Nothing makes you appreciate a fantastic day like only experiencing the last few moments of it because you've been inside at work all day.
Don't get me wrong, my job is awesome, but it's also undeniably... well, on the converted top floor of a shopping mall. Wistful stares out the balcony windows during briefings on days like today are not at all uncommon.
So here's my proposal: why not an outdoor science centre?
Obviously you can't install a Tesla coil in a park (or could you?), but there's no reason that a about half of the stuff on the floor at work couldn't be just put straight outside, and probably even more of it with a little weather-hardening.
You could do a pretty mean giant Newton's Cradle. A jumbo size version of Air Mail would be awesome. We've got this whole section of maths problems for solving, stuff like the Towers of Hanoi and the Dog/cat/bird puzzle which could be done - again jumbo large - using pretty standard playground construction techniques. Maybe a harmonograph that you load up with sand and watch it pour out on the ground?
It opens up loads of possibilities you can't do inside too. You could do a whole thing on fluid dynamics with rainwater, and a thing on efficiency of solar panels - maybe with ruggedised weatherproofed components to plug 'em into to compare energy usage. And bring back that thing with the plants growing under different coloured filters to demonstrate how chlorophyll works, only you can just stick some biggish filters over regular plants in the ground. And obviously, as you can probably see, the scale of everything can be much bigger.
The only things you couldn't really do is anything with consumables, like paper planes now, and anything requiring sort of precision electronics.
You wouldn't even have to lose the demonstration stage. Imagine the kind of explosions you could do without having to isolate the fire alarms...
Anyway, just food for thought.
The contents of this post, obviously I'd hope, don't reflect the official opinions of Scitech in any way.0 comments
I think it's time I properly defined my relationship with alcohol. For myself, and for other people. Mostly for myself though.
Probably the best place to start is history. I didn't drink through high school. This is partly out of a possibly misplaced desire to follow the rules, partly out of a desire to differentiate myself from the kids who did drink, who were kind of douchey about it, and partly because I was part of a group which, for whatever infintely nested other reasons, didn't drink much themselves.
Then, instead of going on leavers after graduating, I went travelling through Egypt and Europe and picked up some Hepatitis A, which meant I not only missed everyone's customary introduction to total inebriation at leavers, but I also spent the next twelve months not allowed to drink under the threat of permanently damaging my poor, recovering liver. This meant that I spent the first year of uni, again a customary introduction ground for drinking, avoiding precisely the kind of camps that PerthNow likes to write about.
The few parties that I did go to, I was one of the token sober guys. This meant either pretending to be drunk in order to socialise with other drunk people, or standing uncomfortably in the corner. Usually the latter. I think the stereotype is pretty clear that drunk people are not fun to be with when you're sober, and my experiences back that up.
And I guess as a corollary to that, drunk people don't particularly like a sober person around "judging them". This led to quite a few instances of people 'trying to get Rocky drunk' which as a stubborn bastard I was having none of.
So here's basically what that means. A combination of unfamiliarity and medical reasons both left me isolated from drinking culture and occasionally cast as the one sober guy around drunk people. This left me pretty uncomfortable with alcohol, and when my medically required one year was up, I kept avoiding the stuff for a while out of sheer force of habit.
By my reckoning these are the reasons behind my gut dislike for alcohol. To go along with those I have some rationalisations, which I more or less agree with - but they are just that, rationalisations. My usual ones are something like these:
In the interests of balance, here are some reasons I do drink:
So now I am going to talk very emphatically about some things which are not in this manifesto:
This stuff has sort of come to a head recently. I think a lot of my friends get the impression that I judge them for drinking. I need to say this as emphatically as I can: I don't. I don't think alcohol is an evil thing that should go away. I don't respect anyone any less because they drink. And I don't want to force, or push, or suggest what are ultimately my choices about my actions onto anybody else. Do what makes you happy. Choose for yourself, not for the people around you.
I know writing this down has helped me figure out where I stand, and I hope that articulating this helps clear some stuff up.
Back, and better than ever. And not just back from Europe, either.
If you've tried to visit the site in the last, oh, 24 hours or so, you were probably greeted with this:
That's because I've been in the process of upgrading this site to blogtools 2, my self-written blog engine that's so crap that it doesn't even deserve a capital letter.
There are relatively few front-facing improvements in this version - just about the only one that you'll notice is that comment boxes now support Markdown for your formatting pleasure. On my end, though, it's much easier to maintain and extend.
The code is available under the MIT license - that means you can not just look at it, but build your own stuff with it too - and you can find it at http://code.google.com/p/blogtoolsdotpy/.
