progress?

Gluttony - Gola
Originally uploaded by andrea francesco

Because I am a girl in need of a cattle prod, I have been scheming and formulating and signing up to things left, right and centre. I can consequently announce that I am threatening to actually make some goddamned progress on those resolutions.

To whit: I have rejoined the gym, and have resolved to get to yoga at least a couple of times a year week (oopsy. A genuine, and slightly telling, mistake...). My joints are creakier than Tin Man’s. I've been swimming again and revelling in the slick feeling of immersion. I have also resolved to take a week off the sauce.* And then maybe a bit more. I also have two apples on my desk. PROOF.

And I haven’t cried in the sandwich shop for at least a week. Possibly not that much of an achievement given my credit crunch-induced packed lunch regime. Shit. Still.

Most importantly, I’m going to give NaBloPoMo the kind of red hot go only a Lil’ Aussie Battler can. No more of this once a month business. Look out, internets.

*Possibly excluding Wednesday’s expedition to the Wild West (well, Shepherds Bush Empire) to see the Fleet Foxes when a quieting G&T may well be the only thing between me and a tussle with security after trying to hug Robin Pecknold.

picking up the pieces

broken love
Originally uploaded by Zha

Here’s what I am going to do. I am going to get enough sleep. I am going to remember how to dance without 6 gin-and-tonics inside me. I am going to read as much Walt Whitman as I need to. I am going to go to bed earlier, and get up earlier. I am going to swim. I’m going to remember to eat. I am going to try to remember how lucky I am to have good health and an amazing family of people I’m related to and people I’ve collected and a job and somewhere nice to live. I am going to keep talking. I’m going to look forward to a Christmas with the hot sun on my skin. I’m going to plan adventures, even tiny ones. I’m going to try to be kind. I’m going to practice making decisions again, small ones like when to go on holiday and where to take my dad out to dinner. I’m going to write. I’m going to believe, when I can. I’m going to make my bed every morning. I’m going to read. I’m going to eat more apples. I’m going to stop crying in the sandwich shop when the lady asks if the mayonnaise should be on one side or both. I’m going to. Just watch me.

what he said

"...The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the "rat race" - the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing."

This, and much more wisdom, belongs in a speech given by David Foster Wallace to a graduating class. That someone with so much to say, and that so many of us need to hear, is gone, is a tragedy for us all...

Call an old friend and tell them every tiny thing you remember about a day you spent together. Go on, dare you.

ode to my socks

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Originally uploaded by Nodoyuna

there is such a thing as having a talent for present giving. a kind, sweet, surprising man i know bought me new socks and gave them to me the day i left for a muddy festival in the country, with strict instructions not to put them on until the final day.

pablo, i get it...

Ode to My Socks
by Pablo Neruda (translated by Robert Bly)

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

oh, now it all makes perfect sense

There’s little point even in attempting to shoehorn what follows into any kind of sensible diatribe.

Basically, when the inimitable Rach was without internet for a week, the resourceful scamp and her equally handy pals at Hi-ReS! decided to make their own internet, out of gifs, bits and pieces they had on their hard drives, and the cardboard toilet roll inners.

When they got the real internet back, they uploaded part of their homemade internet. Following? I had a play and ended up on the following screen.



And what follows is Rach’s oh-so-matter-of-fact explanation of the weirdness.



I think their internet is easily my favourite thing on the internet. Thank goodness for nonsense, weirdos and flashing gifs shouting ‘YEAH!”

the answer is simple.

"Love one another and you will be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that."
- Michael Leunig

art club

Brits are famed for an obsession with the weather. Small talk on buses, sunburn worn as badges of achievement, weather reports littered with historical comparisons. When I first pitched up in London nearly six years ago, I took it all a bit personally. Am I that boring to speak to that we’re musing about the weather?

I apologise. I get it now.

I’ve endured some pretty miserable summers here. One, two years ago, was referred to afterwards as The Year Summer Never Came, and discussions about it ended solemnly, with people crossing themselves afterwards to ward off similar misfortunes in future.

It was in vain. Hello, “Summer” of 2008. Optimism was maintained throughout July. “It’s always this wet in July! It means August will be scorching.” Early August – when the South East received a month’s worth of rainfall in 12 hours just 3 days in – sparked concern, but we reassured each other, saying that if it had rained this much it couldn’t possibly continue. It’s still worth buying those sandals, you’ll get plenty of wear out of them yet.

Look at the forecast up there. That’s actually one of the better ones of the past 2 months – see, it’s topped 20°C! There’s a chance we’ll get one dry day! My high summer wardrobe has consisted of jeans, boots, cardigans, and a coat. The only bit of my winter clothing that’s had a sabbatical is scarves, and yesterday I was so cold at my desk I wished I’d worn one.

I’ve tried to be nonchalant. I’ve tried to be optimistic. Mostly I’ve just been futilely, aimlessly fucking angry. I feel like I ordered an ice cream sundae and the waitress dished up a meatshake and then spat in it for good measure. There’s only one thing for it: hole up indoors to eat pizza and draw things, AKA Art Club.

There was intricate, beautiful drawing by Rach (it's a tree, with clouds for foliage), and a selection of beards, drawn by me:



Fun with stamps:



Lots of lovely mess:



And much-needed pep talks:




Now scram, pretend it’s winter and have cheese on toast for tea.