Spring has sprung. I'm not kidding. Yes, it was only a few months ago that I was getting excited about red leaves on trees because that officially meant that Summer was over. Yes, it was only 25 days ago that I took these photos of my rainy home. But it's indubitable. Spring is here.
Sunday night, I got home after my long, happy weekend (more later) at about 5. The air was soft and balmy, the light was gentle and warming. Spring was in the air. You could smell it.
This morning for the first time in months, I didn't wake up dreading the emergence of my warm body from it's snuggly nest of warmth into the cold air. Yes, I'm a wuss. I hate the cold, OK?
So, I was enjoying winter. I love the rain on the roof. I love sups of hot chocolate and snuggly blankets. I love the freshness you get after rain and they way it smells. I love the way you can be warm in winter - in summer, you're only hot or cool.
But I guess I had forgot. I had forgot how happy summer makes me, just by being. I winter, I have to watch and listen for the things I love. But now, as the early fingers of Spring creeping in have reminded me.
They reminded me how, in Summer, when I step out of my front door, and the balmy air of twilight hits me, or the hot air of a 35 degree midday, I am happy. My soul sing with joy every time the twilight slants golden through the trees at 7 at night. Sounds sound different through summer air - you can hear the echoes of good times and good company as you listen to kids playing and people talking. Summer is my time. I love it.
Bring it on.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
And the winning theme is: Geekdom!!!
I have had 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' stuck in my head for three days now. Why? I bought a new backpack, and it's Caribee brand. Everytime I see it, my traitorous brain goes 'hmmmm... caribee. That sounds a lot like Caribou. And what do caribou do? Why, they lay around and snooze, of course, because, you know, why not, there's nothing else to do.' Damn you, Noel Coward!! Damn you!!!!
Although, if the Church is right, I needn't worry about that.
I just talked to a woman on the phone whose name was Jayne. Spelt like that.
The other day at a party, someone asked me someone's name.
Me: Kelvin
Her: Oh. Like the temperature?
Me (without hesitation): yes
And she mocked me for the whole night for being an irretrievable geek.
I have knit the same sock 5 times now. First time, I turned the heel perfectly. Then it was too long, so I frogged it back. Then, it took me about 4 tries to get the heel done right, with the right number of stitches, etc. It was perfect. And too long. It's mate is all but finished, and perfect. Why, why, I ask!
I feel like patient zero. A while back, one of my friends to whom I often wax lyrical about knitting told me that she thought she might like to knit a scarf. She already knew how to knit, but was shy about actually making anything. I was quietly encouraging. She came over about a week later and admired my hats that I'd knit. She told me she wanted a hat, but didn't like tight beanies. A week later she messaged me to tell me that she'd bought yarn and needles. A day later she messaged me to say she was done. She'd knit a square and sewn it together, and it's the coolest beanie I've ever seen, and very Her. Now she's knit two scarves for her sisters and she's making some arm warmers.
My mother called me the other day to say that two ladies she went to church with were looking for patterns - one for knitted slippers, the other for warm socks. I found some good ones on knitty.com, and emailed her the links. They were exactly what they were looking for, and now my mother has ordered yarn to make jaywalkers. NEVER thought that that would happen.
My mother also told me that one of my aunts was talking about taking up knitting again. This aunt tried to teach me the long tail cast on when I was about 13. It didn't take, and she stopped knitting a while ago, when her kids were small. We had a family do on the weekend (hateful, is all I can say. Truly, it was hateful. Although I took some awesome pictures, some of which I have uploaded to Flickr) and I brought a bunch of knitting books. She's currently hunting out Jo Sharp pattern books, and my grandmother found it within her to tell me that she loved turning heels and that I knit wrong (I do. My grandmother can jump)
I returned home after that weekend to find my cousin hanging out at my house. She started looking through my pile of knitting books. She decided she wants to make a scarf. She asked me to give her knitting lessons - she can also knit, but hasn't for ages, and her tension is apparently too tight. So we've set up a thrusday night knitalong at my place, once she gets the yarn. While we were talking about this, her sister, who I live with, brought out a jumper she'd started knitting before she moved in. She hasn't knit a stitch since. Still no progress, but it's sitting on our coffee table, staring at her. It's only a matter of time!
Howard's Storage opened right around the corner from my house. I love storage with the same passion I used to lavish on stationery, and the same aqquisatory urges we all share towards yarn. It's a sickness. I'm in trouble.
Although, if the Church is right, I needn't worry about that.
I just talked to a woman on the phone whose name was Jayne. Spelt like that.
The other day at a party, someone asked me someone's name.
Me: Kelvin
Her: Oh. Like the temperature?
Me (without hesitation): yes
And she mocked me for the whole night for being an irretrievable geek.
I have knit the same sock 5 times now. First time, I turned the heel perfectly. Then it was too long, so I frogged it back. Then, it took me about 4 tries to get the heel done right, with the right number of stitches, etc. It was perfect. And too long. It's mate is all but finished, and perfect. Why, why, I ask!
