to alan

It was in October, the sweltering haze of summer had lifted, I’d started opening my window to let in the breeze at night. The view wasn’t bad - bluish forested mountains layered up, fading into the sky; it wasn’t worth drawing the shoji screens as they didn’t block out the morning sun that bounced in at 7, refusing to let anyone sleep. Cool, bright mornings are the best – when I had time, I’d take a hike up Takaosan, two stops down the line. Autumn brought drifts of elderly couples with shiny new boots and walking poles down to our neck of the woods, bright-eyed on the first train, eager to see the orange and red autumn leaves; in the afternoons, they’d be heading back to Shinjuku, nodding off to sleep on each other’s shoulders.

This morning I’d decided to air everything, as it was the first clear day in a week, and had started unbuttoning all the assorted futon and quilt covers, when I noticed something new above the power lines and beyond the blue hills - white and craggy and distant; massive, elegant, commanding.

Fuji.

The Ministry of Silly Walks

The stairs in front of my office are weird.

They’re about a metre deep and a normal step’s height, but they break with the well-established principle that you ought to be able to climb stairs without needing a diagram. Apparently some dude figured out how long and high each step should be in 1672, and everyone’s pretty much stuck to that since.

With the stairs raked so flat and each step so long, getting up and down them means developing a Quasimodo sort of affectation,

chimneys

The microcosm of intrusions into the sky - chimneys, flues, antennae, trees, chevaux de frise, hold an endless fascination for me. It’s partly the diversity they enjoy: that rare abandonment of architectural ethnic separatism which Hundertwasser was so insistent on, but it’s also the way they are self-effacing. Chimneys seem to survive the ravages of architectural fashion somewhat better than trim and stucco by being double agents for demure tastefulness and blatant functionality.

The sky itself is endlessly fascinating. Today the sunset was one of those colours that cameras can’t reproduce - lilac and cornflower cutting into a cubic net of clouds. giving it luminescence and depth.

Like a franked frank with your frank Franc, Frank?

Something surprised me as I was clearing out my Gmail spam box today:

Look a bit closer.

Lovely Spam, wonderful Spam…

Rain!

Melburnians don’t really know what to do with rain. I presume that’s because it never rains for longer than a few minutes at a time, just enough of a delay to fill in with an espresso or a bit of recreational shopping. Melburnians can’t handle wet weather gear like raincoats and umbrellas: they assume the umbrella is some sort of thinking-ahead badge of status, they walk through arcades and covered areas with them still raised, shoving the less prepared out of the way. In other parts of the world, there’s an etiquette for who raises and who lowers their umbrella, who steps onto the pavement, when and where to furl and shake the water off so it doesn’t ruin the carpet or anyone’s trousers. Here umbrella-users are like novices with chopsticks: all bravado and clumsiness.

Our urban uniform is wrongly characterised as being all black:

Suzy Shakespeare in the Herald-Sun Aria

Suzy Shakespeare

Originally uploaded by OsakaBen.

Suzy singing in the final at the Melbourne Concert Hall on the 1st November. She was brilliant, but didn’t end up with the prize.

The holy hills hoist

Housewarming.

The way we do these things probably reflects more of the pagan idea than anything else: lots of noise, lots of alcohol, finding and cleaning the perimeter of the property to keep badness out — though the boundaries non-druids are more likely to experience are those between the enthusiasm of their guests and the patience of the new neighbours. I was invited to a housewarming out in Coburg for a chap newly moved to Melbourne, studying at the UFT. Apparently I misheard, because today I went to a house blessing, complete with order of service, priest in fancy vestments, altar in back yard, incense, Holy Communion, the works.

The turnout was good — twenty or so of us, the few family members outnumbered by the mostly South Yarra crowd: eleven gay men and a fabulous priest named Dorothy (of course). We stood in scorching sunlight in the front garden, nervously leafing through the twelve page order of service, waited for the priest to finish the ceremonial pre-service pfaffing, and said silent and earnest prayers that this wouldn’t take all that long, and that there’d be enough alcohol to forget it properly waiting for us at the end.

Coburg on a Sunday has its own distinctive local fauna,

Auspicious opening

Today, I learned that the busiest day at every gym is Monday. Apparently people start off the week all well-intentioned, having made resolutions on Sunday night that this week would be the week, and diligently march in to start anew and turn over new leaves. By Friday it is a wasteland.

Today, in 2001 - SIEV-X, an Indonesian fishing boat en-route to Christmas Island, carrying over 400 asylum seekers, sank in international waters with the loss of 353 people [Wikipedia].

Today (a Thursday) I opened an account with WordPress.