It’s difficult not to count. Every day I miss him. Every day brings him closer.
I scan the news – radio, papers, internet. My Middle East geography has improved from zilch to some sort of expertise. If I play with Google Earth, can I understand the place he is?
He’s guarded, when he’s able to communicate with us. The children and I pray at dinner that Daddy will be safe and every time I feel the tremor in Lucy’s hand. At eight, she understands. At two, Bella bangs on the table with her spoon and looks at me with his eyes.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sark
While work consumes so many hours in the day this week, I'll use another Channel Islands photo from years ago for today's image. This one is of Sark.
Sark was somewhere I always wanted to see - it was the real reason for going to the Channel Islands at all. And it didn't disappoint. Wonderful landscapes, farmland and coastal. And although it's small, when you don't have motorised transport (apart from tractors), suddenly it's not so small.
(The ocean wasn't pink that day, but the original photo is now in an acid-free album...)
Sark was somewhere I always wanted to see - it was the real reason for going to the Channel Islands at all. And it didn't disappoint. Wonderful landscapes, farmland and coastal. And although it's small, when you don't have motorised transport (apart from tractors), suddenly it's not so small.
(The ocean wasn't pink that day, but the original photo is now in an acid-free album...)
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
100 Word Stories: Something's growing in the basement
They need the cold, and the dark.
It’s a yearly ritual. Hope in darkness, confidence that this year, as every year, the days will turn after the solstice, the early evenings will lengthen, just a little, each day, creeping up by minutes.
Down there, we buried them in rich dark soil, in the blue bowl that was my grandmother’s, the terracotta trough my mother brought from Italy, the painted pots from Eastern Europe that I somehow brought home unbroken.
And before winter is over, their green shoots will come, and we’ll bring them upstairs. Daffodils. Hyacinths. Spring. Colour. Perfume; hope.
It’s a yearly ritual. Hope in darkness, confidence that this year, as every year, the days will turn after the solstice, the early evenings will lengthen, just a little, each day, creeping up by minutes.
Down there, we buried them in rich dark soil, in the blue bowl that was my grandmother’s, the terracotta trough my mother brought from Italy, the painted pots from Eastern Europe that I somehow brought home unbroken.
And before winter is over, their green shoots will come, and we’ll bring them upstairs. Daffodils. Hyacinths. Spring. Colour. Perfume; hope.
Cottage on Herm, Channel Islands
I'm not here, no. But I can take a moment, and remember, and enjoy the pretty play of pink on pink, the sprawling generosity of the roses, the geometry of window and lattice.
Then it's back to the maelstrom of work.
I think you have to live in the right kind of place, and have the right kind of house to paint it pink. Isn't it delightful, though?
(Herm is one of the smaller Channel Islands, not so well known as Jersey, Guernsey or Sark).
Then it's back to the maelstrom of work.
I think you have to live in the right kind of place, and have the right kind of house to paint it pink. Isn't it delightful, though?
(Herm is one of the smaller Channel Islands, not so well known as Jersey, Guernsey or Sark).
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
100 Word Stories: Tell a story that takes place inside a bathroom
Would you think that cradling the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl could be joyful? No. Think again.
Hours in doctors’ surgeries. Questions. Needles. More questions. Anaesthetics. Hope threading through it all, twining in with the despair of no, and not this time, and maybe….
It’s surprising how quickly, however much you hate needles (and I do), you learn to give yourself the necessary injections. Each one a grimace, each one a step.
Finally, months later, this is my morning ritual. Me, retching. But as the days get colder, you get closer to being born, and my heart is full.
Hours in doctors’ surgeries. Questions. Needles. More questions. Anaesthetics. Hope threading through it all, twining in with the despair of no, and not this time, and maybe….
It’s surprising how quickly, however much you hate needles (and I do), you learn to give yourself the necessary injections. Each one a grimace, each one a step.
Finally, months later, this is my morning ritual. Me, retching. But as the days get colder, you get closer to being born, and my heart is full.
Time
It's not cold like this where I am today. It's stiflingly humid, hot, wish-it-was-winter weather. Probably better for a sundial to do its work, though.
I was thinking about time today, how it can seem to move at such varying speeds, way too fast, unbearably slow. Some things seem to be unending and then when they do end you just don't believe it's possible.
