Metropolitan Museum of Art: Egypt

THERE IS A WHOLE FREAKING EGYPTIAN TEMPLE IN THE MET. A WHOLE TEMPLE. YES. WITH GRAFFITI AND ALL. A TEMPLE. PLUS MUMMIES AND SARCOPHAGI AND STUFF. WTF. The wonder of which a camera cannot capture. So you don't get to see those. There are various study halls around the Met in which bits and pieces of 'stuff', ie, "we're not sure what this is or it isn't intact enough for exhibition but is still of interest and value, so..." are crammed into display cabinets. This one swallowed me to distraction with all the interesting little bits and pieces, and it is photos of these inglorious little fragments that I am most enamored of.

Herbie did his best in the low light, but I still had to do some colour corrections. Badly. Eh!

High Line

The High Line is a nifty lil park on the west side of Manhattan, narrow and stretching some blocks north to south. The overhead railway lines, decommissioned and derelict, have been reclaimed and made over into something that is more a work of art than a park. It's a landscape sculpture of urban decay, floral hardiness and some fabulous design.

Sadly, my camera and my photographerbrains were not of a high enough skill to capture the awesome (also I couldn't get enough distance nor break in the people strolling), so here are just a couple of wee tasters.

The park was fairly busy even on a Monday morning, and I believe it when I'm told that on weekends and in summer it is almost a no go zone. There are plans to expand it with further lines reclaimed, and if they don't put a neat little bar in there it would be a shame.

Some of us die in sharks.

Foz: http://chronicfatigue.about.com/b/2011/11/16/do-sleep-problems-cause-fibromyalgia.htm?_inv_out=24&_inv_cp=1927025 (in response to this post)
Me: I'm rather inclined to think that sleep problems are a risk factor for EVERYTHING. Even getting hit by lightning.
Foz: Sleep problems = DEATH BY RABID WEASELS.
Foz: Because you could've run if you hadn't been so tired.

City Lights

Did a last minute dash up the Empire State Building and took a few snaps. I'm not particularly happy with the way any of them came out, the HS10 night mode is not...I probably just need to play with it more. At any rate, the city glows.

Not the same Bladerunner feel as Tokyo, but nevertheless surreal. Manhattan, she is very pretty at night. She sparkles with so many homes.

Goldtouch Go! Ergonomic Travel Keyboad

I've been using this keyboard for the past year and abit. It is the only keyboad out there tha is ergqonomic AND portable.

As you can see, it just craped itself.

I used t he exat same keyboad a work, and of course since it sa far more use, it did this ealier. GQot it replaed on waraty no problem. I don't hae the luxury this time aound. It wa, incidentally, the exactly same problem. Somethingq in the wiringq gqoes nuts, and suddenly the keys don't line up.

I've looked, but been unale to find ayone else reportingq on this.

Feelingq, ater tha lat post, ater statingq my only gqoal for the da wa to sit ad write my diay, thwated.

I've left my job, my home, my family, friends, loves and country. Scuttled my life to try build a new one, better suited to me now.

What more must I sacrifice?

Little wins. Let me have some little wins.

Traveling with Fibromyalgia

That I have deleted some six starting sentences for this post indicates that perhaps I am not yet ready to write about it yet.

To begin with, I am not as well versed on the effects of fibromyalgia as I should be. This ignorance was initially willful and deliberate; I was in denial about the whole thing and just didn't want to know, which is not a novel way with initially coping with the idea of a chronic condition.

Then tempus fugit and in the last couple of months in Melbourne I was busy failing to get my affairs in order for my departure and trying to see as many friends as possible. After that, well, travel is travel. I've been busy.

I can say with utter certainty that not spending 8+ hours a day sitting at the computer has alleviated my daily pain levels substantially.

I can say with certainty that lugging my rucksack and satchel around isn't really good for me, but so far I haven't done this for any great length of time. This will change as soon as I leave the US, but given most of my stays are several nights at a time, there is plenty of time to let my muscles rest.

Reasonable suspicion that sleeping on so many air mattresses, couches and sofa beds with all sorts of different pillows isn't doing me any good, but the effects haven't resulted in any impediment yet.

