Robert Forster has published a book, 'The 10 Rules of Rock and Roll'
The cover features my portrait of Robert, taken in 2008.
This is a very awesome thing.
www.blackincbooks.com/books/10-rules-rock-and-roll
www.robertforster.net
This morning when Gregory got up before the alarm, the sky was glowing orange. "Must be a bushfire", he said. But it was a duststorm. When he went down into the batcave (basement) to the car, it was covered in dust. He says when he put on the windscreen wipers to clean the windscreen, mud came out.
When I left the house, the sky was a glowing dirty white, like an old oyster shell. I walked to work in dusty wind, peering up buildings dissappearing into a chalky haze, and my eyes were full of grit all day. I could smell soil on my skin. Mid afternoon the sky cleared.
Michael's michael posted this on facebook. I love it.
On our walk tonight, a cool wind blew. Whe we walked up Mary street, the wind blew hard, but dissappeared when we turned up Foveaux. The little men were out on Fouveaux, digging up the road with diamond tipped drills and making a terrible noise. "I'd hate to be living here with this going on!" shouted Gregory. We walked up Fouveaux discussing how to sail against the wind by tacking and using the power of triangles.
Outside the youth shelter was parked an old stationwagon with an aboriginal dot painting on the side. We looked at it and remembered the chalk drawing that is usually somewhere on the ground outside the youth shelter. Sometimes it is really big, in different colours, with many decorations. Other times it is smaller. All this time I thought it was a turtle, with a sort of long neck. But the version on the car made it clear: Its a goanna. We discussed our love of goannas and lizards. Around the corner outside the youth shelter, the chalk drawing was closer to the driveway, and scuffed by shoes. Its neck seemed to have many rings around it, like an african lady. But it wasn't very easy to see tonight. Maybe goanna had been blown away by the wind.
Most of the dust was gone. Except in corners and cracks and grooves. The streets and surfaces had been blown clean. In front of the Citigate Sebel I found some golden dust in a crack and showed Gregory. Not that we needed that to see dust. Our balcony is covered in it. Including the load of clean knickers I hung out late last night.
They were coming next to last, but they have wond the last 9 out of 10 games or something. Tonights win puts them one game away from the final. So Gregory is mad with pride, and the streets outside are full of mad happy parramatians waving fan-hands and leaning on the horn. Foveaux is the last stage of the walk from the SCG down to Central Station and there were 30,000 fans at the game.
(subtitle: Posted for Ben)
Many laps have passed underfoot since we saw Uncle Kev, and I haven't reported any of them. Mainly because some stinker slipped into the flat and nicked my laptop and purse while we were asleep. Took a month to replace the laptop, a month long fight with Dell the details of which I would rather forget than recount here. And then I got moving on writing for the old PhD. You get writ out.
But I am back, because I must mention Daniel Johns.
First things first. We took Dad on our four laps, when he visited for my birthday in June. We showed him the pubs, the buddhist temple, the huge oversized whisk in the kitchen supplies shop, the oversized jar of nuttella in the fruit and deli on the corner. We told him about the poo which was on the pavement one night: intact on the first lap, an end flattened when we came past on the second lap, a smear by our third passing, detectable by smell and stain. We showed him where the boy had threatened to jump off the youth shelter roof onto passing traffic (but didn't). We showed him the brothels, and the converted church, and the youth shelter, and the alcoholics shelter, and the salvation army, and the taxi refueling station.
In early July I went for tea with Ben, and was amazed and delighted with his wonderfull short hair. Ben from Barjarg. Electric soundscapes Ben. Has short hair. If I have any readers other than Ben, they will probably know Ben, and perhaps this will be the first and last peice of juicy gossip to appear on this blog. I was delighted because I recently cut my own hair off (I got a hairdresser to do it really) and am so happy with the results that I advocate short hair for all men, women and children.
I took Ben for four laps, because he was so keen to see the sites I have described. I showed him the pubs, the buddhist temple, the huge oversized whisk in the kitchen supplies shop, the oversized jar of nuttella in the fruit and deli on the corner. I told him about the poo which was on the pavement one night: intact on the first lap, an end flattened when we came past on the second lap, a smear by our third passing, detectable by smell and stain. I showed him where the boy had threatened to jump off the youth shelter roof onto passing traffic (but didn't). I showed him the brothels, and the converted church, and the youth shelter, and the alcoholics shelter, and the salvation army, and the taxi refueling station.
