Bad Penny

The City Is A Valley

2012-02-10T10:47:00.000+11:00

I've never felt very much for London. It's always been a place that I like visiting. I like all the cultural stuff that goes on, I like all the opportunities to have fun and the bustle of it. I like some things. The Tube. Sitting on the pavement eating bagels and arepas on Brick Lane. But I guess I've always seen it as a place that I wouldn't want to live in. Like there are too many little nooks of it, and it would be too easy, in the busy days of normal living-there life, to never venture further than your tiny little neighbourhood. Like even though you're in the most vibrant exciting city on earth, you wouldn't do any of it, because everything too far on the Tube and expensive. Because maybe you'd get lazy...

Just visiting is wonderful, of course, because you don't worry so much about money, and you have heaps of time to waste on the Tube criss-crossing the city. But living there always seems daunting. Like New York.

But lately, I've been visiting London a lot. I did a work experience with a fantastic independent production company there called Whistledown in November, and this past weekend, I visited to attend a free radio training day at the BBC.

When I visit London, I stay with my beautiful, lovely, generous friend Deepali. I feel really lucky to know someone like her, she's always offering a glass of wine after a long day. And I have to be really honest and admit that visiting London is a lot less stressful because of her. She is just so kind.

Mark is also in London now, working as a paralegal at a property company, so this past weekend, we got to spend loads of time together in the city. On Saturday, we visited the supercool London Transport Museum, where you can sit in old horse trams and old steam Tube trains. It was a brilliant museum, so fascinating. The thing is, the London Underground was such a breakthrough, in so many ways. The map alone is a brilliant story.

It's in a gorgeous old building, with beautiful modern glass windows

They had the old trains done up to be historically accurate, so they had old archival ads in them. Here's one for PUNCH magazine:

And an old map, before they took on Harry Beck's schematic map, and before the Underground was as big as it is now.

Mark loved sitting in the old horse trams and underground trains, even though they featured awkward old animatronics and mannequins wearing strange period clothing.

And I loved it, too, because I am a total dork about civil engineering, design, cities and anything that makes them better. I've always been a city girl, almost every story I've ever written is about cities. And as Mark and I were wandering around on Saturday, we stumbled on this.

It's an art exhibit by Robert Montgomery at KK Outlet. The sentiment and the warmth of the presentation are perfectly matched. And the fact that it's about the loveliness of cities, and that I found it just walking through a city that I wasn't entirely sold on... made me feel so excited and thrilled, and truly warm there in the fire of everyone. I'm a total sucker for citylove.

It was freezing cold, and it snowed all night. Deepali lives in a part of town called Borough; Dickens mentions it in Little Dorritt and his father was in the debtor's prison there. And the strange thing is that when it snowed and we looked out Deepali's window... it really looked Dickensian. Snow-covered rooftops and pavements... dark and dreary and cold and grim. I liked the snow. I liked being in a place that can still sometimes feel like the place it once was. A literary place. It was wonderful.

On Sunday, Mark and I went to Brick Lane for bagels. It was very cold, and also treacherous to walk through the streets, because of the snow and ice, and we ended up huddling in a warm pub. Great weekend.

My radio training day was fantastic, too! I met loads of new people and spent time with some that I'd already known a bit. I learned a lot as well. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and bright. Here's the view outside BBC's White City building.

I don't know that I've completely changed how I feel about London, even after all this loveliness. I don't know that I'd want to live there, at least not for long, or that I like it as much as I like Manchester. But a few more lovely weekends like that just might do the trick..

The MSF Podcast: LIVE!

2012-01-27T02:43:00.002+11:00

This is the inside of the quietest room in Europe, Salford University's anechoic chamber. I got to visit it during the 2011 Manchester Science Festival.

As y'all might know, I've been volunteering for the Manchester Science Festival for quite awhile now. It keeps me busy, I enjoy doing science-related things, and I've met some lovely people through it. Overall, it's been a lovely experience.

I've been producing podcasts covering last year's festival highlights. It's exciting because I'm trying to get a job in radio production, and this kind of work will hopefully help!

The first episode is about a Microbiology and Art exhibition, a sort of weird art show. Give it a listen:
It's right here. Please leave comments, tell me what you think of it– I need feedback!

Also, I wrote some blog posts for them last year, and I don't think I mentioned them on this blog!

The Environment Is A Cup

An Elephant Packed Into A Cell?

Out of This World

Majestic Fragility

Beautiful Bacteria, Visual Viruses, Fascinating Fungi

Firsts

2012-01-24T08:49:00.002+11:00

First off: I have been officially told off for neglecting this blog. Beloved Allen Wallen let me know, in no uncertain terms, that this blog is how you all hang out with me, and you have come to expect it, and going for more than a month without an update is NOT OK.

Message heard. Super long post ahead. Enjoy.
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This blog, in its three-or-so years of life, has documented many firsts for me. First transcontinental move. First foreign work visa. First Giant Lily spotting.

First summertime Christmas

This past holiday was an exciting one for me. For the past 3 years, I have been overseas for the holidays. And before that, I was usually at Craig's family house for Christmas, largely because my family never did a big Christmas dinner or anything. We tended to visit my family on Boxing Day.

Which is all to say, I have not spent Christmas with my family for about 10 years. And to be fair, our version of Christmas is a decidedly secular affair, mostly about drinking nice tea and giving presents.

So, this past December, I went home for a week. I spent time with my family over Christmas, for the first time in 10 years.

Highlights:

1.
The kids are still kids. They are 7 and 9, but they are still kids. They love bizarre made-up-on-the-spot games and they are sweet and sincere. They just wanted to hang out with me and play games and be weirdos. I keep fearing that one day, they will be too cool for school, and they will not be impressed with my presence or my jokes, but so far, my fears have not come true.

2.
The kids are awesome little dorks. At one point, I was so exasperated with them for not getting out of bed, I put my hands over my face.

"What are you doing?" they asked.
"Um... ?" I said, unsure of what to tell them.
"What are you doing?" they asked again.
Inspiration struck.
"I'm hiding," I said.

Chicky (a nickname for my niece) started poking my shoulder.
"No, you're not!" she laughed, "I can see you!"
My nephew joined in, "We can see you, Nija Masi!!"

Masi, of course, means "aunt" in Gujurati, and more specifically means, "mother's sister."

I kept my hands over my face, saying, "I can't see you, though! So you can't see me!"

My nephew backed off, thoughtfully, and said, "That statement is sometimes true."

What a dork.

3.
Before my flight, I was racking my brains for something special about British Christmas celebrations, something I could take home. Mince pie. Sure. But that's not all that fun, is it? It's just tasty.

I didn't think of it until just before my train left for London... Christmas crackers!

See, we don't do crackers in the States. In fact, until I moved to Australia, I'd never even heard of them.

Yes, I do question what the point of our revolution was exactly, if we weren't going to keep the cool things like Christmas crackers. As a child, if the choice had been put to me directly, I think I would have taken "crackers" over "lack of Queen."

We had a blast with the Christmas crackers! The kids loved the little crowns and toys and even the wonky jokes. Next year, even if I can't make the holidays, I'm going to send some crackers along in my stead. They are such a lovely tradition, I can't believe American kids grow up without them, especially considering how much America loves things that explode and gunpowder.

My parents and sister and brother-in-law enjoyed them, too, and I was really happy and honoured to have brought home such a winner!

Chicky enjoyed them so much she did a school report on them, and ended up learning that they do crackers in Korea, as well. Hmmm. The happy side of colonialism, I guess.

So Christmas crackers were a first, too... for my family, at least, if not for me!

4.
I spent loads of time with my sister. She's an amazing, giving, caring woman, who often cares about people more than they deserve. We got to know each other even better, and we reminded ourselves how much we really miss each other. We talked, and then something happened that also felt like a first: we didn't just say we loved each other. We promised to make efforts to show it. Feels like good progress.

I spent loads of time with my mom and dad. My dad even let someone get a picture of me kissing his cheek! My mom made loads of my favourite foods, and packed my suitcase full of Indian snack food. There are some things about those two goofy Indian people that will always make me giggle happily. I enjoyed their company.

5.
There was a huge thunderstorm while I was there. Lightning and wipers flying away! I missed those. It was wild.

6.
I also had a lovely time catching up with friends. Jeremy and Katie held a little party at their beautiful home in Grant Park. Lemuel and Allen (and her Lance) and Superman came along as well. I felt so lucky to still be in touch with these amazing people, to still be close to them.

Jeremy and Katie are such wonderful people... they are such grown-ups. Their house was all Christmassy, they had a fully decorated tree and loads of presents beautifully wrapped under it.

They always remember to send birthday cards on time and they had already done their Christmas cards. They have their shit together. But more importantly, they are truly skilled at being good friends. They know how to keep in touch with people, they know how to care. Every time I think of them, I think... I need to learn to treat people the way they do.

(look they've even got a nativity scene set out!! like real grown-ups!)

And their cat is awesome. Terzaghi Varner, in his second appearance on this blog. He's so dramacat.

Lem is an inspiration. He knows what he wants to do, which is "be a drummer," he's dedicated to it, he works at it, he's single-minded and focussed. He practices all the time so that he can kick ass all the time. I wish I was like him.

Superman! Thus nicknamed because he looks sort of like Superman. I mean, he's so tall. I really appreciated him coming out to this party, because he'd never met any of these folks before. He's that amazing sort of person who can walk into a room and be comfortable, around anyone.

And then, of course, dear Allen. The most awesome and fabulously supportive neighbour/friend a girl could ever hope for. She, like Lem, kicks ass all the time. She's brilliant, strong, smart and funny. Really funny. Like leave you speechless on the floor laughing so hard you can't breathe funny.

Her new fella, Lance, seems to keep up. Which is hard. I can't keep up with Allen. I know a lot of people who can't...

And dear Christopher sat in a coffeeshop with me and illustrated my holiday cards for me. I don't have a picture of that. I wish I did. He just yesterday got out of the hospital with a concussion after a car accident. He's ok, don't worry, just send your happy healing thoughts his way, please.

It only took one week in Atlanta for me to see that I have friends and family so wonderful that words will never live up to them. That was not a first. I am a lucky person, and so I get to see that often. I always treasure it.
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New Year's was spent with Mark in Glasgow at a friend's flat, and it was a nice night. There were super fun remote-controlled helicopters. I texted Craig to wish him a Happy Birthday, and he wished me a happy New Year. Another first happened that night: I drank Gin & Cava. That is a first I will not be revisiting.

But most of the week, we were in Prestwick with Mark's family, who are lovely and welcoming. And the weather, well, it was winter in Scotland. Which is to say, it was not a funny joke at all.

One night, during a nasty storm, Mark and I drove down to Prestwick beach to watch the waves. The waves crashed over the promenade, the waves were caught mid-air by the wind, and the wind hurled the waves across the coast. It was astonishing. Definitely a first.

The next morning, as we walked along Prestwick Beach with Mark's parents, we saw enormous chunks of driftwood on the beach, looking like the sea had spat them out.

Just a few days before I got to Prestwick, Mark had been offered a job in London! He's already moved down there now, and he's staying with his brother at the moment. It was very exciting that he got the job after so long trying and waiting. But I am a little sad that I won't be visiting Prestwick or Glasgow again for a while. I was beginning to see something really wild, dramatic, exciting and beautiful about the West Coast. The weather, the coastline, the islands, the forests. I'll miss that.

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Other updates:
1. I am still looking for work. Trying to claw my way into radio production. My claws are not looking so hot these days, because I have been working my arse off.

2. My dear Manchester-based friends Joe & Gem are going to be in NY for three months, because Joe got the coveted Hype Machine internship this year! I'm so excited for him, it's less than he deserves, but hopefully it ends up being more than he'd ever dreamed for! Wish Joe luck! Wish Gem the fortitude to not buy everything she loves in those NY vintage stores!

3. I will update this week! Even if I have nothing to tell you and no pictures to show you! I will update!

Clock Tower, Clock Tour

2011-12-18T08:45:00.000+11:00

Last Friday, I went on a strange sort of walking tour. It was mostly vertical.

Manchester's Town Hall is a neo-Gothic beauty, built in 1877 by Alfred Waterhouse, who also designed the Palace Hotel just minutes away on Oxford Rd. The Town Hall serves as the film double for the Houses of Parliament, so if you see The Iron Lady this holiday season, you'll see it. Hmm, it doesn't quite feel right, does it, Thatcher and the holidays?

The clock tower hadn't been open to the public for years, but they've finally put together tours of it.
This image is from the BBC, it's a detail of the clock face that I could never get a shot of with my regular camera:

The tour was fascinating. Over the whole tour, we climbed over 170 steps up a tiny spiral stone stairwell. It was a fairly harrowing climb.

Here are the ropes for pulling bells that were used more often before automation. Town Hall is one of only 25 secular buildings in the world that has a set of bells like this. I love this town.

And this is the 19th-century clock mechanism that runs the bells every half-hour and hour. Because Manchester was the first city to have a timetabled passenger train, the clock had to be extremely accurate. Like Big Ben, the Manchester Town Hall's clock is kept to within one second of GMT. George Bradshaw, also from Manchester, developed and published the first timetable compilations right here in Manchester soon after the railways started up: Bradshow's Railway Companion.

On the half-hour, we got to see some of the gears tick over and various parts rotated, and the bells rang out. It was lovely.

There is also an old Carillon that can run the bells to play music, and it still uses paper music rolls!

The Town Hall has loads of music rolls: God Save the Queen, various national anthems for visiting dignitaries, the wedding march, etc.

I was really excited to see the back of the clock face, but we were only able to see parts of it. The clock doesn't have any numbers on it, just fleur-de-lis and little rising suns, because it was inspired by some European clock towers– maybe Dutch or Flemish? Can't quite remember.

Then, we continued up some more stairs to see Great Abel, which is the Great Hour Bell. It weighs 8 ton and 2 cwt. What is cwt, you ask? It's 112 lbs, in Britain. The bell is named after Abel Heywood, the Mayor at the time of the official opening. Abel's a great character. A radical and a Chartist, he was unliked by the royalty and the establishment because early in his career, he published a super-cheap rabble-rousing newspaper, called The Poor Man's Guardian. A guy like that couldn't help but get elected in a town like Manchester back then, I suppose.

Great Abel rings out the hours, and it's such a huge bell, it doesn't move at all, so it doesn't work with a pendulum like a normal bell. It's struck by a hammer; the pendulum on Great Abel is there to absorb and reflect vibrations.

This radical city elected a radical Chartist for its mayor, named its bell after him, and inscribed this line from a Tennyson poem onto it: "Ring out the false, ring in the true." I love this town. It has other inscriptions, too, such as far more boring "Teach us to number our Days," from some Psalm.

From above, you can really see how triangular the Town Hall building is, and that there are two little internal courtyards. I love Mr. Waterhouse for his clever use of space.

And from this great height, nearly 85 meters above the city, the view from the parapet around the clock was amazing, especially because all of Manchester's holiday fairy lights are out.

In this one, you can see City Tower, which marks out Piccadilly Gardens:

And the Palace Hotel is in this one, if you look carefully:

Lovely Beetham Tower, the lonely skyscraper.

And the Albert Square Christmas Markets, from a remarkably quieter vantage point than the crowded bustle to be found on the ground. The big red bulbous thing at the bottom of the image is a lit up Santa that presides arrogantly over Albert Square. Check out this post to see what it looks like on the ground.

A fantastic tour. You should go.

Back in March, I saw more of Town Hall's interior, just wandering about. It's an astonishing beautiful building on the inside. Check out this photo album from that visit. When the Clock Tower Tour ended, I managed to snap a photo of something I'd missed last time I went: the mosaic bee floor tiles.

The bee is the symbol of Manchester because it was the hive of industry, and because this city witnessed the birth of the worker bee class. The other mosaic floors feature cotton flowers, because of the importance of cotton to Manchester's wealth at the time.

By the time I post this, I'll probably be in Atlanta, ready to celebrate my dear sister's birthday and the holidays with all my family and friends. Writing this, I can't wait to see everyone, to see Atlanta, but strangely, I also can't wait to see Manchester again and discover more of its beauty and history. I just love this town.

West Coast Wintertime

2011-12-18T06:38:00.002+11:00

Recently, I spent a week up in Prestwick with Mark, and this time, we had access to a car. Which meant we were able to see some of the beautiful western coastline I'd heard so much about.

We drove up to Loch Lomond, where we hoped to get in a nice hour-long-or-so hike... but the marked walks were only about 5 minutes each.

That was slightly disappointing, but it was really way too cold for a good long hike anyway. We wandered around the Loch a bit, with its gloomy gray sky and dramatic, cold, blackish water. It's a beautiful place.

It would be a gorgeous spot for a wedding, but so cold! The bride, I imagine, was wearing a white, fur, full-sleeved, floor-length coat for a dress...

The tides were coming in as we walked around the Loch, and the water was clearly overstepping its bounds.

I enjoyed bashing the ice off this bench...

And when it was cleared, I felt rather triumphant.

This quartz wall– and the strange football sculpture in the first image– were both parts of a public art project around the Loch. The wall was constructed of locally quarried rock.

I actually kind of like being outdoors in the cold. What has happened to me?

Mark and I also visited the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow, a beautiful building with gorgeous old chandeliers. What I like about these chandeliers is that though they were clearly made before electrical lighting, they have been electrified using small lightbulbs. The end result is this: a chandelier that rains lightbulbs.

We also drove up and around the Argyll Forest. It was a snowy, coldgray day, so the forest looked foreboding and sinister and creepy and lovely. A Tim Burton set.

So, I was happy to finally catch some of the famed beautiful Scottish landscape... but I also caught some of the famed Scottish weather. One of Mark's favourite places is a cemetery in a town called Dunure. It's at the top of a hill that rolls steep down to the coast. It was a little rainy when we got out of the car, but only when we were in the cemetery did the wind suddenly pick up and the rain turn to sting-your-face, destroy-your-eyeballs hail. Our umbrellas were well and truly destroyed.

The next day, it was nearly impossible to leave the house, the wind was so bad. In fact, the wind was bad enough to shut schools, and Scottish people used the collective power of social media to name the weather pattern "Hurricane Bawbag." Hooray for twitter! (For those interested: baw is Scottish vernacular for ball. And that is as much explaining as I will do on this blog, because my parents read this, for goodness sake.)

Keep an eye out this week for plenty of posts to keep you warm, dear reader. Like a hot spicy mulled wine on a chilly night, the things I have been up to will warm you, make you drowsy, convince you to hit on that hot mess you see across the room there, and leave you with a cracker of a headache in the morning. I might have taken that metaphor too far. Or maybe I didn't? Read on to find out!

Thanks O'Giving!

2011-12-04T04:17:00.001+11:00

It's been three years since I've had a decent Thanksgiving, and honestly, for the first couple of years, I didn't really miss it all that much.

Last year, I missed it. But I didn't have the time to celebrate it, because I had about 20 papers due.

So this year, when I got an invitation to Emily's Belfast Thanksgiving, I decided it was the perfect thing to do. Visit Emily again, enjoy a lot of delicious food, catch up with some old friends.

I've been to Belfast before, and that time, Emily and I wandered around town and saw a lot of the town. This time, we spent most of the weekend in the house, cooking up a storm of comfort food.

Tom and Emily (with the help of their friend Tom --yes, there are many Toms in Belfast--) made a big giant turkey and a chicken.

They're very proud of it. As they should be.

I contributed a vegetarian bread dressing. It was delicious, and I made a vegetarian gravy to go with it. I also suggested macaroni and cheese, and strangely enough, Emily had never before had mac & cheese for Thanksgiving. Bizarre.

But I have to say, Tom and Emily's Thanksgiving ain't nothing like Thanksgiving back home. It's no quiet family dinner-- no, no. These two invite all their friends and hold a heaving party. It was around 60 people in the end, and everyone brought food and drink (in fact, 2 other people brought mac & cheese, too, so I was clearly proven right).

I got to meet loads of Emily and Tom's Belfast friends, and here is what I think: people in Belfast, at least the ones who get invited to Thanksgiving at Tom & Emily's, are lovely. There was also a beautiful puppy named Lucy– I couldn't get enough of her.

It was a really fun weekend in Belfast, and I was very grateful to be around such good friends, and to meet so many new friends and sweet people, for Thanksgiving.

Victorian Nija!

2011-10-27T23:26:00.000+11:00

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a fantastic demonstration of Victorian-era photography processes that I got to see at the People's History Museum. Tony Richards is the photographer, and he loves old-time wet-plate processes.

I was very fortunate to be the sitter for the portrait demonstration, and after developing the glass plate, painting the back black and varnishing it, Tony gave me the portrait!

It makes me look so dark, almost dirty! Fascinating process, though, and it's a treasured keepsake for me!

To see more of Tony's work: here's his blog

The Real Story Award!

2011-10-23T06:10:00.001+11:00

On Wednesday night, I went to the Manchester Blog Awards, an evening celebrating the blogging community in this lovely city. See the winning and nominated blogs here. My flatmate, Natalie Bradbury won the Best Arts and Culture Award for her fantastic work over at The Shrieking Violet.

