I have terrible discipline when it comes to books. I have at least 3 or 4 going at once, and usually at least one of them is something I’ve read before. For instance, right now on my bedside table (the one on the right side) I have The Little Red Riding Book, Down Under by Bill Bryson (read before, at least twice), 33 1/3 Greatest Hits (a birthday gift from the boy) and now, owning to a probably ill-advised trip to Ariel Bookshop on Saturday, Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson.

Which one I pick up will depend on the mood I’m in when I go to bed. I’m almost scared to pick up the Winterson book – once I do, I know everything (including sleep) will probably be forgotten until it’s done. I pick up Bill Bryson when I need to feel like the world is full of sunshine and witty anecdotes. I pick up 33 1/3 when I need soul food and want a short grab to read and finish in one night. The writing book is great, and well written, but a bit of hard work. There’s only so much grammar your brain can take at the end of the day.

We were talking on the weekend about making time for reading. Making time. It’s the thing I fret about most. Reading, particularly novels, just seems so frivolous. There’s always email inboxes to wade through and blog posts to write and new Wolf Parade albums to listen to (downloading is bad kids okay??!!). But I think you need to find the things that help your mind breathe, and make at least a little time for them. Because if you can’t find a good 4 hours to sit in the sun contemplating life, 45 minutes of this –

This new world weighs a yatto-gram.

But everything is trial-size; tread-on-me tiny or blurred-out-of-focus huge. There are leaves that have grown as big as cities, and there are birds that nest in cockleshells. On the white sand there are long-toed clawprints deep as nightmares, and there are rock pools in hand-hollows finned by invisible fish.

Trees like skyscrapers, and housing as many. Grass the height of hedges, nuts the swell of pumpkins. Sardines that would take two men to land them. Eggs, pale-blue-shelled, each the weight of a breaking universe.

And, underneath, mushrooms soft and small as a mouse ear. A crack like a cut, and inside a million million microbes wondering what to do next. Spores that wait for the wind and never look back. Moss that is concentrating on being green.

– might just do.

I get to see her speak on May 20 as part of Sydney Writers Festival. I’ve never been to anything to do with the festival before, and she is giving the opening address at the Opera House. I heard her speak once on Sunday Arts, and one thing she said about art being ‘an air pocket in an upturned boat’ has stayed with me all this time and really changed the way I look at a lot of things. I can’t wait to hear her speak again.

‘Cause I dream in skin-scented sentences

So for some time now I’ve been toying with the idea of taking a writing course. Actually, a lot more than toying with. I pretty much had found the course I wanted, and short of laying the money down, it was a done deal. It’s not something I’ve done before – i.e. concentrate that hard on writing. I write little stories for myself and the wider idea of the intertron. I moan about work and crap on about music. But it was only really around 18 months ago that I realised what I do is write. I write. I’m not sure I’m a writer, but I definitely write something resembling stuff.

Which lead me to thinking about honing crafts and brushing up skills and potentially turning a way to pass time into something that is maybe useful. Maybe.

But then comes the old issue of time. I am so time poor right now. Every piece of time that I DO have is used, I would say, pretty damn efficiently. Except for that Project Runway thing. But I mean, c’mon!! Monday nights SUCK and you gotta have somethin’, right? Anyway. What I mean to say is, when I have any time right now, I chock it full of stuff. Usually weekend stuff. With the boy. And if I were to fork out, say, $400 on a 4 week writing course, I had better be prepared to re-negotiate the time thing on some level.

And long story short, I’m not sure I’m there yet. Maybe in a few months, or maybe when I get all my eggs/clothes/toiletries/pets/furniture in the one basket/house. But there’s something more then this that’s stopping me here – I seem to have lost the habit. The writing every day habit. When I look through the archives of this thing I kinda shock myself with my early diligence. But then, back in late 2005, the blog was definitely a way to wind up the day. It was a thing to sign off to. A last call of the day. I have another one of those now.

But here’s the thing – I think I need to get back to that writing every day thing. As a starting point. At least every day I’m in the Windsor house. Because, well, it’s a habit really. Isn’t it? And if I’m not writing every day, or most days, right now, then I doubt an expensive course will really help with that.

So that’s the plan. Just to write. And to see where that takes me.


