Dad and LittleTyke

...all in a laid-back afternoon.

PhotoHunt: Purple

It's been a while since I've done PhotoHunt, but what the hey. Sometimes you have to just up and follow the sign that says "Disappear Here" for a while.

So now it's all exciting and a challenge again. When I found that the challenge was "Purple", the first thing I did was look around my flat too see what I had in that colour. Funny, it's got to be my favourite colour, but I really only own a tie that is purple, and that's it in the clothes department.

My current sheets are that colour, but I'm not really interested in taking pictures of them.

Hmmph. It's going to be harder than I thought.

Then I looked a little closer. Dammit, I sit on it every day. Duh! My couch throw is a great hand-knitted mixture of different purples and a little black. Idiot! The answer is always under your arse if you look!

Converse

"The most important thing I look for in a musician is whether he knows how to listen."
- Duke Ellington

Think about that one. The context that I came across this quote in was a section of a book regarding jamming - getting together as a group to create music, to just play. To function individually toward a common, often undetermined goal.

For me, it echoes out into life. I think whether you know how to listen is the most important thing in any person.

Take my experience recently of hitting it off with a complete stranger while we sat and shared a section of gutter. We started off discussing a local point of interest and ended up talking about various places we'd lived, and a hell of a lot in between. This conversation wouldn't have been possible if we didn't have the skills to listen and respond accordingly. That tiny amount of time spent has become to me one of the best things that I have encountered lately - to engage in a fascinating conversation with a complete stranger.

It's one of the things I miss about customer service. There was more opportunity to meet strangers and hear their stories. A lot only had interest in telling, rather than responding. They didn't know how to listen, and I did. Cool, because I was being paid to do it, but it lessens the interaction. The few that you meet that converse, actually listen and respond in a cyclic fashion... They're worth their weight in gold.

Reasons To Smoke

No-one likes a quitter.

Strangenesses

Today I found myself sitting in a gutter having a really interesting conversation with a complete stranger.

Life throws some weird things at you sometimes.

Postcards from Wallsend II

As promised earlier here are a few more shots of graffiti goodness found in Wallsend, Newcastle.

Take a walk along Ironbark Creek, which really turns out to be a storm drain, and you'll come across a few of these beauties:

A whole-wall collaboration:



The best portion of a wall that stretched forever (and also more of the face theme):



More of the face theme again, this time under a roadway.

Backyard Snail Relocation Program*

*also known as "Photographing a Better Snail"



Meet Mister Gastropod, our relocation test subject for today. Mister Gastropod tends to hang out on the fence. He'll move by gliding along on his foot, making his path slippery with mucus on the way. With this slippy gunge making movement easier, Mister Gastropod conracts the muscles of his foot in waves in order to reach amazing land speeds of 1mm per second. When he hangs out on the fence, though, he doesn't get into the movement thing very much. He becomes boring. He washes out onto the colourbond background too easily. He is not particularly photogenic. Hence, he becomes an ideal candidate for the Backyard Snail Relocation Program.

Mister Gastropod adapts to a change in location very easily. Unsuspecting, he will be hanging out on the fence and The Hand of Vic will descend, plucking him from his inphotogenic slumber and relocating him to a more appealing location. He will wait a few seconds in order to ensure that the Hand of Vic will not intervene and relocate him again. Then he will extend his stalks and check out his new home.

In this picture he's following his nose. Mister Gastropod has two sets of retractable "stalks" that he uses for his sensory needs. Much like us humans, the eyes are at the top and the sniffers are below. So here he's sniffing out any danger through the hole in his new leaf environment before he pokes his eye stalks through to get a look.

And after the shot was taken, The Hand of Vic rested, and will remain at rest until further relocations are required.

Irony

Found outside a Newcastle brothel.



Happy Easter!

Postcards from Wallsend

Went for an early morning wander the other day in search of some cool urban art.

I wandered for miles around backs of buildings, edgers of storm drains and under bridges. This is one section I found - not particularly artistic, but a brilliantly coloured section of wall under a bridge. A great opportunity for a reflection shot...



Also nearby:



And poking his head out from the grass of the same bridge I scored the reflection shot at was this dude:



More later!

Quote of the Day

I hope life isn't just a big joke 'cause I don't get it.

Blast from the past

Time is never time at all
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth
- Tonight, Tonight The Smashing Pumpkins

I've been brushing the accumulated dust off a few of the old albums I've accumulated. In listening to them, I think that I've also been brushing the dust off a few old memories, too.

One of the albums I've brushed down and breathed back into life is The Smashing Pumpkins' Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, which is a two-disc odyssey mainly composed of polar opposites: fuzzed out anger, and sweet lilting love tunes. There's an overall attempt at hopelessness, but honestly it doesn't stick. What I find amazing is that even though I haven't bothered to keep the dust from gathering in layers on the surface of this album, all it takes is one listen to have it all come flooding back. You know what's coming in every song, you anticipate the opening to the next track, all those words are still tucked away in your mind ready to sing along. All without being aware that the knowledge still exists somewhere in there, dormant, but ready to rise given the need.

I think the lyric above - you can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth - can be interpreted in a positive way. Yes, you leave a piece of youth with these things that gather dust in dormancy. But blow the dust off and it's still there waiting to be experienced again. In those moments, time is never time at all.

Alternative furniture

"London-based contemporary design firm Purves & Purves offered a flat-pack DIY cardboard armchair frame along with a package of grass seeds in the summer of 2006, promising outdoor furniture that blends in perfectly with your lawn. You assemble the 14 pieces, fill it with soil, sprinkle the grass seeds over it and watch your new Chia Chair grow right before your eyes. Interesting idea, but mowing it could be a challenge."

Wow! A lawn lounge room! All I need is a lawn coffee table to put my feet up on while I drink my eco-freindly beer by the light of the solar lanterns.

Come to think of it, I could even have an outdoor kitchen with a built-in dual purpose water feature/kitchen sink. Hell, it could have it's own super-fresh salad bar. Plenty of fresh, leafy greens. All you need, right there.

More eBay goodness

Moustache
****slightly used moustache in immaculate condition****

With a starting bid of $150 dollars and $4.20 postage.

Here is the product description:

Four month old untamed moustache, gingery brown in immaculate condition. Long enough to cover the bottom lip but curls nicely upon the top. Stylish and workable, endless possibilities.

Would you do this?

