"Nihilism is the belief that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated. It is often associated with extreme pessimism and a radical skepticism that condemns existence."
I proposed a discussion of this topic because lately I've been feeling a bit nihilistic and also, I wanted to hear what Susie had to say about it.
Existential nihilism considers existence meaningless, purposeless, and without value. Although I do feel that we do not have any meaning, this does not upset me, because from the evidence that has been presented, this is the conclusion I have drawn. I do not, however, believe that existence is without value. Whilst it may be true that we exist because of very complex physical processes, that does not mean that we cannot create value for ourselves. And that, I think, makes the fact that our existence is meaningless, void.
Moral nihilism views morality as non-existent, and argues that nothing is inherently right or wrong. I am actually a fan of morality, via commonsense, mind you. We know that killing someone is wrong, and that is necessary knowledge. I do understand that morality is a human construct, but it exists for us, and it is important for the survival of our species. Because if anything, the purpose of life is survival, and there are a lot of things that we do to aide our survival, without knowing it. See: Evolutionary Psychology.
Epistemological nihilism is an extreme form of skepticism which claims that there is no knowledge whatsoever. I believe this has something to do with the idea of truth. I suppose it's like when you are writing an essay and get your information from various journal articles, you generally accept that the information is true, but this kind of nihilism asks, well, how do we really know it's true? But some things we know are true because we all agree on it, for example, it is true that this object I am holding is a hairbrush, it may be called different things in different cultures but generally, we know it's a hairbrush. Even metaphysical nihilism says, yeah, but does that hairbrush even exist? To which I exclaim, yes it does, shut up your face.
In summary, nihilism brings up a few good points but generally is just a grim view of the world which tries to explain how various things do not exist.
As an aside, whilst I was researching this, I read somewhere that Seinfeld may be a manifestation of nihilism on TV. Brilliant.
Further Reading: http://www.iep.utm.edu/nihilism/
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Jens Lekman
It all started with a queasy stomach and a warm Summer's night. Me and Xinia bought some drinks at the bar, I talked to the people I recognised and we scoured the merch table, Jens didn't have any t-shirts but he had a whole bunch of golden keys on necklaces. Then we watched the opening band, The Gladeyes, who were a couple of crooning, well-mannered girls. Jens then entered the stage to set up various things. I noticed that he was wearing cobalt socks, I told Xinia and we collectively squeeed. He looked very tidy and handsome, his grey trousers folded up below his ankles and his shirt folded below his elbows. I quickly got annoyed at the hipster couple in front of me who kept groping each other. No one needs that. When he came on again, everyone clapped and cheered. He was accompanied by a woman who played the bongos, quite sexily if I may add, and had a tambourine strapped to her foot. He started off by talking about first kisses which of course led into And I Remember Every Kiss. Some songs it was just him and his guitar, some with the samples on his laptop, others with stomps and whistles and hand claps. I always feel quite embarrased to dance, but Jens made it impossible for me not to. Song by song, I slowly built up my confidence until I just didn't care anymore. And luckily, by this point, a guy had pushed in beside me, so I no longer had to deal with the groping idiots, and I had a better view! My favourites were Black Cab, A Sweet Summers Night on Hammer Hill and Maple Leaves. His two new songs were a bit average. He kept getting us to sing, "I keep running with a heart on fire" and he would harmonize over top of us. At times, Jens and his companion would break out into sychronised dance routines, which were so wonderful. Jens passed out tambourines into the crowd, and got us to play this feather game where you couldn't let it touch the ground by blowing on it. It was just so FUN, the way he interacted with the crowd and really put on a show. You know how sometimes you see a band and they just play their songs and go? That's fine and everything, but it's so nice to have a change. Jens played two encores, and honestly, I wish he played seven. I never wanted it to end. All in all, he played for an hour and fifteen minutes and it went by so fast. I was in awe and completely happy. The last song he played was Pocketful of Money, it was a perfect end to a perfect night. We walked home, sweaty and aching, excitedly talking about the gig with loud voices and exaggerated hand movements.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
summer books
on the plane I read John Darnielle's 'novella' about the Black Sabbath record, Master of Reality. The book is written as part of a series where current musicians write about music that inspired them. Those who aren't big fans of the Mountain Goats may not know that John Darnielle is actually quite the fan of metal/hardcore music and he keeps a blog about it called Last Plane to Jakarta. Anyway the book is about this kid who is put in a mental hospital and has to keep a journal of his feelings, which happen to mostly be about how angry he is that his walkman and Black Sabbath tape were taken away from him. He equates their music to air. Anyway then there's a gap of ten years and he reflects about his time there and how he feels about the music later in his life. I found it very compelling because it was written so authentically. I suppose an easy comparison is Holden Caulfield, you just believe in the character so much that you forget they aren't real, that somebody else has created them. It is quite a short read though, regrettably. I hope that John Darnielle writes more in the future.
I also read the autobiography of Jean Rhys, an English writer famous for writing a prequel to Jane Eyre. It's written as a series of vignettes and although it is obviously in chronological order, it's not every little detail of her life. More like interesting or significant things that I suppose are remarkable because the book is quite short. Jean Rhys actually died before she finished writing it and a friend of hers collated notes from diaries to make it novel length. I really can't find the right words to express how much I enjoyed reading this.
