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| Tuesday, January 31, 2006 |
| February Cometh |
Tomorrow is a New Month.
Do you know what this means?
This means that, after almost a WHOLE MONTH of speed limitation (due to Mr Ata accidentally overloading our 10GB limit in the first week of January), full cable access shall be restored to the Atavarian Household TOMORROW.
Hooray! {throws streamers}
No more waiting for pages to load! No more going and finding something more productive to do because it takes soooooo long for my email account to be checked! I do not have to work on developing my attention span!
Here's to February! |
posted by Ata @ 5:57 pm  |
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| Sunday, January 29, 2006 |
| Not a Baby Person |
Ata went to a Baby Shower today. It was nice. The mother-to-be was gifted with a large number of parcels wrapped in variations on pastel blue paper - baby blankets, baby clothes, baby toys. They are having a boy, hence the general theme of pastel blue wrapping. Ata gave two gifts, neatly wrapped in paper patterned with birds and flowers. The birds appeared to be pigeons, and the flowers an assortment of sunflower and poppy and unidentifiable purple flowers. Not baby-themed at all. Ata did not feel up to baby-themed wrapping paper, and figured (correctly) that everything else would be wrapped in pastel blue. Nothing like being different. Gift #1 was for Mum - a copy of "Kidwrangling", by Kaz Cooke. Ata - not being a mother herself - considers Kaz Cooke to be close on the ultimate authority on pregnancy and child-rearing. Gift #2 was for Dad - a packet of nappies. Ata had spent a small amount of time wandering through the baby section at Target, beguiled and bemused by the enormous quantity of baby clothes, baby toys, baby feeding equipment, baby everything available. The desire to buy pretty-but-incovenient baby clothes and pretty-but-unnecessary baby toys was strong. However, the practical side of Ata took hold. The baby is due in a fortnight or so. Surely, Ata reasoned, the parents will by now have acquired pretty much all the essentials. Additionally, family and friends can be relied upon to supply a large amount of pretty baby items.
Ata was correct. So, although she felt a minor bit left out by not buying pretty baby items, the book and nappies were well recieved. Ata felt successful. And she has consoled herself with the thought that a very close friend has recently become pregnant - therefore, Ata will shortly have a baby that she can buy all sorts of pretty baby things for. |
| posted by Ata @ 10:18 pm |
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| Friday, January 27, 2006 |
| Coffee Freak |
I was reminded of this story by reading Emano's blog.
Mr Ata's best man is a bona fide coffee addict. At one point, he went to his GP complaining of headaches.
"Hmmm," said the GP. "How much coffee do you drink?"
"Ahhh...." said BM, "....six a day...."
The GP was quite horrified, and insisted that BM must cut down.
What BM had not told the GP was that his daily intake was much closer to 20 cups than 6. He was working in a lab at the time, and on arrival, would put the dripper coffee machine on. He would then chain-drink cups of coffee all day.
Which reminds me of another story. Mr Ata is known at work for his tastes for coffee (we now have a super-duper fully automatic machine) and beer (he home brews). His workmates like to tease him about it (actually, they like to tease him about just about everything. Probably because he looks much younger than his 30 years, and refuses to participate in drunken bingeing and strip clubs). On one occasion, a workmate accused Mr Ata of being an addict.
"You need the coffee to pick you up, and the beer to bring you down! You're addicted!"
"True enough," replied Mr Ata. "How do you regulate your moods?" |
| posted by Ata @ 8:53 pm |
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| Thursday, January 26, 2006 |
| Wildlife Indoors |
There was a gecko in the kitchen. Mr Ata found it and - against Ata's advice - directed Bosco's attention toward it. The gecko was in a corner of the room, high up, against the ceiling. Well out of Bosco's reach. But having been shown it, he could not remove the thought of the gecko from his furry feline mind. Eventually, Bosco was given to Ata to hold in the loungeroom while Mr Ata finished preparing the tea and cake. Bosco jumping on the table was becoming a severe distraction for Mr Ata.
"I told you so," said Ata.
Tea and cake was brought into the lounge for consuming, and the door shut to ensure that Bosco could not reach the gecko even if it came down from it's perch. Bosco, clearly obsessing over the unreachable gecko, did his best to open the sliding door. Fortunately, he has not learned the manipulating of doors. But it was annoying to have him keep pulling on it.