I feel like patient zero. A while back, one of my friends to whom I often wax lyrical about knitting told me that she thought she might like to knit a scarf. She already knew how to knit, but was shy about actually making anything. I was quietly encouraging. She came over about a week later and admired my hats that I'd knit. She told me she wanted a hat, but didn't like tight beanies. A week later she messaged me to tell me that she'd bought yarn and needles. A day later she messaged me to say she was done. She'd knit a square and sewn it together, and it's the coolest beanie I've ever seen, and very Her. Now she's knit two scarves for her sisters and she's making some arm warmers.
My mother called me the other day to say that two ladies she went to church with were looking for patterns - one for knitted slippers, the other for warm socks. I found some good ones on knitty.com, and emailed her the links. They were exactly what they were looking for, and now my mother has ordered yarn to make jaywalkers. NEVER thought that that would happen.
My mother also told me that one of my aunts was talking about taking up knitting again. This aunt tried to teach me the long tail cast on when I was about 13. It didn't take, and she stopped knitting a while ago, when her kids were small. We had a family do on the weekend (hateful, is all I can say. Truly, it was hateful. Although I took some awesome pictures, some of which I have uploaded to Flickr) and I brought a bunch of knitting books. She's currently hunting out Jo Sharp pattern books, and my grandmother found it within her to tell me that she loved turning heels and that I knit wrong (I do. My grandmother can jump)
I returned home after that weekend to find my cousin hanging out at my house. She started looking through my pile of knitting books. She decided she wants to make a scarf. She asked me to give her knitting lessons - she can also knit, but hasn't for ages, and her tension is apparently too tight. So we've set up a thrusday night knitalong at my place, once she gets the yarn. While we were talking about this, her sister, who I live with, brought out a jumper she'd started knitting before she moved in. She hasn't knit a stitch since. Still no progress, but it's sitting on our coffee table, staring at her. It's only a matter of time!
Howard's Storage opened right around the corner from my house. I love storage with the same passion I used to lavish on stationery, and the same aqquisatory urges we all share towards yarn. It's a sickness. I'm in trouble.
Friday, June 22, 2007
I take it back
So, I go to lunch, with my boring pasta and I'm-too-lazy-to-cook-real-food tomato sauce (not, like, ketchup. Like, canned toms, onion and olives) I'm thinking 'boring boring boring.' I open the fridge. It's filled with food. Filled. E, who I mentioned in passing in the previous post with a dash of bitterness for never giving me her movements, had catered for a seminar we held here last night. She cooks the best middle eastern food you'll ever eat, and she always over caters.
Lentil soup (which I did not partake of - I am still a bit iffy about lentils. My parent's lentil craze went so far as to include lentil pizza and I'm still not over it) meatballs, rice (stir fried then steamed, for extra fluffiness, with noodles and slivered almonds) roasted vegetables, and, to top it off, jelly and custard cake. It's like trifle, but without the space-wasting sponge cake (lowest form of desert ever) Soooooo yum.
I came back from lunch satisfied and full. More than that, though, I came back relaxed. I spent 45 minutes in a room full of warm sunlight, good food, and happy women. We chatted and laughed and ate and I feel so rested that it's like I've had a good long nap.
I love my place of work. Now, if only no one will ring it for the next three hours, it woud be perfect.
Lentil soup (which I did not partake of - I am still a bit iffy about lentils. My parent's lentil craze went so far as to include lentil pizza and I'm still not over it) meatballs, rice (stir fried then steamed, for extra fluffiness, with noodles and slivered almonds) roasted vegetables, and, to top it off, jelly and custard cake. It's like trifle, but without the space-wasting sponge cake (lowest form of desert ever) Soooooo yum.
I came back from lunch satisfied and full. More than that, though, I came back relaxed. I spent 45 minutes in a room full of warm sunlight, good food, and happy women. We chatted and laughed and ate and I feel so rested that it's like I've had a good long nap.
I love my place of work. Now, if only no one will ring it for the next three hours, it woud be perfect.
Things I am sick of
:: People asking me if the email I've just given out is all in lower case. Why yes. Yes it is. Know why? Because emails are not case sensitive
:: People asking me if their Yahoo.com.au email address will be able to send emails to someone in London. Seriously?
:: People giving me WAY too much information when I ask if I can take a message.
:: People telling me their life stories over the phone.
:: The phone.
:: People coming and talking to me when I'm blogging. How rude, I mean, don't they know I get paid to fritter away my time on the internet? Did they miss the memo?
:: People not telling me what they're doing and then getting angry when I ring and interrupt a meeting. There's a simple way to avoid this. E, I'm looking at you.
:: People asking me to fix their phones for them.
:: Being able to fix people's 'broken' phones by turning them on and then off. I will never never never work in IT.
:: People thinking out loud on the phone or in front of me, thus preventing me from looking at pretty pictures of knitting on the net. Rude. Memo.
:: People telling me about the projects that they're panicked about and that I'm going to have to help out with - right at the end of the process which they haven't yet started, and which will take at least a fortnight. There's only so much room in my head, you know.
:: People standing too close.
:: People taking things out of my hands when it's nothing to do with them and I need it. Personal bubble, people!
