last night we went to see the fireworks.
and to quote a small child who was standing near us, they were "craptacular".
during the week we received a notice warning us to lock up our cats and dogs (funny, as we have no cats) due to a fireworks display off the Beaumaris pier on Saturday night.
so, we thought, fireworks. they're good. and duly had dinner nearby and went and stood on the clifftops at 9pm, waiting. waiting. waiting.
half an hour after the set time, when I was about ready to push the annoying whiny British-accented kids on our left over the cliff, there was a huge "whoosh" and it appeared that a fence had caught fire.
then some small sparks appeared in the sky, accompanied by popping sounds.
and I began to realise why, as Andrew said later, public-sector fireworks are the go. (these were apparently wedding fireworks for a reception in the nearby yacht club).
oh look, it wasn't that bad really. there were some cute little ones that exploded, then whizzed around individually like fish (or sperm, as one mature woman nearby noted). And some really loud bangs and flashes.
but worth rearranging our night for? and the half-hour wait? nah. craptacular.
Friday, October 11, 2002
see, this is what happens when you file nine days ahead of time. Sapphire Blue is alive, and snarky about it, too.
I might have to do resuscitated blogs. born-again blogs. or just plain snarky blogs. snarky. cute word.
I might have to do resuscitated blogs. born-again blogs. or just plain snarky blogs. snarky. cute word.
a small ode to the marsupial which narrowly avoided killing itself under my front right-hand tyre as I left BQAGS (or is it BGS?) last night:
Suicide possum
wanting to die
suicide possum
I don't know why
suicide possum
how would it feel?
suicide possum
with you under my wheel?
DON'T DO IT!
(also for Patrice, who claimed to find poetry in my blog, and of course for uber-marsupial lover and victim of suicide roadkill, Batty)
The actual speech part of the night? Well, my old teacher mentioned my blog and Google in her thanks, so I can't say too much, as I expect I will be having Visitors.
But speaking to a room full of teenage girls - and being seated next to the actual headmaster - is not exactly relaxing, you understand.
and of course, teenage girls can't be told; the very idea is absurd.
here's my speech; it's got some reminder key phrases in capitals through it that I can't be bothered editing out right now. about to make a 35-k trek to see some friends across town - and to rescue my poor underwatered pot plants, which are no doubt 97% dessicated after a week without rain.
-THANKS
thanks/address: principal, Mrs O'Shea, teachers, parents and students.
Formalities over, I'm now going to ignore the staff and parents altogether and talk to the girls. I'm going to explain to you why your parents are completely wasting their money on your school fees.
-SUNSCREEN SONG
Some of you might be expecting something like the Sunscreen Song, which goes "class of 97, Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. "
In fact, that was a pretty good speech, and I wish I could give it.
- ORIGINAL
But unfortunately, Patrice has asked me to come up with something original.
Actually, I'm still wondering why she did ask me to speak tonight.
- THE POINT OF ME
-pay attention
-was like you
I suppose the point of guest speakers at school events like this it that they are neither your parents nor your teachers, the idea being that you might actually pay attention to me
And the point of asking an "old girl" to speak is that 19 years ago I was a student here, presumably just like you.
-what not to do?
So maybe I'm supposed to provide some insights into where you might go and how to get there; or perhaps I'm exhibit A: here's what NOT to do.
I'm not sure how good an example I'd make anyway. Most likely all of you were born since I was last here, although I notice we have a few things in common, including Patrice.
- PAST 19 YEARS
What I've done in that 19 years includes five years as a technology journalist on The Age, about the same time writing for inner-city Melbourne papers in St Kilda, Fitzroy and Melbourne city, a bit of freelance writing, picking up arts degrees from RMIT and Melbourne University, travelling to about 15 or 20 countries (the exact number depends on whether you count Wales and Scotland and overnight stops), working in shearing sheds, a couple of brushes with the law (all at least 15 years ago) and
-YOUR OBLIGATIONS & HOW TO GET THERE
That's just for context; this isn't about me. It's about you. Other speakers tonight and through your lives will remind you that you have obligations to the wider community, to give something back from your relatively privileged positions, but I'm interested in how you'll get yourselves into a position to do that.
- a bit girly?
Patrice told me the topic for the guest speaker at your annual dinner was normally something "a bit girly", often about the co-educational experience.
- not thinking about feminism/busy being smart
Feminism is not necessarily the first thing on your minds; and I'm very glad for you that it doesn't have to be. In fact, research – and my memory of school - suggests that most of you are probably too busy being smarter and more mature than the boys your age to even think about feminism, and you may expect that to go on being the case.
-not always enough
I hope it does, but you may also find that smarter and better aren't always enough.
-fight, give in or walk away
Being female can still mean you are treated differently in a lot of situations. When that happens, you have three options: fight, give in and conform, or walk away.
- eg papers vs TV/ ACA
Being female is one reason I'm a newspaper journalist and not on TV, where I would spend more time on worrying about how I looked than what I was reporting, for instance, as I discovered when I worked as a part-time researcher on A Current Affair at Channel Nine in the late 1980s.
Still, being female isn't the only source of existential difficulty; in fact it's pretty minor when it comes to the bigger problem of being yourself.
-2022: speaking to a dinner and what will matter. not what you think.
Incredible as this might seem now, in 2022 each of you will be a Grammar "old girl", 20 years older in fact, looking back at your 2002 self. And if you're really unlucky you may even be speaking to a new batch of students at a Krome House dinner about how you fared over that 20 years.
Whatever the people around you might tell you to do, or be, now, however much you might care right now whether boys like you or not, what you weigh now, what clothes you wear now, what your marks are now, ….. the only thing that will make that experience tolerable for you is to have been true to yourselves.
-fees so you can do what you want
Your parents have – I hope – stumped up Grammar's not insignificant fees for the right reasons – not so you can be a doctor or a lawyer, but so you have the greatest possible chance of being able to do whatever you want with your lives. And to that end you, probably pay a lot of attention to your marks.
- what marks can do for you
In HSC in 1983, as it was then, my end of year mark – now a TER – was the second-highest in the class. I was supposed to go straight to Melbourne Uni and do law or something. I didn't; I spent three years hanging around Ballarat driving my parents to despair. It took those three years to work out what it was I needed and understand how to get it. Actually, that's not true. I'm still working out what I need and how to get it.
-figuring out where to go
Some of you are very lucky: you already know exactly what you want to do with your lives. Fewer again know exactly how to get there and that they have the talent, intelligence and inner resources to walk that path.
Others of you are yet to figure out what will suit you best. You may be being bombarded with career choices, information on what people "do" in different jobs, what the pay is and how good or bad the working conditions are.
But before you even think about all that, or any other decision you're faced with, you have to know what shape peg you are. If you're an artist-shaped peg, the best marks in the world are still no reason at all for going to medical school. If you really care about people and are fascinated by biology and curing diseases, you need to find a way to work with that, even if your exam results aren't that good.
-girls in technology
One of the stock stories that I trot out when I can't think of anything else to write about, is the "why don't girls study technology" yarn. I've been writing it for nearly six years now.
-underrepresented
It goes something like this: In Australia, women are hugely underrepresented in computing and communications technology work, and the "harder" or more objectively scientific the work, the fewer women you'll find. The numbers of women studying these subjects has actually gone down over recent years, while in equally left-brain fields, like engineering, the male-to- female ratio is now about 50:50.
- compared to overseas
This is a Western phenomenon; in countries like Malaysia, girls are actively encouraged to take up these high-paying, white-collar and in-demand roles, and they're very good at them.
- year 9 dropouts ... boys ... not looking too smart
It's also an age-related thing; in Australia, girls tend to drop out of computing studies around years 9 and 10 . I don't know how things are here at Grammar, but one reason for that happening is thought to be that the boys hog the computer labs, or that old chestnut, that "smart" girls aren't considered attractive or cool.
-don't let it happen here if that's what you want
I hope it doesn't happen here, but if it does, and if you think you'd like to spend more time programming, or learning to set up networks, or working out how to make databases do clever tricks, you should do it no matter waht. I'm not saying you should all go off and enrol in programming 101 tomorrow morning. If you find it boring, or just get much more excited about plants, dogs or architecture, by all means do that.
-same for everything; what gets you going?
The same principles apply; if it interests you, if it can make you stay up an extra hour to solve that problem or finish that piece of work, then it could be what you are here for. And if that thing happens to be a bit more domestic, like making your family your first priority, you're allowed to do that too.
- change your mind
And – here's a very girly bit – if you change your mind halfway through, that's perfectly fine too. It's still a woman's prerogative to change her mind, and it should be a man's too.
- attributions of success
Here's another random snippet of research I picked up somewhere: in general, when men succeed they take full credit, and when they fail, they blame outside factors. In women, it's the opposite: when they fail, they often blame themselves, while success is put down to luck or outside help. The result is not just stronger male egos; it's greater willingness to try scary things, because if they fail, it's not really their fault, is it?
- you get lots of help... school and family...and high expectations.
Being at Ballarat Grammar means you're getting a lot of outside academic help with your studies, and what's called pastoral support from your house. It's not accidental that the houses are divided along gender lines, either.
And whatever the ups and downs, you're getting a lot of help from your families – there's those fees again – but more importantly there's the home environment that lets you grow and study and most likely test yourselves out against your parents' standards. There's the expectations, too – positive in that they push you harder, but potentially negative if you feel you have to live up to something that isn't you.
- but it's still your life...light bulb joke
For all that help, your life is still entirely yours. Nothing I say, or your parents say, or the teachers say, is going to make any difference to who you really are.
It's like that old light bulb joke: How many social workers does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but the light bulb has to WANT to change.
- art and definining your own success/potential.
- which fees can't buy
If you fail or succeed, it may be due to outside factors or not. When I was here in the early 80's, I studied art – I was terrible at making art but I enjoyed it – and one thing stuck with me. We were taught that although we might like or not like a piece of art, we also had to try to understand it from the point of view of the artist – what he or she was trying to achieve.
No one else could define that for them; it was their art, whether or not other people saw it the same way. Your lives are the same; when you're an "old girl" you'll find you care less and less about what other people think, but more about meeting your own standards and fulfilling your own potential, as you choose to define it.
Which is something no amount of school fees can buy; you have to do it for yourself.
- last year's VCE - St Kevin's - willing to do the work, and cared about his marks.
Last year's top VCE result went to a boy who was, admittedly, at St Kevin's college in Toorak; but he was on a scholarship and it took him an hour and a half to get to school every day. To me, that says he was willing to do the work that was needed, regardless of his circumstances. It also means that he must have cared about his VCE results an awful lot.
- ignore me, but trust me on the sunscreen.
And, as that song said, you should be careful about whose advice you take. so feel free to ignore me.
But trust me on the sunscreen
Suicide possum
wanting to die
suicide possum
I don't know why
suicide possum
how would it feel?
suicide possum
with you under my wheel?
DON'T DO IT!
(also for Patrice, who claimed to find poetry in my blog, and of course for uber-marsupial lover and victim of suicide roadkill, Batty)
The actual speech part of the night? Well, my old teacher mentioned my blog and Google in her thanks, so I can't say too much, as I expect I will be having Visitors.
