Going Off Half-Baked

My name's Megan and I'm a blogger. It's been ten days since my last post.

But what a ten days. The kids finishing their school year seems to bring so much drama with it. Getting reports, cleaning out the layers of detritus from their school bags (for which I am grateful for some archaeology knowledge), going through all the school clothes and all the school books. And getting ready for Christmas. There were presents to buy and presents to finish making and baking to do. So much baking. And in the midst of that all the usual, boring things, like grocery shopping and cooking and doing the washing. Bleah.

Somehow, in all that, time for quietly drawing or painting got shunted back in the schedule (and blogging went right out the window).

Baking. Every year I go a little crazy making gingerbread. I love gingerbread, and ginger cake. And I love making things out of gingerbread. The whole house smells of gingerbread for days on end. It greets you when you walk in the door and wafts you off to sleep at night. Just heaven.

It started with houses. I have been making houses for a number of years. They are fun and versatile and when the kids were little they used to love decorating, although I think that had a lot to do with scoffing sweets as they worked. Houses were made for family and friends and we would have a great time making each look different. We'd change the biscuits and other decorations out the front. But inside was always the same - biscuits with the names of each of the recipients, as a little surprise when the roof was finally taken off.

Then last year the Son up the ante. "We always do houses. They're fun. But can you make a TARDIS?" said with the definite tone of throwing down the gauntlet. So I put my mind to it and came up with this (note the small size of the Cybermen and Daleks) :

Gingerbread TARDIS, 2013

There was one for us and one for some friends who love Dr Who. And then there were several houses as well. Inside the houses were the usual biscuits with names. Insides the TARDISs were biscuits done like Seals of Rasalon with names on the back. I was quite pleased with how it came out.

Gingerbread Seal of Rasalon, 2014

So this year I thought, more TARDISs, why not? I made TARDISs for some school friends and their families, with Seals inside, and larger Daleks outside. They were more to scale, but it did mean two figures per structure. Four was too cluttered.

Gingerbread TARDIS 2014

Looking at it now, my piping could have been better. Don't know what was wrong with me there. The Daleks (and cybermen) are just made with a template I draw each year, which will always mean that no two years will be alike. I also found this year that Smarties make a perfect top to the TARDIS light. Which enables me to colour-code each one. Otherwise, once the lid's on I have trouble remembering which one is for which family.

There was also a sleigh. I used a mold, which I haven't done before. It needs rethinking. I was happy with the sleigh, but the two reindeer had to go. They looked like they'd been hanging around the king of Goblin Town. Not good. I shall cogitate and experiment (there is still some dough left in the freezer). Might make templates for them and see if that works better. Or make them in the mold but with chocolate rather than dough. Needs work. This was the first time I had made something without testing it first. Just trusted the thing I had bought. Sorry, Cate. I owe you two reindeer.

Anyway, Son threw down the gauntlet again this year. "You've made TARDISs. They're good. But what about a Dalek? Like, a 3D one?" Ooookay.

So I went through the process I adopted for the houses years ago and for the TARDIS last year. Lots of thinking. Draw plans based on images from the Doctor Who Technical Manual. Build out of cardboard to perfect template. Build prototype from gingerbread. Look at it, pick faults, iron out kinks, revise, think.

And this was the result:

Gingerbread Dalek Travel Machine, 2014

There were problems. Snapping the panel above the gun and plunger was a big one. The dome needed perfecting. But I think jelly baby heads make perfect lights. On the whole, however, it worked. And the scale is Jaffa scale.

I made another one for a friend and her family. And the Son came up with the great idea of putting an actual dalek inside. Did you know, if you chop up and melt jelly snakes they become a glorious slimey mess? And almost impossible to clean off teaspoons? The Dalek came out okay, and caused a "ewww" reaction, which was the desired effect. But I have since had ideas on improvements. This is, as always, an ongoing process. And sometime I shall have to make a Doctor gingerbread man. After all, he often says he wants to be ginger.

So after all the panic and rush, Christmas was done. I love that people loved their gingerbread. I love that we still have our prototype to eat. But I am really pleased to sit down, to get off my feet, to read and draw at leisure.

And I am NOT showing this to my Son:

In closing, here's a little something for all of you who, like me, need to relax a little now Christmas is done. In! Calm! Out! Relax!

A Jolt to The System

Sorry it is such a long time between posts, but this is a busy time of year. I'm writing this in between baking and finishing presents and helping the kids wrap up the school year. This is the last year in primary school for the Son, and today is his last day. So it's something of a big deal, for him and for me.

In the midst of all this there hasn't been much time for non-Christmas creation. Although I didn't get my Christmas cards finished (but at least I now have a head start on next year's). The house is looking nice and Christmassy, the windows are gradually being covered with Star Wars snowflakes (they're fun). Through Your Eyes on Christmas Eve, which is usually our go-to album for Christmas (because it is fabulous) is having to compete with Nomad, but in a day or so I shall make us stick to Christmas music (leading, no doubt to a Nomad explosion on Boxing Day). The baking started a few days ago, and I am taking advantage of the strangely cool weather to get a crack on with it.

Christmas was not a happy time when I was growing up. Bits of it were, but on the whole, no. So I love making it happy for my children. My parents-in-law have the right idea - remove as much stress from proceedings as possible so that everyone can have a good time. Cook as much beforehand, go for salads, cold meats, etc (which makes sense in our climate) and make clean-up as quick and easy as possible. And everyone helps out. That way there's more time for fun and frivolity.

The children are working on making presents and have also been saving their pocket money so that bought presents come from them. The Steamgoth particularly is coming up trumps in the making department. She is going to be an artistic force to be reckoned with.

Most of the stuff I have been doing I can't discuss because some of the recipients read this blog (I think). But there is one thing, as it has already been given.

One of the sillier things I do, but which my kids love, is modifying NERF guns. I'm not great at it, I need more practice frankly, but I'm getting there. And I am good at NERF repairs (which reminds me, I need to take my repair kit to my friend's house. I promised her sons ages ago I'd have a look at their NERFs.

