I'm tempted to buy a couple and take them apart. GAH!
*I wish I had enough money to buy out all these people in Australia with wood type...
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Can you hear my gnashing teeth from there?*
I'm tempted to buy a couple and take them apart. GAH!
*I wish I had enough money to buy out all these people in Australia with wood type...
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Heh
Byrd's having another vertical stouch, this time not with an ignorant local politician, but with someone messing with his head in a different way.
Watch THAT space (it's at the Lyneham Shops, if you're interested). One thing about Byrd, he's never been afraid to rework his own sprays. They've picked the wrong target, for sure.
Watch THAT space (it's at the Lyneham Shops, if you're interested). One thing about Byrd, he's never been afraid to rework his own sprays. They've picked the wrong target, for sure.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
It's alive, ALIVE, I tells yer
You may have been wondering about Sarsaparilla, the group blog. It fell off teh interwebs.
It's coming back properly at a site near you soon, but in the meantime check out SARS LITE!
Not much there at the moment, but I'm sure all the contributors have been saving up things to share, so I wouldn't be surprised if it jumps a bit before settling down to a sedate, cultured pace. Then again, everyone might be too polite to go first ;)
Watch that space.
It's coming back properly at a site near you soon, but in the meantime check out SARS LITE!
Not much there at the moment, but I'm sure all the contributors have been saving up things to share, so I wouldn't be surprised if it jumps a bit before settling down to a sedate, cultured pace. Then again, everyone might be too polite to go first ;)
Watch that space.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
two weekends
I.
The setting was a classic end-of-summer Canberra afternoon: hot, dry, windy. The group was sitting outside under the carport, in a space kitted out with carpet offcuts, pine shelving and a hifi system playing Neil Diamond's Hot August Night on vinyl. The light was at first sharp and brittle, but it burnt away slowly as the records were changed. The women, sipping cold white wine, were brightly coloured in floral pinks and burnt orange. The men, sucking at recycled bottles of home brew, were discussing umpiring decisions from a local cricket game earlier that afternoon. The roast pork was ready and resting, the cream for the plummy dessert had been whipped gently, with special ingredients folded into it for extra lushness.
I had closed my eyes and I was in 1977, in my parents' Duntroon backyard. The cat that just jumped on my lap could have been our black & white Persian, Sadie. The dog that walked past was George, the Tasmanian Rock Hound* we shared with another Army family. The kids shouting in the front yard in their pyjamas were all my cousins, avoiding bed by keeping away from the adults. But I was sitting near the adults, a quarter of an ear to their conversation, another quarter on the music, the rest in my book, sitting very close to have first crack at the food when it finally arrived, and old enough to be included in their meal rather than fed earlier with the smaller kids.
I suddenly opened my eyes, and it was 2009, and it was Zoe's backyard, or rather, side-yard. Owen had umpired a game that afternoon, it was his home brew, their Neil Diamond, Dr Sista-Outlaw's pink dress, my orange top, our kids using light-sabres to whip each other up into a frenzy before the tears fell and we shoved the lot of them in front of a DVD. And it was Zoe's amazing milk-roasted pork with couscous and green beans, followed by something divinely creamy and plummy. And I was still old enough to eat with the big kids. In fact, I *was* the big kid, the oldest of everyone there.
Very discombobulating.
II.
Last night we drove along the highway for 90 minutes to eat a meal with my beloved buddy Sacha, who was down from Brisbane for five days to mind her son in her ex-partner's house while he went to some men's drumming thingy in Tasmania (or so his son says, with a cheeky smile).
Sacha is a wonderful host: she invited a whole stack of lovely locals that she wanted to catch up with, cooked a (gentle) curry meal and plied us with wine and chocolate, then put us to bed in a spare room with a couple of recent glossy mags (she knows my tastes well) and let us sleep in.
She also had to babysit the beagle, and since I know some of you are hardcore beagle fans, allow me to introduce you to Wilson:
Isn't he lovely? He belongs to Sacha's son, and was quite the star of the party, especially when he started hoeing into some icecubes (the only thing he managed to wrangle out of us, despite using his eyes to his best begging capacity, and after his food-stealing attempts were thwarted), licking and crunching them up happily.
These photos were taken this morning, when Bumblebee's dad (who lives reasonably near by) generously allowed B to drop by and see Sacha for a few hours of his access weekend. The boy and the dog got along swimmingly.
In case you don't like beagles, we also walked down the road and met a couple of stunning Burmese cats who live in an equally stunning sandstone house with their very creative owners (who were at the dinner). Here is Sacha with one of the lovelies:
Such sweet kitties, a male and female, who are wholly indoor cats, but have a wired-in cat run at the back, between the house and the amazing ceramics studio. Sigh! Imagine having a lovely house with another one attached to the back, just for making things!
