tongues.

From what I remember, a coffin is a plush lined coffin. But today it has dawned on me that challenge for challenge sake is not what counts.

Holding your breath is a challenge. Would you die if you held out for too long?

How then, shall we discern challenging ones comfort zone from inserting oneself into falsities that our rawness shan’t be part of?

Where is the line drawn?

Or is this how character is built?

Where does your energy go when you’ve left the shore?

The body has a language. Feelings are body speak, inviting us to take a deeper look at the answer key to our souls, our lives, ourselves. In this regard, an answer sheet that is not even a cheat.

Confounding as it is, to not speak a language that is ours.

Forever Envy.

Faking. Faking. Faking.

Are we all hiding behind a collective cloak of lies?

When you’ve stripped away all that rings true when you identity what defines you, is what’s left vanished into the dust?

Does a flower pretend to be a tree? Will be a bee stop a sting for tea?

The zebra knows its stripes. Or does it?

Is a mirror a reflection of ourselves, or perhaps a collage of all that should not be?

me.

A patchwork of uncertainty, lights that twinkle in and out of sight. 

Storytelling eyes, deep and penetrating.

Tears.

The simple highs from a curious glance, leave me shaken in the dust.

On.

Off.

The paradigm forever in flight. To whom has it vowed an un-captured vigor?

The birr. Moxie.

Clock ticks forward. Fast.  Where will be a place to rest my head?

The raw, true, closing curtains in the night. Do you recognize, even me?

Catching drift on a feather swaying to and fro. Is this the only time you’ll know?

sea-ing.

The things I think, when I think the things…?

The tides of my ever changing moods, eb and flow with the aquas, greens, and blues that brush your eyes as you gaze through the ocean. Where does it curl, ripple, stop? Somewhere, sometimes nowhere. Nowhere that is evident to your curious eye. It dances to the winds’ song back behind the shores, fish, and the rocks of a different land. A land which is not land at all. Water. Ever changing. Unstable. Temperamental. And yet, something that grabs hold of us round the shoulders, sucking us deep into its lure. 

A Flap Jack and a Cigarette.

Initially, I thought I'd write a blog to keep everyone in the loop of my adventures downunder. You can't keep too many people in the loop when you haven't posted more than three times since October. Not to mention, to write in a story-telling fashion is a bit of a pain if you're not in sync on a daily basis.

Change time.

It's a strange thing, being a bit of an 'old fashioned' gal in the process of conforming to today's 'linked in' approach, as nearly everything is a slave to. I've never been one to have a front seat on the Band Wagon, for I'd rather bike to my own song. There seems to be an air of groupie acceptance behind the drapes of it all. The days when Ph D. and M.A. were decoration to one's name, you now have a GPS thread of facebook, twitter, and instagram accolades taking their place.

As I embark on bringing all that I have hidden between the comforting pages of my moleskin to the hash light and melodic clicking of keys, the safety that I find in my journaling dawns. To me, there are few smells that can be enjoyed more than opening a crisp new book or journal, or finding the perfect pen that glides over a blank page, bringing forth a story no better told. How the same story could then be broken to pieces with the wrong messenger from pen to page. Ruined.

Evolution. Bringing that same story, the feelings, the warmth, the grins, to an audience that has taken to a new medium. When being stubborn doesn't get you anywhere close to the stars you've aligned for  yourself. It's a makeover of habit, a rewiring of hobbies. Things that do not come easy. Douse that with stubborn and you're looking at the party in metamorphosis.

The time has come that no longer can the ache, the yearning to let the words, the stories and the thoughts explode from within, to the outskirts of comfort. There is a backdoor in the playground of our minds that knows no other than to stay tightly locked. Years of coaxing, and breaking down, letting go of the attachment to those words that you deem as 'yours,' can surely do wonders. That is where I sit. It is a need as strong as hunger, to write. To write it all. It's what I think about when I'm doing something I'd rather no be doing. The body will talk in this fashion. When a choice is made to perk up your ears and have a listen, creation can begin.

Numero Dos...

That was an abrupt ending to the last post. When you finally want to write, and have a whole lot to say, the woman cuts you off. She must be related to the lady who cuts you off when you're attempting to leave someone an urgent and detailed message only to come to find that half of what you said wasn't recorded. Rude.

