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What is the worst thing that has ever happened to you, he said to his new best mate. That would be losing my wallet one night on Main Street. Losing the cash was bad enough, but cancelling all the cards. I didn't do that until a couple of days later, I thought I had dropped it somewhere in the house. My flat mate told me I should report it, so I went to the cop shop and it had been handed in, most of the cards were gone and naturally all the cash. Ah, he said, that's a bummer alright.
What is the worst thing that has ever happened to you? His mate replied, that would be getting picked up by the cops for slugging some old lady for her purse. It wasn't me of course, but once they have you fingered it might as well have been. They gave me a hard time, couldn't prove anything, but I always hide from them if I see 'em coming. Keep out of their way. It's not worth the grief. That's pretty shit, responded the boy in the chair. It's Sunday. Let's go out get shit faced and knock someone... har har.
The horse dawdled across to the pool and leaned over to speak to the lilo. The lilo hovered away leaving the horse feeling awkward. He picked up his skirts and teetered along the top of the fence and back to the water trough where he began to snorkel. Meanwhile the stretch Hummer arrived with the rest of the gang. The cockatoo driving the vehicle flew out the door and disappeared into the cellar where he would remain until the moon came out. The lilo was hot in the sun and too hot for the delicate skin of the balloon animals.
I consider reading and questioning without skimming. So much today is skimming. What if I were to look at a headline and think of a question or two, open the article and look for the answers. If the article did not answer my questions I could look further afield. It would take some time getting through the news headlines that way. I might become faster with practice. Something to consider. It might help my cabbage brain turn into an orchid. Something that flowers rarely unless you know how to look after it. That might not be so bad a metaphor.
The fruit not-past-its-prime mourned its sisters and brothers relegated to the compost because of a soft patch or rotten core. There came a time the bananas were separated from the other fruit on a hanger above the bowl. The apples and mandarins were sad, what had the bananas done to deserve this strange isolation? One of the apples heard it was bananas that caused them to ripen so quickly and thought it was probably for the best that the bananas hang from above, after all it could be quite fun to observe the world from on high.
What will I write about today. I might imagine I am using an old-fashioned typewriter. The keys bang out the letters. Thwack, thwack, thwackety thwack. It is morning. I sit next to a small window, sunlight as yet a promise on the dew-kissed grass. The window is a little misty from the cool air outside, making me feel warm and cosy sitting in my dressing gown with a cup of tea steaming beside me. Thwack, thwack, thwack, I type on. I drink my tea. I finish a page. I take out the sheet of paper and insert another.
October is September sprinkled with very hot days. Soon every day will be freaking hot so I hope to appreciate this while I can. It is dry. The lawn was lush and green at this time last year, photographs from the period tell me. Now it is flat and sparsely green. I think it needs to be fed. The hens have wreaked some havoc. I might be better putting my money and energy into some garden beds to grow the hens some nutritious greens and attract back the little critters. Also of course to grow some nutritious vegetables for us.
It is costly maintaining a lawn and being a renter is it worth it, I wonder. I already pay a lot for excess water. I also pay to have it mowed. On another topic, I need to tackle the redback spiders. We have an epidemic. They took hold a couple of years ago and last year I didn't spray at all. They are living under the rim of the garbage bins, I can see their webs stretching down to the ground in that specific redback way. The hens can't find them. They are good hiders but come out at night.
The brother has gone off to the United States for a holiday. I forgot to tell him about the dreams I had where it was time to go to the airport and I realised I had not started to pack. I will have to tell him when he gets back. They were pretty funny. I am flying out of town on Wednesday night for a few nights. I look forward to my holiday coming up. I have so many things I want to do around the house, including time doing nothing. Which is what I do most weekends, how sad.
I watched a movie called Layer Cake on TV on the weekend. I had never heard of it but I thought it was very good. Lots of good lines in it. It was not funny, but it kind of was, not a black comedy. One line has stuck with me... "The art of good business is being a good middleman". Yeah, I thought. Yeah. Oh, yeah. Monday for me was middleman-Monday. I also decided to not sting anyone which is hard for me to avoid, being a Scorpio. I think I succeeded. I avoided the usual pitfalls and traps.
