Santa doesn't eat tapas

 

There are some authors who make me want to read forever.

There are some who inspire and haunt me so that I want to write myself into oblivion. And then there are those who make me feel like I should never ever ever presume to give permanence to any string of words ever…

Not ever…

Recently, a dear word-loving friend and I headed off to spend an evening engaged by just such a writer. We went to listen to the splendiferous David Sedaris reading his own work.

Like a couple of book-moles, or should that be authories? I’m not sure what the appropriate term is… book-skanks? Anyway, like a couple of stalker-chick fangirls we had snagged seats close enough to see the details of the pattern of his voluminous plaid culottes and his perky genuine tie-it-yourself bow tie — close enough even to run the possibility of accidental annointage by flecks of his oh-so urbane spittle.

We got there early.

We took selfies inside the theatre.

Indeed, an indecorous amount of giggling may or may not have been involved. Nervous tension. Excited apprehension.

And perhaps just a glass or two of champagne.

A sweet young thing of an usher politely reminded us that the taking of photos during the show was strictly forbidden. We pondered asking her to take a photo of the two of us that didn’t show up extra chins, or over-sized honkers or lack-of-decent-sleep dark circles, but we didn’t want to scar the poor love for life. Besides, she didn’t have time to take the hundred-or-so shots that our requests would have necessitated.

It was a magic night. David was sublime.

At several points, I thought my companion was going to swallow her own lungs. Stopping the laughter in time not to miss the next peerless observation about life and family can be tricky. Occasional snorts were unavoidable.

David Sedaris is one of those authors who puts words together in such perfect order that he shuts me up entirely. He sees the immensity of minutiae and magnifies it even more notably through his wit and lexicon.

It takes true genius to observe that Santa doesn't eat tapas.

A Teaspoon of Dragon

I fell into a hole.

Which is not to say that I’ve been buried.

Or living under a rock.

More that I’ve sort of been making my way clumsily through summer, stubbing my toes on awkwardly rocky conversations and bruising myself mightily by thudding into me-made walls and barriers as I try to navigate the generally normal social interactions that dominate the holiday period... especially when you live in a big-mother of a house by the beach like I do.

The universe has been trying to throw me a rope to haul myself out. A human rope. So maybe it was more of a life-sized 3D paper doll chain than a rope. I think I saw it there. I did try not to ignore it. But I lacked the courage to grasp it. In truth, I was frightened I might tear it by tugging too desperately, damage its integrity by dangling my substantial frame from its fragile fabric.

Luckily for me, there was magic about : the sort of magic Roald Dahl knew how to find, and make, and spread.

It all started when a little dragon rode a pewter friendship spoon all the way from the other side of the world to land in a sheltered corner of my dining room. He settled happily there amidst other small treasures that remind me of the beauty and wonder outside my hole. And he quietly set about reminding me of something very important.

Never underestimate the power of a dragon.

Soon after his arrival, week by week, message by message, visit by visit began a parade from my past. People I thought lost to me came calling. Friends from earlier times and other places dropped by bringing memories and smiles, champagne and deliciously gooey French cheeses to share.

The evil bitch at the bottom of the hole, the one who holds fast to my ankles and laughs at my attempts to free myself, filled my head with her malicious whispers:   

these people knew you when you were someone worth knowing… you used to be successful… what are you now?

she remembers you as a strong competent woman… you used to be worthy of her respect… what happened?

he hasn’t aged a bit: can’t say the same for you… look at yourself…be ashamed... be embarrassed

But the small dragon was there. Tangible. Textured with truths. Weighted with veracity.

These people had sought me out.  All of them had thought of me, for whatever reason, and followed that thought with action. They had come to spend time with me. Not the person I used to be. Not the person I think I should be. Not even the person the whispering bitch wants me to be. Just me.

Y Ddraig Goch is his name: the Red Dragon of Wales. To me, he will forever be Y Ddraig Goch: Slayer of the Whispers. 

It wasn't a rope I needed, or a chain of hands to drag me out of my hole, it was the wings of a small dragon. 

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?

  Oscar Wilde would definitely be invited to my dream dinner party. He could fill the evening with witty and shocking stories, mostly true tales of debauchery and academia. Utterly delicious. And I think I might seat him between Woody Allen and Katherine Hepburn to ensure there’s plenty of zing—sexual tension, smouldering innuendo and unfettered eccentricity with lashings of fine wine.

Right across from the three of them I’d seat my dearest long-time friends John and Jenny. I know they’d have fun. There’d be laughter and plentiful mutual admiration. John would both shock and fascinate Oscar with his award-winning body-building physique, his incredibly well-crafted Mardi Gras costumes, and his erudite knowledge of all things artistic and stylish. He’d probably intimidate Woody, but let’s face it. Who wouldn’t?

Jen would have Katherine’s head tipped sideways in rapt admiration as she chatted about sea-kayaking off the coast of Patagonia, having her beloved dog’s ashes compressed into a diamond, and existing in the twin worlds of conventional medicine and naturopathy. Katherine would adore her. I know she would. And Woody might just find the inspiration for his next movie.

Some friendships are like that, aren’t they? We three have known each other for more than forty years. At various times, each of us has lived away from Australia for extended periods. But it has never mattered. As things stand now, we are still separated by thousands of kilometres. But that doesn’t matter either. Whenever we are together, Distance and Time dissolve in the laughter and champagne bubbles.

Other people have claimed we have the sort of friendship that even if we see each other but rarely can just be picked up wherever we left off. Some would probably continue to assert it even  today. But they’d be mistaken. Or kidding themselves. Because for them, unseen is the same as invisible. Our friendship amounts to little more than a sort of comfortable habit that can be broken. 

