The Knitting Songbird

...after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone...remain poised a long time

2009-03-18T23:52:00.026+01:00

I went to the supermarche today, to buy groceries for the next few or so days, as I do every couple of days. As always, I parked my car in the colossal parking lot, locked the door and slowly strolled towards the entrance in my own particular Kerouac-esque way - hands in pockets, head bent, with a lot on my mind. While making my way towards the entrance, I came across a woman who had just completed the task that awaited me. Plastic bags in hand, she opened her boot right in front of me to put the plethora of recently bought goods into it. And hit me with the most unbearable, the most insufferable scent I could ever imagine. The scent of fabricated coconut and vanilla. Basically, a very, very bad car freshener. I was so affronted by this scent that I raised my head and sped my pace to a light gallop, just to get away from it as soon as humanly possible.

I don't know what it is - perhaps the fact that spring is upon us folks in the northern hemisphere - but my sense of scent has heightened of late. Because all day I've been thinking about that scent (ugh!), as well as others, both pleasant and unpleasant, that I've experienced lately. About a group of pubescent boys waiting at the tram stop whose cheap, supermarche parfum was too overwhelming for me, so overwhelming I had to move away. About the intoxicating aroma of vanilla (proper vanilla) and raspberry muffins filling my kitchen. About the foul stench of urine in dark courtyards that I passed on my way to French lessons. About the scent of freshly mown grass that is beginning to fill the neighbourhood.

Funny thing scent is. A totally underrated sense. And yet, what would we do without it? How would we know if the milk has gone sour? Or whether we left the gas on? Or whether our meal tastes good and as it "should"? Because as Wikipedia says "Olfaction, taste and trigeminal receptors together contribute to flavor. The human tongue can distinguish only among five distinct qualities of taste, while the nose can distinguish among hundreds of substances, even in minute quantities." There's nothing worse for me than having a cold and not being able to taste my food as my nose is closed tight.

But more than the fact that scent can protect us from menacing situations or aids our sense of taste, it can take us to places in our past so embedded in our subconscious that we are totally unaware of them - unless we inhale. For example, for me, the scent of burning beechwood takes me straight back to my grandma's house in Gorski Kotar. Nothing can transport me back there like that smell. I can clearly see her with her black kerchief wrapped around her head, her hand under her chin, sitting in her armchair, looking upon the mountains and forests out of her window. I can see the plastic table cloth upon the table, with the strong black coffee and plain slice of bread atop it, the fire ever burning, all-year round, for besides being a fireplace it was also used as a stove. This banal, insignificant scent reminds me of our conversations, of our walks around the woods and valleys, of her formidable soup which no one it seems can replicate, of her sweet disposition, of how much I miss her.

But no one can express what scent means than the incomparable Proust, who truly put it on the map with his humble madeleine and tea. I'll leave you with an extract of that passage from "Remembrance of things past". Always breath in as deep as you can, with both lungs - well, at least when there are pleasant scents surrounding you...

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated segment which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

I believe I can fly

2009-03-14T21:47:00.006+01:00

I often take a walk with the kiddies through Old Culinec. Old Culinec is a picturesque little suburb adjacent to ours with lots of cottages and farms and very little traffic. It's a wonderful place, a place where the kiddies can see chickens, ducks, turkeys, even cows up close and where we can all breath in some fresh air.

About a year ago, while we were walking there we came across a baby bird in the middle of the road. It wasn't moving so we assumed it was dead. To our surprise, when we approached it, we realised it wasn't dead at all, rather, seemingly unable to fly. It wasn't even walking, it was just sitting there lifeless, one could almost say resigned to its fate - that it would be stuck there forever, never to be able to fly, most probably to be run over by the next car. Now, being the person I am, I couldn't just leave it there. I thought, what are we going to do? So I picked it up and threw it into the air, literally threw it into the air. And lo and behold, it flew. It flew right up to the nearest tree. And what a beautiful sight it was, watching it fly, striving to what its destiny really was - to fly, to live, to be.

That's exactly how I felt when I first talked to Doodeaux about a month ago and how I always feel when I talk with or email him. This is a man that once said "I think people are going to write wonderful songs for you, with specifically you in mind." Or "your wings are like the heavens." I cried when I read that in his email. Who wouldn't? I'm crying writing it now...

It's funny how silly and banal our first encounter was. But boy, what did it lead to. He approached me at choir and started some small talk with me. How are ya? What ya up to? Blah, blah. Anything but deep and meaningful or life changing, just small talk. But then the conversation took a turn:

"So, Knitting Songbird, what do you do in life?"
"Well, I work at 'The Firm', but it's not really what I want to do."
"What is it you want to do?"
"This is a bit embarrassing, at my age and having the evidently dream job I have, but what I want to do more than anything is sing."
"Sing?"
(I laugh) "Yeah, sing."
And with absolutely no qualms he says "Then we have to record you."

And that was that. Doodeaux gave me wings where other people have tried to clip them, to prevent me from flying, to keep me caged rather than do what I truly believe my destiny is: to fly, to live, to be. God bless him.

All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arise

2009-03-04T13:25:00.019+01:00

Well, well you might be asking, what has our Knitting Songbird been up to these past few weeks? I don't know where to start with that question. Lots, and I truly mean, LOTS has been going on. From being sick (again and again - three times this year!) to going to Venice (will do a post soon, promise!!!) to proofreading a chapter that hubby has been writing for an EU book on climate change to this:

http://www.myspace.com/blackmary1

I'm not going to comment on the songs, I'd like you to do that, except to say that to me they are perfect imperfection - or perhaps, imperfect perfection??? You tell me! - and that I had an absolute and utter ball in the studio, as I think we all did. Thanks so, so much to Doodeaux, Ritosa and Danka, the dream team, for making it all happen. They're just amazing, most especially Doodeaux who is such an uplifting, inspirational person. His words of encouragement still ring in my ears and bring tears to my eyes.

And thank you to the people who inspired me to go in this direction in the first place, in order of acquaintance - Ross, for reminding me how much I love music, Eva, for her heart and soul, and Baldo, who "uncovered" my voice.

And last, but definitely not least, thank you to all my family and friends. Wouldn't be here, there or anywhere without them.

Just to let you know, next on the list of planned songs to record are "Blackbird" and "Who knows where the time goes" which I will do with a guitarist called Igor. Unfortunately, he had an operation recently and is still in hospital recouperating. But hey, I've waited this long, will be patient for a little while longer, non?

Well, now it's time to dust off these broken wings and learn to fly.

Hir trust hir doubt, like raine and heat in Skies, Gently thundring, she lightning to mine eies.

2009-02-12T00:33:00.009+01:00

I am awash with tears and emotion. Today the universe spoke to me. And I like what I heard. It spoke of new plans, of new horizons, of stepping stones.

See, I went to a concert held by Sting and Edin Karamazov tonight. And while there, on my own, listening to Sting sing Dowland, the Beatles, Vaughan-Williams and others, and Edin accompany him maginificently on his lute, I heard words that I had not heard before, the coming together of two worlds - the old and the new, the classical and the modern, the contemporary voice and the ancient didgeridoo.

There is another component to this story. I made a friend recently, a friend who I believe can open up new horizons for me, both musically and spiritually. That is, if, as he says, I believe and take the journey that the universe is beckoning I take, one step at a time. I hope I can. I believe I can.

There is a flower...I think he has tamed me...

2009-02-10T15:34:00.006+01:00

I have a rose in my garden
unlike any other.
And although it may not
seem extraordinary
to others
to me it is.

Despite the fact
that some of its petals are shrivelling,
some fallen,
its stem is bent and arched over,
there are leaves missing,
despite all this,
I love my rose
above all others.

I have had this rose
for almost 17 years.
I have watched it grow,
change with the seasons,
wither, die, to be born again,
year after year.

I sometimes forget to water it,
sometimes to put a glass dome over it
at night,
sometimes let the sheep graze at it
a little.
But each time I allow this to happen
I do my best
to repair the damage,
to nurse it back to health.

I have seen many roses in my time,
many, many roses,
all beautiful,
perhaps more beautiful than mine,
but I love my rose above all others
for it is unique.
It is unique
because it is I,
I,
who tamed it.
And he who tamed
me.

The lark ascending

2009-02-07T22:32:00.013+01:00

My watch conked out yesterday. The battery went flat. And I've been living a timewarped existence ever since. I'm very attached to my watch. Despite the fact that I have a clock in my kitchen, on my computer and mobile, have a church nearby that chimes the hour, I find comfort in knowing that the exact time is, almost literally, at my fingertips.

I'm a little obsessive with knowing what time it is at any given moment. I like to know when it's time to wake up. When it's time to take my babe for a walk. When it's time to prepare lunch. When it's time for my son to come home from school. When it's time to pick up my daughter from kindie. When it's time to go out. When it's time to go to bed. And without my watch, I have been a little lost.

Funny thing time is. Constantly moving forward, relentlessly, at breakneck speed. The minutes, hours, days, months and years, going, going, then gone. Jeremy Irons said “We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.” I've been thinking quite intensely about both lately, but perhaps a bit more about the former. Just like my friend Ross, I have been thinking about two years in the past in particular - 1988 and 1989.

1988 was a significant year for me as it was my last year of school. And in the words of Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times because I made some wonderful, lifelong friends and had some magical moments with them which I shall cherish all my life. It was also a kind of age of innocence - a worryfree existence with almost no responsibilities whatsoever, except for school. Which is why it was the worst of times. Because, as anyone who has completed school knows, your last year is your best, and worst - the unrelenting pressure and stress to get the best grades you can, finally finding out what you got for all your drudgery and then deciding what the hell you're going to do with the rest of your life. Not a pleasant experience. Oh yeah, that and unrequited love.

But 1989, now that was a very good year. If pressed, I would have to say my best so far. My first year at university. After having gone to Catholic schools all my life, the last 8 years of which were all-girls Catholic schools, I was now amidst Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist, Vegan, Leftwing, Rightwing, Chickenwing people, as well as others of innumerable persuasions, cultures and beliefs. I was, in short, finally in the real world after having been confined in the parish closures for so long. It was, in effect, the year my voice broke, when the girl in me started turning into a woman. My eyes began opening wide, the parachute in my head that was wrapped up so long started to unravel, my ears began to hear sounds unheard before and my heart seemed to pump harder and faster than ever. And again, I met some amazing people, some of whom have remained my dearest friends.

And then I started thinking - what happened in the world during those two years? What other significant events occured outside my microcosmos? Here's a list that I found on Wiki:

The bicentenary of the settlement of Australia
Demonstrations in the then Czechoslovakia, Estonia, Hungary and other Eastern European countries begin
Poland legalises "Solidarity" and they win their first elections in Poland after 42 years of communism
Nato celebrates its 40th anniversary
Students protest in Tianamen Square
The Berlin Wall falls down
The Velvet Revolution takes place in the then Czeckoslovakia
Laurence Olivier, Diana Vreeland, Irving Berlin, Bette Davis, Samuel Beckett and Enzo Ferrari pass away
Seinfeld premieres on TV :)

Interesting that the dark walls of communism were falling in Eastern Europe the same year that the dark walls of my former life were falling around me, crumbling at my feet, leaving me with a beautiful vista, a vista of what life really was and what it could be. I saw the lark ascending. How I sometimes wish that time could stop its neverending grind and stand still for just a moment, so that I could watch it soar and sing again.

Postoje svijetovi drugaciji od ovog (There exist worlds different to this one)

2009-02-04T22:20:00.011+01:00

That's what the posters and billboards for one of the latest Croatian theatrical productions claim. And every time I see that phrase, it sort of captures my mind's eye and imagination. And I have to say, I agree with it. We don't have to be where we are at any particular moment - we can travel if we let our mind and heart take us places.

Every time I want to exit the place I'm at at the moment, I put some music on. Nothing can trasport me like music. If I feel like going to Austria, I simply put Mozart or Schubert on and I can visualise the ever snow-capped Alps, the winding streets of Vienna's "ring" and "gurtel", the gurgling Danube and Mur Rivers. If I feel like going to Italy, I put on Vivaldi or Paganini and I can see Venice's Canale Grande or Piaza San Marco, the Duomo in Florence, the Fontana di Trevi in Rome. If I feel like going to Spain, I listen to Paco de Lucia and am in the centre of Madrid at 11pm amid a teeming crowd of people the likes of I have never seen.

But at the moment, it seems that both my friend Davor and I are in a "we want to go to France and we want to go now" kind of mood. But then again, when aren't we??? Dreaming of coffee at La Cigale, sitting on a rock at Pointe du Rez, watching the waves at Quiberon, walking through the streets of Dinan, driving from Nantes to Paris listening to Radio Nostalgie, walking through the Luxemburg Gardens. These thoughts constantly go through our minds.

So while on my way to French today, to transport myself to France, at least a bit, I listened to the soundtrack of "Moulin Rouge". And it was bizaare how many of the songs, to me, captured a different aspect of our trip. So I thought I'd share a few of the tracks and the thoughts they provoke in me with you.

Nature Boy
Now, for some strange reason, this song reminds me of Pointe du Rez and Quiberon. I guess the title of the song provokes thoughts of nature in me. I also love the lyrics of the song. I can't be sure, but I get the feeling that Bowie based them on The Little Prince. Will have to look and see about that:

There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he

And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"

I particularly love the last phrase: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return". I think that's all that the Almighty One, Mother Nature, expects of us - to love her and her love us in return. And I can tell ya, I sure love her Quiberon and Pointe du Rez.

Because we can
This song definitely reminds me of Davor and I entering Paris after having driven from the tranquil and charming Nantes and Chenonceau. It was quite a shock to our systems: the concrete, asphalt, smog, greyness of the city. That, and the complete and utter madness of it all, where the traffic was chock-a-block and we were in a race to get the rent-a-car back on time. So the rhythm and mayhem of this song take me back to that rather low point of our trip.

Sparkling Diamonds
This song conjures up memories of La Cigale - the glitziest, most glamorous cafe I've ever visited and probably ever will visit. This is the kind of place that in its heyday, being across the road to the opera, I imagine girls would get up on tables and start belting out arias, while men would drink champagne out of their shoes. And here were little ol' me and Davor, in this venerated place, having breakfast. I still can't believe it, simply incroyable...

One day I'll fly away
When I close my eyes and listen to this song, I see myself at the top of the Montparnasse Tower. Now, the Montparnasse Tower is one of the ugliest manmade monstrosities I have ever set eyes on. But the view from the top looking over all of Paris - the myriad of lights, the Eiffel Tower sparkling on the hour, the bateaux mouches slowly making their way over the Seine - was, in a word, breathtaking, something I'll never forget. And although this is a bit morbid, but if I were (God forbid!) ever to consider ending it all, I'd have to say that freefalling from the top through the city of lights would be the way to go.

Complainte de la Butte
Although we didn't fit it into our visit, this song brings Montmartre to mind, or should I say, old bohemian Montmartre - with its accordian playing street performers, its narrow, winding streets, where you can feel the melancholy of some of its former residents, like Satie, Edith Piaf, Van Gogh. I'm kinda glad we didn't go there, it's lost a lot of its old spirit and instead of being the centre of bohemia is now a shrine to tourist shops.

I'll leave you with my favourite song from the soundtrack, Nature Boy. Here's hoping Davor and I can listen to it in Pointe du Rez or some other nice place in France sometime soon...

Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical. (Sophia Loren)

2009-01-29T22:26:00.012+01:00

It's curious how you can learn some very important and very poignant life lessons in the most unexpected circumstances and from the most unexpected people. I'm the fist to admit that I love "the greats" - the great writers, painters, musicians, and all the rest of them, and have learnt many valuable lessons from them. But to be honest, I have learnt the most from the "little people" - from a curly, blond haired boy who lives on Asteroid B-612, from a sea gull whose only goal in life was to fly as perfectly as possible, from a little baby born in a manger, from a 6 year-old girl who also happens to be my daughter.

The latest lesson that I learnt from my daughter took place last Sunday. She and I were on the internet after having been as sick as two dogs with the flu for the past week. We hadn't been on the internet all week so it was nice to muck around on Facebook, feed our pet dog (we have a Facebook cavalier king charles spaniel called Noni although I would like to buy myself a real dog for my birthday. But not a word to anyone, especially not to hubby!), look at some photos of friends and family. We then came across a photo of my friend's brother from one of his albums, at the wheel of a fast and furious car with this caption: There are two things my brother doesn't let go out of his hands - cars and a mobile phone. Add a camera and pretty girls (http://flickr.com/photos/strasnonesto/sets/72157600023799683) and you've got the whole picture ;-).

Being the curious George I am, I had to have a look at the photos, see what all the fuss was about. Well, seems that friend's bro is a photographer, and what a photographer. He has every man's dream job - taking photos of fast cars and beautiful women. It was while we were looking at the pretty girls from the above link that my daughter's wisdom hit me like a veritable brick and the following conversation took place between us:

(Turning around to hubby): "Look hubby, seems my friend's brother has your dream job, taking photos of pretty girls and fast cars - ya jealous?"
"Why should tata be jealous?"
"Ah, 'cause this guy takes photos of beautiful girls all day while tata has to write on the computer day and night"
"Why aren't you there, mama?"
"Why aren't I there? Ha, ha, 'cause I'm not beautiful, that's why"
"Yes you are"
"Maybe to you, but I'm not as beautiful as them! I mean look at me - I look as though I've been run over by a semi-trailer! No, I'm not beautiful, definitely!"
"Yes you are, you're more beautiful than them. You should be there, not them. Your friend should take photos of you"

I just laughed after that and we looked at some other stuff on the internet that she likes, like The Wiggles and whatnot.

But the thought wouldn't go away - I more beautiful than they? No way! But the more I thought about it, the more I realised what she had meant. She didn't mean that I was physically more beautiful, rather, more importantly, I was beautiful in ways unseen to the average human eye, in ways that only she could see. I asked myself, would one of those girls tuck her in at night when she had untucked herself? Would one of them let her sleep in her bed when she's just had a bad dream? Would one of them read her a story? Me thinks not.

And that's the thing - no matter how much physical beauty one has or has not, it's what's invisible that counts, those things the average person's eyes can't see - like a kind word or gesture. What a lesson to be taught by a six year old girl. She shows great promise...

Here are some beauty tips from one of the most beautiful women, both within and without, that ever lived:

Undercover

2009-01-21T21:23:00.022+01:00

I have a confession to make. Don't worry, nothing too shocking or dramatic, at least I don't think it is. And it's within the bounds of normalcy and morality, as far as I know. But then again, it's not something that I mention over tea and biscuits when I have someone over. See, I love sleeping au naturel. I don't do it too often mind you, especially not when the kids are home. Don't want to traumatise them and have them running off to their shrinks later in life saying "I saw my mum's buck naked behind every morning!" So I only do it every so often, when they're at granny's place, and I just love the feeling of having nothing between me and the sheets. I'd say it's an almost unbearable lightness of being - just the air and me.

Another thing I love is riding my bike or taking a walk in summer and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin, especially when I'm wearing a tank or sleeveless top. Feeling the sun's hot rays and the waves of warmth in the air on my flesh is yet another feeling that can be described as an almost unbearable lightness of being. I sometimes stop right in the middle of the street and just "sunbathe" - not to get a suntan, God forbid, but to enjoy the natural heat on my skin.

Having said all that, I do like cover up, especially in winter when my thighs start looking like thunder more than ever and my derriere sets new heights of rotundness. I'm then more than grateful for my slightly elasticated Levi's bootcut jeans which seem to "hold" these problems "in" somewhat. And I wouldn't consider going topless or nude on a beach or anywhere else public. Maybe if I had the body of a supermodel, the thought might cross my mind. But as I will never have that kind of body, walking round the beach in my birthday suit is out of the question for lil' ol' me. That, and the Catholic school girl in me who sometimes just refuses to go away.

'Cause sometimes it's good to cover up, imperfections in particular. The cosmetic industry would be out of business if it weren't. The best covers are, in my opinion, the ones provided by Mother Nature. The grass, flowers, plants and trees that cover the sand and soil under our feet. The seas, lakes, streams and rivers that cover the rocky and sandy beds. But snow, that's a wonderful blanket that conceals every single imperfection imaginable. Mother Nature has no imperfections mind you, but I can tell ya, Zagreb, and more specifically, Culinec, the suburb I live in, has. It's not the cleanest and tidiest suburb I've seen, far from it. So when the snow falls, I almost forget that I live in this grubby place and am bedazzled by the brilliant white cleanliness surrounding me. Even dead grass and twigs look brilliant with a tinge of white on them, and a bit of frost can uplift a bare tree or unkept rose bush to new heights.

But unfortunately, as with everything, good things don't last forever. Once the snow melts, all the imperfections are revealed and Culinec yet again turns into a muddy, mushy, slushy hole. Until then, while it's covered up, it's nice to believe that I live in a Winter Wonderland rather than Hell's Kitchen.

All photos were taken in my front yard and around Culinec, Zagreb.

p>

Heaven is being perfect

2009-01-17T19:44:00.010+01:00

There are a few books on my bookshelf that I like to dust off every so often and re-read for the God knows which time. First on that list is, of course, "The Little Prince". It was the first book I read to all my kiddies, lying in their cots, on their way to the land of Winken, Blinken and Nod. Couldn't understand a word of it at that stage of course, or anything for that matter, but I believe that they understood the sentiment behind it.

Then there are my various books of poetry, some poems of which I have re-read so many times that I know them off by heart. Like "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways" or "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone" or "Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine".

Then there's a book called "Les Bons Mots", a hilarious book of French phrases which I like to read and have a good laugh at. Phrases like "grandes maisons se font par petite cuisine" which means "save your pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves" but literally means "great houses are made by a small kitchen". Or "ce n'est pas de la tarte" meaning "it's no easy matter" but literally means "it's not a tart", as in pastry, not the other kind of tart. Only the French compare almost everything to the kitchen, don't they? Guess that's why I love 'em so much!

But the book that I reach for when I need inspiration to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again is "Jonathon Livingston Seagull". I don't know if you've read the book yourselves. It's not long and if you have a half hour or so, you can read it here: http://www.crookedbush.com/cgi-bin/bookviewer.pl?bookname=jonathon_livingston_seagull&page=0

In any case, I wanted to share a few snippets from the book that I particularly like. Hope you like them too:

We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly!

Heaven is not a place, and it is not a time. Heaven is being perfect.

To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that is, you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived ...

If our friendship depends on things like space and time, then when we finally overcome space and time, we've destroyed our own brotherhood! But overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we have left is Now. And in the middle of Here and Now, don't you think that we might see each other once or twice?

Each of us is in truth an idea of the Great Gull, an unlimited idea of freedom.

"Maynard Gull, you have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way. It is the Law of the Great Gull, the Law that Is."
"Are you saying I can fly?"
"I say you are free."

You don't love hatred and evil, of course. You have to practice and see the real gull, the good in every one of them, and to help them see it in themselves. That's what I mean by love.

You've got to understand that a seagull is an unlimited idea of freedom, an image of the Great Gull, and your whole body, from wingtip to wingtip, is nothing more than your thought itself.

Ode to a failed driving exam

2009-01-16T22:18:00.006+01:00

I flunked my driving exam today, flunked it with flying colours. It all started so well. There I was, driving perfectly - slowing down at curves, stopping at red lights, looking into my blind spot - would have made Schumacher proud. Even the examiner commented on how well I drove. Then it all went downhill. When he asked me to park. Not park, I thought, not park! But park I had to. Blotched it, of course, completely and utterly blotched it. And then the mistakes started piling up. But the last nail in my coffin was that I didn't stop for a pedestrian. I just knew that would happen! And that was it - a big, fat F, for failure.

So I've been down in the dumps all day. I tried to not let the failure get to me, really made an effort not to, but to no avail. Guess I'm just too God damn sensitive. Always have been. So to try to make myself feel at least a bit better, I started thinking about a few of my favourite things. And then I thought, why not write them down and try to get them to fit to the tune of "My favourite things"? So here it is, a few of the Knitting Songbird's favourite things, set to the tune of the original classic. Try not to get a hernia laughing:

Schubert and Mozart and Webber and Gershwin
Edith and Ella and Eva's Imagine
Going to choir and hearing us sing
These are a few of my favourite things

Eclaires, Valrhona and piping choc chaud
Creme brulee, bischottentorte and macarons
Whisking egg whites for pavlovas with wings
These are a few of my favourite things

When my teacher shouts, when I fail my test,
When I'm feeling mad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Paris and Venice, Vienna, Normandy
Quimper, Denon, Madrid, Burgundy
Wonderful places with memories that cling
These are a few of my favourite things

When my teacher shouts, when I fail my test,
When I'm feeling mad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don't feel so bad

And here's the original and definitely the best. And don't worry, I won't be giving up my day job - not for songwriting anyway!

One man's meat is another man's poison

2009-01-13T21:59:00.006+01:00

Being a typical Croatian girl in Australia, I grew up a very devout Catholic. Went to a Catholic school, went to church every Sunday and feast day, got down on my knees and prayed every night, sang in the church choir, taught catechism at public schools, was part of the church's youth group. I also loved reading about the lives of the saints. They had these little books at our church shop that I collected about their life stories and I pored over them day in, day out. Knew them off by heart. I always remember that one of my favourite saints was Saint Francis. I loved his prayer "Make me a channel of your peace", which I also sang in the church choir, I loved his humility, his charity, his enthusiasm, his romantic spirit, his renouncement of wordly goods. But most of all, I loved him because he was the patron saint of animals.

There are many legends that surround him and his love of animals. He apparently preached sermons to birds, pacified a wolf who was tormenting a town, thanked his donkey on his deathbed for his servitude. The Franciscan order even has a special "Blessing of the Animals" which goes like this:

“Blessed are you, Lord God, maker of all living creatures. You called forth fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on the land. You inspired St. Francis to call all of them his brothers and sisters. We ask you to bless this pet. By the power of your love, enable it to live according to your plan. May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you, Lord our God, in all your creatures! Amen.”

I think it may have even been St. Francis who inspired me as a young child to want to become a veternarian, such was my love of animals. But, just like being an astronomer, I discovered that it wasn't the "romantic" calling I had imagined it to be when my dad and I took our pet dog to the RSPCA to be put down...

