head job

The other night I went through all my old psych notes and tossed a lot of them out. I don't know why I've been keeping them really; it just that when you've spent many thousands of dollars on a university education, and many thousands of hours slaving over a hot photocopier in the university library gathering journal articles (long live internet-based course delivery!), you feel sort of guilty just throwing it all out. But I just felt like culling and there's so much paper in my house.
My old statistics notes I threw out with particular glee. I never could understand why psych students were tormented with learning sophisticated statistics formulae; I reckoned so long as we understood the concepts, surely we could pay an independent, qualified statistician to crunch our numbers for us (hmm, actually I think I did that for several subjects). In my recalcitrant opinion, wasn't it better for the psych research student to not be able to do stats, so that they couldn't possibly attempt to mould the numbers to fit their hypotheses? Another thing I never understood was why we had to learn complex UNIX statistics software and were forbidden from using the easy-peasy point-and-click Windows-based WYSIWYG stats programs. Geez, so long as we knew what we were trying to do, why did it matter which computer program we used to crunch the data? Anyway, even though I only answered three out of four questions in the final exam, I somehow squeaked through--despite the fact that even those three answers I did manage to give were so convoluted and muddled that they were almost certainly saved by my lecturers to be ridiculed in class in future.
So anyway, I threw out about ninety percent of my old notes and photocopies, though I did keep the actual stats exam papers just to impress myself that I once understood them enough to pass, and I kept a bunch of other notes that might come in handy sometime.
In particular, I kept anything relating to child development (oh, if only I had listened in lectures instead of coming in late to make an entrance and sitting in the first row and preening and hoping to be noticed by the cute lecturer). And I kept anything relating to the psychology of love, because it still confuses the hell out of me.
So now I'm sifting through a cocktail of research from the plaintively-titled The end of 103 affairs to the anxiety-inducing Impact of parental discipline methods on the child's internalisation of values.
So hopefully, maybe tomorrow everything will make a little more sense. It's worth a try, surely.

i still don't got the blues

Another year, another Bluesfest rolls by without me. This year, me and Harley will be 'babysitting' my friend's teenage daughter at their house, while my friend and her man are driving a campervan north for the pilgrimage. Jealous! But never mind. What goes around, comes around...maybe I'll cash in the favour this time next year, haha.
It's been wintry here the past few days, really cold, and wet. It's the sort of weather where the sky is black and everything's shiny with rain, and then the sun inexplicably bursts out and there's that strange, enchanted light everywhere. And you walk along thinking how the greens look so incredibly green and you realise just how many shades of green there are, and how good it all looks against the sparkling dark grey of the road and the sky.
And then while you are in the shops all hell breaks loose again outside, and you have to wait for around half an hour until there's a break and you can scamper home again...up the street...around the corner...up the big hill, down the big hill (look, there's the ocean, Harley!), up our street....and home. Ahhhhh.
Auntie #1 is coming to stay a few days at Easter, too. That reminds me, there's a certain surfing lesson to organise....Speaking of which, an update of sorts:-
Most people who come over seem to politely ignore the naked man pinned to my living room wall, which means it's either a really bad drawing, or they just don't want to know the details. I've only done three drawings so far and I've only put the third one up. The first one was crap, while the second one was good until the model decided to add in a giant erect penis when I wasn't looking.
I joked to the model that it's kind of like Arabian nights. Maybe when I've done a thousand drawings I might sleep with him. (Joked being the operative word here....)

french polish

Back in the days when I'd pore over the book reviews and then go fork out $100 on four or five books in one go, I bought a copy of Antoni Libera's Madame, but I never read it. For some reason I couldn't get past the first page. Anyway, I picked it up again recently and was blown away. It's actually a beautiful love story, and very witty.

"Madame tells the story of a Polish teenager pursuing intellectual maturity--and the older woman of his dreams, his French teacher--in the communist-dominated Warsaw of the late Sixties."

Reminded me of some of the terrible crushes I got on various teachers in high school. Mind you, the hero of this novel certainly got luckier than I ever did!
I also found it an eye-opener because I've never really paid much attention to Poland before, although my mother's mother was Polish so I do have some vague curiosity about it.
There's some great quotes in the novel, too. I like one from Schopenhauer:

"A novelist should aim not to descibe great events but to make small ones interesting."

Anyway, highly recommended.

you had to be there

I love him so much. We have such a laugh sometimes. Like last night, when I put him to bed and he was drinking his milk, and as usual I started singing along to the tune on the mobile above his cot. It’s a tune babies never seem to tire of, that ubiquitous one that I only know the German words to—guten abend, gute nacht.... Anyway, this time I was singing it in cat, you know, miaouw-miaouw-miaowwww, miaouw-miaouw-miaowwww... After a few verses, one of our cats appeared in the doorway. He was hungry, and started miaowing impatiently, and it sounded like he was singing along. Every time the cat ‘sang’ we pissed ourselves, and the cat looked on miserably.
It reminded me of a time when the baby was about six months old, and I was singing the same tune, only in bird (ak-ak-aaark, ak-ak-aaaaark...), and outside the window a magpie had begun aarking along with me. So I stopped singing and had a little chat with the bird, and it seemed to be answering me, and Harley thought this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. The bird was hopping from tree to tree and getting further away, and the aarks were getting fainter and the silences longer. It went on for some time, until there had been no answer from the bird for so long that we felt sure it must have packed up and gone for good. But then, sure enough, somewhere off in the distance we’d hear a very faint aaarrk, and we would crack up all over again. He was laughing so hard the milk came out his nose. I remember being so touched, for some reason; as if noticing for the first time that we shared the same sense of humour, or just because I could make him laugh so hard.
I know, we're so easily amused...

i'll have what she's having

LOL... (rego: vanitas/vain).

the full halfwit nelson

They think they can just do what they want now, the Liberals, don't they? You look away for half a second and there they are, dismantling our higher education system even further. And what schadenfreude from the Education Minister:

"The good news for the Labor Party and student activists is that they will continue to be able to pay their student union fees," Dr Nelson told ABC radio. "There is no law preventing people from paying student union fees."

Yeah, and people are going to pay their taxes if you make it optional, too.
Then you have Mr Nelson saying he's justified in introducing this legislation because he's had a few complaints:

Brendan Nelson says...the Government has received complaints from students about having to pay for things they do not want. Dr Nelson quoted the views of one young man:
"He said some of the things that my money has been spent on in the past year are 'a bus to Woomera for a protest, a sausage sizzle and balloons to protest the Tampa incident, and bail for those arrested at the aforementioned Woomera protest'," [Mr Nelson] said.
"In modern society, student protest and student dissent is an important part of a vibrant democracy but no student should be forced to join and support political activism unless they choose to do so."

I'd like to know exactly how many complaints he's received. A handful, compared to the majority of students who are content paying for services and therefore don't write in to whinge about it?
And watch how Nelson skews it into ridicule of protestors, as if that's the only thing student union fees go towards, when anyone who's ever been to uni knows that's a lie; viz:

John Mullarvey from the Vice Chancellor's Committee says the changes will mean many student services simply will not exist.
"There are a myriad of services provided to students and paid for by this compulsory fee, services such as support services, health services, food outlets etc, all of those services will go unless students want to pay for it voluntarily," he said.

And what Bob Brown said:

Wealthy students could afford services and facilities off-campus, but poorer ones would struggle.
"The opt out is so that wealthier students who've got other options can not pay their dues," [Senator Brown] said.
"We're an egalitarian country and we all should pay our taxes and I think we all should pay our union dues when we go to university."

But who needs unis anyway? We don't want more (snigger) intellectuals after all.

post removed

because I'm over it. Thanks for the comments, it is all useful to hear.

having it all

Two particularly loathsome arguments by women writers in the mass media lately (both via Tim).
Over here, we have Glenda Korporaal telling us we Aussie chicks can have it all, so long as we're prepared to walk over our Asian sisters to get it. I don't know...paying a Filipino maid peanuts to scrub your house and look after your kids sounds like a recipe for "shaken baby syndrome" to me. No thanks, sweetheart.
Meanwhile, over here we've got Miranda Devine telling us we really just want a rich man. Makes you wonder, is Miranda married? If so, is he a prince, or just some other really rich guy? And if not, heaven's, what's she doing wasting her time on a career in journalism, when she's just been arguing we should give in and focus all our efforts on our true ambitions of being a wife.
You go, girls...and stay gone.

