A spring Saturday snapshot.

Herbie Hancock, Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers playing throughout the house. Several loads worth of washing hanging inside and outside. The washing machine "error coded" and refused to spin the last load. The vacuum cleaner has been busy, on hard surfaces... carpets are for another day. Freshly-cut grass spread all over the backyard and Jazz (the dog, not the music) has green feet. Those green feet have been out for a walk and we caught the end of a local auction. Three BR unit passed-in at $815k, sentiment is that the "market's slow" but possibly everyone's become too greedy. John Coltrane's playing now, it's a very long clarinet solo and the tune is from Mary Poppins, might go and bump the cursor along a bit. 

Perspective.

Changing perspective, seeing the familiar in different ways. A pleasant weekend away from the kitchen and at the farm.

Zenterlink.

Zenterlink, where you learn patience, the folly of assertiveness, living with less and how to sit for long periods of time.

Arkham.

Confined by a straightjacket, beset by doubt and misery, cursed by bad luck and plagued by a swarm of rats... yet managed to rescue Daniel Chesterfield and escape the asylum.

Snapshot.

The last day of 2017. Right now it's 11am and Ben's in the kitchen solo-playing Onirim while waiting for UFC 219 to start. YouTube is auto-playing music of varying quality in the background. Downstairs, the washing machine noisily cleanses an assortment of ragged towels, old clothes and a new Coles Christmas t-shirt. The joyfully-red shirt has been in active service for three evening shifts a week while its generally-solemn wearer re-stocks shelves and helps customers locate items. The other evening, I asked for directions and was directed to a non-existent aisle 23. Mum, who's rarely here, was here briefly and has just left. Jazz is out in the yard snoozing amongst the peach pits. Two motorcycles sit idly in the garage, parked between the old blue Ford and a less-old Holden station wagon. The even-older Skyline has been sold to an enthusiastic younger person with lots of plans. Household finances, an ever-present post-retrenchment concern, have been eased by occasional freelance work with known publishers. As a result, those red zones on the planning spreadsheets have gradually been pushed back and we're safe to stay put for the next 12 months. UFC has started and our former-traveller is resting tiredly on the couch while heavily tattooed adults beat each other up using an assortment of fighting styles on the TV. "He's in a bad situation here," according to Joe Rogan's commentary. As for us, we're doing OK.

The Dark Arts.

We've been re-watching the entire Harry Potter series. In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Delores Umbridge is placed into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by the Minister of Magic. Ms Umbridge happens to be particularly fond of cats and her favourite colour is any shade of pink. Ostensibly she’s there to teach but she has a secret agenda as the Ministry seeks to gain control of the school. Clipboard in hand, Umbridge clinically assesses the staff and decides who stays and who goes. Sybill Trelawney, the Divination teacher, is marched out while the entire school looks on in dismay. With the connivance of the Ministry, headmaster Dumbledore is sacked. The highly-respected wizard who devoted a lifetime of service to the school is forced to leave. In a memorable scene, Dumbledore refuses to go quietly and disappears in a spectacular flash of flame. "You have to admit that Dumbledore's got style," concedes one member of the Ministry.  This story springs to mind today, the first anniversary of my own experience of the dark art of retrenchment. This will be the only anniversary because I would like to obliviate those unpleasant memories and move on.

Harry and Raffy.

[A very good tale.]

Today was clear and sunny which is unusual for this time of year but not unusual this particular year. While Ben waited patiently in Dr Bob's surgery, I waited patiently in a nearby park and read a good book. I had a bench all to myself and enjoyed the sun's warmth on my back. Gum trees were flowering and cheerful sounds of parrots filled the air. A Filipino lady appeared, attached the leads of her two shaggy terriers to one leg of the bench, checked that I didn't mind then walked off to the Salvos op shop. Before she left, I asked about the dogs' names but it wasn't really clear which was Harry and which was Raffy. One whimpered constantly and looked sadly in the direction of the shop. The other growled at anyone who walked by and yapped at other dogs in the distance. I kept reading. A few minutes later, a grandfather arrived. He was pushing his grandson along on a colourful plastic trike, one of those trikes with a long handle at the back. "He likes dogs," the grandfather explained. "They're not mine," I replied. Soon afterwards, Ben came to tell me the doctor was running late. He kept his distance but was clearly amused by the small crowd gathered around my bench. Dog leads were entwined around the grandfather's legs, one dog whimpered, the other one growled, the grandchild sat quietly on his trike slowly extending his tiny fingers towards Harry's or Raffy's nose and I kept reading.