And yet, despite my love of animals, I was the most carnivorous of carnivores you could imagine. I more or less grew up on meat. Hated anything with even the slightest tinge of green. I remember my dad slicing pancetta for me almost every evening, so thin that you could read a newspaper through it, with some spring onion and bread on the side. And my mum's half kilo t-bone steaks with sliced barbequed potatoes. And mortadella sandwiches for lunch at school. And roast suckling pigs at Croatian picnics with crackling so crisp it crunched in your mouth. And cabbage rolls stuffed with minced pork. And of course, le Big Macs which I scoffed down quicker than you could say "two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun".

Although I wasn't a dumb kid, I didn't want to fathom the equations steak = cow or pancetta = pig or KFC = chicken. A bit like Marilyn Monroe, I suppose, who never could comprehend that the steaks (that she apparently ate like there was no tomorrow) on her plate came from cows. To be quite honest, I just plain old didn't want to think about it, was none of my business thank you very much. But then something happened that made me think about it quick smart. Something very sad (to me), a bit bizaare (to many), perhaps even a bit of a laugh (to some).

Four Christmases ago, "Santa Claus" bought my son a pet rabbit. He'd been bothering hubby and I for a pet rabbit for ages, probably since he was two and started watching "Teletubbies" with umpteen rabbits jumping "over the hills and faraway". So "Santa Claus" gave in and bought him a pet rabbit. He was over the moon when he saw it on Christmas morning (it was a bit hard to hide, I can tell ya!), said it was the best present he'd ever gotten, thanked Santa Claus until he went hoarse. We called the rabbit Spot because he had a small spot on his back. So we let him play with Spot a bit when horror struck. Christian in ADHD mode ran around the loungeroom and accidentally stepped on Spot wounding him fatally. Now, I know that some of you are going to burst out laughing when you hear this, but when I saw that little bunny in rigor mortis mode, it totally put me off meat forever. I quite abruptly understood the steak = cow and pancetta = pig and KFC = chicken equations and haven't eaten them since.

So there you have it, the soul-baring story of how the Knitting Songbird went veg. I have to say that not many people know the story. I either avoid telling it ("it's a long story" or "you don't want to know") or, God forgive me, lie ("because of my liver" or "I don't like the taste of meat"). I mean, it's a bit embarrassing, man!

But, embarrassing or not, I'm more than pleased that I became a vegetarian, despite the strange and perhaps Monty Python-esque circumstances in which it took place. Yes, I occasionally miss a good piece of t-bone steak or some pancetta or a slice of mortadella (nothing gets me more than the scent of freshly sliced mortadella) but I feel that my health, both physical and mental, has improved. The 6th commandment is "You shall not kill". I'm glad I don't anymore and that I don't eat my "brothers and sisters" as St. Francis called them.

And just for the record, even though I may not be one any more, please don't get me wrong - I love all you carnivores out there!

All of us are in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars - take 2

2009-01-08T23:30:00.014+01:00

Dear, dear readers,

Please forgive me, but the post you read today and yesterday was not in the form that I had intended to publish it and had to go and edit it. See, last night I uploaded some photos and asked hubby to save them while I went to bed. Well, he not only saved them but published the post as well, before I had added more photos and added captions to them. The text remains unchanged but the photos are as I had originally wished them to be. Please forgive me for this slight inconvenience.

TKS

I don't know if you've noticed, but very few people look up. I know that looking up can cause logistical complications (bumping and whatnot) but I've always been a great believer in looking up as often as logistically possible. For one, I've been a stargazer for as long as I can remember. I have very fond memories of how my mum and dad would spread a picnic blanket out on the lawn on warm, balmy nights during school holiday time and we would lie there, the three of us, gazing at the stars and chatting. They were happy, happy times. I even wanted to be an astronomer when I was school at one stage. But when I realised that astronomy was really just complicated mathematics, the profession lost its charm somewhat. Wasn't quite as romantic as I thought it was!

When it comes to not looking up, I get particularly annoyed when someone tells me "such and such a city is ugly" or "there's nothing to see in so and so city". I often ask myself - have they ever looked up? I went to Graz, Austria yesterday and did a lot of looking up, I can tell you. Now, this is fairly atypical for the average Croatian because to the average Croatian, Graz is merely a shopping city, nothing more. There's nothing to see there except display windows, it seems. Sad, but true, I was one of those typical Croatians not too long ago. Thank God I got over it because there was so much to see and photograph - especially when I looked one storey above ground level.

But I have to admit, I did lower my eyes every so often. Well, there were a couple of kitchenware stores that I just had to look at, now didn't I? I mean, I just had to buy a sugar themometer (I can never quite get my caramel to set just the way I want it to), and a fondue set (hey, I was born in the 70's!) and a silicone mould in the shape of a rose (yes, I admit, it was a frivolous buy, but it's soooo cute and will be the talk of the town when I make a cake in it).

As not everyone in blogland knows about Graz, here are a few facts from Wiki for ya before we get to the photos:

* Graz has existed since the Copper Age, its name coming from the Slovenian word "Gradec" meaning "small castle" or "small city".
* Graz is located to the south east of Austria and lies in Styria or Steiermark in German. Mark is an old German word indicating a large area of land used as a defensive border, in which the peasantry are taught how to organize and fight in the case of an invasion. Graz was often assaulted so the name seems relevant.
* The old town was added to the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1999 due to the harmonious co-existence of typical buildings from different epochs and in different architectural styles. Being situated in a cultural borderland between Central Europe, Italy and the Balkan States, Graz absorbed various influences from the neighbouring regions and thus received its exceptional townscape. Today the old town consists of over 1000 buildings, their age ranging from Gothic to Contemporary.
* In addition, Graz was named "European Capital of Culture" in 2003. Some astounding buildings were constructed to celebrate this, particularly the Kunsthaus (you'll see a couple of photos below, but as they were taken at ground level, they're not that great).
* It is the second largest city in Austria, second only to Vienna, with a population of 290,000. Graz's most famous ex-inhabitant is Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even has a soccer stadium is named after him...

And now for a few photos!

First, some shop signs:

My favourite cafe in Graz. Has the best Malakofftorte, second only to Demel in quality.

A pub in Graz. This one's for Ross' and my mate, Pete!

I was too chicken to go into the Cafe Sacher. A bit too grand for little ol' me!

Now a few store windows:

Here are some tools I'd like to have about - they're made out of chocolate!

Grusse aus Graz.

Antique books. I love antique books and thankfully, this store was closed while I was passing by...

A window display from my favourite chocolate store in Graz. Has Valrhona, Lindt, the best Belgian drinking chocolate...yum!

This is the whole shop front.

A myriad of handblown glass Christmas decorations

This is actually a stall at one of Graz's open air markets. Love owls!

Almost every building in Graz has a religious relic on it, either just above the entrance or on the corner. Here are a few of my favourites:

And now, some various sites:

The opera house.

A cute little cafe called The Opera Pavillion, just down the road from the opera house.

Some beautiful buildings on the main square with a tram just below them.

A lovely looking bakery. The frescoes look either Middle Ages or Rennaissance. Will have to ask Davor...

Church cupola

This is Graz's quaint clock tower. It's unfortunately being renovated and is now covered in some brand or other...

Cannon in front of the armoury. Graz has the biggest armoury in Europe, surprisingly enough.

The so called "painted house" is one of the most famous sites in Graz. An amazing piece of "street art".

Detail from the painted house.

The Kunsthaus, constructed to celebrate Graz being the European city of culture in 2003. Its fantastical structure is only second to Bilbao imho.

The Graz island, another structure built to commemorate its being the European city of culture.

Detail of a baroque altar.

We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars - Oscar Wilde

Watch what happens

2009-01-05T22:15:00.010+01:00

I remember my mum always telling me stuff like "Every cloud has a silver lining" and "When God closes a door he opens a window". And the older I get, the more I realise how true this is. After the upsetting episodes of late, which thankfully have passed, I received some really great news yesterday. Interesting that this news came to me on "Epiphany". The radioman got back to me and says he would like us to meet next week. He would have scheduled something this week, he said, but all the recording studios are closed (off skiing apparently. Did someone mention a recession???). But next week, gravity takes its hold and life goes back to normal after the silly and skiing season. So he'll be able to let me know how to go about recording a CD.

When I first read the email, I almost dropped my BeBe. My stomach was in a veritable knot and I felt the acid slowly making its way up my esophogus while my heart rate went from 60 to 600 in a matter of seconds. In short, I got a full on anxiety attach. See, besides you guys out there in the blog world and a few very close friends, I haven't told anyone about wanting to record a CD, let alone a music professional (besides Ross of course!). And I've never had any contact whatsoever with a recording studio or the like. So it's like, this is it man, it's friggin' happening. What now???

Well, ride with the tide, baybee. I know that it's gonna be a hard and rough ride, but along with the lows, I've got a feeling there are gonna be a lot of high and exciting waves out there for me to jump onto. Here's hoping, man!

And of course I'll let you know how it goes next week. What, you think I wouldn't??? Who else is listens to ranting and raving besides you guys, God love ya all.

On my own

2009-01-03T22:29:00.006+01:00

"On my own" is a song I rediscovered quite recently, a couple of months ago, after not having heard it for over 20 years. It's from the musical "Les Miserables" which I went to see with my music class during our last year of high school in 1988. It holds a special place in my heart where I keep cherished memories. See, I had the most wonderful music teacher during my last two years of high school, Miss Cuneen. Ms. Cuneen was one of those rare teachers who could inspire you, encourage you, make you believe in yourself. Unlike other teachers, she wasn't interested only in our grades, she was interested in us.

Besides taking us to "Les Miserables", she also regularly took us to an opera, a concert and once, as an extra special treat, for a bike ride and picnic in Sydney's Centennial Park. She was not only a teacher, she was also a friend. It was actually Ms. Cuneen who encouraged me to study music. Not because I was any good at it, just because she made me love it even more than I had to that point, if that were possible.

So it was nice rediscovering "Les Miserables" and "On my own". I've been practising it incessantly ever since and think I have it more or less nailed. It's not that difficult a song to sing technically - it's in the mid-range between the A below Middle C up to the C above it - but is emotionally. It actually drains me and when I finish it, I have to sit down to get myself together again. Because I sing it with a lot of emotion, perhaps too much, but I never like doing things by half.

I guess I sing it with emotion because I understand it. I've lived most of my life more or less alone. Even though I have a wonderful brother who is 16 years my senior, circumstances out of our control dictated that he grow up in Croatia and I in Australia. So I was more or less brought up as an only child. I had few friends compared to many at school but I cherished them. There was my cousin Tony, my godsisters Kathy, Anna and Helen, Susie, Nita, Vicki and Voula who lived across the road, Mary and Anka from school, but that's about it.

And the times I didn't spend with my friends I spent by myself. Day dreaming under the huge tree we had in our backyard, swinging as high as possible on my swing pretending I was flying over the rainbow, listening to and singing along with records on my parents' gramophone (I think I've already told you Abba was a particular favourite!), exploring the vegetable patch my parents had, feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs, playing with my pet dog, chasing my numerous pet mice who strangely enough, multiplied at a staggering rate...

I now again feel very much on my own. I've been avoiding hubby like the plague. I did confront him about it, today in fact. He said it was just curiosity that made him "go there" (you were right Davor and Ross!), apparently after a fight we had, that he didn't contact anyone, that he didn't post a profile or whatnot, just wanted to see what was out there. Doesn't seem to make this ache in my heart any better though. Funnily enough, my leg has started to hurt terribly again too. The physical and metaphysical always seem to be intertwined, don't they...

Well, there is one thing that is in my favour - "the trees are full of starlight" after having been buried in grey cloud for what seems like eons...perhaps the grey clouds of my heart will lift, too...here's hoping...

And now I'm all alone again
Nowhere to turn, no one to go to.
Without a home, without a friend
without a face to say hello to
But now the night is near
And I can make-believe he's here

Sometimes I walk alone at night
When everybody else is sleeping
I think of him and then I'm happy
With the company I'm keeping
The city goes to bed
And I can live inside my head

On my own
Pretending he's beside me
All alone
I walk with him 'til morning
Without him, I feel his arms around me
And when I lose my way, I close my eyes and he has found me

In the rain
The pavement shines like silver
All the lights are misty in the river
In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight
And all I see is him and me forever and forever

And I know it's only in my mind
That I'm talking to myself and not to him
And although I know that he is blind
Still I say there's a way for us

I love him
But when the night is over
He is gone
The river's just a river
Without him, the world around me changes
The trees are bare and everywhere the streets are full of strangers

I love him
But every day I'm learning
All my life I've only been pretending
Without me, his world will go on turning
The world is full of happiness that I have never known

I love him
I love him
I love him...
But only on my own...
(sniffle)

Both sides now

2009-01-01T17:17:00.009+01:00

Funny thing, life is. To me, it sometimes seems to be full of coincidences and chance. Like how I fell into music, found my various jobs, met my husband, met most of my friends, even went to France with my friend Davor. I was going to write today about New Year's resolutions (my one is to learn more - about myself, about my friends and family, about the world, about music. This is very ironic and you'll soon read why) and how I became a vegetarian on New Year's Day, 2004 (I'll tell you about that in a later post. A bit of an embarrassing story, but one that has to be told).

But that all seems so blase, so trite, pure dribble now. Now, after what I found out today. A discovery that has shattered me to the very core. I found out, quite by accident, that my husband is either looking for someone else or has already found her.

See, I went to his computer to see when the film "Australia" is playing as we would like to go and see it. Preferably a late session, when the kiddies are sleeping and it's easy for gramps to look after them. So I turn on the computer, type in his password, turn the internet on and start typing "cinestar". Only I make a mistake and typed instead "sinestar". It then scrolls down a list of other sites beginning with "s", one of which is a site where people can look for other people (smokva.com). And I'm not talking about people you can have deep and meaningful discussions with. I'm talking about people you can get it on and get off with.

I don't even know how to describe what I'm feeling at the moment. I know I'm still shaking from the realisation. Shocked? Surprised? Perhaps a bit but I felt it in my bones, knew deep inside it was going on. Saddened? Heart broken? Yes, because hate as I do to admit it, I love the man, faults and all. Betrayed? Deceived? Without a doubt. I feel as though I haven't only been betrayed by the man who is my husband but more than that, by the man who is my best friend. I wish he could have talked with me about his needs and my inadequacies.

But what I feel most of all is more curtainless and exposed than ever. Only the character that Emma Thompson plays in "Love Actually" can understand what I'm going through at the moment. Ironic, again, that my "discovery" also took place during Christmas/the New Year...is there something about the silly season that makes married men turn silly too? I really can't say...ironic too that Emma Thompson's character had been married 13 years too, as have we...lucky 13, eh?

ROWS and ***Flows*** of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

Oh but now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they tell me that I've changed
Well something's lost but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From WIN and LOSE and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Su le finestre mostra a tutto il mio cuore che ai acceso

2008-12-26T13:48:00.010+01:00

For the past two weeks, I have been sitting in "my" room, "my" being a very wide term to describe this room where I sing, play the piano, write blogs, knit, make teddies, read and do a plethora of other activities in, usually on my own or sometimes with hubby in the armchair next to me, always with his laptop atop his lap, mouse in hand, without any curtains. This may seem like a strange state of affairs but the basic fact of the matter is that I'm just too plain lazy to put the curtains up. As is the custom in these here parts, I washed them just before Christmas (as I did most of the nooks and crannies in the house) but haven't had the strength to get up on a step ladder and stick approximately 50 pins through 50 holes and put them up. Now I've gotten more than used to being "curtainless".

I particularly like being "curtainless" while I'm singing. See, I have a view of the backyard and the field behind our house from the window. And although the trees are bereft of their leaves and the grass has turned a sickly yellow and the plants are languid at the moment, it nonetheless fills my heart with joy to see this view. Particularly the day before yesterday when some birds came to listen to my singing on a tree about a metre and half from the window. My first "real" audience, I thought, cool, this is nice.

My curtainless room also reminds me of my current state of mind. I too feel curtainless. Namely, because I finally sat down today and wrote that email to that radioman, the email I have been planning to write since I came back from France in September but have been too chicken to do so. But I feel the time is right, despite the fact that my stomach is in a knot and my heart feels as though it's going to jump out of my chest and I feel completely and utterly exposed - to ridicule, laughter, criticism. But I said to myself, Songbird, it's Christmas, it's a time for making wishes and for making them come true. JUST DO IT! And I did. So wish me luck. I'll definitely keep you posted on the outcome - if there is any, that is! But even if there isn't, I won't give up. I'm too Taurean to do that!

And here's the song that inspired the title of this post. Sing it almost every day. Won't make it on the CD unfortunately, doesn't fit in with the concept swimming round my head, but I love the song anyways.

God bless the child

2008-12-25T22:31:00.007+01:00

Before I write a word of my post, let me first wish you all a Happy and Holy Christmas! Hope you had a wonderful day with your loved ones.

I'm not gonna write too much today, feeling a bit tired and stressed out to be honest. It's been quite a long day for me. I don't know what the situation's in your houses, but in this house, Christmas preparations usually fall on the matriach's back, that back being mine, and it's sort of close to busting at the moment.

So to cut a long story short, the family and I were out driving to the city tonight to see the "live" nativity at the cathedral (even had a "live" baby out there in freezing cold, poor thing!). And while we were driving a song came on the radio that really captured my attention. The singer was familiar but I couldn't quite put my finger on her name until half way through the song. It was Shania Twain, someone who I am not really a big fan of. Not a fan of at all. Way too commercial for my taste. But the lyrics of this song genuinely caught me, made me sit up and take notice.

And the song seemed such an appropriate one for tonight, when I thought about the little child Jesus being born on a cold night in a stable in Bethlehem, no one wanting to make an effort and take in a husband and his very pregnant wife. Times haven't changed much when you think about it, have they? Would any of us out there, should a man and his very pregnant wife come to our door, let them in and give them shelter from the cold? I'm not really sure...hand on heart, I'm not sure that even I would, having been brought up in often cynical Australia...

And after having seen the nativity and thought about the circumstances of Jesus' birth, and the birth of many a child in the world, I thought about how lucky I am. I may whinge and whine and wish this and that, but at the end of the day, I am truly thankful to God for all he has given me and my kids. Because there's so much pain and suffering in this world when you think about it.

God bless the child who suffers, God bless us all.

Hallelujah, hallelujah,
God bless the child who suffers
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
God bless the young without mothers

This child is homeless,
That child's on crack
One plays with a gun,
while the other takes a bullet in his back

This boy's a beggar,
That girl sells her soul
They both work the same street,
The same hell hole

Hallelujah, hallelujah,
God bless the child who suffers
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Let every man help his brother

Some are born addicted
and some are just thrown away
Some have daddies who make them
Play games they don't want to play

But with hope and faith
We must understand
All God's children need is love
And us to hold their little hands

This boy is hungry,
He ain't got enought to eat
That girl's cold
And she ain't got no shoes on her feet

When a child's spirit's broken
And feels all hope is gone
God help them find
The strength to carry on

But with hope and faith
Yea, we can understand
All God's children need is love
And us to hold their little hands

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Let us all love one another
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Make all our hearts bilnd to color
Hallelujah, hallelujah
God bless the child who suffers

Today has been a special day

2008-12-17T13:37:00.004+01:00

It seems that nothing has been going right today. For the first time in my life, I overslept my alarm and my eldest son was half an hour late for school. Then I cooked some rice for lunch. First the water overboiled and went all over the stovetop. Then when I topped it up, I left it for too long and it burnt. Then I had my driving lesson - reverse parking - which was completely frustrating and a total and utter disaster. It's also been a year to the day that I had an operation on my leg.

Funny how an illness can effect you. I have to say that the operation on my leg literally turned my life around. It all started in October 2007 when I noticed that the lump that had been slowly but surely burgeoning to the size of a golf ball on my leg began to hurt. So I asked my doctor mother-in-law (after I had asked my doctor father-in-law numerous times but to deaf ears) whether she would check it out. She did and suggested I get it checked out at the hospital. So I did. First an ordinary x-ray in early November. Then another in mid November. Then an MRI in late November. Then a culture sample in early December. It was the culture sample that suggested that all might not be as well as it had seemed up to that point and it should be removed as soon as possible. Added to the fact that I may have cancer, the Christmas trip to Australia that I had been looking forward to for the past six months was put on hold for God knows how long. I was in a word, I was destroyed.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait too long for the operation, about a week and a half. It was a strange feeling being in a hospital for an "illness". I had been in a hospital for an "illness" when I was 8 and had had an epileptic attack. Other than that and giving birth to 3 children, I'd never been hospitalised. First there was the paper work which, as you may have judged from one of my previous posts on bureaucracy, I am not a great fan of. I still don't understand why that kind of stuff can't be computerised in Croatia. We're not that far behind when it comes to technology - have all the latest gadgets. But when it comes to medicine and technology, I sometimes get the feeling that we're still living in the dark ages - folders, typewriters, handwritten notes and the like are still the norm in Croatian hospitals! So I had to tell them all about my epilepsy, my three births, what my dad had died of, what my mum had suffered of, bla, bla, bla. Love it - not!

After that had passed, I had some time to myself. So what does the Knitting Songbird do when she's bored? She either knits or sings. Which is what I did. But nothing helped the time to pass faster or for me to fall asleep easier that night. After a discussion with the anaestheologist, it was decided that I would get a local anaesthetic so that everything from my spine down would be numbed but I would alive and kicking from the spine upwards. This was not a happy thought for me. Yes, it would mean that I would be able to breastfeed my little baby right after the operation no problemos. But to have to endure them slicing through me for an hour or so without being wiped out? No way. But it was for little babe's good and the babes always come first, so I conceded.

They "picked me up" from my room on the day of my operation at around 7:30 am. I was first in line which is a good thing. The surgeon's fresh, rearing and ready to go, less likely to make mistakes and all. I can tell ya, it's a strange feeling getting wheeled around on your back, looking at the ceilings rolling by and not much else. I kept thinking "If only I were looking at the sky. It wouldn't be so bad". But beggars can't be choosers so I put up with it all as best I could. Then we got to the operating room. I was lucky enough be have the procedure in the newest wing of the hospital. It looked like something out of "Grey's Anatomy" rather than "General Hospital" circa 1978 as most Croatian hospitals tend to look like. So they put me on the table. Butt naked except for my pants which is not very comforable unless it's warm and something pleasant follows. Which it wasn't and didn't. Hooked me up to the machines - blood pressure, drip, heart rate, bla, bla. Then the anaesthetic. Must have poked 5 or 6 times in my lower spine before they managed to find the proper vein, SOBs. I actually passed out in the meantime 'cause I hadn't had a bite to eat since 7 pm the previous evening. When they finally found the vein, the fun began.

Didn't feel a thing, of course. I only had the impression that my legs were like two huge zeppelins, floating over my head. A particularly bad memory about the whole disastrous event was that unfortunately, Madonna's "Erotic" was playing in the background for the whole operation. Talk about bad choice of music! The worst! But I have a very good "internal" stereo so I blocked that out with Eva Cassidy. Ah, Eva Cassidy. She always gets me through dire situations. I played "Wonderful World" time and time again in my head just so I didn't have to listen to atrocious Madonna.

The operation was over in about an hour or so. Then back to my room. Couldn't get out of my bed at all for the first two days. Now, I know this isn't very pleasant to talk about, but besides having a bed pan brought to me every hour or so, I also got my period that day. Talk about good luck! Don't know what else could have gone out of my favour...yes I do, but I won't go into that...

But a lovely experience that did happen in hospital is that someone from the "other world" came to visit me. Many of you may laugh or say that I've lost the plot but truly, a hand touched my shoulder the day after the operation as if to say "Songbird, don't worry, everything is gonna be allright". Was it my dad? My mum's friend Bill? A guardian angel? Someone else? I can't say, but I felt such peace at that moment, peace the like of I had never felt before.

And so, I stayed in hospital for five days and came home four days before Christmas. I was grateful to come home before Christmas. The doctor wanted to keep in hospital for longer but I wouldn't hear of it. Hospital holidays? No thanks. And even though I wasn't able to cook up the storm I usually cook up for Christmas and that hubby and my eldest son were in Australia (I had to force them to go because I know that our eldest son would never have gotten over the disappointment of not going) and that the house was in a mess (well, it usually is anyway, but I try to tidy it up for Christmas), it was one of the most poignant Christmases I had ever had.

I was grateful to still be among the living. I still didn't know whether the lump was benign or malignant (found that out after New Year's - it was, thank God, benign, but had it grown further and fixed itself to my muscle, might have been the other way around) but I was thankful to God that I was home and in relatively one piece.

And it was after that Christmas that I slowly, but surely, changed into the Knitting Songbird you now know. I was always a sensitive type, never violent or pushy or aggressive. Always cared about people, animals and the environment. But I cared more about stuff, was very materialistic, not very much of a "skin deep" person. My list of hobbies were shopping, shoes, scarves, handbags and fashion. Oh yes, and music and knitting. But not much else. Give me a shopping mall and I was in heaven.

Shopping malls? Actually get a bit motion sick in them. Book stores are more the norm these days. And walks around the city or parks or even the countryside when I can. Shoes? Don't remember the last time I bought a pair of those. Would rather spend my money on a trip to Austria or Italy (with the price of shoes these days, you can actually travel abroad for the price of a pair of shoes!). Scarves? All my Hermes scarves are collecting dust at the back of my wardrobe. Did take one to France with me last September. And that's it. Would rather wear one of my creations. Bags? Have a Swiss Army backpack that is my pride and joy. No Guccis or Vuittons or Chanels in sight. Fashion? Have a 2 metre pile of back issues of British Vogues that I have to give to a charity or thrift shop one of these days. They're just taking up space that could be used for my books. Fashion. I mean, what is fashion? When I think about it nowadays, I think of sweat shops, dyes polluting rivers, schizophrenic, egotistical designers who think they rule the world. Just give me a white shirt, a pair of 501s and me Converses.

In any case, the essential is invisible to the eyes. Just that not many people realise it. Until they've had an operation on their leg...

I dedicate this post to all my dear friends and family whose prayers and hopes were with me during those trying times. And to Eva, who got me through the God damn ordeal, ears intact.

The sky is riven with angels singing

2008-12-14T22:23:00.006+01:00

Well, it wasn't quite like that last Sunday when our choir had its annual performance at the opening of the International Women's Club Christmas Bazaar at the Avenue Mall shopping centre - but almost. 'Cause even though we're far from being a professional choir, we have a lot of heart and soul and that's ultimately what gives you your wings, doesn't it!

