La Gata Encantada

In Which I Apologise

2007-02-17T11:25:00.001+13:00

to anybody who might be reading this through an LJ feed, for switching to Beta Blog and flooding the feed as it converted entries over. I thought that because I hadn't been posting here lately, that might reduce the flood, but it didn't.

Sorry.

...And a Happy New Year.

2007-01-01T00:02:00.000+13:00

That's all.

I Have a Bag Full of Body Parts

2006-12-30T11:54:00.000+13:00

Legs sans feet.
Bodies sans everything.
I had to have help turning the heads inside out - that was fiddly and time-consuming.
I've cut out the skin already, but I'm saving it for later.
Time to get messy with wire and a pair of pliers.

...
...
...

Why are you looking at me like that?

It's Cold, and I Don't Feel Well

2006-12-23T22:22:00.000+13:00

Merry Christmas.

??? RETURNS!!!

2006-12-18T22:05:00.000+13:00

Me: "O my stars and garters! My quick unpick! I've been looking for that for months!"

Michael: "Who'd have thought that for all this time it's been hiding in the top lid of your sewing box?"

Me: "But, but, splutter, months, splutter..."

Michael: *Hangs head* "I admit it. I kidnapped it and held it for ransom."

???

2006-12-13T12:16:00.000+13:00

David: "Isn't it awful when you find out your boyfriend's ineffably evil?"

Michael: "*sigh* Yeah, tell me about it..."

They'd been watching Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. Still, I have to wonder, sometimes.

Because I Was on the Committee...

2006-12-10T23:58:00.000+13:00

... when the ESOL Home Tutor Group (Palmerston North) held a party, I pretty much had to go, whether I felt chipper or not.*

Also because I was on the committee, I spent most of my time in the kitchen, a small, noisy, and crowded room, fielding floods of grubby plates that were mostly brought back by the consumers themselves, eying up trolleys and trays full of very yummy food**, knowing full well that it was about to be taken out to be picked over, and that by the time I got to it all the really nice stuff would be gone. Then the new lot of dishes needed to be taken care of, and the hall packed out of after the party was over.

And I still had more fun than I would have if I'd been in the main hall trying to talk to people. Thus and so is the Introvert.

Actually, we had great esprit de corps in the kitchen. It disturbs me how well I blend into the support staff of an event, instead of, you know, participatin gin the simple fun stuff, though.

But yeah, the punters had a good time, too - very cheerful people. Lots of kids.*** A good time was had by all and that.

* A mild case of tonsilitis. Or possibly just 'not sleeping well' the night before, and paying for it later.

** It was pot luck. One of the lucks was a plate of brandy snaps that had been decorated with fresh, pink roses. I can just see some little old lady filling the last snap with freshly whipped cream and then tottering out into her garden, snipping just the right flowers and bringing them back to garnish that dessert into a thing of great and poignant beauty. I think that plate of brandy snaps will stay with me until I die (but not on my hips).

*** One of them, a little Congolese girl with her hair in cornrows was helpfully running off into the crowd and fetching back dirty plates for us. Nice kid. She'll probably end up in a kitchen somewhere...

Wind Farm Continued (Finally)

2006-11-03T20:34:00.000+13:00

I apologise for the lateness of these pictures - I've been occupied with other things.

Comments: Those things are big. The photo with Michael in front and the windmill behind may let you think you have an idea of the scale, but it's perhaps best to get close to one and hear its noise, and look up and see it (apparently) moving in relation to the clouds behind it while trying to ignore the feeling that it is about to fall on you. And long, loose hair in a very windy place is not at all romantic. It is a recipe for getting people's eyes blinded with the stinging tips of hair, quite some time washing the dust out, and even longer untangling it.

In Which I Succumb to Madness...

2006-11-02T02:25:00.000+13:00

... and sign up for NaNoWriMo

Why? The people running the website seem to have it sussed:

NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month.

Part of the reason we organize NaNoWriMo is just to get a book written. We love the fringe benefits accrued to novelists. For one month out of the year, we can stew and storm, and make a huge mess of our apartments and drink lots of coffee at odd hours. And we can do all of these things loudly, in front of people. As satisfying as it is to reach deep within yourself and pull out an unexpectedly passable work of art, it is equally (if not more) satisfying to be able to dramatize the process at social gatherings.

But that artsy drama window is woefully short. The other reason we do NaNoWriMo is because the glow from making big, messy art, and watching others make big, messy art, lasts for a long, long time. The act of sustained creation does bizarre, wonderful things to you. It changes the way you read. And changes, a little bit, your sense of self. We like that.

Hear that? Big Messy Art*. Dramatize the Process. All people living in my immediate vicinity can beware. :-D :-D :-D

If anyone's interested, the first 2,039** words have been written and posted in a private entry on my LJ account. (Chapter One: In Which Jonathon Lily Reads a Letter.) If you would like to read it, comment on this entry and I shall give you access in two flicks of a quill-pen.***

* Management makes no guarantee that the Big Messy Art is, in point of fact, 'artistic'. It shall definitely be big. I suspect it shall be messy, also.

** Over two thousand words already! Woo hoo!!!

*** You will need an LJ account to do this. They are very easy to acquire. Trust me on this.

Windy

2006-09-16T13:36:00.000+12:00

So my flatmate Michael said, "Do you wanna see a wind farm?" I thought it sounded nifty, and agreed.

What I had thought would be a basic jump-in-the-buses-and-head-into-the-hills trip turned out not to be. They were having an Official Opening of Te Rere Hau Wind Farm. There was speechifying (inside a conference room), with coffee and food, and the Prime Minister.

Then we climbed into buses and headed into the hills. I'll give the rest of the details when the camera that I took pictures on is back in the city so that I can upload them.

to be continued...

Home is the Hunter, Home From the Hill

2006-09-10T21:54:00.000+12:00

My flatmate David has finally returned from his sojourn in large, strange countries (the USA, and GenCon), safely, though with a tendency to fall asleep.

He says that Indianapolis, the site of the Con, is very, very friendly to it. Restaurants have Gamer-theme menus. Coffee-shops and movie-theatres are open all night long. That sort of thing.

He says that GenCon is a lot like other conventions, but it doesn't end; it extends infinitely up, down, and sideways, and that most of the business seems conducted, not in the Dealer rooms, but after-hours in the bars.

He also failed miserably at his mission to bring back trashy souvenirs, instead gifting Michael and myself with several lovely card-games purchased at same Con, including Sluggy Freelance's Get Nifty which is, indeed, Nifty.

That's all.

Night Work

2006-09-03T09:18:00.000+12:00

So I've been hired to run the Extramural Student Help Desk in the library this week (study break? holiday? what are those?), which is sorta kinda occupying my evenings.

Still and all, some friends asked me to babysit their children so they could head for the hills (a barbecue at Fielding) last night, so I went there after work.

Little Miss Clementina vanished into her room about the time I arrived, though Fergus (the baby) was still in the process of getting his nappies changed and pyjamas put on. We played with balls for a bit, then the children and the adults moved along their respective preordained paths, leaving me in the living room with a cat, a dog, a dvd player, and several movies to watch.

Suss, a scabby, half-bald, stand-offish, territorial farmcat slept on my lap all through Bridget Jones' Diary: The Edge of Reason. I've discovered his secret weakness for chick flicks, I conclude.

Then there was a double-billing of The Cat Returns and Charlie Chaplin. Somewhere in there Fergus woke up and felt lonely and panicky, so we had a long, solemn, eloquent discourse vis-a-vis my ability to fetch his parents home and somewhere in there he stopped crying and I sang him a lullaby and put him back to bed. Never underestimate the power of reasoned discourse when dealing with children.

And sometime on the fading edge of midnight the parents came back, bent on hot noodles, and I got a ride home, full up on baby-dandling and cat-napping, and fell asleep soon after.

This is Just to Say

2006-08-17T22:17:00.000+12:00

I'm working three part-time jobs right now, all for the same Massey Department, plus shrapnel.

I'm feeling a tad frazzled.

They were so juicy, sweet and cold...

Trip to Wellington (In the Rain)

2006-08-07T18:39:00.000+12:00

So a volunteer organisation that I belong to (the ESOL Home Tutor Group) needed to send someone to the annual conference today and the Chair couldn't go. Neither could a whole lot of other people. I, the n00b committee member was picked to go instead, with Lorraine Vincent the co-ordinator. I'm not sure how much of the content of the conference was supposed to be confidential, so I'll keep mum on the meat of the trip, and discuss merely the spices and other flavours.

I lost my breakfast on the way there. Lorraine, who was driving herself, me, and her daughter there was rather concerned to see me retching on the soggy grass by the high-way. Little does she know how easily I can vomit on cross-country trips... Alas, when we got to the conference centre/motel, I realised to my horror that lunch wasn't until half past one. This isn't too bad, unless you've been up since twenty past six and lost every scrap of nutrient you imbibed at that time. Also, the place didn't have any of those chocolate bar/chippy machines, and the dairy was too far away to get to before it started. I mainlined coffee for the milk and sugar, and inhaled muffins when they came my way.

It was a good morning - I got to ask intelligent questions, make insightful suggestions, and take notes industriously. Everyone there was very friendly, and I felt that we were there doing something useful instead of just marking time.

At lunchtime, the food was terribly sweet, with odd sprinklings of curry powder - enough to mask the natural flavours of the other ingredients, but not enough to be interesting in itself. I've been complaining about that wretched food ad nauseam ever since... Still, I took twenty minutes of free time and dashed into the wet, wild, and woolly Botanical Gardens, just across the road. There's a Giant Ear Trumpet on top of one of the hills! I'm not kidding, it isn't just a giant funnel standing there artistically - the thing (the narrow end was wide enough I could stand inside comfortably) was mounted on swivels so that you could aim it at different areas of the sky!

After lunch a guest speaker squeezed a week's management seminar into one and a half hours. It was utterly fascinating; I learned some things.

Then we went home. I didn't lose my lunch on the way back.

The End.

Get That Dog Away From Me!

2006-07-17T23:23:00.000+12:00

A new dress that I have been working on was complete enough that I could wear it to a meeting of the Ravens, on Sunday morning.

On seeing a friend's dog, Twyla, who had taken it upon herself to follow him to the meeting, crossing several roads unescorted, I was at first delighted. Then I saw the mud on her feet, and recalled her habitual habit of jumping on people in greeting. I looked down at my new dress (very pretty, very brown); I screamed those eponymous words.

The dress has revealed positive, if quiet, reaction. That is to say, the people that said something had something nice to say, except for Twyla's owner, who demanded to know if it was Flemish (it is) and lectured me on the Flemish textile trade, and a kind lady who admitted that, yes, the hem was slightly crooked. As one of my reasons for wearing it that morning was to get observers to check the hem, I wasn't unhappy. And learning a bit of history is a noble undertaking.

I spent the rest of the day tidying my room and the living room of the house, both extremely cluttered with my stuff. The results are mixed - I can definitely move around now, but the immediate visual impact is still a bit busy. Michael (who doubles as my landlord) was extremely impressed when I told him I'd done some tidying: "I'm impressed," he exclaimed, "I didn't think you could do it."

Warm fuzzies.

And this evening I have mapped out the rewrite of my poetry essay. I'm feeling good. I'm feeling like I should get to sleep before midnight for once.

Good night.

ps. "... didn't think you could do it"?

...

...

Michael!!!

Fun With Numbers

2006-07-12T22:42:00.000+12:00

Extract from the original Pirate thing:

MABEL: But you are twenty-one-

FREDERICK: I've just discovered... that I was born in a leap year, and that birthday will not be reached by me 'til Nine Teen Forty *sob*

**

So when are they saying that?

A leap year comes every four years; 4 x 21 (Freddy's age in 1940) = 84; 1940 - 84 = 1856. Freddy was born in 1856. Adding 21 years for his de facto age puts the date at 1877.

Simple, eh? Not so, my friends. The ill-natured fairy has extended her reach into my calculations.

A note on calendars: the Julian (named after a Caesar) calendar considers a calendar year to be 365 1/4 days long. It sets every fourth year as a leap year (as above). The Julian calendar isn't accurate. Eventually, the inaccuracies add up to serious trouble.

The Gregorian (named after a Pope) calendar set out to reform the inaccuracies. It considers a calendar year to be 365 97/400 days, or 365.2425 days. (This still isn't a true year (tropical, equinox to equinox), which is 365.2422 days, or a true year (sidereal), which is a touch longer.)

To keep the calendar jiggered correctly, the Gregorian calendar excepts some leap years from the cycle. Some of these years are: 1700, 1800, 1900, 2100, 2200. As you can see, 1900 falls well within our calculations, and its supposed (but not actual) leap year falls well out of them. That means that we need to extend our time frame backwards by four years to make the equations come out.

Freddy was born in 1852. The events in The Pirates of Penzance ocurred in 1873, late February and early March, approximately six and a half years before the first production, staged at the Royal Bijou Theatre, Paignton, Devon on 30th December, 1879.

The Mystery Is Solved.

Unless Freddy forgot about the missing leap year in 1900. He was under a lot of stress: it could happen.

(The theatrical data is from: http://homepages.ihug.co.nz/~melbear/pirates.htm
The astronomical data comes from Dr Michael Woodhams, PhD in Astrophysics, who'd damn well better have gotten it right.)

Another Fragment

2006-06-27T22:31:00.000+12:00

... I checked him over: no visible bloodstains, rumpled jeans and jersey he'd had on three days ago, hunched shoulders and his hands between his knees. He wouldn't look at me. I kept on babbling: "... I mean, hey, my brother started setting my alarm clock fast - now I get up at noon to make my nine o'clock -"

"I was kidnapped by aliens."

"You mean like... lights in the sky?"

"No, I mean little grey guys that came up to my armpit, in silver velour suits with plastic ray-guns. I mean plastic. I could kick through the walls. I did a couple times, when I got loose. They, it, they hurt me a lot, and I can't even tell people about it - my excursion to the cardboard-mockup UFO." He glanced at me sidelong. "You ever read Dracula? Early on, Jonathon Harker fetches up in an insane asylum in Europe. He knows that he has two options: to believe that the horrifying events that he remembers actually happened, or know that he's gone insane."

He looked back at the wall, and the breath escaped his throat. "I'm sorry I missed your party."

Isn't It Always The Way?

2006-06-27T13:24:00.000+12:00

You're standing on stage at the Regent, about to try on a centuries-old Noh mask held by a Japanese Cultural Treasure, and it's only then that you realise that your boots are scruffy and your hair is mussed...

At least I was wearing my best stripy stockings.

Seriously, I went with Michael to the Noh Experience that was held last night. As this is the first time (according to the programme notes) that Noh Theatre has made it New Zealand, it was really quite historic. I think that IPC was sponsoring it, as were some other companies, whose names escape me.

What we saw were two solo dances excerpted from well-known plays, with a queston-and answer (and chance to try on the masks) in between. The dancer, Kyutaro Hashioka, was dressed in exceedingly bulky and beautifully made clothing, and moved very slowly. His only props were a fan and his hanging sleeves, which he moved in meaningful ways, most of which I didn't understand (I don't understand most of the body-language of ballet, either). Both of the dances we saw were god dances.

There were five musicians: two drummers, a flute-player, and three chanters. The drums were small and their skins were horse-hide, though the leather was from different parts of the horse. In consequence, one drum had to be warmed backstage to keep moisture from slackening the tone. They had distinct pitches and were played very simply - slow handslaps against the skin. They would have been nothing without each other to bounce the irregular rhythms off. The flute was small and very waily; I could hear breathiness at the start of the notes. Sometimes the chanters were singing altogether in harmony what sounded like bits of plot, or description perhaps. Even if I understood Japanese, I don't think I'd be able to decipher what they were singing, though. Sometimes they were acting as other insturments, supplying weird howls and other sound-effects in the same rhythm as the drums and flute.