:: This week. I'm so cranky. All I want to do is sit somewhere quiet and possibly dark. My brain hurts.
:: John Howard and cronies. Now they're going to send the army into the Northern Territory to protect Indigenous Australians from themselves and the symptoms of a broken system. It just seems to me that the last time the Australian government took drastic measures 'for the good of' Aboriginal children, it didn't go so well.
Things I'm not sick of (for the fair and balanced crowd)
:: Working in a socially aware and caring workplace. Although this does mean we have to talk about things which make me feel sick, like Johnny's brilliant idea mentioned above, and the new IR laws, etc, it's much better than not being able to talk about them for fear someone will make me feel like a raging lefty - in a bad way.
:: Not working in a workplace with people who don't know anything. My friend told me the other day that her workmates were having a conversation about how Big Brother comes from the Truman Show. Her workmates often ask her things like 'where's Hanoi' or 'Where's St Petersburg. Oh. So... where's Stalingrad' Or saying things like 'I want to have children so that when judgement day comes they can be raised by angels' I just don't think I could cope with that. Does that make me a bad person?
:: Chocolate
:: knitting
:: Breathing out in long, slow breaths. Maybe it's because I'm a little stressed, but this feels way better right now than something like breathing should.
:: The Internets.
:: Shopping on said internets.
:: Getting my parcels ordered while doing said shopping on said internets at work and sneaking peeks at it all day long.
:: Pictures of baby animals. Especially with illiterate captions included. (Altogether now.... aaaaaaaaaw)
:: Tiki bar TV. I love Johnny Johnny. I watched Red Oktober last night and tears came out of my eyes. Is it bad that I understood most of the l33t? I think it might be.
:: Geeking out with the one woman at work who understands what I mean when I use terms like 'flamer' or 'troll' or 'n00b' or 'html' or 'blog' or 'boing boing' or 'Cory Doctorow'. It makes me feel less alone.
:: Looking at other people's knitwear. There are a couple of people at work who regularly wear impressive knitwear - machine knit, but still impressive. I think I freaked one of them out a little by asking him to stop in the middle of the corridor so I could examine how his collar was attached to the rest of the top.
:: Going to see Kaffe Fasset talk tonight about colour (Yay! Oh, yay!)
:: The fact that it's lunch time and I don't have to answer any phones for at least an hour.
:: People asking me if their Yahoo.com.au email address will be able to send emails to someone in London. Seriously?
:: People giving me WAY too much information when I ask if I can take a message.
:: People telling me their life stories over the phone.
:: The phone.
:: People coming and talking to me when I'm blogging. How rude, I mean, don't they know I get paid to fritter away my time on the internet? Did they miss the memo?
:: People not telling me what they're doing and then getting angry when I ring and interrupt a meeting. There's a simple way to avoid this. E, I'm looking at you.
:: People asking me to fix their phones for them.
:: Being able to fix people's 'broken' phones by turning them on and then off. I will never never never work in IT.
:: People thinking out loud on the phone or in front of me, thus preventing me from looking at pretty pictures of knitting on the net. Rude. Memo.
:: People telling me about the projects that they're panicked about and that I'm going to have to help out with - right at the end of the process which they haven't yet started, and which will take at least a fortnight. There's only so much room in my head, you know.
:: People standing too close.
:: People taking things out of my hands when it's nothing to do with them and I need it. Personal bubble, people!
:: This week. I'm so cranky. All I want to do is sit somewhere quiet and possibly dark. My brain hurts.
:: John Howard and cronies. Now they're going to send the army into the Northern Territory to protect Indigenous Australians from themselves and the symptoms of a broken system. It just seems to me that the last time the Australian government took drastic measures 'for the good of' Aboriginal children, it didn't go so well.
Things I'm not sick of (for the fair and balanced crowd)
:: Working in a socially aware and caring workplace. Although this does mean we have to talk about things which make me feel sick, like Johnny's brilliant idea mentioned above, and the new IR laws, etc, it's much better than not being able to talk about them for fear someone will make me feel like a raging lefty - in a bad way.
:: Not working in a workplace with people who don't know anything. My friend told me the other day that her workmates were having a conversation about how Big Brother comes from the Truman Show. Her workmates often ask her things like 'where's Hanoi' or 'Where's St Petersburg. Oh. So... where's Stalingrad' Or saying things like 'I want to have children so that when judgement day comes they can be raised by angels' I just don't think I could cope with that. Does that make me a bad person?
:: Chocolate
:: knitting
:: Breathing out in long, slow breaths. Maybe it's because I'm a little stressed, but this feels way better right now than something like breathing should.
:: The Internets.
:: Shopping on said internets.
:: Getting my parcels ordered while doing said shopping on said internets at work and sneaking peeks at it all day long.
:: Pictures of baby animals. Especially with illiterate captions included. (Altogether now.... aaaaaaaaaw)
:: Tiki bar TV. I love Johnny Johnny. I watched Red Oktober last night and tears came out of my eyes. Is it bad that I understood most of the l33t? I think it might be.
