tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91099242928541338462024-02-20T21:21:03.491-08:00spleenJacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-81717124755361041622021-06-05T17:12:00.000-07:002021-06-05T17:12:30.475-07:00<h2 style="text-align: left;">Meeting Makarora</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.canva.com/design/DAEgR4f3pZU/PZRnxS7HdMR9BBkukb6gxQ/view?utm_content=DAEgR4f3pZU&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=publishsharelink" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1545" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyBtMywHNAL1JBAbDGNWRYvovEjLGXqkYomA1PfbiK9FjTvGhTBsrOYoFJqUh9VS1xhrLdDoqbUiryQko1_XyHK4XtfCE-g-LeNw-Bjl6wTOtsA_G760R6hSvGjzKC6Io5qxFEbb35nD4/s320/Makarora+Bach+cover.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">In 2015, on a spur of the moment long weekend across the ditch from home in the New South Wales Blue Mountains, we - </span><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-style: italic;">Kiwi Tom and Aussie Jacq </span><span class="JsGRdQ">- were lucky enough to stumble upon our very own slice of heaven in this picturesque valley at the top of the lake.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">A field of wildflowers, big summer skies and the endless possibilities of a life on the land in NZ had us literally twirling, </span><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em;">à la Julie Andrews, on the 2 hectare plot with the "For Sale" sign and obscenely beautiful views (cue </span><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-size: 16.6031px; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: -0.02em;">The Hills Are Alive</span><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em;">...).</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">The following year, Tom endured several weeks in a freezing 1960's caravan to build our bach, watched over by the imposing figure of Mount Aeolus, </span><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-style: italic;">Keeper of the Winds</span><span class="JsGRdQ">. And boy can it blow here. Hence <a href="https://www.instagram.com/always_take_the_weather/" target="_blank">@always_take_the_weather</a>.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">Family holidays since have cemented Makarora in our hearts and minds.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">It's hard not to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of this landscape which can, in turn and all at once, be sublime and intimidating. And we wouldn't be lying when we admit that the grandeur of the region has reduced us to tears on occasion.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ">And now our little bach is available to rent for your next truly amazing NZ holiday. For more information or to make a booking contact us at jacqff48@gmail.com or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/always_take_the_weather/" target="_blank">@always_take_the_weather</a></span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ"><a href="https://www.canva.com/design/DAEgR4f3pZU/PZRnxS7HdMR9BBkukb6gxQ/view?utm_content=DAEgR4f3pZU&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=publishsharelink" target="_blank">You can view a copy of our brochure here</a>.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="color: #444440; font-family: "YACgES_-lms 0", _fb_, auto; font-size: 16.6031px; letter-spacing: -0.02em; line-height: 1.28;"><span class="JsGRdQ"><br /></span></p>Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-24450890294844012202016-06-18T19:22:00.003-07:002016-06-18T19:22:49.893-07:00Turning up<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ypDUZX4sFEEXZnJ9t2NkozvaTh7h5T-tkpc1cEOtZc196CMqc2D23yE7Qs-VptHAE2dVoQUSjm_ejEkPsA-5qRzE5tJhgUQVPa4AEoi5FiYmZuVtbyFtmHC7LHFxZh6SNt69eigG01I/s1600/5682fa5b1f0000c000e9ca7c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ypDUZX4sFEEXZnJ9t2NkozvaTh7h5T-tkpc1cEOtZc196CMqc2D23yE7Qs-VptHAE2dVoQUSjm_ejEkPsA-5qRzE5tJhgUQVPa4AEoi5FiYmZuVtbyFtmHC7LHFxZh6SNt69eigG01I/s400/5682fa5b1f0000c000e9ca7c.jpeg" width="328" /></a></div>
On January 1<sup>st</sup> I unwittingly set myself a challenge.
“Do more cool things” I decreed as a tongue-in-cheek new year’s resolution. But
what did that mean? It seems a dream three-week backpacking holiday in south-east
Asia, late 2015, inspired more than renewed travel lust. It re-opened my eyes
to life itself. And so “do more cool things” has come to mean turn up. Simply,
turn up to my own life because as we all know it’s a fragile, unpredictable
thing. (Turning 50 probably had something to do with it too.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, even as an introvert, whose preferred place on a
Saturday night - or any other time of the day/week – is at home alone, I’m
pretty pleased with my efforts to turn up so far this year. I’ve recently taken
part in a political rally for asylum seekers, cultivated dog-park friendships, grooved
at a sick hip hop gig, supported Tom’s mid-life awesome in NZ, and carried the
banner for a local refugee support group in my first parade.</div>
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And though I know I’ll still be riding that railroad of cancelled
plans and hiding out on solitude mountain most of the time, right now I feel
emboldened and empowered by the act of participation. It also helps that my
online community of friends are so supportive. I certainly won’t be drafting an
extrovert’s bucket list or putting my hand up for any public speaking opportunities
any time soon but I will be looking forward to my next chance to simply turn
up.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #333333;">Illustration by Gemma Correll, author of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><em><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><a href="http://www.andrewsmcmeel.com/catalog/detail?sku=9781449466008" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2e7061; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">The Worrier's Guide to Life</span></a> </span></em>and a self-proclaimed introvert.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-45378198246824931942015-06-06T02:09:00.000-07:002015-06-06T02:26:31.535-07:00Eulogy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkB39XT2w_N8UF18ABAQtAU9TxBYjWwq9dFPLX61kwxUv9x6EbTvceHEBQhMqImUZ8hlIZ2l37ytBmHsD_ENW8wqzQ6PfkEQERyvP2E02bqQo9eHExH3NCTdJzj4eZeEQ1cH5gMuzXg80/s1600/IMG_4480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkB39XT2w_N8UF18ABAQtAU9TxBYjWwq9dFPLX61kwxUv9x6EbTvceHEBQhMqImUZ8hlIZ2l37ytBmHsD_ENW8wqzQ6PfkEQERyvP2E02bqQo9eHExH3NCTdJzj4eZeEQ1cH5gMuzXg80/s320/IMG_4480.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I die, I hope people remember that I enjoyed life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That despite the anxious moments I took great delight in
foolishness and sunsets and crisp autumn mornings. That I loved animals and
mountain views and good food.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That I lived for my children, their laughter and company, our
impromptu drives through the suburbs and the way they’d implore “turn the
music up!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope they know that I knew about death and what it
means to those you leave behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope they celebrate my little life and eccentricities, and don't mourn too deeply in a pre-fab, cut-cost funeral home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope they get together sometimes to reminisce about funny
things I did or said. The way my hair was lop-sided and messy. The way my eye
sight was poor, like my judgement and singing. The way I interrupted and day
dreamed and didn’t listen sometimes. Infuriating things. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I die, I hope my loved ones are beside me and all is
forgiven.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-84500326874548469322015-01-06T15:11:00.000-08:002015-01-11T14:29:26.102-08:00Me and Mr Darcy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM3tgvHFyIe2RWMWp1Mvlj6wT45m99o64U_qMGF5LhgdUXDeRVu2FWDO0SRruKqUaWchHuO9t32aOKIYNxb3mUr3alonJN5rLdB9sxGcNmWfZ_4sNvNgiS7nnQS0ScyNt-ko-EQAa2-o/s1600/Helen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM3tgvHFyIe2RWMWp1Mvlj6wT45m99o64U_qMGF5LhgdUXDeRVu2FWDO0SRruKqUaWchHuO9t32aOKIYNxb3mUr3alonJN5rLdB9sxGcNmWfZ_4sNvNgiS7nnQS0ScyNt-ko-EQAa2-o/s1600/Helen.jpg" height="284" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have a confession to make. I’m not very good at community.
