Gillian Polack's Blog, page 140
November 11, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-12T13:09:00
I am listmanic today. Also lazy.
I didn't get my words written over the weekend, although I got all the books read. I only have one book to read today, for I have run out of Aurealis books.
The largest element of completed work is that I've caught up on the new literature in the area I'm writing about and am thinking through implications. I don't think my basic argument is going to change, but I'm going to have to go through my article and adjust some of the terminology (I was sloppy!) and give a bit of intellectual context to some of the thoughts and entirely fix the formatting (for Word changed the template on me, without warning, last time round). I was expecting more drastic changes, so I want to sit and think for a bit and make sure I'm not missing the forest for the trees. This is why I didn't write yesterday and why I won't be writing this particular item until later today - better it be in a day later than be stupid.
Right now I'm putting off work for a few minutes by arguing with Robert H on Twitter (we're bickering about Hari Seldon) and by agreeing with Sean-who-blogs and Claire C about what we ought to be doing about child abuse. All I'm putting off is the final of the conference paper for the week after next. I've done it and just have to go through it one more time, fix the changes on the computer and print it out.
I didn't get my words written over the weekend, although I got all the books read. I only have one book to read today, for I have run out of Aurealis books.
The largest element of completed work is that I've caught up on the new literature in the area I'm writing about and am thinking through implications. I don't think my basic argument is going to change, but I'm going to have to go through my article and adjust some of the terminology (I was sloppy!) and give a bit of intellectual context to some of the thoughts and entirely fix the formatting (for Word changed the template on me, without warning, last time round). I was expecting more drastic changes, so I want to sit and think for a bit and make sure I'm not missing the forest for the trees. This is why I didn't write yesterday and why I won't be writing this particular item until later today - better it be in a day later than be stupid.
Right now I'm putting off work for a few minutes by arguing with Robert H on Twitter (we're bickering about Hari Seldon) and by agreeing with Sean-who-blogs and Claire C about what we ought to be doing about child abuse. All I'm putting off is the final of the conference paper for the week after next. I've done it and just have to go through it one more time, fix the changes on the computer and print it out.
11 November
Normally on Remembrance Day I tangle myself thinking about all the different happenings on 11 November. I blame Ned Kelly for this. Or the Great Schism.
Anyhow, today I found myself thinking about my Uncle Max.
We know some stuff for certain about his last days and some stuff less for certain. We know that he was the pilot of a Lancaster (RAAF pilot in an RAF plane) and that the plane was shot down over France near the end of the war. A local showed me the field the plane was shot down in. It's possible that most of the crew survived the crash and that Uncle Max helped three of them get away. The family tells this tale and the locals told me this tale and only five graves are in the small cemetery. The same local who showed me the graves said that the graves themselves are from after the war and that the village was very proud to upkeep them. I felt a bit odd, seeing that one Australian Jewish grave in a Christian graveyard, but he's been well looked-after by the church people and they were delighted to find a family member who spoke French and could tell them about his background.
He was originally buried with the other blokes from the plane. It is apparently quite likely they were tortured by the Gestapo before they were jumbled into a single grave. the person to ask, of course, is the one still-living crew member, who lives in Canada, but none of us have ever had the courage to write to him. Every year I think about it and every year I think that it's too hard.
When the bodies were disinterred for proper burial, Uncle Max's watch (and maybe some other effects - the watch was how they identified his body, so it's the bit I'm certain about) was sent to his parents.
Some of his possessions are with the Jewish Museum in Melbourne, now. When the curator put together the little cabinet displaying all we have (his hat, his photo, a few trinkets) I was asked if the museum could use my pictures of his grave and of the field where the plane was shot down. If you visit the museum and see that little display, please be nice about my photographs - they were taken for my grandmother, who had never seen where her little brother was buried and I was more concerned about clarity than picturesqueness. If found it all very difficult, being the first family member that anyone could actually speak to (since other family who had visited had no French) and I was asked to see the mayor and was unaccountably shy. I was travelling with friends, which really helped, but it didn't help quite enough to give me courage to knock on the mayor's door.
