I went, this morning, to see my doctor (who happens to look like Simon Baker, so never a hardship) for a full check-up. What this means is that at my prompting I have, this morning, had blood tests taken for everything and anything - organ function, cholesterol, iron, hormone levels etc etc etc.
I also had two tiny spots burnt off my face - well frozen. They were so small to be almost invisible but I could feel them with the tips of my fingers, so he removed them. These are a result of growing up in the Tropics. Over the last couple of years I've had 3 others frozen off. I am vigilant about it. A spot vigilante. He is always impressed that I've managed to locate such tiny things. In return I try to impress on him how much I like being alive in explanation.
He has been my Doctor now for many years. When he started his first practice, I was one of his first clients. I have remained with him as he moved on up to his present position at the best private Medical Centre in Cairns. He wears gorgeous silk shirts and Italian leather shoes, is a vegetarian, smart as the proverbial whip and is musically trained. I adore him. He says things like: 'I'm never going to get time for creativity if I stay in medicine', and this morning, upon hearing that I have begun my Doctorate: 'I admire you, you're so pure.'
So, you see - always entertaining. As though medicine is a millstone around his neck and I'm living a covetable life. Very funny.
But, back to the tests. In the spirit of transformation I am giving my body a thorough tune-up. Much as I hate car metaphors when discussing the human body, this one seems appropriate. No longer brand-new, I'd like to be well cared for and shiny anyway.
So, coming at you; sweet and pure, soon to be shiny.
Darkness is, of course, a given.
Midnight blue perhaps?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Conniptions.
Gaaah! Am having a conniption re: templates.
Is it a symptom of other things?
Perhaps a crisis of identity?
Maybe it's the low pressure curtesy of Cyclone Ellie, who blustered around off the coast a bit before blowing herself out, without so much as a fallen branch.
Conniption indeed.
A conniptious week then.
So far.
Is it a symptom of other things?
Perhaps a crisis of identity?
Maybe it's the low pressure curtesy of Cyclone Ellie, who blustered around off the coast a bit before blowing herself out, without so much as a fallen branch.
Conniption indeed.
A conniptious week then.
So far.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Diversions.
Have just arrived home from a rather diverting evening - a dinner party where each guest was required to give a performance of some sort, kicked off by the host who ate a number of pages of a book she didn't much like. Was she swallowing? No. After 10 or more pages were torn into small pieces and compacted somehow in her mouth, she spat it all onto the floor in front of her. Some review, huh?
Next was a fine piece of slide guitar, followed by an acapella gospel song, a book reading by the author of said book, and a remarkably moving reading of 'Oh The Places you'll Go' by Dr Seuss. I, of course, played a song (the guitar was finally slung on my back again for a moment). The night continued with more music and the type of conversation that spins off satisfyingly on tangents and then rings around again to the main thrust before whimsically spilling all over the place.
Tired, yet not.
Must, of course, go to bed.
Some nights: better than others.
Next was a fine piece of slide guitar, followed by an acapella gospel song, a book reading by the author of said book, and a remarkably moving reading of 'Oh The Places you'll Go' by Dr Seuss. I, of course, played a song (the guitar was finally slung on my back again for a moment). The night continued with more music and the type of conversation that spins off satisfyingly on tangents and then rings around again to the main thrust before whimsically spilling all over the place.
Tired, yet not.
Must, of course, go to bed.
Some nights: better than others.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
On Death. ( A Post in 6 parts).
I.
Early this morning I was tossing and turning in my bed, slit-eyed at the first light that was managing to infiltrate my room, and grit-jawed at my own darkness which had laid claim to me in the night. 'Dawn be damned,' it/I said.
Hi-jacked for the day I made busy. Cleaning. Shopping. Sorting. Reorganising. And yes, running. I pounded the pavement, venturing further than I had so far. It helps. O tomorrow I'll be sore. Sore beats angst (paper covers rock).
The strange thing is that since I've taken up jogging, I've been dreaming it too. In my dreams I am strong and never tire. I run the length of the town, run the hill at the end of my street, run along the landing strips of the airport, and beyond.
Just as though I would live forver.
II.