Although I rarely buy or borrow or listen to books on CD, I'm working through The Time Traveler's Wife, which I enjoyed so much reading in book form. The unabridged version - every word, over 15 CDs. Read by William Hope and Laurel Lefkow (take a bow, you're wonderful).
And maybe it's because I read visually much more than using audio books, but the book comes fresh to my ears. Not unfamiliar, but fresh. A spoken voice gives specific character and tone to Clare and Henry.
There's a film due later this year, and Henry will become Eric Bana, Clare, Rachel McAdams, a third version of the book with which to engage - a version for my eyes as well as ears and mind. I'm looking forward to it. I hope they do it well... (release date for the US is June 2008).
I was thinking about time today, how it can seem to move at such varying speeds, way too fast, unbearably slow. Some things seem to be unending and then when they do end you just don't believe it's possible.
Although I rarely buy or borrow or listen to books on CD, I'm working through The Time Traveler's Wife, which I enjoyed so much reading in book form. The unabridged version - every word, over 15 CDs. Read by William Hope and Laurel Lefkow (take a bow, you're wonderful).
And maybe it's because I read visually much more than using audio books, but the book comes fresh to my ears. Not unfamiliar, but fresh. A spoken voice gives specific character and tone to Clare and Henry.
There's a film due later this year, and Henry will become Eric Bana, Clare, Rachel McAdams, a third version of the book with which to engage - a version for my eyes as well as ears and mind. I'm looking forward to it. I hope they do it well... (release date for the US is June 2008).
Monday, January 28, 2008
Meet Moriya Nabieva
Inspired by this entry on Sarah London's blog, I'm now involved as a textile entrepreneur in Takjikistan (just north of Afghanistan). No, that picture's not me, it's Moriya. Although I wish I could go look at the fabrics myself.
Moriya Nabieva, 48, is married and has 3 children. For 14 years, she has been selling traditional fabrics for Tajik national clothing. Moriya has a sales spot at “Tidzhorat” market in Yavan. Moriya plans to use this loan to purchase a few new types of fabric for women. The new fabrics are very popular among the local women. Moriya plans to repay this loan within 10 months.
I now have an account with Kiva, and you can get involved in microcredit to the working poor too, from as little as $US25.
Moriya needs $1000. As of right now, she still needs $650 of that in 28 days. If, like me, you're a fabriholic, maybe this is a rather fun way to enhance your stash (without needing any storage space). (But if you'd rather help buy a cow or a motorbike or facilitate all sorts of other businesses, then go and browse and choose what suits you).
Here's the link to the page on Kiva.com about Moriya. Can you lend her some more? If you do, please leave a comment, it would be good to know you're a part of this too.
And here's the excellent part: when it's paid back, you can recycle the funds into another project.
Thanks for the inspiration, Sarah.
Funnel Cake
From the Australia Day food stalls in Hyde Park, we selected something we hadn't tried before - and what did it matter that lunch began with dessert? Funnel cake has absolutely no redeeming qualities, nutritionally, and it looks better covered in whipped cream and berries (disguising the froth-of-fried-worms look). But both versions (the nearer one has cinnamon sugar on it) tasted good and were a treat - a cross between a waffle and a doughnut.
If you'd like to know more about funnel cake, here's a Wikipedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funnel_cake
If you'd like to know more about funnel cake, here's a Wikipedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funnel_cake
100 Word Stories: Where's the redhead?
Did she wear the hat? I warned her. I’m dark haired myself, I fit in. They don’t notice you, the street cops, the block wardens, the bluesuited watchers with their commsticks and lasers. Uniformity is safety. Don’t be noticed as a stranger.
Ah, she said, it’ll be fine. I’ll be OK. She took a last swig of kavafi (how did it not burn her throat? It’s firewater) and headed down the stairs.
Two hours. I wait for my commstick to bleep. Nothing.
Six hours. I check the news on my commstick. S**t.
Oh gods, I wish she’d worn the hat.
Ah, she said, it’ll be fine. I’ll be OK. She took a last swig of kavafi (how did it not burn her throat? It’s firewater) and headed down the stairs.
