Location: Swanston Street, near Little Collins
Date: Sunday, 25 February, 2007, 10.20pm
Meal: $8.80 - excellent
This is a jelly tea establishment that also serves fake meat! It is difficult to find cafes open in the city at this time of night, though maybe I'm not looking in the right place. Starbuck's is open, and McDonald's and Subway and Chinese and Vietnamese restaraunts, and kebab/pizza joints. And bars. I passed over Max Brenner's as I passed by on my way out of Melbourne Central, which in hindsight was probably dumb. But fake curried meat is healthier than an overload of chocolate. And the place is a good find. And the cafe search brought me a lot of extra walking.
I have been hanging out with Ann. We took the train to St Kilda and ate steamed vegetable dim sims on the beach and had drinks (red wine for me) at a restaraunt/bar. I spent all of this morning trawling through job websites and sent off a few cover letters and resumes. I decided Sundays will be my day off - no uni work on Sundays at all.
Mmm, the food has just arrived and it looks beautiful. Just like meat in curry sauce. I still find that uncanny. In addition to a small white square heaping bowl of meat, I was also brought a bowl of rice and a three-dished tray of fried tofu skin, warm marinated lettuce and salad bits. Yum.
I had a bit of a meltdown on Friday. I was reading a very difficult article for my Semiotics and Poststructuralism class that I barely understood. Anne Freadman (so glad she's a lady, as she is proof that women can be just as abstractly smart as men) explaning the theory of C.S. Pierce on the system of signs. This theory is so difficult that it took Pierce 20 years of revising to sort it out. The theory has something to do with trichotomy in how signs are meaningful. Signs are either an icon, an index or a symbol and meaning is made from the interaction of those types of symbols (an icon is represention of something that may or may not exist - the example in the text is a centaur, which is mythical; an index points to or situates - the example is a weathercock - something that exists; and a symbol directly stands in for something that exists - a word is a symbol). At least I think, something like that. Also, signs are not just language, but also mathematical and Pearce's theory comes out of logic. That's about as much as I can attempt to explain.
Here is a lovely quote from the text: "The argument is a representamen which does not leave the interpretant to be determined as it may by the person to whom the symbol is addressed, but separately represents what is the interpreting representation that it is intended to determine. This interpreting representation is, of course, the conclusion."
Totally clear, right? Yeah, so while reading the Freadman articles I was feeling like maybe I'm not smart enough to ace this degree after all. I am reminding myself that I might understand the theory better in its original (ie reading Pierce himself) and as it relates to a theoretical tradition and if it seemed interesting enough or relevant for me to pursue. At the moment I can't figure out how theorising these exactitudes of something so difficult it can't be explained actually affects overall how we understand things. Though I suppose the question of whether the notation involved in language and mathematics are actually comparable systems could be interesting.
Pondering all this, I came up with a good definition for (postgraduate) study: A process whereby a student learns to figure out whether she is confused or the theorist she is reading is confused.
Kirsten was the lucky one to get my near-to-tears email. I am okay now. It is not good for me to be so much on my own. When I am alone all day and evening I can take myself too seriously.
Meanwhile I'm reading Saussure and next to Pierce he is a breath of fresh air - someone who writes to be clearly understood. I can really engage with Saussure as I cannot simply accept all of the the bases on which he builds his theories. For example, “language is a system of pure values which are determined by nothing except the momentary arrangement of its terms.” I don't think language has to do with values at all and I feel sure that its "terms" are determined by more than a momentary arrangement. If language is only momentary how can there be any continuous "value" (meaning)?
Also I feel that Saussure has maybe been instrumental in solidifying the structuralist binary thing, which I hate so much (I love Wikipedia - it's so much easier to read that and find out that I probably am actually into dialectics and am also probably post-structuralist than reading theory itself). Saussure writes that a meaning of a word is determined by its relation to its opposite. And once you start throwing the word "value" around indiscriminately, you can see how one might get man (good)/woman (bad) or dark (bad)/light (good) or white (good)/black (dark). My problem, though, is what happened to child, baby, hermaphrodite, trangendered or dawn, dusk, halflight or blue, green, red, pink and grey? Words are not in opposition to each other - they complement each other.
On Friday I went to uni. I meant to go to a seminar on communities using soundscape to promote environmentalism (or something like that) but I didn't time the trip correctly and arrived on campus too late. I did, however, get to the library and borrow a few books - Saussure, Lacan and a collection of writing about Weber and rationalism. Since I was already out and about, I got off the train at Carnegie,to see what Melbourne's Carnegie is like. It was alright. Cafes and shops and such, but not spirited like Balaclava. However, I did have a glass of white wine at an awesome cafe that I'd like to go back to. It was big and blueish with little pictures lining the wall eye-height - framed cards, sketches, paintings, collages, all sorts of interesting little bits and pieces. There were huge heavy wooden tables and a courtyard out back. The cafe is called Santucci's and it is on 94 Koornang Road. Maybe I'll take my journal there one day soon and write it up properly!
Monday, February 26, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Cafe #10: Cafe Trevi
Location: 294-296 Lygon St, Carlton
Date: Thursday, 22 February 2007, 9.50pm
Coffee: $3.00, latte - excellent
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
This is a restaraunt, really. Pizza, calzone... Hmmm, should try a calzone some time. The place has an old-fashioned, elderly type feel to it, with speckle tile floor, lacquered wood tables, black vinyl chairs with rounded back panels, wood panelled walls, a bar down the side, pizza ovens in the back right quarter and framed football jerseys on the walls. A pleasant people hum is all around. There are large cakes in the front window and a blue and pink neon sign. A short distance from my table there is a line of four short black containers on the floor, flush with the wall, catching air conditioner drips.
Erin and Duncan left for New Zealand this morning. I attended a little "reception" for the commencing postgrads in the Critical and cultural theory department. There are 10 or 12 or so of us, only three women and only three (I think) Masters students. My superviser, who is also the graduate convenor, seems lovely, smile-prone and concerned for everyone. The Head of the Department, a youngish woman, was there as well and she also seems enthusaistic. Other students are doing Phds and Masters on creating inter-faith dialogue (or something bringing religions together), Houllebec, and, well, that's all I remember. While I was entering an elevator next to one of the other women, young, also a Masters student, I mentioned to her, that we seemed outgendered, but she didn't much respond to the comment. Later, the other woman, older, said to me she had been waiting for the two of us (other females) to arrive (I was late). I think i'll like her.
So I am now enrolled and underway. My first class is next Wednesday - Critical Theory: A Survey. I opted for a 9.00am course on Thursday, Semiotics and Poststructuralism, because I want to learn those concepts well, rather than the other course choice, also on Wednesday so much more convenient on Walter Benjamin on violence. I hope I didn't make a mistake - not only will I have to wake up at 7.00am to get there on time, but the reading looks tough: Foucault and Lacan and Kristeva and Deleuze and such. Mostly I am familiar with these theorists, but not properly. The 5500 essay topic choices are full on and there is also a 2000 word presentation to be marked on and a 1500 word exam, which can be taken home.
I still haven't properly checked out the campus. I spent too much time waiting in line for that. The student union building is pretty institutional looking and there was no air conditioning in the office where the "reception" was held. Tomorrow I will go to a seminar at 5.00pm and check out the library beforehand.
I did lots of reading today - finished a Harold Bloom chapter that is reading for my first class. It pissed me off. Bloom thinks writers who want to be canonised want to be immortal, that reading does not lead to social change or make anyone a better person, that literary theory destroys literature by not appreciating its aesthetic purpose, and he hates the people who want to 'open up' the canon because, you know, a black female writer doesn't write well enough to deserve to be there. She's not Shakespeare! Fuckwit.
I did some vaccuming, cleaned the toilet and shower and took a walk with Ann. I'm going to move in with her. Probably next weekend.
