To Lynne as Autumn comes

(with profound apologies to Keats,
Wordsworth, Horace and Pindar)

Which one of us dare say that you are old?

Which one so careless of the woes of men

That he (or in this anti-sexist ode, a she) so bold

Would venture to suggest your five times ten

Mean less than this: the best is yet to come.

And we, your choir (not quite) invisible

Sing out with fervent hope you’ll not succumb

To slings or arrows or outrageous fortune’s visible

Detractions from the glory of your life’s great sum,

Which being greater than its parts is indivisible.

Some say life starts at forty, as if life were a cliché

Not demanding of our full attention always.

But we know more and have no need to pray

We’ll only live through tales of once and future days.

Our time is now. We will rejoice in carpe diem like the fool

Who never woke the morning after nights before

The stupid days we misspent youth in life’s hard school

Where all we’ve known and all, that vast much more,

We long ago forgot or set aside like life’s lost tool

Has led to here: the precipice from which we soar.

So not for us some melancholic meditation

On the mist and mellow fruitfulness of age.

These are the baby-boomer days of celebration

And we, the rag-tag generation who maintain the rage

About much more than just the fading of a light

At some unspecified and yet still distant point

We know we’ll one day reach to lose, at last, the fight

Rave on (as ‘Van the Man’, we did our seer anoint,

Impels us) get down and dirty, boogie on, delight

In sex ‘n drugs ‘n rock ‘n roll and, ageing girl, wreck the joint!

.

Art house

(drawings and photo by Spike Deane)

The Sydney Glass Space

So, sitting at our favourite cafe in Annandale, an idea was born. I am probably as mad as Alice's hatter and dafter than a brush but what's the point of dreaming if you're not going to dream big? So ... five years from now (at the latest) we'll open the Sydney Glass Space.

I tell you: I am truly, deeply mad.
.

Jon's seafood chowder

(Not that this image is actually Jon's excellent home-made chowder) but what a delightful way to put behind me the second set of misconduct questions. Dinner with Jon and Rosie at their place in Redfern. Spike arrived later, returned safely from a glass-makers' trip to

Canberra's Glassworks

(Holly Grace, who was assisting another artist, was the only name I recognised).

And today's word is ...

... interview

as in 6 hours of questions & answers to refute 16 allegations of misconduct at work. They include entirely new definitions of work place bullying ... made staff eat lobster, gave flowers, told senior colleague in writing that one supported her right to disagree with one of my decisions and seek advice from others on its accuracy (which, by the way, it was ... as in accurate).

There wll be another session tomorrow. Truth? This mad circus is taking its toll. Not one of the allegations stands up; not one. But the energy, time and effort it takes just to refute the malicious shite that's been thrown could suck the life out of me if there wasn't the strong support around me of people who matter. The sooner this is over, though, the better.
.

Some things are impossible to believe ...

bisTRODE

We helped Jon Simpson to enter his sixtieth year with a lovely meal in Surry Hills at a small place called bisTRODE. Sampled a Slippery Jack mushroom for the first time (so-so), excellent Hapuka (which looks a lot less aggressive seared on a bed of Jerusalem artichokes than it does in the water ... spiky dorsal fins and all) and rhubarb crumble and custard to die for. There was a French red wine that caused a bit of a stir as it went down ... well, it has to be said. Lovely evening. Excellent restaurant.

Happy birthday too, Mr Buchanan.

Pier

Hard to imagine a better way to dine at the end of a tedious day. Pier at Rose Bay for a long, long catch-up with AB. We were first in and last out. Good food, excellent company: what more could one ask for?

Easter bunny

New Yorker magazine
.

Highlight of the day?

Shopping for groceries with Spike.



New Yorker magazine
.

Helena cancelled lunch 'cos she's unwell

So the day's recordable event is a two-hour class on ... oooo ... The Scottish Play. My teacher admires the Polanski version but thinks it's dated. I remember it as a defining moment in my cultural development. Even though I was only 14, I knew it was the real deal.

Student life

So today we're both working on assignments.

Spike has her 1,000 words on reading critics of Dale Chuhuliy.

I've got to set out the framework for an essay on MacBeth (I think the butler did it).

Théodore Chassériau (September 20, 1819 – October 8, 1856) was a French romantic painter noted for his portraits, historical and religious paintings, allegorical murals, and Orientalist images inspired by his travels to Algeria.
.

My mission ...

... is to support the artist until the word count of 1,000 has been reached. Tea, every now and then; Californian Cookies (which come from somewhere in New South Wales) and a pear are my best offerings.

If I don't she'll stab me to death with a 30,000 year old sacrificial knife hewn from obsidian. I believe the technical term is knapped.












(objet d'art and photo by Spike Deane)

Slumdog

Finally caught the Oscar winner in a cinema, which makes it my second viewing but this time with a decent screen, sound and sub-titles one could read. It's a charming bittersweet morality tale I suppose with a bit of boy meets girl thrown in. It certainly stood up to a second viewing. I love the scene where the boys steal chapattis from the train carriage. The child actors run away with movie but it was fun throughout. I can see Salman Rushdie's point about the white man's view of India but it's done with such affection and heart that I think we can forgive them.

Swimming towards sunset ... part 2

I took Swimming towards sunset to the poetry group this evening. Generally, everyone liked it. There was a debate about the final two lines. Half the group thought they worked very well. The other half thought they were too much. I'm not sure. I'll let it stew a bit.

The water’s surface shimmers
late this summer afternoon.
Cicadas irritate the atmosphere
as if it were not quite sufficient
to sit beneath the sun, awaiting
dusk then nightfall and the rest.

Not quite a mill pond, the bay
entices you to swim without a suit,
abandoning your dress and bag
to my safe-keeping on the shore
where two or three or maybe more
old regulars take time to talk;
to share the daily news perhaps
of who did what to whom and when
- and maybe even make a stab
at why - between their showers
and callisthenics in the park
where dogs, unleashed, chase tails.

I sit and watch your head cut through
the silvered skin of Watson’s Bay,
that youthful grin upon your face,
as if this place and time with me
were more than you had hoped for,
were maybe all you wanted on this day.
.