So Im not the only one. I get it. But always attributed the dissolution of my family to the series of deaths that occurred - my grandfather and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the death of my brother and then my Grandmother in the same year. Without the hieracical portion of my family, the family seemed to fall away, like the branches of the trees without the trunk.
Ive lloked at these things with precision. Ive prodded and poked from my side of the magnifying glass. Ive spent thousands of dollars on therapy and hours on analysis and pondeerment. It was a natural assumption - that all that death would take its toll on what was otherwise a pleasant and casual comradery. Death was easy to blame
Years of therapy have taught me that the sudden and unexpected death of a sibling causes tsunami of emotions, a few extra wrinkles and grey hairs.
October 1, 2010
September 19, 2010
Big ideas
I have big ideas. Always have.
In year 6, when I was 10 years old, I got it into my head to design a machine which recycled paper - in one end, out the other ready to go. It was ambitious but important to me as I was coming to terms (as the rest of the world seemed to be) with the in the environmental demise of the planet and man's role in it.
It looked a lot like a big photocopier but had odd handles, leavers and a funnel for adding the water necessary to make the pulp. My 10 year old mind obviously had considered the dangers of mixing water with electricity, so the whole thing was designed to be manual. It was more environmentally friendly that way anyway.
Eventually, in the blueprint, the machine got so big and un-doable that the drafts fell by the wayside to create the beginning of the "ah - thats never going to happen" pile of big ideas.
Vege patches, perfumery, countless cubby houses even a social action envirnomentalist group called "the greenies" I put together with teacher approval but without their support, again when I was merely 10.
With great gusto and optimism, my imagination would create worlds within worlds of what I saw "should be" but without the advantage of being able to create mature or well thought out ideas in the planning and development stage. Without information, experience, eductaion or support, my gigantic 10 year old dreams floundered and eventually the gusto fizzled, withered and mutated into "dont bother - its not going to happen."
And it still creeps into my life today - the "dont bother" attitude. It sits on my shoulder and says its piece now and again, fueling my aleady inflated sence of self doubt. But Im learning to keep it in its place.
And then it mutated. When the environmental group withered and died (not after planting some trees and starting a can recycling deposit) I decided that what I thought actually didnt matter so much. that trying to save the planet on my own just simply wasnt going to happen (ie dont bother etc etc etc)... and what I had to say on the subject isnt going to make a difference...
But, you know... I am remembering n this moment that I did speak up. I attended environmentalist group meetings at the highschool, went on camps to learn about permaculture and sustainability, planted trees, studied Biology... but then what happened? Puberty? Boys? Music?
TBC
In year 6, when I was 10 years old, I got it into my head to design a machine which recycled paper - in one end, out the other ready to go. It was ambitious but important to me as I was coming to terms (as the rest of the world seemed to be) with the in the environmental demise of the planet and man's role in it.
It looked a lot like a big photocopier but had odd handles, leavers and a funnel for adding the water necessary to make the pulp. My 10 year old mind obviously had considered the dangers of mixing water with electricity, so the whole thing was designed to be manual. It was more environmentally friendly that way anyway.
Eventually, in the blueprint, the machine got so big and un-doable that the drafts fell by the wayside to create the beginning of the "ah - thats never going to happen" pile of big ideas.
Vege patches, perfumery, countless cubby houses even a social action envirnomentalist group called "the greenies" I put together with teacher approval but without their support, again when I was merely 10.
With great gusto and optimism, my imagination would create worlds within worlds of what I saw "should be" but without the advantage of being able to create mature or well thought out ideas in the planning and development stage. Without information, experience, eductaion or support, my gigantic 10 year old dreams floundered and eventually the gusto fizzled, withered and mutated into "dont bother - its not going to happen."
And it still creeps into my life today - the "dont bother" attitude. It sits on my shoulder and says its piece now and again, fueling my aleady inflated sence of self doubt. But Im learning to keep it in its place.
And then it mutated. When the environmental group withered and died (not after planting some trees and starting a can recycling deposit) I decided that what I thought actually didnt matter so much. that trying to save the planet on my own just simply wasnt going to happen (ie dont bother etc etc etc)... and what I had to say on the subject isnt going to make a difference...
But, you know... I am remembering n this moment that I did speak up. I attended environmentalist group meetings at the highschool, went on camps to learn about permaculture and sustainability, planted trees, studied Biology... but then what happened? Puberty? Boys? Music?
TBC
September 13, 2010
...
I wish I could be someone else,
my shadow, my scar reminds me...
A sequence of sounds that
have no meaning
the words dont fit
and tell me nothing
all but that there was something else
there
once.
A picture, a photo
surely some other sized shoe,
fragments of rememberances,
I was like that - really?
A faint scent of something familiar
old sock drawer, mother's perfume,
strawberry scented school erasers
sweaty smell of the roller rink,
bruises and bitches,
little girl britches.
Fingerprints of my past
my memory an empty vase
now marked in chinks and flaws
but empty none the less.
an empty castle of locked doors.
My knowing calls like an old friend
12 missed messages
when will we catch up again?
I look for you in the sun lit field,
by the lake, by the water wheel.
Where are you old once-was-me?
we need a re-membering
and comforting against life's winds.
my hands age the fastest
my neck line too
days pass too quickly
and Ive still so much to do
but the re-membering is vital
to the youth of my heart and soul
to know thyself is thy power
and wisdom when I grow old.
my shadow, my scar reminds me...
A sequence of sounds that
have no meaning
the words dont fit
and tell me nothing
all but that there was something else
there
once.
A picture, a photo
surely some other sized shoe,
fragments of rememberances,
I was like that - really?
A faint scent of something familiar
old sock drawer, mother's perfume,
strawberry scented school erasers
sweaty smell of the roller rink,
bruises and bitches,
little girl britches.
Fingerprints of my past
my memory an empty vase
now marked in chinks and flaws
but empty none the less.
an empty castle of locked doors.
My knowing calls like an old friend
12 missed messages
when will we catch up again?
I look for you in the sun lit field,
by the lake, by the water wheel.
Where are you old once-was-me?
we need a re-membering
and comforting against life's winds.
my hands age the fastest
my neck line too
days pass too quickly
and Ive still so much to do
but the re-membering is vital
to the youth of my heart and soul
to know thyself is thy power
and wisdom when I grow old.
Be Drunken
Be Drunken, always.
That is the point; nothing else matters.
If you would not feel the horrible burden of time weigh you down and crush you to the earth, be drunken continually. Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please.
But be drunken. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, or on the green grass in a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and find the drunkenness half or entirely gone, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that flies, of all that speaks, ask what hour it is; and wind, wave, star, bird, or clock will answer you: "It is the hour to be drunken!"
Be Drunken, if you would not be the martyred slaves of time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please...
-Charles Baudelaire
That is the point; nothing else matters.
If you would not feel the horrible burden of time weigh you down and crush you to the earth, be drunken continually. Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please.
