Never Have I Been A Blue Calm Sea

We were the storm chasers, only, we weren't really. We were running from the storm. But they didn't know it. Maybe I was the one running. But I'd never tell you from what.

It's eerie out. A stretch of orange marks the sky and it reminds me of a painting I once saw. It had the same intensity, only I wasn't frightened of it. I watch out the back window of the car. The sky flickers like a light in a cellar. There is no sound though. A silent storm - the thought of it seems so unreal. Sometimes it feels like I have a silent storm raging through me.

Nostalgic music floats through the car, it feels like a movie. The ones where the characters are all so oblivious to their impending doom, but I'm not, I've always seen it coming. I've always been afraid. It's the fear of losing control that gets to me. I guess this runs deeper than nature, but I'd never tell you why.

I'll Never Live To Match The Beauty Again

As of today I've been living in Brisbane for one year and there are things about this city that will always pull me back, no matter where I end up. Just like in Sydney, there are places that I miss, both new and old. Some I have just discovered, and already find myself yearning to revisit.

I guess each city is its own entity, and while superficially it may seem that a city is defined by its places and people, there has to be something underneath all that, that makes it what it is. Because without that, then it is just another suffocating landscape.

To me, Brisbane is an endless stretch of the horizon burgeoning on sunset, full of hope and promise, but always disappearing just before you can grab a hold of what it is you are looking for. But you wake up the next day and it's still there, that little promise of greatness pushed far into the distance, waiting for you to reach it.

Brisbane is beautiful in the most ordinary of ways. It is an earnest beauty that needs no explanation, or maybe I just can't find one. How do you describe the way the light falls on certain parts of the landscape, and that this in itself gives you hope, and makes you breathe easier somehow. Perhaps it is because from where I am, I can see it all, the mountains, the city, the small people below, going about their daily lives as if they are blind to the natural beauty right before their eyes.

There is much about this city I am yet to uncover, but I want to find it all, take it in, and never for a second take for granted what is in front of me. And aside from that...pretty girls talk to me in Brisbane, so I can't complain!

Kick, Push

My feet are glued to the deck and I'm an unstoppable force. There's nothing graceful about it though- at least, not the way I do it. It's gritty, fast and clumsy. I look at the videos, try to imitate their style, but it never quite seems right. And then I realise it's not about the way they do it, it's about the way I do it. The way my front foot is never far forward enough, and my back foot hugs the tail, so much so that I risk flipping myself off the board. And the way my arms hang aimlessly, feeling left out, you can't imitate that.

I stop to take in the view. It's such a contrast, the pureness of the mountains and the fields, and then the ugly mess that we've created. And then it begins to rain, and it's just what I expect. It feels good against my skin, cold from sweat. My arms glisten and the road becomes slick and dangerous, but the ride is smoother and faster. I enjoy the rain but yearn for the sunset, which is the thing I really came for. The view from here can only be described as magnificent, it makes me feel small, but in a good way. The rain has clouded over my sunset and I miss the pink and orange stains in the sky. The gold, that seeps through the cracks. The kind of gold that can't be manufactured.

My music filters out the world while I ride, makes me feel invincible. I'm listening to Incubus, because it's angsty but full of hopefulness, I guess that's how you'd describe me. The tingle in my feet that I get when I step off the board reminds me that I'm alive, that I'm feeling again. And even that small inch of fear that creeps in when I start to go too fast down a winding road, that disappears eventually too. Not because I am foolish, but because I'm flying, and nothing else matters in that moment.

All The Same

Sometimes it's hard to believe we are all looking in to the same sky. To think, that on the other side of the world someone else is looking into the very same space that you are. I need someone to explain to me the way the earth turns, because it never quite makes sense. Are we all really that connected? And if so, then why are we so often plagued with loneliness? At night when we look up and try to connect the dots- figure out what it all means, who's to say there isn't someone else out there, doing the same. Staring into the same sky, feeling like an insignificant speck on the landscape. Because that's all we are right? Specks on the landscape. When you're in the sky it all looks the same, it's the same shade of green all over. And so if we just live our life remembering what it looks like from the sky, then all these things that don't really matter, like if you're big or little, they shouldn't matter should they? Because if we are to look down from above, we will realise, it's all indistinguishable. I guess in the big scheme of things as they often put it, we are all so much smaller than we think we are.

