I have no freaking idea.

I got up. I got myself together. Assessed how I felt and figured it wouldn't be a total disaster. I dithered briefly, wondered which bits were worrying me the most and worked out what I'd do about them. I made a phone call, called a taxi, went to the mobility centre and climbed into a scooter. I went to the Art Gallery, which is right nearby. I saw the Sydney Nolan retrospective. His later work impressed me far more than it ever has before. I found his Kelly series traumatic to look at, quite distressing in a way that they never were before. I pondered this for a bit, and then I moved on.


His antarctic paintings are breathtaking, and I'd never really looked at the stuff he did with - was it acetate? Where he rubs the paint off. And the Riverbend paintings were astonishing. I had never seen them before. His spray paintings were fucking brilliant, I'd never realised that before either. Maybe I was just still too caught up in painterly brushstrokes back then. Or something.

And what hit me at the end was that he was not afraid. He really was not afraid. Took his work as far as he could, pushed his skills and vision hard. He didn't stop and he didn't hold back. With an end result of work of amazing delicacy and beauty and power.

~~~~

I bought too many books, I returned the scooter, I decided I could walk to the tramstop and catch a tram home because it wasn't yet peak hour. I <3 the mobility centre.

The tram ride was okay becauase although I was exhausted, my sensory overload problem seemed to be fairly okay today. Normally, the problem is that the more exhausted you get, the worse the sensory overload gets, which is one of a few reasons why I don't do trams. Or for that matter, anything much at all.

I am now feeling a bit stunned.

And it is catching up now.

~~~~

But before I fuck up completely, here's what I bought.

Pearce, BarrySidney Nolan, from the Art Gallery of NSW. The catalogue, of course. Hardcover and extensive.

Culture Warriors, National Indigenous Art Triennial '07 National Gallery of Australia. Which I never would have had a chance at seeing, but wish I had.

Morphy, Howard, Becoming Art: Exploring Cross Cultural Categories UNSW Press, 2008. Looked interesting, something I mull over in my own very vague and limited way, so why not have a book to do it with, I figure. It might help me resolve some of my own puzzles about the stuff I got taught as Art History and how it fits with all the other stuff I've read and learnt about and where it all goes next. My own personal attempt to find common ground with different fields I've studied and...okay I'll stop now. (Unlike Sir Sidney, I am afraid, which is why I'll never be great).

Dew, Christine, Uncommissioned Art. An A-Z of Australian Graffiti Meigunyah Press, 2008.
How could I not?


Plus random greeting cars and postcards, some for me, some for the greeting card stash.

They very kindly didn't charge me for the bag. :-)

In retrospect, if I'd joined the National Gallery society, the membership wouldn't have cost much at all because it would have included entry to the exhibition and given me a discount on the books, but would only pay for itself if I go back again once or twice over the next year. At this point, part of me is saying yes, yes, yes - fuck I'll be back on Monday - but I wasn't entirely sure I was being realistic, so I didn't.

~~~~~

Braiins...? Huh............

~~~~~

If today doesn't kill me, I will try for the Medeival Manuscripts exhibition next. I believe it's on for about another month...hopefully I'll have recovered by then.

Presently being visited by the OWFUCK!fairy, who grants anti-wishes mostly involving what a hospital procedure information sheet would describe as discomfort. Her wings make an irritating noise, too. I think it's deliberate.

Stupid flying cow.

Menopause. Bring it on, I say!

~~~~

I just realised I have a small mountain of books due back at the library today. Including that tome on the Etruscans. And I'm not even half way through it yet, I'm only just up to their livers. Damn this complicated life that I lead.

~~~~

Codeine is kicking in.

Mmmmm.

Sweet, sweet codeine.

Today I am in bed. The following is a really vague blather without a beginning, middle or end.

( Picking a new hobby. )

In other news, the general consensus is that my current blahness is probably a virus, not a drug reaction.

Poo socks!

Total fricking poo socks!

I can't find my crochet hook, the 3.75mm one.

This was going to be an entry about how fabulously serene I'm feeling but as you can see things have gone a little pear shaped.

I was planning to mention that I got a few things done this week and that I've been feeling really good about this and wanting to tell people but although I've had a couple of real-life, meatworld opportunities to speak up and share my joy I've found saying that you've finished knitting that baby rug and that you've done the Scary Bit of your tax doesn't seem to set the room on fire. People are happy for you but by the time you've finished the sentence they're talking over you to tenbears about the intricacies of hedgetrimmer maintenance.

