Mad Bird, Fearless Bird

Melissa Gaggiano Photography

I never thought that I’d be entering a battlefield when I agreed to look after the school chickens. Imagining an idyllic scene full of chickens wandering about the yard, my family picnicking alongside them on an azure morning, and me, with a notepad in hand dreaming of poetic arrangements of words that I would pluck [yes, I said pluck] out of the sky and scribble down. Wind in the Willows has a lot to answer for, I think.

The nasty reality of looking after the chickens was not so much the chickens. The chickens were lovely, each with its’ own adorable personality I am sure. But there were machinations planted in the schoolyard the day that I got the call from the school saying it was finally our turn to look after the chickens. We would even have the chickens all to ourselves for the entire holidays. We, my family that is, excitedly waited all year for the chance to look after the school chickens. Why? Go back to the first paragraph and reread why. So what exactly went wrong?

 It was, in fact, the cock! The bloody cock!! Twice we have gone to check on the chickens and each time the newly acquired cock has been quite territorial. Now I know what it feels like to be stalked by a miniature dinosaur. Make no mistake, just because the beast is smaller than me doesn’t lessen the impact of intimidation. I am sensitive by nature and will howl at a paper cut and am not hardened to the pin like pricks when kittens play [though I can handle a break or dislocation with surreal calm]. So when a cock continually flies at me, and impaling my leg with its beak, I will freak. And freak I did. Realising the very real danger from this bird whose balls were clearly bigger than its brain I call out to my youngest and tell her to escape to the other side of the field. Moments later I’m running sideways across the oval with the cock on my tail.

The situation was beyond ridiculous. This one little bird was able to cause so much distress, not to mention physical pain. How on this green earth was I going to look after the chickens when this psycho with duck syndrom running about? My only option was retreat and to call for back up.

“I cannot believe I am being bullied by a small bird”, I tell my husband. He suggests I look at this situation as a life lesson. I’ve had plenty of those. I don’t need a tiny mad bird reminding me that I am a constant target for bullies.

Half an hour later I return to the chickens with my husband at my side. This time we are battle ready with large square orange bread cartons acting as shields. Well, the birds didn’t know what was coming and the cock wasn't going to mess with a giant square floating toward it. Within minutes the chickens and the cock were back in their house, door closed and firmly locked. After all that trouble caused by one mad bird, I was exhausted from the adrenalin rush and ravenous. My husband and I look at each other, we are each wondering if rooster tastes like chicken. Don’t worry though the cock is safe, for now. But we knew that using the cartons as shields was a temporary solution and something more permanent needed to be done if we were to continue taking care of the chickens. Stay tuned…

Give Me a Break

Source: piccsy.com via Maritza on Pinterest

The following piece is quite a few months old and I just decided to give it an airing. Reading back through this piece, it makes me laugh. It was just one of those things that had to be written to take a load off...

So, I know it’s a little paranoid to presume to know what other people are thinking. Okay, okay! So it’s a whole lot paranoid. But imagine this. You’re out in public, minding your own business when a total stranger decides to not mind their own business. You cannot imagine what you have done to cause it but they are staring at you, eyes narrowed, and mouth pinched like my cat’s rear end. Without uttering a single word these disapproving strangers have already said so much, and still you don’t know what you did wrong.

I can think of one when my daughter t tripped over her feet shortly after getting off the travelator. An old woman passed us by, made a clucked her tongue and quickly looked away when I noticed her. What’s with the attitude lady? How did this put your day out? Why don’t you go away and lay an egg?

The other day my rage on this subject was piqued when in a shop, an elderly woman approached and informed me that my daughter’s hat had fallen over her eyes. I thanked her and leaned over the pram to adjust my baby’s hat. But the woman kept staring at me, eyes narrowed and disapproval practically shooting darts in my direction. What the heck! What was wrong with this woman? I matched her stare and she moved on into the next aisle but continued to keep a greasy eye on me. Seriously what was wrong with this woman? What faux pas could I have possibly committed to cause such disapproval from a total stranger in under a few seconds?

