Through the hourglass it filters, grains of our life slipping by in fine speckled moments, the pot boiling on the stove, our time cooking away, egg shells rattling and clanging on the teflon bottom of a pot, an electric element glowing orange hot, bubbles forming and bursting, like our dreams and ideals.

Shoes off, walking along a beach near sunset, shadows grow long and the light takes on an orange hue, our eyes adjust but the camera is faithful, pictures later have a wash of orange through them. Sand between toes, dry and wet. Wet where we walk along the border between sea and land the interface, the ever changing picture where the dampness is sucked like a sponge into fine particles and golden grains, tiny salt and pepper grains. On the dry side the sand squeaks as we leave the beach in pliant trainers.

Sandcastles, plastic buckets and shovels, taking the half wet sand and packing it into a bucket, it’s rough sand , Atlantic sand. The smell of kelp the call of gulls in the air, the wash of the  tide on the beach, ah childhood, no need to think about anything then, just act , be , do. Pack those grains down and then invert. The round turret comes out close to perfect a few chips have drifted off, easily re-packed with fresh sand. Three more and the castle outline takes place. Gather together more half wet sand, digging down deep below the surface for solutions, like we need to do with ourselves sometimes, deeper than the surface thoughts. Down underneath are the grains of our memory, the particles of our being, we man the gates of our defences and build our own castle walls to survive within, but maybe that’s just my castle. Now the walls form on this one, they have to be thick without the packing of the bucket, big thick icing walls, that icing you get on a Boston bun. Could be time for some rock candy…… 

Mrs White in the Library with the candlestick, that was my guess last time I played Cluedo. Formless bits of plastic that trot around a board at the beck and call of the dice. The rope, the dagger, the pistol and other implements all contributing to the mystery that needs to be unraveled, like the mystery of where the hell did we put the candles when there’s a power blackout. If you know there’s one coming, yeah, you can prepare yourself and get all the stuff out…. I know there used to be some in the third draw down in the kitchen-easy, but the next dilemma is where would I find a match? Do we even have a torch we could use? 

So in that third draw down, the one that has a little nick in its travel as it folds out of the wood panelling  there are a couple of waxy tapered candles, so next time I have a box of matches I’ll throw them in there too, so, in the dark I just feel my way to the draw along the stainless steel sink and will know that light is available. Thinking about it too, there are some Fat candles that have somehow waddled onto the mantlepiece lately just over the kitchen fire, the one we never use, the one that holds that black recycling bin, usually half full of clinking bottles of expired alcohol and cereal packets. The trip out to the real recycling bin is made once a week, the smell of old beer and wine drifts up as it’s carried down the echoing hallway,  a clatter and a clunk as the empties merge into the blue bodied bin.

I had to improvise a little while ago, at someone’s place. In the end we used an egg-cup, no elegant round worked piece of frosted glass or silver, with leathery drips of wax down its sides. No, an egg cup. The match was waved under its base to get a few congealing drips of wax to free themselves and then the butt was sealed in there, functional, useable, practical. When the flame burns it flickers and moves about in unseen drafts of wind it forms shadowy outlines on the wall that come and go with the flicker of the candle…….

You know you want the best, perfection in fact, happy dreamy ideals of how things should be have been balloons in your mind for an age and then reality bites. It might be a matter of money or the weather or circumstance, or people, whatever, but your carefully crafted facade begins to crumble and some hard decisions need to be made. Sniff the air to see which way the wind might be blowing, try to find the scent of the original idea try to engage in its sweet apple pie just out of an oven-ness. Try to find that spoon that whipped the batter of the concept into shape, you might want to lick it, perhaps its chocolate residue still leaves a sweet memory in your mind as you face the unpalatable task of rearranging your set in stone plan. You need to be the elastic man – flexible, bendy – to make things happen. One could let the crush of disappointment fill your thoughts or you could find another way another road another sign post to take you there.

 In the end you will always arrive, it’s inevitable, but the question is ..where? It may seem you’re walking in bare feet down a path made of broken glass or perhaps a remote bush track with a smattering of loose gravel – nothing defined, just driving on blind faith that the road leads -somewhere, and then you get there and it’s over and done, all the planning, all the vision is actualised and  you start to pack away all the hopes you had and delight in where it was good and learn from where it was bad and you’re satisfied that you seeeeeed when you had to and saaaaawwwwwed when you must,  vacillated back and forth, but it’s 95% of what you wanted. Everyone else is happy. It has had a life of its own, and you’ve stood your ground while being flexible, nothing terrible happened, just something wonderful. You look back over glossy moments in digital freeze frame, and see happy faces, while knowing the mad treading of feet was happening below the surface, the last minute dot come compromises that were made and justified …..

