I am decidedly one of those people who has so many options in front of them that they want to do them all.
Opportunity lies before me, there is so much knowledge that I have access to, and people who could help me get there, and I don’t want to miss out on a thing. I want to try everything once, and see or do things that open my eyes. I want to take on more, go places, be someone, do envious things.
I worked 70 hours last week.
Time to turn down some opportunities!
Before they turn me into a shell, incapable of all the things I mentioned above.
Is it possible that life could be TOO good?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Letting the good times roll
And as Kate says over at the Monday Project "Life Is Peachy".
Hmm, I really should stop trying to find content for this blog and just enjoy the 'silence' for a while.
I wish you could see me smiling.
K
Thursday, August 6, 2009
HDC005 Contemporary Design Issues, Winter Term 2009
6. How are the short and medium term needs of refugees being addressed by contemporary designers? Explain with reference to 3 examples serving the needs of displaced people during political upheaval or natural disasters
The number of people displaced by natural disaster and political upheaval is on the rise. In 2008, the figure stood at 42 million for those forcibly uprooted by persecution and conflict, and of this number, 80% were considered to live in developing or ‘third-world’ countries (UNHCR, 2009). And this figure does not take into account those forced from their home by natural disasters; floods, earthquakes, and the like. The US Dept of Homeland Security for example, estimated that more than 800,000 people were made homeless after Hurricane Katrina (Wortham, 2007). Across the globe, humanitarian effort is desperately seeking to find faster and more cost effective methods for housing these populations both during displacement, and also once they return to rebuild their nations, by socially and environmentally sustainable means.
The challenges that lie before our contemporary designers are almost as numerous as those that burden the refugees themselves. There are cultural barriers and geographical isolation barriers, a distinct lack of materials and resources (or high costs associated with sourcing) and access to basic necessities including power and water can be heavily restricted. The most effective emergency shelters “make use of inexpensive, readily available materials, and require minimum tools for a quick build” (Wortham, 2007). But designers must design not only provide shelter and safety, but fight disease, educate, locate loved ones and reunite families, and create a sense of community solidarity. There is an ethical obligation to build with environmentally sustainable initiatives, and a moral obligation to rebuild not only houses, medical centres, and schools, but homes and communities.
In recent years, there has been ever increasing discussions on what constitutes a safe and inclusive environment for displaced people, and how the people themselves adapt to temporary housing. We’ve been encouraged to rethink how we provide humanitarian building aid, and the longevity of the communities that develop. Cameron Sinclair of Architecture for Humanity (AFH), in his interview with Paula Antonelli in 2005, stated that “You have to be really part of the community. The way that we have always tried to work has been as an equal partnership between the community and the designer”. There has been a gradual shift in focus from meeting the short term needs of refugees in ad-hoc tent-villages, to the design of transitional housing, that is, shelters that can become homes, and have the durability to form the foundations of a new life for occupants.
Non-profit organisation ‘Architecture for Humanity’, in conjunction with regulatory bodies such as the United Nations council, have been exploring these concepts since its inception in 1999. One of AFH’s ideals, is that in building for refugees and the homeless; “Designs that are scalable, built using local materials or can also be used as core housing – as a hub for basic services like sanitation, communication, supplies – that basic dose of shelter, are key” (Stohr, 2006). In Stohr's book, Design Like You Give A Damn, she goes on to say that “houses that use local materials – helping revitalise economic development – are particularly useful”. Therefore it is imperative that the reconstruction of communities begins at this ground level, to encourage the long term stability of the culture or people. Unfortunately in some instances, using the indigenous skills of the displaced, or local resources, are not always possible, be it a cause of natural disaster, or segregation from a mainstream economy, such as in civil war.
Japanese architect Shigeru Ban, tested his ‘Paper log’ sustainable shelters in Japan in 1994, after a series of earthquakes destroyed housing for hundreds of thousands. Ban’s philosophy centred around the accessibility of materials, speedy and economically viable construction, and the environmental impact of material selection, but he also placed great emphasis on the potential beauty in such buildings. In simple terms, “Refugee shelter has to be beautiful. Psychologically, refugees are damaged. They have to stay in nice places.” (Shigeru Ban, Time)
In the instance of their ‘real-life’ scenario in Japan, the foundations for each house were beer crates weighed down with sandbags, the walls made from cardboard tubing (similar to that which would be found produced en-masse in the textiles industry) and the roof was a waterproof tent material. Between each tube in the wall, double sided and sponged tape protected the occupants from moisture and drafts. Each residence of 52sqm would cost less than US$2000 to produce, be environmentally sustainable and swift to erect. In subsequent building missions, the cost of construction may even decrease, based on the recyclability of some of the components. (Shigeru Ban Architects, 2008)
An impressive feature of these short to medium term paper tube homes, is their adaptability to various locations and refugee types. Shigeru Ban has designed with the occupant in mind, with the understanding that the situation for every refugee is different, that certain cultures call for different styles of living, and that the accessibility to resources may be scarce. In 1999, the paper tube construction was tested out in a case study involving Rwandan civil war refugees. It had come to the attention of the UN that the aluminium poles given to refugees to construct their tent housing, were being sold by the displaced, who instead cut down their own timber to provide the rigidity required for tents. With the potential for millions of refugees to undertake this practise, an alternative and more sustainable material was found in Shigeru Ban’s cardboard tube construction. Paper tubes could be manufactured nearby, on relatively simple machinery, and so transportation and construction costs were kept at a minimum. (Shigeru Ban Architects, 2008)
“The good thing about paper tubes is that they are readily available in various thickness and diameters. The weight they can support depends on these two things. theoretically, I can make buildings a few stories high, but I haven't yet been given the opportunity”, (Shigeru Ban, DesignBoom)
Other such adaptations of Ban’s designs, included larger floorplates for Turkish refugees with traditionally larger families, and where there was absence of beer crates, the rubble from destroyed homes formed the foundations. To provide greater insulation, the tubes were filled with shredded paper and fibreglass. In India, the climate meant that structural changes need to occur to discourage mosquitoes, to encourage cross ventilation, and to allow the cooking of meals within the shelter.
In 2005, Vestal Designs designed the SHRIMP housing project (Sustainable Housing for Refugees via Mass Production), a modular flat-packed style of housing that can be shipped to locations all over the world en-masse. The strength of this design lies in its capacity to be manoeuvred into difficult regions, as Vestal Designs have based their dimensions around the international standard for shipping containers. This then becomes a game of numbers... a container ship can potentially carry 6,400 containers, and each container can fit four flat packed shelters, capable of housing four people each, meaning that a single container ship could grant the arrival of shelter for over 100,000 refugees. (Vestal Design, 2008) SHRIMP housing also comes complete with pontoons and pressurised air canisters, allowing for water deployment. This means the container ships do not require a port to deliver the shelters, and that they can be transferred to flooded areas or areas where roads would have otherwise proved useless, utilising other methods of transport such as rivers to gain access to displaced people. Conversely, where access to potable water is scarce, each facility comes equipped with a roof fixed water distillery. Once cleared of their need for use, and communities begin to rebuild their long term housing, they can then be flat packed again, and shipped back to a base for storage.
Arguably though, one of the downfalls of the S.H.R.I.M.P design, was its initial reliance on timber products. And although manufactured from Sustainably Farmed Wood, the cost of production off-site, and the carbon footprint of mass production in factory situations, means that financial savings of large scale deployment are negated. While timber SHRIMP units can be reused by the process of retrofitting and recycling of components, greater durability and less environmental impact has been explored with the use of second-hand shipping containers themselves as the materials. (Vestal Design, 2008)
In 1999, Architecture for Humanity hosted a competition that called for the design of housing for the refugees of Kosovo, who were returning to a war-stricken region to find most of their homes had been destroyed. The aim of the competition was “to foster the development of housing methods that would relieve suffering and speed the transition back to a normal way of life” (AFH, 2001). The key here was the capacity for transition, rather than short term solutions. One such entrant (receiving an Honourable Mention) was the Pallet House, by I-Beam Design. I-Beam later proposed a similar design for tsunami-hit Sri Lanka in 2004.
“The people of Kosovo, like most people, had a strong commitment to their homes. As the various relief agencies working in the area predicted, people headed home at the first opportunity. Refugee-style camps in Kosovo were not thought to be possible or desirable. With the end of hostilities, three quarters of a million people or more were spreading out to towns, villages and farms all over Kosovo.” (AFH, 2001)
The Pallet House was an excellent example of transitional modular housing. It was a stable alternative to tent-housing, and could “transform a temporary living condition into a permanent home” (I-Beam, 2008). The primary material was shipping crates or pallets, whose weight was negligible when it came to shipping emergency supplies to a region. One 4.8m2 permanent multi-level home, could be constructed out of roughly 100 crates, lashed or nailed together, in just a few days and for less than US$3000 (I-Beam, 2008).
The design in its modularity meant that it was a flexible solution for refugees, and had the capacity to adapt to different cultures and family types, and could be added to over time by the occupants. There were multiple configuration options, and the shelters could either be covered with tenting or plastic sheeting, or the pallets could be reinforced and filled with concrete or rubble, once these because readily available. Occupants could even add plaster or clay walls, and decorate how they desired. These transitional homes could essentially morph into structures of permanence.
“Some of the designs that came from the Kosovo exhibit were fascinating because they played on this mass customisation. They utilised local materials and technologies, plugged them into a system that was pre-existing, and introduce new technologies in order to provide clean water, energy, and a clean place to sleep, all basic life needs” (Sinclair, 2005)
Humanitarian design in the modern era means to look beyond provision of emergency housing and medical supplies until displaced people can ‘fend for themselves’. There is much emphasis on how we rebuild entire communities with economic efficiency, and how we plan for the long term future using intelligent design. In his interview, Sinclair gives the example that in South Africa, the average cost of a traditional medical clinic is around US$150,000, but this was dropped to a mere 15% with smart design parameters, viable materials, and most importantly an understanding of context. AFH was not only able to provide facilities that dramatically increased the numbers of people that clinics could support, but allowed for more resources to be spent on employing medical staff, and purchasing supplies. (Sinclair, 2005) Such on flow effects of humanitarian design are indicators that efforts from various agencies and agendas (education, shelter, medicine, sanitation etc) are converging in a new manner of refugee aid.
Critically, the dominant drive for refugee populations is a return to the life they once had, to their homes and communities where they felt safe. And safety is not just about a lockable door, but community spirit, trust between neighbours, and for the people providing aid and assisting them to return to their lives. It is important that designers working on humanitarian projects look beyond physical needs, to the rehabilitation of a people.
