Hello...

So. Blogging ennui. I have it. In fact, I have internet ennui. I have spent the last few weeks on the internet looking at novelty sites (and a few excellent ones - omg I love this site) and lurking on other people's blogs.

On the upside I have got past 'a' in my bloglines queue (we're about halfway through 'b' if and if only I would stop adding more!

We've had a few dramas at work and the woman I work the closest with has left. Which means that I am now doing a lot of her job. In the future, I will be doing all f her job, plus some parts of another, more exciting job. For now, though, it is crazy, since her job involves a lot of sitting down and mine involves a lot of running around the building. Not so compatable. Hopefully they'll get someone in soon(ish) to do my old job, but it certainly won't be before June. Le sigh.

I could whinge about it a bit but quite frankly I'm over it, and it's not so bad really, it's just a bit painful some days. I'm tired all the time because the days are full on, and I haven't touched my knitting for two weeks, except last night when I did half a row and then gave up and went to bed.

The worst part is that because work has gotten crazier I don't deal with home being crazy as well. Not that my home is so crazy, really. My friend lives in this house - it's awesome, there's artwork and 'precious' sentimental objects everywhere, the place is like a museum of cool. But I just can't imagine sleeping there. My house, in contrast, is a sea of calm.

However. I live with two of my cousins, J (a boy) and T (a girl). two girls and a guy, sounds OK. But I may as well be living with all boys. T is a grot. Which is fine. I'm a grot (I was going to write 'used to be' but let's face facts here) It's just that I don't like to be a grot. I don't like to live in mess. In fact, over the last year or so I have come to hate it.

I want a nice environment. I'm not picky. I'm happy with our second hand furniture and the huge cracks in my bedroom walls faze me not a bit. It's the crap lying around everywhere I can't stand. It's the leaving the chair in the middle of the living room facing the wrong way beacuse you watched tv and you can't be arsed putting it back. Most of all, it's the leaving for work from a house that is a reasonably nice place to be and coming back to one which I cannot enjoy being in. Without getting to enjoy the brief nice bit because it didn't get nice until just before I crashed into bed.

So I'm overdramatising a little. But I'm just tired. It's not just that, it's the coming home to the TV and not having a break from it until I go to bed. Or, if she's at work, J is playing the loudest computer game he can find. Whinge Whinge fucking whinge.

To remedy this, I have started getting up a half hour earlier. I have starting doing tai chi (yes, I do tai chi. I learnt in China) again. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes when I get home, too. This does two things. It lets me wake up with the morning, outside with the clouds and the sky and the birds cutting sick (I don't know what their deal is but apparently there was lots to talk about this morning) It also makes me much more relaxed. I used to catch the bus in to work, but now I get a lift in with J, who has started a new job near where I work. This is great in that it means I can now get up at the same time that I used to leave the house, but bad inasmuch as I get less quiet, just-me time in the morning to let my brain percolate or marinate or whatver innapropriate verb you would like ot use.

But, in the morning, the house is MINE. And that extra half an hour (Ok, sometimes I only make 15 minutes) makes an amazing difference. Also, the exercise is probably good for me, or something. I remeber hearing something about that, like, once or maybe twice.

Peace is what I crave, people. Peace and some serentity that you can feel, and calm and neat and...

Well, what I want is what I ain't got.

Anyways. I'm hoping to get motivated to do more cool stuff and then blog about it. I miss blogging. I totally didn't plan to blech out all my whinges, but I guess I needed to. Part of the problem is that they seem so petty, especially compared to whatall else is going on in the world or to people I know. And I'm not, you know, sad or whatever. Just tired. That's life. But it helps if you can tell someone.

Since I really put much effort into blogging these things have happened:

::Cut my hair really short. I've had a post about it saved as a draft for over a month now, with pictures and everything.

::Got a cat. Actually, it's T's cat mostly, for the purposes of possesesion when we part ways but joint for the purposes of care and, of course, love. Meaning: it disdains us equally. Pictures soon.

::I've joined a knitting group. I've only been once, but it was good and I'm looking forward to the next time I'll be able to make it (a week to the day)

::Looked at a whole lot of pictures of cats and dogs, sometimes with Engrish captions on them.


Life. It's grand

Hamlet, et al

So, I went to go see Hamlet by the State Theatre Company last weekend. It was good. I have a post about how much I love the Festival Theatre and all the wonder ful things that I've seen there. but for now, let me just tell you a bit about Hamlet.

First, Hamlet. Is. An. Emo.

Has no one noticed this before? You know how the first scene is the ghost scene, and then the next scene you have the court and Claudius is talking, and Hamlet is off to one side. He gets a couple lines, then everyone parades off the stage, leaving Hamlet to his 'too, too solid flesh' solil.

So, in this production the stage is set up with this huge circular war-memorial, covered with Danish names (like Karl and Olufsson, you know the deal), in front of which the ghost scene takes place. This then opens up to reveal the court scene - and Hamlet, standing folornly at the front of the stage, staring, miserably, into space over the audience. He is dressed, head to foot, in black. No surprise, his father just died and he's in deep mourning. He is wearing, however, a black knee-length coat with its fur-lined hood pulled up over his head. With Cameron Goodall's gaunt, tragic face staring out.

At this point, let me say that Cameron was excellent. The whole cast was excellent (except for one person, *cough* first line in play *cough* overacting *cough* but we'll move on) but Cameron Goodall was wonderful. And I'm not just saying that because he went to my University and I now have a crush on him. No, sir.