On the same evening, The Real Story Competition also announced its winners. Over 60 people submitted creative non-fiction pieces to the competition, and 5 winners were chosen to read at the Manchester Blog Awards... and I was one of those five! We didn't win anything other than getting to read our stories out, but that was a pretty big deal anyway.

My story

And I recorded my reading of it, so you can listen to it here

It was a big night for me, and I had a really good time. It was also a chance to catch up with some friends and meet some amazing people that I'd never known about before. New friends!

Last night, I had a little early birthday celebration at the Soup Kitchen. I thought about my birthday last year, and how different my life was then. Even with all the changes and surprises this year and this town have brought into my life, I looked around last night and I had to admit: I have lovely friends, and I am lucky to have landed so softly in this town.

Mark pretends to be drunk, while I pretend to be sweet.

Mark then got worried what my parents would think, and stopped pretending to be drunk.

Gem thinks Joe is cute even when he acts like a doofus.

Joe and Geraint try to take a good picture. Hmm.

Joe fakes attack by gloved maniac.

Dear Despoina. I miss living with you.

Paul. We need PIE.

Andrew. Stop being so serious. It was a party, for goodness sake.

I realise from the pictures I've shown you, it looks like only a few people came out, but that's not true. Lots of lovely people were there, I just didn't get pictures of all of them. Allow this beautiful picture, taken by I don't remember whom, stand for them.

Man-fest-erama!, or Man-fest-ter, part 3.

2011-10-18T09:53:00.000+11:00

On Sunday, Creative Tourist's Manchester Weekender organised five walking tours! More than a girl can take.

I decided on two of them, specifically, the Psychogeography Walk and the Ancoats Peeps Walk.

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The Psychogeography Walk

Psychogeography is all about how spaces affect our mindsets without us even realising. It's about how the history of a place shapes how we think about a place, but also about how corporations and urban planners can affect how we behave and feel in a space, just by how it's laid out and lit and things like that.

While this particular psychogeography walk of Manchester didn't take in too much of the political side of psychogeography, I did learn a lot of history I didn't know about previously. It was run by a woman named Ann... she didn't give a surname or her affiliation w/ the walk... but I didn't ask, either.

We started at St. Ann's Square, a part of town I've always liked (even though it's quite commercial and posh) because it's leafy and old and full of history. The fascinating grave of Thomas Deacon is in St. Ann's Square, calling Mr. Deacon, "the greatest of Sinners and the most unworthy of primitive Bishops."

Turns out St. Ann's Square is more full of history than I thought.

Originally, St. Ann's was a field, about the size of an acre, cleverly called "Acre's Field," and an annual market was held there starting in 1227. The market would be in September, at harvest time, always on a quarter day. Quarter days were the equinoxes and solstices, and on quarter days back then, a family would pay its bills and manage the affairs of the house.

This history still affects British society. We pay our electricity bills on the quarter days.

The Manchester Cathedral was part of the Anglican church, and it conducted High services and were Jacobites. But the Lord of the Manor of Manchester (actually a woman named Lady Ann Bland), was a Hanoverian and more into Low church services.

Lady Ann fell out with the Cathedral and decided to build a Low Anglican church on St. Ann's Square; it was built in 1712. Surprisingly she named it St. Ann's. Supposedly because there was a Queen Anne on the throne, but you know... it is a wonderful coincidence.

The Cathedral was Anglican High church.

The Lord of the Manor, Lady Ann Bland (related to the Mosley family of Manchester) fell out with the cathedral as she appreciated the low church style. She was Hanoverian. Both churches were Anglican, just higher or lower. (Side note: Lady Ann Bland was related to the Mosley family of Manchester, who gave their name to a major street, who gave Manchester an outrageous fascist and who gave the city the parcel of land that Piccadilly Gardens now comprises. Influential family.)

After the church was built, the market was moved to Castlefield, and property speculators moved into St. Ann's Square. Houses built, first Georgian, then Victorian style, and they were built from the edge of the acre in. Amazingly, St. Ann's Square still demarcates that same acre... the structure of the city is connected to something from 1227!

The tourguide Ann also told us some interesting things abou the landscape of Manchester that I hadn't considered before:

1. I always think Manchester's very flat. Turns out, the whole Northwest of England is all rolling hills and valleys, and Manchester actually sits on the Irwell river valley. I suppose I knew that, because the Irwell splits Salford from Manchester, but I never thought of it as a valley, or as on a hillside.

2. Because the NW is on rolling land, it wasn't very good for agriculture, and it was sort of a pain in the arse to control. That's why it was rather left alone after the Romans left. Which meant that when there was an Industrial Revolution here, people here knew how to sort out their own industry.

3. The rolling hills were bad for agriculture and only really good for raising sheep. Elsewhere, good flat land was used for food, not wool. But the hills meant that the NW got really good at wool... and thus, at textiles.

4. Also good flat land doesn't have fast streams, but hilly land does. Fast streams meant watermill, which meant power, which meant that the Industrial Revolution in Manchester could power itself here.

In a way, it had to happen here. It just needed people to work it... and eventually, they came, too.

That walk also took in some of the history of Piccadilly Gardens. It used to be owned by the Lord of the Manor (someone in the Mosley Family, basically), and eventually was given to the city under the condition that it had to be used only for the benefit of the people of Manchester. Meaning the city couldn't build on it or sell it.

Interestingly, Piccadilly Gardens is one of very very few open spaces in MCR that was not once a churchyard. The only reason it's still an open space is because of Mosley's condition. Back then (and now) it wasn't a very nice parcel of land, mostly just clay that people used to daub their houses. Eventually, the council built a free hospital on it – a FREE hospital! Back then! Can you imagine? – and then later, they moved the hospital and put in some sunken gardens.

When those got scuzzy, they broke Mosley's condition, sold part of the Gardens for 10 million pounds, and used that money to renovate the rest of the Gardens. And yet, even after all that money, it's still scuzzy. Unbelievable.

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The Ancoats Peeps Walk

Ancoats is a neighbourhood in Greater Manchester, and it's where some of the first mills were. Think horrible working conditions, child labour, tiny streets, darkness, misery, cold, hunger, and early death.

Steven O'Malley, an engineer on the regeneration project, and Mark Canning, from the NorthWest Development Agency, were our tour guides.

After the Industrial Revolution, Ancoats faced a slow, steady decline, to the point where a couple decades ago, it was a pretty dangerous part of town. These days, though, there's been a big change. Ancoats has a harsh, stark beauty.

It's undergone a major regeneration project, led by the now-defunct Northwest Development Agency, and while I will always find regeneration to be a politically contentious, debatable, double-edged sword that raises all kinds of questions about class, rights, and "authenticity," there are some things about the Ancoats regeneration project that are really interesting and exciting.

For one:

Ancoats, as a neighbourhood, never had a public square. It wasn't somewhere people lived and communed, it was a place to come, drudge all day and into the night, and then eventually leave. As part of the regeneration, the NW Development Agency (NWDA) wanted to maintain the character of Ancoats, but also make it more livable, so they fought to knock down some derelict mills to build a new public square, called The Cutting Room Square.

Ok, the name's got an unnatural feeling. The Cutting Room Square? But I'm sure people will develop a better name for it eventually. And it's a nice public space, outside the former St. Peter's church, that still feels in keeping with the rest of Ancoats. Mostly concrete and brick. Not many trees. I like trees as much as anyone, but it would be weird to suddenly plonk a bunch down in the middle of an area as industrial-looking as Ancoats.

Here is another:

The Ancoats Peeps are an art project that was undertaken and installed during the renovation works in Ancoats. They are unmarked brass eye-pieces, fitted into walls and surfaces around Ancoats. This one is peeping out of the stone structure.

No one's saying exactly how many there are, only that there are about 18, or exactly where all of them are, only that there is a vague map. As the website says,

"If it seems that there is no clear explanation as to what the Peeps are, or exactly how many there are, or where they are, that is because there is no explanation to be had. The Peeps are to be stumbled across. They may not all be found, and there is no single explanation as to what they are, or what they are about."

We saw some of the Peeps on this walk, but the guides made it clear that we wouldn't see all of them. The artist's vision, I suppose. I looked in one Peep that was on the outside wall of a former mill. Through it, I saw an illuminated picture of the inside of that mill, back when it was still in use.

Another Peep allows you to see deep underground, to a tunnel that connected several buildings of a mill complex. More on those nefarious, dark, damp tunnels later.

They all have something different to show you, relating to the history of Ancoats, the character of the neighbourhood. As our super-friendly tourguide Steven O'Malley said, the Peeps are about "acknowledging the history of Ancoats, and reinvesting that history into its regeneration."

A lot of regeneration projects seem to just try to make up a false history for the neighbourhood. I like the Ancoats approach better. Let's not forget that people lived horrible horrible lives here, that the rich minted their money off the teeth and nails and bones and hair of the brutally poor. Let's pay attention to how these buildings were built, and why.

During the tour, we went into Murray's Mills, which was the oldest steam-powered mill complex in the world, built in 1797. They NWDA renovated and saved the fabric of the building, but right now, it serves no real function inside.

In fact, there's even some leftover old mill junk still on the bottom floor! In the 1800s, you wouldn't have been able to see very far ahead of yourself, as the whole floor would have been filled with cotton dust. And children as young as 8 years old would be working there, 6 days/week.

It's waiting for someone to come along w/ some money to fix up the inside and use it well. I did see the Library Theatre production of Hard Times here. Since there's no proper stage or seating, they did it as a promenade-style play. Manchester's Central Library is undergoing renovation of its own, so its theatre company has no home. It's been doing some cool experimental stuff like that.

Murray's Mill actually has a man-made pond in the middle, which used to connect to the canal, so goods could come to the mill by boat!

Steven & Mark also showed us the brass studs in the roads, which show where there are underground tunnels linking mill buildings.

Back then, once workers were in the mill, they weren't let out, even to go to another building in the complex. The owners locked them in, and workers had to use tunnels and skywalks to get around. They couldn't physically leave the mills for the whole workday.

And yet, a third:
We also went inside the former St. Peter's church. The NWDA also saved just the fabric of this building, and it's occasionally let out for special occasions, like fashion shows. The night before our visit, there had been a wedding, which is why all the trees were in the building.

It's strange, but I kind of felt like maybe this is how a normal church should look. Bright, with a high ceiling, lots of white, lots of windows, some thin white columns, and a few potted trees. It felt like a good place to pray, if I knew how to pray.

Gorgeous stained glass windows over the alter, showing the reflection of the rose window opposite.

St. Peter's from the outside.

And St. Peter's will soon be serving a purpose, as well! The Hallé Orchestra have decided to move there, so they're going to fix it up and practice there regularly. I can't think of a better use of this space, especially since the Hallé don't yet have their own space.

I don't know what regeneration will mean for Ancoats. I hope it's good for the neighborhood, and I hope it helps. I know it'll probably have its downsides, too, as most regeneration does.

I'm glad, at the very least, that with the regeneration of Ancoats came the Peeps. It's a lovely art project, but it's history and politics, too, and it means something to the area. I think the Peeps make Ancoats a more exciting place. I like knowing that around any corner, there could be a little surprise awaiting me.

It's like a treasure hunt... which is kind of apt for a neighbourhood that once created so much wealth...

Man-fest-errific!, or Man-fest-ter, part 2.

2011-10-16T21:05:00.000+11:00

So here's the thing. I don't have a Master's thesis I'm supposed to be working on. And Manchester is really exciting right now. Enjoy the blog overload while it's hot! It's sure to cool down soon...

------
Yesterday, I decided to go to a few free events run by various festivals around town.

First stop: Primitive Streak Exhibition in the Royal Exchange.

part of the Manchester Weekender (WKNDR) and the Manchester Science Festival (MSF)

The Royal Exchange is a beautiful old building, which used to be a trading floor, back when Manchester was the cotton capital of the world. The Exchange was first built in 1792, but it's been replaced & rebuilt a few times. It's always been on or very near this site, and after it was damaged by the 1996 IRA bombing of Manchester's city centre, it was repaired. Now it's a theatre space. It has Manchester's only theatre-in-the-round... I think.

Near the ceiling, you can see the old trading board is still up, a reminder of what the Exchange, and what Manchester, once meant. It's sort of amazing to think of Engels, standing on this same site, in his fancy clothes, hiding his real thoughts, fitting in with the capitalist classes, living the public part of his double life.

Primitive Streak is a collaborative work between two sisters: Helen & Kate Storey. One's an artist, the other's a biologist, and together they designed dresses that symbolize the first 1000 hours of embryonic life. I was skeptical about this. I thought it might be a little too... well, not scientific enough. That was until I saw the dresses today.

This one symbolises the neuralation stage, basically the stage when the neural plate (a sheet of neural cells) rolls itself into a tube, which eventually becomes the spinal cord and the brain. Later the neural tube will connect to the somites forming nearby, which will become the vertebrae. At the exhibit, they also showed images from Kate Storey's biological research, which really illuminated how accurate this dress is. I strongly suggest checking these out, if you're in Manchester.

So well-done. I'm glad I was wrong.

The Royal Exchange is right next to St. Ann's Square, where part of the MCR Food & Drink Festival (MFDF) is going on, so I wandered over.

Last weekend, the MFDF was empty. It might have been the rain, or that it had only just started, but today, it was buzzing! Nice to see so many people out today, sampling food, drinking beers, enjoying the sunshine. Ok, it's not very warm, but at least it's not raining, right?

I got a bag of honey-roasted pecans and an apple-cranberry-ginseng-lemonade. It sounds weird. It was delicious.

Then I wandered over to the People's History Museum, because they were having a craft fair. I was also skeptical about this, because a lot of the craft fairs I've been to are basically just people selling bit of felt glued to brooch backs for £14. Really? I mean, really?

Again, I was wrong. Happily, happily wrong.

First off, there was Steve Talbot, selling his amazing, fabulously complex 3D collages about the American West or Aviation Icons. I asked him why he's so interested in the Western frontier, because I find it strange how many British people are so into these weird bits of American history...

He said it was the TV shows and films from when he was a kid.

Ah, Hollywood.

If you click on the picture, you can see his boxes in better detail. Amelia Earhart's on the box he's holding. That picture of her looks so modern, she poses, she smiles, like a woman from now, not the 1930s. What a star. We had a lot of fun talking about Billy the Kid and Sitting Bull and, of course, dear Amelia.

Then there was Tony Richards, doing absolutely fascinating demonstrations of Victorian wet-plate photographic processes.

With wet-plate photography, you start with sheet of glass or tin, pour the chemicals over it in a darkroom to make it light-sensitive, and then take it in a light-tight holder to the camera. You can't let the plate dry, or it won't be sensitive to light anymore.
You expose the plate for about 30 seconds, then run it in the holder back to the darkroom, where you pour on the developer, and other chemicals to stop the developing and to fix the image. Then you run the plate under water for about 10 minutes, to get all the chemicals off.

That plate is your negative. You can print from it onto photographic paper with an enlarger, or you can just put something black on the back of it, to get a positive. You can use all sorts of different chemicals to get different tones and colours.

When Tony asked for a volunteer to sit for the demo, I offered, because I thought it would be fun. I didn't know he would offer to finish the plate and then give it to me! What a lovely keepsake, my own Victorian-era photographic process portrait. Truly kind, that gentleman, truly kind, I tell you. I'll get the finished plate from him in a few days or so... can't wait!

He said that this kind of photography is so hard, because you never know what you're going to get. I told him about my broken camera, and how I've been feeling the same way about taking pictures with it, and we chatted for awhile about photography and mills. He's a lovely person. A talented craftsman who is also engaging and knows how to talk to people and do demonstrations without being condescending. I'd recommend him for anyone who's looking to get a professional photographer who specialises in Victorian-era photography. That's a great party theme, isn't it?

I was getting mighty-hungry by this time, so I dropped by Albert Square for some outdoor street food, sponsored by MFDF. Again, MFDF was packed! Albert Square is such a beautiful place, bordered as it is by the Gothic Town Hall, it's wonderful to see so many people out enjoying the surroundings.

Isn't the Town Hall breathtaking?

I got some delicious rice paper rolls from Tampopo and some absolutely mind-blowing Mauritian Roti Chaud.

I'd never had Mauritian food before. The roti is more like a really big Indian roti than like a flaky Malaysian one, but they filled with a delicious butterbean curry and mustard and fresh chillies. I know. Butterbean curry. Sounds crazy, but I would eat one of those wraps every day.

My mouth was on fire, so I got a can of coconut juice to cool me down. The Vegetarian Society was there, too, giving out free samples of goat's cheese and veggie sausage, flapjacks and jelly beans. I walked home, tiredly sipping coconut juice and contentedly popping Jelly Bellies in my mouth.

Then I came upon one of those gems that's just hidden in plain sight. They're all over Manchester. Look at this building, the carving on it. I've walked by it a hundred times and never noticed. I like to think about how many things I still haven't noticed... how many lovely surprises like this await me.

I can't wait for tomorrow....

Man-fest-er, part 1.

2011-10-16T05:42:00.004+11:00

It is October.
October, in Manchester, means festivals.
And when I say festivals, I mean festival madness.

This weekend alone features:
Manchester Science Festival Trailblazer Events (leading up the festival proper)
Manchester Literature Festival
Manchester Weekender
Manchester Food & Drink Festival
As well as at least two music festivals that I am almost completely unaware of.

It is October.
It is intense.
Exciting.
Cool.
It is not a time to stay indoors with a cup of tea.
I don't know what's with the short sentences.

Somehow, this weekend's weather so far has been mild, not very windy, and not raining. Lucky us.
-----

Last night, I attended a recording of The Infinite Monkey Cage. It's a BBC Radio 4 show (of course) about science and philosophy that also tries to do comedy. It's not my favourite radio show, or even my favourite radio show about science (what's up, Radiolab). But it's a fairly good show, and it features Professor Brian Cox! Despite the fact that Cox teaches at University of Manchester, and I was a student there for a year, and I am super-dorky about science, I had not yet seen him speak, so I was reasonably excited to see the show. Furthermore, this was a special recording held at the University of Manchester, as a trailblazer for the Manchester Science Festival! Hereafter known as MSF, dear readers. Acronymatic.

I had an extra ticket, and luckily, my dear friend Joe Sparrow had a free night, so we showed up early, got great seats, and promptly went out for a beer during the wait. Joe thinks Professor Brian Cox is dreamy. Really dreamy. Mostly, I think, it's the hair. The time went quicker than we thought it would, so Joe ended up chugging his beer.

Then the wait for doors to open was so long that we got more drinks. And then we were almost immediately called in to be seated. So Joe chugged another beer... and then we stood in line for about half an hour.

Basically, what I'm saying is he really didn't need to chug either beer.

And I probably didn't need to have two drinks in the first place, one of which was a very large glass of white wine.

Basically, what I'm saying is we were both a little bit tipsy. Check my twitter timeline starting on 14 October, around 7.30pm for evidence. Somehow, I managed to tweet the entire show from my iPod, with only a few minor typos! I'm very impressed with myself.

The show was fun, but I think Joe got more out of it than I did. There were a lot of Unix jokes, to which my response is "Unix who?" and a lot of Dr. Who jokes, to which my response is "Dr. Who who?" There was a man doing apparently excellent impressions of people I'd never heard of. At least Joe was larfing his arf off.

But the science stuff they talked about was really exciting:
1. A cling film thick layer of graphene could support an elephant. (but someone's challenged that on Twitter saying a layer of graphene that thick is just graphite. Graphene would be a sheet of graphite only one molecule thick)
2. What Alan Turing began to understand has only been coming to fruition in the last ten years.
3. Jodrell Bank's research is the best test of Einstein's theory general relativity we've got. (Jodrell Bank is the University of MCR's Centre for Astrophysics, based in Cheshire)

After that, we headed over to the Food & Drink Festival in Albert Square. As it was not raining and mild, I had a little pizza cooked in an outdoor, woodburning oven. Delicious.

Then, we headed over to visit Gemma at her new job, a pop-up bowling alley with a 50s theme. It's called Pin-up Bowling. Get it? Gemma loves the job, and she looks the part. Some people were dancing all 50s style to the 50s music, and it was really fun watching them. The bowling alley is really neat, too, I'm excited to actually go bowling there. They've imported special lanes, and the bowling balls are returned with these cool, 50s-style, above-ground tracks, so you watch the balls returning toward you, in between the lanes. Fancy. Pants.

I got a truly excellent margarita, and proceeded to top-up my tipsiness. Joe got a seriously strong Long Island Iced Tea. Then he proceeded to chug that for absolutely no reason. We were just sitting around waiting for Gem to get off work.

Basically, we got drunk again, watching people dance like it was 1955. Super fun. Joe and Gem are wonderful. I thought I'd take a picture of them... and then realised my camera screen was broken. I really am having a lot of camera trouble these days.

The camera itself stills works, though. I just can't tell what I'm taking a picture of, or where it's going to focus. It's a lot like using film again. And honestly, I'm such a perfectionist about taking photos that it's kind of nice to not know. I've just been clicking away with giddy abandon.

Maybe I got the shot.
Maybe not.

When I got home last night, I downloaded the pictures I took of Gem... and I really love what happened when I couldn't immediately see the result.