I didn’t need extra sensory perception to know this woman was judging me. But it was for a reason that I could never fathom.  Did I unwittingly earn the bad parent award because my daughter’s hat had slipped down? Perhaps she was making the presumption that I was a teenage mum? And believe me people have made this presumption before. On a good day, when the light is just right and I have eaten all my vegies and gotten a good night’s sleep I can look ten years younger than my actual age. But after all, whether I am young or old whose business it is for anyone to try and make me uncomfortable.

What if I went around presuming that every overly critical person was a bitter old hag who hung around shops just waiting for some harmless sap [like me] to prey on. And come night time they pull out their broom sticks and go riding around, cackling like the evil witches they are. Do you see what I just did? I just made a ridiculous judgement and a stereotype no less. Though I am quite convinced I am on the mark with the whole broom stick thing.

The truth of the matter is that it is quite easy to judge other people, particularly parents. Quite often we do it without even realising we are doing it. Sure, we don’t mean to be malicious. At least I don’t think I do. Yet how many times have we gone out in public and passed judgement on people who have seemingly done something peculiar, or have had a lapse in concentration. And when they do we are all over them. We see a boy with a scratch on his face and we point, “A-hah! Can’t his mum protect him?” Waiting in a doctor’s surgery a mum tries to pacify her baby with the sh-sh-sh sounds that babies love, and some toothless hag says “Leave her alone. She’s just a baby.” You carry your baby as you walk, and an old man blocks your path, “What happens if you trip over? You could hurt your baby.” For f---s sake people! GET A LIFE! And leave mine alone.

Okay, I feel better now that I got that out of my system. So the next time you are down the street and you see someone do something a little bit special or weird, instead of judging them for a twit and doing that ugly eyeball thing. Spare a kind thought for that person. They might be having a bad day. Cast them a smile and remember, “that could easily be me.” On the other hand that other person might then be wondering, “Why is that freak smiling at me?”

Safety

Source: squidoo.com via Sloane on Pinterest

Danger.

The wind wasn’t simply blowing. It was blasting gusts of air making it difficult for my six year old self to walk. It was the end of the school day and everyone was homeward bound. Most of the kids rode a bus to and from school – many of us lived too far to be walking the distance. The school was built onto a slope so walking downward toward the buses would have been easy enough on a still day.  But today the weather was fiercely against anyone walking down the hill toward the buses.

I felt certain the wind would blow me away and the only thing keeping me earthed was my back pack. Even so I had to lean forward and could only take tiny steps as the wind was trying its darnedest to drag me back.

Eventually I made it to the long line of buses positioned near the front of the school wall. The wind still wasn’t letting up. It seemed more powerful at the base of the hill. I felt stuck. I couldn’t move forward. I still had a way to go as my bus was at the back of the line.

One of the teachers on duty approached, told me to hurry up, but then asked which bus I need to get on. I pointed and told her it was the bus at the far end. She told me the buses were about to leave and that I had no time to reach my bus. The woman urged me toward the bus before us. This is not my bus, I told her.  She pushed me onto the bus and said not to worry, and that this bus will probably get me home. I didn’t know what to say. I was just a kid and the teacher was a responsible adult. I wasn’t taught to second guess an adult’s logic, but I was scared all the same.

Soon the bus doors close and I am searching for a spare seat on an unfamiliar bus, with a driver I have never seen before and surrounded by equally unfamiliar children. I sat near the front, keeping a vigil of the bus’s journey. I kept hoping that the teacher would be right about the bus getting me home though I couldn’t ease the sick feeling rising from the pit of my stomach.

So far, so good! The bus did appear to be following the same course that my regular bus would take. The bus left the town centre in the right direction. It was going to be okay, I thought. But then the horror of it all came back as the bus took a left turn. The path was unfamiliar. It was definitely time to worry. What was I to do? What would the driver do at the end of the journey? Would he kick me off? Would I have to stay at the bus depot overnight? Where ever that may be. I was already sick with anxiety, but now I was terrified. I tried not to cry, but my eyes welled up despite my efforts. How could one afternoon go so horribly wrong?

