Books amongst the architecture

byrd did the book meme! He shyly plopped it in the comments section of my wistful joke (below), along with his kids' book response for the gorgeous kids that are shared by the loverly Godomestic. Hooray byrd! Go Domestic!

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Q: why are Australian men buried 6 feet under?
A: because deep, deep down they're really nice.

lead weight

starry starry type, originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

I've spent a lot of time in the last few days playing with letterpress. It's been a while since I could do some of my own stuff, rather than printing for other people. I love the process, and I love getting my hands on the actual letters, but then after a few hours I start to think how much easier I could do the job with a computer and a printer.

Especially on days like today, when I braved the tarp-covered depths of my type collection in the garage awaiting the magic day when we build a studio. I'm printing labels for my handbound sketchbooks on a little desk-top press bought a number of years ago from a bushy man whom I mentally call Mad Merv from Mittagong. Today I moved a tray of type and pulled a muscle in my neck, bringing back memories of when I bought the type and the press and my dad did his back in helping me load his ute to bring it all home. And the day when I bought more type and a Vandercook proofing press and needed four big men, a truck and a hydraulic lift to get it into the garage (where it's been living in sin with a lovely blue tarp, and will stay there for a while yet).

Letterpress is not for the weak or the bad of back. It is for people who like jigsaw puzzles that fall apart at the slightest movement before being locked together, people who don't care about nice-looking nails and people who can lift a heavy wooden drawer full of metal type from a below-the-knees position. Some days I am one of those people, and other days I am not. Today I'm looking forward to a hot soak, some Tiger Balm, and a few hours on the computer setting type the easy way.

Oh -- and happy birthday, crazybrave...

Remember to breathe

Finger comes of finger, speak again, originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

Dog days

This helps me come to terms with the fact that I just can't get into Martin Amis' Yellow Dog. I'm in absolute awe. I wish I could be this articulate even when sober.

Post-script

That was good. The play was fine for an amateur production; the bloke who played Dennis was excellent, the set was terrific. The caramel slice was divine, the wine filled a hole, the whine was essential. The best bit was spending quality time with a quality sheila. How lucky am I?

Waiting for Loot

Cold and wet today in the nation's capital. I just typed Ampersandsuck into my login, which puts a whole new slant on things, really. Cold, dyslexic fingers on the keyboard. Crazybrave and I are about to boldly go forth to an amateur production of Joe Orton's Loot, and are hopefully going to get there in plenty of time to slurp a vino or three.

I was just thinking about why I like riding a bike in Canberra, even when my face is being hit by sleet:

1. I get to look at other riders. The other day I rode behind a woman who was kitted up in all the latest gear. She had a reflective jacket, not a daggy yellow vest like mine, but stylishly cut and trimmed with black; snug yet flattering cycle pants and dinky little rider's boots that fit into your pedals, embellished with yellow stripes to match the jacket. All good and well, except that she was riding the oldest, crappiest women's bike in the world. Maybe she thought she'd get the look in stages (in which case I'd recommend getting the flash bike first). Or maybe her real bike was in t'shop being repaired and she was riding her spare (or her granny's). Either way, it gave me the giggles for a good kilometre.

2. It gives me time to think in the midst of chaos. Even when my frozen cheeks are about to shatter into shards.

3. When I ride really quietly, I can hear the cockies by the side of the bike path (who don't even blink at bikes) crack husks with their beaks. Can't do that in a car.

Don't get me wrong, I love my car too. I drove it today, as it was fecking freezing and I had to go a bit further than normal to visit my Venerable Poet. Oh, the car is now officially a bomb. And not in the good sense of the word. Some little -- or big -- buggers ripped off the 'subaru' logo on the back a month ago and a few days ago either they or some other buggers broke the driver's side lock trying to break in. I don't think they'd want to joyride in it (a bit obvious), and there's nothing of value in it to nick (I asked the car stereo guy to install a cd player that worked but looked too cheap to nick); so I assume it's a vendetta against the paintedness of the car. I'm trying to work out how to run an eletric current through it at night so that if they touch it again they get zapped. Would serve them right. This is Canberra, not Sydney. I resent having to lock my car.

Waiting for crazybrave. Looking forward to a bit of thee-atar. Looking forward to a slug of whine [sic].