DoubtEverything

Ceasefire

2011-07-14T12:25:00.005+12:00

Ceasefire
Michael Longley

I

Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears
Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king
Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and
Wept with him until their sadness ﬁlled the building.

II
Taking Hector’s corpse into his own hands Achilles
Made sure it was washed and, for the old king’s sake,
Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry
Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.

III
When they had eaten together, it pleased them both
To stare at each other’s beauty as lovers might,
Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still
And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:

IV
‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’

(Peter O'Toole as Priam)

The goat factor

2011-06-23T17:07:00.004+12:00

Is it weird that I feel upset/pissed off because I've only just found out today there is a goat next door, how marvellous, a goat! Why didn't someone tell me sooner, didn't anyone think I might be interested, I so much like the thought of a goat next door, is it male or female, what breed of goat, what's its name, are they milking it (I suspect not). Why didn't someone think to tell me, I feel like I've been robbed of a simple pleasure... it probably makes me sound somewhat mad, unhinged and perhaps it is true. It's so strange (not the right word) to be cut off from things happening next door, so close and yet so far, they are building something near the house, I have been listening to hammering for weeks, a phantom building... I'm here but not here...

A woman's name

2011-06-21T12:55:00.004+12:00

Leaving, as you do
without ceremony;
a closing comment,
huge with implication,
flung back
like the toss of a head,
weaves through
pockets of sleep
in company with
lingering regret
self-reproach
a woman’s name.

5 February 2005

Dylan said it all

2011-06-19T13:12:00.005+12:00

"Rage,, rage against the dying of the light", others might not struggle so much, perhaps their lives are more peaceful for it, who knows...

Bright Yellow Balloons

2009-10-21T16:19:00.005+13:00

It should have been all birthday celebrations and cake and candles... instead I went outside and released bright yellow helium balloons into a blue blue sky... watched them until they disappeared... silence.

Photographer / Elizabeth March

No going back

2009-08-19T11:55:00.000+12:00

There is a crack in everything

2009-08-02T15:46:00.004+12:00

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything,
That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

It's such a shame we have to part

2009-07-31T14:20:00.005+12:00

Photograph by Elizabeth March

On the inside Looking out

2009-04-04T15:06:00.004+13:00

Increasingly the past seems so much further away than it seemed yesterday, the day before, the day before that....and the distance bears no relation to the time that has actually passed. Is it age or is it the power of the situation?

Today is such a glorious day and yet here I am on the inside looking out. I am not a part of it, that brilliance that is blue sky, sunshine, light breeze, the gorgeous autumnal palette that is reflected in everything I see out the window.... It is all happening outside of me, outside of my life. On another day I may see it differently but today it is definitely happening outside of me. End of story.

Photographer/Liz March

Footloose and 17

2009-03-29T15:26:00.003+13:00

"I'll be your lover too" Van Morrison sparks alive distant memory: 1978, Waiheke Island, the house on the road between Ostend and Palm Beach, walking up the driveway at night, alone, enveloped by a sweet scent of Wild Ginger, senses heightened by illicit substances, the wonderfully heady rush of freedom that comes with youth.

I don't give a fig!

2009-03-27T14:53:00.002+13:00

I don't give a fig!

Meaning: Complete lack of concern about an event

Origin: This phrase comes from the Spanish fico (fig) which gave its name to a traditional gesture of contempt made by placing the thumb between the first and second fingers. The gesture was common in Shakespeare's time and was known as The Fig of Spain. The modern-day equivalent is the "V" sign.

Photograph/Paul Mortensen

Oh Lucky Souls

2009-03-25T12:55:00.004+13:00

This weather is utterly, utterly perfect. No words to describe adequately. Autumn has a lot going for it. Sweetcorn ready for the pot. Petunias, viscaria, dahlias and lobelia fit to burst with colour. Figs swollen and sweet and luscious. White cosmos towering above the fence line. Liquid Amber beginning it's initially subtle, yearly transformation. A steady stream of sun bathed walkers down the road. Oh lucky souls.

Artist/Henri Matisse

My Boy Jack

2009-03-21T16:29:00.001+13:00

"HAVE you news of my boy Jack? "
Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.

Rudyard Kipling

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

2008-08-05T15:01:00.003+12:00

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind.

When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
preview At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.

The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.

Gordon Lightfoot

From the Throne Room

2008-05-24T13:10:00.006+12:00

For weeks I'd held an image in my mind. Standing on the roadside edge of the grass verge, opposit the top corner of the house, you see the front of the house and the Liquid Amber tree. Together. In context. Captured in one eyeful. Or, so my mind's eye assured me. And it was right.

Whananaki

2008-05-08T16:00:00.004+12:00

This post was inspired by Jacq who, knowing how uninspired I felt, suggested that I write about feeling uninspired. Well, that just didn't inspire me at all. There's nothing inspirational about feeling uninspired. Having said that, her suggestion did give me a little shove which resulted in my posting this image. Oh yes, there is a magnificent Liquid Amber tree specimen, looking thoroughly autumnal, on the grass verge outside my property and very fortunately for me, highly visible from my window. Quite inspiring really.

Photograph/Richard and Judy Coldicutt

Notes on a Scandal

2008-03-21T14:13:00.006+13:00

I'd heard nothing about Notes on a Scandal but whilst scrolling through the Waitakere Library website I happened upon it and was drawn by mention of Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett. Together. Hmmm sounds promising, might be worth a look. Dench, plays an older, cynical teacher, and Blanchett, the young and very green newcomer to the teaching staff, taken under her increasingly malign wing. For totally different reasons, each woman feels a sense of quiet isolation and is driven towards radical and ultimately, self-destructive behaviour. The more deeply their lives intersect, the more overt the older teacher's motives and desperation become. Dench and Blanchett are totally convincing in their roles. I haven't seen Judi Dench in a role such as this and she is, quite simply, magnificent. I found this film hugely engaging and would not hesitate to recommend it.

Eels and all that

2008-03-11T16:48:00.003+13:00

All around her tiny green, red and orange lights
where things are in sleep mode and standby mode.
The house is a city full of traffic
needing to be told when to stop and go.

Excerpt from Kate Camp's(NZ) poem The Insomniac Learns A Lot
Photograph of Derek March by Liz March

The Eloquence of Geography

2008-02-27T11:41:00.004+13:00

Aside from saying that this photograph was taken at Bethells beach, on Auckland's west coast, I shall let the photograph speak for itself.

Photograph by Liz March

Nucular proliferation

2008-02-10T11:37:00.000+13:00

I will not understand why some people insist on saying nucular instead of nuclear. What is so difficult about the word nuclear? Is nucular easier to say? No. If anything, I find it more awkward to get my tongue around. Even Microsoft Word is smart enough to recognise that nucular is not a word. Is it too simplistic to blame George Bush for the proliferation of this aberration? I know, it is not the only word to be abused in this way. It just so happens that this one annoys me the most. Shame on you George!

