On Sunday the 23rd, mid-afternoon/early evening...
She writes:
"I am riding the bus on a Sunday afternoon, passing lively streets buzzed with spring rain and an increase in souvenir-laden tourists. I have passed all the eclectic and earthy clothing stores, the op-shops, the store full of faciful fairy goodies; all of the few of such stores that are on offer here in this city. I passed all these without getting off at the next stop, or the next, or any following. I remain seated, my window beginning to cloud with my breath.
I don't think shopping for any new clothes, or visiting any galleries, or browsing faces in cafes... I don't think any of these things to be anywhere near capable of picking me up.
For the first time in my life I crave companionship. More than that, I need it to feel alive.
I need your arms around my waist, I need your head in my hands.
What kind of addict am I now? What is this drug called love?
Why is it I can no longer pick myself up, with a pen in my hand and a view of showered grass glistening neon in my eyes? Why can I no longer sit alone to recharge, to unwind?
Gone are the days of park-bench sprawls and chewing-gum pastimes. I find myself craving an addiction to ciggarrettes. It's not enough to be pure, I just can't sit there alone.
The bus stops. Picks up another of these passengers with purpose. Then takes off again. We move along, but are we moving on?
- - - - - - - -
The first time you find yourself travelling down a new road, the streets they are straight; all is enclosed, one-way, shop-front after shop-front squished together with no gaps.
The first you travel a new street, you find yourself guided by the tar and painted lines alone. You don't catch sight of the street-lamps, or the street-signs; though they are there, enlightening those more familiar to this neighbourhood to alternative routes.
And then you find yourself on a looped route for a second turn, a wiggled circular trip on which you've not gotten off where you got on, or anywhere inbetween.
And your eyes -having already seen and accustomed themselves to the sight of the simple 'straight-ahead, follow-the-road' surroundings-, your eyes they open to new scenes and scapes.
The towers build high, or should that be the buildings towering high?
There are people. Couples. Pretty girls, suited disillusioned men, homeless heartaches.
Young brother guiding younger sister down the footpath and across the road at the traffic lights. Running to reach their destination, to get out of the rain.
It's raining. The sky is clouded over in an opaque cloak of grey.
There are streets forking off and away from that one which you continue along. They lead to homes and gardens and motorways, some to shopping districts, some to other intersections with yet more roads with further choices and trips to travel.
Can a bus trip? Have I tripped? Am I travelling along, or travelling down... down, down, down...? Am I moving along, or moving on?
Is this love?
What kind of drug is love??
(Sky Tower. Sky Tower. Sky Tower. You can see it from anywhere, everywhere...)
There are reflections. You see your bus pulse across the glass of mirrored shopfronts, and the mirrored image of shopfronts, in the mirrored image of the bus's windows across the mall's reflective panes.
The strange thing is, that the more your street-bound world opens up and grows larger -with more choices and directions, and the realisation you're seeing things you previously ignored or missed-, the less lost and disoriented you become.
I suppose it's like taking a flying bird's-eye view of a hedge maze before stepping into it and attempting your way through the walled paths. Except you haven't flown above, you've projected that view from the ground you travel along.
No. I'ts more like a bedroom that slowly gets more messy; as your eyes slowly adjust to the disappearing surfaces and in doing so spot here and there small areas of unnoccupied space. The spaces emerge as space dissappears- on the floor, on your bed, or on top of the books already on top of the desk. The space is dissolving perhaps.
The messier it gets, the more you know where everything is, and the quicker you can navigate both your bedroom space and the belongings within it. It is the bus route travelled twice, now three times.
Can you navigate belonging?
This is rainy days void of love and vacant with depression,
This is the third trip around a confused city,
in a bus called a Link,
travelling a looped route.
This is Auckland,
and perhaps this is me..."
"I am riding the bus on a Sunday afternoon, passing lively streets buzzed with spring rain and an increase in souvenir-laden tourists. I have passed all the eclectic and earthy clothing stores, the op-shops, the store full of faciful fairy goodies; all of the few of such stores that are on offer here in this city. I passed all these without getting off at the next stop, or the next, or any following. I remain seated, my window beginning to cloud with my breath.
I don't think shopping for any new clothes, or visiting any galleries, or browsing faces in cafes... I don't think any of these things to be anywhere near capable of picking me up.
For the first time in my life I crave companionship. More than that, I need it to feel alive.
I need your arms around my waist, I need your head in my hands.
What kind of addict am I now? What is this drug called love?
Why is it I can no longer pick myself up, with a pen in my hand and a view of showered grass glistening neon in my eyes? Why can I no longer sit alone to recharge, to unwind?
Gone are the days of park-bench sprawls and chewing-gum pastimes. I find myself craving an addiction to ciggarrettes. It's not enough to be pure, I just can't sit there alone.
The bus stops. Picks up another of these passengers with purpose. Then takes off again. We move along, but are we moving on?
- - - - - - - -
The first time you find yourself travelling down a new road, the streets they are straight; all is enclosed, one-way, shop-front after shop-front squished together with no gaps.
The first you travel a new street, you find yourself guided by the tar and painted lines alone. You don't catch sight of the street-lamps, or the street-signs; though they are there, enlightening those more familiar to this neighbourhood to alternative routes.
And then you find yourself on a looped route for a second turn, a wiggled circular trip on which you've not gotten off where you got on, or anywhere inbetween.
And your eyes -having already seen and accustomed themselves to the sight of the simple 'straight-ahead, follow-the-road' surroundings-, your eyes they open to new scenes and scapes.
The towers build high, or should that be the buildings towering high?
There are people. Couples. Pretty girls, suited disillusioned men, homeless heartaches.
Young brother guiding younger sister down the footpath and across the road at the traffic lights. Running to reach their destination, to get out of the rain.
It's raining. The sky is clouded over in an opaque cloak of grey.
There are streets forking off and away from that one which you continue along. They lead to homes and gardens and motorways, some to shopping districts, some to other intersections with yet more roads with further choices and trips to travel.
Can a bus trip? Have I tripped? Am I travelling along, or travelling down... down, down, down...? Am I moving along, or moving on?
Is this love?
What kind of drug is love??
(Sky Tower. Sky Tower. Sky Tower. You can see it from anywhere, everywhere...)
There are reflections. You see your bus pulse across the glass of mirrored shopfronts, and the mirrored image of shopfronts, in the mirrored image of the bus's windows across the mall's reflective panes.
The strange thing is, that the more your street-bound world opens up and grows larger -with more choices and directions, and the realisation you're seeing things you previously ignored or missed-, the less lost and disoriented you become.
I suppose it's like taking a flying bird's-eye view of a hedge maze before stepping into it and attempting your way through the walled paths. Except you haven't flown above, you've projected that view from the ground you travel along.
No. I'ts more like a bedroom that slowly gets more messy; as your eyes slowly adjust to the disappearing surfaces and in doing so spot here and there small areas of unnoccupied space. The spaces emerge as space dissappears- on the floor, on your bed, or on top of the books already on top of the desk. The space is dissolving perhaps.
The messier it gets, the more you know where everything is, and the quicker you can navigate both your bedroom space and the belongings within it. It is the bus route travelled twice, now three times.
Can you navigate belonging?
This is rainy days void of love and vacant with depression,
This is the third trip around a confused city,
in a bus called a Link,
travelling a looped route.
This is Auckland,
and perhaps this is me..."