All new everything

Cool hips, swivelling heads and new beginnings rattling everything loose.

This week's post is a snapshot of different moments and notes from my first few weeks living in Melbourne. It has taken me a couple of weeks to gather my thoughts, my brain resembling one of those old school printers pumping out reams and reams of paper. Far too much data to process, and so it all piles up, layer upon layer, like cream being piped onto a cake.

This has confirmed beyond a doubt that I would make a poor frontline reporter. I'm happy to go into the eye of the storm and provide a report on the cyclone, but first I will need a walk and/or a hot drink with a window to look out of so I can provide a deeper, more nuanced account, perhaps dig out some symbolism, make a few connections to bigger ideas, and even provide some light humour, as long as it's not in bad taste.

I think each moment reflects the mood of the past few weeks too. One of disorientation, of settling in, and of newness, with a few tangents that eventually find their way back again.

I hope you enjoy, and have a wonderful week wherever you are in the world.

It's one of those funny old days on the edge of winter. Technically, it's still Autumn, but outside has all the hallmarks of a winter day: dull, cold, and the rain unrelenting.

It's a bitter welcome on our first full day in the city. Completely unempathetic, I have to say. I can only assume that the weather is just as out of sorts as we are. I am watching it all with a hot tea in hand, so my spirits remain intact for now, but I can't say what might happen beyond that.

KB has just observed that her spine feels quite hot, but her hips are surprisingly cool. We discuss this for a while, marvelling at the disparity of temperature, despite the close proximity between the spine and hip area. It makes sense that you might have cold extremities, but not within the bounds of the torso, especially if there is equal coverage from outer layers.

I forgive the weather for now. We're all out of sorts at the moment, especially with this whole hot spine, cool hips situation. I'm inclined to put it down to just being one of those funny old days on the edge of winter.

I sometimes feel lost when I move somewhere new. It's a shock to the system. It rattles my foundations, shakes everything loose.

I think one reason for this is that moving to a new city offers you the chance to become someone new. You imagine who you might be there. The city presses in on you. How much you give over is up to the individual.

Walking past cafes and looking in, I imagine all the interesting conversations I will have there over coffee. There is also a park nearby and when the seasons change, I will go there regularly to write and draw. Here I will be at my most creative and inspired; flush with ideas. I will be fully self-actualised. Not just growing and learning, but also helping others and giving back. I will also be wearing the correct trousers as per the latest fashion.

It's like your existing self is running headlong into all the potential new versions of you, like two people carrying papers clattering into one another. Papers go flying and you lean down to pick up what’s yours. Some of it inevitably gets mixed up together.

Our early years are spent running blindly around corners, colliding with people and places. And, once you've dusted yourself off, figuring out what to keep and what to discard. Your identity is less known. Papers are constantly being shuffled, for good and bad.

What I've noticed though is that these days, things settle much as they did before. I am still open to change. Still willing to be foolish, but I know which papers are mine.

Tim Kreider said in an essay of his: "We are not infinitely malleable. Like it or not, you are a certain kind of person."

As of writing this, I am sitting at the kitchen table writing. I am yet to visit the trendy cafe I spotted, and it is too cold to sit in a park. I have had several conversations with the two cats we are looking after, none of which I would describe as interesting. Sadly, I am not wearing the correct trousers.

It's still early days though. I have a steady grip on my papers, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of two came loose.

New animal sightings:

1. Squirrel

Where: Outside the State Sports Centre in Albert Park, near South Melbourne.

Notes: There are squirrels in Melbourne? In Australia!? Apparently there are. I saw one run across the lawn and up a tree. Afterwards I checked the internet and there are conflicting reports about the existence of squirrels here. Someone suggested it might be a possum, which is what you might say if you'd seen a possum run across the lawn and up a tree, as opposed to a squirrel, which is definitely what I saw.

2. Ocean ducks

Where: St Kilda Beach.

Notes: There are ducks in the ocean? There are down at St Kilda Beach, rolling amongst the waves. We also spotted some sitting on rocks off the pier. Didn't realise they got down to the beach. Good on them.

3. Bengal cats

Where: the apartment we are living in.

Notes: Bengals are known to have dog-like personalities, and KB and I are slowly becoming obsessed with the two we are pet sitting. It's not exactly reciprocal either, but they have warmed to us. That might also be because it's cold, and we literally offer a good source of warmth. Having said that, one of them crapped on the spare bed last night so that feels like a backwards step.

