Not fab-keen on Mondays

Music is playing in the background. It’s the new CD by a band called The Woohoo Revue. We caught their act last night at The Red Rattler in Marrickville. TWR is a 6 piece band from Melbourne; five guys and a woman in a shiny lime green leotard and black tights who play gypsy-style folk / jazz (for the want of a better discription). They were a lot of fun. Spike danced herself sore. We had been drawn to the Red Rattler by the main attraction, Waiting For Guinness (a seven piece, all-male bunch who come from the same sort of musical place, maybe a bit more diverse in their interests with a broader range, a much larger array of instruments – maybe twenty or more between the performers – plus vocals, including original songs).

The music was excellent, the venue as good this time as it was on our first visit (inviting, friendly, over the top with Lesbian kitsch, including outré furnishings that I’ve said elsewhere look as if they’ve been salvaged from a 19^th Century Parisian brothel that’s gone out of business). Sadly there was a much smaller crowd last night than on the evening we caught The Barons Of Tang (when the place was jumping). There might have 50 or 60 people. Take out the venue crew, the bands’ guest lists and the sound guy and there may have been 30 or so of us paying at the door. That was a pity. Both bands deserved better. It obviously would have had an effect on the take at the door (at $20 per ticket, no one got rich last night). But the greatest effect was on the atmosphere. They are both bands that play music to dance to. With so few people in attendance it was almost impossible to build the momentum. Anyone getting up to dance – and quite a few did – looked and felt a bit exposed on the sparsely populated dance floor. There was no chance for dancers to lose themselves in the physicality of their movement. There was no crowd to vanish into then let yourself go. Folk danced and enjoyed themselves when they did so but it wasn’t quite the experience either the bands or the dancers had looked forward to at the start of the night.

But we had fun chatting to band members before and after the show – it’s that kind of place: small, intimate; band members taking money at the door on the way in and selling CDs at the door as we left. We bought one by each band. It’s been that music which has been playing behind me as I type these words, which turn out to have almost nothing to say about today – the last Monday of the working year for me. Thank God.

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The first black man in Scotland

The first black man in Scotland

What boys we were.

Two innocents. Too young

but not quite young enough

to hide from truth.

And so we sheltered

where we stood,

behind the sideboard

in the kitchen

of that 60’s ‘room and kitchen’

in the grey east end

of no mean city

where he lived and worked

and died, the day

the first black man in Scotland

came to call.

A man as black as ebony.

Young with tight, black hair.

Obsidian eyes

in pools of white.

And yellow palms.

A voice like velvet.

We watched in awe.

We eavesdropped from our haven

as he told our father’s mother

how her husband fell;

redundant legs that buckled

as he clutched his chest

and raised a hand forlornly

to clasp the outstretched arm

of the first black man in Scotland,

who caught him

as he tumbled down to God

while they waited in a queue

for a bus that never came.

And as our father thanked

the first black man in Scotland,

then showed him to the door,

my father’s widowed mother

crossed the floor

to hold her hiding grandsons

in her arms. And weeping,

all colour drained out

of an empty, ghost-like face,

she said, oh boys,

your granda’s never coming home.

And we were mystified

but now a lifetime less

than innocent; lost

for words enough to say

what mattered on the day

the first black man in Scotland

came to tell the story

of our father’s father’s end.

But only this thought struck us

as we held our grandma tight:

We said, that man was black.

And she said, yes,

God bless him.

This month's poetry workshop in The Guardian has fathers as its theme. I stuck this in. It's not really about fatherhood but you never know.

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Restaurant Arras

Spike and I enjoyed the degustation menu of fish and vegetables at Restaurant Arras in Hickson Road as much as any meal we’ve dined on this year and more than most. I particularly enjoyed the scallop with pea number; the mulloway (? Jewfish apparently ?) and the tomato soup plus friend (which was astonishing, original and completely unexpected). I enjoyed the snapper too (although it was a touch drier than I thought it needed to be). The final selection (an alternative version of the rocky road) didn’t quite add to the totality of the experience; it didn’t complement the preceding dishes, maybe seemed a little overwhelming. It might get the response it deserves as a stand-alone sweet rather than the final component of the degustation list. Spike enjoyed your wine selection, particularly the port aperitif, the first French white and the Oregon red.

The meal took over three hours from start to finish. As a result we missed Waiting For Guinness at The Wharf, the reason we were out and about. Sorry Spike ... Big Mac next time.

