Classics revisited

How I love the grumpy ranty ways of Notes from the Underground.  This weekend I am starting my revisit of the classics.

little room

“Everyone of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads—at least that’s where I imagine it—there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own little private library.”

—	Haruki Murakami

Murky Monday

Emma Hardy's pictures are a welcome escape from a murky Monday where it is a little bit cold, grey and meh. To me, they are celebration of life in all aspects. Family, solitude, childhood, art, friends and unexpected moments.

In the weekend I went back to my hometown of Feilding and visited my Grandma. She is tiny and frail from age and bone cancer. Taking morphine daily, her mind is fuddled as she speaks quietly, sighs and looks vaguely out into the distance. I miss her headstrong forthright former personality which at the time I took for granted. The inevitably of old age makes me sad and sometimes I get a bit frightened when I realise how quickly the days pass.

 This said, some of us are not lucky enough to live so long. Among the unfortunate and unexpected was the sheep we hit on a long country straight during the weeked. It died instantly, a loud 'thunk' against the front of the car. Upon stopping we were met with a gory and sad sight on the side of the road, a very dead sheep. My father, a farmer, was emotionally immune and far more concerned about the state of his car. I stood on the side of road lamenting the ill fate of the dotty sheep who couldn't make it across the road on time. Now I can't get the bleating bundle of fluff out of my head. Travellers remorse!

Fascination

My boyfriends brother Adrian is obssesed with balloons. He will Google them. He will YouTube them. He will talk about them. He will seek to find them in every medium available. One afternoon  we sat watching YouTube balloon videos on the computer. There were endless videos of woman rubbing balloons suggestively, popping them with their heels or squatting over them until they popped. Obviously there is a fascination and it seems to drive some viewers over the edge. Adrian's interest is pure at heart, there is no underlying sexual desire for said balloon. He is, in fact, terrified of them and can't stand being around a real blown up balloon for all consuming fear it will loudly pop and give him a fright. To help him conquer his fear he has a shopping bag filled to the brim with unblown balloons. He touches them, he hands some to me, we examine the colours and marvel in all the different types of balloons. Sometimes I suggest that perhaps I should blow one up but he shakes his head furiously and looks at me with eyes that are deeply worried like I have just offered to set the house on fire.

Adrian has Williams Syndrome and his fascination probably stems from this fact. Upon meeting him he was incredibly friendly, loving and what became evident very quickly was that he has a heart of gold. Now that we know each other a bit better I have learned a little bit about the way his mind works, but so much remains a mystery. I think this will always be the case. The way balloons capitvate Adrian, through both fear and fascination is utterly lost on me. I have almost forgotten what it feels like to get really excited about things and have uninhibited enthusiam. Perhaps I am getting old. All I do know is that I need to get this back.

What fascinates you?

Childish things

Something I've never lost the knack of as the birthdays pass every year, is my ability to be easily amused. I take pride in my sometimes child like choices of activities and girly giggling, you have to learn to laugh at yourself sometimes otherwise life's going to seem a whole lot longer (Natalie Portman, Garden State, one of my all time favourites). This weekend I intend on creating and indulging in some of my favourite childhood passtimes of old ...

shadow puppets . tents from sheets and chairs . fairy bread . colouring in books . paint by numbers . recreating jewellery from scraps . drawing pictures . watch all three original starwars films

Days with my father

This is one of the best photo essays I have ever seen. Philip Toledano photographs the remaining time he has with his father and writes about the pain and heartbreak of watching a loved one grow old. He also captures hilarious moments, learns new things about his father and gains insight into the final stages of life.

You can view the photographs here

I've a confession ...

Admittedly this post is veering off our usual path and as our blog-reader relationship is still young and we're only getting to know each other post by post, we may not be here yet and I could be crossing a line ... however, I must confess. Something that I have only recently, truly grasped and accepted about myself ...

there is no physical trait in a man I appreciate more than hair. As in chest hair. Hair and being a red head. Preferably a rugged combination of the two. Swooon.

Thank you, it feels so good to admit that openly!

Senior citizens

Grandma and her partner Frank


Older people always fascinated me. I love their crinkly skin and lavender smelling clothes. The wistful looks and talking of days gone by keep me entertained for hours. As a child I always seemed to get along better with the senior citizens and at age seven my BFF was my next door neighbour Mrs Shaw. Every day, after school, I would run to her house and play chinese checkers, noughts and crosses and stare at the giant Moroccan carpet on her wall. There were things about her I adored like the barrette she wore in her hair, the lilac tint she asked for at the hairdressers and the way she only took baths, not showers. She was from an older school of thinking but had a heart so kind it would be universally recognised. A sepia photo of her husband playing the piano sat on her mantle piece. She was still hopelessly in love with him even though he passed away many years earlier. Despite her cheeriness I sensed the loneliness was palpable.