Torture is hearing the new Frightened Rabbit album in its entirety, loving it in an overthetopinsane way, and then knowing you will have to order it online to listen to it in full again. Or wait until the weekend. Every weekend. And badger the boy until he plays it for you.

I think ordering a copy will be less trouble. Aha. It’s awesome though. The album that is. Fer serious.

Today is a lovely day to run

Cold what what?!! Holy cow. Winter is suddenly everywhere – it’s in the car and under the doors and around the windows and under the skin.

Okay and why did the heat just stop. I have it set on 28 DEGREES. It is clearly not 28 DEGREES in here. God damn technology.

Thankfully, yesterday and the entire weekend wasn’t so cold. It was glorious weather in fact – all sunshine and warm breeze. Even through until later last night, when we hit the Enmore to see Eels, the air was decidedly warm.

There are many ways to make a true connection to a piece of music or to a musician or group of musicians, but I find it’s the ones who you feel are truly sharing a part of themselves that garner the most obsessive fans. It’s Ani DiFranco going outside to watch the house burn down or John Darnielle writing about his stepfathers strong and thick veined hands or Jeff Mangum unabashedly crying out his love for Jesus or Munaf Rayani from Explosions in the Sky throwing his hands and arms to the heavens.

Or, it turns out, it’s a night with Eels at the Enmore Theatre on a warm night in April.

Eels music has always held a special place in my heart. Susan’s House, when I first heard it on Triple J, completely rocked my world. Prior to that the whole spoken words over music thing was a little lost on me. Still is, mostly. But the lyrics were just so HONEST and painted a picture of time and place so vividly that I could place myself there. Partly because I felt like I was living a bit of a suburban nightmare myself. As a result of this I’ve had the album Beautiful Freak for many years now. It was released in, what, 1996?? That’s crazy. I’m pretty sure I didn’t own it until a ways later then that. But still, I’ve had it a good while. I have a good few Eels albums now. I think, probably owing to my generally optimistic personality, Daisies of the Galaxy is my favourite.

I saw them back in 2006. I had very, very high hopes for them/him then, given what I knew of the delicate, sweet and honest nature of the music on their albums. But it was a serious case of assuming nothing being the only safe thing at a gig, because that evening really, really sucked. It was less to do with the band and more to do with the crowd, but E turned all those beautifully sweet songs into thrusting noise and rock. And while I’m all up for the thrusting rock at times, and all the power to the man for seeing through his artistic vision and what not, but I just really, really wasn’t expecting it. So I was bitterly disappointed and went into last night with more then a hint of trepidation.

What we were presented with however was nothing less then a man’s life and heart on a plate. I still haven’t figured out how he managed to get through the night being simultaneously heartfelt, witty and self-depreciating. Because he did. It takes a rare amount of charisma and credibility to pull that sort of thing off. There was a showing of a film before the show (which we unfortunately missed a lot of) about his father. I honestly had no idea about his father being the famous physicist (as he stated he is truthfully, and hilariously, ‘the Julian Lennon of quantum physics’). And about the tragedy of his family. And the showing of this film (made apparently for the BBC) was the perfect introduction to the evening. You got the feeling you were in for something special, and something above and beyond the normal gig experience.

It was the little odd parts of the night that worked magic for me. The quips between E and ‘The Chet’ (who is just the most amazing musician, and the only other person on stage with E at any part of the night), the big booming God-like voice talking to E through the speakers, and especially the book readings. They came from his recent book ‘Things the Grandchildren Should Know’ and they were alternately terribly funny and just heartbreaking. Chet read part of the book relating to the song Susan’s House, and in amongst funny dialogue between E and his neighbour, he drops a bomb of a line about his sister having just committed suicide. And then he followed that up Last Stop: This Town. My heart broke in two.

Another highlight was hearing It’s A Motherfucker live. This might be my favourite Eels song, and in the context of the evening I felt it completely differently. The dark beauty of this song never ceases to amaze me.

He has a way of writing and forming words that makes you want to wrap your arms around the whole world and just hug everything around you. You want to grab a hold of things because you know that even though there is so much beauty, it can be taken away in a blink. There is such a bittersweetness about his music and his songs, and I walked out of that theatre last night feeling humanity all around me.

