CALL ME MUSHROOM
Enjoy the Silence – Depeche Mode

It’s been a long battle to be honest about who I am, to drop the charade and put the old me to rest.

I’m not there just yet but in my struggle towards this “honest me” I haven’t really taken the time to see that my friends and family are actually adjusting.

All of my life I have known everything that has gone on in the life of my family and friends. And I mean everything. Every stress, every strain, every irrational fear and every relationship dilemma.

But now I’m trying to be honest about myself. In the past year I’ve kicked and screamed. I told them I couldn’t handle hearing all of their problems anymore. I made it clear that I was no longer willing to live up to their expectations. After all, I have stresses and expectations of my own and my goal is to be happy, not to make them happy and comfortable with the way I live my life anymore.

There were fights and tears and a lot of people who told me I was making a huge mistake. They were worried for me and somehow thought telling me about their worries would help “put me back on the right path”.

Still the conversations and emails continued and it was difficult to see a day when they’d ever understand that what I needed was a little support.

Now I find that finally, they’re listening.

“We just didn’t want to worry you. There’s just so much going on in your life we figured you didn’t need another worry when it could be nothing.”

Um, thanks.

It seems my dad had a health scare. Skin cancer. I’m told that it’s nothing serious and that it’s been removed. During the entire month-long saga I’ve been oblivious to what’s been going on and in all honesty I’m grateful to be kept out of the loop.

Now I find out that it’s been going on a lot lately.

Christine has been quiet about the fact she broke up with A. Trevor has kept silent about the stress eating away at him. Michael and Milo are both incredibly happy - at least I think so.

The truth is, I don’t know what’s going on around me all of the time anymore and that’s ok. I don’t feel guilty for not taking care of them. For the first time in 29 years I don’t feel that I have some responsibility for making it all right.

I love them all deeply and would gladly give my still beating heart if it would help but right now I can’t be everything to everyone and they’re beginning to see that.

What’s even more surprising is that I’m beginning to accept that.

A LITTLE LESS THOUGHT
What You Want – My Bloody Valentine

Tonight was a set up. A not-to-subtle one at that.

“He’s my cousin and he’s a really nice guy,” Trevor said as he threw together some past sauce. And over the onions and tears he tried to appeal to my logical side. “Seriously, I think you two will get on so what’s the harm of a little dinner?”

There has been constant pressure to get “out there” from Trevor, Christine, Michael and Milo and now that I’ve settled back into Sydney I’m beginning to think that maybe being “out there” isn’t such a bad idea.

But I’m still not comfortable with the whole vague notion of where “out there” is. Apparently, they decided, “out there” needed to be brought to me.

When he arrived I was mildly impressed. He wore jeans and a dress shirt and introduced himself confidently.

Although I shared no family history with the pair Trevor’s cousin did everything he could to bring me into the conversation. We talked about television but he kept turning the conversation to me. He asked what I did and why I did it. He asked about my life, what I’d done (if I’ve ever been bad – which I had).

Then he asked that question.

“So why aren’t you with anyone?” He seemed to be genuinely puzzled by the fact I wasn’t with anyone.

No one’s ever asked before. I’ve always thought it was because I was such a hideous beast that people assumed that was the reason. I guess it partially is, or rather that my lack of confidence is part of the problem.

So I couldn’t think of an answer. I stuttered and looked at him and smiled to myself.

Why aren’t I with anyone?

I finally dragged out the old excuses, the ones I tell myself. The timing wasn’t right. I’ve had my share of assholes and cheats. I’m sick of the dating game.

But those answers aren’t ringing true to me anymore.

I spoke with Trevor after his cousin left and told him my woes. I told him about my desire to meet someone but to not be trapped. He smiled at me broadly from across the dining room.

“You know, you think too hard about what you want and what you don’t want.”

I grimaced.

“How about just letting things happen. Stop trying to control things and stop waiting for them to fall apart. You seem to spend a lot of time finding excuses not to be with someone but I don’t think you’ve every considered a reason to be with them.”

As for Trevor’s cousin. We’ll see. I’m going to go with the flow. As of right now I’m “out there”.

Don’t worry, I’m not expecting this resolution to last very long and I’m hardly a threat to Sydney at large.

INDECISIVE ME
Clarity – John Mayer

We are all afraid of something. There is one thing in this world that sends a shiver up our spines. We’re only human, animals, and it’s natural that something would make us fear for our wellbeing.

For me, it was pretty much everything. I was scared of the dark (I still am terrified of complete darkness). I was scared of people because they were unfathomable to me. I was absolutely terrified of chaos.

Then the twin towers fell and I decided I’d had enough. I wouldn’t be afraid any more. Something about the fact these people were sitting at their desks at work make me realise that no where was “safe” and if I was going to die then I didn’t want to be trapped behind my desk. I didn’t want people to say that’s all I ever did.

My logic eventually brought me to the conclusion that if you could never be safe then what was the point of always being on the alert. What was the point of locking yourself inside and letting the fear stop you from living your life?

This decision fared me well.

I quit my job at the time, sold everything I owned and flew to Canada where I stopped making excuses. During my trip I met the most amazing people, I spent long nights on deserted roads and I experienced complete an utter silence. During this journey I was unafraid and realised that people weren’t that terrifying, I realised that the dark was peaceful and I experienced silence without the anticipation of something terrible lurking in the shadows.

But it was easier to be unafraid on the other side of the world. We grow up with so many warnings, being told such horror stories, about what’s happening in our own back yard.

Canada was someone else’s back yard but it seemed as though they hadn’t been told those stories. People left their houses unlocked, keys were left in the ignition of unlocked cars and they laughed at the idea that it wasn’t safe to walk the streets at four in the morning.

Now that I’m home I can feel the fear creeping back into my life. I’m torn between the liberation of being unafraid and the person I used to be, riddled with fear and insecurity.

Were all my old fears just excuses not to face what I was really afraid of?

You see after seeing who I was in Canada and seeing myself here it’s become pretty clear that I am two different people. Metaphorically speaking.

There is Boswell A who wants to travel and hang out with artists and explore the world for all it’s worth. This Boswell is happy just drifting along and making decisions on a whim. In this life money is not the issue. She’s not rich but just gets by living in a grotty little apartment in the city with like-minded people.

But this is a lonely life with people, including her, just coming and going.

Boswell B can’t handle the idea. This Boswell wants a solid job, a home and security. She wants to know what happens next. At the end of the day her man comes home to her and the kids. She still writes but it’s during the day when hubby is at work and the kids are sleeping. This Boswell still isn’t materialistic, it’s not about the things she owns, she would just love to have a nice little home in the suburbs.

But this life is stifling.

And I have to choose. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to find the middle ground where I think I could be at peace.

Suddenly I have visions of the rest of my life. I will live just like a restless sleeper who kicks off the blanket and wakes through the night to pull it back on, only to kick it off again later.

For the time being I don’t have to make any decisions. I don’t have any choices. But I’m going to come out of this dark patch and have a clean slate.

And it’s either Boswell A or Boswell B. Lonely or suffocating.

Is it any wonder the only thing I’m afraid of is making a choice about who I am?

THE SIGN
Don’t Believe Anymore – The Whitlams

Every Sunday I watch the skies for a sign from the heavens and, given my Catholic upbringing, I think of the men and woman who are roaming the streets with a purpose.

