It's infinitely true

Why do you steal the covers, sleep diagonally, jump, twitch, thrash about? You stretch your arms out to hold all four pillows, wrap yourself in a cocoon of doona, selfish little bug! Your limbs are spread like a starfish, you kick, turn, mumble, breathe like a freight train? I had strange dreams, I say, I had funny dreams, I say, I had stressed dreams, I say. Sometimes I wake up bemused, confused, amused, other times my eyelids fling open and I am paralysed with fear, wanting to turn the clock back 15 years so I could smell Oil of Olay moisturiser and feel cool hands smooth back my hair.

I scoffed at the overpriced 3am notebook, for the recording of thoughts and dreams had in the dead of the night. But now I rake my memory for dreams from past nights and I can't, they are leaves that have felt the brunt of the evening rain and are now sodden, mulched into the grass, unidentifiable from one another. We should have raked the lawn.

The buses used to line up at the curb, next to the gymnasium that had such a dusty floor. They were really lined up in some kind of pecking order based on location. With that said, the pack of sweaty and wild-eyed individuals bound for the city centre waited in the scorching sun, no relief. The last bus had a sad stringy gum tree and fence posts that offered leaning opporunities, so maybe it was worthwhile, living where I did. Arguable, though, given the number of times we watched Wizz Fizz being snorted up nasal cavities, arse cheeks being pressed against the back window, fruit and stale sandwiches being thrown back and forth, grubby fingers pressing the bell with no intentions of getting off the bus, and the driver hitching up his shorts as he strode down the aisle to where the culprits sat, threatening to throw us all off on the side of the freeway.


For three months a year, when the cold and grey winter persisted, the slick of green grass that ran parallel to the bus stop became perilous. When the rain bucketed down, the grass became a stage, a slippery slope of doom that saw many scurry too fast and fall to social injury in efforts not to miss the bus. In the navy jumpers that reeked of wet dog when it rained, we piled aboard. One headphone for each, we would share Discmans, in efforts to block out the surrounds.


You were in my dream, I was playing in a band. I know you’re horrified, because my complete lack of rhythm, tone deafness and lack of social etiquette used to make you cringe on a regular basis. Why were we so compelled to sit on the concrete, the cold dirty ground? We were drawn to the curbs, stairs, patches of grass, benches, fences, window ledges. Then we grew up, and now we stand and wait in uncomfortable shoes.

3 days

The man named Thomas who reads his newspaper after a day of saving lives had explained the notions of normal, which you repeated back to me, making overexaggerated gestures to try and mimic his diagrams drawn in puddles of beer.



I imagine a comparitive line graph, red and blue squiggles dancing around each other. Normal is at a lower level for addicts but easier to reattain when the sought-after substance is clutched between two fingers.



My main questions are these: What do you do when you're waiting for the train, and there are exactly 7 minutes until it is due to pull into the station? Do you admire what's in the vending machine? Do you watch the other commuters examine their Metcards, read their newspapers, pace back and forth in their polyester suits? Do you count the number of butts stamped into the bitumen? Doesn't time past so slowly, wind lashing against your face? What do you do, with 3 minutes to go, except draw in your breaths harder and faster, smiling if the timing is perfect?



What do you do when you get home from work? Do you take off your coat, hang it up, take off your shoes, line them up, turn the kettle on - and then what? Sit quietly on your lounge setting and drink your tea, watching the 6pm news? Feel the warmth ebb back through your limbs as you prepare for your evening to be spent indoors, without five minutes of freezing interjected at intervals you determine?



What do you do when you finish your dinner, full to bursting? You recline, digest, then what do you do? What comes between dinner and dessert, that you can't have anymore? That course is missing, and it's the one you're craving the most, regardless as to whether the pit of hunger in your belly is filled to the brim.



What do you do, whilst you talk on the phone, except play with the fire inbetween your fingers, over and over and over? What do you do? Do you pace back and forth, wearing marks into the cream carpet? Do you fold the basket of laundry that's been at the end of your bed for a week, is that what you're supposed to do? Do you sit idly, cross-legged, as numbness sets into your feet?


What am I supposed to do, as I scrape the coffee foam back from the sides my glass, as I stir the ice in my drink with my straw, as I bite my nails as the ball of anxiety in my stomach grows, as I ingest chapter after chapter, as I sit in a crowded room with too many other minds humming, as I sit outside in the sun, as I sit outside in the cold, as I sit outside in the rain? What am I supposed to do?

Synthetic

1. Baby

Tiny little rosebud

With sweet smelling hair

A whole world exists for you

2. Sundays

White tiles and cream carpets

Dark haired girls

Soul food on mismatched plates

3. Swot-Vac

Split ends and chewed nails

Frayed flannelette with buttons missing

Endless winter days

Is that a HB pencil?

Don’t know quite where I am, have an idea of what I’m supposed to be doing but all of the four options seem like they could be correct (unconditioned stimulus). I eat the perfectly ripe yellow banana, even though the smell of banana this early in the morning makes my stomach heave. But it’s brain food, and it’s sad you dropped yours on the floor (Bobo doll experiment). I had stressed dreams, thrashing around like a malfunctioning egg beater and waking up with my mind racing. We’d gone underwear shopping and she’d told me I ought to lose some weight (fixation at the anal stage).

The sun was trying to beat away the clouds, freezing wind whipping at the tops of uncovered feet. He’d scowled in disgust at the nicotine clouds blown in a perfect stream from your lips, but really, why on earth was he compelled to ask you if you wanted to join a gym? (fovea) The days blend together and the battle with the umbrella takes precedence (Mrs. Boles) when superstition dominates (Stanley). The man with the kind face gave you two marshmallows (Cesario); the sour-lipped woman in the op shop begrudgingly docked $3.50 from the final price (assimilation) and the passerby with an expression full of pity and horror clicked their tongue at the figures huddled in front of the window, howling and shrieking over the wind (le subjonctif).

Listen to the sound of hundreds of anxious voices bouncing off the concrete, finding their way into the cobwebbed corners that are neglected in the absence of the Spring Racing Carnival (is Sebastian really dead?). I walked through a puddle and now my socks are wet, this takes priority over my concern of not understanding Orsino’s motives in marrying Olivia. It was like an airport lounge, and as the distressed buzz dimmed (les pronouns relatif) I was horrified to realise the horseshoes printed on the carpet were facing the wrong way. How were they going to catch any luck? How were they going to catch my answers as they spiraled out of the ends of my frizzy hair, wet with the drizzle? (Cattell’s 16 Factor Personality Test). I closed my eyes and imagined Space Invaders, ricocheting past and exploding where the carpet met the tiles. We were numbers. At least English is our first language, I remember saying (reliability). At least we’re not left-handed, so everything we write doesn’t become smudged as our hands race across the page (validity). At least it’s only two hours, not three (cross-sectional). Why were there so many clocks? It would be so silent, surely the ticking would drive us all mad? (longitudinal) As if to support my theory that the desks should be facing the other way, we can see out onto the racecourse. I can hear the crack of a starting gun (factor analysis), the snap of gates being pulled back (Darwin’s theory of evolution) and the thunder of dozens of hooves churning up the soil (separation anxiety). I hear the nasal commentary of the race, which fascinated me at a young age (the id). How do they speak so fast, Mum? (positive reinforcement).