Mum has some stories about her youngest uncle, who was (due to the vagaries of families) about the same age as my father. I suspect he was a bit of a larrikin. He was very handsome and charming and I suspect would have got into a great deal of trouble if the war hadn't claimed him. If he had lived just a few weeks longer, he would probably be alive today, since most of his older siblings lived until significant ages. Next year would, I suspect, be his ninetieth birthday.
It was Uncle Sol, his older brother, who was on the Kokoda Track, but that's another story.
My minute of silence today is for all kinds of people who have died in war, but especially for my Uncle Max. I keep thinking how very young he was and how very confident he looks in his official photo, with his rather dashing moustache. I wish I could have known him.
Anyhow, today I found myself thinking about my Uncle Max.
We know some stuff for certain about his last days and some stuff less for certain. We know that he was the pilot of a Lancaster (RAAF pilot in an RAF plane) and that the plane was shot down over France near the end of the war. A local showed me the field the plane was shot down in. It's possible that most of the crew survived the crash and that Uncle Max helped three of them get away. The family tells this tale and the locals told me this tale and only five graves are in the small cemetery. The same local who showed me the graves said that the graves themselves are from after the war and that the village was very proud to upkeep them. I felt a bit odd, seeing that one Australian Jewish grave in a Christian graveyard, but he's been well looked-after by the church people and they were delighted to find a family member who spoke French and could tell them about his background.
He was originally buried with the other blokes from the plane. It is apparently quite likely they were tortured by the Gestapo before they were jumbled into a single grave. the person to ask, of course, is the one still-living crew member, who lives in Canada, but none of us have ever had the courage to write to him. Every year I think about it and every year I think that it's too hard.
When the bodies were disinterred for proper burial, Uncle Max's watch (and maybe some other effects - the watch was how they identified his body, so it's the bit I'm certain about) was sent to his parents.
Some of his possessions are with the Jewish Museum in Melbourne, now. When the curator put together the little cabinet displaying all we have (his hat, his photo, a few trinkets) I was asked if the museum could use my pictures of his grave and of the field where the plane was shot down. If you visit the museum and see that little display, please be nice about my photographs - they were taken for my grandmother, who had never seen where her little brother was buried and I was more concerned about clarity than picturesqueness. If found it all very difficult, being the first family member that anyone could actually speak to (since other family who had visited had no French) and I was asked to see the mayor and was unaccountably shy. I was travelling with friends, which really helped, but it didn't help quite enough to give me courage to knock on the mayor's door.
Mum has some stories about her youngest uncle, who was (due to the vagaries of families) about the same age as my father. I suspect he was a bit of a larrikin. He was very handsome and charming and I suspect would have got into a great deal of trouble if the war hadn't claimed him. If he had lived just a few weeks longer, he would probably be alive today, since most of his older siblings lived until significant ages. Next year would, I suspect, be his ninetieth birthday.
It was Uncle Sol, his older brother, who was on the Kokoda Track, but that's another story.
My minute of silence today is for all kinds of people who have died in war, but especially for my Uncle Max. I keep thinking how very young he was and how very confident he looks in his official photo, with his rather dashing moustache. I wish I could have known him.
November 10, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-11T13:23:00
Last night was more full of story than sleep. I gave up on my day's reading, a half book short, at 1 am. Four hours later, the story began. I don't know all the parts of the story and since my current reading is all about how the way we frame our narrative creates particular histories, I don't want to fill in the gaps. I want to tell it the way I experienced it, three quarters asleep. Except I can't. In novels, characters get all kinds of information while so very far away from the world they're listening to, but me, I can't. It's probably a personal fault. I have good hearing, though, and so everything happened at least 50 metres away. I have bad directional sense, so I couldn't tell if it happened near the block that caught fire the other day. For the sake of story, I'm going to assume it did. Also because we have such a very middle-class block of flats (rent is a minimum of $350 a week - one needs income) that it's less likely that more than one group of people would not observe public courtesy at once. And this is what historians do, explain from evidence and build up a story that way. I'd meant to tell this as a fiction writer would: drawing together half-heard snippets so that the reader is forced to create a picture in their mind. Obviously I'm an historian today.
