how many roads must a woman drive down?

According to Wikipedia,

Douglas Adams was asked many times during his career why he chose the number 42. Many theories were proposed, but he rejected them all. On November 3, 1993, he gave an answer on alt.fan.douglas-adams:

“The answer to this is very simple. It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought '42 will do.' I typed it out. End of story.”

Adams described his choice as "A completely ordinary number, a number not just divisible by two but also six and seven. In fact it's the sort of number that you could, without any fear, introduce to your parents."
...
Stephen Fry, a friend of Adams, claims that Adams told him "exactly why 42", and that the reason is "fascinating, extraordinary and, when you think hard about it, completely obvious." However, Fry says that he has vowed not to tell anyone the secret, and that it must go with him to the grave.

Another reason why I think Fry would have made the ULTIMATE Dumbledore. *Sigh*

42

How do I love thee? Lots. I've always thought that 42 would be so much better than 40, and much much more fun than 43 and counting. And so here I am, and the last year was pretty good, so let's hope this one lives up to its promise.

Thank you to all those lovelies who sent me birthday greetings on Facebook, a place I very rarely haunt anymore, because life is just too short. It's hard enough writing here, and I'm trying to keep away from the computer as much as I can these days.

In fact, Bumblebee and I decided to take the shortness of life into our hands and run away to the beach yesterday so that I could wake up on my birthday to the sound of the sea...

In fact, I woke up on my birthday to the sound of Bumblebee clutching me and hissing

MUM... SOMEONE'S UNZIPPING THE TENT DOOR!!!!

at 4:00 am this morning. We were sleeping side by side in our sleeping bags on a shared large airbed, and the noise did indeed sound like a zipper, but not a tent door zipper.

Groggily, I patted him and said 'no, it's not, go back to sleep'.

BUT WHY DID IT STOP WHEN I STARTED TALKING?

Good question. It did stop. I knew it wasn't a zipper, more likely a lyrebird imitating a zipper, but he'd woken me up enough to be aware of every. fricking. night. noise. including mosquitoes and possums. And so we didn't go back to sleep for HOURS, no matter how much I tried to lull B into relaxation. I think I slipped back into blissful unawareness at about 5:30, but Bumblebee got out the Gameboy and stayed awake... guess who is going to bed early tonight?



Here we are, in our utmost favorite spot, in the pebbly cove between Depot Beach and Pebbly Beach on the NSW south coast. It is a slate beach covered in rocks and pebbles, and when the water comes up and covers the rocks and pulls down again going out, the pebbles hiss as they push together and the rocks get up an amazing rolling rattle as they tumble and smooth themselves. The place is covered in gorgeous perfectly round smooth rocks that you can't take home because it's National parkland.



Bumblebee can skim stones here for hours. I can sit and read for hours. It's perfect. On this trip I started reading The Jesus Man by Christos Tsiolkas (a Lifeline find): absolutely unbeachy book, but fascinating so far...

I also made some friends.



And I had a quick dip in the sea today, just before coming home, so that I could feel the beach on my skin and hair for the rest of the day. It was very cold. I can still feel it on my skin, and if I lick my arm... mmmm, salty!

When I got home there was an answering machine message from one of my lovely aunties wishing me the best and hoping that I didn't feel too bad about the anniversary. It took me a moment to realise that she was talking about my grandfather's death last year. It's funny, I hadn't thought about it until that moment. Doesn't mean I don't miss him -- I do, badly, but I've been missing him for a long time, and dying when you're old is different to a young, tragic death. So I'm grateful that she reminded me, but it isn't going to kill the day, I think.

There was also a parcel from my mother-in-law containing the new Margaret Atwood novel. SQUEEEE! How excitement! Other pressies are apparently waiting until tonight, when I have dinner with BB, Dr Sista Outlaw and Zoe, which is about as much excitement as I will be able to manage before a better sleep than last night.

Can't go without a chuckle:



PS
Love the fact that the Lolcat mirror image is just someone typing the words backwards, not flipping the speech bubble... other presents were some gorgeous smelly flowers, a graphic novel of Coraline, and a fabulous Patsy Payne artist's book (Murmur)... just had an extraordinary drunken scrabble game with Dr Sista Outlaw and Zoe that is documented on crazybrave's twitter thread. Great birthday. You're all beautiful, trooooly.

Re rereading

There are readings--of the same text--that are dutiful, readings that map and dissect, readings that hear a rustling of unheard sounds, that count grey little pronouns for pleasure or instruction and for a time do not hear golden or apples. There are personal readings, that snatch for personal meanings...

