tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72201686563502120212024-03-21T07:27:34.457-07:00Autumnal Fuck(n): <i>Pretentious person, contemptible jerk.</i> <br><br><br>
Active journalist / inactive creative writer seeks relatively anonymous forum to post self-indulgence, rough copy and inspiration without words. Feedback welcomed, criticism embraced.Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-34525220122638325772013-01-18T15:11:00.000-08:002013-01-19T02:51:14.438-08:00ToysI found a tiny doll
head in a toilet once. Someone had tried to flush it down a number of times by
stuffing the bowl with toilet paper but the head was too buoyant. I found it
bobbing on top of the water, swathed in wet white paper, eyes peering out from
under the transparent layers in frozen desperation. I pulled it from the depths
and continued cleaning.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sanitation officers
are charged with the task of making public facilities sanitary. As I scrub the
blood, shit and cum off the seats, bowls and walls of the local public
restrooms, people will often follow me – choosing to use the stall I have just
cleaned; they must figure the fresh-smelling bowl will provide a more pleasant
experience than the one I’m about to embark on. Oftentimes I want to tell them,
‘If you saw them before, you wouldn’t use them after’, but they wouldn’t listen
and they wouldn’t care. Sanitation officers are invisible – invisible in
high-vis. <br />
<br />
Being invisible has its perks – I can watch people move around the parks and
interact with each other. Last summer I saw a gargantuan father playing soccer
with his pintsize son. What pintsize lacked in size he gained in agility,
running rings around the muscle-bound ork who guarded the goal. After three
unsuccessful attempts to block point-scoring kicks, Dad got desperate. The
slide tackle wiped the boy out completely, leaving a tangled mess of wiry limbs
on the ground, covered in grass stains and blood. “Get up,” Dad said. “And stop
Hollywooding.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hot-chip eaters
are the best people-watching fodder because they’re so easily classifiable.
There’s one I call the impatient beaver – they’ll pick up a chip, blow on it to
cool it down, and then move their front teeth like a jackhammer, cooling the
chip as it disappears into their gob. There’s the obsessive stacker, who will
find three chips of the same length, line them up and eat them in carefully
even bites. Then there’s the cold chip magician, who talks and gesticulates
with such fervour that no one in their group notices the remaining chips evaporate
before their eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sanitation officers
make a game out of what they find on the grounds of parks and in the restrooms.
There are points for dollar value – watches, sunglasses, iPods – and there are
points for weirdness. I am well ahead on the weirdness leaderboard thanks to
one set of women’s restrooms I look after. An ornamental deer, a basketball
with boobs drawn on it, two light-sabres taped together and jammed into a
cistern. I find a lot of toys. After finding the doll head, I found a clump of
rainbow nylon and plastic – it was slapped against the back of the
bowl like it had hit it with much force. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People do see me, but
mostly they take one glance and go about their business – their business of
running or walking or picnicking on the grass. They may not spend time looking
at me, but I spend time looking at them, and I know what happens to their
business once they’re done with it. There’s this volleyballer who comes to the
park – he has a killer spike on him that’s the envy of all his opponents. This
skill doesn’t translate to the bathroom, however – whenever I see his feet
wriggling in his fluorescent toe-shoes from under a stall door, I know I’m
going to be cleaning something up off the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As summer draws to a
close and the crowds start to wane, my spot on the leaderboard drops. The kids
and their toys go back to school, leaving nothing but wet receipts and stray
sanitary pads to pick up. Sanitary. Last winter however, the steady stream
of toilet-bound items continued throughout the colder months – Barbie shoes,
fluff from inside a soft toy, scraps of coloured paper, buttons and coins; all
stuffed into the same bowl. I kept all the pieces in a shoe box and hid them in
the women’s cleaning cupboard, all the while wondering who was using one of the
toilets as a trash can. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By spring, I had
upsized the collection to a ten-litre bucket and had almost reconstructed the
doll – both arms, both legs and the head were accounted for, as was a lot of
the stuffing from inside it. I was lovingly looking after all these pieces – I
thought to myself that maybe one day I’d reunite the destructive kid who was
trying to flush away their youth with all the trinkets they had so easily
discarded. Maybe they’d be happy to see all these memories again; maybe they’d
sit and discuss each piece with me. I conjured up many an image of my future with the toy parts, until I found another piece. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first I didn’t
realise what I was looking at, and nearly flushed it on instinct. I thankfully
hesitated and looked a little closer. What on first glance appeared to be
another unflushed piece of shitty toilet paper was in fact a shit-stained piece
of material – I could see a tiny fruit salad embroidered on the front that still
held some of its colour. Plucking the material out of the water with two
fingers, I squeezed out the remaining water and held it to the light – it was a
doll’s dress. I quickly wrang the sopping mess out, gagging as brown water
seeped out of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clutching the dress, I
ran to the bucket in the cupboard. I laid out the doll parts on the floor and held
the material up to them; it was a perfect fit. Suddenly it dawned on me – I had
been holding a vigil in a cleaning cupboard for a creep. A creep
who didn’t have the common decency to live out their sick toy-eating rituals at
home. Eating and shitting out children’s toys – how fucked up can you be. I
scooped up the doll parts into the bucket and marched to the trash compactor in
utter disgust. As I marched by, the auburn-haired, salad-eating woman from the
park bench by the restrooms laid down her fork and swished by me, leaving her
half-eaten meal behind. I glanced at the container of beetroot and feta and
noticed something blue poking out amongst the chunks – the head of a plastic
toy Smurf. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, as I
scrubbed the beetroot-coloured murder scene off the bowl and added the Smurf head to my burgeoning collection, thoughts raced
through my head. Should I confront her with the bucket of toys and tell her to fuck off home?
Should I leave a note on the door that says “Please do not flush any children’s
toys”? Questions filled my head for the remainder of the day. By the evening, I
had my script ready and muttered it to myself over and over. I was practicing
in the mirror when she walked past and entered her favourite stall; she had
tears in her eyes. I walked out and cleaned the men's room instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Summer was just around
the corner and the parks began to fill up again. The chip-eating brigades
returned. The volleyballers and soccer players came back, sluggish and fatter
than last summer. I claimed a new spot on the lost and found leaderboard after
finding a laptop and a Cartier watch. My auburn-haired friend still came every
day to eat her salad on the park bench. Throughout the spring I had grown fond
of her – I would watch her from behind recycling bins, noting how she tucked
her hair behind her ears slowly and carefully before tucking into her
lentil-and-teddy-bear meals. She had a delicate nature when she walked to the
restrooms – slow and fragile with a hint of desperate urgency. Each day I would take in a different part of
her – the freckles on her arms, the mole on the back of her right knee; her
sunburnt shoulders. All the parts of her began to resemble doll parts – each
wonderful imperfection a part of one very broken adult doll, held together with
the compulsion to consume other toys.<br />
<br />
I began to take bigger chances to see her up close – popping up from behind
bins, peering around trees and even sitting on the park bench that faced hers,
watching her run her fingers through her hair. She never saw me watching her –
sanitation officers are invisible. I would follow her into the toilets as she
did her daily deed – the sound of her heels tapping along the concrete would
send me over the edge. Toy ponies and Kinder Surprise treats were on
her menu that spring, each piece carefully collected and displayed on my
cleaning cupboard altar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As summer really took
hold, she traipsed in, sunburnt from head to toe, leaving one of the doll’s
shoes behind. Then she disappeared. Every day I’d peer around trees or pop up
from behind bins to find her – nothing. I would sit in the stall next to hers
and wait for the sound of those heels, only to be met with the sounds of
children’s feet slapping against the floor. Now I was both invisible and
lonely. Each night I lay in bed, unable to sleep from the heat and the stress,
picturing her running her spindly fingers through her hair and tucking it
behind her ears. I brought my toy collection home and lay it across one side of
my bed. I began to sleep better. My bed smelled like her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The morning after my
first night with the collection, I trudged to work, heavy with depression.
Knowing I wouldn’t see her, I didn’t even look at her bench all day. I hardly
cleaned anything. The boss received two complaints about the shit on the walls
of the men’s. I didn’t care, I just sat in the stall next to hers with my head
in my hands, wondering if she’d finally seen me and had been scared off coming
to the park for good. Just as tears started streaming from my eyes, I heard the
clip-clop of her heels enter the restroom. My heart started racing as she
closed the door behind her. I peered under the stall to see two perfectly
pointed feet sitting on the toilet. She was quicker than normal – in and out in
just a couple of minutes. She didn’t flush. As I heard the clip-clop
of her feet disappear outside the restroom door, I stumbled out of my stall and
straight into hers. There in the bowl was the last I would see of her – the day's deed with a tiny doll shoe poking out of the side. I tugged at my gloves and threw
them on the floor, dropping to my knees in front of the bowl. I grabbed at it
with both hands and devoured it all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-43237214956766289042010-05-09T16:00:00.000-07:002010-05-10T18:25:06.197-07:0048 Hour Magazine and the case of the big hustlin' moundLast week I took part in an experiment called <a href="http://www.48hrmag.com/">48hrmag</a>. It's a project similar to the <a href="http://www.v48hours.co.nz/">48hour Film Festival</a>, but instead of the film model - in which a group of people submit a themed film - the <span style="font-style: italic;">48hr Mag </span>team announced a theme, gave contributors 24 hours to submit work, then spent the next 24 hours designing, editing and printing the magazine to ship.<br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><p><br />So on Saturday 8 May at 7am (which was 12 noon PDT), I awoke to find an email from the <span style="font-style: italic;">48hr Mag</span> team detailing the first theme: hustle.<br /></p><blockquote><i>"Hustle is where the quick-witted trickster meets the Protestant work ethic. It's virtuous labour and the con artist's graceful swindle. It praises the ratty and rough morality of making money, and the glory of giving it all you've got.<br /><br />Hustle is the aging athlete who replaces ability with sweat equity. The reporter who beats the world to break a story. The entrepreneur living on credit cards and couches. It was also a popular folk dance in America at the end of the 2nd millennium.<br /><br />Most hustles straddle the border between the legal and illicit: the grey market, the game, The Kennedys. The people clawing their way up or clambering down.<br /><br />Hustle is Janus-faced, holding together meanings that want to fly apart. It still echoes its original 18th century usage, when it referred to "the act of shaking together" (usually dice in a game of chance). And that's just what we're doing now.<br /><br />48 Hour Magazine bounces collective ingenuity against wild improbability, hoping for a hot roll. And yes, we also chose the theme because we've got two days to make a magazine that's worth a damn and the only way that's going to happen is with raw, ruthless hustle.<br /><br />We want you to get right to the marrow of the word. Let's do it."<br /></i></blockquote><br />Writers, photographers, artists and designers from all over the world submitted their work to the <span style="font-style: italic;">48hr Mag</span> office in San Francisco; I was among the first 400 submissions, most of which were prose. When I last checked the <a href="http://twitter.com/48hrmag">48hr Mag twitter</a>, something like 1283 submissions had been received; God knows how many were received all up.<br /><br />Following is the piece I wrote; I hope you enjoy it. I didn't make it to print, but to be honest, I don't care. I'm just happy I got to contribute at all. A+++ idea, would trade again.<br /><br />God it feels good to be writing again.<br /><br />Hannah<br /><br />PS: My friend Amie over at <a href="http://amieweexxx.wordpress.com">amieweexxx</a> sent Hustle an artwork. Check out her piece <a href="http://amieweexxx.wordpress.com/2010/05/10/48-hr-mag-hustle/">HERE</a>.<br /><br />--------<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Mound</span><br /><br /><br />Mound.<br />Take.<br />Outdoors.<br />Table.<br /><br />Do these seem like random words to you? They are. But what do they mean to you? What other words spring to mind when I say them aloud?<br /><br />For my brother Cameron, “mound” changed his life. Well, “mound”, and me.<br /><br />Cameron is a very boring, very stuffy man who works as an advertising creative. I loathe advertising creatives – their overblown egos offer me precious little in terms of intellectual stimulation, and their topics of conversation leave a lot to be desired. On my regular lunch dates with Cameron, conversation tended to revolve around the next big project, pitch or swindle; I had taken to packing a magazine into a leather-bound file and reading it while he prattled on. This magazine proved fortuitous when I one day looked up from my file to find Cameron yelling at me.<br /><br />“Are you even listening? Give me a hand here, Ethan. Give me a hand!”<br /><br />Sensing he knew I hadn’t been listening, I had to think fast. I glanced back down at my magazine, spotting a word in the middle of the page. A devilish grin grew across my face, but I masked it before glancing back up at Cameron. I stared directly at him with an intensity that was almost comical, then leaned across the table. With wide eyes and a booming voice, I shouted,<br /><br />“MOUND!”<br /><br />Cameron returned by glare with an incredulous look. “Mound?”<br />“Yes, Cameron! Mound! What comes to mind when I say the word mound? Play with me here.”<br />“Mound? Okay, mound. So like, pitcher’s mound. Ground. Dirt. Soil.”<br />“Good,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Soil?”<br />“Soil. Growth. Plants. Trees.”<br />I couldn’t believe this was actually stimulating conversation with this hapless git.<br />“Trees?” I said. “What do you think when I say trees?”<br />“Trees. Life. Green. Breeze. Air. Breath!”<br /><br />With these words buzzing around his head, Cameron went away and created the most successful advertising campaign his company has ever had. That campaign turned a small local car company into an international success, and Cameron into a millionaire. Spurred on by a word – just one tiny spark of inspiration – I helped Cameron and his company turn the recession into a success, almost overnight.<br /><br />You’d think my work here would go unnoticed. You’d think that one innocuous conversation couldn’t change this everyman into a modern-day success. Well if you thought that, you’d be wrong.<br /><br />These days, people hire me to make them think. I make the uncreative creative. I bring business to business. I make executives executive. Hell, I even advise the advisers. My words change lives. That’s not arrogance, that’s fact. I guarantee that after two hours with me, I’ll have you walking out of our meeting with a notepad full of ideas and a head so packed with inspiration that you’ll be left wondering why you’ve squandered your talents for all these years. I make your inspiration my business – it’s my job to wrangle it out of you.