I collect bottle tops - flat rusted bottle tops and i use them in my collages a lot. At the moment I'm saving them for two distinct projects. The first a collage called 'The Ninety-nine Virgins' I have enough tops for this but I don't, as yet, have the menstrual blood of a virgin and this is proving to be difficult to obtain. I'm curious about this - it suggests to me the old taboos are closer to the surface of our modern lives than we might think. So instead of the collage I want to make I have a journal of how I cant make it.
The second is a hanging I want to construct using my bottle tops and fresh water pearls. I don't have enough tops yet for this project and already see problems in its construction. if I link bottle tops and pearls to construct the fabric it will only be as strong as the top layer of joints - it will fall. perhaps the falling is part of the project and this is an installation rather than just a collage. I'm thinking it still.
Anyway, and here we get to the point of this post, I was thinking as I was harvesting bottle tops from the local parking building where kids sit and drink and talk and smoke - thinking of the disapproval I often collect along with the things I harvest - the flotsam and jetsam of city life. that what I am doing is dirty and places me in danger of contamination from the dirt. I am in danger of becoming sick from this dirt it seems.
My thought today as I was eyed sideways by a passing local bourgeoisie I can poison my mind with senseless violence against women and children on the local television station, I can poison my body eating the flesh of animals raised in filth and killed in pain and torture but I cant collect bottle tops and things from the pavements of my local environs BECAUSE THIS MIGHT MAKE ME SICK!
please............................................
Saturday, September 11, 2010
another haiku
This one is more difficult.
I respond to the work of Albert Tucker in a very visceral way - especially I like his Images of Modern Evil series and the relationships between men, the men they believe have taken women they believe they are entitled to and the women who stand between them.
In many ways its the essence of colonisation!
Haiku for Tucker
smooth girls, laughing bright
slut, slag, fuck - we hard pricks all -
slaves to the warmen.
http://www.theblurb.com.au/Issue03/TuckerBio.htm
I respond to the work of Albert Tucker in a very visceral way - especially I like his Images of Modern Evil series and the relationships between men, the men they believe have taken women they believe they are entitled to and the women who stand between them.
In many ways its the essence of colonisation!
Haiku for Tucker
smooth girls, laughing bright
slut, slag, fuck - we hard pricks all -
slaves to the warmen.
http://www.theblurb.com.au/Issue03/TuckerBio.htm
new haiku
Ive recently discovered my muse to be male - and curiously he turns up in my dreams a lot when I need to be writing.
This morning I woke at 5am, opened my journal and wrote this:
haiku for my muse
wine on the table
broken pen tip - crumbled sheets
bastard muse - come back!
This morning I woke at 5am, opened my journal and wrote this:
haiku for my muse
wine on the table
broken pen tip - crumbled sheets
bastard muse - come back!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Feral
Sitting drinking champagne and reading my book in a riverside cafe in Singapore last week I saw a feral cat move confidently through the space. She was low to the ground and unhurried - this was obviously her domain. I assumed female, she was lean but full bellied, probably pregnant. I watched her until she left and looked for her the next day and the following. She was never there during the day but always as dusk fell and I enjoyed my glass of champagne watching the lights of the city emerge. I was reminded of another feral cat I had seen last year - that one during the day and moving quickly through the city. She hid under a bus as she saw me notice her.
I wonder now at the assumed female of these - they felt female if that makes sense but also now makes me consider the historical relationship - European - between cats and women, but that's another post.
The later in the week an article on National radio about the increase in size and ferocity of feral dogs in rural Australia made me think of an incident in New Zealand some twenty years ago when a pack of feral dogs was culled from the Auckland city rubbish dump. Autopsies shows all the females were pregnant and all carried female pups only - an exponential populations rise in the making. Here, the feral dogs are becoming much larger and the packs bigger. Not only a threat to sheep but now also to cattle.
in my post apocalyptal considerings I think about these two groups - the dogs moving in a destructive and harmful way across the environment, slaughtering, creating fear and retribution while the cats move quietly through their environment taking what they need and not drawing so much attention to themselves.
I know this is a totally simplistic structural reading and probably says more about my thoughts on patriarchy than anything else - but hey, this is a blog!
I also remembered a comment made about the CBD in Wellington as the heights of the buildings continued to rise. That in the event of a major earthquake - the big one scientists keep drooling about - the CBD would be covered in no less than sixty feet of broken glass. Survival seems distant in that event.
But back to the cats and the gentler notion of feral - that it is possible to live independently of the dominant paradigm.