On the other side of the bus a boy and girl sat. They must have been watching me for a while. The boy spoke to me, “You don’t belong on this bus do you.” I thought I was in trouble. Maybe these kids will out me to the driver and have me kicked off between stops. I nodded to the boy. I told him which bus I was meant to take and that a teacher pushed me onto this bus. The boy and girl gave each other a look - knowing what to do. I saw the momentary connection. It was decided, I was coming home with them.

Safety.

It was very likely that once the two children brought me to their home, further necessary and adult steps were taken. Their mama called the school to inform them of the mishap and my whereabouts. Many kilometres away my dad, who was waiting to collect me at the bus stop, was distressed to find I was not on the bus. He too called the school to report me missing. Two and two was put together and it wasn’t long before my dad collected me. Those were the facts but hardly the most important aspect of my memory, at least, not from the perspective of a six year old.

What was important was the warmth and safety I felt once the boy and girl took charge of my immediate destiny. Once I was planted in their home a lot was done to make me feel comfortable. It wasn’t long before it began to feel like a very nice babysitting experience. A after school snack was provided, though I cannot recall what I ate. One of the children read to me a picture book with stills from Steven Spielberg’s E.T. I was shown origami for the first time in my life. I pretended that this was my family and these kids were my older siblings. I was happy. I was cared for. I was safe, which is all a six year old wants to feel.

It was a traumatic experience turned on its head. Decades later when I think about that day, particularly the family that took care of me I recall the warmth and protection that these kind strangers provided. I have such profound feelings regarding that day. I only wish I could remember their names.

The Cinema

Source: static.skynetblogs.be via Paula on Pinterest

The air base cinema of my childhood was a primitive movie house compared to the grand multi-cinemas of today. Everything appeared much bigger when I was a kid, and this cinema was no exception. In reality it was probably a small building.

The seats were hard and hardly ergonomic. But who cared? As long as there was coke, popcorn and Maltesers at my finger tips and I could see the screen.

Being able to see the screen, you’d think is a given, but not for me. I have always been tiny and to avoid some basketball player sitting in front of me, I would take residence as close to the screen as possible.

I have happy memories of this cinema. A few hours of pure escape from reality – a time well spent.

At this cinema I saw A Night on the Town, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, The Boy Who Could Fly, amongst many other films. I loved the whole cinema experience from the moment of buying the ticket and choosing snacks. Once finding a seat I’d looking about, to see if I recognised any kids from school.  I enjoyed watching the cheap slideshow advertisers promoting local services, followed then by the trailers. It was one massive happy prelude to the main feature.

It was at this cinema that I first saw Dirty Dancing. The film was in hot demand. So many people went to see the film. By the time my family reached the ticket box people were being turned away because every seat had a bottom. Something happened which I believe would have been unprecedented back then. The cinema staff agreed to have a second screening later that night. So for the next hour or so my family sat at the Sergeants’ Mess, drinking cokes and biding our time. And at 11 PM that night I finally sat down in the cinema to watch Dirty Dancing. Believe me! The movie was worth the wait.

My evenings spent at that cinema might have been utter bliss. But there was just one thing that could leave a blemish on the experience, and it had to do with the ladies toilet. No, it wasn’t dirty. It was a perfectly hygienic public toilet. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the bloody movie poster tacked to the inside of the main door – promoting Ghoulies. With the ghastly by-line “They’ll get you in the end!” depicting an ugly, green, turd-like monster coming out of a toilet. Well! It wasn’t like I had enough hang ups bowel movements when I was a kid. Here was a child’s nightmare realised – THINGS in the toilet rising up to bite your bottom or something worse. So every time I used that toilet I always looked into the bowl. If anything was coming out I wanted a head start on it. I’d finish my business, wash up and dashed out of the toilet with lightning speed always with the fear that the ghoulie would get me.

I don’t think I ever really recovered from that poster. Most paranoid people look over their shoulders. Me, I keep an eye on the toilet bowl as I’m doing my business. Just making sure nothing dark and sinister climbs out. Apart from that I loved going to the cinema.

