New Zealand is a fantastic destination for zimbles. This mud pool is at Waiotapu thermal area in Rotorua. The video was taken on a shaky-vision mobile phone camera but it gives an idea.
Sunday 28 December 2008
Sunday 21 December 2008
Traffic jam poem no. 5 (aka boiling the plum pudding poem with apologies to Banjo)
There is movement at the waistline for the lard is going round encasing every vital aspect of the girth. A chocolate here, a cup cake there, a simple honey sandwich and the ballooning, billowing blubber's given birth.
The chins look down in horror and the girls are far from pleased that this flab is taking residence down below. The hips shake in fear as does the wobbly rear; what happens if we really start to stow?
Only one thing for it then: a calorie controlled regime, to stop this bulge, this making of a beast. Don't you mean a regimen? And don't forget it's Christmas. It's the season for a celebration feast.
The consumption of the proteins, carbohydrates and the fats can absolutely not go on this way. Therefore and hence a diet starts with salad, beans and tofu and there's exercise on every single day.
Much running, rowing, biking and some weights to tone the build should halt that creeping number on the scale. This challenge must be met or else one's future's set to total transmutation into whale.
The chins look down in horror and the girls are far from pleased that this flab is taking residence down below. The hips shake in fear as does the wobbly rear; what happens if we really start to stow?
Only one thing for it then: a calorie controlled regime, to stop this bulge, this making of a beast. Don't you mean a regimen? And don't forget it's Christmas. It's the season for a celebration feast.
The consumption of the proteins, carbohydrates and the fats can absolutely not go on this way. Therefore and hence a diet starts with salad, beans and tofu and there's exercise on every single day.
Much running, rowing, biking and some weights to tone the build should halt that creeping number on the scale. This challenge must be met or else one's future's set to total transmutation into whale.
Thursday 4 December 2008
www.AnimalsAustralia.org
I picked up this pamphlet after signing a petition at my local gym. It says,
"A decision by the Australian government to end live export will save millions of animals from suffering and importantly, will send a clear message to the Middle East that animal welfare matters."
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Leonard Cohen.
I've not entirely made my mind up about the internet. Is it good for us or bad? It has made communication so fast that, nowadays, there are new pressures with which previous generations would not have had to cope.
For instance, there is an internet generated demand for productivity in the workplace that is assumed to be (but is not always) facilitated by instant communication. (Yes, Mavis. That is a long sentence for a zimble).
Consider the great great grand father, farming his land at Allora, on the other side of the Great Dividing Range, over the Darling Downs, out beyond Warwick, past the big trees and up the long driveway. He might receive an important letter from his financier in Brisbane requesting information about his harvest. He would have all the time, the days or weeks, it took for the next bullock dray to arrive and collect his reply.
Today, a reply is expected that afternoon or the next day at the very latest, all because of the internet. Now, we must spend time making a request to spend time: 'Would it be alright if I get back to you next week?'
The internet also makes subtle demands on our leisure time. Here I am writing this blog when I could be outside tending my parsley as it goes to seed. Certainly, I'm writing because I want to but every so often, if I haven't posted something in a while, I think, well, I should try to get to that.
Then there are the 'flame wars' that erupt in forums, social networking sites and web based fandoms. How many internet friendships have crashed and burnt over a too hasty reply or a careless strike of the 'send' key?
In the 'good old days' one would have had at least all night and up to second period maths to salvage a fan dilemma over whether Parker Stevenson or Shaun Cassidy was the more handsome of the Hardy Boys. [Shaun Cassidy by a country mile].
One great and undeniable thing about the web is the learning and enrichment it affords us. I don't just mean Wikipedia. Surfing the net inevitably draws us into other cultures; national, ethnic, religious, scientific, sub and pop. I look up avocado tree and find there is a current trend towards extra hot chilli at Californian guacamole parties. Who knew? That's like gnarly man!
Here is another perfect example of one good thing leading to another: this is Paul Darby's poem, which he kindly shared with his email correspondents. It's a tribute to the Canadian songwriter, Leonard Cohen (1934-). I did know a couple of Cohen's songs but I didn't know all the ins and outs of his musical life and influence.
