tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72072804208726266342024-03-21T10:32:17.718-07:00Portable SpiritualitySharing thoughts on words, the arts, spirituality,my Nonna, living creatively, and the randomness that inspires me...
Recently fell in love with a ukulele. My wife understands.
BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-60524554343258015992012-09-16T21:52:00.000-07:002012-09-16T21:52:45.080-07:00Timber, Wood: Or Hard Rubbish Day in Brunswick.We recently moved up north, a long and much awaited move closer to our spiritual home of the Northern Rivers. Melbourne is my home town, yet I have spent most of my life either dreaming of, or actually getting away from it. Before I left I had a brief whirlwind of creative energy, enough to pull me right out of there. Luckily had a pen with me this one particular day. Listening to Xavier Rudd on the walk home through Brunswick, it was Hard Rubbish day. Thing is, it had been for a couple of weeks. It was beginning to really piss me off that people had clearly missed the pick up day but thought they'd just chuck some more crap out on the street in case a passer-by wanted a vom stained mattress, or TV from 1983.<br />
I whipped out my pen and wrote this. I missed road tripping. A few weeks later we roadtripped up here for good. Seeing Xavier in Byron two weeks ago reminded me of the power of music to inspire. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Garbage tornadoes</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Sidewalk sofas</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Concrete plinths for</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Non-HDTV </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Installation art</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Urban Hard waste art</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Public shame this art</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Music in my ears</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Spine tingles</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Remember we got</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Tears in our eyes</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Watching Xavier</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">At Bluesfest?</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I miss our van</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">And Missy </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Sleeping in the back</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Now stench </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">blossoms</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">burn my nose</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">But I’m listening</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">To Xavier, remember</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Driving up the coast?</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Through Mullum?</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Stopped and wished we </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Didn’t have to go.</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Now I walk and </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Whole body vibrates at the</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Sound of the </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Didj and I can </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Hear more colours </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">See more sounds</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Listening to </span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Timber and Wood</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Forgetting</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I’m dodging piles of it</span></span></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Instead. </span></span></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-52408064040853786392012-08-30T02:14:00.003-07:002012-08-30T02:28:39.972-07:00Forgetting the Anger<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Some
of you may remember my previous posts about my grandmother, Rosa. She was a
strong, independent, couragious, caring, cutting, lethal woman. Her wisdom
always carried questionable intentions, I valued and rejected it as I saw fit.
One pearl which always stayed with me was:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 18pt;"> "It never pays to be too honest"<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">She
used to live by this dictum like a knight would to their sword. Never give
people too much, or they'll take advantage of you was her general point. No, my
grandmother was not some sweet old lady with a jar of boiled lollies and an
endless supply of embroidered pillowcases for your birthday. But goddamn I
would dig her back up today just to get another plate of her lasagne.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">She
was at times a harsh, unforgiving woman, but in her final months that all
changed. I recall a couples of years before she died hearing her cuss one of
her long suffering sisters out over the phone- I'm sure it was well deserved- and
telling her to never call her again. Her sister had been calling to wish her a
happy birthday, but she was soon to regret that! A lot of their conversations
went this way. When I saw my grandmother on one of my final visits to her, of
which there were many when I was living overseas as I wanted to spend enough
time with her before she left me, I was surprised by what I heard one morning.
The same sister, never one to give up, had called for a chat and asked if she
could visit. We all knew at that stage that the crossing over to immortality and
into the afterworld was imminent for Rosa, so we were all trying to get on her
good side lest we be haunted forever more. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> "Sure, come over any time, it
would make me happy" was Rosa's reply. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> <span style="font-size: large;"> <em>"What?"</em></span>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">See, Rosa had begun to lose her grip on reality in those
last months, and moreover, she had forgotten she was angry at everyone. That
was not all she was forgetting. A few months earlier there was</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">a fire still flickering somewhere in there, as
she showed the signs of aging nobody wants to acknowledge; dementia.
Accusations of incorrect pill dosages, anger at sisters about conversations
that actually never happened. In my own stubbornness I refused to see it as
dementia at first. I saw the bull headed old matriarch refusing to calm down in
her old age, unable to let go of the reins, even now. But she never mentioned
the cancer again after the first night. By the next time I saw her in December,
it seemed she had forgotten altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em><strong> "Someone gets hurt at some point"</strong></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></strong> </div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">I found my grandmother
weaker, thinner, frailer. I also found her more delusional yet also very
placid. No more fighting with family, she had let her long suffering siblings
back into her life. I was relieved, as I felt a lingering sense of regret would
fill the space between here and the ever after if my grandmother could not heal
the tainted relationships around her. She was also convinced that there were
workers on the roof repairing the broken tiles. It seemed she could hear them.
Realising that telling her otherwise would be unnecessarily confusing, we would
go along with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> “They do a beautiful
job on the roof”, she would say proudly. </span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"> “Yeah, it's going to look nice...” I'd
reply. She also was completely unaware that she had cancer. Nature's way of
taking the anxiety away from the dying? I hoped so. She did, however, know
instinctively her time here was running out. </span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"> “Don' be long for me now in this
world I think”, she said to me one afternoon as she looked at her skinny arms
in wonderment, curious at how they had changed and her skin sagged and aged.
