Thursday, January 13, 2011

The tram was about to take off but it hesitated for a final customer, a young man who must have appeared in the driver’s rear vision mirror.  This gave me enough time to catch up.  I tapped on the glass door, which had already closed, to let me in.  The door opened and I proceeded to drag myself on board.  My bags were heavy; all three of them and my legs felt leaden after my sprint to the tram stop.  I could not make myself climb the three steps and I feared the doors would close again before I had the chance to get in.  I heaved myself upwards, with every effort of my will.
           ‘Get on,’ another young man said.  He had just arrived behind me and was keen that the tram should not go without him.
           ‘Push me in,’ I said.  ‘Just push’.  I did not care how it looked.  I needed to get onto the tram.  I needed to get to the airport.  I needed to get a flight home because later that afternoon I planned to travel yet again and this time overseas.

In my dream I had visited Varuna, the Writer’s House in the Blue Mountains.  I had stayed there for a few days, long enough to visit the physiotherapist in Katoomba for my knee, and long enough to make arrangements with a barrister to deal with a legal dispute hanging over my head.  Long enough to deal with the plumber.  They were all there in the Writer’s House in the Blue Mountains where I had been staying, even though the work they were embarking upon involved activities in Melbourne, my home.

At one stage I stood in the workshop of one of my husband’s acquaintances and although I had left my husband at home in Melbourne, here he was beside me in the workshop in the Blue Mountains admiring the man’s machinery and tools.  The man had collected years of bric-a-brac around his workshop.  The shelves were full of porcelain figurines and children’s mechanical toys that beeped and wheeled when you pressed their buttons.  Toys from Japan, figurines from other lands and high up on the walls hanging on a hook, an old potty or pissoir as it might once have been called.
           ‘Those are valuable,’ I said to man.
           ‘How valuable?’
           ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They might fetch about $70.00.’  Even as I said this I realise $70.00 is not a great deal of money, especially as we were concerned about many thousands of dollars debt.  And more bills to come with the plumber and the barrister.
         I went to visit Jim Murdoch a fellow blogger who in my dream took the place of Peter Bishop from Varuna.  We chatted amiably until loud voices interrupted us.  A large group of mature age students crammed into Jim’s back yard where he and I had been talking.
        They had come for their lesson.  I had hoped to talk longer and more meaningfully but we had no time now, so I patted Jim on the arm and took my leave.
       As I walked up the hill to the main street in Katoomba across the grassy slope of a hill I noticed in its centre what looked to be a sheet of glass, which was in fact a deep pool of water that had formed overnight in the rain.
           I was not the only one amazed at this collection of water, which had seemingly developed out of nowhere overnight.  I thought of the floods elsewhere and hurried on. At the main road I saw my tram and ran to catch it.

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