November 2007

Voicing Emily

Three women in white dresses walk out from behind the large screens and take a seat on the backless chairs on each level of the three tiered stage. Cursive handwriting floats across the screens and we hear the nib of a pen scrawling on paper. Then we hear a voice — an older, seasoned voice — speak the poetry of Emily Dickinson. Each woman represents Dickinson at a stage in her life: young, middle years, and end-of-life. The eldest (Noonan), sitting centre and back of stage rises from her chair to sing:

She died— this was the way she died.
And when her breath was done
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The Angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.




The G-train is back:

After several phone conversations with Gehrig, 31, in Sweden, Lyon decided to give him another chance and selected him with pick 57.

Meanwhile, we have a new PM:

Before he enjoyed a meat pie and a VB, Matt wrote:

As Paul Keating once advised, if you change the government, the country changes. And, for all the talk of me-tooism throughout this campaign, so too will Australia change in the coming months and years. While economic conservatism and reform will remain the policy areas of greatest bipartisan agreement in modern Australian politics, Rudd’s Labor will inevitably be a more or less socially progressive party of the centre-left where Howard’s was a socially conservative party of the right. The similarities are superficial: the country will change. To what extent, however, only time will tell.

So much for my prediction that we wouldn’t know the result until Monday.

Nick XenophonOh, the thrill of the vote.

I trundled into the Melbourne CBD today, which is what one has to do when one doesn’t update their details on the electoral role. After being politely asked by the Liberal hawker if I was lodging my interstate vote I hopped into the confines of my ballot box with my small green slip of voting power and a ream of pulp paper Jack Kerouac would be happy to run through his typewriter. Not giving anything away about my vote, but… 1, 2, 3… all the way to 46!

That’s right, I voted for a giraffe and a well-matched tie.

I have been to the end of the internet… and crossed over to the other side.

Tales of Balboa

What is the What

Truth be told, I enjoyed Dave Eggers’ latest novel, What is the What, much more than his debut memoir, A Heart-breaking Work of Staggering Genius. But, as will be made clear, even my choice of words points to my initial misgivings. Should the story of a Sudanese refugee be an enjoyable read? Are we to believe The Auto-biography of Valentino Achak Deng is his story? Eggers straddled the divide between fiction and non-fiction with A Heart-breaking Work, the story of his life after both his parents died within weeks of each-other. His representation or mis-representation causing some consternation.


But, of course, the result doesn’t matter.

At least not to the amateurs who hold the game in such esteem. In The Vincibles: A Suburban Cricket Odyssey, Gideon Haigh barely gets to talk about the on-field action, what with all the off-field organisation and procrastination that goes on. In a chapter dedicated to a recently deceased friend, Haigh remembers their differing tastes of reading material while waiting their turn to bat. I’m paraphrasing Haigh’s idea now, but he is right: at the amateur level, whether you’re a player or a would-be commentator, or psychoanalyst, cricket takes all types. I don’t know if reading Bertrand Russell is going to help when the burly opposition fast bowler hits the popping crease red-faced, a fag hanging out the side of his mouth, and digs one in short aiming for your head… but it will certainly give you something to think about in the interim.

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