The IWC Christmas Bazaar is an annual event where members prepare goodies from their home countries, from t-shirts to food to souvenirs, and donate all proceedings to some Croatian charity or other. It's the third time that we've opened the Bazzar, each time belting out three songs that our Kappellmeister chooses (we've decided to give them a bit of a "show" next year as a lot of the people in the audience sort of waited around expecting more). This year we sang "Angelus ad virginem", a Rennaissance song, "Ding, dong, merrily on high", another Rennaissance song and "O, Pastiri", a Croatian song composed by Ivan pl. Zajc, someone more famous for his operas than Christmas carols.

Our first performance started way on back when one of the members of our choir was the then President of the IWC and asked us if we would mind singing at the Bazaar. Of course not, we shouted in one voice. And even though my stomach was in a knot and I felt on several occasions like going to the lady's and expelling my breakfast (which, I'd like to add, I ate at 5 am), I quite enjoyed the experience, as we all did. Like our Kappellmeister says, getting over stage fright simply takes practise - the more you perform in front of an audience, the less the fear factor gets. So much so, he says, that you start craving performing in front of people, sometimes to the chagrin of the audience...

Well, we're gonna get some more practise when we sing at a convalescent home next Saturday. Appropriate, since the money raised from this year's Bazaar is going to two convalescent homes in Slavonia. And I'm sure the old folks won't mind if we sing out of tune or too loud at times - from what I understand, your hearing declines with age...

Anyways, here are a few photos from this year's Bazaar:

A little (well, not so little) Dutch girl on the wrong side of Amsterdam

Was too chicken to ask him what was under his kilt...

What else would the Americans promote but - le McDo?

An obliging German in lederhosen. Great legs, eh!

The Chinese stand

The Polish stand

Some German goodies

Some Eastern goodies

PS hubby recorded the whole event but I can't find the USB jack to connect the camrecorder to my laptop so I can't show you how our choir sings for the moment. Soon, soon, I promise...

Beethoven can write music, thank God, but he can do nothing else on earth.

2008-12-14T00:14:00.005+01:00

This is something that the great Beethoven himself said. I have to say, I beg to differ.

When my son and I were in Vienna, we paid a visit to Musikhaus or Music House (if you remember, it was on our way to Musikhaus where we encountered the castrato). Musikhaus was, after Demel, definitely my son's favourite place in Vienna. It's a magical place where you can record your own CD, play bizaare electronic instruments, listen to the sound of a window being cleaned or a clock ticking or laughter, and also get to know most of the important Austrian (or quasi-Austrian) composers up close. It was here that my son and I got better acquainted with Beethoven.

Even though I studied music, unlike most, I was never a great fan of Beethoven. Was always too "heavy" for my just-out-of-adolescence ears. As such, I was never curious to find out more about the man and his music. In the years since I've completed uni, I have grown to appreciate him more and more. And even more so after our visit to Musikhaus.

I had absolutely no idea what a passionate man he was. This was a man who was wont to end a recital if the audience bothered him, had an affair with a married woman, fell in love with a 17 year old pupil, stopped at nothing to gain custody of his nephew, to the point of blackening his mother's name and demanding that the woman pay for his education once he gained custody. It was this passion that inspired him to write what the museum described as the most beautiful love letter in the German language. When I listened to it on the audio guide, I was almost drawn to tears. The letter was found in his desk upon his death and is not officially "addressed" to anyone. It is assumed that the letter was meant for his married lover but there is not enough proof to confirm this. In any case, what a letter. And what a lucky girl! What would I give for someone to address me like this...

July 6, in the morning

My angel, my all, my very self - Only a few words today and at that with pencil (with yours) - Not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon - what a useless waste of time - Why this deep sorrow when necessity speaks - can our love endure except through sacrifices, through not demanding everything from one another; can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine - Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be - Love demands everything and that very justly - thus it is to me with you, and to your with me. But you forget so easily that I must live for me and for you; if we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I...Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life - If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these. My heart is full of so many things to say to you - ah - there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all - Cheer up - remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. The gods must send us the rest, what for us must and shall be -

Your faithful LUDWIG.

I'll leave ya with a little ditty Ludwig wrote for that pupil he fell in love with...wonder what he would have said about the remix. Probably would have chucked a fit!

Fact is stranger than fiction

2008-12-09T22:20:00.011+01:00

My son and I were walking along the streets of Vienna on the Saturday evening of our visit, on our way to the Musikhaus, when suddenly, the most exquisite streams of music came from somewhere on the street ahead of us. We were in Kaertnerstrasse and my ears were in bliss from the melody gushing towards us. It was the most heavenly female voice singing Mozart's "Ave verum corpus" - one of my favourite songs - and we rushed ahead to see who it was that was singing. Imagine my astonishment when, horror of horrors, it wasn't a female singing but a bona fide male. A male singing much better than many females I've heard, waaaay better than I can or ever will be able to sing! And it was then and there that I decided - when I grow up, I wanna sing like this castrato:

I have always been fascinated by castrato singers - even read a couple of novels with castrato singers in them, both set in Venice. But honestly, how many men would be willing to sacrifice their manhood for their art? Nowadays, probably none, although this was not always the case, albeit the young male had little or no say in the matter. But look at what wiki says about the effects of castration and decide for yourselves whether the advantages outweigh the disadvantages:

Castration before puberty (or in its early stages) prevents a boy's larynx from being transformed by the normal physiological events of puberty. As a result, the vocal range of prepubescence (shared by both sexes) is largely retained, and the voice develops into adulthood in a unique way. As the castrato's body grew, his lack of testosterone meant that his epiphyses (bone-joints) did not harden in the normal manner. Thus the limbs of the castrati often grew unusually long, as did the bones of their ribs. This, combined with intensive training, gave them unrivalled lung-power and breath capacity. Operating through small, child-sized vocal cords, their were also extraordinarily flexible, and quite different from the equivalent adult female voice, as well as higher vocal ranges of the uncastrated adult male. Listening to the only surviving recordings of a castrato, one can hear that the lower part of the voice sounds like a "super-high" tenor, with a more falsetto-like upper register above that.

I I were a guy, I'm not sure if I would be willing to give up my sexual identity for my art. But upon reading the wiki article - the vocal range of prepubescence is largely retained, unrivalled lung-power and breath capacity, voices that were extraordinarily flexible - I would consider for just a millisecond of a millisecond of going under the knife. Of course, I would never do it, but imagine the possibilities that would lie ahead? If nothing else, I would make quite a killing busking the streets of Vienna, 'cause I can tell ya, the Viennese castrato had quite a booty in that little hat of his...nonetheless, at the end of the day, I would prefer that my booty remain intact between my legs instead of having it lying on a street somewhere...

"I'd like to write a quartet one day. But it will be something simple, like Mozart"

2008-12-03T22:10:00.022+01:00

I finished reading my book about Gershwin on the way to Vienna I'm sad to say. Sad because that's how I always feel when I've finished reading a really good book. That's how I felt when I finished "Love in the time of cholera" or "The Lord of the Rings" or Frida Kahlo's biography or all the other wonderful books I've read so far - you just don't want the book to end, you want it to go on and on and on...

Despite the fact that I already knew a bit about George before I started reading the book, I have to say that it was quite an eye-opener. He was quite a dichotonous fellow, our George was. I guess we all are when you think about it. On the one hand, he was full of confidence, flashy, over the top and yet, he was never able to find his niche in the flashiest of towns, Hollywood. A complete and utter workaholic, able to write the "Rhapsody in Blue" in a mere five weeks and yet addicted to partying night after night with the glitteratti. A man of the world and yet, naive enough to be able to say the words of the title of this post to Arthur Schoenberg while playing a game of tennis. I think Arthur almost gagged.

Interestingly enough, even though they are at two opposite poles when it comes to music and composing, there are a number of similarities between Gershwin and Mozart. First of all, they both began to show an interest in music because of an older sibling - Mozart at the age of three when he attended sister Anna Maria's or Nannerl's piano lessons which her father gave her when she was seven, while George was fascinated by his brother's piano playing when he was ten. Both, of course, surpassed their siblings enormously.

Another similarity is that both George and Mozart were "song pluggers" well before their compositional talents were recognised. Mozart was, as we all know, a child prodigy and toured around Europe with Nannerl and dad demonstrating their many musical talents. And of course, while on tour was influenced by the greatest composers of the time. Gershwin, even though not officially a child prodigy, was from age 15 a song plugger at Remick's, one of Tin Pan Alley's foremost publishers of popular music. It was here that Gershwin, during the almost three years he worked there doing a minimum of 10 hour a day shifts, learnt to transpose music in all 12 keys at the drop of a hat, as well as playing, and listening to, all the leading Tin Pan Alley compositions of the time.

And of course, both left this world much, much too early, just like many other great composers such as Schubert, Chopin, Scriabin, Pergolesi - Mozart at the age of 35, Gerswhin at 37. Gershwin never did get around to composing the "simple" Mozart string quartet he talked to Schoenberg about so we'll never know how he would have interpreted Mozart's "simplicity".

But isn't it funny how Mozart's compositions are seemingly "simple" to the ear? And yet, at closer hearing or when you take a sheet of his music, you see that it is very, very far from simple - in fact, there's very little that's simple about his intricate harmonies and melodies.

I have to admit that I hadn't been to a concert in ages and wanted to have a closer "hearing" of Mozart while I was in Vienna. So I treated my son and I to one while in Vienna as a birthday gift to him 'cause he's an absolute nut about Mozart - to the point that my friend Irina and I had to make him a Mozart costume for Carnevale two years ago! We did such a good job that he even won first prize at school for it!

Now, I wasn't expecting much of the concert, something more touristy than high art to be honest. I searched the internet to see what was available and came across a concert taking place on the Friday while we were there in one of the thirteen houses that Mozart lived in while in Vienna. The place is called, surprise surprise, Mozarthaus and is located just off Vienna's main square. And even less than the concert itself, I wasn't expecting much of the location.

Well, what a surprise my son and I were in for. Because I honestly could not have pictured a more beautiful setting for listening to Mozart, Haydn and Bach (I thought there'd be Schubert as well, the only disappointment I suffered that evening). I had pictured a large hall or auditorium with umpteen seats but was pleasantly surprised to walk into a smallish room - it could not have measured more than 40 square metres - with 10 times 5 rows of seats. And when we walked into the room, both our jaws simultaneously dropped to the floor and we uttered a loud "Ah!". I later saw that everyone did this upon walking in. This is how the programme describes it:

The "Concerts in the Mozart house" take place in the oldest concert hall in Vienna where Mozart used to work and play for Bishop Colloredo in 1781. Mozart lived in this house in the year 1781 from 16th March to 2nd May.

The Sala Terrena with its beautiful vault is situated on the ground floor next to the church and the sacristy. It was designed and painted in the second half of the 18th century in late Renaissance Venetian style...The grotesque scenes, the scenes of baroque sensuality, the floral paintings and the animal scenes give evidence of the purpose of this hall, as a place of pleasure for body and soul. The famous Viennese popular figure "der liebe Augustin" is also depicted here.

In the course of the renovation of this hall, it became evident that this is the oldest part of the building. Fragments of gothic frescos were found and this seems to confirm the tradition that even before the Holy Cross had existed there.

Now, the film that I took of the room isn't that great - the resolution is quite terrible - but I think it'll give you a general idea of it:

As I said, I didn't expect much of the music. But just like the setting, I was pleasantly surprised. Now don't get me wrong - they weren't the Juilliard Quartet, far from it. But it was so lovely listening to the wonderful music coming from those strings, vibrating throughout the room, how the instruments interacted, these inanimate objects coming to life and conversing with one another, and watching how the players communicated with eachother through the raising of an eyebrow or the nod of the head or a smile. Not one CD or YouTube video can capture magic like that.

And see, no matter how good or bad a live performance is, the beauty of it is that it will always capture a time, an emotion and encapsulate it in that moment. And even though the moment comes and goes, sometimes too quickly, it stays with us for a long time to come. Just like Gershwin. Just like Mozart.

Let them eat cake

2008-12-02T22:02:00.016+01:00

It's strange how cities or countries can rever some of their fellow citizens and yet revolt against others. On every street, on every street corner, in every store you'll find something or other with Sissi's likeness on it. From chocolates to mugs to plates to china dolls, there's some item or other with her face or figure printed on it. And yet, you can't find a thing with her fellow country woman, Marie Antoinette on it, despite the fact that, funnily enough, she was more "Austrian" than Sissi. In fact, Sissi was not Austrian at all, except by marriage. Rather, she was a German Bavarian. And yet, no female figure is more prominent in the Austrian capital than Sissi.

Funny thing history, isn't it? As George Santayan said "History is always written wrong, and so always needs to be rewritten." It now seems that MA wasn't as bad or silly a woman as many historians have made her out to be. For example, the phrase that she apparently coined "let them eat cake" was in fact meant to be benevolent - she just perhaps didn't put it quite the way she should have. The site www.phrases.org.uk says the following:

The original French is 'Qu'ils mangent de la brioche'. It has been suggested that the speaker's intention wasn't as cynical as is generally supposed. French law required bakers to sell loaves at fixed prices and fancy loaves had to be sold at the same price as basic breads. This was aimed at preventing bakers from selling just the more profitable expensive products. The let them eat brioche (a form of cake made of flour, butter and eggs) would have been a sensible suggestion in the face of a flour shortage as it would have allowed the poor to eat what would otherwise have been unaffordable. It's rather a mouthful, so to speak, but if the phrase had been reported as 'let them buy cake at the same price as bread' we might now think better of the French nobility.

Now wouldn't it be nice if "cake" was cheaper than bread nowadays? I wouldn't have spent a small fortune in Demel were that the case. Mind you, a small fortune that I was and am happy to have parted with. As the author of the book "Kaffeehaus", Rick Rodgers, says "to pastry lovers, it is impossible to visit Vienna without a pilgrimage to Demel, the doyenne of Vienna's Kaffeehauser." And being a pastry lover (well, more cake than pastry. Not too fond of puff or filo pastry unless I make it myself. A totally different taste experience), I have to agree.

Founded in 1786 by Ludwig Dehne, it is a Viennese landmark situated just across the road from the entrance to the Hofburg. This wasn't always the case. It was first located on Michaelerplatz, about 50 metres away. When Dehne died, his widow moved just down the road and made sure that the kaffeehaus became the "Imperial Sugar Bakery", or Hofsuckerbakerei (try saying that after a couple of beers!) which is logical seeing its location. But my favourite Demel story is that for a time, the renowned baker Franz Sacher worked there. When he moved on, the recipe for his world famous cake stayed behind. And it took more than 100 years for the courts to settle who was the owner of the brand "The Original Sacher Torte". Unfortunately, it was not Demel but Hotel Sacher.

But who cares? A name is just a name. It's what's on the inside that counts, isn't it, you know, l'essentiel and all? I'm lucky enough to have a son who enjoys eating as much as I do. So while while we were in Vienna, we made daily pilgrammages to Demel. Even though my favourite cake is bischottentorte (I think that's how you write it...), I promised myself to try a different cake every day. So on the first day, I HAD to have a slice of bischottentorte, the next I had russichepunschtorte (almost the same as the bischottentorte to be honest...and just as difficult to write...) and on the last some himbeertorte. And every single morsel of every single cake was absolutely divine and worth every Euro cent.

And that's the thing - even though high quality does have a price, it's a price that I'm willing to pay. I like the French philosophy - have a little bit of something good than a lot of something bad. Even though the kaffeehaus "Aida" is a bit cheaper, I'd rather just one slice of Demel than a whole Aida cake.

I do go on, don't I? Well, enough from me, let the pictures do the talking:

The store sign. You can see the entrance to the Hofburg in the background

The display window adjacent to the kitchen.

The Demel store. Or heaven on earth.

This photo, as you can see, is a bit shaky. Guess I was too excited at the prospect of digging into my bischottentorte...

"Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels...these are a few of my favourite things"

Wouldn't mind a few of these pressies under my Christmas tree...

You could hear a pin drop in the kitchen...look at that concentration...

Details from the display window.

Farewell Demel, hope to see you again soon!

Wien, Wien nur du Allein

2008-11-27T22:12:00.006+01:00

Well, not quite. But nonetheless, tomorrow I'm off to the city of apple strudel, wiener schnitzel, the waltz and Sissi (my daughter's favourite Viennese idol).

Now, Vienna isn't my absolute favourite city in the world but it is definitely on my Top 10 list of favourite cities. And even though it is a bit "northern" for my taste (I prefer the sultry Mediterranean countries like France, Italy and Spain when it comes to holidaying), it does have a certain charm that lures me to go back time and time again. Sauntering around the countless parks, gardens and palaces, feasting on a piece of cake or two and coffee at Demel or Sacher daintily served on a silver tray with a white lace napkin and a glass of water on the side, going to see the latest exhibition (and Vienna certainly does have the finest exhibitions in close proximity to Zagreb. I'm gonna see Van Gogh tomorrow), gazing wide-eyed at all the magnificent Art Nouveau buildings (my favourite period of art). I can certainly see why the city inspired such geniuses as Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Strauss and Beethoven among others.

Better go now, have to get some zzz's 'cause it's a 5 o'clock wake up call tomorrow morning. I'll leave you with my favourite "Viennese" song. I know it's corny, I know it's old-fashioned, I know it's soppily romantic but I just love it. Sort of like Vienna really. And a lot like me too, come to think of it.

So bis bald Wien or see you soon Vienna. And hear from you soon my dearest readers. Promise to post lots of pics upon my return!

"The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.” (Dr. Seuss)

2008-11-23T22:17:00.015+01:00

I'm not sure about you, but I remember quite vividly the books I read as a very young child. I remember reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Cat in the Hat, Where the Wild Things are, The Very Hungry Caterpillar and all the rest of the books I borrowed from my school library from the age of 5. We had to read a book a week and having a very austere kindergarten teacher (such is my luck in life that I didn't get the other one who looked a lot like Patsy Biscoe and played the guitar!), we did what we were told.

I remember borrowing these books from our library (wasn't much of a library really. Just an average sized room with lots of books on shelves) and poring over the pages, trying my hardest not to make a mark or a dog ear, as though they were sacred. And they were to me. I quite simply adored them.

And when I think about it, of all the things that I have learned in this life, reading would have to be almost on top of my list, second only to singing (even though I know I'll never really learn how to sing). How wonderful it is to be able to pick up a book, read it from cover to cover and learn something new. About our world, about other worlds, about ourselves. How liberating to be able to escape from the mundane everyday and travel around our globe or go to places that no longer or never existed and absorb ourselves in them. Almost nothing on earth can compare to it.

So I thought I'd tell you a bit about a few of my and my children's favourite authors (there are many more but I think I'd bore you too much if I included more than these!), authors who opened up a whole new world for me as a child. And my children's favourite authors because I now read to them the exact same authors I read as a child. These are writers who know how to convey knowledge and intellect in the most charming and amusing ways. So much so that children don't even realise they're actually learning something during the process of reading.

I haven't put these authors in any particular order of preference as each of them is wonderful in their own unique and individual way.

Beatrix Potter

Beatrix Potter was a woman who, just like Jane Austen and many female authors before and after her, overcame all social obstacles to become a great writer and illustrator. Born into a privileged household, she grew up not being allowed to soil her petticoat and pinafore nor being permitted to develop herself intellectually. Alas for her mother, and most especially the maid, her thirst for knowledge and love of nature were far too strong and she just had to get out of the house and get herself soiled on one her many trips to the Scottish countryside. It was here and in the Lake District that her affection for nature grew from strength to strength.

And that affection is more than evident in her books. Even though there are a couple that take place indoors, by and large, Peter Rabbit, his cousin Benjamin Bunny, Mrs. Tiggy Winkle, Squirrel Nutkin, Jemima Puddleduck, Tom Kitten and all the rest of her marvellous animals have their adventures out of doors. And besides her magnificent watercolours of the animals and the landscape (many with her estate, Hill Top Farm, in the background. A lively place it was it seems because although she had no children she more than made up for them in having a large menagerie of animals), each tale has a hidden moral for children in it. And as the animals usually get up to some sort of mischief or other, more often than not, the message in each tale is TRY TO STAY OUT OF MISCHIEF! Which to a mother of two very boisterous boys is reason enough to read Ms. Potter time and time again to them. Just not sure whether the message gets through sometimes!

However, another more endearing message is that, although the animals do get into scrapes and mischief, they always manage to somehow get out of them intact. They are "children" after all. So even though I may raise my voice when the kids come home muddy or get a bit too rowdy for my comfort or steal apples from the neighbour's garden, at the end of the day, I do realise that they are just children and sometimes, a kid's gotta do what a kid's gotta do.

Eric Carle

“With many of my books I attempt to bridge the gap between the home and school. To me home represents, or should represent, warmth, security, toys, holding hands, being held. School is a strange and new place for a child. Will it be a happy place? There are new people, a teacher, classmates—will they be friendly?

I believe the passage from home to school is the second biggest trauma of childhood; the first is, of course, being born. Indeed, in both cases we leave a place of warmth and protection for one that is unknown. The unknown often brings fear with it. In my books I try to counteract this fear, to replace it with a positive message. I believe that children are naturally creative and eager to learn. I want to show them that learning is really both fascinating and fun.”

This quote from Eric Carle could have been spoken by any one of the three authors mentioned in this post. And that, to me, is the common thread that binds them together: they are positive, want to teach children something, but in a fascinating and fun way. And when it comes to learning, no one can beat Eric Carle. Want your child to learn the days of the week? There's "The Very Hungry Caterpillar". The seasons? There's "The Very Tiny Seed". Or how to tell the time? There's "The Bad-Tempered Ladybird".

Eric Carle was another author who had a passion for nature and always sought it for inspiration for his books - from the caterpillar who becomes a butterfly to the tiny seed floating on the wind to become a gigantic flower. Funnily enough, he began his career in an industry that was as far from nature as you could get - in advertising. Thankfully, the author Bill Martin jnr. saw an illustration he had done of a lobster for an advertisement and asked him to illustrate his upcoming children's book, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what can you see?". The rest, as they say, is history.

Besides his use of animals and nature to teach the child a certain subject matter, the illustrations themselves make the child want to turn the pages of his books time and time again. And believe me, I can vouch for that! All our Eric Carle books are falling apart after having been read over and over again for the past 10 or so years. Wiki says "Eric Carle’s art is distinctive and instantly recognizable. His art work is created in collage technique, using hand-painted papers, which he cuts and layers to form bright and colorful images." Here are some lovely pics from his books:

Theodor Seuss Geisel aka Theo LeSieg aka Dr. Seuss

Louis Armstrong once said "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing". Well, Dr. Seuss is one man who sure had that swing. All his children's books bar two are written in boppy rhythmic rhyme. We know them all by heart after having read them hundreds of times. To get a feel for him, just sing these lines to the "ABC song":

Big A, little a,
what begins with A?
Aunt Annie's alligator
A, A, A

or

Big N, little n,
what begins with those?
Nine new neckties
And a nightshirt and a nose

or our favourite

Big Z, little z,
what begins with z?
I do, I'm a zizzer zazzer zuzz
As you can plainly see

But I love the story of how his perennial favourite, "The Cat in the Hat", began its life:

An important development occurred that influenced much of Geisel's later work. In May 1954, Life magazine published a report on illiteracy among school children, which concluded that children were not learning to read because their books were boring. Accordingly, Geisel's publisher made up a list of 348 words he felt were important and asked Geisel to cut the list to 250 words and write a book using only those words. Nine months later, Geisel, using 236 of the words given to him, completed The Cat in the Hat. This book was a tour de force—it retained the drawing style, verse rhythms, and all the imaginative power of Geisel's earlier works, but because of its simplified vocabulary could be read by beginning readers.

And that's the thing - although he may not always have a moral at the end of the story, it's fun to have fun reading Dr. Seuss with imaginative characters like That Sam I Am or The Cat in the Hat or The Wump of Gump or The Grinch, you just have to know how.

But I have to say that my absolute favourite book of his is "The Lorax". There is no children's book that I have read so far that can bring environmental issues closer to children than this. I'm not sure if you know the story but it is basically about a boy who is told the story of how a creature called "The Onceler" damaged the environment by making "thneeds" ("because a thneed is a thing that everyone needs") and in the process chopped all the "truffula trees" and spilt "gluppity glupp and gloopity gloop" into the rivers. There's no bloody David Attenborough documentary that can bring the issue home to a kid like Dr. Seuss.

I'll leave you (as almost always!) with a song. It's from the film "Ms. Potter" about who else but - Beatrix Potter! And let's not forget what Saint Exupery said: "All grown-ups were once children — although few of them remember it."

'S Wonderful!

2008-11-20T22:12:00.005+01:00

I was naughty yet again yesterday and popped into my fave bookstore in Zagreb, Algoritam. Needless to say, I picked up yet another book. It's about a certain gent that I have quite a penchant for. I've been eying the book for weeks, even read a whole chapter at the bookstore at one stage, and decided, oh, what the hell, surely 80 kn/10EUR/20AUD isn't going to put that big a dent in the budget, is it? So, as always, I gave into temptation and got it.

My penchant for this gent started way on back in 1986 when I saw a film about him and one his compositions stunned me like a deer is stunned in front of a car's headlights. It was one of those archetypical musical moments for me. Like the first time I heard Chopin's "Bacarolle in F sharp major" (which, by the way, I would like played when they put this "shell" of mine on the pyre) or Mozart's "Jupiter symphony" or Shubert's "Winterreisse" or my first Billy Holiday cassette or my first Eva Cassidy CD. I can recall those moments as clearly as though they had happened yesterday. Could tell you exactly where and when I first listened to them. But way on back in 1986, a certain composition from a certain movie called "Rhapsody in Blue" composed by a certain George Gershwin completely took my breath away. And I have been utterly hooked since then.

I've tried on many occasions to pin down what it is precisely that lures me time and time again to George. Is it the mesmerising harmonies? The fascinating rhythms? The poignant blue notes? The Schubertesque changes from major to minor and back again? The sometimes humourous, sometimes provocative but always moving lyrics by big bro Ira? I can't say. It's most probably a bit of all of the above. Whatever it is, my love (for George) is here to stay (by the way, "Love is here to stay" was the opening song at hubby's and my wedding). So much so that this totally ludicrous idea has been spinning round my head of late. If I ever do get around to recording the God damn CD I plan to eventually record, why not do a hommage to good ol' George? I know most of his songs by heart. My soul is in them. I'd certainly have to rehearse them long and hard with a good pianist but just in knowing the lyrics and the melodies and having my heart in them, I feel that more than half the work is done. So if that wishing star hears my secret desire and makes it come true, here's a list of songs I would do. They're not in any particular order, just off the top of my head:

Love is here to stay (of course!)
'S Wonderful
He loves and she loves
Not for me
Embraceable you
Someone to watch over me
How long has this been going on?
The man I love
They can't take that away from me

Now, I know that unfortunately for me and for anyone who may hear the CD, I ain't gonna be no Ella Fitzgerald or Michael Feinstein (who, to me, is THE ultimate Gershwin performer, both as a pianist and singer), but as Eva would say, I can only be me. And that's ok. Who knows? Maybe there's a market out there for woman with Julie Andrews-esque voices!

