My resolve didn’t waver. I want to get back to Europe, in spite of the ocean paradise I’ll leave behind in Australia.
It was now 11.55am and the consulat general’s office closed at 12.20. I wasn’t about to wait another month for a new appointment so I firmly grasped the paperwork and rushed out the door with directions to find a Justice of the Peace and an office supply outlet. The elevator plummeted 26 floors to ground zero.
By the time I reached the pharmacy, it was was close to 12 noon. This lead turned out to be futile but the woman kindly suggested that I might find a JP in the tall building with the revolving doors. So I retraced my steps. I found a chartered accountant on the fifteenth floor. He was busy but I wasn’t deterred. Pleading has it’s place. By 12.05 I was out of there and hit the pavement running. I still needed updated bank statements. I had fifteen minutes left.
One drip at a time. Will it all fall into place?
I am the muse, the photographer.and the scribe.
Which came first? A reasonable question.
The answer remains mysterious.
Ethereal as the twisted trees in a silent forest.
Shadowy as a room painted with sunlight.
Fluid as a heartbeat felt beneath my naked breast.
I’ve been working on this project for a couple of years now and excited about it’s birth into the world!
Nothing is too deep, too difficult, too impenetrable. Well that’s what I’m telling myself as I apply for the artists’ visa in France.
Thanks for the photo Tia Fereti
I did not cry when I heard the news. There was nothing more after Henri died. Another postcard handwritten with care. ‘Je t’apprends une mauvaise nouvelle’. This time it was Adele. They arrive from time to time, sad news from another life, another time, to pierce my new world. I close my eyes and dream of the fields where I planted and reaped friendships dear enough to be family as the old people return to the soil.
Roget and Adele, France, 2014
Henri Jambart, France, 2010
The grass is wet.
A forest home for ants and spiders scurrying between long wet blades.
Look! A butterfly lands on my shoulder, ever so lightly.
The pigeon calls on repeat from the first light until the sun slips into the antipodean sky.
Vapour trails slice the blue into diamonds and darts, piercing through the space above.
I am sending a message to you : each naked foot is sure on this ground.
The ants cluster on my toe. I am a mountain to conquer.
Here come the flies..
They own my legs but my thighs are for you.
Photo © Jeni McMillan
it is quiet here
The sunflowers bow to the sun
Pause … look at the sky
Leaves lying on the grass
A lizard eating ants
Sweet plums in my mouth,
peaches almost ready to fall
The city is a trap … snap!
I am caught
Travelling from Paradise to Paradise
The infernal lies between
Courage! say the french
Now I understand
One has to shake the tree to taste the fruit