Summer blew in on an easterly wind one unsuspecting Thursday about a month too early for my liking. I began to groan, to hmph to hmm and harr about the heat, the flies, the impending crimson skin. I spent the afternoon dusting off the fans, slowly mourning cool mornings.
The day wore on.
Then a beautiful evening blossomed in the eastern sky, stretching its arms slowly westward, the breeze snuck off for a nap and the heat subsided, edged away quietly. Cycling along the river felt more like gliding, for once, and it was as if, as if my very soul re-emerged from its dormant slumber. Words itched at my palms, jostling against each other in a heady, summer-surge of breathless-evening-freedom. There is just something about cycling under a paling purple sky beside an orange ball of fire and amongst the scent, the smell of a hot and tired day - it’s like a key that fits inside my head to awaken me.
“Perth?! Is it Perth?” Another cyclist yells at me suddenly in broken English, a lost and sweaty face by the river.
“Yes,” I said. “I think…” Alternatively it is either heaven or hell, I am undecided.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sunday morning musing
This morning as I locked my bike up in a bleary-eyed Sunday-city, a familiar confusion roared through me like wild fire. Why, under these blue skies, in this country, on our city streets are people so young crumpled behind neatly written cardboard pleas for spare change? Why, in a city where the Lord Mayor and her opposition candidate battle it out for the top job by promising free Wi-Fi city wide, more facilities for cyclists or more affordable – but not social – housing, does someone my age with four limbs, clear eyes, a faint smile and the ability to write a neat and correctly spelt sign feel that this forlorn begging is the only option left to them? Why is this the case in every affluent city and country in the world?
In Australia at least we live in a social democracy which, for all its problems, provides welfare, public housing and services to the impoverished. So why still this lack? Why still does a family feel its only option is to live in a caravan in a free camp?
Throughout human history there have always been the poor and the homeless. Barely a century ago it was believed to be the fault and crime of the low born that they were born low and some still seem to hold this for truth.
And yet there has never been this much support for people in our society before. The idea niggles at your brain, a feeling of rising indignation, why should I hand out my hard earned change reaped from hours of my own toil, to someone simply sitting, asking, waiting – throwing their hopelessness before me as if purposely to disturb my thoughts? For truth be told, I, we, the most-of-us, we have enough. We have Buckets of Enough. And so? We pay taxes which eventually filter into government welfare cheques – why do they need my change?
Why indeed? Some of ‘them’ carry the burden of disability, mental illness, the misfortune of being born in to undesirable circumstances, others seem to have tripped and fallen along the way on drugs, alcohol or other faults, seemingly of their own making.
But in the end, does it matter how they got there? The fact of the matter is that the gutter is where they are and they, them, are really just us. For someone to kneel before you and quietly persist through the indignity of begging there must be a genuine need – mustn’t there?
“And if we empty our pockets of rogue 5c bits into their open palms, what will they spend it on?” barks the cynic. Addiction and debauchery no doubt. So give them nothing, or give them food.
But no – for doesn’t the human heart require more than just food to survive? Yes – in this world, we need those dollars. And if it still sits uneasy, as it does with me in my general confusion at this world, then give to the outreach programs that may one day provide this person with the opportunity to realise their abilities.
Giving money to the homeless may be about as much ‘solving a problem’ as pouring aid into Africa year after year is. But however you choose to react to another human asking for help – don’t ever just walk past unchanged.
Signed,
Equal parts cynic, pessimist and idealist.
In Australia at least we live in a social democracy which, for all its problems, provides welfare, public housing and services to the impoverished. So why still this lack? Why still does a family feel its only option is to live in a caravan in a free camp?
Throughout human history there have always been the poor and the homeless. Barely a century ago it was believed to be the fault and crime of the low born that they were born low and some still seem to hold this for truth.
And yet there has never been this much support for people in our society before. The idea niggles at your brain, a feeling of rising indignation, why should I hand out my hard earned change reaped from hours of my own toil, to someone simply sitting, asking, waiting – throwing their hopelessness before me as if purposely to disturb my thoughts? For truth be told, I, we, the most-of-us, we have enough. We have Buckets of Enough. And so? We pay taxes which eventually filter into government welfare cheques – why do they need my change?
Why indeed? Some of ‘them’ carry the burden of disability, mental illness, the misfortune of being born in to undesirable circumstances, others seem to have tripped and fallen along the way on drugs, alcohol or other faults, seemingly of their own making.
But in the end, does it matter how they got there? The fact of the matter is that the gutter is where they are and they, them, are really just us. For someone to kneel before you and quietly persist through the indignity of begging there must be a genuine need – mustn’t there?
“And if we empty our pockets of rogue 5c bits into their open palms, what will they spend it on?” barks the cynic. Addiction and debauchery no doubt. So give them nothing, or give them food.
But no – for doesn’t the human heart require more than just food to survive? Yes – in this world, we need those dollars. And if it still sits uneasy, as it does with me in my general confusion at this world, then give to the outreach programs that may one day provide this person with the opportunity to realise their abilities.
Giving money to the homeless may be about as much ‘solving a problem’ as pouring aid into Africa year after year is. But however you choose to react to another human asking for help – don’t ever just walk past unchanged.
Signed,
Equal parts cynic, pessimist and idealist.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I hear it's October..
As quiet and perpetually slow as things were 3 weeks ago, things are now bustling along with the velocity of three jobs. I am thankful for the sense of purpose that fills my shoes, for the boredom of menial tasks and the beginning of my teaching career.
I have little to say that I have not said before, and yet only a passing glance over my tea cup reveals the changes underway. At this time of year, Nasturtiums are running amok in gardens fat with flowers. Soon the summer burn will turn their tender broad leaves to cinders but right now the essence of spring is contained in the tiniest of flowers that sprout everywhere they aren’t meant to. There lies the truth always, in the smallest of things, in children’s sticky hands and the fleetingly small touches that make up a love. I’m waiting for my poppies to flower and the mint to grow into its container. While I wait, I hope tentatively that my strawberries will turn sparkling red. The four European seasons, I have come to realise, are ill-fitted to this climate, like a baggy t-shirt disguising the subtle figure, but nonetheless we note their passing. Just as we note the gradually gathering of dust on bookshelves that we have not often visited.
The busier you are the more you realise – you can live a lifetime in one moment. A moment of elation sat atop a mountain, casting my eye over a foreign city of delight, sticks in my memory. A breath of air as I roll along the river, homeward bound on a heavenly afternoon. An instant spent day dreaming about where my shoes will journey next in this world. The jingle of keys as love walks in the door smiling.
I have little to say that I have not said before, and yet only a passing glance over my tea cup reveals the changes underway. At this time of year, Nasturtiums are running amok in gardens fat with flowers. Soon the summer burn will turn their tender broad leaves to cinders but right now the essence of spring is contained in the tiniest of flowers that sprout everywhere they aren’t meant to. There lies the truth always, in the smallest of things, in children’s sticky hands and the fleetingly small touches that make up a love. I’m waiting for my poppies to flower and the mint to grow into its container. While I wait, I hope tentatively that my strawberries will turn sparkling red. The four European seasons, I have come to realise, are ill-fitted to this climate, like a baggy t-shirt disguising the subtle figure, but nonetheless we note their passing. Just as we note the gradually gathering of dust on bookshelves that we have not often visited.
The busier you are the more you realise – you can live a lifetime in one moment. A moment of elation sat atop a mountain, casting my eye over a foreign city of delight, sticks in my memory. A breath of air as I roll along the river, homeward bound on a heavenly afternoon. An instant spent day dreaming about where my shoes will journey next in this world. The jingle of keys as love walks in the door smiling.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Sponge
My mind, my inner voice, is like a sponge. It begins to talk, you see, exactly how whatever it has been absorbing talks. For instance, if I’ve been reading Jane Austen my mind ponders breakfast like so “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a piece of toast in possession of peanut butter, must be in want of some jam.” I start declaring how ardently I admire this or that for it is exceedingly handsome, and no it shall not do, for work is simply tiresome and should rather be left for the maid to do. In this frame of mind, I make simply unbearable company. Usually I waffle and write in long, linking sentences. Just recently I read ‘The curious incidence of a dog in the night time’ in which the narrator and protagonist is autistic and writes in short definite sentences, I began to speak and write like that too. “I am nervous. This is a bad idea.” If I read in German I start asking for Wasser when I want water, say Danke Schoen and exclaim Echt? and otherwise process my thoughts in stunted German.
This absorption technique gets awkward when I get an Irish or Scottish customer and they say “How much is dat?” and I say “Dats 24 dollars.”
Oops.
This absorption technique gets awkward when I get an Irish or Scottish customer and they say “How much is dat?” and I say “Dats 24 dollars.”
Oops.
On the itinerary for today
The Library is a splendid destination for those of plentiful time and negligible money. It’s an excuse to leave the house and seek out the society of books, in a very public display of intention and affection, which will not cost you the solar system and it’s many moons.
Twas in the library late yesterday as I browsed the shelves for a read not entirely Literary, in that virtually unreadable Virginia Woolfe-Kafka-Joyce sense, but one that’s blurb didn’t begin “Mary Little thought she knew what love and life was about until she met Ryan, her husbands estranged brother....” Oh! The Espionage! I sought something funny, but not pitifully lame, something to delight in that would not suck the will to live from my wavering eyes... In short – I went in search of a good book.
It was in this quest that I noticed that some books on the alphabetised shelves were ‘Fiction’ or ‘Romance’ while others were ‘Literary Fiction’. This term I had heard before, but I got to wondering, what on earth does it mean anyway? Are those books better, or just more nose-to-sky intellectual? For it seems we attach that term to the hefty, critically-acclaimed, multi-award winning books that make the majority of us go....
What?!
They are the kind of books that you might conceivably purchase to line a shelf in your house labelled “Oh yes, I’ve read that.” They are the name-droppers, the no-idea-what-it-was-about-but-ha!-I-read-it type of books.
A confession: I own many of these. I have read most of these. I usually don’t understand why they have been adored for generations.
Why do I read them? Because they are the books that are referenced by books that wish to be cool by association. They form the extensive body of those books referred to in sentences such as “This book is reminiscent of Henry David Thoreau’s timeless essay Walden...” I read them to broaden my mind. Usually, I get a headache. Literary fiction is all about the imagery, the intense layers of meaning, the unforgettable characters and usually, the fact that we have NO IDEA what the author was smoking at the time but, hey, it must have been good.
In the end the book I picked was labelled Literary Fiction. But what I’ve discovered is a gem of a book, a book that makes you go “Aww” and giggle, get teary and wonder how to go on when it’s over. And then, next time I need to sound like a wanker, “Oh, have you read this..?”
Twas in the library late yesterday as I browsed the shelves for a read not entirely Literary, in that virtually unreadable Virginia Woolfe-Kafka-Joyce sense, but one that’s blurb didn’t begin “Mary Little thought she knew what love and life was about until she met Ryan, her husbands estranged brother....” Oh! The Espionage! I sought something funny, but not pitifully lame, something to delight in that would not suck the will to live from my wavering eyes... In short – I went in search of a good book.
It was in this quest that I noticed that some books on the alphabetised shelves were ‘Fiction’ or ‘Romance’ while others were ‘Literary Fiction’. This term I had heard before, but I got to wondering, what on earth does it mean anyway? Are those books better, or just more nose-to-sky intellectual? For it seems we attach that term to the hefty, critically-acclaimed, multi-award winning books that make the majority of us go....
What?!
They are the kind of books that you might conceivably purchase to line a shelf in your house labelled “Oh yes, I’ve read that.” They are the name-droppers, the no-idea-what-it-was-about-but-ha!-I-read-it type of books.
