The One In Sydney

Caught

I

Is it really June?

Is it really almost the end of June?

Is 2017 almost over?

II

I teeter on this fine line and peer over the edge.

Here I am and there I am going.

Here I am…and there I am going.

III

The hem of this jacket is trapped in the door. This shoe is caught under yours. I’m fumbling with zips that won’t budge. Feel my arms bound in cloth.

But it’s not me. I shed what cannot move and cannot change and I disappear.

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April

I

I thought today of how my perception is fact is limited to what I understand.

I think of how in consults, the facts I deliver are hyper-filtered; I cut away what cannot be understood, so that some semblance of fact can be remembered. I wonder if people do that to me – if that means I actually understand less than I do.

II

Do lungs ever cease to be lungs? I suppose they do when they do not draw breath. But, then again, lungs on the table are still lungs, if only because they look like lungs.

There is a rumbling beneath my feet and my toes – poor anchors – press against the floor, willing stillness into my being.

And my heart aches, just a little, because the small scratches have all begun to bleed.

III

I love permanence and I hate it. Tell me where I should be in five years and I will go there now, so I may live there before my time and stay past my time. I am repulsed by yesterday, eager to get away from today.

But, also, so eager for time to stand still, so I may sit guiltless in the quiet.

I haven’t been in this space for a while.

(and i’m sort of used to tumblr where i type like this)

But it’s midnight in March and I am overdue for a post.

I have a job. This fact sometimes startles me. I work as a vet. Despite having spent 5 years heading in this direction, I am shocked anyway.

But having a job doesn’t mean I have direction. It doesn’t mean I have purpose either. I occasionally do important things. The importance, however, is relative. And there are people out there who question the importance of what I do. “Your client spent how much on his cat???”

The (sometimes) unsaid sentence is: “They could have spent it on me instead.”

I wonder where I’m going next. I wonder quite frequently. And I am caught off guard by my brain reminding me of potential mistakes. Mistakes that I’ll have to wait out because time either heals my patients or kills them. I can nudge time, occasionally, in a way that favours my patients. I try. I don’t know how successful I’ll be.

My heart is restless. Not in the same way it used to be. I can’t write very well anymore. I’m not nearly melodramatic enough.

(This post reflects my state of mind, doesn’t it? I am just all over the place.)

I wish I could be looking back at this period of time – this midnight in March – with five years of hindsight. Couldn’t I stand in the future for the moment and contemplate this moment as my past? What would it look like?

I would probably laugh. “Silly girl. She will stumble blind either way.”

 

A Love

calbelle

You don’t know how grateful I am, little one, that you’ve found a home.

You’re a spunky little darling who tried very hard to be near me.

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Very, very hard.

Yet, you found enough time in your day to be away from me. Napping wherever you fancied. Exploring the nooks and corners of the house.

Making me panic because you were so very small and so very curious.

I hope you’ll grow up to be a little queen. You were the kitten too weak to roll over. You were the kitten too weak to suckle properly. You were the first to show signs of cat flu (you made my heart spasm because they said they might euthanise you; you were only a week-and-a-half).

But you’re also the kitten who insistently grabbed for her bottle by the time she was three weeks old. You decided who you liked before your eyes opened and followed him around when you could see him. You skipped around the apartment and chased the toys I bought (even if you were more fascinated by the clear cover – you sat on it a lot). You liked climbing (I was so happy you were getting so strong).

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Grow up well. Stay out of trouble. I love you.

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So very, very much.

I am unmoored.

And I feel a little bad for the people who read this blog. Surely you aren’t here for me. Surely you’re here for some sort of insight – the sort that perspective gives – or, maybe, some sort of release.

You know, the sort of release that comes from feeling like you can read someone’s mind.

I wish someone would read my mind and pick through it. Tell me why I feel the way I feel.

I’ve replayed the same memories hundreds of times now. I think of future conversations and replay those, too.

Sometimes they make me feel sick to my stomach (stupid, stupid butterflies). Sometimes they make me happily giddy (stupid, stupid butterflies).

But I don’t know where I’m going. I know the map of my life so poorly that I can’t even promise a kitten I’ll be in one place for more than a year.

(Can’t promise a kitten or a puppy or a guinea pig. Sigh.)

I’ll be back in Sydney in 3 weeks, though. Couch-surfing, probably.

I wonder.

2017

I think a lot about money these days.

I think a lot about faith, too.

I’ve closed one chapter but am too scared to write the next.

Which is funny because I don’t feel fear the same way.

Last year, I think, I had a proper post. With resolutions.

This year I don’t know. And, that’s it. I don’t know.

There is no appropriate title for this post – well, at least none that are not excessively pretentious or schmaltzy – so, it will remain untitled.

