LB

Reading The Ordeal of Richard Feverel; listening to Brahms' violin concerto (concert today), Jessica Pratt, JPEG for the upcoming concert, Ecco2k and Bladee, etc.; Industry, Rogue Heroes.

Watching Severance and White Lotus; listening to Carti, Drake, and Bruckner 7; reading very little of Meredith still; ordering ChefGood and Zara. Need to wake up early again and feel the sun and run and lift and cook.

Watching Arrested Development; listening to Drake and Mozart; onto H.G. Wells' Marriage; no more ChefGood but a lot of Amazon and Zara.

I started logging how I spend my hours again (more and more evident that the more productive I am, the less successfully I log hours). I joined a gym. I have a new slim Coach watch (excited to replace the band once its worn out with a more neutral toned) and phone (12 mini). I have spent a few days at the [redacted] preparing for [redacted]. My listening habits are off-track: a couple of rave singles on repeat. I am reading a few pages of Boswell on Johnson before bed and rereading Emerson in the morning with a bit of Pope revision. My consumption of classic literature and music, which has typically kept me afloat in the bay of dulness, has been reduced for the consumption of [redacted], minimal techno, and friends. That being said, good phrases appear slower in the brain now. I should write more.

Rave and rock singles still on repeat, Kanye's new album, and the occasional Mahler symphony. Started Macaulay's essays. Investing in a lot of Saba. Simply surviving until London.

Macbeth, Othello, and Twelfth Night, hum the classical program for this week including Mozart's piano concerto no. 20, and read Macauley every morning.

I enjoyed the liveliness of London and the leisure of Spain and Italy. Taking road and rail transport across Andalucia caused several shocks of beauty. I wonder if it is worth moving to London just to see more equivalents of Sir Ian McKellen in Henry IV as Falstaff and a consequent midnight walk of tears.

Ally McBeal in Season 1.

Onto Desperate Housewives; chronological biographies of philosophers, George Meredith's The Egoist, the science brick; Don Giovanni, Carpenters discography, a shameful amount of pop; Stewart Lee; nicotine; matcha; energy dissipators in dams...

Love Island UK Season 11 and some of US Season 6; very loosely read biographies of philosophers (Bacon was a rat) and half-hours with authors and some text on energy and matter; Mk.gee's 'A Museum of Contradiction' and 'Two Star & The Dream Police' ('Candy' and 'I want') and Charli XCX's 'Brat'.

Reading Robert Caro's Power Broker and started 2024/5 log. Listening to Mahler 4.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Chores this morning. The executive decision to avoid wasting time going to [redacted] and [redacted] when I could simply borrow the Wind in the Willows on the Staff Development Days, and use this week for history, has drawn me to self-satisfaction.

[redacted] and I texted about the authors we were reading (Meredith and Eliot) and shared excerpts.

[redacted] went to see Mahler 1, and then wanted to go clubbing.

I completed Diana of the Crossways.

I caught the ferry back to Circular Quay, went home to dress, and left again for the AGNSW to see The Misfits (1961) by John Huston, starring Clark Gable and Marilyn Monroe.

Mahler 1 was unbelievable — I met a lovely old man named Fred and his partner whose name I forgot. She was Asian, in a wheelchair, on his second wine, and loved Bach like me. Saw an oboeist I fell in love with.

I started the 2023 log a few days ago and it looks as fertile in utility and longevity as Library and Finances. I am learning all American states, a 5-minute encapsulation of pre- and ancient history, and Pope's second stanza of 'An Essay on Man: Epistle I'. I am continuing Meredith, but I think that will be my last book for the next fortnight as I am required to read another by Kate Greenville and Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows. I am listening to a Beatles shuffle playlist and Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 5. I am trying to outpace and extend myself in running. Also working on the following documents and slides: 'What? How?' identifying and explaining various engineering systems, and 'History'.

I am listening to Bellini's 'I Puritani' and Mahler again, reading through the Reader's Digest of When, Where, Why, and How It Happened, and watching many archive.org documentaries; I am learning American cities, more Articulate trivia cards, and Pope; I am undertaking a qwerty typing course; I am teaching the overview of ancient societies, Archeology, Medieval Europe, Chinese history the Big Bang, Kate Grenville, and Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, developing my History document.

Welsh's Man to Man every now and then; I listened to a recent setlist of Denzel Curry for his concert and two songs on repeat (Games by The Strokes and Boy's A Liar pt. 2 by PinkPantheress ft. Ice Spice) but am returning to Bach's fifteen inventions; I learned a lot about quarries, consulting, and the geopolitics of football. I have a 4k 27" monitor now.

