Falling

Sometimes you can't run fast enough.
Sometimes you can't sink deep enough.
Sometimes the sky falls.

My heart pounds and my head swims. It feels like falling. Like losing all control.

I found my home in a rosebush, and got pricked by the thorns.
The worsts ones always smell the sweetest.

Melodrama makes good company for the disenchanted.

I'm sorry, you had hoped for something more?

My sky is falling.

Wellington Art

The last half hour of the twentieth century saw the ebb and flow of life and time, of laughter and tears.

And something found its way inside, to where no man goes and no creature lives.

Like the sparks that fly up, pop and are gone, from a bonfire on a beach tended by stars.

They remind that energy changes forms, that nothing is lost, not really.

A child holds an umbrella. Somewhere, a woman dips her hand into the sand.

The world turns, the sky breaks.

I wonder, what next?

What's the story, morning glory?

The curtain is open. I can tell before I open my eyes, the warm glow plays on the inside of my eyelids. It's still early. I curse you. You know I sleep best in the dark.

I open an eye, just a crack, before the onslaught of white morning light. It streams in through the window, pools on the ground. Things swim into focus. The old scuffed carpet, assorted study notes scattered around, and a pile of clothes, discarded in the corner. Your check shirt is bundled up, and from this angle it looks like a giant clam. I amuse myself, imagining it's giant jaws opening to reveal checked innards, as it engulfs and consumes the poor possessions around it. I am in no hurry to be properly awake. Your big white doona is a soft downy sanctuary, and were it not for your predilection for waking early I would happily float in it's warmth for hours.

But the warm mass that should be beside me is absent, and I am driven to find out where you've gone. Tentatively I pry open my other eye, and the blinding onslaught begins again. My irritation with you grows. It can't be past nine. I roll onto my back, and now the ceiling materializes, it's ridged surface littered with constellations of glow in the dark stars. I wonder who stuck them there. I wonder how many people have layed right here and looked up at them. I wonder where you've gone.

With a grumble I hoist myself up on your pillows, and blearily survey the rest of your room. Your keys. You haven't gone far. Your pants. You haven't gone far at all. Your computer hums quietly to itself, indicating that you've been up for some time. Of course you have. You can't stay still and inactive to save yourself. I grumble again and sit up properly, letting the doona slide away from me. Despite my annoyance, the sunshine is warmly pleasant and with a yawn I run a hand through my mess of hair. Little specks of dust float down the beam of light, dancing and swirling to my every move.

The door creaks open, and there you are. A bowl of porridge steams in your hand, and your face is lit by a smile as irresistable as you. I smile back. "Breakfast?"

As you climb into bed beside me and hand me my porridge my irritation vanishes. I lean into you, rest my head against your chest. Your heart is beating steadily, your arm closes in around me. I tell you that you are horrible. Planting a kiss on the top of my head, you ask why.

"Well, I can never stay angry at you long enough to yell at you"

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It's kind of silly, the things we hold onto from childhood. Some of them, we didn't even realise we still had. Hopes and dreams, buried and forgotten yet not entirely abandoned. For instance, around the age of ten I used to tell people with the utmost confidence that I would be Australia's first female prime minister. A dream, of course, long since discarded in favour of more immediately achievable ambitions. Regardless, I couldn't help but feel a twang of disappointment upon Julia Gillard's assention to leader of the labour party, despite the feminist buried somewhere within me rejoicing. Silly, I know.

Which makes me wonder how many little girls (or not so little girls) have also lost a dream.

The thing is, it's not the first who matters. No one discusses Edmund Barton at dinner parties. No, the people we remember, are the people who are good at what they do, and who achieve amazing things.

So here's my spoonful of inspiration for the day. Don't be the first. Be the best.

Pitter patter

A light mist of rain fell, clinging to my clothes and hair as I made my way around the dark car park. The street lights cast long orange shadows on the footpath, and a weak breeze ruffled my hair. Campus has an eerie feel about it at night, full of lit yet empty buildings, standing like sentinels looming out of the dark. The bus interchange is across the other side. It was 10pm, and I was fleeing.

