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  • Originally posted by badgergirl View Post
    Jam was a tradie. Sheet welder.
    An honourable trade welding, have dipped into it, its harder than it looks, I'm take it he was a better welder than mariner?!

    And a good job takes time Doc, ya don't wants to rush it....

    Comment


    • Originally posted by Dhansakdave View Post
      An honourable trade welding, have dipped into it, its harder than it looks, I'm take it he was a better welder than mariner?!

      And a good job takes time Doc, ya don't wants to rush it....
      Quality over quantity, I believe is how the wise one put it to me... you are correct sir...

      Comment


      • I never inspected his professional work. Good with hands, smooth tongue, enthusiastic - got the job as far as I am concerned.
        I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

        Comment


        • Originally posted by badgergirl View Post
          I never inspected his professional work. Good with hands, smooth tongue, enthusiastic - got the job as far as I am concerned.
          Sounds like the ideal qualifications to me, and for welding....

          Comment


          • Originally posted by Dhansakdave View Post
            Sounds like the ideal qualifications to me, and for welding....
            I thought so. They were happy years. I miss him. He was a disaster, but he was fun.
            I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

            Comment


            • Originally posted by badgergirl View Post
              I thought so. They were happy years. I miss him. He was a disaster, but he was fun.
              The last word is the main thing!

              Comment


              • Bryony Kimmings' Credible Likeable Superstar Role Model from a child's perspective

                Saw this yesterday and it was very powerful (I cried at one point)...now trying to figure out a way to see 'sex idiot' next week. I miss doing this stuff regularly.
                I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                Comment


                • Want to write, but can't pull my thoughts into a coherent narrative. My high school reunion was this weekend and, as a result, my FB feed is full of familiar, yet aged, faces. I, clearly, don't look a day over 18*...certainly, I'm exactly the same size, if a slightly different shape, as I was at high school. Al scrubs up well, but life hasn't been kind to most of the others. It's amazing - the tertiary educated look noticeably younger than the ranks of those who left at 16.

                  Had a great weekend, maybe that's why my thoughts are fractured. The trip to the theatre was followed by a meal with husband's friends and lots of gin. Sunday, small boy had a birthday party to go to. Husband and I ended up talking to each other for a couple of hours - this doesn't happen often - while the six year olds and their parents milled around. We made some good progress on a few relationship grumbles. Husband seems to be coming out of the slough of despond, but it's far too early to tell if this is a change that will have lasting effects.

                  Finally got around to watching Orlando starring Tilda Swinton... a book I love and an actor I adore, but the film was slow and heavy. The novel is an effervescent romp through time and pokes fun at gender, history, writers and fashion, amongst other things. Disappointing that this translated into such a heavy, ponderous and worthy cinematic outing.

                  And, since this is meant to be about food, despite last week being a bit heavy on the C2H5OH, I appear to still be losing weight. Need to find a way of holding steady before I freak out and eat to gain - why is this so hard to achieve?

                  *Well, okay then, 25 at the outside!
                  Last edited by badgergirl; 03-30-2014, 06:24 PM.
                  I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                  Comment


                  • Badger !!!!!! tell me your weight loss secret................... you can whisper it quietly...............
                    "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                    ...small steps....

                    Comment


                    • Originally posted by NZ primal Gwamma View Post
                      Badger !!!!!! tell me your weight loss secret................... you can whisper it quietly...............
                      I'd say holler it for the world to hear....

                      Good to hear the big boy is coming out of his morose BG, got to make life easier, thumbs up for great weekends, and never older than 25....Most of my old school friends look older and balder....

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                      • Gwamma is flying through Melbourne on thursday !!!!!!! I will wave to you Badger !!!!!!! Well we actually have an hours stopover, then its onto Perth.
                        Where the hell is that plane ?????????
                        "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                        ...small steps....

                        Comment


                        • I rock

                          I want to get this down while the thoughts and connections are fresh. Best friend and I have a shorthand for a set of ideas – let’s call it the philosophy of the rocking chair – about living life to the fullest to create a store of memories that will propel our rocking chairs in our extreme old age to rock just that little bit harder and faster than our contemporaries. I’ve excused a lot of misbehaviour with the thought that it will rock the chair – and since my defence/defusing mechanism is humour, I chuckle while I rock: that morning I woke up in a half-built hotel next to a few builders, the sink story in third year of uni (don’t ask, I won’t tell), throwing ashes off the top of the Odeon cinema and getting so wrecked that I mistook a normal car for a mini cab and scared the life out of some poor innocent driver at the traffic lights in Queen’s Park by getting into his car (covered in red wine vomit) and demanding that he drive me to Kensal Green… You get the picture.

                          But there’s another side to propelling the rocking chair that I am equally assiduous about: amassing a rich store of cultural referents so that every experience is enmeshed in a matrix of creative and intellectual reflections. Best friend and I (and doubtless loads of other people too) call this our mental furniture – those quotations, pieces of music and what have you that inform your appreciation of the world and yourself.

                          I’ll give two examples, one pop culture and one high modernist. Today I was thinking about the Oscar Pistorius case and I was thinking that there’s an A-ha song that totally encapsulates his poor-little-me-I’m-a-victim reaction to his murdering of his girlfriend. The blame apportioning, the self-pity, the plea for the victim to come back to life and help him escape the outcome of his actions:



                          In the third year of uni, my creative writing professor, in passing, remarked that through the frenzy of grief the nation experienced on learning of Princess Di’s death (that was the strangest time, completely bonkers hysteria on a national scale) she kept coming back to a poem by H.D.
                          Helen
                          All Greece hates
                          the still eyes in the white face,
                          the lustre as of olives
                          where she stands,
                          and the white hands.

