Sunday of my Life

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.