But speaking to a room full of teenage girls - and being seated next to the actual headmaster - is not exactly relaxing, you understand.
and of course, teenage girls can't be told; the very idea is absurd.
here's my speech; it's got some reminder key phrases in capitals through it that I can't be bothered editing out right now. about to make a 35-k trek to see some friends across town - and to rescue my poor underwatered pot plants, which are no doubt 97% dessicated after a week without rain.
-THANKS
thanks/address: principal, Mrs O'Shea, teachers, parents and students.
Formalities over, I'm now going to ignore the staff and parents altogether and talk to the girls. I'm going to explain to you why your parents are completely wasting their money on your school fees.
-SUNSCREEN SONG
Some of you might be expecting something like the Sunscreen Song, which goes "class of 97, Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. "
In fact, that was a pretty good speech, and I wish I could give it.
- ORIGINAL
But unfortunately, Patrice has asked me to come up with something original.
Actually, I'm still wondering why she did ask me to speak tonight.
- THE POINT OF ME
-pay attention
-was like you
I suppose the point of guest speakers at school events like this it that they are neither your parents nor your teachers, the idea being that you might actually pay attention to me
And the point of asking an "old girl" to speak is that 19 years ago I was a student here, presumably just like you.
-what not to do?
So maybe I'm supposed to provide some insights into where you might go and how to get there; or perhaps I'm exhibit A: here's what NOT to do.
I'm not sure how good an example I'd make anyway. Most likely all of you were born since I was last here, although I notice we have a few things in common, including Patrice.
- PAST 19 YEARS
What I've done in that 19 years includes five years as a technology journalist on The Age, about the same time writing for inner-city Melbourne papers in St Kilda, Fitzroy and Melbourne city, a bit of freelance writing, picking up arts degrees from RMIT and Melbourne University, travelling to about 15 or 20 countries (the exact number depends on whether you count Wales and Scotland and overnight stops), working in shearing sheds, a couple of brushes with the law (all at least 15 years ago) and
-YOUR OBLIGATIONS & HOW TO GET THERE
That's just for context; this isn't about me. It's about you. Other speakers tonight and through your lives will remind you that you have obligations to the wider community, to give something back from your relatively privileged positions, but I'm interested in how you'll get yourselves into a position to do that.
- a bit girly?
Patrice told me the topic for the guest speaker at your annual dinner was normally something "a bit girly", often about the co-educational experience.
- not thinking about feminism/busy being smart
Feminism is not necessarily the first thing on your minds; and I'm very glad for you that it doesn't have to be. In fact, research – and my memory of school - suggests that most of you are probably too busy being smarter and more mature than the boys your age to even think about feminism, and you may expect that to go on being the case.
-not always enough
I hope it does, but you may also find that smarter and better aren't always enough.
-fight, give in or walk away
Being female can still mean you are treated differently in a lot of situations. When that happens, you have three options: fight, give in and conform, or walk away.
- eg papers vs TV/ ACA
Being female is one reason I'm a newspaper journalist and not on TV, where I would spend more time on worrying about how I looked than what I was reporting, for instance, as I discovered when I worked as a part-time researcher on A Current Affair at Channel Nine in the late 1980s.
Still, being female isn't the only source of existential difficulty; in fact it's pretty minor when it comes to the bigger problem of being yourself.
-2022: speaking to a dinner and what will matter. not what you think.
Incredible as this might seem now, in 2022 each of you will be a Grammar "old girl", 20 years older in fact, looking back at your 2002 self. And if you're really unlucky you may even be speaking to a new batch of students at a Krome House dinner about how you fared over that 20 years.
Whatever the people around you might tell you to do, or be, now, however much you might care right now whether boys like you or not, what you weigh now, what clothes you wear now, what your marks are now, ….. the only thing that will make that experience tolerable for you is to have been true to yourselves.
-fees so you can do what you want
Your parents have – I hope – stumped up Grammar's not insignificant fees for the right reasons – not so you can be a doctor or a lawyer, but so you have the greatest possible chance of being able to do whatever you want with your lives. And to that end you, probably pay a lot of attention to your marks.
- what marks can do for you
In HSC in 1983, as it was then, my end of year mark – now a TER – was the second-highest in the class. I was supposed to go straight to Melbourne Uni and do law or something. I didn't; I spent three years hanging around Ballarat driving my parents to despair. It took those three years to work out what it was I needed and understand how to get it. Actually, that's not true. I'm still working out what I need and how to get it.
-figuring out where to go
Some of you are very lucky: you already know exactly what you want to do with your lives. Fewer again know exactly how to get there and that they have the talent, intelligence and inner resources to walk that path.
Others of you are yet to figure out what will suit you best. You may be being bombarded with career choices, information on what people "do" in different jobs, what the pay is and how good or bad the working conditions are.
But before you even think about all that, or any other decision you're faced with, you have to know what shape peg you are. If you're an artist-shaped peg, the best marks in the world are still no reason at all for going to medical school. If you really care about people and are fascinated by biology and curing diseases, you need to find a way to work with that, even if your exam results aren't that good.
-girls in technology
One of the stock stories that I trot out when I can't think of anything else to write about, is the "why don't girls study technology" yarn. I've been writing it for nearly six years now.
-underrepresented
It goes something like this: In Australia, women are hugely underrepresented in computing and communications technology work, and the "harder" or more objectively scientific the work, the fewer women you'll find. The numbers of women studying these subjects has actually gone down over recent years, while in equally left-brain fields, like engineering, the male-to- female ratio is now about 50:50.
- compared to overseas
This is a Western phenomenon; in countries like Malaysia, girls are actively encouraged to take up these high-paying, white-collar and in-demand roles, and they're very good at them.
- year 9 dropouts ... boys ... not looking too smart
It's also an age-related thing; in Australia, girls tend to drop out of computing studies around years 9 and 10 . I don't know how things are here at Grammar, but one reason for that happening is thought to be that the boys hog the computer labs, or that old chestnut, that "smart" girls aren't considered attractive or cool.
-don't let it happen here if that's what you want
I hope it doesn't happen here, but if it does, and if you think you'd like to spend more time programming, or learning to set up networks, or working out how to make databases do clever tricks, you should do it no matter waht. I'm not saying you should all go off and enrol in programming 101 tomorrow morning. If you find it boring, or just get much more excited about plants, dogs or architecture, by all means do that.
-same for everything; what gets you going?
The same principles apply; if it interests you, if it can make you stay up an extra hour to solve that problem or finish that piece of work, then it could be what you are here for. And if that thing happens to be a bit more domestic, like making your family your first priority, you're allowed to do that too.
- change your mind
And – here's a very girly bit – if you change your mind halfway through, that's perfectly fine too. It's still a woman's prerogative to change her mind, and it should be a man's too.
- attributions of success
Here's another random snippet of research I picked up somewhere: in general, when men succeed they take full credit, and when they fail, they blame outside factors. In women, it's the opposite: when they fail, they often blame themselves, while success is put down to luck or outside help. The result is not just stronger male egos; it's greater willingness to try scary things, because if they fail, it's not really their fault, is it?
- you get lots of help... school and family...and high expectations.
Being at Ballarat Grammar means you're getting a lot of outside academic help with your studies, and what's called pastoral support from your house. It's not accidental that the houses are divided along gender lines, either.
And whatever the ups and downs, you're getting a lot of help from your families – there's those fees again – but more importantly there's the home environment that lets you grow and study and most likely test yourselves out against your parents' standards. There's the expectations, too – positive in that they push you harder, but potentially negative if you feel you have to live up to something that isn't you.
- but it's still your life...light bulb joke
For all that help, your life is still entirely yours. Nothing I say, or your parents say, or the teachers say, is going to make any difference to who you really are.
It's like that old light bulb joke: How many social workers does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but the light bulb has to WANT to change.
- art and definining your own success/potential.
- which fees can't buy
If you fail or succeed, it may be due to outside factors or not. When I was here in the early 80's, I studied art – I was terrible at making art but I enjoyed it – and one thing stuck with me. We were taught that although we might like or not like a piece of art, we also had to try to understand it from the point of view of the artist – what he or she was trying to achieve.
No one else could define that for them; it was their art, whether or not other people saw it the same way. Your lives are the same; when you're an "old girl" you'll find you care less and less about what other people think, but more about meeting your own standards and fulfilling your own potential, as you choose to define it.
Which is something no amount of school fees can buy; you have to do it for yourself.
- last year's VCE - St Kevin's - willing to do the work, and cared about his marks.
Last year's top VCE result went to a boy who was, admittedly, at St Kevin's college in Toorak; but he was on a scholarship and it took him an hour and a half to get to school every day. To me, that says he was willing to do the work that was needed, regardless of his circumstances. It also means that he must have cared about his VCE results an awful lot.
- ignore me, but trust me on the sunscreen.
And, as that song said, you should be careful about whose advice you take. so feel free to ignore me.
But trust me on the sunscreen
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
blogon
Sapphire Blue
"There is no drama. No blogger rivalry turned ugly, no broken heart, no creepy stalker guy with fifty-seven AOL screen names.
"I just really got to hate my website ... but as long as there was my nifty little home-built CMS there to make it just so easy to update, I would update.
"And then I would think: I really hate my website.
"And then a few days would go by, while I thought of tearing it all down, starting over nostalgic and wistful for 1999, just like everyone else. And then I'd do it again. So here endeth the vicious circle.
"When I come up with something I don't hate, you'll be the first to know."
This means we'll never know if Michelle continued to be able to say she'd seen every panda bear in the US, or if she ever got bored with the view of the Washington Monument from her desk.
You can still browse her picture gallery of cats (named Pixel, Garfield and Quaalude), crocuses and fireworks.
I Hate Married People
"Way too many folks I know IRL (in real life) are armed with browsers and basic information retrieval skills. Find my site they do," writes media personality Helen Razer.
So, as of late August, she has abandoned her lively blog and gone to "an undisclosed locale" which BlogOn is yet to ferret out.
If you come across a blog full of complex sentences and two long words where one short one would do, that'll be Helen. But don't tell any of her friends, admirers or former employers, all of whom seemed to cramp her style.
People are Stupid
With a name like that, and a subtitle reading "a steaming pile of bitter observations", you'd hardly be surprised that this blogger eventually quit. Even the person producing it could easily get tired of this tone of voice:
"Blogs are for losers.
"I've decided that I can think of nothing worth writing, and if I could, it would deserve a more noble place of record than the Internet. I do not wish to add to the stink of this toilet ... I've grown to love you during our short season together but really, I must go."
When blogging, he or she liked to paraphrase the New York Times' front page (blah blah blah) and post fake personal ads online for no clear reason except laughing at the responses.
He or she does have some redeeming niceness; a fondness for Beethoven to the point where one posts lists why each favourite is good, and ... well, that's about it in the niceness department, actually.
Damn the Pacific
This is more a blog with a broken heart than a dead one.
It was set up to support the Internet romance of a Melbourne lad, Stu, and an American girl, Lane.
Contributions to their air ticket fund and general cheering from the sidelines were encouraged by their out-loud online yearnings. Now they're "taking a few months off" and refunds for the planned second flight are being offered.
The archives have been taken down, but both Stu and Lane have blogs of their own, linked to Damn the Pacific.
It looks like they're coping OK.
