A fridge Igloo in Hamburg

Photo: Moritz Bappert

On Oct 29th, Hamburg residents were amazed to find an Igloo in the Gänsemarkt. No ordinary igloo, it was constructed from 322 old refrigerators. The work entitled “Wastefulness is the biggest source of Energy” is part of an art project by artist Ralf Schmerberg. Placed in the middle of the city, it was an attention grabbing statement on energy consumption in the western world.

A huge electricity meter attached to the igloo showed how much energy would be consumed by the old fridges. With a diameter of 11 metres, and nearly 5 meters high on the inside, its interior offered a bizarre and colourful agglomeration of appliances, gadgets and blinking lights, referencing energy waste and our dependence on electrical devices. By all accounts it sounds like it was a lot of fun to experience and a truly creative way to make a point.

To learn a little more about its construction, here's a video (in German) by the artist.


Photo: Moritz Bappert
With more efficient usage, Germany could save around 40% energy.


Image by Axel Bruns via Flicker

Via Moritz Bappert's Blog

When local councils do good

With plastic waste, and plastic water bottles in particular, one of my big environmental bugbears, I was very happy to spot this installation in progress at Bondi Beach.

The guys were in the middle of concreting when I took the shot, and an offical-foremanish looking guy had even stopped by to supervise the work.

"It's that good is it?" he asked, as I snap-happied.

Oh yes indeed. One of the reasons people keep buying bottled water and other drinks is because when they're out and about that's the only source of vital hydration. Places to refill a bottle are often hard to find and I've been caught out more than once with an empty sigg and no taps in sight. Shop proprietors are not always as accommodating as you'd expect.

So, this is progress. A couple of thousand or more of these around our city and we are well on the way to eliminating a plastic bottle or two.

Infographic: Putting a Price Tag on Carbon

Research commissioned by The Climate Institute, shows that in Country rankings of implied carbon price in the electricity sector, Australia is the second lowest of the 7 regions studied.

I love a good infographic.

The rankings are:
• UK: US$29.30
• China: US$14.20
• North East USA: US$9.50; USA overall US$5.10
• Japan: US$3.10
• Australia: US$1.70
• South Korea: US$0.70

The Institute's media release concludes with this statement by The Climate Institute’s Deputy CEO Erwin Jackson:

“The test for both the leadership and effectiveness of this Parliament is whether it can put real limits and a price tag on pollution that reverses Australia’s still rising pollution levels by 2013 and enables significant reductions by 2020."

“It will also be a test of the extent to which this Parliament is willing to make the necessary decisions today to equip and strengthen Australia’s economy for the low pollution opportunities of today and tomorrow.”

“Alongside a price tag on pollution, urgent measures are needed to make clean energy cheaper, reduce energy bills and improve energy productivity.”

The Climate Institute has published a media release online, along with the policy brief, the complete report and a full size version of the infographic for download - so you can see the fine print and detail in all their 'glory'.
You can also get it from their flickr stream.

Greening Your Parents

Image: takepart.com

My grandparents lived through the depression and understood how to be frugal with resources. They saved, reused, recycled. Those habits passed on, in some ways, to my parents.

Typical among their parental don’t-do-this, don't-do-that, chants were such familiar old standards like "Don't stand with the fridge door open," "Turn the lights off when you leave the room," and "Don't waste electricity." Burned forever into my memory.

But that "waste not want not" mantra didn't translate to everything, since the life of a baby boomer in the western world was generally one of plenty and abundance. What was now considered the scrimping, miserly ways of the depression - that just happened to be environmentally friendly - were cast aside in the generation of plenty - in the late 20th century.

It became infra dig to be seen as anything other than wasteful and over-consuming. It was a sign of wealth and status to own lots, use lots and basically do the opposite to what one's depression era forebears did.

And so - those great habits of my grandparents managed to skip a generation or two.

I say 'skip' because thankfully they're coming back, and now it's the other way round. Green My Parents is an environmental Youth movement "to seed the green economy & save the Planet". It's all about getting kids to teach their parents and peers how to leave a smaller and greener footprint on the planet.

And it uses money as the great motivator that we know it to be - especially in this age of global financial meltdown (who knew there could be an upside?).

By using less resources, households save money and save the planet at the same time – all through simple, everyday actions.

For example, here's what one sixteen year old GMP member has achieved.
• Switching to an energy efficient light bulb saves $40 and uses 75% less energy
• Riding his bike 5 miles to school saves his mom $16.45 a week - that's $164.50 a year - on petrol.
• To save paper he reads the news online and reminds his family to use reusable bags.

The GMP kids are then encouraged to spread their successes across social networking sites, to get their friends to change their habits too.

It's a pretty neat idea and I hope it spreads right across to other countries.

You can read more about it here at takepart.com.
And on the official greenmyparents website.

Kids are the future, after all. They're the ones who really care what sort of world they're going to have to be living in 50 years from now.

So it makes sense that they'll be the drivers, setting the good example and encouraging the olds to join in.... for their kids' sake.

Keeping it Wheel on Sunday Oct 10th

On Sunday 10th October, I was proud to join a working party for the 10:10 global day of climate solutions organised by 350.org.

The streets of Sydney were filled with bike love, thanks to an amazing turn out for the Keep it Wheel ride. Our aim was to celebrate the city’s new cycleways. And if you've ever cycled around Sydney, you'll understand that these are indeed cause for celebration.

Huge thanks to Digital Eskimo for organising it, for arranging these speccy photos and for connecting me with a bunch of calm and friendly cyclists who bike around just for the love of it -- and for the love of the planet.

Blog Action Day: Water

When I was young I used to brush my teeth in the shower. Somehow my teenage mind figured it was more efficient to combine showering with brushing. Bizarre but true. I'm almost ashamed to admit it now. This was back in the day when it was normal to leave the tap running while we brushed our teeth over the sink; when dad hosed down his car on his concrete driveway every single morning; when, in suburban Sydney, when water was ubiquitous, abundant and to be taken for granted.

Then came the drought - and water rationing. I learned all sorts of miserly habits with my water usage. I stopped washing the car and the one time I tried - using a bucket of recycled water - a passing motorist screamed out "Don't waste water!" I learned to get by with a lot less.

But it's all relative, isn't it. I once saw a film about a family living on the steppes in one of the Stans (Uzbekistan? Kazakhstan?) These people had nothing but a few camels, their home was a dry, barren plain and the scene from the film that is etched in my mind is of the mother cleaning up after their evening meal. The father and sons had each had a small bowl of rice. When they'd finished eating, the mother allowed herself to eat what was left over, and washing up consisted of her scraping each bowl clean with her fingers and licking off every last grain of food. That was her meal. The bowls were finally washed with a teaspoon-sized amount of something that had once been water.

I think of that woman every time I'm "making do" with my measly one inch of washing up water, and thinking about how to siphon it out afterwards to throw on the garden. I think about the women and children in Africa who's entire day's work is devoted to walking miles and miles to a well, collecting water and then slogging it back home again. They're risking their lives and their health for water that isn't even safe to drink, while I only need to walk as far as the sink. And I am reminded - to steal a phrase I read somewhere - of the lottery that is birth.

