City Unknown

There's something in the Moreton Bay and Port Jackson fig trees which line the streets and parks of Sydney, some shuttered tension which, while still, is not waiting. A motion that is unaware of its stasis. As though these trees, with a sprawl of roots and shapes that can only be described as tendons and sinew were frozen mid-pour. All thick dark leaves, waxen and lush.

When I think of Malaysia I always recall the threat of the green. There is no stopping the growth, it overflows and erupts and encroaches and yet, the whole country carries on living perfectly functional ordinary lives as though no one has noticed the floral occupation. Sydney emulates this luscious creeping.

Then there are the frangipanis, which don't seem to know how to stop blooming. I can't relate to these flowers. They are, to me, sugar and marzipan, perfect replicas on the pages of a Woman's Day birthday cake cookbook. Yet here they are, lying crushed on the footpath, as if it is not an atrocity. The air is always thick with their joy, and it limns that sublime salt crush with rich smiles.

Magpies. They're half dressed here, having started the day wearing only their white hoods and not the accompanying cape. Other than this there is no difference in their carriage or attitude, yet this one, small, irrelevant thing unsettles me each time.

The streets twist and turn. Melbourne is a wonderfully forgiving grid, with main thoroughfares clearly marked by the presence of trams. Sydney, Sydney is, I think Sydney sneezed and ruined the topography, geography, cartography. I've never had a sense of direction, not in either side of the equator, but straight lines and landmarks have always served me well. Not here.

Melbourne now should be lovely crisp days, fog sneaking around in the mornings, cool evenings and turning leaves. My body expects this, and is flummoxed by the wet season. This is not the time of year for rain, and yet.

It isn't yet two weeks. I will learn to swim with these new currents. Eventually.

Girls Club: Assertiveness

This morning I attended the second meeting of Girls Club, a monthly get together. The quote on the splash page sums up the group best:

We are the Girls Club. We want to:

Foster positive relationships between girls.
Create a positive environment to meet, support and learn.
Share positive role models, skills, advice, tips, stories.

The topic of this meeting was 'assertiveness', with the group's founders Fox and Shannon giving structure to the discussion with handouts and thought prompts. From something as simple as "provide examples of assertiveness or lack of for your professional and personal lives" I came away with a brain full of knock-on thoughts. The meeting was slated for a single hour, went overtime and still didn't seem like nearly long enough.

From the group discussion I came away with these thoughts:

• assertiveness seems to be founded upon knowing your boundaries and having the self-respect to enforce them.

• 'respect' not necessarily being an abundance of self-love, esteem, value, but deciding you will not let something that upsets/distresses/bothers you go unchallenged.

• perhaps 'challenge' is too strong a word; "unaddressed".

• your peace of mind is worth defending.

• most stated that what stopped them from asserting themselves was fear of potential conflict, and I had the impression that for many the two are linked, possibly even considered the same thing.

• some work on separating the ideas of 'assertiveness' and 'conflict/confrontation' would go far in removing the Capital A of Assertiveness and so enable people to be less hesitant in stepping up.

• is the fear of an immediate reaction of conflict enough? Do we not trust the other party to be reasonable? (Fear will find demons where we know there are none.)

• we are all more comfortable with asserting ourselves in a professional environment, where there are set frameworks regarding expectations, responsibilities, etc.

• the personal, where we are more invested by choice, conflates the act of assertion and introduces complexities and love.

• caring will always make things harder.

• with strangers, assertion and the chance of being perceived to be bitchy/bossy/rude/humourless it not so much an issue, as there is no emotional or personal investment, thus there is less hesitation in calling out bigotry.

• there is a difference between wanting to be what we think of as 'assertive' - the culturally germinated idea propagated largely in fictional narratives - versus recognising what actions are actually best for us as an individual.

• for example, feeling that you should jump on conflict and confront it immediately and head on, like a bull to a red cape, instead of taking a quieter approach such as withdrawing and addressing the issue from a distance.

• this second approach being at first viewed as cowardly, perhaps because it is simply not overt.

• (this bleeds into the idea of bias, and the ideas and values we have adopted from our environments, cultures and interactions without realising we are acting not necessarily in our best interests.)

These are ideas that I believe apply to both genders, but were especially true of this group of women eating quesadillas in the sun on a Sunday morning, all of whom appeared, to me, to be mature, sophisticated, intelligent and full of interesting things to say, ie, not people I would assume have issues asserting themselves in either a professional or personal setting.

It was also just a wonderful experience. This round table discussion on a terribly interesting topic in which everyone spoke and listened, in which we all truly listened to what others had to say, no one spoke over anyone else, all was respected, valued and considered. It was such an invigorating environment that the act of speaking your thoughts felt like a natural thing to do, not something that required an effort for you to present yourself, nor requiring any effort to be heard.