The music was certainly different from the Western music that I am used to : the flute's long notes tended to sag in pitch, the harmony of the singers was strange, sounding very dissonant to my ears. (It sounds a bit like traditional Maori music. If that isn't a useful comparison, watch the first five minutes of Gangs of New York - the repetitive flute riff has a little of the same feeling.) It made a peculiar contrast to the formality of the dancer, the perfectly clean floor that he was supposed to dance on (ours was a little dusty, alas), the solemnity with which everyone moved - like, perhaps, straight clean garden walls with a tangled wilderness hidden inside.

In the workshop in-between the performances, Kyutaro Hashioka told us a little bit about Noh - that there were specific gestures in the dances, that Noh was 650 years old and hadn't changed since the beginning, that it was associated with religion, that his costumes and masks were all over a hundred years old. The eye-holes of the mask are set so that the dancer cannot easily look through them - the dancer effectively moves from memory. He also let members of the audience come up on stage and try on the masks :-) Well, he held the masks in front of our faces, anyway - they are so old and fragile that it's dangerous to handle them too much. (I said Doumo to him, after, and ever since have been afflicted with doubt - was that too informal? He seemed a very nice person, and I didn't want him to think I wasn't taking it seriously. Ah, the hell with it.)

I found Noh a little uncomfortable to listen to and watch, at first, but it grew on me. I would like to see a complete performance, sometime, and see how the plot unfolds. There is a science fiction story, "Rokuro" by Poul Anderson, that I believe to be based on a the Noh form - I have a better idea of how it should be read now.

It was a very memorable experience.

And They're Back!

2006-06-20T22:37:00.000+12:00

Mum and John T, that is, from their luxury cruise in the sunny islands. They were actually quite hot at several points, but the last two days back were stormy, and they're both feeling a bit tired and ill right now, and Mum has a very nasty cough.

I did a Big Clean and Iron-Down yesterday, in preparation for their return, and another Big Clean today. ME: "Was the house-keeping okay?" MUM: "Not bad." Sigh. And I forgot to sweep the wood chips from the front of the fireplace, and the dead leaves from the back porch... Ah well, the cats have been pampered, and that's the important bit.

I took some time off the Big Sewing Project (not the shirt, Michael, sorry - I chickened out of making something that I couldn't drape on the model as I put it together) and whipped together a stuffed pigeon for a prop for Mum's production. Finally I had something useful to do with the fabric scraps! The head is a little small, though, and I will probably re-do it in the morning.

And that's about it. The Big Sewing Project has its own blog entry, which isn't finished as the Project is not. I'll publish it when it's done.

Tribal Rites

2006-06-11T23:54:00.000+12:00

What with being in Hastings, I spent this afternoon with John the Quasi-Ex-Step-Dad and his infamous crew, the Hash House Harriers. It was fun. John and I got lost halfway along or thereabouts, when we stopped to say Hello to the Order of the Sacred Sword (another infamous crew). Then we went shopping.

You have to understand, mothers' birthdays take precedence over rain, hail, and earthquakes, and I'd seen something in an antique shop's sale that looked like something she would like.

Anyway, we had thoroughly lost the others by this point, so we headed to the endpoint of the run and picked up the trail going backwards (there are chalk arrows to follow, y'see, and weirdly scrawled signs to lead us on the chase). We rejoined the others, and then retraced our steps to the barbecue.

This was my Naming Run, and amidst much ribaldry linked with Mum's birthday present, I was awarded the HHH Name 'Furball'. I got off very lightly, I can assure you.

Also, I actually drank alcohol - pre-mixed vodka and coke, and weird liqueurs in a two-part shot-glass. Deary, deary me.

They Are Sailing, They Are Sailing

2006-06-10T23:56:00.000+12:00

So Mum and my Step-dad are going off on a cruise, one that they have been planning for half a year, and I am looking after the cats.

Tall Black Ziggy is fairly aloof and happy that way, except he'll turn up for meals and a warm living room at night.

Rosie the Rent-A-Cat is very clingy and adores having someone around all day. It's quite pleasant, except when I trip, and when she tries to take a bite out of me. There never seems to be a reason for this, and she'll start fights with Ziggy the same way so I guess it's just the way she's made. Keeps my observation and reflexes sharp, too. She is vexful to sleep with, for we both toss and turn and though I am bigger, she is ever be-weaponed. She also managed to locate, within the first ten minutes, a pile of freshly washed fabric that I am planning on making into a dress, and sleeping on it.

Tonight I watched a double billing of Lady Snowblood and The Day the Earth Stood Still, and then I lucked into The Bride of Frankensten on late-night tv. Right now Frankie's being introduced to smoking by a blind old man. There were dancing homunculi in jars before. "Do you think I'm mad? Perhaps you're right..." Ooh, ooh - graverobbing! I like this movie!

**

As of the last web-update, Mum and John, and the boat, are "At sea, en route to Mystery Island." That's a black-and-white movie all of its own!

Dress Diary - Fitted Kirtle for Kat

2006-06-10T00:51:00.000+12:00

Back when I was putting together a new dress (a 15th century Flemish fitted kirtle), I kept a diary of my research and how the construction was going. It seems to me well-and-truly time to put the diary up to public view.

BRIEF: 'Kirtle' can mean a lot of things depending on the time and place of the person wearing it (and the accuracy of the costumer). To be specific, I've been looking at a lot of pictures from the early fifteenth century, lately, and fallen in love with those smooth curves over the torso. They don't have the stiff flat front of a boned bodice, and yet they are somehow uplifting, too. Yummy. I want one. This is going to be a working dress, so the skirts, however full, will be ankle-length. As always, comfortable fit around the torso and good arm-movement is essential. The style lets me have cap-sleeves or no sleeves, with fancy brocade ones pinned on as the occasion warrants, which I feel adds a lot to the convenience. This essay here has convinced me that this style is probably considered casual - t-shirt and sweat-pants of the middle ages. That's fine: I'll have a period dress for working, and I can pretty it up with fancy overdresses at need.

I will be pleating the back skirt to the bodice to give a bit of extra bouffe. Not all of the kirtles in the pictures do this, but enough do that I feel comfortable with it. Also, some of the pictures show definite waist-seams. I will work the bodice and the skirt seperately, partly for the pleating, and partly because it's easier to adjust the fit of the toile without the skirts gathering around my knees and ankles.

**TODO// EVIDENCE FOR INTERLINING OF BODICE//**

As this kirtle will be very closely fitted, I am making a toile of the interlining layer, and will cut my lining and outer pieces from that.

RELATED TERMS: kirtle, under-kirtle, fitted kirtle, flat-fronted kirtle, Gothic Fitted Dress (GFD), supportive layer, under-dress

FABRIC: What I wanted was a pure wool outer, and a pure linen inner, for authenticity (yay!) and the ability of natural fibres to breathe - this is almost the closest layer to my skin. The Exchequer will not stand; there is no linen in the stores right now, and none of the wool or wool-mix fabrics I've found have me drooling either.

I ended up with a mid-brown, sturdy cotton with a fluffy nap for the outer (at a tenth of the cost of wool). I think it can pass for a period fabric in a 'peach-coloured' light. The inner is a light-weight mid-red. The interlining is an open-weavy cotton canvas-like thing - I chose the texture for extra airflow (and why not?). The colours are not offensive and work with each other. The brown could do with a little zip, maybe, and I'm thinking of re-dying it slightly.

The cotton fabric will breathe nicely, and can also be machine-washed (which is a very attractive quality for something that will be sweated in). It has different stretch qualities, though, which may lead to me cutting the bodice on the bias, and it will not be as warm. I'm chalking this up as a practice dress - if I mess up, it won't be heart-breaking, and I can duplicate the pattern in better fabric at a later date if it works well.

PIECING OF SKIRT: This will be from Alcega's farthingale pattern, minus hoops. I've pictorial evidence for unusually pieced skirts, though I can't confirm this one; I like the idea of matching bias cuts with selvedges; it lets me put extra cloth in the back for pleats without pain. I'm not sure why the front gore is smaller than the back, unless this is what helps the skirt shift to the back; I'm willing to take this piecing decision on faith. UPDATE: I later found a couple of dresses made by contemporary re-enactors that used the farthingale piecing, though I didn't grab the links.

I intend to use roll pleats on the bodice/back-skirt join. According to my research at www.elizabethancostume.net, roll pleats are springier than anything but cartridge pleats. They are also bulkier. I'm planning to make up the skirt seperately, stitching the outer and the liner together, then pleating, and then attaching to the bodice with a double line of stitching for strength. (UPDATE: I later decided on overhanding.)

Dying.The fabric for the outer is a mid-brown cotton, which will be lined with red cotton. It seems to me a good candidate for machine-dying a slightly deeper, redder shade - cotton apparently dyes well, and if the dye runs afterwards, it won't ruin the lining. However, the last time I tried dying something it was a complete disaster. I did a quick spot of research, this time, at Paula Burch's All About Hand Dyeing web page. There's a lot of technical information; it never contradicts itself; there are many queries from outside parties. I'll do a bit more reading around, but the site looks reliable to me.

Ms Burch recommends Procion MX, Cibacron F (Sabracron F), and Drimarene K (Dylon Machine Dye) for what I want to do (seperately, that is). I'll have a squizz 'round the shops and see what's available. EDIT: I picked up some Dylon Machine Dye in Dark Red from Spotlight. The packet doesn't say whether it contains Drimarene K or not. It's about a quarter of what I need by weight, but I'm on a budget, and I wanted 'just a hint' and not 'whole different colour', so we'll see how it goes.

UPDATE: The fabric ended up a little darker and a little redder. About what I wanted.

I've cut a basic toile out of the inter-lining and am experimenting with the seams to get it fitting snugly. I'm having problems. I tend to get lots of tiny stress wrinkles popping up, even when it isn't very snug, and alarmingly often there is this weird horizontal indent coming up, where the stress from the upper balcony is right along the weft grain, so I get a bulge below and a bulge above and a valley in the middle - Doh! Options: 1. Raise or lower the arm-holes to change where the stress goes; 2. Cut the toile again on the bias, to avoid that grain-line; 3. Take a break and think about it all in the morning.

UPDATE: I've tinkered with the armholes and seam-lines some and got something do-able. Then I said 'Why not' and cut the front again, but on the bias. The difference is remarkable! I couldn't do this unless I had a seperate skirt, but suddenly I have flex and ease and delightful curves again. Yay! A little more tinkering with the shoulder pieces, and I'll be done.

UPDATE: I scooped out the neckline at the front and back. This isn't just about getting the curving-swan-neck look - when the bodice is that tightly fitted there tends to be gapping if the material rises too high.

Pad-stitching the canvas to the outer took a while. The effect is amazing! With the fuzziness of the brushed cotton attached to the weight of the canvas, it now reminds me strongly of suede leather. Unfortunately, the heft of the material changed again, and I had to do a bit more tinkering, sigh. I'm reasonably happy with it now, but I'll be leaving an opening with the lining to get back inside if I have to.

In a fit of madness, I decided to overhand the skirt pieces. That means that I machine-stitched each piece of the outer to its lining mate, turned the right-sides out, ironed the edges carefully, put the right-side of the new piece to its similarly treated mate, and connected them with very small whip stitches. It takes flipping ages, but oh my golly gosh the flatness of those seams O_o. I'm planning on doing a similar treatment when connecting the skirt to the bodice which makes me a little nervous, considering the weight, but I've read about people doing similar. We'll see.

UPDATE: I glommed a pattern off the Elizabethan Smock Pattern Generator and threw a smock together last night. It was so wonderful to make something in a short space of time - everything except the hemming. The smock fits well, except the sleeves are just a touch tight.

The skirt of the kirtle has been attached to the bodice - the back bit in roll pleats - and seems sturdy enough. I think that I made my stitches too large, though, because I can see them just a bit from the right side. Perhaps the linen thread is just too light a brown. There's not much I can do about it except buy black thread (the closest other match) and re-do. I don't want to re-do right now.

Right now I've sewn very small washers* to the inside of the side openings to hold the laces. It's cheap and relatively quick, and it lets me shift them if I don't like the stress pattern when the lacing is tight, but I don't like the way the cord pulls at the attachment points. Sewing proper eyelet holes is on my improvements list.

I've tried the kirtle on, with smock and lacing, and it's good. I have a snug fitting bodice with support (though not as much uplift as I'd hoped for) and lovely smooth curves, and flowing skirts.

Next is hemming (ick) and eyelets.

* From the Hastings Mitre 10, and can I just say that they are teh awesome? The staff were persistently helpful, even when I was just looking for a mingy two nuts and bolts, or a handful of washers. And they knew where things were. WONDERFUL!!

EXTRA LINKS:

ftp://netherton.net/FittedDressPosts.txt
ftp://netherton.net/FittedDressFAQ.PDF
http://slumberland.org/moodle/mod/forum/discuss.php?d=693
http://www.cottesimple.com/
http://swein.campus.luth.se/lia/garb/redwoolGFD/
http://www.mathildegirlgenius.com/Documentation/KASF2006/15thCentSleeves.pdf

WEARING IT:

- It's a pretty, comfortable dress and I like it.

- I find that the tight-lacing tends to draw me into pulling my belly in and standing straighter. I tend to get less back-pain overall, though it can get a bit tiring.

THINGS TO DO DIFFERENTLY:

- I'd put cap sleeves on - when I wear brocade pin-on sleeves, it gets a bit breezy around the arm-pits. Also, my current pair of pin-ons are a bit short and tend to pull the straps down off the shoulders - NOT COMFY.

- I'd put some kind of boning strip next to the lacing to keep the edge straighter.

THINGS TO KEEP THE SAME:

- I like the pleats at the back.

- Also, the lacing at the side is convenient for changes in waistlines and willingness to pose vs. desire for comfort. Sometimes near the end of the event, I'll just release the laces and let myself breathe.

OTHER ISSUES:

At some point, I should do a write-up for how I made my pin-on sleeves, and y'know, make a pair that fit a bit better.

SUMMATION:

I lot of work, but I'm extremely glad that I did it. It's a dress that's comfortable, looks good, and will last. Yayy!

Historical Data

2006-05-25T17:28:00.000+12:00

I found a rather fascinating description of period underwear and hair and such, from I leap over the wall (1949) by Monica Baldwin, a British nun who left her convent to go out into the world near the end of World War II. The titles are mine, as are any spelling mistakes:

Ancient Underwear

The garments to which I was accustomed had been contrived by thorough-going ascetics in the fourteenth century, who considered that a nice, thick, long-sleeved 'shift' of rough, scratchy serge was the right thing to wear next [to] your skin. My shifts, when new, had reached almost to my ankles. However, hard washing and much indiscriminate patching soon stiffened and shrank them until they all but stood up by themselves. Stays, shoulder-strapped and severly boned, concealed one's outline; over them, two long serge petticoats were lashed securely round one's waist. Last came the ample habit-coat of heavy cloth, topped by a linen rochet and a stiffly starched barbette(*) of cambric, folded into a score of tiny tucks and pleats at the neck.

Slightly More Modern Underwear (With a Digression Into Slightly Less)

So, when my sister handed me a wisp of gossamer, about the size and substance of a spider's web, I was startled.

she said, "Here's your foundation garment. Actually, most people only wear pants and a brassiere, but it's cold to-day, so I thought we'd better start you with a vest."