"Bosco," said Mr Ata, "Come here. Forget about the gecko."
"I told you so," said Ata.
When the TV show was over and Ata & Mr Ata ready to retire, Bosco was restrained while Ata attempted capture of the gecko. It was maybe the length of her index finger, soft beige body with yellow stripes and delicate, tiny spots. It was also very wiggly, and had to be chased down the wall, across the floor, and under the table. Despite catching it under a cupped hand several times, Ata was cautious of accidentally crushing the fragile skeleton inside the cool soft skin, or inadvertantly causing tail-shedding, and the gecko escaped as she tried to get a gentle grip on it's torso. Eventually it was corralled long enough to be picked up and placed on a palm for a closer look. Ata loves geckos, with their careful, precise markings and fat toes. The geckos in Adelaide are not the same as the geckos she fell asleep listening to in the Far North as a child, but they are beautiful all the same. Alice Springs geckos are not so nice - fat, pallid, ghostly things. Ata remembers a Dreamtime story about how the gecko got it's markings - painted on carefully and precisely by a skink. When the time came for the gecko to paint the skink, the gecko - less skilled or less cautious a painter, depending on who's telling the story - smears the colours on the body, but by the time the skink notices the paint has dried and it is too late. This is why geckos have stripes and spots in careful patterns of yellow and brown, but skinks do not. Every time Ata sees geckos, she thinks of this story, and wonders if she remembers it right.
The gecko is duly released into the wilds of the rockery out front. It is too shocked by the whole experience to run immediately away, so Ata and Mr Ata leave it on the mulch to recover. Bosco must remain indoors, like a socially and ecologically responsibly kept beastie that he is, to dream gecko dreams in his box on the fridge. |
| posted by Ata @ 10:36 pm |
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| Wednesday, January 25, 2006 |
| The Jerk |
Ata has been working. Working, working, working since Monday. Cashiering at schools for a company that supplies pre-packed stationery to school students. The system works like this:
1. Orders are handed in at end of school year for the following year
2. Orders are keyed in, invoices produced, and bags packed during Christmas holidays
3. Orders are collected and paid for at schools in week before school commences
Easy, right? On the collection days, a team of people goes to the school to do the selling. A supervisor, a number of runners, and one or more cashiers, dependant on school size. Monday and Tuesday had Ata working with a supervisor (aged about 19), three runners (aged about 15), and herself as cashier. Ata was not sure whether to feel like matron or madam. The cashier sits at a desk at the back of the selling area. Runners take names, find bags, check bags, and bring chosen form of tender to cashier. Cashier counts money, gives change/swipes card/checks cheque details before giving change/authorisation slip/handset for PIN entry to runner to take to customer.
On this particular occasion, an EFTPOS card had been offered as tender, and the handset had to be taken to the customer for their PIN. While waiting, another customer arrived, wanting to pay with a credit card. The runner brought the card to Ata, and together they waited for the handset to be returned. After a few seconds, the customer called the runner back. He would pay with cash instead. The customer was impatient to have his card back, and met the runner inside the selling area (ie -he went around the Row of Desks that demarcated the Place for Customers from the Place for Staff Only). Ata overheard a little of what he said to the runner as he exchanged cash for card.
"In the future, son..." was what Ata caught, and a little bit about "magnetic swiping" and "that sort of thing". Then the customer returned to his rightful place on the other side of the desks.
The runner brought the cash to Ata, looking a little stunned. They were good boys, our runners, teenage lanky and with a tendency to mumble, but they got everything done without complaint and never left a customer waiting to be served. Handing over the cash, the stunned runner spoke to Ata.
"That guy just threatened me!"
"What did he say?" said Ata, intrigued and slightly horrified. The customer did look a mite bit scarey, in an unpredictable, I-might-be-a-freak-hiding-in-the-disguise-of-a-normal-person sort of way.
The stunned runner, speaking as one who could not believe he had just heard it, replied, "If you take my card again I'll break your f****** arm."
"Well," said Ata, now definately horrified, "I'd better get his change right, then."
The runner was okay. Ata was lost for a moment in admiration, as that sort of comment from a customer when Ata was 15 would have resulted at least in tears. |
| posted by Ata @ 5:31 pm |
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| Sunday, January 22, 2006 |
| Spiders |
The other night - a hot hot night after a hot hot day - Ata was called outside to view the spiders Mr Ata had discovered.