:: Geeking out with the one woman at work who understands what I mean when I use terms like 'flamer' or 'troll' or 'n00b' or 'html' or 'blog' or 'boing boing' or 'Cory Doctorow'. It makes me feel less alone.
:: Looking at other people's knitwear. There are a couple of people at work who regularly wear impressive knitwear - machine knit, but still impressive. I think I freaked one of them out a little by asking him to stop in the middle of the corridor so I could examine how his collar was attached to the rest of the top.
:: Going to see Kaffe Fasset talk tonight about colour (Yay! Oh, yay!)
:: The fact that it's lunch time and I don't have to answer any phones for at least an hour.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Reasons my housemates think I'm crazy
1. I knit. All. The. Time.
On Saturday I knit almost the whole right front of the jacket I'm working on. At the same time, I have picked up branching out, which I started a while ago. I must rip one repeat for every two I manage to do correctly, lace is soooo not my thing. And yet. I can't stop. I can't stop! The scarf is now long enough to go around my neck one and a half times - about half the length of a short scarf. Can't Stop. Also, I bought some sock yarn, which I now have to swatch and work out if this pattern wil fit my feet or I need to do a dodgy with the needles. And I have promised to knit another nautie for a friend to give to her boyfriend. When she saw my stash of (acrylic) yarn, she told me I had a sickness. In a loving way. In my defense, I have only bought two balls of acrylic in the last ten years, both for nautie. So there. Also, I think I may have developed an allergy to acrylic yarn. Everytime I work with it or wear it, my eyes puff up and get all itchy.
But THE POINT IS that yesterday, all I wanted to do was knit. I wanted to knit so bad. I'm sitting here at reception, and I'm thinking 'if I whip my knitting out here, will anyone care?' The answer is yes, because I have work to do. Just because I am not this second doing it, doesn't mean that sublimating my knitting desires by working my way through the 'c' section of my bloglines is a work-sanctioned activity. But the moment I got out of work, I knit. I knit while I was walking to the bus stop. In peak hour traffic. On a major road. And I didn't care. As I wandered past the library (knitting) I peered through the window and mused that there were a lot of people in there. Then it hit me. They were all knitting. So I'm guessing that there is a knitting group that meets there. So tonight I am going to go in and ask about it. I already have a knitting group, but I can only go every second Wednesday, because I don't drive and every second Wednesday they meet somewhere that is hard for me to get to. What is it with knitting groups and Wednesdays?
2. I take things out into the garden in the morning and take photos of them.
These are the cupcakes that caused all that fuss the other day
This is the pedastal on the statues of Queen Victoria in, you guessed it, Victoria square. It's just been cleaned. Can you see the red grafitti? You probably can't read it, though. It says 'Not the first Queen Victoria, not my Queen' And then, down the bottom, out of frame, it says 'free David Hicks'
Long live the Dead Monarchs
However, I did not take any photos of this until this morning
They're on the bonnet of my cousin's Valiant. Almost the same colour, ne? His new valiant (eye roll) is that exact same colour inside. No complaints from me, since it's my favourite ever. Anyway, that's the back, two fronts, and one sleeve. So close, people. So close. Last night I pinned it together and attempted to try it on to see if I had to do any adjustments, but it was so huge and heavy that it just pulled itself apart and I couldn't really see. Anyway, I've decided that since it's supposed to be a jacket, it doesn't really need to be close-fitting or whatever. Also, I'm lazy. That's a lot of knitting, y'all. I love this yarn. I heart Bendigo Woolen mills. It used to be my Cardigan for Arwen, but that didn't turn out so well. So I frogged it. Pictures later.
We were at my grandma's on Sunday for her birthday and she'd just finished a cabled cardigan. In Bendigo Mills wool, of course. I don't think she uses anything else. Here is a photo of her in it.
As an extra bonus, you also get, from L-R, Uncle Michael, Aunty Lisa (no, no idea what's going on there), Aunty Anne (mother of my two cousins I live with) Grandma in her cabled cardi, Uncle Daniel and my dad, Tim. Missing is Aunty Jane, Michael's twin. She was working. At IKEA.
Also out for a photo shoot this morning was my no-knead bread. I was toying with making this but it just sounded like too much organisation. Then I saw it in Australian Table, published by Coles. It was credited as 'adapted from the NY Times recipe' and in essence, it made it harder. So I went and got the original recipe and gave it a crack. The first time I was too lazy by the time we got to baking to look up what 450 degrees was in celcius, so it was a bit soggy in the middle. However, this time it is perfect, despite my cousin's reservations that it didn't sound hollow when she tapped it. I told her that the same could be said about her, and she could take her long line of bakers somewhere interesting, and stop touching my bread, please. So there. Anyway, this is its morning photo shoot.