                          All Greece reviles
                          the wan face when she smiles,
                          hating it deeper still
                          when it grows wan and white,
                          remembering past enchantments
                          and past ills.

                          Greece sees unmoved,
                          God’s daughter, born of love,
                          the beauty of cool feet
                          and slenderest knees,
                          could love indeed the maid,
                          only if she were laid,
                          white ash amid funereal cypresses.

                          Well, quite. And loving my creative writing professor, I went on to read a lot of H.D. and even wrote my masters dissertation on myth, poetic voice and liminal states in H.D.’s work, until I hated H.D. and academic endeavour (I might be ready to go back to it now).

                          I read poems, novels, reviews, history; absorb art; watch theatre and cinema... all with a view to enriching the palace of my mind so that I shall rock in greater comfort and luxury; to sit with silent thoughts and for those thoughts to be engaging enough to propel the chair forward.

                          This might explain why the gentleman caller who completely blew my mind on a physical level – wherever you are, good man, I salute you – got kicked, regretfully, to the kerb the next morning. His pillow talk consisted entirely of Harry Enfield and Blackadder quotes. That man’s mental furniture was all flatpack Ikea.

                          And since it is my favourite poem of hers and somewhat apt, indulge me by reading another poem (my emphasis).
                          Eurydice
                          I

                          So you have swept me back,
                          I who could have walked with the live souls
                          above the earth,
                          I who could have slept among the live flowers
                          at last;

                          so for your arrogance
                          and your ruthlessness
                          I am swept back
                          where dead lichens drip
                          dead cinders upon moss of ash;

                          so for your arrogance
                          I am broken at last,
                          I who had lived unconscious,
                          who was almost forgot;

                          if you had let me wait
                          I had grown from listlessness
                          into peace,
                          if you had let me rest with the dead,
                          I had forgot you
                          and the past.

                          II

                          Here only flame upon flame
                          and black among the red sparks,
                          streaks of black and light
                          grown colourless;

                          why did you turn back,
                          that hell should be reinhabited
                          of myself thus
                          swept into nothingness?

                          why did you glance back?
                          why did you hesitate for that moment?
                          why did you bend your face
                          caught with the flame of the upper earth,
                          above my face?

                          what was it that crossed my face
                          with the light from yours
                          and your glance?
                          what was it you saw in my face?
                          the light of your own face,
                          the fire of your own presence?

                          What had my face to offer
                          but reflex of the earth,
                          hyacinth colour
                          caught from the raw fissure in the rock
                          where the light struck,
                          and the colour of azure crocuses
                          and the bright surface of gold crocuses
                          and of the wind-flower,
                          swift in its veins as lightning
                          and as white.

                          III

                          Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
                          wild saffron that has bent
                          over the sharp edge of earth,
                          all the flowers that cut through the earth,
                          all, all the flowers are lost;

                          everything is lost,
                          everything is crossed with black,
                          black upon black
                          and worse than black,
                          this colourless light.

                          IV

                          Fringe upon fringe
                          of blue crocuses,
                          crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
                          blue of that upper earth,
                          blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
                          lost;

                          flowers,
                          if I could have taken once my breath of them,
                          enough of them,
                          more than earth,
                          even than of the upper earth,
                          had passed with me
                          beneath the earth;

                          if I could have caught up from the earth,
                          the whole of the flowers of the earth,
                          if once I could have breathed into myself
                          the very golden crocuses
                          and the red,
                          and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
                          the whole of the golden mass,
                          the whole of the great fragrance,
                          I could have dared the loss.

                          V

                          So for your arrogance
                          and your ruthlessness
                          I have lost the earth
                          and the flowers of the earth,
                          and the live souls above the earth,
                          and you who passed across the light
                          and reached
                          ruthless;

                          you who have your own light,
                          who are to yourself a presence,
                          who need no presence;

                          yet for all your arrogance
                          and your glance,
                          I tell you this:

                          such loss is no loss,
                          such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
                          of blackness,
                          such terror
                          is no loss;

                          hell is no worse than your earth
                          above the earth,
                          hell is no worse,
                          no, nor your flowers
                          nor your veins of light
                          nor your presence,
                          a loss;

                          my hell is no worse than yours
                          though you pass among the flowers and speak
                          with the spirits above earth.

                          VI

                          Against the black
                          I have more fervour
                          than you in all the splendour of that place,
                          against the blackness
                          and the stark grey
                          I have more light;

                          and the flowers,
                          if I should tell you,
                          you would turn from your own fit paths
                          toward hell,
                          turn again and glance back
                          and I would sink into a place
                          even more terrible than this.

                          VII

                          At least I have the flowers of myself,
                          and my thoughts, no god
                          can take that;
                          I have the fervour of myself for a presence
                          and my own spirit for light
                          ;

                          and my spirit with its loss
                          knows this;
                          though small against the black,
                          small against the formless rocks,
                          hell must break before I am lost;

                          before I am lost,
                          hell must open like a red rose
                          for the dead to pass.
                          Last edited by badgergirl; 03-31-2014, 05:21 PM.
                          I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                          Comment


                          • Originally posted by NZ primal Gwamma View Post
                            Gwamma is flying through Melbourne on thursday !!!!!!! I will wave to you Badger !!!!!!! Well we actually have an hours stopover, then its onto Perth.
                            Where the hell is that plane ?????????
                            Ha! If I'd known I would have taken the day off, we live not far from the airport.
                            I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                            Comment


                            • oh bugger - I have only just made the Badger - Melbourne connection - sorry.
                              stoooopid Gwamma !!!!!!!
                              "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                              ...small steps....

                              Comment


                              • Originally posted by NZ primal Gwamma View Post
                                oh bugger - I have only just made the Badger - Melbourne connection - sorry.
                                S'ok. Make do with virtual hugs instead. xxx
                                I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                                Comment

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