Sapphire Blue
"There is no drama. No blogger rivalry turned ugly, no broken heart, no creepy stalker guy with fifty-seven AOL screen names.
"I just really got to hate my website ... but as long as there was my nifty little home-built CMS there to make it just so easy to update, I would update.
"And then I would think: I really hate my website.
"And then a few days would go by, while I thought of tearing it all down, starting over nostalgic and wistful for 1999, just like everyone else. And then I'd do it again. So here endeth the vicious circle.
"When I come up with something I don't hate, you'll be the first to know."
This means we'll never know if Michelle continued to be able to say she'd seen every panda bear in the US, or if she ever got bored with the view of the Washington Monument from her desk.
You can still browse her picture gallery of cats (named Pixel, Garfield and Quaalude), crocuses and fireworks.
I Hate Married People
"Way too many folks I know IRL (in real life) are armed with browsers and basic information retrieval skills. Find my site they do," writes media personality Helen Razer.
So, as of late August, she has abandoned her lively blog and gone to "an undisclosed locale" which BlogOn is yet to ferret out.
If you come across a blog full of complex sentences and two long words where one short one would do, that'll be Helen. But don't tell any of her friends, admirers or former employers, all of whom seemed to cramp her style.
People are Stupid
With a name like that, and a subtitle reading "a steaming pile of bitter observations", you'd hardly be surprised that this blogger eventually quit. Even the person producing it could easily get tired of this tone of voice:
"Blogs are for losers.
"I've decided that I can think of nothing worth writing, and if I could, it would deserve a more noble place of record than the Internet. I do not wish to add to the stink of this toilet ... I've grown to love you during our short season together but really, I must go."
When blogging, he or she liked to paraphrase the New York Times' front page (blah blah blah) and post fake personal ads online for no clear reason except laughing at the responses.
He or she does have some redeeming niceness; a fondness for Beethoven to the point where one posts lists why each favourite is good, and ... well, that's about it in the niceness department, actually.
Damn the Pacific
This is more a blog with a broken heart than a dead one.
It was set up to support the Internet romance of a Melbourne lad, Stu, and an American girl, Lane.
Contributions to their air ticket fund and general cheering from the sidelines were encouraged by their out-loud online yearnings. Now they're "taking a few months off" and refunds for the planned second flight are being offered.
The archives have been taken down, but both Stu and Lane have blogs of their own, linked to Damn the Pacific.
It looks like they're coping OK.
will someone please buy me a pair of noise-cancelling headphones? or a gag? (for the loud subeditor on my left, not me!).
it's 9.20 friggin' am. the only reason to be here is to write in peace (and because I'm nicking off early to give a speech). why would I want to hear about his water tank?
I wouldn't.
oh well. if you can't have quiet, you can have Courtney Love at full volume.
I am .../doll parts/ doll eyes/ doll heart/
it's 9.20 friggin' am. the only reason to be here is to write in peace (and because I'm nicking off early to give a speech). why would I want to hear about his water tank?
I wouldn't.
oh well. if you can't have quiet, you can have Courtney Love at full volume.
I am .../doll parts/ doll eyes/ doll heart/
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Monday, October 07, 2002
if you're in Australia, you can email the high commissioner from Nigeria here to protest at the stoning death sentence of Amina Lawal. please use your real name.
links for other countries are here.
links for other countries are here.
electrofringe.
I think I'd like to go to this next year. not many conferences have sessions about, and by, webcam operators.
I think I'd like to go to this next year. not many conferences have sessions about, and by, webcam operators.
Sunday, October 06, 2002
"The youth of Islam are preparing something to strike fear in your hearts and will target the vital sectors of your economy until you renounce your injustice and hostility."
what are they going to do? blow up all the fast food restaurants? interesting wording: "vital sectors of your economy".
what are they going to do? blow up all the fast food restaurants? interesting wording: "vital sectors of your economy".
heh. On Thursday I'm going up to my Old School (19 years since I was there) to give a talk to the assembled "girls" of the house I was in at their annual dinner.
Have tentatively titled it: "One day you'll be an Old Girl too, or why your parents are wasting their money on your school fees."
Am also quite annoyed I left the keys to our (real) house at the house-sit place, as I was vaguely and wickedly considering wearing my old school uniform, or at least the blazer, to the dinner.
Have tentatively titled it: "One day you'll be an Old Girl too, or why your parents are wasting their money on your school fees."
Am also quite annoyed I left the keys to our (real) house at the house-sit place, as I was vaguely and wickedly considering wearing my old school uniform, or at least the blazer, to the dinner.
my goodness.
while I've been tootling around having a very ordinary, regular weekend, Batgrl had to board her house up and evacuate to East Texas to get away from the cyclone. she has such an exciting life; not always in the ways one would wish for her, though.
while I've been tootling around having a very ordinary, regular weekend, Batgrl had to board her house up and evacuate to East Texas to get away from the cyclone. she has such an exciting life; not always in the ways one would wish for her, though.
too busy ticking things off my list.
a couple of random thoughts: the square face of Luigi, who once lived in our house, in a photograph we found there. his nameless wife beside him, skin shining and smooth as if it had been polished with olive oil; and mabye it had.
and the sad sock puppet who was accidentally put in the sock drawer, but couldn't complain because he was surrounded by pairs of socks that lived in fear of being chosen, until one twin valiantly went to the Other Side to save his mate from any further contact with smelly toes.
that'swhere all the odd socks go.
and memes in general as a possible topic of study: the slow way something like, say, painting Kombi vans in flowers and patterns spread, but is now recognisably a meme, compared to the speed and the vectors travelled of Web memes.
a couple of random thoughts: the square face of Luigi, who once lived in our house, in a photograph we found there. his nameless wife beside him, skin shining and smooth as if it had been polished with olive oil; and mabye it had.
and the sad sock puppet who was accidentally put in the sock drawer, but couldn't complain because he was surrounded by pairs of socks that lived in fear of being chosen, until one twin valiantly went to the Other Side to save his mate from any further contact with smelly toes.
that'swhere all the odd socks go.
and memes in general as a possible topic of study: the slow way something like, say, painting Kombi vans in flowers and patterns spread, but is now recognisably a meme, compared to the speed and the vectors travelled of Web memes.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
oh dear. looks like they're not guppy eggs; guppies actually "give birth". they're probably snail eggs. we are about to be invaded. I was wondering why the snails hadn't eaten the eggs.
blogon. just when you thought I'd done the most obscure topics ever, it gets esoteric-er.
(note gratuitous Keeshond reference in last one. yes I am obsessed with fluffy dogs.)
Wendy's Knitting Blog
Do the socks match up? How do you attach a sleeve to a body? Can you avoid beggars on the subway by pretending not to speak English?
Wendy has all the answers. A self-confessed knitting nut, she details the pitfalls of patterns, then posts the results, which seem to be enormously helpful to her fellow knitters.
She's a wool hoarder, too: "I've probably got enough wool for two years' worth of projects. I haven't exactly inventoried it because I'm a little scared to."
Wendy muses on why so many knitters seem to have cats and offers links to quizzes where you can discover what kind of sheep you are!
The Red Sweater
Jamie and Eva, of The Red Sweater, blog about their progress in knitting and purling jumpers and in creating little linen dresses.
If you thought knitting was no big deal, have your eyes opened here: Jamie worries about finding a replacement for her "precious but discontinued Rowan Chunky Soft" wool, and notes that wooden knitting needles are still allowed on aeroplanes in the US.
Enthusiastic links to new sources of patterns abound and there are links to yet more knitting blogs.
The pair have a gallery section where you can see their work. But it's not for sale; this is strictly a labour of love.
Flaming Design
Trina doesn't just knit; she designs. She gets excited about scarves and hats, low-cut jumpers and multicoloured fabric objects of all kinds.
She links to artists who work in fibres and tracks down obscure knitting magazines.
Like most other blogging knitters, she's passionate: "I can hardly contain my excitement ... I found a yarn store in the UK, Bobbins, who sell (wait for it) Colinette yarn! And kits! And by mail order! I want, I want, I want. OK, breathe deeply."
In between her fabric work, she blogs about her travels in Britain, visits art shows and sometimes goes to the movies; she notes that Nicole Kidman knits in her latest flick.
So Much Fibre, So Little Time
Everyone's got to have a gimmick. In the case of Katherine, she not only knits, she spins her own wool. From her dog's coat.
The rather attractive results are auctioned off in aid of a dog rescue service and displayed on her site.
There are lots of details of her weaving projects, links to sites with music she likes to work to and the odd cute photo of the dog, who seems to have a lot of wool left over.
She informs us that next week (October 7-14), is Spinning and Weaving Week. Motto: "Spin Hard. Dye Fast. And leave beautiful warps."
(note gratuitous Keeshond reference in last one. yes I am obsessed with fluffy dogs.)
Wendy's Knitting Blog
Do the socks match up? How do you attach a sleeve to a body? Can you avoid beggars on the subway by pretending not to speak English?
Wendy has all the answers. A self-confessed knitting nut, she details the pitfalls of patterns, then posts the results, which seem to be enormously helpful to her fellow knitters.
She's a wool hoarder, too: "I've probably got enough wool for two years' worth of projects. I haven't exactly inventoried it because I'm a little scared to."
Wendy muses on why so many knitters seem to have cats and offers links to quizzes where you can discover what kind of sheep you are!
The Red Sweater
Jamie and Eva, of The Red Sweater, blog about their progress in knitting and purling jumpers and in creating little linen dresses.
If you thought knitting was no big deal, have your eyes opened here: Jamie worries about finding a replacement for her "precious but discontinued Rowan Chunky Soft" wool, and notes that wooden knitting needles are still allowed on aeroplanes in the US.
Enthusiastic links to new sources of patterns abound and there are links to yet more knitting blogs.
The pair have a gallery section where you can see their work. But it's not for sale; this is strictly a labour of love.
Flaming Design
Trina doesn't just knit; she designs. She gets excited about scarves and hats, low-cut jumpers and multicoloured fabric objects of all kinds.
She links to artists who work in fibres and tracks down obscure knitting magazines.
Like most other blogging knitters, she's passionate: "I can hardly contain my excitement ... I found a yarn store in the UK, Bobbins, who sell (wait for it) Colinette yarn! And kits! And by mail order! I want, I want, I want. OK, breathe deeply."
In between her fabric work, she blogs about her travels in Britain, visits art shows and sometimes goes to the movies; she notes that Nicole Kidman knits in her latest flick.
So Much Fibre, So Little Time
Everyone's got to have a gimmick. In the case of Katherine, she not only knits, she spins her own wool. From her dog's coat.
The rather attractive results are auctioned off in aid of a dog rescue service and displayed on her site.
There are lots of details of her weaving projects, links to sites with music she likes to work to and the odd cute photo of the dog, who seems to have a lot of wool left over.
She informs us that next week (October 7-14), is Spinning and Weaving Week. Motto: "Spin Hard. Dye Fast. And leave beautiful warps."
