tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47036505262699680592024-03-13T19:15:01.901+01:00Megatonlovecompost mentisMegatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-77564102637952464032010-06-16T12:59:00.001+02:002010-06-16T13:01:44.861+02:00The shock of bad news, and the comfort of roses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJIiB1lZe92PVdztVKV4zMd_jOf-8yuEvjBKGoiWP1T7q6yl30q_VuDDYVU_uttVmx6lrDAJ0aFMCSbb7a1bgIC5-gZp2U61-zT4zI6JNjdxanCJaUM448Ou1Fm3M7_RThWJfNLyBCJo/s1600/P1010987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJIiB1lZe92PVdztVKV4zMd_jOf-8yuEvjBKGoiWP1T7q6yl30q_VuDDYVU_uttVmx6lrDAJ0aFMCSbb7a1bgIC5-gZp2U61-zT4zI6JNjdxanCJaUM448Ou1Fm3M7_RThWJfNLyBCJo/s640/P1010987.JPG" width="425" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This </span><a href="http://rosesingardens.blogspot.com/2008/09/eden-rose-pierre-de-ronsard.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pierre de Ronsard (Eden)</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> rose is rampaging madly all over our front garden at the moment. I found it, more dead than alive, in the bargain bin of a garden centre years ago. I bought it on a whim and took it home where Skunk looked at it, aghast. (Any other codependent gardeners out there?) It looked so miserable that no one thought it would survive, <i>but it has</i>, and it rewards us with spectacular shows of long-lasting double blooms that fill the garden with colour and scent from May to mid-November each year. Oh, and in case you were wondering, the Surrey County Council private car park sign was given to me by a friend who 'liberated' it in her student days. Honest.</span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABcVextMLCsmkZyDntzeAUTnuFjOl9kfkSCYU3fmB-d4mt06amt05o_ZXY0Kvehz59vl0F1sEfoMa4X9G1NaJeV_X-M8T_LdyF1tNrHEtEa2FFguI_mqmhuqarwU9W-vYTgUiZPKQOiY/s1600/P1010976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABcVextMLCsmkZyDntzeAUTnuFjOl9kfkSCYU3fmB-d4mt06amt05o_ZXY0Kvehz59vl0F1sEfoMa4X9G1NaJeV_X-M8T_LdyF1tNrHEtEa2FFguI_mqmhuqarwU9W-vYTgUiZPKQOiY/s640/P1010976.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These roses are Nature's way of reminding me not to lose hope when I think the sky has fallen.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Had a nasty shock yesterday morning. Skunk, barely 3 months into his new job - the wonderful new position he found after being laid off last autumn by the company where he worked for almost 20 years - was told by his boss that he was now surplus to requirements, so they were letting him go. I was crushed by the news because his new job seemed to be going so well. He was enjoying the work, his new employers had told him they were delighted with him, he looked like a new person<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. I felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under us. How dare they! Why now? And more importantly, what were we going to do? </span></i></span></span></i></span></span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Truth is, I simply don't have any answers right now. The sun is shining but the world suddenly feels like it has gone cold. I know it's natural to feel overwhelmed by fear and anger and self-pity when these things happen. It's important that I face today's feelings rather than deny them. It's even more crucial to reassure myself that the situation will eventually change, that something will turn up, another door will open as this one closes, and my family and I will be okay. We've been through worse, and we'll get through this as well. I know that happiness lies not in our circumstances, but in what we make of them.<br />
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I'm going to hold on to that.<br />
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This much I know -- life is full of surprises, like this climbing rose.</span></i></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1B9oishj_t6vSEMmHJ5MOImBJM9jyTCB5ZYqjrVI1N3HdZkR9lLFQEQqG2Mg93y_JbuoVsPjcazx8vLvSeyrjUaYlQKsoAOn98BD1o3mVhplfY08Qr9Ee63mPPbrZKknYbfHRGaAsWiE/s1600/P1010964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1B9oishj_t6vSEMmHJ5MOImBJM9jyTCB5ZYqjrVI1N3HdZkR9lLFQEQqG2Mg93y_JbuoVsPjcazx8vLvSeyrjUaYlQKsoAOn98BD1o3mVhplfY08Qr9Ee63mPPbrZKknYbfHRGaAsWiE/s640/P1010964.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-53986449212175869162010-05-02T18:04:00.005+02:002010-05-02T18:27:11.664+02:00In Arcadia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn5Oca7Bqrv5rL4yXCHSGT9r8ocLE-eIwdMpOf0klaZgkOqSN4EFtoUN8zqrfKBUiTETCjomV9eaJkhTGZ3i8X00fY9qttJnmZUhL4Q7X5ka6k3_7dIDxxlJFU1WiwkbnP2jMwinkJDc/s1600/P1000798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn5Oca7Bqrv5rL4yXCHSGT9r8ocLE-eIwdMpOf0klaZgkOqSN4EFtoUN8zqrfKBUiTETCjomV9eaJkhTGZ3i8X00fY9qttJnmZUhL4Q7X5ka6k3_7dIDxxlJFU1WiwkbnP2jMwinkJDc/s640/P1000798.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is my favourite private garden. It's beautiful in all seasons, even in the gloomiest part of winter. In spring, however, it's glorious beyond compare. It belongs to two close friends, J (who's 80) and her daughter B. The two of them do <i>all the gardening</i> on this property that's almost 2 hectares in size. They are my gardening heroes. I stop by every chance I get. A visit to their garden inspires me to redouble my efforts with ours. But I also come away feeling a bit despairing of the ordinariness of ours which is a fraction in size. You might understand how I feel after seeing these photographs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>[Double click on the photos to see them in better detail. I have a great new camera and am still learning to use it. By which I mean that I've given up swearing at the instruction manual and am figuring things out in my usual manner, through trial and error.]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IB63Oy8b3Q7ypw9BHAWOMxewtdMCLZ_w6mfCYDKJIB0wepvEiNxbLvoFUmOb9JV7QNVKoOfgkkS21hQ7YJqF078UykM9CZ6n8MgkZUUtFNEwj_YbP3Q4iTIocvuUQm_eZLnuvbCNMKI/s1600/P1000797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IB63Oy8b3Q7ypw9BHAWOMxewtdMCLZ_w6mfCYDKJIB0wepvEiNxbLvoFUmOb9JV7QNVKoOfgkkS21hQ7YJqF078UykM9CZ6n8MgkZUUtFNEwj_YbP3Q4iTIocvuUQm_eZLnuvbCNMKI/s640/P1000797.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When J and her husband bought this property some thirty years ago, it was an abandoned farm with nothing on it but some walnut, apple and beech trees. The garden was entirely designed and planted by J, who's English and comes from a family of passionate gardeners.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCpcUlK4kbCl-vZXk41jgiUS0PH11Y1WwRUWA7qWr9dfJ3DwEtKhgeVmECZUmeu0pFQrU1N1mEgOIZc847e1N0ehL0dXbJqDV0BZeE_fsvsGoba-WvZVInxYc7neeGRoIJCzWmxg-Qc/s1600/P1000805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCpcUlK4kbCl-vZXk41jgiUS0PH11Y1WwRUWA7qWr9dfJ3DwEtKhgeVmECZUmeu0pFQrU1N1mEgOIZc847e1N0ehL0dXbJqDV0BZeE_fsvsGoba-WvZVInxYc7neeGRoIJCzWmxg-Qc/s640/P1000805.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Acid green leaves of a variegated maple make a nice backdrop for dark pink magnolia flowers.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OAN3ZzlY5V0zh8NhAnXeDgpNy97fzPiqxJdc9WVSCW5-ItRKSJKdLQHBMxfoAR-b9MU2QP5dHTnsHIZXaOSUYHPAE173ZnTgxoejaslI-XDR3eqIDn-Hfdeyfq4R02EALhuE3Uvu8Yc/s1600/P1000802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OAN3ZzlY5V0zh8NhAnXeDgpNy97fzPiqxJdc9WVSCW5-ItRKSJKdLQHBMxfoAR-b9MU2QP5dHTnsHIZXaOSUYHPAE173ZnTgxoejaslI-XDR3eqIDn-Hfdeyfq4R02EALhuE3Uvu8Yc/s640/P1000802.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is the woodland part of the garden. Rhododendrons and azaleas will soon set this corner ablaze.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34Wld-EICQpqj7lwxHwLPitZFUyKutBuA2i1fzYHZec4kKenDFdfRwpWOShSeVHcbOqMGY03gSj59ZFT8kHxGnByQuYaL-KkdwQd68wSbWFYS4bxWSJjgXj5MMdqNXysFNy025-I0l6c/s1600/P1000811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34Wld-EICQpqj7lwxHwLPitZFUyKutBuA2i1fzYHZec4kKenDFdfRwpWOShSeVHcbOqMGY03gSj59ZFT8kHxGnByQuYaL-KkdwQd68wSbWFYS4bxWSJjgXj5MMdqNXysFNy025-I0l6c/s640/P1000811.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGieFDd3twMWu9QOK_qFRkW2gJdr4mu1Fy4MaulF2rOhG8KnoTJlsfleXD8h5xBROHsVj9VnDprXQFmYfKsIxx4HABAgoU5pzu6rNSqmzHJso7oSZzb6jj0ek9NfieZ6cfrxrTFT04Qhk/s1600/P1000808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGieFDd3twMWu9QOK_qFRkW2gJdr4mu1Fy4MaulF2rOhG8KnoTJlsfleXD8h5xBROHsVj9VnDprXQFmYfKsIxx4HABAgoU5pzu6rNSqmzHJso7oSZzb6jj0ek9NfieZ6cfrxrTFT04Qhk/s640/P1000808.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even the composting area (the wooden structure partly visible on the left) is pretty.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w0-ug-n7GbJmUYfhJZNYP1loL_GomY2UrV9dF5lQWYfhN_A8ww9nekZazvFaJxJSIVB5pfTYRwOzsUjMra8QsFggxqxGHvHGrv_6gAukj6CGKS2bjNCHRgv3M6j0d6bF4_-coLCo_ns/s1600/P1000814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w0-ug-n7GbJmUYfhJZNYP1loL_GomY2UrV9dF5lQWYfhN_A8ww9nekZazvFaJxJSIVB5pfTYRwOzsUjMra8QsFggxqxGHvHGrv_6gAukj6CGKS2bjNCHRgv3M6j0d6bF4_-coLCo_ns/s640/P1000814.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">On the path up to the wood, this copper beech is just coming into leaf. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrBpSJr8Yi0wraspltdvLnNM3FaA2q90XYspkpKkjWNkEgp10CGtNI2WMz5S9usPE8ehpN1llOxKdYHhY28U5jh_dyEfyRpFYtyKJUYw2WLlljkNsLRi_TaeO9U3ejEsgJ-LfzarZnnvs/s1600/P1000815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnOHFe_ZerJsZHTPSGa8_6NxfbGroe0BRQ5w7MpoYlF-FcW1KDNwPMlPSg8LcxUnicVop_kWzrvlR5qCdKsx6PfVhtfc4XZWIA3D-Mj8ngq4txDMHjX0QAbAX1boPn_88exYFSISvql0/s1600/P1000812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnOHFe_ZerJsZHTPSGa8_6NxfbGroe0BRQ5w7MpoYlF-FcW1KDNwPMlPSg8LcxUnicVop_kWzrvlR5qCdKsx6PfVhtfc4XZWIA3D-Mj8ngq4txDMHjX0QAbAX1boPn_88exYFSISvql0/s640/P1000812.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I love this spot at the end of a long path bordered by tall hedges. If you look closely you'll see<i> 'Et in Arcadia ego'</i> carved into the bench. I think it roughly translates into 'Even in Arcadia I exist.'<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrBpSJr8Yi0wraspltdvLnNM3FaA2q90XYspkpKkjWNkEgp10CGtNI2WMz5S9usPE8ehpN1llOxKdYHhY28U5jh_dyEfyRpFYtyKJUYw2WLlljkNsLRi_TaeO9U3ejEsgJ-LfzarZnnvs/s1600/P1000815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrBpSJr8Yi0wraspltdvLnNM3FaA2q90XYspkpKkjWNkEgp10CGtNI2WMz5S9usPE8ehpN1llOxKdYHhY28U5jh_dyEfyRpFYtyKJUYw2WLlljkNsLRi_TaeO9U3ejEsgJ-LfzarZnnvs/s640/P1000815.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One of three living willow sculptures by B, who's a sculptor. This willow igloo (we call it a wigloo) has a bench inside it. My children made this wigloo their playhouse when they were younger. J and B also encouraged them to build a fort inside one of their big conifers. Legs and Noodle would collect material for their fort in the wood. We used to hear their woodland skirmishes - the crash and snap of swords and grenades (fallen branches and pine cones) punctuated by loud yelping and hooting. </div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QzBJ9kkwu2yaeqB2pZtceL1cJljkTWZz5dkXIY-pbORfkvUXbCg0cpc_JQP_VQG-vg-vWVpHK41SfaN2jB5g11PPfbWRRCs_dXdlrQUY3xzlYPtPJhmxxiqpLavioPc2SD7C9RxA-jw/s1600/P1000818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QzBJ9kkwu2yaeqB2pZtceL1cJljkTWZz5dkXIY-pbORfkvUXbCg0cpc_JQP_VQG-vg-vWVpHK41SfaN2jB5g11PPfbWRRCs_dXdlrQUY3xzlYPtPJhmxxiqpLavioPc2SD7C9RxA-jw/s640/P1000818.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div>Under this huge linden (or lime) tree is a bench that's perfect for post-prandial naps. Its branches swoop all the way down to the ground, so when it comes into full leaf in a few weeks, this bench becomes almost invisible, making it the perfect place to hide. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUFFHtuL6dhH2hl-QtxV-qAPMAR4Fu9CumM3iPTdB8ImJCffpmLIFspJLl6r1ce8499noGRBtE2gC4VlFblOnXWHULlNG2ssa41TIz3dfBajjtPlnaE8zjAErFUaFIP8aKP00K3qdV7k/s1600/P1000825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUFFHtuL6dhH2hl-QtxV-qAPMAR4Fu9CumM3iPTdB8ImJCffpmLIFspJLl6r1ce8499noGRBtE2gC4VlFblOnXWHULlNG2ssa41TIz3dfBajjtPlnaE8zjAErFUaFIP8aKP00K3qdV7k/s640/P1000825.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A closer shot of the secret bench under the linden. There are a few other linden trees in this garden. When they bloom for a few weeks in late June - early July, bees will forsake most other flowers to flock to them. Linden flowers have the most haunting scent. Their fragrance fills the entire neighbourhood.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtFhJ4-Yd2lvSmzsPsJmStLo_VQc0sfFhQ9ktZhZWbn6C7AR_1kHh-opSA5fLrjnAbzhZucthhMu-3YIk_wIyOIs9xLb2iFOPVDQOV1651Im_CRKvBpM1iemNObORIth9nVGkMs-zSZU/s1600/P1000854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtFhJ4-Yd2lvSmzsPsJmStLo_VQc0sfFhQ9ktZhZWbn6C7AR_1kHh-opSA5fLrjnAbzhZucthhMu-3YIk_wIyOIs9xLb2iFOPVDQOV1651Im_CRKvBpM1iemNObORIth9nVGkMs-zSZU/s640/P1000854.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Three ewes and three lambs owned by a local farmer keep the grass down in the apple orchard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqliTWVqnFCxilDclDu_K5aaU1uqqT41NGlMiBIT9Gs2tKvE1kvXMlMUeG5ZH1a9MW2rQZkuW8hUw4fJz0lo2XT6aSf0sn8PaHqDdz4MCmenseE_OkbKHBFxpVnYeMC0Yj9jF-HEbHeg/s1600/P1000857.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqliTWVqnFCxilDclDu_K5aaU1uqqT41NGlMiBIT9Gs2tKvE1kvXMlMUeG5ZH1a9MW2rQZkuW8hUw4fJz0lo2XT6aSf0sn8PaHqDdz4MCmenseE_OkbKHBFxpVnYeMC0Yj9jF-HEbHeg/s640/P1000857.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This inquisitive little fellow tried his best not to show me he was interested. He trailed me around the apple orchard at a safe distance while I pretended to ignore him while taking photographs. Once I was safely on the other side of the fence, however, his curiosity got the better of him. See his newly shorn mama lurking next to him?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdxm5YosATDFd8H3_sED4ekAwJk_5fnvN_VHG9dveLzonuqkgufqPOh_bk1TDGkODOdQYzpAJoJ4Lqr8Guyy6fAvmASSpIKRrs9loBVk7Zy3glUqvMxyqEbA1c2IkMHsC2LRDpCiifWI/s1600/P1000832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdxm5YosATDFd8H3_sED4ekAwJk_5fnvN_VHG9dveLzonuqkgufqPOh_bk1TDGkODOdQYzpAJoJ4Lqr8Guyy6fAvmASSpIKRrs9loBVk7Zy3glUqvMxyqEbA1c2IkMHsC2LRDpCiifWI/s640/P1000832.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div>Two local bee keepers, one of them a Druid, keep their hives in this garden. The beehives sit between the apple orchard and the bluebell wood. We're big honey lovers, and all I can say is that the honey from J and B's garden is the best we've ever had.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcA7A1Bn5g-NJ9Vs3IcDFGANUzpZ2HDsTOPyTYerohPqc26L31jc9e0nrH_gMPrWaHFVaALnx_UIXXXYEScfaC3om0-E6YV463SzyMuGA5MvnvlPGwfNhK15Kn06nIdn0FaC-Beq8Dtk/s1600/P1000838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcA7A1Bn5g-NJ9Vs3IcDFGANUzpZ2HDsTOPyTYerohPqc26L31jc9e0nrH_gMPrWaHFVaALnx_UIXXXYEScfaC3om0-E6YV463SzyMuGA5MvnvlPGwfNhK15Kn06nIdn0FaC-Beq8Dtk/s640/P1000838.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The more formal part of the garden. Both J and B are masters with topiary shears. I just like to stand and gawk.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF4okXJt7xS1KywxrWdM3O5IUpWltT_n7J8rr8BcIolGr5QfdRT1RCPcdWQcQj47W0Ec9rwYYSuQJiEol2x5NlyFM6EkNJRh3NSuVdQJPH29rhTrK1DXDAQ2Nq76jGi_MLAk36-au0Es/s1600/P1000873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF4okXJt7xS1KywxrWdM3O5IUpWltT_n7J8rr8BcIolGr5QfdRT1RCPcdWQcQj47W0Ec9rwYYSuQJiEol2x5NlyFM6EkNJRh3NSuVdQJPH29rhTrK1DXDAQ2Nq76jGi_MLAk36-au0Es/s640/P1000873.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The part on the right that's in shade is a wildflower meadow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4X2xF6MIEDoIexGptlqIIT3hSQsqE4lr6Suv2YQvZtpsNOQ4oEyGFjfw9Y9wBAoU5tD4tQ6wz2jfeSpxbHaBI7Z2-1P5b8igYTALLWy9X08BacHiaU7O36krXNqzckj_Urk4Ksj1A0KA/s1600/P1000882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4X2xF6MIEDoIexGptlqIIT3hSQsqE4lr6Suv2YQvZtpsNOQ4oEyGFjfw9Y9wBAoU5tD4tQ6wz2jfeSpxbHaBI7Z2-1P5b8igYTALLWy9X08BacHiaU7O36krXNqzckj_Urk4Ksj1A0KA/s640/P1000882.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Snakeshead Fritillaries (Fritillaria meleagris) have naturalised under a walnut tree. <a href="http://www.blipfoto.com/view.php?id=511367">Here's</a> another look at this tree earlier in the spring when it was surrounded by a carpet of daffodils and crocuses.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsApJjerVGn_Uya6R1hIpGFMTAjKS0a57yE6KarGUrH7d8BzxU1CLFa-M0hL-EYmUtP4hNVswlPO00UOiqebYAoCxbXbymXgQ3z_CNWq-bIe8WxHzpl6uX-p_S_ylNmqjPuTRB9cE3xw/s1600/P1000864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsApJjerVGn_Uya6R1hIpGFMTAjKS0a57yE6KarGUrH7d8BzxU1CLFa-M0hL-EYmUtP4hNVswlPO00UOiqebYAoCxbXbymXgQ3z_CNWq-bIe8WxHzpl6uX-p_S_ylNmqjPuTRB9cE3xw/s640/P1000864.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> B's vegetable garden or <i>potager </i>wakes up from its winter sleep. Everything is organically grown.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFIvNZivNf60eW0SyI83J5tTT9GRH1d0HUT9FuNvjYdS42jS1tPp0Gip-gkH2TwSSiBxGQaekwknNm5_NLHFe6slv2haGLhNFi-gPJ8n3fbouYOAxvFx5iqTQw4DwzK1-ydkW29cMx44/s1600/P1000844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFIvNZivNf60eW0SyI83J5tTT9GRH1d0HUT9FuNvjYdS42jS1tPp0Gip-gkH2TwSSiBxGQaekwknNm5_NLHFe6slv2haGLhNFi-gPJ8n3fbouYOAxvFx5iqTQw4DwzK1-ydkW29cMx44/s640/P1000844.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The <i>potager</i> overlooks the apple orchard on one side.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Y4UCaPpxE039HiJFYjvyiojo7YSlrROAV77OlaFd8nYjaDHmcCxotcOD3PBstp3VxiFnnxxsV6yD8erYCNuMCjobNbcm03CCn2oQaPvNpMtweUVkc-LzFXUsrdFi6nir05-LpHeLs8U/s1600/P1000787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Y4UCaPpxE039HiJFYjvyiojo7YSlrROAV77OlaFd8nYjaDHmcCxotcOD3PBstp3VxiFnnxxsV6yD8erYCNuMCjobNbcm03CCn2oQaPvNpMtweUVkc-LzFXUsrdFi6nir05-LpHeLs8U/s640/P1000787.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Double, deep pink hellebores.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGNELBE4-JkAv0S79JAS4aWTuP1t_yeR0iTwQvcFK9pbSIEjTvFlfpdqMuagT1E7UUGorxpmSqRn0bKhtYOC-kQVe6sBbyYVOp2BXOXCsCe_LbsnALWm4C8npntLzPnYwWwUmO34YWX0/s1600/P1000886.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGNELBE4-JkAv0S79JAS4aWTuP1t_yeR0iTwQvcFK9pbSIEjTvFlfpdqMuagT1E7UUGorxpmSqRn0bKhtYOC-kQVe6sBbyYVOp2BXOXCsCe_LbsnALWm4C8npntLzPnYwWwUmO34YWX0/s640/P1000886.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The view from the terrace of J's house in late afternoon sun. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2tjXLnjnBIdhSrwPnZVP8lGZtnhENhXfNcyQcUb48qHw-VMlRjXiJHiR07GZhlKTrM2hIpdczY-ByJNxPZW-T6NB2dAJ3C9Mw4gwxEnNpLOQTiDU_xGEFUJWcp0p7XN0Vxf4IrfBSRE/s1600/P1000888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2tjXLnjnBIdhSrwPnZVP8lGZtnhENhXfNcyQcUb48qHw-VMlRjXiJHiR07GZhlKTrM2hIpdczY-ByJNxPZW-T6NB2dAJ3C9Mw4gwxEnNpLOQTiDU_xGEFUJWcp0p7XN0Vxf4IrfBSRE/s640/P1000888.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Some of these large box and hebe domes started out as cuttings.</div><div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRjkKk1pz96GrnaWp6MZhWEDsk6qTVYiHWkUPtTBCgjE5xRHtX_r6X6jUp1RluzAAi3C4tO_UYRnWnA9_EvoJvzq5KIYPM7LnN_AFXHC8T-SF18blD22FH1RLrSNNfFslPeJS8AlbZ3w/s1600/DSC04041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRjkKk1pz96GrnaWp6MZhWEDsk6qTVYiHWkUPtTBCgjE5xRHtX_r6X6jUp1RluzAAi3C4tO_UYRnWnA9_EvoJvzq5KIYPM7LnN_AFXHC8T-SF18blD22FH1RLrSNNfFslPeJS8AlbZ3w/s640/DSC04041.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Impossible to resist stroking these box topiary balls by the front door.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-HqVZshOInCGajLISAt6Zym533Cyc5-Mxl8XaTwSElrBOmU272QTnsbCtPrctshKBpiFWTQtqtZ9Kh20ZIL4zpS1T3PO7_90tbnVzM1rwpevw6r3Oss226EzHE9YrEMPCKVSwj-WGcc8/s1600/P1000430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-HqVZshOInCGajLISAt6Zym533Cyc5-Mxl8XaTwSElrBOmU272QTnsbCtPrctshKBpiFWTQtqtZ9Kh20ZIL4zpS1T3PO7_90tbnVzM1rwpevw6r3Oss226EzHE9YrEMPCKVSwj-WGcc8/s640/P1000430.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Climbing roses on the barn wall.</div></div><div><br />
</div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-39996091585300340202010-02-24T17:00:00.009+01:002013-03-10T12:10:00.256+01:00Finding chocolate redemption (and a recipe!)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span><br />
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Some people I know have declared that they're giving up this, that or the other for Lent. The odd thing is, none of them are particularly religious, or even all that disciplined, so I wonder why they do it. Has Lent become just another trending thing, like being disgusted with Tiger Woods has become a trend? How does giving something up for 40 days make one a better person, or change the world? Surely it takes much longer than that. Does abstaining from something like alcohol or dessert or shopping mean we give up the deeper emotional hungers that lead to these cravings in the first place?</div>
