#2: Together Seven Years Apart

This week is the first time I've posted on my writing blog ahead of my cartoon blog. Only because I haven't got a damn cartoon ready!

Memoir - Week 2

This night, though, I was not actively spotting. Rather than chatting with Harry and enjoying myself, my mood had somewhat a morose hue to it. I couldn’t weight down rising thoughts that my life in the Bush Capital was turning stale. Plus, I was seeing the same old people and I was standing in the same old pub and it was the same old end of the week night. Same-shit stuff. My life explained almost in a mathematical equation, conveying all the predictability and dullness that math is renowned for and feared.

Julian had always feared predictability and a kind of dullness in his life. He feared being left out and in an empty room with only a keyhole to look through – a single eye with which to observe others interacting and enjoying life. 
 

He remembered thinking as a young boy how the late afternoon calls of Australian birdlife in the garden signified the end of the day – particularly the wistful voicing of the spotted turtle doves. Had he spent enough time outside playing with friends, and making the most of a sunny day? Too late – the birds had sung their song and the keyhole was coming into focus. Another day had become irretrievable, lost with the ominous clouds in his mind he was yet to fathom. 

Still, he took solace that the birds’ regular calling also heralded chance anew in the fresh day to come. Just one more day – he would think – and the sun would rise never again to set.

All of a sudden an interruption snapped my contemplative mood. Two girls – one blonde the other a brunette – had walked in through the front door and were making their way up towards the bar area in slow motion, where Harry and I were staked out on the fly paper floor. Hello, hello! Predictability and dullness might become casualties to the night after all.

#1: Together Seven Years Apart

I do tend to focus more on my cartoon blog. But, finally, here's a posting for this writing blog after neglecting it for a while. I'm starting to post snippets of a memoir I'm working on - Together Seven Years Apart - a story about my wife and me. Hopefully, posting the snippets will force me to find more time to write and so keep posting - and to actually finish the story. That's the plan...You know how it is.

Memoir - Week 1 

Exactly two days after we happily celebrated our first wedding anniversary, I left my wife. June 28, 2010.

Leaving wasn’t easy - but leaving seemed to be the only way forward.

Right after I first ever met her on that cold Canberra night, I had also fallen in love with her. Friday May 16, 2003. Somewhere around 10.30pm.

Me and a friend, let’s call him Harry, were shoulder to shoulder, standing semi-glued to the always made-sticky-by-spilt-drinks floor, warm inside King O’Malley’s – a popular Irish pub downtown Canberra.

For anyone unfamiliar with the capital of Australia, Canberra doesn’t really have a downtown as such. Although locally referred to as the centre or city, it’s actually like another suburb of Canberra – too small to qualify as any downtown proper. Too quiet and leafy to be “downtown”. 

Okay, too boring. I said it.

We hadn’t been there long and I was not in the mood for being out or around people. At approximately 10.30pm, King O’s – as everyone called it – was still filling up. Purposely positioned where we were, Harry could readily admire any entering guys that took his fancy, and I could easily spot approaching, attractive girls.

How I write

Messy writing? I think so. Actually, it's quite neat writing for me. I like to write by hand before typing any stories. It's such a good feeling hand writing, and allows my thoughts to flow freely. Plus, I like to know I'm not under the complete control of modern technology. There's a certain romance in putting pen to paper.

This particular sample is of my memoir about my wife and I.

What do you normally do?

#10 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

The final Bus Trips piece...now I have to get serious and post real stuff.

Returning - Wednesday, 4.28p.m., 14 December 2011 

Somehow we’ve gone back in time. We’ve gone back in time to when I suggested we start the week clean and fresh with a swept and mopped bus floor. I say this because this E84 has the cleanest floor so far. They took my suggestion after all.

As I look around this afternoon’s bus, I see such precision. You can see a lot of thought and planning has gone into the design of the interior of the bus. Everything has its perfect place from the two luggage racks at the front, to the layout of the large windows, the placing of the green ticket machine and the six spring-loaded seats that greet you as you step past the isolated bus driver posted on his instrument-surrounded seat. Nuts and bolts are bold-looking and tight throughout.

Despite this, I’m hearing a lot of squeaks and rattles. All of these newer buses squeak and rattle. I think they’re made in Sweden. Do the Swedes purposely build in squeaks and rattles for character? If so, I don’t mind. I feel quite safe.

We’ve been cruising past patches of agapanthus for the last four minutes or so. And although my eyes have been on the journal pages, I can see them waving at me. And they’ve been aware I smiled back at them. Agapanthus make good friends. They offer a reliable, telepathic and comforting friendship.

This bus has quite some energy. It’s strong and hauling us home like she’s already emptied all her passengers out.

There’s a well-dressed lady with short, blonde hair holding a book open in her seat: Hell West and Crooked it’s called. The letters on the back of this book are big and red, so I easily read the title. But every time I’ve done the meerkat – popped up to look around – she’s not reading it. Is she tired? Bored? Thinking about other things? Can she actually read? I perceive her to be a nice lady, friendly with a good heart. I wonder what her story is. Why the book is open, but the reading process is frozen. Should…?

