above sleeping heads

hot disc paused
over a flat grey
stage

men scurry
and do not pause
as a giant
following unseen laws
lifts its nose
and leaves the earth

comical vehicles
dart between
yellow and black lines
keeping their distance

another beast lumbers
heavy now
out of its element
limping on tiny wheels
almost empty of fuel
tired and waiting
to disgorge
its human cargo

the tunnel waits too
jutting out
into the bay of grey
keen to suck
the marrow
to signify the end
of the journey
and the beginning
of something else

something else
is coming to an end
the shadows
of the late afternoon
reach long towards evening
foretell the night
the darkness
the journey ahead

on the other side
of the glass
rising slowly
in spurts and starts
a dandelion
catches the wind
a flight without visas
or tickets
it has a clear goal
but no destination
no guarantee of arriving

it’s all hazy now
a golden glow
of dust and
obscurred fencelines

a red dorsal fin
cuts across the
fuzzy memory of the horizon
the cylindrical body
cruises in circles
preparing for launch
the effort to come

there is a sense
that this day
will not lie down
will not concede defeat
to the night
the darkness
not ungraciously
just in keeping
with the mindset
of the travellers
under luggage stowed
above sleeping heads

music to soar

perched high
among clouds
we glance down
now and then
to see the ground
and how far
we have to fall

brown wrinkled carpet
of ridges and valleys
of grey dusty plains
stretched flat over
weather-worn hills

white-capped peaks
divided by wriggling
lines of rivers
and roads
connecting towns
and villages

icy crystals form on
an unshuttered window
darkness falls behind
a mountain range of cloud

the greyness melts
to a vague blue
an intangible horizon
holding still while
a curved wing shudders

the sky elsewhere
is blank
waiting for stars
a lopsided dome
of light and dark

are we fleeing the day
or pursuing the night?
do we wish this time away
to pass us untouched
unexperienced?
where would we go?

we follow the path
set before us
thinking of tangents
and friends far away

red lights flash
warning the gods
of our steady approach
and yet still no stars shine

we fly like no other bird
for we need music to soar

these stupid wings

i don’t fall down often
but i do it properly
so don’t be surprised
or you know
just be there
make soothing noises
hold my hand
my life
like an insect
in the sun
till i figure out
these stupid wings
again

scoop me up

i don’t want
you to think
i never get sad
or fall silent
in a room
full of friends
standing
staring
at a place
on the wall
a thousand miles away

all the air
is sucked out
of the room
but i keep breathing
disconcerting isn’t it
what could it mean

could it be you
holding up the roof
the sky
twinkling in the darkness
little pinky bent downwards
offering a different way
to look at things

who will protect me though
when i’m protecting you?

scoop me up
carry me across the desert
the lounge room
the kitchen
the heavy smells
of Polish food
of memories
and journeys
paused
waiting
and then
off we go again

Packet of Stars

I gave her a packet of stars
and now I see above the passing cars
here and there in the night sky
that she has let them fly.

man pats sand

pat the sand
tell the earth to behave
to be nice

behind this darkened
windswept beach
a set of lights
climbs into the sky
banks and heads south

a man
sitting there
smiles and pretends it is
his plane
and he has been
left behind
out of reach
of the highway and
the airport behind him
the city cold to the south
and because he’s close now
to the ocean
to what lies ahead
it’s okay

he pats the sand
tells it to stay beautiful
away from the steel
and the bitumen
and the sand says
why do you assume
that we are separate?
why do you isolate me
from a plane
and the journey it takes
and the memories
it carries
and leaves
like a trail of clouds?

the man looks out
into the black

why do you believe
where you are
is not where
you want to be?
why don’t you
pat me again?

the man pats the sand

pride: not a flotation device

said goodbye to the sunset
said hello to the night
i said i’m fine how are you good thanks
but i kept my mouth shut tight

led my soul to a dark place
led it spiralling down
i held my breath for a long long time
till my dreams began to drown

and when your dreams begin to drown
there has to be someone to blame
so i’m thrashing around for a reason
but the answer i’m getting’s the same

it’s saying i need to let go
it’s saying i’m heavy inside
i see myself floating free to the top
and that hope is more buoyant than pride