They are the faithful, who will gather in their churches of brick and mortar. They will say their prayers and will bow down to their God.

But my church is the open sky and its pristine blue. My weekly ritual is this breakfast and that infinite roof above me. It's always been enough.

So there I sit, with coffee in hand and toast spread out before me, waiting. Inevitably the sign comes, shaping itself from the nothingness in an otherwise spotless sky.

I’ve always been a sky watcher and it’s the ballet of the sky writer that brings my weekly sign. Twisting and turning. Making definite strokes with the clouds.

Today’s sign from the heavens was frogger.com. Not very deep and not at all spiritual but watching the tiny dot of a plane loop across the sky brought me peace. The fluidity of this movement gives me something outside of myself, something elegant, to focus on.

Then I move on to the rest of my day, relaxed and happy. Exploring the depths of Sydney with Christine. We shop, pray for those bargains and curl up in the predictability of Gloria Jeans. Over coffee, the sacred beverage, we try to map out hopes and dreams.

The past few months have been rough. I have quite journalism and have a vague notion of what I want to do. But there is nothing concrete, nothing to hold on to.

It’s an odd sensation not having some sort of corporate identity. After saying "I work for Big Corporate Giant" for so long, I’m torn between loving my new found freedom and the desire to belong.

For right now, I am nothing. And I'm trying to accept that. But It's frightening without this identity.

Walking around Sydney I imagine it would be easy for me to disappear. No job to say I didn't turn up. My friends would notice me gone but wouldn’t think it unusual (I have a tendency to disappear). My family tend not to notice when I’m in the room so my absence would be overlooked, at least for a while.

So when Christine headed off to work I walked along the harbour, killing 40 minutes before the next train.

As the sun set over Sydney, turning the Opera House and the hideous Toaster buildings which frame the harbour an iridescent pink, I’m sitting in the park beside the contemporary art museum watching the world pass by.

Next to me, close enough that I can see but far enough away to ensure privacy, a man is bowing to Mecca and I wonder how powerful he must feel at that moment, knowing that he’s part of something so much bigger than himself.

No matter how his life goes to hell. No matter what happens he can hold on to that. He has faith in the power of his prayers. He belongs.

Meanwhile, my signs and the few things I have left to cling to are carried away on the breeze.

FASHION OPTIONS
Merchandise - Fugazi

All right, I’m too stressed right now to think that hard. The temping work has dried up; I’ve got ex-boyfriends who won’t go away and a brain that is turning to mush under the pressure of it all. So this is what I’ve got for you - more proof that I shouldn't be allowed on the streets unaccompanied.

Look, thank you for your time today. I know you’re really busy so let’s get straight into it. Why are you so special?

“I’m not, I’m just waiting for the train.”

Still, there must be something about you that is interesting I mean, look at what you’re wearing.

“Um, what about what I’m wearing?”

You’ve chosen to go out in public wearing those track pants. So you’re a casual kind of guy, right? I mean you don’t care what people think of you so you’re pretty confident too. It’s either that or you’re just an idiot who’s given up on life.

“Actually I was just cold.”

Yeah but even so you could have chosen jeans, or slacks or any number of clothing options. I mean, I’m assuming you have options. God, I’m sorry you might be clothing impaired.

“What’s you’re problem? So I’m wearing track pants, what’s the big deal?”

Well they’re hideous, I mean Jesus don’t you have any pride?

“Hey, what I choose to wear is my business.”

That’s just a selfish attitude, isn’t it? I mean, we have to look at you. When you left the house today did you even think about all the innocent people you’d be subjecting to that?

“No, I didn’t. I was cold ok. I didn’t think…”

Exactly, you didn’t think. And while we’re on the subject, what’s with that t-shirt. I mean it must be at least ten years old, it’s got a faded emblem of some rock band that is probably in a retirement village by now and it’s full of holes. If you’re wearing those track pants because you’re cold then you must have chosen that rag because you were hot on top. Or maybe you were hoping to get a tan on those pasty white arms.

“What? This is my lucky shirt.”

Oh honey, not even Brad Pitt could get lucky in that shirt. I mean, I’m not one to criticize. I’m not exactly the fashion guru but damn, if you don’t look like crap.

“Why are you bothering me? I mean there are heaps of people who wear track pants.”

Yes, but most of them have the common sense to choose black or dark blue at least. Sweet, innocent fool, your’s are pink.

“Look, my train is coming so thanks but I’ve got to go.”

No, wait. I haven’t had a chance to ask about your hair. Come on, it’s 2004 and you’ve got a mullet. And those shoes. Hey, come back. I have to know, what were you thinking? Wait….

I guess the moral of the story is – someone’s always going to spot you on your worst day. That and, obviously, I need to get a job before I go completely insane.

TRIVIAL TEARS
Change Every Light Bulb – The Wonderstuff

When she walked into the house everything was quite. The table scattered with books and the contents of a spilled handbag. Keys and loose change.

“Anyone home?” she called and from the silence she thought the house may have been deserted. But the aroma of Christmas dinner cooking told her that her parents were probably just outside.

She made her way across the present studded lounge room and threw her keys on top of the stereo. It had been a good year for everyone and the mounds of colourful presents covered the floor, leaving only a small path to manoeuvre her way into the dining room.

Through the back door she could see her parents on the veranda. Smoking. Her mum’s eyes red and her face tightened into a prune-like ball. She bit her lip, knowing that it was just another regular Christmas, and made her way outside.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know.

Her mother howled. “It’s all ruined, everything’s ruined.”

“Why? What’s wrong this time?”

“The prawns didn’t defrost. I’ve fucked it all up again.”

She closed her eyes and wondered what it would be like to have one family get together that didn’t involved tears and tantrums over the trivial. She imagined a world that didn’t ask her to pull it all together.

Her father comforted her mother. “Look, it’s not important. We’ll have the prawns for New Years. There’s heaps of food.”

“I just wanted to do something special. I just wanted to have the best Christmas and because I was an idiot and forgot to thaw the prawns it’s all ruined.”

She sighed and walked back into the house. She cleared the table, packing the handbag, scooping up the paperwork and removing the old tablecloth. She hid the bits and pieces in the spare bedroom.

Once the table was cleared she laid a fresh tablecloth and set the table. She carefully folded napkins like a ritual meditation and took a few Christmas baubles to make a centrepiece around a stumpy white candle.

“What time are they supposed to be getting here?” she asked, venturing outside for a moment.

“They’re supposed to be here now,” her puffy faced mother said through gritted teeth.

She went back into the house and began preparing the bench. She filled small bowls with peanuts and chips and lollies so that her sister, brother-in-law and her nephews would be greeted by a festive environment rather than the morgue she’d walked into. As a final touch she put on a CD with the suitably tacky Christmas tunes.

Trying to create and environment for herself, the one she’d wanted to walk into. She pulled the chicken and the turkey from the oven and pulled it into small chunks and placed it into a bowl. She prepared a salad and placed bread rolls into a basket she found in the cupboard. All of which she placed onto the table.

Happy with the environment she’d created she ventured outside. “Look, I’m just going to take a shower.”

