Gillian Polack's Blog, page 157
August 26, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-08-27T08:03:00
*I have deleted the image, for I worked out what happened. The camera didn't download everything. Most of the mountain shots are still lurking... When I solve this technical issue I shall be back and post some actual pictures. Right now, though, I need to take a break, for I checked out my mountain videos and they made me dizzy.*
Those mountains ahead? The road goes straight into them. One minute we were looking at a farmhouse with a white roof, nestled near the top of a mountain and the next thing I knew, we were passing it.
PS Sorry about the furry vision. I thought this was one of the clear ones when I uploaded it. I'll try for something clearer later, but none of the ones entering the pass were clear, for everything was too close and the vehicle was moving. That's why I started experimenting with videos.
Those mountains ahead? The road goes straight into them. One minute we were looking at a farmhouse with a white roof, nestled near the top of a mountain and the next thing I knew, we were passing it.
PS Sorry about the furry vision. I thought this was one of the clear ones when I uploaded it. I'll try for something clearer later, but none of the ones entering the pass were clear, for everything was too close and the vehicle was moving. That's why I started experimenting with videos.
gillpolack @ 2012-08-27T07:59:00
I had an inordinate amount of computer problems last night and so didn't achieve much. This means, I'm afraid, I'll only post a couple of photos, for I have much work to do today. I also have a cold. The coast was perfectly warm and Canberra went down to -5 last night, so of course I have a cold. It's almost zero outside now, so it will be a lovely day.
I forgot to say so many things: the blossom is all out, and so much wattle. I might post more pictures soonish, just for prettiness.
Watch this space for two pictures! (If I do them in small stages, maybe the computer won't sulk - I think that it, too, may have a cold.)
I forgot to say so many things: the blossom is all out, and so much wattle. I might post more pictures soonish, just for prettiness.
Watch this space for two pictures! (If I do them in small stages, maybe the computer won't sulk - I think that it, too, may have a cold.)
gillpolack @ 2012-08-26T22:01:00
I've been offline for a day and a half, having my Terribly Marvellous Adventure. Now that I'm not tempting fate, I can tell you about it. There will be pictures when I've uploaded them. There will not, alas, be music: for that you must wait.
Some little while ago, Laura Goodin was my blog guest, talking about how her short story (the one wot I edited, in Masques) about dancing mice and giants was becoming an opera. The Pozible fundraiser got just enough money to put on a performance (not a full one - just singers and tech and a few actors and conductor) in front of a critical audience, with comments and wine and general bonhomie. It's going to be a very nice opera. Not 'nice' in a sweetness and light sense, for a group of us huddled round a heater afterwards, shivering with emotion, but 'nice' in a 'watch for it or you'll miss something special' sense.
Although the journey to Wollongong was all about the opera, it was in itself an adventure. The stomach virus meant I nearly didn't get there at all. In the end, I caught a taxi to the train station rather than two busses, and I survived on travel sickness pills. Not only did I make it there, but I made it in better state than I had left*.
I caught the train the Moss Vale and changed to catch the bus to Wollongong. On the train, it was all farm people, taking a few days to do this or that. My most satisfying discovery (which I keep telling people, so a few of you might want to blink around now and miss reading the rest of the paragraph) is that 'sweet oath' is still a stronger form of 'yes.' I thought it was defunct. In fact, I was told quite recently that 'blood oath and 'f# oath' had replaced it. I have heard it used, however, so it's real.
The bus leg was amazing. Sitting in the seat in front were an elderly couple going to their grandson's 21st at Albion Park** - they'd been told to come as witches, so they were accoutred with a broomstick. The woman is a foodie and we talked about the CWA and showground cakes and how many hundreds of totally wonderful slices her friends made as part of community work. The bus driver joined in and the talk turned to sport. Then we hit Macquarie Pass.
Macquarie Pass is exquisitely beautiful. Not only that, but the bus driver on today's return journey*** pointed out that in the government-controlled area, there is a house that might be rentable for a week by enterprising writers with cars. I thought that dropping hints here would be a start...I am willing to cook historical food if someone does the transport thing. The house is isolated and it's surrounded by cliffs and gullies and temperate rainforest.****
Laura picked me up and Wollongong (I always want to say Wollongong the Brave, but refrained kindly when I was actually there. We changed, we met the cast and had an early dinner, then we all walked across from the pub to the theatre. The singers and Houston (Houston Dunleavy, the composer) and I got into mischief with photos, but everyone else was wonderfully good. I met Toby (one of the actors) and Toby's Laura and we had a long talk about books, for we have distinctly shared interests. Toby's Laura had a spec fic novel with her for safety, and she managed to get 2/3 of the cast talking about The Hunger Games.