Two hours. I wait for my commstick to bleep. Nothing.
Six hours. I check the news on my commstick. S**t.
Oh gods, I wish she’d worn the hat.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Doubledecker bus
Travelling on this restored Leyland bus was a highlight of Australia Day. If you sit upstairs, you get a whole new view as you travel around the city - you're higher up, you can see more, your view of the buildings is upward and inclusive rather than blocked by a ceiling.
I liked the way the left hand photo travelled from the historic (bus, buildings) to the modern.
I liked the way the left hand photo travelled from the historic (bus, buildings) to the modern.
100 Word Stories: The good news is, you have one day to live
So, what shall we do? A walk? You’ve always liked being outdoors. Maybe the beach, however slow you may be now, although it’s a tad chilly in early spring. Spring. We hoped when you made it through winter that maybe...
How can we find enough ways to tell you what you mean to us?
Al we have is now. The open air, a good meal, your heavy weight on our feet as we sleep. And then tomorrow, here at home, that quiet final needle as we pat you and wonder about how quiet and empty the house will be.
How can we find enough ways to tell you what you mean to us?
Al we have is now. The open air, a good meal, your heavy weight on our feet as we sleep. And then tomorrow, here at home, that quiet final needle as we pat you and wonder about how quiet and empty the house will be.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Australia Day: Martin Place
Although it wasn't our plan, we ended up spending a while in the afternoon of Australia Day sitting in the shade watching the Australian Open tennis (women's singles final) on the big screen at Martin Place. And chatting. And it was very pleasant. (Also, you couldn't hear the players grunting (the sound wasn't good enough) and that was also very pleasant - the grunting irritates the tripes out of me, it seems to be unnecessary and whiffing of gamesmanship, somehow...)
There were teenage boys skateboarding down the steps, showing admirable perseverance, and while your heart leapt to your mouth at some moments, they neither (apparently) damaged themselves, or actually ran into anyone else.
There were teenage boys skateboarding down the steps, showing admirable perseverance, and while your heart leapt to your mouth at some moments, they neither (apparently) damaged themselves, or actually ran into anyone else.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Sydney Harbour, summer
Just as a contrast to yesterday's London park in January, here's Sydney Harbour in January. It's really good that at Circular Quay railway station they've removed the solid concrete barriers and replaced them with glass, so you can SEE the harbour.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
London park, winter
When your winter is a Sydney winter, you just don't get the same change of landscape palette as you do in colder places - the monochrome of fog and snow and frost and bare trees. When it's not your usual experience, it has a freshness and novelty as a different way of seeing. I'm sure this path would look quite different in summer.
I saw the new film of "Sweeney Todd" today (my first experience of that particular musical, and a good film, if a triffffle enthusiastic with the red) and it has a Tim Burton monochrome palette - except for the flowing red. As one review I read noted, Tim Burton's monochrome palette is rich - not at all simplistic black, grey, white, but shades and tones of bruise and stone and more.
Those who lived there then could not understand why I took or kept this photo. Years on, I remember, and it's good to revisit it. Mind you, when you went from a London January to a Sydney January, it felt as though someone had turned the lights on.
I saw the new film of "Sweeney Todd" today (my first experience of that particular musical, and a good film, if a triffffle enthusiastic with the red) and it has a Tim Burton monochrome palette - except for the flowing red. As one review I read noted, Tim Burton's monochrome palette is rich - not at all simplistic black, grey, white, but shades and tones of bruise and stone and more.
Those who lived there then could not understand why I took or kept this photo. Years on, I remember, and it's good to revisit it. Mind you, when you went from a London January to a Sydney January, it felt as though someone had turned the lights on.
100 Word Stories: Why did you climb a tree?
Apples. Red against the blue sky, just out of reach.
It’s not just about the apples. Catch the memory – hoisting up a leg, adjusting to the architecture of a tree, looking for handholds, finding each foothold, testing it, climbing, making your small self tall. Finding a fork in the branches to perch and look around. Feeling the breeze on your face.
Choose an apple, veined in red and yellow and pink, when you look up close. Warm in your hand, crisp to bite into, sweet tart juice on your tongue.
Did you savour it all so much, as a kid?