I'll leave ya now with one of the loveliest and most stunning women ever, both within and without, singing one of my fave Gershwin songs. By the way, I have to find out how many verses of this song Ira wrote 'cause I've heard at least four different versions...well, here's yet another one, enjoy!

One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating

2008-11-18T22:02:00.006+01:00

That's something the great Luciano Pavarotti said...

I have to say, I may have bored some of my readers of late, but not like I'm gonna bore you today because yet again, I'm gonna do a post about one of my favourite topics (and obviously Luciano's!), a topic that comes just after music and nature for me. That is, food.

I mean, I can't help it. I just love to eat. I know that if Moliere were around, he would be laughing his head off saying "That Knitting Songbird is a prime example of what I've been talking about all this time, she is definitely someone who doesn't eat to live rather lives to eat." I can't say that that's entirely true. But almost. I guess I'd have to put it down to the fact that I'm a Taurean. We just love our food! Here's an abstract of what I found on the net regarding us bulls:

Although their physical appearance may belie it (what are they trying to say - we're ugly???), they have a strong aesthetic taste, enjoying art, for which they may have a talent, beauty (recoiling from anything sordid or ugly) and music. They may have a strong, sometimes unconventional, religious faith. Allied to their taste for all things beautiful is a love for the good things of life pleasure, comfort, luxury and good food and wine and they may have to resist the temptation to over indulgence, leading to drunkenness, gross sensuality, and covetousness.

True, true, very true, just not quite certain about the drunkenness part. Although I do like a nice (small!) glass of French, Italian, Spanish, Australian or Croatian wine once in a while, I've been completely and utterly "off my face", as we Aussies like to put it, only twice in my life and vowed the second time never to do it again. I'm proud to say that I've kept that pledge for the past 3 years (not including Paris with Davor - but that was being tipsy after having had only two glasses of champagne, for God's sake! I don't think that counts as being drunk!). But not giving into the temptation of just one more piece of Valrhona's finest, well, that is simply too much for me. Or one more sliver of gorgonzola dolce. Or just a soupcon of creme brulee. No, for me, life is too short to withstand the pain of not giving into those temptations. I have to say that I've been relatively lucky thus far but have to keep an eye on the size of my portions as the derriere has started to look somewhat rotund of late.

I do go on...but like I said, that's me and food. But I have to share a recipe with you that I found on the net the other day by none other than Jamie Oliver, the only other person besides my dear friend Irina to have made me really think about what I put on my plate. I love him to bits because the man really does make an effort to get people out of the take away shop and into the kitchen more often. So kudos to him.

I just made this recipe today and have made been making countless trips up the stairs to my kitchen to take just one more little handful to keep me going for the next hour or so. It's Jamie's granola and it's just delish. And like most of Jamie's recipes, a cinch to make. And honestly, it'll knock your socks off and make you never want to buy that cheap (or expensive!) shop bought granola again. Another of the beauties of it is is that you can add as much or as little honey/maple syrup as you like, making it suitable for all diets including macrobiotics (have to ask Irina just to make sure) or sufferers of diabetes (you'll have to get back to me on that one Ross!). By the way, I didn't add cinnamon, don't like the taste of it too much, but you're more than welcome to add some if you like! Now that I come to think of it, could've added a handful of Valrhona chocolate chips...maybe next time...

Jamie's granola

200g rolled oats
150G mixed nuts
50g mixed seeds
50g desiccated coconut
1 tsp ground cinnamon
150g dried fruit
5 tbls honey or maple syrup
5 tbls olive oil

Preheat oven to 180c/350f/gas 4. Put your dry ingredients, including coconut and cinnamon but not the dried fruit, on a baking tray. Stir well and smooth down with a wooden spoon. Drizzle with the syrup or honey and oil. Place the tray in the oven for 25 to 30 mins. Every 5 mins or so, take the granola out and stir it, smoothing down before putting it back in the oven. When it is nice and golden, remove it from the oven,mix in the dried fruit and let it cool down.

Serve with milk or yogurt.

On the forgotten sense of listening

2008-11-16T22:22:00.004+01:00

After purging myself of all my rage the other day, I sought solace in one of my favourite books, namely, "Uncovering the voice". I've rewritten my favourite chapter for you, "On the forgotten sense of listening". I cried me a river when I first read it - mind you, it was when I had just given birth to my little 18 month old babe, so it might have been the hormones! - and it touches my soul every time I re-read it. There's a lot to learn from this chapter, and not just about singing. I hope you enjoy it.

In the early May morning twilight, we stepped slowly down towards the valley through the glistening green. The last veils of mist passed gently and silvery, before us, bestowing the numberless beds on each leaf, each blade of grass. The blossom stars greeted us tenderly with their colours woven of light: a magic hush spread round us. Our breath scarcely flowed; and our heart was aware. We were entering a realm hitherto shrouded from us, where nature's deep mysteries are at work.

And as we stood there, still, sunken in ourselves, a gentle sorrow took us, as it takes the traveller who is allowed to witness a solemn ritual but can know nothing of its deepest sense.

There above us in the flowering tree, a small singer pipes up rejoicing. Out of the enchanted stillness, we were startled so suddenly that we could feel the beating of our hearts. Like morning bells, flight of soul, deepest devotion, it poured from the tiny throat. What solemn beauty in this deed! Oh, if but we human beings could be so wholly true and devoted!

The ache it grew and grew in our soul: the human being envied the creature.

But in the midst of the streaming floods of song, the little bird abruptly ceased. What had happened? Did it fly away? Did we frighten it?

No, it still sat on the flowering branch - but motionless, rigid and silent. In the little creature's posture, such overwhelming tension was expressed that it seemed to penetrate into our own limbs - we stood as though spellbound.

Is it waiting? Does it see something invisible to our gaze? Intuitively we know the truth: it is listening, depply listening to the re-sounding of its own rivers of song as they swing ever higher into the blue morning-ether. And the same holy stillness spread irresistibly over valley and hill: breathless listening, the sacrifice which nature offers to its creator. 'And man? What sacrifice does creation's highest being offer?'

The question is born in the anxious silence of our soul. 'Sacrifice? He? - Does he then know of his own true origin? Does he yet know the way to his father's house? Does he not stand exiled like a pariah, gaping and foreign, while all about him sacred revelation unfolds? To whom, then, should he bring offering, to whom?' - Instead of an answer, our soul brought forth only yawning emptiness. And only one of those questions is yet touched, other urge forward: "Stood I, man, always so abandoned? Was never my being bound up with yours, never intimate? But how then can pain and longing be born in me at the sight of your deed of sacrifice? - Have I drunk so deeply from the cup of forgetfulness? - Surely once I was a member of the circle of creation, surely once I swayed as a brother in the round-dance of all being?'

Then, in the deepest shaft of memory an intimation awakens, and suddenly forms itself into certainty: 'On the earthly pilgrimage you have forgotten the true origin of your being. In times now long forgotten, you also knew the bliss of sacrifice, but forgetting spread out its dark wings and covered it. - So you forgot sacrifice, you forgot listening: the dust of untruth settled upon your singing, robbed it of its cleansing power and riveted it fast to your body's heaviness.' Not so the creature. In its tiniest stirring of a muscle, there is listening. 'Will this offering of gratitude rise to the bright portal? Was the power of giving pure and holy? Or does the weight of earth lie too heavy on the sing-beats of the tones? O messenger of God, may one created by you bring his reverent offering?'

Anxious expectation in the creature. Enchanted, deeply hushed in listening, nature also asks. Expectation extends through space, becomes a being in itself, penetrating creatively inot the soul of the two human listeners. The bond breaks! Unsealed, our eye gropes, our ear reaches out, the breath makes ready for a spring: 'Behold, there it comes, it comes towards us from on high!' Golden fleece yet untouched by earthly sun-rays. Out of regions which have no need of the day's star, blessing floods down mildly to earth. Heaven's gates stand opened wide! On radiant wings, beings most exalted in myriads bear blessing-power down, and their flight becomes harmonious accords! The greeting of the cosmos comes tenderly down to the little singer, lovingly dissolving his rigidity: "Yes, your offering is heard, your listening accepted, accepted is the listening of all your brothers - take in return the gift of blessing, blessing for the earthly ground that must bear all creatures!'

But then, with primordial solemnity, almost punishing the hearing ear, there intone the words: 'Sighing under the weight of man's debt, whose darkening power was felt into the very cosmos, the earth itself once waited transfixed with pain, turning heavenwards in breathless listening: the Sun King descended to the earth-world below, o fathomless mystery! To the earth's suppressed and doleful toning HE gave new sound, and ordered it again into the ringing of the spheres. Let the earth and all creatures praise their creator with their song, with their toning, evermore - and holy is their deed. Yet their listening forms itself into a vessel; and this they hold up to the divine worlds, to receive the stream of mercy from above.

'Human being, were you not also given a voice, one whose beauty is incomparably more sublime than all the wonders you can hear on earth? Will the thought not dawn on you, that blessings of thousandfold grace wait for you, when you will find the strength to purify your earthbound voice that thought its sacred song of supplication it can reach into the spirit-realm? The will to sacrifice will point the way for it. But first, with courage seek to form the chalice, precious and pure, seek to learn hearkening, innermost listening. Hearkening's holy cup, hold it up to the starry worlds - wait in trust, until a blessing shower may fill it.' The earnest words die away. The forces of earthly heaviness engage once more in their accustomed spheres of power. Heaven's portal of grace is closed.

Awakening as out of a deep dream, our senses returned; we looked upon one another, shyly - shaken to the very bottom of our soul. Involuntarily our eye sought longingly the first ray of morning sun.

New dignity gave power to our hearts, the stream flowed through our limbs, and slowly we began to step, turning in deep silnece towards our earthly dwelling place.

Happiness is a warm gun

2008-11-12T23:53:00.009+01:00

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm a pacifist, truly I am. Don't go for violence, brutality and all the rest of it. Prefer making love to war. Prefer compromise to conflict. But that doesn't mean that there aren't issues that get my blood boiling. Lying is one of them, as I perpetually remind my kids when they wanna pass one off on me. Doesn't work, can smell a lie a mile off. Another is injustice. That's been one of my gripes since Shane Lodge pushed me off my chair, called me a spastic and the teacher calmly commented how I had brought it all upon myself.

But nothing, nothing can get my goad going more than bureaucracy. Red tape, officialdom, administration, bureaucracy. Call it what you will, I sometimes feel like getting a warm gun (the literal kind, not John Lennon's kind) and blowing all the bureaucrats of this world to kingdom come. It's one of the few reasons that I occasionally consider moving back to Australia - that, and of course, my mum and friends. The bureaucracy in these here parts is just a killer.

I remember when I first moved here, people often asked me whether Croatia was a cultural shock for me. The fact that there was no decent chocolate or cheese meant nothing to me. The fact that I had to wait an hour at the bank to pick up my pay did. As well as the fact that I had to stand in line at the post office for half an hour just to send a God damn postcard to Australia. Or that you had to spend a whole day at the doctor's just to get a check up. But the absolute worst form of bureaucracy that I have come across since I moved here occured last week. Now, you know me, I'm not very adept at cutting a long story short but I'll try to keep this one as concise as I possibly can...

My eldest son has ADHD, an abbreviation of attention deficit hyperactive disorder. It basically means that he has a bit more energy and aggression than your average kid. When he was at preschool, we somehow managed to "control" his ADHD. School was another story. A nightmare to put it bluntly. Unlike his preschool teacher, his school teacher couldn't control his bouts of aggression, his inability to concentrate on his schoolwork, his need to be in momentum perpetuum. There are 30 kids in the class, she couldn't focus her energy and attention on one kid even she wanted to. The situation slowly spiralled out of control to the point that at the end of the last academic year, the school and certain parents threatened to chuck him out if his behaviour didn't improve. Hubby and I have always done our absolute best to improve his behaviour - from psychotherapy to art therapy to organic food. Unfortunately, nothing "alternative" has really worked thus far.

So we had to take the drastic step of putting him on medication. Some may say that this was the easy way out. Let me tell you, it wasn't. Cried me a river that first day I gave him medication and have had anxiety attacks every day since. And I feel like the crappiest parent on the face of the earth for having to do it. But despite all this, the changes have been nothing short of remarkable. Where he used to go to makeup classes because he couldn't finish his schoolwork on time, he now goes to math classes for gifted pupils. Where he used to scale ladders, run circles around the yard and climb trees, he now does phys ed in a calm, "civilised" manner. Where he could barely read a page of his books, he is now in the midst of reading Harry Potter.

To further improve matters, he received an assistant teacher, so that whenever, despite the meds, he couldn't control his behaviour she somehow brought him back from the brink. When he starts cutting his books to shreds (as he was prone to do), she encourages him to do something else. When he starts getting up from his seat to go for a walk around the class (as he was also prone to do), she encourages him to sit down. However, last week, some lass with an IQ of 25 from the finance department of the school found a way to bungle up paying the young lady for services rendered and as such, she quit. Thankfully, Ivan called her and the school up and somehow convinced all parties concerned that it was in their best interst that she stay. But had he not done this, my son, because of a stupid bureaucratic bungle, would almost be back where he had started from. Best of all, no one besides he and I would give a shit. They'd sign his papers to put him in the funny farm with not an ounce of remorse.

Sad to say, it's not the only bureaucratic screw up that I've heard about in recent times. There's my old boss who divorced her husband for beating her to a pulp and whose court case saw the light of day nine years after it was filed. There are the murderers and rapists who get off scot free because someone in the justice department botched up. There are the mobsters who go on a shooting spree while the police and all the rest of the bureaucrats turn a blind eye. And my favourite bureaucratic bungle is good ol' George jnr. who became president of the US of A 'cause someone in the tally room made the biggest miscalculation, knowingly or unknowingly, of all time.

Yeah, bureaucrats. Now, where's that warm gun I was talking about...?

You may say that I'm a dreamer

2008-11-07T23:11:00.011+01:00

I was singing the kiddies to sleep tonight, like I do most nights. And yeah, I sang the same old, same old Eva Cassidy, who else? But she's the only one who's always been able to put them to sleep. And George - Gerswhin, that is. I'm surprised that they haven't started complaining as yet and suggest I change my repetoire...

I sang "Who knows where the time goes?" (like always. It's a song I have a strong vision of myself singing on a stage someday. Don't ask me why...), then "I can only be me". Then, quite spontaneously, I started singing her version of Lennon's "Imagine". Hadn't sung it in a while and I thought, man, I have to sing this song to the kiddies more often, have to get it embedded in their little angelic heads. 'Cause it's just the kind of message that I want to teach them, for them to remember and to live by.

I didn't sing it often as a kid. Guess the nuns weren't too keen on us questioning the existence of heaven and hell. But I'll never forget that at one school assembly we all sang "Give Peace a Chance". Now, don't ask me why we sang it 'cause I haven't the faintest, can't recall any conflicts during the mid-80's besides the Reagan/Gaddafi standoff. But I have to say that I still remember the words (we all got a photocopy of the lyrics), and the whole school standing out there in the Aussie sunshine, singing in one voice:

Two, one two three four
Ev'rybody's talking about
Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism, Ragism, Tagism
This-ism, that-ism, is-m, is-m, is-m.

All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

C'mon
Ev'rybody's talking about Ministers,
Sinisters, Banisters and canisters
Bishops and Fishops and Rabbis and Pop eyes,
And bye bye, bye byes.

All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

Let me tell you now
Ev'rybody's talking about
Revolution, evolution, masturbation,
flagellation, regulation, integrations,
meditations, United Nations,
Congratulations.

All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

Ev'rybody's talking about
John and Yoko, Timmy Leary, Rosemary,
Tommy Smothers, Bobby Dylan, Tommy Cooper,
Derek Taylor, Norman Mailer,
Alan Ginsberg, Hare Krishna,
Hare, Hare Krishna

All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

I loved it. At the time, I thought it was the greatest song I'd ever sung. Not frumpy like the rest of the stuff we had to sing at school before. It was energetic, toe-tapping, powerful, revolutionary stuff. And of course, had words like masturbation and flagellation in it, words frowned upon by the nuns.

I've since realised that there were many better songs written out there but I think there are few that promote peace as compellingly as "Give Peace a Chance" and "Imagine".

Here's hoping that my kiddies one day live by the message in the songs...

Who's gonna ride your wild horses?

2008-11-07T13:05:00.005+01:00

Had a great evening with Davor the other night. Went to see an exhibition of Expressionist art that's on in Zagreb and the moment. And despite Davor's initial misgivings ("They're ugly!", he told me when I asked him if he wanted to go), the exhibition did not disappoint. Quite the opposite. Most of what we saw was far from ugly. Quite beautiful, allegorical and emotionally charged in fact. There were a few wood carvings of horses that I wouldn't mind having next to the Magritte, Kahlo and Chagall that I plan to buy when I hit the jackpot.

Horses, horses, God damn horses, hubby would say. He asked me a strange question the other day. Strange 'cause hubby doesn't care too much for my blogging, facebooking and all the rest of this internet mumbo-jumbo, as he puts it, that I've gotten into of late. Has yet to read one of my posts. Now don't get me wrong, he's a good man hubby is, but a bit on the serious side. I guess you'd have to be, to be a scientist. Likes the black and white, the tangible, the physical. So, his question put quite a smile on me face, almost made me laugh. "Why do you use a horse as your blog photo?", he asked. I wasn't quite sure how to answer. The simple answer is, I'm striving to be more like a horse. But it doesn't sound quite right when you say you wanna be a horse in Croatian. Calling someone a horse is a bit derogatory in these here parts. But really, that's exactly what I'm trying to do. Be more like a horse.

Like I've already mentioned several times during the course of writing this blog, I've really gotten into a book lately called "The Tao of Equus". Perhaps I'm just an wide-eyed, impressionable person, but this book has really changed the way I see life, death and everything in between. It has made me realise even more the importance of seeing with the heart, how the essential is invisible to the eyes. So I'll try to cull the main findings of the book. And try not to go on, as I am wont to do...

The first reason I wanna be a horse is that they're more in tune with nature, with their instincts, with their intuition. They have the power to discern the true nature of a person, despite the mask they may be wearing. I already told you the story of a lady called "Joy" in the book who, while talking about saving a doomed relationship, made the horse buck. Because despite the verbal message she was giving, the spiritual message her body was giving was something entirely different. I believe that we humans have this gift - why do we "buck" when we enter a room that is filled with negativity? Why do we feel empathy for others? But we need to develop this gift much, much further.

The second reason is that horses have two legs in this world and two legs in the "other" world. They are in tune to the universal memory, a memory that has existed from the beginning of time, a memory of our past lives and what is yet to come. We too have this gift but, again, it has been dulled since the onset of the mechanical age and we need to regain it. The only way I see us regaining this gift is to become closer to nature. She has all the answers we're looking for.

The third reason is that they are synonymous with all things feminine. Now, many fellas out there would tend to disagree with me. What can be more masculine than a powerful thoroughbred horse at full speed, they say? Or a bucking rodeo horse? But then, why are we chicks so drawn to horses? Why does my 6 year old daughter go completely and utterly nuts at the sight of a horse? Because it is mirroring many aspects that she as a chick has - intuition, empathy, strength, being in tune with nature.

I too loved horses as a kid, always wanted to have one. That unfortunately died down a bit upon the discovery of boys. But last May, I went to Vienna and completely on a whim, went to see the horses of the Spanish Riding School. While watching them, I was so awash with tears in my eyes that I could barely see them through the blur. I later realised that I was crying because I saw all that I had lost in losing my interest for horses. I had lost some of my innocence, some of my feminine traits, some of my strength and will power. I have since tried to regain these - through reading, through having a better relationship with Mother Nature, through interaction with others, even through writing this blog. Because in telling eachother our stories, we open our hearts and minds. And like the saying goes: Our mind (and I would say our heart!) is like a parachute. It works much better when it's open.

But enough of my going on. Although I like U2's "Who's gonna ride your wild horses?" well enough, I'll leave ya with my all-time favourite "horse" song, namely Patti Smith's "Horses". I've often wondered what it was really all about - teenage homosexuality coming of age? rape? suicide? murder? From what I found on the net (thanks for the tip Davor!), it seems that it's a bit of all of the above. The only quote I could find from the venerable Ms. Smith on the subject was "When I was talking about doing the pony maroney, I wasn't talking about dancing". I imagine so...

Keep it light

2008-11-04T18:29:00.014+01:00

I was talking to my mate Davor today. Nothing heavy, in fact, quite the opposite. We're meeting in the city tomorrow and we were discussing where and when to meet. Quite out of the blue, the words "keep it light" were uttered during the course of our conversation. And when I later stopped and thought about those three little words, it struck me that that's exactly what I have to do - keep it light, that is, my life. I've been in what some might call a broody existential mood lately, questioning the universe, life, love, death, self vs I and whatnot. So I thought I might make today's post, and my life, a bit "lighter" if you will. Here's a song my mate Ross and I have discussed in a couple of posts, a song I've been meaning to post in a while but other more urgent issues had precedence - Caramel by Suzanne Vega.

There are so many reasons that I just adore this song. First and foremost is the tres francais ambiance it exhudes. You can picture the dimly lit cafe somewhere on Paris'Left Bank, filled with the scent of cigarettes, red wine and perhaps creme brulee, French being talked in the background, Suzanne in a LBD in the foreground on a miniscule stage with nothing for company but a piano and her voice.

Which brings me to reason number two why I love this song so much - is there anything more French than comparing one's love of food with one's love for a lover? Nope. And that's sometimes how I feel about love - just like I feel about food. Should I give in or should I hold back? Should I take that one forbidden bite that is a moment of bliss on the lips but an eternity of pain on the heart? I have to say that, despite the drawbacks, I more often than not give in to temptation, unlike Ms. Vega. I mean, hey, life's too short, ain't it? Enjoy it (and the caramel!) while it lasts.

It won't do
to dream of caramel,
to think of cinnamon
and long for you.

It won't do
to stir a deep desire,
to fan a hidden fire
that can never burn true.

I know your name,
I know your skin,
I know the way
these things begin;

But I don't know
how I would live with myself,
what I'd forgive of myself
if you don't go.

So goodbye,
sweet appetite,
no single bite
could satisfy...

I know your name,
I know your skin,
I know the way
these things begin;

But I don't know
what I would give of myself,
how I would live with myself
if you don't go.

It won't do
to dream of caramel,
to think of cinnamon
and long
for you.

And here's the video clip, another reason why I love the song so much. It's precisely the kind of video clip that soppy romantic me would like to make - with "An Affair to Remember", "From Here to Eternity", "To Have and to Have Not" and all the rest of those timeless Hollywood films in the background. Just divine...

This is for that certain someone for whom it won't do to stir a deep desire, to fan a hidden fire that can never burn true...

Do not scorn a weak cub. He may become the brutal tiger (Mongolian proverb).

2008-11-02T16:33:00.018+01:00

Watched a fabulous film yesterday. Had been meaning to watch it for a while, but, as always, there just haven't been enough hours in the day. But two of the three kiddies went to grandma's place over the weekend so it wasn't quite the nuthouse it usually is around here. So last night I finally found a couple of hours to sit down, put my feet up, get knitting in hand and watch "Mongol".

Having grown up in Australia, I didn't study history that much. My ten year old son knows more history than I do. The only history I ever learnt about was through books I had chosen to read as opposed to being forced and at Uni as part of my music degree. Other than that, I learnt in primary school that Australia has existed since 1788 (???) and that it became a federation in 1901. Beyond that...nada!

So all I knew of Genghis Khan before I watched the movie, considering he wasn't a significant figure to the flourishing of music or a character in a Jane Austen or Bronte novel, was that he took over half the globe and was reverred for his warriorship, reviled for his tyranny. As such, the film was quite an eye opener in terms of the "man behind the myth". Because just like the rest of us, whether we're tyrants or matyrs, he too was a man of flesh and blood.

This may sound quite odd, but the thing that struck me most watching the film was that I felt that his life held a number of parallels with mine. No, I have no desire for world domination, far from it. A somewhat okay career singing in a couple of clubs or at a wedding or funeral or two, that's as far as my professional plans go. Rather, first of all, he too lost his father at quite a young age. His was poisoned when he was 9 (how poetic!), while I lost mine somewhat later at the age of 13 to cancer. And of course, just as it did him, it affected me terribly. I didn't want to avenge anyone for it, had no reason to. I just went a bit nutty and I am grateful everyday of my life for God and my mum for getting me through the ordeal as wound-free as possible.

But the parallel that I found most with Genghis Khan was the fact that he was bullied as a kid. Now, I don't know how many of you were bullied as kids but I can tell ya, up until Year 5, I was the most bullied kid in the class. There are a number of reasons behind this. First of all, I was a bit on the plump side and this was the foremost source of inspiration for being the butt of most of the class' jokes and pranks. One episode that comes to mind was being pushed off my chair in Year 4 by Shane Lodge (yes, you always remember your bully's name), being called a spastic and the teacher saying that I had brought it all on myself.

The second reason was because I had more consonants in my surname than vowels. In other words, I was a wog, as the Aussies colloquially call us immigrants. I was always Mary ummmmm. I don't want to even mention the names they concocted out of my surname. No one besides people of Croatian descent could ever pronounce my surname. In fact, many people that know me don't even know that my first name isn't really Mary: I was actually christened Marija. But my dad spared me at least a bit of ridicule by changing my name to Mary. Thanks Dad!

