going back again
Friends, I have been re-reading Diaryland.
As soon as I thought that sentence it sounded almost morbid, like exhuming a digital corpse of the person I used to be - though I rather do like that person, so it wouldn't be so bad. But the point wasn't to be morbidly nostalgic; I wanted to read what I'd written right when I left for Australia last time.
(We leave tomorrow.)
Oh, the things. I had linked to an entry from months before, about Margo leaving (Margo who I have not seen since Australia, which always is a little twinge in my heart) and talking to Doug, of all people, about theories of marriage and babies. Doug who is now in a band I adore, who I saw in Portland with another friend on one of those nights that shimmers in my heart because of S., far away; Doug who I always feel warmly toward but could never figure why. Maybe that's why: conversations from decades ago that I noted in passing.
I want to note those things in passing more often. I want to write everything down when we're there, though I'm only taking my iPad and its slightly awkward bluetooth keyboard. And a notebook, but if I handwrite things, I will never read them again.
I've been reading Tracks, which is fantastic. It reminds me of when I came back from Australia last time and just wanted to go back, to read everything, to understand. I dreamed about grad school. I bought more books at Powell's than I ever got around to reading. (Typical.) Now I'm slightly less gung-ho about it, but I want to go, I want to stay for more than three weeks. I want reasons and things to read. I want to buy the book that just won the Tiptree while I'm in the author's country. I want to read something that blew my mind like John Pilger's A Secret Country. And I don't care at all if I'm the tourist carrying around Australian books. Better to read than not to. Always.
I have been careful not to make too many plans. Not to promise myself too many things. Every time I read or just pick up a book I want more. I want the West Coast, and the Indian Ocean; I want the north; I want the train that runs from Alice Springs to Adelaide and costs almost as much as both of our plane tickets. But I get Sydney, and Hobart, and my completely beloved Melbourne, and Cairns, which was an unwise choice but we did not do all our homework before making decisions. So we get rained on. I'm used to that.
I wish we were staying in the Nunnery but maybe it's best to remember it as we were then, 27 and resilient, sad and elated, always as interested in the people as anything. People might interest me a little less these days, but I still hope we make some unexpected friends.
I keep dreaming weird things. I dreamed that I was temping for a much-younger boss, a sleek brunette, and she sent me up a hill of a park. At the top I was a little lost - there were stairs and they were dripping wet and went nowhere, plastic stairs like in a boat - and I turned back and found the installation she'd sent me to to see, which involved light-up squares, each of which glowed with one of the most common syllables from first names from across the world. I didn't even understand most of them. You had to walk on them barefoot, and when you'd step on them, the light would come up through sand. There were four beds separated by lightweight mesh, a fancy hotel with no privacy, where you could stay and mourn alone, or with family. It was all about mourning, about touching the syllables that stood for the people you miss.
It was so sharp. Like something I'd seen before, not something my un/sub-conscious made up. It was like walking around the big Serra in Seattle, or the way the big Calder dog-thing made me think of Chris. Metal and shapes. The dream I had in Australia last time, that he came back, that it had all been a hoax of some sort. I remember the room in my dream because it was the room I was sleeping in.
What will I dream there? What will I see this time? What will I see this time that I saw last time, but see it differently, because S. is no longer a dream in another country but my companion? Little penguins and the impossibly cute possums in the park. The Twelve Apostles. The Opera House. The bookstores with cats. The Pacific, warm on an Oregonian's feet, never anything but shocking. I just googled, and three key things are still there: The Comemrcial Club, where we played rock-paper-scissors for free drinks every Wednesday; the Pumphouse, across from the Nunnery, where we drank too many beers and ate too many orders of fries; and Retro, where we slunk upstairs to dance to Britpop and the Strokes (now the top is a massive heated beer garden. Probably no more dancing to "He's on the Phone"). I'm sure none of them are what they used to be.
It's ok. Neither am I.
As soon as I thought that sentence it sounded almost morbid, like exhuming a digital corpse of the person I used to be - though I rather do like that person, so it wouldn't be so bad. But the point wasn't to be morbidly nostalgic; I wanted to read what I'd written right when I left for Australia last time.
(We leave tomorrow.)
Oh, the things. I had linked to an entry from months before, about Margo leaving (Margo who I have not seen since Australia, which always is a little twinge in my heart) and talking to Doug, of all people, about theories of marriage and babies. Doug who is now in a band I adore, who I saw in Portland with another friend on one of those nights that shimmers in my heart because of S., far away; Doug who I always feel warmly toward but could never figure why. Maybe that's why: conversations from decades ago that I noted in passing.
I want to note those things in passing more often. I want to write everything down when we're there, though I'm only taking my iPad and its slightly awkward bluetooth keyboard. And a notebook, but if I handwrite things, I will never read them again.
I've been reading Tracks, which is fantastic. It reminds me of when I came back from Australia last time and just wanted to go back, to read everything, to understand. I dreamed about grad school. I bought more books at Powell's than I ever got around to reading. (Typical.) Now I'm slightly less gung-ho about it, but I want to go, I want to stay for more than three weeks. I want reasons and things to read. I want to buy the book that just won the Tiptree while I'm in the author's country. I want to read something that blew my mind like John Pilger's A Secret Country. And I don't care at all if I'm the tourist carrying around Australian books. Better to read than not to. Always.
I have been careful not to make too many plans. Not to promise myself too many things. Every time I read or just pick up a book I want more. I want the West Coast, and the Indian Ocean; I want the north; I want the train that runs from Alice Springs to Adelaide and costs almost as much as both of our plane tickets. But I get Sydney, and Hobart, and my completely beloved Melbourne, and Cairns, which was an unwise choice but we did not do all our homework before making decisions. So we get rained on. I'm used to that.
I wish we were staying in the Nunnery but maybe it's best to remember it as we were then, 27 and resilient, sad and elated, always as interested in the people as anything. People might interest me a little less these days, but I still hope we make some unexpected friends.
I keep dreaming weird things. I dreamed that I was temping for a much-younger boss, a sleek brunette, and she sent me up a hill of a park. At the top I was a little lost - there were stairs and they were dripping wet and went nowhere, plastic stairs like in a boat - and I turned back and found the installation she'd sent me to to see, which involved light-up squares, each of which glowed with one of the most common syllables from first names from across the world. I didn't even understand most of them. You had to walk on them barefoot, and when you'd step on them, the light would come up through sand. There were four beds separated by lightweight mesh, a fancy hotel with no privacy, where you could stay and mourn alone, or with family. It was all about mourning, about touching the syllables that stood for the people you miss.
It was so sharp. Like something I'd seen before, not something my un/sub-conscious made up. It was like walking around the big Serra in Seattle, or the way the big Calder dog-thing made me think of Chris. Metal and shapes. The dream I had in Australia last time, that he came back, that it had all been a hoax of some sort. I remember the room in my dream because it was the room I was sleeping in.
What will I dream there? What will I see this time? What will I see this time that I saw last time, but see it differently, because S. is no longer a dream in another country but my companion? Little penguins and the impossibly cute possums in the park. The Twelve Apostles. The Opera House. The bookstores with cats. The Pacific, warm on an Oregonian's feet, never anything but shocking. I just googled, and three key things are still there: The Comemrcial Club, where we played rock-paper-scissors for free drinks every Wednesday; the Pumphouse, across from the Nunnery, where we drank too many beers and ate too many orders of fries; and Retro, where we slunk upstairs to dance to Britpop and the Strokes (now the top is a massive heated beer garden. Probably no more dancing to "He's on the Phone"). I'm sure none of them are what they used to be.
It's ok. Neither am I.