<br /><br />Cameron was good to me. After that nauseating little tree-hugging ad campaign of his went global, he made sure his company knew where he got his inspiration. I began working with the creatives at his firm, shouting words at them and having them shout ten back. I’d pick any page in my magazine – grab any word that I saw fit – and bark it at them. I couldn’t believe what came over these people.<br /><br />The word “take” fuelled one of the biggest tourism campaigns our country has ever seen.<br /><br />The word “stretch” brought a small home wares company untold wealth.<br /><br />I once threw the word “arch” at a female client and had her vibrating in her seat with excitement. She went on to lead not one, but six specialty campaigns involving beauty products.<br /><br />You can’t even begin to imagine how “behind” has changed the shape of advertising.<br /><br />For Cameron’s company, the pull of my words was carnal. These seemingly random magazine phrases seemed to awaken some sort of primal urge in their creatives; by the end of our sessions, they’d be banging on tables, climbing on furniture and screaming. Each word I proposed would induce a slightly different response.<br /><br />Shape.<br />“Square! Triangle! No, no! Round! Smooth! Soft!”<br />That campaign sold half a million dollars worth of furniture.<br /><br />Cavernous.<br />“Dark! Unknown! Uncertainty. Black! DAMP!”<br />Home ventilation systems.<br /><br />Excited.<br />“Thrilled! Amazed! Stimulated! Aroused!”<br />See? Now we’re getting somewhere.<br /><br />I played these people like instruments.<br /><br />I began to get more boisterous. I built up a portfolio of references from the people I helped, and began approaching other advertising agencies to consult them on matters of inspiration. I had no education or training in consultancy, no previous job experience that pertained to the world of advertising, and no overt rhyme or reason why I was so successful at what I did. I relied solely on my track record and gift of the gab to get in front of these people; to get in front of their board of directors and drum up a bit of excitement.<br /><br />Silk.<br />Outdoors.<br />Table.<br />Party.<br /><br />These seemingly innocent words produced the most salacious response. Normal people became ravenously excited – shaking their colleagues by the shoulders, punching the air like they’d just scored a touchdown; scrawling notes on whiteboards like they were writing for the first time. Words became my currency with these people, and this currency soon translated into real life remuneration.<br /><br />Word spread around town; people started to take notice. I became known as the man who would turn your company around with just a few well-placed words. People called me the word hustler – the guy who would swan in, open his leather-bound file, pluck words from a random page and have you reeling with ideas in minutes. These people’s heads were full and pockets were empty before they even knew what hit them. I was a sensation.<br /><br />I carried my file with me everywhere. I’d spend my days in the CBD meeting creatives for lunch and stopping well-known CEOs in the street. The work was easy, fun and rewarding – and best of all, it wasn’t even mine. The words on these pages? I didn’t write them, I would just bring them to life and watch men in suits turn into raving lunatics within minutes.<br /><br />Ridge.<br />Handsome.<br />Tremble.<br />Supple.<br />Juicy.<br /><br />I’ve since branched out from business – I’m now hired by influential people world over to solve their inspiration blocks. I love helping the musicians struggling to write that difficult sophomore album. I work with charities to drum up interest for their next fundraising push. I aid senators with presidential dreams. I hold seminars for struggling writers that start out as speeches and end with fully-grown men hurling ideas at each other like teenagers throw food in a cafeteria – their ties loose around their necks, shirts untucked and eyes wide. They are my orchestra, and I, their conductor.<br /><br />If only they could read the sheet music.<br /><br />I’ve read the magazines, I’ve seen the newspapers, I’ve read the blogs. They call me the hustler, but they’re only half right. Sure, I muscle inspiration out of people like a swindler in a card game, but I’m not the hustler in this equation; not by a long shot. You only have to look to my leather-bound file to know that the real hustler here brought these companies the words needed to fuel their business. These words that provoked such carnal responses.<br /><br />Behind.<br />Juicy.<br />Mound.<br /><br />Thanks for everything, Larry Flynt. </div> <p class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"> <span class="post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1720023306"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=7220168656350212021&postID=4987371623945785247" title="Edit Post"> <span class="quick-edit-icon"> </span> </a> </span> </span> </p>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-23061014108855138322010-03-07T18:51:00.000-08:002010-03-07T21:02:20.657-08:00I Like: Rosie the Riveter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVWubNfax-KFutMPQ125ZASr5AG3zc8ko1iEdrXyfqJjBHLxAV4NsdUjzgVTgw5GxeJfvbJjiVOiNYoklSJHEZNTrG4rhgPmu1W7HwvZYH214zDEnSsdKNbKpM6Tuo3NSLcpba07BWTo/s1600-h/DSC_0410.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVWubNfax-KFutMPQ125ZASr5AG3zc8ko1iEdrXyfqJjBHLxAV4NsdUjzgVTgw5GxeJfvbJjiVOiNYoklSJHEZNTrG4rhgPmu1W7HwvZYH214zDEnSsdKNbKpM6Tuo3NSLcpba07BWTo/s400/DSC_0410.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446120587725395074" border="0" /></a><br />Last weekend I had the pleasure and the joy of photographing Sydney's Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade. Have I mentioned how much I love my job? Probably. Let's move on.<br /><br />My media pass got me into a pretty spectacular pre-parade area, where I could wander around and meet the various groups preparing to march in the parade. Whilst on the move I saw a couple of girls dressed like one of my favourite cultural icons, Rosie the Riveter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBKn_OGvD_yMm_JXjVTMiYWZ2ElHsYJDhRfmsuUqXooE88Gfh7QEqoKdrt74wEJmTy2YAp7X7OxfTv-3bfl_awY3rzjIkX22XggVRyugKLLggI1e8-rE0BunlIZIfY9RquxYZQlLVvRI/s1600-h/DSC_0031.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBKn_OGvD_yMm_JXjVTMiYWZ2ElHsYJDhRfmsuUqXooE88Gfh7QEqoKdrt74wEJmTy2YAp7X7OxfTv-3bfl_awY3rzjIkX22XggVRyugKLLggI1e8-rE0BunlIZIfY9RquxYZQlLVvRI/s400/DSC_0031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446099051566276450" border="0" /></a><br />I ventured further down the road, and found a whole stack of them!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpQFVPF18YNAdSo1T3CxJSPdqhO6k_HLWRqyp7zbyN5mmQW2HwI61azLlvxwKQR3uclWpqdtaqQWXGO6uXVXpJOegXLHv9H2U550Zv-rD0vlaTIYRM5HBcYHt0T33pJrjEOM2wQeZIuQ/s1600-h/DSC_0037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpQFVPF18YNAdSo1T3CxJSPdqhO6k_HLWRqyp7zbyN5mmQW2HwI61azLlvxwKQR3uclWpqdtaqQWXGO6uXVXpJOegXLHv9H2U550Zv-rD0vlaTIYRM5HBcYHt0T33pJrjEOM2wQeZIuQ/s400/DSC_0037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446100390234519170" border="0" /></a><br />"Look at you, ladies!" I gushed as I took their photo. "You're like a dream come true. Rosie's my hero." Embarrassing? Yes. A bunch of falsities? No. I decided that when I got home to Auckland I would find out more about these girls.<br /><br />The girls were from a group called <a href="http://femmeguildsydney.blogspot.com/">The Femme Guild of Sydney</a>, who believe in the solidarity, celebration and visibility of those who identify as femme (essentially defined as a lesbian who exhibits "stereotypically female traits", but from the group's manifesto - and the photo below - they obviously believe in the solidarity, celebration and visibility of more than just "lipstick lesbians").<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4UZDRoDeZYS4rS6_IA06pgAYOmBiLOkZWLdqXx-dnCAGOq6EEspoyI-oa7EEOKSV8tgRx0erf3pmXhw4fa8a2zPUbR2zrSh5K2HMyqpJjBcIexYNN-iTp2atmutIdZXZcbog7axbwzQ/s1600-h/DSC_0034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4UZDRoDeZYS4rS6_IA06pgAYOmBiLOkZWLdqXx-dnCAGOq6EEspoyI-oa7EEOKSV8tgRx0erf3pmXhw4fa8a2zPUbR2zrSh5K2HMyqpJjBcIexYNN-iTp2atmutIdZXZcbog7axbwzQ/s400/DSC_0034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446099607945800498" border="0" /></a><br />In the group's manifesto, they state:<br /><br /><blockquote><i>"We actively recognise the generations of activism that have challenged traditional gender roles and struggled to explode the die-hard myth of the sex/gender binary. Femme Guild peacefully co-exists with other radical ways to play with gender, or to be a woman. There is no one way to be a woman, to be trans, to be queer, or to be a man."</i></blockquote><br />If you've been following my blog - on in fact, me - for a while, you'll know that this facet of their manifesto speaks to me. I play a sport that was built on these same ideals of challenging traditional gender roles. Ask anyone who plays roller derby why they love it, and they will no doubt tell you how they love the dynamic the sport presents - you can be fast, agile, tactile, skilful, sexy, feminine, "butch"<span style="font-size:85%;">*</span>, physical, brutal - all at the same time. These women will often repeat a popular derby mantra - "roller derby saved my soul". Not because it gave them something to do with their spare time, but because the confidence these women find on the track often translates into their everyday lives. A new derby skater often finds her voice, her own sense of style, her cause; anything. And whether they realise it or not, playing roller derby projects a powerful message of feminism - it may not necessarily be said aloud, but the message is heard loud and clear.<br /><br />I'll be honest when I say that my feminist bent didn't precede roller derby by much, but looking back, all the signs were there. My long-standing obsession with Rosie the Riveter is no doubt one of them.<br /><br />I recently found out that the iconic image touted as being Rosie the Riveter was not the now-classic "We Can Do It!" American war effort poster.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSA38QLdQgTj4h0IO4mgOKatbxFa19L9egaX1E9thlCBCaWFp4qiKoA4LNb0Qo8Mguuxb4Di9NwOij_GxeFxha8SelGemQBkdAeZ4atVkHy61Q_GhbowjwdemrKxccjo3-NK0gLXyElSg/s1600-h/rosie_the_riveter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSA38QLdQgTj4h0IO4mgOKatbxFa19L9egaX1E9thlCBCaWFp4qiKoA4LNb0Qo8Mguuxb4Di9NwOij_GxeFxha8SelGemQBkdAeZ4atVkHy61Q_GhbowjwdemrKxccjo3-NK0gLXyElSg/s400/rosie_the_riveter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446114010920037314" border="0" /></a><br />According to <a href="http://www.docspopuli.org/articles/RosieTheRiveter.html">this</a> article, the real Rosie was shown on a Norman Rockwell cover of a 1943 <i>Saturday Evening Post</i>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3z8m2SNNRjQmtq84MK5g-RQjyPt4uDJ7qoCzD9YPA4YybmVQrlMLH6AkhosaoehDFz8z9-v9iPJU-VSHqAD03osTcElAIDY5KbwsYLD6edqUUrWSX5Kz2F3FPeHNLLhaUyJTGb0yyEM/s1600-h/RosieTheRiveter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 373px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3z8m2SNNRjQmtq84MK5g-RQjyPt4uDJ7qoCzD9YPA4YybmVQrlMLH6AkhosaoehDFz8z9-v9iPJU-VSHqAD03osTcElAIDY5KbwsYLD6edqUUrWSX5Kz2F3FPeHNLLhaUyJTGb0yyEM/s400/RosieTheRiveter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446114777210189586" border="0" /></a><br />The "Rosie" we've all come to love was actually used in Westinghouse factories when women made some 13 million Mycarta (a precursor to Formica, or "formerly Mycarta") helmet liners.<br /><br />I don't think it matters overly that Rosie as a cultural icon has been replaced with a Westinghouse image - the want to portray female strength remains the same. That's why I've always like "the Rosies" of the American factories during World War II.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3g-Oiumh6kjaB2T4IV3vQ5Tbe9yrYQ38kt6BEkWyXB_aWr2U0wFxZFRRoBzNV96asvQm-a1qOpS3Mx7RogqYzNl4R1XYwrJTdjc4CGptVjGBifLLX78_UuPdA2_yP8QuFlxN_EByOT4/s1600-h/Rosie_the_Riveter_(Vultee)_DSSMALL.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3g-Oiumh6kjaB2T4IV3vQ5Tbe9yrYQ38kt6BEkWyXB_aWr2U0wFxZFRRoBzNV96asvQm-a1qOpS3Mx7RogqYzNl4R1XYwrJTdjc4CGptVjGBifLLX78_UuPdA2_yP8QuFlxN_EByOT4/s400/Rosie_the_Riveter_(Vultee)_DSSMALL.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446119633311364258" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAikGnxmq2mNafw_CTv_jF2raFM0F9eCRt-rwU5N7LqGEGTe0aaQg9agaqWluEOgRGz4iKL-4fATBWThC4OKv1RQyTGBw9hdr0MkZl5NG2ByPi3Qh_BUrOJBQR05wz6F7wPFo7uloqpYk/s1600-h/WomanFactory1940sSMALL.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAikGnxmq2mNafw_CTv_jF2raFM0F9eCRt-rwU5N7LqGEGTe0aaQg9agaqWluEOgRGz4iKL-4fATBWThC4OKv1RQyTGBw9hdr0MkZl5NG2ByPi3Qh_BUrOJBQR05wz6F7wPFo7uloqpYk/s400/WomanFactory1940sSMALL.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446119843497006562" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZLbChVIbhdwg3cTd8NPoKmuCvrqw04Ejos3Nsj9w3kVqK4YRdRtQfSl9C4PukBwYYcKvoAA4sPH34akudl226K5q0mvJytR65S48On1_62NWEVXvDbjUTiGFyLKmYB42SYGfmk2SIxI/s1600-h/Riverting_team2SMALL.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZLbChVIbhdwg3cTd8NPoKmuCvrqw04Ejos3Nsj9w3kVqK4YRdRtQfSl9C4PukBwYYcKvoAA4sPH34akudl226K5q0mvJytR65S48On1_62NWEVXvDbjUTiGFyLKmYB42SYGfmk2SIxI/s400/Riverting_team2SMALL.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446119972338737410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Credit: Office of War Information photos by Alfred T. Palmer, 1942.<br />Found on the gosh darn amazing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosie_the_Riveter">Rosie the Riveter Wikipedia article</a>.</span><br /></div><br />They were real women, doing jobs they were more than capable of doing, in a time where <i>man</i>kind needed them most. They found their physical strength and challenged patriarchal values.<br /><br />And that's why I like Rosie.<br /><br />----------<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Postscript quote</span><br /><br /><blockquote>"Rich cultures, patriarchal cultures, value thin women, like ours; poor ones value fat women. But all patriarchal cultures value weak women. So for women to become physically strong is very profound."<br />- Gloria Steinem <span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2010/mar/06/opinion/la-oe-morrison6-2010mar06">SOURCE</a>] </span></blockquote><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(With thanks to Kate for this quote)</span><br /><br />----------<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">* Sorry to use quotes, but given the common, derogatory usage of the word butch, I hate using it.</span>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-66011958399855857992010-02-23T19:07:00.000-08:002010-02-23T23:27:43.011-08:00I Like: ListsA few years ago, whilst on a trip to a suburban Auckland supermarket, I picked up a discarded shopping list. It was an innocuous enough act - I was curious to see what someone else would buy, and scanned through the list hoping to find something humourous, like KY Jelly or something. As it turns out, the list was far more glorious than I could ever imagine. Instead of being just a few things that a person would want to collect, the list I read showed me that what people choose to buy at the supermarket really does speak volumes about who they are and what they're doing. Let's take a look at that first list.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=FirstDate-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/FirstDate-1.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />"This is a woman," was my first thought. "Purple pen and embossed paper? This has got to be a woman." My belief was further corroborated when I read through what could only be described as any woman's thought pattern.<br /><br />1 x Humus. [sic]<br />1 x bag lettuce.<br /><br />She's making a healthy salad. But wait, she's changed her mind.<br /><br />2 x Humus.<br />2 x bag lettuce.<br /><br />She's making more than enough for herself.<br /><br />Reading on, she adds tomatoes, tuna, chick peas and "plastic coriander" (by which I can only assume she means one of those plastic sleeves of fresh coriander you get from the grocery section). Then, she adds, "bottle wine".<br /><br />The next three terms are what made me the most happy however. Three words written in rushed handwriting, presumably as one is running out the door or standing somewhere in the supermarket.<br /><br />cheese.<br />sausages.<br />bacon.<br /><br />Someone's been thinking about a sleepover. Here's hope the lucky person got to stay for breakfast.