Trawling through the occasional weirdness that is eBay, I came across this wonder:

Item Specifics

Condition:
New

I am selling a big space on my back, 50cm wide, by 75cm long for anyone who wishes to buy it. It would be a perfect opportunity for a small or large business to purchase the space on my back and advertise Their company logo, details and web address through tattooing. I will contact the press, once your purchase has been made, and have them cover the story through newspaper, internet and television news. This gives your business, major free advertising, not just on my back, but via the media who would jump at the opportunity to cover the story of the guy who sold his back for advertising. I will not get anything inappropriate tattoo'd on my back. To sweeten the deal, i will also throw in a 30cm wide and 15cm long spot on my chest as well for a web address, logo or ontact details. The offer isnt just open to advertising, but artists who want there work bought to life , tattoo artists who want their work and them selves exposed in the media.

The guy has put up a Buy It Now price of twelve thousand dollars. At first glance that's a lot. But from the picture provided, the guy is about twenty. Say he'll keep kicking until he's somewhere around seventy-five, as is the life expectancy for males around here. That's fifty-five years of advertising for twelve grand. It works out to be less than sixty cents a day. So this guy will live and die advertising your product for a pittance. Idiot!

Holy Shit it's a meme!

Run. Hide. Drool. Do whatever you do. I'm finaly excited enough to participate in a meme.

"Google your first name and the words: needs, wants, loves, hates, believes, wishes, sleeps, smells, eats, tastes, and realises."

Well, here goes.

I sifted through the first page of results and picked out the doosies each time.

Vic needs

SA doctors ready if Vic needs burns victims support
Well I know that I can be a fiery little bitch sometimes, but really you'll only get a minor scald if you get too close when I let loose. Nice to know I have a whole state on my side, though.

New canola variety just what Vic needs
Dead set? What for? Will it help me lose weight?

The Beast. Old Vic needs a home. No sissies.
This is from craigslist. I have to see more. CLICK.

"Take Vic home. Please.
...
I bought Vic to get through Winter (which we did) and now I want her gone. Love 'em and leave 'em I say."

Thank fuck that Vic turns out to be a car that David is sick of having sitting in his driveway collecting tree sap because I was getting a little worrie there.

Vic needs to find a new job
Yes, yes I do.

Vic needs coffee
Yes, yes I do.

Vic wants

Vic wants it all in one place
Well, not absolutely, but if I didn't have to go very far it would be perfect. Thanks for thinking of me.

VIC wants to see how you "Get Silly"! Show VIC how you "Get Silly"
And you can win a free smack in the head!!!

Vic loves

Vic loves Limp Bizkit
Um, sorry. No.

Vic loves Becks' '25 foot penis'
What the fuck? CLICK.

"It's huge. It's enormous. Massive."

Posh added: "If I looked like that I'd walk down the street in my panties too."

Victoria Beckham has a lot to answer for. And so does David Beckham, obviously.

Vic hates

Vic hates: Hangovers, having to work
Apparently Vic on Bebo and I have some things in common. Bebo is not one of them.

Victoria is not, and never has any ambitions to be, Sporty Spice. Like the majority of us, she hates the gym and is looking for the easy way out.
Yep. You said it.

Vic hates all sharks. This is a complete lie.
Yes. It is. Sharks are just going about living, and if present ourselves in their environment dressed as food, who can blame them for treating us like food?

Vic believes

Vic believes Barbie is the girl he wants to marry.
You're kidding? Marry a girl without any genitalia?
Fucking idiot.

Vic believes white sharks are killing whales and should not be a protected species
Ah, CORRECTION. That should actually read "Vic believes the Japanese are killing whales and should not be a protected species."
Much better.

Vic wishes

Vic wishes to raise with the inquiry the issue of “R” classifications for electronic games
Actually, I couldn't give much of a shit.

Vic wishes to record its disappointment and concern at the proposed reform
Well, I'm not an it. But I truly am disappointed and concerned that our government's attempt at economic reform consists of giving out our own tax money as a "gift" that appears to not even meet the requirements of our own constitution. We would do better with the country being run by a bunch of trained monkeys. And they could fling poo at our rivals.

Vic sleeps

vic sleeps about 19 hours a day and gets up only for meals
Sometimes I wish that were true. It's pretty much the opposite.

Vic sleeps naked to feel David’s skin
Oh, Posh. Are you sure that 25 foot penis doesn't get in the way?


Vic smells

A lot of people didn’t think it was possible for Vic to get his comeuppance
Including Vic.
Vic smelt a trap, apparently.

"You smell like Vic.", He made a face. "Or Vic smells like me."
well, if we all wear Rexona Men's deodorant and smoke, that's possible.

Vic smells the freedom of anarchy once more
Always. It's in the air down here.

Vic eats

Vic eats filth for breakfast
Hey!
There's no need to be like that!
Typically I don't eat anything for breakfast. Don't even think about piping up about balanced meals and all that shit. Coffee will do.

Vic eats!
... is the title of a picture of some asian man taking a great gobful of chicken into his mouth from a bone he is holding. Congratulations, bud. You look like an idiot. And a pig.

Vic tastes

Vic tastes a "Belgian". Vic is a great sport.
Vic tastes a belgian beer? When it comes to beer tasting, I will always be a great sport.
Bring it on!

Vic realises

Victoria realises that there will be parents who have more than one rider in the family
Yes. It's a revelation, really.
It will change my life one day, I'm sure.

Vic realises ambition but needs big plate of chips
Google, how did you know?

Project: Pair

A while back I bought an old beat-up drum kit from the newspaper. I've been dutifully practising away on it.

But some days...

Some days I just come home and flog it. I put in the ear plugs because I know it's going to get loud, and then I let all the pent-up work frustration out on this poor old kit. Weird thing is that I seem to play better when I put full emotion into it.

Project: Pair

[An object and the shadow created by it]

Project: Pair

In continuation of the pairs theme:



Safety glasses.

Yuck.

Yes, they have a point. I found that out the hard way one night when I was pressure blasting. Typically the water is heated and your entire body will cop a certain amount of splashback of heated, dirty water. Your plastic crappy safety glasses will fog up and be covered in beaded drops of mud, grease and whatever crap you happen to trying to remove from a surface. No windscreen wipers, so I tend to take the things off and squint instead. Well... used to. Until I copped a rather unfortunate splashback straight into my eyes of degreaser that I had sprayed onto the surface in question. I had vision problems - stinging sensation, loss of peripheral vision and light sensitivity - for days and it was all my own fault for not wearing safety glasses.

They're still yuck.

But important.

Project: Pair

I challenged my sister Kat to yet another photo project. She's doing a bucketload better than I am this time - the project was to use pair as an inspiration. On the whole I'm stuck in a rut. Mentally, photographically, physically.

I've taken a few shots, but the concept in my head for those shots has not translated into the physical. They lack interest, definition, focus. Kind of like my thoughts at the moment! Never the less, I'll slog on and see if something comes out of brutal bullheadedness today. So far this is one success that I've had:

In which Vic huffs and puffs and swears a lot

Lately, due to the unfortunate demise of my car (an incident involving large amounts of oil loss, a sleep on the side of the road, a few kilometres walk and eventual abandonment of the offending vehicle), I have resorted to the "Track and Treadley" method of getting to work on those days that the Roster Gods decide to bestow a shift upon me.

