Hey Man I have the power ... I hold the power. The power of one!
No-one to please, no-one to answer to, no- one seeking control, no-one to object when I choose boiled eggs or cereal for dinner, when I decide to pull the doona over my head or when I choose to create with gorgeous fabric or write reams till the wee small hours. No-one haggling over how, when, where or why, no-one asking "What's for dinner Darl" or wanting to share the remote or the soap!
No-one wanting favours, my body, my money or my time! I'm in charge.
You can do it too ... if you're feeling powerless, hang in there, realise you have the power to change what's going on. Any power struggle always put's the ball in your court, you can change what hurts, what you object to, what makes you mad, or worse still drives you insane.
Take charge, don't accept bad behaviour, become powerful ... it's all up to you, you're the most important person you know!
Saturday 29 September 2007
Thursday 27 September 2007
Writers Island - THE KEY ...
THE KEY ...
To my heart ...
To knowledge
To life ...
To open the door ...
is it here ...???
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To my heart ...
To knowledge
To life ...
To open the door ...
is it here ...???
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No Wheat, No Dairy ... Jenny McCarthy & Autism
Watching The View yesterday my ears pricked up yesterday when I heard the guest Jenny McCarthy say "No wheat, no dairy and gluten ... " had been life changing for her now five year old son Evan who'd been diagnosed with Autism three years ago.
Silently I exclaimed "HooRay" more people will get the message!
In 1999 I was diagnosed with CFS/ME & FMS. Life was over. Orthodox medicine had me full of uppers and downers, meds for the severe pain throughout my whole body, I had allergies to shopping malls, after shave lotion, paint and life in general. I walked with a cane, I had "Home Care", I fell into walls, couldn't hold a conversation and was angry, filthy with the world for this affliction. The doctors talked about upping me to opiates for the pain, I started freaking, I dragged myself to search and search for a solution but found that people lived the illness, were happy to go with it and up the medication more and more, grow fatter, sit in a wheel chair and generally feel totally sorry for themselves! I became angrier but my survivial mojo kicked in, I was so over it, this was not going to be my future.
Blessed as usual I found an old GP, who'd retained is GP status but was also into natural medicine. Both he and his wife were survivors of multiple chemical sensitivites, he took one look at me and told me, "Cut out wheat, diary, gluten, sugar and caffeine and drink plenty of water." Bloody hell I thought. This had all begun after stopping smoking and guzzling cool refreshing glasses of happiness - what joy was there to be left in life? Water ... you know what fishes do in that, I'd only consumed water as ice!
I did it and within days there was a change. He weaned me off the meds. Elimination of night shades and red meat as well made way for organics, soy, seafood and a plethora of delicious eats. Label reading in supermarkets was educational and fun!
Hearing Jenny McCarthy tell the story the survival of her, now five year old son diagnosed with Autism and how after also eliminating the dreaded wheat, gluten and dairy he is in a normal school made my heart burst, feel vaildated and wanting to yell to the disbelievers Na, na, na na, Naaaaaa!!!
Ohhh trust me there's plent of people out there that think it's all BS. People who are still like I was eight years ago. People who must adore being dependent and sick, which is a sickness itself, people who love being off their dial on opiates, still chain smoking and drinking gallons of coffee and sodas a day. Trust me they're out there without a life threatening illness, using up resources that could be better spent on people who need it when all these malingerer's have to do is have a session ot twenty with a good shrink, (who doesn't prescribe meds), look for their root cause and stop putting all the crap in their mouths! It's hard work but it's so worth and to gain life, dignity and longevity ...
Do I sound harsh? You betcha !!!
Here's some other people doing it too ...
Coeliac Disease
Endometriosis
Sacrcoidosis
Silently I exclaimed "HooRay" more people will get the message!