<br /><br /><br />After I picked up "first date", as I now refer to it, I started to pick up more interesting shopping lists. Few were as glorious as the first, but many contained interesting little ditties that showed me a little bit more about how people's brains work; how people use shopping lists less as direct orders and more as personal reminders.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=MariaLunch.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/MariaLunch.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />"Maria lunch"<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=Vegies.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Vegies.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />"Snacks"<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=BirdGritGeorge.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/BirdGritGeorge.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />"Bird Grit" <br />"George"<br /><br />And my favourite,<br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=BananaFruits.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/BananaFruits.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />"bananas"<br />"fruits"<br /><br />Sometimes the lists weren't as funny as they should be; sometimes they were a little sad.<br /><br />They were the lists of the old and sick,<br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=Nurse12th.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Nurse12th.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br />The busy and desperate for silence,<br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=MumandChupaChup.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/MumandChupaChup.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br />And the cautious.<br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=PrunesProtein.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/PrunesProtein.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />"I have to have protein + veg for dinner to repair cartlidge [sic]"<br /><br />They made me stop collecting them for a while. I realised that I had a (sometimes hypothetical, sometimes very literal) window into people's minds that I wasn't supposed to know about. I started worrying about what I wrote on my shopping lists, and was very careful not to leave them behind in shopping carts. I guess I gave up the ghost of shopping's past. Until November, when I was given the best list I've ever seen. My friend Anni found it at a party, which she says "was full of young goths who wear velvet and do tarot reading in their spare time". I chuckled as she handed the list over, turned it over and thought to myself,<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=7DeadlySins.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/7DeadlySins.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br />"Man, I love humans so much."Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-84891182249129898002010-02-14T12:14:00.000-08:002010-02-15T15:18:11.392-08:00My mother was an Olympic gymnast trainer<div style="text-align: justify;">My father was a very famous, very wealthy hotellier - he owned a large chain of hotels around the world. My mother travelled the world, training gymnasts for Olympic games. They met in the lobby of his hotel in Prague. Together they served a very practical function in each other’s lives – they were each other’s travel partner and red carpet accompaniment and second lofty income; they were not, however, each other’s love. Not once in the nine years I knew my father did I see them touch, kiss, hug or laugh. It was as if this was a life of transactions, and they were content with living it.<br /></div><br />I was one such transaction, and a poorly managed one at that.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In the face of such dry practicality, I acted out. Often asked to sit quietly and read at the dinner table as they organised their accounts and their meal simultaneously, I would draw pictures on the table using peas and gravy. I would wet my serviette in my glass of water and throw the sodden mess at the roof, where it would stay for months. I would finish my meal, then tear sections out of the novel I was reading and eat it, page by page. “Stop being such a child,” they would say.<br /><br />Special occasions were much the same. Generally they would be jet-setting, with father opening new hotels and mother playing the happy wife beside him, or mother posing with a collection of lithe and limber Ukrainian gymnasts as father watched on in the background. On the odd occasion however, they would be around for my birthday or Christmas, I would receive small, practical gifts with small, practical cards.<br /></div><blockquote>To: Agnes<br />From: Mother and Father</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Handkerchiefs were hardy perennials on present-giving days, as were new ribbons for my typewriter. By the time I was eight, I had enough handkerchiefs to cover one of father’s hotels when it rained, and was precocious enough to say this to him. He grew increasingly tired of my behaviour, and not ten minutes after present giving had occurred, retired to his study to drink whisky and smoke from a pipe. When father retired to his study, he was not to be disturbed. All we would hear was the occasional instruction yelled at my mother, who would ignore him, stare at me, and then retreat to her own haven – the exercise studio – leaving me in the living area alone.<br /></div><br />On my tenth Christmas Day, I disturbed father in his study.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Storming in with all the grace and charm of a wildebeest, I startled father and made him spill his drink. “This handwriting is YOURS!” I screamed. “Yes, dear, I always write the cards,” he replied. “Why the devil are you acting this way? Calm down.” Thrusting two identical cards in his face, I shrieked, ‘THIS one is from you and mother, and THIS one is from Santa. It is YOUR handwriting, father! There is no Santa! I hate you. I HATE YOU!” Mother was standing in the doorway, dressed in her pink exercise clothes. Her lips were pursed in muted anger and her gaze was fixed on father. As I left the study, I dropped my voice to it’s lowest point; to the pair of them, spat, “As you have left me with no further childhood to enjoy, I will stop acting like a child. Thank you mother, and thank you father.” For the first time in my life, mother looked suitably upset.<br /></div><br />The next day, father left.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As was the way of my family, neither my mother nor I shed a tear. We did not speak of my father again and removed all memory of him from the home; the study became a storage and sewing room. We would eat dinner solemnly and silently, with mother doing the accounts and me reading quietly at the table’s opposite end. Sometimes I would look up to find her staring at me with a sadness in her eyes that I had not seen before. I would smile awkwardly and return to my book.<br /><br />On Christmas Eve that year, an airmail envelope addressed to me was delivered. In the envelope I found ten photos of Athens, a cheque for a sizeable amount of money, and a note typewritten on hotel letterhead:<br /></div><blockquote>To: Agnes<br />Merry Christmas, child<br />From: Santa<br /></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">The years went by and the letters kept arriving – the locations grew more exotic, the photos more beautiful and the cheque’s sum more generous. The photos were so inspiring that I began charting them on a map, and hung each shot on my wall. When photos of paintings inside The Louvre arrived on my sixteenth Christmas, I spent the cheque on art supplies and began painting the scenes delivered each year. I kept each painting in mother’s storage room, hoping that one day my father would return from this jet setting and have a collection of his travels on canvas. I dreamed of the day he’d return, when he would see what I’d made of his generous presents – and myself. I knew he would be proud to reinstate his study and have my paintings in there with him.<br /><br />On my 35th birthday, I signed a deal with a gallery to have my work exhibited. I arrived late for dinner at mother’s, and found her dead on the floor of the dining room. A lavish meal was steaming on the beautifully set table - no novels or accounts were to be seen.<br /><br />Weeks later, I cleared out mother’s storage and sewing room. She had stowed away her sewing machine and set up my old typewriter. Next to it I found a box of old travel photographs, and a stack of various hotel letterheads.</div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-5821386089433886002010-01-19T12:20:00.000-08:002010-02-14T21:25:52.529-08:00I Like: Stefan SagmeisterI recently stumbled across the work of Austria-born, New York-known and Indonesia-based "rock star" graphic designer <a href="http://www.sagmeister.com/">Stefan Sagmeister</a>, notably his series of installations known as Things I Have Learnt In My Life So Far. I love how his work has developed from simple ideas to huge installations, but I'll let him explain how.<br /><br /><i>"The idea for this... originally came out of my own list in my diary, under the very same title: Things I have learned in my life so far. Astonishingly, I have only learned twenty or so things so far. Over the last five years I did manage to publish these maxims all over the world, in spaces normally occupied by advertisements and promotions: as billboards, projections, light-boxes, magazine spreads, annual report covers, fashion brochures, and, recently, as giant inflatable monkeys."</i><br />- Sagmeister, from the Things <a href="http://www.thingsihavelearnedinmylife.com/">website</a>.<br /><p>If you head to the website you can samples of Sagmeister's work, along with another offshoot of the original list - contributions by site users. But here is the original list (and some of the installations of) what Sagmeister has learned. I loved it. Enjoy.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcyn_c9P5BgDmEc1qf_xZe7HJhlfwwKibK048Dwi-SJlr7sRlYsjeE-L5tlQYgAWEWbyBtIhiqIhH9wYL_D6Lb0TSF3pLwQjF5qj-nmrIbwiY0eLQMy5wZ8NhCEumuKXK_uJZDxTM1jA/s1600-h/sag_web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcyn_c9P5BgDmEc1qf_xZe7HJhlfwwKibK048Dwi-SJlr7sRlYsjeE-L5tlQYgAWEWbyBtIhiqIhH9wYL_D6Lb0TSF3pLwQjF5qj-nmrIbwiY0eLQMy5wZ8NhCEumuKXK_uJZDxTM1jA/s400/sag_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428551507024253218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">THINGS I HAVE LEARNT IN MY LIFE SO FAR </span></div><p><br /><br />Helping other people helps me.<br />Having guts always works out for me.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBbGrRV1-u1MH-YJP8EsuUrjbexNhxbuTHLHyrxBHUPP1pkSOogNTp01MySCxka5MOwqCaq3yFEAl7Cud53kVBbRxBlaE1Ed8foWJkg7CUiv1A5rVqDgxKZlJhw1pVw5XbwBKqDXewy8/s1600-h/stefan+sagmeister_entwurf+douglas-fassade.215226.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBbGrRV1-u1MH-YJP8EsuUrjbexNhxbuTHLHyrxBHUPP1pkSOogNTp01MySCxka5MOwqCaq3yFEAl7Cud53kVBbRxBlaE1Ed8foWJkg7CUiv1A5rVqDgxKZlJhw1pVw5XbwBKqDXewy8/s400/stefan+sagmeister_entwurf+douglas-fassade.215226.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428553233938177378" border="0" /></a>Thinking that life will be better in the future is stupid. I have to live now.<br /></div><p>Starting a charity is surprisingly easy.<br />Being not truthful works against me.<br />Everything I do always comes back to me.<br />Assuming is stifling.<br />Drugs feel great in the beginning and become a drag later on.<br />Over time I get used to everything and start taking for granted.<br />Money does not make me happy.<br />Travelling alone is helpful for a new perspective on life.<br />Keeping a diary supports personal development.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58H5ngOLvMn8YH5P_d21VykpaoeiiOPWsNl55yTELZZhxSIvuueVjlf8lIqVj3CSwK-bKe3_HnXo6ixxr-uYgBLrrEL4MNukgubOtqbqiCX01p2TR7qkYX81t3A8jHh_huG648uFBuTM/s1600-h/sagmeister_things_if_have_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 355px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58H5ngOLvMn8YH5P_d21VykpaoeiiOPWsNl55yTELZZhxSIvuueVjlf8lIqVj3CSwK-bKe3_HnXo6ixxr-uYgBLrrEL4MNukgubOtqbqiCX01p2TR7qkYX81t3A8jHh_huG648uFBuTM/s400/sagmeister_things_if_have_l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428556854833578962" border="0" /></a>Trying to look good limits my life.<br /></div><p>Material luxuries are best enjoyed in small doses.<br />Worrying solves nothing.<br />Complaining is silly. Either act or forget.<br />Actually doing the things I set out to do increases my overall level of satisfaction.<br />Everybody thinks they are right.<br />If I want to explore a new direction professionally, it is helpful to try it out for myself first.<br />Low expectations are a good strategy.<br />Everybody who is honest is interesting.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">More on Things I Have Learnt here:</span><br /></p><center><object height="326" width="446"><param name="movie" value="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="bgColor" value="#ffffff"> <param name="flashvars" value="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/StefanSagmeister_2008-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/StefanSagmeister-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=356&introDuration=16500&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=2000&adKeys=talk=stefan_sagmeister_on_what_he_has_learned;year=2008;theme=speaking_at_tedglobal2009;theme=words_about_words;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=how_we_learn;event=TED2008;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;"><embed src="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf" pluginspace="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" bgcolor="#ffffff" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/StefanSagmeister_2008-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/StefanSagmeister-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=356&introDuration=16500&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=2000&adKeys=talk=stefan_sagmeister_on_what_he_has_learned;year=2008;theme=speaking_at_tedglobal2009;theme=words_about_words;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=how_we_learn;event=TED2008;" height="326" width="446"></embed></object></center><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">More on Stefan Sagmeister <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stefan_Sagmeister">HERE</a></span>.<br /><p></p>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-54071605175155732452010-01-15T16:07:00.000-08:002010-01-16T18:22:40.963-08:00I like: Colin Meloy [New Section!]Seeing as I seem to be quite sporadic with my writing posts, I've decided to do a new thing, hooray! I've decided that Autumnal Fuck could do with a dose of non-fiction writing; a section where I highlight people whose words interest and inspire me; writers who make words exciting for me. For my first I Like post, I'd like to highlight the work of lyricist Colin Meloy, whose work is fresh in my mind after seeing him in concert yesterday at Auckland's <a href="http://www.bigdayout.com/">Big Day Out</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARPvEiGWL48lBBbzHXC2j3ffLSyZh9_QEZ5oTlJ-VyT3Dxt-4WUCDq58_hxEpdIreTZDn48huQKNhbJOE0kdVsKbjxKPRgy_8Z55_HvhSmQUlNtXkZEQ4I9KcFMkOqIFuERqZlaIwND4/s1600-h/colinmeloy1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARPvEiGWL48lBBbzHXC2j3ffLSyZh9_QEZ5oTlJ-VyT3Dxt-4WUCDq58_hxEpdIreTZDn48huQKNhbJOE0kdVsKbjxKPRgy_8Z55_HvhSmQUlNtXkZEQ4I9KcFMkOqIFuERqZlaIwND4/s400/colinmeloy1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427127494741713554" /></a><br /><br />The work of Colin Meloy, lead singer and lyricist for Portland band <a href="http://decemberists.com/">The Decemberists</a>, has a strangely regular place in my travels around my home country, New Zealand. I was first introduced to Meloy's work with The Decemberists whilst on a drive through New Zealand's Canterbury district. As we wound through the foothills, ridges and valleys that led to the town of Akaroa, Meloy's tales of "Eli, The Barrow Boy" and "The Engine Driver" seemed to fit the setting perfectly. But just before we reached what was to be a quaint but nauseating township, "The Mariner's Revenge Song" piqued my interest.