The Day of Enthusiastic Belief

In the beginning


It probably never was
the way you looked at me
because I lost myself in fiction
and painted absurd pictures
of you butting the wall
with your Roman cigarette.

Over Saturday lunches
you'd ask me
if I'd hold my fork like that always
I'd say sometimes
often when the world was watching

then I'd say
look how I'm holding my fork now

or

I can't use chopsticks
and because you're last girlfriend
was Chinese
suddenly it mattered.

We are shutters against the sun


I've unravelled the double reef
loosely smoothed
the flat bodied fold
this man is now an empty space
his belly a clenched
black fist

flesh kissable

we dine
his balls a gentle knot
against my body
I underline
the sharp limbed tent
of his pant suit

we are shutters
against the sun.

This is your life - you are the cube.

At a certain stage
and for a long time

you have focus -
a ready fish eye

this includes the finer things.

You can pick a thorn from a rose
and be a rhinocerous.
You are sharp
keen to see
the pixels
in a larger picture.

You can see the desert
she is a sprawl of rippled sand.

You are a cube
spun on one point -
a brilliant white horse

She stands
one leg tucked under.

Sometimes she is a devil
with a tail
and two horns

sometimes she is spinning

The Day of Don't Think Just Shoot

Out of pure enthusiasm for a new found creative outlet I recently conducted a small yes/no survey. The question was:

What is lomography?

9/10 people (some experienced photographers) asked had absolutely NO idea what lomography was, nor what I was talking about.

So what is lomography and what was the point of my survey?

The term lomography represents a type of casual, snap-shot photography that produces over-saturated colours, reveals exposure defects and creates inconsistantly abstract effects. It is dervived from the use of an original 'Lomo LC-A' - a medium format Russian 'toy' camera, characterized by its low-fidelity and inexpensive construction. Lomography provides a raw artistic medium and redefines what others would consider 'bad' photography. The point of my survey was to find out how many people knew about this, and to conclude whether or not I was the last to know.


The following are the 10 company Rules of Lomography:

Take your LOMO everywhere you go.
Use it anytime - day or night.
Lomography is not an interference in your life, but a part of it.
Shoot from the hip.
Approach the objects of your lomographic desire as close as possible.
Don't think.
Be fast.
You don't have to know beforehand what you've captured on film.
You don't have to know afterwards, either.
Don't worry about the rules.


I purchased my first "lomographic" camera from trademe (a NZ website similar to eBay that specializes in auctioning new and used goods). The Holga 120N with its host of attachable color and prism filters is all you need to be producing out-of-the-box photography similar to the quality and effects of a well-made and accurately pointed pin-hole camera. Essentially the Holga is a 'toy' camera built from a plastic frame and synthetic lens. Many have been modified to house glass lenses and are designed to accommodate battery powered flash boxes. After browsing an inspiring site compiled by a Japanese lomo-photographer I was keen to get started. These photos are my first attempt. While they may not be enough to instill the kind of enthusiasm I feel this medium deserves, they do give an impression of how experimental and unrefined this type of photography can be.

Apparently the fourth rule of lomography is to 'shoot from the hip' - so that's exactly what I did. In my opinion the photos lacked contrast and a lapse in detail. Perhaps I should have followed rule ten!

If you'd like to learn about the origins of this self-proclaimed cultish medium:
http://www.lomography.com

If you're looking for lomo galleries try:
http://lomogallery.de
http://lomoshot.com

For purely pictorial purposes one of my favorite sites is: (you need to be proficient in katakana to decipher it)
http://lomojapan.com

If you're interested in purchasing a Holga I recommend:
http://trademe.co.nz

or perhaps the classic Russian 'lomo':
http://shop.lomography.com/shop/

The Day of Attentiveness

On a recent trip up the North Island I discovered new ways of looking out a moving vehicle. These photos were originally taken on my digital SLR Canon Powershot but after various exposure adjustments within Microsoft Digital Image Pro these photos have taken on a lomographic quality.