I will leave you with a link to a video for Unicef's Tap Project - Dirty Water vending machines. A smart campaign to demonstrate just how poor the water is for a large proportion of the world's population.

And this link to oxfam's Water for Life project:
http://www.oxfam.org.au/explore/water-sanitation-and-hygiene/features/water-for-life
This water themed post is a part of Blog Action Day 2010.

Weird Day

Some days have their own peculiar character, and I saw this one coming.

I woke up suddenly, worried that I'd overslept again and missed yoga again, while the memories of my dreams leaked away. Dreams are weird, by nature, but these dreams were so far removed from things I know or think that it was like someone else's brain had dreamed them. They were not happy dreams in which things were going well.

I got up and felt that twinge in my hip -- that old pain that I thought had gone away, but today it was back -- just as I heard the cat peeing on the rug. Bad cat. After I’d cleaned the rug and scrubbed the floor, there was the sound of cat fight outside, then cat belting back into apartment, back up and tail at full fluff. Just as I was about to leave the house, she threw up next to the bed.

On the car radio I heard a news report about a death of a man after a fairly routine drunken fight and arrest at the club of the rugby team that all my facebook friends were talking about this morning. I remembered that last night my usually quiet neighbours had had a loud, drunken row as I was trying to get to sleep.

I arrived at yoga to find my favourite teacher absent and my least favourite teacher in her place. I spent the class worrying about how to answer the email I'd read this morning.

Yep - the signs are all here.

A few weeks ago I'd had a day that started out badly. I was mentally listing each of the signs and telling myself "This is going to be a bad day". Then, realising that I was creating a truth for myself with this mindset, decided to set superstition against superstition and turn the day around. I took the sighting of a very cute ginger cat and the jovial helpfulness of a man in a motorcycle shop as good signs. The day was back in balance.

This day however, I'm not so sure I will beat. Not being a 9-5 office worker, I don't really get the concepts of holidays and weekends, but today the Public Holiday-ness of this Monday is palpable. Its drifting rudderlessness, and the echo of thousands of hangovers -- after two "Saturday nights" in a row -- seems to permeate the atmosphere. My whole city feels hungover. The sky is grey and weighty, rainy at times. Even when a bit of sun breaks through it feels oppressive and indecisive.

It seems as good a day as any to do the dreaded housework, while I observe and note and see what unfolds.

I also remember the wisdom last night of Steven Fry on telly describing depression. It's like the weather. Some days are rainy. You can't do anything about that. But even though it feels like forever, the rain will stop and the sun will come out.

Everything has its cycles.

Cycling List #2

I cycle from home to the inner city through fields of scents; and try to name them:

sea salt
warm asphalt
wattle
exhaust
cigarette smoke
urine
just-mown grass
dirt
unnameable
the cosmetics department
deep fried food
air conditioning
industrial adhesive
Darryl Lea candy
commercial cleaning fluid
trees
my mother's perfume
diesel

On the bike path this evening

1. One white plastic spoon. Squished.

2. One ballpoint pen, older style.

3. Hipster dude on iPhone waiting for his ride.

4. A puddle of safety glass crumbs. Remnants of a break-in.

5. Broken plastic bits of car. Accident leftovers.

6. Dark coloured milk crate. Woops, swerve. Just missed it in time.

7. Pot hole, hiding in the dark in a shadow.

8. Blood from my grazed knee.

Guilty Emissions

I often feel guilty when I drive my car. Last weekend, for example, while driving 33 kms to a dinner with old friends I felt awful that I'd chosen this luxurious mode of personal transport, motivated only by my own personal comfort and expediency.

About half way there, I remembered the restaurant was right beside a train station! and slapped my forehead for my foolishness, while nearly swerving into the next lane. (Train might've been the safer option.) Sure it would have taken more than twice as long than driving, but that would have been over 3 hours of quality reading time, whereas you can't read while driving - that's even more dangerous than self-remorseful head slapping.

Oh the guilt, the guilt. How many trees can I plant to cleanse my conscience and erase my carbon footprint?

Unexpectedly, the dinner with old friends went on well past midnight. Came 1.30am I was finally getting into my car with gratitude. Good thing I didn't take a train, they'd stopped running by that time, and to get to the cab rank on the main road, in this part of town, you apparently needed a security guard to escort you on the 5 minute walk. (Seriously.)

It was a chilly night and I drove home with the heater on, happy I'd soon be home, asleep, versus waiting to change trains on a freezing platform somewhere. Personal comfort and expediency.

But I also figured I should stop whacking myself over the head with guilt every time I get in my car. I do plenty of good things too.

I usually bicycle everywhere – sometimes people only recognize me when I'm wearing bike shorts – the car is only my back-up vehicle.

This week I remembered to take my own container to the take away shop, and my recycled plastic bags to the fruit shop where I generally avoid buying fruit or veg that is pre-packaged in any way.

The mileage on my car is about a quarter to a third of what's normal or average.

I do my best to tread lightly on this planet in dozens of tiny, seemingly insignificant ways.

Why don't we pat ourselves on the backs for these small efforts? They all matter, they all make a difference. An ocean, after all, is just a collection of little drops.

It's hard swimming against the tide all the time. And the tide of the western society in which I live goes largely against care for the environment. We swim against it as much as we can, and if sometimes we stop to rest, it's just being human.

So I say less stick, more carrot (an organic, locally grown carrot); Less guilt, and more encouragement for ourselves when we do the right thing. And thereby we'll encourage ourselves and others to do the right thing even more often.

The Psychology of Climate Change Denial

Imagine my surprise when my own father, an intelligent, rational man who used to share his New Scientist magazines with me on the drive to school - expressed his doubts about the seriousness of global climate change and the accuracy of the scientific "evidence". Let's call them findings. What has Dad been reading? Who has he been listening to, I wondered. He was quick to tell me he was not a climate-change sceptic, he just doesn't think it's anywhere near as bad as we are making out, nor is mankind really having much impact on what's just a naturally occurring thing.

I had also, that same week, been slightly miffed and surprised when I tried to distribute Walk Against Warming flyers in the street. The number of people who rebuffed me was very high.

It's led me to wonder about the psychology behind this attitude. Science tells us a global crisis is looming. Some even say the crisis is already here. So why choose to ignore it, or dismiss it as an unlikely, unproven, alarmist theory?

I think Al Gore hit upon it many years ago: It's inconvenient. People don't want to think the worst, it makes them uncomfortable.

People like my dad don't want to have to give up their cars, and other modern comforts and don't want to live with guilt. They, naturally, don't want to be made to feel like "greedy pigs" for their level of consumption.

Nor do they want to live the misery of dread of the future. People don't want to worry. It's easier to think everything's rosy.

Then a friend pointed me to a couple of sites exploring the psychology of climate change denial.

There is a category of deniers who do not deny climate change is real but who are scared or apathetic. Some people are "so upset (or hopeless) about climate change they can’t bear to think about it" Peter M. Sandman.

There's also the problem of cognitive dissonance, where it is easier on the psyche to believe global warming is an unproved hypothesis than to change one's own lifestyle and ideology.

There's a good 10 minute roundup to listen to.

And Peter M. Sandman's article is a real insight into how, by changing our messaging from fear-mongering and guilt tripping, we can better communicate with sceptics and the public at large.

