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Sunday, May 29, 2011

204th and 205th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Saturday August 3rd, 1999 1:25 AM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE I actually feel a little guilty

Stacey, I’ve managed to sneak away from the party and steal into Elsa’s father’s office. They’re all singing and Elsa is dancing with her second cousin who has wonky eyes that keep trying to look at each other.

Good times.

Anyway, in case someone approaches and I quickly have to sign off and send this email, I’ll say a quick goodbe here.

So see you tomorrow at the party and if not a kiss I will certaintly slowly brush past you a couple of times during the night.

Love Dom

PS and the place is called abhaile – two thumbs up for you, Ms researcher.

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Saturday August 3rd, 1999 1:45 AM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE I actually feel a little guilty

Okay so there’s my goodbye in case there’s email interruptus.
God I don’t want to be here. I mean they’re nice people and all.

But there’s always a moment around 11:00 pm when everyone’s a bit pissed and the argument happens.

It usually starts over something political. Elsa’s parents are conservative and their children aren’t. I’ve always thought this was weird. They come from a working class background – and were certainly leftward in their youth.

But when they came to Australia, they abandoned their beliefs and voted conservatively. I’m not sure why. Is it because Australia offers new hope and with new hope comes a new form of government? Is it because they feel betrayed by the homeworld system and see a happier life with lazy thinking and less worry? Is it simply about money?

I don’t know. This always confuses me. I simply don’t understand the moment you abandon social justice for better tax breaks. Seems all fucked up to me.

(As you can tell I rarely enter the Family political debate and feel the
brief need to expel it with the above two paragraphs)

Anyway, it was 10:30 and Elsa’s father was already drunk. I could sense him gearing up for the debate. And sure enough, bang on 11:00 it started.

But tonight’s debate wasn’t about politics. It was about Elsa. It was about me.

See, Elsa’s folks had discovered that we were seeing each other and they didn’t like it. They didn’t approve of my nationality or my faith, not even my politics.

They admitted they liked me and enjoyed my company. They thought I was smartish (her mother’s words, not mine) but I had a sense of entitlement.
Elsa flipped out. She yelled that it was her life and she could be with whomever she wanted.

Her father fought back – yes he agreed in theory but he would much prefer it to be a good Irish lad.

The brother’s jumped in at this point. They defended me and Elsa. They thought we were the perfect couple; so desperately well suited.
Her mother jumped back in. She again offered a back handed compliment to me, saying that I did feel like part of the family but as a friend, not blood.

Elsa wailed at this one – threatening to never see her family again.
And me, I stood in the middle as this barrage of bombs exploded around me.

I have to admit, I felt a little impervious to the violence; I felt strangely invincible for as much as the shrapnel flew through the air, nothing hit me. I didn’t bleed, I didn’t fall over; I just stood there watching the war like a ghost.

Of course in Elsa’s true family tradition, come midnight, the argument was over and everyone was embracing. Her parents had accepted me into their flock and were deeply apologetic, confessing that they needed to yell it out so they could find happiness. I thanked them for their honesty and thought of you. And then he said:

Elsa’s Father: So when are you going to ask her to marry you, Dom?
I didn’t know what to say and I have to admit, I mumbled a truly weak reply.

Me: Soon.

Stacey, I can’t believe I said it. I could’ve been honest. I should’ve been honest; but all I said was ‘soon.’

Anyway, I’ve said my goodbye already. So I’ll just sign off. Miss you,

See you tomorrow at the party.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

203rd email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Friday August 2nd, 1999 15:32 PM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE I actually feel a little guilty

Cool, I understand…I hate it…but I understand…I’ll see you tomorrow night though….your place…party…it’ll be intersesting


PS And I really hope there’s a least one moment we can sneak away and steal a kiss…just one moment…

PPS Gaelic for home is abhaile I looked it up.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

202nd email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Friday August 2nd, 1999 13:04 PM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE I actually feel a little guilty

Stacey, you made me dance. Yep, I danced without music around the study. I picked Oftenbark up by his paws and led him around the desk until he gave me a look of sheer embarrassment.

But I don't care.

I can still dance by myself.

I can tap.

See, you made me Fred Astaire as I tapped to the corner of the room, up the walls and onto the ceiling.

I tapped around the light fittings and the cobwebs.

Skip ball change and shuffle onto buffalo, finally returning to desk, the chair and the computer – exhausted, delighted and thirsty but not done. Just needing a moment of pause, an interval, if you will, to catch my breath and take it all in.

