I'll wait.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Twenty Two Minutes
It takes me five and a half minutes to walk to the train station every morning, six if the traffic lights aren't on my side. It takes twenty-two minutes on the train to get to work. It takes another six minutes to walk from the train station to work.
Add on another half minute if I'm wearing shoes, take a half minute if I'm barefoot.
If I manage to get a seat, it's twenty-two minutes of staring awkwardly at the signs above people's heads, out the window, or at my i-pod, pretending I'm reading a lot more than just the title of the song. Generally I stand near the door, and spend twenty-two minutes trying desperately to regain my balance and not fall over, gripping the jacket of the man in front of me.
These twenty-two minutes pass by with little consequence, unless I fall over, or a strange man licks my shoulder (true story), or a homeless man steals my half eaten apple (also, true story).
Twenty-two minutes isn't particularly long, I know, and I should be glad that by spending twenty-two minutes on the train I am helping the environment, saving money, and most important, missing peak hour in traffic. However the twenty-two minutes does drag on when I am literally surrounded by couples.
Directly across from me this morning, a man and a woman in freakishly matching suits were holding hands in that delicate, soft-touched way, where you know they had epic sex the night before and were still feeling all lovey-dovey. They were going between gazing into each others eyes, and looking smugly at everyone else on the train.
To the right of me, a boyish looking guy was chatting to a kind of scary looking blonde girl. Perhaps she scared me just because of the weird crab claw/death grip thing her hand was doing on his knee, or perhaps it was the angry twitching glares she gave me, but either way, kudos to the boy. You tame that shrew, slugger.
To the left of me, two middle aged lesbians were making out, complete with slurps, smacks, and giggles.
And there I was, on my own. What a lewwwwwser, right?
INCORRECT, MY FRIEND.
Here is the reason why:
Should the train stop at a particular stop, and a particular person comes on (who that person is, I still haven't decided. Will it be the blonde guy from Off Ya Tree? Will it be some undiscovered screamo guitarist? Will it be the footballer from my afternoon train? I still haven't figured out who plays the Westley to my Buttercup in my increasingly elaborate day dream), I will be sitting pretty surrounded my the lustful pheromones of the blissful lovers around me, and the poor blonde guy/guitarist/footballer/insert fella (with or without an umbrella) here will have no choice but to succumb to peer pressure and run away with me. But only for a little while, I have to work at nine, and stomach butterflies do not pay the bills, although they tend to keep my appetite to a minimum, thus buying less food, thus saving money, so maybe they do pay other bills.
Anyway, the fact is, that The Train Luvahhhhs are already stuck. They don't get to have new adventures with lovely strangers on the train. I do. So I win, right? Right.
But gosh, wouldn't it be lovely to have someone distract me for twenty-two minutes in the morning? Especially if they were actually real, and not some elaborate and ultimately unsatisfying figment of my imagination.
Until then though, it's a good way to spend twenty-two minutes.
Add on another half minute if I'm wearing shoes, take a half minute if I'm barefoot.
If I manage to get a seat, it's twenty-two minutes of staring awkwardly at the signs above people's heads, out the window, or at my i-pod, pretending I'm reading a lot more than just the title of the song. Generally I stand near the door, and spend twenty-two minutes trying desperately to regain my balance and not fall over, gripping the jacket of the man in front of me.
These twenty-two minutes pass by with little consequence, unless I fall over, or a strange man licks my shoulder (true story), or a homeless man steals my half eaten apple (also, true story).
Twenty-two minutes isn't particularly long, I know, and I should be glad that by spending twenty-two minutes on the train I am helping the environment, saving money, and most important, missing peak hour in traffic. However the twenty-two minutes does drag on when I am literally surrounded by couples.
Directly across from me this morning, a man and a woman in freakishly matching suits were holding hands in that delicate, soft-touched way, where you know they had epic sex the night before and were still feeling all lovey-dovey. They were going between gazing into each others eyes, and looking smugly at everyone else on the train.