Eventually they all went backstage to do what had to be done, and I mingled with the Good and Great, for Laura determined that I was so for that half hour. I met an ex-ballet dancer retired movement professor and her hydrotherapy students and they were so intersting I didn't even remember that there was wine. I'd helped pout the nibbles out, so I should've forgotten them, but an intersting conversation is an interesting conversation and cannot be ignored.
The performance was fascinating. Hearing the transformation from short story to production, hearing the hero-mouse as soprano and the Crooked Mouse as mezzo gave it new dimensions. It wasn't a full staging, which meant that some of the audience questions afterwards would have been answered with visible choreography. It was especially intersting to see an intelligent and thoughtful audience reacting to an opera with the help of a libretto or the understanding that one tends to have with the standards.
When it was all over, we adjourned to Laura's (And Houston's, and Margaret-who-did-tech for this is a wondrously talented family). Most of the actors had to leave so Toby and Toby's Laura represented them. This meant I got to talk to the singers. It was great! Eve and I swapped PhD tales and talked about models for Arts funding. We all overate. We drank wine, mulled wine, and some of the liqueurs that I had shepherded down at great risk of spillage***** and it was a bit of a late night.
You need pictures and I need an early night. I shall try to upload them now and maybe post one or two, and then I shall sleep and let tomorrow be a wasn't-I-supposed-to-write-3000-words-this-weekend day. I wrote 1000 words, for the record. The bus was the best thing out, and the train, for I was too tired to work anyhow, and all I had to do was sit and fall in love with a region. Same with the opera - I just got to sit. And all the rest of it had old friends and new friends and strange discoveries and much talking, which are things that work very much like pain relievers for me. Tonight I'm feeling it, but it was such a perfect weekend, that it's worth the penalty.
Let me get out my camera.
*I'm paying for it now, but oh, what a way to go!
** Chaz, I have a picture of Albion Park for you, for it struck me that rihgt now you need to know what a non-Albion non-park Albion Park looks like.
***Who was totally cool, for he acted like a tour guide, except, being a local, he knew stuff. Where famous actress lives, what land had been bought for buildings and the buildings are currently making way for cows for it is a floodplain, why all the bikies get pies at the piemaker in Robertson but the locals buy imported pies (from Moss Vale, I think), where Bega cheese is sold as home brand cheese, where I needed to watch for good shots and so much more.
****I will see if I can find a tempting picture of the Pass, though I was experimenting with the movie function of my camera and might be a failure on the persuasion of souls, for movies I know not how to web, and besides, these are not very good. Lots of driving on mountain roads.
*****"I thought you were carrying a baby!" one of the other bus passengers greeted me. "Are you Gillian Polack?" asked the bus driver.
Some little while ago, Laura Goodin was my blog guest, talking about how her short story (the one wot I edited, in Masques) about dancing mice and giants was becoming an opera. The Pozible fundraiser got just enough money to put on a performance (not a full one - just singers and tech and a few actors and conductor) in front of a critical audience, with comments and wine and general bonhomie. It's going to be a very nice opera. Not 'nice' in a sweetness and light sense, for a group of us huddled round a heater afterwards, shivering with emotion, but 'nice' in a 'watch for it or you'll miss something special' sense.
Although the journey to Wollongong was all about the opera, it was in itself an adventure. The stomach virus meant I nearly didn't get there at all. In the end, I caught a taxi to the train station rather than two busses, and I survived on travel sickness pills. Not only did I make it there, but I made it in better state than I had left*.
I caught the train the Moss Vale and changed to catch the bus to Wollongong. On the train, it was all farm people, taking a few days to do this or that. My most satisfying discovery (which I keep telling people, so a few of you might want to blink around now and miss reading the rest of the paragraph) is that 'sweet oath' is still a stronger form of 'yes.' I thought it was defunct. In fact, I was told quite recently that 'blood oath and 'f# oath' had replaced it. I have heard it used, however, so it's real.
The bus leg was amazing. Sitting in the seat in front were an elderly couple going to their grandson's 21st at Albion Park** - they'd been told to come as witches, so they were accoutred with a broomstick. The woman is a foodie and we talked about the CWA and showground cakes and how many hundreds of totally wonderful slices her friends made as part of community work. The bus driver joined in and the talk turned to sport. Then we hit Macquarie Pass.
