Lunàtic memories. (And it's almost a full moon too! How bizarre.)

(Forgive these enigmatic indulgences.)

It's been a while since I listened to Ani Difranco. In the car this morning I found myself smiling at memories as she sang to me. It took a while to realise that time had brought me, yet again, near to Soul-mates' Day. That sudden realisation was quite a shock. How does the subconscious manage it!?!? Thirteen years, and a single song brings a warm surge of scents and sounds and memories. Bizarre.

Of course, worlds have altered, and my "Paddington ghost" and I have long since left the What If dimension. No sadness. Though significances change, the moon and music remain...

"...and through the open window
I think the singing went outside
and floated up to tell
all the stars not to hide
and by the time the church let out
the sky was much clearer
and the moon was so beautiful
that the ocean held up a mirror


as we walked home we spoke slowly
we spoke slow
and we spoke lowly
like it was taking more time
than usual to choose
...like time is not a thing
that's ours to lose"

______________________________________


In other news, I just read a description of Frost's Road Not Taken as - "this ingenious, sly poem". This surprised me, but I think I like it. I always enjoyed the ambiguity of the last few lines.

Occasionally, Walt Whitman's poetry washes around my feet like turn-of-tide wavelets at the water's edge. They often make me a bit uncomfortable, but now and then they tickle me enough to cause momentary delight. A few nights ago, reading Carol Ann Duffy's Big Sue poem, I found the words "Now, Voyager". I don't know why they struck a chord, but I wandered around until I discovered the quote, from Whitman. It sounds suitable to be added to the list of poems and songs with which I will regale the three or four guests at my retirement dinner.

No, really, I have such a list.

And no, you're right, I probably won't do any regaling. But I often day-dream of doing so.

Now, finalé to the shore,
Now land and life finalé and farewell,
Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store,)
Often enough has thou adventur'd o'er the seas,
Cautiously cruising, studying the charts,
Duly again to port and hawser's tie returning;
But now obey thy cherish'd secret wish,
Embrace thy friends, leave all in order,
To port and hawser's tie no more returning,
Depart upon thy endless cruise old Sailor.

Or perhaps this one, which I mutter more frequently each morning just after roll call. It's by Yeats, who has a close connection with my Paddington ghost, thereby gyring this entry to a neat close. I've actually heard Yeats reciting it. (The internet is wond'rous awsome.) A haunting sound.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Invitations

No, sorry, not that sort.

It's becoming more and more difficult to maintain the facade at "work". There really is nothing left. So, betwixt (OK, amid) lessons, I often find myself dreaming of Doyley-as-hermit. Now, I know some of you, especially one who works in a fruit-shop, would immediately respond with: "Well, you have the external trappings". However, that's no real comfort, though the levity (um, you are being levitous, aren't you?) is welcome.

Anyway, as I was saying, I imagine the isolation, the quiet, the view from my cave over gentle bushland, birds silhouetted... etc, etc. Of course, the cave is equipped with broadband access, a bountiful cellar of decent reds, my libraries of books and music. Oh, and Esteemed Spouse, of course.

Actually, no. My hermitage would more likely be on a busy street, say... um, totally at random... Enmore Road. Opposite a cafe, perhaps, where corseted Russian women served strong coffee that Toby himself would be proud of. A random thought, you understand. And if a stationery shop was nearby... but I go too far.

Of course, I live in the real world, and though dreams are healthy, they are nought but dreams. So I find myself here. No poor substitute, this campfire (or its previous incarnation) has in the past attracted a few visitors who have become important parts of my life. I'm sure they didn't realise how important. (Though if anyone has given consideration to why one indulges oneself here and not with face-to-face interactions, perhaps they do realise how important their visits here have been.)

Linda, (and very occasionally Stella); Billy; MJ (from South America!); darling Louisa, my Paddington ghost who will always be here; my sweet sister Lea. There have been others, but none so close or constant.

Now, at this rekindled campfire, I wonder who I would invite if I had the chance. Apart from you, of course.

Tonight, having had my glass of red, I'm inclining towards poets...

Gilmore. What an interesting woman. And used to campfires, I think.

Scott. Margaret, not Sir Wally. Drag her away from her husband for a moment to suffer my adulation and gratitude.