But the third, and in hindsight, primary reason that I was harrassed as a kid was the fact that I was a chick. Most of the bullying was done by the guys in the class, not the chicks. It seems to me that there are some men in the world that feel that just because we don't have a spare appendage, they can do what they will with us. But see, they forget one thing. They forget the power, strength and fortitude that we chicks posess - my mum always says that the human race would become extinct if men had to have babies. To be honest, I think these kind of men do realise just how much strength we have and feel more than a little threatened by it. Hence, the brutish behaviour. They feel that in being beastly to us they can tame our unbridled power, they can break us like a wild horse, put us in our place. Unfortunately for those men, many of us chicks invariably find even more strength in their denigrating us and attempts at breaking us. Look at Medusa. That Poseidon fella obviously thought that by violating her he would put her in her place. Unfortunately not. Or Mata Hari. Her first alcoholic husband beat her to a pulp and had a couple of chicks on the side but that only put the wind in her sails.

And that made me think about the ultimate chick, the head honcho, the capo di tutti capi - Mother Nature. How many men, both past and present, have violated, reviled, pillaged, scorned and bullied her? How many were threatened by her beauty, fortitude, strength and benevolence and as such, behaved brutishly towards her? Well, it seems to me that it's payback time. Just as the formerly beautiful Medusa transformed her locks to serpents after having being raped by Poseidon, so too will Mother Nature unleash her terror after having been raped time and time again by too many men to name. God only knows what serpents she will send forth to us all...

So yes, do not scorn a weak cub. He may become the brutal tiger...or tigress...

All those people, all those lives, where are they now?

2008-11-01T20:13:00.009+01:00

I once again did a stange/unusual/out of the ordinary thing today (besides play the piano, which I also did). I took my 15 year old Manfrotto tripod out, something I haven't done in at least 5 or 6 years. See, hubby, babe and I took a trip to Mirosevac today, one of Zagreb's major cemetries, to pay a visit to hubby's gramps and gran. So I thought, while I'm there, why not take a couple of snaps of the countless candles and graves, which is otherwise impossible to do without a tripod? So I did.

Unfortunately, many of the photos fell far short of my expectations, so I've made a resolution that should the singing career ever take off (fingers crossed!) the second thing I'm gonna buy is a proper digital SLR, preferably a Nikon. I've had enough of someone else doing the work and me not having total and utter control over my photos. I wanna put a little more elbow grease into it, do a bit more experimenting, have more control, know what I mean? So here's hoping...

And in case you're wondering, first thing on my wish list is a new dishwasher...

I'll leave ya with one of my all time favourite Smiths songs (still know the lyrics after 20 odd years), "Cemetry Gates":

From the cradle to the grave

2008-10-31T22:43:00.010+01:00

Tomorrow is All Saint's Day, the day we remember our dearly departed, those who left this world to travel before us to the next. I remember my father, my grandparents, my aunties, Bill, Renata and Ante and other friends and family. I believe that although they are not here with me physically, they are embedded in my heart and soul and as such, are not really dead. In fact, they're immortal and will never die, at least for as long as I am alive. Then they and I will pass onto my children, my nieces, my cousins, my friends and the circle of life will go on.

Looking through my books of poetry, I came across this lovely poem by Stephen Spender and dedicate it to all those who left this world before us. Perhaps our own dearly departed were not truly great to the general population, but they were truly great to us personally. I have to admit that I especially like the second stanza. May we never allow gradually the traffic to smother with noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.

I Think Continually Of Those Who Were Truly Great
Stephen Spender

I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.

What is precious is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.

Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are feted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.

Seinlanguage

2008-10-30T22:55:00.004+01:00

After my little walk down memory lane and rendezvous with my niece yesterday, I quickly popped into my favourite book shop, Algoritam, before French class to see if I would find anything that tickled my fancy. Now, this was a really stupid idea because something always tickles my fancy in that God damn book shop. It's either the latest cooking magazine or cook book or the biography of a favourite performer or artist or some poetry book or some origami paper or whatever. I always happen to come across something that has "Knitting Songbird, you just have to have this" written on it in large black print. And of course, I invariably give in and have it. Which is why I will never have enough money for a down payment on a house or apartment...

During my little saunter through the store yesterday, I turned the pages of a number of books and then, there it was, a book with a huge label on it, bigger than the rest of them. "Knitting Songbird, you reeeeally have to have this". So I gave in and now have it. Seinlanguage by Jerry Seinfeld.

Now, Seinfeld is a guy that you either love or hate. There's no middle ground. I happen to be on the I adore him side of the fence. To me, he's one of the best observational comedians around, up there with the greats like Bill Cosby, Billy Connolly, Dave Allen, Jay Leno, etc. Although I am not prone to watching television (don't have enough time and it can often be a real brain-drain), I watch Seinfeld religiously and am considering buying the complete series on DVD so I can always have them on hand in times of crises.

So I thought I would share a few quotes from the book with ya for a bit of a laugh. And BTW, a little piece of advice - don't read funny books lying down. While reading the book before taking a bit of a nap today (yeah, the headache persists...), I almost did a Jimi Hendrix and choked on my own spit laughing...so read this sitting up, that is, if you're into Seinfeld...

On the male code:
A man is paralysed mentally by a beautiful woman, and advertisers really take advantage of this. Don't you love those ads where you see the woman in the bikini next to the 32-piece ratchet set? And we'll be looking at the girl in the bikini, then looking at the ratchet set, going, "All right, well if she's right next to the ratchet set, and I had that...I better just buy the ratchet set."

On phones and the phone machine:
I love my phone machine. I wish I was a phone machine. I wish if I saw somebody on the street I didn't want to talk to I could just go, "Excuse me, I'm not here right now. If you just leave a message, I can walk away."
I also have a cordless phone, but I don't like that much. Because you can't slam down a cordless phone. You get mad at somebody on a real phone, "You can't talk to me like that!" BANG, it's over. But a cordless phone - "You can't talk to me like that! All right now, let me just find that little thing to turn this off...Just hang on, I'm hanging up on you!"

On parking:
The handicap parking spot is the mirage of the parking desert. You know the feeling. You see it in the distance, there it is. You can't believe your eyes, "It's too good to be true. A big, wide spot, and it's right by the entrance. Somehow everybody missed it." And then when you pull up, wait - it wasn't even there. There's nothing. It's like you were hallucinating. "I, I thought there was a spot there. I, I don't know what happened...I-"
What is the handicap parking situation at the Special Olympics? They must have to just stack like a hundred cars into those two spots. How else can they do it?

On buying clothes:
Buying closthes is always tricky. But when there's loud music playing, it really throws your judgment. You look at stuff like, "Hey, if there was a cool party and I was a cool guy, this might be a cool shirt."
You get it home, there's no music, there's no party, and you're not a cool guy.
You're the same chump, 75 bucks lighter.

On cooking shows:
I will never understand why they cook on TV.
I can't smell it.
Can't eat it.
Can't taste it.
The end of the show they hold it up to the camera, "Well, here it is. You can't have any. Thanks for watching. Goodbye."

On sex:
Seems to me the basic conflict between men and women, sexually, is that men are like firemen. To us, sex is an emergency, and no matter what we're doing we can be ready in two minutes. Women, on the other hand, are like fire. They're very exciting, but the conditions have to be exactly right for it to occur.

On the office:
Frankly, I don't believe people think of their office as a workplace anyway. I think they think of it as a stationery store with Danish. You want to get your pastry, your envelopes, your supplies, your toilet paper, six cups of coffee, and you go home.

I'll leave you with someone's version of the 10 best moments of Seinfeld ever. Personally, the Soup Nazi episode is my fave ever. Have fun!

That old black magic

2008-10-29T22:27:00.013+01:00

I again woke up this morning with the most excruciating headache. I've actually had a "morning" headache every day since Saturday. I have since realised that it's probably due to the south wind. The God damn south wind. Unlike the icy north wind, the fierce east wind or the stormy west wind, the south wind lulls us to the land of Wynken, Blynken and Nod. However, reality invariably gives us a wake up call. And it's this tug-of-war between slumber and wakefulness that wreaks havoc with my head. So, yet again, it was pulsing to the beat of good ol' Stravinsky...

So I was glad that today was Wednesday. Wednesday. My day. My day of freedom. To do what I wanna do and be who I wanna be. Yeah. So I left the house just after 5 and hopped on a tram to the city, knitting in hand and knapsack on back.

I was meeting my niece at the Kras chocolate cafe but arrived half an hour earlier than we had agreed on. So I thought, what the hell, I'll go for a walk to Gornji Grad or the Upper Town, Zagreb's historical centre of sorts. Hadn't been there in a while and it's my absolute favourite part of Zagreb. (If you want to find out more, here's something from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gradec,_Zagreb)

So with my iPod switched on and earphones blaring Eva Cassidy, I made the rather steep hike up cobble stoned Radic street, turned at Kamenita Vrata or the Stone Gate with its shrine consecrated to the Virgin Mary, where many a humble pilgrim has whispered their secret desire to Our Lady, me included, went up towards the parliament building where politicians stood in their three-piece suits, BlackBerrys in hand, waiting for their chauffeurs and BMWs to whisk them off to God knows where, onto Strossmayer promenade, also known as lover's lane, where the chestnut trees and wooden benches have witnessed many an adolescent first kiss. I then went to the lookout gazing at the rooftops and (thankfully few) skyscrapers, wondering what everyone was doing at this moment in time, a bit like Amelie but not quite...

Now, I don't know if it's this God damn south wind or autumn or a mid-life crisis or whatnot, but yet again, walking around the Upper Town, looking at the chestnut trees losing their leaves and the wooden benches bedecked with young lovers, reminded me of a time that has long past, an age of innocence, where I too had a first kiss with a special someone who has since become a complete foreigner to me and barely asks me the time of day. And although I would never want to go back to that time, I would like to put a little of that old black magic that I once had in a jar so I can release the slightest whiff of it every so often and feel it again, even if for a moment. Might make the headaches go away too...

I'll leave ya with a lady who could weave that old black magic - Lady Ella:

Matters of the heart

2008-10-27T13:38:00.018+01:00

A dear friend recently confided to me recently that she had love problems and whether I had any advice for her. My first reaction was, who am I to give anyone advice? I mean, I've only had a handful of serious relationships in my life, either because I was too shy and never told the guy how I felt or he was too shy and never told me how he felt or if he was bold enough and told me how he felt, I didn't feel the same way. So who am I to tell another person what to do? But I thought, I really wanna help this person, she's a really good person and deserves better. And then I took me mate Ross' lead and thought, why not write a post about it? He wrote a great post about controlling diabetes which was helpful advice to anyone, not just diabetes sufferers. Maybe someone else out there may find this post helpful, too, who knows? As he says, blogs are powerful stuff. So here goes...

..but before I start, like I said, I'm no bloody expert on these matters, far from it. This is really my gutt talking, how I personally feel about the whole situation, things I've derived from my own life experiences, other people's, books, my therapeutic singing classes and the like. Take it all with a good pinch of salt. They're not in any particular order, just me babbling...which reminds me, I promise to try not to babble on too much, which I am prone to do, being the granny that I am...

I love me, I love me not

Before you can have a successful relationship with someone else, you have to have a successful relationship with yourself. You have to feel good about yourself, feel at ease with yourself, love yourself, feel that you deserve a loving relationship. And then magically, others will feel the same. Humans are quite instinctive creatures, it's just that in this mechanical age, we've lost most of our instincts and given them up to logic. But there's still a little insticnt left in all of us (just ask our sympathetic nerves!), so what you feel on the inside, others will also sense and give what you feel about yourself right back to you. How to acheive this? There's no simple answer to that question. I know that personally, as I have been trying to give up the materialistic and be closer to nature, I feel better about myself. How to acheive it will be different for each individual.

Analyse this

When a person has had a string of bad relationships, they should sit down and ask themselves, "what went wrong?" and analyse the situation. Why do you choose the people you choose? See what similar "bad" traits were in the people you had relationships with and perhaps try to avoid having relationships with people with these traits in future. I'm currently reading a wonderful book called "the Tao of Equus" about therapy with horses (which I'll do a separate post or two about 'cause it's just great). In it is a story about a woman who had a string of bad relationships. When she was talking about her present bad relationship while grooming a horse, the horse started to get the jitters and bucked. Even though the woman hadn't picked up on it, her body was actually sending out "jittery", fight or flight messages, despite the fact that she was talking about saving the relationship with the guy. The message here is - trust your instincts and try avoiding people with bad traits you've gleaned from the past.

Shout to the top

I'm gonna let the author of one of my favourite books "The hidden messages in water" do the talking on this one:
No matter what your intentions, announcing them is an important step. I can say this with confidence based on many years of experience in business. From the time when I was a child, I was always telling people what I was thinking and what I wanted to do, and I was constantly being told that I talked too much. But the simple act of saying something is a way to gather energy towards you. Especially when you say something to other people, energy flows in your direction and helps you achieve your aims. If you express your intentions, the realisation of those intentions will follow.
The message being - tell the universe that you want a loving, successful relationship and the universe will do its best to send one your way.

Picture this

Now, a lot of you may laugh at what I'm about to say but...sometimes it's a good idea to actually visualise the thing you want, be it a new career or a new relationship. This is something that I've learnt at my therapeutic singing classes - you imagine the note is being sung by someone else, goes to your throat and then leaves through your chest, like you're not singing at all. Try to sit down, close your eyes and visualise your goal. It's really just a visual instead of vocal way of telling the universe what you want.

Birds of a feather...

...well, you know the rest. I have to say that I've made a lot of wonderful friendships at my choir and French classes. And if I had wanted to, something even deeper. Want to learn a new language? Learn how to do the foxtrot? Play the guitar? Go out and do it and who knows what happens? Besides learning something new and "working" on yourself, you may just meet a bird of a feather.

A bird in the hand...

...again, you know the rest. Sometimes we overlook the people in our inner circle and don't realise what wonderful relationships are looking at us right in the nose. A work colleague, a friend, a friend of a friend, a friend's brother or sister...these are people that know us pretty well and who we know pretty well too. Why not give them a chance? Who knows what a wonderful relationship awaits just around the corner - or cubicle.

Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes

That's what Celine Dion says and who am I to disagree with her? And I can tell ya, this is definitely a mistake that I have made in the past. How I wish I had told certain guys how I felt about them. I think that when we're young, we're too shy or too chicken to tell the other person how we truly feel about them (that's how I was anyway). But then you get to a certain age (like me now) and think, it's now or never, we might never get this chance again, fuck it, let's do it. So if you do have feelings for someone, let them know. You might get a pleasant surprise. And if you don't, it's not the end of the world, believe me.

Come fly with me

I think that a change of scene and atmosphere is a wonderful way to forget the past, work on yourself, have new experiences and meet new people. So take a trip somewhere nice with a friend or by yourself and discover a whole new world. My recommendation is - Paris. Nowhere have men tried to "pick me up", big butt and all, as in Paris. Guess it must be the bold French spirit. And even if you don't take up any offers, a little flattery never did anyone any harm.

I don't know if this advice has or will help anyone. Even if it doesn't, I hope from the bottom of my heart that a loving, caring, successful relationship comes your way - ok universe, you heard it here - because everyone deserves it.

I'll leave ya with a lovely song by my favourite singer of all time, Eva Cassidy - True Colours. Let your true colours shine, dear friend, because they are beautiful like a rainbow and I know that there is someone out there who will appreciate them.

Under pressure

2008-10-26T22:56:00.011+01:00

I'm feeling a bit lazy today. Nah, I'm lying. I gave the kids a bath and put them to bed about an hour ago, just put out the rubbish, am in the process of making bread (it's still rising at the moment), just finishing making creme brulee (I'm gonna take it out of the oven as soon as I finish this post), prepared tomorrow's lunch (honey chicken wings with fried rice) and am waiting for a load of washing to finish so I can put it up. So I don't think I could call what I'm feeling lazy. Beat would be a better description. I try to fit in about 20 minutes of nap time or siesta during the day, but just didn't have the time today. Like many days before. But what can you do? As el diablo would say, nada, hasta la vista, baybee.

But I couldn't leave my little legion of readers high and dry, now could I? Love ya all too much for that. So I'll post a song for y'all. I've said on a number occasions to various friends that if I were a man and could sing like anyone I wanted, I'd choose to sing like Freddie Mercury. Love the guy. Adore him. Frankie's my number one guy but if I could sing like anyone it would have to be Freddie. Freddie basically kicks ass. There's no middle road with him, no half ways, it's either all the way or no way. The emotion he exhudes may be a bit too much for some, a bit OTT, often crass, but not for me. I've said in previous posts that I just don't go for singers who don't give at least 100% to their singing. Freddie gave 500%.

So as an ode to all the God damn housework I do on a daily basis, here's one of Freddie's and Dave's finest, "Under pressure", 'cause that's exactly how I feel about it all sometimes :

True colours

2008-10-25T19:13:00.018+02:00

I had the most horrid headache this morning, as I do most days, but thankfully not all mornings. They usually happen late in the afternoon when I'm so worn out by the day's activities that I need to just lie down a bit, for twenty minutes or so, and get my thoughts together in a noise-free atmosphere. But today I woke up with one, which is one of the most excruciating feelings the world. Took a Panadol, but to no avail. Didn't help a bit, my head just kept right on throbbing to the beat of Stravinsky's "Sacrificial Dance" from his "Rite of Spring". So I told hubby to pack up the kids and let's all go to Maksimir Park and the zoo. So we did. And boy, did it do the trick.

Just looking at the trees turning shades of red, gold, brown and a myriad of other colours, with their foliage falling slowly, silently through the air onto the ground and into the lake like flakes of snow, and the ducks and swans witnesses to it all, put my soul, and my head, at rest. It was as if I had become one with Mother Nature for a moment, and she sent me a message that she felt at one with me too when she delivered a falling leaf right into my hand.

Here are a few photos of Maksimir Park that I took today:

Looking at the marvel of it all made me think about my life. You know, whether I like it or not, I'm not young anymore, I'm way past 30 which is the point that I consider to be the "end" of youth. I'm not old either. I can't really define old, I'll let you know when I feel it. I guess you could call the point I am at at the moment as in between. Not in the spring of my life, that's for sure. I'm not sure whether summer's up but if it isn't, it is definitely late summer. Perhaps this is the autumn of my life, my chance to really glow like the leaves, fervent and ablaze with colour. Because honestly, although I am still prone to bouts of depression here and there, I have never really felt better about myself. I don't care that I haven't had a haircut since Christmas, that my butt looks like the back of a bus, that I don't dress hip and trendy. I've finally come to realise that really, it doesn't matter one iota in the grand scheme of things. Not one, God damn iota. Like my little prince said, "What is essential is invisible to the eyes". It's what's on the inside that counts in the grand scheme of things.

I recently bought myself a book of poetry. It was on sale so I thought, oh, what the hell. It's simply called "Penguin's Poems for Life". Appropriate, as it takes the reader from the cradle to the grave. And while reading it, I came across a poignant poem that really defines this moment that I feel that I'm at, this autumn of sorts. It was written by Alison Fell and it's called "Pushing forty":

Just before winter
we see the trees show
their true colours:
the mad yellow of chestnuts
two maples like blood sisters
the orange beech
braver than lipstick

Pushing forty, we vow
that when the time comes
rahter than wither
ladylike and white
we will henna our hair
like Colette, we too
will be gold and red
and go out
in a last wild blaze

Now I'll leave ya with my 3rd favourite autumn song (the 1st being "Les Feuilles Mortes", bien sur, the 2nd being "September Song", but I'll leave that one for another post. Can't stick a Kurt Weill song just any old place, on the side, by the way. Deserves a bit more space than that...), sung by Ol' Blue Eyes, the Chairman of the Board himself, Mr. Frank Sinatra. Enjoy...

Mean streets II

2008-10-23T21:28:00.002+02:00

I am speechless, overtaken with grief, remorse, anger, total rage. The mob have struck the streets of Zagreb again, this time taking out the editor of the Croatian magazine "Nacional".

We hear your message, mob bosses, we hear it loud and clear. But we, the people, are gonna overcome, not you guys, God damn you all!

RIP Puki...

I summon up remembrance of things past

2008-10-22T16:20:00.012+02:00

A couple of weeks ago, I did what I had previously thought was the unthinkable and got me an account on Facebook. Unthinkable because I had thought it was all a load of bullocks. I mean, Jesus, what's the point of it all? It's such a fad, ain't it? And I God damn hate fads (at least, now I do!)

It all started out innocently enough. I wanted to see what some old friends, family members and colleagues look like nowadays but to no avail - you had to be a member of the club to do that, no gatecrashers allowed. So I said, what the hell, let's do it, let's get on the Facebook and watch what happens. And I did.

Had to type me contact info first - easy enough. Post a picture if I wanted to - used me knitting songbird pony, of course, until Davor was kind enough to send a photo from France of me. Do a profile if I wanted to - copy-pasted me blog profile. Agree to something or other - donating a kidney perhaps? And then the search began.

First they recommended people that I probably knew, mainly people from "the firm". So I got me a few friends quick smart. Then I looked for me mates from the here and now. A few more friends to the list. Then I started searching for people I hadn't heard from in a bit, a couple of years or so. And got me even more friends.

But then I dug deeper and looked up people that I hadn't seen in ages, donkey's years. People from primary and high school, people I hadn't heard from in (I'm ashamed to say it) 20 or so years. We're talking a lifetime ago. These are people that I shared school benches, sandwiches, dreams and teenage angst with. These are people that I talked to about the latest fads and pop star crushes, danced with at school discos (who can forget those???), had my first stiff drink with behind me mum's back, discovered Shakespeare, Austen and all the rest of the greats with, drew on their shirts on the last day of school. And we hadn't heard from eachother in 20-odd years.

When I saw all those faces staring at me, the emotions were quite overwhelming, and oddly confusing. Feelings of joy at being able to see them in the here and now, seeing where they had come and all that they had acheived both personally and professionally, sadness that it had taken us this long to get together, albeit, "virtually", and for all the people I would never find on Facebook like Renata who died in '88 in a car crash or Ante who died just over 3 year ago to cancer, regret for times past, for things I have done and haven't done.

And then I asked myself, Knitting Songbird, if you could, would you go back? Would you sit in your little time machine and take a ride to say '83 to the first year of high school? Would you do it all again? And honestly, I wouldn't. There are some things I regret, people I miss, situations I would change. But like Richard Bach put it "There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they're necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go."

And that's it in a nutshell. We learn from the past and life is an ever changing evolution. We know where the beginning is but keep developing right up until the end, which we don't know where lies. And it's all the people and the experiences we have with them that make us us, that mould us into the people we are and become, for better or worse.

I thank God for all the people in my life, both past, present and future. I love you all. To all of you, I dedicate this sonnet by Shakespeare, no. 30 to be exact.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

There's no love song finer

2008-10-17T22:11:00.009+02:00

I did the strangest thing today. Well, strange is perhaps not the right word, rather, out of the ordinary. See, today I sat down and played the piano. That's something I haven't done since I don't know when. I've been using the piano lately just to play a chord so I know which key to sing in. But hubby took our big boy to his therapeutic art classes and I asked him to take the rest of the gang with him so I could have an hour or two of peace and quiet. So I sang for about an hour. And when I finished, I thought, gees, I haven't played the ebony and ivory in a while. So I sat down and started tinkling a bit. Then I took out my favourite music books from uni, "The Thirties" and "The Forties" and started playing a bit of Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart and then Cole Porter. And then I played it (rather badly, mind you), one of my favourite Cole Porter songs ever. "Every time we say goodbye".

What a great friggin' song, man. It was written by Porter in 1946 and hasn't lost any of its charm since, as have none of the other songs from that era and before. From Ella Fitzgerald to Ray Charles to Annie Lennox to (I found out today) Robbie Williams, it seems that everyone has their version of the song. And I've gotta admit, I'd like to do a version of it too with my Julie Andrews-ish voice. But I would do it with what I like to call the "recitative" at the beginning which it seems no one does. This is how it goes with the recitative at the beginning:
We love each other so deeply
That I ask you this, sweetheart
Why should we quarrel ever
Why can't we be enough clever, never to part

Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I die a little
Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I wonder why a little
Why the gods above me
Who must be in the know
Think so little of me
They allow you to go
When you're near there's such an air
Of spring about it
I can hear the larks somewhere
Begin to sing about it
There's no love song finer
But how strange the change from major to minor
Ev'ry time we say goodbye

And the song rings so true. Don't we all die a little when we say goodbye to someone we love? Don't we ask the Gods, but why, why does it have to be so? I can tell ya, I do. But maybe that's just me being the soppy romantic I am...

Personally, my absolute favourite part of the song is when Porter literally goes from a major to minor key in the words "There's no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor, every time we say goodbye". He's doing a bit of a Gerswhin here, but it's nonetheless an absolutely, bloody brilliant little musical twist.

And here's my favourite version of the song sung by someone I consider to be the absolute best pop singer of the mid-eighties, one of the few female singers of the era who had some grey matter between her ears - Annie Lennox. Enjoy!

Where there's smoke...

2008-10-15T22:30:00.021+02:00

I was walking around the city today like I usually do on a Wednesday evening before French lessons. And I have to say, it's a time I love. Just roaming around the city by myself for an hour or so, soaking in the sights, turning the page or two of a couple of books in Algoritam, my favourite book store in Zagreb, having a cup of coffee at my favourite cafe, the Kras chocolate cafe, sitting in Zrinjevac, Zagreb's central park, reading a chapter or two of a book that I'm currently reading. It's one of those rare times during the week when I'm alone with only me, myself and I for company.

While I was walking around tonight I stumbled upon a group of street performers dressed in sailor suits, juggling skittles of fire. Now, they weren't the only street performers in the vicinity (seems there's some sort of street fest or whatnot going on) but the crowd around them was the biggest. And I wondered why. Surely it wasn't the sailor suits that had drawn them (although, I have to admit, it was what had drawn me. I mean, come on, which girl can resist three good looking guys dressed in sailor suits a la Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in "On the town"???). Nah, it wasn't the sailor suits. It was the fire.

And that got me thinking: what is it with man's fascination with fire? I mean, first of all, think of all the proverbs that involve fire: the title of this post for a start, "where there's smoke, there's fire" or "fire is a good servant but a bad master" or "fight fire with fire" or my favourite "love is a friendship on fire". Then there are all the songs written about fire: the rock classic "Smoke on the water" by Deep Purple or "Fire Woman" by The Cult or my absolute favourite fire song of all time by one of my favourite bands ever "Light my fire" by The Doors. And that's just to name a few! And then all those stories and legends about fire. Who could forget LOTR and the ever flaming Mount Doom? Or the fire breathing dragons of lore? Or the phoenix rising out of the ashes? Or the ultimate fire, il falò delle vanità or the bonfire of the vanities that took place in Florence in the 15th Century where any objects deemed "sinful" were put on a huge bonfire and burnt to a cinder?

