Sunday, 28 September 2008

Better than half a worm, in half an apple

My bestest beloved linked me to this , with the tag "... and I thought of you".

After the red veil subsided and I put down the kitchen knife, I did have to admit it was familiar turf and pretty close to home. Too close.

What is it with our brains - and why do they seem to take such joy in self sabotage?

Ordinarily, under strict laboratory conditions, I am a fairly intelligent and erudite person. But its like there is a "Random" switch that gets turned on in my head which causes gibberish to fall out of my mouth. It used to happen occasionally - you know, the odd spoonerism or Freudian slip. Normal. Human.

But now it happens A LOT.

For instance - that thing that you cut grass with? I know its called a LAWNMOWER. But in idle conversation what does my brain pop out? VACUUM CLEANER.

Pretty much 99.9% guaranteed (the .01% being the times I practice before hand to get it right). I've even tried rewiring my synapses by creating and repeating appropriate word associations. No dice.

Words with similar sound and spelling and are more excusable and unfortunately therefore more common. MELON when I mean LEMON. MUSHROOM instead of MATTRESS.

Or words of a like category. HAND instead of GLOVE. CINEMA for THEATER.

"The traffic lights up ahead are BLACK, we can cross..."

Obviously I meant RED. Certainly conceptually alike in their 'don't do it' kind of way. Perhaps that explains my brain's use of FRAGMENT instead of SNOWFLAKE. Crystallization creates both?? Work with me here!

Or there is just the plain weird: SAUSAGE instead of CIRCLE (Though technically phonetically similar to begin with - and if you cut them in half...)

At least if these 'exchanges' were of a saucier nature it would be a source of mirth and amusement, not just frustration and embarrassment.

On occasion I catch myself saying the wrong word - and quickly send a message to my mouth to say the right word - and like the three stooges trying to get through a door all at once - they jam and I end up stuttering like a skipping record.

For some reason it seems to be mainly nouns.

A further regression occurs when I can't recall the desired word and so out aloud, I scroll through the ones that do make it out of my brain until I hit on the right one or Jms figures out what I'm trying to say by deduction. Its like a shopping list version of charades.

Perhaps I'm just getting old - although I'm (technically) not mid-thirties yet, so surely that's too young for dementia? Please?

It could be an overworked mind. But idle times seem to make no difference.

I muse sometimes that I have some kind of rare, degenerative brain disorder that is eating away at my grey matter - like a worm in an apple.

Or an undiagnosed tumour. Like an episode of House, there would be that A HA! moment (after the requisite dicking about) where I can explain all my tics in one foul swoop and say "I told you so" and smile smugly.

Oh wait. Fantasizing about having a brain tumour? Um. Perhaps not.

(Though if it is fantasy "House" land, it will be fixed with a simple operation and I can go on to be Secretary General of the UN. There will be no long and difficult rehabilitation)

I could be generous and blame the pain meds. But let's be honest - this might just be personality, not acquired.

If you are a regular reader here at chez Trickle, you might appreciate that words are kinda my thing. I like using them and especially like to stretch my lexicon a little (hopefully without sounding like the nob who ate a thesaurus for breakfast).

I guess I just fear being 'that guy': dazed and confused in the supermarket, getting increasingly agitated as I yell out random words till my carer collects me and apologetically escorts me home.

Maybe I should start wearing a "Please look after this Bear" sign.

Or carry around flash cards. Lawnmower, Vacuum Cleaner, Hand, Glove ...

Saturday, 27 September 2008

The littlest bird

The family tree has been updated.

No schmancy Louis Ghost chair this time. Just my hard rubbish kitchen chair.

The only chair in the house not flocked with cat hair.

Now excuse me while I go to the supermarket. Like Mikes, I don't think there is anything "Grand" about a football match.

I try to avoid supermarkets on the weekends - I am hoping it is a ghost town.

Just me and the hum of fridges and the flicker of dodgy neon. I might even sing along with the muzak.

Wednesday, 24 September 2008

The kindness of strangers...

Back from Sydney. Had a great time - lots of newborn nuzzles, cuddles and effervescent smiles that could melt polar ice caps. Not to mention an early dose of t-shirt weather (and a touch of sunburn!).

And the Matryoshka was a BIG HIT.

They even got taken to bed (only top tier toys get this rare privilege I'm told). Phoebe's Giraffe didn't get a look in - but then she is only 3 weeks old and hasn't discovered her hands yet!

Unfortunately, it seems that the black dog I thought I'd cleverly left at Melbourne airport, managed to track me down and then proceeded to catch a lift home in my luggage (seemingly evading any excess baggage charges).

Hopefully its only got a short stay visa (or as Yogi Shiva would put it - just a passing sensation).

Certainly abated by the sight of our dining table upon my arrival:

Technically the Gocco was MY birthday present (I'm yet to actually touch it) but who could poo poo such industriousness? Paper, card, fabric - you name it, if it's flat, its got a test print on it.