Type, Type, Typing



Source: color-crazed.tumblr.com via Melissa on Pinterest

    Today I am type, type, typing. On and off and on again I have been working on a story. Before the day is out I aim to have done a minimum of 500 words. Now if only my computer looked like this typewriter.

    And what are your plans for this fine [or not so fine, depending on where you live] day?

Where I Am At

    I am having a quiet moment so thought I'd share where things are at. Things have been on the quiet side and yet I am just a little bit busy. Though it doesn't feel like it for some strange reason. Maybe it is because I am taking small bites here and there from my individual projects. So this is where it is at...

1. Reading Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen.
2. Listening to audio recording of Twilight on those late warm nights when I cannot sleep.
3. Discovered this wonderful website filled with creative kids activities - www.learning4kids.net.
4. Mixed rice and food dye as a sensory play item for my eldest. She loves it, and is playing with the rice as I type.
5. I am about to embark on a crochet project - making pizza slices.
6. Writing a story, just small bits at a time.
7. Drawing doll concepts.
8. Helping my eldest make paper badges.
9. Doing a photography course [but taking a few days break from the annoying gray card stuff].

Layout by Melissa Gaggiano.

Sensory play using rice and food dye. I cam across this at www.learning4kids.net.

Doll concept sketching by Melissa Gaggiano.

Wednesday Peeps

    This week I am attempting to write a story, in week two of a course called The Artist's Way [by Julia Cameron], knitting a blanket for Barbie [at the request of my eldest], doodling drawings, attempted to cook a poached egg [I mention it now but let us not speak of it again - absolute disaster], dreaming of eating a pecan pie, wanting to wear sparkly sneakers and a pink cowgirl hat.
    The other night I dreamt that I met Harry Kim [of Star Trek: Voyager] up the street. And he excitedly shows me a letter press that just happened to be out in the street. I see that a template zine is already set up in the machine and I imagine making my own zine with it. Yeah! Welcome to my brain.

The girls at play.

Admiring my envelope collection

New stationery for working on a story.

The cat in the window.

Latest craft project.

Autumn Heart

Photography by Melissa Gaggiano

Finding my heart

In the Autumn dark

Treading these boards

I am seeking your light

When I see the heart

I know I am home

Your heart floats before me

And if I am lost

It will light my way home.

Riding On Buses

In grade one, whilst riding on the school bus in the morning, I used to stare at these twin boys who got on the bus a few stops after me. They wore glasses, had curly hair and massive Bugs Bunny teeth that seemed to fill their mouths. The boys’ mouths always hung open and their tongues rested underneath the top teeth. I used to imagine this was to hold their heads up. Sometimes I would imitate the brothers, but after a few minutes of hanging my mouth open I realized it was an over rated experience. Besides, who wants a dry mouth anyway?

Riding on buses came with mixed feelings. There was the unavoidable dread of barreling toward my fate — facing uninspiring teachers and hardened schoolyard bullies. On the flipside, riding the bus meant forty minutes of solitude as I immersed myself into the fictional book I happened to be reading at the time.

My early high school years were spent riding a bus that had been nicknamed Shitty Shitty Bang Bang. So aptly named as it was the oldest bus in the fleet and ever so ready to meet it’s metal maker. The old machine groaned, roared and farted like a much-distressed beast. One day Shitty Shitty Bang Bang broke down halfway to school. The engine conked out as the odor of burning crumpets wafted up the central aisle. Somewhere down the back of the bus a dickhead girlishly screamed, “We’re going to die!” Of course we didn’t. Instead we just missed a few classes that day.

The best mornings were when the bus just didn’t turn up at all. Most especially if it happened on a Friday, ensuring the early arrival of the weekend. On those days we never did find out why the bus never arrived. Did the bus simply fail to start at the bus yard? Or had the bus company simply forgotten to assign a driver to our route?

My third year of high school brought two major changes. Well three changes really, considering that Shitty Shitty Bang Bang appeared to have finally been decommissioned.