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
have found another use for Google: typing in words I'm not sure of the correct spelling for, like arrivederci, and letting the engine correct me. also finding sites; just mailed another journo asking for a site he mentioned. he sent me back not the URL, but the keywords that would bring it up on Google.
a bit of advice?
when you get a contract, read the thing.
my loan restructuring with the bank was going fine. I wasn't rushing, but when I got around to signing the documents, I noticed a tiny dot point on page 7. "a/c # 97077097" (not my actual # of course). this is another loan altogether. this was the only mention of it.
turns out that yes, it did in fact mean they were going to take my restructured loan and pay off the second one with it. which would be utterly pointless and necessitate HOURS of fixing.
banks. love or hate them, you've got to hate them. It isn't just me, is it?
when you get a contract, read the thing.
my loan restructuring with the bank was going fine. I wasn't rushing, but when I got around to signing the documents, I noticed a tiny dot point on page 7. "a/c # 97077097" (not my actual # of course). this is another loan altogether. this was the only mention of it.
turns out that yes, it did in fact mean they were going to take my restructured loan and pay off the second one with it. which would be utterly pointless and necessitate HOURS of fixing.
banks. love or hate them, you've got to hate them. It isn't just me, is it?
car parks at the beach in early morning; young women in track pants, ponytails bouncing, pushing their babies. men sitting in corporate cars, staring out to sea. pairs and triplets of blokes standing around the opened doors old Commodores, doing some illegal deal.
all of them choosing not to notice each other.
all of them choosing not to notice each other.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
I'd be getting home earlier, if it wasn't for the sunsets.
most of my 25 k ride home is along the beach road bike path.
and so far, each night (this was the third I rode home) has turned on an amazing sunset over the bay and the hills on the other side.
the first two were great balls of fire sinking behind the hills.
tonight it was cloudier, fat Melbourne clouds with patches of blue.
about five minutes before sunset I came to a boardwalk high above an indentation in the dunes; the scrubby bush stretched about 75 m down a steep slope to the sea, forming a half-bowl shape
out on the water, a dozen black boats from supertanker to one-man dinghy were silhouetted on the gently rippling blue-grey water.
as the sun set, the cloud around it started to glow like the heart of a coal.
instead of one bright circle, the sun seemed to be flattened between the horizon and the clouds, forming a strip of flame and casting red shadows on the water.
it got brighter and brighter - I still have a residual black line on my vision from staring - and the circle of red cloud grew up and out.
another cyclist stopped further down the boardwalk, probably because I was staring out so intently.
cars drove past, glancing out. the boats were in the sunset, and I hope they weren't fishing.
eventually the grey started to take over again. instead of the red light coming through the clouds, it touched their underneaths and it was dusk.
I guess that happens down here every night.
most of my 25 k ride home is along the beach road bike path.
and so far, each night (this was the third I rode home) has turned on an amazing sunset over the bay and the hills on the other side.
the first two were great balls of fire sinking behind the hills.
tonight it was cloudier, fat Melbourne clouds with patches of blue.
about five minutes before sunset I came to a boardwalk high above an indentation in the dunes; the scrubby bush stretched about 75 m down a steep slope to the sea, forming a half-bowl shape
out on the water, a dozen black boats from supertanker to one-man dinghy were silhouetted on the gently rippling blue-grey water.
as the sun set, the cloud around it started to glow like the heart of a coal.
instead of one bright circle, the sun seemed to be flattened between the horizon and the clouds, forming a strip of flame and casting red shadows on the water.
it got brighter and brighter - I still have a residual black line on my vision from staring - and the circle of red cloud grew up and out.
another cyclist stopped further down the boardwalk, probably because I was staring out so intently.
cars drove past, glancing out. the boats were in the sunset, and I hope they weren't fishing.
eventually the grey started to take over again. instead of the red light coming through the clouds, it touched their underneaths and it was dusk.
I guess that happens down here every night.
Monday, September 30, 2002
I don't know what this is. it seems to be a hypertext piece made up of various instruction documents and other guff. weird.
must be feeling silly. am amused by the presence of "weed.com.au" and "vermin.com.au", among others, on this list of generic com.au names now for sale.
and "goats.com.au".
that one is so sexy I might even buy it.
goats. squid. some words are just funny.
and "goats.com.au".
that one is so sexy I might even buy it.
goats. squid. some words are just funny.
this is of no interest to anyone but myself; but last night I woke up while trying to open a door to what I thought was the bathroom.
I often wander out during the night. I think I thought I had "been" and was trying to get into another room. it wasn't until the latch turned that I realised it was the front door and awoke.
fortunately this house has a v. high front fence. so even if I'd made it out, no one would have seen me in my T-shirt.
took a melatonin last night; trying to keep up the habit of waking up early in order to Get Things Done and have time to ride the 25 ks in to work. maybe that caused it. they are supposed to cause weird dreams, and I think they have in the past.
I often wander out during the night. I think I thought I had "been" and was trying to get into another room. it wasn't until the latch turned that I realised it was the front door and awoke.
fortunately this house has a v. high front fence. so even if I'd made it out, no one would have seen me in my T-shirt.
took a melatonin last night; trying to keep up the habit of waking up early in order to Get Things Done and have time to ride the 25 ks in to work. maybe that caused it. they are supposed to cause weird dreams, and I think they have in the past.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
blogon
Dark Blue Star
"Working on two new goth wallpapers for the die-hard goth. Morbid, some will probably say, but then again some people like chains, coffins, blood and the like." Rob is both techie and goth, making electronic designs in his spare time.
"I can use my imagination to go to the dark place we all have inside of us.
"What, you say, you don't have one? Oh please, we all have that dark little morbid place inside of us. Some just prefer NOT to go there - too scary, I guess."
Rob's own dark little corner of the Internet is designed in blue lettering on a black background; quite gothic, but not always easy to read.
Dig a bit deeper around the rest of the site and you'll find technical credits for his design work, including a site for the Los Gatos Christian Church. Wonder if they know about the dark place?
Slashgoth
Yes, "Slashgoth" is a pun on the popular technical discussion list Slashdot. Slashgoth is aimed at "techgoths" and other creatures of the night.
Like many open weblogs, where anyone can contribute, its topics range widely. One post linked to a news article about a goth band playing to a flock of sheep (apparently they like it and it led to extra lambs), another noted the banning of "goth clothing" from a park in Edinburgh, Scotland, sparking a heated discussion about anti-goth discrimination and violence.
Other discussions centre on where to buy that "goth clothing" and the difficulty of finding good velvet frock-coats in larger sizes.
The content is predominantly British, but Australia and other locations get the odd look-in.
The Smiling Goth
Despite the title, in the photo this red-lipped, pale-skinned, dark-eyed individual is not smiling at all.
But she can recommend a good Italian restaurant in Florida and is very busy working and gardening, it seems.
If all that doesn't sound too gothic, try this: The site's official black cat is both a "Familiar to the Mistress" and "Sex Kitten Extraordinaire".
The Mistress, aka Suzie, alternates between ordinary blog-style entries about the cat and the weather and observations from a distinctly gothic point of view: "I swear sometimes I honestly believe my mother's family are all reverse vampires. They rise with the sun, feed during the day and, as soon as the sun sets, they all turn into narcoleptics. Odd odd odd."
And when she has moving-company problems, her house contents list sounds a little like the Osbornes. For instance, there was heat damage to her candles - "yet my candles were warped and melted (and these were those glassed-in graveside candles, no easy task to melt as they have to burn for seven days)."
Dark Blue Star
"Working on two new goth wallpapers for the die-hard goth. Morbid, some will probably say, but then again some people like chains, coffins, blood and the like." Rob is both techie and goth, making electronic designs in his spare time.
"I can use my imagination to go to the dark place we all have inside of us.
"What, you say, you don't have one? Oh please, we all have that dark little morbid place inside of us. Some just prefer NOT to go there - too scary, I guess."
Rob's own dark little corner of the Internet is designed in blue lettering on a black background; quite gothic, but not always easy to read.
Dig a bit deeper around the rest of the site and you'll find technical credits for his design work, including a site for the Los Gatos Christian Church. Wonder if they know about the dark place?
Slashgoth
Yes, "Slashgoth" is a pun on the popular technical discussion list Slashdot. Slashgoth is aimed at "techgoths" and other creatures of the night.
Like many open weblogs, where anyone can contribute, its topics range widely. One post linked to a news article about a goth band playing to a flock of sheep (apparently they like it and it led to extra lambs), another noted the banning of "goth clothing" from a park in Edinburgh, Scotland, sparking a heated discussion about anti-goth discrimination and violence.
Other discussions centre on where to buy that "goth clothing" and the difficulty of finding good velvet frock-coats in larger sizes.
The content is predominantly British, but Australia and other locations get the odd look-in.
The Smiling Goth
Despite the title, in the photo this red-lipped, pale-skinned, dark-eyed individual is not smiling at all.
But she can recommend a good Italian restaurant in Florida and is very busy working and gardening, it seems.
If all that doesn't sound too gothic, try this: The site's official black cat is both a "Familiar to the Mistress" and "Sex Kitten Extraordinaire".
The Mistress, aka Suzie, alternates between ordinary blog-style entries about the cat and the weather and observations from a distinctly gothic point of view: "I swear sometimes I honestly believe my mother's family are all reverse vampires. They rise with the sun, feed during the day and, as soon as the sun sets, they all turn into narcoleptics. Odd odd odd."
And when she has moving-company problems, her house contents list sounds a little like the Osbornes. For instance, there was heat damage to her candles - "yet my candles were warped and melted (and these were those glassed-in graveside candles, no easy task to melt as they have to burn for seven days)."
as Collingwood take the lead, and the sun comes out on a wet and windy Grand Final Day, the dog settles in for a little sleep.
kind of weird, not being at a barbecue or party or indeed with 90,000 other people at the game itself. but the radio's on and so is the heater and it's nice to vaguely wander around on a Saturday afternoon doing a bit of work, a bit of uni, a bit of reading the paper and having a wander around the blogs. my comments don't work, and I can't comment on other sites, so I feel a bit non-interactive today.
trying to work out how words are used to mediate our very selves (and how not, for that matter) for my uni paper. but I have another blog for all that. my blogs have been proliferating lately; I have about six at the moment. this one is the main one, for dumb random things and stuff I wouldn't mind my boss/friends/husband coming across.
like how I went swimming today at yet another pool - the Fitzroy Pool being too far away, I'm moving between whatever's convenient. the one today was supposed to have a 50 m pool - I've suffered a couple of overheated 25 m pools, which are rotten for serious laps.
but when I got there, it was not only crowded with kids (Grand Final or not), but the 50 m pool was cut down to 25 m by a solid wall with lap swimmers on one side, kids on the other. yuck-o.
I got in anyway, and started counting off my 20 laps to make a kilometre. took a break at 500 metres, and after I started again I wondered how unfit I'd really got while on holiday. it seemed to be taking forever to do each 50 m circuit. but I tend to be bloody-minded about my exercise and kept on, and on, and on.
halfway through lap number 16, I stopped at the far end and had a look. and yes, the far wall was in fact moving. so my laps had been getting longer and longer. the end wall was a moveable boom that was slowly rolling back. which was quite gratifying, in terms of it being the laps that were getting longer, not my body that was getting slower.
kind of weird, not being at a barbecue or party or indeed with 90,000 other people at the game itself. but the radio's on and so is the heater and it's nice to vaguely wander around on a Saturday afternoon doing a bit of work, a bit of uni, a bit of reading the paper and having a wander around the blogs. my comments don't work, and I can't comment on other sites, so I feel a bit non-interactive today.
trying to work out how words are used to mediate our very selves (and how not, for that matter) for my uni paper. but I have another blog for all that. my blogs have been proliferating lately; I have about six at the moment. this one is the main one, for dumb random things and stuff I wouldn't mind my boss/friends/husband coming across.
like how I went swimming today at yet another pool - the Fitzroy Pool being too far away, I'm moving between whatever's convenient. the one today was supposed to have a 50 m pool - I've suffered a couple of overheated 25 m pools, which are rotten for serious laps.
but when I got there, it was not only crowded with kids (Grand Final or not), but the 50 m pool was cut down to 25 m by a solid wall with lap swimmers on one side, kids on the other. yuck-o.