This weekend has actually been full of really thorough meaty conversations. I feel unexpectedly invigorated. Communication isn't always a channel. Most of the time, between two people, it's a window, and that window can get grotty, rain-smeared and paint-smeared and covered in fingerprints and noseprints and lipstick kisses. Every now and then that window needs cleaning. Love probably blurred the view, and love will see it clear again.

Tuesday in Shanghai

"Dance like no one is watching."

I've always liked this sentiment, although of late the internet has turned it into some pithy Hallmark ideal meant to express our inner butterflies or some such. At any rate, I never dance like this. I'm either dancing like everyone is staring at me and I'm dreadfully uncomfortable with it, or I'm dancing like I Do Not Give A Fuck, which is exactly what I did in the Melbourne International Airport baggage hall, next to carousel 7, while we waited for our backpacks to appear amid the suitcases and boxes. It's the exuberance that comes from finishing 28 hours of flying and 1 and a half years abroad. It's the only home-coming dance that matters. (Internal soundtrack provided by Beyoncé and All the Single Ladies.)

Being in this room, at this desk, surrounded by these things, is surreal and bemusing. All these things. I remember each item, but the placement surprises me. Why is there half a bottle of cooking sake on my bookshelf? Why do I have so many boxes of stuff? All these clothes, what are they for? Do I really need these stacks of paper on my desk? I don't remember where these figurines came from. This box is a mystery. The contents of these drawers are unfamiliar.

This is the room of another person, yet I'm comfortable in it, and I'm comfortable using it, and the soundscape that slipped in the window at night was more home than any of these items.

No one knew what to expect of Sam. How does a dog react when his human, who has moved in and out of his home sporadically during his life, is missing for a year and a half? Would he even recognise me?

He didn't greet me as a stranger, there was no hesitation or trepidation in his approach. He and Sophie were all bounces and leaps and tailwags, as they always are. Yet he was confused, a little unsure. In fact, I'd go as far as to say he was blanking me for most of the day. I'd reach for him and he'd suddenly be distracted by something on the other side of the room that needed his attention immediately. J got more attention out of him than I did. However, when I crashed out and went to collapse on my bed – my bed! – he came with me, curled up beside me, and it was as if the intervening nights apart had never happened. He lunges at possums outside and out of reach and I scratch his belly in the morning.

Noisy mynahs in the eucalypts down the side of the house, being noisy. A flock of cockatoos has taken up residence down in the valley and were absent-mindedly raucous during the evening. A magpie warbled as I stood on the back verandah with a cup of tea in my hand and breathed that home air. The lorikeets morning chorus was slept through and I'm looking forward to the evening session.

I looked down on Australia as we flew over the red centre, which was lines of dunes and dust to the horizon, giving way to fields flattened by generations of ploughing, a lake whose water level was low and yet higher than I expected, and a colour palette that spoke of thirst and dry hearts and a heat-beaten brown I didn't know I could miss. In all the countries we've visited there was a wealth of water beyond our comprehension. Still, I cannot in good conscious waste water. Showers are not for loitering in. Don't flush on a number 1. The grass in the backyard is green, but as patchy as mange. Summer has not been kind.

There's a new fridge in the kitchen. I find I don't know where to look.

Hours spent talking with mum and my brother. Just talking. Just stuff. The internet, for all the damage it does to social dynamics, is a miracle and boon for those people far apart. I have not been out of touch with my people for all this time, yet nothing beats chatting about nothing while doing nothing. It's wonderful what has changed, and what hasn't changed at all.

I think I'm done for now. J has had his fill as well. We've put our bags down with the express intention of not picking them up again for a very long time. Every day for the past couple of months has been the unknown and unfamiliar. Every day learning how to cope with undrinkable tap water, how to best open the window to deal with an over-enthusiastic heater, what sign language is universal when attempting to identify meat at a restaurant, whether beer or wine is cheapest in this country. It's wonderful and confusing and frustrating and hilarious. It's adventuring small and large.

And now we are ready to be where we know the streets and where the best tea and pho is, we can drink the tap water and know what mixers are available and can send a shoutout to meet any number of friends at short notice and we know Melbourne, we know it and we don't have to think about it.

It is strange to be home.

I can't stop smiling.

The Beggars of Prague

The beggars of Melbourne are gaunt and bloodless, wearing stained tracksuit pants and the stereotypical visage of a junkie. They shamble, always a list to their posture, and leaning forward to ask you for change, voice nasal and monotone and barely waiting for your refusal before moving on.

The beggars of New York have meat on their bones and less stains on their clothes. They work on captive audiences, entering the subway and narrating their tale of misfortune to commuters over the roar of the track and train beneath. Some of them sing. The majority stand with straight spine.

There are no beggars in Reykjavík.

The beggars of Berlin are small women with beautiful faces and dark hair bound in scarves. They may or may not have a small child with them. They ask if you speak English and present you with a hand-written plea, and follow your retreating footsteps with "please, please, please."

The beggars of Kraków are similar to those of Melbourne, but wear the mien of the alcoholic instead of the junkie.

The beggars of Prague say and do nothing.

