me! me! me!

Right now I'm sitting in the foyer of the NLA, waiting for a coffee to arrive, nursing one sore ankle caused by my car and I not being ergonomically compatible, and another caused by the uneven paving outside NLA. Wandering in such a state of vaguenss from the carpark to the entrance that I neglected to note the pavers incorporate a drain and my ankle didn't see why it should offer any resistance. Which does make me ponder how nerded I have become that I cannot even exert the physical effort required to get into a library without doing myself an injury.

In happy happy other news I have a pleasing pile of books with details of who taught what in the Technical Colleges of Sydney in the years relevant to my research sitting on a desk inside the library. A certain amount of irony prevails in the detail that I scoured Sydney for this info and ultimately found it in Canberra. But, thems the breaks when you're a dolt.

I spent the last couple of days in Sydney, where, aside from sharing a serious dumplinapalooza and some well-needed hilarity with mine hosts, I went to the AGNSW library and the State Library; reading other accounts of art education in Sydney at the time, which was also useful. The tendency of teachers at ESTC to write extensive memoirs of their time there is really quite a useful one. While I was in the library my phone, all of ten days old, decided that it had had enough and killed itself. While sitting quietly on a desk, all on its own. In a manner that suggested that I had inflicted the damage and voided the warranty. I promptly ranted and moaned to all and sundry and well and truly attired myself in the grumpy pants. My ranting took me to the Optus shop this morning who politely offered me nothing, except the address for the Nokia shop, who happily agreed to fix it under the warranty, despite the screen not normally being covered. So I can start dismantling the mental voodoo dolls of the Nokia people, despite not entirely being in a state of gruntlement that this is the second Nokia phone in two weeks that has started behaving in varied fashions to which I desire to not become accustomed. I know the age of getting a phone with every new contract doesn't inspire the manufacturers to make phones that aren't disposable, but this is getting ridiculous.

I celebrated by going and getting a manicure. And whilst admitting that it was a very cheap one, I still want to know how, when I nodded my head in response to the question "You want square?" I managed to convey the idea that I would just love it if you filed several of my nails on particularly jaunty angles. Wow did she do a crap job. So I don't recommend New York spa and nails in the Canberra Centre.

Back to my desk!

Golden Moments of Procrastination #4

tops weekend

On Saturday I drove to Sydney, for the engagement party of some friends of mine [just to clarify that I wasn't just crashing the party of some strangers?]. Unfortunately I couldn't work the dates to have some more time up there, so it was just an overnight visit, which is always a bit of a gamble - sometimes when I do the flying visit I end up being so tired that although it is lovely to see people, I can't quite form intelligible sentences, and so just perform the conversational equivalent of beating someone around the head with a large, dead fish. Happily this time was not like that, it was, in fact, tops. Naturally I started with a spot of research, as is my wont, at the State Library of NSW. I'm currently on a bit of a mission to find out everything that I can about the East Sydney Technical College/National Art School c.1956-1960 (should you have any info.... ) so I was chasing up a few bits and pieces in the collection there. Which, incidentally has some hilarious photos of people at the college in the 1950s, often wearing Buddy Holly glasses and enormous chefs hats. Admittedly that's possibly one of those things that's only truly amusing to someone compelled to research by wading through endless catalogue entries and is thus in search of any diversion. Unfortunately I didn't find anything of any real relevance to what I was looking for, but at least I can tick a few things of the list of what I need to look at. Then we repaired to my friend's house to prepare, via the Neutral Bay PS so she could vote. Which hilariously seems to have the school motto "Be a Player" - rare to find such honesty on the North Shore. Should, quel horreur, Malcolm Turnbull ever end up PM there will be a nice resonance for those casting their vote for him there. Because I know I always like to check the school mottos of whatever polling booth I may be entering... a connection that doesn't really offer any explanation for how the PS I attended had the motto "Learn Wisely Live Proudly" - and yet that electorate keeps sending Phillip Ruddock to parliament with resounding victories. The "Live Proudly" bit is particularly puzzling as they keep sending a member of the undead to parliament. So anyway....

We decided in view of our somewhat all-tuckered-out condition that we needed Redbull to get through the evening, which meant that we needed vodka, and I thought cranberry would also be a good idea. Which meant that we ended up drinking something that recreated the flavour sensation that is raspberry cough syrup. mmm. But did serve it's purpose of gearing us up while chilling us out.

Anyway, we eventually got ourselves off the sofa, and away to the party, where we walked in the door to the news that Howard had lost Bennelong. Much screeching ensued! I had already made the announcement that "I will probably get quite intoxicated tonight. If labor win, there will be champagne, if they lose, then there will be scotch. Lots of scotch." So corks began popping, and kept on popping all night. Despite the fact that channel 9 had called Bennelong about a week earlier than anyone else was prepared to. Nice to be in a crowd of people that seemed uniformly happy about the result (certainly provided a nice buffer zone for my kilowatt-level gloating), and it made for a great night. This was the first election that I've been old enough to vote for in which election night has been a positive experience, normally they've been a galling, horrifying "THREE MORE YEARS... !?" then weakly: "pass the scotch please". I had a profound sense of relief that labor did win, partly because I really didn't want to have to move to New Zealand, but I really would have been desparately sad for the state of this country if John Howard had been re-elected. Now one just hopes that the Labor party keep it together. [tip: try and remember that the opposition is across the aisle, not within the party.] It was great to be sharing such a happy event in the context of another happy event, with great friends.

The following day we went for breakfast in Darlinghurst, then I made my way back to Canberra for a Hen's afternoon, followed by the movies (Death at a funeral: don't rush to see it, but there are some funny bits). It was a great weekend of seeing people.

This week has been so strange; seeing the "Howard Government" in past tense gives me a buzz everytime, and the liberal party being in such a state of collapse is something I just can't find it within myself to be sympathetic towards considering the hubris they have demonstrated for so long. The sense of transformation is remarkable. And although it has obviously been coming for a long time, and the result wasn't a surprise, I was never prepared to let myself believe it, lest the depression of loss be entirely crushing, and so the change does seem quite sudden and fast. I really hope the new government are able to get some legislation up and running quickly so they don't lose that momentum. Not to mention finally, finally, apologising to Indigenous people!

Now all we need is for the liberal party to select Tony Abbott as their next leader and Labor should be guaranteed at least a couple of terms....

a question, gentle reader

Should I place a bet on the Coalition to win on Saturday, on the premise that that way there will at least be some consolation?

the return leg

Somehow it seems that no matter what time I schedule flights, it always results in not really doing anything else that day, partly because of my (now well founded and fed) paranoia that I will miss them. I had decided, due to ever expanding baggage, to get a shuttle service to JFK that would pick me up from the hostel, rather than attempt to travel on the subway. Somehow this meant that I had to be ready at 10.50am for a 2.20pm flight however: and then they were 40 minutes late, the scum-tinged bastards, so fortunately they had only offered me such a ridiculously early timeslot or the grumpiness would have been profound and wide-ranging. But this all meant that I ended up with not a lot of time on my final morning, except to slowly absorb breakfast, and as large a quantity of the "coffee" as I could muster, so as to then filter it for any available shred of caffeine that I could eke out of it. And then bring this excess girth to bear on my suitcase, to encourage it to close. And when I was in the middle of this routine, mid-panic that in fact my abilities to reorganise physical properties of objects vis a vis my suitcase dimensions, until now a skill I was considering putting on my cv, had in fact, failed, I then took a small mental step backwards - an actual physical one being prevented by both the dimensions of the room I was staying in and the fact that I was holding said baggage together in an effort to resist its overpowering and exploding over me in a Pompeii-like manner that would fascinate archaeologists in years to come - and realised that if I released the extra storage compartment on my suitcase, I would be, in fact, home and hosed. I know, I really did just write all that to describe a three minute interaction with my suitcase. And who said blogging was self-obsession gone mad?