You may say, 'Well, where were you in the 70s?' The answer is I was a four-eyed knock-kneed ballet-o-mane dreaming of the New York City Ballet performing the Nutcracker at Christmas but I'm here now, listening to Cohen, getting it. Better late than never and all thanks to the internet and to Paul.
For instance, there is an internet generated demand for productivity in the workplace that is assumed to be (but is not always) facilitated by instant communication. (Yes, Mavis. That is a long sentence for a zimble).
Consider the great great grand father, farming his land at Allora, on the other side of the Great Dividing Range, over the Darling Downs, out beyond Warwick, past the big trees and up the long driveway. He might receive an important letter from his financier in Brisbane requesting information about his harvest. He would have all the time, the days or weeks, it took for the next bullock dray to arrive and collect his reply.
Today, a reply is expected that afternoon or the next day at the very latest, all because of the internet. Now, we must spend time making a request to spend time: 'Would it be alright if I get back to you next week?'
The internet also makes subtle demands on our leisure time. Here I am writing this blog when I could be outside tending my parsley as it goes to seed. Certainly, I'm writing because I want to but every so often, if I haven't posted something in a while, I think, well, I should try to get to that.
Then there are the 'flame wars' that erupt in forums, social networking sites and web based fandoms. How many internet friendships have crashed and burnt over a too hasty reply or a careless strike of the 'send' key?
In the 'good old days' one would have had at least all night and up to second period maths to salvage a fan dilemma over whether Parker Stevenson or Shaun Cassidy was the more handsome of the Hardy Boys. [Shaun Cassidy by a country mile].
One great and undeniable thing about the web is the learning and enrichment it affords us. I don't just mean Wikipedia. Surfing the net inevitably draws us into other cultures; national, ethnic, religious, scientific, sub and pop. I look up avocado tree and find there is a current trend towards extra hot chilli at Californian guacamole parties. Who knew? That's like gnarly man!
Here is another perfect example of one good thing leading to another: this is Paul Darby's poem, which he kindly shared with his email correspondents. It's a tribute to the Canadian songwriter, Leonard Cohen (1934-). I did know a couple of Cohen's songs but I didn't know all the ins and outs of his musical life and influence.
You may say, 'Well, where were you in the 70s?' The answer is I was a four-eyed knock-kneed ballet-o-mane dreaming of the New York City Ballet performing the Nutcracker at Christmas but I'm here now, listening to Cohen, getting it. Better late than never and all thanks to the internet and to Paul.
LATE NIGHTS WITH LEONARD.{for Lennie, the semi-colon; with love from so many!}Mystical music measures movements,Raps our twisted-arthritic knuckles; we stayTrapped on Boogie Street, listening to jazzHere, at the rear of the year; amazed, dazedWe chat; sip tea, suck sweet oranges,Your lyrics slide to hide within the cracked deep darkness.A vast yawning dawn creeps upTo spoil our crazy cures and cravings.Aging old men, bookends, no longer willingTo rage against a sickle moon; she leavesNo heroes strandedNo children in the seaweed.Standing to leave, inside-out sleeve,You button your famous blue raincoat,Torn at the shoulder; worn out by words.Clouding the casual-coldness with our icy breath,We talk our way through yet another dripping-dense day, dancingTo the end of love.Away from you, candles cry;I feel so much olderNeeding your ancient puzzled patterns, which comfort me,Still crazyAfter all these tears, that's no way to say goodbye.My brain echoes; we walk on, smiling through the rain,Homeward-bound, sounds bouncing,Whistles and bells, meetingEvery train, invited againTo your place near the river, whereStaring, loping wolf-like dreams huntStealing hungry scraps of conversation,Outside;A bird on the wire, who by fire, strutsHigher and higher, to bring usAnother restless, lazy-late night.My master sings the sacred chordDrowning out the dryness, refreshing applause,Teasing the celestial music of the turning-spinning spheres.It splinters through this crumbling tower of song;Our two aching voices long to blend, to sendPerfect energies through anotherHALLELUJAH!As we hug farewell,We say a loud AMEN;And, once againThe bells are ringing out for Christmas Day!It's time to climb the real mountain...............Ca va? Shalom!Go raibh maith agat.May the Rat and the Ox bless the Dog,That's the plan....I'm your man!
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