July 28, 2002
Cold chips

Life could become one long dim scramble just to get the things needed to keep alive. And the confusing point is this: All useful things have a price, and are bought only with money, as that is the way the world is run. You know without having to reason about it the price of a bale of cotton, or a quart of molasses. But no value has been put on human life; it is given to us free and taken without being paid for. What is it worth? If you look around, at times the value may seem to be little or nothing at all. Often after you have sweated and tried and things are not better for you, there comes a feeling deep down in the soul that you are not worth much.

-- "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe", Carson McCullers.

The scenery beyond the window pane is washed-out and colourless; one has the impression of having woken up to the night and missed the day. Yesterday, the sun made a string of little golden dots on the door of my wardrobe, painting careless, teasing streaks on the cold metal of my non-singing windchime. The mess on my floor has changed shape and colour numerous times throughout the day as progress is being made, morsel by morsel. I dare not hope but it feels that the end is a little more in sight.

Posted by sniffles at 10:32 AM | Comments (1)

July 25, 2002
Sysadmin Day

Tomorrow is Sysadmin Day. Go on, give your sysadmin a hug and a kiss! (If anything, it will give them a pleasant shock because they are more used to appreciative beeps from their computers ...)
[Ta, Olivier.]

Posted by sniffles at 03:47 PM | Comments (1)

July 23, 2002
Curling

Thinking about buying shares? Brothel goes public: The Daily Planet is pushing to be listed on the Australian Stock Exchange.

Somewhere between the constant sultry melody of a song and the incessant flow of piano chords patterning themselves to the tip of my fingers, it occurred to me why - after all these years - my friend's mother would turn the television on the same time every night to catch the next episode of some endless, nondescript series in Chinese - why some people I know are hooked on the daily serve of Neighbours or some equivalent weekly soap.

Simply, it is a kind of milestone, a regular ritual, a measure that time is passing - and between these chalk marks, presumably other more meaningful things happen.

I am not a TV junkie and I don't have to be a 'net junkie. I need half a cup of coffee half an hour after I wake, because the day wouldn't feel right otherwise. Perhaps my conscious lack of anchors is a two-edged knife. I get lost being liberated, yet I would perish if moored. In cold winter mornings, I try to get myself out of bed by 7:00 eventhough my body would have preferred to shut down and hibernate. Some days, I run a little late for life.

Posted by sniffles at 02:53 PM | Comments (3)

July 19, 2002
Airborne

Through the doors, she dragged a fold-up trolley of shapeless objects, wrapped in flat-shimmer garbage bags presumably so that the precious unknown items would not get wet in the rain. One hand on the doorhandle, she stood with her eyes closed, and later on, she slumped into a nearby seat. Everyone was stealing glances. Her faded clothes, faded hair, faded hours of days gone marked themselves on her hands with lines and dirt on her shoes. Time did not stand still for her.

Starbucks on 440 Collins Street was closed. Two hastily scribbled signs later, we congregated inside a corner of the Sherlock Holmes across the street. Natalie has the run-down of events down pat and some photos to boot. It's strange and wonderful to meet people who could have been drifting by you every other day. Where were you, Scott?

Sean said I was born on a day of airborne dreamers - perhaps the palm reader was right ...

Posted by sniffles at 12:25 AM | Comments (0)

July 17, 2002
Much ado

Fresh Antipasto: Breathing.

Yes, the Melbourne blog meetup is tomorrow night at 7pm. 440 Collins St. Yuh, Starbucks. At least it would be easy to find - and that is important, no? I guess if people really dislike it we can always move along some where else.

Posted by sniffles at 09:46 PM | Comments (0)

July 13, 2002
Heap sort

I have only vague notions, vague words, imprecise thoughts lingering on the boundaries of grey. It seems the only words to be spoken wish to remain anonymous. Someone who once read my palm told me I have difficulty judging between reality and dream - perhaps all was fine before I knew?

The sun sketched sharp shadows on the grass outside, using the unnamed tree as a crude stencil. There was no breeze, my windchime did not sing. My music has left for the day, I await its return.