I've just realised there is no conclusion to this post - it is just a series of observations!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
sex and thinking!
I was invited to participate in a threesome the other day. I don't think it was a serious invitation: as two young men got out of their car one of them grinned at me and said, "Will you come with us and let us massage you?" There was a world of suggestion in his grin and I smiled back at him as I declined their invitation.
It made me start thinking about sex. Ive never truly understood the concept of sex - why we determinedly combine affection with the means of reproduction. People talk about the need to reproduce and how in lower primates and animals there is no 'love' just a need to procreate.
Animals don't rationalise a need to procreate - they feel lust and act on it!
sex and monogamy also entrances me. Again we entangle two disparate actions. Firstly, the need to know parents. Well, paternity actually, mothers are rarely confused about their own maternality and secondly enduring love. So sexual exclusivity becomes tangled with enduring love and we have many problems.
I personally believe humans are designed to have group sex. We are group oriented, we eat together and we used to defaecate together. I believe we used to do this because the smell of shit exposes the health or lack of it in the individual and in small groups health would be vital.
Sex is an olfactory experience and in such small groups the smell and sound of other members having sex would have aroused the group as a entirety.
There could be advantage on this. if women menstruate together they probably are pregnant and bear their children together. This makes guarding and nurturing the group easier than constantly having one or two infants at all times.
Group sex with multiple partners is also good for the construction of babies. The stronger sperm will get the egg!
So my smile to the young man who offered me the opportunity to explore something i never had was heart felt. I'm too old for this now but as they say - we regret what we don't do not what we do!
It made me start thinking about sex. Ive never truly understood the concept of sex - why we determinedly combine affection with the means of reproduction. People talk about the need to reproduce and how in lower primates and animals there is no 'love' just a need to procreate.
Animals don't rationalise a need to procreate - they feel lust and act on it!
sex and monogamy also entrances me. Again we entangle two disparate actions. Firstly, the need to know parents. Well, paternity actually, mothers are rarely confused about their own maternality and secondly enduring love. So sexual exclusivity becomes tangled with enduring love and we have many problems.
I personally believe humans are designed to have group sex. We are group oriented, we eat together and we used to defaecate together. I believe we used to do this because the smell of shit exposes the health or lack of it in the individual and in small groups health would be vital.
Sex is an olfactory experience and in such small groups the smell and sound of other members having sex would have aroused the group as a entirety.
There could be advantage on this. if women menstruate together they probably are pregnant and bear their children together. This makes guarding and nurturing the group easier than constantly having one or two infants at all times.
Group sex with multiple partners is also good for the construction of babies. The stronger sperm will get the egg!
So my smile to the young man who offered me the opportunity to explore something i never had was heart felt. I'm too old for this now but as they say - we regret what we don't do not what we do!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I make books
because I love them and have always loved them from the moment I understood what they are and what they do.
I love them as artifacts and constructions, I love them as repositories and I love making them from stuff I find.
This book is one of my post-apocalyptal artifacts. It is incredibly fragile and lives in a small box of its own. It is an empty book - I have yet to write the poems it will hold.
I love the process of turning pages - even empty pages - its the ACTUALITY and experience of 'page' that I love in that moment.
I remember having to relearn how to turn pages as I regained the use of the right side of my body. I was determined I WOULD turn pages, WOULD read books again.
The moment when scroll transformed into folio must have been delicious!
post apocalyptal beauty
it's curious that post apocalyptal imagery these days is almost always hideous - we have moved completely into the realm of the dystopia. In all things - if we are as evil and destructive as we are good and creative - maybe PAF's will be similar to what we have now.
For me - as a collage artist and poet/anthropologist I wonder about the use of objects in such a time.
What will become precious if we lose the means to make new stuff. As the stuff in the world decays and disintegrates what will we treasure and how will we store it?
I began making books!
For me - as a collage artist and poet/anthropologist I wonder about the use of objects in such a time.
What will become precious if we lose the means to make new stuff. As the stuff in the world decays and disintegrates what will we treasure and how will we store it?
I began making books!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
this haiku is for Julianne
magical to find old friends - I'm looking forward to visiting Christchurch again to revisit and relearn an old friend.
I remember a glorious girl with glorious red, red hair and a way of looking at the world I deeply envied.
I wrote this haiku after watching my daughter play in the piles of leaves in the playground after school when she was tiny . The playground was full of these minute creatures swathed in uniforms and aprons far too big - maternal frugality at its most curious!
I remember a glorious girl with glorious red, red hair and a way of looking at the world I deeply envied.