Grant Morgan 20/8/03

the girl at number 8 wants me

would you really want a girl who pegs her bra to your undies?
yes
why didn’t she use the other pegs?
exactly, a deliberate act of intimacy
she was probably in hurry
no, the peg placement…it was premeditated
how did she know they were your undies…it’s a communal clothesline?
she’s been watching
why didn’t she just come over?
she’s shy
how do you know it was her…might be that old woman at number 9
with a bra like this? i don’t think so
okay, so what are you going to do?
i’m going to return the gesture
didn’t know you wore bras
my undies—i’ll peg them to her bra
what if you’ve got this all wrong?
hmm, no




Grant Morgan 16 June 2005

intersection

why can’t you let me be?
either by myself
or by the the river
or in it floating
partly submerged
thinking i’m swimming
but really just
being carried along
why can’t you run with me?
slow down
speed up
go ahead and
pick me up
i’m waiting
to get to you
you remind me
of someone something
once said
can’t be unbled
it doesn’t work like that
you keep moving and
i stay away
still not believing that
to return to the heart
we must be empty
blue and staggering
just make it
to take it
in full effect
so what will bring us closer?
me running till i
collapse and you
sitting still as a
stone but travelling
further than I
could ever go?
don’t see the waiting as not
having something
for it will never come
like that
yes that
makes it easier
more bearable
on the stairs we pass
at different angles
and at night
dream
in trajectories
approaching the ridiculous

Grant Morgan 3/6/04

water table

the table doesn’t mind
which side you’re on
it’s a conduit
to the floor
the ceiling the sky
held back
at bay
at least it floats
when you throw it all in
like a towel laid out
before you
before the sea
and what you make of it
rises up angry
and strikes you
as being water
in a bucket
without a spade
to dig a moat
for a boat

Grant Morgan 22/7/04

Everyone is with you

When you go into the mountains, the mountains go into you. And the deeper you go and the further you journey, into yourself and into the land, the greater the risk you will lose your way. And if you lose your way, there is a risk that, while you are standing there, on the edge of the world looking out, trying to see where you fit in, no-one will find you.

The day is still, there are no clouds and the eye travels out to the horizon and then goes a little bit further—because it can. When it meets the blue dome of the sky at the most distant range, you think, it must be a band of clouds. But it’s not. It’s the land, perched and pretending, like you, above all the world, that this is the sky, and you, the lonely runner, are flying.

At the horizon the peaks seem to hover, lined up like the choppy waters of a giant sea frozen in time. And gradually you let your eye draw back from the distance, catching each ridgeline, until the land becomes solid and real. And there you are, running.

The land on either side of this path is worn smooth. The wind and rain of centuries have blunted the landscape; there are no aching peaks, no sheer cliffs, just vast rolling hills. The path itself is worn too, but not smooth. The rocks stick up and twist your ankles, this way and that, the thick low scrub on either side is overgrown and catches and scratches your lower-legs—you will have something to show for your efforts after this.

The sun is not strong, for the air is cold and across the other side of the valley, a last patch of snow, a remnant of winter, holds out against the summer. Below it, a creek has sprung up and where the land steepens, a waterfall. The flowing water is too far away to hear. But you imagine the laughing as it dances down over the rocks, and reminds you of the dryness at the back of your throat.

Your arms swing like pendulums keeping time for your legs. On this slow ascent, your breathing comes easily, there is no thought of the end of this journey, no impatience to finish. The rhythm of your running is trance-like, your physical body disappears. You are a spirit moving as one with the land.

The path contours and disappears around the top of a hill. An outcrop of rock is encircled by a group of gnarled snow gums like a meeting place of old men, they tell their stories in the curves of their branches, watch the sun hanging in the blueness above and listen to the footfalls of a passing runner

Thoughts drift like deformed clouds—vapour memories through an internal landscape. They break apart, flying off into new quarters. And you realise that, rather than these new thoughts coming into view, they were always there, you just hadn’t noticed. The twisted trees let you and your thoughts pass like a question needing no answer.

On the far side of the valley, something looms. As you round the bend it grows—a massif—the highest mountain in the area, and bigger, too, by volume. It sits broad and squat, like an ogre waiting to rise up against you. But that will come later. For now the land drops away, the scrub thickens to woodland and down there, somewhere is the water. You don’t spend too long gazing at that lofty peak because you realise that you must cross the river before you climb that mountain.

