drcuriosity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
drcuriosity) wrote2002-07-31 12:31 am
drcuriosity) wrote2002-07-31 12:31 am
...and I say "I've never thought of finding you here."
Last night involved celebrating a friend's birthday - eating cake, drinking wine and staying up talking into the early hours. We also celebrated the birthday of a friend who has passed on, with a small celebratory bourbon. Miss you, Alex. It was good night, though odd in ways I'm still not entirely sure of.
Today, nothing really seemed to fit.
After spending the night (well, morning and early afternoon) crashed on a foreign (yet oddly comfortable) couch due to the cold outside and the tiredness in my muscles, I cycle along to university to do my general Tuesday night thing - sitting around talking with the SAGA gamers and pagans who each do their thing at the Students Association then. Half the reason I do this is to catch up with people who I don't get to see very often, and hopefully dicuss interesting things; the other half, because it's something to do and I often find myself needing to do something on a fairly regular basis, to give my live a little bit of shape and flavour.
While cycling, as I often do, I have songs playing in my head. I am thinking of songs to sing along to. This time, my mind drifts to Suzanne Vega. My mother owned her "Solitude Standing" album, and it was played quite often over a number of years as we were growing up. It's an album that has a warm, dark tone. There are a number of songs on it that suit my voice, although I'm often singing in another octave. Singing while cycling is a good exercise - it helps increase my lung capacity, and affords me an opportunity to project a bit without scaring the passersby too much. I don't recommend this whilst riding the buses.
Solitude stands by the window
She turns her head as I walk in the room
I can see by her eyes she's been waiting
Standing in the slant of the late afternoon
Arriving at university, I head down to the local Indian place, and one of the staff there asks after me, wondering why she hasn't seen me about recently. So we talk about stolen bicycles and coming down with colds (hers, not mine), and other such things until my food arrives. It's interesting to know that staff at your regular food retailers notice when you're not there, of all the people that come through their doors - I think this may have something to do with the fact that I see no reason not to be polite people that do nice things for me, even if they're being paid to do it.
I head back into the UCSA, and take a shortcut through to the downstairs phone via The Foundry, so I can ensure people aren't expecting me home for dinner. For those gentle readers who don't know the place, The Foundry is the latest in a long line of Association bars - there have been at least four or five bars in different parts of the building at different times, and that's only the ones I know of. Regimes come and go, and managers make their decisions, and suddenly the bar is somewhere else. These things happen.
Tonight is a quiz night. I haven't taken part in a quiz night since one time many years ago when I was visiting my high school friend Guy in Diamond Harbour, and was co-opted into the Corcoran's team for the local quiz night at the community hall. I seem to remember being tied for first place with another team, and having to go to sudden-death playoffs for the win. A closely-faught second, that night, but well played and enjoyed by all. It's been too long.
Wandering through the bar I look for a couple of people that I suspect will be in this vicinity at this time, but I see them not. However, I do see some people I know - Greg and James (whose last name I can't recall - only that he's Gary's brother) and that-other-guy-whose-name-escapes-me. They're a team for the quiz that is soon to start. After making initial greeting pleasantries, and learning that Greg is rather impressed with a dark-haired young lady sitting at a table nearby, it appears that these fine fellows think that I would be a great addition to their quiz team. I am sorely, sorely tempted.
However, even as I am considering, I can feel my throat constricting and my breathing becoming laboured form the cigarette smoke in the atmosphere. My allergy has been playing up quite a bit recently, and bars aren't known for their supremely efficient ventilation systems, even at the best of times. I regrettably decline, and make my way quickly through the adjacent cafetaria to the phones.
I turn to the crowd as they're watching
They're sitting all together in the dark in the warm
I wanted to be in there among them
I see how their eyes are gathered into one
One last survey of the bar on my way out, and I can still not see the other people I'd hoped to see. The brunette that Greg has his eye on is indeed quite pretty. As I traipse to the in-use phone, I find myself wondering about the people in that bar. Un-talked-to, un-socialised-with... by me, at any rate. I imagine conversations I could have had, and camraderie I might have found. I probably shouldn't.
Heading back upstairs with my Indian food and cola, I wander through and find the pagans aren't about tonight, or have gone away early, or something. After chatting with a few of the gamers, I end up sitting next to a group who're trying to find a way to get some shiny thing held in a castle somewhere, and read another Preacher book. After finishing with the meat-men, ex-Nazis, rednecks and God, I decided it was about time to make my way home.
I popped into The Foundry again on my way out. My friends' team seems to have been doing relatively well for the most part - second equal after three rounds, or something like that. Someone is reading out answers to the latest bunch of questions. I know the answers to about seven of the ten(?) answers as soon as they're asked. Tarawera erupted in 1886. Sir Apirana Ngata is on the $50 note. The people are happy and many inebriated, but the smoke is thicker and I make my goodbyes quickly. By the time I've finished unlocking, cable-disentangling and re-lighting my bicycle, people are spilling out into the car park, heading for their vehicles and the warmth of home. I can't help but feel on the outside, again. I wonder if it's my fault, somehow.
