to feel:
Lost time. I have lost all track of the tread of time, save for the sun going up and the sun going down. Many hours have been spent jigsawing fiddly, sharp branches from a brittle sheet of ply, and later, with an audio cassette for company, painting every bare expanse of wood in a layer of chalky white undercoat. Yesterday I 'read' Leslie Thomas's Dangerous Davis, The Last Detective unabridged... all eight cassettes (Remember them? I'd previously never called upon the services of the tape deck in this particular stereo. It had until yesterday remained an unused component, hidden in the top of the stereo, out of sight. It's been a while since I have used my finger to help rewind the crumpled ribbon of audio which had come loose. As a consequence, I missed sides 10 and 11.). As I painted trees, Dangerous Davis solved a 25 year old case of disappearance and murder, aided by brandy, sherry and more (him, not me). Ena Lind, a creme-de-menthe swilling character in a cat suit sounded every inch like a Monty Python impersonation of a woman, as Alexander John, the sole narrator guided me through London's northwest housing estates, massage parlours and cafes (without the accent above the 'e').
Aside from the feel of loosing all track of time, other notable Feel sensations included...
The rough, dry feel of my hands after sanding all afternoon.
A bite of cake sticking to the roof of my mouth.
The joy of winning free tickets to see Unfolding Florence, The many lives of Florence Broadhurst directed by Gillian Armstrong at the Kino... (find a little more here too).
to smell:
The violets plucked from the front garden. They give off their pleasant perfume as I run their heads under a tap. A jade green sake bottle doubling as a suitable bud vase. The vase now sits perched on top of a stack of old cigar boxes on the mantelpiece. The mantel is groaning under the weight of several coat hangers of washing hanging unceremoniously from its wooden lip. It seems disgruntled with its own appearance.
The smell of washing, both hanging off the mantel and draped across the bar heater, slowly drying.
Sawdust in the tool shed.
Jasmine flowering outside the lounge room window.
to taste:
The acidic tang of a pineapple half... shared with Louise in the late afternoon. Warmer weather is on the way.
Small, bite sized pink lady apples gobbled up in five or more bites, stalk, seeds, core and all.
Hot salted popcorn at the movies. Best enjoyed in the dark.
to hear:
The crackle of our home phone line... our phone is on its last legs. In order to hear and be heard, you need to hold the cord tightly pinched between your thumb and forefinger at a sharp right angle, all the while repeating the lines "Hello? Hello! Hello?? Hello, can you hear me? Anyone?". Exasperated, we're finally considering resorting to pulling forward the bookcase and plugging in the beautiful black bakelite dial phone. The black phone has a solid, pleasing heaviness to it and its sound is distant like an overseas telephone call. And, most importantly, unlike its modern counterpart, it works.
The rustle of the gum tree overhead as I sand trees in the striped deckchair planted below. Wilbur at my feet, momentarily settled, before being distracted by the hidden promise of a buried bone somewhere nearby.
to see:
Magnolias in bloom everywhere. Rosy fleshy pinks and creamy white flowers proudly on display in countless front gardens.
Wilburs happy, shaggy white form, helping us in the toolshed.
The trailer for The Cave of the Yellow Dog, Byambasuren Davaa's follow up to The Story of the Weeping Camel.
Piles of tasks, both finished and unfinished, all around me. An ordered system of messiness. Piles of things have been the order of the week, from caterpillars in growth chambers here to books on their sides here, and polaroids and source material here... plus many, many more. My piles consist mainly of towers of yet to be read library books stacked one on top of the other. Last weeks news in last weeks papers, piled high by the old couch with its springs connecting with the floor below... (photos to come, I promise).
Happy weekend all.
