Maroc in the Mail

She very much liked Marrakech, its easy feel, the quality of its light, its pinkish earth and rose-coloured walls. In Fez life seemed concentrated and intense, contained beneath and within the jagged mountains enclosing the city. The mountains seems to turn Fez in on itself...

Extract from Larabi's Ox, by Tony Ardizzone

***

Guess what came in the mail the other day?  The boys' member's pass and 2012 season tickets to the Brumbies rubgy team matches and a post card from Morocco!  Every-one was doing cartwheels.  Me especially.  The card was from the 'awesome' (as we say around here, or 'epic'), and peripatetic, Jeanne from Collage of Life.   Frankly the post card easily pipped the Brumbies.  Every-one ooh-ed and ahh-ed and marvelled that this virtual friend from across the oceans should send something tangible in the mail.   Thanks a bunch Jeanne  *waving*.  I can hear the soundtrack to The Sheltering Sky in the background; it's a wonderful piano piece by Ryuichi Sakamoto.  It also reminds me that I must read the book. 

Ladies in Lavender Silk

The Little Old Lady In Lavender Silk

~ Dorothy Parker 1931

I was seventy-seven, come August,

I shall shortly be losing my bloom;

I’ve experienced zephyr and raw gust

And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,

To this passing from Summer to Fall,

It is manners to issue a statement

As to what you got out of it all.

So I’ll say, though reflection unnerves me

And pronouncements I dodge as I can,

That I think (if my memory serves me)

There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan

To embarrass with beams from above,

By the aid of some local Don Juan

I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry—an

Education left better unsung.

My neglect of the waters Pierian

Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,

And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,

I should certainly do as I then did,

Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,

And regret is no part of my plan,

And I think (if my memory’s faithful)

There was nothing more fun than a man!

***

 
I blushed when I was mentioned by Jeanne of Collage of Life in one of her Blog Love posts long, long ago.  In typically generous form, Jeanne initiated this concept to introduce readers to new sites and to provide encouragement to every-day blogspeople like myself who chronicle ordinary events from our little corner of the world.  The idea was to spread the word about our own favourite bloggers and those who have supported and influenced us.

On my list are folk who have legions of adoring fans and certainly don't need my help to raise their profile, but I mention them because they have influenced me in small, but significant ways - making me look at life a little differently, appreciate the small details of family life and igniting a long dormant creative spark.  

So here we go:

Distracted by Shiny Objects from A Tidings of Magpies -- who started it all for me through her poetry and reflections of life as a critical care nurse from Cincinnati.

Jo from A Cup of Jo -- who doesn't love Jo, Alex and Toby? OK, I'll go the back of the queue.

Kerry from A Tranquil Townhouse  -- extra special as she's from my town, knows my beat and always writes humorous and uplifting posts. Wise and wonderful. 

Tania McCartney  -- gasp!  So clever, crafty, energetic and stylish. Also from my town which is extra spesh.  In awe, I am.  Always.

A-M from The House that AM Built  -- love that Cape Cod/French Provincial/industrial decorating style and deeply moved by her ability to rise above personal travail.

Millie from The Laurel Hedge  -- mixes thoughts about her work, decorating and life with MOTH and five (FIVE!) sons

Meredy from Count it All Joy -- warm, honest insights into bringing up a large brood, with a spiritual touch. Responsible for my attempting a rainbow cake; not as good as her signature creation, but baked to an impressive height nonetheless.

Sharon from my french country home -- what a life, what a romantic story of her move to France.  Knows her way around French linen and lace, including granny's ancien bloomers and night attire, like no-one else.

Miss Parker might have though men were fun, but, by golly, these women, plus all the other gorgeous gals over there on the side bar {waving}, sure know how to enjoy life.   I don't have time these days to catch up on every one daily, but when I do gorge on multiple posts in the one sitting, it's always enthralling to see what everyone has been up to.  It's one of the wonders of modern technology that we can connect this way; scribble our thoughts or paste a photograph and reach more readers in faraway places than Ms Parker would have ever dreamed.

Sea of words

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

~ Lord George Gordon Byron (1814)

We had a long, indulgent phone conversation with Wanna's godmother in Brisbane last night.  Passed her round so every-one could have a chat and managed to cook meat and three veg at the same time.  L. and I go back to university days and have one of those relationships you can pick up where you left off after long breaks.  She's assumed legendary status in our family as that distant person Mum talks about and who sends presents.  Her image stays real through the christening photographs.  I grew up with a distant aunt like that, who lived in England. It's sort of fun as a kid to have a real, but imaginary, friend.  L. may be coming to visit in May.  Roll out the carpet! 

I'm dragging myself towards the end of tomorrow when I start my school holiday/Easter/ANZAC day break.  I'm feeling an information overload at the moment.  Primarily due to escapades into the Twitter-sphere trawling for information about its use in the public sector and by institutions.  Social media is a busy, crowded space.  Invigorating and depleting at the same time.  There should be licences for Twitter accounts, granted only after potential users pass a test guaranteeing that they will post interesting content.   If you don't hear from me I'm probably lost at sea, clinging to the flotsam and jetsam of tweets and hashtags.

Sea Fever

Sea-Fever

by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

***

Quite apart desperately feeling the need to heed the call of the running tide, I so covet a beach house like our dear friends' fabulous one right on the ocean front. Sadly, our nearest water views are of the Civic, Tuggeranong or AIS pools.  We've been doing a lot of swimming of late in preparation for the South Canberra inter-school swimming carnival.  Alas, public pools are, I have grimly concluded, by and large, ugly and smelly places.  That Civic pool in particular attracts an especially diverse and eccentric crowd I've noted. Quite a wacky place to people watch. Not unlike a popular beach in summer time -- all shapes and sizes and uninhibited displays of flesh minus the sunbathing and beachcombing.  We've also witnessed the extraordinary spectacle of an underwater hockey match during one of our recent pool excursions.  Now that IS a farsical water sport, proving my theory that living too far from the sea induces madness.  

Poet laureate of Great Britain from 1930 until his death, John Masefield was only 22 years old when he wrote the simple and moving lines in his poem 'Sea Fever'.

Seasons

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Ascribed to King Solomon (King James Version, 1611)

 

 

To every thing there is a season,

and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to get, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

a time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.

Where I live: Old Parliament House



To Autumn

~ John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Images: Taken during the annual Canberra Festival Balloon Spectacular held to mark Canberra Day which celebrates the official naming of Canberra.  Canberra was named at a ceremony on 12 March 1913 by Lady Denman, the wife of the then Governor-General Lord Denman.  Just to clarify. I don't actually live in Old Parliament House.  But it's on my beat.

Photo credit: National Archives of Australia: Item 11399703

See also some terrific video footage of the event from the National Film and Sound Archives.

Arrows in the air

The Arrow and the Song

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It feel to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

Last day of the first week back at school.  Things are better on the teacher front.  The despondency has been replaced with resignation and acceptance, plus a modest concession that all might not be as bad as it seems.  You never know where the arrow might fall.