Oh, comely Castlefield

2011-10-15T01:28:00.002+11:00

I haven't said much about Manchester lately, have I?

Well, strap yourselves into whatever vehicle you imagine yourself in when you're reading this blog, dear reader, as it's going to be all
Manchester all the time from here on out. For a few weeks.

I only recently learned the difference between Great Britain and the United Kingdom. Previously, I thought they were accurately interchangeable.

Not so.

The United Kingdom is all of England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland.
Great Britain is England, Scotland and Wales.

Many Americans, for that matter, are not entirely clear on how the whole England, Scotland, Wales thing works. That, readers, is for another post.

Anyway, I have already written about Manchester's fascinating canals that re-direct six rivers under and through the city. Some of you might not know that the whole of Great Britain (see above) is connected by canals, like some sort of secondary circulatory system, complementing its roads and riverways.

I love Manchester's canals, probably because I'm from a city with almost no water... even seeing the Chattahoochee isn't that easy in Atlanta. Funny enough, a lot of people who grew up in the UK see canals as rather disgusting things, filled with rubbish and places where ill-reputed things go on.

People live on the canals. In narrowboats, mooring here and there, not getting their post very often, rocked to sleep and slowly, slowly, travelling the cities and countryside of England.

And as is our way, people often do far more interesting things than just live their private lives on the canals.

Last week, a very cool narrowboat bookshop made its way to Manchester. The Book Barge usually moors in Staffordshire, but sometimes it goes on tour for a few months, and it moored in Castlefield, on the beautiful Rochdale canal, which was renovated for the 2002 Commonwealth Games.

I went on Sunday, and it was raining this annoying drizzly never-going-to-be-a-thunderstorm kind of way that's very common in Manchester. I was feeling damp and vaguely annoyed that my pictures of the Book Barge & Castlefield would be so dull and gray.

Happily, I happened to also come upon the Castlefield Artisan markets! I hadn't heard of them before, but it was their very first opening! Every month, first Sunday, you'll probably find me there, because the food and fruit and veg and vintage market were amazing.

And the Book Barge was lovely, as well. As you might imagine, for a bookish person, for a boatish person, for a person who just really really likes this place, the Book Barge was... just lovely.

Manchester has a severe dearth of good little independent bookstores, ones where you can talk to the owner about new writers, and browse for hours, and find wonderful used gems alongside brand-new editions. Apparently, the owner has been bartering books for food and showers, as she motors her bookshop along the canals.

But the Book Barge is exactly that kind of place... and it just came floating up to our canalside. Wonderful.

I pulled out my camera only to learn it had run out of batteries. Of course. I've been having real camera problems lately. I grumbled, opened my umbrella, and stepped back out into the spitty mistfall that just wouldn't quit.

I wandered by the next day, hoping to catch another chance before the barge went back home... It was a little sunnier by then...

Heehee. Check out that pun. Boatique. Indeed.

Unfortunately, the Book Barge was closed, probably for lunch, so I had to take pictures through the window. Still, you can see what a fantastic little shop the narrowboat became, with some careful thought and planning.

They have a whole section on boats.

And an inexplicable Russian section. I didn't notice any other specific language sections. Just the kind of quirk that reflects an independent bookstore's owners' preferences. I love it.

I also love that she had houseplants on the boat... or boatplants, I guess.

Luckily, even though the Book Barge was closed, I was able to take some pictures of Castlefield on a fairly sunny day. It's a beautiful part of town, all bridges and arches and tunnels.

Manchester's Beetham Tower is visible from pretty much anywhere in the city. I love this lonely skyscraper, but I don't know too many others who do... I like to think of him, skywriting sad messages to his skyscraper penpals in London... they don't write back much these days...

Near this area of Castlefield, Manchester has re-built a Roman fort. It's a bit silly. I suppose because every other English town has a Cathedral and a Roman ruin, Manchester felt the need to have one, too, despite the fact that even if there ever was a Roman fort here, it was long torn down and gone. Manchester's got so many other fascinating historical elements to it. Seems insecure for the city to need a re-built Roman fort.

At least it's in this beautiful– dare I say it– romantic part of town. Early in our relationship, I walked Mark around this area one night, trying to show him how pretty Manchester can be. He laughed at our Roman fort. He said it was pretty. But it really couldn't compare to Cambridge. He might be right, in some weird world, where there's an objective measure of beauty.

I think it's a matter of taste. To me, this town never stops being pretty... even in the rain. And anyway, I don't think the Book Barge even went to Cambridge. So there.

There are a number of other Manchester bloggers who have also written nice posts about the Book Barge and even taken pictures from inside it. WHOA.

The lovely Kate Feld's Manchizzle

Adrian Slatcher's Art of Fiction

Claire Massey's Gathering Scraps

The Right of the People to Alter or to Abolish

2011-10-01T08:02:00.002+10:00

Usually on this blog, I try my best to keep things light and cheery and fun. I think it's a good policy, but sometimes, it must be broken. Given that I started this blog when I moved to Australia from the States, it seemed only fitting that I share with you the conflicting emotions that moving away has raised in my heart and mind and soul.

It's not that I don't have anything good to tell you. For example: I finished my thesis and handed it in. I'm waiting to hear back about grades, but it is very exciting to be finished. Also: I'm working with the Manchester Science Festival, and I'll be producing a podcast for them! Very exciting And: I recently read another story at the Bad Shoes Festival, though I forgot my recorder, so you cannot hear it. Notwithstanding: I've moved into a lovely new home! Furthermore: I had a lovely time in Scotland, visiting Mark for a second time. I remembered my camera on that one, but I learned it needs repairs, so there aren't many pictures.

In fact, there's only one. It's from the *amazing* Riverside Museum, also known as Scotland's Museum of Transport.

We spent five hours at this place, Mark, Steven (his older brother) and me. And we didn't even finish looking at all the exhibits. Strangely, there were three separate exhibits about pawn shops, like maybe a major sponsor of the Riverside Museum is the British Pawnshop Association. I'm not sure there is a British Pawnshop Association. But still.

So you see, dear readers, I do indeed have so many good and exciting things to tell you about. But on the 21st of September, just nine days ago, the state of Georgia killed a man. My only real home executed Troy Davis.

Despite a very large body of evidence casting doubt on Davis' original conviction, Georgia's political machine chose to do a thing that is not un-doable. I believe what many have already said: I don't know if Troy Davis committed the crime he was convicted of. He might have. He might not have. It's simply unacceptable to use the death penalty in cases with so much doubt.

Well, I believe it's unacceptable to use the death penalty at all. I want it abolished.
But it's especially troublesome in such dubious cases.

And for the last week, I have been feeling... dark.
-----
Years ago, I was a committed political activist. Nearly every weekend was spent at a march or preparing for one. I sold left-wing newspapers. I held placards and banners, and I chanted.

I stood in the cold rain on January 20, 2001 and jeered at W.

I did it for years. I organised campaigns against the death penalty and against the IMF. I voted for Nader. I went to meeting after endless meeting. I tore up bedsheets to make banners. I saw people join the movement and I saw people leave. We never seemed to get more people, just different ones.

I saw changes. But none that I would call significant. None that gave me any measure of real hope.

And then one summer afternoon, I found myself crying on the floor of my new apartment, having something close to a nervous breakdown. I kept asking Craig what the hell the point was.

He told me the things I already knew. We protest to show our dissent. Change is a goal, but not the only one. We have to show our dissent so that other people will. We organise to grow the movement. Slow. Steady. Sure. And one day there will be a spark and then we will be able to teach others how to organise and work with them, because we will already have learned lessons.

He said it's our responsibility. We are citizens, and it is our responsibility and our right to criticise and create change when the government denies us the rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It's the Declaration, a document that he knew I had immense respect for.

I said I didn't want to live here anymore.

He said he understood, and in some ways he agreed. But didn't I think, didn't I agree with him, that if everyone who thought the way we did just moved away, this place would never get better? Wasn't it our responsibility to stay? To spend money in the places that showed good practices, to vote for the slightly better candidate, to fight for change in the places that really need it?

And the problem was that I knew he was right. I did agree. But I was no longer convinced that the way I was going about it made any sense at all. I didn't believe in our methods anymore.

So, I stopped being a political activist.
-----

And then, after years of political activism, Craig also got discouraged. I'll admit, probably due in some small part to my constant questioning of our old methods. We decided it would be ok to move away.

To Australia, so Craig could study.

To Australia, so I could escape.

And it was so much easier. Capital punishment was abolished there in 1967. There are just not as many broken, hungry, homeless people there. More people are taken care of, at least in the cities. Yes, rural areas, where Aboriginal people live, are not well-serviced. Yes, Aboriginal people have been treated horribly by the white establishments. And it's true, undocumented immigrants trying to make a better life for themselves are not smiled upon.

But there was healthcare, at least, for everyone. And no one was being murdered by their own government.

I admit it. My standards were low. But even in Australia, where things were hardly perfect, I didn't feel like I'd be able to move back to America very easily. The transition back to what I saw as a more cruel society was not something I would ever look forward to.
-----

And then England. Where the native people were conquered, it's true, but it's so far back we can hardly justify still being angry about it. And there wasn't much of a skin colour difference, so at least racially, there's not much of a indigenous injustice to be angry about.

But what about Wales? Scotland? Ireland? It's true. But Scotland has its own Parliament now and makes its own decisions for many things. And Ireland is nearly entirely independent. Wales... well, Welsh is the most protected indigenous language in the world, apparently, so there are strides in the right direction.

No capital punishment.
Healthcare for all.

In so many ways, it is so much easier to live in a place where things feel just a little closer to how you think they should feel.
-----

But I'm still conflicted. When I hear about the awful things that happen back home, the killing of a possibly innocent man, I feel that, as a citizen of a country that I love in some way, it's my responsibility to be there, fighting for something better.

I still don't know how.

I feel like maybe I should just live there.

Maybe just being there, even just talking to my friends and co-workers and neighbours about what I believe, is my duty as a citizen.

But I know now what I knew then. Living there breaks my heart. The transition back to what I saw as a more cruel society is not something I will ever look forward to. I know that I would be living in a cruel place, where my hardworking friends can't afford to go to a doctor, and still I would be doing nothing... because I still don't know what methods to use. I wouldn't feel like conversations with my friends, co-workers, neighbours were enough. I never did think it was enough when I was living there.

On the other hand, remaining far away, in a place that isn't mine, but is easier to live with, feels cowardly. I sometimes feel guilty, like I haven't upheld my part of the bargain that Ben Franklin and John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Rousseau all got us into. Like being an ex-pat in a place that I feel is a little bit simpler is a cop-out. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't.

Here's what I know: I have spent the last seven years thinking, talking, and worrying about what my country is doing, from home or from abroad. Because though I have not lived there for three years, and though I often have nothing but criticism of it, I do feel that America is my country. And it *matters* to me. What it does matters to me.

And I believe that I should be doing something about it.

I just still haven't figured out what exactly I should be doing.

And at this point, I'm not sure this conflict will ever be resolved in me. I want. I should. Maybe. Maybe not. I've been weighing up the scales for so long, I think I've broken them.

Give me your thoughts. I won't promise I haven't already been through them before. But I'd be interested.
-----

And next time, I promise, light and cheery and fun. New flat! Canals! Walking tours!
Just to leave you on a very high note: check out my awesome necklace!

Whisky & Bears

2011-08-31T05:24:00.000+10:00

Also known as: A Continuation of the Tale of My First Trip to Scotland, otherwise known as Part 2. See here for Part 1.

Having finished the last draft (I hope) of my thesis, I find myself with what is known as "a breather," in which I intend to catch up on all the things I've let slip. Such as you, dear reader. This breather will quickly be cut short, sadly.

I have to move out of Opal next week, and though I'm a little sad about that, I'm excited about my new place. Then I have to look for work. I know, I know. Work's for suckers.

Nonetheless.

It feels like ages ago that I sat on a train from Glasgow to Prestwick, anxiously brushing my hair and re-applying my eyeliner and mascara. My nerve was unravelling like a spool of thread hurled down a stairwell.

I was worried about meeting Mark's brothers. To be fair, one of them (Paul) is Mark's identical twin, to whom he is very very close, and the other (Steven) is his older brother, to whom he is also very very close. I'd already met Mark's parents (in a fluke accident involving strange timing and a Wetherspoon's), so I was only a little bit nervous about meeting them again. But Paul. It struck me then, and I might not be right, that Paul's opinion might matter more to Mark than anyone else's. Excepting, of course, his own. Or so I hoped.

And all that ugly nervous energy was completely wasted. Mark's brothers are super nice, friendly people who didn't take some unreasonable dislike to me at all.

During the next few days in Prestwick, I had such a lovely time walking along the coast in Troon, hanging out with Mark's friends and family, and drinking the occasional gin and tonic, that I didn't take a single picture.

There was a lot to think about. Riots had broken out down south, and we were glad that Paul was on holiday in Prestwick, rather than in his little apartment in London.

But other people (well, one person) took some pictures. I reproduce them here, without permission, but hopefully with gracious post-facto approval...

Mark and me at a bar called Caprice. Bonus: some people we don't know in the background.

Mark, his brother Paul and their friends. I'm sure you can tell which is Paul. If not, go read the beginning of this post again, you not-very-comprehensive-reader, you.

I didn't get any beautiful Scottish landscape shots. Next time. Until then, I will tell you this. The western coast of Scotland is gloomy on a rainy day, a beautiful kind of gloomy. Prestwick is a pretty suburban town with an international airport, charming little houses that all seem to have back gardens. The McWilliams back garden is especially pretty.

Okay, it's the only one I saw.

Nevertheless.

On my last full day, Mark and I visited Edinburgh. It was a gorgeous day, and we visited a tartan-facturing place. A tartanmill? A tartantuary? Tartanactory? I'm not sure.

I watched Mark do that thing that white people do, where they relate their surnames to ancient things, and know fairly well that they actually are from those ancient things. Weird. Brown people simply don't do genealogy like this, readers. We don't. We definitely do not have different patterns of cloth that are officially registered by the national government that once (and still do) represent our families. It's just another one for my "White People Is Crazy" list. Don't worry. My "Brown People Is Crazy" list is way longer. Stay posted for examples, coming forth in the next few days.

Then, we met up with his absolutely flipping hilarious friend Eric, and Eric's girlfriend Ailidh. She had to return a text, so she's in the background, holding the red jacket.

We saw the Scottish Parliament building, which is very strange looking on the outside. Mark suggested it looked like the opening titles of Saved By the Bell. From other angles, the likeness is more obvious.

But it's stunning on the inside.

And I truly love that they put whisky bottles into the wood panel patterning. Design genius.

And Edinburgh is a beautiful town, with lovingly preserved old buildings and streetnames like "Fleshmarket Close." It's a charming place, and I can see why so many of dearest friends have, at some point in their lives, called it home. I wouldn't mind calling it home... but it is a bit hillier than Manchester. That took some getting used to. After a life in hilly cities, just one year in a flat one, and I've completely lost my hill-ankles.

Since the Fringe Festival was on, the whole town was busy and vibrant. We saw two men sitting at a card table outside a bar, offering free custom sonnets, written while you wait. They called themselves Whisky and Bears. I could not pass that up.

One of the guys was tall and jovial, with a funny moustache an apron and a hat. He told us how it worked: we pick three things, tell him our names, and he writes a sonnet. Right there. Then he reads it to us and hands it over. For free.

I hope that I will never in my life be able to pass that up.

I noticed his accent and asked him where he was from, and he said he'd escaped Texas 10 years ago and was living in Munich now. My best memory of Texas is from a road trip my family took when I was about 7. We shared a bottle of Big Red soda, a failed attempt by the Big Red chewing gum company to make a foray into carbonated beverage.

The guy, Rob, exploded with a big huge laugh at the idea of Big Red soda, so we chose Big Red.

We chose E.T., because I have a zine about E.T. that makes me laugh everyday right now.

And we chose tartan, because we had tartan on the brain.

Rob's friend Matte stood by with a coffee while Rob wrote the sonnet, mumbling to himself and occasionally laughing at his work. And when Rob was finished, he spoke it for us, while Matte played the accordion!

Did you know, reader, that the accordion is one of my favourite instruments?

This was a beautiful, beautiful moment. We tried to get it on video, but we were unsuccessful, so instead, I present you this:

Big Red is really chewy, also hot!
Unfortunately the weather here is cold.
I'd hoped it would be sunny, maybe not,
But it is nice here, just like y'all, is that too bold?

That tartan that we see here on the street
Is wonderful and me feel so glad,
Some people like to wear it head to feet,
Just don't let them hear you call it plaid.

I left my daughter just to do this show,
And every day she keeps on calling me,
And asking, "Papa, when will you come home?"
A little like that foreign guy, E.T.

I hope you find your sonnet quite a lark!
Good luck to you sweet Nija and good Mark.

cheers, Rob & Matte, Whisky & Bears
(right before he wrote that line about the tartan, we had actually *just* seen a girl band fully dressed in tartan dresses. And get this: they were from "Gallery Serpentine," an Australian goth shop that was on Enmore Road in Sydney– the same road I worked on for two years! What a coincidence, right?)

Despite our best-laid plans, Mark and I only left ourselves about 10 minutes to eat dinner, so we decided on a takeaway. Now, I will be honest with you, reader. I am a student. I live in the UK. And I had not yet eaten food from a kebab/pizza/chips/burgers takeaway. Hell, I had not eaten from any takeaways. This was my first.

It was actually a pretty delicious pizza. Mark got some chicken thing. We ate sitting on the footpath, on some concrete steps. And when I say "we ate," reader, I mean "we scarfed." We scarfed takeaway food on a footpath.

It doesn't sound romantic, does it? Well, to be fair, it wasn't.

The Richard Herring comedy show was hilarious. Entitled "What is Love, Anyway?" as an homage to Howard Jones and to the question we all start asking ourselves the moment someone we don't really even like says they love us, this comedy show broke my face. I couldn't breathe. He read us some poetry about love he'd written when he was 17. That is always funny. Always funny. I liked his comedy... it didn't do a lot of making fun of anyone but him.

After the show, we ran to the train station, hoping to catch the early one back to Prestwick, but we didn't make it, because I am short. So we sat in Glasgow Central, re-telling Herring's jokes to each other, laughing, yawning, and not thinking about the next day, when I would get on the train to Manchester.

We didn't know it yet, but the riots had already spread to Salford, Manchester's poor conjoined twin sister...

A Kickass Ring

2011-08-30T04:34:00.001+10:00

A few weeks ago, I visited Scotland. I wanted to visit Mark, and I had never been before, so you know. Two birds with one Starburst, as it were.

That is a deep cut. Allow me to remind you what I'm talking about. Taken at Sydney's Taronga Zoo.

Mark grew up (and his parents still live) in a town called Prestwick. It's in Ayrshire, on the West Coast of Scotland. To get there from Manchester, you have to ride to Glasgow and change trains, so decided to spend a few hours in Glasgow on our first day, before heading on to Prestwick.

Glasgow, as many of you already probably know, is a little bit wonderful. It's pretty, but a bit rough. People fight in the streets at night. It's got nice pedestrianised areas, but it's got some trashy-looking streets, too. There's something about that mix that makes me go all wide-eyed.

We spent most of our time in Glasgow walking along this big pedestrianized street, with huge old buildings. The first floors had mostly been modernised into glass-fronted shops, but if you looked up...

Glasgow is, of course, filled with Art Nouveau details like that, largely because it is the home of the Glasgow School of Arts, best known for The Four or the Spook School. Now, The Four are not a terrorist group or a boy band. They were artists: sisters Margaret and Frances MacDonald and their husbands, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Herbert MacNair.

And the city is covered with typefaces they designed and filled with a style they largely created. In fact, Glasgow is so suffused with Art Nouveau, I could imagine it getting a bit tiresome after awhile. Just like I imagine that after a very long time living in Barcelona, I would be annoyed by all the Gaudí stuff everywhere... No, you're right. I would never get tired of that place.

We spent a lot of the day in the Gallery of Modern Art, because I'd heard of a British contemporary art exhibition going on there. I don't think Mark generally goes into art museums, but he was quite happy that I'm the kind of person who does, because the building was amazing.

Some of the exhibition was really fantastic as well, but the building took my breath away.

We sat outside and had some coffee, and Mark got bored waiting for food, so he took pictures of me. This is what I look like lately.

That's right. Sarcastic. That's how I look. And very sunny.

Glasgow is also a place where tall poppies tend to get cut down pretty quick. And you can't get much taller a poppy than Wellington. So, the built a statue to him, and then quickly proceeded to develop a tradition mocking said statue with a traffic cone and a funny hat on top of it. Ah, Glaswegian spirit, I suppose.

Mark had a job interview the day before we went to Scotland with a law firm called Leathes Prior in Norwich. So, while we were in Glasgow, every text, phonecall and email carried a jolt of excitement and nerves. Suddenly, he looked at his little screen... an email... from Leathes Prior. I told him to open it RIGHT NOW, MISTER. He looked at me after a few moments, and said, "I've been offered..." I screamed as loud as I could manage, given that we were in an art gallery, hugged him, and said, "Let's get out of here, you gotta call your mom, let's go have a pint!"

