On the final day of the Overland Master Class, writer and Age book reviewer Lucy Sussex got us to do a (sci fi inspired) hothouse exercise where we had to write about our backyard in 50 years from now. I thought I’d share my (unedited) effort with you. Why? Dunno! Bored and feel like inflicting some pain on you I guess. Mwahaha!
I am 86. My memory comes in fits and flashes. If I took the vials, well, that would be different. But my bowels are full and blocked and black with synthetic bean curd, and the vials make it worse. But I do remember having water just for myself. Oh the indulgence of it! Now, if I stand on the back step, I can see the outline of my old lemon tree. The energy of it remains. You see, nothing can undo the memory of water. I know. My body is mostly made of the stuff, and yet, I am parched beyond what I ever dreamed I could endure. I hate these hulking black buckets that fill my tiny yard. Yes, yes, my children laugh when I call them buckets, but as a girl, when we wanted water to slop about the garden, we used a bucket. Not that my children really remember gardens. For some reason they can’t see the aura that my lemon tree has left behind. And this fills me with a deeper dread than I can say. How can the memory of water not saturate my children’s bones like it does my own?