baggage handler

As I crushed dried coriander leaves between my palms, I remembered something.  A small moment in a night, some two years ago. 

It was a Friday, a few of us went out for pizza and drinks - celebrating a students final placement. Truth be known, I usually shy away from things like this, but it was John who had asked me, so at the time the decision was simple.

Out in the back beer garden, we sat at a round wooden-slatted table - far too big for the six of us.  My work friend who was sitting next to me had to leave, so I ended up sitting in a lonely quarter of the table, trying to reach out with giggles and smiles.  John sidled up next to me, saying something about not leaving me on my own - I thought it was nice of him, and I appreciated the gesture - I think he could tell I was feeling uncomfortable. We were eating our pizzas, he talked to me about lots of things - come to think of it, some strange things; like how he liked girls with long hair: "the longer the better" he said; he spoke about his family and I reciprocated.

I pushed my plate of untouched pizza slices toward the centre of the table - I urged the boys to eat my leftovers, assuring them I had eaten enough. John noticed I had removed all the coriander pieces out from under the drizzly melted cheese mess, "don't you like coriander?" he asked, "my Grandmother told me if there's one thing for certain, it's that all women like coriander." I found this a strange thing to say, but brushed it off, "nope, not me" I said. 

At that point, he should have known I was different. 

And I should have known he was looking for a kind of long haired woman who likes coriander.

I wonder if he even remembers anything of me; if random moments ever briefly hit him, blinding, like a shard of light breaking through the clouds on an overcast day.

measures

It has been exactly one year since my overseas travels, and I can hardly believe how quickly these 365 days passed me by.

I do not care for the endless hours in airplanes, sweaty customs lines or strange taxis, but I do miss that electric feeling as I walk the pavement of a new place. I think perhaps it's time to make some new plans.

save me?

I unwrap a Roses chocolate, releasing the bright metallic crinkle of its wrapper. I've just had dinner, but I don't care. I'm trying to control something - even if it's just the urge to have a chocolate, because I can. I'm trying hard to keep things together - to keep the pot from boiling over.  I am on violent simmer all of the time now - especially at work and I don't know how to stop. The chocolate sticks unpleasantly in my mouth; I didn't really want it.

It's been a long time since I had to think about my stress.  I don't know whether the 75mg cut I've taken in my meds was overriding the 'care-factor' but I just can't seem to get a handle on things. It's like it hurts to live - I've awoken from a 5 year dream and remembered everything is just so fucking hard.

How do 'normal' people do this? Every day?

You can't want without caring, you can't care without worrying - my scale is so tipped, I cannot begin to imagine how to offload it.

Writers' Group assignments are challenging, they make me want to give in.  When trying to write a 'creative' piece where ideas come out of thin air, it's as if I'm trying - tip-toed - to peek over a fence that is being bricked in before my eyes. And music class is getting harder and harder - each week the stone returns to its place in the pit of my stomach - I think I catch up, but then someone turns up the speed again.

I don't know if I can withstand this.

This is one of my favourite Gotye tracks.  I remember in concert, he had half of the massive crowd singing "ayee yeaah" and the other half singing "ayee ohhh" - it was magical. If only the music were enough to save me.

origins

They tumble from the walnut brown velvet bag; shiny, heavy hoops - rings of the Gods.  Brilliant bright silver with a speckled texture, as they drop into my open hand I feel the weight of them - these are not for the faint hearted.. or thin lobed.  They are a little bit Lily Allen circa 2006 - which might be why I love them so. No, truth be told, I love them because of where they came from.

On the way back from our explorations, we pass through the shaded market area by the old castle that I am unable to name. It's incredibly hot; we've been roaming the cobble-stoned streets, snapping obligatory daggy photos while hopping on and off our dodgy version 'hop-on-hop-off' tour bus.  It has been exhausting. I welcome the sight of the markets - I recognise the area as we came through here this morning.  Familiarity in a foreign country is travellers gold, I know where I'm going, I am not lost. Ahead we can see a stall selling slushies - we are drawn to it like magnets.  The cold condensation on the outside of the machine makes me want to lick it - my mouth waters at the thought of the sweet strawberry brain freeze I am about to experience.  They could've cost 10 euros, and I absolutely would not have cared.

