Photo archives food for thought

For a variety of reasons to do with my paranoia about file backups, as well as a slight lack of orderliness, my photo catalogue has burgeoned with duplicates of photos in the course of upgrading my computer.

I've cleaned up the 2006 photos and am in early 2007. I had a different camera then - not nearly so technologically advanced as my current model. For example, it had a fraction of the speed in burst mode, struggling to achieve 3fps where the current camera can comfortably rip 5 or more fps.

But I'm not sure that is the explanation for the observation that I took a lot fewer photos back then. In a day, I now can easily end up with over three or four hundred images in the course of casual shooting. In 2007, it looks like a big day was about 40.

I don't know if my keep rate has improved, but I am certainly better at pressing the clicky button more often.

Canon 7D with a kit lens.

Seen at the Outpost exhibition on Cockatoo Island.

As long as you're having fun!

Thinking about Outpost

Had a lovely day with S and c at Outpost on Cockatoo Island. That is a exhibition of "street" art, including graffiti and skateboarding, chalk and paint, and some sculpture too.

The big draw was a friend mentioning that there were bits by Banksy on display, so of course the mainstream street artist name recognition got me across the line. Most of the others were unknown to me - and of utterly no consequence to c!

Interesting that the exhibit containing Banksy's work, which is, as I understand, usually found appearing on outdoor walls, was entirely contained on the second floor of some historic old building, and all were framed and safely ensconced behind glass. So these are images of the art, not the art itself. Okay, so it would be a bear of a job to haul walls from around the world to Sydney. Most of the images are readily available on the Interwebs, and I had seen before. I suppose for those to whom this was new, it could be an eye opening and rewarding adventure... Perhaps I am too far down the post modern rabbit hole where any image is painlessly flicked around social networks to have a protracted engagement with one.

Noting my fellow patrons, I recalled that time in life when art could achieve being "deep" by simple juxtaposition or superficial comment, or even by aligning with proto-ideals for a more just world.

Some of the art is indeed striking - and I recognise the value in bringing it to an easily accessible collection for the hordes to consume in comfort. In the somewhat reconstituted space of the island workshops - themselves possibly an indicator of the classic labour versus capital struggle, or simply the inequality distribution of power - the statements of the art felt neutered.

And, as with so many art installations, the enormous cleverness of the pieces is oft lost on me, with no handy way to figure out what a given artist is on about, what's inspiring the art, or what it even means. To me, this further bleaches away the power of the art, reducing it to pictures, some pretty, some resonant, but most incomprehensible.

Of equal or greater interest were the environs: real leftovers from early Industrial Sydney. Perhaps I have a greater understanding and more affinity for those stories than I do the stories told by the street artists.
And last but not least... If visiting, either pack a picnic, or prepare to pay handsomely for distinctly average at best food. Despite all these whinges, I had a great time exploring on my little family's own terms.

Wow, it's still here.

Almost a year. Impressively lackadaisical.

"The Choir" world premiere at the Sydney Film Festival

"The Choir" opened at the Sydney Film Festival yesterday in a simultaneous world premiere with an event in Los Angeles. By a twist of fate, I went to see it along with my lovely wife and another friend. Twist of fate in that it was the one film that both drew our attention in the write up, and was shown at a time we could attend.

It is a feature length documentary about the choir at Leeuwkop Prison in South Africa. In order to make it an engaging narrative, it focuses on two main characters - Jabulani, a youngish guy convicted of housebreaking with intent to steal, and who joins the choir to escape the worst of the prison environment; and Coleman, an older guy convicted of armed robbery who is the choir leader. Other members of the choir are occasionally brought forward from the chorus; however building the story around Coleman and Jabulani gives the documentary a human element for the audience to connect with.

In a way, it is a fairly typical narrative of redemption. The choristers are all in prison for transgressions against society - not one claims innocence or wrongful conviction. Coleman, for example, describes candidly his oddly gentle technique for holding up a bank - with a roll of toilet paper. Jabulani also describes his induction into life as a criminal, starting with his mother's arrest for stealing. The redemption comes through Coleman's leadership of the choir, exhorting his charges to behave themselves and be good - naturally to rehabilitate for their eventual release from prison, but also so that the choir has a fighting chance at the biannual prison choir competition, where choirs from around South Africa challenge for the honour of being the best.

It is a pretty stark film whose eye roves over depictions of violence, poverty and desperation that I'm very fortunate never to have experienced personally. Against that backdrop, the characters in the film claw back their humanity through the music and experience of the choir. It is moving, without being saccharine.

We (the audience at the showing) had a bit of a treat, as one of the producers was on hand for a QnA session after the movie. Here, we learned that it took a year of negotiations with the South African corrections to allow the cameras in - they didn't want to look bad in front of the world; it was one guy with a camera doing the shooting and that the amazing sound was the work of a talented sound engineer working from those tapes; and both the main characters are still on the outside and doing well.

The depths of poverty and violence are profound. On a couple of occasions the film takes us on a tour of Jabulani's home turf - haphazard shacks, unemployed people all around, children playing with broken appliances at the side of the dusty road and cooking on an ancient gas stove are all repeated emphases of just how meagre their lives are. Jabulani recounts the different wounds he's sustained - stabbings, gunshot wounds, and a scar from a crowbar attack by a rival gang - and how he has shot in self defence; all in a calm tone in much the same we we in Sydney resignedly recount the different delays on the public transit system.

I have three friends whose life stories begin in South Africa; and their stories of the hazards of life there are incredible to me, a small town Canadian lad who lived the myth of unlocked doors day and night. Those stories - a locked gate inside a house between the living and sleeping quarters (to discourage thieves from going any further into the house); ducking for cover on the way to school - are brought to life in this documentary.

I Am Legend, starring Will Smith, and a German Shepard

We rented and watched I Am Legend last night.

ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

As far as cautionary tales against the genetic modification of viruses to treat diseases go, this one is rather bland and boring. After fiddling a strain of measles so that it cures cancer, in 10,009 of 10,009 cases, the world is overcome by the wonder. But, and no one saw this coming, the virus mutates (who'd'a thunk!) so that it turns people into hairless, slavering, light-intolerant grey ... well, in the movie they're called 'Dark-Seekers,' but for all intents and purposes they're just zombies with a bit of problem solving ability.

The scariest bits of the movie were sudden rattling noises as Will pulls the steel shades at sundown in his zombie-resistant lair, and that's just because they always come in a sudden scene-cuts from something quiet.

The best part of the movie (incidentally, proudly brought to you by Ford MoCo and Apple!) was chasing deer through New York while driving a GT500, and Sam the German Shepard. I liked Sam...

