tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68412595843011727882024-03-13T23:54:22.937+11:00Mary Pearson Andrew<i>The tree with the lights in it.</i>
MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comBlogger261125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-22297935684251245112020-04-02T15:39:00.002+11:002020-04-02T15:42:36.159+11:00<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m__aCf4fVVk/XoVsFD321GI/AAAAAAAAB-U/m9IXkXrdAmUYhursmc9c5LeJxtntoZXxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/2292F9FC-F754-4030-A604-4BAD6D9F7E3F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m__aCf4fVVk/XoVsFD321GI/AAAAAAAAB-U/m9IXkXrdAmUYhursmc9c5LeJxtntoZXxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2292F9FC-F754-4030-A604-4BAD6D9F7E3F.jpeg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1248" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S SHADOW<br />
<br />
The afternoon sun irradiates everything<br />
Except for where my figure casts a me-shaped negative space on your body<br />
A solarisation of our experience<br />
<br />
I notice the effect and reach for my camera<br />
To memorialise this instant of overwhelming, subjugating you<br />
The waning sunbaker<br />
<br />
You with the booming voice<br />
Supine, hands behind head<br />
Lying on a bed of glistening shell fragments<br />
<br />
I stand above<br />
Peering down into the viewing lens<br />
Restrained, faceless<br />
Yet still capable of eclipse<br />
<br />
My dogsbody projected onto your certainty<br />
Half a century before your screaming face emerges in the developing tray<br />
Could I have projected something onto those buoyant Bungan days?<br />
<br />
Like how the war would come for you<br />
Leaving me in charge, no longer The Assistant<br />
I <i>could</i> overshadow you<br />
We both knew it<br />
<br />
You as the headlining act<br />
And I, the support<br />
Are just the roles we assume<br />
Those expected of us<br />
<br />
The larger than life frontman<br />
His ancillary partner<br />
Waiting somewhere off in the wings<br />
<br />
The photograph is a small island in a sea of white matting<br />
I draw near to examine it<br />
Like leaning in to make out a soft voice<br />
The black frame calls to mind a box-like camera<br />
And I catch my own reflection in the frame’s glass<br />
<br />
I don’t have long to linger here today<br />
A host of responsibilities play on my mind<br />
And I’m soon ascending the escalator<br />
Crossing the lobby and exiting the art gallery<br />
<br />
My split-second victory dissolves into the heat of the day.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-1374073165716726112019-12-03T21:36:00.002+11:002019-12-27T19:22:00.419+11:00<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n4DvFYT5ad0/XeY20Do9dVI/AAAAAAAAB7g/UEhsP2njfvoLgK70VeaIQ77JeuKlTZWDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_4907.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n4DvFYT5ad0/XeY20Do9dVI/AAAAAAAAB7g/UEhsP2njfvoLgK70VeaIQ77JeuKlTZWDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/IMG_4907.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
THINGS I LIKE<br />
<br />
the moment the cicada choir falls silent<br />
packing an overnight bag<br />
vermillion<br />
arriving at an airport gate just as the final boarding call is announced<br />
<br />
THINGS I DISLIKE<br />
<br />
making the first cut into a cake<br />
Pepto-Bismol pink<br />
the smell of Palmolive<br />
waiting with my chin on the chin rest for the optometrist’s air puff test.<br />
MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-54316076380538350002019-12-03T21:09:00.000+11:002019-12-03T21:09:13.503+11:00<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iD-mmgxhMe8/XeYzfn82EcI/AAAAAAAAB68/FyhUrnTyh3wnJOvECPvKfZEdKA96sEhiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/unnamed-2.jpg" width="320" height="223" data-original-width="334" data-original-height="233" /><br />
<br />
STATION FIRE<br />
<br />
A series of controlled burn-offs on the Central Coast <br />
have coincided with unusual weather patterns.<br />
<br />
A blanket of smoke descends upon the Northern Beaches.<br />
<br />
I awake at midnight with a sore throat,<br />
