so symmetrical is the world that here he is once more in my life; the sonic manipulator. direct (gen confirm?) from swanston street to broadway market. the melbourne sun on his foil suit has overcome him and the last five years busking there have paid for his ticket here, ready for a long hot summer in london fields. a tenderly captured moment, thank you carol.
apparently i cannot put my baby seeds into their drawers outside till after the last frost. when is The Last Frost? I had thought it was over, the second day of spring was 11degrees. my poor cramped sprouts, kept on cotton-wool inside the window. there are those who wear their legs bare only from june to august, and there are those who go from may-day till october.
the third day of spring and a happy birthday to mt nelson; here with it’s full moon over the deep blue and wobbly edge of the river derwent, and with its own late summer harvest. x
yet. just a bitterly cold and barren wasteland of earth un-forthcoming.
this is an old one (repost…) in an old style, but a timeless melodrama.
the sun comes out. i read the guardian and have a cup of tea from a design mug after a saturday trip to the garden shop. should have bought some organic olives from the local farmer’s markets too.
but i do have six tiny trays of dirt and seeds now, as well as two planter boxes designed from found unwanted furniture in the local neighbourhood and using a restrained colour-way. i hope you like my vegetable garden, which will flourish any day now.
today for the first time i hated london and england, but then just as i looked out my window onto the slow darkening of a damp sun-less sky, a tiny light came on in a neighbouring house and it looked warm. and my own room was warm too. the problem with reading Viktor Frankl’s Nazi death camp memoir Man’s Search for Meaning is that every time i try to mope i hit my head against a wall of relative luck and comfort.
a couple of weeks ago my dream was so vivid: of this children’s book called Lupinchen. I bought it from amazon but it is in german. judging from the beautiful illustrations: a story about a girl called lupinchen who (of course with her funny friends) builds a house from paper. poor lupinchen, before her decorations and dinner parties are complete the winds blow the house away and it is skillfully transformed into an origami paper plane and then, crash-landing in the ocean, into a paper boat. eventually, and after having discarded all her crockery, this too sinks, and the paper can’t save her. so a big bird does. it’s beautiful.
in primrose hill the pale low sun brightens white against dark knuckle trees and crispy winter sky.
the museum of everything is a cavernous sequence of rooms, up stairs and down low-ceilinged hall-ways; a big old house filled with strangeness. these are works by jailed mental patients, racists, homophobes and the common unsettled. nostalgia, sentimentality, darkness, and heavy-handed penmanship aside, there are beautiful tiny drawings: schizophrenic oswald tschirtner’s drawings of squids, intricate watercolours of russian guns. the stories were engrossing, not that i read many; it was the final week of exhibition and the big musty house was packed tightly with people who have blogs.
karol lasia / khomatech is the best cat photographer
quite good views over old street, constructed this past summer and weathered stormy conditions well.
there is a number 38 every 2-5 minutes, but it wouldn’t be the back of the 38 without a chicken bone.
on new years eve. almost there.