I don't remember what it was to live without perpetual pain and discomfort, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I don't want it to be taken that way. I just don't. Things seem to be holding steady, and that doesn't mean I'm feeling good, it simply means I am not stuck in the grinding cycle of work followed by aggravated muscles and pain, building up over the week until the weekend when I got enough time out - only to repeat it again. Things still hurt. I'm sitting here today, with the express intention of not going out but writing this and putting things in my diary, and I know I will pay for this tomorrow.

The coming price doesn't upset me as much as it used to, because now I have the time to recover.

Fatigue, however, has begun to worry me greatly. Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome are very closely tied, and do tend to come hand in hand.

I am flattened. Excitement and wide-eyed curiosity got me through San Diego and New York, although toward the end of my time in the Big Apple I desperately wanted to stop the ride and get off. North Carolina has being a wonderful balm of quiet and calm, and to the friends who have opened their homes to me I have no words. Thank you. For comfortable silence and big couches and your wonderful delightful pets. Thank you for letting me be boring and sleep. Thank you.

And yet, it doesn't feel like enough. As though there simply isn't enough rest in all the rest fields of the whole world for me to feel fully rested. My need to sit, not to catch my breath but simply to use less energy, happens far more frequently than it should.

I want to blame this on being unfit and failing to eat and drink properly (the latter of which always happens when traveling). Except I'm sitting here now, having done nothing but watch the #OWS hashtag and drink tea, and I still feel flatter than a pancake.

I don't know if I'm being reasonable or alarmist in even considering CFS, especially considering my own fibromyalgia is...

...I was going to say mild, but it isn't, is it?

I'm just good at ignoring it.

At any rate, my advice to people traveling with either of these conditions is to allow yourself plenty of opportunities for rest, whether that means allotting yourself time to sit on the train between museums or blocking out entire days to do nothing. Unfortunately, New York simply has TOO MUCH IN IT which makes not going out and doing ALL THE THINGS very hard, but, you know, try.

Common sense is, sometimes, not that common. Especially when you have shit to prove.

iDie

Hal III is dead. Long live Hal III.

There is no middle ground with memory and iPods at the moment, the jump goes from 60GB (which is too little) to 160GB (which is waaaaaay too much). As such I hit the nearest Apple Store and made an appointment with the Genius Bar with hopes of resuscitating Hal, because I am traveling and in transit and I bloody need all my music with me at all times.

They had some massive global infinite database which, when Hal's serial number was entered into, produced his date of purchase; 24 December 2006.

Five years old, okay, yeah, I guess we've had a good run.

He really was dead though, and I wasn't interested in spending heaps of money on a new shiny thing, so I then visited a second-hand dealer, and found a 120GB classic for significantly cheaper. Still money I wasn't intending on spending, but not a frivolous purchase I think.

Hal IV is all set up. Before syncing, 'Owner's iPod' indicated it had two songs stored upon it.

Museum of Sex

I found the Museum of Sex completely by accident, noticed it across the road one night while waiting to get into a bar, and was of course intrigued. There are a great many things I wanted to do in New York that I failed to do, but I'm glad I spontaneously did this one. Accompanying me was a dear lady who I shall leave anonymous because she may have dignity. Or not. I know not!

At any rate, I was not sure what the policy on photography was, and so was stealing shots with my phone, hence the lack of quality.

We nearly didn't make it to the museum, so enthralled were we by what was on offer in the museum store. This book was along the lines of being 'your daily fortune in sex positions'. This being my birthday.


The museum itself is somewhat unfocused. All the exhibits are about sex, but it didn't seem to know exactly what it was trying to present. The first floor looked at the portrayal of sex in American cinema, the rise of ratings, censorship and the porn industry, without telling a whole lot.

This was followed by sex in art, combined with sexual practices. Which included robot bestiality.


And early vibrators. Which. Look. On the right is a hair dryer. In the middle is an egg beater. And that thing on the end? Who knows. Apparently the first vibrator was steam-powered. WAS IT EVER.


I won't lie, the Real Dolls were incredibly unsettling. They felt wrong and hideous, and the vacant, stoned, somewhat catatonic expression on the guy's face was not at all a mood aid.