<br /><br /><i>We are two mariners<br />Our ship's sole survivors<br />In this belly of a whale<br />Its ribs are ceiling beams<br />Its guts are carpeting<br />I guess we have some time to kill<br /><br />You may not remember me<br />I was a child of three<br />And you, a lad of eighteen<br />But, I remember you<br />And I will relate to you<br />How our histories interweave</i><br /><br />The almost nine-minute song is narrated by a mariner, who, having found himself in the stomach of a whale with a fellow seafarer, seeks to explain the events leading up to what can only be their tragic end. He tells the story of his mother, who fell in love with a gambling love-cheat who leaves her with tuberculosis and a mountain of debt. On her deathbed, the mother relays her dying wish to her son:<br /><br /><i>"Find him, bind him<br />Tie him to a pole and break<br />His fingers to splinters<br />Drag him to a hole until he<br />Wakes up naked<br />Clawing at the ceiling<br />Of his grave"</i><br /><br />The rest of the story spans fifteen years - the narrator becomes a street urchin, then a cleaner at a priory. He is later tipped off that subject of his revenge is working as a ship's captain; he goes to sea to find him, only to swallowed whole by a giant whale. Luckily the ship's captain also survives to hear the tale, and the song ends with what we can only assume is the mariner dishing out an untimely end, before his own untimely end. I spent the better half of the song asking questions of my travel companion ("So they're in a whale?" "What does consumptive mean?" "What's a prior?" "What's a penitent whaler?") and was surprised I didn't meet my own untimely end in the process.<br /><br />For me, "The Mariner's Revenge Song" was a perfect entry-level track to both the band's instrumentation and my understanding of Meloy's lyricism. Meloy's exquisite storytelling, combined with the lush sounds of accordion, mandolin, upright bass and xylophone, have painted many a curious picture since then, and <i>Picaresque</i>, the 2005 studio album that contained "The Mariner's Revenge Song", quickly became one of my favourite albums (and continues to be).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnNihKhn4o36ofh7CJh_n9L6WqqD4J0rqWrVSi2giS8lAUjic-tXUBRD9JzxDL31POrzZ9FQjU9wtUYZWp-7FRc7Zk1mLfmU43Yq37ff8TnE9-VVEOEzfHpmuKJ9onY6U7dmCogyzpNM/s1600-h/Decemberists_Poster_No__2_by_goodmorningvoice.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnNihKhn4o36ofh7CJh_n9L6WqqD4J0rqWrVSi2giS8lAUjic-tXUBRD9JzxDL31POrzZ9FQjU9wtUYZWp-7FRc7Zk1mLfmU43Yq37ff8TnE9-VVEOEzfHpmuKJ9onY6U7dmCogyzpNM/s400/Decemberists_Poster_No__2_by_goodmorningvoice.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427163856575379826" /></a><br /><br />The second leg of my Tour De Meloy came just last easter, on a similar trip - this time through the winding coastal road between Thames and Coromandel Town. Through the thick pohutukawa trees that made up the many glades of the route, the sounds of <i>The Crane Wife</i> could be heard escaping from the speakers of my small Toyota.<br /><br /><i>And under the boughs unbowed<br />All clothed in a snowy shroud<br />She had no heart so hardened<br />All under the boughs unbowed<br /><br />Each feather it fell from skin<br />'Till thread bare while she grew thin<br />How were my eyes so blinded?<br />Each feather it fell from skin</i><br />(From "The Crane Wife 3")<br /><br />Interspersed between songs, my companion told me the story of the crane wife, which Colin Meloy explained to <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=7061028">NPR</a> in 2007 as:<br /><br /><i>"...a story about a peasant in rural Japan who finds a wounded crane on an evening walk; there's an arrow in its wing. He revives the crane and the crane flies away. A couple days later, a mysterious woman shows up at his door and he takes her in. Eventually they fall in love and get married. But they're very poor, so she suggests that she start weaving this cloth which he can in turn sell at the market—the condition being that when she's weaving it, she has to do it behind closed doors and he can't look in. So this goes on for a while and they actually become kind of wealthy. But eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him and he looks in at her while she's weaving and it turns out that she's a crane and she's been pulling feathers from her wings and putting it into the cloth, which is what makes it so beautiful. But him having seen her breaks the spell, and she turns back into a crane and flies away. That's the end."</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrn6RHW4ECXGiKCzovK4W7-DGc7jBGB-QbEtwCYb1OSBFoS-0zRcH4e0Mv8jXMvftINDoaqnjMOvsLf9T4vi0_Z7ZcD8ue3XWKYOQuzEuaPxywAIzq_0ne2SOgYLAlyST35Ui7B_qojg/s1600-h/decemberists_25602.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrn6RHW4ECXGiKCzovK4W7-DGc7jBGB-QbEtwCYb1OSBFoS-0zRcH4e0Mv8jXMvftINDoaqnjMOvsLf9T4vi0_Z7ZcD8ue3XWKYOQuzEuaPxywAIzq_0ne2SOgYLAlyST35Ui7B_qojg/s400/decemberists_25602.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427170218189360162" /></a><br /><br />I remember marvelling at both the story itself, and Meloy's interpretation of it. I thought to myself, "Where would I find similar inspiration for my writing? How would I use it?" I quickly (and quite self-indulgently) collated these Driving-With-Decemberists stories down into a little autobiographical piece that you can find in older posts. Or <a href="http://autumnalfuck.blogspot.com/2009/04/and-she-stood-to-fly-away_6808.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Later in the year, whilst travelling the States, my iPod sent out another signal - shuffling to a track from 2009 Decemberists release <i>The Hazards Of Love</i> whilst on a train. A train to home of The Decemberists: Portland, Oregon. Earlier in the train ride, my travelling companion and I met a couple from New Zealand, who told us tales of their son's coffee roasting adventures, and a boy called Owen, who spent much of our time on the train poking faces at me from the seat in front, and singing songs he'd made up about trees and dinosaurs and characters on <i>Yo Gabba Gabba</i>. But as soon as the tense tale of "The Bower Scene" unfolded in my ears, I was reminded of my own questioning after hearing "The Crane Wife 3". Where would I find similar inspiration for my writing? Everywhere. And how would I use it? In any way I could.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LEAzrCKIAwEDQtGMfMkeo3zd2q6JPHovSJ59mM-9WfPRJRFdzul1k8wkPRFUILYo1TWWU2aEM9McQ8V_BXCQcAQQLsE0chwluDAjwQLnh7F-ez18U5Q7YVbEghLymU-JGHJ3Xm59Ods/s1600-h/Photobucket.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LEAzrCKIAwEDQtGMfMkeo3zd2q6JPHovSJ59mM-9WfPRJRFdzul1k8wkPRFUILYo1TWWU2aEM9McQ8V_BXCQcAQQLsE0chwluDAjwQLnh7F-ez18U5Q7YVbEghLymU-JGHJ3Xm59Ods/s400/Photobucket.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427170707275700530" /></a><br /><br />The main lesson I learned from listening to The Decemberists is one of storytelling. How you don't have to re-tell one's experiences in an encyclopedic - or even factual - fashion for it to be interesting to a reader (or listener). Take "My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist", one of The Decemberists' first tracks, found on <i>5 Songs</i>, for instance. Meloy penned the track after a "super, super intense" three-day river trip with his family. In 2005, he told <a href="http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/the-fabulist-sounds-of-the-pacific-northwest/Content?oid=20802">The Stranger</a>, "I came off that trip with this loathing for my family... and I wrote a song about basically completely re-creating the family in this really fantastical setting, using myself as this sort of sad anti-hero."<br /><br /><i>"So my parents had me <br />To the disgust of the prostitutes <br />On a bed in a brothel<br />Surprisingly raised with tender care <br />Until the money got tight <br />And they bet me away <br />To a blind brigadier in a game <br />Of high stakes canasta<br />But he made me a sailor <br />On his brigadier ship fleet<br />I know every yardarm <br />From main mast to jib sheet<br />But sometimes I long to be landlocked <br />And to work in a bakery"</i><br /><br />After four years of Meloy fascination, I think I've learned that when it comes to story-telling (and indeed blog entries about Portland-based lyricists) - you don't have to tell it all, you don't have to tell it order... heck, you don't even have to tell it right - you've just got to tell it well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBUnd8keDFmJrxT5xA5PoVO1o-UtLjRvxZ7GfDKbbTisyD7UCbBr2D0DdoPePZQvrrT2pxFtoZBemTsL7ujbwtIL7Ba_a5V7qKZeU5NwvqrpjsyNGFzN43a8DCQlMoLh4sAc3YVVpgTI/s1600-h/The-Decemberists-Colin-Meloy.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 377px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBUnd8keDFmJrxT5xA5PoVO1o-UtLjRvxZ7GfDKbbTisyD7UCbBr2D0DdoPePZQvrrT2pxFtoZBemTsL7ujbwtIL7Ba_a5V7qKZeU5NwvqrpjsyNGFzN43a8DCQlMoLh4sAc3YVVpgTI/s400/The-Decemberists-Colin-Meloy.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427171514700088578" /></a>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-13851992558065016102010-01-10T20:39:00.000-08:002010-01-15T21:29:33.713-08:00Happy New Year from Autumnal Fuck<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i48.tinypic.com/ilf255.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 333px;" src="http://i48.tinypic.com/ilf255.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Ponderous cat was pondering.<br />Staring down the barrel of the birthday cake in front of him, he remembered the past year.<br />A year of massive highs,<br />And of devastating lows.<br />Now, he wondered about the year ahead.<br />What would it be like to be four?<br />What will he encounter?<br />What will he experience?<br />Such are the questions he asked himself at this time every year.<br />So with all the energy he could muster,<br />With all the might he could manage,<br />Ponderous cat blew out the candles with a breath that sounded more like a sigh.<br />And as four extinguished flames became four trails of black smoke, he thought to himself:<br />"There better be some fucking tunafish in that cake."<br /><br />Happy New Year, Autumnal Fuckers. I'm back.Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-40135495820637707612009-11-24T12:21:00.000-08:002010-01-15T21:29:21.387-08:00The long drive home<div style="text-align: justify;">I feel like visitor to this skin. Like this body is something foreign, clunky and cumbersome to use. I’m hit with waves of blurred vision and unexplained sweating every 15 minutes. My arms feel like logs and my fingers feel like jelly – both of which have rendered me too useless to get this fishbowl off my head. Ha, fishbowl. I’m like an underwater astronaut. Who swims the waves of nausea. I'm going to be sick or fall asleep. Do I have allergies? Sneezing, coughing, wiping-eye allergies? There’s this one thing I missed out on doing and now it's manifested itself in all these other ways; it could have been so easily solved. Like a puzzle. An inside puzzle for my face. I love the small mirrors in the backs of spoons and in cell phone screens. I like to check my face in the camera to see if my bags have turned blue yet. I think my tie is too short. Did I just say recession? I probably shouldn’t be driving. Is that oil on the ground or hallucinations in my eyes? Who am I asking all these questions to? I’m scared of getting stopped by police but it’s not like I’ve been drinking. Hah, drinking what? I am a caffeine master with a black belt in black juice. Riddle me that, Officer. This is a massive unspoken drama that only I’m a party to. I am my own director, cast, audience and reviewer. And I’m doing a damn good job of getting home. Every corner’s like a party I haven’t crashed yet. Every traffic light a rave I’m invited to. Jet lag is for the weak. Boy George sleep is going to feel awesome. Just as soon as I can remove this fishbowl.<br /></div>--<br />Sent from my iPhoneHannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-71468927617490420072009-11-03T23:01:00.001-08:002010-01-15T21:29:13.244-08:00I've been a little quiet.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM57AEBQXGkNg8wyJtoqHcDLlN7Yk1yX6IABP9tQyIIirU2n-gym2w1eVJ17rd8Ft0swzolr8zJZPGHbF_vUCp98E3kWZqJn_Rh-UvX2YVG0Hd7dNI4j-syD8eTLYs5fU483XG-2Qv68/s1600-h/12161_165704283148_636233148_2953740_813623_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM57AEBQXGkNg8wyJtoqHcDLlN7Yk1yX6IABP9tQyIIirU2n-gym2w1eVJ17rd8Ft0swzolr8zJZPGHbF_vUCp98E3kWZqJn_Rh-UvX2YVG0Hd7dNI4j-syD8eTLYs5fU483XG-2Qv68/s400/12161_165704283148_636233148_2953740_813623_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400141507204733474" border="0" /></a><br />I'm currently in the middle of roller derby season and have little time for anything that isn't derby, thinking about derby, writing PR for derby, practicing dance moves for pre-derby entertainment, dressing up for derby, doing my make up for derby, playing derby and...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3fuV_HehyCJCXnVPGvRfwXOHT0QnZpS6tSIgK2OjDyISHYVxDdMbRIpuCdAmkU3LM80wd2FPDkRV5T4GJx32itTM44AOo1iAkmePc8pFjODbksa0W9TsaNLQ1SMms3M69JdyLl9u86Y/s1600-h/10945_173427547623_613577623_3345585_1650698_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3fuV_HehyCJCXnVPGvRfwXOHT0QnZpS6tSIgK2OjDyISHYVxDdMbRIpuCdAmkU3LM80wd2FPDkRV5T4GJx32itTM44AOo1iAkmePc8pFjODbksa0W9TsaNLQ1SMms3M69JdyLl9u86Y/s400/10945_173427547623_613577623_3345585_1650698_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400140390311566274" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by <a href="http://www.aflickion.com/">Flick</a></span><br /></div><br />...getting ejected from a game of roller derby.<br /><br />I have three more games, on the 14th and 28th of November in Auckland, and on the 5th of December in Wellington. Here's hoping I'm back into the swing of all things wordy and awesome after that. I'll try and keep updated until then, but in the meantime, do forgive me if all I'm doing is this for a while:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gARySQttbg4tuX7mCTYbxFtp9Plqi8uKdIxdEgZzdKHKaqwuPDYGsftFLguw6l5L_loYHc_u8SsIdwbbWqwqR5wzzmpwp0d3Q6UwMKZWr94px2Lsi9R7Bb7c9h0yPjmfUpKo2fCqR6Y/s1600-h/7125_157502467623_613577623_3200418_373801_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gARySQttbg4tuX7mCTYbxFtp9Plqi8uKdIxdEgZzdKHKaqwuPDYGsftFLguw6l5L_loYHc_u8SsIdwbbWqwqR5wzzmpwp0d3Q6UwMKZWr94px2Lsi9R7Bb7c9h0yPjmfUpKo2fCqR6Y/s400/7125_157502467623_613577623_3200418_373801_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400141619157525218" border="0" /></a><br />Peace out, friends!Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-17401629210737761672009-10-19T22:19:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:28:59.184-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #8After I recently RSS'd Jono's blog over at <a href="http://theshortestword.wordpress.com/">The Shortest Word</a>, a graphic design / inspiration blog, I was reminded of a few things I had banging around (with various levels of inspiration.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=ihwwhfnaVoudxjmjeibXApkHo1_500.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ihwwhfnaVoudxjmjeibXApkHo1_500.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.dreamlandnews.com/">John Samuel Waters, Jr</a><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=ihwwhfnaVr2icm59slQafyLjo1_500.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ihwwhfnaVr2icm59slQafyLjo1_500.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.michaelroulier.com/">Michael Roulier</a><br /></span></div><br />And a little bit of achy breaky truth from the people over at <a href="http://www.postsecret.com/">Postsecret</a>:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=cali.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/cali.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br />I love other people's things.Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-7644123745426531012009-10-11T15:01:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:28:38.450-08:00Adapt and/or Die<center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=Deka-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Deka-1.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />It is with great discomfort and mild embarrassment that I make the following announcement:<br /><br />I like to take photos. I... I... I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> like to take photos. I don't think I'm a photographer, but the trouble is, others seem to think I am.<br /><br />Their belief in my abilities has cropped up a few times:<br /><br />When my roller derby league entrusted me to document the year with an enormous quantity of polaroid film,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/n613577623_1248418_8243.jpg" /><br /></div><br />When travel buddies pocket their cameras because I'll "probably document it better anyway",<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/6000_117784547623_613577623_2737911.jpg" /><br /></div><br />When bizarre, vibrant photo opportunities arise out of my bizarre, vibrant job,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC08924.jpg" /><br /></div><br />and large Catholic family gatherings.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/n613577623_363058_8985.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><br />I've been thinking about it, and I've realised why I've never considered myself a photographer. Taking photos is just a hobby for me, and hobbies have no consequences. I don't have any expectations to live up to, and if I mess up, who cares? It's all for fun.