The Giants Causeway

Its been a long long time between drinks but changes afoot in more amounts of normality that even constant change freaks like me can say.

Though Tom Hardy was a simply dreadful Heathcliff, and now he will be our Mad Max. Casting mismatches a plenty here.

And my bucket list has been critiqued by the wondrous and charming Ms Melba - Ned is not whom you think Melbs xoxoxoxo

And the Doctor locks the TARDIS like a car - beep beep but Ood Sigma does not laugh (not long now for Tennant).

This is the story of Finn McCool, I dedicate it to Ms Melba and her diaries and hope that one day she might visit this stunning piece of coastline not far from the home of my grandparents.

(I took this photo a while ago on a rainy miserable day but it still is stunning)

Finn McCool was a legendary Irish giant who, according to Irish mythology, built the Giant’s Causeway as a pathway to Scotland in order to fight Benandonner, his Scottish counterpart.

One day when going about his daily business a Scottish Giant named Benandonner began to shout insults and hurl abuse from across he channel. In anger Finn lifted a clod of earth and threw it at the giant as a challenge, the earth landed in the sea. Benandonner retaliated with a rock thrown back at Finn and shouted that Finn was lucky that he wasn't a strong swimmer or he would have made sure he could never fight again.

Finn was enraged and began lifting huge clumps of earth from the shore, throwing them so as to make a pathway for the Scottish giant to come and face him. However by the time he finished making the crossing he had not slept for a week and so instead devised a cunning plan to fool the Scot.

Finn diguised himself as a baby in a cot and when his adversary came to face him Finn's wife told the Giant that Finn was away but showed him his son sleeping in the cradle. The Scottish giant became apprehensive, for if the son was so huge, what size would the father be?

In his haste to escape Benandonner sped back along the causeway Finn had built, tearing it up as he went.

Movie Review - Bronson

I saw Bronson last week. I look like Bronson, without the pee-pee, except my mo is white and I have long hair.




Did you see Watchmen - Billy Crudups little blue pee-pee, well Bronson has a little white one, it was in many many scenes. The actor was emoting with such earnest intensity and all I could do was look at the little limp pee-pee as it bounced around.

I guess Bronson was a movie stuck in the prologue, we left wondering when it would get started, or when Picard would ask for tea, Earl Grey,hot.

The List

1. See the Pyramids and climb inside one
   


2. Climb to Macchu Pichu
   


3. Go to Istanbul and have tea & haggle with a carpet seller
   


4. Walk from Coast to Coast - St Bee’s to Robin Hood Bay (190 miles)
   


5. Walk part of the Camino de Santiago
   


6. Write a story & have it published
   


7. Have a photo I took published in a book or magazine
   


8. Learn to paint/draw
   


9. Learn to play an instrument – piano/guitar/bass/violin (haven’t picked one yet)
   


10. Spend a year working for a charity in a third world country
    


11. Run a small pub that has live bands
    


12. Cruise along the Nile
    


13. Take a trip on the Orient Express
    


14. Go for a balloon ride over Cappadocia
    


15. Attend a dawn service at Gallipoli (I've been to Gallipoli and stood on the pebbly beach of Anzac Cove in the pouring rain, but I'd like to go back for a dawn service)
    


16. Go to the South Pole
    


17. Learn to pull a pint – properly
    


18. Walk the streets of London
    


19. Take the Trans-Siberian railway
    


20. Brew a batch of Scotch that tastes good
    


21. Elope
    


22. Get lost in the British Museum
    


23. Go on a dig
    


24. Learn Spanish
    


25. Go to Stonehenge
    


26. Keep a close friendship for 20 years or longer
    


27. Learn to belly dance
    


28. Have my portrait painted
    


29. Be the most important person in someone’s life, even if it’s for a short time
    


30. Kiss the Blarney Stone
    


31. Walk across the Giants Causeway
    


32. See the sun rise from Mount Sinai
    


33. Spend a winter in the Highlands of Scotland or on one of the Orkney Islands
    


34. Go to Jerusalem
    


35. Take singing lessons
    


36. Learn to recite Yeats
    


37. Visit the Andes
    


38. See the Himalayas
    


39. Go to Easter Island and see the statues (I've seen one in Chile but havent been to Eater Island yet)


40. Fly over the Nasca Lines in a small plane pretending to be aliens
    


41. Go on Safari
    


42. Watched a meteor shower
    


43. Learn to make my own ear rings
    


44. Venture into the jungle to see Mayan and Aztec ruins in Mexico, Guatemala and Belize
    


45. Go to Rome
    


46. Spend some time in a concentration camp
    


47. Milk a cow
    


48. Ride a camel into a desert
    


49. Make someones wedding cake
    


50. See the Pope (JP II)
    


51. Take a gondola ride in Venice
    


52. Go to China & see the Statue Army and Great Wall
    


53. Say ‘I love you’ and really mean it - unconditionally, with all my being
    


54. Get a tattoo
    


55. Followed my favorite band on tour
    


56. Live on a canal boat for a month
    


57. Fly over an active volcano
    


58. Attend an Olympics
    


59. Take a trip down the Amazon
    


60. Make a short film (been the subject of one, but havent made one yet)
    


61. Take a pilgrimage to Lourdes
    


62. Get a masters degree before I’m thirty
    


63. Visit the big galleries of the world – Musee du Lourve in Paris, The Prado in Madrid, Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, Museum of Modern Art in New York, Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Egyptian Museum in Cairo, The Rijks Museum in Amsterdam, Musee d’Orsay in Paris, Tate Modern/Britain in London, The Kunsthistoisches Museum in Vienna, The Vatican Museums in Rome
    


64. See an Ashes Test at Lords (been there, seen the urn, stood on the balcony, supped in the long room but not seen an Ashes test there yet)
    


65. Pick up and move to another city knowing no one, just to start over
    


66. Walk through the ruins of Pompeii
    


67. Visited all 7 continents in the world (Australia, Africa, Europe, Asia, North America, South American, Antarctica)
    


68. Swim in all 5 oceans of the world (Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Southern, Arctic)
    


69. See the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis)
    


70. Float in the Dead Sea
    


71. Be invited to join a Board of Directors of a company
    


72. Spend more than a week in Paris
    


73. Visit Buckingham Palace & stand on the garden party lawn and have tea
    


74. Make paper
    


75. Walk on a beach watching the sun rise, having not been to bed yet.
    


76. Catch a fish, cook it straight away and eat it
    


77. Live in a quaint little village
    


78. Own a bookstore and run it the way I imagined
    


79. Own a house with an attic, a long kitchen, a library room and a magic walled garden
    


80. Learn how to build my own webpage
    


81. See a ghost
    


82. Make a difference in someone’s life
    


83. Be content within myself
    


84. Walked in the rain
    


85. Study at Oxford or Cambridge
    


86. Visit Shakespeare’s birthplace
    


87. Make someone cry of happiness
    


88. See a play at The Globe (been there a few times but not seen a play yet)
    


89. Raise a child
    


90. See Petra
    


91. Go to Glastonbury Music Festival
    


92. Drive across America
    


93. Have hair down to my bottom - once
    


94. Do my family tree
    


95. Own a new car
    


96. Read the books of Charles Dickens from start to finish
    


97. Travel around the Lakes District
    


98. Watch my nephew play guitar on one of the big stages of the world
    


99. Go to a Rugby Union World Cup final with the Wallabies
    


100. Live with no regrets

That was fun, I struggled a little at the 80 mark and had to think a little harder about what I really wanted to do, but I'm pretty happy with the list.

I've marked the ones I've done in Purple

Planning a list and giving a lecture

I’ve been thinking alot recently about all the things I’ve done and all the things I really want to do with what years I have left. There is no immediate mortality threat, theres been no incidents or recent deaths, I just dont want to have regrets.

So in my spare moments I’ve been working on a list of things made up of all the things I wanted to do or see or experience or be before I die.

I think its also linked to the reflection and redirection that I’ve been pondering a lot lately too, you know when you have a career and a certain kind of lifestyle and you get to a point where you start to think, I’ve done enough on that one now, I don’t think there really is more that I want to get out of it, its time to make some changes before I start to fall into the ’rut’ then ‘rot that I’m too scared to change’ way that engulfs so many of the miserable sods you see around you everyday – bugger off miserable sods I say.

Anyways back to the list, a list needs to be specific, I like lists, I always do lists. I think lists help you feel better, ie I think I’ve done nothing but have actually achieved stuff – “see crosses on my list”. The beauty of a good list is to make it achieveable and specific, airy fairy fluffy lists are silly, freak you out and send you to bed “too hard, I cant do it, give me a drink!!” Lists with things crossed off make you feel good.

I like to feel good.

Grocery shopping lists don’t count – anyone who can go grocery shopping without a list and doesn’t forget anything is a freak, or a liar.

I shall ponder my list further over the next few days. In work speak, I'm whiteboarding as we speak.

Whilst I’m pondering, consider this. I am terribly tough with myself and brutally honest, I don’t see the point in lying to myself or anybody else for that matter, that is me. I’m the same with the people around me; unfortunately there are some people that I come into contact with on occasion who cant seem to handle this. They are attracted to me by the bright lights and the excitement of my confidence and the inner strength (big ego here folks – yep, I know) but crumble at the first signs of honesty being directed back at them – lots of people are attracted to me but the weak ones, the needy ones, the insecure ones cant cope and don’t stay - it always ends in tears. I offer friendship easily but it becomes very clear very quickly that its more than likely going to end in tears. I like people too much, I enjoy people too much, I get so much enjoyment out of people that I just let the friendships form. I'm a hopeful, I'm always hopeful, and then they fall and the friendship breaks. And they disappoint me, they dont make me sad, they just disappoint me.