But be drunken. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, or on the green grass in a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and find the drunkenness half or entirely gone, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that flies, of all that speaks, ask what hour it is; and wind, wave, star, bird, or clock will answer you: "It is the hour to be drunken!"
Be Drunken, if you would not be the martyred slaves of time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please...
-Charles Baudelaire
September 11, 2010
La Zia and the case of the Giant Crap
Im sure its normal. Im sure it happens to everyone.
But today, it happened to me and that makes a biiiig difference.
I always get really nervous when Im babysitting, especially when its the daughter or son of someone I know. It seems that as you get older, people just assume that with an increase in maternity desire and waist girth comes this natural instinct, like all of a sudden you're a walking How To on child raising. You're old enough, you must know.
Well I don't and getting nervous just makes me feel ignorant and somewhat adolescent. Im not the girl next door, or down the road. You're not paying me to deal with tantrums, vomit and poop. And I didn't have to deal with any of that anyway. Oh, except the vomit - but that's another story.
Wiping another person's butt is bound to take some getting used to. Yes I know she's only two, but still... Fathers and Mothers in chorus now: "How can something so small produce so much sh*t?". Holy cow. As far as percentage of body weight goes - it is very impressive.
Andrea's niece is two. She's being toilet trained. This afternoon she was left in the hands of "the capable but somewhat terrified aunt" and "bis-nonno" her 86 year old great-grandfather. So when I saw her little brown friends pushing out of the sides of her new Hello Kitty knickers I knew it was going to be baptism by fire.
My first thought was "How the hell do you say 'Have you done a poo' in Italian?", but no time for that and what came out was "ahhhhhhhh crap!". I lifted her to her feet and she screamed so I let her walk to the toilet, following behind to watch for Hansel and Gretel style droppings. Got there without a trace. Phew!
Dacks to the floor and lift her to the seat. Mistake. In my panic I didnt notice that one side of her poop filled Hello Kitty knickers is still attached to her Hello Kitty sandals and before I can say anything, she's given her foot an almighty flick sending poop around the bathroom and on the back of her legs.
Fighting the urge to duck and cover, I plop her back down and look at her in astonishment. What the hell do I do now? She looks at me with those grey eyes and beams an intergalactic grin, pointing to the toilet paper. "Thats a bloody good idea" I think and grab a handful dabbing the walls. But as I do, she screams. I scoop up what I can and go to dispose of the ikkies in the loo, but that would mean lifting her. She's volatile - I know that much.
Ok. Im stressed out by this stage. I do something dumb. I give her the loaded paper and illustrate by mimic what to do with it: "Down there! Down there! I say". But no - the little sh*t, with sh*t in hand unravels the paper in one fell swoop, flicking it around the room again. Ive had enough. I grab it from her, do a quick clean and shove it down the loo. She screams - full tantrum this time pissing into the bottom of her unpinned jumpsuit. I pick her up by the armpits and we're face to face. She stops crying and points at my tattoo below my armpit. She stops wailing.
Eureka - DISTRACTION. She says sweetly "what is that?" in Italian. Somehow I understand it and answer "E una stampa" which means "it's a copy". Not correct but its the best I can do. Something kicks in. "Let's flush the toilet. You do it! Vai! vai!", "Come on! Let's wash your hands! Brava! Brava!". And while she's bent over the bidet (which works quite nicely as a child's basin, when the adults aren't using it), La Zia goes to work on her back end... and the backs of her legs... and the bits missed on the floor and walls.
Looking back in control now, Nonna arrives. "She's all yours Nonna" but she is now content - pantless, soggy and half a kilo lighter, playing with soap and chatting with herself quietly.
And there's no way in hell I'm going to try stopping her.
F
x
But today, it happened to me and that makes a biiiig difference.
I always get really nervous when Im babysitting, especially when its the daughter or son of someone I know. It seems that as you get older, people just assume that with an increase in maternity desire and waist girth comes this natural instinct, like all of a sudden you're a walking How To on child raising. You're old enough, you must know.
Well I don't and getting nervous just makes me feel ignorant and somewhat adolescent. Im not the girl next door, or down the road. You're not paying me to deal with tantrums, vomit and poop. And I didn't have to deal with any of that anyway. Oh, except the vomit - but that's another story.
Wiping another person's butt is bound to take some getting used to. Yes I know she's only two, but still... Fathers and Mothers in chorus now: "How can something so small produce so much sh*t?". Holy cow. As far as percentage of body weight goes - it is very impressive.
Andrea's niece is two. She's being toilet trained. This afternoon she was left in the hands of "the capable but somewhat terrified aunt" and "bis-nonno" her 86 year old great-grandfather. So when I saw her little brown friends pushing out of the sides of her new Hello Kitty knickers I knew it was going to be baptism by fire.
My first thought was "How the hell do you say 'Have you done a poo' in Italian?", but no time for that and what came out was "ahhhhhhhh crap!". I lifted her to her feet and she screamed so I let her walk to the toilet, following behind to watch for Hansel and Gretel style droppings. Got there without a trace. Phew!
Dacks to the floor and lift her to the seat. Mistake. In my panic I didnt notice that one side of her poop filled Hello Kitty knickers is still attached to her Hello Kitty sandals and before I can say anything, she's given her foot an almighty flick sending poop around the bathroom and on the back of her legs.
Fighting the urge to duck and cover, I plop her back down and look at her in astonishment. What the hell do I do now? She looks at me with those grey eyes and beams an intergalactic grin, pointing to the toilet paper. "Thats a bloody good idea" I think and grab a handful dabbing the walls. But as I do, she screams. I scoop up what I can and go to dispose of the ikkies in the loo, but that would mean lifting her. She's volatile - I know that much.
Ok. Im stressed out by this stage. I do something dumb. I give her the loaded paper and illustrate by mimic what to do with it: "Down there! Down there! I say". But no - the little sh*t, with sh*t in hand unravels the paper in one fell swoop, flicking it around the room again. Ive had enough. I grab it from her, do a quick clean and shove it down the loo. She screams - full tantrum this time pissing into the bottom of her unpinned jumpsuit. I pick her up by the armpits and we're face to face. She stops crying and points at my tattoo below my armpit. She stops wailing.
Eureka - DISTRACTION. She says sweetly "what is that?" in Italian. Somehow I understand it and answer "E una stampa" which means "it's a copy". Not correct but its the best I can do. Something kicks in. "Let's flush the toilet. You do it! Vai! vai!", "Come on! Let's wash your hands! Brava! Brava!". And while she's bent over the bidet (which works quite nicely as a child's basin, when the adults aren't using it), La Zia goes to work on her back end... and the backs of her legs... and the bits missed on the floor and walls.
Looking back in control now, Nonna arrives. "She's all yours Nonna" but she is now content - pantless, soggy and half a kilo lighter, playing with soap and chatting with herself quietly.
And there's no way in hell I'm going to try stopping her.
F
x
September 10, 2010
September 7, 2010
the slide...