On Saturday I knit almost the whole right front of the jacket I'm working on. At the same time, I have picked up branching out, which I started a while ago. I must rip one repeat for every two I manage to do correctly, lace is soooo not my thing. And yet. I can't stop. I can't stop! The scarf is now long enough to go around my neck one and a half times - about half the length of a short scarf. Can't Stop. Also, I bought some sock yarn, which I now have to swatch and work out if this pattern wil fit my feet or I need to do a dodgy with the needles. And I have promised to knit another nautie for a friend to give to her boyfriend. When she saw my stash of (acrylic) yarn, she told me I had a sickness. In a loving way. In my defense, I have only bought two balls of acrylic in the last ten years, both for nautie. So there. Also, I think I may have developed an allergy to acrylic yarn. Everytime I work with it or wear it, my eyes puff up and get all itchy.
But THE POINT IS that yesterday, all I wanted to do was knit. I wanted to knit so bad. I'm sitting here at reception, and I'm thinking 'if I whip my knitting out here, will anyone care?' The answer is yes, because I have work to do. Just because I am not this second doing it, doesn't mean that sublimating my knitting desires by working my way through the 'c' section of my bloglines is a work-sanctioned activity. But the moment I got out of work, I knit. I knit while I was walking to the bus stop. In peak hour traffic. On a major road. And I didn't care. As I wandered past the library (knitting) I peered through the window and mused that there were a lot of people in there. Then it hit me. They were all knitting. So I'm guessing that there is a knitting group that meets there. So tonight I am going to go in and ask about it. I already have a knitting group, but I can only go every second Wednesday, because I don't drive and every second Wednesday they meet somewhere that is hard for me to get to. What is it with knitting groups and Wednesdays?
2. I take things out into the garden in the morning and take photos of them.
These are the cupcakes that caused all that fuss the other day
It got to Monday night (public holiday, long live the Imperial Monarch of the Moment) and as I surveyed my pile of finished pieces of Jacket, it occured to me that I had inteded to take photos of them. It was now the end of three days during which I was home in optimal photo-taking light conditions, and had I taken any photos? No. Well, I tell a lie. I took photos of this
My sister performing at Music in the Squares. Shes the first trombonist on the left.
We're very proud of her.
I also took a photo of this:
This is the pedastal on the statues of Queen Victoria in, you guessed it, Victoria square. It's just been cleaned. Can you see the red grafitti? You probably can't read it, though. It says 'Not the first Queen Victoria, not my Queen' And then, down the bottom, out of frame, it says 'free David Hicks'
Long live the Dead Monarchs
However, I did not take any photos of this until this morning
They're on the bonnet of my cousin's Valiant. Almost the same colour, ne? His new valiant (eye roll) is that exact same colour inside. No complaints from me, since it's my favourite ever. Anyway, that's the back, two fronts, and one sleeve. So close, people. So close. Last night I pinned it together and attempted to try it on to see if I had to do any adjustments, but it was so huge and heavy that it just pulled itself apart and I couldn't really see. Anyway, I've decided that since it's supposed to be a jacket, it doesn't really need to be close-fitting or whatever. Also, I'm lazy. That's a lot of knitting, y'all. I love this yarn. I heart Bendigo Woolen mills. It used to be my Cardigan for Arwen, but that didn't turn out so well. So I frogged it. Pictures later.
We were at my grandma's on Sunday for her birthday and she'd just finished a cabled cardigan. In Bendigo Mills wool, of course. I don't think she uses anything else. Here is a photo of her in it.
As an extra bonus, you also get, from L-R, Uncle Michael, Aunty Lisa (no, no idea what's going on there), Aunty Anne (mother of my two cousins I live with) Grandma in her cabled cardi, Uncle Daniel and my dad, Tim. Missing is Aunty Jane, Michael's twin. She was working. At IKEA.
Also out for a photo shoot this morning was my no-knead bread. I was toying with making this but it just sounded like too much organisation. Then I saw it in Australian Table, published by Coles. It was credited as 'adapted from the NY Times recipe' and in essence, it made it harder. So I went and got the original recipe and gave it a crack. The first time I was too lazy by the time we got to baking to look up what 450 degrees was in celcius, so it was a bit soggy in the middle. However, this time it is perfect, despite my cousin's reservations that it didn't sound hollow when she tapped it. I told her that the same could be said about her, and she could take her long line of bakers somewhere interesting, and stop touching my bread, please. So there. Anyway, this is its morning photo shoot.
I may have gotten a little excited. Here is what it looks like inside, too.
Mmmmmmmmm. Handmadealicious.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Feminist bakery
It was someone's farewell lunch at work today. It was a bring-a-plate lunch. I made cupcakes. This was for three reasons 1) I like cupcakes 2) I rock at baking (seriously. Cooking, we need a bit more work. Baking, I am the Queen. Or, you know. Non gender specific monarch.) 3) I had previously make cupcakes for someone's birthday and brought them in to work, and this guy had flipped his lid and raved about them. So I thought it was appropriate.
But it got me thinking. Why is it that compliments on my baked goods (or knitted items) make me glow inside with warmth and happiness, yet compliments about, say, my great work ethic or my appearence or cheerful attitude (tongue only slightly in cheek) make me uncomfortable and self conscious?