For information on lomography visit:
http://www.lomography.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lomography

The Day of the Modern Irrepressibles

On Saturday morning we talk, his words salve to my 'sometimes' life - full of excuses and invented fears.



I often marvel
that for a man
you are beautiful -
a beautiful thing
I cannot touch.

You hold yourself tightly
as not to lose
a single part
of yourself to another.

Ask my name
I am 'another'
like pure miracle
I wait
to watch you
unfold.



After a conversation or two, my cold thoughts disappear. I can feel. Jacob tells me he loves me, his breath paused, waiting for me to reply. I ask him to repeat the words he's whispered. Later I believe I might have dreamt them. He say's other things, like what a spunk he thinks Nico is. Like how if I’d never moved here this would never have happened. He is grappling with fate. There is nothing Jacob can say now - nothing can erase, or dent the impact, of our first unwritten exchange.

Later the words changed to I like you.

I like you Karlo.

In Christchurch, I like you. In moments were it should have been I love you it was - I like you. Sometimes he would hold his breath, releasing it moments before he uttered the phrase, so it would be a tumbling, sort of breathless I like you. And then for a long time there was nothing. Months passed without either of us saying anything.


Jacob say's:
How did this happen?

Karlo thinks:
This is my life - this was meant to happen.

Jacob say's:
I love you, but I'm not in love with you.

Karlo thinks:
What is the difference. What is he really trying to tell me.

Jacob say's:
If you are the ONE, I'd know you were the one - wouldn't I?




...and Karlo persists because she doesn't know how to go on without him.



* * *



For a while I lie here, talking with my back to Jacob. Eventually I divert conversation and suggest other thoughts. I hope he will try to understand.


Karlo say's:
What happens when your travelling through the universe in a space ship and you hit a wall?

Jacob thinks:
What is beyond the wall?

Karlo say's:
With all that unfathomable space, opportunity is immeasurable.

and Karlo thinks:
I’m only alerting him to possibility - random and preordained.

She watches threads of thought knot his forehead, after a while Jacob complains of a headache. He is ready to sleep. Karlo has given up talking.

She watches him and Karlo has a new thought. Could this be, an honest start for love.



* * *



On Thursday I asked if I was your girl and if in return you'd be my boy. You didn't talk to me for a day.

Friday is a strange evening. You come home late, I think you must not be coming home at all, and then Nico meets me coming down the hall and says you’re here. I’ve just finished getting ready. I’m feeling lovely in blue jeans and a white halter. My hair is loose, my skin fresh. I know you won’t be able to resist me - not looking like this.

Gina arrives breaking walls of ice. I can be myself around her. I want you to see that I can carry on no matter what you have in store for us. We don’t speak and I can't bring myself to look at you. You will know this when I'm pained, upset or misplaced. I only give my eyes when I smile, only when they are clear will I ask you to look into them.

We sit in a room of people. You sit between Nico and Gina. I sit next to Otis. I can always talk to him. Even if he knows exactly what I’m doing and the truth is, he’s been your friend far longer. I get heavy trying to hold my head up. I can’t wait to turn the light out. Get drunk, turn the music up. Mel offers me some ‘good stuff’. I take the drugs, whatever it takes to get past you.

That's what the right combination should do. It should make you forget. What you don't know, what has been refused or denied can't hurt you anymore. The wine goes down fast. I’m desperate to leave with an ex-boyfriend of mine that I’ve invited. Not so him and I can be together but so you and I can be apart. He’s my ticket out of here but everyone ends with us leaving together. We go to a party on the Terrace. I wander around the house for a bit, restless. Unable to settle in any one room. I’m already starting to forget you're here. On a full circuit of the house I find you in the dark, on the couch, talking to some guy. Maybe we smile at each other a bit, I can’t remember. I leave shortly after with Nico and Otis, the house just isn’t big enough for us. The moment we step outside an adventure is unravelling. It’s happening all really quickly. The hill, the start of our journey - is vertical.