To the right of me, a boyish looking guy was chatting to a kind of scary looking blonde girl. Perhaps she scared me just because of the weird crab claw/death grip thing her hand was doing on his knee, or perhaps it was the angry twitching glares she gave me, but either way, kudos to the boy. You tame that shrew, slugger.
To the left of me, two middle aged lesbians were making out, complete with slurps, smacks, and giggles.
And there I was, on my own. What a lewwwwwser, right?
INCORRECT, MY FRIEND.
Here is the reason why:
Should the train stop at a particular stop, and a particular person comes on (who that person is, I still haven't decided. Will it be the blonde guy from Off Ya Tree? Will it be some undiscovered screamo guitarist? Will it be the footballer from my afternoon train? I still haven't figured out who plays the Westley to my Buttercup in my increasingly elaborate day dream), I will be sitting pretty surrounded my the lustful pheromones of the blissful lovers around me, and the poor blonde guy/guitarist/footballer/insert fella (with or without an umbrella) here will have no choice but to succumb to peer pressure and run away with me. But only for a little while, I have to work at nine, and stomach butterflies do not pay the bills, although they tend to keep my appetite to a minimum, thus buying less food, thus saving money, so maybe they do pay other bills.
Anyway, the fact is, that The Train Luvahhhhs are already stuck. They don't get to have new adventures with lovely strangers on the train. I do. So I win, right? Right.
But gosh, wouldn't it be lovely to have someone distract me for twenty-two minutes in the morning? Especially if they were actually real, and not some elaborate and ultimately unsatisfying figment of my imagination.
Until then though, it's a good way to spend twenty-two minutes.
Friday, February 20, 2009
We're through, Red!
I'm sitting on my couch and it's exactly 11.59a.m., and I'm eating a bag of green m&m's.
Last night I got home from the city around 10p.m., and I was completely wrecked. I fell asleep in the elevator against the wall, and by the time I managed to make it to my front door, struggling with all my bags and keys, I didn't have the strength to turn the key in the lock. Luckily, the two new Norwegian girls came out to help me, and found it hilarious that I was so tired I couldn't even say my own name.
I was lying on my couch, half asleep, thinking idly about all the things I was supposed to do that night (and believe me, there's a lot), and trying to ignore the fact that my phone was beeping incessantly with people wanting me to come out and live it up with them.
Living it up is awesome in theory, but when my legs won't let me stand up, living it up is best done on the couch.
Anyway, being the warm and charitable person that I am, (siiiif) I said that they could come over if they were so inclined. I said it in such a way that invited them, but kind of encouraged them to decline. You know the way, someone's probably done it to you. A courtesy invite, but it's not a genuine invite.
I'm pretty good at them.
Anyway, obviously not getting my point, a boy, let's call him Oscar, ( I kind of wish his name was Oscar, that's so much cooler than his actual name), accepts my fake invite and informs me that he's on his way.
At this point I was pretty well dead, and forcing myself to stay awake for the sake of Oscar, which was actually causing me pain. I don't think I've been in pain from staying awake in forever. I get continuous messages from him on his progress, and I find myself drifting off to sleep every so often but somehow keeping myself from falling to a really heavy sleep. I send him a polite message saying that if he doesn't get here soon, I'm going to go to bed.
About half a minute later I send him another message saying that I'm going to bed.
He replies, "That's alright. I actually haven't even left my house yet."
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? SERIOUSLY.
I kept myself awake for a good hour and a half for this wanktard, (he's actually quite lovely but I'm super pissed at him now), actually suffering because I needed to sleep so bad, and he's taking his sweeeeeeeeet time and leading me to believe that he's just seconds away from my door.
I'm not even giving you fake invites anymore, 'Oscar'. We're throoooooooough!
