Happy New Year

I couldn't decide. So I've put them all up.

Actually, my biggest new year's resolution is to Reclaim my Brian. Or even my Brain. I am going to cut down on Facebooking, pare down my game-playing, and start blogging and reading and writing again.

So you have full permission to nag me if I don't update at least once a week about something printy or booky. It's been far too long.

Oh, and I'll Remember to Breathe again too.

And a late online happy birthday to Colonel Duck, who was born on New Year's Day, the same day as his grandfather.

Head space

"Thursday. I never could quite get the hang of Thursdays."

"I remember. I remember. I remember everything."

I had lots of time to sit and muse yesterday. I won't call it 'thinking' because it was too scattered. I spent a lot of time sitting around in strange, busy, lonely places as I ferried a friend from her Aged Care Facility (you just can't call it a Home) to a hospital bed.

Nothing too serious, just intervention.

Before I left I'd been stuffing my head and heart with Paul Kelly's How to Make Gravy. On the way I stopped at my post office box and discovered the latest Meanjin, which I threw in my bag. You can't do that with a digital file.

Before the intervention, I'd tried to read her some new poetry by a poet I'd met in NZ, Brian Turner. He's a fab bugger, deeply entrenched in the heart of the southern island and its landscape. He writes poems that can rant like Lear on the moor and then go quiet so that you have to lean in. At his most succinct he does this:

Sky

If the sky knew half
of what we're doing
down here

it would be stricken,
inconsolable,
and we would have

nothing but rain*

(My friend Pete and I like it so much, we have just received permission to make it into a broadside.)

I'd read a few poems to her, but quickly realised that she was incapable of taking in new material. So I turned to her own writing, and read her a poem from 70 years ago.

That's good. Who was that?

You.

Oh, good.

It was good. I read them to her for a while, sticking to the ones that had background pictures for her to focus upon.

Later I wrangled her wheelchair with one hand, the other arm stuffed with supplies, and took her to the local (private) hospital, where we (I tag-teamed with another friend, and we negotiated our kids around her) waited over five hours for a drip to be connected to rehydrate her. She lay quietly on her side, full of mental pictures that I'd provided that she'd provided. I read Meanjin.

It's lovely when thoughts in your head collide with thoughts on the page.

Twenty... no, twenty-five years ago I had a friend who dressed as Paul Kelly. I remember when he walked back through my door, short back & sides with a slight quiff at the front, faded blue jeans, check shirt. He/we were so inspired by Kelly's music that it was the soundtrack to our constantly briefly-shared lives. I made my first adult trip to Melbourne to join him for a PK concert, then we walked the streets of Melbourne to his door, where he discovered his mattress out on the street because he hadn't paid the rent. He charmed his way back into the house, and we lay on his floor on the bare mattress for two days, full of Randwick Bells. We used to meet irregularly, in leaps and bounds. There were always others, and we never quite made anything work properly, but he was a major player in my 20s, as is Paul Kelly, and for that I'll always be grateful.

That's the way I remember it, he may have different memories. He's still in Melbourne.

I have rediscovered the tape deck on my studio stereo. I pushed my way into the back of my garden shed and dug out my old mix tapes. There's a lot of them, each with vestigal titles but the essential date of when I made them. They are mental time capsules, full of time bombs. Paul Kelly discusses the making of such tapes. So does Christos Tsiolkas in Meanjin. I thought a lot about music mixes and mental states yesterday.

I have moved to CD mixes over the last 15 years, and I still make them and date them, even though my ipod is easier to mix. I like the trace of thought and feeling. I need hard copy, even though you can't connect with them unless you have the equipment to play them. I wish I could make art like I make music mixes.


I had my annual asthma attack last night. Hospitals are stressful places, even when the patient is not in danger. I sat up late/early in my loungeroom, coughing uncontrollably, chest aching from the spasms. I read Pollyanna, which isn't as good as Anne of Green Gables for inspiring reassurance, but it was there.

Today I'm making a music mix. Here's what is on it, and I'm not justifying or rationalising any of them:





Don't get all psychological on me, it's just a head space.






*Brian Turner, from Just This (Wellington, NZ: Victoria University Press, 2009), winner of the 2010 New Zealand Post Book Awards. Do not reproduce past this point.

