Wish you were here
I decided that my last post was just too dark and gloomy.
So I re-wrote it. The voyeuristic amongst you can now get a
glimpse into the creative process :
I always find bookstores somewhat unsettling. On one hand there is this
orgasmic mine of information, entertainment, raw thought and, womens
magazines. But on the other hand it is also a little overwhelming because
there is this endless towering amount of information, entertainment, raw
thought and, womens magazines.
Suffice to say that I can usually last about two hours before I have to
either purchase something or just get out and breathe.
The store I was just in was no exception. On the flight over I realised
that my current tome was nearing an end and if I wanted to make it through
the week (and the flight back) I needed a refill. So I rocked into an old
haunt near the university but the deathly palor that consumed the place
was quickly unbearable. The aisles were full of pasty faced vegetarians
fresh from the health food shop next door. They were all moving slowly
through the sociology section which is, unsurprisingly, right next to the
self help section and I just couldn't focus.
I should also point out that these sort of places smell just plain weird.
It is an odd combination of 'Old Person', the great unwashed, slightly
damp books and years of burning incense to hide all the other smells.
So, I took the default approach, grabbed some cheap detective novels and
got out of there before the guy behind me in the line started a long
painful diatribe with the checkout person on the effects of Derrida on the
working classes. His beret and cloak were a dead giveaway.
Then again, this could have just been a side effect of, for want of a
better term, 'High Rent Jet Lag'
I want to say that I was rewarding myself by getting a first class ticket
to Sydney for Christmas, but the truth is that is first class were only
tickets available, so I just had to suck it up and and enjoy the ride.
For the record, anyone who thinks that first class is some bacchanal romp
involving endless champagne, massages and fawning minions is not flying my
airline. (except for the endless bubbly, that much is true)
Instead you spend and an uncomfortable two hours in the first class lounge
where there are only three of you and the place is deathly quiet. It is
like some sort of old hotel, replete with the occasional rustling of
papers and the unmistakable sound of a cube of ice settling itself deeper
into the glass. I half expected to see a geriatric bell hop totter past
under the weight of far too many bags.
The First class Cabin was equally bereft of soul. For some unheard of
reason only half the seats were taken and everyone was so far apart that
there was no way or method for people to intercommunicate. Even the staff
did their best to leave you alone because you, presumably, were far too
important to be bothered.
So you do what everyone else does. You bury yourself in a book or a
movie, sleep when you can and hope that there are normal people at the
other end.
I ended the day waiting for my sister in a bar down by the beach, as she
had the keys to the house and rode out the evening doing my usual 'I'm not
homeless, just interesting' impersonation.
It was supposed to be a balmy summer evening with people filling the
streets celebrating the end of the year. But instead it was
uncharacteristically cold, the rain was beating down and everyone was in
hiding. About an hour ago I finished my book, and would be talking to the
bartender except he went out the back for a smoke.
Instead I thought back to the flight.
Somewhere over the Hawaii they had to reboot the entertainment system and
for about thirty minutes all we had to listen to was the Pink Floyd's
'Dark side of the moon'
"...There's someone in my head but it's not me..."
