Small moments to myself
I finished reading "Where you'd go Bernadette" by Maria Semple. Her characters take a cruise ship to Antarctica and discover that they are starting to feel deeply happy, although all they do is sit there and stare at ice. It seems that staring at the horizon for an extended period produces endorphins. So that's it-those blissful days or weekends spent in places where all you did was sit in a chair and gaze at the view: an old property in the Southern Highlands in parched summer, looking out from the verandah at washing drying on the line. A weekend spent at Middleton overlooking the ocean. Sitting on the upstairs balcony at the Caledonian. The loungeroom view at Surveyors Hill.
In quest of a horizon, I took Louis to Henley Square, and gazed at the various blue-greyness of the sky, sea and washed quays, whilst he dug and built sandcastles. Earlier I'd been lying on the lawn, finishing my book, recalled to the same September 21 years ago, when I dislocated my knee and limped for several days on it until the school matron relented, sought medical advice and it was discovered I needed urgent surgery. So my family spent the September holidays in Perth, whilst I recuperated at my grandparents house. This was such a suffocating experience-being on crutches, without privacy, having no independent social life of my own to retreat to, having to accompany my grandparents on visits to the podiatrist and church and other old folk stuff. Them eating dinner at 4pm and going to bed at 8, whilst my preferred time was midnight, the time I was used to hearing the last freight train pass through my boarding school town, a time in which I'd be listening to music softly or reading books or gazing at some photocopied pictures of Bono and Larry Mullen Junior from their first trip to Chicago, or reading a Michael Dransfield poem or maybe listening to The Church with my belated discovered new best friend Kristan, who disenchanted with the cool kid crowd and wanted deep conversation. All this other life had just been glimpsed-Melbourne culture, alternative Australian music, and it had crashed when my knee crashed, and I was cooped up on my mother's childhood bedroom. The only parts of my home town that I liked, were the op shops and the library and I probably negotiated visits to the latter, but my grandparents could not understand my need to spend hours alone-and because I couldn't walk unassisted, they got to dictate when my time alone started and stopped.
September. Spring. Heat starting. Each summer beckoning as a season of unlimited potential and unpredictability, a chance to escape the staidness, a circuit breaker.
In quest of a horizon, I took Louis to Henley Square, and gazed at the various blue-greyness of the sky, sea and washed quays, whilst he dug and built sandcastles. Earlier I'd been lying on the lawn, finishing my book, recalled to the same September 21 years ago, when I dislocated my knee and limped for several days on it until the school matron relented, sought medical advice and it was discovered I needed urgent surgery. So my family spent the September holidays in Perth, whilst I recuperated at my grandparents house. This was such a suffocating experience-being on crutches, without privacy, having no independent social life of my own to retreat to, having to accompany my grandparents on visits to the podiatrist and church and other old folk stuff. Them eating dinner at 4pm and going to bed at 8, whilst my preferred time was midnight, the time I was used to hearing the last freight train pass through my boarding school town, a time in which I'd be listening to music softly or reading books or gazing at some photocopied pictures of Bono and Larry Mullen Junior from their first trip to Chicago, or reading a Michael Dransfield poem or maybe listening to The Church with my belated discovered new best friend Kristan, who disenchanted with the cool kid crowd and wanted deep conversation. All this other life had just been glimpsed-Melbourne culture, alternative Australian music, and it had crashed when my knee crashed, and I was cooped up on my mother's childhood bedroom. The only parts of my home town that I liked, were the op shops and the library and I probably negotiated visits to the latter, but my grandparents could not understand my need to spend hours alone-and because I couldn't walk unassisted, they got to dictate when my time alone started and stopped.
September. Spring. Heat starting. Each summer beckoning as a season of unlimited potential and unpredictability, a chance to escape the staidness, a circuit breaker.
Comments