Sacha Jones's Blog, page 21

These shoes are NOT made for walking

Now I know what you're thinking: that's one helluva good-looking walking shoe.

Wrong.

Well, yes, it is a good-looking shoe, I can't deny that. But no; this here is NOT a shoe made for walking! Get that hair-brained thought out of your shoe-addled heads once and for all, because this here is NOT a walking shoe. Don't even think about it.

N is for NO WALKING.

And should you mention RUNning and this shoe in the same breath I can't imagine I'll be able to speak to you ever again. There's only so much profound shoe confusion I can take.

Naturally when I tried the N-shoe on in the expensive sports' wear shop (Stirling Sports) that I'd finally decided to frequent to get me SOME DECENT WALKING SHOES for the first time in my life, the shop assistant did not ask if I was planning to do any walking in the shoes. She did not say indeed: 'these are not walking shoes, ma'am, these are for swimming'. She did not. Indeed she encouraged me to WALK around the shop and see how good they felt WALKING.

So you can imagine my total surprise and mild chagrin when I discovered that the soles of these shoes, covered in flat rubber pimples that look deceptively like the soles of football boots, encouraging the wild thought that even though you can't walk in them you might be able to play football, are not slip-resistant,  as one would expect of a sporty walking shoe, but in fact are positively slip-inclined, and if you're not careful, will take you for an unexpected, if brief, run.

I was not looking for a running shoe. No.

But never mind, because these shoes are not for walking, swimming or running, as it turns out. What these shoes are in fact specially designed for is "strolling".

I'd forgotten about strolling when I heard it uttered in Stirling Sports this weekend where I went in vain to complain that these walking shoes are no good for walking, I think ever since I parted company with my parasol. But it appears I was wrong to have forgotten there is a special type of non-walking forward movement of the feet for which a pair of expensive 'sports' shoes might be made and used. Indeed I'd been assuming for some time now that walking encompasses strolling AS A TYPE OF WALKING and so shoes that stroll could and should, at least in theory, also be up to walking.

More fool me.

Indeed you know what they say about assumptions..., at least I've got the perfect shoe for the fall.





  

I sit up at night

Moon

The moon is not out
The sky is not clear

A man comes for his son: 'Moyu!'
It's the morning after the school ball.

We call him Josh.

The sun is not up
The trees are not green
The wind is not working
The sea is not waving

Shoes are not wearing
Teeth are not smiling
The moon is not out:
I am not not thinking about Texas.



I sit up at night
Blanket on kneesKnees on kneesLamp light writing
Short, deep
Ideas
Words danceWords play
Words with big ears
And short skirts
Words like childrenOnly more grown up
Words like adulthoodExactly
Winter, wool, fire:I sit up at night writing poetry.

When all else fails: food

So our youngest is in his final year of school and Wednesday night this week we went to the final parent-teacher meetings EVER.

After putting three children through three different levels of school and attending parent-teacher meetings throughout, these final meetings feel like the end of an era.

The meetings delivered the usual predictable news that our child is smart but not applying himself sufficiently in most of his subjects -- nothing new there for our male progeny.

Like much about parenting, these meetings have always seemed like both a frustrating, even tedious, waste of time, and a preciously rare tangible reminder that as a parent you are the privileged guardian of a young person with all the responsibilities and rewards that that most important of roles entails.

Still, for a long time I have felt an increasing nostalgia for the time when the kids were proper young, and now, as of yesterday, I find myself already nostalgic for the time when we were expected to attend parent-teacher meetings, which I never looked forward to. Indeed that is an understatement.

In a couple of weeks, delayed because of her uni exams, we're going to our daughter's 21st birthday party arranged by her, at her flat, because she's the independent one who can't wait to grow up, get a proper job and, yes, I guess (hope), have a family of her own.

Our oldest (23) is currently in Perth, visiting his girlfriend and studiously ignoring my requests for a Skype call, presumably because he's got better things to do.

So: where does all this leave me?

Well, that's what I'm trying to figure out. I've just published what I hope won't be my only book and people are enjoying it, which is the realisation of a lifelong dream and could, if I play my cards right and stop worrying about not having a purpose in life, be the beginning of a very nice and satisfying career as a writer, a career for which an empty nest is surely much more conducive than a full one.

Still, what is the point, I sometimes wonder, in doing anything other than parenting, or teaching and caring for other people's kids if you don't have your own? Indeed I have done a lot of teaching other people's kids, from preschoolers to teenagers, and found this satisfying work (especially the preschoolers), but somehow, it's no longer sufficiently satisfying to devote myself to.