It’s going to feel strange not writing about my daily bus trips. The buses and I got to know each other a little, we became closer. Did the buses enjoy having me as a passenger? Did the buses notice me? I hope so, I noticed them.

#9 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Going – Wednesday, 7.31a.m., 14 December 2011

I’ve never caught the E83 bus before. I just jumped on and hoped that it was an express. Yes, I could have asked the bus driver but I didn’t care enough. I knew I’d get downtown and if a bit later than usual, so what.

Most of the people on this bus seem to be women. There are some men but they’re definitely a minority this morning. This bus this morning doesn’t seem to have a soul. The driver looks like he’s an empty shell handling a steering wheel. All the women and the few men look like empty shells.

The weekend has been and gone and the bus floor doesn’t look like it’s been swept and mopped. Do they even mop bus floors? Maybe she’s been swept, it’s not too bad. I guess they vacuum bus floors rather than sweep. I did suggest we start the week clean and fresh with a swept and mopped floor. Now that they haven’t done that the bus and everyone on her feels like an empty shell. Do you see why I made that suggestion in the first place?

Good morning agapanthus! The bus has stopped in traffic, I bring my head up from writing in my Philadelphia-purchased journal to peer out the window, and I see a happy patch of agapanthus in the yard of an elevated house. Their bluey purple happiness fills the empty shells. Empty shells? Is it only me that am an empty shell this morning? Maybe. People today just seem to be empty shells.

There’s potential music in this bus. The hanging handles that are spaced out, two rows of them, from one end of the bus to the other are perfect triangular shapes. They remind me of a music class in primary school when I was introduced to percussion instruments for the first time ever. I remember picking up the perfect, solid metal triangle then gently hitting it with the little wand. A beautiful chiming sound began. A very pleasant vibration struck my core. The vibration continued resonating as if I’d started something wonderful that would never end. All this was natural to me. All this was tangible. And it was fun.

Would everyone please stand up and tap the triangle dangling above you. It’ll sound beautiful and you’ll feel much better for doing so.

Having a four day weekend was heaven. I’ve had Monday and Tuesday off work. So, today’s the last day I write these bus trip shorts – a total of five days just like I promised myself. Will I be back with my Philly journal and willing pen? We’ll see.

I’ve just passed two commuter packed buses. The people locked inside looked like cows on their way to the abattoir to become succulent cuts of beef. They won’t be back.

#8 Dee Why to Downtown Bus Trips – A Diary of Stuff that Popped into My Head One Week.

Returning – Friday, 4.16p.m., 9 December 2011

We’re pretty packed. There’s the danger that as we pick others up along the way, I might have to offer my seat. Usually this is not a problem. But, today it would mean not being able to write down my thoughts. So, fingers crossed, although not mine, because I wouldn’t be able to continue writing. I love metaphors for this reason. You can say and really mean them, but not actually have to do what they entail.

 

An eclectic bunch right now. Real mix of young, not as young, elderly, and male and female. Where are they all going? What’s their story? (Should I interview them?)

People are looking pretty dazed. Probably due to the end of the working week… (we just stopped to collect two people. Fortunately they’re not the type I’d normally get up for, like the elderly or pregnant. That was lucky. Both of them are dressed totally in black, are independent of each other and don’t seem to be servers – what’s the story? – Should I…?)… anyway, these people and their daze. It’s a universal equation. 1 daze = 5 days of work.

The banter slowly rises. Maybe people are nearing their destinations and perking up a bit. Makes sense.

One of the daily sights I enjoy on the bus is the lanky agapanthus dotting the way. Such simple beauty – a neatly arranged and well-formed clump of bluey purple resting on a green, slender, stalky body. They’re so upright looking, and some have a nicely curved stalk that reminds us gravity isn’t persuaded by good looks. Plus, they remind me of my boyhood in mum’s well-tended garden. Her agapanthus are still there, to this pen stroke. I used to get in trouble from mum for karate chopping the heads off a few of them. One day a bee stung my right hand for these callous beheadings.

Some complain about bus travel – I have before. But as a convert I say it’s not all bad. I mean the Brits did base a TV series on buses called “On the Buses” even though it mainly focused on the bus drivers. Still, we’re talking about buses. Have you ever sat down to a TV series called “On the Trains”? Don’t think so.

“Fox on the Run” is playing on the bus radio this second. I never knew what this song title was about. Another detail in life for my eager fingers to Google and discover. Thanks, www dot whatever I choose.

There’s a guy standing right next to the green ticket machine opposite me. He’s in clear view and wearing green shoes and sports (who says that now?) a green cap on his small head of greasy, un-kept hair. Who said lime green wasn’t popular for dressing in? (The ticket machine looks fine, so does Kermit the Frog).

I all of a sudden realise that this bus has become a messy mass of people. It reminds me of a vertical version of a matchbox – matches lying every which way, all jumbled and criss-crossed.

I’ll be out of this tangled matchbox and walking home in about thirty seconds.