A Good Death

A GOOD DEATH. Possibilities for getting to the final days in some form of peace? As some people are drawn into the final days, some people are repelled. There is some pretence that things can go on as they have always done. Eating seems to be a pleasure that the willing or unwilling observers insist must go on. One can’t live without food. What can one live with or without. Love and conversation? Praise and rebukes? Choices and considerations? Kisses and caresses? The eyes of those you love? The very breath of those you love? Their touch? Their voice? While it all fades to a strange distance. What is left?

Waiting for more Poirot

I will always hold out until a TV show makes its way to free to air. No down loading or Foxtel for me. But I am warming to iview, all the shows I used to miss are now at my fingertips. No reality TV, but plenty of Poirot to tempt me. The photography of the settings is impressive, dare I say it, even cinematic. Poirot himself is a portrait of eccentricity, pomposity and impeccable attire. I hope David Suchet continues with this funny little creation.

Brazillian becoming obsolete?

What comes around, comes around. So things wax and wane. But has sanity returned to the waxing debate? Nikki relates news of a return to the 70’s vibe. (Feb 15th) I hope this is not wishful thinking. But women will continue to try and outdo each other in the name of vanity. Pain does not appear to matter………………………………..

Fragility

So unmeasurable is the sadness and grief at the loss of Luke. The eleven year old boy, murdered by his own father in horrific circumstances in Tyabb. One wants to will it to not be so. I feel for Mark Dupain, as he related his own story, by association, of tragic loss in his childhood. (Feb 15th) Lives destroyed. The attempt to shield the news. Finding the loss can never make sense. The loss of a child, just beginning their own life. And all the friendships, loves, travels and discoveries that could have been. It seems to show just how fragile our hold on life really is.

Strung out mother

How well I can relate to the trials of the strung out mother. (Feb 1st) Time poor, guilt ridden, craving that precious 'me' time. I hear you Nikki. Yet the nature of womanhood is that a collective voice is always elusive. There are those who seem to glide through the school years. Experts at delegating to relatives and significant others. Controlling all eventualities. Throwing money at any obstacle. Still we all survive somehow. I have the weird feeling that I am now being parented by my adult children. Who seem more organised than I ever was!

Memories of Malcolm and Marching

Decent Obsessions Bernard, thank you for those school memories from the 60's. They mirror many of my own. Marching in complex formations on hot asphalt. Standing straight to attention. If we weren't we had to put our hands on heads. I recall the assemblies, the 'old' anthem and walking home in gruelling heat. My memories also swarm to awards given out at the assembly. I strived to stand straight to attention to merit an award. It went to a neighbours boy, named Malcolm. I could not comprehend why. Years alter I worked through that they had an horrific home life. Frequent loud and ugly arguments were heard. It was an encouragement award for one who really had it tough. For one who not only had to study, but survive the disintegration of a family. It has me wondering after all these years, what became of Malcolm?