Shakespeare Nerd Moment

Twelfth Night in a single frame thanks to Dwellephant.

And I will also take this opportunity to say that 'twelfth' may be the word in the English language that I consistently find the hardest to spell.  Or at least that I find I am the least certain about.  (Did I just end a sentence with a preposition?  Argh... cursed grammatical doubt brought on by spelling doubt).

The Friend I Will Miss

The intellectual snob in me curses Richard Curtis for using that most apt poem 'Funeral Blues' in Four Weddings and a Funeral, introducing Auden's words to a generation of snot-nosed literature dodgers whose only experience of 'bewdiful words' prior to the film came from Hallmark cards and folk art.

On the other hand, had I not watched that movie repeatedly in my own snot-nosed, literature-dodging teens (my juvenile self thoroughly appreciating the first few minutes dialogue containing only 'fuck' and it's derivatives), I may never have come across it.  For even with my EXTENSIVE English Lit education (cough* easy marks *splutter), I never came across it elsewhere... not even in the Seven Centuries of Verse that was required reading for English 101.  Nor have I ever come across a better way to describe the experience of a mourner.

So hot on the heels of the death of Daniel came the passing of my friend Nicky on the 23rd of December last year.  At her funeral I learnt that her battle with cancer had been going on for nine and a half years... which equated to a quarter of her life.  That is too much for one little body to hack... and she was exhausted and had only optimism fumes left to run on.  It is not that she had given up: it's that she was as aware as anybody who knew her story that every day left in her life was going to be a fight.  The last time I saw her she was weakened but exuberant, rattling the front door impatiently as she waited for me to make the trek from the living room to let her in for tea and turkish delight.  Her speech was not entirely back to normal from her previous drastic treatments for tumours in her brain, but her personality was all there in all it's affection, excitement and warmth.

Her very good man said that by the time she lost the fight, the overwhelming feeling was relief, but the world has lost a very lovely, funny, sweet, kind, quirky lady and I'm glad I could call her my friend. 

New Years Revolutions

I'm not a big one for New Year's resolutions generally.  That is to say I am not a fan of 'resolutions' made specifically based on the idea of a new year bringing a clean slate:  'resolutions' I make daily, if not more often... though they are rarely memorable and even less commonly followed through.

That said, it's the 4th of January now (so barely qualifies as NEW YEAR) and I have had a week or so of home time to think about things to be done, so let me present a list for your amusement/perusal.

1) Finish writing the post I've started about Judy Blume's 'It's Not the End of the World'.  I read the book in one sitting on the 8th of November, 2010 and started writing about it a couple of weeks later... and then stopped.  My memory is dimming, but my resolve is somewhat strong.  Somewhat.

2) Write generally more often... both here and in other places.  It makes me happy and it should therefore be something I do almost as regularly as washing my hair (I was going to say brushing my teeth, but that would be twice a day and that would cease to make me happy).

3) Have a baby.  Shouldn't be too hard given my head start.  Go on, kick away in support, little tummy friend.

4) Go to the Dentist and get my tooth filled.  I admit, I was wrong to think that a clearly broken tooth that didn't initially hurt was not a dental issue, but I have learnt my lesson (thanks to almost daily toothaches for a fortnight) and been punished enough by an almost universal Christmas/New Years break that has left me hanging for the 10th of January when my Dentist returns to work.  Sigh.

5) Materialist Australia... everything.  More effort, more marketing, more learning, more enjoyment... more success.

Hoping to see more of you here in the tweens.

First Death of a Peer

I suppose I should be glad to have made it to 32 without having lost a significant friend or acquaintance of my own age, but instead I am bewildered by my despair at the news of the death of my friend Daniel Barnacoat on Sunday night.  I must assume that the depth of my sadness can be partially attributed to pregnancy hormones, but this man... or boy as I knew him better... has left indelible ink on the pages of my personal history and as such I feel a tremendous feeling of loss, not the least because he was a kid with so much talent and potential when we knew each other well.  I feel somewhat fraudulent to be grieving so deeply, but Daniel and I have seemed forever on paths determined to cross, even when our worlds and ambitions seemed to deviate, and I feel so sad that they will never again meet at the self serve check-out of Marrickville Metro Woollies.