Her mother was still crying. Her red eyes filled with fat tears. But she wasn’t moved. It had happened all of her life at every single event. Her mother fell apart at birthday parties, graduations, weddings, Easter and Christmas from the time she was a child. To her recollection there wasn’t one happy occasion that was, actually, happy. Usually it was because of some imagined offence, sometimes it was exhaustion from running around and getting nothing done and at times like these it was a trivial failure to execute perfection.

She, and her father when he wasn’t consoling her, had inevitably picked up the pieces and did what had to be done.

Standing in the shower she took time to collect her thoughts, wondered if she would ever have a happy family event. She wondered if there would ever be that perfect day her mother strived for or if the fact her mother couldn’t let go of the ideal was the reason she’d never achieve it.

She never wanted perfection, just a family get-together that didn’t end up in tears.

A THORN IN MY SIDE
King Midas in Reverse – The Posies

I’m not answering the phone. It’s been ringing for the past 40 minutes and I’m not answering it.

I’ve muted my mobile. Being online means no one else can get through but I leave my mobile on “just in case”.

The ignored caller is relentless. She’s been calling every two minutes and I know who it is. I don’t need to see the number.

More than an hour ago I hung up on her after yet another fight and right now, this instant, I do not want to rehash the battle we just had.

But I know eventually that I’ll have to answer. And decide to give in.

“Are you ok, I’ve been trying to get through for an hour.”

“I’m fine.” My tone is flat and comes out a long sigh.

She huffs. “Well there’s no need to take that tone. I rang to say I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry. We’ve had this conversation a million times and I just don’t want to have it again.”

“You know, you’re so touchy.”

“I’m not touchy, just tiered.”

“Well you should get some sleep.”

“You’re funny. You know I haven’t been sleeping.” And the anger builds but I hold back, I don’t’ want a war.

“Still, think about it.”

“What’s to think about? You keep making it sound like I’ve got a choice here, like I’m saying no because I want to.”

“There’s no need to get angry I’m just saying….”

Ok, so I stop holding back. “I know what you’re saying! You’re saying I should think about going to the party and I’d love to. I want to. You don’t seem to hear what I’m saying. I can’t. I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to go, god I’d love to but I can’t.”

“Fine.” She snaps.

“Fine.” I snap back.

And we say our goodbyes, trying to put the whole conversation behind us. But it's just the way our relationship runs - we'll have the same conversation about a different outing in a week or so.

Neither of us understands. I don’t really understand why she won’t take no for an answer. She can’t understand what it is to have no money. She can’t understand why I don’t just buy a ticket to Queensland and join in the fun and pretend that everything’s all right.

I break down my finances. I explain life with a negative bank balance and the frustration of just waiting to get on with my life and chase my dreams. I tell her that I’m stressed and sick to death of trying to figure out what I want to do for the next 30 or 40 years.

She tells me that’s the reason I should pack up and take a break. After all, why wouldn't I want to get away from it all?

I’m not going to think about it anymore.

SAFETY FIRST
Touched - My Bloody Valentine

I’ve always loved train stations. The anticipation, the rush of wind when a train pulls up to the platform, the calculation necessary to board and alight without dropping something. There’s a thrill and danger standing there, as though you’re taking a big risk.

Today I finally caught all of the safety messages that CityRail string together to keep its passengers safe. The messages feature both male and female voice, chatting with the people milling on the platforms as though their old friends, giving subtle reminders.

For your safety, please remain behind the yellow line at all times.

CityRail would like to remind passengers that smoking is not permitted on the train or within the station.

CityRail would like to remind passengers, for your safety, ridding bikes or scooters on the station is not permitted.

For your safety CityRail staff and police patrol this station.

CityRail would like to remind passengers not to run for trains when the doors are closing. Services depart regularly from this station.

For your safety, please mind the gap when boarding and alighting from the train.

CityRail would like to remind passengers to keep personal belongings with them at all times. If you do see any unattended baggage do not approach it. Notify CityRail staff immediately.

For your safety camera surveillance monitors this station at all times.

During the string of messages it became clear that CityRail is telling me what to do. I’m being told, by these smarmy over-familiar voices, where to stand, how to stand and how to react to situations. I’m being told how to think and they’re telling me what I should want.

So I stand with my toes over the yellow line. It’s the only rebellion I have to offer. I approach bags that look like they have been abandoned although their owners are usually only two paces away looking up the tracks for the late train.

CityRail is making one hell of a massive assumption too. It assumes that I want to be this safe but what if these are the risks I choose to take?

What if I choose not to mind the gap when I’m boarding the train? What if I choose to ride a scooter on the station and risk slipping onto the tracks? What if I choose to leave my bag unattended and at the mercy of thieves? What if I want the thrill of jumping for that closing door?

There isn’t much in this life that has an element of risk, there’s nothing left in a daily routine to get the blood pumping and give you a giddy rush of adrenaline. Not when you’re stuck in a routine of rise, breakfast, work, home, bed, rise breakfast, work, home, bed.

But this tiny risk, leaning over that yellow line and feeling the wind rush against my face, is mine. I’m dangerously close to the train. Close enough to know that safety isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Not if you want to feel alive.

KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Too High – Dave Matthews

For the past four months, no for the past two years, it’s been the strangers who float in and out of my life that have had the greatest impact. I don’t know why I’ve met or been in contact with these people. Often I’m simply going about my business and the day ends off on some tangent.

A musician, a taxi driver, a writer, a chef and a lawyer. All have given me an odd sort of guidance when I didn’t realise that I needed it. Only on one occasion did I turn to a stranger, like some sort of dazed victim from a car crash I stumbled over, “did you see that, my life just went to hell.” The others I have merely met through some odd coincidence. A car breaking down, a hitchhiker, asking directions. And then they would come out with alarmingly insightful things before disappearing from my life again and leaving me changed.

So all of these strangers keep giving me pieces of myself. I know that sounds corny but that’s what it feels like. Oh, here’s your bravery. And here’s your passion. And here’s a little self-confidence. Now, take your heart back.

I don’t know what it all means but it’s so illogical that it makes sense right now.

SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE
Say Something – Something For Kate.

“My friend thinks you’re really hot,” oh God, we’re in high school again.

For the past couple of weeks Milo has been working hard to build up my self-confidence and by and large it’s working.

I’m comfortable in my own skin for the first time in the past 12 months. When I was living in Canberra I lived with a pretentious little bastard of a housemate who pretty much obliterated it. Now I’ve got a housemate’s boyfriend who’s rebuilding it.

Sitting in the outdoor area of Northies at Cronulla, shivering as an icy wind cuts its way thought the covered area, I had spotted a man across the room. Well out of my league.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Milo said harshly. “Everyone is in your league. I’ve seen the most hideous of beasts attract stunning men because they tap into their glow. And honey, you’re no hideous beast and your glow when you let people see it is blinding.”

I laughed and glanced at the man who kept glancing at us. No doubt it was out conversation about female anatomy that had drawn his attention rather than my radiant beauty. Still, he kept looking back and smiling.

Milo began to talk louder and louder and no doubt the man was tuning in to every word.

“Just say something, tell him you think he’s hot and want to have wild sex on the beach.”

I stared out to the sea. "What's the point? Look at me. I've got nothing to work with here."

