Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness

And in the taste confounds the appetite.

Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so.

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 6

Reader, make sure the tissues are close at hand and the youngsters aren't present for this is an MA+ rated tale of anguish, of unrequited love and, ultimately, of how the outpourings of passion can cause turmoil in a simple suburban home.

Our rabbit Norman has fallen irrevocably in love with my particularly attractive dog, Rosie. Rosie who has the sweetest of dispositions, tries to tolerate his affections politely but Norm, overcome by the intensity of his feelings and with the echoes of a plague of ancestral bucks pounding through his bloodstream will not be swayed. He has upped the ante into the realm of stalkerdom and has now become a serial pest. Poor Rosie has to eat her dinner sidling around her bowl in the manner of a canine compass trying to avoid the unwelcome attentions of her lovelorn swain.

Usually the most placid of creatures Rosie has been forced to show her teeth in an attempt to rid herself of her admirer. He is undeterred, impervious to her subtle remonstrations.

Norm is a love machine and there is not a moment throughout the day when he is not ready for action. The mere sight of his beloved can cause an upsurge of emotion. Random metaphorical shots are fired while Rosie is out on the deck and twice the man of our house has been caught in the deluge which I fear may cause occupational health and safety hazards and a resulting increase in our public liability insurance premium.

Steps have been taken to separate Norm from the object of his desire but incarceration is just a short term answer and I fear a more permanent solution must be found. Snip, snip!

In the big house, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution.

                                             

Sleep is so important, especially for the developing adolescent brain. I was reminded of this when my girls were at boarding school. The regular bulletins from the Boarding House were focused on this and, that perennial bugbear, head lice. It was not news to me. In fact I have been a pioneer in the field of sleep studies, particularly in my own teens, when I often only emerged from my bed when the hunger pangs became insistent.

Fortunate as I am in my ability to sleep, I feel a real sympathy for those who don't sleep well. The incessant bombardment and accessibility to technology has negatively impacted on the quality of sleep for many.

  Recent studies have shown how important deep sleep is as this is when the toxins in the brain pass through the glymphatic system and if this cannot occur due to poor sleep then brain function is compromised.
http://www.livescience.com/40510-sleep-cleans-brain-harmful-toxins.html

Technology is not the only culprit responsible for poor sleep. People just seem to have different thresholds for what irritations register. To illustrate, my husband does not sleep as well as I do. I believe his level of tolerance is a factor. When driving he cannot tolerate the mildest rattle of keys, coins, cans or any of those items which accumulate in the cup holder of our car. In my time I have tolerated The Wiggles, Hi Five, Nicky Webster and the demands of two children as I traversed many, many miles. Rattles don't bother me unless the wheel is falling off.

We have recently moved from the quietude of the countryside, where we were surrounded by bush. Awakened by the idyllic chirping of birds, we spent our days gambolling with lambs in peace and stillness (not really but I'm making a point). 

Now we are ensconced in a suburban landscape it is somewhat different. Our neighbour on one side has a yapping dog. My beloved occasionally gets a crazed look and threatens to take action but because it is not incessant and because I feel they must occasionally have had their reverie disturbed by our heated and hissed exchanges- normal for us but exacerbated by the stresses of moving- I restrain him.

Given that we tolerate traffic, yapping dogs, the daily trumpet practice of a talentless teen, the illegal parking right opposite our drive way by some silly girl who is just asking to be reversed into, it was with a degree of astonishment I registered what our other neighbour came to say yesterday.

"I am horrified by what is going on!" he said. I was a bit alarmed, I haven't been personally horrified for quite some time but I know this is sheer laziness. I adopted a suitably empathetic look and prepared myself but was taken aback when it turns out he was horrified because I was having an air conditioner installed in an east facing bedroom and the unit is facing his boundary. In particular his yet to be built alfresco area. I pointed out that when he is entertaining it will be us enduring the noise of the revels but he countered with the news that as a loner he will be there contemplating in solitary over a cup of tea.