Daniel was the most exceptional kid at our primary school - the apple of every girl's eye.  He was the smartest, the sportiest, the most artistic, the best looking... the nicest kid Chatswood Primary had to offer in the late 80s without rival.  I must admit my bias in this respect, for he was my long term crush throughout primary school...  but I am compelled to acknowledge (somewhat proudly) that my feelings were not altogether unrequited (which was the last time that would be true for about 15 years).  In year 6, Daniel and I were doubles partners in handball... but we all knew what that meant (wink wink, nudge nudge).   In fact, I had cause at some stage in 1990 to confront him when he had been sharing his handball prowess with another (ironically the girl who was to inform me of his death some 20 years later), and rather than reject me for my jealousy and irrationality, he fell back into line and we unofficially attended the Year 6 Dance together (I seem to have a vague recollection of taking him behind the hall to insist that he invite me as his 'partner', putting an end to the unspoken nature of our relationship once and for all).  For me, and I think for everybody else in our year, Daniel was a standout.

At high school, we went our separate ways until debating, or prefect functions or something equally upstanding and nerdy brought us back together.  I remember Daniel telling me of his mother's delight that I was back in his life because he was 'off the rails', having been recently demoted from his position as prefect at NS Boys High for his alleged use of recreational drugs (surely not!).  By 'back in his life', I mean long angsty teenage phone calls the likes of which I have not been remotely tempted to repeat since those days, but I guess Mrs Barnacoat worried that Daniel had 'fallen in with a bad crowd' and I perhaps therefore might be a 'good influence' on him.  Have I missed any parenting cliches?

After that, it was mostly chance that brought our paths back together.  We attempted to rekindle during our uni days, but discovered that our friendship was better historically than it was practically and we lost touch again (in the way that the post-email/mobile generation could never understand).  In our mid-twenties, we ran into each other one day on the North Shore while he was wearing tight leather pants and he referred vaguely (almost defensively) to a motorbike by way of explanation.  I left the encounter with two thoughts: firstly, 'oooh, my first boyfriend looks like Orlando Bloom', and secondly, 'how far away from an alleged motorbike can a man in leather pants be during mardi gras without being gay?'. I think I also left with his business card... but I can't remember ever doing anything about it.

Earlier this year, I saw Daniel again.  By now, Facebook had revolutionised 'historical friendships' so we were back in touch and had a vague idea of how life was going for each other, yet what followed was an awkward, stilted conversation.  I reflected at the time on the questionable nature of Facebook friendships, recording or certifying 'friendships' that apparently in person you cannot fulfill ... until I ran into Daniel again in August.  He seemed genuinely happy, and genuinely happy to see me (as I was him) and came rushing over to say how embarrassed he had been the last time we'd seen each other because he had been 'incredibly stoned' and unable to rub two words together.  I told him about my morose reflections at the time that Facebook  created virtual friendships between people who apparently had no business being bonded and I remember him smiling at me and saying 'nah... we've got history'.  In other words, we are friends for life, no matter which way our worlds take us.  I came home and told my fella all about Daniel Barnacoat, the exceptional human and wunderkind of my youth, and I enjoyed Daniel's Facebook movements from that day with more vigour and renewed justification.

Daniel was killed on Sunday night when he was hit by a car on McEvoy Street in Alexandria and came off his no longer 'alleged' motorbike into the path of a car coming in the opposite direction.  It was a hit and run and I understand from the news reports that he died before the ambulance got there.  He was living around the corner from me with his girlfriend and working as a tattoo artist - he told me in August that he had worked briefly for one of the bikie gangs but that he quit because it was 'just Southern Cross tattoos' and hearts with 'Mum' written across them.  I thought that was both intriguing and hilarious.

Now, Daniel's Facebook page is a memorial to him.  A compelling and miserable page that I find myself returning to over and over to see the photos and videos his 'practical' friends are posting on his wall, as well as the messages from the people who knew him.  I have not written anything. 

