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.
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
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.
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...
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!
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 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.
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...
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!
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."
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!
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.
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.
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...?
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...
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...
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...
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...
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":
A little (well, not so little) Dutch girl on the wrong side of Amsterdam
What else would the Americans promote but - le McDo? 
An obliging German in lederhosen. Great legs, eh!
The Polish stand
Some German goodies
Some Eastern goodies