I remember where I am, and what I should be doing. Those who are absent are declared to be so via invasive red sheets of paper, with cruel letters stamped across the front (rationalism). The person sitting next to me is feeling as though a 25% chance isn’t enough to see him through (Descartes). He oozes dismay as the 10 minutes of reading time tick past on the labelled clocks (negative punishment). It’s contagious! (extinction).

I spot his identical twin on the other side of me. I read a question about noses (I think it’s functionalism) and become fixated trying to spot the differences in their appearances. Are thy really related? What are the chances of identical twins doing the same subject, in the same course, at the same university? Wouldn’t they be tired of sharing space, sharing attention, sharing faces? (synapses). I can’t turn my head fast enough to spot them. One is potentially more red-headed than the other, they have slightly different haircuts, perhaps in an attempt to seize individualism by the horns and defy their shared DNA (projective tests). I feel sick from moving my eyes so quickly, I taste the banana that was supposed to help me (taste aversion therapy). And then it begins. And while I’m choosing A, B, C or D, I can see feather-adorned hats, and see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it is flickering slightly (You did not just compare a tunnel to a birth canal).

Don’t the voices sound different, without the anxiety laced through them, though they still bounce off the concrete and encourage us to make a hasty exit?

I wrote it in June 2008

Sometimes I wake up and forget everyone else speaks French. My dreams are a confused garble of Romanian, French and English. I'm somewhat of an awe-inducing artefact in my French classes. The woman in charge at Assofac, the organisation who runs the programmes, is a heinous bitch with cankles and was adamant that because I spoke no French (surely I spoke some French) I wasn't enthused about learning the language. So she lumped me in a class with 10 other people who already spoke fluent French and were specialising their vocabulary in the direction of environmental science. I learnt little in the three or four lessons I was made to endure except that my teacher's name was Delphine, she had a pustule on her toe and provided me with living proof as to why no one should smoke at 40. So after it finally clicked that she really doesn't speak French, she wasn't lying, I was put in a class slightly more to my level. However once again they don't believe that I speak no French, and I am subject to a mandatory presentation about oneself within 30 seconds of being ushered in the door - initially they thought I was 28 and had two children but after we got that straightened out, everybody reaffirmed their opinion about my lack of French speaking abilities. I'm made to read aloud, write on the board, write sentences and conjugate imperative verbs - I decided that after the three hours of urine-soaked fear that was the first class, it would be a really clever idea to purchase a dictionary. Outside the classroom, the language barrier is easy to navigate - though I've learnt that I need to stop laughing when I sense the opening for it in conversation, as it gives people the illusion that I understand and prompts them to start nattering at me in French and then waiting for my response. I've become slightly expert at interpreting what people are saying to me given the situation I'm in, and change my answers according to pure whim, swapping between 'oui, merci' or 'non, merci' (creative, no?). This is a mixed luck draw - I never know what I'm going to get. Last week it got me my purchase gift wrapped, definitely a positive, whereas when I responded 'non, merci' when the salesman at Galleries Lafayette asked me for my postcode, the reaction was less favourable. Needless to say, it keeps life interesting.

Incapable of thinking

1. The first thing to go is the ability to think creatively or logically. If I am engaged in a task and there is a possible way of completing in a faster, more simple or better way, I will manage to ignore the flashing warning signals and keep trudging along the beaten track. Spontaneous questions that involve memory recall are destined to fail. Vocabulary shrivels down to the basics, the ability to pronounce things clearly or articulate properly disappears. Conversation other than the necessities becomes too difficult. Along with the ability to think outside the square, being exposed to stimulating material is overwhelming and daunting.

2. Next to vanish is the attention span. Even if I believe I am concentrating, staring at words on a page, my mind has exited the room and is dancing in the puddles outside, thinking about something irrelevant, busy twisting itself into overanalysis or concocting ideas for dinner. I should take this as a cue for what I so desperately need but I never do. I fidget in my seat, flicker back and forth between what I should be doing and what I shouldn't be doing. I read pages and can't remember the subject matter, much less any type of evaluation of material. Basic things become very difficult. I revert back to a page several times just to copy out a sentence accurately. I find myself using wrong tenses, bad grammar, stubby fingers struggling with hitting the right key on the keyboard (and before I wrote 'right' I wrote 'write'). Life is becoming too hard but because I can't think beyond what I am doing at that exact moment, it is destined to remain unchanged for the moment. It's getting worse.

3. The slippery slope of deterioration is steepest when this phase dawns upon me. As I struggle with my brain thumping against the inside of my skull, my hands shaking as I pick up a pen, having to think long and hard about how to construct the sentence 'I am in the room in the library with the green reading lights', I am angry. My whole body is tensed with rage. My eyes are black darts, shooting looks of disdain and contempt at anyone who makes a noise. Why am I so angry? Because the girl sitting opposite me is wearing bangles which are hitting the desk as she types. And I will probably kill her, because I am an irrational fiery ball of crankiness, who hates everything in her direct vicinity. Including the way the lecturer is pronouncing 'transport' and the crackle that it is producing in the left ear of my headphones. I am bubbling and spitting, a cauldron of discontent, of unpleasantness, of stewing distress and fury.

4. Stop. What is that? Through the blindfold that has been plastered over my eyes, enabling me to only see red spots of anger, I recognise something. An innate reaction. And whilst I am angry about it, there is rationale starting to peak through, struggling against the dark shutters but nonetheless letting in a persistant stream of light that is enabling me to focus clearly for half a second. The person sitting beside me is eating. The smells emitted from the spicy hot bowl of nourishing goodness they have in front of them stir something within me which I had obviously tried to repress for too long. My stomach growls. Not just growls, but rumbles and roars like a caged animal who has been injected with a shot of adrenalin. It dawns on me very suddenly, very clearly. I am hungry. Not just hungry, but starved, possibly going to go blind with famine and desperately need something to eat, right now, this very second.

I breathe in food, inhale it in one gulp. And then happiness and tranquillity reign supreme (unless someone tries to pry it from my grasp) and I can live again. The demons have settled, until dinner time. Or until we pool our change and charge towards the vending machine, needs satisfied by king-sized chocolate. But, it's like you told me, the advice I will treasure and ignore its untruth. Nothing is bad for you when you are doing something good.

Missing

"On the warm nights when they wouldn’t move from the back patio for hours except to fill up their glass, they would crave ice cream or something gluttonous, and walk calmly to where the ocean met the land. They wore thongs, they didn’t carry water in their bottles so ended up crouched, mouths poised open, underneath a garden tap; they ate their Magnums and sat quietly on the bench of life, contemplating their days that had usually been filled with not-very-much. Sometimes they had morbid conversations, other times they had meaningful ones, a lot of the time they cackled underneath the cloudy night. They walked home again and slept soundly underneath the star shaped lights, barely stirring when the freight train rushed past."