Generally I'll hop on the bike at about half past three in the morning and zoom on down to the station. It's about a ten minute ride. Not far, and only one bitchy uphill in it all. The rest is exhilaratingly downward - especially when you've not long been awake. Actually, when you're still really not awake. A quick sling of the treadley over the shoulder, slog up and over on the stairs and I'm there: a platform that seems like it's on the edge of nowhere. The Last Outpost Before the Crossing of The Great Swamp. But here's where the fun begins. Here there is no ticket machine.

Well you just hop on don't you? There's no such thing as turnstiles at the other end around here. You get on, you get off. Mostly it's honour and policing.

Honour. Pffft. I could buy a ticket at the other end. There's a ticket machine where I step off. But why buy a ticket when you know that you've already scored the ride for free?

It's also become a bit of a fuck you stance on my behalf. We're pushed all the time to utilise public transport, yet it takes you four times as long to get anywhere. And cost? You want me to pay my taxes and then shell out on top of that another four bucks for a ten minute trip on a train that runs only once an hour and sometimes, occasionally, gets to the station on time? Fuck you.

Uhuh. Fuck you... until the potential of getting busted looms. Lack of honour meets policing.

Like last night. I hopped on at my station, contemplating what I was going to do with myself being nearly an hour early for work. I was in the midst of a hazy locker-organising dream when I spied the pair of befatted blue uniformed transport cops working their way toward me from the back of the carriage. Fuck you became Aww FuckIt! rather quickly. I'd cleaned my wallet out completely at home and left not a cent in there, so I couldn't even fall back on the idea of buying a ticket at the other end. What if I pretend I'm asleep? Nope, they saw me get on with my shining silver steed. What if I say I'll buy a return on the way home? Nope. These people are pretend cops, puffed up on their own authority. Not a chance in hell. BAIL!!!

Luckily, some poor bitch was in the same predicament as I was, and a little closer to them. She held them up for just enough ticket-writing time for me to get lined up at the doors to bail at the next station. So fine was the timing that one of them even offered to help me with my bike at the door.

Escaped! Phew!

Now I am at a station halfway between home and work. My regular station, The Last Outpost Before the Crossing of The Great Swamp has been left far behind and we're now right in the middle of it. I am now at The Birthplace of Mosquito. Seriously, the people here have followed the Australian supersizing tradition and have stuck a big mosquito likeness on a pole to show what they are famous for. The next train is a whole blood-draining hour away. And it will arrive after I am due to start work.

Aww FUCKIT!

So I huffed and puffed and swore a lot. I slogged away on the trusty treadley, headed for work the hard way, huffing more and puffing more and swearing quite a lot more.

Have I learned my lesson? Maybe enough to carry four bucks with me just in case. Probably not. The danger of being caught is still by far outweighed by my views of if the system is fucked, fuck the system.

Juvenile?
Probably.

Cost-effective?

So far.

Quote of the Day

Some days you're the pigeon, some days you're the statue.

You're Welcome.

Domesticity

Confession:

I've never made muffins before.

Or a cake.

Not even from a packet.

I've never felt the need to. If I cook a dozen or so muffins, who is going to eat them? Me? But I only fucking wanted one. By the time you've hauled about and cooked the things, the craving is well over anyway. So, better off not eating them in the first place.

I had a girlfriend a while back who would conveniently do all that for me. She was the dessert queen. I've never been much of a dessert fan, but occasionally get that little craving for a nice ice-cream/cake/pastry creation in the late hours of the evening. Look in the fridge, and there'd be nothing there. But she could make it appear out of thin air. And the best thing was that you didn't really have to ask her to do it. I had her worked out. So did our flatmates. All you had to do get a nice fresh dessert brought out to you, without even lifting your arse an inch away from your precious lounge space, was mention the word to her. It would start a little craving time bomb in her head that she couldn't ignore, and off she'd go and create some taste sensation out of a can of peaches and a bit of pastry. When she left the scene, I stopped with the desserts altogether.

But just every now and then, a twinkle of domesticity appears in my mind.

This afternoon, for the first time ever, armed with a (shameful) packet mix, I hunted around for a muffin tin. And the results were pleasing. I still only really want one muffin out of the dozen that popped out, but what the hey. I could get used to the baking side of life.

Every now and then.

This Week's Pictorial Equation

Ugh.

I'm touring out to my psych's office this morning armed with a list of things I want to do this week and also this month. Also, with a bit of evidence of having started to try to do these things. I'm scared, because her knowing these things will place an expectation on me to actually do them (in my own mind) and therefore an expectation to do them well (also in my own mind).

I'm also petrified that I will be sent to hospital for psych treatment and not allowed out.

Irrational? Yes. Maybe.

Can I stop it? I'm trying, but my mind isn't backing down really easily.

Some days are really good.

Some days are shit.

Maybe I should enrol in a horticulture course. Perhaps learning how shit can work as a fertiliser will make this all a little easier!

For now, though. There's happiness in there. It might be tiny sometimes, but it's still worth finding and holding onto.

Quiz Time!

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Coffee Effiminate?

Taken from A Character of Coffee and Coffee-Houses published in 1661, ten years after the first coffee-house opened in England.

The other Sex hath just cause to curse the day, in
which it was brought into England, Had Women any
sense or spirit, they would remonstrate to his
Majestie, that Men in former times were more able,
then now, They had stronger Backs, and were more
Benevolent, so that Hercules in one night got fifty
Women with Child, and a Prince of Spain as forc’d to
make an Edict, that the Men should not repeat the act
of Coition above nine times a night, for before the
Edict, belike Men did exceed that proportion; That in
this Age, Men drink so many Spirits and Essences, so
much Strong-water, so many several sorts of Wine,
such abundance of Tobacco, and (now at last)
pernicious Coffee, that they are grown as impotent as
Age, as dry and as unfruitful, as they Deserts of
Africk. Having remonstrated this, they would (were
they wise) petition his Majesty to forbid Men the
drinking of effeminating Coffee, and to command
them instead thereof to drink delicious Chocolate.

Be more masculine. Drink chocolate.

Etymologically

In researching the origins of the word Cappuccino I came across this explanation:

Cappuccino means ‘little hood’ or ‘little monk’s cowl.’ Capucchio is ‘hood’ and –ino is a common Italian diminutive ending, hence ‘little hood.’ Capucchio is from Late Latin cappa ‘cap, cape, hooded cloak, small head gear,’ possibly shortened from the Late Latin noun capitulare ‘headdress,’ ultimately from Latin caput ‘head.’

