Raw Story

May. 22nd, 2017 08:14 am
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
#StoryADay prompt
Societal World Building

The Story A Day website offered the prompt of looking at a story you're writing, and asking how a particular aspect of the story came into being. It can mean research if writing a 'mundane' or literary story, more wild speculation if writing genre.

My mind went straight to a story I never finished, an older one, where Christianity has been side-lined in favour of every other religion in the world. Naturally, I gave St Paul's cathedral to the pagans. Prime real estate.
I never got further than someone on the steps of St Paul's watching Christians march down Swanston St, from the State Library to the Shrine of Remembrance. I remember something about ruined tram lines from the religious riots of twenty years before, and it seemed it was yet another foray of mine into a semi post-apocalyptic Melbourne. I've yet to discover whether all these little Melbourne vignettes are part of one great disaster vision, or separate worlds.

Anyway, so if that's where my mind went, I'm okay with that. Maybe the speculation I'm about to do here, straight onto the page, and without too much seriousness, will respark the story. Maybe not. I don't have much of a stake in the results either way. It's an exercise.

So, partly-ruined Melbourne, or at least, a greatly neglected and run-down Melbourne.
How? When? I want to say it's an offshoot of the Kennett years, which is when this story started. That Kennett's strictures on Victoria tightened and tightened, and somehow, the Christian sects of Melbourne became harsher, to the point where other religions finally revolted.
Did they band together? They'd have to, I think. That would take some organisation. A charismatic leader? This was in the days before Facebook, flash mobs, and the internet being a way to rally people(and for people to say they're coming to something, and then not bother turning up, because there's a turmeric chai latte with their name on it at a hipster café).
What would it take for the Pagans, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and every other mob to take to the streets and wrest control of the church sites, and the dominant religious paradigm of Victoria?
Did it happen worldwide, or just in Australia, or just Victoria?
Interesting if it's just Victoria, because it ties in with a story I wrote, also during the Kennett years, of a wall going up around Victoria, and Kennett continuing as a despot. And harnessing all the magical and psychic folk to control the security of the wall. In the case of my heroine, holding her daughter hostage.
If the tram lines in Melbourne are ruined, it suggests a violent takeover that wrecked Melbourne.
Now that the pagans have St Paul's what are they going to do with it? It's scarcely a grove of trees, an open space, or Stonehenge. Or is it? Do those steps of St Paul's now lead to a new Stonehenge on the site of the church?
Oh, but I would miss the bell turrets, and the gargoyles...
But what was the last straw? What was the incident that broke the camel's back and incited rebellion, rioting, and takeover? Who was it who said 'let them eat cake'?
I truly want to implicate George Pell.
"Christians have only ever done good," he might have said.
And that, my friends, would have pissed off just about everyone not Christian. Not that their hands are clean, by any means, because every religion has dickheads, and oppressors.
But, I can just picture Pell saying something like that, then denying he said it, as he's lead to the chopping block.
Or something equally inflammatory.
When it's broadcast on tv, one person puts down their knife and fork on their dinner plate and says: "That's it. I had enough of this git."
Then they're on the phone to their mates, saying: "Did you see Pell? Yeah? We riot at midnight. Call your friends."
And the biggest phone tree in the history of phone trees is activated.
At midnight, Melbourne starts to fall.

And that's what I can think of at 8.30am, Monday morning, over breakfast on the brown couch.
As an experiment, I didn't go terribly wild, but I am feeling rather worn down by the past week.
Plus, I'm only slowly regaining my ability to 'ask the next question' to get deeper into weird territory.
So much of my original storytelling skill deteriorated in the years after my breakdowns, and in the made scramble to write non-fiction to sell to magazines. My word skills have improved, but I need to work out my speculation muscles, build them up again. They are rather atrophied.
So, morning workout done, I now rise from the brown couch, disturbing both the pup, and Chloe Ballerina Cat, and go about my day.
Ciao for now, world builders.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Saturday 20th May was the Melbourne Tea Festival, which, on Facebook, comes under the auspices of Tea Festivals.
Went last year, drank lots, bought lots, still drinking some of that. Very crowded, many stalls, T2 taking up the most space. Odd, because they are in many shopping centres.
Anyway, they weren't there this year, and it was more artisan teas, and small businesses.
Last year, it was all about green tea. This year, it was chai.
A sign of the trendy hipster influence?
Certainly the amount of turmeric chai tea on offer indicates a strong trendy café influence.
It's $20 to get in, and then, small porcelain tea cup in hand, I wandered the aisles. Every stall had a crowd of people, so I utilised the elbows, patience, and long arms of PizzaBoy to get in for me.
"Go PizzaBoy, fetch me some slurps!"
And he did.
I drank my way through green teas, rooibos teas, chai's, turmeric chai's, fruit tisanes. Most were good, a few foul beyond belief.
I managed to book a tea leaf reading with Tea With Annie, and scored a reading with the very pregnant Annie herself. A lovely lady, full of light, and delight. I arrived early for my reading, naturally, being a Capricorn who frets about lateness, so I urged her to stuff her face with food while she had the chance. To my motherly mind, she didn't eat enough for lunch, but likely, in her late stage of pregnancy, can't fit much in at any one time.
I drank my herbal tea, straining the herbs through my teeth, and, upon her instruction, tipped my cup upside down on the saucer and let it sit.
When she picked it up, she waited for further drops to drip out, and said: "When the tea cup cries like this, it's an indication to drink more tea, you're dehydrated". Well, I dunno about drink more tea. I'd just siphoned about 3 litres into the toilet. But she was likely right about being dehydrated. I needed more water.
To me, the herbs just looked like a big clump, but, armed with a metal skewer, Annie pulled images and meaning.
Now, all she knew about me was my first name, and my mobile phone number, which I'd rather scrawled down. We'd not met before.
First up, she remarked on the heart shape of the clump of herbs, pointing out aorta and other valves. She said that if I was to look after any aspect of my health, heart needed to come first.
As I'd spent a day the prior week with a Halta heart monitor on, because I've been having palpitations, and occasional skipped beats(my heart has always skipped beats on occasion, but it's recent that it's become painful when it does so). Heart is fine, according to the 12 hour scan done. Sure, my heart totally behaved itself. Not a palp or skip in sight. Half an hour after ripping the ruddy, rash-inducing pads off, palpitations. Go figure. (Like the magic that happens in a doctor's office, you start feeling better while sitting there.)
I have taken note of Annie's remarks, and am slowing my life down again, as I think the heart stuff is anxiety.
Annie pointed out a giraffe shape made of calendula and rooibos leaves.
"Are you a writer?"
She said that giraffes usually come up in the cups of writers. I am so very happy to have had a giraffe in my cup. (Title of writing memoir)
She said that something to do with the writing, an opportunity, or success, will come up in about four months. So there's some impetus to get a memoir finished to first draft through edit stage, and send it somewhere. Likely to be the spiritual memoir, as that's the one I'm closest to atm.
Gosh, what else did she say?....
She saw a wedding in the family (yes, TwentiesGirl, November), and.... Annie is not the first intuitive to think that TG and CarMan will add a fourth child to their household in a few years, another girl, and a girly girl this time. So far, two other psychics have picked that up, and me.
No pressure, TG, just carry on with raising your three brood right now.
Annie picked up my own intuitive gifts and talents. We chatted about tarot being my forte, and not hers, and tea leaf reading being hers, and not mine. She put me on to a transparent tarot that can build up images when pulled cards are placed on top of each other.
We then had a wee bitch-fest about a certain coffee cup reader who has been unpleasant to both of us.
I can't remember what else she said now. I'm still rather full of myself that the giraffe was in my cup. Yes, I'm a writer. Even the gods, and the tea gods, and the tea leaves think so. Not that I was in any doubt, but in times past, readers have picked up 'musician' over and over, and I have all the musical skill of an avocado.
After the reading, I continued my merry slurping way, although my palate was rather jaded, and so was my nose. I couldn't tell a green rose tea from a jasmine tea. Besides, there's only so much tea I can drink before my tongue feels furry and dry, and my stomach says 'for pity's sakes, woman, eat something'.
A few food trucks were selling stuff, but the Vietnamese tofu bowl PB bought me was far too spicy for this unadventurous eater. I fancied it was upsetting my vata dosha (I've been a bit keen on Ayurvedic stuff since my last Byron Bay trip).
I did a quick trip through the 'blend your own tea' section, where I made a warming and calming tea, with a chamomile base, plenty of rose and calendula, some ginger, clove, and some blue mallow flowers. It tastes...okay.
And I was done. I couldn't face any more tea, didn't want the macarons on offer, or the fancy red bean tea cakes, so we choofed off.
A walk along Southbank in the sunshine, and onto the train for home.
Pleasant day out, but the body and brain were telling me it was a step too far in a busy week. I had the shakes, and the brain addles.
Still, I'd go again next year, provided I drink up all my tea in the meantime...

