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Sport 37: Winter 2009

2

2.

to west is not to wonker. he could go. and look for. wherever it was whatever it was again why not. it would get him out of the house. however he had got there in the first place. it was worth considering. going. because good it would mean walking again. dad was gone now of course why. but walking again. walking once more. it was something he could do. his fathers house. with its red chenille curtains worn away in smoothnesses here and there. and the tin bath. filled in front of the fire. and the bed he had slept in first. when he came home from being born. however he had got there in the first place. to leave it and walk again walk once more. and the house on top of the hill. at the end of a small road. and a field of sheep from the kitchen louvres.

it was worth considering. it was hard to catch the thought of it. which was eelslippery. he couldn't remember where. because the walking the tramping the following the slogging along all the slogging along gave to the little drink the lemonade and the plastic bottle that is some kind of um dueness. deserving would be better. yes deserving. from page 180 the walking a deserving would come. and if nothing came along well you might hold the deserving in reserve as it were for another time when something did come along. and if something did come along then he could have it. that had always been the way with him since the first walking and the first lemonade. and not a bad way it was. it had served. and this was the country for it.

he had been started after all. walking. his mother and father had taken care of that. and now he was left to go on. and on. for all the world like huhugrubs hopping over each other. take his part. jump. heavy with beauty he would try to jump. had he left it too late maybe perhaps. too heavy and pleased. it was the least he could do.

i lay in bed. it was the same bed. more of a divan probably. the first bed. with two drawers and a high mattress. and a clan rug. whichever it was. i don't remember. worn and a little faded but waggled with tassels yet. how to get up. it was a drama worthy of several of the ages of man getting up. first the decision and the will. and then the motions. heavens the motions. the fanheater crouched like a mushroom beside the bed whirring hot air through its chrome rounds and its shining orange head. the red chenille curtains stirred a little in its breath. the age of the dinosaur passed probably. the tartan hill of knee geomorphicised maybe or something a little to the decline leftwards. the river valley below sighed for a thousand years. he sank back exhausted.

bellbirds sang in the garden where the corn shuffled and the gooseberries gleamed. the sunshadows edge moved across the carport. the cardboard boxes and the dartboard. the old rubbercanvas canoe and the homemade skis. outlines of hammer chisel rasp and saw on a wooden wall. fencing mask and vacuumcleaner. and a homemade launch on a trailer. with a cabin. like a shark in a hat. waiting on its pressed rubbertyres. the rotary washingline hesitated and started its arms like fences for the air. which was scented with hydrangeas. pink and blue and ugly with those great leaves that felt like skin.

page 181

he tried to sit up. the pillows sighed for him. the curtains blew a little apart in the hot air. and the smell of nectarines poured in from the garden. before the rosesmell. and the chinese gooseberries. sheep bleated in the field beyond the kitchen. cut grass. someones radio. he slumped back. the first bed. it was hard to get up. perhaps another age was needed. before he could turn mountains into a tidied tartan plain and be gone. and let the world in and all its beauty. more of it. it was hard to move with the all of it that he had already. to best is not to bonker. get up get up.

he watched a toeknob rise into being. the age of some gliding thing that did not work well. in all the world wherever it was having never seen it he could never exactly pin it down where it was in all the world i say i was born of people living of people alive the nearest to the first people of their land. that was surely worth something. i know not what. but it gave you a kind of start a kind of push a kind of impetus to make something of your freshness your new way and your youngness. the toeknob disformed. well it sank. the perfume of nectarines swelled upon the heated air like a melted urge.

ah the mountains.

his eyelids lay like lead. could they be calling the mountains. they seemed to. they could not. it must be memories of beauty then. that could be right. that he needed them. or wanted them. and what had they done to make him want them. well nothing. because they could not. it was merely a kind of family habit. a way to make things wonderful. beautiful. to make living or a life so. and that worked. it was good enough. well more than good enough. much more. and it would do nothing would do better why. and it was the country for it. it was time to go. he struggled with his eyelids. which rolled irresistibly down.