Posts (page 2)
Last night, when I was driving home, the sky was that lightest blue that it is during that time of night just before dusk. A plane had left a vapour trail arcing across the horizon.
Instead of being white and smudgy, like it usually is, the sun had set it ablaze.
It reminded me of being in primary school and colouring a sheet of paper with coloured crayons and then painting the sheet with thick black paint and scratching out a picture, so that the colours below showed through like the background was night and the design was fireworks or stars. Being a grown up I don't get much chance to do that kind of thing.
Riss the... looking back on the simpler days.
PS. I also never walk around the office singing "Jem! Truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous. Whoa-oa-oah, Jem! [Cut in: guitars] Neh, neh, neh, ne-ne! We are the Misfits, our songs are better!" No. Never. Not even a bit. Certainly not yesterday.
In 2008, 107 years post-federation, a woman has been appointed as our 2-i-C.
I am so proud to be Australian today, I can hardly tell you. I type this hurriedly in my lunch break with a lump in my throat, pounding the keys in excitement and with hardly a backwards glance at my grammar, structure, punctuation. Today is a very bright day.
The Governor-General is, technically speaking, the Queen's "man" in our land. Until now an exclusively male role, the GG is given the responsibility of signing our legislative bills to make them law and, among other things, has the power to order the dissolution of both Houses of federal Parliament. Yes, the role is seen as symbolic. Yes, it would be an audacious GG to turf the elected government out (even though it has happened!). Yes, some see the position as unnecessary and nothing more than an antiquated nod to our monarchic-in-name-only system of government. However, as someone who loves the law and honours the Constitution, I can have nothing but respect for the position, the power it confers, and the opportunity it affords another human being to make a difference to our magnificent country.
Quentin Bryce is our first lady at the helm. From humble roots in farming Queensland, Ms Bryce was the first female academic to lecture at Uni of Queensland's law faculty. She has served as the federal sex discrimination commission and as Governor of her home State.
In relation to her new appointment, Ms Bryce is recorded as saying that the role is a great honour and responsibility.
I grew up in a little bush town in Queensland of 200 people, and what this day says to Australian women and to Australian girls is that you can do anything, you can be anything," she said. "It makes my heart sing to see women in so many diverse roles across our country in Australia."
It makes my heart sing too and my brain boggle at the possibilities open to me, a modern woman. These are possibilities that my grandmother would not have ever known to contemplate for women.
Riss the... bursting and proud.
PS. As a side comment to the press and Australian politicians: I will thank you to refrain from referring to Ms Bryce's attire and accessories. This is as close to head of state as any Australian will get under our constitution. Show some goddam respect.
Further, Chief Minister of the ACT, calling a woman, or any person for that matter, an "adornment to the office of Governor-General" tends to imply the person is decorative only. This chick may be decorated, but a decoration she ain't. Pull your head in.
PPS. Much of the material for this post, and photo, was obtained from The Sydney Morning Herald online. Story by Mark Davis, Political Correspondent. Photo by Andrew Meares
What was the last great epiphany you had?
Submitted by Ross.
There haven't been any great epiphanies... but there have been lots of very minor, inconsequential ones.
Larissa the... really vox, enough with the oxymorons.
PS. By oxymoron, I clearly meant tautology.
Is there anything more wonderful than meandering, bare footed, through your immaculate home, feeling the carpet underfoot and so freshly vacuumed that you leave footprints for puppies or lovers to follow you down the corridor? Is there nothing more restful than a snooze on the couch with a puppy (fresh and soft from his bath) at your feet, lost in the enormousness of a room you had quite forgotten was so big?
Increasingly, as I grow older, I assert sanctuary in my home. With a cautionary glance at the telephone and an unspoken warning - dare not chime, you - we settle meditatively and heavy into the depths of Sunday. My Sunday. Oh restful day. Oh, how I have missed you. Warmth and sleepiness and laziness overcome us both and all else. Phone calls remain unmade. Tasks undone. Shopping unbought. The sense of urgency evaporates as the sun warms the panes, that connect our safe shelter with reality, and splices across the leather, providing pieces and slivers of glow.
Riss the...not caring, just delighting.
For such a short holiday, the readjustment back into The Real World is taking its toll. For one, I think I may have caught sleeping sickness. For two, why didn't someone tell me how boring work is??? For three... I can't remember what three is. I'm sleepy. Is it time for bed?
So, to break the hum of the drum, I thought I would tell you a London story.
My mother spent a little time in London with my older brothers (this is pre-me) in the year before a move elsewhere, during which my father undertook language training. Two troublesome kids in a twin stroller meant no tube or buses for Mum, so she walked. Everywhere. One of her favourite places to go was St James' park where she could stroll, let the kids run and delight them by feeding the ducks.
Channelling memories to which I was not a party, we set off through the park. We didn't advance that far before a very kindly chap by the name of Sammy the Squirrel stopped for a chat. He had much to say, and held us up for a good length of time. Kind, but not generous, he was most unwilling to share his petit four and eventually sauntered on his way, running across our tippy toes. No doubt he had other engagements to keep and other people to delight.
The park was beautiful and everything I somehow knew it would be. Standing by the ducks, I got misty eyed for a time that I didn't know and brothers whom I miss. Respecting the time difference, I later shared the experience with my wonderful Mum. I may be wrong, but I think I heard some misty eyes down that ever so long phone line too.
Riss the...wistful.
34 hours. 3 of them spent sleeping. 5 of them spent playing Nintendo DS. Countless others spent thinking "how long to go?" 22 of them spent in the air up there. 2 hours of delays spent flying in circles. 3 of them spent driving, in the driving rain --- just for something different.
And we're home.
