Some time ago, I moved my blog to a new domain. If you have come here because I have commented on your blog, it will because I have been unable to list to my current website (a regular problem with Bogger accounts that restrict login options).
I do not use Blogger currently, but please fell free to click over and see me at forks-in-the-road.com.
Thanks for visiting.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Moving house
I've taken a leap into the world of website design. I"m not sure how it's going to progress, but I'm giving Wordpress a go, so I can try creating a site with tailored pages. Please pop by my new blog at forks-in-the-road.com and join me in by gradual adventure to try out some new ideas. Just don't expect me to do it quickly. I'm learning HTML on the fly and so far, losing!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Relaxation brings inspiration
The GOFA has had a busy week, here there and everywhere, so it was nice to spend yesterday together, no work, no cleaning, ignoring the daily chores. Near dusk, feeling somewhat contemplative and chilled, we headed to a local beach. We walked on the sand and found it was populated with an enormous array of shells. Many were in such good condition, that we began collecting them. I had taken off my footwear and socks, so we filled one of socks with our treasure.Back home, when the set sun had forced us to abandon our foraging, I made a pattern with my collection, then stole some of the GOFA’s booty and found I had an idea for a design. We discussed it and played with the pieces, and before long, we had a decided on a concept for what I think will be a mosaic/sculpture. It’s great to have a creative mind, an artist, to give me ideas on how to go about making the idea a reality. It’s good to let the creative juices run into something tactile; so much of my days are spent in science and the technical, be it at work or in writing the text. I don’t even really get the time seriously sit down to write creatively; poetry is my one concession to creativeness, because it comes without warning and I can get a draft down relatively quickly.
Last night, I could not get the design out of my head. It was in my dreams, in my mind whenever I rolled over in bed, there when I woke. Now, not being an artist, I could be wrong, but I suspect that’s a sign that I found something I’m passionate about and should pursue. I’m going back to the beach today while the GOFA is out. I’m going to collect more shells and sometime in the next few weeks, I’m going to start on this design. I won’t go so far as to say artwork … we’ll see if I can project my mind’s eye into the real world first. I’m really quite excited!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Circumspect under sufferance
We sit on the fringes of each others lives. The pebble thrown in the waters near your island of self sends ripples to my shores that break and cease, moving not a stone.
A boulder comes crashing through, unexpectedly from the side. The waves gouge sand from coast, tear kelp from seabed, drag flotsam back to sea. The distractions that once diverted your attention loose significance in the wake of such violence.
On the other side of the channel, my shoreline alters as the waves draw sand to the sea. I see you battered, I see you torn and know that this time, something has changed at a fundamentally karmic level. The universe has shifted and I can’t see how it can possibly move back. I am angry, but it does no good to voice it. The boulder can’t be put back on the cliff. I am sad; for the damage to your heart, for the loss of my rose tinted glasses. I am frustrated; there is nothing I can do or say to change what should never have happened. All I can do is stand with you.
BASIS
You thought he didn’t matter
One man, you chose to judge,
Not knowing how
Not caring why
He treads a narrow path.
A face unknown, you took a view
Painted not with brush your own,
Never questioning the source that fed
Such wretched, wrangled rot.
A name you’d heard from source maligned
In contexts not your own,
Convinced yourself of righteous stance
To justify your mind;
A baseless crime, no foresight used,
Your defiant coward’s shield
Is crumbling in the face of one
Who never meant you harm.
Your error is the simplest one
(In this you’re not alone) –
You failed to know the man within
To brand foe without the facts;
Your failure marks your ignorance …
His blood now stains your badge.
Scum
The only word I’ll use
For “peacekeepers” such as you.
This is why he trusts not your ilk
You foolish, spiteful grunt!
A boulder comes crashing through, unexpectedly from the side. The waves gouge sand from coast, tear kelp from seabed, drag flotsam back to sea. The distractions that once diverted your attention loose significance in the wake of such violence.
On the other side of the channel, my shoreline alters as the waves draw sand to the sea. I see you battered, I see you torn and know that this time, something has changed at a fundamentally karmic level. The universe has shifted and I can’t see how it can possibly move back. I am angry, but it does no good to voice it. The boulder can’t be put back on the cliff. I am sad; for the damage to your heart, for the loss of my rose tinted glasses. I am frustrated; there is nothing I can do or say to change what should never have happened. All I can do is stand with you.
BASIS
You thought he didn’t matter
One man, you chose to judge,
Not knowing how
Not caring why
He treads a narrow path.
A face unknown, you took a view
Painted not with brush your own,
Never questioning the source that fed
Such wretched, wrangled rot.