I examined the object, remembering 1914. In those days a 'nice' girl 'started' with long, woolly combinations, neck-high and elbow-sleeved, decorated with a row of neat pearl buttons down the front...

Next came the modern version of the corset. It was the merest strip of elastic brocade from which suspenders, in a surprising number, dangled. I thought it a great improvement on the fourteenth-century idea. The only drawback was that you had to insert your person into it serpent-fashion, as it had no fastenings.

What bothered me most were the stockings. The kind I was used to were enormous things, fat thicker than those men wear for tramping the moors and shrunk by repeathed boiling to the shape and consistency of a Wellington boot. The pair with which Freda had provided me were of silk, skin-coloured and so transparent that I wondered why anyone bothered to wear the things at all.

I said firmly, "Freda, I can't possibly go out in these. They make my legs look naked."

She smiled patiently.

"Nonsense," she said. "Everyone wears them. If you went about in anything else you'd collect a crowd."

By this time it had become clear to me that the generation which affected the transparencies in which I now was shivering must long ago have scrapped the kind of garments I had worn as a girl. I wondered what they had done about the neck-high camisoles with their fussy trimmings of lace and insertion and those incredibly ample, long-legged white cotton drawers.

The answer turned out to be an airy nothing called 'cami-knickers', made, apparently, of cobweb. I felt my teeth beginning to chatter as I put it - or should one say 'them'? - on.

One further shock awaited me.

An object was handed to me which I can only describe as a very realistically modelled bust-bodice. That its purpose was to emphasize contours which, in my girlhood, were always decorously concealed was but too evident.

"This," said my sister cheerfully, "is a brassiere. And it's no use looking so horrified, because fashions to-day go out of their way to stress that part of one's anatomy. These things are supposed to fix one's chest at the classic angle. Like this-" she adjusted the object with expert fingers. "There - you see the idea?"

Head-Gear

The worst problem was my hair.

For twenty-eight years it had been cropped convict-wise beneath the incredible system of headgear exacted by the Order to which I belonged. As a foundation, a 'snood'*, or long narrow strip of linen, was wound two or three times round the head. Over this, a close-fitting cap - rather like those worn by bathers - was pulled down to the ears. A piece of fine cambric, call a 'tip', was then bound tightly across the forehead and tied at the back with strings. Next came the 'head' - a kind of wimple - which covered the head and ears. It was gathered in closely at the neck and then frilled out as far as the shoulders beneath the starched barbette. Over this was pinned an erection of black cashmere which fell, gable-wise, on either side of the head to just above the elbows. Between this and its lining of starched white linen was a double cardboard stiffening with strips of cotton, fortified with yet more starch. Finally, the veil proper - of thin, black material, rather like ninon* - was mounted on the underveil and firmly secured with pins. Eight thicknesses in all! In summer it was apt to give one a headache. The wonder, of course, was that, having worn it for so many years, I had any hair left at all.

Notes:
Barbette - she probably means a strip of cloth that passes under the chin. For a picture, go here.

Snood - I've never, ever, seen this definition of a snood before. For another version of head-gear attached to the same name, try this website: http://costume.dm.net/headwear/snood.html (It's nifty.) I have seen that strip of cloth called a 'fillet'. Remember that terminology for clothing changes drastically, and without warning.

Serge - Serge is a type of twill fabric that has diagonal lines or ridges on both sides, made with a two-up, two-down weave. The worsted variety is used in making military uniforms, suits, great and trench coats. Its counterpart, silk serge, is used for linings. French serge is a softer, finer variety. The word is also used for a high quality woolen woven.

Etymology and History
The name is derived from French serge, itself from Latin serica, from Greek σηρικος (serikos), meaning "silken". The early association of silk serge, Greece, and France is shown by the discovery in Charlemagne's tomb of a piece of silk serge dyed with Byzantine motifs, evidently a gift from the Byzantine Imperial Court in the 8th or 9th century AD. (WK) (Cat adds: 'serge' comes from 'silk'!? Gosh - think of Serge de Nimes or 'denim')

Ninon - a fine strong sheer silky fabric made of silk or rayon or nylon (FD)

FD = The Free Dictionary (http://www.thefreedictionary.com)
WK = The wikipedia (http://www.wikipedia.com)

La, La, La

2006-05-22T21:33:00.000+12:00

Just made a paper witch's hat, la la la. Oh, and sticky-tape. It's for a hat for a friend - instead of chopping up fabric to start, I did a mock-up on paper. The technical term is toile, by the way (me study sewing terms good-good!).

The tail of the assignment was handed in okay, albeit with plenty of fun and games when I couldn't print it (ten cents short on the printing budget). Had a nice chat with the poetry lecturer - I got to tell him about Journey to the West and the gift of pumpkins!

And now I'm very sleepy. There is not a chance in hell that I'm opening out my paper hat-toile onto the felt and cutting tonight.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Past Two O'Clock, On A Cold And Frosty Morning

2006-05-22T02:09:00.000+12:00

As of five minutes past two, I have finished the last bit of the assignment that was due last Friday.

It took a while to drag meaningful, balanced criticism out of my head. I'm very distractible (lots of common feeling with Monkey!).

I'll take it in tomorrow - I mean, later this morning, and stick it to the back of the rest of the assignment, if possible, or give it a seperate cover-sheet.

The sad thing, if I look at it one way, is that this block of five hundred words represents five percent of my final grade.

If I look at it rather more appropriately, I realise that I had to have a jolly hard think about that other student's work, and why I liked some bits and didn't like others, and my feelings on the construction of poetry. In other words, it was an education. It will also be of use to that other student: even if she disagrees totally with what I had written, articulating why will be good for her. I hope that she doesn't have to disagree, though.

Yeesh, some people learn the hard way. Ah well, G'night. Or possibly, Ohayou.

Am I, at Present, Dreaming of Birthdays?

2006-05-15T10:20:00.000+12:00

Or will I, on my birthday, be dreaming of presents? What with the whole Buddhist-education-disguised-as-an-adventure-story thing, I thought I'd better keep my end up with a brain twister.

Last week, my flatmates disappeared and came back with a wrapped box, not bigger or smaller than but exactly the same size as a bread box and left it, in view, for me to wonder about. Grrrr.

Fortunately, I'm an old hand at working out presents by fondling them through the paper (ah, Christmas) and, then, Michael crumbled under stern questioning.

They're giving me a pony.

It has ribbons in its mane, and jewel-coloured hooves. Doesn't have a name yet. I enquired a few days ago as to whether it might be getting a bit hungry in the box, but Michael informed me gravely that it was a Vampire Pony, and every night, after we go to sleep, it leaves the box and flits around the house gaining appropriate sustenance.

I can't wait for my birthday.

Progress Report

2006-05-12T22:54:00.000+12:00

It's this book I've been reading, Journey to the West, by Wu Cheng-En (circa 1500). To give context, there was a real-life Chinese monk who travelled to India, stayed there twenty years, and came back with a great stack of Buddhist texts. He was celebrated for a long time. Some folk tales arose about him, including some about his adventures with some helpful demon-types: Friar Sand, Friar Pig, and Friar Monkey.

Then Wu Cheng-En came along and developed the tales into a serial.

I'll skip the first seven chapters, which deal entirely with Monkey - how he was hatched from a stone egg on a mountain; called himself, variously, Little Stone Monkey, Handsome Monkey King, Monkey Who Understands Nothing (technically, 'Nothingness', or the Void, but it's funnier my way), and Great Sage Equalling Heaven; really pissed off Heaven; tried to piss off Buddha; and was trapped under a mountain for his naughtiness.

I'll also skip Chapter Eight, wherein Buddha asks the goddess Kuan-Yin to recruit a monk for a pilgramage to India, with permission to recruit three demon-helpers, and she does this and inhabits a temple in Chang-An (the capital) for a week while she finds just the right guy, and Chapter Nine, which is a blood-and-thunder with lust, murder, and babies sent down the river to grow up and achieve vengeance, and get on to Chapters Ten and Eleven.

See, a woodcutter and fisherman are walking home from work one evening having an informal poetry contest to pass the time (five pages), and then the fisherman mentions that he's always had wonderful catches since he started patronising this one fortune-teller, who is never wrong. A passing demon hears this, and tells the Dragon King of the local river, who gets very angry - doesn't want his home fished out, and decides to teach the fortune-teller a lesson or two. He manages to violate one of the dictates of Heaven while doing this, and ends up tied on the Dragon-Beheading Scaffold in Chang-An, where the Earthly Emperor Taizong is to arrange for his execution, which job goes to the Emperor's best minister Wei Zheng.

Well. The dragon, who is a bit scared, comes to the Emperor in a dream, and begs him to have mercy. The Emperor agrees to call Wei Zheng off. However, while Emperor Taizong and Wei Zheng are playing chess, Wei Zheng drifts off (at the time of the intended execution), dreams that he's at the Dragon-Beheading Scaffold, and does his job. Then he wakes up, but it wasn't only a dream because the staff come in with the dragon's head dripping ichor over the Emperor's parquet floor. Oh dear - the Emperor has become foresworn - against his will, but still.

The ghost of the dragon wants vengeance, and brings a case against the Emperor in Hell. The Emperor begins to get sick, so that he can die and his spirit can go to Hell and stand the trial. Before he pops off, however, Wei Zheng, who knows a thing or two, gives the Emperor a letter of introduction to an old friend of his who died and made something of himself in Hell, becoming a judge.

To cut a long story short, the case against the Emperor is dismissed. The judge is also extremely helpful, and secretly alters the Register of Births and Deaths (which records these things before they happen) to give Emperor Taizong twenty more years of life.

However. The Emperor wanted to give the guys in the underworld a thank you present, and they said, "We have gourds, eastern melons and western melons, or water-melons, here, but no pumpkins, no southern melons" (Wu, ca. 1500, p. 199) When he comes back to life, then, Taizong declares a great party, and releases some condemned prisoners and all sorts of nice things, and he also has to find someone to deliver the pumpkins. This means someone has to agree to die while carrying the relevant fruit.

A man called Liu Quan comes forward. He had accused his wife, wrongly, of being a loose woman and she had killed herself out of the shame. He regretted this deeply, and wanted to join her in Hell to make amends. So they put a couple of pumpkins on his head, and gold in his pocket, and Liu Quan drinks poison.

He finds himself in court, where they thank him very kindly for delivering the Emperor's present. Then they look up the names of Liu Quan and his wife in the Register of Births and Deaths, and exclaim that they are fated to become immortals. Well. They can bring Liu Quan back to life easily enough, but Miss Li's body is a bit manky by now. However, they know that the Emperor's kid sister is due to die soon, so they decide to borrow the body for her use.

And if you want to find out what happens next, read the next chapter.

Except I didn't, just then - I'd had so much fun with this one, that I wanted to savour it for a while. As I read it, my sides hurt from laughing.

Wu, C. E. (ca. 1500) Journey to the West. (W. J. F. Jenner, trans.) Beijing: Foreign Language Press.

Post-Camp Blues

2006-04-21T15:17:00.000+12:00

Computer access has been a bit dodgy lately, so I haven't written up my version of the Easter Camp yet.

Short form: I had a ball but I caught a cold.

As of this afternoon (Friday), I am still coughing up green stuff. I finally bit the bullet and made an appointment at the med centre, biked in, biked all the way across campus, found out that they'd moved to Registry, biked all the way back across campus (there are steep slopes and serious roadwork obstacles involved here - it ain't a picnic), got lost in Registry, found the reception eventually, was made to fill out a form (asked for a chair rather suddenly, as my legs went all wobbly), paid twenty-six dollars, and found myself in the office of a flutter-bug who kept shoving pamphlets at me and wouldn't listen. I get the impression that I was interrupting something of his that was important. Possibly a game of Computer Solitaire.

This was between a lesson with a private student whose philosophy when faced with a coughing, sneezing instructor is to squeeze every last bit of good out before I drop dead, and work which starts in about half an hour. Somewhere I'm going to have to stop and eat something, if I can convince myself to acquire an appetite.

I need a hug.

What A Horrible Idea, And Yet...

2006-03-29T20:09:00.000+12:00

Baked Brains

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F
Prepare by soaking, skinning and blanching:
___ 1 set brains
Chop coarsely and combine them with:
___ 1/2 cup bread crumbs
___ 2 chopped hard-cooked eggs
___ 6 tablespoons cream
___ 1 tablespoon catsup
___ 2 peeled chopped green chilis
___ 1/2 tablespoon lemon juice
___ Season to taste
Place in a greased baking dish or in individual dishes. Sprinkle the top with:
___ Au Gratin II
Bake about 15 minutes.

(from Rombauer, I. S. & Becker, M. R. (1975). The joy of cooking. (Late ed.) New York: The Bobs-Merrill Company)

So the plan is - invite everybody to a theme Zombie/Undead party. Make sure they come in costume and pay attention to detail. When they compliment me on my delicious food... tell them.

Horrid, I know.

Funny?

How would I avoid eating my own cooking, though...?

We're off! We're off!

2006-03-26T20:48:00.000+12:00

I went to Wellington for the weekend with Michael, who was visiting niecelings.

Went to an Ultimate Frisbee practice with Steph, which was enjoyable. Napped all Saturday afternoon. Avoided a party on the grounds that I was feeling a bit poorly. Went to a fair Sunday morning. Wombled down Cuba Street a little (and bought books). Went flannel shirt shopping with Stephanie. Went to see Mrs Henderson Presents with Stephanie, Michael, Ned, and a friend of Steph's called Frank. It was a good movie. "Ah, so you are Jewish." My eyes! My eyes!

Came home. Within half an hour of our arrival, Michael had hot chocolate cookies. Now that's a flatmate...

Oh My Gosh: You Killed Kenning!

2006-03-18T16:48:00.000+13:00

Because Steph asked, here is a rough description and example of kenning as used in Old English poetry that I gave in a poetry forum last year:

"A kenning is basically a two-word riddle:

"And then the word-wights ___ riding in ring-necks
Took the swan's road ___ a stormy sea
Said "Riddling songs ___ shall be our meat"
Said "Metre, rhyme, ___ and rhythm: word-toys
Of weak-willed workers ___ wrist-limp songsters,
Slaughtered they ___ on our sharp-sword tongues.
We'll toss their entrails ___ their word-lines, winding,
Rich food for red-beaks ___ ravens' banquet
Bloody bones ___ from fragile verse

"Or:

"And then the poets ('word-wight' = word-being = poet), riding in ships with curving prows, went to sea ('Swan's road' and 'ringnecks' are classics). They said, "We prefer songs with riddles in them. Poets who use rhyme and fussy rhythms are limp-wristed Nancy-boys and we'll kill them and throw the guts and bones of their inferior poetry to the birds (er, 'red-beaked' because they've been eating fresh, bloody meat).

"I'm sorry, I can never write in the Anglo-Saxon style without getting both incredibly gory and very boastful. It's just what the form likes, okay? The kennings I made up weren't exactly the best of the type. For a really great example of it in modern dialect, see if you can track down 'Grendel's Dog'."

(It's wonderful having a wicked twin to goad me into things, it truly is.)

Extravagantly Baggy Pirate Pants

2006-03-16T18:16:00.000+13:00

So I'd acquired some solid, hard-wearing, stripy cotton for a reasonable sum. I thought I'd make myself some Pirate Pants. Can you honestly say that you have never had this desire? I used a pattern from The Renaissance Tailor (a seriously nice website) for One-Cut Pants.

