And see the last post.
Me
xx
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Argh!
Early this year I started putting my name to some of the stuff I was writing... needless to say, that didn't include some of the introspective navel-gazing posts I had included on this site.
However, for most of the year I have doubled up on the new style of blogs I have been posting - fairly innocuous rants about whatever takes my fancy, rather than more personal accounts of my life and my feelings, to which you have been privy. This has meant that I have been double-blogging (akin to double dipping I suspect). As a result, recent inane blogs appear afresh on a parallel website sans the earlier and more angst-y work).
Having said all of that, I have to admit I have been WAY less diligent than I expected, in terms of my posting over this past year. One of the issues for me has been keeping up both this and my wordpress blog. Frankly I am tired of the constant cutting and pasting!
So, not exactly sure why, but because many suggested it earlier this year, I am going to stick with the other one....
Recent and future blogs can be obtained from: http://rockafellaskank.wordpress.com/
Same name, same time... just a different place I guess.
Cheers for now
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Thomas and Jessica
I am home sick today. A terrible headache and aching neck and shoulders kept me in bed for most of the morning. When I woke at lunchtime I was pretty sure I could happily sleep away the afternoon, but decided I should get up lest I be completely unable to sleep tonight and am rendered inactive tomorrow as well.
After checking and dealing with work emails I settled myself in my comfortable armchair and flicked through television channels looking for something on daytime TV to keep me from my bed. Staving off head-spins I caught the end of a Judy Garland movie I can’t recall ever having seen before (I grew up in regional Queensland on a diet of Sunday afternoon Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Fred Astaire and Doris Day movies.)
After checking and dealing with work emails I settled myself in my comfortable armchair and flicked through television channels looking for something on daytime TV to keep me from my bed. Staving off head-spins I caught the end of a Judy Garland movie I can’t recall ever having seen before (I grew up in regional Queensland on a diet of Sunday afternoon Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Fred Astaire and Doris Day movies.)
Feeling too light-headed to do much else after the movie finished I channel-surfed again before coming across Magnum PI. I can’t recall being a huge Thomas Magnum or Tom Selleck fan when the show actually aired back in the 1980s but, as I have always consumed large amounts of television and suffered through a deficiency of options in my home town, I have watched my share of the Hawaiian-based detective.Watching it a decade and a half later remains a treat. Episodes were replayed on a Sunday morning (on and off) last year and I circled it in my TV Guide in an attempt to remember to watch (or tape) it. Despite the occasionally-wooden acting and (now) very-dated stunts and special effects I was surprised to see a number of familiar faces – including a young Ted Danson, Sharon Stone, Ernest Borgnine and Carol Burnett.
Today’s episode (shown on one of our new free-to-air digital television stations, 7mate) featured a young Miguel Ferrer. Again I was reminded how much I like and miss shows like this. I must also confess to be a Murder She Wrote fan. When the show was replayed on daytime television earlier this year, I set my video to tape it and watch at my leisure.
I think people either love or hate Angela Lansbury’s Jessica Fletcher. I personally think she morphed into a less-patronising and annoying character over the show’s life. Although I cringed at the sets’ and decor (I think I had blocked macrame hanging pot plant holders from my mind), I liked the lack of complexity in the storylines when comparing them to the murder/mysteries on our screens today.I can think of few current shows which can offer the G-rated viewing of the likes of Murder She Wrote, Magnum PI (and their contemporaries, Hart to Hart, Moonlighting, Remington Steele, Jake and the Fatman etc…). Although I enjoy shows like Dexter, Law & Order (et al), The Mentalist etc, they are all far more macabre and not exactly easy-viewing. Hardly fun.
It makes me wonder where we are heading though. If in another 10 or 15 years the grisly corpses in Bones; serial killers of Criminal Minds; and mind-benders of Fringe will be passe? Perhaps I will be giggling at the special effects in Caprica. I guess only time will tell. Until then I will work out how to record my digital television channels and – when time permits – settle down with Magnum and giggle at the short shorts. And the hair. Not to mention the moustaches!
Friday, September 10, 2010
Deadwood - d'oh
As my holidays draw to a close, so too does my obsessive viewing of TV shows on DVD. So far, I have knocked off all three series of BBC's Robin Hood, two series of The Big Bang Theory, two series of Friday Night Lights and now I have just finished watching the third and final series of Deadwood. I had to Google the latter today after watching the final episode in the wee hours of the morning. I thought perhaps I missed something as I felt somewhat dissatisfied at the way the show wrapped up. I didn't expect an out-of-place montage tying up loose ends a-la Pushing Daisies, but I thought there would be some sense of closure for us viewers.
However, it wasn't until this morning’s googling that I discovered two things. Firstly, a fourth season was initially expected, which I decided could account for the anti-climactic ending…. But more importantly I was confronted with my own ignorance (at least in terms of American folklore), upon learning that the entire show was significantly based on fact!!! D’oh!
While watching I had been surprised at some of the liberties taken, through the introduction of 'Calamity' Jane and 'Wild' Bill Hickok, not realising until today that most of the other characters and many of the events of the show were actually also based on - as quoted by Wikipedia - 'historical truths' with a few embellishments added for the purposes of entertainment.
This knowledge would have informed my viewing and – more importantly - my expectations considerably had it been conferred on me previously. Had I realised that there was some need to adhere to factual accounts; it would have lessened the aforementioned disappointment that the storyline didn’t reflect the kind of TV-land ending that allows viewers to sleep contentedly at night.
A friend had tried to convince me to watch Deadwood for years but I had refrained, having little interest in the 'western' as a genre. However, as it happened I discovered it in the same way I discovered some recent passions, Big Bang Theory and Entourage - through re-runs on television.
Although I sped through the three seasons of the show and often refused to delay gratification, watching episode after episode, I didn't LOVE love it, ie. It isn't something I would watch again and again - my definition of a show I love.
There is no doubting, however, that the show was made by clever people and that is something I appreciate (hence my love of West Wing, Pushing Daisies, Buffy etc). The scripts and dialogue were amazing and it wasn't until the second or third season that I became conscious that each line from a character's mouth was akin to Shakespearean prose (albeit slightly more colourful!), with the quality of the vernacular and use of soliloquies and monologues growing each episode.
I have to admit to being a bit gobsmacked while watching the first episode. No one had warned me about the language. Don't get me wrong, I swear like a trooper, dropping the F-bomb far too much and I must admit that the c-word doesn't even worry me much nowadays.... but I wasn't prepared for it on my free-to-air-TV viewing. Wikipedia quotes that 'fuck' was used 43 times during the first hour of the show, setting the tone for the rest of the seasons, with the word used 1.56 times every minute of footage. I expect the word 'cocksucker' featured as a pronoun almost as much. Of course once inured to the language you realise that being called a (language alert!!!) loopy fuckin' c_nt is in fact a term of endearment. At least in the characters' eyes.
However, watching all three seasons in such quick succession allowed me to ponder a bit on my perceptions and my own reactions to them. The first episodes introduce us to the two main characters, Seth Bullock (former Montana Sheriff and wannabe Hardware store owner in the lawless Deadwood) and Al Swearengen, owner of the local pub and whorehouse. As I had seen half a dozen episodes on TV before borrowing the DVDs, I felt I already had a sense of the two protagonists: Bullock was a controlled and 'just' man with a sense of right and wrong; while Swearengen ruthlessly murders (by this own hand and others) for his own gain, treating all of those around him (liked and disliked) with disdain. So... it didn't really occur to me sometime until late in the second season that - in some respects - their roles (on the TV show at least) had reversed. Swearengen had become the smarter 'player' weighing up the politics of the situations before him and demonstrating acts of kindness; and Bullock, faced with personal problems and complications was prone to 'flying off the handle' and acting irrationally. Bullock was now the wildcard, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. Those (like me) prone to online trawling for information would know there are entire Forums devoted to the ‘evolution’ of Swearengen throughout the show.
