My last weekend in England was spent in the thick, vice-like grip of the Glastonbury mud. It remains one of the greatest weekends of my life, and it was where I was first introduced to the wonders of the Silent Disco. Continue reading ‘The Reprint: ‘R to the E to the B’’
Tag Archive for 'Melbourne'
Hot. So. Hot. I woke this morning feeling twenty years younger. Then I opened my eyes and realised I hadn’t wet myself, I’d sweat myself. I showered and dried. Then sweat again. I walked to the shop, but soon slowed to a slumped staggered. I felt like a tortured sprite being forced along the length of a burning matchstick. The air was saturated with the warm, sticky smell of eucalyptus being drawn from the gum trees. My house has no air-con. My house has no fan. Hot. Oh. So. Hot. This laptop is whirring to the beat of its own little fan and my freezer is filled with frozen figurines. Dance ladies, dance. Forty-four degrees. That’s what they’re saying. The hottest in a hundred years. That’s what they said. I don’t believe them I decry, “it’s hotter! It’s got… to be… h-otter?” As I walk passed the television, I pause. This must be some cruel trick? They can’t be playing tennis! It’s so damn HOT! Continue reading ‘Can’t Stand the Heat?’
Pen down! That’s it. Time out. No more. This is a travel blog. One must travel. Then. One must blog. My temple of travel was built by glorious bricks of occurrence, each slightly offset from the last. It was then decorated with woven wonder and filled with fusty fervour. It inspired me (and everyone who saw it) and wherever I took it, that temple tore the sky. Right now, in these non-travelling travel days the temple has been abandoned. Curious thorny greens have shred the silk and cracked the cornerstones and I’m left feeling nothing less than frustrated. I keep telling myself “I’m the other side of the world”, and though it’s true – it’s just not good enough. Continue reading ‘Lynch of the Grinch’
Penny for the poor? Thanks mate, you’re a champ. Actually, ahem. I couldn’t be cheeky and ask for another two hundred and eighty-eight pennies could I? I need to grab a tram. Are you sure? Cheers fella, you won’t regret that! Fancy a pint? Two beers por favor. Six hundred and twenty-two pence? Oh, uh… mate, is it your round? Chin-chin! That beers given me the munchies, don’t know about you but I could murder a kebab. Three hundred and eleven pence. Thanks buddy, I needed that. Belch. Lets take a gander at the museum! “Two hundred and sixty seven pence please sir. Each.” Didn’t cost a penny once we were in, eh! Just need to pop to the shop mate, are you coming? Eggs, tick. Milk, tick. Bread, tick. A handful of apples, tick-tick-tick. Six hundred and twelve pence. Oh. Umm. Yeah. Are you sure? I must owe you what, like two thousand pennies? Two thou… wow. Well, I best be off home mate. Thanks again! Sorry, I never did catch your name? Continue reading ‘Penny for the Poor’
He was stood still, caught under the orange spell of a local streetlamp; though it occurred to me that the bulge of his belly was disguising a bubbling vat of laughter. His rumpled face was youthful and whimsical, yet ploughed with age. It was his wings that stopped me in my midnight tracks – dull brown feathered arcs spraying out from his stooping stalk. His pale hands fell beneath check shirt cuffs, and his long root-like fingers were suspended in a frozen quiver. His silent legs were strung with suspense in those early moments of our meet. I want you. I thought. “I want him!” I splurted. “You’re the greatest thing I’ve ever seen! I love him Reb. Don’t I…” my voice began to fade until it was just a rustle on my crackling imagination, “I love him, Reb!” I’d cast myself at the mercy of unforgiving rapids of excitement, and she knew it. “Come on you idiot, what are you gonna do with a string bloody puppet!” Continue reading ‘Home Truths’
She sits atop a stool. Her plump figure appearing not unlike a pumpkin, ripe for pumpkin things. Like pie. Like Hallowe’en. Like my favourite risotto. Her heels clasp the bar, forming a makeshift desk with her hearty knees. She hunches, allowing her short dark hair to tunnel her vision through her simple glasses and onto her latest piece. Her round fingers grip a skinny biro whose sticky blue nose is buried in her scrapbook. She circles, stripes and speckles with that pen, so engrossed is Emily that she has no idea I have shunned the gallery of works around me. She’s dressed in security togs. White shirt. Navy blazer. Sensible shoes. She’s supposed to be watching me! The reason I watch her for this twenty second show, is because I realise Emily is the art. She’s animated. Real. It’s when I lay this over my life, that I realise Emily is why I travel. To see and meet my life’s artists, and to frame them how I choose. Continue reading ‘The Incidental Artist’
Tall. Chic. Shifty. Schoolgirl. Metro. Tourist. Tourist. Schoolgirl. Scruffy. Shady. Beautiful. Dazed. Tired. Schoolboy. Plain. Thoughtful. Chirpy. Geeky. Trendy. Slick. Macho. Emo. Lonely. Engrossed. High? Self-important. Slim. Vain. Schoolboy. Weathered. Pasty. Tourist. Sleek. Smiley. Weird. Tradie. Queasy. Agitated. Flash. Kind. Cute. Snooty. Troubled. Schoolgirl. Schoolboy. “The next train to arrive at platform one, will be the seven thirty-nine service to Flinders Street. Please validate your Metcard before you travel”. The train effortlessly wipes the platform clean, renewing its concrete grey expression as if those people across the track were simple strokes of chalk upon my day. Before long, the relentless drip-drip-drip of somebody’s waltzing up the station ramp replenish my boyish fascination. Exhausted. Annoyed. Schoolboy. Clueless. Petite. Tourist. Terrorist? Obese. Joyous. Nonchalant. Casual. Classy. “The next train to arrive at platform two will be the seven forty-six service to Sandringham”. My own call to vanish. Continue reading ‘Strokes for Folks’
