Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Book spine poetry


Meandering around the internet last night led me here and then here, where I was inspired by this very cool response to a book spine poetry challenge:
In case it wasn't clear, this picture's from here
On seeing this, my husband immediately shuffled off to our bookshelf and returned with this (as well as a determination to “buy any second hand book that has a verb in the title”):
The lighting is a little dodgy; it says:

The prince
the little prince
burning for revenge
in a sunburned country
The idiot
the idiot
looking for Alibrandi
in the company of cheerful ladies

And I, being far less poetically-able than any of the above, came up with this:

Monday, August 13, 2012

Glasses


I spent most of my teen years wishing I had glasses (with tortoise-shell frames) so that I’d look sophisticated and intelligent. I now have to wear glasses all the time and have come to realise that appearing sophisticated and intelligent is overrated and that the grass was waaaaay greener on the other side. (At least I think it was, I can’t see that far anymore to check.) Glasses are annoying for many reasons - they don’t have windscreen wipers but do get rained on, they steam up when you’re washing dishes or pulling something out of the oven, and little boys seem to find ways of smudging the lenses less than a minute after you’ve finished meticulously cleaning them. All of these things – rain, steam, smudges – make it far harder to see than if you weren’t wearing glasses at all, which is both ironic and bothersome. Glasses are bothersome

They’re also very hard to shop for when you’re short-sighted, because unless you think ahead and wear contact lenses, you can’t actually see what the pair of frames really looks like on you without either standing 10cm from the mirror (EMBARRASSING! And also not accurate, because how many people will be checking out your face from that distance?) or taking a photo (POSER! And also not accurate because you’ll be putting on your photo face and therefore not looking like everyday-you).

On top of all of these hassles, the pair you choose will say a great deal about who you are just by sitting astride your nose; you have to choose the frames that will not only send the right message for every day of your non-contacts-wearing life but match most of your wardrobe. It’s tough, I tells ya! In How to be a Woman, Caitlin Moran explains that in today’s world a woman’s fashion choices are expected to say something about who she is, and that “When a woman says, ‘I have nothing to wear!’, what she really means is, ‘There’s nothing here for who I’m supposed to be today’” (from page 211). I have this problem with my glasses. I used to wear a pair of purple ones which were perfect in every way, but then one lunchtime at soccer training I stopped the ball with my face, which proved to be a very bad idea not only because it left my perfect purple spectacles in a crumpled, lens-less mess, but also because it really, really hurt.

To replace them, I went for a twofer deal and, after lots of trying on and photo-taking, decided on a sensible black pair for everyday wear, as well as a funky and chunky blue pair for the days that I was feeling particularly hip. This arrangement worked very well for me until my husband recently stepped on my black glasses, leaving me with no choice but to be funky EVERY SINGLE DAY. It’s tiring, quite frankly, and unsustainable. I honestly don’t know how some people do it. I’m due for an updated eye test, but a new prescription will be bittersweet news: yes, I’ll be able to have sensible days once again, but first I’ll have to go through the drama of shops and hundreds of frames and photos and “What do you think?”s before finding the pair that best captures who I think I want to be for the next 3 years.

If only I could go back in time and wish for something a bazillion times better than issues with my eyesight...

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Four of the things I love about Glenmore Park


ONE
The clover is HAPPY, possibly because it’s on drugs (do steroids make you happy?). Not only is a lot of it ridiculously large, I have also found approximately 9 four-leaf clovers since we’ve lived here, which I’m persisting in taking as a good sign despite the fact that they’re obviously not as rare (and therefore magical) as they used to be.

TWO
A five minute walk from our house (assuming Moses is in the pram rather than poo-spotting) will get us to a pretty pond on which ducks and water birds and a goose float around waiting for us to show up with crusts (this probably isn’t true). We stand at the edge of the water and I tear up pieces of bread and throw some to the birds and some to Moses, all of whom snack merrily. It’s an outing that consistently leaves me feeling blessed and content, so we go at least once a week.

THREE
A few months ago now, Moses and I were at the local park and a kangaroo bounded by. A KANGAROO! BOUNDING! IN THE PARK!

FOUR
I whined about the roads before we moved here, but I’ve since found out that they were actually not designed by a drunkard but were in fact made bendy on purpose, in order to slow down the traffic. Glenmore Park has aged my driving by approximately 50 years. I’ve discovered the joys of watching the world pass by at only 40km per hour, finding myself doing this speed even on straight streets in other suburbs.

I may have been too harsh on Glenmore Park when we first moved here; now that I can find my way home from both entrances I’m starting to think maybe it’d be nice to stay here forever.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Fire


You know that thing where life punches you in the guts and leaves you doubled over, wondering what the hell just happened, and you can’t bring yourself to talk to God about it because you’re not entirely sure how much God’s related to the fact that you’re finding it hard to breathe right now, but you pick up The King Jesus Gospel by Scot McKnight hoping that it’ll remind you of the simple truths that can be known, and you realise, at the end of it, that the funny feeling in your tummy is your soul waking up for the first time in a long while?*

And then you find Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell at a church bookstall and the blurb intrigues the $2 out of you, and you take it home and read it and your freshly-awakened soul ignites as if it’d been drooling petrol while it slept, and you realise that God’s answered the prayers you never prayed and then everything in you wants to celebrate and sing praises to your Creator and shout this glorious news from the top of high hills and give everything you own to the poor and foster babies and not eat cakes and avoid Woolworths and Coles and love as hard as it’s possible to love in your little corner of the world?

You know?

Well, that.

///

* Those who read this post in January will remember that this is not the first time a book by McKnight has had this effect on me.