Ubud 22nd March
I feel like a five year old standing at the top of a giant, enclosed and curly water slide out of some kids super water playground.
Clinging to the bars, watching the bigger, more experienced kids throw themselves into the unknown - its mesmerizing and terrifying. You know there will be moments where you slide too high and land on your ass, you know there will be dips and turns, you know you don't know whats coming - whats around the next bend.
But you know that if you don't just leap, you will never know what happens and where you end up. And by the time you're half way down you'll probably get the hang of not knowing and just go with the ride. Let go of control, of expectation and live moment to moment - and try not to choke on the water or come out bleeding.
I am still coming around the first bend, a few emotional bumps and scratches but holding on for the calm to come. Winding down, winding down. I didn't realise I was so tense!
And let's face it, there's no better place to be than where I am, right ...now.
I feel like a five year old standing at the top of a giant, enclosed and curly water slide out of some kids super water playground.
Clinging to the bars, watching the bigger, more experienced kids throw themselves into the unknown - its mesmerizing and terrifying. You know there will be moments where you slide too high and land on your ass, you know there will be dips and turns, you know you don't know whats coming - whats around the next bend.
But you know that if you don't just leap, you will never know what happens and where you end up. And by the time you're half way down you'll probably get the hang of not knowing and just go with the ride. Let go of control, of expectation and live moment to moment - and try not to choke on the water or come out bleeding.
I am still coming around the first bend, a few emotional bumps and scratches but holding on for the calm to come. Winding down, winding down. I didn't realise I was so tense!
And let's face it, there's no better place to be than where I am, right ...now.
September 1, 2010
Act
I used to refuse to list myself, to label and identify - so that you may "know me" as 'that'.
I shunned the thought that the nature of 'self' came from labels - job/career, education level and institution, family position, hobby.
It's much like those certain types who might say "Oooooh you're a Capricorn - well THAT explains EVEYTHING" - and you just want to punch them in the ear.
But what I have come to see is that, who I am is more about what I do than anything.
The action itself, the performance of the action by the human body and the nature with which it is done... THAT is what defines me. And therefore, I am defined and redefined in every moment.
The exchange of energy from universal to mental to physical to kinetic - transferrable between nonmaterial and material things. Action and reaction. Universal energy in the material world with our minds and bodies as conduit. What an incredible thought.
Intention without action is a wasted energy and words without action are merely words. A most powerful love can come from the committment to build a house, or to work 12 hour days to pay for education - perhaps THIS is where the substance is? Perhaps THIS is stronger than any poem or promise or doing the dishes now and again.
So is the action of love is greater than the word? The intention is perhaps eveything. Action is vital. It seems to me that to create the intention, state your word, follow your word and take your word into action with intention as the fire to drive - this is something powerful.
Words are addictive. To hear the love song that sends your heart a flutter. To hear the passionate utterances of lust - these are all the cake of meaning. Sweet to taste but will rot your teeth in the end. Dealings with my own addictions, but it seems I have strong teachers who live in action, who know that love is action.
I am sorry for every broken promise. For every vocalised intention which was never acted upon and was left floating in that almighty bog of uncertainty. I am grateful to be learning to see that the intention behind every action, is love. And I will endeavour to live my life, loving through action instead of words. That is who I want to know myself as - a woman of my word and loving intention.
And who I am seeing, is a wordsmith who can bedazzle but finds it difficult to act.
Lucky I have time.
I shunned the thought that the nature of 'self' came from labels - job/career, education level and institution, family position, hobby.
It's much like those certain types who might say "Oooooh you're a Capricorn - well THAT explains EVEYTHING" - and you just want to punch them in the ear.
But what I have come to see is that, who I am is more about what I do than anything.
The action itself, the performance of the action by the human body and the nature with which it is done... THAT is what defines me. And therefore, I am defined and redefined in every moment.
The exchange of energy from universal to mental to physical to kinetic - transferrable between nonmaterial and material things. Action and reaction. Universal energy in the material world with our minds and bodies as conduit. What an incredible thought.
Intention without action is a wasted energy and words without action are merely words. A most powerful love can come from the committment to build a house, or to work 12 hour days to pay for education - perhaps THIS is where the substance is? Perhaps THIS is stronger than any poem or promise or doing the dishes now and again.
So is the action of love is greater than the word? The intention is perhaps eveything. Action is vital. It seems to me that to create the intention, state your word, follow your word and take your word into action with intention as the fire to drive - this is something powerful.
Words are addictive. To hear the love song that sends your heart a flutter. To hear the passionate utterances of lust - these are all the cake of meaning. Sweet to taste but will rot your teeth in the end. Dealings with my own addictions, but it seems I have strong teachers who live in action, who know that love is action.
I am sorry for every broken promise. For every vocalised intention which was never acted upon and was left floating in that almighty bog of uncertainty. I am grateful to be learning to see that the intention behind every action, is love. And I will endeavour to live my life, loving through action instead of words. That is who I want to know myself as - a woman of my word and loving intention.
And who I am seeing, is a wordsmith who can bedazzle but finds it difficult to act.
Lucky I have time.
August 29, 2010
August 28, 2010
That Soft Place
In the cleft of skin at the back of her neck, 
the old woman tucked her finger where it was warm and soft.
Pensive, she thought, the box of tools and
rules of life are found inside a single shell,
on the shelf in an empty apartment somewhere else.
Tearful and fearful fat drops of dreary dreams
tumbled and rumbled down the kitchen glass mostly empty,
as she sat frightfully alone in amidst the hustle and bustle
of ancient and fierce family love.
Without a thought the chair it sank
and the britches of greying lace from the lady's skirt lift her
upward and floating high she could smell the ocean in her mind and
breathe the scent of mouldy damp forest undergrowth.
But the language pulled her back and with a thud she fell and
at once felt again ancient.
The frond and strands of confusion and frustration
tangling around her weary heart and fretting her mind
within its cranial cage.
"How do I get out of this mess?"
Again to find the soft fold beneath the line of her braided hair.
It is subtle, like suckling a nipple or being rocked
into the endless sleep she craved.
Her lips, mounds of flesh and rippled blood,
not parted for such a time as they begin to meld and
fold into one another.
"Will I ever speak again?"
Like blocking the exhaust to a fierce fire inside,
but now, without the air to breathe the fire dwindles
inside her and she fades.
Her colours are dim, the face she knew, pallid and drawn.
Storing emotion in pockets of fat and flesh
where no one sees, but everyone notices.
And thus, she waits and smokes
and prays to an angry god, her god, her self and
watches the clock tick its second hand away.
Life shouldnt be this way.
the old woman tucked her finger where it was warm and soft.
Pensive, she thought, the box of tools and
rules of life are found inside a single shell,
on the shelf in an empty apartment somewhere else.
Tearful and fearful fat drops of dreary dreams
tumbled and rumbled down the kitchen glass mostly empty,
as she sat frightfully alone in amidst the hustle and bustle
of ancient and fierce family love.