"...even if you’re telling people you’re certain, I would point out that they don’t have to share your certainty to support your action agenda."

He recommends focussing not on how certain you are about global warming but rather on how foolish it would be to wait for certainty before taking action against such horrific possibilities.

Why wait, indeed?

The Cold - part 3

(The final part of a sad and sorry saga)

The face-closed people pass in all directions, on purposeful trajectories, with no time for interruption or distraction. You see yourself in them. And you see how annoying it would be to have a stranger jam a flyer in your face. 'Butt out of my life. Keep your opinions to yourself. I'm busy on my way to somewhere.' You are reminded once again why you never went into politics, or advocacy, or any of those fields that require you to hold a belief so doggedly that you could force it on other people too. You realise the root of your terrible shyness lies somewhere in an empathetic belief, false or not, that people mostly just want to be left alone

After half an hour–that feels like 2 hours and is probably more like 20 minutes–you think you've successfully given away a fair number, but your bag is still full of flyers. Your head is filling with mucus. You need to take your poor sick sorry self back home. On the way you manage to leave a couple at a health food store, and another few at the bike shop, where they're friendly and open to it at least, but the pile is not shrinking. You are beginning to strongly suspect they sent you 200 flyers, instead of the 100 they promised.

So now you're back home and because you made a promise, have an obligation, you resort to the final cowardly option. You drag yourself around the neighbourhood, in a foggy groggy bubble, getting rid of the flyers into letterboxes, and even this–though you are scrupulous about respecting the No Junk Mail signs–feels like a small intrusion.

The street is the deck of a ship on an uncertain ocean, and you think you're listing slightly as you walk. You motivate yourself to keep going, with the belief that just one, maybe two, people will be happy to find the flyer. 'Thank god, I wouldn't have known about this otherwise.' You remember the lady you met at a party after last year's rally. She was annoyed and disappointed that it hadn't been publicised better, wished she hadn't missed it. If you can have reached just two people then this won't have been a waste of time.

And now the job is done, you're home, sitting down, It's just you and your symptoms and nothing else is real.

I feel for you, I really do. It sounds horrible, but I can't really imagine what it must feel like because, you see, I never get sick.

The Cold - part 2

(A sorry saga continued from Part 1)

By staying at home and remaining mostly very still, you fool yourself into thinking you're feeling ok, getting better in fact. And you can't stay at home all day, you have obligations, a promise to keep. You're actually feeling pretty good after the long hot shower–being clean always helps–so you try going outside into the world.

It hurts. You walk face-first - whack - into your wall. The light is too bright, the cold wind, too cold and windy. And when you turn the corner into the sun, it's too hot and you struggle to get your jacket off as the sweat just pours down your back. The footpath is too hard under your feet, the distance from the car park too, too far.

And that's when the coughing starts. Oh joy, a new symptom, you think. Sarcasm is the only kind of humour you can manage–though you're not laughing, you're getting pretty bored with it all in fact.

Through your blocked ears the exterior sounds are muffled and remote, further distancing you, as you realise how vital are your five senses to keeping you connected to the world. No-one can share this with you. All these people in the street, healthy, clear headed, on the other side of your murky wall, have no idea how you feel. Nor can you remember what it feels like to be them.

It's taken over your brain. You struggle to remember what it was you had to buy. Oranges. You need vitamin C. It's almost a surprise that you can manage to remember where to buy them from. But it will be no surprise that when you get home later, you'll forget and leave them in the boot of the car.

But the shopping comes later, right now you have the flyers you promised to hand out. When you volunteered for this you romantically imagined sociable commuters approaching you with held-out hands, smiling at you as they walked away, reading the flyer with interest and joy. Some of them even stop to chat about what a great thing this rally will be, what an important job the aid organizations are doing. There are rainbows in the sky, summer birds twittering and children skipping and laughing...... in your optimistic imaginary version.

On the long walk from the car to the mall you realise the truth. You wonder at what point you will have the guts to start offering the flyers to people. Instead, you let them walk past, kept at a distance by the ringing pressure in your head.

When you decide on a good spot in the mall you try your first person. They grunt or shake their head – or was that actually a snarl? – and keep walking, shrugging their shoulders away from you as if you're hideous. After several more rejections, you tell yourself to smile and not take it personally. You try to ignore the quickly dawning realisation that not everyone is as concerned about this issue as you think they should be. Which is surprising, as it will affect us all–and soon.

But you might as well be that irritating bible basher with leaflets about god the almighty saviour. Oh my god. That is how they see you. You watch the crowd. Their faces are closed. Their body language says 'No'. From a distance they see a person holding flyers and swerve away. Another nutter with a stupid cause.

That you're sick really isn't helping. You probably look miserable and that smile isn't fooling anyone. You can't help thinking about that online game you played, where every time your avatar sneezed, particles of virus sprayed through the crowd, infecting and slaying all the little people on the screen. You can see your own germs now, spreading from your fingers onto the flyers, from the flyers onto the hands of the innocent people who take them from you, and from their hands into their noses, lungs and brains. There is a certain amount of guilt attached to this. It isn't making your task any easier.

A couple of people respond well. They smile. One guy even slows down to tell you, 'Oh yeah, I already know about it, I'll be there', and your mood is buoyed for a few seconds. But really, you're either preaching to the converted, or epically failing to connect with the rest.

...the self-pity continues in Part 3...

The Cold - part 1

I never get sick. Anyone who knows me, knows this about me. Because I say it to them: 'I never get sick.'
Even in stressful situations when everyone else is succumbing, I don't. I walk off international flights without a sniffle. Survived an intense job in a small air-conditioned building where in winter everyone shared the office cold. Except me. Tough as nails. Cast iron constitution. I am immune.

But not you, probably. You will be minding your own business, not even testing your immune system in any way, and you'll be blindsided by it.
Struck down.

Your friends will see it before you do. One day you'll be lethargic and they'll say you're looking snivelly, but you'll just blame the cold air - it always makes your nose run. You don't get colds, you'll say. However, your friends know you just have a selective memory.

And then you'll wake up the next morning feeling like shit.

Sickness is a thick milky wall that blocks and separates you from the rest of the world; Imprisons you in your own glutinous pain and a physical suffering that becomes mental suffering.

Resilience is reduced to zero as the entire body focusses on an internal battle–Germ warfare–and all resistance is needed for this.
There is nothing else in your world but snot, phlegm and blood, discomfort and terrible lethargy; The smallest actions become a massive effort.
Like breathing.
Illness presses you right down to the floor and keeps you there, defeated and helpless, passive and beaten. It sucks out your motivations and passions, along with your muscles and bones.

Your sense of humour died somewhere between the third sleepless night and the first nosebleed. You're vulnerable, over-sensitive and small slights become massive personal insults. It feels like the worst, even while you know it's not; it's only a cold. But anything worse would surely be the utter pits.

So, you wonder how you would possibly manage if you were transplanted now to Pakistan: Your house is underwater, you need to carry your dying family to a boat, to dry land, where you will sit in the hot sun, with no water, waiting for something you aren’t even sure will come.
How would you survive that from inside this foggy wall of self obsession and self pity?