Milo grinned. "Don't give me that. You've got what you've got. Work with that."

The man was smiling.

I was burning up with embarrassment.

Milo was thriving.

We finished our drinks and decided to return to the fold who had taken control of a small patch of real estate near the bar on a bench seat and three cube seats. As Milo and I entered the bar he hung back and told the man what he already knew. That we’d been talking about him and that the woman in his company found him hot.

I was mortified but I didn’t die.

Now I wonder what was the worst that could have happened if I had spoken to him? He would have laughed? Big deal, rejection doesn’t kill. I could have returned to my friends who would have cut him down and rebuilt my self-esteem in a second.

As the five of us nestled in to the crowd and I only saw the man once more. Smiling broadly and staring at his feet as he cut a path across the dance floor.

At least we’d made him happy.

Next time, I’m going to say something (or get Milo to do it again).

It’s about time I started making myself happy and stopped making excuses.

EVERYONE WANTS THEIR 15 MINUTES
Fame - (I don't know who it's by)

There has been some talk about tOOleS among the people I know (although most don’t remember its name and only refer to it as “your Internet thingy”).

Several have expressed their concern that I am writing about them. That I am exposing “their personal business” and once my identity is revealed people will be able to figure out that I’m talking about them.

I listened to their concerns. I reassured them. I bit my tongue.

And this is where I get to get angry.

For the past year my friends and family have paid little interest in tOOleS and I haven’t really been that disturbed about it. tOOleS is my playground and it didn’t bother me that they weren’t reading. Sure it bothered me a little that they couldn’t have cared less what I was doing but the fact they’re not in the audience actually made me more at ease.

Now, not because they care about what I’m doing but because of their own self interests, they tell me “I might drop by from time to time just to check” as some sort of threat.

So I’ve spent the past couple of weeks deciding exactly what this new threat means. I’ve even hesitated to write a number of entries out of fear someone was looking over my shoulder.

But I’m done with that crap. If that is the reason they are reading then they are not welcome here – I don’t care how good a friend or how close a relative they are.

I’ve got more important things to worry about then whether or not they’ll come here and whether or not they’re uncomfortable with what I’ve written about them. And yes, I write about them because they affect me.

I get angry with the people I love. I get inspired by them every day. I get confused by their contradictions. I get fascinated by the way they live their lives. I even criticize their choices because I see things differently.

And I will write about that. I will come out and describe discussions we have and how they affect me. This is not about how my feelings affect them.

I’ve accommodated them and hidden their identities so that should I be exposed, which is inevitable, then not even those close could identify who was who. They might not see it that way but you get that.

I am claiming tOOleS as my voice.

Is that clear?

HATE MAIL
Let Me Be It - The Flaming Lips

“Hi Boswell, I’m here and it’s as beautiful as we thought it would be.”

G emailed from New York. Bastard.

“I’ve spent the past two days just exploring the city. I’m staying at the hostel in Brooklyn and the people here are amazing. The first night here I went drinking at one of the pubs called Café Ma. I have the worst hangover today.”

Like I care.

“Still, I managed to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and tomorrow I’m going to visit the twin towers site and look around Manhattan. Hopefully I’ll be able to go to Central Park but I might put aside a whole day just for that trip.”

These were my plans.

“I’ve got my tickets to the DMB concert, there are a couple of people staying here who are going too so I won’t be alone. I’m really looking forward to it.”

So was I.

“I’ve met a couple of Australians who are talking about driving across the state to Niagara Falls and I might chip in and join them.”

Get lost.

“I wish you were here. I miss you.”

I wish I were there too. Don’t get me wrong though. I don’t miss you.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go. We’re heading out for another night on the town. I’ll write again soon.”

Don’t bother.

“Love G.”

Seriously, it’s my fault. I run off and act as though any split is mutual. I say, “sure, we can still be friends” but really what I mean is “sure, you can continue to torture me.”

So I get the calls and receive the emails and act as though I’m not bothered. I act as though G and J don’t still hurt me with each happy little story they tell me about a life that seems much better without me.
I wish I could hate them. I wish I had it in my to blame them for the demise of our relationship.

Part of me wants to hear that they’re miserable and that they’re alone. But it’s not the biggest part. I care and I hope they’re happy. I just don’t want to hear about it.

I care about them because I know the only reason we’re no longer together is not because they were bad men but because the timing wasn’t right.

I wonder if it could have worked out with either of them if circumstances had been different.

If J wasn’t so preoccupied with his past would we have had a future?

If G hadn’t been so materialistic could we have built something together?

If I were perhaps beautiful or emotionally stronger could I have been confident enough to hang around a little longer?

But I know it makes no difference. J is in Toronto and G is in New York for the next month and I’m here biting my nails in Sydney trying to turn nothing into something.

ALLEY DWELLERS
Comin’ Up From Behind – Marcy Playground.

They’re lurking in the shadows of the dark alleys between high rises. Sydney’s new breed of addict. They’ve descended from the heavens to lurk, cushioned again the cold pylons and concealing themselves as best they can.

Not a word is uttered in the dark recesses of Sydney but they throw each other knowing glances, these creatures of habit have nowhere else to go and throughout these alleys they’re leaving trails of their decadence. They scatter the remnants of the disease that brings them to these lows at regular intervals, the discarded butts littering the ground like a wash of autumn leaves.

The addiction hard to conceal. A blue-grey cloud that rises, curling itself around the curves of concrete and dancing in the stray beam of sunlight that has found its way through a crack in the skyline. The towers working like a chimney as the smoke races to escape into the blue of the sky.

Not a word is uttered. Those not afflicted cast their eyes to the ground and hustle their way through the shadows, leaving addicts to their guilty pleasure.

Once it was part of the high life. Their addiction the sign of good standing and sociability but a new trend has left them in its wake.

Joggers force their way by them, leaving the air heavy with disappointment and envy. Trendy women with high heels and short skirts sipping “energy” boosters or diet cokes cast furtive glances at those in the shadows. .

The afflicted push themselves deeper in to the cracks. Ashamed.

Today I pull my jacket closer to me and quicken my pace through the darkness. Moving through the alley as though some imagined creature is chasing me. The darkness and silence of the alley’s occupants filling me with dread.

But it’s illogical to fear the dark places in the city.

You are never alone here.

REWARD
Golden Slumbers – Ben Folds

The brown leather moon-shaped handbag was studded with hand-painted white flowers. The strap and buckle plated for decoration. And there it sat, tucked into the shadows of the steps in the alley beside my towering 21-storey office.

I approached it cautiously, sitting on the step a metre away. I didn’t want to appear as though I was a thief casing a prize. I was just curious. But there was no one around and it was clear the bag had been abandoned.

So I opened it and looked for a name or a number. Some sign that the bag had an owner who would be missing it.

Inside I found a wallet, a diary and sunglasses. There was enough to piece together this stranger’s entire life.

I opened the glasses case first, hoping the number was on the inside but found nothing more than a pair of trendy DNKY sunglasses.

Then I opened her diary and flicked through to the address section but found only emails and her mobile number that I rang immediately. The phone was switched off and I had an inkling that it had been stolen.