The thing I liked best about his performance was how normal he was. He was perfect for the crazy scenes, the rants and the soliliquies, which I admit is important in your Hamlet. But when Hamlet is sane and normal... Cameron was sane and normal. you could imagine having a conversation with him in a bar or whatever. The whole cast were obviously comfortable with the language (you'd want to be) so that sometimes I stopped noticing that it wasn't the kind of language I use day-to-day. I went to go see it with my 16 year old sister (it was her easter present from me) and she didn't know the plot prior to seeing it, and she had no trouble following what was going on or being said.

I also liked that the Hamlet-Ophelia bit was played sweet rather than nasty. So I'm a sap. So what. In this one, he loses it at her because he figures out that they're being watched and he's had enough, not because of anything she does, per se. And his 'get the to a nunnery' was without double-meaning, for once. I cried twice, once when Laertes (who had a ripping Aussie accent and looked like Jean Reno) sees Ophelia mad, and once at Ophelia's funeral, when Hamlet looses it and comes out of hiding and L and H have a fight over who loved her more. This is the thing - even the overblown bits Cameron managed to pull off well, so that they seemed to come from the heart not from an overblown sense of drama.

I guess that's what acting is all about, right?

Anyway, the thing is, I really enjoyed the play, it made me realise how much I love theatre (when I was in high school I wanted to be a Stage Manager) but it's left me a bit sad. You see, it reminded me of when I was like that, of when everything was hugely significant, of when I was in high school and in love and deep and angsty.

I'm glad I'm not that now. I like my life without overblown drama and bad poetry and pretentious pining. But somehow I miss that depth of feeling, that sense of wonder that you don't get without the gloom. Over the gloom, but I guess... I just miss it. I feel old. I'm 23! I should still be swanning around imagining myself in love and feeling like I'm the centre of the universe!

Only, I just don't have the energy.

However, it was a timely reminder that life is not just for knitting and chocolate. Or, whatever. Martha Stewart and Simple Magazine.

On that note, I was thinking these thoughts and I came across this post. I think it is appropriately themed - obviously, since I commmented.



Also, I think I should tell you that it is raining, and it has been doing so since last night, and everything is wet.

It's so good... I've missed the rain.

Oh, the horror! The horror!

Peoples... Fun fur and toilet seat covers SHOULD NEVER NEVER BE COMBINED.

Each substance, highly volatile on its own, becomes EXTREMELY explosive when exposed to people with any decency and taste, and may cause their head to EXPLODE!!!!





Excuse me, wont you. I need to lie down. In a dark room. With some sort of alcoholic beverage...

Breaking News: Stupid Internet Test Gets It Right

You are Bettie Page

Girl next door with a wild streak You're a famous beauty - with unique look And the people like you are cultish about it

What Famous Pinup Are You?

I luff her, she is my hero... one of... anyway, let me put it this way: this picture was almost my avatar, but I thought some members of the patriarchy might take it the wrong way. This made me happy. Also, this:

You Are the Very Gay Velma!

She might not even realize it... But Velma is all about Daphne... not Fred!

What Gay Childhood Icon Are You?

So the best one. Totally satisfied with this test.

I.... just...

Oh.



My.





GOD...





Sequins and beads?!?!?

Art and life

I just watched this slideshow about Van Gogh. I've never really been a fan of the man - or of his paintings, I should say. They either scared me, disturbed me, or left me a little bit cold and confused. Which was fine, a lot of art does that. Then I watched the slideshow. I'm not sure what the legal requirements are for showing paintings like these, but I'm going to put my favourite one up here and use their subtitle, I figure that ought to cover it, right? If anyone knows otherwise, let me know so I can take it down. (You should check out the essay, too. I love the boats picture and the Italian woman, and I can't explain how much I like this bedroom picture without at least a reference to how much I hate the one after it. Also, Slate rocks, especially Andy Bowers - rockage.)

Vincent Van Gogh, The Bedroom, 1889. Image courtesy Art Institute of Chicago and Neue Galerie, New York.

I saw that and I read the essay and I thought: you know, I think he's after what I'm after. What we're after. What I read so many posts about every day on the blogs of articulate, crafty (mostly) women. Speaking for myself, though, this is what I want.

I want a beautiful life. I want things around me to be beautiful. If that means orderly, fine, but if it means beautiful clutter, that's fine, too. Just not ugly clutter.

This is my front door from my kitchen.

I don't know why, but when I got up last

Saturday and the light was streaming

through, it made me happy.

Maybe because I was the only one in the house... I like that...

So I took a photo.

Which doesn't look anything like what

it felt like, but still...

I want to be able to see the colours and meanings of things shining through. I want to see them and feel them and make them a part of my story

This was one of many fabric hangings around one of the tents at Womad. Beautiful, non?

I want to share this with others - I want others to see the shininess I see, the colours and the beauty.

Some Shiny Things - Womad again.

My camera is shit at night...

uh, I mean, isn't it arty and pretty?

I want peace. I want a room like that where I can sit and think and look and feel. I want not to be harried and harrased, to have time to sit and think and breathe and feel and know. I want contemplation and maybe even relaxation. I want to know where I fit in the world, and since that changes everyday, I need that sitting thinking time to know where my new place is.

This is a Rosella in an Apple tree

Can you see his tiny tocks?

Can you see him?

I want to be able to show these wants to people. I want to put them out there so that others can see them. Then, if they share them I would like to know about it, to know that they feel the same way, share the same world. This doesn't have to be direct - it's enough to know that there are people there who know this world, too. I don't mean in an 'I am not alone' kind of way. More in a 'we are part of something special that other people don't know about it. Isn't it beautiful?' Blogging is part of this, but so is crafting and baking and all that.

Apples from my parent's tree

Some of which are now pie.


Well... were pie...