That pain in your head feels like your brain hardening, the neural fluids turning into thick green mucus. Blinking is an effort. An army of Lilliputian germs have pinned you down and you feel you've given in all too easily to the state of homebound inertia you find yourself in. If your body was an emotion it would be depressed, downtrodden.

The simplest thought is a struggle. Try to avoid making decisions.

You move in slow motion. Everything is in slow motion. The day lasts forever.
Move too fast and bits of you slosh around, pressing at your skin.
You didn't know your eyeballs could ache.

You didn't know you could be driven to such a tragically melodramatic mindset.

...the tragic melodrama continues...

Use It or Lose It

Part three of my running tale

I've reassessed my previous bias - ok hatred - of running, now that I'm guilty of practicing it.

As it turns out, running actually has a few benefits. Who knew? The thousands who join the city2surf with enthusiasm - even fly interstate for it - wasn't a clue? The number of people I see doing it around me in the streets every day wasn't a clue?
Nope, I'd just assumed they were masochists.

I was wrong.

My insides are far fitter now. It turns out that none of my preferred forms of exercise work the cardio-vascular system nearly as well as I'd thought. Cycling up that particular dreaded hill now noticeably easier. And I am genuinely surprised to feel a strength in my legs that I didn't know I was missing until I tried a few deep squats in yoga. Wow! They felt so different - as in, I could actually do them, properly, no cheating. Such power. Such strength. My legs were holding me up.

It's the fastest, most effective and way to warm up on a cold winter day. Within minutes of being cranky and frozen with numb toes, I'm sweating and warmed from the inside.

Running's also very time efficient. I can do it whenever suits me, and there's no loss to travel time - I start and finish running at my front door. I can adapt it to suit how much time I have available and just do a short one if I have a busy day ahead. Whereas you can't just walk out of a yoga class halfway thru in order to still make that 9am meeting.

Also, if I hadn't been out running I'd have never have seen that pod of whales off the coast that day. It was my first whale sighting.

- - - -

It was no surprise to find I'd stopped running the minute my shoulder started to heal and the physio gave me permission to go back to all those other forms of exercise that I love. It fell right off the agenda, with alacrity. So after a week or so, some urge made me make myself get back out there, to maintain all that good work I'd done over the last month, seeing as I'm quite liking my new and improved cardio-vascular system.

That was when I learned the real truth of "use it or lose it."

I won't lie. After 10 days break It was hard work; harder even, it seemed, than my very first day out. But it was also victorious run. That day I finally overtook another runner. Ok, he was about 100 and had no actual muscles left in his legs, but he was "running" (what an inspiration) and so was I and I overtook him. Winner!

Running isn't so bad actually

Part Two

(continued from previous post in which I surprise myself)

I stretched diligently, and for a good half hour, after that first "run". Even so, there is no need to describe the inevitable pain I was in afterwards, since that's surely a given. Muscles used in new ways like to make a big noise about it, and then make other prosaic things difficult - like bending over, or simply walking around the house.

However, it did start to get a little easier each day. Hm, "easier"? Let's just say I noticed improvement as my body got more used to this new way of getting around. I stopped to walk a lot less, went incrementally further from home on each outing and gradually achieved a style that I can pretty confidently call "running". In the olden days we'd call it jogging and this is probably a much better description, but, one must be up to date.

I even overtook another runner one day. Turns out she was just slowing down to check her iPod, then she passed me a few minutes later and I never caught up to her again.

Then there was that cute time I did a little dance with girl taking a brisk walk. I caught up to her at the base of a set of stairs, running along the approach as she walked.

I'd learned the hard way, the first day, that I wasn't fit enough to run up stairs without completely exhausting myself. So I dropped into a brisk walk at the foot of the first flight. But the walking girl started running. She trotted up the first flight and overtook me. On the flat of the landing I ran again, overtaking her as she walked. Then I walked again up the next flight as she up ran past me again. And so we did this serendipitous little zig-zagging motion. It was a sweet moment of perfectly coordinated, lucky timing that I almost wish I'd been able to step back and watch. It reminded me of a dance performance I once saw on an escalator at the Tate Modern.

As it was, I was happy to be the participant this time. More and more I'm thinking running isn't completely shit.

...third and final part continues...

Running? Moi?

Part One

As the sort of person who likes low-impact, creative types of exercise, I've always been very anti-running.

In the past, the following things have been heard from out of my mouth

- Running is terrible for your knees.

- Have you ever noticed the pained and desperate looks on all runner's faces? Running must feel really crap. They never look happy.

- I can't run. It makes me feel like i'm going to vomit.

- It makes women's uteruses drop out.

All the bad press about the bad things running can do to your body, combined with the grizzled expressions on every runner I ever passed, and traumatised memories of enforced cross-country running at high-shool, had confirmed to me that it was one of the crappest exercise forms ever, and I wouldn't be caught dead doing it, ever.

So no-one was more surprised than me to find me in my sister's hand-me-down Nikes, "running" along the promenade recently.

In my defense, I was desperate. It was the only form of exercise I could think of that didn't use upper body (the biceps tendon to be precise), and, looking back, the seeds were being sewn over the last couple of months. My biceps tendon physio is a keen runner, so there may have been some subliminal messaging there. A friend who moved overseas took it up for want of any other option in her new town. Two other friends - beautiful, dainty, professional dancers - told me, separately, about how they'd taken up running. When they said it, they both looked as surprised about it as I am about myself now. At the time I just thought they were crazy, but the fact that they were doing it must have given it some validity and slightly shifted my subconscious perception of the hated sport.

Because then there I was, one morning, on the promenade, somehow.... well it's hard to describe exactly what you'd call this shuffling/brisk-walk kind of forward propulsion I was doing, but it was an approximation of running.

Of course every other runner passed me, some power walkers even passed me, and I stopped frequently to walk in between the bursts of optimistic shuffling. Importantly, and this was key to my trying it again the next day, I didn't once feel like throwing-up.

Part 2 continues...

Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam

The trouble with the Interweb is it's fuller of spam than a bad prepackaged salad.

Email spam hit critical mass some years ago.

The Linked-in groups that I join are supposed to be a forum to share ideas, advertise jobs, network, seek advice - and it's also a spammers heaven to promote their get rich quick conferences, e-books and "webinars".

I get text messages from people trying to sell me discount services that are of no interest to me.

Do a google search for something and there's a good chance at least one of the links will take you to an irrelevant site that's just put that key word in their meta tags.

And now i see the peril of finally making one's blog vaguely public and searchable. Today I received my first post comment from a non-friend or family member. Some company selling designer shoes rammed in a senseless paragraph in which every second word was the brand name, underlined and hyperlinked.

My blog has been spammed.

Is this a good sign? Does this mean i'll soon be famous?

There are More Runners Than Usual

Lots of runners out today.
I wonder if they're all training for the city2surf.

Not that barefoot guy in the wetsuit with the board under his arm, obviously.
He's running to catch the swell while it's still going off.

And not me either.
Obviously.

Bicycle Music Festival: 100% powered by bikes

San Francisco has to be the coolest city in the USA. The city that gave birth to Critical Mass--a monthly cycling event for drawing attention to how unfriendly the city is to cyclists--is also the home of the annual Bicycle Music Festival, on this Saturday, July 31st.

It is 100% powered by bikes.



