The intertidal zone

I sat out on the door-sill of the old shed, under the grapevine, to read through the newly arrived book contract, feeling the thrills of hope and desire (that word again) that accompany a new venture.

Ker-thug. A brown leaf, large as a hand, and as gnarled, dropped onto the open pages. And a second. I looked up and saw the remnant grapes, bird-pecked, and shrivelled into currants. The cat threw herself down a few feet away. They all remind me not to cling; that beauty and glory are momentary. They say, Don’t want too much. Have (lightly hold, enjoy, marvel at) what you have already. Be here now.

And look what the honey-man just brought in, here and now, to our kitchen table. Pure gold. A window for a gingerbread cathedral.

3/5 of the familial feet

In the interests of beautiful feet (the material version thereof), I was shopping for a new piece of sandpaper.

Banish ‘callous’ heels said the tiny print on the box, and believe me, by the end of summer, mine are ruthless and I want them gone. I was in the 1,2,3-dollar shop, shushing my qualms, for the sake of unsnagged sheets and stockings. The device was a ‘nutmeg’ grater inside an egg with one flattened face to which could be attached a disc of emery paper for the finishing buff. The box further read, ‘U.S. and Worldwide Patents Pending’ and ‘Made in China’, which sounds slippery any way you hear it.

Egged on by a yip of anticipation at — no, from — my heels, I didn’t stop long to think about who wasn’t making enough money from the manufacture if this nifty gadget. I paid my $2, took the egg, and left. My feet are a work in progress.

This morning’s front page is crowned with the laughing face of the chief instigator of Dunedin’s Coming-Like-It-Or-Not Stadium(2010)/Aquarium(2030)/Sunken Treasure(2050). The disapproval of a majority of citizens has been formally quashed. (But really, could a plume of smoke and pair of little horns make his appearance any more Machiavellian?)

Like me with my heel-egg, he wants what he wants and nothing short of a bolt from Zeus was ever going to stop him. The Stop the Stadium movement built up its own impressive head of steam, but since the boys in power have refused to even glance its way, alternative means of disapproval are called for.

I can’t help wondering, though: where does power come from and where reside? How does it accumulate, and to what does it ultimately adhere? Even the name, Stop the Stadium, directs a certain potency towards the unwanted project. People think about it, imagine it; sparks fly about it — and these non-material energies ought not to be underestimated. What if we all found creative ways to ignore it? Yawned about it and went for walks instead over Dunedin’s lovely hills; threw more compost on our vege gardens; found ways to honour the patch of ground and river and harbour over which the conceived monstrosity looms?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, but they persist, and I know that the force of desire, and the force of opposition have to meet somewhere, eventually (and there’s an awful lot of glass at stake in this particular configuration) …

Before one daughter photographed the other photographing this obliging Pisan dog now introduced to you, they had spent the entire night walking round and round Siena, there being no room for them in the inns. NZ girls WOOFing in Italy. At any moment, however, they were only a text message away from home. I think this is leading to a discussion about ‘small world’.

This morning I sat and looked at a lighted candle for a little while, and tried to think about breathing without thinking about it. I find this very hard (hints and companions are welcome). And yet I didn’t feel alone. People all over the world do something similar — tens, maybe hundreds of thousands at any given time.

I opened emails from friends: E in Argentina planning for my visit there in September so we can finish co-writing a bilingual novel; D in Utah delights in my delight in her manuscript; Burmese K, newly emigrated to the US, has a translation for me to edit. We’ll meet in September, too. I’ve heard from India, Edinburgh and Iowa this week. Overnight ‘Meeneusia’ has commented on my blog, whose own blog language I can’t even discern, but our lives and thoughts have now touched.

What once seemed extraordinary is now the ordinary, fabulous, webby fabric of our lives.

Just as rich as going away later in the year will be staying home tonight with friends, face to face, sharing food by the fire.

Face to face or via the ethers, whatever we do, we do with others — even breathing quietly in a room alone.

… and the darkness has not overcome it.

And he bought a linen shroud, and taking him down, wrapped him in the linen shroud, and laid him in a tomb which had been hewn out of the rock;and he rolled a stone against the door of the tomb.

Mark 15:46

A bit gloomy today. Springing out of bed early (hooray for daylight-spending!) and swimming failed to work their usual magic. The postie brought tripe, I wrote half a page of tripe, and nobody emailed. Didn’t want to blog, probably ever again.

But gloom, like the fudge that arrived today from Edinburgh in an paper bag, has a way of melting. My housemate was cheerful; a friend shared some exquisite news; and for some reason I remembered the dogs of Iowa.

There in autumn 18 months ago, I caught wind of news that the city’s hounds had been given the freedom of the municipal pool. What matter a few hairs, drool and yellow water on the last day of the season?

Big dogs hit the water running. Little ones minced about the fringes of the toddlers’ pool. Some were too precious for words, or water.