Excited with the world around us we crouch on the sidewalk to read a stray newspaper. Otis and I wait patiently as Nico reads our weekly horoscope. It asks me to imagine I'm scuba diving. Just as I've descended beneath the sea to find some lost treasure, I realise the precious thing I'm seeking is really part of me. It is mostly knowledge, thoughts that slipped away long ago. How could I have forgotten?

Walking down the busy city street I'm oblivious to what my friends and I are about to do. We stand in a sex shop under the frantic gaze of lonely, semi- aroused men. I find myself sympathising with a man who stands only to my shoulders, about the ironies of plastic wrapped magazines - the only evidence of sterility in this place. He looks at me sideways, I assure him I only want the right choice to be made, that I'm here to help. This is how in love I am with the world. Even this Friday night wannabe porn star is my friend. Otis purchases a bottle of rush. The shop attendant doesn't notice none of us, are wearing leather shoes.

Back out on the street, slumped in a door way I think my friends have found a new way out of the world. Reality is a swinging trap door. I decide that for now I am the gatekeeper. The idyllic Cheshire cat on the wall. Nico is Alice, peaceful and argumentative all at once. She dangles bait. We rally around the same conversation for what seems like hours. This reminds her of the old days, before, during and after school. She talks far too loudly for my ears to take it all in at once. In effect seventeen seconds have passed. The money, my wallet I give to Otis. Each time I ask him for it back I find it is already in my bag. I'm so excited. I've got cash on me, and my favourite lipstick. For a short while we stand under an old friends window. No one comes to look out. Sometimes it seems like we are shouting, and then all at once we are whispering under our hands and running down the street. Under the streetlights I catch sight of my friends for the first time tonight, their eyes glistening. On the way into Good Luck we pass management on the door. I feel caught, lowering my beaded eyes-on-stalks. Then I realise we are like this every night.

It's a different crowd tonight. One of my downstairs neighbor's is in the D.J booth. People line the dark walls, no one is on the floor except me. I dance, maybe minutes pass, my feet moving surprisingly fast, jogging my sense of how time travels. I realise I'm alone, that there is maybe one other person in the corner moving slowly to breaks. I shift toward a fleeting sense of myself, a type of self-consciousness which causes me to bolt for the door. Maybe I ask the nearest person where my friends are, maybe I sense this in a sixth kind of way because I know exactly where they are. I follow the silver cords of friendship. I don't even knock.

Otis is pressed up against the door, as I push through he kind of slides outta the way. For a second I feel ashamed. My friends are in the boys bathroom, a tangle of limbs on the floor, then I remember what I do in time likes this. First I go inside myself. I find that deep love within and I only need myself to be happy. If management walked in now we would all been asked to leave. Nico is trying to pull me down on top of her. Her face is smacked with a delicious grin. The entire toilet reeks of leather cleaner, and Otis's eyes are slowly rolling back in his head. But looking at those two I feel a tug of something deeper than friendship. I pull them both to their feet. There is a whole new world outside that I can't wait to show them.

The bar we frequent almost every weekend is different tonight, because the three of us are so in love. We dance, sometimes together sometimes as part of a three pointed star. Before long the dance floor is on its feet. Most people seem to think I am their long lost best friend. Some girl they met in the country, the one they heard moved to the city and joined the band. I tell Nico I'm having an orgasm. This must be the highest point; this is an equivalent for great sex. Dal keeps reminding me about my bag. About the wallet I've brought into town full of money. This brings me back to reality, but never for long. Every so often Nico hassles me, saying that I haven't taken enough of what they've taken. She is ecstatic, hopping on the spot. What annoys her most about me at this time is that nothing can sway me. My mind is made up about what I will and what I wont do. I decide to leave. They play our favourite song maybe once, maybe twice. Marek extends it because he knows that when it stops we will too. Even in this basement bar the street hums to us. Its song is never quiet, nor simple.