But, to recap. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And now for something inflammatory

Well, you can't be inflammatory if no one's reading. So what the heck?

Another tidbit that caught my eye is from Barry Gewen in the NYT's Week in Review, giving a quick rundown on Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Irshad Manji. Both women are "two of the most prominent and outspoken critics of what they and others see as “mainstream Islam.”" (copied that straight from the article). They're both copping threats and other sorts of crap for standing up and calling shenanigans; one as an atheist and one as a practicing Muslim.

I am nowhere near anything resembling familiar and involved with the multilayered issues that are no doubt at play. But come on, folks: just 'cos someone is arguing with you and, goodness me, thinks you're wrong, doesn't mean you go around threatening to whack them! Be nice, listen to what they say, make your point and if neither of you convinces the other in the end, have a cup of tea after a stimulating discussion. By all means, go hang out with people who agree with you, and certainly revel in feeling right about your point of view together. But you don't go putting together a posse so that the person you were arguing with needs round-the-clock protection.

That's just bullying. So: good on these women (and everyone else who stands up and says "Hang on a second, let's think a little bit differently about something") for hanging tough.

And this reminds me of a third thing that got my attention today from the IHT by Andrea Elliott. Long (6 page) story short: great idea for a school in NYC where Arab or Arab descended kids go with kids from other ethnicities, learn all the normal school stuff plus become fluent in Arabic, and on graduation are ready to apply for elite colleges (borrowing heavily from the first paragraph). But then the nutters (all around the table, from what I can make of it - not just the right wing paranoics or the lefty bleeding hearts) got hold of it, and the whole thing fell down into a stupid mess of ideologically motivated screwing around with and cherry picked soundbites, all carried along by reactive fear. Think maybe if everyone, instead of running around calling each other names, had sat down, said "You know, I'm scared of x because of y. Can you put my mind at ease here?"

Now the place has been open since September, and apparently is an absolutely useless environment for kids to learn anything - it sounds more like an understaffed juvenile detention centre.

Bloody people. Novel ideas are a little too scary, aren't they? I guess education looks like indoctrination, if people you're scared of are doing it.

Dudes around the world: Chill out, wouldja? Notice that the people who aren't scrapping all the time normally are in a little better shape - more teeth, less bruising?

Counting backwards

A while back, a certain very good professor friend put me on this blog. I had a read and promptly chucked into my Google Reader feed list, and every now again I thrilled to tales of HLS, the Brownie, the Eclaire, BB, Blaze and the humble author himself.

Ordinarily, the tales are entertainingly perceptive. Today, waiting for a bus in the biting Sydney winter cold, the story nearly moved me to tears. I'm not going to tell you the story; I wouldn't do it justice.

He's taken a profoundly personal story, and shared it completely freely. I have no idea how long it took to write, perhaps a couple of days. But it reads like it was just meant to be - so smoothly that about a third of the way through I realised I was cruising through the prose and had to stop, go back to the start and really read it.

It's not often something in the thousand or so items that dribble through my newsriver makes me do that.

Thank you, Magazine Man.

To the three people left who look at this...

September 14, 2007 marks my last post. More than seven months have passed, and now I wonder if I can recapture some of the fun I experienced tossing bits and bobs into the WWW.

And I would have been writing for four, but we have farewelled probably my most loyal reader. Fair winds.

Well, here goes. I came across a couple of things today that caught my attention.

A minor taste of reality, or wresting deep thoughts from an afternoon of sitting in a boat.

The experience of success, great or small, often encourages the building of expectation that further success is a logical extension of that first success. We humans scurry about the good ship Earth striving to achieve goals and dreams, whether they be goals of vast wealth and influence or mere subsistence. Overall, humans do adequately well in achieving those goals – our proliferation as a species and ability to make claims of progress and improvement provide evidence; the null hypothesis suggests that were we not proficient in achieving goals, aside from fading from existence, we would generally be weighted by the burden of repeated defeat and perhaps exhibit a general despondency. We are not an unhappy defeated species.

The evidence of this success makes the assumption of further general success seem a rational, even reasonable assumption. Since we have managed to accomplish x, why would we not be able extend ourselves to do y, which may be a yet more ambitious goal, and not immediately within our grasp… let our reach exceed.

A brief discussion just now with my lovely better half prompts me to point out that I am referring to the faulty “there was success, therefore there must be further success”, rather than the more realistic “there was success, therefore further success is a possibility.” Also, beware the risks inherent to talking about emotional reaction from an overly intellectual or rational bent.

How about getting to the point, three paragraphs in? In the race last weekend, my reach did exceed my grasp:

Not only did I cross the finish line in absolute last place, I managed to make my handicap noticibly worse. This is not at all in keeping with the expectations borne out of the previous race results. Why indeed would I entertain the possibility that, of all the shocking and horrible outcomes, this one would come to pass?

My yet-nascent skill becomes painfully apparent, analysing the progress of the race consists mostly of recognising that on the first lap I kept up rather well; on the first leg of the second lap I lost time adjusting my outhaul; the third lap was shocking as I lost the plot and dwindled to a speck behind the fleet, and the fourth lap was a bit better as I made some time up on the fleet. I think there is room for improvement in working to windward… check that, I know there is heaps of room for improvement. The trick is figuring out what to do differently in order to gain the greatest benefit.

Tacking and gybing were major weaknesses in the first half of the race – either because of the winter break, or because of my rudimentary ability, I managed to come to a nearly dead stop on the majority of my tacks… not a good way to win a race. I think I got the hang of it again by midway through the third lap.

But in the end, we cannot lose sight of the fact that a bad day on the water (or engaged in our favourite activities) is better than a good day in the office (or wherever we must be).

September 1st – The first race of the season.

Ah, Spring. That glorious time of year when a young man’s mind turns to thoughts warm and wet. Lapping waves, freshening breezes, and clear, sunny skies on Saturday afternoons down on the river, locked in fierce competition against fellow gladiators of the seas. Sinew, alumin(i)um and fibreglass come together as one in the all-consuming pursuit of rounding the marks ahead of the fleet (or at least, not too far behind it) and steely resolve galvanises body and mind.

Ah, Spring. For those unfamiliar with the antipodean calendar, as I was, the season kicks off on September first, rather than coinciding with the vernal equinox as it does in the old country. No matter when it starts, Spring is a delightful yet mildly flighty season. Three days of temperatures in the mid-twenties, with glorious sunshine beating down amid 30km/h breezes, all falling on weekdays when we valiant champions of the river are locked in our private salt mines, toiling away to pay the rent and purchase assorted bits and bobs for our steeds. On the inaugural day of the season, threats of rain, almost twenty degrees of warmth and an almost teasing breeze fairly mocked us as we dredged our skills and knowledge out of storage, where they had lain over the winter.

