the good life – Page 2 – sillysocksonfriday

Am I laughing or crying?

Of course it can be both … and more: you can wet yourself laughing … or even die!

Laughter can be messy, but generally it does one good. Some times, heh! heh! (accompanied by hands rubbing together), it can mean an evil plan has come together.

Often laughter follows witnessing the misfortune of others, which is not really nice, but usually occurs involuntarily and thus often hinders the immediate tendering of assistance. Not that assistance from a tear stained, snorting friend would be welcome or in fact practical!

Laughter has been described as “a physical urge tied to a psychological need for release … each human being is caught in a tug-of-war: part of us strains to live free as individuals, guided by bodily appetites and aggressive urges, while the other side yearns for conformity and acceptance. This results in every normal person being continually steeped in psychic tension, mostly due to guilt and lack of fulfillment.” *

Certainly laughter is a release and is almost always infectious, releasing smiles and grins in most passers-by. Laughter therapy is a real thing. Have you ever seen a sad hyena?

Recently I was sent a link to a grand website/ app (L’oeuil musical), which had clips of many songs dating back to the middle of last century. Hearing some of them brought tears of … joy? to my eyes. (I am, however, prone to blubbing).

My question is: why do I not laugh instead of cry? Although crying is of course not synonymous with sadness: happiness, pride, pain, smells, a punch on the nose can all elicit tears.

Did you know there are such people as professional mourners who are paid to attend funerals and look sad? I wonder if they get paid more if they can cry there as well?

We all know about clowns and comedians who are professionals who make a living out of your laughter.

One of the most famous comedians, Jerry Seinfeld has recently fallen foul of the woke mob, essentially because he’s a Jew, who stands by Israel – let us hope that they are not bent on killing humour. Maybe there’ll soon be song like American Pie, about the day the laughter died?

I think laughing and crying are both good and if you stifle your laughter or deny your tears, you will crumble.

Next time you walk down the street, laugh out loud and smile; you will leave a trail of happiness.

Next time you feel sad, cry, baby, cry.

Let it all hang out, there is no shame in crying – only in not crying.

*The Legacy of the Wisecrack: Stand-up Comedy as the Great Literary Form by Eddie Tafoya

It is just … sad!

Australia has the largest size homes in the world. Round here in our middle class estate, 20 year old houses average A$1,000,000

Average homesize has more than doubled despite family size declining by 28% in the past 60 years. Plus we send the old fogies off to live in aged care homes, so they are no bother.

Not only that, storage facilities are booming and are a serious investment option!

What does that say?

It says to me that we are rabbits in the headlights of marketers. Our lives are continuously cascaded with marketing messages and information.

We are driven to buy the bargain, its so cheap. We each have 50 shirts, 10 pairs of shoes, 50 dresses and a million knick knacks. Our televisions grow in size by the year. We have speakers in every room and 12 different appliances in the kitchen. We have so many types of insurance we need a broker

Our houses are so cluttered we buy sheds and park the cars in the road. We hire storage space to accommodate our possessions.

Why? We don’t need most of the stuff we have…

I am reminded of the riots in London in 2011 which was sparked by police shooting an armed suspect. It led to wide spread looting. My thoughts at the time (just after the 2008 recession) were that despair and futility and lack of money coupled with incessant marketing messages could lead me to do some looting too.

That’s when I began to dislike marketing.

It’s sad because we won’t be able to stop it without a cataclysmic event or events which could lead to radical recalibration of our values and drives.

Covid was clearly not sufficient.

A world war would do it – and that is not too remote an event….

One of my all time favourites

Nothing surprising here – I love food.

I thought it may be fun to list the foods I especially like. Anything is less depressing than forecasing our future or avoiding functions which start with a welcome to country.

Don’t worry I am not on Death Row and facing execution, so this is not a forced choice, its just an idle thought, an escape from melancholy stuff like world politics, climate change and woke mania.

This is easy: design a meal – you don’t buy it, pay for it, prepare it, cook it or do the washing up. And you can invite a guest or two, who must attend, (anyone alive or dead). You may dine anywhere you want.

It’s a fantasy – just do it!

My guests are my Dad and my Uncle Steve – he was a soldier so eats and drinks everything with relish and great joy. He was great fun.

We will dine on our patio at Bahr Palace in the Redlands Shire of Queensland

Let’s have a drink !

Waiter, may I have a Pimms Royal Cup

Cashew nuts and olives stuffed with anchovies and some asparagus in vinaigrette sauce are on the table.

