People tell near-strangers the most intimate of things.
It's nothing new, there's comfort in offloading your junk to people who won't care enough to pass it on to anyone else - or care enough to judge.
I've often played listening ear to the most unlikely of people, in the most unlikely of times.
Tonight I thought of a guy I used to work with. (Train of thought: a Catpower song came on in the car while we were driving home tonight; a tune that was featured on the playlist when we first started dating. M immediattely skipped it, like he often does when other songs from the said playlist comes up.I think the intention is to preserve the integrity of memories.)
Back to this guy from work.
Over a MSN conversation about favourite music for romance (cheesy, I know)
He told me The Smiths was particularly special in this department.
I asked him whether his wife was a big Smiths fan.
He said 'No not the wife. It's the one that got away that makes music most poignant'.
That statement sounded like it came right out of some indie rom-com. But surprise aside (at his revelation) -
I first thought about how some songs will always have a conditioned effect on your mood. I can't listen to Damien Rice's O without churning, or Gary Jules' Mad World without thinking of cold winters, or Camera Obscura without thinking of Melbourne in spring.
Then I started thinking about the consequence of that statement. Did I detect yearning? Was he still thinking about The Smiths fan? How would his wife feel about that? Is it really OK to look wistfully back at 'the one who got away'?

I don't know the answers to any of these questions. And I didn't judge then - nor will I now.

But I often think that it'd be great if we could enter new relationships wiped clean of the previous one.

I suppose that's why Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind remains one of my favourite movies (like music, movies, too remind me of certain times in my life. This one of late nights and hungover mornings, room smelling like vodka and tears).

Dreams.
Of guilt - forgetting to feed the dog. Repeated in times of uncertainty.
Of failure - to be perfect, hit the mark, ace the paper.

Lack of sleep. Nights now.
For what seems like hours after the lights go out,
I lie -
Full of unruly energy;
Thoughts racing and bouncing like pinballs,
Looking for a place to rest.

Ever so often
The block is imposed.
On being free-spirited, easy-going - generally, being nice.
Which really is an antithesis to the spirit of Christmas.
I struggle.

Some nights
I lie waiting.
For something to change and tell me it'll be ok.
That all the worry, upsets, botched cookie batches, sleeplessness, cellulite,
Will be fixed.
The mind searches for answers; and when none is satisfactory,
I think of my boxes.
Once crammed full of things we chose to stopper - anger/ disappointment/ hurt/ grief/ resentment.
Now empty and seemingly obsolete.

There are moments when you see your future flash before you.
Amidst the abysmal repetition of spreadsheet formatting, violent war of words, while watching a rom com or observing how your parents behave.
Sometimes these moments bring hope and flutters of the heart;
Other times they bring on the worry wart.

2 weeks to Christmas.
This year I feel unprepared, unwilling, uninspired.
The excitement that was there weeks ago
Has watered down to a bland mix of procrastination and quiet resentment.
In an active battle against this ridiculous state,
I baked.
Armed with my mint green spatula, iced Umeshu, Camera Obscura, and quiet time to myself.
50 macadamia-cranberry-white chocolate cookies later
I'm suitably calmer.

Feeling very much like sparkly dresses and big hair. x

Sometimes you float.
You float along,
Letting the tide sweep you from side to side,
Back and forth.
And sometimes,
You move forward;
Mostly you move nowhere.

Mostly I've found myself stumbling. Into places, roles, countries, and relationships.

Today was one of the most monumental in a while.
It was as if,
All the goodness that is usually amortised over the year,
Was delivered in a month.
I'm deeply thankful.

A few things I've been meaning to do.
Not stumble into, but
Deliberately, seek out.
A pair of white Converse is on top of the list.
This weekend,
I will get to it.

Found this last night, looking for writing samples to make up some sort of a portfolio.

Somewhere, somehow, in the last 18 months, I've lost the writing mojo. I've probably lost a lot more than writing mojo - shoe mojo, bag mojo, general shopping mojo, reading mojo, sewing mojo...

A series of google searches later
I am here -
Artificially warm,
Homesick,
Pukey,
And wondering which grey jumper to wear tomorrow.

This time last year
As I walked around the harbour in this same city
I remembered thinking,
How much longer it would last.
That feeling of vacuous heaviness.

This time
I sit at the forgettable wood-and-steel desk
Thinking
How long ago that all seems.

I'm not a cryptic person.
Despite all attempt at being less promiscuous with my divulgence of personal life stories
I am read like an over-expressive holiday novella.

These days I've learnt that the less I think about the things I can't change
The less my back strains,
The less my brows knit,
The less I smoke,
And hence, the
Happiness equilibrium is maintained.

In assessing career choices I decided that I needed to come up with a list of things that make me happy. These are, in no particular order:

1) Food. Specifically: -
- Being exposed to beautifully fresh produce and planning menus around these
- Experimenting with new flavours and ways of reworking old recipes
- Picking apart the ingredients in food I eat
- Alternating between a g&t and cigarette while cooking
- Watching a recipe come to fruition
- Watching the first expressions from those eating food I've made
- Trying surprising new things, in the most unexpected places
- Eating old favourites, after a long enough time for me to have forgotten how they tasted

2) Aesthetically pleasing things. Sure, I'm female and hence far more susceptible to pretty packaging and album art.
- Tasteful design. Will always move the persuasion meter. Why can't tissue boxes come in solid colours or simple stripes instead of gigantic tropical fruit prints? Why do functional things like oven mitts and aprons need to be reminiscent of frumpy 1980s suburbia and Laura Ashley?
- Textures, patterns, appliques! Delicate laces, the way Issey Miyake pleats fall, vintage appliques, Grecian style drapery, gingham cloth buttons...
- Colour. I can name 20 shades of pink, I think about colour combinations all the time, I've even tried to colour code my wardrobe (unsuccessfully - what does one do with florals?)

3) Music.
- Definitely not performing. Well at least not anymore.
- But I love everything else. A trombone's sliding motion, the way Spanish guitar music always brings me back to a certain time, how it gets the most unlikely of people singing together, how it propels a piece of film to absolute perfection, how it makes me cry/ anxious/ angry/ lifted quite unknowingly, how it turns a dull dinner party into a memorable riot, the crackling noises that vinyls make, my first memories of waking to Elvis and Antonio Carlos Jobim tunes... and so much more.  
- I wish I could love it more. And be less without it. 

4) Others.
These don't quite deserve a bullet point on their own, but I also like - excel spreadsheets, doing stuff really quickly, shopping, writing pretend-poetry, making invite cards, crafty projects.

It feels like time for a huddle.