The flight from JFK to LAX was happily, direct, on-time, and unmarked by incident, apart from a brief vesuvial interlude with a soda bottle that erupted with a drenching over me, my neighbour and a nearby flight attendant. Tip: if you ever want to crack that facade of sociability painted onto flight attendants along with their pancake make up, spray a soda over them. I've never heard such a hollow laugh. Fortunately it was just soda water, so I didn't start of the trip sugared and coloured, because that would have truly worn thin after the next thirty hours of happy travelling fun. I arrived in LA with a four hour wait ahead of me, which did not thrill me to the core, not even a little. I did however mollify that sensation by ordering a Manhattan, which are pleasingly potent are they not? And reflected on the wrongness of drinking my first Manhattan having just left Manhattan, sitting in the LAX terminal (and never was a facility so aptly named). By the time I got on the aircraft, it took off, and all the preliminaries of snacking and announcements were taken care of, it was about 1am in New York time, which was the time I was operating on, so far as I was really aware of time by this point in the trip, and about three hours past my bedtime, in my still lagged state, so I conked into a coma for a number of hours, I'm pleased to recount. I awoke sometime around the international dateline, and pondered one of my favourite 'weird topics to ponder': where did Wednesday go? I left on the 13th, I arrived on the 15th. I'm in the future now, where's my shiny jumpsuit? I'm glad timezones exist, if only because they give me something to be all "oooh, freaky man" about, even though most people just look at me with that same "duh" expression that they get when I express my inner hunch that the only way a detailed digital image can fly through the air to my computer is via magic. Which reminds me: how weird is it the way language morphs? 'Wireless' is so hip and now, rather than Granddad listening to the races. Bring on the Bakelite laptop!

So eventually I arrived in NZ, oddly as far into the future as one could go before retreating to Sydney time, waited around, mounted a new and smaller aircraft, hoping that my baggage was similarly engaged, and discovered I was in a window seat, meaning that I got a beautiful view of Sydney flying in on a gorgeous morning. Of all the places to fly into, Sydney really is stunningly beautiful. On arrival, I got through customs with a speed that suggests the future really is bright, boarded a train and retreated to the Southern Highlands. Where I got out of the car and went, "woah, quiet". It doesn't come entirely as a shock that Bundanoon, not quite the same pace as New York, but the experience of it is like the world going through some cosmic pause before the aliens invade and the cast have some brief interlude to mount some improbable levee that ultimately saves humanity from destruction. And then you realise that the absence of 19 million souls in close proximity does tend to slow down the surrounds and remove the white noise. I was feeling quite lively during the afternoon, managing several loads of washing, various leisure pursuits, some telephone conversation, dinner, and the washing up, before my brain came crashing to a halt and demanded I go to bed, before Kerry O'Brien had even finished his day's work. The evidence would suggest that this brain crashing occurred sometime during the washing up, as I left the tap on and flooded the kitchen cupboards. Lucky Dad.

Friday morning, pre-dawn, I finished my airplane novel (reading, not writing), and then arose to a day of happy nothing-to-do-but-relax-Hurrah! Read my new novel sitting under the trees of the neighbouring state forest, and pondered the sense of dissolute fecundity that this damply humid season seems to bring to these parts. And reflected on how I could communicate to the bug kingdom "My legs, not in fact, smorgasboard." The new novel: "Bowl of Cherries" by Millard Kauffman - how could one resist the buying of a novel introduced with the phrase "the debut novel by 90-year-old Kauffman...." and the endpapers of the hardback edition confirm the choice. It is published by McSweeney's, whose book designs resurrect the appreciation of the book as an object. I nibbled a chocolate digestive and enjoyed the peaceful respite before confronting reality. Holidays should always end with a nice buffer zone. Particularly with one that involves the smells of roast currently emanating from the parental kitchen.

the apple isle

After another night's rest in the Hostel of the Clanking Pipes (the central heating featured quite the echoing acoustic accompaniment and performed both its aural and thermal duties with excessive enthusiasm. The first night we didn't realise the window could open - yes yes I know, between us we may have attended uni for about twenty years, but that doesn't mean the occasional detail doesn't skip gaily past - and I woke up with the conviction that we could grow papayas in here to the sound of iron-soled clog dancers performing on a tin roof, not the best start) and went in search of breakfast. Which we found, and was okay, at least with somewhat better coffee. But was one of those places that uses disposable everything, and so had a definite moment of understanding what Gore is ranting on about when looking at disposable plate, cups, cutlery - when you are eating in for goodness sake. And the mountain of napkins that you get every single time you order any comestible item. Now, I know that I spill coffee copiously and often, but I don't think my fame actually precedes me on that score (or, for that matter, on any other, being imaginary) so it can't just be me. And anyway, a poncho would surely be more appropriate for my coffee "moments".

So then we headed off to look at more art, again, happily via Central Park. We had to wait at the Whitney to open so I got a truly awful coffee. And someone else spilled it on me, and then after cleaning it up, spilt it again, so somehow my gift is attracting other people to spill coffee on me. Quite strange. The Whitney giftshop is quite good. I then went to look at their exhibitions and after about 45 minutes realised my eyes were still tired from the previous day, so it was a bit of a trudging visit. The current exhibition of Modernism in American art, looking at the different expressions of it - not just photography and Abstract Expressionism but the broader context - was interesting, but I couldn't quite grind my brain up to speed. Then a Kara Walker exhibition - another Kara Walker exhibition - she's currently being exhibited at the Fogg, the Met and the Whitney, so the word overexposed does come to mind, especially seeing as the Fogg and the Met are exhibiting the same series and all three feature the same device (19th century-style black silhouettes). And then an exhibition of the past two years of acquisitions by the Whitney, in which the most interesting thing that I saw was Adrian Grenier. I'm a fan of Entourage, so I was very excited. And proceeded to "coincidentally" have exactly the same path through the exhibition as he did. Managed not to drool forth my enthusiasm for his work, instead keeping my stalkerage to a silent one. He's smaller than I thought.

Then we went shopping in Soho! Yay! New jeans! And enough clothes so that I wouldn't have to do any laundry before I left. We trudged homewards at about 6.30, intending quite an early night, but came across a cosy looking bar, a dumpling house and a movie theatre in immediate proximity to one another so ended up having an excellent night. The best martini that I have ever had [haaaaaaapppppy place], then 'Martian Child', the new John Cusack film, which, possibly as a result of the basin of gin I had just consumed, I did enjoy, and then a pleasing repast of steamed dumplings and grilled salmon.

Monday, after the Clanging Pipes Ensemble performed their nightly routine, our time was limited as my friend had to return to Boston, so we sallied forth to consume further quantities of flimsily constructed coffee and then visit the Natural History Museum. Which truly has an impressive dinosaur in the lobby, and there's so few places about which you can honestly make that comment, isn't there? It's a refreshing change. After the lobby we went to the gift shop, which is fantastic, over two floors, I spent more time in there than in the musuem. Some good christmas shopping was done and a shirt acquired for a Small Person who Enjoys Dinosaurs. After that we looked at stuffed mammals. The American ones were very interesting. Has anyone heard of the 'Fisher'? Kind of weird to come across whole species of mammal that you have never even heard of. Baby skunks! Cute!

Then the return trip to Port Authority, and a sad farewell :(

I consoled myself with an enormous piece of cheesecake. It was vast. And had rasperries, chocolate and hazelnuts in it. So tasty. And a wander around Time Square. I checked out what was playing that night and discovered: very little. Apparently my visit was the time in which the stagehands decided to strike. I'm all in favour of the plight of the worker and all (I mean, of easing the plight of the worker, not that they should be further enplightened), but timing people, timing. Still, at least people can still strike in America, and they aren't only offered the option of "go get another job" if the one you have isn't working out. Because that's always just so easy isn't Tony, you self-satisfied, sharp-faced prig of a man. Not everyone wants to be a miner. [ahem. rant over. well, paused.]

