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Five hours after the sun rises, we finally get up at 9am. Oil pools in the second half of my breakfast avocado. The coffee is powdered, but strong enough and the ocean is a ten minute walk away. We stroll through the pristine neighborhood, intoxicated with the springtime scent of frangipani and jasmine. The beach lies just beyond the main highway. To the right, the sand leads to a large pile of rocks with generous climbing holds. We walk in the other direction, toward Surfers Paradise, which is "more the beach to be seen at than to surf". Surfers teems with high-rise luxury apartment complexes and shop upon shop. Everything is new and shiny and rich. The boys are straight out of the wank mag of a 12yr. old girl. It's also Schoolies now- the traditional drunken revelry festival of newly graduated high-schoolers. They've taken over, it seems, for the next week or so.
The soft smooth sand looks like granite. Washed-up jellyfish look like discarded breast implants. As we return to the highway, my feet tingle like they've just been massaged for an hour. Barefoot, we browse through the Grower's Market, thrilled by the reasonable prices of vegetables here. At the Exotic Asian Market, I look through every Kung-Fu shoe until I find two to fit my sandal-blistered feet. We take one of the plentiful, packed, posh Mercedes buses to Southport, the burrough byeond Surfers, on a quest for bagels. What we find instead is a pleasant community that seems more local than anything else we've seen yet, and a charming old-world Italian bakery called Pandoro's. Baked goods of every variety (except bagels) compete for room in the cases and shelves. Each piece bears the bulbous irregularity of something singularly hand-crafted. As we indulge, pidgeons stroll inside, pecking the bread crumbs from the floor next to us. We enjoy this detail of nature for its stark contrast to the rest of this surreal Gold Coast scene.
The ocean is stunning, and I remain impressed by such a successful display of capitalist idealism, but it still feels like a dream. Nothing sings to me yet, "I could live here". He is here, though, and so I do.


I sent that out as a mass email. The first several drafts just whined and I figure that wasn't really fair to my people in inches of ice...
Yesterday: Near constant thoughts of surrendering my life to the riptide is the most romantic thing happening here.

The truth of it is, it's going to take me some more time to make my truth of it.

I watched a movie by myself yesterday about people who never should have gotten married and I did not laugh.

Sometimes I'm a fine stitch, sometimes I'm a torn seam...


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September 2009

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