Monday, 18 June 2018
I love it. Emails, Facebook, watts app, instagram, phone (or fone), so many messaging services and ways of communicating. But when it's not working, run out of battery juice or whatever, we still rely on pen and paper.
Or in this instance, chalk and concrete.
I hope Stacey waited for the call.
or perhaps she wrote her own 'chalk and concrete' reply. Hopefully it didn't rain.
Transient art at it's best.
Otherwise known as 'life'.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
So I'm not much of a Eurovision aficionado. It's just when I'm channel surfing and come across it that I’ll watch a song or two. In between news channels, I happened to catch a rerun of the final. I'd heard that Portugal had won, but hadn't heard the song. It was up next. “Here we go.” I thought, “don't settle into work just yet, watch this.”
I was surprised to hear Salvador Sobral sing a ballad. Compared to the others of razzle, flash, dazzle and rap beats, here he was singing a sensitive ballad written by his sister.
“If anyone ever wonders about me, tell them I have lived solely to love you.”
My Portuguese isn't fluent (non-existent), so I was reading the subtitled lyrics. The love-cynic in me cringed to read the sensitive words of feeling rejected.
“I beg you to come back and want me again.”
"Get up and kick ass,” I thought, “what about some good old-fashioned feisty revenge?” But no, the lyrics continued on in the same sensitive fashion, and every time it was going to sink into self-indulgence it would pull out, in a sweep of honesty. And then came the end -
[(If you can’t suffer the loving)]
“My heart can love for both of us instead.”
This last line made me squirt tears.
Maybe I'm not such a love cynic after all.
"Music is not all fireworks. Let us bring music back which has feeling."
Go for Salvy, go for it.
Friday, 17 February 2017
You know how it is, some days things just don’t want to go the way they’re supposed to. Luckily, that wasn’t me who hit this sign, hammered it or generally knocked it over, But I was having one of those days. A day when everything I touched seemed to break or go the wrong way. The toast burnt, the tea spilt, the chicken bit the hand that feeds it, I forgot to take my swimmers to swimming pool and the bank shut when I got there.
The moral to the story is, some days the only way is up. And it’s only when the sign is knocked over that you remember can make your own rules.
Wednesday, 1 February 2017
I do love a suburban sunflower. Especially the giant ones, they always seem a little more daring than daisies and roses. They say, "look at me, here I am, and I'm loving the sun, and I want to share it with you."
Recently, there's been a lot of public interest in sunflower fields outside of Brisbane. I've always liked the idea, that like birds, people follow the sun. Check out this by Myrtle Pasquali -http://www.weekendnotes.com/sunflowers-near-brisbane/
I remember hearing about my Russian grandmother and the kilos of sunflower seeds they would eat, adding it also to cakes and bread.
In Russian literature, those paradigms of light-hearted happiness (not) sunflowers are a hint of another time of potential happiness.
At the end of the season, after I have had a rifle through the seeds and picked some out, I love putting out the massive heads of sunflowers for the birds to peck at.
They cluster to it like a water fountain, a water fountain of sun ;-)
Monday, 21 November 2016
Separated, we hang together.
A unique, online experience.
A haiku of drama
Dangling by a thread,
we wait for redemption.
We give online shoe sales
a new height of meaning.
Saturday, 12 November 2016
These flowers look beautiful in their colour and lightness. But there is something I find more interesting about the black-and-white, the darkness.
The colour and light show me for what they are. But in the black and white, I want to go on a trip into their story darkness. I want to pick them up and hold them, explore the Version Noir of the Roses.
I see intrigue, I see stories. I am drawn to the darkness, not out of misery, but of wanting to feel their pain, know their pain. Perhaps I want to alleviate my pain by soothing theirs, by knowing theirs. This is not a good coping mechanism in reality in relationships. I have explored the poison ivy black-and-white darkness of relationships, wondering what would happen if I held on tighter...
We all know that answer, but black-and-white is not always what it seems.
What is the colour of pain?
If reality is in the perspective, how much do we project ourselves onto a visual image, or onto a story. In the colour and light I see the roses, I smell them. But in the darkness, they become part of my story, and I of their’s.