Which is always dangerous, for in that afterglow the devil of reflection takes a seat beside you and gloats; not in the glory of your hoofing but in fog of reality.

Devil: You can’t dance! She can dance. She does it for a job. But you cannot dance. You are inflexible, clumsy and uncoordinated.

Me: I don’t need to dance professionally.

Devil: But you do need to pick a partner.

Me: Just one?

Devil: Just one.

Me: Can’t I dance in a group? Some dances are made for groups.

Devil: Really?

Me: Really.

Devil: Name this dance.

Me: Let me think.

Devil: See you are wrong.

Me: I’m thinking.

Devil: Stalling more like. See, I am right. I am always right. In your
face, Dom. Right in your face--

Me: The Conga line.

I then pick up a chewed-top-pen from my accidental collection I thrust the tip into his red tail.

He screams and he’s gone.

I am alone again wishing to see you more than ever.

But I can’t sneak out tonight, darling.

I have to go to Elsa’s parent’s house. It’s their wedding anniversary and the family are meeting in their country home for a catered dinner and booze up.

And we have to stay the night.

God I don’t want to. I know I’ll be thinking of you the whole time. I’ll be thinking I want to come home.


PS Yes they have a country home, can you believe it. It’s amazing; a large wooden palace with wrap around verandas inland and up the North Coast. They’ve even given it a name. I can’t remember it but it’s Gaelic for home, I think.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

201st email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Friday August 2nd, 1999 2:01 AM
Subject: RE RE RE RE I’m actually feel a little guilty

Dom did I just read ‘love dom’ at the end of your last email…? I know I shouldn’t point it out…but I can’t help myself…it makes me wonder if I’ll write ‘love stacey’ at the end of this email…I guess you’ll just have to wait and see…

Yes, I am certain that I came into your bookstore a year ago…and I reckon you served me…I have the vaguest memory…actually when we first met at Crisps’ party back in April, I did have a strong feeling that we’d met before…you did seem familiar…you did seem strangely comfortable too…I know I was probably a little cool…but part of me was just trying to work out why I strangely felt there was already a connection between us…

… maybe I’m just trying to justify that I was simply attracted to you…a guy with glasses gets me every time…

Anyway…for the moment, I’m going to believe we met in the bookstore…I’m going to imagine that you served me…I’m going to imagine that I wanted to read something meaningful and you guided me toward Franz Kafka…I’m going to imagine that you picked up his collected works (volume one) and told me that this could change my life…

I’m going to imagine taking the book off you and our fingers touching briefly over the spine…

I going to imagine, paying for it and walking out the shop, glancing one final time over my shoulder at you…

I’m going to imagine seeing you at the counter…perched on a stool…reading something surprising…something like CS Lewis…

I’m going to imagine that you looked up just as I was leaving…

I’m going to imagine you smiled and I knew that we would meet again…

I’m going to imagine that when I returned home I read Metamorphosis in one sitting and cried for hours…

I’m going to imagine that I put the book back in my book shelf and seeing a cockroach scuttle across the floor…and for the first time in my life I considered giving such an gross creature a name…

I’m going to imagine I then spoke to the cockroach as it hunted for crumbs…”Be safe, Gregor,” I imagine I said, “Avoid the fruit, avoid the family, avoid the world and know that you are safe here with me.”

Anyway there it is…my imagination on the page…I wonder what it says about me…

And what are you doing tonight? Can you sneak by in the wee small hours? I know that’s so much to ask…

Love (there we have it)


Sunday, May 15, 2011

200th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Thursday August 1st, 1999 18:21 PM
Subject: RE RE RE I’m actually feel a little guilty

Yeah, I was working in the bookstore a year ago. I started working there just after I moved out of home. My father teed it up. He knew the owner from on-campus business and I guess he used his status as an Arts Academic to get me a gig.

(Because Arts Academics truly rule the world, don’t you know – that’s why we still have musicals)

Sorry not quite sure why I’m telling you this – but yes I was working there a year ago. But I don’t think I served you. I am certain I would have remembered and I am certain we would have started this dance then.

Imagine that!? If we’d have begun one year ago where would we be now? Where will we be in a year?

Man, I rambling – had too much coffee today. Also I’m typing without glasses and making too many errors. I’m getting so sick of pressing that back space key.

I’m stopping now because I don’t make any sense.


