Category: Life

It is more than likely that you have heard of Tourism Queensland’s best job in the world campaign. Surprisingly, my sister decided to go ahead and apply. This is where we differ … she’s an outdoor girl. She’s worked on boats – really big boats. She sails, snorkels and seeks outdoor adventure.

Of course, that means that she works overseas. All the time.

So, it would be kind of nice if she was a little bit closer to home. Maybe, on an island that I could visit. It would be great if you could vote for her.

All weekend I have seen and heard news reports on the bushfires racing across Victoria. Twitter has been abuzz. In their wake, they have left destruction and broken hearts – entire towns have been lost and a death toll around 80 (at this point in time).

In some cases, the fires have moved at over 100 km/h, engulfing houses before the occupants even smelled the smoke. In these cases, those who escaped, escaped only with their lives and the clothes on their back. (UPDATE: read this first person account by New.com.au journalist, Gary Hughes.)

A fund raising appeal has been established by the Red Cross here; and those wanting to check on the safety of loved ones can do so by calling 1800 727 077. However, the focus at present in on the wellbeing of those affected by the fires – and there are still many fires burning out of control across Victoria.

Elias Bizannes shares this live map of the Victorian fires. It has been pulled together in a mashup by Google engineer, Pamela Fox – bringing data from the Victorian CFA and combining with with Google’s mapping/geo location data. It shows the very real scale of the fires. Unfortunately, as Elias points out, not all states make their data available in such a portable format.

The largely volunteer fire fighters have performed astonishingly in dangerous and unpredictable conditions. And like many Australians, my heart is heavy with sadness at the devastation and misery that has befallen many families.

Periodically I pause for reflection. I look back over the years and try to fathom my achievements, tally my failures and come to some kind of reckoning. Each time I do this, I start by wondering “what could have been” … it makes me think through the alternative choices that I would have had to make to succeed in another life/career path.

One of my early career non-choices was in academia. I was, for a while, rather enamoured with teaching and research — and had the opportunity to meet and work with some inspiring and genuinely funny people. One such person, Jennifer Barry spent many years after study working in arts administration. With a sharp mind and a razor wit, she would work through the many challenges that come with theatre production, managing the creative AND the business elements all on a miniscule budget. There were late nights, early mornings, pressures of all shapes and sizes. There were demands for more, demands for less and a need to balance the expectations of friends, family, colleagues, boards and even government bodies. Her dedication was enormous. But it was a dedication that also required significant sacrifices — for this was no ordinary job. And the Company could certainly never have paid Jennifer an hourly salary.

In a similar vein, Steven Collin’s post on creative sacrifice reminds us that dedication and sacrifice go hand in glove.

For those who work in a creative field (and let’s face it, we all do), the personal distinction between what should be called work and what is “life” is decidedly fuzzy. As Jennifer continually demonstrated and as Stephen argues, dedication goes beyond the mere requirements — there is a deeper commitment — to outcomes.

You see, ideas are easy, and talk is cheap. Dedication, however, drives us towards the achievement of a goal. It makes us question the manner in which we “invest” our time and energy, and asks us to reprioritise — sometimes harshly. Look around you — there will be people who may have talent. Others with “vision”. But the only thing that counts is the end result. And when you stand back in a year’s time and reflect on what has come and gone, all the petty barbs and daily niceties will have evaporated from your mind. You will only mark your triumphs or failures. And each are valuable in their own way.

I am having an interesting discussion on David Armano’s blog with someone called "mookie". While looking through the comments on this post, I noticed that mookie had commented on the fact that blogs and social media were just communications tools and were too impersonal.

Since then, the conversation has moved on a little, and mookie has asked about whether the "semi-social" amongst us can also be considered members of the community. How do we demonstrate our membership? What happens if you don’t have a blog or a photo, or if you are shy and retiring? What happens if you just don’t have the time or the interest?
These are difficult questions, for undoubtedly, a blogging community does not exist without readers. And those readers will engage with topics and issues online and off — in fact, most of us will discuss topics with our friends over coffee in far more detail than we will on our own blogs. This is what I do when I meet my friends for coffee on Friday mornings.

But one of the things that I love about writing a blog is that we disclose more of our selves than we realise. It is why I read and it is also why I write (though sometimes I write with a half held breath). Sometimes a friend will recount something I had written and I am surprised at what they know. And because I have written and they have interpreted, there is a trade-off — a gift of sorts.

In the first instance, the gift is our name. When I first began writing this blog I hid behind its name. But gradually I was coaxed from the shadow of my own invention. Another breath half held. Another step into the arms of an unknown community.

When we read, I believe that we are seeking that nugget of truth. Our reading ears are finely attuned to this and they seek it at every word. It is what raises the hairs at the back of our necks. But the same is true with writing — but even when we are writing our selves into existence, it is only one version of our self, our life. As Helene Cixous would say, it is "the blind person’s version".