No complaints from me

2008-02-07T13:54:00.000+13:00

I can see where the storyline for Jack and the Beanstalk was born. Each cluster of three bean plants, climbing up their tall bamboo poles, racing its neighbour. There is one clear leader. Second pole from the right. Every few days enough fresh, green beans are picked to satisfy a dinner time appetite. Mine. Steam until just cooked, sprinkle on a little salt and voila! Simple but quite delicious.

This glorious weather just goes on and on. And no complaints from me. The contrast between blue and green is something to behold. The green of fig tree and liquid amber, against the sky's faultless blue. A real spectacle.

Photographer / Linda Ruthe

Like no other human being

2007-11-24T11:39:00.000+13:00

A human being is like all other human beings; like some human beings; like no other human being.

Author unknown

Photographer/Liz March

Love is so small

2007-03-28T12:05:00.000+12:00

'Love is so small, it can tear itself through the eye of a needle.'

Michael Ondaatje

The mutability of light

2007-03-03T12:30:00.000+13:00

Once you know how everything changes with the mutability of the light, there is no special reason to accord primacy to the view in common day.

Author unknown

Artist/Douglas Brega

The university of the waves

2007-02-26T11:17:00.000+13:00

I need the sea because it teaches me.
I don’t know if I learn music or awareness,
if it’s a single wave or its vast existence,
or only its harsh voice or its shining one,
a suggestion of fishes and ships.
The fact is, that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.

Pablo Neruda

Man, falling

2007-02-23T12:50:00.000+13:00

If we were not so single-minded
About keeping our lives moving,
And for once could do nothing,
Perhaps a huge silence
Might interrupt this sadness
Of never understanding ourselves
And of threatening ourselves with death;
Perhaps the earth can teach us
As when everything seems dead
And later proves to be alive.

Pablo Neruda

Sculpture/Giacometti

Cyrano de Bergerac

2007-01-02T11:25:00.000+13:00

Depardieu is a marvel. Such a fantastic script, superbly acted.

Another life

2006-12-28T11:34:00.000+13:00

Under house arrest
I bake bread
suggest we go to the pool
soak lentils for sprouting
hear the shower running at midday
iron shirts
deadhead plants
read books horizontally
write love letter ramblings
speak with a disheartened friend
sleep alone
imagine new aubergine leaves
watch the mailman ride past our box
lovingly fold your socks
receive an offering of comb honey
dream up evening meals
defrost milk
plaster my face with yogurt
shower every day
experience powerful waves of missing you
listen to Loreena McKennitt
make the bed
arrange for neighbours to post mail
mix olive oil with garlic
and wonder why it tastes different
witness Lucy’s pleasure at having us here
feed the goldfish every two days
dress fully even when it’s hot
don’t need reminders of you
recognise the bittersweet nature of this love.

January 2000

Photograph/Liz March

A cat and numerous birds

2006-11-11T12:45:00.000+13:00

Today I am joined by Lucy, asleep in the chair with the yellow cushion. Company on this oftentimes grey day. And outside, on the bird table, a collection of small feasting finches. Two, rather yellow in colour, are collectively known by me as The Yellow Peril. Mynas, of which there are a fair few, are, again, collectively known as The Bully Boys. Mynas are so strange, and I've decided that is, at least in part, because they walk rather than hop. Pukekos, of course, are also walkers, walking as if they were wearing flippers on their feet. I must say that I am pleased they have not again invaded the small bird territory and helped themselves to the food.

Photograph/Liz March

Cabbage roses

2006-11-04T12:42:00.000+13:00

I received an email from Liz this morning. A photograph from her garden. A rose she described as giving her much pleasure. Well, I can see why. I always think of these roses as 'cabbage roses', due in large to their tight petal formation. Such a rose used to grace the front fence here. Originally from the far north, it had been taken by cutting from Kemp House, an 1800s early settler dwelling in Keri Keri . Its history fostering the romantic notion that it had been packed with special care by some modestly dressed English gentlewoman and transported onboard ship all away to New Zealand. Along with her nervous hopes for a good life in this far off land on the other side of the world.

Photograph/Liz March

High Country Weather

2006-10-29T16:32:00.000+13:00

Alone we are born
and die alone
yet see the red-gold cirrus
over snow-mountain shine.

Upon the upland road
ride easy stranger:
surrender to the sky
your heart of anger.

James K. Baxter

Photograph of James K. Baxter

Tupelo Honey

2006-10-21T11:45:00.000+13:00

You can take all the tea in china
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail right around the seven oceans
Drop it straight into the deep blue sea
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey from the bee

You cant stop us on the road to freedom
You cant keep us cause our eyes can see
Men with insight, men in granite
Knights in armor bent on chivalry
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey from the bee

You cant stop us on the road to freedom
You cant stop us cause our eyes can see
Men with insight, men in granite
Knights in armor intent on chivalry
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey from the bee

You know shes alright
You know shes alright with me
She's alright, she's alright (she's an angel)

You can take all the tea in china
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail it right around the seven oceans
Drop it smack dab in the middle of the deep blue sea
Because she's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey from the bee

She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright. . . . . .

The Silk of Kings

2006-10-14T12:20:00.000+13:00

Reality
muddies the waters
of my rest.

A reminder, yet again:
together we are
primitive woven cloth,
not the silk of kings
or dreams.

And I die another death.

8 August 1999

Photograph/Liz March

Just in time

2006-10-09T11:24:00.000+13:00

It feels both timely and wonderful to be moving into summer again. Shirley has been working her green fingers to the bone on my behalf and the garden is almost ready to be planted. All it needs now is 1.5 cubic metres of Living Earth organic compost/bark/seaweed mix to top up the raised garden beds. And that arrives this coming weekend. Next week the transformation begins. I'm itching to get a newly-bought assortment of organic Koanga Gardens heirloom vegetable seedlings into the ground. During winter months, my horticultural inclinations hibernate. But they have now well and truly re-awakened. Just in time.

Photograph/Derek March - Kaihikatea trees in the Whirinaki Forest NZ

The ridge dresses up

2006-09-21T11:30:00.000+12:00

Te Aute ridge is in flower again. The glorious kowhai's annual show. Welcome golden cups dominate the landscape. Carpet the road. A springtime playground for tuis. Like this young specimen who, quite charmingly, showed no fear of the photographer. And dotted around about, clematis. Lazily draped over manuka hosts.

