Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Next year it will be different...
So as the old year lurches to its end, inevitably we review what has happened. It's been a slightly below average year for me, no great new passions or directions, pretty much same as it ever was. On the positive side are the cats, Thomas my young friend, my constant source of amusement, and my dear old Emma who has made it through another year and can still give Thom what for if he gets out of line. I discovered new places to holiday (Nelson Lakes and Golden Bay - it's always good to have a bolthole or two). Movie and book-wise the year has seemed unremarkable, can't think of anything that has been even vaguely memorable. I was EQC'd and survived. The quakes have died down, but of course, we still live with the thought that there might be another Big One. The weather has been unpleasant, two snowstorms and too much cold weather for my liking. One of my customers came in the other day and complained about the heat (30 degrees). Stupid, stupid woman, just enjoy it while it lasts because we get little enough of it.
Of course, next year will be different. It will be a marvellous year, full of adventure and weight-loss. I'll travel business class to Italy to live the life of Reilly in my Tuscan villa. The (young, gorgeous) man of my dreams will sweep me off my feet and will help me spend the millions I am going to win on Lotto. I will retire early. I will buy a little red sports car and get everything lifted, so that I don't embarrass my young man. My talents as an artist and writer will flame into incandescence and a trilogy will be filmed from my first book. I will become both a popular and a cult heroine. I will appear on American Idol or something and Simon Cowell will weep at my feet in adoration. Kevin McCloud will design my caravan, and Posh Becks will do my toenails.
Not.
Of course, next year will be different. It will be a marvellous year, full of adventure and weight-loss. I'll travel business class to Italy to live the life of Reilly in my Tuscan villa. The (young, gorgeous) man of my dreams will sweep me off my feet and will help me spend the millions I am going to win on Lotto. I will retire early. I will buy a little red sports car and get everything lifted, so that I don't embarrass my young man. My talents as an artist and writer will flame into incandescence and a trilogy will be filmed from my first book. I will become both a popular and a cult heroine. I will appear on American Idol or something and Simon Cowell will weep at my feet in adoration. Kevin McCloud will design my caravan, and Posh Becks will do my toenails.
Not.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
The lillies of Christmas
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My Dad used to grow them right at the end of our quarter-acre, in the shade of an ancient pear-tree in deep, rich soil created from years of leaf-mulch. Every year we would send a large bunch to Mum's church (Dad was an atheist, but didn't begrudge his lillies for the enjoyment of others).
Other lillies also arrive around the same time, usually just a little later. White Madonna lillies (Lillium candidum) are a nice reminder of the Annunciation, but I have a burgundy one in the garden which seems a lot more pagan. These also have a powerful scent.
And last but not least, the Asiatic and Oriental lillies, of which there are many, many cultivars.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Back to normal
Two days after the season of goodwill and TV is back to normal. Criminal minds, CSI etc.etc. are back with the usual slew of psychotic slayings, the more twisted the better. Does anyone else think there's something just a little hypocritical about this? TV says "OK, the season of goodwill and peace is OVER, get it, and we're back to the bloodfest". And Christmas Eve viewing was more suited to Halloween than Xmas - Disney's Christmas Carol was real dark and creepy, and the Corpse Bride? Weird choice, guys. Of course, we can't show anything religious, that might offend people who aren't Christian. Even though it is a Christian holiday, and if it wasn't for Christianity we wouldn't have a day off at all. Now, I am an atheist, but I really think that since one of the foundations of Western civilisation is Christianity, like it or not, then perhaps it should be celebrated. Bring on the hymns and the story of the Nativity and the star shining at midnight, the shepherds getting their socks washed and the Three Kings orienteering across miles of trackless waste, following a star and a hope. Isn't that magical? Isn't that better than a three-day greed fest? It is, but it doesn't make any money, of course, so kick that to the kerb. Christmas now is more full of humbug than it ever was in Dicken's tale.
Grump, grump.
Grump, grump.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
The way it was
Woman magazine, Family Christmas cookbook insert, 1963
They'll be eating that giant pud till next Christmas.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Didn't happen
Well, there's only 25 minutes before the last day of the world ends. Then it will be tomorrow and we'll still be here. Wouldn't it have been a bummer if you'd rushed around getting ready for Christmas and spent large sums of money on presents and food and decorations, only to be drowned in a lake of fire? You know what this means, though, don't you? You're going to have to cook Christmas dinner for your flatulent in-laws after all. Damn.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Facebook has a new feature that shows your greatest 20 personal moments of the last year. Strangely. facebook has selected the only three posts that I made while tipsy. (Remember tipsy? - it's what our mothers got with the sherry during the sixties). And the only three times this year that I drank too much. Facebook obviously has a metacrawler that looks for words like "drunk", "alcohol" "wine" and "beer". Proof once again that little clever editing can tell a completely false story.
Of course, drinking is one of those things that the more you deny the more you confirm, so I'm on a losing wicket whatever happens.
Anyway, thanks, facebook for presenting me to the world as a lush.
Of course, drinking is one of those things that the more you deny the more you confirm, so I'm on a losing wicket whatever happens.
Anyway, thanks, facebook for presenting me to the world as a lush.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Happy birthday, Jane
"Why not seize the pleasure at once, how often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparations."
--- Jane Austen
Yesterday was Jane Austen's 237th birthday.
Many years ago, I visited her grave in Winchester Cathedral. It was a moving experience, to realise that all that was mortal of Jane lay beneath my feet, the closest I would ever be to her physical self. Yet through her novels, she has become immortal; what we know of her is there in her writing.