So what did Act III mean?

In the dream world, she would open up the desk drawer to rows and rows of plane tickets, lined up neatly. None of them have dates on them, she can use them as she pleases. None of them are window seats, she sits two rows from the exit. She'll never sit next to a baby, a person intent on conversation while her eyes are heavy with sleep or someone with repugnant body odour. 1 in 6 tickets will reward her with an upgrade to business class, and there's no disclaimer either.

In the dream world, she would have a typewriter that would send inspiration flying through her fingertips, not like the clunky whirring of a computer where the letter 'e' sticks longer than it should, turning 'the' into 'thee' and sending her brow plummeting to the middle of her face with discern. She would never have to think about the number of syllables per line, or how overly extravagantly flowery her metaphors were. Sometimes she would write with a sharpened lead pencil on a wooden desk that had been scrubbed back and painted.

In the dream world, there is money for fresh flowers, she never has to run for the bus, her room is filled with books that have been chosen with care for her by someone else, she retains information like a thirsty sponge, her conjugations are perfect and her black clothes never fade out to grey.

'But horses are my friends'

The fear of the unknown grabs the blonde hairs that frame her face and holds them up high, tickling her closed eyelids that are twitching with dreams. The fear forces her eyes open, as she cranes to see the little creatures that are trying to torment her in the black night. She can never see them when she’s awake like this, so she doesn’t have a choice but to soothe herself back to sleep, trying to ignore the thoughts that are careering around and around inside her mind, a merry-go-round that is spinning faster and faster. But the normally joyous faces of the horses are twisted and warped, they bare their gums in an angry snarl at her, spitting saliva and thrashing against the worn leather reins that she clutches with sweaty palms.

Wrapped in bed accessories and pillows that bring initial comfort, she slips back into surface sleep, her heart tight with a web of fear that she doesn’t let unravel. In her dream the sticky spider web clings to her face and she can’t get it off, though she scratches mightily, nails that are bitten short leaving red marks on her cheeks. She’s no longer warmed by blankets that Mama had smoothed back carefully in the morning light; instead they are heavy weights that crush her lungs, the fear of the unknown bringing her back to the surface time and time again, wrenching gasps of air with panicked shudders.

There’s no clock in the room because the fiery gremlins feed off the ticking that it makes, and the black air becomes too thick when she can count the seconds in the night. This time she’s back on the merry-go-round, but the ground surrounding it is red dust, and the tinkling music that the horses are dancing to disappears into the empty landscape. Their faces relax, calm and at peace with the circles they gallop in. The silhouette on the horizon makes her uneasy but she is comfortable in the saddle now that the horses no longer snarl and snap at her touch.

Then the figure comes too close, and anxiety spreads like bloodstains on white fabric. ‘Go away,’ she wants to say, urging the horse to go faster and faster, to disappear in a thunderous cloud of dust. But the merry-go-round is slowing, finishing its giddy cycle, and the music is fading, so that all she can hear is the wind carrying the dust against the red sun. ‘Go away!’ she tries to shout.

Then she wakes up again, feeling the panic wash away as she sees the sunlight creep through the crack in the curtains. Little creatures of the night, spawn of the unknown, leave her be.

I don't drink the dregs, I've told you this.

'The footpaths there concern me; there's too much bitumen. I prefer smooth cement on my footpaths. That's what the councils are doing at the moment; trying to reduce the amount of bitumen on the footpaths in the city.'


'You're basing how much you like a suburb on the texture of their footpaths?'


'Yes, for sure. How did you get that scar on your breast?'


'My cat scratched me when I was seven, before I had breasts.'


'At least I said breast, not boob or tit. It looks like an arrow pointing directly to your nipple.'


She raised her eyebrows and tried to remember the Saturday in the suburb with the uneven footpaths. The eye blinked at them from the shop window, beckoning with its tantalizing price tag. It was covered in things, bits and pieces of sorts. Coloured silk, a tarnished frame, shoes with worn in heels. The man in the shop beamed at them, his simple smile dissapitating when he realised what they were after and the challenges that might be involved in lifting the desk from the window front.


'I'll just get the boss for you.'


They waited quietly, as they'd finished their conversation on 'muse' (the word, definitely not the band and their overpriced hooded jumpers) and looked at the trinkets on the counter, searching for hidden beauty that wasn't quite found in a brooch with no pin, a broken key ring, a scarf that was too large to be worn properly without giving the impression you were trying to smother yourself in floral chiffon. A short man scurried to the shop front, sizing them up quickly when they asked to buy the desk with the blinking eye that was positioned in his window display.



'How are you going to carry it home? It's very heavy.'

'I live just down the road, we'll be fine.'

The process of removing the one-eyed desk from the shop front seemed unnecessarily stressful. She floundered about, trying to help but just getting in the way. There was a crash, and they thought it was a drawer falling to the ground and cracking, though it turned out not to be. The other one stood to the side, knowing better than to get involved, her sunglasses hiding the smudges of black that were still left under her eyes (later she would leave those glasses on the countertop, where they would have to return). They had planned to carry the desk, strong and agile girls whose mothers' had fed them milk and yoghurt as young children. The shop man 'tsked' and offered the lending of a trolley, with the condition of a drivers' licence and credit card. They conferred between them and miraculously managed to produce both items, cracked and interstate. She was excited, envisaging a large industrial trolley on which the entire desk would sit and they would steer expertly down the bitumen footpaths to where the cat vomit was, outside the front gate.

The reality was different; it was a narrow trolley that she'd seen previously to move gas bottles, boxes, or other non-challenging, non-heavy items. It bore perhaps a sixth of the weight of the desk, balanced precariously in the middle. They promised to return the trolley (or no driving or extravagant impulse spending for them) and were on their way, relying soley on the vision of the blinking eye, because they could not see past the scratched timber frame. She felt that it was not very heavy, though she assumed it was because she was not bearing her share of the weight. They zigzagged along, compelling other pedestrians to flatten themselves against the walls of buildings in order to avoid them. They turned the corner hapharzdly, breaking into a run onto the road and pulling in to the curb in a way they pictured reverse parallel parking to be conducted (though neither of them really knew how).

She hadn't imagined that in less than 6 hours, little possum with her frightened stare would be splayed across the road, her slight and furry frame shaking in shock and fear while the car that hit her panicked, while passersby buried her under an avalanche of coats and called an ambulance, not worrying that she might be sick or dirty (we are in the place with the bitumen footpaths, after all). Poor possum, she tried to jump from one branch to the other too quickly, but the car knocked her down and took all the wind from her lungs.