On the way out, I stopped into the gift shop. Sometimes gift shops have cool things. Not usually, but sometimes. Mark was in a daze over getting the offer, and my eye caught on the ring I'm wearing in this picture. It's like a giant red button.

I wasn't sure about buying it, but Mark said I should. It was cute and only £3, he said, I should have it. So, I walked over to the counter, handed it over with some cash. As I was getting my change, Mark said, "Oh! Oh, no, wait, I wanted to buy that for you!"

"Too late," I said, "Be quicker next time."

"I was distracted about the job," he said, "I really wanted to buy you that."

"Sorry."

"Here," he said, trying to hand me some money, "Let me pay you for it, then it'll be like I bought it."

That is not ok. Am I right, ladies? I'm right.

It was better this way, too, because poor Mark felt bad all weekend, every time anyone said they liked my new ring. And everyone liked it. Because it is a kickass ring.

After getting the big news, we tried to walk around Glasgow a little more, but I felt like Mark was really looking forward to seeing his family and celebrating his job. I would have been happy to just go, but he insisted on walking up to the Cathedral (which would have been beautiful, I'm sure, but was mostly covered with scaffolding).

The gardens were pretty, though.

And we caught an awesome bagpipe band rehearsal.

And on the way up there, I found another fabulous door, to go into my ever-growing collection, and someday photobook, entitled Awesome Doors I Found While I Was Looking for Something Else.

A close up.

Eventually, though, we couldn't bear the excitement alone any longer. We headed toward Prestwick, where a congratulatory celebration was waiting.

More tomorrow! Prestwick! Edinburgh! Readers! I'm back!

Audio Obscura

2011-08-05T00:30:00.001+10:00

A little over a month ago, when I went to a literary event at Piccadilly Station, I did not imagine I would have occasion to attend another, not just within the same year, but within the same quarter of one.

Manchester, however, is a city full of surprises. The Manchester International Festival was full of exciting, cool events.

Audio Obscura was put together by renowned poet Lavinia Greenlaw, and again used the backdrop of Piccadilly Station to introduce questions of private lives in public spaces.

Mark was coming into town that weekend, so I met him at the train station. We got our headphones, hit play, and started walking around the station, listening to a pre-recorded 1/2 hour soundscape loaded onto an .mp3 player.

Now, I really enjoyed Station Stories. I thought it was awesome. And I was hoping to be duly impressed with this event as well.

But I just wasn't.

The 1/2 hour soundscape, by virtue of being pre-recorded, rather than performed, felt less dynamic. It was decidedly less interactive, as people who were unaware of the event didn't involved at all (compare that to how David Gaffney's story forced unaware people to get involved). Which also meant that listening to Audio Obscura also felt more insular.

Also, the soundscape didn't have clear narrative... it was much more poetic, which shouldn't surprise me, considering it was written by a poet. Several different voices, speaking unconnected thoughts. Occasionally, you'd hear a strand left and picked up again, but just as often, you wouldn't. Maybe it's just me, but I believe in narrative.

I also felt the thoughts being voiced were far too intense. Yes, personal dramas do happen at train stations. But not for most people, not all the time. There was too much anger, too much intensity for it to feel... possible. Only one of the speakers was reciting banal thoughts about not being able to find his platform, which I think is probably far more common. It would have been interesting to intersperse more of that into the soundscape, I think.

But I think the biggest problem for me might have actually been intended. Because no one was performing these thoughts, which were being cast into my brain, I had no one to "stick" them onto. I just ended up putting them on whomever I saw at any point in the station. I was constantly casting about to see who these thoughts might fit with... and I started to feel very irresponsible. Surely, that woman isn't thinking about murdering someone, she's just returning a dress to the Monsoon. It felt voyeuristic, attaching these angry, intense thoughts onto passersby. It felt unfair. Maybe we weren't meant to try to attach those thoughts onto anyone, but I know I couldn't help myself. Neither could Mark.

We took off our headphones and looked carefully at one another before I finally broke the silence. "That wasn't nearly as good as Station Stories."

He, of course, hadn't been to see that excellent event, but he'd read my blog about it.

"No, it doesn't seem like it was."

We returned the headphones, feeling slightly disappointed, and went to meet some friends down the pub...

More MIF stuff:

Wagner: I had won 4 free tickets to see a preview of the MIF performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle. The performance opened with a specially commissioned new prologue that vaguely told the story of how Wagner wrote the opera, using actors and the symphony. It was brilliant.

Then, after intermission, they performed a part of Die Walküre. The singing and music were absolutely fantastic. My only complaint was that they projected English subtitles on the walls... and when faced with words I can read, I just can't stop myself.

The opera lost a lot in translation, as any song does. But more than that, the words of this opera are banal and boring and they make you wonder why these lyrics are being sung with such passion...

For example, and these are not quotes, they are just things I remember and thus may not be perfect:

"Brünnhilde, where have you been?"

"I had work to do."

"Father, have I shamed you so that you make me thus full of shame? Have I debased you so that you now make me so base?"

And so on...

It would be better, for me at least, to just hear the singing, not understand the words, and appreciate the music.

Wu Lyf: I'd heard about this band on my friend Joe Sparrow's blog A New Band A Day. Check it out. It's awesome. He was over them by the time this show happened (he's a hype-maker, so he sees past the hype quicker than the rest of us). But I bought tickets because a) I'd never heard them before, b) they're young and seem exciting and fun, and c) the show was going to be in a tunnel.

I convinced some friends to come along, and in the end, it was a good time. I think I probably like Wu Lyf's music at least enough to listen to it, but:

1) A tunnel is not a good venue for a band. The acoustics were horrendous.

2) A band needs good sound people. Apart from the acoustics, their mix was really bad. You could barely hear the guitar.

3) Depending on where you're standing, the crowd can either be amazing and wonderful or total pricks.

I began the show standing in a section of the latter. I could not believe all these people had paid and come out to talk to each other. They shouted at each other throughout, not even listening to the music, not dancing, nothing. Once we moved to another section though, closer to the stage, we had a much better time, listening to the band, rather than the pointless shouted conversation of a hipster clique. I really don't get it.

I went to a bunch of other MIF events, but I don't have anything to say about them except this: I really liked the MIF. I liked how the city felt while it was on. It world-premiered huge amazing shows, and even New York Times wrote articles about Manchester during that month. It made the city hum and buzz and feel alive, and you had a reason to just head into the city and see what was going on. I loved it. I'm looking forward to the MCR Literature Festival and the MCR Science Festival, because I'm hoping they'll just be nerdier versions of the MIF. I can't wait.

Quick note: I don't love doing posts without photos, but I seriously did not take a single photograph of an MIF event. Bad blogger. I will learn my lesson. As of tomorrow morning, I am headed to Scotland, and I will definitely take pictures. I am visiting Mark. At his parents' house. And during the weekend, I will meet his twin brother and his older brother. And his best friends. No pressure, then.

Obviously Objectionable Occupants

2011-07-28T21:08:00.000+10:00

I will get back to my feelings about the various Manchester International Festival events I went to. I promise.

But last night was another Bad Language event, the monthly literary open-mic night held at the Castle Hotel. It's run by lovely, talented, kind people and many talented and interesting people read their stories there fairly regularly. It's always a fun evening, and last night, I actually remembered to not only bring my voice recorder, but also to turn it on!

(Bad Language folks: If any of y'all want me to record your stories next time, let me know!)

So, here you are, a little story about Atlanta... and a little "found" poem about flat-hunting.

Listen to them here

Because my voice recorder is a little bit crappy, which is to say, it's held together by duct tape, it sounds to me like it missed a crucial word in the poem. Here are the words, for those who might be interested:

Catherine: Monica Grove 1B 1530
Howard: Talbot Road 2A 1600
Monica Grove
5 rooms
All postgrads
But the one guy who was there
wasn't wearing a shirt
was listening to awful dance music
loudly
and didn't turn it down.
Not a home.
More like a student flat
per Mackenzie Road, with more
obviously objectionable occupants.

MCR International Festival

2011-07-26T02:28:00.000+10:00

While the Manchester International Festival (MIF) was on, I kept going to events and thinking, "I should write a post about that. People will be interested in that."

And then I didn't. Because I've been finally getting stuck into my thesis, because I had big other stressful things going on, because I have big other wonderful things going on, and occasionally, I like to sleep, or at least, to dream.

Now that the Manchester International Festival is well and truly over (ended on 17 July), I'm quite happy that I haven't written a single word about any of the events I attended. That accidental occurrence entitles me, I think, to writing a "round-up." Herd your cattle, cowgirl.

Derf. I've just written down a list of the MIF things that I went to and have *lots* of opinions about. It is long. Warning: this may take a few posts...

Opening Night
Björk | Biophilia

First off, yes, I know everyone else has already written about this. Nevertheless.

I bought myself a ticket well in advance, thinking I would go alone. To my surprise, my dear friend Stuart rang me the day before the show. He'd gotten some free tickets through his radio show, which were coincidentally for the same evening! So, I went to see Björk play with Stuart and the lovely girls from his show, and since it's always nice to have company at concerts, I was feeling pretty lucky.

As it happened, it was *very* good to be at the show with company. Because that show was bizarre. Brilliant and fun and interesting. But weird. First off, Björk was wearing an enormous orange wig. So big, she needed a big chinstrap under it. There's a great image of it on this page, and you can see a clip of the show here. Björk's singing was beautiful, and she was backed by the Icelandic choir Graduale Nobili, who were absolutely fantastic.

Biophilia is meant to be all about music and science, so it was fittingly housed in the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry. I've been there before, it's a lot like Sydney's Powerhouse Museum, but housed in the world's oldest surviving railway station. *swoon* Unfortunately, this also meant there were no seats and people crowding at the stage sort of obstructed the view of the stage.

This was no ordinary Björk show, as I'm sure her fans will already have read. This show also had a larger educational aspiration. Björk didn't just perform at MIF, she had an artist's residency there, and she organised a bunch of workshops for children to learn about science.

She had special custom instruments created for the show, each designed to express and show some scientific force. A big tesla coil that flared to the bass was meant to say something about electricity. A gamelon made of four pendulums used gravity to make music. An organ was meant to teach the power of air as a force. Even the beats for her songs were generated using pi, so they're not rhythmic at all. Trust Björk to still make that sound good.

But the thing is... Björk is an artist. A spectacularly eccentric one. She is the kind of person who would marry Matthew Barney. She is, simply, *not* an educator. She's not an explainer. She is that most wonderful thing: a poet. And as one of my heroes Dirac once said, "I do not see how a man can work on the frontiers of physics and write poetry at the same time. They are in opposition. In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite."

I don't completely agree with Dirac on that, but in this case, yes, yes, for heaven's sake, yes. I doubt anyone came out of Björk's Biophilia show feeling like they learned something about DNA or plate tectonics. We had to read the programme just to figure out what the custom instruments represented.

But absolutely everyone came out thinking it was delightful, and the music is wild, surprising, uncatchy and dramatic. Definitely check out the album.

Right.

Dr. Dee
Damon Albarn | An English Opera

I had absolutely zero intention of going to this show. I never really got into Blur, and the only Albarn project I've ever liked was Gorillaz. But Stuart had a spare ticket going, so off we went! It was at the Palace Theatre, which is gorgeous. I'd never seen it before, but it's like an an old opera theatre, all ornate and red velvet everywhere. Lovely.

The opera was... well, operatic. It was sung in English, but I still didn't understand most of the words. The music was nice to listen to, the way opera often is, when you can't understand the words. What I liked best about Dr. Dee, though, was the visual experience. A set that moved up and down, Elizabeth I being lowered over the stage and then just kept mid-air, looming over all the action, occult-looking drawings projected onto her dress, folded paper used as set designs. It was beautiful. There are some dramatic and excellent photographs here.

And of course, because I can't let anything pass without doing at least a little research, I ended up quite intrigued by Dr. Dee, as well. The opera is a classic rise and fall story. John Dee was an advisor to Elizabeth I, a polymath, a scientist, a renowned mathematician. Wikipedia says, "in his lifetime Dee amassed the largest library in England and one of the largest in Europe." But like many geniuses, he couldn't stop until he'd figured out the code the explained the world... and a man named Edward Kelley, a sort of Rasputin figure, who claimed to have supernatural powers, and convinced Dee to focus all his energies on the occult. Dee lost favour in Elizabeth's court. Accused of being a conjurer, of being Faust, of making a deal with the devil, his library was stolen, and he died in poverty, selling off his posessions to care for himself and his daughter.

Fascinating, right?

To be continued...

By chance.

2011-07-06T06:50:00.001+10:00

Just about a month ago, I traveled down to London to be an audience member on the Radio 4 Bookclub. I truly *heart* Radio 4. Sure it's got its problems. Maybe too much comedy radio plays. Maybe a few too many airings of the Archers. It's still my favourite radio station ever. I listen to it just about all the time. Except when I'm writing essays and have to concentrate. Then I listen to Radio 3.

Anyway, Radio 4 have a great bookclub series. They invite an author on, get some listeners to read the book, come in and discuss in a little studio. Having tried to get a radio bookclub going a few times in Sydney, it was exciting to be a listener/reader for this one... especially since the book being discussed was The God of Small Things and the author, Arundhati Roy, was going to be there!

I'd been a fan of Arundhati Roy's politics for years. She's a hero. But I hadn't read her novel until Monika gave it to me as she was moving to New Zealand. I was helping her pack up to leave Sydney that day, and my eye wandered over the cover.

"I've never read The God of Small Things," I said. "Whenever I tell someone I'm Indian, the first question I usually get is, 'Have you read The God of Small Things?' I feel like they don't think I'm a proper brown person when I say I haven't."
"Take it," Monika said, "My gift to you: you can be a proper brown person."

I'm lucky to have friends who know when I'm being funny and choose to play along.

So, I read the book. I wasn't all that impressed, honestly, and some of you may remember my review here.

Cut to me in Manchester on any random night, listening to Radio 4 and the rain, and at the end of that month's bookclub show, they invite listeners who want to be at a bookclub with Arundhati Roy to write in.

Good thing I can type fast like lightning. I wrote in. They wrote back. I got myself another copy of the book, because Monika's gift to me was still in Sydney, and I bought a ticket to London.

On June 6th, I was so excited about being in London, that I found myself walking down the street with a big stupid grin on my face, American-tourist-style.
"I'm going to be in a BBC building," I thought, "Oh, wow!"
To be fair, it wasn't raining or even foggy or cold, so I did have *quite* a lot to be happy about.

Some handsome young gentlemen who were walking hand-in-hand down the street saw my goofy smile and said, "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" I don't know why everyone in Manchester's always talking about how cold people are in London. Those two gay men seemed *lovely.*

I had a few hours to kill before the show, which was being taped in Bush House. Which just happens to be right near Covent Garden... which just happens to also have a Tatty Devine boutique. I love small coincidences. I dropped by and bought a new necklace (pictured below), and then wandered around, enjoying the Covent Garden cafes and streets. I found a truly wonderful bookbinder supply shop, and they even do mail-orders. FAB. And Charles Dickens once lived near here! London is so old and cool and interesting and overwhelming, I nearly passed out.

Finally, it was time to go to Bush House, and get in the studio.

Bush House is a gorgeous old building with winding corridors and marble stairwells and a courtyard. They sort of ushered us through very quickly, though, so I only got exteriors.

The studio itself was nothing to look at, but they did give us some free BBC wine. And I got to take a photo with Arundhati Roy, a proper brown woman if ever there was one, by my account.

The bookclub taping went well, and I even got a question in! But of course, I don't know if it'll end up in the final edit of the show. It won't go to air until October– don't worry, I'll put a link up when it does, especially if my question makes the cut!

I left the studio and headed back toward the train station, still beaming and thrilled to have met Ms. Roy, and been in a BBC studio. It was just a lovely day altogether.

And lest you think that's the end of the story, dear reader, read on:

For those who haven't been on an British rail train, the seating on the trains here works like airplanes. As in, you get assigned a seat when you buy a ticket, you sit next to some stranger.

I found my reserved seat, pulled out my computer, and started watching some This American Life: The TV show. Some guy sat next to me, and as you do in airplanes, we nodded at each other. Made short comments throughout the train ride. Near the end, I muttered, "Christ, it always feels longer coming back. I swear it didn't take this long this morning."

Stranger said, "You went into London and back in one day?"

I explained that I had to be in Manchester the next day, that I had a chance to meet Arundhati Roy, that it was worth it, even if it meant six hours of train in one day.

The train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, and as we shuffled onto the platform, he asked if I wanted to get a drink. "Sure," I said, because I am adventurous and spontaneous, and because I trust this city to put amazing new people in my path. I will not turn them away.

His name's Mark, and he hates Manchester. Or at least he did then. I told him how much I love this city, and he looked surprised. When he told me why he hated it, I quickly diagnosed the problem. He had not been to the right places. He had not seen Chetham's, he had not been on a single history walking tour. He had not been to the Knott Bar. He had not made the right friends.

"It's your lucky day," I told him, "I am an *excellent* friend to have in this town."

Too late. He was leaving in three weeks, he said, to go back to Scotland, and then hopefully London.

As regular readers and my dear friends and family surely already know, I don't give up so easy.

I was determined to show him, in what little time he had left, that this town could be amazing. I should get paid by MCR tourism for this kind of work, seriously.

The upshot? He left for Scotland last week, but he's coming to visit soon. Another chance to convince another convert.

How to say what needs to be said?

2011-06-27T00:24:00.000+10:00

Astute readers will have noticed the slight change in the title and header of this blog, from "Bad Pennies: They'll come back as soon as they're ready," to a more singular variety.

That is because, as of today, I am, as they say, on my own.

I started this blog when Craig and I moved to Australia, to keep in touch with Atlanta-based beloved people. And over the last three years, it has grown, and it has reflected nearly every shift in our lives.

And I have grown. And Craig has grown.
And we are no longer who we were when we set off on an adventure called Australia.

So, this blog will now reflect this shift in our lives.

We are each on our own.

Happier posts coming soon, I promise, dear dear readers.

On a clear day you can see to Penrith

2011-06-11T09:25:00.012+10:00

My trip to Manchester wasn't all relaxation and train-station-based theatre, my friends, oh no. It was also a serious business trip that had me visiting the Photon Science Institute to have a stickybeak, meet prospective collaborators, give a presentation and paint myself as generally competent and good drinking company in case they feel like handing out postdoctoral appointments soon. And so on Wednesday we set out for the uni in classic Craig fashion, i.e., unsure of where the building is, exactly, and what it's called. Fortunately I had my contact's number written down and we didn't have problems. In short, the visit was very good, and my presentation was fine, and Nija, ever the fan of science, came along too, wearing her new T-Rex necklace. Nija sat down in the third row or so, amidst the people of the Institute.

Ensued a play:

UNTITLED
by CMJ

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Geek
Nija

G: (smarmily, eyebrow cocked) Heh-looooo, are you a student at the Institute?
N: (chipperly) No, that's my sweetheart up there! The ginger!
G folds his arms and slumps into his chair.
N: So are you a student here? What do you do?
G: Nothing. It's complicated. Whatever. Mumbles.
Silence

Exeunt omnes.

A true slice of life! Oh well, can't win them all.

Anyhow, we set out after the visit to one of England's classic destinations, the Lake District (or possibly the Lakes District), famous for astounding scenery, quaint villagelets and rakish authors who died more than a century ago, like Wordsworth and Thomas de Quincey. It's about an hour north of Manchester, so in Sydney terms it's in metropolitan Manchester. We set out on our journey in classic Craig fashion, i.e., I had looked at the map (as we sat in the car before leaving) and kept telling myself the numbers of the motorways we needed to take, but didn't write it down as I thought "It's only two numbers, how can I forget?" Well, first we got stuck in traffic (or we participated in traffic, as it were) on the Ring Road for an hour just trying to get to the other side of town. Second, all the motorways leaving Manchester are sixty-something, so I just basically got mixed up between 61 and 66.

A good 30 minutes into our journey up the 66, the thing terminated and put us onto a surface street. I was trying to get to the M6. Something was amiss. Nija had to drag out the map, which she hates being responsible for, and I wound up agitated and not very friendly about getting us to the 61, so we could get to the 6. It wasn't pretty, and I was sorry, and I encourage you to write things down, reader, lest you wake your partner from a pleasant doze to give her bad news and then have her fix it.

We did get to the 61 (thanks, darling) and then to the 6, and then wound our way up past wind turbines and through lovely countryside into Cumbria and the hamlets of the Lakes. Fortunately, summer was on its way to the North and so it was light out until about 10PM---fantastic---so even though it took us twice as long to get there than expected and even though we'd left in mid-afternoon, we could still take in the epic landscapes and mirrored surfaces of the lakes, meres, tarns, sluices, estuaries, wassers, fjords, estanques, pozos, billabongs, and whatever else they call ponds up there in that part of the shop.

On a friend's recommendation, we planned to stay in Grasmere, a village about 20 minutes beyond Windermere, "the Katoomba of the Lakes". We got there and checked ourselves into a comfortable guest house, headed into the dark for a pub meal, then returned with wine.