Photographer/Liz March

Email to a friend (dreaming of summer)

2006-09-16T10:14:00.000+12:00

it's saturday morning. i am listening to kim hill. loud bird noises from outside clamour for attention. your faithful snowdrops, flowering against the front fence. purple and yellow pansys, cheerful in the rectangular pot. its neighbour, rosemary, smothered in small blue flowers. lucy, sleeping amongst straw, dreaming of summer, pays no attention to forboding overcast skies. a handful of blue and white forget-me-nots, proud amid the onion weed. lone yellow freesia, against the garage. fig tree sporting tiny green leaves. bluebells, rocket towards opening. rhodadendron, a mass of cerise pom-poms. birds come and go from the feeding platform, lately invaded by a much too large pukeko. great clumsy oaf!

it seems you have left blackberry picking well behind and are moving on to less romantic and more challenging pursuits. i hope you will take care.

cheers! my friend

The kitchen no longer bears my signature

2006-09-08T11:41:00.000+12:00

The kitchen is no longer mine. My voice has been lost. Drowned out. Daring to enter, I am struck by my absence. I have become a stranger here. And it, a stranger to me. My own colours have faded. Gone, flourishes that spoke of the woman who loved its spaces. Unavoidable others have left their mark. With clumsy, unconsciousness. Ugly. And I want to scream. GetoutGetoutGetoutGetout. But most of all, I want to weep.

20 today!

2006-08-28T12:26:00.000+12:00

Happy birthday!
love from your mummy

xxxxx

Sound familiar?

2006-08-20T09:45:00.000+12:00

Has anyone out there experienced this: My last three posts are not visible to me when I access my blog. I know that others can see them. Grrrrrrr. This is hugely frustrating! Sound familiar? Does it get better? I may try deleting the first 'invisible' post and see if that reorganises things. Any suggestions?

Artist/Modigliani

Theo

2006-08-18T16:30:00.000+12:00

Attempting to maintain dignity
in the face of a sudden influx of sparrows
he stands his ground, valiantly
defending the bread he was enjoying
alone, until the onslaught of this avian battalion.

August 2006

Artist/Colin McCahon

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter....and Spring

2006-08-15T11:36:00.000+12:00

Korean film, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter...and Spring, is an allegorical feast for the eyes. Stunning cinematography and spare dialogue wrap a tale that beautifully presents the cyclical, circular nature of life. The age-old concept of life as teacher. The inevitability that 'sins' catch up with us. The possibility for redemption. In short, that there is nothing new under the sun plays out in a way that cannot help but make a memorable impact.

All About Eve

2006-08-14T11:11:00.000+12:00

Am I the only person never to have seen All About Eve? Anyway, this past weekend I put that matter right. And am I glad I did. Bette Davis is outstanding. Remarkable. In fact, the entire cast is superb. No weak links in the chain. From Margot Channing, Davis' benevolent volcano character, through to George Sanders' portrayal of the cool, calculating Addison DeWitt and Anne Baxter as Eve Harrington, the desperately wannabe actress who climbs the stardom ladder by stepping on anyone who provides the best foothold, 'friends' notwithstanding. The film is a real treat. Do yourself a favour, next time you come across it in the DVD store, grab it with both hands.

Without

2006-08-06T10:32:00.000+12:00

Crossing Cook Strait
going home to be
ordained in the

parish of his father,
while seas wished
by and the wind

had its say in the
wires, it came to
him there was no

God. Not that
God was sulking or had
turned His back—that

had happened often.
It was that God
wasn’t there, was

nowhere, a Word
without reference or
object. Who was

God? He was the
Lord. What Lord was
that? The Lord God. Back

and forth it went while
stern lifted, screw
shuddered, stars glowed

and faded. The
universe was losing
weight. It was

then he threw his
Bible into the
sea. He was a

poet and would
write his own. Happiness
was nothing

but not being
sad. It was your
self in this one and

only moment
without grief or
remorse, without God

or a future—sea,
sky, the decks
rolling underfoot.

C.K. Stead

Artist/Colin McCahon

Always greener

2006-07-28T10:17:00.000+12:00

Such a glorious morning. Magnificent. I could go on. Adjective after adjective. The day teases me through the glass. Every coin has two sides. Every fence. The far grass looks especially green this morning.

Happy Ending

2006-07-21T13:55:00.000+12:00

After they had not made love
she pulled the sheet up over her eyes
until he was buttoning his shirt:
not shyness for their bodies - those
they had willingly displayed - but a frail
endeavour to apologise.

Later, though, drawn together by
a distaste for such 'untidy ends'
they agreed to meet again; whereupon
they giggled, reminisced, held hands
as though what they had made was love -
and not that happier outcome- friends.

Fleur Adcock

Artist/Marc Chagall

My Architect: A son's journey

2006-07-15T12:45:00.000+12:00

Louis Kahn, one of the 20th Century's most influential architects, died in 1974. Alone. In a railway station restroom. He remained unidentified for three days. He left behind a wife, two mistresses and three children. Twenty years later, his son, Nathaniel Kahn, haunted by the obscurity surrounding his father('s death), embarks on a personal journey to discover as much as he can about the man he knew to be his father despite the shadowiness of his knowledge about him. My Architect (2003), is the documentary film about Nathaniel's search for answers. It is a remarkable film. More than a biographical piece, it explores, albeit implicitly, the relationship between the design and the designer. The film is an immensely compelling and moving journey into human complexity, art and identity. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Photograph/Nathaniel and Louis Kahn

Has always been

2006-07-13T11:54:00.000+12:00

What was has always been.

What is has aways been.

And what will be has always been.

Louis Kahn

Photograph/Liz March

From last night's glass

2006-07-11T12:04:00.000+12:00

vinaceous: having the colour of red wine

and while the coffee sploshed
aloft with spurtling sound
from last night's glass he washed
the dried vinaceous ground

Tyl von Randow, ever the inimitable wordsmith

Wine/Goldwater Estate, Waiheke Island NZ

Kereru in silhouette

2006-07-04T12:10:00.000+12:00

Kereru: native NZ wood pigeon

silhouette: an outline that appears dark against a light background

Photographer/Liz March

Dominant

2006-07-02T13:37:00.000+12:00

Just a glimpse of the dominant female blackbird partaking of a late lard and seed breakfast on the highly popular feeding platform.

Photographer/Liz March

Quoting du Pres

2006-06-30T13:44:00.000+12:00

Listening to you quote du Pres,
So confident and convinced by
What I deem an insidiously seductive argument,
I am reminded of the human propensity
For emotional evasion
By self-deception.

