...

[Image removed because it infringed upon the copyrights of others.]

Sketch by Gary Larson, The prehistory of the Far Side: a 10th anniversary exhibit (Kansas City, Missouri: Andrews and McMeel, 1989), p. 110. ("Look guys... I just can't handle these changes... I'm not sure if it's the rhythm, or the tempo, or if it's just that I'm a cow.")

Time for a break, reader. Thanks for reading, and if you ever commented, double-thanks for that. Toodle-oo.

Spitting

I just read a post by a London psychiatrist who is trapped in the weird workings of the UK health system - Dear MTAS - and she's so angry and so eloquent, her emotional outburst made me feel bold. I'll henceforth be spitting for the rest of this post, being sorry only for having needed the permission of a complete stranger's example in order to feel free enough to do so.

A number of things have been going through my head lately, all of them related to online activities, and all of them making me angry.

(a) I've been dithering about whether to end this blog.** A big part of me wants to say "Fuck you!" and then bugger off into the big beyond with just a swishing of drama-queen skirts in my wake. Sometimes I hate you, reader, and that's rather silly considering I don't even know who you are, but also (and quite obviously) it's the ideal situation: you're the ideal punching bag. If I'm angry with the world, I hate you. I see you as being some sort of faceless version of me, though sometimes you make comments and for a short time seem real. In fact, of course, you are real, so I'm wishing you'd make comments more often.

(b) How do I know you're real, though? And how do you know I am? You don't, unless we know each other offline. You don't know that anybody online is real. I had a mini-discussion about this in emails during the week with someone I think of as a friend. Something he said made me feel unsure about him and I questioned his authenticity, but instead of wanting to talk, he diagnosed serious paranoia on my behalf and (I now assume by his silence) buggered off himself.

If he'd given me the chance to explain, this is what I would have said. You do not know that anybody online is real. You can't know. There is no way of knowing. They can post photos of themselves, they can say "I know A, who knows B", they can say "I talked to C on Friday", they can give you stats and memes and whatever the hell else they want to throw online, and all of it, all of it might be bullshit. You don't know. I don't know. Nobody knows. There is no way of knowing. Even in real life you have few ways of knowing that somebody is telling you the truth, though at least in a face-to-face situation you have the benefit of being able to read body language and voice intonation. But online, trust can only be built through words and pictures. Say it or show it. That's all there is. And I'm guessing that most people are honest, but some people are not. How do you tell the difference?

Here we get down to it. You tell the difference by using your own feelings (including those possibly-ridiculous ones that occur by chance as though they're intuition), by asking questions, and by making up your own mind. That's how you tell. It's up to you. And if the other person doesn't like the question, or doesn't want to be questioned at all, they should say that. But keep this in mind: to say there are some questions that shouldn't be asked is to limit friendship. Friends should be able to say whatever they want and know they are safe to do so, even when they're behaving stupidly or wrongly or rudely. If you can't be fully human with a friend, you can't be human at all. Friendship should be the place where you're safe to be yourself - that's what it's about.

My friend thinks that online life (or perhaps just me?) is not worth the hassle. I think he's wrong.

(c) We should assume and believe in the honesty of each other. This doesn't mean that doubts are wrong or offensive, it just means that the fundamental assumption underlying online life should be that the social rules which dictate offline behaviour should also operate online too. When somebody invents a commentor or blogger but then writes as if they have a real offline existence - without informing the reader of their fictional status - they are violating the faith of other people online. We should have faith in each other, we should believe we're all authentic and believable, we should be able to trust each other. And just as religious faith is stronger when built on acceptance of doubt ("I've considered all the possibilities and choose to believe" is a much stronger position than "To question is to be unfaithful") then so is faith in humanity. People who violate this faith and fuck about with fake personas masquerading as real people deserve a kick up their sorry arses.

** I'm not asking your opinion about this, by the way (in case that's what it looks like).

Stupidly buoyant

Sometimes you've got to laugh because it's funny.

I need to go to town today to get food, because I'm starting to starve to death... Not really, but I am down to less than 50 teabags, and that's the signal: time to go to the supermarket (something I put off as long as possible).

I don't want to go to town. I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay here on the farm and hide away from the world and run this day the same as yesterday and the day before and the day before that, and just keep living this whole safe routine over and over until extinction of life thankfully intervenes to stop the fun. Kind of joking, and also kind of not. And this morning I started writing notes on this phenomenon - the not wanting to go to town because I'd rather die phenomenon - just as a way to get outside the experience and be more objective and try to see what's going on.

