Sliding Sideways Across the Globe

Sleep.
Its the time we spend lost in the land of dreams. Cuddled up amoungst pillows and sheets and donnas.

Sleep.
Its God's way of making sure your not up for morning TV informmercials with the worlds greatest skin care products, the latest Ab-fantabuliser and OZ style aerobics.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep ...

Planes are not sleep. Staring at "The Mask of Zorro" on the back of a chair, swollowing chunks of assorted pre-cut melons, sipping on lumpy strawberry yogurt, eating Chicken and Leek pie.

Sleep is not reading Singapore newspapers over peoples shoulders, straining to see out porthole windows or playing thumbwars with yourself over and over only to lose again and again.

The little plane now on the back of the chair says we'll be landing soon. Its 5am Singapore - 28C. My body aches out for a coffee and a stretch. The crew are strapped down; it will all have to wait.

I glide through an empty terminal. Im alert, yet Im not here. I follow my instincts looking for a Stopover counter to collect my vouchers, yet now I discover I have dropped my bags.

I glance up at the Golden Arches before me. I must be tired, McDonalds smells appertising. Behind it I can see the Singapore logo; I check in, drag my bags outside into the thick air and wait.

Sleep.
A shuttle bus pulls up. I board. We take off into the night. Beyond is a tall skyline of bright lights reaching up. I smell saltwater and marshes as we head into its belly.
"Sweet dreams are made of these ..." Why does the radio taunt me so.

The streets are spotless and empty. A few cars are heading back and forth. One driver picks his nose and after a satisfing inspection drives off. Another contains a kid in the back seat who stares at me. I poke my tongue out as we pull away. Im ushered out. Check in is not until 7am and Im given a coffee voucher to kill the remaining voucher. Its not my coffee but within minutes I begin to get my bearings, the feeling in my limbs returns. I write, scrawing chicken strach with my borrowed airline pen to be faithfulyl repoduced online at some point (6:30pm the same night - ED) The blackness outside fades to grey, fades to a cool washed out blue. The coffee is gone as other guests begin to arrive. Its time to find my room before it wears off ...

Goodbye.

The final hours of daylight twinkle across the river in golden ribbons. The air hangs still and quiet and heavy.

Last nite, I said goodbye to the sky. I took a final stroll out the south window into the galaxy. I waved at the Southern Cross and the Saucepan. I smiled at the long arms of the Milky as she stretched her arms across the heavens slowly pulling the clouds with her. These stars will be here when I come back, but will I?

A journey across the globe is about to begin and surely the sights, sounds and taste of far off countries will embrace me, shape me, change me.

I have said as many goodbyes as I can. Perhaps you were in luck and our paths crossed once more. Perhaps time eluded me and we will share this page and journey from afar. Perhaps, new levels and friendships will growth through messenging, email and a smile.

The journey is never over and ours is about to begin ...

Midnight brings a storm raging down on the roof. Thoughts and faces swirl around my head like a drunken dervish lost in a trance.

These last days, I have seen more faces from my past then I have in the last year. Old work collegues, new work collegues, Uni friends and lost family. I hold my breath and wonder if Im dying; a parade of the past marching before me.

Todays brings more memories as I wander through old haunts, food courts and cityscapes. My wallet empties and fills and empties. New shoes beckon to be broken in. New paper money with strange faces and solemn faces. A meat pie and coke quench a dry throat.

So this is the end and the beginning ...

Cicadas buzz outside as the road shimmers and warps in the distant from the heat.

My house of 3 1/2 years is now a distant memory. My life reduced to a suitcase, an overnight bag and 1/2 dozen plastic storage boxes with an assortment of unappetizing coloured lids. Oasises of nostalgia surface and sink through my consciousness as I finalise my packing, discarding favourite tshirts and boxers with an unease and discomfort usually reserved for country music.

And as I throw away another piece of my past, procrastination slaps me across the face, "Its coffee time", it says. I tend to agree.