Thanks for your patience and attention!1 comments
Well, this is awkward. Been back for almost a month, and still haven't finished the travel blog. Oops. Okay. Let's do this.
Paris is built on a series of tunnels. Actually, since they were originally quarries, I guess you could say that it's technically also built from those tunnels. In about the
So we did. We had to get up ridiculously early and catch the Metro with all the commuters and get there an hour before it opened so that we were reasonably near the front of a queue that would eventually stretch around the block and back past the entrance again, but we did.
I'm not actually sure I'd seen a real human skull before this. Especially not from a human who lived in the last few hundred years, and I'd certainly never walked down a corridor made of them before. The effect was eerie.
I think a huge amount of that is intentional. The catacombs were at one point just a big ol' tunnel full of bones, but at some point a French bloke decided to romanticise them a bit, and set about carefully tiling them and insetting them with pillars and altars and slabs inscribed with memento mori style poetry. It's the difference between an essentially hygiene-driven disposal of bodies, and a temple to the concept of death. Or, I guess, a bit like the difference between a morgue and a graveyard. Between, for want of more sophisticated words, creepy and spooky.
I thoroughly enjoyed it. Pretty much the only downside was the audioguides. Nothing against these particular ones - they were very well-produced and informative. I just almost wish that I hadn't known quite so much about what I was looking at. There's a certain pleasure in stumbling on something and wondering first, then understanding, rather than having understanding injected into your earholes as you walk.
We spent the afternoon after that in Montmartre, the famously artsy part of town. If the 'mont' didn't clue you in, Montmartre is on a hill, and it meant quite a lot of walking was involed to get there. The result, however, was worth it. Wait, no, not the view. I meant this:
Because you gotta have a charicature done in Montmartre, right?
Jess and Morgan took themselves off to a date at this point, while Grace and I took Ben to see the Eiffel tower. Somehow he had made it an entire week in Paris without seeing the tower up close, merely as a tower-y smear on the horizon.
Despite what the signs in the metro say, the best station to get off at for the Eiffel Tower is Trocadero. This is because when you get off, you can't actually see it - you're behind some impressive-looking building, and there's nary a tower in sight. And then you walk around the corner, and there it is towering over you.
This accident of architecture prompted the following response from Ben:
Ben: "Holy butts! That's an Eiffel Tower!"
Which just by itself I think was worth the wait.
We did the thing that everyone does when you see the Eiffel tower. You wander down, sort of gawking up at it, until you're right underneath, and suddenly this world-famous monument turns into a really intricate bit of engineering surrounded by street vendors selling copies of it on a keychain. Then you wander back a bit, and find a crepe stand, and buy very overpriced nutella crepes while every so often turning around to look at the tower again, because it's something that's so famous, and so surprisingly big, and, well, holy butts, it's the Eiffel Tower, right?
(I'm not sure that that's actually the canonical way to see the Tower, but it sure seems like it should be.)
I had a bit of a moment walking back up the stairs. We were coming to the end of the trip, and there's something about seeing something so iconic, not for the first time, but possibly the last time (at least for a while), and I was suddenly very conscious of it. I don't usually get sentimental about views, but just this once, I stood there and for a bit and just drank it in.
Friday was our last day in France, and we pretty much spent it at Versailles. I've learned on this trip that I get a bit crabby if I don't have breakfast, and I think it's fair to extrapolate that to everyone else too. Especially coupled with a very early morning and a train trip that made us woozy but wasn't quite enough to send us to sleep, and a queue that seemed to stretch forever to actually get inside.
What we ended up doing was taking a walk through the gardens, grabbing a bite to eat, and spending a couple of hours relaxing and napping next to the lake. I got wonderfully, gloriously sunburnt, in a way that no weaksauce winter sunshine in Perth could possibly match, and hired a rowboat for a while.
(There's a story about how I went up to the rowboat hire guy and, after opening with a perfectly accented French 'bonjour', blanked on the word for 'boat' and then said in perfectly accented Australian English, "One boat please", much to the dismay of the Frenchman at the counter. But Grace tells it better, you should ask her.)
As for the palace, it was... opulent. In a way that only aristocracy can manage. I'm not actually a huge fan of having every surface covered in ornately carved ostentatiously gold-leafed squiggles and, if I'm honest, I got pretty tired of being pulled along with a current of other tourists. With the exception of the Hall of Mirrors, which was amazing, and has 'x was here' graffiti from before I was born (which I think is pretty cool), the inside of the palace was a bit of a wash for me, I think. I would rather have spent more time exploring the gardens, which were just as fascinating, but much less crowded and much less expensive.