Firstly, the high school shortened the lunch hour so that the workday could finish a microsecond earlier. Thus messing with my body’s pee time clock. Since the bus waited for no student it left me no time to empty my utterly full bladder before taking a bumpy forty-minute ride home, followed by a twenty-minute walk. How I didn’t develop incontinence, I do not know.

The other change was the convergence of two bus routes. Some genius that clearly didn’t have to ride a bus with smelly, hormonal teenagers thought this was a practical cost effective decision. Yeah, right! We now had double the number of kids filling every last available breathing space, turning the bus into a stuffed sausage, very likely exceeding the legal limit. It was scary riding such a heavily loaded bus that stormed toward school at alarming speeds. One day the bus turned a right corner without slowing. The bus suspension moaned as the bus lurched onto a frighteningly extreme angle. Looking out one of the side windows the ground below was becoming too close for comfort. A kid yelled out, “LEAN TO THE LEFT”. Everyone who was standing or sitting responded with such speed that parents and teachers would never see from us. Oh yes, indeed! We leaned to the left for all it’s worth, as those seated on the right glanced out the windows silently praying to gods they didn’t really believe in, hoping that the bus doesn’t overturn. Although I suppose if the bus had overturned we would have had a perfectly valid excuse for being late to school.

The Memory

“The Memory”

A single light, hanging delicately by an old wire, illuminates the cold and narrow underground space. The length of the room is filled with shelved musty books; dust covered ornaments and rusted trunks line the opposite length of wall space.

Two figures, a mother and daughter have been working away that morning, sifting through the forgotten family history. Cassie, mid thirties and her eight-year-old daughter, Tina, side by side they work, pulling objects out of dormancy, judging and adding to piles. Be it trash, or treasure.

Once in a while the shuffling silence is broken by a little voice, “Mamma, what about this? Should this go?” A pause would follow and a murmur of judgement as Cassie assesses the vintage object her daughter has placed under her nose.

The two busy females take a rest and eat a lunch upstairs, prepared by Grandma. After some ham and cheese sandwiches, a cup of tea, and apple juice, recharged, they return to their processing. By then the afternoon sun has just begun to reach the entrance of the repurposed wine cellar.

Light from outside touches a trunk positioned close to the stairs. Tina sits before the trunk and unlatches it, but it will not open. Cassie then crouches down and gives the lid a vigorous jostle. The hinges groan, and the trunk’s now at last open.

Revealed within they find a pair of black roller skates, old 80s vinyl singles, a film developer’s envelope filled with photos and negatives, rolled up rainbow socks, and a miscellaneous pile of smelly clothes.

Tina picks up one of the worn skates in both her tiny hands. “These smell funny. Mamma, are these yours? Oh and look all this other stuff.” Without waiting for an answer, Tina puts down the skate and runs her hands through the brightly coloured clothes. She picks up the photo envelope, opens it out and begins flicking through the photos.

Cassie picked up the other matching skate and leans over Tina’s shoulder as she peruses the happy snaps – a Birthday party at an old roller skating rink. In the photos a much younger Cassie is surrounded by some of her classmates, with skates on their feet and about to eat cake. She is wearing a Punky Brewster shirt. Her parents have given her a pair of brand new skates. She is so excited, no longer needing to rent the rink skates.

The cellar surroundings begin to slip away. Cassie is lost in a memory. One she had almost forgotten.

*

It is the smell of hot chips, candy, leather, and oiled metal filling the room, but she is no longer sitting on the floor of the repurposed wine cellar. She is on her feet and in her new skates. She is nine years old again. One song is fading and the lights are dimming. The mirror ball dangling from the centre most point begins to spin as newly flicked beams glance off its mosaic like mirrors.

The needle settles into a groove of another record. The first couple of bars crackle through corner speakers and a masculine voice gently resonates across the room, “Now, I had the time of my life”. Everyone is out on the floor moving in a single direction. Round and round — spinning with the dancing light in the darkness.  She imagines the swirling lights to be fairies from some roller kingdom. This is her kind of magic. Here she is happy and safe. There is no yesterday, nor a tomorrow, only her self and her skates. She is having the time of my life.