In 1999 I was diagnosed with CFS/ME & FMS. Life was over. Orthodox medicine had me full of uppers and downers, meds for the severe pain throughout my whole body, I had allergies to shopping malls, after shave lotion, paint and life in general. I walked with a cane, I had "Home Care", I fell into walls, couldn't hold a conversation and was angry, filthy with the world for this affliction. The doctors talked about upping me to opiates for the pain, I started freaking, I dragged myself to search and search for a solution but found that people lived the illness, were happy to go with it and up the medication more and more, grow fatter, sit in a wheel chair and generally feel totally sorry for themselves! I became angrier but my survivial mojo kicked in, I was so over it, this was not going to be my future.
Blessed as usual I found an old GP, who'd retained is GP status but was also into natural medicine. Both he and his wife were survivors of multiple chemical sensitivites, he took one look at me and told me, "Cut out wheat, diary, gluten, sugar and caffeine and drink plenty of water." Bloody hell I thought. This had all begun after stopping smoking and guzzling cool refreshing glasses of happiness - what joy was there to be left in life? Water ... you know what fishes do in that, I'd only consumed water as ice!
I did it and within days there was a change. He weaned me off the meds. Elimination of night shades and red meat as well made way for organics, soy, seafood and a plethora of delicious eats. Label reading in supermarkets was educational and fun!
Hearing Jenny McCarthy tell the story the survival of her, now five year old son diagnosed with Autism and how after also eliminating the dreaded wheat, gluten and dairy he is in a normal school made my heart burst, feel vaildated and wanting to yell to the disbelievers Na, na, na na, Naaaaaa!!!
Ohhh trust me there's plent of people out there that think it's all BS. People who are still like I was eight years ago. People who must adore being dependent and sick, which is a sickness itself, people who love being off their dial on opiates, still chain smoking and drinking gallons of coffee and sodas a day. Trust me they're out there without a life threatening illness, using up resources that could be better spent on people who need it when all these malingerer's have to do is have a session ot twenty with a good shrink, (who doesn't prescribe meds), look for their root cause and stop putting all the crap in their mouths! It's hard work but it's so worth and to gain life, dignity and longevity ...
Do I sound harsh? You betcha !!!
Here's some other people doing it too ...
Coeliac Disease
Endometriosis
Sacrcoidosis
Friday 21 September 2007
#78 Sunday Scribblings - "My Name Is ..."
Gadzooks I’m amazed, yet again, as the weekly prompt jumped out of the screen as if it were meant for me ... thumping me right in the solar plexus ... I'm going down memory lane again!
“My name is …” yikes I can hear my Mum as she tortured us all for years with the “My name is Sue, how do you do” line. She wasn’t referring to the classic Johnny Cash tune, it was her way of rubbing it in to my Dad after learning in the 1970s that he’d been a cad, yet again, with a woman named Sue.
At any given opportunity Mum would recite it! We’d all cringe. "Give it a rest Mum" we'd implore. We’d roll our eyes and unanimously beseach that she let it go. We’d feel sorry for Dad at Mum’s incessant nagging never understanding what Mum was going through. Dad was the love of Mum’s life, he drove her mad, actually, she drove herself round the twist over Dad.
Despite Dad’s trysts they remained together for 62 years, in their own tormented union, their pact was unbreakable. For forty years we'd hear Mum's line, remember the song ... now it reminds me of how her heart was broken.
“My name is …” yikes I can hear my Mum as she tortured us all for years with the “My name is Sue, how do you do” line. She wasn’t referring to the classic Johnny Cash tune, it was her way of rubbing it in to my Dad after learning in the 1970s that he’d been a cad, yet again, with a woman named Sue.
At any given opportunity Mum would recite it! We’d all cringe. "Give it a rest Mum" we'd implore. We’d roll our eyes and unanimously beseach that she let it go. We’d feel sorry for Dad at Mum’s incessant nagging never understanding what Mum was going through. Dad was the love of Mum’s life, he drove her mad, actually, she drove herself round the twist over Dad.
Despite Dad’s trysts they remained together for 62 years, in their own tormented union, their pact was unbreakable. For forty years we'd hear Mum's line, remember the song ... now it reminds me of how her heart was broken.