I've been trying to read this book called The Collected Works of TS Spivet, by Reif Larsen, which is about a 13 year old boy who is some master cartographer, but I find it very difficult to read cause there are heaps of digressions and on top of the digressions there are these arrows going off to the side that take you to MORE digressions. The premise is that he's been invited to the Smithsonian to do a speech about map drawing or something, but he can't tell his parents that he's won this privelige so he has to travel across America without their permission. The only thing that's keeping me in the story is that his brother somehow killed himself with a gun on their ranch and I need to know what happened. Nice one, Larsen.
But really the book I am totally into at the moment is The Unbearable Lightness of being by Milan Kundera. It is magnificent. You must read it.
I also read the autobiography of Jean Rhys, an English writer famous for writing a prequel to Jane Eyre. It's written as a series of vignettes and although it is obviously in chronological order, it's not every little detail of her life. More like interesting or significant things that I suppose are remarkable because the book is quite short. Jean Rhys actually died before she finished writing it and a friend of hers collated notes from diaries to make it novel length. I really can't find the right words to express how much I enjoyed reading this.
I've been trying to read this book called The Collected Works of TS Spivet, by Reif Larsen, which is about a 13 year old boy who is some master cartographer, but I find it very difficult to read cause there are heaps of digressions and on top of the digressions there are these arrows going off to the side that take you to MORE digressions. The premise is that he's been invited to the Smithsonian to do a speech about map drawing or something, but he can't tell his parents that he's won this privelige so he has to travel across America without their permission. The only thing that's keeping me in the story is that his brother somehow killed himself with a gun on their ranch and I need to know what happened. Nice one, Larsen.
But really the book I am totally into at the moment is The Unbearable Lightness of being by Milan Kundera. It is magnificent. You must read it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Report on Human Beings by Michael Goldman
You know about desks and noses,
proteins, mortgages, orchestras,
nationalities, contraceptives;
you have our ruins and records,
but they won't tell you
what we were like.
We were distinguished
by our interest in scenery;
we could look at things for hours
without using or breaking them--
and there was a touch of desperation, not to be found
in any other animal,
in the looks of love we directed
at our children.
We were treacherous of course.
Like anything here--
winds, dogs, the sun--
we could turn against you unexpectedly,
we could let you down.
But what was remarkable about us
and which you will not believe
is that we alone,
with the exception of a few pets
who probably learned it from us,
when betrayed
were frequently surprised.
We were one of a million species
who continually cried out
or silently wept with pain.
I am proud that we alone resented
taking part in the chorus.
Yes, some of us
like to cause pain.
Yes, most of us
sometimes
liked to cause pain,
but I am proud that most of us
were ashamed
afterward.
Our love of poetry would have amused you;
we were so proud of language
we thought we invented it
(and thus failed to notice
the speech of the animals,
the birds' repeated warnings,
the whispered intelligence
of mutant cells).
We did invent boredom,
a fruitful state.
It hid the size of our desires.
We were spared many murders,
many religions
because we could say, "I am bored."
A kind of clarity
came when we said it
and we could go to Paris or the movies,
give useful parties, master languages,
rather than sink our teeth in our lover's throat
and shake till things felt right again.
Out of the same pulsing world
you know,
out of gases, whorls,
fronds, feelers, jellies,
we devised hard edges,
strings of infinite tension stretched
to guide us.
The mind's pure snowflake
was our map.
Lines, angles, outlines
not to be found in rocks or seas
or living matter
or in the holes of space,
how strange these shapes must look to you,
at odds with everything,
uncanny, broken from the flow,
I think they must be for you
what we called art.
What was most wonderful about us
was our kindness,
but of this it is impossible to speak.
Only someone who knows our cruelty,
who knows the fears we always lived with,
fear of inside and outside, smooth and rough,
soft and hard, wet and dry, touch and no touch,
only someone who understands the great palace we built
on the axis of time
out of our fear and cruelty and called history,
only those who have lived in the anger
of a great modern city,
who saw the traffic in the morning
and the police at night
can know how heartbreaking
our kindness was.
Let me put it this way.
One of us said, "I think
our life is not as good
as the mind warrants,"
another, "It is hard
to be alone and alive at the same time."
To understand these statements
you would have to be human.
Our destruction as a species
was accidental.
Characteristically
we blamed it on ourselves,
which neither the eagle
nor the dinosaur would do.
Look closely around you,
study our instruments,
scan the night sky.
We were alien.
Nothing in the universe
resembles us.
proteins, mortgages, orchestras,
nationalities, contraceptives;
you have our ruins and records,
but they won't tell you
what we were like.
We were distinguished
by our interest in scenery;
we could look at things for hours
without using or breaking them--
and there was a touch of desperation, not to be found
in any other animal,
in the looks of love we directed
at our children.
We were treacherous of course.
Like anything here--
winds, dogs, the sun--
we could turn against you unexpectedly,
we could let you down.
But what was remarkable about us
and which you will not believe
is that we alone,
with the exception of a few pets
who probably learned it from us,
when betrayed
were frequently surprised.
We were one of a million species
who continually cried out
or silently wept with pain.
I am proud that we alone resented
taking part in the chorus.
Yes, some of us
like to cause pain.
Yes, most of us
sometimes
liked to cause pain,
but I am proud that most of us
were ashamed
afterward.
