I have a feeling today’s blog is going to be a bit of a potpourri of ‘Summer-of-Twenty-five’ daily happenings.
I am in reduction mode – not that I’m moving into a retirement village or down-sizing, but many of my friends seem to be doing it and I’m thinking, if that time should come for me, I’d like to be prepared without being overwhelmed by the enormity of it.
One of my projects is to reduce the number of books in my library. I have hundreds – on beautiful shelves, in cupboards, on coffee tables, bedside cupboards. It’s time to discard the ones I have read and will never read again. I have offered some to friends whom I know would enjoy them. I’ve taken photos of particular ones, sent to friends, or even the people who gave them to me, and asked if they’d like to have them. All have said ‘Yes please!’ A good feeling to have each of these books continuing their journey this way.
I have been taking a few to ‘The BookEnd’ bookshop in Woodside. These are particularly old and rare. The owner is an absolute bibliophile and told me he either sells them as they are, restores them, or uses them for ‘parts.’ I took a box of about fifteen carefully chosen ones and he took them all. It was like saying goodbye to old friends, but if I don’t do it now, my kids will have to, and probably won’t have time for the lingering sentimentality I am exercising.
A little aside here, but still around books. We recently watched one of my favourite movies – ‘A Love Song for Bobby Long,’ starring John Travolta and Scarlett Johannsen. Travolta plays an ageing alcoholic former professor of literature. One of his all-time best performances in my opinion. I won’t give away the plot in case you want to watch it, but a book that plays an important part in the movie is ‘The Heart is a Lonely Hunter’ by Carson McCullers. As the movie ended and I wiped away tears, I said to myself
‘I have to read that book, and I have to visit New Orleans’ (where the movie is set). I’ve always wanted to go to New Orleans and this movie stirred up the old desire. Travelling isn’t as easy as it used to be in our younger days, but WILL we do it anyway? I think we might.
Next day, in my library, as I was pulling out books from their shelves, my mouth fell open at the sight of a lovely old book, red cover, good condition, title – ‘The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.’ It had been given to me by my daughter in 2008 (first published 1940) and had somehow fallen through the cracks and I had never read it. Carson McCullers was twenty three when she wrote it and was instantly hailed as a major literary talent. It is a novel about a deaf man and the people he encounters in a 1930s mill town in the US state of Georgia.
That night, before lights out in bed, I picked up my current read – ‘Essential Bukowski.’ which I bought with a birthday gift voucher from my son. I think I’ve mentioned him here before but I love his poems that are so every-day-life. I find his work completely inspirational. Anyway, I opened up my book to continue reading, and the first poem my eyes fell upon was titled ‘Carson McCullers.’ I think I am meant to read this book, would you say? It is beside my bed ready to go.
Bukowski’s poem begins –
‘she died of alcoholism
wrapped in the blanket
of a deck chair
on an overseas
steamer
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty of
the loveless lover
were all that were left of her’
Musing over New Orleans. Last night, as Leigh and I were doing our usual after dinner ‘sit-outside-on-a-balmy-summer’s-night’ gig, listening to my playlist on Spotify, the song ‘Dark Eyes’ came up, and I said ‘You know this is one of my very favourite melodies. It is so beautiful. And, one of my favourite versions is by the Red Army Choir.’
‘Well let’s listen to it then,’ said Leigh.
It stirs something deep within me. We pictured cossacks dancing – the only thing to do. Then he asked what other versions there were. Next up was one by Chet Atkins. We agreed then that Chet would have to be one of the best guitarists who ever played.
‘If I pop off before you,’ I said, ‘ will you make sure it’s played at my funeral?’
Listen to it if you can – ‘Dark Eyes or Ochi Chomya.’
I have my parents to thank for my love of jazz. I loved everything they played and sang when I was a kid. But as I grew older, into my teenage years, I wended my own way into the world of music. My Spotify collection is vast – over four thousand songs. Then there is my vinyl collection, cassette tapes, CDs. I am thinning these out too. There will be empty shelves and cupboards everywhere. Less dusting. Room for art pieces. But all my favourites will stay and there’ll still be hundreds.
We had a truly beautiful lead-up to Christmas. Friends in small lots – one or two couples at a time. Looking back I can’t help but realise why my friends are my friends. The conversation between us is just rich. And everyone likes or loves Leigh. He likes every one of my family and friends, and is finding some mates amongst them. He has friends all over the world and they all keep in touch. It is one of his priorities. In his decades of work in the oil and gas pipe-line industry, he has worked long hours as a FIFO (Fly in Fly out), with not much time for socialising, so he has always kept in touch by phone. And I hear some of the spirited conversations he has that way. For having lived in a man’s world for so long, he is a tender man.
Our traditional Christmas Day lunch was as big and happy as ever. The usual delicious fare and wine, and family love.
Another of my poems to share with you – this one was written about a painting that moved me during a recent SALA festival.
LADY WITH A RUBY RING
In her youth she’d been enrolled
in finishing school
for ladies
and the el-o-cution drill that upper-class mothers required
of their daughters
as a feather in their well-made hats
She sits now at a table
out
to lunch
legs crossed at the ankles not the knees
one hand wrapped around a sparkling glass
of fizzing Bollinger
the other laid against her chest
An ostentatious ruby ring
that smacks of wealth
forced onto a crooked finger
She still has poise
but not the former straightness
Intelligence from youth
still dancing in her eyes
Her arm-skin
tissue-paper thin
is bruised and blotched
with shapes of countries
China
Russia
Subcutaneous thickening of her wrists and ankles
Bright blue floral sleeveless dress
Not afraid to show the sagging skin
of nanna arms
Bent arthritic fingers still display
the favourite jewels
The nail polish
red and carefully applied
by someone else
Lips once plump and firm
now thinned
a little puckered
but still agleam with scarlet
Hooded eyelids sapphire blue
Retro frames of glasses
age-defying
like her pearls and dangling ear-rings
Everything about her
Well done lovely lady
You’ve not withered from your merry self
a walking work of art
Who we’ve always been
is what the world should see and love.
As I was typing this, I had a feeling I have put this one up before. If so, well I guess it could segue in to my next blog which will be about ageing.
We are off to Kangaroo Island for a few days soon. Then later in January to Tasmania. Will tell you about those trips in my next blog.
Cruise into 2026 with care, and forget about your age.
Warmly,
Sue
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