It came it came it came!!
It came par avion!
Now I just hope it isn't infected by swine flu...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
for book moles
bookdespository.com
Current Exchange Rate:
1 English Pound = 2.01850373 Australian Dollars.
Free Shipping.
Moleskine journals.
You do the maths.
God Speed.
Current Exchange Rate:
1 English Pound = 2.01850373 Australian Dollars.
Free Shipping.
Moleskine journals.
You do the maths.
God Speed.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
time. temps. tempo.
I am perhaps the most disorganised person on the planet.
Words cannot describe just how unorganised I am. But inevitably I will try.
Time, at the moment, probably bored with its conservative existence, has fixed its mischevious attention on me. I am probably only the ten billionth of billions, but it's irritating all the same.
It jumps in bounds. It shifts itself subtly around me so I don't even notice I'm moving till the clock reads five minutes past the deadline. This morning was particularly shocking. I swear it doesn't take me ten minutes to brush my teeth.
Every monday it's the same. Sunday nights I find myself detoriated into a quivering chaos, waking before the dawning of the monday exhausted with my frazzled, unorganised inclinations, throwing myself through a blur of trains or cars, doubling back because I've forgotten that USB, that foam core board, that craft knife, that analysis, trying to breathe deeply through the drive to the station, stubbornly avoiding the digital clock on my dash which I KNOW is accelerating but not even to a pace close to the speed my mind's running..... Hoping I don't miss the train.
I fall into Uni, and a vacant euphoria settles over me. I feel like air, my bones hollow, my blood light as cloud-bound rain. (Is that light? I hope so. Or else I just sounded like a noob.) And with this a clarity - a clarity in which I conceive another set of organisation methods, more procedures to implement, and I feel reborn and capable again.
I come home, I tidy my room, stick notes on the wall, gather myself together, make lists.
And then the rewound ball of twine of my existence slowly unravels again as the days come, one after the other.
And sunday comes again.
I realise books have something to do with this. Books, I think, might ultimately be my downfall. I rally at Dan Brown at the moment, even while I gobble up his pages.
Ess once verbalised to me something which I'd always suspected of myself. My room reflects how I feel inside. At the moment I will paint you a picture, for it might more easily convey the Indi of the moment (one who just missed her train and has decided in resignation to stay home today. PN: I need to find somewhere I can work. Uni doesn't seem to be suitable, neither does home with all its distractions.... or is it more a mind frame I have to find, rather that a real dimension? Or a combination of both? I wish I had a studio. I always tell myself to turn my room into a studio, with a bed adjacent, but that never seems to work either. I feel like I'm too big for it. I need a giant table and Goliath's shelves, scuffed wooden floors, a bay window covered in cushions with a green, leafy expanse beyond.... but now I'm fantasising.)
I have very little floor because a double mattress consumes most of it. A mattress that has no right to be there, no matter how comfortable it is. I have a double bed which I adore beside it, currently a twisted disaster zone of blankets, tissues, jackets and vests, and a hastily thrust-aside copy of Angels and Demons; and a set of drawers next to that laden with relatively few objects - my iPod Sirius, my red headphones, The Da Vinci Code, cds which I never use, a few books; and next to that, a wooden cupboard filled with paper, art pads (sketch, canvas, watercolour, bank) and other arty-things clustered together in what little space there is. I have on the opposite wall a desk covered in paper and assorted mark-makers, the walls covered in notes and pictures of tattoos I'm meant to have done for people, roiling my stomach with each glance, heavy with guilt and procrastination; I have shelves rising above my desk, tottering with cups full of pens, textas, pencils and gathered bits and pieces (buttons, a badge, a tiny teapot, an anklet made of tiny silver cogs) and books (journals never filled, drawings, language books, dictionaries. Propped up by a snowglobe). The carved wooden box at the foot of my bed is piled high with blankets, my own and my sisters, a silver handbag (a foreign article, my sisters, atop a Spiderman blanket), cloth bags full of books, and shoes scatter what little floor space there is around it.