They conceeded the trolley was defeated by the time they got to the front gate, and lifted the desk and its closed eye from the bottom, cringing at the weight on their stubby little fingers. There were screeches from both sides as shoes with too-thin soles schlepped through the cat/dog/animal/human vomit on the side of the road next to the broken television. They rested in the hallway and there was a scurry to clear space in the room, moving aside CDs, a box with a letter from Centrelink ('please lodge your employer details to avoid Centrelink debt') floating on top, a guitar and a mass of cords with dust bunnies clinging onto them for dear life. She swept with a dustban and broom, they moved the desk into a corner. They were satisfied, she smiled in delight at the sanctuary they had created, she took the chair from the kitchen where there were never any clean plates and put it at the desk. They placed textbooks on it and marvelled at how productive it felt.

Then it was late, and there was a rush to shower. She lay in the rubble of picture frames of Miles & Otis, of tangled blankets and sheets that needed washing. She read two pages of 'Le Petit Prince' and half-listened to the dilemmas of finding a jacket that didn't reek of cigarettes. Then they were ready, and went to leave, before remembering the cursed trolley that was nowhere to be seen.

There was a rush, and a brief flash of panic, before finding it sitting patiently on the footpath where they had left it. They were relieved, and went to leave the house, not before seeing a couple, one in a sombrero and the other carrying a pinata.

'What is that? Where are they going?'

'They're going to a Mexifest.'

'Why are you so matter-of-fact about it? Does everyone go to Mexifests?'

'Yes, Mexican food is delicious.'

'Oh. I suppose you're right.'

They left and got on the tram, not before seeing a child strapped in a carrier close to his mother's chest, though he was far too big. He could've easily walked.

Disclaimer: these aren't my emotions

En Décembre

I notice the sunlight no longer enters
the window, but hovers outside. I take
an hour to shower and dress, watching the
water pool at my feet. I make coffee only
to leave it to stand cold, undrunk. I listen
to halves of songs, regarde la télé, write halves of poems.
I sleep in the centre of the bed with
my arms outstretched trying to lessen the
empty space where you used to lay.

I buy cheap apples with brown flesh before
I remember I can’t eat tarte tatin
without tasting your lips and thinking of
my white pillows and your blonde tousled head
watching the dust particles dance for hours.




La Nouvelle Vie

I filled the gaps you left with silly little things
I buy new crockery, a teapot, though
Iva doesn’t drink tea. Candles, scarves, new
pens for the poetry I seldom write.
I’ve buried away memories of you
in the back of the drawer, with lost socks and
folded notes (I loved your cursive script) so
I feel brave enough to place one foot in
front of the other. I’ve rebuilt the wall
that crumbled in dusty pieces before me.

When I saw you, you were wearing a blue
linen shirt (creased in two lines at the back)
I took the bullet, tasted the salty
iron of blood, then quickly turned away.

You should have called

You should wake up at 7am, and your eyelids should spring open without the aid of an alarm, because you should be well rested and rejuvenated from the 8.5 hours of uninterrupted sleep that you've had. You should reach for the tall and tantalizing glass of water that you placed beside your bed the night before, and drink it immediately. Because you've risen before you needed to, you should throw yourself into a fitness regime coupled with sports attire and uplifting music plugged into your ears. You should return home gasping slightly, a light sheen of sweat covering your brow, but definitely not struggling to breathe, definitely not throwing yourself on the floor/couch/bed as your muscles seize up in angst. You should then eat a filling and nutritious breakfast, perhaps a bowl of muslei (low-in sugar of course) with natural yoghurt and fresh apple, coupled with a banana and a mug of green tea. You should shower, shampoo, condition, exfoliate, moisturise, tone, moisturise, remove offensive hair, cut offensive toe and fingernails. You should dress indiscriminately, you should be neither hot or cold. You should have an umbrella in your bag, shrapnel and $20 cash in your wallet, a bus ticket that has been pre-purchased. You should pack your lunch and a bottle of water. You should take vitamins and you should eat five vegetables and three pieces of fruit daily. You should limit your snacking in between meals and avoid saturated fats, palm oil and MSG. You should eat your dinner before 8pm and you should drink a soothing cup of cammomile tea before you retire to bed, your mind a clean slate ready for the following day and you should fall asleep within approximately seven minutes.

You should have an equal balance between work, study and a social life. You should keep all your notes in individual folders, separated by neat and labelled dividers. You should tick off your readings as you complete them, you should write summaries of the texts and keep them adjacent to your lecture notes. You should complete not only the presribed readings but the additional and further readings, because you have a fire to learn that is burning within you, which means that in addition to getting 8.5 hours of sleep a night, you should be able to read 200 pages of dry and poorly written research information each day. You should dedicate an additional 4 hours of study time for each subject each week. You should attend each lecture and each tute, you should ask innovative questions, you should complete assignments the week before they're due. You should request practice exams and additional exercises from your tutor. You should spend the time in between your lectures and tutes in the library, which should be a quiet and studious haven filled with like-minded beings. You should print out your lecture notes before each class and make colour-coded annotations in the margins. You should participate in co-curricular activities and volunteer on campus. You should arrive at your classes with enough time to have your books out in front of you, to secure a seat where you can see the screen (and the clock).

You should save 10% of your income each week, you should give to chosen charities, you should save your coins in a sealed tin and empty it every few months. You should resist the urge to make impulse purchases, you should avoid credit card debt and you should have a high interest savings account. You should pay your phone bill on time, you should have high-speed Internet. You should send birthday cards and thank you notes to your elderly relatives, you should speak to your parents at least twice a week. You should give kind and guiding advice to your younger siblings, you should attend family functions as a social and animated being. You should wash your sheets once a week, you should get a haircut before your hair breaks off on its own. You should be able to make idle chit-chat with your co-workers even if you don't like them and you should listen to your music at such a decibel that your fellow train passengers can't hear it through your headphones. You should give your seat up for the elderly, pregnant or disabled, you should recycle your plastics and cardboards, you should stand to the left of the escalator. You should scrape leftovers into sealed Tupperware containers and eat them the following day, you should have a compost bin, you should use environmentally friendly cleaning products, you should have a water-saving shower head and keep a bucket in the shower, emptying the additional water into the garden each morning. You should dryclean your coat every 6 months, you should learn another language, you should give your old clothes to the op shop, you should wash your frying pan with the soft side of the scourer. You should wait until the green man flashes and avoid J-walking, you should park in between the lines.

You should be balanced, well-adjusted, emotionally-stable, in good health both physically and mentally. You should make strong decisions, be kind to yourself, be kind to those around you, not blasphem, be tolerant of others and their views. You should seize each day, you should avoid looking directly at the sun, you should smile at shop attendants and hold the door open for mothers with prams. You should sew the buttons back on your clothes when they fall off, you should wear slippers when it's cold, you should pull to the side when you hear ambulance sirens.

You should, and you could, but do you?

Why are you wearing stockings with holes in them?