Finally I opened her wallet, I checked for cash but the folded blue case had been cleaned however her cards remained. A drivers licence, three MasterCards, university identification and various business cards. I knew where she got her hair cut, that she was a blood donor, that she travelled regularly on the train and from the folded currency that remained that she had only recently travelled abroad.

I waited for a few minutes but it was clear that the owner, whose name I now knew, had lost what was essentially her identity. So I scooped the bag up and with all the nearby shops closed decided I would take it home and look for her from there.

Once I was safely on the train I opened the bag again and inspected its contents more closely. I’m ashamed to admit, but my curiosity drove me to read her datebook. I followed her life as she travelled across Europe, when the university results came out and she was accepted to the University of Sydney, her friends birthdays and various other social outings.

By the time I reached home I knew her, even though I’d never met her.

And the bag sat on the kitchen table. It had a presence, like another person in the room.

I called information and tracked her down and this afternoon I met with the woman I had got to know through her belongings. She was thrilled that the bag was returned and upon meeting handed me a card.

I had already vowed I wouldn’t accept a reward of any kind but a personalised card can’t be rejected. We said our goodbyes and I was so flustered by the card that I didn’t think to ask her how she’s lost the bag in the first place.

As I walked away I waited until I was around a corner before I opened the card. Inside was $20 and a note:

Boswell,

Thank you very much for your kindness, it’s a great relief.

It would be nice if there were more people like you.

Susan Brown.

And for the rest of the day I felt good. Really good. I had gotten a small glimpse into someone else’s life. I had been given the opportunity to do the right thing and I’m proud to say that not once did I consider not tracking this woman down and returning her bag (as nice as it was).

But even the warmest of glows wears off.

BABY STEPS
Strange World - Sarah McLachlan

"After you," I was looking at the ground, blushing and a little embarrassed, a little impressed, by the gesture.

The man, who had taken a pointed step back to allow me into the elevator, stood about 6ft but I was too shy to look at him. Instead I watched the red glowing numbers climb the old elevator's console. 1, 2, 3 - we stopped to let another man, who hadn't let me pass, off - 4, 5, 6. Then grinding to a halt.

In the entire journey I hadn't looked at the man who'd let me aboard, although I'd wanted to. Using the reflection of the elevator and through peripheral vision I could see that he had dark hair and wore something smart. It wasn't so much of a suit but I couldn't be certain. I know that he had nice black shoes but I didn't comment on them.

In fact, I didn't say anything.

When the doors began to open he repeated the gesture of standing back and letting me out first, even though he had been closer to the exit. I thanked him and threw him a smile but turned away quickly, not wanting to linger too long on the gesture.

With big strides he had kept pace with me as we approached the door to the office, he gently scooped an arm in front of me and swept open the door in a grand gesture. I said "thank you" again, throwing him one last smile. But again I looked away, wondering if he could see that the kindness had made me blush.

And the answer is yes, that's all it takes to make me feel wonderful.

In one day all the wrongs of my world were balanced, if only for a little while. And it was the little things that made me happy, that made me smile despite the beast depression taking a pretty firm hold on my life.

I once heard someone say - "If we can get all of these little things right, in through the entry and out through the exit, it only stands to reason that the big things will sort themselves out".

It's a basic kind of logic but I'm yet to find fault with it.

Curtesy, thoughtfulness, selflessness, honesty. They’re such simple concepts and everyone seems obsessed with only applying them to the big issues.

I’ve seen people push the homeless out of the way to donate to someone carrying a bucket. I’ve watched as youths, wearing patches denouncing Australia’s role in Iraq, remain seated as the elderly are forced to stand on overstuffed trains. I’ve seen good Catholic men and women pray piously in church and then flip each other off trying to get out of the car park.

These are all noble goals. Seeking cures, solutions, resolution and spiritual enlightenment. But I wonder if we’re not missing the point. I wonder if we’re not missing the trees for the utopian forest, so to speak.

I guess sometime’s it’s easier to cling to the big issues, to ignore the little things around us in favour of something more collectively acknowledged.

But they count; all of those little things do count for something. That simple gesture today made me feel good, it brightened my pathetic little world and gave me hope. And that’s how the world is changed – one person at a time.

Suddenly I sound like I’m pontificating and telling you how you should be.

I’m not.

It’s just that sometimes I need to remind myself that the big things will work themselves out.

All I have to do is take care of the little ones and get the balance right.

CAKES, HAIR AND PARTIES. OH MY.
Hem of Your Garment – Cake.

“Don’t be absurd,” Michael’s frame fills my doorway as I peer from under my doona.

The migraine eased on Friday night and by Sunday morning it was gone, however my battle with the meaning of life still rendered me immobile and I told him that I had no intention of leaving my bed because there was no point.

Michael and Milo had big plans for their day. They were going into the city to see museums and have lunch at a posh little spot by the water. But first they would make a quick stop at the local op shop. So I forced myself into the shower and dressed so that I could make the five-minute journey down the street and claim I had done something with the day.

Plans change.

It took us more than an hour before we stopped, briefly, outside the Profiterole with a selection of decadent cakes before us.

We’d tackled the op shop but just kept walking. No reason, we just turned left instead of right and began to flow up the street without any objective. We wandered into every junky $2 shop along the route, marvelled at the trinkets in a local chemist, and considered birthday present options for a friend we’d be seeing later that night.

And now we had cake.

“We haven’t had breakfast yet,” I, being a regular constable care, pointed out.

The boys looked at me as though it were the most ridiculous comment ever uttered before each took a massive bite into their chocolate-coated sponge and custard cakes. I had a four-tiered slice of sponge, strawberry and custard, glazed in orange with a strawberry garnish on top. I tore my cake apart; enjoying each layer individually and teasing the boys with the fact my cake was proven to be the more superior in both appearance and flavour.

And I though, as we walked back from the town centre some three-and-a-half hours later clinging to pies from the local bakery, that was a pretty triumphant day.

But it wasn’t over yet.

“You should get some streaks,” Milo told Michael as we walked back up our street. “And I’ve been thinking about you,” he turned his gaze on me. “You need some foils and one of those funky chip cuts so you can mess your hair up a little.”

So we did. We made our way to George, the local hairdresser that Michael swears by. Despite the fact it was late and we didn’t have an appointment George kindly fitted the group of bubbling late-20s into the schedule before closing.

Michael looked terrified. The yellow cap pulled tightly over his head and tuffs of hair springing from each hole. He looked intensely into the mirror at Milo and I who sat in chairs behind him offering reassuring smiles and nods. He would call for Milo and whisper his concerns and Milo would quietly reassure him. Finally George lathered on the peroxide, put a shower cap over Michael’s head and turned to me.

Foils first. George complained about my last haircut and I agreed. After all, a great deal of it had been done myself out of sheer frustration and I’m no hairdresser. Then he placed a square of foil under each clump of hair and rolled it into place until I looked, side on, as though I had a sculpture of the Opera House on the top of my head.

Then we waited, Michael, Milo and I in a huddle of chairs chatting about hair and fashion and airing our fears.

After a relaxing wash and head massage, the cuts began and by the time George was done we looked nothing short of fantastic.

And the dinner came and went in a couple of hours and there’s not much to tell, both Milo and I feeling oddly out of place in a room full of strangers. Stuffing ourselves at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Wishing would could have been more social but simply not in the mood for it.