Failing to Make a Difference

I have walked down a dark street towards the couple having a screaming domestic, his fist hovering by her face and obscenities in his spittle, and I have stopped, and said straight to the woman, “Do you want me to call the police?"

Sometimes I have called the police despite their answer. Sometimes I have not needed to. I have stopped a fight merely by being the only other person on the quiet station platform, standing up, and walking towards them, until they noticed me, and stopped screaming.

Today, some eight yobbos were crowded around the Coffee HQ at Spencer Street Station as I and the beginning of the peak hour crush hurried for that train home. They were shouting and screaming at the sole barister standing behind the counter. I stopped. I got out my phone.

After some more yelling, the gist of which I didn't catch it the cacophony of the station, one knocked a display of fruit bars from the counter, sending them spinning across the pavement, and the group walked away and up the escalators towards the platforms. I followed them. When they goaded each other into turning around and going back down the escalators, back to the coffee counter, I stopped, finger on the dial button. “Wait," one of them said. “We're gonna miss the train."

They turned again and ran back up the stairs through the barriers, and I followed them. I stood at the railing of the second tier and watched them push down onto the platform and dive onto the 4:14 Epping. Then I turned, dashed back to Coffee HQ, and babbled on about what train they'd caught, if I needed to make a statement, call the police, they'd be caught on CCTV, security saw them running. The barista just looked at me and shook his head.

“What's the point?" He gestured towards a far too late appearance by a security guard who very carefully did not approach the coffee counter. “Look at the security here. What they do." I offered to leave my details as a witness. He just shook his head again.

“Don't let the fuckers win," I said, and then left to catch my train.

Justice is not a concept with which I have ever thought myself particularly vested in. Nothing in the world is fair, I do not expect or even hope for fairness, but fairness and justice are two different things. It aggravated me to think that these jerk wads would feel no consequences for their arsehole behaviour. Having been behind the counter and screamed at by a customer, I know how it gets under the skin and makes it just that little bit harder to come to work every single day. This time the fuckers won, and I helped them to do so.

I am a lone and unintimidating female. In such situations this is to my advantage. The taboo of men hitting women, while it cannot be relied on, nevertheless exists. That I am diminutive to boot only compounds my lack of threat, and therefore, the lack of any gain in bullying or crushing me. The man who pushes over the small woman half his size is more likely to be ridiculed by his friends than lauded.

I am a lone and unintimidating female. Unfortunately, I am not unaware of this, and of the position society slots me into, and I let that inform my decisions. Cowardice kept my feet still. You could call it pragmatism, I suppose, but it was cowardice alone that stopped me from stepping in and taking more direct action.

I am a lone and unintimidating female, and I let this be an excuse not to be a Big Goddamn Hero.

I do not turned a blind eye walk away. I'm not a bystander, I will give myself that.

What disappoints me is that what action I do take is not enough.

One day it will be me surrounded by aggressive cunts, and when that happens, I hope someone, anyone, everyone, will step in and make more of a difference than I did today.

Due to the deluge the dragon has been grounded, indefinitely.

ICE TESTICLES ATTACK MELBOURNE!

When you throw hailstones that are the size and shape of angry testicles at the roof of the Domed Reading Room in the State Library, it sounds not like rain, or hail, it sounds like coconuts. Lots of coconuts. Lots of coconuts over many minutes, which is quite deafening in a big cavernous space. And dark. And then the fire alarm went off. And the lights went out. And we GTFO.

Into "this thunderstorm is very dangerous", no less.



Flinders Street is flooded. AGAIN. And the roof at Spencer Street Station, being a lovely and striking design which is not actually designed to cope with weather, let alone extreme weather, broke, and when I went through there were snow drifts on the platforms. Rail signals are down on a heap of lines. Trams are stuck several feet of water. As far as I know, my sweetnesses are still out there, trapped by floods. If there are any white knights who can pilot helicopters reading this, go get rescuing.

I had a really hard time motivating myself to get out of bed this morning. I had an even harder time convincing myself to put pants on and step out the front door. Now I know why. I shall never confuse apathy and premonition again.

ETA: Elizabeth Street flooded in a I GOT PLACES TO GOOOOO sort of way.





Twice the CBD of Melbourne has been hit by flash flooding since I got back from South America. Melbourne, honey, what are you doing?

RAIN! RAIN! AND MORE RAIN!

About an hour ago a storm rolled across across Melbourne. I sat at my window and watched it go by. It got quite passionate, but nothing out of the ordinary, or so I thought.



That's Flinders Street as of maybe half an hour ago.

My office is on Flinders Street.



Really glad I didn't go to work today.

(Also; EW. Dude, that's FLINDERS STREET. Don't swim in it! You KNOW what's been there!)

the roarin' forties care far too much

MELBOURNE. PAY ATTENTION.