Yes I know please don’t start that argument, I don’t have the patience for dealing with those constant needy needy moments, the treat them softly softly or you’ll make the cry moments, the lie to then to keep them happy moments, but really, I don’t have to do I. (I originally put a question mark here but changed it to a full stop, its not a question for me, I just don’t have to).

I don’t see how lying to someone is ever going to help them help themselves to get themselves out of whatever pit they are in? Agree?

Pandering to their neediness, continuing to support their own lack of ability or true want, to sort themselves out for themselves - I cant do this to people, I respect people too much to do that to them. And seriously, the only person who can ever get themselves out of whatever pit they are in is themselves - we can lower down the rope, we can guide them to whats the best available option to get them out, we can encourage and listen to them, we can send down food and water, we can help pull them up at times but its them that has to climb the rope, not me, not their parents, not their friends, not the governments, not society, not god(s), no-one....they just have to do it for themselves. So when you read this, that would be YOU.

You.

No one else.

Just you.

Lecture over.

On a lighter note, I cried like a stupid baby last night when Iato Jones died in Captain Jack’s arms – I knew he would, I knew it was happening, I knew how it would happen, but I still cried like a soppy silly baby.

Confidence, inner strength, brutal honesty, massive ego AND emotionally sensitive – what a catch !!!


Listening – Deaths & Entrances - My Latest Novel.
Reading - Darkmans - Nicola Barker (dont say still, I know but its over 800 pages long and I’ve been trying to go slow on it as its so good and I don’t want to stop)

A Return Squig and The Doctor

Casa del Mar, Pantai Cenang, Langkawi, Malaysia.

I cant fault the service or the staff or the atmosphere or the location - we had a perfect little mid winter beach holiday. Tom Yum every lunch time and divinely fresh seafood every night.

The sun, the beach, the company and the break where marvellous.

I flew back into Sydney at 8.00am in the morning, that evening I went and saw Bell Shakespeare's production of Perciles & drumming - its comfort food isnt. Its a lukewarm year for Bell Shakespeare, but its better than 2008 which is not much of stretch thankyou Brendan Cowell and the worst Hamlet I've ever seen and there has been a few.

Two days later I was at The Metro with Dickie (that would be my dear brother-in-law Mattie as the fall back speaker sound guy). Gareth Liddiard and Dan from The Drones doing an acoustic set of harsh and raw loveliness in The Drone style - I'm watching with interest to see where Liddiards songwriting will take us, I'm always awed by the raw emotion of the man and his performances. Oh yep, Augie March played too, they were the headliner and we had some darling little old songs, but it looked and sounded like a finale. I've loved this band and the music they've made for over 10 years, the first time I ever saw them play was at this same venue in January 1999 on a stinking hot summers night supporting Grant Lee Buffalo, its strange to think that a keyboardist, some horns and ten years sees me seeing them again at the same place 10 years later, knowing its probably the last time Sydney will see them play - but they play and oh how do they play. It would be romantic to say it would be the last time I ever see them play too, 10 years later at the same venue I first ever saw them play at but thats a bit too perfect and my world isnt perfect. I'll be in Melbourne next month when they have another show so we're popping along to that too - seems fitting though, as Melbourne is where my relationship with them truly grew.

Two days later on Sunday, the newest member of the family had his little christening - my nephew was christened with my other nephew as his godfather, out in Camden, full on family affair, jumping castles and squabbles and family togetherness.

5 days at work and then its another weekend. This weekend is the first time in over 6 months I've decided to do nothing, see no one and go nowhere, nice but different. Friday night I went to the gym then home for some noodles and a couple of episodes of the Doctor, Doctor/Donna, Donna/Doctor. Today I pottered about and just watched Touch of Evil. Orson Welles, film noir, bubbles - heaven.

Orson Welles chews up the screen every time Quinlan and his bulk stormed through, Dennis Weaver, Marlene - oh Marlene ages with such grace, dignity and f*cking style - whorehouse madame and the pianola. Janet Leigh is outclassed, but Charlton Heston - as a MEXICAN, freak, why? Heston doesnt ring my bells, his acting is lame (I'd be more expressive but I've had a bottle and just couldnt be arsed), Judah Ben-Hur I can live with, Moses I've never seen, but in this his Vargas was so not Mexican, so not film noir detective and so not right I didnt like it, but Orson was there.

I could listen to Orson Welles speak for hours, he has one of those voices that wraps you up in the sounds of his being - we like this.

So thats my last 10 days in blurt and a spurt.

Listening - The Men They Couldnt Hang - Devil On The Wind.
Reading - Darkmans - Nicola Barker

Its Winter

Its winter here in Sydney, so I've decided I need some sun so Sunday I fly out to here.



I will be staying here.




In a room like this.




Jealous?

Dont be.

See you when I get back.

xxoxox

Where the Title Came From

I spend alot of time watching people go about the business of living, people fascinate me, enthrall me and often make me proud, so I called this Watching from the Hill.

I stole the lines, I write as Ned; the lines are used out of context but they fitted.

Please go and visit the story to learn the context.



This song has always been pretty special to me, its beautiful and harsh and tells a story of a mans fight for freedom, Cromwell v the Catholics.

Freedom means everything.

This speech has always summed it up so beautifully.

No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by the force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power governments, and tyrants, and armies can not stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free.

J. Michael Straczynski

Colds and Films and Things

Sunday was the last day of the Sydney Film Festival and I finished with About Elly. I have been unashamedly disappointed with the content of this year’s festival, I was hard-pressed to fill my 10 ticket flexiplass, and still ended up with more duds then I was hoping for.

John Hurt introducing 44 Inch Chest on Saturday was a pleasant surprise, though he didn’t do a Q&A afterwards which was a shame. Rowan Woods did stick around after his film Winged Creatures, and I really don’t know what was more boring, watching this sadly underwhelming film or listening to one of the dullest men in Australian film speak ?

Whilst I was lining up for 44 Inch Chest, there was a middle aged couple behind me in the queue, I had Summerteeth blaring though the headphones as I’m not good in queues or crowds, but even with Jeff Tweedy drowning my ears with sound, I could hear this really strange loud sucking lip smack noise, I turned around and saw it was this couple – in their 40s, going at it with the loudest sucky slurping noises in a crowded queue (you can kiss someone without making that noise, I tested it when I got home, really you can). I mean it was so crowded in the queue that if I stuck out my tongue I would of licked the back of her bottle blonde hair. I turned up the music louder and stood there staring at them making fools of themselves ???? Saturday night movie crowds are not the classiest - middle aged couple PDAs are inappropriate where there is space to run away from them, when you are all jammed together middle aged PDAs are just plain DISGUSTING, mind, any aged PDAs in confined spaces are disgusting – have some class people, please . She even kissed him on the nose, I was staring with my mouth open, he was slurping her face, but watching me over her shoulder – creepy guy, sad desperate woman, I felt ashamed for them, pity for them and very embarrassed (the boy thinks they were probably just wakers, end of - he has a way with words). Once my shock had lightened, I got my phone out to take a photo of them so I could post it here, but they stopped, then the doors opened, I was disappointed. A photo of a couple of 40somethings dressed liked 20somthings standing in a queue just wouldn’t of had the same impact.

I slept threw a collection of shorts earlier that day too.

Here are the other films I’ve seen, and a few notes.

Treeless Mountain – see earlier post about this delightful little treat.
Altiplano – yawnfest in the Peruvian Andes that was too arty farty for its own good. Great female leads though but with that material it was hard work.
Cleo at 5 and 7 – a delightful re-print of an Agnès Varda 1960s classic with just the right amount of darkness.
Wanda – another vintage one, the print was really grainy and I struggled with it a little
Native Dancer – a real pleasant surprise, Russian gangs v a real life shaman in the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The Missing Person – modern day Film Noir, not quite reaching where it wanted to go, but not a bad effort.

DOQ was my pick of the venues too.

I hope there is a new festival director next year.

Anyways, I have a cold.

Not the flu, not the swine flu, nope, just a plain ordinary cold – running nose, stuffed head, a little sore throat and just generally feeling blah from my neck up.

We have a global pandemic, with my country having the second largest number of confirmed cases outside of Mexico, and all I get is a common cold.

I spent the day at home yesterday on the lounge rugged up in front of the heater watching Doctor Who episodes with the 9th Doctor, and probably my favourite. More tonight I think, after my pedicure, as Captain Jack has just joined the fray and there’s always a jolly old romp when Captain Jack is in town – and I’m feeling too miserable to do anything else.

It rained all day Sunday, I did my grocery shopping early Sunday afternoon and as I’m sensible and prepared, I had my umbrella with me - someone stole my umbrella from my trolley when I was in the fruit & vege section of Woollies – some people are just mean.

So there you have it – I saw some films, I got a cold and I had something pinched.

The Adventures of Sid James

There are some strange little things that I’ve noticed in my last two weeks on the buses.

I used to catch a bus into town, I now catch a bus across the ‘burbs to a University. I’ve never worked it the ‘burbs before and not caught a bus across the ‘burbs since the school days ended.

