This woman has stepped out of a soap opera. A regal woman of her late forties. Of ageing, well-kept skin, with a mane of fading blonde. She is wealthy, wrapped in tan suit and zebra-striped shawl. She has bitter lines around her mouth.

She walks with a white-haired, scholarly man. She walks easily, one hand hanging relaxed at her side, the fingers parted. In a less enlightened age a cigarrette would be between them, swinging careless. It would have been cinematic. It would have ruined her lungs.

One wonders crassly if she’s doing the scholarly man, as she walks back into her soap opera.

I thought I saw a friend up there, which is why I am up here now. It wasn’t him though; a similar face but with the mannerisms all wrong. A failed doppelganger of my friend.

But bona fide or not he has led me to this, the highest gantry, which I didn’t even know existed. And I am above them all, god among the rafters. I can see them but they can’t see me. I see my hands dance out, commanding: March, my orchestra. Delusions of granduer are easy suspended so high. And so is vertigo.

I see a woman in the crowd. Pale, in old fashioned clothes. A beautiful grandmother’s blouse. Of frills and cherished memories. Of a fashionable, individual ruff. She looks lonely, like me having come alone and briefly. An objective part of me thinks it would be wise to speak to her, to cheer her up, but I can’t see how to get to her walkway, and I am wrapped up in my own concerns.

There is a thrum, up through my bones and viscera. No, the power plant has not come back to life, the band has started playing. Resonating through the rafters. I turn back briefly, and the pale woman is laughing, surrounded by her friends. At home among the ruins, dancing.

Nathan Cervantes would like to inform me of the dazzling advantages of ordering through Canadian Pharmacy™. I have no desire for his product, but he has a damn fine made up name. Coy Gordon and Simone Shoemaker grow more insistent: “come here man”, they say, opening their trenchcoats, “wanna buy a //atch?”. Floating through the mists comes the strangely poetic phrase “Bring back time when girls were yours”, while Roslyn Ransom massages my ego and the greatness of my “dignity”.

Stepping into a complex of shops is more legitimate excercise. The rules of engagement are better defined, the great game is more nuanced. The world is filled with colour, blooming billboard roses offer me the sweetest nectars. Come, says the beautiful woman, only the finest jewelery. Look, says the beautiful man, the most expansive range of trousers, suits and ties. All the nectar you desire, just for just a little pollen…

But there’s nothing you can do about it, ads are a part of our world. If they have stuck their knives into my weak will and twisted I have not noticed. But then perhaps they are subtler than that. A poor student is slim pickings though, better game in bitter housewives and the denial of ageing men. But then perhaps they have fooled me too.

There is one that makes me sad though, a billboard on the road. It advertises a hotel of some kind, I have never cared to read it in great detail. It has the obvious choices, the clean shaven chef preparing his delicacies with utmost care, the glamourous woman laughing with the square jawed man, but these images are in the backgound, and faded, the dust of the road and the days in the sun have leached it, left it almost sepia toned.

The most prominent image though, is that of a woman at a poker machine, leaping up in acted victory. Her smile is forced. She used to be beautiful, she ages badly. There is no one else inside the shot.

A cynic inside me presses play on a universal remote. The couple fall apart from their sham marriage, the chef begins to shout, and the woman takes her small winnings, goes home, leans against the refrigerator, and sighs. The tears catching in her throat.

Walking through this corridor is always eerie, especially now, with the vulnerablility my towel implies. But there is no alternative, I am covered in marina mud, the evil bisque of crushed invertebrates and the things that float in polluted water. Hygeine plays its trump card; I tiptoe through the entomology wing.

The fire door slams shut, and silences the noise of rooftop revelry, and the brighter lights of the outer hall. The walls are plastered with paper cutouts of cicadas. Here and there one is missing, and I run my fingers over the velcro patch they left behind. They have Mona Lisa eyes, following me. They confer amongst themselves. An origami hivemind.

Several days ago, the goddess Kuan Yin landed at my feet. Tumbling down soon after are an unnamed palace guard and an Emporor of the Tang Dynasty. It is raining playing cards, thrown high from all the balconies in celebration of an artist’s birthday. Clubs and diamonds, hearts and spades. Joker, ace, carte blanche. I raise my arms and twirl, in concord with the moment.

But then I realise how beautiful the cards are. The kind that has a different picture on each one. Kuan Yin is tarted up as the Queen of Hearts, an angel of mercy in disguise. Meanwhile, the cards are tumbling on the updrafts of the fire, they ignite, or float to secret corners of the garden where they will never be found. Such beautiful cards, dying such a beautiful death.

On the other hand, had the pack been complete I would be compelled to gather and return them. But the brethren of this queen of hearts are scattered or destroyed. It means Kuan Yin is mine.

***

Kuan Yin is now in my breast pocket, and my hand upon the velvet of the pool table. My shirt, same colour as the velvet, makes the hand look disembodied. Detatched. I am slightly melancholy.

There is a beautiful woman speaking to me, but sadly she is spoken for. I met her boyfriend once. He was a nice guy. We talked about nuclear war.