Date: Thursday, 22 February 2007, 9.50pm
Coffee: $3.00, latte - excellent
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
This is a restaraunt, really. Pizza, calzone... Hmmm, should try a calzone some time. The place has an old-fashioned, elderly type feel to it, with speckle tile floor, lacquered wood tables, black vinyl chairs with rounded back panels, wood panelled walls, a bar down the side, pizza ovens in the back right quarter and framed football jerseys on the walls. A pleasant people hum is all around. There are large cakes in the front window and a blue and pink neon sign. A short distance from my table there is a line of four short black containers on the floor, flush with the wall, catching air conditioner drips.
Erin and Duncan left for New Zealand this morning. I attended a little "reception" for the commencing postgrads in the Critical and cultural theory department. There are 10 or 12 or so of us, only three women and only three (I think) Masters students. My superviser, who is also the graduate convenor, seems lovely, smile-prone and concerned for everyone. The Head of the Department, a youngish woman, was there as well and she also seems enthusaistic. Other students are doing Phds and Masters on creating inter-faith dialogue (or something bringing religions together), Houllebec, and, well, that's all I remember. While I was entering an elevator next to one of the other women, young, also a Masters student, I mentioned to her, that we seemed outgendered, but she didn't much respond to the comment. Later, the other woman, older, said to me she had been waiting for the two of us (other females) to arrive (I was late). I think i'll like her.
So I am now enrolled and underway. My first class is next Wednesday - Critical Theory: A Survey. I opted for a 9.00am course on Thursday, Semiotics and Poststructuralism, because I want to learn those concepts well, rather than the other course choice, also on Wednesday so much more convenient on Walter Benjamin on violence. I hope I didn't make a mistake - not only will I have to wake up at 7.00am to get there on time, but the reading looks tough: Foucault and Lacan and Kristeva and Deleuze and such. Mostly I am familiar with these theorists, but not properly. The 5500 essay topic choices are full on and there is also a 2000 word presentation to be marked on and a 1500 word exam, which can be taken home.
I still haven't properly checked out the campus. I spent too much time waiting in line for that. The student union building is pretty institutional looking and there was no air conditioning in the office where the "reception" was held. Tomorrow I will go to a seminar at 5.00pm and check out the library beforehand.
I did lots of reading today - finished a Harold Bloom chapter that is reading for my first class. It pissed me off. Bloom thinks writers who want to be canonised want to be immortal, that reading does not lead to social change or make anyone a better person, that literary theory destroys literature by not appreciating its aesthetic purpose, and he hates the people who want to 'open up' the canon because, you know, a black female writer doesn't write well enough to deserve to be there. She's not Shakespeare! Fuckwit.
I did some vaccuming, cleaned the toilet and shower and took a walk with Ann. I'm going to move in with her. Probably next weekend.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Cafe #9: Melbourne Central Station Food Court
Date: Sunday, 18 February, 2007, 3.10pm
Location: Melbourne Central Station, Melbourne
Ice cream: $3.70 - one scoop waffle cone, my favourite
I intended to find a tucked away cafe on my return from galivanting about the southeastern suburbs, but on my way out of Melbourne Central I saw a Baskin Robbins sign. A Baskin Robbins sign means one thing to me: peanut butter chocolate ice cream. This is a flavour difficult to find down under, outside of the purveyors of 31 flavours, as Australians don't have the same relationship to peanut butter as Americans do. Those Australians, however, who have discovered Reeses peanut butter cups are hooked for life.
Last night was a quiet night. I made Erin dinner - Mexican beans (canned), stir fried capsicum and spring onion, avocado, Cheddar cheese, rocket and sour cream on crunchy corn tortillas (I added mushrooms to my mix). We also went out for gelato, though the gelato bar was out of the jasmine flavour that Erin particularly wanted me to try and particularly wanted to eat herself. She was very annoyed and I had green apple and walnut flavours instead. The green apple was candy-flavour green apple but the walnut was goodly nutty. Still, not like Italy's gelato.
Today I attempted one incarnation of possible commuting combinations from Abbotsford to Monash. I took the train to Jolimont from Victoria Park, walked to Richmond and took the train to Malvern, then changed to the Pakenham line. All up it took me about an hour and fifteen minutes, and I have to add on the 10 minute bus ride from Huntingdale station to Monash campus. It probably wouldn't take quite that long because I'm pretty sure I didn't walk the most direct route to Richmond station across the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground, for the Americans). I had trouble reading the map - barely-there dotted line paths with no street names... In any case, I don't think the walk saves any time compared with taking the train all the way into Flinders Street Station and coming back out again on the other line.
On the way back from Huntingdale station I hopped off the train at around 4.30pm at Windsor to view another sharehouse. Another lovely renovated house with shiny hardwood floors and whitewashed walls and a new kitchen and bathroom. This one had the added bonus of being full of bookshelves and books. One of the housemates knew me from lip radio (she was a guest presenter on one show) and recognised me from TINA. She had been an English major. Both girls worked in publishing - for Penguin. (Hmm, handy...) The other, whom I didn't talk to much because another girl was there checking out the house as well, had studied theatre and art history. So it all sounds like a good match in theory, but I knew it was too good to be true. The girls were a bit over the whole interviewing thing, as, frankly, was I, so the talk didn't exactly flow and I didn't stay very long. They had already seen around 25 people.
It's another hot, hot, hot day - I've been drinking rather than eating - 'til now.
Location: Melbourne Central Station, Melbourne
Ice cream: $3.70 - one scoop waffle cone, my favourite
I intended to find a tucked away cafe on my return from galivanting about the southeastern suburbs, but on my way out of Melbourne Central I saw a Baskin Robbins sign. A Baskin Robbins sign means one thing to me: peanut butter chocolate ice cream. This is a flavour difficult to find down under, outside of the purveyors of 31 flavours, as Australians don't have the same relationship to peanut butter as Americans do. Those Australians, however, who have discovered Reeses peanut butter cups are hooked for life.
Last night was a quiet night. I made Erin dinner - Mexican beans (canned), stir fried capsicum and spring onion, avocado, Cheddar cheese, rocket and sour cream on crunchy corn tortillas (I added mushrooms to my mix). We also went out for gelato, though the gelato bar was out of the jasmine flavour that Erin particularly wanted me to try and particularly wanted to eat herself. She was very annoyed and I had green apple and walnut flavours instead. The green apple was candy-flavour green apple but the walnut was goodly nutty. Still, not like Italy's gelato.
Today I attempted one incarnation of possible commuting combinations from Abbotsford to Monash. I took the train to Jolimont from Victoria Park, walked to Richmond and took the train to Malvern, then changed to the Pakenham line. All up it took me about an hour and fifteen minutes, and I have to add on the 10 minute bus ride from Huntingdale station to Monash campus. It probably wouldn't take quite that long because I'm pretty sure I didn't walk the most direct route to Richmond station across the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground, for the Americans). I had trouble reading the map - barely-there dotted line paths with no street names... In any case, I don't think the walk saves any time compared with taking the train all the way into Flinders Street Station and coming back out again on the other line.
On the way back from Huntingdale station I hopped off the train at around 4.30pm at Windsor to view another sharehouse. Another lovely renovated house with shiny hardwood floors and whitewashed walls and a new kitchen and bathroom. This one had the added bonus of being full of bookshelves and books. One of the housemates knew me from lip radio (she was a guest presenter on one show) and recognised me from TINA. She had been an English major. Both girls worked in publishing - for Penguin. (Hmm, handy...) The other, whom I didn't talk to much because another girl was there checking out the house as well, had studied theatre and art history. So it all sounds like a good match in theory, but I knew it was too good to be true. The girls were a bit over the whole interviewing thing, as, frankly, was I, so the talk didn't exactly flow and I didn't stay very long. They had already seen around 25 people.
It's another hot, hot, hot day - I've been drinking rather than eating - 'til now.
Cafe #8: Cicalata Cafe
Date: Saturday, 17 February 2007, 3.00pm
Location: 323 Lygon Street, Carlton
Coffee: $3.20 - latte (with ice), milky [gluten-free food available]
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
I had an idea I would walk to Parkville through Melbourne Uni - find a cafe in a suburb new to me. But I walked through Melbourne Uni campus for a long time - around cricket fields and colleges - and ended up just about where I started. So here I am again on Lygon Street. But it is good - I asked for latte with ice and it is what I got. ("Do you have ice?" I asked as I stumbled in. I think I sounded parched,looked a bit faint and fuzzy.) A tall lukewarm latte and a water glass full of ice. Exactly it.