From what, you ask? I asked myself the same questioned as I quickened my pace, jumping at every twig snap and leaf rustle. I honestly had no idea, but the urge to run had found me, and I broke into a jog.

It occured to me as I trotted through the dark that perhaps some people are not cut out for happiness. Perhaps things can be going too well. Was that it? Was I fleeing my perfect life, course, boyfriend, friends? The idea fit me almost too well. Self sabotage is a specialty. I thrive on drama. I think secretly everyone does. Nobody wants to be happy, not really. People want to cry and kick and scream.

With that thought I burst out of the darkness into the bright lights of the bus interchange, damp and ruffled and a little bit dazed. An old lady and a young man sat beneath the little shelter, a young man who first offered me a beer, and then his number. He was breaking the bubble. He did not understand how public transport worked. The lady understood. We were to wait together, ride together, but appart. Most importantly silent. The public transport bubble.

I love catching buses at night. The electric whirr of the door opening, admitting you into that little halo of light. Rushing through the darkness, like travelling to another world. The bubble breaker sat down next to me and continued to break the rules, but I didn't mind so much. Let him talk. I was escaping. I was going to another world.

I stepped out into the darkness of a different part of town. It had started raining in earnest, and I was not just damp now but wet. I sat underneath an unfamiliar streetlight, at an unfamiliar tram stop, caught somewhere between my destination and home. Home. I hadn't used that term to describe campus yet. I suppose it was now though. Then, with timing that one rarely encounters my phone lit up, and I flipped it open to a message from home. From Tom. I smiled.

Ahead of me, Hailey waited. At home, Tom waited too. Somewhere in between, I got on a tram. I had no idea to which it would deliver me. I didn't really mind. Sometimes running in itself is enough.

A long trek to mental stability

So, it's been a while. I'm sorry. Really. The beginning of uni? Bad time to start a blog. I won't try to buy you off with old fiction this time though, promise.

Where have I been? Well, due to recent heartbreak and a brief moment of insanity resulting in potentially unwise decisions, a very close friend of mine saw necessary to embark on a week of restabilization. How does one restabilize? Let me enlighten you. I shall chronicle my journey back to you. It involves a number of seemingly random activities that combine to return to you a reasonably bright and bubbly me. In the immortal words of the Wombats, "let me break it for you now".

Day one of my recovery was very action based. I was taken forcibly from my home to first a playground and second a botanical garden, in which we romped and frolicked until I was no longer wallowing. Then came the serious stuff. Fishing is amazingly therapeutic, I highly recommend it to anyone requiring de-moping. And yes, yes we did catch a fish. We named him Geoffrey. He is the double perfect. Also slimy, very very slimy.
Following the fishing extravaganza, my friend and I found a secluded beach, stripped to our underwear and ran screaming into the waves. I suppose you could view this as a cleansing activity. Moreso though, I think we just needed to do something crazy. Go for a swim in your underwear. Do it.

Day two, though off to a somewhat difficult beginning (the power being out made escaping our garage through our electric powered doors somewhat challenging) involved firstly a new haircolour. Vain and girly, yes? Nevertheless, altering my physical appearance proved surprisingly life affirming. Apparently, superficial works. Following my remodel came a run though the supermarket, an outdoorsy d&m and an evening of margaritas and dancing in pajamas. I was beginning to feel sane again. How ironic.

Day three began with a trip to a cafe, where, safe from the pouring rain outside, we consumed coffee, hot chocolate, nachos and fries until we were feeling delightfully guilty, before walking home through the torrential downpour and allowing ourselves to become utterly drenched. Along the way we had a slight detour into my primary school to enjoy the playground, before realising that there were small children at school and running for our lives. Upon arriving home we dried off and treated ourselves to chocolate, lollies and a Sex and the City marathon. Judge me if you will, but those women understand. At this point, my favourite counsellor took it upon herself to free us of our frustration at the world by waging an epic tree battle. What does this entail, you ask? Smashing things with big sticks, while yelling. We came back exhausted and satisfied.

