Wednesday, 28 December 2016

Humans, one to another.


A tall man with an unusual name does me a favour.  I protest.

"I have no money presently!"

"What is a human if he cannot assist another human with something he can easily do?"

I felt myself  blush.  

I recently apologised to a petrol attendant for having no cash on me for a tip.

"You are not required to pay me to do my job."

I felt myself blush.

Wednesday, 2 November 2016


A roady song.  I'm a roady and I am writing another song.

I think Joan Baez was the wall flower's Bob Dylan.  No offense to Joan Baez. A Wall flower could sing along. Her diction was better. Elocution was a value.  I flowered on walls.

No one talks about wall flowers these days unless they mean flowers growing on the wall in a basket or a climber.  A barrage of more offensive terms have become familiar. Geek used to be a bad thing, now it's a good thing. No judgment either way, but society morphs. Different values for old connotations emerge all the time.  It all starts in the school yard.  

School is a form of torture.  The classroom is where humiliation, sleep deprivation, lights in your eyes, orders from the bad cop are screamed at you and then you pee your pants. If you react badly to this form of torture they send you to the head who beats you with a stick.  OK. Back in the day. 

The playground is like the prison yard. Alliances are formed.  Some gang into bands and others fight. Only the Jews feel anything for the schmuck in the corner of the yard with no clue how twenty kids get together, choose sides and play a game with invisible rules.  

One just hangs back in wonder.  A nice Jewish girl used to give me her sandwiches made by a food guru and I survived until my last two years. Getting out of there was tangibly close.  The books were the key.   

We didn't have phones or pods to capture our eyes or hide behind.

All the geeks were wall flowers too, back then, only I was not a geek per se. They propped up the walls while the rest popped lolly pops into their mouths hung with a chum. 

So I celebrate geeks.  It took 24 years for me to find Ayn Rand midst frowns of disapproval and disdain. She's an atheist so everything she wrote was dismissed by the Christian world I grew up in, with nuns and no guns. 

And now, the glorious misfits, the geeks, are taking over the world.  Not me. Not so much.  I am a clan mother, a Baba Yaga, with not a slither of political interest except for the interest I have in those who have an interest.  With my new-found (recently, in the last however many years) wisdom of Kabbalah. I know more than I used to when I knew alotalot about everything.   

I only know a smidgen of what there is to know, and what there is to know is illogical and supernal and invisible to the eye.  Laughing.  And they all liked The Little Prince who said "What is important is invisible to the eye."  

They thought it meant love.  It did, but not puppy love.   Gangwar love.  Revolutionary love. Unreasonable love.      

I hope the captured geeks are independent and not being manipulated by wrinkly old men who talk with cigarettes dangling out the side of their mouths, with ease, as if the cigarette were part of their mumbling  Think X Files.  Is it there that the grey smoke rises in an airless room like a serpent? 

On a road trip.  My eyes couldn't stay open.  Stopped at Oakhurst Bed and Breakfast in Riversdale. I have a bed. It's large, white linen, there is a television and a shower; and an air conditioner. I have a bedside lamp that focuses on my book and my body is comfortable.  My driving eyes are wide open now that the road has gone.  As hard as it was to keep them open, it's as hard to keep them shut.  Go figure.

The establishment is surrounded by trees filled with birds, pigeons, and littlies, the wind drives the leaves into a flutter and there are ripples on the blue water pool outside all of which I can spy from my upstairs room window.   

"You need a cigarette," the voice in my head repeats as if it's an airport notification about abandoned baggage, but it's a smoke-free zone.  I've smoked so much I'm all croaky.  I left my toothbrush in the house in the bay and have no toothpaste. 

I snuck down to the dining room and pinched a salt pot. Brushed my teeth with my fingers, gargled with hot salt water after drinking copious cups of coffee. I recommend it. It clears the throat and the teeth feel clean.  A sip of the salty brew took the cramps out of my thighs. 

I have no sleep in me tonight.

Tomorrow I shall rise early, rather than wake up early, since I shall no doubt not sleep at all, which is a blast since my internet voucher is just about to run out and there is nothing but SKY News which is to the news like herbal tea is to filter coffee. (Thank you, Harry)

I like the feel of this establishment.  I could spend a week here.  Since this is Bucket List time, I shall begin to save and do just that.  Come for a week and do all the things to do they offer in the bedside information booklet and see what there is to see.

Joan Baez is here because the song is fabulous.   I used to have it on a tape, (yes, that long ago), and I lost it.  I've only just found it again.

My eyes could not stay open on the road;  now I have a bed I can't keep them shut.



BORN TO BE BLUE is playing on the DVD machine.  Fast forward.  There's too much pain to watch it slowly.  One of my actors - not one I'm in love with - not like John Dunbar - Kevin Costner.

Ethan Hawk of Dead Poet's Society is playing, it seems, a famous trumpeter with a drug habit. I only fell for him because when he was young he resembled Bernard when he was young and I was in awe of him.  I call him the Tin Man because of another song - The Tin Man by America.  