Is it because I don't think I deserve to be complimented on those things, that they aren't good things or aren't good enough to be complimented? Or do I feel that they are not representative of me, of myself, or that they are not appropriate topics for compliments? If so, what does this say about me? What does it mean that I slip so easily into the 'woman's role' when it comes to real world things like these, despite being just about the biggest mouth in the city when these issues are talked about in theory.
I pride myself on my independance. And sure, I don't need any of the men in my life (well, maybe my dad). But is that just a result of circumstance, and is it even a good thing, per se?
It's not that I don't think that the things I have made with my own two hands are worth praise. I do. But I guess I just am not sure where that level is. I hesitate to bring up that I knit, bake, or sew (a little) because that is not the person I wish to describe myself as to strangers. If it's someone I already know, I guess I feel like they know enough about me to judge me fairly - even if they judge me negatively, it won't be on one single fact. They can place the fact that I can and do do these things in with a bunch of other facts and feelings and give it context. I do knit in public, but that in itself is an act almost of subversion, something out of the norm, and sort of nullifies its 'women's work' image. But knitting at home in front of the fire with your cat by your side while waiting for your baked goods to be ready to ice as I did last night? Not so cool.
I remember telling someone about how I feel like it took me a year for my self-image to recover from being in China. Partly this was because I was just so much larger than everyone else that I always felt clumsy and huge, not a part of the same whatever that everyone else was - so different as to not even be in the same category. There was the same effect when it came to gender relations. The guys loved being in China, because the girls (and guys) there treated them like Men. They were expected to behave in the way Men behaved in the West in the 50's and before - and the Chinese girls (I suppose I should be saying 'women', shouldn't I?) acted accordingly. This meant that the guys had to call their girlfirends at least once a day, were required to say 'I love you' several times a day, and generally had to act in a way that made my stomach turn. And yet, as much as they complained, they seemed to love it. I suppose that is not so surprising.
For us girls, on the other hand, it was different. We weren't guys. But we clearly weren't like the Chinese girls.* We didn't giggle. Or twitter. Or try to walk up mountains with high heels on and then complain that our feet hurt. We didn't adorn our bedrooms with pink, frilly things, or, indeed, wear pink frilly things. I myself wore exactly two skirts in China. One was a denim mini skirt. The other was a long, black skirt with heavy, minority-style embroidery all around the bottom. Neither of which was what you'd call sweetly feminine. While in China, I bought mostly men's clothes and shoes, since that was what fit me. That, and tourist stuff, so lots of out there chinese style tops with dragons on, etc. Or, you know, stuff that was a little too tight and didn't really show off my various bumps and lumps to their best advantage.
In fact, most of us gals there were fairly hard-minded and hard-nosed. It takes a certain groups of personality traits to end you up teaching English in China, especially in Guiyang,** and the ability to faint neatly is not among them. So they Chinese people couldn't treat us like they treated girls (WOMEN) there. So they treated us as Foreigners. Which meant, like men.
Even to the foreigner men, we weren't really the same as women. I mean, here, at home, you get the girls-who-are-friends and the girls-who-are-girlfriends - the old, 'Damned Whores and God's Police'*** thing I guess, but it's not such a hard distinction, and the grey area in between in pretty enormous. In China, at least with the people I was with, not so much. I was just a person, not a Woman. Which in some ways was awesome. But the thing is, I am a Woman. I don't want to not be a Woman. So it was hard to adjust back into being able to be a complex human being in public, if you know what I mean. All this was going on on a pretty subconcious level, to the extent that, although I saw what was happening and articulated much of it, I didn't realise the extent to which it was affecting me.
So you remember how three paragraphs ago I was telling someone about this. I was trying to explain everything I've just said, about how I am not now, nor have I ever been, a girly girl, while Chinese Girls (as a whole) are. So I told them that I don't 'wear skirts or scads of makeup or frilly things or dress up to look nice for a man or bake and cook or sew or..."
Then I realised I do. I do or have done all of those things, while many of the mostly hideously offensively girly girls I knew in China wouldn't know how to cook, sew or clean if their life depended on it. In fact, in almost every way I am much more of a traditional woman than any of them. I do cook, and bake - in fact, I enjoy it, as long as there's no pressure to get it on the table. I knit and I know how to sew and I have extensive knowledge about things like how to get stains out, or the many varied uses for vinegar in the house, or how to sew a button on. Does this make me a bad feminist? I would like to think not, no more than not hand-sewing her children's clothes makes this woman a bad mother. But maybe I am a traitor to my class and cause. You tell me.
And what is the difference between being a downtrodden woman who cooks and bakes for her man because she needs his approval and an empowered, emancipated woman who cooks and bakes because she likes to and finds it a relaxing creative outlet and who also finds it pleasing when people appreciate her hard work and effort. (The last one's supposed to be me, FYI.) Is it perception and intention? Because those are such fluffy things, so hard to pin down. What about the downtrodden woman who cooks and bakes because she needs her man's approval but who also happens to find it a relaxing creative outlet? Oh, if only the villains would put their black hats back on and start waxing their mustaches, life would be so much simpler.