A fat, hairy huntsman sprawled on a white pole, perfectly unmoving. It was silvery-grey, and absolutely symmetrical. A small night-spider of type unknown to Ata had created a web strung from the 8-foot high trellis holding up the grape vine to the ground. Another of the same spider had a web between the verandah gutter and the brick planter box (the hated brick planter box... one day I shall remove it), and was suspended at head height. The strong torchlight, shone through the web, made the delicate strands move and pull in the heat of the light. A little flying bug, drawn by the light, blundered against the web. It was caught for only an instant before freeing itself and blundering on. The spider darted, quick as thinking, but the bug was gone quicker. The spider returned to the centre of the web, testing her main strands with a quick tug as she settled again. We waited some time in the hopes of witnessing an actual catch, but there was only one more near miss. Impatient to go back inside, Ata threw a tiny ball of tissue paper into the edge of the web. It caught and held fast, and the spider leapt upon the decoy with alacrity. She turned the ball over and over and then - in a gesture of clear rejection - flicked it out of the web toward the watchers. Ata and Mr Ata and MLS were captivated by their own nature documentary, lacking only narration by David Attenborough.
The spider turned back to her patient wait in the middle of the web. Her audience, unwilling to disturb her further, returned to the movie they had been watching in the damp cool of the evaporative air conditioning. And in the morning, the web was gone. |
| posted by Ata @ 9:36 pm |
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| Thursday, January 19, 2006 |
| My Magic 8-Ball |
Ata has begun an Undertaking, in which she is not consistently certain of success. In these dark times of unsurety, she seeks reassurance in Mr Ata. This is a process not unlike asking questions of a magic 8-ball.
"Mr Ata," she sighs languidly, "Will I succeed at this?"
He thinks a moment, then replies: "It's looking more likely." Or, "I'm finding it easier to see that happening." Or, "It's entirely possible."
One would imagine that Ata would learn from this experience, and seek reassurance elsewhere. Yet the careful, on-the-fence response is somehow more comforting than blind certainty. And he's a terrible liar, anyway, so Ata would not believe absolute assurance. |
| posted by Ata @ 11:18 am |
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| Monday, January 16, 2006 |
| Simon Vivian #2 |
Today marks a momentous occasion.
I have met Simon Vivian.
He is slight and blue-eyed. MLS has gone to his house for the afternoon. There is a small group of them going together to the conference session tonight, and I will pick her up from the church afterwards. Leaving aside the high probability that AM would be unimpressed with MLS driving with a P-Plater (I doubt that Simon is any more dangerous on the road than AM - and you'd better not be reading this!), Ata now has an entire afternoon to herself. I will continue making cushions. I began the cushion-making project this morning (well, supplies were purchased yesterday), so hopefully there will be all-new sofa cushions by tonight.
The loungeroom looks like a bomb exploded in the upholstery section at Spotlight. Perhaps Mr Ata will be convinced to clean it up. |
| posted by Ata @ 3:20 pm |
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| Saturday, January 14, 2006 |
| Motivated by Rian |
Hey, I never claimed to be original. Take my inspiration where I can get it, that's me.
This, however, is as nice as my beasties play. It was a joy to see.
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| posted by Ata @ 8:14 am |
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| Friday, January 13, 2006 |
| Rathouse |
KTF's spooky experience has reminded me of this story, loosely based on actual events*. Alright, it's a few years old, but I don't recall a rule that blog postings have to be current.
*Events have been altered to enhance interestingness of narrative.
