I often like to think of myself as bold and enterprising. I'm willing to take risks, explore new horizons, challenge myself. I'll be the one leaping over chasms or cycling down steep inclines. Liberal, adventurous, open-minded - you'd think I would like things to be ever-changing. But no - change scares me. Being in a different environment, being with strangers, being outside my (surprisingly small, I've realised) comfort zone. These things are to be avoided. Change must be gradual, easily handled.
You see, we all seek constants in our lives. We need that reassurance, something to cling to in the confusion and debris of a turning world. It's what we strive for, and, at the end of the day, it's the constant things in our lives that make us happy.

I remember a movie I watched as a kid. One of the characters was an unemployed, low-life kind of guy who would entertain his friends with cheap magic tricks. There's one scene where he's drunk in the courtyard of the apartment block, holding his magician's wand. Tears are streaming down his face and he's waving the wand around maniacally, shouting 'Change! Change!' over and over.

I almost changed jobs last week. I'd had enough, and started looking for a fresh start. I went in for an interview, and then another, and soon afterwards received a job offer. At the last minute my manager persuaded me to stay. Among other things, he was able to convince me that out there it was a cut-throat industry and I was less than suited to it. It made me think of who I am, and who I want to become. Seeds of doubt began taking hold, feeding on my anxiety and sprouting through my ears. I turned down the lucrative offer and opted for the easier option. No, I don't regret it - but sometimes, sometimes I too will wave a wand drunkenly and yell.

'It was only when I heard clapping, that I realised it was all over.' - JoH.

It's been a busy week. I've had a lot of drama at work - it must be the first time I've really fought with a colleague (a manager, no less) and been visibly angry. To me it reinforces how terribly meaningless it all is - as if being forced to toil for a living isn't bad enough, we must do so at the bequest and whims of others.

Crowded House played at the Enmore earlier in the week. ('Crowded House? You like Crowded House?' Ah Mother, how little you know about me). The small theatre gave the concert an intimate air, and despite the hundreds of people present it felt like the band was playing for each and every individual. The concert was at it's best when the old familiar songs were played, and the crowd erupted into song.

Friday was good for killing zombies.

Last night was clubbing with two disparate group of friends. The night almost didn't happen, with all the rain and long queues and creeping sense of listlessness. I realised, while watching the girls get approached by random generic-looking strangers, that guys can sense vulnerability in a girl, and love it. That's how my friends seemed to me - delicate and fragile and tragic, like origami princesses. Though we spoke in hushed tones and giggled when we had finally dissuaded the persistent intruders, was I really right to judge and blame them? I know I am very much the same. And when she held me tightly and sighed, I knew she was thinking of someone else.

Oh I remember a dream I had the other night. I was with a group of friends at a house party, and was lying innocently and slightly drunk on a couch for some unknown reason with a friend whom I have no romantic inclinations whatsoever. As the lights dimmed her face moved towards mine, and we kissed. Her tongue was in my mouth, strong and rough in a way I'd imagine a giraffe's tongue might feel like. The entanglement didn't last long, and then giraffe-tongue girl abruptly sat up and walked away, leaving me shivering on the couch. Who said dreams don't mean anything?

'But every time I look at you, I hope it's your arms I fall into.' - Falling Away, Big Scary

'You're an Aquarius? So you're one of those people who look for someone unique, someone a little different.'
I smile tersely.
I suspect, too, that I like the feeling of falling to that of landing.

If I were a butterfly...

It's been a busy, busy two weeks. I've been spending a lot of time working, and then time de-stressing from work, only for it to start all over again. I want to write, but my mind is mostly blank. The more time spent working, the less time you spend on creative pursuits. Kind of like cavemen needing to hunt, or something like that...

'Scattered showers with isolated thunderstorms. Partly cloudy with northwest winds.'

We set out on a Friday evening after work, intermittent rain and a delayed start causing much frustration. Once we got on the road though the six hour drive went by quickly, no doubt helped along by Polo's wise anecdotes and occasional bad dance music. We arrived in Jindabyne close to 1am and promptly went to bed in preparation for the long day ahead of us; fortunately I was exhausted enough to fall asleep in spite of a certain someone's loud snoring. Meanwhile outside the rain continued to fall lightly...