Our love of poetry would have amused you;
we were so proud of language
we thought we invented it
(and thus failed to notice
the speech of the animals,
the birds' repeated warnings,
the whispered intelligence
of mutant cells).
We did invent boredom,
a fruitful state.
It hid the size of our desires.
We were spared many murders,
many religions
because we could say, "I am bored."
A kind of clarity
came when we said it
and we could go to Paris or the movies,
give useful parties, master languages,
rather than sink our teeth in our lover's throat
and shake till things felt right again.
Out of the same pulsing world
you know,
out of gases, whorls,
fronds, feelers, jellies,
we devised hard edges,
strings of infinite tension stretched
to guide us.
The mind's pure snowflake
was our map.
Lines, angles, outlines
not to be found in rocks or seas
or living matter
or in the holes of space,
how strange these shapes must look to you,
at odds with everything,
uncanny, broken from the flow,
I think they must be for you
what we called art.
What was most wonderful about us
was our kindness,
but of this it is impossible to speak.
Only someone who knows our cruelty,
who knows the fears we always lived with,
fear of inside and outside, smooth and rough,
soft and hard, wet and dry, touch and no touch,
only someone who understands the great palace we built
on the axis of time
out of our fear and cruelty and called history,
only those who have lived in the anger
of a great modern city,
who saw the traffic in the morning
and the police at night
can know how heartbreaking
our kindness was.
Let me put it this way.
One of us said, "I think
our life is not as good
as the mind warrants,"
another, "It is hard
to be alone and alive at the same time."
To understand these statements
you would have to be human.
Our destruction as a species
was accidental.
Characteristically
we blamed it on ourselves,
which neither the eagle
nor the dinosaur would do.
Look closely around you,
study our instruments,
scan the night sky.
We were alien.
Nothing in the universe
resembles us.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Summer readin', had me a blast
As per Susie's request, I will talk a bit about the books I have read over the Summer. The last three books i've read are The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, Gertrude by Hermann Hesse and Mary Shelley by Miranda Seymour.
For a bit about the Mary Shelley bio go to my blog: http://accomplishments.wordpress.com/2010/01/08/book-review-kind-of/
The History of Love is one of those books that whenever you have a single spare moment, you want to pick it up and read it. One of these books only come along every so often for me, and it is a wonderful feeling to have that. Interestingly, it has some parallels to Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which is a book written by her husband, Jonathan Safran Foer. It is interesting because they had written their respective books before they even knew each other. It is about a book called The History of Love and a little girl's journey to discover the man who wrote it. The book switches between the lives of said little girl, Alma Singer and said author of the book, Leo Gursky. It is incredibly moving and I would recommend it to anyone.
I found it hard to get into 'Gertrude', but when I did, I really found that I loved and finished it in a couple of days. Our hero is Kuhn, a composer who speaks of the events of his life after the fact. I was fascinated by the character Muoth, just because he was so moody and unpredictable. It had a lot of philosophical musings which I thought rang true and gave me a few things to think about. He tells us of his relationships with various people and mainly, Gertrude. I've already bought another of his books, Steppenwolf , which I am excited to read.
As of right now, I am reading Moab is My Washpot, an autobiography by Stephen Fry and next will be the autobiography of Janet Frame, the NZ poet and writer. Good reading times ahead.
For a bit about the Mary Shelley bio go to my blog: http://accomplishments.wordpress.com/2010/01/08/book-review-kind-of/
The History of Love is one of those books that whenever you have a single spare moment, you want to pick it up and read it. One of these books only come along every so often for me, and it is a wonderful feeling to have that. Interestingly, it has some parallels to Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which is a book written by her husband, Jonathan Safran Foer. It is interesting because they had written their respective books before they even knew each other. It is about a book called The History of Love and a little girl's journey to discover the man who wrote it. The book switches between the lives of said little girl, Alma Singer and said author of the book, Leo Gursky. It is incredibly moving and I would recommend it to anyone.
I found it hard to get into 'Gertrude', but when I did, I really found that I loved and finished it in a couple of days. Our hero is Kuhn, a composer who speaks of the events of his life after the fact. I was fascinated by the character Muoth, just because he was so moody and unpredictable. It had a lot of philosophical musings which I thought rang true and gave me a few things to think about. He tells us of his relationships with various people and mainly, Gertrude. I've already bought another of his books, Steppenwolf , which I am excited to read.
As of right now, I am reading Moab is My Washpot, an autobiography by Stephen Fry and next will be the autobiography of Janet Frame, the NZ poet and writer. Good reading times ahead.
fables
Now I am back in Australia
I can't really sum my trip overseas up & I don't really know whether people read this blog anyway, but here are a few links that are relevant to/came up during it.
1 - the cook's shop this is my aunt's shop and it's really nice, everyone who works there is nice. I worked there before & after Christmas like I did when I visited as a 16 year old. Very nostalgic.
2 - the exhibition my cousin is organising there is some other website for it that I cannot find. My cousin is Sam Perry, I think he is very cool because I made him a mixed CD when I was dumb and in high school and he made me one while I was over there because he felt bad for not making one three years ago. I was just embarrassed, but the CD I got is amazing.