Tuesday 18 September 2007
THE GIFT - Writers Island
THE GIFT.
My instant thought for the prompt for this week was the gift of life and what a precious treasure the gift of life is. Watching people underestimate the immense value of it, how people don’t respect or understand how to make the most of it is an oft felt frustration. I get bamboozled when people fail to realise this isn’t a dress rehearsal it’s the real thing, grab life by the balls, embrace life to the max … why don’t some people get it?
The soft, sweetness of babies produces the most special warm, fuzzy feeling (yep, it’s me who cries seeing babies born on TV shows). The cherished first breath of independent life blemished by the foolishness of adult’s is frequently sad. Whether it’s learned behaviour, tradition, ignorance or perpetuating myths that spoil innocence or a combination could reverse behaviour and undo the mistakes of the past might be the clue to greater appreciation of life?
Beginning by breaking the mould whereby mothers instill the value of life, could be a key. Often mothers are the ruination of the good men of the future. By consistently doing for them, picking up after them, not teaching them how to respect others, allowing children to witness bad behaviour sets the wheels in motion for ongoing misuse of the gift. Better mothers produce better people. Naturally this is not the entire solution to appreciation of the gift, it could possibly be a darn good place to start.
As I loiter at the door of the twilight zone learning how to age with charisma and panache is numero uno in demonstrating that the rest of my gift is to be joyous, wise and grateful. To have learnt that old age is to be cherished as equally as the beginning of life, not the time to write the epilogue but to add another chapter in the book is a blessed opportunity to embrace the best gift of all, the gift of life.
My instant thought for the prompt for this week was the gift of life and what a precious treasure the gift of life is. Watching people underestimate the immense value of it, how people don’t respect or understand how to make the most of it is an oft felt frustration. I get bamboozled when people fail to realise this isn’t a dress rehearsal it’s the real thing, grab life by the balls, embrace life to the max … why don’t some people get it?
The soft, sweetness of babies produces the most special warm, fuzzy feeling (yep, it’s me who cries seeing babies born on TV shows). The cherished first breath of independent life blemished by the foolishness of adult’s is frequently sad. Whether it’s learned behaviour, tradition, ignorance or perpetuating myths that spoil innocence or a combination could reverse behaviour and undo the mistakes of the past might be the clue to greater appreciation of life?
Beginning by breaking the mould whereby mothers instill the value of life, could be a key. Often mothers are the ruination of the good men of the future. By consistently doing for them, picking up after them, not teaching them how to respect others, allowing children to witness bad behaviour sets the wheels in motion for ongoing misuse of the gift. Better mothers produce better people. Naturally this is not the entire solution to appreciation of the gift, it could possibly be a darn good place to start.
As I loiter at the door of the twilight zone learning how to age with charisma and panache is numero uno in demonstrating that the rest of my gift is to be joyous, wise and grateful. To have learnt that old age is to be cherished as equally as the beginning of life, not the time to write the epilogue but to add another chapter in the book is a blessed opportunity to embrace the best gift of all, the gift of life.
New 'cat gym' for Blossom ...
Check Blossom trying out her new 'cat gym'! Thankfully she's not able to shop online and reciprocate the gift, one fitness freak round here is sufficient!
Sunday 16 September 2007
Sunday Scribblings #77 - Collector Personality
You should have seen me when I snuck over to Sunday Scribblings to check the weekly prompt … a smile instantly broke out on my dial. The prompt "Collector Personality" couldn't have been more me ... crikey, collector extraordinaire, I am your ultimate collector. Out with the old and in with the older has been my motto as precious curios, lavish articles, bountiful beauty surrounds me ... but times up, turning the stash into cash is the 'G O' now!
Previously, collecting people had been my obsession. Loathing being alone my phone rang hot, decisions about which invitation to accept were paramount. Noses were frequently out of joint when entertaining and matching people was part of the game. Hilarity, blame, egos, drama, addiction, flight or fight episodes, outrageouse daring exploits, accommodating the excesses of people were integral. Collecting people was perfect. My yearning for approval and acceptance was satisfied. They motivated me to aim high in business, to succeed … this style of collecting was unique, made me popular and added another intrigue to the quirky me.