When somebody shows signs of dementia, those around them can also begin to
confuse what is real and what isn't. One day a friend had called, but I wasn't
expecting it and as I was out, my grandmother answered. When I got home she
told me who had called and I should call him back. Thinking she was confused
and referring to a similar episode about 2 days earlier, I dismissed it. It
turns out she was right, and my saying I had already called him yesterday
probably only served to <i>really</i> confuse her! There comes a time, however,
when the confused mumblings of a senile person cross that already blurry line
between truth and imagination. Someone gets hurt at some point. For me it happened
when my grandmother looked at me with a slightly faraway gaze and said:</span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"> “You
know, I don't know if you are my granddaughter or my<i> nipote</i>...”</span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">In
Italian <i>nipote</i> can mean granddaughter or niece, depending on context and
although I knew this statement was just as noteworthy as any other random
comment made by a fading old lady, it still bothered me for some time. </span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"> “It's the same thing!” hollered Mum, and we forgot it all. However I tried
justifying it in my rational brain though, I felt in my emotional mind like I
was the one she had chosen to forget first. We all know better than to pay
attention to these moments but we are, after all, irrational creatures who
bleed when wounded. I never let on how heartbroken I was; let’s face it, it
never pays to be too honest…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-16102458780477494322012-05-13T17:51:00.000-07:002012-05-13T17:51:11.022-07:00Inspiration Anywhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7wFnURBnY0fPbfTmhT1Un1bNVW0Cp0qcH4cVV4JgoxsJeERUhEHvyzLYqQkLT05pr3jdmTmuDmG5R6M50vliwLieMyqSTtsssJRK27SRx-tenrk2UY7WkLDuYsxTfRe1LgLAZ28ZDg0/s1600/IMG_1312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7wFnURBnY0fPbfTmhT1Un1bNVW0Cp0qcH4cVV4JgoxsJeERUhEHvyzLYqQkLT05pr3jdmTmuDmG5R6M50vliwLieMyqSTtsssJRK27SRx-tenrk2UY7WkLDuYsxTfRe1LgLAZ28ZDg0/s320/IMG_1312.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Inspiration comes at anytime, anyplace. This one hit me on the way home, listening to Xavier Rudd on the iPod. Luckily I had a pen handy so I jotted it down as I walked. <br />
<br />BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-26100027493073439482012-04-22T23:59:00.000-07:002012-04-22T23:59:14.578-07:00Holding It Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDkY-_yLXIKeLGjpbkx_2jJsrjJO7UbFZfcRmrGJLfkV7ZW3sQv5bzdIQeAhodQwtXgWp7zCGEpmKdWUTcXPsu8M_odpxDljbpEli9fnBi-c3dNDFbccY7foNtN52C12Zof7D3o_vBGY/s1600/Broken+Egg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDkY-_yLXIKeLGjpbkx_2jJsrjJO7UbFZfcRmrGJLfkV7ZW3sQv5bzdIQeAhodQwtXgWp7zCGEpmKdWUTcXPsu8M_odpxDljbpEli9fnBi-c3dNDFbccY7foNtN52C12Zof7D3o_vBGY/s640/Broken+Egg.jpg" width="462" /></a></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-80022227099016495752012-03-28T22:48:00.000-07:002012-05-06T02:09:51.145-07:00DriftersThere are times when inspiration comes from within, an internal spark whose origin is unknown. Others come in visual waves, verbal vignettes and the source of inspiration is the art of another. This time, the source was my own better half and mutual muse; the artist Cecile Knight. <br />
"Drifters" was Cecile's homage to her childhood home of Coffs Harbour and the Bellinger River. Her artist statement reads:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em> "Provoked by a memory, the town I grew up in, the river I played in as a child. I would like to acknowledge its history." </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLY-P8QpwPzv8H_fNpff7kk2BBfhtMj57SwXrJLtaSBoGUdct0kkwQKontt_-PbzDWnpMFCqT0Mtjq9ChsQiLwtNC5vud8xAXCIxGpMPBKGN-YJDnHxqrfLdJPFyYMLWjgUZTglJo_P6A/s1600/_MG_5117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLY-P8QpwPzv8H_fNpff7kk2BBfhtMj57SwXrJLtaSBoGUdct0kkwQKontt_-PbzDWnpMFCqT0Mtjq9ChsQiLwtNC5vud8xAXCIxGpMPBKGN-YJDnHxqrfLdJPFyYMLWjgUZTglJo_P6A/s200/_MG_5117.JPG" width="200" /></a>Visiting these places so embedded in the history and emotional genetics of my partner has in turn inspired me. Not only this, but I have been able to take a glimpse into what makes this place so special and make meaning and in the rivers and headlands for myself. The summer just gone we roadtripped from Daylesford to Gold Coast, and this is what I took and not only what I left. This place of abundant water, of sea salt and mountain mist is truly inspiring. I understand why now. </div>
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<a href="http://cecileknight.com/2012/03/28/drifters/">http://cecileknight.com/2012/03/28/drifters/</a></div>
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<br /></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-81377857549567676212012-02-24T19:14:00.000-08:002012-02-24T19:14:45.759-08:00Frida Kahlo: The Artist as TherapistJournals, letters and so many self portraits; through Frida Kahlo’s art we see the trauma of her physical pain interwoven with sequences of dream-like navigation within her internal struggles. Other works show a nightmarish reality dealing with doomed love and babies lost. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">One wonders what Frida Kahlo would have done with her time and where she might have focussed her deep need for expression, were it not for painting. During her extensive hospital stays with her bed-mounted easel, or painting her own body cast, she was processing her own grief and medicating herself with art. She was an unwitting Art Therapist; both client and therapist. Psychoanalyst of her own demons, she confronted them with the paintbrush. Unforgiving and raw as her wounds, she depicted in oils what lay beneath her skin; as though she has literally pulled back her flesh and let us in. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">Moreover, Frida left behind a legacy with her hauntingly personal portraits, watercolour blood-stained journals and defiance in the face of adversity. Frida continues to teach us almost 60 years after her passing, that life may not heal, but art will try. She teaches us of beauty in the unlikeliest of places and faces, of the poetry in every scar and that no one, no one...knows you as you know yourself.