While prevailing factors for design and construction will always centre on modulation/customisation, sustainably sourced and recyclable materials, and speed/ease of supply, humanitarian designers must engage with the cultural and familial needs of a community. Not only must their homes be restored, but so must their faith, dignity, family network and prospects for the future. The key, says Kate Stohr (2006), is simplicity, “Simple construction technique is what works – it’s not typically high design”. Sinclair follows this up by stating that “truly responsive care goes far beyond providing a basic means of survival... if we treat it as a birth and rebirth, then we’re focussed on creating and generating life. This is where design should play an incredibly important role.” It is when the designer looks beyond the physical design itself, to the population she is designing for, that we see the greatest service to displaced people. Humanitarian architecture built with the intention of transition, has the capacity to be the building blocks for dynamic new villages, town and cities. It facilitates the growth of families and communities from the very first instance of their displacement.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Sinclair, C & Stohr, K (eds) 2006. Design Like You Give A Damn; Architectural Response to Humanitarian Crises, Architecture For Humanity, Metropolis Books.
Antonelli, P (2005), Safe: Design Takes on Risk, MOMA, New York (Design Like you give a damn)
Architecture For Humanity, Transitional Housing for Returning Refugees: Kosovo 1999-2000, http://architectureforhumanity.org/node/719
Retrieved August 1st, 2009
Design Boom, Shigeru Ban: Paper Loghouse. http://www.designboom.com/history/ban_paper.html Retrieved August 2nd, 2009
I-Beam Design, 2008. Humanitarian Projects.
http://www.i-beamdesign.com/projects/refugee/refugee.html
Retrieved July 27th 2009.
Irwin, T, 2009. UN refugee chief cites pressing needs as those uprooted tops 42 million. The UN Refugee Agency. http://www.unhcr.org/4a37c9076.html
Retrieved July 26th, 2009
Luscombe, B, 2000. He Builds With A Really Tough Material: Paper, Time Magazine Online. http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,997495,00.html
Retrieved July 26th, 2009
Vestal Design, SHRIMP Refugee Housing, http://www.vestaldesign.com/design/shrimp-refugee-housing/
Retrieved July 28th 2009
Wortham, J (2007) Instant Housing and Designing for Disaster, https://www.wired.com/culture/lifestyle/multimedia/2007/10/gallery_instant_housing
Retrieved July 28th, 2009
The number of people displaced by natural disaster and political upheaval is on the rise. In 2008, the figure stood at 42 million for those forcibly uprooted by persecution and conflict, and of this number, 80% were considered to live in developing or ‘third-world’ countries (UNHCR, 2009). And this figure does not take into account those forced from their home by natural disasters; floods, earthquakes, and the like. The US Dept of Homeland Security for example, estimated that more than 800,000 people were made homeless after Hurricane Katrina (Wortham, 2007). Across the globe, humanitarian effort is desperately seeking to find faster and more cost effective methods for housing these populations both during displacement, and also once they return to rebuild their nations, by socially and environmentally sustainable means.
The challenges that lie before our contemporary designers are almost as numerous as those that burden the refugees themselves. There are cultural barriers and geographical isolation barriers, a distinct lack of materials and resources (or high costs associated with sourcing) and access to basic necessities including power and water can be heavily restricted. The most effective emergency shelters “make use of inexpensive, readily available materials, and require minimum tools for a quick build” (Wortham, 2007). But designers must design not only provide shelter and safety, but fight disease, educate, locate loved ones and reunite families, and create a sense of community solidarity. There is an ethical obligation to build with environmentally sustainable initiatives, and a moral obligation to rebuild not only houses, medical centres, and schools, but homes and communities.
In recent years, there has been ever increasing discussions on what constitutes a safe and inclusive environment for displaced people, and how the people themselves adapt to temporary housing. We’ve been encouraged to rethink how we provide humanitarian building aid, and the longevity of the communities that develop. Cameron Sinclair of Architecture for Humanity (AFH), in his interview with Paula Antonelli in 2005, stated that “You have to be really part of the community. The way that we have always tried to work has been as an equal partnership between the community and the designer”. There has been a gradual shift in focus from meeting the short term needs of refugees in ad-hoc tent-villages, to the design of transitional housing, that is, shelters that can become homes, and have the durability to form the foundations of a new life for occupants.
Non-profit organisation ‘Architecture for Humanity’, in conjunction with regulatory bodies such as the United Nations council, have been exploring these concepts since its inception in 1999. One of AFH’s ideals, is that in building for refugees and the homeless; “Designs that are scalable, built using local materials or can also be used as core housing – as a hub for basic services like sanitation, communication, supplies – that basic dose of shelter, are key” (Stohr, 2006). In Stohr's book, Design Like You Give A Damn, she goes on to say that “houses that use local materials – helping revitalise economic development – are particularly useful”. Therefore it is imperative that the reconstruction of communities begins at this ground level, to encourage the long term stability of the culture or people. Unfortunately in some instances, using the indigenous skills of the displaced, or local resources, are not always possible, be it a cause of natural disaster, or segregation from a mainstream economy, such as in civil war.
Japanese architect Shigeru Ban, tested his ‘Paper log’ sustainable shelters in Japan in 1994, after a series of earthquakes destroyed housing for hundreds of thousands. Ban’s philosophy centred around the accessibility of materials, speedy and economically viable construction, and the environmental impact of material selection, but he also placed great emphasis on the potential beauty in such buildings. In simple terms, “Refugee shelter has to be beautiful. Psychologically, refugees are damaged. They have to stay in nice places.” (Shigeru Ban, Time)
In the instance of their ‘real-life’ scenario in Japan, the foundations for each house were beer crates weighed down with sandbags, the walls made from cardboard tubing (similar to that which would be found produced en-masse in the textiles industry) and the roof was a waterproof tent material. Between each tube in the wall, double sided and sponged tape protected the occupants from moisture and drafts. Each residence of 52sqm would cost less than US$2000 to produce, be environmentally sustainable and swift to erect. In subsequent building missions, the cost of construction may even decrease, based on the recyclability of some of the components. (Shigeru Ban Architects, 2008)
An impressive feature of these short to medium term paper tube homes, is their adaptability to various locations and refugee types. Shigeru Ban has designed with the occupant in mind, with the understanding that the situation for every refugee is different, that certain cultures call for different styles of living, and that the accessibility to resources may be scarce. In 1999, the paper tube construction was tested out in a case study involving Rwandan civil war refugees. It had come to the attention of the UN that the aluminium poles given to refugees to construct their tent housing, were being sold by the displaced, who instead cut down their own timber to provide the rigidity required for tents. With the potential for millions of refugees to undertake this practise, an alternative and more sustainable material was found in Shigeru Ban’s cardboard tube construction. Paper tubes could be manufactured nearby, on relatively simple machinery, and so transportation and construction costs were kept at a minimum. (Shigeru Ban Architects, 2008)
“The good thing about paper tubes is that they are readily available in various thickness and diameters. The weight they can support depends on these two things. theoretically, I can make buildings a few stories high, but I haven't yet been given the opportunity”, (Shigeru Ban, DesignBoom)
Other such adaptations of Ban’s designs, included larger floorplates for Turkish refugees with traditionally larger families, and where there was absence of beer crates, the rubble from destroyed homes formed the foundations. To provide greater insulation, the tubes were filled with shredded paper and fibreglass. In India, the climate meant that structural changes need to occur to discourage mosquitoes, to encourage cross ventilation, and to allow the cooking of meals within the shelter.
In 2005, Vestal Designs designed the SHRIMP housing project (Sustainable Housing for Refugees via Mass Production), a modular flat-packed style of housing that can be shipped to locations all over the world en-masse. The strength of this design lies in its capacity to be manoeuvred into difficult regions, as Vestal Designs have based their dimensions around the international standard for shipping containers. This then becomes a game of numbers... a container ship can potentially carry 6,400 containers, and each container can fit four flat packed shelters, capable of housing four people each, meaning that a single container ship could grant the arrival of shelter for over 100,000 refugees. (Vestal Design, 2008) SHRIMP housing also comes complete with pontoons and pressurised air canisters, allowing for water deployment. This means the container ships do not require a port to deliver the shelters, and that they can be transferred to flooded areas or areas where roads would have otherwise proved useless, utilising other methods of transport such as rivers to gain access to displaced people. Conversely, where access to potable water is scarce, each facility comes equipped with a roof fixed water distillery. Once cleared of their need for use, and communities begin to rebuild their long term housing, they can then be flat packed again, and shipped back to a base for storage.
Arguably though, one of the downfalls of the S.H.R.I.M.P design, was its initial reliance on timber products. And although manufactured from Sustainably Farmed Wood, the cost of production off-site, and the carbon footprint of mass production in factory situations, means that financial savings of large scale deployment are negated. While timber SHRIMP units can be reused by the process of retrofitting and recycling of components, greater durability and less environmental impact has been explored with the use of second-hand shipping containers themselves as the materials. (Vestal Design, 2008)
In 1999, Architecture for Humanity hosted a competition that called for the design of housing for the refugees of Kosovo, who were returning to a war-stricken region to find most of their homes had been destroyed. The aim of the competition was “to foster the development of housing methods that would relieve suffering and speed the transition back to a normal way of life” (AFH, 2001). The key here was the capacity for transition, rather than short term solutions. One such entrant (receiving an Honourable Mention) was the Pallet House, by I-Beam Design. I-Beam later proposed a similar design for tsunami-hit Sri Lanka in 2004.
“The people of Kosovo, like most people, had a strong commitment to their homes. As the various relief agencies working in the area predicted, people headed home at the first opportunity. Refugee-style camps in Kosovo were not thought to be possible or desirable. With the end of hostilities, three quarters of a million people or more were spreading out to towns, villages and farms all over Kosovo.” (AFH, 2001)
The Pallet House was an excellent example of transitional modular housing. It was a stable alternative to tent-housing, and could “transform a temporary living condition into a permanent home” (I-Beam, 2008). The primary material was shipping crates or pallets, whose weight was negligible when it came to shipping emergency supplies to a region. One 4.8m2 permanent multi-level home, could be constructed out of roughly 100 crates, lashed or nailed together, in just a few days and for less than US$3000 (I-Beam, 2008).
The design in its modularity meant that it was a flexible solution for refugees, and had the capacity to adapt to different cultures and family types, and could be added to over time by the occupants. There were multiple configuration options, and the shelters could either be covered with tenting or plastic sheeting, or the pallets could be reinforced and filled with concrete or rubble, once these because readily available. Occupants could even add plaster or clay walls, and decorate how they desired. These transitional homes could essentially morph into structures of permanence.
“Some of the designs that came from the Kosovo exhibit were fascinating because they played on this mass customisation. They utilised local materials and technologies, plugged them into a system that was pre-existing, and introduce new technologies in order to provide clean water, energy, and a clean place to sleep, all basic life needs” (Sinclair, 2005)
Humanitarian design in the modern era means to look beyond provision of emergency housing and medical supplies until displaced people can ‘fend for themselves’. There is much emphasis on how we rebuild entire communities with economic efficiency, and how we plan for the long term future using intelligent design. In his interview, Sinclair gives the example that in South Africa, the average cost of a traditional medical clinic is around US$150,000, but this was dropped to a mere 15% with smart design parameters, viable materials, and most importantly an understanding of context. AFH was not only able to provide facilities that dramatically increased the numbers of people that clinics could support, but allowed for more resources to be spent on employing medical staff, and purchasing supplies. (Sinclair, 2005) Such on flow effects of humanitarian design are indicators that efforts from various agencies and agendas (education, shelter, medicine, sanitation etc) are converging in a new manner of refugee aid.