The trip home was merciful and uneventful. We were very sad to leave, but glad to get home. Immigration took only 2 minutes and ended with a "Thanks Riss. See ya'." So very Australian. There was also a distinct lack of questions about where I was staying, business or pleasure, do I know anyone in the country, etc, etc.
I have never felt anything as wonderful as a 20 minute shower and lying my cramped and aching body onto my bed and feeling my familiar pillows under my head and thinking simply "Oooooooh." before disappearing into the deepest sleep I have had in weeks. Other, of course, than seeing our puppy simple shaking with happiness and his tail virtually invisible for it's triple time wagging on seeing us.
There is still much to post about. So many magical moments unshared yet.
Yesterday, we awoke at 5am. And we were really awake. I got the cleaning bug, so maybe Spring in England has had its effect - must be all those gorgeous daffodils. I bought a new Dyson (extravagant after so much expenditure, but it had to be done) and got out the Mr Muscle.
Today, I'm back at work. My productivity is at an all time low, but I think it can be forgiven. After all, my head is still on the other side of the world.
Riss the... *sigh*.
So. London. It's been interesting. You've shown me stuff, you've worn out my shoes. I've marvelled at you and scrunched up my nose too. You are
fast,
busy,
dirty,
hard,
magic,
historical,
fascinating,
rude,
pushy,
captivating,
unrelenting,
unforgiving,
complicated,
and most of all, a marvel and a mystery.
Will I miss you? Yes.
Will I look backwards with misty eye? Maybe just a little bit, but not much because I feel I hardly know you and there is much more to be shared betwixt us.
Riss the... awestruck, bemused, and feeling just a little smalltown.
PS (and happy Easter to you and all who dwell in you)
Things about London that are universal:
- Pushing
People will always push to advance themselves to the detriment of others. Of course, I mean some people, not all people. Some people will always force themselves into a cramped space even though waiting a mere moment would clear the space. Lifts and tube carriages are particular examples. - Losers, put your collars down
Polo shirts or other collared shirts worn with the collar up at a nightclub or other trendy environment invariably indicates that a dickhead is resident within the shirt in question. This brings me to Fabric. Some fantastic bands caught before the duo we had gone to Fabric Live to see. Ladyhawke really was brilliant, but then her label is Modular (a label that is hitting all the right notes right now [baboom, ching!] Xibit, or however the hell you misspell it, excepted). With vantage point secured for The Presets, we waited. The floor filled to full, and then a little bit more and then more still. At this point, let me make clear that I am OK with a full club. I get that this is London and there are more people than any other city I have spent any considerable time in. About half of the population of my entire country, in fact. I get all that. However. When a fuckwit enters a cramped dance floor and starts jumping around with his elbows out, that is not acceptable. When you move away and he continues to make every effort to elbow you in the ribs, that is not acceptable. When you finally lose it and shove you elbows into his and he turns around with a "WTF?" expression, that is not acceptable. When you move away and he follows you with every intent of making your night a fucking misery, he is an complete and utter wanker. Realising a fight was being sought, we left soon after, having heard 1 track of the band we paid all up about 100 quid to see. What a waste of a night.
To the fuckwit in question, let me say this: You are a loser. I hope you catch leprosy and your pointy elbows fall off. Amen.
Riss the... bruised and battered.
Lovely night last night, lovely neighbours! I have managed to haul my sorry head out of bed and shower but that is as advanced as things have got. It's been a while since I drank so much! I think we may have scared some innocent passengers on the tube, but I'm sure they have seen worse.
The point, however, is how fantastic it was to meet you all! I was thrilled you made the effort to come out on a school night to meet lil ole me and the boy.
Hope you manage to get through your days!
Riss the...oof.
Our itinerary, to the extent you could call it that, suffered due to the storm descending down merry England last week. Rather than drive up north and explore York and Cambridge, we went down to Kent to be a bit closer to the boy's family. This had its own attractions, however, as we got to spend a day in Canterbury and see other southish treats, including Dover.
We popped past the Battle of Britain monument, which is spectacular. We sludged to the edge of the cliff (not a good day for my suede ballet flats) and saw the majestic and famous white cliffs, Folkestone's port and we could just make out a darkish lump on the horizon that just happened to be France. France, people! A whole other country! And it was just over there! Given I live on a vast and largely isolated island, this was a highly novel concept to me. France! Amazing.
We drove down, down down into Dover's port area and then up, up, up to the Castle grounds. While the English Heritage chap was ridiculously smarmy, the Castle itself took my breath away. We stood in, touched and photographed the oldest structure on the grounds, being a Roman lighthouse that was built in 1 AD. It was 2000 years old! 2000 years OLD!!!! Simply staggering.
Inside the Castle, having crossed a genuine drawbridge, we climbed up the Castle's keep and walked across the King's chamber... We walked the same floors that Kings walked! Kings! Kings I have only ever read about! Henry VIII, etc! we tiptoed through Thomas Becket's chapel. Then up, up, up we climbed... up spiral stone stairs that have stood and been scurried up and down for centuries. At the top-most levels of the keep, we marveled at the vast and incredible view. It was cold and the wind whipped my hair across my cheeks, but it was immense, and ancient and despite the fresh and plentiful air, I quite lost my breath. Cross sections revealed solid stone walls metres thick!
There was a lot of the Castle that we did not see, including the tunnels, but yet I was awe struck. This is the stuff of legend, of lore, of fairy tales and childhood picture books, and yet here was I... standing in real time in 2008 marveling at a structure that has been in existence for so long it has become a part of the landscape.
I can excuse English Heritage its smarm... it is doing a bloody good job keeping these magnificent buildings alive so that people like me can stand dumbfounded, with their hands touching softly stone millenia old with a sense of wonder that it can be solid still and imagine standing at the top of the Keep and pre planning and forming strategy for shocking battles to come.
Riss the... amazed
