That is all.
Archive for May, 2012|Monthly archive page
Beats me. According to The Age and just about everywhere else reporting this, the larger screen is just one of the new features … note the smaller docking port — a real moneyspinner for Apple … just think of all the new cables and connectors and adapters we’re going to have to buy — redesigned speaker grills and a relocated headphone jack, which now looks as if it is placed on the bottom of the phone.
As with most things Apple, I’ll believe it when it lobs in the stores, but if they’re fake, it’s elaborate.
Meet Dora. She’s an explorer. 12 weeks old, tortoiseshell.
Totally did not mean to meet Dora today. I was heading to the Animal Welfare League tomorrow to adopt a couple of kittens. And I made the mistake of wandering into my local pet store this afternoon to get some supplies — litter, food, bowls, travel cage, catnip-laden coma inducers. You know the drill.
And there she was. The lone kitten in the store. The staff gave me the full box of Kleenex. Her sister was sold yesterday, she’s been pining ever since. She’s been here too long and we’re desperate to get her in a good home before Friday … death day, presumably. Sure, just go in the cage and see if you get on.
*rolling my eyes*
Totally fell for it. Took about 5 and a half minutes, I think.
House totally not kitten-proof. But she seems to be dealing. Lost her completely for about an hour this evening. Just figured she was being Dora.
And then she snuggled in totally unprompted for a schmooze. As you do.
I think I still will go and get another the same age if possible from the AWL. I want them socialised and I want them to be company for each other when I’m down in the saltmine 10 hours a day.
Anyway. Say hello to Dora. She’s an explorer.
Fair to say the French Open is not my favourite Grand Slam, but my biases were set early when the women’s tournament, in particular, was about how many moonballs you could return in a row.
Slow, slow tennis.
These days the players are slamming the cherry harder and harder and now it’s pretty decent to watch. Also, it’s always a fair bet Samantha Stosur will actually get beyond the second round.
Totally just motzed her, I know. She flogged a Brit yesterday, which is a bit like beating an American at cricket. But I digress.
Love me the tennis. July is coming, which is a sleepless month for me, what with Wimbledon and the Tour de France.
Back in my rapidly fading youth Wimbledon was it. Up all night, watching Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe, Chrissy Evert, Martina, Jimmy Connors. Ahhhhhh yes.
I never saw Borg lose. Refused to. That epic final he lost to McEnroe? Yeah, totally went to bed before the end. Couldn’t stand to see the stoic little git get even more stoic.
Who will win the French this year. Rafa. And maybe Stosur if she can just get her neurons firing in sequence. Never a sure bet.
Far too easy, I suspect.
I’ve been, if not a full-blown atheist, then an active skeptic and disrespecter of the entire concept of God for a very long time.
But simply dismissing something because you can’t see it or touch it or explain why it has captured the minds and souls of so many people — that’s intellectual laziness, never mind a strange kind of narrowmindedness.
Bear with me. I’m coming to these conclusions very recently. I’m discovering that I’ve been content to take the path of least resistance. The path that requires no rigour to my thinking, no foundation other than the difficulty of proving me wrong.
My best friend is a theologian. She also happens to be one of the smartest, if not THE smartest person I know. She tests her faith by regularly considering the possibility that she may be wrong. Her intellectual rigour, her commitment and passion are enough to convince me that, at the very least, there is something that I need to reconsider.
I am entertaining the possibility, in other words, that I may be wrong.
I feel like I’m in a weird kind of spiritual limbo, in a way. I’ve always had a foot in both camps — pooh-poohing the Spaghetti Monster in the Sky, while embracing some things that, for example, Buddhism offers up.
I need to do some work … because I’ll be damned if I’m going to dismiss something so potentially enlightening and sustaining just because I can’t be arsed stretching my brain.
Homecoming by Bruce Dawe
All day, day after day, they’re bringing them home,
they’re picking them up, those they can find, and bringing them home,
they’re bringing them in, piled on the hulls of Grants, in trucks, in convoys,
they’re zipping them up in green plastic bags,
they’re tagging them now in Saigon, in the mortuary coolness
they’re giving them names, they’re rolling them out of
the deep-freeze lockers – on the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut
the noble jets are whining like hounds,
they are bringing them home
– curly- heads, kinky hairs, crew-cuts, balding non-coms
– they’re high, now high and higher, over the land, the steaming chow mein,
their shadows are tracing the blue curve of the Pacific
with sorrowful quick fingers, heading south, heading east,
home, home, home – and the coasts swing upward, the old ridiculous curvatures
of earth, the knuckled hill, the mangrove-swamps, the desert emptiness…
in their sterile housing they tilt towards these like skiers
– taxiing in, on the long runways, the howl of their homecoming rises
surrounding them like their last moments (the mash, the splendour)
then fading at length as they move
on to small towns where dogs in the frozen sunset
raise muzzles in mute salute,
and on to cities in whose wide web of suburbs
telegrams tremble like leaves from a wintering tree
and the spider grief swings in his bitter geometry
– they’re bring them home, now, too late, too early.