It’s a hot day – perhaps a schooner of Stiegl Grapefruit Radler

Now for some hors douevres:

We’ll start with Figs with Bacon and Chili, Stuffed mushrooms, grilled sardines and Carrot, Onion and Spinach Bhajias with Mango Chutney.

A fish course is difficult, so I’ll have two – grilled sole on the bone followed by a dozen grilled peri peri tiger prawns.

Land of the Giants Sauvignon Blanc with the fish, thank you

Yes, please bring some bowls of warm water with lemon slices for cleaning fingers. Maybe we can get an unsuspecting guest to drink one…

Just as well we started early and have most of the day for this feast because I can’t pass fish by without some paella. It is a fish dish but has chorizo sausage too, which goes well with the calamari, mussels and prawns

Hmmm perhaps another bottle of the Land of the Giants...

Now for the first main course. Difficult to choose but I have narrowed it down to two:

Lamb Tikka Masala curry with leg chops so I can suck the marrow out of the bones, accompanied by pilau rice, grated coconut, Mrs Balls Peach Chutney, sliced bananas and tomato and onion sambal.

Nothing better than a schooner of ice cold Kingfisher beer to soothe the flames.

I hope you don’t mind but I selected a red for the main, main course and had it opened to breathe. I am largely ignorant as a gout avoidance measure, but I have heard good things about Pepperjack Shiraz and have enjoyed a glass or two.

The main main course is not fancy – Rosie’s oxtail stew, with baby potatoes, and some broccolini (an acquired taste)

We will have a little rest to let our tummies settle. Try a little dish of lemon sorbet to cleanse the plate.

Pudding is difficult, but I have limited the choice to three. Of course there’s the Irish option: we could try a little of all three.

My all time favourite, is maybe , creme brulee but I am also very taken by a good trifle with lots of sherry (no jelly). A recent competitor is malva pudding with cream.

A drop of Delheim Edelspatz Botrytis Riesling 2020 to go with the pud.

Honeysuckle and honey, apricots and peaches, lime lime lime, guava peels, orange peel and sticky marmalade, dried pineapple, sultanas, and all the baking spices.

Lusciously sweet, high acidity, full bodied, and with a loooong finish

Yeah – I thought it might appeal …

Finally some cheese and maybe a liqueur? I can recommend Drambuie or perhaps a Pere Magloire Calvados.

We have some Stilton and I can recommend a slice of a ripe pear with a bit of Roquefort. The brie goes well with a bit of quince paste or there is some Camembert or that lovely sheep’s cheese I had the other day…

Dear me! I am quite replete. I could almost smoke a cigar..

Perhaps a nap..?

Early morning Australia

Up by 5a.m. – humid already, but not unbearable.

Lulu and I set off on her walk; she checks each house on the left today, sniffing for new smells … or scraps.

No-one else about apart from the birds. Butcher birds whistle to each other, wood ducks qwuackle softly from up in a dead gum tree; the local kookaburra guardian of the park watches with its hard smile and calculating eye.

Cockatoos shriek at the morning flock of corellas which cackle back derisively; the Pacific Koel repeats its whistle warning of rain to come. Noisy miners live up to their name shrieking their anxieties to all and sundry.

Another wood duck has lost her mate and is quacking mournfully: where are you, I am worried, come back.. They pair for life so separation anxiety is severe.

Four young bush turkey males scavenge the path near the creek, keeping a weather eye for the local boss turkey with his bright yellow necklace – he can’t stand other male turkeys.

The swamp hens (pukekos in New Zealand) have re-built heir nest on the rock in the middle of the creek for the fourteenth time. Their chicks are now grown and forage for themselves. Pacific black ducks flash past to skim land on the creek in the clear water surrounded by lily pads.

A turtle stretches its neck on a tree in the river watched by three water dragons posing in the sun at different spots on the bank.

The Willy Wagtail twitters questions at us as we pass by over the bridge; the wood duck with fishing line on its leg scampers away again – Redlands Wildlife will again try to catch her soon.

The tawny frogmouths huddle in the tree over the road, almost invisible.

The morning crow choir chorus in Bahrs’ corner gum tree disturbs sleepers for miles around.

The blue faced honeyeaters search the last jacaranda flowers for nectar and the white ibis shiftily sidles out our drive.

Home again – a good start to the day.

Self indulgence

73 is a good number, but I am not there yet. Being but a step away is sufficient justification for self -indulgence.

Warmed by gentle signs of affection from the my nearest dearests and those afar, I feel free to indulge.

But, lest anyone think that I may neglect my responsibilities, I have done the washing up, emptied the bins, watered the flowers and inspected the lawn for dog poo (none); however, I did note it needs a cut – but not today!