Son's class do Secret Santa. This is a great idea and really cuts down on school Christmas expenses. Everyone writes out a slip of paper with their name and interests. The teacher then gives them out so everyone has someone they get a present for. Limit is $5-$10. You get a present, wrap it with the recipient's name but not yours, and sneak it under the tree in the classroom. The Son drew a girl in the class who likes "rainbows and weapons". So I got asked to modify a gun, but without rainbows.

We went and got a Jolt. This is the smallest NERF and costs $5. It also packs a real punch. I learnt the hard way to not remove the air baffles. With the baffles the Jolt fires hard (hence its name) and makes a pleasant thock sound when fired. Without the baffles the Jolt hurts and makes an unpleasant snap sound when fired. Some guns, such as the old Maverick, perform better without the baffles. Not the Jolt.

The Jolt, as it comes

What I have done with it doesn't actually constitute a mod. It's really just a new paint job. And before you ask, all my guns have names. My modded Jolt in called Minnie (as in Minerva), this one is Lily. It is missing its brand plate (just realised - too late) - HMA Firearms and Munitions. There's a whole story to that. One day I will write it up.

Lily. Unfortunately the bullets still look the same

I wanted a really Chrome paint for the cartridge handle. Still looking for that (at least this paint is more silvery than it appears in the photo). The copper barrel isn't bad. I am looking into "gilding" parts of the guns in future. We'll see how that works out. The Son liked the finished product, and the recipient loved it, so that's the important thing.

There's so much Christmas music I could put on this (and I am seriously running out of time to put any up). But I thought, silly post, so silly music, so you get this...

Zat You, Santa Claus?

I've been getting a lot of drawing done, but there's nothing ready to show yet (that's the trouble with working on several things at once). So instead I will do something appropriate to the season and write about Father Christmas. And show some old fruits of labour.

In Bangladesh 25 December is a national holiday because it is the birthday of Rabrindranath Tagore, the famous poet. The Tiger of Bengal. He wrote a lot about Indian independence (he also wrote about love and other things. His poetry is worth finding and reading). He was also a playwright, composer, painter, essayist and novelist. So, my first bearded fellow at Christmas was this man. I think I got off to a flying start.

Rabindranath Tagore, 1861-1941

My first actual encounter with Father Christmas was in Port Moresby, PNG, when I was about 23 months old. Yes, I do remember this (my earliest memory is at about 14 months, but that's another story). He was an old, slightly overweight PNG man with a VERY bright, highly patterned shirt and a short, white, curly beard. He was accompanied by a number of PNG ladies and they were all on the back of a flat bed truck. I don't think I knew what "Santa Claus" meant or entailed, but I knew he was it.

The next year my mother took my elder sister, my baby brother and me to the local shopping centre to have our Christmas photo done. The photo is one of those "mixed bag" ones. Sister is happy enough, Brother is a babe in arms (only two months old) and I am furious and tearful. Because this fat white guy with the huge beard was not Santa Claus and I was having none of it. Wrong outfit, wrong beard, wrong colour. No, no, no! I suspect there was foot stamping involved (I should ask Mum for the photo so I can scan it). The next year, and all subsequent were fine, but that year... no. Not at all.

Shopping Centre Santas are their own mixed bag. Some are lovely and knowledgeable and really have the children believing. Others, while sweet, are not so convincing. If you want to be a Shopping Centre Santa it is best to not live under a rock.

I have always had my children's photos done at David Jones. Great service, great photos with a good range of packages and prices so you do not have to bankrupt yourself. Generally good Santas. Except for one year.

Every year I make (or now offer to make) a new outfit for my children. For the Steamgoth a dress (often worn two years running, the first year floor length, the next mid-calf. Her choice. Smart girl), for Son a shirt (he wanted the same one four years running, so that was easy).

When Son was three he made his most extravagant demand (he has never topped it, although last year's cammo gear was interesting). He wanted to be the pilot of Thunderbird 2, which meant dressing like Virgil Tracy. 

I am not one for putting photos of my children on the web, but I'll make an exception this time because this photo is so old, and he is so cute, and I am so proud of the damned costume.

The new pilot of Thunderbird 2

Everything is made by me, except the gun. The boots, the hat, the sash, the belt and holster, the uniform. The badges on the sash and hat were painted with fabric paint and then appliqued. We still have this. I don't care how big Son gets, I am never giving this away.

When you take kids for Christmas photos mums look and coo (or appraise), dads ignore. Not this time. We had guys in their 20s and 30s stop us and ask where the uniform came from. One guy walked backwards in front of us to get a better look. Son thought this was all marvellous. And then we got to Father Christmas.

And the silly man asked "who are you meant to be?" and when son looked shocked and told him, he said "Who?" Like I said, if you want to be a Shopping Centre Santa, don't live under a rock. At the age of three I had to have that talk with my son. You know, the one where you explain that these guys are all just helpers because the real one is flat out getting everything ready, but don't worry, he gets all the messages.

The local Westfield has told the local David Jones (inside the local Westfield) that they can't have a Santa this year because it competes with the Centre one. So we will be going down to Sydney to the big DJs in the centre of town. Raspberries with knobs on to Westfield. The Steamgoth has declared she is NOT coming. She is "too old". And there is nothing I can do or say to change her mind (I have tried).

Laser Claus, Megan Hitchens, watercolour pencil on paper, 2013. He wants a word with Westfield Tuggerah

To finish up, have you ever really listened to the words of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town"? The guy is  a creepy stalker. Doubt me? Listen to it in a minor key, then tell me I'm wrong. (That's my drawing, by the way (Fat Man, watercolour pencil on paper, 2013). I couldn't resist after I heard this version).

On the Ball

Tomorrow is the Year 6 Farewell dinner at the local Golf Club. When I was at school there was a school disco and the principal stood up at the last assembly in the year and said goodbye to us all. That was it. Now, there's the farewell dinner, a farewell pool party, the assembly, and on the last day the rest of the school forms a guard of honour at the gates (that's actually quite funny, watching the Year 6 kids trying to get under the arms of the kindergartners).

My baby will be finishing primary school.

Lots of people are pitching in (it's a public school, we're not flush with cash). Decorations and special place mats have been made, I've spruced up the banner and written out place cards. Parents will be decorating the room at the club on the day (not me, sorry, that banner was more than enough). Everyone pulling together, which is as it should be.