We read about Arras in the blog, the unbearable lightness of being hungry. Glad we found it.
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The Use Of Poetry by Ian McEwan

I read this short story by Ian McEwan in this week's New Yorker. The first half was thoroughly engaging, perceptive albeit mildly acerbic and a touch cynical. The consequences for Maisie Farmer of womens' liberation didn't ring true to me and it was there that the story lost the plot (so to speak). I think I expected more of both Ian McEwan and The New Yorker.
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Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs

Funny, at times surreal; now and again plain, old-fashioned bonkers. The cooked chicken sequence defies description.

One almost feels sorry for Jet Star

Angela Catterns of ABC Radio 702 interviewed me for ten minutes in the afternoon about the wheelchair users' policy Jet Star operate requiring us to surrender our chairs at check-in rather than the gate. News outlets this morning had been all over a story told by Kurt Fearnley last night at the national disability awards (which I missed attending because of my arse). On his return from crawling the length of the Kokoda track in 8 days, Jet Star made him surrender his wheelchair at check-in. Rather than be pushed through the terminal in Brisbane on a Jet Star aisle chair, he crawled to the gate then went public. Jet Star has been in damage control all day. So I got to speak on air about this afternoon. I spoke well. That at least made this frustrating day worthwhile.
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And today's word is ...

... abscess

That's what the doctor says I have on / in my much larger than usual right buttock. First, it seems, we're going to try a series of daily injections of some antibiotic that appears to have the strength to fell horses. If that fails we'll decide (on Sunday) if it's going to require a spell in hospital. THAT, I can do without.

Photo by Ardo Leijen
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The long and winding road to Geelong

It turns out that my speculation on the 11^th of this month was about right. It wasn’t an overactive bowel that was causing my sweating. It was damaged skin on my right buttock. I spent the next four days in bed while the superficial damage healed. I stayed away from work for two further days, sitting on my wheelchair on an inflatable rubber ring that Spike bought. I had to work today though, having committed to speak at a staff gathering of employees of a Victoria open employment support NGO. I just couldn’t tell them I couldn’t attend, not at 24 hours notice. So Spike accompanied me, which was fun for me.

We drove to the airport at 5:30 a.m. then flew to Melbourne. We caught the Skybus into the CBD, which really did take no more than the timetabled 20 minutes (much to my amazement). We caught the V-Line train for Geelong in plenty of time. Thanks to two infuriating delays at a place called Werribee (maybe because of a level crossing boom-gate, maybe because of signal failure, maybe because of alienated youths train-surfing, maybe because of all three) our 56 minute trip took 2 hours and 20 minutes. Our hosts re-arranged the agenda, brought forward lunch and slotted me in shortly after we arrived by taxi from the train station. I spoke well but, as usual, for too long.

After saying our farewells, leaving them to some outdoor team-building exercises, Spike and I wiled away the late afternoon at the twee waterfront. It must have been a working port at one point, now gentrified in a not-unpleasant way. Our hosts insisted we take a taxi back to the airport. Even at $125 for the trip (which they too insisted on paying) we didn’t say no. We were NOT risking the train again. We caught the 8:30 p.m. flight back to Sydney then I drove home.

All accomplished sitting on a bright red inflatable rubber rung. I can be a ridiculous old twit. I am glad I made the effort, though; not that I could have done it without Spike. Fortunately it did no damage to my buttock (didn’t improve it but did no damage).

The Carousel at Geelong

It's all the fault of women, apparently

I read Book Three of The Iliad this evening: Paris, Menelaus and Helen. The text lead me to some pages in Wiki concerning the judgement of Paris. I vaguely recalled the phrase but not the story behind it. Reading the summary in Wiki, I had an 'aha' moment ... so that's what led to the Trojan War. It wasn't simply (or at all) that Helen was fickle, favouring Paris on her wedding night to Menelaus. Helen, I now understand - although maybe I knew this but had forgotten - Helen was the bribe offered by Aphrodite to Paris given the task (by Zeus) of choosing "the fairest" at a feast on Mount Olympus. The prize to be awarded by Paris was the golden apple - aka the apple of discord - thrown into the mix by Eris, the goddess of Discord, who had not been invited to the banquet by Zeus. So it's all the fault of women, except if Zeus had been more attentive to the needs of everyone none of the mess would have happened at all.
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Battlestar Galacta: the plan

We watched nearly two hours of total-Geek science fiction. It made sense to me because I'm a fan of the re-make series and have watched every episode. Spike may have been slightly bemused from time to time because as a stand-alone narrative I have to be honest and say 'The 'Plan' is bonkers, full of plot holes, illogical jumps and unexplained comings and goings.