I'm a believer in the hoary old line that Feminism is about Choice. What you choose to do. It's your right to choose to stay home with the family or to become a CEO. Both these things of course require much sacrifice and hard work, but such is life. If that's what you choose, you should have to opportunity to make those sacrafices and work hard, as long as you don't have to make more and work more than others (men) in your same situation. I believe, deeply, that women and men are equal, but not the same. I think if you try to treat people the same, you end up treating them unequelly - expecting women to fit into a man's world, usually (although not always). And to not acknowledge the biology of us as a species is just foolish. To expect women not to want to have children, or to want to spend time with them when they have them, is unfair to women because it disadvantages them by making them work against their genetic and biological make-up.
As I said, I like being a Woman, I like being who I am, and I am not going to give that up. Not even for true Equality. That is the kind of Equality that Mao^ wanted for China - bringing everyone down to the lowest common denominator, not lifting people up. But if that is the price of equality, does that mean we will never have it?
So much of who we are is tied up in our gender identities. And often these are good things, things we like. I was reading a book on the different ways Men and Women talk (it was called 'You just don't understand' and it was a fascinating read, but embarrasing on public transport) and at the end, the author was talking about assymetries in body language. When men and women hug, she puts her face against his neck - a one-down position that frames her like a child, the one to be protected. When they walk along, his arm is over her shoulders, or her arm through his. Again, framing her as one-down, inferior, in need of protection. These are things we do without thinking, that feel right to do, that we don't know how to do another way.
So what's my conclusion? Well, I'm not sure. But I do know that my cupcakes are all gone. And they were good.
This was on my friend's door.
Does anyone know who did it so I can credit it?
Can you read it?
*Note: I knew many chinese girls who weren't like this. OK. Several. But most of them did a Jeckyl-Hyde as soon as they got a boyfriend - especially a Foriegn one. Also, this refers only to Chinese girls in China, more specifically in Guiyang, where I experienced them. It should not be taken as a judgement of people of Asian descent. It is a genralisation about the Gender Culture in the city in which I lived.
** The pictures in the Wiki entry are stunningly beautiful. My overall impression of Guiyang was... grey. Bleack. Cloudy. However, the last two photos of the temple - that was right near the second branch of the school where I taught, I walked past it almost every day. It was beautiful.
*** Check out the woman in the 1975 edition's cover. She looks like she's having waaaaay too much fun... ;P
^Speaking of Mao - is this the best T-shirt ever, or what? I totally want it!
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Photo-heavy
Here are some photos to accompany my updates.
Cat:
Cat:
And again:
And once more:
Hair:
How it used to look
How it looks now (only, not really because it needs a cut sooo bad. Next week, I promise, hair. Omg, I'm talking to my hair - no, I'm writing blog posts to my hair. Someone help!)
And, finally, some random photos from Mother's day of my extended family walking on the beach at Largs Bay:
That's my mum with her tongue out here
And this is my dad. No, I don't know what he's doing. Inspecting, I imagine.
Is this inappropriate?
Ok. So, I want to talk about something here, because I started to write a comment in the femiknit mafia's post, and it got waaaaay too long. So I'm going to post it here are link it. I was reluctant to do this, because, as Emily said, I like to curate my world on this blog, in internet land, etc, and I don't really feel like this has a place here. It doesn't really have much of a place in my everyday world, either, just because it's faded. But I think it's important. However, I don't want this to be preachy, because, you know, I'm talking about... dum dum dum... Abuse.
Only, I want there to be no capitals, because this is not a story of Abuse and Suffering, nor is it a story of Triumph over Hardship. It was just something that happened, that's over now.
The story goes like this. I was abused when I was a kid. I must have been about 8; certainly no more than 9. Nothing major, nothing too vile. It was once off, and it wasn't a relative, which I think would be much worse - how do you tell someone about that when you're a kid and they are someone who is supposed to be protecting you? Anyway, in my case it was someone who volunteered at the place where both my parents worked, and they had him over for a day because... well, I guess they felt sorry for him. He was disabled, you see, physically and I believe a little intellectually disabled as well. For that same reason, I wasn't allowed to dislike him, even though I did. I had to be polite and all that, which of course is as it should be.
Anyway, long story short, he felt me up a little. My dad was home, but busy running around doing house stuff and looking after my sister who would have been under one then. I won't pretend it was fun. I won't pretend I coped with it exceedingly well as it was happening.
However, that night, I told my mum. And as far as I was concerned, it was over, then. It was done. It was no longer my problem. We ended up prosecuting him, (I just wrote persecuting - is that bad?) but only, really, because it turned out that he had done this before. Always to girls younger than me, none of whom had wanted to testify. So I decided that I wanted to prosecute because people who do those things ought to be prosecuted. As it turned out, he made a deal and I didn't get to testify in court. I was disappointed. Go figure.
I hesitated to bring this up, because I really don't think of myself as part of the category of people who have been abused - whatever that means. Anyhow, it certainly isn't a part of my life now, nor has it shaped anything to do with me since the court case was over. It did for other people, though. I know my mum was worried about whether I would be scarred by it. Also, the place where they worked changed almost all of their staff, and he came back to volunteer. The single staff member who remembered the incident was outraged that he was there, and spoke up. She was trounced, because, you know, he was disabled, he must be pure and good.
