Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
I like animals. I like natural history. The travel bit is not the important bit. The travel bit is what you have to do in order to go and look at animals.
The Regent Theatre was full. And full of all sorts of people: young and old, dread-locked and conservative, and all of them were waiting for the legendary film-maker, naturalist and story-teller to enter the stage. When he did, we could have been at a rock concert. The crowd went wild. But when he began to speak, you could have heard a pin drop, such was the collective awe and reverence this man inspires.
86 years old. 60 years working with animals and plants and sharing it with the world. And he continues to share his love of the natural world. When asked what he would have been if he hadn’t been an intrepid presenter, he replied that he didn’t really know but that he might have been a teacher. He would have been the best kind of teacher, but instead of touching a cohort of children he has enlightened generations of children and adults all around the world.
Pillar of Salt in Richmond has been going since late 2010. And going strong. Its name comes from the story of Lot’s wife in Genesis, turned into a pillar of salt for failing to obey God’s command not to look back as she fled her burning city.
There were a lot of staff and they all knew exactly what was going on. Great service, fantastic service and really good food. You can’t ask for more, really.
As a new convert to the ways of the gluten/wheat and dairy-free, there were lots of possibilities and all of them good. (I am fairly certain that the g/w/d-free is just a flirtation and not a life-time commitment, but you never know, so far the new way feels surprisingly good and easy.)
I’ll go back to Pillar of Salt, despite the moral warning.
Wuthering Heights, the 2011 version.
Rain, mud, fog.
Macro shots of insects.
Pain. Excruciating heartache.
There are quite a few reviewers who did not take to this new depiction of Heathcliff and Cathy’s love.
I found it incredible. Not often comfortable. But always beautiful. And real. And I felt it.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
I went for coffee and a $1 pick. I got coffee. And the pick. Also corn and zucchini fritters. And a frock. And a conversation with the designer of the print of my frock who talked about colours and patterns and adding a leopard. And a peek into the background of the sales assistant who said she was born for retail; that she’d had 4 barbies growing up, and over 400 outfits. She loves talking about clothes and finding the right things for people. She knows she could have a better paying job, but she loves what she does so much, why would she?
I went for coffee and a $1 pick. I came away with a lot more.