Films have been made and books have been written about her life and the puzzles and conundrums posed by it. Why did she not marry? What was she really like ( as evidence is often contradictory)? What did she die of?
To the last two questions, I'd have to answer It doesn't matter.
To the first, I'd also have to answer, It doesn't matter, but also, that she was wise enough not to.
She knew herself and her talent well enough to know that marriage and children were not for her. Marriage and children would have deprived the world of her genius, and we, her readers, would be the poorer for it.
Happy birthday, Jane.
--- Jane Austen
Yesterday was Jane Austen's 237th birthday.
Many years ago, I visited her grave in Winchester Cathedral. It was a moving experience, to realise that all that was mortal of Jane lay beneath my feet, the closest I would ever be to her physical self. Yet through her novels, she has become immortal; what we know of her is there in her writing.
Films have been made and books have been written about her life and the puzzles and conundrums posed by it. Why did she not marry? What was she really like ( as evidence is often contradictory)? What did she die of?
To the last two questions, I'd have to answer It doesn't matter.
To the first, I'd also have to answer, It doesn't matter, but also, that she was wise enough not to.
She knew herself and her talent well enough to know that marriage and children were not for her. Marriage and children would have deprived the world of her genius, and we, her readers, would be the poorer for it.
Happy birthday, Jane.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Fortunes of war
This is the name of a TV series that first screened, well, back in the 80s I think. It's all been posted on youTube and very enjoyable it is too. Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh star, and lots of other English actors like Rupert Graves, a very young Rupert Graves, fresh from Room with a view. What a cutie. The series is from the books The Balkan Trilogy and The Levant Trilogy, written by Olivia Manning, worth tracking down, but probably not in print at the moment.
One of the sad results of our earthquakes is the closure of numerous second-hand bookshops. These were usually located in low-rent, run-down shops in the older part of the city centre and the older suburbs. One of my favourites, Smiths Bookshop, has now reopened in Woolston. The old shop was a constant wonder, three rickety floors of all sorts of books on all sorts of topics. The upstairs was particularly Dickensian, a narrow staircase leading to a large attic, with views down into the street and onto a dark back alley. When I first started going there as a child and into my teens, the shop was owned and run by Mr Oberg. He was a constant wonder too. Whatever you wanted, be it poetry or a motor manual, he always knew where in the shop a copy would be found. The area around the counter was always stacked with cardboard boxes full of books that people had bought in, waiting to be sorted onto the shelves. After Mr Oberg died, his wife and family continued to run the shop for some time, but then it was sold to some less congenial operators and was never really the same. Just prior to the earthquakes, the shop moved to another location further down the street, as the old building was becoming too old for safety. Just as well they moved; the whole (empty) place collapsed. The new old shop was badly damaged as well, and Smith's bookshop had only an online prescence for some time. I hope to make a trip over in the next few days (it's only in the next suburb) and indulge in the delights of old books again.
I've gone off contemporary authors of late; few seem to know how to write well, and just rehash the same plot with different characters. So many seem to be about a character who goes back to his/her hometown after death of spouse/parent/grandparent, to discover the 'truth' behind the lives they thought they knew. If I've read one plot summary like this, I've read a hundred. So back to the old novels, the Waughs, Mitfords, Greenes and Mannings, real writers who knew that writing was more than just putting one word in front of another.
One of the sad results of our earthquakes is the closure of numerous second-hand bookshops. These were usually located in low-rent, run-down shops in the older part of the city centre and the older suburbs. One of my favourites, Smiths Bookshop, has now reopened in Woolston. The old shop was a constant wonder, three rickety floors of all sorts of books on all sorts of topics. The upstairs was particularly Dickensian, a narrow staircase leading to a large attic, with views down into the street and onto a dark back alley. When I first started going there as a child and into my teens, the shop was owned and run by Mr Oberg. He was a constant wonder too. Whatever you wanted, be it poetry or a motor manual, he always knew where in the shop a copy would be found. The area around the counter was always stacked with cardboard boxes full of books that people had bought in, waiting to be sorted onto the shelves. After Mr Oberg died, his wife and family continued to run the shop for some time, but then it was sold to some less congenial operators and was never really the same. Just prior to the earthquakes, the shop moved to another location further down the street, as the old building was becoming too old for safety. Just as well they moved; the whole (empty) place collapsed. The new old shop was badly damaged as well, and Smith's bookshop had only an online prescence for some time. I hope to make a trip over in the next few days (it's only in the next suburb) and indulge in the delights of old books again.
I've gone off contemporary authors of late; few seem to know how to write well, and just rehash the same plot with different characters. So many seem to be about a character who goes back to his/her hometown after death of spouse/parent/grandparent, to discover the 'truth' behind the lives they thought they knew. If I've read one plot summary like this, I've read a hundred. So back to the old novels, the Waughs, Mitfords, Greenes and Mannings, real writers who knew that writing was more than just putting one word in front of another.
TED
Been watching some of those TED things on youTube, where someone gives a fifteen-minute lecture on something.
I've liked these in the past, but maybe it was coincidence, or my cynicism gene is going into overdrive, but the four I watched last night seemed from the lunatic fringe. The best one was some guy on the topic of Why you won't have a great career. His message was a bit conventional, "follow your passion" stuff, but his saving grace was that he was a good speaker and funny. (I have a problem with "follow your passion" - this is a very comforting mantra for middle-class, university educated persons, but the reality of life is that someone still has to do the shit work - cleaning toilets, working in Macca's . I would think that very few people have a real passion for cleaning up other people's shit, but someone has to do it). Anyway, he was tolerable.