local heroes

He is reclining on my bed naked except for the fabric he was using as a turban, which he has taken off his head and draped over his lap so I can’t see anything.
“You have a good skull,” I say.
“I collect skulls,” he says. I’ve seen the sculptures around his house; spray-painted aliens made of cow’s horn, bandicoot and Blu-Tac.
I draw his skull. It’s a good skull to draw, perfectly shaped and hairless. He has a small tattoo of a snake’s head on one side. He says he used to have a mohawk but shaved it off when his hairdresser first told him about the bald spot developing at the back of his head. He has just turned forty-seven.
The first drawing I do after years is truly woeful, but it feels good to hold a pencil again.
“You’re good,” he says afterwards.
“It’s hopeless!” I say. “You don’t have to say it’s good when it’s not.”
The phone rings; it's my sister. I tell her I’ve been drawing G. “You know, the surf instructor?”
I tell her he said he’ll give her a surfing lesson next time she comes up, a birthday present from me.
“Well, don’t sleep with him just so he’ll give me a free lesson,” she says and she’s half-serious.
I turn away from the phone and repeat what she said to G. He smiles.
“I’ve already told him I won’t sleep with him,” I assure her.
“Is he there now?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yeah,” I say.
Actually, I suspect that the fact that I refuse to sleep with him is the main reason why he is still pursuing me, but he denies this.
It’s not that I don’t find G. attractive; he is attractive. He has very pale blue eyes, a surfer’s body, he writes songs and is never far from a guitar. He interrupts conversations by breaking into song.
“Welfare mothers make better lovers…down at every laundromat in town now… Neil Young song--” he pauses to inform me.
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “I was pretty good before.”
He tells me I’m gorgeous and I say bullshit but secretly I’m pleased. I say what I like about him is how he overlooks my flaws—my chewed fingernails, the fact that I haven’t had my roots done in six months--and I am pleased when he just gives me “nobody’s perfect”.
Of course I flirt with him, tease him. He says that’s about power, sexual power. I say it’s because I just get a bit manic sometimes.
G.’s mind jumps loosely around, a lot like mine does. When I tell him I like to write he nods and says, “Besides push-ups, words are good.” He tells me stories about when he was in a band, about when he supported Chrissie Amphlett, or when he met Iggy Pop (“I got down on my knees and thanked him for the religion.”) He makes me laugh, too, which is always a good thing.
When we’re talking about why I won’t sleep with him, I say it’s because I am, at heart, a very monogamous girl, and at the moment, I am still attracted to other men. He wants to know who and I say coyly “oh, just someone”. It’s someone who doesn’t even know I’m alive though; someone who I’ve only ever met about three times, around whom I’m unreasonably gauche; around whom I blush and stammer, or over-correct so that I come across as completely disinterested. I like to think there's a mutual spark but you never know if it isn't just one big projection, do you?

still more technical difficulties

I'm surprised we even made it this far, me and my computer. I bought it second-hand from work about five years ago; it's probably over a decade old, quite an antique, and it's always been painfully slow and crotchety. So frankly, I'm amazed I even squeezed two years' worth of blogging out of it, when it's always had such insurmountable iss-ewes.
But lately, it has been entertaining some especially nasty kind of back-door worm or something, or so I'm told. It has only been letting me log-on about once in every twenty attempts, and it now reliably crashes every five minutes.
As an interim measure while I try and scrape together some cash to buy a new (second-hand) one, my father has agreed to let me borrow one of his old, though still functional, museum pieces.
He said, "I have to warn you though, it's running Linux." I said, "OK, so I'll learn Linux, can't be that hard can it?" and he said, "Well, not as such...but this happens to be the German version." Oh. So now I have to learn to drive a new operating system as well as try to make sense of it with my kauderwelch.
Never mind. Anyway, for the time being I'm still stuck with this one, so I'll grit my teeth and soldier on. And guess what? I actually have a few posts I hope to get up later today, once we get back from playgroup. So...see ya round.

technical difficulties

No sooner had I announced my intention not to quit blogging than our phone line went down for a few days and then when it finally came back on, I got a migraine that lasted about three days, so bad I couldn't even stand to look at the computer when walking past it, let alone turn it on. Thankfully Harley has had a full-on social life lately so he didn't seem to notice that someone was bashing his mother around the head with a sledgehammer.
So anyway--phone company, baby and head willing--I should be back to some writing soon. Thanks to those of you who haven't totally given up on me yet, I really do appreciate it.

oh, boy.....................

My son turned one today. Man, I think that's the best sentence I've ever written. I've spent a lot of time trying to think of how I can possibly explain how he makes me feel and I can't get it into words. All I can think of is that cheesy Leo Sayer song--you know the one--Oh, oh, yeah, yeah...I love you more than I can say...I'll love you twice as much...tomorrow! Oh, oh. Love you more than I can say. Still, that says it all really. Happy birthday, love o'my life.

single entendre

Naturally, being a single mum, I have a vested interest in the debate about the Howard Government's welfare 'reforms' which are supposedly going to force all single parents back to work once their child is five years old.
It's not that I think five years is such an unreasonable timeframe. Me, I always imagine I'll be working by the time Harley is about three or so, but definitely by five. I mean, welfare is such a crappily paid job. That's certainly the biggest incentive to get a job again as soon as you can.
And obviously I'm not alone in thinking this way: 71 per cent of sole parents move off income support after five years.
Well, if they do it voluntarily then why act as if they need to be whipped into doing so? It just perpetuates the stigma that welfare recipients are lazy bludgers who need to be forced into work. So I disagree with the arbitrariness of the Howard deadline. And I find it kind of mean-spirited.
If Howard really wants to encourage single parents to work then create the optimal conditions for it. Why doesn't he start with reforming the childcare sector? That would be far more productive for everybody.

a richness of embarrassment

Who thinks this was just another publicity stunt by a shamelessly narcissistic exhibitionist?
Hey! looks wounded No...not me 'quitting' blogging! I'm talking about Paris Hilton posting her own mobile phone records and photos on the internet. Well, I reckon she would.
As for me, I feel pretty sheepish. But it was an interesting experience actually, trying to leave. Quite revealing on several fronts. Bit like Paris.
So you'll have to put up with this blog having a decidedly pinkish tinge around the cheeks for the next little while.
Moving right along then!

intermission

Um.....choc-top, anyone?

me and my big mouth

It's weird, not blogging. Not sure if I like it.

where'd the blog go?

It's been a wild ride these past two years, but it looks like I've reached the end of the road. Yeah, I know I change my mind all the time about continuing to blog--didn't I just say the other day how inspired I was again?--but this time it feels final. Not entirely sure what's changed or why. Where did all that unchecked enthusiasm go? I guess I had an epiphany of sorts last night and I realised that it's time to try and focus on other things for a while. I'll write down my passwords and keep them in a safe place just in case I feel the urge to blog again in the future, but for now, it just feels over. Anyway, I've enjoyed the interaction with you all and I'm sure sometimes it's kept me sane (though at other times, like lately, has driven me completely bonkers) during this first chaotic year of Harley's life.
So, best of luck to all. I'll still check in on everyone else's blogs when I can. Meanwhile, thanks again for all the good vibes over the years. It meant a lot to me.

duck!

Just saw a skin-cream ad which has gotta be a contender for the Worst Ad of the Year Award. An elegant woman stands at a window and throws a boomerang out as the voiceover says, "Your skin is like a boomerang. Just when you think you've got rid of your wrinkles, they come back."
Sure, that really makes sense. Wrinkles do come and go awfully like boomerangs, don't they? And boomerangs can be stopped if you hurl enough pots of skin cream at them, can't they?
They must think we are complete fools.

the tide is high

and there's a million bluebottles at two of our three beaches. Been blowing an easterly, apparently. So not much time in the ocean for us lately. But yesterday we got to meet some pelicans up close. They were hanging around a man who was gutting fish on the rocks. We stood about a metre away and watched as the pelicans fought by biting each other's beaks. Looked pretty painful. I never realised pelicans' legs were so blue. It's such an artificial color, it looks as if they're wearing rubber boots or washing-up gloves.
"Arrrk, aark," they complained. Harley was transfixed.
God, I love it up here......as I think I've mentioned once or twice before.......

retrograde

Yeah, people should be allowed to express their opinion. But I'm sorry, I'm just not going to buy into any debate with them, when the simple fact is that they want to take away some of our fundamental human rights as women. So unless they can explain to me how they can get around that little problem, they can just leave us alone. Mind you, I admire Zoe for being really feisty about it. I still think it's a case of, "The judges' decision is final. No correspondence will be entered into".

retrospective

2011 AD. Early evening. A kitchen/living room.

Mummy, what were these gingerbread men doing?

What gingerbread men honey

On February two, two-thousand-oh-five. On your blog.

Geez, Harley, what are you doing reading that silly old thing again? Shouldn't you be doing your homework? Lemme see. [aside] Oh, bugger...didn't I take that post down again? There I was going on about how I wanted him to read this blog later and next thing I do, I post a picture of a pornographic biscuit.

So what were they doing? Because it kind of looks like [cranes neck] she's eating an icypole out of his lap?

Hmm...I see what you mean. It sort of does look a bit like that. But what actually happened is that she accidentally got her necklace caught in his zipper when she was reaching down to get something out of her bag.

Oh, right. Did they get untangled again?

I hope so...

self-raising funds

Cooking really isn't my thing. I only ever seem to cook about five things, most of them involving tinned tomatoes. Yeah, I know. I'm not gonna make anyone much of a wife one day....But that's OK, because I plan on hooking up with a bloke who can cook (or alternatively, who is happy to eat Thai takeaway every night*). Unfortunately, Anthony of spiceblog fame is not available. I suppose it's a bit odd since I'm not much of a cook--but I'm an enthusiastic reader of recipes and foodie blogs. Cooking vicariously, it must be.
Well, Anthony's taking part in a new tsunami relief fund-raising drive and his Lamington is the Second Dessert on the "Menu for Hope". Yummo! Baking, as opposed to cooking, I actually quite enjoy. I have a shocking sweet tooth (which the baby has apparently inherited) and now I'm absolutely lusting after lamingtons.
Anyway, nice idea guys and I hope it goes well.

(*Not that there's any Thai restaurants within 50kms of our place. Someone's really gotta do something about that. A good Thai restaurant and an open-air cinema, and this neck of the woods would be just about perfect....)

let them eat...

Not sure why Mallrat is blaming me for finding these:



but I assure you I'm innocent. Hungry now, too.

being there

One of my favourite Australian bloggers, Meredith from invisible shoebox, informs us she is on a "blog panel" at the St Kilda Writer's Festival 2005. I think she must be referring to this bit in the programme:

Digital Narratives and Interactive Dialogues: New media practioners discuss the process of writing & producing interactive projects.

