– the end

This is the end, the finish, of a book I had written. It actually needs merging into another part. Like my life… it’s all kind of in pieces…oh, that sounds kind of tragic, which is not what I mean. You know, my life is a little bit in this country and a little bit in that; a little bit in this place, a little bit in that; and in each country and place you need to shed a little more baggage, hold another garage sale, try not to accumulate more stuff. Along the way, though, there are those things that you know you will need at some time in the future, but who knows when you will need them? For example, an anchor’s a mighty heavy thing to lug around, just ask the Ancient Mariner (I’m sure I’ve made that joke before), but if your boat was all awash at sea, and anchorless, I’m sure that you would be more than happy that you had packed the spare. In the meantime, what’s it going to do but drag you down? 

Anyway – it is approaching summer here. By the calendar, in a few weeks, or Tsuyu, actually, rainy season. It should be getting warmer, and it definitely isn’t winter, but I still type with the heater on at night. Dedicated to summer, though, this, and especially dedicated to my summer. The summer that hovers just above the red-brown dirt path of my firebox tender eucalyptus littered past.

 

On the other side of the continent, shop assistants folding t-shirts, bankers closing deals, bartenders mixing drinks, occasionally think of us and carelessly blow kisses across their open palms. Tumbling along tram-tracks, highways, clinging to the back of the train that crosses the country, vests flapping like outlaws, the kisses gather speed until they whirl spinifex from the plains, hew through the brush. Whistling over buckled tracks, whipping sand into a frenzy, they bluster into the gold mining town – lift roofs, scatter rubbish. Faces and hair itch, eyes sting. The curtains in my old room, tongue-lashed by winds sharp with chips of rock and grain, buffet the floor.

The wind goes as quickly as it arrives. The people over east smile, half-heartedly chastise themselves for their forgetfulness, and call in their wayward caresses all at the same time. Everything’s still. The old tin roofs of the gold mining town gleam in the sun, the horizon shimmers like petrol. To lift your arm you first must peel back the layers of heat around it.

 

Hmm, on rereading, probably a bit too heavy on the old images there. Always a downfall. Rewriting for me, was to add another image, or to cut out everything. It’s no wonder these pieces of paper have followed those same buckled tracks, with me occasionally chasing them, and picking them up. But so many little bits and pieces lifted up and taken by the wind. Careless.

 

 

 

 

For: Abed es-Sattar Walid al-Astal (11)

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