Life in the Hat

Thank you for wonderful messages of support and I promise I won't HTFU too much. I always feel a bit embarrassed after I grizzle on-line. I want to start licking my paws furiously like a cat. But I refuse to delete posts unless they're hurtful because this is as much about me remembering my life as it is sharing it with others.



More gloom: our DVD player is sick. Might be the heat, might be the excessive wurtiness pervading the house.

So we can't indulge in our favorite comfort videos, we're reliant on the tv, which (to stop whinging) really isn't so bad anymore since there's all those kooky free digital channels like GO and VH1 and Turner Classic Movies etc.

Luckily/wisely we bought an extended warranty for the player, but it's going to take up to 5 working days to find out if it gets fixed (which would be another long process) or replaced (huzzar).

Luckily, some of the crap I've been slowly sifting outwards includes our old DVD player that probably still works... we will find out tonight when I try to reconfigure all the wiring. Hopefully I've also still got the manual. We only replaced it because we wanted to be able to record shows and convert videos, etc, so we bought a DVD/VCR combo. Which, 15 months later, is cranky and playing up. I HATE built-in obsolescence. Colonel & Lady Duck used the same video player for 20 years before they went all crazy and bought DVD players and set-top boxes for every room in their house.

Ahem.




I feel I should explain the presence of Ultravox in the car the other day. It's all part of Bumblebee's musical education and trying to rip him away from endless Michael Jackson rotation.

He's found, as I mentioned earlier, all my 80s vinyl, which is really only EARLY 80s vinyl, from 1981 to about 1984. After that I got heavily into cassettes, and we all know how well they survive over 20 years. So I have a big gap in my music collection until I started buying CDs -- and I'm always a late starter -- in the mid-90s. And then in the late 90s, I was too busy sorting out dysfunctional relationships and having a complicated baby to pay much attention to contemporary music, so there's a big gap in my head from about 1994 to around 2002, when I started back at the art school and reconnected with what everyone else around me was listening to. During that gap time I'd been listening disconnectedly to blues, jazz, swing, old standards, and my totally uncool record collection.

Anyhoo, so Bumblebee was grinding our ears with endless loops of 'Footloose' and 'Fame' and 'I love Rock & Roll' (so do I, but not incessantly), and then suddenly a song like Depeche Mode's 'I just can't get enough' would emerge from the mix. And seem really out of place.

One morning I was lying in bed half-listening to his music choices and realised that most of the music I loved from the early-to-mid 80s was the music I wasn't exposed to at the time -- being stuck in country towns with cheesy radio stations -- but the music I'd danced to as a young uni student in my favorite Canberra nightspot: The Manhattan.

AAAHHHH! I heard certain of you gasp in adoring nostalgia.

The Hat, as it was affectionately called, was a cramped long thin swell of a space above the recently-dead Woodstock Pizza restaurant in Civic, in the walkway between Petrie Plaza and Garema Place. It was the polar opposite of all the other mainstream clubs, yet wasn't a particularly threatening environment. It was stuffed full of goths, druggies, new romantics, students, gays, everything that was fabulous about the 80s. They played The Cure, New Order, Depeche Mode, The Smiths, Ultravox... and much much more... (you know the stuff) and you could dance on the low floor or the raised floor (if you were feeling brave or at least full of bravado).

The Hat exposed me to low-mood music that was grittier than listening to the Carpenters in my bedroom. It was a revelation, and while I didn't take on much the outward trappings (apart from -- for a while -- my beloved shoe-string tie held together by a deep red glass 'jewel' pushed up to the collar of my crisp white shirt, plus lots of hair gel and eyeliner), I definitely kept a big space in my heart for the Hat and its culture. It's funny, I wear more black these days than I ever did then.

I haven't thought about The Hat for AGES, and a combination of feeling low and B playing that particular DM song made me leap onto iTunes and put together the first in what I hope will be a series of Hat Mixes. The first, my instant gut reaction, has:

Love Action (The Human League)
Temptation (Heaven 17)
Enola Gay (Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark)
Chant No 1 (Spandau Ballet)
Fade to Grey (Visage)
Vienna (Ultravox)
Too Shy (Kajagoogoo)
Just Can't Get Enough (Depeche Mode)
The Model (Kraftwerk)
Living on the Ceiling (Blancmange)
Planet Earth (Duran Duran)

That last one is the only Duran Duran song ever worth listening to, IMHO.

