damage/yo la tengo

I've always daydreamed about making a film where the entire soundtrack is the Yo La Tengo album 'I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One'. Some of the songs on the album have always caused my imagination to spontaneously conjure up scenes for my film. 'Damage' in particular. I think it is a sad scene. I see a foggy beach, I feel heartbreak... wait a second, my film sounds cheesy. Anyway, 'I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One' is up there as one of my favourite records ever. I say that about all my favourite records, right?

I love Yo La Tengo. When I listen to them I actually believe I wouldn't mind if they were the only band in the world. I was the happiest I'd been in a while when I got to see them play at The Tivoli in 2003. I was so glad that Decoder Ring supported them. It was a perfect pairing. I was pretty gleeful that night. Full of glee. Yo La Tengo made their sublime noise, were funny and as an encore, asked the audience to shout out requests and obliged readily. Ira made me think of Thurston Moore the way he played his guitar. Georgia was so deadpan, playing her drums and singing (how do they do that? I mean really?). James a bespectacled gentle giant bass player with a fuzz of curly hair. I would have happily stayed at The Tivoli forever that night (on the proviso that Yo La Tengo continued to play of course).

I really don't feel justified complaining about this. I thought if I get it out, it may stay out. I was asked to do a role play at work today. A business consultant has been 'engaged' to help the company and its employees fully realise its/their potential. The role play was specifically in an area where I am lacking : nagging. Perhaps there is a better word for it in the business vernacular, but that is how I would label it.

On completion of the role play I saw the look on Mr. Consultant's face and screwed up my nose in anticipation. I was thinking my tone was too stern, too demanding. Mr. Consultant told me that, in fact, I was too nice. I have been told this before a few weeks ago and it bothered me. I was also told I care too much and that it's not necessary for me to give 100% all the time and worry about things that aren't getting done. 90% is good enough. Let someone else worry.

Too nice? Care too much? 90%? Exactly what kind of universe have I traversed into?

I'm also not sure I like the word 'nice' anymore now either. It's just so... nice.

Other than that one of my most favourite photographers ever, Stefano Giovannini, has just recently added two new journal entries which always include these great little quicktime slideshows of shots he's taken that sometimes relate to the words in his journal. I love his shots of people, because they are people he meets along the way. His approach is so wonderful and his simple way of expressing himself is just great. I love it.

i feel like a child/devendra banhart

I keep hearing this song whenever I am near a radio and it is the kind of song I admire on a variety of levels:

1. Mr. Banhart is quite an eccentric in the best way possible. I feel very affectionate towards him and his music and method of expression.

2. The lyrics sound like a child wrote them because of their simplicity and sweetness.

I can't think of anymore 'levels' so I'll give you this link to one of the portrait photographers whose work I admire immeasurably and who is also very passionate and politically opinionated and who did something so human and, just, so real to express his feelings and other fellow human beings feelings about the New Orleans situation. Read his words. Watch the images by clicking through them or click on 'view as slideshow'.

I wish I could think in those terms and be that way, doing things that are so simple and yet so meaningful and... just... real.

I'm feeling a bit Meryl-Streep-in-The-Hours right now. My life is soooo trivial. Yet it is up to me to make it less so.

hitting the ground/pj harvey

I heard this song on the way to work on Monday morning and, because of the reminder that it existed, I have been playing it a little too repetitively every chance I get since. I love the combination of Gordon Gano's awesome and jaunty guitar work (how does he play like that?) and PJ's bursting, urgent singing. I especially love the part where the little guitar break comes in and PJ starts whooping. Such a fun song to sing along too...

I received a DVD from my parents this week of a 1983 home video from when we lived in Doha, Qatar. The idea was that I would take it on as a project, edit it into something fun to watch, which is very exciting to me. It turns out it is in the wrong format for me to save it to my computer and manipulate it. Luckily, as I watched it, I learnt to make screen captures.

