Nostalgia

Forearms left short by her t-shirt, her skin crispened under the early-spring sun light in a green park sprinkled with iPods and picnics. Girls chatting on a bench, boys going over their jeans shopping, King St strollers returning to their Camperdown homes. The book balancing above her face was ignored while she schemed to inhale the scent of the burnt skin later in the day just before she would stand up to leave the park. Up there with her kindergarten teacher's perfume and her mother's bolognese sauce, it was a scent that brought about a nostalgia that suited the occasion. Just this once she let it burn rather than protect it from the horrors of premature ageing. Like any other nostalgia that disappears the more you arouse it. The same reason her mother never plays her Abba CDs, yet adores the music. The same reason she refuses to try on the Issey Miyake in her sister's dressing room. Nostalgia is for special occasions.

When does the time come for her mother to play her CDs on repeat for 7 days in a row. When will Issey Miyake become boring. When will her skin no longer burn but just warm up like the dead elastic it would be? When will the cool breezes of early autumn arouse the dread of July rather than dress her in her primary school uniform and plant her feet at the start of the footpath winding from the school gate to her kindergarten classroom where lies a 4-second memory, a best friend, and the Issey Miyake on her white haired and gentle teacher?

She smells her left hand. The smell is there. Autumn and spring sunshine burns. Just this once.  ¶ 11:49 0 Comments

  Haven't had!

My white halter necked dress from Target would fit me now; I'm 60 kilos. Fi has the mannerisms of our shared psychologist/therapist Tash; she denies it but perhaps doesn't understand what I mean. Dresses in newspaper magazines, a book that I'm not reading; I read a sentence and then let my mind wander onto anxious things. Second thoughts about my impending in-residence marriage to Mohamed; I think it's not too late to apply for graduate programs, as plenty of 27-year-olds are in graduate programs right now. Maryann my blue eyed blonde haired American friend is off to Paris at the beginning of next year after her travels on the Silk Road and Sri Lanka... I shared the idea with her and she and her new husband have adopted it. My good mood today inspires me to ask a wedding photographer for work experience. I have mentally written the essence of the email:

Hi there, I am interested in doing some work experience with you. I would help you on shoots and at the same time learn some of the ropes and hopefully improve my own photography.

I would go back to Tumut and look up local wedding photographers on the internet and email them and call them. I will go back to Tumut and do that.

I want to, I plan to, I would, I will. I want to get to I have. I plan to get to I have. I would get to I have, and then have gotten to I have.

English. I should send that to Mohamed for his next English lesson. I should. Will I? Will I have had.

“Then write it.” Fi says when I tell her I want to write a book. I want and would; haven't had. Time I can organise. Inspiration? Will it come with time? In my relaxed state? Goulds had psychiatry journals on their discount shelf for $2 each. I read the synopsis of a study done about stress and onset of psychosis. A good argument for why I should relax, I will tell Mohamed. I haven't yet had.

Mohamed, my best friend. I have a best friend called Mohamed. I have a best friend who is a boy. I have a best friend who doesn't see me as a best friend but his wife, his woman. I'm for wifeing, perhaps not for best-friending. If only we could best friend. Can we best-friend over coffee in Saudi Arabia? We would best-friend over strong Arab coffees in mixed sections of cafes, but never as man-to-man or friend-to-friend in the men's sections of cafes. I should stick it out there as they are making progress re: segregation of women and children from men. Haven't yet had, but I've never been so I will not judge. I won't have had judged until I have lived the life there.

The white dress I will wear when it springs up in Tumut; I want to buy just any old house dress from Vinnies but I can even save that much by wearing what I've already got. And I've got the baby doll dresses, pink and white, that I wear one on top of the other, that I wore in Hangzhou. Hangzhou, not far from my blue eyed blonde haired American friend Maryann residing in Shanghai. I was a thin fairy in the 4 Eyes Hostel, Hangzhou, drinking strong coffees, starving and shedding weight. Playing music, I redeemed Michael with a story of his life through his songs. From I'll Be There to Keep The Faith, Michael lost it after that. His faith and his mind.

Up on my terrace with the tents and the sofa on which I slept for free. I posted manic inspirations on Facebook and played music loud. I could sing; well; and sing badly for amusement. More coffee. Yunnan Tobacco cigarettes, gold or red packaged, both lucky colours, from the store down the street. Hot coffees from the bar and iced coffees from the shop, my weight inverse to the inspirations. There is nothing to get better from so I never will, but I have had gotten better.  ¶ 11:39 0 Comments