It seems his new favourite colour is Barbie Pink. Should I be worried?

Then an unexpected present in my Bloglines reader - sweet words and a link from the extra special Kirsty (I can't tell you how much this made my day).

And finally, the icing on the cake was a wonderful parcel in the mail today from Gemma with goodies from the Kaotic Kraftster Day that I missed out on 'cause I was AWOL. Woot!

Thank you.

P.S. Happy Birthday Granpa - Rest in peace.

Monday, 15 September 2008

Gon Out, BiSy BacKson

Gone to Sydney to visit Bebe and Imi. Yippee!

Saturday, 13 September 2008

Through the round window

From PBase.

I don't know what it is about circles - but I find them profoundly restful.

I am always drawn to circular patterns - initially this was an unconscious phenomenon until Jms pointed out that ALL our bedding (ever) had had circular patterns*. Nesting much?

Perhaps it harks back to something innate in (my) primitive brain that seeks security and completeness. Like the Zen art of "enso" or circle painting. Akin to the chanting of an "om" but with the body, the hand and brush circling and circling endlessly until thought is reduced to pure existence.

From Otter Cards.

Or I just like circles.

Especially round windows. I positively ACHE to live in a house with a round window (yes, yet another feature of the lofty warehouse of my dreams).

I know all windows frame a view, but there is something especially nice about the view framed by a perfect circle. A portal to another world.

Don't even get me started on Moon Gates. (I kept Kodak in business when I traveled through China several years ago).

Ideally the lofty warehouse has a sizable garden with Moon Gates too. Though possibly a bit much. Realistically, on my budget, this is going to be a lofty cardboard box under a freeway extension.

From Totara Valley Barns.

There was a photo I recall from an old Black + White magazine (long since ebayed in a misguided attempt at decluttering) of a beautiful round window in a stunning designer home. I think it was from an Andy Warhol photo shoot. I have since seen glimpses of it on a random ABC afternoon Arts shows - but unfortunately never caught the name of it ...

From Grey Lines.

Until I find this amazing Tardis of a warehouse - with cantilevered stairs, double floor rooms (sustainable heating!?) and said round window and the 'magic pudding' wallet to match, I'll continue to wander aimlessly the image search function on Google looking for the window of my dreams.

From Villa Sumaya.

*Footnote - In defiance I last bought stripey bedding - and to be completely honest - it just does not feel right and I can't wait till wash day. Never again.

Thursday, 11 September 2008

Livin' on the (selv) edge

I have been dutifully collecting the registration prints from the selvedges of fabric over the last year or so. I don't have much.

I don't buy lots of fabric - I tend to leech it of others and purchase miniscule bits that are already on sale (I am the poxy customer hunched over the scrap basket trawling for gold). And they are ever so small - so this was only ever going to be a small scale project.

But I just adore them. Sometimes I pull out my wee stash out and just look at it lovingly. Quite possibly it's the rainbow thing.

I had revolutionary plans for these little bits, and thought I was being oh so VERY original. But then I discovered, as you usually do (there is no such thing as original thought - thank you Aristotle) that someone else has been there and truly done that. Far more up scale and amazing than anything I was planning. Phooey.

Never mind. I'm happy to stand on the shoulders of giants. It's a great view.

Wednesday, 10 September 2008

I'm sure impulsiveness has its merits

Who goes to IKEA and impulse purchases a FOUR POSTER BED??

YELLOW at that.

(But Jms - It was 70% off, and I've always wanted one since, well forever... and what do you mean I've never mentioned this before, I could have sworn it was in the wedding contract vows...)

You gotta feel sorry for the poor bugger, who then had to construct it single handedly. With onlookers. Exacting onlookers.

Nevermind also that we live in a small, dark Art Deco house. Admittedly the bed formed part of my "live in an lofty warehouse style apartment with double floor rooms" long term goal.

But why wait - life is NOT a dress rehearsal.

On my desk...

Courtesy of my father. To help with the RSI of course.

Thanks Dad.

I won't ask how he found it (DO NOT GO THERE)

Not quite the look I generally go for.

(But surprisingly VERY ergonomic - something to do with minimised nerve compression aided by her ample cleavage)

I actually blushed the first time I grabbed her by her extremities. I am ever so glad they refrained from including nipples. I feel like a perv, but it's really comfortable to cup my hand over "lefty" while I work.

In fact I've now become quite fond her - I feel I should give her a name (or at least buy her a drink).

Though I can completely see myself having a bit of a "Lars" relationship with her (this is why I haven't succumbed to Blythe. I know it would get weird). So perhaps we should keep it professional.

P.S. If you haven't seen Lars and the Real Girl - do so as soon as humanly practical. A great movie that sublimely surpasses its cringe worthy premise. Definitely in my top 10.