Naarm Melbourne / Writer & Arts Worker

Self-isolation & Working from Home

Ruby is a Scorpio.


i am sitting on a chair, one of those chairs with metal legs and seafoam green leather cushioning (usually they’re orange, but everything in this place is green). i am in an abandoned warehouse filled with rocks & talking about the roller rink i apparently work at. my roller rink boss is wearing a boilersuit the same colour as my chair. he is tall & has very short, mostly white, hair on his head. i can’t see his face. there is a white woman next to me dressed like gwyneth paltrow in the royal tenenbaums — which i have never ever seen. its a big caramel coloured coat & a blonde bob. but she’s also wearing a little seafoam green hat, which i don’t think is part of the movie costume. i think she is there in some kind of legal capacity. maybe the roller rink is trying to fire me. i can’t focus on the conversation, which is something about how to access centrelink & some kind of training for my job (which is here, which is a roller rink despite the fact that it is actually an empty warehouse. also i can’t actually roller skate). i can’t focus because i have a uti. i am squirming in my seat. i don’t know what i am wearing except that i think my shoes are high heels & that they are also seafoam green. eventually i interrupt the conversation, which is really actually just this boss that i don’t actually have & the woman talking about me in front of me, to say i need to go to the doctor. they drop everything & they rush me out but i have to walk through a never ending sea of rocks which fill an abandoned amusement park, where the roller rink is located. it’s an island & the air is still & no one is around. everything in this dream has been abandoned. & everything is green. i don’t know what this means. except maybe i do. i trudge along, trying to get out. but the rocks make it hard to walk & i am stuck there forever with my uti & the woman in the coat & we are standing next to a rickety rollercoaster that sways on its hinges even though there is no wind.

© Neptune and Manisha Anjali

© Neptune and Manisha Anjali