When I looked at Van Gogh's picture I felt things I had never felt looking at a Van Gogh before. I felt calm. And happy. I felt that feeling you get when it's a lazy summer afternoon and you're lying on your bed doing nothing much, just feeling the rest of the world out there doing nothing much, too. I felt that feeling you get when everything in the room with you is something you want there, when there's nothing left to change or move and you can just look at it. The feeling you get when you seam something perfectly, or m1 perfectly, without leaving a hole, or turn the heel of your first sock. I felt good.

FO! FO! FO!

But the thing I felt the most, even though there's not that much in the picture, was light. Not as in 'I felt light'. As in 'there was light. And I felt it.' Here is what I felt:

My parent's house.

I love it.

For a comparison, there's a photo from the same angle

in this post.

'Nuff said

Coming Out

Knitting has always been private for me. When I first knitted, when I was younger, I used to work away at .Jean Greenhowe's knitted toys, in 8ply acrylic on 3mm needles. I would sit in my room and I would knit, knit, painstaikingly knit until it was done, and then bring it out for approval and perhaps some suggestions on how to seam it together. Or else, if I got stuck (what the $%&# is a SSK? How, exactly, do you m1?) I could ask my mother, who would help me out (she used to know the answer back then. Now, I find the internet a handier tool for explaining, for example, how to m1 without m. a hole, or how to find the right cast on for your project and learn it. But more on that later)

When I found out last year that I was A Knitter, it was also mostly private. Sure, I would talk about it, and members of my family and friends went with me to choose yarn and drool at knitting books (I was the only one with a saliva problem) but the actual knitting was mostly done in private. In the same place I used to do it as a child - sitting on a beanbag in my teeny, dark room, watching my needles flick back and forth, watching the fabric grow at amazing speeds - it will do that when you use knitting as an avoidance mechanism. Also, this time I had my iPod to listen to, I had Brenda and Jacey and Heather and David and Christina and Wendy, et al. This helped, partly because I learn best when I'm listening, I like to listen. Also, because it let me know that even though my sister mocked me for my knitting (it did get a little crazy there for a while, I'll cop to it) it was a good thing to be doing, a valid thing to enjoy. The things I made were good things and she should stop that mocking if she wanted any more scarves made. My sister is a fiend for scarves. She still mocked. But I got this:

See the start here.

Seriously, can you believe I knit that? This is going to get a post of it's own later, but for now, let's just revel in the glory of the time I had on my hands and the lovely lovely thing I made... sort of lovely.

Anyway, so now I knit at home, where I share a house with two of my cousins. For a bit of background, I don't know if I said any of this before, but they are T and J. (I feel a bit dumb doing the whole initial thing, but I think it's prubent and I can't think of any appropriate blog-safe, cutesy names. Suggestions, anyone?) They are brother and sister, T is the youngest in the family and J the eldest (of four). He is also the only boy of my generation on either side of my family - and his, I believe. Anyway. So, I lived with J before, when I was in uni. And one of his friends became my (now ex) boyfriend. Not so relevant, except that one of their mutual friends, E, bugged me. In fact, I hated him. He was misogynistic and condescending and he would come around NEVER LEAVE.

Ahem. Anyways. So last weekend he was over on the Friday. I don't mind him so much now. Partly he's not as disgusting, partly I don't rise to the bait. Partly I just don't care, especially since he no longer spends whole weeks at my house. I like my space, people.

So, I'm knitting, and they come in to the lounge room and start playing their computer game - it's a soccer one, if you want to know. There I am, knitting on my entrelac scarf, knit knit knit. (anyone else love saying 'entrelac'? It just means 'interlocked', right?) I'd just started, and it was looking unimpressive and prompting swearing. More later on the scarf, this is a metapost. Although, you saw it yesterday.

So, knit knit knit.

E starts asking about it. Mostly for something to do, I think, just for some conversation. His lead-in question was "why knitting?" I think that's a good question. I might have to think about it a little more, maybe it could be another post. I don't think I can even articulate all the reasons 'why knitting', even the ones I am aware of at the moment. I'm sure there will be more reasons that I discover along the way, as I increase my skill or just grow with it. Which is one of the things I love.

I keep getting disctracted, don't I?

The other day there was someone knitting on the bus on the way home. Brown wool, with k2/p1 ribbing alternating with eyelet lace. It was elegant and she knit so fast, so gracefully. The way I knit is English style, but I don't loop the yarn around my index finger and flick it back and forth like you're supposed to. Instead I use my thumb and middle finger to squeeze the needle so it flicks out and in, back and forth. Kind of like the way Stephanie Pearl-McFee says she knits, only not as traditional. I remember my mum trying to teach me the proper way to do it, but I couldn't grasp the forming of the stitch together with the flicky thing. I'm happy with it and it gets the job done, so why quibble.

I watched her knit all the way home, craning my head and peering through people to watch the needles flick and the lace expand.

The other morning it was cold. I can't find my scarf that I knit last year. I wanted a scarf. The only scarf I had was about 5 inches long and counting. So I took it with me. I whipped it out at the bus stop in front of my house. I knit. No one cares. I was surreptitiously scanning the people in the cars going past. They didn't care. Freedom! Now I had not only my iPod but also my knitting to occupy the sometimes-frustrating commute. I knit all the way there and all the way home. On the way home it's great because not only am I not bored, I get a head start on my relaxing-after-work stage of the evening because I am doing exactly what I would be doing anyway once I got home.

Then the other day I got to work and one of the people here says "I saw you knitting at the bus stop" Aparently it didn't occur to him to pick me up, but whatever. His partner was driving, so, you know. And he asked me a bit about it and although he wasn't any more condescending than usual, I bristled. I don't know if this was warranted or not. Today he saw me knitting at the bus stop again and did stop and pick me up. (There's a particular thrill when you are picked up by a sleek car with two gay guys in the front seat. I think it's called the public-transport-sucks-please-drive-me-to-work thrill) The two of them asked me how my scarf was going. Then they chuckled. Not a snicker, not condescending, but - I don't know. Not welcoming, either. Like "aren't you a little weird. That's sweet". Well, my work is full of people that are a little weird, so I guess I fit right in.