The next speaker was a woman whose passion was the pursuit of the Female orgasm as a spiritual path. You can meditate, do yoga, or have lots or orgasms, to fill the "hunger of the western woman for connectedness". She was an engaging speaker, but I remain unconvinced. She was so sure that she had found some new truth, when what she was describing was something that Hindu tantra practitioners have known for three thousand years.
The third speaker was so irritating I had to turn her off. Obnoxiously perky, attractive thirty-something physician. "I had everything, the beach house, the condo in the ski resort, but I still wasn't happy. Something was missing in my life.....blah, blah, blah". After a series of challenging personal events (none of which were all that unusual, just life events like bereavement and ill health) which she interpreted as some kind of sign from the universe, she turned to practising holistic medicine, but I turned her off before she could really annoy me.
And there was a fourth speaker, a man, who decided that the life he and his wife and child were living was "inauthentic", so they sold all their possessions (sold, you notice, not give away) and moved to a rural backwater to pursue a more "authentic" life. If he wanted "authenticity" he could have gone to live in a gutter in Bombay, but no, they relocated to some chintzy place in Maine or Connecticut. I turned him off too.
The underlying message of all these people was "I want it all" - a great career, fabulous orgasms, total happiness, a "real" life. It's all utter self-indulgence. Why do people with so much material wealth think they are entitled to unending happiness too? Whatever happened to altruism, thinking of how to improve the general lot of humankind? Such poverty of spirit, such woolly thinking. The most materially blessed, best educated, healthiest people in the history of the planet, and the best they can come up with is "I want to have better orgasms"? It's disappointing, it's embarrassing, it's verging on pathological.
I don't understand.
I've liked these in the past, but maybe it was coincidence, or my cynicism gene is going into overdrive, but the four I watched last night seemed from the lunatic fringe. The best one was some guy on the topic of Why you won't have a great career. His message was a bit conventional, "follow your passion" stuff, but his saving grace was that he was a good speaker and funny. (I have a problem with "follow your passion" - this is a very comforting mantra for middle-class, university educated persons, but the reality of life is that someone still has to do the shit work - cleaning toilets, working in Macca's . I would think that very few people have a real passion for cleaning up other people's shit, but someone has to do it). Anyway, he was tolerable.
The next speaker was a woman whose passion was the pursuit of the Female orgasm as a spiritual path. You can meditate, do yoga, or have lots or orgasms, to fill the "hunger of the western woman for connectedness". She was an engaging speaker, but I remain unconvinced. She was so sure that she had found some new truth, when what she was describing was something that Hindu tantra practitioners have known for three thousand years.
The third speaker was so irritating I had to turn her off. Obnoxiously perky, attractive thirty-something physician. "I had everything, the beach house, the condo in the ski resort, but I still wasn't happy. Something was missing in my life.....blah, blah, blah". After a series of challenging personal events (none of which were all that unusual, just life events like bereavement and ill health) which she interpreted as some kind of sign from the universe, she turned to practising holistic medicine, but I turned her off before she could really annoy me.
And there was a fourth speaker, a man, who decided that the life he and his wife and child were living was "inauthentic", so they sold all their possessions (sold, you notice, not give away) and moved to a rural backwater to pursue a more "authentic" life. If he wanted "authenticity" he could have gone to live in a gutter in Bombay, but no, they relocated to some chintzy place in Maine or Connecticut. I turned him off too.
The underlying message of all these people was "I want it all" - a great career, fabulous orgasms, total happiness, a "real" life. It's all utter self-indulgence. Why do people with so much material wealth think they are entitled to unending happiness too? Whatever happened to altruism, thinking of how to improve the general lot of humankind? Such poverty of spirit, such woolly thinking. The most materially blessed, best educated, healthiest people in the history of the planet, and the best they can come up with is "I want to have better orgasms"? It's disappointing, it's embarrassing, it's verging on pathological.
I don't understand.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Today
Not much to write about. Still floating on the after-holiday glow, but a bit peeved that it's now work for me all the way into the new year and beyond. I've only got Christmas day off this year, working all the other days. The usual Christmas socializing; the interdepartmental work do, which glorious repast consisted of a piece of stale focaccia and an overseasoned sausage full of preservative. Not very festive at all. The usual people making the usual fools of themselves in fancy dress, ho ho hum.
Mr Machinery has been going wild this week, no doubt trying to finish for Christmas, but I'll bet you anything he has it going on Christmas day, just for a little amusement before Christmas dinner. Nutbag.
Starting to formulate New Year's resolutions yet? One of mine will be to get away more, whether it be to Blenheim or Bhutan. Christchurch is very hard to live in now, with the endless roadworks, rebuilds, demolitions, and general angst. Plus my personal nemesis (see above). Driving back from holiday along the motorway, I couldn't help but think "Why do I live here?" There has to be a better place.
Mr Machinery has been going wild this week, no doubt trying to finish for Christmas, but I'll bet you anything he has it going on Christmas day, just for a little amusement before Christmas dinner. Nutbag.
Starting to formulate New Year's resolutions yet? One of mine will be to get away more, whether it be to Blenheim or Bhutan. Christchurch is very hard to live in now, with the endless roadworks, rebuilds, demolitions, and general angst. Plus my personal nemesis (see above). Driving back from holiday along the motorway, I couldn't help but think "Why do I live here?" There has to be a better place.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Fabulous Wharariki
The highlight of the trip north had to be Wharariki Beach, away in the far north-west of Golden Bay, beyond the Farewell Spit turnoff. It's a bit of a trek to get there, but well worth it. The weather was very unsettled, with rain and sun, but it produced some wonderful cloud effects that wouldn't have been seen on a fine day.