In the photo, the baby lies in her arms, swaddled against the unknown perils of the world she's just entered. Her soft newborn head is swollen with a bump and one of her hazy blue eyes was half-shut and bruised. Her little mouth is pursed in distaste and she is bright red with the shock of birth, her complexion resembling that of a boiled monkey, the skin fiery red and inflamed. Welcome to the world, little one, the angels croon. Even the grainy print of the 90's film manage to capture the unique expression of love, shock, disbelief, fear, amazement, accomplishment on the face of her holder. First child and she's here stamping, along the path, leaving behind dusty gold footprints.

Years later, her face scrunched and turned purple within seconds, eyes swelling with tears that are already shut tight with pain. Never the attractive crier, she lies howling in the red dirt, her high-pitched screech elongating the name of the person that she needed, the only one who could bring solace to her devastation and rage at having fallen from the flying fox into the pit beneath when her fat little fingers could hold on no more.

Her sobs shortened to gasps and her hands smeared dirt, snot and tears all over her disgruntled face as the cool and calm hands dabbed at the blood on her knees. She sat with her party shoes leaving marks on the newly-installed bathroom cabinet, relaying the trauma of the incident to the sympathetic ears that half-listened while trying to extract the gravel from shredded knees. She was panicked with the thought of the four candles being blown without her, the candles that studded the birthday cake she'd selected months before from the dog-eared recipe book. The calm voice of reassurance grew tired of her pitiful wails, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her back to the party, holding a tissue for her to blow her nose and lighting the candles of the cake shaped like a clock.

The nest is built in a place that you can't jump from easily, especially in bare feet, as you're bound to get that sharp shooting pain grab you by both ankles and cripples you for a second. Don't try and jump, it's a swooping motion, but you have to do it quickly. No use hopping along the branch. She'd always had one foot outside, itching to fly away sooner than her wings were grown. At the bottom of the tree there were screens with times and destinations, and sterile polished floors. So, with a gentle push, a lingering hug laced with a little bit of hope of lasting longer, there she went.

Hacker

Is it the long list of pressing things that need to be done,
by a certain date, certain time
Maybe it's the ever-present drizzle
And the fear of slipping on the concrete in shoes not designed for wet weather.
Is it the forced imbibing of a book, published in 1986, that turned out to be pleasing to read, cocooned in a nest of featherdown with eyes itching from tiredness?
The leftover coffee foam is sugary sweet, remaining on the walls of the glass in a way I can't quite explain (perhaps because it's separated from the rest, just like this?)
I hid my disappointment in my generic choices, my wide and expansive choices
'I hate accounting, I hate numbers, I just don't understand them. I refuse to study something I hate.'
'It's education' he said. 'Sometimes you don't get a choice.'
I told her about this
As well as this vice of mine, that I maintain isn't an outpouring of emotion (I hate that, in a public forum).
Maybe it's because I need a response, a 5pm Monday response, that's why I'm this way inclined, today, yesterday? (Write it, write it, write it).

I'm just sayin'

1. 'We're dreaming of a bright white Christmas (and I'm crying like a newborn baby)'

In my dream I say this to you while I'm singing it, and secretly grin on the inside while I watch your forehead terse in disgust and confusion. I wait for the familiar spiel that I now know, and dream-like me doesn't feel the cold so manages to find it that much funnier. I mentally prepare myself to ask the questions I already know the answers to.

'I've been through this with you before - snow isn't pretty. It might look pretty while it's falling down in little flakes but the next day it turns to slush, and then it turns to ice.'

'But at Christmas isn't it pretty, you're inside with the lovely fire and all the Christmas images that are plastered all over everything match how it actually is outside.'

'No, because it hardly ever snows at Christmas, it's just fucking cold. And we have central heating, not a roaring fire.'

'I still think snow's exciting, I really hope it snows again here before you leave.'

'Why do you want that? Do you not remember when it snowed last time and it was just really really cold and all the sidewalks and roads were slippery with ice? You fell over in the middle of the street, remember, and you complained about it for ages. Don't tell me you want it to snow.'

'Well it hurt, that's why I complained, I can still feel the egg on the back of my head. And I do want it to snow because then we can make snow angels.'

'I'm done talking about snow.'

In my dream, I don't feel the cold, and I have wings. The Pacific Ocean is a puddle, and 5c pieces are worth a thousand dollars each (I've got a jar of them on my windowsill, just imagine that).

I'm going to cut up my roast dinners and put them in my Thermos too

1.

‘He said it was overwritten, I don’t even know what that means.’

‘It means just really over the top descriptions and paragraph-long sentences that are filled with all these rare adjectives. You visualise everything really intensely and use too many metaphors.’

‘What? That’s not fair, I thought this was the one subject where I’m allowed to do that.’

I could visualise what she was doing while we were having this conversation, separated by the Hay Plain (the most boring stretch of land known to man) and 8 hours of vehicular control. She wouldn’t be sitting still, she’d probably be lurking from one room of the house to the next. She might pause in front of the glass door that looked out into the backyard, but not for long. The fridge door might open and she’d pick at something like cheese or a salad or dish that had been made the day before, but never take a plate and fill it up like I would. She wouldn't eat it while we were on the phone either, having screeched at me before if I took a loud sip of tea close to the receiver. I could visualise the expressions on her face and her body language while she spoke, and be able to predict what she was going to say before she did. Her listening fillers were usually in the same tone, same emphasis, though I suppose mine were as well.

2.

‘I saw a girl get her shoe stuck in the escalator at uni yesterday.’
‘Ha! Did you? Did you tell her that I did the same thing?’
‘First I started laughing hysterically, like I couldn’t stop. Then I said to her “My friend will be so relieved to hear that this has happened to you, it happened to her last week..” She was much calmer than you were about it though.’
‘How on earth was she calm? Were there waves of people coming behind her so that she couldn’t get her shoe back?’
‘Yeah and she was just waiting there with this really tired expression on her face, her shoe was more mangled than yours as well, it was a Haviaana that was all caught up in the teeth of the escalator and flapping around.’
‘I don’t know that I feel any better after hearing this story.’
‘I thought it was pretty funny. Are you going to use the rest of that soy sauce?’
‘No, you can have it, can I have some of your miso?’
‘No, you can’t, you’re sick. And you’ve made me sick, I can feel it already. I have a very low immune system.’
‘There is no way I could have made you sick this quickly, a cold incubates for 3 days at least.’
‘You have.’

3.

‘This is what people do, they work all their lives at jobs they don’t even like so they can come to Ikea on a public holiday and spend their money on a perfect house that looks like it came out of the catalogue.’
‘Everyone wants a perfect Swedish house, don’t you?’
‘No I want to move to Paris, but you won’t let me.’
‘Yes I will, I want to move to Paris too. That’s why we’ll be together forever, because we both want to move to Paris.’

‘Did that movie really have an effect on you or something?’

The first one was 3192

It’s not love – you never swept me off my feet. I struggle to believe that anyone would be able to, but even you, with the broken diamonds in your teeth and glitter in your eyes, and that swagger, even you couldn’t manage it.