I contemplate stealing a bike. There are three of them, all various sizes. Nico and Dal are already moments down the road; they've stopped and are calling back so I do a strange, slow and sexy dance toward them. I'm wearing white shoes. I feel like an old bride. This is my debut moment of doubt. I'm 25. I have a child; at this rate I might not ever find my prince. A group of kids chuck rice of a low balcony. Nico stops to hassle them and of course they hassle back. All seven of them, they are tight - restless and content all at once.

As we saunter in a lazy stroll down Cuba Street I realise that to young boys I have obvious charm. Confidence exudes but I'm thirsty. There are two boys, two beers and three of us, but for the minute all I can think of is myself and this desert in my mouth. While Nico and Dal hassle a couple of drunks on a side bench, I work both these boys at once. We form a connection, a similarity and the beer is mine. The taller one probably gets far more girls than his friend so I make the short one feel special and take his mates bottle instead. We're passing into random territory now. This area is well lit, busy. Modern people stand in the streets. I'm a receptacle. I pass a bar well known for its brawls and feel aggressive. I shout at someone who looks sideways at Nico. I stop to glare at the bouncer who yellow carded me because I wouldn't sleep with him. Moments later the three of us are dancing to a busker playing reggae music. It would seem there is a conscience in all of this. About to move on I run back and offer him my favourite yellow lighter. He smiles at my single ray of light; my little beacon that says money isn’t everything.

An old fire engine from the 1970's is idling beside us. We've barely had time to square it with the driver and Otis is helping me into the back. Nico sits beside me. The driver must think were drunk, he keeps telling us to hold on. He is creeping along at 5 miles per hour. Out comes the rush. I'm the last to try it. For six seconds all my thoughts have thoughts of their own. There are the sister thoughts, the distant cousins. They are in an immense hurry to get out of my head, all of them at once. The problem is I'm trying to make sense of them; I should just be sitting back now, closing my eyes. I look at my friends who are looking back at me. They are eager, teetering on the verge of more than crack upholstered seats. Nico is saying "...and there it goes, and there she goes". Then with relief I draw air. I'm falling over them, touching their faces, breathing again. That was gross, this is great. This is how I always want to feel, outside of my thoughts.

I don't want to think I just want to feel.

The fire engine is still chugging softly round the block. We stop at the bus stop but we don't get out. Moments later we find ourselves at the same place we boarded, only on the other side of the road. I'm putting the fire hat back down, slowly exiting this red cloaked character - the lighter of tonight's fires. Reluctantly I get out. Nico is convincing a cab driver to take us to Sandwiches. But the ride isn't over. I want to walk this out. I grab both their hands and pull them through busy crowds. I'm the cab driver now. The beauty about this place is that we are open to suggestion. Self-imposed persuasion is up with the best of them.

We're dancing to moving shapes on the sidewalk; this is when I remember my thirst. It is greater than me and I have to go back to the bright lights of Star Mart, to the risk that everything will be revealed under white fluorescent lamps. The man behind the counter picks my drink; he ends up opening it for me also. Outside Otis and Nico are in fresh conversation. It's as if Nico is attempting to pull herself up a ladder and Otis is a giant teetering on the edge of a bean stalk. We’re on our way again dancing outside each bar for a few moments before moving on. Scent is overwhelming. A dozen colognes, a hundred individual food ingredients. The smell of stale liquor, fresh liquor and then the unexpected smell of fish. We are running, dancing away from all of this. This walk might be our last moments together, before we enter and loose each other in larger territory. We risk coming up and coming down all at once. Otis doesn’t make it past the foyer of the bar. He slumps into one of the booths that lines the nearest wall. We hand everything over. Our jackets, our bags. I contemplate removing my shoes. Now we move to dance. Otis won’t stand up. He is still smiling. Nico and I have each of his arms. If he won’t dance in there then we’ll dance here but unexpectedly the bouncers ask us to move on.

