The idea of primordial unity related to something existing in or persisting from the beginning

Miley Cyrus - "Party In The USA" (Official Music Video) HQ
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It's late on a Friday night, and I feel tragically old. I'm still too bitter that spoiled millionaire sportsmen don't care enough about me to win trophies, and find something quite sad and noble about it. It's my connection to the conversation this nursed grievance, and nurse it I shall. Outside the Victoria Tavern on unsteady legs, I see a girl sitting against a wall, a small elfin Pixie Lott looking girl with head slumped forward and panda eyed mascara streaming down her face. Her friends have long gone, disappearing I think in a click clack of heel in puddle motion towards Customs, while the girl lets off a flare of distress, in the form of the universally accepted Hobart girl sign that all is not well - a pair of silver heels with sparkles painted on taken off her feet and held aloft in the sky in her hands. She looks up at the stars with vacant eyes, and gently whimpers in the direction of a taxi driver. He has a large illuminated badge on his shirt, a neatly trimmed beard, and no intention at all of picking her up. It seems somewhat unchivalrous to have to step over her legs to continue the onward night, but there's nothing we can do to help her, since she's already being assisted by flak jacket wearing security and a bloke called Trevor. Trevor is the kind of man who believes Superman wears Trevor underpants, and runs his fingers through his fading blonde locks as he announces his name and with a firm grasp of the situation he lets the bouncers hold the girl up by the arms while he asks her repeatedly for her name. The security guard visibly rolls his eyes, but Trevor is undaunted, camply and gamely continuing his 1ne man quest to take a drunk girl and get a pash at the Observatory. The girl though throws her shoe in a last ditch bid for freedom, and in a flash runs off to join her friends, barefoot in a strange bogan Cinderella moment and sprinting towards the park. We stand agape for a moment, everyone except me, who's on unsteady legs and almost trips in all the commotion, and Trevor, who turns towards the bouncers and says it's obvious the girl was a lesbian, before disappearing himself into the night, a flurry of starched denim, misplaced confidence, and a swagger accquired from a rock band in a card game at a pub somewhere around 1984...

No one should be up this late anyway, the wending and winding of a night without conclusion leading to pointless extra bought beers. The Observatory isn't somewhere I want to be anyway, thumping techno and overpriced drinks can't mask that there's no one here at this time, the pretence of a good time swept away quickly by how bored and restless everyone is. It's my own fault, the expectations of a great night having long ago faded away - all that was 1nce left to do was to throw shapes and pretend everything is going wonderfully well. Lately though, throwing shapes is likely to mean a thrown out hip. To be honest, a girl I don't want to see I have to make conversation with in 3hree weeks time and the revelation has thrown me so much I can't enjoy any Miley Cyrus in this kind of mood. Party In the USA sounds bitterly ironic on an empty dancefloor. My friend tries to chat up the Claudine Longet a-like in the corner. Where her friends are god only knows, although I did hear 1nce that nightclubs employ dance floor fillers on slow nights. He bounces back just as quickly as he went over, and says all she said was she doesn't like irony, and then stood with hands on hips waiting for him to fill in some invisible conversational blank. I shrug, because I do like irony, and Mileys distortingly large face on the big screen exhorting everyone to party while she dances around with dancers pretending to be her friends on a dancefloor so empty a cleaner is visible off to the left, so near closing time he's ready to sweep the fag ash off the floor and talk about punk kids, well, it's like rain on your wedding day. My taxi driver home likes quiet rides, the distinctive sounds of Bhangra music and he has a smiling picture on his windscreen, a very toothy and direct smile. I can't get his opinion on the subject of irony though, because I've got a mouthful of marbles and a heart full of regret, and only 5ive miles til hometime, where I can slump in my own unique posture until sun up...

Kingston and it's dystopian suburban landscape isn't the place to nurse a hangover, not 1ne mixed with sporting bitterness. The rain bounces in patterned monotony off the pavement, deflated balloons from the losing team sweep along in the melancholy, gathering in drains and puddles while winners drink in rain soaked back yards and play Mark Seymour until he goes out of fashion. A sort of ironic joke that cheers me up on a boring day if you will. I'm walking and whinging, the Scottish national past-time, and I walk past 5ive divvy vans and police cars are stacked by the side of the road. Inside the back of 1ne of them is a baseball capped youth with arms behind his back, fresh faced and in a hooded top that makes my old eyes hurt, a collection of configurated swirls and triangles too busy to quit. He's barely visible through the fog of tinted windows and my own inadequate eyesight, but I can't imagine what he's done to provoke this kind of vehicular presence, and I swear he visibly mouths help me as I walk past, but it might be a mis-interpreted curse word in which case I hope they throw away the key. I don't even know why I left the house, but I felt the need to and so here I am, walking aimlessly towards Big W in store bought shoes so old they are falling apart. An old man in a blue old man singlet at the counter is bailing up a young girl about lawn care, but she's not listening to him at all, looking over his wrinkled bare shoulder to check out the clock or her reflection in a shiny surface. Her mind might be on her own night out, her own search for Trevor, or heels in the air or a crowd of dancers throwing shapes in a random fashion...it's certainly not on lawn care, and the old man gives up with an angry thump of his giant fist on the counter, at which point the PA system begins to play Party in the USA and somehow my weekend feels circular, a suburban Ouroboros everyone else is just a fleeting part of...

The feelings of disappointment will fade in time, but at the moment they are all consuming, a sort of dull thud in my head, the strain of avoiding people in the future mixed with fatigue and a lack of will to get anything done. The kind of feeling where a stray chocolate wrapper can be the cause for melancholy reflection on how terrible life can be. At least that's how I did feel. My Dad had the presence of mind to make me laugh uncontrollably with 1ne of his senior moment antics, and everything just feels better. The fatigue is still there - when I walk home, the police cars are taking defiant girls and mouthy boys off to the cells, but I don't have the patience to pay attention. There's a middle age man with a tight T-shirt and a yappy dog on the end of a lead standing outside the general store as the last of the police cars screams uncontrollably down the road. He's shaking his head with moral disapproval so strong, it's Rebecca Wilsonesque, so hissy and clicked from the back of his tongue, even his dog looks sad and tries to escape. His meagre bag of single male groceries doesn't even extend to the purchase of desert, but his moral disapproval begins to unfurl with a rant about kids and where are their parents until he almost gets to the phrase in my day...I realise that I've looked at this weekend very negatively and could easily end up standing outside a general store looking for naughty kids to chastise before taking my individual jelly cups home for a party. I find at least some redemption to my horrible attitude in sticking my tongue at the guy in a fit of immaturity, and then leaving as the rain falls down, the sound of rain battering off the ground, the world not quite a better place, but at least something to cheer me up added to the suburban repetition of an ill starred weekend where it never stopped raining, and no one was nodding their heads like yeah, no matter the motivation...

Now, if I can hide in the house 3hree weeks from now, everything will be OK...