Otherness

Why should I fucken apologize? she hisses. I don’t even say sorry to Jim. Under her claret-coloured fringe, the glare is arctic. I shift in my seat. Willing her thick calves into action she rises from the couch. Her heavy dimpled arse wrapped tightly in beige disappears around the corner. They come up by the busload to watch the game and it’s packed to the rafters with beer …. and, she pouts, the fucken government pays for it! My skin crawls. How could she possibly believe this? Speaking to an empty room isn’t normally my style but I press on. I think the apology was about empathy, I offer quietly. Feeling the pain and suffering of others. Bullshit, she jeers from the next room. It’s got fucken nothing to do with me, and it has jack shit to do with Kevin fucken Dudd. Hey Ben, she calls to her brother, are you coming to church in the morning for Ash Wednesday?
How can it be that last night, a few hours after meeting this woman of strong opinion, I’d said to a friend I felt I’d met a soul mate. Clearly my perception needs a make-over.

On superciliousness

So I said to myself, what’s all this antsy moodiness about?

And she said it’s about a lot of things. Should I go on?

And I said, yes please.

And she said, well, I think it’s got to do with being over-sensitive, and hyper-critical, and feeling trapped and uncertain, and silence and family, and well, lots of things really.

And I said, I thought you’d say that, I know all that - what are you trying to tell me?

And she said, so know-all, if that’s the case, if you really know, then you also know that all this thrashing of self is an ego trip to keep you in misery. The millions of missives the mind dictates to you in a day, and its supercilious nature, especially in its treatment of self, are all the more reason for you to remember what’s needed to quieten that neurotic space. Right?

And I said, yep!

And she said, so what now?

And I said, where’s the candle ….

Keen as Green

What better place to begin a blog than with one of my enduring passions. Food.

From my perch at the kitchen bench in Tyagarah, the hills in the distance are shrouded by a grey misty damp but inside, there’s a flourish of green worship going on.

Having just returned from the Byron Farmers Market, I’m compelled to honour my green friends with a photo. Smile for the camera! Their leafy and leguminous genius is reducing me to a salivating mess. Is it legitimate to have salad for breakfast? I’ll be the judge of that!

A trip to the Byron Farmers Market is the closest I’ve come to gastronomic heaven since my gypsy days in the Dolomites in northern Italy, 30 years ago. Minus the salami!

My budget this morning, after counting coins and rounding things off - $33. I've got much more than that in my wallet, but that's what I'm allowing myself. I know, you can’t get much for that these days, but there is only one of me remember! So I think to myself, that’s do-able. Everything’s a bit more expensive than at the corner greengrocer but hey, you can’t have a latte at the greengrocers, you don’t get serenaded by Spanish guitar at the greengrocers, you can’t buy fresh out of the oven spelt apricot and apple flans at the greengrocers, and you don’t walk over a carpet of freshly scattered rose petals at the greengrocers. It’s eminently worth the experience.

Now at home and going through the wallet, I’ve blown the budget and spent $47. It’s the free-wheeling happy hen eggs and local brie that’s done it. Should I give a shit?

If plump, wet, charismatic and longing to be held were words used to describe leaves, which usually they’re not, that’s exactly what this display of chlorophyll is. I suspect I’m in danger of going completely loopy in my enthusiasm here, but I just can’t help it.
l'insalata per favore!