To my delight I found a new scarlet amyryllis bloom, the second this season; a solitary deep red nasturtium smiled at me – I thought they were all done, and my birthday gardenia has spared me an extra bloom on the appropriate day.

On the kitchen bench are massed ingredients for the Christmas cakes baked by herself. Such a rich panoply: ginger, prunes, fig jam, candy peel, dates, apricots, currants, cherries, almonds to accompany the usual eggs, flour and milk, all stiffened with a cup or two of sherry and a dash of whisky to preserve it. Renowned as an invigorating health food the cake rarely makes the new year.

I had black berries and yogurt for breakfast and plan a mango soon. For lunch I will have a glass of wine (maybe two?) and some snorko’s (pork sausages, a little weakness of mine). Supper shall be feesh and cheeps at the Lighthouse.

Somewhere, there may be a nap …

That’s how I like it these days.

Unalloyed joy

When your throat thickens, your heart falters then swells and your eyes prickle with tears – that is unalloyed joy.

My middle grandson gave me a cool stare then curled a grin and clasped my finger … and my heart!

In the middle of a slow Spring afternoon, reading on the patio with music in the background. Pavarotti just reached those sad, beautiful notes in Vesti la giubba, which clutched at me, leaving me breathless with its pathos.

Ridi, Pagliaccio,
col tuo amore infranto!
Ridi del duol, che t’avvelena il cor!

Laugh, clown,
at your broken love!
Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!

Maybe that one was not joy but it was intense emotion!

Now I can’t remember the one which gave me such joy – damn!!

I thonk maybe it was the Vincero, vincero! in Nessun Dorma – have a listen and feel the joy!

Music often does that though. I still weep almost every time I hear Danny Boy:

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying

If I am dead, as dead I well may be

You’ll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.

And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me

And all my grave will warm and sweeter be

For you will bend and tell me that you love me

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me

Sadly this weekend there was no joy, unalloyed or at all, watching rugby….

Yesterday Today and Tomorrow

The scent catches me: we seem to have had a bush in every house we lived in. Such a descriptive name: Vivid in youth, mild lavender in the middle, fading to white in old age.

Maybe life’s distinctions are not just good or bad, heaven or hell, one or zero, young or old.

Maybe it’s a triad that pervades: Id, Ego, Superego; discovery, knowledge, wisdom; experience, life, hope …

I love the music of the past; today’s music needs to age until familiarity brings content. The thing about the past is that we mostly recall the good stuff, which makes today joyful.

Its only when tomorrow becomes today and doesn’t bring joy do we interrogate the past to attribute blame. Of course, it is not so easy to get a clear picture of the past, because we tailor and garnish our memories. Each time they are taken out, they get a bit of a polish, so are usually changed from the original.

So many roads to follow – choice is rarely easy, unless it’s laissez-faire.

An idle thought (most of mine these days..) – focus in the past was sharp, it is a bit hazy today … tomorrow is an estimate.

Perhaps we should spend less time on the warm, familiar past and focus more on our future. Determination and tenacity are the best fuel in the pursuit of contentment. We determine today and step forward tomorrow, which always changes and needs ongoing determination.

So spend time today on sharpening your axe, start chopping tomorrow … but remember to do some sharpening each day.

When you are old, the awareness of the end of the road turns one’s mind to some sort of negotiation with the gods. FOMO is an abiding regret: will I see my grandson play 1st team or my grandaughters’ weddings .. balanced against the imperative of dying (easily and swiftly, of course) before any loved ones.

It is astounding how one seems to pick up speed and not notice how quickly the years pass as we near the bottom of the slope.

Goodness! I didn’t mean to lurch into the melancholy, I certainly don’t feel that; I was just trying to write anything but a rant!

It’s not the colours of the flowers so much as the scent that lingers and stirs the memory – like bacon!

Yellow

Autumn is a yellow season.

The sketch is of sunflowers we picked from a farm field.

Who said farming can’t be appreciated by many? I don’t mean just the produce, but the intrinsic beauty of crops in the field.

An enterprising farmer recently opened the sunflower fields for the public to enjoy.

Thousands of people left their city homes and travelled over 100 kilometres to walk about the fields, smiling and posing and picking sunflowers while avoiding bees. The entry fee was not hefty.

Pop-up food and souvenir stalls abounded: I had a very fine, cheap hamburger and some unremarkable gin in grapefruit juice.

One could glamp in luxury tents, wander through a maze in the sunny fields, get married amongst sunflowers or take a helicopter flip to photograph the fields.

I half expected a March Hare and a Queen of Hearts to appear – it was a sublimely pleasant experience!

On the same yellow road: Autumn is the month for the flowering of Golden Penda trees which almost outnumber flamboyant trees in our part of the world.

