Busy week. In addition to contemplating the possibility I have no future (not the scheduled apocalypse – a more garden variety quarter life crisis), working a strenuous two days a week doing admin and managing a Battlestar Galactica addiction, I’ve been learning how to use Illustrator. Who knew Photoshop couldn’t do everything?
I love the clean lines you get using Illustrator; it has a much more graphic look, which I figure will be useful when I’m designing new stencils. So, back to the computer to play around some more…
I now dream in anchor points.
I know I’ve posted more than a few nature photos recently, but I’ve been lucky enough to get plenty of me-on-tree time (in a non–dendrophiliac way – geez, nobody understands platonic friendship anymore…) over the last few months.
This time, instead of the cool and damp mountains of Tasmania, I’ve been up to dryer central Victoria.
There, amongst the orange dirt, grey boulders and slender muted gums, you can find the most amazing microscapes of moss, lichen and tiny plants
John and I were visiting his parents who, like my parents a whole state and strait away, have a large bush block also with (weirdly enough) a rusting car out over the ridge…
Nice spider web huh? Well, there are more of the webs everywhere, complete with big fat spiders.
There were other minibeasts too; ones without huge hairy legs and who refrained from jumping at my face when I got too close with the camera.
Back in the grey city, sometimes I think about moving to place where trees come in forests, not as lone straggly reminders that out there, somewhere, are places where you can’t hear your neighbours playing chopsticks on an electric piano.
But then where would I get a good coffee? Tree-hugger out.
I’ve been meaning to write about books a bit more. It may seem like a digression, but reading a good book inspires me the same way going to a gallery does; it’s a revitalising leisure activity where I can enjoy something beautiful and be inspired by the talent of amazing people.
One book in particular has reminded me of this recently: Lolita, the faux autobiographical account of Humbert Humbert (what a great name for a perv) and his erotic obsession with a twelve year old girl.
At first I was completely absorbed by the smoothly ironic and lyrically beautiful writing (not even Nabakov’s native tongue… damn smart people…). But then there’s a jolt: a sudden realisation that the object of this enthralling literary eroticism is a twelve year old girl. Twelve. Years. Old. All Nabakov’s considerable skill draws you into collusion with Humbert; is Lolita actually seducing Humbert or is it just his obsession clouding his sense of reality? Even if you take Humbert’s account as an accurate reflection of reality, it’s a uncomfortable experience being lead into identification with a morally suspect protagonist.
So, a book that is engrossing, skilfully crafted and thematically stimulating? A good excuse for Saturday on the couch if you ask me.
Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them you’re participating in cultural enbigenment – hey, you’re reading a literary classic, you can make up as many words you like.