My trusty 1995 lexicon told me spellbound = attentive, captivated ... not the expected definition.
The last time I was spellbound... was over a tender, succulent steak sandwich, oozing with avocado, carrot and beetroot devoured for lunch on a busy day out. I told the chef it was better than sex ... he told me I wasn't doing it right ...
Other spellbound times that spring to mind ...
Enthralled meeting MJ for the first time ...
Overcome seeing Ma Bella for the first time ...
Carried away at a John Farham Concert ...
Captivated at the theatre to see 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert', transported seeing 'The Lion King' ...
Smitten finding another addition for one of my collections ...
I'm spellbound, allured and fascinated by what most see as the ordinary or the mundane ... you could say I'm spellbound about life, the whole deal ... try it you might like it!
Showing posts with label Writers Island. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writers Island. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Monday, 10 March 2008
Writers Island - RISING ...
After pondering all weekend here's my paltry, diatribe ...
My initial thought was Marilyn Monroe's rendition of Heatwave ... with the line 'temperatures rising, it isn't surprising' ... nah I turfed that idea ... I've done songs to death on prompts!
Rising ... my thoughts turned to yeast, bread making, beer brewing ... Google, enlightened me ...
The word "yeast" comes from the Sanskrit 'yas' meaning "to seethe or boil". Yeast is a living organism and is in the air around us. It is a member of the fungus family and is a single-celled fungi of which there are about 160 different species. Baker's yeast as well as brewer's yeast belong to the Saccharomyces cerevisiae species. Louis Pasteur in the 1850's is credited with first discovering and understanding the fermentation process which led to the development and cultivation of the yeast we use ...
Ooops ... off on a tangent ... this reminded me of my loathing of yeast. How it's become the scourge of women ... how university studies are concentrating on the rising tide of yeast infections ... the bloating, the allergies, the upset tummy ... jeepers creepers was this heading down the the Candida aka yeast infection path?
No way ...
... so for now let's remember Candida as the one of the hilarious characters created by gorgeous Aussie comedienne Jean Kitson , George Bernard Shaw's Candida or as the chosen name of drag queens around the world ...
... not that the incidence of candida/fungal/yeast infections are rising!
My initial thought was Marilyn Monroe's rendition of Heatwave ... with the line 'temperatures rising, it isn't surprising' ... nah I turfed that idea ... I've done songs to death on prompts!
Rising ... my thoughts turned to yeast, bread making, beer brewing ... Google, enlightened me ...
The word "yeast" comes from the Sanskrit 'yas' meaning "to seethe or boil". Yeast is a living organism and is in the air around us. It is a member of the fungus family and is a single-celled fungi of which there are about 160 different species. Baker's yeast as well as brewer's yeast belong to the Saccharomyces cerevisiae species. Louis Pasteur in the 1850's is credited with first discovering and understanding the fermentation process which led to the development and cultivation of the yeast we use ...
Ooops ... off on a tangent ... this reminded me of my loathing of yeast. How it's become the scourge of women ... how university studies are concentrating on the rising tide of yeast infections ... the bloating, the allergies, the upset tummy ... jeepers creepers was this heading down the the Candida aka yeast infection path?
No way ...
... so for now let's remember Candida as the one of the hilarious characters created by gorgeous Aussie comedienne Jean Kitson , George Bernard Shaw's Candida or as the chosen name of drag queens around the world ...
... not that the incidence of candida/fungal/yeast infections are rising!
Friday, 29 February 2008
Writers Island ~ 'EMPOWERMENT'
My Dad was born in 1913. The eldest son of five children living in the tiny lakeside township of Dora Creek, ninety minutes, by today’s travelling standards, north of Sydney. They lived in a slab hut. A dirt floor, hessian walls, no electricity, no sewerage, no running water, no refrigeration, not much of anything, except an open fire to cook on, keeping them warm and lighting the darkness.
My grandparents met in Sydney, in 1909, both employed ‘in service’. My Grandma a housemaid, my Grandpa a livery man at the very swank, Elizabeth Bay House. They were married in 1910 in Glebe an inner Sydney suburb, how and why they went to Dora Creek is baffling.
Dad’s father was an itinerant sign writer. He painted scenery and backdrops for theatrical and travelling shows. I suspect there were no theatres, shops or signs to be painted in the backblocks of scrubby Dora Creek.
My Grandma had a child every 2 years for 10 years. Can you imagine what that must have been like, in such poverty?
By the 1920s the family had moved to Sydney. Grandpa was sign writing. My Dad remembers the wooden paint case, full of brushes and paints his Dad carried. How his Dad did the first gold leaf sign on the window of the Botany Bay Hotel and how his Dad hawked his skills, painting Easter, Christmas and specials signs on butcher and chemist shop windows.
They’d lived in a rented a shop and residnece in Botany, right next door to the Botany Bay Hotel. Grandma baked and sold pies, in saucers … saucers were plentiful, cups and their handles always broke first.
On the weekends my Dad would go to the markets with his Dad. One precious pound was all the money they took to stock the shop with fruit and vegetables for the week. Dad said there was never any money.
My Dad was a lanky, larrikin who detested school and lived to fish. He kept the family in fish, oysters, crabs ... the food of the sea.
Grandpa died in 1932 from Tuberculosis. Grandma still baked pies in her wood oven and ran her shop … there’s much more to the story of this marvellous woman. We were born under the same star sign, she demonstrated an ability to make something out of nothing, she was a talented embroiderer, she lived a healthy life, she never remarried, she was a gentle woman, a survivor.
Is empowerment hereditary, is it genetic or is it learned behaviour?