Critically, the dominant drive for refugee populations is a return to the life they once had, to their homes and communities where they felt safe. And safety is not just about a lockable door, but community spirit, trust between neighbours, and for the people providing aid and assisting them to return to their lives. It is important that designers working on humanitarian projects look beyond physical needs, to the rehabilitation of a people.
While prevailing factors for design and construction will always centre on modulation/customisation, sustainably sourced and recyclable materials, and speed/ease of supply, humanitarian designers must engage with the cultural and familial needs of a community. Not only must their homes be restored, but so must their faith, dignity, family network and prospects for the future. The key, says Kate Stohr (2006), is simplicity, “Simple construction technique is what works – it’s not typically high design”. Sinclair follows this up by stating that “truly responsive care goes far beyond providing a basic means of survival... if we treat it as a birth and rebirth, then we’re focussed on creating and generating life. This is where design should play an incredibly important role.” It is when the designer looks beyond the physical design itself, to the population she is designing for, that we see the greatest service to displaced people. Humanitarian architecture built with the intention of transition, has the capacity to be the building blocks for dynamic new villages, town and cities. It facilitates the growth of families and communities from the very first instance of their displacement.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Sinclair, C & Stohr, K (eds) 2006. Design Like You Give A Damn; Architectural Response to Humanitarian Crises, Architecture For Humanity, Metropolis Books.
Antonelli, P (2005), Safe: Design Takes on Risk, MOMA, New York (Design Like you give a damn)
Architecture For Humanity, Transitional Housing for Returning Refugees: Kosovo 1999-2000, http://architectureforhumanity.org/node/719
Retrieved August 1st, 2009
Design Boom, Shigeru Ban: Paper Loghouse. http://www.designboom.com/history/ban_paper.html Retrieved August 2nd, 2009
I-Beam Design, 2008. Humanitarian Projects.
http://www.i-beamdesign.com/projects/refugee/refugee.html
Retrieved July 27th 2009.
Irwin, T, 2009. UN refugee chief cites pressing needs as those uprooted tops 42 million. The UN Refugee Agency. http://www.unhcr.org/4a37c9076.html
Retrieved July 26th, 2009
Luscombe, B, 2000. He Builds With A Really Tough Material: Paper, Time Magazine Online. http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,997495,00.html
Retrieved July 26th, 2009
Vestal Design, SHRIMP Refugee Housing, http://www.vestaldesign.com/design/shrimp-refugee-housing/
Retrieved July 28th 2009
Wortham, J (2007) Instant Housing and Designing for Disaster, https://www.wired.com/culture/lifestyle/multimedia/2007/10/gallery_instant_housing
Retrieved July 28th, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Rev head until the day I die...
<3 Opel Calibra <3
I miss my car.
I miss spending too much money modifying her.
I miss car cruises with the club
I miss loud thumping tunes
I miss auto shows
I miss knowing how to drive her hard
I miss knowing her mechanically inside out
I miss head turning
I miss going super dooper fast
I miss being a show off
I miss sharing the auto obsession with my mum and her RX8
I miss surprising people “Oh wow is that YOUR car??”
I miss the shiny red paint, and the exhaust rumble
Goddam I have to get another car! Hmm, wonder what my next project shall be......
I miss my car.
I miss spending too much money modifying her.
I miss car cruises with the club
I miss loud thumping tunes
I miss auto shows
I miss knowing how to drive her hard
I miss knowing her mechanically inside out
I miss head turning
I miss going super dooper fast
I miss being a show off
I miss sharing the auto obsession with my mum and her RX8
I miss surprising people “Oh wow is that YOUR car??”
I miss the shiny red paint, and the exhaust rumble
Goddam I have to get another car! Hmm, wonder what my next project shall be......
Monday, July 27, 2009
Gold Medal Time Waster
Ok come on now...something has got to give!
One cannot continue on a trajectory of ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ and actually SUCCEED. Most days I feel like I don’t, other days I feel like Im hanging on with finger tips. Sometimes, but not very often, Im there in whole, only to find the pieces slipping as night falls, my day ends and I have achieved nothing. Not just ‘a little something’, but absolutely nothing.
I’ll give you an example.
School: I knew for three weeks that my final submission was coming up. I spent every night sitting in my study adding to the final submission, slowly but surely building towards a finished piece. Then something happened. One day I went into the study and I sat there. I picked up my Stanley knife and my scale rule, and I just looked at my half built model.
Nothing I could do could force me to finish it.
For hours that day I tried to build a second floor, so I gave up and tried to finish my floor plans. No success there either. I tried to make progress on my sketchbook. All I achieved that day was a ‘to do list’, of things to finish before submission. How contradictory!
As night fell that evening, Jimmy asked me how things were going, and I said ‘Fine’. I was so ashamed that I had sat there all day and made not one iota of progress... hours and hours wasted. I found anything I could to distract me, I’d check my facebook account... 5, 10, maybe 15 or 20 times. Id write out a shopping list, using the internet to compare prices between supermarkets, Id do ‘research’ on design by watching youtube documentaries, then follow the you-tube trail to things completely unrelated. Id draw out a monthly budget for finances. Id make myself a cup of tea. Id have a shower... the third one that day. I was convinced that if I got these things out of the way, my mind would be clear to focus on my assignment.
As the hours passed, I had so much anxiety about getting it finished, that I couldn’t sleep. So I’d stay up all night working on my assignment, and of the 12 hours through the darkness, I perhaps worked for 4 or 5 of them. I was the least productive creature you’d ever encountered. I could not work at speed and I could not stay focussed. A thousand thoughts of all varieties and durations streamed through my mind constantly. I thought about what I had to do tomorrow, I things I wanted to buy, or when I should do things, or what people were doing, or where I wanted to be. I thought about the environment, about life and love, and getting fit, and saving money, and seeing that exhibition, and doing a course, and cleaning the study.
I twitched, I fidgeted, I bounced my leg up and down, played with my hair, I painted my nails, and then picked it all off again.
In the end, at dawn on the day of my submission, I was not finished. But being the chronic perfectionist I am, I simply could not hand it in half finished. I could not stand there in front of the class and tell people that I had ‘worked’ on it for hours and still not successfully completed it. I was too ashamed, embarrassed, guilty, all of those, and so disappointed that it wasn’t my best work.
So I did not hand it in at all.
For days I had been fighting these distraction demons, and I wasn’t even bothering to hand it in.
I sat in the car outside my work (Id stayed at the office all night to work on it) and debated with myself, convincing myself that I was going to fail anyway, and that the humiliation wasn’t worth it. So I drove home at 5am. Jimmy was expecting me home at 9am (after I had gone to uni to submit) so I drove down the road with the lights off, parked my car a little further away, and curled up into a little ball. I tried to sleep for about an hour in the car, but it was too cold. Then I decided to leave my assignment in the car, cover it up with a jumper, in case Jim walked past and saw it, and then I snuck into the house, took off my shoes, and crept into the lounge room. I slept on the couch for a few hours until an appropriate time when I could ‘come home’. He never knew.
Two weeks later my lecturer contacted me to ask why I had never submitted. She had been told my work was of the highest calibre, but that she could not second my grades to date unless she saw the work. I wrote to her telling what had happened, how some sort of shutdown mechanism had meant that I sat for hours unable to finish a single component of my final folio. I told her I was willing to accept a fail and repeat the unit. She disagreed that this was appropriate, and asked to see what I had done, and gave me a week. And you know what happened? In that week, I did nothing. Oh GOD i tried. I sat down every night, and did more allnighters, desperately trying to raise the quality of my work and even complete some of it. It took me days to do things that should have taken hours. Again, I was infinitely distracted, I even cooked elaborate meals and went to the gym, using my heath as an excuse to not tackle the task at hand. And yet again, it wasn’t until the final hours before submission, that I was working at a frantic highly strung out pace, desperately trying to finish. Unfortunately the anxiety of submitting was not enough to overcome the days I spent wasting time. And so even though I had a second chance, AND an extra week, I still suffered miserably. I’d done a little more, sure. But it still wasn’t finished.
Here’s the clincher.
I did finally submit, albeit incomplete, and I got my mark back... 75, and a Distinction.
waaaat?
Not only did I pass, but they were good marks, and the work wasn’t even finished! Instead of being happy for what I had, I couldn’t help beat myself up over what I COULD have achieved had I been able to stay focused.
And this seems to happen with every unit at uni that I have ever attempted. I get really good marks for the most part, and then there is a drastic decline as the work piles up. Ive failed/repeated more units than I care to count, yet when I successfully complete a unit, my marks are really good! I know I can do the work, its not hard. But something always stops me. I like to blame 'time', I like to say Im 'too stressed' juggling fulltime work and study, but other people do it just fine, so why not me? And the reality is that I have lots of time, no less than everyone else. I just don’t know how to use it.
Generally I just tell myself that Im lazy, or that this ‘shutdown’ mechanism is just how I cope, and that I’ll try harder next semester. But its too endless, and it never gets better. Sometimes I try to talk myself out of it altogether – ‘as much as I want to complete this degree, I just don’t feel cut out for study. I almost didn’t pass year 12 for the exact same reason! I did great for the first 6 months then one by one it all fell apart and I only scraped through based on earlier grades, maybe I should take another path?’
And thats just school.
What about work? Oh don’t even get me started. I used to love my job, now I find it difficult to make it through a day. I am in constant fear that I’ll be found out for the things I am behind on, or haven’t done. For the love of gawd I cannot get or stay motivated, and the only things that I can achieve are short little menial tasks. Sometimes it goes up and down throughout the month - usually worse in the middle, and I actually used to think it was hormonal! Kinda still do.
And it gets worse;
*I always have a million thoughts in my head and I can mull over three or four completely different topics at the same time. I even consider myself a good writer, but I constantly have to make side notes on my screen because Im thinking too many topics ahead, jumping paragraphs, and I don’t want to lose those thoughts.
*Its difficult to initiate tasks, because its easier to not start, than to stop halfway through.
*I’ll sign up for a short course (three so far), and even if Ive paid money, I usually pull out/stop going after a few weeks.
*I end up working long hours but doing the same work as everyone else
*”I’ll do it tomorrow” is my mantra
*I can fluctuate quickly from genuinely sad or disappointed with life, to an intense focus on right now, and being happy being in the ‘right now’, but always with a million things to plan. MY boyfriend jokes that Im like a yo-yo, and he can almost see my mind working at a million miles an hour, when I should be relaxing. And relaxing IS very difficult, I feel guilty if Im not ‘on the go’. And its gotten progressively worse over the past 3 or so years, because the moment things start to appear calm, I start adding things into my life to be/achieve/do, to fill it up.
