Have you ever listened to the sound of a peeling banana? Like, really listened, closely and with concentration? That tearing, split of the sunlit skin. Raw and controlled in whichever way the handler moves their agile fingers. The initial crack of the stalk, then pulling it down to its point like a dog chasing its own tail. Once you have pierced its protection the soft, cream centre reveals itself to the light. If you haven’t, next time pay attention. Because much like in life, to get to those sweet hidden delights of our soul, we must peel the painful layers bruised by the extremities of hurt. I wonder if the banana cries also. And if it does, who or what is there to listen?

I’ve had a few rough days and that’s why I’ve resorted to talking about bloody bananas. Just like in India, I have stopped. Parked the car. And the traffic has been whirling around me in a chaotic and kaleidoscopic formation. Emotions rise up from inside your chest and seep from your eyes, your pores, your muscles. Just about any which way they can release themselves from your vessel. Though at the time I may not feel as such, I am extremely grateful for these emotional resurgences because they reveal my need for growth. It’s time for me to learn how to appreciate the small moments of our existence on this rock we call home. Those moments I would usually overlook whilst fumbling with a determined concentration, for those big whopper events. Yesterday was a day of being grateful for all the little things in my random, bulldozing life.

I started with yoga and meditation because, don’t you know I do that sort of thing now. Well, I stretch my body a bit and then sit down for ten minutes in silence. Standard day. I’ve recently been on a mission to find the perfect café. With the abundance of eateries and bars available in Brunswick, this is actually a complex mission. I’ve dabbled here, I’ve dabbled there. Some you walk in and you just know, “Not today Linda! This ain’t the café for me!”. Others you teeter on the threshold, the décor entices you, the lighting is so so, and then you see the price list, “Not today Linda! This ain’t the café for me!”. AND then you find it, the unexpected gem. The Chateau de Nerf. The almond milk to your chai. The Green Refectory. It’s affordable, approachable and sporadically gluten free. Much like myself. I spent three long, glorious hours in this wonderful find. I flickered in between adjusting my CV, eating top notch salads, drinking chai and people watching. A silent, tiny, hungry flame in the corner of the room. Afterwards, I stepped out into the sunshine as though I just crawled out of my cave, stretched and thought, “Three weeks Charlotte, and you’ve gol’ darn gone and done it. You’ve found it.” (Thanks to my ol’ mate Shania for that phrase). I patted myself on the back and swaggered down the street.

The day ended with a Gary Clark Jr gig at The Forum with Faysal and his mates. It was a lovely evening and I left the little box at home. To my surprise, very few people were dancing. They just stood in awe at Gazza doing his thing. At one point he was singing “Kill them all”, or it at least very much sounded like that. The audience just watched, a paused video, the roaring red lighting glowing on their still faces. Make of that scene what you will, but I wouldn’t be there after dark on my lonesome. We rounded up the night with a hellah spicy Thali which blew my fucking brains out and probably will do the same to my arse later. How’s that for some spiritual writing.

Y’all enjoy ya day now.

In rambling thoughts,

C x