You scramble downwards, on and on, steeper and steeper. The earth gives way and you slip, on to one knee, sliding, grasping at leaves and branches until suddenly your feet hit grass and in one, fluid motion you are up again, running as if nothing had happened

After a while however, the relentless downhill running takes its toll. The first feeling of fatigue creeps into your thigh muscles and you are annoyed because you’d been so smooth and thought you could run forever. The land however, though willing to bend for a thousand years of wind and rain, does not lie down for humans, not even for the discomfort of a lone runner. And so you follow the path and ponder the futility of reasoning with a geographical feature.

It is dark down here. And cold. The sun does not belong. The ferns fan out and the dank earth holds the silence. Even your footsteps now are muted. Now the soft path flattens out and weaves its way through the greenery. You have forgotten the fatigue in your legs but are thirsty, and you are sure you can hear water. Or maybe it’s just your dry mouth that hears water.

The undergrowth becomes thicker and the trees reach higher. The light filters down from some place you used to know as the sky. Salty sweat drips and stings your eyes, the path blurs. You so want the sky back, the light, no more descending. Yes, it is beautiful here, and peaceful, but lonely too. The silence is closed. And now in your mind is the knowledge that for every step you descend, you must climb back up.

When you reach the river you kneel and scoop dirty hands into icy water and drink. A parched throat is soothed, energy renewed and a prayer answered.

You take off your shoes and wade, gasping, into the freezing river. It gets deeper, and the current stronger. The rocks on the bottom are smooth and slippery. You step into a hole and go up to your waist and hold your shoes out for balance, the laces hang down into the water.

On the other side you sit smiling in a small patch of sun and dry your feet before putting your shoes back on.

It is wonderful to be climbing again, it’s what you’re somehow programmed to do. Your body is refreshed from the water and all fatigue is forgotten. The forest is still dark here but the promise of sunlight is ahead. The ascent begins.

Away from the river the path steepens and the undergrowth becomes sparse and dry. The ground is firm and you’re strong. You leap over a fallen tree. There are rocks too, here and there, trying to interrupt your easy rhythm, but you skip over them like cracks in the footpath. This is the roughest terrain and you are treating it with disdain.

But the path winds now, twisting back and forth with sharp hairpin bends, and at each turn, a rocky step breaks the rhythm and strains the thigh muscles. Here the path takes a direct line and the steepening gradient stings. Your breathing is laboured now, but worse, your legs are fading—they’re not indestructible. Negative thoughts begin to cloud your mind and the beautiful twisted shapes of the snow gums become ugly and menacing. You are annoyed with yourself, at your over-confidence, at the arrogance of thinking you could run up this mountain with ease, at the shame of impending defeat.

The legs are slowing, each stride becoming shorter. And instead of bounding over the rocky ledges, now you stagger and slow almost to a walk. The filtered sunlight is of no comfort. Panic forms a lump in the back of your throat. You are miles from the campsite, wearing shorts and t-shirt and the nights are below freezing. There is a long way to go.

Okay then, you announce to yourself as if addressing the troops, if that’s the way it’s going to be, let’s change the focus here…we’re not aiming for the top any more. In fact the top can get stuffed. (And now you talk directly to yourself, spurring yourself on, like a coach to an athlete, a father to a son) You’re not getting off this mountain in a hurry, so you might as well get into a rhythm you can sustain. Don’t worry about what’s up ahead—it’ll come soon enough. Focus on your running right here and now. Run up this mountain like it’s the rest of your life. This is it, nothing else.

At first there is no change, just an acceptance of the situation. The legs are still stuffed, still running terribly, taking tiny baby steps, shuffling over the ground. But incredibly, within this nightmare of sweat and dirt and solitude halfway up a mountain, there is a spark of hope. The legs have relaxed slightly and the rhythm is returning, and in this rhythm, an efficiency, and a realisation that you just might have enough to pull this off.

The mountain too, seems to pulse of its own rhythm. Far away, to the side, a snowdrift is held in the shadow of the mountain and tries to resist the summer sun. Further down, the melting snow forms a spontaneous waterfall. A breeze picks up and carries from somewhere up ahead the sound of trickling water. A little while later you come upon a small creek and briefly stop to drink. Running again, you look out into space, and high above the ground, a peregrine falcon hangs almost in time. And as you climb higher and higher the shape of the mountain itself is revealed, there is music in its suffering and in its renewal. It has been shaped by the things around it, worn smooth by wind and water, and brought to life by sun.