You know how we are all supposed to get our jollies from embracing our fellow
man/woman, loving thy neighbour, pitching in and stuff for the common good?
Well, “community” sort of scares me. I guess I'm just not a joiner. But then I
met Helen and Darcy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our part of the neighbourhood is quiet. It hugs the precipice
that leers over the Jamison valley, is often shrouded in dense mist, and is populated
with holiday lets and renovators’ delights. Inside the renovators’ delights
dwell old people, eking out their foggy last years amid 70’s décor and day time
TV. There are the crotchety ones, the sad ones and the stoic ones like Helen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We first met Helen not long after moving in. Helen liked to
take her daily constitutional past our house and it just so happened, being a
bonny Scottish lass, she loved border collies. She fell for our Sam and the feeling
was mutual. It wasn't long before we also fell for Helen with her canny knack
of showing up just when Sam was due for a walk and her keen observations on neighbourhood
goings-on. She knew everyone, and had perhaps lived here the longest. She loved
that we were renovating Mabel’s old place. She didn't love the way her legs got
tired climbing Gordon Road but she tried to keep up none-the-less. At
90-something years young she took it upon herself to look after some of the
other less mobile folk, dropping in for a chin wag and a medicinal each
afternoon with Darcy and Cath. (She had a seemingly never-ending stash of her
father’s Glenfiddich.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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But time ran its course for Helen and in early 2014 she
died. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Helen’s passing left Darcy and Cath at a loss. No longer had
he an afternoon drinking buddy or she someone with whom to disagree with on
religion and politics. Age began to tell more visibly on them. Real frailty set
in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One afternoon I noticed the octogenarian struggling with his
wheely bins and offered to help. And so began my weekly pilgrimage to see Mr
Darcy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I often scuttle in between work deadlines and loads of
washing to rush the near-empty bins to the curb hoping not to be noticed so as
to avoid conversation. But occasionally I am stuck, invited inside to hear the
latest about Cath’s heart condition, their goodly friends from the “church” and
snippets of neighbourhood gossip. I’m sure Darcy would like to offer me a
drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I received a card on my birthday that Darcy made on his computer,
and in return delivered a box of chocolates to celebrate his 90<sup>th</sup>. In
our letterbox this Christmas was a jar of home-made marmalade, the same sort
Helen used to give us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They have our number should anything untoward happen that doesn’t
require an ambulance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I guess you can’t help but get involved in other people’s
lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-50076768683862459472014-12-30T14:45:00.000-08:002014-12-30T14:51:11.221-08:00Precious cargo<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMfZ7XbR4Ez-ESitWC41_3DIvDEglYpQZMklMsVOpBrfL5h8nPU-UJh44m20Da69haBOrZilYQJp8ZymOENEUxifkZ3fki2Lm7cyV7WDZqn3RGHKfJjx3QfOXjjxBz8swlVortSnzWpE/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMfZ7XbR4Ez-ESitWC41_3DIvDEglYpQZMklMsVOpBrfL5h8nPU-UJh44m20Da69haBOrZilYQJp8ZymOENEUxifkZ3fki2Lm7cyV7WDZqn3RGHKfJjx3QfOXjjxBz8swlVortSnzWpE/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="400" width="237" /></a>A parcel arrived today post-marked Phnom Penh, Cambodia. The
return address was Top Banana Guesthouse on the corner of Street 51 down by the riverside, and it
was sent by my daughter Indi, aged 18, travelling solo around South East Asia
since early November<span style="font-size: 13px;">.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Inside were presents, collected treasures, market finds and some books and magazines that were weighing her down.
A note addressed to “My team members,” made us smile. As did the thoughtful
gifts, because knowing Indi, much deliberation and sincere intent accompanied their
purchase.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What was also enclosed in the bubble wrap and newspaper
but clearly not labelled on the customs document was much less tangible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How did my little girl get so worldly and wise as to spend
this long away from home and not only navigate her way through four different
countries and cultures with aplomb but thrive on the experience?<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the letter I wrote to her when she left on her
adventure:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You are young and brave (often impulsive) and that scares
me sometimes but I’m also immensely proud of you and I have a lot of faith in
your judgement. I know we romanticised travel for you with all our stories and
silly journals but backpacking is hard work at times so expect some down days among
the amazing memories you are creating for yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I suppose I brought this on myself naming you after Indiana
Jones and Sir Edmund Hillary but I haven't been apart from you for more than
a week or two since March 1996 so I've kind of got used to having you around.</div>
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May the universe be kind to you and show you many wonderful things.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I also gave her a list of "don'ts" because Mum.<br />
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When she walked through the departure gates at Kingsford Smith airport her dad remarked that it was a watershed moment. I guess he was right. She was always going to leave one day and so will Jaya.<br />
<br />
I just hope they go knowing how loved they are and that they can always come home.</div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-78365198812778530882014-11-02T00:33:00.000-07:002014-11-02T00:35:43.407-07:00About the weather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pX-c9M6Ia-UCmgTuJkFp4QU3u_gLtQQIcAGdvb0y2d3HlHxuD69g7VpS79gDrR68guj6R5EgyKK81i0jHI7NAoXjZ-e-VwRbXPKWGYqd8uLJtHhgLr76cIRLBDTST2a8FnYCi7PC-Yw/s1600/IMG_5869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pX-c9M6Ia-UCmgTuJkFp4QU3u_gLtQQIcAGdvb0y2d3HlHxuD69g7VpS79gDrR68guj6R5EgyKK81i0jHI7NAoXjZ-e-VwRbXPKWGYqd8uLJtHhgLr76cIRLBDTST2a8FnYCi7PC-Yw/s1600/IMG_5869.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes I wonder why I live in the Blue Mountains.
Seemingly endless winters that seep into your bones and incur extortionate heating bills; a four hour return city commute to work and the cultural cringe
afforded regional towns can take its toll. But every time that commuter train
chugs its way across the grimy plains and begins the climb back up the
mountain I feel a certain world weariness slip away. As the terrain outside the window gets
progressively greener and more wild, as views expand to reveal that timeless stretch of
valley and ridge dissolving into a purple horizon where golden evening light magically
anoints cliff-faces and treetops, and when the dizzying altitude allows me to
breathe deeply once more, I know why I'm still here after 13 years. Someone
said recently that they didn't choose the mountains, but rather the mountains
chose them. Perhaps they chose me too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I wrote the following piece about leaving the city
many years ago but it still resonates with me, particularly as we hurtle
headlong into another summer, when spring’s brief bolshie burst of fecundity will be all but silenced by the shimmering heat. Or not. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Weathering the Blue Mountains<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Windscreen wipers on the taxi scrape back and
forth. A grim driver peers past them
through dense fog to barely visible traffic lights. Outside ghost trees shiver and cars around us
splutter white steam like dragons. In the
distance an ambulance siren wails down the highway. “Some weather we’re having,” I say. “Yep,” the driver sighs, summing me up in the
rear vision mirror. "That’s the mountains for you. Up here, it’s either paradise or purgatory.” The cabbie’s ominous observation irks me. Does he mean the weather or life in general
in the Blue Mountains? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is early Spring, a time of new beginnings. Daffodils and jonquils brighten skeletal
gardens but it is still cold and will remain so until November. I have recently joined the exodus of tree
changers fleeing the big smoke for some fresh air, a change of pace and a
mortgage break. I choose to settle in the Blue Mountains - an idyllic World
Heritage listed address only 100 kilometres west of big bad Sydney. But I soon realise there is more to this move
than a new postcode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Initially, there are phobias and misconceptions to
overcome. Snakes and bushfires aside it
is the born and bred mountain folk that scare me most. Goaded by city friends to purchase the correct
uniform – ugg boots and flannelette – we are warned of bikies, druggies and
rednecks. What we discover is a mixed bunch of artists, greenies, travellers,
young families and life-challenged individuals, united by a common bond – climate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For most people discussing the weather is polite
conversation. For mountain dwellers it’s
up there with politics and religion, often controversial and always opinionated. Perhaps that’s because the seasons are so
palpable at 1000 metres above sea level, unlike <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sydney</st1:place></st1:city>’s terrarium-like atmosphere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Adjusting our lives to mountains time we watch
leaves unfurl after Spring sun-showers.
