Breathe....

The silent chaos is deafening. Stress is bubbling over the edge like Bad Jelly the Witch's evil potion. Focus is impossible. Out of the question. The library is like a dungdeon of torment. Stacked books hiding bowed heads. Walking into the Loft is like stabbing yourself with a knife. But as I walk out, the sun starts to shine and my heart starts to beat. I hadn't even noticed that it had stopped. I guess that's what studying does to you. Removes you from reality. Grabs you from behind until you can no longer see the way out. But as the looming box approaches I feel my feet pick up speed. My knees bend in a rhythm that appears as skipping. As my wad of paper flops into the box my life regains colour like that Reese Witherspoon movie on E. The black and white which once dominated my vision is gone. Where? Who knows. But I can bet on it being back. Not long away too. My next essay is due in a week.

Peddle, peddle, peddle.

They flash past too fast. My eyes can't keep up. Darting from side to side like a Federer - Nadal match. My vision starts to swirl and I look up to keep my balance. Buildings, trees, people, even that old man that sits on that stool. Waiting for the bus that will never come. The sound I love so much, school shoes hitting the gravel pavement like a dog chasing a bone. No thought of others. Single minded to the point of recklessness. An old lady riding a mobility scooter. Does she know its not a 1950's Harley? A couple with a baby that is crying like it just found out Santa isn't real. A Uni student that didn't make it home the night before. Suddenly the world becomes a giant present. Gently it is unwrapped. The blinding light sears my eyes and my wrinkles wake to consciousness. I am back. And biking. Its the morning routine, of course.

Brrrrr.

As I sit here, chewing on my pencil and gathering my wild thoughts with eagerness to develop them into a somehow readable descripton, i realise its almost Easter. The time of the egg. Chocolate, that is. Even a 3 week break to fill the silence of study. Of concentration. WAY too much of that. Or so I tell my mum. I can't wait to frolick in the fields, eat sandwiches in our garden...or rather, our grass patch. To shop, op shop perhaps. Recollect my thoughts, grab them from wherever they have been hiding from each other and reassemble them. Maybe not in the same pattern as before.

But I can't deny what these holidays symbolise. Winter. That frosty demon that continues to sneak up on us. Well, to be brutally honest, I dont think this particular demon ever left. Its 12 degrees. Snowman anyone?

Creativity.

I always wonder. What would happen? What would it to be if everyones juices just stopped flowing? All creativity was lost. Sometimes I think I almost don't need to wonder. I don't like the idea of school in that way. Constant vigilance. Or something like that. Manipulation of minds to form a mainstream ideal. I think I was targetted by that a little. Who knows? What would happen if a 5 year old drew a picture only to be told that it was the wrong picture. He couldn't draw a house. It was the day to draw an aeroplane. That was all. Loss of creativity is too easy to forget, to lose trace of. So don't. Simply, don't.

Unknown.

It is compelling. I am writing this, unbeknown to you. I am in my position, revelling, writing this and having a gay old time. Yet you can read this, and not know. Not have a clue. Nor do I know where you are as you read this. How compelling. My mum used to say she had eyes in the back of her head. But really, I dont think she does. If so, is she watching me? Does she read this, knowing exactly how it came to being? Boring. The power of the unknown is the best. Unknown? Translation: fear.

Pardon.

C'est difficile, j'ai decidé. Alors, s'il vous plait excusez moi pour les erreurs qui j'écrirai. Souvent puisque je ne peux pas ecrire avec les pronounciation. C'est tres difficile trouver le 'é' etc. égal. C'est trop de francais pour aujourd'hui. Je suis allée a la classe du francais toute la journée. Maintenant je suis tres tres fatigee. Mais c'est un petit peu pour dormir. Peut etre je penserai en francais. Oui, c'est bon.

Did you know....

Diversity of language is somehow intriguing. I think the Mad Hatter was actually leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of us, despite his many perculiar centricities. For he, himself, made known syntagms. Order of words. I see what I eat. I eat what I see. Miles different. And somewhat confusing to confuse. You know?

88 years young.

88 seems like a lot of years to hang round on this planet. I only point this out because my grandma just reached this milestone. Nice family dinner, just the close fam with good discussion. You can't go wrong with family, i've discovered. Its funny how you get pushed together with some people and you just bond. You fit. Not like a glove, thats suffocating. Like an old pair of jeans. They're a bit loose but they just feel so comfortable, like you don't want to take them off.

It occured to me that my grandma is a pretty cool lady. Shes not dribbling. We didn't celebrate her birthday round a hospital bed. We didn't all eat green mush cos thats her diet. It was a nice dinner and dessert. Thai (for those who were intrigued.) Its funny how older people spend their life reminiscing while younger people (I'll pop myself in this bracket) spend their time planning upcoming adventures, thinking about the future, their missions, wishes, dreams. My grandma is special beyond belief. But by Joe, she's had a good life. Long too. And she deserves it. Every time I'm around her I relish her wisdom. I swim in it, soak it up. And I don't ever want to let it go. Cos its special.

