We have contact.
Don't look now. Uni is back.
Which means that outside, in liberal space, hirsute types adorning dreadlocks juggle hackisacks by foot, while caucasians meld with Asians into spheres, everyone swaying like windblown dandelions to the moan of an unsighted didgeridoo, the cake cherried by a lonesome girl reminiscient of Dorothy, without bag or accoutrement or worries at large, who skips along the warm red brick path abutting administration, but never landing on cracks, always avoiding the shadows, her smile large and glinting with the sunlit silver of braces.
Mark sits squat amidst it all, alone. He spills innocuous kernels of chilli chicken into the lap of his Canadian-manufactured trousers, then swiftly scoops them up to swallow--he is not concentrating on the chilli chicken at all. Rather, his mind is back in the clean white theatre, a think tank accomodating his body just minutes before, in which titanic young intellects exploded: ideas and theories and impassioned censure bandied from pillar to post, emboldened, muscled- THE CREATIVE TREATMENT OF ACTUALITY, ARTICULATING THE ABSTRACT THROUGH NARRATIVE- and he snaps back to attention via an estranged friend's sudden appearance, whom shakes his clammy hand, sits beside him in the mottled green grass and talks. Mark listens and performs his disconcerting goldfish interpretation, just to draw a reaction. Just to draw a reaction?! Because he is here now, not Asia. He is finally, at long long last, truly back home in Perth. And how does he fell about it all?
Buoyantly good, is how.
Which means that outside, in liberal space, hirsute types adorning dreadlocks juggle hackisacks by foot, while caucasians meld with Asians into spheres, everyone swaying like windblown dandelions to the moan of an unsighted didgeridoo, the cake cherried by a lonesome girl reminiscient of Dorothy, without bag or accoutrement or worries at large, who skips along the warm red brick path abutting administration, but never landing on cracks, always avoiding the shadows, her smile large and glinting with the sunlit silver of braces.
Mark sits squat amidst it all, alone. He spills innocuous kernels of chilli chicken into the lap of his Canadian-manufactured trousers, then swiftly scoops them up to swallow--he is not concentrating on the chilli chicken at all. Rather, his mind is back in the clean white theatre, a think tank accomodating his body just minutes before, in which titanic young intellects exploded: ideas and theories and impassioned censure bandied from pillar to post, emboldened, muscled- THE CREATIVE TREATMENT OF ACTUALITY, ARTICULATING THE ABSTRACT THROUGH NARRATIVE- and he snaps back to attention via an estranged friend's sudden appearance, whom shakes his clammy hand, sits beside him in the mottled green grass and talks. Mark listens and performs his disconcerting goldfish interpretation, just to draw a reaction. Just to draw a reaction?! Because he is here now, not Asia. He is finally, at long long last, truly back home in Perth. And how does he fell about it all?
Buoyantly good, is how.
posted by Dei Snoozlebergenstep | 6:42 AM
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