Next morning we were surprised to find that someone had been making sacrifices to the god of good weather; despite the rainy week we'd had in Manchester we got one of the Lakes' elusive beautiful days. We packed up some of the food we'd brought from the city, had some breakfast, picked up some maps, and headed out according to one of them on a several-hour walk around Grasmere lake. Fifteen minutes later, we still hadn't gotten out of Grasmere, because we couldn't figure out where, exactly, the map was telling us to start. I suppose it was more of a set of vague instructions than a "map", per se. Eventually, thanks to the help of a kindly hotel receptionist, we were on the right track.

I don't know what to say about the walk, which was without incident. These pictures say it much more eloquently:

And so on!

Also featured were these guys:

It was indeed an excellent walk, and by the time we got back to Grasmere we were in need of some tea and cake, which fortunately were available at the tea and cake shop. Afterward we grabbed our car and toodled up toward Penrith, capital of the Eastern Lake District. We were hoping for a scenic journey, whatever the destination, and my choice of a tiny little squiggle on the map to get there paid off big-time, with some harrowing driving and frankly unbelievable views. It doesn't make for good blogging, though, since we didn't take pictures; we just sat agog at the immensity and diversity of the landscape, from green pasture-lined hills to sharp, craggy, dusty ranges, all in the span of a few miles.

We made it to Penrith in one piece. For our Australian readers, this is the original Penrith we're talking about here, and let me tell you that it's quite an honour to set foot in the place that inspired our own mountainside metropolis. One can see why some voyager might have longed for his home such that he decided to spawn a new one. There is a nice clock tower.

And note this in your travel journals: not a pub in Penrith has macaroni and cheese. We checked. But they do serve beer, and hot chips, and so we tucked in, and watched Obama give a speech without the sound on, and we headed back to Grasmere for a quiet night.

What is a train station?

2011-06-06T02:52:00.006+10:00

Before Craig got here, a friend of mine asked me what Craig and I would do. I listed the knowns: spend time introducing Craig to my new friends, go to the Lake District, go to Mossley and see Acorn's Antiques. I said there were unknowns, too.

My friend said, "I thought you'd just spend all week in bed."
I laughed. "Right," I said, "We're not really that sort of people."

In the ten short days that Craig was in Manchester, we did many things. Some might say too many. For example: on his fabulously rainy last day, we went to the Manchester Art Gallery. But no one could possibly question Station Stories.
...

Piccadilly train station is, perhaps, not quite at the centre of the city, but it is Manchester's main train station. Its current incarnation was built in the 60s, and as such, it is an enormous glass structure. In its own way, it can be beautiful.

It is modern, with digital arrival and departure signs. 12 train platforms, as well as the Metrolink light rail platforms below. It is also a mall, housing Starbucks, Monsoon, TieRack, and the only Manchester branch of the enormous UK chain The Bagel Factory, which sells and promotes bagels as "America's best kept health secret!" Indicating, of course, a nearly complete misunderstanding of bagels, Americans, and more generally, perhaps more sadly, health.
...

But what is a train station? For the most part, I think, for most people, a train station is a waiting place. A place merely designed to take you from home to a place you want or need to be. It is a place you deal with, a place where you undergo sacrifice of time and pleasure, in order to get somewhere you would prefer to be. Or perhaps somewhere you have to be.

A train station is also a public place, where many people have private trajectories. Some are coming home, some are starting holidays. Some are leaving for work, some arriving from it. In many public places, everyone is largely doing the same thing, in restaurants, most people eat. But train stations are a special sort of public place, with special rules. You do not usually congregate in a train station. You pay 30p to use the restroom. There are special rules.

And for the most part, I think, for most people, not a lot happens in a train station. It is a waiting place. It is a getting from here to there place. It is just an in-between place.

Sure it is a shopping place, too. But only as a product of waiting. You wouldn't go to the train station to shop. You would shop there only because you had to wait there. It is a drinking and eating place, as well, but again. Only because of the waiting. **

Now imagine this:
Approximately 12 strangers stand on the mezzanine of Piccadilly Station, looking down at the ground floor. Imagine you are watching the amorphous crowd. You stand, watching, picking out individuals as they make their ways through the station. This one has an enormous backpack. Maybe she's on her way to the trip of a lifetime. Maybe she's just returned from it. Maybe, just maybe, you think, Manchester is part of it.

Now imagine this:
You and approximately 11 strangers are not only standing on a mezzanine and watching. You are all also wearing headphones, making you look, if anyone cared to look, like a group of very special people.

See what I mean?
Regardless.
In the headphones, you hear ambient music, sounds from around the train station. You can also hear muffled announcements, fighting their way into your ears, despite the headphones.
And then you hear a man's voice, very nearly inside your head, telling you the story of the girl he met, loved and lost at the train station.

You hear him, but you do not see him. He is one of the crowd.
And because you cannot see him, he could be anyone. These thoughts, this story you're hearing, they could be anyone's. Because a train station is a waiting place, that makes it also, strangely sometimes, a thinking place. And any of these people you're watching could be thinking this. Something like this.

Eventually, if you pay attention, he makes himself known. He wanders through the crowd, speaking quietly into a wireless microphone, and though you are 50 feet away, you can hear him just as you could if he were in your bed, telling you everything he'd been through with that woman. It feels like he's talking to you.

Really, he's talking to you. And approximately 11 strangers.

He told us his story, about how she wrote him cards, and how he needed to get rid of them, now that she wasn't his any longer. He tries leaving them around the station these days, he says, but it's hard. People are always noticing, giving them back to him. "Hey, mate! You dropped this!"

And as in his story, so in real life. You and approximately 11 strangers are the only ones, you see, who know he's trying to drop these things. And you are unnoticed. You are 50 feet away. There are many people in this train station who are there merely to wait, and they do what people do. Mostly, they do not notice. They do not notice him dropping his love letters, and they do not notice approximately 12 strangers watching them, with headphones on. But some do notice.
"Hey mate," they say, in entirely good faith. "You dropped this!"

He takes the card back, and thanks them for noticing, and continues telling his story and drops the card again.

And you stand there on the mezzanine and listen to this private story unfold. You watch and hear this performance, performed for an intimate audience: only you and approximately 11 strangers.

Is a train station, then, a private place?
Or is a train station, then, a theatre?
...
We heard six stories that day, performed by six writers. They performed at different parts of the station, and we walked to varying areas to hear and sometimes see them.

David Gaffney, Nicholas Royle, and Jenn Ashworth were especially memorable, perhaps only because I had already heard of those writers. Or perhaps because I could, in some way, relate to the stories they told.

There was a very obscure sort of poetry by Tom Jenks that was difficult to hang onto because I could not read his words as he said them, and his words were sometimes tricks, as poems can sometimes be. There was a conspiracy tale about the Masons.

Their stories were live-mixed with music and sounds from around the train station. Very cool technology was used to transmit the live-mix to our headphones.

It was futuristic. No. It was the future. I think this because Station Stories, in a way, raised almost too many questions for it not to be the future.

Architectural questions.
For example:
What is a train station?
When you really start thinking about them, they are truly strange places. They are never fully closed, so there is never really an "inside." They have doors that demarcate inside and outside for people. But the doors for the trains are always open to the outside. Perhaps it makes sense for them to mix public and private like this, to be so ambiguous.

Dramatic questions.
For example:
What is a stage?
For Station Stories, the thoroughfares were the stage, sometimes. And sometimes the dead spaces of the station were the stage.

Ethical questions.
For example:
Is it ok to have people to unintentionally become part of a performance against their knowledge and/or will? Or where is the line between art and life, and are we allowed to find them and trample on them in this way? Are we not allowed? Who lays down those rules?

Anthropological questions.
For example:
What is a performance? And who are performers?
The writers, surely, were performing. Traditionally. But what of the strangers who didn't know what was going on, and yet still played by the special rules of the train station, by refusing to let a man drop a card and keep walking? What of them doing what was expected? What of the others who ignored the cards, who didn't notice the cards? What of them doing what was equally expected?

And more to the point and to the problem questions.
For example:
What of us?
Occasionally people pointed up at the mezzanine, alerting their family to our presence, laughed at the specials, or just looked confused in our direction. We looked back, sometimes. That, too, was that a performance?
....
Of course, individual lives and stories and trajectories are going on everywhere all the time. Only a solipsist could imagine otherwise.

But Station Stories made it art, made it high-tech, and because of the excellent writers, it was damn engaging, too. Craig said I had this face on the whole time:

Which is too bad, because I feel like I look rather stern and unhappy in that picture. Just about angry.
"No," he said. "That's what you look like when you're thinking."

Oh, dear. I might need to stop thinking so much, if that's how I look, I said.
And he said something sweet, like he does, because he's that sort of person. It was, undoubtedly, loving. The kind of thing he says all the time that I forget quite easily. I'm that sort of person.
...
Two days later, we were back at Piccadilly, this time having a private story of our own in that very public space. He was leaving again, and this time I won't see him for probably a full year, unless we manage something magical. He probably did, but I can't remember if he told me this time that I look beautiful.

I don't remember the right things sometimes. I'm that sort of person.
....

**
This is a footnote, added mere hours after this post was published.

I have twice been in train stations when they became not waiting places.
The first:

Years ago in Atlanta, I was on my way to a protest against an abomination that is otherwise known as war. I was traveling on MARTA, which is an abomination in itself. I tell you what, it is not "Smarta."

Having cleverly deduced that a truly massive horde of protestors (maybe 30 people?) were using public transit to attend the protest (because, I suppose, we were holding placards and banners that said, sometimes, "No Blood for Oil"), the cops shut MARTA down to prevent us joining the massive horde that was already at the protest location. Which is to say, our combined might would have equalled that of... well, maybe 100 people. Protesting isn't that big in Atlanta. We were already on the train, and we were only a few stops away, but now we were locked in.

And someone started singing. Not some obvious protest song, not Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan. Not Joe Hill. Oh, no. No, no.

Someone started singing, and we all joined in. I found myself, with maybe 50 other people, singing loud...

Take my hand, we'll make it, I swear!
O-oh! We're halfway there!
O-oh! Living on a prayer!

I present for your judging eyes, then, dear readers: Bon Jovi as a transformer of space.

The second:
Craig and I waited on the platform, just a few weeks ago, for the train that would arrive and a few minutes later, take him away. We said our goodbyes, the train rolled in. And rather than him quietly taking his seat, we were overwhelmed by 100s of laughing, cheering, partying, screaming people streaming out of the train.

Man City had just won the FA cup. City fans made the train, the train station, the streets into a place of pride.... Craig's train left with him on it, and I followed the party into the train station and out of it, laughing and taking heart in the collective joy that filled the train station.

Manchastic! Er...Manchesterrific? (Part II)

2011-05-28T12:27:00.015+10:00

Day Two of my Manchester visit took us to the Victoria Baths, a beautiful disused bathhouse near Nija's place:

Therein we expected to find a 'zine fair'. 'Zines' (zeens) if you don't know, are basically small-run, independently-produced, often hand-made booklets or magazines, usually focusing on art, poetry, short stories, music, subcultures involving those things, or just weirdness. It's actually a really hard-to-describe concept, now that I think about it. It boggles the mind how many of these things must have been put out over the years around the world. Actually, the fact that they're called something in particular, and not just 'books' or 'magazines', says something about modern publishing. As usual, the Wikipedia entry is worth looking at. I could probably drone on and on about them, but that's not the point here.

Point is, we went in and found that the fair was part of the FutureEverything festival's 'Handmade' event and included some installation 'kinetic art' pieces called Physical Oscillators by Antony Hall:

Amazing!

There were zines indeed, and vegan baked goods, and weird arts/crafts/science projects, and so on. Nija found out about a community laser milling outfit that will cut all kinds of stuff out of plastic, metal etc for you if you give them a design, I presume for free or very little dough, much like Sydney's Rizzeria is meant to do for people needing high-quality colour printing. (PS: Check out news about the MCA Zine Fair in Sydney this past weekend on the Rizzeria wesbite. What the weird?! Must be that time of year.)

That evening we had a hot date with Nija's friends Michael and Bernadette, who live in the lovely little Tameside town of Mossley, a 20-minute trainride to the Northeast of Manchester. We headed up to Victoria Station to get a train but just missed ours and had an hour to kill. Victoria is a fine old place, with a classic look (see yesterday's post) and a great tile mural near the entrance:

Something about those lists of sea destinations to the east just takes my breath away.

So with our spare hour Nija and I decided to tuck into our first pints of the day at the station pub. Fortunately they also served nachos, which Nija prescribed to me as part of my 'fattening-up' diet. Now let me tell you something: I've never eaten nachos in a train station before, and I did that day. And they were not the best nachos ever, but they were also not the worst. And there I shall leave it.

The plate of nachos almost cleaned entirely, we got our train, which was full and wound up getting hung at some point along the journey due to a failed train up ahead. It was amazing how nearly everyone on our car went to sleep as a response. Nija dozed off, I fought bravely but probably had a wink, and all those around us just lapsed into comas as though the train were filling with its own exhaust. We got moving again, but the trip to Mossley took us twice what it should have, I'm told.

The purpose of our journey was that we had tickets to a Mossley theatre company's production of Acorn Antiques, Victoria Wood's soap-opera spoof about a small-town ('Manchesterford') antiques shop and the grotesque caricature-people involved with the place. The play is based on a regular segment of her 80s TV series Victoria Wood As Seen on TV, but it's a musical. The main characters are there, but the play features all mod cons, such as mobile phones.

After a pleasant visit to Michael and Bernadette's place and some excellent homemade pizza and salad, we walked up to 'Top Mossley' for the show. This just happened to be the final show of the run, and so the community centre was packed. We were all worked up, looking forward to a classic small-town theatre production, as you do. We wanted crappy sets, flubbed lines, dazed performers. Something to chortle over when we got home, don't you know. The schadenfreude of the city-dweller.

And we were resoundingly disappointed.

The sets were very competently-built and didn't collapse once. The lead actors were probably all professionals. Even the obviously non-professional cast members were good. The orchestra was top-notch, and the singing and dancing were quite fine (especially the surprise group tap-dance number). Worst of all, it was hilarious. And I mean the kind of hilarious that you're allowed to laugh at!

We were told we wouldn't get most of it, not being from Britain, but I think we actually cottoned on to quite a bit of it. Broad, crude humour seems to easily surmount whatever national boundary it encounters. It was especially gratifying to see all the old folks guffawing at the jokes about sex and bowel movements. Fantastic! And some of the utterly ridiculous plot elements were just undeniably charming and smart. One character has a cellphone that he says will play 'Daisy, Daisy' if it's his mum's nursing home calling to say she's passed on. Sure enough, it does.

Actually, it seems the play captured the old show's brilliant irreverence really well. Check out this episode from 1990:

It makes me realise that all the professionalism might have actually been completely misplaced. Perhaps what we saw was actually a bad show after all! Note the deliberateness with which Acorn Antiques was meant to look like a low-budget soap opera. In this episode the exterior fly is waving around in the breeze, the actors flub and miss their blocking and cues, the boom mics and cameras dangle into the shot, and Julie Walters almost walks into the audience. Like I said, in Mossley, no one screwed up, the sets were perfect, and everything went off without a hitch!

Silly small-town people.

Next time: the Lakes!

Manchastic! Er...Manchesterrific? (Part I)

2011-05-26T21:25:00.012+10:00

Call it what you will, Manchester is a fine little place. A "mini-Melbourne", I go around saying, as if I've hit on some kind of meaningful nugget of a phrase, when really it's a creaky parochialism if ever there was one. Or maybe that prize should go to "a maxi-Erskineville".

But Manchester is indeed Melbournesque: it's flat, has trams, has buildings from the 1800s, it's "cold", it has nice little bars and cafes, it has wild mobs of rival football fans roaming around, and so on. So here in Sydneytown, when the hipsters look at me askance when I mention Manchester, I just pounce on them with the morsel of truthful analogy-drawing above, and watch the jaws drop. They expect industrial wasteland, and I present them with the notion of a sophisticated playground for the epicurially-inclined. Though I'm not sure how the Manchester Egg fits into that algebra.

Of course, all those benefits pale in comparison---for me, anyway---to the one thing that Manchester, and only Manchester, can claim (and it's not the damn Egg):

No, not the Victoria train station either. I mean, that's nice and all, but I'm talking about the Nija in the lower right-hand corner. She's quite a resource to boast, and any city would be lucky to have her. Of course, she withdrew that honour from Sydney back in June 2010, and ever since then her absence has been noted up and down our long and ragged shoreline.

For me, of course, her departure was particularly tough, as we had for so long gone about as a pair. We came to Sydney two wide-eyed foreigners with very little to our names and only each other to hold on to. When she left after two years, everything changed.

And after dropping her off in Manchester in September of last year, like any good academic I signed up for the next reasonable conference within a few hundred km. Coming from Australia, this is a great scam that allows the Boss to pay for the big ticket airline fare, then the Worker shells out a few peanuts for a local flight. And that's why it makes sense to spend 100 years in school like me!

(Just kidding, Bosses. I hope you know that I considered the conference that you organised to be pretty important. And thanks for the airfare.)

Fortunately, this big-deal conference was in France, in Nice even! A beautiful spot and a 2-hour flight from London (which is a ridiculous ~35-minute flight from Manchester). Long story short, I busted my keister for months getting stuff ready for the conference. I went, had a great time, met some important folks, and got inspired. How could you not, in a conference centre that looks like this:

that's across the street from this?:

Ah France! Such a smörgåsbord of the awful and sublime! (Please note that because of European unification it is now legitimate to mix enthoculinary metaphors as demonstrated in the previous sentence.)

Nice was rather resplendent and is just downwind from Cannes, where at the same moment cinema royalty was agglomerating for its yearly gorging. I can see why they chose May over, say, December for the film festival. (Terrence Malick won the Palme d'Or, by the way, for his very dubious-looking Tree of Life.) I didn't see any famous types, but I did pay €50 for a 10-minute cab ride, so I felt famous.

After I was all conferenced-out, I headed for Manchester via London. Coming in to the Manchester airport my seatmate and I were gazing morosely out the window at the sopped tarmac, the cloudy sky, and the airport workers all bundled up, in mid-May mind you. "Look at that," he groaned. "Lovely!" I chirped. "You're joking, this is grim," he chided. And he was from Glasgow.

My bag, when I got it off the belt, reeked of €24 organic wine, just like the stuff I'd bought in Nice before leaving and stuck haphazardly into my bag. I sensed a connection, which was confirmed when I opened the bag to find one of my wine bottles broken cleanly in half. The contents had dumped out into the bag, but after some inspection it seemed that not everything was wet, which told me that the bag must have been inverted with the wine near the "bottom" so that, hopefully, someone else's bag caught the brunt of it. Maybe it was that person who was clearing his throat incessantly during the flight. I hope so.

I grabbed the train to the city, and as we toddled along in the Manchester exurbs, I noticed an undeniable anxiety that told me that I had changed, that she had changed, that I wasn't ready for this reunion. That maybe she didn't want to see me that much. That things just wouldn't be right.

Before long the buildings started to look familiar: Beetham tower, the wheel, and the other prominent bits of the Manchester skyline. And I got to the Piccadilly Station, where I expected her to be. And she wasn't there. Anxieties more than confirmed!

Did I have the wrong station? How did I mess up? I looked for a phone, dug for change, found none, got frustrated, and just turned on my phone and called. She was late, she apologised, because the website said my flight was delayed. She was on the way.

And I sat on a bench and waited, and eventually saw this person come in across the lobby, a person whose being has occupied so much of my attention for the last decade but who has lapsed from my little physical universe, becoming only an image on a screen, a voice through a speaker, words on a page, a memory, a hope.

She was real, and she was looking for me, and she hugged and kissed me, though I probably smelled of wine. She took me to dinner, and all was well in the Dirty Old Town.

More to come...

Orfortress of Solitude

2011-05-12T05:06:00.002+10:00

This past March, I was on empty, desolate Orfordness, bewildered, looking at these shards of glass that fell from who knows where, into an inadvertent sculpture. Yes, this blog post is way overdue. Anyway: at that moment, the nerdy pun that makes the title of this post popped into my head, and I laughed at myself. Dorky joke, I thought, and went looking for other things to bewilder me and take photos of.

...

Orfordness is a spit off the southeast coast of England. A spit, for those of you not in the geographical know, is a tiny peninsula, a long thin geographical toothpick of a peninsula. Orfordness, importantly, is a shingle spit. For those of you not in the geological know, "shingle" is basically pebbles. Orfordness, then, is a tiny little peninsula mostly made of and covered with pebbles. Excitingly, Orfordness is a vegetated shingle spit. And for those of you not in the know, vegetated shingle spits are incredibly rare on our wild planet. And Orfordness is the biggest one ever, at about 2,300 acres.

Having learned this, you will no doubt be surprised to find I wasn't on Orfordness to continue my internationally-renowned geomorphology research. Rather, I was there to do anthropology work with my Documentary and Sensory Media course, on a field trip.

"You said," I can already hear you say, "you said Anthropology is the study of people and cultures and stuff. Why are you on this field trip to this (admittedly very exciting) vegetated shingle spit that no one lives on??"