But this is a criticism of near-perfection, which is unwarranted. Would the Mona Lisa be any less alluring with a small pimple on her jawline? Nay, she would not. And so it is for sailing days. So long as there is water and the faintest suggestion of a breeze – or even single digit temperatures (Ottawans: I know that’s not cold. Temperature does become relative, though!) and howling gale force winds… a bad day on the water is better than a good day in the office, any day.

As the preceding paragraphs suggest, our sailing club commenced the 2007-2008 racing series Saturday past. This will be my first season in the new boat, who has already suffered the ignominy of having her name misspelled on the official time results! Everyone seemed to remember which bits went where and attached to what, which is exceedingly fortunate in that this likely prevented a number of capsizes into the still quite chilly Parramatta. A number of the kids didn’t seem to notice that is was cold… maybe their thermostats are shot.

The race itself turned out mostly as expected: the top boats, sailed by experienced and accomplished members of the club, whipped around the course in short order. Those of us with more rudimentary skills joined in a fierce competition for the best of the bottom seven or eight rankings. At times, the racing down at our level of the ladder was intensely close, punctuated by exciting breakaways as one or two discovered a gust of wind or a sail setting that yielded an advantage of dozens to hundreds of metres. Metres, of course, that were surrendered a leg or two later, as is the nature of things.

Ron, with the advantage of experience, has a great sense of where to be in order to move along smartly. No matter how aggressively I try to outsail him, he calmly sits in his boat and finishes ahead of me. Steven’s also got a pretty calm approach, and a fairly well developed technique (at least, to my unpractised eye). Peter and John (grandpa/grandson) in their individual boats did well this week – John found a great gust and took off on us and never gave up all of the lead. Geoff sailed like he’s ready to step up to the next level – after a very crowded rounding of the #4 mark he got knocked way off course behind us. In fairly short order, he made up the ground and finished very well! It’s all boat speed, as he says.

Yours truly is quite pleased to report that I did not finish last. In fact, I tied with Steve for 13th, out of 15 or so boats. We staged an exciting duel at the finish for the finishing committee (who are tasked with logging the finish time of every boat… right down to laggards who finish up to an hour after the first boat). Steve was well ahead on the final leg to the pre-finish mark, but in what seems to be a misjudged tack yielded just enough of his advantage for me to catch him right at the line for a photo finish!

However, once handicap corrections are taken into account, my elapsed time was reduced to put me in 8th place on handicap. This means that I have a rather shocking handicap, in that the adjustment is quite large. So, my goal this season is going to be improving my handicap by an unspecified amount, such at it is at least a bit better than it is now.

And now, all that is left is to look forward to the next race.

Fair winds.

Sydney - Gold Coast Yacht Race

Went to Middle Head yesterday to watch the start of the Sydney-Gold Coast yacht race, drawn by the fact that there were boats, and that the wind was from the southwest, and since the boats were heading north, the start would be with spinnakers billowing.

No disappointments there. It was a beautiful day, the boats charged on out of the Heads, Middle Head is pretty interesting from an 'old forts and stuff' point of view, and it has a great view.

Photographs were taken, of course, and are zooomr'd here.

Started writing this on the 21st of May...

and forgot to post it.

"Wow. I have been living in Australia for the past two years and 10 days. Isn't that exciting?

Of course, that's not including 10 days in Cambodia, two days in LA, and 4 days plus 3 weeks in Ottawa. I would be more accurate to claim that I moved here two years and 10 days ago. Where does the time go?

I suppose it gets all used up running around getting used to a different place. It's not so different from home (home #1, I guess) but there are enough little things that take a bit of adjustment. It's not like changing from CNN to Al Jazeera in Arabic; more like CNN when there is a bit of a delay between the image and the audio. Not incomprehensible, it just occasionally gives a bit of pause for interpretation.

It also gets used up just living. I know I am not a wonderful shining example of keeping in touch with all the folks in the old country. Heck, I'm not even that good at keeping up with people in the new country. I suppose we get properly wrapped up in the effort of going flat out tending to the transplant procedure that other parts of the metaphorical garden of life are neglected.

Hopefully no one calls the weed spraying service to tidy up... worse yet, the paving people. Anyway, pulling back from the brink of a well-beaten metaphor...

What do you suppose is a better indication of 'successful adjustment to a new environment'? Would it be the adoption of a routine from which deviation is notable - that is, a normal routine in a brave new world? Or is it living a series of discontinuous episodic experiences, dipping in and out of elements of the new reality without adopting any sort of rythm outside the syncopated vignettes?

I daresay tonight's McGlutton meal was seasoned with some sort of interesting herbs, to come up with warbling like that last paragraph.

Anyway. Happy anniversary to me and to Simmo."

And that's what I was going to write.

The great global warming swindle

Martin Durkin's "Great Global Warming Swindle" is on the ABC as I type. Cool... Aunty's living on the edge. This is the film that was released at the same time as the 4th asessment report of the IPCC, in February this year, and was shown on the BBC.


The big deal about this is two parts: First, Durkin's flying in the face of received wisdom around the human effect on climate change - specifically global warming - by arguing that, essentially, nah, human's haven't got much to do with it at all. The second thing is that the argument isn't terribly well supported, and may even have (shock, horror) some conveniently 'rearranged' or 'innovatively presented' data.

I had a listen to a podcast from Aunty yesterday - the Science Show (it's like Quirks and Quarks, but seems a little more serious) and it covered off the whys and whatfors around the argy-bargy about the show. It seems that the interpretation of the data that Durkin is working with is dodgey, and indeed, one of the scientists interviewed noted that the clip utilised actually presented the diametric opposite of his position.

Right now it's the argument that the sun is the arbiter of changes in climate, and some fellow in the UK just related how he won money betting against the Met Office using his own sun-watching technique.

Sunspots are intimately linked to temperature changes - it's not greenhouse gases after all. Cool. I can lust after my 370kW 7-litre Holden HSV sedan again.

Now they are putting up charts correlating sunspot activity and temperature, but I am not terribly sure about how the data was charted (I spend many of my days putting numbers into PowerPoint decks, and it's not hard to present perfectly accurate charts, which can be read any number of ways.).