Golden Bay stay
After St Arnaud, I went up to Golden Bay, to a place called Rock and Rata, near Clifton, near Takaka. It's an organic orchard, with a nice modern cottage to stay in, but with recycled windows and joinery - very comfortable. It backs on to limestone hills covered in rata and native bush, and is only a short walk from a reserve called The Grove, a limestone outcropping full of huge rata trees and weird limestone forms. It rained almost all the second day, but cleared in the evening so I went down to the local beaches, Tata and Pohara beach, and took the nice shot of Pohara with the norwest clouds on the horizon.
These grapefruit blossoms smelled wonderful.
Strange nikau palm growing at The Grove.
A vertical slot in the limestone - leads to...
this lookout over Golden Bay farmland.
Two shots of the house I stayed in - very comfortable
Rata in flower at the Abel Tasman Memorial
Funky tiled seat at Tata Beach
Tata Beach
Pohara Beach
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Speed!
This morning at 6.30 I was on top of Marble Mountain in Takaka, having a pee under the 'Welcome to Ngarua Caves" sign. Now I'm back in Christchurch (dirty old town), thanks to my trusty car, my Toyota Cynos. Quite a drive, I have to say, and I am tired, but also wired which is one of those unfortunate effects of long-distance driving. I've had a great holiday at Nelson Lakes and Golden Bay, but really too far to drive all the way from Takaka to Christchurch in one day. On the way up I broke the journey at Nelson Lakes, at St Arnaud on Lake Rotoiti, in a wonderful old bach (this is what NZers call holiday homes) that dates from the late 1920's. The owners have left it much as it was in terms of decor, but there are mod cons. like a shower and an indoor toilet. I last went to St Arnaud over thirty years ago, and it was only an overnight stop, so it was good to discover this less-visited national park. It must be wonderful in the snow.
This is Maruia Falls, where I stopped on the way. Apparently these formed when an earthquake thrust one piece of land up and the other down. The river continued to flow over the split.
Interior of the retro bach. The kitchen still has an original deep sink with a wooden surround.
Lake Rotoiti in the afternoon sun.
One of the other older baches in the settlement.
The second day was not so good weather-wise, but provided this beautiful serene landscape in shades of blue and grey.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Back again
So I've had my little posting holiday, and now I'm nearly off to a real holiday. I'm going to Golden Bay and Nelson Lakes National Park soon, as long as Thomas stays well. Caught him licking his bits today, so I hope this was just grooming and not "I'm licking this because it's sore and blocked". I feel like a pervert, gawping at his bits to see if I can see anything inflamed down there. Not that I could see anyway because it's mostly covered in fur. And cats hate you examining their bodies, such private creatures as they be.
Horrible experience yesterday. Went to buy a new swimming-costume. This is when a person discovers quite how fat she has become over the years. The overhead lighting doesn't help; harsh flourescents show up every little bobble and ripple of cellulite, and that blobby bit there, what the hell is that!? The back boobs are nearly as big as the front boobs now, it's like something from People of Walmart. Wonder if it's occured to the merchants that they'd sell a lot more if the dressing rooms were candlelit?
Horrible experience yesterday. Went to buy a new swimming-costume. This is when a person discovers quite how fat she has become over the years. The overhead lighting doesn't help; harsh flourescents show up every little bobble and ripple of cellulite, and that blobby bit there, what the hell is that!? The back boobs are nearly as big as the front boobs now, it's like something from People of Walmart. Wonder if it's occured to the merchants that they'd sell a lot more if the dressing rooms were candlelit?
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Holiday 2
Wrote the previous post while feeling a bit down. I'm going to take a two-week holiday from posting from today 16/11/12 and will be back after that. I'm taking some nice rose pictures so will put these up then. The roses are really good this year, perhaps because of our super-cold winter.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Holiday
Going to take a holiday from posting for a while. I've reached the stage where the internet bores me, knew it would happen. Sick of all the trash and bad news and just unrealness of it all. I'll try and do real stuff instead. Instead of writing about it. Might come back or kick the whole thing in the guts forever. Oorooo.
FLUTD
Thomas has been away at the vet's for a few nights. I noticed on Monday night that he was having difficulty peeing, so it's off to the emergency vet, who diagnosed Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease. Oh good. A blocked urethra, in spasms. They had to catheterise the poor mite. And now he's come home, with a special diet, which he doesn't think much of. So I have to have two separate menus for each cat, and try to make sure that he doesn't eat any of Emma's. This new diet makes his pee alkaline, so that he doesn't form urethra-blocking crystals.
He's a bit miffed that I've taken him away from his adoring public. He's totally charmed everyone he's met, the nurses, the vets, what a flirt! So now he only has one woman to adore him, and of course, typical male, it's not enough. It's like when you send your child to hospital and they come back thoroughly spoiled.
So now I have two cats with chronic illness. (Emma has recurrent rhinotracheitis). I'd better find that rich hubby real fast. Or better yet, a vet.
He's a bit miffed that I've taken him away from his adoring public. He's totally charmed everyone he's met, the nurses, the vets, what a flirt! So now he only has one woman to adore him, and of course, typical male, it's not enough. It's like when you send your child to hospital and they come back thoroughly spoiled.
