Day 24

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

T. S. Eliot

It is amazing how early it is possible to catch a tram and a bus, and equally amazing just how terrified I am of each new experience, even such a simple one as catching an earlier tram than usual. Every untried context seems hostile and highly threatening. It is entirely alien – until, at some unconscious signal from my brain, it isn’t. At some point, something shifts within me, and the world goes from being unknown to known. At that point, a sense of ownership sets in. I begin to walk and act differently within the space, feeling it expand like an extended part of myself. It is a powerful and exhilarating feeling, owning the space I inhabit, moving with all the confidence of a reigning monarch. Always assuming, of course, that a reigning monarch could or would walk unobtrusively in the metaphorical shadows. At these times I imagine myself as a female Aragorn, come into her full power but occasionally donning once again the cloak of Strider, passing silently through vast stretches of wilderness known to few.

Perhaps it is simply a byproduct of so much time spent in one place, but, having once begun to challenge myself, I find that I am now actively seeking opportunities to do it again. Small ways perhaps, tiny even, but large and magnificent for me. If I could ever be said to engage in thrill-seeking (that thought makes me laugh!) then that is what I am doing now. And so, this morning found me at the tram stop before 5.00am, standing in the uncomfortably stage-lit tram station, exposed and vulnerable.

Unsurprisingly, there were few people on the first tram of a Sunday morning. There was the inevitable lanky guy with a hoodie pulled well over his face, slouched in his seat and with skinny legs spread-eagled out to glory. What is it that makes some guys seem to take up at least three times their physical mass in space? There was a subdued, bleary-eyed couple with large suitcases, clearly bound for the airport. The end of a holiday; always a depressing time. And there was a girl dressed in some kind of work uniform. It occurred to me that the nature of the passengers must change enormously over the course of the day, so I amused myself with imagining what it would be like to get on the early tram and simply not get off, remaining in my seat and watching the tram change as it went back and forth, back and forth, along its track. I imagined how the energy would change as it became inhabited by an ever-shifting parade of people bound on different missions, forming and dissolving temporary communities on a constant basis. Like watching the evolution of a civilisation in microcosm. If I were to do such a thing, I wonder how long it would be before the driver noticed that there was one constant in the sea of change, or more likely, before the ticket inspectors boarded and discovered that I had tapped on rather a long time previously. What would I say to them? Would they give me a fine or merely make me get off?

When the tram reached its terminus I boarded the airport bus with the bleary-eyed couple. To my delight it was one of the new double deckers (a bit of an overkill at that time!) and I was able to ride on the top deck, at the very front, looking down on the road below me. And then, at the beach of my destination. Funny that it seemed so much darker here, simply because it was unfamiliar to me. It felt oppressive and at first I was afraid to walk onto the beach itself. While the park was busier than the one by my own beach, the beach itself seemed much emptier and uninviting. There was an invisible shield rebuffing me and I hesitated. But then I made out a lone figure standing in the shallows. That gave me the permission I needed and I walked this new beach with increasing confidence. Gladness came when I picked up, albeit faintly, the scent of the sea. That’s one thing that’s strangely missing from my own beach. There is no seaside smell to it. The air smells entirely clean and normal. It is beautiful, soft air that fills my lungs in a way that Canberra air doesn’t, but there is no scent of salt or sea. No briny smell of seaweed. It detracts a little from the experience, as though I am just watching it on TV, with not all senses available to be experienced. But here, just faintly, one can know that one has arrived at the ocean.

