I wrote this just before 5am today.
Still not sleeping all the way through
the night, but then again, I never did,
seeing as Scully-Cat woke me up to go out...
Up early or out late,
waking at 4am in London,
I just want to get out
and walk around in my lonliness,
in my huge fuckoff headphones
and dance along the street
under my own spell.
Smiling to myself,
without shame of not having
anything to smile about,
wearing a tshirt,
jeans and boots,
sheltering my mascarad eyelashes
from the rain,
I'm burning up,
I'm on fire
and I'm not sick...
Yet.
Helping mothers with prams
get down the tube stairs,
and then again at the next set,
and again at the next,
until I take off my headphones
and say 'I should just come shopping with you?'
It's all a joke,
It's a laugh at the expense
of the difficulties of getting through everyday life.
Wandering around the city streets,
without a direction,
without any agenda,
without having to be anywhere at any time for anyone.
The tube system will always get me home,
I've been here 4 times now,
you can't get lost in London.
Buying headphones,
the kind assistant laughs
at the size that I want,
he is more than happy to help,
when I want to try out the iPod touch charger,
-We aren't really meant to open the packet,
but the manager is busy with someone...
Him asking what I'm up to,
'I'm on holiday'
- Lucky you, on holiday from what?
'working at uni',
-I used to work at a school, how long have you off?
'3 weeks',
not being asked where I'm from is special.
Feeling like the foreign one,
when I'm served by a French barrista,
because I don't recognise that almost
all shop assistants in London, are from elsewhere.
At the bank,
doing my parent's and my banking,
I'm asked where I'm from,
'Melbourne'
and seeing their face light up,
and knowing why;
I love the place too!
Whilst strangely I miss having a telly,
and Internet,
I appreciate the cheapness
of my room in a part of London
that is gloriously beautiful,
where you wouldn't recognise
the figure needed to buy
one of the four storey Victorian houses.
Walking past the zoo,
taking photos of the Zebras,
of canal boats,
and of Kinders in basements
with concrete playgrounds,
with hop scotch painted on the floor,
with house shaped mirrors
and a set of drums,
encouraging talent
and at that age,
headaches from teachers.
Growing up on this trip,
by finding myself,
not needing to buy everything I see,
not eating trash,
not eating square meals either,
just rtelying on coffee.
Buying coffee and pretending
I'm foreign to avoid having conversations
in broken English,
for I have forgotten how to talk to people.
I am painstakingly shy.
Watching the world go by
whilst I politely sip the too hot coffee,
not wanting to make a fuss.
The horendous journey almost forgotten,
but shall be notarised
to turn into nostalgia
for when I next get itchy feet.
Three sleeping tablets saw me through
patchy sleep,
laying on the cold Malaysian airport floor,
whilst it is humid as fuck outside,
taking turns to wander off,
whilst another takes care of the luggage,
watching a lone golf bag near the entrance to the terminal,
(there for 8 hours!),
until paranoia sets in,
and I worry that it too suspect
to feel safe near it,
deciding not to inform
the police patrolling with their AK47s,
not wanting to get involved,
although in either of my home countries,
I probably would,
unless my flight was due to depart,
a selfish plor to save delay
from precursive evacuation,
like my father the journey is not the destination,
only later,
when savoured as nostalgia.
Sitting at a cafe,
needing to kill two hours,
before shops open
(I am out and about very early)
I read Cold COmfort Farm,
and love it
and smile
and write page numbers down
for parts I like:
Page 107:
'I warn you,' added Mr Mybug,
'I'm a queer moody brute.
Nobody likes me.
I'm like a child that's been rapped over the knuckles
till it's afraid to shake hands
- but there's something there if you cah to dig for it.'
Flora did not cah to dig.
and
Page 109 - 110
'Aye...'tes mine,' he muttered.
'Nor house nor kine, and yet 'tes mine...
My little mop!'
He undid the thorn twig
which fastened the bosom of his shirt
and thrust the mop within.
But then he withdrew it again,
and replaced the thorn.
'My little mop!'
He stood staring at it in a dream.
'Yes. It's to cletter the dishes with,' said Flora, firmly,
suddenly forseeing a new danger on the horizon.
'Nay...nay,' protested Adam.
''Tes too pretty to cletter those great old dishes wi'.
...
And shuffling across the kitchen,
he hung it carefully on the wall
above the sink,
and stood for some time admiring it.
Flora was justifiably irritated, and went crossly out for a walk.
********
And so this is the beginning of the third day,
I can only speculte that Dollface and S
are having an entirely differene experience,
full of touristy things,
lovely food
and trying a variety of local beers.
********
And so, I will leave it here.
It is now 3 after 12pm
and I must do things.
