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

The colours faded with distance and time, the cliff had been scaled on threads of life; blue chokers of raging silence, silver slices of pain inflicted, golden shreds of arrogance indulged, red blinkers of longing for unimportant things. Once breathing freely on the plateau the colours reached equilibrium with her life. The icy rages were tamed by surprising new opportunities into the lush green of goals. The quick silver of her mind was beaten into iron for every day use. She found glory not in the trophy fleeces of gold but the gentle carding and spinning of her experience into the modest white handkerchiefs and bandages applied to hurts. Most importantly the red ran into the black and was absorbed, the time of longing became one with the time before the longing. The black had reached back, and brought her more than she had sought. The flashing, astonishing years of her travels and her return had so obscured parts of her own essence that when she was finally still and balanced, her...

She wore a large ring on her left hand, its black and silver bulk reaching to the first joint. She wore it on her ring finger, but she had bought it herself, and every day she slid it onto her ring finger because it fit no other to her satisfaction. Only infrequently did she look at the ring and wonder what it meant to other people, sitting on that finger. It was obviously a cocktail ring, of onyx and marquisite. Handsome certainly, but not a ring that could be mistaken for an engagement ring; there was no gold, no diamonds, no fiancé. She loved its bulk, its antique lines and its square black stone. She loved it because she had bought it in the City in which she felt most herself, at a time when she had been free to wear her heart on her sleeve. For the first year of the ring resting on her finger, the significance of its place on her left hand was irrelevant as so many other things defined her to others. Her life had been expansive and full, unbounded by thoughts of needing or find...

There are places that, despite the fact that you have never been, you feel you know as well as you know your hometown. Listening to the news from Kenya today I heard the names of towns I have known all my life. They are the Kenyan towns in which my mother spent her childhood; Mum and her siblings were born in Kisumu, Nairobi and Mombasa, but they lived in Nakuru , Eldoret and Naivasha . I asked Mum today what she remembers of Naivasha, and she talked of the beauty of the town and the lake pink with flamingos. Of the political landscape my Grandmere remembers that the Luo were the shopkeepers, stereotyped by others as stupid, but in fact clever, whereas the Kikuyu were the intellectuals. The news reports may be from Rift Valley towns that are just names and black and white photos of my Mum to me, but the violence does not just seem closer to home, it is in my home, because those towns are part of my history. As is the rusty, but still scary machete, or panga, my Grandmere has in...

According to glowing reports there are only a few people in the world who would be unhappy to wake up on a Saturday morning with David Beckham. Granted I only woke up to see a photo of him on the cover of a magazine, but I still found myself as disgruntled with his presence in my Saturday morning as I was uncomfortable watching the video installation in the National Portrait Gallery of Beckham sleeping (there was an uncomfortable moment in the video when you can see both of Beckham's hands, and then one disappears offscreen). Of late the merest hint of Britain has started me pining, but seeing Beckham on the cover of a weekend magazine genuinely gave me pause this morning. For a split second I imagined myself back in London and joyously contemplated taking the tube to Kensington and the Museums, then I was back to reality and the lukewarm excitement of Beckham’s pectoral muscles. When I first got to London in late 2003 I was in charge of the Evangelical Alliance’s cuttings and I ...

32 Days until I experience L-Space when reading Terry Pratchett, and not because I can't find a book in the Reid Library. Today I was read a historical monograph of the benandanti of the Fruili region of Italy in the 16th Century. The epically named The Night Battles is a fabulous read, mostly for the extraordinary images of the male witches of the region fighting with fennel and sorghum stalks to determine the fertility of the land and the nefarious Inquisition transforming their agrarian Holy Legions to Demonic Legions by sheer bloody-mindedness. Aquileia Basilica Fruili is the only region of Italy I have actually visited, and the towns of Trieste, Montefalcone and Aquileia mentioned in the text are the towns I know from my few days there with Kim . While reading The Night Battles I could picture the region as I remember it, although my visit in 2003 is separated by oceans of time and context from my reading today. Today I am looking forward to the end of my year of s...

