It was a match made in Heaven.
He was a fighter
She was a lover
And the interface between their two worlds
Was definitely there and yet
Could easily be breached
By a paddle of the finger
Or his mouth
Gulping at the air and the fish flakes
Then flip flap plish!
As if in a huff
Because she'd been out all day.
She admired his fiery flameness
Rippling silk cutting water
And to him
She was the pale sun rising
Over his tank.
She knew she could never
Enter that world
And he was only a fish
Incapable of that leap of imagination
Of Icarus
And just as well
Or there'd have been tears on the carpet
Before bedtime.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Poet and the Melbourne Cup
'I write some of my best poetry during
The Melbourne Cup,' he said.
We waited.
'See,' he went on,
'Most of the time you're going round
And you're picking up Thoughts.
Everyone else's thoughts!
All around you
Like dragonflies.
How dare she say that?
What are we going to do about Mum?
What's for dinner?
I love those shoes.
Endless. On and on.
But for those minutes
In the first Tuesday in November -
Radio silence.
And my thoughts, my thoughts!
Lift their head
And break from the pack
And fly from the ground like clods
To shatter the roar.'
The Melbourne Cup,' he said.
We waited.
'See,' he went on,
'Most of the time you're going round
And you're picking up Thoughts.
Everyone else's thoughts!
All around you
Like dragonflies.
How dare she say that?
What are we going to do about Mum?
What's for dinner?
I love those shoes.
Endless. On and on.
But for those minutes
In the first Tuesday in November -
Radio silence.
And my thoughts, my thoughts!
Lift their head
And break from the pack
And fly from the ground like clods
To shatter the roar.'
Monday, July 23, 2007
No pressure then
I remember the days when, if anything, my blood pressure was slightly on the low side. Those days of doing the City to Surf, and even a half-marathon once. You knew you were a bit BP-challenged directly after leaping up from a sitting position or leaping out of bed (gosh, that was a long time ago) and everything would sort of go a bit black and white for a second or two and you would enter another dimension... then along the way I turned into a hyped-up stressed-out attitudinal bitch. Around the same time as turning 40? Nooooo. Come on.
Lots of things jip me these days. I can get stressed about anything, including having my blood pressure read, with the predictable result that you can't get a decent reading short of knocking me out, and even then I'll probably be having murderous thoughts about you in my unconscious dreams. They call this annoying little syndrome 'white coat hypertension'. It's true. I can't go past a hospital without feelings of dread and doom and depression, and going inside one involves a lot of deep breathing. Same for doctors' surgeries, even if I've only gone inside to get out of the rain. I go into fight or flight mode, more deep breathing. My lungs are probably in great shape, but I might have to take some extra responsibility for global warming.
The solution to this is something called the 24 hour ambulatory blood pressure monitor, the idea being that you wear it for 24 hours while having a normal life(?) and it proves, with a bit of luck, that you are perfectly normal BP-wise. You have to wear a belt round your middle to which you clip the device that collects the data. From this device that looks exactly like a very early Sony Walkman prototype, a long thin rubbery snaky thing coils alarmingly out of control until it connects with the cuff that you have to keep around your (usually left) arm. The cold snaky slithery thing is optimistically attached somewhere around your shoulder blades with sticky tape that you know will have detached itself by the time you've found the car again. The device inflates the cuff every half hour and takes a reading, during which time it's advisable to keep verrrry still, because if you don't the cuff will just grip ever tighter as if to say "Oy! Are you paying attention chum?". Mind you, it BLOODY HURTS anyway, even if you are behaving yourself. It is like someone has tied a piece of wire around your arteries, giving stressy people like me an extra reason to stress (this time about possible frost bite) - I'm supposed to get a normal reading from this??
This is how it goes... whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRR ow ow ow kerthuk...kerthuk...kerthuk (be still my pounding heart) kerthuk... ssssssssssssssssss. Huge relief that's over for another half hour.
You get kind of used to it though. I went to work as usual with the first one I had fitted. No problemo! Except for that bit in the afternoon meeting, with 20 people sitting around the boardroom table, and you just know that there's going to be a lull in the proceedings, that hush that sometimes falls, when angels are said to be passing overhead, and into the reverent silence... whirrrrrRRRRRRR...
"Coffee anyone?"
Yes, you get used to it. Even though the cuff is always slightly loose and threatening to slide off altogether, with the result that you tend to stagger around Boris Karloff-like with your arm held out in front of you. And forget taking a shower. The amazing thing is that I've ever managed to get any sleep. After 10pm it reverts to taking a reading once an hour until 6am. And you do sleep. Gosh! I'm an insomniac at the best of times, so I don't understand how that works. (Maybe I should wear one more often.)
