fourth floor feminism | sociable speculation

I got the link to One Good Move from the Blog column of The Big Issue, and I have to admit it is my essential US Politics reading each evening. The editor is a big fan of House and often puts up clips, but the majority of the entertainment is from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, both US political satire shows. If you like the taster below, I recommend dipping into the archives, as many haha's will ensue. For my money the selections below are the two things that make One Good Move's presence on my favourites toolbar the wisest addition I have made in a long time. *QuickTime is needed* Be Afraid, This Is How They Really See Us This is a clip from The Daily Show with the silver fox Jon Stewart *reowr* He is reporting on the US soccer team, but it is his description of Australians, met with hilarious laughter by the studio audience, that made me shudder instead of laugh. Red Card In my opinion, one can never know too much about how other countries view you ... ...

Ah, NOW we are part of the Beautiful Game! In the 83rd minute we were bored and falling asleep, in the 93rd minute we were punching the air and I was chanting 'Futbol! Futbol! Futbol!' I am glad I got to see Australia's maiden victory in the World Cup. Next game ... Braaaaaaaasiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil!

Monica, in real life and on her now inactive blog Th'inkwell , is pretty much my idol when it comes to writing about politics. She sent me this article in reply to my post Baby Steps.

This is saying what I wanted to say in the last post, only better. *sigh* A speech by David Foster Wallace last year at the commencement of the Arts Degree of a major US university.

Introduction : Know Thyself When I first got to London I read all four broadsheets and all four tabloids each day for the EA's media cuttings service. This threw me into the deep end of commentators and ideologies, as I saw the same stories rendered differently for each spectrum of the British newspaper reading public, from the retired Army officers who read the Daily Telegraph to the artists that read The Guardian to the *cough* less educated who read The Sun. I developed a fondness for The Times that remains today, despite the fact that most people would assume that my natural home would be The Guardian. I found, in the midst of all that newsprint, that I have an intellectual habit that was obviously formed at home from reading The West Australian, The Australian and The Bulletin and informed my adaptation to the newspapers of Britain. I only ever take my reviews of popular culture from the journals that align themselves with my ideology because I am a fan of popular culture...

Around my birthday sometime I sold out to The Man. My boss was required for four weeks on one of our regional projects and I was left to commence the busiest and most crucial part of 2006 without his guidance, input and ability to approve my purchases. My job quickly took over my life, eating up 10 hours a day, my weekends, my dreams and my every waking hour. I was a bore to talk to because all the topics that I talked about covered my work - fascinating and challenging as it was for me, it was shop talk, and most of my listeners were not interested. The most alarming result of this bout of workaholicism is that I stopped reading, stopped watching movies, stopped going out, stopped my hobbies and my mind was caught in a treadmill of work, work, work. It was different and I loved it, but I missed my hobbies and my relaxation time. My boss is back, and because I can now hand the hard work over to him, my life is my own again! Hopefully next time I will learn to compartmentalise my ...

Thank you to Jacinta for the photos and the excellent Australia Day on her boat! This is Jacinta and I channelling our English selves with a jug of Pimms and lemonade - get an eyeful of those cucumber bits! Jen, myself and Louella in front of the Kings Park skyline. Yours truly, Jacinta and Jen with a little bit of South Perth over our shoulders.

It was The Turbanator's evening off, so the Daughter of the British Raj, The Prince of Port-of-Spain and the Captain of the Dubai International Cricket team decided to create the Cottesloe Beach Two Over Evening Beach Cricket Series. Play started at 6.50pm in front of the elegant limestone facade of the Indiana Teahouse on Cottesloe Beach, with a thin crowd of dinner time bathers watching languidly from the lawn. The bowling was consistent, the batting erratic and The Prince got The Turbanator out on her first bowl (yay me), the red tennis ball hitting the milk crate with a sound altogether different to the sound of leather on willow. The Turbanator ended up taking the series however with four overs of excellent batting, including a six dropped right into the surf. The Daughter of the British Raj came second with some steady batting leaving The Prince and The Captain in a tie for third due to flashy batting that lead to the only two catches of the game. While The Daughter of...