After good rains (which we have had) the trees burst out in yellow sprays of flowers, which have copious nectar. This attracts the honeyeaters which include the rainbow lorikeets, who become besotted and wild, seeking out more and more.

I have written before about the cacophony of Austraian bird calls. In this season, the noise starts before dawn and continues into the heat of the day. Gangs of the electric green, purple headed birds speed from tree to tree, shrieking their critique of the nectar quality for all to hear. It is almost oppressive.

Aren’t we lucky?

Another view of Spring 2021

As is my habit I breakfast in the morning sun on the patio. It is fresh and I don’t switch on the radio, as I want to hear the birds.

Next to me is a kumquat tree with bright orange fruit and new season flowers, which have that lovely citruscent. One of the day’s decisions is whether to turn the fruit to marmalade – I think I will.

The lawn is patrolled by spotted doves and magpie larks. The local magpies pass through to ensure their territories are being respected. They viciously attack any magpie intruders.

A pair of magpie larks,called peewees, are frequent visitors. This morning one of them walked past my chair as I read on the patio after breakfast. I glanced at her and she stopped and eyed me over, then as I was not an obvious threat or interest walked under the table.

She emerged on the other side hopped up onto a chair and then onto the table, only 4 feet from me, looking for morsels. She then stopped, looked at me and sounded her ear piercing tweetshriek. Who knows: maybe defiance, or just a joyful greeting?

In the foliage around the bird feeder, where the pyton often hangs out, crested pigeons kerfuffle frequently – their libido goes through the roof in Spring. Rainbow Lorikeets pop in occasionally, but don’t linger.

Less frequently, we are privleged with glimpses of King Parrots and Pale-headed Rosellas and the occasional galah and cockatoo.

In the syringa tree, figbirds and blue eyed honeyeaters search for flowers or berries almost every day. Noisy mynahs squabble and shriek on the move like gangs of unruly children released from class. Their noise is often pierced by the harsher scrapescreech of the noisy friars who pass by.

Finally, there is a sweet pair of Lewin’s Honeyeaters, who bathe in a patio gutter that needs fixing, carelessly splashing and spraying. They chatter happily as they flit through the trees, playing catch.

Life is not too bad, if we stop and listen to the birds.

Retirement – permission to misbehave?

Suggested by Debra Hall Thursday 18 March

It’s not so much what you can do, when you retire, but how much you can’t do before you do.

From before memory what we hear is: “No” “you can’t have that” ”do what I say” “this is the way we do things here” with sub text “and if you don’t then we are not for you”.

So one would think that retirement would be like letting go of a wound up elastic band: Twwwaaangggg!!! Don’t stop me now…!

Thinking about what you’re going to do when you are free to do it is quite fun. No-one said it better than Jenny Joseph in her “Warning”.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

….and learn to spit

But she didn’t really know, she was only 29 when she wrote the poem.

It isn’t like that, immediately anyway. Stopping the engine from continuing to run at working speed takes time. You can’t just start sleeping in because you are retired. The dog still wakes you at five, your eyes open and your heart starts fast and you leap up to get the day on the go because you know if you don’t you’ll be late for work…. Oh, Duh!.

Retirees struggle to fill their day. Retirement is a new job; you have to start from scratch again. Finding things to do when you’re used to trying to find time to do things is the world upside down. Getting things done when there is no structure and deadlines is difficult.

Learning to sit and relax and read or do nothing without guilt only comes after years of practice. When you can have cake everyday, it doesn’t taste so good.

You don’t have to shave, but you do. I wear my comfortablest (and tattiest) old clothes quite often.

I say things which I expect to provoke, but they don’t! Somehow it seems to be expected from the older generation. Anyway what we oldies think is provocative or challenging is not seen as so.

As we grow older and age, so do the values and attitudes we held. So being provocative is not easy. Its not easy to find that you have not moved with the times and whilst you might have been progressive or even radical when you were young, you find that you are far more conserv ative now.

I mean I wasn’t quite a Trotskyite but I was threatened with deportation once. (Mind you that was South Africa in apartheid heyday, so the bar was not very high…) Bit like Australia: if you are naughty we’ll deport you …plus ca change plus c’est la meme chose?

So I am not going to dye my hair (haven’t got enough left) or get a tattoo (so common these days and they look ghastly on flabby old bodies)

But I do have a floppy tatty hat which I love and a canary yellow waistcoat and salmon pink trousers and blue vellies!

I am such a rebel!

Orson Welles suggested: I don’t say we all ought to misbehave, but we ought to look as if we could.

That sounds good to me.