This is a cafe I'd describe as fitted out with trendy decor, another long and narrow one. There is a deep brown leather bench along the entire wall of one side,creamy uniform tables, a brown painted floor, bright orange wall boxes behind the counter, ceiling bulbs with enormous round cream shades like wheels and faintly speckled cream granite or somesuch shiny counter. Everything is orderly and symmetrical.
Yesterday I met Anne at Readings so we could head off together for a lunch date at her place in Abbotsford. I said that Melbourne had finally gotten me to put sunscreen on (it has been hot, humid, sunny, clear and there isn't much shade to speak of) and Anne replied that sunscreen may be just as bad if not worse for us than the sun! It was fantastic - everyone else in my life has a mission to get the sunscreen on me, urging me with tales of ozone holes and melanomas. I admit to resisting sunscreen. I can't help but feel much of this sun scare stuff is really just about selling sunscreen. And while I acknowledge that different skin colours react differently to the sun, I feel sufficiently olive-skinned to be out in the sun in the normal course of my day without sunscreen. But the missionaries are making inroads. I still choose not to or forget to wear sunscreen most of the time but I also often feel slightly anxious about develoipng skin cancer. It's like with birth control pills: you realise you forgot a pill and vaguely panic about being pregnant. I get a bad burn and vaguely panic about skin cancer. So my anxiety's just shifted since I'm not on the pill anymore (I'm on the implant).
So, you see, it was very refreshing for someone to not only refrain from the sunscreen lecture but to actively dismiss it.
I did put sunscreen on my back, shoulders, neck and nose today. And I wore a hat.
So maybe I'll move into Anne's house. It so happens that her roommate has decided to move out. The lunch date was also an appointment to check out the house. Abbotsford is still on the northside, though it is closer to the south than Brunswick or Carlton. Anne lives two minutes from the Collingwood train station and near to trams. There is a little grocery shop across the street. The house has two big bedrooms and a small study and a lovely courtyard garden with a circularly laid brick patio. My share of the rent would be a bit more than I was hoping to pay, but given that Anne seems to like the idea of living with me (an idea which no one else who's house I visited has liked) and it is a nice house and I like Anne very much, and the themes of her PhD are similar to mine for my Masters and it is a house of only two people rather than three, four or five, it seems a good idea.
Tomorrow I will do the trip from there to Huntingdale. Well, one route anyway - it is good that there are several combinations of walk/tram/train/bus. So I won't get bored and all weather is catered for.
Anne made me a lovely lunch of salad with browned seeds, roasted eggplant and corn wrapps. For dessert we had yoghurt with crumbled brazil nuts, rice biscuits (cookies) and dark Whitaker's chocolate. Very nice.
It has been a social few days. On Thursday I joined Erin and uni friends for dinner on Lygon Street. I had penne arabbiata - it was okay. We then retired to Erin's courtyard to finish the wine and talk about sex. Last night was many hours at a wood-panelled dusky lounge on Little Bourke Street called Murmer. Erin and I were there with loud Labour supporting sisters. The music in the bar was a bit too loud but the four of us screamed at each other successfully into the evening. I admit to taking a break to find some dinner and get away from the screaming for a bit. I selected a couple of plates from a sushi train.
After finishing numerous drinks at Murmer, we parted ways with the sisters and Erin took me to the Nite Cat, where Duncan was mixing. It is a big-band jazz/swing dance club, but there was acid jazz on and free entry. The Cat is basically a large room enclosing a wooden dance floor. The stage is a large raised block in the middle. There are more chairs low lighbulbs shaded by antique shades of all shapes, sizes and colours. The dancers and drinkers were mostly young and white and not hitting on each other. The band was about done when Erin and I arrived around 1pm but we danced to the recorded music, blusey jazz and a bit of disco and a bit of hip-hop. I was very muggy and tired so had to force myself to keep dancing.
Interpretation as Pragmatics has made that text-as-god leap that I hate so much. I can get with the idea that the author is constructed in the reader's mind and even that total reconstruction of authorial intent is impossible, but it seems an act of faith and irrationality to then see the text as an active structure that creates the author and reader (text as god rather than author as god?). A text is not a person and does not act or create. A person created the text with meaning in mind, picking and choosing the words to get across that meaning. Readers use their personal and cultural resources to understand as much of the meaning as they can. And just because there can be unconscious meaning that the author is unaware of having expressed or conscious meaning that the author has not expressedeffectively does not negate authorial meaning. I wonder that there is so much intellectual debate on the process of reading - it seems so...intuitively rational. But maybe I'm taking this text as creator of meaning thing too seriously. Yet, I feel there's a difference between text as creator and text as communicative tool - and it seems more than mere semantics...
See, reading as religion. People read religious texts to find the meaning given to their lives by god. People invent literary theories to figure out how to find meaning given to their lives by writers.
Location: 323 Lygon Street, Carlton
Coffee: $3.20 - latte (with ice), milky [gluten-free food available]
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
I had an idea I would walk to Parkville through Melbourne Uni - find a cafe in a suburb new to me. But I walked through Melbourne Uni campus for a long time - around cricket fields and colleges - and ended up just about where I started. So here I am again on Lygon Street. But it is good - I asked for latte with ice and it is what I got. ("Do you have ice?" I asked as I stumbled in. I think I sounded parched,looked a bit faint and fuzzy.) A tall lukewarm latte and a water glass full of ice. Exactly it.
This is a cafe I'd describe as fitted out with trendy decor, another long and narrow one. There is a deep brown leather bench along the entire wall of one side,creamy uniform tables, a brown painted floor, bright orange wall boxes behind the counter, ceiling bulbs with enormous round cream shades like wheels and faintly speckled cream granite or somesuch shiny counter. Everything is orderly and symmetrical.
Yesterday I met Anne at Readings so we could head off together for a lunch date at her place in Abbotsford. I said that Melbourne had finally gotten me to put sunscreen on (it has been hot, humid, sunny, clear and there isn't much shade to speak of) and Anne replied that sunscreen may be just as bad if not worse for us than the sun! It was fantastic - everyone else in my life has a mission to get the sunscreen on me, urging me with tales of ozone holes and melanomas. I admit to resisting sunscreen. I can't help but feel much of this sun scare stuff is really just about selling sunscreen. And while I acknowledge that different skin colours react differently to the sun, I feel sufficiently olive-skinned to be out in the sun in the normal course of my day without sunscreen. But the missionaries are making inroads. I still choose not to or forget to wear sunscreen most of the time but I also often feel slightly anxious about develoipng skin cancer. It's like with birth control pills: you realise you forgot a pill and vaguely panic about being pregnant. I get a bad burn and vaguely panic about skin cancer. So my anxiety's just shifted since I'm not on the pill anymore (I'm on the implant).
So, you see, it was very refreshing for someone to not only refrain from the sunscreen lecture but to actively dismiss it.
I did put sunscreen on my back, shoulders, neck and nose today. And I wore a hat.
So maybe I'll move into Anne's house. It so happens that her roommate has decided to move out. The lunch date was also an appointment to check out the house. Abbotsford is still on the northside, though it is closer to the south than Brunswick or Carlton. Anne lives two minutes from the Collingwood train station and near to trams. There is a little grocery shop across the street. The house has two big bedrooms and a small study and a lovely courtyard garden with a circularly laid brick patio. My share of the rent would be a bit more than I was hoping to pay, but given that Anne seems to like the idea of living with me (an idea which no one else who's house I visited has liked) and it is a nice house and I like Anne very much, and the themes of her PhD are similar to mine for my Masters and it is a house of only two people rather than three, four or five, it seems a good idea.
Tomorrow I will do the trip from there to Huntingdale. Well, one route anyway - it is good that there are several combinations of walk/tram/train/bus. So I won't get bored and all weather is catered for.