June 2006

Artist/Modigliani

Finding Jane Austen

2006-06-14T12:00:00.000+12:00

I'm not sure why it took me so long to discover Jane Austen. Or, rather, I should say, film adaptations of her work. It was only this year that I watched Sense and Sensibility, with Kate Winslett and Alan Rickman, both admired by me. I loved it. This time it was the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice that came before my gaze. Starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen, the outstanding male lead from Brad McGann's (NZ) outstanding film In My Father's Den. Macfadyen, alone, was reason enough to hire the film. And he didn't disappoint. Keira Knightley, whom I had not previously been convinced by, was made for the role of Elizabeth. Astonishingly good, actually. Without giving any more information, may I simply say that the film was an absolute delight. One I could easily and enjoyably see again. Interestingly, the bonus features included the alternate US ending. A few minutes tagged on to the end. I feel compelled to say it was decidedly syrupy. I preferred the British version, which concludes at the end of the scene between Elizabeth and her father, played by Donald Sutherland. I appreciate knowing that the director acknowledged my own imaginative powers by not spelling everything out loudly.

A veritable feast

2006-06-12T13:06:00.000+12:00

Had I a digital camera, I would photograph the scene out my window: A baker’s dozen of sparrows. Assembled together in the fig tree. Their grey and brown colouring matching perfectly the grey and brown of nude fig tree branches. This congregation has a purpose. Increasing numbers of sparrows now congregate here each morning. Along with blackbirds, thrushes, a variety of finches and the occasional plucky waxeye who dares to confront the ‘big birds’. Joining them, two new visitors: a welcome pair of fawn coloured ringneck doves, come from I know not where. And watching intensely from higher branches, surprisingly reticent mynas. Word gets around it would seem. All are eager to partake of the recently instigated daily buffet. Laid out upon the new bird feeder situated only feet from my window. A tasty mix of lard and seed, supplemented with a few slices of stale bread. A veritable feast.

The spine gives up its saddest stories

2006-06-06T15:14:00.000+12:00

I pay a man to manipulate me.

He lays out a sheet of clean tissue
cradles my head and says
from behind a Swiss moustache
have you had accidents before?

Oh yes, I want to say
I am the very devil for injury
I disguise myself
as a white line and live on the road.

I do not say this, I lie
prone in a curtain room
the William Tell overture
plays at quiet volume

his chest is warm on my back
my head is heavy in his hands
there are tiny clicks happening inside me
that even he doesn't know about:

the secret language of the spine.

Author unknown

The Four Walls

2006-06-04T12:08:00.000+12:00

One wall of the gallery is divided in two by a doorway. Hence the five images. Each wall represents a particular theme. Three walls have a landscape profile. The divided wall, portrait. Nothing up close but all I can offer at present. These were taken yesterday. Just a taste.

A highly successful conclusion

2006-06-02T11:39:00.000+12:00

A small handful of photographs I received via email this morning. By all accounts, the exhibition opening was very successful indeed. And although it does not appear so, there were a lot of people present. You may get some idea of the exhibition layout. The pieces run in a single strip around all four walls.

Photo 1: on the left- my daughter

Photo 3: 2nd from right - photographer, Liz March

A snip of a price

2006-05-31T12:37:00.000+12:00

This morning's post brought two more books. My latest TradeMe purchases. The 21st Century, online garage sale equivalent. Isabel Allende's Portrait in Sepia and Shauna Singh Baldwin's What the Body Remembers. Only $1 apiece and both in as-new condition. I am absolutely delighted. This is definitely the way to buy new books. Here in NZ, good fiction paperbacks generally cost anywhere between$25-35.

An ever-changing lens

2006-05-30T14:15:00.000+12:00

For those who expressed interest in the Uncertain Space photographic exhibition: The exhibition opens in two days time. Though it is a group show, each of the three photographers will be exhibiting their work in separate rooms in the gallery. The photographer with whom I collaborated, Liz March, is showing 47 pieces, collectively entitled 'An ever-changing lens'. They include 10 excerpts from my writing, which have been laid over a variety of soft colours, tying in with the photographs they will be situated next to . Each work is A3 size. Some B&W, some colour. I saw the enlarged photographs a couple of days ago and they are quite superb. All credit to the photographer. I found it very interesting, and strangely moving, to see my words presented in such a way. Almost as if I were not the author. I hope to post some photos of the exhibition at a later stage.

I wrote a very brief explanatory note about myself, to accompany the exhibition. I have decided to post it here:

____ was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1992, aged 32. Over the ensuing years, the condition has gnawed away at her physical status, its progression sometimes unhurried, sometimes disturbingly rapid. Today, _____ is confined to her home in the foothills of the Waitakere Ranges, where she perceives life through an ever-changing lens.

We don't see things as they are; we see things as we are. Anais Nin

Photographer/Liz March

Black Turtle Bean Soup

2006-05-30T13:51:00.000+12:00

(I am in two minds about posting a recipe but, oh well, I have described DoubtEverything as a miscellany).

This soup is not beautiful but its deliciousness rates second to none. Insofar as my tastebuds are concerned anyway.

Ingredients:
11/2 cups black turtle beans (dried)
extra virgin olive oil
2 onions, finely chopped
3 large cloves garlic, chopped
2 tsp cumin seed, freshly ground*
2 chorizo sausages, sliced
1 litre chicken stock
500ml water

Method:
Soak beans overnight in cold water. Drain. Heat oil in large heavy-based saucepan and cook the onions, garlic and cumin until soft. Add chorizo and cook 2 minutes. Add beans, chicken stock and water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer gently for approximately 11/2-2 hours or until beans are tender. Season to taste with freshly ground black pepper. Cool slightly and puree half the soup, minus sausage pieces, in a blender. Return to the saucepan. To serve, add a dollop of sourcream (opt) and sprinkle with chopped fresh coriander or chives.

*An electric coffee grinder is perfect for grinding spices. The flavour of freshly ground spices is incomparable

Humour me if you will

2006-05-24T12:23:00.000+12:00

A dearth of present inspiration gives birth to re-reading previously constructed writings. Mavis Diamond was conceived about two years ago. I thought she may develop further but she got stuck at around the three-pages mark. This is a little taste. Humour me if you will.

In her childhood, a new year had always been treated with a certain degree of reverence. Mavis’s parents, who were somewhat non-conformist in their thinking, had considered it a time for new beginnings and always instilled in her the sense that she could give to the coming year what ever ‘shape’ she wanted. It was a blank slate and she, the artist. She was the author of her life and, as such, had the power to engineer and facilitate opportunity or, conversely, limit herself by taking an unconscious approach. As a child, this had always seemed to her rather magical. That a person, a child even, could make decisions about the direction their life would take during the coming year, was something altogether remarkable. She understood that it didn’t mean she could have complete control over what happened, her parents had been quite clear about that, but rather that she could make certain things happen if she wanted. From a very young age, Mavis had always treated the matter very seriously.
Near the end of her Standard 6 year, when the following year’s move to high school loomed large in her mind, Mavis began to consider her future career and what subjects she would need to study to prepare for it. Her parents listened as she thought aloud and explored the various paths she might go down. They never steered her in one direction or another, simply opened up each possibility as widely as possible and allowed her to journey through it as she liked. Whether it was teaching or veterinary science, they greeted each option with the same reserved enthusiasm. Mavis soon came to comprehend that, amongst her friends, she and her parents were unique in their approach. She had thought all families were the same.
- What subjects are you taking next year Barbara, Mavis asked her best friend.
- Dunno, book keeping or typing I s’pose, my parents say I’ll be going to secretarial school when I finish school anyway.
- Do you want to be a secretary then?
- Dunno, haven’t really thought about it, s’pose so, all the other girls will be doing commercial subjects.
- So, do you want to be a secretary Barbara?
- Oh I dunno Mavis. Come on, race you to the garden. There might be some new peas ready for picking. Come on.
From that day, Mavis Diamond never took the knowledge, that she could manoeuvre her life, for granted. Other people, she increasingly came to recognise, were rarely apprised of that knowledge and suffered as a consequence, stuck in their boringly conformist and unconscious lives.