Rilke. Yes, Rilke. I found him two years ago in a book of letters to one of his lovers, Salome. Then I found his poems. Now I'm going to see Stephanie Dowrick talk about him on the 30th.

Brennan, just to hear him read "The Wander". I'll cope (just) if he's been drinking - he's not family.

Plath. No, perhaps not. She's not a campfire type and besides, what if she does a turn?

Whitman, to prove all Americans - even the patriotic ones - are not shits.

Peake, Auden, Eliot, Dobson, Owen, dear Shaw Neilson. A dozen recent Oz women. Goodness, so many.

And as the eyelash-moon grows faint, when the fire is crowded around and alcohol has swollen my knots-in-cotton muscles to ruffian brawn, I'd summon Hughes. Politely I'd offer him a cup of red, then gently shackle his arms and legs with barbed-wire manacles and ask him, at the point of a poisoned barb, just what it was like at the end. Not his, but hers. How he felt. What responsibility he took. How the guilt played upon him until he died. Whether all those animal poems were subconscious recognition of his own sub-human, brute-state. Whether he understood why I hated all men like him, to whom women are inevitably, fatally, attracted... Oops. Sorry, that last bit was just my own insecurities surfacing. Ignore that.

Hmm. It's now 10.32pm. Esteemed Spouse has once already asked if I'm to come to bed. 'Tis time indeed, or else these eyes will bloodshot greet the day and childish jests be met with frowns and temper foul.

I needs must go. And so 'til next we meet before this warming fire, farewell.

Erg.

Fuck.

The title of this entry is irrelevant to all that follows. I just felt it was time I did something to warrant that adult warning button you have to click before you're allowed to approach the campfire. Choosing to have the warning there in the first place was just a small bit of self-amusement. It serves no real purpose other than to make folk wonder. And, hey, if I can create wonder in a few people every now and then, well, surely life's worthwhile.
.....................................................................................
It's ten degrees outside at the moment. Esteemed Spouse and I have just returned from a very mediocre dinner at a nearby suburb. We won't be rushing back to that establishment, although it will do if our chosen restaurant is closed. As it was tonight.

Who on earth would close a restaurant on a Wednesday? I remember the Wednesdays of my youth. (Some of them.) Gosh, they were frenetic! Midweek escapes to hotels and discos; late movies, later closing pubs and too-late homeward staggers. Wednesday night was always a crowded time. What has happened to the youth of today?? Wimps.

I had a glass of drinkable shiraz with my "Surf and Turf". Yes, that's what they actually called the meal. Who said the 70s are dead? The oversized lump of dead animal and the pale but huge prawns that perched on it were actually very reasonable; the thin triangles of firm, unskinned pumkin were not. Nor were the boiled potatoes, which looked rather like those exotic balls of coarsely ground meat served at Lebanese restaurants, but lacked all taste and texture.

The entire staff at this place was Asian, except for our waitress, whose accent, hair and powerful breasts hinted at something of the Viking. She was too pleasant to be picked on, so we interspersed our conversation with comments about the odd couple sitting near us. He was old and clerkish; she was young and vivacious. Their constant, brief and fleeting touches had us intrigued. This most unlikely match gave their actions an insinuation of something gently illicit, and made me feel vaguely happy that they had managed to organise this time alone together, even though they looked so silly doing it. They themselves were determinedly chatting sotto voce, so I presume they were talking about us.

For various reasons we had not been out together for a while and this evening reminded us of the sweetness of dinner conversation, when the world outside the restaurant ceases to be and all the world inside the restaurant seems to be there for us alone. The indulgence of people-watching brought us joy, too, and took our minds from our inevitable tomorrows.

It is probably less than ten degrees outside now. I've put our electric blanket on full bore. I hope the odd couple are together.

A venerable pleasure...

The tongue is prone to lose the way,
Not so the pen, for in a letter
We have not better things to say,
But surely say them better.

                                    Emerson

For all that he's a Yank - and one with one of those odd, once-were European, Yankish names (Waldo) - he certainly provided the editors of Books of Quotations a worthy drawer-full of papers to ponder.