Many women, no matter their beginnings, have survived with a natural ability to project power and authority, to hold home and hearth together despite … has such ability come naturally? Many women have used it wisely many women are still seeking empowerment.
Stories of my ancestral women empower me to be proud, to be positive, to know what a fortunate, wonderful, talented woman I am ... and to commit that my girls know the stories of their ancestral women too – that’s empowerment … isn’t it?
My grandparents met in Sydney, in 1909, both employed ‘in service’. My Grandma a housemaid, my Grandpa a livery man at the very swank, Elizabeth Bay House. They were married in 1910 in Glebe an inner Sydney suburb, how and why they went to Dora Creek is baffling.
Dad’s father was an itinerant sign writer. He painted scenery and backdrops for theatrical and travelling shows. I suspect there were no theatres, shops or signs to be painted in the backblocks of scrubby Dora Creek.
My Grandma had a child every 2 years for 10 years. Can you imagine what that must have been like, in such poverty?
By the 1920s the family had moved to Sydney. Grandpa was sign writing. My Dad remembers the wooden paint case, full of brushes and paints his Dad carried. How his Dad did the first gold leaf sign on the window of the Botany Bay Hotel and how his Dad hawked his skills, painting Easter, Christmas and specials signs on butcher and chemist shop windows.
They’d lived in a rented a shop and residnece in Botany, right next door to the Botany Bay Hotel. Grandma baked and sold pies, in saucers … saucers were plentiful, cups and their handles always broke first.
On the weekends my Dad would go to the markets with his Dad. One precious pound was all the money they took to stock the shop with fruit and vegetables for the week. Dad said there was never any money.
My Dad was a lanky, larrikin who detested school and lived to fish. He kept the family in fish, oysters, crabs ... the food of the sea.
Grandpa died in 1932 from Tuberculosis. Grandma still baked pies in her wood oven and ran her shop … there’s much more to the story of this marvellous woman. We were born under the same star sign, she demonstrated an ability to make something out of nothing, she was a talented embroiderer, she lived a healthy life, she never remarried, she was a gentle woman, a survivor.
Is empowerment hereditary, is it genetic or is it learned behaviour?
Many women, no matter their beginnings, have survived with a natural ability to project power and authority, to hold home and hearth together despite … has such ability come naturally? Many women have used it wisely many women are still seeking empowerment.
Stories of my ancestral women empower me to be proud, to be positive, to know what a fortunate, wonderful, talented woman I am ... and to commit that my girls know the stories of their ancestral women too – that’s empowerment … isn’t it?
Saturday, 23 February 2008
Writers Island - Second Chance ...
Blossom May deserved and got one ...
Pre-loved jewellery get's one ...
Used fabric & sewing notions deserve one ...
Op shops jam packed with stuff seeking one ... 
Old buildings waiting for one ... 
Metal washers left out in the weather ...
Rusted and ready for one ...
Found ephemera will get one ...... all deserving of a second chance !!!
Notice people aren't don't get a mention ? ... no second chance's ... life's too short to tolerate bad behaviour!
Sunday, 17 February 2008
Sunday Scribblings & Writers Island, TIME MACHINE
The often theoretical and much discussed definition of time travel as the concept of moving to and/or fro in different points in time through space, for me, in reality is too far fetched. Fascinating theory if it’s jollied up for kids stories as a some brilliant scribes have written in this episode of Writers Island …
My interpretation of time travel encompasses the journeys we take in life. To-ing and fro-ing, emotional wrangling, physical constraints, times of life, personal experiences, the listening and hearing of other people’s spatial perceptions make a conglomerate of accomplishments to astound, educate and delight. That’s my kind of time travel.
The rest is a bunch of gobbledogook derived by thinkers with too much time on their hands. Check out the grandfather paradox … what did that dude eat the day he made that one up? Worse still academics are arguing the hogwash … cynical, yep that’s me.
Cyber space is as close to the theorised perspective of time travel I’ll get!! To know it’s Sunday here, yet only Saturday on the other side of the world where someone is reading my writing is cool. That’s the kind of time travel I’ll contemplate knowing we’re all travelling in time from the now to the immediate … enough of that codswallop, enjoy your journey if you get in one of those new fangled time machines otherwise ... what’s for dinner … or is that breakfast for YOU???
My interpretation of time travel encompasses the journeys we take in life. To-ing and fro-ing, emotional wrangling, physical constraints, times of life, personal experiences, the listening and hearing of other people’s spatial perceptions make a conglomerate of accomplishments to astound, educate and delight. That’s my kind of time travel.
The rest is a bunch of gobbledogook derived by thinkers with too much time on their hands. Check out the grandfather paradox … what did that dude eat the day he made that one up? Worse still academics are arguing the hogwash … cynical, yep that’s me.
Cyber space is as close to the theorised perspective of time travel I’ll get!! To know it’s Sunday here, yet only Saturday on the other side of the world where someone is reading my writing is cool. That’s the kind of time travel I’ll contemplate knowing we’re all travelling in time from the now to the immediate … enough of that codswallop, enjoy your journey if you get in one of those new fangled time machines otherwise ... what’s for dinner … or is that breakfast for YOU???
Saturday, 9 February 2008
Writers Island - CHANGED
Throughout life I’ve constantly changed. Drudgery, monotony and routine were eliminated. The doldrums of life, for me, are few. Addresses, occupations, goals, addictions, phone numbers, education, fashion, appearance, challenges, friends, tolerances, diets, habits, likes, dislikes, relationships, opinions, myths, status, ideology, creativity, changed.