Of course, I realise that my early viewing was coloured by a lack of character development and the more dimensions to which we are privy, the more the characters change. But it was a useful lesson to me. I made my mind up too quickly. I jumped in and judged who the baddies and goodies were without much thought. And then I found it hard to change my allegiances. Bullock was the hero for God’s sake! As the seasons progressed, I found myself becoming more and more disappointed in him; as if he was letting me (personally) down through his increasingly-uncontrolled actions.
I gather (again, via Wikipedia) that the real-life Swearengen didn't demonstrate the same human touches as his screen character, and similarly, Bullock seems to have done well for himself in politics and in business - his real-life perhaps not fraught with the same complications as his Deadwood character.
When Season 4 didn’t progress, creator David Milch was to have wrapped the show up via a series of TV movies, but four years later these have not eventuated. A shame really, because while I can learn what happened to their real-life namesakes... I would kinda like to have known what would have happened to the Deadwood characters I'd known on-screen.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The X Factor
A few weeks ago, I was about to pull the plug on my anti-climactic Saturday night TV viewing when I came across a TV documentary about East Timorese leader, and current Prime Minister, Xanana Gusmão.
I was in East Timor between 1999 and 2001 and met Xanana a few times. I saw him speak, often in Tetum the local language, but although my comprehension was minimal I didn’t need to understand the words to know that he could certainly command a room.
At that time, he had the respect and admiration of a whole generation of East Timorese. His oratory skills and impassioned performances were amazing and he had the ability to quell angry masses frustrated with everything from the world’s inaction to the United Nation’s plodding progress in his country.
He had something that many others do not. Charisma. Presence… a certain something.
But it got me thinking about that X Factor. That ‘something’ which separates Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke, from John Howard or Kevin Rudd; and Bill Clinton from others who came before and after.
I remember when I was at school watching a young Sigrid Thornton in the TV mini-series All the Rivers Run and movie Man from Snowy River. In the late 1970s and early 1980s she was Australia’s sweetheart, eventually departing for the USA where she scored the lead in a (fairly-ordinary) TV western which ran for a couple of years. I recall reading a quote about her in a magazine at that time where someone described her allure, saying that the camera loved her; that it ‘ate her up’. And it did. We saw it years later when she graced Australian small screens again in the late 1990s in Sea Change. She had a ‘certain something’ that she continues to bring to our screens, even today.
I was reminded of this notion of charisma as I breezed through BBC’s Robin Hood recently. I have already confessed my lust for Richard Armitage’s Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but what surprised me was how engaging I found Robin himself. Slim and (I suspect) not-universally-attractive, Jonas Armstrong brought something to the screen which surprised me. In trying to describe him (in the role) to someone, I said he ‘twinkled’. An unlikely candidate for the X Factor, Armstrong gave us a cheeky loveable larrikin who drew us in and before long (for me, anyway) he embodied Robin Hood.
I’m not always as enamoured with TV characters and wonder if it is all about the X Factor. I watch the TV show Castle for example, because I am a Nathan Fillion fan (from way back). But I cannot - I repeat - I CANNOT, stand Stana Katic’s smug Kate Beckett. She is certainly pretty and Hollywood-skinny so I find it hard to articulate why I haven’t ‘taken’ to her character, other than a certain coldness or lack of depth? I suspect it is an issue of charisma. And when a character is uninspiring, unsurprisingly I can’t engage with them or the show. It is the reason, I suspect, that I used to love Law & Order – Criminal Intent, but never watched the original Law & Order; and perhaps the same reason I skip Law & Order – SVU if Mariska Hargitay isn’t featuring.
It isn’t just about acting, although it does help. I will watch almost anything with Aussie TV actor, Claudia Karvan in it because she just brings ‘something’ to the screen every time. Similarly I am enjoying our new television offering, Offspring, starring Asher Keddie who is remarkably engaging as the self-deprecating Nina.
It’s why we want the good guys to win. Or the bad guys to prosper. It’s why we forgive Bill Clinton’s indiscretions or ignore Bob Hawke’s oafishness. It’s why certain actors or shows appeal to us and others don’t. It’s how some people can command a room or a show, and others can’t… the X Factor which has nothing to do with singing and dancing.
I was in East Timor between 1999 and 2001 and met Xanana a few times. I saw him speak, often in Tetum the local language, but although my comprehension was minimal I didn’t need to understand the words to know that he could certainly command a room.
At that time, he had the respect and admiration of a whole generation of East Timorese. His oratory skills and impassioned performances were amazing and he had the ability to quell angry masses frustrated with everything from the world’s inaction to the United Nation’s plodding progress in his country.
He had something that many others do not. Charisma. Presence… a certain something.
But it got me thinking about that X Factor. That ‘something’ which separates Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke, from John Howard or Kevin Rudd; and Bill Clinton from others who came before and after.
I remember when I was at school watching a young Sigrid Thornton in the TV mini-series All the Rivers Run and movie Man from Snowy River. In the late 1970s and early 1980s she was Australia’s sweetheart, eventually departing for the USA where she scored the lead in a (fairly-ordinary) TV western which ran for a couple of years. I recall reading a quote about her in a magazine at that time where someone described her allure, saying that the camera loved her; that it ‘ate her up’. And it did. We saw it years later when she graced Australian small screens again in the late 1990s in Sea Change. She had a ‘certain something’ that she continues to bring to our screens, even today.
I was reminded of this notion of charisma as I breezed through BBC’s Robin Hood recently. I have already confessed my lust for Richard Armitage’s Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but what surprised me was how engaging I found Robin himself. Slim and (I suspect) not-universally-attractive, Jonas Armstrong brought something to the screen which surprised me. In trying to describe him (in the role) to someone, I said he ‘twinkled’. An unlikely candidate for the X Factor, Armstrong gave us a cheeky loveable larrikin who drew us in and before long (for me, anyway) he embodied Robin Hood.
I’m not always as enamoured with TV characters and wonder if it is all about the X Factor. I watch the TV show Castle for example, because I am a Nathan Fillion fan (from way back). But I cannot - I repeat - I CANNOT, stand Stana Katic’s smug Kate Beckett. She is certainly pretty and Hollywood-skinny so I find it hard to articulate why I haven’t ‘taken’ to her character, other than a certain coldness or lack of depth? I suspect it is an issue of charisma. And when a character is uninspiring, unsurprisingly I can’t engage with them or the show. It is the reason, I suspect, that I used to love Law & Order – Criminal Intent, but never watched the original Law & Order; and perhaps the same reason I skip Law & Order – SVU if Mariska Hargitay isn’t featuring.
It isn’t just about acting, although it does help. I will watch almost anything with Aussie TV actor, Claudia Karvan in it because she just brings ‘something’ to the screen every time. Similarly I am enjoying our new television offering, Offspring, starring Asher Keddie who is remarkably engaging as the self-deprecating Nina.
It’s why we want the good guys to win. Or the bad guys to prosper. It’s why we forgive Bill Clinton’s indiscretions or ignore Bob Hawke’s oafishness. It’s why certain actors or shows appeal to us and others don’t. It’s how some people can command a room or a show, and others can’t… the X Factor which has nothing to do with singing and dancing.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?
