The End is Nigh

It’s 6am and I’m woken by the red dawn washing like watercolour behind the silhouette of the eucalypts. Red mingles with gold and blue, birdsong with the hum of cars. In exactly a week, all my assignments will be complete. The past week has been hectic, full of hurdles and turning points, and this one will be, too. But Melbourne is big and blue and busy and as I cycle down Swanston Street into the city I think that, if I must be stressed and worried and tired, there is nowhere I’d rather feel that way than here.

Having completed two classes (!) and treated myself to an early weekend, I am ready to face the library again. Amid the chaos there are many things I am thankful for. Bicycles. Balconies. Green tea and the gibbous moon. My favourite tree, which crouches outside Ormond College in the perfect position for climbing. Carlton Gardens, looking almost European in the sun, rainbows shining through the mist of water droplets kicked up by the fountain.

It’s not all work. The end of October was aca-crammed with performances at a very swanky old folks’ home, a 1920s themed university do, and, finest of all, a small yet sparkly karaoke booth on Bourke Street, to which I caught the train alone in full Halloween costume. I also experienced the joys of Long Room all-you-can-eat tapas, which I heartily recommend. Ten days later, I’m still full. As for the future, travel ideas are becoming realities. It’s almost the end and I’m caught momentarily in the empty space between memories and future plans. But it’s not for long. Time passes so quickly here.

I was warned that Halloween in Australia wasn’t much of a big deal. The warnings were false – at least as far as Yarra was concerned. Polka dot scarf and can-do attitude firmly fixed atop my head, I cavorted and careered around the Games Room, an alien Rosie the Riveter performing some absurd imitation of what I believe they call dancing. Our ersatz attempts to blend in with the human race were documented by the weird yet talented Flash, whose testimony to the evening may be viewed below.

Yarraween from LV Media on Vimeo.

Cheers to a week of PG-rated conversations.

“God, distance is hard. He’s so far away I want to die. But he’s what I live for.” 

“Hmm. Doesn't that just make you kind of neutral?”

 “When Harry Met Sally is so stupid. Of course guys and girls can be friends. Just like brothers and sisters.” 

“Can brothers and sisters just be friends? Game of Thrones begs to differ…”

“Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet this evening.” 

“Actually, I was just thinking about what a wonderful muse Harry Styles has been for Taylor Swift’s new album.” 

 “I can’t study in my room. It’s like a prison cell. God knows how the priest managed to teach Edmond Dantès comprehensive philosophy, history, and ethics in the Chateau d’If.”

Anything is peaceful from 975 feet.

These past two weeks, Friday evening has become my Sabbath. I’ve finished uni after the last bus and headed into the city, walking down Swanston Street and breathing everything in. I don’t know how I will go back to my small quiet town. I love it here. The glass towers reflecting a sunset concealed by skyscrapers, the warning ring of the trams as they creak along their tracks towards you, the sense of insignificance which is so freeing, so welcoming, so calming. There is no pressure on you when nobody knows your name.

We climbed to the top floor of RMIT University and found a balcony. Through a gap in the fence I gazed out at the yellow streets below me. Trams slipped by, ringing gently as they went. A group of skateboarders hurtled down the hill. We were at the corner of the city grid, where the map tilts forty-five degrees and the blocks shift from rectangular to rhomboid. Night had fallen, but the city still shone. 

*

It's been a weekend of vantage points. Twenty hours later I was looking down at the city from the Skydeck, 975 feet above the meticulous grid of the CBD. Things move slowly when you see them from above. I leaned my body against the glass and thought, the world is quiet here.

*

I have 99 days left in Melbourne as of today.

Did I ever mention that I'm a National Gallery certified artist? No? Good, because that would have been a filthy lie, and lying is wrong, kids. Well, lying is usually wrong. We can debate that point some other time.

I  call this one Self-Portrait on a Friday Afternoon. (Don't worry Mum, don't worry Dad - I slept until ten today! Score!)

“I love Melbourne. I love it so much that I’m going to name my future daughter Mel, and then she’ll get my surname, and she’ll be called Mel Bearn.”

Lecturer, mid-slide: “I’ve played over 440 hours of Skyrim.”

Residence manager, after a 17 degree day: "Cold outside, isn't it?"