During that time, around twenty years ago I received a snow dome as a fun souvenir gift. No-one collected these gems at the time and consequently a myriad of the them from numerous parts of the globe became mine. For me material possessions were unneccessary, disposable, yet these fun unusual souvenirs added a kooky trait to me.
Thirteen years ago a new life chapter commenced. A writing and studying sabbatical prompted me to become a bibliophile. Paper replaced people. Collecting knowledge was foremost. I was peopled out. Tired from what went with the human experience I shut the shop I was over it. I sought to uncover the real me, the reasons. Then six years ago, the creative me was unleashed. The elation, the gasping at the sight and touch of a creative, artistic book, luscious fabric, gorgeous beads and embellishments was a breathtaking joy. Creating beautiful objects provided the inner peace I’d sought.
But this collecting has gone too far, there’s way too much stuff, it’s time to purge. Keepers will be the snow domes, selected vintage fabric, threads, fine antique lace, Marcella linen and antique doyleys. Never mind the accumulated forty powder compacts, the stunning pique work tortoiseshell and art deco jewellery, old watches, poker work, timber boxes as well as the most unique button and belt buckle collection ever … they're all staying. The thrill of the the chase the palpitations when uncovering an elusive object is integral, better than sex.
Memories of a twelve year old being sent to live with grandmother for three years with no personal possessions reminds me of whom I have become. This dormant experience enhances, since nesting, my collector. The desire to own and possess special, gorgeous, tactile things stems from this indelible time. Decades of believing people were the key to happiness are long gone as is the notion that material possessions are disposable. The gorgeous things I surround myself with now don’t argue, want, or expect anything. My collector personality is at last contentedly peaceful. I am me.
Previously, collecting people had been my obsession. Loathing being alone my phone rang hot, decisions about which invitation to accept were paramount. Noses were frequently out of joint when entertaining and matching people was part of the game. Hilarity, blame, egos, drama, addiction, flight or fight episodes, outrageouse daring exploits, accommodating the excesses of people were integral. Collecting people was perfect. My yearning for approval and acceptance was satisfied. They motivated me to aim high in business, to succeed … this style of collecting was unique, made me popular and added another intrigue to the quirky me.
During that time, around twenty years ago I received a snow dome as a fun souvenir gift. No-one collected these gems at the time and consequently a myriad of the them from numerous parts of the globe became mine. For me material possessions were unneccessary, disposable, yet these fun unusual souvenirs added a kooky trait to me.
Thirteen years ago a new life chapter commenced. A writing and studying sabbatical prompted me to become a bibliophile. Paper replaced people. Collecting knowledge was foremost. I was peopled out. Tired from what went with the human experience I shut the shop I was over it. I sought to uncover the real me, the reasons. Then six years ago, the creative me was unleashed. The elation, the gasping at the sight and touch of a creative, artistic book, luscious fabric, gorgeous beads and embellishments was a breathtaking joy. Creating beautiful objects provided the inner peace I’d sought.
But this collecting has gone too far, there’s way too much stuff, it’s time to purge. Keepers will be the snow domes, selected vintage fabric, threads, fine antique lace, Marcella linen and antique doyleys. Never mind the accumulated forty powder compacts, the stunning pique work tortoiseshell and art deco jewellery, old watches, poker work, timber boxes as well as the most unique button and belt buckle collection ever … they're all staying. The thrill of the the chase the palpitations when uncovering an elusive object is integral, better than sex.
Memories of a twelve year old being sent to live with grandmother for three years with no personal possessions reminds me of whom I have become. This dormant experience enhances, since nesting, my collector. The desire to own and possess special, gorgeous, tactile things stems from this indelible time. Decades of believing people were the key to happiness are long gone as is the notion that material possessions are disposable. The gorgeous things I surround myself with now don’t argue, want, or expect anything. My collector personality is at last contentedly peaceful. I am me.
