The morning sun streams in through the un-windowed window spaces.
Its unfazed by the doubtful future of this little planet it fingers. It made a promise of care to the Earth a million millenia ago and every morning seals it with a kiss.
Love with passion, says the sun to the sink, but dont get choked up.
The sink gulps.
Im sanding those little fiddly bits of the windows Ive removed from behind the sink.
Im renovating the kitchen. Renovating is probably the wrong word. Finishing would probably be more appropriate. Youve got to take your time. I mean if I had finished the kitchen when I built it decades ago then I would probably be renovating it now. See? Ive saved myself some effort. Though the sun makes the clouds of sanded paint sparkle like toxic fairy dust, Im sad.
Theres something beautiful about maintenance and repair when the future is bright (or at least reliable). Its an act of love. (Like planting a tree then.) But it becomes poignant, even melancholy, when youre expending energy for an uncertain fate. (Like planting a tree now.)
Put it this way. Will my new retro 50s alternative kitchen be worth the effort if the world is plunged further into savagery by the greed of corporations, the stupidity of men and the violence of religion?
Will my kitchen still be able to turn out a vegie stirfry with Udon noodles and pepper cream sauce for 10 if the polar ice caps keep melting and the planet spirals into a climate change where my vegie garden turns to dust and the tap becomes as dry as a politicians kiss?
Can love exist if theres no future?
I cant do this sanding thing anymore. Whats the bloody point? I ask out loud.
The tap drops a tear. The sink deals with it. The sun dims.
You were in love with the world. You couldnt help it. She was gorgeous. So giving. You planted trees. But something went wrong. Now shes lying on her bed warming and sobbing. Wondering where the love and attention went. She wont talk to you. Not even a scribbled message under the door.
I throw the sandpaper on the floor and open a can of wood oil for my new benchtop.
I have sanded this slab of tree (that someone planted) until its true colours are revealed a glorious swirling visual symphony that lay hidden beneath a grey rough exterior. Which previously lay under the floor of a shed at the back of a local mill.
The wood almost arches its back to the stroke of the brush; the oil soaking in; the colours of the slabs private interior made splendid. Every knot and whorl is a flourish of intrinsic planetary beauty. Its a sensuous serenade to the stars. A linseed lyric of love. A calligraphic code. (Its a message!)
Even the sun cant resist, brightens, and touches the slab gently.