Apple 85W MagSafe Power Adapter for 15- and 17-inch MacBook Pro (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Minor home tragedy has occurred…my Macbook’s charger got its positive and negative pins crossed, yesterday (ahem, while I won’t mention any names, I’d like to point out that it was the Mr. Handy Man of the house who re-wired the plug…because he said I’d gotten them mixed up and had wired it wrong. Hah!), made an awful sizzling noise, and gave off the acrid fumes of deep fried circuit boards…all in the one second before I could run to unplug the thing.
So. No charger until I order a new one. Mine was modified to plug into a automobile’s cigarette lighter socket and charge straight from a 12-volt DC battery—without using an energy inefficient inverter—by the effing geniuses at MCT, Inc.…seriously, I owe these guys, big time, for the technology I enjoy whilst living on a boat out in the harbor…these are my real heroes, not the pikers at Apple)
That’s nearly 200 smackeroos…thank you very much, Apple, for being such a bunch of snobs and designing the oh-so-exclusive, nobody-else-is-allowed-to-manufacture, fits-with-nothing-else-on-the-planet Magsafe Adapter.
In the meantime, the Macbook battery that they said lasted 8 hours, lasts 4, if you’re lucky. If I wanted to blog or check e-mail and RSS posts, I’d have to row ashore everyday, cycle into town, and plug my laptop into the power grid at the library or something. Weh. I’d much rather stay home and go into seriously intense creative mode. Things are going to be a bit quiet around here until my new charger arrives from the U.S. Sorry ’bout that.
In the meantime, go and check out Catherine Frere-Smith’s little embroidered bird softies, which have me in a paroxysm of love and envy at the moment. She was going to be my next über embroiderer, but it can’t wait till my power struggles are resolved…you really should go and have a look at this fresh blog post now.
Our wet season is winding up, but we are getting a few days of hard, straight-down, heavy-as-lead rain, as a kind of encore before the monsoon trough relinquishes it’s hold on the weather. Soon it will be winter in Australia—cold down Sydney-way, yes, but it’s a fantastic time to be in the tropical North. Everyone in Darwin is looking forward to the change of season.
One recent morning was so dark and wet and miserable that I lit a few tapers…not so much to see by, but because I needed the emotional warmth, the flickering energy and golden color of those nibs of flame. Candles are a great comfort to me…I love the way they send shadows dancing around a dark room, and I can sit and stare at them for hours. My mom was a candle maker for many years…she didn’t make everyday taper candles, but one-of-a-kind art candles—tall, heavy pillars of translucent wax which glowed from within, revealing trapped dried flowers and fern tendrils curling inside the wax when lit. Her candles were widely exhibited, pricey, and sold to collectors…
But that didn’t stop my mother from using them as everyday candles in our home; she loved the 8-hour scheduled blackouts that the government instituted, for one year, in an attempt to cut down on national power expenses. She would come in from her workshop with armfuls of candles, and light them all. There were candles everywhere in the house on those nights—fifty of them, standing in groups of three or five, sitting on every piece of furniture, shining down from high ledges, throwing their light far up into the wooden beams of the pitched roof. The house looked like a medieval chapel, it was magical.
And there’s a teensy bit of the candlemaker passed down to me, too, because I spent many hours sitting with my mother in her workshop…it was where we had most of our mother-daughter talks. I even did some work for her, when she was swamped with orders, so I have the rudiments of candle making. Maybe someday I’ll do that for a spell.
This post was a bit random…just a bit of blather and procrastination before I get to work on some sewing projects I swore I’d finish today.
Something that has repeatedly happened to me since I was a child is this: Just moments before sighting a wild animal, I will think about that animal. I have encountered several snakes, an owl, a scorpion, crocodiles, rats, monkeys and something I still haven’t been able to identify (it was following the sailboat at night. It was as long as the sailboat…)
Examples? I was sitting at a picnic table, writing, and the image of a scorpion entered my head. Idly, I’d bend over to scratch a mosquito bite on my leg and, glancing at the ground, would see the scorpion, a few inches from my feet. Several times I have thought of snakes, and looked up, or down at the path before my feet, to spot one right away (one of those times, it was a python, and not outdoors or anything…it was slithering over the top of the books on my desk, right in front of me!)
