Don’t talk to me after the film. I’m too busy processing. It’s the little things that stir up your stomach, making you re-evaluate what you’re doing. Pushing the question. Asking you “so, what now?” I walk past endless cafés and bars, each one playing continuous hit music. The taxi plays continuous hit music. A dark grey horsehead cloud looms in the sky as we head down the road. I’ve been walking in the rain. »
I called an old friend overseas. I’d forgotten what “hello” sounded like in Korean, but the moment she said it I was pulled back into one of my previous existences. Just like that. The phone call didn’t last long before it dropped out, never to return, but I managed to wish her a happy birthday at least. »
Two girls sitting in identical positions on their respective seats (one behind the other), phones held in one hand, and that peculiar hunch as they type their messages to somebody or other. I couldn’t help but think of the time I was on an interstate flight coming back to Melbourne, and the TV screens all the way down to first class were showing Brian Wilson’s lonely face staring back at me, just before they winked off for our landing approach. »
It’s Friday night on Sydney Road, and I can’t spot the source of the harmonica until I see a guy walking on the road along the parked cars. A harmonica’s not really a city instrument, but it’s a welcome change from the normal sights along here – The hardworking old guys behind restaurant counters, the sad little poker machine pub with “live music” provided by a guy with a flashy new keyboard for his Lionel Ritchie covers. »
I’ve been putting my spare-time dreams and futures on hold because there’s been so much going on in the present. Don’t ask me about tomorrow, the weekend, or next week – I’ll be happy to make it through the day. And I’m not unhappy, because I’m learning, always learning, when I’m on the job. Only more-so right now. At the same time, I’m lucky to get time for a walk. Contact with old »