Blessed Are The Sweet of Tooth

I've always been more than a little sceptical when I read about miracles. And I've always been more than a little excited by bowling shoes.

Many years ago I had a pair of ex-rental bowling shoes. I loved them. They were red, black and white and had the size -- 7-- stitched into the heel. They were unusual, they were comfortable, they were a conversation starter and they were damn cool.

Time rolls on, and the shoes and I parted company. I've missed them. A few months ago while browsing eBay it occurred to me that if I could get another pair of this funky footwear, eBay would surely be the place, so every couple of days an email hits my inbox telling me when another pair has been listed. They're never the right ones, though; too big, too small, too dull, too modern. I'd all but given up.

Fast forward to today. The third day of a headache that flirted on the edges of migraine shuffled me out of work early, but I decided to swing by Reverse Garbage on the way home to pick up a few supplies. I planned to hop off the bus at the stop outside the Malay take away nearby, where I thought I might get a spicy midday bite and torture the staff with my own special interpretation of Indo-Malay conversation, but instead found that a vintage clothing trader had moved into the store since I'd last visited. I stepped in to inspect.

Browsing the racks of infinite coolness, I turned to the chap behind the counter and said, "Do you ever get bowling sh..." as my eyes fell on two perfect pairs. "Hey, I used to have a pair with a seven..." as I turned one shoe over to reveal that number on the heel.



It was bizarre. They were the very image of my much-loved and long-lost pair. A mere $25 dollars lighter, I skipped down to Reverse Garbage where I found, priced at $1, an as-new video of a film I'd -- just a week ago -- decided to track down, and some leather offcuts I'd been hoping to find for attaching handles to bags. They were remarkably fortuitous events. One could even say...miraculous.

Friends, it's time to reveal the initial find of the day: at the office this morning, while browsing a bowl of assorted sweets I happened upon an unusual specimen, one that looked eerily familiar...



After all these long years envying those rare individuals who sit down to dinner and find Jesus gazing up from their fish fingers, finally my time has come. I have been touched, smiled upon benevolently from above. I am the blessed recipient of the Holy Virgin as she has appeared to me in gelatinous form, and miracles have followed where I've carried her in my pocket.

I sent a gushing text to Mr T, whose sage reply was, "I've got two words to say to you, Zézette: e. Bay."

Any suggestions on a starting price?

The post I'd intended to make today will have to wait; I've whiled away half my day doodling on the creative arm of the Safari, so I should probably get along with some 3D living.

A Cure For What Ails You

I've been burdened recently with an inconvenient surplus of money, energy and patience, and a troubling lack of splitting headaches. How fortunate then that it's Ekka time.

In addition to relief from the ailments above I've had my refreshing yearly dose of cowshit on my boots and smell of hay and livestock, quite the panacea for a country girl city-bound for over a decade, and the cattle shed provided the kids with an unforgettable lesson in telling the difference between boys and girls.

One of the treats this year was The Human Cannonball, or as the Curious Snail would have it, The Human Lady Cannonball. Yes, the projectile is a gal, a 21 year old American lass who continues the family tradition of being shot into the air, apparently. I lent my support by having the bejeesus scared out of me when the cannon fired and ramming my steak burger into my face. What better way to show solidarity with the sisterhood than wearing a barbeque sauce "smile" from ear to ear?

Walk Like A Man...

...then walk like a woman. (Or something in between.)




As some visitors will be aware, there had been the animated version of the Biomotion Lab's Gender classification: analysis and synthesis demonstration; that is, a kinetic illustration of the differences in the way men and women walk. To see it now -- and that's something I'd strongly encourage you to do -- you'll have to click on the button above.

Unique, Like Everyone Else.

The surreal and the mundane are a pigeon pair: one begets the other. The suburbs highlight the odd the way that night shows up the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I catch the same bus to work every day: the 120. It’s a regular commuter run in the mornings. Everyone on board – myself included – has their personalities idling in neutral as they ride into their CBD servitude, a twenty-minute salvation between the chaos of getting ready and the graft of work. Many of us take the opportunity to read. I finished my most recent novel last night, so spent my travel time today alternately gazing out the window and observing my fellow passengers, speculating about their lives, stories, tastes, lovers, families, experiences, backgrounds. Sometimes I catch small slices of life that lift the gravity from the corners of my mouth.

This morning as we traversed Greenslopes I saw a man walking down a garden path. He was dressed in a plain, work-a-day office outfit*, one not out of place in an insurance office or one of the duller government departments. What drew my eye was not so much the man (or his apparel), but what filled his hands: in one an enormous fuscia-pink double hibiscus flower, the other a shiny chrome yabby pump. What the relationship between these two items might possibly be, or where they are now I can only guess. I’d imagine that that he’d be surprised to know that they’re also on your monitor, though.

Less immediately striking but certainly more thought provoking was that I boarded the bus with my doppelganger. I didn’t recognise the similarity at first. It became apparent during the course of the journey. About my size, wearing jeans, boots, plain tee shirt. She carried a satchel and read “Introducing Stephen Hawking” through a tangle of hair, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose all the while. I suppose everyone feels they’re unique, quite unlike everyone else and I’m no exception. I’d never thought of myself as a “type” -- more a misfit than anything, so I was intrigued by this mirror across the way. I wish I’d known how to make contact with this sister/stranger. I would like to have gotten to know her. But then, maybe it's for the best; perhaps there’s only room for one of each type in any social “world”.

*or disguise, perhaps -- who am I to judge?.