<br /><br />Enter <a href="http://canadia.pants.geek.nz/">Ashley Noel Hinton</a>, stage left.<br /><br />Ashley fronts a local band by the name of <a href="http://www.myspace.com/canadiabeats">Canadia</a>.<br />Canadia's making an EP.<br />This EP needed artwork.<br />Artwork done by me.<br /><br />The following weekend, I set out around the greater Auckland area to find images suitable for an album entitled <i>Beg, Steal and Burrow</i>. With five assorted cameras, a full tank of gas and a sunny day at my disposal, I tried to find pieces and places that looked like old-world New Zealand - farm animals, vintage cars, gardens and signage, In the end, I was pretty happy with the results.<br /><br />So without further ado, I present some of the images taken that day, as well as a little announcement. From now on I will endeavour to post images as well as stories - I hope you guys don't mind a bit of diversification. And just as a plug (and a thank you) to the man who got the Autumnal Fuck ball rolling in the first place, come and see Ashley's music and my photos in the flesh: Auckland's Wine Cellar, 23 October. We'd love for you to come and see what we've made.<br /><br /><center><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-005.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-005.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=2-010.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/2-010.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=2-008.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/2-008.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=2-007.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/2-007.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=2-006.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/2-006.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=2-005.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/2-005.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-008.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-008.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-007.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-007.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-006.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-006.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-002.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-002.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=1-001.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/1-001.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></center>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-73440035517705182352009-10-07T01:16:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:28:21.069-08:00The Seamstress<div style="text-align: justify;">When I ran away, I was wearing a simple summer dress and flat white sandals with gold clasps. I sold the clasps to pay for the dress that you see me in today - the woman at the thrift store was feeling sorry for me, and felt that she could on-sell my fasteners for more than the yellow shirt dress. The dress was so faded it was almost white, but I loved it. With its crisp collar and deep pockets that reached from the hips to the thighs, I said, this is the only passport I need.<br /><br />I started work at a factory - repairing and recycling sails for a boating company. The work was tedious but precise - I enjoyed the feeling of finishing each one. As I'd test the strength of my stitching with my hands, I would stop to admire how strong my fabric suturing made each piece. These sails could win races, I thought. I made friends, each with a face hardened by their history; I felt at home amongst the stories of broken homes, broken relationships and severed friendships. If only we could stitch them back to life as we did with these sails, I thought. Then we'd all win races.<br /><br />A new, delicate job required a new, delicate look. Pocketing some leftover material as I left the sail factory meant that I was able to give my white dress what it needed - pink piping around the collar, cuffs and hem. I hid my rough hands behind white gloves, also fashioned from sail-factory off-cuts; they were perfect for working with the softer fabrics at the lingerie factory. Like the women at my previous job, their faces did not match their disposition - soft and well-presented on the outside, these supple faces hid cold, hard contempt. They would scoff at my gloves and snigger behind my back. They'd say the piping on my dress looked like entrails; I'd think up garments I could make with theirs. After months of back-stabbing and whispers, work became a burden I could no longer bear. Each stitch - each rise and fall of the needle, each puncture of the material - was a slow reminder of how far I was from the end of my shift. The only thing that kept me sane was the precision with which I worked - each garment was a work of art; each pin prick a stroke of my brush.<br /><br />The day I carelessly struck my hand was a blessing in disguise. On the way to the hospital I tugged at the piping - my dress' entrails - and removed my worst memory of that place. When I arrived in emergency, I was so woozy from stress and confusion that when the orderly called me forward I assumed I was to be fixed up; it was only when I was handed the needle that I realised what I was required to do. I straightened my skirt, adjusted my gloves and did what I do best; stitched. And mended. Repaired, wrapped and sent the finished product on its way; the doctor said it was the finest work he'd ever seen. I created seven works of art that day, and have made hundreds more since.<br /><br />Hospital work is hard, but working with any new material requires a bit of adaptation. I take pride in my precise, efficient work, and know that every face I see - hard or supple - is grateful for the work of art they leave with. Sometimes I wonder if they'll find out, and if I'll have to run again. But I rely on the few meagre things this drifter requires. A firm hand, a crisp collar and deep pockets that reach from the hips to the thighs. They're the only passports I'll need.</div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-34896980445761347182009-09-21T20:07:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:28:13.195-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #7<div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/7725_151286165438_613505438_3466-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 603px; height: 401px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/7725_151286165438_613505438_3466-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo: <a href="http://www.rosabeltan.com/">Rosabel Tan</a></span><br /></div><br />"HIT SOMEBODY!"<br /><br />The screams from the bleachers were as clear as day.<br /><br />"BOOORRRRRIIIIIINNNNNG!"<br /><br />They were right, we'd been doing a brilliant job of holding our opponents back, but when it comes to a contact sport like roller derby, these spectators weren't here to see walls of skaters; they were here to see blockers and jammers hit the floor.<br /><br />"En-ter-tain us!<br />"EN-TER-TAIN US!"<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">"EN-TER-TAIN US!"</span><br /><br />Their relentless chants drummed their way in so far that I nearly shouted back at them, "Give me a fucking second!"<br /><br />Instead, I focussed. Lined her up. Averted my gaze as to not give my intentions away. And bam! Clocked that bitch in the chest.<br /><br />The crowd cheered.<br /><br />-------------<br /><br />Sometimes we all need a little bit of encouragement, but how effective this encouragement is depends on what an individual responds best to. When it comes to encouraging me, it's simple.<br /><br />Threaten me.<br /><br />I'm serious! Threaten me with the idea that I'm rescinding on obligation. Threaten me with the feeling that I might not be achieving my potential. Threaten me with the fear of disappointment. Whether it's out on the track at roller derby or behind the safety of a computer screen, I'll respond in the same way; with action.<br /><br />When it's come to my writing, I've been suffering of late. It's not one of these awkward I'll-Never-Amount-To-Anything scenarios, nor is it a Woe-Is-Me writer's block, I just haven't felt like I have anything interesting to bring to the table at present. It's been more than a month since I last posted anything, and my friends are starting to notice. As I entered my second month as a post-less wonder last week, the threats began.<br /><br />One friend said:<br />"You know I always visit your blog right? I think, 'Ooh I wonder if Hannah's posted?' Then I go there and see nothing new."<br /><br />Another offered:<br />"You've been a bit quiet! I know you can perform better than this. Where's your new shit?"<br /><br />Then a third yelled:<br />"WRITE SOMETHING, OR I WILL <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">SMASH YOU</span>."<br /><br />So here I am, sick from work and burrowed up in bed. I am flanked by lemon water, crackers and some delightful afternoon sun - and I'm starting something. As it has been with my last few stories, this new one focusses on the mind, on madness, and on something that makes a person in question peculiar.<br /><br />I guess when the writer requires threats in order to produce it, this theme is not hard to understand.Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-27054830227260571292009-08-16T17:22:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:28:02.444-08:00Brain Machine<div style="text-align: justify;">I knew I was different when mother banged on the table. Everyone was laughing, and mother was banging on the table. Mother bangs on the table when I am wasteful with my food or if I am not listening to her and watching the television instead. Mother was banging on the table, but everyone was laughing. I started crying and apologising, Mother laughed even louder and banged on the table harder. Everyone was laughing and I was crying. Later when I was put to bed I asked Father why everyone laughed when Mother banged on the table, Father said it was an added thing people do when they find things very very funny. But it is not very very funny when I am wasteful with food or watching television instead of listening to Mother. Father said that was a different kind of banging on the table and that's how I knew I was different.<br /><br />Last month in gym class, Kate Bishop looked crummy and when Mr Nelson asked if she was sick she pointed her thumb to the sky. Then Kate was sick on the floor and Mr Nelson was very angry with her. He got a big bucket to clean up her sick and the school nurse had to call Mr Bishop to come and get Kate from school. Mr Nelson asked for someone to help clean up Kate Bishop's sick. I didn't want to clean up the sick so when Mr Nelson asked for help I pointed my thumb to the sky like Kate did when Mr Nelson asked if she was feeling crummy. Then Mr Nelson made me clean up the sick and the boys laughed at me and called me a "sick lover". When Father picked me up from school I asked him why Mr Nelson would make me clean up Kate Bishop's sick even though I pointed my thumb at him like Kate Bishop did when he asked if she was sick and she was. Father said that the sky thumb is called Thumbs Up and it means "okay" or "I agree with you" or "that's a great idea" or "I am fine" or "yes". Father said that people do not think like I think. He said people say things they don't mean to make jokes or lie about things or to compare things to other things or to try and not be a burden to other people. I said I say things to say things. Father said people sometimes smile and say they are feeling great when they are feeling crummy. When a person asks me how I am and I am feeling crummy I say I am feeling crummy, but now when they ask me if I am feeling great I give them a Thumbs Up because I am saying "yes okay I am fine".<br /><br />My Grandma is a nice old lady and when Mother takes me to see her she gives me biscuits and fruit juice. Mother doesn't let me have biscuits and fruit juice at our house because she says I will gain weight and have too many fat cells for a young boy and have trouble when I am old because I will become a fat man. Mother says I have to have a balanced diet of carbohydrates, protein and a little bit of fat and exercise sometimes if I want to become a normal man and not a fat man. Grandma is a fat lady and when last time I went to her house I told her that Mother says biscuits and fruit juice will turn me into a fat man like she is a fat lady. Grandma looked at Mother and then started moving very quickly and taking plates from the table to the kitchen. Mother looked at me for a long time while Grandma made a lot of noise with the plates. Grandma was moving very quickly in the kitchen, scrubbing plates and putting things away and stacking things back on the shelves in her huge pantry. She was sweating on her shirt and I could see it on her face so I went into the kitchen. I touched her sweaty face and told her that she is good for getting exercise because it will stop her from being a fat lady. I don't go to Grandma's house any more and Mother says it is because fat ladies don't like being told that they are fat even though they are. Mother said that all ladies don't like being told what their weight is and I got angry because I was trying to be nice to Grandma and wanted to have more biscuits and fruit juice at her house. I made fists with my hands and told Mother that she was a skinny lady, but she laughed and said she liked being called a skinny lady. I went to my room and cried but decided to not talk about ladies and their weights any more just in case I got it wrong.<br /><br />Sometimes I don't understand words like normal people do, and Father says that's because I have a special brain that means I think about things differently. When I was little I would read words and if they didn't make sense to me I would get very angry and cry, but now I can sometimes look at words as silly. People are funny when they use them and don't know that their words can mean two things. In English the other day I wrote a story about a very sad tape dispenser who cried a lot because its tape was tearable. I laughed and my teacher Miss Pike didn't because she said my story would not be funny unless I read it out to the class because tear and tear sound different but look the same. Father told me that my special different thinking brain will help me write great stories. Today I wrote a story about a machine that makes brains like mine and gives them to people so they can think differently like me.</div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-49297343564413880332009-08-12T21:59:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:27:32.770-08:00That just happened, y'all<center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC06683.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC06683.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />For me, there is nothing more stimulating, nor more beneficial to my writing, than travel. After three weeks soaking in the sounds, smells and spirit of the United States, I can honestly say I'm more energised about being alive than ever. I want to work as hard as I can, write as much as I can, excel at my sport and be mindful of my surroundings. I have much to thank for this outlook.<br /><br />The places I have been<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC06900.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC06900.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC06923.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC06923.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07542.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07542.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07473.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07473.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />and the things that I have seen<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07515.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07515.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07174.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07174.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07574.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07574.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07767.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07767.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br />but now I have returned home re-energised and grounded, inspired and amazed, I know what will truly stick with me.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC06902.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC06902.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC06943.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC06943.