Anne made me a lovely lunch of salad with browned seeds, roasted eggplant and corn wrapps. For dessert we had yoghurt with crumbled brazil nuts, rice biscuits (cookies) and dark Whitaker's chocolate. Very nice.
It has been a social few days. On Thursday I joined Erin and uni friends for dinner on Lygon Street. I had penne arabbiata - it was okay. We then retired to Erin's courtyard to finish the wine and talk about sex. Last night was many hours at a wood-panelled dusky lounge on Little Bourke Street called Murmer. Erin and I were there with loud Labour supporting sisters. The music in the bar was a bit too loud but the four of us screamed at each other successfully into the evening. I admit to taking a break to find some dinner and get away from the screaming for a bit. I selected a couple of plates from a sushi train.
After finishing numerous drinks at Murmer, we parted ways with the sisters and Erin took me to the Nite Cat, where Duncan was mixing. It is a big-band jazz/swing dance club, but there was acid jazz on and free entry. The Cat is basically a large room enclosing a wooden dance floor. The stage is a large raised block in the middle. There are more chairs low lighbulbs shaded by antique shades of all shapes, sizes and colours. The dancers and drinkers were mostly young and white and not hitting on each other. The band was about done when Erin and I arrived around 1pm but we danced to the recorded music, blusey jazz and a bit of disco and a bit of hip-hop. I was very muggy and tired so had to force myself to keep dancing.
Interpretation as Pragmatics has made that text-as-god leap that I hate so much. I can get with the idea that the author is constructed in the reader's mind and even that total reconstruction of authorial intent is impossible, but it seems an act of faith and irrationality to then see the text as an active structure that creates the author and reader (text as god rather than author as god?). A text is not a person and does not act or create. A person created the text with meaning in mind, picking and choosing the words to get across that meaning. Readers use their personal and cultural resources to understand as much of the meaning as they can. And just because there can be unconscious meaning that the author is unaware of having expressed or conscious meaning that the author has not expressedeffectively does not negate authorial meaning. I wonder that there is so much intellectual debate on the process of reading - it seems so...intuitively rational. But maybe I'm taking this text as creator of meaning thing too seriously. Yet, I feel there's a difference between text as creator and text as communicative tool - and it seems more than mere semantics...
See, reading as religion. People read religious texts to find the meaning given to their lives by god. People invent literary theories to figure out how to find meaning given to their lives by writers.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Blogger has been down
At least, the network at Erin's hasn't been loading it properly. I have written two blogs in the past several days, but haven't been able to get them up. I'm in Canberra for a couple of days visiting Allan and will be back in Melbourne on Wednesday. Hopefully will get the blogs up Wednesday evening. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and letting me know that they are enjoying the blogs. I appreciate it.
Rachel
Rachel
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Cafe #7: Cafe Rathdowne Corner Store
Date: Wednesday, 14 February 2007, 8.40am
Location: corner Rathdowne and MacPherson Streets, North Carlton
Coffee: $2.90 - latte, excellent
Reading: The Memory Keeper's Daughter
I am writing in a cafe at this ungodly hour because I was up at 7.00am to see another house in E Brunswick at 8.00am. This house is occupied by two boys and a girl in their early twenties, a brother/sister + other housemate. A bright-eyed, 22-year-old shirtless boy with dimples and sleepy light-brown hair answered the door. Very sweet and cute but not really a potential housemate.
I am sitting outside and when I look at the cafe picture window the sun projects the cut-out glass lettering onto the bars of the window-facing chairs where the seat wicker is wrapped. The first chair reads in bright transparent letters 'BREAK', the second is mostly in shade, then the partial letters of 'EINE'; the fourth chair says 'COFFEE', the fifth has a skewy 'RS' in one corner and stripes of bits of "LUNCH" highlighting the other end of the bar.
The cafe has a wide tin corner awning and inside is a big tan-brick floored informal room. No particular atmosphere but delicious Jasper fairtrade coffee.
I missed out on writing yesterday. All that I really had to report was my six and a half hour conversation with A1, one of E's friends whom I met for coffee at Soul Food on Smith St. She's doing a PhD in colonial history of Australia and New Zealand is intellectually interested in many of the same things I am. E knew right away we would hit it off - she introduced us particularly during her birthday party and A1 and I talked amongst ourselves for a long time at the pub.
We met at Soul Food at 8.00pm, got kicked out to the outside tables at some point (maybe around 11.00?, who knows?), then kicked out altogether. Yet we still did not say goodbye. We continued talking on the street for - apparently - a couple more hours, maybe more. It was 2.30am when I began my walk home! Amazing! I hate standing! A1 and I talked about feminism, relationships, family, language...
Beyond that I'm having trouble remembering what I did on Monday.
Yesterday was a full-on day. I woke up late and picked up E at work to go to the Victoria Markets around a quarter to one. I had a spinach and cheese filled bread stick type, pide-like thing called borak for lunch, E and A2's usual Tuesday market lunch. I bought some very cheap fruit and vegies and some not so cheap ones. A2 didn't come to the market as per usual.
Later in the afternoon, around 3.30, I embarked on the trip from E Brunswick to Monash to see what I'd be in for. I took the tram back to Barkly Street, where the sharehouse with the cropped-hair girls is, then began: a 20-minute walk to the train station, a 25-minute train ride to Flinders Street - though I should have gotten off at an earlier city circle stop - a 15-minute wait, 20 minutes to Caulfield, where I got off the train to use the bathroom, another ten minutes or so to Clayton and then a ten-minute bus ride to campus, which I didn't take (I asked the bus driver how long the trip was), as it was 5.30ish and I had just made an appointment to see a flat in Elwood. I figured while I was already on that side of town...
Luckily the first bus stop I found upon leaving the train station was not the Monash uni bus (wrong direction) but a bus to Elwood, which does begin at Clayton. Convenient!
But that wasn't the right flat for me either. The two gals were very mainstream - a graphic designer, the other worked at the Centre for Adult Education. They were nice, both of them, smart, just, well, mainstream. And though Elwood is near the beach and the side of town with Balaclava and South Yarra, it is far out and the bit of it that I saw had a small Australian town sort of feel.
Following that interview I was off to another house - this one close to the city. It was a nicer vibe - four Melbourne uni students, a girl, three boys, youngsters. One guy had studied at Wesleyan and we hit it off the most. The other two guys were shy and quiet and the girl had short spikey dark hair and a polka-dotted dress. The quiet Maths student of the group was 29 and fancied the idea of no longer being the oldest person in the house. They live in an old terrace house with two bathrooms and hardwood floors. The bedroom available is small but has a sink. All in all it reminded me a bit of American dorm style accommodation. Depsite the youth of the housemates, though, I think I could live there - it was laidback and easygoing and friendly.
All that 'travel' yesterday left me feeling quite worn out and I hope not to have to do it again soon. I'd really like to get offered the South Yarra house - normal people without pretensions and on the right train line and a lovely house. But I haven't heard back, so I guess not.
Location: corner Rathdowne and MacPherson Streets, North Carlton
Coffee: $2.90 - latte, excellent
Reading: The Memory Keeper's Daughter
I am writing in a cafe at this ungodly hour because I was up at 7.00am to see another house in E Brunswick at 8.00am. This house is occupied by two boys and a girl in their early twenties, a brother/sister + other housemate. A bright-eyed, 22-year-old shirtless boy with dimples and sleepy light-brown hair answered the door. Very sweet and cute but not really a potential housemate.
I am sitting outside and when I look at the cafe picture window the sun projects the cut-out glass lettering onto the bars of the window-facing chairs where the seat wicker is wrapped. The first chair reads in bright transparent letters 'BREAK', the second is mostly in shade, then the partial letters of 'EINE'; the fourth chair says 'COFFEE', the fifth has a skewy 'RS' in one corner and stripes of bits of "LUNCH" highlighting the other end of the bar.
The cafe has a wide tin corner awning and inside is a big tan-brick floored informal room. No particular atmosphere but delicious Jasper fairtrade coffee.
