Chapter 8 - Melbourne Day 54: Sunny day

I sat on the tram, and had an idea for something. I had my notebook, my moleskin, with me on that sunny day on the tram. I cannot remember – the idea that is- if it was story, an addition to a story, a character note, an idea for a compilation or an addition to a previously commenced compilation. I do not remember if it was a note about a spontaneous idea I had, or something interesting I had observed, a tid-bit about a thing the night before, or a reminder note. A shopping list, a movies-to-see list. Was it something I read, something that made me especially sad, or made me chuckle out loud? A lyric in a song, a cool sound in the back of the percussion solo, a song I had never heard before on my Ipod.

So, I had my moleskin and I wrote something in it, and then placed it on the seat next to me. I do not like catching the tram to work, especially on sunny days, because I could be riding to work: getting fresh air, a tan, oogling girls. In a tram - especially the new ones that lurch and creech so horribly - I have to try and stop myself from throwing up. I can read, but not for long anymore. I cannot look out the windows of the new ones due to the excessive advertising covering the windows. I usually read a little, and then listen to some music, and let my mind wander.

But I read for long enough that day, because when I jumped out of the tram, I did not take my moleskin with me. Of course I did not notice right away. Of course it took me hours to notice. Of course I did not panic. I did the smart thing and went online and wrote to the Tram People (capitalised because they are special) and asked them to return it please. They gave me the number to the lost and found section of the Tram People's head quarters.

I rang the number, I rang the number. Nobody ever answered, not even an answering machine. I lost my moleskin, again. The second time in two years. In fact, the second one in two years. I hate losing my moleskin.

I was incredibly frustrated by the tram people's inability to answer their damn phone and send me back my moleskin.

Who knows what magic I had written in there that day? Or previous days? Hateful rants, funny diatribes, sorrow filled perorates about the day, my job, the weather or girls. Things I wanted to do, places to go. Old souvenirs that came floating back from the past. Pieces of uncomfortable incidents. Sources of pride. Someone's phone number.

So many little things, little things I do not remember. Who knows what truths and lies were scribbled down in blue and black ink in my moleskin? Who knows what magic I had written in there that day?