cared for me as if I was his own, he remains my compass and my benchmark, my starting point, my comparison, my beginning - if not my end.

* * * * * *

I’m getting rather tired of the retrospective. What is it about being 15,000 kilometres from home that results in my examining every encounter, every part of my life in excruciating detail, looking for meaning that in all likelihood isn’t even there? I feel like I am becoming one of those people that examine the tissue after a giant, wet, sneeze. It’s just not right. Especially in public.

* all names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.

I believe too often. I lose myself too easily. I fall into old patterns of doubt. I stumble. I flail. I wait. I bide my time. I hold my tongue. I yell and curse and stand on unsteady feet. I resort to sleep. To silence. To quietness. To early morning blue grey dawns, the same day breaking through the window. I count them. They pass. The same. Through the night, when you are asleep. I sit. All the dawns that you don’t see. All the mornings I travel blindly. I give up too much. I have given away too much. I think too much. I have too much time to pass. Too much fucking endless time. I don’t want to give anymore. I don’t want to believe anymore. All of it, I want it back. It’s not for sale. It never was.

In unravelling this story, I’m remembering the small things, the details of who she was - before she became medication, sleepless nights, and nightmare days. I try to keep these rememberings to myself but they rush out of my mouth at unexpected times, at inopportune times. I find myself blurting out the story of her funeral to friends on road trips. And afterwards I sit awkward and silent, trying to trace the thought process that led me back to her.

I find myself repeating the things she believed, dolling out her superstitions to friends as if they were advice. I don’t know if they are of any interest to anyone but me. I recall rolling my eyes whenever she repeated herself for the hundredth time. The things she believed seemed so old-fashioned, like relics from another time. I know now that she was leaving me with things to remember, compiling my inheritance, giving me all that remains when the person themselves is gone. She was writing the story for me. Putting it together, neatly in chapters. Whimsy amongst the tragedy, fairytales amongst the bitterness. She gave me this story and all I have to do is remember it.

Never leave your wardrobe doors open at night. Keep them closed for good luck.

If you pass someone a bar of soap, an argument will follow. Place the soap on a surface between you and allow them to pick it up themselves.

Always turn your shoes right side up for good luck.

A case of the hiccups means the one you desire is thinking of you.

To cure the hiccups take nine small sips of water and then drain the glass. All whilst holding your breath.

If you are having a run of bad luck, collect some coins, wrap them in some pretty fabric and loosely tie the bundle with a ribbon. At 12.00 noon on a Friday leave the parcel in the middle of a crossroad. Whoever finds and unties it will also free your good luck.

Avoid kissing your loved ones on the eyelids. Arguments may follow.

A bubble floating on the top of your coffee indicates jealousy.

A ritual for when you are missing loved ones who have died: On a Saturday morning collect a candle, a few flowers and your favourite incense. Place the flowers near a photo of your loved one, light the candle and burn the incense. Talk to them if you want to. Allow the candle to burn itself out.

If you dream of being sick, good luck is coming your way.

If you dream of someone you love dying, they will have a long and healthy life.

If you dream of water and the water is clear all will go well. If you dream of rough seas, there are hard times ahead. If you dream of calm seas, contentment is around the corner.

Don’t let your lover into your head. Your lover’s intimate knowledge of you should start at the nape of your neck.

If you ask for forgiveness, wholeheartedly, you will find it. Within yourself.

There’s a bee buzzing in the living room. Pipi is on to it. It’s lucky she’s such a scaredy cat patient hunter. If there was any chance of her catching it, I would actually have to get up and do something about it. The sun is shining outside, it’s quiet. I love this village, this break place. From the windows I can see tree covered mountains old as time, small stone houses with smoke curling from the chimneys. I can see the bombed out remains of a pre-world war two house and I can see poppies growing wild. I’m thinking about place and time and continuity. And I’m thinking about her and history and stories and change. I’m thinking about my friend, arriving by bus in a few hours and the things I need to do between now and then to make this place a little more welcoming. I’m thinking about my boyfriend, who has gone off to find food, nothing’s open on this public holiday Thursday. I’m thinking about the drive here last night, about how he makes me laugh - usually without meaning to and I’m wondering why we fight each other so much, why it’s so hard sometimes. But mostly, I’m thinking about love. Love for places, for each other, love throughout time, love that ties and binds so tight that sometimes I wonder if I’m not choking on it.