And you, like the mountain, find that you too have come through the darkness, at first by resisting, but then by accepting and allowing yourself to be changed.

The trees thin, the sun’s warmth cuts through the leaves, and up ahead you can see the end of the tree-line. You’re almost there! You giggle and squeal with delight, and remember how close you came to giving up. The legs feel light and strong now. The gradient flattens out towards to the broad summit. It’s not your classic pointy mountain. Maybe it was pointy a few million years ago; thankfully not today.

And then you reach the last two trees standing sentry-like on either side of the path, and you burst through, and the summit opens up. You don’t even need to keep to the path now, someone’s laid a carpet of grass up here. It’s soft and folds silently beneath your feet as you bound onwards; you could be a leopard. And then you look out over the edge and get the fright of your life—you can’t see the bottom! The river, where you crossed, is a memory. It’s all a memory, as if it never happened. But it did, it must have, because here you are, all alone and exposed to the world. And in the distance the mountain ranges are lining up, reaching out and crashing like waves against the horizon. And it’s quiet. And you feel like screaming but the sky might split open. And you’re sprinting now, for the top, tears streaming, wishing everyone could share this. But maybe they are; it feels like they’re here. There’s a presence, as if everyone who has ever lived is right here, with you.

Runs in the family

I’m 10. I’m in the back seat between my brother and sister. Up front mum is driving and whenever we go over a bump the picnic hamper next to her goes squeak-squeak. I’m thinking of vegemite and cheese rolls, and orange juice and the cream bikkies too.
I’m sitting under a tree next to the car watching the grass move between my fingers and listening to the slap-slap of the runners’ feet as they pass. They’re all running the same way, down the road. And some of them are chatting, and others are just by themselves.
“Here he comes!” my sister yells. I stand up and look down the street, down the line of huffing n puffing. And there he is, race number flapping. “Come on Dad!” He waves, smiling and Mum says, “You’re looking good.” We run back to the car and I help my brother put his seat belt on.
We’re driving and driving and my tummy is rumbling and we’re turning left and right down lots of lots of streets and the houses look good and old like Grandma’s and those people in yellow and orange keep pointing, telling us where to go and Mum is doing what they say. And my tummy is rumbling.
We stop and watch the runners go by because we’re waiting for Dad.
“Where’s Dad? When’s morning tea? Hey, Mum is that guy okay?” There’s a weird man going past and I don’t like looking at him but I’m not stopping. He’s rocking backward and going forward.
“Is he going to die Mum?”
“We’ll have something to eat soon.”
We’re back in the car and driving and stopping and waiting and waving and driving and stopping and waiting. And there’s Dad again but he’s not waving back this time and his legs are all wet and pumping and his singlet is stuck to his chest and I can see his boobies and his glasses are fogged up. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good!”
But I don’t think so. He looks like when he drops a glass in the kitchen and it breaks. There’s white stuff on his head above his eyes like Wizz-Fizz. Why won’t he shut his mouth?

I’m 19. I’m standing alone at the corner. It’s a grey day and the marshal’s vest I’m wearing is wet from the fine mist falling. I’m not directing runners any more; they know where to go, I reckon they can smell it. They’re going past, tired faces and feet slapping the ground; they don’t look happy. But I don’t care, I’m waiting for Dad.
And here he comes. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good.” But he isn’t. There’s a line of spit from his mouth down to his neck and his head is slightly cocked. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps running.
I join him. I’m not sure if it helps but I’m there, next to him, running. He’s carrying his 42 kilometres of pain and I’m carrying a whole lot of pride and encouragement.
I’m getting hot under my rain jacket but I’m not stopping because I’m not sure what kind of a message that would send. Anyway, it can’t be far now.
We scuttle across tram tracks and past another marshal. The road bends to the right and I wonder if I should be doing this. I take my vest off and scrunch it into my pocket. My tracky-dacks are wet and clinging, heavy to my thighs. But I think about Dad’s legs and I forget about my discomfort.
I can hear his breathing, fast and rasping. I want to help him, say something, anything just to will him towards the finish. Should I speed up or maybe I should slow down or would that stuff up his rhythm?
I see the finish chute and give him one last rev up, “Right oh, away you go Dad. Finish it off.” I’m slowing down, pulling off to the side, watching him. He’s running alone now, towards the banner and the clock, the people and the clapping. There’s a spring in his step.
And he’s away.