thinking of Southern California.<br />
<br />
The night I drove north as if possessed <br />
along the Glendale Freeway to La Cañada Flintridge<br />
having seen footage of the area engulfed in flames <br />
on the evening news.<br />
<br />
That segment of California State Route 2 is <br />
eight slithering lanes of freeway <br />
climbing up from Echo Park to the Crescenta Valley<br />
on this occasion eerily devoid of traffic <br />
just hours after the evening rush.<br />
<br />
The few cars I encountered speedily darted and wove around me <br />
until shooting off around a bend into darkness.<br />
<br />
The highway conveyor belt drawing me ever closer <br />
to the UFO-like glow atop the foothills ahead.<br />
<br />
The air quality worsened as I exited the freeway<br />
and detoured around roadblocked suburban streets.<br />
Smoke seeping through the car vents <br />
giving palpability to the images I’d seen on TV.<br />
<br />
The evacuation zone was still expanding <br />
as the fire tore across the Angeles National Forest<br />
devouring acre after acre of overgrown brush <br />
before plummeting into suburbia.<br />
<br />
Power was out in several areas.<br />
Blackened street lights added to the <br />
post-apocalyptic feel of the place <br />
as I slowly approached the smoke plume.<br />
<br />
Fire engines and news vans lined the streets.<br />
I could drive no further. <br />
<br />
The raging Station Fire ahead was barricaded like a crime scene.<br />
<br />
I suddenly felt deeply ashamed to have entered <br />
a disaster area simply to gawk.<br />
<br />
I was a tourist on a Star Tour hoping the proximity to fame <br />
would make my own life less ordinary.<br />
That witnessing catastrophe would infuse my quiet existence<br />
with a degree of danger and excitement.<br />
<br />
I turned off the AM radio<br />
made a U-turn <br />
and began the drive back home.<br />
<br />
MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-19811267741122493162019-04-08T08:50:00.000+10:002019-04-08T08:50:27.774+10:00<div><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hxItgIdMWLs/XKp9qlYpD_I/AAAAAAAABzk/RzHeXUAYMuQAXQuj6EwlF1ddaRESjaklACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1193.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hxItgIdMWLs/XKp9qlYpD_I/AAAAAAAABzk/RzHeXUAYMuQAXQuj6EwlF1ddaRESjaklACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1193.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
A MONTH OF RAIN<br />
<br />
Summer was washed away by a wet March<br />
<br />
The waterfall flowed again<br />
and I moved the dehumidifier around the house<br />
to keep mould at bay<br />
<br />
The rainwater tanks overflowed <br />
so we took long baths<br />
and did many loads of washing<br />
<br />
Some nights the rain was so loud<br />
I awoke bracing myself<br />
as if my rigid body could <br />
     quiet the thunderous pounding on the tin roof<br />
           prevent our house from sliding into the bay<br />
<br />
My thoughts drifting out to the ocean<br />
just there beyond the peninsula<br />
<br />
How exposed and puny I felt<br />
to be at the edge of all that turbulent sea.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-24291665374791165622019-02-24T08:25:00.001+11:002019-02-24T08:29:32.166+11:00<div><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6i2TwJjudxA/XHG5_f2ZBRI/AAAAAAAAByo/7SEUW-PCnKIvLFCTSWNt0m5GuZIRwqFXQCLcBGAs/s1600/JB%2527s%2Bhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6i2TwJjudxA/XHG5_f2ZBRI/AAAAAAAAByo/7SEUW-PCnKIvLFCTSWNt0m5GuZIRwqFXQCLcBGAs/s400/JB%2527s%2Bhouse.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="675" /></a></div><br />
BRIEF AS PHOTOS<br />
<br />
Our brazen pilgrimage<br />
A budget flight to Geneva and a hired car<br />
<br />
Reckless bumping over muddy fields <br />
Bungled ninth grade French in a country pub<br />
<br />
The old farmhouse with a motorbike parked outside <br />
A letterbox by the door displaying the name <I>Berger</i><br />
<br />
We clutched beloved books to our chests, suddenly bashful<br />
Beverly welcomed us in without hesitation, accustomed to this sort of intrusion<br />
<br />
