hamming it up

all day on the kitchen bench where I left it the glass of water with a slice of lemon in it hurtles through a medium with which I am not yet familiar

and all night

this morning when we woke I said I’ll get in the shower and nearly said the bath

which took me back to when we lived at Edith Creek on tank water and we only had a bath with a few centimetres of water to slip around in

nice to start the day dancing on your back

some winter mornings I had to push the car to start it on the flat road past the dairy feet sliding on frost the last cows still complaining this memory so real I nearly slid back there to repeat those years and not keep hurtling through this medium with which I am not yet familiar

when I was 13 the chassis of the radio I was building bent like the wing of an angel under duress the valves were time machines, resistors the soldiers I soldered into camaraderie while the Voice of America boomed and the Voice of the Andes and various Victor Romeos their confident ham arcana crackling comfort while I turned the tuning dial

I was familiar with their sheds and basements with racks of gear and the underscoring 50 Hertz hum they talked about their kids and caravans tracked sputniks listened in to police and Yanks on military frequencies in a medium with which I’m still not familiar though I did discover Bach on three LPs and, though I thought I understood it for a while, St Matthew’s Passion

did not unlock it like I’d hoped