If I can do a ‘week without’ booze. What else can I go for a week without…? What are the activities that I feel are relatively indispensable in my daily and weekly routine…? Could I go without them with relative ease…? If I can’t, can I go without them at all? And, might I learn a thing or two if I try a weekly schedule of abstention from a range of things…. Let me just get it out of the way early – this does not relate to sexual activities, nor to activities that I never do, and thus would be very easy to refrain from doing…

So some options are: ‘a week without’-
* caffeine;
* hitting the snooze button;
* swearing;
* asking for a favour from someone;
* making a promise i don’t keep;
* making excuses to not do something;
* take-away or dining out;
* leaving the kitchen untidied after meals; and, lastly
* eating food that has been processed in any way.

I’d be interested to hear if anyone has any other ideas for stuff to try. I think the last one would be very, very difficult. Think of almost all the foods you eat beyond fresh fruit and veg. Dairy, pastas, white rice, cereals, bread, sauces, oil, condiments, meats, etc… the list is nigh on endless. Even something as benign as soy sauce or milk would be off the list. I’m not even sure if lentils or other dried beans that could’ve been used in a soup would pass the test, on the basis that they’ve presumably been dried by some artificial process. (I’m ignoring the fact that picking fruit and slicing meat from a bone is also a process).

It’d be a boring old week: wholegrain rice with fresh vegetables; salt and chilli to taste; potato and corn as my other carbs; and fruit. But one that makes you think, if only for a fleeting moment, about just how far removed our existence is from eating natural foods.

They search for food in tidy rows, first 1 then 10 and yonder goes;
They nomp and omp and chomp my stuff, until I’ve soon had quite enough;

And say to them in calmest voice, I’m sorry friends but I’ve no choice
But to ask if you would kindly leave my food my house and me in peace;

Before you aim to cause a stink, I might have washed you down the sink,
And trust me friends there’s no food there; it’s not that I don’t wish to share

But even with your tiny mouths, the lot of you will soon devour
My meat, my eggs, and all my fish, and that’s against my every wish.

So once again I ask you please!
Switch to honey and bother the bees!

Let’s get the losers out of the way early. Tennis, Table Tennis and Badminton (0/10). Verbal Arguments (1/10) lest people think you are on a train to Alzheimerton. Shopping (0/10) this is irrespective of company, or lack thereof.

There are the things that actually revolve around displaying some sort of ability to your significant other and as such lose effect in their absence: examples include Golf, Body Surfing, Tenpin bowling, and crossover skipping (<5/10). Variations of these are fine to undertake solo: driving range, swimming, Wii Tenpin bowling and normal, boring skipping (all 6-7/10).

One word – SCRABBLE; synonym for destroy, annihilate and/or humiliate. Scrabble loses at least 6 points with the loss of a partner (to ~2/10). That is unless you sit somewhere a little further along the Aspergers spectrum and use the time to hone your abacus-like calculative abilities and make sure that every tile is placed in perfect alignment and that each word score adds up to a Fibonacci number. Interestingly enough, the context of so many scrabble games – namely, a coffee shop and a flatwhite – is relatively unaffected due to the ability to occupy one’s time with a newspaper or with people-watching.

Cooking (4-5/10) loses a few points for a couple of simple reasons. Firstly, cooking is inherently something undertaken for the pleasure of others. We can derive indirect pleasure through the pride of our work or the enjoyment others draw, but we’re not the central focus of the play. Secondly, when you’ve cooked for 2 for over 4 years, you’re not necessarily going to have the presence of mind to alter proportions. As a result, and using tonight as an example, you will be eating honey-soy stirfried veges with ramen noodles for the next 8 consecutive meals. Lastly, so the adage goes “they that cooks, washes up not”. Cook and wash up? Why that’s a travesty, in my humble opinion.