So now I have two cats with chronic illness. (Emma has recurrent rhinotracheitis). I'd better find that rich hubby real fast. Or better yet, a vet.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
My favourite men
Looking at my pinterest board of favourite men always cheers me up. Funny to think how many men have given me pleasure over the years, far more than I've ever slept with. From Tim Curry to the Dalai Lama, Ewen McGregor to Oscar Wilde. They're my stable of wonderful stallions, talented, sexy, sensitive and intelligent. The pick of the crop, the creme de la creme. Luvly boys, all.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Lyrics for Envy of angels
Thought I'd transcribe these; they seem oddly appropriate to this city at this time.
Look over there, you used to say
The shape of the land beneath the street
Ridges and valleys and underground streams
You have to know what's under your feet
So you can make things strong enough
To take the weight
The weight of all the people
That haven't been born.
That's what you said to me
It's the envy of angels
Listen to that, you used to say
Can you hear someone drawing plans
Can you hear someone cutting wood
Can you hear someone walking the land
And all the time I wanted to be
Somewhere that wasn't so new
Where you didn't have to dig yourself out
A place to stand
Far away
From the envy of angels
Driving to your place after dark
The lights of the town behind these hills
I'm wanting so much to see you again
I can almost touch the new tarseal
In front of my wheels
They're painting the signs
Measuring the land
Marking the lines
Pouring foundations
Making it strong
For all of those people
That haven't been born
Just like you said
It's the envy of angels
Look over there, you used to say
The shape of the land beneath the street
Ridges and valleys and underground streams
You have to know what's under your feet
So you can make things strong enough
To take the weight
The weight of all the people
That haven't been born.
That's what you said to me
It's the envy of angels
Listen to that, you used to say
Can you hear someone drawing plans
Can you hear someone cutting wood
Can you hear someone walking the land
And all the time I wanted to be
Somewhere that wasn't so new
Where you didn't have to dig yourself out
A place to stand
Far away
From the envy of angels
Driving to your place after dark
The lights of the town behind these hills
I'm wanting so much to see you again
I can almost touch the new tarseal
In front of my wheels
They're painting the signs
Measuring the land
Marking the lines
Pouring foundations
Making it strong
For all of those people
That haven't been born
Just like you said
It's the envy of angels
Mutton Birds - Envy Of Angels - Envy Of Angels
One of the bargains I bought at the school fair was this Muttonbirds CD from 1996 'Envy of Angels'.
The title track is one of my faves, and I've been playing it a lot lately. youTube doesn't have a video but does have the song. The photograph is "Angel at Ahipara" by NZ photographer Robin Morrison (now sadly deceased) from his book called (I think) "From the road", which to me gets under the skin of NZ like no other photogaphy book before or since. The song reflects this too; the sense of movement, of newness, of emptiness, of building something 'for all those people who haven't been born'. That minor, soaring note on the word 'angels' gives me goosebumps everytime. Beautiful.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Bad stuff
Had a lovely long lie in this morning, after staying up till 1.30 watching 'Enchanted April' on youTube. Lovely movie, a bit twee, but pleasant (poor Miranda Richardson has to kiss Jim Broadbent, acting one of his most oafish roles). I must be getting old... once upon a time I would have thrown up at the sound of the word 'heart-warming", but now I'm getting like the old ladies who come into the library in search of 'a nice story, dear'. They've had a lifetime of sorrow and personal difficulty, and now just want to read a nice story, no sex, no violence, no dysfunction. (I think at one time we even had a booklist called "Nice novels" or somesuch.)
You certainly don't get nice stories in the newspapers. Reading the Guardian yesterday about the Hillsborough football disaster in 1989. It now appears that police stood over witnesses to make them change their statements so that the police would look better. Eighty ambulances arrived but were not allowed into the ground, because police wanted to make the situation look like a riot gone wrong. An ambulance driver who removed part of the hoarding round the field to carry a victim to his ambulance was told by a policeman that he 'couldn't just vandalise stadium property'. It all makes horrific reading. Survivors suffered years of post-traumatic stress; some killed themselves rather than live with the memories.
And there's the ongoing saga about the paederasty of Jimmy Saville and the Beeb's atempt at a cover-up. And there's revelations that systematic child abuse took place in Welsh orphanages during the '70s, involving a highly-placed Tory politician, as yet unnamed. Two boys, 8 and 10, have been convicted for abducting and torturing two other boys, in eerie echoes of the James Bulger case - it just goes on and on.
Is it any wonder that a person might want to read a nice story for a change?
You certainly don't get nice stories in the newspapers. Reading the Guardian yesterday about the Hillsborough football disaster in 1989. It now appears that police stood over witnesses to make them change their statements so that the police would look better. Eighty ambulances arrived but were not allowed into the ground, because police wanted to make the situation look like a riot gone wrong. An ambulance driver who removed part of the hoarding round the field to carry a victim to his ambulance was told by a policeman that he 'couldn't just vandalise stadium property'. It all makes horrific reading. Survivors suffered years of post-traumatic stress; some killed themselves rather than live with the memories.
And there's the ongoing saga about the paederasty of Jimmy Saville and the Beeb's atempt at a cover-up. And there's revelations that systematic child abuse took place in Welsh orphanages during the '70s, involving a highly-placed Tory politician, as yet unnamed. Two boys, 8 and 10, have been convicted for abducting and torturing two other boys, in eerie echoes of the James Bulger case - it just goes on and on.
Is it any wonder that a person might want to read a nice story for a change?