Originally Cappuccino was the Italian term for a Capuchin friar. This Roman Catholic order of friars wore brown robes with pointed hoods. The full title of the order was Ordo Fratrum Minorum Capuccinorum, which translates to The Order of the Friars Minor of the Little Hoods. Their ideals emphasised poverty in order to appeal more to the people. This must have fallen by the wayside a little, because the order is still kicking today and they have their own website. They are apparently still the strictest of the orders, so who knows what the other orders go for in terms of the internet? Preaching via webcam? Podcasts?

The first cappuccino served had little peaks of foam that looked like the hoods of the Capuchin friars, and the colour of the coffee also reminded the Italians of the brown robes the friars wore. In other words, the popular cup was named by visual analogy. Likewise goes for the Capuchin monkey.

"This borrowing of a formal ecclesiastical term to name something secular and lowly is part of the broad, quite healthy, anticlerical, usually anti-Catholic humour that is widespread in Italy. Hundreds of words and phrases mock the omnipresent Roman Catholicism of Italy."

There is a feminine Italian word cappuccina ‘Capuchin nun.’ But on the Roman street it almost always means a salad of mixed herbs and is a not-too-sly reference to the supposed texture of a nun's unsullied pubic hair.

So really, every time you have a Cappuccino, you're participating in taking the piss out of the Catholics. Brilliant!

The commandments in relation to coffee

...and there began the working week. And she decreed to those followers who rise early for the great olfactory gift the coffee bean hath giveth:

Thou shalt not covet tea, the lesser
Thou shalt have a preferred vessel for the partaking of the elixir, and mourn such a vessel in it's absence
Thou shalt abhor styrofoam
Thou shalt not speak before partaking of the first cup of the elixir
Thou shalt not use the hand that holdeth the vessel of elixir for any menial task, lest the elixir be spilled upon carpet
Thou shalt not waste
Thou shalt not order decaf
Thou shalt not douse fellow workmates with the contents of an entire cup
Thou shalt not taint thy own elixir with foul and evil soy
Thou shalt depend upon this life-giving substance daily

Here endeth the lesson, she decreed.

Regarding bad coffee:

Waitress: "Looks like rain."
Patron: "Tastes like it too. Bring me some tea."

Hung Over

There's nothing quite like sharing a hangover with somebody. It suddenly makes it far more okay to feel like shit if somebody else is feeling the same way. You identify with each other on a completely different level. A level where you share the overwhelming relief of cold water, the lack of motivation to accomplish anything, and the need for a really good hamburger.

Scraping the Barrel

I was wandering around the city yesterday and happened across one of the local art galleries. It's been bothering me ever since, and obviously enough to write about.

The gallery is a University student gallery. From that typically I would expect a less focused, more emotionally driven set of works, probably more focused on the dark aspects of life. There could be anything from installations featuring broken mirrors and fake blood to grotesque attempts at sculpture depicting the many deaths of the human heart. Cynical? Hell yes.

It was pretty disappointing. I found the space itself far more interesting than the contents. A converted carpark area inside a building! I could have so much fun with sound installations. The exhibits themselves lacked continuity and thought. They were lacking in even emotional depth.

But there was one that really got into my head. A series of photographs taken at night. The intent was "alternate light". Great idea. Piss-poor execution. There were about thirty photographs, half a dozen of them unmounted and tacked to the wall and the rest mounted. The unmounted were marked for sale at $15 each, and mounted for $70. The shots were shithouse! Seriously, if I took anything like that on my camera, I would delete it in disgust. There were no focal points, no interest in the composition. It was as if the photographer walked outside, pointed the lens somewhere in the direction of a lightsource, clicked once and printed the result. There was no thought in the process, and therefore no evocation of thought afterward. Okay, it did evoke a thought.

Does this person seriously believe they are an artist?

I believe myself to be an amateur. Maybe I need to stop learning and go back to Uni. Forget everything I've learned about using my eyes and brain. Then I'll get some gallery space.

Wonders of Technology

Technology amazes me constantly.

For example:

I am currently connected to the internet, on a laptop with no cables attached to it. No biggie, that sort of thing has been around for quite a while. Sure. But how cool is it that you can blog while you're taking a shit?!!

From frustration

Looking at the clock and it's 2:33am. I've tried twice to get to sleep and all I've had is muscle spasms, twisting and turning, a fearful compulsive let-this-go-and-I'll-die grip on my teddy bear, a persistent headache and a mother-fucking TRUCKLOAD of frustration. This has been going on for weeks, but is persistently getting worse.

To put it mildly I'm not enjoying life at the moment. It's not just the sleeping - I think that's more a side effect than a symptom anyway. So during my flipping, turning, headache soaked, bear hugging night I have decided to seek the little things that I enjoy and give them more importance in my thoughts. In fact, to blog about them. In doing that I hope to remind myself that it's not all crap out there. Just some bits are.

Today a train driver made me smile. I had swung out around a fence in order to get down onto the tracks and checkout something I'd seen down there. I'd checked it out and was back on the wrong side of the fence when the tracks started emanating their mechanical whistling, warning that something was travelling along them, and close. Beauty! I stopped thinking about getting back on the right side of the fence and moved closer to the edge where I could see in between each carriage and almost reach out and touch if I wanted to. Twenty-eight years old, happily watching an approaching train and with absolutely no regard for the fines you can get for being outside the fences. What did the driver do? He grinned right back, leaned out the window and waved at me. Sometimes humanity finds a way to make you grin right on back.

I had a sweet potato scallop from the local fish and chip shop, too. I have discovered that not only are they best deep fried goodness EVER invented, but that they are enhanced even more by adding freshly squeezed lemon. Mix that with the chicken salt already on it and some kind of taste explosion reaction occurs. It can only be good.

Not much else to report.

Maybe I can go to sleep now.

I hope.

Valentines Day was, for a while, a time where handwritten notes were passed were passed in secrecy between lovers. Then, in the tail end of the 1800s, some yank started mass producing cards. It's all been downhill since then.

There's the usual "Hallmark Holiday" crap and profiteering surrounding this day. Flowers, chocolates, cards, candle-lit dinners. Bullshit.

Really why do we say it's all bullshit though? The crap that comes with a Hallmark holiday lacks imagination. Is that the reason? The many that buy the mass-produced overpriced card and the box of heart shaped chocolates, are they ruining the idea of the day for the genuine? Is imagination, love and heartfelt sincerity that easily blown away by money?

Honestly, I would buy the earth for the girl I love if I could. Not ever with an intention of winning her over, never that. Possession is a horrible concept to me, and never should be exercised over anybody, in particular those you love. No, I would give the world to the girl I love simply because she means the world to me. How can that be printed on a card? I would never pay for somebody else's sentiment in order to assume it as my own.