Raw story

May. 18th, 2017 12:32 pm
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
StoryADay Day 17, straight onto the page here.

The bloody fairies have been at it again. They must sit peering around books on shelves, and behind photo frames as I lumber about the house, wondering where the hell I've stored my belly dance veils, and my small selection of hip scarves.
I'm a retired belly dance teacher, and tomorrow, someone is coming to buy the last few things from me. I never sold everything, thinking that one day I'd go back, but now I know I won't.
I kept some favourites. But, where? Apparently, not where I used to store my costumes, wigs, and the hardware involved with belly dance - finger cymbals, sword, cane, veils, shamadan, dancing flags, Isis wings.
The fairies move things around in this house. Or the spirits. Or the ghost of Little Egypt, turning in her grave at the sight of red-haired, white, round little me in a two piece cabaret costume.
So, I've had enough. I'm getting out the big guns. I borrowed a book on fairy witchcraft from the library. "Fairies, Magic, and You At Home". I'm going to get my stuff back from wherever they've stashed it.
The book says to cast circle by strewing fairy dust. What the-? Who has that lying around? I don't even have packets of sequins any more. Skip that, then, because I have no idea what they're talking about. Who's the author? Lady Morgaine Le Star. Never heard of her.
Next, call in the elements. This book isn't very detailed. I don't think it's for beginners. Well okay. I feel like a nutter, but I don't know what else to do.
I'm in the middle of my lounge room. I can smell the washing drying in front of the space heater.
"Elements, come to me!" I say, with my arms raised, because that seems like the right thing to do. "Hydrogen, helium, lithium....um....nitrogen, aluminium..." Do I really have to name them all? There's a lot, and high school chemistry was a long time ago. "Ah...lead, zinc, and sodium. Hello, greetings, um, yeah."
The book says to invoke the fairies, and ask for their help.
"Oh, fairies, come to me." How do you invoke things you've never seen? I suppose it's like praying to God. "Dear Fairies who move things around, hallowed be your names. Your kingdom is nearby I guess, and you're certainly imposing your wills on me. Please fairies, return to me that which you have moved, or taken, and hidden. Please. I need them for a charity gig tomorrow. Please."
I pause to take a peek at the book. It says to make an offering to the fairies of milk and honey, and little bread, as the fairies 'keep no herds, no hives, and do not farm'.
Soy milk, stevia, and no bread at all. I'm a health nut. I don't do grains. I cut up an apple, and put it in a bowl with the soy milk, and sprinkle it all with stevia powder.
My loungeroom is unchanged, and there's no feeling of magic in the air. But...the book is missing. It was right there on my coffee table, and now it's gone.
"All right, you wise guys. Put it back. Put everything back the way you found it. I'm sick of this. Put. It. All. Back. The. Way. You. Found. It." My voice is strong, and I have my hands on my hips. The old performance adrenaline is running through me. The stuff that kept me addicted to dance well past the time I should have retired, for my health. I kept teaching and dancing, despite the loss of balance, the confusion, the shaking.
Parkinson's is a bitch of a thing.
I sit down before I'm tempted to try a few dance moves, before I start thinking beyond my body's limits, and wanting a life I can't have any more.
Nothing happens. The room is as quiet and still as ever. I flop back against the couch, and soon, I'm dozing. It's easy to sleep time away.

I wake and I'm...not in my lounge. I'm on the couch of my parents old house. The house that has been torn down, and transformed into three townhouses, with ugly straight lines. There's the smell of Mum's vegetable soup cooking, and I'm small again.
I'm...a child. A tiny one, maybe four, I guess. I'm inside this body that doesn't shake, or hurt, isn't weak.
I'm the age....when I saw fairies around the roots of the apricot tree. I remember now. I saw them. I did.
They've put everything back the way they found it. The way they found me.
And then, the memories start to fade. Gone are my fifties, my forties. I'm going back and back in time, losing my adult self. Back through my twenties, and my teens.
I'm four, and Mummy has soup, and I like that. Mummy calls me to dinner, and I run. I like Mummy's soup, and after dinner, she said we could play dancing. We can dance together like big girls.