Macquarie Pass is exquisitely beautiful. Not only that, but the bus driver on today's return journey*** pointed out that in the government-controlled area, there is a house that might be rentable for a week by enterprising writers with cars. I thought that dropping hints here would be a start...I am willing to cook historical food if someone does the transport thing. The house is isolated and it's surrounded by cliffs and gullies and temperate rainforest.****
Laura picked me up and Wollongong (I always want to say Wollongong the Brave, but refrained kindly when I was actually there. We changed, we met the cast and had an early dinner, then we all walked across from the pub to the theatre. The singers and Houston (Houston Dunleavy, the composer) and I got into mischief with photos, but everyone else was wonderfully good. I met Toby (one of the actors) and Toby's Laura and we had a long talk about books, for we have distinctly shared interests. Toby's Laura had a spec fic novel with her for safety, and she managed to get 2/3 of the cast talking about The Hunger Games.
Eventually they all went backstage to do what had to be done, and I mingled with the Good and Great, for Laura determined that I was so for that half hour. I met an ex-ballet dancer retired movement professor and her hydrotherapy students and they were so intersting I didn't even remember that there was wine. I'd helped pout the nibbles out, so I should've forgotten them, but an intersting conversation is an interesting conversation and cannot be ignored.
The performance was fascinating. Hearing the transformation from short story to production, hearing the hero-mouse as soprano and the Crooked Mouse as mezzo gave it new dimensions. It wasn't a full staging, which meant that some of the audience questions afterwards would have been answered with visible choreography. It was especially intersting to see an intelligent and thoughtful audience reacting to an opera with the help of a libretto or the understanding that one tends to have with the standards.
When it was all over, we adjourned to Laura's (And Houston's, and Margaret-who-did-tech for this is a wondrously talented family). Most of the actors had to leave so Toby and Toby's Laura represented them. This meant I got to talk to the singers. It was great! Eve and I swapped PhD tales and talked about models for Arts funding. We all overate. We drank wine, mulled wine, and some of the liqueurs that I had shepherded down at great risk of spillage***** and it was a bit of a late night.
You need pictures and I need an early night. I shall try to upload them now and maybe post one or two, and then I shall sleep and let tomorrow be a wasn't-I-supposed-to-write-3000-words-this-weekend day. I wrote 1000 words, for the record. The bus was the best thing out, and the train, for I was too tired to work anyhow, and all I had to do was sit and fall in love with a region. Same with the opera - I just got to sit. And all the rest of it had old friends and new friends and strange discoveries and much talking, which are things that work very much like pain relievers for me. Tonight I'm feeling it, but it was such a perfect weekend, that it's worth the penalty.
Let me get out my camera.
*I'm paying for it now, but oh, what a way to go!
** Chaz, I have a picture of Albion Park for you, for it struck me that rihgt now you need to know what a non-Albion non-park Albion Park looks like.
***Who was totally cool, for he acted like a tour guide, except, being a local, he knew stuff. Where famous actress lives, what land had been bought for buildings and the buildings are currently making way for cows for it is a floodplain, why all the bikies get pies at the piemaker in Robertson but the locals buy imported pies (from Moss Vale, I think), where Bega cheese is sold as home brand cheese, where I needed to watch for good shots and so much more.
****I will see if I can find a tempting picture of the Pass, though I was experimenting with the movie function of my camera and might be a failure on the persuasion of souls, for movies I know not how to web, and besides, these are not very good. Lots of driving on mountain roads.
*****"I thought you were carrying a baby!" one of the other bus passengers greeted me. "Are you Gillian Polack?" asked the bus driver.
August 24, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-08-25T09:46:00
This morning is about numbers.
Four: the hours I slept (that gastro came back, but it seems to be OK right now)
Six: the number of files I transferred to my netbook, for working with on busses (for my horoscope predicts three busses and an train today, and the same tomorrow)
One: cameras that one uses to build files for worldbuilding and for teaching worldbuilding
Four: the number of different liqueurs decanted
Six: the number of things I must do before 10.30 am (although at a pinch, it could be until 11 am)
Zero: the number of cups of hot drink I've had today (I keep forgetting to put the kettle on - things like home made liqueur that need decanting are very distracting)
One: the number of articles I intend to have in rough draft by 10.15
0.5: how effective my brain is this morning
Mostly, as ever, I just want to sleep. I do suspect the next eight weeks will be nothing but meeting small goals with unerring frequency for my PhD* is due for submission in two months and one day.
