Post Two Hundred and Six: Silent as the Grave.

I'm hypersensitive to sound. It's a unique and unfortunate side effect of working in an isolated and intensively silent workplace. I can't sleep if someone is doing the dishes or has the television on. I struggle to concentrate if someone is walking upstairs. It's as if being immersed in death during business hours makes the presence of life and living during rest time an overwhelming stimulation.

With this in mind, you can imagine that the particularities of share house living presents me with a few challenges. I can control what tunes I play in the mortuary and if I have the overhead exhaust fan running, but I cannot constrain my housemates to when they take a shower or watch the latest episode of Game of Thrones. Normal evening activities carry the noises of our bustling interchange and lately I've found myself fitting in an episode of mild neurosis before bed time. 

Luckily, I live with three of the most understanding and approachable individuals on the planet. They fill our home with a warmth and abundance that eases my upset. Even if I flip out, they'll be there to flip me back in. And then they'll have a beer and some pringles with me afterwards. 

Thanks friends. I love you guys, like real love but not the sexy kind. I'm buying us all Japanese slippers until I work through this. 

Peace. x  

Post Two Hundred and Five: Fragment.

I feel as though when you are in my thoughts I could be in yours.

A disconnected body of tender architecture. We might have made it from up here.

The Story Bridge at 4:30PM. The soupy, saturating sun that curtains across the buildings with a verve that speaks of you. Glass illuminated like the oceans.

This time of day.

I feel as though when you are in my thoughts I could be in yours.

Post Two Hundred and Four: Death Does As Death Pleases.

Death is the ultimate no no.

It's astonishing that life can actually exist in the first place, being that sperm and ova have to do that delicate little breakdance at the right disco to the right jam. But death can occur at any time from day one to day one hundred and something, and it's governance seems to be delivered like a round of apple bobbing. Do we play it safe or live theatrically on the edge? Death isn't actually weird, it's just the opposite of what we know and so we, as tiny humans in the big world, are a little scared. We're scared of blood and guts and anything hairy because they are things that could land us on cold silver tables.

I don't have any more answers than I did when I first entered the mortuary. All of the dentures and cotton wool and human waste has not shown me what it looks like behind a corpses stare, if it is a place to see or be seen at all.

Happy Third Birthday, Until it Kills Me. Let's keep looking.

S.

Post Two Hundred and Three: Home Is Where The Horse Is.

I'm sitting on my bed and drinking a glass of wine. It feels good to look around at my things and acknowledge, although admittedly egotistical, that my material possessions have shown enough value to remain close and slowly collect as do the wrinkles on my hands.

My walls are still largely undecorated but small and sentimental treasures have begun to emancipate themselves from their cardboard penitentiaries. I have a wardrobe and a bed. A lonely old guitar is propped upright, well behaved but under appreciated on a rack intended to house a family of five. There's an old suitcase that I've planted against a wall to throw some books on. My typewriter is beside my bed, and although far from being practical it serves as a reminder that articulation is my right hand man.

I had only just settled in early February before an old friend asked me to look after his home. Being full of positive energy from the move, I was quick to welcome another gratified opportunity. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spa, an entertaining deck, tropical gardens, a mahogany four poster bed and a well stocked and well hung adult DVD collection. For seven weeks I was to lord over the Queenslander, taking sole responsibility for the ferns and the fish and all of the fancy towelling that I could ever possibly wish to launder.

I've looked after homes before but there was something about this one that lent itself to calamity. Within a few days I'd forgotten how to take apart the pond filter. Within a week I'd over exhausted the jacuzzi. Within two I'd killed the plants. The washing machine died. The dog ran away. By the end of seven weeks I felt as though no matter how genuine my intent, I'd failed this crib. The demands of an opulent kingdom had overcome this honorary King.

It's fair to say that I over extend myself. I say yes to things because there's something organically good about being reliable. I thought that to be accommodating and adaptable and willing was to be a top notch citizen.

So no more house sitting. I have no experience in palm arboring nor do I possess a knowledge of orchid growing conditions. I can't remember to take the rubbish bins out every week. I can't guarantee that I'll dust the rooms that I don't step foot in. I certainly don't always remember when I ordered that Indian takeway. And I definitely can't turn away a gathering of beautiful young people desperate to drink champagne in a jacuzzi. You only live once.

There's a lot to be said about your own castle. Maybe, just maybe, this is mine. The horse is waiting outside and it's bloody good to be have four walls of my own.

Peace,
S.