Let me start by prefacing this post with the statement that I do not, in real life, have a thing for ‘bad boys’. As a natural cynic I have never aspired to find someone I can save, or change, or mould in any way. This is because the man of my dreams will (of course) be a perfect specimen, not requiring any tweaking or shaping. Hmmm… on further consideration this may well be why I am single!
On screen however, it seems that my taste is far more seditious.
I have just commenced a long holiday and after two laps of my local video store, I settled on the TV show Robin Hood (2006-2009). I hadn’t ever watched it but recalled it being moderately popular and decided I was desperate enough to check it out for myself. Given that there were only three Seasons made and all available, I also figured it would give me enough to do for a few days while not requiring me to wait (im)patiently for a new season to be released.
As I am not a fan of the ‘action’ genre, I expected that I might watch a few episodes before returning Season 1 mostly-unwatched. However, to my surprise I literally inhaled two Seasons in less than three days and would have watched the final Season if some other pesky customer hadn’t kept it from me.
Although Jonas Armstrong is surprisingly bewitching as Robin Hood, hero of the masses, it is the enigmatic and (frankly) bloody sexy Richard Armitage, who played Sir Guy of Gisborne who captured my heart. Delivering on the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carnage does nothing to stymie my bad-boy adoration and (well, let’s face it)… lust. Dark, brooding, sexy and sardonic, he is night to Robin’s day. He is my Mr Darcy, leaving Mr Bingham in his scathing wake.
It has made me wonder how much of the on-screen bad boy thing is expert casting rather than girl’s natural instinct to ‘turn-around’ a man who surely wants to be saved even though they may not actually know it. In Robin Hood, Armstrong as its namesake is young and lanky and portrayed as a bit of a larrikin, whereas (be-still-my-beating-heart) Armitage is buff, stubbled and clad in black leather. And in the first two Seasons (at least) we are privy to glimpses of humanity, leading us to believe he is not completely beyond redemption (and therefore worthy of our lust).
Although it dates me, I recall similarly finding Luke Perry’s Dylan far more attractive than Jason Priestley’s Brandon on (the original) Beverly Hills 90210. I preferred Chris Noth’s Big to John Corbett’s Aidan in Sex and the City. And for a more timely pop culture reference I have to admit to a slight lustful interest in Glee’s Puck as opposed to, well…whatever the other guy’s name is… you know, the tall lanky blander-than-white-bread guy.
Ever since James Dean graced the screens in the 1950s and studio bosses recognized our lust for the bad boy, casting directors have given us a choice. Squeaky clean and cute, or sexy and broody.
And in the parallel universe of film and television, I know which I am buying….
On screen however, it seems that my taste is far more seditious.
I have just commenced a long holiday and after two laps of my local video store, I settled on the TV show Robin Hood (2006-2009). I hadn’t ever watched it but recalled it being moderately popular and decided I was desperate enough to check it out for myself. Given that there were only three Seasons made and all available, I also figured it would give me enough to do for a few days while not requiring me to wait (im)patiently for a new season to be released.
As I am not a fan of the ‘action’ genre, I expected that I might watch a few episodes before returning Season 1 mostly-unwatched. However, to my surprise I literally inhaled two Seasons in less than three days and would have watched the final Season if some other pesky customer hadn’t kept it from me.
Although Jonas Armstrong is surprisingly bewitching as Robin Hood, hero of the masses, it is the enigmatic and (frankly) bloody sexy Richard Armitage, who played Sir Guy of Gisborne who captured my heart. Delivering on the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carnage does nothing to stymie my bad-boy adoration and (well, let’s face it)… lust. Dark, brooding, sexy and sardonic, he is night to Robin’s day. He is my Mr Darcy, leaving Mr Bingham in his scathing wake.
It has made me wonder how much of the on-screen bad boy thing is expert casting rather than girl’s natural instinct to ‘turn-around’ a man who surely wants to be saved even though they may not actually know it. In Robin Hood, Armstrong as its namesake is young and lanky and portrayed as a bit of a larrikin, whereas (be-still-my-beating-heart) Armitage is buff, stubbled and clad in black leather. And in the first two Seasons (at least) we are privy to glimpses of humanity, leading us to believe he is not completely beyond redemption (and therefore worthy of our lust).
Although it dates me, I recall similarly finding Luke Perry’s Dylan far more attractive than Jason Priestley’s Brandon on (the original) Beverly Hills 90210. I preferred Chris Noth’s Big to John Corbett’s Aidan in Sex and the City. And for a more timely pop culture reference I have to admit to a slight lustful interest in Glee’s Puck as opposed to, well…whatever the other guy’s name is… you know, the tall lanky blander-than-white-bread guy.
Ever since James Dean graced the screens in the 1950s and studio bosses recognized our lust for the bad boy, casting directors have given us a choice. Squeaky clean and cute, or sexy and broody.
And in the parallel universe of film and television, I know which I am buying….
Friday, May 14, 2010
Far Eastern Odysseys and Emergency Sex
A few things have transpired in the last few weeks which have me thinking. Thinking and pondering.
I have been quite unhappy at work for some time. This isn’t necessarily a new thing as I get bored very easily and tend to change jobs with regularity. At the moment however, although I contemplate alternatives, I find myself at a loss to identify what my options might be. This had led me to reconsider a former career in aid and development - a previous life in which I worked and managed projects in developing countries.
Then, a couple of Tuesdays ago, I was channel surfing free-to-air TV and came across Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey. It was the first show in the series and featured Cambodia.
I lived in Cambodia (aka Kampuchea; aka Cambodge) as a volunteer for about 7 months (until a coup d’etat) in 1997. I returned for a month or so the following year as an election observer - part of a 20-person Australian / New Zealand contingent.
Generally I cannot watch shows or read about places I have lived or worked. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I feel the shows do not do the places and people justice, or that they objectify or patronise them. Perhaps I have figuratively washed my hands of the places and people, moved on (literally) and don’t want to be reminded of them. Or perhaps it is just the opposite and I find it painful to be reminded of previous lives and past regrets. I don’t know.
But as it happened, I enjoyed watching Rick and his guides eating and cooking their way across Cambodia. And, though over a decade since I was there, I felt a sense of familiarity and déjà vu.
Then….only a few days later I had a conversation with a fellow commuter, the way one does when they see the same strangers day after day. Our smiles had become hellos and our hellos had become conversations.
This day – without knowing any of my history - she (for I still don’t know her name and keep meaning to ask!) told me how she would like to work in a developing country one day. In the course of our conversation she talked about a book called, Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story of Hell on Earth and offered to lend it to me. And surprisingly she - my nameless fellow-commuter - appeared the following day with the book.
I, however, wasn’t sure I would want to read the book for the same reason I don’t watch stuff about places I have lived and worked. So before receiving the book I was coming up with plausible platitudes which could fool her into thinking I had read the damned thing so as not to offend her generous gesture.
Surprisingly, although not particularly enamoured with two of the three authors (and protagonists), I demolished the book in two late-night reading sessions.
The book itself was written by three United Nations (UN) workers: Andrew, a NZ doctor, started out working for the Red Cross in Cambodia before the UN arrived en-masse to secure peace and democracy; Heidi, a disenfranchised recently divorced and broke social worker snared the UN gig to make some money; and Ken, a law graduate with an interest in human rights and no interest in actually practicing law. The three cross paths in Cambodia in 1993 and continue to do so until the end of that decade and the book tracks them through the UN hotspots of Cambodia, Haiti, Somalia, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.