I wrote this haiku after watching my daughter play in the piles of leaves in the playground after school when she was tiny . The playground was full of these minute creatures swathed in uniforms and aprons far too big - maternal frugality at its most curious!
Haiku for Marion
Small hands in red pockets
scattering winter's leaves
scarlet, floating feathers.
On a roll!
It's been a while since I blogged and I had almost forgotten how much I enjoy it. Its a lot like, and completely unlike, writing in my journal. I've not explored this difference yet - just enjoyed very much the experiencing of it.
Blogging here has also changed the way I write in my journal - I'm less precise and wordy - more cut and stick and play!
This piece is to hold another of my older haiku. I wrote it after my divorce in the deep pain of being left.
Blogging here has also changed the way I write in my journal - I'm less precise and wordy - more cut and stick and play!
This piece is to hold another of my older haiku. I wrote it after my divorce in the deep pain of being left.
Did a year go by
and the Blackbird's song return
while I was crying
a remembered haiku - and a thank you!
I very much love it when people say something on my blog and it reminds me also of the reciprocity of this read/write business!
This I wrote some time ago.
This I wrote some time ago.
Give me lions' claws
and talons of an eagle
mice are not gentle.
matriarchal cultures
seem so very seductive but I wonder if they would be so very different. The problem we have is the synthesis between patriarchy and commercialisation and commodification - the mix with matriarchy might not be so very different - if the overwhelming function remains the aggregation of money and power. I hesitate to think what a powerful matriarch would be in that situation.
I love the matriarchy of elephants and the idea they talk as they walk and they walk at the pace of the smallest walker.
perhaps that is the fundamental difference between patriarchal and matriarchal leadership.
the patriarch will achieve a set objective and will count and mourn the cost but consider it the price that has to be paid. the matriarch will consider the objective and will ensure everybody gets there.
When my sister died I wrote this poem. It was for her death and mine.
Song for the Triple Goddess
Death, when
you come for me
I'll be waiting.
My sons have taken the cloth from
my loom, folded it neatly
and put it in the basket I wove last
fall.
My favourite skirts,
folded in the other, are scented with
the bay leaves I collected.
My grandson has gifted me
the stick he hasn't finished carving.
It's beauty lies
within the wood still.
My daughters have washed my skin,
perfumed and plaited my hair; flowers tucked in my braid
remind me
winter is still not
quite here.
Death, we can sit awhile and drink together.
There is a brew there in the third basket.
We made it this summer.
Visions and pathways.
I am not lost.
In my hand I have the flower
I gave my love
when, as children,
we looked into each other
and saw who we were
and were to be.
he kept it.
I leave him the laughter and tears
of our life.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I love my bedroom window
I sleep with my windows open summer and winter. I love waking up to clean cold mornings as much as I like the honey drizzle of a summer daybreak.
I can hear the motorway in the distance and I can see the moon from my bed.
My feet face east when I sleep - when I die I will take my first step of my new life into the morning sun. This thought gives me pleasure and comfort.
There is a tawny frog-mouthed owl in the tree beside my bedroom. Her call vibrates through the night - in a register so low it is more felt than heard.
She has babies in that tree and brings them out of their nest to the long stretch of a branch where they waddle up and down watching the garden.
The Road
I went to see this movie last week and was deeply affected by the experience. The movie is almost as sparse as the book - almost as harrowing. The movie form requires a little more explanation than the book and loses something because of this.
Post-apocalyptal fiction fascinates me. I remember Stanley Roach, my literature professor at university as an undergraduate and an incredible woman - telling me every generation had to rewrite Hamlet and also had to place itself at the end of the world to ensure its immortality.
I believe this to be the function of post-apocalyptal fiction - without us there is no future. I'm curious about the savagery of these futures we now envision, although I know we are as savage as we are humane.
I think, for me, this is the passion of The Road - the absolute and unconditional love of a father for his son.
We don't hear much about such a thing in these days - we know about maternal love; we know about the power of the patriarchy but the deep and simple love of a father for his son has been lost and we are less for it.
The closest we get is the pieta created in a photograph after 9/11 when a fireman cradled the body of a man he had pulled from the wreckage.
When I find that image I will add it to this if I may.
I'm also deeply touched by the concept and the imagery of the pieta - as my grandmother said when my mother died and she was destroyed by her loss. "parents just aren't meant to outlive their children."
That pain is implicit in every pieta I have ever seen.
This one is mine - made when I was mourning the destruction of my own self .
