Today we went to the pier again, the one we can walk to, and contemplated, which is a bourgeois thing to do according to Marxists.
Our daily walk and bourgeois musing has become my favourite part of the day, just walking and thinking and talking and wondering things such as how on earth did we end up here right now, and what shall we make of our lives from this point?
I still wake up each day feeling like I’ve been whacked over the head so it takes a while for the reality of my existence to sink in and the fresh air helps. Come to think of it I’ve felt whacked over the head for much of my adult life. But that’s beside the point. And Kiki is here now to guarantee an ever greater state of bewilderment, just in case I begin to feel an inkling of my feet touching the ground.
Life right now feels like a sort of hiatus and it’s easy to get swallowed by the surreal feeling, so it's good to walk and think and discuss all sorts of things in varying minutiae.
Today it was music and writing and LA and Paris and LA OR Paris and Melbourne and Queenscliff and lighthouses. We discovered the Point Lonsdale lighthouse was erected in 1854. I thought about lighthousekeepers. And we talked about world war two because of the old forts you can see built into the hill as you walk back towards the shore from the pier. And we talked about d-day and all those fields of white crosses in Normandy. And we sat and looked out at the ocean and tried to orientate ourselves according to the land we could see. And we saw the image of rain far away.
I like being here, near the water. In this strange way I feel closer to, say, Paris, here than I do, say, in a city like Melbourne. That may seem weird because Point Lonsdale is a tiny beach village that couldn’t really be metaphorically or geographically further from, say, Paris. It’s even miles away from the airport. But the thing is you can look out over the water and forget that you know it’s Sorrento over there. It could be anywhere. You could dive into the water and come up and there you’d be, at Prune, drinking an Affligem, picking at a little glass bowl of questionable cacahuètes. You could even be in New York. But if you’re somewhere like Melbourne, say, you know you’re in Melbourne, even if you squint really hard in the Paris end of Collins Street. There’s no suspension of disbelief. Not like looking out over water.
Anyway, there were lots of thoughts and possibilities as we sat there looking out. And we felt fat and bourgeois and grateful just to have Choice.
|Bill Henson 'Untitled'|