29. A foreign number.
by Alex from Maybe ( ) Together
I was scared of 28. And now I’m 29.
28 was the year my mother got married. That our family began. A late-ish marriage in her time, it was an age I’d always thought I’d be married by. But not so. Very single even.
But as Saturn returns unfurls itself, I feel a sheet of foreign armor around my middle that assists me.
Perhaps this is the time I’ve been waiting for.
A friend sent me an email for my birthday and mentioned how much I’d done this year.
This at first seemed odd, asfor me I feel like I’ve done little.
But then I reflected and found this:
Camping with a hammock. And feeling the salt on my skin.
A new years eve of realisation of a crush well and truly gone.A dip into hospitality again.
My first arts x activism in City Square.
The first beginnings of Small Voices.
A frame drop that, really, failed.
A speed trip to Perth and the beginning of a love.
A time of missing.
Grief. Reflection.Then a time of travelling.
Of interventions in London. A residency in Denmark.Performances in Milan. Discovery of Jeremy Deller.
A delve into Joseph Beuys.
A sense of freedom and change.
Stagnant waters of a relationship beginning to end, yet so much hope.
A week in Sydney.
A weekend in a commune.
A bit of being lost.
A new studio.
Trying to keep love alive. But it falling apart.
Dreaming of new projects. Applications galore.
A pussy riot dance.
A caravan launch.
Making with kids in Arnhem Land.
New friends. Social endeavours. Conversations of change.
And amidst it all, this hardness begins. This resilience.
But I’m human.
We’re all human.
And that’s something to be pleased with.