So I’m now out in the crowds, on the buses: watching, noticing, recording. The kids are more free with their behaviour then the suited and booted, cleaned and groomed, city bound folk

My nose has noticed a change in the bus - is it the bathing practices of the student, the clothes changing practices of the student, the hair care practices of the student ??

I wonder when the change happens, what sparks the epiphany moment? Is there a point when the student wakes one morn and throws down the shackles of dirt and grime and instead of stepping into yesterdays clothes, they step into a shower?

I don’t know, but I think we can debate that at another time, lets instead watch the creature of the student in its public transport bus bound glory.

Three times in the last week I’ve had girls with long hair sit in the seat in front of me. Boys have long hair too, but I scare them with my sleepy growls and immaculate grooming, so they huddle next to the factory workers, with whom we share the bus. The girls are braver, they take the seats in front of Ned. Now, the seats on the bus are pretty close together so when someone sits in front of you with long hair, the hair that tumbles down the back of the seat is usually only 30cm from your face. I’m not keen on such an intimate relationship with a stranger but this is the bus and I do the dance of the Sydney public transport juggernaut and shit happens.

I am not precious and can be comfortable with hair that close if the hair is clean, but these three ladies had long, messy, wild hair that hasn’t been close to a bottle of shampoo or a feisty brush, for well over a week. Did I tell you when I was talking to my grandmother about my niece recently, I described her as a feisty three year old, my grandmother didn’t know what feisty meant and I had to explain it to her, English is all she known in her 84 years.

I sat on the bus one evening, wired for sound (Cliff Cliff be still my mother’s beating heart), I am mesmerized by a girl in her early twenties in the seat in front of me. She kept on playing with her long knotty smelly hair: she was caressing it, and fondling it and moving it around like it was clean and shiny and full of sexy fresh smelling goodness (instead I get the aroma of slept in sweaty socks in the shape of Dali's most creative birds nest).

She was silently pushing it all to one side with grand sweeping gestures with a badly manicured hand, then patting it down again with a delightful grin. Then after preening in the buses window reflection, she swept it all to the back for a just stepped out of the salon flick of the foul mess. Then up came both hands and trowel trowel trowel through the hair scrapped the claws till she was pleased with what she caught, she then mounted it on top with patty cake slaps for grand dame / go-go dancer appeal. More twists and turn preening in the window and down it tumbled again with the echoed stench of those foul socks. She repeated this dance of the dying follicles a number of times before her stop arrived and she climbed off the bus.

I sat slightly dazed for the rest of my trip, Jeff Tweedy serenading me as he has done 24*7 since Jay died. Wicked wench, how could I be enticed by such a slovenly attitude to cleanliness, by such a foul stench....though there is something a little disturbing and perversely attractive in the sexual play of a slob.

Who was her target?

Was it the left over imprint of a recent playful encountered or was it some sort of fascinating solo foreplay?

I have never seen her again.


Disclaimer: Ned has long, shiny, clean, brushed, straight black & red hair.

Why Am I On The Buses

I’ve hit a wall at work, I’m no longer that interested in being here at the moment, and as this contract is just biding a little time whilst I’m leading up to one or two more events that are more important to me, I really should stick around here for a few more months longer. The job is fine, the people I work with are dull but fine, I am treated with respect and appreciated so I shouldn’t complain, but I am BORED !!!!

So, the sensible side of me decided how can we jazz it up a bit by making it a little less boring so I stay here for a little longer (the easier/convenient option) or find something else (completely do-able but more complicated option) – how’s about we……. catch the bus.

I’ve been driving to work, I’ve never driven to work before and it was making me grumpy – idiot drivers, traffic, idiot drivers, no time for day-dreaming, idiot drivers etc. I’ve always taken a bus or a tram, and find public transport annoying at times when the bus/tram doesn’t turn up, but in the most part it’s a pretty civilized and pleasant way to travel. Driving used to be convenient, especially when you could duck out to places at lunch, but this year since the university students came back, the car park situation has gone crazy, and unless you are here before 9, you are stuck on the 7th floor of the car park and there is no elevator – I’m used to stairs, I usually park on the 4th floor but I’m not dying of heart attack climbing 7 flights of stairs (in a suit and heels) just to get my car (???)

Ducking out at lunch time to go to the gym or shopping is now out of the question as well, because if you leave, it’s unlikely you can get a spot at all let alone one on the heart-attack floors – there is no on street parking.

The things I liked about driving – getting here at 9.30 and missing the peak hour traffic, going to the gym during the day, ducking out to meet friends at the beach for lunch – have gone. So I thought I’d try catching the bus.

So far it’s been fine, there is the usual timetabled phantom buses, late buses, crowded buses, but its seem to have lifted my mood a little. You see it’s the getting out of bed in the morning and going to work thingy that I’ve had trouble with, it’s a little easier now. Yes I know it’s only a temporary solution but it might just get me over the hump till the nice things I’m working toward happen in a few more months.

My daydreaming quota has gone up, I like this, I listen to more music, I like this even more. There is something warm and embracing about having something new blaring through your headphones, being able to hear the little tiny intakes of breath that you miss out on listening through speaker, the little words and phrases you don’t pick up when you are distracted with driving. It makes me smile in a contented and cherished way.

Reading: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Listening: Audio of Ashes of American Flags
Watching: Cleo from 5 to 7

Treeless Mountains, Shorts and Little Girls

I’m in the middle of the Sydney Film Festival, I don’t know how much of that I will share.

I saw this movie last night, its was delightful in its cutesiness and the young actors were superb, especially in their portrayal of emotion - loss, pain, bewilderment and determination. Disappointly though, it lost momentum slightly at around the 3/4 mark but picked it up again when the girls got to the farm - its 90 min film; its not slick and needs some editing and it just sort of stopped rather than ended, though its still a lovely film and those girls are amazing. There was no applause (or is that just a Melbourne Film Festival thingy, clapping at the end of film – I dont know, this is only my second Sydney one and as I missed most of it last year because of pilgrim flu).


TREELESS MOUNTAIN: Movie Trailer

The film was preceded by a short that I found most interesting – a young Chinese woman is selling cheap knock-off DVDs in London, she is sharing a room with 4 other Chinese men. She has one DVD she treasures but we dont know whats on it, you see a little of her life in London and it doesn’t look great but she is earning so she can send money home to her family, but she seems miserable, living in horrible conditions, doing a job that it looks like she could be arrested and deported over – I think she is an illegal (this isn’t gone into but implied).

She gets taken to the place where the DVDs are copied (wall of disk drives and pc in a backroom somewhere), she is left in this room whilst the copying of a movie is going on, she stops the copying and puts in her DVD, it’s a recording of her daughter who is back in China and she misses her terribly, she watches the footage with tears silently streaming down her face, she is interrupted viewing this and is taken away to sell more DVDs, but she doesn’t get to take her DVD out, so instead of making 10 copies of the movie, it makes 10 copies of her DVD and nobody knows this.

They are distributed to the street sellers and sold on, the film then switches to a family watching what they think is a cheap knockoff of a popular new release but it turns out to be the footage of the Chinese girls daughter – bugger that, heres the link, watch the thing yourself, it goes for 15 minutes.

Five Pound Hollywood from Westminster Arts on Vimeo.

THE END.

Quasi School Reunions

I had a quasi school reunion on Friday night, I caught up with three chaps I went to school with, one of them I hadn’t seen in 15 years, so I was looking forward to catching up with the three of them, and them with each other.

Two are married, one has kids, one works early shifts so is up at 3.30am, I wasn’t expecting more than a meal, a few drinks and be home by 10pm.

I stumbled home in the rain at 2.00am

It was really nice to see them, catch up with them, hear what they have been doing with their lives, no that’s not true, there wasn’t more than a quick summary of this is what I’ve done since I left school stuff. Instead we caught up on how each of us feels about things, live music, views on gays, marriages, annulments, raising children, working – corporate ladder via following dreams etc etc. With a little bits of reminiscing and where are they nows filling up the quieter moments.

An Artist/Teacher, a Corporate CEO, a Dog Walker/Driver and me – a mix of directions and situations and views, an entertaining evening, a challenging evening, a warm evening. It’s refreshing to be honest and open, having, at times, quite heated discussions with three people I once knew very well and cared about but hardly know now.

One of them said to me that night that he has never really had friends as close as he had at school, and that really, he doesn’t have friends at all, just lots and lots of acquaintances and casual friends – that made me sad. I did ask him what about his wife, but he said she’s my wife, I thought that was interesting, she is wife no 2.

I feel asleep that night in the arms of a dream I thought had left me a long time ago.

Music – I’ve moved onto Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Reading – I’ve picked up Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man again. I like Joyce, he uses commas, alot.
Watching – Babel (it put me in a melancholy mood last night that hasn’t lifted)

Bookgroups and People I Just Dont Get

I went to bookgroup the other night. It was a bit lively, Peter Hoeg’s The Quiet Girl. Just a simple crime novel set in Copenhagen about a Clown looking for a girl who turns out to be his child from a love affair he had 10 years previously.

There was an older lady there that night, she said she was 70, which was on average 40 years older then the majority of the rest.

I felt I was a little rude to her, I laughed at her once, I feel into giggles about something that she said with the girl sitting next to me once, and I looked in confusion at her whilst she tried to explain to me/us what she thought of the book.

