northern animation

Quote of the week, from Shiara, who is moving out of home and into a nice new flat with her boyfriend:

“I don’t need a TV; I’ve got Jason.”

Too true; he is a one man comedy channel. But they do have a TV.

trooly fablous partay, dalling mwah

Other accounts of Friday’s party may already be online – I know there are some entertaining visuals on Facefuck (which I’ve seen but can’t access because I haven’t joined), and god knows what where else. Most probably went up today: Saturday was the kind of heavy, dark, broiling day that makes for exquisite paralysis when you’re hungover… I (preens virtuously) don’t get hangovers, but I did feel pretty seedy, and I reckon there were a fair few corkers after Friday night…you should’ve seen Mirj. I dragged her off to the beach late Saturday afternoon.

The thing was, it having been so hot all Friday and there being somehow SO much alcohol, everyone was amiably trashed by 10pm. We never even got to broaching the absinthe. Nor did we sing, play or otherwise do any numbers as such, as had been planned – though there were fine performances all night in every space. Details, of course, must be omitted to protect the innocent, but we talked and argued and flirted and danced and people explored the house and asked questions, and the music jumped all over the place from Mirjam’s iPod through my great big speakers. Hilarity, outrage, seduction, sugar, sparklers, you know the deal. At least two people passed out on M’s bed – at different times – and as the night went on there was the fascinating asshole enthroned out the back and, out the front, the requisite tragic scene of a lady dissolving in drama, which I actually missed but am still pleased about. If the inner release a party is designed to create is to be effective, you should see a little negative energy here and there.

I say let it out – let it go, bro…

Stars of the show included Mirj and her lush rum’n'icecream punch diffused with fruit juice and peach spumante no less, which was all gone all too soon; the revolving shell collection (“this too shall pass”), Maximushka and the ladies, the fairy lights in the shade umbrella, and my dear eccentric androgynous Uncle Harry.

And a veil of discretion shall be drawn over the rest. You had to be there.

All in all and in short, the house was well enjoyed, and has been splendiferously rechristened. Thank you with happy heart to all involved :) – there will be more before long.

the usual

I have been remiss – I am overdue to blog, and to respond to comments. If you knew how hectic this year has been already… I’ll tell you, but not tonight; it’s too late. But soon.

Meanwhile, I caught most of Obama’s inauguration concert on SBS tonight, and I’m moved to the pooter thinking three things:

1. Humans, and particularly Americans, are weird.

2. African-American culture is the bomb right now, and will be for the next four years at least.

3. The way Barack Obama talks, the way he looks, the way he smiles… would anyone flinch if I suggested this man might be better for the world than the Second Coming?

Whatever that is. Maybe he is the Second Coming.

rock’n'roll hipparkia

Blissed out for the new year by four days, three nights in the Kombi amid carnival tents and music, high wooded hills and cowpat-studded grassy fields, with a wholesome brown, tannin-scented creek to swim in.

The Kombi has been undergoing a slow evolution of identity since the transition of ownership from Drew to me in October the year before last. Drew was adamant on Jonah’s lack of gender, which unfortunately, in the twisted little human minds we all possess, tends to imply masculine (somehow we think gender is ultimately all about the womb – without one, gender is irrelevant and we’re all, ahem, men). Slowly though, the Kombi is becoming a discernibly feminine space – and no, I haven’t suddenly gone all chintz and frills. But there is a crocheted afghan made by my great grandmother, and a hand-sewn patchwork quilt from further back in the family. There is a pretty blue sarong to cover the doorway, the tins in the kitchen shelves are changing, you get the idea. The Kombi, in this time of transition, has gone by the name Jezebel (a favourite old tag of mine), but this name’s sticking power rather depended on a colour change – a powder-blue Jezebel doesn’t really gel for me. I’d planned a respray in wine-red, but I’ve decided against, for the moment. It’s expensive to do it well, and the present colour is the original, which counts for something valuewise among enthusiasts.

And now, after another good and happy outing – and this one so tranquil and yet so stimulating – my holiday darling has finally found her name: Hipparkia. Hip? Oh definitely. Park – well, der… and yeah. Or rather yah… :)

And yes, of course there is a legendary female role model involved – you can look her up in Wikipedia under the more conventional Latin spelling Hipparchia. She was a Cynic philosopher from the Greek golden age of philosophy, and an altogether remarkable woman.