Now I love Gemma dearly but her internet is intolerably slow. We have returned from a trip to the northside where I patted Marting Kingsley, that was odd.
I have decided to write a report about my Melbourne adventures and adventures I am having. This morning I bought a dozen eggs but when Gemma opened the box there were only eleven eggs inside. I caught a tram by myself to Brunswick St. I ate something unidentifiable and oh yes I may be drunk.
I can't get a grip on St Kilda. Not yet. The bay is unexpected, everything has it placed to the side where as Sydney stares at its harbour like a television.
There was beer and some kind of oil infused bread at the pub where I sat chatting with Gemma, Rupert and Martin. Imagine I put links there.
Yesterday I sat in Gemma's frontyard plaing cards and eating cake while Gemma had a garage sale. Its like a hive this builiding. This is what I will now imagine when I think of that Louis Macniece poem, thigh over thigh in the hive of home.
Things are becoming disjointed. I am outof context and unsure of the sound of my footsteps. The red in my hair is fading and these shoes are meandering down a new street every day. There are some things I am sure of but these are small. I am sure that I need my hair. I am sure that I do not like covers bands. I am sure that I like the curtains hanging numb in my bedroom. I am sure that I miss my cat.
It smells of salt here, in waves, and Gemma stands like a monument. There is no doubting the force of her existence. Where I am staying, in this happy hive, is a stone's throw from cake shops. I don't just mean a shop that makes bread and some crap cakes. This is art. This is serious art and I do not think I will ever eat anything except kugelhopf ever again. Nothing but kugelhopf and cigarette smoke shall ever pass these lips. This is my decree.