As this particular pattern uses artful folding and one big slice to make trousers out of the whole two metres (or 2 x 1.5 = 3m2), when the pieces were all connected but the outer seams not sewn up, it covered an entire bedroom floor:

One problem I had was cutting the ankles a bit wide. As I didn't want to resew the outer seams to taper the ankles, or gather them in like the waistband, I ended up doing a series of pleats, which I think looks interesting. Even so, I might have to sew a couple more - the ankles are still a bit wide:

Finally, BEHOLD MY GENIUS!!!

Why My Flatmate Is Not A Sniper Assassin

2006-03-15T22:22:00.000+13:00

It's the interior monologues: he hates them.

He was explaining in great detail to me just how much he loathed the (long) interior monologue in a comic book that he had just been reading, and somehow brooding assassin types came up. As I pointed out, when you're stuck on the chilly top of a building for a couple of days waiting for the perfect hit, there's not much to do but monologue. He agreed (which is always buoyant for my spirits).

Entertainment for assassins aside, the thing about interior monologuing in a comic book is that there is all this yummy visual detail available, along with the text of the story. We should be able to tell what the characters are feeling largely by what they say and do, and by the expressions on their faces. Getting a chance to read their thoughts is useful, occasionally very touching. Five pages of inner monologue in a comic book are possibly pushing it.

I am reminded, somehow, of a story I read recently by Harry Harrison ("Portrait of the Artist") of a dark future wherein the drawers of comics mainly used rubber-stamps and machinery: "Girls, of course, all had the same face in comic books; the HEROINE was just a note to the machine not to touch the hair. For a VILLAINESS it would be inked in black since all villainesses have black hair." The story was probably written in 1964; I think in many ways his prediction didn't work out: art styles in current day comics have a great exuberance about them and vary a great deal. Still, there are set conventions on how to draw superheroes and villains that keep coming back. Evil Ming eyebrows on the women. Huge muscles on the men. Skin-tight costumes or swaths of cloth that always drape right - that sort of thing.

I am reminded also of a not quite current trade paperback collecting the series V for Vendetta (v. good). One of the nice things about collecting it all in one book is that Alan Moore stuck in some notes on how he and David Lloyd (the artist) created it. And Mr Moore pointed out that there was not a single sound effect in that book. Neither was there interior monologue. Apparently Mr Lloyd had wanted it that way, very much, and Mr Moore had gritted his teeth and had a go at writing that way. It works well. The characters express themselves in gesture, in conversation, in grand speeches to the air, the empty air, and to statues of Blind Justice. Interesting creative technique.

(I've been thinking about how to use it in my own (very amateur writing), and I'll see how it goes.)

And I am glad that aesthetic qualms on David's part have turned him from a Life of Evil.

**

In other news, they're making a movie of Stardust. In the words of the author: "Brilliant day. Any day you get to walk the deck of a ship that fishes for lightning in the clouds with your family has to be a brilliant day."

:-D :-D :-D

I Have A Headache

2006-03-12T19:54:00.001+13:00

Much to my surprise, when I was at the Raven training this morning, I saw Conal teaching the newbies backwards ukemi. I volunteered as a demonstration model, and soon found myself working through half-forgotten Aikido techniques as translated to sword-play. It was fun. It was tiring. My arm hurts, and I've had a headache ever since, probably from dehydration.

Then I went to the centre of town to buy some buttons for a waistcoat that I've just made. It's very pretty. When I've sewn them on, I'll get my flatmate to take a picture and show you. I also picked up some stripy, tightly woven cotton to make Pirate Pants out of. So it was designed for mattress ticking? Nobody ever makes mattresses out of that stuff anymore, so no-one will know except for you kind readers. You won't tell, will you?)

I haven't really been doing much of interest, so I'll stop now.

What Have I Been Reading Lately?

2006-03-05T21:40:00.000+13:00

Hmm... Some of the highlights:

Band of Gypsys by Gwyneth Jones.

So here I am, back in the modern world, after seven years in fairyland. Traffic fumes, cable tv, air travel, internet connections, swimming pools, movies - and everything that happened to us in those strange days vanishes like a dream... I think it was a dream. My boyfriend was never the king of England. The European Crisis was a global-economic-meltdown sideshow. My father didn't rip Sage to pieces, on the beach at Drumbeg...

I'd written a fairly long description of the series, and why I liked it, but then realised that it was all Spoiler, so I deleted it. So I'll just write this: Like John Varley's Titan books, it mixes utter lunacy with a very grim and gritty attitude on the part of the characters, who are human, and flawed, and ultimately good people, that makes it all very real. Even as something else incredibly weird and horrible happens... I have become addicted to the series. Give it a go. Not for skim-reading: you'll lose track.

**

Speaking of John Varley, I recently read his Titan trilogy backwards. This makes more sense than it sounds - I'd never read Book Three, Demon, and spotted it on my flatmate's bookshelf. Then I remembered how much I'd liked Wizard, so re-read that, and decided to go for Titan while I was at it. It was rather strange seeing the backwards progression of Gaea's personality, to see Cirocco who, in the last two books is made out of horseshoes and nails, act somewhat diffident in the first one. This is another set of books for environmental lunacy mixed with very sane people. Strange. Sad to see what happened to Eugene, and then read about his beginnings...

**

The Book of Werewolves by Sabine Baring-Gould, otherwise known for composing Onward, Christian Soldiers. This is basically a collection of folklore and textual evidence about that beastie beloved of horror writers. There is some philology and excursion into African were-hyenas and the thematic link between lycanthropy and people who just taste human flesh and become insane for another bite. It's pretty good - lots of very gruesome stories, told in a scholarly way. Some of his conclusions make a lot of sense, too. I have been perusing it for scholarly reasons, not a taste for the macabre, as I am mining it for content for a roleplaying prop. Well, okay, maybe a bit of macabre somewhere.

**

Finally, A Case of Conscience, by James Blish. Again, I raided my flatmate's shelves, and this is a good 'un. So, we've got a four-man team who have just surveyed a planet (this is in the future; space travel is well established), and they are discussing what their recommendation to their superiors will be. Two want to brutally exploit it for its mineral resources. One hates the idea because a) the natives are naturally wonderful people and b) mining on the scale the others want is unworkable (well, mostly a), but he was using b) to talk them down). The last is a Jesuit priest, who thinks about things very carefully, but from premises rather different from my own. It was fascinating following his reasoning. I don't agree with what he did, though. There's still quite a lot of the book to go, though, so maybe I'll change my mind. I can't tell you more for fear of spoiling it, just: The natives were naturally wonderful people, and that bothered the priest a great deal.

There Are Times...

2006-03-04T22:08:00.000+13:00

when I really wish that stuff in sf books was real:

"Tell me about Sandbenders," Masahiko said...

"It started with a woman who was an interface designer," Chia said, glad to change the subject. "Her husband was a jeweller, and he'd died of that nerve-attenuation thing, before they saw how to fix it. But he'd been a big green, too, and he hated the way consumer electrnoics were made, a ckouple of little chips and boards inside these plastic shells. The shells were just point-of-purchase eye-candy, he said, made to wind up in the landfill if nobody recycled it, and usually nobody did. So, before he got sick, he used to tear up her hardware, the designer's, and put the real parts into cases he'd make in his shop. Say he'd make a solid bronze case for a minidixk unit, ebony inlays, carve the control surfaces out of fossil ivory, turquoise, rock crystal. It weighed more, sure, but it turned out a lot of people liked that, like they had their music or their memory, whatever, in something that felt like it was there.... And people liked touching all that stuff: metal, a smooth stone.... And once you had the case, when the manufacturer brought out a new model, well, if the electronics were any better, you just pulled the old ones out and put the new ones in your case. So you still had the same object, just with better functions."

..."And it turned out some people liked that, too, liked it a lot. He started to get commissions to make these things. One of the first was for a keyboard, and the keys were cut from the keys of an old piano, with the numbers and letters in silver. But then he got sick...."

Well, I'm not happy that a fictional character got sick and died, but I would dearly love one of his creations.

It's quarter past ten, and I'm feeling a tad short on spoons. Despite my house being quiet as the grave all week, today was visitor day, some invited and announced, some not. They were all welcome, but I'm a bit tired - and all the cups in the house have been washed at least twice. The good news is, my Chinese friends that I called over to make sure they knew what to do with the census have already filled in the forms, no problem. The bad news is I lost three chess games. *Sigh* I never said that I was good at it.

I am sipping 'Sleep' tea, which tastes like a very weak form of peppermint tea. I could really use a coffee, but I gave it up for Lent.

Sucks to be me.

Just out of interest, how many people actually read this blog? Feel free to comment.

Johari Windows

2006-03-01T12:27:00.000+13:00

It seems that everybody has been doing these lately. I didn't want to join in, at first, because I'm not sure I can stand to know what everybody thinks of me.

Still, courage is a virtue, which I too often lack, so I am going to be brave and follow the crowd:

My Johari Window

Academic Grumbles

2006-02-28T16:38:00.000+13:00

So I spent the afternoon in my grown-up clothes walking around two campuses (campi?) trying to find people, all of whom have offices at the very top of tall buildings. I'm staunch, and took the stairs, sigh.

Unfortunately, most of them were not there. This includes the lecturer of the poetry course I'm taking (not essential), the lecturer of a language course that I might be taking (really need to talk to him before I make the decision, and I'm running out of time), and the course coordinator of another set of courses who was physically present but still... not there.

She did not offer me a seat. I stood the whole time we discussed matters that were, at least important to me, and would increase the size of her kingdom, theoretically. The only time she approached smiling was when she told me it was now too late to take the first semester course required to finish the Certificate. It wasn't too late two weeks ago when I e-mailed a query. It wasn't even too late one week ago when I phoned a message on her answering machine because I'd gotten no reply. She claims she never got that e-mail. The phone call was logged, but, well, she was just too busy...

Bitch.

So there is somebody else that I need to find to talk to, and maybe I'll wangle my way in after all. But we'll see. I'm feeling very unenthusiastic about it at the moment.

**

Apart from that, I had a job interview with the Marketing Department, who wanted two hours of a Writing Consultant per week to clean up their students' grammar. They are utter sweeties. It seriously cheered up my day.

And now I'm sitting at home getting over the shakes caused from trying to determine my future. Man, I want icecream.

That's all.

This Story is Probably Going to Piss Off Christians

2006-02-25T21:03:00.000+13:00

So if you're Christian and easily piss-offable, don't read it. And if you do, then please don't burn me!

Choices

So this is how I met the Wandering Jew. I was in the bar on the corner of Reed Street, sitting in a corner away from the noise of the tv on the wall, with my feet on the low table. I was hoping the barman wouldn't notice and nursing a big china mug of Irish Coffee, also. (On the one hand, coffee has a sobering effect. On the other, it was my fourth. I leave it to you to believe the tale or not.)

And this guy sits down, he's hairy, but he's bald on top, too. He pulls out a cigar like a turd, lights it, and says: "I didn't curse my Saviour. That's a damn' lie. I loved that guy. He was so human - he had flaws, but the sweetest, kindest, best man I ever saw. You know that saying: 'A true friend knows the worst thing about you, and likes you anyway'? That was him. With the whole effing human race. Wow. And the whole divinity thing, that too I guess. He was wonderful. Not like the rest of his disciples. Matthew - he kept giving his money away and acting all smug about it. And Peter. That toffee-nosed, hypocritical, 'Oh you're a sinner and I'm holy but I forgive you 'cause I'm just better than you..." oh don't get me started...

At that point, I gotta make a trip to the little gentleman's room. Four cups of Irish Coffee, remember? (And I was hoping if I ignored him, he'd go away. What can I say, I'm not a nice person. You know that. So help me, I dunno why you still talk to me.) I get back and he's still there, in his stained coat, and baldness, and bushy beard with the turd cigar poking out between his lips. He's still talking.

"...in the garden. I didn't want to do it - I loved that guy. But he'd braced me beforehand, and explained how very important it all was. He had to die, in that particular way, and it would carry off all the sins of the world and we'd be back in a state of divine grace or something. He didn't want to die but he knew he had to. It was important.

"So I pulled myself together, in the garden of Gethsemane, with the night-flowers blooming and the smell of rain in the air. The soldiers were waiting in the darkness, but the torches lit the faces of my friend and his followers well enough. I looked up in his eyes - dark brown they were but they looked black, and kind, and so sorry that he was making me do this. I looked up, and murmured 'Forgive me.'

"And there was Peter. Toffee-nosed obnoxious Peter. Peter whom I hated. I heard a sound of thunder, and I betrayed someone with a kiss, and then the rains fell.

"He tried to get them to switch, after, but Peter was all sanctimonious and 'Oh, I'm the one you want.' There was such a clamour... The only one who could change the Romans' mind was me and they wouldn't believe I'd made a mistake that simple, would they? That's what I told myself. So I bundled my friend off and we did the best we could with what we had left.

"I mean, the crucifixion. That was pretty damn impressive, yeah?

"But we weren't Saved. He just lived on after that - the sweetest guy you ever met. Died at 65 with a bundle of grand-kids. Half of 'em died in a plague that year... One of his descendants'll do the job, maybe.

"And I lived on, and on. I have to tell the story to a man before I die, so he won't do what I did. If the chance comes round, see." That hairy, bald bastard grins horribly, then, and kisses me on the cheek. His breath stinks, like vomit. "Good luck," he says, and stumps out of the bar.

I had to tell you, friend. I can tell you anything.

But I am afflicted with a sudden terror.

fini

This is for Stephanie

2006-02-25T16:08:00.000+13:00

Being that person who first defined the word for me, after I had long pondered the eponymous title and plot of the tale of the death of Ermintrude Inch by Arthur C. Clarke.

Defenestration

(by R. P. Lister)

I once had the honour of meeting a philosopher called McIndoe
Who had once had the honour of being flung out of an upstairs window.
During his flight, he said, he commenced an interesting train of speculation
On why there happened to be such a word as defenestration.

There is not, he said, a special word for being rolled down a roof into a gutter;
There is no verb to describe the action of beating a man to death with a putter;
No adjective exists to qualify a man bound to the buffer of the 12.10 to Ealing,
No abstract noun to mollify a man hung upside down by his ankles from the ceiling.

Why, then, of all the possible offences so distressing to humanitarians,
Should this one alone have caught the attention of the verbarians?
I concluded (said McIndoe) that the incidence of logodaedaly was purely adventitious.
About a thirtieth of a second later, I landed in a bush that my great-aunt brought back from Mauritius.

I am aware (he said) that defenestration is not limited to the flinging of men through the window.
On this occasion, however, it was so limited, the object defenestrated being, I, the philosopher, McIndoe.

Though perhaps Ermintrude did not die, but landed on a passing bush. Or something. The story is unclear on that point.

"Logodaedaly" means arbitrary or capricious coinage of words. A related term is "Inkhorn word" (a word so long that it takes a whole horn of ink to write it). While not sharing the precise meaning, "Inkhorn word" and its related (though far more Latinate) adjective "sesquipedalian" (a word a foot and a half long) are, I feel, in the spirit of "Logodaedaly".

Training Hard

2006-02-24T11:43:00.000+13:00

I've got to say, the food on New Zealand trains has reached new highs for price, and lows for quality. Errk. Two dollars for two thirds of a cup of watery milo? Hello?