It's interesting reading the results afterwards and seeing where the spikes occur. "Ah yes, that's the reading when my mobile kept telling me my message could be incorrect and then promptly deleted it. It was rather a long message I had just laboriously texted". One morning, just before I was due to drop the thing back at the surgery, I asked my long-suffering partner to help me dress. The thing is, you can't remove the snaky slithery thing from the data box in case you lose the data. I thought this was obvious, but to make things easier for me, the Boy Wonder decided to detach it. OhmyGODwhathaveyoudonequickquickyouidiotthedatasRUINEDI'llhavetodoitallagain...
WhirrrrrrRRRRRRR...
Actually, it was fine. Never a blip. Except for the interesting spike in the reading, of course.
Lots of things jip me these days. I can get stressed about anything, including having my blood pressure read, with the predictable result that you can't get a decent reading short of knocking me out, and even then I'll probably be having murderous thoughts about you in my unconscious dreams. They call this annoying little syndrome 'white coat hypertension'. It's true. I can't go past a hospital without feelings of dread and doom and depression, and going inside one involves a lot of deep breathing. Same for doctors' surgeries, even if I've only gone inside to get out of the rain. I go into fight or flight mode, more deep breathing. My lungs are probably in great shape, but I might have to take some extra responsibility for global warming.
The solution to this is something called the 24 hour ambulatory blood pressure monitor, the idea being that you wear it for 24 hours while having a normal life(?) and it proves, with a bit of luck, that you are perfectly normal BP-wise. You have to wear a belt round your middle to which you clip the device that collects the data. From this device that looks exactly like a very early Sony Walkman prototype, a long thin rubbery snaky thing coils alarmingly out of control until it connects with the cuff that you have to keep around your (usually left) arm. The cold snaky slithery thing is optimistically attached somewhere around your shoulder blades with sticky tape that you know will have detached itself by the time you've found the car again. The device inflates the cuff every half hour and takes a reading, during which time it's advisable to keep verrrry still, because if you don't the cuff will just grip ever tighter as if to say "Oy! Are you paying attention chum?". Mind you, it BLOODY HURTS anyway, even if you are behaving yourself. It is like someone has tied a piece of wire around your arteries, giving stressy people like me an extra reason to stress (this time about possible frost bite) - I'm supposed to get a normal reading from this??
This is how it goes... whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRR ow ow ow kerthuk...kerthuk...kerthuk (be still my pounding heart) kerthuk... ssssssssssssssssss. Huge relief that's over for another half hour.
You get kind of used to it though. I went to work as usual with the first one I had fitted. No problemo! Except for that bit in the afternoon meeting, with 20 people sitting around the boardroom table, and you just know that there's going to be a lull in the proceedings, that hush that sometimes falls, when angels are said to be passing overhead, and into the reverent silence... whirrrrrRRRRRRR...
"Coffee anyone?"
Yes, you get used to it. Even though the cuff is always slightly loose and threatening to slide off altogether, with the result that you tend to stagger around Boris Karloff-like with your arm held out in front of you. And forget taking a shower. The amazing thing is that I've ever managed to get any sleep. After 10pm it reverts to taking a reading once an hour until 6am. And you do sleep. Gosh! I'm an insomniac at the best of times, so I don't understand how that works. (Maybe I should wear one more often.)
It's interesting reading the results afterwards and seeing where the spikes occur. "Ah yes, that's the reading when my mobile kept telling me my message could be incorrect and then promptly deleted it. It was rather a long message I had just laboriously texted". One morning, just before I was due to drop the thing back at the surgery, I asked my long-suffering partner to help me dress. The thing is, you can't remove the snaky slithery thing from the data box in case you lose the data. I thought this was obvious, but to make things easier for me, the Boy Wonder decided to detach it. OhmyGODwhathaveyoudonequickquickyouidiotthedatasRUINEDI'llhavetodoitallagain...
WhirrrrrrRRRRRRR...
Actually, it was fine. Never a blip. Except for the interesting spike in the reading, of course.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Blocked!
I think I've heard or read this somewhere: Writing is one percent inspiration and ninety nine percent perspiration. Or maybe it was said about something else. It could apply to lots of things (ballroom dancing, pole-vaulting, gardening, sitting on the bus on a thirty-five degree day on the way to work and suddenly being inspired with the realisation that you forgot the deodorant) but I've done a lot of research into this writing thing and am now in a position to reveal the results, and here they are: WRITING is one percent thinking "I should get down to some writing today" and ninety nine percent desperately thinking of something, anything, else which is absolutely A1 top priority, can't be put off any longer, has to be done NOW - shucks, just when I was about to get down to some writing.