As the weeks pass it seems to have greater and greater impact on my capacity to get things done. I cant get myself to the gym, I am never ever at work on time, my house is a mess (or its the kind of clean where everything is stacked ‘neatly’ in piles a foot high, or shoved under my bed) and I make endless to do lists, wish lists, and budgets that are never ever achieved.
Im even procrastinating right now.
Im despairing over the things that are behind or overdue or imminent so I take time out to write about it.
What am I?
Nuts?!
Feels like Im going crazy.
Monday, July 20, 2009
BRAVERY - The Monday Project
Brave.
Brave.
Is that what you really want me to be?
Why not?
I mean, if I truly was brave, there would be a million things I might try to achieve that would seemingly leave you behind. Your tenure in my world may lapse.
Never truly.
Why?
Because you’ll always remember me as the one who gave you license to be brave.
Would you mind so much if I was brave by following you?
Of course not.
Really?
Really. I’d be flattered, in fact.
But...
But what?
What if I followed you, only to find that I wanted to change my mind, and do or be something else?
Well my dear, you’d truly then be the bravest, but you’d still in fact be following me, and oh! what an honour to be privy to such a thing!
Oh... this IS true isn’t it?
Yes.
Thank you
You’re very welcome, as always.
I love you, heart.
I love you, soul.
In response to The Monday Project
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Everyday
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‘He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves’
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
‘He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves’
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
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Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Short Form Essay - Contemporary Design Issues - 1st Year
Contemporary Design Issues - Winter Semester
Zaha Hadid is an Iraq born, English trained architect famous for her Deconstructivist style of architecture. She has been widely recognised for her use of highly advanced 21st century imaging technology to depict her very organic forms, and in 2004 was the first woman to be awarded the prestigious Pritzker Prize for her contribution to the field of architecture, arguably the highest honour bestowed upon a living architect.
Hadid’s work is an organic exploration of plane, and expresses an intrinsic and raw sense of movement that builds upon itself much as melody builds upon rhythm. It has been described as ‘combin(ing) sculptural sensuality with formal logic’ (Carolyn Ford writing on Hadid’s Chanel Mobile Art Pavilion). And in a ground breaking installation at the Guggenheim Museum in New York in 1992, her contribution was described as this seamless ebb and flow of matter by architecture critic Joseph Giovanni;
“...expanding it into the third dimension, moving the parts in abstract formations, like ice flows, through the whole museum. What seemed graphically like an object emerged as a field of objects moving through the existing building, adapted to its circular geometry. The movement was fluid, and spatial: the forms dropped and rose throughout the structure.”
This description is an altogether accurate analogy of Hadid’s catalogue of work. Hadid took great influence from the work of the Suprematists school of thought, and was an avid painter, using the brush to visual form and realise her designs. But Hadid’s design philosophy was lauded not for her interpretation of Suprematist ideals (many of which belonged to her teachers and mentors) but because she constantly tested and pushed the norms for visual communication of her designs, adopting ideas not explored by her predecessors, generating the realisation of what the built form could indeed achieve.
“She often layered drawings done on sheets of transparent acrylic, creating visual narratives showing several spatial strata simultaneously... this methodology, applied in the elusive pursuit of almost intangible form, she escaped the prejudice latent in such design tools as the T-square and parallel rule... Adopting isometric and perspectival drawing techniques used by the Suprematists to achieve strangely irrational spaces that did not add up to Renaissance wholes, she entered an exploratory realm where she developed forms distorted and warped in the throes of Einsteinian space...” Joseph Giovanni, The Architecture of Zaha Hadid, Pritzker Prize Essay 2004.
Hadid’s renderings, models and sketches, had taken form away from matter, and weight away from mass. Interestingly, for the first 10 years of her architectural career, not one of her visions was built. It seemed that she was destined to be too far ahead of her time, that was, until the age of the computer. Much discussion has ensued regarding technology’s influence in Hadid’s post 1980’s work, and the effect visualisation technology had on her design style of exploring natural, dynamic, almost single surface forms. And the question to be asked, would Hadid have achieved the level of success of current, if it had not been for the computer? Patrick Schumacher, author of Digital Hadid, believes not. Schumacher argued that to reduce this new style of working as being generated by the onset of the computer, is to ignore a great many other predating advancements in methodolody and critical practise. Yet he does agree that with the onset of 3D modelling and digital rendering programs in Hadid’s work “...a new level of structural complexity, tectonic fluidity, and plastic articulation has been mastered with precision and confidence”, pp5-6.
Hadid now enjoys frequent forays across discipline, having been commissioned to design jewellery, furniture, and shoes amongst other things.
Ford, C. Chanel – Zaha Hadid http://www.pritzkerprize.com/laureates/2004/essay.html Retrieved July 9th 2004
Schumacher, P. 2004. Digital Hadid -Landscapes in Motion, Birkhäuser Basel, London.
Two Draw Cabinet
Zaha & Melissa Shoes
Cairo Expo City
Zaha Hadid is an Iraq born, English trained architect famous for her Deconstructivist style of architecture. She has been widely recognised for her use of highly advanced 21st century imaging technology to depict her very organic forms, and in 2004 was the first woman to be awarded the prestigious Pritzker Prize for her contribution to the field of architecture, arguably the highest honour bestowed upon a living architect.
Hadid’s work is an organic exploration of plane, and expresses an intrinsic and raw sense of movement that builds upon itself much as melody builds upon rhythm. It has been described as ‘combin(ing) sculptural sensuality with formal logic’ (Carolyn Ford writing on Hadid’s Chanel Mobile Art Pavilion). And in a ground breaking installation at the Guggenheim Museum in New York in 1992, her contribution was described as this seamless ebb and flow of matter by architecture critic Joseph Giovanni;
“...expanding it into the third dimension, moving the parts in abstract formations, like ice flows, through the whole museum. What seemed graphically like an object emerged as a field of objects moving through the existing building, adapted to its circular geometry. The movement was fluid, and spatial: the forms dropped and rose throughout the structure.”
This description is an altogether accurate analogy of Hadid’s catalogue of work. Hadid took great influence from the work of the Suprematists school of thought, and was an avid painter, using the brush to visual form and realise her designs. But Hadid’s design philosophy was lauded not for her interpretation of Suprematist ideals (many of which belonged to her teachers and mentors) but because she constantly tested and pushed the norms for visual communication of her designs, adopting ideas not explored by her predecessors, generating the realisation of what the built form could indeed achieve.
“She often layered drawings done on sheets of transparent acrylic, creating visual narratives showing several spatial strata simultaneously... this methodology, applied in the elusive pursuit of almost intangible form, she escaped the prejudice latent in such design tools as the T-square and parallel rule... Adopting isometric and perspectival drawing techniques used by the Suprematists to achieve strangely irrational spaces that did not add up to Renaissance wholes, she entered an exploratory realm where she developed forms distorted and warped in the throes of Einsteinian space...” Joseph Giovanni, The Architecture of Zaha Hadid, Pritzker Prize Essay 2004.
Hadid’s renderings, models and sketches, had taken form away from matter, and weight away from mass. Interestingly, for the first 10 years of her architectural career, not one of her visions was built. It seemed that she was destined to be too far ahead of her time, that was, until the age of the computer. Much discussion has ensued regarding technology’s influence in Hadid’s post 1980’s work, and the effect visualisation technology had on her design style of exploring natural, dynamic, almost single surface forms. And the question to be asked, would Hadid have achieved the level of success of current, if it had not been for the computer? Patrick Schumacher, author of Digital Hadid, believes not. Schumacher argued that to reduce this new style of working as being generated by the onset of the computer, is to ignore a great many other predating advancements in methodolody and critical practise. Yet he does agree that with the onset of 3D modelling and digital rendering programs in Hadid’s work “...a new level of structural complexity, tectonic fluidity, and plastic articulation has been mastered with precision and confidence”, pp5-6.
Hadid now enjoys frequent forays across discipline, having been commissioned to design jewellery, furniture, and shoes amongst other things.
Ford, C. Chanel – Zaha Hadid http://www.pritzkerprize.com/laureates/2004/essay.html Retrieved July 9th 2004
Schumacher, P. 2004. Digital Hadid -Landscapes in Motion, Birkhäuser Basel, London.
Two Draw Cabinet
Zaha & Melissa Shoes
Cairo Expo City
Images; http://makingfurnitureinteractive.wordpress.com/2007/09/05/
http://www.stylepark.com/es/established-und-sons/swash-limited
http://www.dezeen.com/2008/10/24/melissa-shoes-by-zaha-hadid-architects/
http://www.designboom.com/weblog/cat/9/view/6666/zaha-hadid-architects-cairo-expo-city.html
http://www.stylepark.com/es/established-und-sons/swash-limited
http://www.dezeen.com/2008/10/24/melissa-shoes-by-zaha-hadid-architects/
http://www.designboom.com/weblog/cat/9/view/6666/zaha-hadid-architects-cairo-expo-city.html
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Friday, June 26, 2009
On Creativite Genius - Elizabeth Gilbert
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a book that I absolutely adored, and dreamed that I could one day emulate as I struggle through writing my own history. http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/eatpraylove.htm
She made me want to throw my cares to the wind, chase dreams, and look for rainbows. The disillusion of self, and heartache rendered by her dependence on others was like reading the introduction to my own story.
And as I frequently encounter the next mental and creative block, I came across this speech by Gilbert, on the pressures and battles of creativity, and how to carry the burden. And importantly, how much self doubt she still carries in her ability, and how hard it is still for her to sit down and write.
.Check it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Art & Architecture
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I had to share this because it is so striking. Tokujin Yoshioka is an extremely talented multidisciplinary artist who covers graphics, exhibition design, furniture & product design, and architecture (http://www.tokujin.com/)
This recent piece by him was for the largest watch exhibition in the world, Baselworld2009, and was commissioned for Swarovski. It is called the Lake of Shimmer and measures 9m by 8m and contains 16,000 mirrors attached to the wall, each which have their angle controlled by a computer. This makes for a stunning play of colour and light, and adds a beautiful smoothness and naturality to a very mechanical operation. It is like watching ripples in a pond and while visually stimulating, is calming to the mind because of its representation of natural life & movement.
Who doesn’t feel as peace when gazing by the waters edge?
I had to share this because it is so striking. Tokujin Yoshioka is an extremely talented multidisciplinary artist who covers graphics, exhibition design, furniture & product design, and architecture (http://www.tokujin.com/)
This recent piece by him was for the largest watch exhibition in the world, Baselworld2009, and was commissioned for Swarovski. It is called the Lake of Shimmer and measures 9m by 8m and contains 16,000 mirrors attached to the wall, each which have their angle controlled by a computer. This makes for a stunning play of colour and light, and adds a beautiful smoothness and naturality to a very mechanical operation. It is like watching ripples in a pond and while visually stimulating, is calming to the mind because of its representation of natural life & movement.
