The Netflix show is called Crazy Head. I watch the entire season quite a few times. In the last scene of the series finale the two heroins stand at the entrance to a crypt and in perfect unison they flick their wrists and make their retractable batons extend out in such a badass way that I get a tingle of excitement every time I watch it. OH how I want a retractable baton of my very own. It is a source of excited rambling for many a day in the apartment I share with a long suffering person who made a rather daring decision to love me.
One fateful day it happens. I get presented with a postage parcel. It is not a full sized one as they are apparently ‘illegal’ and ‘would be as long as your entire height thus making swift and suave deployment impossible.’ It is small and comes in its own little pouch. I squeal as soon as i take it out of the pouch and feel its weight in my hand. I am taught how to flick it just right so it pops out from 15cm of metal to 35cm of metal. What follows is an excited and serious discussion of how I could utilize this in a situation that called for it. As we talk I stand in the middle of the living area practising a film like extendable baton flick giggling evilly like the little gremlin I am. In order to retract extended baton you simply push the tip into the ground in a swift movement. I blurt out the idea as it forms in my excited brain: I need a thigh holster! So I can have easy discreet access at all times. I would not even use it I would just enjoy knowing i had it hiding against my thigh. It would emit a feeling and aura not unlike the feeling that comes from wearing sexy underwear, only far more comfortable and fun.
The truth is that if I was in trouble the best action would be to run, if that is possible. With my lack of peripheral vision whose to say I would clock the danger in time to make a speedy escape? Anyway its in the home that women are more likely to be killed so I guess its best that I keep these things where they could be needed most. When I say this I am not meant with defensiveness or outrage. No shouts of ”Are you saying I would do something like that!” They know it’s a statistic and a well proven one.
Discussing ways of defending myself even if it is not something that I could in reality do, is cathartic and fun. It is nice to pretend that I have a fighting chance. Even though with my back to a wall I wouldn’t. I’m not even five foot tall with small bony shoulders and elbows with no actual core strength to make good use of said tiny but sharp bony elbows.
One Sunday evening L grabs his camera and we go on a walk with a creative mission: take photos of me with my tiny little retractable friend in locations that seem zombie dystopian. It is early evening that beautiful pre sunset light. Walking past houses the sounds of knives and forks being scraped over plates and voices waft around and melt into the air. We go down to the Merri Creek. Every time someone walks by with their dog or a friend I tuck my retractable baton inside my jacket. Even though it is merely a prop and I have no intention of using it for real.
I am not good at getting my photo taken when I am aware of it. I am a fidget. I may have a good angle but as soon as L has set the camera up and about to take the photo, I have a habit of moving and wrecking the shot. I never thought I would end up with someone who was talented at photography and seems to think Im a worthy be it annoying subject. It is a fun thing to do together. I am told to walk up some steps leading to the walkway along the creek. I am told to make my way down the steps with my flicked baton as though I am about to fight something imaginary and dangerous. This is difficult when the only thing in front of me is a person whose face looks at me like I may not be the total trash goblin I think myself to be. So I look past that person and envision something else.
Every time I was told I’m too smart for my own good. Every time I feel ugly and all the times to come that I will feel ugly. The fear of death and the fact that I may go to hell or if not that just be aware that I died and there’s nothing I can do about it. I see my death in the hospital bed. I think of every man who has done monstrous things and received no consequences. I think of the things done to people I care about. I envision my emotional swings and depression the BPD that makes my internal voice so hectic my temper so quick to consume me. My fear of god even though I like to believe I don’t actually believe anymore. That I am passed it now and can live a good life and try to be a good person free from religious obligation. I see the secrets I am keeping and how I wish I could shout about it and bring on some justice. No, I don’t see some imaginary monster that needs slaying. They exist in a place where no retractable baton can diminish them. I start walking down the steps and make the baton click out with a flick of my wrist. The photo gets taken.
There is a poem by Elizabeth Hewer that I discovered recently
i wish she had something savage
coursing through her skin.
god should have made girls lethal
when he made monsters of men.
Perhaps this could help explain my affinity with things quick to cause harm and easy to hold.