June, in fieldnotes

The crunchy point in the day

In primary school, my friend’s parents owned a mattress shop. Top of the hill, Barrier St, Fyshwick. Or so the jingle went. Going there after school, or on the weekends, was like a kid’s dream, like we were in Monsters Inc. When the shop was closed, we’d bound from bed to bed across the showroom floor. When it was open, we’d get one of the new mattresses still wrapped in plastic, open the roller door out the back, and slide down the driveway hill. As if the mattress were a boogie board, as if the driveway were the ocean.

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There is a serious lack of whimsy in this weather

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A little boy jumping around boxing the air, a golden retriever puppy with paws too big for its body, a woman with a vibrant mop of red hair like Vivienne Westwood, an elderly man tells us off then tells us we think we’re funny (derogatory), y2k avatars everywhere. People watching with Angus at Fitzroy Markets while Tiff’s shopping.

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Wearing my red leather jacket I bought for $10 from Narooma Vinnies, and Zac tells me I wouldn’t guess who he’d seen at the pub last night: Pauline Hanson. Specifically, Pauline Hanson in a red leather jacket, just like mine. I turn to him: I can’t believe you just told me I’m dressed like Pauline Hanson. Note to self: never wear this jacket again.

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At Jimmy’s bucks, fake nose rings are passed around, so we can all look like Jimmy. A migration of septum rings through Kingston.

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Playing arm rest etiquette with the man beside me on the plane. He’s on the aisle, I’m in the middle. When he sits, an immediate manspread, a forearm, an elbow, a shoulder, custodianship of the arm rest, and apparently my legroom. Sir, that’s not how shared arm rests work. I do not want to brush arms with you, I do not want to navigate knees. I spend the next hour and forty-five minutes bumping his elbow off the arm rest. It’s not even about the arm rest. By the time we land at Coolangatta, I’m fuming.

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The philosophical conundrum of a five dollar note on the floor between the cubicle walls of an airport toilet. Pick it up? Leave it? What about germs? Does it belong to anyone anymore?

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We’re on the 19th floor, looking out to the ocean. The 19th floor, of 30. Only two thirds up, but it feels like we’re floating. The balcony railing makes a high-pitched whooshing, as it vibrates in the wind. Don’t look down, don’t imagine falling, look towards the ocean. You might even see whales migrating. Which is to say, you will.

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Of course Spotify serves me Be the One by Dua Lipa while I’m riding a two day hangover at my desk on a Monday in winter. And of course I have a two day hangover, I’m thirty. And of course it’s winter. And of course I remember when you put Be the One on in the car on the way to the farmers markets. And of course it was the moment I really knew it was the end. And of course I’d queued Losing You by Solange moments earlier. And of course that’s both sad and funny.

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Brb joking my way into truth

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At the bottl’o, I go to pull up my flybuys. But instead of the barcode, a congratulations notification, you’ve earned 2,000 points. The man says, ummm… I think your phone… I look at my screen, swipe away the notification. Again, I get my flybuys out. Again, another notification. He says, ummm… congratulations? I say, oh my gosh, thank you so much. We grin at each other as I swipe away another notification. Again, I get my flybuys out. He says congrats again as I leave.

*

The scrambled eggs have turned green from the red cabbage in my ‘throw everything turning soft in the fridge into a stir fry’ dinner. And leftovers lunch. And leftovers dinner. And leftovers lunch, again. Real sick of how dinner for one is actually never dinner for one. It’s dinner for several days, and several lunches. Unless you want to cook dinner for one every night. Which I don’t. What I want is to not have to do the dishes, every damn time. I like cooking. I like cooking for one. I like cooking shared meals more. But I don’t like doing the planning, shopping, cooking, washing up, every damn day. Mostly, it’s the planning and the dishes that’re the problem. I’m tired of negotiating with myself over dinner. That said, I’d rather negotiate with myself than with someone who doesn’t give two fucks. Green eggs and stir fry, again. Feel like I’m narrating a Dr Seuss book. Even though obviously he’s had history’s revision. Sam-I-Am.

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It’s kind of like how they know me at the banh mi shop. Tofu with chilli? Yes, please. A spring roll today? Meat or veggie, meat, right? Yes, please. A Coke Zero? Not today. Met with a smile. Met with the familiar.

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Something about the soft fur between the pads of a dog’s paw. About watching them lie on their backs with paws up, hovering. Comfort, sweetness, release. If I’m honest, when you told me you weren’t a dog person, I thought, this isn’t going to work. Because, if you don’t understand the softness of the fur between the pads of their paws, how will you understand me?

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A person rides past wearing a furry bunny motorbike helmet cover, ears and all.

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Been making eyes at a little doggy in the window.

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In the uber on the way to the airport, we overtake a car with a kid’s drawing stuck to the back windshield. The woman driving wears a black headband, black long sleeve top, 2000s oversized sunnies, a silver ring on every finger. She’s smiling.

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I want hot summer sun creeping in through cracks in the blind, falling onto crinkled sheets, tangled limbs. I want walks after dinner, a pink gradient sky painting the evening. I don’t want to walk in the dark, even though statistically, blah, blah, blah. Statistically, I need the walk. I don’t want to drive home in the dark, even though I can’t change the sky. I want sunscreen and sweat slicked skin, drying off from another dip. I want to read my book on a towel on the sand, or to read my book on a towel laced with grass seeds, muddied with dirt by the river. I don’t want jumpers and coats and another pair of socks. I want bare feet on cement still hot from the day. I don’t want bone deep cold turning my toes numb. I want soft serve in a cone dripping down my chin at the lake. I want watermelon slices and sticky fingers just the same. I know we should live with the seasons and blah, blah, blah. But every winter I become convinced I was not built for this city.

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I am not having a panic attack in Belconnen mall, repeat after me! I am not having a panic attack in Belconnen mall! Clap clap! One more time: I am not having a panic attack in Belconnen mall! Clap clap! Been watching season three of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, so apparently I’m chanting. An incantation to soothe. Not today, babygirl.

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Driving home at that crunchy point in the day when the setting sun is directly in your eyeline, and you hope and pray no one slams on their brakes, even though you’re not religious, this arvo, you’re feeling religious, and you’re praying to whichever deity handles peak hour traffic, and even though you don’t tailgate because it stresses you out, besides the fact it’s objectively unsafe, but you can’t see two metres in front of you, so you cross metaphorical fingers, and you hope you don’t have to slam on your brakes because you’re definitely being tailgated as you drive into the sun, and you try to remember if you paid your car insurance because, now that you think about it, maybe it’s due, and you can’t check because you’re driving, and it’s illegal, and you’re definitely still being tailgated, which is starting to feel a bit personal, and that would only add another thing to worry about, especially when the bloke behind you seems convinced you can drive faster into the actual sun, as if it’s a destination, as if Icarus were an aspirational figure, and even though insurance seems to be a rort, with the excess and all, and why do they even call it comprehensive when it still leaves you comprehensively out of pocket, doesn’t matter, you’ll still pay it because you don’t need another thing to worry about when you’re already worried about the person behind you and the person in front of you, and you still can’t see two metres in front of you because you’re driving into the actual sun, and maybe you will be Icarus this arvo, and you’re hoping your peak hour traffic deity hasn’t knocked off for the weekend and gone to the pub, and you’re grateful to be driving home before the sun has set, but maybe now you’re thinking you should’ve stayed at work until it was dark, even though that’s depressing, but at least then you wouldn’t be raising your cortisol levels driving into the actual sun at the crunchy point in the day on Parkes Way on a Friday arvo.

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A man sitting on a ladder under an open manhole in the middle of the mall, just chilling

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