Now we're getting to the question of why, in the face of this data showing that human generation of CO2 is irrelevant to climate change, are we bombarded by the media with stories of doom and gloom? It seems to be related to the energy crisis of the 70s and the British miner's strike which convinced Margaret Thatcher that nuclear was the way to achieve energy continuity (so she wouldn't have to rely on miners or Arabs...) and it was HER! She told the scientists they could have money to prove human-produced CO2-induced climate change in order to support nuclear from the environmental side, rather than just the economic rationalist side.

I see. Now it is the Left and the Communists/Marxists/Socialists/anti-capitalists/anti-globalisationists who didn't have anything to wring their hands over after the fall of the Berlin Wall and of Communism. So, rather than get a real job, they started adopting greeny stuff.

Oh, now it is the money... US spending went from $170 million to over $2 billion. Righty-oh.

Heh heh, that was brilliant: they talk about climate models while the screen shows Star Wars fans dressed up and wandering around under a model of the Space Shuttle. Beautiful. Now it's climate model bashing time. "The appearance of rigorous science." I suppose the fact that any prognosis is based on assumptions... oh, hang on, it's the media's fault again, blaming 'every storm or hurricane on global warming.'

Okay, so it's normal climactic patterns of warming and cooling, nothing to do with humans.

Wow, this guy's hitting all the buttons he can find: political lefties and right wingers, capitalist greed, bad science, hysterical media reporting. Very impressive.

This is starting to remind me of 'Where the bleep are we' or whatever it was called... 'what the bleep do we know' - that infuriatingly superficial, inane, tiresome, ingenuous waste of time warbling on about how quantum mechanics lets ordinary humans do really amazing feats of time/space manipulation. The current show does the same trick of leaping from expert to expert, argument to argument, without really fleshing out what the argument is, nor with backing up the claims with data.

Wow... they just said that challenging the 'global warming business (religion)' has invited death threats.

And now the global warming brigade is killing poor people in the Third World (sorry about the worn out shorthand for the world's poorest) by hamstringing development.

Alright, that's enough of the blow by blow report. Just as well: it's over.

There's something underlying this whole 'dialogue,' and many other ideologically grounded arguments for that matter, and it frustrates me. I really, really get tired of people jumping up and down saying 'you're wrong because you believe something different from what I do! Therefore you are motivated by malevolent and malicious intent, so I must take battle unto thee and unleash all the rhetorical weapons at my disposal, including but not limited to deriding your capacity for reason, misrepresenting others views, concealing information that doesn't help my side, and essentially jumping up and down like a child.

My last question is, then, why, if one's argument is so convincing that one is willing, indeed compelled, to attempt to convince a wide audience of it, would one present it by omitting bits and bobs that might call into question what I am saying.

If you have a compelling argument, share it. If your argument falters, acknowledge it, accept that maybe something else is more compelling, and get over it. Deep belief in something doesn't make it so... and it is okay if a belief is challenged.

Incidentally, why don't we make the argument to reduce emissions based on how they smell? The emissions may or may not warm or cool the planet, but they smell bad. So let's get rid of them for the olfactory concern.

Remembering Babylon - David Malouf

Apparently, David Malouf is recognised as one of Australia's finest writers. I heard an interview with him on one of the ABC's podcasts months ago - he had just written a libretto for a Aussie composer. After reading this book, I'd have to say he's pretty darn good. There are some glowing commendations on the back cover, including one from Michael Ondaatje... I'm not sure I would agree wholeheartedly with Ondaatje's assessment of "thrilling in style and adventurousness"... to me, the story is a little more understated and ethereal than thrilling.

In short, Gemmy is a Brit who after a rather miserable childhood as a street kid takes to the high seas after burning down his erstatz master's home (with said master therein...). At some point in the voyage is cast from the ship and washes up, of all places, in Queensland. He is discovered by a mob of Aborigines, and he is in pretty dire shape... I recall a rather vivid description of little crabs crawling over him as he's lying on the shore.

But life goes on, and the Aborigines take him under their collective wing and for what must be a number of years, he lives with them. I don't think they kept him around as an oddity for a bit of a laugh - he learned much in the line of bush skills, and picked up a pretty good connection to the spirits of the land.

While Gemmy's hanging out with the Aborigines, white folks are of course struggling up the coast and setting up the raggedy little settlements that have become today's cities and regional centres. In the tradition of stories featuring white settlers and Aborigines, eventually the two worlds intersect. In this story, Gemmy falls (literally - from a fence) back into white life.

But he's not quite 'white' anymore, and this sets up the spiralling tension within the settlement that he's ended up in - there are those sympathetic to him, and those that are antagonistic.

That's probably enough of a spoiler - here's what I really liked about the book. When I finished it, I had this feeling that I really had seen only the part of the story that Malouf wanted me to see - that is, I had the whole plot, I knew who the characters were, but there were bits and pieces that for all intents and purposes were shrouded with a kind of secrecy. It was almost like there was a part (almost a dimension, I think) that we the reader weren't privy to, and wouldn't be unless we had undergone some sort of initiation or cultural coming of age. In the meantime, we get to see just enough to satisfy us, and to protect the interests of ... whatever is shrouded.

There's a passage in the book that really reminds me of this: Gemmy is on an expedition with an enthusiastic amateur naturalist from the settlement, who with great pleasure (and no small skill) is drawing the local flora, and inscribing these drawings with such wisdom about their restorative - or indeed deleterious - qualiteis as Gemmy is willing to share. During this expedition, we get a peek at Gemmy's perspective as he is sharing such bits that are safe to share - but he doesn't let on for a minute that he sees the world entirely differently with the land's power and spirits kind of overlaid on the physical bits that our naturalist saw. Some plants he just passed over describing; their power too much for him to handle, so there was no way he was going to risk the white guy messing around with them.

It's one of those cases where on the one hand I'm a little impatient and want to know what's on the other side; and on the other hand, I am really impressed at this sense that the book evoked in me.

Good Morning Hanoi - Iain Finlay and Trish Clark

I haven't posted about any books lately, largely because my completion rate has fallen dramatically. However, since the last book post I have finished a couple of books.

The first one highlights the year the authors, both retired journalists, spent volunteering for the English language service of the Vietnamese government's radio network, and it is a very interesting and engaging story - more so than Liz Anderson's Red Lights and Green Lizards, which was strikingly similar (older folks go to Asia to help out). Where Red Lights spent (I thought) too much time on the trials and tribulations, Good Morning acknowledges challenges but focuses more on the joy and pleasure of jumping into a different world and delighting in it. I suppose Vietnam is comparatively easier for English speaking Westerners to find their footing in - I can't quote relative per capita GDP PPP off the top of my head, but I am pretty sure that Vietnam is a bit further along the development curve than Cambodia.

