Safari on Mac and Javascript, they are not friends. I keep not being able to use drop-down menus, and now the draft function of Blogger is crashing Safari. and anyway, the draft from New York that I wanted, the one about how I used to adore Dave Eggers and his mob unconditionally, but the turning away of my disappointed four-year-old in the rain from the Superhero Supply Shop has brought about the inevitable decline in my opinion. Yes you're run by volunteers, folks, but you *could* put your hours and notices of unusual closures on your site. and if, perchance, a small person travels 45 minutes by foot and subway in the rain to visit your store and you're closed at a time that you're usually open, and you (meaning a young woman who I shall refrain from describing because I can't be kind about her), you could also let him in to look around for a minute or two.
if anyone else finds themselves locked out of the superhero supply shop by a heartless b*tch (oops, see what I mean?), you might want to look on the other side of the road a few blocks towards the station, where there is a fine, non-volunteer, for-profit, comic book and figurine shop which will happily sell your small child a light sabre and a Spiderman comic, thus saving the day.
so this is post 1921. will I make 2008 in 2008? not if my *&^# hand doesn't get better. a minor but significant - to me as a writer anyway - side effect of the cancer surgery was the loss of the lymph nodes in my right arm, and some subsequent swelling and discomfort. not huge, but enough to bother me. and of course handwriting and typing make it worse. so, I suspect, does swimming 2k a day whenever I can. but it's not stopping me. I think, though, that it makes me subconsciously reluctant to pick up pen or keyboard, makes me feel that what I'm writing has to be prejudged as worth the discomfort and risk of making my hand worse.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
nothing on email. coffee not kicked in yet so randomly went to Blogger and clicked on a recently updated blog (they flash past like express trains these days).
and found this - the 2013-dated affirmation blog of a man who is probably in Indonesia or Malaysia or similar, probably has nothing (particularly not a house like this or a woman like this), but who clearly has some strange cargo-cult belief that by putting these affirmations out there online (and you'll note that each one appears to be hand-typed rather than cut and pasted, because there are typos), he will get It All.
and who knows? maybe he will. maybe I'll try it.
I am Married Johnny Depp
I am Married Johnny Depp..
(waits)
nah. nothin'.
and found this - the 2013-dated affirmation blog of a man who is probably in Indonesia or Malaysia or similar, probably has nothing (particularly not a house like this or a woman like this), but who clearly has some strange cargo-cult belief that by putting these affirmations out there online (and you'll note that each one appears to be hand-typed rather than cut and pasted, because there are typos), he will get It All.
and who knows? maybe he will. maybe I'll try it.
I am Married Johnny Depp
I am Married Johnny Depp..
(waits)
nah. nothin'.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
two posts to put up on one day; and as it's "a poor sort of memory that works only backwards", I'll do today's now and the one from two weeks ago later.
Jet lag. Like a dream of being awake in the middle of the night; but it's bright and trams and bikes are rolling by. I wake up at 6.30 am. It's not ligt yet; it could be midnight (it is in Vegas).
By seven, the sun is just rising. I keep it behind me as I set out on the ride, the same ride I always do in the morning. Today, though, it's different. Two weeks off these shores have disconnected me from the familiarity of landscape, the rhythm of days and I see anew with the clarity of an acid trip. It's been raining, and I'm in love with the sudden green of the park, the tang of eucalyptus in the air. All around me, people are taking this morning, Melbourne, here and now, for granted, but I arrive at the Vic Market at 7.30 with the surprise of a witness to a resurrection. I buy a coffee - proper coffee, which is unobtainable in America - and a donut - smaller than my own head and freshly made, I note to a friend later - and make my way in the anonymity of a scruffy bike rider to a chrome chair at a chrome table.
On the way I collect a free postcard advertising an anime exhibition, and what looks like a small cartoon/newsletter zine, photocopied and stuffed into the postcard stand. Only when I sit down, bite into the soft dough and hot jam and start reading, do I realise that it's a piece of provocation, a pretend newsletter from a pretend refugee action group, advising the good people of North Melbourne that they must take in refugees this month, and then learnt to slaughter sheep halal-style, to cover their heads and silence their women. Who would believe this was real? who would be turned against other humans by such transparent trash? I don't know, but a hot flush of anger invades my ghostly disconnected self; I leave my coffee, walk inside, take the rest of the newsletters off the stand and chuck them in the recycling bin. I wouldn't do this in America; I don't think I would. This is part of what it means to be home; to care, and to act, on how things are.
That was yesterday; today I rode out even earlier, at 6.30, when the only sign of dawn was a small crack of yellow sky hovering to the west. There was a storm coming (now, at 2pm, it's blowing all the trees outside down in a synchronised fawning bow, and people shouldn't go outside); the storm somehow coloured the earliest light of the sun so that the clouds were an inverted dunescape, red glowing sands on the peaks and dark purple greys in the valleys. Over the sky-desert a small flashing white light travelled tiny; a plane moving fast, but small and out of place in the angry sky. By 7.30, when I was almost home again and the sun was rising, a nuclear explosion coming up from the east, the city was a jagged mirror reflecting yellows and pinks against a purple western haze; the white trunks of the trees were tinged pink and the green of their leaves glowed with radiation.
Jet lag. Like a dream of being awake in the middle of the night; but it's bright and trams and bikes are rolling by. I wake up at 6.30 am. It's not ligt yet; it could be midnight (it is in Vegas).
By seven, the sun is just rising. I keep it behind me as I set out on the ride, the same ride I always do in the morning. Today, though, it's different. Two weeks off these shores have disconnected me from the familiarity of landscape, the rhythm of days and I see anew with the clarity of an acid trip. It's been raining, and I'm in love with the sudden green of the park, the tang of eucalyptus in the air. All around me, people are taking this morning, Melbourne, here and now, for granted, but I arrive at the Vic Market at 7.30 with the surprise of a witness to a resurrection. I buy a coffee - proper coffee, which is unobtainable in America - and a donut - smaller than my own head and freshly made, I note to a friend later - and make my way in the anonymity of a scruffy bike rider to a chrome chair at a chrome table.
On the way I collect a free postcard advertising an anime exhibition, and what looks like a small cartoon/newsletter zine, photocopied and stuffed into the postcard stand. Only when I sit down, bite into the soft dough and hot jam and start reading, do I realise that it's a piece of provocation, a pretend newsletter from a pretend refugee action group, advising the good people of North Melbourne that they must take in refugees this month, and then learnt to slaughter sheep halal-style, to cover their heads and silence their women. Who would believe this was real? who would be turned against other humans by such transparent trash? I don't know, but a hot flush of anger invades my ghostly disconnected self; I leave my coffee, walk inside, take the rest of the newsletters off the stand and chuck them in the recycling bin. I wouldn't do this in America; I don't think I would. This is part of what it means to be home; to care, and to act, on how things are.
That was yesterday; today I rode out even earlier, at 6.30, when the only sign of dawn was a small crack of yellow sky hovering to the west. There was a storm coming (now, at 2pm, it's blowing all the trees outside down in a synchronised fawning bow, and people shouldn't go outside); the storm somehow coloured the earliest light of the sun so that the clouds were an inverted dunescape, red glowing sands on the peaks and dark purple greys in the valleys. Over the sky-desert a small flashing white light travelled tiny; a plane moving fast, but small and out of place in the angry sky. By 7.30, when I was almost home again and the sun was rising, a nuclear explosion coming up from the east, the city was a jagged mirror reflecting yellows and pinks against a purple western haze; the white trunks of the trees were tinged pink and the green of their leaves glowed with radiation.
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