I wondered if it was essentially a compilation of deleted scenes from Series 1 and 2. It's unlikely the producers would have recalled actors only to have filmed chat between good versus bad 'skin jobs'. That may make the piece a triumph of editing but even then we're still in the territory of unnecessary movie making. It added nothing of depth or complexity and, what's worse, felt a little ... dare one say this about BG ... boring.
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Agamemnon's dream

Book Two of The Iliad today. The latter half, known as the catalogue of ships, is (to say the least) challenging. Basically it's a long list of ancient Greeks' names and just as long a list of ancient Greek places - principalities, kingdoms and cities - most of which are difficult to pronounce and some impossible. And there are the Trojan leaders and places too. I guess the listings meant more to Greeks around 400 BC when the oral tradition, the need to recite great works in public was at its height. Still, I ploughed through it. One must.

The opening sequence was enjoyable: capricious Gods, evil Dream whispering in the ear of a vainglorious Agamemnon, the rush for the boats home as he tests his men and the efforts of Odysseus to rally the troops. They do feel real, those Kings and Generals of Greece. Agamemnon, proud but brave, a nincompoop at times; Nestor the toady, arse-licker; sulking Achilles, loyal Odysseus. As for the gods? One of the most appealing aspects of these epic tales is that the gods are such capricious, scheming, untrustworthy and devious actors in their own rights; a warring family who fight the petty battles of Mount Olympus often like bored, impetuous, spoiled children. You would think that Agamemnon might have known better than to trust the words of Dream. He'll learn (too late).
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The Quarrel by the Ships

Sitting at home, bathed in the warm sun of a Spring Saturday, I was gripped by another of my periodic moments of self-doubt about writing. You know the sort of self-destructive, poisonous thought ... I'll never amount to anything, never produce anything worthwhile, never be published, etc, etc. All of that's probably true but none of it manages to kill the desire.

Ditch the ego, just write ... said Halimah (years ago). I try but every now and then again I wonder, write what? How?

So, I spent a while today wandering the Internet looking for something, not sure what; a spark of genius, inspiration maybe or an easy answer (of which there are none). I did, however, come across this piece of useful advice (from Stephen King). "If you want to be a writer you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." It's hard to resist the obvious.

It seems like a good idea, therefore, to go back to the beginning (so to speak). That explains the hour or so, probably more, reading aloud book one of The Iliad in a translation by Ian Johnston

Good old Homer, then: my saviour. Maybe. Maybe not. At least I'm writing something, even if it's no more than this blog entry about how I'll never amount to anything as a writer.
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A Christmas Carol

On the plus side: Robert Zemeckis's new movie stays faithful to the original, although I'm not sure that all that Dickensian moralising has much appeal in the 21st Century. That's not the fault of Dickens, of course. The spirit of Marley is well done; quite scary. The spirit horse's head emerging from the the shadows on the wall is effective; maybe the most effective image or scene in the entire movie. the snow was quite well-realised in 3D as were the (too many) scenes of characters observed through glass. Neither is a strong enough justification of 3D.

On the negative side: it's long and tedious at times. There's much too much whooshing through the air (a bit reminiscent of The Snowman): whoosh over the roof tops of London (several times); whoosh through the trees of Christmas past; whoosh down the drains and across icicle-strewn tiled roofs during the rather ridiculous shrunk-Scrooge sequence; whoosh to the graveyard of Christmas yet to come. Robin Wright Penn, Bob Hoskins and Colin Firth were under-used.

Ho hum. Well-intentioned but thoroughly unnecessary. I don't think the world really needs a new Christmas Carol. If we must have one, it ought to have been more engaging than this.

Something in the air

Intoxicated by her scent,

something citrus

with cardamom and salt (incredibly),

provoking a way through

this still, night air; lifting off skin

at the end of this too hot day -

too fiery, too dry,

almost dangerous

and too much like summer for spring -

the idea strikes me

we may never comprehend

the alchemist’s intentions

for that is not the purpose

nor is that how this ends.

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Fresh Snow

Crisp under foot, its surface
crumpling beneath a worn yellow boot
to give out a sound that could be
confused with the noise an egg makes -
hard-boiled - when tapped gently
on a corduroy-clad knee, resting
near the summit of Buchaille Etive Mhor
on a cloud-free day when we were
sixteen maybe - or seventeen
at a push - with few concerns
(none of them serious) and too little
imagination to worry in any way
beneath that pristine sky, azure,
unbroken as far as the eye could see
beyond Ben Nevis to the east,
The Cullens on Skye to the west
and the whole Great Glen running north
to south where home lay, distant and safe.

I wrote the lines above after reading this (in search of inspiration I suppose). I have a lot to lear about poetry.