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Not knowing the answers to any of that, I baked brownies. When I'm in doubt about anything - anything at all - I bake. In fact, I baked two, just to give abstemiousness a kick up the backside. Abstinence and Catholic guilt have failed me as both moral compass or slimming aid, so I abandoned them a long time ago. I've been a happier camper since.</div>
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I'm not giving anything up for Lent, except the artifice of Lent itself.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofzdTJpIN98a9V4Eb1ll_1j1GI5jTBHHeDJOV0DC5X6MbPwf5T0H_-NH7FhxVw-bdbLybwy8sj2zhu_iQSUdvyCYAddN7aKPHikw10_gIgzSdX47wPEadC4xllcVL9mPySJOsmI3UXmk/s1600-h/DSC05085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofzdTJpIN98a9V4Eb1ll_1j1GI5jTBHHeDJOV0DC5X6MbPwf5T0H_-NH7FhxVw-bdbLybwy8sj2zhu_iQSUdvyCYAddN7aKPHikw10_gIgzSdX47wPEadC4xllcVL9mPySJOsmI3UXmk/s640/DSC05085.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Over the years I've experimented with dozens of brownie recipes. I found a few I really liked and tweaked them until I came up with a version that really rocked. Everyone loves my brownies. They're complex, fudgy and aromatic. People fight over them. Girlfriends hide them from their husbands and children. I get invited to dinner parties on the off chance I might bring some. Once, someone asked to marry me because of them. I kid you not. </div>
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Use the best quality dark chocolate you can get. Therein lies redemption.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>MEGATONLOVE BROWNIES</b></span></i></span></div>
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This recipe makes two pans of brownies because chocoholics never bake just one. You can half the recipe if you wish.</div>
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<i>Ingredients:</i> </div>
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<b>185 grams / 6.5 ounces unsalted butter (If you substitute margarine, I'll hex you.)</b></div>
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<b>170 grams / 6 ounces best quality dark chocolate (I use 74% dark chocolate)</b></div>
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<b>2 cups / 400 grams white sugar</b></div>
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<b>4 large eggs, at room temperature</b></div>
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<b>2 teaspoons vanilla extract</b></div>
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<b>1 cup plus 2 tablespoons cake flour (<i>not</i> self-raising)</b></div>
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<b>2 tablespoons ground almonds</b></div>
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<b>1 tablespoon espresso powder</b></div>
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<b>1/2 teaspoon salt</b></div>
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<b>3/4 teaspoon baking powder</b></div>
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<i>Optional (nah, not really):</i></div>
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<b>1 cup walnuts or pecans or a combination of both, coarsely chopped </b></div>
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<b>1/2 cup or more dark or milk chocolate chips or a combination of both</b> (If you can't get chocolate chips, simply medium chop some good chocolate with a knife.)</div>
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<i>Method:</i></div>
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Adjust oven rack to middle position. Heat oven to 325 degrees F / 162 degrees C / gas mark 3.</div>
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Butter and flour two 8- or 9-inch baking tins (square or round are both fine).</div>
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Spread chopped nuts evenly on baking sheet and toast in oven until fragrant, about 5-6 minutes. Set aside to cool.</div>
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In a medium bowl, whisk to combine flour, ground almonds, powdered coffee, salt and baking powder. Set aside.</div>
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Melt chocolate and butter in a large heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of barely-simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. When chocolate mixture is completely smooth, remove bowl from saucepan and gradually whisk in sugar. Add eggs one at a time, whisking after each addition until thoroughly combined. Whisk in vanilla. Add flour mixture in 3 additions, folding in with rubber spatula until batter is completely smooth. Do not overbeat, unless you want your brownies rigid like Victoria Beckham. </div>
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Transfer batter to prepared pans. Using spatula, smooth batter into sides and corners of pans. Do not resist the urge to lick the spatula when you're done. Sprinkle toasted nuts and chocolate chips over batter.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">*</span></div>
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Bake until a toothpick inserted into center of brownies comes out with a few moist crumbs attached, 30-35 minutes. Cool on wire rack to room temperature, about 2 hours. Turn out into a serving plate, slice and serve. </div>
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Store leftovers (<i>leftovers??</i>) in an airtight container at room temp, for up to 3 days. Storing them in the fridge will give them an even fudgier texture.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPiMcw-MLS0diGPoh73drlb_gshIGXKne4Cml6tcY1XrwUgyijUtGpxXDr5EZzii1CJJGibkgXBiL6mRhqalBRP7ZNw0vfhnaEURqOylLWic-VRhPZB-ne5bN2_S6s0jCmZJ6uFRzPpo/s1600-h/DSC00132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPiMcw-MLS0diGPoh73drlb_gshIGXKne4Cml6tcY1XrwUgyijUtGpxXDr5EZzii1CJJGibkgXBiL6mRhqalBRP7ZNw0vfhnaEURqOylLWic-VRhPZB-ne5bN2_S6s0jCmZJ6uFRzPpo/s640/DSC00132.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">*</span> Sometimes I like both nuts and chocolate chips on top. Sometimes I mix the nuts into the batter but sprinkle the chocolate chips on top, as shown in these photos. Or vice versa. Whatever turns you on.</div>
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Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-42852253814207614372010-01-10T14:41:00.013+01:002010-01-11T15:37:41.358+01:00Archipelago of my affectionsThis wretched blog has been in a coma for the last three months. Can't say I've been a busy mum, because there are women far busier than myself who blog daily. While busy certainly comes into it, so does distracted, uninspired, undisciplined and most of all, lazy. That's it, mostly. Lazy.<br /><br />I've lived in Belgium for 23 years and have Belgian nationality. But there's little doubt that my heart's home will always be the Philippines, the archipelago of my affections. I still call those 7,107 islands home even if my last visit was 6 years ago, and a shaky bank balance reminds me that the next visit is far off. I call it home, though I regularly feel desperate and angry about <i>how things are</i> <i>over there</i>: the grinding poverty, the natural disasters, the Catholic church's continuing ban on birth control which is criminally irresponsible given the country's population of 97 million with a growth rate of almost 2%, the shocking corruption of politicians from the President on down, the malaise of the educational system, the non-existence of healthcare, the utter disregard for the environment - the dumping of garbage everywhere, unchecked urban sprawl, the rape of coral reefs and pillage of old growth forests, the unquestioned sway of the West, particularly America, on Philippine culture, and the consumerism that shouts from billboards and gropes pinched pocketbooks in sprawling malls. It shocks me that rich friends think nothing of giving a 9 year old child a 3G iPhone or buying their daughter a $6,000 Louis Vuitton handbag for her 16th birthday, while people who've lost everything in recent floods huddle in shanties closeby. And it saddens me that families spend less time enjoying healthy, home-cooked meals together in favour of eating junk-laden burgers and drinking soulless caramel brulee lattes at Starbucks cafes which have sprouted like a rash all over the place.<br /><br />Living half a world away and railing about the pitiable state of my homeland does not help much. At most it brings me fleeting relief from frustration which lasts five minutes, if that. In a feeble, angsty First World way, I wring my hands and commiserate with the plight of my fellow Filipinos, for all the good it does them or me. I can get really hot under the collar or feel righteous or shouty or guilty; often all those things all at once. Powerlessness - seeing it in others, and feeling it in myself - is hard.<br /><br />The joy of seeing comes from being aware that life brings its own little corrections to any given situation, if I take the time to look beyond myself and my overblown judgements.<br /><br />I came upon this beautiful gem of a video yesterday, and found it starkly moving. It was directed by the artist-activist Mae Paner and shot by Boy Yñiguez, a first rate cinematographer who also happens to be a dear friend. The small group that made it worked for free and produced it themselves. Sadly, there have been no takers for this video among cinemas and TV stations back home because it doesn't have any famous actors or politicians in it. Shame on them. If you like it, please share it with others.<br /><br />It is simply about a poor boy who finds a paper Philippine flag in the dirt, dusts it off and climbs up an abandoned flagpole with it. The song in the background is the Lupang Hinirang, our national anthem, delivered with sparkling dignity by a children's choir instead of the orchestral bombast that usually accompanies it. That is all. And yet. It gave me pause and made me cry. Everything I love about my country <i>IS</i> in that boy - in the purchase of bare toes on slippery metal, in his unflinching ascent, in the shy smile of victory he allows himself when he reaches the top. He is golden like the morning.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="405" width="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CT59u_X3ixg&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CT59u_X3ixg&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br /></div><br /><br /><span style=" ;font-family:sans-serif;font-size:small;"><span style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:13px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-79634912411306778902009-10-04T15:16:00.001+02:002009-10-04T15:34:47.484+02:00A Brave and Startling Truth<i>I have always loved this poem by Maya Angelou. In light of recent events both personal and global, its meaning resonates ever more deeply. Maya Angelou was rushed to hospital in Los Angeles yesterday evening. Maya, beloved lioness of my heart, may you make a successful recovery, or find serene passage.<br />
</i><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">A Brave and Startling Truth</span> </b><br />
by Maya Angelou (1928 - )<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>We, this people, on a small and lonely planet<br />
Traveling through casual space<br />
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns<br />
To a destination where all signs tell us<br />
It is possible and imperative that we learn<br />
A brave and startling truth<br />
<br />
And when we come to it<br />
To the day of peacemaking<br />
When we release our fingers<br />
From fists of hostility<br />
And allow the pure air to cool our palms<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate<br />
And faces sooted with scorn and scrubbed clean<br />
When battlefields and coliseum<br />
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters<br />
Up with the bruised and bloody grass<br />
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil<br />
<br />
When the rapacious storming of the churches<br />
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased<br />
When the pennants are waving gaily<br />
When the banners of the world tremble<br />
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders<br />
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce<br />
When land mines of death have been removed<br />
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace<br />
When religious ritual is not perfumed<br />
By the incense of burning flesh<br />
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake<br />
By nightmares of abuse<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids<br />
With their stones set in mysterious perfection<br />
Nor the Gardens of Babylon<br />
Hanging as eternal beauty<br />
In our collective memory<br />
Not the Grand Canyon<br />
Kindled into delicious color<br />
By Western sunsets<br />
<br />
Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe<br />
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji<br />
Stretching to the Rising Sun<br />
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,<br />
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores<br />
These are not the only wonders of the world<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe<br />
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger<br />
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace<br />
We, this people on this mote of matter<br />
In whose mouths abide cankerous words<br />
Which challenge our very existence<br />
Yet out of those same mouths<br />
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness<br />
That the heart falters in its labor<br />
And the body is quieted into awe<br />
<br />
We, this people, on this small and drifting planet<br />
Whose hands can strike with such abandon<br />
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living<br />
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness<br />
That the haughty neck is happy to bow<br />
And the proud back is glad to bend<br />
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction<br />
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body<br />
Created on this earth, of this earth<br />
Have the power to fashion for this earth<br />
A climate where every man and every woman<br />
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety<br />
Without crippling fear<br />
<br />
When we come to it<br />
We must confess that we are the possible<br />
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world<br />
That is when, and only when<br />
We come to it.</b>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-10877909246932815272009-10-02T14:34:00.021+02:002009-10-06T10:56:50.996+02:00..... and I think I've got problems?Skunk lost his job yesterday. When he got home he told us that the company where he's worked for twenty years no longer needs his services, effective immediately. Yes, just like that. When someone delivers bad news in real time, my senses go into slow motion, my mind blanks and a leaden fear seeps into my bones and settles into a hard, immovable knot in my stomach. That's how it felt when he broke the news yesterday. Noodle, crying a little, said, "Oh well, at least we'll have more time to play board games together." This, from a boy who's never liked board games. Legs began to jabber about mundane things that made sense only to her. We clutched each other for solace and muttered clichéd things that were so lame they fooled no one. Then I fled to the kitchen to choke back tears. I washed dishes that didn't need washing, and then cooked the most dreadful soup of my life. Cream of sludge with cremated bacon, I think. It was vile.<br />
<br />
It's morning. I'm clear-headed despite the reckless quantites of vodka and red wine I drank last night. Legs and Noodle are in school. Skunk's gone to the office one last time, to tie up loose ends and wish his colleagues well, including the bastard who fired him, because that's just the kind of person Skunk is. The house is quiet and I'm finally alone. I've wallowed in the luxury of an outraged, self-pitying weep. I needed to. At least a dozen tissues' worth of tears, snot and seething frustration. My bag lady demons are back. Their talons are scritching at the door, they're cackling to be let in. They lie in wait for moments such as these. One wags a bony finger and sniggers that we have no savings. Bitch. As if I needed reminding. Another hisses in my ear that neither Skunk or I will ever find work again, that the fantastic company-sponsored health care and pension package we've enjoyed will dry up and we will grow ill and hungry and poor and end up on the street, that our children will stop loving us because we won't be able to give them the holidays and cool teenage stuff their friends enjoy. <br />
<br />
Fuck off, demons. I know you too well. You're not going to win this time. <br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">* * * * * * * <br />
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In other news, people continue to suffer in my beloved homeland. An extreme typhoon packing winds of 220 to 240 kph is headed for the northeastern part of the Philippines and is expected to make landfall sometime tomorrow. The death toll from <a href="http://vimeo.com/6784039">last week's floods in Manila</a> and neighbouring provinces is approaching 300, with many more unaccounted for. Official figures put the number of homeless at half a million people, although friends actively involved in relief work believe it's much higher than that. Evacuation centres are full to bursting, there simply isn't enough food, water, medicine, blankets or shelter to go around. Cleanup crews are burning out. Peace and order is beginning to fray. While her countrymen drown and starve, <a href="http://www.malaya.com.ph/oct01/news5.htm">Philippine President Gloria Arroyo parties</a> with her sycophants. So many people have lost every single thing they have, and she parties.<br />
<br />
All Skunk has lost is a job. I must remember that. I must remember that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_ECix3KX4xZv_ZCxqzGNZELYXPhyYf25h-l3oGB-jJygoIaQKouT8BYlpRb2mqdaiXjMAXXkKzpaWFj7FruZkufi1szouCiiStgS6OWcN5fS5AhNOmlxC6mpr2NbkGpA-Xd8lf2ZawI/s1600-h/image002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_ECix3KX4xZv_ZCxqzGNZELYXPhyYf25h-l3oGB-jJygoIaQKouT8BYlpRb2mqdaiXjMAXXkKzpaWFj7FruZkufi1szouCiiStgS6OWcN5fS5AhNOmlxC6mpr2NbkGpA-Xd8lf2ZawI/s400/image002.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">These 3 photos of the flooding in Manila were sent to me by a friend. Photographer/s unknown.</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1a7bFbIZyZOjLNTry_ro4Bv5lUMIDEaFO8pCa8-cwpn4cMTleltL0ME6dVqkxkmDGV8naIdyGvri6h1hhlI_zeDsLszK3Y2vIwfskBlaVdVKtR41z6Wzaawf3CSnFpyRmpkshqSDTTU/s1600-h/image018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1a7bFbIZyZOjLNTry_ro4Bv5lUMIDEaFO8pCa8-cwpn4cMTleltL0ME6dVqkxkmDGV8naIdyGvri6h1hhlI_zeDsLszK3Y2vIwfskBlaVdVKtR41z6Wzaawf3CSnFpyRmpkshqSDTTU/s400/image018.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Click on the individual photos to see them in more appalling detail, if you wish.</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KdiCl4J5m7NltNBZhgCgaoGyRCfrGF1GTCBS9nDFpMHurAq6_J15AFxdxt8oTWUfo0IEIJDTqQlz2YrIiEjlITdtztTFnyNekpk1gK8Kkv0_YLvmyUW1TuylasNjz1-9qX5THSWukU8/s1600-h/image017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KdiCl4J5m7NltNBZhgCgaoGyRCfrGF1GTCBS9nDFpMHurAq6_J15AFxdxt8oTWUfo0IEIJDTqQlz2YrIiEjlITdtztTFnyNekpk1gK8Kkv0_YLvmyUW1TuylasNjz1-9qX5THSWukU8/s400/image017.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-49590622441928448642009-09-13T17:52:00.012+02:002009-09-14T11:15:08.443+02:00Music: CPR for the heartstringsMusic heals and redeems. Not just emotionally but also - to my great delight - physically.<br /><br />The other morning I stupidly got all hot and bothered about <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/shannyn-moore/mrs-palin-quit-makin-thin_b_282760.html">Sarah Palin's latest idiocy</a> regarding health care. In need of a Palinoscopy, I listened to music. Later on Twitter I posted a link to that piece called "Stabat Mater" by the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt that had somehow calmed me right down. <a href="http://rosedarling.wordpress.com/">Someone</a> whose tweets I enjoy made this comment on my post: "What a beautiful piece of music. The human voice has such healing properties - it teases out sadness and restores the soul." I couldn't agree more. We tweeted back and forth about it for a bit, and it led me to this blog post.<br /><br />I've been fascinated to learn through my study of Jin Shin Jyutsu that <i>sound is the one thing that harmonises our endocrine system</i>. Apparently, the ancients knew this. An endocrinologist has confirmed it to me as well, but the whys and wherefores are too complicated for me to understand fully, let alone explain to someone else. The endocrine system regulates stuff like our metabolism, growth, puberty and tissue function. It controls our hormones and helps determine our moods. Diabetes, thyroid disease, obesity, and heart disease are all disharmonies of the endocrine system. Cancers of the breast, liver, pancreas, kidneys and ovaries are also endocrine-related. I've finally stopped wondering why teenagers seem to be surgically attached to their iPods 24/7, or why hormonal people (not just women, mind) go all wobbly when they listen to certain music. Or why the laments of wolves or the callings of humpback whales touch something elemental in each of us. It all makes sense to me now.