There are great little snippets of Carly and I crammed inbetween the 3rd International Dubai Rally, a really interesting interview with a Muslim woman and some live Arabic music. One snippet is of us jumping on big squares of bubble wrap in the living room (such simple entertainment that still entertains to this day). Carly is happily jumping up and down quietly apart from the popping of her bubble wrap. I, however, am squealing, jumping, twirling, writhing. Mum has to tell me to be quiet a number of times because of my ridiculous shrieking and squealing. All in what appears to be delirious overexcitement.

There is a great tour of the flat we lived in by Dad, complete with Mum getting caught by the camera numerous times. Each time she is caught, she slinks into the next available doorway in shy reticence with a cheeky grin. Dad's commentary is mundane almost. Endearingly Dad-like: "there's the bathroom... here's the door to the air conditioner unit... that's Erin's hanging thingys..." I love it.

I watched myself be curiously uncooperative and moody. I ignore requests to show the folks at home my bedroom or to wave and say hello. I'm only interested in showing off a picture I'd created with my 'printer' for our cousin, Michelle, or giggling and running away.



Carly is the picture of a calm and intelligent child. She gently talks us through the pictures and artists on the cover and back page of her school yearbook and flips through the pages for the camera. She carefully walks us through a poster she's made of all the colours of the textas she owns. She tells the camera of the different types of Toblerone that you can't get in Australia.



Watching it brought back some extremely vivid memories and humbled me of how extremely fortunate we were in experiencing what we did when we lived over there. The variety of nationalities of the students at the schools we attended was commonplace to us. The travel around the world, which I assumed all children experienced until I learnt that most of my classmates when I returned to Adelaide had not ventured outside the state of South Australia, was such an amazing privilege.

laughing at you/the detroit cobras

I want to be in a band that plays songs like The Detroit Cobras. SOOO badly. Listening to them makes me incredibly happy. I know that they are ultimately a covers band but, well, I've never heard the songs they cover before. Particularly fantastic would be playing those punchy little guitar riffs and shouting those backing 'ooh's, sha la la's, cha cha cha's, ahhh's and hey's' into the microphone at the same time as the rest of the band. Definitely Dinnyhayser's style. We always maintained we were a band of backing singers.



Di organised for a bunch of us to give blood on Thursday night. It has been years (six in fact, which is remiss of me and I felt ashamed when I worked that out) since I have donated. The little travelling Red Cross caravan was a hive of activity. Such amazing organisation, in a slightly flustered style, and we were all in and out in what felt like no time. My favourite thing was the nurses. Like buzzy busy bees. I don't think I've ever been called "dahlin'" so much in all my life. I also don't think I stopped smiling the whole time.

I joined Di, Brad, Sarah and Ben for trivia afterwards. They are veterans apparently... at losing. They come last every time. I think they were hoping I might be of some assistance. As Brad put it in his blog which made me giggle like a fool:

"We may have come last at Trivia at the Red Brick Hotel last night by the slimmest margin in our team's history. I think we got about 47, with the second last team getting 55. Our brilliant performance was due in no small part to the presence of Erin 'T-Bone' Gebert whose brilliance, especially in the music department was unsurpassed."

The new nickname: T-Bone. Do you know what? It's growing on me, I dig it. And with a nickname like T-Bone I think I am justified in using the expression 'I dig it'.



So, the story behind T-Bone? Trivia was a new experience for me. I had little idea of what was actually going on and could barely interpret the questions via the muffled microphone work of the beloved 'Bomber'. At one point I'm sure he said "moofarloorangadungeee." Or something. In other words, I didn't understand, though that was a source of amusement in itself. After one of the rounds he said something which caused my friends to start telling me to "Go downstairs! You get to spin the wheel, you get to spin!!!" So, after some protesting on my behalf (not unlike a child that doesn't want to go home "NO!, I don't want to!"), I start walking downstairs as they got up and walked to a part of the balcony where they could see the action. I was thinking that there would be a few more people from other teams doing the spinning too but no, just me. So amidst tables of fellow trivia buffs, 'Bomber' is talking gibberish in the microphone, people are milling around, I'm kind of loitering wondering what is happening and looking up at the grinning faces of my friends.