DON PATERSON

Sliding on Loch Ogil

Remember, brother soul, that day spent cleaving
nothing from nothing, like a thrown knife?
Then there was no arriving and no leaving,
just a dream of the disintricated life —
crucified and free, the still man moving,
the balancing his work, the wind his wife.

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Exam time

So my university preparation course ended today with a three-hour exam in Sydney University's New Law Building (a triumph of form over function). I answered four questions in three hours (having not pursued the extra time my disabling condition probably warranted). In order of writing I answered questions on T S Eliot, Crash, Beloved and Shakespeare's Sonnet 55 (ran out of time on that one.) I think I did well enough to achieve a distinction for the course.

When / if I enrol in the undergraduate course I'll need to aim higher. The target, 10 years from now, is to secure my PhD.

The Imaginarium Of Doctor Parnassus

Enjoyable, visually sumptuous (arresting even) at times. It's the product of a splendid vision in search of a weightier idea. Tom Waites steals the show, of course (but, when you think about it, the Devil has been stealing scenes since before Milton's Paradise Lost). Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell do good jobs filling in for Heath Ledger beyond the mirror. My guess is their presence adds to the piece, although (obviously) we'd all rather the hugely talented Mr Ledger was still with us.

I've seen many worse movies (plenty of them this year). It's worth the ticket price.

Kirribilli House

I was part of the 'national housing dialogue' on universal housing design, which took place at the PM's official residence in Sydney. Apparently HRH Prince Edward was staying next door at Admiralty House. It appears that some of the participants in our event thought there was something remarkable / of interest about the Royal presence over the wall. God ... we can be colonials when we set our minds to it.

We've been working towards this event for months, years in an odd sort of way. There's light at the end of the tunnel ... possibly. It's not an on-coming train but the very real possibility that within three years, maybe five at the most, there'll be a national regulatory framework that will require all new Australian dwellings to be at least visitable; probably more than that.

I sat on the flagstones beneath the eaves of the house looking out across Sydney Harbour on an uncharacteristically chilly, gray day. I had just finished a small Prime Ministerial quiche and was about to start on a smoked salmon fillet sandwich with cucumber and maybe dill and thought there are worse ways to make one's contribution. I thought too that it has been a decent contribution ... to Parts T & M of the UK's Building Regulations in the late 1990s and to the Building Code of Australia now. That ought to be worth at least one salmon sandwich over the garden wall from one of Windsors.

By the way ... when I say "we've been working" that's the Royal We. My colleague Amelia did all the detailed, hard yakka. Mostly I said, "good job Amelia; keep going."

Parliamentary Secretary for Disabilities, the Hon Bill Shorten MP, published this statement on today's work.
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Just write, Dougie

All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.

George Orwell, Why I Write

Orwell at Wiki
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A slow awakening

Nothing like a devastating earthquake
in the foothills of the uninhabited
mountains of lost memories
(which once we called experience)
a tremor starts

its epicentre
neither seen nor known nor understood
but felt with all the close intensity
of a lover's breath upon the back
of a neck bending towards sunlight.
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Up

Charming. It's laugh out loud funny at times and I can't recall the last time I was at a movie when the entire audience laughed together. it's impossible not to be impressed by the people at Pixar. They create modern fairy tales (in contrast to Disney, the grand-daddy of re-telling old tales). Pixar takes risks too. Up is a very good example: it's the tale of an old man who takes to flight in a house carried by helium filled party balloons; perhaps the most charismatic character, Ellie, leaves the stage after 20 minutes; there's realistic death (last saw that in Bambi). Loved it. The short film that precedes Up, Partly Cloudy, is another Pixar gem.

Oracle

Meryl Tankard's new work at the Opera House based on the rites of spring is brilliant. Paul White's dancing was astonishing. I ended the evening with panache ... tumbling off the stair lift on to the floor. No real damage done but one was almost crushed to death by the stampede of available young men who ran to assist. Cool is not the word for it but 5.7 for the artistic merit of one's dive. dickhead.

Sign of the times

First of two days of discussion by the Council I'm paid to support. We presented an enormous cake to Chevoy, one of the AUSLAN interpreters we use regularly. She has recently been the winner of an award as the nation's top interpreter. Chevoy seemed genuinely touched. My over-ordering means she'll be eating cake until next year's winner is announced. The image was laser-printed onto rice paper then Michelle's cake-shop ... national chain ... topped the sponge with the jpeg image. Ah, the wonder of the Internet.