No traffic or large shopping malls, instead just a breath of fresh air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally Summer arrives. Packing woollens away we revel in the warmth
of sunshine on pasty, naked limbs. Christmas
tinsel shimmers in shop windows and blue-tongues smirk when mistaken for snakes
under the clothesline. Soaring temperatures keep tourist buses on the coast and
locals complain bitterly about the heat.
The bush begins to crackle with drought and the incessant shrill of
cicadas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The almost inevitable bushfires keep everyone on
edge. Unable to sleep we listen as
sirens approach then fade into the night.
With morbid fascination we watch the fiery red glow of neighbouring
hilltops, creeping across the valleys and gullies, drawing ever closer. The blow-torch
heat from gusty nor-westers whips up blackened gum leaves, scattering them in
backyards like sooty confetti. </span><span style="line-height: 26.6666641235352px;">And an eerie quiet descends with the dense smoke shrouding our valley.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Concerned
friends ring from the safety of the city offering prayers for rain as overnight f</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">ireys and Elvis the mega-chopper become super
heroes.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Tuned to community radio, I pace
the deck, scan a hazy horizon, cough and wonder how to pack a life into the
boot of a car.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bushfire season passes. A brief but blistering summer subsides into
the glorious, golden hues of Autumn. A
fairyland of falling leaves in blindingly beautiful shades of red, orange and
yellow adorn roadsides. Crisp air and
clear skies are ideal for long, restorative walks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A group of ferals move in next door. All hair and flares tumbling from a clapped
out combi plastered with sentiments that read “Save the Reef”, “No Nukes”,
“Sorry” and my personal favourite “Magic Happens”. They mostly keep to themselves but occasionally
the beat of conga drums wafts on the breeze along with some suspicious scents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By May preparation for Winter is well
underway. I purchase my first proper
coat and seriously consider thermal underwear.
My partner re-discovers a long-lost pioneering spirit and is busy chopping
wood and collecting sticks, taking great pride in neatly stacked piles of
kindling. The Weather Channel becomes
prime time viewing in anticipation of our first frost and I secretly squirrel
away marshmallows, cocoa and tins of soup.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">It occurs to me that I had developed a peculiar
trait inherent in true mountain folk, a pre-occupation with the weather, the
more inclement the better. Bragging to
Sydney friends that their minimum temperature is our maximum. Rubbing numb fingers together with glee
whenever the thermometer sinks to 0 degrees!
Wistfully watching clouds, searching for the band of </span><span style="line-height: 26.6666641235352px;">cumulonimbus</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> that
will herald the elusive, snow-laden low-pressure system I crave. I become obsessed with snow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Winter solstice approaches and residents make ready
for a unique local celebration. The
Winter Magic festival boasts street parades, food stalls and fireworks. Enchanted by the heady aroma of wood-smoke,
roasting chestnuts and incense in the chill air, we rug up to watch with parochial
pride as fairies cavort with African drummers and circus performers make way
for wizards and wanderers. But still no
snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Crunching through brown leaves and duck poo on the
lake’s edge, I pause to study the blackening sky, greeting an elderly mountain
woman feeding the birds. The thin winter
sun illuminates her lined face. “Do you
think we’ll get any snow?” I ask, almost
pleadingly, nodding skywards. She looks at me curiously, “Not now love,
Spring’s on its way.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I glance out over the lake and spy cherry blossoms
on the far side. “But don’t worry,” she smiles patting my arm, “there’s always
next year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And the year after that…The beauty and drama of the
<st1:place w:st="on">Blue Mountains</st1:place> has taken hold of me. I can’t wait to see what next year will
bring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 26.6666641235352px;">First published in </span><i style="line-height: 26.6666641235352px;">The Australian</i><span style="line-height: 26.6666641235352px;"> newspaper</span></span></div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-81158143130377108112014-09-25T21:58:00.003-07:002014-09-25T21:58:44.383-07:00My (spiritual) island home<div class="MsoNormal">
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My connection with New Zealand started well before I
understood that the Australian suburb where I attended primary
school, Waitara, was named after a place of historical significance in New
Zealand and is in fact a Maori word that means mountain stream (according to
Wikipedia).</div>
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It existed earlier than my teenage crush on the new wave
stylings of bands such as Split Enz and Mi-sex. Went beyond a devotion to
big-hitting Lance Cairns and Sir Richard Hadlee's defiant underdogs in the
exciting early 80’s new form of day/night cricket (despite their beige strip).
Outlived the fully fabricated Kiwi persona I adopted when forced to change high
schools and impress new friends. (Sydney obviously wasn't as exotic as
Auckland back then.) And was present an eon prior to meeting and marrying my
Christchurch-born husband with his outdoorsy good looks and English
enunciations.</div>
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Somehow it seems inherent, seminal even, which may be closer
to fact than fiction. It is well recorded in family folklore that my great
grandmother, being a lively lass and one of 26 siblings (yes you read
correctly), ran away at age 16, to avoid the drudgery of life as a dairy maid
that had killed her own mother (never mind the child rearing) with the first
handsome man to ride by on horseback. This swarthy gentleman was rumoured to
have travelled from across the ditch. A New Zealander, a Kiwi, a cad! A subliminal connection to the land of the long white cloud? Perhaps. A growing love affair with Aotearoa?
Definitely.</div>
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I've only visited New Zealand’s south island twice, once in early
2011 a matter of days before the earthquake that levelled Christchurch’s CBD
and forever changed that genteel city’s heart, and again in April this year to
revel in the autumnal splendour of Queenstown and surrounds. But what strikes me
about the country and its people is the down to earth, no bullshit genuineness
of the place. Like Aussies, Kiwis call a spade a spade but there is something
else, a quiet confidence and sense of place seemingly absorbed from the land
itself: the wild rivers, mountains, forests and beaches. And then there is that
rugby team. Both annoyingly and admirably, Kiwis are a hardy bunch of parochial
over-achievers.</div>
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This is an excerpt from my travel diary on that first trip:</div>
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“I feel like I'm trespassing on this island’s grief –
welcomed open-heartedly by a people still reeling from the tragedy of the Pike
River mine disaster and a destructive series of earthquakes and after-shocks
that threatened to flatten NZ’s garden city. But nowhere have we found the
depressed or down-trodden, in fact the opposite. The mood is buoyant if not the
economy.</div>
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As we batten down the
hatches and prepare to be lashed by the tail end of tropical cyclones Vania and
Zelia which combine with a low in the Tasman to produce a storm system/rain event
that will see 90km winds and over 100ml of rain dumped on the top of the south
island I am quietly confident that we too will weather the storm.”<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">You can read my piece on Kiwi earthiness "</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bach to the Future"</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> in the spring 2014 issue of </span><a href="http://www.slowmagazine.com.au/" style="font-size: small;">Slow magazine</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></h4>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-55278750178083726522014-05-27T20:11:00.000-07:002014-05-27T21:07:33.663-07:00My shadow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I’m ironing my husband’s one good shirt, the one reserved
for weddings and funerals, when it hits me.</div>
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A tsunami of grief that knocks me
sideways, washes over me and holds me under until I fight my way back towards
the light and surface, god knows how long later, in foetal
position on the couch, grief all cried out.</div>
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But this is not what happens.</div>
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Instead, I get on with it. I continue with the everyday. I remain calm and carry on.</div>
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I endure and even enjoy work. I set my alarm and greet each
morning with optimism. I make polite conversation with colleagues, strangers,
shop assistants and close family members alike. I clean and cook and clean it
all again.</div>
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I risk delight in sunshine and autumn leaves. </div>
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Perhaps if I pretend it didn't happen then maybe grief will
go away.</div>
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But grief is sneaky.</div>
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It catches me unawares at school
assemblies and in the car at traffic lights.</div>
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Grief travels with me on my morning commute.</div>
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It ghosts me in
supermarket aisles and stares back from the bathroom mirror.</div>
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Tiresome grief will not be silenced.</div>
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I am intimate with grief, we are on first name terms and
somehow I think I’ve known grief,<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> in one guise or another,
all my life.</div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-87348018167265779872014-03-02T02:47:00.002-08:002014-03-06T17:43:57.379-08:00Old mate<div class="MsoNormal">
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I looked up an old friend on facebook the other day.