My husband, who I rarely find insightful when I am outlining my own grievances, quickly left the house before he succumbed and spoke his thoughts. He later said that this was with some difficulty but he felt that our neighbours's concern about the noise of the air con was an "emotional outburst" and not really about the noise at all. The neighbour is a bachelor who cares full time for his elderly, very frail mother. He visits his own house daily to plan the new dwelling he intends to build and to seek respite from what must be a gruelling, around the clock job. It is quite likely that a petty matter (the air con is a small unit and a brand known for quiet operation) might take on a greater importance in these circumstances.

Luckily, my brain, having rid itself of the normal toxins (plus the toxins generated by a few glasses of Sem Sav Blanc) during the eight hours of quality sleep the night before, was in top form. I was able to talk to the neighbour, diffusing the tense atmosphere with gentle, sympathetic and conciliatory words and we parted amicably.

If he returns I will say that there is an ap for that.

I will never descend to this method.

Hopefully neither will he.

The X Factor

I was saddened to hear of the passing of Rik Mayall who I remember on The Young One's reciting one of the few poems I have committed to memory over the years.


 Pollution
All around
Sometimes up
And sometimes down
But always around.
Pollution, are you coming to my town?
Or am I coming to yours?
We're on different buses, pollution
But we're both using petrol.

(From Bomb)

Why those lines have stayed with me I have no idea.  In the past it was a common form of entertainment to memorise verse and to give poetry recitations.  I would not be able to hold the floor for long as there are only fragments of poems that I've remembered.  Wordsworth's:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils....

The full version is beautiful.

Another remembered snippet from my favourite, Robert Frost:


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth....

 

And the famous lines by Ogden Nash:

Algy met a bear.
A bear met Algy.
The bear was bulgy.
The bulge was Algy.


Of course, in our family, there is a long tradition of oratory and musical entertainment.

 Most who have dipped their toes in our gene pool have a favourite song which they will give voice to with minimal arm twisting and varying degrees of lubrication of the vocal chords.  We are known to be fond of a ballad.

Reputedly my paternal grandfather could recite, in its entirety, Who Killed Cock Robin?  While I don't remember witnessing this it was no mean feat, in my opinion.

http://www.rhymes.org.uk/who_killed_cock_robin.htm

I do remember my Nana singing the old Scottish ballad" The Day I Found the Five Pound Note" which was her particular favourite.  My cousin Stephen's song is" Father and Son" by Cat Stevens.  A more touching rendition you will never behold but he is not to be outdone by his mum, Auntie Jean, who does a fantastic version of "Paper Roses".  My Dad was partial to "They Tried to Tell Us We're Too Young" which was very mournful indeed.

My party song is Paper Lace's "Billy Don't Be A Hero" which I occasionally perform from start to finish, often with accompanying actions to give an added dimension and pathos.  I used to favour "Stand By Your Man" until I suffered serious bruising falling over as the bus rounded a corner while I was singing into the microphone.

I suspect this trait has trickled down through to the next generation but I have not encouraged it. One of my daughter's knows by heart songs by Eminem and I fear having to enforce an MA rating at family gatherings if she bursts into song.

 

 

Does your family have the X Factor?

Musings From A Funeral

Recently at a funeral I looked down at the boots I had chosen to wear that grey, wet day.  I wore them to my father's funeral and on many more occasions in the intervening period.  Cost per wear, they owe me nothing and I still love them.

 

 

  Quality investment in shoes, as in life, love and relationships, is rarely wasted.  Sadly, these boots might be sought out for similar sombre occasions as funerals seem to be more prolific at the moment than weddings or other more cheerful occasions.

As dreadfully sad as it is to lose someone, to have to gather together to mark this person's passing and celebrate their life, it is also often cathartic, even enjoyable to reminisce, to pay your respects to family and grieve with others who may be feeling the same.  On this occasion we had come together to celebrate the life of a local man who loved life, his family, the land he farmed, all things to do with the ocean and his community.  Involved in many groups, he worked hard physically, loved to participate in diverse sporting and recreational pursuits and was a sort of larger than life character.

What was so evident from the words spoken by each of his grandchildren was that many of his admirable qualities had been passed down to them.  I am sure much of inheritance is genetic but quality time spent together must surely have given these young people the chance to learn many of the life skills and attitudes of their grandparent.  The humour and affection he had shown to each of them was reflected back in the words they spoke. The bonds of friendship between the cousins was lovely to witness.  With each fond remembrance described it was not distance or boundaries or discipline which came to mind.  Instead it was images of laughter, doing farm work, meals eaten in company and time spent. The photo montage emphasized this and most beautiful to me was the image of the mature man gazing into the face of his first grandchild.

 

Of course their grandfather was not a paragon, without fault or quirks of character or personality but he had nurtured a family and friendships with people who forgave him these foibles, who loved him, laughed with him (and at him) and supported him in his final days.

 

 

Having just read "Elemental" by Amanda Curtin and been moved by the story of a grandmother writing the family to her granddaughter I saw the contrast in the relationship that Meggie, the grandmother, had had with her own grandfather.  She recalls him as a harsh, grim, intolerant man who was in some ways very cruel.  Later in the novel we are given a glimpse of him from a different perspective as a man who might have just been doing what he thought he had to do given that he lacked the information and knowledge available to us today.

"-The old man- you know, I wonder whether the whole thing was rather bewildering for him.
You're defending him?
Hardly.  But imagine what it must have been like in 1905, a whole way of life sort of...collapsing.  Suddenly you're shunned for upholding beliefs your people held for generations."  Elemental, Amanda Curtin,  p420

Unfortunately not everyone has the great gift of interested parents or grandparents.  Not everyone is lucky enough or wishes to leave children or grandchildren as their legacy.  But we each have the chance to invest in quality relationships so that when inevitably it is time for our own stories to be told they will be compelling accounts recalled with fondness, perspective and warmth.  We have the same chance as Meggie from "Elemental" who struggled poverty, hardship, tragic loss but was able to leave as a message for her grandchild that, "...it comforts me a little to think of all I have written in these books, the life that I have made from the life given to me.  And to see that from the greatest shame have come these things, the greatest joys." Elemental, Amanda Curtin, p413

Not all family legacy is innocuous or just the inheritance of red hair or a trait of character. Family legacy can sometimes very debilitating to our own enjoyment and engagement in our own lives and families.  If you can, take the advice of George Bernard Shaw.

Time passes and while seemingly only yesterday I was looking down at my boots while saying goodbye to my father it was actually eight years. If I'm lucky it will be a goodly passage of time before it will be my turn.  We each inevitably will come to pass so we should try to bear in in that we can influence the sort of stories that will be told about us.

"Everyone underestimates their own life.  Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories...they're all the same.  In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, loss and yearning for redemption.  So we tell the same story, over and over.  Just the details are different."  Rohinton Mistry, Family Matters.

Make sure you pay attention to the details of your own stories, the character development should be strong and if you are suffering a bit of writer's block or something is holding you back, try this. 

Snakes in the grass (and the shed).

I have just had a reminder about why I prefer indoor pursuits, such as reading and blogging.  While feeding the horses I saw the biggest, blackest snake lying on the floor of the feed shed, just waiting for an unwary rodent (or me) to appear.  I didn't have a weapon to hand and in the few minutes it took to shriek, tie up the dog and locate a brick it had disappeared back into its hole.

Since I am now confined to quarters until I feel calmer I will offer up a few ponderings regarding a different sort of snake in the grass; the unscrupulous salesperson or the shonky repairman.  The person who will happily take your money without fulfilling their obligation to you by providing the service or product for which you have paid.

When faced with situations such as these my preferred weapon of choice is not the brick but the pen, used to write a pithy letter of complaint.  I love the swooshing sound as the email fires off. I'm not all about bad news though, I also write appreciative letters when everything is great!

 

Could it be a coincidence though that the older I get the less things seem to be great?  I try to have a grateful heart but in the face of some people's incompetency it is very difficult.  My pet peeve at the moment is when someone tells you it is, "Too easy," and then proceed to stuff it up.