Bomber: (gesturing for me to come closer) "Spin the wheel, give it a goood spin!"
T-Bone: (looking from Bomber to the balcony) "Okay..."

So I spin the wheel, admittedly not a very goood spin and I stare at what it says on the tab it stopped at and have no idea what the prize is. Luckily...

Bomber: "Aww, c'mon! What kind of spin was that? A GOOOD spin, spin again!"
T-Bone: (silent, glances at balcony, grabs the wheel and spins with enough gusto to think the wheel was going to topple over and crush her in a crazy pub trivia accident)

I think this time something came up saying "FIVE POINTS OR FIVE TICKETS".

I kept staring at it thinking to myself "...WHAT?!" I looked up at the balcony again and they are gesturing for me to spin again, so I look at 'Bomber', he's writing something on a piece of paper, so I look back up at them and they are still telling me to spin again when a lady at the table in front of the wheel shouts at me; "TAKE THE TICKETS LUV, TAKE THE TICKETS!!" and I turn back to Bomber and say "they want me to spin again..." so he gives me the nod, I spin again and it comes up "T-BONE." Di says she shouted out "BUT SHE'S VEGETARIAN!" I think 'Bomber' may have heard because he started writing out the prize and says, "Aww, I think they're all vegetarians!" I just laughed, said thanks for the prize and walked back upstairs to sit down. Surreal. Brad then decided, I guess to commemorate the occasion in which the team came last with my assistance, that it might be appropriate to call me T-Bone from now on.

Oh, and luckily Bomber said we didn't have to have T-Bone.

He said we could have anything we like.

a labor more restful/dirty projectors

Penny, Angie, Lois and Robin August 2005

"...and the only mystery is in what you couldn't decide or remember clearly"

Dave Longstreth IS a genius. Dirty Projectors is his band. His songs. His words. His sweetly melancholy vocalisings. I say it too often but it is so true, I am a filthy music junkie and I can't quit my habit. I discovered Dirty Projectors via it won’t f#$*ing kill you'. If someone recommends something so highly I can't help but check it out for myself (plus if you check out the link the photograph on the left under the work of art of the guitarist lit only by projector light is the kind of photograph that I aspire to).

A friend of my boss came into work on Tuesday. He went upstairs and left his son, about seven or eight, downstairs with we ladies. His son had a box, and that box was chirping.

So, of course, for the duration of the visit I did no work. I also didn't care that I did no work. I sat with the son next to the box and talked about the chicks with him. They'd just bought them at the Pet Superstore down the road. He had named them already. They were all named after the mothers in their family; Penny, Lois, Angie and Robin. We watched them quietly together and giggled at them all clamboring over each other. He was a little red-headed boy with the kind of freckles that little red-headed boys have. He explained to me animatedly that he went to pick one of the chicks up when they were in the car and it started pecking at a prominent freckle on his thumb knuckle. He lowered his hand into the box to show me. Sure enough the chick started to peck at it. We decided it thought it was food. He told me they were going to take them home and then go and get materials to build a chicken coop. Though for the first little while they plan to keep them in the laundry so they are warm. I told him that if they were mine I'd probably want them to sleep in my room. He said that would be cool except for their pooh. We kept watching them and petting them and laughing at their interactions with each other. Those chicks were so adorable. He let me take photos.

I'll never get to see them again.

He'll get to grow up with them.

I love that.

rebellion (lies)/the arcade fire

I always gravitate towards songs that have a sense of urgency about them, a great momentum. A feeling that they are rushing forward so fast they could fall apart at any moment. 'Rebellion (Lies)" by The Arcade Fire is one of those. The singer has one of those strangely sweet and childlike voices. Their songs have such a great mood to them. Probably why I like them so much.

I'm in a quandry about the book I am reading at the moment; "Mao's Last Dancer" by Li Cunxin. I don't want to let go of it, though it is having trouble maintaining my full attention. I find myself in the middle of a page thinking about what things I need to do first at work tomorrow, not actually taking in the words as my eyes scan across them. So I go back and start reading from where I remember fading out.

