April 26, 2011 § Leave a comment
Jette Le Red wants to start a band. I have said before that she plays the guitar and is a very good singer, I myself play the violin, that dreaming, devillish, ruinous intsrument, and Indie is quite a drummer, I hear. He used to be in a local band called Cuckoo when he was younger, but it did not come to anything and faded slowly away like the colours of a picture left in the sun, as these dreams are wont to do. Penny does not play an instrument but has a good voice, I mentioned this to Jette, but she did not seem to like the idea. I sometimes think that the girls do not like each other very much, they are always most civil to each other in the kitchen, but there is also a simmering, mecurial feel in the air when they are together, like a thin wire pulled tightly through the room; as though we live on a fault line of politeness. Perhaps Jette is jealous of Penny because her poetry is so good, like tiny birds flying from a page. Maybe Penny is jealous of Jette because she looks so glamourous and dark with her kohl eyes like accident blackspots for young men; she should not be, though. I think Penny is much prettier, and she is prettier on the inside, too.
I have been writing poetry today, while the sun is out and the leaves are acid green. The May tree frothing bridal white petals next door, I think, is the one who does not want to be friends with me, for when I am in the garden the rasping in my lungs is worse. Our other neighbour has a very friendly little Eucalyptus next to the wall which rattles pleasantly in the breeze, I like this tree very much, and often read it poems. The neighbours are quite relaxed and natural people and I do not think they worry that I am insane for doing this. Sometimes I play the Jews Harp or the violin outside, and listen to the music bounce off our brick walls and hope that the sleepy trees enjoy it and that it makes a nice change from all the poetry. We have carved out a quiet little Eden in our city, and it is only when we have a party that we have trouble with our neighbours, who have a little baby that cries like a rusting hinge; but we always invite them and buy them a nice pot plant the next day if we think we have been too loud. I think now they are running out of space to put the plants. The lady of the house likes geraniums, icing pink and pulse red, so I always try and buy these for her.
A rambling, pretty patch of forget-me-nots are nestling in the soil amongst the garden weeds, with their peeping blue and violet eyes; and there is a bushy, flowering Quince tree in the park where we have picnics and things, who is madly feeling the spring and growing in all directions. Jette wants him to be called Quinn, and Penny likes Quentin. Indie and I do not mind, so now he is called Quentin Quinn the Quince the First.