I had no idea where that was going to go when I started it. I'm a bit pleased. I had to go back and alter a couple of things when the true situation of the woman came out, but all the rest is fresh onto the page.
StoryADay done. Writing done for today. Weird itchy feeling released.


May. 18th, 2017 09:50 am
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Poor sorting: I like that: that it all gets dropped, the big stuff enmeshed with the grainy soft stuff. The indiscriminate mess. That it forms a long train, so that seeing it all, one can trail events back. Guess at them. View time. And by way of the whole scattered and shifting pattern, by the gathering eye, make something of these loose details, collecting. - from "Glaciology" by Lia Purpura.

Imagine the bride down the aisle,
white train leaving behind her old life.
Along the curated carpet:
a Barbie here, a skipping rope there.
Over by the doorway, a tiny engagement ring
given to her by a boy desperate to fuck her
when she was eighteen,
the diamond speck scarcely visible
amongst light refracting off the rock on her finger today.
Her life revealed,
like a shock of ankle,
or a glimpse of 1913 stocking.
Heaven knows, now anything goes,
as old bikinis,
and a school uniform are kicked
by the mother of the bride
into a spare aisle at the back of the church.
And oh, over there, the body of her first dog,
old Aldo, who endured her toddler love.
Everyone pretends they can't see
her history sediment roughed up and exposed
by the glacier-white of her dress.
She streams past, hands trembling
ever so slightly,
and face frozen in a smile she's practiced
for years.
The groom, at the front of the church
yet to be ground down to rock flour,
as she approaches.
New territory open for both of them;
climate change, and going-away outfits.
The rubble is left behind
on the floor of the church,
as she looks ahead,
as though she knows what's coming.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
There, did my two writing submissions this morning. A piece of flash fiction to Liminal Stories(they DO say they like weird), and a short personal essay, a bit of stuff and nonsense, to Elephant Journal.
Those 'in the know' say one must aim for 100 No Thankyous a year, which means amongst the many offerings will be some Yes, We Love You. That's the theory. Rather depressing if all I get is the No Thankyou 100 times.
So, that's 3 offerings down, and it's May. I really don't want to calculate how many more I'd need to do to get the 100. I'll just choof along at my own pace, offering when I think I have something to offer, and meanwhile, writing new stuff, blogging, and sporadically doing my art journaling.

It's started raining. Oh dear, no getting into the garden. I shall simply have to stay inside and read THE GIRL BEFORE. Such a hardship.


May. 15th, 2017 01:29 pm
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
"By August, the young geese are strong fliers, and the parents take them from the ponds down to the marshes and the shore, where some of them will spend the winter near the salt water. Others fly off, looking for new homelands." - Mary Oliver, UPSTREAM.

High summer,
we're lolling on the verandah,
stripped to bathers,
or underwear,
and each of us eying the others,
wondering who'll be first
to make that noise.
"Mum, Dad, I'm going to-"

Leave home.
Who will it be?
It's holidays now,
school's done.
Dad's joked for years:
"Out you go, the lot of you."

What's the signal,
the moment unspoken,
when the urge to fly
lands on some,
and not others.
Who stays, who goes?

High summer,
and we're waiting for the
honking-goose moment
for one of us to ruffle feathers,
spread wings,
and lift into heat-laden air.

The hours tick,
a sun-burnt tin roof,
cooking our brains,
until we don't know
what the future holds,
except that some of us will
go, and not come back.


I don't know who's speaking here. Someone part of a large family, it seems. It's certainly not my own experience. It feels American to me, perhaps the Mary Oliver influence.
Who are these people, that so many young adults around the same age, are thinking beyond high school to the world beyond, and either reaching for it, or shrinking away?
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
The following are poems typed out from Jacquelyn Mitchard's excellent book THE MOST WANTED. The poems are by Sharron Singleton.
I have wanted to store copies of these poems for many years, but have never found a permanent home for them. This seems like as a good a place as any.

To Dillon For Our Wedding Day

Love is a season
for the migrant
heart to rest in.

Love is the wild
wind the heart
rides home on.



In some dumb wisdom your mama named
you, not after a person, but after a place.

Darling, you are all the lonely hometowns
in Texas, brown and sun-burnt, a little wild

a little sad. You are the high meadow
streaked with shadows of quick-moving clouds.

You are that narrow valley outside of town
where flowers bloom after a few drops of rain.

You are the place I am always moving toward,
the yellow light that spills from open

doorways, a darkened bedroom
with a dress thrown over the chair.


Every bride

holds the future
in her mind
on her wedding night.

Here is the future
I want - enough
time to grow

ordinary and dull,
that settle

like moths,
you and I
on the porch stairs

in the dark, the glow
of your cigarette,
the smell of the first drops

of rain in the dust,
nothing to look forward to
but tomorrow

and the day
after that.


The Sound of Bells

I'll always remember our first night
together, you so flushed and sky,
me knowing what I know but
scared too because you are the first one

I loved. We poured our loneliness
into each other and filled the emptiness
and dark corners of this place with joy.
Seeing you naked made me feel so tender.

I think of your long straight back,
your strong legs, see your hair on the pillow,
your dark eyes close, and say your name
over and over. Arlington. It is the sound of bells.


The Terrain of Love

I thought love would be something so large
and bright I could not contain it, like an armful
of exploding firecrackers. I see now

that the terrain of love is small scale. There
are the fine golden hairs on the backs
of your hands, your voice as it thickens

when you say my name, your thumb
on the pulse of my throat, the day we first
stood together, not touching, just knowing.


What's True

The hardest thing is to say what's true. You
aren't the first or the only but girl, when I think
of how you came to me, how your long dark hair
fell across my face, your skin rippled under

my hands, water-soft and water-cool, I am washed
clean, like Jesus said, and it seems to me
that if this is all I ever have, it is enough.



This love sucks at me
like the Texas wind
that wants my clothes
that unbraids

my hair. It plucks
here and there
with strong fingers
pulls at the cords

of my wrists til
like a harp they
ache and sing
This love teases

unravels and loosens
til untucked
and love-struck
I open to you.


Cell Dreams

Late at night: I am dreaming, something wind
pushes me along like a pebble in the path
of a dust devil, something unbroken in me -
or too much broken, crazed they say. My life
is a walk through an electrical storm - each hair
stands up, each cell is charged with this current;
there is nothing behind me and nothing ahead.