Who doesn’t feel as peace when gazing by the waters edge?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Gifts from strangers
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Somebody I had never met before, spent an hour talking to me yesterday. They sat back in their chair, paused and thought for a moment before saying “You know exactly what you want from life don’t you? You know exactly what you’re doing. And where you want to be, and how you’re gonna get there”
Bless him. This surprised me; that after an hour of conversation, one considered themselves so perceptive. And honestly and confidently voice their perception.
This surprised me too, because I blinked quickly and thought wow...
...Thankfully, yes, I actually do.
Finally.
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Somebody I had never met before, spent an hour talking to me yesterday. They sat back in their chair, paused and thought for a moment before saying “You know exactly what you want from life don’t you? You know exactly what you’re doing. And where you want to be, and how you’re gonna get there”
Bless him. This surprised me; that after an hour of conversation, one considered themselves so perceptive. And honestly and confidently voice their perception.
This surprised me too, because I blinked quickly and thought wow...
...Thankfully, yes, I actually do.
Finally.
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Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Im dreaming of...
Damn you long legs! You would surely break in heels this high! Not to mention make me hit my head on tram doors, train openings, door frames, and low hanging branches!le... sigh
Damn you Nine West and your 50% off sale!
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Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Letter to Shanks
Dear Shanks,
I know you are going on this big adventure, and opening a really massive new chapter in your life. I wanted to tell you a couple of things that I thought of but just didn’t say, as I stood in Kim’s hallway and wondered what I should say to you. I ended up telling you I was proud of you. But it’s so much more than that.
I want to thank you for making friends with a complete stranger over the radio. For not caring about where I was from, or where I’d been, what I’d done, or what I’d seen. And for wanting to be my friend because of who I was on the inside.
I want to let you know that you moving to Melbourne was the kick start that I needed, helping me to understand that no-one is ultimately trapped in their situation. And I wanted to thank you for those lonely first weeks in this bloody cold place, where we sat in various pubs in the city, smoking our cigarettes and contemplating our existence. And not only bonding over this massive new adventure, but actually learning things about each other and becoming greater friends. Because the reality tied to this situation is that as much as we got along, we didn’t really know each other then.
And thankyou for the months that followed, picking up late night pizzas/kebabs/chinese and stumbling drunkenly home, getting lost while exploring the most random places, catching gigs, making new friends (and enemies! ...Ah that night on the tram on the way to Laundry, when we had a run-in with the junkies!) and always having yet another random Bikkies and Shanks adventure. And THANKYOU for taking Jimmy into your fold of friends as you did with me. Its like you passed the baton... and now he gets to hold my hair back when Im sick. Arent you glad you passed THAT baton on!? lol
We were flat broke together, starved together, and when we had cash... boy! did we live LARGE together. The memories are forever and incorruptible (except the ones where... you know... we don’t actually remember what happened. lol)
I am also grateful for having you round during the shitty nights, when I hated where I was and who I am. But you were always there, you taught me that it was ok to call someone a c*nt, if they were being one. And that Monday night drinking sessions were never worth it on Tuesday morning, but were necessary at the time, so that I could vent. You knew when I was having a rough time, and you were always there with bear-hugs. There were Luca-demons, the death of my friend, losing my little Conni, and crappy crappy work colleagues. There were also girl-dramas and cash-flow dramas. And icky icky come-downs. You also told me when I should just harden the fuck up... I really needed that too sometimes.
Seriously dude it has been 2 years of mayhem, chaos, pain, victory, growth, and maturity (who knew I could put those words in the same sentence!) and we’ve had a crazy crazy time. We have come to the end of an era, but not the end of a wicked friendship. Ultimately I am SO proud of you... I look back on me and think ‘Holy shit, look how far I’ve come’ but I’ve also looked back at you, and you’ve grown so much as a person too. I am so grateful for a best friend like you... one of the truest ones.
These next few years of your life are going to take you places you never would have believed possible, and you’ll see things and meet people who will constantly blow your mind (both good and bad). You are an awesome awesome person and I have not met one soul who doesnt get along with you. Dont bloody forget it, if theyve got a problem with you... its their problem. Youre just one of those people you know? You make friends easily, you go out of your way to help & understand people, and your a total trashbag (apparently people like that? ;p )
Please keep your wits about you, and for godsake keep your phone insured. Take LOTS of photos, keep in touch, keep true to yourself, drink things other than scotch, eat weird food (and get gastro), poke strange animals (but not strange people), learn swearwords in foreign languages, call me on Skype and teach me foreign swearwords, download lots of Oz hip hop to educate your fellow crew, and never ever forget how many people love the shit out of you back home.
Best.Housemate.Ever
Hugs and Gutz!
xx Kaye
P.S. A few of the classics.....
1. http://www.facebook.com/photo_search.php?page=4&id=619719209&view=all&m=1#/video/video.php?v=119431231040&subj=642109618
2. http://www.facebook.com/photo_search.php?page=4&id=619719209&view=all&m=1#/video/video.php?v=46587244618&subj=642109618
3. http://www.facebook.com/photo_search.php?page=4&id=619719209&view=all&m=1#/video/video.php?v=51120524618
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Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I <3 My Folks
So I introduced my parents to my blog. I had to think about it for a little while... but hey, its me right?
And then lo-and-behold... I got a package in the mail! Mum had actually brought me the french bag that I blogged about in December last year! Well, same designer, similar style...
I got this one...
And then lo-and-behold... I got a package in the mail! Mum had actually brought me the french bag that I blogged about in December last year! Well, same designer, similar style...
I got this one...
http://www.cleverbastards.co.nz/the-store/ingrid-anderson/1779/french-bag-ring/4774
Love love love love it :o)
Love love love love it :o)
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Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Recipe for an anxiety cure
Take one large dose of icy cold weather and rain
A few small pinches of camping equipment
1 cup of red wine (did I say 1? I meant 4, no wait, 5.)
A hefty dollop of cuddle-y love from the boy
Several lashings of bbq'd meat & salad
and a sprinkling of hiking, football on the beach, and wombat watching.
And VIOLA! Anxiety gone!
Ive just finished university for the semester... YAY! And I can barely contain my excitement. Jim and I have been planning our camping trip for weeks now. We travel down to Wilsons Prom on a Friday and stay for 3 days. The beauty of going at this time of year is that the place is tomb-quiet. Most people chicken out at the thought of sleeping in a tent at 3 degrees but Oh! not me! Its my favourite time of year to camp!
Once the tent is pitched, we do a little exploring, cook some dinner on the bbq, and then retire to the tent with 3 fluffy doona's, a thick mattress, a beautiful bottle of Barossa or Clare Valley Shiraz, and some drool-worthy cheeses. We go to sleep when the sun goes down, and rise with the birds. The tent keeps us dry, and we huddle inside if its raining. When its not raining we run around like fools on the beach to keep ourselves warm. There are no phones. And no internet. And no power, so there isnt even any music or generators. And no small screaming children. Its just PERFECT.
This weekend just gone i worked for 48 hours STRAIGHT on my final assignment. I woke up at 9am on Saturday, and did not sleep again until 9am on Monday. Sure Ive done my uni all nighters before, but never two in a row. And never again let me tell you. On Monday morning, I was not sure I could safely drive home (Id locked myself away in the office to get it all done), my eyes were bloodshot and sunken, my lips were dry and cracked, and I was hallucinating. My eyes played mean tricks on me and I looked like a startled rabbit. On crack.
And its done. But I promise promise promise I will NOT do that to myself again!
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Tuesday, June 2, 2009
List for a shitty day...
Things that make me happy, or ‘The List That I like To Use On A Shithouse Day”
I just pick something, and do it.
Whether its buying myself a really yummo cheese from the market, or picking up some daisys on the way home, or planning a weekend away camping...
I know these are the things that make me happy, so I find a way to do them!
1.Big flamboyant red wines with creamy crumbly cheese
2.Getting home in the evening to find that a vase of flowers opened while I was out and the whole house smells of lilies
3.Cycling downhill while peddling backwards and listening to the whirring of the gears
4.Succulent salmon with a crispy crust, on a bed of mash potato
5.The ultimate comeback in a disagreement
6.Watching the sun rise, and knowing that no matter how knackered you are, it was totally worth it
7.Spoiling my boy and watching the surprise on his face
8.Op Shopping in Brunswick
9.Sleeping in the warm car in the sunshine
10.West Australian sunsets
11.The moment directly after cleaning up my desk, when I realise I have alot of space!
12.The of lightness after submitting a major tender
13.Climbing onto the kitchen stools and dancing, three feet above the ground
14.The giddy endorphin rush as I walk out of the gym
15.Clicking with a complete stranger
16.Electric blankets on a chilly night
17.Finding the PERFECT dress
18.Animal documentaries
19.Getting flowers delivered to work for ALL to see!
20.Shopping with my baby sister
21.The smell of damp air just before it rains
22.Riding my bicycle through Fawkner Park in the evening, through the brown leaves and under the yellow path lights, when the sky is charcoal grey and the darkness comes from the trees
23.Being a flirt
24.Going out of my way to help a stranger
25.Making people laugh
26.Waking up with sore legs and knowing that not only did I probably burn 1000 calories, but that its because I danced to my favourite music the night before.
27.Being inspired by how simple some people lives their lives, but still with immense happiness
28.Knowing ALL the lyrics to a song, and singing them aloud with a friend
29.Going for a big swim, then followed by a nap
30.Being complimented
31.Stomping around the house pretending Im Eminem (I know WAY too many of his songs haha)
32.Long showers where I just sit on the steamy tiles and zone out
33.The smell of freshly ground coffee (even more than the taste!)
34.Spooning
35.Visitors
36.A baby’s infectious burbling laugh
37.Kissing in the rain
38.Getting that hairstyle JUST right
39.Big lavish dinners for friends that take forever to cook but are totally worth it
40.Drawing pictures in the wet sand at the beach
41.Food-comas
42.Hiking till I cant hike no more, and camping out. And then hiking back again!
43.Spotting a shooting star
44.Getting a professional massage that seems to last for hours
45.Acting crazy in public, just to giggle at peoples reactions
46.Realising that I have money saved in my spare bank account that I didn’t even know about!47.Curling up in bed during an early morning thunderstorm, and knowing that I can get up when I like!
48.The smell of hot salty potato chips
49.Playing on the playground that is CLEARLY designed for children
50.Baking warm muffins and then eating every single one before the day is finished!
51.Playing with puppies
53.Having a picnic.
54.Having a picnic with candles inside when the weather is crappy
55.Feeling (and looking) like shit first thing in the morning, only to be told Im the most beautiful creature on the planet56.Being right when everyone was thinking I was wrong
57.Skipping
58.Magpies warbling in the morning
59.Getting an excited buzz when I realise who is waiting for me at home
60.A fresh new haircut61.Kicking Honkey-nuts
62.Pouring my heart out onto a page, and not realising how much I have written until my hand cramps
63.Taking lots and lots of photos
64.Realising how important someone is to me
65.Wednesdays... aka Hump Day
66.The perfect chai, made from scratch, with honey and soy.