Notwithstanding the homogenising influence of development, though, Iain and Trish certainly had their hands full negotiating both cultural nuances and political machinations in trying to do their bit to help the keen and motivated Vietnamese staff at the radio station. Their story is told with a warmth, and even almost a twinkle (sure, it's an odd description for a written story, but it fits this one).

A huge shout out to Grandma Pat for this Christmas present!

Goodness, I am terrible with anniversaries

Wow. I have been living in Australia for the past two years and 10 days. Isn't that exciting?

Of course, that's not including 10 days in Cambodia, two days in LA, and 4 days plus 3 weeks in Ottawa. I would be more accurate to claim that I moved here two years and 10 days ago. Where does the time go?

I suppose it gets all used up running around getting used to a different place. It's not so different from home (home #1, I guess) but there are enough little things that take a bit of adjustment. It's not like changing from CNN to Al Jazeera in Arabic; more like CNN when there is a bit of a delay between the image and the audio. Not incomprehensible, it just occasionally gives a bit of pause for interpretation.

It also gets used up just living. I know I am not a wonderful shining example of keeping in touch with all the folks in the old country. Heck, I'm not even that good at keeping up with people in the new country. I suppose we get properly wrapped up in the effort of going flat out tending to the transplant procedure that other parts of the metaphorical garden of life are neglected.

Hopefully no one calls the weed spraying service to tidy up... worse yet, the paving people. Anyway, pulling back from the brink of a well-beaten metaphor...

What do you suppose is a better indication of 'successful adjustment to a new environment'? Would it be the adoption of a routine from which deviation is notable - that is, a normal routine in a brave new world? Or is it living a series of discontinuous episodic experiences, dipping in and out of elements of the new reality without adopting any sort of rythm outside the syncopated vignettes?

I daresay tonight's McGlutton meal was seasoned with some sort of interesting herbs, to come up with warbling like that last paragraph.

Anyway. Happy anniversary to me and to Simmo.

Oh no! Not the Cutty Sark!

The Guardian reports that the Cutty Sark's burnt!

That's really disappointing.

Update: Photos

Some people make me really, really angry.

Yesterday I read something that really bothered me. A post on BoingBoing, specifically, posted on Sunday. Here is the title of the post:

Iraq: Kurdish girl stoned to death, mob films it on cameraphones

According to the reports, the story goes something along these lines. Du'a Khalil Aswad, a 17 year old Kurdish girl "had a relationship" with a Sunni Muslim boy in a town near by. So a mob of men from her community beat and stoned her to death on April 7. For whatever reason, members of this mob filmed the murder with mobile phone video cameras, and last week (week of May 1) posted it to YouTube.What on Earth possesses people to behave like this? The boy's religion was (presumably still is) Sunni Muslim, her religion was Yezidi (an ancient pre-Islamic religion)... and it sounds like they happened to get along rather well. I don't know what 'have a relationship' is a euphemism for in this case - they may have been going at it like rabbits or discussing the latest editorial in the Middle Eastern Times for all we know. I am making the assumption that the relationship was entered into willingly by both parties.

A couple of kids made friends, maybe even made love. In a place like Iraq, that's no mean feat, I think. And for this, the men of her community, who by being Kurds in Iraq likely have first-hand knowledge of what it is like to be attacked by an adversary much stronger than them, thousands of these men apparently saw reason to punish Du'a by beating her, tearing her clothes off, heaving rocks at her head while she lay on the ground crying and begging for help... and this is called an HONOUR killing.

So not only is a young girl killed for (hopefully) finding some happiness in the middle of a war, she is killed in a manner calculated to be painful, terrorising and brutal.

And what for? To make some sort of point that hanging out with people who are different from us is evil? What are these guys afraid of that they need to murder a girl like this?

But wait: There's more. I ran across a report (admittedly, on a Web site that doesn't have the same reputation for journalistic rigour as say, AP does) that Iraqi security forces witnessed the attack but did not intervene. How about instigating a little security for those who can't defend themselves?

Next point: I haven't seen any coverage of this on any of the major Western news sources so far. (The Daily Mail and FoxNews don't count). Maybe it isn't sufficiently verified or approved for publication, or maybe Du'a didn't have the good fortune to have an embedded journalist in the area.

Another wrinkle: Seemingly in retaliation for Du'a's murder, someone shot up a bus full of Yazidis. More hate and retaliation is likely to follow. It looks like that someone or someones were Sunni Muslims... maybe friends of his.

Just a note about 'honour' killings. I don't think there is anything honourable about murdering anybody, no matter how badly they piss you off, or how much you think they have transgressed some deeply held value or social more. You just don't go bashing people in the head with rocks just because you don't like what they've done. I really don't care whether it is a thousand year old tradition or anything like that - that just means it has been wrong for a thousand years. Cultural relativism can get stuffed.

Finally, I do note that the Kurdistan Regional Government is making some of the right noises about this in a statement published on its Web site. Good news! 'Honour' killings are against the law, and have been since 2002, and the KRG's got 40 convictions and 24 cases on the dock. Poor Du'a didn't get killed under the KRG's bailiwick, so it falls to Iraqi authorities to investigate.

For some reason I think of Admira and Bosko (apologies for the lack of diacritical marks) killed in Sarajevo in 1993.

I really am angry with the men who killed Du'a. I really am angry because these sorts of inexcusable hateful actions occur every single day that passes. I am really angry because there are people being attacked and hurt right here in Sydney. And I am really angry that us humans, who can be capable of such great depths of love, can also be so brutally struck down by great depths of evil.

ANZAC Day - and Curse of the Golden Flower

First things first, a great deal of respect to the ANZACs. Today is ANZAC day, where we remember and pay respect to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. It's sort of like Remembrance Day back home, but is typically celebrated by a dawn service, a breakfast, and then a day spent at the pub playing two-up.

We didn't follow the prescribed rituals, and went to see Curse of the Golden Flower instead. I don't think I really appreciated the movie, and found it rather dull and hard to follow. Pretty impressive cinematography though.

One other ANZAC day note: some twits went and spraypainted the War Memorial with the message that ANZACs are murderers. Simone told me about an ANZAC who commented that it is a pretty disgraceful and shameful thing to do - and that when the people who did it sobered up, they'd realise that too.

June Callwood on CBC's Ideas podcast

I just listened to the April 23rd podcast - June Callwood's 2002 Dalton Camp lecture. Get it on the Ideas podcast site here while you can, it's only archived for about a month. I was only vaguely aware of June Callwood, which is rather shocking considering my university education had a lot of social awareness stuff in it, and even more shocking considering I studied in a school of communication and journalism. Just a bit of an oversight there, I suppose.

