When he’s not curled up on the sofa or on my pillow at night, Oscar’s been spending his time in a corner of the back yard. Sitting amongst the weeds that from a distance resemble a bed of green grass, he patiently stares down a gopher hole, his nose twitching as if he senses each slight movement the rodent makes below the earth.
He was the Prince, eloquent and prudent. A statesman who gave to his people, a diplomat in a world dominated by the church. Il Magnifico – married to bring unity to his beloved Florence, having given his heart earlier to his true beloved.
When I first flew into Los Angeles International Airport and saw the smog layer that drifted over the sprawling city, I was reminded of a piece I’d read in a magazine when I attended elementary school in Australia. The writer had described how, in the not so distant future, scientists predicted that massive deaths of bird life would be reported in the city of Los Angeles due to the density of smog.
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I kick the covers off; I drag them back on. I replay the day’s events in my head, not once – but over and over again. I do my best to keep my eyes closed and not peek at the clock, knowing that I will anyway… so, I do. It’s fifteen minutes later than the last time I looked at it. My husband sleeps, my cat sleeps, our dog sleeps, but not me.
When I turn on the radio or read news articles about the state of the world it’s difficult to tune out the often non-sensical tones of the language that seeps between words. With the U. S. Presidential election nearing, I’ve become pretty savvy about sorting through the undercurrent of abusive communication between those in power or/and those who crave the same. My concern is with the readers and listeners who lack the want or need to seek truths because the reality is that some of them will actually vote.
Last night I decided to watch the news, but what I ended up finding fascinating were the commercials between stories.
A few weeks ago I was in Hobart with my sister and niece staying at the fabulous Apartments on Star, in Sandy Bay. It was Monday afternoon when we arrived and had planned to visit MONA the next day, however the lovely Martin and Tony (owners of these gorgeous apartments), bravely told me that it’s not open on Tuesdays.
I started hyperventilating…
Jenene and I drove up the long dusty driveway toward what was to be our new rental home. The garden was overgrown and the house, although recently painted a dull red with white trim, had a general outlook of disrepair. The property, like the Amityville house, had an eerily foreboding feel.
My husband is a ukulele luthier – here’s his website: www.ojaivalleyhandmadeukuleles.com/
Hi, my name is Mandy and I have a complete inability to walk past any Australian bakery without eating a veggie roll or hedgehog slice, or whatever other delicacy is beckoning me through glass.