Later: cheap whiskey redemption scalds my throat,
brings peace in the night.

Later yet: headlights (now I'm dreaming
of you) and a thousand miles of highways, the night
juiced up with music - lonely cowboys, angel girls,
and death, a 2.00am country preacher,
testifying, rocking in the spirit (we have to),
stop at the motel, tear back the sheets, tumble
and tangle together, call out, "Oh,
Lord!" while above us stars burn
holes in the black night.



Now I lay you down
my sweet, downy
head beneath my cheek,
to sleep your deep
and dreamless sleep.
The angels keep you
safe, I pray: my little one,
my Desiree,
and I will watch and I will wait
and rock this bough
that will not break.
No one will take
your soul this night.
I'm here.


Chasing down more of Singleton's poetry, I find the following links:

satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Big Vegan Market. Hah, I thought. If it's anything like the original Conscious Living expos, then there will be perhaps twenty stalls in the massive hall of the Royal Exhibition Building. I'll whip around it in twenty minutes and think it not worth the $2 entry.
I hopped off the train at Parliament, and straggled up to Nicholson St. From there, a short walk to the REB. A little sunny, cool, and lo and behold, about a dozen people walking that way too. Probably on their way to hipster shopping in Collingwood, or visiting people in St Vincent's Hospital. Wrong. As I walked through the REB gardens, people were converging like iron filings dragging towards a magnet.
Please all be going to the Museum, I thought.
They weren't.
Mind you, two young lasses were a few steps behind me, and suddenly the taller one said: "I can't go in there. I did my VCE exams in there!"
{"We can't stop here. This is bat country."}
"That was four years ago."
"I don't care. I can't go in there. Let's go to the Museum."
And so, the larger girl deviated towards the museum, and the smaller girl trailed in her wake, shooting longing looks at the REB.
A few groups of young people had spread out picnic blankets in the gardens, and were scoffing brown cardboard boxes of vegan food. As I neared the entrance, I saw that one group were doing 'rock paper scissors' to decide who should get up, pay $2 and go in to the market for more food, and another couple of six packs of vegan beer. A tall, thin, bearded young man lost, and unfolded himself.
"More lollies!" yelled one of the girls.
He lined up just in front of me, and the line moved quickly into the hall. The front part of the hall was full of vendors, and the back section taken up with food stalls of all sorts. All were busy and had lines. It was midday.
I headed straight for a vegie burger, as I didn't want to shop on an empty stomach. I was offered a seat at a table with a young woman and her two year old son, Rio. Daddy had gone to hunt for more food, and wouldn't be back for a while. Rio said his name was 'nothing' and that he was 'nothing' years old. He liked 'nothing', and Mummy, Daddy, and I were all naughty.
He sucked on his sippy cup of water for a while, and then took an interest in my lunch. He nicked some lettuce, and a piece of tomato. I gave him some more lettuce, and the fally-outy bits of my burger. This was better than his own lunch.
I've always maintained that if I opened a restaurant, I'd call it "Satya's Food", because my own kids, my grandkids, and strangers' kids all find my food fascinating, and worth eating. I can't count the number of times a small person has helped themselves to my food. (Just this morning, at the Pancake Parlour, FirstGrandson ignored his silver dollar pancakes in favour of the strawberries on my breakfast, and my own pancakes, while SecondGrandson had a sip of my lukewarm ginger tea)
Leaving Rio to the dregs of my (rather tasteless and soggy) lunch, I ventured into the scrum of the market. I am deprogramming myself these days of LoafAbout's old instructions for the Zoo. "Go left and keep left". I turned right, and started wandering the aisles.
I examined some pretty cool looking faux-leather jackets made by Raised By Wolves, and got into conversation with a very tough-looking bikie sort, and his tough bikie wife. He was tall, fat, with an epic frizzy grey beard, tattoos all over everywhere visible, worn blue jeans, a few chains, and looked like he'd start a rumble in a butcher's shop. He and the wife had been vegan for fifteen years, and were all over the jackets like a rash. They were also stocking up on barbecue items for the many BBQ's their bike club held. Yes, they copped shit for it. No, they no longer cared. Big bikie was asking about the road durability of the jackets when I left.
Next up, I found the vegan version of Converse runners, and will be ordering a red pair, for cosplay (and coolness). With red faux-Converse that are more comfy than real Converse, and cheaper, I can cosplay Misty from Pokémon (fat, middle-aged Misty), and Rose Tyler from Dr Who.
When I explained what I needed the red shoes for, the woman fitting me gave me a very long look.
I bounced around various skin care, food, and chocolate stalls. Every woman and her vegetarian pet is making raw chocolate these days. Some of it's pretty darned good. Some of it is packaged skunk poo. I ate it all. Small toothpick-worthy amounts that likely added up to a couple of lines of Cadbury. I felt very full.
Boy, do vegans love their coffee, and their desserts. Everywhere, sweet desserts of all sorts. Cakes, chocolate, cake mixes, brownies, mousse, friands, dried fruit teas. Nearly all of it gluten-free.
I restrained myself mightily, because I simply didn't feel like gutsing. I knew I'd feel lousy later. I had one cupcake, which wasn't so exciting, and that was my dessert.
A lady scrubbed one of my hands with coffee grounds, and pronounced it 'youthified', when all she'd done was scrape off my hand moisturiser. I asked if she'd do the other hand so they matched. She said one hand only per customer. I continued, with one coffee-smelling fresh clean hand, and one rose-scented ordinary hand.
A surprising amount of vegans were crowded around the 'bowel cleansing' kit stall. I would have thought all those vegies would be cleansing enough, but some vegans prefer to be whistle-clean, inside and out.
And who knew there were so many vegans in Melbourne? I suspect some weren't vegans. Shock, horror! I suspect some were mere Melbourne foodies, come along to scarf down food, eat free samples, and buy their fairtrade coffee beans. If Melbourne really had this many vegans, then there should be a LOT more restaurants opening. Hint, hint, Melbourne chefs.
And by the way, not everyone loves a tofu scramble. Fuck off with that.
I had just escaped from the clutches of a Multi-Level-Marketing Official Pushy Person when I felt that someone was weirdly close to me. I felt their aura, and then, over my shoulder: "You've put on weight."
Ugh! It was XP, the guy who dumped me nine years ago. I'd intuited he might be at this market, but thought I was simply being paranoid. No. Here he was. I just stared at him, thinking: "Fuck off, baldy."
Then he said: "I see you're here on your own."
Now, XP has never quite believed that I remarried. He's seen PizzaBoy and I together a few times at various things, but more often, as seen me gadding about The Glen, or the Mind Body Spirit festival on my own. Believe it or not, PB and I are not conjoined twins.
So, the implication was, here, that I'm not really married, that PB has likely dumped me, or was a flash in the pan thing.
Normally, I don't know what to say in these situations, but this time, the movie 'Madagascar' came to my rescue.
"I killed my husband and ate his liver."
Result: XP stared for a few seconds, then just turnd his back.
Meanwhile, a woman who has eavesdropped, stared at me with a 'you know this is a VEGAN market, meat-eater' look in her eyes.
My response has kept me happy and warm for over 24 hours now.
I was a bit discombobulated after the XP encounter, and had just about had enough of the market crowds anyway. I popped back quickly to say hello to the lady who runs the Gluten Freegan stall, usually at St Andrew's market. She was looking rather frazzled, and said it had been crazy all day. I comforted by saying that she had the best looking desserts in the joint. And she did.
As I left, the line for the atm machine, and the lines for the toilets were too long, so I took to the open air, just in time to see another member of the hipster picnickers return with yet more food, and two more six packs. They were a very happy bunch of hipster students, and were starting to loll like seals, despite the lack of sunshine.
I had my little bag of goodies, and a few contact business cards. There was a lady vegan nutritionist I want to talk to, and there's those red shoes to order online.
A worthwhile outing, even if I was a bit shaky, and tired, and over-peopled afterwards. I needed light food, and a hot bath when I got home, and an early night.
Will I go next year? Quite likely, but I'll make sure I'm there for the opening time of 10am, and do some homework beforehand, so I know which stalls to visit. I'll also take a bottle of water, and a keep cup for fresh tea.
And possibly elbow pads for shoving mobs of vegans out of the way.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Sunday evening, waiting for Dr Who to come on. The one time of the week TwentiesBoy is willing to sit down with us for uninterrupted time. If I'm lucky, he'll let me take his hand during the scary bits.