<br /><br />The novelty of learning to embed a YouTube video on my blog hasn't worn off. This is how pathetically amateurish I am when it comes to tech stuff, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Feel free to roll your eyes up at my ineptitude, but I bet not many of you can make a killer Peking duck from scratch either. So we're even.<br /><br />I LOVE this version of "Deja Vu." David Crosby originally wrote it for the first album (of the same name) that his group Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young released in 1970. That was almost forty years ago. In this video, filmed near Amsterdam in the late 1990s, Crosby performs it with his new group CPR, and there's a beautiful story behind it. The video is 10 minutes long, and I urge you to watch it full screen with the volume up. It may be the happiest 10 minutes you'll spend online today.<br /><br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nC2rgq8TXbQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nC2rgq8TXbQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />David Crosby enjoyed great success as a founding member of 2 pioneering rock bands, The Byrds, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. However, a turbulent personal life ravaged by drugs and alcohol took its toll on his career, health and relationships. Destructive behaviour led to his estrangement from many of his fellow musicians and friends. There was a term in prison for drugs charges. He eventually found sobriety but continued to face grave financial troubles and suffered a near fatal motorcycle accident. An earthquake caused major damage to his lovingly restored home, which he later lost through foreclosure. On top of all that, Crosby's years of substance abuse and an undiagnosed case of Hepatitis C led to serious liver damage. In 1995, he was hospitalised with deteriorating health and unless a suitable liver donor could be found in time, he faced certain death.<br /><br />What happened next can only be described as the most joyous synchronicity. An eleventh hour liver donor miraculously became available to Crosby, and the transplant was successful. Around the same time, a gifted 30 year old pianist and composer named James Raymond discovered through a search of his birth records that David Crosby was his biological father. Father and son were reunited. They discovered their blood ties forged even deeper by a common love of music. This serendipitous union led to the birth of Crosby's new group CPR with papa Crosby on guitar, James Raymond, his son, on keyboards, and guitarist Jeff Pevar on electric guitar. Crosby's biography also states, "In this same short season of miracles, Crosby and his wife gave birth to a son, Django, and James and Stacia Raymond presented Crosby with a new granddaughter, Grace." Wow. Even Dickens couldn't make this stuff up.<br /><br />Croz is as wonderful as ever in this video. His eyes have the light of serenity I've seen only in people who've made it through the fire. Watch out specially for the tender look of love and fatherly pride on Crosby's face as he looks at his son at 5:57 and 6:17 in the video clip. At 6:17 he taps his left breast with his fist, right over the space where his heart lies.<br /><br />In Jin Shin Jyutsu, that exact spot is Safety Energy Lock 13. It is the place that unconditional love and forgiveness call home.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-65646327113033302752009-08-27T11:43:00.002+02:002009-08-27T14:26:24.379+02:00Bad MamaMy friend Pat gave me this very nice but slightly rude t-shirt from a Belgian rock 'n roll band she's friends with. I showed it to Legs and Noodle and told them I was planning on wearing it when I take them to their first day of school next Tuesday.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFch7a-yyyFkVPU1AC7yrxnMhc5zXLhQ63D_hxKK8TMIWCojjZckfutkyFktGNfQNpotSgXrgt7vEeLC23_JrqrT0sscPb0AKFyMgRMRTxobTin0r27f7xgHp-n-hqRqiNZdCxTh2UNqQ/s1600-h/DSC04976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFch7a-yyyFkVPU1AC7yrxnMhc5zXLhQ63D_hxKK8TMIWCojjZckfutkyFktGNfQNpotSgXrgt7vEeLC23_JrqrT0sscPb0AKFyMgRMRTxobTin0r27f7xgHp-n-hqRqiNZdCxTh2UNqQ/s400/DSC04976.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />No. Not really.<br /><br /><br />The horrified looks on my children's faces made my day. I just can't help myself sometimes.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-59922031335306382792009-08-23T09:20:00.006+02:002009-08-27T14:32:09.464+02:00Fred Astaire equals JoyFred Astaire stole my heart when I was seven. My grandmother bribed me with a large bag of M&Ms to accompany her to a double feature of "Top Hat" and "Shall We Dance." I could not believe it was possible for two people to move so effortlessly and with so much joy. I watched goggle-eyed, my head flooding with questions. How did they do all that without missing a beat? How did Fred avoid tripping on Ginger's gown? How did she leap and twirl in those heels without twisting her ankle? Why didn't men dress that way anymore? How many years of ballet lessons - which I loathed - would it take for me to be able to dance that way? Listening to Lola sigh through all the dance sequences, I worried she was going to fall into a swoon and embarrass me. She needed a large Manhattan to revive her after the film and let me have a sip of her drink on the condition that I not tell my grandfather or my mother. That was the beginning of my love affair with Manhattans too.<br /><br />Who can watch this video and not be gladdened by it? Not me. Do turn up the volume and view it full screen. The Vienna-based duo <a href="http://www.dzihankamien.com/">dZihan & Kamien</a>'s downtempo beat on "Stiff Jazz" from their album "Gran Riserva" provides the perfect backdrop to Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger's dazzling footwork. However, I think that it might be Astaire's sister Adele with him in some of the dance sequences, although I could be wrong.<br /><br />No matter, it's all very uplifting. Especially on days when Facebook is littered with the irritating flotsam of Mafia Wars scores and quiz results of addle-pated friends in their 40s or older who are hell-bent on informing me that they have nothing better to do with their lives apart from using sundry Facebook applications as a monumental time-suck. Friend's sample quiz: What Chocolate Are You? Result: Mars bar. Me: Mars bars are NOT chocolate, you pathetic, muttonheaded galoot.<br /><br />All right, I'll stop grumping about Facebook lameness now and look at this again. Ah, if only I had the fixings for a Manhattan.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8I7ACH61Ipo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8I7ACH61Ipo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:small;">My thanks to the clever person who put these film clips and this music together, and to my lovely friend <a href="http://mnemosynewrites.wordpress.com/">Mnemosyne</a> who patiently explained how I could embed this video onto my blog.</span>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-33325147341707698912009-08-12T07:24:00.005+02:002009-08-12T12:13:21.174+02:00To live as flame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUcGKETmQF9UIfJWrRq5NrataNyhNc1JsuXUnFRRWgRoZ9eQ8ZHTVuw1Xgg8BJBRiA6XKXuhhBsUyrSDM34eotEKLrwqs28sgxMCaan51X_A54KpkuSvyS4p3xAyIaFsRn7QP7ljAjPU/s1600-h/Arboretum+062109+090+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUcGKETmQF9UIfJWrRq5NrataNyhNc1JsuXUnFRRWgRoZ9eQ8ZHTVuw1Xgg8BJBRiA6XKXuhhBsUyrSDM34eotEKLrwqs28sgxMCaan51X_A54KpkuSvyS4p3xAyIaFsRn7QP7ljAjPU/s320/Arboretum+062109+090+copy.jpg" width="632" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygqdz7ndsi4jvhaerFhjESKhVnLRlcX7FLdyRQBUC9EDhLlE7D3UnUqz3iQGRPwbc7H8Kdv8oRrqo2-KlG905YsaWvrQEsrb71ot0RnN5ts4fM1w4-8F1iQ1ErdOJ2oxnEOEdPwD886Q/s1600-h/Arboretum+062109+016+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><br />
It all began with this picture. It was sent to me by my photographer friend <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/loook/sets/72157620496269073/">Lito Tesoro</a> who took it at the Los Angeles Arboretum. He said it reminded him of my mum Daisy. It is the most beautiful photograph I have seen of a daisy, ever. Click on the image to see it in all its glory, and you'll see what I mean. On July 19, the anniversary of my mother's death, I posted it on my Facebook Wall together with this poem by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=5130">Mary Oliver</a>, one of my all-time favourite poems.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>DAISIES<br />
by Mary Oliver<br />
<br />
It is possible, I suppose that sometime<br />
we will learn everything<br />
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,<br />
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing<br />
from one field to another, in summer, and the<br />
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either<br />
knows enough already or knows enough to be<br />
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born<br />
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent<br />
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead<br />
<br />
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly<br />
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display<br />
the small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don't<br />
mind my saying so -- their hearts. Of course<br />
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and<br />
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?<br />
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,<br />
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;<br />
for example -- I think this<br />
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch --<br />
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the<br />
daisies for the field.</blockquote><br />
After seeing that, another dear friend, the poet <a href="http://www.luisaigloria.com/">Luisa Igloria</a> left this response to the Mary Oliver poem on my Wall. <br />
<br />
<blockquote>(after Mary Oliver's "Daisies")<br />
<br />
But if, then, we knew<br />
everything there was to learn,<br />
neither the mockingbird nor the field <br />
overgrown with daisies would move us;<br />
not the sun that sears overhead<br />
in summer, nor its other tokens<br />
that we carry into the year's<br />
different seasons, reminding us<br />
of loss. Having crossed<br />
from hour to laborious hour,<br />
neither do I know what the world is<br />
nor what it might yet be; only<br />
that for the moment it is sweet<br />
to live as flame, to touch and<br />
taste and turn one's face to another's,<br />
grateful for the company.<br />
<br />
by Luisa A. Igloria, 19 July 2009</blockquote><br />
In the Facebook conversation that unfurled, it turned out that Luisa and Lito knew each other decades ago but lost touch. It was a joyous reunion for the two of them. The daisy chain had worked its magic yet again.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-4212844828696608602009-08-01T19:15:00.009+02:002009-08-27T14:30:16.296+02:00A Flower Falls<div style="text-align: center;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">the petal fell, falling</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">until the only flower was the falling itself.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >from "Water" by Pablo Neruda</span></div></blockquote><br /><br />My mother Daisy was killed 19 years ago in a powerful 7.7 magnitude <a href="http://www.cityofpines.com/baguioquake/quake.html">earthquake</a> that trampled Baguio, my hometown in the northern Philippines. She was just 50. I was already living in Belgium at the time, and returned home to bury not only the woman who had given life to me, but also large chunks of my former life.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-gSfCdQ-FEMNjal86qlmvnjOGNOzNc3b_mcbkuNHXP0G15dfyVAd0MnKisleG6kOSb61X3vKdZbtx7pWiQAc14W4wPZp2G6cWnj_vu7dMIK6hpNylMcFi-h-FMSg4Ciu1gZP0fvQUR0/s1600-h/DSC04608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-gSfCdQ-FEMNjal86qlmvnjOGNOzNc3b_mcbkuNHXP0G15dfyVAd0MnKisleG6kOSb61X3vKdZbtx7pWiQAc14W4wPZp2G6cWnj_vu7dMIK6hpNylMcFi-h-FMSg4Ciu1gZP0fvQUR0/s400/DSC04608.JPG" border="0" width="359" height="482" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:x-small;">Mama (seated) and me, circa 1983</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:xx-small;">photo by Wig Tysmans</span></div><br /><br />Much of Baguio was in ruins. The airport runway and all major roads leading to that mountaintop city were heavily damaged, hindering rescue efforts because heavy-lifting equipment and essential supplies could not arrive. The city's 3 hospitals were badly hit and without power. There was no electricity or running water for weeks. All telephone lines were down. This being before the advent of the internet or mobile phones, Baguio was essentially cut off from the rest of the world. The sickly-sweet stench of decomposing flesh was everywhere; that smell still clings tightly to my memory. Crushing as our loss was, we were some of the lucky ones. Mama's was the second body recovered from the rubble of the Hyatt Terraces hotel, where she lived in an 8th floor apartment with Heiner, my German hotelier stepfather who was the hotel's general manager. Many others were not as fortunate. They waited days, weeks, even months before the bodies of their loved ones were recovered. Still others lost their homes. A cousin and a poet friend lost brand new homes into which they had invested all their life savings and unlived dreams.<br /><br />Grief unhinged me in odd ways. I remember nothing of my hurried trip home or indeed the return journey to Brussels, except that I amassed a collection of 21 Lufthansa coffee spoons which I apparently stole whilst in flight. I had not dabbled in petty theft as a pastime before that. Nor have I taken it up since. Severe insomnia emerged as a more serious side effect of my loss. It dogged me mercilessly for 18 years until Jin Shin Jyutsu released me from its stranglehold last year.<br /><br />I have only vague memories of Mama's wake in my grandparents' house. Lolo, my grandfather, bore the loss of his firstborn child with great dignity, losing his composure only once to roar at the cups and saucers (which, bizarrely, remained unscathed) in my grandmother's china cupboard, and ask why God couldn't have taken him, an old man, instead. Lola, my grandmother, was the reverse. She crumbled frequently, often surrendering melodramatically to the pain of her bereavement. Lola's blood pressure rocketed off the scales, demented as she was by grief, and yet frantic that all our visitors be welcomed and properly fed. Lola's younger sister, a doctor, occasionally had to sedate her with Valium to stop her from becoming too overwrought when relatives and friends came to call in the afternoons and evenings.<br /><br />Most heartrending of all was watching my stepfather Heiner soldier on. Although devasted by his wife's death, he was very conscientious of his duties to his hotel, his fallen ship, where over 50 hotel guests and employees had died. None of us could imagine what it must have been like for one person to become homeless, jobless and a widower all at once <i>and,</i> against the most hellish odds, find ways to rescue others who lay trapped alive in the rubble. Although his corporate bosses told him to take time off, he refused to hear of it. Heiner remained on site to supervise the rescue and recovery effort until the last body had been found. He also stayed on to oversee the demolition of the hotel, a process that took months. Natural disasters create heroes; he was mine and always will be.<br /><br />Noemi, a feisty young woman who worked as our cook for many years before leaving to start a family with our driver Romy, astounded us when she showed up a few days before Mama's funeral. Her wraith-like form appeared at the kitchen door one sodden afternoon, hungry, bedraggled and shoeless. She had walked alone for three days up a mountain entombed in shock, fog and landslides to pay her last respects to my mother. Until then, I thought I knew what loyalty meant. Noemi's unexpected arrival redefined it for me. After a wash, first aid for her wounded feet, and a long nap, she threw herself into cooking and cleaning and organised the rest of the help who were walking around in a daze like the rest of us.<br /><br />Of the funeral itself I have scant recollection. We were astonished at the number of people who showed up at the cemetery, a considerable distance outside the city. It was difficult for anyone to get around because many roads were impassable, and strict petrol rationing kept people housebound save for vital journeys. In post-earthquake Baguio, the social obligation to attend other people's funerals was no longer considered compulsory. Besides, with so many dead, how did one prioritise whose funeral to attend?<br /><br />At Mama's funeral, strangers clasped my hands in theirs and spoke of her kindness to them: a seminarian she had sent to theological school, hotel staff whose children's birthdays she never forgot, a struggling painter whose work she sold without taking a commission, a flower seller whose ailing mother she used to visit. Even in death our Daisy continued to bloom. As the hearse containing her coffin drew close to her burial plot, a tremendous aftershock shook the ground. From behind a large rock close to where I stood emerged an enormous cloud of white butterflies. I shivered as their wings brushed against me. In that instant, I remembered that Mama had loved butterflies and bees. She had always filled her garden with plants that attracted them; she'd watch them for hours. She often said the simple white butterflies symbolised her best. Suddenly, there they were. It was a moment of sublime synchronicity that thrilled my heart and my imagination.<br /><br />After the funeral was over, the heavens opened and torrential rain came down thick as stair rods. My grandmother finally collapsed, wailing that her daughter would be soaked. The fact that my mother was dead and buried in a coffin six feet in the ground meant nothing to Lola. She could not be consoled. I held my grandmother's prostrate body in my arms, neither of us able to fully comprehend the loss of the woman who bound us together with a chain of kinship, history and love.<br /><br />Only then did I remember it was my birthday. The day the earth claimed my mother a second time, I turned thirty.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-13391511112381623082009-07-10T13:41:00.000+02:002009-07-10T13:41:19.287+02:00Neurosceptic Unblogged: Stapled To My Seat Watching FuneralapaloozaA brilliant, scathing and very funny review of the TV coverage of Jacko's memorial service can be found here:<br /><br /><a href="http://neurosceptic-unblogged.blogspot.com/2009/07/stapled-to-my-seat-watching.html">Neurosceptic Unblogged: Stapled To My Seat Watching Funeralapalooza</a><br /><br />Highly recommended!Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-34293616463358214842009-07-10T12:23:00.008+02:002009-07-13T10:22:11.182+02:00OFF THE WALL: The Night The Gloves Came Off (a Facebook good-bye to Michael Jackson)Because I tend to do most things arse-backwards, this post is a retroactive tribute to Michael Jackson, who died sometime last week, or was it the week before? Celebs tend to irritate me, so I don't follow them on the news. But it was impossible not to know that the King of Pop had popped his clogs. Hearing the news while I was at my Jin Shin Jyutsu class in Ireland, I shrugged and said a prayer for his soul. And idly wondered whether his record label had engineered his death to boost sagging record sales. With all the <a href="http://www.anomalies-unlimited.com/Jackson.html">extremes</a> Jacko had put his body through - it being no secret that he was plastic-surgeried, botoxed and over-medicated to hell and back - I often thought he was headed for an early grave. <br />
<br />
Common sense tells me that if we don't love ourselves, our bodies respond in kind. This has nothing to do with looking buffed and coiffed, or wearing designer labels, for most of that is vanity, and vanity is not love; it is fear. I'm talking about simply accepting ourselves, respecting ourselves, and being grateful each day for the miracle of our bodies and our minds. I had to make peace with my chins, my gray hair and all my love handles before I could write any of that. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary.<br />
<br />