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07466.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07466.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=6000_118200997623_613577623_2744953.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/6000_118200997623_613577623_2744953.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07587.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07587.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07799.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07799.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=6000_118199362623_613577623_2744948.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/6000_118199362623_613577623_2744948.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />'He aha te mea nui o te ao?'<br />'What is the most important thing in the world?'<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=DSC07459.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DSC07459.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br />'He tangata, he tangata, he tangata'<br />'It is people, it is people, it is people'Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-25877085638781393362009-06-18T16:03:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:26:03.047-08:00My birthday wish<span style="font-size:85%;">Here's a little somethin' somethin' that I threw together for a friend's birthday last week. I think I'll work this up to something larger later, but for now, here'ya.</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />My birthday wish</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I am the second oldest child in my family of six, and when we were younger, our great-aunt Paula would make us the most sumptuous cakes. A chef by trade and a baker by interest, she would make the largest, most exquisite cakes for me, my brothers and sisters - they were the talk of the town. Her tasty layered sponge cakes were always fashioned into a six, seven or whatever age we were turning, and tended to feature whatever we were obsessed with at the time. My space-obsessed brother Jason got rockets and stars and little marzipan astronauts for his seventh birthday. Susan got a pink Barbie-themed eight. Kelly has always played instruments and received a beautiful treble clef design for her ninth. Peter - the eldest – was the first to lose out - he turned 12 and Paula decided that creating double-digit masterpieces for those 11 and over was too much. And then there was me. Obsessed with television since the day I learned to flick on the tube, I always had TV-show themed cakes. Paula had made a beautiful Bert and Ernie ensemble for my sixth birthday, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my seventh, a Transformer for my eighth and a Fraggle for my ninth. I remember remarking ungratefully that the marzipan Fraggles looked “a little messy” on my birthday - you should see my face (and the faces belonging to the Fraggle) in the photos; it wasn’t good. My mother very calmly took me aside and told me to be kind to my Aunt, who was starting to have “senior moments” - I didn’t understand what she meant. The next year, my tenth birthday rolled around and I had all but forgotten my mother’s scolding- I told every child in school that my tenth birthday was going to be fantastic. “Paula gives everyone a big cake for their tenth, come along!” I shouted as I handed out Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles-themed invites, much to the scorn of a few jealous peers. On the day, around 40 of my school friends and family gathered around the unopened cake box, waiting in dramatic silence. I slowly opened the box, and just in time to catch my expression, the cameras started flashing. There in front of me did not sit a Ninja Turtles cake in the shape of a 1-0. No Donatello, no Leonardo. Instead, the Fraggle was back, as was the number nine. I vowed never to have a birthday party again.<br /><br />By the time I got to high school, I had amassed a number of very lovely, but very geeky friends. I started college rather nerdy, but looking back I do know that I became slightly more chic, slightly more stylish and slightly more aloof than the calculus kids – even the popular kids seemed to like me. I would swan around the schoolyard with bouffant hair and perfect skin, wearing scarves and brandishing a delicious swagger - they would all wave. “He’s got that dreamy boy band look”, they’d coo. “He’s pretty cool for a geek,” they’d say. I had cast off the awkward shackles of my preteen years and had blossomed into a unique flower. So it was with horror and disgust that I found, a week out from my 15th birthday, that my friends had organised not only a surprise birthday party for me, but a surprise birthday party at a BOWLING ALLEY. Here was a party with geek written all over it. Mortified, I kept my cool and tried to avoid their advances to “just hang out on Saturday night” – their obvious ruse for getting me to that elderly-invested alley. My parents had been away for some weeks by the time the big day rolled around, and in their absence I proceeded to drink the contents of their liquor cabinet and throw it up, all before 4pm. When two friends came to the door wanting to “just take me out”, I was done with fighting and much too drunk. By the time we got to the alley I was wondering if I was going to need my stomach pumped, but due to the fact that these children had never seen a drunk person before, let alone tasted alcohol, they were blissfully unaware of my inebriation. Fitting me with shoes that hideously clashed with my outfit and handing me a very heavy ball, I was shunted to the front of the line to play the first ball. Stumbling towards the lane, I went to throw my ball but stepped too far. With all the grace of a wildebeest at a muddy watering hole, I slipped on the buff wood, letting go of the bowling ball, which fell after me, onto my foot. Later at the hospital, as they me with a giant pink cast that went right up to my knee, I vowed never to have a birthday party again. <br /><br />Of course, they haven’t always been so bad. There was my 21st, when I came down with glandular fever just days before the party, and had to watch my friends eat all the wonderful catered food and drink expensive parent-sponsored liquor. There was my 23rd birthday, when I was travelling around India and spent the entire day on the toilet, doing what felt like giving birth to little balls of fire. There was my 25th birthday, when my friends decided to surprise me with a potluck dinner at my house, but left me in a very hungover state to clean up after the 35 guests the next day. And then there was last year, when my very special and very lovely Grandmother died.<br /><br />So this year, I’ve had enough! I’m going to completely ignore everyone. The oven bake pizza and fries are bought and waiting in the freezer, the passionfruit cheesecake was delivered last night and is chilling in the fridge; the DVD has been collected and rests next to the television next to a large set of headphones. My phone is off, the curtains are drawn, the computer is being turned off presently – and me? I am blissful, doing what I have always wanted to do to celebrate this day. Nothing.<br /></div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-3683573832842191592009-06-01T15:49:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:26:42.337-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #6<center><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/3481231544_988409fb35.jpg" /></center><br /><br />It would appear that I'm all out of inspiration again.<br /><br />I've been leaving my notebook at home, paying less attention to the things people do and say, getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of hours in the day and reading less and less and less. I'm 25 in three days, and I've been spending the last week drowning my inner child in recklessness, sleepless nights and alcohol. I do, however, have plenty of things to see, do, look forward to and love:<br /><br />The scrawlings of others,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/9b555c9c002531cc9bb31a6cbfb5bddc26e.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/DXRTy7Pq1myz0928NshNdPlfo1_500.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ethics.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/3277_70749591269_756126269_1886128_.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/n756126269_1272583_8832.jpg" /><br /></div><br />The joy in the eyes of little lives,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/4309IggyWeb.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/3345099995_7fd509b513_b.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/SPshootingMJhoodieWeb.jpg" /><br /></div><br />Dreamy thoughts on dewy days,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/143851_Jan_18_Flickr_.jpg" /><br /></div><br />Suave companions filled with comic quips,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/gD7kqB9S4mrrt87gvSiaXu6Yo1_500.jpg?t=1243897230" /><br /></div><br />and reminders that true love still exists.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/n502480012_2365142_6004.jpg" /><br /></div><br />The funny,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/gopic8.jpg" /><br /></div><br />The fanciful,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Segel2pg.jpg" /><br /></div><br />And the materially desired,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/090601a.jpg" /><br /></div><br />But most of all, the bright northern summer, which beckons me each morning from my home's frosty depths as my time to travel draws closer...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/3462647197_b3b8564387_o.jpg" /><br /></div><br />...maybe 25 won't be so bad.<br /><br /><br />This post goes out to my dear friend Karel who, after talk of eating danishes on first dates, has restored my brain's setting to pleasantly whimsical. Thank you K, I look forward to sweet treats, hot drinks and self-aware conversation with you soon.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Photo43-1.jpg" /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photos courtesy of <a href="http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/">The Satorialist</a>, <a href="http://facehunter.blogspot.com/">Facehunter</a>, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/lomography">Lomography at Live Journal</a> and various other places that I forgot to note down. If you would like crediting, please let me know.</span>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-42823852378884054812009-05-21T18:05:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:24:47.742-08:00Samantha and the cigarette<center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=aOFNtGJX9mkdv5n5un7NpyAao1_500-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/aOFNtGJX9mkdv5n5un7NpyAao1_500-1.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I was enjoying the sun from our lounge's day bed when Samantha slunk in the room, treading heavily and scuffing her heels on the floor. Startling me as she slumped into my armchair and lit up a cigarette, she cocked her head and gave me a forced smile, neglecting to remove the fag from between her lips. This was the kind of belligerence that I had come to expect from this youthful wiseacre who had been hanging around our home of late. Samantha had recently started sleeping with my housemate Ben, who was currently asleep. This morning was no different to every other time she stayed – she would awake two hours before Ben to perform her usual routine, which consisted of her eating our food, smoking his cigarettes and walking around our house in a blouse and underwear.<br /><br />She was a pig around the home, and thought nothing of leaving empty soda cans, half drunk coffee and clothes, clothes, clothes all over the house. She never seemed to wear shoes, probably on account of the large stash of them that was accumulating around our bookshelf and coffee table – beautiful leather boots from Italy, open toe high heels and strappy sandals littered the floor. In spite of her nonchalant attitude towards footwear and bottom half attire, Samantha always took great pride in brushing her hair – I would often walk past the bathroom to find her combing out the wiry mess at the back of her head – knotted up from all the vigorous fucking I could hear through the walls at night and in the early morning.<br /><br />As she sat across from me, I remembered how this vociferous little nymph got to be here, sitting in my late grandfather's most prized piece of furniture, smoking and rubbing her dirty heels into the velvet. She and Ben had met at a film school party – he assumed that she attended the school he had graduated from; she hadn't assured him otherwise. It turned out from the few snide encounters we'd had since she all but moved in three months ago, that she was unemployed and uneducated – she was a very well-read young lady but had dropped out of school at the tender age of 14. She had been kicking around smoky bars with literary types for years – smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor long before her age permitted her to, but speaking in a way that allowed her to pretend she was ten years her senior for quite some time. She was pretentious, arrogant and oh-so-self assured, and me? I wanted her gone.<br /><br />On this particular morning, as she sat in my grandfather's armchair, I decided to forgo my own routine, which involved awkwardly offering her a coffee just as the kettle's whistle broke the silence of our now-regular meetings. This time I just let her sit there and wait, choosing to continue reading rather than even acknowledge her. I got the feeling that this guttersnipe was used to being looked after, and I didn't want to make a habit of waiting on her.<br /></div><br />"Aren't you having coffee this morning?" she chided.<br />"No actually," I replied with eyes still firming attached to the page, "Today <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>don't feel like making it."<br />"Have you got a problem with me?" she offered. Now was my chance.<br />"Well Samantha-" I faltered. If I turned to her and told her exactly what I thought of her, I could be certain that me and my beautiful chair would be out on the street, and I would be without Ben in my life.<br />"Well Samantha," I continued smugly. "It just seems like we spend an awful lot of time together, but we don't really <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> each other. Who <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> Samantha, eh?"<br /><br />"Well, what do you want to know?" she said.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Truth be told, I wanted to know anything I could about her – anything that would make me hate her even more than I already did; anything I could use as evidence in the court of Ben. This woman had such a hold on him – appearing so free-spirited to him and yet so methodical and calculating in her dealings with me. I hoped that she was jealous of me, but someone who clearly thought as highly of herself a Samantha did would probably never give me a second thought. I gave myself a few seconds to compose myself by looking out onto the street and taking a deep breath, but was again startled by loud footsteps. Ben stormed in, carrying his bank statement.<br /><br />“Two thousand and fifty dollars!?” he bellowed, thrusting the statement under her nose. “How long have you been using my card?” Samantha pulled her knees to her chin and buried her face between them, then started to stutter “I… I… Ben, I’m sorry.” Grabbing her shirt violently, he pulled her to her feet. He held her by her shoulders, then pulled her in close. Staring intently into her eyes, he calmed his breathing and spat out three words very slowly. “Get. Out. Now.” Samantha started sobbing and wiping her nose. Pleading with him she cried, “Ben, I can explain.” Ben was silent as he spun her around and lead her downstairs to the front door. “Just, get out.”<br /><br />I looked down at a pair of boots on the ground. Italian. Leather. Size 40. I heard her at the base of the stairwell, crying and pleading for her belongings. Ben screamed back at her – “They belong to me now, you fucking bitch!” Just as Ben slammed the door, the kettle in the kitchen started to whistle. Chuckling to myself, I scooped the boots up from under my grandfather’s armchair, then rocked onto my lower back and slung them on. Samantha was on the lawn, staring up at the window. I looked down at her. I smiled and waved with my fingers. Shocked at the sight of me in her boots, she made two fists, closed her eyes tightly and began to shriek. I kicked my feet gleefully, then sat up on my knees. Holding a curtain in each hand as the sun streamed down on my face, I mouthed “Goodbye”, and swept the drapes closed.