So here's mine for the day. No card, no flowers, no chocolates. Just a hell of a lot of heart.

Babe, I love you right through to my fingertips.

The phone says it all.

I downloaded a game for my mobile phone. Some will snicker at this, but let me explain the reasoning:

I am often stuck for hours on end at work with nothing to do but sit and watch a hole as safety standby person. Nothing to read, nobody to speak to. I just have to sit and wait. I practise drumming, but can't maintain it for ten hours straight. I listen to music to keep awake. I make patterns in the dust around me. I clean the patterns away and make every surrounding surface spotless. Still bored. My phone is always there, so I thought I'd put something on it to keep myself stimulated.

The game I chose to download is a brain training game. It's supposed to stimulate certain areas of your brain as well as assess and rank your abilities. Cool.

So I tried the thing out this morning and failed abysmally at one of the exercises. It could be taken as a description of how well I'm doing in life at the moment...

"Oh dear... Your rank is Plankton."

Mailbox Monday

Bored, Broke

Over to the world in general:

When you're bored and broke, what do you do with your time?

Insight would be much appreciated.

I've been messing about in Flickr groups quite a lot recently. Through a local contacts group I've come across a few interesting people. There's also plenty of ones that I would never bother meeting, but that's the same in the wider world as well, I guess.

Anyway, one of the better local contacts invited me to join another group. It's sadly addictive - a group where a theme or technique is decided by anyone, and then three photos need to be submitted to match that theme. After that, the members vote on the submitted photos. To me it's a great way to review other works and learn more about what I like. Also I've submitted a few and been surprised by some of the results. You only need to get five votes to win a round, but that's five votes that I had no idea were out there for the things I see and take pictures of.

Most of the challenges are decided by the first person to post a photo in that round. Usually somebody pops up and chooses "sunset" or "rocks" or "rusty" and really doesn't put too much thought into setting a real challenge. Everybody has sunset photos. We all think they're brilliant. Probably most are pretty good, but come on. It's not difficult to get a good sunset shot. The sky is doing the work for you there. That said, though... I still love a good sunset and I'll shoot them as much as I can.

I jumped in first on one of the challenges in order to be the person who decides what it's going to be. Here was my challenge:

BONES



The moderators removed it, and changed the theme of the challenge.

Seriously.

What the fuck???

So it's not your happy clappy shot. So? It's a fucking skeleton. There's no maggots (though if there were some around I would have shot them, too). To me it's a visually interesting combination of hide, skull and grass. If you wanted to be completely trite about describing it you could say a celebration of the continual cycle of life in nature or something similarly profound.

Close-minded arseholes, I say.

At least I didn't post this one:



The whole thing amuses me more than pisses me off. But it gets me to thinking...

If we approach photography, as well as any other art form, as a means of historical documentation why the hell are we always obsessed with recording the happy bits? Do we seriously want a historical record that says everything was peachy for us? What the hell will the next generation learn from that?

I would much rather see photos of destruction and things that are not readily available to my eyes than pictures of your gappy-toothed grinning sprogs with ice-cream smeared on their faces. A picture of a screaming child is more emotive, and more informative about that child than a posed-up PixiFoto Santa session. Do your kids seriously spend all year grinning hopelessly? I fucking hope not. They'll end up more shallow than Paris Hilton.

When I introduce music composition to students the first thing I discuss with them is intent. If you want to write a piece that inspires your audience to visualise every nightmare they ever had, go for it. If that's your intent. If you want to write a piece that makes people get up and leave the performance in disgust, go ahead. If that's your intent. If you want to write a piece that makes your audience visualise skipping down streets lined with picket fences, bursting blooms of flowers and bright sun, go ahead and do just that. You're most likely to find though, that the pieces that have more depth of emotion have more impact.

So why expect any different in photography? Give me reality any day.

Bones and all.

Quote of the Day

via text message from KelSuperStarSinger:

How are things in the land of vic? You haven't blogged forever!
I miss your wit charm and crap.

Quote of the Day

"Be not estranged from your booty,
lest you need to shake it."

- Kaz Cooke, The Little Book of Crap

Bring It On

I love a good comments fight. I've never been truly harassed but honestly sometimes I'd welcome the opportunity to get in and get sharp with my words. Last year I had a person calling themselves "Devil's Advocate" who challenged me on a few things in my comments. Those were brilliant days. I was filled with fire, checking my email constantly, waiting for the next move in a war of words with an unknown enemy. It was an exciting dance of debate and sticking up for what I believe.



Recently I posted this photo in my Flickr photostream. One person commented, which is nice considering I don't often get many comments. Until you look at it. Here we are:

only a BONEHEAD would leave that old junk there .. please clean that up or tell somebody to recycle it .. in canada you get paid cash for bringing in scrap metal like that to the metal recycler

Oh yeah. Game on, buddy.

I checked this person's photostream just to see what they were interested in. It must be set to private, because access is denied. That just makes this person another "anonymous". Somebody who feels happy to leave comment on somebody else, but not expose anything of who they are.

Game on.

Because I left it there, you are implying that I am a bonehead.

It would be better that you know the situation before you attack somebody in the way that you have. True, the person who had the trouble with the tyre should have taken it with them, but you are saying also that a bushwalker who finds it should lug it all the way home with them.

Ask yourself where the line is between rubbish and relics. If you found a shack going to ruin out in the bush would you jump up and down about it being recyclable? Or would you view it as a relic? As a photographer, I would rather observe, take a picture and leave. That is my perogative.

I appreciate your care for the environment and think that it is admirable. Your decision to sling around names such as bonehead, in caps no less, is less than appreciated. Constructive criticism of my work is more than welcome. Names are not.

Vic

I'm somewhat disappointed with my reply. Hindsight says that it could have been far better constructed. I'm out of practice.

The funny thing is that apart from this one all you seem to get for comments is Beautiful shot. I'd much rather being called a bonehead. At least there's some thought behind it (misguided though it may be). Plus it means Word War. But what happened to constructive criticism? What about qualifying why you thought it was a beautiful shot?

Anyway. Somewhere out there is a person who called me BONEHEAD. Indeed, my brain is protected from harm by a skull made of bone, but that is beside the point. I hope and wish for this person to take up their sword and join the match.

Bring It On.

What Is It Called? Revisited

Just over a week ago I posted a challenge of sorts. Guess the name of the machine correctly, or make me laugh enough with your guess, and you can have a prize. As a recap of sorts, this is the bucket that it lifts and loads dirt into waiting dump trucks with.



There were a few answers. All are worthy of mention, so here goes...