Son loves his teacher. Miss Casamento is lovely, but she is also a great educator. She has a tough class (the Opportunity Class (gifted) - pack of smart arses, including my boy), but she keeps them in line and motivated and interested, and learning all sorts of things. There are two OC classes, the kids have the same teacher for both years 5 and 6, and the two classes, next door to each other, interact a fair bit. So when Son asked me to make a temari for Miss Casamento, he also asked for one for Miss Garland, the other OC teacher. To be given at the farewell.

Remember temari? I made one for Mrs Dawes, our deputy principal, when she retired.

It was a simple thing for Son to ask both women for their favourite colours. Then he and I went through all my temari books looking for just the right designs. I swear he bookmarked about twenty. I deliberately did not say "Let's look on online too". We'd still be choosing.

After several days he settled on one for each.

I made Miss Garland's first because my boy was still deciding thread colours for Miss Casamento's.

This is wrapped in red thread, divided with gold into a C8 (see the other post) and then the pattern is built up by stitching interlocking large and small squares. That's right. Squares. The triangles appear as you go. I had to unpull it once because I mistranslated something in the instructions (if I had looked more closely at the photos I would have realised my mistake). Then I had to unpull it again because there are two ways to stitch the large squares, and I chose the wrong way (again, photo, dur). But it came out alright in the end.

By the time it was done, Son had finalised the colours for the second one. A dusty pink and white. I suggested a touch of light green, but he was adamant.

The mari was wrapped in dusty pink thread (it's fairly dark in tone) and then simply divided into twelve, like segmenting an orange. All those petals are achieved by first stitching zig zags from the pole to midway to the equator on alternating spokes (repeat once so all spokes are done) and then stitching spindle shapes on each spoke over the equator. Repeat till finished. The equator is then wrapped in an obi (basically a belt made of wrapped threads) and that's it. It is a simple pattern, but it takes a lot longer to stitch than the red one.

And if you are wondering about the cushion, that's a zabuton, or little mattress. I have a few of these in my temari box. The colours were perfect, so Son snaffled it.

So that's it. Now I have to find something else for the evenings (too warm for knitting at the moment).

Christmas music. I meant to start this yesterday, but I forgot it was 1 December (despite stressing about the Christmas tree and the cats). Still, better late than never. (And don't roll your eyes, listen. Great version)

Into Aladdin's Cave

So what did the Steamgoth think of Frankenstein? She loved it. As we walked out into the bright Summer sunshine, she said "thanks, Mum, for bringing me to this". She even held my hand as we walked along the Quay through the ever present throng of tourists. My teenage daughter! That it had been a film of a stage production seemed a bonus. She particularly liked the ingenuity involved in the props and the Spartan settings, conveying so much with so little. We had a lengthy talk about Mary Shelley and her parents  as we made our way over to The Rocks and the tightly-packed Aladdin's Cave of wonder that is Parker's Fine Art Supplies.

I love Parker's, and unlike last time, it was open. It smells glorious. Turn your head to the left as you walk in and it is the heady scents of linen and cedar from the canvas and stretchers. Turn to the right and it's the metallic tang of pen nibs. There are racks and racks of handmade paper, leather-bound sketch books. Old Holland oil paints (the best paints in the world, and that is written without any exaggeration). I have to admit, I stand in the oil paint aisle and shut my eyes and breath in and am transported to other times and other places.

We drifted around for a while just gazing at all the beautiful things. The Steamgoth found a rather nice retractor pencil and a pack of 2B nibs, and I found chalks that were buttery-smooth and glode onto the test scraps of paper.

Did you really think they wouldn't come home with me?

There was a little stand set up with various coloured ink stones and a calligraphy brush. The Steamgoth had a great time writing Kanji while I got some serious looking done. Honestly, I could spend thousands in that shop without blinking. But I don't have thousands. So I contented myself with my chalks, her pencil and leads, a beautiful new sketchbook (heavy cream paper) and... a silverpoint stylus. Yes, finally, a silverpoint stylus.

Such a contrast to Eccersley's. "Do you have silverpoint supplies?" "Yes, but it's only the silver at the moment. I think we are out of the gold". Oh, bliss. He showed me what they had (they even had lead. Nice, but no thanks). And then he apologised because they are out of prepared paper. Before I even asked (I wasn't going to, but still... impressive).

The day in Sydney was rounded out with afternoon tea at a cafe and then an hour or so in Kinokuniya, with the Steamgoth waxing lyrical over the manga while I looked through the art books and the Japanese Steampunk magazines (they had a new one, but having been to Parker's I couldn't afford $40 for one magazine, lovely though it was).

And we just made it home before the exhaustion set in. Sunday's activities got severely curtailed, but after feeling like I was made of lead for most the day( and still I had to wash the children's school clothes), I took son shopping for his year 6 farewell outfit and then sat down and did these from memory, because they wouldn't let me rest.

The Train, Megan Hitchens, trois crayons on buff paper, 2014

The Creature, Megan Hitchens, trois crayons on cream paper, 2014

Worker, Megan Hitchens, white chalk on black paper, 2014

They tumbled out of my head. There are more, and I have found a stack of photos this afternoon on the National Theatre live website, so I can fix up some I am not happy with and maybe do some others. It's odd, drawing from memory. A very good exercise, but not easy. They aren't perfect but I am quite happy with them, given what they are.

The one of the creature I got too caught up in musculature and wounds, and forgot about proportions. His arms are hopelessly long, or his legs too short. But I showed it to the Steamgoth and she knew exactly the moment I had drawn - his bottom-wriggling joy at finally mastering walking.

I have included the Rachmaninoff because I like it, and it is melancholy, and I am knackered.

The Monster Within

I meant to write and post this on Saturday, but Saturday wiped me out. Sometimes I can withstand a lot of physical activity, sometimes I really pay for it. The last couple of days I have been paying. Mind you, a whole week of waking at 5am (alarm is set for six) coupled with screaming nightmares while I have slept probably had something to do with it.

On Saturday I went down to Sydney with the Steamgoth, to see the National Theatre production of Frankenstein at the Dendy Opera Quays. You read that rightly, a stage production at a picture theatre. Frankenstein is a film of the stage play in London, right down to an audience present. Almost like being in the audience, only the view is better. We saw the changing of the sets, the rotating of the stage, the works. The industrial train was especially impressive.