But even so, last night I was feeling totally chipper and was going to blog about how I do love Getting Things Done and being an achievobear and I was even thinking about going into detail about the completion of the baby rug and why it was an excellent choice of project for the pedantic beginning knitter and what I learnt and how the completion of the rug has me itching to start new projects and how today I'm launching into a bit of a crocheted thing, part of the art/craft meme of well over a year ago, although I'm also sorely tempted by a slightly more complex knitting project oh my what's a noodle to do?

I was then going to mention how this week I've realised that it really isn't so bad being well enough to do stuff with ones' hands while watching DVDs in the daytime (I think I've mentioned the taboo about watching TV in daylight hours before) and that coming from where I'm coming from, it's a big leap forward and I'm really grateful for it, especially since I can now also get out and about on an ad hoc basis and actually have fun and not worry too much about overdoing it, without too much recovery time afterwards(touchwood!).

However, today I (with a special serene grace) rummaged through the basket looking for That Hook with which to start the next project and it was not there. No worries, I tend to leave crochet hooks all over the place so I searched high and low for the 3.75 hook. I searched everywhere. I reached the point where further searching is pointless - I'm going out tonight (yeehah!) and I'll need to start panicking about that soon, especially given the bra I washed is still dripping wet on account of the fact that I hung it in front of a heater, went back two hours later and realised the cat was in the way and clearly had been all the time (I don't know how she does it), but it reached the point where I just needed to know.

In the process of turning the house upside down I picked up the various hooks lying about. It seems I have a 4mm, three 3.5s, a 3.25 and an itty-bitty lace one which (along with along with one of the 3.5s), was given to me by my Aunty Esther (no relation), the woman who taught me to crochet when I was a kiddywinkle.

Pardon me while I digress...I've blathered about this before so if you've been around for a while, you may which to scroll on...

Aunty Esther. No relation, it was an honorific. Aunty or Uncle was the title for adults who were too close to be Miss, Missus or Mister.

I think of her whenever I pick up either hook, which isn't nearly so sweet as it sounds. For a few years I had an annual holiday at her house, which is where Grandpapa lived. What with him being legally blind by them and both of them being pretty old, we used to sit around a lot and that's where I did a lot of embroidery and learnt to crochet and marvelled at the number of pills that old people take. Fortunately I've always been kind of interested in people so sitting around watching the interactions between the three of them (there was another younger woman living there too), wasn't nearly so bad as it sounds. Further, the two women of the house were accomplished in woolcraft type matters (they had been sending us complex handknitted jumpers all my life), I actually got quite a bit out of it. I discovered that both crochet and embroidery could be pretty cool, so long as I could run off into the nearby paddocks every now and again when the atmosphere got too much for me. I also discovered that sitting and staring at a fabulous, beautiful, breathtaking mountain range all day does give people an ongoing topic of conversation but doesn't lift us above the mundane the way a lot of people expect it to.

In between teaching me to crochet (with surprising patience given her increasingly extreme views on the merits of my continued existence) she mostly just glared at me with a distaste that got more and more palpable over the years. My holidays there became an increasingly uncomfortable experience as I sat on the couch watching the mountains while she snarked about stuff and bitched at everyone. Moreover, I was an insecure young thing and a bit inclined to make self deprecating remarks and whenever I did she would agree vehemently with my negative self-assessment. (It's really cruel to do that to an insecure 11 year old, in case you are wondering). I not-so recently found out that not only was she boffing Grandpapa, they were in a serious relationship that had been going on decades. My parents had insisted that all such matters be kept from me. This must have been something of a trial given I was frequently sent there for the duration of the school holidays. When you think of all the work that went into all those jumpers, and all the effort to keep in touch when we were younger, it must have really sucked to know you were never really going to be acknowledged.

So mostly I pick up a hook, feel really sorry for Aunty Esther now that I know what it was all about and ponder the irony of it all: within ten years Grandpapa had died, Aunty Esther would soon follow the way grieving spouses often do, and at roughly the time of Aunty Esther's death my parents were having to come to terms with far more challenging behaviour in their own progeny. To their credit they did mellow and change their views - they loved their kids too much not to work at understanding them - but it was too late for Aunty Esther.

So to get back to the drama of today:


...


Actually it doesn't seem to matter now that I'm stuck somewhere down in memory lane. I'll get a new hook this week if I need to.

~~~

In other news, I'm still only popping by and skimming posts.

I should probably go, my bra is dripping.