Canberra is a spread out place. If you live in the original suburbs (areas now known as Inner North and Inner South), it's less obvious. They were designed in the days before the motor car ruled, and everything was to a human scale. Every street has footpaths, there are numerous little pockets of green space, sometimes even with seating. Bus stops are frequent and it's normally only one bus ride to work. Each suburb has a shopping centre, with newsagent, post office, grocery store, butcher and so on. Most suburbs had schools within walking distance. Blocks were not built out, there was a real sense of scale and openness. Enough land was in the backyards for you to keep chooks, a modest vegetable garden, some fruit trees as well as the necessities of clothes line, compost heap and garden shed, where things were mended or created. Space also for the firewood that was so necessary in the winter, when the wind slices down from the mountains and through your bones. We rarely get snow in the city, but it normally sits on the Brindabella and Tinderry ranges that surround this valley. Back to the point - pretty much everything you need is in walking distance, and the prevalence of footpaths makes walking everywhere easy and safe.
But then Canberra started to grow, the car took centre stage and there was little, if any, thought given to what would happen when resources started to run out. That's pretty much the way it was, the world seemed limitless in it's resources and there were only a few voices in the wilderness.
So now we have a sprawling city. Inner North and Inner South are now too expensive for most people to buy into. The newer areas - Woden, Belconnen, Tuggeranong, Gungahlin - they are dominated by the car. Only the major streets have foot paths. There is less green space - and will be even less as the public schools fence off their ovals. Two or more bus rides are needed to get to work - and when you start adding up the time spent on the bus versus the cost of parking, parking normally wins. (3 bus runs with multiple stops, a bus stop that's 15 minutes away and almost 4 hours travelling (both ways), for $8 (so $16 for the pair of us) or 40 minutes plus $5.50 parkings and the car will carry whatever groceries need to be picked up and route diversions for specific needs are possible) Shopping centres have been closed and converted to townhouses and flats. Shopping is generally based around the town centres - malls dominated by Westfield and full of chain stores. And there is no sense of community.
I had to take the car in for some work at the dealership in Belconnen. Because I'm on holidays, I chose to walk home. I figured it was easier and would probably take as long as waiting for a bus and then doing a cook's tour of Belconnen. It took about an hour. I smiled at the three people I passed. I saw animals going about their daily business. I heard parrots bell-like calls. And there was bugger all in the way of footpaths, so I was extremely glad I was wearing sneakers. Now - this was up Southern Cross Drive, a main arterial road. There are footpaths and cyclepaths that meander through the suburbs, but NOTHING for a fast, direct walk.
And I thought about this and got quite cranky at the inherent short-sightedness.
We have suburbs where it's not easy to get by if you work and don't have a car. It's not easy to add incidental walking to your day because the infrastructure just isn't there. I've got damaged ankle ligaments from too many trips and rolled ankles. So I need a flat surface to walk on safely. Grass verges are not a safe option. Between bad parking, incautious drivers, narrow roads and poor visibility, the streets aren't a safe option either. Unless dedicated cyclepaths are built (at significant costs), cyclists are also at risk. If you're sick, or old, or a parent with young children, or a child - the odds are good that there is no local shop in walking distance. Which lessens the ability to build a local community. Because so many of us spend long hours at work, home time is used for the never-ending chores that keep a household turning. Very little of it is available for hobbies, catching up with friends, meeting neighbours or (heaven forbid) going to one of the many wonderful museums or galleries in the area.
I'm fairly sure this isn't progress.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Good Golly Miss Molly!
Winston was wandering around like a little lost soul, wondering why he wasn't being told off. He then decided that he should challenge Fearghus for dominance. And, as I wrote, the house was empty.
So the hunt was on for a successor. It was always going to happen, it just got escalated.
Meet Miss Molly. She's a Bullmastiff, in the traditional brindle that hid them from poachers. At almost 11 weeks, she joined our household and Winston is finding out that payback really is a bitch...