I’m 28. I’m running and there’s people all around me, and their shoulders are against mine, pressing, sliding. Someone clips my heel and I stumble. I’m angry and suddenly I want to cut loose, take this race apart, make them pay. But I’m patient—I use my forearms to make some space—and just relax. It’s a long way to go and now is not the time. Not yet.
My runners are light and soft. My singlet flutters with its race number pinned to the front. My socks are new and my shorts are loose. But it’s irrelevant. It wouldn’t matter what I wore. I’ve trained so hard I’d run alright in gumboots. There is no pain that this course can inflict upon me that I haven’t inflicted upon myself.
It’s time.
I surge.
I’m clear now; no-one around. The road is flashing past beneath my feet. I’m super smooth, eating it up. The air is moving cold over my wet singlet, I shiver.
Halfway there. I’m still fresh and all alone out in front. The rhythm of my running is sending me away. I flash past a row of parked cars but inside I am still. I hear no slapping just my heart. I am leaving the ground behind
Drink station. I scan the tables for my bottle. Got it! Squeeze, drink, splutter, drink, splutter, breathe, drink, discard. Swallowed more air than fluid and now I’m a bit bloated. Fatigue creeps into the legs. My feet begin slap the ground and suddenly they’re catching me. I shake myself. I’m angry. It’s coming undone, all the hard work, going to waste. No, no – come on! I can’t stop muscling the ground, legs all chunky, suppleness gone.
The others are coming.
But there’s Dad, standing alone at the corner. He calls out and a distant memory cuts through the fog – a small boy running. There is an innocence to this suffering. I forget the runners behind and remember the road ahead. Fear fades.
Blinking through the sweat I see him clapping. I’m concentrating, repeating my mantra, “Strong and relaxed, strong and relaxed.” My legs tighten; so tight they’re almost numb. My breathing comes in gasps. I’m level with him now. “Come on Little Man,” he says gently, “You’re looking good.”
And I’m away.

Meg’s Farewell

I am teetering. It’s Sunday afternoon, about 3 o’clock and I’m still in my pyjamas. I’ve been buggerising around all day trying to get an essay done, drinking tea, making toast, being strong by not turning the TV on, but not so strong as to deny myself the Saturday paper – all 47 sections of it. And all the while 3.30 is coming closer.
It’s Meg’s farewell, and I was kind of hoping I could use it as a reward. I could see myself pressing the print button, then stapling the bastard together, jumping on my bike and riding triumphantly into the city. Actually it’s a bit of a shame she’s going. We hit it off pretty well. But there’s no point in trying to start anything now, because she’s not going to be back for a while. Anyway, it doesn’t look like I’m going to get to this thing.
I trot back up the stairs, past the pile of smelly washing which has tragically merged with the pile of clean washing, and sit down at the computer. The cursor is blinking in same the spot I left it, the word count still reads half the number it should and as I read over the introductory paragraph for the fifteenth time, I wonder if perhaps a different font might help the creative process. An hour later I’ve added a couple of paragraphs. But I’ve edited the first part so ruthlessly that the word count is only twenty-six words more. It’s all a bit depressing. ‘What if I take out the hyphens?’ I consider.
It’s past 4 now and the internal battle is heating up. One part of me says, ‘It’s simple. You haven’t done the essay so you can’t go to the farewell.’ Another part of me says, ‘Lighten up. You might as well go. Better than moping around here. Besides, she invited you. It’d be rude not to rock up.’ And a third part of me doesn’t say anything, but is against any plan that involves getting out of the pyjamas. So this is the state of play at 4.16 pm. Oh, and now my stomach is adding its bit, reminding me that whatever I do, I shouldn’t stray too far from a source of food because it has to eat again at some time in the next three hours.
I look down at my bunny-rabbit slippers and a wave of apathy washes over me. ‘You’re pathetic Liam,’ they snigger. ‘Can’t do a simple bloody essay, can’t get out of the house for a bit of socialising, can’t do much can you?’ It hurts when your own bunny slippers turn against you.
I’m plodding down the stairs trying to remember the Sunday night movie when I catch sight of my bike against the wall. The sleek red frame, the curve of the handlebars seems to stir something within me. I look down at the snickering bunnies and violently kick them off. One goes down the back of the telly, the other gets caught on the curtain rod. ‘Ha, ha!’ Barefoot now, I leap up the stairs; the cold floor putting a spring in my step. Naked, I rummage through the underwear and subject them to the smell test. Trousers go on next, then socks and shoes, underarms receive deodorant aplenty—who needs a shower? Now t-shirt, jumper, get money, house key, helmet, bike and out the door. It’s a race against the clock, against indecision, and against those damned bunnies!

