The gnomes are drowning!

He's in it up to his beard. In fact it looks like an extension of his beard. She, meanwhile, is in it up to her boobs. They both look deliriously happy, which is why they are there in the first place. They came before the grass indeed. Long before.

If you find them you have found us, for it is our doorstep plant put there precisely to welcome guests - and family - back, usually, or for the first time. They replace a spikier plant. And the gnomes used to be more deeply within the garden. A great improvement in both cases.

Gnomes and 'gnome beard' plant, as I will call it, are meant to be together - hence the name.

I don't know whether or not to trim the gnome beard or leave it to grow where it wants, which will probably be all over the comely pair, burying their happy smiles. If not trimmed, they will loose their gnome shape entirely and then be reduced - or elevated - to pure plant, effectively.

I think I'd better trim the green gnome.

In Bed with Bach

Our old bed in the new spare bedroom - 'Bonnie's room' - her art and photos remain on the walls.

This long weekend when many of our countrymen and women were absorbed in the Rugby World Cup semi-finals and captain Richie McCaw's potentially career-ending elbow, I was in bed with Bach and his rather less edgy, more elegant elbows - as was my husband...

You see, this was a bed-delivery-moving weekend for us in preparation for the arrival of an important house guest who may one day become a permanent member of the family, and in the process of making room for her, we discovered Bach abandoned in a long unused portable CD player. Why we abandoned Bach in this rather shabby way neither of us could recall.

Never mind. We hastened to make amends and got back into bed with Bach in a big way, playing him loudly over and over on the kick-ass stereo downstairs to be heard upstairs as we carried, cleaned and carted two big beds and sundry bedly matter hither and thither.

At one point we were joined by a couple of burly tattooed removalists who delivered the queen - our first queen indeed, if my husband is to be believed on that subject, that is - and hauled it upstairs in the midst of all that not so burly Bach. They didn't seem to mind; their tattoos did not melt.

And I must say, it was all really rather conducive, so much so that I would recommend Bach for all bed-related business. Well perhaps not quite all; piano is possibly a touch too light for the heaviest of liftings.

Buoyant Blue

It holds me just so
in its strong gentle arms,
lending support without presumption;
I may sink through should I wish to,
it won't argue.

Though it might put up a little resistance
in case I should change my mind
and it would be too late otherwise.

I hit out, slap and kick,
ungrateful; graceless.
It takes that too, never hitting back.

It makes perfect, silver-centred bubbles with my shabby snorts.

It judges not.

Its cool clear ripples take care not to wash away
the deep blue line, preserving its straight, steady contrast.

It tolerates its chlorine, uncomplaining.

It does not sting with red eyes of resentment,
though it would have every right to.

It is ever calm to my constant thrashing.

Ever buoyant blue.

Comfort zone

The familiar pain in my toe
The wind in the window

The grey bird gliding by
The young girl's cry

The glasses open on the bed
The old blanket still red

The closed cream door
The absence of chore

Tomorrow...

How far can I see?

How far can I see? 

If nothing sees me first 
I can see very far indeed. 
I can see through the sky,
through day into night. 
I can see through time. 
I can see the ragged ends of the rainbow 
painting the land lime. 
I can see the wind bending the view, 
the flowers holding onto their hats, 
the leaves laughing all the while. 
I can see you 
as you were, 
still confusing your Ls and your Ys, 
with all that hair 
jumping up and down as you cried: 
'Life is just one great big beautiful thing!'

No nudes, no crotches

I've been thinking about nudity lately - as one does - and wondering why it seems a subject that is soooooooo different for men than it is for women.

Investigating Playboy's decision to cut its famous nude centrefolds, images that in one year (1972) sold more than 7 million copies for old Hugh, I found, to my annoyance, that this decision was purely economic not ethical. Hugh had not, in his dotage, decided that the sexual exploitation of the female form for money was not cool. Rather, static female nudity has become so passé that it is no longer selling enough magazines (only 800,000 pa). Only. Poor Hugh.

Free internet porn will do that, be careful what you wish for, Hugh. More boys and men than ever are viewing naked women in lewd, 'fuck-me-hard-baby' poses, and indeed are watching women act out these crude male fantasies, all for free. The sexual exploitation and abuse of women is alive and well, rest assured, Hugh.

At the same time there is the parallel online phenomenon of women being inundated by crotch shots (erect) sent to them, unsolicited, by the men who would be, or are, their online dates. Women, most of them, are not happy about this. We, most of us, don't want to see your baggy balls and stiff bits on our phones while we're eating lunch, call us old-fashioned. For women, the visual removed from the context of lovin', from the touch, thrust and taste, is - how can I put this delicately? - fucking grose.

When I, and I think most women, see a hot guy we don't think, hmmm, I wonder what his penis looks like. One hopes he has a penis, sure, but assuming as much, we are much more interested in wondering what sort of man he is, which will in turn tell us, while he still has his pants on, what kind of lover he is or could be (with training). What sort of man he is is sooooooo much more important than what sort of penis he has (or is).

Why is this soooooooo different for men? Why do you care what our breasts and nipples look like naked? Can't you assume from our clothed appearance that we have them and they look, every last one of them, pretty darned good, and ditto for the other bits?

I don't get it.

In the meantime, to perhaps stop regular men sending their unsolicited crotch shots, Playgirl might be a solution, a magazine with professional shots of hot (flaccid, because erect says 'look what I got for you, baby', which is wanky) naked men in 'I'm a nice guy too' poses, presuming such all-round men exist, which is doubtful.            




   

What's wrong with this picture?

Answer:

A) Only one is wearing a hat cap
B) Only one is waving
C) Only nine are wearing a tie
D) Only one of those ties is pink
E) Only eleven of twelve have a penis (at least presumably; not entirely sure about Putin)

What the world and lil' ol' New Zealand can do about it? adDRESS the situation. Climate change is not the problem, it's the answer.