“Music is the silence between the notes.”
Painting by Alfonso Cunado
“Music is the silence between the notes.”
Painting by Alfonso Cunado
That’s grandson 1, looking through the door and noting how the hot coloured slabs of glass bake the light into something we can digest.
I said, ‘That’s from the door slamming.’
‘I do that. And Finny and Noah’, he says, pleased.
‘Maybe close the door a bit more softly.’
‘Maybe. Where’s all those bits of glasses from?’
‘From a bridge?’
‘Near a bridge.’
‘It’s good how that glass looks like superhero clothes.’
Then he lays his head and shoulders on the table in a dramatic gesture to show me that he is under the light, and the light is on him and he is not melting, but maybe some of his bones are melting, but luckily it doesn’t matter because they will just grow again. And we sit there together under the evening light melting.
Monday, by Alex Dimitrov
Doesn’t it bother you sometimes
What living is, what the day has turned into?
So many screens and meetings
and things to be late for.
Everyone truly deserves
a flute of champagne
for having made it this far!
Though it’s such a disaster
to drink on a Monday.
Image by Lori Nix
The traffic outside is muffled. People turning in all directions, trying to cross the road quickly. A few people coming in for books. A couple in a motorhome all the way from WA and buying books for birthday gifts. Sarah came in for her book about Dawn Fraser. Trevor came in for a copy of Carpentaria. I went to the bakery, twice.
I order a copy of Jellies and Their Moulds for a customer.
I look up Liane Moriarty and Jonathan Gash for other customers. I decide not to clean the windows.
Outside it’s dark, then light and then dark again. The road is already dry. A child passes on a skateboard; I can hear the wheels ticking over the pavers in the footpath. Someone bangs a wheelie bin lid. Two people yell to each other from opposite sides of the road.
‘What you want?’
‘Ohh…just a pie. Get us a pie.’
‘Yeah. And a cake or something.’
Someone trying to park outside my door grazes the gutter with a rubbery shriek. A lady get out of the passenger side and looks at the tyre. ‘You’ll have to go again, Alan. You’re not straight.’
Alan has another go and then gets out looking grim, and they walk to the bakery.
Illustration by Pascal Campion
“If you think you can grasp me, think again:
my story flows in more than one direction
a delta springing from the riverbed
with its five fingers spread”
Adrienne Rich, Time’s Power
When I was setting up the shop this morning, someone yelled from across the road, ‘Can you get in?’ and they were looking right at me. Get in where? I had to give a false and confident wave: yes I can, thank you. Yes I can what? I had no idea. The man nodded and waved, pleased that I could get in. Then he walked away, a wide gait and shoulders that had done a lot and were a little weary now. He leaned forward as he walked, careful of the remaining decades that still contained a lot to do.
A lady, a regular, was turning her gopher in my doorway, as she does every morning. It’s the only place wide enough. She said, ‘Oh, you’ll get in. You’re skinny enough.’ And she laughed strong and broad, filling my doorway with her morning notes. But I considered things seriously. What?
A lady and her husband stood at the window and she said, ‘Well, that’s almost offensive.’ And they leaned in and laughed darkly at each other and moved on, so I never got to know what had offended.
A man passed swiftly with a pole balanced across one shoulder like a fishing rod. He was fast. I didn’t see much, only an oblong of moving stripes, but he saw me looking out as he looked in, and he made bird noises, powerful and piercing, so I thought well he’s off to the magic circus somewhere on the river. Which is probably wrong, but for a minute I dropped back into a book I’d read once where a man wearing stripes had a magic bird booth at a circus, and the birds would tell true stories about the moon if you paid them one piece of gold.
I thought, is Strathalbyn under some weird magic spell today?
A young woman came in and asked for books about witches. I looked at her meaningfully. She browsed, and I watched her, looking for clues. But she revealed nothing, She had to go, she said, to Woolies, for milk and bread. I was disappointed.
Alan came in to share his family news. I told him that there’s magic going on. He said, ‘What kind of magic?’
I said in a mysterious tone, ‘Lots of things. A bird man.’
He said, ‘Na, mate. That’s nothing.’ Then he told me he was going home for a feed.
I said that I would stay here and keep watch. He laughed, another broad and full laugh, and said that I’d never get in.
But he’d gone. He saw him passing my second window already stuffing his mask into his pocket.
How people look at me when they come into the shop and realize I’m not the bakery.
(Sculpture by Wilfrid Wood)
When I was young and had time to loll about, my brothers used to pull a random paperback from my shelves and ask me to identify it using only the gap it left. I always got them right. I knew where each book knelt as though in its own benediction each night. The Last Unicorn. The Incredible Journey. I Heard the Owl Call my Name, Josie goes Home. Every single volume of The Bobbsey Twins. When they weren’t there, I knew.
‘Give it back. I never said you could.’
I kept my library tight and worried about it at school. I imaged wrongly that it was of value to everyone and that everyone was dazzled by its kaleidoscope of broken skies and the urge to not travel anywhere but through it.
I was mistaken. Everyone has their own dazzle. What was actually dazzling was only my infatuation with it. But I continued collecting. Later, when I had my own bookshop, I would meet fellow dazzlers. They range from the age of five to ninety five, and I would know them by the way they turn on an axis and can’t decide.
Now our home has been rinsed through with family; a thousand summers. L plates. Exams. Crying, and broken microwave plates. Near misses. Calamity, and needing to reorganize the towels. Grandsons that read and climb and fall out of the mulberry tree and come for a bandaid. The library standing back and looking on with approval.
The collections continue, swollen and mixed, with broadened shoulders and matchbox cars around their ankles. Books have moved. The children’s flats have burst upward like pancakes and newcomers stand around waiting for a place. Joan Didion, Alexis Wright, Lahiri Jhumper, A Gentleman in Moscow, everything by Marie Darrieussecq, Kim Scott, Gerald Murnane. Books have gone; don’t know where.
The library has been forced back into order, but it didn’t last. I pushed all the shelves to new places to make new spaces, so now D is next to T, and Asterix looks at Beatrix Potter, and I can’t find anything, but so far that’s ok. I know where Bill Bryson probably is, and I know where the Text Classics are because I just read The Women in Black and put it back. There are plastic monkeys clustered underneath Little House on the Prairie where they are having kindy, and Owl Babies is always out on the floor.
A library whirls around its readers; it is never still and never the same, and its life can never end.
Image by Vladimir Fedotko
Alone on the railroad track
I walked with a pounding heart.
The ties were too close together
or maybe too far apart.
The scenery was impoverished:
scrub-pine and oak; beyond
its mingled gray-green foliage
I saw the little pond.
where the dirty hermit lives,
lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
lucidly year after year.
The hermit shot off his shot-gun
and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple.
The pet hen went chook-chook.
‘Love should be put into action!’
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it.
Sculpture by Hans Some
(The literal meaning of the French phrase ‘chemin de fer’ is ‘iron path’.)
Parked outside the shop is a car with a trailer holding a red air compressor, which is secured with broad yellow straps. There is a vinyl square cushion strapped against its flank. This cushion is a square the colour of caramel and is covered in dust.
We once had this lounge suite; the seat was three cushions side by side and the back was one long rectangular slab. A dish cloth was all that was needed to remove jam or drawings in chalk, or blood. Under the cushions there were broad straps webbed from end to end and that gradually sank over the years. The arms were made of wood with thick wrists and carved hard elbows. When we got rid of ours, there were matchbox cars and marbles caught in the webbing.
It was a good couch for reading.