The mindless, tedious act of sorting through my belongings fails to inspire. Sometime in the afternoon, I had put some Neil Finn on for unintrusive familiarity, but eight hours later I realised I'd never even heard it play.

Posted by sniffles at 01:07 AM | Comments (0)

July 12, 2002
The gap

My piano left me today. It didn't like the cold (it complained by going out a tiny bit out of tune), and it was not happy about the small space - it was never quite comfortable singing in this room. I will miss it terribly.

The International Blog Meet-Up Day is soon - check out the one in your city ;) The ones for Web Designers and Web Standards are a little low on numbers at the moment ...

Maccaws are taking flight: Making a Commercial Case for Adopting Web Standards.

And did you know that you can purchase fake plants online? I didn't. Not just any old fake plant either: artificial plants that not only purge the environment of harmful substances but also beautify the surroundings. They get rid of tobacco smells and residues, grease, intestinal bacteria and highly resistant to dirt. Can be placed at homes, indoor gardens, offices, coffee shops, restaurants, hospitals, toilets and automobiles. Inbuilt ionizers, you think?

Posted by sniffles at 07:40 PM | Comments (4)

July 11, 2002
Shadowplay

Fresh Antipasto: Half-made.

The Dreamweaver Task Force published their assessment of Dreamweaver MX. Things are looking up.

This brightened up my evening yesterday (thanks, Olivier) after a surprise encounter with "Temptress Moon" (Feng Yue) on television. Surreal scenes and minimalistic dialogues make for a certain amount of intrigue. There are some beautiful moments which are unfortunately much too short, and some cheesy moments stretched by cliché conversation and intrusive music. The depiction of the culture is, however, delicately done - it was not a bad way to pass a couple of hours.

And I tracked the progress of Typhoon Chata'an - the information is predominantly in kanji, however.

Posted by sniffles at 11:18 PM | Comments (0)

July 09, 2002
Standardise me

Tidbit - Sites bow to Microsoft's browser king: The state of affairs with browser-site compatibility highlights a lingering gap between reality and the lofty goals of Web standards. Even as standards advocates acknowledge that the browsers are largely in compliance with W3C recommendations, plenty of sites remain, practically speaking, Internet Explorer-only zones.

Posted by sniffles at 08:37 PM | Comments (0)

Soapbox

What is a painter without a canvas, a writer with no words?

The public-evangelist forum is a little over 3 days old. If web standards is your thing, and you are itching to exchange ideas with web standards evangelists, go join up.

AusWeb 2002 is happening at Twin Waters Resort, Sunshine Coast Queensland. Whilst mostly education oriented, some papers look interesting. However, the site is not valid ...

Posted by sniffles at 09:07 AM | Comments (0)

July 07, 2002
Shadows on a white wall

The shadows twist in me and I see them twist in others. Not always the same way, not always the same magnitude, not always the same degree of wrench - how does one measure a twist? A twistitude?

My walking capacity still much reduced, I'd spent a day or two at home going through some boxes of papers, scavenging through memories which seem to have accumulated and multiplied through the years. I seem to keep an amazing amount of things which I may never need again, no doubt due to my thirst for detail, for clear recollection of ... anything. But a whole stack of Maths notes went - I might have been good at mathematics once, but I can no longer antidifferentiate trigonometric equations, let alone make sense of my old workings.

And so the shadows twist too, in boxes, slowly, stealthily, thieving time. Days slip through my fingers with sweet honeyed viscosity, stinging like papercuts so that I can't forget.

Posted by sniffles at 11:58 PM | Comments (1)

July 05, 2002
The Manual

A couple of weeks ago, in the crimson halflight of a Spanish restaurant - so dim that it was difficult to see what one was eating - Michael whipped out a wad of paper in front of my nose and said, "Have you read this? I'd like to know what you think." I had to ask him about it a few days later, seeing as I was swimming in sangria happiness for a time before he'd arrived.

So that was how I came to read the "Manual", the very one that is housed on Textism. I read it from beginning to end. Michael wrote a critique.

I have been letting my opinions stew. Perhaps the fact that the stories barely registered in my mind is a subconscious indication of my thoughts on the book. Then again, I am in the middle of reading a brilliant work by Jeanette Winterson.