That is the last time I feel like this. If I were addicted I would have asked for more. Part of you knows that the drugs are looking for new experiences; part of me knows that this place kills a piece of me every time I come here. I can’t remember exactly what happens next. There are two separate worlds co-existing side by side. MC Kyla commands me the moment I walk through the door. Dancing is effortless, standing at the bar, asking for a drink, wondering exactly what Nico and I want - now that is tiring. For a long time there are no boys. Just Nico and I.


I find you sitting, doubled over toward a fat girl, talking to her like you havn’t talked to me in days. I resist you for just a moment. As Nico moves over, I follow. The girl sees us coming and moves away - a little too quickly. I watch her disappear into the crowd and we take a seat on either side. Now back to those unseeing eyes that evade me. Your face, neither a smile nor a frown. You are angry with me because I’ve challenged everything you thought you knew. After Nico walks to the bar, you say something. Is it to hurt me? You are laughing as you say it. It’s a running topic from three days ago but you are colouring new facts.

What Jacob doesn’t know is that nothing can insult me tonight. Strangely his usually silent flat mate breaks the ice. I apologise to him for noisy children and trashy pop music. He’s heard neither. He’s smiling, happy that we’re all here at one time. When Nico comes back I suggest we go next door but she wants to stay sitting/talking. I’m restless, so for a very brief moment I dance with myself. On our way through the crowd I find Stella, an ex-lover/current friend of Jacob's. As he comes up behind me I push them together; tonight they can have each other. I keep following Nico. This is the point where I lose Jacob again. Later we spot Stella on the dance floor. Nico thinks this girl is nothing but blonde hair in a boob tube, but I think she has great posture. She dances with the straightest back.

Nico and I take toilet stops together. I am crouched at her feet and she is in love with my eyes. They are the widest she has ever seen them. This is the opposite of heroin. Tonight we are brunettes with brown eyes. With the light behind her I can see my reflection in her eyes clearer than I’d like. I decide this is far more soul snatching than photography. Both of us will probably wonder why we have headaches the next day.

In a split decision we’re off to Go-Go. There are no goodbyes. We slip past the front bar unseen. I grab Gina and attempt to take her with us. Tonight we are a lopsided star. Three wine goblets, three good girls, alone but unafraid - lost in the world.

The Day of Creative Storytelling

I'll start with a dream
half poem, half man
in a room blush red
he lies naked.

If he sleeps
arms bent
a sash about my waist
his breath sometimes touching
this bubble we call home.


When I wake I realise, all this will change. There is nothing romantic or even optimistic about rubbing this much sleep from my eyes, nor standing a teaspoon upright in a slush of green tea. It is even harder not to burn his eggs and fill the small kitchen with a smell we both detest. I look at him over the top of yesterday's newspaper - the news is still the same. I half expect it to be a headline : Sophie is leaving Harry, these simple thoughts a hand-made bullet, pointed at his heart. I've been careful not to sleep too close, but really I haven't slept in days. Our thoughts once shared the same dreams, and sometimes if we swapped pillows I might have dreamt about a game of rugby. Harry would have dreamt about flying, or falling. Things he didn't understand, things that only made him grumpy the next day. I'm leaving the man I spent seven years with, the father of my two year old son. Not because we no longer share, but because he is the man who when I narrow my eyes looks more like a restless boy walking out of a dream. I'm closing the gate and telling the paper boy 'no more advertisers' - 'no more junk mail in my box'. This hasn't been easy, by next Sunday the house I lovingly put together will resemble a thing without a couch, or even a seat to sit on. For almost two weeks I will be cold and humbled by my own decisions. There will be boxes stacked full of heavy books and all the nick-nacks that annoyed him. My girlfriend calls on Tuesday, to tell me she's found a house on the sunny side of Kelburn. Three weeks later I meet a man who just might change my life forever. Yesterday seems distant. The months that have passed no longer have the same reach, but I recall them anyway. A lifetime has gone by. I feel like a pink lizard, shedding her leather skin.




* * *



No one said it would be easy.

I was 23 and I wanted my sex drive back. I wanted to be in love. What reminded me was a memory of the man I'd once loved - what taunted me was knowing this love was gone.