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">When we dialogue with the paint, the pen, the canvas, and dip into the madness, there we can know truth. There we can begin to heal. If art cannot heal, then let it at least capture the beauty of our madness! </div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><strong>For many Frida lovers, she inspires in us the ability to heal ourselves, to know oneself, to love blind and to speak our truth. How did Frida heal you?</strong></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>...life may not heal, but art will try.</em></span></span></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-20050271991313892752012-02-17T14:45:00.000-08:002012-02-17T14:45:21.670-08:00The Genetics of Courage<strong>“...SOMETIMES COURAGE SKIPS A GENERATION.”</strong> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">Alright, I admit it. I watched The Help but didn’t read it. Literary buffoons, poo-poo me all you like but my To-Read-List is becoming a Grollo style eye sore and the soon to be Leaning Tower of unread books. I simply cannot bear to add any more to it. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">This is not a review, not by a long shot. This is simply a musing on a line from the film which I have been replaying over and over in my head like a mantra. It demands my attention. It demands I write, as always. When the pen (or the keyboard) is your voice it must be allowed to sing. When the blog is your platform in absence of a real life soapbox upon which to recite, deliver and denounce, it’s got to do more than just tickle the intellectual fancies. It’s got to tug, tear and pull at hearts and minds. This is therapy. Humour me now, and heal me in the process. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><strong>“...Sometimes courage skips a generation...”</strong> </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">When I heard this, I pictured myself a colourful and well worn old chook, rocking out on my rocking chair, a gin ‘n’ tonic in my hand, wife by my side and litters of noisy children scattered across the front lawn, running and chasing one another. I wondered what I might have achieved that would make them proud. I wondered whether I would be the generation that courage had skipped. Ultimately I concluded that if we are to truly take courage by the horns and own it...really own it...might we then break the pattern? </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">My grandmother Rosa, well, if you’ve been here before you know a bit of her story. If you haven’t, take a minute to read the previous post, I would be ever so grateful. She had a degree of courage which took to her to places her own mother would never have dreamed of. Leaving the old country, then leaving a man and becoming single all over again. Not to mention giving Jehova’s Witnesses a run for their money and outright refusing to attend any funeral of anyone who had crossed her at any point in time. Family members not excluded. Then there’s hanging with the gays, but as I said, read the last post, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">s’il vous plait. <o:p></o:p></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">My mother, well, courage came and went over her life; married a non-Italian then divorced a non-Italian. But she is yet to fight the fight for her gay daughter. Perhaps that day has yet to come. Where do I fit in? For so many years I feared I would be the one looking back and wondering where the years had gone. But after Rosa let the horns we call Life go for good, I realised there was still a fight to be fought. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">I will not be the generation skipped, and I will pass it on. I WILL pass it on...Will you?</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">Oh, and see The Help. You will be humbled by the greatness of spirit, the courage of a people who embodied the very meaning of courage in the face of ignorance, fear and hatred. That’s all folks!</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9sjgWoH_kKKKJQcMzSOrvdXZQLDVTFWgF0QIrdN_bczzqunWqQvae8K_IEzjBPv4WIaATlBQO1j3NivW3021YrO9YxsLGmEzGiW3FLnaaHeVgvJr_X3A3HmKejbGhbiAKck2OgLV9CQ/s1600/Outside+Garton+St.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9sjgWoH_kKKKJQcMzSOrvdXZQLDVTFWgF0QIrdN_bczzqunWqQvae8K_IEzjBPv4WIaATlBQO1j3NivW3021YrO9YxsLGmEzGiW3FLnaaHeVgvJr_X3A3HmKejbGhbiAKck2OgLV9CQ/s320/Outside+Garton+St.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It takes courage to run away from home on a trike. Took me years!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-21833466742646766492012-02-05T15:59:00.000-08:002012-02-05T16:07:30.354-08:00My Grandmother's Favourite Lesbians<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">There are times we read a blog, or a column and think; “Oh I just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to write a reply, I love this!” However, with such a constant barrage of opinion in the twittersphere and beyond, you get a bit overwhelmed and just move on. I could not this time. I was compelled to write this after reading a column by Monique Schafter, in the Star Observer, and the topic has been on my mind all weekend. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Are you out to your Grandparents?</i>’ <a href="http://www.starobserver.com.au/opinion/soapbox-opinion/2012/02/02/people-can-surprise-you/70805"><span style="color: #274e13;">http://www.starobserver.com.au/opinion/soapbox-opinion/2012/02/02/people-can-surprise-you/70805</span></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">I read. I remembered. I swallowed that lump. Then I wrote. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">What really resonated with me was the whole idea that families tend to want to ‘protect’ the older generation from radical ideologies, behaviours and lifestyles. This is true with children as well, for some sectors of the community out there; people who cannot bear the thought of explaining two mummies or daddies to their little precious, sheltered children. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How will I explain to the children that John and Henry are married?”</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your great-grandmother wouldn’t understand, just leave it be”.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">There comes a time when you get tired of your partner being referred to as your “friend” or that doosy; “special friend”. How naive do we think our olds are? They have seen a lot of change in their time; they know most “special friends” don’t spend every Christmas and family celebration together. They know most “special friends” don’t buy a house together in Daylesford. What we are all really doing is taking from our grandparents and elderly relatives the chance to speak their minds, to choose their own feelings. There are countless LGBTI supporters out there; parents, siblings and friends who once struggled with and even rejected that person close to them who first came out. It is risky business, to have your heart broken when a loved one takes the love away. It hurts because we care. It hurts because we spent our lives looking up to them, and we want them in our lives for as long as possible. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">No doubt, it might backfire, but what if it doesn’t? I will humbly admit my own hypocrisy here, my family have no clue how or with whom I live my life, only my brothers and mum know I share my life with a woman; my wife. That’s all the more reason why I can’t let this one go...</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj829AjnnVL_VPxYaP54vTiq44zaDiyYvO3KkwqleBVhfCD3NBqEpqGGYxDX0Bk3h5kA6vsJASlO662PehRFFvFPOyfwcGUQmeYSxB82PeRBAOOLtMLLiB49VA59JbVcLT_S-ZKLwr_r4s/s1600/Granparentswalking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj829AjnnVL_VPxYaP54vTiq44zaDiyYvO3KkwqleBVhfCD3NBqEpqGGYxDX0Bk3h5kA6vsJASlO662PehRFFvFPOyfwcGUQmeYSxB82PeRBAOOLtMLLiB49VA59JbVcLT_S-ZKLwr_r4s/s320/Granparentswalking.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="205" /></a>My grandmother, Rosa, was a church-hating ex-Catholic. Born and raised in wartime Italy, she was a hard woman who often ruled our household with not so much an iron fist, but certainly an iron will. It was her way or the highway! Incidentally, I took the highway as soon as I could. We had a love-hate relationship fraught with many a butting of horns, but I confess we both kind of thrived on that. My one regret, one which will never be fulfilled, is that Rosa died before I had the chance to come out at all. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">Rosa was the only one on our street, many moons ago, to befriend the gorgeous couple across the road. Long term partners, the two women went on to have a little boy, whom both Rosa and I would babysit. She treated them like her own family, and proudly spoke of them to family and friends. I will never forget how she referred to those girls as “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">De best lezbie in de world</i>”. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">Then there were the two boys next door, whom Rosa befriended in her usual way. She was genuinely devastated when they broke up, as if she was mourning the break-up of her own grandson. I know with all my heart that she would have embraced me. It would have been nothing like the time I told her I was moving to Japan; I thought I’d be cut-off then for sure! I remember her saying, after the fires cooled, that she was afraid because she thought I would never come back. Just like when she left Italy all those decades before, she knew we might never live on the same soil again. She was right.</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I came back home after she had already lost her fight with life (and what a fight that was!) and she never had the chance to be my biggest supporter, my most vocal advocate...She never got to call me and my wife “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">De best lezbie in de world</i>”. </span>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-46305602369465143322012-01-01T02:13:00.000-08:002012-01-01T02:13:50.610-08:002012: The Destined Self<title></title> <style type="text/css">
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</style> <div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;">Is there a parallel universe out there? One in which we made all the right turns and followed through on all our decisions? Is there a version of ourselves, complete and whole, for whom regret is a sensation unknown?</span></div><div> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;">I like to imagine there is, and that evolved and perfect person, we can call her destiny. Flashes of clarity, intense dreams, deja vu; perhaps these are all moments in which the inescapable truth of destiny has broken through. Like shards of light on a thickly clouded day, she makes her truth known in sometimes subtle ways. </span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;">There are many ways in which we try to gain access to our destined selves; drugs, alcohol, travel, adrenaline rushes. But the drugs wear off and create even greater distance to our destined selves. The alcohol blurs the line between the selves, and travel can ignite the spark which makes us chase the destined self forever. </span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;">Solitude. To open the portals to our destined selves we must find solitude. Moments in which there is silence, enough to stop the mindless chatter and open up dialogue with our destined selves, that person you so rarely speak with or listen to. You never email them or write. You never call them. You just wait for them to call you. But the destined self gets tired of waiting around, waiting until you call. Then one day you finally muster up the courage to call your destined self, in one of those brave dashes of desperation to live to your true spirit. But she's not home. You were too late, call back later. </span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;">Your two selves continue to co-exist, parallel stories, overlaying in parts like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Your destined self was living your destined life all along. She was just waiting for you to find the break in the page, the right pause between words, courage between the falls...to slip into the gaps of your consciousness and into the rhythm of your soul. </span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"> I give my pen now to my destined self and let her be the author of the story of my life. Who is writing your story?