The floor that concerned itself with sexual practices in wild animals was, however, brilliant and quite fascinating. Definitely the draw card. There was a lot of interesting bits and pieces in there, and I learned quite a bit. I wasn't sure what the koalas were doing there though. They were just on the wall. Nothing to say why.


You read that heading right.


AMAZON RIVER DOLPHIN BLOWHOLE SEX.
THAT IS LIKE COCK IN NOSTRIL.
I AM NOT ENTIRELY COOL WITH THIS EVEN THOUGH I RESPECT YOUR LIFESTYLE CHOICES.



Everyone knows pandas don't have sex.


There was an exhibition devoted to one fellow whose name I have entirely forgotten, who was a raging homosexual, keeping a 'Stud File' on all the men he slept with, and doing a lot to promote homosexuality in the arts. I don't remember the total, but he got around. I am letting the team down in comparison.


That said, I have and will never keep pubic hair.


This particular index card records the details of a daisy chain, listing who did who. I'm particularly taken with the last line, "I did all...Kinda dull."


There were I think some missed opportunities to look at sexual practices in non-Western societies, as well as looking at the role and attitude towards sex in international art, instead of just giving it a little head nod in comics at the very end. Still, I was very entertained.

I did not buy this. Regret.

Celebratory Peanut Brittle

As far as afternoons go, this was a pretty good way to spend one.

Home is not where the nose is

It's a good thing I'm leaving today. This guy was the only way I knew which of the many mustard-coloured railway houses were mine. Someone just moved him.

Bye, guy.

Guys: A Reminder That 'No' Means 'No'.

I definitely should not be writing this when I'm well exhausted and thus my crankitude rating is not at optimal levels for Not Making Offensive Generalisations. But I'm going to because fukkit.

If you're in the company of someone you don't know, and you're attracted to this person, you're probably going to try and make that known to them. Yes? Well, some of you are very shy, so maybe not, but for those of you that do-

Bear in mind that liking someone does not mean they owe you shit.

If you take a chance, bear in mind that you may be rebuffed.

If you are rebuffed, bear in mind that hey, it isn't necessarily personal, they may simply not be that into you.

If you have done all this and the outcome has been delivered, well done. You have courage and take risks with yourself. Probably not the outcome you were after, but what the hey, you tried.

If you do all this, the other person has pointedly said no and that this makes them uncomfortable and you then continue to exhibit this behaviour you are now being a jerk.

The boundaries have been drawn. If you don't then respect them, you are being a sleaze, and yes, that is sexual harassment.

That first rebuff? It's reasonable you get that for free. When people don't know each other, you don't know where the lines are until you test them. When you know where they are, there are no excuses. You're being pushy.

And that second rebuff? That isn't free. That is when I start actively disliking you.

Arguing about it won't help your case.

This applies to men and women, hetero and homo, and I have been guilty of it myself, albeit my experience has only ever been with straight guys who don't understand that I don't owe them shit.

Expectations are your death knell.

Really.

You can be attracted to someone as much as you like, but they will never owe you shit.

(This certainly isn't as articulate as I'd like, but I think you get the gist.)

The G Line, Metropolitan Ave

I sat on a wooden bench opposite, jotting things in my note book while these two fresh-faced and earnest young men began busking on the platform opposite. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am-

Metropolitan Ave, the G line by sirtessa

Things They Do Not Warn You About In New York

Puppies.

We popped out of the Met and it must have been dog walking time because there were little scrappy doggy things everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Being a cute and happy and doggy! I half thought maybe there was some rule about dogs in New York, restrictions on pounds per inch, but today I spied quite a few larger breeds, including a gorgeous golden retriever prancing about Central Park.

We even stumbled upon a store on Lexington Avenue that sold puppies. This store was called, wait for it..."Puppies".

AND THEY WERE SO CUTE. WE DIED.

Actually the conditions were horrific. But nothing subtracts from the cuteness of a gleeful climbing puppy.







So, I am warning you. New York = puppies.

The Empire State Building! The Subway! Steaming Manholes!

