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Bones, beans, beds

    The day started with a lit candle that I sat and didn’t look at while I tried not to think either.

A nice young man cranked my arm and shoulder into positions it was reluctant to adopt. However, progress is being made.

I blogged over at Rosa Mira Books, wondering where in a sex shop an author might position herself to deliver a talk about erotica in the old days, the bits that didn’t fit into her novel.

I proof-read the final chapter of Michael Jackson‘s anthropological memoir Road Markings, which Rosa Mira will publish soon. The cover will be by a collaboration of  daughters. And it will look a lot flasher than the image above.

These seedlings found homes today: beans beside path, basil in pot, pumpkin ringed about by rainbow silverbeet.

                           I admired the freshly painted doorstep and freshly oiled door.

  Our son comes home tonight. The bed is welcoming but not wide. It’s all set up for early rising.

                    It was 27 degrees C here today. The vased peonies silently exploded.

 

Now it’s Key versus Goff.  Glib and smug versus honest and earnest. Take your pick.

 

8 replies on “Bones, beans, beds”

Thanks for the suggestion, Helen. It’s a while since I wrote a poem and a very long while since I felt confident when I did but . . . maybe this is the start of one.

‘the candle I didn’t look at while trying not to think either’….perfect description of meditation and made me laugh out loud! You should write a poem around that line. xxx H

Nice to find you here, Antares. Alas, although I opened up my Blogger settings as you advised, I couldn’t post. But yours is not the only site where I have trouble. I was saying that I love the fact that a book often carries at least two stories, for example I read Isabel Allende’s Paula for distraction on an otherwise murderous bus ride in Turkey. I publish digitally at Rosa Mira Books so that a few fine books that would otherwise struggle to reach their readers, thanks to the current hard copy publishing squeeze, can do just that. The most treasured ebooks might eventually make it to hard copy. It’s fantastic that writers and readers have so many options opening up.

Penelope, greetings and salutations.
I knew I had seen your name, but could not recall where your blog was.
Sorry you had such difficulty leaving a comment, it would have been interesting to read your point of view on the paper vs electronic book debate.

Google is making some unwanted changes, which may explain things.

Like your illustrations.

Isabel, I just saw your comment here, too. I am tardy this week. Each coming and going has a tone of its own, doesn’t it? This one didn’t feel quite ready to return home but necessity dictated. He’s the only one that argues with me (out loud, at least) — robust exchanges, I like to think. Do yours visit you in exile?

I find refreshment in your easily identifiable images, in your straightforward words. Life IS a door, a seedling, a rug, an exploding peony. (I have a rubber stamp coming out that says, at last, “It is what it is.” I cannot wait.) xo

It does sound like a busy and productive day. I find waiting for my ‘children’ to return home a bizarre confusion of excitement and dread. Excitement to see them and cuddle them and have long discussions and dread that they will leave again, that we will argue and that I simply WON’T understand.

Best wishes Isabel xx

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