36,6oC
I am lost. Now, I have to start believing in the one, common and holy pass which will lead me out of these lands. I stop at each and every crossing. I look to the left, look to the right, no cars, move along.
I avoid people whose hands are as dry as leaflets. Passing little girls dolled up for their First Communion, I smell the hairspray fixing plastic lilies in their hair.
Saps dissolve in the sinews of polished benches, the heatwave stretching pavements to braking point. I’m getting closer. Neighborhood women returning from afternoon mass. They do not sweat, because each summer water blooms in their blood, heavy with eternity.
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A step or two east, or west, and all you see changes…
Lawrence Durrell
Who can, resting, slowly turn their confusion to clarity?
Tao-Te-King
2006 -10 -01
Slowly, I am learning the streets of Ryde by heart. The nooks and the crannies of this town creep beneath my skin and into my irises. Some days, I wake at midnight and could swear voices speaking Polish are floating up from the street.
I was joking when I said that, in my altered state, I feel like Emanuel Swedenborg. I feel closer to ghosts than to the living. Daily thoughts escape me of late, same as my breasts evade my bra: engorged and pregnant with possibility. My dreams peopled with the dead. They come in the form of sedum shrubs, flower-people in stiff suits speckled with wax, wearing linen robes. Hanging above, trying to enter me, root by root. I recall other fragments of dream: indigo light from a gas lamp, a wooden tub filled with suds.
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“He has been voted the greatest journalist of the 20th century.”
By the same species which made Simon Cowell and Joseph J Hitler millionaires.
Click on the photo if you want the Guardian to explain…
Think you can do better, write in, we’ll publish it.