Today, as I was flipping through my library of photographs in iPhoto, I stopped to look at some (rather washed-out and over-exposed) shots of crocodiles that I have spotted near our houseboat. I reflected that I hadn’t seen a crocodile lurking around Sadgroves Creek in over 5 months, and thought it was about time one made its appearance. We have a reputation (“crocodile infested Darwin,” remember? It’s on my About page) to uphold! Because of the past occurrences, I even said to myself, “Bet it’s out there, now…”
A bit later I got up to roll a cigarette, went to open a window, and there was the croc…right next to our boat, floating brazenly on the surface for everyone to see, and it was directly below my window. It was not such a tiny baby crocodile, either…this one was pretty darn big for Darwin Harbour (there are traps everywhere; the authorities try to keep the city’s harbour relatively croc-free.) At the sound of the window banging open it raised its head just a little, and I swear to God it looked me straight in the eye. Then it hunkered down in the water, made itself a little less obvious, turned around and made off past a neighbouring boat and off into the distance.
I was left musing over whether my crocodilian thoughts had summoned this crocodile from somewhere? Had I perhaps conjured it out of thin air? Or whether my thoughts were simply a response to the crocodile’s thoughts about me? “Come to the window, lovey, I’m waiting just outside! Hey! Hi, there! Have you still got that fat orange cat?”
If these encounters with scorpions and large reptiles were real, was I the summoner, or the summoned? Or, if they were figments of an overactive imagination, were they my imaginings? Or was I theirs?
…but it couldn’t be helped. I had arrived at an impasse with a painting, and the only options were to either start over, or leave her unfinished forever. So I overhauled the half-finished painting today…meaning I put it under a tap, squirted dishwashing liquid onto it, and scrubbed most of the paint off with a Scotch Brite scouring pad.
Then pretty much started the painting over. Heart was not in it, but there’s no time to quibble now. Damn, I don’t know what would be worse…a show with some paintings that were heartlessly churned out, or a show with only 4 paintings, all painted from the heart? Ack.
Yet another back-alley coat-hanger abortion…cleaned off, dressed in bright colors and bundled off to attend the birthday party. Hope no one notices… *pfft!*
Work tomorrow. My Mondays-only day-job. Even these measly 8 hours a week, I resent having to lay my brush down and shovel salads, instead. I resent being subjected to the mindless yammer of local radio stations and indifferently selected pop music. But I have been eating spaghetti, with nothing but salt, olive oil and fresh basil, for 4 days in a row, lunch and dinner, so yes, maybe it’s time to earn just a little bit of money, and buy something else to eat.
I should learn to fish…I live on a boat, after all. That would take care of both me, and the cat. Faced with meager rations, you know I’m more worried about the cat being displeased? He’s that sort of cat.
Meeting new people…I have to make such an effort. I’m someone who prefers to be alone and to spend her time doing the things she’s SURE to enjoy and wants to do, so I find it difficult to make the time for, get myself out there, and socialise, with people I don’t all ready know.
The getting-to-know-you phase can be a pain…you make conversation, rack your brains for something to talk about, and circle each other all night, only to arrive at the conclusion that you are bored to incontinence, that all was a waste of time, and you are quite sure that you will never really work up a similar enthusiasm for the Martian Piloted Complex…no matter how hard you try!
So I am cautious about making new friends. Too many of these “new friends” have turned out to be emotional vampires—leaving me feeling like I did all the entertaining, all the talking, or all the listening (to tales of woe, tales of spleen, or just to a long, eye-glazing litany of local vegetable prices)—and lead weights around the neck. Too many of them have nothing of their own to do, and are drawn to the fact that I seem to always be busy with something, so they want to come and watch and marvel and bask in the “wonderfully creative energy” of my space…without giving anything back.
But sometimes I listen to my intuition—that gut feeling that this time will be different—and accept an invitation to a party, or agree to meet friends and be introduced to somebody new, or arrange to meet up in person with an internet acquaintance…to find myself in the company of somebody so likeable, so simpatico, so oddly familiar, that I bless the random events that brought the meeting about.
Saturday night was one of those happy nights: an auspicious conjunction of tides, stars, weather, ingredients, finances, time, and mood. 1D—someone I had briefly met online through a travel org’s website—let me know he had moved (well, more or less) to Darwin. We agreed to meet up for dinner on the boat. And it was the most fun I’ve had in Darwin since channeling my inner funk diva at Barry Brown and the GetDown.
