Sydney Journal Eleven

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Glass pack feedback on a second gear scratch. Kent and Bathhurst. For us or the audience who doesn’t really care? On this street corner, right here and now, just watching. There is no reason to act but believe me when I say we are all performers. Caricatures of ourselves. I’m the middle aged former photographer who maybe dresses a bit young for his age. Decent at masking the fact he’s never been cool, or that he’s a bit awkward. Is better off alone, at least when he’s working. The hair, the clothes, the accessories, the game he plays in his mind to get himself ready to put that key card in the slot and open the door once again. It’s not real but maybe it’s essential.

The young rebel. The intellectual. The authority figure. You know them and see them. The insecure. The lonely. The abused. Maybe these are the reflections they see when they face the door. Can I do it again? Can I keep up the image? And what happens the moment when they can no longer maintain? The choice is boomed from a loudspeaker at George and Market. Heaven or Hell. No middle ground. What about me? I’m an eighteen percent gray man walking in a world of black and white.

Party dresses riding high. Tracer fire, line-of-sight heels dodging sidewalk grates. Damn. A strap loose but the good man kneels and ties it back on. Crisis averted. Can we get a round of selfies in celebration. VIP table. Bottle service. All better now. Weekends allow for change of character. No apologies. A refreshing restart. Regret is for weekdays.

These observations are magic when you finally realizes this is the way it is supposed to be. There are no answers. The formula changes second by second. Like a paper boat pushed from shore. Simple observation is a luxury. Nuance doesn’t ask for attention but it brings with it all the best things, but to see it you actually have to be looking. Brain and eyes don’t often connect. Unable to detect signal. Midst of conversation and the eyes are vacant. They are already on to something else. In a holding pattern, waiting for the brain to be able to spill another glass of whatever. Just stop talking so I can say something, and I’m not really listening to you anyway, just waiting for your to stop moving your mouth. No offense.

Sometimes it’s just about looking up. Go out there and do it. Just look up. Eliminate distractions. Narrow the focus group. Finalize a decision. Sunny day. What do you see? Everything? Nothing? Or just the crazy?

6 Comments on “Sydney Journal Eleven”

  1. And then there are the sounds in darkness, the tumbling water in the neighbor’s pond, the king toad bellowing, while the raccoon sneaks up on me in the darkness, a gentle crush of a leaf giving him (her?) away. My heart races as instinct kicks in, jumping up and startling the coon as much as it startled me. Dang critter.

    Thank you Dan for reminding us to remember. To slow down and take it all in. Just for today. I’ll look. Maybe tomorrow too.

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