I feel almost selfish that I needed this sort of presentation of his music to feel like I got the ‘real’ Eels experience. E laid it all on the line when he was last here, I’m sure, and wanted to rock out those particular songs for a reason. But I just felt like so much was lost. Last night, nothing was lost. I gained so much, and I think every single person in that room felt a little lucky to have experienced it. And it never for a second felt contrived, or overly dramatic, or ‘This Is Your Life’, or like he was playing the pity card. It felt about as far from any of that as you could imagine. It’s really rare that you come across this kind of reality and honesty in the music industry, and I thank the gods that people like E exist in this world. He’s here so people like me can come around to thinking more of the world and our place in it.

As usual, there is a wonderful review, photos and set list here.

I’m going to go and probably freeze my ass off in bed – it’s nights like tonight I especially miss the body heat in bed next to me. I think it’s time to drag out the other doona…

Song 9 – Give me your eyes, I need sunshine

I’ll Believe In Anything – Wolf Parade

Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Your blood, your bones
Your voice, and your ghost

The definition of a love song is a very personal and ever-debatable thing. Do a random survey of the populous and you’ll undoubtedly end up with songs like I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston and that god-awful song by Bryan Adams from the soundtrack of that Kevin Costner film topping the list. This is why, when you use the term ‘love song’, most people who truly love/live indie music recoil just a little bit.

It seems a shame to me, though, to relegate the love song to TV montages and movies featuring Meg Ryan. It’s so much more than ‘I will always love you’ or ‘I would die for you’ or any other variation of this unimaginative, clichéd dialogue. Because that stuff is not only boring as cardboard, it’s more often then not overly melodramatic and depressing as hell. And there are truly amazing love songs out there just waiting to be found. And heard. And put on mix CDs. You sometimes have to look for them a bit is all.

I’m in love with a lot of love songs. Some of them are pokeyoureyeout obvious (like Gorecki by Lamb) and some not so obvious (umm – Closer by NIN?). I really believe though, in the deepest most cobwebby parts of my heart, that the greatest love song I have heard in my life to date belongs to Wolf Parade. Or should I say, to Spencer Krug. Because I think it started as his with Sunset Rubdown, and I do believe it will always be his.

Cut to very early 2007. A boy and a girl via various blog related means meet in the foyer of an Andrew Bird/Smog/Joanna Newsom gig. They, as the kids say, hit it off. Friendship ensues. Some solace in the way of music taste is found, and the girl gets an instant hit of new music (that of which she constantly craves) from her new, very learned friend.

Fast forward a few months and a few gigs and a few mix CDs and a few visits to the gallery and dinners and what not. Stop at a Wilco show where the line is maybe crossed. Maybe? Possibly. Did she kiss him or did he kiss her? Cue almost a week of giddy headedness and tummy butterflies. Fast forward a few days and then stop again at an Australian music festival in inner Sydney where the line is most definitely crossed. All question marks eradicated.

Now stop again at a small, decidedly haphazard and Lego-like terrace house in Newtown. The boy and girl of this story are on the couch, having awkwardly moved a few more steps toward alwaysandforever, or at least at the time, todayandfornow.

Want to know how music bloggers really get to know one another? There is no small talk. There is no discussion of day jobs of family history or your most embarrassing moment. Not when it comes to getting down and dirty with the getting to know you stuff. What there is is a dimly lit room and a couch and two iPods – each person driving the other’s headphones, playing song for song. There IS some discussion about what these songs mean to you, when you first heard it and what album it’s from. There is also a fair amount of ‘OMG this song is so amazing IT CHANGED MY LIFE’ etc. Music, to me, is the way to a person’s soul. It truly shows the person they are, how their mind works, and what is important to them. To me it’s the perfect get to know you exercise.

So the girl plays the boy some songs and the boy plays the girl a few songs from bands she knows nothing about. I actually can’t remember a lot of them now, but I think there was some Thermals, and definitely some Sunset Rubdown. And also, clearly, some Wolf Parade.