Charitably asked about our young lives over cups of black coffee<br />
Presented a new book of essays as a souvenir<br />
<br />
We followed Yves up to the hayloft to view his phantasmal paintings<br />
The rainy apparition of a flowering lilac bush in the yard.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-81167387636385570542019-02-18T14:43:00.000+11:002019-02-24T08:25:35.041+11:00<div><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pt2pJOkvCVk/XGotJMBLaJI/AAAAAAAAByE/0oO13M4AG30c-TyCYfynMP2PdaYNRI0UQCLcBGAs/s1600/flower%2Bshow.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pt2pJOkvCVk/XGotJMBLaJI/AAAAAAAAByE/0oO13M4AG30c-TyCYfynMP2PdaYNRI0UQCLcBGAs/s400/flower%2Bshow.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
EMPTY NEST<br />
<br />
A eucalypt in the yard cradled a nest for a devoted galah couple<br />
Day after day they’d watch over their young<br />
Forcefully expelling other birds who approached the tree<br />
Leaving only to collect food for those expectant beaks <br />
The intimidatingly primordial squawk of newborns ruling their days<br />
<br />
It all seemed incredibly exhausting for the two adult birds<br />
Did they longingly recall their previous lives of flying freedom?<br />
Did they anticipate the day the baby birds would take flight?<br />
Do birds suffer from empty nest syndrome?<br />
<br />
<i>You should put a metal guard on the tree to deter goannas</i><br />
A few neighbours suggested<br />
But I ignored the advice, trusting the parents’ vigilance <br />
Not wanting to upset the natural order of things<br />
<br />
I awoke one morning to frantic bird shrieks<br />
When I stepped outside, the gum tree was ghostly quiet <br />
I haven’t seen a galah in the bay for weeks now<br />
Do birds mourn the loss of their young? <br />
Do they ache at the futility of those weeks of servitude?MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-26676497786870024332019-02-13T09:38:00.000+11:002019-02-24T08:25:51.960+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Osdq9ekzOX4/XGNKmMqwxbI/AAAAAAAABxQ/JhHhuptSVhASd2a-yeo3WUtjZtHdYNIEgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Osdq9ekzOX4/XGNKmMqwxbI/AAAAAAAABxQ/JhHhuptSVhASd2a-yeo3WUtjZtHdYNIEgCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_0358.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
CROSSING BROKEN BAY<br />
<br />
While getting a cavity filled in a dentist’s chair in Los Angeles<br />
I close my eyes and visualise the boat trip from Little Lovett Bay to Church Point<br />
Untying from the long timber jetty and donning a sun-faded life vest<br />
Lowering the two-stroke engine and turning the key<br />
Glancing over at gum trees along the shore, dotted with white sulphur-crested cockatoos<br />
The brief floating moment mid-journey when the tinny planes atop the water<br />
The deceleration as the Pink Water Taxi’s floating office appears to my right<br />
A customary wave at a fellow pilot as our vessels pass<br />
Slipping the boat into reverse to slow into a park at the commuter wharf<br />
Just as the sound of drilling stops.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-35633334604804325952019-02-06T13:29:00.001+11:002019-02-24T08:26:07.464+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AEmhkeWx2cQ/XFpFsWy3UWI/AAAAAAAABvk/3pKrI1AwYosjUnu5DuiDKzqiZenhOa8KgCLcBGAs/s1600/Aug.%2B17%252C%2B2011%2BDinner%2Bin%2BOcean%2BCity%2BNJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AEmhkeWx2cQ/XFpFsWy3UWI/AAAAAAAABvk/3pKrI1AwYosjUnu5DuiDKzqiZenhOa8KgCLcBGAs/s400/Aug.%2B17%252C%2B2011%2BDinner%2Bin%2BOcean%2BCity%2BNJ.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="800" data-original-height="600" /></a></div><br />
<br />
CARNIVAL BAYOU<br />
<br />
We left the city at dusk in your white delivery van<br />
Cityscape abruptly morphed into Garden State Parkway conveyor belt of headlights and taillights and dark nothing on either side<br />
<br />
The simplicity of the place was always most pronounced on nights like these<br />
Transported from the city’s cacophony to the roar of waves crashing below the boardwalk<br />
A Norman Rockwell painting of summertime Americana<br />