There's a song in my head, and it's still not going away.
Solitude stands in the doorway
And I'm struck once again by her black silhouette
By her long cool stare and her silence
I suddenly remember each time we've met
And she turns to me with her hand extended
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame
Today, nothing really seemed to fit.
After spending the night (well, morning and early afternoon) crashed on a foreign (yet oddly comfortable) couch due to the cold outside and the tiredness in my muscles, I cycle along to university to do my general Tuesday night thing - sitting around talking with the SAGA gamers and pagans who each do their thing at the Students Association then. Half the reason I do this is to catch up with people who I don't get to see very often, and hopefully dicuss interesting things; the other half, because it's something to do and I often find myself needing to do something on a fairly regular basis, to give my live a little bit of shape and flavour.
While cycling, as I often do, I have songs playing in my head. I am thinking of songs to sing along to. This time, my mind drifts to Suzanne Vega. My mother owned her "Solitude Standing" album, and it was played quite often over a number of years as we were growing up. It's an album that has a warm, dark tone. There are a number of songs on it that suit my voice, although I'm often singing in another octave. Singing while cycling is a good exercise - it helps increase my lung capacity, and affords me an opportunity to project a bit without scaring the passersby too much. I don't recommend this whilst riding the buses.
Solitude stands by the window
She turns her head as I walk in the room
I can see by her eyes she's been waiting
Standing in the slant of the late afternoon
Arriving at university, I head down to the local Indian place, and one of the staff there asks after me, wondering why she hasn't seen me about recently. So we talk about stolen bicycles and coming down with colds (hers, not mine), and other such things until my food arrives. It's interesting to know that staff at your regular food retailers notice when you're not there, of all the people that come through their doors - I think this may have something to do with the fact that I see no reason not to be polite people that do nice things for me, even if they're being paid to do it.
I head back into the UCSA, and take a shortcut through to the downstairs phone via The Foundry, so I can ensure people aren't expecting me home for dinner. For those gentle readers who don't know the place, The Foundry is the latest in a long line of Association bars - there have been at least four or five bars in different parts of the building at different times, and that's only the ones I know of. Regimes come and go, and managers make their decisions, and suddenly the bar is somewhere else. These things happen.
Tonight is a quiz night. I haven't taken part in a quiz night since one time many years ago when I was visiting my high school friend Guy in Diamond Harbour, and was co-opted into the Corcoran's team for the local quiz night at the community hall. I seem to remember being tied for first place with another team, and having to go to sudden-death playoffs for the win. A closely-faught second, that night, but well played and enjoyed by all. It's been too long.
Wandering through the bar I look for a couple of people that I suspect will be in this vicinity at this time, but I see them not. However, I do see some people I know - Greg and James (whose last name I can't recall - only that he's Gary's brother) and that-other-guy-whose-name-escapes-me. They're a team for the quiz that is soon to start. After making initial greeting pleasantries, and learning that Greg is rather impressed with a dark-haired young lady sitting at a table nearby, it appears that these fine fellows think that I would be a great addition to their quiz team. I am sorely, sorely tempted.
However, even as I am considering, I can feel my throat constricting and my breathing becoming laboured form the cigarette smoke in the atmosphere. My allergy has been playing up quite a bit recently, and bars aren't known for their supremely efficient ventilation systems, even at the best of times. I regrettably decline, and make my way quickly through the adjacent cafetaria to the phones.
I turn to the crowd as they're watching
They're sitting all together in the dark in the warm
I wanted to be in there among them
I see how their eyes are gathered into one
One last survey of the bar on my way out, and I can still not see the other people I'd hoped to see. The brunette that Greg has his eye on is indeed quite pretty. As I traipse to the in-use phone, I find myself wondering about the people in that bar. Un-talked-to, un-socialised-with... by me, at any rate. I imagine conversations I could have had, and camraderie I might have found. I probably shouldn't.
Heading back upstairs with my Indian food and cola, I wander through and find the pagans aren't about tonight, or have gone away early, or something. After chatting with a few of the gamers, I end up sitting next to a group who're trying to find a way to get some shiny thing held in a castle somewhere, and read another Preacher book. After finishing with the meat-men, ex-Nazis, rednecks and God, I decided it was about time to make my way home.
I popped into The Foundry again on my way out. My friends' team seems to have been doing relatively well for the most part - second equal after three rounds, or something like that. Someone is reading out answers to the latest bunch of questions. I know the answers to about seven of the ten(?) answers as soon as they're asked. Tarawera erupted in 1886. Sir Apirana Ngata is on the $50 note. The people are happy and many inebriated, but the smoke is thicker and I make my goodbyes quickly. By the time I've finished unlocking, cable-disentangling and re-lighting my bicycle, people are spilling out into the car park, heading for their vehicles and the warmth of home. I can't help but feel on the outside, again. I wonder if it's my fault, somehow.
There's a song in my head, and it's still not going away.
Solitude stands in the doorway
And I'm struck once again by her black silhouette
By her long cool stare and her silence
I suddenly remember each time we've met
And she turns to me with her hand extended
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame