Sweet sweat

Anthuriums, shaped palm leaves and sticks make up this colourful arrangement.

Tonight was the second last night of the flower arranging course and - can you believe it- we actually got a certificate to attest to the fact that we had attained skills in flower arranging. What sort of hopeless person would need a certificate like that? On the back it even lists the ubiquitouos 'outcomes' achieved. Nevertheless I have enjoyed the course, the fresh flowers it brings into my house each week and the company of the other class members. Tonight's arrangement was a minimalist modern arrangement in a glass bowl and you'll find the picture above this post (I can't work out how to put pictures inside a post).

Next week, for the big finale, we have to bring a fat candle to put in a Christmas arrangement. I think there is some kind of party going on too. This brings me to my second creative effort for the week. The Christmas cards.

Every year I make my own Christmas cards - for no other reason than I think bought Christmas cards are boring and like to send something more personal. This year I found a gorgeous picture on a photographic program I use which seemed perfect to describe my feelings and my situation this Christmas. It was a painting of a woman surrounded by tropical vegetation and seemingly talking to a bright red parrot, done in a style that appeared to me to be mostly Picasso with maybe a hint of Gauguin. Now I don't claim any great knowledge of art, so it may even be a famous painting by someone quite different, but anyway, I like it and I decided to try to copy it. I'll paint each Christmas card by hand this year I thought!

After 2 solid hours I have 4 cards to show for my efforts and they are not even very good copies. I think I'm going to have to find a less complex design or resort to photocopies of the original and a pot of glue. Pity.

Into the blue. Vapour trail into the build-up clouds as a jet takes off from Darwin. 

Wet season sunset - taken just before I met the crocodile. 

Tonight's walk across the tidal sand flats became a little more exciting than expected when I waded across an inlet that was knee-deep, quite a lot deeper than I usually venture because of the ever-present danger of stingers. Stingers - as you may or may not know - are box jellyfish, a deadly jellyfish with stinging tentacles about a metre long. Half way across I felt something long and thin brush against my legs, followed by a burning, stinging sensation. I completed the short crossing in record time, lifting my legs high. At the other side I inspected the damage and couldn't see any welts although the stinging kept on for the rest of the walk home. Since I'm still alive, I guess it wasn't a stinger - maybe just some lesser breed of jellyfish.

Halfway to the next shallow water crossing, I met a man walking his dog who asked me whether I was a local, to which I replied in the affirmative. "Do they usually report crocodiles on the beach?" he asked, pointing to a spot 10 metres distant where I saw a small (about 5ft) crocodile resting on the bank of the crossing, mouth wide open and testing the breeze. I won't report the expletive I used, thinking of the fact that I'd just been wading in knee-deep water. "It's only small," he said, "but I just watched it come out of the water." It may have been small, but it was only 3 inches smaller than me in height and a great deal heavier.

Since neither of us had a mobile phone and I was only 15 minutes walk from home, I assured him I would report it. There were heaps of people, including children, and dogs, walking along this popular suburban beach.

I told you Darwin was a great place for wildlife!

Last night I went to an evening of performance art run by the local writers' group. Its called 'off the page', and they have these evenings 5 or 6 times a year. I'm told, it's one of the longest-running events in Darwin. It's held at the local cafe, no more than 5 minutes drive from my home, so there's really no excuse for the fact that I've failed to attend any of these evenings in the 5 years I've lived here. Last night was the final 'off the page' for the year, so I twisted the arms of a few friends and got them to go along with me.

It was great. The standard of the writing was exceptional (I'd been afraid it would be very ordinary). It embodied all that I love about this place. Held in an open air cafe, situated under spreading trees, with the humid tropical air pressing thickly, writers and performers got up one after another, each with a limit of 5 minutes, to give us insights into their hearts and lives via their writings.

We were there from 7 till 11.30 when the final 15 minute break was called to allow the judges time to deliberate and bring in their verdict on the night's winner.

For my money they were all winners. Not only was the writing - short stories, chapters of novels, bush poems, modern poems, songs and things that were half-poem and almost song, excellent, but many of them were accomplished performers as well. It was well worth the $8 admittance fee!

But the best thing was the inclusiveness that characterises Darwin life. Performers ranged in age from 16 to 60s, a couple had disabilities, there were blatant lesbians and strident activists and old-timers who just wanted to tell a story, and you know what, every single one of them was listened to with respect, genuinely appreciated and applauded, while the numerous kids ran in and out and played noisy games in the next-door playground and a lone mongrel cadged tidbits under tables and scrounged a drink out of unattended glasses.

The pizzas and wine were pretty good as well!

She couldn't believe that 23 years later, she listened to the same record (now on CD) and, glass of wine in hand, cried, just as she had all those years ago, and for much the same reason.

Tonight's creation is a gift basket containing gift items and flowers. Unfortunately I was behind the door when the instructions were given to bring in some small items suitable for a boy or girl baby (to use in the arrangement), which made the gift section of the arrangement somewhat lacking. Kindly co-learners supplied a face washer and two cakes of soap.

Last to leave the office this afternoon, I stepped onto the verandah of our demountable building set in acres of manicured lawns and gardens and my heart almost stopped beating in fright. A huge and noisy lurch swept out of the corner of my vision and something a good 5 ft long, slate grey, and looking like a small dinosaur leapt off into a pile of dead leaves. The hugest goanna/monitor lizard you've ever seen, fat and feisty, he cast a fierce gaze over his shoulder at me as he charged away towards the shelter of the bordering rainforest.

You never know what you'll encounter outside my office. I've told you about the green frog that lives in the toilet but don't know whether I mentioned the whip-thin greenish snake that coiled out of the leg of my chair one day, or just this week when a hapless employee opened the door of the adjoining building only to encounter a 6ft brown snake coiled over the door handle. It does keep the adrenaline pumping.

The mango orchard is alive with magpie geese and rajah shell-ducks and our Aboriginal workmate spends every lunchtime contemplating how he could catch a goose and cook it up for his lunch. Yummy! he says with a huge smile and a pat on his considerable belly - mayan muck!~ which is Yolgnu-matha for very good.

Nightcliff sunset dry season.  

Okay, so the truth is, I just don't have anything to say so I've been procrastinating about blogging.

It's been a pretty good day. I got my tax records in order so I can make an appointment to see the tax man. I don't know why I procrastinate about this every year. For God's sake, alll the necessary bits of paper are all together in a filing box, it's not that complicated - not like I'm a multinational or something - and when I eventually drag myself screaming and protesting to do it, it takes like an hour and a half. I think I just hate numbers and hate authority; don't want to put pen to paper and declare something that might not be quite right to the scary taxation department, so I have to add everything up 3 times and check and double check that every cent of interest is accounted for - and believe me we are talking cents here - my main working account earned the grand total of 89 cents interest this year! So anyway, having overcome this major procrastination, I felt good.

I found a job I liked the look of in the paper last Saturday and thought I might apply for it. Today was the final day I could have done so but I procrastinated myself right out of any chance of being rejected on that one. Well I wasn't sure I wanted it and it was more important to do my tax and...so on. It's so easy to find excuses to procrastinate.

I want to make Christmas cards but am uninspired this year so what do I do - nothing, I procrastinate. If I procrastinate long enough, well I'll just run out of time and, oh dear, what a shame, I'll just have to send out the commercial variety.

I'm annoyed with myself. About time I got off my bum and did all the things I promise myself I will do.

Well at least I made a blog entry and tomorrow is a fresh slate, just waiting to be procrastinated on!

We were talking about autumn (fall) which, in the tropics, coincides with Spring in the rest of the country. It occurs over a two day period here, the leaves all fall off the trees and two days later they are freshly dressed in tender green shoots - it's amazing. Anyway, now we are in the build-up, the time of sudden gusty electrical storms after days of oppressive, wet heat, and there's a thickening carpet of fallen leaves on the ground.

We talked about 'leaf blowers' - those terribly noisy inventions that simply move the leaves from one place to another, to be blown right back again in the next storm (I can't see the point of them), and of other ways of disposing of unwanted leaves; of friends who were obsessed with clearing every leaf from their gardens... and I was reminded of times when my sons were small and we used to rake up leaves into piles and have lots of little smouldering, eucalyptus-scented bonfires. They all loved setting fires. Nothing dangerous, but a pile of leaves or a deserted spot on the sand could always be improved by building a pyre and setting it alight.

Which brought my friend, via the comment that all boys love fires, to tell me about her little brother who had to be watched closely lest he set an inappropriate fire. "He was cured of it, I think," she said, "the day he set fire to our little sister. She was wearing a pair of fairy wings made out of panty-hose stretched over a wire frame. She must have got too close when he was lighting matches because next thing we knew her wings went up with a great whoomp of air, she was screaming and flames were shooting out of her back, mum was tearing the wings off her and throwing them at the garbage bin which also caught fire. It was pretty spectacular. She wasn't at all hurt luckily, but I think it gave Davo a terribile scare and he stopped playing with matches after that."

I was pretty impressed with the fiery wings story but she topped that with the next anecdote. "The worst thing he ever did - did I tell you about the ducks?" she asked. "Well he killed the drake, beat it to death with a stick because 'he was hurting the mummy ducks!' "

Ah, you can't beat good lunchtime conversation on a broiling hot day when the air conditioning has been broken down all morning and your linen work dress is all soggy and stuck to the creases - I reckon, next duck I see............

Fiery sunset - One Arm Point, Western Australia. I love sunsets! 

We seemed to have reached the dag end of the year. It must be 'Only xx days to Christmas!' because already the stores are full of garish red tinsel, plastic santas and enough flashing lights to bring on an attack of epilepsy. 'Deck the halls with balls of holly tra, la, la, la, la...' is still ringing in my ears from today's steamy Saturday afternoon visit to the dreaded mall. (Is that right 'balls of holly'? I always think of it that way but it doesn't really make sense. Maybe it's bells and holly. At least that would explain the ringing in the ears!)

On a subliminal level I must have been taking in the 'Christmas build-up thingo' for a while now because, seemingly independently this morning, I started panicking about my 'Christmas list' and sat down to actually write one. Might have been all the well-organised women at my flower arranging course saying they'd finished their Christmas shopping already!

I guess it's rather like packing for a trip - the requirements don't change that much from trip to trip or Christmas to Christmas -and my youngest son is always telling me I should write a generic list for trip-packing (that's 'cause he usually gets to lug my two huge suitcases from the airport and knows I always totally over-pack). The Christmas list is much the same; same people every year with a few additions now I'm getting to the God-children's-children stage of life. Every year same problem - total lack of inspiration - absolute desire to get each of them something they'll really like (preferably for a price that won't have me paying off the gifts into February - not that I've achieved this particular goal for many years now).

So here I was again, spending my Saturday arvo trudging round and round the neon-lit blandness of 'the mall', milling up and down the aisles of K-Mart, speculating idly on jewellry and crystal, checking out men's shirts -'hmm, would he wear that one in the really good quality fabric or scorn it because it was in tasteful pink and ochre checks?' Well I liked it and it was a very good buy!

I must be the world's worst shopper. I came home exhausted and footsore and all I'd managed to pick up were some sox and a few other assorted items of men's and children's clothing, a plastic caddy that I might pack as a gift basket, a child's hat that looks like a pixie's hat and is made out of Sth American seed pods, some wetting pellets for my dehydrated pot plants and a cheap box of laundry detergent.

Looks like many more trips to the mall between now and Christmas for me!

They had known each other far too long and too well for a casual friendship to work. It seemed once the detritus of the everyday was told, there was a hole of silence, previously companionable and known, that was, these days, impossible to fill.

A sheaf arrangement. This willl look better when all the buds open into lillies but I couldn't wait any longer to post. 

In a burst of creativity, she attempted to paint out her feelings but instead, the painting drew her in like a vortex, to misery and regrets.

A real born, meant-to-be writer has an ear for dialogue, sees humour and relevance in the most mundane situations, and has a gift of re-telling through the prism of their observation that illuminates the detail of life. The rest of us can only follow and applaud.

Yesterday I had a really productive and interesting day - and I felt good about it.

I often wonder what makes 'good days' or 'bad days' in my life and it really has very little to do with external factors. Of course if something tragic happens (such as a death or illness to a loved one) or something marvellous (such as winning a million dollars), it's easy to pinpoint the cause of one's place on the personal well-being meter, but most days just aren't like that are they?

They are just days where you follow a fairly usual routine, get up, get to work the way you normally do, have the normal frustrations and successes, get home, eat, sleep, socialise, blog - so why sometimes do I feel good and fulfilled and have a sense of purpose and achievement and other days are such a write-off, so filled with frustration, anger, angst, irritation, boredom and lack of direction or purpose that I feel totally depressed? Does everyone feel like this -or is this some aberration of my mind? Does everyone feel like this sometimes but the swings are less frequent from day to day and there is more reason to the feelings? I don't know. That's another interesting thing isn't it, the fact that you can never really know another's feelings only get hints from their words or actions that are filtered through your own perception to the extent that you do not know whether what you understand from these clues is what that person means, or merely the way in which you relate to it.

I'm always looking for clues to these conundrums and yesterday I might have found a couple. I was kind. Often I get very focussed on my own priorities and brush people off before they have a chance to 'waste' too much of my precious time. Yesterday I spent hours listening to other people's troubles and concerns without rushing them off because I had more pressing things to do. I genuinely tried to engage with their problems or needs with my whole mind. I tried to comfort and searched for ways I could make a difference -and you know, I felt good about myself and happy.

The second one was accepting a last minute dinner invitation from a friend. My initial reaction to social invitations is invariably negative. I don't know why but I feel scared when I get an invitation and immediately I react. I don't stop to think about whether it would be pleasant or an opportunity, my mind just says NO! This time I said yes and ended up visiting a gorgeous tropical-style house with interesting art and fantastic style. I learned a lot I didn't know about my new friend - that she started out as a graphic designer and journalist and has a masters in business administration and set up a community museum in an African village and built all her own benchtops and cupboards and doors herself out of the timber from favourite trees that had been felled by storms - and it is sensational work - more art than joinery. I met two of her neighbours - a young man, an environmental scientist and yoga devotee and a woman who teaches English to migrants and they were warm and fascinating people and I didn't feel out of place at all. We dined on a wide verandah surrounded by palms. It was beautiful.

So today I'm making a commitment to my mental health and wellbeing: from now on I'm listening more and talking less, I'm putting other people's need to share their troubles above my own deadlines and priorities and I'm accepting any invitation because I don't know where it will lead.

She must learn to use acceptance and silence as defence, rather than words. These, in the end, simply highlighted her shortcomings.

A distant storm sounded like the heavy mortar bombardment heard behind a war reporter on the nightly news but threatened nothing more than the hardware of her computer and a telephone link to the internet.

It should be possible to rewind time, she thought. To track back past the minute that changed your life and stay the hand of God.

This dollar bird spent a week chasing all the other birds away from its nest in hollow in the trunk of a tree - now it's disappeared. I've never seen one before but they are migratory, so I guess they're only here for a short time each year.  

Tonight I'm squinting at my Sony Ultra-Bright screen because my spectacles popped a lens and I can't screw them back together because I can't find a teeny screw-driver. They were supposed to be almost the same prescription as the previous specs, so why I can't see with these ones, I can't imagine.

What I want to share with you is a novel I just finished reading - The Naked Husband by Mark D'Arbanville. I loved this book. In fact, I'm not sure whether it can truly be called a novel because it's written in the first person and the narrator has the same name as the author. What do you call this kind of book? It's too introspective, too concentated on thoughts and emotions rather than action to be classed as an autobiography I think.

It's a classic love triangle. When the story begins, the love object has 'died' in a motor accident - or is it an accident? The narrator is obsessed with her and relives the course of their passionate affair and its effect on his life and the lives of his wife and son. We see the action through his eyes and sometimes through the eyes of his wife via her journals.

Does one identify with and understand these feelings because they are so intensely and truly written; or because all human emotions follow similar patterns when they encounter the same sets of circumstances?

I could identify with a lot of the actions and most of the thoughts and feelings of all the characters (but then I've lived several long and emotional lives!). I'd be interested in your take on it, if you decide to read it.

I know you are all waiting with bated breath for this week's creation, so here it is - a basket of natives (most of them are native to Sth Africa rather than Australia, but they are similar to some of our native flowers, hence the name). 

Flowers for Ben. A vibrant purple bougainvillea. 

I thought I'd had a shitty day. My big boss thought I could do a better job and told me so, aggressively, in front of two other staff-members. My former partner spent a long weekend with his new love and failed to ring me to let me know he was home safely until very late (I know! - why do I care - old habits die hard). I thought life was pretty damn awful. Until I read in my email that long-term friends had lost their son in a mountain climbing accident yesterday. He was 27 years old. Everything else just pales into insignifance.

I thought I knew him
a sensitive man
compassionate
and able to express
with fine precision
through words
and photographs
his world as he sees it

I thought I knew him
till I read his poetry
and saw the depth of pain
the intensity of feeling
the desire to communicate
his love
his loss

This beautiful spirit
this articulate man
how could anyone
not love him

There are many varieties of these coloured-leaf plants around Darwin.  

Roadside white frangipani. The tropical ones have clusters of flowers where the ones grown in more temperate areas tend to have single flowers. The tropicals have the same perfume but not as strong.