I have been calling Australia a lot lately. Before that when I had tried, it was Pakistan, and before that it was Austin, but mostly Chicago. When I call Australia, I hear myself guilty for capturing my friend - my friend who I call my other half, my better artist - on the other end of the line on the other side of the world. Australia feels guilty for enabling my phone calls all these years from all these cities. Australia reminds me of how, regardless that I have always been in New York, my conversational digest has always been the same fodder: the invalidated romantic delusions, finding joy in the smallest gestures with no semiotics, celebrating the hope that maybe it will be different this time, all for over half a decade with no real changes. They say repeating the same thing over and expecting to get different results, without getting different results, is insanity. I call and call the other side of the world.
Australia is heading into Spring, when one needs to wear a helmet in order to deflect a swooping magpie. In New York we are approaching Fall, when "pumpkin" becomes the trigger-word for knee-jerk sneers and coffee and reminders that everything natural will die and fall to the ground. I cannot tell which I am heading towards, the Fall or the fall.