So there you go. Bloggers are storming the writer's festivals at last.

riding in cars with boys

The other day I told my mum how I'd recently made friends with a nice guy who runs the local surf school. He lives above the local general store and I've gotten to know him a bit over the months. He offered to give me lifts if I need to get around, since I don't have a car, and I told my mother I was planning on taking him up on the offer so I can get to playgroup, which isn't on the bus route.
Big mistake. She's obviously been stewing about this ever since I mentioned it. First thing this morning, the day playgroup starts up again, she calls me.
"Gianna, I've been thinking. Why can't you find a nice mother to give you a lift instead?"
"What? Why?"
"Because you can't just use a man for a lift like that!"
"He offered! What, so I can "use" another mother but not a guy?"
"Gianna, get real. He is going to expect something in return."
"For god's sake, he's just being nice! And even if he is being sleazy, I'm 34, remember? I think I can fend off any unwanted advances."
"I'm telling you, you'd better watch out. You're going to get a reputation."
I burst out laughing.
"A reputation! Mum, this is not some Italian village in the 40s."
"Listen, what does he even know about kids, huh?"
"He's only driving me five minutes up the road! And besides, his brother has twin babies. So he does have experience with kids. I mean, what is your problem? Just because he's got a dick, I shouldn't get in a car with him?"
"Gianna, now you listen to me. You go away and think about this, okay?"
Earth to my mother. It's 2005. Women can be friends with men.

wicked game

I always thought that card game you play by yourself was called "Patience" but it turns out it's also called "Solitaire". Discovered this the other day while watching one of those "Hitler's women"-type docos. Frau Goebbels was described by witnesses as having gone upstairs and poisoned her six children, then come back down, sat at a table and calmly started playing a game of Solitaire. Unbelievable, huh. Anyway, you learn a new thing every day...

who does she think she is

This is great. Just when I felt like I was going to pull the plug on my blog--any day now, have said everything I could possibly say, bored of the sound of my own voice, bored of talking about myself, bored of myself full stop--I read this essay about motherhood and blogging, and clicked through to some of the linked bloggers, and then read this NYT story on parents who blog (sub required). And I started remembering why I used to love blogging so much, and my god, I feel inspired again. Just like that. Man, I love bloggers, blogs and blogging!
And this in the NYT story caught my eye:

But the question is, at who's expense? How will the bloggee feel, say, 16 years from now, when her prom date Googles her entire existence?

I was reminded of how my child's father (we are not together) recently argued that when I write about our child, it is exploitative and amounts to child abuse. But I wonder how anyone who has read anything I've written here can possibly think that. I like to think that one day, Harley will enjoy reading about me, us, our life now. I was about to write that, in fact, I wish my parents had had blogs about us kids, to go with the Super-8s and photo albums--but then I remembered that my father does actually have a blog now and it did give me the shits when he wrote about me! But the difference is that it was so negative about me that I had to stop reading it after a few days. He still blogs, and maybe he doesn't call me 'Her Nastiness' or 'Cyberbrat' anymore, but I don't like to risk raising my blood pressure by checking. On the other hand, I don't think Harley could ever find anything other than pure love and joy directed towards him on this blog.
Still, I must admit I like my old stuff better than my new stuff. I prefer the stuff I wrote back when I was a starry-eyed, bushy-tailed little newbie blogger, barely aware of having more than two or three readers, and as a result, I think, much less self-conscious. These days I feel a bit overhyped (and underpaid), and some of the original joy of blogging has been diluted by the knowledge that there are always going to be people from my real life (ex-lovers, fathers, judges) who are not reading me for the fun of it but who have other motives. But, well, stuff 'em. The show must go on...........

shell shock

So our soldiers are alert, but not armed:

The Australian Army has overstated its capabilities and cannot provide enough bullets or shells to train its soldiers, according to a report by the Commonwealth auditor-general.

Responding to the criticism today, Prime Minister John Howardsfeld said, "Well, as you know, you go to war with the Army you have, not the Army you want to have."

gone to the dogs

After we got back from Sydney there were about three days of monsoons before we managed to get back over to the beach. And it was very depressing. We found it virtually ruined after the Australia Day parties. There was broken glass everywhere, the charcoal leftovers of wooden pallets people dragged in from god-knows-where to make bonfires, fireworks and other party debris strewn around. They'd even smashed up some of the steps going down to the beach. I assume this is the work of tourists and not locals, who surely wouldn't shit in their own nest. Would they?
I told my neighbour I was going to call the Council to come and clean it up but he said he had rung them that many times about that many things, and nobody ever came. He reckoned they could pay someone to come and just stand there handing out fines. It's true. There's signs everywhere saying no dogs after 8am ($200 fine) and no dogshit ($400 fine) but you see a million dogs every day and I've seen plenty taking a dump in the sand while their owners are out surfing. Which is gross. I mean, I can live with all the dogs because Harley loves them, but I would appreciate people pooperscooping their dog's shit. But mostly I just mind the things like broken beer bottles and fireworks and ciggie butts. The Council have placed all these huge ugly signs along the beach access road announcing "We care. Do you?" and giving their phone number. Doesn't seem like they care at all though.

happy snap

At eleven months, with his mum.

(Other pics added here.)

lost words

I feel bad whenever I delete a post and someone's comments end up on the cutting room floor with it. I'm sure it's the height of blogging rudeness. Apologies.

cheers

Many thanks to readers who voted for me in the Blog Awards '05. Really glad you like my writing.

left field

Well, I think it's possible to put a positive spin on the ALP's leadership debate. Tim (whose comments still seem to be off) reckons the whole thing was phony as, but I think it was good phony. The Australian public knows exactly why Beazley is in again; we know he's the ALP leader of last resort, a puppet for unity. A big puppet with a big heart for the big brown land, sure. But a puppet.
And the defacto ballot we've just seen did one important thing--it showed the public that the ALP has a credible alternative stock of contenders. Yeah, credible, because the length of time they took before announcing their intentions not to run suggested they were in with a serious chance.
Just because in the end their colleagues indicated they think Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd need more time to grow does not mean that they were wrong to flag their leadership aspirations at this time. And like Kate Lundy said on the 7:30 Report last night, there doesn't need to be a formal ballot, because there was obviously an informal one, and the message is clear: Beazley can't afford to sit on his would-be laurels, he has serious competition. Competition's a good thing, right? The party would seem like so much more of a big fat bore if not even one other Labor polly had put up their hand and said, "I'm interested, actually."
What was more interesting, and from a marketing POV more important, was how Rudd and Gillard handled it. Rudd was okay, though he did seem to stretch it out a bit too far, to the border of credibility. Gillard was better, though she has to watch that paranoia. I don't agree with Saint over at backpages that it was 'political suicide', but it definitely doesn't pay to appear paranoid. Just looks bad. Feel it, sure. She's probably justified, but unless you can prove it, zip it. Still, as Mark Bahnish said at backpages, at least she was honest. And I think she salvaged it well in the end, turning it into a call for "inclusion".
And what was also interesting was Beazley's response to Gillard's comment. He's already unsettled by her, isn't he? And he should be. Close your eyes for a minute. Gillard/Rudd 2007. You can see it, can't you? Gillard for modernity, Rudd for conservatism. Good mix. Rudd/Gillard is okay, but not as good because it's too conservative. Gillard/Tanner would be supermodernity, and I think that'd scare the Oz voters. As for the roosters...no chance, imho.
And yeah, Gillard should be Deputy, because Macklin seems to wear the CreanTM Cloak of Invisibility, but that would probably scare Beazley too much. Frankly I wish Gillard would do a no-nonsense, relatively painless, surgical excision of Beazley in about a year's time. But what she's just said about unity/stability/white-anting etc kinda rules it out, huh.
Anyway, the upshot for me is this: Gillard and Rudd have told us they're contenders and now they're going to have to show it. But the past few weeks have at least given them an incredible amount of profile.
And the party should take a leaf out of John Howard's book (just this once): turn a sow's ear into a silk purse. "Trust? We'll see about that." snarled the Rodent in 2004. So Labor: reframe the whole "disunity" thing into a positive. This is where Rudd was crazy to say the ALP was a 'god-awful shambles'. Mudd sticks. Labor would be better off dwelling on the positives. Start with Icarus Mark Latham--Chris is right, Latham needs to be sent off with dignity. It's embarrassing and feels cruel that he alone is being blamed for the loss and essentially ostracised for it. At his press conference, he was clearly a man in pain--physical, psychological, both.
And reframe the "disunity" thing. Unity for the sake of unity is pointless. Sticking with Beazley for the sake of unity is pointless. Disunity can also be seen as vital, healthy, exciting. They should all go read some Edward de Bono!
If Gillard and Rudd develop well over the coming year(s), then the ALP might be smart to swing behind them instead. If the public sees that it makes sense, they won't care so much if there's another leadership spill. They'll understand.
Gillard obviously has great potential, she's so firm, calm, sensible and rational (notwithstanding the moment of apparent paranoia). Her mission should also be to turn up the warmth factor. She can seem a bit too cool at times. That kitchen photo was the wrong direction.
And in reframing Labor, the party needs to constantly recap and summarise its achievements for voters with a short attention span. Turn the negatives into positives or at least explain/reframe them. And then market it as a party of modernity.
So say what you will about the 'turmoil' of the past few weeks, I reckon it was a good and necessary thing. You could even argue that in contrast, the Liberals seem really bland and boring, the way they all fall into line behind the Glorious Leader. Where someone like Costello has to make like he has no leadership ambitions that might interfere with the Glorious Leader's probable plans to become the longest-serving PM ever....
***
Anyway, we're off to the beach. God, it's good to be home.

