pink magnolias, parakeets
This is my August post. I just had my hair cut short. Mostly because it will be the last haircut I have for some time, so I figured I should make it worth at least two regular haircuts. Then I had popcorn for dinner because it seemed the perfect bookend to my cupcake breakfast. There was a kind of logic to it. And now I am listening to The JPS Experience and find myself back in a boarding school cubicle in the early 90s, hauled back in time about 19 years. Weird how that happens.
In the past five-or-so weeks, since my coming here last, I’m sure I formulated some vague points of interest (conversation starters, mental cue cards, call them what you will…) for my monthly blog extravaganza. Turns out they can’t even have been interesting enough for me to remember what they were. So.
I have been spending a not insignificant amount of time looking out at the pink magnolias. Figure 1 (above) is one of only two remaining flowers on the whole tree. And with a sense of time running out I finally felt the urgency I needed to document it and offer it up here. I have also been spending a not insignificant amount of time peering out at the empty branches (in the spaces where the pink magnolias were) waiting for the troupe of rainbow-coloured parakeets to swoop in. They only come sometimes, and not for a while. But they are absolutely real, and not a figment of my imagination in any way, as first I thought. I have had them corroborated and have ventured some way to validating their origins (as you do when your sanity is in question). Turns out there’s a whole heap of them (not sure of the correct collective noun, so whole heap will have to do), resulting from a minimum of two of them (I’m guessing, going on my limited understanding of how these things work) escaping into the wilds of Wellington and proliferating.
In the past five weeks I have also spent a lot of time with Baudelaire and some tortuous late-night hours with W. Benjamin. And a lot of time with myself. And Sylvie and Bax.
Today at work I started a list of expressions I have heard (at work) within the last week, including:
declaring email bankruptcy (apparently a legitimate way of helping achieve the zen state of “zero inbox”)
productive procrastination (akin to weilding an empty clipboard in the hopes of looking/feeling vaguely efficient or useful)
real-time osmosis (because all this goshdang technology and there’s still no everywhere-all-at-once-sponge-it-all-up button on any of these shiny contraptions)
I have also been thinking a lot in the past week or so about the state of corporate PR, sort of bemused as to how I ended up here.
I am not one for rage but all of a sudden I am suffering it in large doses daily. So much indignation I don’t know what to do with. So many new counterproductive urges (like the urge to slap politicians or tell people they’re stupid) and bugbears (Rugby World Cup debacles, for one… and second hand books costing more than new books ordered via Amazon, for another. Bungled/disingenuous marketing efforts, Bianca on New Zealand’s Next Top Model making it into the next round every week… all important stuff). My rage is one of the reasons I’ve been putting off checking in here. The internet is full enough of ranters and flamers. I just want to take photos of flowers and arrange tiny clothes into tiny piles and whinge happily about my aches, but all this fucking rage gets in the way. It’s exhausting. Simon seems to love it, though. He gives me this proud look whenever I unleash. He thinks it’s his influence finally rubbing off on me.
The business card scene from American Psycho reminds me of work. It’s my favourite thing at the moment. I watch it and it makes me laugh out loud, even though I’m pretty sure it’s not laugh-out-loud funny. It’s just apposite. Yes, I think that’s the word. It’s the perfect embodiment of pretty much everything right now, as far as I’m concerned. The end.
And what’s going on in these pictures? (You can find more of them here.) Also very amusing. Is he embracing the seal because in French it’s a phoque? And what in God’s name is going on up her skirt?
Filed under: flora and fauna, rage | 3 Comments