Without a thought the chair it sank
and the britches of greying lace from the lady's skirt lift her
upward and floating high she could smell the ocean in her mind and
breathe the scent of mouldy damp forest undergrowth.
But the language pulled her back and with a thud she fell and
at once felt again ancient.
The frond and strands of confusion and frustration
tangling around her weary heart and fretting her mind
within its cranial cage.
"How do I get out of this mess?"
Again to find the soft fold beneath the line of her braided hair.
It is subtle, like suckling a nipple or being rocked
into the endless sleep she craved.
Her lips, mounds of flesh and rippled blood,
not parted for such a time as they begin to meld and
fold into one another.
"Will I ever speak again?"
Like blocking the exhaust to a fierce fire inside,
but now, without the air to breathe the fire dwindles
inside her and she fades.
Her colours are dim, the face she knew, pallid and drawn.
Storing emotion in pockets of fat and flesh
where no one sees, but everyone notices.
And thus, she waits and smokes
and prays to an angry god, her god, her self and
watches the clock tick its second hand away.
Life shouldnt be this way.
August 3, 2010
Why?
Why cant I seem to find any blogs that arent about babies or God? Maybe that sums it up - keep breeding and thinking someone else is going to take care of it and clean up the mess... Like its all in "the big plan". God help us... indeed.
July 26, 2010
The Dragonfly
The dragonfly on the bedroom ceilingprefers the moist damp corner of the room
where the paint is splitting
and the mould
has stained
the corner
black.
Its 2am and Im lying, sleepless
in the bed I share
with my man,watching the
insect
in the lamplight.
It rests there for a time
before trying desperately
to force itself through
the plaster,
bouncing off
the ceiling
again and again
and I wonder how those wings dont just crack and break.
And it occurs to me that this
beautiful and fragile insect
and I are not much
different from
one another.
Both flying aimlessly around a grand space,
segregated from what we feel is natural,
trapped but with too much space,
yearning for a window
or a safe place to land.
Getting tired.
Feeling alone.
And he sleeps.
No matter how I flutter,
how I curse,
how I struggle,
how I request or ask or guide.
He sleeps, deep in his dreamy oblivion.
Now, if he were awake,
he would mistakenly
swat me Im sure.
Im just a bug,
and he needs his sleep.
I wonder if he can see them,
My wings I mean.
I wonder if he knows that
the light
caught at the right angle
makes them shimmer
with all the colours
of creation.
I wonder if he
can hear the hum,
of me.
July 19, 2010
sunflower fields
Its sunflower season.
Most of the fields are turning from gold to brown after the wheat harvest and soon it will all be brown and dry.
There are fields of soy still maturing which are a dark cooling green.
This patchwork landscape is changing quickly.
Im looking forward to Autumn and the oranges and reds.
We'll see.
July 16, 2010
Thank you
Written to an American Academic I have been reading about... and yes, he wrote back. :)
Hey.
I know you dont know me, but I just wanted to say thanks. Wait, dont reach for the delete button just yet. Im not sure if you will agree or relate. If not, just let the words move over you. But you, sir, have inspired me and I was in the mood to let you know.
I've had a look at what you've been doing in the areas of architecture and urban development, or, at least what media allows someone like me to see. And I want to say thanks.
Thank you for searching outside the room, for stretching and grinding your soul against the side of mental containment and seemingly breaking through. Thank you for taking time to find inspiration and move past bearers of intentional idiocy and innocent small mindedness.
Thank you for finding the gold and, with pockets seemingly full, digging some more. Past the desolate dryness and the stony uncertainty. Searching, searching. never satisfied. Thank you for your solitude and enduring, at times, what might have appeared to be cold isolation.
Thank you for seeing the big picture and taking your intellect on the journey toward innovation for, not against, the people of the future. Thank you for keeping in mind the absolute necessity of the health of this planet when so many people have surrendered hope and bedded down with resignation.
You're one of those people about whom I say "when I grow up, I want to be like you". (Un)fortunately, I have grown up and while options and scope are perhaps more limited, I still take inspiration from you and what you and your living creations, called businesses, have achieved. Now I say "When I grow up, I want to live in a living house. A house of trees and plants."
We humans give it to each other everyday. It spreads better than butter. Sometimes we beat ourselves with it, other times let it roll over our tongues like sugar barley candy. Inspiration.
So, thank you for inspiring me and, unbeknownst, countless others. Keep it up.
Fiona
Hey.
I know you dont know me, but I just wanted to say thanks. Wait, dont reach for the delete button just yet. Im not sure if you will agree or relate. If not, just let the words move over you. But you, sir, have inspired me and I was in the mood to let you know.
I've had a look at what you've been doing in the areas of architecture and urban development, or, at least what media allows someone like me to see. And I want to say thanks.
Thank you for searching outside the room, for stretching and grinding your soul against the side of mental containment and seemingly breaking through. Thank you for taking time to find inspiration and move past bearers of intentional idiocy and innocent small mindedness.
Thank you for finding the gold and, with pockets seemingly full, digging some more. Past the desolate dryness and the stony uncertainty. Searching, searching. never satisfied. Thank you for your solitude and enduring, at times, what might have appeared to be cold isolation.
Thank you for seeing the big picture and taking your intellect on the journey toward innovation for, not against, the people of the future. Thank you for keeping in mind the absolute necessity of the health of this planet when so many people have surrendered hope and bedded down with resignation.
You're one of those people about whom I say "when I grow up, I want to be like you". (Un)fortunately, I have grown up and while options and scope are perhaps more limited, I still take inspiration from you and what you and your living creations, called businesses, have achieved. Now I say "When I grow up, I want to live in a living house. A house of trees and plants."
We humans give it to each other everyday. It spreads better than butter. Sometimes we beat ourselves with it, other times let it roll over our tongues like sugar barley candy. Inspiration.
So, thank you for inspiring me and, unbeknownst, countless others. Keep it up.
Fiona
A fresh beginning
The following blogs were created prior to April 2009.
It was a delicious juicy summer, full of realisations and gentle understandings.
Take it as you will, but dont be offended by the language.
It can get a little naughty at times. ;)
The first 3 that you will see are a short story about my experience when my brother passed away in 2003. Following those are a selection of poems.
So there's a little of everything here.
I hope you enjoy...
It was a delicious juicy summer, full of realisations and gentle understandings.
Take it as you will, but dont be offended by the language.
It can get a little naughty at times. ;)
The first 3 that you will see are a short story about my experience when my brother passed away in 2003. Following those are a selection of poems.
So there's a little of everything here.
I hope you enjoy...
December 16, 2009
Spirit Girl
Once, way up on a time beast, with gleaming jowls and a cheap gold Rolex, became a little girl.
With wide gleaming blue eyes and no hint of sadness she wandered through the passages of the time beast, exploring every corner and stopping to wonder at the marvelousness of it all. All who knew her were mesmerised by her, she seemed ageless, serene and held a light that drew others to her.