When the day finally came to an end, some 12 hours after it began, we were sitting in the park at the end of the street. I was curled on one of Michael’s shoulders and Milo on the other.

And we all looked fabulous, if a little tired.

BRAIN FREEZE.
Do You Realize – Flaming Lips.

I have had a migraine for two days.

It begins with disorientation, as though my eyes are only seeing things two seconds after the actual sight. This grows into a numbness that generally begins with my fingers and spreads up my shoulder and neck until my tongue is fat in my mouth and my words slurring. The world closes in and my peripheral vision is gone.

Finally there’s nothing I can do but accept that I no longer function – I can’t feel anything, I can’t hear properly, I can’t see and I can’t talk.

The worst side effect of a migraine, even more dramatic than the stabbing pain, is being forced to face my mortality. I am considering my imminent death.

This is dark and brooding and even I can’t bare my own company at times like these.

I’ve just spent two days feeling as though there was a knife stabbed in to the side of my skull. I’ve been acutely aware that the tiny blood vessels were expanding and contracting. Living with the knowledge that should one of these tiny vessels pop then that is all it would take to kill me. Acutely aware, with each breath, that’s it’s a thin wall of tissue between me and my demise.

Thanks to powerful drugs I’ve still been able to drag myself in to work every day (Because I can’t not go).

With each mindless task, and at night when I look back on them, I pray that one of the veins would pop and be done with it. I am exhausted and sick of fighting to keep my head above water.

And what if I were to drop dead, somewhere between the ground and the 14th floor? Was it worth it? Why do we bother if in a second we lose it all? What’s the point?

Every single time I have a migraine I expect to die, so don’t be alarmed. This will be over in a few days. Until then it’s probably best that I leave tOOleS be.

I’m sick, moody and deconstructing the meaning of life. Essentially, I’m not at all fit to be in public.

I’m going to spend the weekend sleeping. I will be curled up in my bed breathing in and out, savouring each breath.

After all, it could be my last.

PREDICTABLE
Dangerous Type – Letters to Cleo

Christine’s absence has been felt over the past couple of weeks. We’ve been like ships passing in the night. I head to work at 6.30am and usually she’s only been in bed for three hours. She’s working night shift for the moment and by the time I get home she’s already gone.

“Where the hell have you been?” she calls from the bathroom as I stumble in the door last night.

I can’t say that it was a tough day, there’s no tough day when you’re an ex-journalist working as an office assistance. At worst you’ve had a mildly inconvenient day.

“I’ve been going into the city every day for fun and games. Where have you been?”

“None of your business.” She jokingly snaps.

I can’t move. I’ve dumped my bag on the kitchen table and stood in the one position without thought of taking any action. When she emerges from the bathroom her normally brown hair is blonde and she’s bighting on her toothbrush as she tugs and adjusts her “boob enhancing” top. For a few moments we just blink at each other.

I’ve missed having her around. A lot can change in a couple of weeks.

“So,” she mumbles, her voice squeezing through brush and teeth. “Is your life still a tragic comedy?”

For the past three months I’ve been trying to get a handle on the moment, on the surreal twists and turn of my life. About three weeks ago I decided it was a tragic comedy but the surrealness has faded and I’m becoming more and more grounded.

“Nope.” I pause for effect before announcing somewhat over dramatically, “My life is a sitcom.”

I’m embarrassed by that fact but I can’t deny my life fulfils the basic sitcom criteria. My life takes place in an enclosed environment featuring exaggerated stereotypes, a “fish out of water” and predictable story lines. There’s laughter, there’s tears, there’s dialogue fit for prime time (as well as a lot of dialogue which belongs in the after 10 time slot).

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Christine takes the toothbrush from her mouth and looks at me with a furrowed brow. “Are you ok with that?”

No. I’m not ok with that. When it all went to hell I thought it couldn’t get much worse than that disembodied feeling where I was being torn across the world by friends and family and even strangers. I honestly believed that the stress and psychosis would lead to some sort of massive breakdown.

But the energy it produced. The passion and focus and creative productivity were intoxicating. I was bold and unafraid.

Now, I’m just tired.

“You know, I guess I have to be.” I sigh.

Christine disappears into the hallway, presumably back into the bathroom and I’m staring at the amber art deco vase on the kitchen table. Unable to find a direction.

“Well,” when I look up Christine is clutching her handbag and struggling to maintain balance in her high heels. “I’m out of here.”

“Where are you going?” My question is riddled with possible misinterpretations.

I hadn’t expected a response but I probably should have.

“If your life is a sitcom,” she adjusts her boobs. “Then let’s just say, I’m the slut of the piece.”

She barely gets a smile out of me. “That was so corny.” She’s already half out the door by the time I finish my sentence. “When will I see you next?”

Christine rolls here eyes doing a mental map of the upcoming week. After a somewhat exaggerated run through she hums. “I’ve got no idea.”

So she’s out on the town and I’ve been left with a deserted house. Trevor’s working and I have no plans to see anyone. Mind you, that’s when sitcom storylines kick in.

When you’ve got plans they are certain to go astray.

BATTER UP
The Observer – The Flaming Lips

Here’s what I’ve got for you. The new office I’m working in is massively sports conscious. The entire staff has tried to increase its fitness and the result has been, pleasing.

One employee just asked for dry antiseptic – an injury from boxing during his lunch break. The skin on his knuckles was raw and scraped.

Half of the male employees strip down in their offices to change into running gear during their lunch breaks.

The senior analyst in the office behind me is doing crunches behind his closed door before hitting the pavement and getting lost in the city crowd. Then he’s back into his suit and looking as though he’s your average executive in the afternoon.

There’s fruit in the kitchen which goes like the wind and I can barely keep up the supply while the biscuits go stale in their air tight bin.

Some days the entire population of the office trot down to the local oval during a lunch break to watch a soccer match.

I’m not much of a sports fanatic. In fact I hate it. I’ve never seen the logic in running half-an-hour to end up where you started from – or rather I’ve never understood the need to watch people doing it.

But I’ve seen what it’s done for this office and I understand that if it’s taken with the right attitude then it can do wonders.

For the entire day these men and woman are working towards the goals of the company, they are fulfilling their duties to the money god. It is all facts and figures and suits and schedules.

But at 4pm the markets close.

For these men and women it’s like a big sigh. And rather than collapse into a heap they turn to each other for some well deserved fun.

And that’s the key, that’s the trick they’ve mastered. Through the constant mucking around and bonding that these half-assed sporting ventures have generated, this office has what so many lack.

Balance.

As I write this I’m ducked down in my cubicle. I’m jumping at every massive bang against the wall next to my head. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

“He’s out,” one of the five men yelled with passion, shattering any illusion you might have had about professionalism being stuffy.

And when they’re done with corridor cricket the office is a wreck. Cupboards missing door handles, scuff marks along the wall and paintings all hanging at odd angels.

Scattered across the floor, in the photocopy room and the kitchen, cricket balls and foam balls and the odd set of joggers.

And a harmonious calm in an office that would otherwise be stifled by stress.

THE GAMES WE PLAY
Foolish Games - Jewel

While many of the people crammed onto Sydney's trains are silent for The duration of their journey in the past couple of weeks I have become aware of a series of signs indicating a more complicated method of communication.