When I read the writers that I love (yes, this includes blogs), I am reading emotionally. I listen through the words. I reach for the ideas and I connect the elements, building my own story based on the words in front of me and the memories I have of the thousand other posts, emails and conversations we have had. And as these piece together, sometimes, I realise that I have moved beyond a simple relationship with this person. In sharing my time and my thoughts, this person has come into my world, and I into hers. Perhaps this may be a strange, unrequited type of gift … but it is a gift nonetheless.

Recently, at an event where I was able to actually meet some of my blogging friends, the truth of this became evident. Despite the fact that many of us had never physically met before, we felt that we knew each other. There was already a history of shared experience that transcended mere words.

My favourite definition of community is that you will be missed if you are not "there". There certainly were folks missing from this event … but you cannot be missed if no one knows your name or how to reach you. Ask the Tangerine Toad, life is much brighter out of the shadow of the toadstool. Time to take another half breath.

I don’t know what I like most about this … whether it is The Hoff on the judging panel of a talent quest, or the young girl who does an awesome yodelling performance.

I remember my first typewriter. It was a huge, chunky Olivetti desk typewriter and I thought it was fantastic. It came through a friend of the family — her office were replacing their typewriters with brand new, state of the art, electric typewriters. So this old beast was all mine.

I started typing my little hands off. I wrote out the words of songs that I liked. I wrote a few poems here and there, and stories … I loved to write stories — even then. I would sit down at the table with a thick felt mat shielding the table from the base of the typewriter, and I would begin to hammer our letters and words. First it was one finger at a time, but then, as I grew more practised, I began to type with two or even three fingers. My speed was increasing, but I would never get very fast. I needed to really pound the keys to make the letters appear nicely on the page, and the extra effort meant that speed was never to be easily attained.

When I started using computers, I found these typing skills were handy. I knew where the letters were and I could get up quite a bit of pace. I didn’t even need to look at my fingers too much. But I did need to break through the speed barrier — in teaching myself to type I had picked up plenty of bad habits (some of which I still have today) — so I started doing some computer based typing training. And it started to pay off.

Because I didn’t need to learn where all the letters were, I was able to pick up touch typing pretty quickly. Soon I didn’t need to look down at all. Soon I was able to stare at another piece of paper and transcribe it effortlessly. With pretty good accuracy.

Nowadays, I find typing to be the only way for me to take notes. I certainly can no longer write very neatly — and often find myself scouring my own notepads trying to make sense of the scrawl written there. But even with the fastest handwriting in the world, I could never write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. This is where typing truly has been fanstastic. Now I can almost keep up with my ideas as they come streaming out of my mind. And while I get along at around 55 words per minute, I can push along a little faster when I am concentrating well.

But how fast are you? Is it important to be able to type quickly? I love it. Weirdly. (With thanks to Meg Tsiamis for pointing out the typing speed test.)

I am spending this week in the US to attend some planning and strategy workshops — which means being caught in the no man’s land of business travel. For me, travel (for business or pleasure) is both exciting and frightening — no matter which country that I visit. It is something to do with the crossing of borders — of leaving one’s homeland and venturing into the world of another — for whenever I leave my country, I am also leaving my "self". It makes me wonder who I will find/arrive as, at my destination.

And whenever I travel, I am always, always reminded of Helene Cixous’ beautiful writing on borders:

When I cross a border, it’s my border I’m crossing, though I don’t know which one I’m crossing or which side I end up on. This is the charm of crossing the border. It is also what can constitute its distressing side: Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing, p 130.

The "distressing side" was never more clear to me than when I first visited Beijing, for while I had done some travel in Asia and visited the USA many times, it was my first visit to China which made me realise the true nature of borders — and the fact that they are not porous, but resolute. And while they exist only in our imaginations, or as dotted lines on maps, they also signal completely different ways of looking at, engaging with, and being in the world. Borders are ideas made concrete.

And understanding this makes me a much more curious passenger. It makes me more observant of those passing through. It makes me wonder about the stories carried within and around my fellow travellers. And it makes me aware of the fine tension that we all share enroute — caught in the out-of-placeness of airports.

So while I was sitting in the lounge waiting to board the plane, observing, I could also hear some gentle notes being picked out on an instrument. Over in the corner was a group of musicians, and one of them was plucking out a melody on a uke. To my surprise, I found it very relaxing. Soothing. And when I Twittered something about this, Brent Dixon responded with a link to Jake Shimabukuro’s rendition of While My Guitar Gently Weeps. And while I didn’t see it until I arrived, it was worth the wait. Amazing.

Goes to show that some things cross borders seamlessly — data, ideas, money. But for me? I hold my breath with every crossing.