{This is not a denouncement of disabled people, either (wandering off topic) it's just that, you know, people in minorities can be bad too, or annoying, or incompetant. They are all just people with individual traits, and treating people like they are only what their 'group' is is as discriminatory when it's good as when it's bad. Only, you know, not as bad.}
ANYWAY.
The point was, I was not a gregarious child. In fact, when I think about what I was like the word that comes to mind is 'anxious'. I was verbal, I suppose, which helped me articulate what had happened and get it out of my head, sort of. What I think helped the most, though, was that I knew what sex was. My parents weren't afraid to talk to me about it (well, maybe they were, but they did it anyway) or answer my questions, and I had books and stuff. I think I had a fair grasp on what the story was, as far as a kid can do. I knew what it was supposed to be. I knew that touching down there was related to sex, but that this was not meant to happen, that what he did to me was wrong, and that my parents would think so to. It meant I could tell them and I knew that they knew what to do (even if they didn't)
My message to Mafia is not to forget: kids are smart. And they are strong. As long as the frameworks of support and love are there for them to lean on, kids can bounce back from a lot of things. And they pick up more than you think they do. I'm not saying that they know what to do in every situation, but if they know that you are there to talk to about it, to help them, then they can deal with a lot. I think Little Man would be fine, God forbid anything like that happened, with you and Wifey there to support him. He might not be able to articulate how he knows, but I'm sure if anyone tried to pull anything inappropriate, he'd know.
In conclusion: congratulations on your Dale!
Only, I want there to be no capitals, because this is not a story of Abuse and Suffering, nor is it a story of Triumph over Hardship. It was just something that happened, that's over now.
The story goes like this. I was abused when I was a kid. I must have been about 8; certainly no more than 9. Nothing major, nothing too vile. It was once off, and it wasn't a relative, which I think would be much worse - how do you tell someone about that when you're a kid and they are someone who is supposed to be protecting you? Anyway, in my case it was someone who volunteered at the place where both my parents worked, and they had him over for a day because... well, I guess they felt sorry for him. He was disabled, you see, physically and I believe a little intellectually disabled as well. For that same reason, I wasn't allowed to dislike him, even though I did. I had to be polite and all that, which of course is as it should be.
Anyway, long story short, he felt me up a little. My dad was home, but busy running around doing house stuff and looking after my sister who would have been under one then. I won't pretend it was fun. I won't pretend I coped with it exceedingly well as it was happening.
However, that night, I told my mum. And as far as I was concerned, it was over, then. It was done. It was no longer my problem. We ended up prosecuting him, (I just wrote persecuting - is that bad?) but only, really, because it turned out that he had done this before. Always to girls younger than me, none of whom had wanted to testify. So I decided that I wanted to prosecute because people who do those things ought to be prosecuted. As it turned out, he made a deal and I didn't get to testify in court. I was disappointed. Go figure.
I hesitated to bring this up, because I really don't think of myself as part of the category of people who have been abused - whatever that means. Anyhow, it certainly isn't a part of my life now, nor has it shaped anything to do with me since the court case was over. It did for other people, though. I know my mum was worried about whether I would be scarred by it. Also, the place where they worked changed almost all of their staff, and he came back to volunteer. The single staff member who remembered the incident was outraged that he was there, and spoke up. She was trounced, because, you know, he was disabled, he must be pure and good.
{This is not a denouncement of disabled people, either (wandering off topic) it's just that, you know, people in minorities can be bad too, or annoying, or incompetant. They are all just people with individual traits, and treating people like they are only what their 'group' is is as discriminatory when it's good as when it's bad. Only, you know, not as bad.}
ANYWAY.
The point was, I was not a gregarious child. In fact, when I think about what I was like the word that comes to mind is 'anxious'. I was verbal, I suppose, which helped me articulate what had happened and get it out of my head, sort of. What I think helped the most, though, was that I knew what sex was. My parents weren't afraid to talk to me about it (well, maybe they were, but they did it anyway) or answer my questions, and I had books and stuff. I think I had a fair grasp on what the story was, as far as a kid can do. I knew what it was supposed to be. I knew that touching down there was related to sex, but that this was not meant to happen, that what he did to me was wrong, and that my parents would think so to. It meant I could tell them and I knew that they knew what to do (even if they didn't)
My message to Mafia is not to forget: kids are smart. And they are strong. As long as the frameworks of support and love are there for them to lean on, kids can bounce back from a lot of things. And they pick up more than you think they do. I'm not saying that they know what to do in every situation, but if they know that you are there to talk to about it, to help them, then they can deal with a lot. I think Little Man would be fine, God forbid anything like that happened, with you and Wifey there to support him. He might not be able to articulate how he knows, but I'm sure if anyone tried to pull anything inappropriate, he'd know.
In conclusion: congratulations on your Dale!
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
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
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
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 20, 2007
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...
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 |
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! |
So the best one. Totally satisfied with this test.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
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
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
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!
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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?
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
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.
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
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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...
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...
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