Interlude.

Sunlight streams in slices through the venetian blinds to the left. Crisp linen caressed with crinkles by a night of average sleep reflects bright right through scrunched eyelids. Alas, as the morning calls, I abandon the warmth of my bed, shower, dress, and push the door of my third floor apartment open a crack. Stale stairwell air rushes in, affronting my sun soaked solace. Down worn stone stairs to the heavy oak door, that only gives way if you jerk it towards and then quickly push it away from you, into frigid Finnish air.

Within the hour, warmed by a mediocre coffee and nourished by a generous serving of porridge, I have trekked my way to the train station. Of course, my long trip home has been left to the day of. Such a habit keeps me on my toes. On a whim, I decide that making a quick trip through Eastern Europe and then Asia wouldn’t hurt. Then I’ll fly back to Sydney, establish some kind of small den to hibernate in occasionally, settle to an extent, and then run off at the next opportunity. 

As I disembark the train in Paris, I hear the roar of a red blur before it streaks past my vision in the distance. I’ll drive the next leg then, seems to have been fate’s message. I hire a red convertible Alfa, making sure I can drop it off on the very edge of Eastern Europe, and set off. Through Germany and Northern Italy I speed, roof down, hair whipped, eyes weeping. It feels almost spiritual, the way the body melts into the car, and the car melts into the road. Man and machine as one, hurtling along arteries scored into ancient countryside. Movement is the only faith I need to keep my soul alive.

The journey is a dream, hazy when you want to recount it, but vivid in future lucid moments. As I cross rivers, traverse plains, slice through mountains, and get lost in glittering coasts, the last ten year plays in my head. Cold mornings in Paris, waking before the sun and city to prep for a show. Nights that stretched forever in dark corners of Berlin with a chosen family who wait with open arms for when I return. Sun soaked rocky Italian beaches with far too many drinks far too early to be respectable. Long days locked in a friend’s apartment letting our creativity flow into music and words. Glittering award nights, the occasional expensive car to an event, being recognised for the smallest works in the most random places. Most importantly, the moments of ‘normality’ as life entered a gentle ebb and flow between mundane work and the people that brighten your days and nights in that new city of those few months. Love and lovers and lights, Aperol in Amalfi, bass beats and beating builds. Freedom to be whoever, do whatever, and go wherever.

Now, I’ll return home, throw an anchor down, and swing off the chain, revolve around my settlement, but remain free enough to fly. And one day maybe I’ll drop the anchor and soar off again. But as the plane touches down on the tarmac it left ten long years ago, an age really, I know this is a moment to take a breath. To rest my feet and start working with my hands, staying stiller but never stilling nor distilling. So, the interlude begins.