*For those friends also doing doctorates, it's not your imagination. I'm submitting way early. It turns out there are advantages in having done a doctorate before. I made a lot of errors the first time round in how I allocated work and this time round I've been far more efficient. even with the bibliographical debacle (which I'm not yet through) I made fewer errors. I sorted out my fine approach early and worked extra hard on background stuff in first year and wrote up very early and didn't do extra research (well, mostly) just because I was having fun. Also, I didn't research my next novel of learn Thai dancing or learn Japanese or have much of a social life. This last set of un-activities was forced upon me, but it's a very good way to do a research degree in a hurry. It also taught me that the goal I actually put first (as opposed to claiming it's important) is the most likely to be achieved.
Four: the hours I slept (that gastro came back, but it seems to be OK right now)
Six: the number of files I transferred to my netbook, for working with on busses (for my horoscope predicts three busses and an train today, and the same tomorrow)
One: cameras that one uses to build files for worldbuilding and for teaching worldbuilding
Four: the number of different liqueurs decanted
Six: the number of things I must do before 10.30 am (although at a pinch, it could be until 11 am)
Zero: the number of cups of hot drink I've had today (I keep forgetting to put the kettle on - things like home made liqueur that need decanting are very distracting)
One: the number of articles I intend to have in rough draft by 10.15
0.5: how effective my brain is this morning
Mostly, as ever, I just want to sleep. I do suspect the next eight weeks will be nothing but meeting small goals with unerring frequency for my PhD* is due for submission in two months and one day.
*For those friends also doing doctorates, it's not your imagination. I'm submitting way early. It turns out there are advantages in having done a doctorate before. I made a lot of errors the first time round in how I allocated work and this time round I've been far more efficient. even with the bibliographical debacle (which I'm not yet through) I made fewer errors. I sorted out my fine approach early and worked extra hard on background stuff in first year and wrote up very early and didn't do extra research (well, mostly) just because I was having fun. Also, I didn't research my next novel of learn Thai dancing or learn Japanese or have much of a social life. This last set of un-activities was forced upon me, but it's a very good way to do a research degree in a hurry. It also taught me that the goal I actually put first (as opposed to claiming it's important) is the most likely to be achieved.
gillpolack @ 2012-08-24T22:50:00
I'm pulling together my CV and pulling teeth would be more comfortable.
I have this really bad tendency (job-wise, CV-wise) to do all kinds of interesting things and then to forget I have done them. My life has been very eventful for something so dull it's not worth keeping notes about. Even despite my lack of records, I have been involved in organising at least twelve conferences (I'm missing some, I know, but surely a round dozen is enough for anyone?) and the total number of public presentations since I moved to Canberra (not counting radio - if anyone needs my radio spots, I'm in trouble, for I can find the ABC offices in Canberra more easily than I can recall how often I've been there - at least 7 times, for there were three sets of cabbies who had heard the interview and there were at least 4 sets of busses) is around 30. Thirty that I remember, at least.
There are holes. I know there are holes. I'm pretty sure I have all my grants accounted for and I have left out a couple of prizes and awards (for who on earth would be interested in my debating award, when I was in Year 12? I say this despite one of my students coming up to me last semester and said "My boss knows your name - he says you were in the State team in 1978. I never was. In my year the top award went to a state school student - me- and I wasn't even considered for the state team and it made life very interesting at university when, somehow, all the debaters finally worked out that I came from entirely the wrong background and yet had the Swannie. Some people handled it better than others, let's say. And I was a bit inconsistent as a debater - much better as a team leader, so around me there was always a question of how much I deserved when people saw me on my bad days. On my good days I was decent enough to be an Australasian Intervarsity Grand Finalist, but I had this nasty tendency to confuse audiences with emotion, which was not allowable. At the heart of the various messes I found myself in was the fact that I was Jewish, female, and Arts student and had been to a perfectly ordinary school, not an elite one. These things aren't supposed to happen in Australia, land of everyone being equal, but they do and this is the reason I didn't have a habit of recording things. No-one has ever wanted to know about awards and very few people ask for my life history and so I don't tend to write it down. Before I did my dumping-of-committees so that I could finish this PhD in a hurry, I found myself not quite able to work out when I'd started on each committee. I live in a strangely busy present always. (And I've just remembered 2 encyclopaedia articles I wrote - how can one forget these things? Actually, I hadn't forgotten them. I know them almost word for word - I just don't think of them in relation to a CV.)
Suddenly I'm faced with job applications and the side of my life that I've done a lot in turns out to be rather important. I almost want to crowd-source my CV, just to see if someone remembers where I've been and what I've done.