Thankfully now I don't get upset. Thanks to Brenda, I just think to myself: Poor dears. The resurgence of craft is a bit of an underground thing. I'm not surprised they didn't get the manifesto.

Thanks Brenda. You rock my socks.

For Jac:

I love it when you're dirty!

*ew, ick*

Aren't my sheets purty?

As you can see, it's a very taught and firm Hills Hoist, which leads me to believe that there has never been any children living in this house - especially since it's an old skool one - no bright yellow and green plastic for us!

Let this be a warning to you, people: this is the kind of incoherent post you get when you write it on and off during a hectic work day. Heed my warning and repent!

What I Saw on Sunday Evening

Yes, yes, I did just show you my underwear on the washing line. Does it make it better that it's a Hill's Hoist?

On Peace and Gratitude

So, the other day I'm on the bus, going to work. It was about a week and a half ago, so it was a sunny (note, it's raining now, but I'm over the fact that Melbourne seems to be exporting its wierd weather tendencies) and golden morning. But I was feeling a bit jangled, I was on public transport - you know the kind of thing. Woe is me, the hobby horse is forgot, etc etc.

So, I was listening to Hardcore History by Dan Carlin (great show, btw), and he was talking about The First World War, and how different it was from anything that came before, and how shocking it was to people's worldviews and that kind of thing. So he was describing it, and everything I've ever heard about the First World War, and some about the second, just all seemed to gel into my brain. Dan was talking about the experience of the common soldier, or something along those lines, and I realised, suddenly, that peace was, in fact, a wonderful thing.

Photo taken by me at Womadelaide

For someone who's grown up in a peaceful, accepting world, it's hard to imagine the way things are when war comes into your life. The woman I sit with at reception here at work is Bosnian, and I forget all the time that she didn't leave her country because she thought that Australia sounded nice. She left, with a young family and half a law degree, because she was afraid that horrible things would happen to her and her loved ones. I personally think it's wrong that we can be 'at war', and the most it affects us is that occasionally we hear a news bulletin, or there's a media scrum because someone was mucking around with his rifle in his barracks and shot himself. But I don't certainly don't want to live in the alternative - in a world or a circumstance where everything is filtered through the fact of War.

But I didn't think about that then. What I thought about was how golden the light was, and how peaceful and quiet the morning was, despite being on public transport. And how the day would continue to be peaceful, no matter how busy or stressful work was. How, at no stage during the day, was I likely to be blown up or otherwise injured. But it wasn't about the physicality of it. It was about the mental and emotional peace of my world. And how, so often, I just don't see it because I'm too busy inflating my own importance by making trivial events seem huge.

I suppose you could call it an epiphany, I suppose that's what it was. Suddenly I could feel the coty around me, people quietly on their way to work, living their lives. It was peaceful. Calm. Serene, even.

I realised, for the first time, what is really meant when people say that the soldiers fought for this. Fought for the world in which I live, more than the country that that world exists in. A world in which, after the war, they couldn't live, because of the things they had seen and done.

It's a world worth fighting for, and I can't tell you how grateful I am that someone did, and that that someone didn't have to be me.

Photo taken by me at my parent's place in the Adelaide Hills

Next post: back to your regularly scheduled levity!

Toilet Seat Covers- a follow up

telfair said...
Oh. My. GOD. It makes me so sad to think about all the time and energy that went into those.

I mean, don't people have better things to do? Like, you know, sleep. And read blogs?

Becca said...
Wow...those are amazing. I accidentally set my room on fire when I was six with a toilet seat cover...they've scared me ever since.

How do you do that? Or maybe I don't want to know. My dad set fire to the chook shed with a candle in a wicker pram when he was little...

When I was little, I was staying at my Grandma's and my cousin who lived there wanted sparklers. I hated sparklers, but we had them anyway. Grandma lit my cousin's first, then mine. One of the sparks got me, and I dropped/threw it away from me - and it landed on my Grandma's foot. She was very nice about it, but I can still see the wretched thing landing on her foot - I can picture her shoes and everything. Needless to say, I am still not a fan of sparklers.


jac said...
Aieee! Fox Collection! I had no idea they still existed! ...I mean, um, what are you talking about?Man, I should pull out all the heinous and tacky needlepoints and embroideries I have, half finished (or not even that), that I thought were just the coolest when I was 14 years old. I'm pretty sure there's a sad teddy in a lamplit window. Oh the humanity...

You know, some of the stuff they have is actually pretty nice. The trouble is that there is so much dreck to sift through - and it's expensive crap, too. Also, while I quite like some of the things, there is no way I woudl spend hours stitching them, let alone hang them on my walls, let alone pay $100 or more for the privelage.

I used to be an avid cross-stitcher. But oh, the saccharine ickyiness. I realised as I looked at that catalouge the reason that people look at me askance when they find out that I knit and craft...

Apropos of nothing

I was interested to read this post on 'another knitting blog' (btw, did you know that Jap pumpkins are not, in fact, racist. It stands for 'just another pumpkin' I love it.)

I haven't watched TV for ages. That's a lie. I have watched it over my sister's shoulder on occasion. This is partly because it elicits the sort of reaction that brings joy to the heart of an older sibling (lost of squealing to go away and even, on occasion, some flailing) but mostly because I come from a family where, if the TV was on, it was because something good was on. I remember standing at my door in the dark, watching 'The Late Show' on the directly-opposite TV through the hole in the door where the handle should be. I can still produce a convincingly-sprawled appearance of sleep in 3 seconds, from door to bed. So now, when the TV is on, basically my brain shuts down and I am but a helpless zombie to its irradiated glow.