Mother's Day today. Awake at 7.30am, with PizzaBoy pulling back the drapes, and letting in the horrible cold morning. At the Pancake Parlour by 8.30am, where we were joined by TwentiesGirl, CarMan, and their three kids, FirstGrandson, SecondGrandson, FirstGranddaughter(who I think may get nicknamed SuziQuatro, after today's growly shouting session at her pancake).
We ordered and ate like we were trying out for the Fast Eating Olympics. Three wild grandkids will do that. Two needed a sleep. One needed a big long run to let off sugar and steam.
Home again by 11.30, after a detour to Kmart to check out dvds.
And that was my Mother's Day. I spent the afternoon lying around, reading NINE WOMEN, ONE DRESS. I'm about 70% of the way through it. About seven women have worn this dress, and not once is it mentioned that it's been cleaned. Urk.
Fish and chips for dinner, which I didn't feel like, really. After all that sugar for breakfast, I felt rather off all day.
Will be glad to crawl back into bed after Dr Who and Whovians(Adam Richards likes some of my tweets, and Rove McManus responded to a tweet of mine last Monday. Swoon!). I'm so famous now.

How on earth did Mrs Woog blog every day for a year? She has children, a family life.... Where did she find the time to build her empire? I have good intentions of being here three times a week, at least, and hah! Life. Don't talk to me about life.

Okay, the weekly round-up.
Yoga - creak, creak, come on body, what's wrong with you?
Health - remarkably good this week.
Household - same level of mess.
Family - all good, with added TB 25th birthday, and Mother's Day.
Things sighted - my favourite tree has finally gotten the news about autumn, on Hawthorn Road, and is blazing bright light red at the moment. A pleasure to see. The dog walking park now has six sets of soccer goals dug in and set up. One of the local dog walking ladies has taken up Physie(a local dance-aerobics-exercise thing at the local primary school) and is looking remarkably thin and fit these days. Dymocks has unicorn pens.
Belly dance - none this past week, but I will be teaching a one-hour taster class next Friday, as a treat for some local ladies.
Witchie work - I put my ocean-coloured crystals out for the Scorpio full moon, and said hello to Grandmother Moon, and noted She was smallish, but bright orange in the sky.
Writing - a few entries for #StoryADay May, and one flash fiction offered to Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. I feel a poem trying to get out of me, but as yet, it's only a feeling, nothing more. Once it finds its hook to hang on, the feeling will become an itch, and then it's on with the birthing pangs.

And now, I'll make another blog post about the Big Vegan Market I attended yesterday.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Broke my blogging habit there for a while. I don't want to set yet another weekly reminder on my phone, but I may have to, if I want to be consistent here. No one says I have to, but I'm conscious that one day again, I might have more than three readers (hello snakypoet, dragonlady, and cap'nlychee), and they may like consistency.

A number of things to note. The Clunes Booktown Festival was lovely. Loads and loads of secondhand books, as well as new books, fine speakers, and I scored a new copy of THE WRITING BOOK by Kate Grenville, autographed. I had to sell my original copy a number of years ago to put food on the table.
Shocking though this revelation will be, I found that I can only look through so many tables of books. By the time I got to the tenth stall, I was book-overdosed, and no longer gave a hoot.
Will I go back next year? Hmmm.... Depends on who's speaking, and if we can get closer accommodation than the Tuki Trout Farm, in Smeaton.
Tuki has glorious food, btw.

Vivid dreams lately of getting back into the groove re writing, subbing to lit and genre mags, and putting myself out there. This time, I don't feel in utter despair about it before starting. I don't feel completely exhausted at the thought. So, looks like the weekly calendar reminders are going to be a thing. Along with Memoir Writing Mondays, Grandparenting Thursdays, and Arty Farty Fridays, there will be Lit Mag Offering Wednesdays.

I know this is only one way to build a 'name'. A friend has done an effective job building her audience through Wattpad, and another through consistent participation in online poetry groups. It's the consistency and output of the latter I struggle with, and am wondering if Wattpad is worth it. Wattpad Lady has now been approached by Radish, which is a mob who send stories and whatnot straight to phones for subscribers. WL has offered one free story, and now one for pay, and is receiving income, via Radish. However, one has to be invited to join Radish, or apply to join, and I have no loyal audience I can bring with me.
Something to think about anyway.

