bloggity blog, writing

Summer shade

The cicadas are loud today

Singing their merry creed to the summer heat

Like lovers

Summer and cicada

Star crossed and long distance

They use the only words they know how

Trrrrrp trrrrrp trrrp the cicadas sing

The summer heats up

A southerly breeze blows

And the cicadas sing

The breeze coaxes leaves from the trees

They float down to litter the grass

Feeding the tree in turn to make new leaves

And the cicadas sing

A horse whinnies in the distance

Safe under the shade of a swaying, fragrant eucalypt

Parrots flock to the trees

Getting drunk off the sun-kissed flowers

And the cicadas sing

A storm teases the horizon with its darkness

Lightning crackles

Electricity in the sticky air

Thunder moans

Long…

and deep

And the cicadas sing

I sit under the shade of the tree

I breathe in the summer and exhale the hope for an early winter

But the shade kisses my skin, sweetly

The way only summer shade can

The scent of pool chlorine and eucalyptus and baked asphalt is thick

The aroma of a summer freshly cooked and ready to be devoured

And so

I eat

I gorge on summer

And the cicadas sing

Love

Amberley

This was just a random stream of thoughts as I sit and watched my kids play in the pool.

As most of you may be aware, I’m not huge on summer. But as I watch my kids in the pool… how much they love it. Splashing and floating and staying still to allow a dragonfly or wasp to come drink… It makes me hate on summer less and think more on the good, more on the love and deliciousness of everything…

Advertisements
Milk

Milk – chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Don’t

*if you haven’t read chapter 1, you can do so here. Don’t worry… it’s short.

Two paracetamol. One glass of Gatorade. Followed by coffee. All of the coffee.
I lean against the kitchen counter and stare out over the dust-laden house. That’s how small this place is. I can actually see all of it from in the kitchen.
It looks less like a house and more like an old photograph of a house. There is so much dust on everything, it’s like I am looking through a filter. If it were a filter on Instagram it would be called “dusty hangover.”
On the kitchen floor is a patch of red wine, sticky-fresh from the night previous.
I hadn’t exactly woken up in a puddle of vomit on the floor but I hadn’t not either.
I nudge my booted toe at the mess, trying to work out if it is mostly spilled wine or regorged wine. And does it matter? Not really. It is not the first time I would have to clean up my own puke. Not the last neither.
Thinking of Instagram, I take out my phone. There is a new crack on the screen. I must’ve fallen on my arse at some point last night. I run my thumb over the screen. It still responds. I will go online later and buy a new one.
I open Instagram and scroll through the notifications.
“Missin u”
“When you comin back???”
“Yo! Where are you at, Ms. C!”
The comments go on and on.
I smile at how much they all miss me.
Then.
It all comes back to me.
My brother. The accident.
I couldn’t have given him and open casket if I’d wanted to. Not that there would have been anyone else there, besides me, to see his mangled, unrecognisable corpse. And I sure as hell didn’t want to see it again.
I walk to the sink to refill the kettle and kick something along the floor. It skittles toward the kickboard and I hear the crack of breakage. Bending down to pick up the two pieces of the wine-stained mug I kicked, I realise I had used my brother’s favourite.
“Don’t do that,” says the memory of my brother. “You can be so careless, Conny.” I would purposefully use his mug and then place it on the edges of tables, teetering on the brink of destruction, just to get something out of my ultra-calm brother.
I place the broken mug on the counter and step back from it.
I feel like the king who would turn everything to gold with his touch. Except, I turn everything to broken.
I run out the front. I want to just sit and stare at the garden for a while. Even though I never understood why he lived the way he did, I always loved to look at that garden.
“Because I like living this way, Conny.” My memory of my brother said.
“But why? You should move to the city with me. Get out a little more. All you do is sit here with your garden.”
“I like my garden, Conny.”
“Why do you have to be such a fucking hippie! Did we even come out of the same vagina.”
I turn the old door knob and go out onto the porch, anticipating the green, the new growth, the scents of herbs and earth and flowers.
My stomach turns cold. Suddenly last night’s wine wants to regorge again.
Brown.
That is all there is. Brown. Ochre. Umber. Tawny leaves, crumpled, crumbling.
I don’t feel my legs as I walk down the steps toward the devistated garden.
As far as I can see. The rows and rows of once flourishing broccoli, twisted pumpkin zines, spinach, tomato, tall rosemary, basil, plum trees, peach trees, apricots. All of them.
Dry stalks. Brittle leaves.
What the actual fuck has happened here.
I feel my chest clenching. Bile at the back of my throat.
I turn and run back inside. I will deal with this situation. But not sober. I just … can’t.
My fingers shaking, I tip the coffee out of my mug and look around for the wine bag.
“Don’t drink so early,” says my memory-brother.
I look around the floor. I cannot remember where I put down the bag.
“Don’t be such a fucking hippie,” I said to him in retaliation.
Always in retaliation.
I see the bag by the door and I can barely wait to pour it into a mug.
I drink. Long. Deep. Sweet. Hot.
I see my memory-brother rolling his eyes, sipping camomile tea he has grown himself.
Pulling the empty mug away from trembling lips, I look out the back window. There is a post-it note on the glass, written in my brother’s hand.
“Don’t follow the lightning bugs.”

bloggity blog

Tattered wings

I (tried) to rescue a moth today.

It had managed to get itself stuck between the pavers and a brick wall.

I noticed because I could hear this noise while I wrote. A flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap … silence … then flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap. I had to go searching.

When I finally found the source of the tiny noise, a noise seemingly only I could hear. (My roomy thought I had finally lost my last marble)

I was saddened by what I saw.

It had been a big moth. Black and grey and white. Once it may have had wings to rival some butterflies. But in its night-long struggle to get out, its wings were only tatters. Torn. Worn down. All the scaley pixie dust covering from them, gone.

I still rescued it, picking it out of its prison and holding its fluttering, panicked body in my hands.

I still put it in the garden. Bit I knew it was as good as spider food.

In all its efforts to get free, its furious flapping to save itself was what ultimately caused its death.

If it had simply waited and then walked out of the hole, it would still have its wings intact.