Anyway, it's a funny, penetrating, and moving lecture; one of those that sets aflame the passions of social justice in a cold, dead corporate soul. Many of the stories she recounted I am familiar with - such as the young woman who was stabbed to death in New York over a period of twenty minutes, screaming the whole time, the good burghers who heard her screams, but remained uninvolved in their apartments, and the reporter who interviewed every last one of those burghers, and got the story published - but in the retelling she somehow makes the stories mean something just a little bit more than they used to.

Even for non-journalists her counsel is achingly simple: every good, kind act diminishes the evil in the world just a little bit.

Beautiful stuff. Ms Callwood passed away on April 14th, and she still had her pilot's licence.

Noticed that...

it was warmer in Ottawa than in Sydney today. Unbelievable, it was only a max of 18 or so degrees. Maybe we better plug the car in...

The DNTO podcast this week was all about old folks - I had no idea Leslie Nielsen was 81. Right near the end of the podcast Sook-Yin talks to Sybil Rampen about the "Hell's Grannies" documentary. Sybil's something like 78 years old, and one day she got bored so she got her friends together to be a motorcycle gang.

Great stuff.

Anyway - Saturday's race was a bust thanks to the wind not showing up to play. At least I was able to find the car in the morning. It ended up being a good little sail anyway, but the season is clearly drawing to a close with the wind becoming lighter and more erratic.

We're just like the big guys though: the Louis Vuitton Cup races have been postponed a few days for lack of wind too.

Dude, where's the car?

The best laid plans of mice and men. I wandered out to bring the car up to attach the trailer in order to convey my nearest and dearest (object, not person!) to the river. Strangely, I couldn't find the car in any of its usual hiding spots up and down the street.

Ha ha, joke's on me. Friday night we met up with a near and dear friend in North Sydney for some light refreshments. Taking into account both the challenge of locating parking there, as well as the way in which NSWPD frowns upon driving after some light refreshing, we caught the train in from work. One of us caught the train to work, the other had taken the car to work... so when we both caught the train to the pub... the car remained at one of our workplaces.

So I ended up seeing The Freedom Writers, likely taglined somewhere as the inspirational feelgood movie of the year. Long story short: rookie teacher wins the hearts and respect of her gangsta students and changes their world.

That description sounds pretty snide: the movie was a lot better than I expected, and (if you can believe what you read on the Interweb) remarkably true to life. Very impressive, Miz G.

Nearly a month since the last post. Shocking.

Yes, it is positively shocking that a month has gone by and nothing has been inscribed here. Since then I've been sailing twice, both with good results. Another handicap start, and a regular start. Last weekend was probably my best run yet, finishing 5th last or so, a definite improvement over the start of the year. Very very cool... and now I have a secret weapon. I bought a book with training plans and drills and stuff in it. Nothing will keep me from a top 15 finish, in true Canadian international sporting competition style.

Sailing results

This having your own boat thing appears to be paying off. That, or the handicapping system is being really kind to me. Today we did a handicap start - depending on how good or how... inexperienced a sailor one is, one gets to start a number of minutes ahead of the 'scratch' boats - those with sailors that are good enough not to need a head start.

I had a 15 minute headstart. I'm not sure whether to be pleased (that I don't need the biggest headstart in the fleet), or miffed (cos I can use all the advantage available to me). I suppose the mark of an accurate handicap is if (for example) I finished close to the scratch boats... I was 3 minutes behind the leader, so plus my 15 is a normal 18 minute split. Pretty good.

Of course, I didn't help myself at all. Nearly capsized once, stuffed up a gybe, stalled twice (didn't think sailboats had clutches...), and stuffed three rounding three marks. Add all those mistakes up, and my handicap would have been spot on, if not a little generous.

Yippee, this is a fun sport.

And thar she blew... sort of

Light winds are, I am told, the most challenging to sail in. I think I would qualify that to claim that racing in light winds is difficult. Sailing with little or no wind is easy. You just sit there, try to keep in the shade of the sail a bit, and enjoy a bit of a drift with the current or the tide. When there is a bit of wind, scoot along and when it dies down again, sit back in the shade again.

Racing in light wind is another matter altogether. There are puffs of wind, apparently randomly distributed over the area of the race course. Each one of these puffs seems to be coming from a different area, and some indeed must be generated by the sporadic efforts of an oscillating fan.

So the experienced, the good, the skilled sailors complain about the lack of wind, how it is shocking (as though someone just could not be counted on to bring the wind, when they promised to do so), and then they proceed to just blitz around the course whilst we neophyte sailors look on in wonder.

It's all about not making mistakes... and reading the wind... and being able to react when there is wind... and reacting the right way... and doing that consistently all round the course. Suffice to say, yesterday was not my best showing ever. (By the way, go Renee! First on handicap, well done!). Yep, last (not counting the new sailor who joined in for fun, and nearly beat me too).

At least I know where I went wrong. First, getting mixed up with the Herons while rounding a mark really killed a lot of time. Then stuffing up the approach to a mark, after I'd caught up a bunch of guys, sort of deflated any hope for a better finish.

Next time. Next time.

Pictures of the new baby

The pictures are posted here.

Introducing the newest member of the family

Well, it is all done and dusted. She came home on Monday, kindly dropped off by her former guardians. We hadn't had long to get acquainted - we had only met her for the first time the day before, on Sunday. She seemed too good to be true: I had been looking off and on for her - or at least, someone like her, but as they say, good ones are few and far between.

Actually, there are plenty of good ones. The problem is that they're too expensive. And that just goes to show you that you can put a price on just about anything. It also goes to show that no matter what, I am unabashedly frugal. (Simone might call it 'tight-assed', but I prefer to think that that is an Australian colloquialism for 'frugal).

Back to the story. She was dropped off on Monday morning - Simone popped home from work and locked her in the garage. When I got home I opened up the garage to see how she was doing - she seemed to be alright, so I checked her out a bit, and then relocked the garage, went up and had dinner.

This morning, we let her out. We hooked the trailer to our shiny new trailer ball, and trundled off to the park. Simone, noticing that I was still a little awkward, left us alone for a bit to get to know each other.

So, I started putting her together: mast into the sail sleeve, attached the outhaul, re-attached another way, and then did it one more time to get it right. Next it was the vang, which only took two tries. The downhaul was easy - one attempt. Now, with the sail all put together, everything else was as I'd practiced on the club boats. No problems.

In my excitement to get out on the water, I rather forgot my life jacket. Whoops.

