Big Day Out

About an hour later, I wake up in a daze on the most uncomfortable red plastic stadium chair. I look around, wipe sleep out of my eyes and take a few moments to reorient myself. Puzzled as to how I could have fallen asleep amongst 30,000 raging fans rocking out to Kings of Leon, I say to Ali, "Al, have i just been sleeping the whole time?"
I'm not one who can easily fall asleep, even in the most quietiest of places, let alone in rock concert! I must have been more drunk than I thought. I can already feel the hangover and we haven't even see End of Fashion, Franz Ferdinand, Iggy Pop, or the White Stripes yet. In fact, it think it's only like 4:00.
The best cure for a hangover is greasy food, so Al and I head over to the food stands, which are looking dirtier by the minute. Once semi-clean, the showground has become a jungle of sweaty people with bad body odor, smushed up fliers, squashy chips, cans and water bottles.
I order two big fat bratwursts from the Saurkraut Sisters because they are selling 2 dogs for $7.00, and when you are pissed, more is always better. God, i feel like a pig, but it's Big Day Out and I am drunk as a mother. (Wolfmother was great by the way).
On our way back to the Blue stage to see The Living End, we stumble into a few recognizable faces and exchange what has become the typical speech of the day: "Who are you guys going to see next" and "him and them were so good". We also say, "Well, i'm sure we will see you at Franz Ferdinand" - what has become the typical lie of the day which everyone still voices regardless of the fact that we all know chances of running into the same person again, especially at Franz Ferdinand, are close to nothing.
The next band up is End of Fashion, Ali's favorite. We make our way there after a detour to the toilet, which is gross, but not as bad as I had imagined. I should be used to bad toilets anyway because I did live in China for 10 years, where toilets are almost as rare as vegemite. In China, toilets are not toilets. They are 'holes in the ground.'
End of Fashion is so hot and we are standing in the middle of the mosh pit. Now I remember why it was a bad idea to wear thongs. My feet are getting stomped on my the masses of people squashed up against me. But after a while I am no longer bothered because my feet have gone numb and I am too busy jumping up and down with other sweaties.
Oh man, the guitarist in the red plaid shirt with his long shaggy hair and beard is so hot, and so is the lead singer and also the drummer. The band is hot full stop.
"O Yeah....say you wanna talk about it for a while"
"Sweet candy, just give me some sweet candy."

molecules that matter.

This evening I had a revelation.

It occured to me that I am the most self-absorbed person I know.

I am always so stuck in a moment- in many moments- that I fail to live in the current moment. I idealize and I dream, and while I value both, I am starting to believe that these behaviours are perhaps my greatest weaknesses.

Because my mind and my heart are always in another world - whether climing on the limestone rocks of Cochise Stronghold, mountaineering in the North Cascades, or surviving sickle-cell anemia (I have been creating crazy hypothetical situations and have been replaying in my mind) - I am so absorbed in my fantasies that I neglect what is real. I take for granted the people who matter to me most; the people who I depend on for my sanity.

My problems are always larger than anyone elses. My pain, my love, my joy, is always greater than yours.
My tears are always larger and my smile is always brighter.

Has writing become an avenue for me to elate my thoughts to something of monumental significance?

How can I dream of saving humanity from what is ugly if I cannot first see that I am not the center of existance?

The gentle giant and random ramblings of the weekend.

In a tight black tank top and clingy jean skirt, the outsized woman with the long mournful face occupies the whole dance floor of Cargo Bar. And why is she wearing heels? Beside her, a tiny Asian woman boogeys, her hips moving round and round, too fast for eyes to follow. Dwarfed by the unusual dancer, the Asian looks like Tinkerbell from Peter Pan.

My friends and I approach in giggles. We have never seen anything like it - an 8ft tall woman, bigger than any man I have seen, with the exception of the other giant I saw at MIT four summers ago.

I cannot help but stare because maturation has reversed. I am a curious five year old girl again. I feel so rude, but I rationalize my rudeness when I see others pulling out their cameras to take quick pictures. (Okay, I admit it. We also tried to take pictures with the giant in the background, but unfortunatley the lighting was too dark.)