</div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-58576435680101874232009-04-23T18:48:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:24:07.719-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #5I started work on a story involving my experiences at the horrid backpackers' bar that I used to work at, but it fell flat. It wanted it to be a lot more vibrant than it was, so I dropped it. This week I've decided to write a story from a photo; I'm working on that as of today and really excited about it. I've also been checking out a bunch of stuff on tumblr, and have uncovered some really beautiful photos, cheeky writers and beautiful quotes. Oh look! Here's a couple now!<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=000ek6b7-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/000ek6b7-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=zWDXz5Mv0m5vspv4LRXkWmw5o1_500.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/zWDXz5Mv0m5vspv4LRXkWmw5o1_500.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br />And just in case I start taking myself too seriously:<br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view¤t=A3QGj4WoXmkx0mc6GD2Apgdqo1_250.gif" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/A3QGj4WoXmkx0mc6GD2Apgdqo1_250.gif" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-24941259643557688772009-04-21T18:21:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:21:41.440-08:00HaikuAn oldie but a goodie. This one's for Aimee:<br /><br /><br /><center><a href="http://tinypic.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i43.tinypic.com/28i9vfq.jpg" alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic" border="0" /></a></center><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I don't think those birds</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">who drink awful protein shakes</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">know what they are for</span>.<br /></div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-77758188549867655152009-04-20T21:46:00.001-07:002010-01-15T21:21:19.996-08:00"And she stood to fly away"<div style="text-align: justify;">She was never confident with driving, but was getting better every time she got behind the wheel.<br /><br />She had always been hesitant about it, mostly on account of her revered Grandmother’s own reluctance to learn. Ever since she could remember, she’d watch her Grandmother climb happily into the front passenger seat, whilst her silent and stoic Grandfather took the wheel. At first, she found the idea of being driven around very chivalrous, but as she grew older, it saddened to think of how stranded the poor woman would be if - and when - he died. It horrified her to think that she would one day too be stranded and helpless, reliant on public transport or trapped in her own home, so at the tender age of 19, she got behind the wheel.<br /><br />She continued life in the passenger seat long after she learned to drive - putting it down to a lack of confidence in her own skill, as well as her somewhat anachronistic desire for a fedora-topped man to drive her smiling, headscarfed self around the countryside. Besides, she never felt like a driver – she was too distracted by passing people, buildings and landscapes, and loved nothing more than to fold herself up in the passenger seat with the window down and her arm outstretched, feeling the wind rush between her fingers. She was conscious of the fact that she rarely drove her own vehicle – especially on cross-country expeditions – but preferred to let those around her take the wheel while she took care of the stereo; they never seemed to mind.<br /><br />Today was different -he’d never been through this part of the country before, and she decided to show it to him with a longer route. With him in charge of their arsenal of music and her in charge of the wheel, they wound themselves around coastal roads and up into the foothills of the peninsula. Conversation whipped around tales of previous travel and sights seen, whilst the music weaved the story of the crane wife around driving drums and rousing strings. As she twisted the wheel through the many arcs of the long country road, rain appeared on the horizon. Normally too nervous to drive on the open road in bad weather, she continued ahead as both song and terrain reached their peak. Smiling to herself, she entered the oncoming rain, feeling fearless, and free.</div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-75890733985019508382009-04-20T14:45:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:21:02.522-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #4Bumper bunch, but not because I haven't had any inspiration in a while. Hell, I've had plenty.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=ISN-SageAdvice.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ISN-SageAdvice.png" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Sage advice, care of <a href="http://www.afoodcoma.com/">Alex Harcharek</a></span><br /></div><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=Teddy_Girls_1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Teddy_Girls_1.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.boingboing.net/2006/02/06/ken-russells-portrai.html">Teddy Girls</a></span><br /></div><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=SeaStuff.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/SeaStuff.png" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">OPP (Other People's Polaroids)</span><br /></div><br /><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=_2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/_2.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Fresh, ripe, prepster chic, thanks to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/thesartorialist.blogspot.com/">The Satorialist</a></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Accidents:<br /></span></div><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=Accidents.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Accidents.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=Accidents2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/Accidents2.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=LongExposures.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/LongExposures.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">And last but not least:<br /></span></div><center><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=CourageWolf.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/CourageWolf.jpg" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=courage+wolf">Courage Wolf</a>.<br /></span></div>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-92057137548487225292009-04-09T15:40:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:20:22.952-08:00Good planets are hard to find, think before you print<div style="text-align: justify;">I do it all day every day, and when I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. When I do it, I feel calm, and when I don’t do it I feel sick – these days I feel like I do it because I need to allay these feelings. No one knows I do it, because it’s costly for them and hard to understand. If they ever ask I’ll never tell them why. But I’ll tell you why. And I’ll tell you when. I can pinpoint the very moment – 2.33pm on Friday March 30; exactly one month from my 17th anniversary at Baird, Cleve and Parker Accountancy, and the day before the end of the financial year.<br /><br />I had to choose the biggest day on the financial calendar to be late for work. It was close to 8.30am by the time I got into my car and pulled hastily out of my driveway. I hate being late at the best of times - stress physically manifests itself in my gut and in my sweat glands. So on this balmy autumn morning, I drove with the air conditioning on, sweaty from rushing around home looking for a clean shirt and tie. The drive to work wasn’t long, so I didn’t have time to cool down – as I approached the building I could feel the drips of sweat running down my spine and collecting at the small of my back, which was sandwiched to the chair, as well as a line of perspiration on my belly, which turned my light coloured shirt translucent. Fretting that I was going to get bollocked by one of the partners on the busiest day of the year, I started fossicking around in the passenger seat footwell, trying to find my mobile phone to call them. Taking my eyes off the road for a split second, I looked up to find traffic backing up behind a vehicle that was stopped in the middle of the road and blocking the entrance to our car park. I slammed on the brakes just in time, and found myself instantly panting from the shock. Poking my head out the window, I could see steam billowing out of a bonnet up ahead and the driver was clearly in distress. I was stunned to note that the most other drivers were doing for the woman was exercising their horns. Sure, I was annoyed that I was going to be at least five minutes later to work than even the most conservative of estimates, but I wasn’t going to sit there and make the woman’s day even worse, so I got out of my vehicle and approached hers. When I got to her passenger window I could see that she was crying, so I made sure to only knock lightly on her passenger window so she wasn’t startled. She smiled appreciatively and wound down the window, but gave me nothing more than grateful silence as I asked, “What can I do to help you miss?” She released the handbrake and got out of her door, then, motioning me to do the same, started pushing the long vehicle off the road and into a bus stop. As soon as there was enough room for cars to squeeze past the end of her vehicle, they started speeding through with scowls on their faces or disbelieving hands in the air.<br /><br />We managed to get the wagon completely off the road, so I ran back to my own stranded vehicle to rescue it, bringing it to a stop in the car park driveway and turning off the engine. As I walked back to the woman’s car, a bus came screaming into the stop, honking at the woman and gesturing that she move on. I quickly approached the bus and explained to the driver that she was in distress but a tow truck would be ordered immediately; the driver was kind enough to radio his company to warn other busses. The woman was overcome with grief when I bent down to the driver’s window to talk – she was sniffing and sobbing, and the front of her blouse was stained with tears. When I offered to call a tow truck, she said, “thank you, but you’ve already done enough”, choking out each word. “I really appreciate your help, I can’t believe no one else came to my aid. Why wouldn’t they stop?” “I work in this building ma’am, it’s really no trouble,” I replied. “Well thank you very much,” she said. “What is your name?” “Alan Thompson, from Baird, Cleve and Parker,” I replied, pointing up at my floor. “Well thank you very much for that Alan.” We gave each other an earnest smile, before David Cleve’s horn cut through the silence – “Alan, move that bloody car!” he shouted with his head out the window. “We’ve got a busy bloody day ahead of us!” My morning’s excitement was well and truly over – it was time to get some actual work done.<br /><br />Baird, Cleve and Parker Accountancy moved to its current site in 1994, when it was still known as Parker and Baird Accountancy Services. David Cleve and I were both juniors, there two years. Nothing much has changed around here since – certainly not the décor. Quentin Parker’s first wife designed this place to match what I remember to be her dress sense back then – pinks, floral prints, and gold. The round backed armchairs in the foyer are a dusky pink, client chairs in our offices are floral with gold framing, and the reception is a vision of very early 90s chic – a warm brown wooden hub, with matching gold fixtures and fittings. Every morning I turn a gold plated door handle, smile as I walk past Jeanette and her gold plated name tag, pick up my mail from the gold plated letter sorter, look up at the black and gold plated calendar clock, and down at the gold plated “Employee of the Year” trophy and its matching photo frame, at which point the smile leaves my face. The photo frame has been empty since March 2001, when Jeanette’s then partner Lawrence left the firm – and her – abruptly and without warning. She removed the photo from the frame instantly and it’s been idle ever since – I think everyone’s forgotten about the accolade; everyone except me.<br /><br />Every March I pull the longest hours. I work from 7am til 10pm some days, come in all weekend, meet with clients and file forms with the IRD left, right and centre. It’s hard work, I’m always here alone and it can get really boring around here, but it’s work that needs to be done. At the beginning of every financial year my clients thank me for the service I provide, and Quentin Parker always mentions how grateful he is for my diligence, but outside of the mandatory inflation-adjusted pay rise, I’m never rewarded. I even knew when I saw the gold plated signage out the front being removed that day and the “New Millennium – New Partner” flag hanging in the window that they were going to appoint David Cleve, but I never once said a word. Every year when March rolls by, I turn that gold plated doorhandle and greet Jeanette with more enthusiasm as the days inch closer to year-end. I scan over our garish reception at the nameplate, the calendar clock and the trophy, hoping that the next thing I see is my chubby face starting back at me. April inevitably rolls around and the cycle starts again. If only they knew how happy it’d make me; how it’d make all of this worth it. But I could never tell.<br /><br />Friday March 30 was memorable because it was so different – I was off my game and completely unfocussed on my work after the stress of the morning, and I couldn’t get that poor woman’s face out of my mind. She was so happy to see someone help her out, even someone like me – the way she looked at me made me feel like a knight in shining armour; like a saint. I can’t remember the last time I felt so gratified in my workplace, so I let myself revel in it for a couple of hours before checking the clock and finding that I had around seven hours of work to do in the space of three. I set about frantically getting my work done as quick as I could, when Quentin Parker walked past the glass frontage of my office and knocked on the door, holding a piece of paper folded in half in his hand. I was sure it was going to be some sort of complaint from a stressed and waiting client, but from the look on his face I could tell it wasn’t negative.<br /><br />“So I hear you’re a bit of a star Alan!” he exclaimed, loud enough so Jeanette in reception looked up from her screen, smiling. “This here lady’s pretty happy that you came to her rescue this morning, she sent through a commendation email.” I smiled as he handed over the piece of paper and said, “Well, how lovely of her, she didn’t need to do that.” Quentin pointed at me, cocked his head to the side and in a fatherly tone said; “Now don’t go saying that Alan, it sounds to me like she did indeed need to do that”. I started to feel uncomfortable and gestured towards my computer – his compliments sounded condescending, and the work was actually piling up; I did have to get back to it. “Well yes, I will let you do your job,” Quentin said, “but just remember Alan, you’re the star of the show here on this day… this month… this year!”<br /><br />As soon as he was out of sight I unfolded the paper and hurriedly rushed through the text. She’d sent it to the generic office email, hence why it hadn’t reached me directly; this was probably also the reason Jeanette was grinning so readily. The woman from the car’s name was Melanie Simms, and she worked in marketing for a natural gas company – “what a nice job,” I thought. Her email was short but confirmed everything I’d been thinking about myself that day – it was magic.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">From: Melanie Simms <m.simms@ecrgas.co.nz></m.simms@ecrgas.co.nz></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To: <info@bcpaccounting.com></info@bcpaccounting.com></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Date: Fri, Mar 30, 2007 at 2:23 PM</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Subject: Deepest thanks and gratitude</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To Whom It May Concern:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This morning whilst driving to work, my vehicle broke down outside your building. I was stranded, helpless and completely upset by the lack of help from the drivers around me. A man by the name of Alan Thompson was the only driver who actually approached me to help get my car get off the road and into a nearby bus stop safely, and he did so quickly and politely. He even stopped a bus driver from screaming out his window at me. My car has since been towed from outside of your building and is at the mechanic’s, but I honestly think that I would still be in the middle of that road if it had not been for Mr. Thompson. I hope this email finds him or his employer, as he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need. I am truly grateful.