People who’ve put a foot out of line, lied, cheated, disrespected, thieved, embarrassed, belittled, and more were banished. Changed. The resolve that there are too many good people out there without having to tolerate bad behaviour still stands!
Sound normal?
Of course it is. Natural difference. Nothing stays the same. Attitudes, trends, values, mores, beliefs, traditions … everything from sunrise till sunset are intrinsic to life, yet the reluctance of people when things are changed baffles me?
Fear or apathy?
Look at the men you know … when was their hairstyle changed? Look at the women you know … when was their hair style, hair colour or appearance changed? Why are there more women’s hair salons than men’s? OK, OK, yes ... this is a shallow example, but think about it, haven't the women you've known, changed constantly compared to men you've known?
Hang on … I’ve changed my mind about writing more … momentarily I changed the blogging hat to the sociology one ... see how easy it can be?
People who’ve put a foot out of line, lied, cheated, disrespected, thieved, embarrassed, belittled, and more were banished. Changed. The resolve that there are too many good people out there without having to tolerate bad behaviour still stands!
Sound normal?
Of course it is. Natural difference. Nothing stays the same. Attitudes, trends, values, mores, beliefs, traditions … everything from sunrise till sunset are intrinsic to life, yet the reluctance of people when things are changed baffles me?
Fear or apathy?
Look at the men you know … when was their hairstyle changed? Look at the women you know … when was their hair style, hair colour or appearance changed? Why are there more women’s hair salons than men’s? OK, OK, yes ... this is a shallow example, but think about it, haven't the women you've known, changed constantly compared to men you've known?
Hang on … I’ve changed my mind about writing more … momentarily I changed the blogging hat to the sociology one ... see how easy it can be?
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Writer Island ... Over the Horizon
At 8.20pm Saturday, January 5, when I saw the Writers Island prompt my reaction what ...'WOT THA' ... gadzooks that's all been done! Humphffing, I reached for my trusty, battered, Macquarie Dictionary, 1996 edition and found 28 definitions of ‘over’ ...
1. above in place or position; higher up than
2 above and to the other side of
3. on or upon
4. here and there on or in
5. in excess of, or more than
6. in preference to
7. throughout the duration of
8. in reference to, concerning of, or about
9. by the agency of
10. over and above, in addition to; beside.
...ten is enough when no definitions pertained to the horizon!
Being the perpetual realist I agreed, we really don’t know what lies ahead, yet I still regarded the request to write what we are envisioning in our future ambiguous!
(Hey nothing personal this is purely my take!)
With no cards or crystal ball, no ability to reconstruct my destiny and not being a dreamer, I became disappointed and declared I’m Over It.
However ... I'd neglected to realise that over the horizon can be anything you want it to be - not neccessarily imaginary, nor a wish or something out of reach!
You know how I know? Monday morning I bought an airline ticket. When I perched in front of this screen I had not one iota of travelling. An email announcing super airline deals was in my inbox - Yeahhhh I thought, I've tried for these but nahhh never, ever do I get through ...
I did, on a whim, I'm booked, no passport required, I'm like the cat that swallowed the canary ...
1. above in place or position; higher up than
2 above and to the other side of
3. on or upon
4. here and there on or in
5. in excess of, or more than
6. in preference to
7. throughout the duration of
8. in reference to, concerning of, or about
9. by the agency of
10. over and above, in addition to; beside.
...ten is enough when no definitions pertained to the horizon!
Being the perpetual realist I agreed, we really don’t know what lies ahead, yet I still regarded the request to write what we are envisioning in our future ambiguous!
(Hey nothing personal this is purely my take!)
With no cards or crystal ball, no ability to reconstruct my destiny and not being a dreamer, I became disappointed and declared I’m Over It.
However ... I'd neglected to realise that over the horizon can be anything you want it to be - not neccessarily imaginary, nor a wish or something out of reach!
You know how I know? Monday morning I bought an airline ticket. When I perched in front of this screen I had not one iota of travelling. An email announcing super airline deals was in my inbox - Yeahhhh I thought, I've tried for these but nahhh never, ever do I get through ...
I did, on a whim, I'm booked, no passport required, I'm like the cat that swallowed the canary ...
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Writers Island "EARTH" ...
Sandbank on the coast of Whitsunday Island, Queensland, Australia ~ by ~
Yann Arthus Bertrand in his breathtaking Earth from Above series of photography!
When you see this amazing work surely you'll ponder at the political and media hype about how we, the inhabitants of the world, are "killing" it off!
Who's profiting from the hype, from the squillions being spent on summit conferences and big name 'nobs' espousing at what a sorry state the world is in ... are we being fed the facts?
OK, OK, slow down, I'm not saying it's all unky dory out there - but please, do yourself a favour, embark on a visual feast, I'm sure you will feel better ... click here to start with Australia ... then choose your destination, it'll cost you nothing!
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Writers Island ~ This Season
In December in Australia the temperature often rises to thirty degrees celsius yet many domestic goddess’s still prepare a hot Christmas lunch in the name of ‘tradition.’ Turkey, ham, roast vegetables, sweet green peas with lashings of rich gravy “because that’s what her mother did”, are served as scrumptious Christmas fare. Nowadays more and more Aussies opt for cool, fresh seafood. Despite costing an arm and a leg many a good woman’s sanity is saved. Even more people choose to "go out" for lunch, to restaurants, on cruises, in hotels where people pay through the nose to avoid the drudgery while in reality they're paying the double time wages of the staff … is that why staff are so welcoming?
