fourth floor feminism | sociable speculation

Parasol Installer: Germaine Parasol Painter: Yours truly Reason: Why buy when you can do your own? The scene: A street festival over run with small children sporting funkily styled paper parasols, apparently there was some kind of stall that allowed the creation of said useful articles in the fight against skin cancer. The final straw: A yellow parasol with pink poodles wearing aqua scarves – truly, how do these kids get so good at art? I decided I must throw my hat (parasol?) in the ring. The adult with the colouring-in urge: Your correspondent, with patient Ariel in tow, deciding to perpetrate her utterly derivative and often dire artistic skills upon a snow white parasol. Art: I am not a good artist at all, at best I am passable, but I do have a knack for using my limited resources to produce something not too bad at all. My theory is that my tools have certain inherent possibilities that even my lack of skill can turn into something that doesn't make small children c

I have a new mobile that I kinda chose because it reputably had a great camera ... I am initially unconvinced!

Poet: Emily Dickinson Reason: Getting back on the horse with a dear friend and valued muse So, she is back hey? Monica’s writing is intrinsically bound up with my own because her experience of blogging was the one I followed. It is nice to read her writing again, albeit in a very different style. I particularly like her change to poetry, given that I am endeavouring to read more poetry. In a nod to M and C getting back into the game, one of my favourite of Emily’s poems thus far: As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand – As if I asked the Orient Had it for me a Morn – And it should lift it’s purple Dikes, And shatter Me with Dawn! Emily wrote more than the 1789 poems in the collection that I have, and most of them are far too worthy for me, but there is this cheeky streak to her that ensures the fraction that I love, I flat out adore. I suspect that the power she found to write her difficult and dari

Hardback: Westwood and Simpson's The Lore of the Land Source: A graduation gift from my Nan Reason: The strangest stories! One of my favourite walks was on Yallingup beach when my Dad and I riffed about a certain beachside cave being being the primal source of all surfers in Australia - and then it turned into a more concrete myth in my head, growing to include a nod to my man Attenborough ... A slender dark woman in her forties with a pristine plait that reaches to just between her shoulder blades stands on a beach at sunrise. She has a slight middle-eastern accent and is dressed in a comfortable pale blue linen knee length dress and a graceful but small sunhat. She is barefoot and holds tan leather sandals in her hand. She has pearl studs in her ears. She addresses the camera, Sugarloaf Rock clear in the distance. [To camera] It is dawn and the sand is like ice. The rising sun hits the water first, the shore and vegetation remaining dark for long moments. It is here,

Hey Craig ! It is quite thrilling to receive an email asking where my writing has disappeared to; being missed by a reader is a great thing. The style, motivation and topics of my next era of writing is still nebulous, although that being said I have been a little inspired by two very different theories ... During my thesis year I based an entire Post-Modernism essay around the concepts of orders of magnitude from this talk by Richard Dawkins . Although not beloved by my lecturers I treasure the piece, and it was forcibly brought to the forefront of my mind when I read this piece from the New Perspectives Quarterly . I could see the concepts and words of my Post-Modernism essay mutate before my very eyes, the newly encountered ideas changing the nature of the old ideas, leading me to my favourite contemplation – words, and how they hold back the dark. In moments of extreme introspection I wonder if, when I write, do I patiently cutting the white page into letter shaped holes throug

Publications: Grazia and The Big Issue Source: The Mainstream Media and The Alternative Media, both $5 Reason: To know what those on either side are thinking The Big Issue and Grazia are my favourite magazines, and I read them from cover to cover, except for one section in each. I never read the one serious story in Grazia because I read Grazia for the fashion, and the worthy news story is always stuck in the middle of the mag, laughably out of place alongside the articles encouraging vapid consumerism. In The Big Issue I never read the CD/Music reviews because, unlike all those music snobs out there, I don’t give the proverbial about what other people think about my music. Both publications are obsessed with the Michelle and Barack though, so that’s something.

Postcard (L): Red Shoes from Ely Possession (R): Glitter Shoes from Nine West Reason: On the scale of a girl’s life, the point at which one has enough shoes actually sits beyond the point of death ‘Twas the Friday before the Month o’Christmas Parties and I had to sate the hungry maw of my wardrobe. I have finally embraced the reality of my work uniform being a pretty dress and high heels, and now I can only really justify a purchase if it can hold its own at the theatre after coming straight from work. Thus the fabulous red shoes on Ely’s card are conjured into existence in a slightly different colour, but with the same pizzaz; ready to convey me through the Festive Season in tinsel-ly style, if not in comfort.

Prop: taken from the stage of Papercut Source: 3rd Year Contemporary Performance at WAAPA Scene: Love Letter to the Broken Hearted Marisa Garreffa told me the first time I gushed about a show of hers that she just wanted to help everyone “find their inner clown”. Tonight I heard her laugh with abandon at the jokes that she surely knew were coming – she collaborated on and directed the piece after all. Laughing at your own jokes means a healthy approach to one’s own genius! Papercut was truthful and kind, paralleled by the punter on my right who felt sorry for me in the theatre by myself and chatted to me as if I were a long lost friend; thus it was a night of gentle thoughts and good manners.

Postcarder: Gidget, sometimes known as Woodsprite Source: Hawaii Scene: Orange and Hot Pink sunset, coconut palms, glitter. The glitter really sells it. Gidget is a surfer, and my favourite pieces of writing from her are her love letters to the swell. I relish the delicacy of her descriptions, arising from a spiritual and technical experience of the liquid forces that carry her each day. I have had my fair share of waxing lyrical about the watery depths , but I never do it as much justice as those who should have been born with gills! Gidget