The #5 Waldo House Series – Episode#2 : The Particles

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We lived at #5 Waldo House for 26 months. That’s 793 nights, because 2012 was a leap year.

#5 Waldo House was the cement between us. We had a very domestic relationship, maybe because the outside world was kinda hostile. Our families were not exactly supportive, so we were like two little birdies in their nest. We never managed to be a “social” couple, to build bridges with the external world like any sensible adults do after some time.

We lived on our own island. London NW10.

So much importance we granted to this flat. We were in fusion with each other and our fusion was in fusion with our home. So yeah, that was a lot of fusion.

After a while, we were speaking our own language, the “Freeklish” (for French/Greek/English), with our own vocabulary, idioms and declinations. People not familiar with us would miss out when we were talking to each other.

We loved our daily life. It has never been boring, or routinely, or mechanical. Not one day. We did everything in excess, laughing, fighting, fucking and being dumb.

When we decided to dynamite our couple, we carried on our day to day habits in the exact same manner, and even more intensely, knowing that the countdown had started.

Till the last days, we were like: “We love living together so much!” So fucking stupid. Such a fucking disaster.

Anyway, it had to be done.

It all happened quickly at the end. I could barely realise what it really meant. Packing boxes. Splitting the things we got together. Nothing too original I presume. You’ll tell me that everyone has been or will be there at some point. And it is true. I am not putting my drama above anyone else’s.

On the day, the 21 September 2013, I didn’t even have a moment to say good bye to the house. I was already carried away in the uncertainty of the next chapter.

Weird thing is, at that precise moment, I was barely sad. I was focusing on the field of anticipated excitement ahead.

We wanted to leave something from our months of happiness between those walls, so we threw at the top of the boiler the cap of the bottle of champagne that we drank for our 2 years together. It has an inscription on it: ” ∆ + Σ – 26/02/2012″.

Maybe it is still there?

I wonder what is left of us at #5 Waldo House. The walls must be absorbing the arguments and laughter of another couple, and so goes life.

I can’t help thinking sometimes – not too often – about all the particles of us left in the atmosphere, in the walls, in the ugly beige curtains that kept falling off, in the carpet. They have all witnessed so much love and drama.

Do you think that some physical particles may really still remain?

Particles of the bad words, the awful moments, and of the I-love-yous in every languages we knew, particles of all the orgasms we exchanged.

During the 4 weeks that we failed to become friends, months later, we went to see #5 Waldo House again one evening. Just to kill our ghosts together. We were curious to catch the sight of who was occupying our kingdom now. We hanged out outside the building for a little while, tried to stare through the window.

The lampshade had changed. That was a good thing. That’s the only clue we ever got.

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The #5 Waldo House Series – Episode#3 : The Bathtub

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That’s in the bathtub that we lost the battle.

It was in the spring of 2012, May or June.

We were soaking in hot waters. A couple of girls and a couple of candles.

It was supposed to be an enjoyable moment. But she brought up the sword-of-Damocles subject that I knew was hanging above my head since the first day of our common life.

Her parents wanted to come and visit in the fall, and it would therefore be very welcome if I was so very kind to plan myself a little 2-week holiday to evacuate the premises of my own home.

(The parents were told I was a boy).

We finally had hit the wall. We had gracefully managed to work our story around it for already 2 years. The state of grace was over.

I can’t remember any of my words. I can’t even remember what I thought.

I only remember diving underneath the water and not wanting to come back to the surface cause we’d have to finish this conversation.

But I soon got out of breath and emerged to articulate something like of course, I understand, I want you to have quality time with your parents, I am just a fucking dyke they don’t deserve to witness this, and you are a dyke too by the way, but yes that’s hard to admit, yes, only fair, yes, old generation, yes yes, let me just take a map of the world and put my finger on a random country and I’ll book tickets and it will be as if I had never existed.

Where is the line between compromise and self-bashing? When do we know what’s acceptable and what’s excruciating?  Should I have grabbed her hair and maintain her head under the water for a minute or two so she knew how I was feeling? Should I have walked out of the bathtub without even rinsing the foam off my body to pack my things and never come back?

It would have exploded if I had said no, so I said yes and it exploded anyway. Only difference is that we agonised for a year.

I’ve paid for my lack of courage. But I’ve never found what I could have done or said that day to prevent the explosion. It wasn’t in my power anyway. This was never my story.

On the map, my finger had landed on Iceland, so off I went alone to Reykjavik, which has since then become my spiritual retreat.

The purity of the Icelandic air burnt my lungs the first time I ever breathed it. I wandered Iceland alone under these disturbing circumstances. One day, I sat on a bench near the duck lake in the town centre. I wanted to enjoy the last rays of sun. I started thinking of what was happening in my London home at this instant.

I thought of the naked walls from which all my pictures and personal traces had been washed away – too feminine, too queer, too me. I thought of my clothes and shoes stuffed in bin bags and hidden behind a trapdoor above the same bathtub where it had all begun. I cried on all the ducks of Reykjavik that day, and she was calling me to help her cook a béchamel for her parents over the phone.

It is the most wounding feeling in the world to know that your existence has been clinically wiped out.

Picture borrowed from the wonderful I’m a Fucking Unicorn page.