So anyway, there was no escaping the hype around Jacko's death, even without a TV at home. It was all over the bloody web. I tried to ignore the noise made about him on Facebook, although some of it was getting altogether too melodramatic for my taste. I mean, these people don't even make that much fuss when their own grannies croak. From a <a href="http://megatonlove.blogspot.com/search/label/Chlamydia%20Burana">previous post</a>, you all know about my allergy to gushy people, so it's no surprise that I don't suffer the maudlin ones gladly either. It all came to a head on Monday when I read somewhere that the Rev. Al Sharpton, that slimy opportunist, was calling for nationwide ‘love vigils’ to honor Michael Jackson on Tuesday, the day of his funeral and memorial service. Love vigils?? For <i>that</i> kiddie fondler and inter-galactic wanker? Pass me the bucket, quick.<br />
<br />
In typical low-key, diplomatic fashion, I wrote a status post on my Facebook profile the day before Jacko's memorial service. Having vented my annoyance at the tawdry public reaction to Jacko's death, I thought nothing more of it and got up to cook dinner. I did not forsee the <i>Sturm und Drang</i> that would break out on my Facebook Wall later in the day.<br />
<br />
The responses to my post were humorous and light-hearted until V.Rago, an old but not close friend from my party animal youth back in the Philippines, jumped in. I still have no idea why she reacted with such splenetic fury to what I or the others had to say. Especially as she claimed she wasn't a big MJ fan. I'm offering the whole nine yards here for your horror and/or amusement. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent. All comments are unedited. <br />
<br />
My Facebook status post on Mon, July 6 at 18:20 was this:<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">"Megatonlove is fucking fed up with the deification of the sick, over-spending pervert that was Michael Jackson. Can they please incinerate him already, and throw Rev. Al Sharpton in the flames as well. Thanks."</span></i></b><br />
<br />
And these are the 31 comments that followed. <i><span style="color: blue;">[The annotations in blue are my opinions alone.]</span></i><br />
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<i><b>Non-linear Tippler</b></i> at 18:29 on 06 July<br />
They have to perform ze alien autopsy first 'no?<br />
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<i><b>Latin Cowboy</b></i> at 18:44 on 06 July<br />
You're back! :)<br />
<br />
<i><b>Mojito Lizard</b></i> at 18:48 on 06 July<br />
They're selling tickets to his memorial. Holy mother of crap.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Latin Cowboy</b></i> at 18:55 on 06 July<br />
How much for a backstage pass?<br />
<br />
<i><b>Auntie Bellum</b></i> at 18:55 on 06 July<br />
"Fantasy Suttee Couples" - now there's a thought!<br />
<br />
<i><b>Babyface</b></i> at 19:11 on 06 July<br />
Wow, finally someone I can relate with.<br />
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<i><b>ZeusJoos</b></i> at 19:12 on 06 July<br />
DAMN GIRL, I LOVE YOUR PASSION & I TOTALLY AGREE!!!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[It began here.]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 21:53 on 06 July<br />
Oh come on, Megatonlove. Have a heart. I was never really a fan but the guy was a genius, a visionary. He changed the video music/concert scene and turned into an experience. Yes, he was a troubled child, and I feel sorry that despite world-wide adulation, he could never get over the verbal abuse of not being good-looking enough to be loved (and his father ought to be crucified for that) which brought him to his sad end. What I can't stand is the dredging up of all the crap. Let the man rest in peace.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[Apologists for sick celebs make my bullshit meter twitch, especially when they throw the "it's not his fault he's weird, he had a rotten childhood" spiel at me. If Jackson found himself inadequate despite global adulation, he wasn't a victim, he was a miserable twat as far as I was concerned. I fired off a reply to V.Rago and left Facebook to study my Jin Shin Jyutsu notes for a few hours before going to bed.]</span></i><br />
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<i><b>Megatonlove</b></i> at 22:54 on 06 July<br />
MJ was a great dancer and an okay singer, but the rest of his package was just plain rotten. And he was MORE than just a troubled child, he was a repulsive pedophile who got away with everything because he could buy his way out of trouble. I wish people would stop making excuses for him, or glorifying him as some kind of godhead. What Jacko modelled to his fans - that happiness could be obtained through the point of a scalpel, a bowl of pills and powders, or the flick of a credit card - was just sick bollocks. Too bad he died so young, but he had it coming.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[During my absence from Facebook, other comments arrived.]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Latin Cowboy</b></i> at 23:19 on 06 July<br />
I'd have to agree with you Megatonlove, he was over rated. If he had grown up with a semi-ordinary kind of life he might have grown in to something much better, but like Elvis before him his early promise was corrupted in to a mockery of himself and then raised to godhead by by crazed masses. They both were more than willing to believe the hype about themselves.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[The temperature began to rise right around here.]</span></i> <br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 23:29 on 06 July<br />
I don't quite agree with the pedophile thing-- a lot of those boys' parents were after his money. (Have YOU caught him in bed molesting a child? Do you believe all the scandal sheets?) I know some people who have been sued-- all lies -- just because they have money and a name to protect. I believe MJ was just trying to get in touch with the childhood he missed out on. Call me naive, but I'd rather be non-judgmental. And I don't think people are glorifying him as some godhead-- just paying him the accolades (albeit delayed, because everyone seemed to prefer to trash him) he justly deserves for his accomplishments. No one is perfect. Even Mother Teresa farted. But let's just agree to disagree on this one, shall we? I honestly don't know where your need to vilify him is coming from. What's he done to you? Pills? Addiction to the scalpel? He didn't start that. Might as well spray your vitriol at all the people in Hollywood--- or closer to home. Peace.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[Another reasonable person chimed in.]<br />
</i><br />
<i><b>ZeusJoos</b></i> at 23:52 on 06 July<br />
I agree with Meg & watch now if people don't come forward & tell the truth about MJ's pedophilia; especially the victims themselves. He ADMITTED THAT HE LIKED SLEEPING WITH YOUNG CHILDREN, that's pretty damned telling, don't 'cha think? This circus of an all-day wake tomorrow on tuesday is total bollocks.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[Uh-oh, getting irate now.]</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 23:58 on 06 July<br />
I like sleeping with children-- mine! I just hope you guys don't get as badly trashed as you do others. Who the hell are you to judge? What gives you the right? Enough said.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[Nothing cracks me up more than judgmental people ordering others not to judge.]</i> <br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 00:04 on 07 July<br />
And NO! ZeusJoos! That isn't pretty damn telling-- unless you have a sick mind.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[Guess she didn't really mean it when she said "Enough said."]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 00:37 on 07 July<br />
And Latin Cowboy, Just what the hell do you preach? Hatred? Get off your damn pulpit! Or admit you're a hypocrite.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[Hatred? Pulpit? Hypocrite? Yo, V.Rago, you're peeing against the wrong tree here. Latin Cowboy is one of the most peaceable people I know.]</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>ZeusJoos</b></i> at 00:44 on 07 July<br />
V.Rago,<br />
I work with men & women who have been sexually molested as children & let me tell you the baggage is HORRIFIC. The damage is unspeakable & seems to have physiological ramifications, not to mention the emotional damage.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Auntie Bellum</b></i> at 00:49 on 07 July<br />
Abused kids (as he allegedly was) very often become abusers (though it has not yet been proved that he was one - the <i>Daily Mail</i> opinion column is not conclusive enough for me - ), and from way over here I've always thought the parents who encouraged their kids to hang out with an ageing and seriously weird pop star in the evident hope of material benefits seem even more pre-meditatedly wicked than the clearly sick MJ. Really I doubt if there are any nice people in the whole sorry tale.<br />
Re: the wake - seems to me we waste a lot of flowers and candles mourning complete strangers these days. Mass grief is a modern night out. It's just some old gig - though I grant a real live decomposing stiff on stage beats lasers!!! :-)<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[Well said, Auntie Bellum!]</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 00:56 on 07 July<br />
ZeusJoos, that still doesn't give you the right to abuse the abused. Especially when they can no longer speak for themselves. All this is making me sad. Can't believe there are people like you out there. All I'm saying is, let the poor man be. Why throw shit at him? Are you all clean? I have had enough of this sick discussion. Sad, sad, sad.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[Tee hee, no prizes for guessing </span></i><span style="color: blue;">who</span><i><span style="color: blue;"> needed to get off the pulpit!]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>ZeusJoos</b></i> at 01:14 on 07 July<br />
People like me? You don't fucking know me, the work I do, my mind-set. "The poor man"? You need to wake up lady. Just another case of blaming the victim.<br />
Well V.Rago, then just exit stage left - you have the right to deify any monster that you choose. I worked in the record business for decades & was privy to private info regarding various intimate details 'bout musicians-wow talk about some troubled folks.... I am no angel, but I do not abuse animals or children, nor do I advocate for their abusers.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[Awwrrright, </i><span style="color: blue;">you</span><i style="color: blue;"> tell her, Zeus!]</i><br />
<br />
JoCal at 01:46 on 07 July<br />
easy on each other folks... death is a sad reality no matter whom it strikes...<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[At this point it was 2 a.m. here. I thought I'd check my Facebook one last time before heading up to bed. I was rather shaken to find my Wall had turned into a battlefield in my absence. I wasn't sure what to do, so I blew the referee's whistle. Loudly.]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Megatonlove</b></i> at 02:26 on 07 July<br />
Sheesh, I leave FB for a few hours and war breaks out. V.Rago, THAT'S ENOUGH from you. What's gotten into you, girl? I don't care how hot and bothered you choose to get about Wacko Jacko, your comments on MY wall are way out of order. It's okay to disagree passionately with others, but there's no need to become abusive towards people you know nothing about. What happened to staying non-judgmental? If you want to have a good old rant, then please do it on your Facebook wall, not mine. This conversation is now closed. Thanks, everyone. Unruffle those feathers please. Good night.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[I hoped that would be the end of that. But V.Rago was clearly not done, even though she'd declared she'd had enough, not once but </i><span style="color: blue;">twice</span><i style="color: blue;">!]</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>V.Rago</b></i> at 02:40 on 07 July<br />
I wasn't abusive Megatonlove. You were. Condescending and judgmental. AND DON'T YOU EVER USE THAT TONE WITH ME. You chose to post something offensive and provocative on your wall and expected comments. But don't worry. You won't hear ever hear from me again. Nor do I care to hear from you. We're clearly not on the same page.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">[OHO, now the pot was calling the kettle black! Instead of striking fear in my heart, V.Rago induced loud snorts of laughter in me that woke the dog. I prayed that the friends who had left comments on my Wall would somehow see the funny side of it too.]</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Megatonlove</b></i> at 02:57 on 07 July<br />
Aw, shaddup already.<br />
<br />
<i style="color: blue;">[After that parting shot, I deleted V.Rago from my Friends List and fell into bed. Entertaining though she briefly was, I no longer enjoy hanging out with toxic humans in real life or cyberspace. The comments on my Wall continued into the next day, ending as light-heartedly as they had begun. Bless you, Facebook friends.]</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Calmer Of Calves</b></i> at 04:40 on 07 July<br />
I AM WITH YOU ON THAT ONE MEGATONLOVE!!!! THE RICH AND FAMOUS OR THE FAMOUS IN DEBT UP TO THEIR PLASTIC SURGERY SHOULD NOT GET AWAY WITH CHILD MOLESTATION OR RAPE. THOSE CHILDREN WILL BE DEALING WITH THE EFFECTS OF HIS ABUSE FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. A FRIEND OF MINE WAS TOLD ME THAT SEXUAL ABUSE IS THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING.<br />
MAYBE HE KILLED HIMSELF BECAUSE THE GUILT (IF HE HAD ANY) WAS 'KILLING' HIM PHYSICALLY, EMOTIONALLY AND SPIRITUALLY? THERE WAS A RE-RUN OF A CLIP OF AN INTERVIEW ON TV TODAY WHERE JACKSON WAS CONFRONTED BY THE INTERVIEWER VERY DIRECTLY ABOUT THE 'ALLEGATIONS'. JACKSON LOOKED DOWN (SHAME), THEN PROCEEDED TO LAUGH AND FINALLY PUT HIS HANDS OVER HIS FACE. ZEUS AND I HAVE STUDIED BODY READING ON MANY LEVELS AND HIS REACTIONS WERE ALL INDICATIVE OF SHAME (LOOKING DOWN AND HANDS COVERING HIS FACE), EMBARRASSMENT (THE LAUGHING) AND SOMEONE WHO WAS LYING.<br />
I WOULD INVITE ANYONE IN DISBELIEF TO STUDY HIS BODY LANGUAGE AROUND THE TIME OF THE ABUSE TRIALS.... <br />
<br />
<i><b>HarpSkunk</b></i> at 08:19 on 07 July<br />
Whew! Personally I am just hoping that the Thriller video is not a foretaste of things to come, 'Chronicle of an un-death foretold'. Maybe he has gone to live with Elvis in that London bus on the dark side of the moon which is signaling to the mothership.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Blond Igorot</b></i> at 10:19 on 07 July<br />
and I....missed all the fun. Shucks.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Queen Liz III</b></i> at 10:25 on 07 July<br />
Yes yes yes...he's still ALIVE!!!!!! It's all a money making scam cause he's in debt up to his plastic ears!!!!!....that's why there's no public viewing of the body....madam toussaud's won't release their copy hehehehehe.....spread the word...he's ALIVE!!!! where did you see him?...<br />
oopppsss sorry Megatonlove...now you're wall's gonna go ape!!!!!!<br />
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<i><b>Blond Igorot</b></i> at 10:38 on 07 July<br />
Blasphemy....<br />
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<i><b>Megatonlove</b></i> at 13:48 on 07 July<br />
I believe Wacko Jacko was embalmed pre-mortem. But even people made entirely of silicone and plastic have an expiry date. His brains were also pickled ages ago.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Celtic Banjo</b></i> at 16:56 on 07 July<br />
Megatonlove, nice one! he can`t buy his way out this one paper burns where he is going he he..."whos BAD" dun dun dun dun dun...dun dun dun dun dun dun...shamone eeee heeeee.<br />
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<i><b>The Ironing Broad</b></i> at 23:27 on 07 July<br />
Agree w Blond Igorot... Queen Liz III is blasphemous!<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote style="color: blue;"><b>"Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods." </b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span style="color: blue;">Albert Einstein</span></b></blockquote></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-56960762026326200212009-06-18T14:57:00.021+02:002009-06-18T17:55:15.419+02:00Guest Post: The Safety of Memory by Mark Walther<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">My old friend Mark Walther has graciously agreed to write a guest post. I've stretched myself too thin this week, what with the children's final exams, the dreaded annual mammogram (all clear!), and futile attempts to whittle an avalanche of notes into shape for my third Jin Shin Jyutsu class in Ireland next week. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Mark Walther and I met in high school at Brent School, the international school we attended in the northern Philippine city of Baguio, where I lived in my teens and early twenties. He was different from our rowdier American schoolmates - quiet, observant, thoughtful. Always had his nose in a book. I liked that about him because I was passionate about books, too. I was sure he'd be interesting to talk to, but was far too gauche to engage him in conversation. Mark's parents were missionaries in the Philippines, which he always considered home. After 11 years there, he returned to the America, the country of his birth. It was a strange and sometimes difficult experience for a 17 year-old, as he recounts here. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">Today, Mark and his wife Maureen live on a bluebell-carpeted ranch near Dallas, where he continues to lead a life that's part Lord Jim, part Buster Keaton, with grandchildren thrown in for extra spice.</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdpm__hHc_2TZaF2ZnC3r3aQteWIi8hoqvevpG4HGVGFDfZE__4iXJE7xWkUng6o-jezSninw-6IPWhUFNiQ8t6lDybyJQXHOiAJpEktbqA_axt58oJyOl0pnUIWTnjmO7SUmqbQynJs/s1600-h/mark+Sagada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdpm__hHc_2TZaF2ZnC3r3aQteWIi8hoqvevpG4HGVGFDfZE__4iXJE7xWkUng6o-jezSninw-6IPWhUFNiQ8t6lDybyJQXHOiAJpEktbqA_axt58oJyOl0pnUIWTnjmO7SUmqbQynJs/s320/mark+Sagada.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Mark Walther in high school, circa 1975</span></div><br />
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<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i style="color: black;">It is already hot here in Texas with the expected highs this week in the upper 90's, and there's talk of hitting the century mark by the end of the week. Soon we will have the obligatory summer TV news report by a rookie reporter cooking an egg on the sidewalk. The tally sheets will come out, records will be compared, so many days over 100 degrees. It is quiet outside, silent in the mid-afternoon sun. I sit in the shade of a mimosa tree, the heat radiating off the ground like sitting in a vast outdoor oven. In the silence, memories start to stir.<br />
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Summertime, the heat and a James Taylor song always take me back to the summer of 1976. Back to when the pain of loss and culture shock were fresh. Back to when I had just returned to America and was miserable over the friends and country I had left behind. With my long black hair and beard, I really stood out in a sea of Scandinavian rural midwestern conformity. People who could barely comprehend leaving the state, let alone the country. I desperately wanted to go home and at the same time I was excited at the adventure of being in a new country, at the prospect of what might be in store for me as I began my adult life. Yet, I was a stranger in a strange land. I had never seen so many white people all together at the same time. I longed for things that were familiar: foods, scenery and people. That summer I struggled to find my footing, re-acquainting with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The world was so much smaller in the Heartland, shrunk down to weather, crops and the State Fair. I worked my first jobs: my grandfather's farm, then at a feedmill. I learned to drive. I bought clothes at a store rather than having them tailor-made. Giving perpetual explanations to the never-ending question, "But why would you want to leave the U.S.? We have everything..." Candy bars, shopping malls, drive-in movies, Dairy Queen, pot-luck dinners and backyard barbecues. The shock of how much things cost back here in the U.S.A. Giving countless geography lessons ("So you lived next to France?"). Camping and sleeping on the ground because you wanted to. Hot running water you could use without boiling it first. American cars. Giving endless history lessons ("No, it was the Spanish-American War, not the Korean War"). Electricity 24 hours a day. TV, TV and more TV, all in English! Hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries and steaks. American girls of all shapes and sizes. A bus trip from Florida to Montreal and back again. Canned vegetables and TV dinners (why?!). Corn as far as the eye could see. Concerts of bands I had only known by word of mouth or the radio. The new world was trying to crowd out my old life. I was trapped, boxed in by decisions and choices beyond my control. I wore my memories like armor and carried them like a sword, protection from the isolated loneliness I felt in my new home, the place of my birth. But throughout that mad, hot summer, the thing that really kept me going was music.<br />