It's the wrong sort of house for a ghost. I've always felt that ghosts haunted big, echoing, cavernous castles as a matter of preference, or deserted misty moors, or big old houses in suspiciously good locations. Which then get sold for a ridiculously low price, only to drive the new occupants insane as a matter of course. A ghost house must have two stories and a deliciously scandalous history, or at the bare minimum, a tragic love story in it's past. Not like my house. Okay, it's old, and it has some history. I'm told it was originally the residence for an almond plantation. But to my knowledge, there's no scandals or love triangles or black-hearted scoundrels or unsolved mysteries attached. Nothing more dramatic than what ordinarily occurs in the everyday lives of almond plantation keeping people. And it's small - two bedrooms. The back porch was enclosed at some stage and partitioned off to make a spare room (two beds, an upturned box for a bedside table, two framed, yellowing pictures of flowers left by the previous owner, and just enough floor space to stand on while you change clothes); my study (big desk, computer desk, wheelie chair and lots of empty cardboard boxes, kept in the anticipation of moving again); and an ex-junk room now serving as a bedroom (square of carpet denoting bedroom area, door leading to laundry off one side, assorted pipes from the bathroom & toilet sticking through down the other end of the wall). The place has just enough room for the three of us who live here, and very little left over. No gothic decorations, no trapdoors, no secret rooms or double walls, no nooks, crannies, or dark, dingy corners. Front room painted bright pink by the previous inhabitant. My brother's room is two shades of orange, mine is a beautiful blue, and the others - well, they vary. Most the house seems to have been built by a handyman extraordinaire. My doorway changes shape and size during the year. At the moment, my dressing gown hides an inch-wide gap between door and wall. I hang it from a nail in the doorframe. Anyone who wants to see me sleeping has to get down on their knees.
So anyway, the house is a cute little cottage. To tell the truth, it's more likely to attract rats than ghosts. It has plenty of what real estate agents call "character" and a brand spanking new bathroom, but it couldn't be a ghost house.
It just doesn't have the architecture.
This is what I told myself that night when I was all alone in the house, and there was an unexplained bang in the loungeroom. And a knocking sound at the door - an urgent rat-tat-tat-tat that would stop for a few seconds, then start again. As if someone was desperate to be inside. I almost got up to answer the front door - then reminded myself that no-one could get to the front door without going through the roller door, which was definitely locked. And besides - the more I listened to the noise, it could be some kind of bird, or a possum. I don't know what noise possums make, but from what I've heard, they're devious creatures. I'm sure they could make a noise like this if they wanted to. Or perhaps it was a rat. Rats are clever when it comes to noises, too. The bang could have been - well, I'm not sure what it could have been. But it didn't happen again, so I told myself to forget all these noises & go back to sleep. Eventually, I did.
When I got up the next morning and - brave by daylight - investigated the lounge, the grill in front of the fireplace was on the ground. That could have been the bang (but I couldn't duplicate the sound - the grill was too light and flimsy). And the CD covers, which had been stacked on the stereo, were scattered on the floor. A rat or something could have come down the chimney, knocked over the grill, and in climbing on the stereo knocked down the CD covers (but that doesn't explain the one I found under a beanbag, or the one which was broken). The next night I slept with all the lights on.
And there have been a few other things. A broken glass on the kitchen floor in the morning - I guess that could have been a rat. The back door, which seems to come miraculously unlocked while we're all out - a very clever rat, perhaps. Although I have noticed that the unlocked back door phenomenon only occurs when my brother's the last to leave the house. He swears he locked it, but he could just be... not so much forgetting as remembering wrong. And things go missing - the nail clippers I keep on my keyring, a pair of tweezers, the inevitable vanishing scissors, the cake I left in the fridge. There is the occasional strange noise in the night - bangs and thumps and so forth. A strange light shone in the window once - a bright light, like a chopper searchlight, which moved slowly along beside the house and vanished. My brother saw it too, so I wasn't hallucinating. It could have been a very quiet car (but there's a fence between the road and us). Or a rat with a really good torch.
Okay, that one couldn't have been a ghost. Ghosts aren't traditionally associated with bright lights. Anyway, all these strange noises and things breaking and falling and going missing is why I've just been in the ceiling looking for evidence of rats. I didn't find anything, but then, there were corners I didn't look in. As I exited, covered in a thick layer of dust & cobwebs, I thought I heard a snicker from one of those unexplored back corners.
I guess it could have been a rat. |
| posted by Ata @ 10:26 pm |
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| Wednesday, January 11, 2006 |
| Home Again |
Ata is feeling thoroughly familyed.