Now and then there are readings which make the hairs on the neck, the non-existent pelt, stand on end and tremble, when every word burns and shines hard and clear and infinite and exact, like stones of fire, like points of stars in the dark--readings when the knowledge that we shall know the writing differently or better or satisfactorily, runs ahead of any capacity to say what we know, or how. In these readings, a sense that the text has appeared to be wholly new, never before seen, is followed, almost immediately, by the sense that it was always there, that we the readers, knew it was always there, and have always known it was as it was, though we have now for the first time recognised, become fully cognisant of, our knowledge.
A.S. Byatt: Possession, pp. 471-2 (1990, 7th impression, Chatto & Windus)

One of my great pleasures of getting older (those of you over 50 will scoff, but please bear with me) is re-reading.

There are many books that I read over and over. I've been keeping a formal reading list since 2000 (before that I just made diary entries if a book really impressed me), and now that it's been nine years of proper record-keeping, I've noticed a pattern. I seem to have a rotation of re-reading, so that if I read a new book and love it, I'll re-read it three years later, and then it gets in line with the other rotations, and they will emerge every five or so years amongst a lot of new reading. I might read a book that makes me think of Jane Eyre, and so I'll pull Jane Eyre off the shelf. If it's only been a year or so since I last reread it, I'll get a page or so in and feel that the re-reading is wrong, and put it back. There needs to be a decent interval, so that the book can feel familiar but still hold some small mysteries and pleasant surprises.

(This applies to other forms of entertainment as well: I can watch movies I like regularly but not constantly, and I can't watch a tv comedy again within at least six months of it first appearing, to BB's despair -- he is a Ricky Gervais addict, unfortunately, and many of my evenings on front of the computer are soundtracked by RG's insane and very annoying laugh.)

There are books on my shelves that aren't listed in my Reading List, which means that I should re-read them and decide if they still belong on my shelves. I decided, last week, to start with Possession, since I last read it as a student and I'd loved The Children's Story and many of her short stories so much.

And this is when I came to that conclusion about getting older. I've been thinking about this a bit, as you do when you roll over another year, as I do on Thursday. Thinking about fashions, how I scoffed at my mother grimacing at what I was wearing twenty years ago, and now I grimace daily as I walk through the art school wondering how that student over there managed to find the burgundy and gold acrylic Sussans jumper I chucked out when I finally grew a bit of dress sense.

A friend once told me that Proust is not worth even tackling until you'd had a bit of a life. I thoroughly enjoyed Possession as a 23-yo, but I wonder now how much I'd really understood of it. I must have talked about it in tutorials, maybe I even wrote something about it. But reading it on the other side of 40 made such a difference! Don't get me wrong, I'm not dissing the girl I was: it's just that I would have loved the fairy tale bits and not thought much of the academic parts and the abstinence parts (or the bits where you make space to understand who or what you are -- or who or what THEY are), which really are the guts of the book. So I'm looking forward to tackling a few more of the unlisted books on the shelf.*





It was the Lifeline Book Fair this weekend. I had to go to the Blue Mountains to celebrate a family birthday, so I popped in on Friday and found a few treasures, and then we dashed back today in time for the Sunday arvo trash. Lots of yummy poetry books, nice bindings to pull apart, and a couple of obscure things printed in letterpress that I need to do some research about.

I also found a gallery in Leura who are going to stock some books and prints of mine! huzzar!



*sorry, meant to write more here, but my train of thought has been shot to pieces by BB, who wants me to commit to coming to bed or not... NOT, but now that my concentration has gone, I might as well. Gah.

remembering to purchase

**HAPPINESS IS LIFTING A STRAY PIECE OF PAPER FROM ALL THE OTHER STRAY PIECES OF PAPER BESIDE THE COMPUTER AND DISCOVERING A LONE CHOCOLATE BULLET THAT SURVIVED THE GREAT OVERWORKING JUNK FOOD FRENZY OF THE WEEKEND**

[chewing]

I worked late back at the art school this evening, later than I'd expected, but I was elbow-deep in inky type at the time I said I'd go home, and there was no way of stopping until all the ink had done its work.

I had been charged with the job of obtaining more cough medicine on the way home. Best Beloved has his lurgy today. In the past I have called this the Man Flu, but actually factually it is some horrid lurgy all of his own, devised by someone from the tenth circle of hell, and he falls prey to it at least twice a year. It follows a set pattern, and one of the main symptoms is a foul mood. He is normally very pleasant man, but when he wakes up sounding gravelly and grumpy, I run a mile. As long as he has his bed, a bottle of whiskey (he swears the fumes help) and a bottle of this particular cough medicine and a gameboy, he is ok. But ask him a question, try to tell him a joke, wonder what the weather is doing, and you get a very rude and exasperated reply. He doesn't want sooky treatment, he doesn't even want to see your face, he just wants to curl up, sniff whiskey and die. Alone. With the occasional cuppa brought to him. So I tend to stay out of the way.