Or forgotten. 

Discarded. 

Disregarded.

Their warmth is just air kissing.

 I’d never invite them to my dream dinner party.

But I probably wouldn't want them to be eaten by zombies either. 

Awards and a Blogheard

In November 2014, I decided to take the plunge and get involved in NaBloPoMo ( National Blog Posting Month at blogher.com ) I wasn't sure what I was in for. To be honest, I really had no idea what I was even doing. Still don't, but I'm having fun making it up as I go along. But it set in motion a great many wonderful things.

Early in the process — very early, I think it was probably while I was still working out the how the hell to post to the site — I was browsing through comments other writers had left when they signed up for the challenge and I happened upon another blogging newbie: Edwina's Episodes I left a comment to say I was in the same boat and more than a little bit worried about falling out. She responded. And so began my first experience of having a blogging buddy on the other side of the globe.

To be honest, I'm not even sure how/when I happened upon Breathing Life I cannot remember whether I found Mary-Anne while browsing through the long list of daily submissions, or whether she found me. Either way, I'm glad it happened. It was Mary-Anne who introduced me to the concept of having a blogheard — we both love to play with words and create new ones to better represent what we mean. Mary-Anne has become central to my heard. She too lives in the other hemisphere, in somewhere almost the antithesis of The Rock.

We three bloggers who promised to post every day of November 2014 have become connected as the threads of our words stretch around the world to knit our lives and thoughts together. Brightly spun stories. Knobbly grey confessions. Cashmere soft dreams. All of them unique.


Edwina of Edwina's Episodes is not Edwina. That is to say, Edwina is her middle name. I know at one point I read her regular moniker, but typically, it fell into the post-menopausal blackhole in my brain where it clanks up against all the other things I've forgotten just enough for them to irritate the be-hooey out of me. So Edwina will have to suffice. Edwina is prolific. And in the same time that I have accrued a band of followers that a camel could count on one foot, she has amassed a small nation. That and about a squillion blogging awards from her loyal folk.

Generously, she has in turn nominated me for two of said blogging awards. The Real Neat Blog Award is, like me, a newbie to the blogosphere. The Premio Dardos, which means 'prize darts' in Spanish, seems to have been doing the rounds since about 2008. This award is given by one blogger to another as recognition of 'cultural, ethical, literary and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing'. Wordy... but kind of cool.

The 'rules' of these awards require me to answer a few questions about myself, then nominate a number of other blogs for the award. I'm still building up my list of blogs that keep me coming back for more. Maybe I'm a tough audience. Anyway, I'm going to thank Edwina-who-is-not-Edwina, answer the questions, but bail out of the nominations. I promise I'll post a list of blogs I've been wandering around somewhere down the track. Promise.

So, thank you Edwina-who-is-not-Edwina, and here are my responses to what you asked of me:

What inspires you to write/create your blog?

It had been too long since I’d written for the sheer creative pleasure of it. And the Black Dog had been more than circling. I was suffering from repeated ravaging. So I began to blog with the intention of using it as a part of training myself in the skills of positive psychology.  I like me the writer.I like Wendy of the Rock, and I'm having fun hanging out with her.

What would be written on your epitaph?

 Well at least she tried.

Do you have a favourite season and why?

I love spring. There are more animals and birds about. I love birds. Birds are amongst the best things about where I live. I have conversations with them all the time.

Are you a realist or a dreamer?

A realist with a few dreams.

Would people describe you as shy or outgoing?

That depends on context. Most people would say I’m outgoing, but that’s a lie that I sustain.

What song best describes you?

Who would you love to be for a day?

Nicole Kidman: To look like that AND come home to Keith…. Sigh… 
But I would never call my daughter Sunday Roast.

...a beguile of magpies

Something of this handsome bird might be said with advantage in a homely way. It appears that in captivity Magpies show an aversion to anyone who has annoyed them, as well as to anyone who looks like the person who has annoyed them.  The voice of the offending person is quite sufficient to agitate the bird and cause it to rush post haste towards its tormentor to wreak a terrible vengeance. Although it is principally children and ladies that they have a grievance against, some children and ladies pass by as very good friends.

The Useful Birds of Southern Australia: With notes on other birds was written by Robert Hall and published by T.C. Lothian (Melbourne and Sydney) in 1907. It was one of very few things handed down to me by my paternal grandmother.

 

Happily, the magpie clans that populate our little piece of The Rock and I have come to regard each other as ‘very good friends’. I know I shouldn’t feed the wildlife. And yes, they leave the upstairs deck looking like this:

They also have a rather nasty habit of barfing up lumps of shiny hard bug-body-ambergris. It’s kind of gross, but who am I to judge.

My neighbour shoos them away from her place. She doesn’t like the way they peck holes in her lawn and she practically wretches at the thought of their poop getting into her water-tanks. But I think when they really pissed her off was when the cheeky blighters worked out that she keeps bees. Easy pickings. Meal in a box. So she shoos them off to come over to visit the crazy-bird-lady next-door who feeds them mincemeat and bacon rind. And they do.

I lob the tasty tidbits high into the air one at a time for my clever black and white friends to swoop and catch in midair all whooshing wings and click-clacking beaks. It’s a spectacular show.

The young birds wait warily on the grass below for any treats that should fall. A clumsy hurried foot-race for the prize ensues . They make me laugh.

In the mornings, they wait at my kitchen door. One cheeky male even taps on the glass to remind me they’re outside. A row of them will be on the railing singing. And oh how they reward me with their warble-garbling  a cappella routines.

I don’t know if there’s a collective noun for magpies, but there should be. A beguile of magpies, maybe? Or a carol?