67.Lying on the warm pavement in the sun on a chilly day
68.Dancing around the kitchen
69.The smell of aftershave... on a mans flesh.
70.Stepping out of the bath looking like a prune
71.The smell of wet earth, rain, and warm air in the evening
72.Lying on the grass on my lunch break with my head on his tummy, watching the clouds
73.Camping in the height of winter with lots of doonas and red wine
74.Puppy smell
75.Breakfast on Christmas Day with my family, complete with Crayfish and Champagne!
76.Long horseback trailrides until my butt and my thighs hurt
77.The smell of leather, and sweat, and dust and horses
78.Cooked prawns with seafood sauce
79.Chasing chickens
80.Burnouts, and truckstop runs. And burnouts.
81.Long drives on winding coastal roads with windows down and my hair blowing all over the place
82.Painting my nails fire-engine red, even though it doesn’t match my outfit!
83.Traipsing through second hand bookshops in Fitzroy
84.Painting things to go in my house, and reusing old/cool/funky things in new ways
85.Picking strawberries
86. Banana bread from Piccolo
To be continued......
.....
I just pick something, and do it.
Whether its buying myself a really yummo cheese from the market, or picking up some daisys on the way home, or planning a weekend away camping...
I know these are the things that make me happy, so I find a way to do them!
1.Big flamboyant red wines with creamy crumbly cheese
2.Getting home in the evening to find that a vase of flowers opened while I was out and the whole house smells of lilies
3.Cycling downhill while peddling backwards and listening to the whirring of the gears
4.Succulent salmon with a crispy crust, on a bed of mash potato
5.The ultimate comeback in a disagreement
6.Watching the sun rise, and knowing that no matter how knackered you are, it was totally worth it
7.Spoiling my boy and watching the surprise on his face
8.Op Shopping in Brunswick
9.Sleeping in the warm car in the sunshine
10.West Australian sunsets
11.The moment directly after cleaning up my desk, when I realise I have alot of space!
12.The of lightness after submitting a major tender
13.Climbing onto the kitchen stools and dancing, three feet above the ground
14.The giddy endorphin rush as I walk out of the gym
15.Clicking with a complete stranger
16.Electric blankets on a chilly night
17.Finding the PERFECT dress
18.Animal documentaries
19.Getting flowers delivered to work for ALL to see!
20.Shopping with my baby sister
21.The smell of damp air just before it rains
22.Riding my bicycle through Fawkner Park in the evening, through the brown leaves and under the yellow path lights, when the sky is charcoal grey and the darkness comes from the trees
23.Being a flirt
24.Going out of my way to help a stranger
25.Making people laugh
26.Waking up with sore legs and knowing that not only did I probably burn 1000 calories, but that its because I danced to my favourite music the night before.
27.Being inspired by how simple some people lives their lives, but still with immense happiness
28.Knowing ALL the lyrics to a song, and singing them aloud with a friend
29.Going for a big swim, then followed by a nap
30.Being complimented
31.Stomping around the house pretending Im Eminem (I know WAY too many of his songs haha)
32.Long showers where I just sit on the steamy tiles and zone out
33.The smell of freshly ground coffee (even more than the taste!)
34.Spooning
35.Visitors
36.A baby’s infectious burbling laugh
37.Kissing in the rain
38.Getting that hairstyle JUST right
39.Big lavish dinners for friends that take forever to cook but are totally worth it
40.Drawing pictures in the wet sand at the beach
41.Food-comas
42.Hiking till I cant hike no more, and camping out. And then hiking back again!
43.Spotting a shooting star
44.Getting a professional massage that seems to last for hours
45.Acting crazy in public, just to giggle at peoples reactions
46.Realising that I have money saved in my spare bank account that I didn’t even know about!47.Curling up in bed during an early morning thunderstorm, and knowing that I can get up when I like!
48.The smell of hot salty potato chips
49.Playing on the playground that is CLEARLY designed for children
50.Baking warm muffins and then eating every single one before the day is finished!
51.Playing with puppies
53.Having a picnic.
54.Having a picnic with candles inside when the weather is crappy
55.Feeling (and looking) like shit first thing in the morning, only to be told Im the most beautiful creature on the planet56.Being right when everyone was thinking I was wrong
57.Skipping
58.Magpies warbling in the morning
59.Getting an excited buzz when I realise who is waiting for me at home
60.A fresh new haircut61.Kicking Honkey-nuts
62.Pouring my heart out onto a page, and not realising how much I have written until my hand cramps
63.Taking lots and lots of photos
64.Realising how important someone is to me
65.Wednesdays... aka Hump Day
66.The perfect chai, made from scratch, with honey and soy.
67.Lying on the warm pavement in the sun on a chilly day
68.Dancing around the kitchen
69.The smell of aftershave... on a mans flesh.
70.Stepping out of the bath looking like a prune
71.The smell of wet earth, rain, and warm air in the evening
72.Lying on the grass on my lunch break with my head on his tummy, watching the clouds
73.Camping in the height of winter with lots of doonas and red wine
74.Puppy smell
75.Breakfast on Christmas Day with my family, complete with Crayfish and Champagne!
76.Long horseback trailrides until my butt and my thighs hurt
77.The smell of leather, and sweat, and dust and horses
78.Cooked prawns with seafood sauce
79.Chasing chickens
80.Burnouts, and truckstop runs. And burnouts.
81.Long drives on winding coastal roads with windows down and my hair blowing all over the place
82.Painting my nails fire-engine red, even though it doesn’t match my outfit!
83.Traipsing through second hand bookshops in Fitzroy
84.Painting things to go in my house, and reusing old/cool/funky things in new ways
85.Picking strawberries
86. Banana bread from Piccolo
To be continued......
.....
Thursday, May 28, 2009
untitled.
.
If I write on floral paper will my words sound sweeter?
Will they ring with gentle laughter and tales that make you smile?
I write frantically in the hope that a page with lacy edges and a silver sheen soften the anguish when you leave me.
I pray for it to mute the crushing sound of your heart as I write that I’m leaving you.
You did this to us.
I cry because you left me, and I cry on days like today because the sun is shining and the air is warm and the breeze tickles my cheek.
But I asked you to go.
I wish to call you and suggest we have one of those wonderful picnics we use to have.
When we didn’t have any money, and it didn’t matter.
And your heart crushes on the page that I wrote you.
And the hurt leaks out, rippling across the page to seek out the pen as it scratches the paper.
I watch in wonder as the pen inhales it brutally
It undulates like a silent ocean rip within the ink, spreading slowly to the tips of my fingers
There it stains, as I tell you that I love you.
I’m leaving.
I flick through the notebooks, careful not to drop a piece of your pain from the tip of my torn nails
I pick another piece of paper and start again.
I find the prettiest piece. Its blue. Softly blue.
But there is that sound, loud and clear as I write with the leaking pen and my stained fingers.
I’ll never stop loving you.
It’s your heart, crushing on the paper.
.
If I write on floral paper will my words sound sweeter?
Will they ring with gentle laughter and tales that make you smile?
I write frantically in the hope that a page with lacy edges and a silver sheen soften the anguish when you leave me.
I pray for it to mute the crushing sound of your heart as I write that I’m leaving you.
You did this to us.
I cry because you left me, and I cry on days like today because the sun is shining and the air is warm and the breeze tickles my cheek.
But I asked you to go.
I wish to call you and suggest we have one of those wonderful picnics we use to have.
When we didn’t have any money, and it didn’t matter.
And your heart crushes on the page that I wrote you.
And the hurt leaks out, rippling across the page to seek out the pen as it scratches the paper.
I watch in wonder as the pen inhales it brutally
It undulates like a silent ocean rip within the ink, spreading slowly to the tips of my fingers
There it stains, as I tell you that I love you.
I’m leaving.
I flick through the notebooks, careful not to drop a piece of your pain from the tip of my torn nails
I pick another piece of paper and start again.
I find the prettiest piece. Its blue. Softly blue.
But there is that sound, loud and clear as I write with the leaking pen and my stained fingers.
I’ll never stop loving you.
It’s your heart, crushing on the paper.
.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Yellow Eyes
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I like to lie on my back on the grass with my eyes shut. I do this often on my lunch break, whenever the sun promises to peek from behind the clouds. I stare at the sun through closed lids. The heat warms my veins and the rays permeate the transparency of my flesh. When my eyes flicker open, the world has a golden hue. The grass has a luminescence, the buildings have soft ochre tones and the leaves on the trees, turning now because its autumn, have little gold rims. Everything I look at is bathed in yellow, and its somehow more magical.
I cannot help but reminisce about when I used to look through dads old sunglasses. As a child I would pick them up, ever so gently, and slide the giant metal frames over my freckled face. They sat there well, on account of my nose being quite turned up back then. He would doze on the couch, and I would make off with them, admiring the burnt yellow lenses – such was the seventies. Sometimes I would put them on and stand at the front window, marvelling at how they could change the colours of our garden, the passing cars, and the people that traversed the footpath. I would lift them away from my face, and drop them again, giggling at how I could make people go brown like the Jendayi family. Mum said they were “ethnics”, I never found out what kind, dad didn’t really like me playing near their house. They moved away after a few years, I think because they didn’t have many friends. I’d play with dad’s glasses by the window for as long as he would sleep. If he’d been to the bottle-o after his shift, then I got to play with them for longer, because he’d always sleep longer then. I’d sit patiently on the footrest, watching the afternoon news with him, until he nodded off.
Dad would always yell if he ever caught me with his glasses. They were his favourites and he’d had them as long as I could remember. One day I did not see him coming, and he had yelled with such ferocity that I’d dropped them. He snatched them off the ground and rammed them onto his face. He gripped my arm very hard and jerked me towards him. “Whaddaya think you’re doing boy!?” he boomed as he shook me. I froze up then, because I feared what he might do to me if I told him that I’d been playing with them. So I didn’t say anything. He lent down and brought his nose close to mine, digging his nails into my arm. He stared at me intently through the ochre lenses, and I remember thinking how yellow his eyes looked. He leant closer, and I could smell the dark liquor on his breath. He slapped me then, because I didn’t answer him. The handprint had glowed immediately. I should have answered him, then I wouldn’t have been hit. I tried not to cry because it was my fault, but the second time he slapped me, it whipped my head around and rogue tears had trickled down my cheek. But they didn’t wash away the red welt. They never did.
He relaxed then, and the anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. He had sighed, using me to push himself upright. He tousled my hair and walked back to the TV room, talking over his shoulder as he walked out, “I love you kid, but you fucking shit me to tears”. I always thought later on that if I had just stopped taking his glasses, he might have loved me that bit more. But I couldn’t help it, I loved how the my parents house looked through them, and I loved that with a flick of my wrist, I could distort the colours of my world.