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours Sincerely,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Melanie Simms</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The email warmed my heart. I read over it six or seven times, letting her words fill me with glee. “I hope this email finds him or his employer, as he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need”. I thought to myself, “Surely this would gain me the Employee of the Year award,” as I folded the email back in half, placed it in my top drawer and went back to my hasty, hurried work.<br /><br />The next Monday I was right on time for work, 8.30am on the dot. I turned the gold plated handle quickly, swung the door open with fervour and beamed at Jeanette. “Good morning, hero man!” she laughed. I did a small bow before collecting my mail from the golden letter sorter and checking the calendar; Monday 2 April, 2007; my day to shine! Darting quickly from the calendar to the trophy, I saw the frame behind it, still empty. “Jeanette?” I enquired. “Yes Alan?” she replied. Turning my head away from the frame but leaving my eyes affixed on the wall behind it, I raised an inquisitive finger towards it. “Just wondering, is there a reason why-“ I froze. “A reason why what Alan?” My palms suddenly got sweaty and I could feel the agitation of stress crawling under my skin. “Ne-never mind,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and heading to my office, devastated.<br /><br />I sat at my desk and gave the reception area a cold, unflinching gaze; I was furious. How could they not give me the award? I was a hero that day! I was fucking Hercules! Even if they weren’t going to recognise my accountancy efforts, the least they could do was give me the bloody Employee of the Year award, it was early April after all! Sick with rage and consumed with such stress that my glasses were fogging up, I reached into my top drawer for my handkerchief to clean them, only to find Melanie’s email, only this time I noticed her email’s footer. It had her company’s logo and her contact details, then below it, a logo of a small green tree and the words “Good planets are hard to find, think before you print”. I grabbed my hankie, cleaned my glasses, mopped my brow and took a deep breath. <span style="font-style: italic;">Think</span> before you print. Quentin printed the email – he must have at least recognised the importance of Melanie’s sentiments enough to print it. I felt a calmness fill me from the feet up, and when it got to my mouth I shouted, “He must actually appreciate me!” I was loud enough for Jeanette in reception to look up at me, puzzled. I thought to myself, “If this is the only victory I’m to achieve here in my 18th year, so be it”. I folded the email in half and placed it in my briefcase; this one was coming home with me.<br /><br />That night, as I lay in bed, still positively fuming over Quentin Parker’s decision not to give me ANY sort of end-of-year accolade, I thought of the one person who appreciated me. I got Melanie’s letter out of my briefcase and read it over and over again.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I was stranded, helpless and completely upset by the lack of help from the drivers around me. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…and he did so quickly and politely. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“What a beautiful woman she was”, I thought to myself. It had only just occurred to me how stunning this woman was – piercing green eyes, long blonde curly hair; a fetching blue blouse… I shouldn’t have just moved her car, I should have asked for her number! Not that she’d go for me anyway, she was far too beautiful and clearly focussed on moving her car out of harm’s way to notice me. I could never ask her on a date, and part of me didn’t want to pursue it either – I had this perfect little pocket of Melanie memories that didn’t involve money squabbles, they didn’t remind me of how messy and undomesticated I can be, that didn’t remind me that they’re getting too old to have children. In my head, she was perfect, and that’s where she was going to stay. I pulled a postcard my brother sent me from Costa Rica off the wall and replaced it with her email.<br /><br />The next few days of work were the absolute worst – I was so overcome with cold, focussed rage that I couldn’t do my work adequately; I thanked my lucky stars it was April. On the phone to the IRD every ten minutes kept me busy, as did their positively dire hold music – Phil Collins’ “Holding Back The Years” was the poorest of choices… “I’ll keep holdin’ on, I’ll keep holdin’ on”. The feelings of rejection and hurt were triggered by this slew of easy listening, and I was angered every time I heard Jeanette’s voice or my email notifier showed that Parker or Cleve had been in touch. “DEL-EEETE!” I said aloud before I even had the chance to read whatever it was they had to say. If only I could delete these bastards from my life. I wish I could show them.<br />The days started moulding into one – the turning of the handle, mail collection, calendar date recognition – everything felt stale, horrid and disgusting. Then, on April 23, the end-of-year thanks started rolling in. The design firm two floors up sent me an e-card.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">From: Pickles Design <pickles@picklesdesign.co.nz></pickles@picklesdesign.co.nz></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To: <alan.thompson@bcpaccounting.com></alan.thompson@bcpaccounting.com></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Date: Mon, Apr 23, 2007 at 11:07 AM</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Subject: FWD: You have been sent an e-card</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Alan,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Your friend PICKLES DESIGN has sent you an e-card, thanking you for YOUR HARD WORK THIS LAST FINANCIAL YEAR ALAN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR HELP. Please find your e-card attached.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><<corporate>></corporate></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A rabbit wearing spectacles beamed back at me from my picture viewer – “we’re hoppin’ along nicely thanks to all your help ALAN”, it read. They liked my work! I was so pleased, especially given the fact that I’d cost them more money than first expected. And the rabbit! He was too cute for words. I thought about taking this memento home, like I did Melanie’s email. Instantly, the words of her email came back to me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Think before you print</span>. So I did. And I printed it.<br /></div><br />Before long I had five emails on my wall.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A kind and personable accountant.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Alan is a real asset to Baird, Cleve and Parker.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our firm has really reaped the benefits of Alan Thompson’s hard work.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">thanking you for YOUR HARD WORK THIS LAST FINANCIAL YEAR ALAN.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">They made me happy, they made me grin; they made the frustration of my firm worthwhile. Did I ever think to write back to commend them on their commendations? Plenty, I just didn’t have the time.<br /><br />As winter started washing over the city, the emails waned. Like the other 17 years I’d been at the firm, people forgot the duties of a diligent accountant all too quickly, and the fan mail stopped. I would go home at night, stare at the five emails that so often brought me joy and validation, and felt flat. What was I to do now that the love levy was dry? Clients went about their days. Jeanette never looked up from her desk. Quentin Parker never stopped by my office to give me motivational truisms from behind an extended finger. I hadn’t received a legitimate email in two days. I was back to the doldrums. Then a message came through from our old office supplies chain; the ones we’d dropped back in 2004 when we found a cheaper source.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">From: Sales <sales@cityofficesupplies.co.nz></sales@cityofficesupplies.co.nz></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To: <invoicing@bcpaccounting.com></invoicing@bcpaccounting.com></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Date: Wed, June 27, 2007 at 04:31 PM</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Subject: Please update your details</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dear invoicing,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We recently sent your office our new catalogue, but have had this envelope returned to us. We have not received any recent orders from your company, so we would like to ask that you reply to this message with your full contact details including website URL and fax number. At City Office Supplies, we aim to bring you the best, most affordable office products, and hope that our great range and superior service will bring you back to our in-store and online stores again soon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks again for choosing City Office Supplies – we look forward to continuing custom with your fine company in the future.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours faithfully,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Norman Burrows</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Customer Service Representative</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">City Office Supplies</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Auckland</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We look forward to continuing custom with your fine company. <span style="font-style: italic;">Your</span> fine company. I imagined what it would be like if it were my company. Thompson, Baird, Cleve and Parker even had a good ring to it. I printed the email instantly and took it home. I had run out of drawing pins, so my newest e-conquest was left on the floor. My next batch of flattery, accumulated over the next few weeks, was inevitably placed on top of it. When that pile fell over, I started another. When that pile spilled all over the floor of my room, I started another on top of the deluge. Every day I would scour my emails, looking for a commendation of any sort – thank yous from clients became kind regards from fellow accountants or old friends. Every day I printed positive emails and took them home. Once they covered my bedroom floor, they became my new bedside table, then a coffee table, then something to rest my shoes on. Soon my emails became bookends, then took over the entire bookshelf. The more emails I printed, the better I felt about work, the better I felt about the name on the door, the better I felt about the empty employee accolade frame. Every printed morsel brought me another small piece of comfort – another tiny moment of gratification where I got to feel like the star. <span style="font-style: italic;">Think before you print.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You’ve been an enormous help, thank you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Your work is great, thank you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Awesome stuff with the accounts Alan, you’re a star.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks heaps BCP.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Let me know what to do next and we’ll go from there; I can’t wait!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I haven’t heard from you in a while Alan, do get in touch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you for your generosity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours sincerely.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kind regards.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cheers.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Last week I noticed that my bedroom is now in perpetual darkness – no sunshine can seep through the mounds of paper I have stacked six feet high, but their crisp white brilliance brings enough light for day and night. Now, they line the hallways. There are stacks of them up against the mirror in the bathroom. All over the coffee table. Next to the gas hob. <span style="font-style: italic;">Think before you print. </span>I did and I do and I will. I’m becoming increasingly fearful of paper cuts – some days I can barely make it to my kitchen because the hall is blocked by white A4 paper. My sofas wheeze under the weight of the mail. I cannot cook on my kitchen bench with the piles stacked high. Cupboards are unusable; so are saucepans. You don’t have to reach further than arm’s reach to find something beautiful around here, because it’s everywhere. This is my home – here with every piece of gratitude I could ever want.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There’s something on at church on Sunday, could you please come?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Isn’t it a great day in the city today?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks for calling yesterday; I just needed to talk to somebody normal.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Each little piece of earnest prose is a sign that I’m a good person, and that I’m appreciated. At night, I can hear them telling me that it’s going to be okay. They appreciate me. Baird, Cleve and Parker don’t worry me at all any more. When I feel at my worst, I find more commendations and print them. Days when I don’t do it are either spent at home or pouring through archived messages at work, searching for something; anything. Every day I’m a little calmer, a little nicer and a little more tolerant of Baird, Cleve and Parker; even Jeanette. Our stationery bill is on the rise, but Norman Burrows at City Office Supplies is a good man who is full of praise for my work, and I run the account. <span style="font-style: italic;">Your</span> fine company. This week I bought a second briefcase, from City Office Supplies of course. Every night I open it and remove the day’s findings.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We appreciate your custom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We thank you for your payment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cheers Alan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ta. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The other day, I came across The Email again. <span style="font-style: italic;">Subject: Deepest thanks and gratitude</span>. I read it aloud and felt her words dance out of my mouth and around my house. He did so quickly and politely. I propped myself up on a stack of late 2007 commendations and shouted her words into the top of the hallway mirror, which was peeking out under a telephone table stacked high with February 2008 tidbits. <span style="font-style: italic;">I HONESTLY THINK that I would still be in the middle of that road, IF IT HAD NOT BEEN FOR MR. THOMPSON.</span> The next day I printed it in full colour gloss. I took the proof from the printer, blowing on its colours as I attempted to dry the ink quickly. A small green tree from a natural gas company. <span style="font-style: italic;">Think before you print. Think.</span><br /></div><br />I mounted it in a gold frame.Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7220168656350212021.post-35445726799436993822009-03-29T14:06:00.000-07:002010-01-15T21:18:49.921-08:00Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #3<a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=ISN3-2.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ISN3-2.png" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">My little emo Six Word Story, thanks to <a href="http://twitter.com/johncmayer">John Mayer on Twitter</a>.</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=ISN3.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/ISN3.png" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This is ceremony, thanks to <a href="http://rulesformyunbornson.tumblr.com/">1001 Rules For My Unborn Son</a>.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/?action=view&current=14qC0.gif" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v662/hannahjv/14qC0.gif" alt="Photobucket" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Bam! Self-affirming self-high-five thanks to <a href="http://twitter.com/TinaFey">Tina Fey</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0496424/">30 Rock</a>.<br /></span>Hannah JVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14772481344104419340noreply@blogger.com0