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He might be muscling in on her bed BUT she just walks off with his toys, tells him off when he plays a bit too rough for her (she initiates the games), and boldly takes over his bed. She chews on him the exact way he used to chew on Fearghus. The flip side is that she believes everything he tells her - like it's fine to chew on rugs, furniture, the wolfhound's tail, to urinate inside if it's cold outside (it's winter, of course it's cold!), to chew on clothes, books, the fig tree. To bring sticks inside and chew on them. To bring dead globe artichoke heads inside and scatter leaves and choke all over the place. I've told Molly that Winston tells porkies, but she doesn't believe me.
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Molly has been taking apples that Fearghus has dropped and eats them. Great, I now have two apple fiends in the household.
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Bonnie is back home, in her green pottery urn. It is comforting to have her home again, and to have the wheel turn and Molly here.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.
So the hunt was on for a successor. It was always going to happen, it just got escalated.
Meet Miss Molly. She's a Bullmastiff, in the traditional brindle that hid them from poachers. At almost 11 weeks, she joined our household and Winston is finding out that payback really is a bitch...
He might be muscling in on her bed BUT she just walks off with his toys, tells him off when he plays a bit too rough for her (she initiates the games), and boldly takes over his bed. She chews on him the exact way he used to chew on Fearghus. The flip side is that she believes everything he tells her - like it's fine to chew on rugs, furniture, the wolfhound's tail, to urinate inside if it's cold outside (it's winter, of course it's cold!), to chew on clothes, books, the fig tree. To bring sticks inside and chew on them. To bring dead globe artichoke heads inside and scatter leaves and choke all over the place. I've told Molly that Winston tells porkies, but she doesn't believe me.
Molly has been taking apples that Fearghus has dropped and eats them. Great, I now have two apple fiends in the household.
Bonnie is back home, in her green pottery urn. It is comforting to have her home again, and to have the wheel turn and Molly here.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The cost of love
Our lovely Bonnie is dead and there is an emptiness in the house.
She was a rescue from the pound - maybe 2 years old, not long had a litter and so thrilled to meet me. Leaping up to hug you was an endearing habit which I could never break her of - it took arthritis to stop her. Bonnie was the obvious name - "the child that's born on the Sabbath day is bonnie, blithe, good and gay". She was a lovely Rottweiler, wonderful temperament and nice conformation. She was definitely bonnie, blithe and gay - good, well, she was good according to her lights, and certainly an easy dog to live with.
Don't get me wrong, she had her quirks. She was top dog and kept the others in their place, a busy-body who absolutely HAD to know what was going on. This meant racing from the front porch to the back one several times a day or whenever something might be happening. She would intermittently get gunky ears that would need cleaning and annointing. She tore a cruciate ligament and had to be crated for a couple of weeks - and I have photos of my stepson in the crate with her.
Bonnie was loyal and loving. She smiled and wriggled her whole body with joy. She could also look guilty for absolutely no reason at all. She adored her special people and would happily sit on their laps or keep nudging them for cuddles.
If you sang to her ("she's a bon, she's a bon, she's a bon, yeah, yeah, yeah" - to the tune of she's a mod), she would grin and wiggle. Overnight visitors would be checked up on and kept warm by her, given half a chance.
Our Bonnie is gone, and we miss her.
She was a rescue from the pound - maybe 2 years old, not long had a litter and so thrilled to meet me. Leaping up to hug you was an endearing habit which I could never break her of - it took arthritis to stop her. Bonnie was the obvious name - "the child that's born on the Sabbath day is bonnie, blithe, good and gay". She was a lovely Rottweiler, wonderful temperament and nice conformation. She was definitely bonnie, blithe and gay - good, well, she was good according to her lights, and certainly an easy dog to live with.
Don't get me wrong, she had her quirks. She was top dog and kept the others in their place, a busy-body who absolutely HAD to know what was going on. This meant racing from the front porch to the back one several times a day or whenever something might be happening. She would intermittently get gunky ears that would need cleaning and annointing. She tore a cruciate ligament and had to be crated for a couple of weeks - and I have photos of my stepson in the crate with her.
Bonnie was loyal and loving. She smiled and wriggled her whole body with joy. She could also look guilty for absolutely no reason at all. She adored her special people and would happily sit on their laps or keep nudging them for cuddles.