From that day on, I’d always taken extra care when I snuck off with his glasses. I’d sneak off to the back of the horses paddock, and walk around, pretending to be dad. I’d always add a little swagger, because dad always had a beer belly. And I’d talk to our chestnut mare Bella, mimicking dad’s gravelly tone. And I’d always wear the glasses, and Bella would always glow a golden burning orange beyond them. And then I’d traipse back to the house, flicking the sunglasses up and down as I went. I was always careful to return them just as I had found them.
When dad died of liver failure in 1983, they buried him with his sunglasses. I remembered how his face was coloured behind them, that day he slapped me, and I thought to myself that now his eyes would be yellow forever. When I was much older, I realised that dads’ eyes were already yellow, and that he was probably dying for as long as I could remember. As now, as I lay on my back on this crisp autumn day, I hope to god that I will never wear yellow glasses again, and that the tingling I feel behind my eyes when I lay on my back will always fade away.
.
I like to lie on my back on the grass with my eyes shut. I do this often on my lunch break, whenever the sun promises to peek from behind the clouds. I stare at the sun through closed lids. The heat warms my veins and the rays permeate the transparency of my flesh. When my eyes flicker open, the world has a golden hue. The grass has a luminescence, the buildings have soft ochre tones and the leaves on the trees, turning now because its autumn, have little gold rims. Everything I look at is bathed in yellow, and its somehow more magical.
I cannot help but reminisce about when I used to look through dads old sunglasses. As a child I would pick them up, ever so gently, and slide the giant metal frames over my freckled face. They sat there well, on account of my nose being quite turned up back then. He would doze on the couch, and I would make off with them, admiring the burnt yellow lenses – such was the seventies. Sometimes I would put them on and stand at the front window, marvelling at how they could change the colours of our garden, the passing cars, and the people that traversed the footpath. I would lift them away from my face, and drop them again, giggling at how I could make people go brown like the Jendayi family. Mum said they were “ethnics”, I never found out what kind, dad didn’t really like me playing near their house. They moved away after a few years, I think because they didn’t have many friends. I’d play with dad’s glasses by the window for as long as he would sleep. If he’d been to the bottle-o after his shift, then I got to play with them for longer, because he’d always sleep longer then. I’d sit patiently on the footrest, watching the afternoon news with him, until he nodded off.
Dad would always yell if he ever caught me with his glasses. They were his favourites and he’d had them as long as I could remember. One day I did not see him coming, and he had yelled with such ferocity that I’d dropped them. He snatched them off the ground and rammed them onto his face. He gripped my arm very hard and jerked me towards him. “Whaddaya think you’re doing boy!?” he boomed as he shook me. I froze up then, because I feared what he might do to me if I told him that I’d been playing with them. So I didn’t say anything. He lent down and brought his nose close to mine, digging his nails into my arm. He stared at me intently through the ochre lenses, and I remember thinking how yellow his eyes looked. He leant closer, and I could smell the dark liquor on his breath. He slapped me then, because I didn’t answer him. The handprint had glowed immediately. I should have answered him, then I wouldn’t have been hit. I tried not to cry because it was my fault, but the second time he slapped me, it whipped my head around and rogue tears had trickled down my cheek. But they didn’t wash away the red welt. They never did.
He relaxed then, and the anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. He had sighed, using me to push himself upright. He tousled my hair and walked back to the TV room, talking over his shoulder as he walked out, “I love you kid, but you fucking shit me to tears”. I always thought later on that if I had just stopped taking his glasses, he might have loved me that bit more. But I couldn’t help it, I loved how the my parents house looked through them, and I loved that with a flick of my wrist, I could distort the colours of my world.
From that day on, I’d always taken extra care when I snuck off with his glasses. I’d sneak off to the back of the horses paddock, and walk around, pretending to be dad. I’d always add a little swagger, because dad always had a beer belly. And I’d talk to our chestnut mare Bella, mimicking dad’s gravelly tone. And I’d always wear the glasses, and Bella would always glow a golden burning orange beyond them. And then I’d traipse back to the house, flicking the sunglasses up and down as I went. I was always careful to return them just as I had found them.
When dad died of liver failure in 1983, they buried him with his sunglasses. I remembered how his face was coloured behind them, that day he slapped me, and I thought to myself that now his eyes would be yellow forever. When I was much older, I realised that dads’ eyes were already yellow, and that he was probably dying for as long as I could remember. As now, as I lay on my back on this crisp autumn day, I hope to god that I will never wear yellow glasses again, and that the tingling I feel behind my eyes when I lay on my back will always fade away.
.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Friday Fog
Image by http://stephensoo.blogspot.com/2009/04/melbourne-shrouded-in-fog.htmlI am awake before the birds are today.
Mind you, it’s a little after 7am and it’s only the fog that keeps them sleepy. I can see them in the trees all puffy and cute wrapped in dewy grey blankets.
I wish to stay home today, to sit by my window and watch the sunshine burn the layers of fog, to toast the birds until they stir and press their feathers back to their skin, because they are warm. And they will sing and feed, and poo on my car. And I will watch them, and write. But I have to go to work. In the city. Amongst the buildings, up high. With my computer and my photocopier and my crappy cappuccino machine. And the in-tray that rivals Mount Everest.
And then, when I DO get to work ...I write about how I want to be at home. Writing. And watching the birds poo on my car, once the sun burns away the fog.
.
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Ultimate 21st Century Baby Present
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courtesy of Michi Girl http://michigirl.com/newsletter/melbourne/1708/budding-bunny-beneficiary/
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Learning Consumerism for all ages... including tiny tots. Teach em young!
courtesy of Michi Girl http://michigirl.com/newsletter/melbourne/1708/budding-bunny-beneficiary/
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Thursday, April 16, 2009
All Mine.
short story.
Could he be an investment banker?
No. Not cool enough.
An architect?
Now, yeah. Thats cool.
An architect. She smiles
Sara is staring straight ahead now, as they rumble down the road.
How lovely to be married to an architect, spending your lazy Sundays by the fire, talking about the dream home while he sketches away. Her lips curl up in a little half smile, and she closes her eyes. The sun is beginning to rise, filtering gently through the morning mist to warm the cabin.
The bus rocks gently from side to side, cradling her wishful thinking, until it lurches over a pothole and her eyes flicker open.
She steals a glance sideways and feels the familiar strain behind her eyes, as she tries to look without looking. He is fiddling absently with his shirt button, and as he stares out the window, a fine stream of condensation is forming on the window where his breath blows gently. Sara can tell that he is daydreaming.
He is rather lovely to look at, you know. Quite striking. And the beauty of their daily ritual meant that she saw him, on this route, every single day. He did not know how much she adored him, loved him. Yes, love was a strong word for a stranger, but Sara believed she truly did. She loved how he sat, how he played with his hair, and how in the afternoons on the way home, he would doze, head pressed to the window, mouth slightly parted. And she fantasised that he was hers
“All mine”.
To kiss and to cuddle, and to greet him when he got home, to soothe him after a long day, and be warmed by his boyish grin.
He is glancing over now, his solemn eyes moving around the bus. He is absently scanning the passengers, following their movements. He has seen her! He recognises her face as a regular on the bus, and smiles, before returning to his view out of the window, his fingers reaching up to toy with his shirt buttons again.
Sara’s heart swells and she tries not to grin like a fool. Yes, today is going to be a good day, being cooped up in the office will pass like a dream, and that smile of his will carry her through the day.
As the time passes, she is ever closer to disembarking. Couldn’t she just ride this bus with him forever? But of course he too, would have to get off at his own stop, and that would break her heart. And she would feel empty again, as she always does when he leaves her each day. And that ache would return.
She desires for him to be hers. To run her long fingers through his thick dark hair, gently dragging the long curls out until they bounce back to his scalp. She’d like for him to be an architect, and maybe one day far away, she will ask him. And he will say yes, and invite her to visit the buildings that he will build all over the world.
But he isn’t hers.
Its his stop, and she yearns for him to stay near her. But like every other day, he picks up his bag and prepares to leave her all alone. He saunters down the aisle, with all the carefree attitudes of a 4 year old. As he passes her, he smiles one last time, before grabbing his mummy’s hand. He is swung down the steps with a whooshing sound and he squeals gleefully, clapping his hands in delight as he lands. Sara watches him longingly, one hand on her stomach where the baby once was, as the bus pulls away from the school.
.
Could he be an investment banker?
No. Not cool enough.
An architect?
Now, yeah. Thats cool.
An architect. She smiles
Sara is staring straight ahead now, as they rumble down the road.
How lovely to be married to an architect, spending your lazy Sundays by the fire, talking about the dream home while he sketches away. Her lips curl up in a little half smile, and she closes her eyes. The sun is beginning to rise, filtering gently through the morning mist to warm the cabin.
The bus rocks gently from side to side, cradling her wishful thinking, until it lurches over a pothole and her eyes flicker open.
She steals a glance sideways and feels the familiar strain behind her eyes, as she tries to look without looking. He is fiddling absently with his shirt button, and as he stares out the window, a fine stream of condensation is forming on the window where his breath blows gently. Sara can tell that he is daydreaming.
He is rather lovely to look at, you know. Quite striking. And the beauty of their daily ritual meant that she saw him, on this route, every single day. He did not know how much she adored him, loved him. Yes, love was a strong word for a stranger, but Sara believed she truly did. She loved how he sat, how he played with his hair, and how in the afternoons on the way home, he would doze, head pressed to the window, mouth slightly parted. And she fantasised that he was hers
“All mine”.
To kiss and to cuddle, and to greet him when he got home, to soothe him after a long day, and be warmed by his boyish grin.
He is glancing over now, his solemn eyes moving around the bus. He is absently scanning the passengers, following their movements. He has seen her! He recognises her face as a regular on the bus, and smiles, before returning to his view out of the window, his fingers reaching up to toy with his shirt buttons again.
Sara’s heart swells and she tries not to grin like a fool. Yes, today is going to be a good day, being cooped up in the office will pass like a dream, and that smile of his will carry her through the day.
As the time passes, she is ever closer to disembarking. Couldn’t she just ride this bus with him forever? But of course he too, would have to get off at his own stop, and that would break her heart. And she would feel empty again, as she always does when he leaves her each day. And that ache would return.
She desires for him to be hers. To run her long fingers through his thick dark hair, gently dragging the long curls out until they bounce back to his scalp. She’d like for him to be an architect, and maybe one day far away, she will ask him. And he will say yes, and invite her to visit the buildings that he will build all over the world.
But he isn’t hers.
Its his stop, and she yearns for him to stay near her. But like every other day, he picks up his bag and prepares to leave her all alone. He saunters down the aisle, with all the carefree attitudes of a 4 year old. As he passes her, he smiles one last time, before grabbing his mummy’s hand. He is swung down the steps with a whooshing sound and he squeals gleefully, clapping his hands in delight as he lands. Sara watches him longingly, one hand on her stomach where the baby once was, as the bus pulls away from the school.
