Sunday of my Life

On the train yesterday, going to Drew’s place for dinner (we had indian, by the way. Rogan Josh, Butter Chicken, Lamb Korma and Coconut Curry Prawns. Delicious. I am so learning how to cook indian once I’m in my own place). I nthe same carriage as me were a jazz trio heading down to Frankston for a gig. Suddenly, up they stand, out come the instruments, and off they go. It made the whole, long ride go much faster. Kudos to them (oh, and several gold coins, too. You know my tradition with buskers).

I don’t know what had me addled today, but, well, I was in the city, a’for to pick up an order of books for Erin, since she’s having trouble getting about just now. I walked into the store and said to the girl on duty at the sales counter:

“I’m here to pick up an error for Ordin.”

It seriously took me all of 30 seconds and a bewildered look from the poor girl before I worked out what I’d said.

The day dawns dull and grey. A chill in the air meets my face as I await my bus at the usual place, only to watch it drive on past me, not having seen my dark-clad figure in the dim light, I suppose. The darker colours representing a sombre mood, and I give a small sigh and pull my book out of my bag and begin the long trudge to the station.

A rude awakening at 3 am; a nightmare sears the mind, and sleep departs to return no more that night. A resolve to get up, then, and ‘do something constructive’. A futile hope, it seems. The work sits in front of me, but the knowledge will not flow. The little inner demon berates me, whipping me with my failure to remember these things that I know I know. What do you expect? It’s 3 am, and I’m being haunted by nightmares again. Give me a break.

Slowly do I amble to the station, the cold wind whipping through my hair, still damp from my shower. My eyes are fixed on my book, a distraction from the time it takes me to walk there. A distraction from the pain that quickly develops in my feet as I walk. I’ve put on weight again, lately, after losing an appreciable portion of it. I’m well aware of it; I can feel it in the effort it takes to walk, or stand up. Time to get my bike fixed, I think. Time to get myself some free-weights and start training. Again. Time to make all sorts of promises to myself, and watch as I break them one after another.

My thought fly away from the text on the page as I walk, and I find myself reading the one line, over and over again, not taking a word of it in. I dreamt of her again, earlier in the night. The girl I lost before I even had her, so very long ago, when I was a young and naive 15-year-old. I dreamt of what could have been and never was. I dreamt of happy times, of her meeting my family, seeing my sisters and my mother and even my father making a place in their hearts for her. And then the spiteful voices of hateful people, the cutting blades of rumour and gossip tore it to shreds, as it did in real life.

I randomly wandered — days, weeks, months ago — through the streets of Melbourne. And I saw her, I passed her in the street, although I don’t remember which street I walked down. She didn’t recognise me; I’ve changed since high-school. But she hasn’t. She still looks the same, as beautiful as ever. She walked with friends, and they chattered as we passed. Our eyes met… and she didn’t recognise me. But I recognised her. I’ve never forgotten her. So I walked on further. I didn’t look back. I wouldn’t let myself. I just walked, for hours on end, ignoring the pain in my feet, refusing to give into the depression which threatened to swallow me again.

And so I walked again today, on my way to school. The long, lonely march to the station, my book packed away when the first spattering squal of rain announced itself in an icy trickle down the back of my neck. Nothing to distract me, so I thought of her again, and finally, I let her go. I walked into the station, and came to school. This place of learning that I adore, full of new friends; people to whom I relate better than I have with many people in my entire life. People who share my passion. I take a look at my life, and I see what holds me back. I let her go, and I move on.

But I know that, sometime again, I’ll find myself walking around the rainy city. It’s my escape, to simply walk, and see what there is to be seen. My quiet time for relfection; a luxury Iseldom afford myself these days, but one I think I will need to do more often, lest my life swallow me and change me in ways I don’t want to be changed. So I’ll do it again, go walking around the rainy city.

What a pity there’s things to do at home.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, the Ruido Grande is on tonight, at the aforementioned place in the big image. I may or may not be there thanks to complications, we’ll see what develops as the day flows on.