*

The moment is passing and Cassie feels something pulling at her, drawing her forward.

“Mamma, what is it? What’s the matter?” Tina has her hand on Cassie’s arm shaking it.

Cassie shakes her head, as if to clear the residue of the recovered memory. Her mind is caught between what was and the present. Tina reaches up and wipes one of her eyes.

“Mamma you’re crying.”

Cassie smiles at her worrying daughter, “It’s alright. I’m fine. I just had — I just had an incredibly vivid memory. Something that I had long forgotten came back to me. And it was something that made me very happy. That’s all. Don’t worry about your mamma.”

“Were you being silly?” Tina asked with all seriousness.

Cassie laughs out loud and rubs the top of her daughter’s head, “Yes! Mamma was being very silly. Now lets get back to the clean up, shall we?”

“Okay, but can I keep these?” Tina picks up the skates holding them up for her mamma to see. “I want to play with them.”

Cassie is bouncing an idea around in her head. It has been a very long time since she last skated. ‘Could I do it again?’ She stares at Tina for a moment, “I have a better idea. How about we take the whole trunk home. Would you like to hear about my skating days?”

Cassie is responded with energetic nodding from her daughter.

*

The scene has changed. It is Saturday night and many weeks have passed since the cleaning out of the cellar. A current radio hit is blaring out of the speakers, and the smell of hot chips and popcorn permeates the air.

Cassie leans forward on bended knee, firmly lacing the skates on her daughter’s socked feet. The skates are cleaned, oiled with wheel nuts adjusted. Tina is wearing her mamma’s old skates. Not to mention the mercilessly nuked in Nappi-san eighties clothes that had been hidden in the trunk.

On Cassie’s feet is a new pair of skates — white, shiny and tight, with the anticipation of being worn in. Pulling her daughter to her feet, they pose together as her husband takes a photo of them.

Tina points to a pair of sneaker covered feet, “Daddy, aren’t you going to skate too?”

With a nervous smile and a quick glance to the rink, her Daddy shakes his head, “Maybe next time. I reckon your Mamma will need to give me some lessons before I step out there. But I’ll be right here watching you both. You can give me a wave when you get out there.”

Cassie gives her husband a kiss on the cheek, then slowly and a just little awkwardly leads their daughter out into a rink opening. They are joining a party of families and couples that have already taken flight in a circular pattern. Nervously Tina chooses to cling to the outer railing. She doesn’t feel confident enough to be amongst all the other larger skaters. She’d rather figure this skating business out for herself. Cassie doesn’t argue, because she recalls being exactly the same when she first strapped skates to her feet decades ago.

Cassie rolls onward, skating a few laps, letting her daughter see how it can be done. Holding on to the rail and moving forward at a snail pace, Tina watches the other skaters, and most especially her Mamma in awe. Changing her mind she decides to not do this alone after all. Waving for Cassie’s attention she releases her hold of the railing and reaches out to her mamma. Cassie sees her daughter and meets her the rest of the way. Holding hands, unhurriedly they skate around the rink, letting everyone else pass them.

To Cassie the music pumped out of the speakers is new, but that is the only thing on the skating scene that has changed over the myriad of years. Everything that she loved about skating as a child is right here. It is all waiting to be tasted and felt all over again. And now it is something she can share with her daughter.

The skate session nears to an end and the disk jockey makes an announcement — he will play one last track. It is a golden oldie. The compact disc begins to spin. The first couple of bars of a song are heard and a masculine voice gently resonates across the room, “Now, I had the time of my life”.

240

240: Go Currant

The Line Up

Dear 240, for almost ten years you have been an enduring and trusted friend. You were the mask I wore when I felt as though I couldn’t face the world. You helped when I wanted to look my best. You were even there for me on my wedding day. Sadly though, dear bedazzling 240 your days are numbered. The closer to the shaft’s end you come the less I turn to you.