After we buy our slushies, we linger in the area, making the most of the cooling shade.  There are the usual touristy items on offer - postcards, key rings, general junk - but then, behind the hanging woven bags and cheap t-shirts sits a jewellery stand.

Laid out upon four tables, arranged edge-to edge in a square, are sparkly jewels of all kinds.  A older man stands in the centre of the tables, I suppose watching for swift fingers - but he is perfectly lovely when I ask him if the items are sterling silver. "Yes, they are all sterling silver, I don't work with anything else." He is the maker of these things. After some time, and some mental negotiation with myself, I settle upon a pair of kick-ass hoops - these are not like anything I would find back home. Well, of course not - they would be from Rome!

I wear these hoops today because I am trying to relive the magic from almost one year ago. Even though they are a little more 'dancing on bar tops' than 'heading out for the weekend papers' - I don't care. Lately the universe has been conspiring against me, reminding me how much I want to go back to Italy. I pine for it now.  As I eat leftover potato bake for lunch today, I say to my Mother, who sits across from me at the table "I want to go back to Italy".
"You want to go back? Really?"
"Yes, of course, why do you think I'm wearing my Rome earrings today?"
"Oh" she says.  She doesn't get it, of course, how would she know? She goes on to tell me I should go with my uncles family or another uncle who is planning a trip. "Your father - he wants to go, why don't you go with him?" Sure Mum, because every girls dream is to explore Rome with her sciatica-suffering father. No thanks. She does not understand.  Maybe I'm being silly now, remembering only the good stuff and neglecting the troublesome memories. Still, maybe I could be brave some day, and do it on my own? Just imagine.

be still my beating h

I remember when I started hearing about Heath Ledger, I think I was about 16 years old, struggling with the idea of planning out the rest of my life.  He was starting to make big waves - I couldn't wait to see "10 things I hate about you", to see a West Australian boy getting attention - it made me think maybe I could someday too.

With all the Ledger hype, amongst my university confusion, I started thinking it'd be grand to do drama and be an 'artist' - just like Heath. It was a silly passing idea, sobered by the fact that I actually hate being a public centre of attention.  I suppose I was impressed by Heath Ledgers energy, passion, talent and bravery, and I just wanted something of the same for myself.

It makes me incredibly sad thinking about how his light went out so early - and I think the world is darker for it.

To reinstate my posts of appreciation for glorious men - I begin with the wonderful Heath Ledger. What a smile.

open seas

Over the weekend, I took some time aside from 'normal' life, to check out a travelling photographic exhibition. The photos were of nature; animals and landscapes of the most amazing quality. I could be seen wandering around the temporary gallery, oohing and ahhhing, commenting in awe - as if talking amongst friends - but it was just me, the frames, the walls and the cornered worlds they created.

One stunning black and white image of a whale underwater caught my attention, and reminded me of something from long ago.

When I was a little girl, my Dad worked from an office complex that shared its space with many varied businesses. One of the neighbouring offices had the most beautiful image hanging from its wall - and every time I would visit my father, I would stand mesmerised by this photographic print. I can see it now - black and white image - white boarder, thin black frame - it was enormous (or perhaps it just looked so, to a small me). The photo was of a perfectly symmetrical whales tail, breaching the surface in an almighty wave of water. I thought it was amazing. I used to look at it and think that someday I'd like to see a sight like that myself, for real. Even back then, I recognised how a photo could capture a moment so wonderful, magical, that it could move me to take a step back in awe. While the photo amazed me, the scale of it scared me, and even now I can't think about it, or look at a similar image, without a quickening of my heart.