Actually my teenager did after I recalled yet another story from the past about
“Parky”. He accepted the friend request within hours and I was able to greet him
in the ether.</div>
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A phone call ensued.</div>
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It had been years since we’d last spoken and
I was grateful that we were both still happy to hear from each other, shoot the
breeze and catch up. There were no awkward silences, it was as if we talked every
other week. Don’t get me wrong we’ve got history, purely platonic, including an
80’s share house in Woolloomooloo and a 72 hour return bus trip to Mackay to
visit his old girlfriend, but I was unsure if the current Parky would still be the
same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course we change, life changes us and there’s no denying mortgages,
marriages, kids and the politics of first world problems take their toll, but
essentially we remain the same person inside. It was refreshing to hear about his
life and interests. To learn he’s a devoted dad, a National Parks worker, a
motorbike enthusiast, an organic gardener (who’d have thought) and a triathlete!
But most of all, after the considerable loss and grief I’ve experienced over
the last few years, it was good to know he wasn’t divorced, widowed, suffering
from cancer or staring down the barrel of addiction or mental illness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like
to think that after our conversation we both went back to our separate lives
comfortable in the knowledge that somewhere out there, in the midst of our
ever-changing, unpredictable, fragile existence, an old mate was doing alright.</div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-45058139575615333512013-12-18T01:46:00.000-08:002013-12-18T01:46:10.035-08:00The kids are alright<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9r0Y8Pe9lSDP2WsZWCXDSYrDx-qnrd0DOeEwcEos9p9JjOHBB3sXhBScdt-QTmnxMkwRP6VQDQyAocDRC0xswoa2-eD7GKIOwAAhLq4gYDl4b1aKWYdwWwEM8viM6OSAmF5mMAhL6Lw/s1600/2013-09-22+07.36.54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9r0Y8Pe9lSDP2WsZWCXDSYrDx-qnrd0DOeEwcEos9p9JjOHBB3sXhBScdt-QTmnxMkwRP6VQDQyAocDRC0xswoa2-eD7GKIOwAAhLq4gYDl4b1aKWYdwWwEM8viM6OSAmF5mMAhL6Lw/s320/2013-09-22+07.36.54.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s been a lot of bad press about teenagers and young
adults of late, and I would like to rebut the argument that these ne’er-do-wells
the media like to brand ‘Gen Y bother’ are a bunch of boozy, parent-bludging narcissists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If my daughter’s peers are anything to go by our nation is
in safe hands. These kids are politically aware, philosophically enlightened,
caring, tolerant, intellectual and creative. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HSC results come out today. But do they really count in the
big life picture? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No matter the score these kids will travel, have careers,
invent things, slack off, fall in and out of love, solve problems, plant seeds,
fuck up, make art and eventually become parents themselves just like, and
probably more spectacularly, than any generation before them.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The worst thing about your kids growing up is not the parties,
the obsessive attachment to technology, the lack of respect for authority or tradition;
it is the realization that you need them more than they need you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-67551207526350777672013-10-28T19:38:00.002-07:002013-10-28T19:38:20.297-07:00Sistahood<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJ49CLxkWcABLrTgkivWqXbzFHQHibosiJ9Khm5SeWwEEZSx1O1mZBz3hXfuqg-Dcdl8WtgUDk-PC4VnzSJdfeAq3SpcE_wyViHWVMTcMF0tsGcnM8mwX0AgY5qcPsr3iZk62BlDiLeQ/s1600/bec2+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJ49CLxkWcABLrTgkivWqXbzFHQHibosiJ9Khm5SeWwEEZSx1O1mZBz3hXfuqg-Dcdl8WtgUDk-PC4VnzSJdfeAq3SpcE_wyViHWVMTcMF0tsGcnM8mwX0AgY5qcPsr3iZk62BlDiLeQ/s320/bec2+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm the red head<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was growing up my siblings were my best friends. And
being a middle child I had it good. My little bro provided escapism and
adventure, outdoor games til sunset and someone to lord it over. He possessed a
remarkable ability to make me laugh at the silliest things, and still does.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I wanted so badly to be grown up my big sister was the
one I looked to. She was my staunch defender when schoolyard bullies threatened,
my leading light academically and, I guess, a bit rad for the late 70’s. She
was the dungaree-wearing, roll-your-own smoking, Ry Cooder-listening, scare the pants off Mum and Dad with a motorbike-riding boyfriend type of big sister and
I idolised her. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons given that list of
descriptives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was the one who sneaked me into my first under-age gig*.