off with the pixie

Interesting little French film about erotomania on SBS last night, He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, starring the astonishingly gorgeous Audrey Tautou. Ah, god, I miss the movies! I haven't been to the movies in about a year and a half. I think we'll have to make a point of catching up on some films while in Sydney this week. If we have time...we've only got about three days to try to cram in visits with: two sisters, four of my closest friends (including one who is visiting from Paris), my old workplace, and a couple of bloggers as well.
I'm really excited. It should be a great trip (though I'm told Sydney's expecting a heatwave...bugger). We haven't been to Sydney since Harley was five months old and back then he slept most of the time. This time I'm sure he'll be craning his neck out of his stroller, eyes goggling as he takes in all the sights and sounds of the Big Smoke. Bit nervous about the five hour bus/train journey down for this reason though--he may well wriggle the entire way. At least on the second half of the trip, on the XPT, we'll be able to stretch our legs a bit. Not looking forward to getting around on Cityrail either. Just the other day on the news there was another story about a baby falling out of his stroller into the gap between the train and the platform. Scary stuff...wish us luck. Anyway, have a great week everyone, and enjoy Australia Day. Seeya.

there's more to life

Yesterday I took the baby into town to the aquatic centre to enrol him in swimming lessons and on the long walk back past the bush reserve, the sound of cicadas lulled the baby to sleep in his stroller. At the entrance to the reserve there was a sign saying "The Sanctuary" and I smiled and made a mental note to come back sometime and take a photo of us in front of it for my blog.
When we got back to the main street I saw a man at the traffic lights who seemed vaguely familiar. He looked to be in his forties or fifties and had on jeans with a shirt tucked in, and silver glasses. As we approached I realised it was a writer I had got talking to once before. He had told me back then how a professor had encouraged him to get his life story published. Now I called out to him, "Hey, you're the guy who wrote that book, aren't you?" and he stopped and said he was. I said I'd been trying to remember the name of his book so I could look for it at the local library.
"There's More To Life," he said. We started walking towards town together and he explained he was on his way to a job interview as a nurse's aide. I wished him luck. I asked if he'd been doing any more writing lately and he said yes, he had just written some new articles. I asked if I could read them and he said, "Do you have time to come back to my house? You can read them there."
So we walked a couple of hundred metres to a small light-blue weatherboard house with a fading sign out front indicating it was a holiday unit.
"Housing Commission bought it," the writer explained as he helped me lift the stroller up the stairs into his house. We entered the living room which was dominated by a large oval wooden table covered in sheets of paper, some typed, some handwritten. The handwriting was perfect cursive, every letter formed with care. He waved at a chair and handed me a sheaf of typed paper and I started reading, rocking the stroller with my foot. The articles concerned alcoholism, child abuse, marital breakdowns. As I read, the writer elaborated on the material with heartbreaking tales of his family life.
"Where did you learn to write like this," I said finally, amazed at the language skills and vocabulary. Sure, his sentence structure wasn't always perfect, but then, whose is?
The man shrugged. "The professor said I had a gift," he said. The stroller started moving so I took the cover off and helped the baby sit up and see where we were. The writer held out a tin of butter biscuits and offered the baby one. The baby took a biscuit in both hands and chewed thoughtfully, looking at the man with interest.
"First time he's seen a blackfella," I said.
The man looked wistfully at my child and told me how much he missed his grandchildren. He said he was always praying they would visit him from Sydney, but that they never did. He had separated from his wife after many years of marriage and she had then alienated him from his children, and now his grandchildren as well.
"Take a look in the bedrooms back there," he said to me. I hesitated, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of going into a stranger's bedrooms.
"Go on, take a look."
So I dutifully ventured to the rear of the house and looked in the bedrooms. In one, there was a neatly made double bed. In the next, there were three single beds, again perfectly made up. Each bed had a teddy bear sitting on the pillow.
I came back and touched the man's shoulder. He had tears in his eyes. The baby ate another biscuit and listened as the man and I got talking (or really, I got listening) about the plight of the suburban Aborigine. He told me how it felt to have grown up with no links with his traditional culture and yet, not ever feeling part of white man's Australia either. He said he'd once had a group of Italian friends staying with him. Over dinner, they had got into a spirited conversation between themselves, but had stopped talking when they noticed him crying. They'd asked if he was upset that they were talking in Italian. He had said no, he was upset because he had lost his own language.
The writer changed the subject. He told me he had recently begun dating a woman called Linda*. He shuffled through some papers covered with the beautiful handwriting and started reading out aloud some of the love letters he had written for her.Linda, I thought. Do you know how lucky you are to get love letters like this?
It was time for the writer to go to his job interview. He wrote the title of his book and his pen-name on a slip of paper and gave it to me.
"Koorie Dhoulagarle", I tried out his pen-name. "What does it mean?"
"Aboriginal Spirit", he said. We said our goodbyes and I promised we'd come visit again next time we were in town. I walked away thinking of the stories he had told me of his family. His father who'd been into an English-speaking school and forbidden to use his own language. One day, they'd asked him to spell 'apple'. He'd simply drawn a picture of one. And now here was his son, who wrote English as if he had a university education.
Anyway, maybe next time I'll ask him if he'd like me to publish some of his articles here.

lowest common denomination

I had some conversations with a local preacher some months ago in which he mentioned that a child is considered to be innocent until it reaches the age where it understands right from wrong in a meaningful sense. The preacher reckoned this usually occurred when a child was about three.
So why do people feel the need to baptise an infant? As I understand it, baptism is a ritual that is supposed to provide "forgiveness for sinning". Well, correct me if I'm wrong but an 11-month-old infant has not sinned.
It is important to me that my child is not baptised. I'd like him to have the chance to remain free of religious labelling until he is old enough to decide for himself whether or not he wants to subscribe to a particular religion. I don't believe it's one parent's right to impose their world-view on a child. I don't intend to tell Harley he is an atheist just because I am one.
Isn't it the child's right to choose what he believes in? Isn't Christianity based around the premise that God gave man free will so that he could choose to believe in God? So why not let a kid decide to believe (or not) when they are old enough to understand the concepts involved? Why tell them they are "a Christian" as if it's something like being "an Australian"?
I know some people will think I am being petty about this, but it's really important to me that Harley has the right to be involved in figuring out his world views and belief systems for himself. I want to expose him to many ideas and philosophies as he grows, and let him enjoy the process of figuring it all out. Hey, it may take a lifetime! I still haven't figured it out entirely myself. I just stick with a basic lowest-common-denominator rule: all religions and humanistic philosophies reckon we should be nice to each other and the planet we depend on. Easy. No need for self-flagellation over various "sins" like masturbation or homosexuality or illegitimacy, and the rest. No need to waste all your life in prayer or at houses of worship.
I'm curious. What if I were Jewish? Would the child's father still have the right to force me to permit a baptism? So why should the situation be any different when one parent is an atheist?
A judge gets to decide it tomorrow, anyway. But frankly, I'll be shocked if a court of law can order a religious ceremony take place and a child be forced to adopt a religion just to please one parent.
We'll see...............

update: The judge said the issues involved require more time to be fully considered and listed it for hearing again on 20 March. And so it drags on...

leading man

Poor Mark. Well, with hindsight it's clear he just wasn't ready for the job, and wasn't the right choice for the job in the circumstances. I now regret having preferred him over Kim Beazley back when the leadership was up for grabs. We really should've let Beazley lose one more for us and then brought Latham in in time for the next election.
But with hindsight I also disagree with Adele Horin's recent claim that Latham's flaw was that he is a bully. I now think he was just out of his depth and nervous, which led to him acting strange and being withdrawn and projecting the wrong vibes, namely arrogance and coldness. That handshake wasn't aggro--it was overcompensation.
And it didn't help that Latham suffered a lot of negative publicity in relation to his personal life. I do think it was cruel and unacceptable for the media to indulge a bitter ex-wife in essentially portraying him as some kind of malignant narcissist. I think the biggest problem for Mark was this sense of coldness he emanated, of unhappiness even. Perhaps he was actually suffering chronic pain from his illness and was therefore just unable to project those qualities we had associated with him from his past behavior: vigour, energy, passion. Something was just missing.
So now Beazley's going to get another go. Fine--et's let Beazley lose another one for us. Can we please learn from the mistake we made with Latham and not ruin the Gillards and Rudds at this point? I have a lot of faith in Julia Gillard, but let's give her a chance to build a public support base. As for the criticism I keep reading that she'll never be leader because she's from the Left faction--that's just a crock. What does it mean? That Julia is never going to get a go just because she's from the Left? That no-one from the Left faction is ever going to get a go? It's a stupid argument. As for Kevin Rudd, I'm happy to have him as shadow foreign minister. He's intelligent, calm, compassionate and good-humored, as we frequently see on Channel Seven's Sunrise breakfast show. All qualities you want in a foreign minister. He might be a good leader one day, but I reckon Gillard would be better.
Anyway, poor Mark. It must have been such a humiliating and disappointing experience to have lost. And to have been ill--as he says, with a life-threatening illness--all along couldn't have been a lot of fun. Let's give him a break. He wasn't right for the job, sure, but he did an OK job. Let's not forget how even up til the end there was a sense he could win it. Let's not forget how he creamed John Howard in the debate (remember the worm?).
The biggest problem for having staked our chances on Latham was the geopolitical circumstances we live in. The War on Terror, the war in Iraq. At a time like that, the country understandably wanted security and economic certainty. That's not Latham's fault. With hindsight, Beazley would've been the better choice (though I still believe he would've lost it). Beazley had the relationship with the US. Beazley had the experience in Defence. So we ballsed it up. But let's go easy on Mark eh? You did OK, son.

giving it up

Inspired by John Quiggin's "creative giving" series, I'm hereby going to donate the money I get for hosting advertising textlinks on my site (see righthand column under "sponsors") to tsunami relief. It's not a huge amount of money but it does roll in monthly so it's an ongoing commitment. And if any other advertisers wish to run textlinks or blog-ads here, I'll be happy to donate their fees to tsunami aid as well.

the benign sea

(photo by Jen)

on message

By the way, I always reply to emails so if you've emailed me and I haven't responded, please try again, putting the word 'blog' somewhere in the subject line so I can differentiate it from spam (unless of course I already know who you are). Thanks a lot.

palpitations

I was folding the baby's clothes yesterday when I saw a small, spiky-looking black spider struggling to get out of a fold in the fabric. I thought it was just a common house spider at first but then I saw the almost fluorescent red stripe on its back: a redback. Far out, that was close!
Anyway, I just looked redback spiders up on the web...online, that is. As you might know, the female eats the male during sex:

The female begins to squirt digestive juices onto the male's abdomen while the first palp is inserted. If he is not too weak, he will manage to withdraw, and then insert the second palp. She will continue to 'digest' his abdomen. Most males do not survive this process, which seems to be unique to Latrodectus hasselti.