I missed out on writing yesterday. All that I really had to report was my six and a half hour conversation with A1, one of E's friends whom I met for coffee at Soul Food on Smith St. She's doing a PhD in colonial history of Australia and New Zealand is intellectually interested in many of the same things I am. E knew right away we would hit it off - she introduced us particularly during her birthday party and A1 and I talked amongst ourselves for a long time at the pub.
We met at Soul Food at 8.00pm, got kicked out to the outside tables at some point (maybe around 11.00?, who knows?), then kicked out altogether. Yet we still did not say goodbye. We continued talking on the street for - apparently - a couple more hours, maybe more. It was 2.30am when I began my walk home! Amazing! I hate standing! A1 and I talked about feminism, relationships, family, language...
Beyond that I'm having trouble remembering what I did on Monday.
Yesterday was a full-on day. I woke up late and picked up E at work to go to the Victoria Markets around a quarter to one. I had a spinach and cheese filled bread stick type, pide-like thing called borak for lunch, E and A2's usual Tuesday market lunch. I bought some very cheap fruit and vegies and some not so cheap ones. A2 didn't come to the market as per usual.
Later in the afternoon, around 3.30, I embarked on the trip from E Brunswick to Monash to see what I'd be in for. I took the tram back to Barkly Street, where the sharehouse with the cropped-hair girls is, then began: a 20-minute walk to the train station, a 25-minute train ride to Flinders Street - though I should have gotten off at an earlier city circle stop - a 15-minute wait, 20 minutes to Caulfield, where I got off the train to use the bathroom, another ten minutes or so to Clayton and then a ten-minute bus ride to campus, which I didn't take (I asked the bus driver how long the trip was), as it was 5.30ish and I had just made an appointment to see a flat in Elwood. I figured while I was already on that side of town...
Luckily the first bus stop I found upon leaving the train station was not the Monash uni bus (wrong direction) but a bus to Elwood, which does begin at Clayton. Convenient!
But that wasn't the right flat for me either. The two gals were very mainstream - a graphic designer, the other worked at the Centre for Adult Education. They were nice, both of them, smart, just, well, mainstream. And though Elwood is near the beach and the side of town with Balaclava and South Yarra, it is far out and the bit of it that I saw had a small Australian town sort of feel.
Following that interview I was off to another house - this one close to the city. It was a nicer vibe - four Melbourne uni students, a girl, three boys, youngsters. One guy had studied at Wesleyan and we hit it off the most. The other two guys were shy and quiet and the girl had short spikey dark hair and a polka-dotted dress. The quiet Maths student of the group was 29 and fancied the idea of no longer being the oldest person in the house. They live in an old terrace house with two bathrooms and hardwood floors. The bedroom available is small but has a sink. All in all it reminded me a bit of American dorm style accommodation. Depsite the youth of the housemates, though, I think I could live there - it was laidback and easygoing and friendly.
All that 'travel' yesterday left me feeling quite worn out and I hope not to have to do it again soon. I'd really like to get offered the South Yarra house - normal people without pretensions and on the right train line and a lovely house. But I haven't heard back, so I guess not.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Cafe #6: Ruby's Cafe
Date: Monday, 12 February 2007, 2.30pm
Location: corner Elgin and Drummond Streets, Carlton
Coffee: $2.50 - latte, good
Ruby's has a comforting greasy spoon sort of feel, with red brick floor and black-and-red board tables - nothing trendy or pretentious. But it does have a blue two-seater couch at the back, which I, indeed, have taken over
I have just come out of Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man. It is a very good film. Cohen's deep, deep voice is mesmerising and he has a wisdom that is self-aware, brilliant, beautiful, funny but not arrogant. I quess that is what 30 years of fame and studying under a Zen master does to one with natural genius. The live performances - apparently they were part of the 2005 Sydney Festival and performed in the opera house, which, I might add, I now feel stupid not knowing about - were mostly fantastic.
Performers such as Rufus and Martha Wainwright, Jarvis Cocker, Beth Orton and Antony (who's that?) take their singing (and their Leonard Cohen songs) very seriously. Possibly too seriously, but I suppose that is what makes them top singers. It was disconcerting to watch some of the performers sing in close-up, as their mannerisms and intensity were distracting and even a bit hypnotic. I would love to listen to the CD so I can experience the songs without the distraction of performance. It was, of course, great to hear Martha W. I adore her voice, though even the big screen couldn't really capture it - that loudness, that fullness. Rufus, one of whose CDs I own thanks to Paul D, turned out be a bit camp, which put me off a bit for some reason. I like the big orchestral sound of his album and didn't expect him to be so effeminately earnest.
What struck me most, though, was what a load of geeks the performers all were! I loved that they dressed funny - either by concerted choice or lack of fashion sense, how awkward or jarring or...wrong their movements were sometimes - either because the movement was felt rather than put on or because it was put on rather than felt. But they were true artists.
Nick Cave came across as particularly normal, which I didn't expect.
All in all, the movie was carefully put together, with a cabaret/dusky beat atmosphere. The performers, filmmakers, everyone, did a great justice to Cohen.
Yesterday was a full day. E threw a party on Saturday night for her birthday and I hung on with D and a couple of his bandmates til nearly the end, even after E retired to bed. I was woken up on Sunday morning at 9.30 by a phone call from T, who was soon to stop by for a quick visit on his way home from Geelong. We went to an Italian cafe on Lygon Street for coffee and Coke, then to Brunetti's for pastry and sandwich. I had a lovely fig-jam-filled pastry dusted with crumbled pistachios.
After T left, I went to see a sharehouse in South Yarra. It is a truly lovely little flat - all polished floor boards and white walls. It is very narrow and small but the two inhabitants, one boy and one girl, were genuine and lovely, without pretentions, whom I felt very at ease with. They are looking for a friend as well as a housemate. The nearest train station, Hawksburn, is on the Clayton campus line and South Yarra is on the tram line to Balaclava and St Kilda. I can see myself living in that flat.
Upon leaving South Yarra I hopped a train to the St Kilda festival. It was huge - in area and people, with three music stages, BMX and wakeboard competitions. Food, stalls, bars. There was a disconcerting wind blowing dead grass and sand into my eyes, food, hair, face. I ate grass-blown mint chocolate chip ice-cream while trying unsuccessfully to find a protected spot and feeling most unpleasant. Still, I felt I should explore the festival more. I had a bit of a wade at the beach, listened to a few songs by a unique and inspiring band of electrified violin, viola and cello, making all kinds of cool percussive and eerie and electronic sounds. The band's, FourPlay, website say their 'repertoire includes covers of diverse artists such as the Beastie Boys, Jeff Buckley, Depeche Mode, Charles Mingus, Radiohead and The Strokes, and their own originals, inspired by wide array of diverse music such as rock, dub, folk, gypsy, klezmer, electronica, post-rock, jazz and improv.'
In the evening I saw another sharehouse, the one in E Brunswick (yes, I did show up), which was inhabited by four girls, all students - three studying education, one in science. It was a huge house, with two full bathrooms and a large courtyard. The girls seemed quite young and fluffy, but laidback, easygoing, social. It would also be a good place to live - particularly because I'd feel comfortable having people over - often and whenever - which I hadn't felt in any other sharehouse interview. However, East Brunswick is quite far away from Clayton. Tomorrow I'll do the journey and see what it's like. Meanwhile I have other houses to visit.
It is back to being hot and sunny. I'm a vague bit burnt from yesterday. Last night D and M cooked an Indian feast - homemade kofta balls and naan, tandoori chicken, rice and pappadums. Lovely. We ate at around 11.00pm. E and I had a serious mess to clean up afterwards, which put E in a grumpy mood, muttering about why couldn't the boys clean up as they went along. The mess disappeared fairly quickly with two of us working through it.
I have written for a long time, so will go home to read. There's no one else in the cafe - so it is obvious how long I have been perched on this couch.