When I played it for B, he liked it to a certain extent (it'll grow on him as he gets sookier in adolescence, but for now he's a real Light Pop boy), but I was surprised at how immediate and vivid were my memories of The Hat as a space and some of the interactions I'd had there. It was amazing.

I'm working on another Hat mix, this time taking the time to go through my CD collection to add to the iTunes purchases. New Order (initially typed New Idea, heh), The Cure, Brian Eno, The Cult, Pet Shop Boys, Bronski Beat... any other suggestions? And do feel free to reminisce about The Hat here, please.

It's a great lightweight and non-urgent project to distract me from but also sweetly enhance the inner gloom while it lasts. I'm trying to move Bumblebee through the 80s he's loving at the moment into the 90s so that we can both explore what I missed out on. And periodically he gets caught by something on the radio, which is also great.

When I'm not around him (i.e., during the day at Studio Duck, where I can play what I want, when I want and as loud as I want as long as my studio neighbour likes it), I've been playing CW Stoneking (I've got both albums and crave a third) and Robert Johnson on high rotation.

They're a bluesy cure for the 80s, fo'shure. And my studio neighbour does like them.

What the ...?

I just found a letterpress stationer with a wicked sense of humour.















All these greeting cards (and many more) are on sale right now. Get in line behind me.

this morning's meanderings

If you have a Windows set-up and are interested in trying out some free 'Classics' e-books, swing by Jeff's blog, grab the code, and then head over to the Macrophobic Sony website to choose which 10 titles would suitably grace your non-Mac screen.
:(

If you would like to know how to make the perfect cucumber sandwich and admire the sweetest tea setting ever, go visit Girlprinter's new digs. I'm very happy that she's being internetly social again.

If you're feeling wurty but not quite able to release the tears, this will help.

And if you want a laugh after the cry to cheer yourself up, try this.

I'm starting to fill up my dance card. I spent yesterday afternoon sorting my (blank) paper drawers and making cards (only managed to make 5) and today I have pressure on me to finish the Blue Poles jigsaw so that we can have our dining table back in use (not to eat upon, oh no, but to put jam jars on! tuh!). I also have to sort out my finances and start thinking about what to pack for our trip to the Woodford Folk Festival in a few weeks. Plus work out my Xmas shopping. And I really want to update Sarsaparilla a bit, because I promised to and it will ease the Guilt Fairy who pisses in my ear every night. Luckily I can't move fast (my body does great Twinge) so I can't go too overboard with any of it.

Working out priorities is hard. Jigsaw? Cards? Heh, don't shoot me, all you exhausted people out there.

addendum

Any of you teaching types, snap your stitches reading this.

You're all beautiful. You are.

Forgive me; Best Beloved is away for a couple of days, I've had one too many wines to work efficiently (blame TV for that), my computer says it's an hour earlier than it is (I'll regret that in the morning) and Blogosphere is mine.

Actually, I'll ask forgiveness of a few people while I'm here:

-- Tim T. I really don't play Scrabble with anyone else like I play with him. Bingoes everywhere, all the best letters fall my way. Sometimes it happens with Lexicon Harlot, and Pavlov's Cat as well. But no one else, I swear. The rest of them thrash me in even shares, especially my sister outlaw, Naomi. She's a killer on the board. I've only won against her once, according to my memory, and we've played nearly every day for a year now.

-- Anyone who believed in Earth Hour. I didn't do it. I forgot.
But. I was talking to a colleague the other day, and was shocked to find out that she leaves every. light. on. in. her. large. house. every. night. She & her family 'don't like the dark'. She also drives home for lunch every day. A colleague of BB's does a full washing machine of washing every. day. And she lives by herself. Stories like that make me feel that in my household, every day is Earth Day.

-- Anyone whose blog I leave a comment on. I notice that quite often I leave a comment on someone's blog and it's the last comment they get on that post. I must be a conversation killer. Either that or I am just lucky enough to get the last word. Whatever.