It's not a feeling I like much these days.

On the other hand, I love listening to podcasts, and I do so at every opportunity. Podcasting saved my sanity, I am sure of it, the year that I was in China. I exaggerate not. China was hard.

When I came back I found that, when flicking through one of the many 'women's' magazines' I recognised not one of the people whose frocks we were supposedly approving or disapproving of. I was thrilled. On the other hand, I can tell you all about Kevin Rose and Leo Laporte, who Brenda Dayne and Sage Tyrtle are, and I get extraordinarily excited when either of them have guest appearances on, for example, Chub Creek. (Darkspeed is HILARIOUS) Almost no one of my acquaintance understands this. Never mind. They don't usually understand the knitting, either, although they are more supportive of that, as long as I don't talk about it for too long together.

In other news, I would like to send a few curses along to Jac, who informed me that David Jones was having a sale on some items I was in the market for, so that I left said store $120 dollars lighter and four bras the richer. Then again, I am feeling very supported today, which is a nice feeling, so maybe it should be thanks instead. I thought all of you could do with an update on the state of my bosom...

Also, my friend who works cataloguing books to be sent out to libraries (or something) sent me the link to this the other day:

I loved that, as soon of she saw this, she thought of me. This may be because one day, when I had just discovered that I was a Knitter, I dragged her to Dymocks and made her look at knitting with me, all the while telling her about Nancy Bush and Elizabeth Zimmerman (two other people who make up my personal galaxy of stars) I also had the pleasure of telling her that I read Alison's blog and that she was very pregnant (she has now had her beautiful baby girl, and it's all very exciting.) I'm not sure what it is about pregnant craft-bloggers, but there seem to be a lot of them...

Lastly, for those of you who do not listen to 'Cast On', or who otherwise have not heard this, you just have to have to check out this link and listen to 'I want to be a Republican' I've never laughed so hard at a bus stop in my life...

What's wrong with this picture?

Anyone? No? How about this one...

What's wrong with it, is, it EXISTS. I'm sorry, but think about the steps this had to go to for you to see this photo. First, someone had to think 'Hmmmm. You know what my toilet needs? A toilet cover. Now where can I get... I know! I can needle-point one! Now, what would I put on it?' Well, dolphins, of course, to match the rest of the bathroom. THEN, this person had to stitch it. They had to find some canvas and plan a pattern and sew and stitch.

I wonder how long it took them?

Then someone at the Fox Collection had to see it, and say 'you know what? I think people will pay 50 dollars for that! But we need variety - can you make another one?' Then, a kit had to be made up, packaged, the warehouse stocked. The shrinkwrapping alone must have taken days. And then they found a bathroom with a floating toilet and took a photograph (they forgot to remove the bowl freshener for the fish one) and they put it in their catalogue.

It was there last time, but I was hoping it was just a glitch and they'd revert to their usual high standard of... er... Unicorns, snow tigers, and Princess Di. But apparently enough people loved this kit for them to want to run it again. I just... words fail me...

Thank heavens for subversive cross stitch. That's all I can say.

Your iPod is a window to your soul

I freaking love my iPod. It’s a heap of GouSi, but I love it anyway. The top is buckled, the corners are dented from all the times I’ve dropped it, the hard drive freezes continually, I can only see 1/3 of the screen (the middle third), and the sound no longer comes out for the left ear. But I love it.

Yesterday as I was walking to work the magic of shuffled music brought me a magical playlist. First we had ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ as sung by Nina Simone. Next we had ‘Secret Love’ by Doris Day (nothing like an academy award winning song to start the day, is there?) closely followed by the same song jazzed up by George Michael. I was hoping for ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ by George to come up, but instead I got ‘Yeh Yeh’ covered by ‘They Might Be Giants’ and then ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ (Come on, sing with me… Elizabeth Taylor is not his style… and even Ricky Martin’s smile… is something he can’t seeeeee, something he can’t seeeeeee!) Then some less exciting songs by Noel Coward and a Jonathan Coulton gem (although not Code Monkey, unfortunately. Freaking love that song; not as much as I love the speedmonkey remix, though.) Then the hard drive froze.


Some cursing ensued (mother-bleeping piece of Gousi)


Fortunately, after resetting, Marvin made it up to me with another Doris special, Sentimental Journey this time. (What, my iPod has a person-name, so what. And just because my computer is called Eddie, doesn’t mean I’m a complete loser. Lots of people list Douglas Adams as an influence… don’t look at me like that! Would it make you feel better or worse to know that two of the servers here at work are called Isengard and Orthank, and that before we upgraded many of the individual workstations had names like Frodo and Gandalph… it makes me feel worse…) We then had 'There Is Nothing Like a Dame' covered by Reel Big Fish and gotten off of the Welcome to Woop Woop soundtrack. Then we broke our nostalgia streak with ‘trampoline’ by the Grates, but I was happy with that. So what if I was singing ‘use your bed like a trampoline I said, higher! Higher!’ All day. That’s work appropriate, right?

I love you, Marvin.

It's 40 degrees out. And suddenly, I have an uncontrollable urge to knit a blanket.

I blame Alison. The good news is, should I choose to knit one, I am reliably informed that it will only take me 90 days to 'yarn' it.

I went into the bank yesterday to get some change. The woman messed it up and had to start again, so I had plenty of time to look around. There’s not much to look at in a bank, so I noticed the line of drawers behind the tellers. One of them had a sign reading “CALL DRAW”. I enquired about it. All four tellers turned to look at it with blank expressions. No one moved for almost a minute until the young, Asian girl at the end figured it out. “It should be drawER” she supplied.