Then I went on a Quest. I wanted on particular toy, from one particular toy shop. Unfortunately I misremember the location of the shop, and spend a long time walking in the wrong part of town, until I eventually get directions from someone who I will maintain a small candle of appreciation for until the day that I die, and then the store is sold out. Gah. Grumpy pants firmly in place, I went ... downtown! Where all the lights are bright! More dumplings. aaaah. Happy. And a shirt with trees on it. Also, more shoes.

and so to New York

Five or so hours on a bus and we were in NYC, which is, in fact, My Happy Place.  No wonder I can't do self-relaxation routines: soho exudes a different kind of peace to that of imagined autumnal forests and babbling brooks.  My luggage had expanded by this point to a dimension that forbade subway travel (bad packing the night before I left, compounded by a spree in Philadelphia, sparked by a shoe store, that saw me leave as the semi-ironic owner of a pair of shoes that cost $12 and are constructed out of brown floral netting, that then spiraled out of control, all the way along South St, to incorporate a 3/4 length leather jacket ($99, thus inevitable and I feel excusable...), a pair of polka dot rainshoes and mother-of-pearl earrings emblazoned with cherries) and so required waiting forty five minutes to catch a taxi, and the same to actually drive to our hostel.  I don't recommend arriving in NYC during Friday night peak hour on the eve of a long weekend.  We made it, dumped our stuff, and turned around and in 15 minutes on the subway returned to where we had started out, to meet up with other painting conservators  and an evening of martini, mexican food and an insight into the innards of NYC galleries. 

Saturday was Met day!  Having fortified ourselves with breakfast, bottomless coffee that resembled coffee in the sense of being a warm brown liquid but little else, and a walk across Central Park (which I do recommend in Fall) and make-up coffees, that this time contained taste and some measure of caffeine, if not that imparted by the happiness of espresso.  We arrived at the Met at about 10.30, and left at about 4pm.  In between, we examined art, lots of art.  I went to the Met twice last time I was in NY and both times got suckered into the abstract expressionist corner, and not much further: the rest of modern, and the post-impressionist and inevitably the impressionist, because you can't really escape them and I felt strangely obliged to look at them, even though I'm quite, quite over the impressionist gaze and all the social and scientific advancement it heralds.  So this time I was determined to at least pay a cursory glance beyond this happy corner of the museum.  So I promptly got suckered into the abstract expressionists.  At the moment they have an exhibition of abstract expressionism from a private collection that has just been donated to the Met, and surely solidifies its claim to have probably the finest collection of American art during this period.  It wasn't just that she had bought large works by all of the key artists, but that she had such an eye for excellent examples - even a Phillip Guston that I didn't hate.  So then I felt obliged, as I was nearby, to go sit with Jackson for a bit, and then Jasper, and Wassily.  After that I summoned my legs to offer me carriage out of that part of the museum, and to contemplate its vastness.  We took a look at the exhibition of some of the panels of Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise, which are remarkable, and then I scampered through the museum in a general state of overstimulation.  The ancient near east collection for instance, or all of European art, with its endless depictions that jolt you between Jesus' birth, resurrection, babyhood and death every time you turn your head.  My favourite are the ones that represent the ascension, because the hovering Jesus in a contrapposto and flowing robes always makes me think "Dancing Jesus".  This is my problem with a lot, if not most, of European art, between say 1550 and 1850: it's completely insane.  I'm sure when a lot of people talk about "good art", as opposed to "contemporary art", and mean painting that depicts things with as high a degree of verisimilitude as possible, and for an obvious reason (commemoration, adoration and so on), they mean this kind of painting, but when you look at it en masse, it's completely whack.  The outstanding artists are all the more incredible for depicting crazy stuff in a way that seems rational.  I don't mean crazy stuff as in the depiction of christianity, I just mean the manner in which it is done: entirely still figures in flowing robes of the most glorious hues, gathered around a stricken corpse with the most incredible musculature, a few stray animals, perhaps a still life in one corner, a skull in another, a peacock above, all in an unearthly landscape: the whole scene is a pastiche of symbolic elements that read a coherent narrative to those in the know, and are an effective didactic device to a largely pre-literate age, but when you encounter them now, in a room full of similar works, after eight other rooms thus overbrimming: whack.  Hence my interests in the modern, the glued and the abstract. 

Exiting the museum, we went in search of martini, followed by an unfortunately fruitless search downtown for "that polish place I ate in last time I was here and I think is on the next  block... no the next... maybe over an avenue...". Eventually the quest was abandoned in favour of roast chicken, which was consolingly excellent. 

onwards

Monday was the final day in Philadelphia, in which I had planned originally to visit the PMA, but in a startling moment of clarity, realised that it would be shut and hence why I skipped the conference on Sunday. That meant that Monday was free for some touristy stuff. Reading Terminal markets - some interesting little stalls of Pennsylvania gifts (slightly odd looking calico Amish/Voodoo dolls being a treat that I only just managed to forgo), then lots of fresh food and food stalls. Then to the Fabric workshop (or some similar named institution) which was really interesting. Unfortunately it was located in a temporary building while its original home is being rebuilt, so there wasn't a huge deal to look at, but there were examples of the projects they create with contemporary artists - good contemporary artists (Oldenburg, Kiki Smith, Mona Hatoum) - all sorts of textile related things as well as some beautiful wallpapers. Excellent giftshop.

Then My First Cheesesteak Experience: and can I just say arraghagh, good. White roll, steak slivers, onion, cheese. If you have to induce a heart attack, this is the way to do it.

Followed, to round out the tourist adventure, by a duck tour - one of those amphibious vehicles, that took us around the streets of the old city, and then onto the Delaware River. The bit around the city was really interesting, lots of historical detail that you don't otherwise pick up on - such as the AME church that was both beautiful and one of the key stations on the underground railway, and that the paved stone streets were paved with stones originally brought over as ballast in ships that came over empty to take the products of the New World back to Europe. And some stuff about Ben Franklin, the American flag, and some of the oldest streets in America. And then we did a fairly pointless bit on the Delaware, that seemed more to demonstrate that we are in an amphibious vehicle and isn't that cool? Surely it can't have been necessary to get such a vehicle just to show us where Will Smith's dad lives (which he must certainly appreciate whenever he is out on his deck).

The next day I woke up at 4.30 in the morning again, and had to kill time until I could get breakfast, then wandered around the city, very strange for me to be up and wandering at 6am. Nice to watch a city come to life though. Lunchtime saw me board a train to go to Boston, which was great, it was definitely nice to not have to contemplate getting on another plane, and the views, especially between New York and Boston, were stunning. It was great to see the autumn colours in the landscape, and the coastline of upstate New York. No wonder they bleat on so much about their country houses, they are stunning. 6pm I arrived and was very happy to see my friend who resides in those parts.

The next day I accompanied her to Harvard, and managed to spend most of the day with her by joining in on her work morning tea and the gallery staff seminar, which was a lot of fun and very interesting. Took a look around the Fogg Museum - excellent - and spilt coffee on myself in front of the smart people of Harvard (fortunately this was at a cafe, not my friend's work place). The campus itself is lovely. And with excellent burgers.

That evening I made a truly superb risotto. I don't mean to boast, but, well, no, clearly I do, it truly was very tasty. Mushroom, asparagus and smoked tuna. Quite marvelous, I have discovered that I enjoy smoked tuna.

The following day was the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, which was not dissimilar to the Philadelphia one, but perhaps with more of a focus on ancient art rather than post-1900. My perceptions are possibly skewed by their renovations, which have necessitated the temporary removal of some of the collection. There was an excellent exhibition of contemporary craft, with quite a few Australian wood work pieces that were stunning.

The gift shop is better in the Philly.

After that I left and wandered around central Boston, buying the extra bag that my incessant shopping renders inevitable. Visited the first market in Boston, which now contains very little of interest, but in a very nice building. The next day we caught the greyhound bound for New York Ciddy!

piccatures

Harvard library

lil' Egyptian dudes, Boston Museum of Art

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Bernini clay sketch, Fogg Museum, Harvard

Interior, Fogg Museum

Ancient Egyptian lion, Boston Museum of Art

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Brancusi, PMA

View from PMA

Main staircase, PMA

new encounters with dawn.

Well now that I'm more than halfway through the trip, maybe, just maybe, I should take the record of it beyond the airport. Having arrived in the hotel to a crushing sense of "it's two in the morning, I'm alone in a big city, this doona cover is horrible, and I have to speak in public tomorrow", I found it rather difficult to get to sleep. I woke up the next morning to an actually painful sense of exhaustion, somehow gathered myself into what I think was a presentable state and went to confront the breakfast buffet.