Because, dear readers, because I have not told you all. Throughout the three major wars of the 20th century, Orfordness was the British military's testing ground and engineering facility. The British army worked on radar there during WWI, and on the atomic bomb during WWII. The Cold War saw more nuclear research, for decades, Orfordness was the hub of Britain's military technologies.

Oh, yes. Locals call the spit "the island." It's not geographically correct, but since local knowledge trumps all, it is correct to call Orfordness "the island." And after the Cold War, the military abandoned the island, taking all their records with them, and leaving just their buildings and rubbish behind.

Surprisingly, the National Trust purchased Orfordness. The National Trust is a non-profit organisation that mostly preserves and looks after stately homes and large former aristocratic estate lands. They are very well-known for keeping pretty grounds, lovely for a picnic, and keeping beautiful old houses in their intended condition. Anyone can go to National Trust properties, and if you're a member, it's cheaper or free or something.

They are a preserving organisation, they are the preserving angels.

But the military had left no record of what the buildings on Orfordness were used for, or how. No records of which rooms were offices and which were testing facilities. Why are those holes in the wall? No one really knows.

And the National Trust was faced with a strange problem: how can you preserve something without knowing what it looked like before you got there, what it was supposed to look like, and what it was used for? How many people used it? There are so many questions, and mostly only speculation to fill the gap.

So, the National Trust took a bold move and decided not to preserve it. They would let all the buildings fall apart and decay, because trying to preserve them would be pointless. Orfordness is a tiny city abandoned by people, and the National Trust are mostly just letting nature break it down. One National Trust employee sleeps on the island every so often, but no one lives there.

One of the buildings, Cobra Mist, is doing better than the others, because up until midnight Saturday March 26, Cobra Mist housed a BBC World Service Transmitter. There's a whole staff of engineers who work there everyday, so Cobra Mist is not really decaying yet. The World Service Transmitter was shut down due to cuts, and the switch was flicked, heartbreakingly, the weekend I was there.

The equipment that controls the transmitter is beautiful, old 70s-looking stuff, schematics seemingly drawn straight onto them.

This is one of my favourite photos from the entire trip.

A coursemate, Lee Gallagher, got a recording of it the evening before shut off.
Lee does lots of sound recording, especially surreptitious stuff around Manchester. He's a lovely guy, but he doesn't have a blog or podcast or website or pretty much any sort of internet presence, so if you're interested in getting more information about Lee and any of his recording, let me know. I'll get you in touch.

Cobra Mist is a giant bunker of a building, up on stilts filled with unused rooms. Some of these rooms have no windows, some have airlocks. Some have inexplicable lists drawn in chalk on the walls. We don't know why.

This room was completely light tight. I had to use a flash to get this shot.

Bits of rubbish line the halls, and there's no real telling how long it's been there.

We stayed overnight on the island, and spent the next day in blistering cold wind, with our cameras and our sound recorders, documenting in sound and image the abandoned sites of Orfordness, the crumbling buildings. The island was inhospitable that day, you truly felt that no one was supposed to be here.

The island is eerie. There's gray pebbles and grey sky, and everywhere you look, everything's collapsing. No one lives here. It's a rare place for England. Once settled, it doesn't seem like much gets abandoned here.

We walked around, trying to record something other than the wind, and something other than ourselves. The thing about Orfordness is... there's only the sound of the wind and the water washing against the shingle. The only other sounds we recorded were sounds we made, throwing rocks against walls, or singing in dark damp concrete bunkers, our voices echoing, arguing with other echoes.

I'm still not clear on how this particular project was anthropological. I think there are a lot of ways that sound can be used in anthropology. But because this place is so empty, so desolate, so left behind by people, recording sounds of it don't appear to be any more meaningful than sounds of wind and water anywhere. And if we're interested in documenting the fact that this place has been abandoned, then we shouldn't be recording sounds that we make. We should just record the silence and waves and wind. I don't know that the echoes of stones thrown at a concrete wall tell me anything about how people lived here or what this place was for or what it means to anyone now.

Regardless, I'm glad I went on this fieldtrip. Of course, we had a great time there, cooking dinner together and playing pictionary and hangman. We laughed and more than a few of us were completely flummoxed by the idea of recording wind. We had a good time, and we saw something few get to see.

I'm glad I've been to Orfordness. The place is so strange, mostly because you can tell it must have once been full of life. There was a time when Orfordness was the place to be. Hundreds of engineers, blowing things up, testing bombs, maybe blissfully unaware of the effects of radioactive material on human bodies. There must have been a bar, a curry house. It must have been one of the most lively places in Britain. And it wasn't that long ago.

When we were there, though, it was anything but carefree. These buildings are falling apart moment-by-moment, so they're dangerous to walk in. And the National Trust folks told us not to touch or pick up anything on the island. "This is the kind of place where, something might look like it's tar," they said, "We don't know if it's tar." Everything here could be radioactive, tainted with depleted uranium. There's just no telling.

Some things in these buildings look so twisted and tortured, you can't imagine nature alone has done this. But why would the military have done this? And why does no one still know?

Even though this is a National Trust property, they don't let everyone onto these parts of the island. We were there under the auspices of our professor, Rupert Cox, and his friend Louise Wilson, a sound artist, who was commissioned to produce artwork about Orfordness, and she joined our fieldtrip, as an advisor. Her work A Record of Fear is all about the island. Because of them, we had access to the dangerous wilderness of Orfordness.

I don't use that word lightly. Jackrabbits have taken over this island, they hopped madly away every time we stepped in a building.

This place is filled with mystery. Suffused with intrigue. What on earth were they doing? Did this building ever have a roof? We know that in some rooms they were vibrating the bombs, to see how much they could be shaken without spontaneously detonating. Some rooms seemed to be centrifuges. Other rooms had no handles on the outside, so you couldn't accidentally walk into one. The big secrets must have been there.

A de-commissioned nuclear bomb lies in a small museum dedicated to the island's history.

And everywhere, there are remnants of the past to remind you: you really shouldn't be here. You're intruding on the island. No one is supposed to be here.

And the more I think about this lonely island with its falling buildings, pregnant with secrets, the more I think that nerdy joke is a little bit apt. Because of what people did here, people are not supposed to be here now. And people are not here now. It's hard to imagine any one really living on Orfordness these days, with its bleak gray shingle, bleak gray concrete rubble, bleak gray sky and sinister black water. Orfordness today really is a fortress of solitude. Not the safe place of some Cold War-era superhero, whose own reputation as saviour is crumbling every moment. This place is past all that. Rather, it's a fortress that protects its own solitude, to keep its secrets safely held within its own fracturing structures.

Whose Empire?

2011-04-05T23:03:00.005+10:00

Brothers and sisters,
The polls have come to a close and I'm proud to say that our recent Exercise in Democracy was bloodless and brief. Thank you all for your votes, and congratulations to all the candidates; I believe I can say you all ran dignified campaigns on firm foundations of Moral Rectitude.

But there must be one and only one winner. The result, as you might have seen, was a squeaker: "Our Empire Now" came out on top with 11 votes, "Bad Pennies" with 10, and "Wilhelmina the Conqueror" with 9. While the first got the most votes (congratulations, Jeremy!) it did not win the outright majority (>15) that would have immediately catapulted it into Immortality.

More importantly, we have evidence that there were some irregularities in the voting. Several reports from a Southern prefecture in our Glorious Nation describe masses of confused elderly people, befuddled by Blogger's ballot style. Apparently they claimed they voted for "Bad Pennies" but in fact voted for "Wilhelmina the Conqueror". We attempted to call for a runoff at that point between the top two candidates but self-branded "Wilhelminators" beseiged the local police station, where recounts were underway, and threatened to burn it to the ground. You will be delighted to know that their treasonous gathering was Neutralized.

Due to the Nationwide Chaos that I believe would have been unleashed if this electoral stalemate were to continue, we are excited to announce that we have handed the victory to the winner of the most votes by the definition established in a famous American court case. While I admit that I am not a trained lawyer (though I moonlight as our Nation's Attorney General), my reading of that case tells me that because the "rights" of certain voters (i.e., those that voted for the losing candidate) were threatened by the outcome of the election (i.e., they voted for the one that lost), it would be best to nullify the attempt to have an election in the first place. And hey, if it's good enough for the nation that brought us Dunk-a-roos, it's good enough for our Wonderful Homeland.

So thank you, "Two Extra Armies Each Turn", for nearly three years of service. You will always hold a place in our hearts. Condolences to the losers of the election. You fought a brave battle. You will be expected to turn yourselves in to the State Penitentiary by 6AM tomorrow.

End communication. Get back to work.
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(PS: In all seriousness, thanks for the votes, everyone! We just decided "Bad Pennies" was too good to turn down. Jeremy's suggestion actually won and he deserves full credit for it! Now we owe him two very hospitable stays in exotic locales.

We also hope you like the new colour.)

Thrills afoot!

2011-04-04T07:41:00.000+10:00

So, I don't have time to do a proper new post, as I spent 9 hours editing a soundscape today, and I'm nowhere near done! Another 11 hours tomorrow should do it. w00...t?

Not quite.

But, following on the previous post, I have some exciting updates. After putting the post up, I sent an email to Bill Ryan, the fellow who originated the idea of getting authors to insult him, rather than just simply signing his copies of their works.

He wrote back to me and kindly:

Hey Nija,

I love it. Congrats on your first insult! One time and one time only I tried to ask an author again after she'd rejected me once. It was incredibly uncomfortable and weird, so I decided then and there that if someone says no, I thank them for their time and walk away. I guess Twitter's a little different, though. Plus, it doesn't look like Ian's quite as stuck up as my author was.

Cheers,
-Bill

Then, he found me on Twitter, and sent a message out to his followers. I think it's brilliant:

And that's why I flipping love Twitter. I can't get over it.

Me, Ian Sample and not quite everyone I know (aka Twitter)

2011-04-01T09:47:00.002+11:00

Let's be clear. I don't always ask people I've never met to insult me.

But you see, there's a hero out there. He's an ordinary guy, he doesn't take himself too seriously. But he's got a great idea. I'm considering stealing it. Excuse me, I'm considering... flattering him by imitating it. His name is Bill Ryan.

He goes to book signings, and rather than just letting the authors write "Dear Bill, Enjoy," he asks them to insult him. And because people who have written books are, without fail, writers, some of them insult him quite wonderfully. Amy Sedaris, of course, manages a brief, punchy, tarty insult that makes you feel a little bit like vomiting.

Once he has his insult in hard copy, he writes a blog post about the author, the book, the signing event, the insult. It's a brilliant idea, isn't it?

But if an author refuses to insult him, he takes them to task on his blog. He doesn't appreciate people taking themselves too seriously, when they've reached a success at writing that he wants and probably won't get... keep that in mind. The taking of self seriously is not something that this guy is into. And the older I get, the more I reckon it's not something I'm into either. Definitely a hero.

I learned about this guy because of Twitter. Yes. It's a Twitter post. But, you see, you have to finish reading it, because I pulled you in with that intriguing first line. Go ahead, you can go back, read it again, remind yourself why you're going to finish this.

Back? Great.

I follow Ian Sample on Twitter. He's a science writer for the Guardian, and he's on the Guardian's Science Weekly podcast. He makes fun of Alok Jha and puts in good stories. He seems like a nice person. I wouldn't ordinarily expect someone like him to insult me.

But, last week, he sent out this post:

I read the link, learned about Bill Ryan, and didn't really give it a thought.

This was not going so well.

As you can see, I am only completing a contractual obligation at this point.

I was starting to worry that I would have to write a harsh post about Ian Sample, a writer and radio person I like so much. He wasn't going to insult me. I wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into here. Hadn't he asked for more of people asking writers to insult them?? Isn't he a writer? Get ready for a big Nija cop-out.

But what is this? Could it be?

My excitement is, I think, only slightly out of proportion.

Though, I was a little disappointed that it was neither science-based, nor about my weight or intelligence. I mean, this guy CANNOT take direction, am I right?

He's probably just got that 21st-century memory we've all got. So much information we can't remember a ridiculous tweet we received 20 minutes ago.

Sadly, I really felt like I'd had a victory. My life feels sad when I see through it like this...

The next day was Friday, and on Twitter, it is a convention to tell your followers who you think is cool to follow. It's called FollowFriday. There's also ScienceSunday, which was more recently started.

I thought it was only right:

(It was 5:30am, and I had to get on a bus at 7am for a fieldtrip to Orfordness with my Documentary and Sensory Media course. That is for another post, another week.)

I'm already addicted to Twitter. Now I'm already itching for another Twitter insult. People I follow: get excited. get ready.

If Bill Ryan ever sees this: I love your insult books, I think it's a great idea, and I just really like it. I wasn't thinking when I started copying it, but if I get insulted any more this way, it'll all be down to you. Jerk.

This is all getting a bit meta for me. I'm out of here--

And I tell you what.

2011-03-29T02:49:00.000+11:00

When I left Sydney in June last year, I remember feeling like I was only just getting started. I was Senior Producer on a great radio show, I'd just interviewed John Pilger. I was getting stories published, like actually in print, and getting paid for it. I knew the staff at my favourite bar, and I liked them and I think they liked me.

I was finally getting somewhere, after two years of turning the engine over and thrashing myself against that tough city. And then I just I left, just when I finally started inching along the main road. Because, in some way, I was tired. I got exhausted just as I got started.

I've only been in Manchester for 7 months, and here, things are completely different. Maybe it's because this time, I have practice at being new to a town, maybe it's because I've had to find the city by myself, maybe it's because I'm on facebook and twitter this time, or maybe it's just because Manchester is flipping awesome.

But here's the thing: I've only been here 7 months. And I'm already getting somewhere, somewhere I want to be. I'm not even near tired of this place; it's just not as harsh a town as Sydney was. Because for all its beauty and secrets, Sydney, for me, was (is) impossible.

I've already had two visitors. There was Emily (whom I wrote a post about here).

And then there was my dear friend (formerly my graphic design teacher) gregg. He usually spells his name all-lowercase, so I have continued that convention, out of respect for everyone's right to define their own identity regardless of society's "language rules." Also because I do that, too.

Here's the thing about gregg. You've maybe never heard of him. But you've definitely absolutely seen his amazing work, on the cover of some band you love. He's been featured in hot hot design magazines, and he's just finished his MFA in graphic design, arguing that online contracts (i.e. you must agree to our 1,000 pages of terms and conditions before you can see this one photo your mate sent you) are just a touch too complicated for the average interwebs user, who usually just hits the "for fuck's sake, I agree, goddammit, I don't even know what you want from me, but you can have it, just let me see the stupid picture of my mate with underpants on his head already" button.

Yeah, that's the technical explanation of his thesis. Anyway, he went to Birmingham to present it, and dropped by Manchester 1) because his flights worked out better that way and 2) to see me! (in that order).

I took him to dinner at Cedar Tree, a Lebanese restaurant in the NQ, which I will never visit again, not because the food wasn't good, but because it took a really really long time, and I'm not sure I can ever plan to get to a restaurant that long before I get hungry. Then we went for drinks at The Castle, which (if you go by how often I'm there) is definitely my favourite pub. It was a really fun night, lovely to see a familiar face again. We told stories about our parents and about school and work, and generally had an awesome time. He's a good egg, and I'm proud to know him.

Everyone, please think your strongest thoughts for gregg and his lovely family. He and his wife both have full-time jobs and a toddler and an infant, and you know that ain't easy.

Also at the Castle, I went to another Open-Mic reading night, called Bad Language. I couldn't find any friends to go along with me, but I really wanted to hear some of these storytellers, so I decided to go alone. I ended up getting put on the list read, because there had been a cancellation! Some people I really admire told me they liked my stories, which was really overwhelming and wonderful. And I met a heap of cool writerly-sorts, exactly the sorts I like to know. Another indication that going to events by myself works for me. Really works.

I couldn't record it, as I'd loaned my recorder to a friend, but my new friend Guy was taking some photos.

There's something magical about the Castle Hotel. The back room looks beautiful, perfect for listening to stories and having a drink. I took some colour photographs, and I love how the chandelier's lamps flared in my camera, so it looks like there are sparkles floating down the room, about to gently illuminate the reader.

As soon as I was done reading, though, I had to leave the Castle because there was a Flashmob fundraiser for Japan happening at Piccadilly Train Station! We were all to bring something to tie 'round our heads, and follow the sensai's Karate Kid moves at 9pm. This is how I looked like:

So. Well, it wasn't quite as awesome as it sounds. I've seen some videos of Flashmobs that seem like the huge crowd of people must have practiced for ages together to get so synchronised. But this one... not so much. The "sensai" brought an amp and played Kung Fu Fighting and just sort of danced. But, once we all realised we couldn't quite follow his moves and just started to do some random kicking/punching dance moves, too, it was a fun time. I know it's annoying that it was for Japan, and it was supposed to be Karate Kid, and they played Kung Fu fighting, even though Kung Fu is from an ENTIRELY different country. I know.

Still.

I thought it was fun dancing in a train station with a bunch of strangers. I would do it again. And that's good enough, right?

The next night, there was a charity festival organised over Twitter (called, nauseatingly, Twestival – sounds like it's almost dirty, doesn't it, like it's too close to Twesticle?). It was at NoHo, which might end up being my new favourite place to be-- already we've booked it for the next New Student Writing Society Open Mic night!!

Anyway, I didn't know anyone else who wanted to go, but that's never going to stop me again. I rocked up alone, chatted with someone I'd met the night before (see her excellent work at http://wordsandfixtures.blogspot.com/), and ended up meeting some more fascinating, kind, brilliant people. An after-dinner onion bhajia at a fast food takeaway on Oldham St. A new friendship forged.

As I walked home that night, I just couldn't stop thinking about how I am lucky to be here, right now, in this amazing town. I'm still falling in love with Manchester.

And I tell you what. I am just getting started. I'm on the freeway, and I'm not even looking at the exit ramps.

Stretching the Legs of Democracy

2011-03-19T22:27:00.005+11:00

Seems like everyone's at the polls these days: Egyptians tomorrow, Australians next week. If you're an American, though, or a Briton, or someone equally unfortunate, you might be depressed that election season is far off and are walking around voting on things of no consequence just to fill the gaping lever-pulling or card-punching chasm in your life.

Well never fear, you strange person you, we'll scratch that itch. Here at Two Extra Armies Each Turn, we have realised that our name is getting stale (no offense, Stefan) and, frankly, a little irrelevant. One of us no longer lives in the nation that inspired the name (see RISK if you're perplexed) and, sadly, the other one probably won't for much longer either.

So we've initiated a new naming contest, just like we did in the early days of the blog.

Suggestions have been sent in from all over the planet, spurred by the announcement of a Great Grand Prize involving something to the effect of lodging and snacks in your choice of either a state (SYD) or cultural (MCR) capital. 'Ooh-la-la', did I hear you say? Darn right, Frenchie. We even appealed to our friendly local (Aus/NZ) cricket tragics for an Ashes-inspired name, but it just turned into a wanton England-bashing session.

Please see the poll on the side of the page and vote vote vote! Here's the fine print:
We've done the dictatorial dirty work and liquidated the opposition to our three favourites. You will be garroted for wondering about their fate, as they threatened the stability of our blog. One candidate is clearly endorsed by the current government. The poll is open until 1 April 2011 at some strange time early in the morning. Vote early, vote often. Dictators reserve the right to do whatever they please. End communication.

From Nija:
Bad Pennies (with the subtitle 'They'll come back as soon as they're ready'.)

From Jeremy:
Our Empire Now

and, because it's just so confounding and bizarre,

From Stefan:
Wilhelmina the Conqueror

Cary Elwes, Midget Toe

2011-03-17T09:39:00.000+11:00

I love thinking about what Google searches this blog title might end up in.

I got to sleep late last night, because I was at a social with the New Student Writing Society. Worse, I had to be awake at 7am to get to school in time for a project meeting. Naturally, I woke from a dream in the middle of the night, sweating, freaking out. What was my nightmare filled with, you ask? Well, last night was far from the standard fare. No, nothing so simple as that. Last night, I dreamt that Jeremy and Katie were talking to me in tweets. Like "Hey @nijabird, where are we hashtag GoingForDinner tonight?" I'm officially a Twitter Tragic, and I like to think I say somewhat interesting things. But I might be a touch addicted. Don't even care, I love it so much.

Anyway, I've been hanging out with the Writing Society folks for a while, and I very much enjoy their company. Last week, they put on an Open Mic Night. so I thought I'd go along and read some of my old work.

I haven't written anything new in some time, mostly because I'm busy. Mark, I don't want to hear it. Already feeling guilty, just thinking about you. But since no one here's heard any of my old stuff anyway, it still worked. I had a really great night, and I was happy to see some good MCR mates come out. However, some Manchester friends couldn't make it (dweebs), and none of my international friends bothered flying over to see my brilliant performance (wankers), so I had Kim record my reading, just in case you're still interested in hearing how it went!

The whole thing is about 7 minutes long, and apologies for any sound quality problems. It's two stories: The Midget Toe and then I am Poor and Insignificant; Please Don't Sue Me: An Open Letter to Cary Elwes.