The Fringe Festival is imminent and YOU MUST SEE VIGILANTELOPE'S SHOW "THE TALE OF THE GOLDEN LEASE", and no, that is not a recommendation, it is a fucking ORDER the damn world will END IF YOU DO NOT SEE THIS SHOW and do you really want that on your conscience NO YOU DO NOT.

We saw this at the Comedy Festival last April. It was a last minute 'what the hell' ticket buy, based on a passing recommendation. I think we saw around five comedy shows all up, Danny Bhoy and Jason Byrne included, and this was the best show of the whole festival, by miles and miles. In fact, it remains the best show I've been to all year. It was spectacularly funny, clever, absurd, with dancing and singing and tomfoolery and, and, you know I am not capable of the lyrical waxing necessary to do these guys justice. It was that fucking OARSUM. Quotes have stayed with us and randomly tossing them out is enough to reduce us to tears STILL.

Tickets are cheap. Opening night is 2 for 1. 2 for 1! Take your friends. Take your cat. Just do something in character and go. Do something out of character and go.

OKAY NOW BRISBANE YOU START PAYING ATTENTION TOO.

I also discovered that Mono will be playing at the Hi Fi in December. This is not the Mono that released Formica Blues, this is the Japanese instrumental Mono that puts me in mind of Explosions In The Sky and the new album by Jónsi & Alex (part of Sigur Rós which I discovered by accident when I foolishly entered Polyester Records just to "look around" - you'd think I'd know better by now).

I also discovered the Hi Fi has a bar in Brisbane. This discovery occurred when my browser had a hissy fit half way through buying a ticket, and in the process of starting over I ended up buying a ticket for the gig in Brisbane. Which should hopefully be refunded, but anyway, Brisbanites, they're heading your way too.

NOW NONE OF YOU PAY ATTENTION.

Mammals Underfoot! An Interview With Emerging Writers

conducted by Jeff VanderMeer, featuring Jesse Bullington, N. K. Jemisin, Meghan McCarron, Shweta Narayan, Jeremy C. Shipp, Angela Slatter, Genevieve Valentine and some other muppet.

I like the idea of 'emerging'. It puts me in mind of the headhuggers in Alien. The egg peels open, I extend my creepy-arse legs over the lip, I emerge, and then I leap at you, shove my gonads in your face and ram my proboscis down your throat and lay eggs in your chest, and then those eggs hatch and a wee bebe alien emerges. From your chest. At velocity.

I would like to one day write a story that has that sort of effect on the reader.

It would probably put me in gaol. Oh well. Totally worth it. You suffer for my art!

Jeff sez:

Every once in awhile, it’s good for a fool like me, entering mid-career, to check the pulse of what’s going on among the emerging writers who will one day call you a curmudgeon. Keeping tabs on this unruly, diverse lot not only lets you see the end of the road coming from much farther away and softens the often abrupt transition from “young turk” to “old fart”—it also re-energizes you and helps ensure that your reading patterns don’t get too predictable. Usually, I keep up via blogs and online fiction, but I thought it would be interesting to interview a few emerging writers about subjects like their connection to the larger community, where they see themselves in five years, what they’ve been reading, and their take on mammals versus large reptiles. A kind of core sample, if you will.

Last week I received my ARC of Booklife, which I read in manuscript format. It was an interesting exercise, seeing as I've never attempted to offer constructive feedback on a work of non-fiction. It evolved from comments into a conversation, and bits of me scratching my head and saying "well, wot I think is-" have been quoted throughout (introverts and socially-disinclined hermit crabs of the world, represent yo!).

(Being an introverted and socially-disinclined hermit crab I find the 'Private Booklife' section - looking at the various internal aspects of being a writer, strategies on dealing with the emotional pitfalls and psychological traps most of us find ourselves in at one point or another - much more interesting than the 'Public Booklife' section - excellent strategies and tactics on PR, marketing, career goals and being a real go-getter. First read through, the Public section left me feeling inadequate. I am not the type of person capable of networking, promoting, or doing anything that, to me, smells like coming on with an agenda, all of which are becoming increasingly important in the current market. But everything I read has been stored and percolating in the backbrain for some months now, which is time enough for me to see what I could conceivably do without making a wreck of myself. Time enough for it not to be scary. It's an incredibly interesting and (depending on who you are of course) useful book - hermit crabs, I know you're out there and staring at the idea of PR and marketing with the same horror that I am. Read it, feel horrified and awful, go away and don't think about it...and later, when you need them, you'll find the ideas have already been planted in your head, and they're not so scary any more.)

Interestingly, I'm listed in the acknowledgments as a "constructive curmudgeon". Now, taking the above excerpt into consideration, what do we get when someone who has attained the state of curmudgeon calls someone who should be calling them a curmudgeon a curmudgeon?

Paradox! The universe is going to collapse in on itself! Run to the hills!







I have no idea what I was on when I wrote those answers, by the way. I don't think anything I said will be out of the ordinary to those of you who've been reading for a while, which probably isn't a great thing. I'm being a twat in front of a whole new audience. To those of you who have arrived here from Clarkesworld - there's just more of the same here, yep, years and years of mental diarrhea. I would apologise for bringing down the standard of a fine quality publication, but, er, well...

