“I live like an old man. I read the papers a little, a few pieces out of books, I set down a few notes, I keep warm, and, often, I nap.” (Je vis comme un vieux. Je lis un peu des journaux, des morceaux choisis, j’�cris quelques notes, je me chauffe et, souvent, je sommeille.)
Jules Renard, Journal (March 2, 1905; tr. Louise Bogan and Elizabeth Roget)
That sounds like me all right, especially the keeping warm part. (Simply old, not even Dylan Thomas’s 37-horrors turnip-sloth anymore. Tempora/Mores.)
On my way back from lunch the other day I passed some schoolchildren being taken to visit the Indian Heritage Centre, and they were walking in a line, two by two, holding hands, perky in their school uniforms. I’d forgotten about that, how in primary school they always allocated an even number of boys and girls to each class, and it must have been in some Ministry handbook under SOP, that you lined all the boys up in from the shortest to tallest, and likewise the girls (I was always was the last in line, having sprouted 4 inches a year every single year of primary school until I was almost my present height by age 12) and then have the two lines come together to form a queue of two-by-twos. (And I remember now, that when the caterpillar-line was on the move you were always to hold hands.)
And it was a good system, no? It meant the teacher could look down the line with no visual obstructions, and could see at a glance if a child was missing. It made it easy to do a roll call too, self-reporting really — you just had to see where the gaps were and have the other child call out her partner’s name. Many of the children would swing theirs arms especially vigorously as they went, to see how high their arms would go. And it was all so natural, and officially sanctioned, it is done in every kindergarten and preschool and primary school, to have little boys and girls holding hands, no one thought it anything perverse or dangerous, as they would for older children. (I was put in mind of the easy friendship of young men and women portrayed in that Time article about Oberlin’s co-ed dorms, that S had been so proud of.) Do school children in other countries walk in lines? At least in American school stories children are always disappearing on field trips (at the museum for preference — query: can one really live in the Museum, like Claudia in the Konigsburg?)
We need tell no stories for the waters do not rise.
(But I wish I could tell S of the swathes of white foam, that morning, moving in wide, serial arcs across the tram tracks at the Elizabeth Street crossing, slow and inexorable, like the tide coming in on the beach.)
Breakfasted downtown in one of the laneways off Little Collins Street. I had chosen the smallest of the five or six cafes in the alley, one man to do it all: the orders and the cooking and the serving and the clearing and the register; the owner too presumably. A customer, as he left, called out: ‘see you tomorrow.’ I feel pleased he has regulars. It is the morning of the great-flood-to-come and Minyin said I might as well go out for brekkie — that if the heavy rains begin as predicted that afternoon it might be the last restaurant meal we have out for days: no need to start on the laid-in groceries earlier, nor dull our stomachs with mediocre home cooking (or soapy washing-up.) No hospital for her this morning; there was a medical conference in the city. I rouse myself earlier than is my wont and we walked downtown together, she revelling in the cold change and the wind in our faces, I puzzling (jacket zipped high to the collar) that we should both have been born on the equator.
The sky was ominous as I ate but rain when it came came and went in wild but short spurts. I dwaddle over the brioche and eggs as long as I dare and scan the headlines of the Melbourne dailies on my phone — each still counselling storm preparedness — prudence vying with the impish wish to lingering till the very last viable moment to set out for home. Prudence won with an hour to go: went up to the counter and stood silently until I caught the man’s eye and smiled brightly to indicate could I have the bill — it’s not the mutism, but it’s related to that [Did you like your brekkie? Big smile, earnest nod — but no words.] — that often when on holidays in countries where I speak do the language natively my language buttons are jammed just because the context has changed, and I find it not only easier not to speak, to be assumed unproficient, but I’m perversely unwilling to even try to unjam them.
Two streets away from home I veer away in the direction of the market instead: today’s a market day, though through the city other shops were closing early. Bought myself some savoury pastries in the Dairy Hall and half a kilo of cherries — the cheap kind, at $6.50 for the kilo (dark, dully sweet and a little overripe.) When I left the rain was blowing in sheets again. My feet are damper by the minute. At home I pop the wet umbrella in the bathroom where it would do least damage to the carpets and put the kettle on and rinse the cherries. It is not yet noon. Two days later, the Bureau of Meteorology would be fending off media recriminations for sensationalist advisories. Elsewhere in Victoria the flooding ran to script but the city centre functionally unscathed — though one tree had fallen across the tram tracks downtown and had delayed services for some hours. Much ado else. But here and now we are only anticipant. I settle myself at the high kitchen table. Potato and cheese borek, mug of tea, cherries chilling in the fridge for later, laptop and Netflix and a tall, tall stack of books. And Minyin will be home mid-afternoon bringing spicy veggie jaffles for tea. And what am I but a reading ape in a tall tree? All my essential comforts and a high perch. Now we’ll wait for the rains. (1 Dec 2017)
Overnight the weather tumbles ten degrees, then slides another six as the day progresses. The Bureau of Meteorology says it is to be the most calamitous flash and riverine flooding Victoria has ever seen. Melburnians told to brace for ‘unprecedented’ devastation. Lay in provisions, heap up sandbags. In my mind, landrovers in nature documentaries trundling muddily across a gray swirling river, cue hippos. Flights likely grounded, the freeway to the airport might prove impassable. (Only weeks ago, at the height of scorching summer, wide patches of asphalt in grim liquefaction had tarred tyres and slurped at small cars on the same freeway.)
Well, what of it? I’ve a good eight weeks left on my visa still. Except for the possibility of getting on each other’s nerves (– happens even with the closest of friends, but wouldn’t be for a good while –) I can stay on indefinitely in this apartment. I’m happily provisioned with books and there’s high-speed wifi readily available. There’s no office cubicle or courtroom I’m expected to return to while in my year of fallow, nor social engagements at which I’m obligated to put in my appearance; indeed I might gracefully wriggle out of a few (‘unavoidable detention’ so seldom being a plausible excuse.) The cash is running low, that’s true, but where credit would not meet the occasion Minyin will lend me what I need. All in all: what better? An unexpected extension of a thoroughly pleasurable holiday at barely any additional financial outlay and zero collateral social or professional cost. And perhaps even the sensation of waiting for, and then outwaiting a disaster, suited my present mood. Also: the prospect of being submerged farfetched enough to be a game — here on the 17th floor we need no ark yet. (30 Nov 2017)
After a certain age, the glass-clinking and feasting attendant on going to too many birthday parties — not to mention the decadent cake — becomes a mortal peril. Also, who orders biryani (!) for tea (!) — grave, early, hastening (thud-clunk!) Entirely undoing the good work of the three days before that — I had bought (explaining to Steve, who is unimpressed) a discounted vegetable spiraliser on qoo10 and this oversized pencil sharpener turns out as kitchen-revolutionising as advertised on the box — to go with the zucchini and sweet potato noodles that come whirling out of this device I’ve been pureeing silken tofu with assorted vegetables (avocado, then red capsicum (it comes out a lovely pinkish-orange; the yellow of its kin would have looked a bit jaundiced, I suspect) and nuts (cashew and miso, salt forsooth) to make ‘cream’ sauces — 30 day vegan challenge, Minyin’s idea (but how was I to know, biryani interveniens).
so often has the same birthday colour combination (mustard and ketchup) been requested on this blog that one simply picked a random february and pulled up a template. more gratifying: the message of that particular february is fresh and fit for the very occasion, save the date. for once again some people are exceedingly punctual about other people’s birthdays; others are not!!
(but all is well: for time is for dragonflies and angels.)
Best of the Transparent Hummingbird