Now I know that this was a more expensive hotel than the one in which I stayed in in London, but the breakfast buffet was an interesting cultural exchange: both described as Continental (though not specifying which continent) but London:
White sliced bread, plastic cheese, truly awful jam, cheap tea and instant coffee.
US: doughnuts, bagels, croissants, fruit, yoghurt, waffles, brewed coffee, selection of cereal, breads of various denominations.... and it went on.

The whole doughnut (heh! pun) for breakfast thing: strangely alluring when you've had no sleep, but does inspire the thought: "If I continue to eat this much sugar I will be going home with a candied leg."

So anyway, after the breakfast interlude, I went on my way to the conference. I'm told that I was coherent during my presentation, but couldn't honestly contribute to that debate, as I can't quite remember what I said. I was happy to hear that I was, as I was revising it while I was speaking, which is always an interesting approach to take when you're not completely conscious. It was a deep relief to get it over with fairly early in the conference and then be able to relax. The other speakers in the session were very interesting, and they became my conference buddies for the rest of the weekend, as we bonded over snacks after our papers, which revived me sufficiently to get through another couple of sessions and the drinks reception that followed. I then decided to walk back to the hotel, which was a nice, if bleary, way to finally encounter the streets of Philadelphia (sing it!).

The location was really good, as it meant I got to walk through Philadelphia's old city, the earliest part of Philly, where Independance Hall is, assorted statues wearing frock coats, that kind of thing. Something about signing some sort of declaration. The surrounding blocks have now become overrun with the national constitution centre, national history of this or that etc. The following day was some more presentations, then the conference lunch, which provided me both with a chicken wrap featuring grapes, and a few moments of amusement. I should preface this by saying that the conference was divided into various streams - so I was in Art, Design and Architecture, then there was childhood studies, sci fi, music, fashion, etc, as well as American culture and death: and so when, during the lunchtime announcements which went on interminably and to which not much attention was being paid, I couldn't help finding a certain element of humour to the minute's silence that was called to remember "so and so, the former convenor of the Death studies panel". Finally, some primary research....

And then I went on a tour of a cemetery. Which also had it's moments of hilarity. The cemetery itself, Woodlands, was fascinating, as old cemeteries are, both for their social history aspects, and the melange of styles of sculpture that compete for attention. What was entertaining was our tour guides, who were both older gentlemen, clearly fascinated by the subject, clearly very good at what they did, and clearly hadn't rehearsed how sharing the tour guide role would work - so one would dart off in one direction while the other did in the opposite - and then one would randomly stop in the middle of nowhere, tell a very interesting anecdote about one of the graves but conclude it by saying "I've lost where the grave actually is though". One of my favourites was the following exchange, while looking at the largest headstone in the place (about two stories high):
"Now this isn't a true obelisk"
"Why not?"
"Because a true obelisk is made out of one piece of stone, and as we can see this made out of many stones"
"So what do you call this?"
"An obelisk"

Only followed when we stopped to discuss that a cenotaph is when the body is buried somewhere else and a headstone is place in memory of them, "as we can see this woman was buried in Kansas"..... [as we walked away, sotto voce] ... "with Dorothy."

When we returned to the hotel we went to another couple of sessions, which having woken up at 4.30 am, I have virtually no memory of, and then to the hotel bar, for red wine (and rioja is our friend is it not?) and flatbread pizzas, which I think was all that bar could actually make in any neighbourhood of edibility, but which they did very well. Then, back to my hotel, sleep, coffee, doughnuts....

The Philadelphia Museum of Art {gasp}... excellent! Having woken up at six am, I was there on the dot of opening (which I was very happy about as the queues were out the door by the time I left). Scoffing heartily at the idea that I would want to see the Renoir exhibition, I proceeded into the general collection. The Philly is shaped in a big U, with the ground floor on one side being American art and on the other European impressionism and modern art, so probably the biggest hits of their collection, the impressionism was fairly standard compared to other US collections, though outstanding compared to any Australian one. Cezanne's large bathers was something you travel to see though, one of those art history one-oh-one paintings, as is Renoir's bathers, with the key difference being that one was fascinating and entrancing, and one made me want to gag. I proceed fairly rapidly through the Impressionist/post-Impressionist section and got into the more interesting modern and contemporary arm. Which is really interestingly presented, not strictly divided according to time/location, but brings out themes and parallels. A small chapel is dedicated to Brancusi, with some Mondrian, which is really excellent, and then the Duchamp collection! Nude descending a staircase! {can't verbalise}

Upstairs: European history, excellent medieval pieces, and a lot of installations set up as rooms, so "French sitting room 17th century" "cloisters" etc, that they'd wholesale moved to the museum. Which are both excellent and highlight the different resources of Australian and American galleries/museums: both feel same sense of inadequacy due to distance from European tradition, one bleats and creates nationalistic sheep backlash paintings, one tries to transplant as much of it as possible. Amazing what a slightly different approach to philanthropy can do.

Then, to remind Judas and Thomas of the good ol' days, I decided to walk back to the hotel, to see the other side of central Philadelphia. And found a Gap outlet. Happy $12 pants. Met for final drinks, then we found an Excellent mexican restaurant, oh my the salsa.

The journey continued.

Travel is a surreal thing, I pondered, repeatedly, throughout my very strange and long journey here. You find yourself sitting 20 000 feet above the earth wondering what's taking them so long with the drinks cart already rather than what hubris it is to attempt hurtling through the air this far above your rightful place. Stop overs are also strange, just spending time in a country for it's airport, wading amongst the New Zealand souvenirs despite not really visiting the country. I did enjoy my reminder of just how good Speights' ale is on tap, and how entertaining the NZ news broadcast. Although not the reminder of how expensive are the carved jade pendants. After these brief wanderings it was back on to an aircraft for the longest
flight of the trip, and I have to say that Air NZ are excellent; I'm sure you get more space on their 747s than you get on QANTAS and they have excellent ice cream and very generous pouring arms.

The trip was the usual tedium and discomfort associated with such a long time in a confined space; the TVs were working though, so that was a nice change from my previous encounter with that journey. I watched 'Once' which is excellent, although I would like to listen to the soundtrack to more fully appreciate the music as the headphones weren't so good. Then I watched "No Reservations" which is a romcom about a chef; and a less realistic presentation of a chef I have never seen - taking off an apron as crisply white at the end of the shift as at the beginning. Leaving the restaurant immaculately made up and wearing heels after twelve hours in kitchen. Apparently able to flounce out of the kitchen in the middle of service for whatever ruffles your emotions. Having hands and forearms unmarked by scars. The romantic comedy bit is fine though, and the dvd will get you through that basket of ironing.

Then we landed in LA, before we had left NZ, and the Thursday that wouldn't end just kept on going. I had to transfer to a domestic flight at LAX and my word if there is an airport more poorly signposted it would be a surprise. If you ever need to do that make sure you need to know which terminal you need to find and where it is because there is nothing that will tell you
that in the airport. Security and customs took awhile, but not ridiculously so, and I was able to check in to my next flight without any further dramas. Which meant that I could fly across the world and then the USA without any problems, but it was getting more than a couple of k away from my home that posed the difficulties of this journey. So I went and found my gate, bought
a copy of the NY Times and a coffee from Starbucks and grinned smugly to myself that I was back in the US of A. Starbucks is definitely better here. And I read an hilarious article in the Times about how New York interior designers have decided that Jewellery for your FURNITURE is the latest thing. Because people want to "personalise" their furniture as they do their appearance they should buy jewellery for their FURNITURE. The picture depicted an enormous CHARM BRACELET draped ever so insouciantly over the back of a chair. Because just buying a chair can't be expressing one's self, other people might have that same chair. So one should buy jewellery to put on it. Or you could just skip a step and wrap a straightjacket around the back of the chair, should indicate your personality just as clearly.

The next flight took me to Atlanta, I got on the plane, sat down and conked into sleep. I came dimly awake to wonder what was taking so long to take off and realised that I'd slept through take-off I was so tired. So I missed that enjoyable "we'reallgoingtodie" moment that my gut sends forth when an aircraft really puts its shoulder into it. The flight to Atlanta took about
four hours, and then there was an hour wandering around the airport there - during which I realised that I had no real idea of where Atlanta actually is, another strange aspect of bouncing across the globe and having odd none-encounters with geography - then the two hour flight to Philadelphia. Airtrans is quite a good airline, should you ever need. They give you lots
of pretzels. While boarding the final flight I had the sudden thought that even despite my extremely lagged state, and the endless tedium of embarking and disembarking aircraft, I still really, really love travelling.