Promotional poster for the National Theatre Live film of Frankenstein

This is an amazing production. If you ever get the chance to see it, make every effort to go. It's the version with Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller. Every night they would swap who played Victor Frankenstein and who played the creature. Which version you see depends on the session you go to. We got lucky. We got Cumberbatch as the creature. It is an incredibly demanding role, which is possibly partly why they swapped each night.

I wasn't sure what the Steamgoth would think of it all, but I was hoping she might like it. We got off to a good start when she said how much she liked the theatre. Then they played "Minnie the Moocher" while we were waiting for the film to start. Cab Calloway, but a different recording to the one we are used to, so we had a lot of fun trying to sing the responses correctly. The Steamgoth added "sir" to the end of each of her's (Jeeves and Worcester fans, us). The two elderly ladies sitting next to us weren't sure what to think.

When the lights finally dimmed, we got a documentary. The Steamgoth hates documentaries about films, whereas I love them. I have indeed watched all 12 hours of documentaries on the Lord of the Rings discs, and been declared mad by the rest of the family. But this documentary was mercifully short. We both agreed that Benedict Cumberbatch looks weird with his real hair colour, and my daughter was very impressed that Mary Shelley was 19 when she was writing Frankenstein (she wants to be a horror writer, and her stupid English teacher has said that as a girl and a dyslexic she should give it up. We have had words).

And then the film itself started. From the beginning it was enthralling and imaginative and utterly believable. More from the point of view of the creature than anything else, unlike the novel, which is Frankenstein's report to a friend of all that happened. Frankenstein's lack of humanity is in sharp contrast with that of his creation. It's hard going at times, but the story is hard going. If you have never read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, do so. It is a classic for a reason.

Cumberbatch was brilliant as the creature. His performance so very physical, the spacticity of the early attempts at movement ghoulishly fascinating. As he learns to speak, I was reminded very much of David Threlfall's performance as Smike in the 1980 production of the Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby. That sense of disability never really leaves the character, and it calls upon that terrible but wrong-headed instinct in us all that how someone sounds reflects their intellect. He speaks with a slur and moves unevenly, so he must be an idiot. But he isn't. He is more capable of reason than many others he encounters. Frankenstein is astounded that the creature has read Milton, but seems unable to believe that he understands it (which he does).

And is that not how most react? People speaking slowly to Stephen Hawking, or to the son of my spouse's friend who is wheel chair bound and speech impaired but a whiz with computers. We see and hear only the externals and ignore all other evidence to the contrary. This production highlights that terrible, stupid reaction in us, the audience, while brutally enacting the other common reaction, that of violence and revulsion, the fear of the other, the threat it poses to our own sense of self. The creature is beaten and yelled at and chased off, to the point that his first spoken words are "piss off".

Then there is Elizabeth, and the first bride. Mary Shelley well knew that women were the pawns of men, devalued, used and then abandoned. Not only was she an intelligent woman trying to make her way in the "Age of Enlightenment" (has ever a time been so badly named?), but she was also the child of Mary Wollstonecraft and William Goodwin, the great social philosophers and feminists. This background is drawn on in the play, with Elizabeth even baldly stating the central point of Wollstonecraft's "Vindication of the Rights of Women", that she is "no less intelligent but appear so only because I am less educated, and who's fault is that? For I was not allowed to go to school". Elizabeth and the bride are shamelessly used as weapons by both the creature and Frankenstein, then butchered and discarded.

It is also very much a play about pecking orders. At the top is Victor and his family, then their servants, the industrial workers, the vagrants, (at all ranks women inferior to men) and at the bottom the creature, outcast because of his appearance. It is a long time before his actions become such to justify that exile. He is more noble, more just, sweet and innocent than any humans encountered. It is the actions of those around him that teach him how to be a social being, that is, how to lie and cheat and hate and kill.

While it is a strong theme throughout the book, Godwin's main tenet roars through the play, that the evil actions of men are solely reliant on the corrupting influence of social conditions. While Godwin believed that changing conditions in society could remove evil, the outcome in the play and the novel is that the evil in society instills evil in the creature. All are culpable in the crimes of Frankenstein's monster.

At the moment Danny Boyle (the director) is resisting requests for the production to be released on DVD. God knows why. The National Theatre could make a mint from it. I for one shall be adding my voice to the growing chorus.

What the Steamgoth thought of it all and what we did next shall follow.

Tag, You're It

Okay, so sitting here at 7am, checking emails and the dreaded facebook (I hate facebook, but I love being connected to my friends. Aargh), and looking at my blog stats (that is so addictive. Be warned, should you start a blog. And remember, the views and + are not reflections of you or your worth as a human being. It's okay that no one has looked for a while). My son and I love looking at where the views are from. That can be a lot of fun, and quite perplexing. I have a regular viewer in Russia, and the family history blog (which I must get back to) seems to have someone from the US armed forces. At least I think that's what's going on. Views from South Korea, then Germany, then South Korea again, but never both at the same time. Then both will vanish and there'll be extra under US (I have a branch of family in the US, so it's possible). The Zentangle blog gets readers from all over the place - Czechoslovakia, Poland, Netherlands, South Africa, Malaysia. It's up to about twenty destinations now.

Today I am checking the blogs. I have one and a half posts ready to go for Grasping Nettles (hopefully later today), and because it has a been a little while between drinks there hasn't been much activity. One view. I'm curious (it did annihilate the feline species, according to K9). Source? House Goes Home, that wonderful blog of my old school friend, Alana. Which is weird. Who has clicked through from there and how? So I follow the link. And get a shock.

I read Alana's blog every day (yes, she blogs every day. I don't know how she does it). If you want a blog that is honest, frequently funny, sometimes heartbreaking, that deals with everyday existence, her part of the extraordinary journey we all make, go and read HouseGoesHome. I looked at the post the link took me to, "I Got Booked", and wondered how someone found me through there. Um. Alana tagged me. And I didn't realise. I read that post three days ago and didn't see the tag. I loved the little image at the top of the page (the Steamgoth had a good laugh about it too then wryly said "there are some people at school who need to see that"). I followed through and read Pinky Poinker's post from which she tagged Alana (see? Grown ups do still play tag). And I looked at who Alana tagged in her post and thought "that would be fun" and didn't realise one of them was me. Some days, I swear, thicker than a whale blubber sandwich.

