The self righteousness of leaving for work in the dark. Concentrating on waking up. Rain and howling wind. A burglar alarm.

Corporates that are all men, even the progressive ones.

A weekend too far away. Pool in the outhouse cabin. Opening the window to make the shot. Bloody Mary's mixed with G&Ts. Sneaking in to bed in the singleton room. Always the latest. Marscapone cake. Two copies of The Silver Spoon. Kosky on the cover. Youth Group programming Rage. Ham off the bone. Onion jam. A quiet white world. Misadventure? No, just sparkling red in the car. Sheer cliffs sliced between the eucalypts. A kid in a stripey hat sitting in a backpack. Willie Nelson and extreme heat in the op shop.

And then Robert Fisk. All his incredible knowledge. His pragmatism. Ed struggles to say that we can't try and impose our value system on these people any more, and then Fisk sums it up: the days of Christian armies trying to control Muslim states are probably over. Foreign troops in Muslim lands don't seem to work very well, do they?

Glass House Disappointment

Tony Squires is not the same anymore.

I feel better when the blinds are down, but sometimes I need them, these people who take their lives past the window. Those possibilities.

Found objects. Which way around? There's an espresso cup in the kitchen cupboard. On the side is an image in blue of a person on a horse. A dressage silhouette. It says Pavillon de la Reine. Dressage. Sometimes I think I am found. The horse seems not quite on the bit. Still, on the bottom the cup says Limoges, and I guess the French know what they're doing when it comes to dressage.

A girl walks by in chartreuse tights as we talk about the plays again.

Two of the words above I had to check the spelling of. French. All of the things above are true.

The sun hits my face at 8. If I hold my shoulder near my ear I can block it out. I can think only of a glass of water which tells me that the suckling pig came too late to soak up the champagne. Noonie and I tell the story of a procession of whole pigs - complete with faces - carried over the shoulders of Chinese men seen through a doorway while we ate. The sang choy bow runs to our elbows and the waiter is not keen to understand my request for a pink lemonade. We discuss Shanghai and the dishwater soup that everyone wants until they have it.

Today across the road there's a girl on a red swing tied from a tree, higher and higher until a man behind pulls her in. A woman in a vibrant vest, also red, is trailing through the cemetry behind her husband, and boys with bright green Burgerlicious boxes are heading to the park.

There's an orange and almond cake in the oven, friends on the way, and Arcade Fire. Every time you close your eyes. Now here's the sun. It's alright. Now here's the moon. It's alright.

Hamish chokes when he tries to swallow a whole snake. Maria holds him upside down from the waist, shakes him and sticks her fingers down his throat to dislodge it. For a moment we're crowded around, no one speaking, just the boy trying to get his breath back.