Please understand it was never negligence or boredom on my part that turned me away. Neither should you believe that I found anything more suitable than you.

The only reason I tried other colours was in the hope of extending your life span. Sure there was some fun to be had with 867. But I couldn’t unwind and relax with that party animal. There was a brief and abysmal encounter with 260, but it didn’t take long to realise that was a no-brainer right there — it didn’t try to get along with anything in my life. Then there was the WX195. Certainly it worked well in a subdued kind of way, but did nothing for me when all I wanted to do was shine. Last but not least were 110 and 630, both of which did come close to your standard and perhaps may have almost hit the mark if combined. Yet still in the back of my mind there would always be something left to be desired, and I’d have known the difference. Some of the sparkle was in these two, but where was the warmth of you, 240, I’d sure like to know.

             240 what will I do when you are gone? Will there ever be another lipstick that can enhance my small lips and make my eyes shine?

She doesn't have a lot to do, and does it well

The girl likes to dabble. Willing to give anything a go. She is trying to find something by which to leave her mark.

• She tried photography but found people too willing and landscapes behaved in a most difficult manner.
• She tried painting and drawing, but even with this her work hardly drew attention.
• She tried cooking and baking. Her attempts at exotic cuisine were a bit hit and miss, usually ending in a late night trip to Maccas. Her baking of course had a constipating affect. But we’ll not go there.
• She tried her hand at fashion design, discovering that this required patience. Something she didn’t have a lot of. Oh, and she needed to be fashionable — a concept that continually evaded her wardrobe.
• She thought about becoming a teacher. But this would mean returning to school. Lord no! She was relieved when high school ended.
• She considered becoming a gardener. After all she does love flowers. But then she remembers that she bought a gardenia last month. When was the last time she watered it? Oops! Better go check on the plant.
• She could try a career in acting, but due to her extreme shortness, she is fated to playing fairies.
• She tried being a professional public speaker, but then realised she didn’t have anything to say.
• She gave the violin a go, but the cat had some mean things to say about her practice.

She is now between dabbling. She is reading and doodling and knitting a little. For the time being she doesn’t have a lot to do, and does it well.

Red Beanie

In and through.

Around and over.

In and through.

Around and over.

This is how it begins.

The colour is chosen.

The measurements are made.

The seasons are cooling,

The evenings leave a freeze.

Everyone has a beanie,

Now it’s time to think of me.

So, in and through.

Around and over.

This is the rhythm.

This is the first line — I am casting on.

A red beanie for me.

                     *

Take a step back.

My work is unravelled.

Five hundred steps gone.

Why, I must begin again.

                     *

I still want my red beanie.

I re-climb those red tinted stairs.

In and through.

Around and over.

Knit-knit, purl-purl.

Knit-knit, purl-purl.

I am determined.

I can be driven.

The will is mine.

I will see this through.

In and through.

Around and over.

In and through.

Around and over.

This is how it begins.

Typewriter

    I am so thankful to have a computer for my writing and drawing. It is a time saver. It allows me to be creative within the confines of a small home. It really does take the hassle out of storage.

    On the flipside I will admit a little something is lost along the way when using a computer. Humans rely on their five senses in many situations, whether it is through pleasure or detecting danger. We need those senses to feel connected. How do you paint if you have never seen the world? How do you write music if you can’t hear it? How do you cook well without being able to taste and smell it? The answer is, that it can be done but perhaps not to the full extent that you would have wanted.

    Reading, writing and drawing can have a much stronger affect if it is something graspable. I for one find my writing to sometimes flow more fluidly when I am working off paper that can be touched and manipulated.

    Before the advent of the computer the typewriter was a professional tool, which still allowed the stimulation of so many senses. The typewriter marked the beginning of handwriting being left behind. But the fact that it instantly went to paper still allowed the writer/reader to feel that connection which I have been talking about.

    When I was about seven, one of my parents brought home from work a grey typewriter that otherwise would have been thrown out. It was given to me, and I had such fun playing with the machine. One of the keys didn't work, which is why it was being turfed, but that didn't matter. Still to this day I am satisfied by the memory of those clickety-clack sounds the typewriter made. Especially when it reached the end and you had to prepare the machine for the next line.