A few years back I ruled out politics and saving the world from itself as my life mission, having tried it for some years and decided, in the end, I didn't have enough hair to tear out -- my hair isn't getting any thicker.

Making money has never been a great motivator for me; I guess I'm lucky it hasn't had to be, at least not for a while now. That said, I would like to see my writing appreciated widely and wouldn't say no to the money that that would bring, as well as the travel it might pay for.

Still, few writers make good money and I am realistic about this reality. Certainly money was not my motivation for turning to creative writing.

So what then?

Grandchildren? Maybe. But at fifty, the anticipation of the grandchildren that may, or may not, come, seems a little too sad and sorry, even for me.

I haven't got any answers today, sorry. No pithy punchline that ties everything up neatly and leaves you, and me, thinking it's all alright really. Indeed I even shed a few tears lapping in the pool earlier today and was glad they melted away into the liquid blue unnoticed. But not so glad I didn't feel the need to come home and write about it. Hmm...

I think I need a meatball.

When all else fails: food. Indeed the cat meowing at my door throughout this post seems to agree, and to suggest that my purpose in life is entirely obvious and what the furry fck am I worried about?

Me-ow.





 

Landed and launched (again)

I'm landed (in NZ)!

I'm launched (again)!

And I'm laughing! (well I'm not entirely laughing, though the idea of being simultaneously launched and landed is a little bit funny -- I get jet lag even flying across the Ditch).

But I am glad to have survived a wild week or two of Australian political campaigning in the run-up to the general election, as well as my Sydney launch, for which there was almost as much build up; and finally the midnight flight home, without meal or movie to distract me from our perilous predicament. I was not born to fly.

But the launch was the highlight, which isn't saying much admittedly, and so herein a few snapshots of the event at Gleebooks Glebe, one of the last bastions of book-shopping bliss. I did present a talk, at least they tell me I did, but there are no photos of that -- tragically. You'll have to take my word for it. Would I lie to you?

The Joneses with publisher Rex Finch (left), and cheeky nephew Wyatt, behind.



Wyatt Lloyd Jones

Bull is the word (letter to SMH)

Dear Editor,
I am writing this morning to express my profound outrage at seeing the Sydney Morning Herald, a paper my parents, then parent, have subscribed to for more than fifty years, sinking to a brazen front-page editorial vote in favour of the so-called 'Liberal'' coalition the day before the general election. 
On your front page you wrote -- and I quote: 
''''We support the election of the Turn bull government'''' Editorial, page 16.'''' emphasis to 'bull' added.
 
