Quiet
Maybe what I have really meant by the term child aunt is child who might write. The three child aunts whom I see at such regular intervals through the year that I have the corner shop man tricked into believing they're my own are the most likely ones to be writerly. These are the children who recall their dreams as the porridge is being stirred, who see images where no one else can.
-- "Paradise Is A Place", Gillian Mears.
A tram derailed on Tuesday at the Domain Interchange and trams were banked from thereon until the Arts Centre, the distance of which is about equal to half an hour's walk. I stopped and took photographs, pausing to speak to a couple of smiling but solemn tram drivers, who kindly told me the trams would be operating again within minutes. There was no point to it, truly, because the city-bound trams were so packed full of people that I wondered how they could breathe.
I'm sorry I've been quiet, nondescript. The days are busy as I finish up at work - desperately needing to dump all my accumulated knowledge at least down on paper because there isn't one person who will be taking over on me. The nights seem to peter away between catching up with friends and my boxes, my forever-boxes, which I will soon worry less about. I bought a new toy, I saw furry things this morning. I forgot to bring my book with me two days in a row. I am perpetually tired and I still wake up before 6 a.m.
Posted by sniffles at August 01, 2002 04:32 PM