Mother and baby

More leaves, both from a sycamore tree, one very old and battered and one little one.

Went to the supermarket today. I don't usually go in the afternoon because it's too busy, but for some stupid reason I went in the afternoon today. I hate the supermarket. There's always god-awful music playing (would it kill them to play classical music, or jazz, or something acoustic?). The music this afternoon was someone going Woooah! Wooah! over and over again. I wanted to leave so badly that I threw some stuff in the cart and left some of the non-essentials for another time. It reminded me of the time I had a panic attack at one of the malls (another slice of hell); the noise level was like being physically assaulted. Why? Why does everything have to be so BLOODY LOUD?
    The demographic in this area has changed too. I notice more and more people who look like trailer-trash from People of Wal-Mart. Everyone seems to look like they stepped out of "Deliverance". Baggy overalls, visor caps, baseball jerseys, and fat women who like to flaunt what they've got. I suppose it's now hip to look like poor Americans, some sort of reverse snobbery that I'm not up with. Everyone looks so down at heel, and miserable into the bargain. The best news lately is that the people who run the supermarket (very state of the art and posh) are now going to put in a liquor store right next door. Perhaps they've noticed the new demographic too. We have such a problem with alcohol in New Zealand, so of course the thing we really need is more liquor stores, particularly in an area inhabited by beneficiaries. They can drink themselves into a stupor, while the booze-barons make even more money, to spend on McMansions in gated communities where they can lock out the poor that they created in the first place. We live in a sick world.

Melancholia and depressing books

Watched the movie 'Melancholia' last night. Some amazing visuals that will remain in my mind for a long time. The final sequence is stunning; the pity is that none of the characters who witness it will live to tell the tale. And at the end, you realize that unlike all other stories, there is no 'what happened next". The people didn't live happily ever after, they didn't live at all. Such a contrast to the way Hollywood likes to portray disaster, by concentrating on a few frightened people, rather than a cast of screaming thousands. One of the characters kills himself rather than wait for the end; I don't think I would do this. Even though I knew that I would not live to tell the tale, I'd still be curious enough to want to see it through. It's one of those movies that you keep thinking about long after the final credits roll. In fact, it almost seems like seeing this has changed something in my mind, as if I really had seen the end of the world. And it was terrible and glorious and sad and happy and brave.

But I've given up on my current reading "Sacrifice" by Karin Alvtegen. It's just too bloody depressing. The main characters are two deeply twisted, damaged women, for whom it's difficult to feel any sympathy or fellow-feeling. They've both suffered tragedies, yes, but have let these take over their lives to such an extent that they no longer function, or function abnormally. I kept reading bravely on, ploughing through the Slough of Despond just to find out what happened in the end, but the gloominess defeated me; I realised I just didn't care enough about them to finish their story. Unlike "Melancholia" which left me feeling I had experienced something special and profound, although dark, "Sacrifice" just made me feel dirtied, like a walk through a rubbish dump. Why did it get published? I'll never know.

Isaac Theatre Royal, Christchurch

Here's a link to a news piece about our grand old theatre, much damaged in the quakes. (Sorry about the adverts) The object I photographed several months ago, thinking it was the Mayor's spaceship, is the dome, all shrink-wrapped. It's painted with scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream. The theatre is right next door to New Regent Street, our Thirties/Spanish/Hollywood street that I've taken pictures of in an older post.

http://www.3news.co.nz/Saving-Christchurchs-grand-old-theatre/tabid/309/articleID/291121/Default.aspx

Google doodles and body image

Google has a great doodle today, celebrating Saul Bass, the graphic designer whose animated credits sequences gave a distinctive look to many Hollywood films during the fifties and sixties. (The accompanying music is Dave Brubeck's "Unsquare dance" - good choice, Google doodle people.) I like the Google doodles; they've put me on to some good stuff, things I've never seen before.
http://www.google.com/doodles/finder/2013/All%20doodles

Reading the celebrity news. An article about an Indian movie star's "amazing weight loss" had me thinking.  Why do we still believe that self-denial is praiseworthy, particularly when the person who is self-denying is a woman? Someone (who I don't remember) said that we have replaced Victorian sexual puritanism, where women were not allowed to enjoy sex, with a food puritanism; now women are not allowed to enjoy food. The woman who loses weight is praised for her self-control; the woman who gains weight is condemned for her self-indulgence. Meanwhile, men are allowed to do as they please. But this is changing; apparently more and more teenage boys are getting anorexia and steroid poisoning from body building. Not that this is a good thing, don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating young men damaging their health just out of a sense of getting-even-with-men. I just wish we could all forget about what people look like, and taking that as some sort of indicator of intrinsic worth or virtue. The idea that good people are beautiful and bad people are ugly seems hard-wired into our social consciousness. I blame fairy-tales. Was there ever an ugly princess or a homely prince?

Drink!

 

Here's a leaf I drew a few autumns ago. I must get out tomorrow and get some autumn photos for you.

 

I bought some whisky today, to brighten and warm up my winter. I cashed in my FlyBuys and got a nice bottle of Glenfiddich, and had a wee dram tonight by way of celebration of my recovery from the Cold From Hell. I still have a few annoying symptoms, like breaking into coughing fits every so often, but my mind seems to be working again and my mood is way better. Anyway, the Glenfiddich was very good, sort of butterscotch and caramel with an infusion of pine needles and coal tar. I am convinced that my liking for whisky is deeply genetic, the call of hundreds of years of the Scots ancestors on my mother's side. These are the same ghosts that stand at my side when I'm throwing things out of the fridge - "Och, ye're no goin' to waste that, now are ye, hen? Just you knock the mould off, and it'll fry up nice wi' yer tatties".

And welcome to Elephant's Child, a new member among my readers. I do like your tiger avatar, it's classy and exotic. Are you a Kipling fan?

Italian roses

I

 

These were taken back in 2011 in Este public gardens. I loved Este, but it is a very expensive place to live, as are most places in the Veneto.

 

Otherwise all is very boring here. Winter continues to close in, everyday it gets colder and darker, as does my mood. I don't think I'm suited to this climate, I'd like to spend life somewhere warm and dry and sunny. Back to work tomorrow, the last day of the school holidays, so thankful for that. Still have the remnants of my mini-flu, it's taking ages to clear up, which makes me irritable and depressed at the same time. Boo hoo.

The joys of being a grown-up

Not having to eat the crusts on your bread.

Not having to eat your vegetables before you get dessert.

Eating dessert for breakfast.

Deciding for yourself what time you will go to bed.

Deciding for yourself what time you will get out of bed.

Reading "unsuitable" literature.

Drinking alcohol.

Putting off till tomorrow what you should do today.

Leaving the dishes till tomorrow night.

Not going to church.

Not being nice to other people.

Not having to visit boring old people for afternoon tea.

The list just goes on and on. Of course, this was the appeal of  Pippi Longstocking, a child who did what she wanted when she wanted to. Now there's a feminist icon...