The floor not covered by mattress is occupied by paper and dog toys. Nearly all available door knobs are strung with bags.
It looks like someone has detonated an Indi inside.
But it is Tuesday, not so detached from Monday, so I will breathe and tidy, and I will start again. If Time is testing me, I will pass.
Words cannot describe just how unorganised I am. But inevitably I will try.
Time, at the moment, probably bored with its conservative existence, has fixed its mischevious attention on me. I am probably only the ten billionth of billions, but it's irritating all the same.
It jumps in bounds. It shifts itself subtly around me so I don't even notice I'm moving till the clock reads five minutes past the deadline. This morning was particularly shocking. I swear it doesn't take me ten minutes to brush my teeth.
Every monday it's the same. Sunday nights I find myself detoriated into a quivering chaos, waking before the dawning of the monday exhausted with my frazzled, unorganised inclinations, throwing myself through a blur of trains or cars, doubling back because I've forgotten that USB, that foam core board, that craft knife, that analysis, trying to breathe deeply through the drive to the station, stubbornly avoiding the digital clock on my dash which I KNOW is accelerating but not even to a pace close to the speed my mind's running..... Hoping I don't miss the train.
I fall into Uni, and a vacant euphoria settles over me. I feel like air, my bones hollow, my blood light as cloud-bound rain. (Is that light? I hope so. Or else I just sounded like a noob.) And with this a clarity - a clarity in which I conceive another set of organisation methods, more procedures to implement, and I feel reborn and capable again.
I come home, I tidy my room, stick notes on the wall, gather myself together, make lists.
And then the rewound ball of twine of my existence slowly unravels again as the days come, one after the other.
And sunday comes again.
I realise books have something to do with this. Books, I think, might ultimately be my downfall. I rally at Dan Brown at the moment, even while I gobble up his pages.
Ess once verbalised to me something which I'd always suspected of myself. My room reflects how I feel inside. At the moment I will paint you a picture, for it might more easily convey the Indi of the moment (one who just missed her train and has decided in resignation to stay home today. PN: I need to find somewhere I can work. Uni doesn't seem to be suitable, neither does home with all its distractions.... or is it more a mind frame I have to find, rather that a real dimension? Or a combination of both? I wish I had a studio. I always tell myself to turn my room into a studio, with a bed adjacent, but that never seems to work either. I feel like I'm too big for it. I need a giant table and Goliath's shelves, scuffed wooden floors, a bay window covered in cushions with a green, leafy expanse beyond.... but now I'm fantasising.)
I have very little floor because a double mattress consumes most of it. A mattress that has no right to be there, no matter how comfortable it is. I have a double bed which I adore beside it, currently a twisted disaster zone of blankets, tissues, jackets and vests, and a hastily thrust-aside copy of Angels and Demons; and a set of drawers next to that laden with relatively few objects - my iPod Sirius, my red headphones, The Da Vinci Code, cds which I never use, a few books; and next to that, a wooden cupboard filled with paper, art pads (sketch, canvas, watercolour, bank) and other arty-things clustered together in what little space there is. I have on the opposite wall a desk covered in paper and assorted mark-makers, the walls covered in notes and pictures of tattoos I'm meant to have done for people, roiling my stomach with each glance, heavy with guilt and procrastination; I have shelves rising above my desk, tottering with cups full of pens, textas, pencils and gathered bits and pieces (buttons, a badge, a tiny teapot, an anklet made of tiny silver cogs) and books (journals never filled, drawings, language books, dictionaries. Propped up by a snowglobe). The carved wooden box at the foot of my bed is piled high with blankets, my own and my sisters, a silver handbag (a foreign article, my sisters, atop a Spiderman blanket), cloth bags full of books, and shoes scatter what little floor space there is around it.
The floor not covered by mattress is occupied by paper and dog toys. Nearly all available door knobs are strung with bags.
It looks like someone has detonated an Indi inside.
But it is Tuesday, not so detached from Monday, so I will breathe and tidy, and I will start again. If Time is testing me, I will pass.
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