"Some times late when things are real and people share the gift of gab between themselves ..... But Oz never did give nothin' to the Tin man what the Tin man didn't  already have ..... soap suds green like bubbles ...   and cause never was the reason for the evening .... so please believe in me .... "  
Bernard calls me Darth Vadar since the twin towers fell down.  He says I can't ever come back.   He got stuck in Ayn Rand and I moved on to a greater Cause and Effect which is supernal.  Physical cause and effect one can see. Drop a brick on your foot. Pain.   Cause pain and effect comes surely, but not always swiftly.  But it comes.

 Bernard didn't want to get that.   It's too Quantum.

Darth Vadar was a bit harsh, but sticks and stones and all that.  I miss him.   He's 60 now.  I wonder what he looks like and how he is in the land of brave.

"How do you like me so far?" a man once said after shaking my hand at our first meeting.

Ethan Hawke, I don't know and I don't want to, especially since he plays parts that are indefinably disturbing.  Acting hard roles for the sake of perfection, immersing one's soul into the underworld, on purpose and doing all you can to portray that soul you are playing, real or fictitious damages your Light.  And then, sometimes, you die.

I can't watch the destruction of humans in slow motion.  CHOOSE LIFE!

Passionate musicians should seek to be quietly noticed and they should not give a damn about fame and fortune.

When Elvis emerged I was quite a child and I remember the elders saying, "No good will come of this." When The Beatles came up, they said, "No good will come of this." When Bob Dylan came they said nothing except, "He can't sing."   I don't mean the critics. I mean my elders.   I agreed. I'm tone deaf so I can't sing.  But, Bob Dylan is hard to hear.

It's just me, I discovered.   I can't hear rap words either.  I think Bob survived, (thumbsucking) because he didn't, doesn't, give a damn. Frankly.   You can't mess with a human who has risen above froth.

And, you don't kill him.  Heaven forbid.  You give him a Nobel Prize.  

What has this to do with Walls and Windows?  There's a movie coming slowly to our net of the bush. THE WALL.   Pink Floyd.   Now, I like them, I do, but with the sound turned down.   I fear it might be another fast forward movie for me, but I will give it a shot.

The window part escapes me now.  

"I think it's going to rain today." by Bette Midler.   My girls learned the words and they still sing it to me when I hit the deck with things empathable to cope with.   Here is the picture of the video from YouTube but it won't play.

The words start...
"Broken Windows... empty hallways....  "  and later, "human kindness, overflowing"

I had a picture framed and the glass broke in a move.

There is something about broken glass.   The cutting edge times.

I've too little for you today.

Singing softly in my head songs that won't play here and sad I can't share them with you.
Check my facebook.  They are there.

Music for my heart.

Love and Light

Monday, 31 October 2016


One keeps things, even broken things, because ...  

"It's fine!  I can fix it!"

And so the pondering frog, with a leg and a hand detached, ended up on the dining room table.  The little metal bird with its wing undone, the spring sprung, lay beside him.  I had the fullest intention of repairing them both neatly.

I came across them at 3.00 a.m. today since I still can't sleep. I  don't think I will for a while yet.  It doesn't matter. I'm not tired.  It will not last much longer. Not this particular night.  

The morning birds would already be conversing. Nay. Concluding morning prayers. I would be writing about them if I were "home", but I am "home" in the Bay, again.  All I can hear is the fishpond waterfall and a few crickets. The house has its own voice. Creaks in the ceiling. Fridge rattles.  My laptop sounds like a toy house fridge.  Same noise, just softer.

I took out five movies.  I only watched Benicio Del Toro as Escobar. Paradise Lost, it's called.  I love that face.  His mouth whispers - well, almost whispers.

"I love you," sounds like a death threat.

He also acted in, "Things we lost in the Fire"

Weird with the X Files and Whitney Huston mix of actors, but the kids are great. They fit the man with the smile that wrinkles so much it looks like a wince, frowns so hard that it looks like a trick smile.  A pretend frown, not confused, a laughing kind of think about that for a bit before you think that, kind of a smile.   

For one who reads faces and hands and lips and all the gambler's tells, he's a pudding in a fancy fine dining place where the portion is tiny, sculpted and tinted to make you want to take it home and keep it on the mantelpiece to look at when there's only yesterday's bread in the bin and the peanut butter jar is empty, lying through its lid because one can never get that layer off the glass.

I don't like to read about the men I love - actors I mean.  I like to think of them and how they make me feel about them, even the villains.  I don't want to find out that Al Pacino is a nice man who walks grey ladies to church. I want a mean man who can tango and name the fragrance I sprayed about my head hours ago, drive a Ferrari, blind, and take down the establishment with one single speech and a uniform.  And then fall in love by accident.

