I have a problem with books. I love them intensely. A deep yearning for all books, a compulsive addiction.
Years ago, I decided to stop acquiring books. Very difficult at first, gradually I've come to terms with my choice. Besides, there's always the library.
So when Tristan called asking me to pick up a book for his auntie while I was in the city, I though nothing of it.
But it was in the fiction section, under "c" and right beside Copeland. Douglas and I have been apart for far too long! And Dahl, right on the next shelf. A collection of Fitzgerald's short stories. I love short stories! Oh wait, didn't Owen say I absolutely had to check out Aline Kominsky-Crumb's graphic novels? Yes, he did!
A few minutes ogling the shelf of Penguin Classics in their ever-so appealing orange and white covers. Past Sci-Fi & Fantasy. Well, not quite: Philip K. Dick on the top and why has it been so long since I've read anything by him?! Wow, someone turned The Master & Margarita -- one of my favorites -- into a graphic novel; it's not very well done. But the graphic novel edition of Metamorphosis looks grand! What a good idea...
***
About an hour later, I rouse out of a paper-&-ink-induced stupor, on the floor surrounded by small piles of books and graphic novels. I stagger to my feet, complete my seemingly straightforward task, and stumble hazy and disoriented into the thick heat of Adelaide.
Right: Adelaide. Australia... I should endeavor to experience real life.
***
Down the crowded walkway, my brain fondly, obsessively, revisits the words, the covers, the bindings, the smell....
Addiction is addition is addiction.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Overheard in Adelaide
Pink-haired woman pushing stroller, under her breath to no one in particular:
I haven't heard that term since elementary school!
Sorry, primary school.
There are too many Guidos in this town.
I haven't heard that term since elementary school!
Sorry, primary school.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Ghostpartol vs Cat-Rabbit
February 21st
Today is the last chance I'll get to check out "While You Sleep," an exhibit of work by ghostpatrol, a fantastic graffiti artist/illustrator. I first came across his stuff on Wooster Collective, but didn't realize he's from Melbourne.
The Gorker Gallery is a fairly new space out in Fitzroy. The previous night had bled well into the early hours of this morning, and I'm feeling like a bit of a zombie, yet considerably agitated at the same time. I can't seem to figure out what's bothering me and drag my feet until the last possible moment before heading out.
The train system in Melbourne is somewhat tricky to maneuver. There are multiple lines linked through the same stations. You can catch trains for several different lines from the same platform, some even going in opposite directions (I can't quite grasp how that works). It's about as hard to explain in writing as it is to figure out in person, evidently.
So I get to the station and I wait. And wait. Between train, tram, and walking in the wrong direction ("continue along Smith" suggests going in the same direction, not doubling back, thanks all the same MetroLink), I make it to the gallery at 6:45pm. They close at 7pm.
But it's a small place, more like an open garage, so it was enough time (although I could have stayed much longer, given the change). The concept is ultra-cool: Cat-Rabbit makes these gorgeous felted-doll creations and made 3-dimensional replications of ghostpatrol's illustrations. The artists' works were installed together. Leaves blown in form the street were strewn over the warehouse floor. The guys who run the place told me they were contemplating actively bringing more in, since it seemed to suit the exhibit to perfectly. Everything about it set me completely at ease.
Should I ever do something crazy like get a couch, next on the list will be some of ghostpatrol's prints, no question.
Today is the last chance I'll get to check out "While You Sleep," an exhibit of work by ghostpatrol, a fantastic graffiti artist/illustrator. I first came across his stuff on Wooster Collective, but didn't realize he's from Melbourne.
The Gorker Gallery is a fairly new space out in Fitzroy. The previous night had bled well into the early hours of this morning, and I'm feeling like a bit of a zombie, yet considerably agitated at the same time. I can't seem to figure out what's bothering me and drag my feet until the last possible moment before heading out.
The train system in Melbourne is somewhat tricky to maneuver. There are multiple lines linked through the same stations. You can catch trains for several different lines from the same platform, some even going in opposite directions (I can't quite grasp how that works). It's about as hard to explain in writing as it is to figure out in person, evidently.