Post-apocalyptal fiction fascinates me. I remember Stanley Roach, my literature professor at university as an undergraduate and an incredible woman - telling me every generation had to rewrite Hamlet and also had to place itself at the end of the world to ensure its immortality.
I believe this to be the function of post-apocalyptal fiction - without us there is no future. I'm curious about the savagery of these futures we now envision, although I know we are as savage as we are humane.
I think, for me, this is the passion of The Road - the absolute and unconditional love of a father for his son.
We don't hear much about such a thing in these days - we know about maternal love; we know about the power of the patriarchy but the deep and simple love of a father for his son has been lost and we are less for it.
The closest we get is the pieta created in a photograph after 9/11 when a fireman cradled the body of a man he had pulled from the wreckage.
When I find that image I will add it to this if I may.
I'm also deeply touched by the concept and the imagery of the pieta - as my grandmother said when my mother died and she was destroyed by her loss. "parents just aren't meant to outlive their children."
That pain is implicit in every pieta I have ever seen.
This one is mine - made when I was mourning the destruction of my own self .
a new haiku
Was it easier
to love him as a young man
than as your own son?
I am fascinated by Iocasta!!
to love him as a young man
than as your own son?
I am fascinated by Iocasta!!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Haiku
I adore haiku - for me its the construction of metaphor to create meaning. I admire the old Japanese form and have toyed with the possibility of learning archaic Japanese to enjoy it properly.
I have yet to begin this project.
My son says haiku cant be properly written in English and I disagree with this - for me the form itself follows how humans construct and synthesise thought and I don't need to learn Japanese to explore that.
My friend Julianne introduced me to a haiku ((I so want to write an haiku - both seem totally right and totally wrong)) blog and I have been enjoying so very much exploring the images other people create.
I wrote this haiku after I had been to Italy and visited Cuma, where the oracle lived. It is a magical site and it was a magical visit - made more so because I spent my whole time there completely alone. I got to walk down to where the oracle was!
And I wrote this haiku:
I have yet to begin this project.
My son says haiku cant be properly written in English and I disagree with this - for me the form itself follows how humans construct and synthesise thought and I don't need to learn Japanese to explore that.
My friend Julianne introduced me to a haiku ((I so want to write an haiku - both seem totally right and totally wrong)) blog and I have been enjoying so very much exploring the images other people create.
I wrote this haiku after I had been to Italy and visited Cuma, where the oracle lived. It is a magical site and it was a magical visit - made more so because I spent my whole time there completely alone. I got to walk down to where the oracle was!
And I wrote this haiku:
At Cuma
I waited alone
to hear the Sybil answer
my unasked question
The beautiful coffee man
I love beautiful men - and by this I mean I love the visuals of beautiful men. I have no need to know them or talk to them - I blatantly objectfy them and enjoy them in private.
Which is not to say I fantasize about them - I don't - I just love the aesthetics of beautiful men.
The man who makes the coffee at the cafe I go to every Sunday is such a man, but he's more than that as well; he makes the second best coffee in Melbourne - Sofia in South Melbourne makes the best, but that's a whole different story.
In the years I've been going to Camberwell Market and getting a coffee to sip slowly as I walk around, the beautiful man and I have developed a friendship. Its a little friendship; he tells me about his kids and asks me about mine - we talk a little about music and dance and the weather - he's a nice person AND he's beautiful.
The Sunday before last I had to stop at the ATM on my way to get coffee and as I did so I noticed a new cafe and so I grabbed a coffee there instead. I felt bad, I felt disloyal and I was strangely pleased when this more expensive coffee was shallow and nasty. It made my treachery feel justly rewarded.
Later on my trip around the market I needed to use the bathroom and so I went back to the beautiful man cafe because their bathroom is clean and always smells of flowers! I tried to sneak in but he saw me and waved as I went through into the stairwell. I sneaked out feeling bad.
Last Sunday, lesson well learned, I went back to get my coffee and was greeted with, "and what exactly happened to you last week, young lady!"
I am no longer young so this complement was a lovely addition to my morning and so much nicer than being called a 'girl' which I so patently no longer am.
he has seen me go up to the bathroom and had made my coffee but I had not returned to collect it - what had happened.
I did the only thing I could: I fessed up and told him the whole ugly story and then I walked into the market sipping the second best coffee in Melbourne!
Which is not to say I fantasize about them - I don't - I just love the aesthetics of beautiful men.
The man who makes the coffee at the cafe I go to every Sunday is such a man, but he's more than that as well; he makes the second best coffee in Melbourne - Sofia in South Melbourne makes the best, but that's a whole different story.