A confession: I own many of these. I have read most of these. I usually don’t understand why they have been adored for generations.
Why do I read them? Because they are the books that are referenced by books that wish to be cool by association. They form the extensive body of those books referred to in sentences such as “This book is reminiscent of Henry David Thoreau’s timeless essay Walden...” I read them to broaden my mind. Usually, I get a headache. Literary fiction is all about the imagery, the intense layers of meaning, the unforgettable characters and usually, the fact that we have NO IDEA what the author was smoking at the time but, hey, it must have been good.
In the end the book I picked was labelled Literary Fiction. But what I’ve discovered is a gem of a book, a book that makes you go “Aww” and giggle, get teary and wonder how to go on when it’s over. And then, next time I need to sound like a wanker, “Oh, have you read this..?”
On Adulthood and other Disasters
I am so damn sick of being an adult. Here are 4 examples why I currently find being an adult a very unsatisfactory situation.
Example 1:
Bills, bills, bills. You pay one and another jumps up and hits you on the back of the head. How friggin injust.
Example 2:
Interviews. In fact the whole damn employment process. Construct a CV from the bits and pieces of your life. Deploy a winning argument to prove you have skills, disguise it in an attention grabbing but not overly self-absorbed cover letter.
Wait.
Receive a call. Go to an interview, dressed like someone with “Please hire me” tattooed across their forehead, nervous as hell you must then expound upon the aforementioned skills.
This is no time to change the subject.
‘Great, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ says the Prospective Employer. Invariably, they don’t. Did they just forget? Were they never going to? How long do I wait before I fire bomb them?
Example 3:
Washing, sweeping, doing dishes, cleaning up after pets... you no longer have anyone to defer these jobs to. If you chuck a tantrum and absolutley REFUSE to do them, nobody will care. You'll just be the smelly person no one wants to visit.
Example 4:
In fact, when the going gets tough, you have no one to defer your life to at all. You’re in charge buddy, step up and make decisions.
Example 1:
Bills, bills, bills. You pay one and another jumps up and hits you on the back of the head. How friggin injust.
Example 2:
Interviews. In fact the whole damn employment process. Construct a CV from the bits and pieces of your life. Deploy a winning argument to prove you have skills, disguise it in an attention grabbing but not overly self-absorbed cover letter.
Wait.
Receive a call. Go to an interview, dressed like someone with “Please hire me” tattooed across their forehead, nervous as hell you must then expound upon the aforementioned skills.
This is no time to change the subject.
‘Great, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ says the Prospective Employer. Invariably, they don’t. Did they just forget? Were they never going to? How long do I wait before I fire bomb them?
Example 3:
Washing, sweeping, doing dishes, cleaning up after pets... you no longer have anyone to defer these jobs to. If you chuck a tantrum and absolutley REFUSE to do them, nobody will care. You'll just be the smelly person no one wants to visit.
Example 4:
In fact, when the going gets tough, you have no one to defer your life to at all. You’re in charge buddy, step up and make decisions.
Friday, July 29, 2011
You may be aware that I am a lady of many hats. Indeed of late, I have tried buckets of different hats on, just to see what it might be like. I have become fed quite fed up with the uni students hat, and have decided to cast it to the wayside for a time. Since then I have dabbled with the idea of a gardeners sun hat, but found it didn’t fit quite right. In sheer panic I reached out for any menial, wage-paying hat that would rescue me from destitution but to no avail; it was not the right hat for me.
Finally, this week, I have found my new hat. In the space of a week I have gone from a bundle of couch-bound tears to someone with a goal and a purpose; a busy-bee engaged in the business of becoming an English Teacher.
Here’s to unlocking the secrets of the English language and to finally having a hat that fits.
Finally, this week, I have found my new hat. In the space of a week I have gone from a bundle of couch-bound tears to someone with a goal and a purpose; a busy-bee engaged in the business of becoming an English Teacher.
Here’s to unlocking the secrets of the English language and to finally having a hat that fits.
50c gem
 |
In the early hours of a vaguely wintery Sunday morning whilst trawling the treasures of our local swap meet, I saw in the corner of my eye a book that called out to me. It sat atop a box of waterlogged, wearied and well-read looking books with the most wonderful cover I have ever seen. i.e. A sketch of a tree. Inside I soon discovered the pages spoke a language I knew not, were brown and felt like they had been left adrift at sea for decades. I had to have it, this 50 cent gem. At home I discovered tucked away within the dying damp-scented pages of this barely held together book, what looks to be a ration card of sorts, written out to the name of Kristine Jacobson. What is interesting is that it’s in English, for the month of May who-knows when. The book itself, Straumeni by Edvarts Virza, which google informs me is in Latvian, has another ladies name written in barely-legible cursive on the inside cover. Somewhere on the net I found an essay of sorts written about the text which says the book tells the story of an “Old Farm in Zemgale through the Changing Seasons". The author says Everything takes place as though seen by the eyes of the reader, who, like a traveller, is led through fields and over meandering streams in and around the Straumeni homestead and is invited to rest under the shade of the huge, leafy old trees and listen to the story of the old homestead, of the land and the country, and of the passing of generations now gone.
And, since I didn’t ask the two girls where they came upon the boxes of Latvian books, I’m left to wonder about the book and its reader. What did they see and where did they go before they washed up in fragments at my local swap meet?
Quote found here http://www.utexas.edu/cola/centers/lrc/eieol/litol-9-X.html
Friday, July 15, 2011
Welcome to the worlds stupidest argument, please, take a seat.
The culprit - a sock.
Well perhaps that is a little unfair on sock as it was the victim, after all, of an unprovoked attack by a certain canine. Which canine exactly is the crux of the matter. Or perhaps, stupidity is the real crux of the matter. After all, neither the canine nor the sock started the argument. In fact, it may have been a passing remark, a jest about the sock that set the wheels in motion or it was the fact that Protagonist A cannot bear the thought of hearing another opinion in Her house. Her house, you understand. Really, the nerve. But I’m getting ahead of myself here, lets recap.
The plot - Protagonist A’s conjecture is that Dog 1, belonging to Protagonist B is to blame for the destruction of one Sock, value $30 (why, I might ask, spend that much on socks?) Meanwhile, Protagonist B is of the opinion, based on actually being present, that it was Dog 1, owned by Protagonist A, that tore the garment to shreds. Much yelling ensues.
So! Where does the real blame lie? Who was the real destroyer of the Sock and how, it must be asked, does Sock feel about this dismal turn of events? Yes I am sure you are all dying to know. But let us pause a minute while the household erupts in a mudslinging fest and the non-combatants slip silently away – is this not the stupidest argument you ever did witness?
Certainly there are underlying issues, tensions, scandals and grievous wrongs just simmering between these four walls but who’d of thought, a mere sock? The proverbial fucking butterfly that sends the whole god-damned bus tumbling off the cliff side. All I could think as an innocent bystander in someone else’s moment of sheer stupidity was, my my, this is awkward, how to overcome the temptation to point out to all concerned that this argument was a new low for humankind? But that’s a bit like Switzerland waltzing up to Germany and England circa 1914 and going “Oi, you’re both numbskulls.” You know what Switzerland would have got? Socked. (Ha.Ha.)
People, it occurred to me as the bomb shells fell all around us, are remarkably circular in their arguing. Always certain that the other person just hasn’t quite understood and if they just say it again, a little louder, with a little more venom, they shall be prevailed upon to realise that they are incorrect.
Pity that this logic never has seemed to work.
Pity perhaps, that the Sock had not just got stuck in the washing machine or picked that day to up and disappear as all Socks must eventually do. Ah, the twists and turns of fate.
The culprit - a sock.
Well perhaps that is a little unfair on sock as it was the victim, after all, of an unprovoked attack by a certain canine. Which canine exactly is the crux of the matter. Or perhaps, stupidity is the real crux of the matter. After all, neither the canine nor the sock started the argument. In fact, it may have been a passing remark, a jest about the sock that set the wheels in motion or it was the fact that Protagonist A cannot bear the thought of hearing another opinion in Her house. Her house, you understand. Really, the nerve. But I’m getting ahead of myself here, lets recap.
The plot - Protagonist A’s conjecture is that Dog 1, belonging to Protagonist B is to blame for the destruction of one Sock, value $30 (why, I might ask, spend that much on socks?) Meanwhile, Protagonist B is of the opinion, based on actually being present, that it was Dog 1, owned by Protagonist A, that tore the garment to shreds. Much yelling ensues.
So! Where does the real blame lie? Who was the real destroyer of the Sock and how, it must be asked, does Sock feel about this dismal turn of events? Yes I am sure you are all dying to know. But let us pause a minute while the household erupts in a mudslinging fest and the non-combatants slip silently away – is this not the stupidest argument you ever did witness?
Certainly there are underlying issues, tensions, scandals and grievous wrongs just simmering between these four walls but who’d of thought, a mere sock? The proverbial fucking butterfly that sends the whole god-damned bus tumbling off the cliff side. All I could think as an innocent bystander in someone else’s moment of sheer stupidity was, my my, this is awkward, how to overcome the temptation to point out to all concerned that this argument was a new low for humankind? But that’s a bit like Switzerland waltzing up to Germany and England circa 1914 and going “Oi, you’re both numbskulls.” You know what Switzerland would have got? Socked. (Ha.Ha.)
People, it occurred to me as the bomb shells fell all around us, are remarkably circular in their arguing. Always certain that the other person just hasn’t quite understood and if they just say it again, a little louder, with a little more venom, they shall be prevailed upon to realise that they are incorrect.
Pity that this logic never has seemed to work.
Pity perhaps, that the Sock had not just got stuck in the washing machine or picked that day to up and disappear as all Socks must eventually do. Ah, the twists and turns of fate.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Hunt
I am pretty sure over the past few weeks I have read every single job ad in every paper and website in Perth.
It has brought me up to speed with just how many odd jobs there are out there and how crazy the advertisements for jobs can be. Amongst the hairdresser, engineer, and checkout operator vacancies are the more dubious, eye-brow raising Beveller, Chicken Boner and Bread Merchandiser. My imagination runs wild at just what they might be..
and then there are the job descriptions themselves. One ad announces - Labratory Technican 'Kick start your career in soil testing...' I'm sorry what?!
There are the ads that call for
'Young ENERGETIC, sales LEGENDS needed for modern, up and coming, VIBRANT, business in HEART of CITY. No Exp. Nec. All trainging provided. Earn BIG bucks.'
Yeah OK, doing WHAT? capitalising EVERYTHING?
Remarkably simple sounding jobs also require truckloads more experience and training than ever before. For instance it apparently takes a minimum of 2 to 3 years experience to understand the mechanisms and demanding tasks of Grocery Store Fruit and Veg Assistant. Groundskeepers now require a certificate III in Turf Management. Turf Management.
Don't get me wrong, I understand all jobs require a degree of knowledge, skill and ability, but must they really require a Degree?
Local government job titles are probably the most pompous sounding. Property maintenance supervisor, strategic town planner. As opposed to the non-strategic town planners that is, don't want any of them thankyou.
So I remain the House Couch Maintenance Officer (aka. semi-unemployed) battling fiercely through the mountains of bizarre job descriptions... Over and Out.
It has brought me up to speed with just how many odd jobs there are out there and how crazy the advertisements for jobs can be. Amongst the hairdresser, engineer, and checkout operator vacancies are the more dubious, eye-brow raising Beveller, Chicken Boner and Bread Merchandiser. My imagination runs wild at just what they might be..
and then there are the job descriptions themselves. One ad announces - Labratory Technican 'Kick start your career in soil testing...' I'm sorry what?!
There are the ads that call for
'Young ENERGETIC, sales LEGENDS needed for modern, up and coming, VIBRANT, business in HEART of CITY. No Exp. Nec. All trainging provided. Earn BIG bucks.'