Just before 5.30 I heard two men arguing. My dreaming self decided it was Hungarian. One was rather more bitter and baritone than the other. I woke up into the argument, so I only heard a few seconds.
I got out of bed and ate breakfast, for my brain was totally muddled. I didn't realised that it was 5.30 am on Sunday until I was on the computer, checking my email and wondering why nothing urgent had appeared since I'd turned it off a few hours earlier. I'd assumed the argument had stopped, anyhow, for snippets of arguments are common to suburbia.
I was very sleepy and had completely forgotten that the reason I get out of bed when there is noise on the bedroom side is because I can't hear it from the working side of the flat. It's been my recourse for my neighbours' wild parties and thudding drums for years and I operated on automatic.
Just when I'd got back to sleep, I was woken by what was obviously a continuing conversation. "Please," a woman's voice moaned, "please don't. I want to be there with him." I was so far asleep that all I could tell was that she was following someone (and not in need of succour) and that she had a much nicer voice under duress than mine is. It feels very cold-hearted now, but I was in bed, and it had become part of a dream and I'm untangling my thoughts from the dream in order to discover them.
She walked back the other way later (it might have been a minute - it might have been an hour), still pleasing to be allowed. A policeman said "no - you're coming to the...station." I think it was the station. It might have been the watchroom. She acquiesced, but only after pleading some more. Her "please" was a broken record, always the same tone, always agonised. It's the only word that came clearly through my dreaming and brought me closer to wakefulness.
The reason I couldn't wake up properly is because I've developed another cold. I stayed in bed until it was time for my body to wake up. I now have to catch up on work, of course. Neither my mind nor body want to. They're telling me I didn't have half of yesterday off because, of course, all that lovely friend-time was a bit eroded by the late strange night. I can't sleep, however - I have 3 1/2 books to read and I'd better get on with them!
I'm still puzzled by the voices and the story. It was a group of people: two men speaking a language other than English, a woman and two policemen were the ones that were audible. I think I shall gift it to Kaaron, for her Refreshing the Wells series.
Just before 5.30 I heard two men arguing. My dreaming self decided it was Hungarian. One was rather more bitter and baritone than the other. I woke up into the argument, so I only heard a few seconds.
I got out of bed and ate breakfast, for my brain was totally muddled. I didn't realised that it was 5.30 am on Sunday until I was on the computer, checking my email and wondering why nothing urgent had appeared since I'd turned it off a few hours earlier. I'd assumed the argument had stopped, anyhow, for snippets of arguments are common to suburbia.
I was very sleepy and had completely forgotten that the reason I get out of bed when there is noise on the bedroom side is because I can't hear it from the working side of the flat. It's been my recourse for my neighbours' wild parties and thudding drums for years and I operated on automatic.
Just when I'd got back to sleep, I was woken by what was obviously a continuing conversation. "Please," a woman's voice moaned, "please don't. I want to be there with him." I was so far asleep that all I could tell was that she was following someone (and not in need of succour) and that she had a much nicer voice under duress than mine is. It feels very cold-hearted now, but I was in bed, and it had become part of a dream and I'm untangling my thoughts from the dream in order to discover them.
She walked back the other way later (it might have been a minute - it might have been an hour), still pleasing to be allowed. A policeman said "no - you're coming to the...station." I think it was the station. It might have been the watchroom. She acquiesced, but only after pleading some more. Her "please" was a broken record, always the same tone, always agonised. It's the only word that came clearly through my dreaming and brought me closer to wakefulness.
The reason I couldn't wake up properly is because I've developed another cold. I stayed in bed until it was time for my body to wake up. I now have to catch up on work, of course. Neither my mind nor body want to. They're telling me I didn't have half of yesterday off because, of course, all that lovely friend-time was a bit eroded by the late strange night. I can't sleep, however - I have 3 1/2 books to read and I'd better get on with them!
I'm still puzzled by the voices and the story. It was a group of people: two men speaking a language other than English, a woman and two policemen were the ones that were audible. I think I shall gift it to Kaaron, for her Refreshing the Wells series.