The only thing I can think is that they’re easily twisted, and it’s amazing how we actually manage to stay upright on them. That process we’ve all been through, all seen in uncertain toddlers rearing up on two feet is a gargantuan achievement, maybe the eight wonder of the world. For once homo erectus is up then he/she’s mobile, well progressed beyond the bottom sliding  mode and the hands and knees mode. Somehow we manage to develop a sense of  balance and hold ourselves in sway through the pushing and pulling of muscles in our backs and spine- yeah I know about that one with the current dodgy back.

The weak point of the whole structure though is the ankle, that lumpy triangle that sticks out like a mountain tip through clouds. In an instant of poor footing or lack of concentration the whole pivoting marvel can do a quick shilly that leaves you rolled up on the ground in extreme pain. That moment is terrible, because you know it’s going to happen, that soft supple flesh and the grinding cartilages flip- flop and you realise you might as well be in space because there is no weight that will be supported by that one any more and you’re headed for the ground like a sack of potatoes. It meets you like a basketball bat – hard and unforgiving unless you do it while out bushwalking of course- possibly a worse scenario, given the back pack you’re lugging and who’s gonna carry you out? The whole thing then becomes a  puffy ball as if it’s holding its breath and puffing out its cheeks, purple bruising areas start to form……. 

The only thing I can think is that they’re easily twisted, and it’s amazing how we actually manage to stay upright on them. That process we’ve all been through, all seen in uncertain toddlers rearing up on two feet is a gargantuan achievement, maybe the eight wonder of the world. For once homo erectus is up then he/she’s mobile, well progressed beyond the bottom sliding  mode and the hands and knees mode. Somehow we manage to develop a sense of  balance and hold ourselves in sway through the pushing and pulling of muscles in our backs and spine- yeah I know about that one with the current dodgy back.

The weak point of the whole structure though is the ankle, that lumpy triangle that sticks out like a mountain tip through clouds. In an instant of poor footing or lack of concentration the whole pivoting marvel can do a quick shilly that leaves you rolled up on the ground in extreme pain. That moment is terrible, because you know it’s going to happen, that soft supple flesh and the grinding cartilages flip- flop and you realise you might as well be in space because there is no weight that will be supported by that one any more and you’re headed for the ground like a sack of potatoes. It meets you like a basketball bat – hard and unforgiving unless you do it while out bushwalking of course- possibly a worse scenario, given the back pack you’re lugging and who’s gonna carry you out? The whole thing then becomes a  puffy ball as if it’s holding its breath and puffing out its cheeks, purple bruising areas start to form…….. 

Its swivels back and forth like a clowns head at a sideshow stall, a steady sweep like a flight of pelicans to the left then a yacht sailing to the right. Despite its best efforts it isn’t helping much. The humidity is heavy as a road construction roller, grinding me down. No sheets, legs hanging out at odd angles, yep, it’s one of those nights where the heat is trapped in the house and the outside temp has hardly dropped at all.

What we need is one of those bi-polar Melbourne cold fronts to arrive.  I just think I’ll whip one up from somewhere down near the South Pole and let it drift like a lazy cloud, an icy pole for my body.  My tongue is hanging out to lick it, this idealised Southern change, not those hot dry scratchy  winds from the red center kicked in on a swirl of dust and top soil, no, the cool Southern winds that have picked up moisture along the way on their journey. 

If it arrives there’s  going to be a Titanic clash in the sky with the warm air meeting the cold , they’ll bristle up against each other like deer fighting for mates that you see in  ‘in the wild’ documentaries , they’ll clash and the the sky will growl and one of them will go whimpering off into the distance still shaking its fist in forks of lightning  and mumblings of low rolling thunder. There’ll be rain- not too tropical, but a quick volley of tears- maybe even hail! It’ll play ping pong on the metal roof in hollow heaviness and then be gone. The house will still smell of the heat, the trapped humidity that has seeped into walls and door frames escaping, the house sighing after carrying the weight so long, and we, who give thanks for the temporary salvation of the fan – will get on again and forget the pain until next time.

So now I lie in hope of that change- not that the weatherman has said it’s coming, but I can feel it in my bones, or maybe that’s just a flower of hope trying to outweigh the groan in my soul. Maybe Air conditioning would be a better option…….