Location: corner Elgin and Drummond Streets, Carlton
Coffee: $2.50 - latte, good
Ruby's has a comforting greasy spoon sort of feel, with red brick floor and black-and-red board tables - nothing trendy or pretentious. But it does have a blue two-seater couch at the back, which I, indeed, have taken over
I have just come out of Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man. It is a very good film. Cohen's deep, deep voice is mesmerising and he has a wisdom that is self-aware, brilliant, beautiful, funny but not arrogant. I quess that is what 30 years of fame and studying under a Zen master does to one with natural genius. The live performances - apparently they were part of the 2005 Sydney Festival and performed in the opera house, which, I might add, I now feel stupid not knowing about - were mostly fantastic.
Performers such as Rufus and Martha Wainwright, Jarvis Cocker, Beth Orton and Antony (who's that?) take their singing (and their Leonard Cohen songs) very seriously. Possibly too seriously, but I suppose that is what makes them top singers. It was disconcerting to watch some of the performers sing in close-up, as their mannerisms and intensity were distracting and even a bit hypnotic. I would love to listen to the CD so I can experience the songs without the distraction of performance. It was, of course, great to hear Martha W. I adore her voice, though even the big screen couldn't really capture it - that loudness, that fullness. Rufus, one of whose CDs I own thanks to Paul D, turned out be a bit camp, which put me off a bit for some reason. I like the big orchestral sound of his album and didn't expect him to be so effeminately earnest.
What struck me most, though, was what a load of geeks the performers all were! I loved that they dressed funny - either by concerted choice or lack of fashion sense, how awkward or jarring or...wrong their movements were sometimes - either because the movement was felt rather than put on or because it was put on rather than felt. But they were true artists.
Nick Cave came across as particularly normal, which I didn't expect.
All in all, the movie was carefully put together, with a cabaret/dusky beat atmosphere. The performers, filmmakers, everyone, did a great justice to Cohen.
Yesterday was a full day. E threw a party on Saturday night for her birthday and I hung on with D and a couple of his bandmates til nearly the end, even after E retired to bed. I was woken up on Sunday morning at 9.30 by a phone call from T, who was soon to stop by for a quick visit on his way home from Geelong. We went to an Italian cafe on Lygon Street for coffee and Coke, then to Brunetti's for pastry and sandwich. I had a lovely fig-jam-filled pastry dusted with crumbled pistachios.
After T left, I went to see a sharehouse in South Yarra. It is a truly lovely little flat - all polished floor boards and white walls. It is very narrow and small but the two inhabitants, one boy and one girl, were genuine and lovely, without pretentions, whom I felt very at ease with. They are looking for a friend as well as a housemate. The nearest train station, Hawksburn, is on the Clayton campus line and South Yarra is on the tram line to Balaclava and St Kilda. I can see myself living in that flat.
Upon leaving South Yarra I hopped a train to the St Kilda festival. It was huge - in area and people, with three music stages, BMX and wakeboard competitions. Food, stalls, bars. There was a disconcerting wind blowing dead grass and sand into my eyes, food, hair, face. I ate grass-blown mint chocolate chip ice-cream while trying unsuccessfully to find a protected spot and feeling most unpleasant. Still, I felt I should explore the festival more. I had a bit of a wade at the beach, listened to a few songs by a unique and inspiring band of electrified violin, viola and cello, making all kinds of cool percussive and eerie and electronic sounds. The band's, FourPlay, website say their 'repertoire includes covers of diverse artists such as the Beastie Boys, Jeff Buckley, Depeche Mode, Charles Mingus, Radiohead and The Strokes, and their own originals, inspired by wide array of diverse music such as rock, dub, folk, gypsy, klezmer, electronica, post-rock, jazz and improv.'
In the evening I saw another sharehouse, the one in E Brunswick (yes, I did show up), which was inhabited by four girls, all students - three studying education, one in science. It was a huge house, with two full bathrooms and a large courtyard. The girls seemed quite young and fluffy, but laidback, easygoing, social. It would also be a good place to live - particularly because I'd feel comfortable having people over - often and whenever - which I hadn't felt in any other sharehouse interview. However, East Brunswick is quite far away from Clayton. Tomorrow I'll do the journey and see what it's like. Meanwhile I have other houses to visit.
It is back to being hot and sunny. I'm a vague bit burnt from yesterday. Last night D and M cooked an Indian feast - homemade kofta balls and naan, tandoori chicken, rice and pappadums. Lovely. We ate at around 11.00pm. E and I had a serious mess to clean up afterwards, which put E in a grumpy mood, muttering about why couldn't the boys clean up as they went along. The mess disappeared fairly quickly with two of us working through it.
I have written for a long time, so will go home to read. There's no one else in the cafe - so it is obvious how long I have been perched on this couch.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Cafe #5: Ti Amo2 Cucina Antica
Date: Friday, February 09, 2007, 10.30pm
Location: 305 Lygon Street, Carlton
Coffee: latte, good
I have just come from Brunswick East, where I was scoping out the area where lay a house I'm to see on Sunday. I don't know if I'll go, though, as it is further out than I expected and not near anything particular - just big roads and old neighbourhoods.
Readings is next door and it is good to see it still open.
Thanks to google, where I found a blurb about Freud's conception of construction, I now know why interpretation is local and construction is global. Interpretation is based on the specific text or mind or conversation or personality. Construction is made with the larger context of culture and cultural understanding and influence. At least that is what I think.
I had a nice day today. I saw an apartment in Balaclava. This is where I would like to live. Not only is it on the Monash end of town, but it is the Jewish area. I saw so many yalmukahs! There were Jewish delis and bakeries - with bagels and ruggelah and blintzes and gefilte fish and eggplant dip! But no knishes. I couldn't find knishes in Bondi either. I miss knishes! Are knishes American Jewish food? Or New York Jewish food?
The idea of living in a Jewish neighbourhood tickles me and may feel like home? I want to see what Australian Jews are really like. Are there Jewish Australian Princesses? At the same time I resist this urge. I am so angry at Israel as a state and Jews as a people. That Wall and occupation are so unforgivable and it is worst of all that it is precisely the Jews who are doing it. Yet there is this constant need in me, at least here in Australia, to identify as Jewish - I can drive friends crazy mentioning who, what, how is Jewish. I blame my mother. I don't understand quite why I feel this way when I distrust the whole notion of nationality and ethnic identification. Though I don't seem to have an ethnic attachment to a bit of land itself, that attachment that often accompanies war, I do seem to have this desire to be part of a specific, individually ethnoculturally defined community. Maybe if I lived in the Jewish bit of town I'd get over it? I didn't see any Hasids but I suspect Balaclava is a fairly Orthodox area - I heard a woman wish another Good Shabbas.
In addition to Jewish food shops, there was also a surprisingly large number of bargain stores crammed with nice, cheap, frivolous crap - beautiful candles, frames, glassware, baskets and all sorts of junk. Precisely the kind of junk shop I use to decorate my house! Also plenty of cafes. But no used bookstores. Unfortunately the potential flatmate wasn't a match. When I mentioned having Canberra friends stay over, the quiet, little, young Chinese accountant looked very dubious. She was not the social sort, but very sweet. Too bad. In addition, the apartment was ugly brown and small, though the available room was big. I'm beginning to despair of a room!
After leaving the apartment I went to St Kilda beach, since it is on the same tram line as Balaclava. It would be lovely to live such a short tram ride from the beach!
I bought some not so good peaches and plums and a bottle of iced coffee and read on the beach. Waded a bit. Then took a loooong train ride back to Carlton.
It is amazing how little I can eat when I have all day to play, work, walk - I haven't been hungry. Such a revelation! Hope I can keep it up.
No book tonight as the cafe is closing, so I should go. Mayble I'll stroll around Readings.
Location: 305 Lygon Street, Carlton
Coffee: latte, good
I have just come from Brunswick East, where I was scoping out the area where lay a house I'm to see on Sunday. I don't know if I'll go, though, as it is further out than I expected and not near anything particular - just big roads and old neighbourhoods.
Readings is next door and it is good to see it still open.