Work (7/10). Odd I know, but with no-one warm and snuggly to have you wishing you remained under covers, it’s a bit easier to get to work on time. Hobbies (7/10) – my most recent one has been electronic circuits. Hobbies often require decent amounts of focussed attention, and are not well attuned to regular interruptions for, say, convivial discussions of one’s day. Keeping in mind that we are inclined to show-off, make sure your hobby task is complete before your partner’s return so they can ooh and aah in all the right places and leave you feeling less of a hermited geek and more of a man… “That’s the best home-made, self-calibrated, unconstrained Theremin I’ve ever seen… I’m so glad you’re my boyfriend! You’ll protect me in this most technological of futures!”…

Anyway, to the good’uns. First the dirty – playing with yourself… on the Playstation (8/10). No guilt, no time limits, no commitments. The only thing that tempers this is that you indeed play so much that you get bored of your games within a much shorter timeframe than otherwise might’ve been the case. Musical instruments or music (8/10). Despite the obvious inclination to impress others with your mad guitar skills, it wears off well before the 4 year mark. As a result, if you’re not doing it for you… why bother? Similarly, listening to music is an intensely personal experience and I do not expect others to share musical inclinations at any given moment. Alone, I control the CD player; in company, I compromise.

Penultimately, and perhaps surprisingly, photo-albums (9/10) – whether it be nostalgia about the times you’ve shared with your temporarily-absent other or a simple inkling to reminisce on some times that existed before you were together. You are the link that binds your photos, and hence it should be your experience. Together, you can only fully share the portion of photos that your partner appears in (or has some link to). Solo, you have total ownership – pride, shame, nostalgia, regret, love, idle remembrance. You don’t need to drive down memory lane all that often, so why not utilise the free time a break provides to wander, at leisure, down paths since forgotten and o’ergrown?

Lastly, for now, exercise (9/10). My poison is an afternoon ride along the river. You can run, climb, do weights, fit-ball, skip, stretch… You’re given an additional incentive in that, upon their return, you can be guaranteed that they’ll think to themselves “has he always been this buff, this hot, this super-mega attractive?” And then you can get back to things we do best in company…

_________________________________________________
I am aware that this list is inconclusive. Notable omissions include: internet browsing, facebooking, blogs (yay!), masturbation (it’s amazing I’ve had time to write this really), fishing, chores, and pub. Given that this piece is now longer than a number of my supposedly scholarly 1st year uni papers, I think I shall wind up…

But not before saying, bring on day 12

It must really suck being the moderator on a c.h.u.r.c.h bulletin board if you have to deal with thousands upon thousands of spam comments… The need for moderation on online sites is discussed here, in an apparent analogy to ‘real’ life…

So far, Askimet has protected my blog from around 45,000 spam posts – so I guess “Askimet saves better than Kalac too!” it would seem…

Now to delete that post…

365Project

365Project was someone’s idea to encourage people to be creative and take a photo every day for a year. I’ve decided to try and rise to the challenge and am uploading my photos to my Flickr account (For those that use RSS feeds: ‘most recent photo feed‘ and ‘Project365 feed‘). You can also click through from the front page of my blaarrg.

I’ve already had to use a substitute for one day, and I’m one day behind in uploading my pic, but it’s been good fun. I’m going to see if I can get by with only doing editing using the standard ‘MS Office Picture Manager’ and its no-frills crop, colours and contrast abilities. So far so good. Storm looks like she is also keen to start and being a much better photographer than I am, I’ll be sure to not pass on her link when it’s up…. kidding.

You can check out some others here (1, 2, and my favourite, Stormtroopers365) or you can just search for ’365′ or ’365Project’ etc…

There’s a follow up post to the Joys of Older Literature post I’d recently done, with an extended list of the novel terms and phrases encountered during my reading of Jane Eyre. By book’s end, the number of pages with dog-eared markers for later reference easily exceeded the number of ants swarming the scones we’d left out o’ernight.