I think I'll be OK, but it's painful. Very, very painful.
I have this really bad tendency (job-wise, CV-wise) to do all kinds of interesting things and then to forget I have done them. My life has been very eventful for something so dull it's not worth keeping notes about. Even despite my lack of records, I have been involved in organising at least twelve conferences (I'm missing some, I know, but surely a round dozen is enough for anyone?) and the total number of public presentations since I moved to Canberra (not counting radio - if anyone needs my radio spots, I'm in trouble, for I can find the ABC offices in Canberra more easily than I can recall how often I've been there - at least 7 times, for there were three sets of cabbies who had heard the interview and there were at least 4 sets of busses) is around 30. Thirty that I remember, at least.
There are holes. I know there are holes. I'm pretty sure I have all my grants accounted for and I have left out a couple of prizes and awards (for who on earth would be interested in my debating award, when I was in Year 12? I say this despite one of my students coming up to me last semester and said "My boss knows your name - he says you were in the State team in 1978. I never was. In my year the top award went to a state school student - me- and I wasn't even considered for the state team and it made life very interesting at university when, somehow, all the debaters finally worked out that I came from entirely the wrong background and yet had the Swannie. Some people handled it better than others, let's say. And I was a bit inconsistent as a debater - much better as a team leader, so around me there was always a question of how much I deserved when people saw me on my bad days. On my good days I was decent enough to be an Australasian Intervarsity Grand Finalist, but I had this nasty tendency to confuse audiences with emotion, which was not allowable. At the heart of the various messes I found myself in was the fact that I was Jewish, female, and Arts student and had been to a perfectly ordinary school, not an elite one. These things aren't supposed to happen in Australia, land of everyone being equal, but they do and this is the reason I didn't have a habit of recording things. No-one has ever wanted to know about awards and very few people ask for my life history and so I don't tend to write it down. Before I did my dumping-of-committees so that I could finish this PhD in a hurry, I found myself not quite able to work out when I'd started on each committee. I live in a strangely busy present always. (And I've just remembered 2 encyclopaedia articles I wrote - how can one forget these things? Actually, I hadn't forgotten them. I know them almost word for word - I just don't think of them in relation to a CV.)
Suddenly I'm faced with job applications and the side of my life that I've done a lot in turns out to be rather important. I almost want to crowd-source my CV, just to see if someone remembers where I've been and what I've done.
I think I'll be OK, but it's painful. Very, very painful.
August 23, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-08-24T13:52:00
I ought to stop complaining, for when I complain loudly enough, the universe laughs at me. This afternoon the laughter echoed through my shopping trip. It took a while longer than it should have because everyone was feeling the cold and we all kind of bumbled along, getting in each other's way and apologising.
It's a strange type of cold. The actual temperature, for instance, remained around 6-7 degrees. The sun came out. And went in again. And came out again. On my way home it mostly stayed out, but then, the rain was still falling (lightly) and, through the rain, the snow and ice fell. The ice glinted quite strangely. The air chill factor took that tolerable 6-7 degrees down to between -1 and -3. I have exact temperatures because I was so entertained by walking in the sun, sleet and snow that I had to check it all up.
I have medications. I have shopping for tonight. I have my library supplies. No more shopping for me until Sunday afternoon.
This doesn't mean I get to stay home. I am about to have two days of adventures. I'll tell you about them one by one, after I'm safely through each. Right now, I need a very big cuppa and a thousand words written, instantly.
It's a strange type of cold. The actual temperature, for instance, remained around 6-7 degrees. The sun came out. And went in again. And came out again. On my way home it mostly stayed out, but then, the rain was still falling (lightly) and, through the rain, the snow and ice fell. The ice glinted quite strangely. The air chill factor took that tolerable 6-7 degrees down to between -1 and -3. I have exact temperatures because I was so entertained by walking in the sun, sleet and snow that I had to check it all up.
I have medications. I have shopping for tonight. I have my library supplies. No more shopping for me until Sunday afternoon.
This doesn't mean I get to stay home. I am about to have two days of adventures. I'll tell you about them one by one, after I'm safely through each. Right now, I need a very big cuppa and a thousand words written, instantly.
How Father's Day Saves me Money (warning: includes grouch)
The this-is-a-relief aspect of businesses emailing me the third batch of personalised information telling me what to buy from them for Father's Day is that it now saves me money for the next year. From today, in fact.