Sustainable culture is the core of the festival that features a pedal-powered PA system, zero use of cars or trucks, a completely bike-haulable stage, even a moving “Live On Bike” stage which rolls down city streets.

It even encourages really sensible habits like "bring your own cup for smoothies".

Here's a video link with more info from the festival's co-director.



It's inspired, and inspiring. And they encourage starting your own BMF in your home town. I think our music festivals could learn a lot from this.

Actually we could all learn something, or be a little bit inspired at least.

P.S. To anyone reading this who's lucky enough to be living in SF, I wish you a happy BMF.

Full Moon Sunday Drivers: Licensed to Kill

Someone just tried to kill me.

Not intentionally. Just through really crap driving.
I was cruising along in the bike lane.
The B I K E L A N E.
If I'm not safe there then what's the point of a freaking bike lane?

I take back all those good things I said about the council's painting new bike paths all over the roads. We don't need bike lanes. What we need are non-crap drivers. Motorists who can actually drive properly and safely. We need driver education.

I was riding along the bike lane, when a white sedan suddenly pulled across me, heading for a parking space they'd spotted and must have been desperate for.

I scream, I swerve, at light-speed my mind plays the future scene for me: the impact of the white car with my bike; me flying off and hitting the road hard, or hitting their car; tangling up in bits of my bike; the injuries, mutilations, pains; the potential death. My mental vision is a horror movie, clear and shocking.

Then the reality filters through. The car slowing and halting last minute, me missing the car by a margin too horribly small to think about, my turning back in amazement at the driver with a "What the FUCK?!?!?" expression and seeing dimly through the windscreen, the driver waving to me apologetically and continuing to park the car. He has NO fucking idea how dangerous those last few seconds have been.

Adrenalin hits my muscles. I ride slowly, stunned, to the next set of red lights, and am thankful for a reason to stop. My legs are wobbly, I think my chest aches a bit, breathing is a bit odd, and another car pulls up slowly beside me. Are they checking to see I'm ok? I can't look up at them. I feel tired, my eyes prickle, and there's that pressure in my head that I get when I'm about to cry.

But there are no tears. I'm actually pretty okay, dammit.

I want to blubber, drop my bike in the road, sit on the kerb with my head between my knees, and show everyone how I'm feeling. Show that fucking retard who should not be allowed to have a licence, that this was not an "Oops that was a bit close," kind of moment but a "Holy fuck, I nearly killed someone," kind of moment. And why the fuck hasn't he gotten out of his car and come to talk to me?

Because I'm still on my bike. I'm not sobbing or screaming on the roadside. I'm tougher than that. Apparently.

The lights have changed green, I breathe deeply, think about moving versus not moving, then push off and slowly ride home, knowing my moment to go back and do anything has passed.

I am really, really pissed off, but can't do anything about it.

It happened so quickly that I'd just kept cycling.

In an alternative reality, I get off my bike when I see that impotent windscreen wave and walk back to the driver and yell at him "Do you realise you could have killed me just then? If I hadn't braked and swerved, if the timing had been just one second off, I'd be lying on the road right now because of what you did." A bystander calls the police and I have the driver booked on the spot. 3 points off his licence just like that. Better still, licence revoked.

A driver's licence should mean you understand what a bike lane is. And that the average car weighs over 2000 kgs, and that when that mass hits a soft body.... Well I don't want to think about it; though all drivers should.

But I didn't go back and confront him because, even in the shock of the moment, instinct knew it would have been pointless. Yelling at him would not have turned him into a non-crap driver. He would have just gotten angry and defensive and somehow turned it into my fault.

As a cyclist it is my job to be ready and expect the worst. Cars have pulled out in front of me in the past (like the one who'd cut me off just a few minutes before this nightmare - and I should have taken that as an omen) and they'll keep cutting me off for ever after into the future. Especially when there's a full moon.

So I'm not even safe in the bike lane.

I go home and find myself sweeping(!) the kitchen floor with a frustrated energy.

I sweep the floor, and sweep and bloody sweep the dust and fur and hair and crap into the dust pan and throw it off the balcony and wait for the wobbly adrenalin and the impotent rage to fade, while the small part of my brain that isn't spun out plans letters to everyone about driver education.

Then versus Now

When I was young and adult women complained about grey hair I didn't understand their problem. It was just hair. I was going to grow old gracefully. I wasn't going to have a spack attack at the sight of my first grey hair. I wouldn't need to dye it and I definitely wasn't going to rinse it blue.

When I grew up the discovery of my first grey hair was..... sobering. I did not accept it with grace. When my boyfriend pointed another one out to me I hated him for days. I've been dying my hair ever since.



When I was young and my parents said dumb and annoying things, I scoffed and knew with certainty that I would never be like that when I grew up.

Then I grew into an adult, and one day I heard those exact same, dumb, annoying words coming out of my mouth. Like everyone else, inevitably it seems, I had turned into my parents.


When I finally moved into an apartment with an actual view, humble as it was, I noted calmly and with resignation that, knowing what developers are like, one day the little view would be built out by an apartment block. Such is life.

When I received the notice of the development application for a large apartment building that will block out my humble little view, I was the opposite of calm and resigned. I am militant.


It's all very well in theory, but a totally different thing when it actually happens to you.

Feel Good Story or Election Reportage?

The 87 year old world war II veteran lost his home, lost everything when his house burned to the ground. All he had left were the pajamas he was wearing and his WWII medals.

He made the prime time news.

The veteran looked a little dazed by all the media attention, but was handling it admirably. An unpretentious man, well spoken, he said he was humbled by everyone's kindness and generosity. His daughter had arrived almost immediately with new clothes, to take care of him. In front of a cluster of media The NSW premier handed him, the very next day, keys to a new home. Big name stores gave him gifts of furniture and food. He was thankful to the "Fireys" who rescued his medals.

The man looked good for his 87 years. His left ear was a little deformed, probably the result of battle scars. This was a man who had fought for Australia, and we respect war veterans in this country.

"Jack Chant put his nation first and on behalf of the people of NSW to make a small gesture in return is the least we can do," NSW Premier Kristina Keneally said in a statement.

And then the ABC news journalist shoved a microphone in the man's face and asked if he thought that everyone's motives were pure.

"You don't think it's anything to do with the election that there are so many politicians here?"

The look on the man's face, his clipped and brisk "No, no." said it all.

You had to go and ruin it for me didn't you, he was thinking. Bloody journalist.
I've just lost everything in a fire, and now I'm having a special day, I'm a hero, everyone's rallying around to help and make me feel better.
And you have to go and ruin it. I'm not special at all. I don't deserve a new house from the Premier of NSW. They're only doing it because they want to win an election. People aren't naturally kind and generous are they.
Bloody journalists. I'm not going to say anything more to you, I'm going to go over there now and shake the firey's hands and thank them again. And gawd, no, I'm not going to tell you which way i'm going to vote. Geeze. Fair suck of the sauce bottle.

Journalists gotta do what they gotta do. They have to shine the light on our pollies and their questionable motives.

But wouldn't it be good if they could teach a little compassion, tact and diplomacy at journalism school?