Friday, November 2, 2012
Exploration Fawcett
I've just finished reading a book called "The Lost city of Z" by David Grann, about Colonel Percy Fawcett's search for a city reputed to be in the heart of the Amazon jungle. Fawcett was called the last of the Victorian explorers although he was active during the early years of last century. He was physically tough, morally upright and totally obsessed with finding the truth of the many stories and legends about the existence of a large city/civilisation in the Amazon basin. He made several expeditions to the Amazon jungle, but disappeared in 1925, on an expedition with his eldest son Jack. Over the years there have been many searchers and many theories about what happened to Fawcett and his son, but the ultimate truth will probably never be known. His second son, Brian, searched for them in 1953, without success, and wrote a compilation of his father's papers, publishing them under the title "Exploration Fawcett" which was something of a sensation at the time. I read it when I was probably about 12 or 13; it was in a load of old Book Club books that someone gave to my Dad (along with "Seven years in Tibet" and "The long walk", both great adventure books). I was fascinated; it was very Indiana Jones, a combination of archaeology and exploration that greatly appealed to me.
Grann's book doesn't really add much to what is already known, and wanders about a bit, but it's readable. The only really interesting part is at the very end, where the prevalent idea that the Amazon basin could not have supported a large civilisation is firmly knocked on the head. What interested me was the idea that archaeologists were looking for the wrong things when they searched for a 'civilisation", envisaging monolithic built structures of stone, pyramids, temples and such, similar to the civilisations of Central America and Peru. They looked for vertical structures. But the Amazonian cities were horizontal in emphasis; plazas, roadways, bridges and moats. And of course, there's very little stone in the area. It's all alluvial and covered in forest, so structures were made of wood, which doesn't last. So what you're looking for might be there all the time, but is not recognized by you because your mindset tells you you're looking for something else.
PS. The archaeologist whose work is rewriting the story of civilisation in the Amazon is Michael Heckenberger. Google him, he's interesting.
Grann's book doesn't really add much to what is already known, and wanders about a bit, but it's readable. The only really interesting part is at the very end, where the prevalent idea that the Amazon basin could not have supported a large civilisation is firmly knocked on the head. What interested me was the idea that archaeologists were looking for the wrong things when they searched for a 'civilisation", envisaging monolithic built structures of stone, pyramids, temples and such, similar to the civilisations of Central America and Peru. They looked for vertical structures. But the Amazonian cities were horizontal in emphasis; plazas, roadways, bridges and moats. And of course, there's very little stone in the area. It's all alluvial and covered in forest, so structures were made of wood, which doesn't last. So what you're looking for might be there all the time, but is not recognized by you because your mindset tells you you're looking for something else.
PS. The archaeologist whose work is rewriting the story of civilisation in the Amazon is Michael Heckenberger. Google him, he's interesting.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Still going on...
Another little earthquake just gone by. 3.69, epicentred at Halswell, weight 5 tonnes, but I think the magnitude might get upgraded, it felt like more to me. Repeated quakes have left citizens of Canterbury finely calibrated; we can now guess within .5 of what the force was. We'll be able to rent ourselves out to third world countries who can't afford a seismologist, sort of bare-foot seismology, para-seismologists. (God, I do talk rubbish sometimes).
Isn't it amazing how quickly all this data is collected now. Once upon a time there would be no way of knowing, just have to judge it by how much fell down. I use a website called Christchurch Quake Live, it's almost instant with good maps.
So it's Halloween tonight. Such a silly idea, like Guy Fawkes Night, but even less relevant to New Zealanders. It's never been part of our culture here, but like all things American it has infiltrated through American TV and films. The kids see it and think its cool, and the merchandisers see that they can make money in a traditionally dead time retail-wise (if you'll excuse the pun). When I was in France many years ago, I was amazed at how the French really went for the Halloween thing, it doesn't seem at all chic, but I guess because it's American it's the thing to do. Dress your kids up as ghouls and send them door to door to beg from strangers - it's meaningless. And potentially dangerous too. I don't understand.
Isn't it amazing how quickly all this data is collected now. Once upon a time there would be no way of knowing, just have to judge it by how much fell down. I use a website called Christchurch Quake Live, it's almost instant with good maps.
So it's Halloween tonight. Such a silly idea, like Guy Fawkes Night, but even less relevant to New Zealanders. It's never been part of our culture here, but like all things American it has infiltrated through American TV and films. The kids see it and think its cool, and the merchandisers see that they can make money in a traditionally dead time retail-wise (if you'll excuse the pun). When I was in France many years ago, I was amazed at how the French really went for the Halloween thing, it doesn't seem at all chic, but I guess because it's American it's the thing to do. Dress your kids up as ghouls and send them door to door to beg from strangers - it's meaningless. And potentially dangerous too. I don't understand.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
I've been thinking....
Yes, about you, you mysterious USA person. I have come to the conclusion that you are a CIA metacrawler, looking for certain words in a certain order, so that you can alert the authorities in my home town that I might be planning something. Do you do this for all 11,319,732 blogs on the web? What a bomb, ooo sorry bore. Freudian slip there. Bet that's got your synapses and diodes racing - alarm bells ringing all the way to the Pentagon. By the way, how's that weather bomb going? And the bombe surprise you took to your grandma's bat mitzvah last week? I got to go now - the SIS are banging on my door.
Hello, you in the USA
Every time I post a new post, within minutes someone in the US looks at it. Is it the same person, who has my posts "pinging "? Or are you a robot, or a spook from the CIA? Are you male or female? Young or old? You must love Blades of Glory and Monty Python, good jazz and gardening. Who are you? Come on sweetie. Send me a comment. Go on. Or perhaps you want to leave me wondering? Perhaps you are my muse, perhaps you laugh at me, perhaps you despise me. Perhaps I'd rather not know. If you send me a comment I'll send you a story, about the Power of Not Knowing.