That evening, Jess took us out to dinner at possibly the Frenchest French restaurant in Paris. It was delicious - 'specially the foie gras, which I know is bad but oh my gosh - and gave us all a bit of a chance to look back on the trip. We played favourites (I believe a list exists somewhere, which I'll stick in a comment) and aired some greivances, and it was a really pleasant way to wrap up the trip.
So what did I think?
I now know that I have the basic competence to travel, on my own, for five weeks, on the other side of the world, on my own dime. Not that I didn't think I could, but having the experience to back that up is satisfying.
I learned that holidaying with mates is just as much of an exercise in compromise as holidaying with your dad. And that's okay, as long as everyone knows that going in.
I discovered that you can get a decent impression of a country in just a couple of days, but if that impression makes you want to stay then you'll never want to leave.
I got properly, properly drunk, for the first time in my life, and while I have no particular desire to do it again, I can't think of a better place to have done it than Dublin.
I also saw a musical for the first time in my life, and while I have no particular desire to do it again, I can't think of a better place to have done it than London.
I travelled lighter than last time, and had a much easier time dealing with my luggage, and next time I'll probably take even less. That said;
I really, really enjoy writing - and publishing - about where I go. It roots me in the place I am, and makes me notice details, and gets me thinking about my experience, and then forges all of that into a narrative rather than a series of disparate memories. And doing all that on a smartphone, as gratifying as it is to travel light, is really bloody difficult. Next time I'm taking a laptop.
I found a part of myself that really enjoys just shamelessly being a tourist, despite the rest of me's utter disdain for it, and I actually don't think it's that incompatible with also wanting an authentic experience.
I learned a lot about how I think about art, and culture, and history, and where it is that the roots of the society I grew up in actually came from.
I discovered that visiting places you've already been with new people can be just as interesting as visiting new places. And that places you never thought you'd enjoy, or that you thought you already knew, can be transformed by someone else's perspective. And that having other people's plans differ from your own can take you places you'd never even think to go on your own.
And that sometimes, it's not where you go that matters. It's who goes there with you.
Thanks for reading.
It's here that, true to my subject matter, I have to diverge from a strictly linear story.
There is a lot of art in Paris. A lot. And it is spread across many, many galleries. We managed to visit a few of them, and this is what I thought when we did.
Centre Pompidou (Monday)
I think my favourite thing about the Pompidou is the building itself. You can see all of its insides, and with those massive air vents, it sort of looks like a giant wind instrument that at any moment might start belching an enormous melody out across Paris.
The coolest bit of art - as opposed to architecture - I saw was this:
I have no idea why. I think it's the colours. Close second was a series of spherical objects arranged in order of size, culimating with an orange juice trailer with its indicators on:
The Pompidou's thing is modern art. My thing is not modern art. Frankly, I think a lot of it is kind of pretentious and trying too hard to be meta. I think, specifically, that asking 'what is art' in your art stopped being fascinating to ask basically immediately after Marcel Duchamp stuck a urinal on a wall. The Pompidou centre actually does pretty well on this front, at least by my book - there was only one thing that really pissed me off.
You can't really see, but it was a single nail, banged about a centimetre into a bit of wood, and stuck on a big blank wall. I don't care how famous or whatever that piece might be, or how uncultured it makes me, but I think that's pretentious and stupid. Unfortunately, as much as I hate to admit it, this had the effect of actually making me think about what I like in art, and that line of thought sort of came to dominate how I was approaching the rest of the art galleries we visited.
Musee Rodin (Tuesday)
By far the highlight of the Musee Rodin was the gardens, and the story of how the museum came to be a museum.
Basically - and take this with a grain of salt, because I am remembering translated French here - Rodin spent a significant part of his career becoming famous, and the once he was, proceeded to gift his entire now very prestigious collection of works to the French state. He did this on one condition - that they be housed in a hotel which Rodin very much enjoyed, but didn't actually own. Only after a protracted fight with French bureaucracy and his eventual death did the hotel finally become the Musee Rodin.
I guess the other big one was watching people pose with The Thinker. It's a relatively easy one to do, and the pedestal they put it on is almost-but-not-quite a bench, so it makes me wonder if imitating the pose and thereby coming to some kind of meditative state by proxy is sort of the point.
I hope so, because that makes Grace's statue imitations across Europe into legitimate engagement with art, which is pretty funny.