The Great Ocean Garbage Dumps

Ever walked along the beach and seen plastic bottles and rubbish washed up along with the seaweed and cuttlefish? Or looked down at the harbour while waiting for a ferry and noticed the scummy floaters of rubbish collecting in the backwash by the jetty wall? And then did you ever wonder, if this is the stuff that I can see, what does the rest of the ocean look like?

Well, a group of French explorers, has confirmed that the North Atlantic, at least, is a rubbish tip.

''Ninety-five per cent of the stuff is plastics, from toothpaste tubes to aerosol containers and water bottles,'' said Mr Geffriaud, the founder of Watch the Waste*, a group that asks mariners to monitor rubbish.
(*The site is French language only)

Read the full article

But that's not the only one.

There is The Great Pacific Garbage Patch between California and Hawaii, and off the coast of Japan, "three times the size of Texas and a seeming doldrums where the world’s plastics collect and degrade." - What it’s like



So this is just the floating stuff that people can see from boats.
What must the bottom of the oceans be like?

And here's a crazy thought. If we were to take all our rubbish back out of the oceans, would that help lower our rising sea levels?

The Best Game Show for the World

I've had an idea for an exciting new action-packed family game show called Play It to Save It!

With world saving prizes up for grabs, the deceptively-simple games on Play It to Save It can take on adrenalin-pumping intensity.

In each episode competitors face 10 one-minute challenges that escalate in difficulty, using everyday household items. Failure to finish results in elimination and the competitor can walk away with the rewards earned up to that point - but it'll take nerves of steel to complete all 10 tasks and Save The Planet.

Host Theresa Green says, "I think this is a fantastic show. It gives everyday people the opportunity to make a difference and they don't have to be a tree surgeon to do it."

"It's just so much fun to play the games and help the environment at the same time, and yes kids, you must try these at home!" Theresa giggles.

In our pilot episode champion contestant, Rob, starts with the game "Coffee Karma" in which he must prise 10 takeaway coffees from the hands of caffeine deprived commuters, transfer each coffee into a mug, without spilling a drop, return the mug of coffee to its owner and deposit all the empty takeaway cups in a recycling bin. He gets bonus points if he convinces the commuters to carry their mugs with them at all times from now on.

It's high tension but Rob successfully completes the first challenge. The crowd cheers. He's just won a wind turbine to be installed on a home in the isolated community of his choice.



Next, Rob easily gets through "Pedal Bobble" in which he must pedal a bicycle hooked up to a generator continuously for one minute to power the studio lighting.

In the final climactic challenge, "H2O Tosser", Rob must toss a water bottle so that it lands upright 1.5 m away -- onto the head of a coca-cola company executive. To make it even more challenging, the executive is balancing on a huge pile of discarded water bottles collected from the beach after a hot Sunday.

The tension is electric as Rob holds his breath and makes the final toss. It's a winner! Rob punches the air and whoops in victory. The audience are up on their feet, waving, clapping and cheering. The camera zooms in on his wife in the audience, hands to her tear-streaked face as the compere shouts above the jubillation.

"Congratulations Roy, you've just saved 1 square kilometre of endangered Rain Forest!!!"

The crowd goes wild.

Image Source: www.travelpod.com

Infographic of the world's worst oil spills

The fast company have commissioned an infographic putting the size, and cost, of the BP gulf spill into perspective.

Beautifully and concisely shows that while it's not the biggest spill on record, it's certainly the worst.



See the full article at The Fast Company.

How many more disasters before the world's governments act seriously, courageously...... and without delay?

How many more disasters before the world's governments act seriously, courageously?

Freezing for the Cause

Dear Planet Earth,
My gift to you today:

Is my frozen and constantly running nose
My icy fingers and icy toes
Layers, and layers, and more layers of clothes
This was the low-emissions position I chose
I sat at my desk and worked and froze
Need to do more jumping jacks I suppose

Corporate Speak - Translation

"We are a multimedia college looking to start a brand identity project to streamline our corporate image to match our brand values. We would like to engage professional designers who can assist with redesigning our brand identity. We are located in the Sydney CBD."

Translation:
"We are looking for a Sydney based designer to design our corporate logo."

Well, why didn't you just say so?

More funny/terrifying examples here.

A smile

That annoying, trademark grin

is still on her mind
not fading from memory,
that lone grin still visible
like the cheshire cat's

What's behind that smirk?
What's always been behind it?
Why has it always annoyed
and made her uneasy at the same time?

It's a grin that shuts you out
Lips pressed together, small and mean
Laughing at you not with you
some kind of mask

to hide thoughts or feelings
somehow guilt-tinged.

Scent Fields

I cycle from home to the inner city through fields of scents; and try to name them:

sea salt
warm asphalt
wattle
exhaust
cigarette smoke
urine
just-mown grass
dirt
unnameable
the cosmetics department
deep fried food
air conditioning
industrial adhesive
Darryl Lea candy
commercial cleaning fluid
trees
my mother's perfume
diesel

Overheards

What do people talk about when they're out and about at the start of the day? This morning's overheards have a thematic trend - the personal, the psyche, the inner self; and it's interesting timing as I've spent last night and this morning talking to my sister about mindfulness and other inner workings.

A young man to his female friend on the footpath outside the post office, is talking about his feelings.

A guy setting up a cafe is telling his colleague something about his own personal space, and the thoughts/feelings around that.

A woman is talking into a mobile phone (to a child by the sounds of it) about "docking them $10" but the talk is less about the admin, and more about how she's checking that this is okay and that she's not the sort of person to go over and over things and not keep reminding people.

One woman at the pool is talking earnestly to another about either psychology or spirituality when I overhear a phrase about the emergence of the angel character and the devil character.

The brain innately seeks patterns - even where there are none. I know these were coincidences, but I enjoy them anyway.

The Removalists

There's something very sad about the scene being played out in the street outside my window. 

My first impression was of yet another pile of old, broken up furniture, dumped up on that particular bit of nature strip where people continually leave junk they no longer want. Over the years on that bit of grass, I've seen old computer monitors, clothes, a vacuum cleaner, assorted mugs, sofas, chairs, scary stained blankets, and recently a box of china and glass which at least had a nice sign saying "Please help yourself." I don't know why this has become an unofficial dumping ground, but it happens all over the city - and all over other cities too I suspect. When did it become OK to just leave your rubbish out on the street for other people to deal with? When did we stop taking stuff to the tip, or going to the trouble of putting it in a rubbish bin? I partly welcome it, in the face of the global environmental crisis. Surely it's better to share and recycle goods - one man's junk is another's treasure - than to just dispose of it, add to the landfill and buy something new. But kerbside dumping is lazy and careless. At least go to the effort of having a boot sale or garage sale?

Today's pile however, is way more substantial than usual. It's more like the contents of an entire house. Like an eviction has taken place. It's spilled over onto the road. There's a whole mattress.  Bookshelves. Rugs. Mixed in with small personal effects. That a truck is parked right beside it, is no coincidence.

I look out from time to time watching the story. Two young guys are loading up the truck. To make it all fit, they're breaking up the furniture, compacting it all, reducing what was once someone's home to complete rubbish, firewood, spare parts.  They are rubbish men, not removalists.

While on the phone I look out the window to see what's causing the sudden noise. The guys are in the opposite apartment, top floor, just chucking stuff out the window. An empty cardboard box lands in the garden. I guess it's a whole lot easier and quicker than carrying the stuff down the stairs, and clearly no-one cares if it gets damaged before being squished onto the truck.