As I walked I began to notice a flickering orange light in the distance. It was too small to be a fire, but it looked exactly like one in the way it moved. I became curious and forgot to look at either water or approaching light, my gaze entirely on the strange small light, wondering what it could be. Finally I was close enough to see. It was a fire! The last remains of one, anyway. A final log still had flames licking at it. At first I thought it had been abandoned and I was shocked. Who would leave an untended fire in Australia, even on a beach? But then I saw the semi-camouflaged form of a sleeping bag and long blonde hair. A girl was sleeping there. I was deeply thrilled. As far as I know, not only lighting fires, but also sleeping on the beach, is completely illegal, so I wondered that she had been so willing to draw attention to herself. Yet here she was, fast asleep, and from the look of her fire, no one had challenged her for a while. Apparently the police had not visited this part of the beach on this night, or, if they had, they had kindly chosen not to notice, seeing that the fire appeared to pose no immediate threat to the nearby dune grasses. If she didn’t wake soon it would be a different story, but I decided to leave her to find that out for herself.

I cannot get the appearance of that fire out of my mind. Partly it is simply the idea that she camped on the beach that excites me. But the idea of spending a night with fire has really captured my imagination. Have you ever noticed that no two flames are the same? It’s something I only discovered when I began lighting candles almost every night. Instead of extinguishing each match when I finish with it, I hold it up, watching it until it burns out. And I have seen that every match behaves differently, even in the same conditions. Some flames die almost immediately, others flare up to surprising heights and burn for ages. Some smoulder, barely a flame at all and some are strangely lopsided, jutting out to one side in bumps rather than rising uniformly to the top. Each one, I have learned, is as unique a life form as a person or animal or tree. For a brief moment, each lives a life. Does it feel all-too brief to the flame, or does it have the timeless intensity of eternity?

And then I raise the candle. The elusive electric blue at the base of the flame is one of the prettiest things I have ever seen. I could watch it for ages. And I am equally fascinated by candle wicks. How is it that they burn, blacken and glow bright orange, and yet retain their integrity? As I watch them burn, I can see their coils, like the plaiting of a rope, and the wick remains upright, curling over a little at the top. It burns. And still lives.

I thought of this as I watched the sleeping girl’s camp fire and as I moved away afterwards. She had taken my candle idea and taken it to a whole new level. No doubt sleeping before camp fires is a very common experience (though I’ve never experienced it), but I don’t imagine it happens too often on urban beaches. But then, maybe it does, and there truly is a whole world I have never imagined out there. This, and many other experiences, is making me reassess this place in which I find myself living. It is not a place I would ever have chosen for myself. Too urban, too glitzy, too touristy altogether. A place devoted to hedonism and materialism. I call it the City of Dreams because people come here chasing their dreams. Not many find them. Whatever they run away from seems to follow them. A few are successful and they are obvious as they strut about in their designer polo shirts, expensive hair styles and even more expensive cars. I often wonder, though. If they are so successful, why do they have such a need to strut, like peacocks? They look awfully insecure, perched as they are. Many more seem to be wannabes, hanging around the highly-glitzed in the hope of learning the secrets and and achieving success for themselves. A great many more are unemployed or else end up performing just exactly the same forms of drudgery they would perform anywhere else, and the uncounted masses of them extend endlessly into the interior suburbs. Of all those I see here, the most truly “successful” are the original inhabitants, the surfers. I remember hearing that this city first came into existence simply because people wanted it to exist. They had a dream of a lifestyle, and they made it happen. It came into being not through industry or even tourism, but through surfing and the beach lifestyle. Now it has become the City of [Broken] Dreams, but still the surfers remain. They alone, with the First Peoples of this land, know its true secrets.

So I never would have thought of this as a destination of choice for myself. Ironic really. All those people working hard to migrate here, trying to change their lives, and I end up here by default. If I could have chosen, I would have chosen somewhere much quieter, a small town in a pretty, forested area perhaps. Somewhere peaceful and full of natural beauty. But I would make a truly awful farm worker. Plenty of people become temporary jillaroos or farm workers as a working holiday adventure, but I would be a total disaster. I was scared to even pick up a baby bird! And, as my father once drily told me, my choice of degree has not fitted me for any vocation or employment. I am, essentially, without skills or any real employability. It was lucky that my parents had friends who could be persuaded to do them a favour. And one of those friends, more a distant acquaintance, didn’t live in Canberra. Beggars not being choosers, I was grateful for any opportunity that would pull me away from home. And thus, here I am. I’m not sure I’ve ever been particularly grateful for that fact, until now.

