Smile!

Can I Just Say....

Yes We Can! Congratulations America!

(Image via barackobama.com)

There is a lot of laughter in this house today; and tears of joy. The champagne will be flowing tonight.

Like, totally random dude... whatever

Ok, they say you should, like, write every day so that your writing doesn't, like, totally suck right? Dude, I sooo ain't been doing that, but hey what's the prob? It's not like my wicked style has gone totally whacked or anything.

Me and the bitchin' Shakespeare bro, like, total rock the hood.

Whatever dude.

Random.

Why, Hello!

So. It's been, how long? Who knows. We're just emerging from six weeks of the flu! And a birthday! And bronchitis! And a little bit of work! And Sinusitis! And, and.... stuff.

And yes, lots of documented happy times of course. Settle in people, let me rifle through some photos. Here are some snapshots from the past 6 or so weeks. Look how happy and well we look! Incredible.

With Spring peeking in over our garden every now and then, we're hoping for a lot more inspiration, better health, and quite a lot of time spent in the sun. And hopefully, of course, a bit more blogging.

...and counting...

James left for Singapore four nights ago for the ISEA2008 conference. He'll be back in five days. He's having a fantastic time, and we're doing pretty well, despite fever, my wakeful little night owls, and the house-binding rainy weather. We miss him, but I'm genuinely excited and happy that he's having such a good time.

Home and Away

James is in Singapore for a week. According to the timestamps on our cameras, we took these two photographs exactly eight seconds apart.

snap

Some photos to get you by.

The Letter

Well, I've finished the short story (1st draft), and as I promised to show it to you, here it is, in its entirety.

Dear M,

I don’t know how to start this letter. The whispers; sombre conspiratorial mouths half hidden behind cupped hands, say you are dying. It can’t be true. You were so full of life - I know, it’s a cliche - that it’s impossible to believe the rumours. They talk of your visits to hospital, but I can’t believe them. M, are they lying? Mistaken? Are they talking of another M? I try to think of you, pinned under waffle blankets on a shifting metal bed; cold, labeled, all fluorescent green. Your faint freckles would stand out in that light, the flush on your cheeks would flare a hot red. But if you are ill, maybe your cheeks are pale, drawn; your eyes dull, your mouth pulling down at the corners with the gravity of your condition.

No! It’s impossible. I can only see you dancing, your face flushed with effort and delight, your eyes and mouth wide open and laughing. Oh, my M. I loved you. That night, all those years ago, I first saw you dancing alone and glowing with cheap ruby wine. In another life I would have thought to myself, “I’m going to marry that girl. Sweep her off her feet and dance her to bed.” It was impossible. That night I could not even speak to you. I was trapped at that stern table, with K and that other couple. Who were they? The Kingstons? The Bartlets? I don’t know. I only saw you. Then you were gone my darling. As you walked out the door, with friends I think, still laughing, it was as though all the colour in the room had wound around you while you danced and when you left, you pulled it all out of the door behind you.

The next day, I asked F about you. He said you were staying up at the convent, which startled me, but no, he said it had been converted into a hotel some years ago. I can't remember how I managed to get up there; what excuse I used. I spent all afternoon in the lobby, drinking coffee after coffee, trying not to look too conspicuous, waiting for a glimpse of you. I thought I saw you a couple of times, but was always caught out by a different face, darker or sharper or more pronounced, and never yours. I finally gave up. It was days before I saw you again. Agonising days. I looked for you in every woman I saw. It was only when the vivid shock of your beauty was fading, and believe me I scrambled to keep you clear in my mind, that I saw you again. I was sitting alone in a tea shop, pretending to focus on my case notes and wishing my English Breakfast was whiskey. You walked past and I jumped half out of my seat. You must have caught the sudden movement out of the corner of your eye, because you turned and looked at me. Right at me. Then you stumbled a little, endearingly, and walked on into the sunshine, your arms and skirt swinging in rhythm. I jumped up, threw too much money on the table and, I’m ashamed to say, followed you. You never knew this, but I stayed behind you all the way up High Street. When you stopped to gaze in a shop window I stopped two shops down and gazed too, at balls of bright fleecy wool, then a confusing array of kitchen gadgets. When you reached the edge of town and kept walking, I had to let you go. Of course, I would find you again. I had to know who you were and what made your dress swing like that. And to do that I would have to get you alone at a small table with nothing but new conversation and a bottle of B’s finest champagne.