Photograph/Epsom Girls Grammar Form 3 1952

Where I'm From

2006-05-11T13:28:00.000+12:00

I am from home-delivered milk in glass bottles; from Jungle Juice, Eskimo Pies and the Edmonds Cookbook.

I am from the three bedroom bungalow on the slopes of Mt Hobson, the big goldfish pond in the back lawn, the tree house in the monkey apple tree and the irresistible smell of just-baked bread.

I am from the big grapefruit tree that provided breakfasts when in season; from blue hydrangeas and the much played-in Chinese garden ‘down the back’.

I am from fish and chips with the next door neighbours on Friday nights; from gratefully accepted slender genes; from Hannah, who preferred her middle name and was known as Vi; from Neil, who took my brother and me tramping and ‘protected’ us from Rover; and from Pa, of the bottomless Minties bag.

I am from internalised anger and understated emotion; from the Santa Claus who liked a bottle of beer and a few biscuits before he flew on to the next house, and a mother who would get sent to jail if we didn’t to go to school.

I am from St Aidan’s Anglican Church, where I was christened and sent to Sunday School; from more charismatic experiences, entered into as an adult and pursued for eighteen years before being abandoned in favour of reality.

I'm from New Zealand, Sweden, Denmark, Holland and England; from creamy fish soup with parsley and raw mushroom salad; from cream filled sponge cakes served at Sunday afternoon teas in the house overlooking the Tamaki estuary.

From Nana and Pa who were not next in line to marry and so married secretly until it was their turn and they could safely let the cat out of the bag; the mysterious sibling who preceded me in the womb but miscarried before his/her time, and Poppa who, at the age of eight, drove a herd of cattle through the King Country backblocks, single-handedly.

I am from black and white ancestors, collected between the pages of family albums and viewed through the eye and fascination of a child; from the little 19th century birthday book, passed down through the female line; from the Venetian glass vase filled with Proteas; from snippets of long-past events, relayed via fragile memory; from people, unknown but no less influential for just having been.

Acknowledging Lulu's part in this exercise. To try your own hand, go to: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm .

Artist/Leonardo da Vinci

The Constant Gardener

2006-05-07T15:56:00.000+12:00

I've never particularly enjoyed watching Ralph Fiennes on screen but after listening to a very promising review of The Constant Gardner on National Radio (NZ public radio), I put the film on my must-watch list. And this afternoon I did just that, watched it. In short, no regrets.
The Constant Gardener strikes a comfortable, happy and thoroughly engaging balance between wonderfully intimate love story and disturbing tale of murder and politcal/industrial intrigue. Both Fiennes and the, previously unknown to me, female lead, Rachel Weisz, give superb performances. Nothing short of believable. In fact, all performances are excellent. The cinematography also deserves special mention for the inclusive familiarity which falls just short of voyeurism. Kenya, in which the film is largely shot, and its people offer a colourful, warm and stunning backdrop to this thoroughly commendable film.

Autumn's other face

2006-05-05T11:21:00.000+12:00

The autumnal scene out my window this morning is nothing short of magnificent. Sun shining brightly. Gentle breeze. Fig tree in the foreground. Mostly denuded of leaves. Dotted with a handful of waxeyes enjoying the absolute last of the figs. Liquid Amber tree just behind. Clothed in the season's variegated coat. Ranging in colour from stubbornly green through to yellow, orange and red. The grass below both trees covered in a generous carpet of leaves. Food for the ground which has nurtured their growth through the previous months. A sort of 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' arrangement. A pot of rosemary, tinged blue with flowers. Purple salvia, on its last legs. Agapanthus, one of Waitakere City Council's banned plants, comfortably nestled up against the fence. Long, narrow, bright green leaves surrounding half-dried seedheads on sturdy stems.....Then, as if to remind me that it is autumn after all, the sky completely clouds over and rain begins to fall. Autumn's other face.

Photograph/Waxeye by Liz March

Finding the world

2006-05-04T12:17:00.000+12:00

He was like someone sleeping who woke suddenly and found the world...all the beauty of it and the sadness too...the hunger and the thirst...everything he had never thought about or known was there before him, and magnified themselves into one person, who by chance or fate, call it what you will, happened to be me.

Daphne du Maurier My Cousin Rachel

Artist/Marc Chagall

Spoiled, for birds

2006-05-03T01:39:00.000+12:00

Living here, in the Waitakere foothills, I am spoiled, for birds. Absent for a week recently, I was reminded of the avian privileges afforded by this location. My temporary viewing platform offered a very different and much reduced avian menu: ducks, seagulls, black-backed gulls and a couple of pukekos. While I have a soft spot for pukekos and the ducks were highly amusing and the black-backed gulls looked quite wonderful perched atop a visible street lamp, my heart cried out for the vast array of both native and exotic birds I am accustomed to observing on a daily basis. OK, lesson learned, I shall never again take my feathered garden residents and visitors for granted. Not that I was in the least aware of having done so.

Photograph/Kereru (NZ native wood pigeon)

Occam's razor

2006-04-15T12:45:00.000+12:00

Occam's razor (n): a scientific and philosophic rule that requires the simplest of competing theories be preferred to the more complex

(14th-century philosopher and theologian, William of Occam, embraced the 'keep it simple' concept. The basic premise, also known as the 'law of parsimony', has been traced to ideas proposed by Aristotle. But no-one wielded the principle as relentlessly as the scholar from Occam. He used it to counter what he considered the fuzzy logic of his theological contemporaries.)