Catching an early bus in Canberra, for example, wouldn’t feel exactly like an adventure. Bus stops are definitely not exciting places there. In fact, the interchanges seem to collect a strange detritus of people, hangers-on who slouch and mope and drink. Hangers-on who frequently become angry and abusive. Fights break out and weary police arrive, bored with the repetitive scene. Rubbish blows down grey streets and all you want to do is be somewhere else. There is also less to observe there. If I were to sit in any of the city centres there, I would stand out much more obviously than I do here. In a place filled with purpose (apart from the abusive “malingerers”), a static, purposeless person would be more of an oddity. It’s just not that kind of place. Here it is much easier to wander aimlessly, to sit in parks and simply watch the passing parade, as I am doing right now, every time I look up from my iPad with its annoyingly fast-moving battery percentage.

* * *

There are markets here! I saw the sign this morning when I arrived on the bus but at the time I was too nervous to think about what that meant and I soon forgot all about it. But when at last I glanced up from writing I glimpsed tents in the distance and remembered. I have just been in amongst all the stalls. Clothes and jewellery of course, as well as food and coffee. Could you go anywhere without finding coffee? Quilts and leatherwork, crystals, pottery and plants. A small city of tents, alive and vibrant in a way that chain stores can never be. Markets remind us that life isn’t about safety, predictability and certainty in an endless, affordable supply. It's about unique quirkiness, colourful crookedness, flaws and never-to-be-seen-again loveliness. You can taste life in a true market place. You don’t even have to buy anything. It’s all yours to see, for free. I found myself unexpectedly in conversation with a man who imports one-off pairs of Peruvian boots, thanks to a friendship he struck up by chance whilst on holiday. He is now godfather to several Peruvian children and lives his life in two worlds.

It was at one of the crystal stalls that I weakened. It was a tiny painting of bats on a mother-of-pearl pendant that did it. It was a very simple picture and there’s no reason it should have attracted me any more than any other jewellery and I usually find no reason to spend money on things like that. But as soon as I looked at it I was transported to the night on which I saw the bats fly before the full moon. It was like a talisman of adventure, strength and possibility. A reminder that the world is mine, if I choose to have it. So now the pendant is mine, to carry with me as a reminder of who I am. As a souvenir of this once-in-a-lifetime month.

It was here that I was also tested for the first time. I saw someone from work! Fortunately I saw her before she saw me, because I stopped still, absolutely frozen, and if she had seen me then she would have seen “GUILT” written in flaming capitals across my face. My mind completely froze with my body and for a moment I could not think. Then I forced myself to breathe. It was not someone I knew well, so she wouldn’t expect a conversation. Nevertheless I adjusted my course so that we wouldn’t have to pass directly. I didn’t think I was ready to carry off the whole “non-explanation” response yet. By the time she looked up I hope I looked completely cool and nonchalant. We merely looked at each briefly and gave that slight nod and quarter smile that passes as polite greeting. And then we moved on to our own pursuits.

What a high! I said and did nothing really, and yet my heart is still racing. I feel like some kind of undercover agent, playing a role, it feels so weird to be acting like this. And it occurs to me now that she probably had no more idea what to say than I did! What are the rules around seeing someone who’s supposed to be ill out enjoying the sunshine? What do you say to someone in that situation? She was just as stuck by the polite conventions as I was.

If I can achieve this, what else can I achieve on the quest of actually presenting people with my unvarnished self? So much more still to learn, but oh, so possible I am finding. So here I sit, in a beautiful park, watching a pair of high-fashion kick boxers attempt to improve their already ripped bodies. Free facilities, free entertainment, a beautiful beach, wonderful pine trees for shade and rest, even a council employee to wipe down all the tables for us. All for the benefit of the tourists and the illusion of glamour in this City of Dreams. Perhaps there is room here for dreams after all.