I'll probably do a post about this some time (that is the intention) but something funny happened earlier - a side event. Someone rang about a farm matter, and though I often get quite stupid and anxious about phone calls, this one went well. He said what he had to say, I replied in the appropriate manner, and that was that. Quite amazing, in a small quiet way, and I was just writing notes about this, about the fact that sometimes things go well, and that the problem isn't usually the situation itself, the problem is that I get overly analytical and self-critical and too caught up in myself. When I don't do that, things go well. The phone call had been fine. It hadn't been something to worry about. So in other words, I can handle things like this. I can do this. It's no big deal.

So how long was it before I stopped feeling good about the phone call and started analysing it? (If you're similarly inclined, you're probably grinning, reader. Doesn't take us long, does it?) Maybe two minutes maximum of feeling happy and pleased, and then in my notes I was into it: 'I'm already knocking myself** about what I said on the phone, my tone of voice in saying "Fantastic!" It was too jovial, too happy, inappropriate for the situation, it would have sounded stupid, sounded like someone being buoyant.'

Sounded like someone being buoyant... Not joking. That's what I wrote. I was worried about sounding too buoyant... Buoyant: cheerful or resilient. Like that's a bad thing? I mean, what?? I'm worried about sounding too buoyant??!!

Bloody hell, reader! Please, you've got to laugh. I am (now), and thank God for that.

:)

** Criticising, finding fault.

Things I love: 1

It's rather hot (though still not humid, thank God), it's really windy, the house is a mess, the garden is a mess, my life is a mess, and today I'm not willing to do anything about any of it. Instead I want to just sit here in front of the fan and tell you about a few things I love. This might be the start of a series, I'm not sure yet. It'll depend on whether the idea and the motivation die before "Things I love: 2". At the moment I feel a bit squeamish about the idea, but we'll see. It just occurred to me the other day, wondering how I might try to get my bearings (in a "I was there > now I'm here > I want to go there" sense). I'm doing this online and not in private because:
(a) This is a blog, so why the hell not? ;)
(b) I can never be bothered reading anything I write for myself; it just turns into illegible crap and endless whingeing. I need the discipline of trying to communicate in sentences, and I can only find that discipline if I'm writing for somebody else.
(c) Publishing anything online makes it seem more important and worthy of reading, and yes, I know that's a rather pitiful and stupid attitude.

Anyway, here we go with some things I love, and not in any particular order.



The parquetry floor in the Louvre Museum, Paris (and "Louvre" is written on the photos, not the floor).

I was there in 1989, and haven't been back since. The place is really quite huge and I don't know anything about its collections or the works displayed, and when I was there the English-translation headset tour-guide thingummies weren't available (I can't remember why) so I just ended up wandering around like a lost sheep, getting tired, and, you know, lost. Finally I started noticing the floor and how amazing it was. I can't remember which gallery these photos were taken in, but I was standing there trying to sketch the pattern of the parquetry - and having a bit of trouble (the lines get quite complicated) - when a nice man with an English accent walked over and suggested I could use my camera to record it. Now, ... how do I convey this? ... I know it is almost inconceivable that a functioning human with a camera hanging around her neck wouldn't think of using said camera as a tool in this instance, but yes/no/whatever, the idea just hadn't occurred to me. "Ohhh!" I said. "Good idea!" So I took these photos. And Nice Man and I then had a little chat about the fact he was an engineer who was gratified by the fact that an ordinary citizen like myself had paused to appreciate the wonders created by other engineering types like himself. He seemed really nice too, did I mention that? Of course I couldn't think of anything to say, and that was the end of that. But looking at these photos, I have Nice Man to thank for the reminder: I love the wonders of engineering, I love wooden floors, and I love patterns.



Woodcut by M.C. Escher: "Day and Night" (1938) from a gallery at M.C. Escher: The Official Website.

In 1995 I was doing a one-year graduate diploma in teaching or education or primary teaching or whatever the hell it was called, in Newcastle NSW, and about the only things I loved that year were the kids in the classes I taught (but yes, I know kids aren't "things") and a big print by M.C Escher which I borrowed from the library to use in a lesson about tessellating patterns. I can't remember which print it was, but it was similar to the one above. It was huge, too, stuck onto cardboard, fraying around the edges. I had to carry it to school on the bus, with all my other gear, wedged into the peak-hour busload of unhappy commuters. (sigh) 'Twas not a happy year. (One of my old posts mentioned an imaginary friend I dreamed up back then: Stick-man. I loved him too. Add him to the list.)