So now that you know what to expect out of a typical day, let's take you through the various cities I have lived in this far: first stop, Melbourne. Well, Geelong actually. We spent some time at club grub, the Izatt estate with yours truly, Carly. Babe. Within ten minutes of being picked up, the show was already on. We were driving in reverse down he highway because we missed out turn off. Looks like Carly was indeed, a bad driver in both America and Australia. It's great to see that your friends don't change much in two years!

The Geelong experience was just that, an experience. People there were either bogan (see above definition) or named Logan. Just kidding, lame joke. But really, they were bogans or an Izatt. Not sure which is better :) during this time, there was a lot of drinking, GI pains, headaches, obnoxious banter and deep belly laughs. It clearly needed to end. So indeed, it did...

The city was called kew, pronounced 'Q.' Like any experience traveler, we had no idea what the town was about, or even where it was on a map, upon arriving. Thank god for google and a couple of curious friends that informed me where I was headed.

Mariana and I lived in the most catholic, private, proper definition of suburbia that I have ever seen- that's including movies and real life! Children and prepubescent teenagers (at least the kids could pull it off, the teenage boys especially, were a tragic sight), walking down the street in their Harry potter lookin drab. I have never seen so many different witch hats (just the style, not to be confused with the whole Salem witch situation), uniforms, colors of uniforms, unfortunate dress socks and shoes...I'm sure you're seeing this picture painted pretty clearly without closing your eyes. The morning trams were filled with hairy legged, awkward lookin kids in all kinds of dorky uniforms. Good thing they're learning the importance of 'safety in numbers' at such a ripe age!

Mariana had a bed. You know the sort, with legs, a sham (a bed is not a bed without a sham-realization age 25), some pillows, and key point: off the floor. I, on the other hand, had a mattress. You know, the kind that is supposed to be supported by the box springs, of the bed frame, decorated by a sham, complete with sheets and a ruffly, fancy duvet (here pronounced DOONAH- so basically a completely different word..). Did I live this way for two and a half months. You bed your shams I did. With an exercise bike as my clothes drying rack and my suitcase as an extension of my kitchen, it was a comfortable little arrangement, suitable for the nome that which I saw myself becoming. The day that I came home to a grocery trolley in our room marked the beginning of a whole, new journey. At that moment in time, we became bogans. Definitions: white, trash. At least we were homelessly contained in our bedroom, and solely used the trolley as home decor. It went just swell with he colors in the room.

In Melbourne our blood alcohol levels permanently spiked. When I showed up at the chemist one day asking for 'charcoal tablets' and the pharmacist inquired what I was to be using them for and I so innocently replied ' for a hangover cure,' I realized I had a problem. Not only did the bottle specifically read ' for bloating and gas,' but her eye balls said all the rest. Thank god I was still partying in my head so the deemed awkward moment didn't have such a big impact on me.

Naked for satin by night (don't worry, just a rad bar) and vein shooting of caffeine by day seemed to be a norm. Don't get the wrong idea here. I was still babysitting a child and working at a cafe. Oh dear. Digging myself deeper. The city of Melbourne itself was exciting! Turn down any alley way and copious cafes, hidden bars, unidentified flying objects and the like, were never short of supply. It was alive and buzzing as if no one did anything more than frequent cafes, gingerly sipping their ristrettos and long macchiatos into the day. The rain that seemed to follow us like a looming shadow, made you feel as if you were in Ireland, at least 97.45% of our stay there.

The four days that the sun finally decided to shine it's face around, came with a fleet of man eating flies that were sure to allow you to experience a day in the life of a cow( or a horse, whichever one was more miserable). I would love to say I'm joking when I tell you of their landing patterns: eye, nose, lips, lips, ear, back, face, face, face. I've never wanted to vomit and run screaming so bad in my life. After our first fly experience, we decided on a longitudinal study (lasted twelve minutes) to see if the flies were solely attracted to us, if showering changed their strong desire for us, or if this was normal with other passerbys. We quickly came to see that the flies did indeed attack others but in no way did they go after others in such a ferocious manner. It was as if target was having a 90% of of everything sale, all, over, our, faces. Sick. I know.

