And then today I wished the guy who sits across from me death. Twice. It's not going well.

I nearly cried at work today. Three times. I felt infintely unprofessional and juvenile, but that's that. Hate my job this week.

While it warmed up to a steamy 45-ish degrees here on this fine Melbourne Cup day, I've only been jealous of all you northern hemispherites and longing for a nice crisp autumn for weeks now. It's the perfect upstate NY-y, hanging out with the Amish-y, cinnamonn-y, apple cider-y, pumpkin-y, gold and red mountain-y time of year.

Seminary is now over for the year and I'm both happy and sad-ish about that. It gives me something to do, something to give. But it's also nice to get a long 6am sleep in now and time to do the things I've been putting off. Like grad school apps, even if they are a bit barfy.

Anyway, that's the update. I'm without internet, so emails will be fewer and farther (?) between than before. So, expect one once every six months from now on.

cuddle up in London town, antipodean blues, all the days seem longer now, and the sea so cruel

I'm so internet challenged these days, it's not even kind of funny. So, to tide you and me both over, here is my favourite recommendation of the week. Do it.

hey Meegs, what did you do at lunch today?

If you were wondering whether I stumbled upon the Powderfinger semi-secret busking gig in Martin Place today, the answer is a big yes. It was ace. And then I like totally was walking back to the library and I totally walked past their van and Bernard like totally looked at me. He was like wearing sunnies, but I know that we like totally made like eye contact.* Bit star struck. And, as a side note, it does give me quiet satisfaction that this now means I have seen Powderfinger live on three continents. Get in!

*Read in breathy, excited, pre-teen voice.

So, you could say that today was a bit like this, but without, you know, all the people and the amplification. For your viewing pleasure:

too excellent for words

I found this on a blog today. It is also my favourite Bjork song. It makes me happy, sitting in the library.

A different kind of crying, but also just got weepy over the women's US Open final. Don't judge.

It happened in the Museum of Modern art in New York. he was walking by a side room when he felt as if something had pushed him. He says it was like the feeling of sleeping on a train, when "you suddenly have to open your eyes because you feel someone is staring at you." He looked into the recess, and saw a painting of Rothko's. "It's presence was so unmistakable," he writes, that "I nearly wanted to step forward and warm my hands on it. That was when I lifted up my hands in an involuntary gesture, because I wanted to applaud. But I immediately felt ridiculous, and refrained. The sound of two hands clapping does not go well with paintings."

Now that's crazy, clapping for a painting - or is it? The history of the Stendhal syndrome shows that tears aren't the only litmus test of a heartfelt encounter. Our thoughts and feelings are too wayward for that. Rob isn't sure about clapping, and neither am I. (It would certainly attract the attention of the guards.) But that feeling of sleeping, and knowing you're being stared at, that feeling of being tapped on the shoulder, being pushed from behind - those are sure signs that something unusual is happening.


(All life-lameness aside, I'm reading like no man's business.) James Elkins' book, Pictures and Tears is a fascinating read. I had a professor who didn't care what you had to say about the artwork until you knew what it did to you. (It wasn't an issue of "good" or "bad", more why did it this piece make me [insert reaction]? And what did that reaction tell me about me?) I was quietly obsessed with this professor, lived off every word, and ultimately begged him to let me TA for him the following year just so I had a reason to sit through his lectures again.

It's not a popular approach among many "serious" art historians, but I like to think it changed the way I see. Which is why I'm recommending this book.

(I once cried at a Rothko in the San Francisco MOMA and was weepy over a Sam Taylor-Wood at White Cube in London. (Yes, it's true. At White Cube, Mason's Yard. Take that, Jay Jopling.).)

Things have been kind of lame lately (= no blogging. The level of life-lameness can usually be measured by frequency of blog posts and degree of hair straightness/curliness (though this is also dependent on humidity and time, so is a somewhat unreliable indicator.).).

Meanwhile, it's 29 degrees in Sydney this weekend. It's September.

a moment for pause

I saw the following link on Hayley's blog and thought I best post it here as well. It's a photomontage-like video with narration by an LDS missionary serving in NYC.

http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/nyregion/1-in-8-million/index.html

Reading the comments on the video, I was somewhat surprised by some of the strong negative feelings people have toward the missionaries (perhaps because of the always lengthening time between the full time missionary-me and now-me). Having said that, there's one photo showing Sister Zhao and her companion helping a mum with a pram up some subway stairs and, at the risk of sounding sentimental, that's what the mission's about, right? Finding people who need/want help and providing that assistance in the best way we know how. Looking at these missionaries in that perspective, it's hard to find fault.

Another beautiful short story for your listening pleasure here.

I quite enjoyed this article written, given his death over the weekend, on Frank McCourt as a story-teller/teacher. It makes me wish I had a backlog of stories stored up, ready at a moment's notice. I especially chuckled at one woman's recollection of McCourt's technique of having the students "sing salacious folk songs...write courtroom defenses of inanimate objects and recite recipes as poetry.” Recipes as poetry? Brilliant.

While I work I try to listen to educational podcasts, in the hope that some good will come of my doing mind numbingly boring work. Today I listened to this podcast from the New Yorker, which is the telling of a short story by a writer named Sergei Dovlatov. I really enjoyed it and its one of those things for me where you want to tell every person on the street how wonderful an experience it is to listen to this story. So, here I am, telling you.