The flight arrived on time at Philadelphia, at one in the morning, I took the longest walk between plane and luggage carousel that I have ever encountered, eventually someone else did that with my bag, so I was able to leave and find my hotel. Which turns out to be ensconced between the Delaware River and a six lane freeway which sends a nice reverberating drone
through the whole building, but is otherwise fine. I had a shower for which I was yearning as though for the promised land. And then I went to bed! 37 hours after leaving my own... ! And couldn't sleep.

a shortcut to a stomach ulcer

So I’m seriously rethinking how I booked my travel for this trip. Everything was going fine: I got up at five in the morning, and I got the taxi on time, I arrived at the bus terminal super-early. And then, the wheels on the bus did not so much go round and round, as come off the wagon. The Greyhound bus-man responded with mirth to my rather tight schedule, leaving me imagining which rotisserie he will be occupying in the afterlife. I met another fool who had booked the bus for the airport who came up with the idea of hiring a car. Which meant we had to go to Canberra airport to get it. Which meant that we had to deal with “Thrifty”: by which they mean they are thrifty with the number of IQ points you need to work there. An inordinate amount of time later, they handed over the keys to a car other than the one we had hired, and we started driving. And I started calling Air New Zealand, to find out how late I could be before I missed the flight. The goal of 10.30 was set and so we drove, and I palpitated. My stomach slowly came to grips with the reality that I had decided to replace its rightful six other hours of sleep with a cup of coffee and a boatload of stress, and decided to introduce me to how it would feel should it every try to burrow its way out of my body. I’m not good with flight deadlines at the best of times, I panic that I’m going to miss them and turn up hours early, so actually being late was not my ideal start to the trip. Or the best way of conducting normal social chitchat with my travelling companion – as small talk inevitably does, it wormed it’s way around to the ‘what is your phd topic’ question and I think a direct quote of my response is: “Art history. Australian. 1960s.” After which time I got to account for the prices in the art market and the claims to value of Aboriginal art – reasonably complex issues that I would normally struggle to answer in an articulate fashion after only two hours sleep and before nine in the morning, but add a nice haze of stress and I think I start to borrow Yoda’s sentence structure. “Art it is, Aboriginal, yes, unique it is.”
We made it with ten minutes to spare. And the plane was late. It turned up, the tortuous boarding process was completed (oh, and if you are late you get to sit up the back with the kids, joy). And they had lost the food. So we waited another thirty minutes. Finally the food arrived, and we set off for Auckland. Where I now am, making the most of the fact that wifi doesn’t effect navigation systems when you are inside the airport, apparently. It’s now three p.m. Sydney time, and I’ve got another twenty hours of travel to go. Gah. I have, however, noticed that there is some tasty looking NZ beer on tap here in the compound, so after I have read through my paper there will be treats, oh yes.

more about the 'head. And some other stuff because I get distracted midway.

I started writing a response to my previous post in the comments area, and realised I was, in effect, talking to myself online, which which is surely taking the narcissism of blogging to that level with which I'm not comfortable.

On the prices people are paying for the Radiohead album - I saw something in the SMH website the other day that said about 1/3 of people are paying the adminstration fee of 49p but nothing for the album, and another third at least are paying four pounds or so (about half of the price of an album downloaded from itunes). Cutting out all the middlepersons means that they are absolutely raking it in. So it will be interesting to see record companies response to bands doing this - as it seems that it is those bands that are longterm successes that finance the money that goes into supporting promotion of newer bands, and offsets the ones that don't obtain that kind of success. If bands with the stature of Radiohead, that has been built through the promotion and support of record companies, can move away from those businesses and release an album online and mean that the longterm cashcow relationship is even less certain, I wonder if the companies will change their approach to how they find new talant to promote? They seem to be fairly woeful at catching up with the changing nature of the consumption of music - their obsession with grinding out illegal distribution rather than finding out what people are prepared to pay for music online and letting market forces determine it seems wrongheaded to me.

I really like that Radiohead have found their own way of doing it too. They refuse to let their music be sold through itunes because they don't want people to be able to buy one song at a time, as they see their albums as a unified work, rather than something to pick at. And the alternative they've set up seems to work really well, particularly as you don't have to download any software, as you do with itunes, and particularly any software that then proceeds to annoy the crap out of you. (In itunes case only superseded by the monumental irritation caused by iphoto. Oh the ranting! It annoys me even more than the inappropriate use of brush script fonts, and that has been consistently annoying me since the mid-1990s. I kid you not! Although not as annoying as the Howard government, also consistently annoying since the mid-1990s.) (oh, and you should take out your frustation on that matter here.) (on reflection, that's a really dumb scale of how annoying something is - between font use and political frustrations? Like giving something a rating as somewhere between how much I would enjoy a glass of creme de menthe sitting in an airport terminal versus a fine glass of red sitting in the south of France. ) (must stop stream of consciousness parenthesizing. To coin a verb.) I like that they've stood up for their work as unified albums, and surely anyone would agree who's ever sat back after a couple of shandies and listened to one in the dark.

Regarding the contents of the album, I love it, I've become slightly obsessed. Particularly hearing Thom Yorke sing "I don't want to be your friend, I just want to be your lover" is bizarre, because it harks back to odd Spice Girls memories, that do linger long unwelcome.

My office seems to be slowly filling with moths and spiders; I think nature is trying to take back the ANU.

Or I could just shut the window.

Or even, just shut up...

a bit o'stuff

So last week when I was watching Oprah - an infrequent event I hasten to add out of a lame sense of elitism - Bill Clinton was on and jointly they were promoting Kiva. This website facilitates loans to businesses in developing countries - something like 98% of them have so far successfully repaid their debts. After the coverage on Oprah and in Clinton's new book they have had to limit the donation limit to $25 because so many people want to give. Such a great idea.

Two and a half weeks before I leave for Philadelphia. Would be heaps good had I finished the paper I have to present - which it turns out is the first morning at the conference, after I arrive at the hotel sometime in the early hours of the morning. Will be interesting to see how much coherence I eke forth after travelling for an incomprehensibly long time, but that is, after all, what adrenaline is for isn't it? Fighting with bears and public speaking. Both clearly vital to the evolutionary advantage.

Thinking of evolution, I bought really, really awful shampoo recently. Purely because it was called 'Natural Selection' and I was taken by the idea of it somehow offering some Darwinian advantage. A thought which I somehow couldn't express to my hairdresser when she was making me feel bad for not buying expensive hair products and attributing my fly-away ends to my poor consumer choices.

I'm listening to the new Radiohead - it's excellent. I want to know what the average price is that people are paying for it (you nominate how much you want to pay, if you had not heard, and it is only available as a download from http://www.radiohead.com/).

Which famous photographer are you? Henri Cartier-Bresson: Known for street photography and photojournalism "We are passive onlookers in a world that moves perpetually. Our only moment of creation is that 1/125th of a second when the shutter clicks, the signal is given, and motion is stopped..."

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

bizarrities.

Last night I was quite excited, because I got to go and see some live music, and regardless of the music, whenever I get to do that it makes me feel that Canberra is not such a desolate hole, void of all interest and possibility of life within its streets of curvéd death. So I try to see some music as often as schedule and the Canberran Desolation (now there's a band name) permit, because, you'll understand, I'm prepared to put a bit of effort to avoid the "desolate hole, void of all interest and possibility of life within its streets of curvéd death" feeling, because that's just not nice. In addition, whenever I see some live music, it makes me feel less of a blanket-dwelling nanna.