Now, back out on the footpath, they're loading in the old chrome chairs. An oil filled heater. A black garbage back of unknown contents.  A white plastic chair is being snapped in half, to save space in the truck now filled to the top. A brittle, discoloured window blind is rolled up and wedged in. The footpath is nearly empty.

It's the bundles of clothes tied up in a bed sheet that really make me wonder.  I consider the possible circumstances that would make someone leave an apartment and leave all their belongings behind. None of the options are not sad. Eviction. Illness. Deportation. Incarceration. Death.
And it's even sadder that the owner, wherever they have gone, has apparently no friends or family to take care of their belongings. These guys, who, I can only guess, are total strangers - contractors with a truck - are just trashing everything.

The truck is full now, they're strapping it up and driving away. I watch the truck, its wire cage crammed full of useless junk, turn the corner and exit, stage right, leaving the footpath and nature strip empty and clear once again.
It's like the owner has been erased from the world.

Another gift

Surprising Flyer

Received this nice flyer in my letterbox recently.
Note the important message at the bottom.

Insomnia

3.45am
She is woken with a shock by the loud noise of a car alarm. Sustained, unbroken, the car horn blares and blares and blares without end.

3.50am
Lying awake, unable to ignore the annoying noise. Wonders how long before the battery is drained. "Please, please let it be soon."

4.07am
Great battery. Noise still strong and steady. She thinks:
"Might just have to kill myself."
and wonders why the car's owner doesn't DO something.

4.16am
Attempting zen. Tells herself to embrace the noise; let it to fall back into the landscape of the night's usual sounds and lull her off to sleep.

4.19am
FAIL. The noise pushes through the night, on a bee-line to her ears.

4.28am
"Am ready to go down and take to the car with a crowbar," she thinks.
"Lucky I don't own a crow bar."

4.43 am
Wondering why she doesn't have the number for the local police stuck to her fridge like sensible people do. She only knows 000, but this isn't technically an emergency. Anyway, someone else will have surely called them by now.

5.21am
Deleriously tired. Perhaps the wind is blowing the noise in another direction. Is sure she'll fall asleep soon -- eventually --"

8.44 am
She makes a phone call: "I'm going to be late for work. Got a flat battery."

Unwelcome Guest

I have a new guest. Uninvited, unwelcome, she just sort of slipped in before I could notice, and made herself at home. I didn't put up a sign, or place an ad. I didn't change my lifestyle, offer any enticement, so why has she just turned up like this. And I can't see that I'm doing anything to encourage her to stay, yet, here she is, getting all comfy and settled right in for life. There's no budging her by the looks of it.

This visitor doesn't bother me all the time, but in yoga for example, during shoulder-stand she pokes out over my waistband, annoyingly, in a taunting kind of way, as if she knows in this posture I'm forced to stare right at her and she really wants to be noticed. She doesn't get on at all well with a lot of my wardrobe.

I just don't like her, and I can't get used to this new living arrangement.

But apparently I'm going to have to.....

I looked online and read about an inescapable phenomenon of midlife: "redistribution of body fat". "Fat migrates away from the buttocks and thighs and begins to accumulate around the belly -- all without gaining a pound, eating more or exercising less."

The horror.

I guess, human beings being so adaptable by nature, that as times goes on it's inevitable that I'll get used to the changes around here. And one day I'll probably even forget what it was like before she came.

Your way or the highway

So, it's your way or the highway, hmm?
What you're saying is that I'm wrong and you're right?
What you're saying is that I have to do things your way, and the problem I am having now is because i don't agree with the way you do things, so - to quote you exactly - I'll just have to get over it.

THAT's the solution to my problem. To get over it and just do things your way.
Not for a second do we entertain any other possible option.
Unfortunately, I can see your point. It's a bad habit of mine. A need for balance. I can see how things must look from your side of the argument.

But you don't see mine. We don't try and understand how things look from my side of the argument.

And so i just say, Ok, I'm over it, I won't mention it again.
What I'm really over is this dead-end conversation and this is the easiest way to end it.

And so it seems i've just caved in and taken the easy way and accepted that you're right. Your belief in your utter rightness is confirmed. Vindicated.

I wonder what it must be like to be inside your head. So black and white. So simple and easy. You're right, everyone else is wrong. No further thought or agonising required.
I think I envy that.

a haiku a day

hodgepodge ricochet
comatose indigestion
chicanery wounds

a haiku a day

Seagulls fly backwards
Screaming at the uselessness
The squally headwind

Please stop yelling at me

I open my email.

There are messages from facebook directing me to messages from friends so i click thru to my browser.
Scanning the long list of status updated on my homepage I note links to at least 3 interesting articles, blogs, videos. They look to be interesting/useful/ relevant-to-my-field information to click thru to; things I should read if I'm in this industry and want to keep up with current knowledge.

There are two email newsletters from recruitment companies who regularly send out editions seemingly full of interesting information, dozens of links to blogs, online articles, survey results.
I make a mental note, to go back and read all those articles later.

One email contains a link to that whitepaper I ordered. Must read that whitepaper sometime.
Must read those other 4 that I downloaded last week too. The one I just finished reading has 2 pages of references - all URLs for further research and info. I add those 2 pages to my list of links to look at later.

Next, I open my browser and see all the open tabs, lined up along to top, representing interesting things that I haven't yet read so have kept the tabs open to remind myself to look at them as soon as I have a spare moment.

I decide to create a spare moment and choose one tab. It's an interesting blog, with dozens of posts I've not yet read, which then link thru to further information, other sites. I follow one to a very cool site that might be of interest to colleagues. Email them the link. Groan. Now I've just added to THEIR email overload. So easy. A click and keystroke or two.

I follow a link in an FB status update to what looks to be an interesting post about Flash and iPad. Turns out to be one person's skewed and logic-free rant. The best reading was all the comments by readers, mostly tearing shreds off the author.

Another trail of clicking leads me to an online newspaper article purporting to be about a new global phenomenon/trend –– based entirely on anecdotes about 3 of the author's friends.

. . . . .

It's just too friggin' easy for someone to have an opinion about something and to stick it up on the web, then put a link to it in their mail out/social network feed and make us think we all absolutely have to read it. Because The barriers to entry that somewhat limit book and press publication, don't exist here on the interwebs. You want to publish something, all you need is internet access.

And people like me feel inadequate because we can't possibly read it all. I, and several people I know*, are email phobic now. The list of unread emails, that scrolls for pages, is a nagging statement of how behind we are, how we have failed at keeping up. (*i don't speak for the whole population, only myself and those several friends)

Fact: There aren't enough hours in the day. And when I do try and create the hours and attempt to read it all, I soon see that it's just someone spouting their own often uninformed, unexpert opinion.
EXACTLY as I am doing now.
I could easily start a new blog entirely on this theme, selling it as THE place to go for expert commentary on all things digital. I could crap on about what I think about iPad (along with the billion others already at it), just as now I am crapping on about what I think about information overload.

And you don't even have to really create any of your own content. Posting links to other content is even easier. Spend enuf time online following the trails and you'll soon see the same stuff coming up again and again. So there's not only more rubbish info out there, there's more of the same, just repackaged and repackaged.