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Now, in the heat and silence 30 years later I can feel the fierceness and the passion of that teenage boy. My shoulders ache for the weight of that armor, my hand for the feel of that haft. It is summertime and I am going to the Philippines in my mind.</i></b></div><div style="color: black;"></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">"In my mind I'm goin' to Carolina, can't you see the sunshine, can't you just feel the moonshine<br />
ain't it just like a friend of mine to hit me from behind<br />
Yes I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind<br />
Dark and silent late last night I think I might have heard the highway calling<br />
Geese in flight and dogs that bite. Signs that might be omens say I'm going, going<br />
I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind<br />
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With a holy host of others standing 'round me, still I'm on the dark side of the moon<br />
And it seems like it goes on like this forever You must forgive me<br />
If I'm up and gone to Carolina in my mind" </span><br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <br />
</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">from "Carolina in My Mind" by James Taylor</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-88481453327963692412009-06-09T13:58:00.001+02:002009-06-09T14:00:18.617+02:00Clear as a (Marvin) BellFound <a href="http://ow.ly/aL5G">this</a> the other day via the wonderful writer <a href="http://www.shortbooks.co.uk/book.php?b=25">Andrea Gillies</a> who re-tweeted it on Twitter. Hay fever keeps my head in permanent fog. The old demons of <a href="http://megatonlove.blogspot.com/2009/02/blighters-rock.html">Blighter's Rock</a> are back as well, making writing fraught. This was exactly what I needed. Although I don't write poetry, all of this applies to me, too. Perhaps you'll find it pertinent and clear-headed as well.<br />
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Thank you, Marvin Bell.<br />
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<i style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thirty-two Statements About Writing Poetry by Marvin Bell</span><br />
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1. Every poet is an experimentalist.<br />
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2. Learning to write is a simple process: read something, then write something; read something else, then write something else. And show in your writing what you have read.<br />
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3. There is no one way to write and no right way to write.<br />
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4. The good stuff and the bad stuff are all part of the stuff. No good stuff without bad stuff.<br />
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5. Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules.<br />
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6. You do not learn from work like yours as much as you learn from work unlike yours.<br />
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7. Originality is a new amalgam of influences.<br />
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8. Try to write poems at least one person in the room will hate.<br />
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9. The I in the poem is not you but someone who knows a lot about you.<br />
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10. Autobiography rots.<br />
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11. A poem listens to itself as it goes.<br />
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12. It's not what one begins with that matters; it's the quality of attention paid to it thereafter.<br />
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13. Language is subjective and relative, but it also overlaps; get on with it.<br />
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14. Every free verse writer must reinvent free verse.<br />
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15. Prose is prose because of what it includes; poetry is poetry because of what it leaves out.<br />
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16. A short poem need not be small.<br />
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17. Rhyme and meter, too, can be experimental.<br />
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18. Poetry has content but is not strictly about its contents. A poem containing a tree may not be about a tree.<br />
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19. You need nothing more to write poems than bits of string and thread and some dust from under the bed.<br />
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20. At heart, poetic beauty is tautological: it defines its terms and exhausts them.<br />
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21. The penalty for education is self-consciousness. But it is too late for ignorance.<br />
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22. What they say "there are no words for"--that's what poetry is for. Poetry uses words to go beyond words.<br />
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23. One does not learn by having a teacher do the work.<br />
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24. The dictionary is beautiful; for some poets, it's enough.<br />
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25. Writing poetry is its own reward and needs no certification. Poetry, like water, seeks its own level.<br />
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26. A finished poem is also the draft of a later poem.<br />
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27. A poet sees the differences between his or her poems but a reader sees the similarities.<br />
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28. Poetry is a manifestation of more important things. On the one hand, it's poetry! On the other, it's just poetry.<br />
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29. Viewed in perspective, Parnassus is a very short mountain.<br />
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30. A good workshop continually signals that we are all in this together, teacher too.<br />
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31. This Depression Era jingle could be about writing poetry: Use it up / wear it out / make it do / or do without.<br />
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32. Art is a way of life, not a career.</i><br />
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Marvin Bell, author of seventeen books, has been the recipient of the Lamont Award from the Academy of American Poets, Guggenheim and National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, and Senior Fulbright appointments to Yugoslavia and Australia. Bell is a longtime member of the faculty of the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa, where he is Flannery O'Connor Professor of Letters.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-2736922474257492522009-06-06T19:33:00.014+02:002009-08-12T09:13:37.464+02:00Oh woe.The past week's been a bitch. Or rather, <i>I</i> have. I think I've lost it. Legs and Noodle have been playing squabble all week, and no, that wasn't a typo. My patience with them is at an end. I've gone on laundry strike with Legs. So disgusted am I by the clumps of fetid clothing littering her bedroom floor that I've refused to do any more of her laundry - at least until the sight of her struggling to do it herself unhinges me and makes me recant. <br />
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I have three months of New Yorker magazines and twelve books by my side of the bed, unread.<br />
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In two weeks I leave for a Jin Shin Jyutsu class in Ireland and my notes are as jumbled as they were 6 months ago when I smugly announced that I had plenty of time to get them ship-shape for June. What was the road to hell paved with again? No, don't tell me.<br />
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My hay fever has returned, reducing me to a pathetic blob of snot and snuffles, robbing me of sleep. It feels like there's an elephant sitting on my chest. If I'm outdoors for more than 10 minutes, the sneezing and coughing begin. I worry, too, that the sneezing fits I get when driving are turning me into a liability on the road.<br />
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Spring, thou art a bitch sometimes.<br />
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Everything in the garden is on the rampage, with nettles and dandelions leading the charge. Evil bindweed is back. The brunnera and the linnaria have migrated out of their beds. Deep pink foxgloves are canoodling with yellow poppies, and it looks all <i>wrong</i> somehow. The raised beds will never get done now and the baby cabbage will have to grow in pots. Roquette (arugula) has sprouted all over the cracks on the terrace. I used to pay a premium for this stuff at the Delhaize only to have the children turn their noses up at it. I felt sure they'd change their minds about roquette if we grew it at home; so we did, and they didn't. At this point, trying to stay on top of anything in the garden feels like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. My horticultural get-up-and-go has gotten-up-and-left. Bugger the damn garden.<br />
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I mourn the demise of these beloved gloves. I loved them, literally, to pieces. They've been with me since the day 20 years ago when we planted the skinny little wisteria vine which now threatens to gobble up the house.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLeVOGS-29UaOvu0ukaqm-eIDDEvNy4RCGCJDS2Qz0rYlQD_YOeiuO3VrORQyrjdZQkPxaI7NGStfti2BZfzF9USoQgIWIwimLh1gxT-4e-0aQB9o2X3POa5CzwpyjC_0WA2OTAGdK2s8/s1600-h/DSC04002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLeVOGS-29UaOvu0ukaqm-eIDDEvNy4RCGCJDS2Qz0rYlQD_YOeiuO3VrORQyrjdZQkPxaI7NGStfti2BZfzF9USoQgIWIwimLh1gxT-4e-0aQB9o2X3POa5CzwpyjC_0WA2OTAGdK2s8/s400/DSC04002.JPG" width="518" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And to cap a perfectly dreary week, Belgium goes to the polls tomorrow for the regional and European elections. I don't know if there's anything more depressing than Belgian politics, except maybe Philippine politics and I want no part of either. America gets the magnificent Mister Obama, and we at the crossroads of Europe get to choose between the likes of Louis Michel and Elio Di Rupo and a host of other buffoons? Que barbaridad!<br />
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It's time to get my <a href="http://megatonlove.blogspot.com/2009/03/gratitude-walks.html">gratitude bowl</a> out. I notice it's become dusty from lack of use, so busy have I been with doing that I've left no time for being.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-33396963776277877582009-05-29T19:49:00.020+02:002009-05-30T13:18:49.367+02:00Blimey!Early the other morning I noticed that someone had left a new comment on <a href="http://megatonlove.blogspot.com/2009/05/first-time-visitors-to-megatonlove.html">my last post</a> about a tiresome relative named Chlamydia Burana. The comment, from an unknown reader named mnemosynewrites (yes, exactly, mne-mne-mowhat?), read:<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-weight: bold;">"Chanced upon your blog over at Kanlaon and have been a frequent reader since. As a result, I nominated you for a "Kreative Blogger Award", hope you don't mind :)"</blockquote>Okay folks, it was early in the morning, and because most of you don't know me personally - count yourselves lucky, really - my brain dwells South of Murky in the early morning, and does not resemble anything more evolved than pond life until at least 10 a.m. And definitely not before industrial-strength caffeine has been poured down it.<br /><br />Neither can I remember where I've parked my reading glasses at that hour, so I tend to wander aimlessly through cyberspace with left hand cupped over left eye to help me focus. As the one-eyed halfwit reading that comment, I understood it to mean that Kanlaon, an excellent blog by a published writer friend in California, had won some award. I made a note to look up the definition of that mnemo-word. I love words, and if there's a new one I haven't met, I'll rush over to shake its hand.<br /><br />Forward to late morning. Eyes and brain finally operational, I read the comment again and gagged on my toast. A total stranger named <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://mnemosynewrites.wordpress.com/">Mnemosyne Writes</a> had just informed me that she had nominated <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> and 6 others for a Kreativ Blogger Award. Moi? Good God! I couldn't imagine what possessed her to do that, but hey, I wasn't about to argue. Without getting all Kate Winslet-y about it, THANK YOU, kind Menemosyne person, for this honor and the rather yummy ego massage that accompanied it. It's come as quite a shock to someone who's still not sure where this young blog is headed, and who continues to hear scary Blighter's Rock rumblings in her head each time she starts a new post.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbQdqSIaGFpJVcfCweZ8HVsBPrxTmP24lYONxX2wM_kIFmUef1XU6SEIoar9NncwgKO_2GG1ko9pJVTFFs6N7hRJZQSKzB9PyJN-7Yn81gwL76DQ37jXexaRRW9GdzMcNIfHlLjwsRHs/s1600-h/kreativ_blogger_award_copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbQdqSIaGFpJVcfCweZ8HVsBPrxTmP24lYONxX2wM_kIFmUef1XU6SEIoar9NncwgKO_2GG1ko9pJVTFFs6N7hRJZQSKzB9PyJN-7Yn81gwL76DQ37jXexaRRW9GdzMcNIfHlLjwsRHs/s400/kreativ_blogger_award_copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340763885770949778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />According to the rules of this award, I have to list 7 things I love. I have to pick 7 other blogs that I think should be awarded the same honor, and inform those bloggers. I also have to link back to the person (above) who graciously nominated me. Without further ado:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seven Things I Love</span>, and preferrably in large quantities, please:<br /><ul><li>the ancient Japanese healing art of Jin Shin Jyutsu</li><li>laughter</li><li>food/eating/cooking</li><li>a good night's sleep</li><li>books</li><li>music</li><li>beautiful things made by hand, like my Aran jumpers from a 91-year-old knitter in Inis Mór, the Aran Islands, Ireland</li></ul><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seven Blogs I Enjoy:</span><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://belgianwaffling.blogspot.com/">Belgian Waffle</a> - Eurodrone, unfit mother, slattern, this woman has life in Belgium completely sussed. One <a href="http://belgianwaffling.blogspot.com/2009/05/empress-of-uccle-revengers-tragedy.html">recent post</a> almost gave me a seizure. I suspect that a soft heart beats underneath Jaywalker's cheeky madcap exterior.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://positennui.wordpress.com/">Posit Ennui</a> - Meet Dr. Y.U. Thropplenoggin, bosh-monger, diabolical wit, master of verbal tomfoolery. His pithycisms also make Twitter a chortlesome place for me to roam. I've learned from messy experience not to have any coffee in my mouth when reading tweets by <a href="http://twitter.com/thropplenoggin">@thropplenoggin</a>.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.thisisreverb.com/">This Is Reverb</a> - Ryan Detzel, a young father in Cincinnati, is an ace cook and photographer, and possesses some rather impressive tattoos. He's also a pastor whose message gets me in the gut. No mean feat, seeing as I've always been averse to any form of organized religion. Thankfully, this has never stopped me from walking my own spiritual path where I encounter gems like him.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://jsj-holds.blogspot.com/">Self-Help Holds with Jin Shin Jyutsu</a> - Astrid, an experienced Jin Shin Jyutsu practitioner living in Spain shares her knowledge and experience of the ancient healing art that has become my life's passion too. Read her if you want to know how to stop a migraine or heal a wound quickly without pharmaceuticals or plasters. I promise you this stuff works.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.marketmanila.com/">Market Manila</a> - Marketman cooks, entertains, travels, and occasionally rants with great style. According to Anthony Bourdain, he also roasts "the best pig in the world." I dream of eating at his table one day, and so do all his readers. Poor man, he will need a very, very long table.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://borealkraut.blogspot.com/">Borealkraut</a> - Alaska-based Borealkraut is a naturalist, teacher, quilter, hiker, cook, mother, blogger who embodies good, sane womanhood to me - something I aspire to, but regularly fall short of. Her prepositions don't dangle either. She has moose in her garden, I have slugs. Whoever said life was fair? She also has a second blog dedicated to cooking, called <a href="http://borealkitchen.blogspot.com/">Borealkitchen</a>.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/golfpunkgirl/sets/">golfpunkgirl</a> and <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/benbenbenbenben/">benbenbenbenben</a> are newlyweds Liana and Ben Joyce in real life. These are their Flickr pages; they blog with photographs rather than words. They shoot only analog film and oh, what sumptuous, transcendent images they create!<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">N.B. A growing list of blogs I visit is on the right hand column of this page. Every single one is worth a detour. Special thanks to my blogging 'aunties' <a href="http://lizardmeanders.blogspot.com/">The Lizard Meanders</a>, <a href="http://crestaola.wordpress.com/">True Love, Six Kids, One Old House</a>, and <a href="http://anthropologist.wordpress.com/">Kanlaon</a> for their inspiration and encouragement.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-79636307672014375942009-05-22T08:58:00.015+02:002009-08-12T09:14:54.085+02:00BrocantesI love <span style="font-style: italic;">brocantes</span>!<br />
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In Belgium, a brocante is a cross between a flea market and a car boot sale. The Flemish call them rommelmarkts. In my area, they usually take place in villages, beginning in the spring until the end of summer. People lay out their stuff on tarpaulins on the street. They're a good way for folk to clear out the domestic detritus they've uncovered while spring cleaning. Fortunately or unfortunately, they're also a good way to pick up more "finds" - or junk - depending on whose point of view it is.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xyX7hq76eGtmVRWGSlIvKX2o2gYxL7FrGKq30W7kFuPaLlu6oJeZji6Gem9UuPyV3wALFOkp-9fLlARhIiZBpWvXXVjeWi0hkmO9JTg17GjQgO20mFN7iT_wxc503rj-KsXqFWx0VHo/s1600-h/DSC04145.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342311839322409730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xyX7hq76eGtmVRWGSlIvKX2o2gYxL7FrGKq30W7kFuPaLlu6oJeZji6Gem9UuPyV3wALFOkp-9fLlARhIiZBpWvXXVjeWi0hkmO9JTg17GjQgO20mFN7iT_wxc503rj-KsXqFWx0VHo/s400/DSC04145.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
When the going gets tough, the broke go brocanting. Someone's junk is someone else's treasure. Here are some treasures I picked up recently.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFTN1KiovjHZWX0RBN1WASJaAWE9rKzQ4vn2OVLrvA36Wy65NMkTJVT4O4vzsVn0lV-_X5uKKP8qmjGyd3QLU2n87og5S0ynsgOQF6TXbJyUUj2hD0rFF4p4iOsqtLM8VNFkSV9pzB8w/s1600-h/DSC03932.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" height="290" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338539531407714754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFTN1KiovjHZWX0RBN1WASJaAWE9rKzQ4vn2OVLrvA36Wy65NMkTJVT4O4vzsVn0lV-_X5uKKP8qmjGyd3QLU2n87og5S0ynsgOQF6TXbJyUUj2hD0rFF4p4iOsqtLM8VNFkSV9pzB8w/s320/DSC03932.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="386" /></a><br />