Her logic was this, she started with saying the book was written by a man in Copenhagen on the other side of the world, and here she was, a 70 year old woman in Sydney reading it, and she seemed quite in awe of this – she was disjointed and unorganised in how she said this, what I’ve said was a summary. I don’t know what her point was, or what she was trying to achieve by saying this, but there was a lot of emphatic gestering on her part, I really had to stop myself from screaming at her – why? its 2009 not 1979 – why are you amazed by this?

We all listened to her politely waiting for her to get to whatever point it was that she was trying to reach, as it’s a friendly group – we try to listen and give everybody a chance, but she seemed to get lost entirely on the journey and switched to this.

I’m Lutherthan, the majority of people in Copenhagen are Lutherhan, so this Peter Hoeg must be Lutherthan and therefore I should read it and like it and I am struggling to like it (she did not say struggling to like it, instead she slammed the book on the table, laid her hand on it in a sad way and shook her head, in the directors cut I’d imply this is struggling to like it).

The stunned silence this evoked seem slightly surreal, I could feel the others baiting me by silent chanting to respond, so I did. I said in my politest and hopefully best non-condescending voice, “Heres a recommendation, how about you go home tonight, try and forget about who wrote it and where he is from and just read a chapter of the book, if you like it on its own merit then continue reading it, if you don’t, stop.”

This lady was no shrinking violet, she had contributed loudly and quite forcefully, on occasion even interrupting people, to the conversation. If you have the balls to interrupt complete strangers talking about a book with some irrelevant thought, then you are not shy. But seriously I really though she needed a good shake.

Listening: Summerteeth (its my favourite of theirs, its been getting a good spin the last week - see last post)

Reading: The Sydney Film Festival Progamme

Viewing: I watched Lars and The Real Girl last night, what a charming little picture, I was impressed.

Vale Jay Bennett

I just heard about the overnight death of Jay Bennett, his management company have confirmed the death and advised that he passed away in his sleep.

Jay Bennetts life was more than just his time in Wilco, but its the Wilco time that introduced him to me.

My connection to the music of this ‘band’ is lyrical, it’s the music and it’s the kick-arse amazing shows I’ve seen over the years (though much fewer than I’d hope as it took along time to come here and they rarely come back). I know that Being There and Summerteeth were my turning points from yep I really like this band to wow this band is brilliant.

I spent a large part of last week listening to the new Wilco album and I’m not feeling much outside of the yep, I like this band. Theres no wow this band is brilliant here, same with Sky Blue Sky. The only time I got the wow this band is brilliant feeling on that one was listening to the guitar on Impossible Germany - yep Nels Cline is an amazing guitarist and the band work so well together live but its still not, well just not.

For me they peaked musically with YHF, I’m not overly in love with the easy listening direction of the last two albums, maybe I’m just not yet old enough to like easy listening yet? I don’t know, they seem to do it well though.

As I’m typing this, the radio I am streaming (PBS in Melbourne) is playing a live version of War on War – co-incidences are funny arent they.

I love Wilco, I have loved the music of Wilco for many years and can attribute the soundtrack that accompanied many important moments of life to date to the pen of Jeff Tweedy. Wilco is Jeff Tweedy, there would be no Wilco without Jeff Tweedy, its his band, his songs, his music, and though he has been a bit of a muddled up mess at times, and I’m sure no saint, its his music I keep on coming back too but he didnt do it alone.

A big part of the love for this music, I owe to the contributions of Jay Bennett, its sad that he left the band the way he did, its sad that he fell on hard times both financially and health wise and its sad that such a talented man is dead at 45.

Jay Bennett was ill and his last post on his myspace is heartbreaking in how sadly positive and up it is and how its now going to be the last post he will write. Makes me almost cry.

RIP Jay

My Year Without Sex

Another budget and another chance to be ignored, earning more than $40k, not having kids, nor a mortgage usually means that new budgets mean I dont get anything and I always have to pay more for something so I dont tend to take much notice of them.

So true to form on this one, I dont get anything as expected but I have to pay more for private health care, I think I'll actually loose my health fund rebate so it means I'll have to change it somehow, getting rid of it all together is probably a good idea as I only ever use it for dental and optical - it doesnt pay to be healthy ;-)

I really wouldnt fault much in what KRudd has done, except maybe the extension of the First Home Buyer Grant, I was hoping that would end 30 June and lower to mid price range units/houses may drop some of the over inflated pricing that this increased demand has created.

Maybe I'm naive, but how simple is it to not borrow more than you can pay back, at 5% and even at 15%. I've truly got no sympathy for the fools who are struggling now when the interest rates are so low - idiots.

Anyways, I went to the cinema last night, it was another freebie, this time by an Australian filmmaker Sarah Watt whose previous film - Look Both Ways - I rather enjoyed, so I didnt have high hopes for this one, but I still had hopes.

Unfortunately I cant say the same for the new one, My Year Without Sex. It was supposed to be a comedy...I think I chuckled once. The film was not well made, it seemed amateurish, the dialogue was lazy, the story was held together by screen shot headings thats went slowly through the months, it starts in August, once it reached October, I was using them to count down the months till when it was over. To put it simply, it was just plain boring, it was a terribly droll look at the year in the life of a married couple who go without sex whilst she recovers from an aneurism, ie orgasms may trigger another one you see - this was the premise. You dont end up getting to know anyone, you dont really get to understand anyone, there is no narration, no story - just a camera taking shots of small events in the lives of the family over the year.

The actors were ok - but lacking any real sort of story, ordinary dialogue and clumsy direction, they couldnt really do much.

It was a disappointment.

On my way home I picked up a Hot Basil & Tofu Stir Fry and ate it whilst watching Time Team - the one when they discovered the four temples - this was more interesting than the movie.

Listening: Camera Obscura - My Maudlin Career
Reading: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

What you hear on the street.

I went to the cinema on Friday night, Paris 36, a pleasant enough film with a little darkness, a bit of Busby Berkley and a really sweet voice. I went for a bite and a little vino after with some of my film companions.

The conversations at tea were about the film and my trip and the future trips of some of the crowd. It was low-fi and pleasant and a nice night.

As I was ambling along home alone at the end, it was the conversations I was walking into that had me holding on.

I was crossing King St just past the station, waiting for the green man to come, when two young blokes, ordinary blokes in their early twenties. Nothing in their clothing that would make you notice them, ordinary builds, ordinary smells, ordinary sounds - though one was a little taller than the other. The conversation was a little animated, more from emphazing with passion, then beer lubrication which was a pleasant distraction and caught my attention.

As they past me, the smaller one was saying to the taller one, with a slightly regretful and whateverish tone, “… if I only knew she wanted me when she was here…..”

They were moving at pace so I couldn’t hear what he would of done, or if here meant she was travelling or just visiting, and though the sun had gone down, it was too light to give chase so I had to leave it.

The green man came so I trotted the roads. I rounded the corner and continued the journey home. About 300 metres on, a group of baby bogan scensters were approaching. There were four in the group, three boys and one bored and unattractive young girl. The boys were sweetly lubricated, yelling, laughing and bouncing off each other as sweetly lubricated 20 years olds have a way of doing at 10pm on a Friday night on their way out. The girl was loitering on the edges in a sullen way and I wondered if she was an old friend/sibling or housemate of one of the boys; she wasn’t a lover.

I moved to the edge happily to let this little mob past, as I was still grinning from the “..if I only knew…” conversation.

One of the louder baby bogan scensters stopped and earnestly said to his mates, in mock pissed seriousness, “..if Sally Cooper is there, you know I am going to have to leave straight away to take her home and fuck her hard….”

The other two grunted serious acknowledgments with “we understand” grins.

The girl continued to sulk.

I kept on walking, my face; you know at the end of The Omen, when Damien turns to the camera and gives this mean little glare straight down the barrel, he holds it for a bit, then his face muscles start to twitch slightly then slowly break into this beautiful big smile. That was my face.

Returning Home

Hiya folks.

Home again.

The saddest part of travelling is coming home.

I’ve spent large chunks of my life travelling, I’ve seen so much of this planet and have a burning need to see more. I continue to travel and will continue to travel till my body wont let me anymore.

The thing I value the most is the perspective it gives me.

I know I am rich, I know I am lucky, I know that I am safe, I’m healthy and happy.

When I’m home I don’t feel these things, but when I’m gone I know I am.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve been bombarded with “I am struggling to pay the mortgage, what am I going to do Ned?”.

“Get a smaller house or sell-up and rent” says Ned.

Oh dear. How do I teach people perspective?

Ned climbed inside this pyramid, Indiana Jones style.

Ned really doesn’t care if you can pay your mortgage or not, you know you have a job, you know you wont ever be homeless. Do you really need a 4 bedroom house when their are only 3 of you?

Ned peered into a little tiny hole at the base of the Step Pyramid at Saqqara and saw this looking back at her

Is the size of your house that important, really, truly, is it?

Gone Travelling

Hi Folks,

Well hello there to my three readers.

I am flying out to Cairo tomorrow morning for 6 weeks of travelling through Egpyt and Jordan so wont be blogging for a while.

Now all I need to do is stop bouncing off the walls with excitement for a small while...... so I can pack.

Take care all

Ned

Shopping at the Supermarket

I went to my local shopping centre on Saturday morning to collect my visas. It was rainy so the shopping centre was very crowded; I’ve never seen it so crowded before, even in the pre-christmas madness that takes over peoples sanity crowdedness was eclipsed.

I had to park on the roof; the only access from the roof to the centre is via the one elevator. It is a very big elevator and can fit four fully loaded Woolies trolleys in it plus a dozen or so children and their slave parents. The down side is that the elevator is slow to travel and slow to arrive, so you spend more time loitering with strangers shuffling their feet than you would normally do in a crowded shopping centre.