Artist/Leonardo da Vinci

Excerpt from a recently received email

2006-04-09T12:47:00.000+12:00

. . . It still surprises me that I feel quite special on my birthdays. I do not really know why. Of course you could ask, Why not? But I think it is still a hangover from childhood, when a fuss was made of one and a nice hangover too. I find middle age kind of poignant actually. Even with an able body you have to conclude that it is not about the body. Sometimes when I see myself in the mirror or in a photo, I see a stranger. It is hard to let go the image of one as a youth or young man. In fact, I use these things as a means of becoming more acquainted with myself as I actually am now. It is, anyway, much better to be on good terms with the present than with the past. I had an experience a while back:We have a guy in our community, Brian.Very sweet guy, about fifty, quite bald, fairish. Someone came up behind me while dining in our community restaurant, embraced me and said good to see you Brian. It was momentarily confusing because I could not see myself as looking at all like Brian. He is way more bald than me. Isn't he? Wrong. I asked around and it seems we are about the same on that score. I feel much better to know that, it makes me feel a bit lighter. . .

Adagio's note: Hmm. Not sure I agree about it being much better to be on good terms with the present, as opposed to the past. The past becomes the present, especially if one is not on good terms with it.

Artist/Odilon Redon

Sylvia and the Dead Poets

2006-04-02T11:46:00.000+12:00

Jacq's post from China, regarding her screening of ‘Dead Poets Society’ to a class of young, Chinese, english literature students, reminded me: I have wanted to revisit the film for several years. I have also been intending to try my hand at the very well considered TradeMe site. See what the fuss is all about. Ok, I figured, I can combine the two intentions. In a nutshell, last night I successfully outbid other competitors to purchase, not only one, but two DVDs – well, in truth I was the only bidder (still, this little fact did not minimise my delight). The seller was also selling ‘Sylvia’. Another film I have been meaning to revisit. Why not, I thought. And so I did!

Speaking of figs

2006-04-01T15:25:00.000+12:00

And to think I neglected to mention the lovely little Silvereye or Waxeye (Tauhoe). My information tells me they prefer the fruit of native trees but will also feed on other fruiting species. Well, at least in this neck of the woods, their contribution to fig eating is legendary. Present in flocks, or flurries, as I call them, they arrive armed with hearty appetites and settle in together, like a party of diners. The only drawback with this arrangement is that a party of avian diners can become fair game to one feline diner named Lucy. On these occasions, Lucy adds a 'k' to her name and refers to herself as Lucky. Saddened by this all too natural feline instinct, I refuse to humour her.

Photograph/from the Tiritiri Matangi website

Do not go gentle into that good night

2006-03-31T12:14:00.000+12:00

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

The lure of ripe figs

2006-03-29T17:20:00.000+12:00

An abundance of figs, in varying shades of ripeness, have bought little grey warblers (riroriro) out of hiding. To feast among the branches of the beautifully shaped tree host, generously serving up beakfuls of the sweetest fruit. Lush and delectable. Along with the dear little warbler, comes the gregarious myna. Also in abundance. Raucous, bolshy. The yellow-masked forager. Sharing the bounty with fellow avian chums. But not quietly. Starlings arrive. Subtly speckled and sleek. A quick feed and then off. Fantails (Piwakawaka), never still, flit from limb to limb. Not, I think, eating figs. Rather, they seem attracted to the small flying insects gathering around the over-ripe fruit. A tui, visiting in the semi-dawn, is heard before the blind is raised. It is assumed to be revelling in a solo gastronomic experience. Blackbirds, resident in this garden, have no choice but to share the figs they have been patiently watching mature for the past few months. A pair of thrushes, fellow co-inhabitants at this address, manage the influx of avian brethren by enjoying the fruit that drops to the ground. No competitors at that level other than god's mistake, the wily wasp.

Photograph/Common Myna

Blogging behind the bamboo curtain

2006-03-28T11:41:00.000+12:00

Internet use has significant limitations for those operating out of China. A good friend of mine lives and works in China. She cannot access my blog, or any other Blogger blogs for that matter. To get around this, I make use of a Blogger facility that emails all my posts directly to her. And no, they are not sent again and again as I edit and re-edit. Earlier this week, she felt inspired to create her own blog. Was it possible? She asked me how to go about it. Naturally, I gave her the Blogger home URL. Explained that the process was easy. Well, that is, for those of us living in a part of the world more conducive to an activity such as this. As it transpires, while she can create a blog, she cannot view it. What kind of rationale dictates rules such as this? Stupid*. Bloody stupid. Consequently, I did some googling and then made several email enquiries to Blogger blogs written from behind the bamboo curtain. I received this email this morning:

You can access the pages for blogger in china, but you cannot access your own blog (I know, it's really weird). Unless you go through a website that blocks your cookies. The most popular is anonymouse - http://anonymouse.org/anonwww.html

If you put your blog address (or any address that is blocked in China) into that little website box, it will go there for you.

Sounds promising. Fingers crossed. Good luck Jacq.

* Stupid: euphemism for something far less benign.

Uncertain Space

2006-03-27T14:10:00.000+12:00

Following on from this:

PHOTOGRAPHERS: LIZ MARCH, KATHARINA NOBBS, JENNY TOMLIN

Exhibition Opening:
Thursday 1st June at 6pm
Exhibition Dates:
Friday 2nd June – Sunday 9th July
Venue:
Corbans Estate Arts Centre

In this exhibition, three photographers explore the notion of uncertainty. None of us know what tomorrow, next week or next year will bring to our lives. In each of the photographers’ images, metaphors are used to illustrate various internal waiting spaces we may find ourselves in. Places that may not make sense and lead to uncertain outcomes. The disempowering quality of the waiting room, altered perception through image distortion, and the ‘space’ a physical disability can confine us to, are all themes to be explored in this exhibition.
(This exhibition has been scheduled as part of the Auckland Festival of Photography).

Photographer/Liz March

Rediscovering reading

2006-03-24T16:29:00.000+12:00

Never, in a thousand years, could I have foreseen myself reading a book, online. I mean, books are tangible. Have pages. That you turn over. With fingers. Books have covers. Books have smells. Difficult to describe. But never forgotten Like the smell I so powerfully associate with the children’s section of the Remuera library. A familiar childhood haunt. So, that aside, here I am, reading EM Forster’s Howards End. Online. A long-confirmed reader, a booklover, reduced to audio books (unabridged) for eighteen months, is rediscovering the joy of reading. Through my own eyes. And discovering a genre, for too long ignored. The classics. It would seem that classic titles are the only ones available online. Expired copyright, I suspect. So classics it is. First up, the aforementioned Howards End. Thus far, I am enjoying it immensely.

NB. A note in defense of audio books: actually, they are rather good. An excellent narrator, actors for the most part, really brings a book to life. I recommend them. Especially enjoyable listened to from between the sheets.

Liberal ideas

2006-03-24T11:21:00.000+12:00

Whenever I hear people talking about 'liberal ideas' I am always astounded that men should love to fool themselves with empty sounds. An idea should never be liberal; it must be vigorous, positive, and without loose ends so that it may fulfil its divine mission and be productive. The proper place for liberality is in the realm of the emotions.
Goethe

Photograph of Marc Chagall

Your good maids are dusting the banisters

2006-03-23T16:34:00.000+12:00

The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy.........