So. I'd worked late. There was a good chance that all the shops that stock his favorite cough medicine were closed, which would guarantee a really grumpy evening. Oh noes!

Luckily, just down from the art school is a new complex of student residencies. It has a Scottish name, which is very odd because everyone who lives there is Asian. Underneath the ressies is a bunch of shops, one of which is an Asian food store. It's not a fancy store, but every time I go there, it has what I want, and more besides. I went in once to buy some afternoon tea and came out with a very sharp mini-cleaver bought for $3 that is fabulous for chopping herbs. The best thing about the store is that it sells milk, and it's open really late and it's on my way home.

I went in and asked the man behind the counter if he had cough mixture, the one in the box with the nice pictures. He instantly reached for the box of Benadryl behind him.

No! no! the one next to it... his hand hovered over the box I meant, and then moved back to the Benadryl. No, I wanted the other one... yes! The one with the Chinese man on it. Thanks!

As he handed me the box of Chinese cough medicine, he said
Can I ask, how do you know about this medicine?
My auntie studies Chinese medicine, she says it is very good, and we now like it, it works very well.
Ah... that's interesting, because...
yes?
...because you don't look Chinese.

Heh. I don't know why, but that made me laugh all the way back to the car. Back at home, I blessed the store for its flexible retail hours, as BB made a grab for the box, and headed back to bed, leaving me to enjoy Spucks&Spacks in peace. I tell you what, if I could have an album of Don Walker's best Chisel songs sung by Jimmy Barnes' brother John Swan, I'd be the happiest woman in the world. Just putting it out there in the universe, you just never know your luck...

Amazon Throne redux

Firstly, and this is probably to your relief, I've decided to stop apologising for being busy. Enough snivelling, more fun and breathing. OK. Onwards.

A few weeks ago, when Betty swung by and we did a bit of arty sightseeing, I included my studio in the tour. He did what every reading person does when they walk in: browse my bookshelves. And of course, because he is a big Tom Phillips fan, the first thing that caught his eye was my copy of The Humument.

Just in case there's anyone who doesn't know about this project: it's probably the most famous altered book that there is. Phillips is an Englishman who gave himself a project: find a book that would cost him less than something tiny and pre-decimal, and play with it graphically. He gave himself a few rules about what he was doing, and created a character out of finding two words that appeared together infrequently, and then got so caught up in what he'd created, that he kept buying more copies of the book and publishing editions of his altered version. That link, above, goes to the Official Humument Site, where there are slideshows of the pages, etc.

One of the factors of finding the book in the first place was not just cost, but geographic proximity to London's secondhand book district. Phillips is one of those artists who likes to explore his local area, and is fascinated by the concept of place. Alongside his celebrated portraiture work is a whole body of work based on exploring one area, or a journey taken frequently. This is something he has in common with Betty, who frequently posts about geographical places from his memory.

I also like Tom Phillips, but I actually have an edition of The Humument (commercially reproduced, of course, nothing original) because there is a long tradition (at least, at my art school) of art students becoming obsessed with it for at least a term, and trying to do their own version of playing with pages in the same way. I am no exception.

I recently stumbled upon my version again, named after the title of my found book: Amazon Throne. I blogged about it a few years ago, briefly. Bernice wanted more. So I'm going to share some more. There is a vague storyline, based upon a character called Domitila who is a South American princess being married off to some charmless prince called Dom Joao. She's sharp, he isn't. And that's about it. Apart from that, I just had fun with the crappy women's magazines that my Nana has been giving me for years (I just got a pile the other day!). I combined paint, drawing and collage, in a much cruder way than the master artist Phillips. Remember that I was in first year of art school, or maybe even before that, when I was doing night classes. It still has the power to make me chortle, I love having a sense of humour.

I hope you like these. They're in no particular order, much like my mind :)
My absolute favs from the series are in that earlier post, but I like these too.



For the hard of screening, the text reads There was a noticeable shortage, but regal bearing made up for minor deficiencies


Translation: She loved rich ostentation. With animal vigour she indulged in voluptuous excesses, refusing to cede an inch of her fishwife's vocabulary


No, this was no time to think of menus

Actually, when I peer into the bits that I can read under the paint, I wish that I'd kept this book intact. As you can see, I'm using large chunks of sentences, not 'found' words, and the writing is tres amusing. I can remember liking it, but not thinking about keeping it. Pity.