It took a week of interrogations, chasing, waiting and lurking in lobbies, but finally I got you. Do you remember? It didn’t happen how I’d planned. You ran into me as I was skulking into the lobby of your hotel for the third time. You let out a little noise and dropped your purse. I was stunned. If I hadn’t gained those few seconds near your ankles, I would have let you by, open mouthed and gawping at the lost opportunity. Instead, I rose with your purse, asked to walk you to town and within two minutes had you blushing and agreeing to dinner that night. It seemed too easy. I raced to the office and rang B’s Hotel. I booked us his best table and, optimistically, a room upstairs. And then the call to K. Another night late at the office, yes, I know, again. Oh, yes a shame. Dreadfully sorry old dear but that’s how it goes. Busy time of year. Don’t wait up. Cheerio. And a dash to G’s to pick up the new suit a day early.

I was at our table twenty minutes before time. As I’d imagined so many times that past fortnight, I looked up as you walked in, perfect, your cheeks flushed from the walk down from your hotel, pink and bright in a way that department store rouge could never fake. I don’t know how I made it to my feet. That buzz from the first drink of the evening had just risen through me and then there you were! Headily, I pulled out a chair for you and blurted out all the right compliments; they must have been, as I saw you blush that little bit more. That thrilled me. And then M, we talked. Do you remember how we talked? There was a moment there darling when I almost forgot all about wanting to slide those pleated straps from your shoulders, almost, and we felt that hot spotlight on us; our little table was the brightest, the concentrated point where we discovered ourselves, formed and moulded that first idea of us.

That conversation swept us up the stairs; it made us innocent. We tripped and laughed and tumbled into the room, and then with a decisive click, the door closed. I expected us to fall on each hungrily, but we just looked at each other, you and I, then you reached out and took my hand. It was a awkward gesture, but warm. That night you rose above me, wreathed in dusty light and told me that I had brought you to life. You felt as though you had wings and your blood coursed through you like it never had before. I had animated you with a reverse Midas touch. It seemed true. Your skin, at first cool and pale as ivory, warmed and softened under my hands. Even your your cries of ecstasy were like a newborn’s; startled and wild.

If we had known how little time we had, we may have clung to each other more feverishly in those first days, but in our desperation we would have missed so much. Instead we explored each other slowly, with a quiet wonder. It was only a matter of weeks before we were torn away from one another, but I know you kept that life we discovered together. And now, an eternity has passed and that life we unfurled is being stolen away. It ebbs from you into the air, soaks into ill-coloured sheets. You’re fighting to keep it. I know you are. You don’t want your life pulled slowly, wretchedly out from under you. There must be many loved ones fussing around you, all wishing there was some way they could help you. They are arranging pillows and flowers, and bringing you hearty soup that you wish you had the strength to eat. They watch you fade; your skin is washing back to a ghostly white, while your blood thins and slows.

They are helpless. They can’t free you, but darling, I can. You said I gave you life, taught you to live it. You loved that new life - you were thrilled and awed by it, but now my M, it must tire you. The pain. The slow relentless fear. If you let me, I can help you. We can have one more night alone, just like the first, and you can fly again. A painless release M, I grew to specialise in them, in all those years since you.

My darling M, say yes. I know you will.

Yours,
E.

Google What?

Guess what people are searching for when they end up here? Erudite, intelligent lady-about-town? Mrs Clever Pants? No.... They're Googling "Naughty Blogger" and end up right here. That's right.

Go on, spank me.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 7 or 8

How many days is it? Something like that. Anyway, I'm finished. Did I do my 500 words a day, or 3500 in total? Nowhere near it. 2376 in fact. What I did do was start two short stories, and develop an idea for a new project.

So. This week, the challenge is to write four publishable articles of 400 words each. I won't be checking in every day (Phew, I hear you say) but rest assured I'll be squirreling away at the keyboard.

