Adelaide

Home is something I've thought about a lot recently. Something I take out and turn over in my fingers during all the late night walks back from nowhere in particular. For a while I got good at dulling the details. I'd rummage around for them in idle conversation, pulling at sights and sounds like the runaway taillights of dreams. I'd say vague things like: I can't quite remember. My god, that was forever ago. That just feels like another lifetime to me now. But then an old song leaks in and turns everything multicolour again, or a photograph perched on the corner of a mirror, or the smell of driftwood and saltwater playing chasey in the air. And you remember that your life up until February isn't just a story you tell people sometimes. Everything you dreamt up happened. All the people you left are real. 

These are some photographs I took back there with my mother's film camera. When I sift through them I remember a year dipped in moonlight, beach combing and jugs of beer on mosaic tables and paint when it dries in the spaces between your fingers. I remember my family home, and the people that inhabited it. Sunny mornings riding my bike into University with a wicker basket full of novels and French textbooks. Pressed flowers. Pints that weren't pints. The passenger seats of too many cars. 

I don't want to romanticise my hometown, I don't want that at all. It was full to the brim of restlessness. But sometimes, the heavy-footed weariness of wandering around the world for nine entire months can start to feel a little like sleeping. You need to remember who you are and where you're from. Know that there's a life tucked away for you there, somewhere on a cupboard shelf, and that at any moment you could come back along and start to dust it off again.






my father and his hands



taking photos with my little brother on the beach


mama in the garden



a pub I used to love

two years ago, with my hair grown out

2 comments

  1. I don't have a place like that, I only used to. Feeling at home is a fantasy to me now.

    /Avy

    http://mymotherfuckedmickjagger.blogspot.com

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    1. I think it's totally subjective to be honest. If I've realised anything, it's that you still feel like the same person no matter where you are on earth. And that's a home of sorts.

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