...
Between April in Paris and Autumn in New York Charlie Parker lowers his mournful cape of sound over all.
The atmosphere today is like a long, uncomfortable hug after a hike in the rain.
It would be the perfect time to spend long hours by a steam-mottled window with a book.
In that swimming place again, or rather floating - where so long as I am doing something, occupying my mind or my ears or at least my hands with something I am safe.
Yesterday's wild endorphin rush was welcome - a natural high with no comedown (until I got home to the murky greyness peppered with filth). It was so strange to be back in Murray Street, where little has changed since Francie worked with me there. Happy times. :-)
This week is dragging - and this sounds awful but I'm enjoying the daytimes better than being at home. something constricting about those little walls. But the weekend should be fine.
I think I should get myself to a craft shop and make an effort at a hat contraption for the Melbourne Cup lunch (oh to be drinking Pimms from a bucket on your nature strip, Jules) and then to the gallery - to finally see the McCubbin exhibition that opens this weekend. I can't wait.
Good things though: Ian Rankin writing about Edinburgh sent wild flurries of words dancing through my head and waking up all sorts of fine memories of that great city.
And re-reading Dawe (from Geelong, no less) - best read out loud.
Drifters
One day soon he'll tell her it's time to start packing
and the kids will yell 'Truly?' and get wildly excited for no reason
and the brown kelpie pup will start dashing about, tripping everyone up
and she'll go out to the vegetable patch and pick all the green tomatoes from the vines
and notice how the oldest girl is close to tears because she was happy here,
and how the youngest girl is beaming because she wasn't.
And the first thing she'll put on the trailer will be the bottling-set she never unpacked
from Grovedale,
and when the loaded ute bumps down the drive past the blackberry canes with their last shrivelled fruit,
she won't even ask why they're leaving this time, or where they're headed for
she'll only remember how, when they came here
she held out her hands, bright with berries,
the first of the season, and said:'Make a wish, Tom, make a wish.'
...
The atmosphere today is like a long, uncomfortable hug after a hike in the rain.
It would be the perfect time to spend long hours by a steam-mottled window with a book.
In that swimming place again, or rather floating - where so long as I am doing something, occupying my mind or my ears or at least my hands with something I am safe.
Yesterday's wild endorphin rush was welcome - a natural high with no comedown (until I got home to the murky greyness peppered with filth). It was so strange to be back in Murray Street, where little has changed since Francie worked with me there. Happy times. :-)
This week is dragging - and this sounds awful but I'm enjoying the daytimes better than being at home. something constricting about those little walls. But the weekend should be fine.
I think I should get myself to a craft shop and make an effort at a hat contraption for the Melbourne Cup lunch (oh to be drinking Pimms from a bucket on your nature strip, Jules) and then to the gallery - to finally see the McCubbin exhibition that opens this weekend. I can't wait.
Good things though: Ian Rankin writing about Edinburgh sent wild flurries of words dancing through my head and waking up all sorts of fine memories of that great city.
And re-reading Dawe (from Geelong, no less) - best read out loud.
Drifters
One day soon he'll tell her it's time to start packing
and the kids will yell 'Truly?' and get wildly excited for no reason
and the brown kelpie pup will start dashing about, tripping everyone up
and she'll go out to the vegetable patch and pick all the green tomatoes from the vines
and notice how the oldest girl is close to tears because she was happy here,
and how the youngest girl is beaming because she wasn't.
And the first thing she'll put on the trailer will be the bottling-set she never unpacked
from Grovedale,
and when the loaded ute bumps down the drive past the blackberry canes with their last shrivelled fruit,
she won't even ask why they're leaving this time, or where they're headed for
she'll only remember how, when they came here
she held out her hands, bright with berries,
the first of the season, and said:'Make a wish, Tom, make a wish.'
...
posted by BanAnna at 10/27/2009 10:02:00 pm
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