4. Currawong

Where: Along our street, perched up in the maple trees. Technically I haven't sighted them, but I have heard them.

Notes: The bird call of the Currawong sounds like something you might hear in a rainforest. Or, when you answer a question wrong on a game show. Appearance-wise, it looks like a mix between a magpie and a crow. I asked my Dad about them (an ex-Melburnian) who says that their call typically signals that rain is on the way. Although, being that it's Melbourne, that could just be because it rains a lot here. What's that saying about a broken clock always being right twice a day?

It occurs to me after writing this, that all the animals mentioned above could quite rightly dispute being referred to as 'new'. They have been here all along; I am the new one.

When you are new somewhere, or a beginner at something, there is a desire to rush past the awkward stage. To feel settled already, and have it all mapped out so you can pass for a local, or look the part.

The thought occurs to me as I am walking around a completely new neighbourhood, that as you get older, there are less and less opportunities for newness. And what a waste it would be to skip past all this. Despite how much I am craving the feeling of being grounded, for things to feel familiar - this will be the only time I get to experience all of this for the first time. And so in that sense, what a gift it is to feel out of your depth. To feel bewildered, and lost. Stumbling around awkwardly.

As the week goes on, I have many more moments of feeling daft and out of my depth, but this new positive mindset is helping. Although it gets tested again days later when, after a hot shower, I spend a good five minutes complaining about the poor quality of bath towels where we are staying (too thin, too large and poor absorption), only to realise I have been trying to dry myself off with a throw rug.

The sun has made a decent number of appearances so far, although it appears weary from its summer duties. Drawing a narrow arc, and hanging low in the sky. Lurking behind buildings and trees, casting long, cold shadows.

It's not a convincing display, and doesn't fill me with a lot of confidence as the days tick down to winter. It might disappear any day now.

That week, whilst doing a food shop at the supermarket, Christine Anu's cover of 'Sunshine on a Rainy Day' plays through the speakers overhead. The speaker crackles as if playing through torrential rain. The harsh, fluorescent lighting subs in as the sunshine. Overall, it's an extremely poor substitute for the real thing.

It's a Saturday night in St Kilda, and we are walking past an Irish bar, which is fizzing and bubbling over with energy; a wash of swivelling heads. We give it a wide berth, for fear of getting drawn in. It's how I imagine anyone enters an Irish bar¹. You don't so much walk in of your accord, but rather get sucked in like some kind of magnetic force. And you suddenly find yourself jostling against other bodies, pint in hand, and the air crackling around you.

It has also been my experience that all Irish bars seem to be designated at least one wildly eccentric regular. Some mix of flâneur, poet and drifter, who you never see leave or arrive. They are just always there. Moving in circles, legs dangling off the edge of tables, and skirting in between crowds effortlessly like an animal in its natural habitat.

Appearance-wise: they're male and about as wide as a pair of skinny leather trousers. There is almost always a waistcoat adorned with badges and patches, hinting that they have come from far away. Possibly another realm. The shoes are always boots, very often pointed. And above the shoulders there are at least three of the following four: beard sharpened at the chin, curled moustache, long hair, and wide brim hat with a feather in the band.

Many years ago during my student years, I worked as a waiter at a resort and would occasionally get asked to do the odd shift at the Irish pub as a 'glassy'. My job was simply to go around picking up empties, often on a busy Saturday night. And our regular character would always be there.

He would float from room to room, always with a drink in hand. The other tucked into his waistcoat. I sometimes wondered if he was scooping up discarded half-filled pint glasses, but then I would see him chatting to a group holding a full pint, the glass still frosted. Having charmed them all no doubt with a poem or a riddle of some sort, before turning on his heels and disappearing off into the woodwork. Leaving a wash of swivelling heads, wondering if they might have imagined the whole thing.

Theoretically, there was a time when this man turned up at the bar for the first time. Presumably many centuries ago; drawn in by a force beyond him. Eyes big and darting, trying to make sense of his new surroundings. Jostling against other bodies, drinks spilling and staining fresh leather trousers. What a magical, awkward time that must have been. Before he'd seen it all and settled in for good. When it was all new everything.

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1. In this section, I’m referring to Irish bars in Australia. I can’t comment on actual Irish bars in Ireland, but I could certainly imagine it being much more extreme. Possibly even a minimum of two eccentric regulars per bar.