As a kid Christmas lunch was a stuffed roast chicken, roast potato, roast sweet potato, roast pumpkin and green peas or beans. Chicken was a luxury. Dad was the "bread winner"entitling him to be served the white meat while the kids got the “dark meat.” In those days chickens weren’t pumped full of chemicals to keep the meat of the entire bird whiter than white. The breast meat was white, the drumsticks, wings and the rest of the bird was a darker colour … real chicken fed real food. There was no lavish, over the top, razzamataz that goes on today. The kids all played on the street, showing off their ‘new’ bikes, prams, scooters and toys, busting to be first one up and out while still in pyjamas – kids were safe on the street.
People were of limited means, credit cards didn’t exist. If you couldn’t afford it or parents couldn’t make it, conjure it up or Mum lay-by it, you didn’t get it. For weeks prior, Dad worked on secret projects down in the shed, his inner sanctum, where we had to knock before entering. I realised in later years Dad must have been painting that bike pink, refurbishing that dolls house, or renovating a found object. Late at night we’d hear Mum pedalling away on the Singer treadle sewing machine, where, if we happened to venture out on the pretext of a glass of water or a bad dream, covers would be thrown over stuff, lights would be hastily switched off depriving us of a glimpse of what was going on!
The first memory of this season is around three to four years old, that's me ready to go and see Santa standing in front of the armoire begging Mum to not wear "my irons" ... I wore callipers as a kid ...
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Another childhood memory of this season, a couple of years later was creeping, out late at night, probably unable to sleep with anticipation, and seeing Dad hurl a blanket over two small rattan chairs – I always thought Santa had already been and Dad must have spoken to him, that one baffled me for years.
The memories are flooding back – there’s a host of Christmas’ to remember and to forget, see you same time next year for more memories of this season!
As a kid Christmas lunch was a stuffed roast chicken, roast potato, roast sweet potato, roast pumpkin and green peas or beans. Chicken was a luxury. Dad was the "bread winner"entitling him to be served the white meat while the kids got the “dark meat.” In those days chickens weren’t pumped full of chemicals to keep the meat of the entire bird whiter than white. The breast meat was white, the drumsticks, wings and the rest of the bird was a darker colour … real chicken fed real food. There was no lavish, over the top, razzamataz that goes on today. The kids all played on the street, showing off their ‘new’ bikes, prams, scooters and toys, busting to be first one up and out while still in pyjamas – kids were safe on the street.
People were of limited means, credit cards didn’t exist. If you couldn’t afford it or parents couldn’t make it, conjure it up or Mum lay-by it, you didn’t get it. For weeks prior, Dad worked on secret projects down in the shed, his inner sanctum, where we had to knock before entering. I realised in later years Dad must have been painting that bike pink, refurbishing that dolls house, or renovating a found object. Late at night we’d hear Mum pedalling away on the Singer treadle sewing machine, where, if we happened to venture out on the pretext of a glass of water or a bad dream, covers would be thrown over stuff, lights would be hastily switched off depriving us of a glimpse of what was going on!
The first memory of this season is around three to four years old, that's me ready to go and see Santa standing in front of the armoire begging Mum to not wear "my irons" ... I wore callipers as a kid ...
.jpg)
Another childhood memory of this season, a couple of years later was creeping, out late at night, probably unable to sleep with anticipation, and seeing Dad hurl a blanket over two small rattan chairs – I always thought Santa had already been and Dad must have spoken to him, that one baffled me for years.The memories are flooding back – there’s a host of Christmas’ to remember and to forget, see you same time next year for more memories of this season!
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Writers Island .. "The Moment."
Yikes ... put's it mildly when discovering the prompt ...
The next prompt here on the island will be… “The Moment”.
Maybe its the one to remember, or the one you wish you could forget, or the one your currently living in, or the one that changed your life, or the one you’ve always dreamed of, or the one you’ve always feared — perhaps it is the one of your most profound realization… what ever the moment you choose, please share it with us...
WHICH MOMENT ... ? How can a single moment be "THE MOMENT" ?
How about the sad childhood ... that one ???
Or the even sadder teens ... that moment ???
How about the moment when mother caught me wagging school and had my long hair cut into a boyish style ... that one???
How about the joyous moments of giving birth, the euphoria, the elation, the never before felt rapture ... that one???
The falling in and out of love ... ???
All the special occassions relating to my girls "firsts" ... first smile, first step, first drawing, first day at school, first time they said "I love you Mummy" ... those ones ???
The moment when I took a long hard look at myself ... that one ???
Or when someone beloved died ... that one ... ???
The moment of being first published ... that one ???
See ... there's tooooooooo many moments!!!
None of my singular moments will fit onto a small page or deserve to be compartmentalised. The moments relevant to this life all count.
Whether happy, inherited, hassels, horrid, human, hysterical, humiliating, hazy, hard, haphazard ... they're all part of the big picture, the humongous amount of moments ... that make yours truly ... precisely the same as this very moment!!
The next prompt here on the island will be… “The Moment”.
Maybe its the one to remember, or the one you wish you could forget, or the one your currently living in, or the one that changed your life, or the one you’ve always dreamed of, or the one you’ve always feared — perhaps it is the one of your most profound realization… what ever the moment you choose, please share it with us...
WHICH MOMENT ... ? How can a single moment be "THE MOMENT" ?
How about the sad childhood ... that one ???
Or the even sadder teens ... that moment ???
How about the moment when mother caught me wagging school and had my long hair cut into a boyish style ... that one???
How about the joyous moments of giving birth, the euphoria, the elation, the never before felt rapture ... that one???
The falling in and out of love ... ???