He showed me that the hairdressing salon we pass four times a night is the place he got his amazing haircut. And he can walk fast. There was no tiring Ben, not even on the steepest slopes going up Foveaux.
The night before last, Gregory and I were walking past the Excelsior as he told me about the things said at work that day. There is always a crowd smoking on the pavement outside the Excelsior, they are usually cool and young, or dangerous and grunge and older, but always very credible. They often have obvious talent. Sometimes they are watching bands whose names I am starting to recognise by the posters outside. One band which is easily remembered are called The Beards. Another name which I remember from grungy days in Brisvegas many years ago is the Six Foot Hicks. Anyway we pushed through the cool smokers (horrid young people!) and crossed the side street, passing more figures sitting on the wall. I looked at them as we past. "She said to me..." Gregory was saying. I said to him, "Was that Daniel Johns back there sitting on the wall?". He didn't know. We'd passed already. We walked on. "Anyway, so I said to her,... " said Gregory.
On the next lap, we pushed past the
smokers, and although there were fewer people on the wall, there he
was, the shining boy himself. I looked at him, but I was on the street
side. Gregory was on the wall side, and Daniel looked back at Gregory with that shy observant look he has. We walked on. "Yes." said Gregory. "That was Daniel
Johns". We walked on, discussing how one might go out as Daniel Johns,
and the mechanics of being recognised on streets. And of course what we could have said: thanks for this song and that.
The whole affair is tinged with a little sadness for me at present. "They" have put our rent up, again, starting November. We can't really afford it no more. We could, I guess, but we know we would be being gouged. Do we move into the suburbs? Do we find a place where the dining table can come into the living room off the balcony, so that we can use it in winter and we dont have to eat tea on the couch using plastic stools as tables, spilling things everywhere and swearing at each other about the size of this stinking shoebox? We could move into a place with a spare bedroom! Where will we walk at night then? Dulwich Hill, walking up and down Old Canterbury Road at night? It might have some kind of vibe, some sort of action to look at. But will we see Daniel Johns sitting on a wall in the dark?
I doubt it.
On four laps last night, a cool night, we turned Crown street and felt the first warm breeze of Spring. In the pub with no name, happy drunken heterosexual males bawled along with Queen. You get a glimpse of tv screens as you pass. In a boxing ring type venue, surrounded by a darkness of screaming fans was Freddy Mercury, gleaming white, shirtleess, wet chested, white faced and fabulous. "God knows..." sang Freddy and the drunken freckly red heads at the bar. "God knows I want to break free!"
The Stray Cats - 26th Feb 2009 - The Tivoli Brisbane Australia. Photo©2009 Stephen Booth.
All Rights Reserved.
Well, it does say "occasional missives" up beneath the title there. Here she is, our new baby girl born last week and whom as of last night I've started calling "Songbird" for little reason. Well, gut instinct is saying she'll be a singer (and it was right about having a girl) so that's maybe reason enough.
And, of course, we also have a very proud big brother:
Birth went pretty well, albeit long. She's sleeping and feeding well and has already put on a bit of weight in very little time indeed. The whole birth experience plus the aftermath has pretty much been the polar opposite of what happened with The Boy so we're feeling quite lucky. Yeah, lucky. Blessed, even. We have a daughter now.
In other news, I finished my post-grad study and, after a bit of Harry Potteresque flourishes of legal terms like "mandamus!", "certiorari!" and "government contractualist trends as they relate to welfare and employment services!" have now settled in to having my weekends free again. I've also started a new job, which is quite, quite different to my old job, thereby presenting new challenges and fields of experience. Which is largely why I took it so excuse me while I go and get a can of HTFU and not sook about it.
Could be another month before I post depending on whims and fancies. Might write about whisky sometime, I've just started on a bottle of 10yr old Ardbeg and my, it's quite heavenly. For what it's worth I would like to assure my neighbours - esp. Cat, Snowy, Peter, NDC, Ninj, Ellie and Emu - that I continue to read your posts with interest.