Finally, today, we returned to our old school, for the inaugural academic honours assembly. The pleasure I derived from receiving my honours from the teachers who had believed me incapable of hitting the 90s, let alone above 95, was almost unbearable. I thus write to you as a non mopey, fabulously sane young lady.

Go do something crazy. Catch a fish. For me.

There's a man inside my head with a hammer

And as such, I intend to blame my short absence on this faint queasiness and an alcohol induced pounding in my head.

Okay. Alright. Poor excuse.

In all seriousness, I'm sorry friendlings. Life has come to resemble something out of Days Of Our Lives recently. I would bore you with details of the sex scandals, comatose siblings and recently discovered relations, but hey, I know you'd much rather hear about my adventures into university. Right? Right.

Thursday was enrolment day, and as such I braced myself for a peregrination into Monash, where, upon entry, it was explained to me just how little of my soul law intends to leave intact. Does anyone have a law degree I could just, say, borrow? That'd be great. Really. I'm not going to survive the year. It has also been made apparent to me by the angry angry socialist woman with a clipboard that I am far too right wing to belong at Monash. I'm sorry angry lady, please don't impale me.

As I am currently struggling through a pre semester assignment, I'm going to tide you over with an amusing little glimpse into my past, that being the only piece of my writing available to me on my Aunt's computer - a literacy assigment from year 9. Happen to have read Stephen King's short story, The Body? It was meant to be an exercise in picking up characters and style (as such, both must be credited to Mr King). Hopefully I'll see you next time with something slightly more substantial.

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Billy Tessio stood hunched over, big hands shoved into his pockets, one foot scuffing the brown dirt driveway, sending up a cloud of dust. Charlie Hogan scratched his head. Fuzzy Brackowicz leaned against the dusty old car and watched them both, out of the loop, and somehow sensing it. Something had happened between last night and now, and these guys were acting strange. Real strange. It was the hottest day of summer, and the street was empty. Not that it wasn’t normally, but now, not a thing moved. Even the birds were holed up somewhere, hiding from the heat. Ace Merrill had gone down the corner to the store to see if he could hawk some cigarettes.

Finally, Charlie broke the silence. “We gotta tell him Billy” Billy’s head jerked up, and a hand emerged from his pocket, fist clutched tightly around a switchblade. The blade glittered threateningly in the hot summer sun. “Shut your face. We don’t gotta tell him nothing, Charlie. You hear? Nothing!” Fuzzy eyed them both, then played with the hem of his shirt uneasily. He didn’t like Billy when he was in this kind of mood. None of them did. The guy was dangerous. At the same time though, curiosity gnawed at him. “Tell… tell me what guys?” Billy rounded on Fuzzy, his eyes shining menacingly. “Nothing. We got nothing to tell, Fuzz, so you just get outta our business.” Billy realised that he was holding the blade aloft, and lowered it again, glaring at Charlie. He should’ve known the guy couldn’t keep a secret. Never could. But he was gonna have to learn.

Police’d find that dead kid sooner or later, and hey, what did it matter to them? If they reported it, if someone found out that they’d found him, well, they were going to ask questions, weren’t they? They’d been miles out of town when they’d stumbled on that body. Eventually, someone was going to start wondering just how they got out that far without a car, and when they did, someone would surely find out about that car they jacked last night. It was a regular thing for the boys. They’d boost a car and go joyriding through the woods with a couple of scags, Marie Daughtery and Beverly Thomas. They weren’t great girls; pimples, moustaches, the works. But hey, as long as they kept putting out, the boys didn’t care. They’d take the girls parking somewhere out Castle Rock way, drink themselves blind and make out, then dump the car somewhere. Cheap thrills.

