I finally have established my internet connection at the new flat. Not that it wasn't connected before, it's just that my computer couldn't connect. And not in a fashion that was otherwise unobtrusive. Let's just say that this service provider is not entirely welcoming to Macs. But I got around that nicely. Very nicely. And now I can again update you all from the comfort of my own bed.
It's weird being back in New Zealand after my little jaunt overseas. There's something painfully surreal about the reality of Wellington. It all seems so familiar in a distant kind of way. The best way to describe it relates to the thought that struck me while I was strolling through town. I vaguely recalled the famous musing of some Chinest philosopher wondering if a man waking from dreaming of being a butterfly is simply that: a man who dreamt he was a butterfly; or whether he is instead a butterfly now dreaming of being a man. I did warn it was a vague recollection.
Nonetheless, that's almost how it feels. I had this unshaking feeling that I'd all of a sudden find myself throwing off the sleepy shackles and waking up somewhere on the West Coast of the USA, or rising to the clamour of the Viennanese Streets below me. Wellington just didn't seem to fit anymore. It could be the itchy feet. It could be more. Who knows.
In any event, there's enough here to feed my memories. The cold prickle of the air as I walk home reminds me of Hamburg, the faint thumping of music reminds me of Portland dancefloors, and many many more. In fact, memories recall other memories. There's no real structure to it, at least none that I can ascertain. They all simply exist together. Not in a stringy mess, but in a connected fashion nonetheless. It surprises me what memories lead where.
If anything, it's motivation to make more memories. The motivation to make things happen. And that I have, and that I am doing.
It's weird being back in New Zealand after my little jaunt overseas. There's something painfully surreal about the reality of Wellington. It all seems so familiar in a distant kind of way. The best way to describe it relates to the thought that struck me while I was strolling through town. I vaguely recalled the famous musing of some Chinest philosopher wondering if a man waking from dreaming of being a butterfly is simply that: a man who dreamt he was a butterfly; or whether he is instead a butterfly now dreaming of being a man. I did warn it was a vague recollection.
Nonetheless, that's almost how it feels. I had this unshaking feeling that I'd all of a sudden find myself throwing off the sleepy shackles and waking up somewhere on the West Coast of the USA, or rising to the clamour of the Viennanese Streets below me. Wellington just didn't seem to fit anymore. It could be the itchy feet. It could be more. Who knows.
In any event, there's enough here to feed my memories. The cold prickle of the air as I walk home reminds me of Hamburg, the faint thumping of music reminds me of Portland dancefloors, and many many more. In fact, memories recall other memories. There's no real structure to it, at least none that I can ascertain. They all simply exist together. Not in a stringy mess, but in a connected fashion nonetheless. It surprises me what memories lead where.
If anything, it's motivation to make more memories. The motivation to make things happen. And that I have, and that I am doing.
No comments:
Post a Comment