She was the one who convinced our parents to let her paint our bedroom teal
green, including the ceiling. And she was the one who saw me through those angsty
teenage and tough early twenty-something times without judgement. No wonder she was the one I
wanted at the delivery of my first born and, 17 years later, at that child's high school
graduation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHt-mXIMgsMNha00x93w2qGpFJMUIDj9v3ZaGDeDP3KHPUmkXVY47rDyExABJkjTTuDIDMdtzTs-GHApeHfFN5h1gj7C6qVdCMeJ09wEEKblWSFsryXQGNaJ8nt83INAp_dbTVrL6C1A/s1600/me+and+bec+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHt-mXIMgsMNha00x93w2qGpFJMUIDj9v3ZaGDeDP3KHPUmkXVY47rDyExABJkjTTuDIDMdtzTs-GHApeHfFN5h1gj7C6qVdCMeJ09wEEKblWSFsryXQGNaJ8nt83INAp_dbTVrL6C1A/s320/me+and+bec+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, nothing has changed. When I’m down or stressed I look
to her for guidance, a shoulder to cry on, a laugh over a glass or three of wine or a spot of cleaning. Did I
mention she’s a domestic goddess?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was the rock when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, travelling
miles weekly to attend appointments, decipher medical and legal jargon, provide companionship
and ultimately nurse Mum in the final weeks. For that I owe her an unfathomable
debt of gratitude. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhM1qyjOANcRhKOc25FSNmcryrDrTeRyJFgtuZR86jdiUQe_WvhSchHVYARIYS9L9RsFMaVDsIZk11DZTYtthy6AIZXawv7MsqpQs8YZysUiHDzeewNAx62oayU4oF1cz2bXci8s1IpQ/s1600/IMG_8516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhM1qyjOANcRhKOc25FSNmcryrDrTeRyJFgtuZR86jdiUQe_WvhSchHVYARIYS9L9RsFMaVDsIZk11DZTYtthy6AIZXawv7MsqpQs8YZysUiHDzeewNAx62oayU4oF1cz2bXci8s1IpQ/s320/IMG_8516.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although we are chalk and cheese, in so many ways, the bond we
share will never be broken. Happy Birthday Bec!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*<i> </i>it was<i> Mental as Anything</i>
at the Manly Vale Hotel</span></div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-22105620904344004982013-10-06T21:37:00.001-07:002013-10-06T21:37:21.557-07:00Greensleeves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9mWkd1RhVnervlO5hKT5lcz8Usb8jdheZ-m3UyLHtTm4jDWN7DIYDi3E-MCnAhupbn2UXFg_nZh3_lg_tGCGEkVs_N3dKICBBGEBat_LvFzEhcvEdc8buDhA0-5Tbir83V2p4a5haRPM/s320/Mr+Whippy+Van.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It's not summer yet (and mountain summers can be underwhelming) but the shrill of cicadas has got me feeling nostalgic...</i></span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In my childhood memories it is always hot. Nothing ever moves quickly and even sounds
are lazy and low. It’s about summer and
fibro. Long weekends, blowflies and pink
zinc.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">About Dad wrangling the Victa through the
backyard.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Purring, spluttering past the
wading pool littered with jacaranda confetti.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Around the outlawed incinerator, then stalled, swearing and sweaty under
the Hills hoist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Me on a rusty swing, creaking to and fro, back and
forth, bare toes tickling the buffalo grass.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Running back to the house trying to avoid the biting black ants.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Cool, lying flat out on the linoleum floor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">The radio’s murmuring that steady, reassuring
rhythm of cricket.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">And a whirring fan
pushes warm air around the room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Mum’s upside down.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">I watch her walk into the kitchen, taking in her long legs first, then
that spotty, lime green dress she made herself.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Even upside down she looks beautiful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Dad’s in the kitchen now.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Big brown back, droplets of
perspiration.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Flag ale – ah that’s
better.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">They smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s lunchtime.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Our legs stick to orange vinyl and my brother makes squeaky fart sounds
with his.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We all giggle.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">There’s tepid cordial and ham left over from
Christmas.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Mum makes a salad with tins of </span><st1:street style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Golden Circle</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">
pineapple rings and beetroot.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">After lunch my brother and I escape.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We put T-shirts on and rubber thongs, cause
mum said to, and slip through the broken paling fence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">“G’day Bluey,” says Mr Farley ruffling my orange
hair.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hello little man,” he says to my
brother.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We grin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Mr Farley takes photos.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">He invites us inside.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Spooky and quiet in the dark red glow we
watch as our mum appears, slowly, like a ghost floating in the developing tray.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">I like the acrid smell of the chemicals.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t touch now,” Mr Farley warns but he’s not
angry – he likes us.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">He likes my mum
too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We come out into the glare and shield our eyes for
a moment.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Waving goodbye to Mr Farley we
return to </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">our </i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">world on the other side
of the fence.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Dad has the hose and a
smile in his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We know what’s coming next and pretend to run away
screaming as delicious spurts of water fall on backs, heads, legs.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Soon we are soaking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Dad turns the hose off.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">My brother goes inside and I go back to the
swing.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Overhead grey-black clouds are
creeping up on our Sunday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">The air becomes thick and sweet, heavy with the
smell of rain not too far away.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">There’s
a distant rumble of thunder and for some reason I think about loneliness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Then I hear something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">“</span><i style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Alas my love
you do me wrong</i><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">…”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">The sad,
melancholy tinkling of Greensleeves.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">“Come and
get an ice cream,” calls my brother from the back door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We swing our legs on the banana lounge; happy, gripping sticky, drippy Mr Whippy ice-creams as fat drops of rain from the
afternoon thunder storm splat on the concrete path.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-53330473306927866482013-09-03T17:18:00.000-07:002013-09-03T18:54:00.738-07:00Sky Burial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-6WZHBKqX3JNBQXLYpQrkPBWg6R2UvbGHlJpla8iq94u8iK0-wn_jldPD-xrfGccIJsVwOInROKk_XeIL3_IAQYs1JyWaJBbtAzVyfI27qvQ5Trdw4X-8mRSVapfmO9PHtQ_wkdz1R0/s1600/The+view+from+Gordon+Falls+reserve+Leura+J+Forster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-6WZHBKqX3JNBQXLYpQrkPBWg6R2UvbGHlJpla8iq94u8iK0-wn_jldPD-xrfGccIJsVwOInROKk_XeIL3_IAQYs1JyWaJBbtAzVyfI27qvQ5Trdw4X-8mRSVapfmO9PHtQ_wkdz1R0/s400/The+view+from+Gordon+Falls+reserve+Leura+J+Forster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<i>(a poem for Gary Tweddle)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
For two days helicopters buzz the cliffs and ridges like metallic lammergeiers<br />
<br />
Aiding and abetting the grisly retrieval work of the police ground crew.<br />
<br />
Our very own <a href="https://www.google.com.au/search?q=broadchurch&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=4XomUsqXKs-TiAfGn4GgAw&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1024&bih=667">Broadchurch</a> unfolding on the pretty streets of a tourist town<br />
<br />
The decomposed deceased, missing for six weeks, putting paid to delight in an early spring.<br />
<br />
And yet here comes another unwitting victim, map and Mars bar in hand, gob-smacked by the sun-drenched sandstone edifice<br />
<br />
Pondering misadventure in the depths of the Jamison valley.<br />
<br />Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-42365675991192700922013-08-06T22:02:00.000-07:002013-08-14T21:05:49.591-07:00Old school ties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfanwICK63RrwXiYrayBrl9b_VI19W1Hx0Kb6ur5vj1sps2oKjnGpHlqFDys-VCMLPMqjwzQdR58zVgObOhyKiPvu8ZlKc8kuifc5wdjp8r_BdJMN8-8WRTe_r0OEeKCmtCiHXjKrD7Y/s1600/indi+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfanwICK63RrwXiYrayBrl9b_VI19W1Hx0Kb6ur5vj1sps2oKjnGpHlqFDys-VCMLPMqjwzQdR58zVgObOhyKiPvu8ZlKc8kuifc5wdjp8r_BdJMN8-8WRTe_r0OEeKCmtCiHXjKrD7Y/s320/indi+001.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of September my first
born will walk out her school gates for the last time (until a brief stint in
the HSC exam rooms come Oct/Nov.) Sniff...pass the tissues please...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember leaving school and those mixed feelings
of sadness, uncertainty, exhilaration and new found freedom?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some kids can’t wait to get out into
the big wide world and embrace adulthood, others would like to remain cocooned
in the familiar routines and privileges of classrooms and adolescence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a long time ago now for me
but I think I sat on the fence – loved not having to get up early, do homework
and wear a uniform but hated the lack of opportunity a poor HSC result and
geographical isolation dished out in spades.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But being a glass half full sort
of gal I got myself out of those doldrums and have survived to this very day
proving that school exam scores and report cards certainly
don’t define you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I think dear old Miss
Timmins had a fair go at it in class 4.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOI8arazQjhdXu0h3FeFThy2Bqv2zRIir9nWbJz3HS1NXYPCJj2yhbCJJ8kH_dtNUc9rcm5AYuTWHgaZgStZIDfgGs0JXoawAPeQSb1NyZtyyXLuEhYczcOXO-fiPVmYFb4T1X3i__EA/s1600/report+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOI8arazQjhdXu0h3FeFThy2Bqv2zRIir9nWbJz3HS1NXYPCJj2yhbCJJ8kH_dtNUc9rcm5AYuTWHgaZgStZIDfgGs0JXoawAPeQSb1NyZtyyXLuEhYczcOXO-fiPVmYFb4T1X3i__EA/s400/report+001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-16755126552357647562013-07-07T23:38:00.001-07:002013-07-08T02:38:51.930-07:00Disgraceful Ageing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapiyjWp93u2sGccmSHiXmqLplooXJZDorXvM_w_-bJPBbu3igP5v9ssr8bNZ8KTUlXvBIoc06IAGt7aPeM_V2-EON-2SS39JtlLSWrtU9W2pxBd2Zh_0t3fcVmj4FhsN97Ec81uLY8rU/s1600/me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapiyjWp93u2sGccmSHiXmqLplooXJZDorXvM_w_-bJPBbu3igP5v9ssr8bNZ8KTUlXvBIoc06IAGt7aPeM_V2-EON-2SS39JtlLSWrtU9W2pxBd2Zh_0t3fcVmj4FhsN97Ec81uLY8rU/s320/me.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am unapologetically middle-aged. And although 48 may be
the new 12 I think it is time I started acting my age. But what does that mean?<br />
<br />
I like gardening and punk music. I wear skinny jeans and drive a station wagon.
