Sasha's Lamentations

She has little to say
 but continues to rev a noisy impact on her environment.
She mutters again, that she will not be at peace until I become,
the prolific author that is part of the street somewhere ahead,
she says.  
On that day,
she knows that I may stop pacing and dreaming,
however, probably not.
She knows I will always be one to pace and dream,
always searching through the sandcastle gardens in the sky
 for seeds that tumble forth that story.
 And Sasha would never refer to them as 'little stories',
for as a cat she knows the offence and maddening memory
 of an inappropriate diminutive.
She trusts that one of these hunted seeds
 will grow with the breath and hope that warmed the germ, 
and alarmed the general.
Sasha knows that if an idea has heavenly breath,
it has no choice but to stretch, groan and wade through the places of doubt and fear. Everything changes, when you are a cat.
If you raise your chin,
the world asks questions of power.
People  fall foul fretting over fear fed by foes.
Alert listless listeners foil the poor puss.
In vain they assume depth of thought.
Sasha would say that the introvert has all power,
as the mountain has volume in her echo,
so the thinker sheds life from doubt.
So, she tells me, my concerns will bear bounty,
the most lonely thought that escapes can fill any possible wonder.
Dream on,
says Sasha, 
make them deliver.        

I'm worth a million dollars~~~$

The Melbourne show, is a microcosm of wailing walls, global warming, shrieking and gnashing of teeth. This circus allows sensory overload, to any straggly olfactory nerve that missed the escape clause.

I don't like crowds. 

I love people.

As a writer, I have the opportunity to stalk every Nanna and Grandad in their brave efforts to merge with this extraordinary young loud generation, and introduce them to even more noise.

Nana is causing considerabel damage to shins and toes all around due to a pristine Babyco stroller carrying George. George is covered in bubble gum, fairy floss and opinions.

'I'm Booooored!'

`Orright, we're going to do something. Look, there's something, yay!'

George has found more decibels and semidigested over-processed food to underline his point.

"I doesn't want to see wood choppers!'

The debate faded as my gentle observant daughter followed me into the lifestyle Paviliouns. There are refuges, there are people who whisper and smile and remind you that much of the day will be enjoyed in the memory.

The memory of a day with my favourite girl, surveying faces, savouring smells, sidestepping the crush.

I came home with a million dollar memory.

                     

notes within notes

The    one person I love to spend time with knows me better than I know myself, remembers what I need remembered and sees through my masks. There are no trademarks but plenty of watermarks that define him when held up to the light, and within that light he is at his most beautiful. The most important reflection of him, is his music. All things he does well and strives high, but in his music you feel his happiness. At anytime of the day he will gather up heartworn pages that spell out the melodies our home knows and spills. He has sung these to each of the children growing up and hums them in the garden. So, when he has an instrument that peals out his favourites, I stop and listen. I may write in the same room but I have to be there to feel the breath and passion that goes with his talent.                          

dead sticks

Months ago I bought  a bundle of uninteresting sticks  at the Caribbean Gardens . The voluble vendor assured me that within months we would have beautiful pears bowing low. I am not known for successful gardens but I do like pears so I struggled 4 ' healthy brown kindling and found a focal point in the front garden.
And here, do you sing sweetly to these brown dead sticks and believe that all things are possible and wow aren't the rains bringing out the blossom and flowering trees that we anticipate every year,
But weeks flew past and my sticks were swollen in some appendages but it could't have been the magnification of the raindrops, or me pouring my most encouraging growth sonnets into that ...brown.

BUT!, today, a small fluffy white blossom placed a sign out, 'come in for tea'.
My dead sticks found colours within to fill previously vapid substance to become my first pear of the season.

a few words from my dog, Dougal.

1. Never accept rejection.
No matter how much someone may scream and flap, that lap is yours.

2. Stoical is not a word, neither is stoic a stable adjective.
The hidden angora blanket is yours.

3. Cleaning will not make you a spiritual person, dreaming will.

Overemphasis on spots and smells defines you as a cat.

4. Smile when it's not natural.

If you think this is difficult as a humanoid, it's moreso as a kelpie/corgie.

5 Explore the assumptions of royal duties.

If you are a 2 legged being, you will probably have little royal value. Corgies, on the other hand, should hold their head high.

6. Never underestimate the beauty of a lost sock.

7. Life without sole is boring.

Gather shoes on your bed, regardless of their original owner's screams and possessive carry on.

8. If you appear to be the same height standing and resting, rest more. But nurture the self worth of a big dog.

9. Choose to hear 'Dougal what are you doing NOW!' as an exclamation of wonder, not a question.

10. That's not a bone, this is a bone!

Negotiating a 3 metre bone and a 1 metre dog flap is only a matter of time and courage. Good bones taste better indoors.

savage bunnies

This bunnie was given to me on the day of my birth. Nobody else loved him, threw him, dressed him, stitched him or named him. As my vocabulary was limited, 'Bunnie' he was to remain. He had no sharp edges, harsh comments up his sleeve, he was all an inanimate friend could be.
BUT he had feelings too and and like the rest of the race, he hated crowds, gossip and people who disturb my sleep. Bunnie knows the story of my secrets, the mismatched cottons that slowed the rate of evisceration.
Bunny lives another year as the small girl's heart salve.

a likely story

Today I took a voluntary stroll into a conniption.  It was timely as I'm putting together a manscript about our need to be connected, the heart of friendship within unexpected places. I described the destination to my best friend, who set out describing the journey with contours and expectations. I never notice hills and details until I'm there, I explained. The conversation resembled one of Winnie-the-Pooh and his friend Piglet. We understood our own perspectives but the truth was I have a terrible history of being lost with maps. 'I need landmarks' I kept saying. It didn't make sense to the friend who knew me better than anyone.

 So during the the journey I watched for landmarks to take me home, like breadcrumbs. I started to understand why I was writing the story I had started; every page you walk is a strange place until you mark it. Until you write your name and feelings about it, it will be foreign. If you find your own map, you scale your own pictures, the horrible book of lions and squares, loses it's power to suffocate you. And if you breathe, you smile and you're home.