we're all making our own sense of things
“And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night
…
And of all the gifts my father gave me, the final one was to let me be there to hold his hand. And he waited for a moment when I held no rage. Only love. Thanks Dad.
…
PS You can listen to Dylan Thomas (I’m pretty sure it’s him) read the poem here. It’s gorgeous.
So, I was planning to be here:
doing some more of this:
it’s really not the weather for this:
I’m not there, because there’s other things that need to be done.
Sitting mostly. Knitting. Cooking soup and casserole. And that thing you do at the stop lights on the late drive home.
I had something like a dream last night. I’ve had it before and I’ve been waiting for it this last week or so. It’s not a dream exactly. But a sense and a feeling. And it’s been following me around. It’s to tell me that everything will be okay. It’ll be hard. But it will be okay.
You’re right, mum.
Because I was out last night, it’s the mister’s turn to go to the party (one day we’ll go out together again, won’t we?) so I am at home sorting my photographs. My digital photographs. My camera(s) download the photos in singularly-dated folders which is really a very awkward way to have photographs organised.
I have created a small number of large-ish folders and transferred the photos appropriately.
This is a most satisfying exercise. I highly recommend it. Now, I am backing the up onto CD-Rs. Whatever they might be. Round shiny things. That’s all I need to know, isn’t it?
All in all, it’s been a rather emotional day, and I’m quite enjoying the satisfaction of all this sifting and sorting.
One thing I’m wondering though: are we supposed to be printing out all these photographs, or will it be enough to have them on these-here CD-Rs?
PS In today’s The Advertiser there was a list of this state’s 150 most important people – I think because The Advertiser is 150 years old or some such. I’m not that great at counting (Amazing Race in-joke there, hilarious, no?), but on my calculations, there are 20 women and 2 Aboriginal people in that list. I know, what else should I expect? But really.
‘Mum, we need you.’
‘Yeah, can you get the ball…’
‘Can’t you get it yourselves?’
‘Well, I’m afraid of the dark and he can’t climb the fence.’
So, I was reading genevieve, who has been reading locus who was (or perhaps were), from what I gather, reading angela, who, has, in turn, been reading krissy who made me think that I think too much and write too little (and not to say that she thinks too little, just to say that her writing discipline inspired me to do more with my thoughts than just think them).
So, I started writing again. Just a little something while the boys watched ABC Kids.
Somewhat alarmingly, I find myself with little to say.
And even that title is a lie.
Current status: all of my fingernails are shorter than I would like them to be.
Or, in other words: nothing to see here. Move along please.
At least I got to watch the Sh*ple C**y special(s), before Sam Newman came back to The Footy Show and I had to start boycotting Channel 9 again.
Probably at around the time, Ampersand Duck was enjoying sushi, I had a plastic bag around my hand, retreiving the sock which had fallen into the toilet bowl. I had to do this after the poo had been done, but before the paper had been used. Other things about this incident you might be interested to know: I was not in my own house.