I love food, wine, theatre and staying in on Friday night. I may have a
mortgage but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I still feel the same as I did 25
or 30 years ago, it’s just that the crow’s feet and tuck-shop arms give me
away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I guess I’ll go on badly dyeing my hair, listening to
<a href="http://www.abc.net.au/triplej/">Triple J</a>, loving <a href="http://johngreenbooks.com/">John Green</a> novels and dressing inappropriately til the day I
die. The last thing I want to do is have a mid-life crisis and discover tantric
sex or turn vegan or join a cult or become a crazy cat lady.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read an article about how middle-aged women feel invisible
in today’s youth-worshipping society and frankly that’s fine by me. Ever since
the shiny new megamart replaced my local corner shop I feel that if I haven’t
had a manicure, a facial and a nose job before I go out to buy milk I’ll be committing
social suicide, because invariably as I’m wandering the aisles vaguely, in my slippers and daggy old pilled jumper,
without a shopping list wondering what the hell I came in for I’ll bump into
my daughter’s favourite school teacher, the local member for parliament, my sadistic ex-boss,
the kid who works in the video store where I still haven’t paid the overdue fine
for <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i> and the bloke who
fixes my car. Eventually, after I hide in the frozen fish section to avoid the
militant wing of the P&C, I’ll end up buying 24 rolls of toilet paper (because
they are on special) and I'll forget the milk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad, who is 81, is reading <i>The Hunger Games</i> trilogy. He loves Katniss, Peeta and all the crew. It takes him back to the Depression days when hunting small wildlife and bush survival skills were
the norm (not sure about murdering other kids). Only problem is he’s still
waiting for the third book to be released. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He has a saying which I like: “there’s no future in growing
old”.</div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-37027062022864171092013-07-04T19:14:00.001-07:002013-07-05T01:54:41.148-07:00The Crying House<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk8JEglvD_uBn_U4cXnRK37CTDAkqDzagtO6ArReWbT02Qi3Z-nhg2YM4vbWqtakWTh7eLnFBLaBUQQmRagyCJr-vciRvmLmFa1kGLWKg3Om5zqcUn7bUC5i1Tz9vcLP-9iHdh3Eva-U/s580/crying+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk8JEglvD_uBn_U4cXnRK37CTDAkqDzagtO6ArReWbT02Qi3Z-nhg2YM4vbWqtakWTh7eLnFBLaBUQQmRagyCJr-vciRvmLmFa1kGLWKg3Om5zqcUn7bUC5i1Tz9vcLP-9iHdh3Eva-U/s320/crying+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Recently I commiserated with a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://marycanningphotography.typepad.com/mary_canning_photography/"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">friend</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> who was packing
up her family home as it had been sold. (Cue audible sigh) It’s
always hard moving house, physically it’s a nightmare and emotionally it’s just
plain tough. So many memories, not all of them good, but all of them particular
to the lives that are played out within those walls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">It didn’t help my friend that it rained for an entire
week during the packing and detaching process. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I was reminded of an
art installation I saw last year as part of Sydney’s </span><a href="http://www.artandabout.com.au/"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Art and About</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> festival. The installation, called <i>I
Wish You Hadn’t Asked</i> by James Dive from </span><a href="http://www.gluesociety.com/"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Glue Society</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> creative collective, was a fully furnished
house, erected in the middle of city, that rained on the inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">For two weeks,
furniture, bedding, appliances, toys, artworks, books and clothing deteriorated
as 200 litres of recycled water rained down on them – gradually destroying this
little time capsule of family life; symbolising a relationship falling
apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">To experience the installation you donned a raincoat
and entered through the front door. At the time I visited it had been raining
on the inside for over a week. I found the surreal Dali-esque scene of molten
belongings - the ruined trappings of a familiar life - and the stench of decay
extremely confronting. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough; tears
streaming down my face by the time I exited the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Of the project, artist James Dive said: “From the
outside everything looks normal – it is only once we go beyond the exterior
normalities that we become witness to a private world slowly destroying itself.
As the water continues to rain down, and as your shoes fill up, we gain empathy
for a private world which time cannot mend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I know it's not material possessions that define "home" but after the boxes are filled, and you’ve
dealt with the dust bunnies that remain when the furniture is removed, somehow an empty house doesn’t feel like home any more. It took my lot six
months to come to terms with our latest move. (Or was it just me?) Eventually we stopped calling it
“that house” and now we belong (albeit in a state of flux for the last year -
see <i>Cabin Fever</i>), the sounds and smells and chaos of family life - arguments and laughter - filling the spaces up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-50211193362393536702013-06-20T17:53:00.001-07:002013-06-20T19:58:28.114-07:00Offspring<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuHiCJWHuy3n8NqnV4ydrPYuDmbCv2xHmOIUV6ANEm2ICIGsiIxfDWQDv9KKowVv8JHRaXYIQ11cHC7WTTaPoeA9IU1GbYpLoDFgZjJnyDhToihNxFAVo9VfXyOZg8olpJe6KFyW29dE/s1600/sparkle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuHiCJWHuy3n8NqnV4ydrPYuDmbCv2xHmOIUV6ANEm2ICIGsiIxfDWQDv9KKowVv8JHRaXYIQ11cHC7WTTaPoeA9IU1GbYpLoDFgZjJnyDhToihNxFAVo9VfXyOZg8olpJe6KFyW29dE/s320/sparkle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may sometimes allude to the fact that I share my life with
children. And while they fill my world with joy I don’t want to harp on about
them. I can’t imagine growing up in the digital age and having every little
success or failure plastered all over the interweb by my loving mom. Thankfully,
back in the day mothers were way too busy to engage in banal status updates and
children were seen more as a duty than inspirational blog fodder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I don’t cherish them it’s just that I don’t
want to be typecast as a mummy blogger and alienate the demographic that choose
to steer clear of the mental, physical and fiscal cliff towards which offspring
seem determined to drive their parents. I have born and bred two daughters – no
biggie – they are long out of nappies anyway so I’ll let them make their own online
faux pas. But did I mention they are incredibly intelligent, gorgeous human
beings?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recently had the pleasure of interviewing <a href="http://www.carlhonore.com/">Carl Honore</a>, author of <i>Under Pressure</i> – <i>How the epidemic of hyper-parenting is endangering childhood. </i>Carl
has some sage advice for would be tiger-mums about letting children <i>just be</i> children. (Cue the beautiful <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Pc2A66m7Zg">Jonsi</a>.) It's all about the slow movement which includes education. Slow education lets
children explore via an emergent curriculum that is lateral not linear. And slow
schools don’t hothouse or teach to exams - I’m looking at you NAPLAN!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve decided to take a more hands-off approach to
parenting. I’ve always encouraged individuality in my daughters – not that they
needed it – and given them freedoms that some parents may feel unwise, but I feel
they need to be able to think for themselves and learn from mistakes. Of course
they know they can always call home and although it sounds counterintuitive, (my
new favourite word), like slow education, hopefully a bit of freedom will help establish sound boundaries
for learning and growth.</div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-51080780332013391152013-06-09T16:43:00.000-07:002013-06-09T18:38:32.018-07:00Blindsided<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg63jIk_4spOytvNQmpzKLSaPBt2LE8w84BXtNWhTq-PbCsO2RYA2Gpo4Mm25BFIfSRsUcrW6ps-Q2zfEQOAI0cw1nv_yDTK3hr0aGDAKnrIAPWQ_Nsi1oEZoJBkUv7DMChrBGxvGeQ7c/s1600/blade_runner_eye-x380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg63jIk_4spOytvNQmpzKLSaPBt2LE8w84BXtNWhTq-PbCsO2RYA2Gpo4Mm25BFIfSRsUcrW6ps-Q2zfEQOAI0cw1nv_yDTK3hr0aGDAKnrIAPWQ_Nsi1oEZoJBkUv7DMChrBGxvGeQ7c/s320/blade_runner_eye-x380.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a routine eye check-up (I’ll qualify routine later) I was
