Three-Point-Turn; Eight-Point-Star

I chose my alarm clock on purpose. It rumbles like an earthquake, jitters with banshee-screams of terror, and submits to the freezing chokehold of my hand at 7:30 in the morning. It performs perfectly. Right on time, my sober, arid throat replenished itself with three-day-old water (in the crystal carafe, naturally) and I packed my bags with all possible haste. Today I returned to the Noble Hills, albeit only for a few nights, while this so-called study break passes over me like flashcard-infused fumes. 

The first stop was the supermarket, peopled with languid shoppers and manic commuters, heavy with the scent of half-wilted spinach, yesterday’s sourdough, and today’s Turkish rolls. I may have overdone it with the shopping (as usual), but tomorrow I’ll take some of the excess on a slightly-illicit picnic, sprawled in the long grasses of unclaimed plots of land with at least two books of different flavours beside me. Perhaps even a sketchbook, to test my birdwatching prowess. Today I notched a few: sulfur-crested cockatoo, rainbow lorikeet, and an elegant, terrifying black cockatoo with stark white circles powdered onto its cheeks like a decadent French aristocrat. (As I write this, I can hear quendas outside—small, elusive marsupials, something between a possum and a mouse. They must enjoy the sage incense I’ve been burning tonight.)

Once my dad and I made it out of the supermarket, we stopped by my favourite French bakery and gathered only the essentials: a raspberry pain suisse, a pistachio pain au chocolat, and the largest cappuccino they could conjure for us (to be shared). The pain suisse was the highlight—its strata an architectural feat beyond comprehension. Then the journey began up north: me sitting in the back like a meek Uber passenger, him projecting his voice over the rocky bumps of the road. All in perfect harmony. We arrived, brushed the last pastry crumbs from our laps, and I did my flashcards while watching my dad shovel for about an hour. I don’t remember what exactly, but it looked important. 

Later, after some negotiation, I decided to finally restart my driving lessons—with him, rather than some stranger. He pulled the car out onto that smooth, endless country road, and I took the front seat. Scary. I had shelved driving for years, despite nearly being twenty-one, after a bad start: an instructor once threw me into my own neighbourhood’s unpredictable traffic while explaining manoeuvres in rugby metaphors I didn’t understand. That was the very first lesson. I became haunted by the intrusive thought of something going wrong, and so I slunk away until I forgot it altogether—until now. Seatbelt, ignition, adjust mirror, check it, set car to Drive, release handbrake, grip the wheel. Once established, it was almost automatic. Today I tried three-point turns, regular parking, parallel parking, and reverse parking. Straightening was hardest, but there was something strangely romantic about driving on the same roads I had spent so many evenings walking. I almost forgot I was afraid. Now I think I’ll start logging my hours properly. Even if I won’t need to drive soon, it’s a skill—like riding a bike or doggy-paddling through the ocean—and it is fun. That is a plus.

We swapped seats and I went along into town so my dad could pick up hardware (for the shovelling, I think). I wandered the aisles, noting the varieties of seeds they sold, while my mind spiralled into a recent video essay I watched on pesticide-resistant crops and agricultural corruption. We had hoped to visit the thrift store, my favourite place in town, but it closes by midday. Next time. On the way back we passed a sign listing prohibited modes of sidewalk transport: scooters, rollerblades, bicycles, skateboards. I turned to my dad—what about hoverboards? What about heelies? He answered with horse riding. I countered with camel riding. He went with penny farthings. I finished with wheelbarrows. We agreed the law is not without flaws.

Back home I made a turkey, cheese, lettuce, and mayo sandwich (a new discovery for me—pleasant enough, though I’d still choose lingonberry jam with its sharp, unusual bite). I lounged in the grass, read, and scribbled into my Discussion section whenever a good idea rose up. My body was in reset mode, though tomorrow I must tackle a major assessment. Writing the intricacies of CBT is harder than I would like to admit.

I had brought along my SIM-less iPhone today for Microsoft Authenticator reasons, but also as an offline audiobook player so I could sink further into The Queen of the Damned on my evening walk. Yes, I reached the Devil’s Minion chapter and went slightly insane. While listening, the sky bloomed into a blinding sunset and a large family of kangaroos hopped alongside me for nearly half an hour. At every turn, every new road, there they were again. I think I could tell the mum and dad apart, but I can’t be certain. Returning home, I ate microwave chicken pad thai, fell down a YouTube rabbit hole while dissecting my curls, then surrendered to a steamy shower and burned a little too much incense. And so here I am, typing at this computer. I would continue but unfortunately, I cannot tell you about the future.