***

We meet on the stairs and I say, ‘It’s a bit early to be leaving your own farewell.’ She smiles and wrinkles her nose.
‘Hi Liam. No, I’m just ducking out to the ATM.’ She touches my arm at the elbow. ‘My friends are in the corner,’ she gestures. ‘Just go up. Be with you in a sec.’ She turns and goes out into the cold afternoon air. Was she a little unsteady on her feet? I bound up the stairs and suddenly I’m looking forward to having a beer or two with Meg.
I stroll over to the corner and when I’m halfway there I remember why I didn’t want to come: Introductions. Meeting new people makes me want to run for the hills. I recall a documentary on hermits. That’d be the life – no forced conversation, no plastic smiles, no having to pretend to be interested in other people’s lives. Just undisturbed beard-growing.
You’d reckon it would get easier. I’m getting on 30 and I still get that empty feeling in the bottom of my stomach, just like at the Year 9 disco. Fifteen years later and nothing’s really changed. The whole thing makes me cringe.
I stand there on the periphery for a few seconds, looking at them. I can’t believe these are Meg’s friends. They look so unfamiliar, not a bloody mutual friend amongst them. This is going to be hard work. Someone’s going to look up and notice me in a moment. I sense a few of them are deliberately not looking up, not breaking their conversations to stare at the intruder. Not because they’re being cruel; on the contrary, because they fear staring will make me feel even less welcome. I am quietly grateful. But as I stand there I begin to worry. Perhaps I’ve misjudged. I take a small step forward, scanning the faces, the bodies; taking in the clothes, the make-up, extrapolating to occupation, education. And then I get that flicker of eye-contact, a shy smile. I nod in return. But the circle of chairs is tight, no place for me. A girl with her back to me notices the couple on the other side looking and smiling. She turns, they’re all turning; no backing out now. All conversations have paused. I nod and smile at them, making brief eye-contact with some. I grab a chair and I am a little miffed when they don’t open up the circle. I panic and scrape the chair noisily across the floor. That works. A friendly-faced chap to the left sets the example. In fact, he moves a little too far out, forcing the others to follow suit. It is a big circle now. I’ve buggered the air of intimacy, the close-knitness. Still, there’s a space for me so I slide in and grimace to the girl at my left.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ she replies.
‘I’m Liam.’
‘Jessica.’
‘G’day Jessica.’ She looks at her drink then away. Her conversation has moved on without her. She’s stuck with me. I try and save the silence.
‘How’s your weekend?’
‘Not too bad. How about yourself?’ She puts it straight back on me. I’m not entirely disappointed; I’m a better talker than listener. But now it’s up to me to steer the conversation. Should I say something interesting or something true? I opt for the latter.
‘Just been doing a bit of school work.’
‘Oh.’
Bad move. She’s looking at her drink again, now around the group, now out the window. Geez, this is going well. Somebody save me. Even when Meg gets back there’s no way I’ll get to talk to her, there’s too many people.
Hang on—a bit of movement—something’s happening. I look around. Ah ha!—new people arriving. My saviour. Now I get to watch someone else go through the same ordeal.
As the arriving couple nod and smile, three girls head to the bar or to the toilet or somewhere. There are spare seats. I move away from the talkative Jessica and offer up my seat. I move to the wall, still in the circle but out of the way, a good spot to observe the introductions. I shake hands with the guy, Ernesto, and smile at the girl, Daniella. I pause before retreating; she might be one of those rare hand-shake girls. She’s not. We all sit down.
To my left now is a different girl. She’s facing away, talking to her friend. I lean forward to catch the conversation. I worry the topic might be over my head. She glances in my direction and shifts back in her seat. The newly arrived couple to my right are still quiet. I turn back to the girl. She opens her shoulders. That’s my signal.
‘What are you talking about?’
