Love sydney.

From Broken Bay to Palm beach, there are four million reasons to love Sydney.

If you get up early enough, you'll see the mist and the moment it catches the morning's sun, enveloping everything in a golden blanket that spans from The Blue Mountains to Bronte.

Light bounces between blue skies, trees and the pavement. You'll catch the garbos doing their morning rounds.

The air is crisp and fresh. Kids walk through dew soaked lawns. Men and women head back from the gym, buying orange juice from the cafes that line the streets of Leichhardt, Paddington and Caringbar.

There's a song made by a great orchestra. It's comprised of the cyclists riding through Bay View, the school bells of suburbia, the waves at Bondi, the coffee machines in Surry Hills, the Uni student hitting the snooze button, Manly Ferry's diesel engine, a camera taking a photo of the opera house, the Gallery of NSW opening it's heavy doors, the lady's high-heels that echo through Martin Place.

When you get up early enough to see Sydney unfold, you can't help but love it.

You feel the pace of it's heart and get an overwhelming sense that it's alive.

In every moment, there's opportunity to fall In Love.

In love with Sydney and in love with it's people.

jf.x

http://www.lovesydney.org/

Their Love and Her Visa

The Issue of the Visa,

It left them both divided,

Hearts in foreign lands,

They often call for home,

Youth in Love, plagued with rationality,

illusionary power created by morality and faith,

It crushed them in their closeness,

dark-time slowed in moments,

acoustic beats played by rain

and windscreen wipers,

Not ready for collision,

two hands separate, 

drifting in distant air,

The other two are Finger-locked

and bonded for eternity,

Her slowness, in mourning,

His sunken-eyes, full,

Inevitability and decision

became so hard to bare.

There is sorrow

Today is full of tomorrow-thoughts,

and all the tomorrows go unknown,

In thinking -  Love has been forgotten,

Geography leaks from their paper-cup,

There is no patch for what is being lost.

jf. x

Moving into 5th

Driving at night, lights from the road cast long & drawn out silhouettes across the upholstered roof of Dad's van. This is a beautiful moment. Behind the wheel, I feel the grit of the steering column with each subtle turn. I cruise along the bends with life under my palms.

It's not an ideal vehicle, but it's full of endless nostalgia. There is sand wedged into every inch of stitching in its seats. Each piece is a relic of summer holidays and other adventures.

I've got my window down. The cabin is full of fresh, crisp air. It ruffles my hair on entry. The radio struggles to deliver a station. It produces a sound which is stifled by the traffic gliding past. Despite what's playing, I sing a song (at least the words I know) that remind me of youth's experience; girlfriends, best friends, lighting fires and staying up all night at the bay. I smile, recalling moments of happiness and even some of pain.

I've taken my tie off at some traffic lights. It's now on the dusty floor. My sleeves are folded up and around my wrist, they flutter with the wind that pours in.

Headed down a long and gradual hill, I slide into 5th, crunching the old wreck's gear box. On this perfectly still night, I feel as though I've the only thing moving. And as I roll down the hill, it's more like I'm effortlessly flying than driving. The motion is exhilarating.

I've got to get up early in the morning, but I'm in no hurry. I'm enjoying this time too much. For a moment, it's like being on vacation, nothing matters here. I'm away and free.

It's only me. Left alone with my thoughts. Illuminated by the dashboard and passing headlights.

jf. x