Today it began with mobile phones.

A man in late 30s noisily ripped at the Velcro flap of his backpack And pulled out his phone. I'm not techno-savvy so I can't tell you which one, but it was flash, shiny and featured a noticeable camera. He tapped in a message, possibly to no one, holding the phone unnecessarily exposed to the passengers on the train.

A woman responded, while her phone didn't have a camera it did feature a rather noisy game which she played with a pointed aim of up-staging the man typing a message. Once again she held the phone further out then necessary like product placement in a b-grade film.

Then there were five mobile phones out in total, people across the Cabin showcasing their point of pride. Cameras, games, typing and only two talking. Of all of those involved in this little competition the clear winner was the first man who's phone not only featured the camera but had its own game and finally received a call declaring him the winner as the complicated melody drowned out all others and his loud talk indicated he had some status in the financial world.

I didn't even attempt to play this game. My phone, while ultimately functional and offering tri-band, doesn't ping or ring some trendy melody.

However, round two started five minutes later. Personal music devices.

I personally like this game because it's a pretty sure bet that I'm at least in with a running.

A high-school student starts the game, resting his portable CD player On his knees he clicks it open noisily, changes cds and then slam the lid shut. You can spot those passengers that are still using the old Cassette recorder walkmans. Their hands jammed firmly into their pockets. Fingers curled around their rectangular boxes. They don't play this game.

Across from me someone pulls out another CD player, pointedly pushing the buttons and making it clear that this is no ordinary device. He's obviously got MP3 abilities on his disk player and he's making sure everyone can see that.

The stalemate stands between the iPod and MP3 players who are fairly divided over which is far more superior. Any war between these two groups cannot be fought in silence and as such the train is not a suitable forum for such debates.

Luckily, today, I alone had a small MP3 device. I pointedly flick open the memory card compartment making a sharp clicking sound that draws a little attention. A couple of times clicking it back and forth and pretending to be looking out the window.

Ah, competition rears its head. A man pulls out a small device and I'm concerned I've lost this battle. No, crisis over, all is well. It's a tiny radio that doesn't offer the five hours of listening pleasure my portable juke box has to offer.

The piece of resistance. I hung the device around my neck like a medal, and fiddled with the controls. Holding it a little further than normal with my hand opened enough that it could be seen when normal I would curl it into my palm, away from any prying eyes.

There were only four music devices in all, or four that were taking part in the game. And today I was victorious. My fellow travellers lower their devices and mine remains the only one visible.

But other than these games which also includes the shoe showing where travellers pointedly stick out their feet to show of their shoes and the handbag parade where women, somewhat unnervingly, all place their handbags in front of their feet as they stand. Knowing full well that while we may not make eye contact we'll be making bag contact.

These are the games we play, whether they're intentional or not. We’re all mimicking each other and following those unspoken cues.

More proof the human being is merely an animal with advanced toys.

FIRST LOVE
The One I Love – REM.

My first true love I was five and in pre-school.

He was an English boy and I can clearly remember catch and kiss, swimming at his sister’s birthday party and wearing a borrowed set of swimmers, and the day he left.

It’s odd that these things, 25 years later, can still bring us to tears.

He had the most amazing name. Kenric. And I loved him the way a five-year-old loves. He had simply slotted into the world I knew so completely that I couldn’t remember a time before him and since him, I haven’t forgotten his name or the way he looked or even the sound of his voice. I haven’t forgotten the void he left behind.

I walk through my old preschool, the preschool one of my nieces attended, and I can see him. In the sand pit. On the wooden bridge where I got a massive splinter in my then little leg. The slippery-dip I defended as wonder woman when he was Superman – the two of us fighting off the evils of offensive fellow five-year-olds playing the part.

There’s the toilets where he would kindly leave when the girls came in. A gentleman even then when other children didn’t understand modesty or consideration.

And walking through the now tiny rooms I know the corners where our bags were stored and he would carry my bag for me or come running across the room calling “Boswell, you forgot your painting.”

He would choose me in Duck Duck Goose; he would always mind the seat beside him saying “it’s taken” so that I wouldn’t have to sit next to the smelly boy; I would use all my red paint and he would give me his; and when we were in boy/girl lines he always held my hand.

These are the things I remember. When I forget everything else about being five I remember Kenric and how my heart broke when he left.

Halfway through the year his parents decided to return to England. From what my parents tell me now they remember that his dad got a great job back in England and they decided to go home.

I only remember him standing at the end of my driveway when he came to say goodbye (and for some reason I’m tearing up now at the recollection). These memories are oddly clear. He was wearing tan corduroy trousers and a blue shirt. His parents were already in the car and for a few seconds we were quiet, aware that there were eyes upon us.

But then we looked at each other and it was just us. The eyes of our parents beyond the realm of our acknowledgement. “I’ll miss you,” I said. “I’ll miss you too.” We hugged and neither of us shied away from the embrace.

Then the car tooted it’s horn as they were halfway up the street and when I couldn’t see him anymore I stood there a few seconds more hoping, vainly, that they would change their minds and turn around. That he’d come back.

But they didn’t.

I ran into my room. Closed the door. I cried as a five-year-old does. I cried as I do now. For the things that disappeared. For the things out of my control.

I don’t have anything of Kenric’s to hold onto, except this memory.

PERCEPTION IS EVERYTHING
The Dream – Culture Club (Electric Dreams soundtrack)

The moon stretches in the reflected glass. Warped and making no sense. The woman in the moon in this vision is not happy, nor sad, he’s nothing. She ceases to exit and becomes a blur.

My creation based on the twists and turns that I take. Turn my head left and he's elongated, stretched. Turn to the right and step forward and she's vertical smudge.

I am his creator and destroyer all in one. That's the beauty of such control. Of perception. I make or break her. I bend her to my will with the simple laws of physics. But this is a reflection, it's not real. But I can make it so.

This is my moon, that's my sky he's hanging in not just a window. That's my world. Sideways stretch. Here. I have control over everything. Here I choose to live.

Trevor asked if I was happy today.

I am blissfully happy, thrilled to be in such a dynamic and loving household. I have Trevor, Christine, Michael and Milo watching over me.

Each morning I get up and I know that even if I fall apart these people care enough to pull together the pieces. These people care enough to kick my butt if I ever think of giving up.

This is a first for me. First that I am willing to let these people care and that I’m no longer putting on the show that has kept everyone happy.

The world is settling down around me. The shock of my departure from journalism seems to have worn off and while I feel like an addict, occasionally craving the life I’ve abandoned, I don’t think I’ll ever go back and after some time I won’t miss it.

Boswell is going to be ok.
Boswell is no longer a journalist.
Boswell is just Boswell.

But it’s painful to think that I may have to leave. I love Trevor, he’s my surrogate brother and to my mother a surrogate son-in-law. In the past I have complained about my fear of injuring this friendship but it only seems to be getting stronger as the weeks pass.

That will make it all the harder to leave it behind when the time comes.

And the full moon is slipping away again and I will miss her. The massive glow that lights the street. Her gentle influence over the world.

But in this frame of mind I am not worried. She’ll return.

She’ll be as strong as ever for admitting she’s weak at times.