The next day I was awoken by Polo's ogre-like movements. I looked out the window - the rain had stopped despite Bean's best efforts, and blue sky had started peeking through the thinning grey clouds. We had a quick breakfast and got ready - water bottles were filled, lunches half-packed, jumpers put on, taken off, and put on again. After a quick stop for coffee, we drove up and towards the mountains, the surrounding hills carpeted in green after the recent rain. I found it funny driving past all the ski resorts without the snow, the naked buildings and hills and chairlifts looking so out of place and ridiculous, like disused machinery discarded from a factory long ago.

We parked and stood at the start of the trail, green hills and mountains and meandering alpine rivers outstretched before us. I never thought this country could be so picturesque and pristine. We could have been in Switzerland.

The hike was tough. We walked for hours, and sometimes the uphills would go on forever. The sun kept beating down on my neck (sunburn, ouch!), and often all I wanted to do was lie down in the soft grass or dive into one of the many blue lakes along the way. Eventually we reached the top after six hours, sweaty and exhausted. At the highest point in Australia we had a well-deserved rest, took photos and had a nice, late afternoon gourmet lunch. That night, back in Jindabyne, no one stayed awake much later past midnight before we all passed out in our respective rooms.

I've always wanted to climb Mt Everest as a kid; small hikes such as these make me realise how gargantuan an undertaking like that would be, and how far I am from such dreams. To go down, go up.
We drive home the next day and it's raining again, raindrops splattering endlessly on car windows.

We had the annual birthday celebration yesterday in the city. What struck me was how unassuming it all was. There was no fuss and no need to impress. We enjoyed ourselves simply, eating together, singing bad eighties songs at karaoke and getting soaked in the rain. We were at ease, like friends who have known each other a long time (this is true) and know exactly what to expect. When you're this age you no longer have an angry point to prove to the world.

So I found out someone significant from my past has moved on. I would have preferred not to know, and told this to the friend who informed me. 'Guys are all the same,' she remarks, condescendingly. 'Always regretting, but then it's too late.'
I despise such generalisations. The whole oh yeah all guys are like that kind of thing. It's so offensive. Is only one gender guilty of such faults? If I were to judge people on the sins of others from my past... But I digress. Do I regret? No. I am a little sad though, only because certain memories remain dear to me, and remain so, unsullied by anger, jealousy, and hurt pride. I am one easily haunted by the past.

Tonight there was Chinese New Year dinner at my grandparents. There were plates and plates of food - roast meats, seafood, tofus and vegetables. Por Por continually putting food into everyone's bowls; cousins yelling and shouting excitedly. A bottle of champagne was opened - Mum got a little rowdy after half a glass, while Dad turned a tomato shade of red (I definitely have my dad's genes). It's been a long time since we've all been gathered like this for dinner, and it's in brief moments like these that I realise how fortunate I am.

They say that whatever you're doing on New Years day you will do for the rest of the year. I'm about to start some work for what I know will be a very stressful night. Well, then...

I woke up on Friday morning in a state of despair. I felt isolated, separated from the world. There was this overwhelming feeling I was to spend the rest of my years in misery and obscurity. I did all the usual morning things - brushed my teeth, ate my breakfast - quietly diestressed. Was it some already forgotten dream I had? Or something else unmentionable? By the time I got to work and did the usual work things my panic had subsided and was placated. Nevertheless it was a bad omen, I surmised, for the weekend to begin like this. And I was right.

'I had a friend who studied three years of physio; in fourth year she decided physio wasn't for her and changed to physics instead,' she says, eyes wide and sparkling. 'I think that is a big waste of three years.'
'Not really,' I reply. 'If she hadn't done those three years, she wouldn't have known physio wasn't for her. Sometimes it takes people that long to realise.'
I don't regret this weekend. At least I'm no longer left wondering. In your old age, one day, you will remember the things you did, and regret the paths never travelled. As the train takes us to the coast, she plays the piano. In a reflection I see her falter. Not long after I'm on the bus home, invisible strings lightly tugging me back.