In honour of the release of The Bourne Ultimatum I had decided to make my 'kill-some-brain-cells-to-unwind-before-I-go-to-bed' reading the first of Robert Ludlum's oeuvre I had ever read. Plunging back into the fantastic Corsican landscape with Scofield took me right back to the start of my love of assassins. It was USSR (uninterrupted sustained silent reading) in Yr 7 and as my classmates commenced their Judy Blume and Paul Jennings novellas I pulled out The Materese Circle. Frankly disbelieving, my teacher pulled the schools’ Head Girl up the front to ask in a shocked whisper if my parents knew I was reading the book. I blithely assured him that I was a precocious reader and this was shaping up to be as good a Frederick Forsyth. I was released to read more about the nefarious aims of the USSR (Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) in the conspiratorial and overblown style of Mr Ludlum and in the next book I went on to meet my favourite of Robert’s assassins, Jason Bourne...

In winter last year I was alone in my apartment listening to a storm break around my balcony and reading Beowulf on the couch in a blanket. Falling asleep I dreamt of viking verses and when awake composed my own, incomparably inferior, for my own amusement. Again today the wind is sweeping in from the coast and today, unseasonally warm for spring, has again woken the undistinguished yet unbowed poet within me. We perch before the wind on this scarp of brittle land It bows our trees and scours our beaches and drives the fires on It takes the sun and threads our skin with heat in every strand We perch beneath the blue sky on this slice of salted earth It draws our eyes and drinks our water and meets the sea at last It takes the wind and hurls it down upon the green and burnt We perch, we plunder, we partition, we preserve We persecute, we plow, we plead We pray, we take our pleasure and we play with vultures perched.

It may have been a small turn for mankind, but it was a big turn for me. I cooked my first BBQ meats without male supervision tonight. To perfection. Which is a good thing because it was Father's Day and Dad had especially requested lamp chops and sausages, so I had to make sure it was done well. :) And by golly was it done well! And not well done either, but medium rare, just the way we like it. I even ensured I maintained the 'Aussie Male BBQing Stance' for the duration of the cooking to guarantee optimum BBQing feng shui. Or something. All Aussie men take 'The Stance' when BBQing, although they almost always have a beer in the hand that rests near the hip while the other hand uses the tongs to turn the meat. My variation was a lady-like hand on a pastel-clad hip while I turned the roasting meats. Still, it worked well.

Today Sophie hosted a beautiful High Tea at her house for her 23rd Birthday, with the special guest appearance of a birthday cake made from The Woman's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book. Sophie's mother (hereafter referred to as the Legendary Mrs Hall) had provided the following to make her daughter's guests feel as if they were safe amongst the hedgerows and moors of Somerset or Devon: The Legendary Mrs Hall's Menu: Cucumber sandwiches, ham sandwiches and cheese pastries. Chocolate slice and scones, jam and cream. A cake from The Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book and matching cupcakes. Iced tea, champagne, juice, tea and coffee. The party was exclusive and gracious, the Legendary Mrs Hall and Mr Hall fabulous hosts and the food was top-notch nosh. The cheese pastries were tasty, the cucumber sandwiches tart, the chocolate slice rich, the scones bite sized and the marshmallow icing on the dense sponge cake and cupcakes heavenly. Am...

Charlie is from Sri Lanka and has only rudimentary English (far better than my Sri Lankan though). Charlie is gorgeous; tall, broad and velvety. I think Charlie is having a hard time though, because he was, I suspect, a playboy in Sri Lanka. Here he is finding it hard to do ALL his charming non-verbally. He is no slouch at communication though. Delectable in repose, his eyes and his smile communicate oodles of devotion and appreciation with only a smattering of innocuous English words to distract you when he is leaning over you. As you try to piece together his sentences you find yourself glued to a strong dark gaze when you are not dazzled by his grin. I would love to see him operate in his native tongue, I predict he is lethal.

Once upon a time a medieval philosopher told a story about a bird flying from an unknown place of origin through a mead-hall to an unknown destination. The philosopher believed that religion was able to explain the significance of the flight of that bird; the dark from which it came, it’s time in the light of the mead-hall and the dark to which it was returning. The version of the story I heard held that the philosopher was a Christian, telling his story in a pagan mead-hall, and that he succeeded in converting his audience using the metaphor of the bird in flight for the meaning of our life on this earth. I have had my own experience of seeing that bird fly through the mead-hall in which I was sitting, but the religious and scientific philosophers seeking to illuminate the glorious flight of human existence were, to my mind, perched on another cusp of the evolution of knowledge. Religion and philosophy are the explicators of the fact that for humans there is the unknowable; they are...