Wow. I have my own boat, and she sails a treat. Finished third last on scratch, second last on handicap. Not bad at all for a new boat.

Her name is Jatani. To the best of my knowledge, that's a city in India (in the state of Orissa, no less). She's green, she's old, and she's awesome.

Soon, I shall post photos (that Simone took) on Zooomr. They're just on the other computer at the moment.

Catchup Time

My, it's been a while since I've put anything here. Since then, I've
1) Gone sailing, with a consistent level of success,
2) Posted lots more pictures on zooomr, but no more on Flickr or Web albums
3) Celebrated Australia Day
4) Celebrated Valentine's Day,
5) Become an Australian permanent resident,
6) Started to buy a boat.

The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro

And now something a little more highbrow. This is a really well written book, and much slower in pace than many. This suits Stevens' (the butler main character) introspection on a life of service and the associated implications and questions that arise.

Some of the values that are self-evident to Stevens - that is, utter unflappability, 'dignity' (which has a couple of interesting definitions), and the subjugation of moral judgement to the responsibilities and duties of one's post or position - did give me pause, wondering if this fellow was for real. Naturally, he isn't: he's a character in a book. I don't doubt, however, that such values were at some place and time (and may even be so now) highly regarded, or even expected.

On reflection, the story seems to be a cautionary tale against blind devotion to 'duty', however defined. "Thud!", posted just before, also talks about 'some things you just have to do'. Stevens' has many things he feels he has to do. The difference between Vimes and Stevens is simply the source or pedigree of the obligations. Vimes is guided by a moral compass, where Stevens is guided by his responsibility to his employer. To be fair, while I do agree more with Vimes' guide, Stevens' job is to be a butler, not a police watch commander charged with preserving peace and law in a big city.

Criminy. I think I just came up with a bit of a thesis here. Sources of obligation in literature, and as always with these discussion, the social commentary contained therein.

In short, though, it was a pretty good book.

Thud! - Terry Pratchett

Full disclosure: I really like Pratchett, and the Discworld novels. I've read a bunch of them, and enjoyed every one, and have even laughed out loud while reading them on public transport.

Thud! is something like the 30th Discworld book, and the first one I've read that doesn't relate the state of the cosmos in Discworld - the Disc on the backs of 4 elephants standing on a huge turtle who is swimming through space.

Then again, the book is different from earlier Discworld books in that it is subtle in a slightly different way: it's almost like Pratchett's graduated from odd (though ingenious) parallels between the bizarre real world that readers inhabit and the bizarre magical world that the characters inhabit to parallels between big issues in the two worlds. Strangely absent is the word play of "In Sewer Ants" (Insurance) where the Discworld version is a delightfully apt characterisation of the industry, replaced by Sam Vimes' struggle to keep trolls and dwarves from reliving a centuries-old conflict that is based in... but I won't spoil the story by revealing what it is based in!

I particularly like Sam's priority of being home at 6pm to read to his son... regardless of which kings expect his presence at dinner.

It's a Pratchett Discworld book. Wonderful.

Master & Commander - Patrick O'Brian

Props to Nick for telling me about this book - I bought it on his recommendation in Canada during our trip there over Christmas.

It's the tale of Captain Jack Aubry and Stephen Maturin, in the first of 20 historical novels. That basically means that the stories are largely true to history, but in order to make things read a little better, the history's been tidied up a little.

Not knowing that much about Nelson's navy, I'll have to rely on my gut in assessing the 'faultless portrayal' claimed on the back cover - and my gut says that it's pretty much spot on.

This first book in the series sets up the characters at the point in Aubry's career when he receives his first commission as Master and Commander of a ship, and relates the ups (daring captures of enemy vessels) and downs (being captured by the enemy) of the life of an 18th century navy man. All in all, it was a good read, and I am looking forward to the next 19 books.

Pictures Posted!

Finally put up some photos from the trip to Canada on Web albums

There are also some on Flickr.

Also, but not from Canada, but Australia Day on Zooomr

Photos - Landing in Sydney

Normally, we end up landing in the dark when we get back to SYD, so it was a real treat to have pretty clear conditions (and light) coming in.

These haven't been digitally manipulated in any way, so they are still a bit flat with the early morning light.

The photos are here, on Flickr.

Like a rookie, sailing for the very last time

Beautiful day to be back on the water yesterday... if only my performance had done it justice. In the cadet race (the earlier, shorter race for younger and more neophyte participants) things went alright, with a top-three finish.

In the real race is where things went awry. For some odd reason, my bung (drain plug for draining water that gets into the hull) came out, with the obvious consequence of having an open hole in the hull. Those holes are definitely not one-way flow devices: halfway into the first lap of the race, I was wondering why the boat was handling so oddly, and when the waves started coming over the front instead of sort of splashing to the side, I headed for shore and safety.

Drained the boat, fastened the bung (and checked it three times) and rejoined the race. By now the wind had really picked up, and my ability in stronger winds is quite minimal... I rejoined in last place and stayed quite solidly there.

But it was a beautiful day nevertheless.

Picture in the SMH

Here is the picture that Simone sent in to the Sydney Morning Herald.

The boy (at left) really tried very hard to defeat his nemesis (the girl, at right), however she seemed to be much more practiced in both manoeuvring her bucket and playing to us tourists.

Setting the scene:

This picture was at the floating village near Siem Reap. I don't know that the village had a name other than "the floating village." The name is remarkably appropriate: if other villages followed the same nomenclature, there would be many "villages on land", perhaps a few "villages near trees"...

But I digress. There is a really big lake near Siem Reap - I think I remember the name, but I'm not going to embarass myself in front of the Internet by guessing wrong. For eminently practical reasons, every structure in the village floats, simply moored where the homeowner wishes. Every structure is thus situated: the mosque, the church, the store, the school and the separate basketball court (courtesy of the Japanese dev-aid folks), and of course, the tourist centre, from whose gently bobbing decks this photo was snapped.

The tourist centre is about the furthest structure out into the lake (it is a REALLY big lake - goes on past the horizon), and us tourists drive into the sort of shore-based gateway to the village, hire a boat (and driver, plus a young guide), which then putters out to the centre, as we gape amazedly at the village. Once at the tourist centre, one can continue to gape at the expanse of water, thrill to the crocodiles caged just below deck, be surprised by great big fish leaping out of their live wells (and thus consigning themselves to the warm part of the café), eat fresh coconut, and buy souvenirs.

Alternatively, one can seek a quiet corner of the complex, marvel at the whole experience and try to convince oneself that one is a traveller, rather than a tourist.