Good news: I have since learned that both of these stories were accepted into The Mancunion's Writing Section! The Mancunion is UoM's student newspaper! zang! Will put links up when they're up. As you do.

For your consideration.

Back to today: I had a lovely lunch with a gentleman who does some really excellent radio over here on the BBC. Listen to this, to hear some of his work.

Also today: I found a new cupcake shop in Manchester tonight! Hey Little Cupcake is flipping awesome. I'd heard about a promotion they were doing (free cupcakes and wine!) so I wandered down, thinking even a stale free cupcake is still pretty nice. But these cupcakes were fresh, lovely, and perfect. Delicious and bright and sweet and adorable. I have reason to believe their cupcakes are nut-free (though made in a kitchen that does have nuts), which means I can buy some for the chickens (e.g. my niece and nephew), when they come to visit! Cannot wait. Manchester folks, seriously, get there. NOW. Little Quay St. You have zero excuses.

And today, I was surprised to find, was also new haircut day! I love the new look, all asymmetrical and short. Cheers to Claire at Peter Marcus for giving me the haircut I said I wanted, despite clearly thinking that I was totally insane. She definitely did not agree with my vision, but she did what I asked for, and I love it. I'll be going there again.

I know, reader, what you're thinking: "My goodness, Nija, you busy busy girl! Awake at 7am, lunch, a new haircut and cupcakes all in one day? However do you manage to do all that and be so... what is the word... awake at this ungodly hour of 11pm?"

I will be honest with you.

I am only barely awake. I might fall asleep mid-post.

I met a lovely person.

2011-03-14T08:09:00.000+11:00

It's been ages since I've posted here. I know.

And yet, you haven't felt the lack of me, have you, dear reader? Because now we are all fluttering flies mired in the spider's web of Facebook, and every time I tremor, you can feel it, and you know where it's coming from. Problem: so does the spider, and it's probably coming to pierce our fleshes, liquify our innards and our souls, and suck them out, leaving only our cold exoskeletons and keratinous wings to wear away slowly, under the onslaught of entropy, fluttering and tremoring now not from our own energy, but merely whipped about by the uncaring wind.

Oh, dear, I need to get back to writing proper stories, so you won't be assaulted with crap like that again.

I have been up to many exciting things. However, if I tried to tell you about all of them, I would never catch up.

More importantly, I met a lovely person last night.

His name's Billy Bragg. I kind of love the seriously junky quality of this picture.

I'd been planning to attend this Hope Not Hate show for weeks. I convinced my friends John and Jordan, from my MA, to come out. Jordan was even going to bring his lovely girlfriend, Claudia.

But at the last minute, everyone backed out, and I decided to go alone. Because I have to see Billy Bragg. He's one of my favourite musicians. For those of you who have never heard of him, go here. Or here. His music means probably a little too much to me (and to Craig, and to us). Though I've been a fan for 14 years, I had never seen him live. The last time he played in Atlanta, I didn't hear about it until too late. When Craig went to SXSW and saw Billy play, I was supposed to go, but schoolwork came up (I know! Work's for suckers!). When we moved to Australia, Billy played Big Day Out in Sydney two days before we landed there. I've been following him, from country to country, for too long.

I got to the show a bit early (because I'm me), and found a very good spot to stand. Not quite leaning on the stage, but still damn close. Since the Manchester Academy is part of the UoM student union, I logged onto the WiFi and started tweeting about the show, because I am an official Twitter Tragic (#TT).

The sound guys were playing English Rose by The Jam–awesome! The roadies came out to set up for the supporting act, and I noticed that one of the roadies looked just like Billy Bragg, but younger, like 16. I send out a tweet saying so, and someone else at the show tweeted back, saying they thought so, too! #TT. We found out later that there was a very good reason for the physical resemblance. Jack, the roadie, is Billy's kid. Should have guessed.

The show was amazing. Billy's voice is such a comfort during these aching times. He played The World Turned Upside Down, Qualifications, Half-English, Greetings to the New Brunette, A Lover Sings, A New England, Between the Wars, Tank Park Salute, NPWA, The Saturday Boy, The Milkman of Human Kindness, Everywhere, Sexuality, Levi Stubb's Tears and The Warmest Room, amongst others. He made fun of Tories and the SWP. He was lovely. He made jokes about Morrissey, always a good move in Manchester.

"This tea is a special brew, it's called 'Froat Coat,' spelled f-r-o-a-t. Thing is, it makes you fink you can sing in tune. Morissey taught me that."

I laughed, and some people standing next to me laughed, too, and we had a moment of that live-music community that is always so enjoyable. We all like this music, and we're all happy to be here, and we can smile at each other and enjoy these moments of humour, together, as humans. I took a funny-looking photo of Billy.

I showed it to the woman standing next to me, and she laughed with me.

It was a great concert, in support of Hope Not Hate, a group that works against hate groups in the UK. He talked about the fight against the BNP in Barking and Dagenham, and how that fight kicked the BNP out. About how important it is for every generation to recommit to the fight against racism and fascism. He made all of us, every person in the audience, feel like we were not alone. And he put the responsibility on us to go out and make sure the BNP couldn't get a foothold in Manchester. He told us to keep the faith, to keep fighting.

During the show, he told a story about having to tell Jack to quit playing his guitar; it was bothering Juliet. At first, Billy didn't recognise the song, because Jack apparently turns everything into the Ramones. But when he realised what Jack was playing, he knew he couldn't tell Jack to stop. Because Jack was playing The Milkman of Human Kindness.

Jack shook his head as Billy started singing. "If you're lonely, I will call... If you're poorly, I will send poetry."

The show was beautiful. More than anything, I was overwhelmed and thrilled to have seen him sing live, a 14-year goal finally met, brilliantly met. After he finished his encore, ending the show with A New England, everyone sort of milled about for a little while, mulling over the beauty of the night. The pop mixed with politics. The soothe of a voice we know so well.

Then, the woman next to me (Mandy) asked if I was alone, and if I wanted to grab a quick drink with her and her friends. "Sure," I said, happy to make some new Billy-Bragg-fan friends. And as the group of us were walking out, a blonde woman came from backstage and hugged Mandy's friend, Beryl. I soon learned the blonde woman is Juliet, Billy's wife. And she invited the whole group up.

To meet Billy Bragg.

! ! !

He was super-nice, as you'd expect. I showed him the goofy picture, and he didn't seem to mind. Because, you see, he's a lovely person.

He signed a photo for me, and took a photograph with me. I asked if he had any shows coming up in America, because I said it's aching. They need him there, I said.

"I know they do," he answered. And he's trying to get there later. "But they have my songs, and they're playing them. I've seen it on YouTube" He said Tom Morello had gone to Wisconsin and told Billy it was so cold, he couldn't play the guitar. Frozen hands.

I said "You have to love those Wisconsin musicians, though, because they get on with it anyway." And he agreed, saying he liked Wisconsin, because he loves cheese.

Then he asked me why America doesn't produce any world-class cheese.
...
...
...
They do, I told him, you just have to go to the small dairies.

He was not impressed. That's not enough for Billy Bragg, folks. He wants several varieties of cheese, especially the English crumbly kinds, in every supermarket and every corner shop in America.

So, um... dairy farmers and cheesemakers of America: Get on it.

I can't believe Billy Bragg argued with me about the state of American cheese.

He said whenever a quasi-Republican wants to talk to him about shooting a deer or stabbing a dolphin to death, he distracts them with questions about cheese. He said Americans always want to talk about killing things. "Not all of us," I said. "You're right," he agreed, "I'm generalising." Then he told me to get a beer.

What a lovely person. That's right. I drank a Billy Bragg's Dressing Room Corona. With Lime. You're jealous. You know it.

Though now I wonder if maybe he thought I was a quasi-Republican? Hopefully not. I had told him that his music influenced me in a good way. Probably just came up because of Wisconsin. That's what I'm going to hope for, anyway.

And his kid Jack is a sharp one, too. Billy tried to get him to admit that he had, in fact, once been caught playing one of Billy's songs. "I admit, it wasn't Milkman, it was A New England. But it's a better intro for Milkman, so I changed it."

Billy: Isn't it true that you were once playing A New England?
Jack: No.
Billy: Yes, you were. You couldn't get the chord right at the end, and you tried [he air-guitars] jhunh, jhunh, jhunh, and then you stamped and went "F-ck, f-ck, f-ck!"
Jack: No. Wasn't one of your songs.
Billy (to Juliet): Isn't it true that he was once playing one of my songs?
Juliet: I remember the "F-ck, f-ck, f-ck!" because he couldn't play the chords.
Billy (to Jack): You were trying to play it, and you couldn't. Isn't that right? You can't play A New England, can you?

Jack: I don't know. I haven't tried.

sharp!

I chatted with Mandy and her friends about the Jam and why I was in Manchester at all. It felt great to be around other Billy Bragg fans, honestly, and just know that they knew why I was there. They knew the words, too. All of them.

Honestly, I still cannot believe my luck. Who knew coming to a Billy Bragg show alone could be such a surprising and magical experience? I have to thank Mandy and Beryl, who invited me to come along with them. And I guess, in a way, I have to thank coincidence, for having me go to a show alone, for having me stand next to some kind people, and for having everything happen the way it did

He even took the time for a better picture, because he's just such a lovely person.

Tickets to Belfast, this way!

2011-02-15T08:15:00.006+11:00

Hi everyone,
If you're just tuning in, Nija had a really awesome time in Belfast and took some beautiful pictures of what appears to me to be a very twinkly place. After enjoying that post thoroughly and realising how much I miss her (as if I needed reminding), I posted something stupid, with an ugly picture of myself to boot, because I took this whole blog-as-stream-of-consciousness thing way too far. I carelessly didn't consider the fact that now Nija's gorgeous story had been demoted in favour of something that was unfunny and unenlightening. I removed my story, but think her post deserves better.

So everyone, please get on board the ferry to Belfast by clicking on City Hall:

You won't be sorry!

Unlike me...

A desperate move

2011-02-15T02:18:00.000+11:00

To get the ugly pictures of KRG that he keeps posting off the top of the blog, I present you with our current crop of blog title suggestions. Also there's some of my old art at the end. Am I right, reader? We don't need these images that make a handsome Boy Wonder look like a paedo.

We need more! What do YOU want our blog to be called?

From Stefan:
Wilhelmina the Conqueror.

From krg:

How about "South By Northwest"?
That or "Oy, with the poodles already!"
From Jeremy (note from the editor: some of these are a bit long and conceptual. Maybe something related, but punchier.)
1) The idea of you taking over peices of the British Empire since you have lived in or currently live in or are from the UK, US, Australia, and India. It is also a smooth transition from empires and Risk.
"Conquering the British Empire" or "Taking Over the British Empire" or something like that
"The Conquering Conquered" or "The Conquering Subjects"
"The Old Empire is Ours" or "The Old Empire is Our New Home"

2) You are moving into you second stage of the Risk Game and are spreading out
"Who Says You Should Conquer One Continent at a Time? "
"Controling Asia is Hard. We'll Sorround it First!"
"Blue and Purple"
3) Other ones
"We love islands and island like continents"
"We love being surrounded by water"
"He'll power your light and she'll tell you it's impact on society" (note from the editor: See what I mean? That's a snappy title.)

From the Editor:
"Bad Pennies: They'll come back as soon as they're ready." (which would force me to change my email signature as well)
And inspired by Jeremy's ideas and the Season 8 intro to Shameless–the best television show on Channel 4: "This is OUR empire now!"
or
"Stutter Stammer Stagger." The appeal here is that it's got nothing to do with nothing, which would really open up the remit on my blog posts.

This might be the best drawing I've ever ever done. In that it actually looks something like what I was looking at AND I didn't trace it at all. Why was I looking at something like this? Let me have some mystery, reader.

Just got my tickets for a Billy Bragg show on Saturday 12 March!! In celebration, I present a strange digital collage I made for the RISO machine, but never printed...

Belfast, via MGMT

2011-02-14T10:16:00.000+11:00

–This is a call to arms to live and love and sleep together–

Emily has been living in Belfast for five years now. She says when she first got there, a lot of the buildings all looked like this one

Nothing was open past 5pm, she said. The Peace Walls between Protestant and Catholic neighbourhoods were closed all the time. The British Army still patrolled the streets.

Belfast, as we all know, went through some terrible times. The city still bears witness to those days, in the murals around town.

Those days aren't completely over, either. The Peace Walls still close at 5pm every night. Most places still close around 5pm, too. But when I visited Emily in January, there were signs of new time: a charity cafe, charity clothes shops, cool music venues. Belfast now has beautiful little cafes.

Truly wonderful bookstores, like No Alibis.

Because Emily and I are such old friends, and I had never seen Belfast before, my visit to her town was 1) a little bit touristy, 2) a little bit hometown charm and 3) a little bit nerdy and 4) a little bit silly. As you might expect.

Touristy stuff included City Hall, wherein I once again prove my incredible skills at photographing a built environment

Don't worry, I'm not really starting up that wherein bizzo again.
Touristy stuff also involved Belfast Castle, which is really more of just a really fancy house with an awesome staircase

And lovely views:

The hometown charm came courtesy of a visit to Belfast's beautiful weekend market, where I actually scored some Szechuan peppercorns! Someone tell me what to do with them!

Emily's beloved, Tom, is pictured above, but you can't really tell it's him. I'm the kind of silly girl who forgets to take proper pictures of her friend's boyfriend/husband.

I didn't forget to take a picture of Emily at the market with her two friends whose names I HAVE forgotten. But check out the taller one's belt buckle. It's huge!

Belfast is, of course, also where the Titanic was built. It seems no amount of tragedy in a town means James Cameron can't make it worse. Luckily Belfasters get irony better than most.

A husband creche: everything the busy girl ever needed. Mine, sadly, seems to be Australia.

The nerdy part of the visit was, naturally, a library: The Linen Hall One! They have an amazing collection of posters and tea towels and banners all about the Troubles, which is what they understatedly call the 30 or so years when Belfast was eating itself alive.

The other nerdy part of the trip was that Emily was having some trouble intellectually negotiating the fact that she's not a nerd. Reader, I ask you: if you met a girl who wrote nothing but funny things down in a book, who wrote plays and once acted as a deranged barbie doll, who has written two novels about pirates, and who knows NOTHING about video games or search engine optimisation, would it not be clear as day to you? That girl is not a nerd. She is many things. Goofy, 1. A little taller than me, 2. A lover of goat's cheese, 3. She is not a nerd. Though you would be astonished at how surprised she was to have received the news only recently. She honestly thought she was a nerd. She didn't even know how to spell w00t, reader. w00t.

And the silly part of my visit was pretty much everything else. This made me laugh and think of Engrish.com, until I remembered that we were indeed in an English-speaking place, at which point everything suddenly felt very sober and sad.

I mean, really! Who ever heard of standing in a saloon anyway??!
We took about a trillion pictures of ourselves. I was like, "No, it's okay, Pheebs. The economy lost, like, 3 times as many dollars. These pictures are as nothing!"

We tried valiantly to guess what the giant copper talons were supposed to mean, and then decided that we didn't really get them, but we liked them anyway. Pretty much exactly how we feel about men. I especially like how tall they are. We'll leave what I'm referring to there ambiguous, hey?

It really did seem like everywhere you looked, people are taking it into their own hands to change things. It felt like people were tired of the sadness and anger and regret and disappointment, and ready to live in an exciting lively city. Where those things will all still be around, but it won't be special just for its blood. Belfast could be a normal city, lovely and tiresome and special for normal reasons. The city that built the Titanic. The city that has five different banks printing different designs of the same currency. Okay. Not normal reasons. But not horrible reasons, either.

–The youth are starting to change oh, together, together, together–

Even the murals are changing. See? Already it could San Francisco or Sydney.

And the buildings aren't all blown out anymore. Some of them are even growing new life now.

It looked to me that Belfast is hearing a different call to arms than it had in a long long time.

The fog comes on little raccoon feet

2011-02-13T18:03:00.029+11:00

Having put the conference and its lousy coffee (no biscuits on the side, mind you...what in the world is this uncivilised land?) behind me, I afforded myself two whole days to take in the parts of San Francisco that I had not seen during my first two days or the evenings during the conference. For purely geographical reasons, this was mostly the western part of the city, the famous parts being the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood, Golden Gate Park and its little-known namesake Bridge.

On a rather overcast---but not cold---Friday, I set out to gawk at the ruins of the Hippy Empire in the Haight. I caught a bus from Market St at about 9 and got to the Haight about 15 minutes later, to find that nothing at all was open, with the exception of the grocery. I was truly the only person on the street. I grabbed some provisions from the grocer and headed toward the sea, through the Haight proper and into Golden Gate Park, where I was immediately offered "buds" from a solicitous but grubby youngster. Given his besmirched aspect I took him for a flower monger and assumed he was offering roses, but thought it was odd since Valentine's Day was another three weeks away. "Timing is everything, my good man," I chuckled, as I waggled my finger at him, tipped my cap and briskly trotted on my way.

The GGP, built in the last three decades of the 19th century, is the world's largest developed park (take that, Frederick Law Olmstead), at 1.59 square miles (412 hectares or 1017 acres), 20% bigger than Central Park. It has no physical relationship to the Golden Gate Bridge other than being on the west side of town. There's heaps of crap to see in this park, including an old windmill and a bison paddock, but I didn't know about either of those at the time, dammit. However, those things pale in comparison to the monument to reluctant US President, avid reader and strict recreationalist James Garfield, Nija's---if I may---spiritual hero:

Near the science museum, I found this charming and weird monument to Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, aka the guy who wrote the book that the movie Lost in La Mancha was based on.

The park also features a Japanese Tea Garden, which I hear is lovely, but is the kind of lovely that I didn't feel like paying for to take in. As a consolation, I did come across this gazebo on Stow Lake---

---the mention of which allows me to segue into the continuation of my long-running photo series Water Fowl of the Northern Hemisphere:

Have a gander at those cheeky fellows!

Ahem. So in the middle of the lake there's some kind of island/hill, so, you know, I climbed that thing, and it looked something like this:

and it was good.

I had an otherwise unphotogenic, though pleasant, stroll around the park, but eventually decided that coffee sounded about right so I made the short, one-hour hike back to the Haight. The Haight was, supposedly, once the Mordor of the so-called Hippy movement, and I'm sure it was much more interesting and diverse than Ben & Jerry and the vile Deadheads with their stupid bears would have you believe. (I am aware that I might have just implied that the Grateful Dead were themselves better than the Deadheads would have us believe, and I might just keep that one an open question.) Ever since then the place has featured in the American imagination somewhere between Oz and imperial Rome. It's the kind of place my Dad says he should have gone instead of joining the Air Force in 1966, you know, to freak out and join the revolutionary youth army to take on the pigs. If only!

The funny thing about the Haight is that, while it was most likely a unique and possibly inspiring place in its heyday, a quick swoop through was enough to convince me that it was more or less the same thing that you can now find in almost every big American city: a bohemian district with coffeeshops, record stores, drug paraphernalia, souvenir crap, arts and crafts, heroin, crusty street kids, and nice, charming houses. Nothing to write home about (though, apparently something to blog about). The corner of Haight and Ashbury is now graced by Ben & Jerry's flagship store, as much a part of mainstream American culture as California rolls, New Belgium Fat Tire and adho mukha svanasana. I wondered what it would take for the Haight to be astounding to outsiders again. Then I wondered if we can even be astounded anymore.

Down the hill from the Haight is the Lower Haight (which technically makes the aforementioned the Upper Haight), the edge of which is graced by a street art gallery not unlike the one I saw in the Mission:

How excellent is that last one? (You can see more of this stuff, as well as lots of other SF photos, and more still, on our Picasa page: just click on that picture of me and Nija staring off into the Jamison Valley at the top right of this page.)

Down Haight and onto Market I sallied, and cut through the Civic Center district, a highlight of which is this massive Vishnu in front of the Asian Art Museum:

Given that awesomeness, I was very disappointed I didn't manage to visit the museum itself. Just caddy-corner to the Civic Center is the Tenderloin People's Garden, which I feels bears mention simply for pulling off a community garden in an unlikely spot, like my fellow Alexandria gardeners half a world away:

Afterward I headed back to the hostel for another evening of socializing with my fellow backpackers at one of the fine $5 dinners they put on (may I recommend the Hotel Adelaide to any potential travellers to San Francisco? Tell Nick I say hello!)

The next day my plan was to hire a bike and ride across the Golden Gate Bridge. A sign on a bike outside the hostel advertised all-day rentals for $15 from another hostel nearby. I found the place, went in the front door and knocked on the door to Room 1, which had a sign reading "Bike rentals please knock". A big, middle-aged guy in a tie-dyed shirt was pulling his pants on as he opened the door. "Hey, man! Need a bike?" he said, extremely gregarious-like. I confirmed his suspicion and he kindly set me up with a bike suited to my stature. I told him where I wanted to go and he suggested a route, and after some minor adjustments to the bike I was off, reminding myself to ride on the right side of the street and trying to find the bike's...shall we say...idiosyncrasies, before I got to the climb to the Bridge. Nothing worse than trying to go up a steep hill and having a gear slip under your weight: face-planting is a sure thing when that happens.