I’ll Believe In Anything hit me in the guts completely. I’m not sure if it was the potent combination of the situation and that piece of music – all around us was electricity and potential. And it tends to amplify things. I will tell you this though – I have listened to this song roughly a million times since that night and still stands up. Stands up and roars, actually. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard before. I mean, it was the tiniest bit reminiscent of Arcade Fire. Maybe. That orchestral cacophony of noise. But that VOICE – just completely unlike anything that had ever made it to my ears. Also, there is no other song on earth with as many staggering OMFG moments as Wolf Parade’s I’ll Believe In Anything. Get to 1:57 in – I challenge anyone to listen to this without feeling like their head might explode –

And I could take another hit for you
And I could take away your trips from you
And I could take away the salt from your eyes
And take away the spitting salt in you
And I could give you my apologies
By handing over my neologies
And I could take away the shaking knees
And I could give you all the olive trees
Look at the trees
And look at my face

I can not listen to this song without wanting to throw myself around the room with just the sheer joy of it. I can’t listen to this song without thinking of and feeling the boy. It’s one of those things that just infuses your body with a rapturous energy and makes exploding stars out of everything around it. The second I hear that opening keyboard, through to the drums and cymbals coming in, and then that voice, every hair on my body is on end and I am sunlight and joy from beginning to end.

And let’s talk about the lyrics for a minute. We all know I’m a girl about the lyrics. I’ve already somewhat brashly declared I think this is the greatest love song ever written. I think to be in love with someone, to truly love them, is to be a lot of things. It’s about the excitement and giddiness, sure, but it’s also about security and sanctuary. It’s about finding a place in the world that sheds all the shit and has an organic ease to it. At least, that’s the way it should be, right?

If I could take the fire out from the wire
I’d share a life and you’d share a life
If I could take the fire out from the wire
I’d share a life and you’d share a life
If I could take the fire out from the wire
I’d take you where nobody knows you
And nobody gives a damn
I said nobody knows you
And nobody gives a damn

The way he sings this, and pushes it out into the air with the force of a gale, you believe with every fibre of your being that he means it. He wants the sanctuary. He wants to show her the sanctuary. There is also a desperation in the songs lyrics. Give me your eyes, I need sunshine. Krug seems to be almost pleading for a change of perspective. I will stand behind my opinion that this song could be done any old how, with any old instrument, and still maintain its beauty and thrust of meaning. I have recently heard the original Sunset Rubdown version of the song, with just the piano and the voice and the hand claps, and holy hell. It’ll bring a girl to tears. There is no way this song could ever be less than amazing.

This song and these lyrics are almost unrivaled in their passion. It is one of my life goals to see it played live. It is a love song for people who believe that passion needs to go unhinged, and that there is more to loving someone then Valentines Day and happy endings. It is an anthem for finding a person and immersing yourself in them completely.

And it is part of a story about a boy and girl who found one another in a shiny city and wrapped themselves up in the music.


I am watching Sunday Arts on ABC and Virginia Trioli is SO flirting with KD Lang.

Also, even though I spent, well, years spending Sundays on my own, it’s feelin’ a little weird right now. Not bad weird. Just weird.

More later. Shower now. I am loving this rainy weather. I think if I had to be outside all day today, my feelings on that would be slightly (majorly) different.

Open your mouth up and sing for me now

Q: Can a person experience mind-numbing frustration and complete happiness at the very same time?

A: Indubitably, yes.

Work = insane and pretty damn horrible.

Sleep = absent and allusive. Hooray for insomnia!

Everything else = okay through to pretty damn wonderful.

I wonder – does having the good make the bad feel worse, or does it make it bearable? I’m going with the latter.

You know you’ve watched a lot of Bargain Hunt when you realise you’ve seen the one with the plaster heads set on blue velvet before.

I was working on a big post tonight and I was going to get it done, really I was, but then I got distracted. Somehow I ended up at my CD shelves, trying to sort out my A to Bs because somehow (well, not somehow, I know how) they got all muddled and stacked in front of the fish tank, rather than in alphabetical order on the shelf like they should be. And then somehow (genuinely somehow, I have no idea) I ended up with Tallahassee by the Mountain Goats in my hands.

