I forgot to put this here, probably because I’m an idiot. Exhibition with my friend Joe Baker at a bar in the city. It was good. It will continue to be good for the rest of the month. Go see it if that’s what you’re in to. There’s awesome art for sale (biased opinion)
I usually catch a tram home from work, it picks me up from under the bridge where the homeless people sleep. The weather is getting warmer, but they still lay in thick blankets, between the pillars, between the roads. Busses and trams pass by only meters from their beds, yet still they do not stir. Earplugs in, they settle for the night to be serenaded by an urban lullaby.
I watch happy people, distracted by their conversations, walking past or standing right beside them who don’t even realise they are there. The invisible unwanted.
The tram is full of conversation, yet none is there for me. A happy man on heroin leans out the window like an excited dog in the breeze, muttering happy thoughts to himself… perfectly present yet so far removed. His softened, glassy eyes are free and content, and though wary, people seem fairly unconcerned by the commentary, the vocalisation of his internal dialogue and his seeming inability to stay still. He strikes up conversation with ease.
The woman across from me wears turquoise jewellery. She is beautiful and intriguing. She writes in her journal, mirroring my actions. I want to know what festivals her wristbands are from; She wears them as part of her collection of bracelets. Another stranger who I likely will never know. It seems rude to interrupt her from her writing and I am too drunk and tired to have confidence in my ability to articulate sentences. There are no good moments to catch her eye and the distance between us in the carriage seems vast and impossible, especially with all this noise.
The tram is strangely packed out, much busier than this morning, when a man began screaming in a most concerning way. Severe Tourette’s, or schizophrenia, I’m not sure, possibly a mix of the two. He wailed an angry and tortured noise, periodically slapped himself in the head with force, and rocked rigorously back and forth. Nobody seemed too concerned, and gave him little more than the look you would give to a screaming infant. A brief inconvenience which is to be endured. He seemed like quite a regular, though I’ve never seen him before.
I don’t know what to make of any of it. I’m not sure what it means.
I suppose I’m just glad that I’m alive.
I think of Jim as I absorb the soundscape.
The cars hiss by my window, like the waves down on the beach.
The constant hush of a million petrol wheels rolling over countless tonnes of tarmac just off to the side of me blends into a soft white noise,
accented by the songs of the birds and the beating of helicopter blades somewhere overhead.
A siren sounds emergency, whilst a man declares his urgency, with yet another blast of an angry car horn.
A strange city mash it is, like the statues of the CBD rising from the stark, flat nothingness of the Native Grassland Circle;
A strangely barren and unexplained ellipse of dry, yellow grass, flanked by the beauty of gums and the frolicking of happy dogs.
I choose to walk and weave through the trees, exploring new areas for hidden delights, whilst others stick to the tarmac trail, observing nature with their headphones in, and walking in a pre-determined loop.
A half demolished building attached to a hospital, a remanent of a wing long gone, juts out from behind a eucalypt, caged behind a large blue fence.
Its insides vomit out and hang limply down the open face of its wounds; cables and twisted rebar hanging like entrails with an illusion of weightlessness,
like thread unfurling from frayed fabric, hanging as though tonnes of twisted steel could blow freely in the breeze.
It’s a strange feeling to walk through an area like this in an otherwise concrete city;
strangely soothing, yet sharing the sad irony of going to see animals at a zoo.
A moderated sample of what once ran freely.
Roads and footpaths run through the park like veins, whilst pipes and drains poke through the surface like open pores;
a reminder that every tree visible is here by design, and every blade of grass cut by machine.
It’s not quite reality, but I’ll happily take it today as a nutritious supplement for the soul.
You can’t fake the simple beauty of the sunset’s fading orange light, washed over the fresh blossoms of a graceful tree.
You know when you start to move house, after living in the one place for a while, and you realise you’ve accumulated all this stuff, and now you have to go through it all and re-evaluate it; see what you want to take with you, what is rubbish, and what you can give away to others to lighten your load
There’s always a bunch of stuff that you just can’t get rid of, but you don’t know what to do with. It’s the same stuff that you’ve been carting around for ages, the same stuff that you had this same crisis about last time you moved. Sentimental stuff, old photos, records, memorabilia, random items you’ve collected along the way that you only ever look at when you’re contemplating getting rid of them. But you can’t get rid of them, because there’s only one of them in the whole world that holds that meaning for you. An extremely rare, limited edition piece of nothing, which is yours and yours alone; an old wristband, a letter from a past lover, and a rock that reminds you of a wonderfully special place or moment.
You never manage to get rid of these things, and after completely derailing your momentum for packing and sorting whilst you reminisce, you end up putting them back in the box and decide to take it with you after all, convincing yourself that it doesn’t really take up that much room.
Well I have a box inside of me that I cannot get rid of, and it is filled with memories of you.
Every time I re-evaluate myself, I find this box with your name on it, and I can’t help but look inside. It is filled with images and videos, memories of kind words and happy moments, experiences, adventures, warm feelings, and a big, sealed jar full of love which I never got to give you after you went away.
When you left I didn’t stop loving you. You can’t just fall out of love with someone like turning off a tap. My heart continued loving for you for a long time after that, until the source finally just dried up. Even in my sadness, the love was still there, but it had nowhere to go, and so it ended up in this jar. This jar which I cannot throw away.
The jar is non-transferrable. It is yours, but you do not want it. I cannot give it away to a friend, put an ad in the paper or donate it to a charity. Nobody want’s a shitty old jar of someone else’s surplus love, but I cannot bring myself to throw it in the trash, to pour it down the sink or leave it on the side of the road.
I’d like to forget about it. I’d like for something to distract me so that I forget about this box, to leave it alone and unseen for long enough, so that when I eventually find it again I can realise that the love is old and dead. I can realise that it has passed it’s expiration and now holds a jar of nothing, so I can bring myself to finally throw the jar away. So I no longer have to carry it around with me. So I no longer have to rummage through the memories and find yet again that I was the weight that you had to cast off so that you could fly higher.
Despite the honesty, I must admit that I am destroyed.
I longed for the truth of your position and I finally was given that pride.
You have found another man to please you. You have embarked on the pleasantness of the start of another ride.
Long have I felt the lack of adequate communication, but only recently is the severance of our psychedelic bond. You have felt another man inside you.