Japanse New-Girl Monkey Network
When the Words are Flapping Around in Your Head
So many things to say and experiences to catalogue, and yet when I sit down to write or try to compose things in my head, all that comes out is boring stuff like food poisoning.
There is a little house in Enmore, now, with some boxes in it and no refridgerator and some brand new supplies purchased at the nearest K-Mart. Slowly I'm starting to get used to Enmore/ Newtown and find my way around. The landmarks are unfamiliar but in a way the general population has a very Bellingham vibe to it, so it's hard to feel entirely out of place. There are enough people with tattoos and facial piercings and weird hair for me to not feel too weird, and enough people in preppy shorts and t-shirts for me to not feel too normal. It's just when I open my mouth that I start to get a little self-conscious and think, "Oh God, I don't sound too American, do I?".
Enmore Road, the main road that's nearest the little house (pictures forthcoming at the request of The Dad), fascinates me by the sheer oddity of the mixture of shops that line it. There are about three funeral parlors, interspersed with S&M and/ or Goth-themed boutiques, hair salons, a Marxist-looking book store with funny snarky anti-capitalist t-shirts, your average cafes and diners, a bellydancing shop, groceries, a Blockbuster Video and some other type of video rental place, and, of course, several pubs.
I think the really dangerous thing about globalization is that, when you are conditioned to certain brands and franchises in one country, and you travel to the opposite side of the world and see some of the same brands and franchises, you come to expect that nearly everything will essentially be the same. When it's not, and you can't find something you take for granted at home, it's even more disorientating than if there was nothing remotely familiar in the vicinity.
Other than that, I think Mr Wiggins has been a convenient buffer to a large part of the culture shock I've been going through (sometimes, though, to his complete misfortune). He's translated for me, directed me through and helped me familiarize myself with important places, his numerous relatives have forced me to get used to that European cheek kissy-face thing that is so alien to Americans, patiently explained certain realities of Australian existence, exasperatedly underscored certain realities of Australian existence that I refuse to accept, and been a generally good companion so far.
But I know that soon, I am just going to need a good stretch of time alone. I need time to meditate, time to process the bewildering jumble of events spanning from the beginning of last December up until now. I need time to go back and rediscover some overlooked pieces of Andrea that got shuffled under the sofa along the way. I need time where I'm not about to move, or moving, or unpacking, or figuring out how to buy groceries without a fridge to keep cold things in during 35°C weather. I know I'll have that time, but I can feel it starting to become urgent.
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