I had completely forgotten how much I adore the liner notes for this album. John Darnielle is one of my favourite writers, period. I mean, the dude writes about heavy metal and I read it. Just because of the way he writes. And let’s not even get on to the songs, eh? So anyway, this little bit of writing, by far, is one of my favourite pieces of writing ever. EVER. Fact. Read it and smell the rotting wood and peeling paint, and feel the sun of their summer. You read this and think about the songs No Children or Game Shows Touch Our Lives and you feel like you know these people. You would never want to be these people, because they’re wretched, really, but you feel a genuine empathy for them.

Just because I like to be clear about these things I’ve bolded the parts of this that boggle my mind with how good they are. It is sentences like this that inspire me to write.

We came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. In our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer.

THE MOON rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. You hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow El Camino and howled, and I turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. The speakers crackled and the music came through: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Pretty as a midsummer’s morn, they call her Dawn. Let the love of God come and get is if it wants us so bad. We know were we are going when all of this is done.

SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY that buying a house you’ve never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden in the back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don’t remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested that we’d been knocked out, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we’d made but on the ones we’d really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin’ Wolf. Smokestack lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer.

Build a fire

So tonight, for the first time in a good few months, I have the heater on. Bowie has assumed his position on top of the puffy blue couch, right in the line of fire for the best, mind-numbing heat. He looks toward the reverse cycle unit on the wall with his eyes half closed, like he’s on some sort of heat drug. What is it about cats and heaters?

I wish I had some GOOD heat. I don’t want to be freezing, but on the other hand I’m not keen on this dry, headachy heat blowing out of my wall. I usually drive myself mad with the turning on and turning off of the damn thing, because if it’s off I’m cold, and if it’s on I have a headache. And it makes my skin dry out and my hair go funny. I have the same kind of air conditioning unit in my office at work and it drives me mad – the only saving grace there is I don’t share my office, so at least I don’t drive anyone else mad with my on off on off.

I do have one of those bar oil heaters – the heat from those seems to be a little less offensive. Problem with that is the way this house is built – all open, with archways and what not, and no doors to close to keep the heat in. There’s no way one of those little things is going to do the job. I really love COSY rooms. I mean, there’s definitely something to be said about open plan living arrangements, but to snuggle under a blanket in a cosy little room in front of a fire or a heater is one of the Good Things.

The house I grew up in had a wood fire. It’s still there – the very same one. The fan went on it many years ago, and it was only in the last 12 months dad got it fixed again. I just LOVE the heat from a wood fire. It’s pure and fierce and natural and very non-environmentally friendly. When we were little, in the middle of winter we’d get out of the bath and run into the lounge room to get into our pyjamas in front of the fire. I remember mum drying us down, trying to get us close enough to keep warm but not close enough to burn ourselves. She was always the worst one for that – she had a pink dressing gown with scorch marks all over the back from literally sitting on top of the fire. I remember feeling the grit on the carpet beneath my feet – when your 7 year old feet are soft and wet and warm they are going to pick up every wood chip or piece of grit on the floor.

Wood fires smell so good too. The building next door to work has one, and when I leave the office (this week usually just as the sun is going down, owing to daylight savings kicking in) you can smell it on the air. And it’s just the most wonderful smell – the acrid smoke combined with the damp, autumnal earth and nearly dark air. Every April I take a breath of that in and decide that autumn is my favourite time of year.

Also, just so you know, the perfect soundtrack to the onset of autumn is the National. I’m listening to Alligator tonight for the first time since probably January, and holy cow.

Baby, come over, I need entertaining
I had a stilted, pretending day
Lay me down and say something pretty
Lay me back down where I wanted to stay
Just say something perfect, something I can steal
Say, look at me
Baby, we’ll be fine
All we’ve gotta do is be brave and be kind


Whoa, baby

Sitting here tonight, listening to (and loving) the new Black Keys album, my head feels more than a little messed up. Let’s recap the last 3 and a bit days, shall we?

Work (potentially one of the worst work days ever), car trip, ferry ride to Luna Park, Modest Mouse at the Big Top (AWESOME BTW), home to the boys house with intention of sleep that didn’t really pan out, phone call at 2 in the AM, mad race to the hospital, helped deliver a baby, drove straight to work from the hospital mid morning, another truly CRAPTASTIC day at work, takeaway and TV (and not the Baseball gig, which I was okay with at the time given the level of wrecked I was feeling, but since reading this review regret missing more than a bit), SLEEP blissful sleep (including falling asleep and drooling on the boy in front of said TV) a play, visit to the hospital, dinner at Forbes & Burton, SLEEP, North Carolina VS Kansas.

