Yes, I’m the wrong person.

I’m exactly where you needed someone but not who you expected.  I’m the person who makes more mess where there is already mess; and I clean when everything is already clean.  I have great ideas when one’s already been decided and I’m void of decision where one needs to be made.  I’m wise words when you’re not listening and emotionally unbalanced at the same time you are.  I used to intrigue you, and somehow, you wanted to believe otherwise, and tried to change everything when I really didn’t like change.

People have been telling me for years, “you’re not the right person”, which I agree wholeheartedly with.  I’ve yet to meet a person who hasn’t been disappointed to meet me. Why is that?  I was the wrong person this whole time, and though you knew what the right person should resemble – stark contrast – you still went along wishfully thinking maybe you were wrong, maybe I wasn’t the wrong person.  You can’t change me now when you accepted me then – that’s inconsistent and unfair.

It’s a very curious notion, the above musing, and it’s a little darker than the usual, no doubt… with the same measure agreeable as disagreeable.  Is it possible to change the wrong person into the right person?  How much would you give to try to affect this change? And what would it take for you to realise it wasn’t going happen?

I think we find ourselves scanning our personal vicinities and identifying a person or few who mightn’t be right for us, but we seldom flip the question and evaluate whether we ourselves are the right person for them. Are you the right person for those around you? Are you the right friend, colleague, parent, student, husband, girlfriend, son, daughter, team player, leader, supporter? And whether it is or isn’t possible to turn another wrong person into the right person, is it at all possible to change yourself into the right person, if you’re not already?

I was wrong, I could be right.

Only in Sydney is the vast majority of the city population seemingly afraid of a little rain, are the hemlengths of most woman under 40 noticably short, where the nights are warm enough that taking more than eight seconds to eat a timtam results in its disintegration between your fingers, and where the people’s intrigue for a little bit of difference means they treat you with shocking flattery.

I’ve played more pool here than I ever have in my life – if 7 rounds in two days is anything impressive.  I’ve walked more in 3 days here than I usually do in a month.  I’ve taken transport I scarsely take: taxis, shuttle bus, monorail and doubledecker trains.  There’s a beauty about breaking routines that reinvigorates a person.  The inconvenience of unfamiliarity forces exploration and presents all sorts of pleasant surprises!  I’ve experienced wonderful kindnesses from strangers I met, though I confess they did arouse suspicion regarding why people might be so generous!

I feel like I’ve been away for a while, as though I’ve been living apart from life as I knew it, though it’s been a mere 4 days.  Well, I’m not sure the purpose of this post, but I’m going to walk to the fishmarket now to buy fresh sourdough! Sounds odd, I know… Kat told me to!

He smiled at just about everyone whose eye he could catch.  His gestures to and behind passer-bys were witty coupled with that gleam in his eye. He knew I was watching him as I slowed my pace in passing his stand.  I met his gaze and he motioned to me with suave vividity, as though to tell me in his own way that I was some sort of beautiful. Smiling shyly, I nod and walk reluctantly on before stopping out of view.

I wanted to see him again. He was selling magazines, none of which I was remotely interested in – I used to buy a few back in my university days but the editions always seemed less witty and interesting than the one before it and my small collection slowed to a halt.  It’s been a while, I thought to myself , and I’d buy a magazine from a beautiful person just to buy a little more time in their company.

So I walked back and stood in front of him smiling. He rose and winked at me, nodding to his stock with a raised brow and a suggestive smile. I nodded and was thrilled in the conversation that ensued.  Well, it wasn’t much of a conversation, he had me at hello.  I couldn’t get a word out, he did all the talking. 

He spoke differently to anyone I’d ever talked to.  I tried to tame the girlish grin that cracked along my face because, well, he was charming.  Where others spoke with words, his language was rich with hand gestures, facial expressions, pops, clicks and unrecognised English.  He whipped out a mag from where it lay on top of the pile of clones and twirled it around his head, up his arm and presented it to me with a flick, a nod and a lovely smile.  I felt like royalty. After the exchange of magazine for purple note, he signs and says “thank you” in one of the most appreciative manners I can recall!

I think the fortunate half of society often has a big issue of lacking personality.  I was fortunate enough to encounter a beautiful stranger of charming ardor and he made my day… I hope you make somebody else’s.

J sped right past H and I
And K was there to wave goodbye
L lamented I took too long
And M hummed me only half a song

N disappointedly dropped an ”O”
When P walked me passed Q’s bow low
R told me that S told T
That V wouldn’t wait for U and me

W wouldn’t say when X was here
Y called to direct me near
But I was just about out of energy
And I didn’t want to be left with Z

(Ok, I obviously began to run out of decent rhyme - don't judge me.)

