“Once we were blobs in the sea, and then fishes, and then lizards and rats and then monkeys, and hundreds of things in between. This hand was once a fin, this hand once had claws! In my human mouth I have the pointy teeth of a wolf and the chisel teeth of a rabbit and the grinding teeth of a cow! Our blood is as salty as the sea we used to live in! When we’re frightened, the hair on our skin stands up, just like it did when we had fur. We are history! Everything we’ve ever been on the way to becoming us, we still are. […]
I’m made up of the memories of my parents and my grandparents, all my ancestors. They’re in the way I look, in the colour of my hair. And I’m made up of everyone I’ve ever met who’s changed the way I think.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky
“THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS”
by Wendell Berry
When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
When she was fourteen, she says,
she ran away from home, at sixteen
she bought a big bike and hit the road,
moving from town to town, looking for
something she can’t explain.
It’s a strange world of language in which skating on thin ice can get you into hot water. ~Franklin P. Jones
foto- armidale out at dumaresq dam on a picnic 2008
EUGENE FIELD PICNICTIME
It’s June ag’in, an’ in my soul I feel the fillin’ joy
That’s sure to come this time o’ year to every little boy;
For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen,
Where “fields beyont the swellin’ floods stand dressed in livin’ green”;
Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants,
An’ little boys get grass-stains on their go-to meetin’ pants.
It’s June ag’in, an’ with it all what happiness is mine –
There’s goin’ to be a picnic, an’ I’m goin’ to jine!
One year I jined the Baptists, an’ goodness! how it rained!
(But grampa says that that’s the way “baptizo” is explained.)
And once I jined the ‘Piscopils an’ had a heap o’ fun –
But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun!
They had so many puddin’s, sallids, sandwidges, an’ pies,
That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!
Oh, yes, the eatin’ Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine
That when they have a picnic, you bet I’m goin’ to jine!
But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me,
For they’re goin’ to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.;
Why should a liberal universalist like me object
To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect?
However het’rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be,
Their doctrine of fried chick’n is a savin’ grace to me!
So on the 21st of June, the weather bein’ fine,
They’re goin’ to give a picnic, and I’m goin’ to jine!
He stood on the bridge at midnight,
Disturbing my sweet repose,
For “he” was a great big mosquito,
And “the bridge” was the bridge of my nose.
West Coast Sentinel (Streaky Bay, SA 6 March 1931
When thine enemy retreateth, make him a golden bridge
For a flying enemy make a silver bridge
Truth and folly dwell in the wine-cask.
Tell not all you know, nor judge of all you see, if you would live in peace.
FOTO- chairs at bellingen growers’ markets
and speaking of an entirely different kind of chair
Beware of plastic stacker chairs
Trevor’s on a mission to Consumer Affairs,
trying to get a ban on plastic stacker chairs
He reckons that they’re dangerous, a serious threat to life
Cos it was through a plastic chair that he got into strife.
It was at the Tamworth Festival, a concert in the park,
Trev and Ken were there, with gear to last them until dark.
An esky full of coldies, Trev was without a care-
Stubbies, thongs and t-shirt, on his plastic stacker chair.
But as he stretched his legs out, his left crown jewel rolled free,
and dropped through the chair seat, a real catastrophe.
But Trev remained unaware of his dire situation,
Until they gave the singer a standing ovation.
As Trev rose to his feet he gave a fearsome yell,
Cos tethered to his testicle,
The chair came up as well.
He grabbed the chair with both hands as he crashed back to the ground,
But the errant family jewel was well and truly stuck he quickly found
He tried to extract the enclosed cod but he began to curse
Cos nothing he did seemed to work, it only made things worse.
Trev’s mate Ken was laughing fit to go right off his brain,
Ken’s tears were from laughter but Trev’s were from real pain.
Ken produced a Stanley knife and Trev’s mouth went dry,
He said “I’ll only cut the chair” but Trev wouldn’t let him try.
Well Ken climbed underneath the chair and tried to poke things through,
It’s times like these when you find out what your mates will really do.
They pulled and poked and prodded but all efforts were in vain
Trevor’s nut was red and raw and giving heaps of pain
All this unwanted attention was no good you realise,
Trevor’s tortured testicle swelled to twice its size.
Well the word spread quickly througT the Park,
And people tried to get a glimpse of trev’s threatened castration.
Mums and Dads and kids and dogs of every age-
Trev got more attention than the singer on the stage.
Little kids were pointing, dogs were trying to have a smell,
And Trevor, trying to cover up, said “Go to Bloody Hell”!
“Poor bloke needs an ice pack” was the only good advice,
So they sat Trevor over his esky, with his agate in the ice!
Someone called an ambulance, and they drove through the crowd,
Trev was drinking Bundy rum, and swearing very loud.
When the ambos stopped laughing they carted Trev away,
to the hospital where he was the highlight of the day.
Well Trevor’s now recovered, with both crown jewels in place,
But don’t offer him a plastic chair if you truly value your face.
And next year at the Festival Trevor will be there,
wearing tight undies and long trousers, on his canvas fold-out chair.
foto – izzy foreal at indian restaurant in bellingen 2013
I look back with gladness to the day when I found the path to
the land of heart’s desire, and thank Fate ceaselessly with a
loud voice that she did not permit the town to sap all the years
away while the heart was turning to wind-voices and
flower-faces and the hands of kindly earth.
– Mrs. George Cran, The Garden of Ignorance, 1913)