25 February 2010
Everything is a story, an opportunity, a memory being created, trimmed down and altered by longing.
I've not felt this creative in a long time.
Last night, walking home from Fitzroy Street just before the witching hour and the taxi loads of pale Irish girls in the best of H&M. Late summer sea in all the palm trees and bougainvilleas and hushed facades of Spanish missionary houses and deco apartments- some curved like cruise liners. I'm home sick before I've even left here, for the air by the sea. For the houses who are friends to me with stories I'll learn eventually, as real as familiar passengers on the same train every morning. Leaving a place is waking up and not seeing that passenger on the train anymore. Did I make the most of it all? Did I talk to that passenger with the beaten leather satchel who breathed fog alongside me last July on the platform?