Teenagers moved in restless clumps, looking for whatever trouble they could find in a town of summer homes, souvenir shops and a public drinking ban<br />
<br />
I was already a young woman when I first visited<br />
Yet somehow I remember it differently, as if I too spent the glory days of my childhood there<br />
A twin bed next to sand dollar ornaments and framed nautical knots<br />
Sundown dinners on the dock featuring your mother’s grape tomatoes<br />
Your father proudly piloting his pontoon boat<br />
<br />
I know the place is still there<br />
Hurricane Sandy hit hard, but the boardwalk was spared<br />
The black light back room still glows trippy neon nag champa behind the record store<br />
<br />
Teens continue to prowl around — having always been young and thus feeling eternally so<br />
Immortal, invincible<br />
A seaside resort town oblivious to the passage of time.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-64860839475753983182019-01-31T19:39:00.003+11:002019-02-24T08:26:19.566+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://youtu.be/QLGPT7mS8Mo" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1JMBYXXejoo/XFKzTynNy7I/AAAAAAAABuc/nWAHZrow-MAocrEiNLR52GwxX_PPEL0MACEwYBhgL/s320/KING%2BTIDE.mp4"></a></div><br />
<br />
KING TIDE<br />
<br />
Perihelion and perigee<br />
King tide floods everything<br />
The grass will die but it won’t faze me<br />
Full as the moon, I just want to feel free<br />
<br />
New year but the same old me<br />
Cicadas drown out everything<br />
I try to write but my head’s buzzy<br />
Don’t get much sleep, I just need to feel free.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-19856031645662240292019-01-27T10:55:00.000+11:002019-02-24T08:26:32.598+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FjoODs-QGvY/XFpJm6E_ogI/AAAAAAAABv8/3dN6N52Ns_glRW_Ggegb1BV7KyA75st6ACLcBGAs/s1600/Jan.%2B25%252C%2B2019%2BDoll%2BHouse%2Band%2BHouse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FjoODs-QGvY/XFpJm6E_ogI/AAAAAAAABv8/3dN6N52Ns_glRW_Ggegb1BV7KyA75st6ACLcBGAs/s400/Jan.%2B25%252C%2B2019%2BDoll%2BHouse%2Band%2BHouse.JPG" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="480" data-original-height="640" /></a></div><br />
ALPHA-GAL<br />
<br />
Cancelled plans led to a shortcut across the park<br />
Climbing the steps to the house<br />
Ducking behind a tree to jump out in surprise<br />
<br />
You froze the tick as we know to do<br />
Tiny slivers of pain spread down my scalp<br />
“Anaphylaxis” I blurted out, unconfidently<br />
As my ears throbbed and my throat swelled<br />
<br />
The finest line separates the <i>did not</i> and the <i>did</i><br />
I watched her little sleepy gait wobble and veer<br />
Too close to the edge and I nearly called out<br />
But I feared my outburst might cause her to trip<br />
<br />
And then she did and the nightmare was real<br />
I screamed her name, hoping it could be undone<br />
How often I forget how thin the line is.<br />
MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-6490626198179185962019-01-22T11:05:00.000+11:002019-02-24T08:26:47.205+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7c7r1iEY2lI/XFpNE9S0s6I/AAAAAAAABwo/b5JBV_LZWeIOAmLL0nt4jClADCEgtRghQCLcBGAs/s1600/Jan.%2B2%252C%2B2019%2BPeter%2BStuyvesant.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7c7r1iEY2lI/XFpNE9S0s6I/AAAAAAAABwo/b5JBV_LZWeIOAmLL0nt4jClADCEgtRghQCLcBGAs/s400/Jan.%2B2%252C%2B2019%2BPeter%2BStuyvesant.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
2 JANUARY 2019<br />
<br />
The cheap stroller jams repeatedly between uneven sidewalk segments<br />
My cold hands grip the handles — situated a couple of inches too low to accommodate good posture<br />
My daughter chants vowel sounds to the drone of the plastic wheels on concrete<br />
A canvas bag falls from my shoulder and swings at my elbow as I push along the city blocks<br />
Charlie scans for children and playgrounds as I parade her past landmarks of my New York past<br />
We slip inside St. Mark’s Church where dancers are stretching before a rehearsal<br />
I pause to take a picture of Peter Stuyvesant in the courtyard outside<br />
A picture I’ve taken before when a fresh rose was laid below the bust<br />