I found out that Agnes Kain were playing at the Phoenix via the Half a Cow email list, so I had checked them out and enjoyed the experience, so was extra excited about the prospect. And I did enjoy muchly, because what's not to love about someone who can infuse the phrase "yellow galoshes" with musicality? Not to mention incorporate the glockenspiel. And it rapidly became apparent that the lead singer is someone I went to high school with, which is still spinning me out, finding out that the voice you'd been listening to belongs to someone you know. Not to mention that those year 7 classes where we each had one bit of the glockenspiel to bash may have actually paid off for someone. So their album is really good, you should check them out too, and ensure that one day I get to do the well when I went to school with her... thing that is such an asset at dinner parties.

snicker.

There's something hilarious about the Government offering a critique of the Rock Eisteddfod. One of the most hilariously lame events to have taken the teenage world by storm and our government, being such upstanding defenders of free speech, criticises students for being political. Because Mr Bush will be in town. A bunch of students dancing might offend the President, and to do so during APEC, well, "it can be embarrassing for us as Australians". I've no doubt that Rock Eisteddfod could be embarrassing for us as Australians, based on some of my alma mater's extravaganzas, and if they did so actually during an APEC meeting it could forge whole new levels of national humiliation. But if the President of the United States chooses to watch a teenage dancing fair, then he gets what he deserves. And if he decides to assess the national position on the war in Iraq from a group of students dressed in lycra, well that's the kind of hilarious turn in international politics for which I long.

Time to give the pith helmet an airing...

Hurrah! This blog shall once again have a chance to serve its orginal purpose. I have the chance to present a paper to a conference in Philadelphia, and to that I say Yay! The cheesesteaks shall be mine! It shall alas be but a brief excursion, yet still time will be found to visit New York and my friend in Boston.

I'm hyperventilating with excitement about this, although find some level of hilarity that there is an exhibition of Renoir on at this time, what with my previously stated opinion of Renoir.

It's not paranoia if it's true.

I think there is a ley line that runs down Northbourne Avenue: first the sprinkler, now the ATM. On Saturday night I went to get money out of an ATM and the machine ate my card. Then I went to another ATM and it ate my card because it had expired. Then I realised that I did not know the PIN for my remaining card. Sure, you could blame this occurance on a bit of bad luck combined with lack of organisation and some standard vagueness on my part, rather than a pseudo-mystic conspiracy theory. Sure, you could do that. But that's what they want.

Fortunately this all happened while I was with a good friend who was nice enough to lend me money, so I didn't have to go ask for seventy cents worth of beer. We went and saw The Fuelers play at the Phoenix, which was a lot of fun, I think The Fuelers and the Phoenix are one of those magical combinations in life, like gin and tonic, bagels and cream cheese, that convince you that life can't be a big accident.

A Day in the Life of Boot: A pictorial essay

The boot in repose.

The boot in the office.

The boot at lunch.

The boot at drinks.

Attempts to rotate these photos failed, because blogger apparently don't see this as something that someone would need to do, ever.

The boot refused photos to be taken of it in the amusing "I just spattered paint on my boot the first day I'm wearing it" moment at work. Boot felt that this would both be demeaning, and the final confirmation of my insanity at my place of work, when I paused from the task at hand to photograph my footwear. The author wishes to acknowledge that the boot has a point.

A funny thing that happened to me

was when I pressed the button to make the traffic lights change colour and at that moment a sprinkler came on and sprayed my leg. The lights on Northbourne have ever been tardy, but I had not considered them to be booby-trapped.

Let that be a warning to those who cross Northbourne at Alinga.

I hate the word 'cobbler'

... for the way it flumps out of your mouth like a wad of phlegm, and so particularly unfortunate when used in relation to a peach-based dessert, which otherwise has such delightful connotations.

That has no bearing on any longer musing, but I needed a title for this post, and that was the path my mental wanderings led me on, and so, there it is.

Thanks for the prompting Sim (and for you and KM ensuring that this thing still gets some hits...), when you enquired as to my whereabouts, I had the delight of being in Melbourne. I intended to post while I was down there, relive the glory days of posting from the road, you remember those? But in a faithful recreation of them, didn't have time while I was actually in the place, and so will have to recreate it now. I went down there last Saturday to visit my friend before she flees to Harvard, and stayed until Wednesday, so had a very nice break.

Happily my visit coincided with the Comedy Festival, for which, incidentally, you should book in advance if you want to see the more famous people. Our method of buying tix right before the show limited the options. But opened the field to seeing acts we hadn't otherwise heard of. Peter Berner was funny, but not in a way that want to made you want to quote slabs of it to your friends afterwards (no need to look quite *that* relieved). The other one that we saw was 'Best of the Edinburgh Festival' - one Irish guy (funny), one Irish girl (funny, but her accent was so impenetrable that by the time you had deciphered what she was talking about the jokes weren't really funny enough to make the effort worthwhile), an American guy (very funny) and an Australian who made me laugh so much I hurt. I wish more of you had been there because it would give me other people who I could yell 'SLADE!' to who would know of what I was speaking. Which was a reading from a mills and boon novel from the 1970s. Which I think would be funny whoever did it, but this guy (I do wish I could remember his name) did it spectacularly well. His description of the cover was entertaining enough (a man embracing a woman, poised above her 'as though about to take a bite from a burger-based snack'). He followed up the reading with a performance of Rock Eisteddfod dancing. It makes me laugh just thinking about it. The amusement factor may have been aided by an introduction to my new best friend before the performance: the espresso martini. Oh happy, happy day! Melbourne truly has so many little bars tucked away down obscure alley ways that you would never be able to find on your own. And that if you were being led to by someone you didn't know well would have you gripping your keys between your fingers in case it proved necessary to give them what for. But happily always seems to end in some delightful little corner to ensconce yourself in with a martini. Not actually in the alleyway, obviously.

Monday I spent ensconced in the State Library, ploughing through manuscript material, typing like a possessed-typing-thing trying to get it all done in one day so I could visit the NGV International on Tuesday. Which I did. And only later remembered, when it was explained to me, that the NGVi is shut on Tuesdays, a mistake which I've made before. At least this time I wasn't left outside, pawing at the waterfeature front window. So I went to the Charles Nodrum Gallery instead and had a look at their shows, and took a wander up Bridge Rd, which was unfruitful, as the outlet stores had no love for me this day. The love was all stored up for me at the Alannah Hill outlet on Brunswick St. I had to unzip the extra storage on my suitcase after that. And I bought shoes! Shoes! Happy! Shoes! Which does leave me with a question: why is it that between the $20 and $400 range there is a total lack of any decent shoe in Canberra? Probably a good thing for me overall, but it is strange. But my four-year quest for the Right Boot has been fulfilled. That may not seem to you a fact worth posting on the internet, but that just proves that you are a man.

Since I got back I've been sick with a cold, serving to sharpen my love for the southern city even further by contrast.

Max Barry's Company

The SMH's Spectrum reviewed this book the other day, or perhaps it was an article, because there was a review in yesterday's Spectrum, so unless the editor was inhaling a little too much and inadvertently published reviews of the same book twice in a fortnight, the first article must have been an interview of sorts.  It interested me because the book sounded good and focused on Barry's success in America while remaining virtually unheard of in Australia.  Normally there is a ticket parade for any Australian deemed successful overseas, so it seemed quite odd that he is still so unknown.  But then there has been two articles/reviews in a fortnight and I bought the book, so perhaps I just did not allow time in which this celebration is to take hold.  This is Barry’s third book, the other two I’ve yet to read.  It is a parody of corporate culture, which offers meat food for wit to feed on.  He does a particularly nice job with the vacuity of corporate-speak, ‘teamwork’, ‘goal oriented’ and so on. The plot centres on a new graduate recruit, Jones,  to a large corporation, which seems to produce nothing and revolves around departments meeting other departments’ demands rather than those of any external customers.  Unfortunately Jones character never seems to develop that much, there’s vague references to his life outside the office, and to his time before taking up employment at the company, but not enough to really find the book’s claim for his ethical superiority to be that believable.  And so the brief appearances of his sister and former housemates just seem unnecessary rather than illuminating.  The femme fatale of the piece, Eve, is a much more interesting character and offers some interesting thoughts on moral relativity and ethics in the business world, at least being consistent in the ultimate outworking of absolute ambition.   While the plot doesn’t exactly pivot with the precision of a champion-netballer, it is both interesting and funny, and certainly emphasises the soul-destroying hell of corporations determined to make money whatever the cost for staff.  Or appear to be making money so that the share prices goes up and senior management actually make money.  It’d make a very good film script, in the I heart Huckabees/Being John Malkovich vein.  In some ways I think Barry should have written it as a film, a lot of the scenes that take a few pages to cover in the book could have been achieved visually in 20 seconds and would have meant that there weren’t quite so many characters clunking about the plot.  This all sounds overly negative though, the book is worth reading, and the thing that makes the book worth a read is the writing, Barry has a nice turn of biting parody that makes for an entertaining afternoon.  

