Every Monday on the way to orchestra practise I pass by here. Trains are my favourite method of transport. I love atmosphere at train stations, the melodic sound of trains bumping along their tracks. I like to watch people get on and off and be reminded that everyone has a different life to lead. They connect people only by taking them to different places. I love that fleeting moment we sometimes experience with that certain passenger and the fact that there's always at least one person sleeping. Ever since I was a kid, trains and train stops have provided me with endless fascination which I still carry with me today.
My Nan unexpectedly visited our home yesterday. My parents went out to collect something, which I don't know about (they don't tell me much anymore).
While they were out I had the most intriguing conversation I've had this year.
Stirring her sugarless tea while laughing "I'm much too sweet for sugar" she shared with me her childhood. It's strange, she's 82 and I'm 16, yet she knows everything about my childhood. And I know nothing about hers.
She told me about the time when she hid her pet snake in her parent's bed just to amuse them (and herself).
She told me about the time when she would sneak to the shops on a Sunday morning, at a time when shops were prohibited from selling any items, and how she would negotiate with foreign shop assistants and buy lollies anyway.
She told me the time when she was 11 and she received her first bicycle, and how happy this made her. And the time when she learnt to ride it she fell and reached to her friend's bike for balance only to drag her down too.
My Nan openly claims she's depressed. Yet in this moment her laughs outnumbered her breaths. She looked so content, so proud of these stories she was telling me.
When I asked her if she missed the old days she immediately nodded. "Things were so much simpler then".
I showed her some of my photographs. She's more interested in them than anyone I know. And probably more than anyone I don't know. I showed her photos that were taken in the Botanical Gardens and she in my photos she would show me the tree she used to sit under almost every weekend when she was my age. She told me about the museums she used to visit on the weekends. And how disappointed she was when she returned only a few years ago to find them completely changed. "They were so much better back then." "But the art galleries haven't changed?" "Yes they're still the same... although I haven't visited one in a long time."
Stirring her sugarless tea while sighing "time has changed so much" she shared with me some of her most fragile thoughts.
Crunchy leaves, flickering street lights, days transforming to nights, romanticism, cool breezes, dark mornings, walks in the rain, post-rock, hoodies, firewood, blankets, long pajamas, musty jumpers, new jeans, shivering at bus stops, the smell fresh of books, catching up on lost sleep, autumn is on its way, finally.
I glare into the mirror. The reflection is delayed. Eventually, colours and shapes apathetically reflect back. At first glance, this embodiment is not recognisable as anything crafted by humans. But as these colours and shapes fall into focus, I see myself. My identity…
Beside me, you are staring at this same mirror. Wisps of colours and incomplete shapes formulate. I mistake these figments as mine, but as my eyes involuntary blink, I see these fragments in a stark new light. They prance around the perimeter of the mirror and vehemently cast my mine aside. They swirl, naked, around the surface, obscuring mine from view.
As you outstretch your hand, the mirror cacophonously shatters. The colours fade. The shapes disintegrate. And all that’s left is a million worthless pieces of transparent glass.
Over the New Year week of 2010-2011 our family + some others on a camping trip to Jindabyne in the 'alpine' region of Australia. Camping is forever one of my favourite times of the year. A time where absolutely anything goes . There's not much to do, but at the same time there's everything to do. Nature's at your doorstep - that's the beauty of camping.
I am the last man alive
I watched as death teetered by your side
I saw the final glint in your eye
A flash a white, that was all
Death does not lie
And so I had to imagine what it was like
Our final, felicitous goodbye
I am the last man alive
I find solitude knowing this is true
There is no government, or conformity
And all that other hullabaloo
I write in comfort
Without the overshadowing thoughts about you
I can say and do whatever I please
I can start a life anew
I am the last man alive
From your death comes my rebirth
A new mind and a new body (I haven’t shaved since last week)
Located on a brand new Earth
Without content, making me content
While physically there is a dearth
An exchange for your company would be insane
I don’t need anybody, I’ve found my worth