A name you’d heard from source maligned
In contexts not your own,
Convinced yourself of righteous stance
To justify your mind;
A baseless crime, no foresight used,
Your defiant coward’s shield
Is crumbling in the face of one
Who never meant you harm.
Your error is the simplest one
(In this you’re not alone) –
You failed to know the man within
To brand foe without the facts;
Your failure marks your ignorance …
His blood now stains your badge.
Scum
The only word I’ll use
For “peacekeepers” such as you.
This is why he trusts not your ilk
You foolish, spiteful grunt!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sin on a Plate!
OH … MY ... HEAVENS! I took a recipe I’ve had for some years, from another lifetime, in another city (actually, it’s an overgrown rural town, but with little of the charm of rural life and none of the pizzazz of a city!) and manipulated a few key ingredients. Doubled the recipe to make two cakes, added a packet of frozen raspberries, filled with fresh, stiffly whipped cream and raspberries then dressed with a chocolate ganache. I’m calling Sin on a Plate!
The GOFA has a sweet tooth, so I thought something a little different would be nice. And whilst in the baking process I didn’t consider the calorie content of this masterpiece, one bite told me I was in food heaven but hipster hell. Yet, after my creative efforts, the GOFA diverted to a world of relative peace to de-stress after his horrid week, leaving my edible offerings languishing on a plate. In the dumps, I’ve indulged in some Sin myself, balancing the calorific intake with roasted vegetables for lunch and a long walk each day. Would you believe that my work trousers actually had some room round the waist on Monday? That proves to me that I can eat such indulgences as long as I walk LOTS!
So it’s off for my walk now, before I head to work early to study for a couple of hours and then settle into the late shift (midday to 10 pm). The remaining Sin is going to work with me; it won’t last much longer with the fresh cream. Someone else can exercise his or her derrière off. The GOFA will have to wait for a special occasion with lots of guests for me to make the Sin again. It’s too dangerous for us on our own!
The GOFA has a sweet tooth, so I thought something a little different would be nice. And whilst in the baking process I didn’t consider the calorie content of this masterpiece, one bite told me I was in food heaven but hipster hell. Yet, after my creative efforts, the GOFA diverted to a world of relative peace to de-stress after his horrid week, leaving my edible offerings languishing on a plate. In the dumps, I’ve indulged in some Sin myself, balancing the calorific intake with roasted vegetables for lunch and a long walk each day. Would you believe that my work trousers actually had some room round the waist on Monday? That proves to me that I can eat such indulgences as long as I walk LOTS!
So it’s off for my walk now, before I head to work early to study for a couple of hours and then settle into the late shift (midday to 10 pm). The remaining Sin is going to work with me; it won’t last much longer with the fresh cream. Someone else can exercise his or her derrière off. The GOFA will have to wait for a special occasion with lots of guests for me to make the Sin again. It’s too dangerous for us on our own!
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Shades of Michael Jackson
Life seems to have been busy and yet, I’m feeling guilty for not doing enough; enough work on the book, enough home cooking, enough exercise, enough cleaning. And here I am writing about something totally unrelated to any of those things, when I could be doing any one of them. Well the washing and vacuuming are done, at least.
My ongoing reading about Australian Indigenous issues continues to make me more aware of the current disjuncture between white and black. There’s many and complex concerns; none of it is easy to interpret, let alone resolve. But one issue could be described as “How black is black enough”? An article in the current edition of Artlink, "The Politics of Skin: Not Black Enough" (1), an Australian Indigenous art magazine, discusses the problems associated with the gradual loss of the visible marker of being black. On the one hand, Aboriginal activists of mixed European-Indigenous heritage who may be more brown or white rather than black are often accused of not having a right to comment on Indigenous issues. Conversely those who don’t comment may be seen as having taken the easy “white” road; being of paler skin tones can offer the ability to blend into mainstream society, but often at a cost the personal identity and self-esteem.
The issue, in my eyes at least, is not about colour; it is about culture. No-one expects the Jews to forgo Passover, to give up their menorah or cease wearing their yarmulke. No-one would be game to suggest as much.
The Poles, so decimated by the ravages of world War Two, scattered across this country and retain their customs in quiet symbiosis with the Italians, Greeks, Turks, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Indonesians, Britons, Indonesians, Indians, Africans. We may not be comfortable with what we do not understand, but over time, Australia continues to accommodate the differences, to enjoy the benefits of the best of each. And as each New Australian (which the Albanian born niece of Mother Teresa proudly described herself as to me just two weeks ago) settles here and builds a family, we accept that they will retain many of the customs of their forebears for many generations. It is the richness of cultural diversity that gives this country the vast array of local festivals and cuisine. We all benefit.
