Tuesday 26 July 2011

Blah...Heart Stuff...Blah...

Still, I think about him, and want to be with him. I don’t know a whole lot about him; only what he allows to people in general, but there is enough in this to attract me to him, so that I want to know more. But he is with someone else, and it is she who he allows in. The time he spends with her is the loneliest time for me. I theorize ways in which they are incompatible, such that they will eventually breakup. And maybe they will breakup, with or without my theories, but when? In 2 weeks, 2 months, 2 years? And even if they were to break-up, there’s nothing to indicate that he would want to spend time with me. But – and, yes, I’m being less than gracious – being able to know that he is also alone would bring me some solace.

A solution to my predicament - at least one that doesn’t involve alchemist love potions - is to fall for someone else. Which, of course, is easier said than done. But I’m reasonably confident that this can happen (my history of lurv concurs), though it may not happen for a while. It usually takes sometime for me to let go of, and replace, my infatuations. And finding someone else is problematic. I’m not overly sociable, so I don’t generally meet lots of new people in the course of my days – plus, when I do meet new people, I need time to see how I feel about them. There is also the issue that there aren’t so many available people my age. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, it’s possible that my ways (endearingly eccentric!) are a little out of the range of normal – at least for the society of which I am a part – and so your more normal people aren’t so inclined towards the lovely me.

But, whatever, ‘cos I still really like him.

Saturday 23 July 2011

What Sadistic Psychopath Invented Getting Out of Bed???

My head has melted into the pillow, while my body and limbs have infused into the mattress and doona. Blood has filled my brain, encasing it in a thick, comfy fog. Through the open window I can hear the birds calling out to each other, and people - some of them also calling out to each other - walking past my driveway on their way to work or school. I know what all of this means - it means it's time to go back to sleep.

Thursday 21 July 2011

Bridges: Practical, Philosophical, Political

(also, pretty)

If it is imperative that a body of water or steep valley be crossed, than a bridge is a fine way to traverse such obstacles.

Spread across uneven topography, and connecting disjointed lands, bridges have infiltrated the earth. We don't know when bridges first appeared, but we are fairly sure that, much like fences and mailboxes, they were brought here by other worldly beings - bless their green tentacles and numerous heads. Little did the aliens realise just how influential and innate bridges would become in the lives of humans. Thriving civilizations have evolved around unintentionally strategically placed bridges. But, more importantly, their enchanting loftiness has infused bridges with metaphysical qualities, which, in turn, have given rise to Bridge Philosophy.

You know what I'm talking about - "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it", "Don't burn your bridges", "Building bridges", "Too many bridges spoil the river" etc. It would be a pointless endeavour trying to find a dilemma unable to be wisely guided by Bridge Philosophy.

I think the bridge philosophy which I strive most to have embody and enrich my life is: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. As a slightly anally retentive introvert, I have a tendency to overthink situations, to ruminate upon every single possible outcome (good and bad, but mostly bad) that could possibly happen were I to go ahead with, say, walking to the shops to get some milk (or maybe catfood, or maybe milk AND catfood). Which can make getting things done - indeed, living - a little prohibitive. So, to combat my ponderous inertia, and maybe even infuse a tranquil sensibility into my being, I've amended the bridge philosophy: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, or, if it turns out there is no bridge - but I still need to cross the river - I'll see if I can find a canoe, or maybe a raft, or, worst-case scenario, I can always continue along the riverbank until I find a shallow section and wade across...PLUS, it may turn out that I don't need to cross that darn river anyway.

Bridges also offer a symbolic representation of societies' inequalities, in terms of unequal distribution of wealth (ie wages) and status. Earth engineers, having thoroughly studied many alien bridge structures, have been able to reverse-engineer and, thus, construct design blueprints for the building of new, terrestrial-made bridges. Then, Earth construction workers, using these design blueprints, have toiled for countless hours, at great personal risk - some have been seriously injured and some have died - to build the bridges. Both the engineers and the construction workers have worked hard. They've employed different skills and abilities - all necessary - to ensure that a safe and usable bridge has been built. But each group is valued differently, engineers are paid more and have a higher social status than construction workers. The mental dexterity required to understand complex maths and physics is placed above the physical (and mental) dexterity required to put together a complex structure, when neither ability is inherently "better" than the other. It makes me cranky.