With the trusty help of google ( I love my information!), dinner that night became a dirty science lab of figuring out what made these flies want to eat us whole. Oh don't you fret, it wasn't just one thing, it was everything from our skin, to the blood droplets, and sweat that we so tastefully wear without knowing it (don't judge, you have it too). Flies. Melbourne. Hay fever.

Did I tell you about the time I never had allergies, ever, in my life? How about the time I moved to Melbourne and became a head case of itchy eye havin, runny nose sniffin, hot mess? Oh, it may have just escaped my memory. Not. It was miserable. That happens too. General warning: you will form allergies going to Melbourne in summer. Then, flies will eat your face off. Have a nice vacation.

I was a sucker in Melbourne too. For two days in a row, I was tricked into attending those zillion teered, sales, work your pants off and you'll get a Mercedes, health speeches. And for two days in a row I came home and asked, "how in the world do they get me every time?" You'll be happy to know that I've broken the vicious cycle as have only been to legitimate personal training interviews thus forth. I'm growing up so fast. Go team.

Melbourne. You itchy, rainy, bloke you. Is it becoming clear that Melbourne didn't want us to be a part of it anymore? I reckon. Time and time again, we thought to ourselves " maybe these are all signs, we should try and move on perhaps," but then as loyal as a three-legged dog, we pressed on, and attempted to make it work. The final sign was when our cooky manager just forgot to tell us that he had no more work for us in the cafe (we had been there two weeks) and that we could come and collect our loot at our convenience. I've never been fired like that in my life( only once for bouncing a ball: see Menards job history, Morghan Lonergan).

We looked one another straight in the corneas and laughed our faces off. Good thing they were already half off thanks to the flies. Now all we had to do was break up with our pseudo child. That was easy. Fake dead. Oh wait, thats a dog trick, not a human trick. After hours of crafting our great escape (told them exactly where we were going), we finally purchased the train tickets that had been waiting for us all along. I brought the trolley to an op shop (I didn't feel that it should go back to he grocery store. It wasn't fair. What if someone was in our same shoes and needed a cruisy lift home for their groceries!?) I did not look back and almost found myself running out the door after the nice donations lady took it in as her own. She didn't see, in the big white letters, "property of woolworths. This trolley is not to leave store property. Fines will insue." Don't judge me.

We packed our things, and again, it came to my attention as to why my luggage came from good will. First, I think it's a dead grandpas, and secondly, it's hand luggage that has no wheels, handles and can fit about 30 kilos of crap in it. Defeated, again. Just bringing the luggage down the stairs threw me into an ungodly sweat stream- this was only the beginning. Luckily, I was able to see my first cockatoo of the trip, because it took me so long to load my life onto the tram. As we wove in and out of the city, inching nearer and nearer to the train station, I had already played out nightmare that was lugging my cases across the road to the station about 87 times. All of which ended in me being pancakes in the road under a vehicle. The tram screeched to a halt. My heart skipped a handful of beats. I was able to chuck it off the tram with my fight or flight response hauls strength. Thereafter, nothing. The hustle and bustle of the early morning Melbourne was surprisingly unhelpful as a whole, but just when I was about to hang it up, a jolly, plump lady, noshing on a dognut asked if I needed a hand. This was music to my ears. Yes was word vomited out my lips, and so the jolly ole woman, whilst still eating her dognut, sumo gripped my grandpa bag and set off into the road like a warrior straight out of the movie 300. I was even intimidated and she was in front of me, helping, me! I felt like a kid in the candy shop as I trailed in her shadow under the early morning sun. Whoever this dognut loving super woman was, I was surely grateful to be her damsel in distress on this day!

We safely arrived to the train station. Copious people asked me what my luggage was. I burned holes into their foreheads with my eye balls. A fellow train rider warned us about the "busy people of Sydney, and... The Muslims." Aussies....

As my allergies took advantage of my soul for a whole ten hours of train ridden entertainment, I was happy to know that on the other side of this ride was a field of cupcakes and rainbows, sans flies and allergies. And not to forget, the ridding of a passenger who thought that the more she would death stare into my eye balls (I had to challenge to chicken and stare back) the quicker my allergies would vanish and I would stop sneezing and sniffling. Fooled ya, woman. She had to learn the hard way why you mustn't trust Wikipedia and web md....