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"> </span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif;"></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Only in silence can I hear my heart speak. It whispers through the trees, brushes gently over my skin, calls to me in subtle and gentle ways. Only in silence can I quiet the screams.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Happy New Year.</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></i></div><div style="background-color: white; color: black; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></i> </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #fce5cd; text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-22528732572962755212011-12-03T17:17:00.000-08:002011-12-03T17:17:37.741-08:00The Conscience of a Nation<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Here we are, 2011, a secular and seemingly progressive nation, and still we must fight for the right to marry. Those who do not care see it as a “gay issue”, those who do insist it is a basic human rights issue. One thing which remains blurred is the line between religion and marriage. Why is this so? We are living in a secular society in Australia, state and religion removed. This makes sense, as we are a nation made of many religions, cultures and communities, thus there would never be one god’s law which could accommodate the others. The GLBTI community extends to and includes parents, siblings, children, friends, pastors and ministers of parliament all of whom form part of the fabric of a community. There is no such thing as a “gay issue”, any more than there are “straight issues”. We all must abide by the same laws, and there are no gay laws after all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Our present Marriage Act 1961 is a document written by the hand of a living, breathing human. The Marriage Act is a document like any other, not a commandment passed down from a god. No, it is a product of a society which felt it reflected the values and appropriate model of its era. Times have changed, as they do and always will. We have the power to put pen to paper and re-write, edit and update this document to reflect the times in which we live. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Changes have been made time again over decades which saw the need to update the model of marriage as a legally binding agreement. The marriageable age, dissolution of marriage and the allowing of civil celebrants to conduct ceremonies; the latter being updated in the Marriage Amendment Act 2002 to reflect a surge in the use of civil celebrants. All these additions and amendments have been made to reflect changing times, yet those who oppose same-sex marriage still insist that the institution of marriage as it stands needs to be protected and we do not have the right to change it. Do we not? Tell me please, that we do not live in a country whereby our laws are not able to be amended to reflect our growth, our maturity, and our changing needs? This sounds dangerous to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Honourable Prime Minister Julia Gillard, when this conscience vote you have oh so mercifully and passively allowed fails, tell me on whose conscience the inequality of our citizens will rest? Ms Gillard, explain to me why same-sex partners cannot have the choice to marry or to remain de facto as you yourself have been able to choose? Explain to me now, why it is that our government so enthusiastically taxes us equally, yet cannot celebrate us quite so passionately? More importantly, why Prime Minister, is an educated, agnostic leader as yourself still pandering to those who believe that our laws, bills and policies are the work of a Christian God, not your own predecessors? <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I would like to think the Marriage Act is like a patchwork quilt which over time will be added to; as it grows we will look back over it, reading its story and weaving our new threads into it. It will change as each generation has its say on which direction it will take. Let no one own love more than another. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">December 4<sup>th</sup> 2011</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
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</div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-9969497392785778202011-10-22T02:43:00.000-07:002011-10-22T02:43:23.606-07:00Bowls of Healing: Clay in Art Therapy 1<div style="text-align: justify;">A couple of weeks ago I attended a workshop at Phoenix Institute run by Atira Lydia Tan, who founded The Art2Healing Project; a Creative Art Therapy grassroots organisation working particularly with women in Asia. Much of their project work is focused on empowering women who have been rescued from the sex trafficking trade. They teach yoga and meditation programs to empower women to bring healing into their own communities. The session was inspirational. I took so much away from this, not the least the reinforcement of the idea that whether we are teachers, therapists or mentors the basic responsibility is not in the teaching itself but in what is left behind after the teacher departs. Resources, empowerment...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>“Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach a man to fish; and you have fed him for a lifetime”</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whether you are of the belief the above quote comes from a Chinese proverb or the Bible, it still rings true of what I mean. A good teacher does not control what is learned, simply dishing it out in portion controlled parcels as they choose. Just like when teachers at school used to tell you to "Look it up in the dictionary" if you wanted to know how to spell something, there was intention in that kind of teaching. Irritating as it was, particularly when you didn't have a clue where to start, it taught me personally that the power to learn was within me and the resources were there for me to access. Therapists likewise facilitate the accessing of one's own personal resources. In my opinon, anyone claiming to know you better than you know yourself is a charlatan. A well paid one. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><h1 style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">“The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind.”</span></h1><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">This one was Khalil Gibran, who runs rings aroung some of the weird shit Jesus said. So, back to EMPOWERMENT and The Art2Healing Project. Atira told a story of working with clay with a group of teens rescued from the sex trade in Nepal, and how they would spend their time making little bowls. Bowl after bowl, they would form these containers with lids, write little notes and place them in, sealing in their most private thoughts. Those little vessels were the safe container for their innermost fears and sadness. Things like "I miss my mother" and others perhaps never revealed... Such a powerful healing process. I imagined the possibilites of firing these little containers in a kiln and visualised the release of the burning away of the letters. It got me thinking in my studies of transpersonal art therapy, ways in which containment and release of wounds, guilt, fears and feelings can heal. Writing your fears in an envelope and sealing them is an immediately accessible way to do this too. It might be before a meeting, a job interview, any kind of undertaking which causes some anxiety or fear. Think: "What am I afraid of?". Write it, seal it, and put it away. Once the event is over, look back over it. When I have done this I have found it amusing how over inflated my own fears were, and gave me a sense that I had more personal strength than I may have given myself credit for.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">Art therapist Pat Allen says "Art is a way of knowing". This is know; All That I Have To Learn is Within Me. This is my mantra. I just forget it sometimes. I might put a reminder in my phone...</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPU_9AybewFv2uws6aAEKX8cOfifVY644DJew0Ns0hkYp70cVXL4Rw3dWoqM9rosaZkqiGa3TDx2kLSWsgfW3wLg4uPObAEotMpJW-KJwxRXelUVAkP2NKm4hZfq_CSbQD3f_rJY2Cwc0/s1600/This+Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPU_9AybewFv2uws6aAEKX8cOfifVY644DJew0Ns0hkYp70cVXL4Rw3dWoqM9rosaZkqiGa3TDx2kLSWsgfW3wLg4uPObAEotMpJW-KJwxRXelUVAkP2NKm4hZfq_CSbQD3f_rJY2Cwc0/s640/This+Cup.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">The Art2Healing Project:</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.theart2healingproject.org/">http://www.theart2healingproject.org/</a></div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">Phoenix Institute of Australia</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.phoenixinstitute.com.au/index.html">http://www.phoenixinstitute.com.au/index.html</a></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-34032515562077911792011-09-10T18:49:00.000-07:002011-09-10T20:23:18.598-07:00Born To Scribble: My Art is my Word<div style="text-align: justify;">Sunshowers, hailstorms, rainbows...Nature puts on quite a show for us in September, and I love nothing more than to view it from the box seat of my back deck, out onto the stage of my garden below here in Daylesford.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Last week Cecile and I went to visit Heide, the place where I had asked her to bind our love together with a commitment ceremony and where we now came to mark the year and one day later on which we had promised to renew the vows we made. It was a beautiful warm spring day, as we emerged from our hibernation to bask in all the potential which lies ahead at this time of the year. Blossoms have us ponder the brevity of this moment; daffodils illuminate all around. Anything seems possible in springtime. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The exhibition Born To Concrete was the standout this visit to Heide. Showcasing the works of the Concrete Poetry movement from the 60's, it was a reminder of the relevance of poetry and the written word as an art form. As a young and eager student of Fine Art in the 90's, I struggled creatively with the written word. Words dominated my life from a young age, and I left that degree still feeling a bit frustrated at what I felt was a lack of consolidation of my use of text within my art. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here I am, years later, still writing and scribbling words straight from my heart. Even when I stopped drawing or printmaking, I never stopped writing in one way or another. Born to Concrete reminded me once again that the truth is; <em> THE WORDS ARE MY ART.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Checkout Born to Concrete at HeideMOMA, til Sept 25th. <a href="http://www.heide.com.au/">http://www.heide.com.au/</a></em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Thanks to National Poetry Week for the inspiration. </em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Guys like this at Overload Poetry bring the Art of the Words out in the open and all over, where it belongs: <a href="http://overloadpoetry.org/">http://overloadpoetry.org/</a></em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">THESE WORDS</div><div style="text-align: center;">ARE MY VESSEL</div><div style="text-align: center;">THEY CARRY </div><div style="text-align: center;">IN THEIR </div><div style="text-align: center;">LEAKY ARMS</div><div style="text-align: center;">MY LIFE</div><div style="text-align: center;">MY VOICE</div><div style="text-align: center;">MY SHAME</div><div style="text-align: center;">MY HOPE</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuXZIydS_1N3k7ExrWRcpJqef6gnAE5FE8gjNfcp1at6UmDbZcRXrSAWlboxQO7YALreY-egRw80eIp1QSaYcHpgIYdOyn5Y-Vz4sldATSPLtjLp4vZYRwBaLJicz_QTmhCWYITxcRbY/s1600/Belinda-+self+Portrait+As+a+Chair+%2523+Four+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuXZIydS_1N3k7ExrWRcpJqef6gnAE5FE8gjNfcp1at6UmDbZcRXrSAWlboxQO7YALreY-egRw80eIp1QSaYcHpgIYdOyn5Y-Vz4sldATSPLtjLp4vZYRwBaLJicz_QTmhCWYITxcRbY/s640/Belinda-+self+Portrait+As+a+Chair+%2523+Four+.jpg" width="372" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The words will write themselves<br />