After I had completed my errands and commenced the return to my car, I had to join the group doing the head bent, foot shuffle dance of the loitering around the elevator. My enthusiasm for this dance was wavering, until I noticed a rather tense and emotional conversation being carried out beside and a little to the front of me. There was a couple, with a fully laden trolley and boy about 10 looking bored attached, chatting. The one doing most of the talking was in her 40s, fully made up, with blow dried short bottled blonde hair which seems the norm of a certain set of middle aged women, she had the crisp white shirt, white pants and chunky fake pearl necklace with glasses perched on her head look - think Kerry-Anne.

She was perplexed and seemed worried about a financial muddle they currently had found themselves in, it seems that they were about to put an offer on a house that they both really loved, but their current financial situation was such that for various reasons it would be two or more weeks before they could comfortably put an offer on the house and she was fretting because she didn’t want to loose the house. She kept on coming up with suggestions as to how they could juggle their finances around to come up with an offer so they wouldn’t loose this house. The suggestions were going into quite alot of detail about their financial portfolios, things that I think most people would like to keep to themselves. I gathered that it wasn’t their first house either.

Each suggest was made with a whine, some earnest intent and a little clutching at straws desperation, her partner was at first gently rebuking each suggest with a calm but progressively more tense ‘lets talk about this when we get home’, ‘we will be home soon’, ‘lets go through this when we get home’.

The blonde was not taking any notice of her partners calmer suggestions as she had what seemed like an insistent need to deal with this problem right here and right now and didn’t seem to notice that she was standing in the middle of a busy shopping centre where quite a few people including Ned could hear every word she was saying.

The blonde’s partner was well aware of this, and was slowly loosing patience with the blonde as she continued her problem solving exercise. It was the blondes partner that started to take my attention now, as the blonde kept on talking, her partner was getting more and more embarrassed as to what was being said, you could see that she was only a minute or two away from yelling at the blonde to get her to stop but she was holding it in, it would not of been an angry yell, more of a frustrated yell that means, just stop and listen to for 30 seconds. She seemed to know somehow though that the blonde would probably burst into tears, if she did, so was showing a great deal of restraint and was trying to bear the rising embarrassment she was feeling.

The blondes partner was about the same age, but she was more of a blokey woman, with no make up, short cropped hair, solidly built, wearing a non-descript set of t-shirt and jeans (are we even allowed to call her the man in the relationship?).

The kid was ignoring everything and everybody as kids often do.

Lesbian couples in their forties are common around Marrickville / Newtown so PDAs from same sex couples barely rate a whiplash.

What caught my attention was the ordinariness of this couple, the deeply personal and private conversation and the embarrassed facial expressions and body language of the partner. The partner seemed to know the blonde well, they’d obviously been together for a long time, and she knew that the blonde was too caught up in the worry of loosing the house to be aware of her surroundings or anything she could say.

I felt sort of sorry for the partner as she seemed to be the more private of the two and wasn’t at all comfortable with the blondes high maintenance public way of dealing with this issue.

I gathered that was not the first time.

Listening: Merriweather Post Pavilion
Reading: My insurance policy (its two more sleeps).

The Story of Saturday

Saturday was the day I decided to drive to Canberra to see the Degas exhibit that is currently on at the National Gallery there. This exhibit ends in March, and I wont be back in time to see it so it was this Saturday or not at all.

I decided to make a weekend of it, as I have not spent very long in Canberra in many long years, when you visit it you understand why, people go there for what they need then leave as quickly as they can, as Dad says, the best thing about Canberra is leaving. I booked a nice spa suite in one of the hotels and planned on doing a bit of driving for a sticky beak around town and a visit to the new National Portrait Gallery as well.

I’ve never been one to take much notice of what the weather is like, I don’t let it interfere with my social life or my planned activities as a lot of people tend to do, and seem to do more of as they get older. I’ve cracked mid 30s so I’ve jumped Hadrian’s Wall to mid-life so I’m getting older, and the people around me are getting older too. Oh dear, its too cold, I cant go out tonight, or its raining, I better stay in – not for me would this chorus be screamed.

It was supposed to be hot, we are - on the east coast - in the middle of a slight heat wave, yes its summer, yes it gets hot, so when the news said hot, I went ok, no worries, the cars got air conditioning.

I got up early on Saturday morn, packed a bag and headed off at a decent 10.15am. Its only 165 mins at a nominal hoon speed so I was expecting to reach Canberra at lunch, the plan was to have a bite, visit the Degas, do a bit of exploring then tea, and back to the hotel with a nice bubble and warm spa, followed by a little Rockwiz – sounds dandy. I was warmed by it, and fuzzed along, my mp3 blaring, voice in fine form (car singing is my specialality, completely tone deaf but I let it fly with relish once I hit the long Freeways of this country).

We were at half a tank when I left, so thought a little stop at Pheasants Nest for petrol, coffee, and a sandwich would be peachy - I had skipped breakfast, and I'd still get to Canberra around lunch time. This was just after 11, it was heating up, a little more heating up then I was expecting but I was not fussed, its summer. Coffee was truck stop craptastic and sandwich was mush but I had no delusions, it was just a fuel stop.

About 50km outside of Goulbourn the wheel starts to shake, subtly at first, I think the road is rough as the Hume is heavy with traffic, but the shaking gets worse so I pull over at the nearest bit of cleared side road. I am now in the middle of what looks like nowhere bush, its dry, there is no shade, its hot, its really really hot, the sun is beating down on me and the car at its strongest 40 + degree strength and I feel it as I slowly get out of the my cool air conditioning to circle the car to see what’s wrong. Front passenger wheel has burst. Right SS kicks in, I can change this, it can’t be too hard, I’ve never done it before but I am capable, surely. I get the manual out, though my little 4 cylinder gas guzzler is 19 years old, I keep the manual, I’m an instructions kind of girl. I’ve now been out of the car for 4.5 minutes and am officially drenched in sweat, my exertions consist of a circuit of the car, a scratch of the head, and a return to the driver side to read the manual. Yes I can do this.

The boot is opened, the bag, the rags, and the St Vincent de Paul bag of clothes I want to give away that’s been sitting in my car for 5 weeks because I haven’t dropped it off yet comes out onto the tarmac – cars whistle by at speed, no-one takes any notice of a lone Ned down from the hill in action. Up comes the carpet, outcomes the tyre, woops it looks a bit flat but I did ask them to check it last service so it should get me to a servo. Outcome the hubcap removal thingy, then the arm pushy pushy bit of the jack, it’s all laid out around the wheel, there is long grass, creatures are in it. I get scared of the creatures but not the tyre.

My makeup has melted off by now and is running into my eyes, mixing with sweat and my contacts and I have trouble focusing. Where is the jackie bottom bit of the jack, I ponder, it must be somewhere. I scour the boot for hiding places and find one underneath the light, clever, here it is. I take it out, move around to the tyre, and with the hubcap remover thingy I get the hubcap off – win. Manual says I should loosen the wheel nuts before jacking up the car, ok, I can do this. Grunt, grunt, push, shove, squeeze, wheeze, effort – no I cant.

Collapse.

Its very very hot now, my lily-white celtic complexion is burning, I can feel it melting off me, I am a Mc with blue eyes and very very white skin. Cosmetic counter vixens praise my whiteness every time I do the rounds of the department store bunnyvilles seeking the latest magic potion, can I sample it, freebies please.

I give in, I feel heat stroke coming on, I retreat to the car, and ring the NRMA;

Where are you?
Somewhere on the Hume Highway approx 145km from Canberra.
What town are you near?
I don’t know.
Can you see an emergency call box.
No.
I’m 145km, cant you just draw a line.
Ok, we will be 60 minutes.
Right ok, just tell my family I loved them.

I packed a sarong as I thought I might have swim at the hotel pool in the evening, so I take it out and try to set up some sort of shelter, but the wind is too strong. I lie down on the back seat, it’s a sauna inside but I only have the sun on half of me. Time passes. About 30 minutes later a car pulls up behind me, a nice middle aged couple get out, can we help you at all, we saw you earlier, then decided to come back and see if you needed any help as its so hot. I partially leap at them, sweat beads fly off me and land on them, they are clean and crisp, I have melted. I’ve called the NRMA but I can’t get the wheel nuts off, I’m not strong enough. He has a go, he huffs and puffs and puffs and huffs, he gets them moving, I smile. The jack goes under and starts being pumped up, I drivel gratitude, she shoves a cold juice down my throat. He looks at my spare and scratches his bald patch, I think I might just take that spare to the servo back the road a bit because I don’t like the flatness of it. I’m speaking in tongues, they ask me to come with them, I garble stay with car, she croons, its sweltering are you sure, they wont be long, we swap mobile numbers. They go.

I ring NRMA to cancel the call out, the operator thinks its amazing, the kindness of strangers, so do I, but I really cant focus more than hot, sweating, sun, burning.

Mrs Samaritan calls 15 minutes later, can you check your manual for what the tyre pressure should be, I mumble a number, its floating in front of my eyes, they seem to think it works so I let them.

I am now stretched on the back seat again with the sarong up to shelter my head. Another car stops, this time it’s a bloke coming home from work in workman clothes, he saw the sarong and thought I might have a baby in the car and its was too hot for kiddies, too hot for kiddies, too hot for Neddies. I smile dripping with black and blue and sweaty grim and tell him my tale of woe with Samaritans, as we chat Mr & Mrs S come back, he drives off.