Its funny how shes lived an amazing life but all she wants to do is make sure mine is better than hers. Whats with generation Y. All this selfishness. She doesn't have to worry about me doing what I want. Its in my generation to put myself first. What a hiccup, Gen Y. Shes the living epitome of catering to others needs before your own. Now I want to follow her though. Follow the ship that she first sailed. Travel, she tells me. Go. Travel. So I will, Nana.

Next year: France. And I mean it. Entirely. I will make this happen. Not tomorrow, now. Right now. For me AND for you.

Happy Birthday, Nana. I love you.

Getting lost is sometimes so much better than being found.

I really can't wait to travel. I don't mean Hanmer. Or Australia for that matter. Too close. To me, the defintion of travelling is more really escaping what you know. I know Australia. However, I don't know France, Greece, Italy, Austria. These places I really don't know. I work to travel. I save to travel. And I dream about travelling. It excites me. And why not do what excites you? I can't wait to get lost in an unknown environment that tricks you into thinking you know it after awhile. But then catches you unaware. And you're lost again. I can't wait to escape that harsh reality of working that I'm even yet to encounter. But why not start while your ahead huh?

Rubbish Bags.

Its not like we had nothing to do. Plenty, in fact. People were everywhere, rowdy. But we decided an adventure was needed, so we left. Out the door, gravel driveway behind, we went on. The minute we saw them, we wanted to help, they looked lonely. So we helped. The wanted comfort, shelter, warmth. Trees fitted this description perfectly. Next morning, driving on, we looked back at what we had done. Pride was shining off the treetops, along with the big green bags of goodness knows what.

Dream.

I dreamed a dream. No biggie, just a dream. It was 11th September 2001 all over again. I was there. Not really, but my dream told me I was. I watched from afar. But I was close. Floating somehow, as you often do in dreams. I don't even know how I got there. But all of a sudden I was watching it all unfold. Right in front of me. People panicked and smoke engulfed everything. Even in my area, high above everything, it became diffiult to see. It was less screaming and more bewilderment. Disbelief. The emergence of something that had not yet prevailed on earth. The birth of a new fear. A small box took the place of the buildings. And I was inside in, plummeting. A lift, I realised. But barely, and not for long. Descending downwards too rapidly to comprehend. Lifeless bodies flew upwards, including mine. I wanted to lie on the floor. Like my brother told me.

But I awoke to a ticking. Bloody wood beetle in my door.

Travel one day, return another

I always thought I would like to live in the 70's. Bright flowery patterns covering every surface and those mullets and flares that everyone seemed to sport. It seemed like the time when rebellion for freedom really took flight. The time when you spent weekends doing protest marches and holding your cigarette (not necesarily tobacco) high in the air. And that was kind of Hanmer. Not just because of the mismatched wallpaper and schizophrenic antique furniture. But because we were free. Literally. We were encompassed by wide expanses of land, miles from our home and homework free. It was all playing cards and hot pools (again, other worldly). And it was eating. Savouring fish'n'chips and pies. Walking the quaint streets and scaring the locals. Creating noise amidst the tranquility of silence. But we're students. What else are we supposed to do? Drink? Check. Oh yeah, study.

Home.

Eating is just so nice. Its filling, literally, but metaphorically. Like filling a gap. So is going home to eat. Like that gap just got so much smaller. Food tastes better. The air is lighter, less dirty. Or maybe thats a side effect of moving down. From a hill to the flat, the city. And people. So many people. But sometimes clean air is boring. Ask Japan.

Flatting.

The fridge is actually full. Its not even baked beans that are a week old for dinner. Its like a two course meal. And a movie. I dont even feel like a student cos its...luxury. For a student. We even have a flat screen tv, thats bigger than a shoebox. No way, I hear you cry. Im lucky, for sure. Its even a neighbourhood, a community. No kids on bikes and playing tag. More like students everywhere. Beer in hand. Nightly trips to Liquorland. That sort of thing. Its funny. Change. Growing up. Dreading the day that you got excited by kicthen utensils but it comes around swiftly. Before you have time to think about it a second time. Where did that year go? Gone. Like skimming stones accross the lake on holiday. And it sinks. Before you know it. Gone.

But flatting's not that. Its night times of fun. Not partying even. Just fun. Dishes. Washing. Dinner. Cleaning. But fun. Its funny what people can make you become. Make you think. Its good.

I travel, therefore I am.

Christmas shows in March. Interesting. But one can't deny, nonetheless entertaining. I never quite understood how programming worked anyway. So Hanmer. It seems appealing, leaving town, experiencing wonders of somewhat 'other-worldly' destinations. (Read: Hot pools.) Meeting new people and all that jazz. In fact I can't wait. I never quite understood the whole 'study all weekend' thing anyway. Personally I get more work done when I have been busy. Maybe the saying should go "more play, more work". Though that saying could be made up. Maybe I am the next T.S. Elliot or what not. Creating all these sayings out of mid air. A glass of wine and a weekend out of the hot smoke is inticing. In fact right now I can't think of anything better. Though a nice roast chicken on this cold March day wouldn't go a miss either. Like honey on toast.