Acts of creation ... blow torch essential

Rabbit Proof Fence

First of two classes on the movie of 2002 based on the book of 1994. Asked by Dr Morrison what we thought of the film when first we saw it (on release) I found myself (surprisingly) letting rip ... didn't trust its story-telling from the moment it started until the end; tells us it's a "true story" but the film doesn't even stick with Doris's re-telling of her mother's story; scenes in the movie that simply aren't in the book - A O Neville never met Molly, no evidence that kids sang Swanee to him, the girls didn't travel south by train in a cage but by boat as passengers, Mavis is fictional, the girls didn't steal on their journey home, they didn't collapse in the desert to be saved by a bird, Gracie's capture at the railway line never took place, Molly and Daisy rode the last section on a family friend's camel. It was, I said, bleeding heart liberalism at its worse. Why couldn't Noyce simply tell the girls' story as they recounted it? Why do the whole Hollywood job on a story with enough drama in it to satisfy anyone?

The (male) movie-maker's gaze upon the precocious, defiant central character idealised her story. There were too many distorting fictions that reinforced conservative portrayals of undifferentiated aboriginality as perceived by the dominant ideology ... white, male, urban, middle-class looking at black, female, childlike, noble savage archetypes fixed firmly in the past. I suggested too that everyone in the room try the Neil Armstrong test ... name the second man on the moon or the third, fourth or fifth ... applied to black Australian actors ... name someone other than David Gulpilil ... big silence then, Ernie Dingo maybe.

But I felt the unfairness of my own argument. Phillip Noyce's movie took the story of the Stolen Generations to millions of people who would never have engaged with it otherwise. RPF raised interest in real issues at home and abroad. This is true for me as much as anyone. I find the book more compelling but I never thought of buying it until tjhe movie was made. that'll make me another bleeding heart hypocrite I guess.

Read the book. Watch the movie. Make up your own mind.

by the way ... read about the fence here. As if it could ever have kept out rabbits. What a monument to the silliness of men.

"Unfortunately, the fence did not stop the rabbits from moving westward. There were parts of the fence which eroded underneath, holes in the wire developed, and sometimes gates would be left open, enabling the rabbits to pass through."
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Study day

Spike worked on essay. I watched Rabbit Proof Fence, the movie made by Phillip Noyce. I know which one of us had the tougher academic task. My old doubts about the movie were not challenged by watching it once more. The word may be problematic.

New Breed

Thanks to free tickets as part of a promotion to spread the word about the access improvements at the Sydney Opera House we attended the afternoon show of new dance pieces at the Playhouse. The new wheelchair location is immeasurably better than the previous arrangement. We stayed for the Q & A with the choreographers. That was interesting.

The show offered the first chance for each of the choreographers to stage a piece at the SOH in front of a live (sold out) audience. All four behaved as if Christmas had come early. I enjoyed the four dances, each quite different from the others (although all of them were fairly muscular and athletic rather than balletic). Slack was the most engaging for me (Spike too) but all four were truly impressive.
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Follow The Rabbit Proof Fence

Started and finished the book by Doris Pilkington in preparation for next week's class on the movie. The short read contains a great deal. It's infinitely preferable to what I can recall of the film.

Why so loud?

Good question. Second Beloved class.

More then mildly irritated man ...

... discovers why those who do have been raving about the television series Mad Men. I didn't drive Spike to Dooralong for father's day because the damn chain broke yesterday. Do I think there's a link ... no pun intended ... to the six weeks and work done in Revesby? Well, is the Pope a Catholic and do bears shit in the woods?

Seriously pissed off, by myself and much in need of distraction I turned to the web for diverting entertainment. After reading the UK Sunday newspapers, listening to Just A Minute and Mark Kermode's movie reviews on BBC Radio I finally caught Mad Men. I'm hooked. It's brilliant. The bravado of the writing is awe-inspiring. It's like watching a Richard Yates character step out of one of his short stories. At times it's hard to believe the world was like that but I can accept that it was ... the search for a company Jew, the silence of black characters in this white-man's world, the advertising men with their views of women (like a dog with a typewriter!!), the vulnerability of the probably gay character. I've seen four episodes now. I hope it stays away from soap opera. Brilliant television.
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Happy birthday Simon

After Rosie's concert at the Concordia Club (at which she didn't sing) and after the chain broke on the van, which meant Spike had to hold the door closed using the oily chain, and after driving up and down Leichhardt's busy streets in search of a parking spot, we spent what was left of the evening with Simon and Dilys, the family and friends helping him celebrate his birthday. S & D are off to Spain in a couple of weeks. It's the first I've seen of them for 9 months. It was, of course, slightly odd at the outset but genuinely enjoyable in the end. That's progress I suppose.