Thursday 13 September 2007
Tuesday 11 September 2007
Writers Island - My Imaginary Life.
Writers Island, a new writers community started today with the prompt "My Imaginary Life" I'm there, so here's my slant ... different, that's me!
My Imaginary Life.
The inaugural prompt sounds beautiful with an invite to “get your feet sandy” but sorry guys I don’t have, never have had and will never have an imaginary life. Call me boring, call me odd, no don’t do that, call me a realist. I get on with life, get into it, spend no time dreaming but time planning, organising and researching how to accomplish and achieve goals. Ticking things off the lists I adore writing is the big payoff!
For me, nothing would be done if I were imagining. What a mess life would become if energy spent on an imagined life took over. What a disgraceful waste of this real, precious life we have only one chance at, it would be! Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against imagination. It's just that for me life is too short to waste valuable, never to replaced time, speculating a scenario usually out of reach. I’m here to grab hold of life, live it, use it up with gusto and not waste a nano second!
In 1978 Australian author David Malouf published a novel “An Imaginary Life” and the dust jacket synopsis reads "The Roman poet Ovid, in exile, tells the story of his encounter with a wild boy, brought up among wolves in the snow. At first the poet assumes the role of protector of the boy; gradually, however, the roles of protector and protected are reversed as the two form a curious and touching alliance." Despite being regarded by the masses as a great literary work, for me, this is a perfect example of imagination overload.
I don’t read fiction, hit me with the truth, the facts man, please satisfy my thirst for knowledge I ask. Elements of fiction are undoubtedly based on real life events posing the question as to the origin of the initial source that makes me ponder; are fiction writer’s composing on the rims of plagiarism? Once I witnessed a huge disagreement at a writers group when one person wrote a piece based the personal experience of another member. Tempers flared, hackles went up, who owned the story ... thought provoking. How could we go through life copywriting every personal experience? Imagine that?
Childhood imagination is adorable. The whimsical, the tooth fairy, Santa, the invisible friends, their use of colour and their naivety is beautifully heart warming. But when kids become adults it’s time to get their heads out of an imagined life and take a long hard look at what’s happening in the real world around them. One can only wonder if the world might be a better place?
In the last few days I’ve decided to take a trip to the US in 2008. Not imagined, no dreaming, decided, time’s right. This is a major deep end plunge. Having never travelled overseas, nor owning a passport, this is real. It’s on! The appointment’s been made to obtain the passport, the expected budget and saving plan is in place and a Moleskine notebook sits at the top of my birthday gift list where the plans, tips and all the claptrap that any virgin traveller will ever need, to pull off the jaunt, will be recorded. Maybe writers with, or without, an imaginary life might even like to meet up with this cynical, eccentric, realist, from ‘downunder’ to compare notes.
My Imagined life, nope, no way … game’s on!
My Imaginary Life.
The inaugural prompt sounds beautiful with an invite to “get your feet sandy” but sorry guys I don’t have, never have had and will never have an imaginary life. Call me boring, call me odd, no don’t do that, call me a realist. I get on with life, get into it, spend no time dreaming but time planning, organising and researching how to accomplish and achieve goals. Ticking things off the lists I adore writing is the big payoff!
For me, nothing would be done if I were imagining. What a mess life would become if energy spent on an imagined life took over. What a disgraceful waste of this real, precious life we have only one chance at, it would be! Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against imagination. It's just that for me life is too short to waste valuable, never to replaced time, speculating a scenario usually out of reach. I’m here to grab hold of life, live it, use it up with gusto and not waste a nano second!
In 1978 Australian author David Malouf published a novel “An Imaginary Life” and the dust jacket synopsis reads "The Roman poet Ovid, in exile, tells the story of his encounter with a wild boy, brought up among wolves in the snow. At first the poet assumes the role of protector of the boy; gradually, however, the roles of protector and protected are reversed as the two form a curious and touching alliance." Despite being regarded by the masses as a great literary work, for me, this is a perfect example of imagination overload.