And then home.

Wait, what? A baby you say? YES, that’s right. It seems to me, when trying to get my head around it, that Hellen has been pregnant forever. I know it’s only been (a little less then) 9 months, but in my head it has felt like a really long time. And then before we knew it it was all up on us. And it WASN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN while Tony was in Townsville. But the little dude IS the son of his mother and as a result had to be as contrary has he possibly could be.

When I said to her last week at the baby shower that I was concerned about her being on her own that one night her Mum couldn’t stay, and that she was to CALL ME if she needed ANYTHING, most of me truly hoped she wouldn’t need to make that call. Because he was supposed to wait until Mum and Dad were in the same state. Deakin had other plans.

I got the call, like I said, just after 2. I broke land speed records between Potts Point and Sydenham and we got to the hospital at some time that I can’t remember because most of it is a real blur. Thereafter came a lot of hours of sitting in a room listening to his heartbeat over a monitor that she had strapped to her belly. It was really hypnotic, and in a way really comforting, to hear his little heartbeat filling the room. A steady stream of doctors and nurses and midwives kept us both awake, and before we knew it we were in the operating theatre. Because the contrary little bugger was breach and wouldn’t turn.

And it was AMAZING. They say that to witness the birth of a child, even one that isn’t your own, will change your life. And I’m here to testify to that truth. It didn’t make me maternal, or clucky, or anything else that other women have told me. I’m not sure I’m that kind of girl. What it DID do was completely change the way I see life and our general place in the world. To see a little person take his first breaths in the world, and open his eyes and focus on his mother for the first time, was the most humbling experience. And to see my best friend achieve what she did, without the support of the most important person in the world to her, and be so strong about it, was truly phenomenal. She is amazing. All women are amazing. Fact.

A few things really stand out to me about the night. The conversation Hell and I had in the early hours of the morning before the birth, for one. We’re both really busy, and both in relationships, and because of the pregnancy have had less chance to catch up over drinks like we used to. It felt a little like borrowed time in a way – it was so good to just sit and talk and catch up with her, but part of me knew that the second we went into that operating room the whole world would change, and it was unlikely I would get her to myself again. At least for a very long time.

Secondly, it was the way the whole night panned out with some sort of crazy karmic foreseeness. For mid week gigs I’ll rarely stay with the boy. I usually hike back out to Windsor, liking to get the drive out of the way and an extra hour’s sleep in the morning. So I was in the city where normally I wouldn’t have been. Secondly, I texted Hellen from the gig. I never do this, but it was Modest Mouse and the last time I saw them I was with her. So I texted her saying I was thinking of her and hoped she was okay. She texted me back telling me to float on enough for her as well and that she’d see me soon. Hah. And because I’d sent that text she was pretty sure I’d still be in the city, so felt okay making the call. Also, I have never before parked right outside the boy’s house. I usually, if I’m parking near his place, drive up to the Cross and park at the parking station there because parking in Potts Point is diabolical to say the least. But on Thursday night I fluked a park barely 20 metres from his front door, so when I got the call the car was right there. I don’t really believe in fate and what not, but there’s a general feeling that the universe was looking after things that night.

I think something like this kinda shifts everything a little off centre. It’s not just the gravity of the experience – it kinda moves everything around it, too. Work feels different, and home feels different. And the future feels different too. Everything has a different energy about it – I guess it’s all energy and life force and vibrations and what have you, and you need to just move with it lest you’re mown over by it.

It was hard, going into work on Friday morning, concentrating on clients, paper work, and the somewhat petty concerns of what is going on there right now. It all seems mighty trivial, and on some level I really hope that I don’t lose that feeling. The feeling that there is a greater sense of things and that really, in the grand scheme of everything, most stuff doesn’t matter.

So this week I am going to concentrate on the Good Things. Like the new Black Keys album. And thoughts of my birthday on Thursday, and of the boy (because he is just plain wonderful and I don’t care if I’m gushing again because he is), and Bowie, and a day off on Friday, and the future in general really. Because from this point in my life I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. And it’s a pretty great feeling.