Today was Labour Day holiday - the first was in 1890, celebrating the struggle for an eight-hour working day, which allegedly NZ workers were among the first in the world to achieve. Someone forgot to tell whoever designed my current job description. I did no work today, in protest, rather than in celebration! I will of course, pay for it during the week!

This weekend also celebrates an anniversary of something else... 10 years ago on Labour Weekend, my father celebrated his last birthday. I can see him now, gaunt as he was, sitting in his wheelchair blowing out some candles on a cake. He most enjoyed the trifle, as I recall, and he did get very very tired. 10 days later, on Melbourne Cup day, he died. At one point as I was sitting in the hospital, I read a quote from Twain, in a Readers Digest, which I have often reflected on in the years since:

"What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself All day long, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those other things, are his history. These are his life, and they are not written and cannot be written (or shared). Every day would make a whole book of 80,000 words--365 books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man--the biography of the man himself cannot be written."

At the time, it was very poignant, but as time has passed, I have come to understand even more deeply the truth of this statement. How much we see and think and process internally, that never gets recorded anywhere but on the inside of our minds. How much of it is forgotten 2 seconds later, and how much is retained for years and years, only to come back to the surface when we least expect it.

Having read the book John McCarthy wrote with Brian Keenan, about their travels in Chile, I'm now reading "A Ghost upon your path", in which John travels to a remote corner of Kerry, to spend some time, exploring his roots and coming to terms with his mother's death while he was a hostage in Beirut. I came across this passage last night, which had real resonance:

"The late afternoon light darkens, emphasizing my feeling of isolation. I keep the curtains open so that I can see the lights of cars on the road and of the houses across the harbour at Cromane. Many people live like this around here, I imagine. It's very hard to pin down the character of solitude. It is fickle, friendly and frightening by turns, bringing a sense of loss and good fortune almost in the same moment. Vast spaces, whether physical or emotional, can have you shouting for joy or leave you mute and cowering."

Oh dear. Another week gone by, and that tunnel just stretches on out.

On a brighter note, I went to my old school to watch a couple of year 12 plays tonight. I really enjoyed them both - the quality of drama teaching there is magnificent. One of the guys who made the video that won the national nude video competition earlier in the year got his kit off again. (to many wolf whistles from the audience.. the 14yr old members, that is, not us genteel types) School plays have certainly changed since I was in them!!!

Well.
So just when you thought there might be light at the end of the tunnel, that's about when it turns out to be a train. And this tunnel - it has no exits. Been back 3 days, and that is time enough for the work to triple. It's not a case of saying "no" to things... this is just the job, and I'm only finding out bits at a time . So glad I didn't apply for it on a permanent basis. 9 weeks and counting.