ready for the rain

"the trouble with weather forecasting is that it's right too often for us to ignore it and wrong too often for us to rely on it."
- patrick young

the skies here have been inscrutable lately: sunny and serene one moment, glowering and aggressive - teemingly so - the next.
preparing for a day out and about has become an art.

many springs gone by

my daughter, my lovely daughter, with her anxious heart and her adventurous soul, turns twenty-three today.
i wish her - now, always - happiness, prosperity and peace of mind, but also: faith in herself, patience with life's imperfections, and the confidence and courage to continue pursuing her dreams.
*
gefeliciteerd, marieke!

to distraction

i haven't been (very) busy, nor have i been (very) ill, but i have been (very) absent, i know, and this (very) ordinary image is part of my excuse.
last sunday, after a dinner with dear friends, i came home with an unexpected
purchase: a large black trunk of excellent, and venerable, photographic gear - a couple of cameras, some lenses, and accessories, all of it around 30 years old, most of it in mint condition.
i've spent the whole week - natuurlijk - trying things out (it's been ages since i last owned an SLR) and this is one of the test results.
it works: i am so pleased...and, stuck in the routine monotony of unemployment, so ready for a bit of a new challenge.

the day after yesterday

"the world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love."
- william sloan coffin

my loved ones in london are allright.
i hope and pray that yours are, too.
****
sometimes i wonder: did i bear my children into a world of fear and uncertainty? and that mere thought makes me fearful and uncertain.
and sad.

non sequitur

someday, somewhere - inevitably - they will meet, and they will be near and imperfect strangers, pausing awkwardly, a hesitant handshake apart, and passing the time of
day, of months, of years, of a heart's age.
the distance between them will be peculiar and profound; no confidences will be shared, no explanations made, and no hurts healed: since the sweet sequence of their story was interrupted, simply too much time has passed.

and read all over

"colour television! bah, i won't believe it until i see it in black and white."
- samuel goldwyn (american movie producer and founder of MGM, 1882-1974)

black-and-white feels, sometimes, like a welcome shadow when the sun is hot and high, like a haiku's sweet purity following a volume of fine but flowery prose, like an oasis of subtle simplicity in a world of exuberant summer hues.
black-and-white seems, often - and these actually are - technicolour after all.

left dangling

donald's roof garden is a spectacular five square metres of lushness: he has, as we say here - and logically, i always think, since thumbs aren't a whole lot of use on their own - "green fingers".
during the relentless heat of last weekend, my house-sitting/cat-sitting tasks expanded to include plant-sitting, which meant hauling jerrycans of water up three flights of stairs and then - carefully - up the glorified ladder which accesses the lofty terrace, and i did that successfully time and time again.
on the very last evening of my holiday, though, i preceded my husband - come to
dinner - upward, and, as i pushed the hatch open, balanced on a halfway rung, the
whole ladder lost its grip, and disappeared from under my feet, sliding backward and falling forward until my husband, caught by surprise, stopped it.
now, three days later, my right thigh is still swollen, and more black than blue, and i can't sit for more than a few minutes at a time. (responding to comments and e-mails, for instance, is very slow going: my apologies.)
and now, three days later, i continue to thank my lucky stars that someone was
with me on this trek to the roof-terrace: alone, i would have suffered far worse than bruises.
i shiver - typing standing up - at the thought.

love the one you're with

he's a still-waters-run-deep kind of cat, is basil, and i perceive his demeanor as stoic, although he has nothing, actually, to be stoic about. he is cherished by his owners, and when they're on holiday, like now, he is cherished by me.
caring for him, and caring for this little white house on the water, even for just a week, satisfies my soul: i wake up with the weight-watching bulk of a purring pussycat draped over my ankles, and the sights and sounds of morning amsterdam in the street below, and (though, i know, house- and cat-sitting is a serious responsibility) this is the perfect holiday, and i am content.

things gold, and things silver

"a wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, trust, partnership, tolerance and
tenacity. the order varies for any given year."
- paul sweeney

my husband, strolling just ahead of me last week along the oudegracht, stopped short, but before i could ask why, this sweet little still-life-in-yellow distracted me.
he grinned. "i figured you wouldn't want to miss that," he said.
he knows me well.
and so he should: we've been married for 25 years. today.

destiny's child

this photograph, surfacing suddenly during a spring clean, bewildered me a bit: not
that i don't remember exactly who took it (my lovely roommate carole) and where (the alleyway next to our apartment, bidwell-just-off-robson in vancouver) and when (the early 70's); nor do i wonder what on earth i am wearing - i couldn't, and can't, resist a second-hand shop for the life of me.
what i don't understand is the brown bottle in my one hand and the cigarette in my other. wine has always been my beverage of choice, even in those days when there were only ghastly screw-topped domestics to be had. and i certainly didn't smoke - well, not tobacco, anyway - back then.
they were, i suspect, simply whimsical props; in hindsight, though, and wryly, i ponder the portent-factor of beer and bright orange: perhaps fate was setting the stage for a dutch future, for a life exactly where i am living it right now.