Friday, April 22, 2011


Have wanted down time from the computer when I get home, so my mental meanderings have been confined to between my ears or the scribble book by the bed.  Time to move some of them.

We watched Paper Giants on the ABC, which, in case you missed it, was about the creation of Cleo magazine in the early 1970s.  Fascinating as social commentary (especially feminisim - what has changed and what hasn't), we also did car spotting, fashion, architecture and interior design and song/band identification.  And the second half had a brief cameo of a Sydney poet called Michael, who dies of a drug overdose.  Such a fleeting reference to a brilliant writer, Michael Dransfield.

       Ground Zero

       wake up
       look around
       memorise what you see
       it may be gone tomorrow
       everything changes. Someday
       there will be nothing but what is remembered
       there may be no-one to remember it.
       Keep moving
       wherever you stand is ground zero
       a moving target is harder to hit.

I wore my psychedelic stockings on Wednesday and was seriously miffed when a hole developed at the toes.  Briefly - I've had these stockings for over 15 years (!!), bought from a now defunct shop and generally worn with a mini (no point having multicoloured swirly legs if they aren't on show).  But all was not lost.  Nail polish, in the first instance, to stop the ladder getting worse and allow me to ignore the problem for the working day.  Then boots off once home and, with feet stuffed into slippers, potter into my study and open the sewing machine cabinet.  A couple of years ago I came across a box of old sewing threads at one of the local markets.  When I sorted them out, there was a mix of silks, some cotton on wooden reels and hosiery threads in different shades of browns. So I scrabble through the box and find one of these cards of hosiery threads, grab the needle book and snips and retire to the living room, where I can put my foot up on the arm of the sofa and have a lamp directly on it.  And I take an obscure delight in using what must be 60 year old thread to mend 15+ year old stockings....

One thought exercising my mind is how do we define culture?  The more I watch and learn about other species, the less certain I am of just where the difference lies, if in fact there is one.  It's not language - all other species have that.  It's not laughter, it's not tools, it's not sex for the pleasure of it, it's not song, it's not building/architecture, it's not fighting, it's not preparation of food, it's not collecting attractive objects, it's not domestication of other organisms....

The beans are finished, but we still have a glut of tomatoes, with more ripening each day.  Each year I long for the first ripe REAL tomatoes, each year I have a freezer stuffed with cherry tomatoes for cooking, bags that I give away, home made sauce and a desperate feeling of "how do I use them all up?"  And I look for the first ripe figs, watch them jealously and prowl around the tree, looking for one ready to eat.  Then a few weeks later, I'm figged out.  The tree produces more than I can eat, almost more than I can give away, even taking into account the fruit taxed by the birds and dogs.  This is the richness worth having!