(no subject)
Living in the same house for your entire life tends to give one a strange entwined sense of continuity and discontinuity, of the familiar made strange. Driving home tonight from dropping off Chrissy and Dendro (who I haven't seen in forever and, *love*), listening to some terribly alternative song playing on triple J that I would never have thought, when I was younger, I'd like listening to, I was remembering all the times of been driven home by my parents, sitting curled up in the back seat, watching the street lights throwing out little spheres of light, having only the vaguest sense of how all the houses and streets and corners that were slipping past ordered themselves into the route homewards. The streets we never turned into used to fascinate me, I sensed a thousand possibilities just out of sight, waiting for us to stumble onto them. None of those streets, those imagined possibilities could have led me to the now, to me, driving (I am continually surprised at my ability to drive--it seems such an adult skill to possess), coming home from a cafe, from a long conversation about jobs and money and school-work and music, feeling slightly lonely, and horny, and nervous about my marks for my defamation exam. I am such a different person than I ever thought I'd be, and living here, in this suburb I grew up in, where the very trees remind me of some part of that other-self, that girl I half-remember, it strikes me sometimes like deja-vu in reverse---disconnection.