Charlie looked like he was going to say something else, then thought the better of it. What could he say to Billy? How could he possibly make him understand that he needed to tell? Tell him about the guilt? That kid had been on the news for weeks, he must’ve had parents that wanted to know what happened to him. Or how about the nightmares? Last night spent lying stiff as a board in bed, seeing the kid’s mangled body lying on the train tracks, imagining him right before it happened, rooted to the spot and watching the train rush towards him, those big bright lights. Worst of all, imagining his mangled corpse dragging itself out from under his bed to wrap cold, clammy fingers around Charlie's calves, it’s eyes big and blank, those horrible eyes. Accusing eyes. No, he couldn’t tell Billy any of these things. He just couldn’t.

They stood in silence for awhile, feet scuffing the ground, hands shoved in pockets. Eventually, Ace sauntered around the corner, pack of smokes bulging in his pocket. He chucked one to each of them and watched as they lit up. They stood awhile longer, before Ace finally pulled out his keys. “C’mon guys. Let’s go graffiti the old saw mill. There ain’t nothin better to do” The boys nodded and flicked their cigarette butts on the ground, before clambering into the old car. Fuzzy glanced at Billy and Charlie, but said nothing. Not in front of Ace. If Billy was dangerous, Ace was downright lethal. And with that they were gone, a cloud of dust rising in their wake.

Why centipedes must suffer

Have you ever had the experience of waking up, deciding to do something productive, and going outside to put the washing on the clothes line (because that'll only take about 5 minutes, right? and then you can go inside and sit infront of the television, guilt free and comfortable in the knowledge that you at least began the day in a positive manner) only to arrive at the clothes line and discover that the basket you picked up contains an enormous load of socks? Socks which you must now painstakingly peg individually, a process which will take you at least 3 times as long as your original estimate? This week has been kind of like that.

Nevertheless, here I am, having overcome dead bodies, snake bitten dogs, theft, heartbreak, the late night train system, exploding appliances and perhaps most horrific of all, uni offers. The outcome? Surprisingly positive. You are now reading (I hope) the blog of a law student. Oh, don't worry, I'm also wasting my time on an arts degree, which ought to provide me with ample (if irrelevant) political and historical fun facts with which to bore you. Not only have I been accepted into higher education, a certain black feathery friend of mine has returned from a sojourn into the ocean, as has my little sister. Perhaps my luck is looking up.

I sincerely hope you have plans for Australia day, wherever you are. Personally, you will find me floating in a swimming pool, covered in zinc, eating BBQed lamb and listening to Aussie rock. A fitting tribute to our country? I think so.

Until then, storm a Bastille. It'll do you the world of good.

The truth about non-fat spreads

Do you want to know a secret? Of course you do. Everyone does. Today my father saw a dead man hanging from a tree. How's that for an auspicious beginning to the new year? I'm sorry, you'd probably prefer I were lighthearted. Let's begin again.

You see here, annonymous and potentially non-existant reader, my reaction to this unsettling event, that being the launching of my wisdom into cyberspace. A new year, a start to university, and now a new blog. Don't worry, there's still time to run. While it's been a holiday season of midnight swims in summer swelters, love, loss, excessive alcohol consumption and frequent bear shark attacks, I'm actually not dreading re-entering the real world. University offers loom and the stasis we school leavers have been trapped in is about to end. Life beckons.

I wonder, do you ever watch Dr Phil? It was with guilty pleasure that I spent an afternoon on the couch today, engrossed in the problems of his gun-toting, convenience store robbing patients. I think it is his moustache that does it. It's hard not to trust a person with such an incredible moustache but so little hair anywhere else. A moustache like that can only be for hiding secrets in. I can't help but be reminded of Dixon Bainbridge. Do you see now, why this blog is a necessity? If you cannot drag me from my dull existance, at the very least I might drag you into it.

The delights of daytime television aside, you can expect to hear from me every few weeks. Until I lose interest in you, that is. For now, may you be blessed with Lenin's charisma, Trotsky's genuis and Stalin's... well, you get the idea.