My thoughts, however, are elsewhere. Some time ago I was embraced in parting, and there was something spoken in the hug. A reluctance in the break. A 2 a.m. honesty. But I was too slow to react, and the moment may be lost. I can feel the corners of Kuan Yin, as she shifts inside the fabric of my pocket.

Hey Toby, could you move a sec? I need to take a shot.

It is an auspicious day for a wedding, says Flick and says Brianna. It has been too long since celebration. I’m standing shabby in the collonade, wishing I was in the sun. “Do you have a Bride in mind?”

No, I say, I have no bride in mind. And I am far too weary to search right now. Must it be today? “We’ll give you till the start of spring,” they sing, “and we will search for you.” They skip off to find my blushing bride. Or maybe they didn’t skip, I don’t know. I am hungover, do not trust me as a narrator. I go to find my sun.

I sit down upon the grass. Flung down beside me is the newspaper, with a picture of a man staring into the distance. I have only half finished my coffee, and fall half asleep in the sun. I’m not going to get much done today.

I wake a little later. Curled up, half on the newspaper, staring into my own shade. With the smell of grass and newspaper ink, and the man with his thousand mile stare.

The television on the ferry is telling me to capitalise on a recent connection: Sagittarius, Nov 22 to Dec 21. I reach out my hand to wipe the salt grime from the window, then draw back. The grime is on the other side of the glass.

I do need to capitalise on a recent connection. I don’t know how this relates to the positions of the earth, the sun, and the stars ?, ?, ?, ?, ?, ?, ?, ? and ?2 Sgr, or if it does at all, but nevertheless it is true.

They say there’s some kind of effect. Boer or Boolean or something (though neither of those), that vague, oracle-like statements will always be interpreted as meaningful. Horoscopes do always seem like they’re written for us. But is this such a bad thing? If we read into a meaningless paragraph some truth about ourself, it’s still a truth. The stars and the cards and the gypsy pizzaz are just there to give it legitimacy, as the strange woman behind the curtain leans forward to whisper.

Of course though, I’m not going to pay for it. Maybe it’s better to take this all, examine its component parts, and rebuild it. To reverse engineer astrology. To reverse engineer the future. To be a little cryptic about things:

The sign of The Daydreaming Man on the Ferry.

Things seem to be escalating into a high pitched whine. It’s bend or break time, earthquake weather. A time for cataclysmic change. How you harness the forces waiting to be unleashed is the crux of the matter. Whether your great skill will outweigh your great poor discipline. Perspective needs to be maintained though. It might all be a storm in a teacup, or the tragic end of something you never needed anyway.

Socially, you’ve never been stronger, to stride into a room is to find people you want to meet. Romance is the dry waste it always was, but somehow it doesn’t seem important right now. Finance goes the way of romance. You are happy, and nothing can pierce your solar armour, but will you make the most of things? Continue to question. Continue to apply yourself. Continue down the middle road, then veer sharply to the left…

The ferry is turning in the water. I chose this seat because it was in the sun, which is in retreat. I won’t bother shifting seat, the boat is turning too much to pin it down. I will wait until my destination.

I have shed the layers of my outer clothing, and set the knife down by my avocado. I’m sitting in the sun to work today. I am terribly behind, but the radio is playing Paranoid Android, and magpies are singing in the trees.

Stitched together photos are scattered accross my screen, along with a complicated, colour coded spreadsheet. It looks very professional, if someone were to visit now they would be impressed. But people only visit when you’ve gone lazy.

I am perhaps not investing enogh of my soul in my work, but all of a sudden, a few weeks ago, I lost all passion for it. I think it’s just the honours year condition. My eyes grow weary of sea creatures on my screen, I tap my fingers on my desk, and daydream of a rising sea.

To keep track of where I’m up to in the colony, I’ve named regions of the branching structure after places. The Letters A-H, Australia-HongKong. I reach a landmark in my work (Behold Toby, Conqueror of Guam!), and take a short break. The kettle boils and I, standing in the sunshine, glance over at the computer. My complicated spreadsheet, in all it’s staggered colour, in all it’s back-breaking effort, looks like a gay pride flag draped over a ziggurat.

The radio bursts forth with one of the more camp Presets songs, and I burst out laughing. Rock on, you crazy Aztec cats. Dance the night away.

Striding forth from the front of our building are the statues of Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel. Buckets of water are falling on their heads. Something to do with asbestos removal.

The water discolours them, pools in the crevices of their hats and stone clothing. It darkens Darwin’s cane and Mendel’s crucifix, it drips accross their eyes. If you close your eyes it sounds like rain.

It’s coming from some spot above them. Heamorraging from somewhere near the upper windows. I imagine that the building is dying. You can’t see the men working there. A black tarpaulin covers them.

I’m only going inside because I have to

The woman opposite me on the bus is casting spells. Her fingers twist in front of her, then shoot forward. She gives a sharp exhalation of breath, and jerk of her white haired head. She smells of incense, and stares vaugely into the distance, looking at no one in particular.

She is likely crazy, but also theatrical. Perhaps she is rehearsing a play, or a tai chi routine. Gentle, wrapped up in her hexes and prayers. Staring at no one in particular