Golden Moments of Procrastination #3

Ah, the virtual world, and its multi-faceted opportunities for the consumption of time. How joyful is the procrastination which not only affords you idle amusement, but provides it for your fellow internet burghers. Not only has Carl gone to the effort of installing a webcam in his office, but now others can watch him chat with the people that go to view it... I'm still not entirely sure that I understand that Phd topic, but at least I can live in hope that one day I'll visit and he'll have pigtails...

Golden Moments of Procrastination #2

I just blogged about procrastinating in order to procrastinate. It all gets very circular sometimes doesn't it?

Golden Moments of Procrastination #1

I just went to check the mail downstairs, an activity that becomes strangely vital when I'm attempting to write - normally I go for days without checking - and accidentally walked to the lake.

On things that amuse

There is something odd about laughing out loud - and I mean loud - when you are alone isn't there? There you are, maintaining a largely internal dialogue with the world around you, and then an ad comes on television, declaring that a one kilo block of cheese is 'Great for School Lunches!'and you fine yourself bleating with laughter. Oh the image of an eight year old opening up their décor lunch box to find a big yellow block inside. Or when I find myself excited at the 'ding' of an arriving email, even though it is an email that I have just sent myself, and forgotten in the two second interval.

There is an oddness to the sudden outburst, where it makes me intensely conscious for a moment of my surroundings in a way that I hadn't been previously, engaged as I was in mindless observation of TV, laughter kind of interrupts that internal world - same thing when I go to the movies alone. I don't usually laugh quite so hard as when I have gone with other people. Hence the extraordinary level of humour in 'Little Miss Sunshine' when I was
doubled over in the cinema. Fortunately everyone around me was, so I wasn't the loser in the corner finding the film way more entertaining than everyone else.

On Before Sunset

Ethan Hawke is morphing into Tom Cruise. It's very strange, even his mannerisms remind me of Tom. Fortunately he's taller, and seems less likely to jump up and down on sofas ranting about post-natal depression, but the resemblance is there. Happily this does mean that he has encountered a stylist in the past decade, who has taught him the benefits of shorter, clean hair and product. The changes wrought in his character do seem oddly similar to those I've seen in friends - when guys go from the floppy longish hair with the centre part and baggy clothes to more stylish attire and an actual hair style. Ethan even wears belts now. Still, no butt.

Julie has been particularly sartorially blessed, but give it another nine years and I'm sure there'd be a what were they thinking quotient rearing its head. Both of them look a lot better at 32 than 23 which is nice, I think it might be possible to draw blood on Ethan's cheekbones, he's certainly a lot thinner these days. To the point that when the film opened I had the thought 'what, he's been on crack for the past decade?' but I got past that.

I can see why not everyone loved the film (Margaret did, David didn't, for the record), being more of the talking heads for quite some time, but it revisit the characters very well - very much one for the fans of the original film, if you hadn't seen the first one you might be hard pressed to care too much about the sequel, and I'm prepared to think that you might have needed to be an adolescent at the time to truly _connect_ with Ethan's pain, to care at all about his current setting. And the double dvd pack certainly helps those of us that couldn't remember anything other than the basic premise of the film.

Ethan and Julie clearly hadn't left the characters behind them, they helped write the screenplay for this one, and I think they dealt pretty well with the possibility that the theme of 'unfulfilled love that has a second chance' presents, of the film turning into monumental, vast swathes of sentimentality that expand like a salinating desert to eventually encompass us all in a sea of pain and leave us vomiting into our fortuitously large popcorn containers. There's a nice meandering theme of 'what if' that they concentrate on, as well as discussing their lives, and the film is much more located at a specific time and so references particular things - I liked that they included Nina Simone (as a conversation topic I mean). Both characters have a slightly dark sense of humour which is cool, but it is hard to believe that people who hadn't seen each other in a decade would be quite so ready to bag each other out, but then I guess that's true love for you.

What is very cool is that the film is set in Paris - and opens in Shakespeare & Co. - The. Bookstore. That. I've. Been. Too. Fictionally, Ethan slept there, so it's possible that a fictional character has slept in the bed that I have actually read in! Just imagine what Baudrillard would say about that. Admittedly, possibly nothing at all as there is a good chance his theories have no bearing on that.

On Before Sunrise

Last night I watched Before Sunrise for the first time since I was about sixteen. When this movie came out I remember being in quite the flurry of excitement, as it was in the midst of the Reality Bites-induced 'Ethan Hawke as greasy haired anti-hero of the cynical generation' that so characterised my lank-haired youth. I was quite startled by the film, as apart from the basic premise - Ethan and Julie Delpie wander around a European city for one night, knowing they have to go their respective ways in the morning - it turns out that I remembered nothing, nothing, about this film. It never ceases to astonish me just how little information I can retain about things. It has the advantage of meaning I can read and watch things over and over again and be just as surprised by them every! single! time! but it does have slight drawbacks as far as the 'operating in reality' aspect of life.

The watching of Before Sunrise was because I went into the Land of Temptation again (JB Hi-Fi). They had a double set of the DVDs of Before Sunrise and its sequel, Before Sunset. I haven't seen Before Sunset yet, but its release, with the descriptions of its premise 'Ethan and Julie meet ten years later, this time for a day' created in me one of those 'it's been ten years!' moments. It generally got fairly bad reviews, as did I think the original film, being targeted at the late-adolescent girl who was happy to swoon at Ethan as he uttered his pseudo-profundities for an hour or so. Not a subset which is likely to create broad appeal. I suspect there may have also been a subset of late-adolescent boys who couldn't wait to get to uni and be Ethan, slack-hair and all.

When the movie started I thought they were going to leave Ethan in the rust-coloured skivvy he appears in in the first scene for the whole film. Fortunately he gets changed, into the late-nineties uniform of grey tshirt and leather jacket. Unfortunately he doesn't acquire a belt, which isn't a great look, especially on the buttless. Julie remains in the same outfit for the entire film, that particularly lacking nineties look of black dress over white tshirt look with flannel shirt over the top and bulky shoes. What were we thinking? There's also a random polka-dot skirt underneath the black dress, so she just inhabits the land of clash for the entire film. Obviously my initial reactions to film are lost in a haze of swoon, but I'm pretty sure I thought she looked excellent when I first saw her in this attire. I remember thinking during the nineties, as we all recoiled in horror at the eighties, that there would never be a time when we would feel that way about the nineties, because fashion just wasn't making those kind of mistakes.

I can certainly see why people found this film inordinately irritating, featuring as it does two people wandering around for twelve hours talking about themselves, and then ending. But I still did enjoy it, even with a little bit more of an idea that I would probably smack Ethan repeatedly these days, rather than put up with his meandering narcissism. Yes, that's right, it's perfectly polite to ask someone a deeply personal question, receive a decent answer and then come back with a thought that you had that reincarnation didn't make sense because there are so many more people these days than there used to be and so, what, were they like, fragments of souls now? No, you twit, reincarnation believes in the progression of souls through different forms, so it means that what were single-celled organisms have gradually progressed to their glorious, near-ultimate form of the human male. What really doesn't make sense is how you, oh slack-haired saggy-panted one, could be regarded as the almost-height of the reincarnatory ladder. If that's my next option, I choose labrador.

When I was sixteen I'm pretty sure I would have had more of a 'wow, that's so like, excellent - going round Europe on trains for two weeks, thinking really deep thoughts'. What's so amazing about really deep thoughts... Honey, there's a reason that girl in Madrid dumped you and sent you into that vortex of pain that sent you to the trains of Europe. He didn't seem at all interested in the breads of Europe. I'll keep you posted on my thoughts about the sequel.

