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.
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