Father's Day is difficult for me, for both my fathers are dead*. Ads targeted at the general public are annoying, but not aimed at me, so I shrug my shoulders and move on. Ads sent to my inbox, though, or tailored to my Facebook page, are on my more-private space, so I evaluate them differently. How I evaluate them is simple: third strike and they're out. No matter how much I want that cordless drill, I will not buy it from them. No matter how delightfully witty their ad and how wonderfully acute the marketing people are in understanding new media, all it does is remind me not to shop with them.
There aren't very many socially acceptable ways of dealing with festivities where one cannot happily participate. Many people deal with it by undergoing forced enjoyment, but I am not someone who accepts forced enjoyment without exceptionally good reasons.
I was going to write a long list of these events and point out how lonely is the single Jew in Australia with one parent and no children and far too many advertisements reminding me that this is a bad status and unacceptable to society as a whole. None of my major festivals are in the public eye and none of my life-cycle events have been, either, not since I graduated my first degree.** The vast majority of public celebrations just do not apply. In fact, the vast majority of advertising campaigns do not apply.
I was going to mock everything with a "Gillian's Avoidance Guide," but that would be cruel to those of you who are closer to the standard profile for purposes of public rejoicing, and besides, my Scroogitudiness is mostly due to the pressure of the ads and the fact that I haven't yet found mooncakes this year (mooncakes - preferably lotus seed ones*** - are my preferred way of dealing with Father's Day, but my local grocer only stocks the not-so-good ones and besides, I fear a repeat of the conversation where he suggested that Jewish children should die because Palestinians are suffering - which he intimated rather than saying directly, I admit, but which still hurt).
If I wrote a list of festivals and celebrations and local drives and campaigns that exclude me, it would be long and would share the misery far too much regardless of how funny I found it. Forced misery is worse than forced enjoyment. Besides, mostly I cope. I sing evil alternate carols at Christmas when the ads become a deluge and I get my friends drunk at Purim (though not this year for Purim, for I was ill) which helps me deal with Easter. And besides, Father's Day is one of the better days, for it's two weeks before Rosh Hashanah this year and I will be making my grandmother's amazing honeycake (the one with chocolate and coffee and dried fruit) and so I can plan for that.
I've not ever got an ad in my inbox saying, "A cordless drill is the perfect Rosh Hashanah present for your friend who has a new flat," or "Chocolate in sticks and balls - you can design and eat the chemical structure of your choice: a wonderful gift for geeks at Babbagefest." This is why I have instituted the three strikes rule. This goes for US, NZ, Australian and UK festivals, for I get email for all countries. If a firm persists and get more personal (I got an 'intimate letter' ad on Wednesday) then I shall follow my mother's example and send them (by return email) lists of items that dead people might find useful (bones need moisturiser, probably, and I might need advice on how to find the right size suit). Or I might question the business concerning the cost of delivery to cemeteries and whether they need either father to sign for their gift and whether it costs extra for raising the dead to get their signature.
I'm not nearly as grumpy as I sound. A week ago I was more grumpy than I sounded, but right now I have instituted Coping Strategies. The twelve offending emails have been deleted. And I have a Policy. I was a public servant for ten years: policies hold the universe together: my three strikes rule is going to get me through this, and make my year ahead very economical.
*I made Christiana Stead's 'Dead Dad' Joke to my first father when his cancer was spreading. He loved it. It was not a joke I could make to my second, whose sense of humour wasn't nearly as morbid and was quite possibly a lot subtler.
**Why isn't there a Joyous Menopause Night, like a hen's night but with more chocolate? I could entirely look forward to that one!
***All care packages joyously nibbled, slowly. What I want to do is taste some of the more exotic mooncakes. I saw a mocha one advertised, for instance, and a chestnut one. They're never available here. And I have physical restrictions: I can only eat the really traditional nut ones that have cashews and no peanuts or brazil nuts. This footnote is brought to you by Mooncake Deprival Syndrome. I could make my own, but it's not the same AT ALL. Besides, I love the containers they come in almost as much as I love the mooncakes themselves.
Father's Day is difficult for me, for both my fathers are dead*. Ads targeted at the general public are annoying, but not aimed at me, so I shrug my shoulders and move on. Ads sent to my inbox, though, or tailored to my Facebook page, are on my more-private space, so I evaluate them differently. How I evaluate them is simple: third strike and they're out. No matter how much I want that cordless drill, I will not buy it from them. No matter how delightfully witty their ad and how wonderfully acute the marketing people are in understanding new media, all it does is remind me not to shop with them.