I don’t read fiction, hit me with the truth, the facts man, please satisfy my thirst for knowledge I ask. Elements of fiction are undoubtedly based on real life events posing the question as to the origin of the initial source that makes me ponder; are fiction writer’s composing on the rims of plagiarism? Once I witnessed a huge disagreement at a writers group when one person wrote a piece based the personal experience of another member. Tempers flared, hackles went up, who owned the story ... thought provoking. How could we go through life copywriting every personal experience? Imagine that?
Childhood imagination is adorable. The whimsical, the tooth fairy, Santa, the invisible friends, their use of colour and their naivety is beautifully heart warming. But when kids become adults it’s time to get their heads out of an imagined life and take a long hard look at what’s happening in the real world around them. One can only wonder if the world might be a better place?
In the last few days I’ve decided to take a trip to the US in 2008. Not imagined, no dreaming, decided, time’s right. This is a major deep end plunge. Having never travelled overseas, nor owning a passport, this is real. It’s on! The appointment’s been made to obtain the passport, the expected budget and saving plan is in place and a Moleskine notebook sits at the top of my birthday gift list where the plans, tips and all the claptrap that any virgin traveller will ever need, to pull off the jaunt, will be recorded. Maybe writers with, or without, an imaginary life might even like to meet up with this cynical, eccentric, realist, from ‘downunder’ to compare notes.
My Imagined life, nope, no way … game’s on!
Souvenirs.
A taste of the US for me with MJ's return after three sensational weeks. Nine nights at Sheraton Manhattan Times Square, exhiliration at A Chorus Line, Chicago, luscious dining at Blue Fin, buying another suitcase to carry the shopping.
Five nights at Swing Out New Hampshire Dance Camp up at Hebron, New Hampshire.
Four nights at Brandreth Lake, Adirondack Mountains including the generous hospitality at Sweptaway Farm ... my skin was becoming a pale shade of green.
The wonderful surprise above, tickets to shows not possible hence the magazines, 2008 I'll get tickets to the shows or bust!
Saturday 8 September 2007
#76 Sunday Scribblings - WRITING.
Mmmm, what comes up when I think writing? Feelings of frustration at the time I’ve wasted, cheesed off at myself for not having used the talent I’ve been told I have and as I ponder the opportunities I’ve let pass by I could raise a high pitched scream at the amount of research, creative writing classes and writing groups to which I’ve belonged benefits of which I’ve not fully utilized. The genuine desire to further hone my writing skill remains, as yet, unfulfilled. Around me oodles of writing as therapy await editing for publication where insights that no doubt will enthral a reader amount’s to reams of paper filed as, works in progress. Frustrated isn’t a sufficient analysis … nah, angry is what I should be.
But without giving myself a really hard time, that’s me, the perpetual procrastinator. I dabble. My ever-growing folder of published works somehow grows. I contribute to a monthly column, deadline a quarterly submission plus keep my blog alive but the dreaded memoir, nothing! Gutsy writing required … not happening!
Initially rehashing the past was too distressing. Most of it I’d forgotten. Locked in a place in the deep dark regions of my mind, safe where no-one, especially me, could be harmed or tempted anymore. Being an avid scribe whether in diaries or brightly coloured spiral bound books with practically nothing barred, re-reading became too confronting, too hard, too destructive. These cathartic tomes saved my sanity. Re-reading, re-living, much of which made me predominantly sad, did my head in, who was that person?
I’m undisciplined. No way do I have time to live the writer’s life, to set aside a certain time to compose. My chosen serene, satisfied, reclusive, less ordered life gets in the way. The lack of a set routine inhibits any writing commitment. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Excuses of enjoying life, exploring other creative pursuits, being undisciplined, sound familiar … Ah Ha … now, as I write the questions arise … could it simply be I’m still not ready to face that glorious, herendous, outrageous, tumultuous past?
But without giving myself a really hard time, that’s me, the perpetual procrastinator. I dabble. My ever-growing folder of published works somehow grows. I contribute to a monthly column, deadline a quarterly submission plus keep my blog alive but the dreaded memoir, nothing! Gutsy writing required … not happening!