Her's what I found on the net regarding the symbolism of fire:

If there ever was a dichotomous element it would be Fire. Fire, the bringer of destruction, the symbolism of chaos and war. Fire burns everything, bringing nothing but ruin. And yet, Prometheus risked the wrath of the Titans to bring fire to man. Fire banishes the darkness. Fire cleanses and purifies. Lastly, sometimes Love is spoken of as an eternal flame. Fire.

Fire can be shown as an agent of destruction. Everyone can imagine the scene where the heroine looks down and the town is awash in flames. Fire is also usually used for strong emotional feelings (such as love, hate, desire, and determination). Fire can also be used to express determination or a strong desire as well.

Characters and things that are shown to have a 'fire-esq' quality to them usually have a red-colored theme to them. Red because flames and coals have a red coloration to them. They are also more likely to be violent (in this case violent meaning extreme and chaotic) in their response and more likely to rush into a situation without completely thinking the consequences through. For example, Hino Rei / Sailor Mars (from Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon) is Fire personified, but she is hardly evil, nor does she have evil intents. She is strong-willed, hot-tempered, and incredibly determined and independent, that's all.

Yeah, dichotomous, good way to describe fire. I remember when I was a kid and my dad used to burn the rubbish in the backyard (hey, this was the era before environmental awareness!) and I couldn't get away from the fire, it completely mesmerised me. Watching those dancing flames, I felt as if nothing else existed. It was just me and the fire. The fire melted everything away. But I always remembered not to get tooooo close...

Another thing I remember as a kid was learning that man's two greatest inventions were the wheel and fire. I'm not so sure about that. Not the part that they were the greatest inventions, but that they were invented by man. I mean, how can something as powerful as fire have been invented by man? That's a load of bull, another "logical" explanation for an inexplicable feat of nature. Fire wasn't invented by man, it was invented by the Big Boss, by Mother Nature. It's interesting to note that you need three elements to make fire: oxygen, heat and fuel. Leave one of these out and you've got nothing. Three is a pretty powerful number when you think about it. Plato split the soul into three parts. Freud said the psyche was divided into three. Christians learn of the Holy Trinity and that Jesus rose from the dead after the third day. You've got three levels of schooling. In music, you've got the triad, the basis of all chords. There are three types of galaxies. The list goes on...

Hmmm, fire...there's more to it than meets the eye...I'll leave you with a man that lilghts my fire...

The discovery of a new dish confers more happiness on humanity than the discovery of a new star.

2008-10-13T22:51:00.009+02:00

That's what Brillat-Savarin said. Clever fella he was, knew what he was talking about.

And that reminds me. I got my edition of CVF or Cuisine et vins de France a few days ago, something that I wait for with baited breath every month or so in my letterbox. This month's edition was about bistro desserts, 15 classic bistro desserts to be exact. And I can tell ya - no discovery of any bloody star could make this knitting songbird happier than the recipes I discovered, or should I say, rediscovered in this issue. Par exemple: tarte tatin, that wonderful upside down apple concoction that the Tatin sisters discovered by accident and put them on the gastronomic map forever, creme brulee or "burnt" cream, THE dessert of all French desserts with its brittle caramel top and smooth vanilla bottom, gâteau moelleux au chocolat or soft chocolate cake where the creamy chocolate centre literally melts in your mouth, pain perdu au chocolat or French toast with chocolate, the simplest but not least tasty of all French desserts and crepes Suzettes, another delicious dish discovered by accident by a young assistant waiter cooking for the Prince of Wales and his companion whose first name was Suzette. Suffice to say, I have been poring over the issue since I got it and haven't been able to put it down.

I gave the creme brulee (in the top 5 of desserts for me) a try the same day, I just had to, love it too much. And it turned out magnifique, if I can say so myself. It even made me go out and buy a bloody creme brulee blow torch (finally, I might add)! Pity that when I made it for Davor a few weeks ago it turned out really crappy - and that's an understatement. The eggs curdled ('cause the gas ran out and I had to cook it on the electric burner), it was a watery mess and the sugar didn't caramelise ('cause I didn't have the bloody blow torch!). In short, un desastre - sorry 'bout that Davor! But that always happens when you cook for someone else, at least to me - you make that extra effort and what happens? Un desastre. Next time it'll be better Davor, promise! Got gas and got the blow torch now!

Here's the recipe for y'all, if ya wanna give it a try. It really is dead easy, foolproof (even if you're under pressure making it for someone else!) and it tastes just delish:

Creme brulee

5 egg yolks
2 vanilla beans
250 ml full cream milk
80 g icing sugar
250 ml cream
100g brown sugar

Preheat the oven to 120 degrees C.

Split the vanilla beans open, scrape the seeds and place into a saucepan along with the beans. Pour in the milk, slowly bring to the boil then remove from the heat and let steep 10 minutes. While the milk is stepping, put the egg yolks in a mixing bowl and mix with the cream and sugar until well incorporated. Mix the egg mixture with the milk mixture (remove the vanilla beans). Pour the mixture evenly into 6 ramekins and place on a large oven tray. Pour some water into the oven tray so that it comes to 1 cm to the sides of the ramekins. Bake for 1h/1h 15 min or until the cream is slightly "wobbly".

Let the cream cool and chill in the fridge for at least 2 hours. Once well chilled, put a couple of spoons of sugar on the top of each and "burn" with a blow torch until the sugar is caramelised. Serve at once.

Bon appetit!

And here are a few more quotes from the gastronome of all gastronomes that you might like:

"A dessert without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye." (Ain't that the truth! I sometimes eat just cheese and bread as a meal in itself!)

"Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are." (Aha. That's why I don't eat at McDonald's anymore, I can tell ya)

"Drinking Bordeaux you think about, drinking Burgunder you talk about and drinking champagne you do foolish things." (Just ask Davor and I - we just had two glasses in Paris on our last night there, Veuve Cliquot of course, and talked the worst French you could ever hear in your life for the space of two hours!)

"The destiny of nations depends upon the manner in which they feed themselves." (hmmm, interesting one that...maybe that's why most of the Western world is obese these days, eh?)

A fine romance

2008-10-10T13:49:00.012+02:00

I don't know, but I've been feeling a bit down lately. To be honest, I've been feeling a bit down for a while now. I don't know if it's me or the weather or the global situation, but I can't seem to get out of this funk I've been in. To tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I've been missing a bit of romance in my life, and that's why I'm in this funk. This is how I've been feeling:

A fine romance, with no kisses
A fine romance, my friend this is
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes
A fine romance, you won't nestle
A fine romance, you won't wrestle
I might as well play bridge
With my old maid aunt
I haven't got a chance
This is a fine romance

A fine romance, my good fellow
You take romance, I'll take jello
You're calmer than the seals
In the arctic ocean
At least they flap their fins
To express emotion
A fine romance with no quarrels
With no insults and all morals
I've never mussed the crease
In your blue serge pants
I never get the chance
This is a fine romance

See, I'm the kinda gal who cries at the end of "Pretty Woman", "Love Story", "An Affair to Remember" and all the rest of those soppy movies. I cry when I hear that a friend's going through a hard breakup. I cry when I listen to "Ne me quitte pas" or "La chanson des vieux amants" or "Cry me a river" or other emotionally charged songs. I'll admit it - I'm a romantic sissy, sop, baby.

I remember the first time a boy held my hand (Canterbury Football Field, 1983, Anthony Michael) and my first "real" kiss (Johnny Vrkic's car, 1988). I remember the first time I set eyes on hubby (coming off the Croatia Airlines bus in front of the then Intercontintental Hotel, 1992) and all the rest of it.

And I miss those thrills. You know, when your heart starts racing, your pupils dilate, your hands get all sweaty, you feel a bit dizzy by it all. Then he reaches out to kiss you and the endorphins set in and you feel as though you'd just taken a dose of the world's most exquisite opiate. I miss all that. I miss someone reaching out to hold my hand, brushing his hands through my hair, taking me out to dinner and a movie, playing a nice song on the guitar for me. Miss it all. I can't tell a lie.

Maybe I'm just asking for too much. I mean, honestly, how can you keep a romance alive with 3 kids, a rabbit, 2 turtles, a myriad of washing, cleaning and cooking, a high pressure job which requires umpteen hours in front of the computer in the wee small hours and just over 12 years of marriage behind ya? No bloody way.

But I'll try to keep a positive about it all...at least I've got my blog to keep me warm...

Mean streets

2008-10-07T15:47:00.014+02:00

I bought the newspaper today. Now, this might not be anything out of the ordinary for most people, but it is for me. See, I rarely buy the newspaper. To be honest, never. I'd rather watch the news on the telly or read about it on the net, too lazy to read in Croatian really. But yesterday's events compelled me to go out and buy a newspaper. The events that happened yesterday belong more on the streets of Palermo or in a Scorcese film, not in Zagreb.

To cut a long story short, the daughter of a "mob" lawyer was slain down execution style, three bullets to the head, neck and shoulder. The young lady in question was 26 years old and a lawyer, just like her pop. Pop is in the process of defending an ex-General who is said to have stolen about $5 million worth of diamonds from the government during the Croatian war (he was meant to buy arms with it but bought fur coats for his wife instead). The ex-General has strong underground connections and, at one point, his children were kidnapped by a major mob boss 'cause he knew too much. Seems that the same mob boss is suspected of ordering this hit. The irony in the whole story? The girl was seeing the mob boss' lawyer. Sounds like the plot of a Scorsese film...

I don't know why, but this murder really shook me up. Big time. Besides the fact that she was young, beautiful, successful, in the prime of life, there was something else. I've seen and heard of many murders and attrocities in my time - from stories of WWII from my folks to the war in Croatia and Bosnia & Herzegovina that I witnessed myself to the stuff going on around us everyday worldwide - but this was something different from your average murder or attrocity, especially for post-war Zagreb. It's an unwritten rule in the Balkan mafia that you don't touch la famiglia. Even in Belgrade, where the mobsters are as loathesome and ruthless as they get, they never touch la famiglia. If you've done them wrong, they'll hit you off, simple as that. This murder has set a precedent and the Croatian mafia is sending a new message, the message being - nothing is sacred anymore, nothing is untouchable.

And that's the thing that really shook me. Even if a person doesn't have kids, everyone has a family - mum, dad, bro, sis, niece, nephew. So what happens now that the age of innocence has come to an end and you do someone wrong - is it you who takes the bullet or does a member of your family? Just the thought of anyone touching a hair on my family's or friend's head is enough to make me scream. 'Cause nothing means more to me than my family and friends, as I've already said on numerous occasions in this blog. I've always let the kids roam around our suburb to their hearts delight 'cause I've always felt that they were safe, that this wasn't like Sydney where my mum had to come and pick me up at the station after Uni 'cause I was too chicken to walk home by myself when it got dark, this is Zagreb where I can walk home late at night after French lessons without having to look over my shoulder. I'm not so sure now. Hubby says I'm panicking for no reason, we're not in high places, don't have underground connections, who would want to touch us?

Whatever the case may be, underground connections or not, I think that Zagreb has come to a major turning point. Which turn we take is up to the authorities - they can turn a blind eye, as they have up to now, or they can send a new message to the mob, the message being basta! I hope that it's the latter, 'cause I don't wanna live on the Mean Streets...

R.I.P. Ivana Hodak

End of a civilisationist

2008-10-05T18:36:00.023+02:00

I know that my friend Ross is gonna read the title of his post and his first reaction is gonna be "Hey! That's the title of my song! And was the title of my blog until 3 or so weeks ago! Why the hell is The Knitting Songbird using it for her blog?!?!" Just before I go into why, let me tell y'all that it's a bloody good song. You can listen to it here: http://www.myspace.com/rossmusician and can take a look at the lyrics here: http://rossmusician.blogspot.com/2008/04/end-of-civilisationist.html

Hope you don't mind me using your song Ross! But I've used it here 'cause, besides it being a bloody good song, it's got a lot to do with what I'm about to write about, sort of goes hand in hand with it you might say. We're at a crossroads in our civilisation and no amount of recycling premium A4 paper's gonna help us...so here's where the story begins...

As you may or may not know, hubby "officially" got his PhD diploma last week even though he's been a PhD for almost 2 years. He's been working at the Forestry Institute for a while now, just over 10 years, and has done a lotof research on many aspects of forestry but his specialty is soil and water science. He also recently became part of an EU task force working on climate change and its effects on various aspects of forestry.

Yesterday night, he came home a bit tipsier than usual, one beer too many you could say. When I asked him what was going on, he told me he has to write a chapter in a book to be published by some fancy publisher on climate change and it's a bit difficult for him. Not because it has to be done in English (although, it is a bit difficult for him to write in English sometimes!) but because of the data and information he has at hand. What frigging data? So he showed me a presentation he gave in Vienna a couple of weeks ago on the current situation regarding Croatian forests and climate change. And, I have to say, I couldn't sleep all night after having seen it.

There are sooo many things that the mainstream media, in Croatia in particular, has been keeping out of the news to make way for supposedly "important" stuff. Stuff like Wall Street, tourism income, the latest gadget, Brittney Spears and a plethora of other insignificant crap. Well, you can put Wall Street and the rest of them where the sun don't shine - Mother Nature has a more important message for us and we better bloody well sit up and listen.

Here are a few pretty scary facts that you don't see in the Croatian news:

2003 was the hottest year in history since 1500 (that's apparently when they started taking climactic measurements). Have a look at the table below table to get a better idea of where we're headed. Anyone who tells me that man has had no influence whatsoever on climate change can go to hell. Just have a look at where the temperature's gone since the industrial revolution...what temperature the mercury's gonna hit in future is anyone's guess:

So the temperature's been going up - what about that thing that comes down, you know, rain? Here's a table to show you exactly what's been happening. Namely, Northern Europe's been swimming in it, while us Southerners have been praying for it:

Okay, the temperature's have been going up, rain hasn't been coming down. But here's a true illustration of what climate change is all about. There were three consecutive years of drought in Croatia since the year 2000. Then there was a major flood the year after. Great, you may say, water, just what we need. But it ain't as great as it sounds. See, in terms of forests, the droughts wiped out a lot of oaks, a tree of major importance in Croatia, which made way for hornbeams as they need less water. Goody, at least there's something left, nothing as important as the oak, but something at least. Well, a year later a flood came and wiped out the hornbeams 'cause they like drier conditions. This is what some of the forests look like now:

And that's the thing - 'cause the climate's gone amuck, we can't really predict what's going to happen in future - is there going to be a drought? Is there going to be a flood? Seems there's more to climate change than CO2 and human influence, things like sunspots, tidal wave movement, meteorite activity Ivan explained. But the problem is he added, is that there's never been this much human influence at any point in history and that's why we don't know what the hell is going to happen, can't predict a bloody thing. But Ivan let me in on a secret in his drunken stupor last night, a secret that not many people know about, something that may give us a bit of a key as to what's gonna happen in future and we'll be able to, if nothing, predict things a bit more accurately. If there is a drought in Croatia in 2010, that means that man's influence outweighs nature's. If not, Mother Nature's mucking round with us as she well should.

My personal theory is that Mother Nature is giving us a message and her message is this - you reap what you sow, man, you reap what you sow. We have to pay for the pillaging, drilling, cutting, asphalting, dumping and all the rest of the crap that we've done to her. That's her frigging message, whether this climate change has more to do with her or us. Problem is, are we listening?

On a happy note, Ivan is quite optimistic about it all. Says that we should be able to adapt, Croatia at least. The population is going to go down 10 or percent in a few years. And apparently, despite the forest dieback I talked about above, there is 10% more forest land in Croatia than there was 15 years ago, due mainly to the war. Basically, people moved away from areas like Slavonia, the bread basket of Croatia, to major cities and as such, arable land has turned back into what it had always been - forests.

And now I'm gonna sign off. I'll leave ya with the folkmeister Pete Seeger and his universal song of peace and love, "Where have all the flowers gone?" Yes, when will we ever learn...

Cry me a river

2008-10-04T00:43:00.003+02:00

I'm feeling a bit lazy today. Actually, I'm bloody tired and I didn't practise singing which has me in a bit of a crappy mood. Singing is the drug that gets me through the day - without it, I'm a complete wreck. Thank God, my dear friend Davor came over tonight which cheered me up immensely. We had a bit of my crappy cake and coffee and talked the legs off numerous chairs. Thanks for the great time Davor!

I was fiddling round on YouTube yesterday, looking for something I hadn't heard from Lady Ella and came across this. This is such a gem, I couldn't resist posting it. Don't get this sort of stuff anymore - just Ella and Joe Pass' guitar and nothing else. Except brilliance, beauty, emotion, class. No high tech production, no playback. Cried me a river listening to it. Man, I would give numerous appendages to be able to sing like this...

God bless ya Ella, hope you're singing up a storm in the clouds with ol' Satchmo!

Baby, you can drive my car

2008-10-02T21:33:00.004+02:00

I had my 11th hour of driving lessons today. You also could say that I started learning at the 11th hour. A bit old for an absolute beginner, aren't I? I sort of regret that I didn't start learning to drive early on but circumstances prevented me from that. Namely, an accident my mum had with a bus. She was driving me to school in Bankstown and was going round a corner parallel to a bus. Thing is, the bus didn't see me and my mum next to him and "crushed" us going round the corner. On my side. It wasn't anything as major as it sounds, but nonetheless, I sort of lost my appetite for driving from that moment on...and still haven't found it.

I have to admit that, so far, I hate driving. And that's an understatement. Can't think of a stronger word than hate at the moment. Too late in the day. Remember how I talked about how much I love Mondays now that I go to choir? Well, any day I have a driving lesson is a day I loathe. If hubby and the kids see me ranting and raving and storming round the house, listening to AC/DC or Lou Reed full blast, they knows that a driving lesson is looming. There are a few reasons for this. First of all, I'm totally and utterly untalented at it. I'm uncoordinated. I was never good at piano because of it. Dancing too - two left feet I've got. I can't see the "wider picture". Went through a yellow light today, for example, 'cause I looking at how fast I was going. Second of all, drivers in Zagreb are, to put it bluntly, complete and utter bastards. These are people that, for example, honk at foreigners waiting too long at a traffic light. Hey, the guy is from out of town! He doesn't know where the hell he's going! Third of all, I don't really like the idea of getting around in a car. I prefer walking, taking a tram or riding my bike. The world goes by a bit slower, get to take a better look at things, smell the roses if I want. Can't do that driving at 120km/h, can ya? And fourth of all, I don't like the idea that I'm contributing to climate change, increased pollution, spiking oil prices. I'm a drop in the ocean, I know, but lots of drops make an ocean pretty quick when you think about it.

Having said that, I would like to have the added flexibility and freedom that driving offers. No more waiting for Mr. Hubby to take me to Dolac, Zagreb's green market. Oh no. Sit in the car and I'm there in 20 minutes or so. Or choir. Or French lessons. Or coffee with a friend. Or a midnight movie. See, that's a concept I can live with. Do what I wanna do, be what I wanna be, yeaaah.

Well, we'll see how it goes. My instructor doesn't keep me for after driving "lectures" ("you did this, you didn't do that, you shoulda done this, bla, bla, bla") like he does his other pupils - which sometimes keeps me waiting a good 15 minutes for my lessons to start! So that's something positive. But maybe it's because I'm older than him and could lecture him if I wanted...don't know...might drive round to his house and ask him when I get my license...

I don't like Mondays (actually, I do!)

2008-09-30T22:17:00.003+02:00

Now, many people are gonna say I'm a total and utter nut when they read this, but Monday is one of my favourite days of the week. This wasn't always the case, especially about two years ago when I was still working at "The Firm" where non-stop pressure, deadlines and bosses breathing down your neck were the norm. No, back then, Monday was definitely not on top of my favourite days of the week list. It was number 7, just behind Sunday...

But now, I love Mondays and can't wait for them. More specifically, I can't wait for 8pm on a Monday night. 'Cause that's when choir starts.

Lots of people ask me, "how did you find out about your choir?" Well, I found out about it the same way people find out about anything these days - on the net. It was just after a holiday in Australia and I decided, I have to sing again. So I typed "tecaj pjevanje Hrvatska" (singing course Croatia) into Google and my kappellmeister and his choir were the first thing that popped up. I have to say that it's the best net discovery that I've ever made.

Our choir ain't no ordinary choir. For a start, none of us can sing to save our lives. We all sing a bit out of tune or too nasally or don't open our voices enough or whatever. No Celine Dions or Andrea Boccellis in sight. But you know what? We don't give a toss! 'Cause the beauty of our choir is that we do more than sing there. We talk, we laugh, we cringe (especially when we do solos, which our kappellmeister invariably forces us to do at least once every couple of weeks. It's definitely something that everyone should do as often as possible. Nothing better for building your self-confidence). But most importantly, we listen. And believe me, in this day and age, listening is a lost art, something that we all have to practice every so often. As our kappellmeister says, it's easier to sing a solo than to listen to someone else do it.

The exercises and singing technique are based on the work of Valborg Werbeck-Svadstrom and her book entitled "Uncovering the voice". I won't go into too much detail here, I'll just say that the exercises to the novice are more than just a bit bizarre - from the tongue exerices, where you have to sing "hrya" on four tones while slowly sticking your tongue out so that it touches your chin to singing an octave of "brr", like a horse when it whinnies, while moving your head from left to right going up the scale and from right to left going down the scale - and she felt that singing could change a person for the better. And I totally agree with her - if everyone sang just 10 minutes a day, it would do wonders for them and believe me, the world would be a much nicer place to live in!

So, if you ever happen to be on 239 Vukovar Avenue in Zagreb of a Monday night at around 10 pm and you see a group of people humming with huge smiles on their faces and a spring in their step as they make their way towards their cars or the tram stop, you'll know it's our choir.

If you want to find out more, go to http://www.orpheus.hr/index-english.htm

I see trees that are green, red roses too...

2008-09-28T23:32:00.025+02:00

Today my husband (officially!) became a Doctor of Philosophy. Now, he's had his PhD for about two years but the Uni of Zagreb decided to give him the piece of paper that he worked four long hard years for today.

The ceremony has, in the words of my daughter, become a bit "posh" of late. It used to be held at the Chancellory to an audience of zero with the PhD's attired in their, more or less, everyday workgear (nice clothes, preferably, but not necessarily, with a tie). Now the ceremony is more akin to an Illuminati/secret society meeting - perculiar hats and robes, men bearing sceptres and chains around their necks, lots of latin being spoken, pledges of obedience...but I have to admit that, despite the Illuminati overtones, I like the latter version more than the former...reminds me a bit of my graduation...sigh!

But the highlight of the day (to me anyway!) was the Chancellor's reception afterwards in the Zagreb Botanical Gardens. Now, while hubby was mingling with the Illuminati, the kids and I went off to explore the gardens. I'd been to the gardens a few times before but I hadn't been in a while. And I have to say that it was nice to be in them again. They're not gargantuan compared to Sydney (I sometimes could not actually find my way out of the Sydney Botanical Gardens!) but they are lovely nonetheless, an oasis from the hustle and bustle of the city, with inspiration for photographs in every nook and cranny. Here are a few that I took today:

Jools, ever acting the princess, waiting for her frog prince to leap out of the water...

This is the band that played today, a saxiphone quartet. They're students of the Musical Academy in Zagreb and were real cute. They played a wonderful rendition of West Side Story. I think "Officer Krupky" was their favourite - they sort of played it again and again and again...would have preferred "Tonight" or "Somewhere"...

The main lake

An exhibition of pressed leaves, something hubby did during his undergraduate days...he doesn't have fond memories of the botanical gardens 'cause he always had to sneak there and steal as many leaves as he could for his collection...woe to him when he got caught...

The pavillion with cactii and insect eating plants inside...and the Illuminati outside...

A water lily, one of my favourite flowers...apparently, it is a symbol of purity of heart

And one of my favourite photos taken today, one I entitled "flowers smiling at the sky"...

Congrats, dear hubby! Thanks for the lovely day!

Happy Birthday Davor!

2008-09-28T22:53:00.003+02:00

It's my dear, dear friend Davor's birthday today. Hope that all your dreams come true, mate! And don't forget what Richard Bach said: Bad things are not the worst things that can happen to us. Nothing is the worst thing that can happen to us.

Have a great one!!!

Plaisir d'amour

2008-09-25T22:28:00.031+02:00

One of my favourite classical (wince!) songs at the moment is "Plaisir d'amour". It's a beautiful and very moving song of lost love written in 1780 by Jean Martini (aka Johann Scwartzendorf, of all things!) to words by Jean de Florian. The song inspired Elvis Presley's "Can't help falling in love with you". I've been practising it for a while now but still can't quite "open" my voice on the high F's and G's. But, as my teacher says, it will come with time, and I know it will. I think it's a must for the CD I'm planning to record.

The lyrics of the song go like this:

Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment,
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
J'ai tout quitté pour l'ingrate Silvie,
Elle me quitte et prend un autre amans.
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment,
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
"Tant que cette eau coulera doucement
Vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie,
Je t'aimerai", me répétait Silvie.
L'eau coule encore, elle a changé pourtant.
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.

Pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
Chagrin of love is lifelong.
I left everything for the ingrate Silvie,
She leaves and takes another lover.
Pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
Chagrin of love is lifelong.
"As long as this water will run gently
Towards this brook which borders the meadow,
I will love you", repeated to me Silvie.
The water still runs, Sylvie changed, however.
Pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
Chagrin of love is lifelong.

Being the philistine I am, I only discovered it recently, a couple of months ago to be more or less exact, on my friend Davor's blog. Joan Baez did a version of it, as did Brigitte Bardot, Charlotte Church and Andrea Boccelli, among others. But my favourite version is by Nana Mouskouri (the one Davor posted). Now, I'd listened to Nana as a kid (growing up in Belmore, at that time a very heavily Greek populated suburb, it was more or less obligatory that my friends and I sat around on Saturday mornings watching "The Greek Show" where Nana made many guest appearances) but had never heard this song before.

And see, that's the beauty of blogging to me. Besides getting some personal satisfaction from writing my own blog, I get even more from reading my friends' blogs and learning something new with every post - about the world we live in, about a new song, about a new artist, and most importantly, about them. I feel privileged to be able to take a look at what's going on in their lives and get to know them better. Some of my friends are a suburb away, some are on the other side of the world. But this blogging, perverse as it sometimes may seem putting our hearts and souls "out there", is something that, even though continents apart, keeps us close together.

