Faces in the morning, ready to enter the train. Their beauty alone is enough, in the sunlight. Faces pent up with some knot of thoughts I will never know. Faces resigned to Friday or fickle August, sunny one moment, rainy the next. Well-washed and combed, they stand out in the crowd, each one of them. They enter the train, find seats or bunch up. Faces keen for their screen and thumb. Faces still mildly asleep, a couple of them. Faces in repose, closed books. Faces, almond-like, smiling at the contained beauty of Jolimont Station. Faces I will see next week.
Thursday, 17 August 2017
You have made it happen. Water spins light-thrilled. Lines zip across windows, depend or dash. Puddles accept more circles of their substance. People huddle under canopies. Workmen wait in sheds. Mind overlooks a dry winter, for now. Reason keeps a score on warmth. Umbrellas, everyone complains about them sometime: they don’t obey, they blow away. Nothing much to complain of, living in the world’s most liveable city. You tell us how it falls on good and bad alike. And of its substance are we made. We dashed through August puddles, homeward gloried getting drenched. Nothing’s changed much in that respect.
Monday, 14 August 2017
Our daughter thinks it’s all coincidence. I say, maybe, but how come everything’s patterned? Why are we certain of purpose? Everything’s so beautiful, so august. August, is that a word?, she asks, leaving for French homework. After dinner, conversation turns to what my wife calls nagging insolubles. Science cannot explain everything, I say, and ignores religion’s warnings of human fallibility. Are ‘No Religion’s just believers in scientific benefit? She disagrees. What’s my definition of religion? Everyone’s religious, I say, then reflect: religion’s that which gets you out of bed in the morning. She thinks ‘No Religion’s believe in their family.