I made a frugal dinner—raw asparagus spears and a cream cheese dip, chunky slices of kalamata panino, spaghetti with a tomato-based sauce and bacon rashers, a little bit of broccoli, red wine, fresh basil and shredded pecorino. AND this awesome dude had seconds…plus triple nice guy points! There was even dessert, but it was store-bought and neither of us had much of that.
1D brought a couple of great wines to dinner…the label on this one, a fruity syrah (shiraz) from Côte-Rôtie in the the Rhône valley (hence the comic “Croak Rotie”) was so cute that I peeled it off and stuck it in my journal, for the next time I need to buy a bottle of good Shiraz. It was very, very nice.
Lots of laughter; one good, meaty conversation after another…thought-provoking, eye-opening, chock-full of ideas…I was so delighted, I had to write in celebration of such serendipitous meetings, few and far between though they may be, that graciously keep the level of friendship’s well filled to the brim.
I too beneath your moon, almighty Sex,
Go forth at nightfall crying like a cat,
Leaving the lofty tower I laboured at
For birds to foul and boys and girls to vex
With tittering chalk; and you, and the long necks
Of neighbours sitting where their mothers sat
Are well aware of shadowy this and that
In me, that’s neither noble nor complex.
Such as I am, however, I have brought
To what it is, this tower; it is my own;
Though it was reared To Beauty, it was wrought
From what I had to build with: honest bone
Is there, and anguish; pride; and burning thought;
And lust is there, and nights not spent alone.
Painted this in one afternoon. I’m going through my “unrequited lust” stage, now…this always happens when Kris has been gone a month or two. Who would believe the dramatic episodes that a woman living alone can go through? Funniest part about it is that, on the surface of things, life continues in its normal way. I go to work, I meet friends, I shop for cat food and apple juice. But my libido is in turmoil, and my demented nights seethe with a sexual appetite that unnerves me. I tend to drink alone a lot, at this stage, and play a lot of velvety-voiced jazz, and dance in the dark with my arms wrapped around myself, and read feverish poetry, and fantasize. Some nights I feel like screaming with the frustration, and think that I must have an amorous encounter—anything! anything!—or throw myself overboard! I feel like a teenager. Or a cat in heat. Hence the painting, and the fragment of sonnet (that I painted from memory and have only just realized I got wrong…it’s “nightfall” not “midnight”).
It seems so ridiculous when I write about it, and right now I laugh at my histrionics, but believe me, I’ve spent quite a few sleepless nights staring at the moon this past week, thinking that if someone perhaps came along in the dark now, I might devour him. Would I? Not really…I still possess a shred of reason, and that’s always been enough to prevent me from doing something really stupid. But god, I ache for some serious lovin’!
The ground, so solid and dependable just a few weeks ago, suddenly seems like a soft, treacherous film floating on a swamp. It’ll pass, it always does (maybe it was last week’s full moon?) but until then, I tread softly! And paint, paint, paint…
Ikaw Ang Pag-Ibig (You Are Love), the latest movie by the award-winning Philippine director Marilou Diaz-Abaya, was partly shot in my parents home. It hits Philippine theaters tomorrow, September 14. Here’s a synopsis from the film’s site:
The movie revolves around a young, contemporary, rebellious woman Vangie Cruz (Ina Feleo), whose family life and career as a video editor are disrupted when her only brother, a newly ordained priest, Fr. Johnny (Marvin Agustin), is diagnosed of [sic] Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). As a sibling, Vangie is called upon to be a donor for Fr. Johnny’s bone marrow transplant. At first, Vangie is very reluctant. She has a clinical phobia for [sic] medical precedures, the reasons for which are rooted in an attempted, but botched, abortion which she suffered through many earlier and has since been troubled about. Her life is saved by Dr. Joey Lucas (Jomari Yllana) with whom she has a love child, and whom she eventually marries.
Vangie’s dysfunctional family gravitates around Fr. Johnny, and in their struggle to cope with his illness, find themselves drawn to INA (?!?), begging for her intercession. Their prayers are answered, not so much by way of a miraculous cure for Fr. Johnny, but by the grace of conversion, of love, of forgiveness, reconciliation, and hope.