Then there’s the flood of thoughts that have emerged upon commencing Hunter S Thompson’s part autobiography Kingdom of Fear. After finishing Bronte’s 590 odd pages of flourishing, refined and highly considered language and context, the effusive textual outpourings of HST came as both a shock and refreshment. Classic quotes and titbits are surrounded by random stories and occasional self-righteousness that a number of anti-establishment figures seem to be unable to avoid. Tales that seem to belie Occam and his shaving ways make me wonder whether the legend has overtaken the man or whether he truly was a badass…

There are thoughts on celebrity (however minor) and its effect on personal interactions, as shaped by a couple of conversations Storm and I had with Brisbane musician Loren at a recent gig in Fremantle.

There was an SBS documentary that Storm and I saw called Frank and Daz, about a C6 Cerebral Palsy sufferer who ran and completed the New York marathon and his Scottish friend who founded a charity to open schools in Cambodia after visiting the country.

And through these thoughts drifts a theme of ‘calling’. Thompson writes that he knew that he was to be a writer. Writing was work, but it was still ‘worthwhile work’. He had to pick a career that he could do better than most others, and writing was it. After Bronte, I don’t necessarily think him to be a brilliant wordsmith; however, he certainly does entertain. There was Loren, in a room where some patrons didn’t even have the common courtesy to limit their conversations during songs, singing and playing guitar in a manner that I could never replicate, and somehow subsisting only on merchandising sales and meagre cover charges. There’s the legacy left by the late John Martyn and the raging debate of his personal and muscial worth between lovers and haters in the comment sections of his youtube videos. And then there are Frank and Daz who are striving to do what they’ve been told they can’t, and living a life to its fullest.

Unfortunately, there’s no neat wrap to this flurry of ideas. There’s no epiphany… It’d be a mis-advertisment if there was. But at least that backlog of pre-nascent posts is out and now I can try and move on to more organised thoughts and syntheses…

And finally start work…

Ignoring the urge to read another Dickens tome at the expense of other lesser known (to me) authors, my eye drifted to the familiar orange and white backdrop of a pile of Penguin classics. I perused the pile at length, at last settling on two distinct yet equally appealing titles: ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ and ‘Jane Eyre’.

I digested the former first, assuming a pace commensurate with the goings on of McMurphy and his band of nuts. Whilst mildly discomforting and unsettling, the second half of the book was very hard to lay aside and a couple of decent sessions enabled me to polish it off in relatively short order. Storm will now have the pleasure of wishing to continue and cease reading simultaneously…

While I’m only 6 chapters into Jane Eyre, reading it has reminded me why I love delving into older literature. A familiarity with modern vernacular and turns of phrase (perhaps with the exception of the likes of David Foster Wallace and authors with a propensity to unnecessarily drop obscure, difficult words, like trophies, into their prose) means that the English language takes a back seat.

In older novels, however, the dynamism (and evolution) of the English language is brought to the fore. Euphemistic and linguistic oddities (at least to the modern eye) pique an interest in the language itself, no longer consigning it to the analogous equivalent of a ‘Coolibah tree’ in a primary school theatrical rendering.

We’re (or at least I’m) encouraged to think about the roots of words that we use mutliple times in quotidian life. Once firmly established linguistic pairings, where one has now fallen into obscurity, become reunited and illuminated.

The simple example that dragged me down this path of drivel is the word ‘ruth’. I have no memory of reading or hearing or using this word in isolation yet it abounds in the form ‘ruthless’.

“ruth – /ru?/ [rooth]
– noun
1. pity or compassion.
2. sorrow or grief.
3. self-reproach; contrition; remorse.

Origin:
1125–75; ME ruthe, reuthe.”

Other examples include the use of dread as an adjective “a dread place”, the use of ‘quail’ as a verb, and the employment of words such as ‘opprobrium’ and ‘animadversions’.

In other instances, I’m happy to see that words like ‘dingy’ have a heritage much longer than I would’ve presumed. Who knows what other gems will be turned over in the course of the next 500 pages?