    Sometimes I wish that the computer could be programmed with typewriter sound effects. Now wouldn't that be something?

My Creative Space

    You can laugh. Honestly, I don't really mind. It is funny.
    Last night in my brains pregnancy addled condition I confused the rules of the colour wheel while preparing the cupcake icing. Intending to have green icing, I mixed the wrong food colours. My brain was thinking ‘red and yellow’. My hand removed from the cupboard and mixed ‘red and blue’. Thus resulting in a black toned blue.
    Doesn't really matter though — the cupcakes tasted lovely.


    Also in my creative space, I have been thinking and writing. Mostly getting this in when my daughter is having her afternoon naps or in the evening after dinner has been taken care of and again daughter is in bed. My little written pieces include:

• Autumn
• My Name Is
• Kylie

    Bit by bit each day, I have been working on a story for a local short story competition. But you'll have to wait a while before I share that one.

    Take a gander at other creative spaces over at Kootoyoo.

My Name Is…

My name is Melissa. In Greek it means honey bee, it is also a derivative of Melita. Melissa once seemed rare but when I was born it became mildly common. I went to school surrounded by Melissa’s. As a Melissa I was confused with other Melissa’s, especially by librarians tracking down rogue book destructors sharing the same name and initials. It sometimes meant not knowing if someone was talking to me when they called out my name. It meant being nicknamed ‘Melissa-the-kisser’ for no other reason, except that it rhymed. It meant being called Marisa when talking with strangers over the phone. Being Melissa means having a pretty name, the sound of which suits me so well. I like hearing my husband say my name. I am Melissa and it is an important part of me.

I Remember: Part 2

I remember…

The smell of hot chips, candy, leather, and oiled metal filled the room. One song is fading and the lights are dimming. The mirror ball hanging from the centre most point begins to spin as newly flicked beams glance off its mosaic of mirrors.

The needle settles into a groove of another record. The first couple of bars play and a masculine voice gently begins to croon “Now, I had the time of my life”. Everyone is out on the floor moving in a single direction. Round and round — spinning with the dancing light in the darkness.  I imagine the swirling lights to be roller skate fairies. This is my kind of magic. Here, I am having the time of my life.

I Remember: Part 1

I remember…

Riding my bicycle down a sloping road. The front tyre rolls onto a chunky stone on otherwise smooth tar. An odd momentum occurs. I, and my bicycle are bouncing down the road, as though the ground were a trampoline.

At the bottom of the road I stop and the other two children I am riding with catch me up. They are laughing, and I am a somewhat puzzled — my brain is still trying to fathom what had happened.

The Girl Was Bored

Sunday Writing

I was at a loose end, and wanted to get the brain moving. So I tried my hand at ten minute creative writing…

As the door opened, the thick atmosphere of the shop was flooded with fresh air and filtered light from the outside arcade.

Two women stepped through the old archway, and into the ancient shop.

Each silently assessed their surroundings, not wanting to speak for fear of breaking the magic that had once smelt so strongly of childhood.

The shop had once been their home — on days off from school and holidays. This shop was sanctuary from teachers, bullies and the sometime upsets of growing up.

Elsie, the first to step through the door, tapped her sister’s shoulder and pointed to a dressmaker’s mannequin. “Do you remember?”

Vera graced the floor and stood in front of the mannequin. “It’s like it was just yesterday. Grandma would let us dress her up with scrap fabrics, feathers and buttons. Anything that she had on hand.”

Elsie touched an old label at the neck of the mannequin; on which faded words could be just made out — Tallulah. Elsie smiled, “I remember naming her.”

Vera’s eyes shot around the dimly lit shop, “There was another. I’m sure of it.”

Elsie nodded and glanced around the shop, also trying to find the mannequin. “Didn’t you name her Olive?”

Vera headed toward the back of the shop toward another closed door. “She may be back here.”

To be continued… Maybe.