World Fantasy Con happened. It wasn't the greatest venue, but none the less I had myself a gay old time and will do it again. And again and again and again. Collect some fabulous new people and stalked some fabulous old friends and yes. I feel warm and fuzzy and that the world is full of fun.

Talk shop? What? At a publishing con? Pfffft.

• San Diego in autumnal garb is ridiculously delicious. Warm sun, unblemished blue skies, and did you know they have an Ozone Layer here? Not a hole? THE SKY DOES NOT BURN YOU.
• Desert nights are, however, intense. That cold comes on like a sleazebag.
• There was a painting of a little girl in a blue dress in our room. She was fucking creepy. She was also apparently in every room. All the rooms. Ever. Except for two. Bulk discount on weird arse interior decorating?
• Did not buy a single thing in the dealer's room. This is heartbreaking, and quite impressive.
• Swimming!
• Apparently when I snore I sound like I am a mongoose being strangled.
• I also sound like a horny zombie.
• And growl if you attempt to wake me.
• I will not comment on the sleeping patterns of my companions as I am a gentleman.
• The trolley in San Diego is the lovechild of both a tram and a train.
• Mexican food, even at its worst, is unbelievably good in San Diego.
• Even if it is free, I will screw my nose up in disgust at the beer and not drink it.
• No wine for Sir Tessa not ever never again for all time forever.
• Bringing out the left over book bags for distribution is like watching sharks in a feeding frenzy.
• I did not play Twister while drunk.
• I did get a blue tongue though.
• And hit on an awful lot of pretty people.
• And stole chocolates and decals from the banquet once the diners had left their tables.
• I did that sober, actually.

The day after the con, we went to the San Diego Zoo.

!!!!!

Which deserves its own post.

The next day we flew in to JFK Airport, and I am sitting in a skinny apartment in Brooklyn. Yesterday I did things like take the subway across to Manhattan, see and squeal over the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, be overcome with grief when realising we could not see all of the Metropolitan Museum of the Art in one day (but nonetheless being incredibly immature in the Roman section, see twitter for evidence), went out for a magnificent steak dinner with a slab of Little, Brown, and then on to karaoke which was EPIC and FABULOUS, and then delivered safely home.

At some point in all that, my comrade turned to me and exclaimed, "Tessa! We're in New York! When did that happen?"

MEXICAN JUMPING BEANS

Guys.

Guys.

Seriously.

Guys.



THEY EXIST. THEY ARE REAL. THEY WERE JUMPING IN THEIR LITTLE PLASTIC BOXES WHILE I STOOD THERE AND THE CASHIER GAVE ME BEMUSED LOOKS FOR SQUEALING.

The one redeeming feature of "Fashion Valley": LEGO

Hello!

Goodbye.

Reader Failure

At the beginning of the year I seemed to be making a come back with that whole reading books thing, after the recent drought. Needless to say, that didn't really go anywhere.

Here are the books I read so many months ago. I do not do them justice.

Blonde On A Stick - Conrad Williams



Conrad Williams is one of the most powerful writers out there, and this is has all the power of a cyclone and all the precision of brain surgery. It is a brilliant, cocky, startling narrative that struts about and gets away with murder. Magnificent voice. Absolutely recommended.

Counting Heads - David Marusek



Given to me by a friend who said the fury in Acception reminded him of this, and then couldn't think why. This book blindsided me. It. Is. Brilliant. Stole my breath with its ideas and execution, and made me excited about fiction. Absolutely fascinating critiques of society, technologies and the roles they may play. Meaty, glorious stuff, with stunning characters and plot to boot. So very worth it, so very very worth it.

The Scarring - Geoff Page



The same friend gave me this, a novella in poetry. Very easy to read, with (unsurprisingly) a lovely cadence and rhythm to it. I am no poet so cannot speak of its technical merit, but as far as narrative goes....yikes.

That's...

Fuck me.

Above/Below - Stephanie Campisi & Ben Peek



Two awesome post-apocalyptic-ish novellas that fold in upon each other and bounce off each other in wonderful and interesting ways. I think I'm well documented as being a damn sycophant when it comes to Ben's writing, and this is a prime example of why. Campisi matches the grit and anguish in Below with breathless despair and denial in Above. A very intelligent read.