Bull is the word.
The media is supposed to be the watchdog for the political process, especially during election campaigning, reporting on and ultimately balancing the natural tendency towards the formation of political power elites, such as the gun lobby in the US. Such as the misnamed ''Liberal'' party in Australia.
Here the Sydney Morning Herald sinks to canvassing on behalf of this elite. The right-wing in this country, who call themselves 'liberal'' but who couldn't be more conservative if they wore matching wigs, are shamelessly undemocratic and cynically 'democratic'' when it suits them.  
They are doing what all right-wing ''liberals'' do all over the world do, they raise flat taxes, like GST and doctors' visits, and cut progressive top-bracket taxes. These progressive taxes that hurt no one, when fairly re-distributed return a small portion of the often ill-gotten gains of the filthy rich to the general populace to increase the education and basic health of the majority of people, teachers included, who are otherwise left out in the cold by a pro-rich elite political party and government. 
In wanting to raise GST the '''Liberal'' right-wing fail the majority of people and voters who are not in that tiny bracket of tax payers who stand to benefit from the tax change that will disadvantage the other 99% of the Australian populace. 
If GST is increased, as the ''Liberals'' want, the cost of building and renovating your house, should you be lucky enough to own one already, will go up exponentially. It happened in NZ, especially in Auckland, where there is a serious housing crisis as regular people and families are being priced out of the housing market, owned, often enough, by off-shore-located investors, not even internationals living in NZ. If Australia follows suit it will put even more pressure on the already overloaded housing market here and mean fewer and fewer Australian residents and regular citizens have access to affordable housing. 
And that is just one negative side-effect of electing a right-wing government. There are many more. Policies and taxes to counter that ''natural'' concentration of wealth in the top minuscule minority of 1% are the main economic reason for having democratic governments in the first place, all else that a government does is social management and development, as well as environmental management. And for social development to work well you need an educated populace, as the first right and privilege. 
You also need not to be sure to reduce the number of triggers for crime, so government-funded anti-racist and anti-sexist policies are justified, as racism and sexism are more often than not present factors in the various crimes committed in Western, if not other, countries. 
You also need a thriving arts sector and well-funded science and innovation research that has nothing directly to do with money-making, though the arts'sector has a great influence on the tourist dollar. You only have to look at The Lord of the Rings.
But the right-wing don't give a rat's ass about discrimination, or art, or research. And so, they will never create a Lord of the Rings, an almost ready-made local film and TV industry. That came out of a well-funded, left-wing arts sector and an individual determined to produce his art in New Zealand, an individual with principles, in short, at least to begin with. 
The right-wing have very little knowledge and so very little cred in the creative sector because about all they are up to is cutting funding to the sector, while funding big, already money-making ventures, as Lord of the Rings became. But the left-wing got it started, there's a big difference in those roles played by the political right and left.
The left-wing chiefly increase arts and research funding, and the right-wing decrease it. 
Similarly, the right-wing rarely initiate or formulate anti-discrimination legislation, including the right to same-sex marriage. The right-wing can pass anti-discrimination legislation and take credit for it, once they can see the mood of the public has turned in favour of this reform. But they never initiate or substantially bring about anti-discrimination reform on the principle of the thing. 
The right-wing doesn't have principles. Self-reliance, which is a shallow, second-tier principle, is their only ''principle'' and that is invariably based on bogus assumptions about position, privilege and opportunity, namely the assumption that you make your own luck (position, privilege and opportunity), when in truth, society makes most of our ''luck'', or at least influences it strongly.
If you went to a good school and are successful, then you have that school to thank in some part, as all good parents know. And this is a gratitude that the majority of Australians don't currently have the privilege of feeling, for the right-wing continue to cut funding to public schools and exacerbate the inequality between the already school-advantaged and those struggling to get a toe in the door of even basic privileges, like to a quality primary and high school education, and the privilege to afford to take your child to the doctor when he or she is really sick. 
Richer rich people, what the right-wing, so called ''Liberals'', want, cannot possibly justify making even basic healthcare less available to the upper and lower middle-income and the poor people; indeed everyone other than the extremely rich.
NZ PM John Key, himself a member of this top 1% elite, has credit-claimed for same-sex marriage legislation in NZ. But it was far from his idea. That credit goes to a female Labour MP, Louisa Wall , who wrote and introduced the legislation into parliament. 
In fact, a conservative male MP had tried earlier to reformulate the Marriage Act to specifically spell out that marriage must be between ''one man and one woman,'' the man always listed first, naturally. Labour MPs, apart from one (so 49 in total), voted against that reform proposal (2008) and it did not succeed. The conservatives right-wing MPs were less united in their opposition.
I could go on.
Instead, i will say simply that your endorsement here of the conservative, anti-equality, anti-education, pro-discrimination party on your front page, the day before the election, is tantamount to putting your hands up and saying: I am no longer a serious newspaper and news outlet. I am a tabloid -- at best. 
This is not journalism; this is a disgrace to the inherently honourable profession of journalism. I am going to recommend to my mother that she discontinue her subscription after fifty-five years.-- 

A shit (Brit) sandwich

You've got to hand it to the Aussies, they know how to deliver a pithy punch.

In the Sydney Morning Herald this morning,  Nick Miller, the paper's European correspondent in London, described the situation in Britain post the decision to leave the EU as ''a shit sandwich''.

While this might not exactly represent the ideal of impartial reportage, there's no mistaking the meaning. No sugar-coating the shit, which I appreciate, as there's nothing worse than shit dressed up as sugar. Just as savoury food with sugar added makes for a shit sandwich, too. Here I'm thinking particularly of peanut butter.  

That said, it's hard to know how to eat a pure shit sandwich. And with some people centrally involved in the democratic process these days, you find yourself wishing there was a little bit of sugar added to their salt, preferably in the fashion of that fatal last after-dinner mint that tipped the scales and sorted the sugar shit quandary decisively.  

But short of a fatal sweet mint disguised as a feisty fish, the answer to the shit Brit sandwich situation is far from obvious. Miller concludes with "Hooray for democracy'', which is not altogether helpful. I think even fish would rather live (and die) in a democracy than, say, in North Korea, where there's no mercy for fish at all -- or so I hear.

Of course, this shit is not funny. Indeed the main reason I decided against a career in politics is that's it's all about as funny as fish, even less so if you consider fish like Nemo, not to mention Dory -- the funniest fish in the sea.

Perhaps the trouble with politics is we tend, time and time again, to go in for fish like this big-mouthed, sharp-toothed brute, over well-meaning, if a tad forgetful and flibbertigibbet fish like Nemo and Dory.

I'm probably making too much of fish.

But things are certainly simpler in the sea, even if that is where we send most of our actual shit -- to get back to our original subject.

