blogorrhoea n online manifestation of the above
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abstract envy
Monday, March 31, 2008
Now here's the PhD abstract I wish I'd written. Judith Butler, eat yer heart out:
Mark [...] is doing really interesting PhD work on martial arts, dance, how the obsolescence of martial techniques leads to aestheticisation, and how martial arts allow men to execute beautiful movements without accusations of being a giant pansy. (From Stephen's blog)
Following Jack's recommendation (and having been booted out of the house) spent this weeks QMT* at the Aniwaniwa exhibition at the City Gallery, lying on the mattress in the dark, side by side with all the other art appreciaters, looking up at the floaty pictures and listening to the soothing sounds and thinking this is more the sort of art exhibition I was thinking of really, and this mode of viewing would definitely work for Colin McCahon or any other sort of grand tableau, which is probably not the right technical arty term but never mind and hey wow, maybe this is why all those old dead guys painted the grands tableaux on the ceilings of chapels and suchlike, perhaps they meant people to lie on the floor to look at them and ... gosh those two pillows on those two empty mattresses are right next to each other come to think of it i wonder if anyone's ever had a quick one off the wrist while lying here peacefully in the dark next to all these anonymous other bodies it's just like being in a youth hostel really, in one of those big 40-bunk dorms, all that comforting anonymity, the reason people live in big cities in order to be alone undisturbed apart from the deafening roar of someone trying to leave quietly at 4 am in order to make an early train, kicking you in the head as they creep down off the top bunk and then packing all their toiletries including that absurd giant hairdryer into individual bloody plastic bags and going SSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH and then my mobile rang and I debated answering it and bellowing HELLO!!! NO, I'M AT THE ART GALLERY! CONCEPTUAL ART! NO!!! IT'S
RUBBISH! but that joke's ten years old now and anyway irrelevant in NZ so I picked up my Docs and tiptoed apologetically outside to answer it. In Britain, anyway, there'd have been far more tsk!-ing.
*Quality Mummy Time
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he sets them up
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
One evening, while feeding the fish:
Jack: You're good at this feeding malarkey!
Rebecca (without missing a beat): My name's not Malarkey!
My sister had her baby! Welcome Molly Elizabeth, born in Sydney at some ungodly hour on Monday morning, 3.4kg and and 48 cm of her. And congratulations Danny and Ruth. Joy!
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coppertop
Monday, March 24, 2008
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quote of the week
Sunday, March 23, 2008
It's all right, Maggie. It's not the pain of you, it's the pain of me.
(Part-way through the screamfest that follows a toe-stubbing incident, Becca pauses to reassure Maggie, who has decided to join in.)
Here are some more photos, mostly of her fourth birthday last week.
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sprogging all over the world
Friday, March 21, 2008
Congratulations to Meredith and Martin on the safe arrival of Rosa; belated congrats to Merridy and Stuart on the slightly early arrival Timothy. And happy sprog-poppin' thoughts to my sister Ruth, in Sydney, due on St Patrick's day but still, last we heard, in pod.
This is probably some sort of NZ litcrit heresy, but I'm not getting on with the Frank Sargeson short stories I mooched at all. I know he's supposed to be one of our finest and most nuanced short story writers but I just find him dry, ball-less, and both mannered and uninflected, if it's possible to be both of those things. Or maybe I've spent too many years ODing on the hysterical francophone feminists.
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rebecca goes fourth
Sunday, March 16, 2008
It's Becca's fourth birthday today. Not that we can convince herself of that: we brought a birthday cake into crèche on Friday for the first wave of celebrations (that way you're spared either having to invite all thirty-odd of the little sods over here, or worse, having to work out which of them are her best friends this particular week and issuing more exclusive invitations, with all the potential for awkward carpark encounters with the parents of the excluded that that entails.)
So that was that party out of the way. Trouble is, some sanctimonious pedant has apparently told Becca that you only get one birthday and she's convinced that Friday's was it. So logically, numerically, any subsequent birthday, this afternoon's for instance, must be her fifth. Which means she gets to go to school, right? What do you mean, no? Mummy says I have to be four for a YEAR! she indignantly informed Jack yesterday, as though I had unjustly imposed the mother of all Time Outs (or should that be Times Out, like courts martial?)