Thanks to google, where I found a blurb about Freud's conception of construction, I now know why interpretation is local and construction is global. Interpretation is based on the specific text or mind or conversation or personality. Construction is made with the larger context of culture and cultural understanding and influence. At least that is what I think.
I had a nice day today. I saw an apartment in Balaclava. This is where I would like to live. Not only is it on the Monash end of town, but it is the Jewish area. I saw so many yalmukahs! There were Jewish delis and bakeries - with bagels and ruggelah and blintzes and gefilte fish and eggplant dip! But no knishes. I couldn't find knishes in Bondi either. I miss knishes! Are knishes American Jewish food? Or New York Jewish food?
The idea of living in a Jewish neighbourhood tickles me and may feel like home? I want to see what Australian Jews are really like. Are there Jewish Australian Princesses? At the same time I resist this urge. I am so angry at Israel as a state and Jews as a people. That Wall and occupation are so unforgivable and it is worst of all that it is precisely the Jews who are doing it. Yet there is this constant need in me, at least here in Australia, to identify as Jewish - I can drive friends crazy mentioning who, what, how is Jewish. I blame my mother. I don't understand quite why I feel this way when I distrust the whole notion of nationality and ethnic identification. Though I don't seem to have an ethnic attachment to a bit of land itself, that attachment that often accompanies war, I do seem to have this desire to be part of a specific, individually ethnoculturally defined community. Maybe if I lived in the Jewish bit of town I'd get over it? I didn't see any Hasids but I suspect Balaclava is a fairly Orthodox area - I heard a woman wish another Good Shabbas.
In addition to Jewish food shops, there was also a surprisingly large number of bargain stores crammed with nice, cheap, frivolous crap - beautiful candles, frames, glassware, baskets and all sorts of junk. Precisely the kind of junk shop I use to decorate my house! Also plenty of cafes. But no used bookstores. Unfortunately the potential flatmate wasn't a match. When I mentioned having Canberra friends stay over, the quiet, little, young Chinese accountant looked very dubious. She was not the social sort, but very sweet. Too bad. In addition, the apartment was ugly brown and small, though the available room was big. I'm beginning to despair of a room!
After leaving the apartment I went to St Kilda beach, since it is on the same tram line as Balaclava. It would be lovely to live such a short tram ride from the beach!
I bought some not so good peaches and plums and a bottle of iced coffee and read on the beach. Waded a bit. Then took a loooong train ride back to Carlton.
It is amazing how little I can eat when I have all day to play, work, walk - I haven't been hungry. Such a revelation! Hope I can keep it up.
No book tonight as the cafe is closing, so I should go. Mayble I'll stroll around Readings.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Cafe #4: Brunetti's
Date: Thursday, 08 February 2007, 6.30pm
Location: Faraday and Lygon Streets, Carlton
Coffee: $3.00 (I think) - cannoli, $2.50
Reading: The Pragmatics of Interpretation
I suppose this must be a famous Italian bakery. It is long horizontally, with the pebbly tile floor, steel and glass casing atmosphere of an old-time upscale department store. There is a long case of cookies and pastries, formal and cafe-style dining areas. I picked up a glass of water from the waiter at the cafe counter, which I ordered with my cannoli at the take-away pastry counter. I am outside.
I've opted to try a cannoli instead of coffee. It is very nice, authentic, with a good anise flavour.
It was cold again today, but the sun came out late this afternoon.
If it were not for my $13.00 pocket UBD (city maps) I think I would be crying on streetcorners. It fits perfectly into the green purse Kirsten gave me for my birthday (along with another book as well!). I'm getting used to carrying around a handbag (round wooden handles) rather than a backpack. I haven't lost it yet.
I met L for lunch today. We went to Chinatown and I picked out a dumpling restaurant that had steamed vegetable dumplings and vegetarian duck on the menu. It turned out to be the pink restaurant that A and I found and enjoyed years ago. I remembered it because it was cheap, yummy and had fake meat. It is on Little Bourke Street. I ordered vegetarian duck and noodle soup and radish cake dim sims. The radish cakes were very nice, the soup basic and good, but the duck looked like gluten out of a can. It was not the gourmet duck-like stuff of the proper mock meat restaurants. Still, it was a cheap meal ($5.50 for the soup) and I couldn't finish it (imagine, me not finishing a meal!).
Last night E, K of Pretty_Ugly fame, and I went to a new Morrocan restaurant that E has wanted to try. Rather than order couscous and vegetables, which I can make at home, I got besarra, an "African hummus" made with broad beans instead of chickpeas and different spices, tumeric definitely. It was served warm, with a layer of olive oil. I also ate most of the warm marinated olives that came out before the meal, as neither Erin nor Kelly eat olives. They were lovely warm and I ate many olives. I ate too many beans (I had lentils for lunch) and stressed my digestive system.
After eating and chatting we went to see a band called The Time of the Assassins at what E assures me is a famous and beloved Melbourne emerging band spot, The Tote. The band was like early Pink floyd meets Radiohead, meets Patti Smith, meets other bands I've only heard of. Lots of mellow musical repetition, sweetly screechy guitar, vocal screaming and nice vocal work on the part of the female singer. Unfortunately the vocals were quite drowned out by the music and aside from being too loud, I liked the set, which had moments of beauty.
I am jumpstarting my studies with Pragmatics of Interpretation, which I brought with me from Canberra after finding at A Suitable Book. Already I encounter words I understand making meaning beyond me: "interpretation is local, construction is global: the difference is of scale, not structure". I don't know what is inherently small town about interpretation and worldwide about construction. I suppose when I read about Freud's notion of construction, lo and behold, I will understand!
Location: Faraday and Lygon Streets, Carlton
Coffee: $3.00 (I think) - cannoli, $2.50
Reading: The Pragmatics of Interpretation
I suppose this must be a famous Italian bakery. It is long horizontally, with the pebbly tile floor, steel and glass casing atmosphere of an old-time upscale department store. There is a long case of cookies and pastries, formal and cafe-style dining areas. I picked up a glass of water from the waiter at the cafe counter, which I ordered with my cannoli at the take-away pastry counter. I am outside.
I've opted to try a cannoli instead of coffee. It is very nice, authentic, with a good anise flavour.
It was cold again today, but the sun came out late this afternoon.
If it were not for my $13.00 pocket UBD (city maps) I think I would be crying on streetcorners. It fits perfectly into the green purse Kirsten gave me for my birthday (along with another book as well!). I'm getting used to carrying around a handbag (round wooden handles) rather than a backpack. I haven't lost it yet.
I met L for lunch today. We went to Chinatown and I picked out a dumpling restaurant that had steamed vegetable dumplings and vegetarian duck on the menu. It turned out to be the pink restaurant that A and I found and enjoyed years ago. I remembered it because it was cheap, yummy and had fake meat. It is on Little Bourke Street. I ordered vegetarian duck and noodle soup and radish cake dim sims. The radish cakes were very nice, the soup basic and good, but the duck looked like gluten out of a can. It was not the gourmet duck-like stuff of the proper mock meat restaurants. Still, it was a cheap meal ($5.50 for the soup) and I couldn't finish it (imagine, me not finishing a meal!).
Last night E, K of Pretty_Ugly fame, and I went to a new Morrocan restaurant that E has wanted to try. Rather than order couscous and vegetables, which I can make at home, I got besarra, an "African hummus" made with broad beans instead of chickpeas and different spices, tumeric definitely. It was served warm, with a layer of olive oil. I also ate most of the warm marinated olives that came out before the meal, as neither Erin nor Kelly eat olives. They were lovely warm and I ate many olives. I ate too many beans (I had lentils for lunch) and stressed my digestive system.
After eating and chatting we went to see a band called The Time of the Assassins at what E assures me is a famous and beloved Melbourne emerging band spot, The Tote. The band was like early Pink floyd meets Radiohead, meets Patti Smith, meets other bands I've only heard of. Lots of mellow musical repetition, sweetly screechy guitar, vocal screaming and nice vocal work on the part of the female singer. Unfortunately the vocals were quite drowned out by the music and aside from being too loud, I liked the set, which had moments of beauty.
