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Letter to Lewis 8/6/10

Hello, beautiful.

How's Turkey? I don't have a good imaginative handle on it. I imagine dusty streets, and smooth-skinned men with black goatees tending canopied market stalls full of colourful tiles and relics and rugs. How far off am I? Many miles, I expect.

I can imagine your Mum with more confidence, and I like imagining her. I can imagine she makes the place her own more readily there than in Korea. I don't know why I think that. What is it like for you, to meet her in this different context? Does it change the mode of your relating, at all?
Will you give her my love and tell her I went and bought a mandolin after reading her beautiful letter?

I wonder, too, whether you will manage to resist the gorgeous temptation of all those carpets... I hope and suspect that you won't! Mum couldn't, and although the whole thing was a bit of a hassle, she takes pleasure in the rightness, romance and memory of those long, blood-red runners in the hall, each day. I believe she even showed them off to you, when you first met - is that right?

I would love to see Turkey, some day. I hope you are loving it. It really makes me happy to think of you there. There, and all these places you've been writing about. I feel calmer thinking of you wandering strange towns - with your boy, in your hats, with your supplies of unintelligible foreign packets - than I do when I think of you safe in your office in a shirt and tie.... Hmmm. Yes, sounds just like a reflection of my biases, doesn't it? But I feel it, too. Does this visit make you want to travel for longer in Europe? Rent a house somewhere exotic for a few months, write and play and take photos and drink wine in the sun with eccentric locals, take weekend trips to new countries, hire bikes, boats, cars... Hmmmm.... For THAT sort of adventure you need a lover. ;)

Time is running out, now, isn't it? It seems to have passed very quickly... Since your emails started coming through, that is! You mentioned a photo you sent of the view of the sea from the plane, is that right? It didn't come through, for some reason. I look forward to seeing it, when you come home.

It's a blue, blue day, today, chilly but sunny. I walked Frannie's dog with my aunt, this afternoon, and there was a rainbow. Rainbows will never again appear without our thinking of Frannie, now. That's quite a nice thought to have.

I'm very much looking forward to seeing you. But a part of me is sorry at the prospect of ending our second email correspondence. I like us in writing. I like us in person, too - more, mostly - except that in person we seem always to be barrelling towards some dénouement, never still, rarely able to exist as ourselves in the given moment. Ironically, in writing, traveling different courses at our different paces and under different skies, the 'us' of us is still. Alive, but refreshingly not kicking!

Perhaps this is our secret. We are destined to be lovers across town, lovers across the globe....

.... Well, bollocks to that, I say.

Jessie and I have just finished watching an episode of Boston Legal on DVD. I always begin by wondering why I bother with this crass show, and in the space of one episode am caught in its quirky, clever and unexpectedly humane spell again.

And, oh, we ate well, tonight, too. A new invention (born of the usual proverbial parent): Quinotto! Which is what risotto becomes when it comes time to add the arborio rice and Moss opens the pantry to find only quinoa!
Could have been a disaster, so the gods must take some credit on account of their mercy. But I followed a hunch that it would work, and used my instincts (fine-tuned as they are) as to the pace of the cooking and the receptiveness of the grain. Mmmmm-mm. It was seriously good, the onions caramelised themselves in the process, my half-half of red and white grains combined with a beetroot-heavy stock gave it a wonderful hue, and then I topped it with my trademark shiitakes and buttery spinach and - yessiree - goats' cheese.

Can you tell I'm trying to lure you back from Istanbul?

Tomorrow I have the day open for studio time. I really need to use it well. I have some slowly escalating jitters, doubts about the collection, and time is running short, again... But these are the times when I am most purposeful, most assured that the space I inhabit on the planet is not wasted on me, even when I'm struggling. It's a struggle born of longing, an intuition of some glorious possibility; a struggle towards, and not away.

That said, a less lofty longing that also compels me is the thought of a well-earned rest. I still don't feel I've earned it, but if the show is to come together by its scheduled date, well, by golly, I will have earned it by then!

Added to this are the peculiar and unexpected pressures this year has brought with it. The longing for rest was sown earlier and far deeper than usual, this time, and the promise of time to simply be, to find some kind of equilibrium again, is wonderful.

So, with that I'll bid you goodnight, reach my hand up through the chill air to the light switch, wriggle deeper into my doona and wrap myself around my fading heat pack. Miss you.

Moss
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Letter to Lewis

Hello, my little love.

I am on the tram on my way to the op shop, for the start of another long Wednesday.

My afternoon in the studio went well, and I wish I could be in there today. The collection is looking good, I think, and full of interest (I hope!). But I still feel I have a lot to do. Some clincher, something that really brings it all together. What struck me in my uncle's work the other night was a sort of internal glow and a near-magical surface energy afforded by a shimmer of tiny silver lines across blackest-black ground. I'm still struggling with my blacks. I could have them easily with soft pastel, but I'm determined to achieve them with ink. I don't know why. I query it often in myself - I don't think it's mere stubbornness. But it's nonetheless important that the quality of my drawings does not suffer because of it.

Anyway. I am used to my uncle's surface magic. He has perfected it over decades. But this drawing, a small female head, untypically intimate, caught as though in motion, was devastatingly beautiful. It's the first drawing of my uncle's that I've strongly wanted to own. And my own drawing has such a long way to go!
Tomorrow, his latest show opens.
I am hoping that the confrontation with the rest of his collection doesn't dismay me too much!