Ms. Avarice thought it was a giant dump truck. This thing loads into the rear dump trucks, and is pretty stationary comparatively. A rear dumper will drive off with a load somewhere, back up and dump it off an edge before driving away for the next load. This machine is the step before that happens. Nice try, though.

Jude says It must be called "the big fuckin dipper" or maybe "the big fuckin bucket" or how about just "the big fucker". The dipper is the reference more for the bucket pictured above, and the two "sticks" that it operates upon. It is an immense machine for the type it is - I've been told it's the largest in the world that does what it does. There are, however, plenty bigger different machines out there.

missjoestar deserves a highly commended for calling it a digger. Some do, so you're right in a way. But digger refers to excavators, loaders and other similar machines, too.

Now onto the prize-winners.

The person(s) masquerading as alannah actually incorporates two winning answers from two people who've featured long term on this blog.

kelsuperstarsinger with Im the big fuck-off truck... Honey, you're miles off by calling it a truck but since you've given it it's own theme song and matching dance I can't resist. For you I'll bring a guitar along when we meet up for Ani Difranco and I'll play whatever you want me to.

Zac, better known to long-term readers here as IcePick answered the question with Zac's DICK. Impressive, honey. Still doesn't do anything for me except inspire a little jealousy, though. For your impressive... answer I will honour you with a prize of Jaegermeister and Red Bull, because obviously you need to keep your circulation rate pretty high.

And finally, the answer that had me laughing for days.

Dive says That's gotta be called Miffy.
Winner!
What do you want, Dive? Let me know.

As for what this thing is really called: It's an electric face shovel but most commonly referred to as just a shovel. Shovels work with a completely different action to excavators, and take a lot more in the bucket - meaning far less time to load a dump truck, but far more stresses on the machine. The one I posted pictures of, I've been told, is the largest electric face shovel in the world. The thing is about twenty years old and nearing the end of it's life. It's machine number at that particular mine is 331. No longer. Thanks to Dive, it will always be known to me as Miffy.

More evil than ever before

"The Gematriculator is a service that uses the infallible methods of Gematria developed by Mr. Ivan Panin to determine how good or evil a web site or a text passage is.

Basically, Gematria is searching for different patterns through the text, such as the amount of words beginning with a vowel. If the amount of these matches is divisible by a certain number, such as 7 (which is said to be God's number), there is an incontestable argument that the Spirit of God is ever present in the text. Another important aspect in gematria are the numerical values of letters: A=1, B=2 ... I=9, J=10, K=20 and so on. The Gematriculator uses Finnish alphabet, in which Y is a vowel.

Experts consider the mathematical patterns in the text of the Holy Bible as God's watermark of authenticity. Thus, the Gematriculator provides only results that are absolutely correct."

The results I got are based on the posts I've made this year. Last year's posts got me a rating of 33% evil, whereas the year before got me a 34% evil rating. My conclusion from that is that last year was pretty under the weather for me, and I've bounced back in more than fine form this year.

Smiles

Things that make me smile. Just a few among many:

1. Hugs
2. A mischievous look in the eyes
3. Fresh sheets
4. Fresh towels
5. Chicken
6. Playing music, listening to music. A good bass riff. A nice guitar tone. An interesting drum fill. The sound of a brass band. Playing guitar in the dark.

All of these things, and more.

Bass Porn

Who needs girls when you've got guitars and drums? says guitarist Dive from Small Glass Planet, after having a therapeutic jam session with drummer brother Full.

Well, guys. You do need girls.
A girl.
With a bass.




Now I haven't picked up my bass in a while. Not working with a band made it seem pretty pointless bringing the old beauty out. But oh how do I miss it! I only truly realised when I cranked it up, pumped out a few favourite riffs and started moving around the room like the old funky idiot I used to be.





Living in the vicinity of a brilliant photographer helps for getting some truly gorgeous shots of what it looks like when you thunk out an open E. Many thanks go to Kate for the use of the pictures she took today.



Meanwhile I was more occupied with grooving away, getting reacquainted with Big Daddy, my long lost ballsy friend who only really gets cranked up beyond a quarter when I have a gig. Shame.



No, I wasn't going to let it go to have a smoke. I can do two things at once, thankyou. Actually, I worked pretty hard on drinking beer and playing also while I was gigging pretty regularly.

Kate's suggestion was to send me over to Dive and Full via the post, in a cardboard box.



So what's the verdict, guys?
Would you adopt the female bass player if the mailman brought you one?

Dialectual Text Messaging/Quote of the Day

I have one friend who is absolutely brilliant at conveying their tone and manner of speaking in a text message. Their own personal dialect, presented almost phonetically in a text message.

Now normally I detest poorly spelt and punctuated text messages. But this person is brilliant. If you've ever read and respected Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting for the written imitation of the Scottish dialect of the characters, you might know what I mean. This message describes the way that this person speaks so much that you can hear it in your head as you read.

Here is a prime example:

U bitch and tell bill i said get fukd. I nearly believed u ay that was a good 1 u had me goin ay

Brilliant is all I can say.

Spider and the Spiderettes

There was a spider in my kitchen sink today. Now, I don't know what everyone else does in this situation, but what I do is approach the spider's inability to scale the sides of the stainless steel as a perfect opportunity to study the little beastie.

This one has a lumpy, ugly, hairy back. Why the hell do you have lumps? I say aloud to the hopelessly trapped arachnid. On that I leaned a little closer and squinted at it. The lumps all over my captive's back were not lumps at all. They were baby spiders. Spiderettes. Hitching a lift! Lazy little fuckers.

I reached toward the trapped traveller with the ride-scabbing spiderettes and immediately two or three bailed out. Ah-ha! They know when they've been busted skiving a free ride and they try to do a runner to get away from the hand of Vic.

The interesting thing is that the ones that bailed were easily able to scale the sides of the sink. If all of them left the shelter of the back of their host, and went out on their own they would find freedom is just at the top of the stainless steel. Yet these spiderettes insist on hanging on the idea of somebody else giving them a ride out of there, effectively weighing the ride down and with their laziness, destroying any chance of their own salvation.

There's so many parallels to human life that can be drawn from this.

Resolution

Last night I intended to see the New Year in alone, camping somewhere picturesque. The idea behind it was to set the tone for the year. That is: Fuck everyone. The focus is on me." That is:- what I want to do, what I want to see. Want to come along? You're welcome. Anybody can come along. If you don't want to? Fuck off. I don't care about your reasons because they're not mine to deal with.

Anyway, the bosses that be decided I should fulfill my obligation to be at work early on New Year's eve, and be back early on Friday also. A lovely picturesque camping trip with a deadline just isn't the same, so I stayed at home for the big night. Tired, but relaxed knowing that there was a day off to be had today.