November 9, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-10T14:42:00
This morning was all about fêtes. Kaaron Warren picked me up and we went to three fêtes in my general vicinity (give or take ten miles). There were two school fêtes, one church fête and one retirement village fête. Canberra was fête central today, for there were the same number happening on the northside.
Donna Hanson and Madeleine joined us for the last fête and I was evil aunt and made Madeleine laugh.
Kaaron has serious, serious fête-fu and found me a designer dress, unworn, label still on. It was my size, exactly suitable for the Conflux dance (accessorise it and it will be both steampunk and sightly angelic) and it fits and it was $12. I have great trouble finding clothes and so often forgo costume: this shows how good Kaaron is.
I also purchased a cookbook, Topo Gigio's donkey friend (seriously admired by Madeleine), an empty travel chess board (which I have plans for), lots of tomatoes, some niblets for chicken soup, a set of cup measures (which look as if they're Imperial and I needed Imperial ones - saves me doing everything by weight, but if they aren't then they'll still be handy) and two rather nice works of art. I also bought a gourmet meat pie (pepper steak and mushrooms - the pastry was proper homemade pie pastry) and Kaaron bought us coffee.
And now it's back to work, for I've only done an hour of anything useful. I have, however, enjoyed myself an inordinate amount.
Donna Hanson and Madeleine joined us for the last fête and I was evil aunt and made Madeleine laugh.
Kaaron has serious, serious fête-fu and found me a designer dress, unworn, label still on. It was my size, exactly suitable for the Conflux dance (accessorise it and it will be both steampunk and sightly angelic) and it fits and it was $12. I have great trouble finding clothes and so often forgo costume: this shows how good Kaaron is.
I also purchased a cookbook, Topo Gigio's donkey friend (seriously admired by Madeleine), an empty travel chess board (which I have plans for), lots of tomatoes, some niblets for chicken soup, a set of cup measures (which look as if they're Imperial and I needed Imperial ones - saves me doing everything by weight, but if they aren't then they'll still be handy) and two rather nice works of art. I also bought a gourmet meat pie (pepper steak and mushrooms - the pastry was proper homemade pie pastry) and Kaaron bought us coffee.
And now it's back to work, for I've only done an hour of anything useful. I have, however, enjoyed myself an inordinate amount.
gillpolack @ 2012-11-09T20:59:00
My day has been surprisingly exciting. My groceries arrived and were unpacked and a few hours later I discovered that a corner of my loungeroom was emulating a swimming pool. Fortunately for me, I'd cleared the floor of that corner and the bookshelf was untouched as were the records from c 1915-1935 that normally reside there. Some water I'd bought has sprung a leak..
I have cleverly applied sticky tape to prevent it leaking further and I decided that, since it was beautiful spring water, it should not be wasted. The floor is much cleaner and, since it wasn't my fault and it had been intended for drinking, the supermarket is refunding my water-money.
I also managed to get mild anaphylactic shock. It was very slow onset (which is the best kind - the fast onset is what kills) and it's probably a PMT thing. Anyhow, I've taken the requisite medication and my breathing is douce and my eyes are not tempted to goggle and all my soft tissue is behaving as it should. I shall have a very early night, for the medication has the sleep-making side effect.
Also, in between everything, I've read 3 1/2 of the books I need to finish this weekend. If I can read 120 more pages before I sleep, I'll be very happy, but I'm not counting on it. I have a clean floor and am full of watermelon and that will do if it must.
On an unrelated note, putting the broccolini in with my chicken was inspired. Possibly by fatigue, but still inspired.
I put enough verjuice in the pan to half-immerse the chicken breast. I sprinkled very generous amounts of lemon myrtle over the exposed side and also some fresh pepper. When the breast was done most of the way through, I took it out, shredded it roughly, put it back in the pan and added the broccolini stems. A bit later I added the florettes. This gave me the bright green of the half-cooked and the yellow-green of the cooked vegetable. The chicken is always nice done this way, but the broccolini really took on the lemon and grape flavours. I have more of all the ingredients and might try a variation on Monday.
