My direction home

Much less than lightning like a pencil to the ocean but whole as a pie. Superman slapped me across the face, twice, in a forwards backwards both sides of my face tennis swing motion. It was violently shocking and swift though not violent beyond playful in intent. I suddenly noticed his height and the size of his hands, roughly twice the size of mine. I pushed my hand into my bag and pulled out a pair of red leather gloves. I held the gloves aloft, he skittered backwards a step or two but I lowered my arm a little and stood there in the freezing night, drunk, shocked and motionless outside the Enmore Theatre. This is the moment I keep coming back to, the literal slap in the face. It reminded me of something, something like how the illusion of control and safety can slip when you least expect it. I wasn't afraid of Superman, there was no need for fear, he was grinning his ridiculous grin, hopping about with his jeans rolled up to show off his pink stripy socks (a birthday present from me) with his long coat flapping in the wind. He looked like a cartoon pirate. My face didn't sting, it was a swift but gentle slap, I stood on Enmore Rd yelling insults with my arm held high noting the small silent compartment frozen in the centre of me.

Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."

Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.

I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.

My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.