I got in anyway, and started counting off my 20 laps to make a kilometre. took a break at 500 metres, and after I started again I wondered how unfit I'd really got while on holiday. it seemed to be taking forever to do each 50 m circuit. but I tend to be bloody-minded about my exercise and kept on, and on, and on.
halfway through lap number 16, I stopped at the far end and had a look. and yes, the far wall was in fact moving. so my laps had been getting longer and longer. the end wall was a moveable boom that was slowly rolling back. which was quite gratifying, in terms of it being the laps that were getting longer, not my body that was getting slower.
Friday, September 27, 2002
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
have just won my ebay auction. with postage, will be slightly more than they're worth in a shop. but whatever. they are cute. and I've never seen this particular set in a shop anyway. I think it was the chocolate mint one lower left that really made me go silly.
hehe. I'm bad.
just got yet another spam. some "business offer"
but the fool put in a Web address that is registered to a real Australian phone number.
called (made sure he was the actual perpetrator) and asked him to stop.
he said "who are you?"
I informed him that I didn't see a need to tell him that, "I'm just asking you to STOP" and hung up.
wish I could do that to every piece of rubbish that fills my inbox.
just got yet another spam. some "business offer"
but the fool put in a Web address that is registered to a real Australian phone number.
called (made sure he was the actual perpetrator) and asked him to stop.
he said "who are you?"
I informed him that I didn't see a need to tell him that, "I'm just asking you to STOP" and hung up.
wish I could do that to every piece of rubbish that fills my inbox.
....most of which have broken or dead links. sigh. how's a girl supposed to feed her ramekin obsession online if the antique dealers refuse to get properly wired?
the kind of place my friends G & F in Wales want to buy in France.
note the bit about "guest wing"
we are so going to visit them. so.
note the bit about "guest wing"
we are so going to visit them. so.
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
never buy shoes early in the day, or you'll buy them too small.
never buy shoes after a day walking around New York in the heat, or you'll buy them too big.
never buy shoes to fit across your foot; they'll be too long and flap when you walk.
never buy shoes that are the right length; they will squeeze your toes and quickly go out of shape.
dammit, just never buy shoes.
never buy shoes after a day walking around New York in the heat, or you'll buy them too big.
never buy shoes to fit across your foot; they'll be too long and flap when you walk.
never buy shoes that are the right length; they will squeeze your toes and quickly go out of shape.
dammit, just never buy shoes.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
dammit! mailed the ramekin seller asking about condition and she says she knocked one while checking and put a small chip in the bottom of a saucer. otherwise perfect, she says.
sometimes maybe it's better to leave things alone. of course it's not my fault as such, but I feel bad about it. the difference between perfect and slightly chipped is fairly important in these things (these things being old ceramics).
and I'm currently the high bidder...
sometimes maybe it's better to leave things alone. of course it's not my fault as such, but I feel bad about it. the difference between perfect and slightly chipped is fairly important in these things (these things being old ceramics).
and I'm currently the high bidder...
Saturday, September 21, 2002
transplanted again.
this time to Beaumaris, which is about 15 kilometres south of the city. it runs along Port Philip Bay, a mild affair with wavelets, not waves.
after the big move yesterday, woke up early (again! jet lag is a strange thing; by rights I should be sleeping in, but I’m waking early), and walked Mr B down to the beach.
or to the cliffs. there isn’t really a beach on the protuberance in the shoreline where we are. at one point I followed a side trail and came to a 15-metre drop with nothing to stop me (or the dog) walking over. I could see straight down into the shallow water, dappled with dark rocks and emerald seaweed.
along the straight, flattish beach road, swarm after swarm of cyclists went by. that road goes for 30 k down the Mornington Peninsula, or further, and it’s a Sunday morning ritual for many serious cyclists.
at least, they’re serious cyclists while they’re riding, dressed up in their coloured jerseys and improbably tight leggings. Mostly male, I guess they have other lives during the week, girlfriends still sleeping at home, or wives doing Sunday morning with the kids alone while the cyclist has his moment of a different life. if I ever have kids, I think I’ll need something like that.
this house-sit house is a fair way back from the beach road. it’s over a hill, so no chance of sea views, no matter how high and bizarrely one might build.
and boy, do they do it bizarre down here! there are still some plain pavilion-style weatherboards and a few 1950s brick ranches, but there’s a lot more glass, metal, brightly coloured render and strange angles. maybe it’s the sea air…
the gardens are different too. the couch-grass lawns reminded me how when my grandfather moved to Rosebud in retirement he bitterly condescended to grow that spiky stuff, in fact encouraged it, after years weeding every blade out of his lush Glen Iris lawn.
there are lots of native plants – hence native birds, like the fat scarlet rosella I can see as I type. the birds woke me with a lovely dawn chorus this morning. dawn, according to them, is 5.15 am. and possums; last night I saw a possum balancing its weight against its busy tail on the power lines across the road. apparently Melbourne has a possum plague and the Rose Appreciation Society or somesuch wants them all shot.
it’s very quiet here. the last few days we’ve been at A’s parents’ house, in uber-suburban Mt Waverly, home of the triple fronted brick veneer and the housewife’s nervous breakdown, living on a busy road.
in fact, his childhood home was only about a mile from the one my parents moved out of when I was one, a year before he was born. it was strange, finally being in the exact spot I’ve always thanked my lucky stars I escaped; even if it was to Ballarat, which oppresses in a different way.
I hope we get a few more of these house-sits (maybe not so far from our house, though). It’s kind of interesting, seeing how places are different, being in them properly instead of driving through them.
moving sucks, but.
Thursday, September 19, 2002
look! a knitter who has a Keeshond! she actually makes things out of her dog's wool!
I knew it was possible, and we did have a big bag of Bilbo's wool (they have real coats, not fur, so it can be spun like sheep's wool). I think we chucked it when we moved, on the basis it would never happen. now I'm kind of sorry.
a shawl of dog fur:
(btw, I'm trying to write a blogon on clothing blogs, which is why I was looking at knitters. so distracting, this stuff.
I knew it was possible, and we did have a big bag of Bilbo's wool (they have real coats, not fur, so it can be spun like sheep's wool). I think we chucked it when we moved, on the basis it would never happen. now I'm kind of sorry.
a shawl of dog fur:
(btw, I'm trying to write a blogon on clothing blogs, which is why I was looking at knitters. so distracting, this stuff.
something else there should be a word for: a post that notifies readers that the owner will be away. like Sean's.
maybe I'll call it a "Hegarty".
maybe I'll call it a "Hegarty".
heh. the competition has written about blogs. yawn. not that there's anything wrong with the article, as such, but here at my paper we've been doing that for years.
interestingly, came to the article via grumpygirl, who I haven't seen before, but is doing a masters degree with blogging as the topic. as this is what I am planning to do my masters thesis on myself, I will have to get to know the grump better. she's in the Melbourne meetup, so I guess we'll get a chance.
interestingly, came to the article via grumpygirl, who I haven't seen before, but is doing a masters degree with blogging as the topic. as this is what I am planning to do my masters thesis on myself, I will have to get to know the grump better. she's in the Melbourne meetup, so I guess we'll get a chance.
further woes: the winds blew over half an olive tree at our house. onto a brick wall the builders had just finished. I'm just hoping it was the bit the horrid neighbours were going to cut down anyway. we've designed the house around that tree.
paint fumes invaded my office building, so I went for a walk. returned to find the solution was to turn the a/c off. yay.
paint fumes invaded my office building, so I went for a walk. returned to find the solution was to turn the a/c off. yay.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
been back three days, meant to ring my nephew. but he rang first. we had some chitchat about how my trip was, my amazing Tuesday. did he still have his job? yes.
how was his (recently purchased, first) car?
oh, there was a little accident.
had he been drinking?
um, yes, the license was going to be gone for a year.
and could I take him to get his stuff out of it? it was in a wrecking yard in Port Melbourne.
he's 19 years old. he's the most lovely, generous, helpful, hardworking young man.
he's also a complete idiot and I want to kill him. the car was a shocking sight; passenger side completely bent in. I'm not often truly shocked, but this freaked me out altogether. I could have lost him. he knows I'm angry. he knows I love him. I don't know if that's enough, this is enough, to stop him doing it again. it's going to cost him thousands; the other car (which was behind his in the yard) is totalled; he's lucky it was an old bomb too. there'll be a fine, the problems of transport without his car. but he's still at that immortal age that kills young men.
my wonderful, understanding boss (yes, he reads my blog) has allowed me to be away from work for more than three hours doing this particular nephew-rescue and has not said anything. he knows I get imy workd done. it's my first day back and I'm still a bit jetlagged anyway.
I wish I had a photo of the car. not to blog, but to show the nephew in years to come, to remind him. because the older he gets, the more this should scare him.
there's a faint smell of petrol on my hands now. It reminds me of a crash I was in at 19, when the car ended up in a creek, a girl ended up dead and my boyfriend (driving) ended up in jail.
and I said to him as we dug stuff out of the mess: I have weeks, months, when nothing at all happens to me. What is it about this particular week? what's next?
how was his (recently purchased, first) car?
oh, there was a little accident.
had he been drinking?
um, yes, the license was going to be gone for a year.
and could I take him to get his stuff out of it? it was in a wrecking yard in Port Melbourne.
he's 19 years old. he's the most lovely, generous, helpful, hardworking young man.
he's also a complete idiot and I want to kill him. the car was a shocking sight; passenger side completely bent in. I'm not often truly shocked, but this freaked me out altogether. I could have lost him. he knows I'm angry. he knows I love him. I don't know if that's enough, this is enough, to stop him doing it again. it's going to cost him thousands; the other car (which was behind his in the yard) is totalled; he's lucky it was an old bomb too. there'll be a fine, the problems of transport without his car. but he's still at that immortal age that kills young men.
my wonderful, understanding boss (yes, he reads my blog) has allowed me to be away from work for more than three hours doing this particular nephew-rescue and has not said anything. he knows I get imy workd done. it's my first day back and I'm still a bit jetlagged anyway.
I wish I had a photo of the car. not to blog, but to show the nephew in years to come, to remind him. because the older he gets, the more this should scare him.
there's a faint smell of petrol on my hands now. It reminds me of a crash I was in at 19, when the car ended up in a creek, a girl ended up dead and my boyfriend (driving) ended up in jail.
and I said to him as we dug stuff out of the mess: I have weeks, months, when nothing at all happens to me. What is it about this particular week? what's next?
blogon
PixelPile
PixelPile has everything: "the obligatory bee-on-flower-macro-shot", sunsets with a backdrop of forest fires and scenes of explosions.
