Gentle reader, it is good to be back in your embrace. I have missed our moments together.
Perhaps, like me, the turbulent surf of life's currents has taken you away from your usual haunts, has tossed you, battered you a little and left you feeling a little bruised and thirsty. Perhaps you too find yourself wondering how the hours in each day have evaporated until it is nearly the end of another month. Those beautiful liquid hours that can be honeyed when we listen to wonderful music and watch clouds, or that can vanish in moments when a print deadline is looming over our hastily re-written copy and an image that just doesn't "pop". Perhaps you too have wondered why feeling busy can be such a burden when we love our friends, and love our social encounters and meals and movies but somehow come up for air each morning a little breathless, a little more wound up.
I have.
I have wondered long into the nights, and early in the mornings, and sometimes woken stunned and confused on the couch and sometimes thrashed into the early dawn entirely failing to sleep. This month I have consciously practised drawing long deep breaths into my belly to flush out the rush. It is starting to help. I have been silent, as you well know. Lost in oceans too wide to see across. I have been functional, my sister had her first child - a girl - and I have ferried food and nappies and messages. And I have been useless and angry, an empty woman wondering if there's reason to persevere. Here again and curiosity re-sparked for living inspired by Buckminster Fuller who decided that he had died and would see what came of things now that the pressure was off.
Tomorrow is the eve of the Christ's birth and a marker in my year towards the fabulous invigorating ritual of death and rebirth on the 31st and 1st. Which is all a long-winded way of saying that I've had some time off and am thinking of you with love and joy in my heart.
I wish you a healthful, inspirational celebration of your own spiritual/intellectual persuasion over the next week and that twenty ten brings you a stream of infinite bounty.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
13 Awesome Nanowrimo Tips from Someone Who Has (finally) Won
There's a few things you can do in preparation for your own Nanowrimo attempt next year, should you wish to join in the literary Running of the Bulls. I plan to use this list as a reminder next year to get my head in the game. So here's 13 of my hard won, best and hottest tips from 3 runs at Nanowrimo:
Before November
* Attend to the ergonomics or otherwise of where you write. My best time was about 1200 words in an hour, mostly it was less than that, so I spent over 50 hours sitting at the dining room table I have my computer on. Dining room tables are great for eating off, crap for typing at. Don't let your wrists/elbows/back take the pain - fix it up however you can.
* Don't be shy, lay in stores of staples. Why waste precious writing time queuing to buy coffee, loo paper, MREs, gin or chocolate? Exactly, too frustrating, so ensure sufficient supplies of these and other important items are procured in bulk in October. (A lesson I learnt on Day 2 of my first -failed- Nano.)
* Start saying 'NO, Thank You' early to anything that is not on your mission-critical social list. Sure you don't want to be a freaky hermit, but you need to find 50 or 60 hours of alert time in November and that is not as easy as it might sound like. I really needed a full day on each weekend just to catch up from the work flatline.
* Get a writing buddy if you can. Someone roughly in your timezone, or at least who is up hitting the keyboard when you are. The moral support is invaluable, especially in the difficult 3rd week.
* Align your timezones. I lost a day at the beginning because my machine was set to the wrong timezone and I didn't notice until on the 28th it gave me a one day countdown. Total Freakout! Save yourself the worry, and save yourself the indignity of having the comp end a day early for you.
* Start cutting down on TV or whatever other recreational narcotics you use to dull the passage of time. You will be needing that as alert time. If there is a particular type of tv, movie or documentary that inspires your planned story or the direction you'd like to write in, by all means lay in some dvds of shows you have already seen. This will be your comfort viewing. I chose Entourage, and a science doco series on SBS.
During November
* Write every day. Your goal is to produce 1 670 words per day. What the heck - why not round it up to 2gs? You're looking for a challenge right?
* Keep a scratch sheet for noting incidental characters names. You'll be in a fervour of creativity in the first week and during that lush 14 000 words you produce will be throw away characters who will rudely turn up later in your story and it can be annoying to have to trawl through your MS looking for their names. Especially when you make up silly names for them. I invented a manga series that I could later on not remember how to spell. Embarrassment.
* Don't watch tv until after you've done your words for the day. Even then think twice unless you've promised yourself the reward of a comfort episode. Likewise, I took the modem (yes I still have an external modem) off the computer to reduce the constant temptation to browse wiki or check emails until there was word count to upload. You may not be as weak willed as I am. More power to you.
* Keep saying no. This is your month goddammit, surely it can wait a few weeks? (My sister thoughtfully arranged the birth of her first child for December. That's teamwork!)
* Remember the rules are just a 50 000 word count. The need for a beginning middle and end that I mentioned last year was my own rule. Any expectations about quality are your own (excess) baggage.
* Write a bit more. Sneak in another paragraph or another scene. Take notes during boring meetings at work, or on the commute, or while you're on a boring phone call. Keep a whiteboard marker in the shower. Whatever. Momentum is your friend in the Kung Fu of writing. Skip bits that are sucking or dragging with a summary line eg "and then they fought. when things were better..." is a perfectly acceptable place keeper. Later, in week 3 for example, when you hit the plot doldrums these one liners are a brilliant place to revisit and flesh out and will give you another thousand words or two plus they give your story brain enough of a break to come up with something to move on with.
* Have fun. Why the hell else would you sign up for something like this if it wasn't fun? Write what you love to read, write for the joy of splashing words around, write for the sadistic pleasure of making your Main Character a total fuckup, whatever turns you on. Just stay in touch with the fun of it all.
So if you have ever said "I'd like to write a novel one day..." why not make November 1st 2010 the day you start that novel?
Go on, put it in your diary now. Of course there's no need to wait until them, but during November you'll join with 200andsomething thousand people worldwide who don't think you're crazy and who are going to applaud whatever you achieve and support whatever vision you have, because they're all doing it too. That's not something that happens any old day of the week, and with these 13 tips, you'll have an insider's edge on keeping your bar chart of word count growing.
Before November
* Attend to the ergonomics or otherwise of where you write. My best time was about 1200 words in an hour, mostly it was less than that, so I spent over 50 hours sitting at the dining room table I have my computer on. Dining room tables are great for eating off, crap for typing at. Don't let your wrists/elbows/back take the pain - fix it up however you can.
* Don't be shy, lay in stores of staples. Why waste precious writing time queuing to buy coffee, loo paper, MREs, gin or chocolate? Exactly, too frustrating, so ensure sufficient supplies of these and other important items are procured in bulk in October. (A lesson I learnt on Day 2 of my first -failed- Nano.)
* Start saying 'NO, Thank You' early to anything that is not on your mission-critical social list. Sure you don't want to be a freaky hermit, but you need to find 50 or 60 hours of alert time in November and that is not as easy as it might sound like. I really needed a full day on each weekend just to catch up from the work flatline.
* Get a writing buddy if you can. Someone roughly in your timezone, or at least who is up hitting the keyboard when you are. The moral support is invaluable, especially in the difficult 3rd week.
* Align your timezones. I lost a day at the beginning because my machine was set to the wrong timezone and I didn't notice until on the 28th it gave me a one day countdown. Total Freakout! Save yourself the worry, and save yourself the indignity of having the comp end a day early for you.
* Start cutting down on TV or whatever other recreational narcotics you use to dull the passage of time. You will be needing that as alert time. If there is a particular type of tv, movie or documentary that inspires your planned story or the direction you'd like to write in, by all means lay in some dvds of shows you have already seen. This will be your comfort viewing. I chose Entourage, and a science doco series on SBS.
During November
* Write every day. Your goal is to produce 1 670 words per day. What the heck - why not round it up to 2gs? You're looking for a challenge right?
* Keep a scratch sheet for noting incidental characters names. You'll be in a fervour of creativity in the first week and during that lush 14 000 words you produce will be throw away characters who will rudely turn up later in your story and it can be annoying to have to trawl through your MS looking for their names. Especially when you make up silly names for them. I invented a manga series that I could later on not remember how to spell. Embarrassment.
* Don't watch tv until after you've done your words for the day. Even then think twice unless you've promised yourself the reward of a comfort episode. Likewise, I took the modem (yes I still have an external modem) off the computer to reduce the constant temptation to browse wiki or check emails until there was word count to upload. You may not be as weak willed as I am. More power to you.
* Keep saying no. This is your month goddammit, surely it can wait a few weeks? (My sister thoughtfully arranged the birth of her first child for December. That's teamwork!)
* Remember the rules are just a 50 000 word count. The need for a beginning middle and end that I mentioned last year was my own rule. Any expectations about quality are your own (excess) baggage.
* Write a bit more. Sneak in another paragraph or another scene. Take notes during boring meetings at work, or on the commute, or while you're on a boring phone call. Keep a whiteboard marker in the shower. Whatever. Momentum is your friend in the Kung Fu of writing. Skip bits that are sucking or dragging with a summary line eg "and then they fought. when things were better..." is a perfectly acceptable place keeper. Later, in week 3 for example, when you hit the plot doldrums these one liners are a brilliant place to revisit and flesh out and will give you another thousand words or two plus they give your story brain enough of a break to come up with something to move on with.
* Have fun. Why the hell else would you sign up for something like this if it wasn't fun? Write what you love to read, write for the joy of splashing words around, write for the sadistic pleasure of making your Main Character a total fuckup, whatever turns you on. Just stay in touch with the fun of it all.
So if you have ever said "I'd like to write a novel one day..." why not make November 1st 2010 the day you start that novel?
Go on, put it in your diary now. Of course there's no need to wait until them, but during November you'll join with 200andsomething thousand people worldwide who don't think you're crazy and who are going to applaud whatever you achieve and support whatever vision you have, because they're all doing it too. That's not something that happens any old day of the week, and with these 13 tips, you'll have an insider's edge on keeping your bar chart of word count growing.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
"Domino Days" is a winner
It is done.
I've finished the story as best I can and validated my word count at 50 268.
Today I produced nearly six thousand words and it is now midnight and still 30 degrees.
I'm beat. Happy, satisfied, but beat.
I love that just getting the words out is what counts - completely bypasses the old internal editor (although it took me three years to grasp that point enough to do it). The focus falls onto process goals and the experience of dedicating time to the project.
Although I started out with no plot or direction in mind, a story and characters did form themselves, and I don't mind what we've come up with. It is not something I would ever have consciously decided was "good enough" for a story but actually it has a lot more in it than I expected. It has ended up being a bit of Mrs Dalloway meets a bit of Entourage. Not as funny as I'd hoped, but at least not suicidal either.
Now is not the time to get caught in rambling justifications about it needing re-writes and having continuity errors and spelling probs, oh, and I think a character switched from being a sister to a girlfriend, no, tonight is for fireworks and celebrating and a long cold drink.
Thanks for your support and well wishing along the way. Cheers!
I've finished the story as best I can and validated my word count at 50 268.
Today I produced nearly six thousand words and it is now midnight and still 30 degrees.
I'm beat. Happy, satisfied, but beat.
I love that just getting the words out is what counts - completely bypasses the old internal editor (although it took me three years to grasp that point enough to do it). The focus falls onto process goals and the experience of dedicating time to the project.
Although I started out with no plot or direction in mind, a story and characters did form themselves, and I don't mind what we've come up with. It is not something I would ever have consciously decided was "good enough" for a story but actually it has a lot more in it than I expected. It has ended up being a bit of Mrs Dalloway meets a bit of Entourage. Not as funny as I'd hoped, but at least not suicidal either.
Now is not the time to get caught in rambling justifications about it needing re-writes and having continuity errors and spelling probs, oh, and I think a character switched from being a sister to a girlfriend, no, tonight is for fireworks and celebrating and a long cold drink.
Thanks for your support and well wishing along the way. Cheers!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Checking In and Saying Hi
Hi. I know I was a lot more entertaining last year during Nano. This year I promised you I would not subject you to my Nano output but you will note how cunning I was to not offer anything in place! Ah-Ha!! Tricksy! You can learn a lot from Hobbits.
It is just that I have been pouring it all into getting this story across the finish line. I'm only allowed here now because ofter a truly horrific week, I pulled a miracle out of the hat over the weekend (10 000 words anybody? Anybody? I'm still shocked my own self) and am now ahead of the linear chart-of-requirement again. For now. So I thought I'd pop over and give you a distracted wave. Plus, I'm kinda stuck again. I just don't know what happens next. I just got a thousand words out of describing one of my characters make a cup of coffee, maybe I can get another thousand out of him drinking it... hmmmm... possible - but what then? Only the muse knows.
The most beguiling and addictive thing for me about Nano and about writing fiction generally is how abstractly collaborative it is. Once I spend more than 5 or 10 minutes properly concentrating on whatever I'm making, plots and characters and developments can start to come from somewhere that is not conscious. Even when I sit down with an outline or an idea I want to develop, it nearly always goes somewhere else. I have a concrete physical sense that I am working with someone who sometimes walks up behind me once I'm settled and who whispers "oooh! I know, What if ...!" into my ear at odd moments and I go "Genius! Wish I'd thought of that!" only there is no one else here.
It just happened now. I sat down to write about how much I love coffee and how close and dear to my heart it is right now, and instead I told you that I hear voices. See? Weird.
What I have taken more than ten years to learn is that when I trust the voice and follow those suggestions, things become more interesting, more layered, more likely to work in a pleasing way, and more likely to feel good.
There it is.
That's all the wisdom I'm able to impart at this point in the biggest writing challenge I've ever faced - listen to the voices because it feels good.
Ok. Good luck with parsing that. See you in a week or 8909 words - which ever comes first.
It is just that I have been pouring it all into getting this story across the finish line. I'm only allowed here now because ofter a truly horrific week, I pulled a miracle out of the hat over the weekend (10 000 words anybody? Anybody? I'm still shocked my own self) and am now ahead of the linear chart-of-requirement again. For now. So I thought I'd pop over and give you a distracted wave. Plus, I'm kinda stuck again. I just don't know what happens next. I just got a thousand words out of describing one of my characters make a cup of coffee, maybe I can get another thousand out of him drinking it... hmmmm... possible - but what then? Only the muse knows.
The most beguiling and addictive thing for me about Nano and about writing fiction generally is how abstractly collaborative it is. Once I spend more than 5 or 10 minutes properly concentrating on whatever I'm making, plots and characters and developments can start to come from somewhere that is not conscious. Even when I sit down with an outline or an idea I want to develop, it nearly always goes somewhere else. I have a concrete physical sense that I am working with someone who sometimes walks up behind me once I'm settled and who whispers "oooh! I know, What if ...!" into my ear at odd moments and I go "Genius! Wish I'd thought of that!" only there is no one else here.
It just happened now. I sat down to write about how much I love coffee and how close and dear to my heart it is right now, and instead I told you that I hear voices. See? Weird.
What I have taken more than ten years to learn is that when I trust the voice and follow those suggestions, things become more interesting, more layered, more likely to work in a pleasing way, and more likely to feel good.
There it is.
That's all the wisdom I'm able to impart at this point in the biggest writing challenge I've ever faced - listen to the voices because it feels good.
Ok. Good luck with parsing that. See you in a week or 8909 words - which ever comes first.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Nano Halfway Status: Not Sucking! Woot!
What is it that is different about this year?
I busted a gut last year and basically washed out.
It is half way through the month and I'm on 25 673 words - essentially right where I should be to have a chance of getting across the line. That is to say - tracking just fine, and so far I've missed only about 4 days writing due to work/travel/homicidal tendencies. And without wanting to jinx anything or sound like a wanger, it has been not too bad, writing-effort-wise. Not too many anxious blockages, that kind of thing. Actually, it has been pretty darn good. Fun.
This is why people get superstitious - because when things suck it is easy to figure out how I choked or sabotaged myself, but when things go well, I look for external reasons. "Oh, I found a white feather - there must be an angel watching over me" (thanks Angel, pls leave cash next time!) or "I was wearing my lucky striped undies when I had the idea / wrote the first page/ decided to make that character into a guy so people wouldn't think it was me," or "I turned my computer on and then I made the coffee - it must work better in that order." Whatever. Something outside of me is responsible for the good stuff.
How freakin insidious is that?!
Who designed these brains anyway? What kind of genetic or evolutionary advantage can there possibly be to building in a tendency to neuroses?!?
I don't think I'm alone in having that kind of experience. I just wish I could swap the polarities for a while. Have a little rest from being infinitesimally small and insignificant and soak up some center-of-the-universe juice for a bit. Ah well. I'm not hung up on it, not while the writing is coming ok. Of course at some point I'll have to take off the lucky striped undies, and then if things start going badly, well there will be tears until they're out of the wash, I can tell you that for nothing.
Also, please send chocolate, I'm out.
I busted a gut last year and basically washed out.
It is half way through the month and I'm on 25 673 words - essentially right where I should be to have a chance of getting across the line. That is to say - tracking just fine, and so far I've missed only about 4 days writing due to work/travel/homicidal tendencies. And without wanting to jinx anything or sound like a wanger, it has been not too bad, writing-effort-wise. Not too many anxious blockages, that kind of thing. Actually, it has been pretty darn good. Fun.