So I get to the station and I wait. And wait. Between train, tram, and walking in the wrong direction ("continue along Smith" suggests going in the same direction, not doubling back, thanks all the same MetroLink), I make it to the gallery at 6:45pm. They close at 7pm.
But it's a small place, more like an open garage, so it was enough time (although I could have stayed much longer, given the change). The concept is ultra-cool: Cat-Rabbit makes these gorgeous felted-doll creations and made 3-dimensional replications of ghostpatrol's illustrations. The artists' works were installed together. Leaves blown in form the street were strewn over the warehouse floor. The guys who run the place told me they were contemplating actively bringing more in, since it seemed to suit the exhibit to perfectly. Everything about it set me completely at ease.
Should I ever do something crazy like get a couch, next on the list will be some of ghostpatrol's prints, no question.
Adelaide and Train Ticket Wisdom
February 27th
I've spent the afternoon staring out at the kite surfers on the ocean, writing away, drinking tea and eating fresh figs, while the boys are off doing sound check for their show tonight.
We've been staying at Michael's mum's, a gorgeous house right on the water. Each day has started out with a morning swim. I haven't eaten this well for almost two months.
The consensus: I must have been very good at some point in my life.
***
Tristan and I made the 8-hour drive from Melbourne to Adelaide on Wednesday. It was cool and rainy when we left in the morning, but within no time on the road, it was blisteringly hot. No air
-conditioning. We both changed clothing when we stopped at the South Australia border. And then again when we made it to Adelaide.
But other than the heat, it was a great journey.
And I got to do a good portion of the driving, first time on the left-side, which wasn't nearly as problematic as shifting with my left-hand (finding 2nd was surprisingly tricky the first couple times).
Tristan was highly amused each time I hit the windshield wipers instead of the turning indicator -- I was too, for that matter.
***
Whenever I mentioned that I was headed to Adelaide, people seemed horrified, without exception. At first, I assumed they were being overly dramatic. After all, I know some very cool people from Adelaide. It's the capital of South Australia, and hosts tons of festivals, including a massive fringe (which is what brings me here).
But again and again, people out-rightly said, "Don't go to Adelaide."
***
We stopped briefly at Mount Lofty for a panoramic view of Adelaide. Looked just as a city should.
By the time Tristan and I got into the city [Canadian "into the city," not Australian "downtown"], it was late enough that we headed directly to Michael's mum's place -- which is about 30 minutes outside of the CBD [Central Business District, synonymous with in the city], ditched our stuff, changed again, and met the boys at a pub near the house.
When we woke up the next morning, we walked through the backyard, across the street, and into the ocean for a swim. And by this point I'm thinking, how bad could Adelaide possibly be?
Over coffee -- I had a short black, which is a single espresso and expect to be bouncing off the walls for the next 4 hours -- the boys give me rough directions for getting to and around the city. Naturally, my map of Adelaide is safely tucked away with the rest of my things in Melbourne.
They drop me off at the train station, wish me luck, and tell me to call if I got stuck. [Did I mention that I lurv that I finally have a mobile?! It's true.]
***
I'm now on the train, marveling at the fortune-cookie inspired proverbs printed on the back of my ticket:
1) To find friendship, offer friendship
2) You'll never get rid of a bad temper by losing it.
If the transit tickets are any indication, good or bad, Adelaide is certainly it's own place.
I've spent the afternoon staring out at the kite surfers on the ocean, writing away, drinking tea and eating fresh figs, while the boys are off doing sound check for their show tonight.
We've been staying at Michael's mum's, a gorgeous house right on the water. Each day has started out with a morning swim. I haven't eaten this well for almost two months.
The consensus: I must have been very good at some point in my life.
***
Tristan and I made the 8-hour drive from Melbourne to Adelaide on Wednesday. It was cool and rainy when we left in the morning, but within no time on the road, it was blisteringly hot. No air
-conditioning. We both changed clothing when we stopped at the South Australia border. And then again when we made it to Adelaide.