And now I am demonstrating to myself that it's possible to blog with drooping eyes. I suspect the antihistamine is doing its thing.
I have cleverly applied sticky tape to prevent it leaking further and I decided that, since it was beautiful spring water, it should not be wasted. The floor is much cleaner and, since it wasn't my fault and it had been intended for drinking, the supermarket is refunding my water-money.
I also managed to get mild anaphylactic shock. It was very slow onset (which is the best kind - the fast onset is what kills) and it's probably a PMT thing. Anyhow, I've taken the requisite medication and my breathing is douce and my eyes are not tempted to goggle and all my soft tissue is behaving as it should. I shall have a very early night, for the medication has the sleep-making side effect.
Also, in between everything, I've read 3 1/2 of the books I need to finish this weekend. If I can read 120 more pages before I sleep, I'll be very happy, but I'm not counting on it. I have a clean floor and am full of watermelon and that will do if it must.
On an unrelated note, putting the broccolini in with my chicken was inspired. Possibly by fatigue, but still inspired.
I put enough verjuice in the pan to half-immerse the chicken breast. I sprinkled very generous amounts of lemon myrtle over the exposed side and also some fresh pepper. When the breast was done most of the way through, I took it out, shredded it roughly, put it back in the pan and added the broccolini stems. A bit later I added the florettes. This gave me the bright green of the half-cooked and the yellow-green of the cooked vegetable. The chicken is always nice done this way, but the broccolini really took on the lemon and grape flavours. I have more of all the ingredients and might try a variation on Monday.
And now I am demonstrating to myself that it's possible to blog with drooping eyes. I suspect the antihistamine is doing its thing.
November 8, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-09T10:45:00
I have my weekend's reading all sorted. I have two books on history theory (and some words to write from those books). I have five Aurealis books (for some are still to arrive - the count of YA novels entered for the Aurealis is now 51, but they're not all here yet). I have just one book for BiblioBuffet, but that book's about Merlin and is going to be much fun. I have just three chapters of A Game of Thrones. And that's all the books between me and Monday morning.
I have writing, too, but I'm not going to list it. It will probably add up to between four and five thousand words.
I also have a grocery delivery to sign for, some cooking to do, hopefully a Kaaron and a Donna to see, and two meetings (one by telephone, one through ICQ).
It's going to be a good weekend, but possibly marginally busy.
I have writing, too, but I'm not going to list it. It will probably add up to between four and five thousand words.
I also have a grocery delivery to sign for, some cooking to do, hopefully a Kaaron and a Donna to see, and two meetings (one by telephone, one through ICQ).
It's going to be a good weekend, but possibly marginally busy.
gillpolack @ 2012-11-08T20:49:00
My family history class is so nice. I give them strange writing exercises and they enjoy them (tonight's included fondling stretchy alien toys) and I tell them that food is an important part of writing and so they feed each other. Also, they laugh at my jokes and work out my handwriting. And one of them gave me a lift home.
I'm now officially taking a break, for I might have overdone the work side of things today, but I am very mellow and very happy and very much in love with the world.
I'm now officially taking a break, for I might have overdone the work side of things today, but I am very mellow and very happy and very much in love with the world.
November 7, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-08T12:12:00
It's only midday! It feels much later.
Until teaching-time, most of the day is beset by tasks that feel like hard work. This is my own fault. I was worried that I'd never actually finish anything and would end up in a complete mess (this seldom happens, but I do worry about it quite often) and so I determined I'd do the vilest of my tasks so that they would cease lurking.
None of them are actually vile, but they've all got particular challenges. I'm about 1/3 through the three worst, too. If I can finish them, maybe I'll stop feeling as if the world is coming to an end? No, that sense won't go until I find a job. My mind knows it will take a long time (probably another year, in all likelihood), but I really want to get on with my research and my writing and my teaching and to not spend all this time trying to convince people I'm the person they need.
That reminds me, there was a fourth task of terror. I shall swivel between them until 4 pm, making time for the online launch I promised I would attend. And tomorrow maybe I'll sleep in a bit. If I finish the four, then maybe I shall.
