are you happy?

Just because everything's changing
doesn't mean it's never been this way before.
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
as you head out to the war.

Pick a star on the dark horizon
and follow the light.
You'll come back, when it's over.
No need to say goodbye.

9 7 . 3

I did a final tour. It was dapple-sunny, the trees full of green leaf and small, shivering shadows. I walked slowly up the side of the school, up the stairs, looking up high, high, high at the brick wall - it wasn't imposing anymore. It was familiar. It was warm. It was home.
I went into the dark art room to smell the smell. I didn't turn the light on, and left it twilit and inky, dusky shadowed. My eyes burned. I said goodbye.
The room lit up with a warm glow, and Ess and I were seated together at the end of a table, heads bent over art diaries, and though I didn't see her, for the recollection was a brief one, I knew Jay was there too, a little to the side, her head down, doing something imbossibly detailed and small. There were other presences there, like blurry suggestions, in the foreground of my imagination, towards the small bookcase up the back; apparitions against the creamy painted brick walls, the giant sliding dividing door, the store room behind me. Ms C would be there at her desk, overseeing it all, talking privately in a low, intent voice with someone or other about their Major Work - her chin against her hand, her hand flat against her chest, her large, unreadable pale eyes looking upwards. There would be voices, a cluttery hum of them. Warm, warm yellow butter light. Leaves blown in on the floor.
And then it was gone, and the chairs were empty and stacked, and the desks were vacant and dark.

I went to the English rooms, and found Mr L walking along the walkway (which had been recently refurbished to look like a prison-camp corridor). He shook my hand. He told me he hoped to see a book of mine in a few years, up there on the shelves.

For Mr L----,
Who first foresaw this,

For Ms S------,

For uncountable reasons,

I promised.

I revisited my English room, and in my mind's eye Ms S was there - plump, small, vivacious, hilarious Ms S - and Snewey, and Jees and I were seated in our chairs to the side, and we were all watching her intently, and we were learning Shakespeare, Malouf, Wordsworth, Austen, Hughes. Her hands flapped around in familiar gestures, and she looked over us all with a masked affection, and she laughed and grinned a wicked fox grin when we suggested something she'd never thought of.

And then she was gone. And the room was an empty room with a long window, filled by gum trees and the suggestion of the oval, peeking in the corner. The small, comfortable room, a solstice in the winter.

And I went next door to my Extension English room. Like S's, but different. Different silouhettes, a different yellow - one that spoke of Eucalyptus, of Speculative fiction, of Frodo and Sam and 1950s projected Sci Fi comic covers. Mr L's voice, excitable and passionate, almost breathless with enthusiasm. And the meagre class; and M, Tea and I in our seats to the side, catching only little of all he ever said to us.

And they were gone. And the room was an empty room with a projector, and posters of zombies and a space age Vitruvian man were on the bare brick walls.

A concrete corridor, with the Hall to your right, and the Woodwork rooms to your left, connects the English (D) block to the TAS rooms, and my old Society and Culture abode. I followed it. Woodwork in Yr 7, distances and ages ago. I seldom used this route.

I entered the Tas block, walked through, came out the other side through the heavy glass doors. Here the boys would play hand ball, or cluster about in the miserably cold, wet, blustery winter. I see them in blue. But it was summer now, and it was bright and airy, the mesh they leaned against green and gridding up the teacher's car park and the garden beyond.

I went to the Science room, L1, and paused outside to await a pause in the voice beyond the door, my opportunity to enter. It was Dr B's voice, a familiar, enthusiastic, deep and knowledgeable voice. I was in no way the best Physics student he'd ever had, but I'd enjoyed it immensely. The opportunity came, and I thanked him, and shook his hand, and then I left. I did not have the chance to reminisce in that room, like I had the others - but I can recall it now. Always dark, to me, as if we were about to watch a movie, with Dr B up front, making sweeping gestures and jumping about the board; and me, Bea and Jay up the front at one of the many black desks. Jay's head would be on her hand, and her hand on her elbow, and she would have dozed off with the pen lax in her hand, and Bea would be listening, though her eyes might at any point have turned distant as she sunk into her own world. And I would be in the middle.

The last room I peered into was another art room. It was Ms C-nae's one. I didn't have the chance to see her today. It was a small, comfortable room, with the desks in little congregations in the middle, surrounded by cupboards of art stuff, papers, paints, pencils etc, and sinks and smudged, dusty benches piled with clay projects. Ms C-nae, in her red, paint covered apron, large owlish glasses on her sphinx's nose, up the front for a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - pointing to something above her head on the board that I couldn't see.

And then she was gone. And the room was just an empty room, full of light and clutter.

I walked back up the steps to the front of the school, coming up the opposite side I had before. I made a last stop - to thank the office ladies, one of which (of who I'd never known her name) kissed me on the cheek in farewell and goodluck.

A storm in a jar beneath my arm and a Bellbird rolled in my hand, I stepped down the steps, and the foyer (with its trophies and memorabilia - scholastic artifacts - museum) was behind me. Then the gardens - before which Kizz and Em and I would wait for Jees and Snewey and Power and everyone else, so we could catch the train together - the gardens were behind me. And then the gate, and the arch, was before me. And then it was holding me. And then, it was behind.

I looked once back up at the School, an old-looking, red bricked thing; at its brown name and 1928, its cream-coloured upper story wall, the dark coloured roof gables, where the pigeons liked to roost and where the most remarkable weeds would defy gravity to sprout from their leavings.

And then, I was gone.

There are many things still that I can remember and which I will eventually forget with time. It was the sensations and ambiance of the places and moments that assailed me more frequently in my reverie. I hope they, somewhere, remain; to surface in a smell, a glance, a thought. But for now, I suppose -

The End.

{ Make it idiot proof and someone will make a better idiot.

Quantum Mechanics: the dreams stuff is made of.

What's the speed of dark?}