I made a decision to leave the father of my son. I wanted to wake in the morning and not have to deal with it, so I drank. I went out and didn't come home. I made new friends. They were drug dealers and failed models, gay men, men whose fathers were dying of cancer - men who no longer feared their mortality. We would meet often four times a week in John's warehouse apartment. I would sit, mostly in stoned silence, sometimes laughing with the others. Depending on the mood I often laughted at the those who's lives seemed more fucked up than my own. Elvis was especially unassuming. It was impossible to pick his age. To the average outsider he radiated what he'd originally started out as - a white, middle-class male, a school dux, a boy with a future. Elvis's reality was quite different. He'd spent several years of his early adulthood imprisoned for drug possession. The truth was, Elvis was a recovering heroin addict with everything in his actions suggesting, that at any minute, he would reach full circle. We were all 'others' of a sort. We had all chosen a slow death. Like Elvis I wanted friends who loved me. When I finally realized I had none of the things I so needed, I took the last seat on a short downward spiral. My mother took my baby and gave me a week to think about it. I contemplated death - but it would have to be quick. That afternoon I sat on my neighbor's lawn for over four hours, locked out of my own home without even a window I could reach to break and enter. Barefooted and wearing last nights clothes, I chain smoked the last of my cigarettes and as I began to sober I thought about spending the twenty dollars my father had given me on cheap bottle of wine.

Eventually I chose to slow the drunken pour. Summer came soon. I wanted to say one thing and mean another, and mostly I did. I often wondered where love had gone. I wanted to tell the world I was a fake. I wanted to remember my talents. I tried eating again. I only loved my little house. Without any further intervention, I chose life. I recalled the struggle of my own mother and as a mother I also owed it to my children's children, not to give up.

2002 was a difficult year. If I looked back at all the things I wanted, they were really things I needed. That year I would have died if it hadn't been for my quiet dreams gently spirally in the softer parts of me.

Then came 2003, I wrote poems all summer. I sat indoors when I should have been at kindergarten meetings, or drinking tea with the next-door neighbor. I pined over words I couldn't quite make sit still on paper. I wrote a poem called:

Deep White Clocks

She is tired of sunsets aging,
the dead reckoning of desert ants
navigating by the stars.
In winter she sleeps,
ceaseless, her dreams anti-dial
adjacent to the sun.


and another called:


Crane Song

Birds chart
the gifted shape of letters,
you cannot touch
their auras burn
a brilliant orange collision,
their wings
the layered ocean floor of evolution.
They are love
looking for a sky hook
to hoist above the stars,
they light the passage of exodus
they know the secrets of old planets
melting as they collide.

I wish for endings
or the space for new beginnings.

You read into houses,
rotten teeth,
otherwise beautiful smiles
in a busy street.
Will it pass,
this need for two places at once?
My knack for walking backwards
all at once
and standing still.

This house is broken.

The wishbone chipped.





Sometime later I met Owen and suddenly the world tilted. In the early hours of Valentine's Day I found myself alone at a small private party on Kent Terrace. The friend I'd arrived with had called it a night with her man and I'd resumed dancing, mostly oblivious to a guy who after several mutual introductions still refused to acknowledged me. That guy was Owen. After a fluted attempt to impress me with his drunken break dancing I invited him to come outside, and later he followed me to another bar. Looking back there were lot of silences. Occasionally Owen would stroke the bare skin on my back, his touch made everything stand still. When he offered to give me a lift home I found myself in his car telling him to take me back to his house. Numbed by alcohol and aroused by the pursuit of my own freedom I stood in his bedroom swaying on my best heels until he came up and gently kissed the air behind me. In the morning I told him what a fake I was. How he'd never see me again because I was a mother and at home my other half waited. Yet Owen never left me alone. He listened patiently as I sobbed and then unfurled my clenched hands, counting my fingers, forsaking my thumbs.