Guardian of the Dead - Karen Healey



Goddamn I love Ellie. Not a character, a person. So many PEOPLE in this book! Quite a lot of laugh out loud with "I know EXACTLY what you mean, girl!" moments, in amidst all the supernatural creepy shit going on. Of which there is a lot. Christchurch, it turns out, is a pretty menacing place in which to insert fiction. Great stuff, omnomnom.

Walk a mile couple of years in my shoes.

Pictured above is a pair of size...hell, I don't know what size they are, the labels have worn off. Black canvas Cover Your Bones Chuck-a-likes. With LIGHTNING BOLTS. PCHSHUUU! And velcro tabs at the top.

As far as footwear goes, they're pretty standard hip.

They are also exceptionally dear to me.

At the beginning of 2010, coming up to the end of my five weeks roaming through Chile and Argentina, it came to the attention of the group that METALLICA WERE PLAYING IN BUENOS AIRES the night before we were due to arrive.

Thus, the only option was for the bulk of us to leave the truck in Puerto Madryn, take the public bus to Trelew, an Aerolineas Argentinas flight from Trelew to Buenos Aires, check in early to our hotel (which had never received our booking and thus also involved finding a hotel that had spare rooms), drinking beer in the ridiculously hot latino afternoon, taking the train to the stadium and GO OFF.

Like, OFF.

Which left me, while strolling around Puerto Madryn in my thongs and sweltering, wondering if I really wanted to wear my massive hiking boots to a stadium concert. Or my thongs.

Not interested.

So I bought these. I don't remember how much they were, I never could figure out the exchange rate, but I seem to recall it being something like $50AUD. As soon as I put them on I demanded my immediate company step on them, so that they weren't pristine. And then I wore them to a stadium concert and they got the snot stomped out of them.

Best.

A month later the rubber siding on both was cracked and the insole on the right had slipped. I figured they were cheap and nasty, and had served their purpose. Then I wore them all through China, Tibet and Nepal. And Melbourne. For the next couple years.

They have indeed served their purpose. Lightning bolts on my ankles, like Hermes, they've walked me over all the paths.



These I bought in Shibuya, Tokyo, back in 2007. I had a pair just the same when I was seven years old. Rainbow dinosaurs will walk me to new worlds.

Last Meal: spag bog of CHAMPIONS

Tangent: Tortoises are clearly proof of the existence of extra-terrestrials AND evil.

I took these photos myself, yesterday. Look at them. Look at them closely.




I rest my case.

Mum said, are you sure you really want to go?

Nights like this night, with warm soft air and all people behind doors and windows, an amiable breeze and light rain, walking in that quiet, being unseen, feet in thongs and umbrella on my shoulder, listening to night birds and angry possums, the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine; these nights are only found here.

Book-book-book!*

Over on GoodReads there is a give away of the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror 2011, click hither for details.



*that is the noise of chooks excited over books.

It's a good thing this is multiple choice, 50% chance I'll get it right.

Shit Just Got Real

1. Friday was my last day at work.
2. Sophie, our 13 year old West Highland White Terrier, will probably die while I am away.
3. Ten days.
   

Postcards!

If you would like a postcard from far away, send me your postal address using the shoutout on the right. Strangers welcome!

EGO-BOO

I STILL FIT IN MY YEAR 12 FORMAL DRESS. IT IS 12 YEARS OLD.
I KNOW FOR A FACT I WAS NOT PACKING THIS MUCH JUNK IN YEAR 12.

these skies

If only I lived up high, somewhere distant from the ground, with a balcony, or better, access to the roof, so I could stand on the edge with my face to the wind a bellow like a magnificent bull triumphant in the arena, raise my fists and be the eye of the tornado this ferocious wonder spins around me.

HOLY CAVERNOUS CLAMS, BATMAN

NEXT WEEK IS MY LAST WEEK AT WORK.

YES. I ONLY JUST REALISED THIS.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

I peed into a cup. If there is a world championship of peeing into a cup without spilling or overflowing, I am that champion.