If you sang to her ("she's a bon, she's a bon, she's a bon, yeah, yeah, yeah" - to the tune of she's a mod), she would grin and wiggle. Overnight visitors would be checked up on and kept warm by her, given half a chance.
Our Bonnie is gone, and we miss her.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Caring
Yesterday, my mother had cataracts removed from one eye and an intraocular lense put in. What a bald statement.
Actually, it means I'm about 800km north of home, doing the driving and any heavy work for a week while Mum takes it quietly and we bicker good-naturedly over who should be allowed to do the washing up (hint - the winner puts the rubber gloves on before her mother notices). The post-surgery bandage came off this morning and Mum is startled with the new clarity of vision. Even more so, I think, because the half day of having just one fuzzy eye gave her an idea of what it must be like to be badly vision impaired.
Two things here. One - I love my mother dearly, am fiercely proud of what she's managed to do in her life and how she has managed over the last couple of decades. And I'm so fortunate that I can drive up to help her.
Two - I'm not being mealy-mouthed by saying vision impaired rather than blind. Blind is different. Blind is no sight. Vision impaired means a degree of sight - actually a whole range of degrees. What Mum experienced yesterday with one fuzzy eye was loss of depth perception, loss of clarity and great difficulty reading anything other than the largest headlines. My stepson is a wonderful young man, dealing with a range of issues. He's in his early twenties and much like most young Australian men of that age. But he also has retinitis pigmentosa. Rod-cone dystrophy. His retinas are deteriorating. He has no night vision - he is night blind. His peripheral vision is negligible. He can just read big headlines, but his nose is almost on the page. He can see recognisable shapes about 10 metres away - and will take a guess at who it might be - but he won't actually be able to see you until you are very close. Sudden changes in light levels take him at least half an hour to adjust to. He went a bit off the rails when the diagnosis came in. But he's levelling out, holding down a job, has friends, a dog, lives with a mate. He is finding his way, making his mistakes, learning the way we all learn and becoming independent.
Re-reading this, I'm not too sure if I'm trying to say anything here. Maybe just that I'm away from home and missing it, my husband, our dogs. That I'm stoked to be able to do something for my mother. That I'm proud of my stepson and what he's managed to achieve. That there is love and caring in the world, shown in different ways. Does there need to be more than that?
Actually, it means I'm about 800km north of home, doing the driving and any heavy work for a week while Mum takes it quietly and we bicker good-naturedly over who should be allowed to do the washing up (hint - the winner puts the rubber gloves on before her mother notices). The post-surgery bandage came off this morning and Mum is startled with the new clarity of vision. Even more so, I think, because the half day of having just one fuzzy eye gave her an idea of what it must be like to be badly vision impaired.
Two things here. One - I love my mother dearly, am fiercely proud of what she's managed to do in her life and how she has managed over the last couple of decades. And I'm so fortunate that I can drive up to help her.
Two - I'm not being mealy-mouthed by saying vision impaired rather than blind. Blind is different. Blind is no sight. Vision impaired means a degree of sight - actually a whole range of degrees. What Mum experienced yesterday with one fuzzy eye was loss of depth perception, loss of clarity and great difficulty reading anything other than the largest headlines. My stepson is a wonderful young man, dealing with a range of issues. He's in his early twenties and much like most young Australian men of that age. But he also has retinitis pigmentosa. Rod-cone dystrophy. His retinas are deteriorating. He has no night vision - he is night blind. His peripheral vision is negligible. He can just read big headlines, but his nose is almost on the page. He can see recognisable shapes about 10 metres away - and will take a guess at who it might be - but he won't actually be able to see you until you are very close. Sudden changes in light levels take him at least half an hour to adjust to. He went a bit off the rails when the diagnosis came in. But he's levelling out, holding down a job, has friends, a dog, lives with a mate. He is finding his way, making his mistakes, learning the way we all learn and becoming independent.