Still, the train trip from Auckland to Palmerston was infinitely more comfortable than on the bus the other way. We were delayed a little, when a freight train broke down and had to be hauled out of the way, and a little more when that put us at odds with a the freight pattern and we kept having to stop and duck out of the way of the other trains. It was okay. I had half a chess game and an amazing conversation with a lady called Ariane, who liked skiing a great deal. She'd been conceived and born in India of Russian parents who had fled there after the troubles (and how old does that make her?), and grown up in France. She's forgotten more languages then I can hope to learn. She goes to Bali every year and likes cats. She'd still be skiing if she hadn't been in a road accident and become permanently cross-eyed. A delight to talk to, really.

And just so you know, when my train got in an hour late, one of my flatmates was waiting to pick me. And I didn't have to cook dinner, or clean up after that night.

It was lovely.

I Got A Letter Today

2006-02-15T15:01:00.000+13:00

Hi Catherine

I just came back from Auckland and got an exciting news to share with you. I was delighted to tell you I successfully completed my degree and was selected by three education institutes to study early childhood programme, and finally I chose to study at Massey continuously as I love this beautiful city and have lots of good friends like you here.

I really appreciate for your great help at these two years. I understand I can't complete my degree if without your help. I don't know how to express my gratitude to you and never forget you gave me a bright future in NZ. Thank you very much indeed.

Are you available recently? I would like to meet you if you are free.

Have a good day!

Now doesn't that just make me feel warm inside? And look at her English! One stray article and a dodgy tense - all else is beautiful, beautiful, thrice beautiful!

I'm happy.

Update

2006-02-12T17:38:00.000+13:00

This is just a lot of little things.

Variously, these:

I have fixed the bobbin case. There was a tense moment when the screw went sproing onto the floor but I got it back and can now adjust the lower tension as I wish. This didn't help as much as I would have liked, because, even though I could fiddle with the tension, when hemming Stephanie's shirt it still wanted to pull too tight. I ended up kluging it and it looks fine - it was just annoying. As I was having similar problems while using my Mum's sewing machine (and the same material) I suspect I was just using a needle to heavy for the tight-grained fabric., Or something. I might experiment, but I just can't be bothered. The shirt is done (it looks very pretty).

Chantelle turned up on my doorstep, very unexpectedly. It seems she had been giving my flatmate David a ride back from the Manukau Market. I gave her coffee, and we shot the breeze and a couple of ducks. She even admired my new costume!

I baked a banana cake. The outside is a little smoky, but it tastes good. Beef stroganoff for dinner tonight. Cooking is a great adventure!

I Have Hayfever

2006-02-11T16:57:00.000+13:00

The weather is a lot sunnier now, and my room mostly tidy, though there are places where the mess has just been pigeon-holed and will have to be dealt with later, and there are some bags of now-designated-old clothes that need to be taken out. Also, I'm planning on passing some of the kibble on to little girls who will probably enjoy it very much.

On a definite up-side, I discovered the copy of Where the Wild Things Are that Steph gave me, and an M. C. Escher colouring book (un-touched - how did I ever let that happen?) and a book of paper airplanes to play with when I feel like it.

Michael helped me clear off the dining-room table, so I could set up my sewing-machine on it and add my own brand of clutter *grin*. I'm having trouble with the bobbin-case, which really doesn't want to give a respectable tension. I suspect that the screw isn't quite set properly, but I'm having trouble fixing it. The screw is so small as the actress said to the ... never mind.

I think perhaps I shall have to take refuge in the colouring book for a while, get my groove back, and only then have another go with the recalcitrant machinery...

Wish me luck?

Home Again

2006-02-08T16:05:00.000+13:00

It's raining.

I have come to the realisation that there are some people who will ensure that their flatmates have a freshly made-up bed to come back to after a long trip, and there are some people who will leave their flatmates a dirty kitchen (overflowing rubbish-bins and rotting ginger on the sill: check) and a bathroom with hair on the soap.

It's raining.

I have a fairly large quantity of ridiculous rubbish and faded treasures to get rid of to make room for the stuff I cleared out of Mum's attic, and said stuff to put away.

It's raining.

I don't feel good.

Upper-Body Workout: Check.

2006-02-01T20:49:00.000+13:00

I didn't go stumping today. Today I was up on a thinning ladder getting up-close-and-personal with some large yet bashful pine trees. There I was, stripping away all their pretensions and veils with each branch I lopped off. I was using a tree saw, which has a plastic handle with a crook at the end, sorta like a pistol grip only distorted, and a blade shaped like a sickle - not curved as much as a crescent moon, but heading in that direction.

I'm lopping branches so that, soon, my employers can chop the poor things down at the root without worrying about spiky bits impaling the local vampires as they fall... Though if a tree that size fell on me, I wouldn't be worrying about the vamps. I almost wanted to take my first big branch home as a trophy - it was so long and thick, and it fell with such a satisfying crack! creak... SWISH. I did seperate it out of the pile and showed it off proudly. Enough wood to terrify a hundred effete vampires, heh. (I don't know where all the sleazy innuendo is coming from tonight. I'll try to stop now.)

Anyway, it's fairly physical work - the ladder-climbing is no big deal, but my hands and arms have been working all day. Since I started at 8 to outwit the heat (it's been ghastly lately) and because the day was wonderful for working outside (overcast, with a nice light breeze) and because good working weather is good working weather that meant that I did not knock off until 6, ten hours later. (Excuse me while I tumble slowly to the ground with a quiet sigh.)

I slopped into a hot bath as soon as I got home with a glass of milk, a chocolate bar, a large packet of salt and vinegar chippies, and a cup of coffee: my comfort foods of choice.

There was sap in my hair. I tried soaking it out in the water - there is something very luxurious in ducking your head under and seeing your hair drift around like waterweed... I don't normally do that, because as soon as I get out it goes back to tangled and soggy, but it was nice. I'll try combing the lot when it finally dries, and see (feel? some kind of kinesthesia, maybe?) if I managed to get the pine sap out. Some experiments are worth trying!

And now I'm going to collapse in a heap again...

Historical Data

2006-01-31T20:10:00.000+13:00

She Does Not Wish After The Cloths of Heaven

2006-01-30T17:32:00.000+13:00

WARNING: The following contains many details on sewing, and gratuitous cats.

I didn't have work today (or yesterday, being Sunday), so I've been sewing Steph a new shirt. Because I can. Because the material was cheap. Because she'll owe me. :-D

It was a bit frustrating yesterday, when cutting out pieces, because Rosie the Cat (and Ziggy, the Black) took turns reclining on the laid-out cloth, black as heaven's midnight, and embroidered with... flowers (my ability to make poetic allusions to Yeats' work is, alas, somewhat flawed. I almost got some material midnight black and striped with silver, but it seemed possibly a bit tacky. Not that Steph would worry, but...). I don't know what it is, but cats will always lie on my sewing, or sit in the middle of a card-game if they can possibly get away with it. Or sit on my lap as I type. Or scream to be picked up and cuddled because I haven't cuddled them For All Of Twenty Minutes. Rosie's utterly favourite pastime, though, and I don't know how she acquired a taste for it, is pins. Posibly it is the bright colours of the heads, or something, but she stalked over to watch me skewer the paper pieces to the cuttable cloth, patiently waited for her chance, and then 'gan to pull one out while I was looking the other way. Then she chewed on it. Then she dropped it, and went for another. To save me from heart-palpitations, she hasn't swallowed any, and I took care to keep her away after the first time.

Anyway. I have been a busy little bee cutting out bits and cursing because the embroidered pattern makes the cloth one (1) order of magnitude more complicated to cut out than it might otherwise be. No matter. One problem is that I'm using a very basic pattern. I have the yoke pattern cut precisely, but the sleeve and body parts are only roughed out - they have been drawn enough that I can mate the pieces to the yoke but everything else falls off the neatly-cut newspaper 'map'. It was very handy when I was drawing the pattern, and there is little point in making it more precise because I tend to vary those details anyway, but it does mean that cutting out pieces involves a fair bit of measuring, calculating, and sketching before I even get to cut. Sigh.

Today, I sewed the yoke and the sleeves. What I've got right now looks very weird indeed - a narrow band of cloth with two large pieces hanging out from either side. Actually, it pretty much looked like that this morning. This afternoon I was sewing over the basting, turning bits inside-out, top-stitching, and doing nifty triple-seaming on the sleeves, but none of that makes a big difference to the overall appearance. It's just quality sewing, and I trust that you will appreciate it, Stephanie.

As to the weather, it was utterly ghastly last night - very hot and warm. I was trying to sleep in that, with a mosquito in the room so I had to drape a sheet over my head to keep it away, making things hotter, and Rosie, who doesn't object to heat at all sleeping on my legs. Urk.

They say that there will be a thunderstorm tonight. I jolly well hope so. I don't want embroidered cloths, enwrought with any kind of light. I want RAIN, HAIL, THUNDER. Maybe a bit of LIGHTNING, though I tend to think of that as more of an applique, or possibly some kind of paint-splatter effect.

That's all.

Because The World Had To See

2006-01-29T15:57:00.000+13:00

This is actually more of an Aftermath piccy: originally those red weals were puffy lumps like very small boils, which oozed a clear fluid when pricked with a sterilised pin. They've drained and scabbed over nicely now, and the waxy texture of the scabs is slowly changing to rough and pickable.

Guys like pictures of legs, right?

My cousin is getting married

2006-01-26T15:50:00.000+13:00

right this minute. I am munching an apple-and-blackberry turnover to celebrate.

Three cheers!

The Cleaver-Grass Strikes Back!

2006-01-23T19:02:00.000+13:00

I've been stumping again.

My current tally is:

One (1) intact blister on the very tip of my left fore-finger.
One (1) scabbing over blister on the joint between my left fore-finger and my hand.
Various (1 + n) small scrapes and scabs, none currently infected and puffy (the savlon did good).
No (0) headaches. It went away after I had an icecream on the way home.
Numerous (why won't you just die!) seedheads of cleaver-grass stuck to my clothes. And my socks. And...

The cleaver-grass was what I had been exterminating with extreme prejudice two weeks ago. Unfortunately, I didn't get all of it. That means that, when I am stumping (removing the remains of defunct Christmas trees so that they will not trouble lawn-mowers) and sit down to save my knees, guess where it ends up?, says she with a snarl.

I also got to have a go on a ride-on mower. It was interesting. It was more complicated than the push-along version, with chokes, clutches, gears, and levers for engaging the blades. I had a quick but intensive lesson in how the thing worked and headed off merrily, realising later, much to my distress, that I didn't know what it took to tip the thing over. On rough, tilty ground, with rotating blades that I'd been warned about, it occupied my mind very much.

I was back at stumping after that, and had occasion to muse, somewhat pompously, about the nature of survivability: the radiata pine has a survival characteristic of being useful to humans. That means that even though these Christmas trees get chopped down regularly (and their last remains hauled off, ie. the stumps), the species is doing very handily on that patch of ground. It has survivability. The cleaver-grass, meanwhile, has the survival characteristic of very tenacious seed-heads. It's been spreading merrily through the ground. However, its favourite survival characteristic is exceedingly irritating to humans, which means that I was sent to exterminate it with blade and fury. (I can't kill the plants, but I am informed that if I cut the seed-heads before they ripen then the current plants will die without issue (being annuals).) On the other hand, some of the grass is too short to be cut by my mower (which has to be set high because of the hitherto mentioned stumps), so some of it hangs on, leading to my disgust mentioned above.

So go figure: the pine trees are helping out the cleaver-grass. Without them, it would have died out long ago. Wa-hey for interspecies co-operation!

I Wanna Go Hoooooommmmeeee!!!

2006-01-21T17:54:00.000+13:00

Sorry, just seized with a bout of homesickness. It'll be two more weeks, I think, then I can bother my flatmates again...

To honour the title, here's something I wrote a couple of years back, just for you lot:

The Classicist's Complaining Song

It's cold and it's wet and I don't like it
Oh I wanna go home
It's cold and it's wet
And I am fairly wrecked
Oh please take me home

Janus got it right my friends
Sitting by his fire
Old year to the new year tends
Toasting both his frosty ends
Watching sparks fly higher

It's cold and it's wet...

Her husband is a shady lout
Daffodils are yellow
She sits all the winter out
I'll be bound she's drinking stout
And is a merry fellow

It's cold and it's wet...

In hell the wicked are confined
To cease from doing harm
A river does Tantalus bind
Sisyphus in daily grind
At least they're bloody warm!

It's cold and it's wet and I don't like it
Oh I wanna go home
It's cold and it's wet
And I am fairly wrecked
Oh please take me home

Three guesses who the protagonist in the second verse is? Actually, I don't think the Classical version of hell is particularly warm. Oh well, please forgive a bit of syncretism in a doggerel song.

It even has a tune, but it's a bit rough and ready. ;-)

UPDATE:

My mum's best friend Moira, a nurse and grandma back from a sojourn in Australia, came over for dinner and traded jokes with Mum and John. I had to cover my ears. She also wanted to know if my flatmates were gay or straight, and how I came by my conclusion. Modesty forbids me explaining what it was here...

What Has Little Cat Been Up To?

2006-01-20T18:31:00.001+13:00

I realised today that I hadn't put up a post here for a good long while.

Well, I've haven't been back in the orchard since Christmas :-( the contractor I was working for being a right bastard. That's my explanation.

I went on a short holiday to my evil twin's domicile, written about earlier in Hyacinth's mad ravings. I've been back and handy-manning for an old friend. Well, I think 'ex-quasi-step-dad' is the technical term, but it takes a bit of explaining. (I don't have a family tree: I have a vine.)

But back to the handy-manning! It started with taking a very large pile of scrap wood and metal and helping smite it into gobbets suitable for burning in a fire. There was a genuine Ugly Hat Day Picture taken, but I don't have a copy yet so you'll have to just imagine it. It was taken just after smiting the wood-pile and just before mopping the ceiling of a house John (the old friend) and Jim (his brother) wanted to paint.

I also did my bit for the environment by chopping up green stuff and releasing burnt hydrocarbons into the atmosphere. I had to have a lesson in using a motor mower first. Internal combustion engines are complicated. Throttle, oil-sump, starter-cord, dip-stick to check oil. Turn the throttle on high and press a little rubber knob to get gas through the engine before the starter-cord is pulled. Then there was the time I stopped it after half an hour and couldn't start it again. Somewhat terrified that I'd broken it, I trailed wearily back and found out that sometimes you can flood the engine with too much petrol. And so forth.

I had sore places on the palms of my hands from the juddering.

Also, I have a healing blister from sawing down baby Christmas trees as close to the root as possible.

All this, from five days of work...

I'm Not Sure Why They Bothered

2006-01-09T22:29:00.000+13:00

I caught a little bit of the miniseries calling itself Legend of Earthsea tonight. Given, I was prepared to dislike it, having read an essay by the author of the original books telling us all why she hates it so much, but I did watch a bit, and tried to be fair.

What I saw: Roke had been invaded by those evil Kargads, and the School of Magic taken over by Jasper, Ged's teenage rival (though it was actually the Archmage - sorry, Archimagus - in disguise). The Doorkeeper was a twitchy fool. Vetch, a character who, in the books, is wise, kind, serene, appeared as some sort of Alichino (fat, stupid, greedy, lazy, sleeps a lot, a sidekick). Oh, and there was a monastery full of young girls in rather tight-fitting dresses. Kossil was evil though, I can appreciate that, just with no subtlety...

What can I say? If it hadn't been named after the Earthsea books I would probably have thought it a bit insipid but enjoyed it reasonably well. It is kind of pretty. But the way they reduced wonderful characters into shallow stereotypes and mixed up the plot? It just felt icky.

