Impervious? Not really …

Getting a poem to fit exactly into a 99 word space poses something of an obstacle for artistic integrity. That’s my excuse, anyway.

For Sammiscribbles

The sun descends

Behind the night

Fading feelings

Dimming light

Hide my sorrow

Cancel debt

Might I forgive

But not forget?

Might I stand tall

Against this wind

Might I not fall

With you, who’ve sinned

Erase the memories

Change my step

And not relive

What I regret?

Did you think

I felt no pain?

Your clever insults

All in vain?

Impervious

To your attack

Your lives … your knives

Behind my back?

Did you hear

That last goodbye

Did that tear

Escape your eye?

Or were you looking

From above

For that’s no way

To look for love.

Signs of life down under.

The above photograph was recently posted locally in celebration of women’s advancement in traditionally male-dominated sports and illustrates the incredible athleticism displayed by those at the elite level.

Those of you who, like me, may have kicked the odd football in years gone by, would recognise this as an absolute text-book example of what coaches are looking for and used to scream about us at. And if you are over the age of 35 I strongly advise you not to try this at home – it is, I assure you, not as easy as she makes it look.

Unfortunately the publication of the photograph gave birth to a tide of trolls (sad little men in front of computers making wired love to other sad little men in front of computers) – I will not repeat the vile things that were said. The result was that the photograph was taken down. Literally millions of inappropriate comments were erased.

BUT …. Tayla Harris herself, the footballer concerned (it might pay to remember that name, by the way), chose to put the photo back up. “This is a picture of me at work,” she said, simply.

The network that had removed the image also put it back up, acknowledging that to have removed it in the first place was to send the wrong message.

And the support for Tayla Harris – from other elite athletes, from football fans, and from the world in general, has been tumultuous.

It is a happy day.

And …. for those of you interested in the important stuff …. I can report that the football that has already departed from the picture above came back to earth between the goal posts 50 metres away. Exactly where she had intended it to do so.

It’s not a one-off either ….

We don’t do spring break

We don’t do Spring Break here in Oz. We take breaks whenever we feel like it, instead.

But, having posted absolutely nothing over the last few months and inspired (as usual) by others – in this case by J-dubs, I thought I would add a little pic from long long ago that features my very long term (and long-suffering) partner in life in her natural state (so to speak).

The picture was taken before we had met, in fact, but it captures a cheerful positivity mixed with a healthy cynicism that I have long treasured.

The picture itself also captures the playfulness of young women in general, when they are relieved of the burden of expectations from their elders as well as the restrictions of self-consciousness placed upon them when too many boys are around.

Technically it is not a particularly good photo, I suppose – and it has faded with time – two facts that make it all the more endearing for me.

Hot

Weekend writing prompt #95

I decided to post a few things … quick fire … minimum thought or editing. Pick prompts at random (I’ve only missed the first 94 of this one) and see what popped out.

Very little, I’m afraid.

It’s just a notion

Not devotion

But I like you quite a lot

It’s magic potion

This raw emotion

And I find you really hot

Lunch

OK …. I know there’s a lot to be said for self-restraint and moderation. I get it.

But, holy shit, there’s a lot to be said for absolute fucking decadence as well.

We were fortunate enough to have Josh Lipps (who none of you have ever heard of) drop around yesterday and do some lunch for our friends.

I never refer to myself as a ‘writer’ because I read a lot, and I know what a real writer can do. I aspire to achieve, one day, a piece of work that may allow me to be confused with a writer.

And I enjoy cooking a bit too. And I’m, like …. OK at it. Better than my mother was. But I will never be mistaken for a chef. I watched this all happen in front of me yesterday and I was blown away by the ease, and the confidence, and the beauty (and, of course, the taste) and the sheer art of it….

Isn’t it just wonderful to observe a artist at work?

Where in the world am I? #2 (And where’s the tea?)

Aguycalledbloke

I have actually never been to Boston. But I have been to Starbucks.

He was tired. And lost in a strange city. And so he sat nervously at a table with his suitcase, equally unsure of its position, sitting beside him. He needed a cup of tea. For, as his father had once explained to him, “one requires only a sip of Twinnings for one’s soul to be transported magically back to the motherland.”

His own preference was for Earl Gray and, whilst he acknowledged the faint French influence in that particular blend, he viewed it nevertheless as being quintessentially English. Alas, there was no such choice available, and so he ordered what was simply described as ‘tea’. When it arrived it did so in a paper cup from which dangled a string. Further investigation revealed the string to be connected to some sort of tiny sack which was now swimming in steaming discoloured water. He could not help but be reminded of women’s sanitary products.

Searching for more palatable alternatives he inspected the menu again, but recognised only one name. He examined his Rolex. It was 3:26PM. And surely, even here, they knew that no gentleman would order a ‘cappuccino’ after midday. All the other offerings, however, were unintelligible to him and had evidently been created by someone under the impression that a word could be translated into Italian simply by the addition of the letter ‘O’.

The café itself had a name he assumed to have been derived from a cheap science fiction novel and, thinking about it now, he wondered if he was still within the civilised world at all. Perhaps, as he slept, his aeroplane had been mysteriously diverted, mid-flight, to another galaxy inhabited by a life-form intent on imitating humanity, but falling somewhere short of success. Or perhaps he had been through a time vortex of sorts and had landed in a future where culture had undergone some kind of horrific mutation. This was, he suddenly remembered, ‘New England’.

And whilst the other inhabitants were speaking what sounded like his own language he could only make out occasional words. Everyone seemed to be wearing running shoes but showing no other signs of athletic exertion. Hats were being worn indoors. Backwards. He was horrified.

And everywhere there were red socks.

SoCs – cele

SoCS 3/3/19

The kid and the choirboy

Here’s something that they claim to combine. Celebration and Celibacy. What could possibly go wrong?

And who could imagine that a normal human being who commits themselves to such a life might be, in the first place, a bit strange? Or, after a few years in the gig, might be even a bit stranger?

So who could imagine that our own dear Cardinal Pell, who has done such a fine job of protecting the church from countless accusations of kiddy fiddling might be found guilty himself, of accidentally finding a choirboy’s penis in his mouth?

So I hope that he meets some good and like-minded friends in prison. With whom he can openly discuss such matters in the showers.

And where his supercilious superiority and arrogance might not count for much.

And where, at last, he might have to watch his own back.