Anyway, I crawled off the couch into my bed, and drifted off to sleep, and not even half an hour later, I heard the sound of my front door opening slowly and someone coming in. Now my apartment building is pretty tight on security, so I knew it had to be someone who lived in the building. I knew it wasn't my sister, because she tends to clutter through the door and trip over things and mumble to herself. Like a little tangle-haired ninja, I slid out of bed and picked up the first weapon like thing I could find- and a weapon it was. I could cause some mad damage with a Louisville Slugger, fo shiz. I crept out of my room, and saw The Lurker lurking in my kitchen.
Knowing that a sneak attack was the only way I'd get the upper hand, I did a penguin slide over the kitchen bench, misjudging my speed, shooting onto the floor and to the feet of The Lurker.
While I lay on the floor, clutching my slugger, staring up in horror expecting to see the snaggle toothed, murderous face of The Lurker, I realised that it was in fact my next door neighbour Kris, raiding the refrigerator. He was white as a ghost because apparently my ninja attack was pretty fricken' stealth and he didn't even see me coming before I came hurtling over the kitchen bench with a baseball bat.
Over the next few hours of night, my phone proceeded to vibrate almost half hourly with messages from people, including but not limited to Oscar, whose reason for calling EIGHT TIMES I still haven't determined.
Perhaps he was part of the sneaky "Let's Kill Trish From Lack Of Sleep" club.
I think he was.
Last night I got home from the city around 10p.m., and I was completely wrecked. I fell asleep in the elevator against the wall, and by the time I managed to make it to my front door, struggling with all my bags and keys, I didn't have the strength to turn the key in the lock. Luckily, the two new Norwegian girls came out to help me, and found it hilarious that I was so tired I couldn't even say my own name.
I was lying on my couch, half asleep, thinking idly about all the things I was supposed to do that night (and believe me, there's a lot), and trying to ignore the fact that my phone was beeping incessantly with people wanting me to come out and live it up with them.
Living it up is awesome in theory, but when my legs won't let me stand up, living it up is best done on the couch.
Anyway, being the warm and charitable person that I am, (siiiif) I said that they could come over if they were so inclined. I said it in such a way that invited them, but kind of encouraged them to decline. You know the way, someone's probably done it to you. A courtesy invite, but it's not a genuine invite.
I'm pretty good at them.
Anyway, obviously not getting my point, a boy, let's call him Oscar, ( I kind of wish his name was Oscar, that's so much cooler than his actual name), accepts my fake invite and informs me that he's on his way.
At this point I was pretty well dead, and forcing myself to stay awake for the sake of Oscar, which was actually causing me pain. I don't think I've been in pain from staying awake in forever. I get continuous messages from him on his progress, and I find myself drifting off to sleep every so often but somehow keeping myself from falling to a really heavy sleep. I send him a polite message saying that if he doesn't get here soon, I'm going to go to bed.
About half a minute later I send him another message saying that I'm going to bed.
He replies, "That's alright. I actually haven't even left my house yet."
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? SERIOUSLY.
I kept myself awake for a good hour and a half for this wanktard, (he's actually quite lovely but I'm super pissed at him now), actually suffering because I needed to sleep so bad, and he's taking his sweeeeeeeeet time and leading me to believe that he's just seconds away from my door.
I'm not even giving you fake invites anymore, 'Oscar'. We're throoooooooough!
Anyway, I crawled off the couch into my bed, and drifted off to sleep, and not even half an hour later, I heard the sound of my front door opening slowly and someone coming in. Now my apartment building is pretty tight on security, so I knew it had to be someone who lived in the building. I knew it wasn't my sister, because she tends to clutter through the door and trip over things and mumble to herself. Like a little tangle-haired ninja, I slid out of bed and picked up the first weapon like thing I could find- and a weapon it was. I could cause some mad damage with a Louisville Slugger, fo shiz. I crept out of my room, and saw The Lurker lurking in my kitchen.
