Lydia Schofield Whenever I consider calling it curtains on this place and disappearing into the country, bright pieces of here pop up and persuade me to stay. The ping of a tram through thick stone walls. A bike zipping past with a smiling kid on the back. Someone dancing down Swanston Street, hardly aware of their movements. Graffiti on the Redmond Barry statue, on any statue of a dead colonial man. A street library, the state library, a local library to hold me while the rain passes. Anywhere in this city that lets me sit for a moment, out of the cold winds or thick heat, without having to pay for my place there. The way the rain sometimes falls so softly you can see each drop lit up by the evening light. The chimes of St Paul’s bells as I walk to the gallery. The din of a protest as I head towards La Trobe Street. Singers outside the Arts Centre, no matter how out of tune. Glimpses of strangers’ lives as they bustle past me. Snatches of conversation. I am wide-eyed in this city. A tourist in the place I was born. There is so much to see here and sometimes I think I’m the only one looking. I wander around with hands itching to take notes and duck into doorways to scribble them down. I wonder what you would make of me; this watcher, this starer, this uncertain guest. Every other day, I am caught eavesdropping and every other day I want to tell you everything I overheard. Everything I saw. Everywhere I went in the hours we were apart. I want to bring you to all these places that spark my mind into motion. I want to show you all the reasons I will stay here all my life. There are few things that could push me away from here, really. I was only being dramatic about calling it curtains. But if you ever flee this city – my beloved rain-soaked streets – I hope you know I’ll be right behind you, no matter how much it hurts to turn away.
C a l l i n g
i t
C u r t a i n s
Kate Kee
nan
CURTAIN CALL
21
c.