In the years I've been going to Camberwell Market and getting a coffee to sip slowly as I walk around, the beautiful man and I have developed a friendship. Its a little friendship; he tells me about his kids and asks me about mine - we talk a little about music and dance and the weather - he's a nice person AND he's beautiful.
The Sunday before last I had to stop at the ATM on my way to get coffee and as I did so I noticed a new cafe and so I grabbed a coffee there instead. I felt bad, I felt disloyal and I was strangely pleased when this more expensive coffee was shallow and nasty. It made my treachery feel justly rewarded.
Later on my trip around the market I needed to use the bathroom and so I went back to the beautiful man cafe because their bathroom is clean and always smells of flowers! I tried to sneak in but he saw me and waved as I went through into the stairwell. I sneaked out feeling bad.
Last Sunday, lesson well learned, I went back to get my coffee and was greeted with, "and what exactly happened to you last week, young lady!"
I am no longer young so this complement was a lovely addition to my morning and so much nicer than being called a 'girl' which I so patently no longer am.
he has seen me go up to the bathroom and had made my coffee but I had not returned to collect it - what had happened.
I did the only thing I could: I fessed up and told him the whole ugly story and then I walked into the market sipping the second best coffee in Melbourne!
Friday, January 22, 2010
Zombies
I enjoy the concept of zombies and the idea of zombie movies.
I get scared very easily and find the only way to deal with the fear movies make is to walk - this makes going to the movies to see these films problematic to say the least. At home it's easy - during the scary bits I can walk into the hallway or quickly go into the kitchen to fill up my water glass.
But whats the fear in zombie movies - its contagion - the idea that once bitten you will become a zombie and becoming a zombie undead is very different from becoming a vampire. Vampires are sexy - zombies are just rotten flesh.
i think this says a lot about ideas of the afterlife. The vampire afterlife is full of learning and travel and sex - zombies just rot away!
I get scared very easily and find the only way to deal with the fear movies make is to walk - this makes going to the movies to see these films problematic to say the least. At home it's easy - during the scary bits I can walk into the hallway or quickly go into the kitchen to fill up my water glass.
But whats the fear in zombie movies - its contagion - the idea that once bitten you will become a zombie and becoming a zombie undead is very different from becoming a vampire. Vampires are sexy - zombies are just rotten flesh.
i think this says a lot about ideas of the afterlife. The vampire afterlife is full of learning and travel and sex - zombies just rot away!
I'm fascinated by lavatories
Perhaps it is the relationship we have with our wastes and with our bodies. Waste is secret , shameful business and in public situations we must defecate in gender separated area. I wonder how many people have the same informal gender separation in their own home - that with out anything being said - there is a male and a female toilet?
I remember when I began teaching and on teacher only day - before the kids arrived - one of the first things I did as I explored my classroom and environs was walk into the boy's toilet block.
It was scary and unfamilar and I felt wicked for being there.
Of course now I use the male toilets whenever there is a queue for the women's toilet.
That happened yesterday. I was collecting old rusty bottle tops from the car parking building and needed to go to the bathroom. The closest one is in the cafe over the alley so I went there.
The women's toilet was occupied so I walked into the male cubicle - there is only one of each in that cafe.
Again I noticed the difference of male space. I felt uncomfortable sitting on the seat - which is strange because I dont feel that way using the unisex bathroom at the movie theatre.
Another thought that arrived in the movie theatre bathroom - how strange is it males urinate in public and women don't. We are even shown images in movies of men urinating in groups - so there must be some social reason for that behaviour. Imagine if women did so and there were little cup urinals for women to perch on as they peed!
It seems to me the bathroom is a social female space - how many groups of women go to the bathroom in groups - but the act of urination for women is a hidden thing, in a way it is not for males!
Our taboos are unthought and readily accepted - so even in this society of ours that works so hard at equality there are divisions between sexes and groups we never pause to consider.
I remember when I began teaching and on teacher only day - before the kids arrived - one of the first things I did as I explored my classroom and environs was walk into the boy's toilet block.
It was scary and unfamilar and I felt wicked for being there.
Of course now I use the male toilets whenever there is a queue for the women's toilet.
That happened yesterday. I was collecting old rusty bottle tops from the car parking building and needed to go to the bathroom. The closest one is in the cafe over the alley so I went there.
The women's toilet was occupied so I walked into the male cubicle - there is only one of each in that cafe.
Again I noticed the difference of male space. I felt uncomfortable sitting on the seat - which is strange because I dont feel that way using the unisex bathroom at the movie theatre.