On the topic of language, I did notice the phrase ‘they’d of’ in Cuckoo. Would there be anything wrong with taking two well entrenched abbreviations ‘d and ‘ve and making a triple composite “they’d've”? Is there a precedent, or a future, for such a contraption as this?!? Or will it meet with a tumult of insuperable animadversions and dread opprobrium?!? Ummm… ok…

And, like most fads, trends and taste defying fashion phases (think Normanby hotel on any myriad of Sunday afternoons in 2008 – I mean maternity dresses and fluoro-vomit-patterned-dress-boardshorts?), it ceased, abruptly.

At some point past Whyalla – maybe Wudinna, Ceduna, or in the proximity of one of the many silos, wheatfields or turnoffs that guide the way – drivers starting waving as we went by. As we progressed closer to the edge of the Nullarbor, the habit became much more consistent. By the time we were fixed on our black line to oblivion, with nary a spot of shade for hundreds of kilometres around, the probability of being waved at approached 1.

Like all things in life, there were a large number of variations:
* Hand held on the steering wheel with any number of fingers raised;
* Includes the single-digit salute, two finger peace sign and, rarely, the full fingers/thumb combo;
* Hand removed from wheel and held up but still;
* The enthusiastic ‘yeah man, we’re crossing the nullarbor!’ wave with jolly sideways oscillations;
* The driver & passenger combo; or
* Any of the above with a head nod or wink.

Regardless of form or gusto, the wave held a symbolism for me. It basically said,

‘We are aware that things go wrong out here and we’re just checking to see if everything’s cool with you; on the flipside, everything is cool with us.’ Or in some cases, replacing the latter half of the sentence with ‘Yeah man! We’re crossing the Freakin’ Nullarbor Dude! In a wicked camper with no aircon and a punctured spare tyre!!’

If I’m even remotely near the mark, I think it’s cool that the ‘perceived’ dangers of the Nullarbor (whilst only seldom experienced) help to establish a camaraderie amongst travellers of all ilks and destinations.

Then again, it could simply be something to break up the monotony of staring at a black asphalt, dotted lines and vast skies for as far as even the most long-sighted eye can see. Most feasibly, it’s a mixture of the two.

All I know is that past Norseman, when trees abound and water is plentiful, the phenomenon ends… Whilst most phenomena in the realm of fashion and pastimes are ended due to the passing of some point on the time (or common sense) continuum, the Wave Zone appears to have finite and well defined geographical limits.

So, if you should ever be heading out west, or into the desert (or into the heart of Lakemba) to a place where there is a collective awareness of a latent danger outside the chassis of your automobile, see if you notice the Wave Zone. Do as Storm and I did, and see how many fingers you can average, cursing the lazy beggar with a one-fingered go…

And take a can opener, because you never know when your girlfriend will get a hankering for tuna and tomato corn thins on the way….

{Bit of a long post, avoid if necessary}

Life’s a funny thing. It’s pretty easy to get caught up in your own little web of affairs, gradually changing who you are – slowly dissolving character traits you once held dear, reinforcing habits that once you might have shied from or laughed at. I find the process is so disarmingly slow that by the time I’ve cottoned on to what’s occurring, the opportunities to take restorative action have somewhat diminished (or at least the perceived effort required is in itself prohibitive (the 9 stitches effect)).

Now I’m sure there’s an element of nostalgia or retrospective attribution that affects the perceived shift in character, but I think the basic premise holds.

When the web of self-absorption gets a bit sticky, it’s a good thing to look around and actually perceive others and observe which character traits you admire and, converse, dislike. Then, grab that garment and try it on for size…

This post has been borne of two examples I’ve thought about this morning and so I’ll quickly share them now.

1) Good mothers and others.

Upon returning to my house each day the first thing I’m bound to hear is the lady next door shrieking at her two daughters (~2 & 4 yrs). She shrieks at them over every manner of thing, from holding the door shut, to not sharing, to being little girls. The foot of concrete that separates our houses dulls the sound to a high pitched mulled-whine, but with doors open the sound is intrusive, overbearing and relentless.

