Saturday, July 8, 2006

In Between Days

In the laneways, the alleyways, in between the streets, behind the houses, I feel at home as I walk over cobbled rock and brackish mud puddled pools that hold their own reflection of what goes on in the world. It's funny, I'm in between again, in between moments, in between seconds, one phase shift to the left and I'm the only one who walks these parts, and sees these exact snapshots. Always carry a camera, I think, but the camera I hold is but my eyes and the hope that I can find the words to explain it all to you. Click. Snap. Publish. Never quite right but sometimes the joy is in the trying of things, not necessarily the successful result.

In the laneways, the alleyways, in between the houses and behind the streets, it's silent like the desert, like a 4am paddock, just the wind that rushes past you on its way to an invisible destination with no baggage, no briefcase, just voooosh, i'm late, i'm late, gotta go, gotta FLY. I laugh at the wind's impatience, but respect it's urgency, and its focus, its purpose. In the laneways, I envy that, as I am doing naught but floating and walking and staring and for as long as I can, staying in between everything.

But it has its rewards, the rust coloured doors and dangles of figs, escaping the confines of their owners, reaching over the fence like I as a boy reached toward the water as I sat on the side of a fleeing, flying speedboat. I tickle the wood, admire the leaves, marvel at the colours, run my hand along the fences and peer into the backyards. I step on the cracks and scoff at bad luck. I let the dogs smell me as they go wild with delight or suspicion or the need to let their owners know that they sense the boy who lives in between. And just for a skylark, I place an orange-green, oval shaped leaf in a stream that irrigates and dissects the bluestone below, and relive a childhood so far gone as my boat spirals and twists in the downscaled rapids and eddies. And when you live behind and in between, you can laugh out loud or even jump in the air and click your heels together, and the breeze through the trees creates applause for your one man show.

At the delta, the mouth which opens to the real world once more, if you're lucky you can see another opening, just on the other side. And if the gentle hand of fate covers all but you, no-one will see you cross the tarred road river, you can do it. Quick! Arms flailing, one step, two, three, escape that world, don't let it take hold, head down for if you can't see it, then it cannot see you, and all of a sudden the walls close up again and you're in, safe, and the next part of the journey begins. With all the sights and hidden treasures to boot. And you can even do a secret wee, on the back of someone's fence, and you can even watch that family sit outside, or that man work on his boat, or just enjoy the emptiness of a clothes line which you can see strung between the back of that house and its one and only tree.

Later, when the journey ends and I'm at the shop, or back at home, or someone's home, I hold the secret of my travels. And I know at anytime, I can go there, and hide and explore and be the lone cur, ageless and adventurous in a world between worlds.

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