either way.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5umBut0GmqZzzslmZEHMZr5WqVQ8RpQ9k2fKKpZsAL4cVeKdVmWojINL4MJZjMJCO5GAX104at5lIKlkxbxcHfbp3A1fk3urzPU2V6_kkNc6b10Ixle9wGJklSes56CnPqTsPQb2n4NM/s1600/Belinda-+Self+Portrait+As+a+Chair+%2523+Three+25+June+2011..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5umBut0GmqZzzslmZEHMZr5WqVQ8RpQ9k2fKKpZsAL4cVeKdVmWojINL4MJZjMJCO5GAX104at5lIKlkxbxcHfbp3A1fk3urzPU2V6_kkNc6b10Ixle9wGJklSes56CnPqTsPQb2n4NM/s640/Belinda-+Self+Portrait+As+a+Chair+%2523+Three+25+June+2011..jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journal Sketches; Self Portrait as a Chair.<br />
My beautiful Cecile began this project and I did one each day for 10 days.<br />
Such a great daily journal project; and I found myself using words <br />
in many of these sketches.<br />
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</tbody></table>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-30305269655237908382011-08-17T18:47:00.000-07:002011-08-17T18:48:35.380-07:00Travelling Poetry; Words are PrayersWords are prayers I carry in my heart, rarely sharing them. Until now.<br />
I travel with my eyes open and a notebook handy. The seasons, the trees, the breeze...I write my prayers upon them. <br />
I live this way in still, untravelling moments too. Living in Daylesford, Australia bring the blessings of a rush of unwritten and half uttered words to my daily life. This month has seen the Words in Winter festival celebrate that art of wordsmithing, and I love that this town gets on board. To honour this I am peeling back the cover of my modesty and sharing some mumblings.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hanging high from bare branches</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The skin of old trees</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wait for time to break their fall</span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Winter day in Daylesford, VIC </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">this place has not </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">forgotten </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">about colours</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">no urban palettes</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">of grey or coal</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">char </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">and coal</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">this place is not </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">afraid </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">of colours</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Nimbin and Uki, NSW</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Verdant </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Ripe</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Fecund</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And the rain...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mullumbimby, NSW</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dreaming of temples</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hidden in the h</span><span style="font-size: large;">ills</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">A falling leaf...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Winter in the arms </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">of the trees</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The warm smell</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">of incense</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">cool air...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Missing Nara...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dt_12K5ajmVRmXG6j4gxZq9VL_-W2xvYWKb6jIydHTuhoHnhPq_n6UGu2gxnx_Lrmd1jzOW2eKvWgxC3NbWQ30yJztKzK5bk7qNAbXUjxJaWUUB7IV32_96WnRlfYLQFQzhNmyPnrCc/s1600/snowytrees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dt_12K5ajmVRmXG6j4gxZq9VL_-W2xvYWKb6jIydHTuhoHnhPq_n6UGu2gxnx_Lrmd1jzOW2eKvWgxC3NbWQ30yJztKzK5bk7qNAbXUjxJaWUUB7IV32_96WnRlfYLQFQzhNmyPnrCc/s320/snowytrees.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First snow, Nara</td></tr>
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</div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-92133878700487564842011-08-03T17:47:00.000-07:002011-08-06T00:02:44.889-07:00Travelling SpiritualityPart of my interest in starting up this blog is to share experiences of the places and ways in which travellers (of the land or astral kind) have encountered spirituality.<br />
It might have been on a pilgrimage trail, or a chance encounter with a spiritual teacher. Perhaps you had a vision. <br />
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Walking a local trail in Nara, Japan a few years ago I found this guy. I asked for some guidance, gave him a tip and took a snap which now embodies my idea of spirituality on the road. It pops up in the strangest of places and often when you least expect it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN0op1gi_kbVn_keSB6yXaYsqQV9GfDX-WB9Xy1Q5ygJMCEaQhWLYpVRQYQQOjUNi0YyG7LISFcYFluVUbckCjoAgV1SkqYxnK4nxsMNy3ADzeNPUZz0ITduyag62y_tVdb92efeqkZg/s1600/moneybuddha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN0op1gi_kbVn_keSB6yXaYsqQV9GfDX-WB9Xy1Q5ygJMCEaQhWLYpVRQYQQOjUNi0YyG7LISFcYFluVUbckCjoAgV1SkqYxnK4nxsMNy3ADzeNPUZz0ITduyag62y_tVdb92efeqkZg/s320/moneybuddha.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nara, Japan</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8LOb0q_o0h60xZLrtlyXrkrTlfzdvMI_XBQDCMepAZqUH6x-9-c1130GhLIUORrA5VKK8DtTl72G5vR3xU1ZdO2La5MDDjzRjoj2LzkN77guP-aV5g9NWhJ_0gToHf6_1v1uCHe0tSA/s1600/_MG_6685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8LOb0q_o0h60xZLrtlyXrkrTlfzdvMI_XBQDCMepAZqUH6x-9-c1130GhLIUORrA5VKK8DtTl72G5vR3xU1ZdO2La5MDDjzRjoj2LzkN77guP-aV5g9NWhJ_0gToHf6_1v1uCHe0tSA/s320/_MG_6685.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niigatsudo, Nara.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>In 2008 I made my way to the Thaipusam Hindu festival in Kuala Lumpur. This for me marked a long journey after a backpacking trip which took an unexpected turn after a friend survived a near fatal motorbike accident, resulting in an amputation. By the time I got to KL I was emotionally raw. Witnessing the devotion of hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who went to physically challenging extremes, piercing skin and flesh with metal and carrying burdensome loads, tongues ablaze, all for the devotion of their lord. It was awe-inspiring and left me carrying the burden of my own emptiness after such an emotionally draining few months.<br />