Double sigh. Anyway, dinner is ready (takeaway, we couldn't be arsed cooking). See ya.
*Actually an Australian Terrier, but he didn't chase balls or sticks. He was passionately devoted to rocks. He rocked.
The setting was a classic end-of-summer Canberra afternoon: hot, dry, windy. The group was sitting outside under the carport, in a space kitted out with carpet offcuts, pine shelving and a hifi system playing Neil Diamond's Hot August Night on vinyl. The light was at first sharp and brittle, but it burnt away slowly as the records were changed. The women, sipping cold white wine, were brightly coloured in floral pinks and burnt orange. The men, sucking at recycled bottles of home brew, were discussing umpiring decisions from a local cricket game earlier that afternoon. The roast pork was ready and resting, the cream for the plummy dessert had been whipped gently, with special ingredients folded into it for extra lushness.
I had closed my eyes and I was in 1977, in my parents' Duntroon backyard. The cat that just jumped on my lap could have been our black & white Persian, Sadie. The dog that walked past was George, the Tasmanian Rock Hound* we shared with another Army family. The kids shouting in the front yard in their pyjamas were all my cousins, avoiding bed by keeping away from the adults. But I was sitting near the adults, a quarter of an ear to their conversation, another quarter on the music, the rest in my book, sitting very close to have first crack at the food when it finally arrived, and old enough to be included in their meal rather than fed earlier with the smaller kids.
I suddenly opened my eyes, and it was 2009, and it was Zoe's backyard, or rather, side-yard. Owen had umpired a game that afternoon, it was his home brew, their Neil Diamond, Dr Sista-Outlaw's pink dress, my orange top, our kids using light-sabres to whip each other up into a frenzy before the tears fell and we shoved the lot of them in front of a DVD. And it was Zoe's amazing milk-roasted pork with couscous and green beans, followed by something divinely creamy and plummy. And I was still old enough to eat with the big kids. In fact, I *was* the big kid, the oldest of everyone there.
Very discombobulating.
II.
Last night we drove along the highway for 90 minutes to eat a meal with my beloved buddy Sacha, who was down from Brisbane for five days to mind her son in her ex-partner's house while he went to some men's drumming thingy in Tasmania (or so his son says, with a cheeky smile).
Sacha is a wonderful host: she invited a whole stack of lovely locals that she wanted to catch up with, cooked a (gentle) curry meal and plied us with wine and chocolate, then put us to bed in a spare room with a couple of recent glossy mags (she knows my tastes well) and let us sleep in.
She also had to babysit the beagle, and since I know some of you are hardcore beagle fans, allow me to introduce you to Wilson:
Isn't he lovely? He belongs to Sacha's son, and was quite the star of the party, especially when he started hoeing into some icecubes (the only thing he managed to wrangle out of us, despite using his eyes to his best begging capacity, and after his food-stealing attempts were thwarted), licking and crunching them up happily.
These photos were taken this morning, when Bumblebee's dad (who lives reasonably near by) generously allowed B to drop by and see Sacha for a few hours of his access weekend. The boy and the dog got along swimmingly.
In case you don't like beagles, we also walked down the road and met a couple of stunning Burmese cats who live in an equally stunning sandstone house with their very creative owners (who were at the dinner). Here is Sacha with one of the lovelies:
Such sweet kitties, a male and female, who are wholly indoor cats, but have a wired-in cat run at the back, between the house and the amazing ceramics studio. Sigh! Imagine having a lovely house with another one attached to the back, just for making things!
Double sigh. Anyway, dinner is ready (takeaway, we couldn't be arsed cooking). See ya.
*Actually an Australian Terrier, but he didn't chase balls or sticks. He was passionately devoted to rocks. He rocked.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
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.
teh cercle of liff
Ahh, the start of the academic year brings a new routine: bliss. I'm such a 'flight path' kinda gal in many all ways. I don't mind my routines changing, as long as the changes settle into another kind of routine before too long. I swear, if society crashed tomorrow with no power and food and neighbours fighting each other for water, I'd be cool with it as long as I could settle into some sort of foraging/scragging routine.
The 'flight path' these days is a circuit between the house, the university and my studio. I tend only to do things that fit within whatever flight path I'm on, and that includes seeing friends, unfortunately, and has always been thus unless they squawk enough to break me out of my daily reverie, or front up to my house bearing cold bottles of wine. Dr Sista Outlaw managed it last weekend, Bernice has turned into a weekly fronter in return for a meal and/or the loungeroom airbed (she commutes to Canberra for some of Kevin's PS largesse), and Byrd has worked out that the best time to catch me is 8.30pm on a Wednesday as I settle in for my dose of Adam Hill.
