|I read for awhile to summon courage. Then I noticed the open weekend newspaper with the picture of a woman putting on red lipstick, and that was enough: so, the night is hot. It is summer.Not a breath of air. Crickets outside the bedroom window. There is a fear around `tiredness`, like a loved room turned cold suddenly, that seems a judgment. An execution, as if tomorrow can never be. What does one tell another ("I saw the moon just now, a thin curved line, a slit in the sky, covered by a soft watery yellow glow."), when one has the chance. Someone says "I`ll call you", and they don`t. I live by the sea. I am lucky. In my home town, a few years ago, there was a murder, it haunts me. I didn`t know any of the people involved. Still, the event happened in a landscape, of my longing almost. There`s still a missing body: `Bluey`. Bluey might be buried in the sand-dunes at Canunda, or he might be a figment of the murderer`s imagination (this was suggested at the trial). Hot nights bring out spiders. I am scared of spiders. There`s one heading across the ceiling, toward me. Driving me crazy. At this moment I don`t care about Bluey or anyone else. Life becomes so simple: fear, dread, death. I hunt it. I`m sorry. It`s still hot. It`s heat that one wants to escape from in sleep, and yet doesn`t too, incase one misses it, which one will. All my life these have been linked: heat and spiders. the murder, or the spiders on the ceiling (in the mind).This is what happened: the Woolies butcher killed a man. supposed to be the hit-man. He was supposed to do the killing, or so it seems. But there was an issue of money. And so he was killed, perhaps, in a backyard garage-pit. My mother wrote notes,I found one the other day: "Pat from next door comes in - in a disturbed state wanting to know if she should use mince bought at Woolies as she couldn`t waste $5, or should she ask for a refund.She said she makes the best meat balls in Millicent, but reckons the ones she made the other night tasted funny. Mardi, Barry`s daughter in charge of Woolies Deli, gets a phone call wanting to know if they have any Italian sausage (as victim was of Italian descent)." Anyway, the difficulty lies in writing of this. But more, it`s about landscape, about `the-where` of the event. It`s about me writing of my landscape, that which I left twenty years ago, but live with every day. It`s about conversation, about the plans/spiders in people`s heads. I forgot to say I love lipstick. And very soon the morning will come (future), and I`ll be off to the airport to collect an old friend, despite the murder (past) and the spider (present).