I bought this book for my sister among other things for Christmas just past.  I, however, got the virgin read seeing she was and still is occupied by other novel fictions.  And as my reading goal of 2011 (reading one book a month) stood unfulfilled, I decided I’d give it another go this 2012… beginning with a 70 page little bind the height of my hand.  ‘Pathetic’, you scoff, but I’ve no need to impress you, honestly the first few pages I leafed through intrigued me.

It seems this handbook was an extended reply to a handful of questions asked in letter by devoted Laurence to ‘Saint’ Augustine, a fourth century church father who also boldly suggested “Love God, and do as you please.”  The little handbook acknowledges Saint Augustine as author, and I suppose you could say it has been translated into a more contemporary english, just as the King James Bible was modernised in the New International Version.  This said, there was a spell midway through the book which reverted back to ‘hath’ and ‘bringeth’ in a flashback to Elizabethan.  Yet the dear Saint’s long letter still reeked of older speech, what with relatively repetitive paragraphs and thorough elaborations.  I got a little restless throughout the middle but was back in it by the last quarter. Some interesting and foundational explanations of faith and love.  He reminded me a smidge of C.S. Lewis. Though, like this review, I thought the handbook didn’t taper with a satisfying conclusion (there wasn’t even a conclusion) and ended rather abruptly.

I did that dance today.

And all he had to say was that I was the one (though he said other lovely things which made me feel wonderful).

Oh God. Hahaha! So this is love.

.

Being told “you are the one” is wildly different from being told “i like you a lot” or even “i love you”.
Heck, I love a lot of people, and so does he, but there’s only room for one in the office of “the one”.

And it’s got my name on it.

Oh. My. Word.
This is actually happening.

But exactly that. They were hidden, and as long as they were hidden, nobody knew.  She’d inherited them from, well… they seemed to have leaked through little cracks in her world.  Sometimes they were waiting on the arm of the couch, other times they’d have been unknowingly spat from a vivid friend in frantic excitement, or a couple of times she’d woken with it on her forehead.  Either way, she had begun to wonder how much longer she could merely collect them for.   Sure, they were beautiful, but she was sure there was a point where she was supposed to do something with these little shimmering packets of powder.  As much as they appeared inanimate and stationary, she was convinced that they held some sort of potential, as though they emitted some ambient hint that they were not just a unique shimmer of ordinary glitter to sprinkle over ordinary coffee conversation.  As though to infer “just add water”, which she tried but nothing happened. The stuff neither absorbed nor transformed, and when she had drained the water it remained as it were previously, but perhaps a little deeper in colour.  She has experimented with a few, she named them by whatever the hue reminded her of.

She left “cheesecake crumbs” in the sun for over a week to see what the weather might do to it.  “Acidwash denim” was soaked in a cup for 2 days. “Old map shreds” were put in the oven for 2 house with a slow bake cake she was making at the time. “Holely teabag” was kept in its sachet and carried around in her back pocket for 5 days.  “Broken glass”, she hammered repeatedly for ten minutes.  “Parrot beak” was sprinkled over a lit candle. And “dried watermelon” was sprinkled on buttered toast and eaten (later she found a new packet of what she was completely convinced was the exact hue of the stuff she’d ingested – though there were so many colours appearing every now and then that an unfamiliar set of eyes might’ve mistaken it for a new packet, but not her – and she was glad to have a new packet because it felt like a pretty big risk eating the unknown substance and she wasn’t about to inspect her faeces).

With every experiment to discover what these curious little sachets contained and test the properties and character of these different colours and shades of intrigue, there seemed to be little response.  The stuff apparently maintained its form, except for one thing… with every different thing she tried, by the end of her experimentation she seemed to have a little more than before, and usually it would appear a very, very, slightly deeper tinge than before.  Provoking the thought that every effort was welcomed and grew (in a very, very, slightly gradual progression) the stuff.

But she was younger then and more curious when she was younger and soon enough something happened to her, rather than the little sachets of coloured dust she collected.  She, grew up, and began to forget about it.  She took the occasional packet of stuff with her sometimes, to a hill with a great view, to coffee conversations and would sprinkle them over the day, letting the wind snatch  it in a wisp and be gone.  Sometimes, the company she was with would notice and might gasp or stare at the little dance it might do before disappearing, some would commend or marvel, others would smirk as though they were once familiar with the little specks of beautifully hued dust but now… they were concerned with more important matters.

One day, she had a very sensible and grown up idea and she placed a sachet under a microscope. It was a tattered little mechanism but it did the job and here, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief.  These little specks of dust were not just little coloured bits of powder-like substance, they were extraordinary! She spent about an hour inspecting the first sample, and here she slowed down her thoughts and began to understand a little more.  Each different sachet had a different shape about them. And then there were the instructions etched into each speck of little dust; extremely small and very simple – sometimes there were even options between suggestions to take.  She could see that there were a few lines of sequential to-dos, but only the first step was clearly legible, after that it could not be read, or it seemed incoherent.  “How do you read instructions off a speck of dust?” you ask, well this was the peculiar thing, the more one stared at it, inspected it, the larger it seemed to appear and after staring at one for an hour through my microscope, a single speck of the dust appeared  about the size of an apricot seed!

