When I can snatch a slither of time to myself I've been reading Huckleberry Finn. I've never read it before and I thought I should really since I visited Mark Twain's house in Connecticut. There was a great excerpt at the beginning that I just loved, and I took the liberty of typing it out:
"I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars was shinning, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of sound a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave and has to go about that was every night grieving. I got so downhearted and scared, I did wish I had some company."
I love those freewheelin', rambling sentences. Peppered throughout the book is the phrase "by and by" which melts my heart, and I love the references to weird superstitions, facilitated largely by Jim. I'm really enjoying it.
I've had a busy week. Last night Louis' gallery 'Knight Street' opened with new paintings by Patrick Fox. http://www.artguide.com.au/exhibition/patrick-fox/ Of course they were beautiful and the show looked fantastic. Georgie and I manned the bar and it was very fun because we were sort of pouring ourselves as much champagne as the guests and laughing with our friends.
I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. There were no lights on at all in the house, but I could see down the long corridor by the glow of the moon that leaked in through all the open windows. It had been such a beautiful day and the mild night breeze rustled lightly over my skin giving me little goosebumps. I couldn't resist taking a look outside at the beacon that caused the evanescent glow, but I couldn't find the moon, perhaps it resided behind me, over the other side of the house. Its presence was palpable, a pulse in the air. I looked out at the horizon and warm orange orbs dotted the suburban sprawl, to me then it looked like the sea, or the sky, each sphere a bobbing, yearning reminder of a human, or a love, or someone I so desperately missed. The floorboards creaked like a ship, and I felt the presence of Huckleberry Finn's ghost and I remembered being in Mark Twain's house, almost alone, and that throbbing stillness that is the presence of someone or something or even your own self, keeping you company.
I worked briefly in the studio today and these are some things that occurred. Transient little narratives.