Until teaching-time, most of the day is beset by tasks that feel like hard work. This is my own fault. I was worried that I'd never actually finish anything and would end up in a complete mess (this seldom happens, but I do worry about it quite often) and so I determined I'd do the vilest of my tasks so that they would cease lurking.
None of them are actually vile, but they've all got particular challenges. I'm about 1/3 through the three worst, too. If I can finish them, maybe I'll stop feeling as if the world is coming to an end? No, that sense won't go until I find a job. My mind knows it will take a long time (probably another year, in all likelihood), but I really want to get on with my research and my writing and my teaching and to not spend all this time trying to convince people I'm the person they need.
That reminds me, there was a fourth task of terror. I shall swivel between them until 4 pm, making time for the online launch I promised I would attend. And tomorrow maybe I'll sleep in a bit. If I finish the four, then maybe I shall.
gillpolack @ 2012-11-07T21:19:00
I decided it was all a joke, then I received a tweet and I followed it back and I discovered...
There are genuinely Americans who are declaring tonight that moving to Australia is something they want to do because of the election results. Apparently we have a Christian president and (I quote one of the tweets) "he supports what he says."
Kylie Chan has offered to break the news to Julia Gillard that she has had a sex change and must discover Christianity, instantly. We need a volunteer to let the Queen know that we're really a republic. It's going to be hard on Charles, for he's in Australia right now, doing his royal duty. We've even put rain on for him, to make him feel as if he's home.
There are genuinely Americans who are declaring tonight that moving to Australia is something they want to do because of the election results. Apparently we have a Christian president and (I quote one of the tweets) "he supports what he says."
Kylie Chan has offered to break the news to Julia Gillard that she has had a sex change and must discover Christianity, instantly. We need a volunteer to let the Queen know that we're really a republic. It's going to be hard on Charles, for he's in Australia right now, doing his royal duty. We've even put rain on for him, to make him feel as if he's home.
November 6, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-11-07T15:56:00
The US election has a surprising Australian slant this year. So many people threatened to move to Australia if Romney lost. No wonder we talk about drop bears and giant spiders and poisonous bitey-creatures. I suppose it's too late to remind people that we have a female atheist leader, that we have compulsory voting and near-universal health care? I liked a particular response to this cry of conservative despair: the commentator suggested that anyone fleeing the US and seeking Australia come by boat.
I'm less political than I thought I'd be today, actually, because I got so very wet on the way to teaching this morning. Today's rain is gentle and cool and gets below layers of waterproof clothing and right into the skin. I am hydrated and bedraggled.
We spent most of the morning talking about story-telling skills and working out ways to exploit fascinating personal histories in fiction without actually hurting oneself. It's a balancing act sometimes between good writing and taking care of oneself.
No other news. There is none.
I nearly finished on a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. I should begin more paragraphs as appalling (and entirely unintended) pastiches of poems. Instead, however, I have a manuscript to read for someone and 160 pages of academic density to read for myself. Then I get dinner. Then I get an online booklaunch and a meeting and then I get to do whatever I like with the vast emptiness of my evening. Let me clarify: I can do whatever I like as long it's on my list of tasks that need to be finished.
I'm less political than I thought I'd be today, actually, because I got so very wet on the way to teaching this morning. Today's rain is gentle and cool and gets below layers of waterproof clothing and right into the skin. I am hydrated and bedraggled.
We spent most of the morning talking about story-telling skills and working out ways to exploit fascinating personal histories in fiction without actually hurting oneself. It's a balancing act sometimes between good writing and taking care of oneself.
No other news. There is none.
I nearly finished on a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. I should begin more paragraphs as appalling (and entirely unintended) pastiches of poems. Instead, however, I have a manuscript to read for someone and 160 pages of academic density to read for myself. Then I get dinner. Then I get an online booklaunch and a meeting and then I get to do whatever I like with the vast emptiness of my evening. Let me clarify: I can do whatever I like as long it's on my list of tasks that need to be finished.
