cultivating love

I was giggling yesterday because the car smelled like horse and/or cow poo. It wasn’t particularly funny – it was a typical sticky  summer day which only served to deliver the aroma to a very authentic, revolting level of freshness – but I was giggling out of sheer delight. I’d just decided, more or less on a whim, to purchase some herbs to grow, along with some potting mix and helping-poo-stuff and I was on my way home to put plan into action, to put plants into pots.

It occurred to me then that at exactly this time last year I undertook pretty much the same activity, all with the same fervour and associated hope: that my herbs will thrive and that following on from this (naturally) I will create fabulous, divine smelling-tasting meals forever more, host grateful, gushing friends to sophisticated, but in a totally green and alternative way, dinner parties, and of course that I will somehow meet just the right rugged salt-of-the-earth dude and be able to say with winning confidence that I GROW HERBS REALLY WELL in order that he fall promptly in love with me...  

And then upon arrival at this final thought – the one connected to my ostensibly malcontent heart – it occurred to me that at exactly this time last year (as it is now) it was Valentine’s Day. 

Of course, of course. 

That would explain my sudden desire to nurture basil and coriander and sweet apple mint into blossoming, aromatic life as less sudden and whimsical and more as desperate consolation for my forlorn lack of something (okay, someone) to love.

And nor do I have someone to love me. No right rugged salt-of-the-earth dude to care for me, no. 

Perhaps then my coddling of herbs, my will to have them rupture in natural splendour, is not about  me caring for someone, because really, where's the joy in that, and is more about me enacting the way in which I ideally, romantically, ever so deliriously, would like to be regarded.  

“You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming...”

Need I describe the gymnastics of my heart when I read this line only a little over two days ago? Oh yes, Mr Fitzgerald, tender is the night. 

Just not my night. 

My nana asked me the other day, only after informing me how well my same-sex, same-age cousin was doing (you know, about to have her second child type of well), if I have a boyfriend yet. 

No, I told her. Not yet.

And yet, I wanted to tell her, I have so much and so many to love already, I just really don’t think I’d be able to fit it (okay, him) in. What with coffee and the American Indie Season on SBS and all, the changing evening light, the seductive Mr Fitzgerald, and of course the smell of fresh basil and coriander and sweet apple mint... 

Honestly, it really is the sweetest. I don't need a freaking boyfriend. Not yet.

a note of thanks

Thank you to whoever invented irony and made it possible for me to write this post. I guess it really is possible to find something to be thankful for each day: http://thxthxthx.com/.

playing chess on the floor in the lounge

this side of the footpath

the invention of red

notes left between the second and third palings sometime in June

1.
Last Tuesday is the first time I saw you, I think, and then you disappeared. But you’ve been here every day this week. Are you new to the area, or have you only just entered a routine that involves the 7am train?

2.
You pull off that fuzzy-eyed, tussled-hair look well. I only hope you think the same of me. Or better.

3.
I forgot to mention, I like your sweater-vest. Usually not my style, but it’s winter and I can tell you want to keep warm.

4.
I thought you might have picked it up by now, but you haven’t. So, as a veteran commuter, I feel obliged to offer you some advice: Don’t stand so far down the platform. If the train suddenly pulls up on, say, Platform 3, you’ll never make it up the ramp and to the other side of the station in time. I’d hate for you to be late. Where is it that you go?

5.
I told you so. Welcome now to the Middle of the Platform.

6.
It was, I estimate, about 11 degrees this morning. I was eating toast as I walked to the station and it was cold before I even made it halfway through the first slice. You weren’t wearing your vest. I hope you were warm.

7.
Another chilly day. I was hidden under a beanie and a grey scarf that came right up to my bottom lip. I was just about breathing clouds, puffing out gorgeous wisps of white. I was going to write your name, so it would hover there in front of my face, but then I realised I don’t know it. Let me guess. Donovan? Sebastian? Christopher, perhaps with a K?

8.
Another sweater-vest! In green!

9.
You were sneezing this morning. Big, blustery sneezes. If I’d been standing any closer, I might have gotten a share of it myself. I guess that green vest’s just not up to the job. Bring back the blue.

10.
Would you like a tissue? I think it’s important that we know how to talk to strangers, to depend on our neighbours and live in a bubble bigger than our own heads. I’ll keep them in my bag and you just ask anytime, okay?

11.
I checked MX on the way home this evening, that column where people write in and shout to the object of their desire. I expected my heart to do a little tinkling, for a lightness to swell in my stomach and move to my head, make me dizzy, but there was no mention of a generous, raven-haired bunny on the 7.02. Do you think I’m more like a lamb?

12.
I was going to leave you a note about how Vitamin C will clear that dirty cold of yours right up, but I decided against it because I knew you wouldn’t listen anyway. Why waste all that effort and ink and tree? You’re not worth it and maybe you never will be. Still, I’ll see you Monday morning? This is your last chance, mister. 

13.
I suppose you had a good weekend then. She’s pretty, that one, I’m glad for you. But, you know, she’ll probably break your heart. It’s in her hair. Good luck is all I can say. And maybe get a car. Girls like that, they like cars.

from the god of small things