Yeah OK, doing WHAT? capitalising EVERYTHING?
Remarkably simple sounding jobs also require truckloads more experience and training than ever before. For instance it apparently takes a minimum of 2 to 3 years experience to understand the mechanisms and demanding tasks of Grocery Store Fruit and Veg Assistant. Groundskeepers now require a certificate III in Turf Management. Turf Management.
Don't get me wrong, I understand all jobs require a degree of knowledge, skill and ability, but must they really require a Degree?
Local government job titles are probably the most pompous sounding. Property maintenance supervisor, strategic town planner. As opposed to the non-strategic town planners that is, don't want any of them thankyou.
So I remain the House Couch Maintenance Officer (aka. semi-unemployed) battling fiercely through the mountains of bizarre job descriptions... Over and Out.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Work
This week I had two tasks; research and write an essay and prepare some empty tomato/beans tins for my current herb-garden project. Two guesses which one I actually got done. The joys of getting dirty, dusty, torn jeans, splattering paint on my shirt and getting earth in the cracks of my fingers from hard work making something outside with the sun on my face far outweigh the joys of sitting at a desk all day scratching the grey matter. Of course there is also the fact one is something I have to do, and the other is something I want to do. But when one is accustomed to mental work that is mentally draining e.g. sitting at a computer, working in retail, doing something that is actually physically draining or results in the creation of something new, is in fact refreshing. It’s the kind of revelation that makes me want to become a gardener or builder, rather than my chosen career path of teaching. This is ironic since my parents, who have worked hard, physical, bone-grinding jobs all their lives, wish for their children a good white-collar job. And now here I am, wanting to dig holes and build boxes instead of stare at a screen all day.
So these are the things I have made this week – the first, my flower box, came about as a result of the packing our new oven arrived in. basically, I nailed four pieces of cardboard together and painted them, today I planted some pansy’s and wella!
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And now, a new week, what to do with it?
So these are the things I have made this week – the first, my flower box, came about as a result of the packing our new oven arrived in. basically, I nailed four pieces of cardboard together and painted them, today I planted some pansy’s and wella!
Secondly, I’ve been collecting tins for the last few weeks to start growing some herbs in. Rip/soak the labels off, drill some holes in the bottom for drainage, paint them and name them.. all that remains to be done is to plant the seeds and with any luck, in a few weeks I’ll have my own chives sprouting on my patio.
And now, a new week, what to do with it?
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Tonight.
Tonight I want to get dressed up and go out. I want to wear my good jacket, see something new, dine somewhere else, have a drink and listen to some music I’ve never heard before. Tonight I want a new experience, meet new people. Tonight I want to go out and be that person who is experiencing all that life has to offer before tomorrow when I turn 23. I want to be wined and dined and entertained and spend money I don’t really have. I want to flirt with the night, feel the cool air as I leave the hustle and bustle and fall into the night.
Tonight, I bought a new book and settled in to my slippers.
Tonight, I bought a new book and settled in to my slippers.
Friday, June 10, 2011
What became of the day
Where amongst the passing of the minutes did the morning give way to afternoon, until the day itself disappeared entirely?
I’ve spent a lot of time recently pondering what constitutes a good use of a day.
Yesterday, for instance, dragged by slowly. I was at work being plagued by a morning full of minor things going wrong that compounded into a general ill-feeling towards the world, a creeping negative sentiment that life sucks etc. It was by all accounts, a bad day.
I read something on the inter-web that postulated that there are no bad days. Rather, there are good days, great days and outstanding days. Yesterday, I didn’t feel that.
Today I filled the hours with bits and pieces of life.
I went for a walk, I cleaned the house a bit and played with my pets, then took a stroll to the coffee shop. I bought a book, had some lunch and read some. I went to the grocery store and the hardware store and came home for a cup of tea.
On my way I walked past an elderly man wearing an outfit all most exactly mirroring mine; grey trackies, baggy shirt, slip on shoes. In this brief encounter I realised how much of a pensioner I am.
Caught at an interesting cross roads where I work not much and study not much, my life resembles that of someone who has time to indulge in projects like gardening, cooking, idle strolling and plentiful cups of coffee. This is excellent. I have time on my side. And yet drummed in to my consciousness as if I was brought up in the army (something like that) is this niggling feeling that I am wasting mine and everyone’s time. Conclusion: must get more jobs.
And when that occurs, all I will wish for is that I had more time…
I’ve spent a lot of time recently pondering what constitutes a good use of a day.
Yesterday, for instance, dragged by slowly. I was at work being plagued by a morning full of minor things going wrong that compounded into a general ill-feeling towards the world, a creeping negative sentiment that life sucks etc. It was by all accounts, a bad day.
I read something on the inter-web that postulated that there are no bad days. Rather, there are good days, great days and outstanding days. Yesterday, I didn’t feel that.
Today I filled the hours with bits and pieces of life.
I went for a walk, I cleaned the house a bit and played with my pets, then took a stroll to the coffee shop. I bought a book, had some lunch and read some. I went to the grocery store and the hardware store and came home for a cup of tea.
On my way I walked past an elderly man wearing an outfit all most exactly mirroring mine; grey trackies, baggy shirt, slip on shoes. In this brief encounter I realised how much of a pensioner I am.
Caught at an interesting cross roads where I work not much and study not much, my life resembles that of someone who has time to indulge in projects like gardening, cooking, idle strolling and plentiful cups of coffee. This is excellent. I have time on my side. And yet drummed in to my consciousness as if I was brought up in the army (something like that) is this niggling feeling that I am wasting mine and everyone’s time. Conclusion: must get more jobs.
And when that occurs, all I will wish for is that I had more time…
Monday, June 6, 2011
New Seedlings, New Beginnings
Lea vs. Gardening, v.2.0
I’m hoping that through persistence, the application of a certain amount of effort and a bit of luck, I will eventually acquire a green thumb.
All things considered, my experiment with tomatoes ended in a bug-eaten mess, my broccoli were abandoned with my move and my basil, whilst productive, became a tall, skinny, ugly plant that eventually went into the compost bin.
Nonetheless, I begin again. This time I’m hedging my bets. I’ve put my faith in my garden fairy, Amy, ‘Fairy of the Rose’. Apparently she was born about 1897; is quiet, shy and friendly.
I thought she would add something cute to my fledgling container garden, but as it turns out, faires make wishes come true. The lady in the shop implored me, “Buy the fairy dust, you must”, when I politely refused, she thrust some upon me. “Please,” she said. “I have a real thing about this, you have to do it. When you get her home tonight, sprinkle some fairy dust over her and make a wish.”
I left scared and confused.
Even so, I placed her in my garden, sprinkled the fairy dust (glitter) over her and chanted quietly,
Amy of the Rose, please make my garden green and plentiful, keep it free of bugs and let the sun shine gently here...
Let the magic begin....
[Incidently, I've actually blogged about fairies before, bizzarely repetitive.]
I’m hoping that through persistence, the application of a certain amount of effort and a bit of luck, I will eventually acquire a green thumb.
All things considered, my experiment with tomatoes ended in a bug-eaten mess, my broccoli were abandoned with my move and my basil, whilst productive, became a tall, skinny, ugly plant that eventually went into the compost bin.
Nonetheless, I begin again. This time I’m hedging my bets. I’ve put my faith in my garden fairy, Amy, ‘Fairy of the Rose’. Apparently she was born about 1897; is quiet, shy and friendly.
I thought she would add something cute to my fledgling container garden, but as it turns out, faires make wishes come true. The lady in the shop implored me, “Buy the fairy dust, you must”, when I politely refused, she thrust some upon me. “Please,” she said. “I have a real thing about this, you have to do it. When you get her home tonight, sprinkle some fairy dust over her and make a wish.”
I left scared and confused.
Even so, I placed her in my garden, sprinkled the fairy dust (glitter) over her and chanted quietly,
Amy of the Rose, please make my garden green and plentiful, keep it free of bugs and let the sun shine gently here...
[Incidently, I've actually blogged about fairies before, bizzarely repetitive.]
Taking photos of Toes
On Postsecret today I saw this
Followed by this statement from someone else
I have an album of pictures of my feet, each one in each country I've been. I'm glad to find that somewhere in the globe, someone thinks the exact way I do. Without even knowing who that person is, I feel a connection to them that reminds me that none of us could ever truly be alone in the universe. Thank you for that, whoever you are, and who knows? Maybe one day our feet will be on the same picture.
I'm sure it's just something amateur photographers do to create an artsy effect, but it’s really exciting to discover you aren’t alone. Your quirks connect you to the rest of humanity, who'd of thought.
Here are some of mine,
Followed by this statement from someone else
I have an album of pictures of my feet, each one in each country I've been. I'm glad to find that somewhere in the globe, someone thinks the exact way I do. Without even knowing who that person is, I feel a connection to them that reminds me that none of us could ever truly be alone in the universe. Thank you for that, whoever you are, and who knows? Maybe one day our feet will be on the same picture.
I'm sure it's just something amateur photographers do to create an artsy effect, but it’s really exciting to discover you aren’t alone. Your quirks connect you to the rest of humanity, who'd of thought.
Here are some of mine,
 |
| Albany, Western Australia |
 |
| Red Earth - Broome, Western Australia |
 |
| Autumn in Melbourne |
Where our souls touch the earth, there our hearts lie
Friday, May 20, 2011
Today however...
Rain, rain, rain, tapping at your window on a grey morning means....
huddling in bus shelters with dripping strangers and itchy damp toes from hidden puddles. It means green sprouts popping out beneath the drain-pipes-gush and foggy drip-stained windows. It means squeaky wheels that skid and crash. Rain means empty streets except for one bright red umbrella and heels haphazardly dashing past puddles in the distance.
Rainy days: a battle against the primal urge to curl up where it is warm and dry and watch countless episodes of your favourite show…
huddling in bus shelters with dripping strangers and itchy damp toes from hidden puddles. It means green sprouts popping out beneath the drain-pipes-gush and foggy drip-stained windows. It means squeaky wheels that skid and crash. Rain means empty streets except for one bright red umbrella and heels haphazardly dashing past puddles in the distance.
Rainy days: a battle against the primal urge to curl up where it is warm and dry and watch countless episodes of your favourite show…
Sunshine
This is the most spectacular time of year, full of empty afternoons bathed in the smoky golden light of slightly shorter, cooler days. These are the days when I most adore being a penniless, part-time student with eons of unscheduled minutes. In the late afternoon of Perth’s fine autumn days the ducks gather and settle in a quiet curve of the river while I skate slowly along the flat, pleasantly smooth paths built for terrible skaters like me.
Cities would be unliveable without parks. Without trees, windy paths, fields of spongy, lush grass and bodies of water. The first victim of droughts in suburbia is the grass. The newest solution to this is to roll out plastic grass. I’d rather just have dirt. Who wants grass you can vacuum? No. Grass is meant to be laid upon in an idle hour when watching an ant disappear into the jungle becomes the highest priority. When I was little I used to imagine how amazing it would be to be 10cms tall, like on that movie Indian in the Cupboard (anyone remember that?) What an awesome playground the grass would be then. But back here in the now of an adult May, my mind blissfully ignores the call to search for work and revels instead in the last few hours of autumn sunshine….
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Civil Disobedience gets easier everyday
Did you know we do not have the freedom to put ourselves in harm way should we so choose? It may seem odd that I think this important, but take this story in the papers today. A Sydney man scales the Sydney Harbour Bridge to draw attention to his plight and raise awareness about the kids who suffer in broken homes when families fall apart. He was arrested and appeared in court on charges of obstructing traffic, climbing/jumping from buildings or other structures and climbing on bridges. The Magistrate then ordered him “not to disrupt the free flow of traffic/people or act in any way that risked the safety of himself or others.” Further, as punishment for his actions, he banned the man from contacting his ex-wife and his children (who he hasn’t seen in months). And as if this wasn’t enough, the Premier of that state then called for not only an increase in security on the bridge but an increase in the severity of criminal charges illegal bridge climbers face.