So without further adue, here is the lovely Nana Mouskouri singing "Plaisir d'amour". I might take her lead and sing it in D too instead of F so I don't sound like a cat in heat on those high F's and G's!

Thanks for the inspiration Davor! And thanks again Ross for inpiring me to sing anew!

A change is gonna come

2008-09-24T22:18:00.005+02:00

I listened to Otis Redding today. Now I haven't listened to Otis in at least 2 years. But I needed his earthy, soulful voice today to take the edge off. I've been feeling terribly tense and stressed out these last couple of days. See, I'm entering a very important astrological phase at the moment, an astral triad. Now don't ask me to explain what exactly it is, which planets it involves and whatnot. I just know that it's a more or less once in a lifetime occurance. This is the time to either be or not to be, it's now or never, this songbird can either spread her wings and fly or stay roosting in her nest until God knows when. And I don't feel like roosting no more.

But big steps have to be taken if I want to take flight. I know where to start - I have to contact my friends at Radio 101 to see how I can go about recording a CD. But what if they laugh their heads off when I sing with my treacly, quasi Julie Andrews voice? What if I fall flat, bang on my face? What when they ask me, what songs I wanna sing? What style? I think I can do a max of 5 - 6 songs at best. Which ones, which style, I've no bloody idea. I like a lot of stuff - jazz, classics (wince!), soul, folk, Frenchie stuff...now besides the tension in my neck and back, I'm starting to get a headache...

Then I need a pianist. Where the hell do I find one of those? I don't wanna record something with a bloody backup tape. I want the real deal. I want someone who's gonna follow my moves, who waits for my pauses, who keeps my pace. Yeah, I love how Eva, Edith and Ella do their stuff, but I don't think it's right to copy them word for word, letter for letter, note for note. Then it wouldn't be the Knitting Songbird singing, it would be a very, extremely, horribly bad imitation of some pretty phenomenal women! But who's gonna want to accompany my treacly voice?

So yeah, I've got the tension, I've got the headache, I know I could fall flat bang on my face, but I know that if I don't do it now, I'll never do it, I just know it, astral triad or not. I'm bloody 37 years old, for Christ's sake! And I'll always think of what could have been. This songbird needs to dust off her wings, she needs to fly, she needs to sing no matter what...a change has gotta come, man...

And here's the wonderful, fabulous, king of soul himself, Otis Redding. Yeah, I like Sam Cooke's version of this song best, but Otis does a pretty bloody good version too!

Take care,
The Knitting Songbird

Stuff - no comment

2008-09-23T22:47:00.004+02:00

I ain't gonna write anything today. All I'm gonna do is reaaaally urge you to watch this video. Fascinating but bloody scary stuff...where the hell are we going, man, I wanna know...?

Please pass this on to your friends, colleagues, family, everyone you know...we really need to change our consumer oriented societies and buy less stuff...especially stuff we don't need...

http://www.storyofstuff.com/

Take care and think about your stuff,
The Knitting Songbird

Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner (Lord Byron)

2008-09-22T23:22:00.009+02:00

My husband tells me quite often that I have too much time on my hands - too much time to think about silly things! One silly thing that I thought about recently was - which meal would I request on my death bed? There's sooo much good food out there, what would I like to be the last taste to transport me from this world to the next? And I would have to answer moules frites (or steamed mussels with chips) - followed by some cheese and, of course, some chocolate for desert! Nothing gets my taste buds going more than moules frites.

I'll never forget the first time I had them. It was about 4 or 5 years ago and the company I work for was going through a re-branding process. There was a whole plethora of things to re-brand, from office stationary to brochures to the web to shops to name tags. You name it, it had to be re-branded - and there was looooots. One of the items that I was responsible for re-branding was boxes. So we asked our purchasing department to put out a tender and together with them would choose the best bidder. We chose a bidder from Rovinj, a lovely picturesque town on the Istrian coast of Croatia. I was to go there with our advertising agency in order to overlook the printing process and approve the first print-outs. There were over a dozen boxes to be printed and each one had to be approved. Now, if you know what the printing process consists of, you would know that this was going to be a very long day and night. We ended up working from 12pm until 7 am the next day, without a wink of sleep and only a break for dinner. As it was my first time in town I asked the guys from the printing house to choose something for me for dinner. I was too bloody tired to choose anything anyway! Well, we went for a walk to a nearby konoba (the simple explanation for konoba would be restaurant but the proper meaning is much more complicated than that. Croatians even write songs about their favourite konoba, they're sacred places!) and they chose moules frites. Now, I'd never had shellfish before, was always a bit too chicken to try it out really, and the first thought that went through my head was "They don't expect me to eat this, do they???" They did, and I didn't want to be a bad guest by refusing. Let's just say that after that first timid taste I was hooked for life and never looked back.

Maybe my husband is right - maybe I do have too much time on my hands to think about silly things! But when I think of moues frites, it reminds of lots of lovely times I've had. Like when I had some with my dearest friend Maro in a lovely French restaurant in Sydney (I think the restaurant was called "Sel et Poivre" - correct me if I'm wrong Maro!) or when Ivan and I went to Paris a few years back and had some at a little brasserie just off Notre Dame (where the waiter was soooo horribly rude) or when Davor and I had some in Saint Malo (totally disappointed with the city but the moules frites knocked our socks off allright!) Think it was one of, if not the, best meal we had on our recent trip.

So requesting moules frites as my last supper is more than a final, worldly taste experience, rather, a remembrance of wonderful times had with lots of very special people.

If you feel like giving it a whirl at home, it ain't hard at all to make. And tastes absolutely scrumdidiliumpcious (in the words of Willy Wonka!)

Moules frites (serves 4 - depends on your appetite!)

2 kg mussels - cleaned, scrubbed, beards removed
50g butter
1 large onion - thinly sliced
1 clove garlic - thinly sliced
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon dried thyme
2 glasses white wine
Salt, pepper
A bit of chopped parsley

Melt the butter in a large, heavy bottomed pot with a tight fitting lid. Add the onion and garlic and fry until translucent. Add the wine, herbs, salt and pepper and bring to the boil. Add the mussels, put the lid on and "steam" for 5 - 7 minutes.

In the meantime, make the chips (if you don't feel like eating or making chips, bread's a good way to go too!).

Place the mussels and liquid in large bowls (discard any mussels that haven't opened), sprinkle over the parsley and serve with chips or bread on the side for dipping into the liquid.

Here are a couple of photos of Saint Malo. I say we were a bit disappointed with it but it was only because it was almost completely devoid of life (i.e., people!). Looking back, I wouldn't mind going there again, but maybe when the weather's a bit nicer and during the day when there's a bit more hustle and bustle...

Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination when awake?

2008-09-21T22:55:00.011+02:00

That's what Leonardo said and I have to say, I agree with him. My friend Ross recently wrote a lovely post about an equally lovely dream he had which got me thinking about dreams...

I've always been a great believer in dreams and the way they can predict a person's future, that the unconscious can materialise in the consious life. Take after my mum in that respect. She can tell you what's gonna happen by interpreting your dream. For example, dreaming of fish means worries ahead, murky waters mean illness, falling means you're struggling with some kind of problem. She's very spiritual and always has a dream before something major happens, or after the fact if she hadn't known about it beforehand. Like when my aunt died recently - she dreamt of the house where she was born. I sometimes have that gift, but not to the degree that she does...I sometimes dream about people I haven't seen or heard from in donkey's years and then they mysteriously materialise in my waking life a day or so later...

I Googled to see which famous people, other than Joseph's dream of the 7 fat and 7 thin cows and Joseph's dream of the baby Jesus being slaughtered by Emperor Augustus, had dreams which changed or predicted their future...here are some interesting ones I found...

Giuseppe Tartini wrote one of his greatest works "The Devil's Trill" as a result of one of his dreams. In his dream, he handed his violin to the devil who began, as Tartini says " to play with consummate skill a sonata of such exquisite beauty as surpassed the boldest flights of my imagination. I felt enraptured, transported, enchanted; my breath was taken away, and I awoke." He then took to his violin and tried to write down the notes he heard in his dream. He says it was the best piece he ever wrote but far below par to the music the devil played in his dream...

Then there's the dream that Adolf Hitler had in a trench in WWI. He dreamed of himself and his fellow soldiers being engulfed by earth and molten metal. He awoke and left the trench. While he was away the trench was hit by a shell and the other soldiers killed. So a seemingly simple dream can change the entire course of human history...

Another dream that changed the course of human history was one that Albert Einstein had. Apparently, his theory of relativity was inspired by a dream whereby he was going down a mountainside ever faster, watching the appearance of the stars change as he approached the speed of light. I don't know if I can really believe that story, but that's what the worldwide web says...

The eeriest dream, and possibly the most famous one dreamt by someone other than the two Josephs, was Abraham Lincoln's dream where he predicts his own death. Here's what he wrote: "There seemed to be death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. It was light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, some gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. "Who is dead in the White House?" I demanded of one of the soldiers "The President" was his answer; "he was killed by an assassin! Then came a loud burst of grief form the crowd, which awoke me from my dream. " Pretty freaky, eh...?

I had a great dream a couple of months ago. Nothing special some might say, but very special to me. I was lying in bed with a friend and our heads were on a pillow together, with our temples meeting - not face to face, but side to side, looking at the ceiling together, with, funnily enough, our bodies far apart. Nothing life changing, nothing you could see in a crystal ball, but I felt so happy when I woke up after that dream. Because, when I thought about it later, that dream is an interpretation of not just that particular friendship but of all my friendships - a meeting of the minds. And that is the fulfillment of one of the most important dreams you can have - having people you can share your thoughts with, who can share their thoughts with you, who understand you, who know what you're feeling and thinking without either of you uttering a sound. As Richard Bach said "your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years."

I'll leave ya with a song. "I have a dream" - not by Abba but by Nana. Makes me wanna close my eyes and daydream away...what a voice...

Sweet dreams, y'all,
The Knitting Songbird

Breakfast in bed

2008-09-16T22:20:00.018+02:00

I have to say that I think that breakfasts in bed are highly overrated. Well, this is coming from a person who has never had a real proper breakfast in bed - you know, with a nice cuppa, some jam, butter and toast, a rose in a vase, all brought to you on a lovely tray by a special someone. The only breakfast I've ever had in bed was in hospital so I don't really delight at the idea at all!

But the best breakfast I've ever had in my life so far took place last Sunday, just before Davor and I left Bretagne for Paris. Just for me, Davor did a large U-y (that's u-turn to people not from Oz :) and took us to Nantes. Nantes is a lovely city (not that we saw much of it) but the reason he took me there was because of a brasserie called La Cigale. Many might be thinking that doing a 100 or so kilometre u-y is nuts but once you've seen La Cigale, you'll know that it is not such a nutty idea after all. Because as Jean-Louis Trintagnant put it, Brasserie La Cigale is "perhaps the most beautiful brasserie in the world". I would correct him and say IT IS the most beautiful brasserie in the world!

The brasserie was named after the fable "The Ant and the Grasshopper", as La Cigale means grasshopper in English. If you don't know the story, it goes like this:

In a field one summer's day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart's content. An Ant walked by, grunting as he carried a plump kernel of corn.

"Where are you off to with that heavy thing?" asked the Grasshopper.

Without stopping, the Ant replied, "To our ant hill. This is the third kernel I've delivered today."

"Why not come and sing with me," said the Grasshopper, "instead of working so hard?"

"I am helping to store food for the winter," said the Ant, "and think you should do the same."

"Why bother about winter?" said the Grasshopper; "we have plenty of food right now."

But the Ant went on its way and continued its work.

The weather soon turned cold. All the food lying in the field was covered with a thick white blanket of snow that even the grasshopper could not dig through. Soon the Grasshopper found itself dying of hunger.

He staggered to the ants' hill and saw them handing out corn from the stores they had collected in the summer.
Then the Grasshopper knew:

It is best to prepare for the days of necessity.

Neat story, a bit of a sign of the times, don't ya think...? The French say it was written by La Fontaine but it was originally written by Aesop...that's the French for ya...in any case, if there was ever a palace of pleasure for us lazy two-legged grasshoppers, La Cigale is it.

It was built on April 1st, 1895 in Art Nouveau style by the Nantes architect-ceramist Emile Libaudiere (you can tell the guy was a ceramist because the walls are full of a myriad of tiles, each one different and more colourful than the rest). The brasserie quickly became a haunt to the bourgeois of Nantes, who liked to rub shoulders with the pretty actresses and dancers of the nearby theatre, and was also a favourite brasserie of the French surrealists, notably Andre Breton. It was classed a National Monument in 1964 and was featured as the backdrop in a number of films. However, it fell into oblivion until 1982 when it was completely renovated and is now on every tourist map for visitors to Nantes. My pictures don't do it justice so watch out for Davor's ones when he uploads them on his site (http://www.cromagnon.blogerhr/). Here are a couple just to give you an idea of what I'm talking about:

Many will say when they read this that the breakfast we had was nothing special - copious, but not special - a croissant, a pain au chocolat, a brioche, some toast, 3 types of jams (including a creme de caramel au beurre sale and some organic apple jam), a glass of OJ and a chocolat chaud. But oooh, the chocolat chaud was made with Valrhona chocolate (my absolute favourite...I can still taste it now!) and the creme de caramel was to DIE FOR. It was all just magnifique. And eating breakfast in those kinds of surroundings was just surreal.

If you feel like trying some creme de caramel au beurre sale, it's dead easy to make, you just need a bit of patience (important when it comes to making caramel) and time. But believe me, it's time well spent. And when the house starts smelling of the most delicious caramel, let me know if you can stop at eating just one jar at a time...one lady commented to this recipe, "je ne veux pas savoir combien de calories il y a pour une cuillère" or I don't wanna know how many calories are in one spoon. I totally agree with her - I'd rather not know!!!

For one 250 ml jar:

240g sugar

80 ml water

100g salted or demi-salted butter

150 ml milk

Over a low heat, melt the sugar with the water. Add the butter once the sugar has melted. Boil until it turns a light brown/caramel colour. Take of the heat and add the cold milk. Stir the mixture until it becomes smooth. Bring to the boil again and cook for another 10 or so minutes until it becomes a honey consistency. Put into a jar and let cool.

If you want a creme de caramel au beurre sale au chocolat (or in other words, A TOTAL SUGAR BOMB!), add 100g of chocolate to the caramel after having added the milk.

Bon appetit and, like I've already said, enjoy a little something everyday,

The Knitting Songbird

PS Thanks again for brekkie Davor :)

The Emerald City

2008-09-15T22:26:00.010+02:00

They call Paris the City of Lights. I could see why last Sunday when Davor and I went to the top of Tour Montparnasse at circa 11 pm and saw the city in all of its flaming glory. We even made it to see the Eiffel Tower "twinkle" (it "twinkles" every hour on the hour until 12 am, a bit of a tourist gimmick but it gets me every time). And this year la tour is an electric shade of blue each night (when it's not "twinkling"!) to commemorate France presiding the EU. In a word, it was all so breathtaking.

But I have to say that to me, Paris is the city of parks. I haven't travelled that much, but Paris has to have, in my opinion, the most beautiful parks in the world. The Tuileries, the Palais Royal, the Palais Luxembourg. But a park/museum that I discovered on this trip was the Musee Rodin. Davor had been there before and recommended I go there while he went to the Musee d'Armee next door at Les Invalides. Now, I've never been a particular fan of Rodin. Yeah, his Thinker's cool, the Kiss is nice and Balzac's a bit of a laugh. But when I saw his works up close, I have to say that they really knocked my socks off - I couldn't believe that slabs of metal could exhude such emotion. But it wasn't only the works, it was the surroundings they were housed in that really blew me away. I could have stayed there all day, it was all just too beautiful. Here are a few pics for ya:

And here's my favourite photo of Paris from this trip, taken in another park on the other side of the city. This photo could have been taken anywhere in the world but this little one is a very special Parisien I noticed in the Palais Royal park on our second day. I couldn't resist him and won't ever forget him. May he always soar high over The Emerald City. And here's hoping we meet again...

Caro mio ben

2008-09-14T15:51:00.004+02:00

I'm feeling a bit lazy today and will just copy-paste a lovely video for ya all to watch. It's one of my favorite "classical" songs, although I wince at the word "classical" because it's actually baroque...and it's sung by one of my favourite "classical" (wince!) singers, Cecelia Bartoli. I'll write a list of my favourite "classical" (wince!) pieces one of these days...

This one's for mio Giovanni, take care in Vienna.

BTW, if you've got a bit of time, check out Cecelia's "Alleluia" by Mozart. It's truly amazing!

Caro mio ben (My dear beloved)
Giuseppe Giordani
English line-by-line translation © John Glenn Paton

Caro mio ben,
My dear beloved,

Credimi almen,
believe me at least,

Senza di te languisce il cor.
without you my heart languishes.

Il tuo fedel
Your faithful one

Sospira ognor.
always sighs;

Cessa, crudel,
cease, cruel one,

Tanto rigor!
so much punishment!

Caro mio ben,
My dear beloved,

Credimi almen,
believe me at least,

Senza di te languisce il cor.
without you my heart languishes.

A few of my favourite things

2008-09-13T22:09:00.008+02:00

I don't know about you, but I've been feeling a bit more negativity both within myself and without at the moment. Now, I'm not normally a negative person, at least I try not to be, but you may have seen my blog the other day entitled "Killing me softly". Then one of my dear friends broke up with his love and has been feeling wretched ever since. Another friend had a nasty incident with his fence and has been feeling a bit anxious about it. My son's gone a bit more nutso than usual. Lots of bad karma around at the moment it seems...

So to cheer myself up, I started singing a bit tonight. Nothing special, just a few Eva Cassidy songs like always ("The Water is Wide", "Dark Eyed Molly", "Songbird", "People Get Ready" are a few favourites I like to sing to the kiddies). And like always, Eva did her trick and worked wonders for me.

And I thought, man, I've never made a list of favourite songs ever. I mean, what are my favourite songs ever? Would it even be possible for me to make a list out of the plethora of wonderful music out there? But I thought, hey, I'm up for a challenge, let's give it a try and see where I go. So here I go!

1. Everything by Eva Cassidy: picking a favourite Eva Cassidy song would be like picking which of my children is my favourite - impossible! The woman was just amazing: she could sing jazz, pop, country, folk, soul...you name it, she did it - and absofuckinglutely fabulously! She's my guiding star when it comes to singing, no comes even close to her.

2. "Ne me quitte pas" and "La chanson des vieux amants" by Jacques Brel: yeah, I know I'm cheating a bit here, putting two songs at number 2, but it's hard to say which is better. Both full of guttwrenching heart and soul, ils sont magnifiques!

3. "A Change is Gonna Come" by Sam Cooke: the first version I heard of this was by Aretha, which I also adore. But I have to say that I prefer the, as we say in Croatian, "origigi" or the original version. I get shivers up my spine every time I hear it by both artists...

4. "L'hymne a l'Amour" by Edith Piaf: now, as you can see by the list so far, I don't go for singers that don't give their 100% when they sing. This woman gave about 500%. She apparently wrote the song as a tribute to the man she considered the love of her life, the French boxer Marcel Cerdan, who died in a plane crash in 1949. And it's just hauntingly beautiful...

5. "Everywhere I go" by Pink Martini: if you're happily in love, listen to this song. If you've just gone out of love, involuntarily, avoid it at all costs...just kidding! Listen to it, it's be-au-ti-ful.

6. "Les Feuilles Mortes" by Yves Montand: ah, what can I say that I haven't said before? I wrote about this song in a previous post, it's just tres, tres as my dear friend would say.

7. "Jesen stize, dunjo moja" by Zvonko Bogdan: or, in English, "Autumn's coming, my quince". Doesn't have quite the same romantic ring to it like it does in Croatian! And I bet my Croatian friends are laughing their heads off 'cause I like Zvonko. But to me, he rocks!

8. "Do Nothing 'til You Hear from Me" by Ella Fitzgerald: this woman was one of my very early influences at uni. She had the most amazing voice, and could even do scat which is not the easiest genre to sing. And even though Billy Holiday is considered by many to be better than "Lady Ella", I prefer to disagree.

9. "You're Gonna Hear from Me" by Vince Jones: ah, man, I remember the very day I bought his first album. It was at a second hand fair we had every second Thursday at uni. And I've loved the man ever since. Not sure how much the record cost but it was worth every single cent. And I love this song 'cause it's an anthem to all us underdogs out there!

10. Everything by The Beatles: okay, maybe not everything, but how can you choose your favourite Beatles' song??? Can you? C'est impossible!

I have to say I feel a lot of negativity has gone having written this, feeling much better now! Funny the effect making a simple list can have on ya. But it's not that, it's thinking about all the wonderful music out there that's made me feel better. What a powerful effect music has on us...but that's another story, and another post!

I'll leave you with my fave, Eva, singing "What a Wonderful World" live. 'Cause, really, when you think about it, it truly is. BTW, the woman is singing this with a cold. I wish I could sing like this feeling perfectly healthy!!!

A bon appetit il ne faut point de sauce (a good appetite doesn't need sauce)

2008-09-12T15:20:00.010+02:00

Now, anyone who's a serious foodie knows that French cuisine is the greatest in the world. And who am I to disagree with them? But I'd never really experienced true French cuisine up to now. Yeah, I've been to Paris before and some of the food I had was truly exquisite (creme brulee in particular!). And I like to cook the occasional French specialty. But Paris and my kitchen ain't France. If you want to really experience the country, you gotta get out of the city and go to the sticks. And that's exactly what Davor and I did.

So after an exhausting day and night of travelling (we left Zagreb at 5am and arrived at our first hotel at 2 am the next day. It was almost as if we had travelled to Australia!), we hopped to it and went to Dinon, Bretagne. Dinon is a charming place, one of my favourites on our trip, and we had a lovely time there, walking around, taking photos, breathing in the atmosphere. But as the day went on, we began to get the munchies. So we went to the nearest restaurant that had a spare table (we had to go to at least three before we found an empty one!). Now, Bretagne is not only home to the most marvellous seafood in the world but also to crepes. So while Davor ordered a seafood salad, I ordered a crepe with, what else, but cheese. And man, was it good!

But the best part (for me anyway!) was dessert. You all know I have a very sweet tooth and love my chocolate. But there's a whole plethora of sweets that I love, and I would have to say that macarons are in the top 5 (my friend Davor will never understand why...). I felt like a schoolkid in a candy store when I saw that myriad of colours staring at me from the pattisserie - white, cream, brown, pink, purple, red, blue. How could I choose??? So I did the typical Mary thing and had a chocolate one and a raspberry one. Mmm, my mouth is watering at the thought of them...

Like I said, Dinon was one of my favourite places that we visited in Bretagne. Here are some snapshots to show you why. Hope you enjoy them:

Killing me softly

2008-09-11T18:58:00.017+02:00

Roberta Flack was, to me, one of the great performers of the 20th century, someone with such amazing emotional depth, a true rarity in our day and age. Who cannot be touched by "First time ever I saw your face", "You've got a friend" or "Killing me softly"? "Killing me softly" is particularly a song in point. But now when I think about the song, it brings a bit of a smile to my face - Davor and I driving from Bono to Paris via Chenonceau, listening to Radio Nostalgie, singing in our worst voices ever, cringing our faces and laughing our heads off.

But isn't it strange the effect words can have on us? When you really think about it, words are just a group of vowels and consonents grouped in syllables and phrases and sentences. Don't amount to much really. And yet, what joy and sadness they can bring, how they can make you laugh or "kill you softly", some words can even completely change your life. Roberta put the whole word effect phenomena across quite well:

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly, with his song

I have to say that it was fascinating travelling and listening to the different words and languages around us - the lilting French, the undeviating Czech, the highbrow British, the throaty Spanish, the melodious Welsh, the almost aria-like Italian. Each language so different and yet all with the same capability of bringing joy or sadness.

Yes, words, funny things they are, things that are very often underestimated. The pen is mightier than the sword they say, and I have to agree. I was told lately that my friend should be paid for having put up with me for 6 days in France, among other things. Talk about killing me softly! The Dalai lama once said "think fast, talk slow". How true. I think we all need to slow down a bit and think about what we say, despite this "get it done yesterday" world...because even though sticks and stones may break our bones, words have an even more profound effect on us...

Well, got nothing more to say for now, no more words left, expect the words of the language we all know and love, that of Mother Nature, in Quiberon, Bretagne, France...take your time and enjoy...

A river runs through it

2008-09-11T11:33:00.010+02:00

I have to say that I have a love-hate relationship with water. Most of the places I love most have a lovely sea front or a river that run through them. I grew up in the city with the world's most beautiful harbour, my favourite city has the River Seine trickling through it, the place where my mum grew up is where the Kupa River, one of Croatia's longest, has its source. I love long hot baths and showers, adore looking at waves crashing the ocean, walking over bridges, throwing pennies into fountains.

The hate part of the relationship comes from circa 1978 when I was learning to swim at Canterbury Pools and almost drowned. It was only when I came to Croatia 16 years ago that I stepped back into the water but still feel a bit of a chill up my spine every time I do. So I love looking at water but have a bad time getting into it. Wonder what the shrinks would say to that...

Anyways, the first stop on my recent trip to France was Prague. As my friend Davor said, it was a lovely aperitif to the wonderful meal ahead. I'd never thought of Prague as a place I'd like to see. I'm more into Mediterranean countries like France, Spain and Italy. But I have to say that Prague completely knocked my socks off. But if you pressed me to tell you what it was I loved so much about Prague I wouldn't be able to tell you. There was no specific "thing" that particularly "blew me away". It was simply the whole atmosphere that struck me.

The Vltava River, with its amazing Charles Bridge and swans searching for tourists' scraps, the Old Town Square with its quaint revolving church bell that strikes every hour, the puppet, babushka and souvenir shops that sell proper handmade Czech goods, the cafes offering Czech specialties like medenka (honey cake), babka (walnut cake) or the infamous absinthe.

But I think the thing that struck me most about Prague was the fact that it was like a home away from home - so similar to Zagreb and yet so new and fresh. It's definitely a place I'd like to get to know better. I hope I will.

Old Town Square

Town Hall in Art Nouveau style

A view of Charles Bridge

A swan

A bientot, chers amis!

2008-09-02T00:15:00.004+02:00

Or, until soon dear friends. Veeery early on Wednesday morning my friend Davor and I are off to France, more specifically Bretagne and Paris. So upon our return, I'm sure to have lots to write about. Until then, here's the original and the best version of "La Mer" by Charles Trenet. Just beautiful...the American version has absolutely nothing on it...

