so much for resolution

i feel empty today but for the tingling cold on the inside of my fingertips. i miss people. i miss myself. i miss the words i might have used to describe this january dawn. the fridge is bare save the tubs of old sour cream and the ubiquitous bottle of fish sauce. i miss the conversation i might of had with friends as we, together, herald in a new year. i made no resolutions.

we did however buy a van. it too is a shell, but not bare and empty. no. it is a 1976 V8 Ford, fuel guzzling and full of possibilities.

baby, you can light my fire

i returned home at dusk last saturday after a particularly long and gruelling day in the lab. as the beastly dodge struggled around the last tight corners to approach the house i gazed up whistfully at the chimney, hoping, wishing hard, to see a delicate tendril of smoke unfurling, signaling a visit from the good housekeeping goblins.
really i hoped that some poor sod would have wandered over to light our woodstove just because. a bit of kind hearted mischief, a bit of love for the poor freezing aussie.

alas. no cigar. no fire in the stove and only a half jummbled cryptic message from jean-paul waiting on the answering machine. i grabbed my torch and nestled down further into my jacket. pulled on the stinky fish boots and headed deeper into the cold to ask my neighbour to decipher his code. the message came to nought but after a cup of tea, with my bum huddled as close to his stove as i could get it, i had warmed sufficently to whistfully recount my dream for homecoming.

j-p (who had been busy ferreting in his cupboards) snapped his head around, his blue eyes flashing, 'ha!' he said ' you want me to go and light your fire?'... 'not a chance in hell.' i sighed, and stayed for dinner.

this friday, after an especially blustery day on the farm, windburnt and frost bitten, j and i nudged our way home along the track at at dusk. as the beastly dodge struggled around the last tight corners to approach the house i gazed up whistfully at the chimney, hoping, wishing hard, to see a delicate tendril of smoke unfurling, signaling a visit from the good housekeeping goblins.

behold. not a tendril but a puff of magic smoke! and after a split second of mild panic, (before the chimney came into full view) it was indeed the vision of my dreams. i jumped out of the car in time to see j-p's brother, david, and his lovely blossom, disappearing into the woods.

bless those yurka brothers, j-p and his cheeky stories, david and his quiet gifts and both with their big bold hearts.

yes, try as i might, i cannot leave new york behind.
my new neighbour, jean paul, just walked into my little tower, holding some leonard cohen under his arm, coffee in hand. when i warned him about the floral housecoat currently clothing my fella, he told me i was lucky he had on any clothes at all. we have ended up here. but my head, and oh lordy my heart, keep finding their way back there.

so it is with renewed vigour that i take up this journal. to put myself here. in this most magical and enchanted of spaces.

jean paul on his way, i sit here listening to the clock tick and the gentle background creaks of the wood stove, the occasional crackle of wood popping, of the room itself, settling in against the damp outside. i see a winter stretched in front of the stove, cookbooks in arms reach, and water on the boil for endless cups of tea.

the house lets me see this because it is so thoughtful.
everything here is just so. not in a twee way, in spite of the shingles and gingerbread curves. its the small details. there is no superfluous lighting. just soft globes illuminating all the right spaces. one for the table centre. one for the chopping block. several to light your way through the garden once the four o'clock dark arrives. there are candles for windstorm blackouts and matches to light the fire.

it is a thoughtful house, and here now, i find myself full of thoughts.

the f train revised

i had to post this here,
after listening to an interview with the new pornographers on cbc this morning i was overcome with whistful reverie, days long since passed in brooklyn. the band is canadian, so much closer to here than there - but one mention of auster and lethem and a brooklyn literary tradition and i was a wobbly mess..

so stole this from myself - from elsewhere.
'the insufferable f train'

I APOLOGISE ladies and gentleman' boomed the strangely clear and coherent voice over the PA "but we are being held in the station by the selfish individual holding the doors to the last carriage...'

Heads, usually burried or closed behind blase transit faces, look up.

'We will move on,' continues the voice,' as soon as said individual realises that the MTA is here to provide a system of public transport and that we endeavour to run to a universal schedule and not his personal one.'

Faces have warmed with silent smiles and the train winds its way up the hill out of the Carroll St station.

Moments later the PA crackles to life once more.

'You might think that your ivy league education makes you better than everyone, but remember, in the subway ALL ARE EQUAL'

The carriage cheers, one commuter high fives his neighbour and both the train and night roll on.

a list of things that i want to tell y'all about

1. the strawberry shortcake kids and a summer of nathan's hot dog fun
2. karma kids.. while i am on the little wee one theme
3. anglomania showcasing tradition and transgression in british fashion.. and while we are at it the labrynthine wonder that is the metropolitan museum of art
4. art, my first ever purchase, union square, gustav klimt and edward hopper
5. the victory - a view once described by the new yorker as hopperseque - and until yesterday my home away from park slope
6. brooklyn bridge - walking over, sitting underneath, meeting in the middle
7. the subway, how i loathe and love thee equally

i started to keep a notebook, and then another, and i attempted group emailing, morning pages and all manner of things.. the need to record and rewrite this chapter. and now - in packing my backpack, ruthlessly throwing old tickets stubs and gallery brochures i feel a little exposed.. shallow, sort of like my whole being is skating along the surface.. fearful for what went into the garbage bags and what has been left behind.

one of my notebooks was intended for jack. it was to be a record of all the different performances i happened across on the train.. this project was conceived during my stint on the upper west side - during the hour long commute each way. i noted down only a few.. like the amplified kettle drum played by some rasta fella at the columbus circle transfer, 59th st. i think i was waiting for the downtown A..

that same journey, hopping on again at west 4th st my auditory nerves were tickled by an especially snazzy looking fellow in a grey suit and a straw boater playing some 'easy listening' on his shiny silver casio keys. this guy was standing on the concourse and walking towards the west 3rd exit you had a clear view of his enormous singing smile.

only a few made it to the notebook, some i feel will be permanently etched in memories.. but i do wonder how faithful my memory is.

already a thousand tales have come rushing back.. and so i guess this list of things i want to tell y'all will grow and grow and grow

farewell prospect park

a balmy evening, tenille on the telephone back in oz, a late evening stroll.. stepping over picnickers, weaving between concert goers and ducking under orbiting frisbees i had a chance encounter with some fireflies. it was my first.i was an unbeliever - but became quickly convinced - you can ask tenille, she was still on the other end of the telephone. i learned shortly after that they only appear at the height of summer and in north america they glow yellow (as distinct from their green and red south american cousins).