The kiddies pictured quickly put paid to that bit of self-delusion: one is not a traveller, one is not even a tourist. One is a mark, an ATM if you will, and all they have to do is figure out the code. In this case, it was showing off their alacrity paddling a round vessel with a single paddle, and insisting on remuneration in exchange for permission to take their photo. This approach is employed when the traditional technique of paddling up beside where the tourists are sitting in the shade snaffling up cool liquids and sweet treats, and then begging for scraps. (The girl was good at this: she scored an almost full coconut. The lad, on the other hand, was either not pitiable or not cute enough. I think he got a couple of nuts.)

Back down under!

Just got back from three weeks in the old country. Lotsa pictures, too. As there's time, (and as was promised with the Cambodia tour), they'll get posted up.

But, speaking of pictures: apparently one of my Cambodia pictures made it onto the front page of the Travel section in the January 13 edition of the Sydney Morning Herald.

Now, that's pretty cool.

And the thunder rolled...

Another Saturday on the water, and what a day it was. There was only the lightest of breezes in the morning, but around lunchtime things really picked up. I have no idea what the wind speed was, only that it was getting up to very challenging levels.

So the race started, we took off down the river tacking back and forth like madmen and madwomen. With the force of the wind, many tacks included a generous portion of swim time. All through the first lap the wind continued to increase ahead of the coming thunderstorm. Things did go quite well on the first lap, until a gybe around a mark that was intended to turn into a run. The actual result was a spectacular capsize - I was ejected from the boat, rather than sort of just leaking into the river. At this point I had been catching up some other boats. They righted their vessels much more quickly than I did, so that was the end of that charge.

However, while capsized I did make significant progress along the course: The sail was sticking up perpendicular to the water, so a few hundred metres of course was completed while capsized. Of course, pointing the boat into the wind so that I could actually right it, get in, and get underway took a long time...

Eventually, back underway running before a strong breeze, planing in front a closing RiverCat ferry, things started looking up again, and thanks to my relative light weight, I started catching up on the downwind leg. The following reach worked really well, I actually passed another boat (okay, Jeff was making some emergency adjustments to his rudder). Then it's back to working into the wind... covered half the upwind leg, and then capped it, righted it, capped it, righted it, capped it... all the while not making any headway at all. I think this marks the point where the conditions exceeded my modest sailing ability.

With the see-saw nature of this adventure, my rudder pin was dislodged and the rudder fell off. Hurray! Caught it before it sank to the gluey bottom of the river.

Once I had re-attached the rudder, caught my breath, I started applying the principle of not going completely head-to-wind, and limped around the course, the 'encouragement' of the race leaders lapping me ringing in my ears, exhaustion and refrigeration taking their toll.

Halfway through my second lap the race was abandoned 'cos of that thunderstorm. We may be mad enough to sail in strong winds and driving rain, but when there's lightning and thunder, sitting in the middle of a wide expanse of water with a little bitty aluminum mast sticking up doesn't seem the wisest thing to do.

And for the defining moment of brilliance, I had left my backpack under a tree... which seems to be in the path of the park's primary drainage routes, and hence everything, including my phone, drowned.

I must be mad to love this so much.

The Children of Men - P.D. James

Nothing like the movie, that's for sure. It's a lot better by virtue of having the whole backstory to give the tale some context, which I really appreciated. In the movie, I could identify (besides the general idea of the movie) only 3 of the characters (the rest were tweaked, I suppose under artistic licence), and a couple of discrete points in the plot.

It certainly wasn't as descriptively gory and brutal as the movie, and the ending was far more interesting - there's no escape in a boat in the book.

I suppose a movie that slavishly adhered to the storyline in the book would have been rather boring - it would have been all about the main character's (Theo) path through dystopic future Britain. The movie needed to have all the stuff getting blown up and people being shot and references to terrorism and whatever else in order to keep in topical and interesting so enough people would go see it. The book, on the other hand, is free to wander a little more philosophically.

Chalk up another point for the books in the old books vs. movie version tally.

Monsieur Ibrahim

Saw a promo for this movie a while ago, and we just rented the DVD and watched it.

It's pretty understated and cerebral; the humour is the same way. It's a bit of a thinker, what with the Sufi storekeeper befriending the young Jewish boy and passing on all sorts of bits of wisdom about life and happiness and so on.

Vellum - Hal Duncan

Whoa... either Hal's really freaking brilliant or he's on an extended disassociative experience. Basic premise: underlying the 'real' world is the Vellum, which is a sort of meta-history/time/place/map/everything. There's good guys and bad guys. There's this weird mystical thang and nano-thingys that sort of complement it in a scientific wonderland remake of old legends and stories. People seem to exist in a multipley-instantiated way... the experiences of one instance kind of meld and distort the those of the other instances. Myths and stories and histories from all over the world roll around with each other like spaghetti on a toddler's high chair tray...

Basically there are a handful of key characters whose stories live in multiple times, multiple places, and in multiple aspects. So just try and keep up with 3 time periods for 3 people in a couple of different locations, all in a page or two.

This book hurt to read. It's fascinatingly intricate, and really, it's kind of fun to have a book that so terribly convoluted that it requires careful attention.

Moving Mars - Greg Bear

Pretty good bit of science fiction here - the Moon and Mars have both been colonised, globalisation is reaching its logical conclusion back on Earth, and whaddaya know, there is economic and political tension between the three chunks of rock.

It's not a particularly rollicking tale, and just sort of proceeds steadily through the plot... beginning, middle, end, close book. However, it's got that good mix of the familiar and the fantastical which keeps it pretty engaging.

The CRSC Marathon to the Gladesville Bridge

Instead of sailing a normal race course around our normal sailing patch of the Parra, we had a marathon, sailing from near the Concord Bridge right down to the Gladesville Bridge (with a loop into Hen and Chicken Bay), and back. Way too cool, sailing in new waters. Arrr, we be explorers.

I didn't place too proudly, so in addition to my lack of experience and/or skill, I claim the following handicaps:
1) Different boat from usual, so every quirk I was used to wasn't there, and the quirks that were there were inscrutable to me.
1a) This boat seemed to absorb water into the hull. Seemed like about fifty litres over the course of the race, so ... it got slower (even slower than at the start!)
2) The Mortlake ferry got in my way. It's on cables, so I was rather cautious about trying to slip past. In the end I circled around a couple of times to avoid running into the ferry and the cables. I suppose a better sailor would have avoided the situation altogether, or handled it more effectively, but hey.
3) No telltales or leech pennants on the sail. As long as it wasn't flapping, it was set right.
4) ... er, no, that's about it.

On the upside, coming in last does mean I got to sail for longer than anyone else. Again.