Heh. Hehe.

Tessa, I hear you say, Tessa, you used to post actual content. What is all this NEWSFLASH! you have going on?

Dude, I say, dude, I am still not capable of writing. Still. I don't want to. I just don't want to. I don't even want to think. I am not processing. The end is nigh, truly it is, and the cracks are showing, and I'm beginning to transition from whole person to loose swarm of neuroses, and I just don't want to.

(Totally the perfect time to answer questions about writing.)

I've just finished baking triceratops biscuits. It must be bed time.

This Wall Fucks With Birds

This is one of the exhibitions currently on display in the subway at Flinders Street Station, care of Platform Artists Inc, created by Ace Wagstaff (which is a fantastic name).

The exhibitions explore the idea of 'apocalypse', what it does mean, has meant, and has come to mean.

However, I looked at those birds and thought of the hole in Blue Base. /end geek

My comrade also discovered this piece of anonymous typewriter poetry, which I quite love. Things like this make me hatch mad ideas to make sticky things or ribbon things or hanging things with one sentence mindfucks to leave on the trains and around town. To litter pieces of artistic wank like a leper dropping fingers. To set them all free and never know what becomes of my creative spores, and never know what is thought of them.

Note to self: While on the subject, Sir Testicle, don't forget you want to go see the Dali Exhibition on at NGV. Okay? Okay.

Food. Food. And, also? Food.

Flavour Enhancer 621

Since Mum's ordeal with bowel cancer, I've become understandably thingy about food. Not in any sort of rational or consistent fashion, I'll admit. I'll look at the ingredients list on a packet, and if there are too many numbers or items in there that I don't recognise, I'll put it back on the shelf. (Of course, if I have cravings or am simply not in the mood to fight with the grocery shopping, I'll just not look and willfully indulge in ignorance.)

My latest illogical decision was against MSG.

Now, I have no problem with MSG. No reaction to it at all. I was practically raised on the stuff, and if I stop eating it I'll probably go into some sort of withdrawal. This decision was not based on all the bad hype surrounding it, but rather, the fact that it is commonly listed in ingredients as 'Flavour Enhancer 621'. It's a number, so it has to go.

Unfortunately, once I decided on this, I discovered it's EVERYWHERE.

And by everywhere, I mean, everywhere. How am I going to live without noodles when all sauces and soup bases contain MSG? Augh?

I found some miso soup in the organic shop around the corner that is lacking, thankfully. It's going to be a slow hunt to find more alternate soup bases.

Stupid neurosis.



Butter

After a successful(ish) writing date yesterday, my fellow tortured artists and I tried out a new feeding hole. I'd noticed "WAFFLES!!!" in huge letters on a window in Melbourne Central earlier in the week. That jedi mind trick clearly works well.

Raganeau Crepes. I don't remember seeing any crepes on the menu, but there were certainly waffles. One of them was soaked in melted butter. Far too much melted butter. To the point where it floated, as butter does, and collected at the top of my skull and gave me a butter headache. A butter hangover, to be precise. I'm surprised it didn't ooze out my tear ducts.

It was a mistake, a glorious mistake. When enough time has passed and I've forgotten what a mistake it was, I'll go make that mistake again.



Communal

Dad decided he wanted to go out for dinner. Specifically, to a Japanese restaurant. I told Mum that was not an entirely wise idea. Dad is firmly grounded in the methods of communal Chinese eating: a variety of meat, vegie, soup and tofu dishes in the middle of the table, everyone getting what they want, when they want as the meal progresses. No serving spoons, just double-triple-quadruple dipped chopsticks (this is probably why my immune system is so ridiculously overpowered). And rice. Rice for everyone. Rice without saying. Rice is the foundation upon which all other food rests, it brings meaning to the meal, it doesn't even get mentioned in preparation because rice is rice is assumed is rice.

Japanese cooking can work like that, but generally doesn't. There's a different methodology to the preparation and presentation. While multiple dishes still feature, each person is generally granted their own portion. All meals are insular. There will be no fights for the last piece of chicken.

It doesn't matter how many times Dad encounters this, he is still surprised when the dishes don't come out prepared for sharing, and rice is not automatically served. He does not approve of this, not at all, and then confuses all the serving staff with his attempts to turn a Japanese meal into a Chinese meal featuring Japanese cooking.

In light of all the cultural hooha I've blogged about recently, I feel I should mention this. There are some cultural differences that are irreconcilable. Heh.

Smell the Goat

The Gin Palace is a small bar tucked away on Russell Place, off Little Collins Street. The entrance is quite discreet; one diamond sign with a border of muted lights over an unmarked door. The interior is haphazard pillars, multiple floor levels, odd nooks and corners, which makes it endlessly fascinating, bit like drinking in an Escher drawing. Mrs Bishop took me there before she escaped back to Thailand. She is fond of the décor, which is more than understandable. Enormous deep armchairs! Decadent couches! Cozy little alcove seating!

