walking slowly downhill
Eighty-second Day, December 3, Melbourne
On the third day of its latest occupancy summer takes the reigns.
The sun‘s heat is felt more directly, more urgently.
The edges of formerly green leaves have become over the last three days ever so slightly browned.
I both seek the sun’s solace and then flee from its fierceness the minute it embraces me.
But that’s due to a malaise that’s more than skin-deep.
I dream about shaking it off quickly but I must be patient; it will shed itself of its own accord.
Houses in Italy; once again I’m scanning the website I have somehow become subscribed to for the one that’s ideal.
But none can quite fulfill all the key requirements.
Which I of course keep adding to or reinventing once any house even remotely approximates fulfillment.
They’re either slightly too expensive, or the garden is too large, or in shade, or too small; the rooms look dank, then far too bright.
Some are too remote, some in streets or locations that seem far too busy.
And so it goes on.
We know what all this means, don’t we?
Yes, we do.
Then I think of the ‘walking slowly downhill’ caravan, of its intimate, easy-to-reach spaces, its cave-like, nest-like feel, its simplicity, its unpretentiousness, its rumpled skin; above all its ability to move and shift into any space, in any direction.
Maybe that’s the answer, turn the entire local world into a home and allow the caravan to constitute my body, the kernel of the outer walnut-world.
The light from its inside could seep out from its modest windows and over the rest of my home, trees in the living room, mountains in the kitchen, roaring rivers in the bathroom.
But now that the sun has set and darkness falls upon us I sit in a Queens Parade Greek café listening to Jenny Theologidis’ ancient voice take me straight to the heart of the caravan; not only that, as I look through its windows I see that all at once we are moving across mountains, fording rivers and resting under the shade of trees, and never for a moment do we move outside my home.
And now I understand an astoundingly simple premise: for me, all the world is Italy.
There’s no sign of course, though there may be one somewhere beyond that hill, or by the bridge down there that spans the river.
But I haven’t seen any.
I just know it is.
And I no longer need to seek it.
Because I have never left it.