This is why people get superstitious - because when things suck it is easy to figure out how I choked or sabotaged myself, but when things go well, I look for external reasons. "Oh, I found a white feather - there must be an angel watching over me" (thanks Angel, pls leave cash next time!) or "I was wearing my lucky striped undies when I had the idea / wrote the first page/ decided to make that character into a guy so people wouldn't think it was me," or "I turned my computer on and then I made the coffee - it must work better in that order." Whatever. Something outside of me is responsible for the good stuff.
How freakin insidious is that?!
Who designed these brains anyway? What kind of genetic or evolutionary advantage can there possibly be to building in a tendency to neuroses?!?
I don't think I'm alone in having that kind of experience. I just wish I could swap the polarities for a while. Have a little rest from being infinitesimally small and insignificant and soak up some center-of-the-universe juice for a bit. Ah well. I'm not hung up on it, not while the writing is coming ok. Of course at some point I'll have to take off the lucky striped undies, and then if things start going badly, well there will be tears until they're out of the wash, I can tell you that for nothing.
Also, please send chocolate, I'm out.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Nano Wk 1 (and a bit) Update
A quick (and late!) update on the Nano situation. Oooh, I've been writing away.
My word count for 11th November is at 19 470 - a new personal best. Yay!!!
I am hungering to hit 50 000 this year, but my immediate next stage is to focus on cracking the elusive 25 000 mark by the night of the 15th, this Sunday coming.
Thanks for the supportive messages so far! I'm having a great time, but I don't want to jinx it. Just thought I'd share news about the PB.
My word count for 11th November is at 19 470 - a new personal best. Yay!!!
I am hungering to hit 50 000 this year, but my immediate next stage is to focus on cracking the elusive 25 000 mark by the night of the 15th, this Sunday coming.
Thanks for the supportive messages so far! I'm having a great time, but I don't want to jinx it. Just thought I'd share news about the PB.
I stubbed my toe on a gem.
So the context to this story that happened last night is that the de-blimping program had been tracking well and I decided to re-allocate some energy to another area of the "Pentagram of Personal Power: Five Steps to Focus and Freedom"* specifically the branch that I like to think of as "Do i really have to spend decades more of my life in this job or one just like it?" but might be more succinctly summarised as 'my financial position'. So an appraisal of this position did not take long. 'Treading Water' is not a complicated process, and can barely be considered a strategy when it has been happening for two years.
Thus I have been reading a vasty range of books on the subject of managing money, personal finances, building wealth, why wealth is short sighted and prosperity is much better, how debt can leverage growth, how debt cripples your future, why stocks are a good investment, why investment is a bad idea, how you can make millions in houses and why the housing market is dead. They've been dry, outlandish, lurid, berating, cajoling, pompous and hilarious. Sometimes all at once.
Out of this project so far I had learnt just one very important lesson - own the pub. No matter what drink any one's peddling, there's loads of people willing to drink it. I didn't mean buy an actual pub, I meant that metaphorically - you know - to represent the publishing industry, but actually owning a pub's a pretty good concrete idea as well.
Anyway, it has been an ongoing exercise in embracing a wide variety of strongly held opinions that are presented as fact and doing so whilst holding a position of faith that out of the end of this process I will be able to distill useful concepts and 'from scratch' principles allowing me to navigate the shoals of financial reefs without gouging a fatal hole in the hull and sinking us all - leading possibly back to treading water although this time as a useful survival technique rather than a way of passing time.
Sorry. That was a hugely long sentence.
Plugging though these books has been interesting but also a penance of sorts. A way to lesson the karmic impact of my fiscally flagant 20s. None of it seemed to be sinking in, I thought I would just be confused and confused for ever, and fated to read myself in circles. Which is why I did not expect that on or about page 387 to have a sweet moment of clarity, one of those clarion bell A-Ha! moments.
There was a single line, hidden in the body copy (and I cannot find it again now, so I am very glad I had immediately transcribed it to a sticky-note) that said this "Seek not what the Master has, but what the Master sought".
That was a new one on me! And what an absoloute gem!
Roll it around for a little while - savour the layered and textured flavours to it.
I can think of many circumstances I would have expected to find such a fine philosophical aphorism, but no, it tripped me up when I thought I knew what to expect from this book, and that was another moment of awareness - all the reading I had been doing had been done through the prism (or prison) of my existing opinions about what I would find.
Damn.
This one little gem has pointed out to me that there is an abundance of riches in the dirt I was shovelling out of the way to get to where I thought I was headed. I'm sitting in my tailings, holding this rock up to the light and squinting through it. Everything looks different.
Better go and re-read a few things then.
Oh, and if anyone knows of a good pub going for a song, could you let me know? We'll rename it "Rosie's Tea House of Ill Repute" and institute competitions for reciting Beowulf (with actions).
* Do you like that? I made it up. Sounds good though huh? I'm thinking of branching out into pseudo-non-fictional self help ebooks. That one would be "aimed at the modern witch or wiccan seeking guidance of getting their life into a stronger, more aligned balance."
Thus I have been reading a vasty range of books on the subject of managing money, personal finances, building wealth, why wealth is short sighted and prosperity is much better, how debt can leverage growth, how debt cripples your future, why stocks are a good investment, why investment is a bad idea, how you can make millions in houses and why the housing market is dead. They've been dry, outlandish, lurid, berating, cajoling, pompous and hilarious. Sometimes all at once.
Out of this project so far I had learnt just one very important lesson - own the pub. No matter what drink any one's peddling, there's loads of people willing to drink it. I didn't mean buy an actual pub, I meant that metaphorically - you know - to represent the publishing industry, but actually owning a pub's a pretty good concrete idea as well.
Anyway, it has been an ongoing exercise in embracing a wide variety of strongly held opinions that are presented as fact and doing so whilst holding a position of faith that out of the end of this process I will be able to distill useful concepts and 'from scratch' principles allowing me to navigate the shoals of financial reefs without gouging a fatal hole in the hull and sinking us all - leading possibly back to treading water although this time as a useful survival technique rather than a way of passing time.
Sorry. That was a hugely long sentence.
Plugging though these books has been interesting but also a penance of sorts. A way to lesson the karmic impact of my fiscally flagant 20s. None of it seemed to be sinking in, I thought I would just be confused and confused for ever, and fated to read myself in circles. Which is why I did not expect that on or about page 387 to have a sweet moment of clarity, one of those clarion bell A-Ha! moments.
There was a single line, hidden in the body copy (and I cannot find it again now, so I am very glad I had immediately transcribed it to a sticky-note) that said this "Seek not what the Master has, but what the Master sought".
That was a new one on me! And what an absoloute gem!
Roll it around for a little while - savour the layered and textured flavours to it.
I can think of many circumstances I would have expected to find such a fine philosophical aphorism, but no, it tripped me up when I thought I knew what to expect from this book, and that was another moment of awareness - all the reading I had been doing had been done through the prism (or prison) of my existing opinions about what I would find.
Damn.
This one little gem has pointed out to me that there is an abundance of riches in the dirt I was shovelling out of the way to get to where I thought I was headed. I'm sitting in my tailings, holding this rock up to the light and squinting through it. Everything looks different.
Better go and re-read a few things then.
Oh, and if anyone knows of a good pub going for a song, could you let me know? We'll rename it "Rosie's Tea House of Ill Repute" and institute competitions for reciting Beowulf (with actions).
* Do you like that? I made it up. Sounds good though huh? I'm thinking of branching out into pseudo-non-fictional self help ebooks. That one would be "aimed at the modern witch or wiccan seeking guidance of getting their life into a stronger, more aligned balance."
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Tweetable?
Is anything in my life tweetable?
Do I really need another on-line forum for airing my opinions and brain farts?
The only way to know is to give it a go.
Hey, that would make a good T-Shirt!
The only way to know is to give it a go.
Maybe done in some bubbly hippy font and a smiley face at the end.
Gee, you can tell I've had a few days off and wound right down. Anyway, I'm on the Twitter, it is part of the interwebs. If anyone can tell me how to drive it, that would be swell. I think my phone needs a different thingo to be able to talk to it. As usual, look for me as orbitaltorch and say hai, I love that.
We had a GIGANTIC storm a few days ago - sheet lightening, Thor stamping about the place, rumbly thunder to move the foundations, flooding rains, wind to tear the atmo off. It was brilliant. Went for hours and took the power intermittently. I live on top of a hill and my street flooded to about knee height (so just above most people's ankles-ish) so there was a lot of water around. I loved it, and I loved that it cooled everything down by at least 10 degrees for the next few days and we've been back to mid 20s temps, and now everything is green and growing manically to catch up. There's even cool breezes! Oh how pleasant life can be when the physical world is not trying to scald you off the face of the planet.
I stood outside for a while after the bulk of the terrifying bit had passed and took some video on my phone so I would have a sound file of the rain and the frogs going all poly rhythmic gamelan style. Later in the summer if it goes all dry again I will have 45 precious seconds of proof that water can and does sometimes fall freely from the sky. Folk wisdom says that we'll have a wet season this summer. Why? I've heard everything from the large number of flies, ants in the house, 3 dust storms equals a wet season ahead, and my favourite of all, my mother's trick foot. Yes, her barometrically sensitive foot has been aching. It is accurate slightly more often than the meteorologists, but I'm not going to buy another lemon tree just yet!
The weather aside, I baked a banana cake* last night as a house warming gift for Sister2 and her partner who have moved into their dream(ish) home this weekend. I doubled the recipe, thinking that would make for a nice generously sized cake. Kindof an innocent thing to do but the outcome is a monster. I did not think through the fact that getting the larger sized spring based pan and then doubling recipes would result in a cake too large to fit on any plate, serving platter or tray that I have. If I could handle it safely, I would weigh it just to satisfy my curiosity but I am loathe to put it under any further structural strain than just sitting there, being a presentation problem. Hmmm. At least I know it fits on the base of the pan it was cooked in. That will be my back-up position. It is tall too, nearly 7 cm by what I can judge. Holy giant cakes Batman!
I was hoping that it would be a short-lived problem, that we'd be tucking into the moist banana-ry deliciousness of it for morning tea today. But no. They are inconveniently busy with cleaning the old house. I will have to wait the endless hours until afternoon tea. The cake is implacable. It knows it must be gifted whole. My mouth is uncontrollably watering in anticipation. Oh Caped Crusader, if only I had made a little muffin from just some of it!
BTW, while I've been telling you about the cake, twitter has told me about the new Cory Doctorow novel 'Makers' that's out. Happy Happy!
Make cakes people, and be happy.
The only way to know is to give it a go.
*I used the recipe from "Women's Weekly: Old - Fashioned Favourites" which I can recommend heartily to anyone with a sweet tooth and a preference for simple classic dishes. Easily found in good newsagents and occasionally even in the supermarket.
Do I really need another on-line forum for airing my opinions and brain farts?
The only way to know is to give it a go.
Hey, that would make a good T-Shirt!
The only way to know is to give it a go.
Maybe done in some bubbly hippy font and a smiley face at the end.
Gee, you can tell I've had a few days off and wound right down. Anyway, I'm on the Twitter, it is part of the interwebs. If anyone can tell me how to drive it, that would be swell. I think my phone needs a different thingo to be able to talk to it. As usual, look for me as orbitaltorch and say hai, I love that.
We had a GIGANTIC storm a few days ago - sheet lightening, Thor stamping about the place, rumbly thunder to move the foundations, flooding rains, wind to tear the atmo off. It was brilliant. Went for hours and took the power intermittently. I live on top of a hill and my street flooded to about knee height (so just above most people's ankles-ish) so there was a lot of water around. I loved it, and I loved that it cooled everything down by at least 10 degrees for the next few days and we've been back to mid 20s temps, and now everything is green and growing manically to catch up. There's even cool breezes! Oh how pleasant life can be when the physical world is not trying to scald you off the face of the planet.
I stood outside for a while after the bulk of the terrifying bit had passed and took some video on my phone so I would have a sound file of the rain and the frogs going all poly rhythmic gamelan style. Later in the summer if it goes all dry again I will have 45 precious seconds of proof that water can and does sometimes fall freely from the sky. Folk wisdom says that we'll have a wet season this summer. Why? I've heard everything from the large number of flies, ants in the house, 3 dust storms equals a wet season ahead, and my favourite of all, my mother's trick foot. Yes, her barometrically sensitive foot has been aching. It is accurate slightly more often than the meteorologists, but I'm not going to buy another lemon tree just yet!
The weather aside, I baked a banana cake* last night as a house warming gift for Sister2 and her partner who have moved into their dream(ish) home this weekend. I doubled the recipe, thinking that would make for a nice generously sized cake. Kindof an innocent thing to do but the outcome is a monster. I did not think through the fact that getting the larger sized spring based pan and then doubling recipes would result in a cake too large to fit on any plate, serving platter or tray that I have. If I could handle it safely, I would weigh it just to satisfy my curiosity but I am loathe to put it under any further structural strain than just sitting there, being a presentation problem. Hmmm. At least I know it fits on the base of the pan it was cooked in. That will be my back-up position. It is tall too, nearly 7 cm by what I can judge. Holy giant cakes Batman!
I was hoping that it would be a short-lived problem, that we'd be tucking into the moist banana-ry deliciousness of it for morning tea today. But no. They are inconveniently busy with cleaning the old house. I will have to wait the endless hours until afternoon tea. The cake is implacable. It knows it must be gifted whole. My mouth is uncontrollably watering in anticipation. Oh Caped Crusader, if only I had made a little muffin from just some of it!
BTW, while I've been telling you about the cake, twitter has told me about the new Cory Doctorow novel 'Makers' that's out. Happy Happy!
Make cakes people, and be happy.
The only way to know is to give it a go.
*I used the recipe from "Women's Weekly: Old - Fashioned Favourites" which I can recommend heartily to anyone with a sweet tooth and a preference for simple classic dishes. Easily found in good newsagents and occasionally even in the supermarket.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Remember Remember...
... the fifth of November.
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
November 5th, 1605. What happened? "Treason" writes the victors and Guy Fawkes was sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for it. Imagine what that means for a second - and it was to be done in public (of the conspiritors sent to death that day, Fawkes was weakened by the torture he had been subjected to and using the last of his strength jumped in the noose and broke his neck thereby avoiding being drawn and quartered).
What would drive someone to such an act of (what would be named today as) terrorism?
He was Catholic and King James and most of the aristocracy were Protestant. Catholics were actively persecuted by the ruling Protestants at this time in English history. It was illegal to gather for mass. Ironically (to me) mass was of course in Latin, so many people were risking death or less serious punishments (such as lengthy imprisonment in unsanitary cells) to hear something that they did not understand. Such is the power of belief in ultimate truth!
Why that means parliament should have been blown up I've never been entirely clear, but I think it was a pragmatic rather than philosophical or symbolic decision - it was simply the place that the King and all the lords would be gathered when Parliament would open on the 6th. In the 17th century the European world was savagely fought over by competing christian churches in a way that to my modern eyes seems barbaric, wasteful and largely pointless. After all, they both have the same imaginary friend - right? But real wealth was at stake as the new worlds were discovered and then exploited. The power, drive and expertise to exploit those new sources of wealth came from the churches.
Our governmental system and laws are largely separated from the influence of any church now but at that time the idea of religious tolerance must have been as laughable and dangerous as the idea of hulling a ship with paper.
Guy Fawkes night was commemorated by government fiat to remind the underclasses that the King had survived, that the plot had been foiled and the conspirators given their just ends at the noose and sword. But. But. Had they consulted a magician, wise woman, or even just a low-level marketing hack, they would have been advised to change the name of the event. There's a simple but strong power in naming things.
Somewhere in that long line of burning nights from 1606, Guy Fawkes shifted from being a treasonous scoundrel to something of heroic figure. Indeed he must be magnificent or else why should he not be forgot?!
By the time I came across his story (in the late 80s or early 90s - I was slow to join the broader consciousness) the motivations were presented as political and very modern, he came with his own tagline: "The last man to enter Parliament with honourable intentions" and had been recast in the language of a freedom fighter, tackling tyranny for the justice and betterment of all. Such a stylish case of co opting a piece of history and an actual, historical person with quirks, flaws, joys, flatulence and awkward beliefs all of his own and turning him into a simplified symbol and then even more quickly into a marketing slogan and image for branding up parties and merchandising and acting as a shorthand for a whole bunch of modern concepts that our historical fellow would baulk or blanch at. He's in good company at least, I'm sure Jesus of Nazareth can empathise with that process. Ditto Einstein come to think of it.
It is from twisty turning stories like this that I have gained a sceptical respect for historians of all stripes. Even with primary sources and eyewitness statements or drawings, events must still be read and evaluated within layers of meaning. They happened in worlds so removed to ours as to be wholly alien. Entire, complex and detailed political and cultural structures existed then as invisible and obvious to those citizens as telecommunications and LOLcatz are to us. Shifting into a historical period involves letting go of some of oneself in order to make room for their values and needs. Yet we can't be completely objective, and we don't want to be. We read Shakespeare for our own meanings and pleasures, not to get a better handle on court influence or the emergent commerical structures of 17th centrury entertainments.