There aren't very many socially acceptable ways of dealing with festivities where one cannot happily participate. Many people deal with it by undergoing forced enjoyment, but I am not someone who accepts forced enjoyment without exceptionally good reasons.
I was going to write a long list of these events and point out how lonely is the single Jew in Australia with one parent and no children and far too many advertisements reminding me that this is a bad status and unacceptable to society as a whole. None of my major festivals are in the public eye and none of my life-cycle events have been, either, not since I graduated my first degree.** The vast majority of public celebrations just do not apply. In fact, the vast majority of advertising campaigns do not apply.
I was going to mock everything with a "Gillian's Avoidance Guide," but that would be cruel to those of you who are closer to the standard profile for purposes of public rejoicing, and besides, my Scroogitudiness is mostly due to the pressure of the ads and the fact that I haven't yet found mooncakes this year (mooncakes - preferably lotus seed ones*** - are my preferred way of dealing with Father's Day, but my local grocer only stocks the not-so-good ones and besides, I fear a repeat of the conversation where he suggested that Jewish children should die because Palestinians are suffering - which he intimated rather than saying directly, I admit, but which still hurt).
If I wrote a list of festivals and celebrations and local drives and campaigns that exclude me, it would be long and would share the misery far too much regardless of how funny I found it. Forced misery is worse than forced enjoyment. Besides, mostly I cope. I sing evil alternate carols at Christmas when the ads become a deluge and I get my friends drunk at Purim (though not this year for Purim, for I was ill) which helps me deal with Easter. And besides, Father's Day is one of the better days, for it's two weeks before Rosh Hashanah this year and I will be making my grandmother's amazing honeycake (the one with chocolate and coffee and dried fruit) and so I can plan for that.
I've not ever got an ad in my inbox saying, "A cordless drill is the perfect Rosh Hashanah present for your friend who has a new flat," or "Chocolate in sticks and balls - you can design and eat the chemical structure of your choice: a wonderful gift for geeks at Babbagefest." This is why I have instituted the three strikes rule. This goes for US, NZ, Australian and UK festivals, for I get email for all countries. If a firm persists and get more personal (I got an 'intimate letter' ad on Wednesday) then I shall follow my mother's example and send them (by return email) lists of items that dead people might find useful (bones need moisturiser, probably, and I might need advice on how to find the right size suit). Or I might question the business concerning the cost of delivery to cemeteries and whether they need either father to sign for their gift and whether it costs extra for raising the dead to get their signature.
I'm not nearly as grumpy as I sound. A week ago I was more grumpy than I sounded, but right now I have instituted Coping Strategies. The twelve offending emails have been deleted. And I have a Policy. I was a public servant for ten years: policies hold the universe together: my three strikes rule is going to get me through this, and make my year ahead very economical.
*I made Christiana Stead's 'Dead Dad' Joke to my first father when his cancer was spreading. He loved it. It was not a joke I could make to my second, whose sense of humour wasn't nearly as morbid and was quite possibly a lot subtler.
**Why isn't there a Joyous Menopause Night, like a hen's night but with more chocolate? I could entirely look forward to that one!
***All care packages joyously nibbled, slowly. What I want to do is taste some of the more exotic mooncakes. I saw a mocha one advertised, for instance, and a chestnut one. They're never available here. And I have physical restrictions: I can only eat the really traditional nut ones that have cashews and no peanuts or brazil nuts. This footnote is brought to you by Mooncake Deprival Syndrome. I could make my own, but it's not the same AT ALL. Besides, I love the containers they come in almost as much as I love the mooncakes themselves.
August 22, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-08-23T16:28:00
The rain means I can't teach world building tonight. That's the trouble with being a bus-catcher - on wet nights I have to teach using less vulnerable materials. The relationship of the writer with their inner editor (and other tools for improving manuscripts) is much easier, especially as it's what I've been doing all week. I don't need fancy equipment for it, nor do I need easily-sodden butchers' paper. I do, however, need my brain and the white board markers. I have the latter, but need to hunt for the former, right now.
gillpolack @ 2012-08-23T09:41:00
I had a fabulously exciting night, full of nightmares and other curious events. Some of this turned out to be seasonal change. We have the first of the Spring rains, outside, right now. I don't know if I brought them on with the acid-vein hours, but it certainly felt as if I did. No wonder certain pantheons are full of grump and misbehaviour of exercising their powers bears such consequences. "I can rule the universe and hurt, or I can sit on a beach and drink margaritas. Hmm, let me think."
