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K E N B O L T O N |
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Catching Up With Kurt BreretonHi Kurt. ( ! ) I'm sitting up (here) (at night) the Pharoah Sanders I bought while staying with you playing gentle mania waxing waning * quietly doing its nut * ( in the corner ) * "Is Sal alright?" my main question That I should ask her My question to you : "What's doing?" Right now, a Sunday night, will you be stretching the weekend: music spinning … lighting a number, painting, making notes on things the fish zipping about, watching you, saying I hope he plays the James Reyne tape again? But fish—what would they know? their red & blue, flickering, the bubbles rising out of that diver paintings of swimmers —humanity at its rare least guarded— around. 'Around'! what are you floating about like that— get back with the other swimmers! Ya wanna know what I think? in Peggy's words ("Nick, ya wanna know what I think?" "Hey, Nick! …" Etcetera.) A mantra * I should ring you * but don't know where the phone will ring— in the house If it was to hand in the studio & you picked it up on just two rings & said, mellow & unphased, Yeah? that would be the greatest thing (am I stoned?) what is this thing with being stoned—I, who almost never come out of my tree except by coaxing myself down— a coffee, a long quiet night? Like Krazy Kat now I stand at the foot of that tree (in fact a lamp post incredibly tall a foot or two beyond the perimeter of its light (its penumbra) pretty benign charmed (by my 'own song') big-eyed —dumb, yeah, but what's new— "I never said I was smart" to quote Lou Reed Actually, Lou said "tasteful" If he can lie why can't I? 'Smart', eh? Then time to attempt it I pick up the phone & dial you Hello? I do a drawing, standing, at my desk, a hat near some papers & jars & a jar of flowers— # looking down. # Keeps me going for an hour # & call it "August 6th" tho it's April & years later … & the poem I do it for was probably not written on August 6th either the months just have such evocative names, Of what are they evocative? just evocative, that's all : leaves, sky, weather This hat on which I look down— so definite, so casual— suggests to me scotch tho I have none now— & the races, gambling, A masculine world the adult world of my father A flat in Elizabeth Bay frangipanis, the harbour where Sal & Laurie live The light from the lamp gives a thin firm shadow round its brim, on one side— which my charcoal seizes other details drop out & as I draw & look & draw again it is 1951—the humidity, the slight sweatyness of Sydney I feel tough & gentle calm It is the nostalgia of the style, the hat the flower: the flower pink & pale—hibiscus— against dark green leaves, the jar small & six-sided the hat is wheaten yellow straw, with a band of brown the harsh light of the lamp whitening everything—sheets of paper, bits of writing, a pen, pencils the drink this all suggests is nowhere to be found an absence that keeps the whole unsettled provisional suggesting a moment, not an hour I get two long-necked bottles from the fridge, put them in a bag & catch a tram up the Cross meet Cath Pam Sal & Laurie & continue down the beach where we meet you near where you lived forty five years later I'm not wearing a hat, & neither are you, tho Laurie is aside from that everyone is dressed pretty much as normal— classic, eh? Pam has a rollie Sal an Ardath I rub Cath's neck simultaneously in 1951 & now & Rosemary hands you the corkscrew, whose handle is a bottle-opener, & Sarah & Laurie hold out glasses— beer really was beer till some time in the seventies— Laurie says Well, cheers! & we clink the glasses |
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