It's not just a photography blog, it's a group photography blog. About 26 members contribute, offering a range of styles from clear and well-framed colour to impressionistic to stark black and white.
Members live in the United States, in the Netherlands and in Hong Kong, and range from "just a person who likes to create" to professional photographers. When you find one whose work you like, you can switch to a list of their images only.
The photos don't load when you open the page; instead they appear in a pop-up window linked to picture titles.
Lomo
Martyn has a Lomo - a funny little Russian camera that has a cult following among a special breed of existential photographers. His site features his "Lomo crawls" - excursions into the world to capture funky images on the 35mm camera.
ometimes he takes his Canon, his Olympus or his Yashica for a walk instead, taking photos with an emphasis on perspective, colour and form more often than human subjects.
Remember that these aren't digital images; Martyn has to scan them in by hand for your enjoyment.
Five Foot Nine
With a penchant for photographing the same object from different angles - a lamp post and a lamp post's shadow, for instance, Five Foot Nine's roving camera gives the feeling of a virtual roving eye.
Teapots, tulips and Smokey the cat all get their moment in the lens.
The site is short on commentary, apart from a page where the photographer explains: "This is a blog that I `write' with images. Whether they are blurred shot of neon lights, a picture of my feet, or electrical wires against the blue sky this page is a reflection of what i see each and every day. To you they may look like nothing and mean nothing, but they do to me. Every snap of my tiny digital camera is a memory of a moment."
F-Stop
Tamara Nicole likes to quote Simon and Garfunkel (Kodachrome), and she loves her camera.
She also likes animals, particularly hippos, and the early part of the blog was filled with images from the Toledo Zoo. Tamara was due to get married recently, and the wedding album may well be up by now.
PixelPile
PixelPile has everything: "the obligatory bee-on-flower-macro-shot", sunsets with a backdrop of forest fires and scenes of explosions.
It's not just a photography blog, it's a group photography blog. About 26 members contribute, offering a range of styles from clear and well-framed colour to impressionistic to stark black and white.
Members live in the United States, in the Netherlands and in Hong Kong, and range from "just a person who likes to create" to professional photographers. When you find one whose work you like, you can switch to a list of their images only.
The photos don't load when you open the page; instead they appear in a pop-up window linked to picture titles.
Lomo
Martyn has a Lomo - a funny little Russian camera that has a cult following among a special breed of existential photographers. His site features his "Lomo crawls" - excursions into the world to capture funky images on the 35mm camera.
ometimes he takes his Canon, his Olympus or his Yashica for a walk instead, taking photos with an emphasis on perspective, colour and form more often than human subjects.
Remember that these aren't digital images; Martyn has to scan them in by hand for your enjoyment.
Five Foot Nine
With a penchant for photographing the same object from different angles - a lamp post and a lamp post's shadow, for instance, Five Foot Nine's roving camera gives the feeling of a virtual roving eye.
Teapots, tulips and Smokey the cat all get their moment in the lens.
The site is short on commentary, apart from a page where the photographer explains: "This is a blog that I `write' with images. Whether they are blurred shot of neon lights, a picture of my feet, or electrical wires against the blue sky this page is a reflection of what i see each and every day. To you they may look like nothing and mean nothing, but they do to me. Every snap of my tiny digital camera is a memory of a moment."
F-Stop
Tamara Nicole likes to quote Simon and Garfunkel (Kodachrome), and she loves her camera.
She also likes animals, particularly hippos, and the early part of the blog was filled with images from the Toledo Zoo. Tamara was due to get married recently, and the wedding album may well be up by now.
Scuttlebutt, rumour and innuendo; when you're sick of Big Media, cruise around these gossip sites.
Crikey.com
Is Crikey really a blog? Well, it's updated often and has plenty of news and opinion, so we think so.
At the very least, it's a great source of things to link to on your own blog; the first scoop on what the pollies and other Australian "colourful identities" are up to.
Crikey specialises in the stuff that its journalist and politician readers care about: media, business and who's backstabbing whom. Recent pieces included speculation about what the Labor Party would do on the refugee policy front, aspersions cast on a pay deal for journalists at News Limited, and a list of which chief executives had missed out on the most in bonus money.
If you like what you get for free, you can pay for a newsletter update.
And if some of it's not strictly verifiable, well, that's what the Web is good at, isn't it?
The Smoking Gun
Specialising in fascinating original documents - how's Elvis's death certificate for starters? - The Smoking Gun provides a sense of reality to go with the sensational news stories of the day.
It had Tom and Nicole's divorce papers almost as soon as they were filed, a copy of the formal "plea deal" between John Walker Lindh, the so-called "American Taliban", and prosecutors; rapper R. Kelly's mugshot when he was busted for child pornography; even documents related to the "Bon Jovi family feud".
We're surprised they don't have Elvis' 2001 tax return.
Ron Fineman
Ron Fineman believes he lost his job in mid-August because of gossip about an opposing network that he posted on his blog; now he's asking for contributions to support the site.
At any rate, the Los Angeles newsman's site is well read, by the public and other US reporters, and to get a feel for just how much backstabbing can go on, it's worth a browse.
The Drudge Report
At its peak, The Drudge Report made history - remember Bill and Monica? - but it also does a nice line in bringing together all the controversial news of the day in its grainy-looking, text-only format. The Washington-based Matt Drudge naturally focuses on the "War on Terror" and the doings of Capitol Hill, but also finds space to link to bizarre medical accidents in New Zealand and a host of news services.
There's even an earthquake report link for nervous Californians.
Drudge seems to have lost the plentiful sources of insider news that once flowed to his must-read site; that doesn't stop him from claiming to have up to a million visits a month.
bit behind on my BlogOns; can't find these on the site, but here they are...
(from September 5)
Almost a year after September 11, the online journals of New Yorkers form a different kind of memorial.
Happy Robot
On the morning of September 11, 2001, the owner of Happy Robot heard that a plane had hit the twin towers, then got on the train to work in Manhattan as usual, even though "I realized that this was something majorly screwy".
So did a lot of other New Yorkers, and the train ride in was a bizarre trip, not least because "everyone was talking to each other, which is very unusual on the morning commute".
"I got my coffee and roll with butter and jelly ¤ then the second tower fell."
The uncharacteristic warmness of his fellow New Yorkers continued: "Wednesday night we came home from dinner, and someone had left little green post-its on the doors in our building that said "I love you".
Giant Genius
This blogger gathered his posts about September 11 into a kind of mini-site, arranged chronologically.
His style is straight description; he woke up at 8:50am that day, and he doesn't mention that that was almost exactly when the first plane hit.
The sheer ordinariness of the morning degenerated into a dreamlike series of events, with nothing as he expects to find it.
He found a vantage point with other shocked New Yorkers: "The man's arms seem to snap, quiver and twist as he gesticulates. 'This is not TV,' he says."
At home, he, like most of the city's inhabitants, feels compelled to reach out to absent family and friends: "It seems like a good idea to e-mail my family to let them know I am OK. This is a phrase that will flood the next two days: I'm OK. It is a complement to the omnipresent e-mail subject of September 11: Are you okay? (var. You OK?, Are u O.K., Everything okay?, R U OK, OK?, etc)."
He offers "apologies for the sloppy grammar", but grammar is not the point; this is about the immediacy of his observations.
By September 13 he's back at work but has hardly arrived before the building is evacuated. A touch of wartime humour creeps in: "I tell the senior associate I work with that I will be at home the rest of the day. If I'm going to be threatened by a Manhattan skyscraper, I would prefer it to be the Empire State rather than the MetLife."
fotolog
Scott Heiferman keeps a "photolog", and although he only posted one photo on September 11, its contrast with his usual witty material says it all.
It was taken between the time the second plane hit and the towers collapsed; in the foreground, people can be seen on the roof of a building, watching smoke pour into a clear blue sky.
Bertie
This post actually comes from another blog; Uprush is hosting the piece for Bertie, who watched the second plane hit from a train on the Brooklyn Bridge.
"People on the train started screaming and panicking, and so I got off at Canal Street, but not before I was hit in the head by a panicking man in his leap across the subway car," she writes.
She had the presence of mind to get out of the way, and to take a few photographs.
"People were praying and crying in the streets, something you would never expect to see in New York City."
New York Bloggers
This sub-page of a site devoted to blogging in the Big Apple has brought together September 11 entries from more than 50 sites.
When you've finished reading those, click on the "home" button to go to the main page with links to current New York sites.
(from September 5)
Almost a year after September 11, the online journals of New Yorkers form a different kind of memorial.
Happy Robot
On the morning of September 11, 2001, the owner of Happy Robot heard that a plane had hit the twin towers, then got on the train to work in Manhattan as usual, even though "I realized that this was something majorly screwy".
So did a lot of other New Yorkers, and the train ride in was a bizarre trip, not least because "everyone was talking to each other, which is very unusual on the morning commute".
"I got my coffee and roll with butter and jelly ¤ then the second tower fell."
The uncharacteristic warmness of his fellow New Yorkers continued: "Wednesday night we came home from dinner, and someone had left little green post-its on the doors in our building that said "I love you".
Giant Genius
This blogger gathered his posts about September 11 into a kind of mini-site, arranged chronologically.
His style is straight description; he woke up at 8:50am that day, and he doesn't mention that that was almost exactly when the first plane hit.
The sheer ordinariness of the morning degenerated into a dreamlike series of events, with nothing as he expects to find it.
He found a vantage point with other shocked New Yorkers: "The man's arms seem to snap, quiver and twist as he gesticulates. 'This is not TV,' he says."
At home, he, like most of the city's inhabitants, feels compelled to reach out to absent family and friends: "It seems like a good idea to e-mail my family to let them know I am OK. This is a phrase that will flood the next two days: I'm OK. It is a complement to the omnipresent e-mail subject of September 11: Are you okay? (var. You OK?, Are u O.K., Everything okay?, R U OK, OK?, etc)."
He offers "apologies for the sloppy grammar", but grammar is not the point; this is about the immediacy of his observations.
By September 13 he's back at work but has hardly arrived before the building is evacuated. A touch of wartime humour creeps in: "I tell the senior associate I work with that I will be at home the rest of the day. If I'm going to be threatened by a Manhattan skyscraper, I would prefer it to be the Empire State rather than the MetLife."
fotolog
Scott Heiferman keeps a "photolog", and although he only posted one photo on September 11, its contrast with his usual witty material says it all.
It was taken between the time the second plane hit and the towers collapsed; in the foreground, people can be seen on the roof of a building, watching smoke pour into a clear blue sky.
Bertie
This post actually comes from another blog; Uprush is hosting the piece for Bertie, who watched the second plane hit from a train on the Brooklyn Bridge.
"People on the train started screaming and panicking, and so I got off at Canal Street, but not before I was hit in the head by a panicking man in his leap across the subway car," she writes.
She had the presence of mind to get out of the way, and to take a few photographs.
"People were praying and crying in the streets, something you would never expect to see in New York City."
New York Bloggers
This sub-page of a site devoted to blogging in the Big Apple has brought together September 11 entries from more than 50 sites.
When you've finished reading those, click on the "home" button to go to the main page with links to current New York sites.