What I did (since the beach and margaritas was out) was make sure I finished the editing of the novel and I did a really, really bad draft of my conclusion. I also have a list of everything that has to be somewhere else (including bedlinen in my washing machine) by 10 am on Saturday. I'm allowed to whinge all I like, just as long as that list diminishes. My reward is almost the full weekend off, so it's worth diminishing my list. It's going to be a not-good day no matter what I do, and it's the sort of pain that actually feels worse when one is in bed (hence the nightmares) so I'm going to do some entirely amazing finishing-of-projects.
It's not a long list, but the items are mostly quite substantial. It's already diminished from nineteen items to seventeen, although I'm tempted to make it up to eighteen, for I keep worrying about next week's work.
By the end of next week, I want clean and close-to-passable versions of totally everything I need for my doctorate. This may not happen, but it's my aim. I also have two pieces for BiblioBuffet, one article for elsewhere, sorting my CV (which I keep putting off, for it's the hardest thing on the list - I really do loathe CVs) and the other things for this week are really just everything-else stuff. In fact, more everything-else stuff will appear as I get this lot finished, for there is work hiding in the interstices of my life. The pain will disappear (it generally does) but the work won't. Just as well I enjoy work as much as I don't enjoy pain. (What I want to do today is play with Chapter Five of my dissertation, for there are things I don't like about it, but that has to wait until next week, for other things are more urgent.)
What I did (since the beach and margaritas was out) was make sure I finished the editing of the novel and I did a really, really bad draft of my conclusion. I also have a list of everything that has to be somewhere else (including bedlinen in my washing machine) by 10 am on Saturday. I'm allowed to whinge all I like, just as long as that list diminishes. My reward is almost the full weekend off, so it's worth diminishing my list. It's going to be a not-good day no matter what I do, and it's the sort of pain that actually feels worse when one is in bed (hence the nightmares) so I'm going to do some entirely amazing finishing-of-projects.
It's not a long list, but the items are mostly quite substantial. It's already diminished from nineteen items to seventeen, although I'm tempted to make it up to eighteen, for I keep worrying about next week's work.
By the end of next week, I want clean and close-to-passable versions of totally everything I need for my doctorate. This may not happen, but it's my aim. I also have two pieces for BiblioBuffet, one article for elsewhere, sorting my CV (which I keep putting off, for it's the hardest thing on the list - I really do loathe CVs) and the other things for this week are really just everything-else stuff. In fact, more everything-else stuff will appear as I get this lot finished, for there is work hiding in the interstices of my life. The pain will disappear (it generally does) but the work won't. Just as well I enjoy work as much as I don't enjoy pain. (What I want to do today is play with Chapter Five of my dissertation, for there are things I don't like about it, but that has to wait until next week, for other things are more urgent.)
August 21, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-08-22T16:10:00
I was dealing with a low level migraine all morning (my contribution to the class pain) and I tried to sleep it off, but it turned into a higher level migraine, instead. This is partly hormonal (roll on menopause!) and partly because we're about to get a bit of a weather change. It has made me sensitive to sound and light. The clock sounds ominous and the kitchen light flares. It's tolerable, but only just.
I emailed to cancel my movie-with-friends for tonight (for the others like their movie sound as high as I can tolerate on a normal day and today is the day I would have to put the television down to its second lowest setting to hear without it hurting) and am getting a "We want to see you anyway," message.
Now, I love my friends and I don't get to see them often due to various things (including the doctorate) but I am perimenopausal. This means I get interesting symptoms, and have for nine years. The interesting symptom right now is this kind of migraine. And unless they're ready to not be able to hear because the sound is too quiet, I am going to go all nausea-and-vomity, which is in no-one's interest.
So now I feel guilty. How can I feel guilty for simply being my age and female?
ETA: The guilt is all from my end - my friends have been very nice about it, just to be clear.
I emailed to cancel my movie-with-friends for tonight (for the others like their movie sound as high as I can tolerate on a normal day and today is the day I would have to put the television down to its second lowest setting to hear without it hurting) and am getting a "We want to see you anyway," message.
Now, I love my friends and I don't get to see them often due to various things (including the doctorate) but I am perimenopausal. This means I get interesting symptoms, and have for nine years. The interesting symptom right now is this kind of migraine. And unless they're ready to not be able to hear because the sound is too quiet, I am going to go all nausea-and-vomity, which is in no-one's interest.
So now I feel guilty. How can I feel guilty for simply being my age and female?
ETA: The guilt is all from my end - my friends have been very nice about it, just to be clear.