Initially rehashing the past was too distressing. Most of it I’d forgotten. Locked in a place in the deep dark regions of my mind, safe where no-one, especially me, could be harmed or tempted anymore. Being an avid scribe whether in diaries or brightly coloured spiral bound books with practically nothing barred, re-reading became too confronting, too hard, too destructive. These cathartic tomes saved my sanity. Re-reading, re-living, much of which made me predominantly sad, did my head in, who was that person?
I’m undisciplined. No way do I have time to live the writer’s life, to set aside a certain time to compose. My chosen serene, satisfied, reclusive, less ordered life gets in the way. The lack of a set routine inhibits any writing commitment. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Excuses of enjoying life, exploring other creative pursuits, being undisciplined, sound familiar … Ah Ha … now, as I write the questions arise … could it simply be I’m still not ready to face that glorious, herendous, outrageous, tumultuous past?
Friday 7 September 2007
APEC or OPEC DOES BUSH REALLY KNOW?
The APEC circus so far ...
The city of Sydney is like a ghost town ... it's been raining so bleak, cold, wet streets are sombre and deserted.
Millions of people have left Sydney for the three day "holiday" the government gave the people
but was that simply a bribe to get the people out of town?
Kids are off school, post offices are closed, no Saturday newspapers will be produced, the city circle rail system is shut down.
City cafes, restaurants, cab drivers, retailers and a zillion other businesses both large and small are experiencing severe financial losses - one can only hope that a class action will begin by a disgruntled business owner.
George Bush has made yet another infamous blunder calling it "OPEC" instead of "APEC" one can only wonder if he knows where he his.
The brilliant guys from the ABC program "The Chaser's War on Everything" set themselves up in look like security vehicles, ID cards, flags, dressed as US security men and managed to get through two check points ending up within a stones through of Bush's hotel. The game was only up when one emerged dressed as Osama ? Demonstrated how efficient the security is.
A man jaywalked in the city near a motorcade and was severly manhandled and arrested by half a dozen zealous police officers.
Bent Street in the city is set up as a bomb searching area where all motor vehicles are searched by army personnel.
Protesters driving from Victoria and have been stopped at Tarcutta, 400 ks out of Sydney where the people and vehicles have been meticulously searched.
Protesters showed Bush a bit of cheek when they did "21 Bum Salute" . They'd hoped 4000 would attend in a break a world monning record - but no such luck!
... and the circus continues ...
The city of Sydney is like a ghost town ... it's been raining so bleak, cold, wet streets are sombre and deserted.
Millions of people have left Sydney for the three day "holiday" the government gave the people
but was that simply a bribe to get the people out of town?
Kids are off school, post offices are closed, no Saturday newspapers will be produced, the city circle rail system is shut down.
City cafes, restaurants, cab drivers, retailers and a zillion other businesses both large and small are experiencing severe financial losses - one can only hope that a class action will begin by a disgruntled business owner.
George Bush has made yet another infamous blunder calling it "OPEC" instead of "APEC" one can only wonder if he knows where he his.
The brilliant guys from the ABC program "The Chaser's War on Everything" set themselves up in look like security vehicles, ID cards, flags, dressed as US security men and managed to get through two check points ending up within a stones through of Bush's hotel. The game was only up when one emerged dressed as Osama ? Demonstrated how efficient the security is.
A man jaywalked in the city near a motorcade and was severly manhandled and arrested by half a dozen zealous police officers.
Bent Street in the city is set up as a bomb searching area where all motor vehicles are searched by army personnel.
Protesters driving from Victoria and have been stopped at Tarcutta, 400 ks out of Sydney where the people and vehicles have been meticulously searched.
Protesters showed Bush a bit of cheek when they did "21 Bum Salute" . They'd hoped 4000 would attend in a break a world monning record - but no such luck!
... and the circus continues ...
Thursday 6 September 2007
Caitlyn's Story.