I met some of these characters in my overseas exploits, particularly while living in Mozambique, Cambodia and East Timor. Adrenaline junkies who move from emergency to emergency; UN Mission to UN Mission, many with little regard or thought for the people whose homeland they are inhabiting (albeit briefly). Some good work is done but the motivations of many can be disheartening.
But even as I read this book and grimaced at some of the characters and happenings, I found myself feeling the familiar tinge of adrenaline and reminding myself of the good, rather than the bad.
Emergency Sex returned to its commuter-owner, I am left pondering. After my last overseas gig a decade ago: two years in East Timor then some time in the private sector involving a lot of travel in the Pacific, I yearned for normalcy. I left the industry for what-I-hoped-would-be a more settled existence. Indeed I have had absolutely no interest in traveling (anywhere or at all) since my return. So why now am I surfing the internet for development jobs? Am I like Heidi in Emergency Sex (who I quite disliked) - disenfranchised and looking for something new? Or is my current lack of fulfillment because I have no sense that what I am (currently) doing makes a difference. To anyone.
I tried to explain my lack of fulfillment to a boss a few years ago. While living in developing countries the conditions are difficult. You may not have access to regular electricity or running water. Security may be an issue and you may be quite socially isolated. So everyday life is hard. A challenge. As a result it doesn’t matter if work is maniacally busy or less-than-fulfilling because you don’t have the luxury of considering self-actualisation or pausing to ponder the meaning of life. But in a world (here) where life is (mostly) easy, I find myself expecting more from my work. More from people around me. Often neither measure up. And this isn’t always their fault.
So, if I am honest, my desire to return to my previous life is as much about my dissatisfaction with the rest of my life as it is about work even though I realise my previous escapades did little to stave off the disenfranchisement. So, I wonder why I think this time would be any different….
I have been quite unhappy at work for some time. This isn’t necessarily a new thing as I get bored very easily and tend to change jobs with regularity. At the moment however, although I contemplate alternatives, I find myself at a loss to identify what my options might be. This had led me to reconsider a former career in aid and development - a previous life in which I worked and managed projects in developing countries.
Then, a couple of Tuesdays ago, I was channel surfing free-to-air TV and came across Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey. It was the first show in the series and featured Cambodia.
I lived in Cambodia (aka Kampuchea; aka Cambodge) as a volunteer for about 7 months (until a coup d’etat) in 1997. I returned for a month or so the following year as an election observer - part of a 20-person Australian / New Zealand contingent.
Generally I cannot watch shows or read about places I have lived or worked. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I feel the shows do not do the places and people justice, or that they objectify or patronise them. Perhaps I have figuratively washed my hands of the places and people, moved on (literally) and don’t want to be reminded of them. Or perhaps it is just the opposite and I find it painful to be reminded of previous lives and past regrets. I don’t know.
But as it happened, I enjoyed watching Rick and his guides eating and cooking their way across Cambodia. And, though over a decade since I was there, I felt a sense of familiarity and déjà vu.
Then….only a few days later I had a conversation with a fellow commuter, the way one does when they see the same strangers day after day. Our smiles had become hellos and our hellos had become conversations.
This day – without knowing any of my history - she (for I still don’t know her name and keep meaning to ask!) told me how she would like to work in a developing country one day. In the course of our conversation she talked about a book called, Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story of Hell on Earth and offered to lend it to me. And surprisingly she - my nameless fellow-commuter - appeared the following day with the book.
I, however, wasn’t sure I would want to read the book for the same reason I don’t watch stuff about places I have lived and worked. So before receiving the book I was coming up with plausible platitudes which could fool her into thinking I had read the damned thing so as not to offend her generous gesture.
Surprisingly, although not particularly enamoured with two of the three authors (and protagonists), I demolished the book in two late-night reading sessions.
The book itself was written by three United Nations (UN) workers: Andrew, a NZ doctor, started out working for the Red Cross in Cambodia before the UN arrived en-masse to secure peace and democracy; Heidi, a disenfranchised recently divorced and broke social worker snared the UN gig to make some money; and Ken, a law graduate with an interest in human rights and no interest in actually practicing law. The three cross paths in Cambodia in 1993 and continue to do so until the end of that decade and the book tracks them through the UN hotspots of Cambodia, Haiti, Somalia, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.
I met some of these characters in my overseas exploits, particularly while living in Mozambique, Cambodia and East Timor. Adrenaline junkies who move from emergency to emergency; UN Mission to UN Mission, many with little regard or thought for the people whose homeland they are inhabiting (albeit briefly). Some good work is done but the motivations of many can be disheartening.
But even as I read this book and grimaced at some of the characters and happenings, I found myself feeling the familiar tinge of adrenaline and reminding myself of the good, rather than the bad.
Emergency Sex returned to its commuter-owner, I am left pondering. After my last overseas gig a decade ago: two years in East Timor then some time in the private sector involving a lot of travel in the Pacific, I yearned for normalcy. I left the industry for what-I-hoped-would-be a more settled existence. Indeed I have had absolutely no interest in traveling (anywhere or at all) since my return. So why now am I surfing the internet for development jobs? Am I like Heidi in Emergency Sex (who I quite disliked) - disenfranchised and looking for something new? Or is my current lack of fulfillment because I have no sense that what I am (currently) doing makes a difference. To anyone.
I tried to explain my lack of fulfillment to a boss a few years ago. While living in developing countries the conditions are difficult. You may not have access to regular electricity or running water. Security may be an issue and you may be quite socially isolated. So everyday life is hard. A challenge. As a result it doesn’t matter if work is maniacally busy or less-than-fulfilling because you don’t have the luxury of considering self-actualisation or pausing to ponder the meaning of life. But in a world (here) where life is (mostly) easy, I find myself expecting more from my work. More from people around me. Often neither measure up. And this isn’t always their fault.
So, if I am honest, my desire to return to my previous life is as much about my dissatisfaction with the rest of my life as it is about work even though I realise my previous escapades did little to stave off the disenfranchisement. So, I wonder why I think this time would be any different….
Friday, April 23, 2010
The test of time
A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending some time with my niece, EMC. She was working on an English assignment – a school play (Children of the Black Skirt) in which her character becomes lost in the woods, only to be found (presumably) dead, 5 days later. Underlying themes aside, I found myself wondering what happened during those 5 days. It reminded me, I told my niece, of the novel and (1975) film Picnic at Hanging Rock, which I saw before I read. As I described the plot to her, I was reminded of how frustrated I was as the film and book ended; leaving us wondering what happened to the missing schoolgirls. Even the release of an additional chapter after the author’s death did little to elucidate the mystery for me.
Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir. The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry). A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.
I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture. But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon. All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.
The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.
One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references. Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (www.thescrivenersfancy.com). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film. I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago. Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store. What I saw shocked and horrified me. It was terrible. Beyond terrible. A cliché. Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that? Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting? Obviously not.
Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD. I possibly squealed with excitement. Possibly. I loved that show. Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.
The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player. I don’t think I got through one episode. Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes. I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….
But, I learned my lesson. Technology changes. Tastes change. Evolve. Our expectations change. Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time. They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through. The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.
So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself. Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.
Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir. The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry). A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.
I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture. But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon. All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.
The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.
One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references. Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (www.thescrivenersfancy.com). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film. I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago. Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store. What I saw shocked and horrified me. It was terrible. Beyond terrible. A cliché. Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that? Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting? Obviously not.
Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD. I possibly squealed with excitement. Possibly. I loved that show. Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.
The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player. I don’t think I got through one episode. Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes. I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….
But, I learned my lesson. Technology changes. Tastes change. Evolve. Our expectations change. Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time. They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through. The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.
So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself. Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter eggs and rabbit ears
Easter is again upon us and it is supposed to mean more than chocolate bunnies and public holidays. But rather than contemplate what was purported to have happened nearly 2000 years ago, I find myself relishing glimpses of life just 30 years ago.
For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island. Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops.
Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home. My Poppie and step-nanna (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay. Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade. We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach. Our beach.
In those days it was idyllic. Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us. On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf. Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait. Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless. The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.
We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home. A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander. Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds. There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all. A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine. I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer. Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.
Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’. My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me. Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies. So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.
But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement. And eat it all day I did. Easter after Easter. Year after year.
My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two. Purely to torture me, I am sure.
My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny. Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today. They remain my favourite. In those days everything was Red Tulip. No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies.
As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then). Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty. So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside! Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside. I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year. I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.
After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start. Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine. Again and again until it was completely flat.
The result was a masterpiece. The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation. I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them. I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved. Once they were done I probably just threw them away.
Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers. Temperamental rabbit ears. Our old linoleum lining cement floors. And washing machine wringers.
It’s funny the things you remember.
For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island. Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops.
Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home. My Poppie and step-nanna (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay. Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade. We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach. Our beach.
In those days it was idyllic. Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us. On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf. Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait. Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless. The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.
We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home. A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander. Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds. There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all. A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine. I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer. Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.
Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’. My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me. Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies. So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.
But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement. And eat it all day I did. Easter after Easter. Year after year.
My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two. Purely to torture me, I am sure.
My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny. Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today. They remain my favourite. In those days everything was Red Tulip. No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies.
As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then). Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty. So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside! Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside. I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year. I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.
After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start. Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine. Again and again until it was completely flat.
The result was a masterpiece. The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation. I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them. I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved. Once they were done I probably just threw them away.
Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers. Temperamental rabbit ears. Our old linoleum lining cement floors. And washing machine wringers.
It’s funny the things you remember.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
In Death...
I have many guilty pleasures. Some just naughty – champagne, chocolate, red wine and so forth. Some a little weird – an early years’ fetish for Dr Spock (the one with the pointy ears, not the child-rearing guru). And some that are mostly embarrassing. Like the ridiculous pleasure I get from the TV show, ‘Murder She Wrote’ and from a series of novels by romance writer, Nora Roberts, under the pseudonym JD Robb.
I am a prolific reader and constantly running out of reading fodder. So nothing excites me more than finding a new author, whose work I find digestible, and who already has a realm of books under their belt. I am as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. No painful searches of the rarely-changing library shelves of my local library; or being driven to fork out hard-earned cash for mediocre books.
I regularly admit to a fairly prosaic taste in literature. Though I find myself balking at some crime fiction (I cannot believe I used to read Patricia Cornwell for example), I don’t mind the likes of PD James, Martha Grimes and Robert B Parker.
So… admissions and self-flagellation completed, a few years ago I borrowed a book by JD Robb. Though (obviously) by no means a literary snob, I might have bypassed the book had I realised it was written by an author better known for romance than murder and mayhem. But realise I did not. I don’t remember what that book actually was, but it was undoubtedly one from somewhere in the middle of the series, given the discovery took place in 2008 and Roberts kicked off her ‘In Death’ novels (as an experiment) in 1995.
I was entranced and literally ploughed through all existing ‘In Death’ novels over subsequent months. I tried to do so in order – given that an underlying story unfolds as a backdrop to the murderous mysteries unraveling front-stage.
I have read them all now (bar a few short stories appearing in other collections). And I have even re-read some. The series has taken its place along with some other staples (TV series’ ‘Buffy’, ‘Pushing Daisies’, ‘Entourage’ and ‘West Wing’; and Robert B Parker’s Spenser or Sunny Randall novels) which I can watch or read again and again and are a source of great comfort.
So, I wonder, what is it about these novels that endear them to me?
Though I am not a Sci Fi or fantasy genre fan, these novels are set in the future, the first kicking off in the late 2050s. In a brave new world following the ‘Urban Wars’ of the 2020s. In this world we meet New York Homicide cop, Lieutenant Eve Dallas. A strong, independent woman, (stereotypically) scarred by childhood trauma. In the first novel, ‘Naked in Death’ Eve crosses paths with the enigmatic (and if that word was coined with a character in mind, it was this one) Roarke, mega-rich and a law unto himself.
Their relationship makes the novels and (in my point of view) sometimes almost breaks them. Roberts just avoids Eve falling into some caricature of a former-victim-now-turned-saviour still tortured by her dysfunctional childhood. As a romantic (at heart) I love Roarke’s devotion to his cop/wife but there is sometimes a fine line between devotion and paternalism; and his compulsion to ‘take care’ of Eve often has me shuddering with discomfort. I mean, what is it with these people (you read about) who ‘forget to eat’ and who work to exhaustion and have to be carried off to bed by concerned loved ones? Finally, although not faint-hearted I do occasionally find the sex scenes a bit much to get through and have to skim-read the gory stuff.
But Roberts has a support cast guaranteed to complement the two leads and many of them are as familiar and dear to her readers as Eve and Roarke themselves. In fact, in many ways Eve’s sidekick - the delightful smartarse, Peabody - keeps me turning the pages as much as the two mainstays.
One of the things that sets the novels apart from the usual murder / mysteries is the futuristic themes. Technology is more advanced, certainly, and e-cops, computers and virtual reality play a key role in many of the murders. Guns have disappeared after the Urban Wars and (other than in Eve’s world) murders are few and far between.
I find myself intrigued about how Roberts interprets the future. She names her technological advances simply. Watches are ‘wrist units’. Some form of escalators that take travelers significant distances are ‘glides’. Telephones are nicknamed ‘links’ and they, along with mobile phones (‘communicators’) offer vision. Cars (and other forms of transport – which can move vertically) are ‘transpos’. All forms of makeup and beauty products are known as ‘enhancements’. ‘Droids’ are prevalent – though mostly working as maids and doormen. In this world people live well into their 100s and plastic surgery is the norm. And, in Roberts’ vision, we have settled on other planets by the middle of the 21st century.
The futuristic world and its gadgets however, do not distract the readers from the plot itself and I find most of Roberts’ ‘In Death’ series less predictable than most other crime fiction or mystery novels I read. The plots are always robust and the characters strong and multi-dimensional. Roberts has recently released her 30th ‘In Death’ novel but given how prolifically she has been churning them out over recent years, I suspect there will be many more to come. And – for now anyway – that suits me fine.
http://www.jdrobb.com
I am a prolific reader and constantly running out of reading fodder. So nothing excites me more than finding a new author, whose work I find digestible, and who already has a realm of books under their belt. I am as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. No painful searches of the rarely-changing library shelves of my local library; or being driven to fork out hard-earned cash for mediocre books.
I regularly admit to a fairly prosaic taste in literature. Though I find myself balking at some crime fiction (I cannot believe I used to read Patricia Cornwell for example), I don’t mind the likes of PD James, Martha Grimes and Robert B Parker.