Cheesy pooofs

Late last night I needed a break from interminable photo resizings and lists of ex-military types (long story), and did a touch of internut cruising. Writing about my timid web trolling is like reading a children's story: I went walking... ...and what did I see? It's nowhere in the league of the wonderful Ample Sanity or BibliOdyssey.

Still, when I find things that belong together, they're worth mentioning. I laughed like a drain at Whatladder's trolling, and then I stumbled across this:



Which is just so apposite. It starts slowly: hang in there, it's worth it, especially if you thought Jah Jah Binks was an outrageous waste of time and money, as I do. You can fast-forward, I think the fun starts at about 1:25. (I was a bit shocked when Bumblebee laughed and then said 'that music is so funny, where does it come from?', and then I was thankful that he's never watched Benny Hill.)

And finally:



OK, back to work. I have to move plinths today. And keep resizing photos. *sigh*

making space in/on the head

A couple of days ago I parted my hair in the centre after washing it and combed it straight. As you can see a few posts down, my hair is very straight and in a bob shape and I'm growing my fringe out.



Usually, after a shower, I part to one side, comb and leave the house. When I look in the mirror later at work or in the studio, there it is, parted to one side and lying flat. Very flat. I have had to make friends with my flat straight hair and my ginormous exposed forehead because I don't like the feel of hair on my forehead, and I hate hair in my eyes when I'm working.

A couple of days ago, when I decided to do something a little different and part in the centre, I glanced in the bit of mirror I had at work and saw this:




...which is ok if you're paid to look like Professor Snape, but not if you are not. And only marginally better than looking like Nana Mouskouri,* who was the bane of my childhood.

So. What I'm leading up to here is that I had another of my 'OMFG, I need a makeover' moments, and I booked a session for today with my favorite hairdresser, who cuts layers like a dream and has been wasted on my hair for a year or so now while I've been growing my short hair out.

She greeted me with open arms, almost wet herself when I told her the Snape story, and declared that I was to be 'De-Snaped' instantly.

Up to now we've been working to a 'plan' of how to grow the layers from the last time I freaked out (and cut my hair to an inch all over), but I've come to the realisation that I quite like the dilemma of hair that isn't rational; I like the battle of having to deal with its moods. Once it's grown out and manageable, I get a bit bored.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't like hairdriers and don't like having to style my hair, or curl it, or straighten it (! Straightest hair in the universe -- but you get my drift). But I've decided for now that I don't want sleek hair. I'll change my mind again later, I always do, but for now I'll have fun.

Mel (my hairdresser) knew just what to do. She grabbed a razor and some thinning scissors and she went freestyle all over my head. There was no plan, just fun. When she'd finished, I was fluffy, whispy, ragged, but with bits that made sense -- I still have length at the back, and I can tuck the front behind my ears when I work. And the pile of hair on the floor was big enough to make a wig for someone. So much hair! So I also feel light-headed, which is marvellous when it's a freakishly hot day like today.

Check it out (obligatory bathroom mirror shots):







Happy! Bumblebee said that he can see lots more grey hair, but I look younger. Excellent! It's my birthday in a couple of weeks, I'm turning the universal magic age (42) and I'm looking just as I want to look. Fabulous.

I think the haircut and the show coming down was a great conjunction: I feel like I've used up allmost of my scraps, and now I can start fresh. FRESH! Love it. If you'd like to see what the show looked like from above, which gives a pretty good overview, click here.

I made the most of Bumblebee as a studio assistant today:





He found such tasks highly exotic (he also wields a mean paint roller), lucky for me. But it's shown him a less alluring side to making art, and he thinks he won't be an artist now. Heh.

*This photo was taken just before I had my last hair freak-out which resulted in this. Sigh. I miss that really short hair, but BB doesn't.

catch it while you can

Only two more full viewing days of my exhibition... I wish I'd booked the gallery for another week, but I didn't think I'd enjoy seeing it on the walls this much :)
I'm going to try and send some of the works elsewhere, but I haven't decided where yet.

Speaking of fast shows, there's a little gem on at the ANU School of Art Foyer Gallery at the moment: Julie Monro-Allison. It opened last night and only runs to Saturday:





if you can catch it, do. It's very lovely and includes my favorite ingredient, wit.

*ALSO* If you want some more quality artist's book action, check out Charlie Sofo's latest post.