Sheep Hills

So much to do and so little to do. Visiting Homer in the Wimmera. I slept in the library and felt my subconscious absorb the titles surrounding me. Upon waking I picked up the book Dali by Dali. Later, in the heat of the afternoon, I picked up a book on Ted Hughes, turning the pages until I could find the evidence that confirmed my unertain knowledge of his connection with Sylvia Plath. I keep thinking about my brain being filled with tiny points of light that are slowly connecting up; the connections need to be constantly reinforced and remembered. I find myself so often saying, "I haven't been there for years..." or "I haven't watched that for years..." And I wonder what am I doing with my years? I must be connecting up new pinpricks of light; I see now that it would be tiring to forever go over the old ones. 

My friend Ruby and I went to visit Sheep Hills cemetery, a few kilometres away from the town of the same name that consists of a couple of residential properties and some silos. Little else. I hadn't been there for almost four years. Last time  I had come on my own in the Autumn or Winter. I wanted solitude. I remember the silence and looking out to the flat landscape. That day the clouds were like a grey quilted pattern; they rolled on and on covering the sky. I used to drive around a lot more in my earlier visits to the Wimmera. This recent visit reminded me of the space. Nowhere else have I experienced such an expanse of sky.