All the special occassions relating to my girls "firsts" ... first smile, first step, first drawing, first day at school, first time they said "I love you Mummy" ... those ones ???
The moment when I took a long hard look at myself ... that one ???
Or when someone beloved died ... that one ... ???
The moment of being first published ... that one ???
See ... there's tooooooooo many moments!!!
None of my singular moments will fit onto a small page or deserve to be compartmentalised. The moments relevant to this life all count.
Whether happy, inherited, hassels, horrid, human, hysterical, humiliating, hazy, hard, haphazard ... they're all part of the big picture, the humongous amount of moments ... that make yours truly ... precisely the same as this very moment!!
Friday, 7 December 2007
Writers Island - "The Promise" ...
'The Promise' topic has exasperated me. I've pondered, remembered, revisted and relived a zillion memorable moments and you know what ...? I can think of a multitude of promises I made, a plethora I kept and a couple I broke ...
BUT ...
yikes ...
When I recall all the naffs that have broken promises to me ... subject closed!!!
BUT ...
yikes ...
When I recall all the naffs that have broken promises to me ... subject closed!!!
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Writers Island "The Dream"
Begrudgingly I delve into the memory bank! Long past feelings and memories dredge up … I’ll appease unwanted surging memoirs with … well, isn’t that what writing’s for?
Dream is not in my vocabulary, neither during the day or night. Recollections of dealing with the angsting, pacing, fear and dread through endless sleepless nights while waiting for the fear of sleep to abate and pleading within for the soaring, the flying, the yearnings to land and the flight to end are no more.
Angry exhausted mornings are no more.
Seeking sleep with a clear mind where prescribed benzos are no longer the lull-a-bye are no more.
Now light reading, meditation and internal peace makes the ultimate end to each day. If the dream is sweet for you, be grateful!
Dream is not in my vocabulary, neither during the day or night. Recollections of dealing with the angsting, pacing, fear and dread through endless sleepless nights while waiting for the fear of sleep to abate and pleading within for the soaring, the flying, the yearnings to land and the flight to end are no more.
Angry exhausted mornings are no more.
Seeking sleep with a clear mind where prescribed benzos are no longer the lull-a-bye are no more.
Now light reading, meditation and internal peace makes the ultimate end to each day. If the dream is sweet for you, be grateful!
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Writers Island #9 Friendship ...
The Ultimate Betrayal.
She was my best friend. I confided I surmised the husband had a girlfriend. Her advice, “give him the flick.” On Christmas Day Mother told me beware; she’d seen them kiss. Nahhhhh she’s my best friend I defended. People told me they’d seen the husband and best friend together. When asked he confirmed that he’d “bumped into her”. The love child told me the best friend had been at the house when I was working nights (the husband worked days) the husband said the love child was dreaming! I rang the husband one afternoon to ask what he’d like for dinner and was told he hadn’t been at that job for two days. I knew the best friend was off work sick! Suddenly two and two made four! I caught a bus to the best friends house, the husband’s car was parked outside! They wouldn’t answer the door so my fist went through the plate glass. She called the police I ran, I hid, I was scared. He was my true love! Other women’s men had always been out of bounds! I threw him out! They were together nine years! She loathed my children, they reminded her of me. She was a dog, once she'd been served a bowl of dog food for breakfast when she’d stayed, uninvited, overnight in a bachelor pad, I'd felt sorry for her! Shortly before he died he told the love child he’d met someone else … he never got to leave. They rarely change do they? The ex - best friend was last seen with the father of someone else’s children. No more women best friends! Diagnosis - the ultimate betrayal!
She was my best friend. I confided I surmised the husband had a girlfriend. Her advice, “give him the flick.” On Christmas Day Mother told me beware; she’d seen them kiss. Nahhhhh she’s my best friend I defended. People told me they’d seen the husband and best friend together. When asked he confirmed that he’d “bumped into her”. The love child told me the best friend had been at the house when I was working nights (the husband worked days) the husband said the love child was dreaming! I rang the husband one afternoon to ask what he’d like for dinner and was told he hadn’t been at that job for two days. I knew the best friend was off work sick! Suddenly two and two made four! I caught a bus to the best friends house, the husband’s car was parked outside! They wouldn’t answer the door so my fist went through the plate glass. She called the police I ran, I hid, I was scared. He was my true love! Other women’s men had always been out of bounds! I threw him out! They were together nine years! She loathed my children, they reminded her of me. She was a dog, once she'd been served a bowl of dog food for breakfast when she’d stayed, uninvited, overnight in a bachelor pad, I'd felt sorry for her! Shortly before he died he told the love child he’d met someone else … he never got to leave. They rarely change do they? The ex - best friend was last seen with the father of someone else’s children. No more women best friends! Diagnosis - the ultimate betrayal!
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Writers Island #8 - Unforgettable: The Melbourne Cup!
Unforgettable has to be the iconic Melbourne Cup Day . This historical horse race, run on the first Tuesday in November and regarded as "the race that stops the nation" brings the majority of Australia to a stand still at 3pm, as the 3200 metres event runs. Recognized as one of the world 's greatest handicap races it is held at Flemington, a glorious suburban racecourse in Melbourne, named after a butcher who once lived there.
The first Cup was run in 1861. There were 17 starters, along with the cash prize of 170 quid, there was no 'cup' but a hand beaten gold watch and Archer, the winning horse, had walked the 500 miles / 800 kms to Melbourne from its stable in Nowra, New South Wales to compete, took home the spoils!