Thanks for tuning in! And, do stay tuned for the next installment of the short story. You know I won't leave you hanging.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 6

Did you miss me yesterday? Here are 370 words. More later I hope. God, it's scary putting up a very fresh first draft for all to see.

~~~~~~~

The next day, I asked F about you. He said you were staying up at the convent, which startled me no end, but he was quick to point out that it had been converted into a hotel some years ago. I can't remember how I managed to get up there; what excuse I used. I spent all afternoon in the lobby, drinking coffee after coffee, trying not to look too conspicuous, waiting for a glimpse of you. I thought I saw you a couple of times, but was always caught out by a different face, darker or sharper or more pronounced, and never yours. I finally gave up. It was days before I saw you again. Agonising days. I looked for you in every woman I saw. It was only when the vivid shock of your beauty was fading, and believe me I scrambed to keep you clear in my mind, that I saw you again. I was sitting alone in a tea shop, pretending to write in my note book and wishing my english breakfast was whiskey. You walked past and I jumped half out of my seat. You must have caught the sudden movement out of the corner of your eye, because you turned and looked at me. Right at me. You must have lost sight of where you were going because you stumbled a little, endearingly, and walked on into the sunshine, your arms and skirt swinging in rhythm. I jumped up, threw too much money on the table and, I’m ashamed to say, followed you. You never knew this, but I stayed behind you all the way up High Street. When you stopped to gaze in a shop window I stopped two shops down and gazed too, usually at balls of bright fleecy wool, or a confusing array of kitchen gadgets. When you reached the edge of town and kept walking, I had to let you go. Of course, I would find you again. I had to know who you were and what made your dress swing like that. And to do that I would have to get you alone at a small table with nothing but new conversation and a bottle of B’s finest champagne.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 5

Today? Only 299 words. But that's not bad considering I've been out of the house all day. And it may add up to more by midnight tonight. I'm heading off to bed right now with my notebook and hot water bottle. I feel a bit like I'm cheating by not posting any of this writing, but they are all the draftiest of drafts. There are gaping holes and loud, creaking, faulty sentences. I can't even bring myself to show my own partner or mother.

I'm not that foolhardy. You'll just have to wait.

~~~~~~~
Update: Damn. I had nearly turned off the computer, but I could hear that little voice in my head hissing coward...! Ok, this little bit is the first two paragraphs of a short story I started today. This afternoon. A couple of hours ago. It's rough and it's corny, I know, but I hope it will lead somewhere else.

Copy/Paste/Publish. *cringe*
~~~~~~~

Dear M,

I don’t know how to start this letter. You were so full of life - I know, it’s a cliche - that it’s impossible to believe the rumours. Whispers, sombre conspiratorial mouths half hidden behind cupped hands. They say you are dying. It can’t be true. They talk of your visits to hospital, but I can’t believe them. M, are they lying? Mistaken? Are they talking of another M? I try to think of you, pinned under waffle blankets on a shifting metal bed; cold, labeled, all fluorescent green. Your faint freckles would stand out in that light, the flush on your cheeks would flare a hot red. But if you are ill, maybe your cheeks are pale, drawn; your eyes dull, your mouth pulling down at the corners with the gravity of your condition.

No! It’s impossible. I can only see you dancing, your face flushed with effort and delight, your eyes and mouth wide open and laughing. Oh, my M. I loved you. That night, all those years ago, I first saw you dancing alone and glowing with cheap ruby wine. In another life I would have thought to myself, “I’m going to marry that girl. Sweep her off her feet and dance her to bed.” It was impossible. That night I could not even speak to you. I was trapped at that sombre table, with K and that other couple. Who were they? The Kingstons? The Bartlets? I don’t know. I only saw you. Then you were gone my darling. As you walked out the door, with friends I think, still laughing, it was as though all the colour in the room had wound around you while you danced and when you left, you pulled it all out of the door behind you.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 4

Like a synopsis of what I'd be writing if I was writing out of my own experience this week??

"Mummeeeeeee, mummeeeeee. Watch meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!*SHRIEEEEEEEK* She's chasing meeeeeeee!!! AAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! And then a short, overly poetic, late-night musing on the beauty of bubbles in a champagne glass."

But today, I managed 519 real words, and there's not an exclamation point to be found among them.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 3

What's the currency exchange like nowadays? Is a picture still worth a thousand words?


Really though? 80 words.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 2

Note to self: Don't try and make up the last 200 words by writing a sex scene. It's harder than it looks. And no, I didn't just use that sentence in the story.

545 words.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 1 (result)

Boy, am I glad I made that adjustment to the word count. After typing in an extra page I scribbled in my notebook last night, yesterday's total came up to (drum roll please...) 554 words; the first chapter of a short story (possibly novella). Phew.

Right. Chapter 2. Wish me luck.

How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 1.

I'm going to try and write 1000 words a day (emails don't count) for the next week and will document progress here. I won't promise to show you all those words here (Are you kidding? No way!) but I promise you a word count.

You, dear readers (hi mum!), are holding the firecrackers under my chair. Light them as you will.