Being once told by a relative "I don't leave clothes on the floor because of spiders", she always felt uncomfortable when she did, even if they were only there to be put in the wash. In spite of this, she had left her dressing-gown on the bathroom floor the day before. She could see a web inside the neck and in the folds. The spider was visible deep in a fold of cloth. There were two large egg sacks. She would have to spray the spider before she could put it on. This is a dream, by the way.
A man walks his dogs and answers his mobile phone. He has a bag of bread to throw to the ducks. He begins throwing but instead of bread he throws his mobile phone into the water. It is lost forever and he is very annoyed. A woman says "Merry Christmas!" to a colleague and throws her phone over his shoulder as she hugs him. It bounces on the floor but is undamaged. The same woman drops her phone at home. It lands on the floor and bounces into the dog's water bowl. She dries it out and it still works.
The new office was open and full of light, but there was something wrong. Planning to work into the night on some database updates, she thought later how easy she found the work. She realised the problem during the day was glare from the windows on her computer monitor - not really windows, but a glass wall. A lovely idea, but not necessarily practical. She Googled minimising glare from windows and found some solutions. Others have mentioned the security aspect, with nothing but glass between the staff and the passing mad people of the world. It only takes one, I guess.
Home from a hectic two night trip. I catch the train from the airport even though it is quite late because I do not favour cabs. I walk home through the night dragging the noisy suitcase, trundling along beside me. It is Friday night so there are others who get off at my station and walk to their homes. It is not even that late, only about ten thirty or so. I let the cats in. I am tired and go straight to bed, looking forward to the weekend. After that I have one more week of work before holidays.
One of the hens is not well. She is inside in the hospital pen. The other hens will peck her when she gets out, possibly. I didn't know that before but found out the other time they were separated. At least they can see each other through the glass door. I bought the hospital pen (large dog pen) so I could bring them inside in the very hot weather. She is making little squeaking noises. She has prolapsed. It is lucky it happened on the weekend or she would be like that all day and I would not have known.
What is the story with unfinished projects? How is it that I get to a certain point and then stop? I am not the only person who does. Is it the process is more important than finishing? It doesn't seem that way at the beginning. I would like to finish some of my unfinished projects in my upcoming holiday. I would at least like to begin a process of finishing and tidying, to begin a program I can continue with when I am back at work. As always getting fit will be a part of this. Can't do it exhausted.
Jezebel stopped to admire a butterfly she found in the house. She had heard they only live for one day. That might not be true, but she thought it would prefer to live that day outside. She found a suitable container and lid and placed it over the butterfly. There was a gap around the edge because the butterfly was not on a flat surface, so she put a tissue against the gap and the butterfly flew into the container. She wiggled the lid across and captured the butterfly, carried it outside and opened the lid, and it flew away.
The bedroom is made into a wonderland by the shadows on the wall at night. It is like a moving Ikea print, the kind of pattern in fashion at the moment - a nature silhouette minus the birds. She would like to leave the blinds open and watch the shadows but knows the light will make for a restless night. She sleeps best with the door closed, with no light on and with no sound other than the white noise of earplugs or a fan. She shuts the blind blocking out the beauty for practical reasons. Earplugs in, lights off, sleep.
Hello, what a happy day. Happy and not happy are equally apportioned, no? I always think for every good thing that happens there is an equally bad thing to balance it out. In a way, this thinking can make the bad thing easier to bear, and indeed to manage, because it is expected. Along the lines of "for every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction." (Not sure if I have that quote correct.) I stayed up late watching three shows before they expired due to poor planning. I'm not even sure it was worth it. They were disappointing.
Some roam the world constantly, planning their next trip as soon as they return from wherever they are this time. Sarah was happy in her own patch of earth. She found it tiresome when people assumed she would jet off somewhere for her holiday, and then seemed strangely disappointed she was not going anywhere exciting, or anywhere at all. She liked to travel, but did not need to. When she traveled she felt like doing it again, that was what hooked people she supposed. It also seemed a shame to waste all that was learned by not doing it again.
He opened the box and out popped a rabbit. The rabbit was large and brown, it might have been a hare. It hopped away looking more like a hare than a rabbit. It was a hare. Who would have left him a hare in a box? Very odd. He looked up and down the street but of course could see no one. Whoever had knocked to bring him to the door had no doubt scarpered. He would look it up, what could it mean to give someone a rabbit (I mean hare). What kind of message. A warning? A joke?