Today we returned from Victoria. "We" consisting of Ata, Mr Ata, Ata's Mother (AM), Ata's Father(AF), and My Little Sister (MLS). Ata and Mr Ata flew across on Friday night to meet the others, who had driven over. We visited with three uncles, four aunts, a great-aunt and great-uncle, two grandmothers, one grandfather, four cousins, two step-cousins, a second cousin and her daughter. On the drive back, we visited Ata's childhood home of two years, preschool and primary school, with running commentary on What Ata's Parents Did and What Has Changed. Then we toured through the town Ata's parents lived in at the time they married, before stepping even further back into history with the town Ata's father spent much of his childhood years. This last was a place Ata cannot remember having visited before.
It is a small rural town. Driving through with Ata's father pointing out landmarks and telling stories was a little like seeing double. There is the house Ata's father used to live in. That's where the orchard was - now a caravan park. Ata's father pointed out a flattish area next to the used-to-be-an-orchard.
That's where the circus used to pull in. It was the flattest piece of ground, so they stopped there. And the wagons and cages would be parked along there. We used to go after school and look at the animals - elephants and monkeys and lions.
The building down the road was the butchers shop. Now it sells craft and offers tarot readings. A little further down is a small park with a large gun mounted in it. We did not stop to find out why it had a gun.
That's where the Squatter's Arms was - until it burnt down, anyway. We reckoned our neighbours had something to do with that. The property went up for auction, and our neighbours had the losing bid. It burnt down mysteriously just after that.
We drive down a street that dead-ends at a wide creek. Once the town swimming hole, charred logs that once supported diving boards and a jetty still stand stoically in the water. The hole is rimmed with reeds or grasses of some kind, and tall gums shade it. It seems like a painting. Ata feels certain she has seen it in a movie. She wishes she had brought her camera. The tour continues.
This was our property, and all up here. In there was the dump, we spent hours in there. We cleared all this land, it was hard work, although there wasn't a lot of bracken fern. Just in through there, that's where I got bitten by the snake.
It is speckling with rain and the air smells clean and cool. MLS is listening to her CD player. AM remembers the area also. "Wasn't that where that man lived, who had the monkey that drove a tractor? He banked with my father."
No, he was out the other way. He had this monkey that would drive the tractor, he'd just put the monkey on the seat and it would steer while he worked from the trailer on the back. When he came into town, he'd have the monkey on his lap and it would be steering the car.
Ata wonders what it would be like to grow up in a place that held not only her history, but some of her fathers history, and her mothers, and her father's fathers. On the way out, we cross Scholfield Creek. The bridge, now cement and bitumen and two lanes wide, used to be a narrow wooden single lane affair.
Scholfield! Scholfield was a drunk. The pub closed at six, and at five past six you'd see him driving out of town, weaving all over the road. Until he got to the bridge, then he'd be
straight as a die until he was on the road again - then he was back to being all over the place.
Would Ata be a different person, if her family history was held all within a two- or three- hour drive? What if her parents had never left that country town they married in? As a child, Ata always pitied her southern-city-dwelling cousins. To her well-travelled mind, their world seemed very small. Ata was content to miss out on stable schooling and calisthenics in favour of beaches and tropical thunderstorms and climbing mango trees. On visits south, it seemed that there was little to do that didn't need Arranging, and the weather was always cold. The houses had too many fences around them. The air smelt of exhaust instead of seawater and frangipani. As an adult, however, Ata can see the attraction of stability and roots. To be able to say, this is my place, to be attached to one area. Ata has always felt Arnhemland to be the true home of her living soul - but she sees now that pieces of her belong to different places. Up north, in the tropics, she feels in place - but it is to the climate and countryside she feels attached. In Adelaide, her adult self seeks bonds and ties with the people she knows. In Victoria - especially rural Victoria - there is a quieter, smaller part of herself that feels tied to her family's history and the contributions they made to the people and places there. In a similar way, she desires to visit the homelands of her older ancestors - England and Scotland and Norway - to feel the connections her family has to those places. Would they seem more or less like home than the place she lives now, because there is Family History there? If she tracked down her Distant American Relatives, would she feel connection to the places of their own personal history?
Is this sense of seeking history the reason people research family history and painstakingly document their family tree? To decide where their ties are, which places they belong to, which people they belong to? Surely it is not only Ata who feels scattered across not only the country, but half the planet? |
| posted by Ata @ 7:39 pm |
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| Monday, January 02, 2006 |
| Bedbedbed |
Bed bed bed.
I should go to bed.
It is getting late, and
I'm a sleepyhead.