I contemplated getting dressed up, walking down to the train station and kicking back to watch the fireworks in the city, but tiredness was a major factor. No way am I going to get there, not be able to deal with people because I'm tired and cranky and make it all the way back home again. It just wasn't a sensible option. I kicked back and raised a few vodkas to myself, and before I knew it the sleepiness had kicked in and it was only ten. I set the alarm on my phone for eleven thirty, lay my head on the lounge and "rested my eyes".

The alarm woke me up to hear the revelry of the street. I said a quiet Happy New Year to myself and had another doze on the lounge again.

Around six this morning I woke up feeling alive and empowered. Why? This is my year. Mine. I will see the things I want to see and wait for nobody. It feels as though there are waves of energy coursing from my fingertips. That I have the Midas touch. Will there be obstacles for me? Of course. But in the spirit of parkour the obstacle will become part of the landscape and could represent a launching point to a better line of movement.

Fuck everyone. This is my year.

Quote of the Day

We have a work ritual of sorts.

Every morning we get to the yard early, pack all the necessary crap (and more just in case) into the trucks, and then leave for our assigned mine sites for the day. They're all about an hour away on the same highway, but instead we leave about an hour and a half early.

Are we out to beat the traffic?
Hell no.

We're heading out for breakfast.

We all stop at the same pie shop, regardless of which pit we're heading to. This is the chance to be truly sociable. We've done the hard yards already in packing all the gear and now we can relax in getting there. Time to kick back, have a pie and a smoke and catch up with the other workers you haven't seen for a while.

This morning Tallboy sits silently, pie propped up prominently in his fingers, unbitten as yet, and regards his meal with almost a look of wonder. After a while he looked at us and said

"This...
is what made me go to bed last night.

I knew if I slept, this pie would come around quicker.
That it was only on the other end of a sleep."

And with that he bit into it.

Name the Big Machine...

I'm not going to tell you the name of this one. Drop a guess in the comments and you can have a prize if you're right. In fact, if your answer makes me laugh enough you can have a prize, too.



Doesn't look that big, does it?
Let's put some perspective into the picture.



That's me, down the bottom of it, standing next to the tracks.
The guy up the top is walking into the operator's cab, where all the driving gets done in air-conditioned comfort.

Here's a view from the balcony next to the cab. This shot was done on a different day, when the thing was being taken apart for major repairs. There were a whole series of planned blasts happening in the area at the time, hence the dust cloud to the left. More of that another day!



Here's another view from the fanhouse area at the back of the thing. It's a perfect place to take a break, go have smoke and watch the goings on.



Here's a view of the thing without the dipper handles and bucket attached, with some welding repair work about to be done by the guys in the basket.




And now we have RatBoy, kindly showing off the size the bucket. It takes two buckets from this particular machine to fully load a dump truck. That's more than two hundred tonnes of dirt in two digs. The thing drops the dirt into a waiting dump truck by releasing the door at the back of the bucket.





So. Any guesses as to what it might be called?

Advice?

In a search for reasons not to suicide I came across an article that stated it's number one reason as this:

1. There Is Substantial Evidence For the Existence of God
[...]
You therefore owe it to yourself to do everything you can to communicate with God.

And then I came across another gem, on a completely different page, spouting scientific reasoning for not committing the deed. My personal favourite:

3. Many, many creatures are depending on you
You are literally never alone. While there are roughly 6.7 billion people on Earth, you may not feel that many of them at all care very much about your existence. But within your colon alone are living at least 1012 billion organisms, or roughly a thousand times the number of people on the planet. Stop your metabolic processes, and you stop theirs.

Truly, truly helpful, peoples.
You owe it to God and the organisms in your colon to stay alive.
Brilliant.

Album Review: James Morisson's Songs For You, Truths For Me

James Morrison - Songs for You, Truths for Me
Lately I have been picking up anything I can and giving it a listen. This is an exercise to sharpen my ears, broaden my musical experience and hone my ability to communicate about what I hear. Not all the music I listen to I am going to enjoy or respect.

When I looked this guy up on Wikipedia, I got a few choices to pick from. Interestingly, James Morrison the trumpet player from Australia was labelled as musician whereas the James Morrison responsible for this album was labelled as singer. I love the implication there.

The overall impression is that this guy should give up and let somebody else do it. I actually heard him on the radio a few weeks ago, and not knowing who I was listening to I thought Holy Shit is Simply Red still kicking along?. James Morrison appears to be Simply Red attempting to be Joe Cocker at times. His vocal huskiness he attributes to a bout of whooping cough when he was a baby. It would have impressed me far more to conjure up a tale of drinking addiction recovery, or stick a cigar in the guy's teeth for every photo shoot to explain it. I can see this album appealing to the cliched mid-fourties housewife who needs something to listen to while doing their digital scrapbooking - escaping from the teenage nightmares they have spawned and wish to have no more responsibility for.

Tracks of note on this album:
Track 1 - The Only Night
Firstly, the piano is far too defined in the mix. We have Late Show sound from bar one. The track tries to smack you in the face with full on brass/rhythm entry first off and almost succeeds. Funnily the vocal ad-libbing reminds me of a cross between Hanson and Joss Stone.
The chorus here is a disappointment after a nice brassy prechorus section. It builds through the prechorus section then all drops out to what seems like a completely different style - very straight in the rhythm with heavy and predictable vocal harmony. A fitting opening track for the album, showing potential laced with cliche and ultimately disappointment.

Track 6 - Nothing Ever Hurt Like you
The accompaniment has the potential here to be a nice down and dirty groove in the style of The Letter and some of the Tom Jones covers. It builds nicely but then leads straight to disappointment with an immediate lowering of volume in the bass as soon as the vocals enter. What does that do? It makes it feel like the balls have dropped out of the track.
The chorus features more driving rhythm in the drums - snare hits on every beat pushing it along, a direct juxtaposition to the laid back feel of the verse. Vocally, there is some backup harmonising happening. It's at a tasteful level, but still the choice of harmony is not fitting to this style at all.
Overall this track would fantastic live, with pumping bass, a kick-arse session band... and with Joe Cocker performing it instead.

Track 9 - If You Don't Wanna Love Me
Vocally, this is a pretty solid track. The melody is still pretty damn predictable. It's the rest that is letting it down.
The track starts out as a duet between electric guitar vocals - the guitar with a slightly dirty tone, heavy on the mids. Oh, potential! But there's not much imagination in the accompaniment. It's more powerful in the first chorus than the verse to match the step-up in the vocals, however there could be a lot more use of space overall to highlight the occasional fill.
Second verse - drums enter after a brief and extremely pitiful taste of strings (a warning of things to come...). The drums seem to be mixed too clean - they stand out as seperate from the rest of the band enough to bring on the impression of being a midi track.
Then some truly trite and unimaginative string arrangement for the second chorus onwards and it's game over. Forever relegate this track to ballroom dance shows trying keep up with the times by playing the music of somebody who isn't dead yet.

