There will be a post. Later. When I can see th keyboard properly… When I’ m not telling my friend’s cat to ‘come at me bro’. Possibly about th slippery topic of nostalgia. I may be too distracted by th chirping birds (feckers) and nomming my cheez sammich. Th least offensive pic in my phone is something with trees. Enjoy & stay tuned…
January was a party that never really ended. As the Southern Hemisphere is wont to do, the weather was extreme and thus most of my time was spent indoors with the air conditioner blasting or outside drinking copious amounts of fluids which may or may not be conducive to writing, schedules, editing and sobriety…
I needed to blow off a lot of steam. Things did not go well with some sectors of my friendship network, in fact some went thermonuclear and there is still a lot of space junk floating around as a result.
I have endeavoured to clear the air and restore my soul by spending my time in more leisurely activities, thus my lack of writing this blog. I write this not as an apology to the occasional casual reader of my musings, more as a reminder to myself that I am allowed to recuperate from certain life events by any means necessary. I often forget to give myself some slack and then I crash headlong into a wall built of antipathy and coated in ennui.
We lost a lot of things in Christchurch, courtesy of never ending earthquakes. 180 lives, countless buildings, livelihoods of many citizens were destroyed, landmarks and social histories obliterated. One thing I didn’t mourn was the loss of the hipster population.
Without their regular venues in which to flaunt poorly cultivated facial hair, display skinny jean clad snake hips (no hipster would be guilty of having a healthy B.M.I) or never ending collection of ironic t-shirts, the hipster as a clique ceased to exist in most parts of Chch.
There would always be a small enclave, occasionally found at the organic food co-op on Stanmore Rd or sinking an expensive brew at the newly opened ale house, tavern or bars that have popped up in the ‘burbs surrounding the town proper.
I hadn’t missed them and had barely noticed their demise until my recent forays into the bustling and ever hustling social nexus that ol’ Melbourne town has to offer. You can’t swing a hand crafted, vintage Italian moustache comb without hitting hipsters in Melbs. It’s one of the modern day Mecca for the terminally hip. This fact was bought screaming to my attention when I passed a board adorning a coffee shop on Exhibition St in the cbd. The black board sought to inform all of the impending release of a new, magical bean blend. Only 40 cups would be available of this modern ambrosia. Pre – order to avoid missing out.
Wtf? I’ll admit that this first world dilemma is completely lost on me, I’ve never drunk coffee. I love the smell of it, it makes me think of Italy, flirtations with sexy smart strangers, and other grown up and unmentionable passions. I know the taste of it could never live up to the hype of my fevered imaginings and thus is best avoided to deter another life episode of bitter disappointment.
I am as ever, an outsider, even in the city of my birth. Twenty years of being invited to participate in the various social distractions has yet to garner me with a sense of belonging that I may not actually want. These musings have been percolating (pun intended) for the last few weeks. I have deliberately avoided many events upon returning to the Garden State, too many emotions to vex and torment me, too few dollars to spend after relocation and jobless situation still to be rectified. The most pertinent factors in my dodging social obligations would be my lack of patience with petty self involvement of other people, hipster or not. Earthquakes are good like that, they help you see what’s truly important and swallow up all of the unnecessary detritus that accessorises modern life in the big city.
Uncool and uncomplicated *hot chocolate* shown below 😉