I am reading Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson and H. G. Wells' A Short History of the World; listening to upcoming concert programs (Beethoven's PC 4 and 6, etc.);

These holidays have been wonderful in solitude. I have risen everyday at 05:00, sometimes a touch before, to fill and burn the percolator; while waiting, redistribute the feathers in my quilt and flatten my sheet set with my palm, drink a glass of raw milk or water, light my Hunter candle, and brush my hair into a ponytail; read for an hour; prepare and devour poached eggs on tomato relish on buttered toast; clean; showered; and dressed. I will add some stretches to this as my muscles atrophy too enthusiastically with the sedentary life of an avid reader and teacher. Last week, I read H. G. Wells' A Short History of the World and now I am continuing Boswell's Life of Johnson. Among other things, I have learnt that there is an orthodox prosody to the Ten Commandments, e.g. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour." I have completed marking, outlined my presentation on ChatGPT for Monday, and hope to select my eight pieces of evidence for accreditation today.

I listened to Bach falling asleep last night.

A few hours from the last post, I caught the train into Circular Quay. I inspected the rivets of the Harbour Bridge while sitting on the grassy hill beside it, listening to a documentary about its construction: the order of components (top arch, second arch, the plank using a barge), the sixteen workers who died (including one man whose thumb was infected from trauma and died a few days later), the child with a knack for engineering who travelled one hundred kilometers to see the opening (and the lovely Australians who supported him on his pilgrimage), and the political turmoil surrounding the opening with the New Guard member rushing in on his horse to cut the ribbon before the polarising Jack Lang could. I sauntered around the Rocks and admired the heritage surrounding me before it was supplanted with charming nougat, glassware, and homemade cosmetics stalls, savoury aromas flying everywhere. I wore a juvenile pink cardigan and a red satin skirt on top of brown leather bowed ballet flats. I caught the ferry to Manly. The sight of HMAS Canberra and recently commissioned USS Canberra compensated for the blast of cold sticky winds that hammered my limbs for twenty minutes.

Wells' History was a genuine delight that I'd like to reread again and again but rationing Boswell, enough for Term 3; I am listening to Beethoven's 'Hammerklavier'; and I am happy with this iteration of a morning: I rise at 05:00, turn on the lamp, fix my hair and percolate coffee, while it's percolating I make my bed, moisturise my face, light a candle, and switch lamps, I read for as long as I can before breakfast, shower, and dress; I have abandoned all exercise but am optimistic about having solid limbs for the arrival of Spring. I have observed a harrowing time of day, from 2 to 5 in the afternoon, where I am depleted and consequently frustrated. If I nap, which I have been doing for the past few months, then from 5 to 7pm I become even angrier. So, from 2 to 5, I need to stay awake by eating or exercising or reading or emails — anything but approaching the sinkhole that is the bed. I also tend to become a menace or suicidal with delayed breakfast, so that is a priority.

I am listening to a shared playlist and miscellaneous classical pieces (e.g. Kodaly's 'Dances of Galanta'); I am reading Leopardi's collection of prose and poetry (select imagery from the Zibaldone feel Nabokovian, and [redacted] enjoys Operette Morali dialogues more than I do but I enjoy the occasional crisp and poignant line; his biography and diaries are probably worth rereading) and Allan Bloom's The Closing of the American Mind; I renewed my licence and am nervous about merging onto the highway; I eat Milo cereal for breakfast, cooked beef for lunch, and chicken bites hot out of the oven for an early dinner; in the mornings, I learn Italian and talk to the Italian; the hours of hell (2-5pm) are mostly spent reading before exercising; I still babysit frequently; I have seen Oppenheimer thrice.

Reading Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson, cleaning to Troye Sivan's 'Got Me Started'.

Morning. I am seated by the open window, with Charles on the sill, surrounded by a wonderful palette: the flax yellow of my striped mug, lace-edged lamp, and hardcover of the University History of the World as a monitor stand; the gradations of laurel green amongst the tiny Moleskines, all bedding ingredients, and the slip dress drying outside on the balcony; and the rich crimsons of the rug, the ribbon tied around the apartment key, and the blanket draped over this wheely chair. Home is not the loud surprise of beauty outside the Florence-to-Siena bus. Home is here, in the firmament of thoughtfully procured books and furniture, in the lap of which sleeps a knotted cat. Home is established which each glint of the framed family portraits, each rearrangement of the bouquet of dried flowers, light sources, and writing instruments on a slippery silken tablecloth, each exercise of copying by the left hand. As one erects a structure of remembrance, of each moment a brick, with whom they have eaten or read or worked or slept, I too have upstairs a heaven of impressions.

06:30. Listening to Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto 2. Yesterday was lovely until the end. Read some of Coriolanus' first act and revered the government-as-belly analogy. Tabulated some Italian modal conjugations for practice/refresher. Supervised drama kids.

Seated in bed, listening to Mehta's Turandot (1973) with the giant and the queen (Pavarotti and Sutherland, respectively).