Since the inaugural horse race meeting in 1810 Australians have become renowned as some of the worlds greatest sports whether competing or having a punt or a wager, no matter their age someone, somewhere is running a Melbourne Cup sweep in the hope of being able to brag they had the winning horse! From school kids to the Aussie troops in Iraq and Afghanistan a flutter is a must on this day!
Whether on course or at parties across the country at race courses, restaurants, offices or puns you'll find hat's, hunks, fillies, flappers, winners, whiners, flutterers, fascinators, the fascinating and lets not forget the splurgers and the spewers! The gorgeous image of those pretty young things that consume too much champagne, too soon, seen with carrots in their fascinators often before the big race has run, being escorted from the venue by embarassed friends or foes obviously contemplating how swiftly they can remove the offenders details from their address book, never ceases to amaze.
Squillions of dollars are seen on the track in sponsorship, horse flesh and the flesh of the not so young salubrious fillies who turn the Spring Racing Carnival, of which the Melbourne Cup has become the highlight, into a major social event! It's a public holiday in the state of Victoria and many people across the country organise the day off work - Aussie's love it!
Unforgettable Melbourne Cup luncheons are advertised all over, for me it's the Peter Alexander's, a flutter via the online TAB , plus the live telecast of THE race ... now that's unforgettable!
The first Cup was run in 1861. There were 17 starters, along with the cash prize of 170 quid, there was no 'cup' but a hand beaten gold watch and Archer, the winning horse, had walked the 500 miles / 800 kms to Melbourne from its stable in Nowra, New South Wales to compete, took home the spoils!
Since the inaugural horse race meeting in 1810 Australians have become renowned as some of the worlds greatest sports whether competing or having a punt or a wager, no matter their age someone, somewhere is running a Melbourne Cup sweep in the hope of being able to brag they had the winning horse! From school kids to the Aussie troops in Iraq and Afghanistan a flutter is a must on this day!
Whether on course or at parties across the country at race courses, restaurants, offices or puns you'll find hat's, hunks, fillies, flappers, winners, whiners, flutterers, fascinators, the fascinating and lets not forget the splurgers and the spewers! The gorgeous image of those pretty young things that consume too much champagne, too soon, seen with carrots in their fascinators often before the big race has run, being escorted from the venue by embarassed friends or foes obviously contemplating how swiftly they can remove the offenders details from their address book, never ceases to amaze.
Squillions of dollars are seen on the track in sponsorship, horse flesh and the flesh of the not so young salubrious fillies who turn the Spring Racing Carnival, of which the Melbourne Cup has become the highlight, into a major social event! It's a public holiday in the state of Victoria and many people across the country organise the day off work - Aussie's love it!
Unforgettable Melbourne Cup luncheons are advertised all over, for me it's the Peter Alexander's, a flutter via the online TAB , plus the live telecast of THE race ... now that's unforgettable!
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
Writers Island #7 - "Haunted"
Are other islanders haunted by people who miss the point?
You know the ones ...
When you tell a story they only see it as an opportunity to one up you, to tell you something that’s usually not relevant … Ooops sorry, how dare I, their mind is racing to blurt their thoughts … the ones that prattle on without one iota of what you’ve said, what you need or what you’re about?
By people who instead of handing out praise, can’t wait to regale you with something they believe is of a similar consequence?
By people who make everything about them – see previous two paragraphs!
By people who don’t see the funny side, who see the majority of life shrouded by doom and gloom?
By people who “don’t get it”… whether a trend, a tradition, anything unique, kooky, eccentric, with a smidge of individuality, or the bizarre … stuff that zooms, whooooshes over the top of their selfish noggins.
So … who we gonna call … Ghostbusters?
You know the ones ...
When you tell a story they only see it as an opportunity to one up you, to tell you something that’s usually not relevant … Ooops sorry, how dare I, their mind is racing to blurt their thoughts … the ones that prattle on without one iota of what you’ve said, what you need or what you’re about?
By people who instead of handing out praise, can’t wait to regale you with something they believe is of a similar consequence?
By people who make everything about them – see previous two paragraphs!
By people who don’t see the funny side, who see the majority of life shrouded by doom and gloom?
By people who “don’t get it”… whether a trend, a tradition, anything unique, kooky, eccentric, with a smidge of individuality, or the bizarre … stuff that zooms, whooooshes over the top of their selfish noggins.
So … who we gonna call … Ghostbusters?
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
Writers Island "Message in a Bottle"
In 1979 UK band The Police released their second album Regatta de Blance and the track “Message in a Bottle” was a huge hit in Australia, #1 in the United Kingdom only reached #74 in the US. The song was about an island castaway, who sends off a help message in a bottle. Later he finds a hundred million bottles washed up on the shore line indicating there are many people out there like him. The metaphors of the island, the bottle and the discovery he is not alone were the theme of the song …
The words are …
Just a castaway,
an island lost at sea, oh
Another lonely day, with no one here but me, oh
More loneliness than any man could bear
Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
A year has passed since I wrote my note
But I should have known this right from the start
Only hope can keep me together
Love can mend your life but
Love can break your heart
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Walked out this morning, dont believe what I saw
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore
Seems Im not alone at being alone
Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets myMessage in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s...
The message in the bottle prompt reminds me of life, of past imbibing seeking the answers to life. The resemblances of writing, of savouring the flavour, a beginning, a middle, an end signify that the message in the bottle need not necessarily be a note, a written message but that the message might be contained in, or the consequence of, the liquid contents.
Symbolizing a beginning a full bottle could represent anticpation: a new adventure, an experience, of a tantalising aroma, as bubbles tingle your nose plus the prospect of what the contents might unleash.