He turns on the light and walks up the stairs. The noise came from above, he thinks. It occurs to him he should be more cautious. There is no one home and so he is alone with whatever it was that made the noise. He checks in the rooms on the top floor and can find nothing. It is an old house, lots of creaks. He walks back down stairs and turns on the TV. He is sure it was nothing, and a bit of background noise will make him seem less alone with the noises of the old house.
One of my favourite times is Sunday evening. Walking around the streets I reminisce about all those Sundays coming home after a long day standing about in the freezing cold, lighting the fire, getting tea, watching some TV. It has a bittersweet melancholy about it because there is work the next day, but it is still the weekend. At home the shadows lengthen and dew forms on the cold lawn. Winter memories are more prevalent for some reason. Summer Sunday evenings I can't really recall. Night comes so late in Summer maybe I fell asleep before the day seemed closed.
Tents in neat rows stretched toward the horizon. Nothing beat the army for precision. As they drew closer he could see a small movement here and there, the glint of sun on metal, dust motes rising. Closer still he could see the camp paraphernalia - boxes, bags, small fold-up chairs, portable stoves, pots and pans. He frowned, the camp seemed deserted. He knew any movement he had seen was a shirts out to dry and flapping in the breeze, a garbage bag rustling, a tent flap not secured. He signaled to stop the advance, and the dessert camp returned silence.
If you have never had a group of chickens running toward you, you don't know what you are missing. They run to me every time I go outside because I feed them. They are ravenous little things. They use a lot of energy making eggs. They look very funny running along. I can make them dance in circles by moving around the plate of food above their heads. I should video them doing it. Today they ran from the top of the drive way. I don't know what they were doing there. They might have been looking to get out.
It is very quiet. I heard an alarm earlier and when I went to get up and investigate it stopped. It started again, and when I moved it again stopped. It didn't start again. I thought it might be in one of the bedrooms but I think it was outside in a neighbour's house. Now it is all quiet. I can hear the hum of my computer, the tapping of the keys, and a magpie warbling. That is all. I see magpies and noisy miners through the back window, flying about. It becomes dark. The birds will be catching insects.
I am re-reading Damon Galgut's "In a Strange Room". I really like it. It is three stories told by the same traveller (Galgut himself it seems. I presume the stories are based on his own travels. He uses his own name. He was born the same year as I, but what a different life! He travels... a lot! I have hardly travelled at all. He is South African and can go easily and quickly to African countries. In Australia it is not so easy. The world was different when he was young. Now things would not be so safe.)
Not sure what came first, the chicken or the egg, but I have been spending time rationalising and tidying my yarn stash this week ahead of today's crafternoon. I have missed my knitting friends so much. By that I mean community, for it doesn't matter if you have never met before, crafting can bring you together. When I got home I sat with my chickens and did some knitting. Keeping chickens and knitting, old fashioned comfort pursuits, what more could you ask for. It is nostalgia for me, even the chickens. My family didn't have hens but the neighbours did.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Tomorrow I will be 53 (touch wood, fingers crossed I make it across the threshold. I am so superstitious in spite of being atheist). Fifty three, that is huge. Forty three was meh, what the? Hey. It was still beer and skittles. No longer is this so. Fifty three is serious. Doctors, cholesterol, breast screens. A cancer waiting to happen (touch wood, touch wood). When, not if. Sigh. I have clean sheets on the bed so tomorrow morning will be lovely.
She paid $280 and left the hairdressers to realise they had not coloured it and had only given it a tiny trim. She wished she had noticed sooner as now she would have to go back. She walked the fence line home and noticed how much poo was on the ground, left by her animals. She walked back along the fence with a bag to start at the beginning picking it up. At that point she saw the hordes in the pits firing up in anger. Her tribe called her back to the cave as they were going to war.
She walked along the fence at the top of the hill toward the cave where her tribe were being called home, due to the hordes in the pit declaring war. She could see them in the valley at the bottom of the hill chanting and with fire sticks alight. She felt annoyed as this would mean a certain disruption to her life. In the high entrance to the cave dirigibles entered one after the other, each holding aloft a small car with megaphones booming announcements about the war. She looked up and watched as they floated in one by one.
The Tip Jar