From the Noduwez brocante (above) 2 weeks ago: one bundle of organic rhubarb, one bunch of organic parsley, two young cherry tomato plants, a dozen antique coins from Denmark and Belgium and one antique 2 kilo cast iron weight. Total spent: €5.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqERmq6MKOrmnPlpv3E23-yfsZ2gJ0jKFShNwmlhLeuFBmt8S5nhMqwJ16iAmZfixUT2e8G5mCGuKqt5YlNsPDfiF2g96XFjp3OGmQGIcct-1daxFIJhsN-O67Wj1_QI26zmlts-CS_k/s1600-h/DSC04158.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" height="291" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338539379994666194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqERmq6MKOrmnPlpv3E23-yfsZ2gJ0jKFShNwmlhLeuFBmt8S5nhMqwJ16iAmZfixUT2e8G5mCGuKqt5YlNsPDfiF2g96XFjp3OGmQGIcct-1daxFIJhsN-O67Wj1_QI26zmlts-CS_k/s320/DSC04158.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="386" /></a><br />
And this was my haul from Thursday's brocante in Jandrain: a dozen different antique cast iron weights (of varying weights: 2-kilos, 1-kilo, 500-grams, 200-grams, 100-grams, 50-grams), one Japanese serving plate, 5 French blue-and-white dessert plates with peony design from the 1930s, one ceramic planter with a Chinese garden scene, and 11 small glass bowls from the 1930s, which will be perfect for ice cream or jelly. Total spent: €8.30.<br />
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Why do I have a <span style="font-style: italic;">thing</span> for cast iron weights? I have no idea, but I can never resist them. Heck, I'm not sure why I have a <span style="font-style: italic;">thing</span> for most of the things I buy at brocantes. I bought my first one, a 1-kilo weight, a few years ago to use as a doorstop. I am now the proud owner of over 60 cast iron weights, and each time I bring more home Skunk rolls his eyes upward and sighs heavily.<br />
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Too bad for him.Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-4255793486809775322009-05-15T14:26:00.033+02:002009-05-17T18:13:28.618+02:00The Snark Returns: Introducing Chlamydia Burana (warning: expletives undeleted)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhol7FEYIQ2VwwaLkh5WWmxkWiBrIRggJy3k3QSaAGnEx-IvOyK3fYxQDSTyncHSxXcVimAo5N71-CYrJkvk9oANBUy14vXnnML_PBnsf1wIFHFDN8CLADRJPvbPgugJQJnRyGPcT_6Z4I/s1600-h/DSC03953.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhol7FEYIQ2VwwaLkh5WWmxkWiBrIRggJy3k3QSaAGnEx-IvOyK3fYxQDSTyncHSxXcVimAo5N71-CYrJkvk9oANBUy14vXnnML_PBnsf1wIFHFDN8CLADRJPvbPgugJQJnRyGPcT_6Z4I/s320/DSC03953.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336030125272176578" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGq3molMdEN3qUOU3L-cWsg8U12ByaNQFD0Xriu_x5P_UX-Guheqd0_jhfg60PjHP5588bzS7mCBYoGTG54fS6gmInp0IQmcoQzPEjYHeY_hXeqtKKPwig4hbMI9Tur9tdOSjKDr1Kn0/s1600-h/DSC03970.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGq3molMdEN3qUOU3L-cWsg8U12ByaNQFD0Xriu_x5P_UX-Guheqd0_jhfg60PjHP5588bzS7mCBYoGTG54fS6gmInp0IQmcoQzPEjYHeY_hXeqtKKPwig4hbMI9Tur9tdOSjKDr1Kn0/s320/DSC03970.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336030011420246818" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUeKjhcHR-XKfIKjqm7ia3PkzLh16ls4ai_iFoiPTNj5twt5Dz-zK3VuyZMvVYGWxyFNuHYOa_zaBmXD-v-HrilcDzaqDDk4uwoyrtVd-D0YFrizwNjp8lfjHcohz11q55mj-thxX00o/s1600-h/DSC03983.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUeKjhcHR-XKfIKjqm7ia3PkzLh16ls4ai_iFoiPTNj5twt5Dz-zK3VuyZMvVYGWxyFNuHYOa_zaBmXD-v-HrilcDzaqDDk4uwoyrtVd-D0YFrizwNjp8lfjHcohz11q55mj-thxX00o/s320/DSC03983.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336029861993744930" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAJqtbhHTHjap1PB8fuAS2Gc2EBJsZnEAAqiubRPqjh3rOGIyg73lnsKhrb0CbFsm1e4nhXWrfE4oiBQJQl6lDvjR-RxjnPotIjQwKPy_tFILdMVmwbBzbcuvuz5R1gsqISa7InHGpAY/s1600-h/DSC03996.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAJqtbhHTHjap1PB8fuAS2Gc2EBJsZnEAAqiubRPqjh3rOGIyg73lnsKhrb0CbFsm1e4nhXWrfE4oiBQJQl6lDvjR-RxjnPotIjQwKPy_tFILdMVmwbBzbcuvuz5R1gsqISa7InHGpAY/s320/DSC03996.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336029762263836530" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span><div><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">First-time visitors to Megatonlove could be forgiven for thinking this is a gardening blog. It isn't. Only, with spring at full gallop, there's so much beauty outside that it would be churlish not to share some of its beauty with you. Mother's Day morning brought glorious sunshine, love notes and quirky hand-made presents from Legs & Noodle, and the discovery that the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Papaver orientalis</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> had started to open. I look forward to these Oriental poppies all winter long. They are the brazen hussies of the garden, their papery scarlet-orange skirts calling to mind the pleated costumes of Issey Miyake. They burst open with devil-may-care abandon, their flower heads unnaturally heavy for their stems, the ruffles and ridges of their mysterious centers coated in inky purple dust. In a few days they're gone, leaving large seed pods in their wake, victorious fists clenched to salute such fleeting splendor. As I photographed them in the early morning sun, I was filled with gladness for the mother that sustains us all. Mother Earth.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I compiled my new flower photos into an album and posted them on Facebook. Everything was grand until yesterday when I noticed that someone on my friends list had posted </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">my</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> photo album onto </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">her</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> Facebook Wall. Without my permission! It irritated me. Especially because this same person had committed the same transgression only the week before with one of my other photo albums. She'd blithely helped herself to my family pictures and posted them on her Wall without as much as a by-your-leave. I wrote her this message:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I would appreciate it if you would kindly take my album "Life in Belgium" off your FB wall as soon as possible. My family's privacy is very important to me and I would rather that my photo albums be visible only to people on my friends list. I hope you understand.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; font-size: 12px;"></p></blockquote> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">To give her credit, she complied promptly. She explained she only wanted to share them with her sister and friends - none of whom I know, by the way. I enjoy sharing my photographs with <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> family and friends on Facebook. It's a great way for me to stay in touch because I live so far away from my tribe. However, I remain extremely cautious about sharing my personal details on the web, and I've gone to certain lengths to protect the identities of my loved ones on this blog.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Being a thoughtful person, I'd like to respect my offender's anonymity, so I'll call her <span style="font-weight: bold;">Chlamydia Burana</span>. (Take a bow, Chlamydia, dear. This may be your moment of fame.) Chlamydia Burana is close enough to her real name, and it accurately defines someone <span style="font-style: italic;">"with an ability to establish long-term associations with host cells."</span> Gee, thanks, Wikipedia, that scares the shit out of me. An easily-transmitted infection, terrific. Some of my Facebook friends reading this may know who I'm talking about because Chlamydia has wormed her way into their friends lists as well. When I was new to Facebook last year, Chlamydia sent me a friend request. She claimed to be my mother's cousin and, fool that I was, I accepted. I had never met her in person, she lives a safe distance away in Vafancouver, and I had no intention of ever interacting with her. I did wonder at the time why, if she was as close to my mother as she claimed to be, Mama had never mentioned Chlamydia to us while she was alive. Dear Chlammy lost no time friending more family members, and was soon busy busy busy leaving her syrupy pawprints everywhere. Secretly I began to regard her as the Dolores Umbridge of Facebook. The first comment she ever left me, on a photo album titled "What's Cooking in Megatonlove's Kitchen" annoyed me, and I knew it was more than just her appalling punctuation:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">hi M, Chlamydia here, 2nd cousin of your very beautiful mommy, Daisy. your aunt P is my contemporary and i am more than happy to have found her on B's album. also, it would be much appreciated if you could post a family photo with your mommy and dad, when you can. apparently, you inherited your mom's cooking prowess. i love all of your creations but, as a vegetarian,this is my favorite! your pup eats better than i do...home cooking!! thanks for your friendship and, like what i wrote to your sister-in-law, J, i am so blessed and humbled to have touched base with family members of my most adored cousin. take care and much love...</span></span></p></blockquote><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p face="verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Not an auspicious start, but knowing how prickly and saccharine-intolerant I am on a good day, I tried to ignore it and dismissed her as Gushy. Give me Cranky, give me Snooty, give me Bossy or Smelly or any of the other 27 dwarves. Just. Don't. Give. Me. Gushy. Because I'll puke all over her. And Chlamydia was world class Gushy. Upper case SMARMY too.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p face="verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">And so Chlamydia simpered on:</span></p> <p face="verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Beautiful children you have.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Legs looks like Little Daisy...</span></span></p></blockquote><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Each time she left a comment, my Bullshit Meter would ricochet. Yesterday, when I saw that she had filched <span style="font-style: italic;">another</span> of my photo albums and posted it on her Wall, after already having been cautioned once, it was a bit much. I sent her another message, more business-like this time:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:12px;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Once again, Chlamydia, may I ask you to please not post any of my photos on your wall without asking me first? I really find this most intrusive and a complete disregard of my privacy. Although we might be related, I have never actually met you and I do not appreciate the liberties you are taking. You could at least have asked me first. It might be just pictures of my garden, but still. Kindly POST YOUR OWN STUFF on your wall. Thank you, etc.</span></span></span></blockquote><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p> <p size="12px" face="verdana" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">To which she messaged back:</span></p> <p face="verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">So sorry again, my niece...</span></span></span></blockquote><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p> <p face="verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">My initial sigh of relief at her reply disintegrated into snorts of exasperation when I saw that my photos were <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> up on her wall. What the fuck, ya great galoot?! Pathetically, I checked her Wall every half hour. No change. By then, my knickers were dancing the proverbial twist. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">This time, for variety, I brazenly wrote on her Wall:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Chlamydia, this is my THIRD and final request: will you PLEASE take MY photo album off your Wall? My photos are my property, and they are not yours to do with as you please. Surely this is not too much to ask? I would not dream of posting anyone's pictures on my wall without asking their permission first. Thanks.</span></span></p> <p face="Verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px;"></p></blockquote> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Adrenalin provoked <span style="font-style: italic;">un derangement</span> in me. I decided some extra spleen might not come amiss. Going for broke, I replied to her message:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I will not accept your apology until you take my photos off your wall. For god's sake, Chlamydia, I've had enough of your games. Do you ask permission from the other people whose stuff you put on your wall? Or do you think that because this is Facebook you can help yourself to whatever you want?</span></span></span></blockquote><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Silence. My blasted photos remained on her Wall. Was she suffering an attack of sudden illiteracy? Had her computer crashed? Or was she just being an utter fuckwit? All of the above? I gave it one last huzzah:</span></p> <p face="Verdana" size="12px" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Chlamydia, I am now very angry that after asking you 3 times, you still haven't seen fit to remove my photos from your wall. What part of my request didn't you understand? I saw that you removed my comment, but my album is still there. And please don't patronize me by referring to me as "your niece" if you cannot respect my privacy on Facebook.</span></span></span></blockquote><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Nada. I had to admit defeat. I knew what my next step would have to be. Reader, I DELETED her.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Lessons learned, in no particular order:</span></p> <p size="12px" face="verdana" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p><ol style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I can't seem to count beyond 3 when I'm angry.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">C'est la folie to ignore mon Bullshit Meter, parce que, mon dew, il est toujours spot-on.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Facebook's Privacy settings are a JOKE. There is no way to remove the Share option from my photos to stop others from posting them to their profile. And not only that, even after deleting Chlamydia from my friends list, my photos remain on her wall. Well, Facebook, as far as I'm concerned, you are now officially Fuckbook.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Some relatives can be downright shits. Bet y'all already knew that.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">It feels great to let go of snakes masquerading as friends .</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></li></ol><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p size="12px" face="verdana" style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Before I go, I want to leave you with an imaginary message I wrote but will of course never send to her. Unless she tracks me down and reads it here:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 15px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: verdana; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Dear Chlamydia, what'll you do now that I've dumped you? I know I was one of the most colorful characters on your Friends List, and you will miss my saucy posts. How dreary your life will be without me. Never mind. Every cloud has a silver lining. Now that Bernard Madoff faces spending the rest of his life in prison, there may be a vacancy for you at Weasels Sans Frontieres.</span></span></span></blockquote><p style="font-family: verdana;"></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:12;" ><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY26ZQKs-Uy6fabUthp2SR0jN42JaAimey1WY6jeeOxMwLGjfK4XFtj3opDVjue5eU1Zq5TWJjt_RNs7Z-5FKHwaTsAZcQUV8NydVYdo_OMpAnzJYLY_Yg7FFk7nG9gvWV9gYKS45DwO8/s1600-h/harrypotter5pic3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 342px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY26ZQKs-Uy6fabUthp2SR0jN42JaAimey1WY6jeeOxMwLGjfK4XFtj3opDVjue5eU1Zq5TWJjt_RNs7Z-5FKHwaTsAZcQUV8NydVYdo_OMpAnzJYLY_Yg7FFk7nG9gvWV9gYKS45DwO8/s400/harrypotter5pic3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336026480320533474" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">melda Staunton as Professor Dolores Umbridge in "Harry Potter</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> and the Order of the Phoenix"</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">N.B. Megatonlove wishes to thank a certain lizard for helping her find the right name.<br /></span></div></div><div><br /></div></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-52087295354601807562009-05-05T14:42:00.035+02:002009-05-10T15:36:23.897+02:00Where Angels tread (and hoe and mulch)I have seen larger and grander, but THIS is the garden that's captured my heart for eternity. A springtime ramble through it brings me as close to heaven as I will ever get on earth.<br /><br />It is the domain of a mother and daughter I shall call Charlie's Angels. They are the most incredible and inspiring gardeners I have ever met, and I have met many good ones in my time. Angel Senior, the mum, is like a second mum to me and an honorary granny to Legs and Noodle. Angel Senior possesses an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things botanical and is a gifted painter and writer, and a marvelous cook to boot. She taught me all about making jams and chutneys, one of my favorite kitchen pastimes. Angel Junior, the daughter, is a renowned sculptor who works in wood and alabaster when she's not busy in other incarnations as a singer, print-maker, photographer and belly-dancer. The Angels are the closest we have to family in our area and we love them to bits.<br /><br />Their garden is enormous and utterly lovely in all seasons, yes, even in the dead of winter when our garden - and everyone else's - resembles horticultural Hades. Except for arduous he-man jobs like chopping fallen trees into firewood, they do ALL the garden work themselves. Unlike me, they never complain of backaches and have no fear of slugs. This is what their place looks like at this time of year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI58QYyJLFRNiUUhctQ7ub43A2xvnMzjeWpPWeScQBR2p2DZVeNDppW49iczd6QLsefwbo_on0D_ZOjRc-_aHQwPYoVjA0PeYLMCbccWmI5vJO70dWK3KDd0RXXzV6vMlNyHVshyNVLA/s1600-h/DSC03767.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI58QYyJLFRNiUUhctQ7ub43A2xvnMzjeWpPWeScQBR2p2DZVeNDppW49iczd6QLsefwbo_on0D_ZOjRc-_aHQwPYoVjA0PeYLMCbccWmI5vJO70dWK3KDd0RXXzV6vMlNyHVshyNVLA/s400/DSC03767.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332322714374810370" border="0" /></a><br />I brought a friend to see their garden last week. When people enter for the first time, their typical reaction is usually one of delighted surprise and, often, speechlessness. In the orchard, we were engulfed by giddy-making clouds of apple blossom. There are several dozen fruit trees - mainly old apple varieties, as well as cherries and plums. In the autumn, several hundred kilos of windfall apples are collected and brought somewhere to be pressed into apple juice. The Angels' apple juice is the finest, most delicious apple juice I've ever tasted.<br /><div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUebDKk5vr7DmYbuwMIUV_uZL-bOZuEutfl0048cMnOqwVjOLeZrO7_Xh_mOtCCwL6BiAQaZAqBVzahnfWrBiNvy9IcAUcY7z53PIwbWz1piZIG8_-XXU_LwwdEF2X2CjlAjAP5C9tCZ8/s1600-h/DSC03760.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUebDKk5vr7DmYbuwMIUV_uZL-bOZuEutfl0048cMnOqwVjOLeZrO7_Xh_mOtCCwL6BiAQaZAqBVzahnfWrBiNvy9IcAUcY7z53PIwbWz1piZIG8_-XXU_LwwdEF2X2CjlAjAP5C9tCZ8/s400/DSC03760.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332322507422780626" border="0" /></a><br />The Angels allow a farmer in the village to keep some of his sheep in their orchard. The 3 ewes and 8 lambs currently in residence get free grazing and reciprocate by keeping the grass down in the orchard. This beneficial agreement creates endless bucolic scenes like the one above. Two local bee-keepers, one of them a druid, also keep a number of beehives in their orchard. The bees feast on the flowers, pollinate them and produce beautiful honey that the bee-keepers offer the Angels in lieu of rent. Everyone benefits. In seeking to live with interdependence and harmony we only need look at Nature's example. The Angels taught me that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGncGjlUN5MBnKqCt9oQAViyumUAibzztgR_ohwQkqB7Kp-Y9sXB2LQDUJDxTd2EQKL8jRFLJ4QDWKB0qM9xZVb-WYLtlO3Nn92pOtfIBWAZOCTz5SURQ3-KEEGNFu6MkvoDJapTAlmRU/s1600-h/DSC03751.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGncGjlUN5MBnKqCt9oQAViyumUAibzztgR_ohwQkqB7Kp-Y9sXB2LQDUJDxTd2EQKL8jRFLJ4QDWKB0qM9xZVb-WYLtlO3Nn92pOtfIBWAZOCTz5SURQ3-KEEGNFu6MkvoDJapTAlmRU/s400/DSC03751.