Odd Moments – 17/11/16 (snippets of the world)

So today I was sorting out all my worldly possessions, at least I was supposed to be…

Then I found my little tub of air dry clay, and, well, now I have a little roughly-put-together cat.

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After all, those are my favourite types of cats.

-zu

What do you think, should I paint him to make a realistic cat or leave as is?

 

Serendipitous – Snippets of the world. 14/11/16

serendipitous
ˌsɛr(ə)nˈdɪpɪtəs
adjective
  1. occurring or discovered by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
    “a serendipitous encounter”
    “their diligent efforts were coupled with the joys of serendipitous discovery”

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Found half a shell yesterday on the ground, some little baby bird’s used-to-be home, broken out of, flown away from (probably not just yet), wings pointing to the heavens.

An egg is a miracle, fragile but strong enough to hold a life.

And this little scrap just happened to match my scarf in a somewhat serendipitous way.

-zu

 

Hello again!

It’s been a month! So hello! 

Here in Australia it’s getting on towards summer again, my favourite season! And I found this little description I wrote a year or so ago and thought it fitting to share. 😊

ALSO for anyone who read my story of the spread of Paterson’s Curse in Australia you will be either annoyed or happy to know that there is even more of it this year! It may be a pest but paddocks full of purple flowers are still beautiful 😆

 

Summer creeps up slowly. First the winter days seem more mellow, the wind blows less harshly, the sun blesses the land more often.

Then warmth drifts in for a day or two here and there, the trees and plants eagerly bud and bloom, hasty to catch summer. But it’s much too soon for them, the cold and the warmth proceed to play a game of catch-me-if-you-can, here now, caught again, chased back, peeking round that tree.

You can almost hear summer laughing as the merry pair run and chase each other. The paddocks start to turn bright yellow and deep green, rain falls overnight, flowers float out of the air, coming to rest in the welcoming soil, birds build nests, start families and carol unceasingly.

Then one day you turn around and the yellow paddocks have faded, the chase stops and warmth is the new crowned king. He has conquered the cold and now settles in for a long and peaceful summer.

The trees settle their roots in the warming soil, their happy leaves sheltering noisy cicadas and birds flying to and fro, busy feeding their babies. The air is rich in tiny insects. The warmth reaches clear to the bone. Every house has a sprinkler for the kids to play in.

This happy state continues until winter’s cold grows strong in its long exile and comes again to contest summer’s king.

But that, is another story.

-zu

In other news I’m currently reading Go Set a Watchman, the sort of sequel of To Kill a Mocking Bird that has sparked outrage in some parties and mixed feelings in others. Have you read it? What are your opinions of it? 

 

 

The Planet Glok. Unnumbered.

I found this in a box of scraps of paper that I keep, it was printed out, I believe I wrote it in primary, I’m not sure. Also not sure if it was just a random thought stream or a concrete idea, but I thought it’s pretty cool. Somewhat ridiculous. It’s all the same. 😉

If I had a world of my own, there would be no unicorns. The sun would be smaller than a wonderful star and everyone would fly on the backs of swallows. The caretakers name would be Gary and he would walk slowly through the dark blue Street singing Scottish songs, and the whole world would be Irish. The corner store would sell lollipops in a rainbow whirl and the children would stare longingly as their nurses shepherd them along on the other side of the street. the nurses would b dressed in bright pink,  the children would be dressed in marbled grey and purple with grey ties and socks, and green shoes. Gary would be dressed in overalls and cary ad broom and a bucket of sops.

Everyday new flowers will bloom, and no flower will ever die until the caretaker pulls them out. Gary is fond of the flowers and only pulls out the rude ones when he has to, so the flowers are everywhere, over banisters and awnings and sidewalls and roofs and some just cascade out of thin air. if you stand still for long enough, flowers grow in your hair, and twine themselves lovingly around your neck.

In the sweet sunrise, amethysts fall from the sky, so we would wear cotton wool on their heads to catch the precious jewels. Then at night we heat them up with red fire and cook the fish that we have caught on them and then, as we lay around the fire, we devour the soft, tender, juicy fish. The next morning the amethysts will be a pale chalky pink and we pick them up and lay them under the nest of the green dawn bird. She feeds on them and when she lays her eggs they are made of transparent pink purple crystal.

During the day the men wander down through the streets to the fresh sparkling sea with their nets dragging behind them. They go to catch the fish for the night time meal. when they have caught three fat ones each, they drag the nets back o the shoe and loll on the warm rocks till the whale of the sunset rises in the deep.

The women also flock down to the sea, with their garments of purple ad red and green and blue to cleanse them in the sand. The children have all escaped from their nursemaids, and have thrown off their ties. They are a raggletaggle bunch, flowers in their hair and lollipops in their hands, but none of them have ever looked happier. Gary is keeping watch, and keeping the glassy sand clear.

Then all, except Gary, will swim in the sea, till the last fish is caught, singing the exultant hunting song triumphant with bold red flags.

-zu

Yes, it’s not perfect, I feel the need to completely rework it, but I’ve left it mostly how it was when I first wrote it. The tense does switch dramatically , but who cares? Do you? I don’t! Not today anyway, mostly because it’s raining! 😂😁

Promptly poetry!

One of the most important questions has always been; did he come in the front door or the back door?

One person strongly suspected it was the front door, and everyone else wasn’t really sure.

Create a story, poem or explanation for which way you believe he came in, and why it’s so important. 

My other blog, What A Fish Thinks 😉

So here’s something! I also write a blog in conjunction with the Age of Fishes Museum called What A Fish Thinks.  I’m writing as a fish called Augustus who is pompous, opionated, and very outspoken, but secretly lovely under all that 😉 He can even get a little poetical sometimes, like me 😂 It’s lots of fun to write and I’m sure you’d enjoy reading it 😁 So go check it out!

I have lived in The River for my whole life. I have swum against current and with it. I have sheltered beneath tree roots as water from the sky has pelted the surface water of the river churning i…

Source: What a River is.

No. 177 “None of this makes any sense” – 31/5/16

As I walk into the bathroom I am scared by the brown shower curtain rinsing in the abandoned bath water,

It looks like a giant sea monster, probably octopus, encased in resin,

So still and quiet, the bracken brown folds trapped in light blue water.

Later in the kitchen, my face is reflected awkwardly back from the shiny silver sauce pan,

That I have never made a sauce in.

I feel melancholy because I do not have any favourite words that bounce out of my mouth quietly fanning themselves into the world.

None of this makes sense, but maybe… when the clouds float apple green and sunshine turns to wispy marshmallow when it hits the ground.

Somewhere, sometime, this must make sense,

To have a sea monster in my bath, and a sauce pan that is used for soup.

But not here. Right here. Right now.

Here is a soft moment in the fabric of time, where it all seems to have rubbed thin,

And the universe is bottle blue, collecting momentum, as it rolls down a green hill towards a field of daisies,

Snapping the single thread,

That held this poem together.

-zu

Follow for One Poem Every Day! 

Ahem, yes, well. I seem to have given up in my idea of never posting a poem that wasn’t ‘good’. I have plenty of poems that, well, what makes a poem good anyway? This could be the best poem you’ve read all day (have you only read one poem today?) or the loudest, depending on how you read it. Art is subjective and poetry even more so (now I’m just trying to sound clever). I’m reminded of another poem, by Wendell Berry, a quote from it goes: 

Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.  

And on that note, goodnight!