Del Toro is the Benicio of all perfumes and it's just too late, I'm sorry to say.  I fell in love with him when I first clapped eyes on him and not even Robert Redford can unseat him, or Mr Pitt nor my darling of all darlings, (lies, lies, lies!  I have so many darlings and I refuse to kill them) Tom Hanks and Magnum. Oh, and Colin Firth and the lovely late lad who was a dad and I know it was the Joker that did him in, not the drugs, the meds, the be still my heart stuff some of us take when we feel too much good or bad or both.

We keep the broken things because they once charmed us enough to make us take them home, and there is always a tale that becomes endearing, if it wasn't already, right then and there, in the shattering, that sticks with us enough to hold us back from heading for the bin.  

One ditches a broken glass, a cup even, plates, hearts, and God only knows what else is disposable these days, but those little shards of time, past, bleat when a frog's hand shifts from under a sheet of paper doodled to death, one hand waving, or when the steel bird scrapes across the glass and falls to the carpet with only a little bit of a clang.  

There is preciousness in the buying, the keeping dusted and then in losing with a breaking.  It's all good.

I really only get that now.  Frog and Bird hit the bin today because the dining room table is a mess of no dining and that needs to change.  Besides, they are fixable.  

They are even charming in their brokenness.  They will land in the spot they must be in and a collector of things will find them there.  Frog will find his leg and sit in the sun on a window sill. Bird will fly once again from a spring or a string tied to the hook in the ceiling, or hooked, if she's blessed, and I am sure she is, to the branch of a tree.  They have begun another journey.

And sometimes broken people are brought into our lives for us to fix, and fix them we do, but in the fixing, there is a losing, and what is lost cannot be gained again.  

But, yes.  I can fix it.  I can fix it so I can lose it to someone else who finds it charming, broken bits notwithstanding.   

Bye, Bye, dear Frog.  You will be blessed with kisses from princesses and maybe one day you'll turn into a real boy.   

I've gone and fetched Bird.  She's a real Lady and she's too precious to leave to chance.  There are no trees where she'll be going and no ceilings either, come to think of it.  I shall take her "home" with me and hang her in our tree. Yes.  

I can fix it.

Oh, Lord.  I can't dump Frog.  Let me get him out that bin and spend the day with glue.  I think I shall go for a walk now.  The dark has departed. The pond waterfall sounds louder somehow.

Music for my heart.

Love and Light.  


Sunday, 30 October 2016


By popular demand!  

I slept with my eyes open.

It was recently brought to my attention that I will be turning 66 this December. I can't tell you how that feels.  It's the strangest thing.  I don't feel 66.  I don't know what 66 is supposed to feel like.  I stopped thinking about my age at 64.  It's as if someone hit the pause button on time.  But, in real time I am about to turn 66.

I've considered myself informed, well read, conscious and as living on purpose, not by coincidence. But, I have been in a coma.  Sleeping with my eyes open.

I saw, I heard, I assessed and I considered. I judged, forgave, condemned, pardoned and adjusted, moved and swayed like a branch in the breeze trying to accommodate the un-functionality of soul without realizing that my soul was something apart from my body.

I have been medicated to balance my bouncing mind.  It keeps me awake all night sometimes.  And when I do sleep, I dream I am dodging bullets from the dark side.

I have been afraid to close my eyes and rest. I did that one time for about four months.  If you have ever wet a sheet of watercolour paper and dropped blobs of colour onto it, you would know how slow and fast the paper changes.  It seeps and then runs.

It was dusk, the air was sweet with the smell of blooms. Night creatures and birds put on their party hats and readied themselves to create the night's voice.

I was drinking wine, telling stories.

I was blogging before blogging was blogging.

I lived on a farm with bees and snakes and birds and two dogs. My best friend lived next door, also on a farm, if next door is a way to describe the next property.

Lines from an old movie that has stayed with me forever come to mind just now.

"The Life that I have, is all that I have, 
and it's Yours.
The Love that I have
of the Life that I have, 
is Yours and Yours and Yours." 
I regret I cannot remember the the name of the movie or the author.

The life that I had..,

Yes. That life that I had just then, the one that was at rest, burst like a soap bubble, sounded like a mirror shattering, felt like shards of steel penetrating my very being.

The music, the soundtrack for the scene - me leaving the farm and all that belonged to me - was from the movie I couldn't watch, the harsh one.

I wasn't up for seasons. I did not have the understanding.

The tale is not sad.  The sad part is that I imagined I was conscious.

About two years ago, when I was 64, (obviously), I started awakening.  Time's stood still since then. How else can one miss aging two years?

Just about then I met a lady. I felt I needed to explain my presence.  I didn't know how.

" GO TO THE LORD," she said.

I did.

"SING!" She said.

That's harder.   I haven't really listened to music in general for ... I don't know;  fifteen years.

My voice is still stuck. It comes and goes.  I need to remove another splinter or splinters from my soul.

The songs are in me still.

The work continues.  "Time is few." as we say incorrectly on purpose.
I have to be fully awakened.
Make things right.  

It's 2.50 a.m   The first birds have begun to sing.
Music for my heart.

Love and Light.

Monday, 10 October 2016