It is 09:08 and I am slightly hungry but too lazy to spread peanut butter on some sourdough. I am in bed. Wearing [redacted]'s white shirt from the Uber home. Excited for that first taste of coffee. Listening to the Gregorian chant Viderunt omnes. Blaring white outside; the sky has never been this bright and cloudless-ly white.

Yesterday, I missed my alarm and rushed to work at 08:30. There were only three children so it was okay. I labeled African, South American, and East Asian maps with [redacted]. I was disheveled — no earrings, oily hair, and the nearest polyester dress — but when [redacted] returned my telephone to me on the couch after having searched 'dumb', 'poop', etc. to find real places ("The Dumb Post Inn", "Poopoo", "Fartown", "Stinky (Стинки)"), I felt vivified by love for him. And then I was home and exhausted again. I purchased a leather bag made in Italy and black leather Wittner pumps ($10!) from a vintage store. I dropped them off at home, put on the shoes, walked to the Metro where I cut my hair and bought groceries from Panetta... and then cleaned my apartment before [redacted] arrived to watch Courier (1986). It was very funny.

I walked through the Glebe markets to buy one beige porcelain mug — I still miss the mute tan and teal spherical one from New Zealand — two custom-sized belts and a laptop case from the gentle waifish beige bohemian lady who sold me the thick brown waist belt. Crossed the road to Sappho's, purchased Melville's The Confidence Man, K. D. Sethna's 'Christological interpretation' of Blake's Tyger, a very old biography of Napoleon, and a very old two-volume series called Half Hours with the Best Authors. I found a beautiful copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim Progress which I did not buy because it was $80.

I saw Turandot at the Joan Sutherland Theatre yesterday.

I walked down King St home to try on the purple Alannah Hill dress that had arrived. I cleaned. I tried to read the second book of Chronicles but my neighbor was toiling away on some DIY wood project with his radio on speaker. I caught the bus to [redacted]. I bought two books from Elizabeth's: A. G. Gardiner's Prophets, Priests, and Kings and Henry George's The Condition of Labour. The bookstore cashier was masked and his eyes handsomely smiled when he checked out my books. He opened the contents page and nodded, asked me how I selected which books to purchase — if the book has a lovely cover and I read two lines which I greatly enjoy, I tend to buy it — and he said, "most people only buy these for the aesthetics" and I replied with something unremarkable. We had that conversation at a leisurely pace while another woman was waiting behind me. I walked to university, read the Bible on the Law lawns while construction workers were riding a lift and surveying the face of the [redacted] building. I bought some Fisher cart pesto pasta and could only stomach half. I washed my hands in the library and borrowed Pynchon's V and Abrams' The Mirror and the Lamp. I searched for Bolaño's The Savage Detectives on Logo's recommendation but they did not house it ([redacted] does). The clouds lured me onto the [redacted] lawns, where I read Gardiner's first two chapters on Edward VII and G. B. Shaw. I caught the bus home and exercised.

Yesterday morning, I cataloged my library and ordered classical opuses. I read some Balfour's and Sargents' chapters in Gardiner, and then listened to one Japanese pop song (Hikaru Utada's One Last Kiss) on rotation for an hour in the sun. We walked back and ate lunch. I caught the bus home, napped, ordered a Big Mac and an iced latte from McDonalds. I drove to the Opera House parking lot (felt very luxurious). There were some eye-catching tunnels en route. The production of the Marriage of Figaro was unbelievably beautiful. They immaculately recreated the golden dawn of Wright's Pride and Prejudice through the reflective wooden glass block windows casting gorgeous piercing shadows across the stage. Ah, there were ceiling bookshelves with coloured hardcover collections and pink velvet bed canopy curtains and long timber furniture and weaved baskets and the muted cream wall and its ornamentation and the petticoat skirts and ostentatiously bright royal dresses — I want to yell, and I wanted to fashion every personal room in homage to that set. I swoon with the imagery still fresh. It was a glorious evening.

Late afternoon. Seated at Sappho's, after having purchased $80 of hardcovers: Berlin's biography of Marx, Cowper, Lewis Morris, a collection of essays on 'Man, Morals, and Society' by J. C. Flugel, and The Adventures of Robin Hood.

There is white rain sparkling downward against the red brick wall across my apartment. I'm in bed, listening to Monteverdi's Vespro della Beata Vergine.

Yesterday afternoon, I caught the bus to campus and [redacted] gave me a tour of his office. I came over to watch Synecdoche New York.

I watched Heat (1995) with [redacted] in the evening. There was an introduction by some podcaster who reviewed every minute of the film in 45-minute episodes (160 minutes of the film * 45 minutes per episode of each minute of the film).

A few hours later, I found Emo Phillips.