Cue: Vivaldi Spring. fade up Vista: green fields dotted with Cezanne yellow, a single black cockatoo cries across the flat sunlit morning sky. Play: a dozen small lizards scurry a dendritic mesh of dust trails into the shade of the garden as i walk, coffee in hand. but even at this early hour i can feel the sun on my freshly shaved scalp. Cue: Vivaldi fade out, overlay fade up Theme from Jaws. Vista: half a kilometer away now, yellow grass crunching like fresh cornflakes underfoot. no breeze, no more birds. Play: i turn back on my walk in the dry, pleading garden, pacing myself with a measured urgency back to the Gingerbread House. it feels like with each step the temperature rises another degree. 43... a handsome, respectable age... but not a temperature to measure the morning with no relief of wind nor water in hand. the peak of the red roofed cottage seems so far away, each step through the wattles harder, dustier. the picture of my frail form lying baked on the crusty clay of the Hermits Hill invades my eyes cinema... Epilogue: when will it stop, this heat, this insipid melodrama scribbled out under the gentle curtain of the coolness of the Mitsubishi 1500 set on 21...
Posted on: Thu, 16 Jan 2014 22:20:50 +0000
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