I catch two buses in to work. One to the city, and then one out again. Usually they match up nicely, but sometimes, my first bus is late (like this morning) or the traffic is especially heavy (like this morning), and I get off the first bus to see the second sail past me in a blithe and uncaring manner. Today we were stopped at the traffic light right before my stop for what felt like forever. I was starting to get a little cranky (as I am wont to do) when I heard someone echo my thoughts. “Change please!” called a voice. I glanced around. “Changing would be good!” It was the driver. He puffed out a sigh. “Globuss, Changussss!” he called, in a voice not unlike Alan Rickman. Someone snickered. When, eventually, the light did change, he let out a high-pitched ‘Yeeeeay!’. There were titters, and even a giggle or two. I smiled and was glad of a brightened morning. And I did make my bus.

Images of eye and mind

Last Saturday I went to a birthday gathering for my friend. I wore my pirate outfit. To clarify, this consisted mostly of some boots that I bought a while ago with no heels (balance is not one of my strong points) and a turn down flap at the top, as well as a plaid skirt that I bought in an op-shop. When I bought it, the skirt had no waistband, only a stretch of fabric with raggedy edges. I cut it and sewed it over before I moved out & away from my mother's sewing maching. I wore it to the outing with the elastic held together inside by a giant safety pin that used to hold up my nappies. Appropriate? Almost.

I also wore a white shirt with a bunch of buttons down the front and a mandarin collar that my Grandmother second-handed to me a few years ago. Then I added a sea-shell necklace that one of my friend's gave me as a parting gift when I left China, and some earings that my sister gave me on my return. They are shaped like tiny cutlasses, and I have never worn them before. They prompted my friend to tell me that I looked 'like a carribean princess'. I took that as a good thing, but you never know with her...I didn't have anything appropriately petticoat-like, but actually that might have been going too far, anyway. Baby steps.

I'd apologise for what is a very out-of-character monotribe about clothing and accessories, but this is my blog, dammit, and making an outfit counts as craft, I've decided. Anyway, the upshot is that I looked cool, felt cool, was cool. That outfit rockes. I am definately wearing it again, and I absolutely longed for a camera, partly because I wanted to share the effect with blogland, since I feel that this coolness was only made possible by the things I have seen here, and partly because I wanted to share it with my future self, to say 'see? You can wear interesting things and look good in them'

I caught the bus into town, and then I walked to North Adelaide. I walked along King Willian Street, past Parliament House. I passed the Festival Theatre. Boy, I've had some good times in that building, seen some great things. If you click on this link, you can see a 360 degree view of the theater and surrounds. That big lawn was covered in people, mostly sitting in those ridiculous low chairs you get when people who like chardonay go to outdoor events. It was, I found out later, the Symphony Under the Stars. There was a big stage set up on the lawn, and beautiful sounds were coming from it, violins sounding like they are supposed to - lush and mournful and joyful and deep. The top of the stage had one of those generic white awnings over it that you get at outdoor concerts, and it was all lit up with blues and purples, contrasting beautifully with the bright orange of the sky. Just behind the stage was the Torrens river, and a huge flock of seagulls was circling over it, seeming to swirl above the stage, as if catching the riffs; or maybe flocking for a rare musical treat. The Torrens itself was beautiful - yes, I know, shocking! But in the twilight you can't see the rubbish and the wrong, wrong colour - you can just see the light glimmering and shimmering, the art installment of lit-from-the-centre paper boats (made of metal and plexiglass) and the fountain spurting away from the middle of the river.

I longed, longed for a camera. And then I thought about it, and I realised that although I could show you what was happening, I couldn't capture the graceful movement of the seagulls, the beauty of the ever-changing reflections from the water. I couldn't show you exactly how the colours in the sky were changing, or share the soft, warm breeze with you. A photograph can't tell you about the buzz in the air as people gathered in the warm evening, or how wonderful it felt to have space all around me, and nice things in that space.

I thought about how Telfair told me "Don't worry about not having a camera. You draw pictures with words" And I thought about how, even though these words still can't quite tell you how wonderful it was to be there, then, they can do a better job of it than pixels can. At least in this instance.

A picture is sometimes worth far less than a thousand words. As I walked past the statue of Don Bradman, I considered how a photo of said statue wouldn't begin to tell you about all the associations that sparked off in my mind - or about how I immediately looked to the other side of teh road, where I could not quite see the war memorial and its rose gardens.

I guess some things need pictures. Others need words.

That said, I am looking forward to next week when I will be going out and purchasing a camera. Probably not the uber-expensive one I am lusting after. But a halfway decent one. Because, you know what? I would still love to have photos of that night. I would like to have them for me, because I do know what that statue means to me, how it felt to be there. And I have a terrible memory. An image is only worth as many words as you have to explain it.

BTW, in case you were wondering, the party was good. Nice dinner, nice people, then we went out to a club where I got hit on by and old guy named Dominic. Clubs are sooooo not my thing...

Miscellania

Hey, blogging buddies and knit sibs. Have you missed me? I’ve missed you! This no internet at home thang is getting me down. I wonder how much it would cost to get it laid in? Hmmm…. I’ve spent most of the day with bloglines open here at work, but although it’s no biggy to read it when I have no work, I’m jumpy and nervous and I feel bad. I feel like I’m wasting my time, when what I want is to get a coffee and jump feet first into blogland, bookmarking and cutting/pasting to my heart’s content.

