My name is irrelevant, yet I am 40 something years ancient.
War broke me fifteen years ago, and now I am incapable of working.
The people at the end of my street are fighting again. There are at least twenty of them. On reflection there are more likely twenty five men and women yelling and screaming; a stubby has just shattered the street facing window of a house; a rock has just hit a man on the side of his head. He is not moving.
This is all happening, escalating if anything, even though it is two in the afternoon and it is the most glorious day. A Willy-Wagtail is chasing cabbage moths across my green, lush, and about due for a mow front lawn; the big white gum across the road has just exploded into an eruption of white winged and squawking Corella’s. If it weren’t for the carnage at the end of the street, it would be the perfect day.
One, only one, and quite a magnificent ‘one’ at that, thing keeps me here. Living in a place I so heartily detest, detesting it specifically because of the deplorable actions at the end of the street. She is five feet six inches short, with reddish brown hair and a ‘strawberries and cream’ complexion; her eyes, light grey to light blue, have held me captivated since the fourth of July, 2008. My wife is the most beautiful, magnificent, person I have ever met, and as a result, this is where we dwell.
In this rural hell, with nothing more to offer than flies, and dust, and heat, and an over powering level of antisocial carrying on that would not be tolerated anywhere else in this wide brown land. If I knew a word more descriptive than ‘loathing’, I would use it to describe my hatred of this vile, town tainting behaviour. Turning a fantastic place into a hell I would not thrust upon my worst enemy.
And yet this is the town my fabulous wife hails from. Her mother, brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, friends, and enemies are all here. Each and every day I force myself to endure this pitiless miasma of a berg, and like the ‘Hotel California’, she will never leave. She wears those she loves like the heart wears a beat, and never could I force her desertion of this very hell. So she is here, and I love her. I love her so deeply, with such passion, that I could never envisage a moment without her. When we are apart I miss her like sleep and I need her like air. To be without her would be the murder of my soul.
And now, as she is here, so am I; loving her, hating all else, and I could never live without the love of my life.
My beautiful, beautiful wife.
Click the picture, VSQ doing ‘Clocks’.
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