That said, I was pleased to find, on returning to the studio yesterday, that my work still looks good. And I actually appreciate the gentle kick in the pants as far as craftsmanship goes. Finer, more careful, more beautiful. This collection is more symbolic than previous shows of mine, and I need to be careful that that doesn't dominate. Symbolism only goes so far. Beauty goes everywhere.

And what of you and your work? I can imagine the situation is quite alarming. Are you worried, frightened?

I have to confess that, being the romantic that I am, I felt a real thrill for you when I read that you might be getting 'the boot'. Imagine! The freedom! Suddenly everything is possible. And to learn this while at large, in Paris, experiencing the enormous, sprawling generosity of the world! Is there any part of you that thrills, too, or does the mortgage weigh heavily, even on a train that flies along through Europe like a shufflepuck?

I am now at Journal Cafe, with a class ahead of me that I have been creating in my head all day. I'm unusually nervous. I don't often feel this way, anymore.

I wish, dear, fickle man of terrors - on whose shifting mind I know not how my words fall - I wish that my night had you at the end of it.

You and your anxious energy, you and your chiminea sending sparks into the night, you and your strong arms, you and your soft mouth, you and your thoughts, you and your boy body and rumpled bed.

There.

No use in my pretending or justifying or second-guessing. That's how it is tonight: I miss you and my long body longs for you.

LATER:
Home now. I taught the class with gusto, humour and emphatic authority - the only chance I had at keeping their attention through a class on linear perspective. I don't always manage to sustain that bravado but I did tonight, and I felt wonderful.

On that note, faraway boy, goodnight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (since you used up the last lot in one go)

To bed now goes your sleepy, warm and tingling girl, sending her love through the night to your daytime...

M.

Love from the Thick of It

12.5.10
Hey there, my favourite New Yorker.
How is it all going? Don't spare me: I want the goss: the course, the unavailable Brooklyn babe, any other crushes and conquests, any philosophical moments or shining Springtime revelations, walks, new City discoveries.... Tell me. Your best friend misses you.

A cute thing: Jessie confessed the other day that she has several times caught herself marvelling at how well your flowers have kept, given that they came all the way from New York. ;) Love her.

Frannie's funeral was yesterday. It had been delayed by the grim wait for her autopsy, quarantine clearance, and repatriation. The notion of her perfect, smooth olive body being cut open is a horror that has only been acknowledged between us with wordless widening of the eyes and contractions of the brow. I don't doubt that it has dwelt painfully in everyone's mind as it did in mine. She took almost two weeks to come home.

14.5.10
The funeral was a very big affair. There were some 800 mourners and supporters in attendance, packing the church and its hall as well.

Although Frannie's death was central to the occasion, it remained often an elusive concept, descending on the mind in its fulness only fleetingly, and only a small handful of times. This phenomenon has fascinated me (along with the fact that, in this terrible time, curiosity and fascination have not abandoned me). I have probably talked too often of it to people, partly out of my own amazement, and partly by way of explanation for my ability, still, to function almost normally. It is as if one is permitted a tiny dose of grief each day, which takes hold and plays out according to its moment and one's strength in that moment, and then it is gone completely. Sometimes I even wish to recall it. Sometimes an uncontrollable passion of tears brings such a feeling of release that I seek to dwell in the undiluted knowledge of what has happened for a little longer, but it is as though a door has closed and I simply cannot access that pain by the same means as before. I must wait for a new combination of stimuli: a new formulation of the facts to cut me afresh.
I realise this is how such a thing can be endured, and I try to accept and be patient with the natural, protective rhythm of my brain. Perhaps, by this regime of small cuts and low doses, I will gradually build a tolerance to the pain of what has happened.

So, the funeral was like that. 800 people taking their pain in small doses and at different moments throughout the day. It isn't just a defensive mechanism of the individual, either. It plays out collectively, too. There is never a moment where everyone suffers intolerably at once. There is always a stronger party to hold up the ones who are momentarily stripped of their own resources.

I don't know how anyone could do this alone. I have never in my life been so consciously grateful for the loving strength of our family.

We are taking it in turns to be with Frannie's immediate family. Jessie is staying there tonight, and I am staying tomorrow night. Mum has been down most of the week, only returning this weekend to look after her mum, as she does every weekend.

Nanna Moss has not been told of the death of her granddaughter. It has been an ongoing dilemma, and I feel quite strongly that she should be told... But I think there is sense in the decision not to tell her at this time, when it may destabilize her enough to double the already extreme burden of care for her children to bear.

It is a sad but convenient probability that although Nanna Moss would recall Francesca's name and person immediately were she to walk into the room, the deterioration of her memory is such that she might never notice her absence.

Life in all its richness and complexity is laid bare at this time, and it is, while difficult, so interesting.

In my confidence that your life is going along as richly as it was when we last spoke, I hope with all my heart that you are blessed with a similar clarity and acuteness in your perception of your world right now. It does me good to think of you boldly living out your long-held dream and being surprised by all the details you could never have imagined accurately, and reassured by those you did.

Do write and tell me, when you have some time.

I miss you all the time, but I am so very glad you are in New York, which feels to me also like a treasured friend. I trust you are looking after each other.

I'll write again soon and tell you more about this very absorbing, draining, enriching, sad time.

With my love in a big hug -
Moss xxxxx