Re-reading this, I'm not too sure if I'm trying to say anything here. Maybe just that I'm away from home and missing it, my husband, our dogs. That I'm stoked to be able to do something for my mother. That I'm proud of my stepson and what he's managed to achieve. That there is love and caring in the world, shown in different ways. Does there need to be more than that?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Glimpses
Have wanted down time from the computer when I get home, so my mental meanderings have been confined to between my ears or the scribble book by the bed. Time to move some of them.
We watched Paper Giants on the ABC, which, in case you missed it, was about the creation of Cleo magazine in the early 1970s. Fascinating as social commentary (especially feminisim - what has changed and what hasn't), we also did car spotting, fashion, architecture and interior design and song/band identification. And the second half had a brief cameo of a Sydney poet called Michael, who dies of a drug overdose. Such a fleeting reference to a brilliant writer, Michael Dransfield.
Ground Zero
wake up
look around
memorise what you see
it may be gone tomorrow
everything changes. Someday
there will be nothing but what is remembered
there may be no-one to remember it.
Keep moving
wherever you stand is ground zero
a moving target is harder to hit.
I wore my psychedelic stockings on Wednesday and was seriously miffed when a hole developed at the toes. Briefly - I've had these stockings for over 15 years (!!), bought from a now defunct shop and generally worn with a mini (no point having multicoloured swirly legs if they aren't on show). But all was not lost. Nail polish, in the first instance, to stop the ladder getting worse and allow me to ignore the problem for the working day. Then boots off once home and, with feet stuffed into slippers, potter into my study and open the sewing machine cabinet. A couple of years ago I came across a box of old sewing threads at one of the local markets. When I sorted them out, there was a mix of silks, some cotton on wooden reels and hosiery threads in different shades of browns. So I scrabble through the box and find one of these cards of hosiery threads, grab the needle book and snips and retire to the living room, where I can put my foot up on the arm of the sofa and have a lamp directly on it. And I take an obscure delight in using what must be 60 year old thread to mend 15+ year old stockings....
One thought exercising my mind is how do we define culture? The more I watch and learn about other species, the less certain I am of just where the difference lies, if in fact there is one. It's not language - all other species have that. It's not laughter, it's not tools, it's not sex for the pleasure of it, it's not song, it's not building/architecture, it's not fighting, it's not preparation of food, it's not collecting attractive objects, it's not domestication of other organisms....
The beans are finished, but we still have a glut of tomatoes, with more ripening each day. Each year I long for the first ripe REAL tomatoes, each year I have a freezer stuffed with cherry tomatoes for cooking, bags that I give away, home made sauce and a desperate feeling of "how do I use them all up?" And I look for the first ripe figs, watch them jealously and prowl around the tree, looking for one ready to eat. Then a few weeks later, I'm figged out. The tree produces more than I can eat, almost more than I can give away, even taking into account the fruit taxed by the birds and dogs. This is the richness worth having!
We watched Paper Giants on the ABC, which, in case you missed it, was about the creation of Cleo magazine in the early 1970s. Fascinating as social commentary (especially feminisim - what has changed and what hasn't), we also did car spotting, fashion, architecture and interior design and song/band identification. And the second half had a brief cameo of a Sydney poet called Michael, who dies of a drug overdose. Such a fleeting reference to a brilliant writer, Michael Dransfield.
Ground Zero
wake up
look around
memorise what you see
it may be gone tomorrow
everything changes. Someday
there will be nothing but what is remembered
there may be no-one to remember it.
Keep moving
wherever you stand is ground zero
a moving target is harder to hit.
I wore my psychedelic stockings on Wednesday and was seriously miffed when a hole developed at the toes. Briefly - I've had these stockings for over 15 years (!!), bought from a now defunct shop and generally worn with a mini (no point having multicoloured swirly legs if they aren't on show). But all was not lost. Nail polish, in the first instance, to stop the ladder getting worse and allow me to ignore the problem for the working day. Then boots off once home and, with feet stuffed into slippers, potter into my study and open the sewing machine cabinet. A couple of years ago I came across a box of old sewing threads at one of the local markets. When I sorted them out, there was a mix of silks, some cotton on wooden reels and hosiery threads in different shades of browns. So I scrabble through the box and find one of these cards of hosiery threads, grab the needle book and snips and retire to the living room, where I can put my foot up on the arm of the sofa and have a lamp directly on it. And I take an obscure delight in using what must be 60 year old thread to mend 15+ year old stockings....
