Underwater Trysts

Summer’s arrived, all too speedily. I sat today, on burning tiles, pathetically trying in vain to gather the lower temperatures where they lay. Some of us try to escape the heat by lazing in pools, splashing idly while summer music sounds in-between underwater trysts, while some resort to burying their heads in the ground in the hope that they will somehow be forgotten.

Finding a job somewhere ably fitted to deal with the hot onslaught would be ideal. A freezer? An ice cream store? Maybe an air-conditioned cinema will do the trick. My job finding attempts have been weak-willed and scattered, and I’m damnably un-hireable, but such is life.

I’ve been at the beach, the last two days, collecting sunshine to store in a jar that I keep above my bed. Most of it leaked out, however and is currently residing on my arms and face. I now resemble something akin to a newborn bird – all pink and raw looking, loveliness indeed. I am constantly amazed at the miracle of aloe vera though, as it diminishes the redness in hours. So, soon (fingers crossed) the sunshine will be safely back in that jar, and my shoulders will be returned to a reasonable hue.

I had my first high-way driving experience on the way to the Coast, which was a great feeling. Having a mother sitting beside me sitting up straighter than a pole, flinching at every touch of accelerator and nearly jumping out of her seat every now and then (just for effect) was a little off putting, but I made it in one piece, and more amazingly, so did my dear, blue car. My introduction to fifth gear went smoothly, and I cant wait for a re-run. I foresee many beach trips this summer, but they will have to be put on hold until I acquire the little red P to proudly display on my windscreen. Who knows when that will be though. Maybe not until the last of Summer's waves have faded, and the wrinkles of Autumn begin to appear, but I hope not.

So, I'm going in search of the next underwater tryst, where it's ever-cool, soundless and blue. Until next time.

A Walk, a Talk, and People You Meet in the City

+Post-school days are filled with reading, sun, music – both loud and soft, cooking breakfasts that last for hours, driving, wandering around with no direct destination and movies of any and every kind.
– Phone calls, endless mind-numbing phone calls for unwanted purposes, such as jobs and other arrangements. People's questions 'So what are your plans now?'
Finances are dwindling, faster than the water in the dam, but the sun is still out, so I’m going to sit and laze luxuriously for now. A rather long post to end November, please forgive my ramblings.

I took a walk last night, in the aftermath of a lovely outing that restored my faith in having a good time for under $6. The walk took me on the longest detour I think I have ever encountered, and, like many night-time walks, involved the strangest assortment of night-owls, dark corners, bewildered looks and far off lights.
While a friend and I tottered to a lonely train station, on shoes quite worn from dancing we smilingly thought of the evenings entertainment and sleep ahead of us. On reaching the stations entrance, however, we found it closed. The metal roller door laughed at us as we looked at it, bewildered and proceeded to search for another way in. At this point, a lady appeared, her face etched in alarm and almost clung to our sleeves as she asked for directions. On telling her we didn’t know either, her eyes bulged. No matter, we’ll find a way, follow us, we said. We walked and walked, and walked some more, not lost, but not knowing how to get to the station without making ourselves candidates for a marathon. We passed deserted shops and burnt out cars and all the other usual city furniture. Premature Christmas music harassed our ears in places, and the lady, I think I’ll call her Jean, murmured her unfamiliarity with the landscape.

The outer-suburbs of the city at night, are quiet, though full. The view from the top, looking out over the most immense stretch of multicoloured lights is always splendid, and then it seemed exceptionally so, because I had nowhere to be -no early morning starts or late night study sessions or tired ankles, elbows and knees. We stood atop a bridge and waited for Jean to catch up (she was not as ably fitted as us for such treks) and discussed overseas trips and music and the brilliance of the dancers we had seen earlier. She reached us, puffing and looking a little worn. ‘I want my bed, and I want it now!’ she demanded, and we smiled sympathetically. She told us she wanted to find a bus, and began promptly in the direction of what looked like one. ‘I don’t think this is a servicing bus stop’, I mentioned as we stood at a shelter covered in leaves and fraying from disuse. Jean looked at us askance, and pulled out her phone ‘I’m calling them’. Them? They the unnamed watchers of late night walkers and lost people alike; the transport guru’s, confusers and frustrators –Translink. ‘Uh, the train station is just over there’ I pointed to a spot, some miles in the distance and she gave me a withering look and continued dialling. ‘But we’re not actually lost’ my friend tried to explain to her. ‘Hello, we’re lost and would like to know the nearest bus stop’, she said into the phone. I shared a glance with my friend, who from now on, shall be known as Beth, and we agreed we couldn’t leave her, as she was obviously quite concerned and just a little loopy. When she hung up, she explained to us, in a state of near panic that the nearest bus stop was in front of the fire station. I had no idea where that was, but pointed out the lights indicating the closeness of the train station. ‘But I don’t know about trains’ she said in a high-pitched voice. ‘That’s ok, we do.’ And so she followed us, like a lost dog intent on rescue. We saw a group of girls, smoking and sharing a midnight drink.
‘Do you mind if I have one?’ Jean asked. She calmed down after that and cigarette in hand, followed us without concern. Beth shouted her name into a tunnel and listened to the echo bounce. Creatures crawled over every surface, and Jean yelled when something touched her foot. We hung over a railing and thought of falling and how nice it would be to fly, but the lady stood behind us, glancing around and tapping her foot anxiously until we climbed down and resumed the journey. A man came out of a dark, unseen corner and we stepped around him as his eyes were given far too free a roam over the three of us. Jean made a noise in her throat as though she might choke and hurried ahead of us faster than she had walked all night.

As we neared the train station, we surveyed the distance we had travelled and the square we had walked in to reach something a mere ten metres from our original destination and laughed. Wire fences and roller doors have a lot to answer for. Finally, on the train, we sat and listened as Jean told us of the sleep-in she was deserved after that stress and we agreed and smiled to ourselves. We instructed her which station to get off and which train to catch from there and she thanked us and exited.

I didn’t even know her name, but I hope she found her way home alright.

A cup of tea and a blueberry muffin calls, and my book is waiting eagerly for my return, so I'll end having already said too much. Farewell November, until next time.

A Rain-Soaked View

As I write this opening post, I have not a clue what it is that my blog shall be about, and which direction, out of the many millions that it may take.

To introduce myself: I am 18, though will not be forever. I profoundly like books, music, poetry, art, peach iced tea, coffee, winter, the colour blue, epiphanies, short-lived ideas and long lived plans, and a myriad of other curiosities. I dislike clowns, early mornings, sarcasm, avocadoes and hot hot days.
I wonder if this will be read at all, by anyone…anyone? But I know with a heavy heart that it will likely not be and my rants are directed at fathomless air. Nonetheless, my blog shall be a blog to welcome in the Spring, and send summer off and good riddance. A blog of poppies and snow, lavender and eyelashes. Of euphonious gamines with bubblegum hair, and wild-eyed tyrants with nothing to say.

Like flowers in a bed of hail, or a game of scrabble lost. Or the brightest of reds, seen only at the right time of day. An afternoon picnic, clad in boaters and scarves, or the longest road, with a twist at the end. Like a dive bomb mid-splash and a rain-soaked view, this blog is a bit of everything. A mish-mash of oddities and carbuncles and delights. Who knows, someone may even read it.

Now after that rather ambitious beginning, lets see where this goes. I’m curious.