The slouching sack drips, drips and drips, quenching her shaken body. Skilful livid puncture. Needle knife. Metal and vein. My eyes crave the sight of the wound again, but it is taped fast. Drip and drip. Re-hy-dr-ation. Stillness stiller here behind the curtain, after after after the heaving waiting room – Emergency (too full too slow) – the weary night clinic (she’s not responding, we’ll write a letter) – Emergency at last reading us, running us down the hall. Drip and drip this sack of saline and us, waiting – the healing sleep, dry lips dark scooped eyes and time so urgent slowing on the clock face as the story of this night becomes a story (less terrifying) in this moment. I think of the glow of the lights on the edge of another town and her mother driving to us, still far away, but nearer – she and her sister will be here before morning.
A woman walking through the trees, her skin flashing naked, dappled. Was she in her swimming costume, I thought, and just walking to the pool the long way? I slowed in my car. No-one else on the road. No-one else walking. Her nudity was confirmed by the tucked line of her buttocks. She was either pregnant or big, filled with a child, or just full. She was a madwoman or Venus. Or maybe I am, seeing such things. She seemed happy, seemed to just be going for a walk, not wanting help, or distressed. I wished her a good journey and drove on.
Over the holidays I loved so many minutes, so many moments, things were just so much better on days when not so much was timed, when sleep was when I felt like it, and I could stay up until four and not care how tired I might be the next day. Deciding to just stay longer, or leave whenever was great.I tried to write two posts for thisfiveminutes, both in response to buskers. Listening to buskers came to mean holiday time for me. I just stopped and listened and listened to George in Bourke St Mall in Melbourne.Later in the holidays I stopped and listened to a young red-headed double bass player under the walkway of the Canberra Centre. Though the bass filled my body with its deep resonance, words were not there. Later a student described Bracque’s Violin and Pitcher in relation to feelings about the earth. I’ll think of this next time I listen to a double bass. It seems right.Writing in response to music is so difficult. I’ve done it once successfully (I think) and it took months of listening to a Chopin Nocturne again and again until it seemed to be embedded in my walls. Responding to music in writing remains an ambition for me, because I find the experience so elusive and evasive.
So sorry some of my December January posts, you slipped by with the holidays. Somewhat ironically this post has sat in my drafts for awhile, and I posted much later fragments earlier. This goes up with the full and hazy Easter moon, the time I always feel the year has really arrived.