Knowing that a sneak attack was the only way I'd get the upper hand, I did a penguin slide over the kitchen bench, misjudging my speed, shooting onto the floor and to the feet of The Lurker.
While I lay on the floor, clutching my slugger, staring up in horror expecting to see the snaggle toothed, murderous face of The Lurker, I realised that it was in fact my next door neighbour Kris, raiding the refrigerator. He was white as a ghost because apparently my ninja attack was pretty fricken' stealth and he didn't even see me coming before I came hurtling over the kitchen bench with a baseball bat.
Over the next few hours of night, my phone proceeded to vibrate almost half hourly with messages from people, including but not limited to Oscar, whose reason for calling EIGHT TIMES I still haven't determined.
Perhaps he was part of the sneaky "Let's Kill Trish From Lack Of Sleep" club.
I think he was.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
into the morning
This morning I woke up. It wasn't anything new or exciting. It wasn't something life changing. It was just the simple process of rapid re-establishment of conciousness, and slooooow re-establishment of alertness.
I woke up and instead of going through the usual motions of wondering why I was a bit cold, why my legs were sore and why my alarm hadn't gone off (because I hadn't set it, that's why,) my mind was on a different wavelength.
My mind was still trundling on, replaying the dream that had been gracing me moments earlier, and as I rolled over, half awake, smiling to myself at how the mid morning sunlight filled my all-white room and made everything look so much lovelier.
I couldn't get to sleep the night before and it had been frustrating me, I was missing the feel of someone next to me, I was missing the feel of someone stronger and braver holding me and protecting me through the night. It's nice to know that when you wake up to face the world, you're not facing it alone.
But sleep had cleaned that slate, I woke up fearless and light and happy and all sorts of lovely things, I knew that today was going to be a good day. Not dramatic, not life changing, not huge, but the kind of day that makes going to sleep that night so much easier, because only good dreams can come from it.
As I woke up, I was reminded of good things and good times, waking up in love, waking up to someone's warm and gentle kisses, to flowers delivered to my door by someone I care for, to fruit and yoghurt and blueberry pancakes. Although this morning I woke up alone, I woke up in love.
It's not new love and it's not love for a person. It's love for possibilities and potential. For the simple chance that one day, very very soon, somebody will be waking up alongside me, and see the things I saw, and feel the way I felt. Maybe he'll be waking up to a warm body and soft kisses and the feeling that maybe, despite everything, it would be a good day.
I woke up and instead of going through the usual motions of wondering why I was a bit cold, why my legs were sore and why my alarm hadn't gone off (because I hadn't set it, that's why,) my mind was on a different wavelength.
My mind was still trundling on, replaying the dream that had been gracing me moments earlier, and as I rolled over, half awake, smiling to myself at how the mid morning sunlight filled my all-white room and made everything look so much lovelier.
I couldn't get to sleep the night before and it had been frustrating me, I was missing the feel of someone next to me, I was missing the feel of someone stronger and braver holding me and protecting me through the night. It's nice to know that when you wake up to face the world, you're not facing it alone.
But sleep had cleaned that slate, I woke up fearless and light and happy and all sorts of lovely things, I knew that today was going to be a good day. Not dramatic, not life changing, not huge, but the kind of day that makes going to sleep that night so much easier, because only good dreams can come from it.
As I woke up, I was reminded of good things and good times, waking up in love, waking up to someone's warm and gentle kisses, to flowers delivered to my door by someone I care for, to fruit and yoghurt and blueberry pancakes. Although this morning I woke up alone, I woke up in love.
It's not new love and it's not love for a person. It's love for possibilities and potential. For the simple chance that one day, very very soon, somebody will be waking up alongside me, and see the things I saw, and feel the way I felt. Maybe he'll be waking up to a warm body and soft kisses and the feeling that maybe, despite everything, it would be a good day.
and daylight speaks to me
When I lived in Bunbury, I had a particular spot at the beach where I used to go and just be. I would spend hours and hours sitting there, day or night, reading or thinking or sleeping or chatting to friends on the phone, but when I would leave, I would feel like a better version of myself. I don't know what it was exactly, the sun or the fresh air, the seclusion or the ocean itself, but it was something that I valued more than most other things in my life.
