(pic: Song of The Harp. Maki Horanai)
“April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain…”
Burial of The Dead. T S Eliot
Two years eh? Two whole years? This is quite spooky. Being back here. It’s like walking back into an empty house. The furniture’s all here. Everything is exactly as you left it albeit dustier. Staler. Just no people. The party ended two years ago. Lip stick stained wine glasses stand untouched, ashtrays flow with stained buts, ash in the hearth and what’s that over there? Half a bottle of whisky asking to be finished. Everything is so still. Stale. It’s tempting to flop down on the chair, light up a fag and carry on like normal, like we used to but everything has changed and this needs tidying up, somewhat. A spring clean of sorts. Throw open the doors, open the windows, the curtains, let the light and wind curl in, caramel and chocolate twirl, and chase the ghosts out from those dark corners.
I thought about moving. Getting out of here. Uprooting. To something a little swisher. Something more modern. Something more fresh, poetic and new. But, this is home after all. Where all the growing gets done. Where the roots are. Where all the laundry hangs out in the bright sun, dried by these dust laden winds which bring no rain. It’s the truth. So. I’m staying. And starting from today. Here. Again. Nothing quite like the present, really. I’m not looking back.
A sprig of jasmine in a vase, lilies on the table, fresh fragrance, and sunlight brimming through the green, winking amongst the bird song.
We shall always hope for more rain.
There you are.
Here I am.