Today
was the Day of the Snake and Spider.
Wedged between the cattle paddocks and the rock quarry is a small block of land I'd called Copperhead Alley. So named because I'd seen a one meter Copperhead snake lazing on the hot road.
Today we had to spend some time pottering around this particular block and I had no idea how portentous my quip would be. Within an hour, five of us almost stepped on Copperheads, as well as a big Red Belly and a large Brown snake. And then there was the big old gum tree in the middle of it all, riddled with Tree Funnelwebs.
Tonight, after the storm, only the lingering fragrance of petrichor and cattle piss remains.
But tomorrow...
Wedged between the cattle paddocks and the rock quarry is a small block of land I'd called Copperhead Alley. So named because I'd seen a one meter Copperhead snake lazing on the hot road.
Today we had to spend some time pottering around this particular block and I had no idea how portentous my quip would be. Within an hour, five of us almost stepped on Copperheads, as well as a big Red Belly and a large Brown snake. And then there was the big old gum tree in the middle of it all, riddled with Tree Funnelwebs.
Tonight, after the storm, only the lingering fragrance of petrichor and cattle piss remains.
But tomorrow...
******
Dogfights
the likes of which I never thought I'd see, today. A beautiful big
falcon or kite - soft pearlescent bronze in the afternoon light. It
must have been close to twenty inches in full span. Took out the
raven first. Followed by some noisy miners, two galahs and a crimson
rosella that happened to get caught in the crossfire.
Fuck not with the falcon, I did learn.
Fuck not with the falcon, I did learn.
*****
We
were going to do so much this year.
This year of your 50th birthday.
But we started the thing as nearly broken and dispirited souls and didn't get too much past that before you left this world.
We laughed about taking a '68 Riviera Targa or a '71 Camaro, flying in to LAX and heading wherever the fuck we wanted, leaving our women and loved ones behind as we laughingly sought out the ghosts of our corrupted and imaginary youth.
So, Jake, this night I'm hoping against hope that I will close my eyes in this little cabin in this little town and I will dream big dreams.
Of desert mesas and movie stars. Of rednecks and socialites. Of friendly, slow-drawl farmers and car salesmen with unnaturally white smiles. Of racists northern or southern whose whole outlook is transformed by the off the cuff remarks from us two strange antipodeans. Of shy and wary bible belt folk stuck between their combine harvesters and their Millers Lite. Of musicians who can't play enough notes or tragically too many with any degree of proficiency, or more importantly, love. Of the learned and the unlearned from Van Nuys all the way over and up to the coast of Maine. Of the smile, the leg or the fading tattoo that once meant something to someone, somewhere between Portland and Pensacola. Of the hapless who find fortune and the paragons who seek ruin. Of rain-soaked redwoods and rocket ships. And may the dream be pleasurably slow. All the hours in this world, if you please.
Tonight I hope you come into my dreams and back into my life that we might share some careless laughter just this one more time.
This year of your 50th birthday.
But we started the thing as nearly broken and dispirited souls and didn't get too much past that before you left this world.
We laughed about taking a '68 Riviera Targa or a '71 Camaro, flying in to LAX and heading wherever the fuck we wanted, leaving our women and loved ones behind as we laughingly sought out the ghosts of our corrupted and imaginary youth.
So, Jake, this night I'm hoping against hope that I will close my eyes in this little cabin in this little town and I will dream big dreams.
Of desert mesas and movie stars. Of rednecks and socialites. Of friendly, slow-drawl farmers and car salesmen with unnaturally white smiles. Of racists northern or southern whose whole outlook is transformed by the off the cuff remarks from us two strange antipodeans. Of shy and wary bible belt folk stuck between their combine harvesters and their Millers Lite. Of musicians who can't play enough notes or tragically too many with any degree of proficiency, or more importantly, love. Of the learned and the unlearned from Van Nuys all the way over and up to the coast of Maine. Of the smile, the leg or the fading tattoo that once meant something to someone, somewhere between Portland and Pensacola. Of the hapless who find fortune and the paragons who seek ruin. Of rain-soaked redwoods and rocket ships. And may the dream be pleasurably slow. All the hours in this world, if you please.
Tonight I hope you come into my dreams and back into my life that we might share some careless laughter just this one more time.
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