The middle of the bottle heightens the senses. Calming, aggravating or relaxing sensations begin to appear. Devouring the contents alters feelings, perceptions, sometimes heading towards a danger zone – is the bottle half full or half empty?
The end as you drain the the final dregs climaxes in either sadness or elation! The message is consumed. What you’re left with is the prospect of the next chapter, of the next bottle, of the next message … or no relevance, everything out of perspective, plus a mighty hangover looming!
Do you want ice with that?
The words are …
Just a castaway,
an island lost at sea, oh
Another lonely day, with no one here but me, oh
More loneliness than any man could bear
Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
A year has passed since I wrote my note
But I should have known this right from the start
Only hope can keep me together
Love can mend your life but
Love can break your heart
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Walked out this morning, dont believe what I saw
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore
Seems Im not alone at being alone
Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets myMessage in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Message in a bottle, yeah
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s.
Sending out at an s.o.s...
The message in the bottle prompt reminds me of life, of past imbibing seeking the answers to life. The resemblances of writing, of savouring the flavour, a beginning, a middle, an end signify that the message in the bottle need not necessarily be a note, a written message but that the message might be contained in, or the consequence of, the liquid contents.
Symbolizing a beginning a full bottle could represent anticpation: a new adventure, an experience, of a tantalising aroma, as bubbles tingle your nose plus the prospect of what the contents might unleash.
The middle of the bottle heightens the senses. Calming, aggravating or relaxing sensations begin to appear. Devouring the contents alters feelings, perceptions, sometimes heading towards a danger zone – is the bottle half full or half empty?
The end as you drain the the final dregs climaxes in either sadness or elation! The message is consumed. What you’re left with is the prospect of the next chapter, of the next bottle, of the next message … or no relevance, everything out of perspective, plus a mighty hangover looming!
Do you want ice with that?
Monday, 8 October 2007
Writers Island "RENEWAL."
The passionately written prologue at Writers Island ‘Renewal’ certainly prompted a new interpretation … A time of transition has come. We are passing into another cycle. a prompt that reflects this period of transition. It may appear as a time of change, a new cycle, a second chance, fresh start, rejuvenation… maybe you feel it happening around you… perhaps within you — however you see it or feel it, that’s how you should share it … with an eye to new possibility. It should be very exciting to discover each of our interpretations.
Initially ‘Renewal’ was mundane and seemed to represent the renewal of something old … a licence, an insurance policy, a friendship, a romance. Pondering this new interpretation became enlightening, bursting with all things I adore ... change, new cycle, second chance, fresh start and rejuventaion ... all integral parts of life?
WOW … metamorphosis had been second nature! Renewal had frequently and unknowingly provided opportunities to honestly re-asses, re-think, to realise. After more than a few physical and emotional disasters had commonsense, intuition, or survival, prevailed? Often something kicked in, licences weren’t renewed, friendships either, destructive choices were abolished, blame, trends, traditions and so called passions all got the I'm over it, out the door, NEXT! Life saving transitions were easy and numerous!
Disasters, frequently the fuel for renewals were many too. Two decades ago, after drinking a bottle of Smirnoff on a warm Sunday, spurred on by a claim there were less calories with soda and a slice of lemon, invinciblity kicked in around 2am and while trying to drive home through deserted back streets slamming into fifteen parked cars, not once, but twice! Escaping unscathed provided the jolt that NOT renewing that drivers licence was imperative!
Renewal has rarely been part of my MO. A been there done that attitude, saved the day over and over, always going forward, rarely going back. Moving to another state to escape the old crowd, the old haunts, the party go-ers was another stroke of; was it genius or was my guardian angel giving me a nudge? Expired renewals, long past their use by date were replaced with picking up the threads, revelling in chaos and drama wasn't renewed.
Endless possibilities, endless opportunities lurk, all simply waiting for acknowledgment from within. All it takes is the guts and the gall to be real. Renewal is the honest resonsibility of taking ownership … go for it ... go on I dare you!
Initially ‘Renewal’ was mundane and seemed to represent the renewal of something old … a licence, an insurance policy, a friendship, a romance. Pondering this new interpretation became enlightening, bursting with all things I adore ... change, new cycle, second chance, fresh start and rejuventaion ... all integral parts of life?
WOW … metamorphosis had been second nature! Renewal had frequently and unknowingly provided opportunities to honestly re-asses, re-think, to realise. After more than a few physical and emotional disasters had commonsense, intuition, or survival, prevailed? Often something kicked in, licences weren’t renewed, friendships either, destructive choices were abolished, blame, trends, traditions and so called passions all got the I'm over it, out the door, NEXT! Life saving transitions were easy and numerous!
Disasters, frequently the fuel for renewals were many too. Two decades ago, after drinking a bottle of Smirnoff on a warm Sunday, spurred on by a claim there were less calories with soda and a slice of lemon, invinciblity kicked in around 2am and while trying to drive home through deserted back streets slamming into fifteen parked cars, not once, but twice! Escaping unscathed provided the jolt that NOT renewing that drivers licence was imperative!
Renewal has rarely been part of my MO. A been there done that attitude, saved the day over and over, always going forward, rarely going back. Moving to another state to escape the old crowd, the old haunts, the party go-ers was another stroke of; was it genius or was my guardian angel giving me a nudge? Expired renewals, long past their use by date were replaced with picking up the threads, revelling in chaos and drama wasn't renewed.
Endless possibilities, endless opportunities lurk, all simply waiting for acknowledgment from within. All it takes is the guts and the gall to be real. Renewal is the honest resonsibility of taking ownership … go for it ... go on I dare you!