So for whatever reason you prefer, remember remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder, treason and plot. It really happened, it's a symbol. They were terrorists, they were fighting for what we take for granted - a separation of Church and State. They were killed as the lowest form of criminal, they live on immortalised in popular culture, more famous than the King who triumphed.
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
November 5th, 1605. What happened? "Treason" writes the victors and Guy Fawkes was sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for it. Imagine what that means for a second - and it was to be done in public (of the conspiritors sent to death that day, Fawkes was weakened by the torture he had been subjected to and using the last of his strength jumped in the noose and broke his neck thereby avoiding being drawn and quartered).
What would drive someone to such an act of (what would be named today as) terrorism?
He was Catholic and King James and most of the aristocracy were Protestant. Catholics were actively persecuted by the ruling Protestants at this time in English history. It was illegal to gather for mass. Ironically (to me) mass was of course in Latin, so many people were risking death or less serious punishments (such as lengthy imprisonment in unsanitary cells) to hear something that they did not understand. Such is the power of belief in ultimate truth!
Why that means parliament should have been blown up I've never been entirely clear, but I think it was a pragmatic rather than philosophical or symbolic decision - it was simply the place that the King and all the lords would be gathered when Parliament would open on the 6th. In the 17th century the European world was savagely fought over by competing christian churches in a way that to my modern eyes seems barbaric, wasteful and largely pointless. After all, they both have the same imaginary friend - right? But real wealth was at stake as the new worlds were discovered and then exploited. The power, drive and expertise to exploit those new sources of wealth came from the churches.
Our governmental system and laws are largely separated from the influence of any church now but at that time the idea of religious tolerance must have been as laughable and dangerous as the idea of hulling a ship with paper.
Guy Fawkes night was commemorated by government fiat to remind the underclasses that the King had survived, that the plot had been foiled and the conspirators given their just ends at the noose and sword. But. But. Had they consulted a magician, wise woman, or even just a low-level marketing hack, they would have been advised to change the name of the event. There's a simple but strong power in naming things.
Somewhere in that long line of burning nights from 1606, Guy Fawkes shifted from being a treasonous scoundrel to something of heroic figure. Indeed he must be magnificent or else why should he not be forgot?!
By the time I came across his story (in the late 80s or early 90s - I was slow to join the broader consciousness) the motivations were presented as political and very modern, he came with his own tagline: "The last man to enter Parliament with honourable intentions" and had been recast in the language of a freedom fighter, tackling tyranny for the justice and betterment of all. Such a stylish case of co opting a piece of history and an actual, historical person with quirks, flaws, joys, flatulence and awkward beliefs all of his own and turning him into a simplified symbol and then even more quickly into a marketing slogan and image for branding up parties and merchandising and acting as a shorthand for a whole bunch of modern concepts that our historical fellow would baulk or blanch at. He's in good company at least, I'm sure Jesus of Nazareth can empathise with that process. Ditto Einstein come to think of it.
It is from twisty turning stories like this that I have gained a sceptical respect for historians of all stripes. Even with primary sources and eyewitness statements or drawings, events must still be read and evaluated within layers of meaning. They happened in worlds so removed to ours as to be wholly alien. Entire, complex and detailed political and cultural structures existed then as invisible and obvious to those citizens as telecommunications and LOLcatz are to us. Shifting into a historical period involves letting go of some of oneself in order to make room for their values and needs. Yet we can't be completely objective, and we don't want to be. We read Shakespeare for our own meanings and pleasures, not to get a better handle on court influence or the emergent commerical structures of 17th centrury entertainments.
So for whatever reason you prefer, remember remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder, treason and plot. It really happened, it's a symbol. They were terrorists, they were fighting for what we take for granted - a separation of Church and State. They were killed as the lowest form of criminal, they live on immortalised in popular culture, more famous than the King who triumphed.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Nanowrimo 09
It is that time of year again - Nanowrimo - which has gone international, but in the way of things I don't think they'll change the name. If you've ever said "one day I'd like to write a novel" then this is the month for you to give it a go, and as long as you don't blog about it, no one need every know you tried if you don't meet your own exacting standards!
Obviously, I should be over in my other window writing, but my characters are about to order coffee, so I thought I could take a little break and jump over here for a bit. Last year I wrote in longhand, in an actual, physical paper notebook. That was great, and I really enjoyed being able to write in such a portable and low-power requirement mode, but it made editing and sharing things a lot harder, so this year I'm trying it another way and just writing into the machine.
Don't worry that you'll be exposed to it here - it is rough like bogan vowels and as disjointed as a teenager's conversation and attention span. It is a lot of fun, apart from the bits that aren't. I shan't inflict it upon you.
But enough about me. What have you been up to? There are so many ways that people are filling their days. There's such an unpredictable and unknowable variety of things that can happen in the world. We spend so much time fighting against feeling as though we're in a rut that when something out of the ordinary really does happen, we can be at a loss about how to respond, how to grasp the implications, how to interrupt our pattern and reset with the new parameters.
Last night I stood outside in the yard and looked up at the sky. I tried to think about everyone I know and have known. I couldn't manage it. I just didn't have the space for it. Yet all of us and more than we'll ever know are all breathing in and out now, and living and bickering and worrying about pants or relishing dinner or avoiding bills or trying not to scratch an itchy spot or feeling pain or thinking of someone they love. It is immense. You're part of it. Can you hold everyone you know in your heart at once? I wonder tonight if this is something that would be a good idea - to make our hearts bigger and hold more variety, witness more and still feel compassion. It is the kind of idea that is easier to have in the dark silent night, far from the distractions presented by actual people, but that doesn't mean it is completely silly ... just that maybe I've got plenty of challenges in front of me.
Faced with that thought, I think I'll go back to my other window and get those guys some breakfast and maybe some light banter to fill their day. I wonder what will happen next?
Obviously, I should be over in my other window writing, but my characters are about to order coffee, so I thought I could take a little break and jump over here for a bit. Last year I wrote in longhand, in an actual, physical paper notebook. That was great, and I really enjoyed being able to write in such a portable and low-power requirement mode, but it made editing and sharing things a lot harder, so this year I'm trying it another way and just writing into the machine.
Don't worry that you'll be exposed to it here - it is rough like bogan vowels and as disjointed as a teenager's conversation and attention span. It is a lot of fun, apart from the bits that aren't. I shan't inflict it upon you.
But enough about me. What have you been up to? There are so many ways that people are filling their days. There's such an unpredictable and unknowable variety of things that can happen in the world. We spend so much time fighting against feeling as though we're in a rut that when something out of the ordinary really does happen, we can be at a loss about how to respond, how to grasp the implications, how to interrupt our pattern and reset with the new parameters.
Last night I stood outside in the yard and looked up at the sky. I tried to think about everyone I know and have known. I couldn't manage it. I just didn't have the space for it. Yet all of us and more than we'll ever know are all breathing in and out now, and living and bickering and worrying about pants or relishing dinner or avoiding bills or trying not to scratch an itchy spot or feeling pain or thinking of someone they love. It is immense. You're part of it. Can you hold everyone you know in your heart at once? I wonder tonight if this is something that would be a good idea - to make our hearts bigger and hold more variety, witness more and still feel compassion. It is the kind of idea that is easier to have in the dark silent night, far from the distractions presented by actual people, but that doesn't mean it is completely silly ... just that maybe I've got plenty of challenges in front of me.
Faced with that thought, I think I'll go back to my other window and get those guys some breakfast and maybe some light banter to fill their day. I wonder what will happen next?
Monday, November 02, 2009
The Satellite of Grace
Go outside tonight if you can, maybe it will be clear and you can tilt your face up to the radiance of the moon. It is a still night where I am am, and the stars have all taken a step back to clear the stage. Only the leaves of the big tree shift a little in the glintering light. Leaves are impatient like that. I love to look at her on nights like this, but I can't hold her gaze for long.
Last night, the wonderful moment before her glory, she rose for me above the big wet and the waves made a song for her that sang and sang and echoes even now. It is hard to hear the salt song when we're under roofs or hemmed by the concrete that is hard but not slowly alive like stone. Hold there in your yard or the park and squint past the annoying edges that intrude of rooftops and power lines and all the other nagardly reminders of our control over electricity, and see if you can remember what it felt like to live within her rhythm and pray for her tides and good favours.
Her strong face cannot compete with the vibrant emanations of the blue teats of our screens and our clocks and our clevernesses. But there she remains, orbiting at a little over 1klom a second now (as though forever) in synch with us and facing us. The impression thus given of our centrality to meaning yet another gift from her. Ah, as light calls forth shadow in the language of psyche, does the moon gift Gaia with more than physics suggests? The teats' glows will fade and the moon will hold us again, hold us still and without judging our notions of independence. The echoes and songs of the salt that we live from will sing in us all whether we hear it or no.
Last night, the wonderful moment before her glory, she rose for me above the big wet and the waves made a song for her that sang and sang and echoes even now. It is hard to hear the salt song when we're under roofs or hemmed by the concrete that is hard but not slowly alive like stone. Hold there in your yard or the park and squint past the annoying edges that intrude of rooftops and power lines and all the other nagardly reminders of our control over electricity, and see if you can remember what it felt like to live within her rhythm and pray for her tides and good favours.
Her strong face cannot compete with the vibrant emanations of the blue teats of our screens and our clocks and our clevernesses. But there she remains, orbiting at a little over 1klom a second now (as though forever) in synch with us and facing us. The impression thus given of our centrality to meaning yet another gift from her. Ah, as light calls forth shadow in the language of psyche, does the moon gift Gaia with more than physics suggests? The teats' glows will fade and the moon will hold us again, hold us still and without judging our notions of independence. The echoes and songs of the salt that we live from will sing in us all whether we hear it or no.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wha jus happ'nd?
I had a good idea that came to me either in bed or the shower (two great spots for ideas, which is why I keep a whiteboard marker in my soap dish and my bedside table has more pens than my desk) but I can't remember it now because I have been completely distracted by the hilarious, random and prurient curiosities the world has to offer.
These have come to me via a wonderful network of curious and humorous souls who very thoughtfully send me things* to liven my days. I have felt a little bit like Mr Universe this week "There's only the signal Mal!" (I've been re-watching SF films in mute protest at Moon only screening in 1[one!] cinema in Qld for its release. WHAT KIND OF A BACKWATER IS THIS?! I mean, that's just rude. I've spent quite a bit of time in capslock this week).
Where was I? Oh. Yes.
So between the fury that is exile, and the fact that I've been trying to do what feels like two and half units of work in one work-time-segment, waaay too much coffee (jumpy!jumpy!overloud!), cooking timeporn, the excitement of a cool T shirt every single freakin day - I love the interwebs!, a vehicle I reckon would be a total booty magnet (ooh, toss up between this and the Tesla Roadster now if I ever become stupidly rich) , the latest from the Governator, there is the mindfuck of the utterly provocative and offensive/hilarious promotional material for the new the new Rammstein album "Pussy"... I can't seem to keep a thought straight in my mind until the next distraction comes along.
Ohh look! A monkey!
* Thank you to Mr Wright, Mez, Joel and Jen for some of the content I refer to here! And to Msjaye for content that is not! Do you want to send me things? Do so using orbitaltorch@gmail.com
These have come to me via a wonderful network of curious and humorous souls who very thoughtfully send me things* to liven my days. I have felt a little bit like Mr Universe this week "There's only the signal Mal!" (I've been re-watching SF films in mute protest at Moon only screening in 1[one!] cinema in Qld for its release. WHAT KIND OF A BACKWATER IS THIS?! I mean, that's just rude. I've spent quite a bit of time in capslock this week).
Where was I? Oh. Yes.
So between the fury that is exile, and the fact that I've been trying to do what feels like two and half units of work in one work-time-segment, waaay too much coffee (jumpy!jumpy!overloud!), cooking timeporn, the excitement of a cool T shirt every single freakin day - I love the interwebs!, a vehicle I reckon would be a total booty magnet (ooh, toss up between this and the Tesla Roadster now if I ever become stupidly rich) , the latest from the Governator, there is the mindfuck of the utterly provocative and offensive/hilarious promotional material for the new the new Rammstein album "Pussy"... I can't seem to keep a thought straight in my mind until the next distraction comes along.
Ohh look! A monkey!
* Thank you to Mr Wright, Mez, Joel and Jen for some of the content I refer to here! And to Msjaye for content that is not! Do you want to send me things? Do so using orbitaltorch@gmail.com
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Battle Lines
My sister mentioned in passing yesterday that the family is considering holding an intervention on me. Well there's some news.
Which of my many antisocial and problematic behaviours could they be planning to target I wonder? Could it be my relentless cynicism and brooding depressive belief that life is pretty shit and it is best to pretend otherwise so one doesn't spiral helplessly into an abyss of self destruction? Could it be my venomous and acidic disregard for my fellow humans and seething hatred for politicians, derivatives fund managers and smokers? Could it be my addiction to Spider Solitaire - that sensuous and seductive siren who lures me endlessly onto the rocks of lost time?
No. Apparently, these things don't rate a mention. The family takes it all on board with barely a flicker. There are bigger issues. Issues that threaten the fabric of my life if only I could wake up to their horrible implications.
I look again. Is it the dead lemon tree that I haven't removed yet from the barren (possibly poisonous) part of the yard? No. The trees need trimming? I Mean they're kind of touching those wire things at the front of the house again - that can't be good. No, not that, but yes, they do need a trim. The obsession with re-watching Chronicles of Riddick? Nope. Dodgy and worth keeping an eye on, but no.
What then!?
The evil that hides in plain sight gentle reader is this:
Too many books.
To come here I jettisoned about two thirds of my library, and I have culled and thinned and negotiated ever since. Sure there's a few "rainy day" reads put aside, there's a few in the "maybe read" pile that need to be evaluated, there's the "read once - possibly keep for re-reading" pile, there's the room full of books that fall into the "LOVED IT" category, there's the small collection of first editions, there's non-fiction and reference collection, there's the Batman collection. Very humble collections they are too! There's a few piles here and there I admit. But there are no books in the bathroom! There are no books in the hall! And there are only cookbooks in the kitchen! The shed has only 3 tubs of books, that's not bad considering how much room is in there, but I just don't trust the tubs to stand up to the bugs and pests that rule the kingdom of Shed. All the doors in the house open and close without hindrance. Oh, well, except for that one! But other than that I think the house is, frankly, thin on the ground for intellectual stimulation!
Too many books indeed!
There's barbarians at the gate. Raise the drawbridge! Fly the flags of resistance, rattle your swords in their scabbards, release the monsters into the moat! Prepare for battle!
(Oh, and if you're going to pop by, you're welcome to stay, just let me know a day or two ahead if you can so I can unearth the bed in the spare room, it just has a little "filing" on it for the minute.)
Which of my many antisocial and problematic behaviours could they be planning to target I wonder? Could it be my relentless cynicism and brooding depressive belief that life is pretty shit and it is best to pretend otherwise so one doesn't spiral helplessly into an abyss of self destruction? Could it be my venomous and acidic disregard for my fellow humans and seething hatred for politicians, derivatives fund managers and smokers? Could it be my addiction to Spider Solitaire - that sensuous and seductive siren who lures me endlessly onto the rocks of lost time?
No. Apparently, these things don't rate a mention. The family takes it all on board with barely a flicker. There are bigger issues. Issues that threaten the fabric of my life if only I could wake up to their horrible implications.
I look again. Is it the dead lemon tree that I haven't removed yet from the barren (possibly poisonous) part of the yard? No. The trees need trimming? I Mean they're kind of touching those wire things at the front of the house again - that can't be good. No, not that, but yes, they do need a trim. The obsession with re-watching Chronicles of Riddick? Nope. Dodgy and worth keeping an eye on, but no.
What then!?
The evil that hides in plain sight gentle reader is this:
Too many books.
To come here I jettisoned about two thirds of my library, and I have culled and thinned and negotiated ever since. Sure there's a few "rainy day" reads put aside, there's a few in the "maybe read" pile that need to be evaluated, there's the "read once - possibly keep for re-reading" pile, there's the room full of books that fall into the "LOVED IT" category, there's the small collection of first editions, there's non-fiction and reference collection, there's the Batman collection. Very humble collections they are too! There's a few piles here and there I admit. But there are no books in the bathroom! There are no books in the hall! And there are only cookbooks in the kitchen! The shed has only 3 tubs of books, that's not bad considering how much room is in there, but I just don't trust the tubs to stand up to the bugs and pests that rule the kingdom of Shed. All the doors in the house open and close without hindrance. Oh, well, except for that one! But other than that I think the house is, frankly, thin on the ground for intellectual stimulation!