I’ve always been able to think about other things rather than you, but you were a better option than the alternative. With that said, I feel more than endearment for you and I don’t know that I could turn my back without a moment’s thought. We’ve progressed over the last few months from a mutual and grudging affection, to an acceptance.

You terrified me at first. I was certain I could never really know you, wasn’t sure that I wanted to. The first few weeks after our introduction passed quickly, blurrily. I didn’t trust you and didn’t trust myself around you. What did we even do those first few weeks? They left me drained, wrung-out with exhaustion. I used to wake up at 4am and be near-death by 4pm, blind and deaf with tiredness. Though our union was chosen, I sometimes questioned that choice, wondered if the other one might’ve been kinder to me, easier. Carrying a steel midbeam by myself on the tram that rattled down Burnley Street made me ask that question, so did the lunch room conversation and so did the colour of our bedroom walls, a slightly off mint green that was punctured with old Blu-Tack. I won’t lie and say that the question wasn’t asked.

I strayed. I needed to, needed to make the comparison and to be reminded of the right choice. Needed to have the sugar bowl filled back up to the brim, swap the batteries over so I could look at you and say yes, instead of no. It was only a couple of days, and I came back, didn’t I?

I’ve never liked you for the same reasons that everyone knows you for, never really seen the characteristics in you that others guffaw over. It took me a while to see past the bravado, but I guess luckily for you, I liked what I saw. You took some things from me, gave me back others. I never thought about it too much because my head was busy deciding what to do next. You had taken all my money, so there were some choices I would have to make. You and your bravado took it from me when I wasn’t being careful, while I was caught up in the newness and excitement of it all. Then there came the moment where I was able to grab what I wanted, and there was purpose and drive behind our existence together. Everything was screaming out a reason.

I’m thankful for the year, happy about it, I don’t look at it with any scorn or vengeance. On days where I don’t feel like leaving my feet planted on the ground, I live where there is an accent on top of the ‘e’. It’s become a comfort of sorts, this thing between you and I. Perhaps it’s still not easier than the one who pronounces their vowels properly, but I know you well now, so there are fewer moments that startle me. So here's to that year.

Is this day going really slowly for you?

The Monday to Friday was something I had a strong understanding of when I was submerged in the boring and murky pond of full time employment. I looked forward to Friday even if Saturday contained nothing better than Tuesday. It was a natural progression and one that everyone around me seemed to uphold with vengeance so I followed suite. A new life thesedays reckons a new weekly structure, but when the world shares an opinion for the days of the week you just can't help but be affected. Fridays are still my favourite day.


Monday

What is Monday? Monday hurts. Monday hits you repetively with a heavy brick, resulting in a heavy and long lasting pain that throbs throughout the day. You curse Monday as it wakes you against your will with a shrill alarm tone, throws you into disarray as you have to forage for the things you should have organised for the week ahead but didn't. A Monday's pain can be slightly subdued if said organisation is adhered to, if your Sunday self is kind to your Monday being. Clean washing and milk that isn't past its use-by will help you find a smooth Monday path. Even if you work on a Sunday, Monday still hurts, because the world hates Mondays and the world's discontent is completely contagious (more so than swine flu). Mondays demand creature comforts, generally in the form of carbohydrates, and unchallenging tasks. Monday mornings generally feature tired eyes and an aromatic waft of caffeine. Short tempers reign supreme on a Monday. Be calm, eat your pasta with excessive amounts of creamy (and delicious) sauce, wait for the storm to pass. It's just a storm, after all.

Tuesday

Tuesday is Monday's child, and is a horrible wretched spawn. But Tuesday can be tamed, soothed, trained into good behaviour if its fed the right encouragement and rewards. Happy Tuesdays are not uncommon, usually because everyone feels utmost joy at the fact it is no longer Monday. Cheap movie tickets help with this. On Tuesday you can fathom productivity again; there is less of the mania that surrounds Monday. Tuesdays sometimes feature as clean-up day, in which you sweep up the broken glass that the storm that was Monday shattered all over the kitchen floor. You can enjoy vegetables on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are easily forgotten.

Wednesday

That's not to say that the point of this ramble (because there so obviously is one) is to determine that Saturday and Sunday are the best days. Such a theory could wield to be completely untrue depending on your routine. If Wednesday holds devilish tasks for you, you will resent Wednesdays with far more fury than Mondays. Wednesday was always hard to spell, and commonly sounded out with emphasis. Perhaps 'emphasis' is a good way to summarise Wednesday. There is emphasis on the fact you have now reached the middle of the working week. Hello Wednesday, friend of Thursday, followed by Friday.

Thursday

You can justify behaviours on a Thursday that you couldn't do on another weekday. Thursday feasts are common; abandoning homework or exercise plans for mass television viewings or unnecessary outings are common. Thursday is pay day; financial woes tend not to exist on a Thursday. Thursday is holding hands with Friday, their fingers are entwined, their hands are so closely clasped that you forget they aren't joined. You usually sail happily from Thursday to Friday, feeling the wave of motion from another's fingers to your own.

Friday

You are everybody's friend on a Friday. Waking up at the crack of dawn is less painful because chances are, Saturday won't greet you with the beep-beep of an alarm clock. Though many will refuse to recognise that Friday shares several key characteristics of Monday, it is true. Fridays are usually also unchallenging, but instead of having sharp and pointed edges like Monday, Friday is smooth, rounded, easy to hold. Friday afternoons are slightly lethargic, slightly antsy, as everybody's waiting. Friday has 24 Happy Hours - everything is more pleasant because you are most likely doing it for the last time before respite comes in the form of weekend. Friday afternoons are like an overstretched elastic band that has finally been allowed to slacken. Don't try and make a useful phone call after 4pm on Friday afternoon, because nobody wants to speak to you. You cannot get anywhere fast enough at 5pm on a Friday. (Please note that 5pm could be 1pm, 2pm, 3pm etc. A Friday finish is not exceptional).


All I will say about the weekend is Saturday smells like clean sheets and train tickets; Sunday smells like eggs on toast and newspapers.

We're not the baby boomers

I remember the brush fence that had been built around the house that bust the budget, balanced on the hill with the sea encircling it like a decorative wallpaper. The woodheap next door was what attracted the snakes, and they would creep along the tops of the brush fence, hiding amongst the coarse bunches of sticks brambled together with wire. Gumboots and a shovel went hand in hand when the discovery of a snake was made, and I never saw the outcome that came after that, whether it was through shielding my own eyes or being called away from the window (so essentially someone else shielding them for me).

I remember how angry she was at the lack of street signs, at the winding roads in the place that there seemed to be a constant mist of rain from June until September. The anger at the warren of turns and blind corners, the slippery roads and the dull yellow headlights, turned into joy, when spring finally tickled our chins with warm fingers and the blossom tree at the bottom of the driveway burst into a calm array of pink and white.