So, questions, answers, incep dates. I have to answer some questions about my reading habits. Here goes, and apologies in advance for boring you all to tears.

Do you snack while you read?

Ah, no, for the same reason I don't listen to music when I paint or draw. I get so caught up that I don't notice if I'm eating or not. Plus, if I do stop to think to take a bite then the flow is gone. I also don't like intermissions in plays or films.

Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?

For fiction books, this absolutely horrifies me, makes my blood run cold. My uni texts, on the other hand, are full of notations. Even if I am looking at them again now, more than 15 years after leaving, I sometimes add notes. Some of my non-fiction favourites also have very full margins, passages underlined, wording questioned. It is like a conversation with the text. At high school I would have died rather than mark a book. Studying the history of book production at uni shifted something in my head. But only for non-fiction. The words of a fiction author are sacrosanct, their creation, and the images they are pouring into my head don't leave time or space for anything else. But there are editors out there who could do a better job.

Fiction, non-fiction, or both?

See above. Definitely both. There is too much knowledge out there, and too much amazing storytelling for me to ignore a category.

Hard copy or e-books?

Oh, this is vexed. I love the book as artefact, the smell, the sound of the pages turning, the feel of the paper and the spine, especially if it is a hardback. Especially if it is old. I love having those beautiful volumes on my shelves, just waiting to be picked up, with no energy needed other than mine. They don't need recharging, they don't rely on electrickery. Once made they need no other energy investment, they become clean and green for more than a lifetime. But... (there is always a but), I have an e-reader on the computer (I hate it. I want a Kindle. They use Othello technology. They aren't hard on the eyes). There is a Victorian author I love, George Chetwynd Griffith. He was an explorer and author (yes, he wears a pith helmet in his author photo). He was a left-wing science fiction writer, posited the powering of London with wave power from the Thames, wrote about airships that didn't run on fossil fuels, gave women strong important roles. He was a Steampunk writer before there was Steampunk. And my chances of actually owning a physical book of his are pretty much close to zero. But I have his entire output in e-book format. So for the sake of George I have to beat down my Luddite tendencies and say thank you to e-books.

What is the last book you bought?

I can't say because it is a Christmas present, so the one before that was "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley. Because I really wanted to read it again (you'll see why if I get my act together) and I don't know where my copy has gone. I went to QBD and found there was stacks on my card so I got Frankenstein and a Percy Jackson for my son for free. Who cannot love free books?

Is there a specific book or author you find yourself recommending over and over?

Yes, yes, yes. Terry Pratchett, Robert Brown and Nancy Mitford. I have been reading Terry Pratchett's books since I first picked up The Colour of Magic in 1987. The collection has grown from there - his science fictions, children's books, the Discworlds (obviously), Unadulterated Cat, his collaborations, including the latest, the Long Earth series, with Stephen Baxter, essays. He is an extremely gifted writer. Over the years his books have become darker and more political, and I have loved those even more. And if you want books with a strong role for girls, go straight to his Tiffany Aching books "The Wee Free Men", "A Hat Full of Sky", "The Wintersmith" and "I Shall Wear Midnight". The first one is okay for 8-10, the last for teenagers. Like Harry Potter, the story grows with the reader.

“Zoology, eh? That's a big word, isn't it."
"No, actually it isn't," said Tiffany. "Patronizing is a big word. Zoology is really quite short.”
Terry Pratchett, "The Wee Free Men"

Robert Brown. If you have been reading this blog you know about Robert Brown, whether you want to or not. Lead singer, main lyricist and songwriter of Abney Park. And a glorious author. Only two books so far, "The Wrath of Fate" and "Retrograde", but he is a great story teller. They follow the adventures of Robert and his wife Kristina as they are shot into a world of chaos in a time-travelling airship, the Ophelia. Along the way they discard, meet and recruit others (who fans can identify as past and current band members, some are harder to pick than others) and Robert tries to "fix" the world, with disastrous consequences. That makes it sound twee. It isn't. You don't have to know a thing about the band. You don't even have to like their music (although how could you not?). These stories stand tall on their own strengths. I have written elsewhere about them. Brown is maturing as a writer (so is Pratchett. All good writers mature with each book). These are rollicking good tales, with beautiful illustrations, and they are novels that make you think. At least, they make me think. Even if you are one of those who rolls their eyes at my banging on about Abney Park, you are doing yourself out of a bloody good yarn if you ignore Robert's books (and if you want more of the story, it's there in the songs too).

And lastly Nancy Mitford, author of (amongst other things) "Love in a Cold Climate", "the Pursuit of Love" and "Don't Tell Alfred". She wrote startlingly funny books about upper class England between the wars. There are also her biographies, her essays, journalistic writings and reviews, translated stories (from French) and collections of letters. Beyond her novels (which I adore) I especially love "The Mitfords" from 2007, a collection of letters between Nancy and her five sisters, including Unity (although there aren't a lot from her after she shot herself in the head when Hitler rejected her. She was the black sheep in the family. You can read more about all the sisters in "The Mitford Girls" by Mary S Lovell, 2001). I have always urged others to read Nancy Mitford's books. She will make you laugh until you cry, and then she will make you cry.

So all that remains now is to tag two other bloggers and ask them to answer the questions on their reading habits:
Do you snack while you read?
Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?
Fiction, non-fiction, or both?
Hard copy or e-books?
What is the last book you bought?
Is there a specific book or author you find yourself recommending over and over?

So, to the lovely and talented Lianne of the Tangled Way, tag, you're it. Most of the other blogs I read are by academics I don't know, others I have only been following for a short while and don't feel confident to tap them almost out of the blue. Alana already tagged me and it seems I cannot tag her back. One blog is so specific I dare not ask (We've Got Work to Do. I would love to know the reading habits of my favourite Who blogger). Instead I shall tag my Facebook friend Arthur Slaughter, who isn't a blogger but should be. An erudite and well-read man with many strings to his bow, whose reading habits I am rather curious about ("curiosity annihilated..." yes, yes, K9, I know).