Are you god-damn kidding me? Where in my tacit agreement to be a good citizen of this country do I forfeit the right to put myself in a dangerous situation if I so wish? Certainly, putting somebody else in harms way is always reprehensible, and no doubt if someone choses to do something so crazy, they should hardly be entitled to free help if they get themselves stuck. Stopping traffic is a little selfish, sure, but criminal? What I think these laws function to do, other than interfere with someones control over their own actions, is to put as many barriers in place to scare protestors, all in the pursuit of the greater good of Civic Order. Chaining yourself to a coal mine at the inconvenience of the multi-million dollar company will see your arse charged and your name ‘black listed’ as a nuisance activist and striking is virtually illegal. Whether or not Random Citizen is allowed to climb a public structure or not is, I suppose, that battle over the use of public space that we see the likes of street artists and skateboarders facing. We the people make up the country and the government. We all, and therefore no one, owns public spaces. But the government, elected by us, then make laws to keep us out of it and tell us what we can and cannot do in it.
I remember once coming across an interesting article on urban geography which told the story of the clearing of the slums in Australian cities last century. To remove slums and riff-raff city streets were redesigned to eliminate small lanes where people would loiter by building wide (shop lined) streets. Thus the city streets were redefined, becoming primarily a space for transit. To bring this tangent back to the present day, this story demonstrates the way we can be punished for undertaking dangerous acts, that we in fact do not have the freedom to act in any way that may bring harm to ourselves or do anything in a public space but walk politely, head down, from A to B.
There are people out there that challenge the way public space is allowed to be used. For example, Parkour, or free running, (I read about a PhD student who proposes urban spaces be redesigned to encourage this kind of play). Reverse graffiti is a process in which street walls have designs ‘cleaned’ into them, challenging notions of illegal graffiti. Flash mobs, in which a group of people assemble suddenly in a public place, are quirky and subtly insubordinate use of the public space. (which often come up against legislation which demands a permit for ‘public events’) This type of creativity in public spaces is, I think, more exciting than charging a man for climbing a bridge.
Are you god-damn kidding me? Where in my tacit agreement to be a good citizen of this country do I forfeit the right to put myself in a dangerous situation if I so wish? Certainly, putting somebody else in harms way is always reprehensible, and no doubt if someone choses to do something so crazy, they should hardly be entitled to free help if they get themselves stuck. Stopping traffic is a little selfish, sure, but criminal? What I think these laws function to do, other than interfere with someones control over their own actions, is to put as many barriers in place to scare protestors, all in the pursuit of the greater good of Civic Order. Chaining yourself to a coal mine at the inconvenience of the multi-million dollar company will see your arse charged and your name ‘black listed’ as a nuisance activist and striking is virtually illegal. Whether or not Random Citizen is allowed to climb a public structure or not is, I suppose, that battle over the use of public space that we see the likes of street artists and skateboarders facing. We the people make up the country and the government. We all, and therefore no one, owns public spaces. But the government, elected by us, then make laws to keep us out of it and tell us what we can and cannot do in it.
I remember once coming across an interesting article on urban geography which told the story of the clearing of the slums in Australian cities last century. To remove slums and riff-raff city streets were redesigned to eliminate small lanes where people would loiter by building wide (shop lined) streets. Thus the city streets were redefined, becoming primarily a space for transit. To bring this tangent back to the present day, this story demonstrates the way we can be punished for undertaking dangerous acts, that we in fact do not have the freedom to act in any way that may bring harm to ourselves or do anything in a public space but walk politely, head down, from A to B.
There are people out there that challenge the way public space is allowed to be used. For example, Parkour, or free running, (I read about a PhD student who proposes urban spaces be redesigned to encourage this kind of play). Reverse graffiti is a process in which street walls have designs ‘cleaned’ into them, challenging notions of illegal graffiti. Flash mobs, in which a group of people assemble suddenly in a public place, are quirky and subtly insubordinate use of the public space. (which often come up against legislation which demands a permit for ‘public events’) This type of creativity in public spaces is, I think, more exciting than charging a man for climbing a bridge.
(Temporairily) Phoneless.
To be honest its about time I detoxed from information overload by surrending my phone. But while my mobiles life hangs by a thread in a nokia service center, I have to find a way to live without having google at my fingertips 24-7, without being able to spend my hours at work reading blogs and following up on news and commentary, text my every second inconsequential thoughts or send/share pictures of the wierd and wacky things that are encountered during my day.
Suddenly I have whole epochs of time to fill. That's a whole lot more talking to myself and watching dust fall.
Even now I've organised my back up phone I have discovered that it's 'like sooo old' and is incapable of doing about 90% of the things I require it to do. Such as find me the lyrics of that damn song! Hence I feel a little disabled, a little isolated. It's hard to participate in the information technology age without the appropriate gadgetry and know-how. This got me thinking about people who actively avoid mobiles, internet and/or social media. Like for instance a good friend of mine who I talk to rarely because they aren't involved in the convenient mechanism of Facebook. This is both good and bad I think. It's like a kid growing up without TV, they probably benefit manifestly from that (assuming they aren't in some cult anyway) but they will unfortunately miss out on chunks of contemporary culture and general knowledge that their peers will be privy to.
People are empowered by technology. Take for example the recent Egyptian revolution that found its spark through online social networking. Revolutionary ideas that are making a difference in the lives of the worlds poorest are those that provide the means to access education, ie. technology. Thus the 'One Laptop per Child' scheme distributes small, robust laptops to countries throughout Africa and the Middle East, while in slums in South America and India philanthropists fund community computers.
But are we also enslaved and dumbed by technology? When we spend hours taking pictures of ourselves and watching the stream of facebook feeds ebb and flow (or perhaps I'm talking for myself) and otherwise loose hours upon decades to one addictive square box or another, a world such as that of the blubbery, totally technology dependent humans floating in outer space represented in the animated movie Walle springs scarily to mind... Just ask any old folk, they’ll be quick to inform you the world is going to hell because of us texting, headphone wearing internet users.
then again, old people always have reserved the right to scorn the future and bemoan the loss of the past.
All I know is that I am remarkably uncomfortable without the safety blanket of my mobile at hand, without it I feel a though I am inhibited, mournfully missing my connection to the rest of the world.
Suddenly I have whole epochs of time to fill. That's a whole lot more talking to myself and watching dust fall.
Even now I've organised my back up phone I have discovered that it's 'like sooo old' and is incapable of doing about 90% of the things I require it to do. Such as find me the lyrics of that damn song! Hence I feel a little disabled, a little isolated. It's hard to participate in the information technology age without the appropriate gadgetry and know-how. This got me thinking about people who actively avoid mobiles, internet and/or social media. Like for instance a good friend of mine who I talk to rarely because they aren't involved in the convenient mechanism of Facebook. This is both good and bad I think. It's like a kid growing up without TV, they probably benefit manifestly from that (assuming they aren't in some cult anyway) but they will unfortunately miss out on chunks of contemporary culture and general knowledge that their peers will be privy to.
People are empowered by technology. Take for example the recent Egyptian revolution that found its spark through online social networking. Revolutionary ideas that are making a difference in the lives of the worlds poorest are those that provide the means to access education, ie. technology. Thus the 'One Laptop per Child' scheme distributes small, robust laptops to countries throughout Africa and the Middle East, while in slums in South America and India philanthropists fund community computers.
But are we also enslaved and dumbed by technology? When we spend hours taking pictures of ourselves and watching the stream of facebook feeds ebb and flow (or perhaps I'm talking for myself) and otherwise loose hours upon decades to one addictive square box or another, a world such as that of the blubbery, totally technology dependent humans floating in outer space represented in the animated movie Walle springs scarily to mind... Just ask any old folk, they’ll be quick to inform you the world is going to hell because of us texting, headphone wearing internet users.
then again, old people always have reserved the right to scorn the future and bemoan the loss of the past.
All I know is that I am remarkably uncomfortable without the safety blanket of my mobile at hand, without it I feel a though I am inhibited, mournfully missing my connection to the rest of the world.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The sudden absence of the contents of my back pocket.
Cleaning out your wallet is always an interesting trip down memorylane. You never know what you may uncover when it finally becomes too full of junk to close. Old movie tickets, receipts for clothes you don't even wear anymore, ATM receipts from wealthier days, receipts for entrances into national parks in other countries, ferry tickets from foreign cities, supermarket receipts providing evidence of the junk you've consumed. A fortune cookie note decreeing that 'You are a lover of words. One day you will write a book.' A note scribbled on the back of a receipt, the name of a song that I wanted to listen to again. In the coin puch, jingling with the Australian currency are a 1 cent piece from germany and a penny from america. Tiny, old and crumbling photographs, weary from being folded and refolded. Loyalty cards for every imaginable store, coffee shop, juice bar and cinema that clog every available corner of my wallet. It had begun to tear along the bottom seam and fray at the clasp. Far too frequently opened and therefore usually light. I don't even know how my ID and bank card fitted in. But here's something I know for certain - the fastest way to clean out your wallet? Loose the thing entirely.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Today I’d like to share with you a few of my favourite things. (Most certainly sung in a Julie Andrews voice)
They aren’t necessarily the things I’d grab first if my house was on fire, but they would be the things whose charred remains I’d stumble upon in the grisly ruins of my home and feel an acute sense of loss. They are those little things that decorate a life, the thing that I want to show people like we got to in show and tell in primary school. I was sitting almost despondantly on my couch when the first caught my eye, and I followed them around the house cheering up with every tiny step.
Firstly there is my one and only bike, Yellow Betty, where would I be without it? When I came home from 5 months abroad Mum had this as my welcome home present. It was passed on to me by an acquaintance of my mum’s that had decided to update (to something with real gears) and it may be the best present I ever got. If its every stolen, I will not be hold accountable for my actions. Yellow betty, now freckled with rust, was a pristine yellow with a bike pump attached (stolen) and a fancy rear reflector (smashed by someone at the train station) But we go out adventuring everyday
This chair was presiding over the porch of our empty house when we first arrived with the keys. It was donated to us, along with a doormat and an old wicker shelf, by the previous occupants. I know yet little of this chair, but in time I hope to become well acquainted with it. After all, look at it, its demanding to be sat in idly in the late afternoon sun (cup of tea/glass of whiskey in hand.)
This hat was the fruits of a long search, across continents, for such a hat. In the end I found it in Koblenz, Germany. It is my pride and joy among a suitcase of hats and scarves and it is detested by my girlfriend. Therefore I wear it often. It represents my whole hearted belief that one can never have too many hats (screw the handbags.)
 |
| It took an eternity to take this, its oh-so-myspace. |
Meet Ted, the best friend any kid could have. He smells like childhood. Prince of bears, a soldier brave and stoic in battle, how can I begin to speak of the lands to which he has travelled, the kings with which he has dined? He is the guardian of my imagination, a very well loved bear.
This harmonica was given to my Poppa by his parents, brought from England to New Zealand for him when he was a boy. I can’t play it, I’m really not musically inclined, but I love the way the harmonica sounds and it reminds me of a man I wish I had known better, and the rolling green hills of New Zealand.
