Spanning decades, fear’s icy ectoplasm shocks my heart. Destination scene’s known as lucid dream materialises, only the route varies.
Deep within a dwelling, an unobtrusive timber shuttered room. A postern door opens to an unremarkable tree crammed yard. Overgrown spiky, entangled stems, ramble. Daylight barely penetrates the gloom. A sodden carpet of mildewed leaves, twigs and decay smother the ground.
Heady damp earth scent permeates my being as unseen hands claw, scrape, shovel, revealing a petrified hatch.
Dark downward sloping subterranean passage snakes forks, twists. Roughly hewn stone echoes footsteps, breath, rustle of clothing. Stepfather’s flaccid luminescent presence lumbers alongside.
Ever further trudging through the sordid depths. Always aware of being followed, no sight nor sound. At last, cavernous space reveals an ovoid mound. Knowing it’s secret, I turn to leave the cadaver, never will she make thirteen.
If I am not guilty of wrongdoing, why the anxiety of being found out?
Reflecting while writing; perhaps this is the resting place of my innocence and suppressed femininity.
My husband informs me people can’t get enough of tiny houses listed on AirBnB. In this vein we are enjoying a long weekend, 125 km west of Brisbane. Our compact stay comprises a galley kitchen, living/bedroom, toilet, two chair verandah, and spa bathroom.
Perched on the crest of the Great Dividing Range, 700m above sea level, Toowoomba is a country city. The temperature is around 10oC lower overnight and a couple of degrees short of Brisbane’s dailies. Where we chill our room overnight to 22oC at home, we heat it to the equivalent here.
The electric frypan is a hit, serving up mushroom risotto for dinner and scrambled eggs this morning. There is even an espresso machine to get the cockles going.
This is the closest I intend to get to glamping!
A 9000 step site seeing tour around the centre yesterday, enabled us to shake off our humdrum workaday lives and enjoy tree-lined streets and parks.
Last night, as we soaked our weary limbs in the spa, large enough for two silly old buggers, we toasted life. Mountainous foam infused with lavender and rose geranium essential oils and the room lit with pink vanilla scented tee lights perfected our quality moment.
Bored dismissive scrolling. Seditious libel pollutes. Venomous assumptions flash. Searing discontent morphs into Dank depression to distort reality.
Ego aimlessly destructing self In malicious derision. Rank regret rots, Withering to hopelessness. Despair pervades, to numbness.
Listless countenance portrays Unreadable amassed barriers. A carcass weighed down with Stubborn contrition, shame, guilt, Misguided pride; inner derision. Short lived thoughts of rebellion Come to naught.
I recently realised, when I like someone, I subconsciously raise them up in my esteem. Filling in the gaps in my knowledge of them with vague beliefs and assumptions.
For example, in talking to a personable acquaintance the other day, they told me they were building their self confidence so that they could teach. I was introduced to them at a dinner about two years ago. At the time and since, I have enjoyed their bright personality and cheerful disposition; reading in self assurance.
Reflecting on my presumption of their strengths, I realised how little I knew of them. Their pedestal and place on it was almost entirely a figment of my imagination.
It should come as no surprise, I am sometimes disappointed by others. I am expecting them to fill the roles of fictitious characters on the journey of my life.
Similarly I read reciprocal admiration into relationships. My importance in the life of another is not as significant as the ideal; tearing my heart, ever so slightly.
My earliest memory of dining out was in a cafe in West Bromwich, UK. The treat ended with my younger brother by three years having a tantrum; screaming and kicking on the floor surrounded by chips.
My addiction to going out to eat formed while undertaking hospitality studies in Worcester and Blackpool, 1980 to 1984. Overseas travel broadened my appreciation of fabulously foreign cuisines.
As a food service employee, I would groan internally about the guests who refused to leave, so that I could clear up and head home to bed.
My husband and I have become those people who literally spend hours chatting and supping over meals in eateries. The latest trend is starting with late lunch and continuing on to dinner. All the better when Stan is able to accompany us. He enjoys the attention from the staff, greeting them like old friends.
Horizonal Glass House Mountains seen across north Moreton Bay from Jamieson Park, Scarborough, Queensland.
Excepts from Wikipedia, below.
‘The Glass House Mountains are a cluster of thirteen hills that rise abruptly from the coastal plain on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia. They are located near Beerburrum State Forest and Steve Irwin Way. The trip is about one hour from Brisbane.’
‘The Volcanic peaks of the Glass House Mountains were formed by intrusive plugs, remnants of volcanic activity that occurred 26-27 million years ago. Molten rock filled small vents or intruded as bodies beneath the surface and solidified into land rocks. Millions of years of erosion have removed the surrounding exteriors of volcanic cores and softer sandstone rock.’
‘The term ‘Glasshouse Mountains’ was given by explorer Lieutenant James Cook on 17 May 1770. The peaks reminded him of the glass furnaces in his home county of Yorkshire, UK.’
The thought of being deprived of Google in Australia is monstrous! Fingers crossed we will not succumb to have to Bing things.
On a local level the winds of change grew to hurricane proportions. We signed up with a realtor, booked times for staging, photographs, and the first viewing.
Then the realty of the market dowsed our spirits. Everything is on hold until we can find somewhere suitable to live.
Deciding we will rent for a while, we are well beyond dirty, pest infested, rundown garrets. Is it unreasonable to expect air conditioning, dishwasher, covered outdoor area, space from the neighbours and undercover parking?
There are suitable rental properties however, as in stories of unrequited love, our advances are spurned. Why? We have an ‘inside’ Stan.