One Touch Is Never Enough

It’s a Saturday night, the city is full of scantily clad Mardi Gras revelers and I’m sitting at home feeling really quite lost, playing LCD Sound System at a volume that can only be described as obnoxious, watching this beautiful video and being slowly overcome by the need to do something incandescent and reckless. Like get my face tattooed. Or move to India.

The few month hiatus on this blog being due to the fact that we spent a large portion of that time backpacking around the subcontinent, and the fact that I find myself back in Sydney is a continual source of surprise and wonder. It’s testament to J’s skillls in the art of reasoning, logical thought and persuasion that I got on that plane at all, and the desire to go back is almost too strong to resist. One touch is never enough. Hence, a madcap plan to move back there in June. So in the meantime, I’ve nicked an idea from J and am currently writing a list of things which make me happy, to salvage something from the wreckage of a party last night where everybody just wanted to talk about how many drugs they’re taking, which put me in the current dangerous, wanting frame of mind…

Thus far: new stationery, riding my bike, the light in my room of an afternoon, receiving Semester Rules from J, drum magazine, pinning new gigs on the corkboard, cherry and dark chocolate muffins, the thread, stovetop chai, our sideboard, getting mail, sending mail, white-framed glasses, the beautiful freaks on King St, Courthouse drinks, playing dress-ups with Sophie, cumin, the virtuous feeling I get from packing lunch for uni all week, J’s handwriting, planting flowers in our back garden, freshly washed sheets, riding to Glebe markets of a Saturday, playing the piano at Vic Park Pool, lindt 80% cocoa chocolate, haircuts, a leatherbound copy of A Fine Balance, India, plane tickets, late night phone calls drunk on possibility, tying a headscarf in a huge bow on my head, lighthouses, a photo of us drinking wine, campfires, soy capuccinos, smuts, dancing inappropriately somewhere which is not smuts,  that inspired mood you find yourself in after reading frankie, tiger airways, trains, saturday nights involving tea and a book, lists, instructions from Tona, fireplaces in mountain houses, the way that most boys I know harbour a secret desire to be Bear Gryllz, not snoozing my alarm, Spanish, getting film developed, Woodford, tacking photos to my walls, throwing parties, cooking for people, clean kitchens,  drunk calls from Carey, “how was your day” messages, sundays, lurking J’s sisters tumblr, trashy nights in a sequinned black dress, gin and tonics, drinking on our roof, forced interstate exboyfriendsitting missions, fairylights, tea candles, buskers on my way home from the station, Sophie’s paintings, apricots and almonds, lanterns in our loungeroom, memories like photographs, “act natural”, wall calendars, navy blue sharpies, when second hand shoes fit, gardenias, roundabouts, Bronte Beach, when your disposable film comes out perfectly, books that fit in your handbag, my jacket with the penguin-classic-sized pockets, reading old journals/listbooks, blueberries, baking, a cleam bedroom, tea made by somebody else, when shuffle just gets it right, papermate biros, sticky date pudding, cooking breakfast, having time to read the paper before uni, vanilla perfume oil, wisteria vine taking over our backyard, darrel lea peppermint nougat bars, nerd corner at crema, the old fish shop cafe, furniture made from milk crates, recycling bins full of bottles, hills hoists, the ‘nepal’ blanket, peant butter straight from the jar, that post-festival-clean feeling, lying on the kitchen floor listening to dubstep at a stupidly loud volume, red wine lips, folk song lyrics bingo, dancing the Charleston, Newtown markets, Harry Potter references, playing cards, writing, flying, climbing out my window to sit in the sun on the roof, halwa, lactic acid burn in your legs,  that feeling of winter sun on your back, salty eyelashes, being just a little bit sunburnt, The Far Pavilions, making playlists, writing letters, pretty notebooks, nose rings, unnecessary stapling, browsing second hand shops, washing up to Billy Joels’ “Vienna”, people who care about things, dress-up parties, Indian coincidences following me home, and the knowledge that I will be back so very soon.

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