Giles Bettison at Sabbia Gallery

Spike took me to an opening at Sabbia of work by South Australian glass artist Giles Bettison. I admire the commitment that's obvious in the pieces made using a traditional technique known as murrine. The troble is that as admirable as that commitment is and as technically precise as it must be I'm afraid Mr Bettison's work left me unmoved. I couldn't imagine living with any of his work. Still, at least half of the works sported red dots so my guess is Giles doesn't care what I think. In fact, he doesn't even know I'm alive.

I had a near-miss ... although strictly speaking it was a near hit. I moved in my chair, lost balance and headed toward the floor. I stopped when Spike grabbed me then hauled me back to upright. I missed a plinth holding two of Giles's pieces by the smallest fraction imaginable. There would have been a $15,000 fall I could certainly have done without.
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Happy man

6 weeks and $2,600 later ... I got the van back today. Hip, hip, hooray!!!
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Beloved part 1

First of two classes on Toni Morrison's Beloved. I said it is one of the finest novels I've ever read; a truly great work of fiction, which is a very rare thing indeed. Dr Morrison did not disagree. Some in the class talked a bit about the movie version, which I've not seen. It's hard to imagine Oprah Winfrey carrying off the Sethe character but Fiona M reckons she does a decent enough job but that Thandie Newtone is somewhat less than spectacular as Beloved. I'm surprised by both.

At the end of my class we received our second essay marks ... 17.5 out of 20 for my piece on Pride And Prejudice. That's the high distinction I was aiming for. All I need to do now is keep up that standard, improving on it if I can.
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Hip hip hooray

I don't have an essay to write today for submission tomorrow. I get an essay back tomorrow (Jane Austen's Pride And Prejudice) and have at least two weeks to write the third and final assessment of course work.

Hip, hip, hooray. (Card by Alice Carmen here)

Spike, I'm sorry to say, does have an essay to submit tomorrow. We can't all be lucky all the time ... or can we?

Lazy start, lounging in the sun, followed by toast n mushrooms n tea n juice. I continued with my re-reading of Beloved (subject of my third essay). Spike wrote ... slowly, as she describes it ... at her speed, is how I think of it.

Track work on the railway lines below us drove me past the point of distraction. I'm sure it's necessary. I understand it can be noisy. But guys ... please ... it's been two years. Aint it fixed yet??????????????

Sydney College of the Arts Open Day

We attend the College Open Day. Can it really be a year since the last one? This time Spike is a student.

The van is still off the road so we were required to catch buses, which is not without its challenges when it's essential they have wheelchair access. Our first bus (7:05 a.m.) was scheduled as accessible. It was late (of course) but accessible as promised. We anticipated a forty-five minute wait for the connecting accessible service ... not quite long enough for breakfast - too long to make hanging around much joy ... but lo and behold the first bus to come was also accessible. The whole journey took 45 minutes. We'd feared twice that time.

Breakfast in Rozelle, La Grande Bouffe in Darling Street. Good eggs. Pushed to the college in light rain for which neither of us had prepared; promised (as we were) 28 degrees and sun.

I don't mean to br critical ... but ... Ok ... it's an art college. They're creative people; talented I'm sure. To be frank (but diplomatic) organisation is clearly not their forte.

Whatever ... the open day started ... eventually, sort of. Stuff seemed to begin; people arrived (exhibitors at least as puzzled as the visiting public). But the clouds cleared from the sky, the sun warmed up the windswept precincts of the former asylum, the day unfolded pleasantly.

Spike gave a tour of the glass studio, sold earrings at the market stall (6 pairs) and gave a demonstration of lamp work to genuinely interested passers-by and an enthusiastic in-house video crew.

I watched a woman called Stevie (in the left of this photo) spin a platter, which I subsequently purchased. It's cooling in the kiln. At the end of the day, after the public had gone, students and staff of the glass studio tidied up, shared some beers and crowded in to the hot shop to watch a team pour molten glass in giant ladles into a sand-filled casting box. Hot stuff.

We had a long wait between buses on the return journey but not (interestingly enough to me) because buses weren't accessible. It's just that public transport ... as much as one wishes it could be otherwise ... is sometimes less than wholly convenient. There can be delays. Those are understatements.

Finished off the day with pizzas. It's been a more than decent Saturday.

Settlement

So, the flat became mine today at Noon. At least the mortgage became mine, which is not quite the same thing. I'll be working until I'm 82 to pay it off!! Does that mean I'm not allowed to die before then? Even then I'm sure that banks have worked out ways to keep sucking the blood right out of you. But what a funny old day it's been (by which I mean peculiar as opposed to comical).