As one sans kids, I shouldn’t pass judgment too quickly; however, I have the pleasure of knowing some fantastic mothers; mothers that treat their children with respect and love and consideration for one’s hearing and sanity. Examples include my mother, aunties, sister, sister-in-law, close friends, friends’ parents and so on. I know people who are soon to be fantastic mothers: Shelly, Steph and Lynda.

My neighbour seems to thrive off the negativity that fills her house (and mine) and has given me cause to reflect on the extent I now focus on the negative side of things. Once in that mindset, I find it a hard thing to shake, yet one that is worth shaking…

As if some augury of a day in 20 years time presented itself in my lap, the lady’s mother was present today, shrieking in much the same way at her daughter and granddaughters. I guess that ‘like breeds like’ and, boy, I will resolve to refrain from shrieking at my kids, unless of course they beat me at Playstation 7.

2) Golden Oak
Alcohol…. love it. Specifically beer. Sometimes, hanker for it. And have trouble stopping at one. Always have.

Coming to Perth has been a good opportunity to settle down in my boozing ways and learn to be happy sober. This has become all the more apparent with a girlfriend who doesn’t really drink and where the drunk-sober divide becomes particularly apparent and personal.

Enter Guts, a friend of one of my flatmates whose subsistence consists of Golden Oak cask wine (the cheapest), consumed by the mug-full prior to going out. Now these boys go out about 6 nights a week. Ruby Room, Hippie Club, The Dean, back to the Hippie Club and so on, week by week. Every night, mugs of Golden Oak go by the wayside, to the extent that I recommended that Guts just take himself out the back and punch himself in the liver and kidneys a few times and save himself a handful of dollars and a bad night’s sleep. It reminds me of travelling, when one’s life becomes a pseudo-reality devoid of the decisions and consequences that inhabit and hamper ‘real’ life.

Knowing Guts and his Golden Oak soaking ways has been a real eye-opener, and motivator. Were it I’d known him longer than 2 weeks, I’d probably suggest he find his own moment for reflection, especially when it comes to drink driving, which appears to be rampant here in WA.

Ok… I’ve rambled longer than I’d originally anticipated, but this post is in part to solidify these thoughts and if necessary revisit them should the lesson be forgotten. I’m well aware of the thought-action divide, but the journey starts not with the first steps, but with tying the laces…

I have to say that I was, and continue to be, amazed by the beauty of the coastal regions here. Cape Le Grand National Park, near Esperance, was a breathtaking introduction to the flora, fauna and scenery of the region (save for a few unsightly remnant scars from a December brush fire). Similarly, the beaches and coves in and around Albany have been first-class, front-page tourism brochure material, with blue topaz water – as refreshing as a mango Wiess bar on a summer Sunday – stunning backdrops and verdant plant life. I have always been partial to Bonny Hills and Bartlett’s Beach (a.k.a Little Beach) in particular, but I do have to say that the marble white sand and (again) blue-topaz water here places the region in very high esteem. For those fortunates that make their way to our new abode, please be assured that we’ll make a weekend of it down here for you… with as many trips as visitors!

Lastly, two observations –
* Rest days don’t really result in much rest, especially when they’re spent climbing headlands, swimming and watching 4-5 hour marathon tennis matches. Tonight’s final must go down as one of the most frustrating episodes of viewing I’ve experienced, especially considering I was rooting for the guy that incessantly hit the ball out and missed countless first serves. That Roge stuck in there till the 5th was in itself frustrating, in that it did nothing to shorten the torture!
* Coffee snobbery does not travel well Westward. When I politely enquired as to the coffee grind in a small coffee shop in Wagga Wagga, I was informed – in a manner that did little to instill consumer confidence – that it was “Ummm… coffee?”. The ‘Coffex’ brand name plastered on proximate signage did nothing to assuage any lingering fears, sounding more like a coffee-scented industrial solvent than an enjoyable morning blend. Given the long drive that was to follow, however, and through the Hay Plains no less, perhaps we should have tried our luck…

Jimmy…