I am jumpstarting my studies with Pragmatics of Interpretation, which I brought with me from Canberra after finding at A Suitable Book. Already I encounter words I understand making meaning beyond me: "interpretation is local, construction is global: the difference is of scale, not structure". I don't know what is inherently small town about interpretation and worldwide about construction. I suppose when I read about Freud's notion of construction, lo and behold, I will understand!
Cafe #3: The Rathdowne Street Food Store
Date: Wednesday, 07 February 2007, 1.00pm
Location: #617 Rathdowne Street, Carlton North
Coffee: $3.00 - latte, okay
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
I am sitting outside at a white-clothed round table, under an umbrella. The shopfront is dark grey-blue, with a red-hued interior dining room hinted at through a back doorway. I've eaten a piece of lemon curd pie because I didn't feel comfortable just ordering coffee. This is not a cheap cafe, but the other cafes just before were fronted by filled-up outdoor tables.
The bowl of cream that came with my cake was lovely and huge. The cake was lovely too. I can eat very slowly when I want to justify prolonged cafe lounging by having food on the table in front of me!
Last night I visited a great sharehouse. Two-storey, with paintings and postcards splashing the walls, wafts of incense, an enormous bathroom and inhabited by three girls, one wearing a dusty-rose scarf of large smooth sequins. I'd love to live there but I have much competition. I tried to win over the woman with the scarf with my feminist credentials but I'm not sure if it worked. Would be excellent to live so near Erin as well.
After the hot days of earlier in the week, it is cloudy and around 19 degrees celsius, a bit breezy. I wonder if it will rain.
This is not a cafe in which to feel comfortable overstaying my welcome. Shall be off to Alice's Book Shop a few doors down.
Location: #617 Rathdowne Street, Carlton North
Coffee: $3.00 - latte, okay
Reading: Interpretation as Pragmatics
I am sitting outside at a white-clothed round table, under an umbrella. The shopfront is dark grey-blue, with a red-hued interior dining room hinted at through a back doorway. I've eaten a piece of lemon curd pie because I didn't feel comfortable just ordering coffee. This is not a cheap cafe, but the other cafes just before were fronted by filled-up outdoor tables.
The bowl of cream that came with my cake was lovely and huge. The cake was lovely too. I can eat very slowly when I want to justify prolonged cafe lounging by having food on the table in front of me!
Last night I visited a great sharehouse. Two-storey, with paintings and postcards splashing the walls, wafts of incense, an enormous bathroom and inhabited by three girls, one wearing a dusty-rose scarf of large smooth sequins. I'd love to live there but I have much competition. I tried to win over the woman with the scarf with my feminist credentials but I'm not sure if it worked. Would be excellent to live so near Erin as well.
After the hot days of earlier in the week, it is cloudy and around 19 degrees celsius, a bit breezy. I wonder if it will rain.
This is not a cafe in which to feel comfortable overstaying my welcome. Shall be off to Alice's Book Shop a few doors down.
Cafe #2: Pushka
Date: Tuesday, 06 February 2007, 10.45am
Location: Presgrave Place, off Howey Place, Melbourne
Coffee: $2.80 - latte, good
Reading: The Handmaid's Tale
The latte has leaf-patterned froth. Is Not Magazine is on a wall. There are a few chairs and a coffee table outside in a grubby alleyway.
I sit on a square wooden stool in an alleyway of a cafe, looking out at air conditioning units and Hazchem sign and "Film Distallate Only" stencilled on the side of a building.
The cafe has two dashes of black and white parquet floor. The barista wears a French-like stripey shirt, goatee and beret in traditional men's suit brown plaid. A lively group of young Punk Rock Princesses with pink and black tulle miniskirts, boots and various sorts of leggings and trousers have just wandered in.
The bar is grey, black and white little tile. A small fishtank sits on the counter and a sign on the red wall across says "Procastinate, Please Don't Do Hard Work". There is ethnicy Africany music in the background.
Last night was E, D and friends' weekly Mexican night. We ate at M's wealthy grandmother's house a very short way from E's. She had shiny wooden floors and an indoor balcony. We ate beautiful home-cooked nachos, tacos and enchiladas.
Not much else - it's a new day!
Definitely a cafe to return to.
Location: Presgrave Place, off Howey Place, Melbourne
Coffee: $2.80 - latte, good
Reading: The Handmaid's Tale
The latte has leaf-patterned froth. Is Not Magazine is on a wall. There are a few chairs and a coffee table outside in a grubby alleyway.
I sit on a square wooden stool in an alleyway of a cafe, looking out at air conditioning units and Hazchem sign and "Film Distallate Only" stencilled on the side of a building.
The cafe has two dashes of black and white parquet floor. The barista wears a French-like stripey shirt, goatee and beret in traditional men's suit brown plaid. A lively group of young Punk Rock Princesses with pink and black tulle miniskirts, boots and various sorts of leggings and trousers have just wandered in.
The bar is grey, black and white little tile. A small fishtank sits on the counter and a sign on the red wall across says "Procastinate, Please Don't Do Hard Work". There is ethnicy Africany music in the background.
Last night was E, D and friends' weekly Mexican night. We ate at M's wealthy grandmother's house a very short way from E's. She had shiny wooden floors and an indoor balcony. We ate beautiful home-cooked nachos, tacos and enchiladas.
Not much else - it's a new day!
Definitely a cafe to return to.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Cafe #1: 80 Spaces
Date: Monday, 05 February 07, 2.00pm
Location: James and Chapel Streets, Windsor
Coffee: $3.90 - cappucino, average
Reading: The Handmaid's Tale
I can tell - to choose outside or in will be a source of irrelevant stress. At least in the summer.
80 Spaces is long and narrow, brown and woody, muted despite unshaded light globes. Modern, funky jazz in the background, spotty swirly dark industrial flooring.
I've just looked at my third sharehouse. This was by far the nicest - and most expensive. Lovely light blue slighly white/green walls, living with an older man into Eastern/Western spirituality, Neoplatonic philosophy, avant gard and Asian dance, and wellness. He has recently returned from India where he was writing a book about the history of Tarot, and he raised three daughters as a single parent. He has just moved to the Windsor house with his casual girlfriend of seven or so years. He is French, grew up in Chicago. The house is near the train and tram, on the Monash side of town, and near the famous Chapel Street. This last, indeed, does not appeal.
It is a sunny, clear-skied, hot and beautiful day.
Upon leaving the cafe I spy Syber's Books on 38 Chapel Street: 3 cats, expensive, have The Chess Garden! For $14! Didn't buy!
There was a good bargain bin outside and I bought The Harmony Silk Factor and The Grapes of Wrath and The Master Butcher's Singing Club for a dollar each. Not that I need more books, oh no. I think I have an addiction problem...
Location: James and Chapel Streets, Windsor
Coffee: $3.90 - cappucino, average
Reading: The Handmaid's Tale
I can tell - to choose outside or in will be a source of irrelevant stress. At least in the summer.
80 Spaces is long and narrow, brown and woody, muted despite unshaded light globes. Modern, funky jazz in the background, spotty swirly dark industrial flooring.
I've just looked at my third sharehouse. This was by far the nicest - and most expensive. Lovely light blue slighly white/green walls, living with an older man into Eastern/Western spirituality, Neoplatonic philosophy, avant gard and Asian dance, and wellness. He has recently returned from India where he was writing a book about the history of Tarot, and he raised three daughters as a single parent. He has just moved to the Windsor house with his casual girlfriend of seven or so years. He is French, grew up in Chicago. The house is near the train and tram, on the Monash side of town, and near the famous Chapel Street. This last, indeed, does not appeal.
It is a sunny, clear-skied, hot and beautiful day.
Upon leaving the cafe I spy Syber's Books on 38 Chapel Street: 3 cats, expensive, have The Chess Garden! For $14! Didn't buy!
There was a good bargain bin outside and I bought The Harmony Silk Factor and The Grapes of Wrath and The Master Butcher's Singing Club for a dollar each. Not that I need more books, oh no. I think I have an addiction problem...
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