3 - zine store in Affleck's palace if you ever go to Manchester, do find Affleck's Palace. It's in the Northern Quarter or something, on Queen Street. I hope I'm not making that up. Anyway it apparently used to be full of all these vintage stores that were cheap and good, but now it's kinda grungy and has stores like Thunder Egg and I dunno, those weird gothic shops with goth platform shoes and pants. Frightening, right? but if you persevere to the very top there's a whole bunch of handmade stuff, the best vintage stores are up there and there's the Good Grief zine store, where a cute boy/man (I think boyman) sat drawing. free postcards if you're not going to purchase a zine.
4 - website of pretty artwork/poetry purchased in..
5 - lik + neon, zine/quirky clothes store just off Brick Lane that is home to three kitties I have an affinity with stores that are home to real cats, like that bookstore near Windsor station. I really liked Brick Lane, I could see myself living there. But Londoners scoff at it, I have heard, because of trendsters and Vince Noir. But I'm Australian so I'm allowed to like it.
6 - guitar pedals made by a nice person *cough*
to start this collaborative blog rolling again, Stace, let's write something about the books we have read over the summer holidays. GO!
I can't really sum my trip overseas up & I don't really know whether people read this blog anyway, but here are a few links that are relevant to/came up during it.
1 - the cook's shop this is my aunt's shop and it's really nice, everyone who works there is nice. I worked there before & after Christmas like I did when I visited as a 16 year old. Very nostalgic.
2 - the exhibition my cousin is organising there is some other website for it that I cannot find. My cousin is Sam Perry, I think he is very cool because I made him a mixed CD when I was dumb and in high school and he made me one while I was over there because he felt bad for not making one three years ago. I was just embarrassed, but the CD I got is amazing.
3 - zine store in Affleck's palace if you ever go to Manchester, do find Affleck's Palace. It's in the Northern Quarter or something, on Queen Street. I hope I'm not making that up. Anyway it apparently used to be full of all these vintage stores that were cheap and good, but now it's kinda grungy and has stores like Thunder Egg and I dunno, those weird gothic shops with goth platform shoes and pants. Frightening, right? but if you persevere to the very top there's a whole bunch of handmade stuff, the best vintage stores are up there and there's the Good Grief zine store, where a cute boy/man (I think boyman) sat drawing. free postcards if you're not going to purchase a zine.
4 - website of pretty artwork/poetry purchased in..
5 - lik + neon, zine/quirky clothes store just off Brick Lane that is home to three kitties I have an affinity with stores that are home to real cats, like that bookstore near Windsor station. I really liked Brick Lane, I could see myself living there. But Londoners scoff at it, I have heard, because of trendsters and Vince Noir. But I'm Australian so I'm allowed to like it.
6 - guitar pedals made by a nice person *cough*
to start this collaborative blog rolling again, Stace, let's write something about the books we have read over the summer holidays. GO!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
UK correspondence
(this picture is me and my sister in Hyde Park in London with the Peter Pan statue that JM Barrie gave to the park. Perhaps pictures of Somerset to come)
Taunton is 'the Best Large Floral Town in the South West' and when you drive in from their farm in the village of Curland you go through and past places like Staple Fitzpane, Slough Green and West Hatch, along windy hedged roads that barely fit one car on, let alone two, roads that make my mother say "shit" like I say "fuck" - mother never swears. People on horses wave as you slow down to let them pass safely. Every house you pass is like the last: cute thatched white affairs that you know where built sometime in the last 300 years. By that I mean 300 years ago. The village of Staple Fitzpane is this amazing picturesque thing, almost ridiculous in its Englishness, with a beautiful church up on a hill that overlooks the rest of the village down in its wake. And you can see old men tramping through their fields with canes, waistcoats and those old men hats, with their collie dogs just a bit ahead, looking back to make sure they're not too far behind. Faithful, those dogs. My uncle has one who is presently lying on the carpet in front of the fire with my sister. Their house is the most amazing thing ever: the fireplace has an old bread oven, the kitchen home to an Aga, with millions of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling with chillies drying. Onions hang outside in the garage and you have to go out and cut them down if you need them. You have to take baths because the shower's gone wrong. The fire's only lit every few days because the wood supply is low and it's best to stay downstairs because the Aga keeps the whole of the downstairs warm somehow. Heating doesn't always come on. Grass round here is as green as you like and fog sometimes so thick you can't see a metre in front of you.
My uncle also tells the best stories. He's obsessed with farming and cows and just heaps of traditional country English things. It's actually pretty adorable. He and my aunt own a cook's shop in Taunton which has got to be the sweetest, nicest shop ever. A man just came in today looking for a knife sharpener and my uncle gave him the most involved talk about the different types of knives and sharpeners. He knows all the stock so well, as do all the staff there really. I find it quite fascinating and I feel bad when people ask me for things - as I'm just helping out on the till - and I can't help them out. I try to be as friendly as everyone else but really, this is the kind of store where, after you serve people and they go "thank you very much" my uncle goes "(no,) thank YOU very much". As we were driving home this evening he told me that in England (and Australia) we drive on the left hand side because back when people used to ride horses instead of driving cars, they were mostly right handed and needed their right hand spare to draw out their swords and defend themselves. Of course, the hedge was on the left hand side so you were protected on that side. I don't know whether that story is true but I like to think that it is because it's quite enjoyable. I made it my facebook status anyway so we'll see how it stands up.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
"ambient stress"
A few notes after a surprisingly very relevant and important talk at Sticky Institute.
