“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”


DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)


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15 August 2013

HAVING WATCHED MY FATHER DIE



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A piece of old Buick

i

There's a bit of canvas rag with a handle blowing around. 
It looks like a handle:
hickory and brass screws with countersunk washers. 
You couldna work out what it had been even if
you had weeks to watch it scat and drag this way and that
in the dust as the sky blows the mountain into red cloud
which flies by in no particular order and quite often comes over
many times, back and forth, back and forth,
just for purposes of irritation and an urgent desire to settle.

You can sit right back and watch
bits of shit like this blow around.

Maybe it's part of the old ragtop Buick.

ii

The mountain seems to want to make its mark.

Which is not to mention the noise. 
These big old homesteads'll shriek like banshees
as they fall to bits and draw their guts cross the ground. 
Iron and stone and dead dry wood. 
Not a pretty noise in a wind like this.

Nails.

iii

The bloke from the wash house has been standing over there
near that dry tank with his hat on.  Gotta give him his due. 
Slept on the wash house floor with his hat on for at least a year
after the tap dried up.  Now he stands over there
in the dust beside the dried out tank, holding his hat
on like that with his other hand in his pocket.

iv

That Sylvie's been no good
since the Rawleigh's traveller bloke perished in the gully.

Her supply of vanilla ran out. 

Loved her vanilla essence, our Sylvia.



Philip White
14 Aug 13





Me at Dad's grave ... for Sylvia's eulogy click here ... photo by Mick Wordley

photo by Annie S Boutrieng


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