dream: I’m walking down a pathway, busy thinking about something or other, barely noticing that my nose is bleeding, and making lines on my pants. Hang on. I’m on camp. I don’t have any other pants. Well, the pattern it’s making almost looks bearable – maybe I’ll manage. Later, I’m walking outside somewhere, chatting to some friends when I notice some Cisco switches embedded in the cliff-face next to me. That old 2916 we had sitting around at work, for instance. »
I’m standing at an ATM in Collins St (up the Parliament end), and I swear I can smell maple syrup. »
In the depths of my evening despair the other night, I had some kind of waking dream in the car. It involved me singing Richard Buckner songs by the roadside, to somebody with their head in their hands. We’d fallen through the clouds, brought to earth with a sickening screech of twisted metal. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m not even the singing-in-public type… »
Not too far up the street from the flowers, scrawled on a blue wall sometime recently, it says “Sing Loud”. It’s the kind of advice I need this morning, when my head’s heavy from the usual pointless worry that I just can’t escape. »
Mars was out. We could see it all evening as we drove out to Victoria Gardens where, apparently, one could see it better. People with friendly glow-sticks and donation buckets waved us through to numerous queues for variably-sized telescopes. Word was that they’d start at 8pm, so we stood patiently. Clouds rolled in from across the city. We were here to see the stars, but I was taken in by the city lights instead. »