He is a very special part of my history and I will remember him forever, and as I wrote in a card to his family this morning, if my future kid can have just a little bit of Daniel in him or her, I will be a very lucky lady.

RIP Daniel Barnacoat... my old and true friend.

One Sentence Story

 Remember a while ago I told you about talking to a 'writer' (a realio trulio 'paid cash money to write' writer) that told me writing was a muscle that needed to be exercised?  This rings in my ears a little bit lately as I find myself caught between occupations, waiting for the enterprise to grow legs while protesting loudly to anyone who'll listen that 'I do not work in TV anymore'... not to mention the six month deadline growing in my abdomen.  Of course, just because conditions are right doesn't mean inspiration is complicit, but I just 'stumbled upon' a short term remedy in the form of www.onesentence.org/.  A collection of one sentence stories - 'telling the most interesting or poignant story possible in the fewest number of words'. 

This is me extending an invitation to myself and to you to participate - I intend to open a new word document right this minute, choose Calibri, size 12 and write a nice big heading 'One Sentence Stories'.  Perhaps if the results are anything to write (far from) home about, I will share some with you.

File Under 'For Safe Keeping'

Regular reader(s) would perhaps expect a post like this to show up on my OTHER blog 'We Like Things', but somehow this one feels a little more rambly and 'hey, look at this'.  So... hey, look at this! 

Some guy called Florian Pulcher has designed these rugs called Land Carpet that are inspired by aerial shots of rural countryside in four different styles - Europe, USA, Netherlands and Africa.  Aside from the fact that I like the idea, I like how the 'styles' are so general, except for Netherlands... those poor little anal souls with limited land and even less gradient.  I've always loved aerial photos, particularly after seeing an outdoor exhibition under the Eiffel Tower in about 2002 (oh yes... I have travelled internationally, don't you know), and I'd love to see a carpet inspired by the Texas landscape and it's centre pivot irrigation.

One would have to have a pretty special house to accommodate a rug as modern as this, and you'd pretty much be signing up to a life of Schleich-related presents, but I think this is the first time I have ever liked a rug that cannot be loosely classified as 'Persian', so that was worth a bit of a ramble.

In other news, I made the Pelmeni using chicken thigh mince at your suggestion and it all worked out okay.  Interestingly, while there was no sign of turkey mince anywhere, the 'chicken' shop did sell turkey legs and wings... but the rest of the bird was notably absent.  And the dumplings were stodgy and just what I felt like, but I won't need to make them again for a while.

One Track Mind

I'm embarking on this post with no intention or plan, but... the horror... July 27 was my last post?  And it's October?  Practically mid-October?  Practically my primary reader's 30th birthday?  Say it ain't so!

The truth, dear reader(s), is that it is VERY hard to write at all when every single thought in your head is inappropriate to share with an anonymous and unrestricted readership.  I am not under any misconception that this humble blog receives more attention than it does, but while the welcome mat is out, one must keep one's house tidy and ready for guests... with all the fluff and body hair discretely under rug swept.

Putting that aside (in an expression that makes it sound easier than it is), when I last was on US soil, I visited a friend in Seattle and he took me to a funny little place over the road from Pike Place Markets that served Russian dumplings with vinegar and sour cream with a big bowl of borscht.  I remember at the time not being particularly 'whelmed' by these things, but in the way that I suspect only a pregnant woman can, I am fixated with them right now and will not be cured until I've made them, eaten them and been similarly underwhelmed.  To that ends, I have been sent a recipe for 'Pelmeni' by that friend, but I need your help to de-American for me: the ingredient list calls for '1lb of turkey (you need to get 15% fat turkey because lean 7% is too dry; ground chicken is overly dry too'.  Aside from being a CRAP load of fowl... what is this in Australia?  Do I buy chicken thighs and mince them myself?  Or some sort of turkey limb?  This fat percentage thing is a little too obscure for me... and given that the only other ingredients in the filling are one brown onion and some water, I suspect it is important to try and get it right. 

On another note, does fresh pineapple sting the crap out of your mouth?