Why don't I want to go to bed? I like sleeping. I like dreaming. And tomorrow I will wake up 28, and I like birthdays too. Usually.
Yesterday we watched Code 46. It's very average, don't bother with it unless the only other option is Random Hearts. In it we meet Maria, the day before her birthday. I don't remember which birthday. But once a year, every night before her birthday, Maria has the same dream - that she is riding on a train. The train line has a finite number of stations, and each year the train stops one station further along. The day we meet Maria, it is the day before the dream that will deliver her to the last station, and she just knows that there, at that station, she will find her life's fate. So she stays awake all night, so that she will not have the dream, and will not know her destiny ahead of time.
That was the most interesting aspect of the film. Perhaps it has impressed something upon me. Perhaps 28 just sounds much more mature than 27. Perhaps it is the thought that, of all the things I had vaguely expected to do, see, and achieve as a "young adult", I have done, seen, and achieved - well, okay, one of them. I did finish a Bachelor's degree. Perhaps it is the realisation that my life is truly in my hands, that no-one else can be held responsible, that I and I alone can do, see, and achieve the things I desire for myself. But I think the same thing every year the night before a birthday, so there's nothing particularly special about this one.
Today my Friend-Around-the-Corner told me she is pregnant. So, I suppose, next August (or thereabouts) there will be a mini-Friend-Around-the-Corner to buy presents for. Perhaps, in 2007, he or she will call me 'Auntie' and there will be chocolate cake smeared on the tablelegs at my 30th birthday. Maybe Bosco will get over his fear of small people.
Yesterday, in the Mall, I acquired a friend. He told me I was open-minded, and clear like water, and that he hoped I would have a beautiful child one day.
I think that perhaps I am not so different from Epiny, that I would rather keep my child's freedom than step into a woman's responsibilities. And, like a child, that I would rather keep my Friend for my own than relinquish any part of her to her child. I am petulant, I know. And selfish. I will get over it. Life is never the same, never constant, never unchanging. Do I really wish it were? |
| posted by Ata @ 11:02 pm |
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| New Year, New You |
It is the second of January. Because my birthday is the third of January, the beginning of the year always feels like a real turning point, a step forward in time, a whole new beginning. Some times I feel a bit jealous of those like Mr Ata, who have their birthdays in the middle of the year. They get a New Start twice a year - once from the Year's Beginning, and once from their Birthday.
I feel I should do some kind of recap of 2005, or at the very least, make some resolutions for 2006. But I've never been really big on resolutions. One year I resolved to remember & send cards for all my friend's birthdays. I stuck to it, but it was a lot of effort. It's really easier just not to make resolutions.
So a 2005 recap, then.
....
Well, it was better than 2004, I'll say that much for it.
I think what I tend to remember most about years when I get to the end of them is not the things that happened so much as the things I wanted to do, but didn't. Like, for example, another year has gone by and Mr Ata & I still have not learned to hang-glide. The Great Rollercoaster Tour has been put off for two more years (when Mr Ata has long-service leave). I didn't go back to belly-dancing classes. I didn't master the digeri - didger - didj - dammit! How can I play it if I can't even spell it? The yidaki. That'll do. I didn't take painting lessons, I didn't take singing lessons, I didn't install a hammock in the backyard, nor did I get around to putting in the cat aviary. I have not even come close to making new cushions for the couch. I have, however, accepted that the bathroom will never be renovated. That's got to count for something.
Exactly what did I do in 2005? Before I talk myself into a state of depression with this inordinately long list of stuff I failed to do, I'd better think of something I DID do.
Well. I took a drawing class. That's a start. I finished all necessary subjects to get a Diploma of Human Resources Management and Business Management. That's something, although I'm still not convinced that it's much. We went to Darwin. I discovered Firefly. I made some new friends - that's always good - and saw some old ones - also good. I came to the realisation that some of the people I associate most with actually annoy me silly, and in realising that, it suddenly got easier to get along with them. I starred in my very first ever short film, something that's been on the 'to-do' list for a while, and began a NaNo novel that I'm actually quite pleased with. I'd like to finish that, someday. I'll add that task to the small collection of children's stories that I'd one day like to try to have published.
What do you know, I did achieve some stuff in 2005! How surprising. Perhaps there is hope for 2006, after all. Onwards! |
| posted by Ata @ 10:45 am |
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