It's lighter in the mornings now

a late entry, some currawongs, a film to go and see

The day I started drafting this letter I saw a dead currawong belly up on my street, its stray white tail feathers moving with the wind. Some evenings I look out from the kitchen into the gloaming and see a lone currawong sitting on the fence. It sits quietly for a moment but all it takes is a glance and it disappears. I won’t know if the dead currawong is my dusk companion. On the same day I first saw the dead bird I sat at my desk for a few hours and outside heard an ongoing chorus of currawongs singing their mournful, looping melody. It seemed a strange time of day to hear their call, and it went on for hours. Perhaps it’s the changing of the seasons, but for some reason I couldn’t help but feel they were singing for the loss of that bird I saw, belly up on the road. It’s strange to think the lives of these birds, and countless other creatures, is going on at the same time as our own, intermingled with birth and death and seasons and renewal. While I’m washing the dishes a bird swoops by the kitchen window, going about its evening work.

It has been incredibly windy here lately and there are trees and debris piled up on the nature strips. I lay in bed last week listening to the wind howling, it sounded like it could sweep our roof clean off if it wanted to. The wind seems to echo my late winter thoughts in the way they swirl and gust; it has been a big few weeks, hence the tardiness of this edition. The power has been out twice and the wind makes us all feel on edge. In amongst book week activities, school productions, sports, music exams and performances, and a host of familial commitments I’ve been reading snippets of a few books where I can.

In my last note I mentioned These Silent Mansions by Jean Sprackland and here we are a few weeks later and I’ve almost finished it. I really enjoy Sprackland’s poetic writing style and the way she contemplates small ethereal details: stone and algae and fog. The book is an exploration of time and history and death, and a topic that at first seems rather morbid is, in my opinion, rendered fascinating. A small caveat: I am the product of a childhood that was routinely spent visiting country cemeteries on family holidays and once, even, locked in one by my hilarious parents who thought it would be funny to sneak off and pretend to drive away, leaving me and my three sisters amongst the dilapidated and creaking headstones of a cemetery somewhere in the NSW outback… I have tried to encourage this kind of holiday hobby with my own family who have repeatedly not-so-politely declined… so perhaps make your own judgement as to whether this is the kind of book for you, rather than take my word for it.

Other things…

• I took a trip into the city to meet a friend and participate in the Birrarung River Fest. We attended Letters to the Birrarung and heard various perspectives of the river from Environmental Science student Sophie Hart, writer Harry Sadler and artist, writer, and researcher Zena Cumpston. Their stories and letters were a beautiful contribution to the human ecology of Birrarung.

• I read this short essay by Cal Flyn in Granta, and it made me a little scared to pick up Cal’s book which is now on my bookshelf… will build up the courage at some point!

• We went to the cinema to see Bookworm, a hilarious and quirky new film from NZ about a father and daughter searching for the illusive mythical panther in the South Island wilderness. One for the family, but probably not for young kids.

It’s lighter in the mornings now and when I get up the sky is open and clear. I hope you find the time to look up into it soon.

And because it’s early morning and children are calling and can’t find their school shorts and the chaos of another weekday is beginning, that’s quite enough for the time being.

Until next time - aiming to be back on track this fortnight,

Lucinda x