It’s only when the rain comes down that you start to feel hope drain away. Walking for a couple of hours, looking for somewhere to eat that doesn’t invade your solitude, that doesn’t make you feel like being on your own is the Wrong Thing To Do. I’ve been here for a week now, hands to the pump, doing it all for The Man. Hidden moments of happiness lurk amongst the bigger fears and worries. »
A shiny black tiled bathroom floor, a couple of TVs I’ll never use, and a now-familiar view out the window. It’s been coffee and cigarettes during the day, and an evening wander out in search of food. The work juggernaut rolls on, threatening to flatten us at any moment. Trapped in a sea of wires and LEDs (one for “urgent alarm”, one for “non-urgent alarm”. They both go on at the same time). »
Another weekend surrounded by general decay. A blue wheelie bin lies sideways in the Princes Park pond, and in a street not too far away I spied an old television smashed on the pavement. The wind blows tiny flowers past my feet as I stare each way. It’s hard to know which way to go, but I can feel myself drifting again. I wake each morning with sore ankles and memories of dreams I quite can’t understand when I put all the pieces together. »
I’m stuck in a den of iniquity, waiting for my girlfriend. The laptop’s out, and I’m listening to Sonic Nurse while I work on the config for a couple of wireless bridges I’ll be giving names based on books I read a long time ago. Pattern Recognition‘s such a calming track, swirling over the hubbub and the TV footage of old footy biffo scenes from the 80’s. I’m here to see a film about robots, but I’m still thinking about last night’s film, all in black and white, where a keen-looking Iggy Pop tried to recommend a drummer to Tom Waits. »
Somewhere in the dreamland between work, sleep and taxi rides I received a suggestions of sorts that I pick up the new Wilco album. I think it was something to do with the egg on the cover. Or mabye I’m turning into a ghost? I’d caught a glimpse of friends before being snatched back into work’s familiar womb, last weekend. This weekend I’m alone with my thoughts. Idle hands, devil’s playthings. »