rascuache
11-11-2005, 04:34 PM
Submitted this to a Zine in Newcastle for publication
What do you guys think? Publishable?
Ground-Hog Morning
Each Day I walk from my little flat in Scott St to work in an Office near the corner of Darby and Hunter streets. I’ve done this at 7am since I moved into Newcastle East Last year and each day I see the same cast of people on my short journey, like a twisted version of Ground Hog Day playing out in my life, every morning. One and a Half kilometres where I see the same people going about their life and I know, whether I acknowledge them or not, I might be late according to where I see them on my journey. On the odd days where I have walked a different route I wonder if they are still there, going through the motions of their daily routine, and if they are, have noticed my small part in their daily routine is missing?
As I begin my journey, walking down to pacific park, I usually see a workman or two, casually strolling, esky in hand, up to the building site of another apartment block on the site of the Esplanade near Newcastle beach. At this early stage, I’m still half-asleep, so we pass each other in silence, and I continue through Pacific Park occasionally seeing the woman who feeds Pigeons stale bread. Frequently there will be a stray seagull attempting to muster in and take some of the bread. She shoos them away and they in turn fly a few metres back from the pigeons before making their way forward again, determined to get some bread. On occasion I stop and marvel at their determination, but only for a second or two, before walking on.
There is a cafe near the park where every morning the same group gather for breakfast, they sit at the same tables, chattering over several cups of coffee whilst waiters scuttle back and forth with carrying breakfasts. I envy these people somewhat; I would love to be able to while away my mornings with friends instead of drinking coffee at my desk, seeing the same propaganda pumped out by my Employer in an effort to heighten the morale of disillusioned workers.
The peak of my morning is stopping at my favourite cafe for my usual latte. Walking in and being greeted by name fills me with joy, reminding me I’m not a faceless figure, at this point in the journey my absence is always noted. For the eternally anonymous office worker recognition is heartening. The conversations here set the tone for my day, as does the coffee. The tastiest coffee’s have seen me through the most horrid of days and the odd day when the coffee is not so good can determine whether I spend the rest of my day avoiding contact with the outside world.
As I leave there, the man who delivers the papers sometimes greets me,
“Is she on-time today?” he’ll ask.
“Yes she is” I’ll reply and keep walking, as does he, pulling his cart of daily papers behind him.
Walking past the newsagent, the dog, which lies in the back of its owners’ car, comes out to say hello. He’s the sort of dog whom only pays you attention if you speak to him like a human. He nuzzles his nose into the side of my thigh if I stop to say hello to him, I give him a quick pat of acknowledgment,
“You’re a weird dog aren’t you Michael?”
He will reply by turning on his heel and trotting away, I watch him before resuming the walk down to the pedestrian crossing on Watt St, glaring at drivers who dare to drive through the crossing as I walk across. One day whilst walking across this crossing a man asked me to give him money to help Lenin. I told him Lenin is dead and doesn’t need money and he called me a bitch as I walked passed him. I wished I’d had a good retort at the time however it took til the time I passed by that crossing on my way home and he was gone. I hope Lenin got the money that man was so keen to collect on his behalf.
My next hundred metres is uneventful, I walk by the buildings and look through the windows at the wares on display, occasionally something catches my attention long enough to stop and inspect it as best I can. Ultimately I keep walking and even though I pass by in the afternoon, I seldom purchase anything that has caught my attention that morning, so eager am I to return to my little flat.
Walking past the Bakehouse, I greet the lady who eats her breakfast at the tables outside there very morning with her partner. She smiles at me returns the greeting. Each morning we carry out this ritual and nothing more. After a year I do not know her name or anything about her except if I see her walking away from the bakehouse, I am late. I’ve wondered occasionally, where I to see her elsewhere, would we repeat our routine? I doubt it I tell myself. It seems a routine based solely on the premise of passing each other each morning, to play it out elsewhere would change the context thus creating a new relationship. I ponder this notion as I stroll past and promise myself I’m wrong, context means little where shallow relationships based on morning greetings are concerned, I’d still say hello. I promise myself…I’d still say hello. Wouldn’t I?
As I carry on through the Mall I seem to gravitate to the left-hand side, it seems free from obstructions the right hand side boasts. Always the same cast of people pass, a mixture of joggers and walkers dressed in tight aerobic outfights and plugged into personal radio’s and MP3 Players. Shopkeepers preparing for their day’s trade, the occasional drifter and Office Workers with buffed shoes, handbags, brief cases and shopping bags of food for their lunch. Sometimes they’ll have white headphones jammed in their ears, betraying an iPod disguising the stirring sounds of Newcastle. All of them pass quickly, while I dally, coffee in hand. They’re so eager to reach their destination whereas I procrastinate as long as possible without arriving late.
Once a week there will be a puddle of vomit somewhere on the path, and I wont see it until I’ve almost stepped in it before quickly avoiding it. A reminder of people enjoying their nights, while I am tied to early mornings and early nights in bed. I walk away from the puddle of stinking bile and resent the rigid hours that this lifestyle dictates and the curse the body’s need for sleep.
I reach the end of the mall and look at my watch, the last 100 metres of my journey go by in a blur as I realise I’ve dallied too long and I’m going to be late. I stop noticing the nuances of my surroundings, the sound cars whirring by and start worrying about reports, bosses and performance reviews. My last free moment is the short wait at the traffic lights on Darby St.
Newcastle has woken and I’ve reached imposing figure of the building marking my journeys’ end. As I gaze upon it from standpoint a sense of foreboding overcomes and I begin counting the minutes til 3.30. When my walk reverses and mimic those Office Workers I criticise in the morning, eager to reach my destination, arriving home to another early night. Only to start the same process again the next day…Ground-Hog Day.