Too many books indeed!
There's barbarians at the gate. Raise the drawbridge! Fly the flags of resistance, rattle your swords in their scabbards, release the monsters into the moat! Prepare for battle!
(Oh, and if you're going to pop by, you're welcome to stay, just let me know a day or two ahead if you can so I can unearth the bed in the spare room, it just has a little "filing" on it for the minute.)
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The First Japanese Teahouse in Qld
Ipswich is building the first Japanese Teahouse in Queensland in the Nerima Gardens -a small(ish - by Qld standards) enclosure in the very freakin large Queens Park.
That's kinda cool. A bit of kimono-zen-calmness is always good to soak up. Maybe this will be somewhere that one might be able to go on an utterly brain-numbingly dull and hot Saturday morning in order to escape the litany of suburban mediocrity and lawnmowers. Some green tea, perhaps some music. The gardens in which is is currently being constructed are lovely and beautifully landscaped with a mix of Australian natives and Japanese classics.
So I enquire.
Once it is built, there will be an official opening ceremony in early November with Japanese ambassadors and a Tea Master. Well that's a bit fancy-pants! Sounds good, so I ask if I can come. No Way. The opening ceremony is by invitation only - no plebeians allowed, no public at all. Oh, I see.
I further enquire, "After the formal proceedings there's bound to be some kind of public element or opportunity. That's what I meant. Can I please come to that?"
"No. There is no public event."
"Oh. So it will just be open to the public after the formal ceremony."
"No," Gives me a look like I am an irritating idiot, "after the ceremony it will be locked up. It's a very special place, you can't just let people into it willy-nilly."
"Right. I get it. So there's just going to be certain days or special events that it is open for the public. Like a museum."
"No. It. Will. Not. Be. Open. To. The. Public."
"Message received and understood. Thank you for your time."
WTF?
This construction is a function of the Sister-City relationship with Nerima in Japan (what are they getting I wonder? - a backyard barbie setup? Maybe a pool with a faux-Balinese shade house?) but there's neither inclination nor resources for integrating it into the "existing cultural fabric" of the area. So why the fuck is it really getting built?!
The cynic in me says so that:
a) It is a "first" and therefore secures the formal ceremony (and therefore press)
b) It is a "first" and therefore secures bragging rights
The chirpy, positive one inside me says - "Don't be so quick to judge! You don't know the whole story! There may be a whole team of people working away on a culturally rich and socially rewarding series of exchanges and events that will happen around this eagerly awaited facility and it is just that they can't officially be announced yet! It could still really work out to be great!"
Maybe she's right. I shall have to wait and see. In the meantime, I can go and visit the garden and see if I can peer into the construction site. I'll take a thermos of green tea and maybe that collection of Japanese Sci-fi I've been planning to re-read. Riley and I will have our own freakin tea ceremony. No kimono required*.
* Unless you use kimono in the direct or literal meaning of "things to wear" in which case, yes, I will be clothed. Riley will be sporting his fur - summer length.
That's kinda cool. A bit of kimono-zen-calmness is always good to soak up. Maybe this will be somewhere that one might be able to go on an utterly brain-numbingly dull and hot Saturday morning in order to escape the litany of suburban mediocrity and lawnmowers. Some green tea, perhaps some music. The gardens in which is is currently being constructed are lovely and beautifully landscaped with a mix of Australian natives and Japanese classics.
So I enquire.
Once it is built, there will be an official opening ceremony in early November with Japanese ambassadors and a Tea Master. Well that's a bit fancy-pants! Sounds good, so I ask if I can come. No Way. The opening ceremony is by invitation only - no plebeians allowed, no public at all. Oh, I see.
I further enquire, "After the formal proceedings there's bound to be some kind of public element or opportunity. That's what I meant. Can I please come to that?"
"No. There is no public event."
"Oh. So it will just be open to the public after the formal ceremony."
"No," Gives me a look like I am an irritating idiot, "after the ceremony it will be locked up. It's a very special place, you can't just let people into it willy-nilly."
"Right. I get it. So there's just going to be certain days or special events that it is open for the public. Like a museum."
"No. It. Will. Not. Be. Open. To. The. Public."
"Message received and understood. Thank you for your time."
WTF?
This construction is a function of the Sister-City relationship with Nerima in Japan (what are they getting I wonder? - a backyard barbie setup? Maybe a pool with a faux-Balinese shade house?) but there's neither inclination nor resources for integrating it into the "existing cultural fabric" of the area. So why the fuck is it really getting built?!
The cynic in me says so that:
a) It is a "first" and therefore secures the formal ceremony (and therefore press)
b) It is a "first" and therefore secures bragging rights
The chirpy, positive one inside me says - "Don't be so quick to judge! You don't know the whole story! There may be a whole team of people working away on a culturally rich and socially rewarding series of exchanges and events that will happen around this eagerly awaited facility and it is just that they can't officially be announced yet! It could still really work out to be great!"
Maybe she's right. I shall have to wait and see. In the meantime, I can go and visit the garden and see if I can peer into the construction site. I'll take a thermos of green tea and maybe that collection of Japanese Sci-fi I've been planning to re-read. Riley and I will have our own freakin tea ceremony. No kimono required*.
* Unless you use kimono in the direct or literal meaning of "things to wear" in which case, yes, I will be clothed. Riley will be sporting his fur - summer length.
Monday, October 12, 2009
I don't like Mondays
For about eight or nine years I worked in the real world, where what you did and how you did it relly mattered in quite a direct way. That experience was far from cubicles and the monday-to-friday-9-to-5. As you probably know, in the real world, service industries (and like it or not Australia's domestic economy is largely service based) are 7 day operations. Well they are on the central planets. Out here on the rim there's not much that's open on a Sunday, or even a saturday arvo.
But I digress.
I had to make many changes when I took the colonisation shuttle here. The pamphlet said things would be a bit different, but I couldn't have guessed how hard it would be to crowbar myself back into the little box of punching the clock, trying to work on an interface centrally controlled and monitored in work processes based around political expediency and box-ticking rather than service, and with people who've grown up here and think (at best) of everywhere else as only a possible holiday destination (but why pass up a trip to the pleasure boats?). The one thing of all of these that is hardest to swallow is not the petty bitching over imaginary power bases, nor the endless chatter about the best fake tan lotions or speed bleaching of hair. It is the cold, terminal nature of Monday Mornings.
Back in the bustle and business of the central planets, Monday mornings and Friday nights are largely just like any other other moments in the purchasing/pleasuring continuum of modern life. Actual days off may vary. From the inside, Mondays and Fridays are the bi-polar manic days of emotional extremism highlighting the endless cycle of the rat-race and the pathetic occlusion of all that is organic and natural about living. Rigid, imposed and arbitary rules still are the guiding principles of bureaucratic structures, no matter their inefficiency, their pointless focus on attendence and process above output and quality, their heartbreaking monotony.
No sir, I do not like these type of Mondays at all.
But I digress.
I had to make many changes when I took the colonisation shuttle here. The pamphlet said things would be a bit different, but I couldn't have guessed how hard it would be to crowbar myself back into the little box of punching the clock, trying to work on an interface centrally controlled and monitored in work processes based around political expediency and box-ticking rather than service, and with people who've grown up here and think (at best) of everywhere else as only a possible holiday destination (but why pass up a trip to the pleasure boats?). The one thing of all of these that is hardest to swallow is not the petty bitching over imaginary power bases, nor the endless chatter about the best fake tan lotions or speed bleaching of hair. It is the cold, terminal nature of Monday Mornings.
Back in the bustle and business of the central planets, Monday mornings and Friday nights are largely just like any other other moments in the purchasing/pleasuring continuum of modern life. Actual days off may vary. From the inside, Mondays and Fridays are the bi-polar manic days of emotional extremism highlighting the endless cycle of the rat-race and the pathetic occlusion of all that is organic and natural about living. Rigid, imposed and arbitary rules still are the guiding principles of bureaucratic structures, no matter their inefficiency, their pointless focus on attendence and process above output and quality, their heartbreaking monotony.
No sir, I do not like these type of Mondays at all.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
3 Years
For some reason I always think that it started later in the month, but no, the anniversary is on the 11th. Three years then of staring out the window and sharing it with you.
Woot!
Woot!
The Parable of the Button
Ever seen one of those crime tv shows, where someone opens a door and there's a reverse shot of the shocked faces then they cut back to the room and it is a total disaster zone?
"Some one's trashed the place!"
Well ... my place kinda looks like that all the time. Minus broken stuff and any bodies that you might see on the tv, but papers everywhere and so on - yup that's how it is. I don't invite people round because they just won't fit, plus there's no where for them to sit. It has been a lot worse since I moved into living on my own - no more guilt-driven clean-ups. But there's a reason, and just in case anyone drops over unannounced, I want to have put my justifications on the record.
All you clean, happy, clutter-free folk need to understand something about us OCD (Obsessive Clutter Disorder) sufferers - we're victims in this. Find your compassion for us. We wade through decades of accumulated cruft and kilos day to day, but we're not necessarily weak-willed, stupid or just lazy. We are in complex relationships with our possessions that are governed by a web of interacting issues often-times beyond our control. So you may understand a little of this world, I shall share with you the marvelous moment I had today when I was finally able to take a bag of 6 shirts to the donation box. This is the Parable of the Button.
Origins.
All stories start at the beginning. This work shirt was purchased in 2004 from a one-step-up-from-a-generic-chain-store—clothing-for-women. In plain black and a very hard-wearing cotton-viscose mix, it featured a collar (the mandatory element), buttons up the front (initially benign, but leading to later complications), a generous V-neckline (keeping things interesting, but not saucy) and a roomy fit (essential in a job with regular lifting and shelving of arm loads of books). The very bottom button never suited the casual look I embody and was removed early on and placed in the button compartment of the sewing box. Time passed. Work happened. The shirt did what it needed to do. It featured in the seminal photo-op with Neil Gaiman in July of 05 (ah - happy, hopeful days!), it was there when the crew went for karaoke after work, it was there for my nadir(s) of customer service and the odd scream in the "on-hold" cupboard. The new lowest button took a fair bit of abuse during the normal working tasks and increasingly as my love of veggo Laksa for lunch took the inevitable toll on my never-svelte waistline.
A Shirt Shifts
Working opportunities came and went, changes in jobs, changes in health, changes in cities and houses and the shirt went unused, unrequired, unnoticed.
The Dilemma
An overdue audit of the surviving wardrobe items in 2008 uncovers a limp black shirt, badly in need of an iron (a household drudgery I have now forever forsworn) and missing the essential second-bottom button. The bottom button could be of no consequence to anyone - either hidden by the tuck-in or too formal for the out-hanger. I don't really want to wear such an obviously creased shirt in my workplace and the need to use a safety pin to secure it is pathetic. The saved button is missing and no other one available matches. I can't throw the shirt out, for someone with an iron and a need for it, it would be an op-shop gem, but it cannot be gifted without the button replaced. This is obvious.
The Dance
Over the next 18 months an elaborate and complex dance takes place. The shirt is placed in a public position in the house to remind me to buy a button. The shirt is eventually overwhelmed by cruft and goes back into the 'wash and hide' cycle of laundry. A button is purchased ... and lost. This repeats. I neither want to re-neg on my earlier decision to not throw the thing away, nor to donate it in such poor condition. Yet through the competing demands on my time and energy I cannot for the life of me seem to align the button and the shirt in the same time-space long enough to achieve the desired outcome, which is to mend it and get it out of the house. Complicated further now by needing my glasses, and a threaded needle. This multiple planetary alignment of tools, time and purpose is needed for every single object that is waiting to leave the house. Effectively hundreds of decisions and actions waiting to be completed. No wonder I'm feeling overwhelmed.
Closure
Today, in a triumphant act of will, in about 3 minutes total I completed the attachment of the replacement button to the patient shirt (and that included a complimentary armpit reinforcement). With joy and satisfaction I showed it to Riley who remained unimpressed by what a feat this truly was. I tried the shirt on one more time, just to be certain I was ready to give it up. Then I placed the shirt next to the computer to remind me that I wanted to write this post about it but now, NOW it is next to the door and this afternoon will join the bag of 5 other equally heartrendingly culled and removed shirts and they will be sent on their way into a big blue box on the side of the road.
One less object in the house!
"Some one's trashed the place!"
Well ... my place kinda looks like that all the time. Minus broken stuff and any bodies that you might see on the tv, but papers everywhere and so on - yup that's how it is. I don't invite people round because they just won't fit, plus there's no where for them to sit. It has been a lot worse since I moved into living on my own - no more guilt-driven clean-ups. But there's a reason, and just in case anyone drops over unannounced, I want to have put my justifications on the record.
All you clean, happy, clutter-free folk need to understand something about us OCD (Obsessive Clutter Disorder) sufferers - we're victims in this. Find your compassion for us. We wade through decades of accumulated cruft and kilos day to day, but we're not necessarily weak-willed, stupid or just lazy. We are in complex relationships with our possessions that are governed by a web of interacting issues often-times beyond our control. So you may understand a little of this world, I shall share with you the marvelous moment I had today when I was finally able to take a bag of 6 shirts to the donation box. This is the Parable of the Button.
Origins.
All stories start at the beginning. This work shirt was purchased in 2004 from a one-step-up-from-a-generic-chain-store—clothing-for-women. In plain black and a very hard-wearing cotton-viscose mix, it featured a collar (the mandatory element), buttons up the front (initially benign, but leading to later complications), a generous V-neckline (keeping things interesting, but not saucy) and a roomy fit (essential in a job with regular lifting and shelving of arm loads of books). The very bottom button never suited the casual look I embody and was removed early on and placed in the button compartment of the sewing box. Time passed. Work happened. The shirt did what it needed to do. It featured in the seminal photo-op with Neil Gaiman in July of 05 (ah - happy, hopeful days!), it was there when the crew went for karaoke after work, it was there for my nadir(s) of customer service and the odd scream in the "on-hold" cupboard. The new lowest button took a fair bit of abuse during the normal working tasks and increasingly as my love of veggo Laksa for lunch took the inevitable toll on my never-svelte waistline.
A Shirt Shifts
Working opportunities came and went, changes in jobs, changes in health, changes in cities and houses and the shirt went unused, unrequired, unnoticed.
The Dilemma
An overdue audit of the surviving wardrobe items in 2008 uncovers a limp black shirt, badly in need of an iron (a household drudgery I have now forever forsworn) and missing the essential second-bottom button. The bottom button could be of no consequence to anyone - either hidden by the tuck-in or too formal for the out-hanger. I don't really want to wear such an obviously creased shirt in my workplace and the need to use a safety pin to secure it is pathetic. The saved button is missing and no other one available matches. I can't throw the shirt out, for someone with an iron and a need for it, it would be an op-shop gem, but it cannot be gifted without the button replaced. This is obvious.
The Dance
Over the next 18 months an elaborate and complex dance takes place. The shirt is placed in a public position in the house to remind me to buy a button. The shirt is eventually overwhelmed by cruft and goes back into the 'wash and hide' cycle of laundry. A button is purchased ... and lost. This repeats. I neither want to re-neg on my earlier decision to not throw the thing away, nor to donate it in such poor condition. Yet through the competing demands on my time and energy I cannot for the life of me seem to align the button and the shirt in the same time-space long enough to achieve the desired outcome, which is to mend it and get it out of the house. Complicated further now by needing my glasses, and a threaded needle. This multiple planetary alignment of tools, time and purpose is needed for every single object that is waiting to leave the house. Effectively hundreds of decisions and actions waiting to be completed. No wonder I'm feeling overwhelmed.
Closure
Today, in a triumphant act of will, in about 3 minutes total I completed the attachment of the replacement button to the patient shirt (and that included a complimentary armpit reinforcement). With joy and satisfaction I showed it to Riley who remained unimpressed by what a feat this truly was. I tried the shirt on one more time, just to be certain I was ready to give it up. Then I placed the shirt next to the computer to remind me that I wanted to write this post about it but now, NOW it is next to the door and this afternoon will join the bag of 5 other equally heartrendingly culled and removed shirts and they will be sent on their way into a big blue box on the side of the road.
One less object in the house!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Malfunction
Sometimes I really hate computers.
My whole post was just replaced by a letter I was capitalising before publishing, and the software autosaved that stupid version over the existing versions.
What I am really steamed about, what that I decided against composing in another program because I have a habit of always saving multiple copies of things unnecessarily and feeling like a worrisome nana with redundant files hanging around.
Until suddenly that just looks like prudent backing-up.
ARRRGH!!!!
My whole post was just replaced by a letter I was capitalising before publishing, and the software autosaved that stupid version over the existing versions.
What I am really steamed about, what that I decided against composing in another program because I have a habit of always saving multiple copies of things unnecessarily and feeling like a worrisome nana with redundant files hanging around.
Until suddenly that just looks like prudent backing-up.
ARRRGH!!!!