So… admissions and self-flagellation completed, a few years ago I borrowed a book by JD Robb. Though (obviously) by no means a literary snob, I might have bypassed the book had I realised it was written by an author better known for romance than murder and mayhem. But realise I did not. I don’t remember what that book actually was, but it was undoubtedly one from somewhere in the middle of the series, given the discovery took place in 2008 and Roberts kicked off her ‘In Death’ novels (as an experiment) in 1995.
I was entranced and literally ploughed through all existing ‘In Death’ novels over subsequent months. I tried to do so in order – given that an underlying story unfolds as a backdrop to the murderous mysteries unraveling front-stage.
I have read them all now (bar a few short stories appearing in other collections). And I have even re-read some. The series has taken its place along with some other staples (TV series’ ‘Buffy’, ‘Pushing Daisies’, ‘Entourage’ and ‘West Wing’; and Robert B Parker’s Spenser or Sunny Randall novels) which I can watch or read again and again and are a source of great comfort.
So, I wonder, what is it about these novels that endear them to me?
Though I am not a Sci Fi or fantasy genre fan, these novels are set in the future, the first kicking off in the late 2050s. In a brave new world following the ‘Urban Wars’ of the 2020s. In this world we meet New York Homicide cop, Lieutenant Eve Dallas. A strong, independent woman, (stereotypically) scarred by childhood trauma. In the first novel, ‘Naked in Death’ Eve crosses paths with the enigmatic (and if that word was coined with a character in mind, it was this one) Roarke, mega-rich and a law unto himself.
Their relationship makes the novels and (in my point of view) sometimes almost breaks them. Roberts just avoids Eve falling into some caricature of a former-victim-now-turned-saviour still tortured by her dysfunctional childhood. As a romantic (at heart) I love Roarke’s devotion to his cop/wife but there is sometimes a fine line between devotion and paternalism; and his compulsion to ‘take care’ of Eve often has me shuddering with discomfort. I mean, what is it with these people (you read about) who ‘forget to eat’ and who work to exhaustion and have to be carried off to bed by concerned loved ones? Finally, although not faint-hearted I do occasionally find the sex scenes a bit much to get through and have to skim-read the gory stuff.
But Roberts has a support cast guaranteed to complement the two leads and many of them are as familiar and dear to her readers as Eve and Roarke themselves. In fact, in many ways Eve’s sidekick - the delightful smartarse, Peabody - keeps me turning the pages as much as the two mainstays.
One of the things that sets the novels apart from the usual murder / mysteries is the futuristic themes. Technology is more advanced, certainly, and e-cops, computers and virtual reality play a key role in many of the murders. Guns have disappeared after the Urban Wars and (other than in Eve’s world) murders are few and far between.
I find myself intrigued about how Roberts interprets the future. She names her technological advances simply. Watches are ‘wrist units’. Some form of escalators that take travelers significant distances are ‘glides’. Telephones are nicknamed ‘links’ and they, along with mobile phones (‘communicators’) offer vision. Cars (and other forms of transport – which can move vertically) are ‘transpos’. All forms of makeup and beauty products are known as ‘enhancements’. ‘Droids’ are prevalent – though mostly working as maids and doormen. In this world people live well into their 100s and plastic surgery is the norm. And, in Roberts’ vision, we have settled on other planets by the middle of the 21st century.
The futuristic world and its gadgets however, do not distract the readers from the plot itself and I find most of Roberts’ ‘In Death’ series less predictable than most other crime fiction or mystery novels I read. The plots are always robust and the characters strong and multi-dimensional. Roberts has recently released her 30th ‘In Death’ novel but given how prolifically she has been churning them out over recent years, I suspect there will be many more to come. And – for now anyway – that suits me fine.
http://www.jdrobb.com
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Counting down
A dozen or so years ago my favourite times of the week were Saturday and Sunday mornings (and not just because they involved not-working). I had stopped partying on Friday / Saturday nights so no longer spent the following morning in a darkened room moaning ‘never again’ and gagging on stomach-settling Stemetil. Instead, up bright and early (well, ish) I would sprawl about on my lounge room floor….leftover reheated Chinese to my right; diet coke to my left; newspapers strewn about in front; and music videos playing on the television.
Though progressing way-too-rapidly through my early 30s at the time, I liked to watch the Top 20, or 10 (or something in between) countdowns. I occasionally heard a song I wanted to hear again, and smugly liked the fact that I was ‘down’ with what the youngsters were listening to. (Of course the fact that I was watching ‘Video Hits’ or [old] ‘Rage’, rather than listening to ‘Triple J’ said something about how un-hip I actually was, but still there I was – ‘gettin jiggy wit it’).
Sadly I find I can no longer partake in this frivolous pastime and not just because I have hard timber floors in my lounge room – making it difficult and uncomfortable to sprawl on my 40+year old bones…. The bigger problem is that it is all-but-impossible to find any music ‘countdowns’ on Australian free-to-air television stations anymore.
I tend to gravitate to ABC’s ‘Rage’ which offers a mish-mash of popular, edgy and retro music, rather than Channel 10’s ‘Video Hits’ which seems to feature (generally non-charting obscure) artists from whatever music festival happens to be on at the time. I know my lack of appreciation for these artists and the myriad of outdoor music festivals says something about my age and taste, but frankly I need more. I mean, how on earth am I supposed to know what songs to like if I can’t find out what everyone else likes?
So, I wonder, why is there no interest in countdowns from free-to-air television stations? Why no new-release video clips, no highlighting of new music? Such shows exist on pay television (Foxtel etc) and even our radio stations still offer regular countdowns and feature new-releases. In fact it seems that The Buggles were wrong in 1979 and ‘video did not kill the radio star’ after all. But instead perhaps the video shows – as I knew them – are dead. Killed by the World Wide Web.
We no longer have to wait on tenterhooks for Molly (Meldrum) to unveil this week’s number one song on ‘Countdown’. We can just log on to the internet and we have the world at our fingertips. YouTube, iTunes and the like. We don’t need to wait for Saturday morning to roll around to see what new songs are being released. A few flicks of the fingers across a keyboard or keypad and we can find almost any video clip we want to watch, buy and download. Just like that.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate technology - downloading something from iTunes sure beats holding the cassette player with in-built microphone in front of the TV screen and telling everyone to shush. But, I still miss the anticipation of the countdown; the inane babble of the VJs imparting often-useless tidbits; and being exposed to songs that I wouldn’t normally listen to but, because they happen to fall between No.8 and No.6, enjoy. But most of all I miss those comforting weekend hours spent sprawled in front of a noisy, flickering box!
Though progressing way-too-rapidly through my early 30s at the time, I liked to watch the Top 20, or 10 (or something in between) countdowns. I occasionally heard a song I wanted to hear again, and smugly liked the fact that I was ‘down’ with what the youngsters were listening to. (Of course the fact that I was watching ‘Video Hits’ or [old] ‘Rage’, rather than listening to ‘Triple J’ said something about how un-hip I actually was, but still there I was – ‘gettin jiggy wit it’).
Sadly I find I can no longer partake in this frivolous pastime and not just because I have hard timber floors in my lounge room – making it difficult and uncomfortable to sprawl on my 40+year old bones…. The bigger problem is that it is all-but-impossible to find any music ‘countdowns’ on Australian free-to-air television stations anymore.
I tend to gravitate to ABC’s ‘Rage’ which offers a mish-mash of popular, edgy and retro music, rather than Channel 10’s ‘Video Hits’ which seems to feature (generally non-charting obscure) artists from whatever music festival happens to be on at the time. I know my lack of appreciation for these artists and the myriad of outdoor music festivals says something about my age and taste, but frankly I need more. I mean, how on earth am I supposed to know what songs to like if I can’t find out what everyone else likes?
