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These might not be true but as far as I can tell:
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We went up to Tignes today, which is 2400 meters above sea level. We caught a gondola type ski lift this time which took us up to 2700 meters. All around us mountains which were 2000 meters above that. It had rained in the morning and the clouds were still there and we didn't see all the peaks. We saw marmots! We took lots of photos of marmots in the mountain rocks. Marmots look just like mountain rocks. You can't see the marmots in the photos of marmots we took, you can only see rocks. Later we went to a swimming pool in the village. It had excellent views and a tog spinner to dry your togs. 
   The best shirt
(from Tree Space, Victoria University Press, 2014) The best shirt I ever owned was polyester, green and cream stripes, with a wide collar. Green trees on the cream stripes, cream trees on the green. The best shirt I ever owned I found in a one-day basement market in Brixton, the clothes piled on trestle tables like food. It was a whole pound and I thought about it for quite a few minutes holding it to the light that streamed down onto us, holding the cuffs to my wrists, fearful of extravagance, until some interesting young man said, that’s a good shirt, I’ll buy it if you don’t, and I realised then that I would wrestle to the ground anyone who tried to claim the best shirt I’d ever own. I see from photos I wore it with Cath and Bec and everyone the night before Lady Di died, the night Fi and I decided to go to Switzerland, but later changed our minds and went to Italy. I wore it there too, in the piazza of Siena with a green crocheted beret and imagined the applause of horses. I’m the kind of person who has to think my way to emotions and figures out later the joy of all the right things arriving at the right time. Because I’m always losing and finding things, I never grieve about them, never dream it is the last loss, like I never think this is the last time it will mean something and all the next times will be full only of yearning. I don’t know the last time I wore the shirt. Perhaps I forgot and gave it away. I know how the fabric stretched across my chest and one of the cuffs had lost a button and I was in the city but something of rotting logs and small brilliant fungi hung about. |
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