Friday, October 09, 2009
The High Ground
It has been a tough week. One where I can't sleep properly at night and nothing seems to go right at work and if I don't scream in the car on the way home then I shout at Riley when I open the door. Not good. Blah blah blah, right?! We've all been there.
Somewhere I haven't been, thank the deities, is shivering under a piece of tarp while some well-fed guy in chinos talks to a black box about how my village/town/city just got totally erased off the face of the planet by a wave, a quake, a fire, a mudslide, a flood or a typhoon. I haven't been sitting there in shock with every single thing I used to use in my day to day life needing to be replaced from stocks that just don't exist, there's no clean water, or food, and I'd rather think about any of that than the death I saw and only just missed out on myself.
Turning on the news this week has really put my petty concerns into perspective. Which is to say, they are trivial. It is something about Australia that I have taken for granted my whole life - we live inside the boundaries of a tectonic plate. While we drift NNE and enjoy our generally placid lives, the edges of this plate scrape and gouge their way along our neighbours' and sometimes this is the result - quakes that lead to tsunamis. Just to make you feel inadequate it can all happen during typhoon season to give that added tropical sense of Armageddon by puring pelting rain that stings as it slaps you.
No matter what problems I have this week, I'm grateful to be in the position of being able to help some people who have got a much rougher end of a much larger pineapple this week.
Somewhere I haven't been, thank the deities, is shivering under a piece of tarp while some well-fed guy in chinos talks to a black box about how my village/town/city just got totally erased off the face of the planet by a wave, a quake, a fire, a mudslide, a flood or a typhoon. I haven't been sitting there in shock with every single thing I used to use in my day to day life needing to be replaced from stocks that just don't exist, there's no clean water, or food, and I'd rather think about any of that than the death I saw and only just missed out on myself.
Turning on the news this week has really put my petty concerns into perspective. Which is to say, they are trivial. It is something about Australia that I have taken for granted my whole life - we live inside the boundaries of a tectonic plate. While we drift NNE and enjoy our generally placid lives, the edges of this plate scrape and gouge their way along our neighbours' and sometimes this is the result - quakes that lead to tsunamis. Just to make you feel inadequate it can all happen during typhoon season to give that added tropical sense of Armageddon by puring pelting rain that stings as it slaps you.
No matter what problems I have this week, I'm grateful to be in the position of being able to help some people who have got a much rougher end of a much larger pineapple this week.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Ouroboros
Without warning, preparation or preemptive therapy there was a brown snake asleep on the footpath this morning when Riley and I went for our walk. It wasn't in the park, or on the path near the river, none of the places I would expect to stumble across one of the worlds' second most poisonous snake. It was on the footpath, outside a house, not far from a 90s model Commodore. That's really part of the special fear that snakes can produce - I don't really expect them to be right here, right now in the same time-space as me and my dog.
But there it was. Undeniable. Painful death in a long thin sock. Looking, I have to say it, basically innocent and peaceful. Snoozing or sleeping - I couldn't say. It was a coldish morning and it was across a little patch of sun in the dusty grass and it scared the crap out of me. And yes, btw, it was a brown snake - not a dark green tree snake. It's in the head. Pointy little heads bring pointy little teeths.
So what was really strange, once the ghastly ghoulish fascination of watching it just be had passed and I'd walked on, grateful Riley was oblivious on his leash and safely breathing, was that I think I brought this moment to happen. I mean, I made that snake appear in our lives.
It could be a coincidence - there seems to be lots of snakes around this spring and there's been loads of sightings already on properties, at the farm and so on, but this is the first time since I was about 6 that I have seen a live, real snake myself. That's a long time. So I don't really think it is just a coincidence, I think I called that snake into our orbit. You see, last week there was an article in the paper about a guy in the Blue Mountains who does occupational health and safety seminars on the risks of brown snakes for people who work in the outdoors. It freaked me out. I got obsessed over what a horrible job that would be (obviously he doesn't mind), I even photocopied the article and stuck it in my notebook and wrote about how scary it would be to be handling those snakes (he lives with them! There were pictures!) anyway, I haven't been able to get it out of my head all week. Big frackin oops!
What kind of massive brain-wave energy load did I accidentally dump into the universe?! Because here, out of no-where and no-how, one is in the physical plane almost right on my doorstep. I'm really wishing I'd listened more closely to the instructions for manifesting things into the world using visualisation because now I want, very desperately, to undo it. I want to un-think snake and re-think "wooden deck on my house" or "fabulous new novel idea". But I'm stuck in a looping party trick where the more I don't want to think about it, the more clearly I see it in my mind. That's something the self-help gurus tend to gloss-over a bit isn't it, the trouble shooting parts of these theories. Right now you're probably going, don't worry about it! There's nothing in this positive thinking shit.
oh. I guess so... but what about the way that quantum physics suggests* that at a sub atomic, a quantum level, our world is purely energy - energy arranged by some kind of organising structure that you could call "invisible glue" or you could call "ideas". Matter (or "the world") is constantly being effected by the act of observing it . We look at things and we thereby interact with them at one level. But more than that, studies of the brain's function show that seeing or doing something and visualising seeing or doing it are indistinguishable to the brain (There was one guy who did groundbreaking visualisation processes with the USA Olympics and NASA programs, and this guy has also done some work on this too). Indistinguishable. If you're detailed and thorough about it, it has effectively really happened as far as your brain is concerned.
So a week of thinking nothing but SNAKE produces ... guess what? A freakin SNAKE! Oh, I'm starting to feel like I'm swallowing my own tail.
Gentle reader, please think of something very pleasant, and send me a fresh, happy new thought loop to entertain. Just remember, in the words of those magnificent popular philosophers, The Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for coz you just might get it."
* Actually they're pretty sure that they know that they really don't know, but as my general reading on QP is out of date, I don't want to overstep myself on this bit.
But there it was. Undeniable. Painful death in a long thin sock. Looking, I have to say it, basically innocent and peaceful. Snoozing or sleeping - I couldn't say. It was a coldish morning and it was across a little patch of sun in the dusty grass and it scared the crap out of me. And yes, btw, it was a brown snake - not a dark green tree snake. It's in the head. Pointy little heads bring pointy little teeths.
So what was really strange, once the ghastly ghoulish fascination of watching it just be had passed and I'd walked on, grateful Riley was oblivious on his leash and safely breathing, was that I think I brought this moment to happen. I mean, I made that snake appear in our lives.
It could be a coincidence - there seems to be lots of snakes around this spring and there's been loads of sightings already on properties, at the farm and so on, but this is the first time since I was about 6 that I have seen a live, real snake myself. That's a long time. So I don't really think it is just a coincidence, I think I called that snake into our orbit. You see, last week there was an article in the paper about a guy in the Blue Mountains who does occupational health and safety seminars on the risks of brown snakes for people who work in the outdoors. It freaked me out. I got obsessed over what a horrible job that would be (obviously he doesn't mind), I even photocopied the article and stuck it in my notebook and wrote about how scary it would be to be handling those snakes (he lives with them! There were pictures!) anyway, I haven't been able to get it out of my head all week. Big frackin oops!
What kind of massive brain-wave energy load did I accidentally dump into the universe?! Because here, out of no-where and no-how, one is in the physical plane almost right on my doorstep. I'm really wishing I'd listened more closely to the instructions for manifesting things into the world using visualisation because now I want, very desperately, to undo it. I want to un-think snake and re-think "wooden deck on my house" or "fabulous new novel idea". But I'm stuck in a looping party trick where the more I don't want to think about it, the more clearly I see it in my mind. That's something the self-help gurus tend to gloss-over a bit isn't it, the trouble shooting parts of these theories. Right now you're probably going, don't worry about it! There's nothing in this positive thinking shit.
oh. I guess so... but what about the way that quantum physics suggests* that at a sub atomic, a quantum level, our world is purely energy - energy arranged by some kind of organising structure that you could call "invisible glue" or you could call "ideas". Matter (or "the world") is constantly being effected by the act of observing it . We look at things and we thereby interact with them at one level. But more than that, studies of the brain's function show that seeing or doing something and visualising seeing or doing it are indistinguishable to the brain (There was one guy who did groundbreaking visualisation processes with the USA Olympics and NASA programs, and this guy has also done some work on this too). Indistinguishable. If you're detailed and thorough about it, it has effectively really happened as far as your brain is concerned.
So a week of thinking nothing but SNAKE produces ... guess what? A freakin SNAKE! Oh, I'm starting to feel like I'm swallowing my own tail.
Gentle reader, please think of something very pleasant, and send me a fresh, happy new thought loop to entertain. Just remember, in the words of those magnificent popular philosophers, The Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for coz you just might get it."
* Actually they're pretty sure that they know that they really don't know, but as my general reading on QP is out of date, I don't want to overstep myself on this bit.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Does my mind know my mouth is typing?
I'm not sure I've got anything to say tonight, but I wanted to squeeze one more post into September as a pretty soft way of making up for the whole lack of an August thing.
This month has seen a small variety of fairly mundane things happen (that is to say - on top of the interesting things which I have already written about so very entertainingly) (stop fishing and get on with it!- Ed) ...
My leg has healed well and the physiotherapist certainly shamed the doctor with her knowledge, professionalism and capacity to give helpful advice about healing. It also gave me an interesting series of cultural vignettes - she kept tying to give me analogies and motivation based on the Broncos and football. I kept giving her utterly blank looks. I feel for her. That stuff probably works with the vast majority of people who sustain a "sports injury". It would be tough for me to find an upbeat parallel in, say, the life and works of Jane Austen or, worse, Virginia Woolf. No, I'm not ready to wade into the Bremer with my pockets full of stones. Not yet at least. Certainly not over a calf muscle. Anyway we're back up above 80% and frankly I'm not sure I even had a 100%. She lost me when she said "when you start running again..." and I was all "What do you mean again?" and she had a moment and just plugged the electric current octopus thing onto me and left me humming happily with my book. That thing is awesome. I asked her what it is called and she didn't know. It has no labels on it, and these weird 50s plastic tube things that end in a large suction pad that has a bit of sponge roughly cut to fit inside. It vacuums onto one's body and then they let it make a circuit and just run an electric current of some kind through you. Brilliant! I asked what kind of current - couldn't tell me. I asked how it worked, or what it did - couldn't really tell me (she literally waved her hands). How fantastic! I go to a scientific-y type place (where people have clipboards and machines that go "ping!") to get ritual magic performed on me. I so wish I could hear what Tesla would say about this.
Also, from the "it had to happen sooner or later" basket, Ma&Pa bought a 20something year-old caravan which they've parked next to the house and I don't reckon will move again for at least 6 - 9 months, but that's probably why they're not talking to me. Rationality ought never be injected into tightly held dreams. I got confused about that and now I will be given the cold shoulder until I am considered to have learnt my lesson. As with many of the baby boomers, my folks wish to spend their grey years nomadically traipsing this wide brown land soaking up the pleasures of the road and seeing the myriad sights of wonder. I can get behind that vision. I just thought it would make sense to wait until my Pa could fit the the door and maybe walk more than 5 or 10 meters unaided, or my Ma had finished working as a wage slave, or they'd sold the 155 acre property that takes up every available waking minute and dollar to keep functioning, but no. They scrimped and saved their whole lives for this and BY GOD they're going to have it. Well I am glad for them that it has manifest in their lives, and I hope they enjoy looking at it from their bedroom window as they run endlessly around the wheel of their life waiting for the pattern to change.
I really didn't want to get too caught up on that. It's an ugly mofo too - all brown and beige as only the very early 80s can be. *sigh*
But I digress.
In funnier news and for no apparent reason I have a massive, crippling crush on Jeremy Piven. I know nothing about this person (I had to point to a picture of him and ask around until someone knew who he was) other than that he is an actor who recently suffered mercury poisoning from living on too much sushi (no, really!), he does yoga, and he portrays a basically horrible agent in a tv show. How terribly modern! But none of that really matters, can it? After all I only found these meagre half-scraps out *after* the crush had formed. Ergo, he is a symbol of something (or someone) else. Still, it is entertaining. I've printed out a picture of him from the interwebs and stuck it on the wall opposite where I sit to eat my dinner. Hilarious!
"How was your day?" I ask
"Oh, the usual, but tell me all about you! You look tired, howabout a foot rub while you unload?" he answers....
haha. no I'm making that up.
I don't really say that out loud.
Was than an overshare?
Anyway. I have also spent some quality time with the "Amazon Recommends" software this month and that is a relationship that I can heartily endorse. It may not be fabulously healthy for the credit card, but the results will warm your reading heart and keep any problems in the real world with family or fictional lovers at bay. It will take anything and everything you might wish to throw at it - Batman, Georgette Heyer, Buddhism, esoteric reading, poker, sushi, peak oil, roman empire, gardening, knitting, sewing, and give you a hundred, two hundred recommendations, and you plough through those babies, rating the ones you've read, hooking the finds into the wish list and ploughing the corpses of the undesirables back into the database to fertilise the way forward for the next hundred. It is like some kind of Aztec blood cult for media. It is strangely addictive and although fundamentally consumerist, also culturally pleasing because it augments the ring of trust friends have - "oh I just read this - you'll love it!" and usually you do, or kinda do and want to find some more. In that way it is also often wrong, but then it just tries again, and doesn't entirely give up.
A bit like me and this blog (...sortof. Ok not really, but it would have been a nice tight ending, hey?! Now you'll have to make do with this limping "no you hang up" ending.) Bye.
This month has seen a small variety of fairly mundane things happen (that is to say - on top of the interesting things which I have already written about so very entertainingly) (stop fishing and get on with it!- Ed) ...
My leg has healed well and the physiotherapist certainly shamed the doctor with her knowledge, professionalism and capacity to give helpful advice about healing. It also gave me an interesting series of cultural vignettes - she kept tying to give me analogies and motivation based on the Broncos and football. I kept giving her utterly blank looks. I feel for her. That stuff probably works with the vast majority of people who sustain a "sports injury". It would be tough for me to find an upbeat parallel in, say, the life and works of Jane Austen or, worse, Virginia Woolf. No, I'm not ready to wade into the Bremer with my pockets full of stones. Not yet at least. Certainly not over a calf muscle. Anyway we're back up above 80% and frankly I'm not sure I even had a 100%. She lost me when she said "when you start running again..." and I was all "What do you mean again?" and she had a moment and just plugged the electric current octopus thing onto me and left me humming happily with my book. That thing is awesome. I asked her what it is called and she didn't know. It has no labels on it, and these weird 50s plastic tube things that end in a large suction pad that has a bit of sponge roughly cut to fit inside. It vacuums onto one's body and then they let it make a circuit and just run an electric current of some kind through you. Brilliant! I asked what kind of current - couldn't tell me. I asked how it worked, or what it did - couldn't really tell me (she literally waved her hands). How fantastic! I go to a scientific-y type place (where people have clipboards and machines that go "ping!") to get ritual magic performed on me. I so wish I could hear what Tesla would say about this.
Also, from the "it had to happen sooner or later" basket, Ma&Pa bought a 20something year-old caravan which they've parked next to the house and I don't reckon will move again for at least 6 - 9 months, but that's probably why they're not talking to me. Rationality ought never be injected into tightly held dreams. I got confused about that and now I will be given the cold shoulder until I am considered to have learnt my lesson. As with many of the baby boomers, my folks wish to spend their grey years nomadically traipsing this wide brown land soaking up the pleasures of the road and seeing the myriad sights of wonder. I can get behind that vision. I just thought it would make sense to wait until my Pa could fit the the door and maybe walk more than 5 or 10 meters unaided, or my Ma had finished working as a wage slave, or they'd sold the 155 acre property that takes up every available waking minute and dollar to keep functioning, but no. They scrimped and saved their whole lives for this and BY GOD they're going to have it. Well I am glad for them that it has manifest in their lives, and I hope they enjoy looking at it from their bedroom window as they run endlessly around the wheel of their life waiting for the pattern to change.
I really didn't want to get too caught up on that. It's an ugly mofo too - all brown and beige as only the very early 80s can be. *sigh*
But I digress.
In funnier news and for no apparent reason I have a massive, crippling crush on Jeremy Piven. I know nothing about this person (I had to point to a picture of him and ask around until someone knew who he was) other than that he is an actor who recently suffered mercury poisoning from living on too much sushi (no, really!), he does yoga, and he portrays a basically horrible agent in a tv show. How terribly modern! But none of that really matters, can it? After all I only found these meagre half-scraps out *after* the crush had formed. Ergo, he is a symbol of something (or someone) else. Still, it is entertaining. I've printed out a picture of him from the interwebs and stuck it on the wall opposite where I sit to eat my dinner. Hilarious!
"How was your day?" I ask
"Oh, the usual, but tell me all about you! You look tired, howabout a foot rub while you unload?" he answers....
haha. no I'm making that up.
I don't really say that out loud.
Was than an overshare?
