Tuesday, October 26, 2004 at 01:11 PM

I do this thing. I don't mean to, but it's just that kv has such great friends and such great ideas that - well - I have to steal them. yes, there I said it. I steal her stuff. I poke her friends until they talk to me and send me cool banana postcards in the mail. Well it was less a finger poke and more a "jedi" poke [use the force, luke]. Thank you for shoving James Dean into my letterbox Valerysmellery. Dave, I know I've not been on AIM lately but I have my good eye on the RedSox scoreboard and enjoying it like crazy. Bill, thank you for your lovely comments. who else did i steal... *pokes edward helicopter just for the hellovit* I love you, Papermilk.
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FQ TOPIC: Historical

FQ1: If you were able to visit any time period in the past, when would it be? What is it about this particular point in history that appeals to you? There aren't any places in History that fare well for women. Often thought of as chatils, counted as assets with the livestock - a woman's lot up until recent history was a pretty raw deal. Our first communities reveal female skeletons with deformed toes and worn knee bones from relentless hours on hands and knees grinding corn for flour - a position which also leaves arse up for rape and plunder by any horny male in goatskin who happened past; to heamoraging 15 year olds dying in childbirth trying to give men and kings sons and heirs. Producing daughters was and is still, in some countries, an utter failure to duty. Having no voice and often little education, tying oneself to parliment railings or throwing one's body in front of horses to be seen as a person in society was what the Suffragettes had to do to start the wheel of change moving faster than it had been going at that point. Being a woman up until recent history has *sucked*. Education too seemed to be something a man needed more than a woman. Why would a woman need to learn about history or physics or literature when all she really needed was a nice pair of white gloves and a spotless reputation to snag the "right man". He would then take care of her the rest of her days while she produced his 2.5 children and ironed his pants so he could have sharp creases as he surveyed his quarter acre kingdom. Even going back as little as 20 years sees discrimination holding many women back from jobs they were well able to do and succeed in. New Zealand and now is the best place and time to be a woman. FQ2: If you could meet any person from throughout history, who would that be? What makes them so special to you? Leonado daVinci beats Albert Einstien by a gnat's whisker. The Genius of Proving Concepts. The Man who's mind raced far ahead of his own chalk and who's works of art may be few, but some of the very best examples of technique and metaphor and downright God given talent. His talents lay thick and solid against so many disciplines: art and science, politics and warcraft, music and language. What that man couldn't do wasn't worth doing. FQ3: If you could reach through time and grab a piece of historical memorabilia, what artifact would you take and what would you do with it? I would reach back in time and stop the scribes from sealing the Dead Sea Scrolls into their earthen containers and bring them forward to today, fully intact, the ink still wet. Mind you, thinking about it, isn't it the translation that is half the battle besides the fragmentation and disintigration of the parchment? We need to drag a couple of those scribes through the portal too. I'm completely sick of the heresay and translation of the thing we call the Bible - never mind the Old Testament but how about we just grab a couple of key figures from Jesus' time and yoink them to the future and find out exactly what the hell was going on. Has a whole slew of religions and half the planet based it's beliefs on the Son of God or a rebellious upstart and his gang of ratbags who wanted to change the system? FQ Quantum Leap: You have been given a one-time-only opportunity to travel back in time and interfere with history! Would you do it? Where would you go and what would you try to change? So many points in time a good person would touch to ease suffering and end wars before they began. Who wouldn't want to go back and stop Adolf Hitler if they could? The Spanish Inquisition? Gengis Khan? But I'm not that good a person, so the point of history I interfere with is December 8th, 1980 and stop the murder of John Lennon. Yes because it was such a waste, and yes because no son deserves to lose his father and yes because senseless violence seems even more attrocious when committed against such a creative, influential being. But mostly I would love John Lennon to be alive today to verbally slap Paul McCartney in the chops for the things he's been saying about their creative collaboration. Bragging that it was McCartney's creative domination over Lennon that was the reason for their great successes as a songwriting team. That it was Paul over John who made Beatles what the gigantic musical influence they through the 60s and 70s and beyond. What would John have to say if Paul were brave enough to demand "Lennon and McCartney" credits be reversed and Pauls name appear first? He probably wouldn't give a shit, quite frankly, and Paul wouldn't have the moxy to suggest it if his former partner wasn't long dead.
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strange days

Today I had to provide my IRD Number for my tax return. In some ways I am very organised - my art supplies are all boxed and ordered; my patchwork fabric is all washed, ironed and folded into behandled wicker baskets so I can find the colours I want easily; my books are all ordered on their shelves according to subject and size. My financial/accounting papers aren't quite so ordered. They are in fits and starts, but not well enough to put my hands on my IRD number at a moment's notice. During my search I decided to open two folders of personal papers. I'm thinking most people have this kind of thing in a filing cabinet or shoe box somewhere in their lives. These are personal things including old school photographs, reports, letters of recommendation, love letters - personal things that are precious to me for one reason or another. And I was fine, really, with most of the things. Reading my old school reports: my earliest one I have here is from Standard 1 which would have put me at around 8 or 9 years old. "Michelle's reading and comprehension has improved greatly" yes Ms.Can't-follow-an-instruction. I love the comment from my Form 2 Social Studies teacher "Good in discussion, little effort in class" story of my life really. Spelling and diction "little effort" Reading "satisfactory" oral expression "good" written expression "not satisfactory, could be better" Funny, as I read that nothing's changed since then - still can't spell, shutup or make up stories. Photographs of me through the years: this one when I was 4 at the beach with my mum and brother - dad obviously taking the photo, that one when I was 18 and Greg made me climb down the face of that rock and I burst into tears from fear of falling to my death right after he took this shot. This one of me in my wedding dress, veil blowing madly in the wind outside the church before walking down the aisle to marry Greg, and this one as when I was Sara's bride's maid and had just found out I was pregnant with Simon. A photo of my brother my Uncle Peter took and Wayne told to "take that fucking camera out of my face" the very second after the shutter clicked. The invitation to Bridget and Chris' wedding with Richard Hadley's signature on the back, the ticket to David Bowie back in 1983 at Western Springs. Then I saw the envelope. After Alan died, I gave my sister-in-law the letters he sent me when he was in Germany. I thought it would be good for their girls to have something of the man who was their father. His own words in his own hand. He used to write _so_many_words. Thin unlined yellow office paper and line after line of biro with the funny pen-grip he had. I gave the letters to his children, but I kept an envelope. It's coloured in - he's written the words "LUFTPOST" and penciled colour into them. He addressed the letters to me - not to his brother, Greg - but to me, his sister-in-law. God knows why he wrote to me so much, I bet I didn't send much in the way of anything back to him. It's taken me years to get a clue, and I wish so much I had sent him more mail in the 2 years he was away. If wishes were fishes, and all that. It got me thinking of how lovely Alan was with me. How he, alone, in that fucked-up family he came from - liked me, and understood me enough to nearly always do the exact right thing by me. Christmas and birthday presents were always small and thoughtful and right, he used to spend time with me when his family wasn't around - just come and "be", and he always knew how to catch my eye at all those god awful awkward family functions where I always managed to be on the receiving end of backhanded compliments and sharp tongued insults. Amongst all my "treasures" that envelope is my most precious. But it makes me cry to hold it and look at it and remember so many things. Cry for the good things, cry for the knowing and cry for the missing. And cry fo the regret of not being a better person for the good people in my life who deserve more than I manage to give.
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