I'm very committed -- we, as a family, have become very committed -- to constructing our lives around our local area so that our flight paths can be travelled by bicycle. I think there's only one day of the week now where I absolutely have to drive the car, and that's because the Aged Poet lives across the lake and I often have to drive her places, but I guess if I ever had to, she's not so far that I couldn't ride. And now that I'm carting things between studio and BookStud, I've finally got around to getting a bicycle basket! What a difference a tray makes; having a basket is just so good that I'm kicking myself for not having organised it years ago. Even not having to wear a backpack as I'm riding is helping my shoulders and neck to relax after work. And now that the weather is getting cool in the mornings, I'm loving the ride. Happy!
It's also nice to have a head-space separation between the Bookstud and my studio. I've been meaning to tackle the helltype in the Bookstud for years now, but usually get distracted by the urge to fold a few pages /set some type/ print a wee poster while I talk to students or residents, but now I can really knuckle down and clean the place up. Mind you, this is an annual resolution (happy new academic year!) and rarely gets far, but I've already cleaned out one tray of type bundles this morning, that included projects that are at least ten years old, and I'm feeling righteous. My ultimate aim is to have all the type in its right place, all the dust vacuumed up (I have a natty German type vacuum, with special speeds and netting over the hose etc), and all the type catalogued. And then I'll be starting on my own personal collection at my studio. Once I can lift the trays. That's one thing I'm NOT doing today. Sorting *only*.
I also rediscovered the Book Studio blog, poor neglected creature that was put thoroughly on the backburner last year because there was just so much going on. Well, this year's visitor promises to have an exciting, constantly evolving project, and I'm going to do my darndest to document it on the blog. So if you're interested, throw the URL back on your feedreaders.
OK, that's my tea-break done. Back to the type.
The 'flight path' these days is a circuit between the house, the university and my studio. I tend only to do things that fit within whatever flight path I'm on, and that includes seeing friends, unfortunately, and has always been thus unless they squawk enough to break me out of my daily reverie, or front up to my house bearing cold bottles of wine. Dr Sista Outlaw managed it last weekend, Bernice has turned into a weekly fronter in return for a meal and/or the loungeroom airbed (she commutes to Canberra for some of Kevin's PS largesse), and Byrd has worked out that the best time to catch me is 8.30pm on a Wednesday as I settle in for my dose of Adam Hill.
I'm very committed -- we, as a family, have become very committed -- to constructing our lives around our local area so that our flight paths can be travelled by bicycle. I think there's only one day of the week now where I absolutely have to drive the car, and that's because the Aged Poet lives across the lake and I often have to drive her places, but I guess if I ever had to, she's not so far that I couldn't ride. And now that I'm carting things between studio and BookStud, I've finally got around to getting a bicycle basket! What a difference a tray makes; having a basket is just so good that I'm kicking myself for not having organised it years ago. Even not having to wear a backpack as I'm riding is helping my shoulders and neck to relax after work. And now that the weather is getting cool in the mornings, I'm loving the ride. Happy!
It's also nice to have a head-space separation between the Bookstud and my studio. I've been meaning to tackle the helltype in the Bookstud for years now, but usually get distracted by the urge to fold a few pages /set some type/ print a wee poster while I talk to students or residents, but now I can really knuckle down and clean the place up. Mind you, this is an annual resolution (happy new academic year!) and rarely gets far, but I've already cleaned out one tray of type bundles this morning, that included projects that are at least ten years old, and I'm feeling righteous. My ultimate aim is to have all the type in its right place, all the dust vacuumed up (I have a natty German type vacuum, with special speeds and netting over the hose etc), and all the type catalogued. And then I'll be starting on my own personal collection at my studio. Once I can lift the trays. That's one thing I'm NOT doing today. Sorting *only*.
I also rediscovered the Book Studio blog, poor neglected creature that was put thoroughly on the backburner last year because there was just so much going on. Well, this year's visitor promises to have an exciting, constantly evolving project, and I'm going to do my darndest to document it on the blog. So if you're interested, throw the URL back on your feedreaders.
OK, that's my tea-break done. Back to the type.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Sleepy
I was going to write a lovely long post about going to Degas with Dr Sista Outlaw then going to am AMAZING pork dinner at Zoe's then doing other stuff today but I'm absolutely buggered and there's a handsome man calling to me from my bed.
Bed? Blog?
Goodnight.
Bed? Blog?
Goodnight.
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