told that I was legally blind in my right eye. Immediately my devious mind
thought of any benefit I could claim - financial or otherwise – then the
reality of the diagnosis began to sink in. Can I keep my driver’s license? Wow
I’ve only got one eye left? Blindness is such a freaky thing for sighted people
to imagine. I remember as a kid playing that party game pin the tail on the donkey and how we laughed at the near misses
and hilarious places we’d stuck the tail. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doesn’t seem so funny now.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My eyes are what you might call my Achilles heel. When I was
in kindergarten, circa 1970, a routine school check up found I had myopia
(short-sightedness) and a lazy eye with a slight turn – just for effect. For a
year after that I wore glasses with a patch on one lens to try to strengthen
the lazy eye. It’s called occlusion therapy. The cat-eye glasses had
cream frames and the patch bore a Disney Bambi motif. Remember that kid at
school with the patch? That was me. And though I can’t remember the taunts of ‘Cyclops’
it did make me look at the world differently. Besides, being a ginger I was no
stranger to name-calling.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best part about the diagnosis was that I got to go to a
specialist in the city every month for eye exercises. This meant a day off
school YES!, lunch at the Grace Bros. (now Myer) cafeteria - chocolate milkshake and a cheese
sandwich, and one on one time with Mum.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Years later another diagnosis of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congenital_cataract">congenital cataracts</a> saw me
in surgery – a routine procedure for octogenarians but not 20-somethings. But
maybe my biggest fail optically was when I detached my own retina chopping wood.
I’m too ashamed to go into detail but yes it did hurt and no I don’t fancy
myself as a lumberjack anymore.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am contemplating another ‘procedure’ to remove the
rubber band that has been holding my retina in place since that fateful axe
wielding day and that makes my kids look at me suspiciously when they see a glimpse
of silicon in the corner of my eye (they think I’m some sort of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5cNUpHe2h6npCVrdb4aH0BfjeuVx3rwYxawX-Ai0_elXzqeYSCvHpwdHF9s2_qyFvJEjqlGtSj9mTryK5VQJdqauTOO5AwqJAcxRqhKmU-g-fp8LGF0YpfJObytkiZTNRhyphenhyphenEg1_B6Rk/s1600/07233.jpg">Replicant</a>), and trying not to consider the possibility of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sympathetic_ophthalmia">sympathetic opthalmia</a>. </div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-82352352995592542832013-05-10T17:43:00.000-07:002013-05-10T17:45:15.088-07:00Get real<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CSy-LndHt4aQnzW4W1UlStRhxRdiKYP58VDzdlIAb5fXhAA2bszZzUS3C8pHxUH6D9uKxe5f4Qf3CCfik2vEurOo6lYbHYkVrftex1pmcOzt8i10_DsSvbkQBJkGlNyeHUjKBU_foKk/s1600/tv-dance-moms01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CSy-LndHt4aQnzW4W1UlStRhxRdiKYP58VDzdlIAb5fXhAA2bszZzUS3C8pHxUH6D9uKxe5f4Qf3CCfik2vEurOo6lYbHYkVrftex1pmcOzt8i10_DsSvbkQBJkGlNyeHUjKBU_foKk/s320/tv-dance-moms01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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As a rule I don’t watch reality TV – I can’t stand the
squirming embarrassment I feel for each and every participant as they try to engender
love (but more frequently loathing)
through the various traumas and triumphs that take place during their sordid little
15 minutes of fame. </div>
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But lately I’ve found it useful.</div>
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It has become a way of connecting with my pubescent
daughter before she plummets into the abyss of teenage angst and shuts me out
completely. We can connect over America’s Next Top Model, The Voice, The Block,
Four Weddings and possibly most distressingly Dance Moms. I draw the line at
Wife Swap.</div>
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And while we don’t always see eye to eye on the content or
contestants, at least it opens a dialogue about touchy issues like body
image, self esteem, etiquette and most importantly – hair and clothes.</div>
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I only hope she doesn’t aspire to appear in a reality tv
show or worse still, start living vicariously through these dunderheads.</div>
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All the
shows are pretty much the same and attract a similar bunch of narcissists who willingly subject themselves to a
series of often particularly cruel humiliations in their quest to win, win, WIN. Petulant behaviour, screaming and tears are par for
the course. It’s all great fun until someone gets hurt.</div>
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And maybe that's the lesson we take from 'reality' tv - real life isn't a competition.<br />
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-80539446996876176232013-04-25T16:49:00.000-07:002013-04-25T16:49:00.009-07:00"Ideas are overrated"<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kYU1Xtb2GKO-X55NF47_P6eI_opOcya4YPlW7tEe-mzIroG59knFDh1tdewyZK1qnJwmYvxRX79lnMX2OXbMpwRG7s-D6M21BEK-bvd8gVhnHIHgi_Q-Pro8vuNJidn3DVMvGOb86Ls/s1600/lbl-breakdown-graphics-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kYU1Xtb2GKO-X55NF47_P6eI_opOcya4YPlW7tEe-mzIroG59knFDh1tdewyZK1qnJwmYvxRX79lnMX2OXbMpwRG7s-D6M21BEK-bvd8gVhnHIHgi_Q-Pro8vuNJidn3DVMvGOb86Ls/s320/lbl-breakdown-graphics-03.jpg" width="131" /></a>So said the brooding badlander Mr <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/05/Nick_Cave_2009_New_York_City_2.jpg">Nick Cave</a> in a recent
interview. I reckon he’s had a few so I listened up. He qualified it with this: <i>It is the hard work behind ideas to make them happen that is important</i> or something like that.</div>
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And I
agree.</div>
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Ideas are never a problem for me. They come thick and fast, usually around
3am when my brain is awash with anxiety reliving the preceding day’s events and
expected outcomes of the next 24 hours. Storylines, business ventures, problem solving
techniques all filter through the insomnia. But by the cold light of day those nuggets
of genius pale in comparison to the deeds of the real movers and shakers of
this world. Because it’s not the thinkers, dreamers or list makers (a group to
which sadly I am a card carrying member) that win my admiration but the doers - the activists and volunteers, the entrepreneurs, scientists and community workers.</div>
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And so this post is dedicated to the <a href="https://www.livebelowtheline.com.au/">Live Below the Line</a> challenge participants (including my socially conscious teenager). A great idea that not only raises much needed funds
for the poverty stricken but teaches a valuable life lesson in empathy.</div>
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If you would like to sponsor said socially conscious teen please <a href="https://www.livebelowtheline.com.au/me/indigoes">click here</a>.</div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-44148688238670900792013-04-15T16:23:00.000-07:002013-04-15T23:27:32.133-07:00Four funerals and a wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXUsXMTrGKMwWC75htw-L8DO9Q77ou3GVqQfNBuCQIx7SmNiNEU5iYwVlFDjKE5c34OQiNEQb5Rgl0OKodYHS4IAZLkDcqE0eWxZtocvlqJUbNrVix1ATTFLlzD7eznk68v2auCtutLk/s1600/mum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXUsXMTrGKMwWC75htw-L8DO9Q77ou3GVqQfNBuCQIx7SmNiNEU5iYwVlFDjKE5c34OQiNEQb5Rgl0OKodYHS4IAZLkDcqE0eWxZtocvlqJUbNrVix1ATTFLlzD7eznk68v2auCtutLk/s320/mum.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
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<i>Not long after the
flowers began to fade and list in their permamoist foam containers she began to
notice things. Like shafts of light through summer mist after thunderstorms. Or
the way the bowerbirds descended on her garden in fleeting olive-green drifts, cocking
their hen-like heads, ever alert for the signalling call of the handsome
blue-black fellow with his penchant for azure pegs and drinking straws. Maybe
it was the bottled-up emotion curled like watchful cats inside her chest. Maybe
it was the dreams that woke her with a start in the deep dark of night. But she noticed that the world was lighter and quieter. And she was set adrift in it – reeling and anchorless.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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I never realised that losing my mum would make me feel so alone.