"I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn't worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action - no, Aunt Juley, no."
Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities - something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life.
"If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk - "
"Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters."
" - or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say."

EM Forster Howards End
Artist/Chagall

Like perfect teeth

2006-03-23T11:41:00.000+12:00

I once believed a person could remain that self-same person even if they lost their bodily faculties. A fallacy exposed. How can I possibly credit that belief with any veracity now? I stand on altered ground. Experience has modified belief. The things we do define who we are. What I do, visibly expresses who I am. How can I wholly express who I am without the ability to do? This question begs another: Who, exactly, am I? The 'language' I once used to express myself has been thwarted in its flow. My 'vocabulary' has been largely reduced. In essence, I have been reduced. The accompanying sense of loss is immeasurable. Expressions of ‘me’, developed over a lifetime, have been forcibly and unjustifiably extracted. Like perfect teeth.

Artist/Modigliani

Can I just have one more moondance?

2006-03-21T10:37:00.000+12:00

Well it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
You know the night's magic
Seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight
Seems to shine in your blush

Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?

Well I wanna make love to you tonight
I can't wait till the morning has come
And I know now the time is just right
And straight into my arms you will run
And when you come my heart will be waiting
To make sure that you're never alone
There and then all my dreams will come true dear
There and then I will make you my own
And every time I touch you, you just tremble inside
And I know how much you want me that, you can't hide

Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?

Well it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
You know the night's magic
Seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight
Seems to shine in your blush

One more moondance with you
In the moonlight
On a magic night. . . .
There's a moonlight
On a magic night
Can't I just have one more dance
With you my love?

Van Morrison Moondance

Where the hell has my blog gone?

2006-03-20T11:39:00.000+12:00

This morning's post is somewhat of an experiment. I deleted a post late yesterday afternoon and since then my blog page has assumed a completely and utterly blank appearance. My profile page is unaltered and still available. Along with the edit page, minus the one deliberately deleted post. Nothing strange there that I can see. Now I am worried. Blogger is such a complex beast. I shall email them but I imagine it will be days before I get a response. Weeks, maybe. So, if you can access my blog, please leave a comment or send an email and let me know. Cheers!

The Anthem of My Youth

2006-03-19T13:06:00.000+12:00

Recent writings at Secret Garden and Dharma Bums have inspired a spirit of nostalgia. Led me off down spirals of thought, long buried. Now reawakened. Rexroth’s Daughter’s musical reminiscences and ponderings made me think of my own early-mid teenage experiences of music. 1973/74. I feel privileged to have had at that time, as one of my two best friends, the friendship of a girl who had four older siblings (I am the eldest in my family). Johnny, her eldest brother, was somewhat of an eccentric music buff. With wonderfully eclectic tastes. It meant that I was exposed to albums my Pink Floyd generation might otherwise have denied me. Everything from JJ Cale, Traffic, Cream, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee, through to The Moody Blues, John Lee Hooker, Van Morrison and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Amongst numerous other musicians. Any of which, heard now, produce intense stabs of welcome nostalgia. Although, through the ensuing years, it is Van Morrison who has constantly maintained the strongest position, in this regard. Moondance, the song, is probably the anthem of my youth.

How to remain in control when you're not in control

2006-03-16T11:49:00.000+13:00

Some days commence with the arrival of an unknown stranger. Unavoidable, but I never look forward to it. I sort of shut the real me down and switch to autopilot. Doesn’t eliminate the situation 100% though. Unfortunately, that is just not possible. I need to remain ‘present’, at least to some degree. Enough to be in control – paradoxical but true. Enough to say “do this and this and this, this way”. Enough to know when to smile, when to say “thankyou”, when to acknowledge a task well done. And enough to recognise when it’s all over, to switch myself back on again, to reoccupy my self, to breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Artist/Modigliani

Girl's Lament

2006-03-10T18:54:00.000+13:00

In the years when we were
all children, this inclining
to be alone so much was gentle;
others' time passed fighting,
and one had one's faction,
one's near, one's far-off place,
a path, an animal, a picture.

And I still imagined, that life
would always keep providing
for one to dwell on things within,
Am I within myself not in what's greatest?
Shall what's mine no longer soothe
and understand me as a child?

Suddenly I'm as if cast out,
and this solitude surrounds me
as something vast and unbounded,
when my feeling, standing on the hills
of my breasts, cries out for wings
or for an end.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Artist/Da Vinci

Peering into the pool

2006-03-08T11:13:00.000+13:00

I lost all of my vanity
when I peered into the pool
I lost all of my innocence
When I fell in love with you

Ray LaMontagne Hannah

Socrates issued(s) a challenge

2006-03-07T12:20:00.000+13:00

The unexamined life is not worth living.

Socrates (Apology)

Reminded yet again of Goethe

2006-03-03T12:10:00.000+13:00

Lying in bed this morning, I marvelled at the enigmatic human capacity to, on one plane, function with absolute competence, while, on another, managing the most simple and mundane tasks presents immense difficulty. Watching this phenomenon in the life of a profoundly loved other, elicits feelings of both compassion and frustration. But, surprise, no. I am too much aware of my own inconsistencies for that. Experiencing such an exhibition, from a third person perspective, forces me to reflect on my own inconsistencies anew. Reminds me yet again of Goethe’s words: Everything is simpler than you think and at the same time more complex than you imagine.

Virginia Woolf by Charles George Beresford

Fit for a peasant

2006-03-02T16:23:00.000+13:00

My neighbour has a German-made stonegrinder. She uses only organically grown grains and hand-makes all her family's bread. Real bread. Heavy. Chewy. Something to get one's teeth into. Yesterday afternoon she very pleasantly surprised me, as she does periodically, with a small wholemeal cob loaf. Sprinkled with sesame seed. What a treat. Having been a prolific bread baker for many years, but now reduced unwillingly to vicarious bread baking, I was delighted. Immediately, I scoffed several pieces with thin slices of the fenugreek cheese I have newly discovered. Great combination. Fit for a peasant.

A keg of beer and an accordion

2006-03-01T17:29:00.000+13:00

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness.......and then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines River and I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

Carl Sandburg

Artist/Paul Gauguin

Pockets of Colour Assuage Darkness

2006-03-01T11:36:00.000+13:00

One of the many photographs being stockpiled for Liz's exhibition in June. Some in colour. Most black and white. Using a combination of Leica camera and a rather expensive digital thingy. I say 'thingy' because it's an altogether different beast from a proper camera. Along with PhotoShop you can play endless games with a digital image. Fun, but cheating really. Oh, and the subject of her photographic essay. Me, actually. Well, my life, to be more exact. You won't see my face. Apart from living so unique a life as to provide Liz with inspiration and a focus - oh, that's so funny, not - my contribution will be excerpts from my writing. The whole exercise adds a pocket of colour to an otherwise mostly black and white existence. I've also suggested a title: Through a glass, darkly. Fits in more ways than one.