 

Never mind, I am deep breathing about that and my refund cheque is apparently winging its way to my bank account even as we speak.  What concerns me most is that all these irritations are manageable for me now because I have a reasonable quantity of my wits about me and I have not yet disappeared quietly under the invisibility cloak that seemingly enshrouds older people, particularly women, from view.

 

Recently I read an inspiring article about a war veteran aged 92 who had been arrested while protesting about the coal mining.

 

 

http://www.smh.com.au/environment/92yearold-digger-arrested-in-protest-20140331-35u0x.html

 

"I'll continue to protest for as long as I can walk," he said.
"After that, they'll have to push me along in a wheelchair."

I admire his passion, I find it difficult to sustain but the words of Winston Churchill ring in my ears:

"Never give in--never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy."

All credit to Winston and Mr Ryan but not everyone is physically, mentally or supported by family or friends to be able to take action about the injustices that litter the path of daily life and I think some people count on that.  They hope that if they stonewall for long enough the rightly disgruntled complainant will go away and then they won't have to bother rectifying, reimbursing or making restitution.

Not everyone is battle hardened either as was the 92 year old Digger.  Luckily for me I come from hardy stock.  My own dear mother who has spent no time on the front lines was recently forced to take action against the car service centre who had replaced her windscreen wiper blades at the time of the last service.  The old blades worked perfectly so it was a surprise to her that they needed to go.  The new ones caused an irritating knocking sound and her irritation was compounded by the new blade's failure to remove water along the entire length of the blade.   She politely took the car back to them on four separate occasions only to be told that in the bloke's estimation there was nothing wrong and/or they could do nothing about it.  Feeling annoyed and patronised galvanised her into action and she organised a one woman sit in at their premises.

"Katherine," she said, "I was not leaving until they fixed it."  Confronted by the septuagenarian with the unshakable resolve the fellow responsible for the buggered blade backed down and replaced it.

My heart swelled with pride at this news because I knew my mum hated doing this. Confronting someone is not easy, especially if they are treating you like a halfwit.

Sisters Are doing It For Themselves

Sometimes genetic material in common is not enough to support an adult relationship between siblings.  Luckily for me, I feel that if my sister and brother were not related to me I would still want to be their friend because of the sort of people they are; warm, caring, decent and each possessed of a fine sense of humour.

Hopefully they feel the same.Though they may not because we all have a shared history.  My brother is six years younger than I am. My earliest memory of him is being asked to watch him as he lay on his back on the change table. My mother had no sooner turned her back when he peed in my face with unerring accuracy. I disregarded him from then on. I don't think my sister paid him much attention either because,  when he was in Grade 1,we arrived home on the bus and our mother was disappointed to learn that he had not got on it and that we hadn't even noticed.  Luckily she found him back at the school and all was well.

He grew up and seemed nice enough. He was at Primary School, I was at High School.  I left for Uni, he was at High School by day. By night he stayed in his room watching the 3 in 1 tv/ radio/tape thingo that mum had bought him in a fit of generosity and which she later came to regret.  He only emerged to feed, not on the blood of virgins, but on Corn Jacks, which we were revolted by and called Snot Jacks.

My sister I recollect more clearly. We had baths together and she would dutifully reply when I asked, "Who is your favourite singer?", with my own name because I had trained her like a seal. I quite fancied myself, the acoustics of bathrooms being advantageous. My particular favourite song at the time was Billie Don't Be A Hero, by Paperlace. I do actions too! I could be on the stage as I keep telling people.

Later in life she wreaked her revenge for this torment by cutting off the long hair on my prized Barbie dolls, hacking off the legs of my favourite jeans and telling all the kids on the bus that I had pubic hair when I was 11 and she was 9.  No doubt the reaction would be just as incredulous if she made the announcement today (pubic hair seems to be so yesterday). Those other kids' jaws were hanging, they were so gobsmacked by her news. I was mortified.

Let it be said we were not close or like minded.  She was popular, sporty, and funny, albeit usually in trouble which she deserved.  I was reserved, always had my nose in a book and quite the girly swat.  She took advantage of my distraction by offering me a Cool Mint and then feeding me a Moth Ball. 