Wednesday, May 11, 2011

199th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Thursday August 1st, 1999 13:34PM
Subject: RE RE I’m actually feel a little guilty

And now I don’t feel guilty at all...what’s wrong with me…it was so good to see you today…

god sex is good for guilt…

it’s funny isn’t it…we’re being dishonest in every way…but honest to each other…it’s like we’ve crossed the line and once it’s crossed we can do whatever we want…

So with this in mind - do you want to go out and kill a homeless person?

Hey I was also thinking…I reckon I went to your bookstore a year ago...

I’m certain of it...

Were you working there a year ago? I think you served me (as you do now – wink-wink)

Sunday, May 8, 2011

198th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Thursday August 1st, 1999 10:01 AM
Subject: RE I’m actually feeling a little guilty

Stacey, Yes I’m at the bookstore today. Just leaving now. So come on by. Anytime. But don’t just look in the window. It’s warmer inside.

And if you do, maybe we could sneak off so I can get a matching bruise on my other thigh. The lack of symmetry is killing me.


Wednesday, May 4, 2011

197th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Wednesday July 31st, 1999 22:21 PM
Subject: I’m actually feeling a little guilty

Sorry Dom, only just got your email...servers been down…been driving me crazy…I thought you might have emailed and I kept checking every five minutes…

Anyway back online now…

Well today was meant to be uneventful…was going to try and compose some music…that didn’t work…beginning to think that maybe the music thing isn’t for me…

it didn’t help that my mother rang to tell me my father had been in contact about the blunt assessment I made of him a couple of weeks back…she thinks I should be more sensitive…but come on, he’s a terrible father…and really I should have nothing to do with him…

…it also really worries me that she always defends him…I mean he cheated on her…

Anyway this stuffed my whole creative spirit and any attempt to write lyrics always had the touch of Plath about it…here’s an example:

“Why do I scare you, Daddy?

I’m small and harmless

Why do you scream when you see my, Daddy?

People say I look just like you…”

So indulgent, it drives me crazy…

So I went for a walk…before I knew it, I was near the city…I thought about walking to the University to see you…didn’t even need you to see me…just wanted to see you…through the window would be fine…

but as I got close to the edge of the city, near Roma Street…I saw Elsa…I think it was Elsa…she was in this car…in the passenger seat…talking to the driver…stopped at the traffic lights…

we made eye contact in that brief moment and I saw something in her face…something like she knew…or I knew…or something secret…I know that seems vague…but that’s the best I can come up with…it was if we understood each other somehow in this brief moment…

…but as I said…it might not have been her…

Anyway this event made me think of you more…and suddenly some lyrics popped into my head…

“In the ocean there’s this buoy

I cling to him in timeless sight

He has a little red light on top of his head

That helps me find him in the blackest night”

Got a melody for it too…I think it’s a little chick-folk…but perhaps with some grunty guitar behind it it could be an ironic pop song…

Fuck…what do I know? It’s probably shit…

Are you at the Uni bookstore tomorrow? I can pretend to be a customer if you like and you can show me something by Henry James while we chat about our infidelity…

I think I’m feeling a little guilty or something…

Sunday, May 1, 2011

196th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Tuesday July 30th, 1999 23:43 PM
Subject: RE bad

I miss you too, my big fat old slut.

What are you doing tomorrow? I’m working.

Boring day.

I‘ll be thinking of you as try to sell fellow students copies of Bronte or Cervantes.

That will help me survive.

Indeed I will take a paper plate from the University refectory and put it on my head; upside down.

I will spray paint my Nick Cave T-Shirt silver and sponge-stain it to look like armour.

I will then foster a sword from one of the wooden pickets that hold up the picture of Eron Broadhurst for Union President that have sprout from the earth with great fervour over the last week.

Then, by placing two ergonomic chairs from the back of the bookstore together and placing a some tourist tattle rug that my Day Manager insists on calling a piece of authentic Peruvian art over the top, I will crudely manufacture my nag, my Rocinante to carry me on my chivalrous adventures.

Once kitted out I will then attack those windmill leviathans on the Basketball courts and truly offer help to those that never want it.

I will be your Don Quixote, dear Dulcinea del Toboso. I will ride my nag into your romantic, horny palace. I will prove my worth by changing the world.

Or so I’ll ponder as a bash keys on the cash register, selling myriad copies of Dickens for Dummies while keeping my bone idle eye on the clock.



PS I’m not actually mad, by the way. It’s just - with you coming into my life - everything else has been made unbearable as comparison.
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