And they came, for healing, for music, for laughter and silliness for some of them carried such burden that the eyes of this girl were like elixir. And she loved them anyway.
Inside the heart of this spirit-light was a small, soft and comfortable town. The streets and alleys brimmed with organic life; moss and lichen splashed across the bricks of older-time buildings with terraces and corridors decorated with spiderwebs dripping with dew. The town, the forests and sunlit fields smelled like jasmine blossoms for most of the year, and in the cooler months and those strange summer showers brought to life fragrances of earthen eucalypt, gum-nuts and worms, fresh mulch and steaming asphalt.
There were parks woven within haphazard streets of rickety wooden houses which never leaked and were always the right temperature, with a faint balmy spring breeze. Even in the winter days (and i say days because winter only ever lasted that long) the air was cool and refreshing.
The whole town was alive, doorways of homes yawned and called out the varied echoes of living - sound slid down the alleyways and through the pockets of forest gatherings and picnics. Laughter from children, friends, lovers, parties and gatherings. A woman-child laughing at her reflection in the mirror with surprise and delight, another swinging from a lazy hammock lets out a giggle at an idea shared with a novel, another dancing to music, jumping off furniture, spinning and swaying.
They share a secret language, the women-children of this town. It is a voice of idealism, hope, delight, purity, of innocence and wonder. The boarders are strong and no thing can tarnish the wings of this town, this heart, this girl.
Eventually, she comes to know that there are other towns like hers out there, ever hopeful that she will meet one so that the borders may full open and the two towns may become one city of sustainable energy, life and joy. Of course members of the other town must know how to tend the gardens, know when it is time to turn the mulch, know what it means when the ants scurry and gather, how long it takes to bake an apple pie. These are the sacred knowings of this town.
Occasionally a town would breeze by, and permitted access beyond her borders via serenade, by mystic words or no words at all. And the visitors would be welcomed, stay a while. They would stay and work in the gardens, some lay on the grass, some bewitched the girl-women of this town with words, mesmerising and lyrical.
But none of the visitors knew how long to cook an apple pie, and eventually, they were all asked to leave (or packed up and left town of their own accord, never in the night in slippers, but on motorcycles, in fanfares). Not one of them left without leaving a mark, hence not one of them left entirely. New pathways were etched where once there stood an ancient Marri and the women-child were left wondering how the tree was felled without ever any one of them noticing.
They stood, mouths open, agape at the mound of flakes and scraps where once there stood life, and as their tears rolled, the sprouts of fresh life poked out from beneath a branch, a log, a shard. The village was eventually full of these scars, although healed partially, the previous face of the town would never be restored.
The changes of the village through the ages concerned the elder woman-child and a fold in her brow formed. Concerned they would be losing the innocence of the town and its women-children, she vowed that she would see to it that the borders of the town would not fall so easily in the future, she would not be tricked. And she sighed, "Ah, it is all part of the plan of the spirit girl. How is she to experience her life, if not through each of us and the towns we meet. Although our guests can leave an awful mess, they bring tools and language and recipes that would never have had otherwise. No one can truly hurt us for no-one is truly bad."
**
One day, out of the blue sky, came a swooping magpie with giant wings and talons enough to pluck and carry the sleepy village to the edge of existence. The magpie swooped several times and came to land before some of the women-children who had gathered to marvel at the strength and beauty of such a creature.
"I have come to tell you that the Druid is dead. Find your mother-selves and father-selves and other kindred beings and be with them now, for the Druid is dead."
Screeching its piercing call of attack the feathered beast swooped its winged arms with such force that much of the village was swept into a deep canyon beyond the village walls.
In the years past the Elder had come to know this canyon was close by, but beyond the village walls. For some time now they had worked to make the walls higher and stronger, to protect the innocence and light of the beings within. But now, it was upon them to come to know this canyon and know it well.
In the water they were soothed and healed but they would never revisit the surface. They learned to breathe the amber liquid into their clear fresh lungs and survive beneath the water's surface with no sense of anything above. Absolute surrender, laced.
A hush fell on the crowd, as they gripped and lent on each other. Doors of homes tightened to to size that only a child may pass inside, the breeze fell silent and nobody noticed the Jasmine. No body noticed it for a long time, so long in fact that it simply stopped growing, like the love and adoration the women once gave the plants fed their enjoyment of living and without it, they ceased to exist.
The spirit girl, her head spun and her body swayed. The time beast turned at her, drooling a grin-like snarl. Her breath rushed from her chest and her skin ice-white. Inside her, a dam broke and the ocean within her heart poured salty tears into the canyon. The villagers, harbours for peace and hope, were left crushed and bleeding.
As if entranced, the remaining village inhabitants turned silently and marched toward the canyon. Falling in effortlessly as if under hypnosis they stayed there beneath the salty amber-ness without thought or feeling.
The town's flowers fell like leaves and leaves fell into the dust - the earth no longer lush and fertile, but readily becoming stone, rock, dirt. The borders of the town forced themselves higher and higher and more resilient than ever before. The buildings stayed, but only just, for the lichen and moss that rested between their bricks and awnings had dissolved and the buildings swayed in the rancid heat of day and froze solid in the desert winter-nights.
Not a soul to be seen for three months.
Eventually, a weary woman with the vague memories of freedom and a heart of a warrior urged herself from the Amber slumber to man the border. She had heard stories of the Spirit-girl's demise into madness and her loyalty to the Spirit-girl finding breath again made her begin and end her climb out of the canyon.
There was no way that anything was ever going to get past those gates again. No one was to be trusted, unless given a special pass and only on the condition that they would help to repair the damaged caused by the news of the Druid's death.
Hope and innocence, joy and laughter, faith and trust were abandoned, for these things did not exist if the Master Druid did not make them so.
To be continued...
With wide gleaming blue eyes and no hint of sadness she wandered through the passages of the time beast, exploring every corner and stopping to wonder at the marvelousness of it all. All who knew her were mesmerised by her, she seemed ageless, serene and held a light that drew others to her.
And they came, for healing, for music, for laughter and silliness for some of them carried such burden that the eyes of this girl were like elixir. And she loved them anyway.
Inside the heart of this spirit-light was a small, soft and comfortable town. The streets and alleys brimmed with organic life; moss and lichen splashed across the bricks of older-time buildings with terraces and corridors decorated with spiderwebs dripping with dew. The town, the forests and sunlit fields smelled like jasmine blossoms for most of the year, and in the cooler months and those strange summer showers brought to life fragrances of earthen eucalypt, gum-nuts and worms, fresh mulch and steaming asphalt.
There were parks woven within haphazard streets of rickety wooden houses which never leaked and were always the right temperature, with a faint balmy spring breeze. Even in the winter days (and i say days because winter only ever lasted that long) the air was cool and refreshing.