And to end, my son's favourite band, the Russian ensemble, Caprice. They often write about stories and books (there are at least two albums about Middle Earth) and have lots of weird labels put on them - neo-classical, neo-baroque, fairy-pop (wrong), fairy-goth (closer). But everyone seems to agree: evocative music, ethereal vocals. I can't find his favourite track, Edge of Arctica, so instead you have this, which isn't typical, but is soothing.

That'll Put Colour in Your Cheeks

I've been plugging away at the Golden Nautilus shells, and even got back to the airships (although I think I will continue those in watercolour pencil. They're driving me nuts at the moment), and have been doing some little test panels for the abstracts. But there really isn't anything substantial to show you at the moment. Unless you are interested in test panels.

So yesterday I took the day off and did some other things. My son's teacher's temari is now well underway and the next door teacher's is finished. I did a Zentangle challenge, drawing with my left hand. That was fun. Drawing with your left hand is always a good exercise, in humility if nothing else.

And I finally did a drawing of my friend, Arlene.

Arlene, Sanguine, white and black chalk on grey paper, Megan Hitchens, 2014

Last time I was in Sydney on my own I bought a pad of pastel paper. Three types of grey, a cream and two ochres. Lovely colours. And one of the greys was perfect for what I had envisioned for Arlene's drawing (I get these images in my head and then I have trouble matching them up to reality. Better to see what's available or can be made available and then get the image, but I don't seem to work that way).

Anyway, it turned out well, I think, although I will let my other friends who know her have the final word.

Oh, and in case you are interested in process, here is the drawing before I really got to work with the sanguine. I had only put a little in the hair and eyes and just started on the face when I took this photo.

Arlene, drawing in progress, Megan Hitchens, 2014

Amazing the difference it makes. Unfortunately I'd managed to make her look about fifteen years older at this stage. There are some other differences - I softened some of the lines, made her a little less gimlet eyed, etc, but mainly it's the addition of the red chalk. Temperature is so important. Drawing on or with cool colours makes adults look much older (our body temperature cools as we age, apparently, so our skin tones cool), while drawing children on or with warm colours makes them look older (they are also on the cooler side of things, or so I am told). Whether the temp thing is correct or not, I can tell you it is definitely correct with drawing and painting. You can see the difference with adding that warm chalk to Arlene's drawing.

I'm including the Stranglers' delectable Golden Brown on this because I like it (even though it is about heroin - I didn't know at the time, and I don't care now) and my daughter has been playing it a lot on the keyboard lately, so it runs round the house and round my head. Just as well I like it really.

Having a Ball

I'm one of those people who can't just sit and do nothing. It drives me mad. Watching tele, on a train, in a doctor's waiting room, I can't just sit. I have to have something to do. So sometimes I knit, or I spin, or draw. Lately I have been making temari.

Temari is a Japanese craft form. It literally means Hand Ball. Basically it is a decorated ornamental ball, hand made and hand decorated in thread. Traditionally they were given between women as a sign of worth and/or respect. Given Japan traditionally valued women poorly these were important and heartfelt gifts, both for the maker and the recipient. They were made upon a base that started as a child's toy.

Before rubber made its way to Japan, mothers would make balls for their children from rags and other bits and pieces. If you make them correctly they bounce really well. And unlike rubber, when the bounce goes out of it Mum can just tighten it up again and the bounce comes back. Great recycling.

We are so used to throwing everything out these days, but in the past everything was used until there was nothing left. Worn out clothes became rags for cleaning or whatever. When the rags were done they were made into toys. In the West there were rag dolls, in Japan there were mari.

Depending on where you are in Japan the centres of the balls take different forms. In Tokyo it was traditionally a tightly bundled rag (which makes a heavy ball, but it bounces well), along one of the coasts the centre is dried sea cucumber, other places a bag of rice husks (these have to be really dry or they end up combusting - that would make play time interesting). The centre is wrapped firmly, tightly and above all evenly, in strips of cloth. Keep it spherical, wrap it tightly and the ball will bounce really well.

Someone somewhere, probably someone up the social scale, had the idea of stitching patterns on mari for decorative purposes. You have to put in a couple of extra layers to turn a mari into a base for a temari. The ball has to wrapped in yarn of some sort (I use wool or cotton knitting yarn, depending what I have to hand) and then in sewing thread. This is quite wasteful of precious resources which is why I think this is an upperclass thing in origin.

After that the mari is divided into sections so patterns can be wrapped or stitched onto the ball. And I love the method of division - a strip of paper and some pins. There is no measuring, just find the circumference and then fold the paper into the appropriate segments and mark the folds on the mari with the pins. Repeat as necessary. Divisions can be basic (divide the ball into quarters or eighths, for example) or complicated (called combinations - such as dividing it into eighths and then using the division lines to further divide the mari into eighths, but along a different axis to the original division - not as complicated as it sounds). These are designated as C# in instructions, so C8 or C10 or whatever. Marking up accurately is important. Let it be wonky here and it will be even worse when it's finished.

The start of the temari I have been working on, It has a C10 division, marked in gold thread

There are lots of websites on marking and making temari. The best ones are in Japanese, but they are pretty easy to follow. I still have enough Japanese to translate my temari books and to read through the finer instructions, but I know quite a few people who make these who have no Japanese at all, and they don't seem to struggle. Once you get the basics down the rest follows on fairly well.

Sewing can be in silk for deluxe versions or in perle cotton. Something with a bit of a sheen. I use DMC perle cotton, I want to try Cosmo perle cotton (Japanese brand) to compare the two.

Sometimes I make temari just for the fun of it. It is handy to have some ready as gifts. Others I make specifically, for a particular person for a particular occasion. That's the case with the one I have just finished.

We have a lovely deputy principal, Mrs. Dawes. I have written about her before. She is retiring (tomorrow is her last day. I'm told she is sailing around the world so weather timing is important. Keen sailor is Mrs Dawes. And I don't mean she's going on a cruise. She is sailing, in her own boat. More power to her).