A bientot la mer, et a bientot chers amis,
L'oiseau chantant qui tricot (The Knitting Songbird in French:)

A tune

2008-09-01T00:33:00.003+02:00

I heard tonight that one of my very dear friends broke up with his love. I dedicate this post to him. May your heart mend soon dear friend, you're in my thoughts...

A tune
by Arthur Symons

A foolish rhythm turns in my idle head
As a wind-mill turns in the wind on an empty sky.
Why it is when love, which men call deathless, is dead,
That memory, men call fugitive, will not die?
Is love not dead? yet I hear that tune if I lie
Dreaming awake in the night on my lonely bed,
And an old thought turns with the old tune in my head
As a wind-mill turns in the wind on an empty sky.

Can't help falling in love with you

2008-08-31T23:19:00.005+02:00

My favourite episode of Jamie Oliver's "Oliver's Twist" series is simply entitled "Chocolate". The plot is as follows: Jamie and his wife are celebrating their wedding anniversary but have no one to look after their 4 month old daughter. So Jamie cons some chicks from his restaurant to babysit her in return for some chocolate goodies that he concocts in front of us. The recipes are typically Jamie - easy and absolutely delish. During the episode, the girls are asked why they like eating chocolate so much and one of them simply replies "because eating chocolate is like falling in love". And I completely agree with her.

Here's what Wikipedia says about chocolate and the love aspect: "Romantic lore commonly identifies chocolate as an aphrodisiac. The reputed aphrodisiac qualities of chocolate are most often associated with the simple sensual pleasure of its consumption. Additionally, chocolate's sweet and fatty nature may stimulate the hypothalamus, inducing pleasureable sensations as well as affecting the levels of serotonin. While serotonin has a pleasurable effect, in high concentrations it can be converted to melatonin which in large amounts reduces sexual drive. Finally, chocolate has been shown to contain unsaturated N-acylethanolamines which might activate cannabinoid receptors or increase endocannabinoid levels resulting in heightened sensitivity and euphoria. Although there is no firm proof that chocolate is indeed an aphrodisiac, a gift of chocolate is a familiar courtship ritual."

So there's no hard and fast evidence that eating chocolate is like falling in love. But read again the following sentence from the above extract: "The reputed aphrodisiac qualities of chocolate are most often associated with the simple sensual pleasure of its consumption." That to me sums up everything we do in life for pleasure. A scientist can't tell you what makes you feel good and not so good, what music to listen to and what to avoid, what and who to love and not to love. It's your gut instinct that tells you, your heart, there's little or no logical or scientific explanation to it. Personally, I think that although logic is all well and good, too much logic can keep us away from the people and things we love most and sometimes, instead of thinking it helps us can hinder us. We should start listening to hearts and guts more instead of our heads.

So go out and buy yourself the best bar of chocolate you can (I can recommend Lindt or Valrhona), sit somewhere nice and comfortable and have a piece or two. Or have some chocolate ice cream. Or go for a walk. Or ride your bike. Or read a book. Or strum your guitar. Or listen to some music you like. Or phone or visit a friend. Or write a blog. Whatever you do, do something you like that makes you feel good. It may not seem logical to you or the people you know, but who cares? It'll do wonders for you.

If you have a bit more free time on your hands, and you like cooking like me, here's a recipe from the "Chocolate" episode that's just divine - chocolate sundaes.

Mmmmm...all this talking about chocolate has given me a bad case of the munchies...I'm off to have a piece of Valrhona pecan chocolate...yum!

Talk soon,
The Knitting Songbird

It was seven days ago today

2008-08-31T23:00:00.000+02:00

Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Oh man, didn't I (and still do) love that album. I'll never forget when I first bought it. It was 1988, I was a hormone infested Year 12 pupil and "it was twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play". To celebrate the 20th anniversary of its original release they re-released it as a limited edition red vinyl LP. And being a mega Beatles fan I just had to have it. But I wasn't the only one and had to reserve my copy from the record store near my school. Thankfully, they knew me well and said "no prob, bob!". What bliss it was holding it in my hand and then playing it on my record player...I played it over and over again, knew all the words off by heart, could dissect almost all the millenia of E major scales in "A day in the life", laughed at some of the songs and stopped and pondered others...

And so time goes on and this year marks 40 years since its original release. Sergeant Pepper has "been going in and out of style" since then and apparently the album's not as highly rated as it once was...which makes me think of my blog. "You're such a lovely audience", but I think I'm a bit of a bore and am considering giving up. It's been seven days since I started this blog and I've received a few comments, both good and bad. But like Julia Roberts says in "Pretty Woman", it's easier to remember the bad stuff. But then a friend and fellow blogster said "why should you care what other people think?", which is absolutely true. And so, I've decided to stick to it...for now...

Anyways, here's a great song from the album, one of my faves, written by the "quiet Beatle", George Harrison, "Within you without you". And the lyrics hold true for all of us, this blogster included - "Try to realize it's all within yourself, No-one else can make you change, And to see you're really only very small, And life flows on within you and without you". RIP George...

I have a dream

2008-08-30T10:53:00.000+02:00

Who can forget the inimitable Abba, the, to me, ultimate Euro pop band, the band that entered the scene like a supernova way back in 1972. I have to admit that I'm not embarrassed to admit that I loved them and still do. There was a period when it was uncool to admit you liked Abba and suppressed the feeling but then "Muriel's Wedding" came out and all those old childhood memories came flooding back - me with my pigtails, in my kneehigh Abba socks, cycling circles around Belmore Park. And I started listening to them again.

I think that one of the first albums I put on my record player as a child was an Abba album. I can't for the life of me remember the name of it but I know it was black and the band members were in a kind of "circle", girls standing at the back, boys kneeling in front. I liked Frida 'cause she was dark haired like me and was always, even though she usually sang lead vocals, seemed "second best" to Agnetha who was "the girl with golden hair", the pretty one. I didn't have golden hair and most certainly was never the pretty one, far from it, so Frida was a hero.

They mixed so many styles - from disco in "Dancing Queen" or "Waterloo" to the latin-esque in "Fernando" to moving ballads like "I have a dream" or "One of us". During their "out" period I dismissed their song writing as dumb, crass, bubblegum stuff. But listening to them now, I have to say that that perception is totally wrong. I mean, who could compare a break up to Napolean's ultimate downfall or a soldier in the Mexican revolution or sending out an SOS like Abba did? And compared to today's pop standards, Bjorn and Benny were bloody Mozart and Beethoven!

Way back when, I liked the high energy stuff, "Mamma mia" and "Ring, ring" were my favourites. But I now prefer the more "high brow" stuff, if you can call an Abba song that!!! Two of my favourite songs nowadays are "I have a dream" and "Thank you for the music", in particular the latter. Although I'm not the "girl with the golden hair" or "have a talent", the song rings so true to me. The lyrics go like this:

I'm nothing special, in fact Im a bit of a bore
If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
cause everyone listens when I start to sing
I'm so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud

Refrain:
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk
She says I began to sing long before I could talk
And I've often wondered, how did it all start?
Who found out that nothing can capture a heart
Like a melody can?
Well, whoever it was, I'm a fan

Refrain

I've been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair
I wanna sing it out to everybody
What a joy, what a life, what a chance!

Now, it would be a huge lie to say "I have a talent" 'cause I don't. But I don't think that's the entire point. Nothing can capture my heart like a melody can. And so, I'm gonna try and make my dream come true 'cause as Abba says "If you see the wonder of a fairy tale you can take the future even if you fail".

Why not give it a try even if I do fail? We learn from our mistakes, don't we? And isn't life too short not to go after your dreams? So when I come back from France in a week and a bit, I'm gonna write an email to my friends at 101 and see how I can go about recording a CD. I know I ain't gonna be an Eva or Ella or Edith but hey, I can be a Mary, can't I? Will keep you posted :)

And here's the song:

Take care and go after your dreams,
The Knitting Songbird

Un homme qui n'aime pas le fromage ne peut etre bien au lit

2008-08-28T16:04:00.001+02:00

Or, in English, A man who does not like cheese can't be good in bed. At least, that's what Collette said. I can't say I agree or disagree but I have to say that I don't understand people who don't like cheese. Not Kraft Philedelphia or prepacked sliced cheese or stuff that tastes like rubber in your mouth, but proper, unpasteurised, mouth watering, real cheese.

I adore the stuff and could live off it - aged, young, smelly, creamy, piquant, I love them all. Unfortunately, growing up in Australia there wasn't much of a choice when it came to good quality cheese except at the local Italian deli. I never understood why my mum always bought farmer's cheese for her strudels and cheese filled pancakes from them instead of the mass produced cream cheese from the local Franklins. But I do now - buy the best, from the best.

I think I became a food snob and put Italy number 1 on my cheese map because of that humble little Italian deli. Now don't get me wrong, I love French, Swiss, Dutch, Norwegian, Croatian, etc. cheeses but nothing gets me going like Grana Padano, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Gorgonzola, Provolone, Peccorino, Marscapone, Mozzarella di Buffala...

As an ode to good old Italian cheeses, here's a little recipe I came across recently. Don't know if it'll help the libido or improve your technique but it'll sure get the taste buds going! And do buy PDO or in Italian DOC/DOP cheeses - they may cost a bit more but they'll be worth your money.

Risotto quattro formaggi

1 onion
1 clove garlic
2 tablespoons olive oil
50g butter
1 sprig rosemary
500g rice
1 glass white wine
1 1/2 litres stock (preferably chicken or vegetable)
50g each fontina, gorgonzola dolce, marscapone (crumbled), parmigiano-reggiano (grated)
Salt, fresh ground pepper

Fry the onion and garlic in the heated oil and butter. When softened add the rosemary and stir a bit, then add the rice and stir until it turns glossy. After this, add the wine. Once the wine has evaporated, add half the stock and slowly add more as necessary. When the rice is almost ready, stir in all the cheeses except the parmigiano-reggiano. When done, stir in the the parmigiano-reggiano and salt and pepper to taste. Take off the heat and put a tight fitting lid on for a minute or so, then serve. It should be very rich and very creamy...

Buon apetito,
The Knitting Songbird

PS Australia has thankfully come a loooong way when it comes to cheese making since the 1970's and 1980's when I was growing up. In fact, some cheeses can compare to the greats, in particular King Island cheeses from Tasmania. If you ever happen to come across them, do give them a try, they're heavenly!

Let other folks make money faster

2008-08-27T23:30:00.000+02:00

Don't ask me why but while I was practising my singing yesterday I decided to take out an old book from my uni years and came across a song I sung for my 5th Grade AMEB exam. It's called Linden Lea by R. Vaughan Williams. The melody is deceptively simple (deceptively, because it's always the simple melodies that are the hardest to get across emotionally), almost like a hymn, and is very lovely and moving. This is the best version I could find on Youtube:

But when I gave it a try (and failed miserably after not having sung it for 16 odd years!), it was the words that touched me most. They go like this:

Within the woodlands, flow'ry gladed
By the oak trees' mossy moot
The shining grass blades, timber shaded
Now do quiver underfoot
And birds do whistle overhead
And water's bubbling in its bed
And there for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea

When leaves, that lately were aspringing
Now do fade within the copse
And painted birds do hush their singing
Up upon the timber tops
And brown leaved fruit's a turning red
In cloudless sunshine overhead
With fruit for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea

Let other folk make money faster
In the air of darkroom'd towns
I don't need a peevish master
Though no man may heed my frowns
I be free to go abroad
Or take again my homeward road
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea

The text was written by the Dorset poet William Barnes in the 1840's/1850's (not sure of the exact date) who wrote a lot of poetry in the Dorset dialect. As Wikipedia says "Barnes's poems are characterised by a singular sweetness and tenderness of feeling, deep insight into humble country life and character, and an exquisite feeling for local scenery" which holds very true for Linden Lea.

Not one to give up so easily, I gave it a try again today and it turned out better than yesterday. I would be so bold as to say that it turned out better than it did 16 odd years ago. Unfortunately, my voice isn't as lovely and supple as it was then, just like the rest of me (singing an open high A was a piece of cake, now I can just baaaarely get an open E flat out) and the notes do sometimes sound a bit forced, but I think I get the words across better than I did then.

I was always environmentally aware - you know, recycling stuff, saving water, I was born on Earth Day after all! - but I now understand our connection to nature more deeply. My dream now isn't to have an apartment somewhere in the North Shore overlooking the Opera House and Harbour Bridge as it was then, rather, a little wooden cottage, somewhere in Gorski Kotar with a vegetable patch, an orchard and some bees to call my own, somewhere where I can put my ear to the ground and listen to my veggies and fruit growing.

Yeah, I know, I'm a typcial baka (granny)!!!

Now go for a nice walk somewhere instead of being on the net :)
The Knitting Songbird

Love me tender

2008-08-27T22:32:00.000+02:00

It's funny where you can find inspiration. I was walking across the field behind my house today and saw a plethora of butterflies fluttering by, orange, blue, yellow, white, without seemingly a care in the world and was totally mesmerised. I had to stop and take a longer look. So long I was almost late for my bus! But I just adore butterflies and couldn't resist. And I knew that my friend Davor who I was meeting up with would understand if I were late because I was watching butterflies. That's the kinda guy he is.

But most of all, people inspire me. Eva Cassidy, Ella Fitzgerald, Edith Piaf, Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, Vince Jones, Nana Mouskouri, Freddie Mercury, Jim Morrison, Valborg Werbeck-Svardstrom, Bach, Mozart, Schubert, Che Guevara, Lorca, Frida Kahlo, Magritte, ...the list goes on and on. They've all touched my life in their own special way. But the people who inspire me most are the people I know, my family and friends. I look at them as jewels in this crown we call life, each of them making my day dazzle in their own special way. They're the ones who inspire me to be better than I am, to pick myself up (or pick me up themselves) when I fall, to do what I wanna do and be who I wanna be.

It wasn't because of some sort of 'fad' that I started writing this blog. Two very dear friends from different sides of the planet inspired me - my friend Ross (http://rossmusician.blogspot.com/) and my friend Davor (http://www.cromagnon.bloger.hr/). I read their blogs religiously every day and can't wait for their new posts. I'll never have a blog as good as theirs but I hope that it'll at least be somewhat readable...

Now my friend Davor has inspired me in the most curious way, a way I thought I would never be inspired. He's inpsired me to write a romance novel. Yep, you heard right, a romance novel. Here's the deal: he starts a story on his new blog (http://ljubavni-roman.bloger.hr/) about a certain 'Bea' and the readers have to finish it. When I read about the idea and the story itself, I almost fell off my chair - both in utter surprise and in laughter. I loved the idea of "finishing" a romance novel, it's the absolute height of kitsch and corniness! And now I've decided to take on his challenge. I'll definitely let you know how it goes. I've got a few ideas running around my head but I know that the couple will originally get together because of their mutual love of music and Elvis (hey, it has to be total and utter kitsch, right?).

May you find inspiration wherever you go,
The Knitting Songbird

PS A huuuuge thank you to all my family and friends: my mum, my children, Maria, Ross, Rinaldo, Jorge, Davor P, Irina, Sinke, Davor B, Baldo and my colleagues from choir, Madame and my colleagues from the Alliance Francaise and my best friend in the world (even though he still hasn't even looked at this blog!!!) Ivan. Love ya all!

PPS Thanks Davor for the plug on your blog site :)

The country of 246 varieties of cheese

2008-08-26T16:24:00.001+02:00

Well, that's how Charles de Gaulle described France, but the number of cheeses has since then grown to over 1000, imagine that...but that's another story...and another post...

Believe it or not but next week I'll be, God willing, on my way to France. It still seems like a dream for me which will hopefully come true when I sit on the plane and land in the City of Lights. A dream because I constantly fantasise about France and all things French.

I've been thinking lately about how it all began, this obsession with France and French. Like most things in life, it sort of began, as we say in Croatian, bez veze or for very little reason at all. I was in Year 10, and I had to choose a subject to 'fill in' my curriculum. So I chose French. I think it was because I really liked the teacher. She had taught me English for a couple of years and was really quite hip for a 60-odd year old. She told the best anecdotes ever and had a knack for making English and any subject she taught seem alive (she was a director in a theatre at one stage and I'll never forget her anecdote about Shakespeare and "an union". Well, in old English, they used to say "an union" which, when you think about it, is more correct than "a union". But because this is not the case nowadays, the actors would constantly make the faux pas of saying "an onion". It's really quite easy to make Shakespeare accessible to a hormone-ridden teenager when you think about it :). It was a year after I had lost my dad and she was just the kind of teacher I needed - someone to inspire me and make me feel alive after feeling a bit dead for a while.

So, I studied French for a year and started to think about the HSC (Years 11 and 12). And I thought, well, I did pretty well at French this year, why not go for it? So I did. Then I started thinking about uni.

I knew I wanted to study music, that was the do all and end all for me, but in Australia you have to study 4 subjects during your first year, 3 in your next and 2 in your last for your Bachelor of Arts. Or at least some combination of that. So I thought about a double major in music and theatre studies, they seemed to complement eachother and I could work in opera or musicals. I also chose to study French and Russian in my first year. Well, I was a total and utter flop at theatre studies, had absolutely no talent whatsover for acting, was just horrible at it and was now at an odds as to what to do. I had a bit of a background in French, none at all in Russian, so I again went for the French. And that's how I completed a double major in Music and French.

Since then my fascination with France and all things French has grown from strength to strength. I've visited Paris 4 times now and started going to the Alliance Francaise 6 years ago for French lessons. And I recently discovered where this fascination may stem from. It might not be so 'bez veze' after all. You see, my father's side of the family, the Crnkovics, were Croatian nobility through marriage to the Frankopan family during the 17th century. At one stage, a member of the family, Ivan Crnkovic, moved to France under the name of Jean de Noir (Crn in Croatian means black or in French noir). Unfortunately, most of the family were killed during the French revolution and existing members fled to Italy under the guise of - wait for it - de Niro (could Robert be a long lost cousin???). One member returned to France when Napolean came to power but died in the Russian campaign. His wife then moved to Croatia.

I have to say that when I read this on Wikipedia, I was pretty bloody spooked. I had gone to Catholic schools all my life so I believed in eternal life - eternal heaven and eternal damnation. But suddenly I thought, could eternal life mean something else? Could eternal life mean something other than a place up in the clouds or a fire infested hole, rather, the soul passing from one generation to the next, from one family member to the next one? Why are we so drawn to the people, things, music, books, etc. that we are? Could these all be from the past lives we have led? We'll probably never have the answers to those questions but it sure does make for interesting thinking and pondering...

'Til next time take care,
The Knitting Songbird

PS I have to admit that thinking about eternal life and what it's all about has not shaken my faith in God and Jesus Christ. However, I have to admit, it does sadden me to see where Christianity has gone to since that humble Man from Nazareth, born in a stable, was on this earth among us. Many of us have since forgotten to "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." But I still have hope for humanity and think that we will all come to realise what is really important in this life, that l'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

Les feuilles mortes

2008-08-25T23:12:00.001+02:00

Ah, autumn. It hasn't arrived here officially yet but you can already feel a crispness in the air, see the trees changing colour, taste the first apples, grapes and pumpkins at the markets (the pears arrived a few weeks ago), hear the birds slowly moving on to warmer climes. I have to admit, I was a summer person for a bit there, a couple of years maybe, but I've gone back to my roots this year and prefer the coolness of autumn and winter. Autumn is a wonderful time for doing the things I love like baking - there's nothing like having a warm kitchen during those cool nights - or knitting. Snuggling under a nice warm blanket, listening to someone like Eva Cassidy (she to me is the ultimate autumn person) and the needles clicking away, waiting for the apple pie to finish. Many people would say that I'm such a baka (granny) but what can I do, that's me!

Here's a wonderful autumn-y recipe given to me by my lovely friend Irina. No one (except maybe Jamie Oliver) has changed the way I cook, eat and think about food like her. Thanks Irina! And the great thing about this recipe (besides that it's dead easy) is that it is sooooo healthy that it makes you think, how can something so delicious be good for you too??? Try to get the best ingredients you can, preferably organic.

Baked apples

4 washed and cored apples
2 tablespoons of wheat germ (I sometimes leave them out 'cause they can be a bit hard to find 'round here but this doesn't effect the recipe at all)
2 tablespoons of chopped hazelnuts or almonds
2 tablespoons of barley syrup or honey
2 tablespoons of soaked sultanas (if you're feeling naughty, like I sometimes do, instead of soaking the sultanas in water soak them in rum)
1 tablespoon of freshly squeezed orange juice

Preheat your oven to 180 degrees C. Place the apples on an oven try. Mix the rest of the ingredients together and stuff them into the apples. Bake for 20 - 30 minutes et voila, c'est finis!

Autumn also reminds me of one of my favourite songs of all time, Les feuilles mortes. Eva does a lovely version of it, as does Nat King Cole, but to me, Yves Montand's is the original, ultimate, definitive, basically best version ever. As the guy who posted the video says, if you're pining after a lost love, don't listen to this song - it'll just make your heart ache even more. It sends a shiver up my spine and brings a tear to my eye everytime I listen to it. You've been warned:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLlBOmDpn1s

It's a pity that the Americans butchered this song in terms of translation. The original is so full of emotion and beautiful imagery that you can see the person raking the leaves with a wistful look on his/her face, perhaps looking towards the sea with the wind blowing and the waves crashing. Here's the original French version by, in my opinion, one of (if not the) best French lyricists and poets ever, Jacques Prevert and the literal English translation below it:

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis
En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié...
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Et le vent du nord les emporte
Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais.

REFRAIN:
C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble
Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble
Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants désunis.

Oh! I would like so much for you to remember
The happy days when we were friends.
At that time life was more beautiful,
And the sun shone more brilliant than today.
The dead leaves collect with the shovel.
You see, I did not forget...
The dead leaves collect with the shovel,
The memories and the regrets also
And the North wind carries them
In the cold night of the lapse of memory.
You see, I did not forget
The song that you sang me.

REFRAIN:
It's a song that we resemble
You, you loved me and I loved you
We lived together both of us
You who loved me, I who loved you
But life separates those who love
Very gently without making a sound
And the sea erases under the sand
The footprints of separated lovers

And here is the American bubblegum version which just can't compare - soooo much less emotion, just soppy and sentimental in my opinion. They don't even use the beautiful recitative at the beginning of the song, only the refrain! Pity that Eva left us too soon - I get goose bumps thinking of her singing Les feuilles mortes in French...now THAT would be the ultimate version!

The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sun-burned hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winters song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

Until soon,
The Knitting Songbird

Midnight is where the day begins

2008-08-25T14:41:00.001+02:00

I don't know about you but everytime I think about lemons I think of that fabulous U2 song 'Lemon'. Here it is on youtube:

//http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fCE_ASpejs

And it rings true for me - midnight is where the day begins. The time when the kiddies go to sleep, when everything is quiet, when I've finished a day's work of cooking, cleaning, washing and all the rest of it, when I can finally sit down a bit and read a book or do my knitting or a tapestry or, now, write this blog. Or, for example, make a cake like I did last night! This is a lovely lemony cake created by the equally lovely Tessa Kiros, one of my favourite cooks. I discovered her in an issue of 'Cuisine et vins de France' and have bought a few of her books since (still have to grab her latest 'Peri Peri'). I've adapted the recipe a bit, cut down the sugar and whatnot. Give it a whirl and tell me what you think. It's dead easy so you boys give it a go too - believe me, there's nothing that impresses a girl or a boy more than a boy who knows how to cook!

Yoghurt and semolina syrup cake

Preheat your oven to 180 degrees C. Grease and flour a lamington tin (I think they're about 20 cm x 30 cm). Separate 3 eggs. Beat the whites until peaks form. Cream 125g butter and 1 cup brown sugar together. Add the egg yolks, 250 g yoghurt or buttermilk and the grated peel of 1 lemon. Sift in 1 cup of flour mixed with 2 teaspoons of baking powder, 1 cup of semolina and 1/2 cup of ground almonds. Carfeully fold in the egg whites. Pour the batter in the prepared tin and bake for about 40 minutes.

While the cake is baking, boil 1/4 cup of lemon juice and 1/4 cup of brown sugar so that the sugar melts and it turns into a syrup. When the cake is finished, prick it all over with a toothpick then pour the lemon syrup on top.

Bon appetit!

PS I have to say that one of the many wonderful things about growing up in Australia is having citrus fruits in your backyard. My kids still can't fathom that I had an orange tree, a grapefruit tree, a mandarin tree and a lemon tree growing right in my backyard. I really miss that about Australia (among other things, like my mum and many of my dear friends...). But then again, I never had a cherry tree growing in my backyard or wild strawberries which taste of Mother Earth herself like I do now...I guess I have the best of both worlds!

What can I say?

2008-08-24T15:43:00.000+02:00

Yes, what can I say. Except that I've been sucked into the world of blogs. I resisted it for a while, it seemed a bit, I don't know, technical for me I suppose and I'm anything BUT technical (just ask my husband - I can barely change a lightbulb!). But after having read the blogs of a few great friends of mine (who, I might add, write fabulous blogs) I decided, oh, what the hell, let's give it a try. Don't have much to lose except a bit of my time and dignity...

I don't have very high hopes for this blog, I look at it more as a diary of my thoughts, things I've done, recipes I've made (I'll post a yummy recipe for lemon semolina drizzle cake tomorrow), songs I've sung or aspire to sing, things and people that inspire me, most especially things and people that inspire me. My Lord, there's so much inspiration out there, it's sometimes overwhelms me. So much stuff going on and so little time...I'm sure a lot of you out there will agree with me...

Well, that's it for now. I'm gonna do a profile of myself now. How selfabsorbing is that gonna be?!?!

Take care and be very healthy, a little wealthy and most of all, wise,
The Knitting Songbird

PS I bet that some of you that know me are thinking "The Knitting Songbird, what's that all about?!?!?". Well, it's the three 'P's that keep me sane everyday - pjevanje, pletenje and pecenje or in English, singing, knitting and baking. I love to knit and adore Eva Cassidy who was the ultimate songbird so it's an ode to her and my love of knitting that I named my blog The Knitting Songbird. Now that I think about it, maybe I should have named my blog the Baking and Knitting Songbird....too late now!

PPS You're probably asking yourselves about the horse photo too. Well, I've gotten back into horses after a 30-odd year break thanks to my daughter and the Viennese lippizaners I saw in July (the photo is of a Croatian lippizaner).