Saturday, November 23, 2002

"Mollee! This afternoon is ze big Pedalo Race for visitors, so this morning you must 'ave lots of practice!" Boynton has spent a languorous afternoon with the cricket on revisiting such literary Girls Crystal gems, as Molly's Thrilling Pedalo Race "As Told to Doris Graham " - (or is that really G Cecil Gravely?)
Boynton was drawn to the story by an illustration of Molly in deep shock, facing a man in a beret:
"I regret, ma'amoiselle, but your name is not on my list," the steward told me. Something had happened to my entry form for the vital Pedalo Race!" Anyone who knows her will testify that this is Boynton's own life experience. Something is always happening to my entry form as well. Oh well, off now in search of more languorous surroundings to dream of a perfect evening and study Chapter 3: "My plan to Bowl out the trickster" .

Friday, November 22, 2002

This is a bit like the benign cat chasing the mouse, but creepier (via b3ta)
it's beginning to feel a lot like cricket. Is it that the contest has suddenly kicked in, or that Adelaide looks so good, or that in this perfect Melbourne weather the sound of muted commentary trickling though the house no longer feels premature? Watching the doco on the Chappell era the other night, there was that blast from the past of old pre-packer broadcasting. It wasn't just nostalgia that had Boynton jumping up and down and cheering as Lillee came into bowl. It was the sense that we were merely spectating, that the game itself was bigger than the presence of TV cameras. That it was secondary to being there, and you could see it in the intensity of people at the ground. Even the old "missing" every second over routine was ok by Boynton - it didn't corrupt the game's essential rhythm - the literal ebb and flow of different ends (and on the old ABC - the interval of overs). Of course the old B&W coloured lense of nostalgia may have been at work, as Boynton caught certain Proustian triggers of lounge-rooms past; in the silhouette of Ian Redpath, the toweling hatted kids waiting to run onto the ground, even the unmediated calling of Norman May.

Thursday, November 21, 2002

footnote.The little dog must weigh a fair ton?

At first I thought I was back in the 50's water, but soon realised things were much, much darker. (via Prandial Post)
Rivals of the Schoolgirl Annual Collection

Gosh Hetty! Boynton's collapsed!
It's alright Nora. She's just recovering from discovering this page

Still getting over it. Boynton's Own collection is quite impressive, but nothing will match the memory of growing up with an aunt's 1959 edition as a child, nor her first (op-shop) addition (1958) . These covers promise it all: picnics, paddle-boats, and tea-rooms, and Boynton is always hoping that life will one day match those colours.

(nb 1955 is what you hope for, paddle-boat and waving man. 1954 is what you get: 2 dogs, the larger one becoming boss of the see-saw.)

Wednesday, November 20, 2002

Pet the kitty and make it purr says the link on Pop Culture Junk Mail. Purring - is it?... Bronte (Jack russell) believes it - she jumped out of basket underneath table to investigate.
Spiders and tangled webs. Boynton's post re mcb and huntsmen started a thing about blog v email. Did we err - or where's the line - is there one? It seems fairly common out there within clustering communities to use the private space of a blog as a usenet style notice-board, and one of the "reasons to blog" for Boynton was certainly to streamline the emailing links to friends deal. This issue sent Boynton off googling. Among the general articles on blog-soup, Meg Hourihan What we're doing when we blog observes:
Emails are often rapidly incorporated back into the site's content, creating a nearly real-time communication channel between the blog's primary author (its creator) and its secondary authors (the readers who email and comment)...
Moments of shared experience can be powerful connectors. They happen in the offline world when two strangers on the subway chuckle at the same funny billboard, and make eye contact as they do so. In the online world, they happen when I'm thinking about buying an iBook and I read on your blog that you've just bought one, at the same time.

Sometimes reading blogs on blogs turns up too many of the jaded, sneery, content-police - or the pithy historical put-down, that can dent the confidence somewhat. To post a poor analogy, sometimes it's like climbing a tree- best not to look down. Maybe I'd glimpse my readership
Anyway, Boynton prefers the positive spin Meg puts on this sense of shared experience and connection.

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

A bit of precipitation about. Boynton was a special person at her niece's school today. She was taken on a tour by four mad nine year olds. "It's spitting" she told them as the other guests, all grandparents, inspected the premises beneath navy umbrellas. She was a generation short. But quickly lapsed into nine year old mode, with the restless toed, high-spirited fidgetty girl-gang speak, broken up with the odd outburst of skipping.

Found a digital poetry blog last night. Followed a link and found this wonderful project, an interview with American perfomance poet Kim Rosenfield. Both form and content are inspiring. Boynton relates to the "choreography of language" approach to text, and this makes her want to jump straight back into it.

Memo to team-mates. Had we only studied this, we might have won this. (via Lindsay Marshall)

Monday, November 18, 2002

Boynton posted an image of "Boynton" aka Erin O'Brien Moore earlier. She may disappear in time. Not sure if the strange 30's dame, looking rather sad n surly, will 'take over".

More things poetic, but of the aural kind. A BBC Radio 4 program "The Heard" sounds pretty good.( via As above)
Boynton has been reading a bit of blogging on blogging lately. One of the better reads. (via Anil's links)
Over the years Boynton has built up a not insubstantial collection of phobias. Good to see mcb shares the Huntsman one. Boynton has swapped creepy stories with friends for years, but has also made slow progress in spider-management. At least, like one fellow sufferer, she has never leapt from a moving vehicle to flee the thing. Yet.