The girl stops speaking. I hope it was my signal. She has a sharp nose and a narrow elf-like face. She is slim, wearing a cardigan and her cheeks are somewhat flushed. She is attractive.
‘We’re just talking about Yoga.’
‘Oh, right.’ I dash back through my memory and latch on to any relevant information: Old housemate, Andy, Yoga teacher, right.
‘Where do you do Yoga?’ I ask.
‘Brunswick St.’
‘Okay. My old housemate was a Yoga teacher. He was a bit of nutcase. I guess you’d have to be though, to be that full-on into it.’
I squirm in my chair. For all I know her boyfriend is a Yoga teacher. Could I perhaps fit my other foot in my mouth. But there’s no sign of her having taken offence.
‘Yeah,’ she says, considering my point, ‘but some people do Yoga for more than just the physical side.’
I’m relieved. We go into a conversation about the shallowness of Western society, how it squashes the spirit and always goes for the mainstream quick fix.
Her name is Kate and I almost jump on her when she tells me she’s doing the same course. I tell her about my editing assignment and we go into a yarn about apostrophes. I could never have foreseen a knowledge of hyphenation being useful in a social setting. We find other common interests, moving easily from topic to topic. In a natural pause, Julia, the plain-looking girl to Kate’s left, joins the conversation. She’s good value too.
I slide back in my chair and take in the scene. Jessica seems to have found conversation elsewhere. Kate and Julia are chatting without me – but I’m grateful for the break. Ernesto is sitting quietly, nursing a beer, content to let Daniella take centre stage with a loud story about her dad trying to organise a stripper for the buck’s night. She tells us she’s having none of that. It’s a good story and her energy is bringing smiles and chuckles around the table. A blonde girl on the other side is so into the story she’s squealing, ‘No way!’
When Daniella has calmed down, I ask her when the wedding is. It’s in 5 weeks in her hometown, Ballarat. ‘That’s exciting,’ I say genuinely. She doesn’t need much encouraging and she’s off again, describing a dream she had the other day about the ceremony. She has an infectious warmth that brings the group together. The alcohol is probably helping too.
I don’t feel like beer. I see some of the others sipping cappuccinos and decide that’s what I want: a hot drink. I come back from the bar with a hot chocolate. The two marshmallows are already in my mouth. I scoop the froth off the top and drink the rest down quickly. The blonde notices.
‘How was your hot chocolate? It didn’t last long,’ she smiles.
‘Good, except it wasn’t really that hot. That’s why it went so quickly.’
‘Yeah, they’re never really hot.’
‘I should’ve asked for a warm chocolate. Then maybe I would’ve got a hot one.’ She laughs at that.
‘No, then theyd’ve given you an iced one!’ She’s matches me for silliness so I crank it up a notch.
‘Maybe I should’ve asked for a chocolate so hot it sent me screaming out into the street!’ We’re both giggling now. I love elevating a conversation into the ridiculous. It beats the pants off: So, what do you do? She has a bloke sitting next to her, probably her boyfriend. In a way it makes me more relaxed talking to her.
The friendly chap who let me into the circle is leaving. He says his goodbyes and although I didn’t get a chance to talk with him, I smile and wave as if we’re old friends. ‘See you later,’ he says. The chatter continues.
Kate is talking aerobics to Julia. The blonde across the table and Daniella are quite animated about some dress style or other. The blokes down the end are having a good-natured man-to-man. And I’m nestled in the corner. Suddenly I wonder if Kate’s into cycling; maybe I’ll get her number before I leave. Might find the loo first; someone points the way.
I’m walking across to the far end of the bar with a stupid grin, shaking my head at how negative I was at the beginning and how wonderfully things turn out if you just give them a chance.
I see another group sitting around a long table. It’s covered with bottles and glasses. There are cards and envelopes scattered amongst wallets and mobiles. And there’s Meg. She’s sitting with them, laughing and yelling. And it’s then I realise. They’re in the other corner.