Mrs S runs to me with a Lemon Calypso, a huge bottle of cold water and friendly smile, I collapse on the ground with gratitude sucking my ice block and watch as Mr S puts the pumped up spare on the car, bolts and screws, re-attaches and packs up. He tells me he is not happy with it and I should get all the wheels checked out at Goulbourn just to be safe, but head onto Canberra after that and get the tyre repaired on Sunday. I nod. Or my head drops, I dont know, I lost all feeling 45 minutes ago.

They have a daughter my age who they were going to meet in Canberra, she had driven up from Melbourne, all they could say was we are happy to help you out, we just hope that if something like this, on a day like this, happens to our daughter someone will help her out. I nearly weep.

They wouldn’t take any money, they wouldn’t take any gifts, but they wanted to follow behind me for a while just to make sure everything was ok.

I dragged the melted wreak of Ned back to the car and headed off with a massive toot toot and wave of gratitude – its now 1.30pm.

I sit on 90km, slowly hugging the Hume, praying for safe passage. After 15km, Mr & Mrs S pass me bye – sweet angels of the road, bless ‘em. About 35km later the turn off to Goulbourn is mine, nearest servo; tyre repair please? No sorry try Here. At Here, tyre repair please? No sorry try There. At There, tyre repair please? No sorry, try Around There. At Around There, tyre repair please? Yep sure, it will be two hours – go shopping whilst you wait. I'm still melting no it’s ok, I’ll just stick my head in the freezer.

I'm at the only servo open in Goulbourn after 1pm on a Saturday, its hot, I can feel the sauna wind blowing heat at me, I can see the tarmac melting as I wait. He exaggerates, it take 90 minutes, but I get two new tyres but I feel good, $170 poorer but good.

I head off again thinking I’m an hour away, I can still see the Degas today. I stick to the 90 km, as it’s a scorcher. I trundle along, I take the Federal Highway turn off, I trundle further, I pass Lake George. I have now stopped melting but am funny shaped. My water is hot, my head hurts but the kms are getting smaller and my destination is getting closer. 90km, 80km, 70km, 60km, 50km, 40km, 30k, 25km – shudder shudder shudder – oh my god, not again.

I pull over, deja vu, it’s on a slight rise, so there is no bush, no shade, no grass, just concrete and railings and lots of sun. I think its pushing 45 degrees out here now, its quarter to 4. The car circuit commences in dreaded anticipation. KABOOM Batman style, the front passenger side is flat again. The brand new tyre I got at Goulbourn has blown, the brand new tyre that’s done just under 90 km – gone.

I know the drill, I try again, I am really suffering now, I can see people with me telling me what to do but theres no-one there. Bits and bobs come out, the tyre we just took off the drivers front is now out of the boot, the jack bits and hub cap remover thingy are once again placed out for use.

The hubcap comes off – win.

I huff, I puff, I strain, I pain, one wheel nut comes off - win.

I need a rest, so sit down for a short rest and a drink of hot water. I get up to try again, part of me has melted into the ground, I don’t need it. The remaining three refuse to budge, I am someone I have never met.

Back to the car, back to the NRMA;

You called earlier.
Yes I know, its happened again.
Where are you?
On the Federal Highway.
Where abouts.
I can see a cross road up ahead, I think it says Macs Reef Road.
Ok, they will be 90 minutes.
Its so hot I don’t know if I will make 90 mins.
I know, lots of people are in the same boat.

I hang up, I circle the car a few times, I don’t know why, I don’t know what else to do.

I lie down on the back seat and pass out. Time passes, no-one stops, it’s now been 50 minutes.

The NRMA van pulls up in front of me. I stagger out, he offers me water, he is kind, he changes my tyre, tells me not to feel bad, when they tighten the wheel nuts with the machine even he cant get them off. The man at Goulbourn had the machine, the NRMA man had the machine - I have no machine.

He fixes me up, it takes 8 minutes.

I know Canberra is a ghost town on Sundays, I enquire about tyre repair as I am not leaving Canberra till I have a viable spare, he gives me the number of a call out tyre guy, it would be expensive but he’s just about the only tyre person around on Sundays.

I flash a melted stinking smile and head off, the 25kms are slow and uneventful, I am beyond any ability to do more than drive. Its now just over 7 hours since I left home.

My hotel is shabby but cool, the staff listen to my tales of woe, they are superb. My room is tacky, the lights don’t work, the air conditioner is wheezing louder than my 747 ex snorer bf (the wrestler) I cant sleep in here. I shower in rainbows then head back out for a bite. I ask the reception can they repair my room, they say no but will happily move me when I am out at tea. My gratitude lights up Black Mountain Tower.

Dinner was the worst pumpkin gnocchi I have ever had, but I devour the salad.

I return to my room, bottle of bubbles in tow, they have changed my room twice, as they didn’t think the air conditioner in the second room was good enough for me – the third room is perfect. I drink my bubbles, I watch my Rockwiz, I have my beautiful cold spa. I crawl back into my king size bed and dream the sleep of the just.

Ignorance is bliss.

I turn the tellie on in the morning to check the weather, it’s going to be 40 degrees again in Canberra today, it goes straight off again. I think I’m not going to drive back in the heat so plan to leave about 5pm as I don’t think I can live through another day like yesterday.

I am so sunburnt, my forehead, my ear, my arms, my neck.

I ring Dad to tell him my tale so I am expected. He says Victoria has burnt, 20 people have died, I think oh dear poor people and get on with my day.

I go to the nearest servo to find a tyre repair man, none are around so I ring the mobile man, he turns up at 12.30pm. I have once again been out in the heat of the day waiting for help for 90 minutes but at least I have a little bit of shade now and some cold water. He hears my sad song and is perplexed as to why the new one blew. He also points out that the Goulbourn guy has put the wrong size tyres on my car, so does a bit of replacement and swapping around, another new tyre and another $160.

Three tyres, over $300.

He is kind, and very handsome, I should of noticed, I didnt.

I mooch to the NGA, I see the exhibit, its an anti-climax, I don’t think even my favourite Goyas could do it for me today. I sulk across to the Portrait Gallery to sit in their café for a few hours, as I have flopped, I just want to go home. It’s so hot and dry, its unbearable outside, the rubber is melting in the trees.

The Portrait Gallery is dull, there is a performance piece by Cate Blanchett, I don’t get it, I watch it twice just because the room is dark and its cool.

I go back to the NGA, the galleries are separated by a concrete bridge, its about 600 metres across, flat and paved, I shuffle across it, its like I have run a marathon, I can barely walk by now. I just want to go back to my car, I just want to be at home. I am terrified of the trip back, if a tyre blows again I will break, I don’t think I could really go further if it happens again.

I loiter with vague intent till closing time at 5.00pm, I am not alone in the loitering as it is so cool inside.

I go back to the car and get ready for the long slow trip home. I grip the wheel so tensely my shoulders ache, I am too scared to stop anywhere, I am too scared to go over 90km, I sit almost in the middle of the road though I only take the slow lane. A packet of snakes and a bottle of water get me home.

The sun stroke, the tension, the drama, the heat, I know nothing, I hear nothing.

Ignorance is still bliss.

I go to work on Monday morning ready to share my tales of woe, my nightmare trip, my heatstroke and my sunburn.

I check the news as I have my coffee and I see it all, the photos, the pain, the agony, the death toll, country Victoria burnt on Saturday, people fought hard to save their families, their houses, their farms, a lot of people lost that day – so many people died that day. I sit at my desk weeping tears of exhaustion and empathy.

I thought my Saturday was a day from hell.

I am stupid, I am selfish, I am full of my own self-importance.

On Saturday hell was in Marysville, in Kingslake in Flowerdale, in countless other towns were people lost their lives.

Its 181 so far, they say there will be many more, whole families, whole communities; so many children.

I love this country with every fibre of my being, it is one of the most beautiful places in world. It’s a hard country. It gives so much to us, but it takes some back in the most horrendous and heartbreaking ways.

I am still weeping.

All About The Puppies

My brother-in-law is a sound engineer and has been touring for 15 years or more, he does not just gigs, but events and tellie too.

Anyways for a while there a few years ago he also did the wrestling, and as I was the only one living in Melbourne - I got all the freebies, I used to see alot of big shows and festivals for free thanks to him but I digress.

One night, I had nothing else to do, I took myself off to see WWE at Rod Laver arena, these seats werent great, sometimes I got ringside, sometimes up in the bleachers, anyways this night there I was about half way up, in the start of the cheaper seats or right at the back of the last of the posh seats. A little to the front of me and to the left were two men and a couple of kids, boys around 8 or 9 yo. This was a full on show, Vince McMahon was even there, the full bells and whistles, some of the shows werent always as elaborate as this.

Now this was a while ago so we had Disco Inferno (they always boo the Disco but I always liked him), Big Sexy, Sting plus heaps I cant remember, we even got a special appearance by Brett the Hitman Hart but he didnt wrestle, he just invaded the ring and misbehaved for a while. This was not too long after his brother Owen was killed in a wrestling match gone wrong, so he was still playing the drunken angry looser role that he did for a while.

The bikini girls were there and came out to jiggle about during the intros and between matches as this is their role in this environment. There was lots of cheering, jeering and carry - on by the crowd and the performers, it is a show and everybody has a role to play including the crowd and when it works well and everybody plays along its a whole lot of harmless low brow fun.

