tales from an ordinary world

2001-07-27

The more I try to be receptive, the less I feel I'm succeeding (frustration, etc.). But the morning sounds of Balaclava junction seem a bit louder, or maybe they're just resonating a little more through the monkey suit I've put on for this funeral.

The half-hour train journey home (after a 20-minute tram ride) - time to think, remember, etc. It's been forever since I caught the Glen Waverley line. There used to be a high school on that hill, but now it's just more housing. Prime land, I guess. The train's a brand new one, they've reverted back to the old days - no carpet on the floor. The handles on the seats and the poles near the door are painted in a garish lime colour, and the patterns on the seat material is just random, weird, coloured shapes. The kind of thing that belongs in states further north, but the new buses in recent years seem to have the same problem.

There's some time to kill in Glen Waverley, so I grab breakfast at some cafe where they have speakers underneath the outside awning, pumping insipid "R 'n' B" into the sunny morning air. I'll cope. The waitress trips over the step while she takes my order.

At the bus loop, they've moved the buses around since the last time I waited for one, as if it's some huge game of musical chairs. What if I'd had to walk this much further all those other times ? I would've presumably missed an extra few buses. Lost, or rather, changed time. Time spent waiting. Time spent thinking about what I'd do when I get home. Time spent wearing out that tape of Hindsight by The Church. Time spent watching people go about their lives at the bus loop. Time spent looking at the ads posted all over the bus shelters (today, they're all advertising various underage dance parties. whatever).

The powerlines hum and crackle overhead as I walk home from the bus stop, past the tennis courts, past their house. You can almost see the cloud hanging over it, even though there's still 2 cars under the carport, and the garden's still looking nice. We come to say goodbye.

Sun gives way to rain by the time the funeral starts. Afterwards, while everybody has tea and biscuits, I shuffle to one side of the room, feeling (as I usually do in crowds) like I'm in everybody's way wherever I stand. I pass up watching the burial, and trudge off in the rain towards the station, where I stare blankly out the window until we pull into Flinders St. Comfort food's just half a block away at Tonkatsu Joshu.