But other than the heat, it was a great journey.
And I got to do a good portion of the driving, first time on the left-side, which wasn't nearly as problematic as shifting with my left-hand (finding 2nd was surprisingly tricky the first couple times).
Tristan was highly amused each time I hit the windshield wipers instead of the turning indicator -- I was too, for that matter.
***
Whenever I mentioned that I was headed to Adelaide, people seemed horrified, without exception. At first, I assumed they were being overly dramatic. After all, I know some very cool people from Adelaide. It's the capital of South Australia, and hosts tons of festivals, including a massive fringe (which is what brings me here).
But again and again, people out-rightly said, "Don't go to Adelaide."
***
We stopped briefly at Mount Lofty for a panoramic view of Adelaide. Looked just as a city should.
By the time Tristan and I got into the city [Canadian "into the city," not Australian "downtown"], it was late enough that we headed directly to Michael's mum's place -- which is about 30 minutes outside of the CBD [Central Business District, synonymous with in the city], ditched our stuff, changed again, and met the boys at a pub near the house.
When we woke up the next morning, we walked through the backyard, across the street, and into the ocean for a swim. And by this point I'm thinking, how bad could Adelaide possibly be?
Over coffee -- I had a short black, which is a single espresso and expect to be bouncing off the walls for the next 4 hours -- the boys give me rough directions for getting to and around the city. Naturally, my map of Adelaide is safely tucked away with the rest of my things in Melbourne.
They drop me off at the train station, wish me luck, and tell me to call if I got stuck. [Did I mention that I lurv that I finally have a mobile?! It's true.]
***
I'm now on the train, marveling at the fortune-cookie inspired proverbs printed on the back of my ticket:
1) To find friendship, offer friendship
2) You'll never get rid of a bad temper by losing it.
If the transit tickets are any indication, good or bad, Adelaide is certainly it's own place.
My New Filing System is Unstoppable
I'm not much one for writing down quotations (I greatly prefer capturing the things people say in the every-day), so for the following three to have made it into my book at various points is relatively significant.
Personally, I like the through-lines, despite the large gaps of time between encountering them.
Personally, I like the through-lines, despite the large gaps of time between encountering them.
Time, of course, topples everyone in its path equally... But the thrashing we receive is one of frightful gentleness. Few of us even realize that we are being beaten.
A 'Poor Aunt' Story, Murakami
There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing. And some things folks do is nice and some ain't so nice, but that's as far as any man got a right to say.
Jim Casy, The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
Our being human made us tragic and comic both... The gods both laughed and wept.
I Know This Much is True, Wally Lamb
Ode to a Notebook
Many of you have seen it: my ratty, colorful little spiral notebook. My replacement for the one lost on the TTC, procured at a discount shop on Rideau. The same place I picked up my beloved pair of $3 sunglasses, presently held together with a toothpick.
What I love so much about this little book is that it has sections delineated by bright plastic dividers, allowing for my make-shift day-planner (now home to directions, phone number, and transit routes spanning 3 countries and 2 continents) to live beside my scrawly writing-notes section, without overlap or cross-contamination. Far superior to toting around multiple notebooks, which is what I used to do, inevitably neglecting the catch-all one for the organizational one when heading out for the day.
But alas! all good things must come to an end.
Next in line: a sophisticated Moleskin notebook -- the same used by Picasso, Hemingway, and Chatwin, announces their slogan -- purchased on sale in Toronto in August. Still in its plastic packaging.
Delicious thick, blank fold-out pages await. No more lines, no more spirals, no flimsy paper that can't support the ink of finer felt-tipped pens that make scrawling that much more pleasurable. How glorious!
And yet, I find myself flipping back and forth through Old Faithful, scribbling in my tiniest penmanship in margins, at all kinds of angles, on any available real estate. Starting a new book is always difficult, particularly if the one in question is delightfully decadent.