The bikini girls had the puppies out on display, as they always do, puppies is the term used frequently by the commentators for tits. I'd never really heard it before a particular boyfriend and his WWF obsession came into my life, it must of been an Americanism thats since moved into common vocabulary. Anyways back to the point - after one particular match, the girls were out, the puppies were jumping, the crowd were jeering, fireworks were going off and lights were flashing, during this commotion, one of the kids jumped on his chair and started leaping up and down, screaming at the top of his voice "Show us your puppies, show us your puppies!!!"

He was 8.

The dad and his mate stopped their yelling, and looked at the kid in disbelief, you could see what he was screaming register with them, and they then leaned back in their chairs and started beaming with pride.

I giggled with so much mirth at that that I nearly lost my seat, thinking about this even now makes me smile.

Is It Really You ?

This form of writing, this form of story telling is anonymous, it clouds who you are and what you are into the what you want to be.

I drift around, I read some for a while then move on to another, its finding words that interest me at the moment and words that may lead to more interesting words that makes me come back.

One in particular has peaked my interest over the last few weeks, its not a long term interest though as the committment to reading this is too much to give these written words the attention and thought they earn. It is well written, in form and structure, it drifts along with snapshots of places over time, now and then, there and back again*. It rambles into thinkings on paths that seem unlinked but make sense to mine. It follows a chain that flits around until it wraps around you in a crocheted blanket of mumsey cuddles of warmth and toasty musings, melancholy runs through the writing in deep veins and it cuts you unexpectantly leaving you peevish and discontented.

I often wonder who is this person that manages to create these wonderlands of musings, as my untrusting nature and the gut that I rely on to keep me alive screams at me that there are elements of honesty in these lands of wonder but its not really as it seems to be. My Mulder is not convinced, what looks real and seems real is not as real as the writer wants it to seem. The parts of the past are too clear and layered to be more than remembered moments with now depth.

A thread today I've heard before, just a small moment, a tiny piece, its background colour and doesnt flavour the missive beyond a dot of ink. Have we read the same piece, have we eavesdropped on the same conversation, are we having the same conversation. Are we drawing from the same palette when our backgrounds are coloured in.....though mine hangs on the fridge, theirs is in the gallery.

I am watching.

Reading: - Egypt Lonely Planet
Listening: - Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago

* I stole that from a hobbit.

Cheese on Toast

I was waiting in the kitchen whilst my roll was being grilled, I had ham, swiss cheese and tomato on it. I was watching the grilling because if I turn around and faced another way, I'd have to talk to some of the people in the lunch room. I work in IT, I wasn't in the mood for Bombay.

The cheese started to melt, the slices slowly lost their cohesion, and started to leisurely spread over the roll, then it started to bubble, slow at first but built up in intensity and size and I was mesmerised watching the bubbles form and disperse........ the belch from Bombay pulled me out of this daze.

That was weird, I pondered as I took my toasted H, C & T back to my office.

Gym Junkie

I go to a gym regularly (2-3 times a week, most weeks). I am no gym junkie, I have no svelte toned body, I don’t look like I go to the gym. I am just not that interested in dying soon, and as I like to drink a lot and enjoy good food, I thought the only option I have really is to go to a gym to get a bit of exercise.

At the moment I am working in the inner suburbs for the first time in my life and not the CBD I crave. I am also driving to work for the first time too, previously I journeyed on the tram, the train or the bus. This traveling time was my time to do nothing at all except stare out the window and make up stories, to observe and critique my fellow travellers and to join in the camaraderie of that small group of people – nose to armpit, bottom to face – that brave bunch of men and women – brakes, what brakes - who climb abroad the Sydney public transport juggernaut everyday.

There was the sound track too, my intimate sound track, a new record I’m getting to know or an old favourite reminding me of why I liked it so much, and when I was feeling optimistic, the risk taking of the shuffle on that mp3 I love too much to part with, the one that I have so many albums on, that even now I have to stop sometimes and say – who the hells is this.

My stories are usually adventures, I am the star, and they vary in location and theme - drama, action, comedy, suspense, tragedy, romance - sometimes when I’m so engrossed in the adventure of these stories, I might not get off and continue to ride the buses all day just so I can continue my tales. Sometimes the sad ones are so sad tears may fall from my face for these imaginary characters in these imaginary stories – I miss this.

I am not fond of my morning / evening commute though its 25 minutes in the AM and 15-20 minutes in the PM. There is a bus I can easily walk to that travels straight to my work but in a wiggly fashion, it was taking up to 50 minutes each time when it actually bothered to get around to turning up, bus timetables are indeed the stuff of myth and legend in this town, creative yet optimistic, hopeful but mostly tinged with disappoint and despair. So logic outweighed my need for that staring out the window daydream time that I need, I liked and I so looked forward to and the sensible side said drive.

Yes, my sensible side, please meet my sensible side, bain of my existence, SS is a fitting acronym for my sensible side. I don’t like my sensible side (SS), it dominates me and my actions more than I would like. It wont even let me have a good cry, my eyes water, I start to sniffle, I start to build up a good head of boo hoo steam, ready for the long haul red puffy eyed cry, when the SS jumps up smacks me on the nose and says sternly, “oh get over yourself ya feckin eejit (with accent), stop being so stupid and pull yourself together.”

I virtually pass my gym on the back street drive to work each day, and as now I am in an environment that allows (doesn’t notice) freedoms that I don’t often find anywhere else expect in Consultancy companies, I’ve been disappearing out at lunch for the 105 minutes it takes to drive to the gym, exercise, shower and drive back.

This has given me a different view on the people that go during the day on a normal working day, as I am usually an evening gym-er. There is one lady I see regularly now, and she fascinates me, I find myself staring at her for the entire time she is on the treadmill, I’ve only ever seen her on the treadmill.

She is not young, nor attractive, she has no outstanding features of height, weight, presence or personality, she is of a non-descript ethnic origin, I’ve never heard her speak. I know nothing about her nor is there anything that would make her stand out in a crowd if we where on the street rather than sweating in the cardio room. What catches my eye and intrigues me is the attire, she exercises regularly, on the treadmill, in jeans and flat shoes.

My mind shouts – fool stupid woman, what are you doing, I stiffled a giggle of you cant be serious the first time I saw her. Then I thought, maybe she doesn’t sweat – so I got angry with jealously, I come from hearty pale skin celtic stock; we sweat like pigs. It took me a few visits before I started to think, maybe she’s poor and cant afford sneakers and gym cloths, though my natty new outfit was from Best & Less and cost all of $18.75. I started to feel some empathy for her, then ye olde SS piped up, “she is at a gym, stupid, that’s $40+ a fortnight, she is not poor”, good point SS, that mustn’t be it then.

She arrives on foot, maybe she is working at one of the nearby factories and pops out during lunch like I do and cant bring a change of clothes, but then I think that would start to get pretty yucky in the girlie bits in the afternoon wouldn’t it, as denim doesn’t exactly breathe?

Maybe it’s a cultural thing; maybe they don’t exercise in gym clothes in the place where she comes from, I wonder were that place is. Maybe there is a religious reason for it, but I can’t think of what sort of religion would be that silly, no scrap that, I can think of lots.

She doesn’t really need to exercise as she is very slim, her treadmill seems to never go beyond a smart saunter, so maybe she works near by and has nothing else to do at lunchtime except go to the gym hoping someone would start talking to her and she could make some friends.

Maybe maybe maybe

Maybe I should just say hello next time.

Listening: King Hokum
Reading: What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt

Ned slips into reality for a squiz

My brother asked me tonight if I want to see Howard Jones in concert.

I said, ok, if he plays before the 17th when I leave……

Cate Blanchett as Richard II scared me into submission today, that and the 42-degree heat.

I never liked Howard Jones when I was little, I preferred Depeche Mode, they saw Tony Hadley a few months ago on the RSL circuit, I saw The Drones that night.

Cate on stage, in the flesh, the heat, my Dad needs a prostrate biopsy– I was vulnerable.

I will climb back on my hill and tell you what I see soon - life jumped in there for a teensy bit.

There are 24 more sleeps till Ned goes to Cairo – I will compose more stories in the Adventures of Young Indy as I sleep.

(btw – Ned is going to Petra soon, Ned is beside herself with expectation & excitement – Ned rides as good as Marcus)


=====================

Ned adores Ned's brother, he hugged her tighter than he normally does tonight when he left. It scares her a little when he hugs her like that cause he has had weak moments in the past. Neds lot are Irish Catholic, they dont speak, just shout alot, final goodbyes sometimes are just a touch, that hard hug speaks more than words ever could.

=====================

I saw sadness in the shape of an old lady today, she couldnt stay the 90 minutes in her chair between acts, but her heels, as she snuck out to go to the bathroom during the play where clickity clackity clumping, so shes tumbled to the rail on the 5th step and took them off so she could sneak to pee as quietly as her 70+ year bladder could.

Some people make you smile.

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More Roots

The final episode of Roots is on tonight. I’ve not really enjoyed visiting this blockbuster story/land mark event in television to be honest; you will learn that I am nothing but honest when I write about whats happening from my hill. I promise to be honest on every occasion, except the occasions I lie.