the last place it remembers

Have a look at your watch. Is it on your left hand or your right? Does the whole face cover your wrist or just a small circle? Is it fastened tightly or does it rattle around? Do you wear it all the time, in bed, in the shower, so that there is a white band of skin where the sun cannot reach? Or only when you go out? Do you wear your watch like a piece of jewellery, to show off its unique design? Or is it plain and understated? Do you find it annoying when it gets sweaty underneath and feel free and rebellious when you take it off? Maybe you find simple joy in observing the sun in its slow arc across the sky and the small human contact when you ask, “Excuse me, got the time?” But perhaps this makes you feel insecure, naked and overly dependent on others.
Why do you wear a watch anyway? Is it to time your morning jog, or just to keep you moving through the day at the right pace? Is it so you can be on time for your appointments or to get there early so there’s no rushing? What would happen if you were late?

I have two watches. One is digital; it has five countdown timers, a stopwatch with 50-lap memory, dual time zones, seven separate alarms, and a backlit display which is quite useful for telling the time in the cinema or when perhaps you find yourself parachuting into an enemy country at night. The other watch is an analogue. It has two hands and twelve numbers.

Which watch do I like better?

When I wear the digital, my day moves with precision—every segment of time is accounted for, not one starts too early, not one ends too late. I stare at the numbers on the far right, the seconds, their crisp grey pieces—appearing, disappearing—making new numbers as they destroy the old.

I was brought up with digital timepieces; the bedside clock, the microwave, the video and of course the watch on my wrist. I wore that watch everyday. It was a Casio, waterproof to 50 metres. It dominated my wrist like some kind of commando equipment. I would go swimming with it in the summer, not because I needed to know the time but just because it made me feel more rugged and adventurous. After going to the beach there would be white lines in the cracks from the dried-up salt. In the local pool my brother and I would experiment to see how far the alarm could be heard under water. I would submerge and listen to the haunting beep-beeping coming from the other side of the pool. And after I had re-surfaced and given my brother the thumbs-up, I realised then that they hadn’t been lying on that whale documentary: sound does travel further underwater. Later in the life of that watch however, the glass fogged up, the display went blank and even the warm sun on the windowsill couldn’t bring it back to life.

Mum became worried that we kids would never be able to read an analogue clock. We woke one morning to find this plastic circle thing hanging on the kitchen wall. It had a black frame and numbers around the outside and three sticks of different lengths coming out of the middle. The thinnest stick moved in a twitchy way. And when the room was empty and if you sat very still, you could hear it going “tick, tick, tick…” The other sticks didn’t seem to move at all, although every time I came back into the room I could’ve sworn they had changed position.

“I know how to use this,” I thought, “it’s like that thing on Playschool.” When the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three then you’ve got half an hour to play before Playschool. As I got older I learnt other times too: when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the six it’s time for “Goodies…goodie, goodie, yum, yum”.

But the legacy of reading only digital timepieces had left its mark. I would stand there in the kitchen looking up at the clock, waiting until mum came along. “What’s the time Mum?” I would ask, knowing she would never tell. And so I was forced to stand there a bit longer, staring, until I had some kind of epiphany or figured out what time it was. (Sometimes I would just turn on the telly, see what was on, and check the time in the TV guide.)

Now, in my adult life, I wear my analogue watch. The hours move like water; not slow, just more flowing. As a teacher—regimented by bells and timetables—I find this both soothing and unsettling. I don’t rush about so much or get flustered if I’m running late. But I do take longer to read the analogue because my mathematical brain still translates it back into the digital read-out. And every once in a while I’ll misread it and get “half-past” mixed up with “o’clock”. When this happens, my students are very pleasantly surprised when I wrap up the lesson thirty minutes before the end.

I going to stick with the analogue though. There’s something about it. It pretends to be still. But those hands, you know they’re moving, watching you as you read the paper over your bowl of Weeties—one coming closer while the other moves away. They’re only hands, there are other parts of the body, but the hands do the touching, the holding. Hands wave goodbye. Hands clench into fists and strike, like an hour in a second.
An analogue watch is both fascinating and frightening because it is a physical representation of time. The numbers are of little consequence; it is not a measuring device like the digital. We can stop time by pulling out the batteries—a digital will go blank—but an analogue holds onto the last place it remembers. And so we relate to the hands. Even when they’re dead. And when they are living we forgive them, because they, like us, get excited and run fast and get tired and slow down. And eventually the little cogs wear out.