• small town dissatisfaction
• defamiliarise your city
This year I’ve met a lot of people who were once the weirdos in small towns and now in Melbourne they find themselves in vibrant and creative circles, often leaders in their fields. At this talk Maddy Phelan, co-founder of Totoro’s tea house in Newcastle (as part of Renew Newcastle), was talking about how to survive in towns full of bogans and stay enamoured with your city (among other things).
Holidays are good for getting down about your situation. Free of uni (or whatever) now, all you have is heaps of time and less to do with it. No longer can you stay chatting in the caf for hours upon hours or sit there by yourself in hopes – realistic usually – that someone you know will saunter past. There you will remain. Maddy recommended being a flaneur (or flaneuse, if you’re from RMIT). This goth boy said he found a great old house with a virgin lemon tree in the backyard one night out with his friends. Others climb fences, sit on rooves (roofs? How about rooftops) & play guitars. Some of us have to – or is this a choice? – sit on the steps of Fed Square alone with our parker pen slipping from our hand from the grease of the Lord of the Fries burger we had for dinner. This itself isn’t enough to fall back in love with the city. No, it’s more about walking down that road you see from the train window and sitting in that park again finally and ambling through lush opulent streets of Hawthorn royalty, about being on foot rather than public transport, being brave enough to eat alone, to be seen alone.
As for bogans, well we’ll never really escape them. As minister for the environment Peter Garret once sang (yes, remember that? He was a musician) “this is Australia”. Small town dissatisfaction on the other hand I get. It’s easy to get frustrated when there’s no support for young creatives, the wider community doesn’t get involved and nobody turns up to gigs. There can be a lot of apathy in young people in the country. I wish I could come up with a viable strategic plan to go back to my home town and change something somehow. Make the town less about 40 yr old conservative white people (read: Rotarians) and give the young people with something interesting to say a chance.. Maybe..
I guess the good thing about being a weirdo from a small or isolated town is that when you do move to a real good place you usually don’t take it for granted. Usually.
• small town dissatisfaction
• defamiliarise your city
This year I’ve met a lot of people who were once the weirdos in small towns and now in Melbourne they find themselves in vibrant and creative circles, often leaders in their fields. At this talk Maddy Phelan, co-founder of Totoro’s tea house in Newcastle (as part of Renew Newcastle), was talking about how to survive in towns full of bogans and stay enamoured with your city (among other things).
Holidays are good for getting down about your situation. Free of uni (or whatever) now, all you have is heaps of time and less to do with it. No longer can you stay chatting in the caf for hours upon hours or sit there by yourself in hopes – realistic usually – that someone you know will saunter past. There you will remain. Maddy recommended being a flaneur (or flaneuse, if you’re from RMIT). This goth boy said he found a great old house with a virgin lemon tree in the backyard one night out with his friends. Others climb fences, sit on rooves (roofs? How about rooftops) & play guitars. Some of us have to – or is this a choice? – sit on the steps of Fed Square alone with our parker pen slipping from our hand from the grease of the Lord of the Fries burger we had for dinner. This itself isn’t enough to fall back in love with the city. No, it’s more about walking down that road you see from the train window and sitting in that park again finally and ambling through lush opulent streets of Hawthorn royalty, about being on foot rather than public transport, being brave enough to eat alone, to be seen alone.
As for bogans, well we’ll never really escape them. As minister for the environment Peter Garret once sang (yes, remember that? He was a musician) “this is Australia”. Small town dissatisfaction on the other hand I get. It’s easy to get frustrated when there’s no support for young creatives, the wider community doesn’t get involved and nobody turns up to gigs. There can be a lot of apathy in young people in the country. I wish I could come up with a viable strategic plan to go back to my home town and change something somehow. Make the town less about 40 yr old conservative white people (read: Rotarians) and give the young people with something interesting to say a chance.. Maybe..
I guess the good thing about being a weirdo from a small or isolated town is that when you do move to a real good place you usually don’t take it for granted. Usually.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
There's A Cat On My Head by Terri Crawford
It was dark and quiet, the still of the night.
No sound at all, a street lamp the only light.
I was all settled in, covers pulled to my chin,
The best part of the dream about to begin.
When suddenly I awoke and I knew not why,
No alarm had gone off, I don't have a baby to cry.
I struggled to wake, it was hard to breathe.
And for some reason I couldn't see.
There was a weight, a pressure on my brain.
I tried to move and only got neck strain!
Then I realized and under my breath said,
"Oh good grief, I have a cat on my head".
A tail lay covering both of my eyes
a foot on my nose, chin covered with cat thighs.
A 13 pound tabby was perched on my head.
Why did he pick here? He has the rest of a queen size water bed!
So I pushed him and spoke and said "Get off of my head."
And he meowed and refused to lay on the bed.
Finally in desperation, with my very last breath,
I shouted "Pounce" as loud as I could and he finally left.
Those who have kitties have to agree,
they are sweet and lovable, a joy to have and to see.
But in the night when trying to sleep
a cat anywhere might creep.
So sometime you might wake in the night
unable to move even though you try with all your might.
Relax, its o.k. don't be filled with dread,
Its just a cat laying on your head.
No sound at all, a street lamp the only light.
I was all settled in, covers pulled to my chin,
The best part of the dream about to begin.
When suddenly I awoke and I knew not why,
No alarm had gone off, I don't have a baby to cry.
I struggled to wake, it was hard to breathe.
And for some reason I couldn't see.