Housekeeping

I have just updated the appearance of this blog. I'm not sure if it works, but the point-and-click colour palette was just so fun that I couldn't stop myself, results be damned.

In the process of my sprucing, I lost the counter, so for future reference, add 1388 to the new counter for the true, glorious, success of this here bloggeral to be revealed. But I don't have the link for some peculiar academy to contend with anymore, and that is a thing of happiness.

It is nice that the blogmasters have made it possible for those of us happier in the GUI environment to make changes, and not have to figure out complicated codes to change things, which always resulted in me thinking 'white is fine as a background anyway' after I had squinted at the text box for awhile.

Update

It has been awhile. I note, with some appreciation, the trickle of hits this blog continues to receive, even though I have been reduced to posting email forwards.

So, what of me...

I have started a new part-time job, working in one of the commercial galleries [www.helenmaxwell.com] in canberra, which has been great. It is very nice to be working with art, and getting a feel for how a commercial gallery operates. The new shows just opened and are looking quite spectacular, so it is nice to feel good about where one's working hours are spent. Even if the range of skills bear no relation to anything I studied in my "Art History and Curatorship" degree - who knew that I would be spending so much quality time with packing tape and debating the merits of bubble wrap. And that it would be in an art gallery that I realised how profoundly unfit I am, having spent the day lifting and shifting, to collapse in a deadened heap at the end.

The thesis, is, brace yourself, going well! I have a sense of purpose about the direction and work is being done.

Combined with the other part-time job, it amounts to me being quite busy, which is a good thing, as I only truly become productive when there is a certain amount of pressure. Although there is a skill, when busy, to slow down and spend time over things that need reflecting upon, ie, anything to do with the thesis, when time is short and there is a feeling of being rushed.

I'm still digesting all the experiences of travel - it was such a charged, intense time of over stimulation, that only now, as I have flashbacks to different places and sites, do I feel like I'm absorbing it. It is nice to realise that a lot of it has stuck in my mind and I remember it. Having one experience after another in places so different from each other, I was worried that each successive place would overwrite each other and I wouldn't remember much except a lot of gallery cloakrooms and how much I hate renoir. Which would be a truly heartbreaking result. But, thankfully, I still have a firm mental picture of the truly splendid this-is-the-definition-of-kitsch water fountain (with its muzak soundtrack) of the Bellagio in Vegas, and the moment I almost burst into tears in front of the Cezanne in the Musee d'Orsay. AND how much I hate Renoir. And a thousand why-don't-_I_-live-in-New-York moments.

I'm in Bundanoon for the weekend, I came up to surprise my mum for her birthday [there's a certain arrogance in being able to assume that one can be a present for someone - but that is the joy of having parents isn't it? They have to be excited to see you, even when you walk in just as they sit down to lunch, because They Are The Rules.] We have just been out for an Indian meal [v. tasty] and are generally relaxing. It is great to finally see some rain, even Goulburn is looking a teensy bit green. Having some errands to run, I drove via Fyshwick, and then Queenbeyan and Bungendore, and then, semi-accidentally, Goulburn. Fyshwick saw my quest for The Perfect Soup Spoon achieved, which was a relief, as last weekend saw me on a tour of the Endless Mall that now adorns the centre of Canberra (and thus entitled The Canberra Centre - which if they keep expanding will have a certain amusing frisson, not actually having a centre, but being an interconnected series of land grabs with various acknowledgements to the streets that have been swallowed, incorporated into the architecture.) that ended up costing $85 dollars on everything except soup spoons.

The New Lexicon

I wanted to forward the following email on, but figured half of all people have probably read it by now.  And then I remembered I have a blog, and I can put it there. Tricky huh.

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to
its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply
alternate meanings for common words.

The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4.Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9.Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that  when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts

The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

3.Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

4. Giraffiti (n):Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

10 Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an a--hole

Assorted marginalia

Just when I find myself whinging about living back in Canberra and the struggle of adjusting to the mundane of the day-to-day I wandered over to http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ and had a read about life in Baghdad - I think we're all pretty sick of hearing about Iraq, partly due to compassion fatigue, but perhaps mostly due to the endless-beating-of-head-on-wall sensation of what do you mean the American government didn't foresee what was going to happen in Iraq? *I* foresaw what was going to happen in Iraq, *me* - I'm not exactly privy to intelligence briefings, or even a particularly refined understanding of world events, and even I could see that going into Iraq would result in a total disastrous mess. And that was before the Americans decided to be disastrously incompetent on a scale that is unbelievable. If one were to have written a novel about it, it would be read as incredibly anti-American and over-the-top unbelievable, but they have actually done it.

Oops, sorry I keep slipping into rant-mode whenever the topic of Iraq comes up: what I was trying to suggest is that you head over to http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ and at least read the post about Saddam's execution, it makes some good points about just how offensive the timing was of the execution, and of CNN's misreporting. Both of which are disturbing on numerous levels. The previous posts also give a much more real - and even more disturbing - perspective on life in Iraq at present.

On to other matters.

January seems to be whippeting away from us doesn't it? At this rate, in approximately four minutes I'll be ranting on about Christmas shopping again. It is very strange to ponder that I'm just off two years into this thesis palaver. Also, terrifying.

So moving on.

January has largely been spent settling into my new abode in Canberra, which is working out very nicely. My suitcase is back in the cupboard! I have a wardrobe! Things hang in there! I have regular access to a washing machine! I haven't had to attempt to drag all my possessions through city streets and onto a bus/underground/tube/train/metro! Followed by inadvertently uphending a bag a scattering candy across a floor littered with commuters... for instance. So there are some benefits to not having to constantly uproot myself.

I keep coming across random momentoes of travel - an Oslo bus ticket here, 4000 photos of world museums there, and sighing, slumping and having to remind myself I knew that it was going to come to an end. Ah, the breads of the world, so far away. I have been watching West Wing (just for something startlingly new and different...) and every time they mention bagels I whimper. The hairstyles in season one were truly spectacular. And I don't remember trousers of the late nineteen-nineties, for both men and women, being so ravishingly unflattering at the time.

A lot of time has been spent at my parents' home, celebrating my Grandma's ninetieth birthday with all the family. And when I say with all the family, I mean *all* the family. You haven't lived until you've had a three year old wake you up by subjecting you to the Nemo dvd menu, because you're sleeping in the lounge room. At six in the morning, after a good night's work endeavouring to free up some of your parents' storage space by ploughing through their wine... One of the most annoying dvd menus ever I think. Why do they put those stupid repetitive tracks on dvd menus? Why? Especially when it is the Nemo style voiceover ones, so they can repeat the same jokes over and over again. When they weren't that funny the first time. Bastards.

Beyond such trivial matters, it was wonderful that my Grandma was able to travel from England to share her birthday with us, and to have the chance to spend time with family members, even the smaller ones, who woke us all up at inappropriate moments. But they do photograph well. I went back to Canberra briefly last week to do some study and am now back in the Highlands, but only until tomorrow.

Is anyone else concerned about the Sydney Morning Heralds' opinions columnists? Today they had a whole page devoted to such sterling thoughts as: Domestic violence is bad, the republic really isn't a big issue in Australia, and there is an increasing number of 1-2 person households. Genius! Clearly our best and brightest minds are at work.

Blogging just isn't the same when every day isn't new-and-exciting with travel experience. I've kind of become attached to the process so I don't want to stop - after all, it's about *me* - but I just don't have the same excit-o-meter reading as I did when I was discovering new countries and the galleries and breads therein. But I plan to continue, just not quite with the same frequency... lucky you hey!

back in Cansas

Have moved back to Canberra, now living on campus. Am trying not to sigh about that too much. If I forgot to send you my new contact details, email me.

The weather has finally warmed up, I have immediately started moaning.

A great Christmas/New Year celebration was held at my parents place, which was a nice way to unwind back into the country and catch up with people. Bundanoon somewhat quieter than New York, being a place where it is not inappropriate to look askance if you have to wait for more than two cars to pass before you can cross the road. Have being trying to sort out photos and create dvds to bore, rather, entertain and delight, my acquaintance - have basically got the hang of doing this, even if it required the sacrifice of numerous discs and a quite substantial period of ranting.