One thought exercising my mind is how do we define culture? The more I watch and learn about other species, the less certain I am of just where the difference lies, if in fact there is one. It's not language - all other species have that. It's not laughter, it's not tools, it's not sex for the pleasure of it, it's not song, it's not building/architecture, it's not fighting, it's not preparation of food, it's not collecting attractive objects, it's not domestication of other organisms....
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wittering on
Autumn is definitely here. The chooks are moulting, the vegie patch has finally started to subside (although we are still harvesting beans and tomatoes without end). It is raining and I'm laid up on the sofa with a rug over my lap, laptop precariously balanced and feeling poorly. Ideally, I'd want to take a couple more days off work, but we have shutdown of our main server room this weekend, so circumstance dictates otherwise. Also finances. If I want a pair of red boots, I need the overtime.
Big congratulations to the Beloved. All the time, work and money poured into the vision for his Valiant have paid off - he took out top modified S series at Chryslers on the Murray, and Sweet Sensation was constantly having her photo taken. Lots of really positive feedback for both himself and his mate Martin, who did most of the trim and all the fibreglass work. I am extremely proud of him.
The dogs are so companionable when I'm ill or tired. They just gather about and lie down on their mattresses and wait. Winston is small enough to get up with me - half the time he doesn't bother, the other half he keeps pushing and pushing and I do give in eventually. Or he waits until I'm asleep and the first I know of it is his elbow in my eye. The sounds of dogs sleeping is wonderful. Winston tucks his nose underneath him, so that's one particular noise. Fearghus is pretty quiet - there's the odd heave or lip fluffing, but that's it. Bonnie makes what I call soup strainer noises. Heavy breathing but with a bit more passion and not quite snores. Then there are the dreaming noises - the yips and scuttering of feet that mimic (presumably) flat out racing and barks of joy.
Big congratulations to the Beloved. All the time, work and money poured into the vision for his Valiant have paid off - he took out top modified S series at Chryslers on the Murray, and Sweet Sensation was constantly having her photo taken. Lots of really positive feedback for both himself and his mate Martin, who did most of the trim and all the fibreglass work. I am extremely proud of him.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Vanity publishing and obsessions
I do get obsessive about things. I read topics into the ground, until I'm tired of it or suddenly stop and decide that maybe this isn't the healthiest direction and I should have a break (that mental shake).
Horrid things are happening in the world, this hemisphere, this country, this city. They touch me, the earthquakes, the disavantaged, the uprisings, global financial crises, climate weirding, the likelihood that the 6th mass extinction is about to take place (if it hasn't already started. This may be a moot point). BUT. But. but. I have to live my life, not someone else's. I can try to make sure that I try and touch the earth lightly. That I accept the contradictions in my life and try to ameliorate them. That I leave this bit of earth that I have custody of in better heart than when I came to it. That I try to make small differences, challenge other people's behaviour/values (and have this happen in return). If I don't concentrate on these small things, they have no chance of rippling out and maybe tilting a critical balance in favour of this earth as we know it. If I don't concentrate on these small things, that way lies madness.
I'm sure the chickens aren't an economic advantage. A couple of the girls have, cough, some maturity, and don't lay terribly often. The new Sussex hens have just decided to do a first and very extravagant moult. I'm not sure that the darling little Langshan x Australorp has laid an egg in over a year. Yet they delight in the scraps that we give them, the left overs that the lettuce lady gives us, and they cluck and preen and make little chooky noises, glare at Winston and are generally delightful to watch and soothing to be around. We don't normally have to buy eggs, although we do have to buy laying mix. What price can you put on the richness they add to our lives? Does the cost of the feed we buy for them offset the cost of buying eggs and all that is implied by that (production, travel, packaging)? We try to grow some of our own food. This means we get to gorge on heirloom beans and tomatoes, I can eat spaghetti squash and globe artichokes in season. And if the weather is good, I can stand by the peach tree and bite into white Anzacs that are too soft to travel, bruise on picking and are wonderfully sweet and juicy - liquid sun. That is - those peaches which haven't been hit by fungus (it's been a wet summer), stolen by the dogs or sampled by the birds and ants. Although I've no objection to eating those last. Birds and ants always pick the sweetest ones. I can get obsessive about sustainability, about doing what I can.