Anyway. I have also spent some quality time with the "Amazon Recommends" software this month and that is a relationship that I can heartily endorse. It may not be fabulously healthy for the credit card, but the results will warm your reading heart and keep any problems in the real world with family or fictional lovers at bay. It will take anything and everything you might wish to throw at it - Batman, Georgette Heyer, Buddhism, esoteric reading, poker, sushi, peak oil, roman empire, gardening, knitting, sewing, and give you a hundred, two hundred recommendations, and you plough through those babies, rating the ones you've read, hooking the finds into the wish list and ploughing the corpses of the undesirables back into the database to fertilise the way forward for the next hundred. It is like some kind of Aztec blood cult for media. It is strangely addictive and although fundamentally consumerist, also culturally pleasing because it augments the ring of trust friends have - "oh I just read this - you'll love it!" and usually you do, or kinda do and want to find some more. In that way it is also often wrong, but then it just tries again, and doesn't entirely give up.
A bit like me and this blog (...sortof. Ok not really, but it would have been a nice tight ending, hey?! Now you'll have to make do with this limping "no you hang up" ending.) Bye.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Elemental Questions
The second front of the dust storm that enveloped most of the eastern seaboard this week has passed through. 75 000 tonnes of dirt every hour she dropped at her peak. That's impressive, and to use the older meaning of the word - awesome.
Which is to say that today is dusting, mopping, vacuuming, washing, and generally tidying day. It is days like this, when I realise there is far far too much stuff in my house. And each of those little surfaces is now dirty, and each of them needs a particular type of attention, and none of them have a clean place to be set down once they have been done. If I think about it like a great big puzzle, I'll get through it - or at least far enough through today that I can finish off or give up at my leisure another time. If only one could clean in this way with fire. There would be no reticence on my part to engage, however fire doesn't quite work that way, especially not against earth, so I shall have to persevere with water and air.
I went to see a play yesterday - The Trail of the Catonsville Nine - with thanks to The Monthly. Not only is it the best magazine in Australia, but as a subscriber you can sometimes win treats. The play is being presented here as part of the Brisbane Festival and without the email from the Monthly, I wouldn't even have known there was a BF on, let alone got out of Trash City for the day to participate. It is about 9 people who were put on trail for burning American draft office records during the Vietnam War. They felt profoundly moved to this act of civil disobedience and this play is set in the courtroom with just the 10 actors moving around to play all parts. Really marvelous and I encourage you to see it if the opportunity arises where you are.
One of the questions the play raised for me is "Are we complicit each time we do not speak up or step up to act for justice, for life?" There's a lot of argy bargy that could be done about what exactly "justice" might mean, and even for some contexts "life" and my intention now is not to wiffle about semantics - but to look at the bigger essence. Do we as a community - do I - still believe that there is justice? That life is sacred? Elements of this play were confronting as the characters talked of their commitment to equality for all, of their personal works to bridge poverty and education gaps between the haves and the have nots. The setting of this play might be historical but actually these remain urgent, contemporary issues and Australian issues too, not just American, or African, or Whereverian.
There was one line that tied this experience back to the reading I've been doing on Black Barty, and it was where Father Berrigan said in his statement (and I'm paraphrasing slightly) "I have lost faith in the institutions of this country. The law does not look after the people." He was referring to the illegality of the USA entering into the conflict and that somehow the President seemed above the law. Well if the President is above the law - what good is the law? The foundation of the democratic model has been undermined. And more - I remembered the East India Company, I thought of the ramifications of what probably seemed like a good idea at the time - creating a new kind of entity that would have standing and identity in and of itself in front of the law - The Company. Perhaps with hindsight, this is one of the moments where the interests of these new breed of "people" - Companies - overtook the interests of human people. The law certainly looked after their interests in this instance, but not of humans.
We are in the middle of a revolution and it can be hard to see for the haze, and think for the noises and baying. I wonder if the Companies will come through this revolution intact and stronger or if the machines will short-circuit that entire logic and power structure. I'm feeling a little depressed about it, but that's just my natural pessimisim and the fact that I've not yet had breakfast. I'm sure after some eggs and coffee I'll feel more hopeful about our democratic and governmental institutions re-vitalising the sanctity of human life, honouring thoughtful debate, flexibility and the fact that we're all on this ship together. Otherwise, it looks like fire will get a chance to clean after all.
Which is to say that today is dusting, mopping, vacuuming, washing, and generally tidying day. It is days like this, when I realise there is far far too much stuff in my house. And each of those little surfaces is now dirty, and each of them needs a particular type of attention, and none of them have a clean place to be set down once they have been done. If I think about it like a great big puzzle, I'll get through it - or at least far enough through today that I can finish off or give up at my leisure another time. If only one could clean in this way with fire. There would be no reticence on my part to engage, however fire doesn't quite work that way, especially not against earth, so I shall have to persevere with water and air.
I went to see a play yesterday - The Trail of the Catonsville Nine - with thanks to The Monthly. Not only is it the best magazine in Australia, but as a subscriber you can sometimes win treats. The play is being presented here as part of the Brisbane Festival and without the email from the Monthly, I wouldn't even have known there was a BF on, let alone got out of Trash City for the day to participate. It is about 9 people who were put on trail for burning American draft office records during the Vietnam War. They felt profoundly moved to this act of civil disobedience and this play is set in the courtroom with just the 10 actors moving around to play all parts. Really marvelous and I encourage you to see it if the opportunity arises where you are.
One of the questions the play raised for me is "Are we complicit each time we do not speak up or step up to act for justice, for life?" There's a lot of argy bargy that could be done about what exactly "justice" might mean, and even for some contexts "life" and my intention now is not to wiffle about semantics - but to look at the bigger essence. Do we as a community - do I - still believe that there is justice? That life is sacred? Elements of this play were confronting as the characters talked of their commitment to equality for all, of their personal works to bridge poverty and education gaps between the haves and the have nots. The setting of this play might be historical but actually these remain urgent, contemporary issues and Australian issues too, not just American, or African, or Whereverian.
There was one line that tied this experience back to the reading I've been doing on Black Barty, and it was where Father Berrigan said in his statement (and I'm paraphrasing slightly) "I have lost faith in the institutions of this country. The law does not look after the people." He was referring to the illegality of the USA entering into the conflict and that somehow the President seemed above the law. Well if the President is above the law - what good is the law? The foundation of the democratic model has been undermined. And more - I remembered the East India Company, I thought of the ramifications of what probably seemed like a good idea at the time - creating a new kind of entity that would have standing and identity in and of itself in front of the law - The Company. Perhaps with hindsight, this is one of the moments where the interests of these new breed of "people" - Companies - overtook the interests of human people. The law certainly looked after their interests in this instance, but not of humans.
We are in the middle of a revolution and it can be hard to see for the haze, and think for the noises and baying. I wonder if the Companies will come through this revolution intact and stronger or if the machines will short-circuit that entire logic and power structure. I'm feeling a little depressed about it, but that's just my natural pessimisim and the fact that I've not yet had breakfast. I'm sure after some eggs and coffee I'll feel more hopeful about our democratic and governmental institutions re-vitalising the sanctity of human life, honouring thoughtful debate, flexibility and the fact that we're all on this ship together. Otherwise, it looks like fire will get a chance to clean after all.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Ahoy from HMAS Private Dancer
Frankly it astonishes me that this blog has never mentioned "International Talk Like a Pirate Day" and yet so it is. This is my second-most favourite international day of the year after New Year's Day and I mark it in my own ways.
This year, bereft of fellow revellers, I am re-watching Firefly, and reading a very cool history book. It is called "Black Barty: Bartholomew Roberts and his Pirate Crew 1718 - 1723" by Aubrey Burl*, and across the top of the cover is a quite realistic looking skull and crossed bones along with the shout "The Real Pirate of the Caribbean". They manage to avoid using an exclamation mark, but I bet the marketing department fought that battle bitterly. The cover itself is cool, and it is not often you'll hear me make that kind of remark, but to balance out the GIANT FREAKIN SKULL, the bottom is a reproduction of a painting of a naval battle (Barbary Pirates Attacking a Spanish Ship [oil on canvas] Willem can de Velde II. 1633-1707 [studio of]/Private collection) which gives it that fabulous heft of historical authenticity. Plus, the Author's name is Aubrey! Aubrey! Actually, I've just realised I can just link you over to it and you can see the cover for yourself. See?!?!?!
But I digress.
I'm as pleased as the next provocateur for self governance and non-corporatist lifestyles that Pirates have become so hugely popular in the mainstream. Like vampires I think they are performing an important psychological function by bringing metaphor and rebellion back into mainstream entertainment. They offer a way to express shadow desires and to reconnect with a careworn and sadly faded idea of personal freedom that is outside of the constraints of "responsible" adulthood. There are very few blockbuster films or books about going daily to a job you don't enjoy to pay off a mortgage you resent on a house that suffocates you, and nothing much changing from there. No much of an arc to that plot is there?
So this year I have been thinking about how "Talk like a Pirate Day" is a lot of fun and a jolly good idea, but that under the caricatures and cheerful costumes is a very interesting history. Specifically that many of the pirates were normal people looking for a way to get by in very difficult times, and a very few of them were utterly astonishing. The early 1700s were a tough time to be alive and the European nations were slicing up the globe as fast as they could cast cannon and sail there. It was the time of the East India Company, and of the brutal emergence of ruthless Companies - a new kind of entity, with more power it seemed than any crown. Crews of merchant ships were paid a pittance (which was not paid for days at port or ashore, encouraging men to find a better berth) or simply not paid at all. Just before setting sail, a gang of a few burly men from the ship would roam the alleys of the town or city and "press" any able bodied men into service - no matter how unwilling, unskilled or otherwise occupied they may be. Any wonder then that many of the crew members of threatened merchant ships would not even fight, and either flee in the longboats or actively welcome the pirates aboard and volunteer to join them.
If you were caught as a pirate, you died. No two ways about it. You were hung. There was no clemency. But... who was going to catch you? It's a rather large globe that is two-thirds covered in water and the navy ships are largely taken up with fighting someone else's navy. Plus, there was a legitimate business is attacking and scuppering merchant ships of a crown your crown happened to oppose. As you can imagine, this led to quite a bit of grey area between the black and white. There were so many exclusive interests at this point in global trade that many goods were only able to enter the open market through the action of the pirates and so some trading posts would gently look the other way about the provenance of some items and happily purchase them at a fraction of their normal (astronomical) cost in order to be able to do business at all.
So to become a pirate captain you had to be brave, cunning and ruthless but it also helped if you were clever, good with people (pirate crews didn't wait long to mutiny if the booty was slow in coming), strategic (carpenters and other skilled crew were critical to the success of any ship at the time. A surgeon was almost literally worth his weight in gold) and could pull off a bit of play acting in fancy clothes (ships would masquerade as legit traders in order to get close to another ship or a port they wished to plunder). Black Barty had all this in spades. His men adored him, he was a bit of a dandy (but only drank tea) he observed the sabbath and managed to pull off audacious raids.
He even had a manifesto of sorts:
"In an honest service there is thin commons, low wages and hard labour. In this, plenty and satiety, pleasure and ease, liberty and power. And who would not balance creditor on this side, when all the hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sour look or two at choking? No, a merry life and a short one shall be my motto.
Damnation to him who ever lived to wear a halter".
It's hard not admire that.
So on this ITLAPD I urge you to be like a real pirate. Be brave, cunning, ruthless, clever, good with people, strategic and if you find the opportunity, indulge in a little bit of play acting (preferably in fancy silks and brocades). Remember, Damnation to him who ever lived to wear a halter!
*BTW I'm pretty sure that the comment in the one reader review on Amazon is by someone who doesn't recognise primary sources when they read them. I have noticed no such errors.
This year, bereft of fellow revellers, I am re-watching Firefly, and reading a very cool history book. It is called "Black Barty: Bartholomew Roberts and his Pirate Crew 1718 - 1723" by Aubrey Burl*, and across the top of the cover is a quite realistic looking skull and crossed bones along with the shout "The Real Pirate of the Caribbean". They manage to avoid using an exclamation mark, but I bet the marketing department fought that battle bitterly. The cover itself is cool, and it is not often you'll hear me make that kind of remark, but to balance out the GIANT FREAKIN SKULL, the bottom is a reproduction of a painting of a naval battle (Barbary Pirates Attacking a Spanish Ship [oil on canvas] Willem can de Velde II. 1633-1707 [studio of]/Private collection) which gives it that fabulous heft of historical authenticity. Plus, the Author's name is Aubrey! Aubrey! Actually, I've just realised I can just link you over to it and you can see the cover for yourself. See?!?!?!
But I digress.
I'm as pleased as the next provocateur for self governance and non-corporatist lifestyles that Pirates have become so hugely popular in the mainstream. Like vampires I think they are performing an important psychological function by bringing metaphor and rebellion back into mainstream entertainment. They offer a way to express shadow desires and to reconnect with a careworn and sadly faded idea of personal freedom that is outside of the constraints of "responsible" adulthood. There are very few blockbuster films or books about going daily to a job you don't enjoy to pay off a mortgage you resent on a house that suffocates you, and nothing much changing from there. No much of an arc to that plot is there?
So this year I have been thinking about how "Talk like a Pirate Day" is a lot of fun and a jolly good idea, but that under the caricatures and cheerful costumes is a very interesting history. Specifically that many of the pirates were normal people looking for a way to get by in very difficult times, and a very few of them were utterly astonishing. The early 1700s were a tough time to be alive and the European nations were slicing up the globe as fast as they could cast cannon and sail there. It was the time of the East India Company, and of the brutal emergence of ruthless Companies - a new kind of entity, with more power it seemed than any crown. Crews of merchant ships were paid a pittance (which was not paid for days at port or ashore, encouraging men to find a better berth) or simply not paid at all. Just before setting sail, a gang of a few burly men from the ship would roam the alleys of the town or city and "press" any able bodied men into service - no matter how unwilling, unskilled or otherwise occupied they may be. Any wonder then that many of the crew members of threatened merchant ships would not even fight, and either flee in the longboats or actively welcome the pirates aboard and volunteer to join them.
If you were caught as a pirate, you died. No two ways about it. You were hung. There was no clemency. But... who was going to catch you? It's a rather large globe that is two-thirds covered in water and the navy ships are largely taken up with fighting someone else's navy. Plus, there was a legitimate business is attacking and scuppering merchant ships of a crown your crown happened to oppose. As you can imagine, this led to quite a bit of grey area between the black and white. There were so many exclusive interests at this point in global trade that many goods were only able to enter the open market through the action of the pirates and so some trading posts would gently look the other way about the provenance of some items and happily purchase them at a fraction of their normal (astronomical) cost in order to be able to do business at all.
So to become a pirate captain you had to be brave, cunning and ruthless but it also helped if you were clever, good with people (pirate crews didn't wait long to mutiny if the booty was slow in coming), strategic (carpenters and other skilled crew were critical to the success of any ship at the time. A surgeon was almost literally worth his weight in gold) and could pull off a bit of play acting in fancy clothes (ships would masquerade as legit traders in order to get close to another ship or a port they wished to plunder). Black Barty had all this in spades. His men adored him, he was a bit of a dandy (but only drank tea) he observed the sabbath and managed to pull off audacious raids.
He even had a manifesto of sorts:
"In an honest service there is thin commons, low wages and hard labour. In this, plenty and satiety, pleasure and ease, liberty and power. And who would not balance creditor on this side, when all the hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sour look or two at choking? No, a merry life and a short one shall be my motto.
Damnation to him who ever lived to wear a halter".
It's hard not admire that.
So on this ITLAPD I urge you to be like a real pirate. Be brave, cunning, ruthless, clever, good with people, strategic and if you find the opportunity, indulge in a little bit of play acting (preferably in fancy silks and brocades). Remember, Damnation to him who ever lived to wear a halter!
*BTW I'm pretty sure that the comment in the one reader review on Amazon is by someone who doesn't recognise primary sources when they read them. I have noticed no such errors.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
This work is good work
Two hundred and twenty-four letters need to be printed (4 goes it took for the printer to acknowledge the tray, the correct paper, the single-sidedness of the issue) each needs to be folded (by hand, so the crease is right to read the address through the little window) and go into one of two hundred and twenty-four envelopes, each letter to be accompanied by two copies of the competition form.
Dull day much?
There have been worse.
This client loves a personalised mailout. The largest so far was for 8000 but I made the client pay a rambunctious group of seniors to do the folding and stuffing (the printing alone took me over 7 hours). It would be easy to think that this kind of thing is a real low-point of my job. So tedius, so old-school, so, so predictable. And so yes they are tasks I'll procrastinate over a bit, mostly because once I start them they create massive drifts of papers and if it all gets interrupted (paper jams, unexpected meetings, file crashes) it can be a real mongrel to figure out where everything was up to.
So as I sit folding, folding, folding, and stuffing (and checking I haven't put them in backwards) I can turn my brain off knowing that the only risk is a paper-cut or keep it on a little and browse some news and listen to music safe in the knowledge that although it might not be glamorous, exciting, interesting or something that would ever ever get mentioned in ads or shows about this industry, this work is good work. I am content.