Being as neither of us are drinkers, the only sensible course of action was to have a cocktail each, on an empty stomach. Chrysanthanum Club, sour-tart and thick. Tulip Fix, sour-sweet and refreshing. Could not taste the alcohol in either. I'm in love with the name of "Luis Bunuel's 'Surrealist' martini", in which all ingredients and utensils are allegedly frozen for at least two days prior to creation. From the sound of it, it is frozen gin. With gin. And some gin poured over the top. And also, some gin. And once it has warmed up, is disgusting. Being just gin.

We risked ordering food. I wasn't expecting much, regardless of how slick the place was. $10 for a toasted chicken sandwich a $8 for a bowl of Parmesan crackers is a lot of money for bar food. At the time, they were flat out with Friday night fallout, and the only two staff on were overwhelmed, had given up all pretense of smooth professional service and were reduced to dumping drinks and fleeing before the glasses had settled. It took maybe an hour and a half for the sandwich to arrive, by which time it was far too late to use as a liquor pillow.

It was also the best toasted chicken sandwich I have ever had. Holy crap. Totally worth the wait, and even worth $10. Fabulous bread, perfectly crisped and warm, and the chicken was mixed with mayo, chives and lemon, and was appalling spectacular. I'd go back just for the sandwich, to be honest.

The fact that the crackers came out another half hour after the sandwich was perplexing at first. How long does it take to open the packet and pour them in a bowl? Not long. However, they weren't those sort of crackers. They were fresh-made and fresh-baked and came straight out of the oven, hot and stupefying.

It was a great evening, sitting in a cubby hole and generally giggling too much.

My partner in crime at work, who shares the office pod with me, was deeply envious of this excursion, and after realising that we've been in a Mon-Fri job for five months and have not had after work drinks to date, the only sensible course of action open to us was to go to the Gin Palace and have a cocktail each, on an empty stomach. Southside, basically a mojita, and very very strong. Whoops.

This time, I furthered my exploration of the bar, and went to the toilet.

Men and womens differentiated by gilt framed photos of Jack Nicholas and Shelley Duvall from The Shining, him doing his manic grin, her doing her terrified scream. Turned out, it was an appropriate warning. The toilets were clean, really freshly amazingly clean for a drinking hole, but oh me, oh my, the smell.

Did you dissect a rat in high school? Do you remember the smell that rose out of the innards? Think of that smell. But bigger. It smelled like someone had gut a goat in there. A big goat with bad eating habits and bad personal hygiene and bad badness to boot.

One person said hairdressers, specifically perming solution. Three out of four voted for the goat. If I may, I'd like to introduce this phrase into your terminology, for the next time you are in a social but work-related situation. When you need to excuse yourself, simply inform them that you are "going to smell the goat".

There was a lot of giggling involved here too, which got me thinking about the power of history. There are plenty of places around that memory has coloured with heavier meaning than I necessarily want. Connotations and associations that exist in public places which carry on despite your own personal earthquakes. I tend to return to such places and try to override them by creating other memories, and so strip them of their history. Usually it works, at least, to a point. Heavy memories have a contradictory habit of rising to the surface, but the layering of other times and other moments blunts their appearance. Some places I've reclaimed entirely.

Two for two the Gin Palace has been saturated with a damn good time. I wonder, is it possible to return and still have a good time? Expectations are now fully cocked and loaded. An okay time, and alright time, these would be layers working in the other direction. Possibly I should never return, and so despite being a public place, it will remain, in my private world, the perfect place to enjoy a drink, a comfy seat, and deliciously silly company.





As a totally unconnected tangent: has Melbourne been showing off her finest fogs lately, or did I fall into a game of Silent Hill? When I walk to the station in the morning I can see the shadows of power lines cutting through the haze of street lights, and I can't see the station at all. My hair is soaked from the stroll. When I'm finally within the city I cannot see it, all the towers and buildings are swallowed and sleeping. It's lovely.

Rabbit Hole

What a day! Melbourne flounced around in a great huff, throwing out her skirts and crying, "Winter! Winter! I shall give you Winter!" The wind is not yet armed, it carries no knives, but is still more than eager to slip cold fingers beneath coats and scarves. It's what my Mum calls a 'wild and woolly' day. And so I sally forth! An excellent day for an expedition, a perfect day to be swallowed.

I'd never been to the Hopetoun Tea Rooms before. Odd, I know. I've lived here how long, walked past them how many times? There, I met Mrs Bishop and we hid from Melbourne's weather tantrum. A huge pot of loose leaf tea, a baked potato, and welsh rarebit. I didn't know what welsh rarebit was, and read it as rabbit. Mrs Bishop informed me that it was not rabbit, but something with cheese. And mustard. Which was good enough for me. It was indeed something with cheese, and mustard, and was just spectacular. I need to find a recipe similar to what they served, and then when Melbourne has finished her flouncing and plunged into Winter proper, have a slumber party, and force everyone to sit around in flannel pyjamas, and eat welsh rarebit.