I survived and so did she and we are now great friends.  Our brother too, although he lives on a different continent.  I am sure it's not because he doesn't like us though. Right?

It is with some concern now that I am hearing of conflict between my own children as they are working through the dynamics of living together as adults in a shared unit.  A pre-primary teacher's advice about children's interactions that I remember from when my kids were young was "never interfere unless there is blood".

I am hoping it won't come to that but a wet dish cloth has been flung and harsh words have been spoken.



"Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott is a fondly remembered novel from my childhood. I have a copy which was awarded to my Grandma in 1922 as a prize at Sunday School.  Maybe it has
coloured my view of what sisterly relationships can be.  The March sisters were very different but they all got on with it.  I am hoping my daughters will do the same and be as lucky as I am to have the enduring support of siblings who know and get you in ways that others do not, and still care.

Of course these relationships do not happen without effort ( I have been tested over the years).  This is true of any relationship. Good communication, time shared, respect, tolerance and a sense of humour certainly help things along.  Fingers crossed things will work out well. I am not interfering but trying to do what I can to minimize the conflict.

The Acorn Does Not Fall Far From The Oak

Recently a friend (male) sent me the following email:

Subject: What A Beautiful Story...

 This story brought tears to my eyes, and what a beautiful ending

Once upon a time, a guy asked a beautiful girl 'Will you marry me?' The girl said, 'NO!' And the guy lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and went fishing and hunting and played golf and drank beer and scotch and had tons of money in the bank and left the toilet seat up and farted whenever he wanted.  The End

I was compelled to reply as follows:

What a load of w%#k. He was lonely, did not know how to style himself. He consistently wore clothing which clashed. The more fashion conscious folk learned to avoid him at the bar, not only because he was a fashion mistake but because he often forgot to take the clothes from the machine where they languished, acquiring  that sour smell which afterwards wafted in his immediate vicinity. He lived on a diet of tinned tuna and baked beans which exacerbated his halitosis and caused him to fart rather a lot, further isolating him from his peers at the golf club who grew sick and tired of his repetitive ramblings about his solitary fishing expeditions.  He died prematurely, alone and unlamented by all.

I was mildly amused by myself until I realised my response had merely confirmed the sexual stereotype of women as cooks, cleaners and guardians of all things domestic .

But then I got over myself and regained my sense of humour.

 Most recently our Book Club has read Dear Life by Alice Munro.

  This fabulous collection includes stories about ordinary people, the poignant consequences of their choices and the random life events which confront them. Towards the end the stories are acknowledged by the author to be the closest to autobiographical that she has ever written.  She describes her relationship with her mother, a woman who aspired to lead a different sort of life than the one she ended up with, as difficult.  Her mother's desire to move in higher social circles and whose manner of speech isolated her from her own family were difficult for her daughter to understand.  The mother's illness and subsequent death meant that their relationship was never really resolved.  Nevertheless the mother was her earliest role model and example and one wonders whether Munro would have pursued the education which led to her becoming such a well known writer if her mother had not been a teacher who valued education.


Other stories in the collection shed light on how women's roles have changed in the years since the
Second World War and the social mores by which they are judged.  In Gravel, for example,  the
mother leaves her husband for another man which causes a degree of scandal.

How lucky we are to live in this day and age and have the freedoms and access to opportunities women born in previous generations could only dream about.  There are still frontiers and prejudice to be overcome.  In her wonderful Tedx talk Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie implores us to all be feminists.  Beyoncé heard the call to arms and used part of the talk in  a song from her most recent album

Mostly though I think it is a battle being fought in the ordinary lives and homes of ordinary people.  Consider the wise words of Amy Tan.

“A girl is like a young tree, she said. You must stand tall and listen to your mother standing next to you. That is the only way to grow strong and straight. But if you bend to listen to other people, you will grow crooked and weak. You will fall to the ground with the first strong wind. And then you will be like a weed, growing wild in any direction, running along the ground until someone pulls you out and throws you away. ”
― Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club