Here's a speech from A Wizard of Earthsea:

I wish I could have seen all the cities of the Archipelago," Ged said as he held the sail-rope, watching the wide grey wastes before them. "Havnor at the world's heart, and Ea where the myths were born, and Shelieth of the Fountains on Way; all the cities and the great lands. And the small lands, the strange lands of the Outer Reaches, them too. To sail right down the Dragons' Run, away in the west. Or to sail north into the ice-floes, clear to Hogen Land. Some say that is a land greater than all the Archipelago, and others say it is mere reefs and rocks with ice between. No one knows. I should like to see the whales in the northern seas... But I cannot. I must go where I am bound to go, and turn my back on the bright shores. I was in too much haste, and now have no time left. I traded all the sunlight and the cities and the distant lands for a handful of power, for a shadow, for the dark." So, as the mageborn will, Ged made his fear and regret into a song, a brief lament, half-sung, that was not for himself alone; and his friend replying spoke the hero's words from the Deed of Erreth-Akbe, "O may I see the earth's bright hearth once more, the white towers of Havnor..."

This is beautiful stuff. The miniseries turned it into a handful of awkward sentences, culminating in "I'd have liked to have seen the ice-floes." Pah!

Why adapt a book into a mini-series, or movie, or play, or anything and take out all the things that made it great? Why bother using the name if all you're going to use is the name? What's the point?

Never say...

2006-01-06T13:07:00.000+13:00

... that National Radio is just for old fogies. They just played a little gem called, and I'm not joking, The Dead Puppy Song. I was shocked. One presenter blamed the other, who denied all responsibility. They'd been playing Take Five just before that, and squabbling about who the artist playing it was...

All in all, National is pretty nifty to listen to, except for first thing in the morning 'cause then its just people talking about politics an' that - not what a muzzy little Catherine wants to be greeted with as she wakes. :-(

So, just out of curiosity, what do guys like to hear?

Fragments...

2006-01-04T15:26:00.000+13:00

I went to the zoo in Wellington and got to look at kangaroos close up, which I'd never done before, so it interested me. Maybe it would have interested me anyway. I got to see how one leaned forward over the feeding trough, standing very like a duck, with its body horizontal and its big hind legs in its centre of gravity (which was further back than a duck's, so that tail must really add some weight to its back end - unless I'm wrong about the centre of gravity thing). And I got to see how it moved when it wanted to move slowly, putting its tiny front feet on the ground for support while it hopped its back legs. It was interesting.

Below is a tiny writing fragment with absolutely no story attached. I'm including it only because its been brewing in my mind for a few days and because I'm bored. I freely admit that I lifted the idea from a lady called debxena (at least, I think she's a lady - we've never met in the flesh), with the hopes that she doesn't mind too much...

Fragment

"It's not as much use as you'd think," she said.

I looked up into her coffee-coloured eyes, startled.

"Mind-reading, I mean. Take a book and flip through the pages - however many fragments you get from that, that's what I can read from you - just a few words: horse-tail, sun in water, Aleandra...

"The public understands that now, I think." She flashed her ring, a tiny glory of red and gold enamel: "Technically I'd get fined if I didn't wear my crest in public, but... nah, not gonna happen. There's a bit of rigmarole around exam time at school, that sort of thing.

"But back to mind-reading. Okay, supposing I want to find out what makes you tick. I do have ins to your soul, and if I'm observant and patient, I can guess what they mean to you. I'm pretty sure that the dappling light on the table by your cup is the sun in water. If I wanted to, I could research your background and find this Aleandra you think so much of. And I could observe your reactions to my own behaviour, and realise that every time I shake my hair, just so, like a horse flicks its tail, you think of her hair, that my skin is as creamy, that when I half-smile you ring with her name, like a bell sunk under the sea tolling the tides...

"But most of that's being observant, and anyone can do it who cares enough. My 'gift' doesn't help with important stuff, and never has."

She looked at me straight, and her lips quirked into a half-smile. "I'm not her," she said.

*End fragment*

What Were You Doing...

2006-01-01T00:07:00.000+13:00

At the death of the year?

For myself, as the radio pips went off I was pulling Rosie the Cat's tail. It seemed like a good thing to do.

The rest of my evening was spent quietly with Rosie and National Radio interviewing famous old people and playing their favourite music. It was very pleasant (though quiet). There was a certain amount of cuddling the cat, except when she was dashing around with her tail (eminently pullable) in the air.

Now I am eating toast.

Happy New Year.

Hyacinth Speaks

2005-12-30T14:58:00.000+13:00

Having dealt with my insipid sister Catherine for a time and a time I next turned my attention to Stephanie and her fluffy little cat, too.

Stephanie was easy. I teased her by supplying a copy of Farscape: The Peacekeeper Wars in her Christmas bounty, a long-awaited and desired conclusion to a cliffhanger ending in the series almost worthy of myself. Though my patience was tested sorely by her inability to play it at that woman's home in Hastings, I was rewarded by following Little Stephanie to her domicile perched precariously on a hill in earthquake country, in Tara's Big Harbour. Using my arts of persuasion, I maneuvred the girl into playing her beloved new DVD. All was well, or so she thought, the cliff-hanger was resolved, events of import and magnitude were proceeding nicely in her visual story until-

Yes, until.

Until the the story ended on a cliffhanger with the credits rolling.

O my, you should have seen her howl. I wouldn't recommend listening to her howl, for that noise tested even my superior aural faculties.

Alas, in time it was revealed that the DVD was not a movie (as she had anticipated), but a packaging of a two part episode. My disappointment that she would see the last of her precious Farscape was ameliorated by the knowledge that the girl had made a mockery of herself for no good reason at all. The best defeats are those that the victims make themselves. A he. A hehehehe. Hee hee.

And the cat? The cat that has plumped around my sister's house in smug delight that she has a person for company again? Little does that cat (the dear cat) know that soon, soon Stephanie must dash away, dash to Tamaki of a Hundred Lovers and leave her institutionalised. Well do I know the horrors of such a place.

It has been a very merry Christmas.

Aheh.

Aheeeeehabwahaahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...

Guessing Game IV

2005-12-26T17:15:00.000+13:00

Because the last round was ended prematurely by Stephanie using telepathy (details in the comments section), I'm starting another one.

I'm thinking of a short story; it's science fiction; it's a classic, and if you haven't read it you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Stephane has been banned.

That's all.

Guessing Game (Part III)

2005-12-25T16:54:00.000+13:00

Having won Stephanie's guessing game, it behooves me to start the next one, I guess, so here goes:

I'm thinking of a book; you've probably read it; it's a fantasy novel.

You may ask yes/no questions ("Are there elves in it?" - "No") or multiple choicers. If your question as framed makes my answers ambiguous, I will either tell you so, or ignore you blissfully.

The answers to Steph's initial questions are as follows:

Are there elves? They aren't called that, but yes.

It does not feature one predominant hero, with or without backing group - there is an ensemble cast.

There is a quest to save the world.

There is more than one reality/plane/area of existence - in fairness, I have to say that this was a bit tricky to answer.

None of the action is set on 'Earth'.

'Earth' is not one of the realities/planes/areas of existence.

Religion is an important part of the setting and plot.

She also took a potshot at Daggerspell by Katharine Kerr, but I reminded her about the Elf question.

And now, I will admit that I'm on-line on Christmas Day by publishing this. Merry Christmas!

I Had A Dream

2005-12-22T20:41:00.000+13:00

In which I was in a garden. Some of the trees were real, but some had been made with great effort and technical skill. In fact, we'd just upgraded so that we could fiddle with the controls and make them rustle in the wind. I was playing around with this, and then I realised that the birdsong was fading, and I couldn't work out the control thingummy in my hand to bring it back...

Well, it ain't a flying dream, and it definitely isn't cool, but it seemed worth recording for posterity.

Hey Ho, Nobody Home

2005-12-20T13:47:00.000+13:00

My ability to read the weather is shocking.

Having left my jacket behind this morning (because it was very sunny), I managed to get thoroughly soaked around half ten. I mean, soaked. In five minutes. There was heavy thunder in the distance, brooding clouds overhead, and rising winds. After a certain amount of rush so that I could finish my row and then cower somewhere, I gave it up and hid in another thinner's car.

Then the rain thinned out a good deal, so I went back to thinning, while soaked, and got through the last few tops, even helping another kid on his row. Yay me!

Then we headed to another orchard. Still being soaked, and in addition nursing a touch of a sore throat (not enough to stay away from work, normally), I expressed a desire to go home. The person giving me a ride said that he had things to sort out elsewhere, and would be back soon. I gritted my teeth, and made a start on the new row, because cold and soggy is worse when you aren't moving and I might as well do something useful with my time.

Then it turned very sunny, and I spread some of my damp clothing out and took an early lunch break in the warmth, thinking, This ain't so bad, eh?

Then it started to rain again.

I went home.

I'm writing this in my pyjamas, after a nice hot bath. It's very sunny out there...

Christmas Shopping: Never Apologise, Never Explain. Or Something.

2005-12-19T19:05:00.000+13:00

I think I've finally done it.

(I hurt.)

Now all I have to do is wrap things and post things. I suspect that the posted things won't arrive to their intended destinations until after the big day, so I hope that these people will forgive me.

I feel great guilt, both in spending too much money on nice things for myself (I think I'll be forwarding a couple to my birthday, as an attempt at retrospective budgeting - they'll keep), and at missing some people out. I would like to give the world a present, or at least, all of my friends, but I cannot afford to do this. If you don't get a pressie from me this year, please forgive me. I may well manage one next year instead.

This is an incredibly depressing Christmas post. Sorry about that.

And a very merry birthday of Our Saviour. Or Mithras. Or figurehead of an oppresive patriarchal religion/bunch of sappy do-gooders. Or culturally agreed on time for getting in touch with family and friends and sharing out warm fuzzies...

(And Happy Hanukkah, David.)

Zen and the Art of Holding One's Bladder

2005-12-15T20:34:00.000+13:00

It's a serious issue. On a given orchard, there is generally one approved place of expellation and hygiene, and that place is often very far away from your current place of work (and possibly a long-drop :-() Walking out to it takes time when you could be working (and earning)or resting.

Often, I don't want to take that time.

However, I have engaged in a course of toughening myself up, and am now perfectly capable of measuring my drinks, drinking only hot fluids before lunchtime, and storing the excess in the aforementioned bladder, with only a little discomfort at the end of the day, though I will take a short walk to the approved place of expellation and hygiene if I happen to be close by at my lunch break.

All that said, I was asked to create a poem about apple-thinning today, so I did:

The orchard is hot -
A good place for a sinner.
Though the apples grow round
I only grow thinner

Speaking of zen, the sheer incongruity of singing "Wouldn't It Be Luverly" (from My Fair Lady) with lines like "Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet" while engaging in my current occupation should have triggered a zen moment of enlightenment if nothing else would.

I am clearly not philosophical material!

The Lion's Toupe and Other Stories

2005-12-10T23:44:00.000+13:00

If nothing else, see it for Mr Tumnus who is utterly wonderful.

Other comments: the movie looks good. Nice scenery, interesting interplay between the characters, amazing expression and gesture on the animated figures. I managed to scream like a little girl in one of the early scenes (I was surprised, okay? It could happen to anyone.) The crucifixion - er, sacrifice on the Stone Table - scene is seriously unpleasant in a way that makes film-makers feel proud.

The White Witch should have won. In the final battle, there is a big duel scene between her and Peter. What that means is a half-grown whelpling flailing away with his sword and swinging his shield out and away from the body in, I dunno, some pitiful belief that it makes his blows stronger (or perhaps he lost his balance) vs. a lady with style. She had two swords and time to pose. She was graceful; she was dashing; she would have won if it wasn't for that darn kitty.

The only blood is on Edmund's split lip. It felt wrong. Given, the movie is directed at little kids, but, in many ways, the movie is trying to scare us and tell us that war is horrible. I'm not particularly fond of scarlet gushers, but to remove all traces of wounds is like saying, "Oh no, it's all right really, we were just playing pretend..." Like I said, it felt wrong.

Gotta love Liam Neeson as the voice of Aslan.

**

Oh, the toupe. The comment arose as we were waiting for the theatre to open and observed a very depressed lion couchant on a drinks dispenser. He had a two-tone mane and we were speculating about high-lighting, fashion-conscious felines, and other hair enhancers. That's all. Honest.

The Thing About Hastings

2005-12-07T19:34:00.000+13:00

Is there's nothing open. Leastways, nothing open at six on a Wednesday evening except for the supermarket (Countdown) and a very open supermarket it was, too.

There was a Sally Army brass band outside, and lots and lots of shoppers inside, and children singing carols over the PA, and many friendly people giving out fruitcake. It was frenetic, but very cheering.

My feet still hurt.

I Saw A Bird

2005-12-06T19:37:00.000+13:00

Well, actually it was a very small, very fast flash of brown and grey whirring through my field of vision, but I'm pretty sure it awas a bird. You don't often get small, fast flying potatoes, for instance.

For various reasons, I started work early and ended work late, and I am very tired.

My hands are turning a pleasant shade of brown (I wear a long-sleeved shirt in the orchard, so my arms are still nicely pasty).

My feet hurt.

Oh yes, and I've just made up an LJ account with the sober username of cat_i_th_adage, if anyone's interested. I'm only going to be using it so I can comment on other people's blogs, so don't expect any wonderful posts from it (they come here :-) ). Just, if you see a strange person commenting, that's me. :-)

Grace Notes

2005-12-03T20:14:00.000+13:00

Well, if you've been apple thinning, you know what it's like. If you haven't, it's reasonably hard work, but not so hard as picking. What you're doing is hoping for a happy medium between stinking hot-and-sunny and cold-and-wet. Oh, and climbing ladders, and nipping baby apples off the tree and that.

But here are the nice bits:

The tiny little flowers I could see in the greenery underfoot in my last row: blue-and-white, and red, and yellow.

Hearing the birds sing.

Standing at the very top of the ladder and feeling a cool breeze.

Seeing the foreman walk past with the orchard-owner and hearing him say: "That's Cathy. She's one of the good workers..."

Lunchtime and cracking the thermos for a hot drink. ('Cause I likes my hot drinks!)

I Have a Sunburn

2005-11-29T21:06:00.000+13:00

Right. I'm in Hastings, and have had my first day of thinning fruit. As I forgot to put on sun-block, I have a bit of a burn on my cheeks. Fortunately, it was a bit overcast today (my feet got soaked from the effluence of a rainstorm).

I'm a bit creaky from climbing up ladders, but otherwise fine.

My Mum's cats love me.

That's all I feel like writing.

Porco Rosso

2005-11-24T17:35:00.000+13:00

Michael and I watched another Studio Ghibli movie last night: Porco Rosso. It's about a sea-plane pilot based in the Adriatic in the lead-up to the second world war. He spurns the Italian military service and instead makes a living hunting air pirates in his crimson painted plane, while maintaining a close friendship/closet romance with Gina, who runs a night-club on a tiny island in the middle of the sea. Despite his repeated assertions that he's a no-good kind of bloke, he is a man of honour and ends up getting into a sky duel with a goofy American (can't remember his name) who has ambitions to be a movie-star, to defend his mechanic (played by the same chick that played Nausicaa, in the eponymous movie)from having to marry the Yank (she bet her hand in marriage against the money to repay Porco Rosso's latest repair bill - it was a lot of money, okay?). Oh yeah, and he's a pig.