The tea rooms are green, and deep, not large, but the colours are deep, and small enough to be quiet and snug.

We went halves in a Portuguese tart. Mrs Bishop assured me I wasn't the only one having trouble with my short story, which gave me some odd peace of mind. Makes me think that Gillian was onto something huge and hidden when she chose that theme.

I'd never been in the Nicholas Building before. Odd, I know. I've lived here how long, walked past it how many times? Mrs Bishop wanted to visit Collected Works, a specialist bookstore that was, alas, not open on Sundays. It got us to the first floor, though, and what a fascinating little floor. A button shop. There's more, and we explored the second floor. More buttons? The Tuxedo Cat, but actually the pigment bar, showing German comedy. A kimono store that was also not open on Sundays. Tiles on the walls. Different tiles. New tiles. Smooth wooden banister and wrought iron. An internal old-fashioned elevator. Up another floor? Why not? Things changed gradually. We found an odd well in the building, a court yard that was not a court yard, accessed by the windows, a square shaft to the sky, with internal windows looking down.

One floor had blocked windows, with what looked like books piled chaotically against the glass on three sides. No, not books. Boxes?

Each floor changed just a little. Lighter doors, different wood, different tiles, different light. The wiring was wild and free. Not all the lights worked. We found The Museum of Electrical Philosophy, which must have had a motion sensor, as it came to life as we approached and peered through the mail slot at a white white room.

We found a door, oh, a door I would love to open, but nothing behind it will exceed the expectations of my imagination.



The note card reads 'nest architects'. I assume these tiles belong to them too.



So many artist studios, workshops, concealed spaces for strange things. They marked their various territories as only creative types can.



We stood for some time outside this door, wondering what organisation or individual had claimed this space and what they used the space for, with a name like that? Not, as it turns out, the end of the world. Not directly, at any rate.

Milliner, costumer designer, carpenter, graphic designer, painter, creator creator creator.

I went to the toilet in the gents. Ladies was nowhere to be seen.

We reached the floor on which the windows blocked by boxes. We found a door with a damaged mail slot. We looked inside.

This is where shoes come to die.



Boxes emptied and throw in lazy piles up against the windows and walls, the shoes in great piles on the floor, having lost their partners and just lying there. The smell of old shoes, old shoes that have never been worn, a strange unsettling smell. Some shelves, showing an effort at display, but still a mess, a garbage dump, a shoe grave yard.



And we fled.

I must return. With my big camera and tripod. The building is a wonderful alternate dimension. I want to catch the wear and tear and dust.

I'd never been to the Ian Potter Gallery, a different sort of art in a different sort of dimension. Odd, I know. How long have I lived here, how often have I walked past it? The Kirra Galleries sucked us in and bedazzled us with glass. So much beautiful amazing glass. I did not spend all my time staring at a wooden fish, nor did I spend any time talking myself out of a $100 wooden fish, no, not at all.

I'm not sure how to engage with the art gallery. The Indigenous section gave both of us some pause, as not all pieces were listed with explanations, and given the nature of indigenous art, that it is usually so laden with story and symbol, this seemed an inexplicable oversight.

Perhaps, though, the fault is partly with my own perceptions. I come to exhibitions from a museum point of view - to learn. Art, being art, does things differently.

I was particularly taken with the Shared Sky exhibition on the second floor. There was a piece there by Albrecht Dürer, whose work I'm quite fond of, which featured a great rendering of (what I think is) Cetus the whale. Cetus featured on another star map nearby, and neither of them depicted a whale. Cetus is somewhat more awesome than a whale, and whales are pretty damn awesome.

After outwitting the public transport system, I bid Mrs Bishop adieu, and took myself out of the city, got off a station early, and had Melbourne flounce around at my back as I walked home.

Good Karma Right In The Vein

MELBOURNE,

Did you know that this Saturday is International Independent Record Store Day? No? Actually, neither did I until a week ago. It is only my duty to play chinese whispers and pass the message one.

Of particular note, I'd like to draw your attention to Polyester Records, who on top of celebrating their independent record store-ness, are doing a charity drive. 20% of all proceeds for the day will go to the Cancer Council Victoria.

So if there are a couple of albums you've been meaning to pick up for a while but just haven't got around to it, Saturday is the day to do it. Not only will you be supporting the musicians (something they always appreciate), you'll be supporting independent record stores (something they always like, and we must keep these babies alive or be bereft of so much joy), and you'll be donating to an organisation that is truly worth donating to. That's enough good karma to last you at least until the next time you jay walk.

I've carved a slab of my pay out for this day. A list of targets has been compiled. It will be ludicrous.

"Wheeeeeee!"