Around my neck, swinging on a leather throng is a kaleidoscope I picked up at an ‘antiques fair’ in Notting Hill. You know them toy things you look through and the colours go crazy? This ones a pretty simple affair, but you look through it and see the world. I like to think that a kaleidoscope, rather than distorting our view, opens our eyes to the way the world really is. Dynamic, varied, diverse, spinning so fast its hard to see the sea for the storm. In this way, its more useful even than a telescope. (except perhaps, to astrologists and pirates.)
 |
| and this is the world it shows me. |
My notebooks. An incoherent history of the last 6 years inside my brain. Or at least, what I decided to admit to my notebook. I have learnt that it’s a bad idea to reread them, but having them there is like a comfort blanket and an obscure, missfounded sense of accomplishment.
Lastly, this painting sits happily on my windowsill. It was given to me last Christmas, a tree and a heart. I smile every time I look at it.
These tangible possessions of worth to me alone are, I realise, only transient, material riffraff but within every grain of meaning rests a sea of stories. What stories fill your home, I wonder?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Courage; to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.
The original definition of courage according to Brene Brown
Music moves people unimaginably. It is a versatile friend. It can tear open old wounds, lift you to fantastic highs, chill you to your centre, grate viciously in your ear canals and evoke any emotion known to humankind. People with severe disabilities, otherwise lost to communication almost entirely, light up and dance when music penetrates their ears. The deaf can tune into the ebb and flow of music’s vibrations and disappear into their own world. The sad and the downcast fall headlong into its warm embrace, the down trodden rise under its banner and the offbeat sing loudly in the streets knowing well the other-worldlyness of a sweet tune.
I feel like I have recently rediscovered the inherent joy of music. On the weekend I went to the Fremantle Blues and Roots festival, an expensive day long affair that featured a diverse range of music that could loosely be linked to blues or roots. It’s the kind of day were you run around with a crazy mix of people, feel the earth beneath your bare feet and hear the music reverberate into your soul. Listening to Gurrumul Yunupingu and Michael Franti unlocked in me the kind of elation I haven’t felt since I was a 17 year old whose entire being seemed to be summed up by a few lines of lyrics. Gurrumul, a Yolungu man (from Cape York in far north Australia) has a voice that carries listeners away into the clouds. A sightless man full of vision, black like night and shining brighter than day, his music leads me to words in my head that I never knew were there.
At home I’ve been rediscovering old CDs in the small windows of time that my girlfriend is not around to complain about the type of music I like best. (We agree to disagree) I stand in our house, surrounded by all that is joyous in my life and feel my heart growing strong, growing sure of itself. The wrong type of music just wears me down but the music that resonates with me takes me back to a place where I knew who I was, and felt that deep, liberating connection with the universe. And thus inspiration, if only momentarily, re-enters my life. The time of courage dawns within me again.
Which leads me to something else that is inspiring me at the moment, wonderful people. The TED website, bursting with ‘ideas worth spreading’ has re-acquainted me with something I usually tend to stumble on without – hope. Below are links to just some of the wonderful speeches I’ve watched recently which I just want to share with everyone. Take the time, you won't regret it.
Probably my favourite - "If I should have a daughter..."
Showing the world its true face - JR's street art
On being legally blind and yet limitless
On building houses out of reclaimed waste
The original definition of courage according to Brene Brown
Music moves people unimaginably. It is a versatile friend. It can tear open old wounds, lift you to fantastic highs, chill you to your centre, grate viciously in your ear canals and evoke any emotion known to humankind. People with severe disabilities, otherwise lost to communication almost entirely, light up and dance when music penetrates their ears. The deaf can tune into the ebb and flow of music’s vibrations and disappear into their own world. The sad and the downcast fall headlong into its warm embrace, the down trodden rise under its banner and the offbeat sing loudly in the streets knowing well the other-worldlyness of a sweet tune.
I feel like I have recently rediscovered the inherent joy of music. On the weekend I went to the Fremantle Blues and Roots festival, an expensive day long affair that featured a diverse range of music that could loosely be linked to blues or roots. It’s the kind of day were you run around with a crazy mix of people, feel the earth beneath your bare feet and hear the music reverberate into your soul. Listening to Gurrumul Yunupingu and Michael Franti unlocked in me the kind of elation I haven’t felt since I was a 17 year old whose entire being seemed to be summed up by a few lines of lyrics. Gurrumul, a Yolungu man (from Cape York in far north Australia) has a voice that carries listeners away into the clouds. A sightless man full of vision, black like night and shining brighter than day, his music leads me to words in my head that I never knew were there.
At home I’ve been rediscovering old CDs in the small windows of time that my girlfriend is not around to complain about the type of music I like best. (We agree to disagree) I stand in our house, surrounded by all that is joyous in my life and feel my heart growing strong, growing sure of itself. The wrong type of music just wears me down but the music that resonates with me takes me back to a place where I knew who I was, and felt that deep, liberating connection with the universe. And thus inspiration, if only momentarily, re-enters my life. The time of courage dawns within me again.
Which leads me to something else that is inspiring me at the moment, wonderful people. The TED website, bursting with ‘ideas worth spreading’ has re-acquainted me with something I usually tend to stumble on without – hope. Below are links to just some of the wonderful speeches I’ve watched recently which I just want to share with everyone. Take the time, you won't regret it.
Probably my favourite - "If I should have a daughter..."
Showing the world its true face - JR's street art
On being legally blind and yet limitless
On building houses out of reclaimed waste
Pieces of Morning Moments
Morning in our new house is full of light that illuminates the dust as it dances, swept up by my bare feet on the wooden floorboards. The wallpaper, white-washed, crackles and curls in parts, the faint print of 70s flowers buried beneath. There you lie bathed in light on my bed, in our house. I watch the curtain drift up and down in a dawn spiced with the scent of a cautiously approaching winter. I wonder what it is I don’t know about you. What part of you have I not touched? You’re heart is warm against me and though you look lost in sleep, when I creep away you call after me wondering where I’m going to. The smell of incense burning next door floats in our open windows as if it’s coming from half a world away. The ants that pour out of every tiny gap in the foundations of this old 1x1 cover our sink like a plague, I spray them angrily with bleach. Watch ‘em burn in the early morning. Sitting cross-legged at the coffee table eating breakfast I search my surrounds for the point where I stop and you begin. On the porch of smooth burgundy cement we’re trying to grow plants in pots. A basil that drifts in and out of good health in accordance with our interest and a sunflower that sits gracefully at deaths door. Watering the plants, a morning ritual oft forgotten. My favourite thing about this place are the windows. Big, wide open windows with wooden sills upon which I can rest my elbows and gaze nonchalantly out at the endless blue sky. Behind me, bookshelves cover most of the wall space in our lounge, full of little pieces of our souls. The morning chill makes me excited about the arrival of gradually cooler days. I creep around the house in my grandpa slippers, and slip back into bed beside you, cheeks fresh, hands chilled, back into your all encircling warmth.
Friday, April 8, 2011
A garden in a jar,
A glass dome full of life
When I was traversing San Francisco I wandered into a store that sold fossils, taxidermy and gardens in glass containers, I asked, what is that? And I was told, terrarium [tɛˈrɛərɪəm] n pl -rariums, -raria [-ˈrɛərɪə] - a glass container, often a globe, in which plants are grown.
This, I knew, is what I needed for my window sill.
Some people make this art - http://www.paulahayes.com/terrariums/gallery.php?g=2&i=3
A glass dome full of life
 |
| First stones, then tea bags and potting mix |
 |
| and a Hypoestes Freckle Face |
 |
| And a lot of fingers crossed |
This, I knew, is what I needed for my window sill.
Some people make this art - http://www.paulahayes.com/terrariums/gallery.php?g=2&i=3
A whole new world.
Swap Meets, Verge collections and Op-shopping – A comprehensive guide to re-homing second hand wares.
1. For the Swap Meet, get ready to get up early. Very bloody early. At the swap meet we attended sellers could arrive and set up from 6am, but when we arrived at that time, it was to find everyone else already set up. The buying begins in earnest at 7am and here, the early bird really does get the worm.
2. Be prepared – people will buy things you never actually imagined someone would want.
3. Be honest – if it’s broke, don’t lie. They will probably hunt you down.
4. Don’t look around. Don’t even take a sneak peak, the object of the game is to get rid of, nay, re-home your own old shit, not acquire someone else’s.
5. This is my philosophy, and regular sellers might disagree, but if you make enough money to cover the fee for your space (about $7) anything else is a win. After all, these people are doing you the favour by de-junking your life.
6. People are going to haggle and bargain. You are going to sell a once read, $20 book in perfect condition for a measly $2. Relax and read point 5 again.
7. There are some things you should absolutely not forget
a. Change
b. Some old plastic bags – people are pains, they expect you to provide a bag goddamnit.
c. Coffee
d. Helpers
8. Remember this - kids are great, this is the market you really want to capture. They don’t have much capital, but they sure know how to work what they’ve got.
The benefits of turning a mountain of unwanted and unused stuff into liquid assets is sort of self-evident. But the joy of swap meets, 5am starts aside, is that they are a lot of fun. Toys that have been gathering dust for decades are returned to their intended purpose – making kids smile and parents cry in frustration. Bargaining with an 8 year old over the price is all part of the fun. Interacting with young and old, compulsive bargain shoppers and the casual passersby are experiences that invoke words like ‘community’ and make you feel a part of something bigger than yourself. (ie. An extremely budget conscious shopping spree.)
But why should you buy someone elses stuff? When I sold my racing bike a few months ago the purchaser said that as much as possible, she avoids buying new things. Why on earth would that be? Here’s an idea – there is so much stuff in the world, on shelves, in boxes, garages and trash mountains. Every time we buy more we use more resources and times soon change, fashions fade and the items become waste, sometimes so fast the thing has barely even been worn yet. We are a society developed beyond anything humans have previously achieved and we are wasteful beyond all measure.
Affluence directly corresponds to wastefulness.
And this is, if nothing else, stupid. It’s like craft in primary school. Think back to those days at tiny desks, fingers dirty with crayon dust. Remember being given a task to cut a shape from a piece of paper. “Don’t,” says the teacher, “start cutting your shape in the middle of the paper because you only get one piece of paper and you are going to have to cut a whole heap of other shapes.”
We never did learn did we?
Well why don’t we start to be less wasteful, and more innovative, right now. Although you know, outside the clique of snappy vintage dressers and bargain hunters, ‘second hand’ has a fairly bad reputation. Twice every year suburbia’s rejections are piled on the verge for local councils to come and remove. In the time it takes for that to occur, whatever’s on the verge is yours for the picking. The only thing holding you back is the fact you’re about to dig through someone’s rubbish and that is not a very affluent thing to do. I for one get very nervous at the idea, just as I do at the notion of digging through a bargain bin. Remember that poor kid at school who only ever wore hand me downs? So when I spotted a coffee table in need of just a little TLC, I conned my Dad into acquiring it for me, lest I be seen. Since then I’ve become a little more game, and have acquired hanging baskets, a bicycle wheel, chair for my front porch and a garden rake. I have to say, I feel liberated. It’s as exciting as the joy of the hunt in second hand shops, where (on a good day) you can emerge with 3 pairs of levis for $20, and feel more or less as though you have conquered the world and discovered its most hidden treasures.
Whilst ‘re-homing’ these items I scrambled over countless junked analogue TV’s. The Age of Digital has arrived and in home across the ‘western’ world, the humble analogue is being ousted. I am not against this but still I wonder, can’t there be a better, more useful future for these TV’s than landfill?
Had I the space, I’d build a tower sculptor from them. As it turns out, I am not alone.
[See more http://inhabitat.com/your-analog-tv-is-dead-repurpose-it-into-something-fun/ ]
So here I go again, getting preachy, but take it from me, shopping for old quality at an affordable price rather than new cheapness that’s costly all round is something I simply aspire to do all the time. As they say, not much in life is free, so we may as well enjoy it when it is.