I took on a debt of something close to half a million. I visited the bank to personally authorise the transfer of 25K from my bank account ... as if I actually had $25,0000 ... to my layer's account. I activated a new credit card ... as if I really need another one of those! Still, once the transfers are completed I ought to be able to ditch the Amex thank God. Withdrew some cash for me to spend and here we suddenly are returned to the real world: 250 bucks and most of that will go on food and travel.

And, of course, there's the whole back-story that makes all this wheeling and dealing necessary. That's the serious part of all this to-ing and fro-ing ... 4 banks, two mortgages, lawyers, mortgage broker, credit cards, loans, binding agreements, deadlines, settlement. Shit is what amounts to. Not my finest hour and not the best day of my life.

There is always Scarlett O'hara, of course or the irrepressible Suggs and the boys in Madness. Take you pick Dougie. Either way, the sun comes up.

I'm a quadiplegic

I know how to sweat for no apparent reason!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Parliament in the morning (my thoughts came together, which meant my session did too) then Chairing the Lifetime Care and Support Authority Advisory Council in the afternoon. I ambled down Macquarie Street to Hyde Park where I paused for a while by the fountain, in the sun, watching lunch time unfold in the heart of the city. Lovely.

When I decided to move on through the trees that are doomed by some blight (apparently) I headed first to galleries Victoria for a Laksa its makers claim is the best in Sydney. It's not but it did the job. After that I was drawn to Kinokinuya, as I always am when in that space. I Bought Follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence for me and Rooftops, a graphic novel by Mandy Ord, for Spike. That book store is an irresistible treasure trove.

Naturally, at least in my universe, travelling through the underground mall adjacent to Town Hall station necessitates a detour to the German bread shop. It IS a hard life I live, isn't it?

Noodles with Spike in the evening. The second glass of cheap wine is ALWAYS a mistake. (Actually, even one glass of cheap wine is a debatable decision ... but we're human; we forget or live in hope. We should learn, however, that hope and cheap wine never meet).
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And today's word is ...

... SAVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

... as in save your unsaved notes for tomorrow's presentation before Sike's Asus freezes. I guess another word could have been lost ... or irretrievable ... or aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhh!

Spike tried to assist me. It was beyond both of us. Besides, the clock is ticking on her own deadline for tomorrow's assignment at the college.

I would just like to make this point. Of all the questions one could ask when it's clear the computer is not going to unfreeze I suggest not uttering this one ... have you saved your work? Not a good question: no, no, no, no, no!!
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Why let work benefit?

I have no university class this evening; this being week three of a three week break. So I stayed in the office, working late on draft policy papers including my thoughts on notes that I'll use to lead a discussion on legal capacity with members of the State Parliament's Social Affairs Committee. I can't quite get my head around how I should approach the subject. Maybe it will come together in a coherent thought soon. Maybe it'll be one of my more embarrassing moments.

I do wonder (but only a little) why I give the free time I've gained with the university break to my employer? It's because I always do, of course. But why not give it to my writing - to my second novel that I still haven't a real grasp of or my poetry, which still lacks the transcendence good poetry needs. One day I'll learn. Or not, as the case may be.
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First day of Sprinter?

It has been warm and pleasant today - more than warm; positively hot. Just the kind of day for a 3 or 4 kilometres push through the undulating back-streets of Summer Hill. There's an appropriate name for a suburb, if ever I read one.

We made our way by taxi this morning to Hoskins Park in Dulwich Hill (via Hensons Park in Marrickville). Only when it became clear we were not in the vicinity of the correct destination did we learn that the venue for the farewell brunch for Kelly, David and their son Jara had moved north west by one suburb. Hoskins rather than Hensons; Park is the same word wherever it is; Dulwich Hill is a subdivision of Marrickville, so I guess that technically speaking we weren't wrong there either. It's not important. Worse things happen at sea.

We joined a group of mostly thirty-something parents with a varied selection of children - mostly boys, as it happens - between the ages of two and four. Spike asked, jokingly, if we were the only couple not to have brought offspring. Yep. At least Spike fits the demographic. I could be a parent of the demographic; grandparent to its next generation. Who cares? Correct - no one.

Suriya Lee was there with his twin sons, Akira and Oscar. Lousie (their mother) arrived not long after. It turns out that Kelly, David and Jara (with whom Spike shared a house in Croydon Park for a year) are camping out in Suriya and Louise's house until they drive north to Bellingen on Tuesday to start the next phase of their lives together. They're lovely people on the edge of an adventure. Let's hope it works well for them. It should.