So, today: set up calendar reminders. Do StoryADay. A little memoir, as I missed writing on Monday.
Have a swim, have some soup, take a walk, pull 10 weeds.

Saw the endocrinologist yesterday. She grabbed my belly fat and gave it a jiggle. Sigh, okay, back to the 'eat less food' thing, too.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Achievement unlocked, or whatever the phrase is.
I got the computer, and sat up in bed this morning, and dragged out 600 words. It had a beginning, an end, and truly, does read like a summary of a 'concentration camp survivor' novel. But, I am telling myself to let go of expectation, and just have a go at this.
Writing practice, story practice, putting words down.
And allowing the old gears to grind.
It's based on a dream from early this morning, and even now, I can only grasp at threads of it. A train, prisoners of war, pregnancy, people communicating through looks rather than words, guards. That's what I remember.
The story I wrote does nothing new with the material.
I still feel my blood singing from story telling.
And now, on with my day. Yoga, a bit of gardening perhaps, phone calls to make come 9am, a walk, and somewhere along the way, 30 minutes of memoir writing. It's time to write about the Ex Bastard years, in terms of my spiritual development.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
It's only now, at 6.30pm, that I have slowed down enough to remember that it's Samhain, the Day of the Dead, when the veil thins between the worlds, and our beloveds who have left us may be contacted.
I have not set out my altar, or a fresh dark candle. I have barely had time to remember the Wheel turning at all.
Only by accident did I note yesterday that the Moon is waxing towards full.
So, now, I sit, I stare into the glow of a salt crystal lamp in the shape of a flame, and I remember my beloved dead.

Mum - who carried me, held me that first precarious year when I was so sickly, so small, so weak.
Dad - who helped me be self-reliant, who allowed me explore sport, and although disappointed when I gave it up, kept it to himself.
Peter - my eldest brother, who taught me what it is to not be a fixed point, who changed from job to job to job, and never settled.
Helene - who showed me how to laugh, how to be sure of myself, to not take things so seriously.
Gail - who gave me an example I didn't wish to follow, and and object lesson in endurance.
Swami Satyananda - who, for a time in my life, was a guiding light, and still, very occasionally appears in dreams.
Johnny Cash - a father figure whose voice carries cadences of my own father.
Toyah, Gingy, Tangy, Meep, Buffy, Cherry, Baby - much loved cats.
Eily - beloved aunt.
Leonard Nimoy - Mr Spock: crush, guide, mentor.
Leonard Cohen - wisdom speaker.

At this moment, I can think of no more.
At this moment, with no dinner table to set, I make space on the couch beside me, and invite you all to come watch Dr Who with us tonight. Come be in the only family time available. I offer this time with love, and honour you all.
Come sit with TB, PB, and I and marvel at the life I've created. With Angel, making a home on some blankets, and the Pupika stretched out on another set. With salt crystal lamps glowing, and the overhead fluorescent off. With the tv lighting our faces, take your place, and let me remember you.

I look across to my book shelf of oracle and tarot cards, and my gaze falls on the Rumi oracle set, and the Magdalene oracle. Tell me, beloved dead, what do you wish to tell me this Samhain night? Speak deep to me.

Al-Uzza - Star of Venus.
"I am the pure Light, my son.
I am not a handful of worthless dust.
I am not just an empty shell.
I am a regal pearl formed in this world!
Close your eyes to see and become aware of me.
Perceive me with eyes that see the unseen.
Come into the mystery to find me.
I am a carefree visitor here for you." - Rumi

Though the ways of this world seem strange to you at times, you eventually call it to be nothing but strange beauty, and expand your heart, resisting nothing, to allow all to be bathed in the radiance of your being.
You are here to share the light of another world.

The Matrix: You cannot understand the present situation using only the logic of your finite mind. A greater truth exists, even if you cannot see it. Trust that all that is happening is an act of love.

Thankyou, my beloved dead. Through these two cards, you remind me that I am a Star Person, someone who sees beyond this world, and has a sense inside of the vast universe. You remind me, through these cards, that I must continue to convey that to the world. Not only beam it out of me from heart space, and mind space, but to write it in the truth of my memoirs, and stories.

As I write this, on the cd player, is the latest offering from Sacred Earth, the live recording that PB I travelled to the Sunshine Coast to take part in. We sat in a tiny scout hall in the middle of nowhere, and sang with Sacred Earth as this was recorded.
"Ancient Mother" is one of their favourite songs. "Open your heart, open your mind, feel your soul flying free".

Who is to say that this moment, sitting on the brown couch, is not ritual, is not magical, is not holy space. Not every piece of witchcraft involves a formal altar, the casting of circle, and representations of the four elements. Not everything is a calling in of deity. Sometimes, it's as simple as altered consciousness for a short time, awareness of intention, and trust that the messages you receive are true for you.
That is what is happening now. I find myself centred down, calm in mind and body, able to type this at top speed, while still in that shifted place. The words come through me, and I am not fully conscious of them. My chest feels full to bursting, my collar bones open like wings, the base of my skull as thin as water. I become the liminal space I need.
Write, I must write, I must leap of faith into the dark of space, and write the dark into the light.
And it's gone. PB sat down and flicked on the tv. The blare of Shaun the Sheep has knifed through me.
Whipped quickly out of that state, the headache begins, and I need water, and water, and water.
Back to reality, back to family life.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Three yellow leaves
on a black windshield.
Which one will the glass eat,
to sustain its revving self?
The pooled raindrops
as saliva,
wipers as tongue.
Autumn nourishment
for a winter mouth.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Sun's out! Sun's out! Raining when I woke this morning, now there's a break in the rain. I should rush out into it, walk my bum off. I also promised myself yoga, blog, writing - and if I do those good things, I am allowed lunch at WholeFoods, complete with green tea, and maybe a dessert.
I've done about 25 minutes of old, creaky body yoga, and now, here I am.

