mornings...

The sounds of the morning are few, and all hidden under the wind, and the sound of my own breathing after a half walk/half run to the station because my hot shower was just too good to get out of. There is a rooster crowing, though how he knows the sun is coming is beyond me, as my eyes see not even the slightest hint of colour in the east. There is a dog barking, probably in response to the crowing, but i'm sure the neighbours would prefer that canine alarm clock went off a little later.
I listen to the rustle of leaves between the time markings of the animals, and think i hear my train in the distance. I'm not sure if i believe my ears, and start to tie my shoe laces, but the noise swells and my eyes confirm that i need to work a little faster on those laces, which are so easy to control when there is no cat attached to one end.
The train arrives, and it smells like morning. A sickly sweet soapy smell that reminds me this is one of the first trains of the day, and as such, it has come directly from the yards, and still smells of the cleaning products of large institutions, and that the few small puddles are left over from a rushed mopping job, rather than a spilt drink or the too many wet feet and umbrellas of the past days.
As i sit down it's time to change my soundtrack (what did that announcement just say? Surely it must have been 'dulwich hill'). Head phones in, and the squeak of carriage coupling is muffled already. Expert thumbs on a touch screen and Anya Marina starts singing to me. The next announcement is clearly marrickville (clearly?) but it is only half heard over the subversive lyrics of a singer whose age is apparently a state secret (maybe 29 at the time of recording this song, an educated guess).
The doors open and it must be redfern. I didn't hear (or understand) the guard, and i can see no sign, but there are more platforms but less ceilings than other stations on this line. The train (still sickly sweet, how much longer till i can breath stale air?) pulls away, and the sign that says redfern glides past (2 more stations, just breath shallow for 2 more stations).
Platforms as far as i can see means we're now at Central, my fellow morning life forms and i, half awake, barely functioning as humans, heads bowed, eyes open, but blank stares at nothing show the time more clearly than any clock can. The sun is not up as the train enters the tunnel that indicates i'll soon be able to breath more easily.
Ah, the fresh? air of an underground station, cleaner than a new york subway station, but not as fresh as what i am walking towards. Not as cold either.
Through the ticket gate with experienced fingers in charge of my ticket, my exit, working on a subconscious level, because cognitive function hasn't made it that far yet.
23 mins to make a 10 min walk uphill. Slower now than my early morning trot as i have the luxury of excess minutes on my side, and still no hint of sunrise.
One hand employed to tuck in my singlet, the other to pull up my hood. I'm glad of the memories wrapped around me, keeping me warm against that wind pushing me towards work (caffeine calling me). The memory of italy in a north face jacket, bought by my sister to ward off an italian winter more bitter and biting than this winter morning could ever hope to be. The scarf made of a fine black knit material, as soft and lovely as your favourite t-shirt, now holding the memory of being wrapped around my neck by a beautiful woman, whose name is all i know, yet.
Still standing still, waiting for the lights to change in my favour (surely i'm not so focused (half asleep) as to have missed the tell tale beep of the crossing letting me know it's my turn?). The van pulling off before the lights have changed, knowing the pattern so well that his light is green before he enters the intersection.
And i am sick of standing still with this cold hand tapping my back, looking for little ways to get in and give me a chill, so i cross against the lights, asking my brain to engage long enough to get me to the other side without mishap.
Up the hill, past the bakery (open for hours already), the pubs(just closing) and the coffee shops (just opening - i still have 10 mins).
Still no hint of the sun (where is it hiding today?) as i face the last two blocks, the blocks that encourage me to keep my head down and keep walking as harmless drunk homeless people ask me for change that i can't afford to spare today. Past the newsagent that i have to come back to soon, and to the final set of lights. The last open pub at my back, and the first, faintest, lightening of the sky.

My working day begins.

cigarettes and arrogant french girls

are things i shouldn't have - but for some reason they are both things that i kinda want...


I've had so much to write recently that i've written nothing. about the girl who nobody likes at first, but once you get to know her she's fine. about being single when you're sad and the poetry that comes with it - incomplete, forever. about the really sad book i am reading - that i have to read - that is so beautifully written that i want to read it. and also about the fact that the time that these things have chosen to be written about is the middle of my work day - day 4/8 and one of 11 shifts in 12 days.

So, here i sit, scribbling on paper far too small to contain all these big things, wanting a cigarette, and wondering what it was about that slightly arrogant french girl that got me wound up...

The boss here, has a reputation... I knew her when we were both in our early teens, she is a yr or two older than me. Not much now, but enough then. She was just generally superior to me in the way she acted, but never outright mean, and i didn't hate her. Now, people who meet her think she is not nice, but everyone who has worked with her or known her for a few months always says, you just have to get used to her. And it is so true. But it got me to thinking, would i really want to be the girl that you "just have to get to know" to like???

as i drove to work last weekend, watching the road through tears, i was thinking it was times like these that i miss having a partner. someone to hold me while i cry. and these four lines of poetry came. i will post them here, rather than over with the rest of my poetry as it is very short, and will never be more than these 4 lines...

Dry your eyes baby girl,

no-one's coming for to help you

wipe your tears on your own sleeve

there's no-one to hold you now.

Beloved, by Toni Morrison. read it. but maybe read it when the sun is shining in your life, coz it's a tough read. and if you know nothing about the history of slavery in America i believe it would be even tougher... I have to read it for class, but i'm glad to have discovered  it, because it is brilliant - but its affecting me... it's not helping me be happy...


and now it seems


that is all...