I have begun reading for my grand project. First up: Breton's 'Manifesto of Surrealism' and Artaud's 'The Theatre and its Double' which already has me tracking back to Nin's diaries and wondering who in fact she did and didn't sleep with.
III.
The black dog is an unruly bastard. He really isn't mine. Maybe I'll put up some posters, somebody might lay claim.
IV.
I am considering a french polish. In honour of Anais.
Tomorrow I would like to don a red velvet cape and run off to a liquid lunch with Henry Miller. Alas. What I'll actually do is step out into the great wet blanket of the monsoon season plastered with repellant to guard against the outbreak of Dengue fever which is IN MY STREET as I write.
V.
Yesterday someone I know died suddenly. This goes a long way to explaining I. and III.
VI.
Life's too short etc. I won't bang on about it.
I will, however, recommend jogging and philosophy.
That is, of course, if you aren't in love.
Early this morning I was tossing and turning in my bed, slit-eyed at the first light that was managing to infiltrate my room, and grit-jawed at my own darkness which had laid claim to me in the night. 'Dawn be damned,' it/I said.
Hi-jacked for the day I made busy. Cleaning. Shopping. Sorting. Reorganising. And yes, running. I pounded the pavement, venturing further than I had so far. It helps. O tomorrow I'll be sore. Sore beats angst (paper covers rock).
The strange thing is that since I've taken up jogging, I've been dreaming it too. In my dreams I am strong and never tire. I run the length of the town, run the hill at the end of my street, run along the landing strips of the airport, and beyond.
Just as though I would live forver.
II.
I have begun reading for my grand project. First up: Breton's 'Manifesto of Surrealism' and Artaud's 'The Theatre and its Double' which already has me tracking back to Nin's diaries and wondering who in fact she did and didn't sleep with.
III.
The black dog is an unruly bastard. He really isn't mine. Maybe I'll put up some posters, somebody might lay claim.
IV.
I am considering a french polish. In honour of Anais.
Tomorrow I would like to don a red velvet cape and run off to a liquid lunch with Henry Miller. Alas. What I'll actually do is step out into the great wet blanket of the monsoon season plastered with repellant to guard against the outbreak of Dengue fever which is IN MY STREET as I write.
V.
Yesterday someone I know died suddenly. This goes a long way to explaining I. and III.
VI.
Life's too short etc. I won't bang on about it.
I will, however, recommend jogging and philosophy.
That is, of course, if you aren't in love.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Here's the rub.
I have just had a day to myself. My daughter has finally started school for the year, and I gave myself the day off before starting back myself.
I had coffee with good friends then took myself off for a much anticipated massage. I thought I'd choose something different in the spirit of transformation (my word for the year incidentally) and went for the 'Hot Rock' massage which involved warm rocks on chakras, a very nurturing massage involving said rocks, and the scents of vetiver and pettigrain and bergamot. There was even, at one stage, the sound of Tibetan chimes to 'breathe' in, and some Reiki.
I have noticed lately that I'm becoming sick of my tendency towards cynical stances. I'm tired of it. So, in the spirit once more, I shall just say that I felt extraordinarily relaxed and somehow opened up at the end of the session which lasted well into the second hour. So whether it was the rocks or the chimes or the Reiki or the rub matters not. The proof of the pudding is indeed in the eating, or in this case, in the feeling. I felt good and I don't give a rock why.
I'm booked in again next month.
I had coffee with good friends then took myself off for a much anticipated massage. I thought I'd choose something different in the spirit of transformation (my word for the year incidentally) and went for the 'Hot Rock' massage which involved warm rocks on chakras, a very nurturing massage involving said rocks, and the scents of vetiver and pettigrain and bergamot. There was even, at one stage, the sound of Tibetan chimes to 'breathe' in, and some Reiki.
I have noticed lately that I'm becoming sick of my tendency towards cynical stances. I'm tired of it. So, in the spirit once more, I shall just say that I felt extraordinarily relaxed and somehow opened up at the end of the session which lasted well into the second hour. So whether it was the rocks or the chimes or the Reiki or the rub matters not. The proof of the pudding is indeed in the eating, or in this case, in the feeling. I felt good and I don't give a rock why.
I'm booked in again next month.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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