Eva Phillips

Christmas/Letter To Jim (Morrison)/An Indulgence

 
On a beach holiday, in the crux of my obsession, the film Giant was screened on television, and I sat,
in rapture, for its nigh on three-and-a-half hours. Quite deliberately, I fell in love with James Dean.

                                                        (I went to France)

There was a fence around him, but still I wrote a letter, and tied it to what I would like to call the
crossbeam,

                                                        (I know it is not a crossbeam).

And then, in and amongst it all, they tried to take it; I watched, I stood by a tree.

             I sat with him, I ate bread and cheese.

For a long time now, I have wanted linen, and jewels, a property with burn marks that have rushed
up the gullies, a horse that grazed on my side of the fence.
I have wanted a slaughterhouse that I am forbidden to enter, and a high-timbered kitchen hung with
roped garlic and wurst.
I want returned to me the ironbark tree with the branch that juts out and holds the swing, and the
bend in the creek where the spiders do not go, and where I might one day sit and read.
I want the chests of long white dresses I have gifted them, for I know they should now fit me.
I want James Dean in Giant, before they struck oil, and the dust that kicks up in the winter when the
rains do not come.
I want Marilla, and Charlottetown, and Gilbert Blythe running, high on vacation.
I want a war, telegrams, the sadness of the neighbours, the sadness of me (tragic).
I want leaves that fall in autumn, and reattach themselves in spring.
I want olive oil beneath sapling trees, and a length of river lined with eucalyptus, to break the wind.
I want Cal Trask to hate me, I want Aron Trask to sin.
I want dandelion weeds that sprout through the cement,
             A die,
                 A parrot,
                      A broken chair beneath the clothesline.

I want James Dean in Giant, before they struck oil, and eyes that do not see.
I have had the cemetery, eaten bread and cheese by the fence— he has eaten with me,
            and the others have watched, they have stood by a tree.

That, is what I would like, what I have had.
It is not much, (yes it is)
It is enough for me.

 

 

 

 

Eva Phillips is a student of creative writing. She has never met the editor of the Marrickville Pause, but hopes to one day. She puts photos and stories on pearlandthedreams.com

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