(Apropos yesterday's comment, regarding fried green tomatoes: The verdict? Quite different to my expectations. Much softer. Less flavour. Certainly edible. Still, to be honest, I was rather nonplussed. Despite really wanting to like fried green tomatoes. After all, I loved the film. Oh well, at least I can now say I've been there, done that).

Photographer/Liz March

Anticipating fried green tomatoes

2006-02-28T11:46:00.000+13:00

Tomato plants continue to creep higher and higher up their bamboo stakes. Red globes hanging from the vines. Luscious. Vibrant. Inviting. In varying sizes. From cherry-like to moderately large. Delicious additions to salad. Sliced and tucked into toasted pita bread, for breakfast. Diced and smothered in homemade pesto. Even simply eaten like an apple, straight off the vine. With a little salt. And while there are still unripe tomatoes on the vine, I plan to make some, as yet untried, fried green tomatoes. Not something I have ever seen served in this country. And today is the day for experimentation I think.

Listening to/Mariza Transparente

The Back Steps

2006-02-25T11:37:00.000+13:00

I was going to post this photograph sometime. Might as well be today. Once, such an often-occupied space, now sadly out of bounds. Steps leading to the back garden became an often used spot for morning cups of tea. Especially when the sun was shining. Sometimes in the company of a visitor or two. A child close by. My daughter learned to master climbing up and down steps here. Entertained her own set of friends on this concrete backdrop. I remember her and a young male compatriot sitting out there. Wearing dress-ups, each happily licking a cake batter laden wooden spoon. These steps were also a place for savouring the precious couple of hours alone while a pre-school child slumbered in the afternoon. These days, unavoidable others sit out there smoking cigarettes.

Grey Seal

2006-02-23T15:00:00.000+13:00

Why's it never light on my lawn
Why does it rain and never say good-day to the new-born
On the big screen they showed us a sun
But not as bright in life as the real one
It's never quite the same as the real one

And tell me grey seal
How does it feel
To be so wise
To see through eyes
That only see what's real
Tell me grey seal

I never learned why meteors were formed
I only farmed in schools that were so worn and torn
If anyone can cry then so can I
I read books and draw life from the eye
All my life is drawings from the eye

Your mission bells were wrought by ancient men
The roots were formed by twisted roots
Your roots were twisted then
I was re-born before all life could die
The Phoenix bird will leave this world to fly
If the Phoenix bird can fly then so can I

Music/Elton John
Words/Bernie Taupin

Form 5/1975: I recall illicitly leaving school at lunchtime. Driving in an ancient Morris 1000 to a house not too far away. Along with similarly minded others. No doubt smoking some illegal substance. Listening intently to Elton John's Yellow Brick Road. Creeping back into school an hour later. Where on earth did that memory come from?

Fear of the Inexplicable

2006-02-22T17:03:00.000+13:00

How should we be able to forget those ancient myths
about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses;
perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses
who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest
being something helpless that needs our love.

Rainer Maria Rilke

(ah, Jacq. . .if only my hair were still as blonde; my limbs still as limber; my feet still as beautiful, and dirty! If only I still had that old waistcoat. Hey, remember your tiered patchwork skirt; Revelstone; Cloud; Church Street; Holloway; Charlie dog. . . . .)

The cicada choir

2006-02-22T11:28:00.000+13:00

Sitting in the shower on these mid-summer mornings, the process of washing is punctuated by the cicada choir. The sound of which enters in through the open window next to me. Unlike Marianne, who finds the sound of cicadas aurally irritating, I am soothed and comforted by it. That, and the glorious nikau palm growing alongside the fence, outside the bathroom window. And becoming more and more at home there. A welcome green tui and kereru berry source in the making.

Artist/Paul Gauguin

Room with a view

2006-02-21T14:56:00.000+13:00

It is enormously confusing to be alive on a day like this. Ambivalence reigns. A day perfect in every respect, other than an inabiity to meld into it fully. And be assured, it is a big 'other'. Looking through open windows. My room with a view. Life parades before me. Every colour under the rainbow. I touch it, but as if through a shroud. Inside, I scream.

Artist/Paul Gauguin

A late Monday afternoon in February

2006-02-20T16:25:00.000+13:00

It's such a glorious late-afternoon here in Auckland. Sun, blue sky, light breeze. It doesn't get much better than this.

Bethells Beach

Thankyou, thankyou but would you just hurry up and leave now

2006-02-17T14:27:00.000+13:00

ambivalence (n) The coexistence of opposing attitudes or feelings, such as love and hate, toward a person, object, or idea.

Hits me strongly from time to time. Like this morning. On the one hand, I am enormously grateful to this woman. Filling in at very short notice. Taking on the job with only minimal training. I know what the alternative might have been. And I was spared. On the other hand, I feel irritated and impatient and short-tempered. I am so particular. I know I am. But then, why shouldn’t I be. Having to explain and re-explain, correct and re-correct. Mustering the energy is so exhausting. Ambivalence is uncomfortable, to say the least. Still, I am certainly no stranger to it.

Artist/Henry Scott Tuke

The Appointment

2006-02-15T10:42:00.000+13:00

I do not believe someone or something singled me out. For special treatment. A special appointment. A deliberately engineered situation. Its author, malevolently heavy-handed. Manipulating from the safety of the universe’s back row seats. Like a pupeteer. But maybe you prefer the notion of a benevolent father figure. Operating with underlying goodwill. Brutality with an objective of kindness. The end justifies the means. Ha! A divine vivisector, if you ask me. Still, if that theory comforts you, good luck. Random appointment is easier to swallow. A bitter pill, as opposed to rat poison.

Artist/Modigliani

Green Bay on the Manakau

2006-02-14T14:11:00.000+13:00

Quite amazing what can be achieved by a simple click. Wiping out one's mistakes. Presenting a new face to the world. Fantastic. Sigh of unbridled relief.

Standing at the Kerb

2006-02-13T11:53:00.000+13:00

A reoccurring stream of thought overwhelms. The lives of others whirring and buzzing. Vital, alive. Fuelling that age-old sense of life passing one by. At an incredible speed. Standing at the kerb, one wonders where it will all end. And when. Disturbing.

Artist/Modigliani

Email Received

2006-02-12T15:32:00.000+13:00

. . . . . . The flat earth society correspondent uses the same up-to-date typographical apparatus as I do. Does that say something about me...or him? T

Cartoon/Garrick Tremain