A Sunday in Preston at Victoria’s sweet home. Feeling pretty dusty after a big night at Monty’s the night before (good lord I love that bar / always get into trouble when I’m there), but we made it out for breakfast and lovely hangs with Madeleine and Tess, and then a fresh swim at Fitzroy pool. Victoria and I had already been to see The Clock the day before for a few hours, and had wine at Sun Moth which was all that was on my list for Melbourne, so we went home and had a nap and ate the Haighs freckles I’d bought. I read an old New Yorker while she finished some short stories and then we went for beers.
I saw Phoebe Bridgers late that night, at the Croxton. It was the original reason for my trip down and my god she was good. Hers is the album I’ve listened to most this past year, last Christmas especially - it was that and only that for weeks and weeks on end and the time hasn’t touched it. It’s still a dream, and her voice in that small room just soared. Perfect and intimate, not quiet so much as intentional, not a breath wasted. I cried a little, but in a nice, nearly-full-moon, just-emerged-from-an-awful-month but heartened-by-wonderful-friends kind of way. I had to get up at 4 AM on Monday for my flight back to Adelaide, but you know, it was all very much worth it.