And finally, still in the "I love patterns" theme, my patchwork quilt, though it's not actually quilted, it's just patchwork (pieces of material sewn together) and not even sewn by hand, it was all thrown together on a sewing machine a few years ago when I was babysitting my sister J's house. She has a lovely house, and I had a lovely time, reading books and making this quilt. And I love the quilt still. It's quite artless and probably (I guess) almost patternless as well. I just sewed long strips of material together, and then cut them into strips, and sewed the strips together. Various colours clash or reoccur in unlikely places (side by side, for example) and all the material came from things I had used before: old clothes and so on, so the whole thing is made up of stories or history, if you want to look at it that way. It reminds me of the old-fashioned quilts made by necessity rather than according to fashion, and the whole thing is really quite unlike me: not planned, a bit impulsive, loose and relaxed. It's starting to fall apart now, too, and I even love that about it.

So. The end. All of that only took me about 5000 hours to write. And the day is not warm any more, it's even windier than before, I'm getting a headache, and everything is still in a mess, but
I
hope
you
are
well,
reader.

Happy Sunday to you.

We shy persons

If you're shy, you'll appreciate the beauty of the "we" in that title: We shy persons.

:)

But if you're some kind of freak and you're not shy and have no idea what I'm talking about, the joy is in being included, feeling part of a group. We shy persons are perpetual outsiders. Mostly that's our own fault, or the result of our own choices, or or or... etc.

Yeah, anyway. I posted a couple of long quotes from Garrison Keillor over in my archives. If you've got about 15 hours to spare, you might like to peruse. He's telling us how to write letters, and why we might want to:

To be known by another person - to meet and talk freely on the page - to be close despite distance. To escape from anonymity and be our own sweet selves and express the music of our souls.

Same thing that moves a giant rock star to sing his heart out in front of 123,000 people moves us to take a ballpoint in hand and write a few lines to our dear Aunt Eleanor. We want to be known. We want her to know that we have fallen in love, that we quit our job, that we're moving to New York, and we want to say a few things that might not get said in casual conversation: Thank you for what you've meant to me, I'm very happy right now.

It sounds just like personal blogging too, doesn't it? Oh! Why, yes! And that's why I posted it.

Enjoy, if you can.

2007

Well yes, it's a new year here in Australia. Already. We do so like being ahead of the rest of you (let's not mention all those nations to our east which somehow manage to get there before us. The cheek of them!)

Pictured is a little calendar from a Russian town north of the Arctic Circle. I don't know what the caption says (if you do, please say) but I'm hoping it's something like "Happy New Year, piggies! Let's celebrate in outlandish hats! With glitter!"

It was such a huge New Year's Eve celebration in this household last night. The dogs were just about wild... with sleep. I was going to do a Northern Exposure marathon (sister and hero J gave me DVDs for Christmas, and my parents gave me the DVD player to watch them with... yes, I'm a lucky and grateful little chook). But for one reason or another, mostly loneliness and melancholy (yeah, boo-fucking-hoo, and to all my non-existent friends, go screw yourselves), I lost the energy to walk as far as the DVD player and ended up watching TV instead, and was very glad about that: ABC TV gave us Cream at the Royal Albert Hall in London in 2005. I only saw the last 20 minutes, damn it, but it was fantastic, probably one of the televisual highlights of my year.

The Cream boys - let's face it, and I mean no disrespect here - these blokes are getting old. If you saw them in the street, you might wonder if they were doddering off down to the club to play the pokies**... (the aforementioned insult was brought to you by classist ageist ignorance, by the way, and is an exaggeration for dramatic effect. For all I know, these 60-somethings are out running marathons and writing groundbreaking brainiac papers or something)... but no, wait! They rock! Put them up against any number of youngsters in a similar genre, and these grandpas, God love 'em, would thrash the shit out of those children. It was so heartening. I've been getting increasingly worried about my own wrinkles and other associated oldnesses, and feeling in many ways like my life may as well be over, but here on screen were people older than me, wrinklier than me, and worlds ahead of me in every way, including talent, prospects and (I hope) happiness. Ahead, is the point. Ahead of me. All is not lost. Age shall not weary them.. or it will, but not to a lethal extent... or not until death is officially declared. (UPDATE: What I mean is, age shall not weary them, but not because they're dead and will never get old, but because they're alive and kicking and doing what they love. And I mean us! us! all of us.)