The first item - it is hardly a story - by Magdelen Powers, entitled "On the Nature of Instruction, or: Note to Self", begins thus: First thing you do is realise you don't know how to do anything really useful: start a fire with sticks, diagram French sentences (not English, only French), turn an omelet with a single flick of the wrist, spell words that no one ever uses, change motor oil (which, as anyone will tell you, is Simply Not Done At Home anymore).

First thing you do, is realise that the sentence is incomprehensible. So is the rest of the item. I was left wondering if this item is actually a prologue, or not. Or a confusing kind of appetizer? Am I supposed to be licking my lips in anticipation for more bewilderment?

The short story is a difficult medium. It exists in an enclosed space, in a finite amount of time; it is a complete set of moments, beginning to end. Roald Dahl is one true master of the short story. One would find that the items in the Manual - save for maybe two or three - are not short stories, but one falls into the habit of trying to read them as such. You see, it would seem as if most of them attempt to be short stories within a strange, 2nd-person instructive format, or perhaps poetry, maybe with the intention of humour - but they fail spectacularly, with the exception of Heather B. Hamilton's "How To Unsuccessfully Woo Your Roommate's Future Husband" (which is particularly outstanding), and Michael Barrish's "How to Show Your Work".

I admit to being a poor and inconsistent reader of Web sites, and I am unfamiliar with most of these Web-authors' online achievements. However, the fact of the matter is: a good piece of writing would stand as a good piece of writing - especially if someone erases your name and your URL.

Posted by sniffles at 09:35 PM | Comments (0)

Reality, dream and happiness.

I said, "If we were good always would we be happy always?"
"No," said Grandmother.
"Then I shall be bad."
"Where's the difficulty in that?"

-- "Gut Symmetries", Jeanette Winterson

Posted by sniffles at 04:12 PM | Comments (0)

July 04, 2002
Being blue

As usual, I hand it to my work mates:

Workmate #1: What's wrong Steph, you're not wearing black today?
Workmate #2: Oh, she occasionally wears colours.
Workmate #1: I knew this girl who would wear fluoro clothes whenever she's upset, so like you can tell she's depressed if she comes in bright pink-orange.
Me: Well, I'm feeling blue today.
Workmates #1 & #2: (collectively) Awwwww.

Posted by sniffles at 02:06 PM | Comments (0)

Happiness

"Are you happy, Alice?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Why?" And he would stare at me in that way of his, trying to see happiness the way he could see a business opportunity.

-- "Gut Symmertries", Jeanette Winterson

Posted by sniffles at 09:28 AM | Comments (0)

July 02, 2002
Usefulness

They are getting three of us to move upstairs to drab brown cubicle-land. I ran into the guy who currently sits to my left whilst in the kitchen, and after a discussion about the speed of newspaper-reading in relation to amount of coffee consumed:

Him: *screws up nose* I'm going to miss you.
Me: *smiles*
Him: I mean, you talk to your screen ..
Me: *grins*
Him: ... you laugh when it appears to talk back at you ...
Him: It makes me feel kind of normal.

Good to know I'm good for something.

Posted by sniffles at 11:14 AM | Comments (1)

July 01, 2002
Clockwork

I watch their faces as their watches tick by, marking out arbitrary sections of time that have been and gone and would never come back. Their hands, mostly left clasping right, or right clasping left, holding the odd newspaper or the odd trash tabloid, grasping the odd book like a lifeline.

I wrote a poem about all this once, in hope that nailing it down in some form will cease the haunt. But every day, I am spooked by the same images, I hear the perpetual clock in their steps as serious black heels and no-nonsense black loafers tap down the sidewalks, neatly tucked underneath groomed black suits. The clock whose hands swing ever so slightly onwards as their arms swing like stray pendulums at their sides. Why do I think of soldiers? I hear the buzzing of the hive.

Their unsmiling faces in their swish little cars. Swish little boxes which go zoom when the light goes green. I hear the rumbling of the hive deep in its bowels, obeying unconscious commands. Who gets the honey?

Posted by sniffles at 10:33 PM | Comments (0)