I started buying second hand clothing when I was at university. There were certainly hand-me-downs earlier: work-shirts, moleskins, elastic sided boots. The novelty of being able to buy new clothes when I started paid employ - yes there is still a measure of that, and I won't buy underwear second hand (except for vintage slips or petticoats), but in so many ways, I prefer to buy used. eBay has provided a substantial proportion of my wardrobe. A lot of my furniture is either inherited, gifted, or what one friend refers to as Victorian attic. Not just my furniture - much of my kitchenware and just about all the china and glassware. And my primary obsession, books - well, some of them were only ever published once, so second hand is definitely it!
So via sustainability to purchasing used to the current obsession - learning how to dress and have fun with it. I struggle with this on a number of levels, but hope I'm getting better. This tangled web includes: poor self-esteem (who am I kidding - absolutely mangled, working on rebuilding it), shame, fear, the belief I do not deserve nice things, the belief I'm ugly (you're stupid and ugly, no one could love you), far too much time as a tom-boy, shyness, no confidence to learn... hands up every other woman who's had those thoughts running deep in the ruts of their mind. All evidence to the contrary. I have to remind myself of the good things, of the friends who are wonderful - and would they be my friend if I didn't have qualities they like?
So I am working on the idea that looking good feeds feeling good and they become a self-sustaining cycle until one day the ruts in the mind are less deep, maybe even just surface meanderings that are easily skipped out of. That it is possible to receive a compliment with a simple thank you and actually believe it. And I am spending money (that I earned) on myself because I deserve to look good and feel good. And if that means that I'm getting the hang of liquid eyeliner at forty four and a half - how on earth is that a problem? And if it is a problem - wow, wish all my problems, all the world's problems were that insignficant. And since society requires that I dress, why shouldn't it be enjoyable? This is NOT Puritan England under Oliver Cromwell.
Although I am struggling slightly with storing the increasing amount of footwear (no such thing as too many shoes, just not enough storage. It's a dependency, but not a critical one).
So via sustainability to purchasing used to learning how to dress well to vanity publishing. Ah yes, it is actually called that - self published books, those volumes which you pay to have printed and bound. It's generally used as a perjorative, in the same way as calling someone a dilettante when Renaissance man has quite a different ring to it.
But here I am blogging. At the moment, countless others are also putting their thoughts out there in the ether for others to see. (love that sequence of vowels by the way). Is this vanity publishing or is it something else.
There are various quotes that make the same point - if you want facts, the human condition, read fiction. History is not in accounts, but in account books. (that one from Josephine Tey's The Daughter of Time).
I choose to believe that these self-published works - whether on digital or on paper - are of equal merit, of equal value to those works which are formally published. They display lives and thoughts, uncover art, prose, poetry, opinions, information which we may not otherwise have known. They can provide affirmation, challenges and encourage new interests or deepen existing ones. They are about the human condition.
Horrid things are happening in the world, this hemisphere, this country, this city. They touch me, the earthquakes, the disavantaged, the uprisings, global financial crises, climate weirding, the likelihood that the 6th mass extinction is about to take place (if it hasn't already started. This may be a moot point). BUT. But. but. I have to live my life, not someone else's. I can try to make sure that I try and touch the earth lightly. That I accept the contradictions in my life and try to ameliorate them. That I leave this bit of earth that I have custody of in better heart than when I came to it. That I try to make small differences, challenge other people's behaviour/values (and have this happen in return). If I don't concentrate on these small things, they have no chance of rippling out and maybe tilting a critical balance in favour of this earth as we know it. If I don't concentrate on these small things, that way lies madness.