There was a weight, a pressure on my brain.
I tried to move and only got neck strain!
Then I realized and under my breath said,
"Oh good grief, I have a cat on my head".
A tail lay covering both of my eyes
a foot on my nose, chin covered with cat thighs.
A 13 pound tabby was perched on my head.
Why did he pick here? He has the rest of a queen size water bed!
So I pushed him and spoke and said "Get off of my head."
And he meowed and refused to lay on the bed.
Finally in desperation, with my very last breath,
I shouted "Pounce" as loud as I could and he finally left.
Those who have kitties have to agree,
they are sweet and lovable, a joy to have and to see.
But in the night when trying to sleep
a cat anywhere might creep.
So sometime you might wake in the night
unable to move even though you try with all your might.
Relax, its o.k. don't be filled with dread,
Its just a cat laying on your head.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
children's book
When I was younger one of my favourite authors was Shirley Barber. She mostly draws pretty pictures of fairies and enchanted lands. I used to have a doona cover of one of her pictures.. I used to read and reread her book The Enchanted Wood and one of the ballet concerts I was in was called "A Visit to Fairyland" and it was based on that story. You can imagine how thrilled I was. Here are some examples of her work.
this is the background on my computerrrr
and this is just toooo cute
this one was from the Enchanted Wood
fairylove.
this is the background on my computerrrr
and this is just toooo cute
this one was from the Enchanted Wood
fairylove.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Woollen Bits/Children's Book
I have a whole bunch of woollen jumpers but blogspot makes my pictures look weird. Therefore I am annoyed and will not be posting anything.. Boo blogspot.
Anywhom, one of my favourite books when I was a kid was Honey Sandwich by Elizabeth Honey. So many memories!
Here is one of the poems:
“Auntie Dot”
Auntie Dot
hasn’t got a lot.
In her flat
there’s a cat
a loaf of bread
a little blue bed
a rickety table
a friend called Mabel
a baked bean
a magazine
a golden fish
an ancient wish
a rug
a mug
a tin
a pin
a shell
a smell
a cup of the sea
a dead TV
and
me.
Anywhom, one of my favourite books when I was a kid was Honey Sandwich by Elizabeth Honey. So many memories!
Here is one of the poems:
“Auntie Dot”
Auntie Dot
hasn’t got a lot.
In her flat
there’s a cat
a loaf of bread
a little blue bed
a rickety table
a friend called Mabel
a baked bean
a magazine
a golden fish
an ancient wish
a rug
a mug
a tin
a pin
a shell
a smell
a cup of the sea
a dead TV
and
me.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
woollens
Now look, it's been a week or so and nobody's done a woollen post. This is depressing. To cheer everyone up (or rather, to cheer nobody up) here's mine.
This is an owl my friend bought me last year when I went on a trip to Geelong. There's a really good series of op shops in Geelong, believe it or not, and one that I didn't buy this owl from yet I still recommend investigating is the Mill Markets. Anyway I'm pretty sure the owl was $2 and his name is Paul. There seems to be an abundance of macrame owls out there; I have a feeling this was some sort of fad a little while ago.
I'm going to keep playing this game all by myself. Next one is "a children's book". Doesn't have to be favourites.
My loungeroom smells like paranoia.
This is an owl my friend bought me last year when I went on a trip to Geelong. There's a really good series of op shops in Geelong, believe it or not, and one that I didn't buy this owl from yet I still recommend investigating is the Mill Markets. Anyway I'm pretty sure the owl was $2 and his name is Paul. There seems to be an abundance of macrame owls out there; I have a feeling this was some sort of fad a little while ago.
I'm going to keep playing this game all by myself. Next one is "a children's book". Doesn't have to be favourites.
My loungeroom smells like paranoia.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
things to do: melb edition
Just a few diary notes for the upcoming weeks (or, me paraphrasing and filtering through the ever wonderful 3000)
Bars have markets now, did you know? Hello Sailor Vintage fair is this weekend at the Carlton Hotel. It's pretty rad. There's also apparently some type of garage sale called Lion in Love on Brunswick street that is intriguing me rather.
Onto hydration: Life at the Bottom is a website dedicated to bringing young creatives together to talk about ideas or whinge about unemployment or give us ideas about how to leave the dangerous realm of unemployment. This Wednesday if you find yourself without anything to do, head along to that new hip venue everyone’s talking about, reportedly the new venture of St Jerome’s peeps, 1000 Pound Bend, for a guest speaker. Take your young creative friends. It’s apparently not networking and apparently it’s not scary. There will probably be both pretty girls and pretty boys there. Yessssssss.
I'm interested in going to the second last Wordplay for the year, despite the fact that Celia Pacquola is one of the people going to be there and ever since she had that "random" spot on Rove a few months back I haven't been able to get past her. And she was on Good News Week and was really just trying too hard. Didn't go down to well with me. But maybe if I go to this then I'll get over all those grudges of mine.
BUT WAIT!! I can't go to that because the Voiceworks 21st birthday party is on that night!!
A lot of people seem to be moving house lately (Express Media for example) and the Melbourne Theatre Company is jumping on the proverbial bandwagon and having a garage sale to get rid of a bunch of their old stuff. Can you just imagine how awesome this is going to be? So many props and costumes and miscellaneous other things that could be used for art projects or just personal enjoyment. Or things to jazz up your next trip to Safeway.