So, next time you find yourself moseying across a bridge, don't think of it as just a conduit to get you from point A to point B, for a bridge is so much more.

Tuesday 12 July 2011

Eventually I realized, by his demeanour, that it wasn't him

(though, I'm still not 100% sure)

The man, who entered the train-carriage I was in on Saturday, was not my ex-boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend being someone I would not want to encounter again. But the man, who placed himself just a few feet from where I was standing, looked a hell of a lot like him. There was enough of a resemblance to cause some adrenaline to flow into existence. With my back to him, and with some degree of sun-glasses enhanced anonymity, I was able to study his reflection in the glass of the train door. Visually and methodically, I assessed the man's exterior, then I searched my memory for my ex's salient features and attempted to age them 12 years. I compared my imaginary photofit with the train-man:
The train-man is somewhat heavier and grey-haired than my ex was the last time I saw him, but time and mid-4os will allow for such changes. Apart from some extra lines, his face seems almost unchanged. Perhaps his mouth is shaped a little differently, his nose slightly longer, and he seems taller than I remember - but these alterations are not so great that they can't be explained by the inconsistencies and subjectivity of memory. But it is his eyes which raise my dread (it's always the eyes!). My ex's eyes - which, at times, emitted warmth, and at other times, menace - were pale blue-grey, with distinctive, slightly hooded eye-lids. Train-man has the same eyes!

So I kept the man in my sight. Until either he or I alighted from the train, he would be subject to my surveillance. Thankfully, he didn't notice me. Like many train travellers, he had entered the 'zone-out' mode - identifiable by the 'absent gaze' - wherein the person is either day-dreaming, engaged in gentle thinking, or semi-conscious. I couldn't tell which was applicable in the case of the train-man, but the more I studied him, the more it became apparent that he seemed pretty chilled. Chilled???

Hmm...'chilled' doesn't easily fit with how I'd imagined my ex would be 12 years after we broke up. At age 33 he was paranoid, controlling, and fairly angry and cynical at the world. As much as I had empathy for why he was the way he was - a pretty rough childhood - I couldn't be his partner; he was too dangerous. I thought that by his mid-40s he would either be in gaol or dead. I would've found it hard, back then, to believe that 12 years later he could have such a relaxed gaze, as well as such healthy-looking skin (he was a heavy-ish smoker whose skin had already begun to look a little sallow). And an internal calm. I was beginning to doubt that the train-man was my ex.

Finally, the train arrived at Flinders Street Station, where both the man and myself exited, along with almost everyone else on the train. The man was in front of me, so I was able to observe him as he headed east, towards the Flinders Street exit. I headed west, towards the Elizabeth Street exit. With some relief, my surveillance had ended.

I'm mostly convinced, now, upon reflection, that the man wasn't my ex. If it was him, it was an incredible transformation. I want to believe that it was him, though - to know that he was able to get himself together after all this time would be cause for some happiness. I think this is why I don't want to say for sure that it wasn't him, for that would still leave open the possiblity that my ex is either in gaol or dead.

Sunday 3 July 2011

Seen on the Insides of My Eyelids

My journey into the Land of Nod (where dreams reside) requires a robust mattress, unbroken darkness, sensible pyjamas, and eyes that are completely covered by eyelids. As my somnolent safari (seriously!!) begins, I am guided by the nebulous shapes and shadows which appear in the black, and by the tunnel of sparkles. I cannot be fully subsumed by my passage, and thus, by my destination, until I have seen the transient faces - sometimes familiar, sometimes frightening, mostly gentle. It is these fading facades which signal that I'm ready to acquiesce, to submit to subconscious sanity (hurrah!!).