And no, I’m not talking about The Whitlams song (although I do highly recommend them to those who have never heard them. Royal in the Afternoon and Charlie No. 3 are works of pure genius, and Blow Up The Pokies has a message behind it to touch the soul and make you think). I am, however, talking about Melbourne, the city in which I… well, I don’t live in it, but I live near it, and that’s as good as to me. Being in Melbourne is an experience, it really is. Melbourne is the cultural capital of Australia, and there’s always something to see. I visited Melbourne today to pick up some books for Erin and, unashamedly walking out of what is very definately a romance bookstore, I safely stowed them away in my backpack and went to see what I could see.

Taking a wander out of Australia on Collins I put my feet on autopilot and waited to see where they’d take me. When they didn’t take me anywhere I realised that I actually needed to give them instructions on muscle movement and so on (there go those damn meds again) and so I took them off autopilot and pointed myself up Collins towards Elizabeth St.

Walking along, noting the stores I walk past and the things I see, looking for something blogworthy…

Clothing, art store, software, clothing, clothing, busker, clothing, sex store, clothing…

Now, my opinions on clothes shopping having been given before, I won’t bother to tell you how uninterested I was in the clothing stores I walked past. Most of them being women’s clothes anyway, this goes without saying. I did stop to listen to the busker (becuase I always do) and I paid him generously (becuase I also always do). I was a busker myself at one point, venturing out into Melbourne’s streets on a sunday to sing various acapella and adapted works, with a bit of Musical Theatre and Opera on my repetoire sheet, I know a couple of things about buskers that most people don’t stop to consider. Buskers aren’t usually there becuase they’re desperate for the money (although some may be), and they aren’t there to show off. They’re there becuase they love music and they want to share it with the people around them.

And why not? There is not one person in this world, not one (apart from the hearing impaired, but that goes without saying, and that is truly one of the things for which I pity them), who has not at some point appreciated a piece of music, whether it be death metal (which to me sounds like badly played white noise, but to each their own) or italian opera, or caberet music, or rap, tribal drumming, choral acapella, Gregorian Chant, anything. It’s all music and someone, somewhere appreciates it for what it is. Me, I have a very eclectic taste in music. I’ll listen to almost anything, and find something to like about it. To some people this means that I have no taste in music but… eh… I like alot of styles. I’ve been out there among the buskers, I’ve lived that life, and that’s why now I always stop to listen and appreciate the gift that they are giving to the world, to respect it for what it is, and to pay them their dues in respect, appreciation and gold coins.

So onwards past my busking friend, past the next round of clothing stores, past the art shop and the sex shop (such places, in typical Austrlaian fashion, unashamedly front themselves on the everyday world. They don’t haunt alleyways and dark corners of the city, but stand out bold and proud, saying ‘here I am. If you must judge me judge me for what I am’), finally spilling out onto Elizabeth Street. Looking down towards Flinders St. Station I see the familiar purple frontage of Minotaur, reputedly the best place to go for Sci-Fi and Fantasy books and collectables. In my opinion it’s a good place to go to waste money, since they charge between 3 and 10 dollars over the going rate just for a paperback novel, and between 15 and 30 dollars over the going rate for a hardcover. The only time I’ll go and buy from there is if Fahrenheit, my favourite fantasy bookstore, doesn’t have what I’m looking for and can’t get it for me. Even then I have to be pretty desperate for the book to pay their prices for it. Which, admittedly, I usually am.

See, I’m a person who reads. I real a lot. And I mean a lot. I can read an average paperback in 2 to 6 hours. I read the latest installment of the Harry Potter series in 8 hours flat. Everywhere I go I have my backpack with me, with at least 3 books in it. If I run out of things to read I will read just about anything I come across. Street signs, financial reviews, quarterly status reports, anything really.

Emerging from Minotaur having had a look around, a browse if you will, and having put a life-size stand-up of Legolas on layby for Erin (shhh… she doesn’t know yet), I walked down to Flinder St. Station and caught a train going through the City Loop. A few minutes later I was at Melbourne Central Station, and catching a tram down towards RMIT and the State Library. Oh look, students doing bad street theatre about an incomprehensible subject. Yep, I’m in Melbourne alright…

And I’m loving it.