Why should the Australian Aborigines, the longest inhabitants of this land, be afforded less courtesy and respect than the most recent immigrant? Colour is irrelevant. Culture is all that matters, and we, all of us, are the lesser if we fail to recognise and protect this one simple premise.
(1) Browning, D., The Politics of Skin. Artlink, 2010;30(1):22-26.
My ongoing reading about Australian Indigenous issues continues to make me more aware of the current disjuncture between white and black. There’s many and complex concerns; none of it is easy to interpret, let alone resolve. But one issue could be described as “How black is black enough”? An article in the current edition of Artlink, "The Politics of Skin: Not Black Enough" (1), an Australian Indigenous art magazine, discusses the problems associated with the gradual loss of the visible marker of being black. On the one hand, Aboriginal activists of mixed European-Indigenous heritage who may be more brown or white rather than black are often accused of not having a right to comment on Indigenous issues. Conversely those who don’t comment may be seen as having taken the easy “white” road; being of paler skin tones can offer the ability to blend into mainstream society, but often at a cost the personal identity and self-esteem.
The issue, in my eyes at least, is not about colour; it is about culture. No-one expects the Jews to forgo Passover, to give up their menorah or cease wearing their yarmulke. No-one would be game to suggest as much.
The Poles, so decimated by the ravages of world War Two, scattered across this country and retain their customs in quiet symbiosis with the Italians, Greeks, Turks, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Indonesians, Britons, Indonesians, Indians, Africans. We may not be comfortable with what we do not understand, but over time, Australia continues to accommodate the differences, to enjoy the benefits of the best of each. And as each New Australian (which the Albanian born niece of Mother Teresa proudly described herself as to me just two weeks ago) settles here and builds a family, we accept that they will retain many of the customs of their forebears for many generations. It is the richness of cultural diversity that gives this country the vast array of local festivals and cuisine. We all benefit.
Why should the Australian Aborigines, the longest inhabitants of this land, be afforded less courtesy and respect than the most recent immigrant? Colour is irrelevant. Culture is all that matters, and we, all of us, are the lesser if we fail to recognise and protect this one simple premise.
(1) Browning, D., The Politics of Skin. Artlink, 2010;30(1):22-26.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Snoozing
In Praise of Sleep
Leaden, weighed,
Drawn down by black velvet, sleek, soft drape;
Heavy and warm, silent and still,
Peaceful and welcome, the opium of night;
Bid it come willing or fight if you must,
Oblivion ignores us, comes unheeded, uncalled.
Darkness envelopes, while otherwise flies
The hustle, the bustle, the rush and the plight;
Silence slips under day's crowded exploits,
Escaping to blackness from business and cares,
To nothing ... or something, one never can know,
The calm and the still of night's ultimate fate.
Ebony glistens, black's beautiful screen,
A canvas laid softly for eventide's show;
Colours that dance, captured thoughts, wild dreams,
Logic evaded in weird molten scenes,
Patterns and places, no other may go
Cine played solely, expression of soul.
Play's acted out by mind's clever muse,
Teasing, enticing, with unwritten rules,
Carving and twisting, the tales and the plots,
Fiction or faction, message or dream,
Laced through night’s darkness,
Balanced weirdness, strange scenes.
Moonlight succumbs to harsher day’s light,
Beams tear at the film, destroying abstracted tale;
Picture show over, never played quite the same,
As Morpheus loosens his grip for a time
Smiling a Cheshire smirk, knowing time’s brief
'Til starlight and slumber immerse us once more.
Leaden, weighed,
Drawn down by black velvet, sleek, soft drape;
Heavy and warm, silent and still,
Peaceful and welcome, the opium of night;
Bid it come willing or fight if you must,
Oblivion ignores us, comes unheeded, uncalled.
Darkness envelopes, while otherwise flies
The hustle, the bustle, the rush and the plight;
Silence slips under day's crowded exploits,
Escaping to blackness from business and cares,
To nothing ... or something, one never can know,
The calm and the still of night's ultimate fate.
Ebony glistens, black's beautiful screen,
A canvas laid softly for eventide's show;
Colours that dance, captured thoughts, wild dreams,
Logic evaded in weird molten scenes,
Patterns and places, no other may go
Cine played solely, expression of soul.
Play's acted out by mind's clever muse,
Teasing, enticing, with unwritten rules,
Carving and twisting, the tales and the plots,
Fiction or faction, message or dream,
Laced through night’s darkness,
Balanced weirdness, strange scenes.
Moonlight succumbs to harsher day’s light,
Beams tear at the film, destroying abstracted tale;
Picture show over, never played quite the same,
As Morpheus loosens his grip for a time
Smiling a Cheshire smirk, knowing time’s brief
'Til starlight and slumber immerse us once more.
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