Ecotone

So this is my first of hopefully many little letters to you penned in yr absence but with dear thought and embrace as if I could reach through space and time and shake you up. I said 'hopefully' but obviously I'd prefer to not be writing such letters  at all now that it’s too late for the post to ever reach you. Or maybe it does. We don't know. Maybe you’re reading this over my shoulder, but maybe not on this occasion as I'm writing this sitting on the toilet, a place where I do much of my best work.

7.29am and feeling pretty good despite self. It’s an overcast morning, the kind which you loved. There’s a fragrance in the air (Not in here but out there) not quite damp--but moisture in it, post-rain freshness…an optimism. That I'm still alive and you might well be. There has just been some sort of colossal misunderstanding.

(When staring out my Shoreditch window, not knowing what had happened --I knew enough to know that life would never be the same...so I paused for some time to reflect in the ecotone between the past and the future that awaited).

9.46am and I'm back again thinking of the Masters Ice Coffees and Coffee Chill highs. Mornings in Subiaco on Hensman road when West Australian iced coffee (The best in the country BTW) and cricket were all that really mattered to us...maybe a smoke or two and Southern Cross cricket game if the mood prevailed. That giddy laxative feeling in the stomach -- post Iced coffeed metabolic spike. Had one just now and thought of you old friend with my same old percolating stomach, adrenalised need to shit. Not pretty for you like writing about flowers and philosophy, (No flower like that flower what knew itself), but true daily true like showers (Dirty/clean) and dishes (That needed doing).

PS - My apologies but that’s all I wrote before this day ended