Stare Like You'll Stay

It’s hot. Hot like I don’t want it to be. It’s sweating hot. And it’s raining. Today went like this.

I woke up. Got dressed. Ate toast. Left for the train station. Got caught in traffic. Missed my train. I was upset. I waited for the next train while listening to some voice of some person somewhere read me the lines of Chuck Palahniuk’s Survivor because I have too short of an attention span to read it for myself. I board the next train and sleep in and out for an hour until I arrive at Southern Cross. While climbing steep concrete stairs I stop and help an old Asian woman carry a bag that must weigh as much as her. I walk her out of the station and across the street to a bus stop. If it was my grandmother, traveling alone, struggling to haul her bag up a long flight of stairs, I'd like to think someone would stop and help her. She doesn’t even speak enough English to thank me, but I get the idea.

Then I’m lost and it’s raining. I’m in Melbourne and realizing I’m utterly lost. I’m trying to recall images of Google Maps in my head. Trying to suddenly have a photographic memory. And it’s not working. After a long time walking, after walking aimlessly for as long as it takes for me to listen to the second half of Coldplay’s Mylo Xyloto and the first half of Death Cab for Cutie’s Photo Album, I break down and do the unthinkable. I ask for help. It’s funny how everything can look so small and manageable on a map, when it’s really not at all. After getting lost again and asking for help again, I arrive at my hostel an hour and a half late. I drop off my bags and head back into the rain. I’m listening to this voice in my ears again. It’s still telling me the same story and I’m making friends with the voice. It’s keeping me company, keeping me sane, in such a chaotic city. Then I wonder if I’m the one diving into chaos, into a sea of oblivion, and the thought passes.

Walking down the street in a city district equivalent to Kansas City’s Power and Light district on steroids, everyone is dressed well. Men in suits smoking cigarettes. Women in heels trying to weave around puddles that would swallow their ankles whole. I am the man in black wearing Adidas Sambas, black pants by H&M, a black V-neck by no one in particular, and a hooded, black pea-coat by Forever 21. Then I’m trying to wave off a group of people with flyers and clipboards but they surround me like a pack of wolves and I take out my headphones. A young girl with chapped lips asks me what I’m listening to. I tell her and she pretends to act interested. She makes small talk about me, about my life, like we’re about to be best friends. The whole time, she has this flyer in her hand and I’m waiting for her to get to the point, to go in for the kill. She asks me how old I am and I tell her. Then she tells me I’m not old enough to support their animal rights activist group. I ask her how old someone has to be to care about animals and she says 21. So I keep walking.

Then I’m at this place I so anticipated. I’m at Journal. And I’m shocked. People can do cheeky things with clevar camera angles these days. The place is the size of a master bedroom in a house that’s only trying to make a statement. It’s busy. It’s packed. It’s loud. So loud. Yes, it’s in a library like the description online said. But I don’t see anyone getting any sort of real work done here. It’s like walking into an Olive Garden, getting a table, and pulling out your laptop to try and get a few things off your chest. Send a few emails. Make a few business arrangements. I’m the only person alone here, and I’m the only person with a laptop out. This is no Mudhouse. This is no coffee shop. This is nothing like I expected.

So here I am. Listening to the Fight Club soundtrack and trying to figure out my next move. Because, to be honest, one of the biggest reasons I came to Melbourne this weekend was to write. It was so I could find that Mecca of quaint and respectable intelligence that would inspire my mind to complete the works I have started. Instead. I have a cappuccino with so much nutmeg on top it looks like a beach and this waiter guy who keeps trying to get me to buy something else, get off my laptop, leave. He keeps asking if he could do anything else and I want to tell him that if he could clear about two thirds of the people out, quiet the place down, give me the wifi password, and leave me alone for about three hours, it would be great. But I can’t. And he won’t. So now my back is sore from sitting in this awkward position at a bar where the seats are too close. Now I have to figure out my next move. Come on Melbourne, let’s work something out here. 

I've seen two sets of twins today. That has to mean something, right? 

Let's find out

~D