Another thought that arrived in the movie theatre bathroom - how strange is it males urinate in public and women don't. We are even shown images in movies of men urinating in groups - so there must be some social reason for that behaviour. Imagine if women did so and there were little cup urinals for women to perch on as they peed!
It seems to me the bathroom is a social female space - how many groups of women go to the bathroom in groups - but the act of urination for women is a hidden thing, in a way it is not for males!
Our taboos are unthought and readily accepted - so even in this society of ours that works so hard at equality there are divisions between sexes and groups we never pause to consider.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
First of the Old Blogs
And the only one I'm going to label as such.
Importing blogs is more difficult than I thought - I cant even cut and paste the text into here. Will need to ask more questions and explore more - unless I am to retype all my old posts
That would suck!
I wrote that in pink because pink sucks!!
Importing blogs is more difficult than I thought - I cant even cut and paste the text into here. Will need to ask more questions and explore more - unless I am to retype all my old posts
That would suck!
I wrote that in pink because pink sucks!!
Old Blogs
I used to use Myspace to blog and found using that space that I do love to blog.
It's a different process from journalling - and I'm not sure how it is different yet - perhaps the sense of audience is different.
In my journal 'I' and both creator and audience where as here there is an implied third person - a 'you'. Not sure if that entity is other or not yet but this is something to ponder.
What then is the difference between an audience which is self and one which is implied as 'you' when that is not specifically defined as other.
I'm going to start bringing over my blog bit by bit. Its like collage - I'm building a new image of myself here using things i have stored for later in another cupboard!
It's a different process from journalling - and I'm not sure how it is different yet - perhaps the sense of audience is different.
In my journal 'I' and both creator and audience where as here there is an implied third person - a 'you'. Not sure if that entity is other or not yet but this is something to ponder.
What then is the difference between an audience which is self and one which is implied as 'you' when that is not specifically defined as other.
I'm going to start bringing over my blog bit by bit. Its like collage - I'm building a new image of myself here using things i have stored for later in another cupboard!
Old Man at the Bookshop Yesterday
I went to readings yesterday http://www.readings.com.au/ its my favourite bookshop. I love it because its local, its not monolithic and because the people who work there obviously care about books and enjoy working with people which suggests to me they are paid well and treated with respect. I also love that they don't require a deposit when I order a book and that usually books I order arrive sooner than I was expecting.
I do love amazon but that's a scary place to visit with a credit card - I'm more in control in the face to face situation of real books!
My trip today was caused by listening to the book report on national Radio in the morning. there was an interview with Emmanuel Jal.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuel_Jal He was a child soldier rescued by an aid worker and has become a rap artist and writer. He has a facebook page and is building a school at the moment. I was enthralled by his passion and his eloquence and his ability to reflect on his experiences.
It's a voyeuristic experience, I think, to listen to someone talk so clearly about the horrific experiences they have, not only endured but also used in a creative sense to recreate the world they wish to live in. I ordered his book War Child and his CD also entitled War Child.
While I was waiting for the charming man at the counter to find another book I wanted - entitled Warriors and a photo-essay of Indian warriors at the end of the 19th beginning of the 20th century.
The photographs in this book are extraordinary in their detail - old photos are created through stillness in a way modern photos are not and I believe this changes the experience of the observer - I'm not sure how yet - because Ive just thought that thought. But there is also the phenomena Barthes talks about in Camera Lucida - where information available to the observer but no to the person photographed or taking the photograph affects intensely the experience of looking. Again we - I mean me - are back to the voyeuristic experience!
The warrior book - which had been on the remainder table at Readings in Lygon street before Christmas seems to have disappeared and so i am going to have to hunt it down.
I wanted to give it to Rory - he is interested in warrior culture - as all young men are and I thought the images in this book would make an interesting counterpoint to the Maori warrior culture and the culture of moko.
Any way, and here we are at the point of this - at the counter was an older man. he was collecting a book for his wife and I listened to his exchange with the woman behind the counter - as I always listen to people talking. I cant remember his wife's name but it was at the end of the alphabet - 'z' or 'w' but I'm thinking 'z'. I looked at the book as it was placed in its paper bag and it was a copy of Graceling. I know this book.
http://www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com/hmhbooks/graceling/
I read it over a series of visits to Borders. Its a fantasy novel and I am very fond of fantasy!
The main character in this book is an assassin born with the extreme ability to kill with her bare hands.