Surely a case of evolution gawn wrong...from the male's perspective anyway. And when you think about it, doesn't this mean each male can only ever mate once? Wonder how that affects their species?

yes you have and yes he is

Prince Harry's non-apology yesterday ("If I have caused offence, I'm sorry"), reminded me of John Howard's message to Mark Latham a couple of days ago: "If he is sick, I wish him a speedy recovery..."
Such a subtle way of expressing doubt. Not.

blue pole

I was lying in bed just now watching a shadow on the blinds and thinking it looked like a man coming towards me and stopping and wavering and then coming towards me again and it was a while before I clicked that it wasn't any man, it was merely the shadow of the enormous Australian flag that's stuck into the top of our house.

make love not war

No, really:

Declassified documents reveal the Pentagon toyed with the idea of an aphrodisiac chemical weapon in 1994. The gas would have made enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. The weapon's developers said homosexual behaviour among troops would deal a "distasteful but completely non-lethal" blow to morale.

Actually I reckon soldiers on both sides should get ecstasy rations. Imagine it.

real time

Damn, I would've loved to have seen this--Germaine Greer on Big Brother!--but I don't guess it'll air here. Sigh..........

when he's down

Hey, that's a bit harsh. No matter what we think of Latham's election performance, surely a sick man can go outside a couple of times a day and get some fresh air? Time to leave the guy alone, isn't it?

yours sincerely

The sad thing is that so many people will believe it.

this is a love story

I love this blogger.

goodbye mr chips

Recently I was feeling uncomfortable when my sponsors asked me to update their text links to ones advertising online gaming. So I took down the links and, at the suggestion of Kyte, emailed the sponsors asking if they had something other than online gaming ads for me to host. To my surprise I got a very nice email back saying they "take pride in keeping [their] advertising website owners happy", and providing different links.
Unfortunately, they gave me the payday lenders again, and thanks to Helen for pricking my conscience about them as well, I had to write back and say, "Er...well...if it's all the same to you, I don't really like the loan sharks that much either". OK, not in so many words. To which they cheerfully replied that they would assign me the scooters again next cycle. I guess I can live with it just a little longer.... Anyway, nice doing business with them!

dickie greenleaf

Out in the driveway a chocolate-colored sausage dog had the corner of a woman's sarong in its mouth and ran angrily around her feet. As the woman turned, the dog unwrapped her until she stood giggling in only her bikini and sandals.
“HONEY!” A man shouted. “HONEY, COME HERE!”
A mother and a small child playing in the driveway had stopped to watch the woman and the dog. But when the dog saw them it released the sarong and sprinted towards them, yapping ferociously.
The mother hoisted her child up above her head as the small angry animal tore around them on its shrunken legs. A brown man in white shorts appeared and scooped up the dog. It sat smugly in his arms, fixing dull brown eyes on the child.
“I do apologise,” said the tanned man. “She won’t bite.”
“Oh, he’s not afraid,” the mother said. She smiled at the child. “Are you, sweetheart?”
The child coolly eyed the animal. He had seen bigger dogs.
“You live here,” the man observed, having watched the mother from his balcony during the afternoon. She had been hanging out her washing in a denim miniskirt and her bikini top. Her hair was in two bunches at her neck and was lighter on the ends.
“Yes,” the mother said. “You’re holidaying?”
“Just lobbed in for the week,” he said, nodding in the direction of the holiday units behind her house. He cocked his head at the child. “He’s very good at walking.”
“I know,” the mother rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe how much energy they have, when they’re so much smaller than us!” The man rolled his eyes in sympathy.
“You have kids yourself?”
“Yes, a son,” the man said. The mother asked how old. The man said his son was seventeen.
The mother was shocked. “You don’t look old enough!”
“Surgery,” the man chuckled. The man and his dog walked the mother and her child back up the driveway.
“Any plans for any more?” the mother asked, out of curiosity.
“Kids, or surgery?” grinned the man. “I don't know. Perhaps I haven’t met the right woman yet.”
“Tall, dark, handsome and single,” the mother joked as she steered the child inside. “Well, see you later.”
The mother was a writer, and as she cooked the baby’s dinner she idly thought about the man and how it was a shame she hadn’t been the one to come up with the character name Dickie Greenleaf because it was the only possible name for the man. He had a clean, smoothness about him that suggested hours of preening. The mother was not attracted to vain men.
After she had put the child to bed, she unfolded a chair in the bathroom near the back door so she could look out at the night, and she thought she might write in her notebook for a while.
It was a few minutes later that the barking began.
Dickie Greenleaf’s dog had obviously been locked inside while Dickie had gone to dinner at one of the local establishments that catered to men of his ilk. Meanwhile, unable to comprehend that its agonising solitude was only temporary, the dog screeched and screeched for its beloved master. The mother gritted her teeth and tried to write, but she felt each bark like a whip across her shoulders. From the balconies surrounding her house she heard angry complaints. She put the notebook down in frustration.
The mother tried to read some Flannery. His shirt was green but so faded that the cowboy charging across the front of it was only a shadow--how she loved the details! But the dog’s barks punctuated the sentences in odd places. She shut the book and stared at the photo on the jacket. Flannery is smiling and gazing off out of the frame, as if she’s been telling you a story and has paused because her attention has been captured by some small detail she has seen or thought of and she’s filing it away to use someday.
Up at Dickie Greenleaf’s holiday rental, the dog barked, and barked, and barked. A neighbor began throwing things at the animal’s fence, as if fear would silence the animal. The dog became only more terrified—-it was alone in a strange place, people where shouting at it and throwing things at it--and the barking increased in volume and pitch. The mother considered calling the pound; perhaps they could come and tranquillise the wretched animal.
“How could you leave that animal like that!” she silently yelled at an absent man. “You’ve got more dollars than sense!” The mother distracted herself by calculating that the difference between her and most of her neighbours was roughly eighteen hundred and fifty dollars a week.
The mother rehearsed what she would say to Dickie Greenleaf tomorrow. “Last night,” she would say icily, “your dog was driving us all insane!” But she felt that Dickie Greenleaf would merely shrug and grin, and explain the dog just got a little upset when it was away from home, as if that made it alright.
“Right, that’s it,” she heard a steely-voiced neighbour say, and a door banged with such force that she feared for the animal’s safety. The barking stopped. The neighborhood seemed to hold its breath. But a car started up and was driven off and the barking resumed with renewed determination.
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking animal, shut the fuck up!” the mother raged silently in her head as Dickie Greenleaf’s dog barked and howled. The mother half-wanted her baby to wake, so that its indignant cries would add to the general misery of the situation and Dickie Greenleaf could later be made to feel even guiltier. But the baby did not wake. He had been well worn out at the beach this afternoon, chasing seagulls. The birds would hop a few metres away and the baby would follow, and then when the birds finally flew a long way away, he gave them a look as if to say, “Hey, that’s not playing fair!”
Hours seemed to pass and then the mother could not take it any longer. She wrenched open her back door and stumbled out into the darkness with the intention of screaming out to no-one in particular, “DICKIE GREENLEAF, YOUR DOG IS DRIVING ME INSANE!” She thought she would feel better after that, but the words were forgotten when she looked up into the night sky and saw all the stars had gathered around the moon as if in earnest conference.
It had been a long time since she had looked at the stars.
The mother remembered a friend had once told her how she liked to moonbake. The mother took a towel off the line and spread it out on the buffalo and she laid down on it. She put on her sunglasses and peeled down her bikini top straps and looked up at the moon but she could not make out its face.
After a few minutes she became aware the dog had stopped barking. There was an expectant silence as the mother and the moon and the stars and the angry neighbours all waited to see if the silence was going to hold.
The mother noticed how it wasn’t just silence they were listening to. She could also hear crickets and the roar of the ocean as it threw itself against the beach, and there was a car being driven urgently somewhere in the distance.
It was then that the mother saw the moon’s face.
The mother got up and went inside and just then Dickie Greenleaf’s car pulled up and the dog began barking again, but this time with hysterical joy, and the mother switched on her computer and began typing this post.