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Writers Island - THE KEY ...
THE KEY ...
To my heart ...
To knowledge
To life ...
To open the door ...
is it here ...???
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To my heart ...
To knowledge
To life ...
To open the door ...
is it here ...???
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Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Writers Island - My Imaginary Life.
Writers Island, a new writers community started today with the prompt "My Imaginary Life" I'm there, so here's my slant ... different, that's me!
My Imaginary Life.
The inaugural prompt sounds beautiful with an invite to “get your feet sandy” but sorry guys I don’t have, never have had and will never have an imaginary life. Call me boring, call me odd, no don’t do that, call me a realist. I get on with life, get into it, spend no time dreaming but time planning, organising and researching how to accomplish and achieve goals. Ticking things off the lists I adore writing is the big payoff!
For me, nothing would be done if I were imagining. What a mess life would become if energy spent on an imagined life took over. What a disgraceful waste of this real, precious life we have only one chance at, it would be! Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against imagination. It's just that for me life is too short to waste valuable, never to replaced time, speculating a scenario usually out of reach. I’m here to grab hold of life, live it, use it up with gusto and not waste a nano second!
In 1978 Australian author David Malouf published a novel “An Imaginary Life” and the dust jacket synopsis reads "The Roman poet Ovid, in exile, tells the story of his encounter with a wild boy, brought up among wolves in the snow. At first the poet assumes the role of protector of the boy; gradually, however, the roles of protector and protected are reversed as the two form a curious and touching alliance." Despite being regarded by the masses as a great literary work, for me, this is a perfect example of imagination overload.
I don’t read fiction, hit me with the truth, the facts man, please satisfy my thirst for knowledge I ask. Elements of fiction are undoubtedly based on real life events posing the question as to the origin of the initial source that makes me ponder; are fiction writer’s composing on the rims of plagiarism? Once I witnessed a huge disagreement at a writers group when one person wrote a piece based the personal experience of another member. Tempers flared, hackles went up, who owned the story ... thought provoking. How could we go through life copywriting every personal experience? Imagine that?
Childhood imagination is adorable. The whimsical, the tooth fairy, Santa, the invisible friends, their use of colour and their naivety is beautifully heart warming. But when kids become adults it’s time to get their heads out of an imagined life and take a long hard look at what’s happening in the real world around them. One can only wonder if the world might be a better place?
In the last few days I’ve decided to take a trip to the US in 2008. Not imagined, no dreaming, decided, time’s right. This is a major deep end plunge. Having never travelled overseas, nor owning a passport, this is real. It’s on! The appointment’s been made to obtain the passport, the expected budget and saving plan is in place and a Moleskine notebook sits at the top of my birthday gift list where the plans, tips and all the claptrap that any virgin traveller will ever need, to pull off the jaunt, will be recorded. Maybe writers with, or without, an imaginary life might even like to meet up with this cynical, eccentric, realist, from ‘downunder’ to compare notes.
My Imagined life, nope, no way … game’s on!
My Imaginary Life.
The inaugural prompt sounds beautiful with an invite to “get your feet sandy” but sorry guys I don’t have, never have had and will never have an imaginary life. Call me boring, call me odd, no don’t do that, call me a realist. I get on with life, get into it, spend no time dreaming but time planning, organising and researching how to accomplish and achieve goals. Ticking things off the lists I adore writing is the big payoff!
For me, nothing would be done if I were imagining. What a mess life would become if energy spent on an imagined life took over. What a disgraceful waste of this real, precious life we have only one chance at, it would be! Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against imagination. It's just that for me life is too short to waste valuable, never to replaced time, speculating a scenario usually out of reach. I’m here to grab hold of life, live it, use it up with gusto and not waste a nano second!
In 1978 Australian author David Malouf published a novel “An Imaginary Life” and the dust jacket synopsis reads "The Roman poet Ovid, in exile, tells the story of his encounter with a wild boy, brought up among wolves in the snow. At first the poet assumes the role of protector of the boy; gradually, however, the roles of protector and protected are reversed as the two form a curious and touching alliance." Despite being regarded by the masses as a great literary work, for me, this is a perfect example of imagination overload.
I don’t read fiction, hit me with the truth, the facts man, please satisfy my thirst for knowledge I ask. Elements of fiction are undoubtedly based on real life events posing the question as to the origin of the initial source that makes me ponder; are fiction writer’s composing on the rims of plagiarism? Once I witnessed a huge disagreement at a writers group when one person wrote a piece based the personal experience of another member. Tempers flared, hackles went up, who owned the story ... thought provoking. How could we go through life copywriting every personal experience? Imagine that?
Childhood imagination is adorable. The whimsical, the tooth fairy, Santa, the invisible friends, their use of colour and their naivety is beautifully heart warming. But when kids become adults it’s time to get their heads out of an imagined life and take a long hard look at what’s happening in the real world around them. One can only wonder if the world might be a better place?
In the last few days I’ve decided to take a trip to the US in 2008. Not imagined, no dreaming, decided, time’s right. This is a major deep end plunge. Having never travelled overseas, nor owning a passport, this is real. It’s on! The appointment’s been made to obtain the passport, the expected budget and saving plan is in place and a Moleskine notebook sits at the top of my birthday gift list where the plans, tips and all the claptrap that any virgin traveller will ever need, to pull off the jaunt, will be recorded. Maybe writers with, or without, an imaginary life might even like to meet up with this cynical, eccentric, realist, from ‘downunder’ to compare notes.
My Imagined life, nope, no way … game’s on!
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