Sometimes I feel inspired by pretty much everything. This sounds like good news but actually I am so filled with ideas that I can’t focus on any one thing for long enough to achieve anything at all. It’s like when you go to the supermarket on an empty stomach and leave with a bag of rice crackers and an onion. Or like when your youngest child starts full time school and you feel spoiled for time but wonder what to do with it all until it’s gone and it’s pickup time again.
I write furiously in a notebook in case things get lost. But by tomorrow the sketchy scribblings often seem silly. If I suffered from bipolar disorder I imagine these inspirited rushes of motivation would be my mania.
Here’s what I got a bit manic about yesterday:
Boring little tomes they are. But today, I felt illuminated by my children’s home readers. Did you know that:
- Bees are especially attracted to blue and purple flowers. I am wondering whether I was a bee in a former life as blue is my absolute favourite colour. And because I hum a lot.
- Stinging nettle stingy thingies are as sharp as glass fragments. No wonder those bastards hurt.
- Children retain information more readily if there’s poo involved – my kids are telling everyone that birds eat seed and poo them out all over the place causing the spread of plants.
- A praying mantis can’t have sex unless his head’s been removed by the female. This was not in a home reader but just a weird, slightly funny-tragic, slightly girl power fact. And it’s nice to know some women don’t care about looks.
NB: The ‘wh’ words are a pain in the arse. Who decided to put the letter ‘H’ in who? And what for? When? Where? Why? Why is there no ‘h’ in was, went, were and willy but there is in whisper, whirl, whale and white? It serves only to confuse poor little growing brains. There is enough to learn without ‘wh’ words and spellings like ‘enough’. Enough already.
The people who made Weeties have the right idea.
I’m always banging on about drystone walls and how I’d like my own. The other day I went to the gym and paid to punch a few bags for an hour or so. Then it dawned on me that I could get fit and build a wall at the same time. A more productive, less expensive workout is right at my fingertips and it will see me through at least the autumn and winter months and end with my very own wall. And maybe a bikini bod (if it isn’t crippled by then). And there’s the added bonus of me carting rocks out of the farm paddocks, where cows and machinery are likely to do themselves an injury. Brilliant!
My husband listened to my enthusiastic plans, said, “that’s a helluva contract” and then watched me pound away with a spade at clay soil infested with rocks. I tried hard to flex my muscles in his direction only I think he was too far away to see the weenie little things and he was possibly distracted by me slipping over quite a bit.
I blame Mrs Tiggy Winkle and those stone stiles, but there’s no going back now.
I am always pretty inwardly manic about indigenous culture. I have had moments of being vocal about it but never felt very comfortable writing about it or talking too loudly because I had no authority, no proper backing, no Aboriginality or real knowledge. I could re-hash stuff I have read or make up stuff from how I feel, but never had the courage to talk properly to anyone who knows – i.e. an indigenous person. Actually I did once phone up a central authority but was given pretty short shrift. I felt that maybe it’s just not my domain.
Then I heard two men on the radio talking about vaginas and suddenly understood how it must feel for Aborigines to witness a conversation about them between white people. I shut up. But I have wondered about the Aboriginal heritage of our country – particularly the bit of country on which I have built a house – ever since.
And today, I sat down with two indigenous Tasmanians and told them how I feel – that I have a sense of responsibility and a deep fascination for their heritage but am not brave enough to ask for fear or being disrespectful, condescending or just downright dumb. They told me that it doesn’t matter what I ask, that the asking is to them a display of effort to unearth their stories, and that telling their stories and honouring their ancestors is essentially their mission. So ask I did. The time we had wasn’t enough for all my questions but they have invited me to find out more. I am very grateful to have that permission, and more than excited.
I heard this young woman interviewed on local radio and thought, what a cool chick. Then I heard her sing and I just thought, wow. I love her honesty and her simplicity. She might not be everyone’s cup of tea but she’s definitely mine. Cammomile and peppermint and all those ones that are really good for you.
This Little Piggie
Her name is Polly and she was a guest of the Bream Creek Show last Saturday. I like her very much.
That’s it. By now I’m only feeling motivated by my fatigue, and it’s pushing me toward bedfordshire. Tomorrow I have to decide what to focus my energies on and hope that I’m not struck by some new wayward bolt of inspiration.
PS to tired to edit, sorry for smelling mistakes.