I looked again at this older man collecting this particular book for his wife. he was wearing long cargo shorts belted tightly at the waist with his dark grey tee shirt firmly tucked into his pants. his hair was short and neatly combed. He carried a walking stick and wore sensible walking sandals and walked tall and strong, if a little slowly.
And I wondered about the inner life of the woman reading the book about the assassin.
I do love amazon but that's a scary place to visit with a credit card - I'm more in control in the face to face situation of real books!
My trip today was caused by listening to the book report on national Radio in the morning. there was an interview with Emmanuel Jal.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuel_Jal He was a child soldier rescued by an aid worker and has become a rap artist and writer. He has a facebook page and is building a school at the moment. I was enthralled by his passion and his eloquence and his ability to reflect on his experiences.
It's a voyeuristic experience, I think, to listen to someone talk so clearly about the horrific experiences they have, not only endured but also used in a creative sense to recreate the world they wish to live in. I ordered his book War Child and his CD also entitled War Child.
While I was waiting for the charming man at the counter to find another book I wanted - entitled Warriors and a photo-essay of Indian warriors at the end of the 19th beginning of the 20th century.
The photographs in this book are extraordinary in their detail - old photos are created through stillness in a way modern photos are not and I believe this changes the experience of the observer - I'm not sure how yet - because Ive just thought that thought. But there is also the phenomena Barthes talks about in Camera Lucida - where information available to the observer but no to the person photographed or taking the photograph affects intensely the experience of looking. Again we - I mean me - are back to the voyeuristic experience!
The warrior book - which had been on the remainder table at Readings in Lygon street before Christmas seems to have disappeared and so i am going to have to hunt it down.
I wanted to give it to Rory - he is interested in warrior culture - as all young men are and I thought the images in this book would make an interesting counterpoint to the Maori warrior culture and the culture of moko.
Any way, and here we are at the point of this - at the counter was an older man. he was collecting a book for his wife and I listened to his exchange with the woman behind the counter - as I always listen to people talking. I cant remember his wife's name but it was at the end of the alphabet - 'z' or 'w' but I'm thinking 'z'. I looked at the book as it was placed in its paper bag and it was a copy of Graceling. I know this book.
http://www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com/hmhbooks/graceling/
I read it over a series of visits to Borders. Its a fantasy novel and I am very fond of fantasy!
The main character in this book is an assassin born with the extreme ability to kill with her bare hands.
I looked again at this older man collecting this particular book for his wife. he was wearing long cargo shorts belted tightly at the waist with his dark grey tee shirt firmly tucked into his pants. his hair was short and neatly combed. He carried a walking stick and wore sensible walking sandals and walked tall and strong, if a little slowly.
And I wondered about the inner life of the woman reading the book about the assassin.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Old Letters
I've been tidying my study - I tidy my study like some women diet - Ive been doing it for most of my adult life!
I have issues.
There's the issue of books - do I use the dewey system or do just alphabetical order; is fiction to be integrated or separated from nonfiction - and where do I stack the books I'm reading right now?
It's difficult.
I decided to order my books using a personal mind map - it's fluid and useful but as with so many thing - the strength is also the weakness - it's an unfinished process and I keep moving categories.
Llike that study I remember reading as an undergraduate which showed colour classification is culturall y specific and each culture has colours that dont exist in others.
As with colour so with words!
I get side tracked really, really easily and thats part of the problem with study maintenance - I begin to explore.
Exploring your own stuff is just as exciting in many ways as exploring other people's stuff - more so in many ways becausede you have to relocate the state of mine or intellectual standpoint that led you to keep that or say that or make that - or as so often happens - to keep that sequence of objects in that folder or box or pile.
Similarly adventurous is finding a newspaper page - carefully folded to keep an article that obviously was important enough to keep - unfolding and scanning the page only to discover you have absolutely no idea what was on this page that needed to be kept. Obviously the moment had passed.
I've just reorganised ther material and files for my reading groups. tidied up and glued in all the patterns and drawings for my knitting groups and dusted some shelves.
Looking at a box of old photographs and an archive box of old letters I have no idea how to contain and store them; I want to acknowledge their importance but I dont know how - I can make new books for the photos - easily done but how are old letters to be stored?
I'm going for a walk!
I have issues.
There's the issue of books - do I use the dewey system or do just alphabetical order; is fiction to be integrated or separated from nonfiction - and where do I stack the books I'm reading right now?
It's difficult.
I decided to order my books using a personal mind map - it's fluid and useful but as with so many thing - the strength is also the weakness - it's an unfinished process and I keep moving categories.