R.I.P.
Had to say goodbye to an old friend today. My lovely lemon bush has carked it, probably because of the very cold temperatures this winter, plus the broken guttering dumping cold water on it repeatedly. So here is whats left, and the ultimate destination of us all; the rubbish bin. And the stump is still there. It might come up again, but I doubt it. The soil there is very wet. I've planted a little lavandula dentata there but it may be too wet for this too at the moment, until I get the guttering fixed. Lemons are so useful, for sweet dishes and savoury, drinks and sauces and cakes. I will get another one, but don't really have a sunny enough place now. Perhaps pot one, and then transfer it once the guttering is fixed and the shade from the pear tree has been trimmed away.
Here's one of the first roses, Mme. Pierre Ogier, a Bourbon rose with a real attar of rose fragrance. With my little bit of Carlton ware and a church fair doily.
Pumpkin 'Baby bear' planted on top of one of Thomas' rats. I also planted Minibelle tomatoes and two courgettes and a pepper
Another nice iris, don't know what it's called.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Piccys - garden mainly
Clematis paniculata. This is a NZ native, a variety bred in Akaroa. I was going to plant it around the back against the neighbours trellis but never got around to it; I left it in its growbag under the plum tree and it just took off. Now festoons the plum tree, most prettily.
The vegetable garden, somewhat overtaken with flowers and herbs.
The plant stall at St Marks School Fair. I bought sweetcorn, pumpkin, eggplant and marigold plants. Beautiful day, also bought some magazines and CDs - lovely Tony Bennett who's singing as I write this. So much pleasure for so little money.
The irises. Also note how the blue delphinium is the same colour as the window sill
Aquilegia
Iris bed from the other direction
Nice pale foxglove
Magnificent 'Red rooster' cabbage and mahogany pansies
Aquilegia - the old-fashioned granny bonnets. I think these look like clusters of white swans performing a synchronised swim.
The High Line
http://www.thehighline.org/about/park-information
This is the link to a website about an extraordinary public park in New York City. Built on an old elevated railway line, it shows how something that was an ugly industrial feature can be recycled into something fascinating. Parks come in many shapes and sizes, but this must be one of the most unusual anywhere.
Our rebuild of the city continues, the pace seems to be getting faster now. But as usual, the political issues of control and power are to the fore. Consortia of the wealthy are busily plotting how they can become even wealthier. Some of the new buildings, are, quite frankly, a disappointment. More of the same old dreary box-like stuff. The architects complain that the new building strictures and codes (earthquake-safe) make it impossible to design anything that is not a functional box. I would have thought that only mediocre architects would claim this. I would have thought that a good architect will take limits and boundaries and find a way to use them to create something wonderful. The strictness of the sonnet form didn't faze Shakespeare or Donne or Petrarch, just gave them walls to build against. But then, these men were geniuses; there seems to be a lack of genius in these days when everyone, no matter how pathetic, enjoys their few minutes of fame on youTube.
And have you read about the new Facebook and their promote programme? You won't see so much on your wall. Facebook have "broken" themselves but will fix it if you pay for more coverage. I don't quite get it but it's going to be death to non-profits and small businesses. It also means that you will see more stuff from big companies you 'like' and less from community groups and friends. So, for example, I still get all the posts from Canon cameras, but less from the High-Street Precinct or New Christchurch, both non-profits. Had to happen, I guess. The minute Facebook became a listed company was the minute they had to 'monetarize' the site (although no doubt this had been planned for a long time). Read:
http://dangerousminds.net/comments/facebook_i_want_my_friends_back
The question is of course, have Facebook just cut their own throat? Is it so good that people will pay for it, or was its value only in its freeness? Time will tell.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Dreams are free
Spent a good part of yesterday (yes, it rained all day again) looking at Italian real estate, mainly cheap old ruins that need major restoration. And I mean ruins. It's a bit cheeky really, selling off houses that aren't even liveable while you do them up,but I guess the agents are trading on the dream of that "little place" in Italy. Tuscany and Umbria are pretty much out of reach price-wise, but there's bargains in the less popular provinces - the south and east of the country. Judging by the condition of the farmland, these are properties that people have literally walked away from, now drowned in nettles and vines and self-seeded trees. Sad, really. Places in need of love and care. There's some beautiful places to be had, but you need the dosh to do them up, plus the chutzpah to enter the Italian property market and the balls to do a total house renovation in another language.
What's good about Italy is that the ancient tradition of small peasant farms has meant that there are lots of small rural properties; here in NZ trying to find a small rural property is very difficult. We tend to run to large farms, and laws about subdividing these are strict. We have "lifestyle blocks" but these tend to be for wealthy people, who want somewhere for the daughters' ponies. They cost an arm and a leg. (The properties, the ponies and the daughters).
I could sell everything and go and live in Italy, but I'd still need an income. I could sell something NZ in Italy, something they don't have over there, perhaps? Run a B&B? But I don't like people much. The idea is to avoid people as much as possible; I could be a hermit, the crazy straniera lurking in her ruin halfway up the Gran Sasso with her goats and cats. But it would be a long commute if I was hoping to keep my job here.
So if anyone knows some cheap land with an acceptable ruin within commuting distance of Christchurch, let me know.
What's good about Italy is that the ancient tradition of small peasant farms has meant that there are lots of small rural properties; here in NZ trying to find a small rural property is very difficult. We tend to run to large farms, and laws about subdividing these are strict. We have "lifestyle blocks" but these tend to be for wealthy people, who want somewhere for the daughters' ponies. They cost an arm and a leg. (The properties, the ponies and the daughters).