~~~

Update: Do you know how long 1000 words is?? Make that 500. Between 500 and 1000.

Essential Reading

101 Best Books

(thanks to the Speakeasy blog)

(bleep)

(I started out with an intention to be a bit more flippant about this, but just couldn't do it. Here it is, written last week and unedited.)

I’ve been feeling more and more edgy about the state of the world lately, and how we as a society aren’t doing enough backpedalling to get us out of this dirty big hole we’re heading towards. I’ve been trying to express this view to a few people lately but all that seems to come out of my mouth is something along the lines of “Oh My God. We’re (bleep)ing (bleep)ed. We’ve (bleep)ed it up (bleep)ing big time and now it’s too (bleep)ing late. (Bleep).”

I realise I probably could have expressed myself a little more succinctly, so I have called in expert help. Please welcome guest Blogger Dr Imina Rainshadow, head of research at the College of Wilde (Conjecture). Over to you Imina.

Thank you Lorena, it’s a pleasure to be here. Well, I have to say, you’re not far off the mark with your somewhat, uh, expressive views. Every generation (usually in their youth) feels that they’re on the brink of World collapse. The first and second World Wars, Vietnam, Nuclear threats, Cold War, the Ozone Layer, all gave cause to a sense of mass panic. The elder generations would look down and nod their heads in sympathy, but knew that the human race would sort itself out in the end. There would be a little blip perhaps, but we’d adapt, as we always do and life would get back to normal. And it has, for the most part. And this is pretty much how I’ve been feeling about our future - we’d get wise about the environment, sort it out, install a water tank, buy a solar powered car and get on with it.

Until recently. This time, I see convergence of events that on their own would be bad, but we’d probably sort them out and go on to cure cancer and populate the Moon. Whatever. But they’re happening together, they’re connected, and they’re going to culminate together.

As an expert at the College of Wilde (Conjecture), here are just a few of my predictions for the future.

There will be food shortages due to lack of water (drought) or an excess of it (damaging floods) depending on where you are. What food is produced will be prohibitively expensive, not only because of falling productivity, but because of rising fuel prices thanks to our overuse and depletion of the old “black gold” and America’s insane propensity for going to war with nations who have it, spending trillions of dollars on these wars and plunging themselves and the rest of the world into recession.

Fuel prices are already skyrocketing and will continue to do so. Once again, travel will become something only the rich can do. The golden age of cheap and easy travel is close to an end and it won’t be long until you won’t even be able to afford the drive to the airport. Due to the rising cost of fuel and subsequently freight, it won’t be viable to fly, or even truck, goods for great distances. I see a return to local, seasonal produce. Something that now is a fashionable lifestyle choice will become a necessity. We’ll see a real return to Village communities. We’ll farm what we can, and eat food that comes from within a close radius. We won’t often venture far afield. Rationing will become a necessity; water, food, fuel, will become more and more scarce.

The disregard we have for our world will catch up with us. Big business will continue to put money over anything else, of course they will, until we stop them. This must happen both from the bottom up, and the top down. Government must act. With recent and current election activity this is looking a little more likely, but we must push them to force real change. Business and industry must not be allowed to simply self regulate. We must make them make a change. This might inconvenience us in the short term (What? No more cheap baby-soft-rainforest-produced toilet paper??) but may just save our baby-soft arses in the end.