That said, some of the things I have seen have brought my inspiration to craft surging to the forefront. It isn’t that I want to steal people’s ideas. Although, of course, I do. It’s that seeing what other people have done makes me think I can do it too, even if I can’t. It makes me remember the thrill of the FO, the calm of creation, the buzz of project planning. I’m dying to get a sewing machine, too, and see how long it takes before I sew my finger to something.

Sunday night I was feeling flustered and discontent, a result of having spent almost the entire day on the computer. I picked up my kittyville hat, began to knit, and calm descended. Not magically, not immediately, but with every stitch, each round, the swirls of thought inside my head that found it impossible to settle began, miraculously, to do so…

I found my cardigan for Arwen in a bag. I think I’ll have to unravel it a bit, the short rows seemed to come out the wrong number. But I think I might get cracking on it again. And I’m thinking of ordering some more wool to knit my Jo Sharpe cardigan again – with custom shaping on the waist, and without being afraid to make it longer. I’ll still have to work out what to do about the shoulder shaping – it’s a bit scarier – but maybe I can ask my grandma about that.

I really really want to stop into spotlight on my way home – I need a different size of DPNs to finish the kittyville hat, and I want some nice sloppy satin ribbon to tie back the girly gauze curtain in my room so I can let some sunlight in. But I am poor… very poor. I just handed over some $155 to my boss so that she could by a womadelaide ticket for me – my workplace is placing a group order, which means we get a discount, but it’s not a good week for me to be doing that. I got payed for my first two days of work and now I have to wait another fortnight for my next (huge!) pay. Let me clarify. It’s not actually huge, but for me, used to living on a student’s part-time payment, it’s huge. Also, I have a fairly minimal expense outlay. Comparatively, anyway. So, although I am determined to save at least a little each week, and despite the multitude of events I want to go to in the coming months (damn you, festival city! Damn you and your ridiculously appropriated moniker!) I should have enough left over to suitably indulge myself in craftiness. Also, I no longer have to sneak packages past my mother, lest she chastise me for my extravagance.

There’s a DK’s near my work, too. That’s a fabric warehouse thingy… it’s one of the few places left around here that has a decent range, and the last time I went their prices were excellent. Of course, that was when my mother was making my formal dress, in Year 11. That would be…. Uh… 6 or seven years ago. Still. They’re open till 5:30, so I could just make it after work, or else I could always go one my break. Except I enjoy the lunch room – there’s usually something hilarious going on in there of an afternoon.

I’m exhausted, though. It’s been hard adjusting to full-time work, it’s hard getting around without a car, its hard finding energy to do things after work. It’s hard buying groceries, again, sans car. It’s hard finding enough business-like things in my wardrobe to not repeat myself too often. It’s hard being white and middle class, people. It’s just hard.

But in all seriousness, I am enjoying my new job, my new home, the possibilities that are inherent in both these things. Today I am tired, but soon it will be time to go home. And then, I can sleep. Or, I could craft. Whichever seems likely to revive me the best. I can’t wait

Just in time for Chinese New Year...

I don't know if you know, but most of the traditions surrounding Chinese New year involve various incarnations of 'out with the old, in with the new'. I'm all about the newness, albeit slightly used newness.

I have a new house. It is an old house (There are cracks in most of the walls, and half of my room looks like it's about to fall off), but I have never lived there. Four of my cousins have though, and two of them still do. I'm enjoying seeing all my stuff that has been stored for two years, although I have no internet, and bloglines is piling up my feeds. I'm also loving cooking again. I may have gone a little nuts on the cupcakes. Yesterday my cousin introduced my to her friend as 'this is my cousin who lives here. She makes cupcakes.'

I have a new job. It is just doing admin which is totally not what my 4 years of uni qualified me for, but they're paying me. Also, and more importantly, it's a great organisation with wonderful people. I don't really want to talk about it too much because a) it's probably not good policy to talk about your workplace in internet-land and b) It's not crafty. Unlike so much of what I've been talking about lately, I don't think. I will say, however, that it's very close to this shop, and I have a feeling I may be paying a visit. When it cools down - it was 36 yesterday, and Monday will be 38. (that's Celsius) I'm not happy about it.

So, with all that crazy, there's not been much crafting, unless cupcakes count. I've buried my Arwen under some miscellaneous stuff, and I have knitted a few more rows in the official kittyville hat which I started recently, but I'm up to the decreases which means at least minimal concentration is required. Does piling all my craft-related stuff in one corner of my room count? It takes up a lot of room. I have big plans for my second-hand-new wardrobe, I want to cover the doors with fabric and batting to make pin-board-like surfaces, but I don't know if it's even do-able, and it will definitely have to wait. I'm exhausted.

I did go see Pan's labyrinth, which I was all excited about thanks to Emily, and it didn't disappoint, although it was darker than I expected. I might go see it again, even. I had a knit-wear/colour review planned, because the costumes were awesome, and that's the kind of thing I notice, but it will also have to wait. Maybe if I go see it again, and it will be fresh in my mind.

Anyway, that pretty much assuages my blog guilt. (does anyone know how to say 'assuages'? I sure don't.) For now, and in case I don't speak to you all before Feb 18th, I'll just say 'GongXi FaCai'. That means, roughly 'wishing you wealth'. So I can't speak French, I'll just have to take my show-off chances where I can get them... it's the year of the Pig, too, that's me! (the star sign, not... actually... ) That's right, I'm too good to be true!

WARNING: not a celebratory post. Some strong language. Contains Themes. May distress young children and zealots.

Happy Australia day, everyone. I know you're as excited as me... which is not very. I know I should care, but quite often I don't know it is/was Australia day until someone else brings it up. Then their reply is invariably 'well, why do you think we have a public holiday, then?' I don't know. Maybe some idiots are riding horses around a track, or perhaps we've got the day off because some woman born into a special family has a birthday somewhere close to this date. There are a lot of public holidays I don't care about.