If our greenroom at work is anything to go by, this is something you do NOT want to miss. It starts at 9am Sunday 14th November, somewhere in Southbank. It finishes at 3pm, but word is that if you turn up late you may as well not turn up at all. Everyone goes crazy for this stuff, you just take my word for it.
For your ears: The projector-savvy tasty-visual-vivants Projector Obscura will be providing heavenly holograms at the Worker’s Club next Sunday arvo for a sensory extravaganza featuring some real neat bands. I suggest you attend this event before the Worker’s Club becomes one of those places that everyone knows about.. There’s probably about a month to go before you’ll just become another person who’s been there, rather than someone who discovered it early. I’m just sayin’! But seriously, Projector Obscura are fine. And and and they have eggplant chips there. AWESOME.
Oh I should mention that the Newtown Worker's Club is having a craft/makers market over the summer and they want stallholders. You can register online for that one here. And the Order is having a market too, but it's more designy, whatever that means. Probably email them for queries about that one, but I think it starts fairly soon so they might not be accepting stallholders anyhow. Their rooftop terrace is going to be a nice place to hang this summer. Woop.
Bars have markets now, did you know? Hello Sailor Vintage fair is this weekend at the Carlton Hotel. It's pretty rad. There's also apparently some type of garage sale called Lion in Love on Brunswick street that is intriguing me rather.
Onto hydration: Life at the Bottom is a website dedicated to bringing young creatives together to talk about ideas or whinge about unemployment or give us ideas about how to leave the dangerous realm of unemployment. This Wednesday if you find yourself without anything to do, head along to that new hip venue everyone’s talking about, reportedly the new venture of St Jerome’s peeps, 1000 Pound Bend, for a guest speaker. Take your young creative friends. It’s apparently not networking and apparently it’s not scary. There will probably be both pretty girls and pretty boys there. Yessssssss.
I'm interested in going to the second last Wordplay for the year, despite the fact that Celia Pacquola is one of the people going to be there and ever since she had that "random" spot on Rove a few months back I haven't been able to get past her. And she was on Good News Week and was really just trying too hard. Didn't go down to well with me. But maybe if I go to this then I'll get over all those grudges of mine.
BUT WAIT!! I can't go to that because the Voiceworks 21st birthday party is on that night!!
A lot of people seem to be moving house lately (Express Media for example) and the Melbourne Theatre Company is jumping on the proverbial bandwagon and having a garage sale to get rid of a bunch of their old stuff. Can you just imagine how awesome this is going to be? So many props and costumes and miscellaneous other things that could be used for art projects or just personal enjoyment. Or things to jazz up your next trip to Safeway.
If our greenroom at work is anything to go by, this is something you do NOT want to miss. It starts at 9am Sunday 14th November, somewhere in Southbank. It finishes at 3pm, but word is that if you turn up late you may as well not turn up at all. Everyone goes crazy for this stuff, you just take my word for it.
For your ears: The projector-savvy tasty-visual-vivants Projector Obscura will be providing heavenly holograms at the Worker’s Club next Sunday arvo for a sensory extravaganza featuring some real neat bands. I suggest you attend this event before the Worker’s Club becomes one of those places that everyone knows about.. There’s probably about a month to go before you’ll just become another person who’s been there, rather than someone who discovered it early. I’m just sayin’! But seriously, Projector Obscura are fine. And and and they have eggplant chips there. AWESOME.
Oh I should mention that the Newtown Worker's Club is having a craft/makers market over the summer and they want stallholders. You can register online for that one here. And the Order is having a market too, but it's more designy, whatever that means. Probably email them for queries about that one, but I think it starts fairly soon so they might not be accepting stallholders anyhow. Their rooftop terrace is going to be a nice place to hang this summer. Woop.
In a similar vein to Stacey's last post, here's a favourite poem of mine by Erica Jong.
"What You Need to Be a Writer"
After the college
reading,
the eager
students gather.
They ask me
what you need
to be a writer
& I, feeling flippant,
jaunty
(because
I am wearing
an 18th century
dress
& think
myself in love
again),
answer:
“Mazel,
determination,
talent,
& true grit.”
I even
believe it—
looking
as I do
like an
advertisement
for easy
success—
designer dress,
sly smile
on my lips
& silver boots
from
Oz.
Suppose
they saw me
my eyes
swollen
like sponges,
my hand
shaking
with betrayal,
my fear
rampant
in the dark?
Suppose they saw
the fear
of never
writing,
the fear
of being
alone,
the money fear,
the fear fear,
the fear
of succumbing
to fear?
& then
there’s all
I did
not say:
to be
a writer
what you need
is
something
to say:
something
that burns
like a hot coal
in your gut
something
that pounds
like a pump
in your groin
& the courage
to live
like a wound
that never
heals.
---
Recently somebody said that I seem to use a lot of words and say nothing. This is true. But I'll probably just continue doing that. I wish I could be like Erica Jong and just have heaps of opinions and say important things. My fear, unlike her fear of never writing, is that my writing is terrible and that I don't have anything to say. Anyway I guess the point of this post is that I will always strive to be like Ms Jong but fall short. For some time. When I was searching for a copy of the above poem I found a blog that pretty much sums things up.
"What You Need to Be a Writer"
After the college
reading,
the eager
students gather.