Having gently suggested, over several etherial exchanges, that a hand-written letter would be pleasant to receive, I did indeed receive a most attractive letter from a friend.

Several pages of quite delicious, creamy butter-milk coloured pages, adorned with handwriting that perfectly suited how I imagined her to be. Having never actually seen this friend, and having only briefly heard her voice on a failed Skype liaison, when I saw her handwriting I felt happy that my people-barometer was proving itself still to be fairly reliable.

And what a letter! Had I sent her details of what I wanted to read, the tone it should take, the depth of detail it should plumb, she could have written me nothing more wonderful. I remember it arriving; the strength of character I showed in leaving it unopened until the right moment; that moment arriving with a coffee and a piece of ricotta slice almost exactly three hours after I first touched the envelope and at a tiny table in a frenetic cafe.

Unfolding the pages I found a photo, taken by her. Having seen a few of mine, she knew I would appreciate it. But also enclosed were a few little stickers, which fluttered from the pages onto my lap. These posed a question. Was she having a sly jab at my prejudices? You see, the stickers were  decidedly American - little cowboy things. Again, her perception - and her humour - made me smile.

Finally, though, came the reading, and that silenced the cafe and the world for a few precious, gentle moments. 

And does so still, a year later, for the letter is on my desk at work and every now and then, seeking refuge, I take the bush track to her world again. However, as I walk with her along this track, I hear her words becoming a tad brittle, losing some of their softness. I know why, of course...

In all this time, I have not replied. Last year, I was not able. Now, though, I don't know - perhaps I'm scared. Of my writing. Of where she is now. Of the time that has passed.

And now, merrily spilling salt over my self-flagellated self, comes another letter. This one much closer to home, more distant in style and of equal yet quite different significance.

A different generation of stationery; felt-tip rather than fountain pen.  An equal but different beauty. But, oh, the words and oh, the world evoked. Once more I'll take a walk, this time down grimy backstreets and into old flats lit by candles in wine-bottles, smelling vaguely of cigarettes and wet wool. In one, I'll sit at a table, repainted and peeling, by an open window and drink red wine from an old cup, looking at the street below - lights and strange, strange people. From somewhere unidentifiable will waft faint music, seemingly smothered by distance or time... Paradise lost???

I chastise my students for their lack of self-discipline; berate them for not following a "rigorous home study timetable". Yet so much of my own life dissipates into air. 

Not time - a timetable is what I need. Structure and the... um,... whatever it is that I need in order to follow it.

..

It's been a while...

..and I really feel like putting a few logs on the fire and opening another bottle. Anyone around?
No, I suppose not, after all it's almost been a year. Even BA, an irregular visitor, would have wandered up another path in search of warmth. Still, pass the matches and the cork screw.

It’s all about me.

You sat with me once,
remember?
The child’s name I forget,
but you smelled of roses.
Your eyes seemed wary;
all else about you sang
with that bohemian delight
I’d longed for
                    (since that night on Era beach
                    I’d felt the heat beneath
                    her cold, wet clothes –
                    well, I was just seventeen).

The teacher with the schoolboy crush.

You’d visit me later, with daily traumas
too big for me, certainly
too big for any child.
Once, we met in passing;
your first words were a blow,
then you pounded me again.
The boy’s life exploded in my heart
and still you hit me
hit me,
unaware.

Twice more.

Your house.
The quiet leafy road was mine;
the couch, the rugs, the cushions – mine.
The bookshelf…
it mirrored mine so closely that
a word,
which only once before had pierced my heart,
cried out.
But it was your yard that brought me down.
The girls were chattering
“How lovely how lovely”;
but I saw you walking there.

Once more.

Your office.
Strange how you’re so much taller in your chair.
Your eyes… do they anticipate?
If so, you’re cruel,
for you give me your good news
as if you think I’ll share your joy.
                    You should know better. I’m a boy.

And so, farewell,
as they say.
Of course, I’m happy for you,
though a little scared –
who’ll worry about you as much as we do?
And selfish –
who’ll be my fair bohemian now?
And sad
because, like all mountain spirits
you’ll vanish among the eucalypts,
while I continue on this track
we briefly shared.
                     I’ll glance back…

For those who understand...

... no explanation is necessary...