Dull day much?
There have been worse.
This client loves a personalised mailout. The largest so far was for 8000 but I made the client pay a rambunctious group of seniors to do the folding and stuffing (the printing alone took me over 7 hours). It would be easy to think that this kind of thing is a real low-point of my job. So tedius, so old-school, so, so predictable. And so yes they are tasks I'll procrastinate over a bit, mostly because once I start them they create massive drifts of papers and if it all gets interrupted (paper jams, unexpected meetings, file crashes) it can be a real mongrel to figure out where everything was up to.
But...
Actually these mailouts hit nearly all of the key criteria for satisfying work! How can this be?
- It is easy to tell when I'm finished - the letters are put into our mailroom lady's hands. We exchange brief pleasantries.
- These letters work. Addressed to previous customers who have purchased tickets to a similar show in the last 2 years, these are qualified, hot prospects. They sell tickets.
- At the end of the process there's no further anxiety - that happens up front when I want to do something either new, tricky or clever with the copy and the client wants things nice and normal. Once that discussion is resolved for each project it is virtually a mechanical process to complete. I don't lose sleep over it once the lovely mail lady takes charge.
- Did I mention that they work? We know because of the timings of sales after postage, but also because when we put a special offer in the letter, we can track the results super easily. Last time 800 letters got us over 100 sales. Sweet!
- The client doesn't have to pay for postage and they get sales - mailouts make them happy. Happy client = less stress for me.
So as I sit folding, folding, folding, and stuffing (and checking I haven't put them in backwards) I can turn my brain off knowing that the only risk is a paper-cut or keep it on a little and browse some news and listen to music safe in the knowledge that although it might not be glamorous, exciting, interesting or something that would ever ever get mentioned in ads or shows about this industry, this work is good work. I am content.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Once Were Worthy
A nasty, heavy thump on the front porch drew Riley and I from our peaceful slumber on Saturday morning. About 3kg of the past was hand-delivered by some begrimed striding labourer into my present.
Eventually, when we had recovered from the rudeness of someone encroaching uninvited into our personal space so far as to be nearly upon the front steps, and I had brewed some coffee with which to fortify my responses, I peered from behind the curtains sideways out at the evidence of the encounter.
"Shock" is a little too strong a descriptor. Let's say rather that it took a few shifts of consciousness to come to terms with the resources bought to bear very early (before 9am!) on a Saturday morning to physically hand deliver to me, at my house, a phone book.
You may not be familiar with this concept. It is a large, alphabetical (by surname) index of all persons (in this case, although it could also be businesses) who have a telephone and who live within an arbitrary radius of a large city or, indeed, town. It is supplied printed on paper. Paper. It is not available for download. Not even as a PDF. It includes many many dozens of thousands of people, comprises hundreds of pages (more even than Infinite Jest!!) and asks to be let into the house and kept for a year or more. How very cheeky. I drew the curtain again and left it on the porch in order to ponder this request.
Pros
* I do have a phone. Conceivably I may wish to use it at some point in the next 12 to 18 months to call someone I don't currently know. This reference may help to source their number.
* My sister is about to move house and she may need a large amount of wrapping paper for her glassware.
Cons
* I feel it likely that anyone I am welcome to call will provide me with their preferred contact mode and the details thereof.
* My sister has completed wrapping her glassware, as she also received a delivery.
* It is large, ugly, poorly bound, and has nowhere else to live other than the drawer currently colonised by the mouse/mice and I feel it would be interpreted as encouragement to their expansionist ambitions.
* The house is already somewhat cluttered with books.
I feel slightly put-upon by this assumption that I want or need this reference tome.
There was no "tick the box" to opt in or out, no consultation, no other strategy, just presumptuous delivery. Another physical manifestation of the parochial concept of "service" that pushes down from the echelons what it is we plebeian suburbanites apparently want and need. For the same energy and carbon, perhaps I would have chosen a nice fresh (and blank) 8gb flash drive, or even a plain unbranded dvd full of data of my choice, or even better a bale (probably bales plural in relative terms) of mulch straw to bolster the efforts of my neophyte vegetables. So many options. So little consultation or inclusion.
But I digress.
I use the back door to leave the house for the errands in order to postpone the inevitable confrontation, athough I know the final outcome already. It just seems a little rude to put it into the recycling bin immediately. Let the poor doomed thing have a few pitiful hours in the sun, feeling the breeze and hearing the neighbourhood thugs practise their gansta cant before it begins the dark and unknown journey through the big yellow-lidded bin of second-chances to be reborn as thicker paper, light card or perhaps a box.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Eventually, when we had recovered from the rudeness of someone encroaching uninvited into our personal space so far as to be nearly upon the front steps, and I had brewed some coffee with which to fortify my responses, I peered from behind the curtains sideways out at the evidence of the encounter.
"Shock" is a little too strong a descriptor. Let's say rather that it took a few shifts of consciousness to come to terms with the resources bought to bear very early (before 9am!) on a Saturday morning to physically hand deliver to me, at my house, a phone book.
You may not be familiar with this concept. It is a large, alphabetical (by surname) index of all persons (in this case, although it could also be businesses) who have a telephone and who live within an arbitrary radius of a large city or, indeed, town. It is supplied printed on paper. Paper. It is not available for download. Not even as a PDF. It includes many many dozens of thousands of people, comprises hundreds of pages (more even than Infinite Jest!!) and asks to be let into the house and kept for a year or more. How very cheeky. I drew the curtain again and left it on the porch in order to ponder this request.
Pros
* I do have a phone. Conceivably I may wish to use it at some point in the next 12 to 18 months to call someone I don't currently know. This reference may help to source their number.
* My sister is about to move house and she may need a large amount of wrapping paper for her glassware.
Cons
* I feel it likely that anyone I am welcome to call will provide me with their preferred contact mode and the details thereof.
* My sister has completed wrapping her glassware, as she also received a delivery.
* It is large, ugly, poorly bound, and has nowhere else to live other than the drawer currently colonised by the mouse/mice and I feel it would be interpreted as encouragement to their expansionist ambitions.
* The house is already somewhat cluttered with books.
I feel slightly put-upon by this assumption that I want or need this reference tome.
There was no "tick the box" to opt in or out, no consultation, no other strategy, just presumptuous delivery. Another physical manifestation of the parochial concept of "service" that pushes down from the echelons what it is we plebeian suburbanites apparently want and need. For the same energy and carbon, perhaps I would have chosen a nice fresh (and blank) 8gb flash drive, or even a plain unbranded dvd full of data of my choice, or even better a bale (probably bales plural in relative terms) of mulch straw to bolster the efforts of my neophyte vegetables. So many options. So little consultation or inclusion.
But I digress.
I use the back door to leave the house for the errands in order to postpone the inevitable confrontation, athough I know the final outcome already. It just seems a little rude to put it into the recycling bin immediately. Let the poor doomed thing have a few pitiful hours in the sun, feeling the breeze and hearing the neighbourhood thugs practise their gansta cant before it begins the dark and unknown journey through the big yellow-lidded bin of second-chances to be reborn as thicker paper, light card or perhaps a box.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
A Short Reprive
Today an acquaintance here in Trash City said, whilst browsing a cookbook, "I mean, who's ever heard of some of these things?! Blood Oranges?! They made that up!!."
And although I said, "No, they're real, and particularly good for juicing" I thought something else entirely.
I dreamt last night that I was possessed by a length of galvanised chain that turned into a snake that both poisoned me and became me. So I was at once dying and my own killer.
There was a bit more too it, but thankfully I woke and there was rain on the roof - a very welcome sound - and I realised I was very hot under the covers. The dream was hard to shake off, especially as my leg that was hurting in the dream was very painful in real life. I got back to sleep after a while but the sensations and memories of the dream kept coming back throughout today.
Interesting, don't you think, for that theme to be so clear in a dream at this time?
And although I said, "No, they're real, and particularly good for juicing" I thought something else entirely.
I dreamt last night that I was possessed by a length of galvanised chain that turned into a snake that both poisoned me and became me. So I was at once dying and my own killer.
There was a bit more too it, but thankfully I woke and there was rain on the roof - a very welcome sound - and I realised I was very hot under the covers. The dream was hard to shake off, especially as my leg that was hurting in the dream was very painful in real life. I got back to sleep after a while but the sensations and memories of the dream kept coming back throughout today.
Interesting, don't you think, for that theme to be so clear in a dream at this time?
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Sitzfleisch has an Agenda
There have been so many things to bluster about, to notice and to mourn in these past six or seven weeks (neighbours/heatwave/garden bounty and then death from aforementioned heatwave and Disney buying up Marvel to name but a few) but sadly none of my moments of lucidity have corresponded with any access to suitable/compatible/functioning tech and these have simply slid by, like tears in the rain (slumps: releases dove).
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Big Life in a Small Town
This week started out poorly. I decided to floss my teeth and this resulted in a big chip coming off one tooth and another getting lodged in a crevasse. After the initial shock, I was pretty annoyed that my attempt at dental hygiene had been rebuked by my body in such a forceful way. I am learning to live with the strangely lodged chunk of tooth as I am irrationally terrified of dentists ever since one told me that it was inevitable that I would lose all feeling in my lips and possibly most of my jaw if I was to have the operation to "correct" my wisdom teeth. I decided at that point to grow tusks instead and here we have the ongoing consequences of that act of cowardice.
I don't really remember a lot of the rest of the week. I'd like to be able to put this down to outrageous drinking and wild living, but actually it is because it was so mind-numbingly dull and predictable that the highlight was baby-sitting my nieces for a few hours while sister went to class about how to sell beauty products. We watched Kung Fu Panda (again) and I struggled with a crossword. The week ended with two people leaving work who have each (in their very different ways) had a big impact on my working life here. The first is Gill. She is a veteran of the Sheltered Workshop and was the person who hired me into the organisation as a temp and tried to teach me the ways of survival ("Always cover your arse with a paper trail") and the codes of the chronic martyr. Shocked though I am at her resignation, my hope in the resilience of human spirit is renewed. Perhaps she will find her smile again in the near future. Inshalla.
The second is Strelan, the person who first showed me some friendship (or at least companionable emailing from our respective far-flung fortresses of solitude) and has been a reliable source since then of off-hand humour, new musical influences, occasional insight into the worldview and values of Gen Y, and frankly an ambitious but ultimately non-winning poker strategy. I am delighted at the fact that he has gained escape velocity from the draining gravity well of the Sheltered Workshop's weekly pay cheque, and is smiling and bouncing at the idea of working somewhere that he can do stuff. Happy hunting Strelan.
Today was so perfect that I had to dust down the banana lounge and find a pillow and a paper to read then I had all the props in place to do nothing at all. The paper was a week or two old (and was just the News Review and Business sections), but I read it on and off and the birds sang and the sky was blue and the dog snored softly in the grass by my side. A gorgeous way to wrap up the week and I'm so relaxed that I think I'll just hum a little to myself and maybe snooze a little more.
I don't really remember a lot of the rest of the week. I'd like to be able to put this down to outrageous drinking and wild living, but actually it is because it was so mind-numbingly dull and predictable that the highlight was baby-sitting my nieces for a few hours while sister went to class about how to sell beauty products. We watched Kung Fu Panda (again) and I struggled with a crossword. The week ended with two people leaving work who have each (in their very different ways) had a big impact on my working life here. The first is Gill. She is a veteran of the Sheltered Workshop and was the person who hired me into the organisation as a temp and tried to teach me the ways of survival ("Always cover your arse with a paper trail") and the codes of the chronic martyr. Shocked though I am at her resignation, my hope in the resilience of human spirit is renewed. Perhaps she will find her smile again in the near future. Inshalla.
The second is Strelan, the person who first showed me some friendship (or at least companionable emailing from our respective far-flung fortresses of solitude) and has been a reliable source since then of off-hand humour, new musical influences, occasional insight into the worldview and values of Gen Y, and frankly an ambitious but ultimately non-winning poker strategy. I am delighted at the fact that he has gained escape velocity from the draining gravity well of the Sheltered Workshop's weekly pay cheque, and is smiling and bouncing at the idea of working somewhere that he can do stuff. Happy hunting Strelan.
Today was so perfect that I had to dust down the banana lounge and find a pillow and a paper to read then I had all the props in place to do nothing at all. The paper was a week or two old (and was just the News Review and Business sections), but I read it on and off and the birds sang and the sky was blue and the dog snored softly in the grass by my side. A gorgeous way to wrap up the week and I'm so relaxed that I think I'll just hum a little to myself and maybe snooze a little more.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Blood Orange
Isn't that the most Gothic (Gothically? Gothetically?) named fruit?!
Say it aloud in dark tones with me, let the words drip with gore "The...BLOOD...Orange!"
yessssss
I would have thought that with all the vampire chic going around these fruit would be enjoying a heyday, but stuff me if I know where to get them from normal channels. I have recently been given a small bag for free from Ma & Pa's neighbour (yes, Peter, whom I'm sure has been mentioned in the past at least once) and who is my best line on farm-fresh cauliflowers. During summer we are inundated by tomatoes the size of my head (Bullocks Heart the variety is called in case you feel your tommies are inadequately sized. A few people call Custard Apples by this name so double-check. Not that it would be horrible to end up with custard apples, but they're trees, not vines, and are no good for making sandwiches or salads. But I digress) and in winter it is mandarins and oranges.
I've never really gotten too excited, after all mum's been getting gamey, tart little mandies and tight, terse oranges off her trees for a while now and I figured it would be more of the same. No biggie, so normally I let Little Sister totally snaffle all the produce she wants, and it can take me a whole week to eat a single orange or mango due to my love of anticipation and enormous capacity for self-denial. In fact sometimes I have looked forward to it for so long it is no longer edible.
Last weekend, when Little Sister said she was planning a trip to the orchard, I thought I'd tag along. The fruit from the supermarket has been utterly deplorable for the last month and I had never laid eyes on this promised Eden so if nothing else it would make a nice diversion for an hour or so. She always gets this happy glaze to her face when she talks about the place and now I am a convert too.
We stood in the bountiful grove (that required a 4WD to get to) and plucked the most delicious fruits from the trees and ate them with the sun warming us and bees buzzing merrily around the flowers of the next crop. The soil was a rich, soft black and every tree was heavily laden with ripe or ripening fruit. We walked for a while, just to say the names and guess the varieties and we just didn't know them all. It was gorgeous.
Two trees were stripped bare of fruit and we crossed our fingers that the goods were waiting at the farm. Loaded with stuffed bags of fruit, we ventured back towards roads. Little Sister leapt onto the large box of fruit waiting on the front porch of the farm and then let out a long shuddering sigh of pleasure - here they were - the Blood Oranges. Very bravely she watched as we divvied up the total, a few here, a few there, some for so and so, and here Grandad you try a few, and then the rest were tucked safely into the boot of the car.
Have you ever seen them? They look normal enough from the outside, maybe with a faint hint of pink on the skin. I'm told that colour gets stronger with each frost (we've had such a mild winter here, these ones are barely blushing) and then you cut them open, and from the skin and pith in, depending again on the frosts, they're deep rich pink like fresh blood cut with a little water. And they bleed too - so juicy you can't help but want to lick them. The flesh is soft and pulps easily and quickly. These are a little tart from lack of frost, as though there's cranberries snuck into the blend. So very very delicious.
I've counted mine, and am rationing them out, one at a time, as an aperitif to breakfast and dinner. We're all on the lookout for another source now. You don't know anyone with a tree do you? Now I understand why my sister stands over her baby tree and wills it to blossom and grow. Peter could charge whatever he wanted for these and we would be reduced to stealing car stereos to pay him.
Say it aloud in dark tones with me, let the words drip with gore "The...BLOOD...Orange!"
yessssss
I would have thought that with all the vampire chic going around these fruit would be enjoying a heyday, but stuff me if I know where to get them from normal channels. I have recently been given a small bag for free from Ma & Pa's neighbour (yes, Peter, whom I'm sure has been mentioned in the past at least once) and who is my best line on farm-fresh cauliflowers. During summer we are inundated by tomatoes the size of my head (Bullocks Heart the variety is called in case you feel your tommies are inadequately sized. A few people call Custard Apples by this name so double-check. Not that it would be horrible to end up with custard apples, but they're trees, not vines, and are no good for making sandwiches or salads. But I digress) and in winter it is mandarins and oranges.
I've never really gotten too excited, after all mum's been getting gamey, tart little mandies and tight, terse oranges off her trees for a while now and I figured it would be more of the same. No biggie, so normally I let Little Sister totally snaffle all the produce she wants, and it can take me a whole week to eat a single orange or mango due to my love of anticipation and enormous capacity for self-denial. In fact sometimes I have looked forward to it for so long it is no longer edible.
Last weekend, when Little Sister said she was planning a trip to the orchard, I thought I'd tag along. The fruit from the supermarket has been utterly deplorable for the last month and I had never laid eyes on this promised Eden so if nothing else it would make a nice diversion for an hour or so. She always gets this happy glaze to her face when she talks about the place and now I am a convert too.
