You’re in my thoughts

And my thoughts are here with me in my silent house. My unhumble adobe, an old Queenslander, the delightful house of this year’s imaginings. With french doors I open to each morn’, to a tea-sipping tall stories verandah, where wicker chairs wait for summer, because right now it’s south side, and that means shadows.

Within, all around are clean white walls; vertical wood panels unadorned, my everyday blank canvas unblinking back at me. A bulb dangles from a simple ceiling rose. There’s a violet too – I daydream of a daughter one day, maybe it’s her name – but this violet reclines on the window sill. Her winking blooms and tendrils wander behind threadbare curtains and wintery night. It is cold, dead quiet, and a sly draft from the hall slips through the door, taunting me.

Elo my housemate just came home, brought in music and gentle light. “Hello Lucinda….”

Stuck to the wall in front of my desk are off-cuts of shows, cards and notes-to-self. There’s a home-made calender with half the days of August crossed off, scrawls of assignments, my first film script, a friend’s arrival, a birthday. Reminds me of the advent calenders I used to have in December, with pictures and, more seductively, chocolates behind perforated doors. One year, I hid under my bed, and opened them all at once.

I’m reading messages, letters, and old old emails. Yours, theirs, so many, so many days, hours in days, still there but so distant. I look about absently for some fragments, some scrap I can pin to my mind’s eye, close enough to see it clearly. It is you, or another version of you. Us. We are all there.

The fault line of memory yawns before me, revealing stanzas of perfection. A bassline of inexpressed sorrow, tempered by unimagined joy. Coupled together, both, musically radiant, yes, like Perignon stars if you wish!

We are constantly overcome, but always becoming. In this arc of beauty, I lie, and feel so very rich.

It’s so bright, even though it’s night.

Thankyou