I watched her place it there before she headed out through the wrought iron gates and into the city night.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-25632092726303328862013-11-12T16:03:00.000+11:002013-11-12T16:03:23.837+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7429/10813357304_6321839399_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
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<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7442/10813352604_e5124a3053_o.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-13327847637160971402012-12-26T00:19:00.000+11:002012-12-26T00:28:07.644+11:00<img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8212/8305919378_1f509baf76_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
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<img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8362/8305917036_b18508f422_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-6477924783681402522012-07-11T10:05:00.000+10:002012-07-11T10:05:09.720+10:00<img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8284/7546410598_f1ef1245dd_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
<img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8160/7546472872_7c10630aaa_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-57507884071280354972012-04-27T05:57:00.000+10:002012-04-27T05:57:24.312+10:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7204/6970460234_58b9ea1b7f_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
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<i>This year you'll be energized by the same challenges that used to stop you in your tracks. You'll employ new skills, and your game just keeps improving. You'll focus on your loved ones' needs through the next six weeks, connecting with them on deep levels. Enjoyable work and romantic moments fill your summer.</i>MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-53542143206758431692012-02-23T03:32:00.000+11:002012-02-23T03:32:10.672+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7040/6917545053_c852a399fa_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-34724241188906583872012-02-22T06:15:00.000+11:002012-02-22T06:15:01.551+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7067/6917545879_ff1a1b605f_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-60047381016967746632012-01-07T04:24:00.000+11:002012-01-07T04:24:22.199+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7168/6647945187_b6b19d7b6d_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
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<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7161/6647945745_01d11c32ee_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-66130872515390290142011-12-18T14:21:00.000+11:002011-12-18T14:21:43.078+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7022/6528881367_b18c50bb73_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-78234557792122575352011-12-12T21:10:00.001+11:002011-12-12T21:11:11.808+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7017/6498285319_f27c7c9154_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-77607294661328030522011-12-07T11:50:00.001+11:002011-12-07T12:56:06.306+11:00<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7142/6468933747_fe45b3ff4f_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">
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Thinking about Bolaño a lot here.MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-35518217949353687882011-10-27T18:06:00.001+11:002011-10-27T18:06:32.217+11:00<img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6019/6285051419_6f117093aa_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-31729422905870046622011-09-23T06:17:00.001+10:002011-09-23T06:17:46.583+10:00<img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6161/6173308528_31a0631d57_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6841259584301172788.post-21032020690253398022011-09-16T14:27:00.001+10:002011-09-16T14:27:58.985+10:00<img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6152/6152161170_97c63de6c6_b.jpg" width="700" height="525">MARYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926700663028418180noreply@blogger.com