I feel like I'm at a party - a RAVE party in a huge warehouse crowded with friends, colleagues, acquaintances and mostly total strangers - and EVERYONE is yelling at me, to get my attention, to be heard.

I wish they'd all shut up.

And maybe you wish you'd read something more interesting/useful/relevant-to-your-field than this.

Monday evening after work

I sat on the kitchen floor, leaning against the sink. Staring at a corner of the room, feeling tired, achey and heavy. I felt the weight of gravity pushing down on me. I had an unhappiness, the feeling like I wanted to cry, but is was somehow inaccessible. Like a radio paying from another room, that i couldn't make the effort to drag myself over into. I could only sit on the floor and moving at all was too hard.

On my way home I'd been slightly annoyed by an oblivious skateboarder in my path, who I'd had to ride a big circle around. I 'd heard ambulance sirens up at the freeway intersection. I'd had interesting interactions with traffic and a cluster of buses on a steep downhill, that in retrospect made me slightly wince at the element of luck involved in getting home without incident. And near home I'd seen crowds standing on corners, staring at the chaos and group huddled on the road around the unconscious skateboarder in the gutter.

The evening was sunny and pleasant. Nothing bleak about my aspect from the fridge across to the sunlight on furniture, and out to blue skies, treetops and ocean sounds beyond. I sensed the difference of this sadness, this sense of - now that I think about it - depression. I didn't recognise it at first because of its different flavour. It was the grief of those around me, those close to me. I'm daily steeped in it, colouring my own sense of loss, which is milder, manageable, more subtle and hard to grasp - and therefore put aside - waiting to leak out in unexpected ways.

Broken

"I wake up
And the day feels
Broken"
--Bjork

The alarms woke us but we couldn't wake up. We were dragged out of bed by an awful necessity. It seemed to take a long time to get ready.

There was a time of just sitting and waiting for others to arrive so we could all drive together to the crematorium. Conversation was impossible. We shared a few words about the oppressive weather and how we felt heavy, tired, dazed and dull.

Then there was the waiting and loitering outside the crematorium, having slow, subdued, almost muttered exchanges with various people as they arrived, but also keeping to ourselves. Sometimes clustering for comfort, sometimes taking time alone.

The sight of the coffin was surreal. The concept of what was inside inconceivable. The expressions on the faces of the pallbearers however was very real; A complexity and transparency of grief, disbelief, of knowing that they were being watched and of trying to maintain a stoic face; of focussing on the task of carrying the weight, walking together in time, in step; keeping it smooth. There had been no rehearsal. The ceremony was moving. Both difficult and calm. Perfect speeches. Amazing displays of strength. We laughed and we cried collectively. There was that time of stillness as the curtains drew across in front of the coffin and a final song was played; A love song that for me is now rendered simply beautiful, and will now always make me cry.

At the end, the widow was required to exit first. Walking down the aisle, accompanied, in the opposite direction to a new bride. Her face was set in an attempt to show no emotion; holding her breath. A mask. As she neared the end of that long walk, she took a huge breath, rolled her head upwards and closed her eyes in a moment of thank god i made it thru. A private moment of her cracking open for just a second. I was unravelled.

Afterwards there time spent in road-accident traffic waiting and waiting for something to move, for the policewoman to wave in our direction and let OUR lane progress for once. Frustrating gridlock with the next venue almost walking distance.

But we were not late. We arrived not long before the hundreds of guests were due so we rushed, rushed, rushed to organise the flowers and trestle table, the DVD, signature books, souvenir cards; put out containers of nibblies; see to the caterers; grab a glass of water before dehydrating. And another glass. So thirsty.

People started arriving and from then it didn't stop. We stood and talked to each other, hugged, laughed, reminisced, commiserated, bemoaned the loss, the unfairness, the pain; looked up, looked away to choke down the tears that unexpectedly wanted to spring out; assessed life and lives led; the sum of a great life - the regret of its ending and the celebration of so much achieved in just 54 years. Looked wide eyed and happy and excited to unexpectedly meet old friends we'd lost contact with; talked fast to catch up on everything; met new people, made new friends. Saw whole other parts to a life, of which we'd each only known a sliver.

Cried when the party over in L.A., via satellite link, gave speeches so simple and from the heart, unrehearsed and at times lost for words, that is was impossible not to share their grief openly.
We talked and mingled, and listened to speeches, raised our glasses to toast a great man greatly missed.

Moving in and around the great hall, out to the garden area, out the front, into cars; cars followed each other like a train across the city and down to a restaurant and we sat and finally- for the first time that day - ate! and laughed and at a random comment felt sad, but kept the banter going non stop in order to ward off any maudlin displays.

I reached a kind of pinnacle of over-extroversion––almost frantic––having talked and conversed and been around people all day in a state of deep grief, in a deeply personal encounter with everyone. We had all hugged and kissed, cried and consoled each other in a far more intimate way than ever before or after; a special––and temporary––breaking thru of certain physical and social barriers. People I'd seen a few times in the last year only now told me very personal things. Now it was appropriate to talk about the loss of family members, wives, closest loved ones.

The day had trundled on non-stop. Intensely.
When I finally drove home my head was hot. It felt like it might explode.The headache i'd woken with, came to bed with me; then drifted off sometime in the short night.
And soon it was tomorrow.

a haiku a day

flatulent damask
coppery drizzly maelstrom
trillionth euphemist

a haiku a day

I think best when I'm
showering, cycling, swimming
and can't write things down

Identity theft

I live on a street with no name.

2009 in retrospect

Welcome 2010 - twenty ten - two thousand and ten - o-ten.
Farewell o-nine, and as is now traditional, here's a summary look back at notables, and/or, never-done-befores (skipping the first third of the year, covered by my previous post.), and in no particular order.

Saw new parts of the world:
- Annecy
- Chamonix, Mont Blanc
- Crans-Montana, The Rhône Valley
- Baden Baden
- Las Vegas
- The Grand Canyon
- Zion National Park
- The Valley of Fire
- Ottawa
- Cairns, Palm Cove
- The Great Barrier Reef

Got a wetsuit and became a lapper in 16 degree water

Rented a full-body stinger suit and floated on the edge of the outer reef with gazillions of the most colourful fish I've ever seen - and giant clams, eels, nasty looking barracuda and the odd shark or two.

Packed up my whole life and moved back again after just 12 months.

Spent time with looooong lost friends on other continents. Including one I'd never imagined I'd ever see again.

Contemplated living in America. (!) (srsly)

Bicycled around San Francisco - who'd have thought that those extreme hills were negotiable.

Caught a cable car from France to Italy and back.

Swam in "Europe's cleanest lake".

Was touched by a chipmunk. Impossibly cute.

Made the cat fly on a plane.

Enjoyed a Sydney Dance company piece. (!)

Learned Final Cut.

Endured the leaky bathroom from hell (and continue to endure).

Became a Telstra free zone! Yippeeeee.

Happy New Year.

QLD dangers

Despite the extreme dangers, I somehow survived a recent trip to Far North Queensland.
Miraculously, I only suffered only a blister on one toe from rubber-thong wearage. And they didn't warn me about that.