The Saxophone Player on the Street Corner...

A Friday in October passed by with the hustle and bustle of Sydney city-goers. They head back home to put on those comfortable $2 Kmart shoes and the trackies of a similar price that although are not stylish, they trump any $600 branded dress that is only worn once. These pants can last years, if not decades for some, and when spoken to could share some incredible stories of happiness and heartbreak. They seem at least one size too small but you can never let them go as they seem to almost know apart of you. You know what ones I am talking about?

Or many of these walkers by are youthful bachelorettes that race home to draw on their face and recreate their eyebrows the wrong shade of brown. Although they say, that going out is to not bottle that one compliment from the 10/10 from work or the British exchange student from class- it is. As they slip into this suffocating grasp of a tiny nude colour dress, they wonder is it 'worth it'?

Whether home or outbound these passers-by have a destination yet they do not stop to value and immerse themselves in the expedition and its spontaneous discoveries.

This was my spontaneous discovery, when I was heading home to find those trackies.

On this Friday evening the sun pastels the sky in the pinks and blues as if it were a newborn nursery. I finished ten hours of work and only wanted to be home, to get from the station to home without walking the distance. As if only I could press a button and be back in the comfort of my college's brick walls but spectacular view of Sydney's skyline. I rushed through Redfern station with this urgency to weave in and out of the dawdlers.

I am then slowed not physically but mentally by a simple melody.

The soulful ooze of a saxophone engulfed my path. The suffering of its long-drawn-squeezed notes spoke of the pain and torment of its master. She replicated the greats of American jazz, a female archetype of the lonesome and tortured Southern musician.

The elderly woman slouched on a dirty street stone, surrounded by few belongings. It was just herself and her saxophone. Her charcoal and silver curls framed her chestnut face. Her eyes closed above her pursed lips and as she played her saxophone revealed the deep dimples in her cheeks. If you only saw her face in that moment you would believe she was at peace, yet her slashed over coat that seemed to have been chewed on by moths and mice unravelled a different circumstance. Her cotton pants were riddled with cigarette burnt holes the size of coke bottle lids. Upon her feet rested a pair of black thongs that could no longer stop the bottom of her feet from brushing against the ground.  

You wonder, why does she not sell it and buy necessities? Why must she find herself leaning against a gum-coated street pole, hoping that the wanderers will stop in their paces and go without a few coins? Perhaps she looks at these youthful walkers and ponder upon her own situation, how can I become like this? What have I done she may think? How did I fall into this situation? What must I do to revive what I once had, or what I could have?

Me and the saxophone, is this all for me?

I paced past her and the forlorn tune faded once I reached the archaic terrace houses of Redfern. These houses that squeeze together as if to protect themselves from Sydney's constant wind, are laced in the spirit and facade of 1920s. Both they and the saxophone player seemed to have survived long enough to have witnessed suffering, as a victim of discrimination and heartbreak, of broken hopes and tenuous reliance on others. They have aged through affliction that has ached eternally. Whatever endeavours have failed within their walls are displayed in full glory in the splits of the concrete, the rust of the metal of the verandah and the over-grown consumption of the shrubbery that climbs upon the facade.

Yet it is in this ruination amongst the age of modernity that the truest strength is illuminated.
The strength that all sufferers possess is often turned into something beautiful...

As though one refuses to let their plight destroy an element of magic in their lives.



In my moments of rushing and speed walking when I was only absorbed in my own world, it was her and the melodic moan of the saxophone that shimmered. A moment was paused and replayed again and again. I hope that you who are reading this will appreciate those moments where everything encompasses one another.

Even in the midst of urgency you are able to slow down your whole journey and focus upon something so profound and particular...

'A Very Temple of the Winds'

               
                  'Pile of Stonehenge! So proud to hint yet keep thy secrets'- William Wordsworth

                             


Tuesday 3rd January, 2017.

Oh my Jesus was this morning a bit chilly and early, but it did pay off.

We had a 6:30am wake up to get the Underground to Gloucester Road  and meet our tour guide Rosie for the 8am bus to Stonehenge, Bath and through the English Countryside.

Stonehenge was something spiritually absorbing. These stones that are believed to be 5000 years old are resting in what seems to be in the middle of nowhere but nevertheless perfectly compliments the English hills and farm lands.
Finally, after five days in the city we got out into the crisp English air. It was about ten-ish when we arrived yet it felt as though it was 8am as the sun was still stretching awake and the frost refused to leave the comforting embrace of the grass blades. Yet, the colour palette was extraordinary, 'postcard' perfect as they say, with the sun peaking through stones that will hopefully eternally stand. Nothing to be heard except for the modern clinks and clanks of the other tourists with the ignorant moans and groans of children. But peace prevails and fulfils the atmosphere of the region.

Definitely something every anglophile and/or wayward traveller should experience.

Sometimes, a perfect combination of the omnipotent's creation and the creation of man marries and reflects peace, spirituality and something powerfully calm. This is what we need even today, so much more today.



                                        *                                *                                   *



We popped back on the bus and after an hour and a bit we arrived in the architecturally unified beauty of Bath. Rosie gave us 3hrs to explore on our own this city.