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
batty is beating the ANZAC drum.
happy to take responsibility for Tim Finn and echidnas; but not for our refugee policy or the crocodile guy...
happy to take responsibility for Tim Finn and echidnas; but not for our refugee policy or the crocodile guy...
if it wasn’t all a hallucination, I have just had the most amazing and strange day.
and my head hurts.
got back in yesterday, tired and jetlagged. slept about 5 hours last night. woke up with slight headache but thought that’s OK, I’ll have a nap later.
then the phone rang. K had rung Andrew to tell him to tell me she’d be at the hospital at 9.30. she wasn’t due until Saturday and her husband isn’t back from their overseas work address, but the baby was coming anyway.
so I drove through what seemed the worst traffic ever to her flat, then while another friend took her to hospital, struggled through more traffic to get there myself.
then it became clear that I was actually going to stay for the whole thing. first friend was male, and he left after a while.
then an older female friend turned up, and with a midwife and a student nurse, we basically spent the day saying things like “push” and “breathe” and feeding K water when she could manage to sip it. and holding her in our arms, and helping her roll over and talking in her ear to keep her going, so many intimate things I can’t even begin to describe it. put it this way, when she was breathing heavily, I found myself matching her breathing patterns, as if that could help. and the four of us moved around the bed all day, focussed on K and her cycles of resting, pushing, shouting. not as much talking as you’d expect. you can tell when someone’s about to have a contraction, and after a while we got good at just getting into position and pushing along with her. meanwhile, the mobile phone (K’s) was ringing what seemed like every ten minutes; friends, and K’s husband, understandably distressed at not being there yet still being able to hear K yell – he gets here in about a day.
after about five hours of this, the baby was moving down, but not enough. more pushing, different ways of pushing, more cold cloths on the forehead and pep talks – of course she had had quite enough and was utterly exhausted, not having slept, but had to keep going.
eventually as things started to happen, the (male) doctor came back (he’d dropped by a couple of times in a flippant way) and decided first, it was going to happen and second, he’d have to make a cut. I coped pretty well with all the groaning and silent effort and the physical force of the pushing up until then; but the sound of scissors cutting was really a bit much for me. and then she had to push some more!
seeing the little girl’s head half-born was more than weird; she was very still and I couldn’t relate to that as a baby at all. but suddenly the rest of her body was there, half in the world and half not, then all of her, long and blue and wriggling. then she cried and there was a new person in the room and I could hardly breathe myself.
then lots of rather gory action with stiches and placentas and the husband rang again and at first I was asking how he was – he was stressed – then I realised and told him, several times, that it was all fine, it was over, he had a daughter (he wanted to know the weight – all I knew was she was big – later she weighed in at 9lb something) and it was OK.
so now it’s about 5.30, I’ve somehow managed to drive myself home (we’re camping at the in-laws’ between housesits) and I can’t believe what I just saw. and I’m exhausted and my head really hurts now and there is no way we’re moving house tomorrow and my God, I just saw a baby – the daughter of one of my best friends – born and I will take a while to digest this.
(we also took photos, on her camera and mine, but I don’t know if I can figure out FTP from here. if I can I’ll put a pic up – and put them all up elsewhere for the husband to see).
and my head hurts.
got back in yesterday, tired and jetlagged. slept about 5 hours last night. woke up with slight headache but thought that’s OK, I’ll have a nap later.
then the phone rang. K had rung Andrew to tell him to tell me she’d be at the hospital at 9.30. she wasn’t due until Saturday and her husband isn’t back from their overseas work address, but the baby was coming anyway.
so I drove through what seemed the worst traffic ever to her flat, then while another friend took her to hospital, struggled through more traffic to get there myself.
then it became clear that I was actually going to stay for the whole thing. first friend was male, and he left after a while.
then an older female friend turned up, and with a midwife and a student nurse, we basically spent the day saying things like “push” and “breathe” and feeding K water when she could manage to sip it. and holding her in our arms, and helping her roll over and talking in her ear to keep her going, so many intimate things I can’t even begin to describe it. put it this way, when she was breathing heavily, I found myself matching her breathing patterns, as if that could help. and the four of us moved around the bed all day, focussed on K and her cycles of resting, pushing, shouting. not as much talking as you’d expect. you can tell when someone’s about to have a contraction, and after a while we got good at just getting into position and pushing along with her. meanwhile, the mobile phone (K’s) was ringing what seemed like every ten minutes; friends, and K’s husband, understandably distressed at not being there yet still being able to hear K yell – he gets here in about a day.
after about five hours of this, the baby was moving down, but not enough. more pushing, different ways of pushing, more cold cloths on the forehead and pep talks – of course she had had quite enough and was utterly exhausted, not having slept, but had to keep going.
eventually as things started to happen, the (male) doctor came back (he’d dropped by a couple of times in a flippant way) and decided first, it was going to happen and second, he’d have to make a cut. I coped pretty well with all the groaning and silent effort and the physical force of the pushing up until then; but the sound of scissors cutting was really a bit much for me. and then she had to push some more!
seeing the little girl’s head half-born was more than weird; she was very still and I couldn’t relate to that as a baby at all. but suddenly the rest of her body was there, half in the world and half not, then all of her, long and blue and wriggling. then she cried and there was a new person in the room and I could hardly breathe myself.
then lots of rather gory action with stiches and placentas and the husband rang again and at first I was asking how he was – he was stressed – then I realised and told him, several times, that it was all fine, it was over, he had a daughter (he wanted to know the weight – all I knew was she was big – later she weighed in at 9lb something) and it was OK.
so now it’s about 5.30, I’ve somehow managed to drive myself home (we’re camping at the in-laws’ between housesits) and I can’t believe what I just saw. and I’m exhausted and my head really hurts now and there is no way we’re moving house tomorrow and my God, I just saw a baby – the daughter of one of my best friends – born and I will take a while to digest this.
(we also took photos, on her camera and mine, but I don’t know if I can figure out FTP from here. if I can I’ll put a pic up – and put them all up elsewhere for the husband to see).
Friday, September 13, 2002
Batty is better. hooray!
for some reason I can't comment on her site, so I can't tell her about the guy across the yard from this apt who goes outside to talk loudly on the phone. or how much I agree with her about it having to be Coke, not generic caffeinated soda.
my empathy on the issue of blisters and general foot health, you don't need.
for some reason I can't comment on her site, so I can't tell her about the guy across the yard from this apt who goes outside to talk loudly on the phone. or how much I agree with her about it having to be Coke, not generic caffeinated soda.
my empathy on the issue of blisters and general foot health, you don't need.
am #13 on Google for "paprika east village"
so let me again recommend their pasta with pine nut sauce, and their excellent Chilean wines. I feel personally responsible, having found it without the aid of any guidebooks, in which it does not yet appear. it's on 8th st, I think. somewhere east of second avenue. go. eat.
so let me again recommend their pasta with pine nut sauce, and their excellent Chilean wines. I feel personally responsible, having found it without the aid of any guidebooks, in which it does not yet appear. it's on 8th st, I think. somewhere east of second avenue. go. eat.
turned on the TV this morning, looking for weather. haven't watched much TV while I've been here. hotels always have CNN, and I didn't realise it wasn't free-to-air!
anyway, the first show was "Maury" and fat babies. 100-pound two year olds. I couldn't believe they could treat this stuff as entertainment - sure, they made the odd comment about "getting help" and showed one distressed mother, but the real point was the footage of roly-poly kids stuffing their faces with fries. outright child abuse.
the second show was Jenny Jones (I think) with anorexic pre-teens. the poor little 12-year-old they had on was distressed and inarticulate. the 27-year-old weighing, I don't know, maybe 78 pounds, well, she was just shocking. hopefully the 12-year-old got a scare. but the footage of the older woman in her bra and knickers got hoots of horror from the audience, even though she was sitting right there in front of them. just another freak in their freakshow.
anyway, the first show was "Maury" and fat babies. 100-pound two year olds. I couldn't believe they could treat this stuff as entertainment - sure, they made the odd comment about "getting help" and showed one distressed mother, but the real point was the footage of roly-poly kids stuffing their faces with fries. outright child abuse.
the second show was Jenny Jones (I think) with anorexic pre-teens. the poor little 12-year-old they had on was distressed and inarticulate. the 27-year-old weighing, I don't know, maybe 78 pounds, well, she was just shocking. hopefully the 12-year-old got a scare. but the footage of the older woman in her bra and knickers got hoots of horror from the audience, even though she was sitting right there in front of them. just another freak in their freakshow.
final New York blog before I pack the laptop away. this should be the bit where I rhapsodise about this wonderful city, evoke magical images of the view from the Brooklyn Bridge as I strolled across it just before sunset, watching the skyline light up for yet another night in the city that never sleeps, etc.
but a) I have a headache from a long day's art appreciation and a mostly interested in my taco and Bud, and b) I walked across the wrong bloody bridge, didn't I? the guy in the DuMbO (spelt?) organic fruit store said "go over there, you can't miss it". to which I say, pig's arse I can't. I guess the upside of taking the Manhattan bridge instead was that I had a good view of the Brooklyn Bridge. and most of the good views are in that direction anyway.
why did I leave the Met until the last day? having ploughed my way through some cool modern stuff, and rooms FULL of Monets and Van Goghs, I accidentally wandered into Egyptian and realised my afternoon nap was cancelled.
seems the Met and its sponsors financed several full-on Tomb Raids in the early 20th, and they have more sarcophagi than you can poke a stick at. I felt rather sorry for the poor old mummies, though. they went to all that trouble to be buried in state, and now they're lying in plastic cases. at least they're well-preserved there, which was after all the point.
another highlight: the Tiffany window. yes, bandwidth theft. the Met can afford it.
but a) I have a headache from a long day's art appreciation and a mostly interested in my taco and Bud, and b) I walked across the wrong bloody bridge, didn't I? the guy in the DuMbO (spelt?) organic fruit store said "go over there, you can't miss it". to which I say, pig's arse I can't. I guess the upside of taking the Manhattan bridge instead was that I had a good view of the Brooklyn Bridge. and most of the good views are in that direction anyway.
why did I leave the Met until the last day? having ploughed my way through some cool modern stuff, and rooms FULL of Monets and Van Goghs, I accidentally wandered into Egyptian and realised my afternoon nap was cancelled.
seems the Met and its sponsors financed several full-on Tomb Raids in the early 20th, and they have more sarcophagi than you can poke a stick at. I felt rather sorry for the poor old mummies, though. they went to all that trouble to be buried in state, and now they're lying in plastic cases. at least they're well-preserved there, which was after all the point.
another highlight: the Tiffany window. yes, bandwidth theft. the Met can afford it.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
more random Gugg. thoughts: looking at Mondrian and remembering a piece in the Times about the peculiar patterns formed when you put numbers into a spiral and pick out the primes. I bet you could make a nice Mondrian that way.
and when a painting doesn't work, you can just call it "study for ..." the work you eventually get right. then remembering reading in Interview magazine, Beck talking to Marianne Faithful. she said sometimes you make a record just so you can make the one after that.
and when a painting doesn't work, you can just call it "study for ..." the work you eventually get right. then remembering reading in Interview magazine, Beck talking to Marianne Faithful. she said sometimes you make a record just so you can make the one after that.
the Guggenheim: sitting on a bench just for the feeling of sitting on a chair designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. I'd come to an exhibition of milk cartons here. fortunately, the contents are also quite nice.
but the endless perspectives and angles and shapes that appear as one moves up the spiral (which itself gets smaller inside, but larger outside) show just how good the guy was at space.
also thinking about popping back to the impossibly funky Chelsea Dia Center for art and dropping a bundle on a buckminster fuller book: I liked a line about how if machines are extensions of the self "the average young american male now weighs approximately half a ton" or similar.
they also had a FLW book I want, but I can get that in Australia.
although I have no visual ability at all - can't draw, can't design - I like architecture, structures, composition, perspective, and I like to read things written by those who could do them.
visuality is wonderful in its directness, and I sometimes feel trapped with words, which is all I can do; and everyone can string words together.
