Bypass

The three of us spill out into the cold night, Alex boisterously declaring his need for a martini.  We’d just finished watching a screening of Danielle Lessovitz’s ‘Port Authority’ at the Astor Theatre: a gorgeous film about gorgeous people facing modern dilemmas.

“She’s beautiful, that T-girl.  Just so beautiful,” continues Alex.  ‘Beautiful’ is one of his oft-used words, along with ‘demure’, ‘sister’, ‘bitch’ and the universally popular ‘fuck.’

Alex, Tina, Shalini and I‌ wait to cross at the intersection of Dandenong and Chapel.  Tina teaches yoga and also at a girl’s high school; I’d met her last month at a party. At this point all I‌ know about Shalini is that she is Malaysian-born too and knew how to dress smartly for winter - her knee-high boots, bucket hat and structured coat are an elegant combination for the inelegant cold.

The lights change, the green man appears providing permission to walk. We cross and head towards the station, a friendly, chattering group much like the other friendly, chattering groups around us.  

Oh.  Crossing the blacktop crosses time; could I reach back and tell her everything would be okay? And this is what ‘okay’ looks like?

April 2018.  I walk across the intersection staring at my phone, lost.  It’s nearly 2.00pm, my dress is fluttering messily and maybe the gallery is towards the Astor?  As I’m consulting Google maps I‌ trip, falling on the bitumen near the tram tracks, skinning my knee like a child.  I want to cry, but there’s no time (or tissues) because I’m late for a session of therapy-as-art.

In the performance piece ‘Viewer As Patient’, artist and WIRE‌ support worker Sophie Hewson has volunteers book a free 50-minute session of therapy, and I‌ am one of those volunteers.  Because my broke, brokenhearted, hidden homeless self needs it. Eventually, I make it to the gallery. Everyone is kind, the first-aid kit is found and I am patched up.  Sophie speaks in a manner both analytical and compassionate.   I‌ try to make sense of my situation, but it is still new and unbelievable and daunting - I cry a lot.  I‌ keep asking her if the mistreatment and violations did actually happen, the subtext being, “was I‌ so stupid as to let it happen.”
She is calm and utterly without blame.  Instead, she holds up a mirror to the blame I‌ cast on myself while confirming that yes, she speaks often to women in my situation and yes, I was treated badly and it will be difficult to come to terms with.

When I‌ leave there is still light in the sky.  The weather is warm, but I am still lost.  I‌ head towards the intersection where I tripped, vowing silently to never look at my phone again whilst crossing the road.

August 2019.  Alex, Shalini, Tina and I wait for the train to Flinders Street.   “Everyone in the movie was beautiful,” Shalini says.  I look at the three of them - smart, healthy, thoughtful and attractive people who I didn’t know when my knee was grazed, when I‌ couldn’t afford a movie ticket, let alone popcorn or even a drink.  I laugh, and then the train comes.