Cigarettes

I was sprawled in a lazy way on the couch. The music was loud, her favourite band. She was leaning against the sliding door having a cigarette. She only smoked sometimes. I never smoked. I'd never felt the urge. But I was feeling the urge now. She pointed it towards me. "Try it," she pleaded. If this were a movie she'd be the evil temptress I liked to keep on the side. But it wasn't and so I declined.

I know I shouldn't say this, but the way she was smoking that cigarette was so damn sexy. Her pouty lips, pursed into a kiss. Her eyes lowered in a sleazy gaze. She was tempting. Half of me wanted to take a puff, just to impress her. She thought I was so straight and narrow, and what proof did I have otherwise? But I didn't. Partly because I thought I may get addicted to the smoke. And partly because I thought she may get addicted to me.

She liked them tough, mysterious. And here I was smiling in a goofy way, losing all my cred, if I ever had any. She thought I was cute, at the very least. But I was no enigma. Love had taught me to wear my heart on my sleeve and I wished it hadn't. I couldn't help but look. She was so curvy, and god her smell. If anything could ever intoxicate me, it would be that.

It was like the time she offered me a beer. And I told her I didn't really like beer, but I'd never really tried it. Her arm was outstretched and our eyes met. There was that sleazy gaze again. This time I gave in. I took a swig from her bottle. Partly because I thought this might be the only time our lips ever met. "Not bad," I replied. "You are free to have one," she offered. "No I better not." "Okay, stick to your water then," she was cheeky. I came back a few minutes later. Maybe I will have one after all. I took a few sips then left it overnight, I'd tip it in the sink in the morning.

Coffee

She's drinking coffee. It's her first time. She was so excited she dropped the chocolate shaker in it. The coffee is all over the floor now. The woman reading a book by the window is distracted by this. The slow insidious rythm that it drips.

She pulls a face. She doesn't quite like the taste, but it's her first time and she feels like an adult now.

None of them do anything about the dripping coffee. It's like it doesn't exist. Only I and the woman reading notice it. Together we share this moment. She doesn't know I'm sharing it with her though. She's teasing her fingers through her hair.

She's getting sugar now. Packets of it. I look at her with distaste. She feels so old, so wise. I guess her mother never told her about the kind of people who drink coffee.

The woman reading looks wistfully out the window. The ring on her finger tells me she is feeling trapped. She's not thinking about her husband now. She's thinking of a woman. A woman like me.

Change clatters on the floor and we both look up. Our eyes meet for the first time. She looks away is if it were a mistake. I see her looking at the spil again. The kids are gone now. it's just us, but she doesn't know it. She's moving to the spill. I stare on curiously. She glances at me, and then with one cautious movement she drops the book. Page down onto the spill. She walks over to my table and sits beside me.

"That was a horrible book," she says.

"I know," I reply. But I don't.

Remember When I Said I Was Watching You

I meant it..

So I've been wanting to people watch forever now. And what better place to do it than on a train! I'll post a series of little tid bits about people I don't know..just because I can and they might be fun.

He thought she was a real classy chick, that is, until he knocked her up, then he didn't want nothing to do with her. What with those deep set icy blue eyes and that furrowed brow. They could practically be related. He was the kinda guy who'd beat his kids. Just cause he could. Cause he was bigger than them. He was sick. The way he looked at that little boy. He rolled a smoke while thinking about shooting up. He was addicted to the stuff, but tobacco was cheaper. It wasn't his fault. The kids had done it to him. The kids and that classy fucking lady. He bet they weren't even his kids. They had sucked the life out of him. He probably had a stash hidden in his bumbag, but you'd never know. Not unless you were a cop and game enough to get beaten. You looked at the family and felt real bad. For the kids mainly. He'd shoot through soon enough, with his stash, leave them behind. He looked like a vampire. Not a pretty one either. The classy lady would be left to deal with his mess. Maybe they were better off. But not with her. She was just like him. Only, she'd never touch the kids, cause she used to be touched, and it fucked her up real bad.

There will be many more to come!