AUTUMN HARVEST
Quiet days as autumn segues away into winter. A weekend storm. A certain light. The chill in the air. Another time unfurls. Two times. Long ago, a film, Diva. The scene: a spare apartment, in the centre of which sits a bath tub. The rest of the film fades, apart from the magnificent aria from La Wally, yet this mise-en-scene remains. And then, not long ago, arriving in New York. Late night arrival, delayed, plane 'broken'. 2:00 am. Crisp air. Fall. Delivered to the odd urban square, very much as it had been described: the clock, the concrete seats, the planters. And there sitting amongst it, the square's describer, smoking, staring at the night sky. Talking into the night, tea, wine, exchanges of gifts, sitting in the kitchen. The only room in the apartment which is not a bedroom. Through tired eyes the sculptural form of a bathtub looms in the shadows at the side of the kitchen. Then he fills it - 'this is for you'. Out of my head, into a film, bathing, the sound of Manhattan swirling. Drifting. Days later the odd urban square becomes a lounge, a retreat. Sitting, reading, Twilight of Love. Robert Dessaix's tale of travelling in search of Turgenev. 'Are you okay?' - a stranger. Tears are flowing, unbeknownst. For the book? For this exile in the urban square? For faraway, so close, in time, in space ...