We stood in the bountiful grove (that required a 4WD to get to) and plucked the most delicious fruits from the trees and ate them with the sun warming us and bees buzzing merrily around the flowers of the next crop. The soil was a rich, soft black and every tree was heavily laden with ripe or ripening fruit. We walked for a while, just to say the names and guess the varieties and we just didn't know them all. It was gorgeous.
Two trees were stripped bare of fruit and we crossed our fingers that the goods were waiting at the farm. Loaded with stuffed bags of fruit, we ventured back towards roads. Little Sister leapt onto the large box of fruit waiting on the front porch of the farm and then let out a long shuddering sigh of pleasure - here they were - the Blood Oranges. Very bravely she watched as we divvied up the total, a few here, a few there, some for so and so, and here Grandad you try a few, and then the rest were tucked safely into the boot of the car.
Have you ever seen them? They look normal enough from the outside, maybe with a faint hint of pink on the skin. I'm told that colour gets stronger with each frost (we've had such a mild winter here, these ones are barely blushing) and then you cut them open, and from the skin and pith in, depending again on the frosts, they're deep rich pink like fresh blood cut with a little water. And they bleed too - so juicy you can't help but want to lick them. The flesh is soft and pulps easily and quickly. These are a little tart from lack of frost, as though there's cranberries snuck into the blend. So very very delicious.
I've counted mine, and am rationing them out, one at a time, as an aperitif to breakfast and dinner. We're all on the lookout for another source now. You don't know anyone with a tree do you? Now I understand why my sister stands over her baby tree and wills it to blossom and grow. Peter could charge whatever he wanted for these and we would be reduced to stealing car stereos to pay him.
Friday, July 10, 2009
He Invented Tomorrow
I am utterly stoked today by Google commemorating on their homepage the birthday of Nikola Tesla! Yay Google! Perhaps this prompted a few dozen people to digress from their purpose in booting the big G long enough to click through to the Wiki page and discover the brilliant and sadly under-rated (and occasionally just totally nutty) works of this amazing engineer and inventor. I hope they're now feeling a richer connection to their computer screen, and considering digressing more often (you know I'm already a fan).
I've been laboriously trudging my way through "A Brief History of Time" (which I know even Hawking says is outdated now) and I can't help but wonder today what Tesla's incredible and intuitive brain might make of our modern world and in particular of the wealth of advances in theoretical and applied physics. How valuable his creativity and inspiration would be to us, when we have more chance of understanding him than those dazed and confused Victorians.
In 1891 Tesla could create illumination without wires, and believed that this was merely the beginning of a field of industry. In Experiments With Alternate Currents Of High Potential And High Frequency in February 1892 he wrote "Ere many generations pass, our machinery will be driven by a power obtainable at any point of the universe".
Not "...at any point of the world", "of the universe" the man had a real scope to his vision that I find inspiring. This was just one of his strands of enquiry. I wish more of his work survived the inevitable fires that came with his experimental conditions and most of all, I wish that he had found a helpmate during his life to take care of the practical things, so his eclectic genius could soar higher and further.
Happy Birthday Nikola Tesla, and thank you for persevering with us as long as you did.
I've been laboriously trudging my way through "A Brief History of Time" (which I know even Hawking says is outdated now) and I can't help but wonder today what Tesla's incredible and intuitive brain might make of our modern world and in particular of the wealth of advances in theoretical and applied physics. How valuable his creativity and inspiration would be to us, when we have more chance of understanding him than those dazed and confused Victorians.
In 1891 Tesla could create illumination without wires, and believed that this was merely the beginning of a field of industry. In Experiments With Alternate Currents Of High Potential And High Frequency in February 1892 he wrote "Ere many generations pass, our machinery will be driven by a power obtainable at any point of the universe".
Not "...at any point of the world", "of the universe" the man had a real scope to his vision that I find inspiring. This was just one of his strands of enquiry. I wish more of his work survived the inevitable fires that came with his experimental conditions and most of all, I wish that he had found a helpmate during his life to take care of the practical things, so his eclectic genius could soar higher and further.
Happy Birthday Nikola Tesla, and thank you for persevering with us as long as you did.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Bronze Nails
I intended to blog tonight, and I even made a bit of an effort to think of decent ideas for once, but obviously this plan has not come to fruition. Please forgive me. I've just spent a cozy two and a half hours snuggled up to my Greader. So many blogs and articles and essays all queued up for me by topic or author. I have barely gotten through half of it. What a pleasure. If only I could read it on the couch.
The major distraction tonight was catching up with new posts from Club Orlov. One of the things I love about this blog is the "been there, done that" nature of the analysis and information. Just because the big big mass of Russia is a long way away (in all the different nuances that hang around after the cold war) doesn't mean we can't learn a lot from their recent history and experiences. It is one thing to look at a bunch of graphs and say, "This is going to be bad" and another to hear exactly how bad (and I don't mean just having to live on cabbage). There are little tidbits too, such as the value of bronze nails.
"It also makes sense to establish stockpiles of non-perishable materials that will preserve their usefulness far into the future. My favourite example is bronze nails. They last a over a hundred years in salt water, and so they are perfect for building boats. The manufacturing of bronze nails is actually a good use of the remaining fossil fuels - better than most. They are compact and easy to store."
I didn't even think about the possibility that nails might be made of stuff that erodes. I mean, that's a stupid idea, right?! What a perfect example of how our thinking as a system is faulty. Not that I'm ever going to be able to build a boat. Or even that I can use a hammer without hurting myself. Who am I kidding anyway, I'm almost certain to die off as soon as the chocolate supply gets dodgy. I've got three lightfittings in my house where I can't even get a lightbulb to work. Plus, I live nearly 150 kloms from the ocean. And I don't eat fish. Now. I reckon if rotten cabbages get on the menu, pretty much anything goes.
But I digress.
It's not just the handy hints towards a happy post-peak-oil-life that I enjoy and it is more than the fabulously footnoted details, it is that Club Orlov presents with a fabulous sense of humour. Anyone who can make me laugh involuntarily about global economic collapse due to the denial of the (easily projected) minimum production volumes and maximum affordable costs of energy has to be clever, resilient and fundamentally very, very funny.
I don't want to spoil it for you in case you have the urge to explore for yourself, and maybe you won't think so, but I'm still chuckling now. Anyway, that's the reason there will not be a blog from me tonight. I've been deliciously distracted and suddenly it is past my bedtime and time to don jammies and sleep. Ah, but my mind is spinning, trying to recalibrate my plan to take in all the knowables, the unknowables, the things we don't know we don't know and now to do all of this and yet remain flexible, with lots more humour!
The major distraction tonight was catching up with new posts from Club Orlov. One of the things I love about this blog is the "been there, done that" nature of the analysis and information. Just because the big big mass of Russia is a long way away (in all the different nuances that hang around after the cold war) doesn't mean we can't learn a lot from their recent history and experiences. It is one thing to look at a bunch of graphs and say, "This is going to be bad" and another to hear exactly how bad (and I don't mean just having to live on cabbage). There are little tidbits too, such as the value of bronze nails.
"It also makes sense to establish stockpiles of non-perishable materials that will preserve their usefulness far into the future. My favourite example is bronze nails. They last a over a hundred years in salt water, and so they are perfect for building boats. The manufacturing of bronze nails is actually a good use of the remaining fossil fuels - better than most. They are compact and easy to store."
I didn't even think about the possibility that nails might be made of stuff that erodes. I mean, that's a stupid idea, right?! What a perfect example of how our thinking as a system is faulty. Not that I'm ever going to be able to build a boat. Or even that I can use a hammer without hurting myself. Who am I kidding anyway, I'm almost certain to die off as soon as the chocolate supply gets dodgy. I've got three lightfittings in my house where I can't even get a lightbulb to work. Plus, I live nearly 150 kloms from the ocean. And I don't eat fish. Now. I reckon if rotten cabbages get on the menu, pretty much anything goes.
But I digress.
It's not just the handy hints towards a happy post-peak-oil-life that I enjoy and it is more than the fabulously footnoted details, it is that Club Orlov presents with a fabulous sense of humour. Anyone who can make me laugh involuntarily about global economic collapse due to the denial of the (easily projected) minimum production volumes and maximum affordable costs of energy has to be clever, resilient and fundamentally very, very funny.
I don't want to spoil it for you in case you have the urge to explore for yourself, and maybe you won't think so, but I'm still chuckling now. Anyway, that's the reason there will not be a blog from me tonight. I've been deliciously distracted and suddenly it is past my bedtime and time to don jammies and sleep. Ah, but my mind is spinning, trying to recalibrate my plan to take in all the knowables, the unknowables, the things we don't know we don't know and now to do all of this and yet remain flexible, with lots more humour!
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
2009 in books (pt1)
As usual I've been both cranky and ill.
Someone (irritating) at work today said,
"...but i've seen you be cheerful and friendly before"
and before I could remember the cover story I replied
"It was a LIE."
So, it's out in the open. On the other hand, once one has cultivated even a minor reputation for eccentricity, nothing after that needs to make too much sense to be shrugged off as "just another thing." So you can tell the radical truth and it becomes outrageous entertainment.
"What do you think of so-and-so?"
"I love him and obsess over him in the long nights of my solitude."
Cue uproarious laughter.
It couldn't be any better if I actually wore a Jester's outfit.
But I digress.
For anyone who hasn't noticed it is pretty much the middle of the year. I considered some kind of sincere post, but I'm not up to it. The only goal-related thing I would say is that I am happy with my reading list so far this year, which has held up rather well despite being flooded this month by a series of works by Stephenie Meyer. The tally stands at 28 books in total and of these, 13 are non-fiction! Nearly exactly half!! WOOT! (gently mimes punching air so as not to dislodge reading glasses.
Of these, what books can I recommend to you my tasteful and clever audience?
A good question.
From January, Six Easy Pieces by Richard P. Feynman. Very thoughtfully re-published by Penguin in their charming $10 range (thank you Penguin and good idea going back to classic jacket designs!). Get into some Physics - it is already in you!!
February yielded some good quality reading in the form of The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton (another Penguin $10 winner). A novel about Tesla called The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt and a collection of Essays gifted to me by Mez called How to be Alone by Jonathan Franzen. I felt pretty clever by association after those highlights.
March needed a new flavour, so I read the new SF by Richard Morgan - The Black Man and I really liked it but I recommend it to SF readers with some qualifications (depending on your taste). The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman was lovely and had a little unsaid, which I like. The real standout this month was finishing The Invisibles by Grant Morrison which was a loaner from MsJaye and one of those books that infects and gives one a fever. I got through the fever, and now I can't wait to find out what I'm inoculated against or prepared for. Turns out I love anarchistic-chaos-magic. I want to do it again! (BTW for snobs - be warned - that one's a comic.)
April was quiet, I read some non-fic that was a bit dull and I re-read a favourite novel and then read a French SF novel called Babylon Babies (by Mauice Dantec, but I don't remember the translator. It wasn't Nicole Kidman so don't sweat it). I'd read some mixed reviews and of course the film (Babylon AD)was hopeless but actually i thought that the book was good. Not quite as fully anarchist chaos magical as The Invisibles, but possibly a good enough chaser. Lots of good themes and a clever central character and plenty of wild tech. I would like to read more SF from NESB (non english speaking background) as the flavours and textures are less predictable (all of which was pretty much removed for the film. Poor Vin Diesel. I bet he loved the original script.)
So May was not a big reading month, I was pretty sick, but I did finish Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby which I got on a whim and then was able to read nearly half of during a day of travel. It was fascinating, and I feel slightly more informed now when I watch Japanese cinema, or see modern women wearing Kimono. Actually, I'll fess up and say that I went out of my way to re-watch Memoirs of a Geisha just so I could look at all the kimono.
June, ah June. June has been the month of escapist reading. Binging on one-night-reads is something we all do sometimes, but that doesn't make me proud. In the middle of that I finished What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Darwin Knew: From fox-hunting to Whist - the facts of Daily life in 19th-Century England by Daniel Pool which I had been very eagerly awaiting. I was anticipating a detailed and exhaustive book, but actually this book ought to be subtitled "In Which Things that are Almost Obvious from The Context of the Novel are explained in length oftentimes using Quotations from Self-same Novels. Perhaps you ought to read more proper history books?"
Ah well. More than half of this puny book is pointless. I'm trying to think of a redeeming feature .... um .... it has some nice etchings.
I love to keep lists of books, I wish I'd given-in to the urge a long time ago instead of feeling furtive and dirty for wanting to do so. In a lot of ways it is a more interesting way of tracking the tides and flavours of my life than the dates of trips or the odd event. Movies and Knitting have both taken up a lot of time that I would otherwise have spent reading. But that's ok - ther'e more to come in the great Western Genre exploration, and Riley very nearly has his own bespoke cardigan.
Someone (irritating) at work today said,
"...but i've seen you be cheerful and friendly before"
and before I could remember the cover story I replied
"It was a LIE."
So, it's out in the open. On the other hand, once one has cultivated even a minor reputation for eccentricity, nothing after that needs to make too much sense to be shrugged off as "just another thing." So you can tell the radical truth and it becomes outrageous entertainment.
"What do you think of so-and-so?"
"I love him and obsess over him in the long nights of my solitude."
Cue uproarious laughter.
It couldn't be any better if I actually wore a Jester's outfit.
But I digress.
For anyone who hasn't noticed it is pretty much the middle of the year. I considered some kind of sincere post, but I'm not up to it. The only goal-related thing I would say is that I am happy with my reading list so far this year, which has held up rather well despite being flooded this month by a series of works by Stephenie Meyer. The tally stands at 28 books in total and of these, 13 are non-fiction! Nearly exactly half!! WOOT! (gently mimes punching air so as not to dislodge reading glasses.
Of these, what books can I recommend to you my tasteful and clever audience?
A good question.
From January, Six Easy Pieces by Richard P. Feynman. Very thoughtfully re-published by Penguin in their charming $10 range (thank you Penguin and good idea going back to classic jacket designs!). Get into some Physics - it is already in you!!
February yielded some good quality reading in the form of The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton (another Penguin $10 winner). A novel about Tesla called The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt and a collection of Essays gifted to me by Mez called How to be Alone by Jonathan Franzen. I felt pretty clever by association after those highlights.
March needed a new flavour, so I read the new SF by Richard Morgan - The Black Man and I really liked it but I recommend it to SF readers with some qualifications (depending on your taste). The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman was lovely and had a little unsaid, which I like. The real standout this month was finishing The Invisibles by Grant Morrison which was a loaner from MsJaye and one of those books that infects and gives one a fever. I got through the fever, and now I can't wait to find out what I'm inoculated against or prepared for. Turns out I love anarchistic-chaos-magic. I want to do it again! (BTW for snobs - be warned - that one's a comic.)
April was quiet, I read some non-fic that was a bit dull and I re-read a favourite novel and then read a French SF novel called Babylon Babies (by Mauice Dantec, but I don't remember the translator. It wasn't Nicole Kidman so don't sweat it). I'd read some mixed reviews and of course the film (Babylon AD)was hopeless but actually i thought that the book was good. Not quite as fully anarchist chaos magical as The Invisibles, but possibly a good enough chaser. Lots of good themes and a clever central character and plenty of wild tech. I would like to read more SF from NESB (non english speaking background) as the flavours and textures are less predictable (all of which was pretty much removed for the film. Poor Vin Diesel. I bet he loved the original script.)
So May was not a big reading month, I was pretty sick, but I did finish Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby which I got on a whim and then was able to read nearly half of during a day of travel. It was fascinating, and I feel slightly more informed now when I watch Japanese cinema, or see modern women wearing Kimono. Actually, I'll fess up and say that I went out of my way to re-watch Memoirs of a Geisha just so I could look at all the kimono.
June, ah June. June has been the month of escapist reading. Binging on one-night-reads is something we all do sometimes, but that doesn't make me proud. In the middle of that I finished What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Darwin Knew: From fox-hunting to Whist - the facts of Daily life in 19th-Century England by Daniel Pool which I had been very eagerly awaiting. I was anticipating a detailed and exhaustive book, but actually this book ought to be subtitled "In Which Things that are Almost Obvious from The Context of the Novel are explained in length oftentimes using Quotations from Self-same Novels. Perhaps you ought to read more proper history books?"
Ah well. More than half of this puny book is pointless. I'm trying to think of a redeeming feature .... um .... it has some nice etchings.
I love to keep lists of books, I wish I'd given-in to the urge a long time ago instead of feeling furtive and dirty for wanting to do so. In a lot of ways it is a more interesting way of tracking the tides and flavours of my life than the dates of trips or the odd event. Movies and Knitting have both taken up a lot of time that I would otherwise have spent reading. But that's ok - ther'e more to come in the great Western Genre exploration, and Riley very nearly has his own bespoke cardigan.
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