The Bird
A month of birds. An artificial sulphur-crested cockatoo presides over a Grenfell garden. There's a kookaburra sitting on a pool fence in Mosman and another real live cockatoo out the front as we walk the terrier in its harness down the old tram track to the promenade. None make a sound.
On the book shelf of the place we're not staying is a book about how to do dressage. I take a photo. At this place is also a sofa with an excellent blue/green graphic print, and on the other side of the sliding doors the owners are watching cricket across a coffee table laden with papers.
Later, Elaine plays the violin before we eat. She's accompanied by a man whose name I don't remember. Three, maybe four different people tell me that he conducts piano lessons and concerts regularly in Grenfell. Later still, or perhaps earlier without me realising, someone lets both my driver's side tyres down. At the end of the evening I drive the short distance home without realising. And in between? In between all these things there is suprise and delight of the genuine kind, food and wine and duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, goose and presents and dancing and dress-ups and joy and ABBA. And no cock-sucking cowboys.
I look for patterns in a month that asks questions and delivers no answers. Discombobulates. Early New Year's Day is silent too, or too silent and yet productive. I tiptoe round the back yard in bra and knickers placing bottles soundlessly in the recycling bin lest the neighbours be provoked. There's nothing to suggest they will. Only my own guilt. In the end someone rings the door bell.
Only hours before we've been discussing Kevin Rudd's performance and the problems with the politics of our state in my bedroom. I break the discussion by needing to pee.
I forget. Forget the simple stimulation of a road trip in a Lloyd Rees/John Olsen/Whiteley landscape. All I want. I forget. Forget excitement about a useless infatuation. Forget excitement entirely.
Noonie says her New Year's Resolution is to be less harsh. Mine is to be less snippy, and to do more day trips. Five days in we're not doing so well. Still snippy, no day trips. Although I did go to Bronte Park this afternoon.
Flight of the Conchords is comfort. I fall back on the cheap humour of a kiwi accent. What else is comfort? Rain. Jack White. Gin. Edward Scissorhands.
Oh, and I went to see Andrew Bird and he whistles well but Aaron says that the concert went for 2 hours and ten minutes and the approach is overly intellectual.
This is not what I wanted to write at the very beginning of a new decade.
On the book shelf of the place we're not staying is a book about how to do dressage. I take a photo. At this place is also a sofa with an excellent blue/green graphic print, and on the other side of the sliding doors the owners are watching cricket across a coffee table laden with papers.
Later, Elaine plays the violin before we eat. She's accompanied by a man whose name I don't remember. Three, maybe four different people tell me that he conducts piano lessons and concerts regularly in Grenfell. Later still, or perhaps earlier without me realising, someone lets both my driver's side tyres down. At the end of the evening I drive the short distance home without realising. And in between? In between all these things there is suprise and delight of the genuine kind, food and wine and duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, goose and presents and dancing and dress-ups and joy and ABBA. And no cock-sucking cowboys.
I look for patterns in a month that asks questions and delivers no answers. Discombobulates. Early New Year's Day is silent too, or too silent and yet productive. I tiptoe round the back yard in bra and knickers placing bottles soundlessly in the recycling bin lest the neighbours be provoked. There's nothing to suggest they will. Only my own guilt. In the end someone rings the door bell.
Only hours before we've been discussing Kevin Rudd's performance and the problems with the politics of our state in my bedroom. I break the discussion by needing to pee.
I forget. Forget the simple stimulation of a road trip in a Lloyd Rees/John Olsen/Whiteley landscape. All I want. I forget. Forget excitement about a useless infatuation. Forget excitement entirely.
Noonie says her New Year's Resolution is to be less harsh. Mine is to be less snippy, and to do more day trips. Five days in we're not doing so well. Still snippy, no day trips. Although I did go to Bronte Park this afternoon.
Flight of the Conchords is comfort. I fall back on the cheap humour of a kiwi accent. What else is comfort? Rain. Jack White. Gin. Edward Scissorhands.
Oh, and I went to see Andrew Bird and he whistles well but Aaron says that the concert went for 2 hours and ten minutes and the approach is overly intellectual.
This is not what I wanted to write at the very beginning of a new decade.
posted by noonie at 11:47 PM
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