My boss, Ginger Pom tells me they all watched it glued to their tellies back in the day, but it wasn’t the quality of the production, or the glamour of the star studded yankee cast, sorry Mr McShane. Ginge swears it was the story, she says that in England in 1977, they just hadn’t heard a story like that before, and that’s what was fascinating for them. So I’m spoilt, I’ve heard it all before, I’ve heard it told by better story tellers, I’ve heard it told by more interesting characters. Oh dear, yawn is me, the too harsh critic – you’re too hard Ned, you are too hard on people. That song has rung around my ears with the familiarity of five bells.

I watched three David Lean movies last weekend........ I know I am spoilt.

It feels like a burden or a chore to have to sit through the last episode of Roots, its much the same feeling I get when I have to drag Ned’s Cavalier body to work each morning - I do like my current job, I just dont like working.

I remember the story of Roots being interesting, I think the thought of the story is interesting, the actuality is not. At the end, its still dated badly, the acting style is either wooden or cartoonish and the story is bland and has not held a lot of interest for me after all. The characters are not that entertaining or that compelling, I feel there is only one that has really engaged me and that was Chicken George (he is Kizzy’s son). The other black characters have fallen into two camps, the sour sullen moody ones or the hard done by beaten and down- trodden ones, Chicken George has an enthusiasm and energy the other characters are missing. Now London Hospital on UKTV whiched I watched after Roots last night has engaged me - fascinating, people die, children die, I like it when people die, its just like they do outside the box (outside the flat screen??) I dont have a flat screen tellie, so for mine its still outside the box.

I am forcing myself to continue with Roots, guilt wins out – 'black slavery stories, you should watch it just to show respect and empathy for what they went through' guilt, and I'm not even a damn yankee - I have leftie tendencies, and can singalong to the Internationale with vigour if nicely lubricated but who cant then, its oh so popular to be ‘pc’.

Guilt is my crime, suffering through boredom is my punishment, though as another slave gets whipped by some white sci fi character actor that you can never remember the name of, my mind wanders to thinking about what sort of a Doctor will Matt Smith make, or whether 4 hours of War of the Roses tomorrow will give me a numb bum - all the important issues of the day.

I am reading Dante, just the Inferno - I am experiencing a hiccup of intellectualism.

C W Stonekings Jungle Blues is this weeks sound track.

I Dont Know Where I'm Going

I came back to the town where I was young just over a year ago after a long long time away – 10 years.

I'm glad I came back now as the desire to come back was hanging over me as an unfinishedness drawing on me.

Coming back and being here for the last year has made me realise that here is not really the place I want to be. The reasons that drew me back are still here, but I dont know now if I will stay.

This time I know that when I do go I dont have to come back.

I’m always leaving things behind, places, people and futures.

I’ve been doing it for so long I don’t have relationships or histories that go back more than an a handful of year.

Maybe there is gypsy in my soul, maybe I just run away.

(I exclude my family from this as they come with me wherever I go, even though they never leave here).

Sam, I’ve been reading Miles McClagan this morning, he has made me melancholy.

Recent Events - that man

The swearing in of the new US President is all over the news this morning, so many of the people of that country have put so many hopes into this US migrant, I am feeling a little apprehensive hoping that they wont be disappointed too quickly or he doesn’t turn out to be just another silly selfish politician who just happens to have skin a little darker than the usual presidents, I do hope I’m wrong though as that country certainly needs a lot of help.

I don’t think the problems in that country will start to change unless the ENTIRE nation embraces these three ideals

a) free health care
b) free education (primary, secondary and tertiary)
c) get rid of the guns.

Given a & b. their children can do anything, achieve anything, people can pull themselves out of poverty if they are educated and are taken care of when they are sick, and the last one, how can you learn to value a life when the norm seems to be – they annoy me, bang, their gone.

They have been re-running Roots on Fox Classics this week, episode three was last night. Its an interesting story, I read it when I was 12, but have never seen the mini-series as I’m a little young to of seen it when they first made it, and I have no memory of it being repeated.

So far it seems very dated, the acting is exaggerated and romantic, there seems very little realism in any of the performance, black nor white, the white actors seem like they are playing panto, and the black actors treat their characters like gentle idiots, it almost seems at times it’s a collection of caricatures from that part of their history.

Here are some thoughts on the first few episodes

Episodes 1 & 2 (shown together) – O J Simpson got second billing, he was only in it for 3 minutes, and spent half of that time running ??? He must have been famous once for something other than killing his ex-wife and her friend. Ed Asner appears with a shocking wig and terrible stick on beard, the acting from Ed is less than convincing, he is the ships Captain who transports the slaves to the US, the Dad from the Waltons is the ships mate, he gets killed on the return journey, we cheered when he got killed – that’s how bad the acting was. Geordi La Forge was alright but he played Kunta Kinte with a romantic /idealistic view of what life was like then – seems odd to my mind. The native women were mainly topless, if this tv series was made today, I’d doubt there would be topless women running about. Adama turns up towards the end and buys Kunta Kinte and renames him Toby. The acting must be really bad when I thought Adama (without his Battlestar) was the best in this episode.

Episode 3 – Toby is an man now, I don’t know the actor that played him but he is absolutely huge, large man with muscles bulging, even when he has his foot chopped off, theres a little bit of romance, a little bit of violence, a little bit of death and a little bit of Mr Brady – I don’t know but it still seems terribly dated, the acting is wooden, the costumes are like panto costumes, I’m not feeling an empathy yet for these characters but I should. It ends with Toby realizing he will never be free and accepting it, and celebrating the birth of his child, Kizzy.

Episode 4 tonight.

I wouldn’t mind seeing this remade, I think the subtly of modern acting styles and the realism in production design would bring a lot to a remake of this story.

What Ned Heard When Ned was "happy"

Its all serious till a hobbit looses an eye.

Discrimination Will Not Be Tolerated, Even If you Mask It As A Religion.

I’ve been keeping an eye on the hoo haa and carry on over the reaction to a Brisbane Shock Jock, Michael Smiths comments on banning Burkas or Hijabs in shops.

http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/news/queensland/dj-denies-racism-behind-hijab-jibe/2009/01/15/1231608867111.html

I'm not going to talk about the comment, rather about the piece of clothing.

It saddens me to think that in this day and age, that a group of people willing force a subset of their population to cover themselves from head to toe with the determining factor being their sex, and masquerade this subversion as religion. I dont call it religion, I call it out and out discrimination and it should not be tolerated, not in Australia, never. This type of obvious sexism is what we as a population and the people who came before us fought so hard to overcome, I dont understand why so many of us tolerate it now.

If any other group forced a percentage to their population to submit to such torture, and imho wearing a hijab or a full-faced burqa is a form of torture, then the perpetrators of this crime would be imprisoned – the religious label is irrelevant. A large percentage of Muslim women don’t feel the need to do this, and it doesn’t make them any less of a devout follower of this religion, so why do some arms of this religion think that you have to do this is beyond me.

If the fanatical arms of this religion chose to force both men and women to wear these outfits I'd be much more comfortable, as then they'd just be a pretty silly cult, but of course this wont happen as these men know that this outfit is foolish, uncomfortable and extremely constricting and would never tolerate it, but they are happy to force their women folk to do it .

I see women wearing these on the street on stinking hot days in Sydney, walking beside their husbands who are dressed in t-shirts, thongs and shorts, and I just want to slap them and yell at them, "look at him, look at what he is wearing and look at what you have got on", I’d tell them, they are in Australia, where you dont have to wear such foolish and inappropriate clothing. Especially when this “law” was only decreed by Mohammad when he noticed a few people making goo goo eyes at some of his wives and he didn’t want to deal with it.

In one of the articles I read, the president of the Islamic Friendship Association of Australia, Keysar Trad, is quoted as slamming the move suggested by Michael Smith, Keysar Trad said it was sexual harassment to ask a Muslim woman to remove her hijab, sorry Keysar, but as a woman, I find it a form of sexual harassment to HAVE to wear that damn thing.

Now I am going to be lazy and copy one of the many comments that I’ve read about this, because this guy summed it up rather nicely (thanks Matt of Mortdale).

“Forcing women to wear Burkas or Hijabs, no matter the culture, is a slur on women in general. It symbolises that women are not equal to men, which we all know is false - women are equal to men. Muslims should cease to demean and discriminate against women. In Islamic countries Australians have to abide by the cultural laws when visiting or living in that country. Why is it that Muslims see themselves as not having to conform to Australian cultural laws which effectively prohibit discrimination against women. I feel sorry for all Muslim women who are forced to wear something which demeans them, even if they have no problem themselves.”

I travel a fair bit, and will happily abide by the cultural rules of the country I visit, even if some of them disgust me, I have covered up in a Muslim country and will continue to do so when I visit one, just as I expect the Muslim women who visit here to uncover. I could never move to a Muslim country on a permanent basis because I couldnt accept the cultural norms of those countries, in the same way when Muslim men and women move here I expect them to adopt the cultural norms of this country, that is only fair.

If these people dont want to give up the hijab/burka, then there are plenty of other countries in the world where this form of discrimination is acceptable, and if someone feels that they dont want to give it up, then maybe Australia is not the right country for them. There are alot of Muslims from many countries of the world happily living here, its such a shame a small percentage of them give them majority of Australian Muslims such a bad rep.

And back to the comment that sparked the whole debate, people have to take their motorcycle helmets off when entering banks, I dont see this as being any different.

If someone has a problem with obeying the law of a shop they wish to enter – dont enter.

If someone has a problem with obeying the cultural law of a country they wish to enter - dont enter.

Its not that hard.