Mrs Dawes has done a lot for our school, she has a no-nonsense approach that I really appreciate, and she has been very innovative in the programs she has put in place. Remember the careers fair? That's one of her babies. There is also the annual art show. All the children put in two works. Parents may buy the works for $5 each. Money goes back in to the school. If you don't buy your children's pieces, you don't get them at the end. Good motivation. There is a proper opening night and everything. It is a great event for the kids, they get a taste of what art can do and what an exhibition is like. But it is a bitch of a thing to curate. And she works hard for fair treatment, resourcing (always a struggle for a public school), education outcomes for all the children, and on and on.

Hmm. A temari seems woefully inadequate to express worth and respect. But it's a bit late now.

The pattern I chose is quite simple. You just stitch interlacing five-point stars around each of the twelve division points. The black one was first, then there are succeeding rounds in blues, from dark to light. It's a versatile pattern. You can stop halfway through and end up with flowers (I should have photographed that. That's another "bit late now"), or you can keep going and end up with a whole lot of triangles. With which you can do this:

The finished temari. See the triangles under the black lines?

This was made over a number of nights while the Steamgoth and I were watching alternating episodes of Buffy and Angel. I unpulled it about four times in the process of stitching it. The Steamgoth would sigh and ask if I was ever going to be happy. But it paid off. Some patterns are quite forgiving. This one isn't. Allow your stitching to get uneven and it becomes glaringly obvious.

Now my son has chosen a temari each for his teacher and the teacher in the other OC class as farewell gifts (years 5 and 6 OC have quite a lot of interaction). So my hands shall be quite busy over the next week or so.

And just to keep to the Japanese theme, one of my favourite Japanese ads. Like the temari sites, you don't need to know Japanese. You know what they are singing.

The Past is Not Another Country

Two in one day. Either you'll think yourselves lucky or you'll be rolling your eyes and navigating away.

Vincent Lingiari and Gough Whitlam, 1975, photo Mervyn Bishop

Noel Pearson's speech at the Whitlam Memorial today (yes, I'm on about that again) has been running through my mind, along with some other things. I took my son to afternoon tea after school. When we go we talk about our respective days. He told me about school and some interesting things they did (his class always does interesting things - I wish school had been like that when I was there), and I told him about Gough and the service and Noel Pearson. And like me he was horrified.

You can here the whole of Pearson's speech here. It is about 18 minutes long, but you won't feel it. It is well worth listening to.

So what horrified us? Noel Pearson was born here, in Australia, but was not a citizen because of his Aboriginality. If that isn't horrifying, tell me what is.

I know, intellectually, that Aboriginal people lost their citizen rights with Federation and did not regain them until after I was born. All colonies had given Aboriginal people full citizenship rights (although many were made wards of the state, thus negating this), but Western Australia and Queensland had effectively locked out most aboriginal people through land requirements on the voter registers (kept out the poor riffraff too, bonus). Those two states said they would not become part of a federated nation in 1901 if Aboriginal people were recognised as citizens, as equals. Turned out the desire to have a new nation for a new century was stronger than the desire to be fair. Politics rarely changes, does it? Those who had state voting rights already could continue to vote, and could vote in federal elections, but their children could not be added to the rolls as they grew up, gauranteeing that any "aboriginal vote" died out. (If you want a detailed run down of the aboriginal fight for citizenship go here, but be prepared to be angry, ashamed, horrified, outraged.) I know all this. I wasn't taught it at school, but I found it out at university and through aboriginal friends. That's history. That's the past, right?

But here is a man only three years older than me who was born with that terrible legacy, with that history that was by no means in the past. Compare Noel to me. I was born in Bangladesh. My parents were able to go to the Consulate in Rawalpindi in Pakistan and register me as an Australian Citizen. Noel was born in Australia and was not a citizen. There was nowhere that his parents were allowed to register him as an Australian Citizen. That is more wrong than I can express.

When the general public had it finally driven home the horror of the Stolen Generations and the missions, John Howard, then Prime Minister, refused to apologise on behalf of the nation because, he kept saying, it was all in the past. He made the past sound like it was long gone, all the participants dead and buried. You can still apologise for things way back when, but he was perpetuating a popular lie of racists everywhere. And letting himself off the hook. He had grown up in an Australia where its indigenous people were not recognised as part of their own country, where they could (and did) serve in wars but couldn't be served in bars, were told where they could work and when, were paid in rations rather than with salaries, were treated as idiot children.

And if you think it stopped when voting rights were finally achieved and citizenship recognised, think again. This is what Howard refused to acknowledge, that State sponsored abuse and discrimination have very long lasting effects and everyone must accept responsibility for the past. And that what is in the past doesn't stay in the past because we ALL carry it with us.

Rhoda Roberts, a respected Aboriginal actress, is about my age. She went to high school in Lismore, where my spouse was born. I saw a documentary a few years ago about her sister who was murdered. The police refused to really do anything about it because she was aboriginal. She just wasn't worth the effort. In the documentary, Rhoda talked about growing up in Lismore (a large town on the New South Wales north coast - we used to holiday there. I hate the place). She talked about being in high school in the 1980s and having all the aboriginal kids called out of assembly. Made to walk to one side in front of the rest of the school. Being told they were to be checked for head lice and if any were found they would be suspended.

The 1980s. When I was in high school. And remember, this was only the aboriginal kids. This isn't John Howard's safe, distant past. This is people my age, who were growing up with this crap while Howard was in the parliament in Canberra. Don't tell me he was in opposition. I know that. But he was in parliament. This sort of institutional discrimination was going on while he was in parliament. And don't say "Oh, the States". Yes, the states, but are we or are we not all Australians? The teachers doing this were counting on the kids being too ashamed to say or their parents too disenfranchised to turn to the Anti Discrimination Act (that's the one Brandis and Abbott want to do away with).

And for every Noel and Rhoda, there are how many others? With similar stories or worse? We are not talking about a past long gone. We are talking about a past that is very immediate. It puts the truth to Howard's lie. And even if it were long gone, why shouldn't wrongs be apologised for?