I remember the smell of disinfectant that I came to associate with moving house, as we scrubbed out cupboards, wiped away the dust on skirting boards and powerpoints, the type of cleaning nobody really bothers with unless it's thought someone will examine these spaces with an attention to detail. There was a makeshift wall made from cupboards and boxes, which gave me a new appreciation for doorknobs, even if they didn't have locks. She would buy the discounted flowers from the supermarket, the wilted and sad ones, then nurse them back to life with water and sunlight, before they had their moment to shine on the front table, greeting the people we didn't know who might've wanted to buy the house ('We knew it was the house for us because of the slightly dead carnations in the front room').


I remember the lack of fly screens, in this place where blowflys and their disgusting magnetic buzzing tendencies didn't seem to exist. A lack of fly screens made it possible to thrust open the double windows and be faced with nothing between you and the air outside. As a result, people would tumble their bedding out of the windows in the morning, leaving it to air. Even when the air was so cold that you wondered whether it would turn the bedding to icy sheets of cardboard, deft hands would hurl the blankets from the terrace windows for the duration of the morning.

That smells like Tupperware

She spent most of her time waiting, killing time. While she waited she would watch the particles of dust dance in the sunlight. Thinking about doing that was boring, and untrue. Because the light didn't play tricks like that, didn't shimmer with dust fibres, didn't swap and flitter like a playful hummingbird (do hummingbirds exist in Australia?) In reality the light hovered outside the window, hid behind the bus stop, never reaching the corners of the space she occupied.

If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.

When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.

She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.

Monday to Friday

He was easily infuriated; it didn’t take much to ignite the fire in his eyes and open the door to let the raging demons run loose. The steel cage that contained his emotions wasn’t steel in fact. It bore no protective outer layer; his spitting ferocity and discontent danced and spiralled between the bars, threatening to lash out at any moment.

He didn’t want to be a part of the Race; he resented his alarm clock and its neon green digits, resented the tailored wool blend suits that filled his wardrobe with dull hues of black and grey; resented the weight of the briefcase that dragged against his fingers, his arm, his heart, leaving them all blistered, raw, exhausted, sapped of life.

He hated rats, considered them vermin.

His facial features formed straight and defined lines – his mouth was small and pursed, eyebrows narrowed, forehead disappearing into a sea of creases that were made more apparent by his meticulously ironed white shirt.

Subconsciously he rehearsed exercises that gave him a discreet advantage in the Race. He gulped down the bitter coffee from the café next to the train station, read over notes once, twice, three times until he mumbled them in his dreams. As his Italian leather shoes pounded the pavements littered with cigarette butts, he saw not the vague city skyline in the distance, but a ladder, with rungs that he had no choice but to climb, to conquer.

He frowned at the girl smiling to herself as she pushed through the ticket barriers at the train station, struggling against the tide of business attire that threatened to crush her. He scowled at her evident energy, her glee at entering the confines of the city streets, her youth, her colour that danced against the wave of black and grey.

Her flippancy made him clench his teeth in anger; he twisted the Metcard between his fingers as he watched a different set of neon numbers tick over, cursing ever second that he was trapped in a nest of squeaking, and squirming, of bright pink eyes and bald tails.

He smelt the damp and decrepit odour of rodents wash away from him as he turned his key in the lock, as he heard the thump of footsteps running along the hallway. The immense public stench of the train was replaced as wafts of dinner cooking tickled his nose; the stuffy warmth that came from too many humans in one place subsided as the cool night air touched his face before he stepped inside the front door.

The lines disappeared; the fury evaporated; the man who thrashed his way through the pack to reach the ladder first no longer existed. He buried his face into her hair, cradled her tiny frame against him, knowing that she would be wiping whatever was on her fingers onto his suit jacket, of which the cost could feed an entire family for a month – but he didn’t care, as he had dropped the weight at the bottom of the stairs, where it was to remain as he helped her cut up her dinner, bathed her, read to her, was there to kiss her goodnight.

'The world would be boring if we were all the same'

It was an artificial and fluorescently lit environment, a perfect feeding ground for daydreams and the brewing of longwinded thoughts and fables. What’s more, a window stretched from floor to ceiling, providing a view of the car park and stretch of main road, where even average behaviour was considered flamboyant.

Suburbia is breeding ground for The Grey (AC, 2009) because it’s this halfway existence between two drastic worlds. Souls get lost on their way to the city or the country, and die halfway in between, coming to a quiet rest on streets with identical footpaths, streetlights, rendered houses with Astroturf-apparent front lawns, a station wagon in the driveway and curtains hemmed by mothers-in-laws. If you walk too slowly through the suburbs (and no city does suburbia like Melbourne) you’ll get lost, and you’ll forget what the moon looks like without an orange ring encircling it.

Suburbia is safe, everything is comfortably within reach and its complete lack of anything unusual or unexpected means it’s an easy place to be a child, raise a family, grow old. But the thought of carrying out an entire life cycle in suburbia (like the cicadas that creak from the median strips, protesting against the council workers mowing down unruly grass) is positively eye-glazing. I feel grateful for the early years spent in salt-encrusted coastal towns, for the childhood past in a place where there was no supermarket because the heritage listing wouldn’t allow it.

I lost something when I was drifting through the middle-class paradise, while the windows lit with golden light, showing silhouettes of families eating dinner, blinked at me. I dropped it into the gutter, where fallen leaves don’t remain for long (we pay hideously expensive council rates for a reason, you know) and it was lost for a while. It reappeared one muggy afternoon when I was crushed against the window of a tram rattling towards Brunswick Road, I felt it drop into my pocket. It had lost its shine and it took me a time to realise how to polish it clean again.

When it started raining

1. Being dumped by a wave

A tremulous torrent of water, sucking at the tide and gaining strength as it rolls towards the shore. Dark heads bobbing at the breaking point.

The ocean swelled, an angry wall of water forming, the wave curving into a tip, breaking along the shore in a continuous cascade of water, a thunderous crack pummelling beneath the surface, churning water beneath its depths.

The swimmers decide – those armed with boards leap into the wave’s path, riding along its frothing edge until there is no more water. Then there are those without, some of who face the wave head on, attempting to stand against its wrath. The others (the smart ones?) dive beneath it, closing their eyes against the salt water fury and hoping to emerge on the other side, of calm.

The unlucky one is swept off their feet in the ocean’s rampage. Far from giddy and light-headed (the usual associated feelings with being swept off your feet) they are tossed beneath the blue concrete, paralysed momentarily as their limbs fight against the water surging against them from every direction.

An attempted fight is futile; an effort to gasp for air is wasted, because the wave has surged into every crevice of the world that they occupy. They will be tossed throughout the passage of water, whipped and wrung relentlessly with more momentum than the spin cycle on a washing machine, until – respite.

They will reappear in the shallows, coughing, gasping, spluttering, salt water bile streaming from eyes, mouth, nose, burning. Oxygen has a newfound glory; they cannot breathe in fast enough, inflating lungs scratchy with sand and salt. The wave’s victim is bent over, winded, as the smaller waves, offsets of the beast that created such turmoil, lap around their ankles. Already the sea is swirling again, waiting, biding time.