G'night.

happy families

One of the nicest birthday presents I got yesterday was the news that my sister Giulia and her family are coming up to live here for a year. I'm so excited, because we love cousins Benjamin and Raph. It'd be awesome to be able to spend some time with them.
To make sure they don't change their minds I'm going to get out and take some persuasive photos (might even post a few here too). Not that they're gonna need much convincing. They've been here. They know.
A year, though? Ha! They'll come here, fall into the habit of leaving your keys in the door and walking across the road to the beach twice a day, and before too long, they'll never want to leave. Hey, I speak from experience. I even caught myself daydreaming about getting into local politics the other day.
So yeah--happy days indeed.

thirtyfour

Wow.

count me in

Blogger Anders Jacobsen is donating to Red Cross every time another blogger links to him and helps publicise the relevant charities. So here goes:

International aid organizations:
UNICEF (United Nations Children's Fund)
United Nations' World Food Programme
Medecins Sans Frontieres / Doctors without Borders (donate!)
CARE International
The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

UK/Europe:
Disasters Emergency Comittee (DEC) - comprises a raft of aid agencies, including the below and others
British Red Cross
Save the Children UK

North America:
American Red Cross
Canadian Red Cross
Save The Children

Anders Jacobsen: Webloggers: Give to tsunami victims and I'll give too!

when i grow up

I've been thinking about what I want to do when Harley is old enough for daycare or preschool. While I've always wanted to earn a living writing, lately I've come to the conclusion that it's probably just a hobby like my mother always said, and that's OK. I'm letting it go. I'm going to separate it from the concept of earning money altogether. Oh, and let go of the motivation of winning (prizes, accolades--hell--even love).
Still, I remember the day in kindergarten when our teacher showed us those huge wooden A-frames, like giant Scrabble racks, gave us a stack of big black words on white cardboard, and showed us how we could put the words together to create our own sentences. It was one of those defining moments you have. Not long after that, I resolved to be a writer.
Through primary school, my best friend Emily and I wrote, directed and performed in strange little plays that were probably just extended private jokes. Emily came from a family of famous pianists and, herself very accomplished, also wrote and performed the scores.
There was another defining moment, in primary school, winning a role in Rinse the Blood Off My Toga. "My name is Flavius Maximus, I'm a private Roman eye. My licence number is IXIVLLDCC..." I was amazed at the feeling you got when you made people laugh. That was it. I forgot about wanting to be a writer and resolved to be an actor.
When I got to high school though, I got very self-conscious. In the first year of high school I took a lead role in a school play which so bored the audience that the entire production was pulled after opening night. I don't think I ever got over that blow to the ego. So that was it for acting.
I had always been pretty good at design, winning poster competitions and stuff, and had always loved sewing my own clothes, so next I resolved to become a fashion designer. I was really into Morrissey Edmiston in high school and I still have a letter from Leona Edmiston, written in black ink in very elegant handwriting, in which she kindly gives advice on how to become a designer. But then, another defining moment. There was a class assignment to design some boardshorts. I'd done some wild designs--shorts in silver lam'e, black shorts with tiny golden angels all over them, shorts made entirely out of James Dean's photocopied eyes, and so on, but the teacher said you couldn't get fabric like that and she failed me. I kind of lost my confidence with it after that.
I topped the year in French in Year 9 but then, perversely, dropped the subject to take up Woodwork. To make some kind of feminist statement or something, I think it was. Oui, je regrette... For the HSC I took 3 units each of Maths, English, Textiles & Design and Art. I didn't apply myself, preferring to spend most of high school in a gloom, so I got only average results except in English.
After high school, perhaps to please my father or because I'd read The Fountainhead one too many times, I enrolled in Architecture at UNSW but deferred and spent a year working as a junior graphic designer at a big book publishers, a job that had been offered to me while doing work experience there in Year 10. But I found it too hard to concentrate on a fledgling career as I was in a difficult relationship at the time, so I ended up just drifting around waitressing.
Eventually I began studying graphic design at night school while working full-time doing subbing and typesetting at a parenting magazine using the then-standard DTP package Ventura. I loved the promise of desktop publishing. Power to the people! But my TAFE hadn't caught up and had no computers and we were still just handpainting color wheels and gray scales. I remember one of my teachers announcing grandly that red and yellow was "a profoundly ugly color combination" and he forbade us to ever use it. I decided I was learning more about the design of the future (ie. using computers) in my day job so I dropped out of the course after a year. I worked at the magazine for a few years and did a bit of freelance design work on the side.
Together with my brother, who was a doctor at the time, I wrote and published a magazine for new doctors, taking advertising from the pharmaceutical companies. We took off overseas on the proceeds. The plan was that we were going to reproduce the magazine overseas, but once we got to Europe I realised I just wanted to kiss boys and dance on tables and finally, in Lisbon, my brother and I fought for the last time and we went our separate ways. Not for long--we both got on the same train to London and after some hours sulking, deigned to sit together and play chess. When we got to London though we split for real. He went back to Thailand, taught English for many years, and ended up marrying a local girl. Meanwhile, I met a boy from Perth on my first night in London, shacked up with him a week later, and spent the next few years with him. (Hi Jimbo, and congratulations on the birth of Tom). We spent a year back in Perth where I wrote copy for advertising features at The West Australian. I also produced another one of our doctor's mags on my own, which gave me enough money to go travelling again (I have never been able to save the traditional way). After another year travelling I split with my boyfriend, returned to Sydney and enrolled in a BA in Information Science at UTS. One of the subjects was Psychology and I decided after a year to switch to a BA in Psych at Macquarie Uni. And that, my friends, is the one thing I ever stuck with and finished...just!
While at uni I got into legal secretarial temping which paid very well and you could do nightshifts which fit well with uni. The other good thing was you got free taxis home. At the time I lived at Collaroy so it was a forty minute taxi ride home and I mostly enjoyed chatting to the cabbies. I loved temping because I could be an anonymous observer of the goings-on at each office, and every week was different. Ultimately though I was seduced by the income and became trapped in the corporate world in various permanent PA jobs.
And then I got into blogging, had Harley and the rest is...Archives.
So where to now, I wonder?

the cruel sea

It's just so awful and hard to fathom, I don't know what to say about the tsunami. So I guess I'll just keep counting our blessings and hope that we in the rich world continue to do what we can to help, for as long as it takes.
On a happier note, me and the little fella are going to be in Sydney for a few days after January 20, so if any bloggers would like to meet up, please drop me an email.

monster bawl

The child thought all his Christmases had come at once. Auntie Tina had come to stay--he loves Auntie Tina! For three days the child held Auntie's hand and showed her his new house, his new toys, his new beaches. They went for lots of drives in Auntie's car. At Oma and Opa's house he showed Auntie how he could pat the yellow chickens, and how the brown ones wouldn't let him, no matter how much he chased them.
Now and then he complained bitterly to Auntie about how Mama made him wear nappies when he didn't want to, have sleepies when he didn't want to, come in out of the sun when he didn't want to, and so on. Auntie would never make him do that, would she?
In the mornings as soon as Mama got him out of his cot he marched, pointing, around to the spare bed where sure enough, there were those black curls peeking out from the bedclothes. Auntie! The bedclothes stirred and Auntie smiled sleepily and he climbed up to have cuddles. He encircled her nose with his mouth but didn't bring his teeth together like he sometimes liked to on Mama's nose.
On the fourth day, Auntie's friend arrived with her two-year-old daughter. At first, the child was excited. He loves other bubbas! Sure, this one was very big and very loud, and she had something her Mama referred to as "Persian blood" which apparently made her "fiery". But he loved to play with other bubbas.
Pretty soon though the child realised that this bubba was not in fact a bubba but a monster. Every toy the child picked up to show It was ripped out of his hands, usually accompanied by mad shrieks in his face. The child stumbled off, disconcerted, only to find It following him, clobbering him with a rubber hammer and pulling his hair. And all the while laughing!
The monster's mama finally dragged It off and the child sat in a corner clutching his willy nervously.
"Don't worry, Harley," his Mama said. "That's one toy she can't take off you."
The child appeared doubtful.
There was one last, rather traumatic trip to the beach with the monster who, the child was surprised and gratified to learn, greatly feared the sand and the ocean. There was a lot of shrieking.
Then everyone disappeared except Mama and the house became silent. Mama put Angelique on and was dancing as she picked up all the toys the monster had distributed around the house. Normally the child would like a little dance himself, especially to Angelique, but right now he was concerned because Auntie appeared to have gone missing. And Mama didn't even seem to care! The child wandered around looking for a long time, but Auntie was nowhere to be found.
That night after milkies, the child lay thinking as Mama sang to him about twinkling little stars and then she said,
"We had fun today, didn't we, with Auntie--"
The child gave a big smile at this, and looked around in case Auntie had come back, but she hadn't.
"And little Nilufa--"
The child abruptly stopped smiling, then burst into tears. He cast anxious looks about, as if the monster might reappear to clobber him. Mama quickly cuddled him and said it was OK, they were alone now, just him and Mama.
"And she didn't mean to hurt you, sweetie. She was just...excited to see you!"
But the child sobbed. Mama didn't get it. The monster had stolen the child's favorite toy.
The monster had stolen Auntie.

Footnote: Auntie's only gone up to Bellingen, and will be back in a few days, sans monster.

best of times

Best year of my life: 2004
Best thing I ever did: have Harley
Best address in the universe: Boomerang Beach, NSW.

Best to all bloggers and their families for the festive season. Thanks for reading me.

love,
Gianna & Harley.

knit happens

LONDON: A British mathematician has made a crochet model of chaos, the BBC reported yesterday. Hinke Osinga of the engineering mathematics department at Bristol University needed 25,511 stitches to represent the Lorenz equations that describe chaotic systems.