So, I wonder, why is there no interest in countdowns from free-to-air television stations? Why no new-release video clips, no highlighting of new music? Such shows exist on pay television (Foxtel etc) and even our radio stations still offer regular countdowns and feature new-releases. In fact it seems that The Buggles were wrong in 1979 and ‘video did not kill the radio star’ after all. But instead perhaps the video shows – as I knew them – are dead. Killed by the World Wide Web.
We no longer have to wait on tenterhooks for Molly (Meldrum) to unveil this week’s number one song on ‘Countdown’. We can just log on to the internet and we have the world at our fingertips. YouTube, iTunes and the like. We don’t need to wait for Saturday morning to roll around to see what new songs are being released. A few flicks of the fingers across a keyboard or keypad and we can find almost any video clip we want to watch, buy and download. Just like that.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate technology - downloading something from iTunes sure beats holding the cassette player with in-built microphone in front of the TV screen and telling everyone to shush. But, I still miss the anticipation of the countdown; the inane babble of the VJs imparting often-useless tidbits; and being exposed to songs that I wouldn’t normally listen to but, because they happen to fall between No.8 and No.6, enjoy. But most of all I miss those comforting weekend hours spent sprawled in front of a noisy, flickering box!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
So you think you wanna dance?
I am no aficionado of dance. By a long stretch. Or by any stretch. I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.
I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets. For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it. I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose. Ballet presented me with the same problem. Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point.
Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me. Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety.
The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch). Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers!
SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties. This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!).
There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do.
In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization. I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing. They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique. I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.
I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance. I was delighted. It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television. And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong).
As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives. Some of the issues we promoted
(family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs. I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster? I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance.
I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets. For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it. I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose. Ballet presented me with the same problem. Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point.
Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me. Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety.
The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch). Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers!
SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties. This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!).
There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do.
In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization. I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing. They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique. I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.
I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance. I was delighted. It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television. And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong).
As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives. Some of the issues we promoted
(family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs. I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster? I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance. 
In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women. And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’. They just wanted to join in.
Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags). I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside. I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action. Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit? Something in between I suspect. But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me. Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.
*Note. The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point. We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!
Friday, January 22, 2010
Coincidentally...
I finally saw the much-lauded Avatar last weekend. I was blown-away by how far technology has come since I suffered through queasiness and blue and red tinted lens’ for Jaws 3D in 1983.
I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully. Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects.
I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.
But this is different. We see our share of remakes. Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind. And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes. But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones?
I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films. I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches. But it appears that all is not as it seems….
My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world. The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom.
I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This. Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action. (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)
I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie. It wasn’t. Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off. Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized - the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997. So, just coincidence apparently. Two separate individuals had the same idea. At around the same time.
Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious. Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy. Sound familiar? If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar. And yet, wait for it... Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie. Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).
Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés.
And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999. Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries. Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?
So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others. Nor are we lazy. But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?
Hopefully not. Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance. Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.
I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like Me to name a few. However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings.
So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.
I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully. Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects.
I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.
But this is different. We see our share of remakes. Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind. And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes. But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones?
I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films. I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches. But it appears that all is not as it seems….
My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world. The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom.
I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This. Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action. (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)
I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie. It wasn’t. Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off. Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized - the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997. So, just coincidence apparently. Two separate individuals had the same idea. At around the same time.
Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious. Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy. Sound familiar? If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar. And yet, wait for it... Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie. Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).
Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés.
And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999. Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries. Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?
So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others. Nor are we lazy. But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?
Hopefully not. Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance. Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.
I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like Me to name a few. However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings.
So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Morning Pages & Basketball Shots
My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know. We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course. While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength. She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au/).
Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path.
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do. In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises. I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit. I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort. However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.
A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages. I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates. I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do. But the Morning Pages I found quite useful. Eventually. That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.
The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning. Long-hand. A brain-dump as such. To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron.
Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me. I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations.
But I soon came to learn the difference. When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop. With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages. Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.
So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall. One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun. I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’. I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child. Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest.
Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager. The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop.
So, the homework exercise should have been easy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me. Or something.
Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework. Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.
But... Perhaps it is not too late. A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20. I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed).
Another few weeks passed. But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court. Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful. I had no ball control. My shooting action felt ugly. But… no one else was around to see. I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free. Free to play.
I have been twice since. My ball control still sucks. I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills. But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.
I hope to continue going. Once or twice a week would be fine. Soon I will feel more confident. I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line. But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do. It will just be about ‘doing’. About ‘being’.
And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again. Work through it. Do what I like. Skip over what I don’t. Who knows what will come next?
Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path.
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do. In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises. I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit. I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort. However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.
A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages. I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates. I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do. But the Morning Pages I found quite useful. Eventually. That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.
The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning. Long-hand. A brain-dump as such. To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron.
Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me. I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations.
But I soon came to learn the difference. When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop. With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages. Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.
So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall. One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun. I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’. I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child. Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest.
Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager. The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop.
So, the homework exercise should have been easy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me. Or something.
Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework. Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.
But... Perhaps it is not too late. A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20. I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed).
Another few weeks passed. But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court. Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful. I had no ball control. My shooting action felt ugly. But… no one else was around to see. I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free. Free to play.
I have been twice since. My ball control still sucks. I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills. But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.
I hope to continue going. Once or twice a week would be fine. Soon I will feel more confident. I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line. But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do. It will just be about ‘doing’. About ‘being’.
And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again. Work through it. Do what I like. Skip over what I don’t. Who knows what will come next?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Borrowed time
Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.
My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.
He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.
So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.
Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.
His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.
Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.
After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.
I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.
We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.
We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.
He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.
Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…
The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.
My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.
He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.
So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.
Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.
His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.
Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.
After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.
I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.
We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.
We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.
He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.
Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…
The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Do-over
I used to think it was very strange that my brother had an uncle younger than himself. Even stranger, the fact that my grandmother had her last child (at 40 years of age), after her eldest child – my mother – gave birth to her first child (at 20 years of age).
Now that I have reached the meteoric heights of my 40s, it seems less strange. Well, not the 20 year gap between my grandmother’s first and last child, or the notion of becoming a grandmother at 40, but having a child at 40 doesn’t seem strange at all.
What IS strange to me, is the concept of people still having kids in their early 20s, which means that by the time they reach my age, they could well be a grandparent. When I see shows like Australian Idol or the like, I am shocked that the performers’ parents look my age. I wonder how someone my age could possibly have almost-grown children when I, myself, am still contemplating (only now) embarking on the parenthood journey.
Today I received the quarterly magazine from the college I lived at while I attended University. Each time I one arrives, I scour the pages, considering the photos of current college residents. Unlike the broader and more diverse University population, they are usually fresh out of school and in their late teens or possibly their early 20s.
I try to remember my own face at 18 years of age and wonder how I compared to the bright-eyed enthusiasm beaming back at me from the Alumni magazine. Putting aside the fact that the college did not print a newsletter when I attended, I cannot reconcile the fact that 24 years have passed since I first entered the musty and unwelcoming corridors of what-was-to-be-my-home for a couple of years.
Even as I typed that line, I thought that surely it must only be 14 years. Surely my subtraction has gone awry somewhere? It means I have to wonder what the hell I have been doing for the past 24 years! It means I look at the current shiny batch of collegians with envy, and – worse still – regret.
