Lobster Beach
I can do this. I can leave at any time. I can jump in my car and drive around the water that is a mirror. I can listen to Jeff Buckley. I can sing. Loudly. I can think about jetties and the ideas I used to have about them when I was a kid. I can stick my arm out the window and make black and white stripes rise and fall in the breeze. I can look up at the dome of best blue, humming hallelujah. So I do.
It's a sort of tree house. A central room with a bedroom and a bathroom on each side and above that a loft with tiered bunks, like sleeping at the football. The deck looks over Lobster Beach, and for the avoidance of doubt, inside there is a plastic lobster hanging from the wall. It's purple orange.
Kerry says the ambidextrous nature of the collection of lost thongs nailed above the doorways disproves the theory that it's always left ones that go missing.
The house annoyingly and wonderfully clings to the side of a cliff. There's a steep concrete driveway and then a hard to discern path picked among the rocks and dried gum leaves. On arriving it seems impractical and in my head typical of the hippies who built the house. In the daylight my deadline mind has disappeared and I no longer feel trapped.
On the walk to Tallow Beach we talk about the boy called Chook who got laid on his last night in Brazil. He hasn't called the girl that he likes now even though their date was three weeks ago. The sand is made of shell fragments smooth like shellac. They won't let go of my hand.
Richard Butler is a minimalist. He likes Picnic at Hanging Rock and Jindabyne. He doesn't like Candy or The Goat.
We eat lunch of ricotta gnocci and green salad on the deck with the wind at our backs. There's a black dog called Stella and she moves intently. Before dinner she's doing the rounds and I can feel the warmth of the fire there on her coat. I'm opening bottle after bottle of red and peeling potatoes on my lap.
I keep the wolf from the door, but he calls me up. Tells me all the ways he's going to mess me up.
It's a sort of tree house. A central room with a bedroom and a bathroom on each side and above that a loft with tiered bunks, like sleeping at the football. The deck looks over Lobster Beach, and for the avoidance of doubt, inside there is a plastic lobster hanging from the wall. It's purple orange.
Kerry says the ambidextrous nature of the collection of lost thongs nailed above the doorways disproves the theory that it's always left ones that go missing.
The house annoyingly and wonderfully clings to the side of a cliff. There's a steep concrete driveway and then a hard to discern path picked among the rocks and dried gum leaves. On arriving it seems impractical and in my head typical of the hippies who built the house. In the daylight my deadline mind has disappeared and I no longer feel trapped.
On the walk to Tallow Beach we talk about the boy called Chook who got laid on his last night in Brazil. He hasn't called the girl that he likes now even though their date was three weeks ago. The sand is made of shell fragments smooth like shellac. They won't let go of my hand.
Richard Butler is a minimalist. He likes Picnic at Hanging Rock and Jindabyne. He doesn't like Candy or The Goat.
We eat lunch of ricotta gnocci and green salad on the deck with the wind at our backs. There's a black dog called Stella and she moves intently. Before dinner she's doing the rounds and I can feel the warmth of the fire there on her coat. I'm opening bottle after bottle of red and peeling potatoes on my lap.
I keep the wolf from the door, but he calls me up. Tells me all the ways he's going to mess me up.
posted by noonie at 4:59 PM
1 Comments:
So much blogging, it's feast or famine around here isn't it? I feel engorged with juicy blog morsels. I have been chastised for only commenting when there's no blogs, so now I must comment when there are blogs. Such pressure to perform - now I know how Sal feels.
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