I made it clear to myself in the first few posts of this blog that this entire thing was a record for myself. This sort of statement was also a sort of shield for my ego since it was important for the blog to remain a true record rather than a shrine to myself. (What a blow to my ego it would be if my shrine were not frequented.)

I like to think I have grown in the past five years as a writer. Certainly, I have grown in the past five years as a veterinarian.

While writing I’ve actually forgotten to preface this post with this: I have finished my studies. I am a veterinarian.

I can’t write anything pretty around that statement because I don’t know what I feel about it.

My parents are here to celebrate with me. I haven’t quite celebrated because I don’t know how.

Oh, my. This post is difficult to write.

But here it is. To be followed up better (maybe) soon.

Truths

I like talking. I like the sound of my own voice. This is stupid because I have no confidence. If you cut me to the core, you’ll see meekness. I am not sure of myself. If you cut me deeper, I have a kernel of brash confidence. Make of that what you will.

I believe in family. And I’ve always wanted one. I honestly believe I’ll be okay if I stay single for the rest of my life but I’m also a little afraid.

I don’t want to be a vet anymore. Which is stupid because I wanted so badly to be here. Maybe I just wanted to go overseas. I don’t know.

I didn’t want to come to Sydney. I wanted to go to Melbourne.

I speak like the world is grey but I know that decisions are black and white.

I’m lazy.

I’m really not that clever. Sometimes I’m lucky and people believe I’m smart. I spend the rest of my time with them wringing my hands because I know I’m not.

I want to do many things. Probably so I can avoid trying to be the best in one field. Probably because best is absolute. I don’t know how I feel about absolutes.

I like telling the truth. But no one asks me the right questions.

The one time I should have told the truth, I lied. I don’t always look back but sometimes I do, and I wonder.

(I wrote this two months ago and these things are still all true. Haven’t changed too much yet, I suppose.)

A Startling Reflection

I

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day.

It is not that I don’t look in the mirror. It is that my face is practiced when it is studying itself. Something in itself shifts to form an image I prefer. Which explains why I was surprised by this glimpse. I froze, in fact, to allow myself a better study of myself.

“Is this how people see me?” I wondered.

Then, I walked away. Forgetting what I had looked like but remembering how it felt.

II

I am in a new house for the next four months. I’m saying goodbye to the nomadic life, for the moment. My new housemates are foreign to me as housemates. I do not yet know how to interact comfortably with them.

It strikes me as strange that the self I see is their perceived self, not their actual self, not even (necessarily) their projected self. It is because I am outside of them that the self on display can only be what is perceived.

This should be obvious. But the fact sits on my consciousness because I feel it is important in understanding their humanity.

III

I consider my own self.

Not to be philosophical.

I considered my self because I aim to be as transparent as possible. I used to pride myself on communication. I no longer do. In trying to be transparent, I kick dust in the air, trying to explain every corner and crevice of an ambiguous sentence.

Nonetheless, I try to be transparent. Such that if I told you “black”, I would have told the next person “black”, not merely “the darkest shade of grey”.

This is true for all except one thing.

I am most vulnerable with regard to relationships. Friends have told me that, when I am in love, it is plainly stated on my face. Which is strange because it isn’t plainly stated in my heart.

(Is this the first time since the breakup I have contemplated love in writing? Strange.)

Anyway, now that the prospect is plainly stated in my heart, and has been for a while, I’m willing every thread of my being to be pulled into alignment.

Because, here, I am dreadfully inconsistent.

To one person, I say, “Pink.” To another, “Blue.” Yet, to another, “79.”

When I think of these moments, I wish I could have watched my own face. Someone must know I’m lying.

Surely, someone must know.

Liar

I realised today that I am a liar. In anonymous spaces like these, I welcome my stalkers. In more public spaces, I am my filtered self.

I say nothing too inflammatory. I try to be funny. I try to be interesting.

Here, I’m noisy in a quiet, contemplative space. I reject structure, I reject tags, I reject propriety.

And I’m so fascinated by this space that it seems to warrant comment every time I visit.

Another layer, perhaps. Another filter. No, I’m not trying to attract attention. Just writing personal thoughts in a public space for no one at all. I feel like I need to emphasise this to protect myself.

Why am I always trying to protect myself?

There is a hush.

Because it cannot be distilled to one moment and I am scrambling to remember. I hug all the memories close to my chest and hope that they are pristine. But there is no fact here, probably. Just emotionally tinged moments that colour me and flit away.

I am conscious that I am as deep as I am shallow. That I forsake my hands for my face, my heart for my mind.

I hope – quietly – that some people will forget me.

But that’s a lie. I just want to alter their memories. I can’t, though. So, I hope for the next best thing.

You don’t exist in your wrongness when you are forgotten.