under trees humming with cicadas
peace like a river
beside the old road
knobbled roots push through the old road
down below, the stream
and ducks looking vaguely like old shoes floating
I walked near my house and in a corner of suburbia came across a road that was made more than a century ago – only a portion unburied by the years, rugged with scoria. A new bridge escorts it now across a stream and on up beneath pines which must have been planted about the time the road was built. If in any place time was stretched thin, it would be there.
Red like leaves you streak across my sky and if I woke up now I could not tell if you are coming or going. Slice wide open the sky and let the rain through the cracks. You are the rain, speak to me. I strain to hear your thoughts as if I could.
The sky changes its colour like a neon sign as the sun withdraws. It’s time for the moon. The wind leaves, knowing. The world weirds.
I wrap around me the dusk
reluctant to release the night,
shut it out with our electric world
drowning the souls of trees.
I kneel before the night
hanging my dreams on the stars
Shriven by the rippled
singing of crickets.
Some evenings call to you, and sometimes you take the call. This one my ears were tuned for and I sat in the silence of the end of day and let my soul go feral.
Reblogged from my other site, Chaos Girl & the Real World
As an incipient writer, it’s a thrill to get people to read and enjoy your work, and to get it published is kind of the ultimate thrill really. You know, for us bookish types who don’t go in for the jumping off bridges sort of thrill. And so with my little heart bursting with pleasure, I can say my piece on growing up in Africa has been published in the August issue of The Woven Tale Press <sighs happily>.
You can find it on page 23 of the latest Woven Tale Press along with the mind-children of a number of other arty types, written, painted and otherwise formed.
When I was a little girl, I had an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmed. By which I mean, I knew I didn’t know sh!t. Now I know – life is both simpler and more complex than I could have realised as a young adult. Being kind is the single most important thing to know and do. And you will have no choice but to make unbearable choices.
As teacher’s pets go, this one is unlikely. She’s so unlikely, no one wanted to take her home for the holidays – except of course my son, and that’s how we came to have an axolotl in the children’s bedroom. And today, she has gone with my son back to school. So goodbye, Buhubbabubba.
I don’t think this will be the last we see of Buhubbabubba – since no one else in my son’s class actually likes her (can you believe that??), I have a feeling she’ll be back next holidays….
The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.
– Pablo Picasso
I recently read an article on allowing oneself to feel pretty in defiance of societal norms, which, even while admiring the kick-ass attitude of the writer, I found very poignant, because although I’m human and as such still subject to bias towards the aesthetically pleasing, I’m a conscious sort of person and therefore I absolutely question the belief that anyone attractive has more inherent value. Not that that is what the writer was conveying; quite the opposite. But the very fact that a kick-ass article has to be written by a woman with attitude to give girls permission to feel pretty is a response to a mindset which shouldn’t exist.
On one hand, humans have decorated themselves and their environments since prehistory, which is only one piece of evidence indicating a biological urge towards the beautiful, by which I don’t mean only sexual attraction. But on the other hand, anyone who thinks on a regular basis must see that there’s something deeply wrong with the lengths to which our society has taken this bias. Decorating oneself is one thing; vilifying people according to imposed standards is a another.
I watched Dead Man Down the other night. Central to that story is the scarring of the female lead’s face in a car accident. But I found it very hard to buy into it as motivation for her desire for revenge, given that the damage was relatively superficial. The depiction of the youth of the area hounding the poor woman with medieval intensity for minor disfigurement was disturbing, but more disturbing was the premise of the film itself that the scarring would be enough to drive a normally kind-hearted character to murder by proxy. The fact that for the film to be successful, the character would need to be depicted as still attractive enough to garner the sympathy of the audience is only another facet of the same infection and doesn’t account for an attractive young woman being portrayed as a ‘monster’ for the purposes of the story. How much belief are we required to suspend, in an era when computer graphics realistically supply proper monsters?
I once said to a (very ex) husband that wasn’t it funny how all my friends were attractive – upon which he gave me an incredulous look. Maybe I’m abnormal in seeing beauty in the people I like, but if that’s abnormal, it’s a shame it’s not contagious. I can’t even blame the media for bombarding us with artificial images for the past decades, since women have evidently been discriminatory bitches since at least Jane Austen’s time.
How does anyone challenge this tide? I guess if you use tidal analogies it seems futile, so maybe I should take that back, because I have two daughters, so I am very much invested in preventing my girls from getting that crap in their veins.
I feel like this has all been said before, and that it’s self-evident anyway, so what is the point of adding more words to the discussion. But I suppose more words still keep the conversation going, and keeping the conversation going is the only way to change a thing.
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