Sunflower City

Bicycle. 

A magical word, almost symmetrical, much like the thing it describes. Flying through the city, milk exploding in my basket, hair streaming against the backdrop of St. Paul's, one hand clutching my skirt, shielding my dignity from the wind. These days i speed past quaint front porches and brilliant sunsets, tasting the tang of the ocean upon my lips, but the thrill is the same. I am incredibly aware of how vulnerable my body is, sharing the road with such armoured metal monsters whilst i rattle by with the bones of my wrists exposed past the ends of my sleeves. I admire the reckless fragility of the boy ahead, rucksack swinging, a pair of weathered boots pedaling frantically; the beauty of escape and the ease of jumping into your saddle and leaving. The rules of the road needn't apply to us, if we don't want them to. Dangerous and beautiful: the most exhilarating way to see the city.

In my creative writing class we were asked to pair up with a stranger and had to lead each other blindfolded to a spot on campus, and describe what we saw when we opened our eyes through the thoughts of a character of our own creation. One begins to see the trees in a different way when confronted with them from the forest floor, gazing up into the gnarled tangle of arms shielding your eyes from the ancient sun.

I embarked upon a dumpster diving mission one night last week. We drove to a supermarket at midnight, gloves upon our fingers and torches upon our heads, whereupon we climbed into their dustbins and retrieved     a myriad of goodies. Do not knock anything until you have tried it. We carried home boxes and boxes of fruit glistening like jewels, bread, cookies, hummus, shampoo, yoghurt, cheese, anything and everything you can imagine. Never buy food again. There is something strangely satisfying about immersing yourself knee deep in the debris of unlived lives.

One hundred paper butterflies found their way across the mountains and cast themselves about my room, each like a tiny individual kiss.

I spent my week spray - painting everything which crossed my path with glitter and cycling along the Californian coastline to the beach. One particular day i sat upon the sand with the ocean moaning and crashing in front of me with no regard for anything but herself and the life within her watery bower. An old hippy called for my attention, making a peace sign and smiling serenely as he passed. A man strolled by with a parrot on his arm, kissing it affectionately on the top of its head as the seals lamented by the wharf. I thought of those long days spent in a classroom, not so long ago, dreaming of fabulous yellow roman candles exploding across the sky and yearning to do the same. Now, here i am, right at the centerlight. 

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I entered my kitchen at midnight during a full moon to find my housemates baking apple pies and listening to Blink 182, completely naked. I believe that one has never lived until one dances with ten nude anarchist punks carving apples to 'All The Small Things.'

I spent Saturday afternoon at a monarch butterfly festival upon the beach. The monarchs were nowhere to be seen but we sat in eucalyptus trees on the edges of the cliff and watched the waves, kings and queens of our own world. A band played and i made a sun catcher out of tin foil. An art gallery downtown hosted a love letter-writing exhibition and i had to talk to a red lipsticked mouth about my 'loved one' and she hand-wrote a sonnet for me to send.

There is a lagoon behind my house and we traversed the walkways in the darkness as the moonlight spilled carelessly into the water. I cooked a vegan stir-fry for fifteen people (seriously) and mastered the 'pigeon' yoga pose. My days are filled with paintings and poetry, bicycles and beaches and my nights are a jumble of acoustic guitars and red wine under the stars.

I am already halfway through my first quarter here, what a strange waltz the ticking hands of time do lead us. 

"I don't know where i'm going from here, but i promise it won't be boring."

  - David Bowie