Source

I shouldn't have any particular affinity with the sea - I practically live in the desert and I'd barely scrape double digits if I had to count the times I have swam in the ocean.  Still, I love to watch it when I can.  I love thinking about the world that exists beneath the surface - where creatures like these rule. (Which is why I fucking hate seeing the Japanese hunt them for their "experiments" - it's a disgrace... however, for another time). The ocean makes me feel small, it reminds me that beyond the decisions and actions of individual people, beyond my mind - there are forces much greater than us - it humbles me, and strangely comforts me.

I have been drowning in my own seas of late - within the depths of my mind.  Sometimes I can feel so far out in the deep, I forget that there is land, or that there will be again. I have felt vulnerable, that perhaps I'd perish - tired of treading the water. As my feet begin to find land now, I start to recognise the way forward - I might stumble, but I will continue to move. I have been thrown a life jacket - and I feel silly for thinking at the time that I might never make it from the waves, for thinking I was alone out there. But, I think perhaps at one time or another, we are all swimming - we all have our seas, some deeper than others.

SB

slow down my beating heart

This song never fails to give me goosebumps.

I remember I was in the midst of year 12 when this album was released.  Reduced to depressive, stress-riddled sobbing one day, I had this song playing on the stereo in my room.  I sat on my bed, facing the stereo - tears streaming down my face.  I didn't know what to do, there wasn't anyone that could help me; life was hard, making decisions was difficult - I didn't want to plan the rest of my life, I just wanted to survive the year. As I sat there, surrounded by song, I willed Bonos words to come true; I told myself... in a little while things will be better...just a little while longer.

SB

the empty places

Today I had to return to my 'old' workspace, to collect some final things we had left behind. It felt strange, to be in the place where for so many years, it had been my work-home; a place where many moments have passed - some joyfully memorable and others I would prefer to forget.

Now, the rooms sit empty - a shadow of what they once were; suddenly the peeling paint and imperfections are more noticeable - a burden to the beholders eye; and echoes of nothing where the walls once bounced with laughter are oddly cold now.

I had to go into John's old office, to pull some personal things off the walls. I stood for a time, in my loneliness, at the very spot he once sat - it was a sobering moment to realise that the place he once occupied was now empty - not only in that room, but within me too.

I still think about him from time to time, and momentarily wonder how he is and what he is doing, but it is an old habit that washes over me quickly now, as I realise he scarcely has the same regard for me. I miss him, I do - but I think now I look upon him like a fragment of nostalgia - much like how one might pass a photograph on a shelf, briefly stop and maybe smile as they recall the moment the picture was taken. I do not measure the distance between us anymore; like a weighty balloon, it has finally lifted and floated away.

Mostly I am left with disappointment, because we used to support each other - and it would've been in times like these - this week - this month, that it would have counted. Today would have been a nice day for someone to ask me "are you ok?"

Why yes, I think mostly, I am. Best of all, the way I'm feeling has nothing to do with him anymore.

SB

the art of remembering

Reading an article in the most excellent frankie magazine on the intricacies of nostalgia, got me thinking about the kinds of things that transport me to the past.  The article, entitled 'rose-tinted' states:

"a recent Chinese study links nostalgia with a psychological state called "resilience" which is basically our ability to cope with life's little knocks. It found that people with resilience use nostalgia as a coping strategy."

How interesting.

When I was a little girl, I was given a lovely lockable diary. Recollecting the exact details is difficult - its puffy white cover with a pretty water colour illustration and elements of gilded gold - a little girl, perhaps a straw hat and puppy dog too.  It was filled with lined pages of various pastel shades, and the pages emitted a gorgeous girlie scent.  I cannot begin to describe the exact smell, but whenever I encounter it, I am immediately reminded of my special diary - and the smell of secrets. The safety contained in the writing on these pages was eventually lost to paranoid teenage years - but the smell always takes me back to a time when things were simpler.



SB xx