The whole town was alive, doorways of homes yawned and called out the varied echoes of living - sound slid down the alleyways and through the pockets of forest gatherings and picnics. Laughter from children, friends, lovers, parties and gatherings. A woman-child laughing at her reflection in the mirror with surprise and delight, another swinging from a lazy hammock lets out a giggle at an idea shared with a novel, another dancing to music, jumping off furniture, spinning and swaying.
They share a secret language, the women-children of this town. It is a voice of idealism, hope, delight, purity, of innocence and wonder. The boarders are strong and no thing can tarnish the wings of this town, this heart, this girl.
Eventually, she comes to know that there are other towns like hers out there, ever hopeful that she will meet one so that the borders may full open and the two towns may become one city of sustainable energy, life and joy. Of course members of the other town must know how to tend the gardens, know when it is time to turn the mulch, know what it means when the ants scurry and gather, how long it takes to bake an apple pie. These are the sacred knowings of this town.
Occasionally a town would breeze by, and permitted access beyond her borders via serenade, by mystic words or no words at all. And the visitors would be welcomed, stay a while. They would stay and work in the gardens, some lay on the grass, some bewitched the girl-women of this town with words, mesmerising and lyrical.
But none of the visitors knew how long to cook an apple pie, and eventually, they were all asked to leave (or packed up and left town of their own accord, never in the night in slippers, but on motorcycles, in fanfares). Not one of them left without leaving a mark, hence not one of them left entirely. New pathways were etched where once there stood an ancient Marri and the women-child were left wondering how the tree was felled without ever any one of them noticing.
They stood, mouths open, agape at the mound of flakes and scraps where once there stood life, and as their tears rolled, the sprouts of fresh life poked out from beneath a branch, a log, a shard. The village was eventually full of these scars, although healed partially, the previous face of the town would never be restored.
The changes of the village through the ages concerned the elder woman-child and a fold in her brow formed. Concerned they would be losing the innocence of the town and its women-children, she vowed that she would see to it that the borders of the town would not fall so easily in the future, she would not be tricked. And she sighed, "Ah, it is all part of the plan of the spirit girl. How is she to experience her life, if not through each of us and the towns we meet. Although our guests can leave an awful mess, they bring tools and language and recipes that would never have had otherwise. No one can truly hurt us for no-one is truly bad."
**
One day, out of the blue sky, came a swooping magpie with giant wings and talons enough to pluck and carry the sleepy village to the edge of existence. The magpie swooped several times and came to land before some of the women-children who had gathered to marvel at the strength and beauty of such a creature.
"I have come to tell you that the Druid is dead. Find your mother-selves and father-selves and other kindred beings and be with them now, for the Druid is dead."
Screeching its piercing call of attack the feathered beast swooped its winged arms with such force that much of the village was swept into a deep canyon beyond the village walls.
In the years past the Elder had come to know this canyon was close by, but beyond the village walls. For some time now they had worked to make the walls higher and stronger, to protect the innocence and light of the beings within. But now, it was upon them to come to know this canyon and know it well.
In the water they were soothed and healed but they would never revisit the surface. They learned to breathe the amber liquid into their clear fresh lungs and survive beneath the water's surface with no sense of anything above. Absolute surrender, laced.
A hush fell on the crowd, as they gripped and lent on each other. Doors of homes tightened to to size that only a child may pass inside, the breeze fell silent and nobody noticed the Jasmine. No body noticed it for a long time, so long in fact that it simply stopped growing, like the love and adoration the women once gave the plants fed their enjoyment of living and without it, they ceased to exist.
The spirit girl, her head spun and her body swayed. The time beast turned at her, drooling a grin-like snarl. Her breath rushed from her chest and her skin ice-white. Inside her, a dam broke and the ocean within her heart poured salty tears into the canyon. The villagers, harbours for peace and hope, were left crushed and bleeding.
As if entranced, the remaining village inhabitants turned silently and marched toward the canyon. Falling in effortlessly as if under hypnosis they stayed there beneath the salty amber-ness without thought or feeling.
The town's flowers fell like leaves and leaves fell into the dust - the earth no longer lush and fertile, but readily becoming stone, rock, dirt. The borders of the town forced themselves higher and higher and more resilient than ever before. The buildings stayed, but only just, for the lichen and moss that rested between their bricks and awnings had dissolved and the buildings swayed in the rancid heat of day and froze solid in the desert winter-nights.
Not a soul to be seen for three months.
Eventually, a weary woman with the vague memories of freedom and a heart of a warrior urged herself from the Amber slumber to man the border. She had heard stories of the Spirit-girl's demise into madness and her loyalty to the Spirit-girl finding breath again made her begin and end her climb out of the canyon.
There was no way that anything was ever going to get past those gates again. No one was to be trusted, unless given a special pass and only on the condition that they would help to repair the damaged caused by the news of the Druid's death.
Hope and innocence, joy and laughter, faith and trust were abandoned, for these things did not exist if the Master Druid did not make them so.
To be continued...
December 15, 2009
And so it was ...
12/25/08
And so it was ..
that the elders, still dripping acrid sweat, made their way out of the Amber Canyon. Dry eyes and bleary minds, the taste in their mouths made them nauseous which many stopped to purge - a belated conscious eviction. Their nails tore from their beds and arms strained from their own weight as they clambered to the walls of the canyon. Time in the canyon was like a superficial conversation, like a day in front of the television, like morphine, like that moment of sleep when the body is heavy and the mind is soft. Slowly, their tiny frames, bloated from toxicity, groaned and screamed from the movement as if they might break.
But when their faces emerged and touched true sunlight, the air was light and sweet.
And so it was ...
that they made their way to the village border. Slowly at first, but with each step the toxins drained from their blood, their skin, their lungs. The numbess of Amber dripped away and evaporated like sweat, their muscles nourished by the solar energy and prana in the dry air.
They made their way to where they had heard she lay and they didnt find her there. She found them.
She looked somewhat like them - but there was difference, wrong-ness, damage. Her frame was wirey and skin dry, hair, long dark and knotted. She wore a a gun holster around her shoulders and a knife on her thigh. Her boots were warn and dusty - seen a few k's, kick a few arses. And, most perculiarly, something gleamed in her eye foreign to them. Distrust. Rage.
She saw them first, from behind a boulder. Such a rounded mass had once had been considered a powerful gateway, a conduate to the energies of the universe... but she had forgotten the old time and she felt that she had only ever seen it, and others like it, as a boulder.
She watched them for a moment. They seemed strangely familiar. They must have done, otherwise she would have shot them dead in an instant. Unfamiliar things were dangerous, left the borders vulnerable to disorder, disease.
Standing directly in their path, she stood in plain sight by the full light of day. The small band of newcomers spent some time examining her, and likewise. Both were familiar to the other and by dusk they were sharing a silent campfire. Sherrif (as this is what she considered herself) told the women-girls of the state of the village since the death of the Druid and the discent of the village's women into the Amber Canyon.
"The boundaries had began to crumble and fall, while in other parts it had thickened and stretched itself almost to the sky. Dark beings were welcomed into the village grounds and set up camp, sometimes for weeks, and made fire, tore out new saplings and brought their empty stories of hope from the outside - but they never came to anything. They came, took what they wanted and left mess before leaving the boundaries.