--theOz.

traitors

A newsreader and a pulp magazine writer, both female, are discussing Nicole Kidman’s supposed new romance with billionaire Steve Bing:
Newsreader: I wonder, what does Nicole see in him? I mean, he’s scruffy, he’s ugly, he’s a love rat…
Journo: Well, he’s a billionaire of course, so…
Newsreader(smiling indulgently): Ah, gets a girl every time, doesn’t it?

thank god we met lizzie

Yeah, I reckon I can understand why Pride and Prejudice makes women feel good to be a woman (subscription). Don’t we just all want to be Lizzie? She’s kind of the ultimate female character: intelligent, assertive, funny and attractive. And—-contary to the stereotype perpetuated in our modern media, see next post--she doesn’t settle for anything less than love. (To anyone who might comment that Darcy ends up being conveniently loaded, I contend she would’ve loved him even if he had been a pauper. She turned down Mr Collins, didn’t she?) And OK, we want to be Miss Lizzie because of Mr Darcy...We love Mr Darcy...so sue us.
Anyway, I don’t get why Julie Burchill doesn’t get it. So what if Austen and her peers didn’t sit around discussing clitorises? I don’t even think we talk about them all that much anyway.

replay

I've got a bit of an ethical dilemma. As some of you might be aware, for the past year or so I've been hosting a couple of unobtrusive text links (down there in the margin under 'sponsors') for which I'm essentially reimbursed the cost of my internet connection.
So far it's all been links to sites selling lovely Audrey Hepburn-esque motor scooters and stuff, but the other day the advertisers asked me to update their links and now I find I'm advertising...online gambling! The pokies.
I'm not real comfortable with this. My views on gambling have been aired before on this blog. Basically, I loathe and detest the pokies. A friend's marriage and almost their whole life was ruined by a gambling addiction. They're an insidious evil. What are the pokies but machines that blatantly hypnotise vulnerable people into throwing their money away? So I started thinking I'd email the advertisers and ask for a different product to link to.
But then I got to thinking that maybe in a way I was getting a tiny bit of revenge for the common man. I mean, out of my discerning readership I doubt that many (if any) will be remotely tempted to clickthrough to an online gaming site. So the money is flowing the opposite direction for a change, isn't it?

just play me john coltrane

There's a certain blogger trading music with other bloggers (great idea) and I've just emailed him my choices. He's got a helluva lot of good music there to choose from. Anyway, I've asked Santa to bring me two Lucinda Williams CDS - one called "Live at the Orpheum Theatre" from 1999 and something Santa has described as "Crossroads on Country Music TV - interviews, station promos, great talk, singing with Elvis Costello and Lucinda" from 2002. Should be interesting. And just cos Lucinda mentions John Coltrane in one of her songs I've also asked Santa to chuck in some discs from the extensive John Coltrane list as I'm unfamiliar, but interested, in the territory.
Waiting with bated breath.

bully for you

So is Mark Latham really an irredeemable bully, as Adele Horin argues? My problem with Labor is that they'll probably stick with Latham for a good chunk of this term but then turf him at the last minute, again not leaving enough time for whoever the successor is to sell him or herself to the public as opposition leader. Or does Labor really believe Latham can bring it home next time?

cod piece

The delivery man handed me his clipboard. In big red capital letters above where I had to sign it said STRICTLY COD.
"Strictly cod?" I said, signing. "What's that mean?" The man looked at me and said that I was blonde.

phone line between pleasure and pain

Jeez, talk about dramas getting the phone on here--bloody Optus! Grrrr. Wasn't much fun not having a phone for a week. Anyway, as I am fond of promising, "more soon". And hope to catch up with everyone's blogs soon too.

fear and loathing

God, Angela Shanahan irritates me. Here she is, keen to reassure conservative Australians that there is no need to fear "Lesbians going nuclear":

"...the prize for the weirdest reaction was the SMH which apparently saw lesbians at the vanguard of the new nuclear family announcing "Lesbians Go Nuclear!" Sounds alarming. Of course we are used to hearing about this inevitable decline of the family so we are only too willing to accept this gloomy scenario. But is it true?

Right. It's "gloomy" and "alarming" to think lesbians fall in love and want to make formal commitments and raise children together just like heterosexuals. Shanahan goes on to explain that there's no need to worry, because:

As for the gay family. Well, they are almost non-existent. They are mostly lesbians with children from former marriages. They constitute about a quarter of a per cent of couples with children.

Phew, eh! Shanahan acts as if marriage is a finite quantity and there's only so much to go around. If gays start helping themselves to happy family lives and the rituals that go with it, there'll be less for the heterosexuals. Or something. Never can quite figure out why lesbians "going nuclear" would be a threat to anyone.
But here's something there is a finite quantity of: the natural resources on our planet. Yeah, and there's only a finite quantity of our tax dollar, in the form of family tax benefits available to all parents and in all likelihood claimed by the Shanahan family too. So if I were Angela Shanahan, I would stop bragging about having nine kids myself. After all it's just genetic selfishness. And possibly overkill.

lone wolf theory

Had to wince a bit yesterday when I heard Mark Latham drag out that line, "In politics, disunity is death". Because the embarrassing thing is, in 2004, even unity was death.
Still, having read this article about the Latham loss in the Oz at the weekend, I have to say it sounds as if Labor was far less united under Latham than we all thought. Or it was kind of one-sided unity: We all got behind Latham as our one great hope, but Latham allegedly acted the 'lone wolf' throughout his campaign.
You know that saying, nothing succeeds like success? Well, the reverse is also true: nothing fails like failure. So I just can't see Latham getting another bite at the cherry, cruel as it seems.
You wonder how true the stories are though, don't you? There's always bound to be one or two disgruntled staffers who'll spin it like this. But if it is true, well, then Latham deserves to bear the blame for the failed campaign.

let's get metaphysical

One last thought before I switch off the machine...
You know this theory that a more advanced species of life in another dimension of the 'multiverse' could've created our universe using computers? Well, the theory is criticised because an "unimaginably large" computer would be needed to achieve such a simulation. But a computer too large for who? They Might Be Giants, as the band name goes. Their computers might be able to handle it. Just wondering.

beach, baby

We're moving Tuesday so the computer’s about to be packed and I'm not sure how long it'll take to get connected again in the new place. I’m stoked about our new shack. It’s only one bedroom-plus-sunroom, but it’s cheap and big and anyway, who cares when you’ve got the ocean a hundred metres away? Location, location, location! We're going to be right in the middle of three surf beaches. Down the road there's a small row of shops, including a video store (yay), and our chemist and doctor will now be within walking distance. We’re going to be able to go to the beach early in the mornings and in the evenings too if we like and from our house we’ll have a great passing parade to watch, surfers and tourists and kids walking past to the beaches and shops. And we’ll be able to hear the ocean at night....ahhh! What more could a girl and her bub want?
So anyway--back soon, hopefully.

apprentice latham

Anyone else a fan of Donald Trump’s The Apprentice? Yes, I am talking about a reality TV show, sorry. [Insert argument here about watching reality TV being no more or less valid than watching any other sport--Ed.] I find myself in complete agreement with Mr Trump on every sacking. I’m especially glad Raj went. There was something creepy about him, even while he played the role of charming raconteur. He seems like the kind of person you know would be a belligerent and aggressive drunk, not a happy one. And for all his bragging about being such a ladies’ man, he was really quite a sexist pig, once you saw how he actually interacted with the women on the show. The show’s tagline may be ‘it’s nothing personal, it’s just business”, but that’s a laugh--the whole thing is personal. The apprentices, being in fierce competition and apparently unable to control their egos, are unable to cooperate even to achieve a common goal, and most of the disputes seem to be personality-related rather than about business. One of these people is going to be a CEO for Trump? Good luck to him. They may have been to Harvard but they act like kindergartners. Ah, love it.
Speaking of apprentices, if Mark Latham had been on The Apprentice, he would definitely be fired now. After all, he was Project Manager and he completely botched the ‘mission critical’ element of marketing (I'd say particularly on the issue of Labor’s economic ability). Not only that, but the public didn’t warm to him personally--and they had a chance—and that would appear to be fatal. Look at Crean. The same taint of unpopularity is going to be Latham’s downfall, too. Mr Latham...You’re fired.
Having said that, I’m not really a fan of this so-called white-anting as it just seems too easy for Labor to simply blame the leader when the policies were evidently also unpopular with the public. And the team was responsible for the ideas in those policies, and for selling them too. But if Latham really is a deadpollywalking, I’d really like to see Gillard/Rudd up. But it’s probably just wishful thinking!

yesterday's papers

As you may have noticed, I'm still not finding much inspiration in the news. But as I'm packing and culling stuff I keep finding things that make me smile, at least a little. One clipping, from the Manly Daily in 1998 (no link), describes a bank robbery and dwells on the description of what the male and female offenders looked like. The headline was, "Not 'Bonnie and Clyde'. The reporter notes that the man is riddled with acne scars and the woman is "160cm tall with blonde-streaked brown hair in a bob cut." What's more, "she appeared frumpy." I don't even know why I kept the clipping. Perhaps I was imagining some young cadet at her typewriter at the Daily, wishing she was writing up the fashion shows and not the court reports.
Reminds me of when we first came to Oz and my dad was a reporter at the Mosman Daily, one of the same group of papers. When I was three, they put a photo of me naked on Balmoral Beach on the front page. I'm not kidding. I'm holding an umbrella, but it's not hiding anything. I mean, this was about 1975. But still, who's idea was that?
Speaking of beaches, have just been around to look at a place to rent, right across the road from one of the beautiful local beaches. It's smaller than this house but it's cheaper. Think I'll take it. This means I could move as early as next week. Joy.
Oh damn...talking about myself again...was going to try and cut down on that. That's what the anon. blog is for, after all. It's cool having an anon. blog. Feels a bit like throwing a party when your parents are away. Have updated it, for those who are reading me there. Link available by emailng me--I haven't sent the new link out en masse or anything because I don't want to be presumptuous. Horses, water, etc.

facing facts

Well, I’ve pulled that piece I posted yesterday about face-reading because I thought it made me sound like a bit of a wonka (even if I am a bit of a wonka sometimes). But then this morning I kicked over some old psych notes and clippings and the clipping on top of the pile was, completely coincidentally, the Good Weekend article by Malcolm Gladwell called “In Your Face”, the article I was thinking of when I wrote yesterday's post. No link available to that story but Googling leads you to this piecein the Annals of Psychology by Gladwell, called "The Naked Face".I haven’t had time to read but I’ll put up in case anyone's interested in the subject too.

go ahead, don't make my day....