Walking around the d'Orsay for me was kind of an exercise in finding something that I really liked and preferably that I haven't seen before, and making generalisations about what I like in art from there. Seeing a lot of art in a short period of time seems to have made me concerned about having a defined 'taste' in art. On some level I'm aware this is kind of pointless, because I'm not informed enough about art to give anything I like a name - I like what I like, and trying to define that set in terms of anything other than the fact that I like it isn't really useful to anybody. Especially me, since I'll still have to look at something to decide if it fits my criteria, but I might as well just look at it and decided if I like it, right?
I really dug some sculptures by this guy called Francois Pompon. From what I can gather, the one that really grabbed me was his most famous one, The Polar Bear. Which looks like this:
I seriously sat and stared at this for about ten minutes. I think the only adjective that really suits it is 'majestic'. Seriously. Check out all its majesty.
The other one was, inexplicably, this one - The ascension of Poilu. I have no idea what it's about, but I find trying to figure out what it's about fascinating.
So here is the part where I generalise. There are two things, I think, which really matter to me in a bit of art. Actually, three. The first is that it has to be visually interesting. It's got to look cool and make me want to look at it in the first place. Generally, for me at least, that means it's brightly coloured rather than murky, and clean rather than fuzzy, and detailed rather than vague. Although, obviously, there are exceptions.
The second thing is that it has to either have cool subject matter, or cool execution. So either it depicts something that I find inspiring or evocative or thought provoking, or it's executed with skill that leaves me kind of awestruck. In the first category we have The Polar Bear. In the second, The Ascension. And to a certain extent, one of the three can make up for the others - this is where the abstract piece from the Pompidou comes in, I guess.
There's probably more to it than that, but that's enough to satisfy my need to categorise things.
Another building with a cool story. This one used to be a greenhouse for growing oranges.
The big one here is Monet's water lilies. They are big. Much bigger than I was expecting. Kind of the opposite of the Mona Lisa in that respect. They fill entire walls. Oddly, they panorama into one image really well. I wonder if that was intentional.
Maybe the reason they're so big is so that you can look at them from further away. Because they definitely look better from further away. I know, I checked. I may have kind of made an idiot of myself in the process by trying to pace out distances and spinning on the spot like a cowboy in a gunfight, but that is neither here nor there.
(Reader question: Does this, like imitating statues, also count as legitimate engagement with art? Discuss.)
The ideal distance is about 10 metres away, which is approximately two-thirds the width of the rooms they're in. Which means that, ironically, the one you're best off looking at from any given point in the room is not the one that you're closest to, it's the one on the opposite side of the room to you.
I can't help but see these paintings through the lens (no pun intended) of the fact that Monet went blind later in his life. I know the impressionism thing has its own reasons and was entirely intentional, but that's still what I thought. Apparently other people think that too, because Grace and Jess both made comments along the lines of "it's like I'm looking across a room into a window of how the universe looks without my contacts in." Oddly, Grace liked this feeling, and Jess, if I recall, was not overly fond of it. Feel free to correct me, but take from that what you will.
This was an experiment in themed visits, in choosing the subset of the Louvre that you want to experience, rather than trying to see everything.
I don't know about anyone else, but I can only look at so much art before I... well, get bored. I get art fatigue. So the theme I chose for this visit was initially "not art". It eventually expanded to be "Oriental Mediterranean in the Late Roman Empire" - basically, Egypt and thereabouts under Roman rule.
I really enjoyed this visit. It was nice to be able to stand and read the French. It was nice to find a section of stuff that pretty much just appealed to me, and wander alone. It was nice to find something away from the crowds thronging around the Mona Lisa.
It was neat to find Roman-style paintings preserved by adopted Egyptian bural customs, and to see Egyptian gods adopted as official patrons of the Empire. I think we sometimes forget that mixing of cultures isn't exactly something new.
It was neat to see stuff that's this impossibly old, and wasn't necessarily chosen to be preserved. It's cool to see fragments of everyday life. It's fascinating and frustrating to see writing, different people's handwriting, in a language that nobody spoke for thousands of years.
It's fun to see things that you understand, like being able to look at a black-figure and a red-figure vase and name them and say that they were from different periods, without reading the sign. It's fun to read the sign, and find out you were right.
(Aside: I am so glad I did Classics. So, so glad.)
It's pretty remarkable that some of this stuff even exists, and even more remarkable the lengths we go to to preserve our past. I mean seriously - how the hell do you preserve and move a floor mosaic the size of a house? I find the whole process fascinating. I think I might have enjoyed archaeology.
I don't know which Louvre I'll see next time, but this time, this Louvre, was pretty damn cool.0 comments
Archives© Rockwell McGellin