The trailer for this movie is a sentimental, sappy mess…very heavy-handed with our particularly emotional brand of Catholic fervour and melodrama, the swelling music hinting at the maudlin intercession of a venerated statue, the cheesiest kind of pulling-your-heartstrings dialogue, enough pathos-around-the-death-bed scenes to compete with Brideshead Revisited, and mediocre shots of Filipino suburban ‘dysfunctional’ family life.
In a word, ghastly.
Approved by a dozen Catholic film and education boards, this is a film that kids will be forced to watch a dozen times during their years at school, now and forever, till Kingdom come, amen. Sort of the way we were regularly doused with The Selfish Giant or movies about Our Lady of Fatima. There are moral messages in this film on abortion, on separation, on having children out of wedlock, on adultery, on one’s flagging faith, on charity and selfless giving…when Marilou Diaz-Abaya throws a picnic, you get to eat every single part of the Sacred Cow. I fucking hope the audience is hungry!
But the work is of slight interest to me for one reason: parts of it show my parents’ home, where I grew up, and as the family is planning on selling this house (too large for Mum and Dad to manage, now that they live there by themselves) I may grab a DVD of the film, when it becomes available, to have something else to remember the big gabled house on Hill Drive by.
The following shots were taken by my Dad, who was thrilled to bits by all the hustle and bustle when the film crews moved in.
The garden was greened up for the film, and a massive spotlight beamed into the dining room windows to imitate a brilliant early-morning sunlight while the crew shot, at all times of the day or night.
One of the kids’ bedrooms (my brothers and I rotated occasionally, for a change of scenery, so we’ve all had this room at some point in our childhoods) was transformed into a little boy’s room for the film. It was never quite so thematically a kid’s room when we ourselves lived here! Don’t understand why, after all the trouble of assembling toys and painting walls blue, the curtains are so mismatched, and the bedsheets haven’t been ironed. I’m just being nit-picky.
We ourselves never had curtains in our bedrooms, there were wooden louvres to pull across the windows when we wanted privacy. The other bedroom is even funnier…was done up as a young woman’s room, with very stuffy boudoir old rose wallpaper and a dresser with Post-it notes like “Call Johnny” stuck to the mirror. My family continued to live in the house during the filming, with photographs of a family of actors arranged in frames atop the piano, and my thirty-something brother trying to live a normal life surrounded by an 8-year-old’s teddy bear and Star Wars collection.
For the record, here’s the official trailer. It’s not sub-titled, and I was disappointed to see so little of the actual house in it. No doubt there will be more glimpses in the actual film. Which I may steel myself with a vodka and cigarette some night, and watch.
There was some spare work for me at the vegetarian takeaway in the mall, so I’ve been busy rousting up a few dollars, and too tired to blog. But I got to stay home today, and what a lovely day it has been! Windy, exhilarating, and everything around me sporting some vivid shade of Beyond Blue.
The household has been a bit neglected for a couple of days, so I started the day by tidying up. When everything on deck had been scrubbed and spiffied, the old kitchen pinboard caught my eye—grotty, grey, riddled with pinholes and spattered with old paint. I figured it’d only take a minute to clean it up, so I spackled the pinholes, sanded it lightly, and rolled three coats of matte ivory house paint on.
Now it resembled a new canvas so strongly that I couldn’t resist pulling out a few pots of paint and daubing big fat flowers, in simple shapes and bright colors, up one side of the pinboard. Shortly after lunch I finished (i.e. restrained myself and left some white space), and the board is back in use.
I dunno…it just makes me happy. The boat needs a splash of color, really…no reason why it should look like a fishing trawler, just because it used to be a fishing trawler. We have done very little nothing to decorate or display art on our boat…it’s ridiculous, when I think of how much we make, and of the many pieces we own that are by other artists. I have only two small square paintings (by Lisa Wolfgramm and Jenni Hall) hanging on the side of a bookshelf (and now Marita’s stuffed Kitty, sharing shelf space with my books,) while Kris has a single framed photograph atop his filing cabinet. And that’s it. Of our paintings, alone, there must be at least fifty, wrapped and stored in the unused engine room. Ridiculous.
Display space is hard to come by on the boat, admittedly…but I’m sure that if I really looked for dead spaces where art could be hung, or our beautiful things put to good use, I would find a fair bit. I started by pulling this large wooden salad bowl—carved from a single block of ebony by a tribal craftsman in Northern Luzon—out of the bilges, and putting my fruits in it. It’s so nice just to be able to rest my eyes on the old thing, again.