Some photos from my stay in Yallingup ... Look at that smile! Daphne and Jodie doing the 'beach run' thing. Daphne and I playing chasey.

It is the classic coming of age motif, that moment when you finally see your family as a looming wardrobe with the spidery, skeletal hands of your relatives’ past wriggling the door open, scaring you witless. In my arrogance and anger when I got home, I ripped that door open and looked straight into the empty eye sockets of the hatreds and loves that drive the adults in my family. There are truly impressive currents that run below the smooth waters of anyone’s life, currents set by grandparents, swum against by parents and now reaching my cousins and I as we finally see that our ups and downs are not entirely our own, but amplified by the ripples from cruel rocks thrown many generations before. My uncles and aunts now talk to me as a fully-fledged adult, and the more they reveal about my parents and my two families (long intertwined before my parents met and married), the more I see myself as if in one of those carnival mirrors, endlessly repeated in the same form, but in different d...

… but I miss feeling like I am a moving part of the structure of the city I am in. The Tube Map was as familiar as my own limbs; I knew the limits and the arcs of the joints and muscles that propelled me along the bones of the transport system (within reason of course, goddamn delays). I particularly enjoyed absorbing the intersections between all the parts of the city, separating the layers of settlement in my mind so I could envisage the melding of the peripheral market towns into suburbs and leaving them mere tube stops and mainline stations to remember their former independent glory. Perth is a created city, not an organic one. Only five or six suburbs around the Central Business District can boast the natural feel of an area grown instead of an area planned. And even these suburbs are village-like only for those on the sidewalk, because in this city of cars, you only see your surroundings in the frame of the windscreen. As I got behind the wheel of my old car for the first tim...

My God I am glad to be back on Yallingup beach. Yallingup’s importance to me is almost inexplicable. I could spend pages explaining the habits formed over my lifetime of family holidays in Yallingup that shaped how I view holidays, my relationship with my siblings and to some extent the very way I relax and think. That stretch of beach, that headland , those waters are a core part of my ability to be happy in life, and at no time have I felt that fact like Friday night, when I stood on that beach again after two years missing it every day. I didn’t KNOW there was a weight on my heart until I stood on the ice-cold black of the sand, in the roar of the midnight surf, saw the constellations of my childhood trying to outshine the full moon laying down a silver pathway to the horizon and I was truly happy. I hadn’t REALISED there was a curb to my imagination until I stood in the freezing cold afternoon sea, squinting into the waves frosted white gold with the setting sun, diving under the...

The image of the sun and the sky flashing through trees, light and shade alternating as you travelled, is familiar visual shorthand for travel and change. I am a passenger a lot these days in cars, buses and trains, and as the sunlight gets harsher with the passing weeks, my thoughts on my new life in Perth flicker from dark to light in time with the trees and buildings casting their shade momentarily on my sunglasses. These journeys around Perth give me a lot of time to think as I gaze out into the long awaited and shatteringly bright light, my headphones feeding me the music I think particularly well to, the more accomplished coastal punk that is the oeuvre of Perth’s best bands. The old songs scroll memories across my mind, the new songs attach themselves to the welter of new feelings that I handle every week and I stare into the blue, just trying to sort it all out. There is a very long piece of writing sitting in my drafts folder that was supposed to have been posted about Jan...

When I was a secretary at ADI, spending my days: a) writing up tutorials for my Uni course, b) having countless running email conversations with workmates and Kristen in Canberra, and c) not really doing anything I had a vast word file of all the jokes I had ever received. I am sure I have it SOMEWHERE in my box of important papers, but this one, recently sent to me again, was one of my all time favourites. I use the phrase ‘full contact origami’ all the time, usually during my ‘torment a barfly’ routine during which I tell sozzled Lotharios that I am a retired World Bootscooting champion who is looking to move into acting in karaoke video clips and was born on Ayers rock because my mum wanted me to channel Azaria Chamberlain’s spirit. Blessed are the jokers, because they will get mates rates at the bar in heaven. The following was published in The New York Times. This is a NYU college admissions application essay question, and an actual answer written by an applicant: Qu...

