I don't know where the fuck I am.
I mean, yes, I'm in Australia. In Saratoga. Camped between the eucalypts and good fishing. In my mum's granny flat. All good. There's two geckos (small Australian lizards). One in and one out. And they make a noise like someone hitting a small, tight drum. Once. I hear this twice a day. Once during daylight hours, once at night. They call to each other once a day. I expect they're a couple.
"I'm here."
"I'm here."
I'm here. The Schedule of the Geckos is pretty much my tempo these days. Tok. Twelve hours. Tok.
Another day.
Hard to get motivated.
The weather's just changed. Summer is sliding off into the north and Autumn has slipped in sideways. Hello long sleeves. The jeans are back on.
Good to see friends. Good to hang out. Catch up. Hear the news. A fair bit of as-you-were. A few notable exceptions of as-you-weren't. Okay. Wasn't expecting that.
Mum's better. That's good. Makes me feel ready to move on again. Me and my suitcase. "Me and my hat" is far more melancholic and poetic. But really...it's me and my suitcase. Can't carry a toothbrush in a hat. It'll fall out eventually.
Make the trip to Sydney now and again. Good to see friends. Good to hang out. Talk to actor friends and even though I'm three feet in front of them I feel like we're Skype-ing. Doesn't seem real. I don't know if it's a case of "I don't believe I'm really here" or whether I never really left London and just sent my body and its several senses here to check things out.
Yesterday, really felt like I should be in London. Different to missing it. Just felt like this holiday was over and I should be back in the real world. The thing is...this is real. Very real. Quite possibly more real. As mentioned, there are many trees, tall and old, around the flat and the house. The land behind the house is still bush, rising for another 50 or so metres before curving and dropping down the other side. Full of birds and lizards and possums and ferns. Whole fucking documentaries of ancient species of living, scurrying, gripping, thriving, transmogrifying things. It's all going on back there.
At the end of a steep drive is a short walk to the very visible water. Big inlets. Connected. Boats. Fishing. Prawn trawlers day-sleeping before they wend their way out between the houses and under bridges until they're Out. In the sea. It's not really that far.
I wrote to a friend recently and described it as feeling like Huckleberry Finn and the calendar was my raft. I was so surprised and pleased by that sentence that I repeat most of it here. There.
Tok.
And how are you? Hard to change the subject when it's autobiographical. Give up.
Right. What else?
I think this short epistle (is this an epistle? … opinions welcome) is possibly more dour than it needs be. It's late and I'm tired but had the urge to write. Apologies if you were hoping for The White Stripes and ended up with Leonard Cohen.
Australia is nice. Yep. Nice. People are - generally - happy and positive and yes, Jackie Clune, everyone asks me how my day is going and what my plans for the rest of the day are when I shop. After seven years in London it even got on my wick for a couple of weeks. But now I'm back into the whole Little House on the Prairie jejeune and banter optimistically with the best of them. I bet no-one's ever put Little House on the Prairie and jejeune in the same sentence. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the cutting edge.
I like it here. Let's get that little conundrum cleared up right away. It's bloody lovely. Even during the summer rains I was wearing shorts. Spend much time with bare feet. This is my idea of semi-heaven.
I've swum in the ocean a few times. Water was a bit cold when I arrived. It's always behind the seasons. But right now it's juuuuuust right. Swam at Maroubra in Sydney's south a couple of times. Bloody ripper. Shitload of seaweed one day. Weird. Mounds of it on the beach. Had to get out of the water because it was just too thick. All gone the next day.
The coffee's good. Stupid good. Nobel Prize good. Those of you who delight in coffee and who've not been here...well. You have a treat in store. Oh. My. God. It's. Good. Moving on... I can't move on. It's like... What is it like? It's like wearing polaroid sunglasses for the first time and realising how crisp and delineated everything could be. Same eyes. Same world. Different lenses. Wow. Okay then. Same taste buds. Same world. Different fucking everything-to-do-with-the-making-of-coffee. That's the best I can do right now. It's like wearing polaroid lenses on your tongue.
And that's bed time.
X