It's a nice movie - like most of Hayao Miyazaki's movies there's a lot of flying, and also a "Girls can do anything!" attitude. While a lot of movies have a plucky young girl with an unlikely skill (in this case, aircraft design), Mr Miyazaki brings in an entire workshop of women, holding down jobs bcause their men-folk are away, up to and including three little old ladies working for poker money. Speaking of flying, Studio Ghibli is named after a kind of Italian fighter plane, so the movie is certainly going back to the film-maker's roots.

The lead is a likable person, and the English voice actor had a wonderful gravelly voice (and I like voices). The goofy sky pirates are really similar to the goofy sky pirates from Castle in the Sky but that's okay - everyone needs comic relief. I liked the way that the romance unfolded slowly, like a beautiful flower.

And that's all to say. Just go watch it - you'll like it.

Now I just have to track down Kiki's Delivery Service...

Christmas Book List

2005-11-20T21:19:00.000+13:00

What with that time of year coming around, I'm posting these up if anyone's interested in digging them up:

Seeker's Mask by P C Hodgell

Strange Adventures of Monkey Boy

The Tale of Despereaux because it looks interesting, and has good reviews

Books by Martha Wells. I currently own The Wizard Hunters and The Ships of Air (I have a feeling one of my flatmates is looking up number three in that trilogy). I'm particularly interested in City of Bones.

Books by Marta Randall. I have The Sword of Winter and am interested in reading more.

(I'll be making additions as they come to me. I should have posted this up at least a month ago - sigh.)

EDIT: And I am not at all prejudiced against second-hand books.

Unwanted Dress Needs Good Home

2005-11-17T22:20:00.000+13:00

So, I've got this old costume that I never wear anymore. Since I just cleared out a lot of my clothes, I almost gave this to the Salvatian Army too, but I thought I'd let friends and fellow hobbyists have first option.

It's red brocade, size 14, zips up the back, attached petticoat, jingly bells strung to the sleeves. Easy maintenance - a little low in the bodice.

It can be yours for the price of postage, first offer accepted.

Final Portfolio

2005-11-16T22:30:00.000+13:00

I thought, for completeness' sake, that I would post up the three revisions that I had to hand in for my poetry course here:

Walking Through Fields, I Consider Colour

The grass is green.
The grass is green with worms and mud and cowpats mixed in.
The mud is dark brown, fine-grained, very soft;
it gives under my feet, and the water mushing up shines in the after-rain light
that is pale and bright in the way that no other light is,
that remembers what greyness was,
that lifts, with a breeze, the dampness in my hair,
as I walk - no hurry - threading and skipping through lumps of grass
and cowpats, with their sour smell that layers the field,
a smell that's friendly with the petrol fumes of the paint-box cars
thrsshing through the damp and spatter of the gravelled
road curving around my field of
green grass.

I look up.
The sky is blue?

O Rose That Totters

O rose that totters leafless on my window sill
Why die?

You should be birthing beautiful monsters, tender-petaled fists of fire
wond from warm earth and clean water yet you,
my stick-bundle,
despite water, and fertiliser, and several very encouraging songs,
you crouch, keeping only bead-buds that never open.

Alas, you're too frail for much regret.
O let's be honest - if these words run
longer, you'll die
before they're done.

The Worm's Song

Rose, thou art sick! / The invisible worm / That flies in the night, / In the howling storm / Has found out they bed / Of crimson joy / And his dark secret love / Does thy life destroy.

William Blake

I'm watching from my secret place,
where the pine-tree's drip slithers under my collar.
The pine-tree sighs in the bitter night.
The birds are sleeping.

It is warm where you are -
through your window I see
on the sill amber lamps, and curtains
half-opened to the night, and you.

Tell me. If, walking in a shit-rubbish waste,
you turned an unexpected corner,
stumbled through garden-ways and saw,
unwilting, one dew-touched flower,

wouldn't you want to pluck it?

I wasn't greatly thrilled with the re-writes, I have to say. I got some very respectable marks back, though, so I must have done something right. I think he was impressed, or at least stunned, with the slash-and-burn approach used in the first and last...

Weekend At Steph's or: Who Makes Ironing Board Covers That Melt?

2005-11-13T15:07:00.000+13:00

Actually, it wasn't a weekend: I bussed up from Palmerston Thursday afternoon so I could listen to my little bro sing in a concert. Gosh - solos. The skill-level of all the performers was very impressive, especially this girl that did my favourite song from Marriage of Figaro - very beautiful.

Mostly I just bummed around Steph's place while she worked at job. I've been doing a lot of sewing: I made Stephanie One-Cut Pants, which are very baggy but a lot of fun, and got the hang of French-seaming seams when there's a three-way join. Basically, you do the first line of stitching for each seam, and only then do the finishing line when everything is complete. This may seem very obvious to some people, but I'd been having trouble working it out. What the hey - that's me.

Also, I scored a pattern for a rectangular shirt that does very interesting things with gussets and pleats that I wanted to try out. The gussets have, so far, been a lot easier than I thought they would be, but pleating all that extra material into the collar is abominable. I just had to say. I'll quit talking about sewing now. For the laymen the talk must be a tad technical.

Anyway, I went to see Serenity with Ned, Steph, and some other people. I enjoyed the movie; it was good.

I am currently annoying Babe the Cat by occupying her favourite couch. There are several other open spaces in this room where she could curl up, but somehow she just can't get herself to settle. Oh, what a terrible shame!

That's all.

Oh yes, and I bought Steph's landlord a new ironing board cover, in a particularly gaudy yellow, blue, and green combination of cotton (hopefully it is non-meltable).

Haiku

2005-11-05T13:40:00.000+13:00

Exam season. This
Went better than I deserved.
I have a headache.

The World's Fastest Indian

2005-11-01T19:36:00.000+13:00

I liked it.

It was very strange to see Anthony Hopkins walking and talking just an older kiwi bloke. But wait, I thought in the first few minutes of the movie, his accent is good - hardly moving his lips, swallowing his vowels, deadpan, dry jokes but he keeps sounding his 'r's. Could he not quite get it right? Then I saw the Southland sign. Man - he didn't just speak in an NZ accent - he spoke in a regional NZ accent. Very cool. The way he moved was also very expressive - the slightly halting movements of an old man who is very good at what he does (and vey determined).

My two favourite quotes:

"Is that a cork?"

"Dirty old men need love, too."

And Tim Shadbolt appeared in it.

Review of Unleashed

2005-10-29T19:18:00.000+13:00

*Two minor spoilers: one rodent-related, the other only relevant if you've read the Epic of Gilgamesh

These are just a few scattered thoughts:

1. The basic story is as old as Enkidu and Shamhat, and that's pretty old. I think Jet Li a pretty good impression of a man who had been raised like a dog - first beaten and then very clingy, cheerful, and loyal. He did interesting things with body posture and so-forth.

2. Morgan Freeman exudes fatherliness, avuncularity, and warmth. He's also very tall. I suspect that both of those aspects led to his getting this part. If nothing else, he made Mr Li look short and fragile. He's also a convincing person to bond with.

3. Jet Li is a very graceful man. In most of the movies his fighting style shows that. That's one of the interesting things about Unleashed - when he fought it was very short and savage blows, and you saw the grace only when he leaped and dodged.

4. It was nice to see a perky skinny chick as the heroine. I liked her.

5. There Were No TVs. In any scene. Not even the bad guy was so crass as to have an idiot box in his lair. I can't help but feel there's a moral there...

6. I loved the production values and set-dressing. The colouring of the movie was lovely. There was comfortable clutter in one house and dank dark greys in the villain's lair, a woman singing in a shower, a little mouse scuttling across one of the frames... there was a lot of attention to detail from the movie-makers.

7. It's odd how many violent movies are mushily sentimental, and how many action heroes will, at some point in their lives, make a movie in which they play a character with a very vulnerable side: Jean Claude van Damme in Replicant, all those warm fuzzy movies of Arnold Schwarzenegger's, even the scene in The Saint where the hero gets dunked in an ice-covered river and goes spoggly with hypothermia for a while. I think it's King Kong Syndrome, myself.

Also Quoted Without Permission

2005-10-27T12:15:00.000+13:00

Someone of my acquaintance once told me a story about how Sean Connery was first chosen to play James Bond. The interview with the producers went sort of okay - they liked his style but the accent was a bit off-putting. In other words, he was only one of several prospects. Then, after he had left, they looked out the window and saw Mr Connery heading down the street. "He walked," they said (according to my friend), "like a panther. We had to have him."

My... acquaintance then said, "Y'know, I want someone to say that about me."

The acquaintance shall remain nameless.

Quoted Without Permission

2005-10-25T12:45:00.000+13:00

'First name?'

'Otto,' [Tibbit] replied, then added by way of explanation: 'Palindrome as well. My sister's name is Hannah. Father liked word games. He was fourteen times would Scrabble champion. When he died we buried him at Queenzieburn to make use of the triple word score. He spent the greater part of his life campaigning to have respelt those words that look as though they are spelt wrongly but aren't.'

'Such as--?'

'Oh, skiing, vacuum, freest, eczema, gnu, diarrhoea, that sort of thing. He also thought that "abbreviation" was too long for its meaning, that "monosyllabic" should have one syllable, "dyslexic" should be renamed "O" and "unspeakable" should be respelt "unsfzpxkable".'

from:

Fforde, J. (2005) The big over easy. Great Britain: Hodder and Stoughton.

More details at:

Jasper Fforde's Home Page

Look at the Nursery Crime division for the book, but the whole site is good...

The High Life.

2005-10-24T00:18:00.000+13:00

So, one flatmate is off at NAAMA and the other is visiting his dad. I had thought that I'd have a very quiet weekend, but ended up visiting assorted relatives in Waikanae with Mum and John.

Some of the highlights:

- Portioning out the cream-covered sponge-cake, a business that took three people: one to cut, one to lift, and one to steady.

- Being a fly on the wall at dinner and listening to older rellies talk about their wilder youths. The time Grandad set a house on fire :-D Mum as a teenager going clubbing :-D The nuns, the box of liqueurs, and the window :-D

- Walking on the beach.

- Just plain hanging out with people I hadn't seen for a long time.

I Have Speed!

2005-10-19T17:21:00.000+13:00

A workmate fixed my bicycle for me - the thing with the brakes, plus oiling it and fixing the gear levers. He even put a new battery in the light and gave me his spare dayglo helmet.

It works, it works.

Woo hoo!

My Bid for Waterhouse

2005-10-17T19:10:00.000+13:00

Right. Here are two piccies with the proper underdress. I'm afraid I look a little wild-eyed in the second. (The foot in the foreground is a little unfortunate, too).

But back to the dresses: Both inner and outer need some hemming. I'm trying to decide on almost-ankle-length or mid-calf. Thoughts?

The Girl in the Striped Shirt

2005-10-17T16:51:00.000+13:00

Yay! My uploading worked this time!

It needs hemming, and I'm not wearing the proper underdress in the picture, but that's it.

I'm not even wearing a petticoat, but look how full the skirt is. Man - hope it doesn't make me look fat...

Dresses

2005-10-16T14:42:00.000+13:00

I finally caved and put a zip in the back of the outer dress instead of trying to do lacing. I'm just test-driving the finished bodice now. It's a little snug, and I would want to do sword-fights or tumbling, but it's good. I'm wearing the outer dress over a striped black and white t-shirt, and the whole thing looks seriously cute.

//TODO: Hemming, hooks and eyes at the top, attach underdress skirt to bodice, closure for underdress.

Wahey! Almost done!

Words for the Day

2005-10-15T21:10:00.000+13:00

Careen - to tilt sideways like a ship, sometimes on dry land

Career - to travel wildly in one direction

And my new favourite phase:

"And then it'll all be sweet as honey from the rock"

(Purloined from my sister, who nicked it from Christina Rossetti's "The Goblin Market".)

Because...

2005-10-12T21:24:00.000+13:00

I can't be bothered writing anything new, but felt I should post something:

THE HAPPY DIABLERIE SONG
by Carol-Jo Phillips and Cat Pegg

I love to go a-wandering
My Sire for to whack
And as I go, I love to sing
The blood hunt’s on my back!

Diablerie, diableraa,
Diablerie, diable-bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Diablerie, diableraa,
The blood hunt’s on my back!

He never should have sired me,
Right before my wedding day.
Now my organs are all shrivelly:
That bastard’s gonna pay!

Diablerie …

But do not think I’m squandering
The Legacy of Cain
O rather I’m recycle-ing
His loss shall be my gain!

Diablerie …

I’ll track that sucker to his lair
In tomb or town or tower.
I’ll sup his blood both rich and rare,
And siphon off his power!

Diablerie …

O that was my first Kindred kill,
But my Sire tasted flat.
He was Camarilla – so vanilla!
I think I’ll try Sabbat.

Diablerie, diableraa,
Diablerie, diable-bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Diablerie, diableraa,
The blood hunt’s on my back!

It's a filk for Vampire: The Masquerade (perhaps a little out-of-date, now).

Shoulda, Coulda

2005-10-11T21:01:00.000+13:00

Well, I was planning on doing some more sewing this afternoon after class, but I fell asleep at three and did not awaken until half six. I figure I must have needed the sleep more. Had disturbing dreams, too :-(

On the other hand, it was a good morning. I got an assignment back with very good marks, and that makes me happy.

That's all.

Ugly Hat Day Revisited

2005-10-09T11:24:00.000+13:00

This isn't quite the ensemble described in my previous post: instead of the violet and turquoise flannel shirt that's better for temperate climes I was prepped for rain and chill winds with a ghastly cardy. Also, you'll note the burgundy-coloured long-johns un-hidden by the britches and socks. Finally, you can't see it under the jacket and ghastly cardy, but under the short-sleeved t-shirt is a long-sleeved ratty spencer, for layered sartorial horror.

And thanks go to Michael W, who risked his camera, eyes, and considerable artistic skill in bringing this visual blight to the outside world.

Why I Don't Like Synthetic Organza

2005-10-07T23:56:00.000+13:00

It melts.

This means that you don't dare get the iron too hot. Of course, it doesn't take a crease worth a d__m either.

It's also transparent (well, my organza is, anyway). This means that I have to have good-looking, neat seams. If the fabric (and thus, the seams) is not visible, why the h__l do we bother buying transparent fabric, eh?

Well, there's a really nifty kind of seaming could flat-felling. It gives a strong seam, beautiful from both sides. The trouble is, you need to be able to iron a crease - twice. It's also quite fiddly. I actually got quite good results for the first seam, matching two selvedges together (and I think the extra toughness of the edge helped), but trying it on a cut diagonal nearly drove me insane. Even basting the ruddy stuff left me with a kluged together ugly piece of sh_t. I suspect I shall be covering it with ribbon.

So I threw it all in and, for the other seams, did French-seaming instead.

We Have Hail!

2005-10-05T15:02:00.000+13:00

After a spate of really nice early spring weather, Palmerston's natural, coldly brooding environment has reasserted itself. For the last week we have had rain showers coming and going, and today they came with a vengeance, in an orgy of ice falling from the sky.

I am holed up in the computer lab because it is mildly more pleasant than sitting at the bus stop waiting.

I envisage floods this week.

Ugly Hat Day

2005-10-04T18:39:00.000+13:00

I had an ugly hat day today. That is to say, I wore the lime-green souvenier hat that my flatmate brought back from his holiday. It actually has beautiful workmanship and is comfortable, with a useful brim, but I'm not a lime-green kind of person. So I matched it with a tartan shirt (violet and turquoise) and my blue swandri, plus the almost standard black knee-britches and knee-high socks. It was refreshing.