The route took me down to the Embarcadero and around the eastern side of the city, retracing my route from Day 2, through Fisherman's Wharf and up to the foot of the Bridge. This was a fool-proof and relatively flat approach and I was glad to have been counterintuitively pointed in this direction. The long stretch of the Bridge lay before me, awaiting my conquerization, but agenda point 1 was to hit the Exploratorium, the world-renowned hands-on science museum opened by Frank Oppenheimer, Robert's little brother, whose personal story would be as tragic as his older brother's if it weren't for this museum, a successful elaboration of the idea that kids can learn more about science if they're engaged in it in a direct and involving way than if they're just subjected to a bunch of rules and equations. I was excited about this museum ever since Nija told me about it way back when, and I was waiting for the doors to open with a bunch of families that morning, trying to look cool and not creepy.

When opening time came and I made my way in, I was almost confused by the simplicity of it. The Exploratorium is little more than a bunch of stations that you can visit, sampling scientific concepts. Here's a super-strong permanent magnet and iron filings. Here's a piece of heat-sensitive film and a lightbulb. Here's some cornstarch solution in a rubber diaphragm on top of an acoustic transducer:

Some stations are better than others, but taken together they add up to a thrilling wander through almost all realms of science. Statistical mechanics? Got it. Automotive engineering? Check. Biology and genetics? Affirmative. Electric power conversion? Yes. The demonstrations are simple and artful, without much explanation; the idea here is that kids are guided to their own explanations based on what they observe, given a few basic presented facts. Or they demonstrate an application of some principle from another display. I was riveted, but after four hours in the place I realized it was time to move on.

After visiting the Wave Organ (for pictures see the Picasa page), which wasn't functioning since it was low tide, I headed toward the Bridge, but for the first time in my time in San Francisco the weather was turning in a foul direction:

The climb up to the bridge was brief but sharp, and as I spun in a high gear, I had visions of myself walking my fixed-gear bike up the nasty little hills. Riding across the bridge with the spray on my face was a blissful experience:

When I reached the other side and began the descent into Marin County, a glance back at the bridge confirmed that I had been inside a cloud:

Sausalito---something like Sydney's Manly without the beach and, as far as I know, the gangs of nationalist thugs---is a little upscale village retreat surrounded by marinas, with lower-profile fishing villages beyond. When I got there, I met a guy with a medical marijuana prescription and an affinity for boats who recommended I ride up the shore a bit to check out the marinas and said there was a village up the way that would make a good destination. I headed out of town, stopping at a marina up the highway where a bunch of houseboats and skiffs were hunkered down in the unceasing drizzle and sulfur stink of low tide. Here's yours truly at the dock with my gallant steed:

Nice as the marina was, the weather dispelled any interest I had in exploring the coast. I wanted to sit in a cozy bar with a beer and wait for the ferry that would take me back to the city. So I headed back to town and found the bar after a long trudge in what can only be described as rain. Eventually the ferry came, and I stood in the cold, wet wind and watched the city across the bay glisten and grow in the distance.

I drop my defenses

2011-02-13T01:20:00.000+11:00

I join the horde.

I give up.

I raise my hands.

I have never been so disappointed in myself.

I am now on Facebook and Twitter.

Rally round my aching heart.

See logos to the right. Be my friend. Be my follower. Tweet with me and make this whole thing worth it.

And send me blog title ideas!

Flowing off the top of our esophagi

2011-02-12T12:48:00.000+11:00

Blog Title Ideas Submitted Thus Far:

From krg:
How about "South By Northwest"?

That or "Oy, with the poodles already!"

From Jeremy (note from the editor: some of these are a bit long and conceptual. Maybe something related, but punchier.)
Oh man, I forgot about the competition.

So I think there are two good trains of thought and them some other ones:

1) The idea of you taking over peices of the British Empire since you have lived in or currently live in or are from the UK, US, Australia, and India. It is also a smooth transition from empires and Risk.

"Conquering the British Empire" or "Taking Over the British Empire" or something like that
"The Conquering Conquered" or "The Conquering Subjects"
"The Old Empire is Ours" or "The Old Empire is Our New Home"

2) You are moving into you second stage of the Risk Game and are spreading out

"Who Says You Should Conquer One Continent at a Time? "
"Controling Asia is Hard. We'll Sorround it First!"
"Blue and Purple"

3) Other ones

"We love islands and island like continents"
"We love being surrounded by water"
"He'll power your light and she'll tell you it's impact on society" (note from the editor: See what I mean? That's a snappy title.)

From the Editor:
"Bad Pennies: They'll come back as soon as they're ready." (which would force me to change my email signature as well)
And inspired by Jeremy's ideas and the Season 8 intro to Shameless–the best television show on Channel 4: "This is OUR empire now!"
or
"Stutter Stammer Stagger." The appeal here is that it's got nothing to do with nothing, which would really open up the remit on my blog posts.

More suggestions, please!! Voting opens soon!

Yes, google. Yes.

2011-02-08T11:21:00.000+11:00

Just more proof that Google is irresistibly lovable. Go on, then. Move the joystick around. You know you want to.

But you have to do it today. Might already be too late in Australia!!

http://www.google.co.uk/webhp?hl=en

Something Ain't Right.

2011-02-08T09:54:00.001+11:00

This past week, Manchester's been hovering around 7 or 8 Celsius. A few weeks ago, it was more like -2 to 0 C. So, I've actually been walking outside lately (in 7 degree weather) and thinking, "Oh, good, it's pretty warm today." Seriously, I've just been wearing a light jacket, a loose scarf, no hat. Fingerless gloves!

Today was also 7-8 degrees, but really windy for most of the morning. When I left school and was walking home from a truly interesting seminar this evening, the wind had died down, so I feeling quite chuffed with the weather. It was dark, so a little cooler, maybe 5 degrees, but not windy.

"Fabulous!" I thought, "Warmish and not windy at all!"

It started sprinkling a bit, as it tends to in Manchester, so I pulled out my umbrella, and still, my thoughts on the weather were along these lines: "Well, sure a little rain, but at least it's warm and not windy! It's not bad at all!"

Then the rain turned to hail, pinging off my umbrella's taut fabric and bouncing around on the street before quickly melting. I thought, happily, "Wow! I can't believe it's hailing, even though it's so warm!"

Hmm. Yes. In Atlanta or Sydney, if it was hailing and I was outdoors, I'm pretty sure I would have been freezing and totally miserable. I would definitely not have been happy to continue walking along with only my cheap umbrella for protection from the elements-- in fact, I can't even imagine how out of joint my nose would have been over being in a situation like this. There's no way I would think 7-8 degree weather was remotely warm.

Something is definitely not right.

San Burrito

2011-02-01T06:57:00.034+11:00

Greetings all from a gray Atlanta, where it is slightly cold but without a trace of the snow and ice nightmare ("Snowpocalypse '011") that had the city in its grips last week. A cat snoozes to my right, a dog snoozes to my left, and I'm eating Cheez-Its (mmm, TBHQ) to recover from a miserable hangover...ahh, I must be home.

The occasion of my visit is a trip to San Francisco I made in order to attend a conference and present our work. The conference was fine, but it was my first time in SF and I was really excited to look around, and fortunately I scheduled myself a couple of days to do so.

I was prepared for rotten weather, as I've heard it can be in the winter, but found a city enjoying sunny 21C/70F temperatures, nothing like the winter at all. I didn't anticipate wanting to be outside much during this trip, but SF was just begging to be explored.

I got in to the city in the early afternoon and checked into my hotel (after walking about 10 blocks in the wrong direction). Trans-global traveler as I now am, I've become accustomed to losing all sense of time and having to quickly adjust to avoid jetlag. The strategy is easy, just a one-step process:

1) stay awake.

This isn't easy when you're presented with a clean, empty bed, but once you think about that city waiting out there, it's a no-brainer. Get out and hit the streets! And so, a man on a mission, I headed for the Mission.

First thing I did when I got there was, patriotic American as I am, to enjoy our national dish:

Holy moly, look at that chow. That burrito was so damn good I might print the picture out and eat it. This was placed before me for the whopping price of US$6 (=AU$6!), world's finest macromicrobrew beer included! The place was Taqueria Pancho Villa on 16th St between Mission and Valencia, named as a joke, I was to learn: the owner is named Francisco Villa, just like the Mexican revolutionary. Unlike his namesake, though, Francisco doesn't earn the nickname "Pancho", which roughly translates as "Fatty". But the place was bedecked with images of El Comandante, including this unbelievable "bronze" bust:

Imagine having that in your house. Your north Mexican landowner dinner guests would shit their pants and run in fright back to their latifundias.

The Mission is also home to some famous graffiti walls:

Lovely stuff, especially when you're full on Mexican food, giddy about being in a Spanish-speaking country again, delirious from 20 hours of flying, and many dollars poorer after visiting MissionWorkshop (coming soon to Australia, they told me).

After browsing the rest of the things on offer in the Mission---826 Valencia, bookstores and coffee shops---I wound my way back to the Tenderloin, where I was staying, and managed to keep myself awake until a respectable 10PM.

The conference nominally started the next day---Saturday---but when I went down to the Convention Center (the Moscone Center, named after the SF Mayor that was killed with Harvey Milk) I realised that there wasn't much going on, so I picked up my conference materials and walked toward the Bay. Along Market St, I came across these excellent examples of public art outside an office building:

These fantastic, Tim Burton-esque pieces, called "Moonrise", are by Ugo Rondinone. Much more dramatic and competent photos of these pieces can be seen here.

My stroll took me out to the Ferry Terminal, a perfect spot to enjoy what was turning into a glorious morning. Looking east from the Terminal, the Bay Bridge was a delight to behold:

and, behind me, lay the Financial District, looking prim and proper:

A bunch of stereotypes with legs, the natives joined me en masse at the Ferry Terminal that morning for a farmer's market. There they were, wearing their fleece vests, sampling artisan cheeses and gasping at the sight of organic parsnips. I was truly in the thick of westcoastness. And yes, I made it out alive, sallying forth along the Embarcadero toward Fisherman's Wharf, where flocks of tourists are greeted by an overgrown, grown-over crab-friend---

---and then get to feast their eyes (and abuse their noses) on these guys:

These chunky customers have taken over Pier 39 and while away the days howling, barking, and sleeping in a real pile when they're not shoving each other off the platform. I missed videotaping that but here are some placid moments:

In the distance lay The Rock, القطرس*:

*Note: wanna get stuck into a mind-bending Wikipedia wormhole? Try doing the etymology on "Alcatraz" and "albatross".

That self-same day, I managed to climb the hills to Lombard St, "The Steepest Street in America", then down again, then up again to the San Francisco Art Institute, where in 1931 Diego Rivera left a hell of a calling card:

This painting-within-a-painting features Diego and his artist friends, and several anonymous workers, painting and sculpting images of a giant worker/engineer, depicting him as the person on whom society depends. In those heady days of epic struggle, Rivera and his sympathisers had invested their hopes for a better world in the international working class and left this as a clear message: even our monuments should be seen as the outcome of a collaborative process of production.

The Art Institute (built around an old convent) features another spectacular attraction, the vista from its roof:

There, in the centre of the photo, you see Telegraph Hill, topped by the famous fire-nozzle of Coit Tower. It was my next destination:

Wasn't that quick? Actually, I stopped on the way to grab some famous focaccia from Liguria in North Beach and scarfed it when I reached the top of the hill.

The tower was commissioned at the bequest of Lillie Hitchcock Coit (talk about your tongue-twister names) and built in 1933 to honour the city's firefighters. The New Deal Public Works of Art Project also commissioned fresco murals in the lobby of the tower from San Francisco artists. Deemed "communistic" at the time, the murals depict the daily life of toilers across the state, from fruit-pickers to slaughterhouse workers to city-dwellers, and address contemporary issues such as the stock market crash and increasing social polarisation. Two of the murals were actually considered too provocative to show to the public and so were destroyed before the Tower could be opened. Most of the murals are clearly in the style of Rivera, though some tend more toward romantic visions of the American countryside (and are therefore pretty boring). In one scene, people read newspapers in a library; the headlines spell financial crisis, industrial struggle, and dark news from Europe. In response, a man reaches for a tome:

And that was one of the murals that was saved from destruction! Overall the murals are amazing and worth the climb to the Tower. They really give you a sense of the city's radical history long before the 60s. The Tower itself was closed, unfortunately, so I couldn't go up. My camera also died at this point so I couldn't take more mural photos, but more can be found with a little Googling.

I wound my way back town the hill and through North Beach, stopping at City Lights bookstore for a stickybeak and Vesuvio for a pint. Walking out of the bar and turning the next corner, the scenery changed abruptly:

That's right, San Francisco has a Little Sydney!

Actually, they call it "Chinatown". All kidding aside, this might be the prototype Chinatown (with the exception of China itself, of course) and still claims to be the biggest one in the West. I'm not sure how these things are judged, because Sydney claims to have, I believe, the second biggest Chinatown in the West, but the Chinatown in New York seems bigger than the SF one to me in terms of area and population, so that would put Sydney at #3 at best. I also doubt that Sydney is even that high. Regardless, this one presented streets as bustling as any I'd seen in the city and the familiar sights and smells of Chinatowns everywhere.

I definitely took the opportunity to grab some steamed veg dumplings as a little pre-dinner snack and simply strode around, a gleeful smirk on my face, my feet aching from two massive days of rambling. My belly a veritable culinary UN, I sauntered off to my hotel, delighted to have a week of San Francisco's cosmopolitan offerings yet to come.

Re-name Our Blog!!

2011-01-21T06:32:00.000+11:00

Hey y'all--

A few years ago, back when we started this blog in 2008, we invited you, our dear readers to name our blog. You suggested titles for the blog, and we held a poll. You voted, and the winner has emblazoned the header of this blog for over two years now.

It's a great title. I have sincere love. But it's an Australia thing.

(For those of you who have still never asked me what the title of this blog means, here you are: when playing Risk: the Game of World Domination, if you control Australia, you get two extra armies each turn to defend it. Players try to get control of Australia early in the game, as it's the only continent that can be defended by fortifying only one country. In other words, in terms of world domination, Australia is far more important in the game of Risk than it is in real life.)

Given that I'm no longer in Australia, and the blog's writing team is now divided across the globe, we think a new title is in order.

Once again, we want you to name our blog! It's a chance to have your idea live on forever! Or at least until I move somewhere else!

Wonderboy and I will pick our top 5 favourites, and we'll do a poll in the next few months. Majority rules.

For now – start sending in your ideas! Email 'em in, or leave 'em in the comments. All suggesters get a free place to stay in their choice of beautiful locations (either Manchester or Sydney), and probably some booze and food thrown in, too. Also, really excellent hosts. I'll even take you out to my favourite Thai restaurant in MCR. Winner gets something better. Don't know what yet. But it will be good.

So, come on! Get thinking and NAME OUR BLOG!

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And onto the post proper
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Like any good Westerner's celebration of the holidays, Christmastime for me was filled with exciting material things I didn't need, but now excitedly own!

When we got back from Mallorca, I almost immediately hit the Christmas Markets. Manchester is famous for these markets; they've won all kinds of tourism awards. What's surprising is that they are actually wonderful.

(In the interest of being even-handed, I should mention that my friends Michael and Bernadette are completely unimpressed by the Christmas Markets, but I reckon it's because they've been spoiled by living in a city that puts them on every year. So, ok, I'm not really that even-handed, but hey, this blog doesn't really have that much journalistic integrity, now does it?)

The city puts up fairy lights all over town, and little wooden house-shaped market stalls sell mulled wine, hot chocolate, hot food, candy, fudge, candles, gifts and all sorts of other lovely things. The delightful holiday-time ambiance is free. Just walking around the markets in the crisp cold dark of night is a little magical.

Town Hall's Market:

Ok, so the giant Santa's enormous black eyes are a little scary. But apart from that, I can't even tell you how much fun the markets are; it's rare to walk around a city at night and find it vibrant, full of life. Rare to see people socialising outdoors. And we had already had snow by this point, so it was definitely cold, but it didn't stop people coming out and enjoying their lit-up town. We may not get much sun round these parts (night falls around 4.30pm lately), but MCR makes its own cheer. Mostly in the form of mulled wine with shots of brandy. Delicious, warming, and woozy-ing. I don't even care if that's a word or not, it should be.

The markets take over Manchester's city centre: Town Hall's market is mostly German stuff, St. Ann's is mostly French, etc. Manchester City Council had a stall, too, where I found my favourite Manchester souvenir so far: Manchester In A Bag.

It features a mini version of Town Hall, the Central Library, Urbis, Carver's Warehouse, Central Station (formerly GMex, and Central Station again before that), two little trams, and Beetham Tower. Click the names to see pictures of the actual buildings.

Beetham Tower is Manchester's sole skyscraper; that's why it doesn't fit in the picture, next to all of Manchester's squat little buildings. It's a very controversial tower. Some hate it, some love it. I think I like it. It's not a love, but I feel a tender sadness for Beetham Tower. Such a lonely skyscraper.

As soon as I got the set home, I totally geeked out. I spaced out all the buildings against a map and put them in their geographical order. I couldn't do it to scale, or they wouldn't have fit in the picture. But this is, essentially, mini MCR, featuring a full shot of Beetham Tower!

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Later that week, some friends from my residence hall got together for Christmas dinner. I had already eaten, but I decided to join them for the company. They had already broken their Christmas crackers.

For the Yanks reading this, Christmas crackers are these things you can buy that look like giant Tootsie Rolls covered in gift-wrap. You're meant to hold one end, and someone else holds the other. You both pull, and the roll pops loudly (hence, "cracker), and whoever gets the bigger part wins whatever's inside. Usually, it's all junk no one wants inside the cracker, but for some reason, everyone still hates losing. Proper junk, too, like a paper crown, a bad joke, and crappy plastic toy that's not even fun. The jokes are seriously awful. For example: what kind of disease can a Christmas tree catch? Tinselitis. Collective groan.

More info on Christmas crackers at wikipedia, of course.

So, they'd already broken their crackers, and the toys were sitting around on the table. I took a seat next to a Canadian-British guy who lives in Geneva (yes, his accent is super-weird).
"Can I play with that?" I asked, pointing at a bunch of neon plastic geometrical shapes.

"Yeah, sure," he said, "They're meant to make a square."
"Cool!" I replied, eyes glued to the shiny neon.

10 seconds later:

He was a little miffed, because it had taken him longer to put the square together. But I was addicted.
"Can you do it another way?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said.
10 seconds later:

He was definitely annoyed now. But I couldn't stop myself. I pulled it apart again:

This is the best Christmas cracker toy ever. The guy said he didn't want to look at it anymore. I could keep it! Sweet!
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I also picked up another lovely Christmas-time thing in Mallorca, but it has some back story. A few years ago, Craig and I went to Barcelona over the holidays, and there we learned about a delightfully bizarre Catalan tradition.

You see, most nativity scenes in the Christian world have Mary, Joseph, the baby, some sheep and a donkey. Maybe a few other barnyard animals. A manger. You see what I'm getting at.

But in Catalunyan nativity scenes, just outside the manger, there is another character. The Caganer, which translates as "The Shitter" It's a man or a boy, wearing a traditional red Catalunyan fedora. Doing a poo.

I am not even joking.

Catalans apparently believe this character represents the essential straight-forwardness of the Catalan spirit. Sure, the Messiah might be crowning. Nature occasionally calls during earth-shattering religious moments. There's just nothing else to be done.

I love the Mallorcan one. He's holding a bit of loo roll, and his face is hilarious.

Back in 2004, Craig and I bought a Caganer from Barcelona (the pink-shirted one). Now I have a collection!! I couldn't be more thrilled. Aren't they great?

I showed them to my buddy Ryan when I got back. He asked, "Did you get one for me?"
I looked down. "No..." I said, slowly.
He was clearly disappointed.
I said, "Don't feel bad about it, though, Ryan. I just realised I didn't even get one for Craig either."
He laughed. "Nice."
"Yeah," I said, "I can be pretty crappy girlfriend sometimes."

And do you know what the amazing thing about Craig is? Reader, when I told him I had literally not even thought about buying him one, he wasn't upset at all. He didn't let a trace of disappointment cross his face. Wonderboy.

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Also, my flat is getting cosier by the day. Last month, I noticed Despoina lives in room D, and I suggested she take advantage of her first initial and embellish her door with "espoina." She asked what I would put on my door, given that I live in room C. I suggested "rap," as a joke, but she didn't seem to like that idea very much.

A few weeks later, I came home to see that Des had taken the idea to a whole new level.
Kemal lives in room A, next to Arata, who lives in room B.

And room B is between my room and Kemal's room.

Des is across the hall from us – she uses an Anglicised spelling of her name, while I, for some unknown reason, insist on using the Greek spelling.

The kitchen is simply the kitchen:

But room C, my room, got a very special treatment. I'm so lucky to live with her. What a lovely flatmate and friend. I can't be thankful enough.

Next time: Nija heads deep into the bowels of Salford, and walks through the skeleton of a Frankenstein not quite activated yet: Media City UK. And, also she sees the LOWRY!