1. For the Swap Meet, get ready to get up early. Very bloody early. At the swap meet we attended sellers could arrive and set up from 6am, but when we arrived at that time, it was to find everyone else already set up. The buying begins in earnest at 7am and here, the early bird really does get the worm.
2. Be prepared – people will buy things you never actually imagined someone would want.
3. Be honest – if it’s broke, don’t lie. They will probably hunt you down.
4. Don’t look around. Don’t even take a sneak peak, the object of the game is to get rid of, nay, re-home your own old shit, not acquire someone else’s.
5. This is my philosophy, and regular sellers might disagree, but if you make enough money to cover the fee for your space (about $7) anything else is a win. After all, these people are doing you the favour by de-junking your life.
6. People are going to haggle and bargain. You are going to sell a once read, $20 book in perfect condition for a measly $2. Relax and read point 5 again.
7. There are some things you should absolutely not forget
a. Change
b. Some old plastic bags – people are pains, they expect you to provide a bag goddamnit.
c. Coffee
d. Helpers
8. Remember this - kids are great, this is the market you really want to capture. They don’t have much capital, but they sure know how to work what they’ve got.
The benefits of turning a mountain of unwanted and unused stuff into liquid assets is sort of self-evident. But the joy of swap meets, 5am starts aside, is that they are a lot of fun. Toys that have been gathering dust for decades are returned to their intended purpose – making kids smile and parents cry in frustration. Bargaining with an 8 year old over the price is all part of the fun. Interacting with young and old, compulsive bargain shoppers and the casual passersby are experiences that invoke words like ‘community’ and make you feel a part of something bigger than yourself. (ie. An extremely budget conscious shopping spree.)
But why should you buy someone elses stuff? When I sold my racing bike a few months ago the purchaser said that as much as possible, she avoids buying new things. Why on earth would that be? Here’s an idea – there is so much stuff in the world, on shelves, in boxes, garages and trash mountains. Every time we buy more we use more resources and times soon change, fashions fade and the items become waste, sometimes so fast the thing has barely even been worn yet. We are a society developed beyond anything humans have previously achieved and we are wasteful beyond all measure.
Affluence directly corresponds to wastefulness.
And this is, if nothing else, stupid. It’s like craft in primary school. Think back to those days at tiny desks, fingers dirty with crayon dust. Remember being given a task to cut a shape from a piece of paper. “Don’t,” says the teacher, “start cutting your shape in the middle of the paper because you only get one piece of paper and you are going to have to cut a whole heap of other shapes.”
We never did learn did we?
Well why don’t we start to be less wasteful, and more innovative, right now. Although you know, outside the clique of snappy vintage dressers and bargain hunters, ‘second hand’ has a fairly bad reputation. Twice every year suburbia’s rejections are piled on the verge for local councils to come and remove. In the time it takes for that to occur, whatever’s on the verge is yours for the picking. The only thing holding you back is the fact you’re about to dig through someone’s rubbish and that is not a very affluent thing to do. I for one get very nervous at the idea, just as I do at the notion of digging through a bargain bin. Remember that poor kid at school who only ever wore hand me downs? So when I spotted a coffee table in need of just a little TLC, I conned my Dad into acquiring it for me, lest I be seen. Since then I’ve become a little more game, and have acquired hanging baskets, a bicycle wheel, chair for my front porch and a garden rake. I have to say, I feel liberated. It’s as exciting as the joy of the hunt in second hand shops, where (on a good day) you can emerge with 3 pairs of levis for $20, and feel more or less as though you have conquered the world and discovered its most hidden treasures.
Whilst ‘re-homing’ these items I scrambled over countless junked analogue TV’s. The Age of Digital has arrived and in home across the ‘western’ world, the humble analogue is being ousted. I am not against this but still I wonder, can’t there be a better, more useful future for these TV’s than landfill?
Had I the space, I’d build a tower sculptor from them. As it turns out, I am not alone.
[See more http://inhabitat.com/your-analog-tv-is-dead-repurpose-it-into-something-fun/ ]
So here I go again, getting preachy, but take it from me, shopping for old quality at an affordable price rather than new cheapness that’s costly all round is something I simply aspire to do all the time. As they say, not much in life is free, so we may as well enjoy it when it is.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The US of A - some notes
I stood on the Santa Monica Pier and squinted into the distance, a chilling cold wind stinging my eyes as I watched flocks of great big sea birds soaring and diving and being chased up in spectacular white waves by beachgoers rugged up in warm jackets. An aging man strummed a guitar and sung a neat little tune for those few that wandered the pier under the gloomy grey skies. Skipping down off the pier I tiptoed across the wide beach and dipped my fingers in the Pacific Ocean as it lapped the shores of California, the birds flapping overhead.
I’m in America, I said aloud to myself. What a bizarre notion, I responded.
By morning the wind had petered out, letting the sun take pride of place. Los Angeles stood up and smiled, that’s more like it, I thought. I hired a bike and meandered along the wide, flat cycle path to Venice Beach, passing bums snoring on the grass besides bicycles laden down with their worldly possessions. I was up early so it was just me and the bums watching the surfers as they slid down the brown barrelling waves. By mid-morning Venice Beach was bustling with more bums and locals riding wild bicycles and skateboards. Little path-side stalls selling odd arts, dit dats and bits n bobs opened up. I had an interesting chat with a jewellery maker who fashions accessories out of bits of metal and keys he finds, we spoke about creativity and he told me how people the world over are learning to live simply to change the world. I agreed and I doubted, and I cycled on past the multi-billion dollar villas, tattoo parlours and touristy trash shops that line the beachfront.
“Can I’ve a dollar?” a voice called out from a park bench. “I want to smoke some pot.”
I do the tourist thing and take a hop on hop off bus tour which winds its way up through Beverly Hills, along shinny Rodeo drive and eventually to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, where every corner has a story, every bar its famous beginnings. Stars line the floor and the Hollywood sign shines in the afternoon sun, high above it all. Hawkers call to tourists trying to hussle up more fools eager to sight celebrities or stare at their fortified gates. Crazys stand on street corners screaming, bums ask for small change, any change.
I have a vivid memory of Los Angeles, of the countless, nameless street people that cover every part of shabby LA except the pristine lawns of Beverly Hills.
“Mummy, I saw a Trolley-lady,” I wanted to say. “A real live, honest-to-goodness Trolley-lady.”
8 hours on a bus, under pouring rain, and I’m in San Francisco, where it rains and rains while I trudge through its hilly streets. For some reason I don’t remember I’ve always wanted to come here. I’m in San fran-fucking-cisco, I tell myself, but I am one foot out the door and one lingering at home. The weather brings me down. The rain soaks through to my feet and slowly turns my toes to ice cubes. I walk and walk and see only my feet. Eventually I stumble into a Starbucks and by chance get a free coffee, which is blacker, stronger and grosser than tar, but never mind. Once again the new day brings the sun which scares away the rain but not the cold. I, and every other tourist in San Francisco, rent a bike and strike out towards where the Golden Gate Bridge stretches triumphantly across the bay. It’s a chilly, clear, crystal blue sky day. San Franciscans are out walking dogs, cycling, enjoying the return of the sun. I zoom across the bridge and back again and there you have it – I’ve cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge.
*Tick*
I wander San Francisco until I become resolutely sick of being on my own. But travelling alone gives you an excellent opportunity to open your eyes – I see things happen, watch the world go by around me in a way wakes my senses to the wonderful, wide world. I chat to street vendors, I listen to the back of the bus as it erupts into an interesting political discussion about global populations after a stop at a university. I listen to two men, strangers in a Starbucks, discussing Obama and the ‘true america’, I get a free bus ticket from someone getting off a bus, a free train ticket from a guy at the kiosk who was handing out ones people left in the machine (who does that?!) I hand a man a handful of nothing, 50c and he beams “You’re an angel.” I turn away because I think he’s going to hug me. “You’re an angel.” A big man falls into step beside me in a train station and chats like we’re old friends, later I bump into him again “You following me?” he says, and he laughs a hearty laugh from deep in his belly. “Have you ever seen such a happy man, so down on his luck?” I ask the city as the night wears on. I spend hours browsing bookshops, finding bargain books at a book exchange run by what must be one of the friendliest men in the world. I watch a kid sing at the top of his lungs and dance to his heart’s content while he and his family wait for the boat to Alcatraz. Another bum offers me a drink as he strides past swigging – “You like a good drink? Tequila? I bet you do!’ he laughs. Another man grins behind a sign “Please help me it’s my birthday and I want to get drunk.” Oh the honesty of the deprived, don’t try and tell me it’s lacking. I walk up and down hill, here and there all over San Francisco past distinctive, cute two or three story houses with their high stoops and fire escapes, through the Castro where men feel free to kiss and cuddle in the street and the rainbow flag flies on every post. I cross one street and find myself suddenly out of Chinatown and in Little Italy, where Kerouac, Ginsberg and co. hung out in seedy bars in the 50’s. “I’m on the road, Kerouac,” I proclaim. I explore goodwill and vintage shops in the delightfully colourful Haight Ashbury and Mission districts, where I am in awe of the street art, the history of revolution and the mix of people who zoom past on an assortment of different bikes, all going places in the great big city of San Francisco.
I love this city and I think to myself - this is what it means to see the world.
And this is what it means to miss someone. I whisper to the cold, clear San Francisco sky.
If I could take anything I liked home from San Francisco I’d take the bike lanes, and put them in every other city I visit. San Fran emits a friendly vibe, iIt’s joyfully eclectic and a beautiful place with endless rows of pretty houses and parks bursting with greenery – in such a city I could stay.
But time ticks on and I journey further away, onwards and westward across the American continent, over a white snow-dusted earth speckled with trees that look like chocolate powder shaken over white frothy milk. Mountains rise and bump miles below me and I wish I were down there, ankle deep in snow that would melt right through the holes in my shoes. Soon enough the land flattens out like flat brown clay and after a while crop circles extend like rows and rows of pie graphs or target signs as far as the eye can see. In time we seem to leave winter behind, and I arrive in Florida to be greeted by a gently humid evening masquerading as winter.
Here are those things you already know about America simply confirmed – it’s a big country with big things. Big pizzas; big cars – SUV, Chevrolet and hummers; big coffee; big shops - Big Kmart, Super Target, Walmart Super Centre – in America the supermarket is no longer super enough; big highways; big airports; big portion sizes; big savings – stuff is cheap here. Law firms and their advertisements abound, encouraging you to sue someone, anyone, now! Accident attorney, asbestos attorney, family attorney, divorce attorney, Morgan and Morgan - the biggest law firm in the state, as I learnt whilst handing out cocktails to attorneys at a golf tournament. No-freakin-Wonder there’s so many crime shows coming out of this country! Heck! And then, before Sesame Street could start, its 10 billion sponsors had to have their ads played.
On the quaint bricked streets that wind their way around the lakes of downtown Orlando every front porch sports a swinging chair and an American flag adorns every lamp post. Orlando is wide spread and decentralised, it is unquestionably a car city. It’s in central Florida, but as they say, in Florida you are never more than 45 minutes from a beach. Orlando is theme park central. Tourists flock here to shop, eat, disappear into the world of Disney and otherwise indulge themselves in every form of marketable entertainment imaginable. International Drive is tourist central, lined with massive souvenir shops. We chose to boycott these establishments, so that I might actually be able to return home with money left, and went instead to some old Florida amusments. At Weeki Wachee, one of Floridas original theme parks, I can promise you an experience unlike any other, a chance to meet Real Life Mermaids. As in girls wearing mermaid costumes and breathing from long air hoses so as to dance and perfom feats like eating an apple underwater. And of course to act out the corniest, lamest but most unique version of The Little Mermaid there ever was.