What do you guys think? Publishable?
Ground-Hog Morning
Each Day I walk from my little flat in Scott St to work in an Office near the corner of Darby and Hunter streets. I’ve done this at 7am since I moved into Newcastle East Last year and each day I see the same cast of people on my short journey, like a twisted version of Ground Hog Day playing out in my life, every morning. One and a Half kilometres where I see the same people going about their life and I know, whether I acknowledge them or not, I might be late according to where I see them on my journey. On the odd days where I have walked a different route I wonder if they are still there, going through the motions of their daily routine, and if they are, have noticed my small part in their daily routine is missing?
As I begin my journey, walking down to pacific park, I usually see a workman or two, casually strolling, esky in hand, up to the building site of another apartment block on the site of the Esplanade near Newcastle beach. At this early stage, I’m still half-asleep, so we pass each other in silence, and I continue through Pacific Park occasionally seeing the woman who feeds Pigeons stale bread. Frequently there will be a stray seagull attempting to muster in and take some of the bread. She shoos them away and they in turn fly a few metres back from the pigeons before making their way forward again, determined to get some bread. On occasion I stop and marvel at their determination, but only for a second or two, before walking on.
There is a cafe near the park where every morning the same group gather for breakfast, they sit at the same tables, chattering over several cups of coffee whilst waiters scuttle back and forth with carrying breakfasts. I envy these people somewhat; I would love to be able to while away my mornings with friends instead of drinking coffee at my desk, seeing the same propaganda pumped out by my Employer in an effort to heighten the morale of disillusioned workers.
The peak of my morning is stopping at my favourite cafe for my usual latte. Walking in and being greeted by name fills me with joy, reminding me I’m not a faceless figure, at this point in the journey my absence is always noted. For the eternally anonymous office worker recognition is heartening. The conversations here set the tone for my day, as does the coffee. The tastiest coffee’s have seen me through the most horrid of days and the odd day when the coffee is not so good can determine whether I spend the rest of my day avoiding contact with the outside world.
As I leave there, the man who delivers the papers sometimes greets me,
“Is she on-time today?” he’ll ask.
“Yes she is” I’ll reply and keep walking, as does he, pulling his cart of daily papers behind him.
Walking past the newsagent, the dog, which lies in the back of its owners’ car, comes out to say hello. He’s the sort of dog whom only pays you attention if you speak to him like a human. He nuzzles his nose into the side of my thigh if I stop to say hello to him, I give him a quick pat of acknowledgment,
“You’re a weird dog aren’t you Michael?”
He will reply by turning on his heel and trotting away, I watch him before resuming the walk down to the pedestrian crossing on Watt St, glaring at drivers who dare to drive through the crossing as I walk across. One day whilst walking across this crossing a man asked me to give him money to help Lenin. I told him Lenin is dead and doesn’t need money and he called me a bitch as I walked passed him. I wished I’d had a good retort at the time however it took til the time I passed by that crossing on my way home and he was gone. I hope Lenin got the money that man was so keen to collect on his behalf.
My next hundred metres is uneventful, I walk by the buildings and look through the windows at the wares on display, occasionally something catches my attention long enough to stop and inspect it as best I can. Ultimately I keep walking and even though I pass by in the afternoon, I seldom purchase anything that has caught my attention that morning, so eager am I to return to my little flat.
Walking past the Bakehouse, I greet the lady who eats her breakfast at the tables outside there very morning with her partner. She smiles at me returns the greeting. Each morning we carry out this ritual and nothing more. After a year I do not know her name or anything about her except if I see her walking away from the bakehouse, I am late. I’ve wondered occasionally, where I to see her elsewhere, would we repeat our routine? I doubt it I tell myself. It seems a routine based solely on the premise of passing each other each morning, to play it out elsewhere would change the context thus creating a new relationship. I ponder this notion as I stroll past and promise myself I’m wrong, context means little where shallow relationships based on morning greetings are concerned, I’d still say hello. I promise myself…I’d still say hello. Wouldn’t I?
As I carry on through the Mall I seem to gravitate to the left-hand side, it seems free from obstructions the right hand side boasts. Always the same cast of people pass, a mixture of joggers and walkers dressed in tight aerobic outfights and plugged into personal radio’s and MP3 Players. Shopkeepers preparing for their day’s trade, the occasional drifter and Office Workers with buffed shoes, handbags, brief cases and shopping bags of food for their lunch. Sometimes they’ll have white headphones jammed in their ears, betraying an iPod disguising the stirring sounds of Newcastle. All of them pass quickly, while I dally, coffee in hand. They’re so eager to reach their destination whereas I procrastinate as long as possible without arriving late.
Once a week there will be a puddle of vomit somewhere on the path, and I wont see it until I’ve almost stepped in it before quickly avoiding it. A reminder of people enjoying their nights, while I am tied to early mornings and early nights in bed. I walk away from the puddle of stinking bile and resent the rigid hours that this lifestyle dictates and the curse the body’s need for sleep.
I reach the end of the mall and look at my watch, the last 100 metres of my journey go by in a blur as I realise I’ve dallied too long and I’m going to be late. I stop noticing the nuances of my surroundings, the sound cars whirring by and start worrying about reports, bosses and performance reviews. My last free moment is the short wait at the traffic lights on Darby St.
Newcastle has woken and I’ve reached imposing figure of the building marking my journeys’ end. As I gaze upon it from standpoint a sense of foreboding overcomes and I begin counting the minutes til 3.30. When my walk reverses and mimic those Office Workers I criticise in the morning, eager to reach my destination, arriving home to another early night. Only to start the same process again the next day…Ground-Hog Day.