tales from an ordinary world
2001-08-07
"Character building" experiences. Spending all morning biting my tongue rather than telling somebody off, and consequently finding it hard to justify my existence. Feeling a whole lot better after a good lunch out of the office. Standing in the rain waiting for the evening tram.
I'm not sure what to allow myself to feel good about these days - there's always a reason to feel like I shouldn't put myself first, that my needs can wait, there'll be other times. I'll cope.
2001-08-08
When there's nothing else to do, when the world's worn you out but you can't sit still, you can always go and iron a shirt or two. Therapy, or something.
On the walk home from the tram stop, past the town hall, the office lights are left on in one room, and the venetian blinds aren't closed. Through them I can see somebody's desk in cubicle-land. Neatly arranged on one of the cubicle walls is a collection of band stickers Fugazi, Black Flag - you get the idea. Offsetting this is a soft-toy dog perched on top of the person's monitor. I wonder what this person wears to work.
2001-08-10
Open all night, it's the fading twilight, when I fix something, something else breaks, the unconscious cosmic balance asserts itself. I don't want power, just freedom. 24 hours of scrawled billboards and yellow streetlights and old jukebox music and we're nearly there in this no-horse mixed-cuisine town. It's a long way to the shop, it's a longer way to the upside-down river. Sleepwalk with me, down concrete pavements and dirt tracks, but make sure you're on the right side of the road. Oncoming traffic, never stopping, always surly, on the lookout for the right excuse. The bottle shop of cheap dreams for the lost and the lonely. Sleep comes easier than wakefulness. This doesn't smell like the future yet - scratch scratch scratch me again. Destroying what I once adored. Light the fuse...
2001-08-12
beige shoe acrobats giggle in the corner - there's one in every crowd. Empire cigarettes. Our coffee arrives, but the girl says "I'll send someone over to take your order". Er. Ok. Double the size and halve the service. Back and forth in the street all afternoon. CDs, pictures, a shirt, a book. A makeshift greeting card for 50 cents while a black cat looks on, sunning itself on the front step and smiling at me.
2001-08-13
Recent bits of news swarm around my head like bees. Sympathy stings. People go on. Making do. Trying to recapture past glories, but maybe it all seems a bit too late. Let it go. There'll be other times.
2001-08-17
The celebration of something or other. People gradually start peeling away, having had their fill of after-work "work". Eventually a clump of us trudge off pubwards. A band scratches and plays beats and a guy raps over it, but the local accent sounds wrong (but I hope there'll be a time when it won't sound wrong). Inside, a familiar bearded face wanders past from the bar. Outside, the rain comes down and down, until it's falling horizontally. Coke all night, I had my fill of wine at dinner. One pub closes, another's still open. I've been standing up for hours. This place has a jukebox though, and the cricket on TV.
2001-08-19
The carpark market. Tables for rent.
Gorging myself on CDs. I got 9 today, from assorted stalls and nearby shops.
The economy of spending new money on old money.
A little girl asks loudly, "Dad, what's that ?"
A familiar voice, walking the other way. The back of the head looks about right, but it's too late to say hello.
"Dad, what's that?"
Another familiar voice, the same guy I ran into at the Espy on friday night. Twice in 3 days, after 2 years.
Out to the main street for a little while - the old walk up the hill, over the train station and up to a few more CD shops.
I never come here anymore. So many suburban shopping strips. This one has 4 CD shops, at least. But even that, in itself, isn't really enough anymore.
Old things for sale, the detritus of people's lives. Regulars and the once-offs. Everybody's got something to sell.
The bell tolls. Ten minute warning. Cars escape through the crowd in slow motion.
2001-08-20
Action or inaction, I still don't know if I'm doing the right thing. A selfishly spent weekend, barely capable of interaction with others. How dare I shut myself away and not share my poorly-formed thoughts. This can't be allowed to continue. There's five billion things I should be doing instead of feeling bad about everything. The world hasn't stopped spinning. The sky hasn't stopped falling. I've misplaced my Will To LiveTM, but like a puppet I'll just be pulled along regardless. One foot in the stirrup. Gravelrash. Whatever.
2001-08-24
"never got a grip on my emotions
drifted like a ship out on the ocean"
stephen cummings.
I'm a slave to the tides, although I hate to pass the blame so easily.
An occasional fellow tram traveller. Sometimes he weeps, loudly. Other times (today) he laughs, loudly, curled up on the back step. Or he gets stuck saying the same phrase. Actualising our own thoughts.
Red lipstick sneer on Chapel St. She doesn't approve. Minding my own business, walking down the street, but now I'm in the way.
"watch out for the Jack Frost blues..."
2001-08-25
I can see the You Yangs from the porch, beyond the houses. Hours later, I'm in the same position, watching the little balls of sodium light amongst the darkness. It's all the same.
In between this, I manage to steal tiny moments to listen to parts of the 12 CDs I bought in the past 12 hours. But it's not really my weekend, as such - I'm mindful that it's not long before I'll be left with a handful of happy photos, a pile of instant messages, and the occasional distant voice on the phone.
2001-08-27
The queue stretches out and on and beyond. Every couple of minutes we shuffle the bags forward a few paces. I wander outside for a little while, and all I can hear is metal on metal as some flags twist in the wind, metal rings hitting flagpoles. I can taste the smoke on my tongue, more than usual.
It's not forever, it's just for a long time.
2001-08-30
I've got a face full of pictures, I've got a couple of nice shirts, I've got time.
I've got principles, that often stay hidden for no particular reason other than that I don't feel the need to pontificate. Like most people, I figure. But I care. And I worry. I lose sleep over all sorts of silly things that probably needn't bother me. I'm sorry I never let it show.
I've got 41% of my battery power left. I've got a new bag. I've got a couple of Steve Kilbey solo CDs.
I've got a dentist appointment next week, 'cause I reckon I've got a wisdom tooth that's trying to make a bid for freedom.
I've got a pile of books to read. I've got RRR's Son of Crawdaddy on the radio. I've got a little "no entry" sign telling me that IE 6 just blocked a cookie for me. How thoughtful.
2001-08-31
Empty days are made of this. Late lunch spent talking about nothing in particular, nodding hello to all the staff who see us tucked away in the corner. Catching up on a few random old friends' journals that I don't read regularly (sometimes it's good to keep a respectful distance from people). Listening to some Elvis songs that a friend brought in.
...which reminds me of new year's eve 1997, when we saw the last ever (so far) Blackeyed Susans New Year's Eve Elvis gig. Dinner in Bridge Road, tram back to the riverside in the city, to sit around and watch the goings on for a while. Some guy came past and told us how he'd had enough, and was going to jump off the bridge and into the river later that night. Tram back to Richmond, the Corner Hotel, Rob Snarski in gold suit, a hunka hunka burnin' love. It was good, although I was busy feeling particularly awkward - especially when midnight struck. But the past should remain such.
