You know it, I know it. No one wants to talk about it. The Rut.
Sometimes the structures we put into place to support us and assist us get too familiar, too well known, and without realising it we've entered a rut. A rut is a worn path, a line of travel that is heavily used and heads in the direction you want to go and it actually eases passage in that way because it is worn smooth of little lumps and bumps. Of course if you decide that it is no longer the desired direction of travel and that your destination lies on another path ... well getting out of a deep rut can be difficult - even hazardous. If you don't have the right skills you can tip yourself over and even break something needful, maybe an axle.
Usually we aren't at risk from this extreme type of response, a little wiggle or a holiday, or a mix-around of the dressings we give our days is enough to freshen-up the experience. Other times, the realisation of a rut can seem like a life sentence and must be escaped immediately, AT ONCE and in this moment of panic hazardous and momentous shifts can be attempted, but rarely pulled off.
I've had a few weeks to walk barefoot in the cold waters of strange oceans and have a think about the rutness of things in comparison to the other way we often phrase the same situation - "plain sailing". As with so many things It is a question of perspective. Am I in a rut or am I experiencing plain sailing? It is only a rut if I wish to change direction and find it hard, but sometimes I know that I change direction just to check that I still can. Conundrum.
The unexpected beauty of Hobart (where I am on holiday very briefly) has been in the maritime history, flavour and lifestyle of the city. Although I can get motion sickness from watching others sway on the spot, I've been out on boats of all sizes and shapes on this trip. One of the subtle things I've noticed is how the metaphoric language of the sea can give a fluid and hopeful nuance to the expression of emotional states. Even the doldrums can't last forever (if they could ever happen in this wide river harbour in the lee of Mt Wellington). So direction of travel can be seen in the context of navigation and the avoidance of known obstacles. A route that takes you through known reefs and shoals is not quicker, no matter how much shorter. Perhaps this is a more helpful way to consider the apparent problem of a rut. A rut, by definition, is a path avoiding known obstacles. It is a navigational shorthand.
The trick, I think, might be in remembering that there is no such thing as automatic pilot. It is a real hand on the tiller of our life. It is our own hand, and it must be our own mind that charts the course and evaluates the hazards. If smooth sailing and known obstacles are what can be handled by the limitations of your craft and your desired destination than you are in harmony with your journey. If not, well maybe it is time to look again at the stars and the edges of the charts and plot for a different kind of experience, but plot my friends, don't panic.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Friday, January 08, 2010
An Offshore Wind
There's whitecaps on the harbour and a dead seal on the shore,
all the yearning of the ages won't bring you back for more.
Its sweet to think of love, sometimes wrong to trust to faith,
for nothing comes from nothing when hearts have come up poor.
You trumped me on the western docks, you shamed me in the morn.
I saw all sins through your pure eyes and drifted, lost, forlorn.
When does your view turn inward? Do you see what's going on?
Grant absolution early and I'll sing you a true song.
Us troubadours are restless, always strumming for a feed.
I miss you in the mornings and have lost you in the night.
We tell the truth in verses if you give is what we need.
So hum a little for me and with luck I'll get it right.
all the yearning of the ages won't bring you back for more.
Its sweet to think of love, sometimes wrong to trust to faith,
for nothing comes from nothing when hearts have come up poor.
You trumped me on the western docks, you shamed me in the morn.
I saw all sins through your pure eyes and drifted, lost, forlorn.
When does your view turn inward? Do you see what's going on?
Grant absolution early and I'll sing you a true song.
Us troubadours are restless, always strumming for a feed.
I miss you in the mornings and have lost you in the night.
We tell the truth in verses if you give is what we need.
So hum a little for me and with luck I'll get it right.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Twenty Ten Commencement
Brave new decade! I like the way it is two lots of tens. Sometime this decade our new century will begin to find the form it will be remembered for. We've pretty much wrapped up the 20th now. What do you think the highlights will be summarised as?
Electricity?
Communications technologies?
Peak Oil?
Massive Proliferation in pointless music genres?
Coffee snobbery?
The only century in which computers weren't sentient?
Perhaps all of the above and more.
I'm not really fussed. I'm looking forward now. Things I'd like out of our new century include but are not limited to:
* Global ecological democracy - let's even things up, we're all on this globe together.
* Spontaneous intellectual uplift of all persons. Ever wake up and think something like "I'd like to be calmer, happier, better read, more forgiving, more grateful, less angry, capable of cooking a nutritious meal, kissed more often and so on."? I think it would be great if each person had one or more of those thoughts and did something positive and generative towards obtaining that state this century. Imagine what the cumulative effect might be. Of course, we might then need to hand out more condoms, but there's nothing too wrong with that problem.
* More great music. Nothing crazy there - just really like it. How can that be bad?
* Quantum travel/communications/ Fabrication - I just have a feeling that entanglement is going to rock our world/s.
* First contact with sentient aliens (preferably in a manner that doesn't result in the genocide of humans, but I would kind of understand if it did).
* Free chocolate days to celebrate the happy chemicals that make being human so much fun.
So welcome to Twenty Ten and here's cheers to easing into the 21st century!
Electricity?
Communications technologies?
Peak Oil?
Massive Proliferation in pointless music genres?
Coffee snobbery?
The only century in which computers weren't sentient?
Perhaps all of the above and more.
I'm not really fussed. I'm looking forward now. Things I'd like out of our new century include but are not limited to:
* Global ecological democracy - let's even things up, we're all on this globe together.
* Spontaneous intellectual uplift of all persons. Ever wake up and think something like "I'd like to be calmer, happier, better read, more forgiving, more grateful, less angry, capable of cooking a nutritious meal, kissed more often and so on."? I think it would be great if each person had one or more of those thoughts and did something positive and generative towards obtaining that state this century. Imagine what the cumulative effect might be. Of course, we might then need to hand out more condoms, but there's nothing too wrong with that problem.
* More great music. Nothing crazy there - just really like it. How can that be bad?
* Quantum travel/communications/ Fabrication - I just have a feeling that entanglement is going to rock our world/s.
* First contact with sentient aliens (preferably in a manner that doesn't result in the genocide of humans, but I would kind of understand if it did).
* Free chocolate days to celebrate the happy chemicals that make being human so much fun.
So welcome to Twenty Ten and here's cheers to easing into the 21st century!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
A Love Note
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.
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.
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!
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