I found myself outdoors again on a garden rug counting worker bees with my busy two year old. Owen would drive his old car all the way out to Karori to see me. Still to this day, I don't know why. Once his car even broke down on the hill, but he still arrived two hours late, carrying two cold pies. He would arrive and sit beside me in the sun, leaving as quietly as he'd arrived. I would wait for him to kiss me and sometimes he did, but when I drew his face close to mine he would stiffen and then sigh. In the sun, in the middle of somewhere it were as if physical contact frightened him. Owen became my man of movement. Just by knowing him and occasionally lying in his arms I found the power to vacate my former life, and to rebuild another. Sometimes Owen was sensitive and took everything I said the wrong way. He would raise his voice at me and look physically annoyed. Sometimes he would just laugh in absolute disbelief at this things I did, and said I'd done. We seldom understood one another and then one day he told me I wasn't his type. I would stand on the mezzanine floor of his warehouse and turn up the music. Sometimes we would go out together, mostly I arrived back at his place drunken fumbling with clothes that were too small and jewelry tangled about my neck. It didn't take him long to tire of this. Eventually I got over all of that. If anything Owen taught me to tread more carefully, and to listen with both ears, including listening to the voice inside. There were times when I wanted to flaw him with my wit and beauty yet I was lucky if a wiry eye brow was raised. Mostly he treated me with the tolerance you might show an annoying little sister, still oddly enough our friendship persisted.

The Day of the Unabashed Extrovert

Scorpio (october 24 - november 22)

It's time to start thinking big. You may not have completely lost your sense of ambition but you may have temporarily mislaid it. You have become too embroiled in the negative aspect of a positive situation. Somehow you have started to settle for second best. You have allowed yourself to be bound by restrictions that really deserve to be challenged, not kowtowed to. You must decide, this weekend, whose laws and limits you are willing to accept and why. The adventurer in your soul won't rest till you have rewritten a few unnecessary rules.

Sometimes I can't decide whether I'd like to be kissing or killing this man, afterall these are his words but my life he is supposedly reiterating. I have to remind myself that Jonathan Cainer owns no portal into my world (nor any one else's for that matter) yet he writes with the quiet observations of a close friend and the juxtaposed biting candor of a bitter enemy. Cainer's astral observations are more than just predictions, they wield a magnifying glass, extracting for close examination the finer points of our lives. His daily musings are poignant with the ability to suitably distress or reassure the reader. They cause us to look past our mundane lives and remind us that no matter how carefully constructed our paths are, they will envitably deviate. I'm reminded that I need to be a conscious modern child and respond like an active partcipant in this cryptic, newfangled world. Today Cainer reminded me that the optimism I had as a child/adolescent is in dire need of rediscovery. As I get older there are more and more things I believe I cannot change. Why do I believe such things? Perhaps it's an intrinsic part of me, stemming from my patented desire for control. Cainer would say this is what it means to be Scorpio. I think the desire to control our surroundings is what it means to be a woman in the modern world. Love is a perfect example of how our need to control can be tipped on it's head. In loving relationships we often loose control, this is at it's most intimidating when we realise we cannot control the person we love just because they love us, nor can we control who we choose to love. Love chooses us. Recently I suffered a friend who'd fallen in love. When she realised she might have to wait or be patient in order to receive reciprocal love, she opted out. Love was no longer convenient - infact it threatened her sense of an immediate world. This particular love was too ambitious, it seemed to weight too heavily on 'perfect' timing. Yet today as I read my daily horoscope, Cainer's words sparked a cord of reminescence. My friend had chosen to settle for another's laws and limits. Without even discussing the matter, and overwhelmed by the possible negative outcome of her situation, she walked away. I wonder how many of us do this, every week - perhaps every day. In our throwaway world, we live by the rules we are presented with. When a relationship becomes 'hard work', we walk away. Love is as disposable as a chocolate wrapper. What so few of us understand is that alike our plastic world, rules are incidental. Today all I'm doing is taking someone's advice - it's never too late to unwrite what's been written.

Here are some more words for the journey.

http://www.cainer.com