Or something. The point I'm trying to make is that oldies can rock, and they did. Go, you grandpas! I'm glad I was around to see it, and I want to become what each of them appears to be: a wrinkly cool person.

And to you, reader: whatever. It's 2007. Yay. New start.

** Poker machines: gambling implements designed to induce coma-related money extraction.

Happy new year 2007

This is me being damn proud of myself, reader! That's snake skin I'm holding up. Me! Holding snake skin! From a snake!

It took some baby steps to get this far, and that's my new year's resolution: taking baby steps, doing something rather than nothing, even if it's not much. That was my resolution last year too, but it fell badly by the wayside. So here we go again. Take two: baby steps.

And baby steps with a snake skin. It sounds like a joke. I took a few more photos and yeah, they're in the archives. I kept trying to focus on the thing as an object, something to investigate. And that was fine and interesting, but every so often I'd start thinking about it being a snake object - a snake, a snake!! - and that's when I'd jump up and do a bit of squealing and wringing of hands in a stupid and alarming manner, etc. But onward ever onward I went. Oh yes, it was dramatic...

:)

Baby steps from a geriatric baby. Here's how it went. First I lifted the thing off the rafter with a broom, put it on the ground, and indulged in some of the above-mentioned performance piece (squealing, hand-wringing). But then bit by bit I graduated from poking the skin with my boot, to wearing gloves and poking it with the end of one finger, to touching it skin to skin, no gloves, and finally: writing on the damn thing and brandishing it aloft!

Woo-hoo! I am my own hero!

Not that this means a miracle has occurred. I'm still scared. After finishing the photos, I threw the skin in the bin, but had to go back later and get it out and wrap it in newspaper so I couldn't see it anymore. It was too scary going near the bin. And this was just the remains of a snake, not even anywhere near the real thing.

But still. Woo-hoo.

Oh, and yeah: happy new year, reader :) May you find healthy wealthy wiseness this year, and peace and joy. Best wishes.

Out with the old

Here it is, the last day of 2006, and I guess we all should be shedding our skins in one way or another, making way for the new. But I didn't expect to see this happen literally. There's a snake skin out on the verandah, one half of it hanging overhead and swinging in the breeze. I walked out to take a photo of the sunrise this morning, about as alert as usual (ie. completely braindead) and nearly died of shock.

I'm so scared of snakes, or have been up until this year. I thought maybe I was starting to lose this fear though. On the three occasions this season that I've seen a snake, I've been more curious than afraid - for the first time ever.

But not so fast, baby. I took photos of the snake skin this morning - they're over in my archives** - but I was scared just standing near it. And I'm less than overly keen on the idea that somewhere nearby, probably overhead, probably in the roof, there's a snake who has outgrown its skin.

In many ways this is a stupid fear. Back in September one of the North Coast newspapers, The Village Journal, ran an article about snakes (warning: includes close-up photo of a snake's face) which included the following:

But what you may like to consider is that the snake that lives around or near your premises, be it in the paddock or garage, knows you, as it has lived within its territory since it was born and in some cases that can be up to 50-60 years. Most snakes have a very long life. It knows when you hang out the washing, it knows when you go to sleep and the coast is clear, it knows to stay out of your way. The one time you spot it sunning itself or hunting for food, it will be as surprised as you, but will not strike as long as you leave it alone, and give it a chance to get away from you. You have simply noticed it for the first time, whereas it may have seen you thousands of times before.

It's stupid to be afraid of them, in other words, because they want to stay out of our way just as much as we want to stay out of theirs.

Still. Who ever had a fear because it was sensible? (Apart from all those boring fears that can save your life, I mean.)

Am I reaching a conclusion with this post? No, not really. Here's the end. Out with the old, I say, but maybe it just takes a while.

** It's worth the effort of starting a secondary blog just so you can put things there and enjoy the groovy geeky pleasure of saying, "They're over in my archives, yeah!" :)

Welcome to the new Plodding!

The old Plodding along to glory will stay where it is, alongside The full text, and good luck to them there. It's a nice neighbourhood. I think they'll be happy.

And now: plodding on. Here we go. Again.

:)