When I'm in a good mood, I tend to indulge the world, and myself. So if you're a clean, neatly dressed, not unattractive young man, and you come plant yourself beside me on an uncrowded train, and jostle your paper about to get some good shoulder-rubbing, elbow-pressing action happening, I'm not going to cringe away. I'm not going to push back either. I'll sit there, with you in my space and me in yours, like we're some comfy old couple who don't need to talk anymore.

And just like some comfy old couple, when you finish reading the paper and start sighing in that 'I require attention' manner, I'm going to ignore you, because I'm reading my book.

And when you start casting sidelong glances at me, I'm not going to look at you, because I'm reading my book. I will tilt my book a bit, though, so you can read over my shoulder if you like.

Because I'm currently reading William S Burroughs' Naked Lunch and I'm hoping that my giggling will get your curiosity up and you really will read over my shoulder.

Because when I'm in a good mood, I tend to indulge the world, and myself. Which means that you are not the creepy perverted space invader; I am.

Victoria, She Burns

The projected high yesterday was 43/109 degrees. Within Melbourne, it reached 46/114 degrees. Many outlying towns managed 47/116 degrees.

I spent the day doing very little. I slept in as long as I could, turned no computer on, did not step out the front door, and spent the day reading. I thought my flat was getting hot, until I put my hand on the front door to peek outside, and it was so hot for a moment I thought I was burned. I peeked through the blinds and the heat falling from the glass was heavy and incredible and frightening. The sun was so bright everything was white. I thought the sky had been boiled white too, until I realised no, that was smoke. So much smoke it had no source. It came from everywhere.

The afternoon cool change is a quirk of Melbourne's climate. The vertical drop on that graph is no exaggeration. The cold air thunders across the state with such fury it wipes a hot day away within minutes. There'd been hot gusts from the north all day, scouring the streets and forming giant drifts of leaves on the side walk, yet the cold change was stronger, and when it hit, the flat shoot, the windows shook, the doors to the bedroom and bathroom were blown open by the pressure change.

Too late for most of the state.

Walking around the streets in the twilight, far from the bushfires, I could see the heat. All the trees, plants, bushes, everything, everything is burned. Leaves are crisped and curled and dead and falling. It isn't autumn, but it looks like it. Even the gum trees are struggling, whole branches dead and leaves mottled. There is no green grass. The sun isn't forgotten, even as it leaves the horizon.

I saw a water-bombing helicopter fly over. Melbourne has so few helicopters, I didn't recognise the sound of its engine, and sought it out. Going home to refuel, or repair.

Every fire season, they talk of how bad it is. Because of the drought, which has gone on for more than half my memory, everything is dry, ready to burn. Every fire season, they talk about Ash Wednesday. Sometimes it feels like alarmist, sensationalist fear mongering. This time it isn't.

(photo from The Age)

Entire townships have been razed. Every time I update the front page of the Age, the death toll has risen. To ease the strain on the CFA website, a google map keeping track of the bushfires has been set up here. The Australia Red Cross has set up relief centres across the state. Those of us safe in metropolitan Melbourne, please consider donating to aid those who've lost their homes, and especially to the CFA. They're volunteers.

I'm sitting here in a jumper, the first I've worn in weeks, because it is 20/68 degrees right now. I've watched it rain on and off during the day.

They say Australia is the coalmine canary of climate change.

That would indicate we're all fucked.

ETA:

• Helicopter footage of what was Marysville
• Tweetgrid for #bushfires #vicfires
• Possible firebugs relighting bushfires
  

ETA (2102): Just got back from an evening stroll. Wandered down my street looking at an enormous sunset, a huge bank of hazy clouds lit up red and pink. Beautiful to behold. Until I started to realise something was wrong, hang on, wait a minute...the sun doesn't set there.

Turned around, and yes, the sun was setting exactly where it is supposed to. Blue skies, high scattered clouds catching gold and silver.

Turned around again, yes, the skies of Independence Day filling one half of the heavenly sphere. The sunlight was reflecting and caught in the smoke from the fires. As if so many infernos were no longer content to eat the land, but had to start on the sky as well. Spent my walking turning back and forth, 180 degrees, checking the opposing simultaneous sunsets. Creepy.

Everyone's a Critic

(the union lane street art project has been proudly sponsored by the city of melbourne)

(FYI; Union Lane runs between Little Collins Street and Bourke Street. It's covered in paint from end to end, including a giant rooster.)


(not 'fine' enough for 'art' not illegal enough 4 graffitti)

(Tangent: that tag beneath the scorn, 'toy', is everywhere. All over the city, and right up the length of the Hurstbridge line. Wouldn't be surprised if other train lines have been similarly pissed on. Toy does not do art. Toy merely tags, and tags over the top of every piece of actual street art they can find. Toy has pissed off many street artists, and it isn't uncommon to see retaliatory tags and remarks, threatening this character and expressing their animosity, usually in much better handwriting. I can't say I side with Toy. They've pissed on some brilliant art. But that, I suppose, is the nature of graffitti. Easy come, easy go.)