Summer stasis

Well. It’s been a minute. Who can explain the passage of time really, over the past two years. Days that seem endless in weeks that fly by. A new year that feels anything but, the drag of uncertainty keeping us all suspended in some, exhausted realm.

But here I am, again. Making pictures, most days, trying to record what I see in words as well. When Joan Didion died I read an old quote of hers about the value of keeping a notebook, so I decided to start.  

It’s a work in progress, as ever. But here’s some things which have caught my eye over this strange summer we’ve had in Melbourne, the humidity unbearable at times, pressing and anxious like the souls in the city. 

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The flowers Mary bought are yellow and pink, like the sunset. Petals in delicate waves, I hope they last for a little while. As the sun dips the birds are perched on the wire and they’re starting to sing. It’s still light, so light, but I can hear fireworks from somewhere, and bass line thumping at the edge of consciousness. 

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The sky is heavy with clouds, and it makes the air still and weighted. The stillness, the quiet except for the birds that seem agitated by something, seems more than just a holiday malaise. 

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As I walk snatches of music float through doors, flung open in a desperate search for the cool change. I meet a black cat like Henri and avoid people. It’s good to walk even as the sweat trickles down the back of my knees. The photos are no good but I am content.

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These are long, slow hot days. They sound like the constant hum of the fan, ice cubes clattering into the plastic container, and the crash of the empty wine bottle into the recycling.

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The sound of sirens is more present these days, but so is the birdsong, and the long warm evenings. It’s a sort of summer stasis, we’re all just waiting for something to happen.

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I’m trying to remember everything. The flash of far-off lightning in the night, the cool blue textures of the morning clouds, the deliberate dance of the cockatoos. To walk among ancient ferns and to see the flit and flicker of the tiniest birds imaginable. Peace. I’m trying to remember the peace and happiness. To be swimming in salt water, and driving, in control.

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A glance outside to reveal clouds that are soft eggshells in a fading blue sky. It’s cooler, which is a relief.

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There’s a special kind of warmth that stays in clothes that have spent hours drying in the sun. It’s a small, sweet kind of warmth, sunshine embodied. Yes, it’s still hot.