I haven’t been writing for months. Every time I open a blank document and start to write there are just too many things shooting through my brain at once. I’ve never had writer’s block before, but I always assumed it would be like staring at a blank wall and just not knowing what to fill it with. Maybe sometimes it is. Right at this moment though its like being bombarded on all sides by hundreds of little facts that all shout “I’m important! Remember me? Tell me first!”
There is a logical progression in linear time of what has been happening over the past few months, and I’m going to be forced to completely ignore it, because some things are just more important to tell than others. So I’ll start with what happened when I came back to the real world from the dream that was my summer. That summer really was as close to a dream as I’ve come so far, 4 months of intensity, meaning and beauty diluted only by fun and frozen yoghurt.
My first venture back into the world was a very brief trip to New York to meet my new boss and my old team for dinner. It was amusing, it was free, the food was great, and it was really fucking hard. As slaps with the wet fish of reality go it was barely a kipper, but it felt like a tuna (Tuna are really big. Seriously). My whole life had changed, everything I was felt different, better, everything I wanted was more real. But everything around me was the same. My job was still there if I wanted it back, my friends from work were still my friends from work. New York was still New York. I felt as if something should have changed. The Empire State should have been taller, the Brooklyn Bridge should have been a becoming shade of bright blue, anything at all. Sometimes the fact that your whole world moved just means that everyone else thinks you’re now standing a few inches to the left.
But I had to come back. Choices about immigration rules and whatnot aside, I had to know what would happen to me. Whether it would all fade away or whether I could actually bear to live with one foot in each world. So I did what I always do – I got onto a plane and I moved on to the next life. One I had never tried before, in Australia.
Right now I’m in Melbourne, sitting in the bedroom of a corporate apartment I’ve been living in for 2 months. I’m working on a contract for my old employers for the next few months, and then I don’t know what I’m doing. The need to decide that is a few months off, I still love plans but my compulsion to make them has dissipated slightly. I don’t know if I can be half and half. I don’t know if anyone can be half vagrant and half corporate whore. But fuck it, I’m going to try. I have very rarely wanted anything more than I want the life I think I can have now. This is what it was all for.
There are so many things I need to write about now. What I have realized is important and isn’t. How to do what I’m doing. Maybe more importantly why to do what I’m doing. What happened to me and what didn’t. What I want to happen and don’t. I don’t know if any of that is worth reading. But its worth writing.