NB: Paul Ford’s back. I’m pretty excited about this. He had a well-earned month’s break and as an addict of Ftrain the past month has gone by pretty slowly without him. So since he’s back I’m able to resume my nightly rounds and enjoy some of the best writing on the web or the anticipation of it.

So now you know where I’ll be at 11pm (or 9am in NY) every night.

Anyway, on with the show...

FAITHFUL DESKTOP COMPAIONS
Someone Keeps Moving My Chair – They Might Be Giants

“It’s very important that it’s exactly the same as this one.”

I’m now in the stationary business. Actually, that’s life in an office. You’re all in the stationary business. Someone’s hoarding elastic bands and paper clips to create elaborate sculptures during down time. Others are accumulating notebooks just in case there becomes a critical shortage. And everyone is filling pen cups with one of every kind even though they’ll only ever use one pen for the next six months.

But the one true love of the desk bound is their stapler.

I must admit a certain love of a good stapler. My joy is a blue Marbig 90140s 1/2 strip. The way it curves in my hand and doesn’t jam. When I left my first journalism job a little more than 18 months ago I flagrantly stole it. “You’re not having it,” I told my boss. She laughed. I was serious. And when I left I packed it as carefully as the pictures of my nieces.

But today the issue was a black Rexel Gazelle. Personally I find the Gazelle to be too squat and square but that’s not important right now. The Gazelle had been the faithful companion of my temporary co-worker for a number of years. He had come to rely on this small device, so much so that when it finally gave up the ghost he came straight to my cubicle and crumpled against the wall.

“There’s been a tragedy, a complete and utter tragedy.” In his hands he cupped the tiny black device like a deceased pet. “I think I killed it.”

So we scoured the cupboards looking for the Gazelle but the stationary cupboard had already been stripped bare after a number of stapler deaths, ruler suicides and marker dehydration incidents during the past month.

Finally we found a spare stapler, hidden away in the shadows of a cupboard.

It wasn’t the same and his face dropped. “Don’t worry about it,” he placed it on his desk with disregard. Not looking at it as though it were too painful a reminder of his recent loss. “It works fine.”

The obsession with staplers often brings me back to the movie Office Space and Milton, the victim who eventually reeks revenge on his employer and runs away to a tropical island with his stapler.

But I’ve stop thinking of Milton as a bit of a freak. We all laugh at his obsession with the Swingline stapler but the truth is those of us trapped in offices, hoarding our supplies, we’re not laughing at the obsession.

Personally, I’m laughing because I know that the blue Marbig 90140s is far superior.

START STOPING
This is the Day – The The

The city is all go. Suits pumping through the streets with purpose and I among them, tumbled and smoothed like a stone in a river.

People have somewhere to be. There are deadlines and schedules. There are meetings and matters of high importance. It is rare to see any one of them just stop without a valid reason as they stream in and out of high rise doorways.

During the lunch hour they’re languishing like seals on rocks. Men and women sprawled across the cold, grey stone steps of Martin Place. But you can often see one in three is pulling themselves from the temporary peacefulness of the stairwells and rejoining the rushing crowd. With a few quick steps they’re back, blending effortlessly with the pace of the crowd.

Not all of them are using their lunch breaks to lounge. Others have transformed into athletes, changing into shorts, singlets and runners. Pushing their way, sweat streaked and determined, through the already hard paced crowd. Anticipating surges and sways they dodge and swivel to maintain a runner’s gait. When they’re done they will huff and puff frantically in elevators across the city, hoping to regain enough composure to slip back into their suits.

There are phones ringing, people talking and the click of too-high heels across the uneven bitumen of the city sidewalks. Hawkers calling from shop doorways trying to entice a few people to break free of the maddening crowd. Cars, trucks and busses heaving their start-stop way up the congested streets with grunts and sighs which drown out anything but the most prominent ambient sounds.

With all the reasons to be busy clouding their minds, closing their eyes to anything but a singular purpose, it’s odd that when the city itself offers an excuse to stop the crowd largely fails to take that opportunity.

The city is pushed forward by commitments, obligations.

And I am not immune to the urgency of it all. Five letters to hand deliver, stationary to order, reports to file plus trains to catch and dinners to cook and friends to meet. Each of us knows that our time is short and we’re struggling to squeeze as much living as possible into the few hours outside the work we do so that we can live.

There are a million reasons to rush.

But on the streets there is only one reason to stop and it’s such a simple thing - a little red man in a little black box. The device designed to make the flow of traffic, both foot and vehicle, smooth and consistent.

And it’s here I stand, curling my toes over the kerb. For only a few minutes in my day I am anchored to the ground while eager pedestrians dodge traffic in a bid to keep moving. The people stream past me and it’s at these moments that my rough edges are smoothed. The dark suits are a wave wrapping around me.

A moment of peace as the world rushes on.

RUN FORREST RUN
You Sound Like Louis Burdett – The Whitlams

Speaking of the names we’re known by, when I was studying at university my friends called me Gump.

The nickname, which I came to love, wasn’t because I had a limited intellect but because “nobody runs for no reason, except maybe Forrest Gump”.

Many a night we would be at a club or sitting around and I would simply stand, excuse myself, and go for a 15 to 20 minute run. Burning off a pent-up nervous energy with a sprint from one side of the campus to the other and back again.

I was never one for social events. The crowds would swallow me and the noise would dash any chance of having an intelligent conversation. My head would begin to swim. On one occasion I could feel a panic rising in my throat and my heart bashed against my chest. Something was telling me I was in over my head as I was pushed against the wall by the surging crowd.

The panic became overwhelming and I rose and lowered myself on the balls of my feet. As though I were a ballet dancer. At times standing on the tips of my toes for no apparent reason.

Finally I raised a single hand to one of my friends, a secret sign of my imminent departure, turned and ran more than 4kms home through the pitch-black streets and a local park around the campus.

When I reached the residencies I called home for three years I was rejuvenated. There was something about the speed, the sweat and the way running clears your head. I don’t know the reasons it worked for me but it did.

My departure wasn’t nearly as confusing for my friends as the fact, nervous energy expended, I had a quick shower, changed my clothes and then ran back the nightclub and stayed until we were thrown out at four in the morning.

In my last year of uni I got sick, gained 40kg and with it a depression that made shedding the pounds or hitting the pavement incredibly difficult. Then I got involved in a job that I allowed to take all of my time and I was effectively a shut-in.

That’s changing but it required something radical – an entire life change. So I lost 25kg last year and I’ve got 15 to 20 to shed this year. And I think maybe that’s why I lost my job, maybe that’s part of the reason. This new life.

What I’ve found, now that I have the time to look back over the past four years, is that I am still running but rather than hitting the pavement every time I feel I’m over my head and burning away the stress and confusion, I’ve been choosing to withdraw. To go numb and pretend that I don’t feel the same anguish and frustration as I always have.

In the past four years I have run from relationships, I have run from conflict, I have run from grief. I have, essentially, run from myself.

The idea of a pure emotion, an overwhelming feeling, became alien to me. I only began to thaw last year but that was while I was travelling. It’s easier to be someone else when you’re surrounded by strangers who have no expectations. But standing up against the confusion and frustration of my friends and family It’s difficult not to slip back into the old mould.

I miss being Gump. She had a healthier way of dealing with conflict.