Still, we do the best we can: the tuatara cake's a somewhat zoologically licentious vision in chemical blues, purples, and greens, we've stocked up on pink balloons and party hats, we've caved in on party bags and even managed to wrap the goldfish. And both girls have passed out from the sheer excitement of it all. Probably just as well. Now we need to do is wait...
(Happy birthday, you mouthy little bugger...)
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i don't remember growing older
Sunday, March 09, 2008
After a too-busy week culminating in this afternoon's gig, the fourth in a fortnight, am now experiencing a sort of brain bonk. Not the same as a mindfuck: it just means that I want to sit on the couch and drool quietly for a bit. And figure out how to make a tuatara cake for Madam's fourth birthday next week.
Still, simultaneously hosting a barbecue and playing a gig proved more feasible than I expected: the secret, it turns out, is to delegate, viz. wait until all the guests arrive, then thrust the wailing baby at your husband and leg it. And it was all worth it for the sort of guest of honour who manages to phone to offer to come and pick me up from the gig at the precise moment when, the Rebs part being over, the soloist had just started in on the Andrew Lloyd Webber. Which, surprisingly, was in no way improved by being sung in Yiddish. Talking of which, another Rebs cover idea: Baby Got Back, by Sir Mix-a-lot. Now that would sound great in Yiddish.
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together at last
Friday, March 07, 2008
Just been listening to National Radio's update on the International Festival. Oh sure, that's what the world needs: a collaboration between Philip Glass and Leonard Cohen. Minimalism meets miserabilism. Frankly, I think I'd rather shovel shit. Which given present circs is probably just as well really.
On a more cheery note, fun gig last night at the Newtown Community Centre. The sound guy set us up with wee condenser mics (I think they were called) which had quite a wide pick-up range, which meant not having to play with the bridge jammed up under the mic in order to be heard. And Cat, back in town from gay Paree, came along for a listen so I got to go out afterwards for coffee and catch-up, just like a grownup. Until I faceplanted in my flat white at approx. 10.45pm. Fortunately we're seeing her again on Sunday for a barbecue at our place. At least some of you will be: due to a triumph of overscheduling (I don't know why self-styled experts keep on about overscheduled kids; it's the mummies they ought to be worried about) I'll be playing another gig. Argh.
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FREE GIG TONIGHT AT 7.30!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
On the principle that work attracts work, I've decided to pick up a bit of freelance for my old employers/clients in my copious free time. So blogging may be sporadic for a bit. Either that or (more likely) a displacement activity, like cleaning the oven (otherwise when would you, in all honesty?). Or devising a list of songs the Klezmer Rebs should cover but will probably never agree to. Such as Blue Monday, by New Order. Or possibly Fucking Hostile, by Pantera. Clearly I've been overindulging in ukuleles and Hayseed Dixie lately.
Speaking of the Rebs we have a FREE GIG TONIGHT at 7.30 at the Newtown Community Centre (corner Rintoul and Colombo Streets). And did I mention it's FREE?
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anarchy in the ukulele
Good weekend. Ukuleles (yay!). Finger painting. Maggie's first sleepover at her nana's house. (Everyone coped fine.) Klezmer in blustering northerlies. Or maybe southerlies: I can't remember which direction down Riddiford Street all the kit was blowing. Still, at least we had the sympathy vote, although I think most of the spectators stuck around out of sheer fascination, to see how we would cope if a tornado came past. Fun gig though, in spite of it all: the sight of the troupe of wee crumpers getting down to Ot Azoy made up for any meteorological difficulties.
This week: more of the SAHM, plus three rehearsals, two gigs, a little light networking (See Mummy network! Network, Mummy, network!) and a whole bunch of job applications.
All this and crisis prevention too: Maggie can now pull herself up onto her feet, and spends most of her time rampaging about the place looking for things to climb.
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