The threat now is not of blowing ourselves up with a nuclear explosion but a suddenly decline into famine and world financial depression with the added increase of natural disasters, extreme climate and rising sea levels. And that’s just the beginning.


Uh, thanks Imina. I’m off to pour a big glass of wine from a local winery and pull a carrot out of the ground for dinner. Maybe next week we can look at some options... solar, wind, etc... Imina?...

Excuses!

Dear James,

This is why I didn't vacuum the ceiling today.

I'm now off to deliver this to the Kinder.

Love
Lorena.

PS: I do smell very nicely of lavender though!

Parental Control: A Guide for Children. (Chapter 1.)

Welcome to a new series aimed at children, by guest blogger Uma S. Lavé. Uma is Director of the N.A.P. Institute, and consultant to the current Effective Tantrums study at Princess-Fairy-Land University. This series looks at the all important subject of keeping the balance of power in you child/parent relationship.

Chapter One: Sleep

An exhausted parent is a weak parent; a parent easily broken by demands. There are two simple methods of control through sleep.

The first is the consistent disturbance method, whereupon you wake at the exact same time every night, without fail. It will only take a few weeks to see a dramatic reduction of resilience in your parent. They are guaranteed to begin doubting their own sanity, when they wake to your frantic calls and the clock once again sits at 2:47am. 

The second method is the random disturbance method. Here takes a little more effort on your part, usually requiring more than one wake-up during the night. Your sleep pattern must differ as much as possible from the night before. This will leave your parents confused and disorientated. Here you may “sleep through” for one, sometimes even two nights, but the following night will be a busy one for you, as it requires at least four frenzied wake-ups.

If you feel confident with the two above methods, you may attempt this last ‘icing on the cake’ as it were. It requires at least two siblings: One, the wakeful younger child, and two, the older child who has graduated from night time control to the more sophisticated daytime methods outlined in future chapters.

I must stress that a strict roster is vital for the following method. The younger child will have been using one of the above methods until the parents seem nearly at breaking point. Then one night, he or she will sleep like never before. Twelve straight blissful hours. This particular night, older child, it is your night to shine. You may have slept through every night for months on end, but tonight... Tonight my child you wake. And you scream. And whimper that you need to sleep with mummy. At any attempt to return you to your own bed, or indeed use any form of what parents call ‘reasoning’, you scream. The terror that you’ll wake your younger, usually wakeful, sibling will have your parent stumbling back to their warm bed with you in their arms. Blissful as this may seem, your work is not done. You must kick and thrash out at the first sign of either of them slipping back to sleep. A combination of a well placed jab of the foot, and the fear that the younger sibling will be waking at any time, will make them putty in your little hands by morning.

And here I leave you, my sweet children, until our next chapter.

Goodnight, and good luck!

Uma S. Lavé.

Yes, I'm one of THOSE parents

I know my child is an artistic genius, because even though she can paint Figuratively very well, sometimes she chooses to paint Abstract just because she can.

Inside day

We're having a lazy, cozy, inside day today. We've made, and are icing, gingerbread people. We've set up the easel and made paintings. We've watched a digger excavate the empty block across the road. I've had a nice long phone conversation with a very good friend. The girls have played nicely and wrapped 'birthday' presents for each other. Mari is eating long noodles with a spoon (hilarious). Rosa is have a shower/bath in the middle of the day.

We may wander down and get some fish later. Or we may not. It's that kind of day.

LookyBooky

I love this site LookyBook, where you can look through entire picture books. Like this:

Oh, yes, you again

(I seem to writing a lot of these sorts of posts, but there you go. That's life and all that... I also seem to be taking too much inspiration from Eeyore. Anyway...)

Feel free to fill in the blanks...

ME: Hey, Hi! How are you?
YOU:
ME: We're great! Busy. Kids, Kinder, House, Work, all the usual. You?
YOU:
ME: Yep, getting some work done here too. Doing some freelance writing lately. Trying to find a balance between the photography and writing. Picture and words. Incredibly hard to keep both going at the same time. But plugging away.
YOU:
ME: The kids are great. Beautiful, clever, kind, talented... But you knew that already didn't you?
YOU:
ME: Anyway.
YOU:
ME: Looks like there's some rain on the way...
YOU:
ME: Ok, gotta run. Nearly time for the kindergarten picnic. Love to the Family!
YOU:
ME: Thanks. You look fantastic by the way - love the new haircut! Toodle-oo!
YOU:

Goodness

Mari is at her first day of big kinder. How did that happen??