Sometimes I would sit and watch them, scattering bread around them at night so they would be covered by bugs by morning and consider this, our home, too hostile a place to live or to love. 'Uninhabitable, and hostile to life - rehabilitation impossible'. I have believed this myself more than once."
The elder started "We have heard the cries of the spirit-girl, we have heard of her pain and confused by her actions, but I see that these are actions of spiritual self defense, however ugly."
In the light of the fire the elder could see the face of the Sherrif girl, tired, worn and aged far beyond her years with a spiteful look of disgust across her brow, a tear on her cheek and her finger on the trigger of the pistol now by her side.
They shared a moment of shame for all that had happened and in the sharing remembered that they were one being.
"You weren't here. No one was...
You weren't here after the fall, after the Magpie left and the towns-women were, all but a few, washed into the Canyon. When the darkness covered the village and the trees, keepers of life and guardians of soul, they began to die. Once the trees began to die, the animals, the smaller plants, the tiny-folk and the birds and insects all left too. It was remarkable how quickly it happened. Now, without the rain and the trees, we have a lot of dust, boulders and some of the old buildings from The Before Time."
With these words, memory of The Before Time carried the Sherrif-girl to the boundary wall, transported instantaneously. She found herself before a being who called himself Idealism, her companion Opitmism and their dog Innocence...
and, without a flinch she shot a silver bullett into the chests of all three. Not out of anything more than habit, for she had become trigger happy these past few years. But she knew better by now; that slander comes of Innocence, Naievity is beneath the cloak of Idealism and Innocence was a mirage having beem killed by the news of the passing of the Druid.
Back to face the elders, those from the time when the three departed supposed strangers goverened the village, to explain, to beg forgiveness. IN desperation she yelled: "You would have done the same. I couldnt stop them. It got so lonely, sometimes I wanted them to come, I actually invited them in." She was standing by this time with a wild look of desperation - a plea for forgiveness.
Another elder stood. She sensed the confusion, she felt her pain. This woman had spent so long alone, so afraid, so angry she had forgotten for whom she was fighting - the survival of the Spirit-girl. "The boundaries of the village have been maintained, for this we are eternally grateful, but now you can sleep. Sleep for as long as you need to regain your Self and then join us again. We need you to remember, but the Long Sleep will help us to forgive."
As they sat, the lights of the fire flickered off the buckles on her life-worn boots, the handle of the pistol still in the holster and lit up the creases around her eyes and mouth. The women could see they would come to know her over time but the air of Distrust was continuous and habitual. So they sat a while longer, just watching each other and the women wondered if they would ever know their new sister as they knew themselves.
Hope was resurrected that night and the sleeping Sherrif-girl allowed them to pass as she was finally drifting to sleep and knew that, finally, someone was watching her back.
And so it was...
And so it was ..
that the elders, still dripping acrid sweat, made their way out of the Amber Canyon. Dry eyes and bleary minds, the taste in their mouths made them nauseous which many stopped to purge - a belated conscious eviction. Their nails tore from their beds and arms strained from their own weight as they clambered to the walls of the canyon. Time in the canyon was like a superficial conversation, like a day in front of the television, like morphine, like that moment of sleep when the body is heavy and the mind is soft. Slowly, their tiny frames, bloated from toxicity, groaned and screamed from the movement as if they might break.
But when their faces emerged and touched true sunlight, the air was light and sweet.
And so it was ...
that they made their way to the village border. Slowly at first, but with each step the toxins drained from their blood, their skin, their lungs. The numbess of Amber dripped away and evaporated like sweat, their muscles nourished by the solar energy and prana in the dry air.
They made their way to where they had heard she lay and they didnt find her there. She found them.
She looked somewhat like them - but there was difference, wrong-ness, damage. Her frame was wirey and skin dry, hair, long dark and knotted. She wore a a gun holster around her shoulders and a knife on her thigh. Her boots were warn and dusty - seen a few k's, kick a few arses. And, most perculiarly, something gleamed in her eye foreign to them. Distrust. Rage.
She saw them first, from behind a boulder. Such a rounded mass had once had been considered a powerful gateway, a conduate to the energies of the universe... but she had forgotten the old time and she felt that she had only ever seen it, and others like it, as a boulder.
She watched them for a moment. They seemed strangely familiar. They must have done, otherwise she would have shot them dead in an instant. Unfamiliar things were dangerous, left the borders vulnerable to disorder, disease.
Standing directly in their path, she stood in plain sight by the full light of day. The small band of newcomers spent some time examining her, and likewise. Both were familiar to the other and by dusk they were sharing a silent campfire. Sherrif (as this is what she considered herself) told the women-girls of the state of the village since the death of the Druid and the discent of the village's women into the Amber Canyon.
"The boundaries had began to crumble and fall, while in other parts it had thickened and stretched itself almost to the sky. Dark beings were welcomed into the village grounds and set up camp, sometimes for weeks, and made fire, tore out new saplings and brought their empty stories of hope from the outside - but they never came to anything. They came, took what they wanted and left mess before leaving the boundaries.
Sometimes I would sit and watch them, scattering bread around them at night so they would be covered by bugs by morning and consider this, our home, too hostile a place to live or to love. 'Uninhabitable, and hostile to life - rehabilitation impossible'. I have believed this myself more than once."
The elder started "We have heard the cries of the spirit-girl, we have heard of her pain and confused by her actions, but I see that these are actions of spiritual self defense, however ugly."
In the light of the fire the elder could see the face of the Sherrif girl, tired, worn and aged far beyond her years with a spiteful look of disgust across her brow, a tear on her cheek and her finger on the trigger of the pistol now by her side.
They shared a moment of shame for all that had happened and in the sharing remembered that they were one being.
"You weren't here. No one was...
You weren't here after the fall, after the Magpie left and the towns-women were, all but a few, washed into the Canyon. When the darkness covered the village and the trees, keepers of life and guardians of soul, they began to die. Once the trees began to die, the animals, the smaller plants, the tiny-folk and the birds and insects all left too. It was remarkable how quickly it happened. Now, without the rain and the trees, we have a lot of dust, boulders and some of the old buildings from The Before Time."
With these words, memory of The Before Time carried the Sherrif-girl to the boundary wall, transported instantaneously. She found herself before a being who called himself Idealism, her companion Opitmism and their dog Innocence...
and, without a flinch she shot a silver bullett into the chests of all three. Not out of anything more than habit, for she had become trigger happy these past few years. But she knew better by now; that slander comes of Innocence, Naievity is beneath the cloak of Idealism and Innocence was a mirage having beem killed by the news of the passing of the Druid.
Back to face the elders, those from the time when the three departed supposed strangers goverened the village, to explain, to beg forgiveness. IN desperation she yelled: "You would have done the same. I couldnt stop them. It got so lonely, sometimes I wanted them to come, I actually invited them in." She was standing by this time with a wild look of desperation - a plea for forgiveness.