Llike that study I remember reading as an undergraduate which showed colour classification is culturall y specific and each culture has colours that dont exist in others.
As with colour so with words!
I get side tracked really, really easily and thats part of the problem with study maintenance - I begin to explore.
Exploring your own stuff is just as exciting in many ways as exploring other people's stuff - more so in many ways becausede you have to relocate the state of mine or intellectual standpoint that led you to keep that or say that or make that - or as so often happens - to keep that sequence of objects in that folder or box or pile.
Similarly adventurous is finding a newspaper page - carefully folded to keep an article that obviously was important enough to keep - unfolding and scanning the page only to discover you have absolutely no idea what was on this page that needed to be kept. Obviously the moment had passed.
I've just reorganised ther material and files for my reading groups. tidied up and glued in all the patterns and drawings for my knitting groups and dusted some shelves.
Looking at a box of old photographs and an archive box of old letters I have no idea how to contain and store them; I want to acknowledge their importance but I dont know how - I can make new books for the photos - easily done but how are old letters to be stored?
I'm going for a walk!
Egyptologist
Like many people I have been an Egyptologist since I saw images of pyramids and mummies for the first time.
I was aided in this by my mother whos notion of bedtime stories was to retell things she had read in the paper, books she was reading interwoven with fragments of her own childhood - magical magical stories!
I remember one favourite story was the opening of Tutanhkamon's sarcophogus. My mother would weave the darkness, the smell, the excitement and terror into a story of wonder and she would alway finish with the incredible - and as they lifted the heavy gold mask from his face they saw the flowers his child wife had placed on his chest as she kissed him good bye for the last time. And as they watched in the flickering candle light the wreathe crumpled and disappeared.
I still love that story - even though I have to tell it to myself now!
This is a huge entrance to the real point of this story!!
When I was living in London I used to spend a lot of time in the museum - especially in the room of the mummies - yet again I would wish I read the texts - never, of course, following up that thought with the sheer drudgery of learning to read them.
Some days I could sit almost alone in the room and examine the images and forms to my heart's delight. On other occasions there would be queues of people wedged into the room weaving their way slowly around the cases.
The noise and smell of the crowd was intense in these moments and one day I had this thought - which I treasure for many spurious reasons!
The wealth and beauty of Egypt was spent to remove these people from the everyday of life and this process continued into the construction of vast palaces for them to spend eternity - in the peace and space great wealth can buy.
How much must it suck to spend this part of your eternity packed like sardines in the museum mummy room being gawked at by the same populace you had so carefully removed yourself from!!
I was aided in this by my mother whos notion of bedtime stories was to retell things she had read in the paper, books she was reading interwoven with fragments of her own childhood - magical magical stories!
I remember one favourite story was the opening of Tutanhkamon's sarcophogus. My mother would weave the darkness, the smell, the excitement and terror into a story of wonder and she would alway finish with the incredible - and as they lifted the heavy gold mask from his face they saw the flowers his child wife had placed on his chest as she kissed him good bye for the last time. And as they watched in the flickering candle light the wreathe crumpled and disappeared.
I still love that story - even though I have to tell it to myself now!
This is a huge entrance to the real point of this story!!
When I was living in London I used to spend a lot of time in the museum - especially in the room of the mummies - yet again I would wish I read the texts - never, of course, following up that thought with the sheer drudgery of learning to read them.
Some days I could sit almost alone in the room and examine the images and forms to my heart's delight. On other occasions there would be queues of people wedged into the room weaving their way slowly around the cases.
The noise and smell of the crowd was intense in these moments and one day I had this thought - which I treasure for many spurious reasons!
The wealth and beauty of Egypt was spent to remove these people from the everyday of life and this process continued into the construction of vast palaces for them to spend eternity - in the peace and space great wealth can buy.
How much must it suck to spend this part of your eternity packed like sardines in the museum mummy room being gawked at by the same populace you had so carefully removed yourself from!!
Books of the Dead
Books of the Dead fascinate me - we think of them as truly esotric and ancient books of secret knowledge.
Its my understanding they were created in giant scriptoriums - scribes worked on pages and people would choose which pages they wanted their dead people to take with them into the afterlife.
I'll have that one and that one and that one - and the one with the really great image of Osiris please!
Its almost like a supermarket!
Its my understanding they were created in giant scriptoriums - scribes worked on pages and people would choose which pages they wanted their dead people to take with them into the afterlife.
I'll have that one and that one and that one - and the one with the really great image of Osiris please!
Its almost like a supermarket!
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