 

I've got company!

James has a blog too!

I gotta get more cerebral here.

Tilted

One of several pics we did this arvo, with the d200 and old 50mm lens, unattached and held at an angle. Have a look at the Flickr Set here.

Any Internet Volunteers Out There?

I'm writing an article on "Internet Volunteers and the Advancement of Free Knowledge" (working title!). Do you, or does anyone you know, contribute to free (legal!) content distribution, such as Wikipedia, Project Gutenberg, etc? I particularly need some local people to photograph.

Anyone?

Oohhh-kay....

Mari: "Mama, you're heart is pure!" *hug* "I love you."

Either she wants something or she's been snorting disney princess fairy dust while I'm not looking...

While I'm on a Roll...

Feeling very in touch with my inner bloke today. Have been painting the bathroom all day, then settled in for a beer or two. 

Other than that, feeling very embedded in Web 2.0. Yup, all signed up to Facebook, Bloglines, Blogger (hello!), Twitter, flickr, youTube, you name it. Just add a .com to any of those and come join me. Feeling particularly lonely at Twitter. I have one very lovely twittering friend, but only one! Don't you people know it's the "NEXT BIG THING"?

Note to Self :: A Lesson in Parenting

When child is sobbing and throwing stuff around all over the wrong colour t-shirt (or feel free to insert any wacky pre-schooler behavior), instead of standing over her and monotoning blah-blah-rules-blah-blah-don't-be-so-irrational-blah-bloody-blah, try just getting down and pulling her into a hug. She may just bury her face in your shoulder and tell you "my bones are banging on the eardrums in my head." You can then give her a drink of water and peace will be restored.

A Mere Trifle

The copy of Clive James' Cultural Amnesia I ordered for James before Christmas finally arrived at the book shop today. I made a point of getting it all wrapped up and presenting it to him along with a new set of champagne glasses and a bottle of french bubbly. His birthday is three days after Christmas and is usually a bit of a let down for him. So why not extend it a bit? Anyway, I've been flicking through the 800 odd pages, and got my usual urge to get all literary and astound you with witty prose and incisive yet delicate cultural observations. 

Instead I'm going to show you the trifle I made yesterday, and go have a beer. Maybe tomorrow for the wit, yes?

Resolutions

You know how it goes - when you've got time to blog, there's nothing to blog about, then when it's Christmas and there are parties and wine and food and people and laughter and sleepovers and holiday, well, who has the time or energy to blog?! So, it was a lovely christmas and new years. We did all that up in the first sentence there, which was lovely thank you.

So we've started a new year, and the resolutions are still fresh... Art-wise, I'd like to focus more on, well, everything actually. I've been slowly working away on two photo series over a year or so, and I want to get them both up to a point where I can start to exhibit them. The first is a collection of portraits, using multiple, overlaid exposures. The second is a series of abstract studies done by throwing the focus way out and creating form by letting an object cast shadows through the lens elements of the camera.


Work, money style.... It's still a long way before I'll have enough child-free time to start really working - they're not both in school until 2011, and I don't want to use child care. I have nothing against it, but I made the choice to be home with the girls for the first 5 years of their lives and by gads I'm gonna stick with it. So, what time I get now is snatched - five minutes here, and ten there. It's how I use those few minutes that counts now. Time to start laying out the groundwork for a rejuvenated business; rebuild the website, start advertising, and train myself up a bit more for the design side of the business.

And the kids? I need to be more adventurous. Start doing more of the things I imagined I would when I had kids, all the stuff I loved. Build more box castles, get our hands dirty, blow stuff up with bi-carb & vinegar, make books together, go fruit picking, exploring... all the fun stuff. You, know we do all that already, but enjoy it more. Play. Laugh.

And the usual; make house beautiful, eat less cheese, be generally perfect, blah, blah, blah.

What about you? Any resolutions?