Change of place

I have left the UK and for the time being I am residing in Taos, New Mexico. This is a temporary state, but all states are.

The altitude is about 7000 feet and the humidity is low. I've spent the first 2 days acclimatising to the thin air and the drying effects of the desert: my lips are drying and cracking.

Taos had a lot of snow on Sunday and the street on which I'm staying is still covered with compacted snow. I walk slowly and deliberately. But the air is clear and clean and the light at this elevation is spectacular. The sunset leaves vivid colours on the mountains and it reminds me of the skies in Australia.

"Fast Change"

Although I reconcile myself to change in all its forms, when change happens in a geometric progression, an acceleration, it does leave me breathless. Today I leave my job at Apple Regent Street after a year and prepare for the changes ahead. I leave behind new friends, experiences and a rancid commute.

I keep coming back to the scene in "Lost in Translation" when Bill Murray's character is in the hotel bar and says to Scarlet Johansen: "I've got this idea: first we've got to get out of this bar, then this hotel, then the city and then the country. Are you in?"

It's going to be strange to leave the comfort of routine behind, but the uncertainty brings with it creativity and I feel ideas starting to stir.

I am eager to see what this new future holds.

The morning commute

Five years ago my commute involved a bus and short train or ferry journey across Sydney harbour.

London is different. I live close to a tube station on the Piccadilly line, about 30 minutes from the centre of Town and the morning regimen goes something like this:

Get the tube before 8am or it looks like this:



People packed in so tight, face to face, clenched fists hang from rails and expressions universally devoid of emotion, too cowed to even show anger.

Most read free news papers, disposable entertainment and seething predigested anger, a proxy for their own disenchantment at their lives.

The train stops frequently and not just at stations. The "customers," as TFL management call this hot and sweaty cargo, sway and lurch. We arrive at Hammersmith.


Into the underground, as hot as hades, with companions that show few signs of life. No one talks. Not to themselves or to others. Both would be a sign of madness here. We are individuals, not a community. Everyone else here is to annoy "me," the identity constructed by advertising in The Metro.

By Earl's Court the carriage fills once more, the temporary relief of the quick-whitted jumping ship for the District line gone. There is nowhere to put your feet and arms are a cats-cradle reaching for a few inches of empty handhold.

Hyde park. A scramble for the doors. Space, room to breathe and perspire. Soon the scramble for the Bakerloo line. The urgent need for all the exiting passengers to be First through the doors causes a log jam. On the Bakerloo platform the train arrives promptly and once on board the competitors take up positions around the carriage door, ready for the running start for the escalators at the other end.

We swarm out of the train and jostle each other to be first on the escalators. Finally, outside in the morning air of London I can relax. Others reach for cigarettes and take needy gulps of smoke into their lungs to relieve their own tensions.

I savour the moments of space and relative peace, before turning my back on the London Underground experience and begin the working day.

Black Rain on the Thames

Umbrellas, hoods, designer jackets and shoddy rain macs. A steady
stream of amble past the Film cafe on the south bank. An woman stares
at me until I meet eye contact, the turns away. Blue, red, yellow,
white wheel held aloft to repel the rain that falls in steady circles
on the grey cobbles.

Summer in London. Crowds dispersed by elemental water. Peaceful as the
puddle on an abadonned table.

Where did my Now Go?

When Google bought blogger they changed the security settings and I forgot my old ID and password. I tried to recover them but I had entered my email details wrong. For nearly 2.5 years I was locked out of this Blog, but if I am truthful with myself, I had nothing to write anyway.

So much has changed in my life and I have not always been living in the Now. I've found living a constant fight to and ignoring my awareness has helped me cope with the change.

I left Australia and returned to Britain. In the 4 years I had been away from the UK, either it had changed or I had. I suspect this country has always been hard to live in, it was I that has become aware and see it for its true self. There is little sense of community. People are isolated and materialistic. Londoners particularly are rude and passively angry.

I need to reopen my awareness. But that is so, so difficult when doing so leaves my sensitivity vulnerable to every thoughtless and petty selfish act on the street.

All I need do is capture my experiences here. The reconnection with this blog somehow gives me roots in a rootless, globalised world. When I regained control of this blog last night, I told my partner and burst into tears.

In some strange ways, picking this up again was like returning home.

I'm Back

I'm back.

After Blogger moved over to using Google Accounts, this blog was orphaned. Now, after many attempts at regain entry, I have finally regained access. I am once more able to contemplate The Long Now and share it with the rest of the internet.

So many years have passed. So much has changed. Much good, some bad. All experienced.

More soon.

I am back.