Why can’t that be me, I wonder, wishing more than anything that I could live the past 20 years again. Differently.
I want a do-over. I want to hit the “Undo (Typing)” button and be 18 years old with my whole life ahead of me.
I cannot begin to even think of the number of things I would do differently. And that’s sad. There are so few things I would do the same. And that’s even sadder.
I remember my brother surprising us with a visit home from university when I was in my final year of high school and sitting exams. He picked me up from school and though I wasn’t one to stress about exams in those days, I was probably complaining about what was expected of us. I still remember him telling me to make the most of that time. High School. He said that everything gets harder after that. University. Work. Life. He was right.
My niece cringes when I try to offer her ‘life lessons’. Usually about important issues – don’t start shaving your legs unless you really have to; don’t over-pluck your eyebrows; white heels are never a good look etc. But, there are some lessons I wish I had paid more attention to when I was younger.
I recall being at basketball training one day, at a time when I was only 15 or 16 but playing in a senior women’s representative team. A teammate, who seemed old at the time but was possibly only about 30, told me how much she envied me; how much she wished she were me. To her, I had all of this potential and my life ahead of me. To me then, in the throes of a battle with anorexia and life seemingly bleak, she made no sense. And yet, I have remembered the incident. The conversation.
I feel the same when I see a group of young women – fit, healthy and alive. Before life’s pressures start to wear one down. Before bits start to sag. Before exercise becomes a chore to fit into a busy day. Before you suddenly realise you are in your mid 30s and single and wonder where the hell life has gone.
My life is (I hope) far from over. But there are so many things I should have done, that I didn’t. Decisions which should have been different. Rules obeyed and dreams deferred. There is some saying about how you should regret only what you have done. Not what you haven’t. I would like to think I could live by this tenet in future, so that I am not sitting here in another 20+ years, writing of my regret.
So then – if they would listen - I would be saying (to these collegians staring back at me as I turn the magazine’s pages) to make the most of what you have. You only get one chance and life is shorter than you think.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Everything old...
I discovered something about myself this morning…. I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song. Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!). Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but (either-way) it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new.
Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!). Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes. I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.
A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”. And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music. And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.
Everything old is new again, it seems.
Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!). Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes. I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.
A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”. And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music. And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.
Everything old is new again, it seems.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Rules of Patience
I am not a patient person. And, I know there are sometimes when I operate at the other extreme. Irrationally so. I hate that I do everything at break-neck speed, from eating and speaking, to reading and writing. I just find it hard to pace myself. To plod. I occasionally find it very difficult not to finish people’s sentences, or ask if there is any point to their long-winded diatribe, but can generally force myself to demonstrate some restraint, allowing me to function in polite society. I realise too however, that some people are just dawdlers - with no inbuilt concept of time, or so laid back that they don’t worry about it anyway.
That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.
As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.
Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.
I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.
Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.
Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.
Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.
I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.
That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.
As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.
Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.
I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.
Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.
Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.
Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.
I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Grand Gesture
Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn't glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.
I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.
As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.
In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.
In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.
I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.
The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.
Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.
I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?
I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.
As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.
In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.
In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.
I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.
The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.
Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.
I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Playing with the big boys
I realise I usually write about the important stuff: television, movies and dieting, but sadly I find myself compelled to stoop to writing about politics. And this is because I have to admit to being a bit embarrassed. And though I am easily embarrassed, it is usually because of something I have said. Or done. Or worn.
This time it is not even really my fault. I am just tainted by association.
Having all-but-ignored news and current affairs for a few weeks (not sure why other than waning care factor) I have just had my parents visiting and so have been subjected to a barrage of television and radio news.
So this exposure, on top of my weekend newspaper ritual has highlighted a recent theme, which has resulted in my current state of embarrassment. I find myself wondering how on earth 'it' has come to this. And I ask, "When did we suddenly become so uncool?" And by 'we' I mean 'us'. Australia and Australians.
Okay, in all honesty we were probably never really considered (by anyone other than ourselves) to be that cool - having recently been led by Mr Magoo for what-seemed-like a millennium and by a few dodgy characters before that. But, at least we (in true Australian-style) showed a healthy disdain for what others thought of us. In that way we were too cool to be cool. Or something.
So, what has me currently shivering with distaste is how desperate we seem to have become. Like little puppies with tails wagging madly, waiting for someone to pat them; or like 50 year old women dressed like 20 year olds hanging out at a bar. We reek of desperation. To be liked. Or more specifically - we want to be liked by the right people. We wanna hang with the cool kids and play with the big boys. And by we, I mean our media and our politicians. I find myself shocked at how excited 'we' are to be seemingly moving from the kids table and invited to sit with the grown ups.
As I understand it, our Prime Minister (aka Kevvie), through his witty climate change and economic sustainability repartee has seemingly given us something to crow about on the world stage other than some acting A-listers, the occasional sporting hero and our pristine beaches. Well, so says our media. And, even the most avid of Kevvie-haters seem impressed at his recent performances which have catapulted us from southern-hemisphere-obscurity to centre stage.
But, when did we become such 'try-hards'? Such wannabes? As I pour through the weekend papers, I cannot tell if the media is truly excited that our first lady got to lunch with Michelle Obama or if the reports are indeed some tongue-in-cheek reference to our desperation to join the cool kids' table.
Sure I think Barack and Michelle Obama are pretty groovy and I suspect my mouth would drop to the floor at the sight of them, but surely other world leaders who are (on paper anyway) their equivalents should not be quite as awestruck by their presence. Shouldn't they be treating the US President as just another world leader rather than a superstar with whom they clamber to be photographed?
What does it say about us that - as a nation - we are thrilled at reports that Barack Obama seems to like our Kevvie? Assuming that we are now seen by those-that-matter as one of the big boys (when, in fact, we may fade into oblivion as the fickle international political agenda moves on). We are like a desperate singleton at home after a first date, planning the perfect wedding to the guy she has just met! I cringe when I think of how smug some of those gun-toting, homophobic, puritanical (sorry I am generalising) Americans can be, when leaders such as ours, salivate just to be in the same room as theirs.
I don't know if I blame Kevvie. After all, he doesn't seem quite as desperate as Prime Minister Magoo was with his (then) counterpart, and quite frankly Barack Obama is way cooler than President Bush (# 1 or 2) - not to mention, a million times more legitimate. Who can forget that period in Australian politics when George Jnr took Mr Magoo to his private ranch and declared him his deputy sheriff in the Asia/Pacific region? And surely the (then) government's manouvering during that time - including our role in Dubya's "War on Terror" to thwart the Axis of Evil - will remain one of our less stellar achievements.
But, this desperation to be 'accepted' still plays on my mind. "Aren't we better than that?" I ask hopefully. On one hand I feel that Kevvie is doing us proud in his own smug 'I am the smartest kid in school' Mandarin-speaking way; earning brownie points through legitimate intelligence and good policy, rather than brown-nosing and joining ill-advised wars for the hell of it.
On the other hand, Kevvie and our media are coming across as WAY too happy with our G20 performance which is why I actually find myself cringing with shame - not at our efforts to join the big boys; but at our desperation to do so. Aren't we cooler than that. Whatever happened to Aussie ambivalence? To not giving a damn what others thought of us?
Aspirations are fine and a legitimate voice in international politics is worth chasing, but I think we are walking a fine line. Hanging with the cool kids is a worthy goal, but we need to be careful that - as we have done in the past - we don't have to sell our souls to get there. If we do, perhaps we should think about focussing on our own backyard. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with being a big fish in a small pond.
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