It’s not just about the apples. Catch the memory – hoisting up a leg, adjusting to the architecture of a tree, looking for handholds, finding each foothold, testing it, climbing, making your small self tall. Finding a fork in the branches to perch and look around. Feeling the breeze on your face.
Choose an apple, veined in red and yellow and pink, when you look up close. Warm in your hand, crisp to bite into, sweet tart juice on your tongue.
Did you savour it all so much, as a kid?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Greystones boats
One of my photos from years ago, taken at Greystones near Dublin. I've been listening today to travel stories from a family member who's just come back from Ireland and the UK.
With this photo I rather liked the contrast between the monochrome landscape and the brightly painted boats.
With this photo I rather liked the contrast between the monochrome landscape and the brightly painted boats.
100 Word Stories: He couldn't care less
As a writing exercise, I've decided to play along sometimes with the daily themes on 100 word stories. Fiction, as you would guess, of 100 words exactly, as you can no doubt deduce. Oh, and you don't count the 'prompt phrase/title' in the 100 words. You can go over there and see today's prompt, and read what others have written, or vote, or write something yourself. It's an interesting exercise in micro-fiction.
He couldn’t care less…
The summer heat had ripened the bananas in a single day, so they smelled sweetly rotten. He sniffed the milk. Sour. Pulled out a slice of bread. A dot or two of blue on one side. Does heat kill mould? When the toaster returned it, he scraped it down, smeared on some honey and went back outside.
Nothing had changed. The air was salty, humid, still, the day’s heat building up. The empty, silent beach house was loud with memories – his grandfather’s fishing rod, his father’s favourite chair. That longboard. He headed to the beach with it under his arm.
He couldn’t care less…
The summer heat had ripened the bananas in a single day, so they smelled sweetly rotten. He sniffed the milk. Sour. Pulled out a slice of bread. A dot or two of blue on one side. Does heat kill mould? When the toaster returned it, he scraped it down, smeared on some honey and went back outside.
Nothing had changed. The air was salty, humid, still, the day’s heat building up. The empty, silent beach house was loud with memories – his grandfather’s fishing rod, his father’s favourite chair. That longboard. He headed to the beach with it under his arm.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
I will survive...
I hadn't considered the significance of the mention of 'outer space' in this song, but it occurred to someone at Pixar (take a bow, Victor Navone).
Treat yourself to a viewing. (chortle!) (Direct link to this on YouTube here).
For months you don't go anywhere near YouTube, and then you do, and you Find Things.
Treat yourself to a viewing. (chortle!) (Direct link to this on YouTube here).
For months you don't go anywhere near YouTube, and then you do, and you Find Things.
Farinelli
Wandering around the National Gallery Of Victoria International (and Intergalactic too, while they're at it???) I was paying some attention to details of painted textiles - laces, and the edges of dresses and so forth. And thus I took this picture - only then realising (and taking a photo that's a tad out of focus of the whole work) that one of the subjects of this portrait is the castrati, Farinelli.
The film, Farinelli, is among my favourites, and from all the music, the Handel aria from Rinaldo, Lascia ch'io panga. For the film's music, as I recollect, they merged a countertenor's voice with a soprano's to achieve the range of a castrati.
This video's a little crackly, but countertenor Philippe Jaroussky has the voice of an angel. (I can't find this on iTunes, so if you know of an album on which this is included, please let me know).
Here's the version from the film Farinelli with the marvellously cast Stephen Dionisi 'fishing' to the work of the merged voices:
As with the duets from yesterday, I don't have enough of the language to know what they're singing. Perhaps then, though, this lets you overlay what you hear with what you imagine, or believe, or find to be true and how the music speaks to you. When I'm cherrypicking opera, it doesn't worry me to have little or no idea of what they're singing, although I imagine it could be more irritating if you were watching a single opera from beginning to end.
Today's alternative photo would have been shiny stuff from the dentist's and yes, I'd rather think about (and listen to) Handel than the whine of the dental drill and the elegant sensation of fat (anaesthetised) lip feeling as though it's turning you into a drooling embarassment to yourself. Which is one reason why there's no photo, as I was somewhat distracted. This is much more beautiful.
(fishing: miming to a song. cf Milli Vanilli, or for that matter Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.)
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