2. The silver ring with the green stone

Miles and miles of fields, blurring into a continuous strip of green. Miles and miles of road, stretched out before them, the bitumen smooth and dark, edges neat and finished. White windmills whirred gently in the breeze, giant arms reaching towards the April sky. It wasn’t cold, so two coats were unnecessary. The box was small, and unexpected. The green stone was set in silver, fit on the third finger on one’s right hand. She would stretch out her fingers like a starfish to admire it, the only piece of jewellery on otherwise bare hands. She did remember everything about that car ride.

3. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles

Fake strawberry flavour is generally more appetising than fake cherry flavour. The icing that is slathered on bakery donuts is the epitome of baby pink. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles will be chosen above donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles.

So this is what you're going to do

Airports are peculiar places, these giant havens of people in transit, coming and going, assembled in eclectic groups that you wouldn’t find in any other circumstance; accompanied by luggage, trolleys, surfboards, wheelchairs, prams, toddlers, grandmothers. Though everyone is there for the same fundamental purpose (board a plane, flip through a magazine in a bored fashion, pay ridiculous amounts for cardboard-tasting aeroplane food, sleep in a grossly uncomfortable position whilst trying not to dribble on the person sitting next to you, disembark feeling groggy and covered in travel grime, eager to reach your actual destination outside the airport) nobody’s journey is the same. This bizarre hub of transport is the only time two people from opposite sides of the world may walk across the same tiled floor, passport in hand, clutching a ticket for a holiday, year-long adventure, new life, new start.

Open, raw emotion is something one would expect to find frequently in such a place where hellos and goodbyes are said at every waking minute of the day - people with torrents of tears gushing down their faces; happy tears, sad tears, exhausted, frustrated, angry tears. People shaking with quakes of laughter; relieved laughter, amused laughter, laugh-so-you-don’t-cry laughter. Though this might be the common belief (that stark emotion is more easily stumbled upon than a freshly made sandwich), more careful reflection reveals that this may just be as a result of watching Love Actually too many times and being slightly overwhelmed by the shiny-eyed credits that roll at the start of the film, showing people flying into different forms of embrace as they pour into Arrivals at Heathrow Airport. After spending 45 minutes in a queue in Charles De Gaulle airport, surrounded by utterly composed people looking with concern and fear at the girl blubbering harder than an angry whale, it could be said that airports are not quite as full of unbridled displays of emotion as first expected.

As in any situation where peoples’ usual routines are disrupted, it’s always entertaining to observe the means some will go to in order to preserve some kind of semblance of normality. Most commonly stumbled upon are the families with younger children who will gather around one communal suitcase (a makeshift table) and eat a breakfast consisting of three-day old muffins, juice and dubious looking fruit, balancing their meals on serviettes and making idle conversation even though their eyes are jumping out of their heads with exhaustion and announcements are blaring from the loudspeakers. Others include those who want a good night’s sleep and won’t let anything or anyone stop them – I’ve always envied those who can curl up on a row of seats with a blanket, pillow and eye mask and enjoy a deep slumber for the eight hours before their flight, unphased by the possibility of someone stealing all of their possessions or drawing something in permanent texta on their face.

Airports seem a permanent fixture within the means of travel now; the huge, dry and dusty island that is Australia has ensured plane trips are virtually inevitable for most who live here. So for the eons to come, we’ll still shove our belongings into suitcases (cursing the 23 kilogram limit per person) waste time at boarding gates, stare blankly at the air hostesses performing the safety proceedings, watch the city lights disappear beneath a blanket of cloud, pass minutes, hours, days with magazines and crossword puzzles, watch movies that fail to distract you from your furiously-protesting body clock, itchy eyes and cramped legs, wait in queues at Customs, at baggage terminals, all to walk through the automatic doors into a crowd of expectant people, only to see the person waiting to the side for you, to welcome you to this home, for now, here.

Earl Grey is for special occasions

The origin of certain things can be traced back, grabbed onto like a persistent garden weed wrenched upwards out of the ground until the roots are exposed, trailing clumps of dirt. If you look hard enough, the grains of soil can tell you more.



There are some things in life that you are unable to choose whether you like or not; they are ingrained into you, learned behaviour that you have no say in - copied patterns from the people surrounding you during the years you are cherub-faced and impressionable. Later in life, you may be exposed to the alternate by outsiders; decide that it's better and change - sometimes not, and these learned behaviour patterns (that you only follow because your mum does, and her mum did) will reign supreme.



'Do you want a cup of tea?'



A negative answer to the above question always unnerves me slightly. If I'm faced with an emotionally traumatic situation in which the person involved doesn't drink tea, I'm generally at a loss with what to do. Isn't a hot, sweet cup of tea the answer to all woes? Milo just doesn't cut it and coffee isn't exactly in the soothing comfort category.



There used to be three cups, one for each of us. They descended in size according to our age, though the mugs didn't grow with us as you would expect them to. Before I was old enough to see over the top of the table, I would balance precariously on the brown vinyl chair and heap spoonfuls of sugar into my cup into which the teabag had only been dipped once or twice, meaning there was only the slightest brown tinge to the milky rim on the surface. We didn't sip, we slurped, we didn't nibble at shortbread, we sucked the warm tea through a Tim Tam and shovelled it into our mouths before the inevitable catastrophe occured (the Tim Tam melting and falling into the bottom of the cup, forever lost).



As I got older the tea got stronger - the two heaped sugars was cut down to one, then none - the teabag now remains in my cup instead of being strained seconds after it was thrown into the boiling water. Of the three stained ceramic mugs that used to line the kitchen bench as the kettle shook and boiled, mine is the only one that remains - my brother and sister are now far less committed tea drinkers than I am.



Tea is the ultimate social tool, a fabulous procrastination device - couldn't study without a cup of tea - a way to fill in empty minutes (it wasn't just the drinking practice itself, but the fussing with the kettle, the milk - it ate away at awkward silences more furiously than termites at wood bearings).



A morning without a cup of tea feels strange, I feel displaced, like I've forgotten to moisturise my face - my skin is taut, I'm impeccably thirsty and no amount of water will quench my dehydration that craves only one thing. Even if I haul myself from bed fifteen minutes before I'm due to leave the house, I'll boil the kettle and make a tea that I'll only take a few gulps from, usually burning my mouth and leaving a cup that's three-quarters full, the tea bag floating on top. I leave a trail of tea carnage in my wake, increasingly mouldy cups littering different surfaces until I finally run out of clean mugs and have to wash them all.

I feel a powerful connection with fellow tea-drinkers - it's always comforting to find that a similar passion exists in a friend or accquaintance. The ultimate satisfaction is in a shared pot of tea, or making a cup for somebody else - drinking it together, even if it's not quite how you'd normally have it, is incredibly warming.