Klesa Wilson20 March 2020
The girl I love thinks belonging looks like blank walls re-envisioned. Bedrooms of low-sheen warm white have become her cross-cultural companion, a familiar stalker and a friendly face, the constant same hue amongst the apartments in her growing inventory. Several taped photographs offer small windows to past lives of different values: friendships with those she hasn’t seen in two years, a family portrait from graduation, and a Caravaggio reprint of Bacchus—these images are staples on her plain canvas, family and art, the enduring forces in her resettling. Though the act of taping photographs speaks to the momentary ownership of a space, a personalisation of the generic in temporary life, she doesn’t mind. These white walls speak of the possibility for new photographs, waiting to be taken beyond the door’s threshold.
In my dream, I stand at the triple crossroads. Oily yellow light spills down onto the bitumen, barely illuminating the roads’ beginnings. To the eastern fork, I see the klongs of Bangkok, hear an echo over the long-tail boats: “this way to your past”. To the western way, the Australian countryside stretches infinitely, drowning in heavy rainfall: “this way to your future”. To the northern road, a Janus-voice of twin-speaking conjurers, beckoning me to choose their shadowed path: “our ways are unknown”.
The art upon gallery walls speak of deep histories, people immortalised in paint, lingering in their own mythologies. My feet always take me to the eighteenth-century European section, desiring to stand before illustrious portraiture of affluent women in creamy gowns, or poised families before pastoral landscapes, their homestead grandiose in the distance—beautiful, amorous, unified.
Every sexual experience that I have had has boiled down to one governing emotion: guilt.
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