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/

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

The Internationalist

From one plane, I got into another. All in the name of "Seeing the World" and "Hearing the sounds of the roaring globe". I started in Sydney and got on a plane to London.

"2 years", I told myslef.

I was going to feel the weight of sandstone and history. See the art and architecture. Be wet with rain. Go dance in indie-clubs and listen to the next big (but currently unknown) band. I went to discover what I wanted from life and how to make myself whole.

"Rebel! Rebel!", I told myself! An ambition that dissolved into to ministry.

I cried, each night, on my pillow, from the aching in my heart -
The eternal pining to call somewhere home, to feel complete and to be loved.

In London, I saw (and smelt) gypsy caravans. I wore the wellington boots and drank the pimms. I was quiet on a creaking tube and was loud on conservative streets. I grew mad with adversity and animosity.

I fell in Love!

I fell in love with the girl I'll always remember.

The girl who makes me feel loss to be talking about.

I lived the life of a romantic poet in Belgium.

I had cigars and wine; all before 10 in the morning!

I have the sonnets and prose to prove it.

I missed my friends and I missed my friend.

I tore my heart into pieces. I planted them everywhere I went.

I knew I could never reclaim them.

I hid in Holland. I found a place they'd call 'Gesellig'. I covered it in a thin sheet of night, placed it in a wicker basket and, later, into a parcel.

Then I forwarded on to New York;

There, I found the light and happiness I was missing.

A chunk of me, that I'd left in Sydney, was realised. I found it in the people who were surrounding the city. I knew I would need them to be near me - forever.

I went to New Jersey next, where I was alone again.

I cried. Overcome with the love I felt from the people I had been with.

"How could they love me," I thought, "when I'm like me?"

Next, I was overwhelmed by Love so big that it shattered me! And the Love I found, it directed me sternly - all while I was waiting in the New Jersey Airport!

I remember that during the time I was away, a friend died and left the world; while another died to truth and was now of the world, more than ever- and in conversation, the latter had become an epidemic.

New love was brewing and old love was being solidified.

I heard a call from an impossible place - Sydney....

... but I was boarding a flight back to London!

When I arrived in London, I was frantic. I started gathering materials in order to depart.
I left overnight and I said no goodbyes, though part of me was still burried there.

As the plane was landing in Sydney, I knew exactly where I was, but I dare not say how long I was there for; "I'm only anywhere as long as I'm present."

Here (again), I found pieces of me I never knew I had; Familiarity is a curse to understanding & innocents is a blessing to experience!

I found new eyes and saw everything as a beginning, though much had changed and ended.

I was the best I'd ever been and so glad to be me.

I booked a short stay in Hong Kong;

On top of one of Asia's peaks, by the foot of the world's largest Buddha, I drank scotch from a hip-flask I had purchased at a market in China and smoked the pipe I got in Chelsea. I was sitting, silhouetted in perfect blue sky, eating the plain rice I bought from a monk...

I wished that everyone I knew was there.

Life is where I live. Love is where I'm home.
To complete myself, I don't gather all of my heart's scattered pieces from accross the earth;
I love people and give them a piece of my whole, but broken, heart.


jf. x

Some things are more perfect for what they're not.

I've been doing temp work in a nice office. By all means, it's exactly as an office should be. It's clean, and smells clean; each night a small troop of (allegedly) legal immigrants sweep through the building restoring order- like gnomes of the world 'mise en place'. It has air-conditioning (literally set to 'Office Temp'). Its lights are not so bright as to offend, nor dim enough to give a headache, illuminated exactly as the utopian industrial park would recommend. The desks and other work-type-units are as practical as they are rigid. The insulated glass keeps the noise outside and the quiet in; I can hear nothing but the sounds of my college and me typing. Nothing is out of place.

I hate it.

I think it's true to say that romance and fondness are formed in blemishes. How disappointing life would be without disappointment! Consider a road trip without adversity. Would it have been an adventure at all? What would it have been without the hilarious story about that time when your car broke down and an unforgettably unsavoury truck driver lent you a hand- your friend does an impression of him later.

Think of glistening memories attached to camping trips you went on as a kid; now remember how it rained the whole time, you slept in a puddle and got pneumonia, in the few hours there was sun, you got ridiculously sun burnt and went home covered in mosquito bites. Your mum blamed your father for being irresponsible and it was the best time of your life.

How tragic would a pirate map be if it was perfectly presented on a crisp white, clean cut piece of A4 paper? It has got to be stained and worn, burnt on the edges and a little torn, or else it's not a pirate map at all. It'd just be some terrible children's drawing with a big red 'x' and a bit that says "here be Monsters".

I've never understood people who take photos and then have them printed on a canvas; they've taken the canvas, blank risk, pure potential, artistic adrenalin, a surface destined for the next Egon Schiele and then safe-guarded it with some massive print of a photo they already knew they liked. To me, it lacks luster. Does anyone else agree that we need to leave photos in frames?

I like good coffee, but for some reason, I love drinking bad coffee; the sort of coffee that an American-diner would serve. Black Coffee. I'm picturing one of those rounded glass pots that the waiter keeps pouring and the coffee is never-ending. I'm in love with that place. Understand though, it's got nothing to do with the coffee, but all to do with the scene in which I'm drinking it – Sitting in the company of none but me and my moleskin, clinging onto that cup to keep me awake, fueling thought and discussion. A tragic, romantic and self indulgent setting (see earlier post 'Untitled').

If it were good coffee, I'd be in a terribly civilized environment trying to fit in, but in my 'dream' diner, I'm no different to the 5-O'clock-Shadow-hobo sitting opposite me. He and I aren't trying to be distinguished anymore. We've been brought together by the ideals of our bad coffee and all of a sudden, we have a perfect understanding. We're connected because of what we're not, where we're not.

Houses that are too clean make me nervous. Times New Roman, blue ink and excel sheets make me feel sick. I never want to be the person who has to organize everything in advance to feel secure; the person who would be stressed on planning, rather than giddy with not knowing. I never want to forget how much fun getting dirty is.

Perhaps my distain for this 'perfect' work-space stems from an underpinned love for humanity. I want it and everything else to be as imperfect as you and I, both loveable characters.

jf. x

A Professional Thinker.

I had this same thought when I was Young.

Which is still true -It's the same thought & I'm still young.

I'm going to be a writer.

A Writer is no more than a professional thinker. I'm inconsistent in everything beyond thinking. If a writer is telling a story or examining the human condition, he uses words to make the thought possible for anyone else to understand... like a painter uses colours & form for the sake of any one viewing their art- We can see a picture they'd dreamt up. Whether or not we understand

I can think. I can use words.

Even if I'm misunderstood, I can be a writer.

Similar to the sermons of a Pastor {A professional Christian}, a professional thinker articulates memory and thought into form for the benefit of others. Be it Entertainment or Edification.

Spending countless hours in Cafes, Art Galleries, Foreign countries, gathering thoughts to retell from a certain perspective.

That sounds like a life.

To be thrown into the mix of Nobility and Rebellion, creating thoughts from a kaleidoscope of dreams.

That's what I want.

That's why I'm a writer.

jf. x