The smell of Australian summer is toasted grass and sand pounded by the sun so it is only moments from turning to glass. A proper white sand and Indian Ocean beach at midday is a coruscant mirror of blue and white, shards of it splintering off to impale your eyes and flay the soles off your feet. The heat slams you down whilst it compels you to levitate in your haste to make the shade. In the bush the heat crawls into your ears with the low hum of the land choking and the insects and animals panting and it pushes out your energy until you can feel your strength running in silver, salty floods down your skin. I walked to the lunch bar today and while yesterday I was able to cope without sunglasses, today I needed their blessed shade. As I passed over freshly mown cooch grass my nostrils flared and I could smell that unique smell of singed grass being baked into a slice of grey-brown summer lawn, leaven with the fried sandy soil of the Perth coastal plain. It is hot over here, it i...

Last night I went to see one of Australia’s favourite popular scientific writers give a talk at UWA. Tim Flannery is an interesting character and if you want to get a bit of a background, here are some good links – Tim’s statement on Perth’s possibility of surviving the global warming and what his critics think of him. Flannery did indeed change Australia’s way of thinking about its impact on the environment with The Future Eaters, and he is a constant voice in the media reminding us that we can have both positive and negative impacts on the environment. His talk was fascinating, very Bill Bryson in that he gave you the figures, then broke them down into manageable sound bytes of data that were compared to quantities we understand from daily life. Regarding global warming for example he told us that the last significant rise in global temperature was a rise of 7 degrees over 7,000 years about 15,000 years ago. It is predicted that the global temperature will rise 3.4 degrees ove...

insanely sociable is no longer really useful to anyone now. It has been six weeks now since I came home and I still have nothing to put up, so I am folding up this little venture until my next adventure. I figure you can safely come back, oh, about March 2007 and you will be reading about either Paris or Dublin, depending on how I am feeling when I apply for my next visa! There will be some gradual changes to the blog, some articles that were in draft and will be finished, but don't hold your breath. It has been great writing for you readers, and I hope you have enjoyed it as well. I'll be back ...

When I was seventeen I saw Les Miserables and was introduced to one of my favourite theories on life – the concept that there are only a limited number of narratives in life, and everyone in the past, present and future can only live by one of these finite number of arcs. A little time ago I was so appalled with a book I had been reading that as a calming exercise I mapped out the frustratingly small selection of romantic arcs literature allows female protagonists to follow and tried to create a believable subversion of each. Now I find myself writing about my daily life along a similarly limited and well-known track. As a returning traveller writing about the familiar as the unfamiliar, I am beginning to realise I need to subvert this well worn path just to remain interested in writing anything at all. At the moment the restraints on my writing are rigid and profoundly limiting. All my descriptve devices and observational habits were formed when I was in a completely different cou...

There are two layers to my return to Perth and, like my feelings about leaving London, both are so powerful that my life seems to be lived in stark black and white, yet strangely muffled, as if they are cancelling each other out. The culture of Perth leaves me cool and bored at the moment, the mentality of blending in at all costs has already rendered the strangers on the street faceless grey extras, nowhere near the endlessly fascinating tapestry that Londoners were for me. The weather may be beautiful, but the physical man-made environment is unadventurous and too familiar to intrigue me and the natural wonders of the outback and bush are only mine when I have money and a car. So the pubs and the clubs issued their siren call of alcohol and dancing, sexy bodies and frantic posing and on Saturday night I went out to Subiaco, the upper end of the nightspots in Perth. There was a long line for the club, a strict dress code of ‘fabulous or forget it’, tall AFL footballers swaggering st...