To compose like Jeffrey Smart, have a spirit like Emily Kngwarreye, know colour like Rothko and be able to imagine the whole thing from every angle like FLW could.
that would be a thing indeed.
but the endless perspectives and angles and shapes that appear as one moves up the spiral (which itself gets smaller inside, but larger outside) show just how good the guy was at space.
also thinking about popping back to the impossibly funky Chelsea Dia Center for art and dropping a bundle on a buckminster fuller book: I liked a line about how if machines are extensions of the self "the average young american male now weighs approximately half a ton" or similar.
they also had a FLW book I want, but I can get that in Australia.
although I have no visual ability at all - can't draw, can't design - I like architecture, structures, composition, perspective, and I like to read things written by those who could do them.
visuality is wonderful in its directness, and I sometimes feel trapped with words, which is all I can do; and everyone can string words together.
To compose like Jeffrey Smart, have a spirit like Emily Kngwarreye, know colour like Rothko and be able to imagine the whole thing from every angle like FLW could.
that would be a thing indeed.
People have started asking me for directions. I like this. I answer confidently and despite my accent, they seem to trust me.
(but take it from me: the far reaches of Brooklyn are worse than Venice in the getting-lost department. for a start, the distances involved are longer. but I prefer to forget that. especially the bit about finally finding a taxi and discovering he was lost too. at least he had a map.)
(but take it from me: the far reaches of Brooklyn are worse than Venice in the getting-lost department. for a start, the distances involved are longer. but I prefer to forget that. especially the bit about finally finding a taxi and discovering he was lost too. at least he had a map.)
the public library: I sat in the reading room with its mural ceiling and wrote some random words about the weight of history. of being surrounded by all those great books of the past. yet some people still manage to sit there and try to write (and by that I mean compose, not study or do essays. brave. or foolish? all too postmodern.
the Monkey puppet show, by a troupe from Salem: also funny. it was, too, nice to see the New York families out on the grass at the cathedral with their kids, laughing. as it was on Sunday to see them at the carousel at Central Park. it must be hard to give kids a proper, by which I mean untouched by adult ugliness, childhood in this too-sophisticated town. but they try.
Seven Samurai: surprisingly, well, funny. yes, all 3 1/2 hours of it. and rather wrenching, too. the fights and deaths may have been the inspiration for Westerns, but to me they seemed not graceful but up-close, panting and grunting human things. anyway, the movie, qua movie, beat Metropolis for sure. which is saying something. if I was here for a few more weeks I might get through the rest of the Kurosawas that are on at that cinema, but I guess they'll keep. I've waited this long...
seeing as how I’m actually home before 9pm, I’m going to try to catch up on some blogging and some study and emails. so if all this seems out of chronological order, tough.
(food note: am starting to develop scurvy, I think. currently munching on celery b/c it was the only green thing in the supermarket that didn’t have a vaguely slimy look. am so looking forward to visiting my organic vegie stall at the Vic Market; will buy EVERYTHING.)
(food note: am starting to develop scurvy, I think. currently munching on celery b/c it was the only green thing in the supermarket that didn’t have a vaguely slimy look. am so looking forward to visiting my organic vegie stall at the Vic Market; will buy EVERYTHING.)
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
lots of fascinating insights in my notebooks. lots of things I've done, like see an outdoor puppet performance of the Monkey legend, and see Seven Samurai for the first time. too busy doing it, sleeping or doing laundry to blog it right now. instead, a recycled BlogOn column:
or not. can't find it on the Age tech site. instead, a link to an article about September 11 postings on the Web.
or not. can't find it on the Age tech site. instead, a link to an article about September 11 postings on the Web.
Monday, September 09, 2002
tried to go on a shoe-shopping rampage. failed again. ended up with more clothes from C21.
did try on a pair of purple fuzzy-velvet Gucci high heels. they looked gorgeous. my feet felt like they were in a vice. and yes, they were the right size.
maybe it’s not me. maybe it’s the shoes’ fault. am I the only girl who finds it difficult to feel sexy and stylish while her toes are being pinched together and she is unable to move faster than a fragile totter?
and besides, shoes get more comfortable as they get older. I do need new sneakers. really need. and I would like a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes with a solid back, a modest heel, a covered toe and no side bits. in a size 8. for under au$100.
did try on a pair of purple fuzzy-velvet Gucci high heels. they looked gorgeous. my feet felt like they were in a vice. and yes, they were the right size.
maybe it’s not me. maybe it’s the shoes’ fault. am I the only girl who finds it difficult to feel sexy and stylish while her toes are being pinched together and she is unable to move faster than a fragile totter?
and besides, shoes get more comfortable as they get older. I do need new sneakers. really need. and I would like a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes with a solid back, a modest heel, a covered toe and no side bits. in a size 8. for under au$100.
Sunday, September 08, 2002
I thought they were going to use my interview with expat Australians on the 11th. but it ran tomorrow (ie, Monday in Australia) will post last week's BlogOn later, have to go out and get some sunshine.
this is my third visit to New York
each time, I’ve wanted to go to a Harlem church service. but uncertainty about where to go and what to do, and concern that I might be seen as a tourist, an interloper, stopped me.
today is my last Sunday here. my guidebook mentions two churches; yesterday I decided I would be sorry if I didn’t go. I was going to spend the morning in Central Park with the paper, or maybe having a serious brunch, but this is something I hadn’t done.
so I got up earlier today, giving myself an hour to get all the way up to 138th St.
I wore what passes for Sunday best in my collection of clothes here. I even put on my sparkly earrings. on the train going up I read a Times article about the significance of sermons today, a few days before September 11. the preacher at the church I was going to – the Abyssinian Baptist Church – was quoted. and somewhere in the process I started to think that maybe I was going to feel something important – no, not become converted to Baptism or even serious Christianity, though I was brought up in Christian churches – just some sort of reaching-down into the soul that such group experiences can give.
and I forgot my worries about being an outsider, a mere observer, and hoped I would at least gain admittance to the fringe of a group of people who understood how to share things of the spirit, if not actually give understanding of them.
But when I got to the church (having stopped down the street to put my cardigan back on in the 30 degree heat because I could see how carefully dressed the congregation were), I was not allowed in .
The usher very kindly explained that it was some kind of “special” day – what, I don’t know – and said I should go around the corner to another church. I said I would go home.
Because exclusion is exclusion, wherever you find it, as is second-class relegation. And to be honest, I had my heart set on that particular space, those particular words.
Now, I know I am in the wrong. I know it’s mean of me to note that there was a TV crew in attendance and to wonder how special it could be that it was being broadcast or recorded – to me, not intrinsically part of the coming-together of people in a sacred place. And to resent that I was properly dressed when I saw other “tourists” walking up to the door in shorts and T-shirts – of course they didn’t get in either, but I felt I had done nothing disrespectful, that I had come in the right frame of mind.
And I know that people have a right to make decisions about whom they will allow into their church – or do they? Perhaps the church was completely full of regular attendees – who would define themselves as the congregation.
I imagine a gathering of elders where they talk about how best to handle the crowds of tourists who fill up the pews. And I’m sure the decision was not made lightly.
But, probably because I had to take such a brave step to go, because I was afraid that I would be treated as an interloper and a tourist, had to convince myself that it wasn’t so, then was rejected, I feel deeply hurt.
I feel as if I’ve been told to go back to my own place – that I have a place at all, in fact, where here I’ve been trying to convince myself that the world is an open and welcoming thing.
I feel, in short, as if I’ve tried to go to church on a Sunday morning and been turned away.
each time, I’ve wanted to go to a Harlem church service. but uncertainty about where to go and what to do, and concern that I might be seen as a tourist, an interloper, stopped me.
today is my last Sunday here. my guidebook mentions two churches; yesterday I decided I would be sorry if I didn’t go. I was going to spend the morning in Central Park with the paper, or maybe having a serious brunch, but this is something I hadn’t done.
so I got up earlier today, giving myself an hour to get all the way up to 138th St.
I wore what passes for Sunday best in my collection of clothes here. I even put on my sparkly earrings. on the train going up I read a Times article about the significance of sermons today, a few days before September 11. the preacher at the church I was going to – the Abyssinian Baptist Church – was quoted. and somewhere in the process I started to think that maybe I was going to feel something important – no, not become converted to Baptism or even serious Christianity, though I was brought up in Christian churches – just some sort of reaching-down into the soul that such group experiences can give.
and I forgot my worries about being an outsider, a mere observer, and hoped I would at least gain admittance to the fringe of a group of people who understood how to share things of the spirit, if not actually give understanding of them.
But when I got to the church (having stopped down the street to put my cardigan back on in the 30 degree heat because I could see how carefully dressed the congregation were), I was not allowed in .
The usher very kindly explained that it was some kind of “special” day – what, I don’t know – and said I should go around the corner to another church. I said I would go home.
Because exclusion is exclusion, wherever you find it, as is second-class relegation. And to be honest, I had my heart set on that particular space, those particular words.
Now, I know I am in the wrong. I know it’s mean of me to note that there was a TV crew in attendance and to wonder how special it could be that it was being broadcast or recorded – to me, not intrinsically part of the coming-together of people in a sacred place. And to resent that I was properly dressed when I saw other “tourists” walking up to the door in shorts and T-shirts – of course they didn’t get in either, but I felt I had done nothing disrespectful, that I had come in the right frame of mind.
And I know that people have a right to make decisions about whom they will allow into their church – or do they? Perhaps the church was completely full of regular attendees – who would define themselves as the congregation.
I imagine a gathering of elders where they talk about how best to handle the crowds of tourists who fill up the pews. And I’m sure the decision was not made lightly.
But, probably because I had to take such a brave step to go, because I was afraid that I would be treated as an interloper and a tourist, had to convince myself that it wasn’t so, then was rejected, I feel deeply hurt.
I feel as if I’ve been told to go back to my own place – that I have a place at all, in fact, where here I’ve been trying to convince myself that the world is an open and welcoming thing.
I feel, in short, as if I’ve tried to go to church on a Sunday morning and been turned away.
Friday, September 06, 2002
taken individually, the people on the street here really aren't that cool, with a few standout exceptions (and the guy wearing a full angel costume and beard in broad daylight today).
but as a mass, they rock. there are so many different ways of being, and they mostly have tried to enter fully into whatever look it is they're doing.
which might contribute to my feeling that I am somehow cooler here in clothes that I wear at home. making myself part of a New York mosaic.
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