Context -> meetcute -> witty banter -> horny -> conflict -> horny again -> WEDDING. There’s so little in this world that we can rely on to follow expected patterns.
She drove; / she only drank Red Bulls / and had a fount of uncynical / innocence I couldn’t compete with, / I mean she sang the radio / the whole way back / while commenting I was / the only drunk in existence / who wouldn’t sing or dance / to stuff.
Sliding Doors subjectively a better poem than that Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a Sliding Door. Sliding Doors but Gwyneth eating tempophagy I am eating door.
I’m so glad you are doing well and I’m feeling better now but I need you to know that I can’t sleep these days and I can’t write. So I’m up all night trying to stick the brightest star on the tip of my tongue. This is my soft apocalypse…
The dinner party, then, is one of the few forms of social theatre we queers have left still tinged with the kind of comforting repression that would make it recognisable to, say, a supernaturally resurrected Virginia Woolf.
The atmosphere is alive and available. I taste the salt on the tip of my tongue. I can see the sea in the distance, stretching outwards along the shoreline. There is a pale moon in the sky.
This issue is supported by Creative Partnerships Australia through the Australian Cultural Fund. Thank you to all those who supported us with a donation—this one’s for you.