Imagine a pop-up picture book for a child; we could call it "Who lives here?" The pictures of the sparkly clean windows and perfectly pruned roses would be a dead giveaway. You can always tell the house of a procrastinator and would-be writers would have to be among the worst culprits. It's the little things that leap to the eye, the attention to detail: the tins and jars in the larder all colour and/or date coded, the hospital corners on the bed, the chairs arranged equidistantly around the table. The cat is brushed to within seven or eight of its lives, and is wearing a rather natty little bow. All hanging pictures are excruciatingly accurately straightened, there are no bills outstanding, and the books on the shelves are alphabetical, by author. Or maybe by size would be better. No, I know, by nationality. What's that bit of fluff there? Better get the vacuum cleaner out. Hmm, we do need some more bags, and while I'm out I can do the shopping, think about what's for dinner, and maybe go and have a coffee somewhere and think about getting down to some writing.
Ergo, bugger-all writing gets done. Of course, even if you are forced to admit defeat and are faced with the horrifying realisation that there is nothing for it but to sit down in front of the computer, all is not lost. By no means! You can use the time to perfect the art of gazing. I am an expert gazer. I could gaze at computer screens, out the window, at my fluffy toy collection, for hours. I could gaze for Australia. ("Oh just look at those glazed-over eyes, I do believe she's done it again. It's all over for the competition. Listen to that cheering, oh and look, that bouquet has hit her a daisy one, ha ha, and still she continues to gawp with her mouth open - let's hope there are no buses coming, Colin!") - sorry. Where was I?
Oh yes. Right, and then of course I have to check my emails. NOW. And I'd better get on the internet and do some research for that piece I wanted to write - wonder what pictures are on Webshots today? I just don't seem to be able to concentrate, maybe half an hour of meditation would help. What CD shall I listen to while I'm doing it? Good grief, these aren't even all facing the same way, and they're certainly not arranged in order of current preference or political leaning of the artist.
OK, that's much better, I'm calm and relaxed. Back to the PC. Was that the phone? No. Damn. OK, here we go.
Jeez, that screen is looking dusty...
Imagine a pop-up picture book for a child; we could call it "Who lives here?" The pictures of the sparkly clean windows and perfectly pruned roses would be a dead giveaway. You can always tell the house of a procrastinator and would-be writers would have to be among the worst culprits. It's the little things that leap to the eye, the attention to detail: the tins and jars in the larder all colour and/or date coded, the hospital corners on the bed, the chairs arranged equidistantly around the table. The cat is brushed to within seven or eight of its lives, and is wearing a rather natty little bow. All hanging pictures are excruciatingly accurately straightened, there are no bills outstanding, and the books on the shelves are alphabetical, by author. Or maybe by size would be better. No, I know, by nationality. What's that bit of fluff there? Better get the vacuum cleaner out. Hmm, we do need some more bags, and while I'm out I can do the shopping, think about what's for dinner, and maybe go and have a coffee somewhere and think about getting down to some writing.
Ergo, bugger-all writing gets done. Of course, even if you are forced to admit defeat and are faced with the horrifying realisation that there is nothing for it but to sit down in front of the computer, all is not lost. By no means! You can use the time to perfect the art of gazing. I am an expert gazer. I could gaze at computer screens, out the window, at my fluffy toy collection, for hours. I could gaze for Australia. ("Oh just look at those glazed-over eyes, I do believe she's done it again. It's all over for the competition. Listen to that cheering, oh and look, that bouquet has hit her a daisy one, ha ha, and still she continues to gawp with her mouth open - let's hope there are no buses coming, Colin!") - sorry. Where was I?
Oh yes. Right, and then of course I have to check my emails. NOW. And I'd better get on the internet and do some research for that piece I wanted to write - wonder what pictures are on Webshots today? I just don't seem to be able to concentrate, maybe half an hour of meditation would help. What CD shall I listen to while I'm doing it? Good grief, these aren't even all facing the same way, and they're certainly not arranged in order of current preference or political leaning of the artist.
OK, that's much better, I'm calm and relaxed. Back to the PC. Was that the phone? No. Damn. OK, here we go.
Jeez, that screen is looking dusty...
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
A moment in Bangkok - for Jo
“I've just remembered,” she said as their feet pushed against the hot pavement, “I had this dream last year – July I think it was. Not that that's relevant – anyway it was all about my home town, well a bit of it, and – well anyway, at one point a whole load of people were flying past me and one of them was a little old Asian woman who smiled at me like she was really pleased to see me. And now I'm in Asia!”
“Well.” He was trying but he wasn't impressed. She'd thought at the time that it was maybe some foreign part of herself that she had to embrace. Some part of her that had been unseen or neglected.