.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Extract 1
Amelia lifted her feet from the boiling depths of her bathtub and watched the steam curl ever so slowly off her toes. A smile crept across her glistening face at the colour of her shins. Shiny and red like the crays her dad used to pull from the stainless pot, and wave teasingly at her fleeing back.
She tipped her head back to rest on the edge of the tub, the cool tiles pressing to the nape of her neck. She mused if heaven would be like this, so quiet, and decadent. But she had little doubt that they did not serve her favourite Sangiovese in heaven, and she took another sip, allowing the dark liquidised fruit to roll across her tongue before it cascaded lovingly down her throat.
Amelia reflected on her day. Truly, no different from any other. Late for work, another sleepless night locking her to the quilt much too late in the morning. Straining her shoulder at the gym, a recurring injury that she could not pinpoint as free-weights induced, or stored anxiety. And missing her train home only to have the subsequent train cancelled on her. But in her wait at the station, she had noticed him. He would have been unassuming, perhaps unnoticed altogether, if he had not moved into her path. He would have been this inconspicuous, if Amelia had not noticed the gloom that darkened his haunting face. As she had walked past, arms wrestling with the depths of her satchel for her Ipod, she had dropped her magazine on the concrete platform. Bending to pick it up, the boy had beaten her to it, stooping low and quickly as if to snatch it and run. Instead, he passed it to Amelia, and as she reached out to take it from him, she’d noticed the alarming differences between their hands. She could not have been more than 5 or 6 years older than him, yet his hands were calloused, cracked and dirty, creeping out from beneath a grey jumper that swamped his thin frame. Her hands were fine, soft, sure she chewed her nails incessantly but still, she sported a glossy red acrylic on what remained. As her long fingers moved, her engagement ring twinkled briefly underneath the fluorescent lights.
Amelia stared at his hands until they returned to deep in his pockets, and she had realised very suddenly that she was standing mute in front of this boy with no apparent intention. As a godsend, the train rolled slowly into the station, she had mumbled a thankyou, turned quickly on her patent black heels and shuffled with the crowd, onto the waiting train.
Quickly, Amelia battled her way to one of the few remaining vacant seats, plonking her satchel and gym bags victoriously on her lap. She looked around the train, unable to settle her gaze amongst the passengers, and returned her vision to the platform. Amelia had seen so many junkie kids around the city, general steering a clear path around the vacant forms as they gathered under doorways and on stairwells. So why had she found herself so captivated by this one? He could not have been older than 16, his thin shoulders pitching into his jumper, accentuating the already dwarfing fabric. The alarm sounded and the doors had closed. The boy looked up from the stained concrete from where he sat on his bench seat, and absently scanned the carriages. His eyes fixed on her briefly then moved on. But Amelia could not stop watching him. She had realised that in the moment their eyes met, that she had looked into the eyes of an old old man. His eyes were grey like his jumper, devoid of any true definition of colour, and vacant of any spark, dark clouds of sleeplessness jostled across his face. And in that brief second across metres of platform, she had heard him say “I know what you see”. He had looked at Amelia, and then back through her to himself, and she had witnessed it all from the sidelines.
Amelia opened her eyes in an attempt to clear the image of his face from her head. The foamy bubbles crackled around her ears. She felt overwhelmed with sadness. Of all the addicted and impoverished that had ever crossed her path this boy – this kid, this addled child – had told her, without words, of his inherent awareness of his own destitution. Across metres of platform, he spoke to her of a youthful world lost to an adult desire. In those steel grey eyes.
Anthony came in the door as Amelia padded down the timber corridor in her cotton socks. She gave a little squeal of delight as they met halfway, and she threw herself into his embrace. Even as a statuesque woman, Tony had the capacity to make her feel very small, one of the many reasons why she loved him. And as he squeezed her, planting faint kisses quickly on her forehead, the image of the boy on the platform dissolved from her mind.
She tipped her head back to rest on the edge of the tub, the cool tiles pressing to the nape of her neck. She mused if heaven would be like this, so quiet, and decadent. But she had little doubt that they did not serve her favourite Sangiovese in heaven, and she took another sip, allowing the dark liquidised fruit to roll across her tongue before it cascaded lovingly down her throat.
Amelia reflected on her day. Truly, no different from any other. Late for work, another sleepless night locking her to the quilt much too late in the morning. Straining her shoulder at the gym, a recurring injury that she could not pinpoint as free-weights induced, or stored anxiety. And missing her train home only to have the subsequent train cancelled on her. But in her wait at the station, she had noticed him. He would have been unassuming, perhaps unnoticed altogether, if he had not moved into her path. He would have been this inconspicuous, if Amelia had not noticed the gloom that darkened his haunting face. As she had walked past, arms wrestling with the depths of her satchel for her Ipod, she had dropped her magazine on the concrete platform. Bending to pick it up, the boy had beaten her to it, stooping low and quickly as if to snatch it and run. Instead, he passed it to Amelia, and as she reached out to take it from him, she’d noticed the alarming differences between their hands. She could not have been more than 5 or 6 years older than him, yet his hands were calloused, cracked and dirty, creeping out from beneath a grey jumper that swamped his thin frame. Her hands were fine, soft, sure she chewed her nails incessantly but still, she sported a glossy red acrylic on what remained. As her long fingers moved, her engagement ring twinkled briefly underneath the fluorescent lights.
Amelia stared at his hands until they returned to deep in his pockets, and she had realised very suddenly that she was standing mute in front of this boy with no apparent intention. As a godsend, the train rolled slowly into the station, she had mumbled a thankyou, turned quickly on her patent black heels and shuffled with the crowd, onto the waiting train.
Quickly, Amelia battled her way to one of the few remaining vacant seats, plonking her satchel and gym bags victoriously on her lap. She looked around the train, unable to settle her gaze amongst the passengers, and returned her vision to the platform. Amelia had seen so many junkie kids around the city, general steering a clear path around the vacant forms as they gathered under doorways and on stairwells. So why had she found herself so captivated by this one? He could not have been older than 16, his thin shoulders pitching into his jumper, accentuating the already dwarfing fabric. The alarm sounded and the doors had closed. The boy looked up from the stained concrete from where he sat on his bench seat, and absently scanned the carriages. His eyes fixed on her briefly then moved on. But Amelia could not stop watching him. She had realised that in the moment their eyes met, that she had looked into the eyes of an old old man. His eyes were grey like his jumper, devoid of any true definition of colour, and vacant of any spark, dark clouds of sleeplessness jostled across his face. And in that brief second across metres of platform, she had heard him say “I know what you see”. He had looked at Amelia, and then back through her to himself, and she had witnessed it all from the sidelines.
Amelia opened her eyes in an attempt to clear the image of his face from her head. The foamy bubbles crackled around her ears. She felt overwhelmed with sadness. Of all the addicted and impoverished that had ever crossed her path this boy – this kid, this addled child – had told her, without words, of his inherent awareness of his own destitution. Across metres of platform, he spoke to her of a youthful world lost to an adult desire. In those steel grey eyes.
Anthony came in the door as Amelia padded down the timber corridor in her cotton socks. She gave a little squeal of delight as they met halfway, and she threw herself into his embrace. Even as a statuesque woman, Tony had the capacity to make her feel very small, one of the many reasons why she loved him. And as he squeezed her, planting faint kisses quickly on her forehead, the image of the boy on the platform dissolved from her mind.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Blogs of Note. Part II
By Holly Becker.
Writing today’s topic for the Creativity Series was a bit of a struggle because I am sensitive to how the economy is affecting others and despite how badly I want to radiate hope and positivity I don’t want to come across as happy-go-lucky, annoying, or perhaps naive to the problems that many are facing. But you know what, I’m not going to over cook this because who knows, maybe some of you need this reminder so this week we’re going to talk about developing a sense of humor to not only help you be more creative but to keep you sane in a pretty messed up world.
How does developing a sense of humor inspire creativity? How can it help you get though hard times?
How does developing a sense of humor inspire creativity? How can it help you get though hard times?
It can really push down walls when you decide to lighten up and just be yourself without becoming overly concerned about the opinions of others. It can also protect you from your worst enemy which so often yourself. I can’t stress how important this is. When others are overly judgmental, negative, or when you find yourself being overly critical of yourself, it’s time to tap into your sense of humor.
I believe that laughter stimulates great thinking. When you are under less stress your thoughts flow more freely and your mind can wander a bit outside of the box.
A sense of humor helps us during the journey. Drama seems to up ratings on television but in real life, it only brings our ratings down. Friends may start to dodge us, clients could begin to call us into question, family members will avoid “stepping on eggshells” simply by withholding information that you really should be hearing. It’s a lot easier to communicate with someone who doesn’t fly off the handle over every little thing. This is the sign of someone who may need to tap into their sense of humor. The world does not revolve around any of us, we’re all going to hit problems and deal with annoyances often on a daily basis. There is no problem-free life, no perfect government, no ideal marriage partner. We’re all broken in one way or another with our own fears, dysfunctions, inabilities, dark sides, etc. It’s important to accept that fact and realize early on that nothing we take on is easy, whether that’s a new child, a career, or something that should be fun like starting a new hobby. Developing your creative side takes effort, failure often rides alongside success, so it’s unavoidable that the path you thought would be perfect may not be the same path you find yourself on in a few years. That’s where a sense of humor helps. Trust that the journey is often as rewarding, if not more, than reaching the actual goal. Allow your sense of humor to take the wheel when you feel like giving up or flipping out. During the hard times you may need to step outside of the ‘bubble’ you’re in and laugh at the situation a little.
Remind yourself that you’re human.
While sense of humor is important, going through life laughing things off and ignoring potential issues is dangerous. I’m certainly not encouraging laughing at funerals or telling your depressed friend to stop feeling sorry for herself. You have to take things seriously but there does come a point where you’ve taken something seriously so what’s next? You then have to start dealing with it, mending the problem, repairing or rebuilding, etc. It’s at that point when you can decide to put a positive spin on the situation or not. You can find some relief as you deal with your issue if you remember the good during the bad times.
Happy people are more creative, creative people are more productive, and productive people are well, happier. I once read somewhere that developing a more optimistic world view can help you become more resilient and that it’s good for your emotional and even physical health to lighten up and laugh. That’s good stuff there.
I could go on and on but you get the point of what I’m trying to say. Look at the good side. Keep your goals in front of you. Laughter really can be the best medicine. Before I sign off I want to leave you with a few tips on how I keep a positive outlook. First, I don’t take myself too seriously. If I screw up, I admit and move on. I even laugh out loud at myself in public — I once fell down the stairs at a party and laughed so hard I cried - and I was wearing a dress and high heels and clearly made an idiot of myself but I got up and started dancing again and just shook it off. Sometimes when I’m moody and crabby I don’t feel like laughing. At all. That’s when I immediately notice something is wrong so I’ll call a friend who I know will make me laugh, I look for my online friends, I put on some good music, or I watch something really random and stupid on YouTube. :)
By Holly Becker at Decor8
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