Yves Klein Blue - 26th June 2006. The Powerhouse, Brisbane, Australia. Yves Klein Blue launch "Ragged and Ecstatic"
www.yveskleinblue.com/All Photos©2009 Stephen Booth. All Rights Reserved.
www.sbphoto.com.au
Caught this kind of randomly the other day when digging around an MP3 player I don't get to use enough, I love the rhythm to it, the underlying piano riff. And there's the imagery of course, it's sort of what I imagine parts of the US to be like. Anyway, here it is, Jesusland by Ben Folds. Might write more about him sometime soon as well, maybe about piano stuff more broadly...
[update the following morning] I wonder, is it possible to feel melancholy tinged with joy? How terribly dramatic of me, and as I write this yes, the mood and the moment, intangible, both have now passed. I caught the 7am bus, commuters wrapped in themselves against the cold, dawn was only just breaking and I listened to the song again. The rhythm of the song lends itself to travel, the soft shuffle of the drums and the tumbling piano riff. Government buildings in Woden stark against the grey sky. Naked oaks and elms on Adelaide Avenue, and the morning rhythm continues with mini-pelotons of lycra-clad travellers holding up cars at the exit lanes.
Take a walk
Out the gate you go and never stop
K found out yesterday that her blood pressure's gone back up, after being pretty normal throughout her pregnancy, so the anxiety levels - despite our better efforts - have inevitably gone up as well. Tomorrow marks the same stage she was at when this guy here <- showed up (6 weeks before the due date) so it wasn't like we didn't have it on our minds already, as we inevitably replay the events of that day and recall some of the minor traumas associated with it.
K's finishing up at work this week which means that she should be able to put her feet up, though there's still a lot of preparation to do for the new arrival. In the meantime, I'm still slogging away at this last, last piece of assessment I have to do for the Masters. So much reading to get through still, have to finish it this week before typing all the notes up into a structure and then writing the damned thing As Soon As Possible.
It's my own fault though - I want to learn which means that I tend to cast a pretty wide net with my research. It helps me to get the most out of the course but, still, it isn't the best thing to be dealing with at the moment.
And to top it all off I'll be starting a new job at the beginning of next month, so I have to try and tidy everything up at work and then hit the ground running at the new place. Which will be doubly interesting as it's in an area I've had nothing to do with before, so I'll be relying on raw ability to get across all the new stuff as quickly as I can. Things sort of came in a rush where I had several opportunities present themselves but I went with the first option available to me, which takes me out of where I am now (which I really, really need) and gives me some more challenges and, hopefully, a bit more professional development in the areas I need it.
The other thing is that aside from being a new job, it'll also represent the end of my role as the primary carer (I'll be going full-time while K stays at home). Well, maybe not an end, but an evolution. It's coming up to a year and three quarters since I started being the full-time stay at home parent followed by going back to work part-time last October.
It hasn't been easy, what with all the colds caught from The Boy via daycare, not to mention trying to manage work expectations when I returned (the bitter experience of which contributed to my desire to leave), but I think we've muddled through it ok. The evidence, I hope, presents itself in the grin above. It's the parental prerogative to say so, but he's a charming and funny wee lad that one.
One day, when he's older, I'll get to talk to him about what it was like when he was at home with me. About the long neighbourhood walks for his afternoon sleeps at the beginning, about watching play school together, having him on my lap and playing piano, or guitar, or tickle-fu, or hidey. About the shouts of joy when his mum walked through the door into a house full of cooking smells, of him standing on a chair and watching Betty-Sue (our most excellent mixer for those of you who don't remember) do her thing as I made biscuits, bread or pulla.
I wish the experience for all fathers, really, though naturally I'm cognisant of why that isn't possible for the vast majority of men. I tend to think about it as a gender issue I guess - the broader lack of pay parity for women means that it isn't financially viable for most families for the father to take time away from the workplace, which in turn puts the responsibility upon women, which in turn arguably contributes to a lack of pay parity. It's only been in the past couple of years, just based on what I've seen, that situations like mine have become frequent enough to receive broader comment in the media.
But hey, I'd be fooling myself (and lying to you) if I stood on a pedestal and said "I am doing this solely for the greater good". I wanted an experience denied to my own father. I wanted to be a part of my child's life in real, everyday ways. It looks like I won't really get the opportunity to take a similar period off with no. 2 (as K's indicated that she would prefer to return part-time after the end of her mat leave) but that's ok. We'll work it out as we go - 'cos what else are you going to do?
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