Now that I've solved the problems of the world, I think it's time for lunch: fish and shits, anyone?

Blowing it

So here I am in the land Down Under that raised me up -- or at least tried to -- and it would seem I might have already blown it...

It's possible, I can't quite remember (trying to forget), that when being interviewed about my book for the local rag last Friday by a man who ended up confessing he was of a certain religious persuasion, I told him, prior to this confession, about my first piece of life-writing that was titled ''My first job'', a piece not about any regular kind of employment, though there were certain aspects to the ''job'' that were reminiscent of a number of employment situations -- namely, the positions of the man and woman involved.

I think now, with the benefit of sweet hindsight, that I did mention this ''job'' and his confession was an attempt at saving me from such situations in the future. Never mind that we were supposed to be discussing my childhood dance memoir and not the sexual proclivities of Jesus Christ.

Meanwhile, the Australian election is imminent. Indeed we're in the last week of campaigning, which means the media is saturated with people blowing and sucking it up left and right -- as well as "pulling ahead'', as one headline had it this morning -- so that my timing could be just right. If my interview is published this week and includes mention of my first "job'', nobody is likely to bat an eye of disapproval. Phew.

On the other hand, with election day scheduled for Saturday, the day before the Sydney launch of my dance memoir, it could be more a case of nobody even opening an eye to read about some old ex-pat has-been dancer who can't stop talking about her first windy job.

It's hard to say which way the wind will blow. Either way, I'm not holding my breath. It's not an effective strategy for helping things go the way you want; I learnt that the hard way.

The waves are always browner, too

The surprisingly named Wave Rock (Perth)So tomorrow I'm heading back to Australia, that land where not only is the grass usually, if not always, browner, but now it would appear so are the waves. So much for my surfing plans.

Just when you thought you'd seen everything, Australia, the land of wonderful wrongness (see previous 'wonderfully wrong' post for the origins of the term https://onewomanswo.blogspot.co.nz/20...) delivers up this rock that must surely have been a wave in a previous life.

Who knew a wave could be turned into a rock as if zapped by the White Witch's stoning wand? I didn't, for one, at least not until now (thank you, Google).

Clearly I don't know everything there is to know about this wonderfully wrong country, which is a worry, as it's not only the country I was born and raised in, but the setting for my first (and wishfully planned third) book. It's also where I'm heading forthwith to be interviewed by the local media about said book.

Never mind; I'm sure the Australians will be wonderfully understanding about my ignorance of their (our) wonderfully wrong country, I just have to remember to emphasise the wonderful over the wrong. How hard can it be?

Don't answer that.



   

Tall sperm

Twenty-three years ago today I gave birth to our first child.

Two years before that my husband and I had been told by the country's top fertility expert that we would never conceive a child naturally. A sperm donor was recommended.
According to this week's cover article in the NZ Listener from which this cartoon is taken, Danish sperm is the most sought after and exported sperm globally.

Why? Well, a good part of the explanation it seems is that the Danes are a tall lot. Indeed in Denmark where they make Danes they don't allow sperm donors who are less than a certain height, a height my husband does not reach.

But I, and as it turns out the majority of the single professional women in their thirties who now come looking for sperm donors in New Zealand (a country that doesn't impose a height minimum for sperm donors), are not so interested in tall sperm, nor sperm from donors with the other characteristics of the classic 'alpha' male -- extroversion, confidence, good looks, financial success, etc.

What they want first and foremost is kindness, integrity and reliability, the sort of qualities they have found much more difficult to come by in the dating marketplace.

And so it was with me. When told I'd never conceive a child naturally -- or at all -- with my husband, the kindest of the kind, the 'tallest' of the short, I did not think oh well, now I can get me some tall sperm.

I thought I had already found me the perfect sperm donor and the tall, good-looking alpha-type bloke delivering the earth-shattering news to us in a cool, confident manner, must be wrong and went in search of an alternative explanation and 'cure' for our apparent infertility, and found one.

And so our three, not so tall, children were conceived naturally.

Now I'm not saying there's not some very nice and reliable tall sperm out there, and vice versa for short sperm, just that an emphasis on height in choosing a mating partner and having a height minimum for your country's sperm bank donors is a potential recipe for tall but shallow off-spring.

Obama is tall, but he's not your classic alpha male. If you want an example of tall shallow sperm, you only have to look to Trump and just about every Republican presidential candidate before him.

Enough said.

So a tall and towering happy birthday to our not so tall firstborn, Conor James, a semi-finalist in New Zealand's Brainiest kid -- a fairly tall feat.







 



   

Strong woman