Florida, despite being mostly reclaimed swamp land that has been drained almost to the point of destroying the Everglades altogether, is full of beautiful natural, freshwater springs which are home to all kinds of creatures. I saw manatees (big, slow ‘sea cows’ that are much like Dugongs) and gators, an otter, the long legged blue heron and truckloads of ugly buzzards which look beautiful airborne but are ugly enough to scare the pants off anyone face-to-face. I saw some racoons, disappointingly, as road kill but was informed by most locals that they are nasty little creatures. My favourites however, are the squirrels which prance across the grass and up trees in even the most suburban or inner-city areas. They seem to go unnoticed by most people and look about as smart as the acorns they eat. They have spectacularly brushy tails and an exceptionally crazed look in their big, wide staring eyes – therefore I love them. Just as I love the café’s with average coffee, comfy armchairs and free wifi – an easily found hang out spot I will greatly miss here in small town Perth. In an affront to the traditional America mealtime we spent a lot of time eating vegan food at hipster cafes or in vegan bakeries run by hipsters and exploring the organic, fair trade goodies sold at Whole Foods Market. Raw food, vegan, vegetarian, organic food – the availability of choice at a not-ridiculous price was astounding to me, and reminded me of the down side of living in one of the most isolated cities in the world.
I also left America with a new appreciation for country music and weddings. The day before I flew home we finally arrived at the purpose of my visit, to see Miss Roll become Mrs Pyle in a simple and beautiful lakeside wedding, on a glorious Floridian spring day. She walked down the aisle to a sweet country tune to make Ben without a doubt the happiest man on earth, meanwhile the audience sniffed and wiped its eyes. From their first kiss as husband and wife, to their first dance and the toasts to their wellbeing crafted lovingly by family and friends – the whole celebration was one of those beautiful moments in which love rules all and we’re all happy to surrender entirely to its powers.
Now I sit in an airport café, I’m hardly even sure where, my mind is so foggy and clumsy from being stretched through the time zones from Orlando to Sydney and suffering from the feverish, cramped sleeplessness of airplanes that is interrupted only by the timed arrival of shit meals. My eyes water and waver and I have to pinch myself awake. I’ve crossed America and the whole Pacific Ocean, now I just have one more continent to cross before I’m officially home, in the arms of my favourite person in the world.
I love to travel, but the best part about going away is coming home.
And no longer having to figure out tipping and having tax included in the price...
 |
| Santa Monica Beach |
 |
| San Francisco - An alley. |
I’m in America, I said aloud to myself. What a bizarre notion, I responded.
By morning the wind had petered out, letting the sun take pride of place. Los Angeles stood up and smiled, that’s more like it, I thought. I hired a bike and meandered along the wide, flat cycle path to Venice Beach, passing bums snoring on the grass besides bicycles laden down with their worldly possessions. I was up early so it was just me and the bums watching the surfers as they slid down the brown barrelling waves. By mid-morning Venice Beach was bustling with more bums and locals riding wild bicycles and skateboards. Little path-side stalls selling odd arts, dit dats and bits n bobs opened up. I had an interesting chat with a jewellery maker who fashions accessories out of bits of metal and keys he finds, we spoke about creativity and he told me how people the world over are learning to live simply to change the world. I agreed and I doubted, and I cycled on past the multi-billion dollar villas, tattoo parlours and touristy trash shops that line the beachfront.
“Can I’ve a dollar?” a voice called out from a park bench. “I want to smoke some pot.”
I do the tourist thing and take a hop on hop off bus tour which winds its way up through Beverly Hills, along shinny Rodeo drive and eventually to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, where every corner has a story, every bar its famous beginnings. Stars line the floor and the Hollywood sign shines in the afternoon sun, high above it all. Hawkers call to tourists trying to hussle up more fools eager to sight celebrities or stare at their fortified gates. Crazys stand on street corners screaming, bums ask for small change, any change.
I have a vivid memory of Los Angeles, of the countless, nameless street people that cover every part of shabby LA except the pristine lawns of Beverly Hills.
“Mummy, I saw a Trolley-lady,” I wanted to say. “A real live, honest-to-goodness Trolley-lady.”
8 hours on a bus, under pouring rain, and I’m in San Francisco, where it rains and rains while I trudge through its hilly streets. For some reason I don’t remember I’ve always wanted to come here. I’m in San fran-fucking-cisco, I tell myself, but I am one foot out the door and one lingering at home. The weather brings me down. The rain soaks through to my feet and slowly turns my toes to ice cubes. I walk and walk and see only my feet. Eventually I stumble into a Starbucks and by chance get a free coffee, which is blacker, stronger and grosser than tar, but never mind. Once again the new day brings the sun which scares away the rain but not the cold. I, and every other tourist in San Francisco, rent a bike and strike out towards where the Golden Gate Bridge stretches triumphantly across the bay. It’s a chilly, clear, crystal blue sky day. San Franciscans are out walking dogs, cycling, enjoying the return of the sun. I zoom across the bridge and back again and there you have it – I’ve cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge.
*Tick*
I wander San Francisco until I become resolutely sick of being on my own. But travelling alone gives you an excellent opportunity to open your eyes – I see things happen, watch the world go by around me in a way wakes my senses to the wonderful, wide world. I chat to street vendors, I listen to the back of the bus as it erupts into an interesting political discussion about global populations after a stop at a university. I listen to two men, strangers in a Starbucks, discussing Obama and the ‘true america’, I get a free bus ticket from someone getting off a bus, a free train ticket from a guy at the kiosk who was handing out ones people left in the machine (who does that?!) I hand a man a handful of nothing, 50c and he beams “You’re an angel.” I turn away because I think he’s going to hug me. “You’re an angel.” A big man falls into step beside me in a train station and chats like we’re old friends, later I bump into him again “You following me?” he says, and he laughs a hearty laugh from deep in his belly. “Have you ever seen such a happy man, so down on his luck?” I ask the city as the night wears on. I spend hours browsing bookshops, finding bargain books at a book exchange run by what must be one of the friendliest men in the world. I watch a kid sing at the top of his lungs and dance to his heart’s content while he and his family wait for the boat to Alcatraz. Another bum offers me a drink as he strides past swigging – “You like a good drink? Tequila? I bet you do!’ he laughs. Another man grins behind a sign “Please help me it’s my birthday and I want to get drunk.” Oh the honesty of the deprived, don’t try and tell me it’s lacking. I walk up and down hill, here and there all over San Francisco past distinctive, cute two or three story houses with their high stoops and fire escapes, through the Castro where men feel free to kiss and cuddle in the street and the rainbow flag flies on every post. I cross one street and find myself suddenly out of Chinatown and in Little Italy, where Kerouac, Ginsberg and co. hung out in seedy bars in the 50’s. “I’m on the road, Kerouac,” I proclaim. I explore goodwill and vintage shops in the delightfully colourful Haight Ashbury and Mission districts, where I am in awe of the street art, the history of revolution and the mix of people who zoom past on an assortment of different bikes, all going places in the great big city of San Francisco.
I love this city and I think to myself - this is what it means to see the world.
And this is what it means to miss someone. I whisper to the cold, clear San Francisco sky.
If I could take anything I liked home from San Francisco I’d take the bike lanes, and put them in every other city I visit. San Fran emits a friendly vibe, iIt’s joyfully eclectic and a beautiful place with endless rows of pretty houses and parks bursting with greenery – in such a city I could stay.
But time ticks on and I journey further away, onwards and westward across the American continent, over a white snow-dusted earth speckled with trees that look like chocolate powder shaken over white frothy milk. Mountains rise and bump miles below me and I wish I were down there, ankle deep in snow that would melt right through the holes in my shoes. Soon enough the land flattens out like flat brown clay and after a while crop circles extend like rows and rows of pie graphs or target signs as far as the eye can see. In time we seem to leave winter behind, and I arrive in Florida to be greeted by a gently humid evening masquerading as winter.
Here are those things you already know about America simply confirmed – it’s a big country with big things. Big pizzas; big cars – SUV, Chevrolet and hummers; big coffee; big shops - Big Kmart, Super Target, Walmart Super Centre – in America the supermarket is no longer super enough; big highways; big airports; big portion sizes; big savings – stuff is cheap here. Law firms and their advertisements abound, encouraging you to sue someone, anyone, now! Accident attorney, asbestos attorney, family attorney, divorce attorney, Morgan and Morgan - the biggest law firm in the state, as I learnt whilst handing out cocktails to attorneys at a golf tournament. No-freakin-Wonder there’s so many crime shows coming out of this country! Heck! And then, before Sesame Street could start, its 10 billion sponsors had to have their ads played.
On the quaint bricked streets that wind their way around the lakes of downtown Orlando every front porch sports a swinging chair and an American flag adorns every lamp post. Orlando is wide spread and decentralised, it is unquestionably a car city. It’s in central Florida, but as they say, in Florida you are never more than 45 minutes from a beach. Orlando is theme park central. Tourists flock here to shop, eat, disappear into the world of Disney and otherwise indulge themselves in every form of marketable entertainment imaginable. International Drive is tourist central, lined with massive souvenir shops. We chose to boycott these establishments, so that I might actually be able to return home with money left, and went instead to some old Florida amusments. At Weeki Wachee, one of Floridas original theme parks, I can promise you an experience unlike any other, a chance to meet Real Life Mermaids. As in girls wearing mermaid costumes and breathing from long air hoses so as to dance and perfom feats like eating an apple underwater. And of course to act out the corniest, lamest but most unique version of The Little Mermaid there ever was.
Florida, despite being mostly reclaimed swamp land that has been drained almost to the point of destroying the Everglades altogether, is full of beautiful natural, freshwater springs which are home to all kinds of creatures. I saw manatees (big, slow ‘sea cows’ that are much like Dugongs) and gators, an otter, the long legged blue heron and truckloads of ugly buzzards which look beautiful airborne but are ugly enough to scare the pants off anyone face-to-face. I saw some racoons, disappointingly, as road kill but was informed by most locals that they are nasty little creatures. My favourites however, are the squirrels which prance across the grass and up trees in even the most suburban or inner-city areas. They seem to go unnoticed by most people and look about as smart as the acorns they eat. They have spectacularly brushy tails and an exceptionally crazed look in their big, wide staring eyes – therefore I love them. Just as I love the café’s with average coffee, comfy armchairs and free wifi – an easily found hang out spot I will greatly miss here in small town Perth. In an affront to the traditional America mealtime we spent a lot of time eating vegan food at hipster cafes or in vegan bakeries run by hipsters and exploring the organic, fair trade goodies sold at Whole Foods Market. Raw food, vegan, vegetarian, organic food – the availability of choice at a not-ridiculous price was astounding to me, and reminded me of the down side of living in one of the most isolated cities in the world.
I also left America with a new appreciation for country music and weddings. The day before I flew home we finally arrived at the purpose of my visit, to see Miss Roll become Mrs Pyle in a simple and beautiful lakeside wedding, on a glorious Floridian spring day. She walked down the aisle to a sweet country tune to make Ben without a doubt the happiest man on earth, meanwhile the audience sniffed and wiped its eyes. From their first kiss as husband and wife, to their first dance and the toasts to their wellbeing crafted lovingly by family and friends – the whole celebration was one of those beautiful moments in which love rules all and we’re all happy to surrender entirely to its powers.
Now I sit in an airport café, I’m hardly even sure where, my mind is so foggy and clumsy from being stretched through the time zones from Orlando to Sydney and suffering from the feverish, cramped sleeplessness of airplanes that is interrupted only by the timed arrival of shit meals. My eyes water and waver and I have to pinch myself awake. I’ve crossed America and the whole Pacific Ocean, now I just have one more continent to cross before I’m officially home, in the arms of my favourite person in the world.