This morning, staring at the ceiling while I did some on-my-back stretches, I found myself, inexplicably, immersed in an eavesdropping from circa 1993. My first yoga teacher was musing to one of her close friends about a dream she had. It was concerning a yoga posture. She didn't know if it was a personal message to her as to the meaning of the posture, the name of the posture, or whether she was supposed to practice that posture herself, or to teach it. She wondered what her guru was telling her.
I was on my way out of the neighbourhood house, and had no reason to linger close by and hear the end of the conversation. There were no iphones back then that I could have whipped out and checked. I didn't even have a scrap of paper I could pretend was a 'to do' list. I never did find out what she decided was the interpretation.
I've never dreamed of yoga postures, although I have sometimes dreamed of being in yoga class.
I very, very occasionally dream of that guru. More often when I was younger, and more involved with that mob. Since his death, I've only dreamed of him twice, the last time about 6 years ago. In that dream, he was mocking my poems.
This harkens to a story I heard some years ago, of him requesting one of his sannyasins a number of paintings. She was a talented artist. She presented him the paintings, and he immediately laughed at them, mocked them, and threw them on the ground. He walked on them, and invited several of his visitors to do the same.
Other sannyasins said it was a lesson in ego. You know what, I would have punched him in the mouth. I wouldn't have cared if I was there to learn to transcend the ego. At that moment, my 'evil' ego would have risen up and he would have been minus a couple of teeth.
So glad now I never formally joined that mob.

I was going to say that this rambling brings me no closer to a new entry in my spiritual memoir. However, it IS a reminder that my years skirting the edges of that particular mob are part of my journey, too, and need to be part of the story.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
There are not enough of us to go
those who chose to age,
to concern ourselves with tribal future.

We wise wimmin
travel the land along ancient lines,
healing with story, herb, bony touch.

Children explore our faces with wonder
for they do not know wrinkles,
the crevasses of the dark.

We are too few,
and needed too much.
Our stories are demanded,
but put it on the computer,
where I can read it later,
Old Woman.
Don't tell me truth
face to face.
The mirror of your eyes says too much.

So, we travel to where we are needed
but not wanted.
The adults hurry us on,
while children reach out their hands,
their mouths round O's of more.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I latched on to a vision of myself at about 15. I knew I was a writer, and would be a writer, and had had it pounded into me by various writing books that fiction writers don't make money. There were, as far as I knew, no millionaire writers, no multi-million dollar book contracts. Likely Stephen King, and Alex Haley, and Sidney Sheldon were making their marks in the world circa 1979, but I didn't read them.
The way to supporting oneself was journalism. Thus, Journalist Satya Vision was born. At 15, I saw myself at 40, alone in a hotel room, phoning in a story from some war-torn place. Outside the hotel, rubble-strewn dusty streets, and the sounds of gunfire and distant bombs. Inside my room, dim lighting due to dodgy electricity supply. Me on the phone, calling in a war story. And then sitting on my bed, looking at my scrawny, aged hands (at age 40!) and realising that I'd missed the good things in life - family, home, pets, children. Wondering what the hell my life was all about anyway.
That vision turned me against journalism. Not that I needed a lot of turning. Yes, I've written more than my fair share of articles, but not one has been a 'just the facts, sir' reporting.
The 60 Minutes lifestyle would not have suited me.
Where the fear of 'oh no, I wouldn't have that treasured family life' fear came from, I don't know. I wasn't a girl who played weddings with her dolls. (More like funerals, and a lot of sex) I planned on being an astronaut and writer, and my future self did not seem to be married or have children. Or if I was married, it was a means to an end - at that time, astronaut criteria included being an American citizen, and I figured the old 'marriage to an American' would fix that.
Likely, I imbibed the 'safety and security through a husband' stuff from society.
Anyway, I can now look back on Hardbitten Journalist Satya with amusement. That vision has not had a lot of power over me. I found my way into non-fiction writing through my Bachelor of Arts, and discovered I had a talent for feature articles, and personal essays.
I have continued on my way ever since, ranging across parenting and new age magazines, witchcraft mags, and belly dance sites. I continue my merry way through memoir and autobiography.
While this self-vision does not hold much sway in my life, I write it here as an intro to other blog posts about other visions that have clung much more fiercely, sometimes with teeth.
Hardbitten Journalist Satya signing off
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I'm sitting up in front of the tv tonight. I'm watching 'Downton Abbey' Season 2, years after everyone else. If that newspaper editor isn't the son of Michael Palin, I'll eat my hat.

The past few days, I've been crook. Not wholesale revolting crook, which I was the first day, but just slightly under the weather, with runny nose and dry throat rumbling like thunder down below the horizon. The constant state of debilitation that I experience is roaring. Yet, I'm frustrated that there's so much I want to be doing. I've had my fill of lying on my bed, reading. The book I'm currently immersed in is SEE WHAT I HAVE DONE, which is a retelling of the Lizzie Borden case. But even that has lost appeal.
I spend so much darned 'down' time that it's less a luxury and more a prison. And that's how I see fibromyalgia - a sentence. Depression, anxiety, whatever other label we could slap on me, my body is a prison!
I'm told that I need to change my attitude and accept that this is my life now. I refuse. I want my old body back, my energy, my focus and enthusiasm. I want to eat life with a serving spoon, not a teaspoon.
While I love my quiet days of art, tarot, writing, reading, gardening, and walking the dog, I also want my high-energy days of belly dance, of ballroom dancing, of grandparenting, and exploration of my surrounds.
No doubt, at least once a month, there will be variation on this theme, as I turn sulky, angry, or throw a complete tantrum. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!
Immune-compromised be damned! Give me health, vitality, enthusiasm, focus, and joie de vivre.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I signed up for a Tarot Art Journalling course with Kiala Givehand a couple of months ago. March was THE month. The Facebook group went crazy, and it was all I could to do a daily pull and a matchbox-sized sketch, despite great intentions. Halfway through April, and I've just done my first lesson - Sigil work.
Because I was impatient to finish, the face has ended up looking like every face I've drawn since I was 15. I wanted her more manga, I wanted her more detailed, older. Well, I got a little older, because I put some bags under her eyes, but she's definitely big-eyed, with the same scrappy long hair I always draw because I get fed up by the hair point. I haven't even given her a neck. Under her face is a black cauldron full of black, red, and purple. The sigil I drew is on her right cheek, not her forehead like I planned. Her hair isn't red, her eyes not brown (like me). Purple, black, and blue hair, purple eyes, pinky red full mouth. She looks sad on one side, slightly distressed on the other.
Anyway, there she is in my art journal, with a sigil on her face. Now, I can leave that there, and move on with the next lesson, or I can work magic with the sigil, empower it, and set it free into the world. And I think it's time to do exactly that. I haven't worked any magic in at least two full moons, if not more.
I shall refer to my T.Thorn Coyle book of 'Sigil Magic for Writers', and perhaps read the pertinent chapters from a few other books to see which way of sigil empowerment I fancy. There's more than one way.
The first part of sigil magic is complete anyway, because I can no longer clearly remember what the sigil is for. Forgetting the sigil is often mentioned as an important step. Create it, empower it, release it into the world.
A recent talk with SexMagicMan: he says he's never come across the idea of forgetting the sigil purpose. He's done loads of magic across more than 30 years.
Oh, what to do, what to do....
Reading is always a good idea....

satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
This past week, I've had loads of vivid, distressing dreams, mostly involving exes; specifically XP and the ExBastard.
(I've suddenly realised that new readers will have no idea who they are. Okay, I have an Ex Husband, known as LoafAbout, or LA. Then there was 18 months with YogaMan. Then, after a brief excursion into Christian land with StreetWitness, and a short adventure with ThighsMan, I began what turned out to be one magical year, one bad year, and one we-broke-up-but-we're-both-addicted-to-each-other-and-not-in-a-good-way six months with the Ex Bastard, known as XB. After that, was ten years with XP, the Ex-Partner. Now, for the past six years, there has been PizzaBoy, the Excellent Husband. So, do try to keep them straight, my loves. LA, XB, and XP.)
These dreams left me sweating, distressed, unsure of who I was each morning, fearful, and with dream flavour all over me most of the day.
At first, I thought it was because I was reading RIDING THE BUS WITH MY SISTER, which is about a woman who indeed rides the bus with her intellectually impaired sister. I have a son with autism, intellectual impairment, hearing imapairment, blah, blah blah. I thought the book was triggering off old stuff.
Be that as it may, it's more than that. The dreams are a clarion call re-examine old, old self-stories.
I did a three card tarot spread for myself yesterday, using my brand new Mary-El tarot. Time to own my part in those old stories. Time to admit that in the weeks before being dumped by XP, I was both ecstatic that I was finally going to move in with the man I loved, deeply upset that he demanded I get rid of one of my cats, and that my kids have only limited visiting times in the house, and my daughter, not at all for six months, and behaving like a bit of a shit.
By turns sulky, hyper, near hysterically confident that this was finally, finally happening, and never mind what he was asking of me, and assuming that one relationship counselling session would fix everything.
When I finally found someone who would rehome Missy, our little pale grey cat, it was one more hoop I'd jumped through for XP, and deeply distressing.
I called XP at work to ask if he couldn't see his way clear to not only having Angel, but also Missy in his precious house.
XP: I'm sorry, but no.
He liked Angel. He didn't like Missy. She didn't come when he called. She shied away from him.
Satya: It will take me a long time to forgive you for this.

That was the fateful trigger. He arrived at my house in the evening, as I was packing my spice bottles into a cardboard moving box. He shouted that I loved my cats more than him. That he didn't succumb to emotional blackmail. How dare I.
He stormed out. I looked at the cinnamon jar in my hand and numbly packed it into the box.
An hour later came the text message. He'd cancelled the moving van, due in three days. I wasn't moving in. We're over. Don't contact him.
I drove to his house, hysterical. I offered him a full bag of grapefruits I'd picked from my generous neighbour's tree, just for him. I noticed he'd claimed back his house key I kept in my car.
He didn't budge. We were done.

I'm not saying it was my fault. He had me at the cliff-edge already. By this time, I'd agreed to so many self-compromising things that I no longer knew if I had boundaries at all. All to keep him. Because I was afraid of being alone.
I'm not saying that he wasn't a dick. He was.
But, to be honest, I was a bit of a dick, too.

Oh, the things we women do to keep a man who is not worthy of us.

And, as of last night, no LA, XB, or XP dreams.
Sure, a weird dream full of emotion: I'm a prison guard, and to avoid witnessing an execution, I spin an complex story about knowing the prisoner in some way; of knowing the true story behind a certain poet's Muse relationship with a girl called Louise, who is somehow linked to the prisoner. I start pointing out that poems written about other people are, in fact, about Louise.

As usual, I woke wrung out, because all the way through the dream, I know I am lying, and getting deeper in all the time. But the dream flavour is no longer with me. I am not spending the day with stirred-up emotions. And, it wasn't about my exes. Whew! I guess the dream message being hammered at me for the past week has finally been delivered. Own your part in it all. Own your shit.
So, here I am, owning. I'm human. I made, and make mistakes. Can't change them. It all happened.
Now, I wonder how my Bottom-of-the-fridge soup is coming along?
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Today, PizzaBoy and I went to Alowyn Gardens, up in Yarra Glen. About 90 minutes out of Melbourne, and 40 from our place. Nice drive, with white cloud still lifting off the Dandenong Ranges. A very still day, with a nip in the air that didn't ever quite leave, despite mid-morning to late afternoon warmth.
Beautiful colour in the trees in the Gardens, and plenty of gourds growing. Quinces being harvested for sale, along with a few lemons. We nicked one lemon.
Satya: Look, lemons!
PizzaBoy: Mmmm...
Satya: Ripe lemons! But I can't reach them.
PB: Sigh.
Reader, he picked me a ripe lemon and hid it in our carry bag.
Earlier I had observed a very sharp decorative picket fence. I said that they were for impaling the enemies of Alowyn Gardens. I then spotted a house on a nearby hill, and said they were the rulers of the Gardens. Finally, there was a feature I called mini-Stonehenge. A large flat table of rock, with stone around it, although the seats were too far from the table to be of any use. I said it was the sacrificial altar and made PB lie down on it, and play dead for a photo.
Back to the lemon moment. I saw more ripe lemons in other trees, higher up.
Satya(regretful): We can't reach them, can we?
PB: No, and I daresay they excuse one stolen lemon in a bag, but a whole bag full means being staked out.
Satya: Those bastards!
Later, we visited the Yarra Valley Chocolaterie about a kilometre up the road, and from its hilly outlook, I could see the Gardens, and the other hill house beyond.
Satya: So, these must be the sworn enemies of the Gardens. Who do you think is better situated to win the war?
PB: Hard to say. But it's like England and Scotland.
Satya:(pointing to another house in the distance): That must be Ireland over there.
PB: Those alpacas... Peru caught between England and Scotland.
Satya: Who taught you geography? Those alpacas are obviously Wales....I remember an old Goon Show. "I come from Wales!" "Well, I can see you don't come from sardines, boyo!"
Seconds later....
Satya: Look, there's a commie pinko up there! (points to a horse in a pink blanket)

You have to make your own fun, especially when you've been chocolated out on Easter Sunday and have no interest in eating choc or ice cream at the actual chocolaterie.


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