Writing from the waiting room

The Queen of the Night enters through the screen door and comes face to face with the face of a dog. The dog slips back into the room the Queen of the Night does not forget her mission and continues to enter into our consciousness one way or another usually by the nasal passages. She slips into the passage in the middle of the face and penetrates into the brain of her subjects. There she fills them with pleasurable sensations and long lost memories and deeper feelings that they may well prefer to forget of distant continents where the rules were different and everything was much less down to earth. Yes she has otherworldly schemes and dreams. She only makes her presence felt in the night in the dark in the slippery time of day when it is hard to see the things of the day-to-day. She operates on the senses when some of them are asleep and at rest and then she brings out her jewel box of memories hidden in a fragrance so dense and intoxicating you forget that once you were human and think maybe you have died and gone to heaven. Briefly. On the hint of a waft of air nothing solid to go on just a passing wisp of air that reminds you of things long buried and juicy. You think you might put on a robe and go down into the bazaar of the night and sit around an open fire and have a glass of chai and sit on the ground sipping in the glow of the fire with travellers all around you. You might stay there for a while but then you might stay there all night with the sparks of the fire dancing into the forest of the night wrapped up in a silken shawl given to you from a fellow traveller who sold everything to stay in this wonderland. But suddenly he also was gone like so many who were there one day and then you never see them again until maybe they turn up on a ranch in Oregon five years later and hand you a photograph and you were wearing that same shawl. They remember the colour of your eyes and the shape of your belly. They remember kisses and try to retrieve them but other strangers mouths are moving over yours now so you smile instead and take the photograph anyway.

The unimaginable happens

Since I last posted the unimaginable has happened. Existence has been unbelievably kind. I have moved into my very own home! Who could have predicted this momentous event after a lifetime of renting. Not that I am a fan of the culture of 'real estate' (I always maintained that the idea of 'owning' land was ludicrous) but when I recieved an inheritance at the end of last year the only sensible thing to do (with rents soaring and availability of rentals decreasing) was to invest it in myself with providing said self and young Fred with a place to be ourselves. Oh joy is me! So for the last two months consciousness has shifted from reading writing walking and gardening to searching and finding a home. What a little gem of a house I am now living in. My finances allowed me to look at the cheapest going and I found what I was looking for in a little house at the back of the Kwinana golf course. Kwinana is an older working-class suburb that sits behind a huge swathe of industrialisation. But the suburb, established in the sixties to accomodate the workers from the industry on the coast, has streets of well established homes and gardens on tree lined streets with masses of parks and bush in between. And, bliss upon bliss it is quiet and peaceful. Our morning walks are now through real bush instead of manufactured parks and the path around the golf course is a little walk in heaven. We have come home and it feels nourishing and liberating to be able to relax into our own space. The little house itself has everything I wanted and was left neat and clean by its previous owner. Thanks to a government scheme where the state buys one third of the equity in the house the whole thing is wonderfully affordable. And now let the creativity begin!