I really thought I was enjoying the story. I think I really like the guy telling it. I just can't stay into it and it bugs me that I can't work out why. How do you decide whether to abandon a book or not? I have a backlog of books waiting - begging to be read. Yet I'm too far into it to stop now...

spiralling/antony & the johnsons

Fern Street, March 2001

I am in love with Antony. His voice is the most ethereal, wonderful, melancholy yet full of hope voice I have heard. Unbelievably expressive. It's indescribable. I love that. I am completely stuck on his latest album 'I Am A Bird Now'. That and Dirty Projectors 'Slaves' Graves & Ballads'.

My hours changed this week. I now work 9 to 5 (changed from 8 to 4.30). I was weirding out on Monday morning because on top of the change in work hours, my sleep hours appear to have changed during the last ten days as well. I wake, completely wake, in the wee hours with no chance of doing the whole check the clock - 'yay, two more hours to sleeeeep!' - roll over - back to sleep - thing. I am completely awake. So I'm finding I have a couple of hours to fill before heading off to work. I guess that's why I'm writing this now.

The last few mornings I've filled by taking my usual walk to Cleveland Point and, when I'm ready for work, turning on the computer, checking my email, checking out my flickr contacts and scanning some of my polaroid and instax photos onto my computer. Scanners are cool.

I was telling a friend about this 'spare time in the morning' phenomona and she suggested I find a hobby to fill it. This may be it. I am also thinking of making photo collage postcards out of my photos now that I have this scanner /printer (which was an early Christmas/birthday/Christmas/birthday gift from my parents, bless them). I'll keep you posted... get it... POSTed, as in POSTcard. Yeah, never said I was funny in the mornings.

In mentioning the change in working hours, it is with increasing irritation that I find '9 to 5' permeating my thoughts every morning without fail while in the shower. Yep, the Dolly Parton song from that kooky little movie starring the most fabulous Lily Tomlin, Jane Fonda and Dolly Parton. The worse part is that I know very few words of it...

a cup of tea

I have developed quite a habit recently. Late at night when I can't sleep.

I like to make a cup of tea.

In my pajamas with my deliciously warm blue 'Grover' (or 'Cookie Monster' or any blue Muppet) jumper made for me by Carly. I stand quietly listening to the kettle boil. Under the dull, warm oven light. I pop a tea bag in my only cup and saucer set which was a gift from a beautiful friend. And I have a cup of tea. And I think.

Whenever I have a cup of tea there are a few things I can't avoid thinking about. The best thing about this is that all the things that I can't avoid thinking about when I have a cup of tea are either funny or family oriented. Which is partly why, I believe, I can curl back into bed and doze off 'til morning.

I think of my Dad. He drinks tea. All kinds of tea. Lots of tea. Rarely is the tiny table next to his recliner chair or his computer desk at home devoid of his teapot and cup. Rarely is the air never filled with Dad calling out, "you guys want a cup of tea?".

I think of my Grandma Gebert. You would think that there was no other room in that old house other than the kitchen. It is where we all gather and end up staying. It was as though we orbited the kettle. It would be boiled many, many times and boxes of different types of tea passed around and chosen. It is where Grandpa sat in his old wooden and blue leather chair in the prime spot of the kitchen. His chair was opposite where Grandma would sit on a red stool next to the kitchen sink and oversee everything. Where we grandkids (and I'm sure some adults) would wait for the moment Grandma opened up a jar of Chico Babies or Kool Mints or Mint Leaves and offered them to us. Or when she would get a Collins Street Bakery cake tin out of the cupboard and hug the tin as she took off the lid to reveal her delicious Anzac biscuits or a homemade fruitcake. Better still her going into the cupboard in the sleep-out and revealing a box of her home made chocolates.