Perhaps that's all it is.
At any rate, my hunts for writing space have facilitated a revisiting of forgotten notes, jotted down hastily in an attempt to avoid the "what are you writing" queries from those around.
I intend to post some of them, in tribute to my notebook friend and to ease through the transition period.
[Ease through the transition period?! Sometimes, I am so weird.]
So, for those of you who wondered to yourself or aloud what I was scribbling all those times, to those of you I never quite gave a direct answer -- I am the Queen of Deflection, am I not? -- I suppose this will give you some sense of it.
[I'll do my best to date them, so this carnet doesn't become a chronological nightmare.]
What I love so much about this little book is that it has sections delineated by bright plastic dividers, allowing for my make-shift day-planner (now home to directions, phone number, and transit routes spanning 3 countries and 2 continents) to live beside my scrawly writing-notes section, without overlap or cross-contamination. Far superior to toting around multiple notebooks, which is what I used to do, inevitably neglecting the catch-all one for the organizational one when heading out for the day.
But alas! all good things must come to an end.
Next in line: a sophisticated Moleskin notebook -- the same used by Picasso, Hemingway, and Chatwin, announces their slogan -- purchased on sale in Toronto in August. Still in its plastic packaging.
Delicious thick, blank fold-out pages await. No more lines, no more spirals, no flimsy paper that can't support the ink of finer felt-tipped pens that make scrawling that much more pleasurable. How glorious!
And yet, I find myself flipping back and forth through Old Faithful, scribbling in my tiniest penmanship in margins, at all kinds of angles, on any available real estate. Starting a new book is always difficult, particularly if the one in question is delightfully decadent.
Perhaps that's all it is.
At any rate, my hunts for writing space have facilitated a revisiting of forgotten notes, jotted down hastily in an attempt to avoid the "what are you writing" queries from those around.
I intend to post some of them, in tribute to my notebook friend and to ease through the transition period.
[Ease through the transition period?! Sometimes, I am so weird.]
So, for those of you who wondered to yourself or aloud what I was scribbling all those times, to those of you I never quite gave a direct answer -- I am the Queen of Deflection, am I not? -- I suppose this will give you some sense of it.
[I'll do my best to date them, so this carnet doesn't become a chronological nightmare.]
Rad to the Power of Sick
The following eBay posting was read to me by an Aussie. The accent is really needed for its full glory to shine through.
I tried reading it aloud to a friend and could barely make it through the laughter and subsequent tears. And it certainly wasn't the same with my hard vowels and sharp consonants.
This is what I find myself surrounded by.
I think it's top notch.
[Here's the link, in case you need the pictures]
I tried reading it aloud to a friend and could barely make it through the laughter and subsequent tears. And it certainly wasn't the same with my hard vowels and sharp consonants.
This is a max wicked sick BMX. It's a Reliance Boomerang and it's done heaps of maximum extreme stunts. I have mostly done stunts on this bike since forever. Once I did a boom gnarly stunt trick on it and a girl got pregnant just by watching my extremeness to the maxxxx.
Some details about sickmax BMX: Comes with everything you see including: TOPS AS SUSPENSION REAR FORKS!! 2 x wheels 1 x seat I will even thrown my sick BMXing name for FREE - Wicked Styx. Has minor surface rust on handlebars and front forks (easily removed). More rust on rear forks (as shown in pics). Tyres hold air but are pretty old. Basically, it's an old BMX, but it's radness is still 100% in tact.
Tricks I have done on this BMX: Endos - 234. Sick Wheelies - 687. Skids - 143,000. Bunny Hops - 2 (Bunny Hops are gay and my brother dared me to do them, which I did because I'm Rad to the power of Sick). Flipouts - 28.
Basically if you buy this bike you will instantly become a member to every club that was ever invented, worldwide, because you will be awesome. Pick up from Richmond in Melbourne. Throw your hands in the air like you just don't mind.
This is what I find myself surrounded by.
I think it's top notch.
[Here's the link, in case you need the pictures]
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