By The Sea

I have been in a terrible funk

Feeling tired

And lonely

And miserable

And Mum came to the rescue 

Gave me a bit of extra money

So I could treat myself 

I take myself to Brighton

It's only an hour and a bit away from London by train

I had heard it was pretty

And had a hippy vibe

I disembark from the train

No map

No agenda

Just a day of being 

On the way to the waterfront 

I wander into St Paul's Church

You enter through the long cloisters

Inside the church

A man is having a heated conversation 

With the air

Or the spirits around him

He emphasizes each point with a flick of his hand 

Mass is starting in ten minutes

I wonder if they'll let him stay

I walk into a large room beside the chapel

There is a massive fireplace

Guarded by two stone dragons

There is a rich red carpet

The walls are lined with books

There are two comfy looking chairs

A warden comes in and tells me I am in the vestry

And visitors are not allowed

I apologize, I hadn't realized 

But I'm glad I got to see the room

Once I'm back in the foyer 

The warden closes the door

Private 

I arrive at the waterfront 

The beach is covered in pebbles

The water has a lovely light blue tinge

I don't know why, but I had expected it to be brown 

It is so lovely to see the ocean again

On the beach a small group of tourists is skimming stones

They remind me of my love and skimming stones along the river in the summer

My heart aches for him 

There is an art shop right on the beach

They are selling prints

And cards

And beautiful books 

The food shops along the beachfront

Are all closed

It is winter

It is not the season

There is a tiny fishing museum that is open

It takes five minutes to walk through

It feels like a relic 

All shells and fishnets and crabs behind glass

Turning to dust 

A looped video sings sea chanties 

I walk

With no real destination 

And stumble upon the 

Royal Pavilion 

It is like a palace 

The gardens around it

Are beautiful 

Spring flowers are starting to make an appearance

Though the trees are bare

And the grass is mostly gone 

I buy a hot chocolate

And wander around to the museum

It is closed on Mondays 

I don't mind

I walk up to the Lanes

Winding tiny streets filled with shops 

Though no longer the original buildings

The area "gives a flavour of medieval Brighton" 

A shopkeeper tells me 

The council wants to push out the independents

And bring in the High St tenants

More money that way

Of course the stain of commercialism is evident everywhere

Even by the water

The giant concrete monstrosity

That is the Odeon and entertainment complex

How they allowed it! 

It's a shame

The very reason people go there

Being eaten away 

Speaking of eating

I have lunch in a small cafe

Everything is handmade and fresh

Sweet potato soup and an apple, carrot, and ginger juice

The soup, juice, and cafe are all bright orange 

It reminds me of the book Misery Guts

The protagonist is an English boy 

Who is sick of his parents being miserable

So he paints their fish and shop bright orange 

From memory they move to Australia

The land of sunshine and happiness

Did you know that in Australia it is estimated more people

Die by suicide that road related deaths

I walk and walk and walk

I window shop

I wander in and out of stores

And chat to shop keepers

I imagine I am wealthy

And pick all the artworks I would buy

And where they would go in my dream house 

I end the day back at the beachfront 

I walk a little way down the pier

It is tacky and touristy 

I prefer the pebbles

The sky has been grey all day

And it is cold

But it has been the loveliest day 

The end. 

Leaving Oz

Imagine a girl who wakes up one day to find herself on a plane. And she is somewhere over the Pacific. And she thinks perhaps the events of the past year and a half have only been a dream. Because suddenly it all seems right to be flying in the air towards a new life, heading towards a life of musicals and theatre and being away from the place where she was born and grew. 

And even though this is her third trip away, this trip feels different from the trips before, because now she has the Scarecrow and the Tinman and the Lion by her side. In the past year and a half she has acquired a little more wisdom. She did the meditation course and sometimes it was hard but mostly it was wonderful and she learnt to sit quietly with herself and be still. 

And even though her heart had been shattered into a million thousand pieces, she realised that she had all these wonderful friends around her (And you were there! And you were there!) and she learnt to look after herself and take care of herself which were all very important. And it was heartening to make all these discoveries. 

And in discovering she had a little more wisdom and a little more heart than before, she discovered she had the courage to go out into the world as herself and not be afraid of what other people thought or said or how often they projected their own fears about the creative life onto her being. 

And she made a promise to herself that she would continue to practise as often as possible to have wisdom and heart and courage and remember her friends by her side and to go out into the world and trip the light fantastic.

The end. Sort of. 

Moving to London

Left: Abuelo and Abuela in Manilla in the 1950s, Right: Mum and an assortment of (now) uncles and aunts in 1963

Forty-eight years ago you sailed into Sydney and leaned against the railing of the ship 

Thinking of children who weren’t even born yet

All the children with you would one day be grown-ups and married with children of their own

Could you have imagined me, your granddaughter, named after you

Who when she went to Spain for the first time felt strangely at home

Despite the language barrier 

Who longed her whole life to be European, to speak Spanish, who thrilled and delighted at finally getting a Spanish passport 

How would you feel knowing your nieta is not an out and proud Australian

That I cringe at our accents and our inability to speak more than one language 

That I find Australian culture frustrating

That I can’t stand that our national day of pride is a day commemorating a bloody battle thousands of miles away 

That I cannot connect with Australian history because it is so contested 

A few months ago I sailed into Sydney myself

I got up at 5am to watch the lights of Sydney Harbour come into view

And I thought of you leaning against the railing of the Iberia

Could you have imagined as you sailed past Nielsen Park or Point Piper or Taronga Zoo that these would be the sites of my childhood?

Strange to think that the Opera House wasn’t even finished yet 

Could you have imagined me singing in the Opera House?! Or having my year 10 formal at the Zoo overlooking the giraffes looking out to the Harbour? 

Could you have imagined that I would grow up among the eucalyptus and the smell of the Australian bush

And yet never feel at home in it

To feel frustrated every time someone asks “but don’t you feel so lucky?”

In two months, I’m leaving this place

To go to the land where your brothers live

And then to London to seek my own life and put down my own roots

Where I will be in forty-eight years time? 

And what stories will have played out between my arrival at Heathrow and sitting down to reflect on it all?

Abuelo, forty-eight years ago you sailed to Sydney

To a land that for you was entirely sight unseen 

No internet to do your research

No crystal ball to let you know that it was all going to be ok, that you were making the right decision

Our wanderings are not over yet

We are still shifting in time and space 

But wherever we go, there we are

And we have our stories and our ancestors to guide the way

Dinner at Shelly Beach

 (picture of Shelly Beach from here)

One day one can find oneself sitting at Shelly Beach looking at the headland covered in lush greenery and at the ocean and at people picnicking and playing and swimming and in the past fifteen minutes you have encountered three water dragons, a possum, and a rabbit sitting beneath a tree. And although a storm is brewing, it is still warm, and people are not in any rush to leave. A man is strumming a guitar. There is laughter. Upstairs in the cafe there is a party going on and you can hear the music and the hubbub of people chatting and mingling. 

And then you can find yourself sitting inside a lovely restaurant eating beautiful food with five beautiful people from all over the world. And the conversation tingles your toes and resonates with everything you have been thinking and feeling and reading for the past little while and it all feels delightfully synchronistic. And outside the storm has taken gentle reign of the beach. It's raining, but not very hard. The lightning camera flashes the sand and the ocean and the trees. And it is lovely. And it is beautiful. And you go home tired but happy and feeling like something within you has shifted. And you are incredibly grateful that you were there, you were a part of the conversation, and you shared the energy and it was light and beautiful and song. 

The end.