Wat Pho. They followed everyone else. She had the thought for the third time that the area around the entrance to the temple was like a shoe shop. She huffed her own off. Socks too. For the third time she observed her chipped pink nail varnish. Embarrassing. Was it disrespectful? “Excuse me madam, but that sight is sorely offensive. Put your sweaty socks back on.” No. No one was looking. Anyway, her baggy long pants covered her feet, to the point of tripping her up. So now she'd got the habit of holding them up when attempting anything other than flat pavement walking (not a lot of that in Bangkok). Right. Onwards! Enough of this disgraceful self-obsession. Wasn't she in the presence of something other?
Over the threshold. More statues. More gold. But the first thing that grabbed you was the rows of soles, big small brown white, along the floor. Their owners were kneeling. A row of souls kneeling! First the heels, hard and round, then the soft squishy bit then the toes, all pointy pointy like ballet dancers, against the floor.
They sat on a bench at the back for a while, near the – ha! there she is! see? - elderly woman looking after the devotional stuff, the souvenirs, what she assumed were lotus buds, incense sticks, candles. She nudged him – I know how this works now. She put 20 baht in the box and picked up a flower, long stem with a teardrop shaped green bud.
Going forward on knees, kneeling and shuffling towards the row of candles in their holder. At end of row of candles a bucket full of sand for the incense sticks. Bow to the floor while kneeling, then move forward on knees to the bucket placed in front of the statue for flower offerings.
Once in the Adelaide GPO, she stood in line and watched in mild surprise as the floor at her feet hurtled downwards. Through carpet, concrete, foundations, to the red earth. Just for a few seconds. It was like a secret gift, and it made her smile, and she often recalled it. Now, in this temple: floor falling away, head full of bells and incense, spinning, the wolf howling beyond the church bells' circular protection, sounding out in a perfect circle, but the wolf beyond, darkness – teach me, or tell me, or something. Teach me. Looking at up, through, down. Eventually backwards on knees, back to the safety of the candles. She was offered a candle and incense. Shaking fingers dropped the candle right through the holder, but the woman came up and rescued it and placed it in the holder. (See – get the wax at the end to melt a little from one of the other lit ones then it will stick!) Sticking the incense stick in the sand bucket much easier. Watch the thin line of smoke spiral upwards. No floor, no ceiling, but infinity held together by a smoky thin very thin line.
Outside there were shoes and socks and the warm fug of a day in Bangkok.
“Well.” He was trying but he wasn't impressed. She'd thought at the time that it was maybe some foreign part of herself that she had to embrace. Some part of her that had been unseen or neglected.
Wat Pho. They followed everyone else. She had the thought for the third time that the area around the entrance to the temple was like a shoe shop. She huffed her own off. Socks too. For the third time she observed her chipped pink nail varnish. Embarrassing. Was it disrespectful? “Excuse me madam, but that sight is sorely offensive. Put your sweaty socks back on.” No. No one was looking. Anyway, her baggy long pants covered her feet, to the point of tripping her up. So now she'd got the habit of holding them up when attempting anything other than flat pavement walking (not a lot of that in Bangkok). Right. Onwards! Enough of this disgraceful self-obsession. Wasn't she in the presence of something other?
Over the threshold. More statues. More gold. But the first thing that grabbed you was the rows of soles, big small brown white, along the floor. Their owners were kneeling. A row of souls kneeling! First the heels, hard and round, then the soft squishy bit then the toes, all pointy pointy like ballet dancers, against the floor.
They sat on a bench at the back for a while, near the – ha! there she is! see? - elderly woman looking after the devotional stuff, the souvenirs, what she assumed were lotus buds, incense sticks, candles. She nudged him – I know how this works now. She put 20 baht in the box and picked up a flower, long stem with a teardrop shaped green bud.
Going forward on knees, kneeling and shuffling towards the row of candles in their holder. At end of row of candles a bucket full of sand for the incense sticks. Bow to the floor while kneeling, then move forward on knees to the bucket placed in front of the statue for flower offerings.
Once in the Adelaide GPO, she stood in line and watched in mild surprise as the floor at her feet hurtled downwards. Through carpet, concrete, foundations, to the red earth. Just for a few seconds. It was like a secret gift, and it made her smile, and she often recalled it. Now, in this temple: floor falling away, head full of bells and incense, spinning, the wolf howling beyond the church bells' circular protection, sounding out in a perfect circle, but the wolf beyond, darkness – teach me, or tell me, or something. Teach me. Looking at up, through, down. Eventually backwards on knees, back to the safety of the candles. She was offered a candle and incense. Shaking fingers dropped the candle right through the holder, but the woman came up and rescued it and placed it in the holder. (See – get the wax at the end to melt a little from one of the other lit ones then it will stick!) Sticking the incense stick in the sand bucket much easier. Watch the thin line of smoke spiral upwards. No floor, no ceiling, but infinity held together by a smoky thin very thin line.
Outside there were shoes and socks and the warm fug of a day in Bangkok.
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