[OMG I'm in love with Marshall & the Fro and Juzzie Smith: see the last post for the music I'm listening to]

-- My bathroom. Our Tastic light blew the other day and I replaced it with one of those long-life fluoro lights, but chose Daylight White rather than Warm White. Suddenly the room looks filthy. Before, we could ignore the soap scum and the light mould, but now... it's going to get the cleaning of it's life. Maybe.

Enough apologies. Let's move on.

No, let's go to bed. I have a vet to see and a class on coptic binding in the morning. And no matter what my computer says, it's still 10.30pm, and I need to make the bed before I sleep. There's nothing like clean, fresh linen when you're sleeping by yourself.*

See you in the soup.



* Plus a pus-y puss or two.

Lists

This is the time of year to make lists, isn't it? Lists of presents, lists of food to serve, lists of Christmas cards, lists of thank-you cards, lists of holiday gear to pack, lists of who to invite, lists of things to buy in the sales, lists of New Year resolutions.

My New Year Resolution is to write more lists. And to finish everything that needs doing before starting anything new.

The garden, for instance. At present it's more meadow than yard.
This is how I see it:


This is how the cats see it:



Best Beloved doesn't see any of this. He only sees the little corner at the back full of tomato plants and lettuce that he tends lovingly every day, pulling out the weeds and watering. Never mind the fact that our visitors have to use a machete to get to the front door, the tomatoes are thriving.

I would fix this myself, but I'm a tad busy. And he's not. And that's as close as you'll get to a formal whinge about the man from me.


Yes, we're back. I'm in a small pocket of space between being sick all through Christmas, hurling up my lungs constantly in the damp and cold, and the prospect of a stinking hot spell in Mittagong teaching at the Sturt Summer School from NY's day to the 6th. So my daily routine is (list 1):

-- Bit of a sleep-in
-- Sort out my notes
-- Make a demonstration book
-- See a movie*
-- make another list of tips & tricks
-- Make a demo book
-- dinner, with lashings of wine and chocolate
-- Think about the talk I'm giving at Sturt**
-- bed

*This is only possible because Bumblebee is having an Albatross Christmas this year.
**I can't seem to get past thinking. But I have to write it tomorrow, because then it's time to get driving.

Movies seen since Christmas (list 2):
-- The Golden Compass (ripper. Must see. Nicole Kidman probably the worst thing in it, but she suits the monkey more than the description in the book)
-- Atonement (ripper, even more so. Must see.)
-- The Darjeeling Limited (ok. pretty.)
-- Hunting & Gathering (sweet.)

Books read since leaving home for Christmas period (list 3):
-- Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith (yay)
-- Philip Pullman, Northern Lights (read after seeing The Golden Compass, which was probably the best way to do it, really)
-- Anita Brookner, The Rules of Engagement (frustratingly slow)
-- Ian McEwan, On Chesil Beach (reading now, already doing better than Anita on what will probably turn out to be a similar theme).

Books waiting in the wings for the next patch of holiday (list 4):
-- Colleen McCulloch, Antony & Cleopatra (don't snigger, I never thought she'd ever do another Roman book, so I'm profoundly grateful)
-- Nathan Englander, The Ministry of Special Cases (I started this a while ago, but it didn't grab me. I think I need to be at leisure to read it)
-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road (read last summer, but needs a re-read regularly)
-- Fiona MacCarthy, William Morris: A life for our time (from the library, don't know if I'll get to it!)

Cats I met whilst travelling (list 5):
-- Actually, only one cat, called Mr Snooze. Beautiful creature who has a horrible habit of sinking calmly into your arms for a cuddle then farting, enveloping you in a cloud of the most horrendous stench of rotting creatures (he's an excellent hunter). Beauty and the Beast, all rolled into one silky brown package.



So I guess not a list.

Things worth a mention (list 5.5):
-- I heart Gillian Welch. We are the same age. These things are important. I am about to spend my teaching week listening to no-one else.
-- This card is amazing. How many bits of stationery do you see that express sentiments like that? made by the same people who make the excellent pirate cards. I love letterpress processes used with a sense of humour.

Time to get back to my making desk. I'm off the air again now until I get back from Sturt. Then I have another little window of time (3 days?) until we head to Tasmania. And then Melbourne! And then school starts (sob!). But I don't want to think about that right now. Too many lists to make. Happy New Year in advance!