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332322389727710274" border="0" /></a><br />At the rear of the garden is a splendid old wood with mature oak, yew, ash, hazelnut, acacia and chestnut trees which provide cover for an ever-changing magic carpet of springtime flowers. No sooner has the mantle of snowdrops gone over than bands of crocuses and scillas emerge to replace it, only to make way for a blaze of daffodils, then narcissus, and finally culminating in a spectacular blanket of bluebells. This picture does not do justice to just how delightful the wood is, even if the bluebells were coming to an end at the time I took it. Legs and Noodle love building forts and playing make-believe games in this wood. They stay there for hours on end, their shouts, laughter and occasional bickering weaving in and out of the leaves.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yCntGqUqsjvSVyrfs5eYzQHIy33SDhjP4EGZF18bmTHK1SlPngNXXQe6v0S-VS03tw7b5i4NrfKl9PTSjWmfGFcKYRrVpZNy_0NZZYDS_MozG9MXyTIuxkfQ8xTaumFieiOroixkCvg/s1600-h/DSC03745.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yCntGqUqsjvSVyrfs5eYzQHIy33SDhjP4EGZF18bmTHK1SlPngNXXQe6v0S-VS03tw7b5i4NrfKl9PTSjWmfGFcKYRrVpZNy_0NZZYDS_MozG9MXyTIuxkfQ8xTaumFieiOroixkCvg/s400/DSC03745.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332322207524577202" border="0" /></a><br />A formal hedge separates the orchard from the rest of the garden. A 6-foot tall hornbeam hedge borders this long walkway. Until a few years ago, Angel Senior used to trim this hedge herself, and the sight of this petite woman in her mid-70s brandishing a hedge-trimmer atop a tall ladder would give me the heebie jeebies. I have neither courage nor stamina to take on scary jobs like that. It's what separates hardcore gardeners like them from ordinary ones like myself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCs6KEAzDRLojYwlRn7jJIqNT66QKUpiq95tdRpKSK8Tz_qYSZXFM0pkCtb3QzkSRq4HfgBVBMGQU9svGJENgflAVe9ADsJxe_EMilPgd42OKk43Nbt_j7uzHs3iuBi1bqQq-fC2_mjI/s1600-h/DSC03776.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCs6KEAzDRLojYwlRn7jJIqNT66QKUpiq95tdRpKSK8Tz_qYSZXFM0pkCtb3QzkSRq4HfgBVBMGQU9svGJENgflAVe9ADsJxe_EMilPgd42OKk43Nbt_j7uzHs3iuBi1bqQq-fC2_mjI/s400/DSC03776.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332322099978486786" border="0" /></a><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">potager</span> or vegetable garden is mostly Angel Junior's domain. Have you ever seen vegetables more artfully grown? Most people who grow vegetables grow them in rows. Practical, but boring. Angel Junior mixes vegetables and flowers together. Her <span style="font-style: italic;">potager</span> is a suite of rooms separated by 'walls' of raspberry canes, and miniature pear and peach trees on cordons. In about a month's time, a canopy of grapevines and clematis will begin to provide summer shade for the lettuces.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wd8USQxljOHYUIPjBbag_fa0pmPY3ZptYB0zVXS4ZJJc3NPEDDYhbQP2NKKv3ppD8nuFPAKbbWdgtdgJQk1CM057fC6Rz5eUlp65x2gWVDOBnXEs5t6H0HTUC_9uzn0wjfWyKYZt8b4/s1600-h/DSC03772.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wd8USQxljOHYUIPjBbag_fa0pmPY3ZptYB0zVXS4ZJJc3NPEDDYhbQP2NKKv3ppD8nuFPAKbbWdgtdgJQk1CM057fC6Rz5eUlp65x2gWVDOBnXEs5t6H0HTUC_9uzn0wjfWyKYZt8b4/s400/DSC03772.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332321917741207778" border="0" /></a><br />An espaliered crab apple tree in full flower stands guard over Swiss chard, wood strawberries and leeks in raised beds bordered by campanulas and forget-me-nots.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANxA4boeaH24fJ773stLDdb8ADharwdXoC3AekpNfM4lroAjp5KUyStg8dYTu51hjH8o3br7w5gfjtvN5wAbPIepTuH3ZS1kG8lVmWHNxxgEANV0jOHt8mWRsK6kmDoqdGhSUmpkifsg/s1600-h/DSC03779.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANxA4boeaH24fJ773stLDdb8ADharwdXoC3AekpNfM4lroAjp5KUyStg8dYTu51hjH8o3br7w5gfjtvN5wAbPIepTuH3ZS1kG8lVmWHNxxgEANV0jOHt8mWRsK6kmDoqdGhSUmpkifsg/s400/DSC03779.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332321719638532194" border="0" /></a>Honesty's vibrant magenta flowers are offset by acid green ornamental grass. The Angels' boundless artistry is present in every picture-perfect corner of their garden. Even their compost heap is pretty.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhAYBS6FnnUxK9IWKDvqx6J7pjgHzAe88s66oiDd3AAE6tNYfzg-9tSVcK_bXOxWpJwl0CLJTmSX_pnPCSl7WTVodmdd99bVxBgwk73UU2Cu8rnEq7s9btsCEwaa4CGPulcSYijiJrSs/s1600-h/DSC03797.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhAYBS6FnnUxK9IWKDvqx6J7pjgHzAe88s66oiDd3AAE6tNYfzg-9tSVcK_bXOxWpJwl0CLJTmSX_pnPCSl7WTVodmdd99bVxBgwk73UU2Cu8rnEq7s9btsCEwaa4CGPulcSYijiJrSs/s400/DSC03797.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332321591237988898" border="0" /></a><br />Lime green euphorbias hug one of several huge walnut trees in the garden. In the autumn, I become the happy beneficiary of walnuts from this tree. They go into all my cakes and their flavor simply cannot be matched by supermarket walnuts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlwKFZtKNoWIfaaCeUY036_y6XHHrzOOS1wXzLSzDQwpxDgVRVu13xxfkXNX1Hi6Le9vIW5hq2o1vLNp7jN4A7vl6hK6mO_wdsCk7YueqqLKxQfv5CZ2yOXK-uoYSCkvpSvRko_WgYRg/s1600-h/DSC00215.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlwKFZtKNoWIfaaCeUY036_y6XHHrzOOS1wXzLSzDQwpxDgVRVu13xxfkXNX1Hi6Le9vIW5hq2o1vLNp7jN4A7vl6hK6mO_wdsCk7YueqqLKxQfv5CZ2yOXK-uoYSCkvpSvRko_WgYRg/s400/DSC00215.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332321394722721042" border="0" /></a><br />A magnificent magnolia sheds its petals on the lawn. The Angels love our children and spoil them rotten sometimes. Legs and Noodle have enjoyed Easter egg hunts in this garden since they were little.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtNyDDKrWr0tIBnH2Ary9fZXxiwLarZkQ0Ni36larHYBgOeV3xAy4Kilp1RVedlFlXI8lVz4AsFVCHGN6kKuIjJ5a4Ya1r1feJmJId416xioq5ZShYdsziU3joNVKEJoNSVZML5MIfSQ/s1600-h/DSC03812.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtNyDDKrWr0tIBnH2Ary9fZXxiwLarZkQ0Ni36larHYBgOeV3xAy4Kilp1RVedlFlXI8lVz4AsFVCHGN6kKuIjJ5a4Ya1r1feJmJId416xioq5ZShYdsziU3joNVKEJoNSVZML5MIfSQ/s400/DSC03812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332320856042997602" border="0" /></a><br />They must search high and low to find several <span style="font-style: italic;">kilos</span> worth of Belgian chocolate Easter eggs each year. They have become extremely <span class="hw">blasé</span> about going Easter egg hunting anywhere else. This year, I unilaterally (and very unwisely) decided that the children, now 13 and 10, had grown too old for Easter egg hunts. Oh my God, the fallout that ensued! At breakfast on Easter Sunday I was shot stony looks by Legs and Noodle who informed me in the strongest possible terms that they expect to continue this annual springtime ritual on Angel ground until they leave home. As a matter of fact, they refer to the Angels' garden as "<span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">garden</span>," which is ironic because they do not speak of our garden at home - yes, the one Skunk and I toil in - with as much proprietarial affection.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwBdN9ffoPS8Zflzu7xxCb3sBORu5xiyAjJGM5DG1Cra788BDZohvXjU64b8Rv_r_nmYQQbPH6rfptW8pJkeJv80LLYa2P2owoNbmEuK5l5A0OXkcAp3waBHEiEEAbySfFspITWfqjbs/s1600-h/DSC03820.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwBdN9ffoPS8Zflzu7xxCb3sBORu5xiyAjJGM5DG1Cra788BDZohvXjU64b8Rv_r_nmYQQbPH6rfptW8pJkeJv80LLYa2P2owoNbmEuK5l5A0OXkcAp3waBHEiEEAbySfFspITWfqjbs/s400/DSC03820.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332319512927388386" border="0" /></a><br />A garden like this is heaven for all forms of wildlife. The Angels, passionate bird lovers, have nesting boxes on almost all their large trees. This sheltered wall hosts a village of bird houses, some of which are recycled from vintage wooden boxes of Earl Gray tea.<br /><br />More posts on this garden will follow, but for now, I must get back to the weeds in ours.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. I've only just found out that if you click on any of these photos, they will come up larger and in greater detail.<br /><br /><br /></div></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-81090532725263925592009-05-04T19:15:00.005+02:002009-05-07T07:21:58.724+02:00"... lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos."As with cooking, I came late to gardening. It wasn't until Skunk and I bought our crumbling old farmhouse in the Brabant Walloon countryside that I first experienced the myriad joys and aches of gardening. Had I known what back-breaking work it would entail I might never have taken it up. But I did. And I'm hooked.<br /><br />I want to say something about gardening. Keeping a few houseplants or a few pots of herbs on a window sill does <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> make one a gardener. Walking around in a sun hat while sipping a large G&T and ordering a gardener around to do one's bidding is <span style="font-style: italic;">definitely</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">gardening</span> either, although my fear and loathing of slugs and snails, the pain shooting up my backside and my despair at the disgraceful state of my hands make me wish I could indulge in such moneyed pastimes. (Gardening for pussies is what I call <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>, so let's not go there.) Having neither the fortune nor the forbearance to deal with hired help, the only way I know how to garden is to get down and dirty myself. Picture me thus: I'm in a manky old sweatshirt and denim <span style="font-style: italic;">salopette</span>, up to my eyebrows in compost, arms criss-crossed in scratches and nettle rash; grass stains on my knees. Twenty-year-old leather gloves held together by stitching and equally ancient wellies caked in mud and cracked at the seams. Twigs and spider webs in my hair complete the Mrs Batty mien. Let's face it,<span style="font-style: italic;"> Country Living</span> will never ask me to model for them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF-Vfbwue4XR4BVcqgaO08SiCPP2__hTDHOAjm498GmutAm21IUEoZCHTLftIfXRyj6W5GcDQXJMrIQOkLHZY0kMyIPHWweGz1JvCfV_UvMeFwFrC_AM3U4QsYdVx_6h8rLwFCYi1tKk/s1600-h/DSC03265.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF-Vfbwue4XR4BVcqgaO08SiCPP2__hTDHOAjm498GmutAm21IUEoZCHTLftIfXRyj6W5GcDQXJMrIQOkLHZY0kMyIPHWweGz1JvCfV_UvMeFwFrC_AM3U4QsYdVx_6h8rLwFCYi1tKk/s400/DSC03265.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331905948188373474" border="0" /></a><br />My gardening year began with the appearance of brave little snowdrops (above) in late winter, an indication that spring was inexorably inching its way toward us. With temperatures in our area falling to a record minus 25 Celsius (or minus 13 Fahrenheit) this winter, we feared that the bitterly cold weather might kill off most of our plants. We lost quite a lot of them, including some real treasures. Many that didn't perish from the cold were heavily damaged and will take several seasons to recover. Some plants that didn't mind the cold at all were the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Helleborus niger</span>, also known as the<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Christmas rose (below). They put in an appearance in late winter and are just going to seed as I write.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiYBTkNeaEh8gdrXe0o_VZ5Jl3XnYomdORvIbslkH7WlGcPmC-r3qEJENx9ZWlnOoA_slG-A5Jh3ub9qd7uHmBRRNR_Nyw_iTHulT5vI5rsO_aN67G26ntH2DSSAVnF8QNYRkFG0IfUQ/s1600-h/P4100196.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiYBTkNeaEh8gdrXe0o_VZ5Jl3XnYomdORvIbslkH7WlGcPmC-r3qEJENx9ZWlnOoA_slG-A5Jh3ub9qd7uHmBRRNR_Nyw_iTHulT5vI5rsO_aN67G26ntH2DSSAVnF8QNYRkFG0IfUQ/s400/P4100196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331905766035436386" border="0" /></a><br />Spirits soar when the first of our cherry trees bursts into blossom. This is when I know that winter has finally turned the corner and longer, warmer days lie ahead. Whenever I look at cherry trees in springtime, the part of my brain where gratitude lives does a little Pavlovian pirouette and performs a mental recitation of Pablo Neruda's immortal line, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos"</span> (I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees). Apple trees are in bloom now too. Spring, pregnant with scent and the promise of flowers and summer, is without a doubt my favorite season in the gardening year - at least, for as long as I can ignore those returning gastropods of doom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuTVb1Y91y7ev5AKjeb5JrAwI1dhAml_PqMsH4ge3c5JjyRzELfVhFYzxVh4qmY4zfpHMkv6FtMudef473tC79_sHxuZplELdVpRz2BgluPf-MX349LAeKOucVuTGZWztZVF25NhmNcE/s1600-h/DSC00225.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuTVb1Y91y7ev5AKjeb5JrAwI1dhAml_PqMsH4ge3c5JjyRzELfVhFYzxVh4qmY4zfpHMkv6FtMudef473tC79_sHxuZplELdVpRz2BgluPf-MX349LAeKOucVuTGZWztZVF25NhmNcE/s400/DSC00225.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331899719575013330" border="0" /></a><br />Our property abuts a neighbor's abandoned, overgrown lot on one side and a cow pasture on the other. While I love not having next door neighbors because I can play music as loudly as I want without anyone but Legs and Noodle complaining, it does create a lot of extra work because the weeds from both sides migrate to ours. It does get very grrr-making especially in the summer when we seem to spend all of our time at weed control. Weeds always win. Of course.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIFsr5AOsPzVMrUbFOYT5TZdPh0Clzy6DvXVqxb4oaAETxQzpYNzGu5poyle54u5hf0FxcGt8fx2i6d2KTJXUgew68qEtzHwEY8weZxBRQLv5Jo157Cm4gifm_LjmDKzKfDliR1OHm-M/s1600-h/DSC00265.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIFsr5AOsPzVMrUbFOYT5TZdPh0Clzy6DvXVqxb4oaAETxQzpYNzGu5poyle54u5hf0FxcGt8fx2i6d2KTJXUgew68qEtzHwEY8weZxBRQLv5Jo157Cm4gifm_LjmDKzKfDliR1OHm-M/s400/DSC00265.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331899348196027682" border="0" /></a><br />This is the woodland, oh okay, the wild part of our garden with a happy <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Clematis montana</span> growing out of a beautiful antique porcelain toilet (to protect the roots) that I inherited from a friend who found it abandoned in a potato field.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUD8o-rD5sCS-uIsu0k5tFzsAEXitokZy3bT0BkUoUkZOG5ZFArkxGOfrf-Gr0Puw01ElGoMNLcqJsluWh5Yn5StbNBRXXHktjhcMwqDVOwmt7pyi7omj4Ruhy7hNKPUuHwGsqDviLBOc/s1600-h/DSC00262.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUD8o-rD5sCS-uIsu0k5tFzsAEXitokZy3bT0BkUoUkZOG5ZFArkxGOfrf-Gr0Puw01ElGoMNLcqJsluWh5Yn5StbNBRXXHktjhcMwqDVOwmt7pyi7omj4Ruhy7hNKPUuHwGsqDviLBOc/s400/DSC00262.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331898929304376770" border="0" /></a><br />The enormous billy goat who lives across the street has been casting lascivious glances at my gorgeous deep pink <span style="font-style: italic;">aquilegias</span>. If that wretched beast ever escapes and wreaks havoc on my plants I promise you he will end up as goat curry. A recipe for Jamaican goat curry, all our dub and reggae CDs and my scariest cleaver are already on stand-by.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vuKcQDrKQNcw0emIFkAJP6q7skrLVlK6ckwrDSjEAsgAnwtZaJmxOMBULzc2lhpsLvwO2701jMP9wRpCr_QMDztAVz7ctYKGhrLH5cB3rcvj_xdwG8wbsfBjdcvTDU3njmAndS9DhBw/s1600-h/DSC00273.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vuKcQDrKQNcw0emIFkAJP6q7skrLVlK6ckwrDSjEAsgAnwtZaJmxOMBULzc2lhpsLvwO2701jMP9wRpCr_QMDztAVz7ctYKGhrLH5cB3rcvj_xdwG8wbsfBjdcvTDU3njmAndS9DhBw/s400/DSC00273.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331898255776689874" border="0" /></a><br />One of my favorite climbers is the Wisteria. This <span style="font-style: italic;">W. floribunda 'Macrobotrys'</span> in the back garden has magnificent racemes reaching over 3 feet long with deeply scented pea-like purple flowers. I've been dropping hints to Skunk to build a strong tall structure for it to climb. One certainty of gardening is that as we cross off one thing on our endless horticultural To-Do list, two more come to take its place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsRLrY_yOOu7gFIwiBpIjEa3JPb9xs189-S3hdGuCYc1IM8SYW_1ZMZlJ_cf1J2J1UbM-Enx4sCMZr-KYwwPGswalQV4KiYGCX3kB1jkS6uqw6v7cOhLF0Dq0g8clfXJbe_dMDwy1DiM/s1600-h/DSC01474.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsRLrY_yOOu7gFIwiBpIjEa3JPb9xs189-S3hdGuCYc1IM8SYW_1ZMZlJ_cf1J2J1UbM-Enx4sCMZr-KYwwPGswalQV4KiYGCX3kB1jkS6uqw6v7cOhLF0Dq0g8clfXJbe_dMDwy1DiM/s400/DSC01474.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331897816676859970" border="0" /></a><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">wisteria sinensis</span> in our small front garden (below) is so abundant it's become quite the village showgirl. A <span style="font-style: italic;">Clematis montana 'Reubens'</span> grows through it and when it's at its peak we often see cars screeching to a halt in front of our house. Windows roll down and people gawk and take pictures with mobile phone cameras. I've had to stop gardening in pajamas in the morning since this started to happen. I mean, what if I end up in the papers in my pajamas? Unfortunately, this wisteria took a terrible wallop this winter and we had to cut it back hard, leaving almost no flowers for this year. It'll grow back eventually, but for now I'm cheating and posting a photo of what it looked like last year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zIUEqz-ubeAE65jOa1iL44R3A6a8mUiAMvoVhvWcAZL_mYt0YWZWQb_AgzJRbRb3z_VWBPLenAad2xf1YgAnkK45ng3l6csWysYxgvcV7Bhiy4wGgilgwIyLwmztWbAiFo_f6Z0mvPE/s1600-h/DSC00259.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zIUEqz-ubeAE65jOa1iL44R3A6a8mUiAMvoVhvWcAZL_mYt0YWZWQb_AgzJRbRb3z_VWBPLenAad2xf1YgAnkK45ng3l6csWysYxgvcV7Bhiy4wGgilgwIyLwmztWbAiFo_f6Z0mvPE/s400/DSC00259.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331897384165122130" border="0" /></a><br />Because I ache so much from gardening until almost 9 p.m. yesterday, I declared today a rest day. Never did get the hang of moderation, and anyway what would be the point? Spring doesn't have a pause button. As I stare at my fingernails in dismay, daydream about a massage I will not get and check the weather forecast for tomorrow, I find a certain amount of comfort and a great deal of truth in this Chinese proverb:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">If you want to be happy for a day, drink.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br />If you want to be happy for a year, marry.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br />If you want to be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br /></span><br /><br /></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-62673173014874304452009-04-20T20:02:00.006+02:002009-04-21T13:01:49.662+02:00On Angrrr<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcfgQ7GMYYbpZVhQwEh42Jsy7wJA7cHkety_E9ABAMMrIHlRXdbETLNdyFeY1Bis4UCaX2LJjv4pddwBVu_c7NqjpMG-03jC8DUVhHgCkx2_igrI-VkTu_GBIgsLuYVnr-xvtiaNOeb0/s1600-h/images-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcfgQ7GMYYbpZVhQwEh42Jsy7wJA7cHkety_E9ABAMMrIHlRXdbETLNdyFeY1Bis4UCaX2LJjv4pddwBVu_c7NqjpMG-03jC8DUVhHgCkx2_igrI-VkTu_GBIgsLuYVnr-xvtiaNOeb0/s400/images-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325612425454277970" border="0" /></a>I was incandescent with fury the other day. A friend called to break a long-standing commitment with me, and as a consequence of her actions I'll be out of pocket by several hundred Euros that I don't have because I am essentially a poor person. Don't get me wrong - I am rich in many ways; money just ain't one of them.<br /><br />Anger is a fascinating exercise. These days, I can actually listen to what my anger tells me I want. It requires me to get to a place of calm and quiet the noises in my head so I can listen to what I need to do to take care of myself instead of the other person. The other day it started with a slow burn, the getting-hot-under-the-collar bit when calm gave way to pique and swiftly morphed into indignation after my friend announced that her pillock of a husband insisted on tagging along to a week-long class she and I are taking in Ireland this June. This man likes to keep his wife on a very tight rein. Feminist snark that I am, I'm very allergic to neanderthals who behave as if they <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> their wives. Him coming means I lose my roommate and will then have to spend more on a single room which I can't afford. My carefully drawn budget was in tatters and all patience and compassion went pffft. I was furious at him for derailing our plans, and at her for failing to stand up to him and for not having the backbone to honor her commitment. Isn't anger amazing? In a heartbeat it transforms my reasonably sane and cheerful everyday self into a self-righteous, judgmental, napalm-breathing battleaxe. I can be pretty scary when I'm angry. How easy it is to wimp into coward mode and find fault with others rather than to face what's <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> going on inside.