The men are loving her. The tallest man in the bar, about 2/3rds her size, is loving freaking with her. But he is loving her as a spectacle and a story to laugh about with his mates. Nothing more. And this is when i question...
Why is it that pretty girls will date ugly guys, but a normal guy will rarely consider dating an unusual looking chick? Maybe I am over-generalizing here. In fact, I know I am over-generalizing, but this is my observation.

Later on in the night, an asshole in a lime green shirt smashes a smirnoff on my sisters leg and doesn't apologize. Rach stumbles back to the table with blood running down her ankle and small pieces of glass puncturing her legs. We bandage her up, drown her legs with water to get rid of excess glass and move onto the Moulin Rouge at the Cross.

The music here is going off and the atmosphere really does live up to it's name. Hard relentless beats make for a night of non-stop dancing and very sore feet. This is where I make $50 dollars from taking a guy into the club. It's good to be a girl at times like these. Actually, it's fabulous. I feel cheap taking his money, but he insisted and I did stand waiting in line with him for at least 30 minutes in my 4 inch heels.

I use this money to go sea kayaking from the Mosman bay to the National Park reserve the next day. I love the water and cannot get enough of it. If I could spend the rest of my life kayaking to unknown lands I would easily take the opportunity.

That night, I go with my sister and Jason to the Sydney Festival Jazz concert at the Domain. Three jazz bands from the New Orleans play and the music fills my soul. I dance like I have never danced before. It is an amazing feeling being encased by thousands of other happy, life-loving dancers.

I finish the night walking through Hyde park listening to faces that speak to me out of the fountain while feeling the drizzle of rain hit my skin and collect on my hair. At the same time, I lick an overpriced freckle soft-serve that hits just the right spot.

Life is (always) Beautiful

Why is it that my most favourite smell in the world is the smell of concrete? I'm not talking about the concrete on king street, or even the concrete on Fitzroy street. No, definitely not the concrete on Fitzroy street, because it smells like cat's bum. This smell that I am talking about is ineffable. The reason why I am calling it "concrete" is because I don't know any other word in the English language to describe it. Besides I don't think I even know what real concrete smells like. Probably not too fantastic.

I'm trying to identify where this gutsy smell originates, in the same way I am trying to find the source of the rank sewage smell in my bedroom. I am almost convinced that an animal died in my vent, because the smell is growing worse everyday. Back to concrete, does anyone know what I am talking about? I feel like I am the only person out there who finds this smell uplifting, in fact, almost spiritually uplifting as strange as that sounds. This smell is so good that it seeps through my pores and hits my insides, making me think...

damn, life is (always) beautiful.

I don't come across this unidentifiable "concrete" smell very often. Max four times a year. So whenever I do cross paths with it I try to savour it as much as possible because I never know the next time I will smell it. The last time I encountered concrete was when disembarking from a train at Bondi Junction. I quickly turned to my sister and said, "Rach, can you smell that? It's so good. It's my most favorite smell in the world." Rach responded with, "Em, you are so weird."

4 levels underground was where it was living. But this isn't always the case. The time before that was in the carpark of the CBAA. Though, the next monday it was no longer there. I'm telling you, the smell is transitory.

Oh smell, oh concrete goodness. Where are you living?

summer days

A plane embarks to a land of adventure. Six minutes ago it ascended through the opaque grey clouds that hover over the city. And on this plane sits a boy who can sing me to a state of erratic ecstasy.

And here I sit at my office desk, pondering about the crazy and utterly life-loving past four weeks I have lived open-heartedly and vulnerably. There is a sweet electricity that runs from the heels of my black open-toe wedges up through my crossed left thigh, up my spine, through my arms, and into my fingers that tap away at this keyboard. My eyes are slowly awakening. They no longer feel blinded and bruised by the bright office lights caused by my lack of sleep -I have been folding boxer shorts and blowing bubbles till late last night.

Everything about today is enlivening- from the smell of marshmallows in the morning to sweet goodbye kisses, to the bacon and egg wrap I devoured this morning, to the absence of a single new email in my office inbox. The sky feels heavy but she does not want to cry. She enjoys wallowing in her present state of in-betweenness. The scorching heat of new years day has vanished, and the cool rain from last night is evaporating. She does not want to be temperamental any longer. She just wants to be.

The buildings that encase my modest office on the 23rd floor do not feel like they are encroaching on me like they usually do. They stand back, solemnly and quietly.

And this is when I remember that I am just a little girl with big thoughts in a big city.