Track 10 - Fix the World Up For You
Ahhh, MERIT!!! Everything seems to fit well in this track. The instruments are well mixed, the vocal harmonies suit the style of the song. There's some wavering in the brass entries during the introduction, however rather than showing up as unprofessional it gives a human quality to the performance.
It's a classic pop soul piece, and well done for what it is.

Track 12 - Love is Hard
This track is one that would be far better live and acoustic. It has fallen victim a little to the temptation of multilayering in the studio. Just because you can have a shitload of layers doesn't mean that you should. A friend once said to me that if you can play a song with just acoustic and vocals, and still have it hold it's own, then it is truly a good song. This track can quite easily do that.
It starts off with a simple high-pitched guitar accompaniment that allows James' rough vocal quality to shine through. He has room to let loose in the chorus a little without his vocals being muddied by anything else that is going on.
It's sad that this track is relegated to last position on the album. It's of quality that I would like to see more of from this singer. Acoustic and vocal is much more suited to this man than a bad arrangement with a few brass instruments thrown in.

File Songs For You, Truths For Me to the left of Michael Buble and Harry Connick Jnr, and to the right of your Michael Bolton and Simply Red. Play when your mother comes to visit, and accompany with a mug of budget-label tea with too much milk in order to match the lack of complexity and predictability of this album.

Stolen Inspiration

They're out there, at the counter of every bookstore. Little cluster infestations of fake books. Tiny wannabe books. The inevitable impulse-buy oh-that's-so-cute mini book that defies the system of organisation of any bookshelf known to man.

You know the ones. In fact, you probably got one this christmas because that is when the infestation is most likely to spread into plague proportions. There's a few out there that toe the line of acceptability. They still don't pass as books, but they have some pearlers in them none the less.

Reasons to Smoke was instantly accepted into my life and my bookshelf when I opened it up to a page that contained two words. When used singularly these words are representative of grand holidays, however when paired together in this order they represent an object of hilarity and ridicule. Two words. "Paris Hilton". Yes, definately a reason to smoke.

In reaching for my copy of Fast Track To Failure this morning I was assaulted by another little gem of mini book proliferation. Fast Track... lives in the inevitably disorganised section of self-help books and miscellaneous manuals. Nestling The Dictionary of Modern Thought right next to Anger-Free (a book that, by the way, shits me to tears) is one of those little things that happens via necessity of space, but plays to my wry little sense of humour anyway. Then the little mini-[fake]-book tends to get stuck on top of the rarely used inhabitants of the self-help section, out of sight somewhere, waiting for the day that it can leap out, smack you on the head, and then be forgotten about for another year.

Today's assaultee was a long-tolerated pal. The Little Book of Crap. Sold with a disclaimer on the back - "it's about as useful as all those other tiny books - but it will make you LAUGH!" - the thing at least knows it's place. And so, dear citizens of blogville, this mini-[fake]-book is going to spend some time on my desk. There's nothing like stealing someone else's inspiration to blog with.

People are like sausages.
It's what's under the skin that's important.

So poke them with a fork periodically.

For future reference:

When attempting to photograph the slow mutilation of a butterfly caught in a spiderweb by the spider inhabiting said spiderweb, a few simple guidelines will avoid disaster, embarrassment, and realisations of grand dickheadedness.

Guideline #1 - If you are unsure of the make and model of the spider, and therefore it's capacity to be scary, it is best not to approach it while alone in a remote location.
... too late.

Guideline #2 - Thoroughly suss out all web attach points. These things are in essence a suspended snare. They have to be tied down somewhere, and severing one of the ties is likely to bring the whole intricately woven contraption (containing spider with possibly unidentified levels of scariness) into a state of being sprung and wrapped around the unwary photographer's entire body, with variable and unpredictable placement of the occupying spider.
... close. Accompany a brush with an attach point with a loud FUCK! Oh thank FUCK! Sneaky little FUCKER! and you have an accurate representation of events.

Guideline #3 - Use a long lens to get in close rather than put yourself in the firing line.
... too late.

Guideline #4 - Make sure it's not windy. Either this or bring some marvellously fat friend with you to conveniently provide a wind break. Otherwise, two disastrous things could occur... One, ninety percent of your shots could be a waving blur of unrecognisability. Or two, you could be in as close as you possibly can with your short lens and end up wearing half the intricately woven snare. In this case you will resort to dancing around in bodily jerks, slapping and grabbing at every available surface with your hands in an attempt to remove the sticky web and the occupying spider (possessing unidentified levels of scariness) from any possible resting positions.

... too late.

Love is all I have

Merry Christmas to everybody.

Today several things of note happened to me.

I tried unsuccessfully to contact my mother who didn't answer the phone. This is unusual and somewhat hard to deal with considering the effort it took to bring myself to make the call.

After the once-a-year text message I found out that my mate Jesus is in town. How very appropriate for Christmas. He has a kick-arse voice maybe I will be able to work my way into the music industry here with somebody I can trust instead of the idiot types I got burned by at the start of the year.

A friend told me that she has been in hospital for two months because she is bipolar and stopped taking her medication. The woman I love and would do anything for flirts with this mental minefield daily and I am consequently scared to death about it, for her sake.

I realise with great clarity that I am shithouse at being a friend to those who are grieving. A mate's wife is in hospital dying and all I could say is Oh shit. Hell. My heart goes out to you. Vic, you idiot. That kind of talk doesn't equate to being there for your friends. It shows them that you have absolutely no idea what to do to help.

I have so much love to give that some days I think my heart is going to burst out of my chest and explode like fireworks - but the fuse is a dud and nobody appreciates a dud firework. All that magic is just locked inside and lacking the fuse, the eloquence, the spark that sets it on fire and lets it out free to explode and be there for the world to enjoy.

All I can say is Merry Christmas. Hope you have a good day.

And I love you.

Disaster

Its coming round again
The slowly creeping hand
Of time and its command
Soon enough it comes
And settles in its place
Its shadow in my face
Puts pressure in my day

This life well its slipping right through my hands...

- These Days, Powderfinger

A woman at work decided to notice and announce gleefully in front of everyone that YOU HAVE GREY HAIRS!!!

Now what the fuck do I do? I'm happy aiming to look like a well-dressed teenage boy. That ideal is now well out the window.

Fuck it. I'm not going to grow old gracefully. I'm going to hate every fucking greyhaired minute of it. What really pisses me off is that inside I'm really disappointed that this has happened and there is nothing I can do about it.

I will never look for grey hairs on a person again, or tease them about it. This has been a disheartening cunt of a day.