OK, I get the hint. Ever since our curbside standoff a few weeks ago, my neighbor has arranged to do the very noisiest things possible at the very time he knows my baby is supposed to sleep. In quick succession: spider-spraying the house; re-laying carpets and tiles; something involving two days' worth of jackhammers (again, only during the baby's regular nap periods), and--the piece de resistance--sawing down a massive tree right across from Harley's window. That ended up being fun though, we ended up getting up and dragging chairs outside and watching all the little men up in the tree. I've never seen tree-felling done this way (professionally, I suppose). They go down the tree, sawing off little half-metre chunks all the way down the trunk. They didn't even shout, "TIM----BER!!!!".
Little does my neighbor know that the baby can sleep through sledgehammers.
Well...he used to. In the past two days seems everything has changed again. The baby now refuses to sleep all day but is sleeping from about 9pm til 6:30am, and I'm told I shouldn't complain about that. I don't know, I miss the two regular two-hour day sleeps--doing an eight hour day shift is insane. At four o'clock yesterday, I found myself in the kitchen crying into a teatowel for a minute, moaning my god this is harder than I thought. I rang a friend and she kacked herself and said, "Welcome to motherhood". It's really been turned up to eleven lately.
Anyway, I really think the guy doesn't like me. I mean, maybe I'm just paranoid....anyway, leaving soon so it'll be moot.

self-love

Lately I keep coming across that message, pride comes before a fall. A friend sent my baby a bunch of children's books including the wonderful Mr McGee series [ah, so this is where Bobby ended up...Ed]. One particular book has Mr McGee discovering he can fly, so off he goes, calling out for everyone to look at him! And sure enough he crashes. Or there's the Christian ad you might have seen on TV at the moment where a young boy kicks a soccer goal and then runs around whooping it up until he, too, falls flat on his face. The ad quotes the saying and references it to the Bible.
The gist of it all seems to be that you should be modest and humble, not be proud of yourself and your achievements, not think you are somehow better than you are. See also 'tall poppy syndrome'.
I sometimes look at something I've written on this blog and think it makes me sound like I love myself, but then I think it's OK, I didn't spend many years and many thousands of dollars in therapy doing a psych degree if not to learn how to let me love myself. Or at least, like myself. I suppose it's a fine line--you should love yourself, but not too much. And worst of all, you shouldn't show it. Like writing about yourself in a flattering manner on your blog, heh heh.
Anyway, the whole thing makes me wonder about religious organisations like Hillsong Church, where they apparently preach the usual self-help dogma about getting stinking rich and so on. I don't know. Can you be stinking rich and love yourself and be proud of yourself and yet be humble and modest as well? Anyone out there fit this description? If so, there's a Paypal button over in the righthand column.(I jest.)

she's so weather vane

When is my weathergirl going to get into a bikini, I wonder? Looks like she's in a sarong at the moment, but it's just way too hot for that much clothing right now. I'm not sure the Bureau of Meteorology is passing on all its information. Either that or she's more concerned with her wardrobe than doing her job. She's very chic. But she's now claiming it was only 26C an hour ago up here when it's been about forty in the shade since the sun came up (not to mention about 99% humidity...ugh). But maybe it's just me--maybe Tamworth Airport isn't the closest weather vane after all?

every blog will have its day

What? What? WHAT! Is it April 1? Talk about quitting while you're ahead. Chris has dropped a bombshell and is bowing out of blogging. A sad day for the Ozblogosphere. He's switched comments off so wailing and bashing your head against his comments box is futile. Go read his impressive blogging manifesto and last words. Vale, backpages and best of luck with your book, Chris.

update: "Vale" was probably the wrong word, because there's a chance Chris will return to blogging after his book is finished in six months or so. An eternity after such prolific daily blogging!

fully sic

I was going through some old letters today and came across this one I found in my mailbox once. It is handwritten and photocopied and the envelope says "To the tall lady with the light brown skin". I'm not tall, so I knew he didn't mean me but I read it anyway. The letter read:

To a very pretty woman that I followed once and left a letter there explaining that I will write again when I got a post box address. I would like to explain I never learnt to talk to the opposite sex because I was in boys homes in prison for burglary and i ended up doing three times longer so the woman can work there which allegedly we got electronically brainwashed and destroyed wtih medication because everyone trains against corrective service in the beginning because people can't get their life together through what was done to them and people can't find girlfriends because children were never thought about men's eggs on the end you've got all the ugliness on TV through men's smelling steel and concrete and suffering two frustrations because they require a woman's scent. I put my post box there for you to write back [address]. We have put this under 5 or 6 different doors. Could you give this to the tall lady with the light brown skin.

OK, it's a bit creepy and he sounds mentally ill, but there's something kind of poetic about that last line, doncha think? Wonder if he ever found her?

lightness of being

I've been worrying there's something wrong. I seem to have no appetite and I've lost a lot of weight lately, or so I'm told by a few people who hadn't seen me in a while.
I guess people did say the baby weight would drop off once he started crawling. Or it could just be because I'm in love. I used to lose weight sometimes if I had it real bad. I got it bad.
It's been interesting though, the changes to your body after having a baby. Contrary to all expectations I actually like my body better now. I can't say I feel any of the body loathing that the media encourages me to feel, post-pregnancy. The daily walking, pushing 20 kilos up and down hills, has made me a lot fitter than I ever was before (not that it's hard being fitter than a sloth), and I know I'm stronger because things are easier to lift. Moving house will be easier than last year when I was seven months pregnant...
It's possible the weightloss is just because in recent months I have been eating what the baby eats instead of the other way around. So I'm probably grazing more and not getting very hungry. I often don't have time to cook a proper meal for myself so if I'm steaming the baby some vegies, I'll just have some of that too. The only other thing I can think of is I switched to drinking soy milk about a month ago.
My sister started to get cranky after I told her I'd accidentally lost weight. She is still carrying her baby weight. She says it's because the baby's crawling now.
"Now you'll get busy," she said, long-suffering. She always acts as if I have it really easy because I only have one child compared to her two. She's kind of competitive.
"Hmm, I dunno, I've been busy from the start."
To my other sister I said, "I don't miss the man."
"What do you mean," she said suspiciously. "Which man?" and now I had her full attention. She often reads her emails while on the phone to me. It drives me crazy. I said I meant the role of the spouse; it's not a gender thing. I just never stop to consider there could be someone else helping, another set of hands. It must be bloody great.
Anyway, enough about me. No, really! I'm going to start talking about John Howard again real soon, you watch.

stormy weather?

tamworth airport
These weather pixies are pretty cool. Let's see if mine can keep up with our crazy weather. (Found at lifeislike.)

groundhog year

I knew it was too good to be true. I got a call yesterday from my real estate agent saying the owner wants to move back into this house. I have til January 10 to move. Just when I was congratulating myself on having cured my nomadic ways and finally found a place I loved, where I could see myself settling for a few years at least. Bummer. There go my fantasies about lazy good times over the summer. Another hot Christmas moving house. Trying to look on the bright side though. Might even find something better.
Anyway, posting will probably be slow and infrequent for the rest of the year. (Should get to posting that anon. blog today.....................argh......)

rolled on?

I've finally got around to updating the blogroll. Even though this site is officially on hiatus this month, I still intend to catch up with everyone else's blogging. So anyway, if I have accidentally left off your blog, please email me again.
While I'm here, thank you for those who have emailed me for the link to my new anonymous blog. I have my first story up there but want to do a quick revision so will send the link out later today (baby permitting). It has cheered me up a lot to know that you guys do like my writing. (And yes, I was kidding about the lesbian sex scenes. Just trying to snag a few hapless googlers.)

you're such a lovely audience

I've started a new, anonymous blog where from now on I'm going to post those longer, fiction-style reality pieces (this kinda thing, if you're new here). I've decided to go anonymous out of curiosity to see if being less inhibited affects my writing style.
I find that having people from my real life read my more personal posts makes me feel slightly uncomfortable these days. It's not so much that I have something to hide, or that I want to write nasty things about anyone (never makes you feel any better) or reveal secret love affairs or whatever. It's just that the self-disclosure is too asymmetrical. (Though I did mention the other day how one motivation for blogging is having friends overseas read your blog to keep up with you...those aren't the people I'm talking about...)
Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Its worth a try.
By the way, the Non-Bloggable Thing taking up my time lately should be wrapped up by next month. So instead of closing sanctuary completely I'll just give this site some R&R while I deal with Things and go off on writing tangents. Needs it too, I feel.
Meanwhile, having a new, anon. blog should be fun. I even thought about switching genders, but then decided I didn't want to have to forfeit writing up all the juicy lesbian sex scenes stray too far from reality, so the only real change will be that I won't use anyone's real name.
If anyone would like the new link they can email me. And please don't blow my cover....!

thank god

Signing us into playgroup yesterday my glance fell for the first time on the letterhead, which read, 'Families First Playgroups of NSW'.
"Hey," I said suspiciously, not letting go of my two dollar coin. "You're not affiliated with that Rightwing religious political group are you?"
She sighed and tugged at the coin. "No, that's Family First," she said, in a voice that suggested she'd been asked that question alot lately.
"Phew, eh?" I said, and I let her have the coin.

bloggus interruptus

Hello all. Due to unforeseen circumstances am a little short of free time lately, but expect to be back in the saddle real soon. Don't forget me, eh?

PS. So looks like Bush has got in again. Sigh...do I give up all hope or do I give up all hope.....................