I could sell everything and go and live in Italy, but I'd still need an income. I could sell something NZ in Italy, something they don't have over there, perhaps? Run a B&B? But I don't like people much. The idea is to avoid people as much as possible; I could be a hermit, the crazy straniera lurking in her ruin halfway up the Gran Sasso with her goats and cats. But it would be a long commute if I was hoping to keep my job here.
So if anyone knows some cheap land with an acceptable ruin within commuting distance of Christchurch, let me know.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Trivial rant
Things I'm tired of on the Internet:
- that 53 year-old Mom who discovered how to get rid of wrinkles and who has angered dermatologists worldwide. She pops up everywhere. And soon she'll be 54.
- teenagers presenting their opinions on youTube as if they had a lifetime of experience to draw upon and know everything (especially if it's about black people or gay people or Muslim people)
- people who neither sing nor play an instrument covering my favourite songs on youTube
- people who post adverts for diets on Pinterest, pretending they are 'real' people not business touts
- "cute" clips of babies having tantrums or worse being provoked into crying by adults who should know better
- "cute" clips of kittens being terrified/angry/fighting with other cats, or imprisoned in crates
- poor white trash showing how trashy they are - drunk, drugged, spitting chewing tobacco into a jug, girl-fighting, and getting it all on video so they'll get their fifteen seconds of fame
- people who post stuff as "funniest ever..." and there's nothing remotely humorous about it
- sites that offer 'free' stuff, if you have to give them your email address, street address, date of birth, marital status, bust size, inside leg measurement and how often you have a bowel motion
- anything that moves, blinks, flashes or pops-up. (Notice that there isn't one that says "Don't go here! Don't go here!")
Isn't it odd how no-one ever phones you up offering to give you money? They always want you to give it to them.
Read my horoscope the other day. It told me that love was coming my way, and could be as close as the boy/girl/man/woman next door. So my choices are: (excluding the married/partnered)
1. The special needs guy next door. He has a mental age of two, has Tourettes and is in a wheelchair
2. The old guy at the back of my place who used to attack his wife (now blessedly deceased, lucky her) with a knife
3. The odd woman over the road, but since I'm not gay and she always looks at me in a smilingly malevolent way, (probably muttering the Lord's prayer backwards) I don't think this is going to get off the ground either.
Horoscope or horrorscape? You choose.
- that 53 year-old Mom who discovered how to get rid of wrinkles and who has angered dermatologists worldwide. She pops up everywhere. And soon she'll be 54.
- teenagers presenting their opinions on youTube as if they had a lifetime of experience to draw upon and know everything (especially if it's about black people or gay people or Muslim people)
- people who neither sing nor play an instrument covering my favourite songs on youTube
- people who post adverts for diets on Pinterest, pretending they are 'real' people not business touts
- "cute" clips of babies having tantrums or worse being provoked into crying by adults who should know better
- "cute" clips of kittens being terrified/angry/fighting with other cats, or imprisoned in crates
- poor white trash showing how trashy they are - drunk, drugged, spitting chewing tobacco into a jug, girl-fighting, and getting it all on video so they'll get their fifteen seconds of fame
- people who post stuff as "funniest ever..." and there's nothing remotely humorous about it
- sites that offer 'free' stuff, if you have to give them your email address, street address, date of birth, marital status, bust size, inside leg measurement and how often you have a bowel motion
- anything that moves, blinks, flashes or pops-up. (Notice that there isn't one that says "Don't go here! Don't go here!")
Isn't it odd how no-one ever phones you up offering to give you money? They always want you to give it to them.
Read my horoscope the other day. It told me that love was coming my way, and could be as close as the boy/girl/man/woman next door. So my choices are: (excluding the married/partnered)
1. The special needs guy next door. He has a mental age of two, has Tourettes and is in a wheelchair
2. The old guy at the back of my place who used to attack his wife (now blessedly deceased, lucky her) with a knife
3. The odd woman over the road, but since I'm not gay and she always looks at me in a smilingly malevolent way, (probably muttering the Lord's prayer backwards) I don't think this is going to get off the ground either.
Horoscope or horrorscape? You choose.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A grand day out
Took the day off today (day off listening to machinery that is) and went over to Orton Bradley Park at Charteris Bay. I particularly went to look at the rhododendrons. Orton Bradley holds the Canterbury Rhododendron Society's collection of plants, planted in an ideal site, shaded by conifers to give an acid soil, on sloping gravelly land for perfect drainage with a mill-stream running through it to keep the site cool in the summer (not that we get hot summers any more).
Orange dwarf iris outside the old house
The Society have also underplanted the area with cool-loving perennials - hostas, lily-of-the-valley, forget-me-nots, ferns and the giant Lillium cardiocrinum, so its a good place to go and see what to do if you're thinking of a shade garden.
Morning light catches hosta leaves
The 'pole' at right is the old cardiocrinum stalk
Beautiful 'blue'
Cardiocrinum stalks tower into the "Himalayan mist"
Cardiocrinum seed pod
'Katherine Fortescue' - a delicious lemon sorbet
The light glows through 'Sunspray'
After enjoying the rhododendrons, I walked up to Big Rock, further up the valley.
View of Mt Bradley from lowland
Gnarly old manuka polished by many hands - handhold up on the Big Rock
Panorama from near the Big Rock - stopped to have a breather here.
The original farmhouse - now the Visitor Centre, back down near the entrance
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