Now, she was rather perplexed and although absolutely enthralled, she was just as quickly sobered.  These little powdered premature beauties were very grand, and more advanced in requirement than her most practiced ability; they resembled an ingenuity of greater prowess than she’d ever recognised in herself.  But she jotted some of the instructions down all the same.  Appreciating what she understood of a few little packets, each packet a different hue of intrigue, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  She didn’t dare inspect more than a handful of sachets for fear of overwhelm.

And then she prayed:
“Hello God, there is too much and not enough in and of me to do justice to these powdered dreams. I’m going to need help. Please and thank you. Amen.”

I don’t know.
Why don’t you know?
I don’t know.
Would you want to know?
I don’t know.
What difference would knowing make?
I don’t know.

What do you know?

Sitting in the slowly rising warmth of a filtered sunshine, meekly I greeted this morning, the last of it’s kind.  Filtered by the shadeclothes my father hung to protect his five hundred ”other children” (orchids), I sat with my rival siblings of long green leaves and flowerless bulbs, protected from the brilliance of our lovely Sun’s smile.  I love it when she smiles, though yesterday I may have been drawn too close to her and our more passionate encounters usually see me walk away burnt.  I let her kiss my nose, lips, shoulders and upper back yesterday, and I’m just that little bit more delicate because I chose to frolick in her presence at a beautiful beach with friends who are practically family, for seven hours.  She brandishes a cruel sort of warmth, with intensity that few a weathered man can brave the fullness of for long.  A commanding sort of presence – of which we find unbearable yet nonnegotiable; we adore and we fear, and I suppose I understand then why people believe in the Sun god, though I do not, I believe in the One God.

* * * * *

“Hello, I’m back again,” I say, which is a funny thing to say when I’ve never been here before. Never been to the last day of 2011 before, nor felt the thought of “Next Year” to have ever emitted so much mystery.  For as much as I know that I have a job, five units of study, a supportive family, a church community, close friends, a boyfriend, and ambitious projects in line for 2012, these distinguishable subcatergories all seem to be auspicious tips of the same immeasureable iceberg.  So you can imagine the welling expectation of being hugely excited and equally terrified with both the achievement and responsibility, respectively, that 2012 has so far winked at me.   I have this childish glee and curiosity of circling a suspiciously huge package, prodding at parts and analysing the shapes it seems to suggest, yet for the most part I’ve no blue clue what’s concealed in the unfamilar arrangement of these four little digits.

Yet, contrary to every other year, where I have let life take me to wonderful places and beautiful people… this year: role reversal; I’m to take life to wonderful places and beautiful people.  This new sort of intention to make things happen rather than let them happen is both delightful and very charging…but it’s going to mean that I need to know what I want/need to make happen – this, God, is something I’m not so sure of but something I know you are.

* * * * *

“Hello, I’m back again,” I say, which is a funny thing to say because it’s light and void of the disappointment I just experienced when I had written something of an honest moment just then replicated and obviously different because the original post was lost through a broken window an hour or so ago.  But even in the inconvenient experiences, there still exists strangely hopeful lessons.  What if everytime something went wrong, rather than wearing the victim’s rags of disaster, I could merely reappear and bravery say, “Hello, I’m back again”.

Dearly beloved, if 2011 wasn’t your finest or proudest year, step into tomorrow with a brave face and say, ”Hello, I’m back again”, though it’s a funny thing to say when you’ve never been there before…

and this just means that at the end of every day together, we’ll pray together and every week we’ve decided to commit to memorising some small scripture.  And as petty or weak as you might think this is, it is the most nervous thing to begin and the most heartwarming activity I think we’ve ever done together.  To have a love who shares the same loves - who understands one’s passion, hopes, faith  and weakness – is such a relief.  It makes this relationship so much more real.

Praying does wonders for the reassurance of the little uncertainty that remains within a person, whilst sealing natural encounters with supernatural promises and addressing God with appreciation and hopeful request.  I suppose coming back to Him at the end of every day or night spent with the boyfriend reiterates the perspective that there are greater things to come, meanwhile frequently reminding self that this new love is not the first love – God is.

It’s beautiful sharing faith so closely with another – it’s the combination of the two greatest romances in my life. He who loved me before I knew love so unconditional, and he who I am learning to love and be loved by.

I really have to find something else to write about don’t I? I’ve lately been under an obvious influence… willingly.