I'm sure the chickens aren't an economic advantage. A couple of the girls have, cough, some maturity, and don't lay terribly often. The new Sussex hens have just decided to do a first and very extravagant moult. I'm not sure that the darling little Langshan x Australorp has laid an egg in over a year. Yet they delight in the scraps that we give them, the left overs that the lettuce lady gives us, and they cluck and preen and make little chooky noises, glare at Winston and are generally delightful to watch and soothing to be around. We don't normally have to buy eggs, although we do have to buy laying mix. What price can you put on the richness they add to our lives? Does the cost of the feed we buy for them offset the cost of buying eggs and all that is implied by that (production, travel, packaging)? We try to grow some of our own food. This means we get to gorge on heirloom beans and tomatoes, I can eat spaghetti squash and globe artichokes in season. And if the weather is good, I can stand by the peach tree and bite into white Anzacs that are too soft to travel, bruise on picking and are wonderfully sweet and juicy - liquid sun. That is - those peaches which haven't been hit by fungus (it's been a wet summer), stolen by the dogs or sampled by the birds and ants. Although I've no objection to eating those last. Birds and ants always pick the sweetest ones. I can get obsessive about sustainability, about doing what I can.
I started buying second hand clothing when I was at university. There were certainly hand-me-downs earlier: work-shirts, moleskins, elastic sided boots. The novelty of being able to buy new clothes when I started paid employ - yes there is still a measure of that, and I won't buy underwear second hand (except for vintage slips or petticoats), but in so many ways, I prefer to buy used. eBay has provided a substantial proportion of my wardrobe. A lot of my furniture is either inherited, gifted, or what one friend refers to as Victorian attic. Not just my furniture - much of my kitchenware and just about all the china and glassware. And my primary obsession, books - well, some of them were only ever published once, so second hand is definitely it!
So via sustainability to purchasing used to the current obsession - learning how to dress and have fun with it. I struggle with this on a number of levels, but hope I'm getting better. This tangled web includes: poor self-esteem (who am I kidding - absolutely mangled, working on rebuilding it), shame, fear, the belief I do not deserve nice things, the belief I'm ugly (you're stupid and ugly, no one could love you), far too much time as a tom-boy, shyness, no confidence to learn... hands up every other woman who's had those thoughts running deep in the ruts of their mind. All evidence to the contrary. I have to remind myself of the good things, of the friends who are wonderful - and would they be my friend if I didn't have qualities they like?
So I am working on the idea that looking good feeds feeling good and they become a self-sustaining cycle until one day the ruts in the mind are less deep, maybe even just surface meanderings that are easily skipped out of. That it is possible to receive a compliment with a simple thank you and actually believe it. And I am spending money (that I earned) on myself because I deserve to look good and feel good. And if that means that I'm getting the hang of liquid eyeliner at forty four and a half - how on earth is that a problem? And if it is a problem - wow, wish all my problems, all the world's problems were that insignficant. And since society requires that I dress, why shouldn't it be enjoyable? This is NOT Puritan England under Oliver Cromwell.
Although I am struggling slightly with storing the increasing amount of footwear (no such thing as too many shoes, just not enough storage. It's a dependency, but not a critical one).
So via sustainability to purchasing used to learning how to dress well to vanity publishing. Ah yes, it is actually called that - self published books, those volumes which you pay to have printed and bound. It's generally used as a perjorative, in the same way as calling someone a dilettante when Renaissance man has quite a different ring to it.
But here I am blogging. At the moment, countless others are also putting their thoughts out there in the ether for others to see. (love that sequence of vowels by the way). Is this vanity publishing or is it something else.
There are various quotes that make the same point - if you want facts, the human condition, read fiction. History is not in accounts, but in account books. (that one from Josephine Tey's The Daughter of Time).
I choose to believe that these self-published works - whether on digital or on paper - are of equal merit, of equal value to those works which are formally published. They display lives and thoughts, uncover art, prose, poetry, opinions, information which we may not otherwise have known. They can provide affirmation, challenges and encourage new interests or deepen existing ones. They are about the human condition.
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