<br /><br />If I catch myself early enough and if the irritant is minor, taking deep breaths often helps. When I remember to, I pray the Serenity Prayer while being mindful of my breathing, and that's even better. But sometimes that slow burn comes to a rolling boil before I realize what's hit me, and when it happens, people who know me wisely clear out of my way. Fast. Nowhere is it more evident that I am a double Leo with Aries rising than when I'm angry. I burn; sparks fly. I swear like a linguistically-gifted Captain Haddock, only I spew epithets far ruder than "Blistering barnacles." Let me not name them here.<br /><br />I'm not a hurler or a breaker. I like things too much to throw them at people, and I hate it when I miss. And what would be the point of pounding a pillow when it's much more satisfying to pound the object of my anger? Except that I don't; not anymore. My brothers who are now in their 40s have a pet name for me. They call me Sidekick, a reference to our childhood in Bacolod when I had the temper of Yosemite Sam and the unerring aim of Bruce Lee whose films I adored as a child. When provoked, I'd aim for their nether parts. My ruthless right foot rarely missed its mark, hence the justly-deserved Sidekick honorific.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3_uLWn_a04TEEWfjHOuQMjlUfhJmBKPwwQYTJ37lL_gdGbFIZ2B8Zg4OB3_wIHSSbKnlqwIrwWJPDOZMuqAHnoXss9l1iw9SGqRWctNU6ryJ1IuxZP4QTzcVp9uQ0pfs1AS4Jpafsh0/s1600-h/Anger.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3_uLWn_a04TEEWfjHOuQMjlUfhJmBKPwwQYTJ37lL_gdGbFIZ2B8Zg4OB3_wIHSSbKnlqwIrwWJPDOZMuqAHnoXss9l1iw9SGqRWctNU6ryJ1IuxZP4QTzcVp9uQ0pfs1AS4Jpafsh0/s400/Anger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325610596825519298" border="0" /></a><br />Being angry is healthy. Staying resentful is toxic. Years ago, when I was more volatile and less wise, anger was a more frequent visitor. It turned me into a good bread baker. Into the dough would metaphorically go the object of my ire, then I'd knead my angst away. By the time golden loaves emerged from the oven my anger had usually dissolved, and fragrant bread was my reward. It taught me that anger didn't have to be destructive, it could be made positive and creative. Now that I have less time for bread-baking, I've discovered other constructive ways of expressing my anger. Dancing, writing, weeding or pruning in the garden, honing my knife skills in the kitchen are all good circuit breakers. Murderous thoughts still race through my head even as I engage in these calming measures. Thoughts that I am powerless to stop and deeply grateful that I don't need to act upon. So when fury came calling the other day, here's what I did. I remembered to breathe, and I used a Jin Shin Jyutsu self-help technique that involves nothing more complex than gently holding all my fingers one by one. I poured myself a restorative (read: very large) malt whisky, neat, and danced like a dervish to "Happiness" by <a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://www.myspace.com/djkraftykuts">A. Skillz & Krafty Kuts</a> with the volume cranked waaay up. I sharpened my kitchen knives and cooked a pork belly-chili pepper stir fry. By bedtime I found myself oddly tranquil again. I put it all in God's hands and slept like a baby.<br /><br />Only when I consciously surrender to the arc of my anger - owning it, expressing it, and letting it go - can I find release from its tenacious grip and accept the gifts of a cleansing fire. Once the ashes have cooled, peace and sanity are reborn. I am restored to the flow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Serenity Prayer</span><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">God grant me the serenity</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;"> to accept the things I cannot change;</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;"> courage to change the things I can;</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and wisdom to know the difference.</span><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-size:78%;">~ attributed to the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >Painting by Youngheui Lee Lim</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><br /></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-89748099503275681782009-04-15T13:07:00.018+02:002009-05-04T19:18:56.788+02:00the leaping greenly spirits of trees<div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyt1v18QmANJVLS4q8CVvl31-3omfUZ9kRymtoDCy4csitb_E0Ts_mlHRgaftmD97RjuUZCokJxnVVNHeP0W0qxNGbWJgPnU59D1gn0DVm5asx_FPFuu0p_Qm7_ujMjfxQqxR6QcYScE/s1600-h/000035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyt1v18QmANJVLS4q8CVvl31-3omfUZ9kRymtoDCy4csitb_E0Ts_mlHRgaftmD97RjuUZCokJxnVVNHeP0W0qxNGbWJgPnU59D1gn0DVm5asx_FPFuu0p_Qm7_ujMjfxQqxR6QcYScE/s400/000035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324873517895148482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/golfpunkgirl/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Liana Joyce</span></a></span><br /></div><br /><br />Sorry folks, but the garden has just gone ka-BLOOM with spring, and jobs that I was too lazy to attend to during the autumn and winter can no longer be ignored. So I will be spending more time outdoors pruning, staking plants, clearing flower beds of their winter debris, mulching, wrangling a recalcitrant willow igloo into shape and, hopefully, stealing a march on the weeds. At least until hay fever drives me back inside. Oh what fun my gluteus maximus is already having from my exertions which began in earnest last week. Naturally, I reward myself handsomely at the end of a hard day's graft with a very large whisky, or even two. Anyone who thinks I would subject myself to so much pain just for the pretty flowers is being hopelessly naive. Go munch on a Hallmark card.<br /><br />I'm also taking advantage of Legs and Noodle still being on Easter break this week, thus making them eminently handy for slug and snail patrol duty. Obviously, they'd rather be indoors watching YouTube or listening to endless repeats of the daft but catchy "Walking on a Dream" by <a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://www.myspace.com/empireofthesunsound">Empire of the Sun</a>, so I shamelessly resort to my old maternal stand-by: bribery by chocolate. How can someone who enjoys gardening as much as me be so terrified of slugs and snails? Totally pathetic, I know. Living in rainy Belgium means we're doomed to having the little bastards around in vast numbers three seasons out of four, no matter what preventive measures we take. They give me the heebie-jeebies. I simply cannot bear to touch them, especially slugs, not even with a long stick, and I would sooner run a mile than crush them underneath my wellies. Eeeeeeeww. When I'm alone and no one's around to rescue me from these disgusting slimy creatures, I keep a salt shaker in my overalls pocket, all the better to send them to a painful demise by meltdown. I didn't mean to get side-tracked, but now y'all know my Achilles heel.<br /><br />Till next post, I'll leave you with one of my favorite spring poems by e.e. cummings, he of the bolshy punctuation and the lower-case orthography. He was unconventional, funny, romantic and deeply spiritual, a poet after my own heart. I'm certain he never wrote poetry about slugs.<br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">i thank You God for most this amazing</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">which is natural which is infinite which is yes</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">(i who have died am alive again today,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">day of life and love and wings:and of the gay</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">great happening illimitably earth)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">how should tasting touching hearing seeing</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">breathing any-lifted from the no</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">of all nothing-human merely being</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">doubt unimaginable You?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">(now the ears of my ears awake and</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255); font-weight: bold;">now the eyes of my eyes are opened)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">ee cummings </span><span>(1894-1962)</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /></span> </span></span>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-79387759275613397042009-04-08T19:55:00.001+02:002009-04-08T19:59:45.425+02:00Brussels Street Art 1<div style="text-align: center;">Last spring a series of gigantic black-and-white portraits of African women burst out like tropical blooms all over downtown Brussels. Here are some I caught on camera.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfao6Kjag0CuLJDlJr7y8PwNZ64YmABeVBFcCV4gykBei7ZPSVtbh9xpkA2a6Kgp8wwUUVW5aTI7EaQ7fcve4lr3usycyvao1xVuzICPXgXCSHbQVIGSETRSFTrjzrGXU7e2cCHiMuQVo/s1600-h/P3260118.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfao6Kjag0CuLJDlJr7y8PwNZ64YmABeVBFcCV4gykBei7ZPSVtbh9xpkA2a6Kgp8wwUUVW5aTI7EaQ7fcve4lr3usycyvao1xVuzICPXgXCSHbQVIGSETRSFTrjzrGXU7e2cCHiMuQVo/s400/P3260118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321556629947239602" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know who the photographer was but I loved the way the women's expressions brought light and laughter to some of the city's dingier corners.<br /></div><div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPx2aZQIoimT0TAyczM-51oxJGTHekwWoz-hHlE-P7bpB1Z2shM6YG49GgVAMTUBrrq-BP-vGWs9_TsXsf3efU-WJpUcCETW9UdiLKHnCHb3a3XjRIX23TopFqCquvXBa2s0ITjjdSZQU/s1600-h/DSC01152.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPx2aZQIoimT0TAyczM-51oxJGTHekwWoz-hHlE-P7bpB1Z2shM6YG49GgVAMTUBrrq-BP-vGWs9_TsXsf3efU-WJpUcCETW9UdiLKHnCHb3a3XjRIX23TopFqCquvXBa2s0ITjjdSZQU/s400/DSC01152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321556250202477682" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This one was my favorite. It was at the end of one of the little side streets off the Grand'Place, the city's main square. I almost missed it. The look of joy on the woman's face was a blast of pure sunshine after I had been walking around for hours in the rain and cold.</div><div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_ivOb1Ceed9uoHsnO49mLZisF80faFO5gt-LIqejd4D1NUiviq5nhZBHRcwGNoffL-NjYpjO79Gx3C8fdT3Ebl-DEGAAmKtqyEhpesMzt9wwv1cWZN0Vd3wHwRx4CPBRd24XzjlN1q8/s1600-h/DSC01097.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_ivOb1Ceed9uoHsnO49mLZisF80faFO5gt-LIqejd4D1NUiviq5nhZBHRcwGNoffL-NjYpjO79Gx3C8fdT3Ebl-DEGAAmKtqyEhpesMzt9wwv1cWZN0Vd3wHwRx4CPBRd24XzjlN1q8/s400/DSC01097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321555443816061890" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">What a difference a smile makes.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbsU1_z0jQ8cbTMqjUR8k4Ev6VPjzLXGcW3CDKkmaBUrMu2Hn5mUELi_sEWLRBBAH1KGytLYhqlMYthMqdht9QRqDREqf8xcB5fDHtTtGlKWiCOKbZcEtNq517UG6rbwOAvnvzrWkVFI/s1600-h/P3260164.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbsU1_z0jQ8cbTMqjUR8k4Ev6VPjzLXGcW3CDKkmaBUrMu2Hn5mUELi_sEWLRBBAH1KGytLYhqlMYthMqdht9QRqDREqf8xcB5fDHtTtGlKWiCOKbZcEtNq517UG6rbwOAvnvzrWkVFI/s400/P3260164.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321552245385674514" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4703650526269968059.post-63936622400347004742009-04-05T17:03:00.021+02:002009-04-15T12:46:16.864+02:00Heroes: Legs takes a giant step.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE84Q3s5B1za2fvZhjWQ66d_W91gZ3qwq79fxON4SByz9ldnh5jH_TMmw-lrZx8PZdKZUkQYnlJScgqA0BZJEes1Ap3J5f4ypFMiTxbQpLvTuXhRZjEO5xYtJPPetWs8Ud4nQKuuVQY6U/s1600-h/Library+-+108.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE84Q3s5B1za2fvZhjWQ66d_W91gZ3qwq79fxON4SByz9ldnh5jH_TMmw-lrZx8PZdKZUkQYnlJScgqA0BZJEes1Ap3J5f4ypFMiTxbQpLvTuXhRZjEO5xYtJPPetWs8Ud4nQKuuVQY6U/s400/Library+-+108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324866967517264482" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >"I got to where I am because of education."</span> <span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">~ Michelle Obama, speaking to students at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School in London last Thursday</span> </span></div><br /><br />Legs and Noodle are in new schools this school year. Skunk and I decided to move them to Flemish schools from the French schools they've attended all their young lives. A bit of background on the tiny but complex country we live in: Belgium has three official languages - Dutch, French, and German. An estimated 59% of the Belgian population speaks Dutch, and French is spoken by 40%. There is a small German-speaking community in the east of the country. We live in the French-speaking part of Belgium although if we drive 20 minutes north we're in Flanders. Flemish is both the colloquial term given to the Dutch spoken in Belgium, and to the inhabitants of Flanders. If this sounds confusing, well, that's Belgium for you.<br /><br />It was convenient to send the children to the local French-speaking school. They started at the École Communale, a small but cheery primary school a 3 minute trundle from our front door. Eventually, we transferred Noodle to another school two villages away because it was piloting a Dutch immersion program. French native speakers would be taught most of their lessons in Dutch, with the aim of getting immersion students perfectly bilingual in both French and Dutch by the time they were 12 years old. There was skepticism at first, and parents like us who offered up our children as guinea pigs to this experimental program knew we were taking a risk. True, we could have bilingual children by age 12 - something nice to brag about to parents with monolingual kids. But things could backfire, and instead of speaking French and Dutch fluently, there was the possibility that the students would end up confused and speak both languages badly. To complicate matters further, we speak English at home, making English the children's mother tongue. Skunk and I speak passable everyday French. Translated, passable means that we speak it with execrable foreign accents, misconjugate our verbs, gender-bend our nouns, and are a little too free with the use of <span style="font-style: italic;">tu</span> instead of <span style="font-style: italic;">vous</span>. In more concrete terms, I speak good enough French to jaw down the price of a Le Creuset <span style="font-style: italic;">cocotte</span> at a flea market or have a blazing row with the shackass who swiped my parking space in front of the post office, but I will never be able to discuss Sartre eloquently at a dinner party. Not that we go to those types of dinner parties anyway, thank god.<br /><br />Over the last 3 years we had grown increasingly disillusioned with the Francophone school system's lack of funding and long-term vision. Schools were getting over-crowded, teachers were badly paid, over-worked and demotivated, academic standards were sinking, school equipment was falling apart and not being replaced. After Legs started high school at the French-speaking Athénée in the nearest town, she complained that her teachers were often absent and student discipline was a problem. Most of her classmates were more interested in mobile phones, reality TV and <span style="font-style: italic;">les baskets</span> Converse. She wasn't learning anything. We investigated the possibility of sending her to Flemish schools which are much better funded and reputed to have some of the best academic standards in the world. We found Legs a place at an excellent Flemish high school 25 minutes away, and decided to move Noodle to a primary school in the same town. When the new schoolyear began last September we took deep breaths and prayed hard. Settling in to a new school was relatively painless for Noodle. After 5 years in Dutch immersion learning, his Dutch was almost as good as that of his new classmates who spoke it at home. However, the change of schools has been a grueling transition for Legs, whose Dutch was rudimentary at best.<br /><br />Skunk and I repeatedly questioned the wisdom of our decision to throw an English mother-tongue, French-educated 13 year old in the deep end at what's turned out to be one of the most demanding high schools in Flanders. It seemed cruel doing it, even though we felt it was the right thing to do for Legs' education. It's been painful watching her struggle with subjects like History, Biology, Technology and Algebra in a language she could barely speak. We knew that all the parental love in the world coupled with her burning desire to succeed did not necessarily guarantee that Legs would make it. We grew frustrated with ourselves because we could scarcely understand the frequent communiqués the new schools sent home. We speak almost no Dutch so there was no question of helping her with her schoolwork. It would have been the blind leading the blind.<br /><br />It was clear to the headmaster and all her teachers from the start that Legs would be a special case. They welcomed her warmly but said she would have to work very hard. Her new classmates were friendly and helpful, although socially there was the language barrier to hurdle as well. Her first trimester grades were quite poor, as expected. Her teachers were impressed by how hard she was working and gave her the help and encouragement she needed. There was extra Dutch tutoring after school. She began to make friends. She enjoyed gym, especially swimming, which she's good at. She rejoiced in the fact that she was ahead of the others in French and English. In all her other subjects, she scraped bottom. Though she was tired everyday after school, she did her homework diligently and without complaint. She would study for exams a month in advance. She made many sacrifices to help her focus on school: her Nintendo was put away until the school holidays; computer time, unless required for homework, was limited to a couple of hours on weekends only; Saturday afternoon activities in Brussels were put off; her iPod gathered dust.<br /><br />Every language a child learns brings a different way of looking at the world. Week after week, we've watched with astonishment and delight as Legs' grasp of a new language has grown. The awkward phrases she mumbled six months ago have been replaced by the nimble, confident patter she keeps up with friends and teachers today.<br /><br />On Friday evening we attended a parent-teacher meeting to discuss her second trimester progress. Both kids left in the afternoon for a competition weekend in the Ardennes with their Flemish swim team. Then it's Easter break for the next 2 weeks. Legs had not seen her latest report card but warned me, "Mama, please don't be upset if my grades are still bad. I really did my best." With that in mind, we weren't expecting much when we sat before her teachers. So we were speechless with shock when we saw her latest grades, which have improved <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">tremendously</span>. Her teachers were full of praise, "We've not met many youngsters like your daughter, she's a real joy to teach!" Her grade point average is now just a few notches below the class average, and if she can keep up her momentum she will have caught up with everyone else by the time school ends in June. Legs has surpassed everyone's expectations. Sitting there listening to all this, I fought back tears of pride and relief. Skunk and I drove home in a daze. I sent a text message to her swim coach to give her the good news right away.<br /><br />I, perfectionist but slacker extraordinaire, am totally blown away by my girl's pluck and determination. I feel awful for yelling at her on the occasions she was too tired to remember to wash the dog's bowl, bring her dirty laundry downstairs or keep her desk tidy. When I look at the Herculean task she's tackled so bravely I know I should have cut her more slack at home. I could have, but I haven't always remembered to, or wanted to. Had it been me in her place I doubt I would have fared half as well. Humility is a classroom I will have to keep revisiting in earth school.<br /><br />There's a Zen saying that goes, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Legs, your student is here.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigL54GYR1wViJJCyuRMl8siGWcnwc1XyxUFcjIAPXzJ7P65Dv-Nd5gw7CQcDXdDfMudl-PilaoBOQs7Xj6M9Bdl-luklIBoCiq9xG10TYN2-3oMGWz__Is8D7VBoAR4nH70WCBUw4zLbY/s1600-h/Library+-+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigL54GYR1wViJJCyuRMl8siGWcnwc1XyxUFcjIAPXzJ7P65Dv-Nd5gw7CQcDXdDfMudl-PilaoBOQs7Xj6M9Bdl-luklIBoCiq9xG10TYN2-3oMGWz__Is8D7VBoAR4nH70WCBUw4zLbY/s400/Library+-+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321223622035001826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:85%;" >Photos of Legs by <a style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/golfpunkgirl/">Liana Joyce</a></span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div>Megatonlovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01166495159467947966noreply@blogger.com9