I think of my Grandma and Grandpa Birch. Always tea, coffee and biscuits or bun or cake. The difference here was that - now - I'm allowed to make the tea or coffee for everybody. An incident of any kind at Grandma and Grandpa's place was never lived down. At a Christmas dinner when I was little I knocked over a container. The container was holding beetroot in all its juicy glory. Don't think for a minute that it doesn't still come up when I visit. The incident that nearly had me banned from making coffee or tea for the family? I was making coffee for my aunt and uncle and cousin. Quite happily finding my way around Grandma's little kitchen. My cousin has sugar in his coffee. So I look around the shelves remembering that little yellow Tupperware container with the little flippy lid she used for the sugar. There it is! I grab it and, as requested, scoop two heaped teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. I pop the little yellow container back on the shelf and hand out the drinks. My cousin takes a big mouthful and without moving the mug from his lips looks up at me with a look of "umm...". He puts the mug on the table, runs outside and spits it out. Meanwhile, everyone is asking him what's wrong, including me and he says,"It tastes disgusting!" My uncle picks up the mug, sniffs it, takes a sip and states "It's got salt instead of sugar!" So, of course they all start laughing at my poor cousin and me and Grandma starts shouting "What did you put in his coffee? Where did you get the sugar from?" So I point out the little yellow container to which Grandma replies by opening the pantry and pointing to a shelf with the exact same little yellow container sitting on it, "THAT'S the sugar!!! You put SALT in his coffee!!" By that time, uncle, aunt and cousin are laughing their heads off and I am quite naturally fending off their teasing. To this day, if I ever make them coffee or tea, there tend to be little gibes like "one sugar thanks... that's SUGAR, not SALT." Chuckle, chuckle.

I think of the wonderful people of England. They are forever having cups of tea. Just thinking about having a cup of tea my brain says "cuppa tea, love?" in a thick Londoner accent. I love that.

I think of French and Saunders. They do a hilarious parody of an apparently existential, depressing Swedish film by Ingmar Bergman which I haven't seen but would love to in order to make comparisons, and in part of it Dawn utters with frustration at Jennifer:

"Listen! I am trying to cope with the presence of God and the universal human experience and I haven't even had a cup of tea yet!"

Always makes me giggle.

Time for a cup of tea now.

record store/darren hanlon

Does Darren really only have two albums and an ep and a couple of singles that we can wrap our ears around? It seems that way... The song 'Record Store' is so great. I don't know why but it makes me think of when the gang used to make regular Saturday or Sunday trips to Big Star together. I miss those days.

The man who owned the business next door to my work died last Thursday. It's a crazy thing. You know, how you never really talk to some people and take for granted that they are always around? We always said hello to each other and skirted anything real in our conversations. He'd ask questions and poke fun at my boss, I'd laugh and ask him how business was. It was all very cordial and, to me, quite superficial. I'm not a natural conversationalist at the best of times. I'd rather let someone else talk and simply listen.

Even when he was diagnosed with Cancer it was the same. I would ask him what the latest was and he would tell me, very matter of factly, point by point. I wasn't sure how to respond. I mean what do you say, "oh, um... that's great." or be inappropriately sympathetic and condescending "aww, I'm so sad for you."? (I honestly didn't know what to say.) I didn't know whether he was tired of people asking or really wanted to share about it. I asked because I cared, though, after this, I don't think I have a good way of showing that, of letting go and just caring out loud I guess. He had three major operations and was on his back for months. The Cancer was in remission. Then, it turns out, it made its way from his spine to his lungs and then to his brain.

During all this time his wife was in and out of the office. She would drive him in most days. Always keeping her head down, never really saying hello or acknowledging our presence. I know, she was going through a rough time. She would come in to our office to drop off the rent cheque in the last few months, always in and out so fast. I always wanted to know more about her. Even just her name.

When he died, we found out from their storeman, affectionately known as 'Mullet', her name and address and we organised some flowers and a donation to the Cancer Council. To our surprise, she brought in a card, just as quickly, in and out, as when she brought in the rent cheques, and we girls gathered over each others shoulders to read it. It was a 'Thank You' card and in the middle it read "A warm note of thanks to say people like you help make the world brighter by the nice things you do." She had written that the flowers and our thoughts would not be forgotten. Maybe this isn't so surprising. To me it seemed monumentally selfless and sweet. She never spoke to any of us and we've never spoken to her.

Random thoughts from a random mind.