I love to travel, but the best part about going away is coming home.
And no longer having to figure out tipping and having tax included in the price...
 |
| Florida - the Gulf of Mexico |
 |
| A nice day for a white wedding |
Friday, January 28, 2011
Hello my name is Gay. You may have met me, sometimes people call me Lesbian or Homosexual. I don't much like these words but somehow they have come to be stitched in my forehead. Sometimes a badge of pride, sometimes burning like a pink triangle. I have been laughed at, glared at; stared at and snarled at. I've been told to go away and have been the point of countless jokes, to which I laugh along. Bear in mind this is the liberal age, a time of Acceptance of Diversity, a time of Lies. Bear in mind I am much like you. I feel the exhilarating rush of love inside me and swell with hopes and dreams. You could very well have been me, if it wasn't for this or that, or something else. I have stood in a shopping centre, absent-mindedly hugging my girlfriend, pondering what to have for lunch, vaguely aware of the buzz of shoppers around me when a stranger stampedes into my vision. "Thats disgusting," she spits. "you shouldnt do that in front of childrenM You should keep that shit in the confines of your own home." I stuttered, I grumbled, I gaped, I fumed while her venom burnt its way through my world and I tried, oh how I tried to hold onto myself, to formulate that crushing retort. Her disgust ran over me in tidal waves until tears began to bubble down my face. Like a child that had been snapped at, I crumbled. In an instant we were reduced to nothing more than the shit on her shoes. Angered that her words could upset us so easily, we try to stand there defiant. But she had stepped inside our nice day and shattered it with a jack hammer. The urge to leave grew until we shrunk away, just like she wanted, back into those confines. All the while wishing that we had it in us to tell her just where she could shove her words, to say something that would begin to make up for the kids who have killed themselves becaUse the teasing got to much and the people who have been heckled and bashed. But nothing but disbelief showed on my face, which shows just how naive i have become. Bear in mind this is a liberal age of hate and intolerance. Hello my name is Gay. next time you meet me, please think what it might feel like to be abused and humiliated. Oh and also, you see things better when you open your mind.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
On these city streets
Today as I stood at work, mind numbingly bored and watching the hour hand crawl past unhurried and completely at ease with itself, a group of 30 loud people dressed in golfing attire and wielding kids golf clubs hurried past, all walking backwards. You know, as you do.
I like working in the city, this small city that dreams of big-city-status. People do crazy things, or perhaps this is just where those crazy people hang. A bright orange monk wanders through my store while a man desperately hugging a well-worn teddy bear the store folds and unfolds his newspaper in his free arm, hmms and harrs nervously and then dashes outside. A domestic disagreement explodes into a hair pulling, scratching tussle on the pavement, the woman dashes into the store, her face dripping from where he had spat on her. She cowers for a time in the back corner until he, substantially calmer, returns, takes her hand and leads her away whispering sweet I’m-so-sorrys. She appears to have whole heartily forgiven him, which is certainly far beyond my understanding.
One spring Saturday morning I sat idly by as the Hare Krishna’s shuffled up the street singing gods praises, the Coffin Cheaters roared back down it, a sudden swarm of skull masks on vicious, ear-splitting engines that were followed closely by their flashy police escort, and a man dressed as Winnie the Pooh wandered obscurely by. A trifector of the not-so-ordinary. Rush forward in time, to any given, otherwise wholly unremarkable day in November. A man runs in, hand to his forehead trying to stem the steady flow of blood. He is followed closely by his assailant, a wild-eyed, screeching woman who comes flinging a hefty chain of swear words and curses and making wild lunges in his direction. They crash together right in front of me and she leaps at him. “OI!” I yell. There is a sudden silence, a moment unfolds as they stop, bewildered, staring at me like naughty schoolchildren. Then the chase goes on, out of the store and howling up the street. Lord knows what that man did, but that woman was going to tear him limb from limb.
Early late autumn, on a billboard at the end of the street a man stands naked as the day he was born and wielding a gun. This I don’t see, but I note the pack of casual afternoon shoppers gathering open-mouthed and excited as the black armoured vehicle and its officers negotiate with the man. (Who it turns out was a refugee with Post Traumatic Stress, though this fact was readily forgotten. Also it wasn’t a real gun, another fact easily forgotten.)
There are the oddballs who return with a regularity to rival clock work. The sweet and gently described as “not-all-there” customers who I find myself tiptoeing around polite conversation with, otherwise I will literally be there all day explaining how much that key rings costs. Which makes me feel some ridiculously bad kind of terrible because they are just being friendly in their delightfully off-colour and time consuming little way. There are others though who I, in my professional opinion, have decided are quite literally insane. For example there is one regular city feature who charges around the city waving the Australian flag, singing Waltzing Matilda and generally being the Patriot. She assumes, since I sell flags, I must innately understand this seething patriotism and dislike of muslims (which I don’t.)
Meanwhile, outside of my store, in the shopping malls and side streets there are kids that sit hunched in doorways behind signs that beg small change for food. There weren’t so many young homeless people that lived so glaringly obvious to the eye on these city streets until recently when they seemed to have materialised out of the pavement. I wonder if they are among the squatters that have taken up residence under the bridge with improvised tables and bits and bobs that seem to proclaim – open your eyes, we are right here. I wonder when the authorities will decide enough is enough and shuffle them onwards, away-wards.
But I’ve been carried away on a tangent here, swept away by the faces in the city, the cities celebrities and passing peculiarities. The humdrum of your average day mixes gleefully with the casual eccentricities and quirks of a few. But for most of the day humanity just repeats itself endlessly before my eyes like a broken record. That sunburnt, balding and unathletic looking English guy looks vaguely familiar but I struggle to place him. Perhaps, I decide, its just that he looks like one hundred other pink, bald and sweaty English tourists. People make the same statements, trip over the same step, buy the same things, crack the same flat jokes. Sometimes the intense repetition amuses me – other times it depresses me unimaginably. My eyes glaze over with boredom, until something extraordinary shocks them open and brings my mind to life again.
I like working in the city, this small city that dreams of big-city-status. People do crazy things, or perhaps this is just where those crazy people hang. A bright orange monk wanders through my store while a man desperately hugging a well-worn teddy bear the store folds and unfolds his newspaper in his free arm, hmms and harrs nervously and then dashes outside. A domestic disagreement explodes into a hair pulling, scratching tussle on the pavement, the woman dashes into the store, her face dripping from where he had spat on her. She cowers for a time in the back corner until he, substantially calmer, returns, takes her hand and leads her away whispering sweet I’m-so-sorrys. She appears to have whole heartily forgiven him, which is certainly far beyond my understanding.
One spring Saturday morning I sat idly by as the Hare Krishna’s shuffled up the street singing gods praises, the Coffin Cheaters roared back down it, a sudden swarm of skull masks on vicious, ear-splitting engines that were followed closely by their flashy police escort, and a man dressed as Winnie the Pooh wandered obscurely by. A trifector of the not-so-ordinary. Rush forward in time, to any given, otherwise wholly unremarkable day in November. A man runs in, hand to his forehead trying to stem the steady flow of blood. He is followed closely by his assailant, a wild-eyed, screeching woman who comes flinging a hefty chain of swear words and curses and making wild lunges in his direction. They crash together right in front of me and she leaps at him. “OI!” I yell. There is a sudden silence, a moment unfolds as they stop, bewildered, staring at me like naughty schoolchildren. Then the chase goes on, out of the store and howling up the street. Lord knows what that man did, but that woman was going to tear him limb from limb.
Early late autumn, on a billboard at the end of the street a man stands naked as the day he was born and wielding a gun. This I don’t see, but I note the pack of casual afternoon shoppers gathering open-mouthed and excited as the black armoured vehicle and its officers negotiate with the man. (Who it turns out was a refugee with Post Traumatic Stress, though this fact was readily forgotten. Also it wasn’t a real gun, another fact easily forgotten.)
There are the oddballs who return with a regularity to rival clock work. The sweet and gently described as “not-all-there” customers who I find myself tiptoeing around polite conversation with, otherwise I will literally be there all day explaining how much that key rings costs. Which makes me feel some ridiculously bad kind of terrible because they are just being friendly in their delightfully off-colour and time consuming little way. There are others though who I, in my professional opinion, have decided are quite literally insane. For example there is one regular city feature who charges around the city waving the Australian flag, singing Waltzing Matilda and generally being the Patriot. She assumes, since I sell flags, I must innately understand this seething patriotism and dislike of muslims (which I don’t.)
Meanwhile, outside of my store, in the shopping malls and side streets there are kids that sit hunched in doorways behind signs that beg small change for food. There weren’t so many young homeless people that lived so glaringly obvious to the eye on these city streets until recently when they seemed to have materialised out of the pavement. I wonder if they are among the squatters that have taken up residence under the bridge with improvised tables and bits and bobs that seem to proclaim – open your eyes, we are right here. I wonder when the authorities will decide enough is enough and shuffle them onwards, away-wards.
But I’ve been carried away on a tangent here, swept away by the faces in the city, the cities celebrities and passing peculiarities. The humdrum of your average day mixes gleefully with the casual eccentricities and quirks of a few. But for most of the day humanity just repeats itself endlessly before my eyes like a broken record. That sunburnt, balding and unathletic looking English guy looks vaguely familiar but I struggle to place him. Perhaps, I decide, its just that he looks like one hundred other pink, bald and sweaty English tourists. People make the same statements, trip over the same step, buy the same things, crack the same flat jokes. Sometimes the intense repetition amuses me – other times it depresses me unimaginably. My eyes glaze over with boredom, until something extraordinary shocks them open and brings my mind to life again.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Groan.
I awake to the sinking feeling that I have died and gone to hell. The first coherent thought I have sails in on a sudden sea of self-hatred – Why, oh why did I drink so much. Drink till the world disappears in a whirlwind of smiles and terrible jerking dance moves, wake to a glaringly empty wallet and a white shirt oddly stained and reeking of the smoke and ashes of the nights debauchery. A concoction of blank spots and hazy memories move in bright and early with Mr Headache, who doesn’t even deserve the name headache. My Greymatter has been so thoroughly marinated in a liquid errenously labelled drinkable it doesn’t just ache it throbs. All my energies become hastily engaged in not giving in to the impulse to curl up in a ball and die. Any remaining energy is tied up in the back of my neck and the arch of my throat, weary from the hefty reverse flow of the nights deluge. Alcohol seems to drip from my skin, pouring from every single cell. It turns the mouth into a dry, desolate dust pan and leaves my liver quivering as they work overtime to expel the sludge. I stare morosely into the toilet bowl, utterly disturbed by the way its waters swish and swash, further reducing me to a sweaty mass incapacitated on the bathroom floor. I venture outdoors to that place not so fondly known as Work and I beg with the world, won’t someone please turn the lights down? Surely we don’t need all that radiant, retina burning light that surges and dances in my eyes so quick its nauseatingly painful. My body craves proper food, but everything I try to force down makes a speedy reappearance, as if my body is saying “Fuck off, we are too busy dealing with the trash you dumped here last night.” And a single thought plagues me – why, oh why did I drink so goddamn-much. Oh the reckless abandon that alcohol provides was fun, but as logic would have it the higher you soar, the further you fall – and my oh my doesn’t the break of a new day have a sickly scent to it.
I could sum it up in one word – Groan.
(Written from deep within the murky depths of one of the most spectacularly Epic hangovers in my short and unacclaimed drinking career in hope that I may one day learn from my mistakes.)
I could sum it up in one word – Groan.
(Written from deep within the murky depths of one of the most spectacularly Epic hangovers in my short and unacclaimed drinking career in hope that I may one day learn from my mistakes.)
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