Jellyfish of the Lanes
Sometimes, after you're dead, you can still have adventures, even if you're a jellyfish. Perhaps you are lying there dead on the shore, washed up, on South Melbourne beach, along with scores of other jellyfish, waiting, just waiting, for an adventure of some sort. Maybe you're specifically waiting for a girl in an Invader Zim t-shirt and a boy in a Nancy Vandal t-shirt to rescue you from your afterlife. Being a jellyfish, even when you were alive, you probably never hid inside a tupperware container that formerly held a birthday cake; you probably never travelled on the Number 1 tram that goes to East Coburg; and thus it also seems likely that you never before lurked in the laneways at night in the CBD. The graffiti blossoms from nooks and crannies there, drops of colourful paint emerge from unexpected places, but the stench of garbage sometimes makes you wonder if you should have stayed on the beach, amongst the mermaids' tears. The empty bottles in the laneways won't have messages in them, but the walls might, and maybe the messages will be important. Maybe you, the jellyfish, will get to know what the people of the city, the people who write on the walls, but not on the ocean, are trying to tell each other. But maybe you won't, and the plastic cake box will be your coffin and you'll end up in the garbage like everything else.