They ask me
what you need
to be a writer
& I, feeling flippant,
jaunty
(because
I am wearing
an 18th century
dress
& think
myself in love
again),
answer:
“Mazel,
determination,
talent,
& true grit.”
I even
believe it—
looking
as I do
like an
advertisement
for easy
success—
designer dress,
sly smile
on my lips
& silver boots
from
Oz.
Suppose
they saw me
my eyes
swollen
like sponges,
my hand
shaking
with betrayal,
my fear
rampant
in the dark?
Suppose they saw
the fear
of never
writing,
the fear
of being
alone,
the money fear,
the fear fear,
the fear
of succumbing
to fear?
& then
there’s all
I did
not say:
to be
a writer
what you need
is
something
to say:
something
that burns
like a hot coal
in your gut
something
that pounds
like a pump
in your groin
& the courage
to live
like a wound
that never
heals.
---
Recently somebody said that I seem to use a lot of words and say nothing. This is true. But I'll probably just continue doing that. I wish I could be like Erica Jong and just have heaps of opinions and say important things. My fear, unlike her fear of never writing, is that my writing is terrible and that I don't have anything to say. Anyway I guess the point of this post is that I will always strive to be like Ms Jong but fall short. For some time. When I was searching for a copy of the above poem I found a blog that pretty much sums things up.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
How to be a Poet
by Wendell Berry
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
by Wendell Berry
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
semicolons: friend or foe?
Brief grammar post. I know that nobody (including me) gets it right 100% of the time, but there's always a lot of talk about semicolons. I was taught earlier this year that you use them to join sentences that are related, yet can stand on their own. I decided to research common mistakes made when using them and found a few tutorials and a rather useful grammar quiz.
Of course, you can never just do casual grammar research: you always end up getting into trouble or find yourself knee deep in split infinitives. Look, I try to stay away from claiming to be a grammar nazi, because I'm really not at all. I just try my best. I am putting this information out there to inform the general public.
In my opinion, the easiest way to distinguish between semicolons and regular colons is that colons are what you use when you need to say "here something is! look at this relevant point that is usually short!" and semicolons are more like "well here I am saying a few relevant things that could be in separate sentences, but I'm going to connect them with a semicolon because that makes me seem fancy". If you have another way of looking at it, I'd really like to hear. That's the easiest way for me to get my head around it though.
Please do the quizzies from that website, cause they may illuminate your grammar abilities.. or inabilities!
Of course, you can never just do casual grammar research: you always end up getting into trouble or find yourself knee deep in split infinitives. Look, I try to stay away from claiming to be a grammar nazi, because I'm really not at all. I just try my best. I am putting this information out there to inform the general public.
In my opinion, the easiest way to distinguish between semicolons and regular colons is that colons are what you use when you need to say "here something is! look at this relevant point that is usually short!" and semicolons are more like "well here I am saying a few relevant things that could be in separate sentences, but I'm going to connect them with a semicolon because that makes me seem fancy". If you have another way of looking at it, I'd really like to hear. That's the easiest way for me to get my head around it though.
Please do the quizzies from that website, cause they may illuminate your grammar abilities.. or inabilities!
ponies, strudels, etc
Let's do a post about our favourite woollen things. I've read other blogs and they do these things where they ask their readers to post pictures too and leave links. So maybe if I ask our readers to do that they will.
So, Stacey and I shall post pictures of a few of our favourite woollies and then if we have any readers they post pictures of their woollens on their blogs and leave us a link here telling us they did so.
These other blogs do a post like this every week, and one of the people who participates gets to choose the topic for next week. Can be any topic and we just all post pictures (no matter how crappy - mine will be crappy) of whatever the item/thing/topic chosen is.
And so, to reiterate: pictures of favourite woollen items. Short explanations of why. One week.
So, Stacey and I shall post pictures of a few of our favourite woollies and then if we have any readers they post pictures of their woollens on their blogs and leave us a link here telling us they did so.
These other blogs do a post like this every week, and one of the people who participates gets to choose the topic for next week. Can be any topic and we just all post pictures (no matter how crappy - mine will be crappy) of whatever the item/thing/topic chosen is.
And so, to reiterate: pictures of favourite woollen items. Short explanations of why. One week.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why
from I Eat Poetry
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
(Sonnet XLIII))
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
(Sonnet XLIII))
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Friday, October 30, 2009
who will come?
One day I was walking my sister's old dog along this road in Horsham and the wind was fierce and the rain was hard.
Me and the dog were running like idiots while Sadie by Ms Newsom spurred me on.
You know those times when you feel infinite, or close to it? Infinite in the only way we mortals know how.
That was one of those times.
I know that it will never be as good as running along the edge of a country town with drops of rain and a family hound, but She is coming to Melbourne next year. Just after I come back from England.
I will be there. I wish I could take a beanbag to sit on. I want everyone at the Forum to sit down so we can enjoy her in comfort, but I bet it will be hot and awful.
Me and the dog were running like idiots while Sadie by Ms Newsom spurred me on.
You know those times when you feel infinite, or close to it? Infinite in the only way we mortals know how.
That was one of those times.
I know that it will never be as good as running along the edge of a country town with drops of rain and a family hound, but She is coming to Melbourne next year. Just after I come back from England.
I will be there. I wish I could take a beanbag to sit on. I want everyone at the Forum to sit down so we can enjoy her in comfort, but I bet it will be hot and awful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)