Also, I had an interesting time looking at people's feet under the table and observing who wore tiny, pointy shoes, elegant black leather somethings, clunky black boots (me), oxfords, canvas sneakers, or trainers. Actually, two folk had these soft shoes that reminded me a little of bowling shoes - they looked wonderfully comfortable.

To top off my ugly hat day, I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and gorged on sugar, red food colouring, chocolate, and fizzy drink. It seemed appropriate.

That's all.

Sweet, sweet roses...

2005-10-02T12:33:00.000+13:00

So, I'm supposed to write two love poems for class. Psche to Eros is already up in its basic form. This is the other one I'm handing in:

O Rose

You don't know me but I know you.
Through your window I watch your grave
silent sway. You are fairer than any nodding lily:
your blushes warm me. No savage thorns
lie hidden in your bed, though the rosy hues of your inner chamber
are petals to ornament your perfection.
How I long to peel
them away and touch
your crimson core.

I'm watching in my secret place,
Where the pine-tree's drip
slithers under my collar,
snakes coldly down my spine...
You'd better appreciate this!

You don't know me, as I said, but you will.
You'll meet me soon,
O my Rose.

This is more of an anti-love poem: I was trying to subvert the genre, using the traditional language (including flower imagery) to induce a sensation of creeping dread on the part of the reader. It's met four beta readers so far, and the results have been very mixed: two of them going Eeeeeeeuuuuuwwwwww, how could you write that? and two looking bewildered and asking me what the point was. I am interested in your personal reactions.

Yes, it's based on Blake's poem The Sick Rose, which goes, for those who can't quite remember it:

O Rose thou art sick
The invisible worm
That flies through the night
And in the howling storm

Has sought out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark, secret love
Doth thy life destroy

Shorts: Minimal Pairs

2005-09-29T21:44:00.000+12:00

'Minimal Pairs' is a concept that I've encountered in a Phonetics class. It's what you get when there are two words with only ONE difference between them. In the class, it refers to a difference in sounds. For example, look at 'ojisan' and 'ojiisan' in Japanese, where the length of the middle vowel determines whether I'm talking about someone's uncle of grandfather (I nicked the example from the class. If I got it wrong, blame the lecturer). We can see it (er, hear it) in spoken English in words like 'convict', where the stress on the first or second syllable makes a different between a verb or a noun. Indeed, there's another example in 'have': "I have very pretty flowers (hav); I have to go water them (haff)." Neither 'have' or 'convict' are true examples though - the pronunciation shifts with context. I would never expect 'haff' to go in front of a noun unless the speaker had a German accent. Still, it can be a bit confusing is complicated sentence.

Anyway. I was thinking about how the concept of 'minimal pairs' relates in other areas, and, in written English, it is very important. There are many words of wildly differing meanings that have a difference of only one letter.

complimentary ("you're sweet") - complementary (sweet and sour)

manager (one who manages) - manger (wooden box for feeding herbivores)

form (shape) - from (preposition)

too (also) - two (one plus one)

angle (corner) - angel (messenger of heaven)

decide (choose) - deicide (god-killer!)

The scary one for me is:

prescriptive ("Yes, do this") - proscriptive ("Don't do this!")

Eating Wyrms

2005-09-28T17:58:00.000+12:00

Nobody loves me, everybody hates me
I'm going to the mountains to eat Wyrms
Long, thin, scaly Wyrms; rough, tough, fiery Wyrms;
Taloned, spiky, jewellery-hoarding Wyrms!

Long, thin, scaly Wyrms slip down easily,
Rough, tough, fiery Wyrms don't.
Rough, tough, fieries stick their claws in your throat
And their flames go rooooooaaaaaarrrrr out your nose!

I can't say that everybody hates me, and actually I had a pretty good day; it's just that I'm feeling tired and depressed right now. Hence the song.

I Have Achieved II

2005-09-26T17:14:00.000+12:00

This time it is just that I finished a ruddy big Phonetics assignment - a 20 percenter. The lecturer said, in his advice on it: "You can discuss third formants - hint hint." Unfortunately, there's an awful lot on third formants, scattered through several books on the topic, in differing nomenclature, all of which I had to digest into a useful and manageable form. No, I am not going to tell you what a third formant is. Take it from me that it is useful when reading a spectrogram. A spectrogram is like a picture of a sound, mapping all the frequencies against time. No, I am not going into more detail. You don't want me to, trust me.

Anyway, I wrestled that baby behemoth to the ground, whimpering (me, not the behemoth), last night, attempted to get an early night's sleep (which failed because I kept dreaming there was one more assignment question to answer, and dreaming that I drafted and re-drafted my answer [sigh]) and woke up this morning to juggle printing it against work. There were problems with transferring files from disks. It was unpleasant. Finally, I skated in to the assignment collection box where I must have caused some innocent merriment for the lecturers around the corner when I shouted "God damn it!" upon realising that I had to erase some pencil marks on the spectrogram I'd been working on and put some neater ones in. And I didn't have an eraser with me. And it was ten minutes walk back to my office. And I didn't have time. (I borrowed one from one of the lecturers, a very nice lady called Rei something).

Of course, then I had to work on something else that's due tomorrow (as opposed to last Friday), which I have just now completed.

That is why I have labelled this Blog "I Have Achieved."

Dear Readers, I believe that I have earned myself some sewing time.

Something For The Classicists

2005-09-24T09:00:00.000+12:00

I'm not sure why I wrote this. I'm supposed to be writing love poetry, but this doesn't seem to fit the parameters set in the course. It just wanted to be written, I guess. Anyway:

Psyche to Eros

Do you think of me, then, waiting on the rock?
It was cold – the wind bellied my red mantle, embroidered
with suns and wheels and dandelions. Their
warmth was only pictures; my bare feet bled
on the ragged stones. From the dark hills cold glints
of trumpets bid farewell: they were leaving me, though
my mother had clung like lichen clings, had wept
like water gushing from blank granite.
A beautiful sacrifice, I.

In this dark place – all softness, as a scrap
of thistle-down, as the fluff
of a wild-cat nursing kits – my eyes
are shut with your kisses, your murmuring
willow-voice all I hear. I drink you,
as night drinks blindness from a bowl.

Ah, love,
I dreamed that I married a falcon,
and slept in his feather-soft nest in the cliff
but I looked in his eyes,
sun-yellow,
and knowing me, he fled.

I might travel the hills to find that bird,
and cut my feet on the rocks,
and wear the wind for a mantle.
Until I see you,
you will never know.

As I finished writing it about an hour ago, I'm still not sure if it's good or not. I point-blank refuse to gloss who Eros and Psyche are. You are on the Internet. If you don't know: look it up.

Hope you like it, anyway.

Son Of Solanum Tuberosum

2005-09-22T15:58:00.000+12:00

My flatmate is back from a three-week holiday in his native land (the USA) and he brought me an ugly hat and a Bonsai Potato kit (See? That was a tie-in that was. Dead clever.)

It's good to have him back.

I'm currently cutting class because I have a minor dose of the 'flu and it is raining. On and off. Good enough for me. So there.

I'm feeling a lot better, though I still have a headache and a strong desire to go back to sleep.

That's all.

Culture Shock

2005-09-20T11:15:00.000+12:00

This happened three weeks ago.

I was sitting in the sun with some class mates - younger people - just kicking words around, when I somehow mentioned that I liked sewing clothes. Enthusiastically they asked me what I had made recently.

I looked down at my perfectly fitting new trousers, chocolate-coloured, of a solid material with a nice feel that would last years, their workmanship beautiful... "This," I said, gesturing down.

They saw plain brown trousers, somewhat baggy. Their faces fell.

2005-09-18T18:50:00.000+12:00

So, I still haven't written the next bit of the Midwife's Tale. I'm sorry. That's what I get for posting the first part of a mostly unwritten story. It just doesn't want to come. In the meantime, this is something I wrote a while back, as a Christmas present for my cousin Pablo. I hope that it is at least passable.

Unwin the Unshaven and the Three Strangers

A long time ago, in a country far away, there was a man Unwin, called the Unshaven. This was only one of his nicknames. Others ranged between Unwin the Unwashed, Unwin the Grubby, Unwin the Poorly Clothed, Faugh! You Smell, I Think I’m Going To Be Sick and others less printable. But mostly, he was called the Unshaven.

It was not that he intended to be revolting to the people around him, it was just that he was a very amiable man and also very distracted. On any given day he intended to bathe, shave, comb, launder, and trim, but was diverted by rainbows in the soap-bubbles, waded into a bog to catch tadpoles, chopped a bundle of wood for his elderly aunts, invented a better mouse-trap, and picked a bundle of daisies. He was very dirty, and he scratched constantly, if absentmindedly, because he was inhabited by vermin of various natures. He was much loved and much avoided by his neighbours.

As it happened, a ferocious Ogre lived in that region. This Ogre was both needlessly nasty and fabulously rich, two qualities that go together too often, alas. The Ogre didn’t like people living near his gloomy castle, especially if they were happy, so he went out of his way to torment them. If a herd of cows went missing, the Ogre had eaten them. If all the carefully washed table-cloths for the village festival got covered with mud, the Ogre had blown up a storm to muddy them. If the gold to pay the village’s taxes turned into lead overnight, the Ogre had done it. He intended to be very revolting.

One day the Ogre, who loathed children, decided to get rid of them. He sent out a beautiful red bouncing ball that sang funny tunes and giggled on each bounce. All the children thought that it was the most amazing toy they had ever seen and followed it, even when it bounced up the winding and rocky path that led up to his castle. They followed the red bouncing ball through a portcullis that looked like teeth, and down a hallway done up in red velvet and into a large kitchen all filled with clanging pots. The Ogre, who was beautifully dressed in a white chef’s hat and apron turned to them and smiled. “Ah, children,” he said, “how nice of you to come to dinner!” And he laughed, loud and long.

The villagers, as soon as they realised that their children had disappeared, tried to get them back. But it was of no avail. They simply could not get through the portcullis. When they tried climbing the walls, the Ogre heard them and tumbled rocks on their heads. Then he told them about the lovely little sauce he was cooking up.

All the people in the village met in the town hall to talk about what they were going to do next. They decided to send one man to sneak over the walls and then do what he could. When they held a raffle, Unwin’s ticket was called. Some wanted to draw the raffle again, for they thought that Unwin would have even less chance against the Ogre than most, but he insisted that fair was fair. He wandered outside, wondering what he would do.

In the shadows of the hall veranda he sat, scratching his bugs, and tried to think. A solar-powered gyrocopter was interesting, but not immediately useful, neither was an improved potato peeler. It was then that three strangers appeared in the darkness. “Unwin,” they said, “you don’t know us but we know you. We have long found you a hospitable host, never stinting in largesse. Now we’re going to help you.” They introduced themselves. Mighty Leaper was a small dark man, very neat about his person. He stood quietly, but as if he was just about to spring into the air. Grips Hard was a little taller and hairier, with wide shoulders and grasping hands. The third stranger was called Round-as-a-Rose, though he was very long and thin and somehow droopy. As the others talked, Round-as-a-Rose just curled up on the ground and went to sleep.

Unwin thanked them for their offer of help. He explained the first problem, which was to get into the castle. “Nothing could be easier!” they assured him. “We're experts at getting in where we’re not wanted.”

The heroes snuck under a wall where the shadows were darkest. Then Grips Hard picked up Round-as-a-Rose and climbed on the shoulders of Mighty Leaper, who jumped to the top of the high wall. They trailed Round-as-a-Rose down the wall and Grips Hard pulled up Unwin. Then they pointed Unwin at the Great Hall and told him that they would meet him there.

Unwin trotted quietly through the dark corridors. He kept passing odd bits of ironwork that looked like torture machines. He shuddered, thinking of what the children were going through. Finally, he found the Great Hall. It was a very large room with long dining tables. The tables had very white tablecloths, because the Ogre was very finicky and didn’t like dirt near him. At the tables, all the village children were chained to their seats. Rosemary wreaths adorned their heads, and they ate ginger and honey. This didn’t look so bad.

Unwin couldn’t see the Ogre anywhere, so he went on into the kitchen. The Ogre was at the far end, peeling potatoes. He stopped, and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” he growled.

“Um,” quavered Unwin, “a man?”

“No,” mused the Ogre, “it’s far worse than that. Bitter, with a hint of bog. Is that sewage? I think I’m going to nggnh –” He turned around and spied Unwin. “What are you doing in my nice clean kitchen?” he roared. “You’re spoiling my food!”
Unwin’s knees knocked together. “I can show you a better way to peel potatoes!” he pleaded. He remembered that he had a sword, and ran at the Ogre waving the sword wildly. He hit the Ogre on his hairy belly, but it just bounced off. The Ogre picked him up and, holding his nose, ran into the Great Hall. There was a large window over a sheer drop there. The Ogre really didn’t like Unwin’s smell, so he was going to throw him out.

It was then that the Ogre stopped. He dropped Unwin and scratched his belly with a puzzled expression. Then he scratched his back. Then the top of his head, and his ankle and his knee and his arm and – “Aargh!” he screamed. “The itch! The terrible itch!” He ran around the hall shouting and scratching himself – all the children ducked – and finally, to stop the itching, threw HIMSELF out of the window.
Just before the wailing Ogre disappeared from view, Unwin’s three friends jumped off his back. They had been very small, crawling about in his fur and making him itch. They were still falling, but Grips Hard caught on to the window sill, and Round-as-a-Rose caught on to his ankles, and Mighty Leaper caught on to his ankles. Then they all pulled themselves up and clapped each other – and Unwin – on the back. “Well done,” they said. And then they looked sad. “It’s been really great knowing you, Unwin,” they said, “but we have to go now.” Unwin didn’t understand this at all, but he thanked them, and released the children. They all went home and great was the rejoicing in the land.

Now, when the Ogre fell out of the window, he didn’t die. He bounced off some rocks into a fast flowing river that led into a waterfall and then a long way out to sea. When he finally got out of the water he was lost and couldn’t find his way home. The itching had stopped, though, so he was happy. In fact, he was happy for the first time in his life and ended up getting a job as a health inspector and part-time cook, which he enjoyed very much.

Because the Ogre didn’t come back, the villagers decided to set Unwin up in his castle where he could invent potato peelers and gyrocopters to his heart’s delight. Because the Ogre had left behind a great deal of money, they employed TWENTY servants to follow him around and tactfully keep him clean. Unwin enjoyed the company of the servants and all the children that visited him now. But he still missed his three friends, Mighty Leaper the flea, Grips Hard the louse, and Round-as-a-Rose the ringworm.

Many morals can be drawn from this story, O best beloved. I choose this one:

Sweets aren’t good for you; Ogres are mean; and dirt can be very friendly.

The End

Revision

2005-09-16T11:22:00.000+12:00

Hmm. Opening up the form some gives:

How Can I Mourn?

How can I mourn when all the world is spring?
Understand - waking in the night I heard a bird
calling others out of shadow. They flung
their songs like children's balls
as light flooded the barren sky.

Can I weep, when the weeping of the world is a haze
of dew on severed grass? That grass still grows, dotted with daisies;
their knotted heads still open every morning.

When winter's aching gut unclenches,
when it sleeps with the sun-bellied cats or springs,
shaking its ears, away from sudden showers,
shall I clutch my own ache like a lover?
When blossoms bounce from angry, battered wood,
when new leaves are eyes fresh opening,
are mouths that gobble sunlight,
shall I lower my own? Shall I swallow laughter?

This gaudy riot calls me out. Forgive
me if I leave you, dear,
in that cold, silent dark.

Please.

**

I like this one better, I think. The other version was small and pretty and easy to understand - this fish, is a bit larger. I feel happy now.