So insecure. I feel it most keenly as the seasons change, as my girls grow, and our home renovation takes one more step towards completion - things we will never share. Agonisingly, I feel it in my father's hollow voice down the telephone line.</div>
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I’ve been to four family funerals in four years. Each
one different and yet the same. So inadequate the send-off for such intricate beings. And such an unfillable person-shaped hole in the universe when they are gone.</div>
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Perhaps we need death to make us take stock and dare to ponder
mortality.</div>
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And then there is always joy. Birth, music, beauty and a perfect day.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYg6ojDpAARplAQt3kY-moWeN9RpyOkYiahWIfwqjYPPHgw1rBaEpclsObknpUUO0-Klkv6mKZGvJxQ6Lz7JTCWY9mIdc_CNvk3H411gWlRQiirm5HPsahpQsT9gyzvCpo1TFcp6fvKE/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYg6ojDpAARplAQt3kY-moWeN9RpyOkYiahWIfwqjYPPHgw1rBaEpclsObknpUUO0-Klkv6mKZGvJxQ6Lz7JTCWY9mIdc_CNvk3H411gWlRQiirm5HPsahpQsT9gyzvCpo1TFcp6fvKE/s320/us.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-53808995442057932702013-04-08T23:44:00.000-07:002013-04-10T23:18:27.902-07:00That syncing feeling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9q-PdrRc6vpd8NlcjFWYMtS6qS-bsAukt82HuP6w9n8j63OGyhPCNpzp_4qQOAxVNG4wXLCHhyphenhyphenqDMCzFqa5Eh-2XJEUjwoh00GZz2wKoKYIekZVBNCd9nTxgH-GRVF9hiEEDpYohQJU/s1600/IMG_0673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9q-PdrRc6vpd8NlcjFWYMtS6qS-bsAukt82HuP6w9n8j63OGyhPCNpzp_4qQOAxVNG4wXLCHhyphenhyphenqDMCzFqa5Eh-2XJEUjwoh00GZz2wKoKYIekZVBNCd9nTxgH-GRVF9hiEEDpYohQJU/s200/IMG_0673.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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After succumbing to smart phone envy at work I decided it
was time to get one myself. The kid in the phone store was very
considerate, gently guiding me through the purchase, correctly assuming I was a
first time user. Slowly, I have grown fond of my phone. It’s very pretty, with
bright lights and all the bells and whistles. I can see what the weather’s like
in Istanbul, record voice memos a la Agent Cooper (“Diane it’s 9am and I’m
heading out for coffee and a slice of pie”), take new photos then download apps to make them look old, access recipes so I'm never all lost in the supermarket when it comes time to make dinner and pinpoint my exact location on
mobile satnav for when I do get lost in the supermarket and can't remember where I parked my car. Oh wait, that still won't help me find my car but it is quite fun. When I plug my phone into my computer it synchronizes my life with little whirling cyber dervishes. But while I’m not a total Luddite I am afraid this and other tech
gadgets fail to get my heart racing. </div>
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Call
me old fashioned but I like the feel of books, the smell of stationers and
second hand shops, the thrill of receiving snail mail (that isn't a bill) and the possibilities of a new black pen. Likewise, when it comes to social media I'm a late adopter. Facebook and twitter leave me cold. It's all too immediate and bolshie, with too much margin for error, ill-conceived opinion and hastily cobbled together sentences laden with typos and bad grammar. IMHO - to use the vernacular. Never mind the gratuitous product placement. I like the safety net of editing.That’s why I
chose this little blog by which to whisper to the world. (I'm ok if no one is listening.) And though I have every intention of penning witty
weekly posts, reality is that unlike Kim Jong-un I'm hesitant to push the (Publish) button. Besides, I'm not sure I've got a handle on the technology. So bear with me while I read the manual to see how it all works. Failing that
I’ll contact the nearest teenager – oh look here comes one now...</div>
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PS: What is it with followers? Sounds like some doomsday
cult of zombie-like religious zealots. Either that or a bunch of lemmings.</div>
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Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9109924292854133846.post-88240733607767538292013-03-12T19:55:00.000-07:002013-03-27T16:27:11.884-07:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe23hlQpeQ3YX2mBgoUZqw9f5y5c7YvGOcUFXeNH9ZektYZgD2rU0egQ-u3GKRP7QuiIRREkTy55cS_G5bNYiP6OsXHAJHFU_QwE5A1fHzHCx2u6NA7rAk2v40_dPgTDsL3PZ4uBdrN7Q/s1600/Spleen.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe23hlQpeQ3YX2mBgoUZqw9f5y5c7YvGOcUFXeNH9ZektYZgD2rU0egQ-u3GKRP7QuiIRREkTy55cS_G5bNYiP6OsXHAJHFU_QwE5A1fHzHCx2u6NA7rAk2v40_dPgTDsL3PZ4uBdrN7Q/s320/Spleen.png" width="224" /></a>I had an enlarged spleen when I was a child. Not sure what that
meant but mum was worried enough to take me to the local GP where two nurses wrestled
my flailing limbs into submission while the doctor tried to find a vein from
which to extract a blood sample.</div>
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Seems I recovered, but the spleen has always held a
morbid fascination for me. The word has a Shakespearean quality. A medieval tone.</div>
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I’m told you can vent it.</div>
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And, like the appendix, apparently humans can live without
this dubious non-vital organ. It’s like the Allen key or set of screws you find
in the Ikea packaging after you’ve already assembled the Flintorp. May have
been useful but not essential.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
A bit
like this blog. </div>
Jacqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05426782432426015878noreply@blogger.com0