Of course you can't explore Bath without visiting the baths themselves. The fusion of ancient Roman baths that were revitalised by the Georgians was interesting to say the least. The Georgians and the Romans believed that the hot springs possessed healing qualities that would mend all ailments and was often prescribed by doctors throughout the Georgian period. The water itself was perfectly warm as it invited the visitor into its calming properties. It would have been nice if we could still swim, even though they are ancient baths, after being in a terribly chilling winter, warm water is welcomed at any time! Yet, the archaeology is too fragile and priceless to risk many thousands of tourists swimming and ruining the heritage listed city.

After this we went on a bit of a self guided city hike, through the traditional Georgian centre with a not so traditional lunch of Hawaiian pizza. The Circus and the Royal Crescent are the most expensive areas in Bath that house politicians, millionaires, actors and businessmen who are aligned one by one in exactly the same Georgian architecture which emanates the British ideals of sameness, uniformity and conservatism with a pinch of privilege that has in some cases trickled down to today. Definitely different to the relatively 'modern' buildings back home in Australia.

Within an hour, brother dearest and I parted ways. I wandered down to the Jane Austen Centre to have a lil' tour about her life, writings, family and spinsterhood. The staff were very eager in their regal period costumes and similarities to Austen's characters, yet it must seem Mr Darcy was absent, as was Mr Bingley who is my favourite. With a quick browse, a few pictures and a nibble at some Georgian butter biscuits, I waltzed back through the cobbled stone streets and arrived near the meeting point to catch up with Carl. And guess where I found him, yes, guzzling down a pint of some local lager in a small corner pub about 3m x 3m wide. In this moment I discovered that this was his 5th pint in the last hour which equates to about 2 and a bit litres of beer. Yes, yuck, exactly what I was thinking. This amount of liquid would soon have grave consequences for him but hilarious observations for me.

We hopped back on the bus, when about 30 mins into the journey back, Carl loudly (due to his mild drunkenness) screeches that he needed to pee...alot.

The tension, the pressure, the pain, builds and builds and builds until I am apprehensive that my brother, a fresh 18 year old almost man is about to pee himself in front of 20 strangers we had only spent the last 4 hours with. Yet our only interaction with everyone seemed to be as little as breathing the same air as them.

He was curled up with his hands down his pants to try and do as much as possible to stop international humiliation. So, he then races up to Rosie asking when we were about to stop, and then goes back to ask her if we could stop earlier because he was well past breaking point. Once we reached the servo, he waddles speedily to the bathroom as though he had a stick shoved in an uncomfortable part of his body. Once he finished up it was as though he had been spiritually enlightened, as though he had received some sort of divine revelation. Holy guacamole, I have never laughed that much I swear, as usual it ended past the point of tears and aching stomachs.

We ended in London with a flaky and processed sausage roll for dinner, which seemed to be a skinless frankfurt sausage wrapped in cardboard puff pastry that probably had been hardening there in its warming rack the whole day. Delicious!



Anyways, before I leave you, I would like to present a literary picture of the English Countryside which was divinely beautiful and magical, even in winter.

The colour palette of the landscape is gorgeous and unique with emerald greens of the earth, pastel blues trimmed with baby purples of the sky cuddling up to one another. The soft blood orange and peach light falls upon the wired tree branches. These winter months refuse the necessity for greenery and floral blossoming as the apricot sunset kisses all within its path and glorifies the months often hated...

So here's a story from A-Z...

Wait, hold up, before you start log out of Facebook, disable the filters and dog faces, mute the hearts and 60 second videos and stop the left and right swipes. I know yes, I know it might be hard for some of you when it feels like you're imitating 127 hours by cutting off a limb with a blunt knife but some people get the best from the worst situations.

Now, I have your hopefully complete attention!! Although it only just made me think that I have to back track a bit, keep your phone on but only for a bit, put it on Do Not Disturb mode and mute messenger for once you have read my electronic inscription I hope for you to ponder, tinker and go out and how crazy is this, but go out and talk to someone without a device to distract you. 😱

Tell me a story, one that wraps its words through my mind, outreaches and tightens the cranks or unlocks new compartments. Whether it makes us happy and ecstatic or even plunges us into deep contemplation... May it be of something small yet beautiful, like when in a winter's chill the sun's warmth settles upon your face or even may your tale be of something epic, as though you have trekked through some rugged trees amongst the emerald forestry away from the city.

Now you, yes you, this story may be of love. Please tell me, of your experience with this emotion that seems so foreign. Describe in vivid details, compare it to nature, food, film or something random that encompasses happiness.

Or you, yes I'm talking to you, whether you're the one on public transport with the uncomfortably stratchy seats who is randomly smiling at your phone or trying to get out of talking to that weird family member who comes around every few months and gives you unnecessary gifts like hair scrunchies. Now, your story could be about your studies, which to tell you the truth if its anything to do maths or economics I may have a micro sleep, but if you're passionate it may be interesting. Or your verbal story could entail a bit of a rant or an opinion of worldly affairs.

Yet, it is you I hope, who will take the time to out pour all your tales of travel and adventures. Please, please, please if I can't travel at the moment physically, at least allow me through your words to explore the world and all its fascinations. To delve into the freezing winters of Europe, the singeing heat of the Australian sun or the cosmopolitan maze of the worlds biggest cities. Also, even in the small country towns I find interest, where not much happens but there is a beauty in its simplicity and boredom. And with these images, I may hold onto something of the world until I shall save enough and have the right opportunities to relive these moments for my own.

Are you ready? Now you can hold the button until it turns off!



Now tell me a story, a real story... As we all have one to tell.