I’ve already made a post today, but the topic grabbed me, because I had dream a few days ago, in which I was writing a poem, of which I have only remembered the last five lines. I wrote them down before I could forget them –
And I sought him out
and I asked him
“What are you?”
And he answered
“I Am Now”.
Mysterious! I wish I knew who he was, I mean is, he seems rather deep and enlightening…
It was a cold, clear morning, but not frosty. Blue, blue sky and cootamundras coming into bloom, bright in the morning sunshine. The buds of the flowering peach are fattening and showing pink at the tips. As the last month of winter approaches, spring is beginning to appear. We’ve had a lot of rain – every thing is soggy and green, farmers have high hopes for their crops. The ‘Autumn Break’ held off until nearly June, but once it came, the bulbs leapt into life, pushing up leaves and buds in record time. Somehow, the jonquils have managed to flower at the usual time- except, strangely, for the Earlicheer, which hasn’t flowered at all.
Yesterday we had fog until midday, chilly and bleak. I like this sunshiny version of winter much better. I can’t imagine what it is like living through winter in the far north of the planet, in darkness night and day except for a meagre couple of hours, when the red ball of the sun creeps over the horizon, only to creep back again so soon – if it is ever visible through the clouds.
The secret of mastery is to just do something – at least it’s a good place to start!
Mastering countering dominator culture sounds at like a contradiction in terms, but I’m working on it anyway…
Mostly, dreams evaporate the moment I move my head, but this one clung on long after I woke up, and I recorded it in the form of a poem…
I open the door
And peer into the cellar.
There is a strange greenish light:
The clear, warm, salty pool, waist deep:
At the centre of the space
A golden statue,
A figure of Avolokiteshvara,
Buddha of Compassion –
Was it from his tears
That Kwan Yin arose?-
And what should arise
From the pool of tears in my basement?
Do I drain it, drink it, swim in it?
What is the purpose of all those tears?
The illustration/illumination, is of detail of a larger collage – an antique image of Avolokiteshvara, made in Tibet or Nepal – I forget which. I had a play with it, digitally, in an effort to make it a little more like my dream. I refrained from adding tears, which may have made the Buddha of Compassion look more like a sad clown… If anyone has any ideas about the meaning of my dream, I’d be interested to hear!
Retrospective knitted ‘panties’, for my coming grandchild (2013) – something to confuse a future curator. The pattern belonged to my grandma – it was published in 1937, when my mother was a baby. The yarn came form an op shop/thrift store last year, but was originally purchased (and put away for later) in 1948 – the receipt was still in the brown paper parcel, along with the skeins of 2 ply Scotch Fingering. I emailed a photo of the finished ‘panties’ to my mother recently. She immediately recognized them as the same pattern knitted by her mother for two of her little brothers. She doesn’t remember wearing them herself (unsurprisingly). My daughter thinks they are too pretty to put on a baby butt…
Since they were knitted in fine yarn on fine needles, they took an inordinately long time to knit, besides which the picture is missing from the pattern book, and I wasn’t sure what they were going to look like, or how they went together. The stitch pattern on them is very simple to do, but extremely effective.
Fresh can mean different things – it’s one of the things we love (and hate) about the English language.
Here’s an image of a fresh (chilly) evening – the sun declining rather early, a good fire essential to keep the grey rainy atmosphere at bay…
Fresh can also mean flirty, cheeky, a bit naughty. Like Albus(aka Albert), lurking down behind a chair in the corner, hoping for a tummy rub.
Then there’s fresh fruit, fresh flowers, fresh flavours, fresh fish… I could go on, but I’m fresh out of ideas. Self-serve frozen yoghurt for dessert in Portland, Oregon – as fresh as it gets! Just looking at the photo sets my mouth watering at the memory of the tasty delights inside (and so far away!).
The wallabies around here are also fresh, breaking into my garden for a feed of fresh violet leaves, roses, geraniums, sparaxis …etc, etc.
I noticed as I uploaded these pics that they were taken 12 months ago today, in the midst of an incredibly heavy hailstorm. It took us around an hour to get home, a trip that normally takes fifteen minutes. We were moving slowly when we were moving, and had to pull of the road altogether twice. A memorable drive – lucky I had my phone!