Imogen

Ethereal zeal seeded me in 

a watery womb 

I was a wet wastrel, hunger 

my only emotion

My infant days spent dreaming in 

slivers of wind, 

my devotion the promise of rain 

Sky was my playground, clouds my toys. 

Directionless, but not without route, I went 

from meandering to wandering, 

from cruise to jet. 

I flew here and there until I was travelling 

in circles. 

I discovered I like travelling in circles,

picking the gleanings from field and yard,

fervently funneling everything into my tunnel. 

Eating makes a girl thirsty so I sucked 

on the teat of your warm seas. I fed 

my strength until my arms flailed and 

anger was discovered in my loins.

I became single-eyed in my purpose -  

for you to know the full force of 

my fists. So I came in swinging, 

a torqued ellipse, ignoring your 

futile idols, turning roofs into tinsel, 

stuffing my maw with animal, 

vegetable and mineral, your flesh 

and blood.  I caught you - a deer in 

headlights. My cyclops eye snuck up 

behind you, seized you unaware 

dreaming of a high. I vibrated your 

glass until it sang siren song -  

smithereened silver 

splintering your houses, your 

households, your hearts. I trashed 

your plans, exposed your pretense. 

I laughed at your puerile projections

Despite all the warnings you had 

no defence. 

You mumbled last rites, screamed 

your prayers, but I confronted no 

retribution and though my life was 

short it was very sweet. You will 

remember me long after I 

have gone.

And now I have gone, 

remember this as you sweep 

your streets and 

collect your dignity - I am 

not an only-child. 

My siblings long to make your 

acquaintance too.

 

My Flat

My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.

It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By

that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the

taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings

are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,

or skittering noises in the walls.

When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the

windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An

occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited

from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against

such furious tumult.

There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view

is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain

any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the

way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.

It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I

found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that

there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the

room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating

the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.

The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate

and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some

time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are

beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.

I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each

Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep

of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the

floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play

full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the

insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the

windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen

to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter

from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.

I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,

but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.

In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others

to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own

demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but

I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.

Storm brewing over Yugildah

I took this photo late Friday afternoon as storm clouds gathered overhead. Yugildah was built in 1903 and is the only remaining example of a triple gabled Queenslander in Toowoomba. I have been told that a local guided tour of the city includes a drive up Godsall street to view this masterpiece. The grandeur of the house never really impacted any one of us in the family. It was just 'home'.

My parents move from the family home this week-end, after 54 years. Fifty-four years filled with laughter and tears, joy and sadness, triumph and tragedy.  There has been much sadness over the last two years as they came to grips with the inevitability of their leaving. There's been excitement too as they looked forward to a new, more comfortable home. And this week-end they leave in triumph, knowing that in this house they successfully raised seven children and hosted many, many more. 

So many more in fact that the one thing we lacked when I grew up was enough chairs to seat everybody. It always seemed necessary for two or three to sit on the floor. In the October before Suzanne and I married, my mother averaged sixteen people for every meal that month, and we were usually light on for breakfast. Do the maths and you will understand why evening meal time at the Chimes' was an exciting, rowdy time where you needed to be involved in three or four conversations at once if you were to hold your own.

The was an occasion where one visitor burst into tears during the evening meal. Apparently our conversation about smoking affecting your genes had been punned into a second conversations about fashion jeans. This poor unsuspecting guest had become completely confused and thought someone at the table was suggesting she should not be wearing jeans because they would stunt her growth. It took us some time to piece the tangential train of thought together; and even longer to assuage our visitor's distress.

Those days are long gone of course, but over the past two years I have spoken to many former visitors. To a person they all have fond memories of their stay, regardless of how brief. (Although there were some whom we thought would never leave!)

Investing in personal possessions was not something my parents every taught my siblings and me. Investment in emotional connections and personal relationships was considered far more important. So as they leave this week-end, there will not be a single thought given to what will become of the house after they go. The treasure-trove of memories they hold dear of the acquaintances and loved-ones that have filled the last 54 years is so large there is no room for thought of mere possessions.