Another elder stood. She sensed the confusion, she felt her pain. This woman had spent so long alone, so afraid, so angry she had forgotten for whom she was fighting - the survival of the Spirit-girl. "The boundaries of the village have been maintained, for this we are eternally grateful, but now you can sleep. Sleep for as long as you need to regain your Self and then join us again. We need you to remember, but the Long Sleep will help us to forgive."
As they sat, the lights of the fire flickered off the buckles on her life-worn boots, the handle of the pistol still in the holster and lit up the creases around her eyes and mouth. The women could see they would come to know her over time but the air of Distrust was continuous and habitual. So they sat a while longer, just watching each other and the women wondered if they would ever know their new sister as they knew themselves.
Hope was resurrected that night and the sleeping Sherrif-girl allowed them to pass as she was finally drifting to sleep and knew that, finally, someone was watching her back.
And so it was...
December 14, 2009
Dishes and Stardust
30/01/09
What she saw pleased her. And while she wiped and scrubbed she noticed each crust was softened by the warm soapy water and they fell away as if without aid, alone ... given time. She came to think, as she looked out at the view before her how these dishes were much like the past few years, since the passing of the Druid and the chaos which followed. Crusts had formed over the years in the confusion and neglect, but now, with a little warmth and encouragement they were slowly falling away leaving pink skin and a few scars.
Standing at the sink, deep in meditation, the setting sun streamed through the window before her. The golden light the sun's last effort for the day, as the dishes were hers. The synchronicity brought a smile to her lips and warmed her. She marvelled at the contrast with darkness such light could bring, making evening shadows cool and dark.
In these days the lichen had begun to form again, binding the awnings of buildings becoming homes again. The people within them gathered to strategise, to earnestly discuss... they were more like a band of warriors than ever before, training to defend the boundaries, strategising movements and decisions, debating which experiences to allow through the gates and when. How different things were to the Before times. Such love for the Spirit-woman was never so fierce, so unwavering.
The boundary walls had grown thick and firm, but, unlike years passed, were able to be penetrated if reason presented to the governing townsfolk seemed worthy. The process of decision, now matured, had become fair and just in the name of the Spirit-woman and for her life itself.
The sun glistened off her wet hands and a bubble, breaking loose from its bonds with the familiar, drifted up, up, up and danced silently. A perfect rainbow shimmering sphere in the setting sunlight. Pop! It burst just in front of her nose and its inner essence released, its skin amalgamating and falling back to the sink-water awaiting re-formation.
"And such is our life" she said to her gold-lit reflection. She marvelled at her features for a moment befriending another wrinkle. She gathered them like momentos in braille telling their story thus far - the before time, the devestation after the Druid's death, the trance in the Amber Canyon and the journey from its depths, up its walls and back to the village. The re-membering of the village itself.
Lanterns lit through the garden marked the end of work, the time for sharing and frivolity had come. A chorus of laughter from the people, men women and children chorused and echoed the song of the night - crickets, frogs and a young family of owls stayed in their aria long into each night, so when they fell into sleep they were rested.
There was much work to be done and adjustments made in the management of her interaction with the outside world. Breathing the essence of the Old Way into the spine of the Spirit-woman who through grief and misguidance, had somewhat wilted. Upholding the essence of the Druid and his ways, his truth. Our truth.
The Elder knew that the compass was well aligned. Now the trees were sprouting and growing through the dust, the days had become cooler and refreshing, seedlings sprouted out of the earth where once there had been mulch, the river ran clear. The birds and critters, once scattered, were returning. The scent of pie decorated the senses and on some evenings, one can even catch the vaguest scent of Jasmine...
What she saw pleased her. And while she wiped and scrubbed she noticed each crust was softened by the warm soapy water and they fell away as if without aid, alone ... given time. She came to think, as she looked out at the view before her how these dishes were much like the past few years, since the passing of the Druid and the chaos which followed. Crusts had formed over the years in the confusion and neglect, but now, with a little warmth and encouragement they were slowly falling away leaving pink skin and a few scars.
Standing at the sink, deep in meditation, the setting sun streamed through the window before her. The golden light the sun's last effort for the day, as the dishes were hers. The synchronicity brought a smile to her lips and warmed her. She marvelled at the contrast with darkness such light could bring, making evening shadows cool and dark.
In these days the lichen had begun to form again, binding the awnings of buildings becoming homes again. The people within them gathered to strategise, to earnestly discuss... they were more like a band of warriors than ever before, training to defend the boundaries, strategising movements and decisions, debating which experiences to allow through the gates and when. How different things were to the Before times. Such love for the Spirit-woman was never so fierce, so unwavering.
The boundary walls had grown thick and firm, but, unlike years passed, were able to be penetrated if reason presented to the governing townsfolk seemed worthy. The process of decision, now matured, had become fair and just in the name of the Spirit-woman and for her life itself.
The sun glistened off her wet hands and a bubble, breaking loose from its bonds with the familiar, drifted up, up, up and danced silently. A perfect rainbow shimmering sphere in the setting sunlight. Pop! It burst just in front of her nose and its inner essence released, its skin amalgamating and falling back to the sink-water awaiting re-formation.
"And such is our life" she said to her gold-lit reflection. She marvelled at her features for a moment befriending another wrinkle. She gathered them like momentos in braille telling their story thus far - the before time, the devestation after the Druid's death, the trance in the Amber Canyon and the journey from its depths, up its walls and back to the village. The re-membering of the village itself.
Lanterns lit through the garden marked the end of work, the time for sharing and frivolity had come. A chorus of laughter from the people, men women and children chorused and echoed the song of the night - crickets, frogs and a young family of owls stayed in their aria long into each night, so when they fell into sleep they were rested.
There was much work to be done and adjustments made in the management of her interaction with the outside world. Breathing the essence of the Old Way into the spine of the Spirit-woman who through grief and misguidance, had somewhat wilted. Upholding the essence of the Druid and his ways, his truth. Our truth.
The Elder knew that the compass was well aligned. Now the trees were sprouting and growing through the dust, the days had become cooler and refreshing, seedlings sprouted out of the earth where once there had been mulch, the river ran clear. The birds and critters, once scattered, were returning. The scent of pie decorated the senses and on some evenings, one can even catch the vaguest scent of Jasmine...
August 4, 2009
The Best Thing I Saw Today...
05/08/09
The fog sleeping on the river bed and mud-land around Thornlie, pink clouds of the sunrise and a flock of red-tailed black cockatoos overhead... one swooping back - being chased by a magpie made just enough to show me that my disbelief was true - red tailed indeed. What a delight.
The fog sleeping on the river bed and mud-land around Thornlie, pink clouds of the sunrise and a flock of red-tailed black cockatoos overhead... one swooping back - being chased by a magpie made just enough to show me that my disbelief was true - red tailed indeed. What a delight.
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