I've not seen or spoken to Suriya since his departure from our office in March. He seems well, content with life and enjoying the surprises and satisfactions that come with his new set of circumstances. That's good news. We spoke briefly about my own less than perfect time at work over the last six months. I observed that I do not give a shit about the pantomime horse behaviour of others. I truly, truly don't. They are not worth the effort of worrying about what mad scheme they might come up with next.

Spike's contribution to brunch was a berry compote with ricotta cheese and organic honey. As Spike prepared the treat she noted that the honey came from a producer that turns out both organic and non-organic varieties. How, asked Spike, does the bee-keeper know their organic bees have not been nipping over to some non-organic bush to gorge themselves on chemically enhanced nectar? I have no idea. It's one of life's mysteries. Maybe they have a very skilled team of bee herders who ride bare-back dragonflies to keep the hives apart. Maybe the bees are given an organic farmers manual on identifying phosphates as part of their induction. Maybe they're just really, really clever fucking bees who sit at home doing crossword puzzles and sudoku squares between shifts. Whatever, Spike's berries, cheese and honey went down very well with all.

We pushed home. It was probably the best option; the right idea. But on the exposed parts of the route between Dulwich Hill and Ashfield it was, as I said at the beginning, hot. See ... I'm beginning to repeat myself. That's how hot it was / is. I'm becoming incoherent.

"Sprinter" by the way. I read an article on yesterday's Independent web site. Dr Tim Entwisle, who is the Executive Director of the Sydney Botanic Gardens, says the idea we break down the southern hemisphere year into four seasons based on northern hemisphere climate patterns and ecology makes very little sense. He reckons we need 6 season descriptors for Sydney (apparently the Jawoyn people of the NT have six that correspond to what the weather is actually doing in their neck of the woods). Makes sense to me.
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A reversal of fortune

SO ... I lost my mobile phone somewhere in the Red Rattler; confirmed at the bus stop that we'd missed the last wheelchair accessible bus of the night back to the city (last bus of any type, come to think of it); couldn't remember the first four digits of the wheelchair taxi booking service; couldn't get the phone number from directory inquiries; couldn't book a wheelchair cab through the voice-recognition system; headed-off in not quite the right direction in what might have been a naive attempt to push home then the solid tyre of my front wheel came off the wheel entirely! Perched with one front wheel up on a drain cover while Spike worked hard without tools to re-fit the tyre I thought ... this is an unexpected end to an otherwise enjoyable evening (except that may not have been quite how I ran over the words in my mind!!)

Events turned for the better though, quite suddenly. Spike got the tyre back on. We were able to book a wheelchair taxi directly through one of the co-ops and miraculously when I asked Spike to call my mobile phone someone at the bar answered the call. It had been found / handed in as the staff cleared away the debris of a good night. Spike ran back to the club. A taxi came. The driver loaded me then we went off in search of Spike. We were home fifteen minutes later and in bed by 3:00 a.m.

Not surprisingly, our Saturday started late and has progressed at a sedate pace. Spike has made earrings to sell next week and a cake to be eaten immediately. I looked at the papers I need to read for a submission I have to write by Monday but decided work can wait. Tea, cake and a good read of the online newspapers is about as much as I'm any good for.
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Friday night is music night

(Eventually) we caught a bus to Marrickville and the excellent Red Rattler club ... highly recommended: accessible (which always helps); delightful (truly) bouncer on the door; texter drawn musical notes on one's wrist as proof of entry; red ... and I mean postbox red decor throughout; chairs and sofas that might have been rescued from a nineteenth century Parisian brothel and a decent, friendly, enthusiastic crowd (rather more black top, black frock, black stockings and black boots than one might have hoped for in an 'alternative' bunch but maybe there's still time for them to become confident enough to believe that colour can be cool also ...)

Spike had been drawn to the evening by the promised appearance of the Crooked Fiddle Band. They didn't disappoint. It was my first encounter with the band. I liked their set very much.



The headline band were the Barons Of Tang whom we saw play in the Sydney Festival Speigeltent in January. They were just as raucous at the Red Rattler, looking as if they were having a great time. They're a lot of fun.

The surprise of the night (at least to me) was the first act: the woefully named Captain Kickarse And The Awesomes. But what a trio ... drums, lead guitar and bass guitar; no vocals, just lots and lots of solid rock with the rhythm and blues undertones you'd expect from a buck of lads that were closer to Cream than Status Quo but had their very own charm and style. Good music.

As we waited for the bus Spike said she might not dance at the club. She was tired. She might just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. Ha! She was on the dance floor in time for the second number by the first act. She didn't sit down again for the best part of three hours.

Good night.
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