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Name: Saskia Anderson

Bio: flying by the seat of my pants

Photos: saskia's photo libraries

Marmots don't live by the river. ( 14th Apr, 2009 )
Ode to Augustus Globulus Slug of the Sea ( 30th Mar, 2008 )
Amritsa ( 17th Jun, 2007 )
Painted beetles ( 17th May, 2007 )
Thukpa ( 6th May, 2007 )
whoops i forgot my placard (comment on the g20) ( 22nd Nov, 2006 )
solstice ( 23rd Jun, 2006 )
Leaving amnesia square. ( 15th Jun, 2006 )
Riding on the back of an ill-tempered beast. ( 8th Jun, 2006 )
something old something new ( 4th Jun, 2006 )
an island in the east ( 14th May, 2006 )
Euro styling das güt. ( 2nd May, 2006 )
i am told this is the first day of spring ( 25th Apr, 2006 )
whilst the atomic clocks gain a second ( 31st Dec, 2005 )
so sweet the sangha ( 23rd Dec, 2005 )
It begins with a death and ends with a birth. ( 11th Dec, 2005 )
the importance of being upside down ( 2nd Nov, 2005 )
eulogy ( 13th Sep, 2005 )
niche construction ( 24th Aug, 2005 )
circumnavigation or circumlocution? ( 28th Jul, 2005 )
Linoleum has no set grain ( 21st Mar, 2005 )
taxi rides and high rise ( 18th Feb, 2005 )
Chasing the tail of a monkey ( 8th Feb, 2005 )
Australia day in the 'scray ( 26th Jan, 2005 )
Sorry to leave you by the side of the road ( 19th Jan, 2005 )

Marmots don't live by the river.

Its a dusty world outside and a hot world inside. To open or not to open the window is the question.

Everyday now tiny linguistic fingers are rewiring my brain. I'm overhearing parts of stranger's conversations unintentionally. In between, when they are breathing, when its very slow.

We caught a taxi to a small town near Ulaanbaatar. A picnic in the wind. We throw rocks at ice blocks melting in the river. They make sounds like smashing glass.

A hungry cow approaches us. This is a bad time of year for them. The weather's fickle changes can quickly kill them, still weak from a long cold winter. The snow has melted and the rains not yet come. Leaving dry sandy patches of bare earth and air skin-crackingly dry.

We visit a fresh water spring and I see my bit of first Mongolian green popping out bravely from the brown dusty earth.

Spring is here. But it is far from any Spring I know.

Ode to Augustus Globulus Slug of the Sea

Augustus Globulus Slug of the Sea.
You teach me to wonder at the miracles of the deep.
You whose adaptations have turned you to sluggy gelatinousness.
Whose insides are wrapped in black seaweedy plasticity.

Oh Augustus we have found you dead!
Knowing not what life you kept under the ocean
(be it Indian or Southern: for we stand betwixt the two).

Augustus. We pray you to acquiesce to our curiosities.
Beguile us with tales of your former sluggy life.
Tell us of your mysteries so that we might behold their glory.

But in response to this short speech our hero Augustus Globulus was silent.
For, having already passed from this world, our dear Augustus, had nought but to do, but decompose.

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