A darling little girl, Caitlyn, the daughter of some lovely people I know has been born with a rare disease, Severe Bilateral Micropthalmia or very small eyes. Her Dad has started a web site Caitlyn's Story .
Rohan is seeking any and all information and would love to hear from people who know someone or have any experience with the disease. It is rare and they need all the information they can gather so Caitlyn will have a normal, happy life.
This beautiful family would love so much to hear from people so please don't hesitate to contact them when you read Caitlyn's Story.
Rohan is seeking any and all information and would love to hear from people who know someone or have any experience with the disease. It is rare and they need all the information they can gather so Caitlyn will have a normal, happy life.
This beautiful family would love so much to hear from people so please don't hesitate to contact them when you read Caitlyn's Story.
Tuesday 4 September 2007
The George Bush Travelling Circus ... who's paying?
In five hours the George Bush travelling circus lands in Sydney for the APEC show.
I wonder do the US people know that the clown is travelling with 650 people - yep that's right an entourage of 650 hangers on! So who's paying for the three day jaunt?
Obviously the millions of US citizens who are living below the poverty line, obviously the people who are awaiting medical attention and a multitude of other services available in third world countries. Yes the people who believe they live in the greatest country on earth, where, according to Michael Moore the US health system rates as 37th in the world are footing the bill so their "leader" is able to pop downunder for an obscene get-to-gether with the population of a small town in tow!
Shameful isn't it?
I wonder do the US people know that the clown is travelling with 650 people - yep that's right an entourage of 650 hangers on! So who's paying for the three day jaunt?
Obviously the millions of US citizens who are living below the poverty line, obviously the people who are awaiting medical attention and a multitude of other services available in third world countries. Yes the people who believe they live in the greatest country on earth, where, according to Michael Moore the US health system rates as 37th in the world are footing the bill so their "leader" is able to pop downunder for an obscene get-to-gether with the population of a small town in tow!
Shameful isn't it?
Saturday 1 September 2007
#75 Sunday Scribblings 'THE END'
I’ve been dilly-dallying over what to write about “The End”. I loath thoughts of ‘the end’ when it concerns my own mortality. I ponder … is it fear? I’m unsure if that’s the right word, a dread maybe, of my own demise, the end of my wonderful life. I don’t want my life to end, there’s still way too much to be accomplished. I know I’d be a real loser if I wasted this precious life dreading the prospect of the end. Realistically that’s pointless. Commonsense prevails. Get on with life the end will come no matter what!
Deep down I dislike the end of so many things. The end of a conversation with a loved one, the end of a luscious meal, the end of a block of dark chocolate, the end of a story, a book, a movie, or a tune (at least with those it can be repeated), the end of a holiday, the end of a loved one’s life, the end of a wonderful day … the end of a plethora of things.
Ha … but if I remember graduating at the end of three years of study, the satisfaction at the end of a creative project, feeling well at the end of a painful illness, the personal well being at the end of giving up smoking, booze, benzo’s, wheat, dairy, caffeine, plus a zillion other marvellous, life changing 'the end' moments and recall how fabulous they made me feel, then I’m contradicting myself aren’t I?
So … I’m back to where I started with this prompt ...flummoxed ... as to whether the end is really the end or a new beginning?
Deep down I dislike the end of so many things. The end of a conversation with a loved one, the end of a luscious meal, the end of a block of dark chocolate, the end of a story, a book, a movie, or a tune (at least with those it can be repeated), the end of a holiday, the end of a loved one’s life, the end of a wonderful day … the end of a plethora of things.
Ha … but if I remember graduating at the end of three years of study, the satisfaction at the end of a creative project, feeling well at the end of a painful illness, the personal well being at the end of giving up smoking, booze, benzo’s, wheat, dairy, caffeine, plus a zillion other marvellous, life changing 'the end' moments and recall how fabulous they made me feel, then I’m contradicting myself aren’t I?
So … I’m back to where I started with this prompt ...flummoxed ... as to whether the end is really the end or a new beginning?
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