Gunzel (July)

Morning promises a journey of a thousand miles. We are all gunzels, out early to discover old sleepers. They explain the way, their predictable steps set into places otherwise wilderness. While everyone else is looking the other way, we are riveted on rivetings. We use old lines, not caring if they have flimsy joins, or end up in a lake. Our minds are rail yards of constant excitement. They relish underground thoughts. Even wintry July deters not the true gunzel. Come evening we switch on the home entertainment unit, to bliss out at endless freight carriages passing before our eyes.

Eclipse (July)

At 2:15am July 28^th the garden path is white with full moon. I return to sleep. Sky is satin from light. Sometime I reawaken and it’s there, though my window, SSW over Heidelberg. The moon has dimmed, resembles a discoloured penny, date worn away. I must look to notice it. Everyone’s up at daybreak. Bridie had set her alarm for 5:15am. She’d gone out in her hoodie to draw it in her sketchbook. Coppery, she called the moon. I said: Not very red for a blood moon and behind clouds, mostly. She replied: Perhaps it was bloodiest behind the clouds.

Artwork (July)

In my dream a work of art was given a name by one person, so that until another person gave the artwork a name, that person was the maker of the artwork. A book was open before the artwork, where each person wrote their name and their title for the artwork. “‘Handle With Care’ by Madeleine Q. May-June 1880.” “Twilight at Eaglemont’ by Thomas R. July-November 1880.’ &c. The artwork was an object, a large pie that never perished. It looked as though made of stone but, on closer inspection, was clearly organic. What kind of pie remains a mystery.

Motion (July)

The agitations of the cat, motes floating through lamplight, the riffles through tall trees outside, the clouds in and out past an enlarged moon, definite sound of a plane, everything in motion that is not at rest may or may not come to attention in real time during a quiet July night with the clock moving past eight-thirty. Next morning, motionless mist in sunlight over eastern suburbs, but up on Heidelberg commuters walk briskly to their chosen door, buttoning up against a cold start, or coffees jostling. The acrobatics of the gravel bobcat, the birds diving upward into tall trees…

Crime (July)

Letter :“Sir, It’s not surprising that crime novels are the most borrowed books in Australian libraries (‘The Age’, July 24) when that’s about all that’s on offer. Last week I visited our local library to find aisles of fiction and glossy magazines and just one small aisle of non-fiction. Our public libraries have been stripped of books that inform, enlighten, and broaden our minds. What happened to the library’s purpose of showing us the world? Is it any wonder Australians have so little knowledge of their own history and culture when all they’re being given is trash crime? Philip Harvey.”

Editor (July)

Brazilian writer Rubem Alves is alarmingly disarming. So disarming that reading his ‘Tender Returns’ this July I look benignly upon his English editor. Rubem says of Autumn, “And the green of plants becomes more deeper.” This is so true, I can see it happening. On a childhood memory: “I see myself, a boy, in waiting a room of a medical practice.” It could be like that. And on preparing for death: “That’s why the lst word and the last act are a right that no one can steal from you.” The last shall be lst when they lose their ‘a’.

Applause (July)

Perhaps applause was a noisy yes to the foregoing, but sometime we were conditioned. We had to applaud. Tao calls supreme happiness Wu-Wei: to do nothing. In the presence of beauty our pleasure and acceptance continues by doing nothing. Instead, when the music concludes we are required to clap, to interrupt happiness, our wonder at the indescribable sounds, with inane slapping together of our bare palms, the louder the more appreciative. It is a foolish coda to genuine epiphany of soul. Our Wu-Wei is ruined by thunderous ovation. After which, we collect our things and exit into the July night.

Room (July)

I wake from a dream of factories and freeways, the room a quiet reassuring every sense, where torso turns between sheets. I remember being asleep, unlike adamant clock and outlined lamp. Where curtain inches apart garden’s moonlight is silent forms: the seed that is now it’s tree, fence not there by accident, cold Warringal hillside. I hear the cat breathing through her nose, the clunk of what could be a possum on a neighbour’s roof. Tipped-sideways thoughts of loss combine for attention with familiar desires. I read a novel of myself without turning on the light, here July, gone tomorrow.

Thumb (July)

The opposable digits are, I suppose, amongst our oldest friends. Thumbs-up, thumbs-down, we’ve been puppeteers of our thoughts since time immemorial. Handy to know. Even Facebook friends tap thumbs-up, albeit with their index, registering words with no words. Somewhere along the way we let go of our grip. About the time we developed rules of thumb. Historians doubt if Big July fed them to the lions with thumbs-down. Rulers are trained out of twiddling. A pianist who is all thumbs will hold on to the day job. Yet they’re versatile widgets in the beautiful balancing act called the human body.

Great (July)

“Make America the Greatest Show on Earth Again!” There’s the Great Vanishing Icecap! Now it’s here, now it’s oops, ladies and gentlemen. The White House highwire staff act. Look! No net. And introducing your favourite clowns, The Not Twins! “He’s a snowflake.” “He is not a snowflake.” You’ll roll in the aisles at their endless patter, all coming from the same person. “Would.” “Wouldn’t.” “Would.” “Wouldn’t.” Thirteen Melanias pop-up from a Fourth July cake decorated in red, white, and blue icing: “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the great American public!” Exit, pursued by a Russian Bear.