Matthew Spong (carbonunit) wrote,
Matthew Spong

Michelle Walker - 13/11/1963 1/3/2017

Reading in hammocks in Callan park. Climbing the steel ladder to the warehouse loft balancing a cup of coffee. Chasing the ferrets around the yard. Scavenging roadside fence palings for nans fire. Watching King Street TV from the Townie balcony. Passing the Eraserhead test. Driving the beetle down to Kangaroo valley for a weekend of pot and hangi, slowly swerving past the wombats in the headlights. Breaking down the Smail street studio, salvaging the paint and light tables. Enduring the terrible drip-drip music. Teaching me knitting as I taught you the net. Watching the Olympic marathon pass with dad and Betty. The church in Bendick Murrel, another timeline passed by. Waiting for Y2K on old Glebe Island Bridge and almost wishing for the lights to go out.

Laddas, for red beef curry. Cafe Nikki, wholemeal focaccia. La Pergolata, spaghetti marinara. Vegetable salad at Glebe Markets. Blowing off the Rose street warehouse with a scorched earth retreat and Betty's meat trays hidden in the walls. Listening patiently while my dad relived the great depression, the happiest time in his life. The bathroom sink full of fierce hissing kittens with Chucky at the bottom. The Canberra no-talent festival. Watching the working girls at the Dom hotel in Darwin. People watching everywhere we went, this peculiar species, so alien. Schooners of coffee at Cafe 163. A kaleidoscope of dresses, the most colourful goth in the world, positively glooming as she said, it never rains but it shines! An avalanche of handbags, and always the search for the perfect shoe. Ganeshes, barongs and rengdas on every wall. Trawling the streets during council pickup looking for Georgian wood and art nouveau.

The scans, the needles, the tests and the wait for results. Clipping your hair for the chemo wig, just as you clipped mine.

Late breakfast with the trannies at Una's. Late night conspiracies at the Mu Mesons, holding hands in the dark. Stitching and bitching with the underground aristocracy. Stoking the fire at Waratah Cottage and watching Black Books. The amazing zombie puppets. Tea in the Glover street garden amongst the herbs and ghosts. Buying veggies from the farmer at Addison road, giving the finger to the supermarkets and middle men.

Melasti day in Ubud, following the ogoh ogoh in the gamelan clang and chanting and fireworks. Nyepi day, silent with birds and the occasional snake. Watching the invisible djinn shaking a tree like a rattle and realising there was another world. Getting image sickness in the Louvre. Children piping to the moon rising over Avebury stones. Nearly getting caught by hikers in the Royal. Queen of the Galaxy at the Sounds of Seduction. Driving up to Mountain Lagoon road for driving lessons, coffee and roses at Tutti Fruiti. The Halloween stores in San Fran, tentacles and bats everywhere. Nonesuch Island. The spooky abandoned hotel in the mists on top of Mount Batur. Staring down pickpockets on the cable car in Lisbon. Swans at the Metro, D-Minor at the Annandale, Sigur Ros at the Enmore, and Sunn at the Factory, so heavy we had to run away! Those spicy, smokey perfumes.

Talking and talking, a 20 year conversation and never boring. True Blood and Penny Dreadful. Washing and drying up, making the bed, pegging out the laundry. Parking magic. 7 cats and loving every one of them, and learning again and again the pain when they left. Watching kangaroos sneak past the fence at Portland, looking for grass in the snow. Struggling with your Etsy shop, a vision of independence from managers and bosses. Christmas, and hand made rocky road for all the doctors and nurses. Switching off wildlife documentaries because an animal might die. Stopping for every lost dog we saw, because animals should be rewarded for not being people. Old fashioned roses and moss and velvet and wood cravings and beach glass, and always maximal, everything always had to be full to the brim. The glass was always full to the brim.
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