I was grieving the recent death of a grandmother who had raised me and feeling the gap left after my friend returned home to recover, in fewer pieces than he had begun. I had given myself to his caring, and now the loss of this left a hole I needed to fill, beginning with the caring of myself, of my soul.<br />
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Thaipusam made me question the lengths I was prepared to go to myself, in order to test my faith...I still ask myself this and am yet to find the answer. Perhaps the answer is in the journey itself.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The devotees pinnacle; Batu Caves</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCHR94-sXDNUmNFsMY_sqsAO4IOGenxQs8E1aFwtyH3U1STVU7hPV1sjNRVoGFV2oEsnGevQtXDYHUyUciYTMTwlCILmeuh03ITKUO97cU7DxTfVxxOdk1wa13zDjpqYbN6WNwNqmAc4/s1600/IMG_2043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCHR94-sXDNUmNFsMY_sqsAO4IOGenxQs8E1aFwtyH3U1STVU7hPV1sjNRVoGFV2oEsnGevQtXDYHUyUciYTMTwlCILmeuh03ITKUO97cU7DxTfVxxOdk1wa13zDjpqYbN6WNwNqmAc4/s320/IMG_2043.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trance states make for thirsty souls</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>We came to know, we leave to remember... </i></b></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207280420872626634.post-20783411810171184352011-08-01T15:59:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:22:43.402-07:00The Travelling Book<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I was reading an online discussion this morning on the e-book as a replacement for a “real” book, which in itself is a topic which in itself is becoming a little tiresome. However, what has sent me off on a slight tangent is in response to a backpacker who suggested that the potential to carry a smaller device which can hold a huge amount of books within it, as opposed to filling your backpack with burdensome books is what winds him over. Others then replied to his post in agreement that carrying around books when travelling is just problematic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Where I would like to take this though, is not down the road of e-books versus traditional books, but rather; to what degree do electronic devices take away from the experience of backpacking?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Leaving digital cameras out of this for the sake of staying on track, is the ease of access delivered by e-books not taking away a certain experience henceforth lost to the e-book backpacker? The search for book shops in small towns after nauseating bus rides, the thrill of finding one and the chance to read a book you never knew existed; I live for these moments on the road. You might need to stock up for the times between book shops, sure, but it makes those precious paper worlds in your pack that much more meaningful. Not to mention the flipside being that you are less paranoid about them being stolen! <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Socially they allow for greater interaction on the road with the possibility of exchange, of which is far more personal when using real items. Too many books for your backpack? Think charitably and give some away. Take out some clothes, you’re meant to be a little dirty on the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Finally and for me more importantly, is the fact you leave yourself open to discovering new and exciting tomes which you might never have found if not purely by that chance discovery in an unexpected cafe and bookstore in Laos, or in that backpacker hostel social room in Cambodia. My bookshelves still hold a couple I could not help but shove into my pack and carry all the way home. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Favourites: <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">A Fortune Teller Told Me</span></u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">, by Tiziano Terzani.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Mama Tina</span></u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">, by Christina Noble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNN-K3H9Prf5IJbROOo8H1i2jRI0DizaplxjvYdDCy9lhR6V1avblIZ703-pJgGvPewmYdxqtInl4tQWmC9_jqg0UOehqjTM-zJWcAF6eJIxCHGe4t7_FKCAQRGP_9ljGUoKnmNfRvu2I/s1600/Book+On+Train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNN-K3H9Prf5IJbROOo8H1i2jRI0DizaplxjvYdDCy9lhR6V1avblIZ703-pJgGvPewmYdxqtInl4tQWmC9_jqg0UOehqjTM-zJWcAF6eJIxCHGe4t7_FKCAQRGP_9ljGUoKnmNfRvu2I/s320/Book+On+Train.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Book On The Train, Thailand. 2007.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsYFCP5x5LxnIa_CPVmOoL_PH2QYVIh3Xweo_OI7wgtt1DZ4UplEJj_5q82LHulX2y_Jsy8GcjPaBw7FUH2kqHYUjIdSeeLGMSEo81b53i4_ApP84N_hMomuZXxcDgMpTSxil1DxRvxY/s1600/Local+Thief+KL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsYFCP5x5LxnIa_CPVmOoL_PH2QYVIh3Xweo_OI7wgtt1DZ4UplEJj_5q82LHulX2y_Jsy8GcjPaBw7FUH2kqHYUjIdSeeLGMSEo81b53i4_ApP84N_hMomuZXxcDgMpTSxil1DxRvxY/s400/Local+Thief+KL.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Langkawi 2007<br />
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</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Anyone else got books they couldn’t leave behind?</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>BR Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04310902184214439215noreply@blogger.com2