The Apology. I was in an arts project with an amazing aboriginal artist at the time. There was a lot of whoo-ha in the media, whether it was a good idea or not, meaningful or patronising, if you were around you'll remember. So I took the opportunity to ask my colleague for his thoughts. He told me about the life his mother had led. She was one of the Stolen Generations and her story was terrible and heart-breaking and all too common. He said that the Apology made her feel validated, worthwhile, that it would never make up for the past she had lost, but gave her peace for the present and future, that she was part of her own country, that her suffering was recognised and acknowledged, no longer hidden. It took from her the shame that had been placed on her by the actions of government. Think about that. They did a shameful thing and made the victims feel ashamed instead. How is that any different from what we have heard from the Royal Commission into Institutional Child Sex Abuse? How is that any different to anything we hear about abuse of the vulnerable by the powerful? The Apology took that sense of shame away. I have my issues with Kevin Rudd, but he made the Apology on behalf of us all. We should all be proud of that.

The current state of affairs? Don't get me started on "The Intervention". The fight for aboriginal equality is not over. Although it has come far it still has far to go. And it is a fight that concerns all of us. I am not aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander, but I am diminished by this ongoing inequality, by the statements of the Andrew Bolts of Australia and the actions of governments, supposedly on my behalf. I am further diminished if I do nothing about it. We stand together or we are all lesser for it.

Finally, I'll leave you with something atypical for me (although folk music is something of a guilty secret). This was also played at Gough's Memorial today, requested by him. It was just Kev and Paul on stage. We've all heard it, but how many have really listened to it? We all know the chorus, it's so easy and sweet and catchy "From little things big things grow". It has been used so often as to become cliche. But listen to the full song, to the verses. It is the story behind the image at the top of this post. Hope for the present. Hope for the future. Hopefully.

The Memorial Service - a Personal View

I have just finished watching Gough's memorial service on the ABC. Well, not just. It took a little while to compose myself, and I know I shall weep again. Rhys Muldoon was right in the weekend Herald. It isn't crying, it's weeping, a different and more profound thing. And Kerry O'Brien was right. Today is a time to mourn and celebrate.

I had put in a nomination to be at the service at Sydney Town Hall but fortunately I missed out. The Steamgoth is still sick. While she could care for herself, I would not have got back in time to pick up the Son from school, and my father-in-law is still recovering from being ill, and I can't risk him getting an infection. So I watched it on the television.

This was outside Town Hall. The crowd stretched out around St Andrews and blocked George Street. Photo from abc.net.au

The ABC should be praised for televising it and castigated for having Chris Uhlmann anywhere near it. He went on and on about how "Whitlam got things wrong, he couldn't manage the economy" (there was a global economic crisis at the time, and Fraser's record was just as bad, if not worse, but that never seems to be mentioned), "Menzies was a great leader and gave Gough advice, wasn't that generous" and his "personal disappointment" at not being able to attend Menzies' memorial service. I know the ABC is justifiably afraid of being gutted by the Murdoch government, sorry, Abbott government (appearances, at all costs appearances), but this was utterly disgraceful. Fortunately Uhlmann had "radio commitments" (as his embarrassed colleague reminded him) and had to go before the service proper started.

It was interesting watching the crowd's reaction to people arriving. Philip Ruddock got almost as loud boos as Tony Abbott, and I think marginally louder than those for Howard. Hawke's entrance got a bit of a cheer, Keating and Gillard a rousing welcome. And the welcome for Rudd? Luke warm would be a kind description. Gareth Evans was greeted like a hero, as were Barry Jones and Penny Wong. I was disappointed at the boos for Malcolm Fraser. Gough and Malcolm buried that hatchet years ago and have since worked together on things, not least of which was combatting the concentration of media ownership.

Abbott was awful, as could be expected. He was being ferociously booed as he entered, so he turned and smiled and waved. Why? At whom? He came up later on the screen talking to Bob Hawke and the crowd was again vocal in making their feelings known. Have you noticed he gets this weird fixed smile when someone is voicing their disappointment or anger at him? It's like Arnold Rimmer, only without the charm and endearing personality traits.

The speeches were moving and affecting and funny. Noel Pearson was articulate and shocking and angry, and delivered an excoriating rebuke of the LNP government (funny how the camera switched to Abbott's face in the middle of it. He looked bored. He clearly had tuned out). John Faulkner's was personal and practical and moving. I want him for PM. It was also a clear rebuke to the Parliamentary Labor Party. and a fierce reminder to everyone that Gough remained a Labor man to end, but very aware of its flaws and failings, particularly the way it is now (he didn't say "Greens take heed, and Labor listen up", but the words were there). I do not have Gough's resilience. Having been a Labor member for some while I felt in the end I had to quit. They had strayed so far from what they had been that I could not stay around. Unlike Gough, as a member of the rank and file, any influence we may have had was gone, deliberately and methodically stripped away, so there was no point. All I was doing was providing funds for the Sussex street mob to do as they pleased. It is starting to change. I hope, I really really hope it can come back from this. In the meantime I cannot bear to watch.

Cate Blanchett has, for me, forever stolen Menzies' sycophantic line and made it into something new and better, "I was but three when he passed by, but I shall be grateful till the day I die".

Really, the more I think about it, the more I think Pearson's speech was the highlight. It should go down as one of the great speeches of this century. I know, we are only 14 years in, but it was that good. It certainly highlighted the dearth of true orators in current politics. I don't always like Pearson or the way he operates, but he was masterful today, and true and passionate. And I'll give him the last word, because there have been so many, like Chris Uhlmann, who have sought in the last fortnight to diminish or tear down Gough's achievements (think of the scene from Life Of Brian, "What have the Romans done for us?")

“Apart from Medibank and the Trade Practices Act, cutting tariff protections and no-fault divorce and the Family Law Act, the Australia Council, the Federal Court, the Order of Australia, Federal Legal Aid, the Racial Discrimination Act, needs-based schools funding, the recognition of China, the Racial Discrimination Act, the abolition of conscription, the Law Reform Commission, student financial assistance, the Heritage Commission, non-discriminatory immigration rules, community, Aboriginal land rights, paid maternity leave for public servants, lowering the minimum voting age to 18 years and fair electoral boundaries and Senate representation for the Territories. Apart from all of this, what did this Roman ever do for us?”

 Noel Pearson, 5 November, 2014, Whitlam Memorial Service

And for the music, one of the pieces Gough chose for the Service, and one of my favourites since I was wee, Nabucco, or The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves from Aida by Verdi. It was used as the anthem of Garibaldi's followers. I never knew.