Lego art!

Jan Vormann, 2007

So cool!

See more

I hereby tender this apology to Todd McKenney.

When the story broke that Todd McKenney had been found in a Kings Cross park, semi-conscious, and if I recall rightly, bashing his head against a fence, I responded erroneously, jumping on the bandwagon of public mockery and, I believe, inferring that I did not believe his story that his drink had been spiked "because of Tall Poppy Syndrome".

Now, however, that newspaper of great repute, the Sydney Morning Herald, has published his side of the story, I can only stand ashamed, as the full facts are coming to light:

"Later in his record of interview McKenney told police he had been to a party at an apartment in Macleay Street, Potts Point, on Anzac Day eve and had danced so much that he began to overheat and had taken his pants off to continue dancing.

McKenney, who has pleaded not guilty to the charge and has been on police bail, allegedly told arresting officers that it was while his pants were down that someone at the party must have put the drug into his pocket." [full story]

Let s/he who has not removed their pants so that they can keep dancing cast the first stone.

this kills me

my new bestfriend

is Book Depository - cheaper than UK Amazon and Free. Worldwide. Shipping.

I have found nirvana.

I ordered books last Wednesday and they arrived yesterday.

[swoons]

rusty

It's been awhile. Ages in fact. I keep realising that it's June and spluttering expletives. The calendar in my room is still on January, as mentally, that's where I'm at. This thesis writing is a slow business, and I'm the living proof. How can it be two in the afternoon and I've written a sentence? I mean, I've done other things, some of them productive, and even thesis related, but only one sentence has yet resulted. Gah and double gah. I hope my thesis weighs more than the weight that I've put on while writing it. It may need to be printed on vellum and bound in lead.

I have, and as a result of the thesis no less - and hence justifying this posting - become somewhat intrigued by T.S. Eliot. Specifically the Dry Salvages. An excerpt:

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.


The whole thing is remarkable writing, and every time I read it there is something else, some other image, that emerges from it. Because I have a gnat-like concentration span, I tend to phase in and out of actually paying attention to what I'm reading, so each time I read that poem I seem to come across a different part of it, which on the previous occasion I had momentarily paused in my absorbtion to ponder some other vital subject, like whether my car registration has expired yet. Speaking of which...

Picasso and Katie Noonan.

so not fair that this is in Brisbane.