Now that I live two and a half hours away from there, I had this idea of trying to find a new place to go. All the extra stresses of peak hour and trains and horrid people and full time work and lack of money and time were catching up to me, and I couldn't find peace in the city, or at Kings Park, or near the Bell Tower. I tried the coffee shop in Angus and Robertson, Cino-To-Go near the Esplanade, I was constantly on the hunt for somewhere where I didn't have to be anything in particular. It was hard enough finding a niche at work, I was a surfer girl, but I had piercings and tattoos and long dark hair, not the typical wholesome healthy fresh white blonde look of some of the other girls I work with.
I think my main issue was that I wasn't near the ocean, which is one of my true loves in life. When I was a little kid, I asked Charlie where I came from and he told me this story about how he was walking along the beach one day, and I washed up in a wave and rolled all the way up to him. Naturally, he picked me up and put me in his pocket and took me home and there I've been ever since.
I believed this story for a good four years until my mother found out, and set me straight with the graphic details of how I really came about.
Consequently I was disappointed with the truth, as nine months of floating in amniotic fluid did not give me any hints as to why I was such a water nymph.
Anyway, I couldn't sleep one night, so at roughly 2a.m., I got out of bed, drove the few minutes down the road to Cottesloe, and swam out to the crumbling old pylon where I sat for almost an hour. The next day on the train, although I was still salty and my hair was in massive salt water tangles down my back and I resembled more of a beached mermaid than a working girl, I was a thousand percent happier. I was smiling at people on the train, I didn't mind the drunk man asleep on the floor in front of the doors, I was skipping down Murray Street to work, I was more myself than I've been since I moved.
I guess that I'm lucky that I know roughly what makes me happy, when millions of people the world over sleep-walk through life, not knowing that this kind of bliss even exists.
Maybe I should give them a hug.
Now that I live two and a half hours away from there, I had this idea of trying to find a new place to go. All the extra stresses of peak hour and trains and horrid people and full time work and lack of money and time were catching up to me, and I couldn't find peace in the city, or at Kings Park, or near the Bell Tower. I tried the coffee shop in Angus and Robertson, Cino-To-Go near the Esplanade, I was constantly on the hunt for somewhere where I didn't have to be anything in particular. It was hard enough finding a niche at work, I was a surfer girl, but I had piercings and tattoos and long dark hair, not the typical wholesome healthy fresh white blonde look of some of the other girls I work with.
I think my main issue was that I wasn't near the ocean, which is one of my true loves in life. When I was a little kid, I asked Charlie where I came from and he told me this story about how he was walking along the beach one day, and I washed up in a wave and rolled all the way up to him. Naturally, he picked me up and put me in his pocket and took me home and there I've been ever since.
I believed this story for a good four years until my mother found out, and set me straight with the graphic details of how I really came about.
Consequently I was disappointed with the truth, as nine months of floating in amniotic fluid did not give me any hints as to why I was such a water nymph.
Anyway, I couldn't sleep one night, so at roughly 2a.m., I got out of bed, drove the few minutes down the road to Cottesloe, and swam out to the crumbling old pylon where I sat for almost an hour. The next day on the train, although I was still salty and my hair was in massive salt water tangles down my back and I resembled more of a beached mermaid than a working girl, I was a thousand percent happier. I was smiling at people on the train, I didn't mind the drunk man asleep on the floor in front of the doors, I was skipping down Murray Street to work, I was more myself than I've been since I moved.
I guess that I'm lucky that I know roughly what makes me happy, when millions of people the world over sleep-walk through life, not knowing that this kind of bliss even exists.
Maybe I should give them a hug.
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