Of course, this time last year was a big deal. I arrived home on the day before Australia Day, and the holiday was never so approproate in all the history of its celebration - no, not even when they called it 'invasion day'. My Australian friends (three) in Guiyang were very upset about being left behind on the annual day of... what? Barbeques? Endless themed playlists on the radio? Half-assed concerts?

Let me explain myself. I love my country. I really do. I love it with a passion that frightens me. For a large part of my time overseas, while I was happy on a day-to-day level, on a deeper level I was miserable. Many people don't know where they belong. I do. I belong in Australia, in South Australia, in the Adelaide Hills. This is my home, the home of my heart and all that soppy stuff, and when people talk about Indiginous Australians pining away when put in prison, a part of me understands.

Further, I love the culture of Australia, I love its people (mostly). Yes, I hate our Prime Minister with a passion, but most of that is because, well, he's fucking up my country. It's a very personal hate. I love our history, even the unsalibruious parts.



I love our language (maybe I should make a resolution to use it more - strewth. Bonza. Bloody Oath.) I love our traditions, such as they are, and I love our attitude. I never thought all those stereotypes were true, but let me tell you, going overseas makes you see them, like it makes you notice the accent (which, I might add, can be heard across a crowded room. It's that nasal quality.) Although I consider myself quite highly-strung, in our little office overseas I was by far the most laid back person.

What I do not love is advocation of our country over all others. I happen to think it is, in fact, the best country in the world, but if you think yours is better - great. I'd be happy to talk about what makes your country great, too. I love my country in spite of it's flaws (one of which starts with a 'JH') I love it too much to pretend that those flaws aren't there, because I want to make it better. I will never put an Australian flag outside of my house because - well, because it quite frankly is not the Australian way (whatever the hell that means). I don't need a piece of material with the Union Jack on it to remind me what country I come from, thankyou very much.




Less depressingly, I also do not love organised celbration. I am not a crowd-loving people person. I am, in fact, a sit around, drink some tea, kind of gal. (I freaking love that. I just love it) Also, I am contrary. Require me to be enthusiastic, and I will fold my arms in a recalcitrant manner, and 'humph'. So, Australia Day? Not on my list of exciting celebrations.

Actually, I think this and my New Years comments are why I feel so strongly about the Christmas season. December is when I do all of my New Years/Australia Day appropriate thinking. It's Christmas and my Birthday, it's hot. It's nostalgic - those long summer nights sure bring back the childhood memories, don't they? It's a set time each year, and I spend a lot of the month thinking about where I am this time around, and why I like it, and why I want to be in this beautiful country of mine, and not in someone elses beautiful country. That is why, although most of my eyar overeas passed fairly smoothly, the month of December was sheer hell. It was cold, it was depressing, it was not what December is supposed to be.




Anyway. I had a question. It's a netiquette question. It's about comments. I love to comment on other people's blogs, although I try not to do so if I have nothing to say. what I like about it si that I do have something to say, and that sometimes, when I say it, other people listen. Did that make sense? Anyway, I talked about this last post, blog love, yadda yadda, blah. So, anyway, I know a lot of people talk about trying to reply to every comment. Sometimes people leave an email address along the lines of 'no-reply@blog.com' in which case, obviously, no reply is called for. Checking out other's blogs is nice, but as yet I have only had one comment form someone whose blog I do not already read.

So my question is this: when I comment on a blog, and the author replies to me, should I reply back? How long does this go on before it becomes weird and annoying for the person on the other end?

Now that I type this it doesn't sound very important, does it? I have a bit of guilt because I've had a couple comments I haven't replied to in a row, because I read those people's blogs, and I feel like it's not really necessary to reply - we are already interacting. Anyway... I guess I'm just a geek.

In other news, I'm moving tommorrow! Very exciting, but it means no internet for at least a while. I don't know how I'll survive, although i am informed that the internet does not, in fact, supply oxygen, and that non-internet survival is technically possible...

And something for the road: My grandma (who is soooooo cool - more about her some other time) has a habit of giving things away. Since she's lost a whole bunch of weight lately, some of her clothes can now be legitimately be passed on to me, the largest of my generation. I saw her on the weekend, and I scored two shirts for my interview on Monday and a top. The top is black and white stripes, 3/4 sleeves (which I hate, usually), and a sort of turquoise/teal stripe under each arm and for the zip thingy. Placard. Anyway, the point it, the shirt is made by a company called Black Apple, who if theyhave a website, I can't find it. So I put the thing on, and do you know what the first thing that went through my head was?

"*gasp* I'm Inside a Black Apple"

I'm such a geek.... :-D

All cartoons from inkcint.com

We love knitting. Doesn't mean we don't love our grandmothers.

Some grandmother knitting love.

I think, apart from the fact that, as I have previously mentioned, my grandmother is waaaaay cooler than me, I, along with January One, am sick of the 'beginners knitting' books which contain few if any projects worth knitting and are rude and condescending. Even (especially) teenagers learning things don't want to be talked down to, so why do these books do it? I know not all beginners books do. But the ones I love are the ones that assume that you want to learn, that you can learn, that once you master the knit stitch you will want to learn other things, too.

In aid of which let me tell you that I have just this minute learnt the long tail cast on from with the aid of knitting help, and I am in love. I literally gasped 'oh my god' as I managed to get it to work. I bounced on my chair. It wasn't so much the technique (although, can you say 'awesome'?) it was that I learnt something new. I love that feeling. Next on my list after quilting, I am going to learn to crochet. Yes, that's right, you heard me! Yes! I am a fearless crafter!