[nothing]

[what is good is the trees and the garden
the quiet
and the sound of wind in the trees
like rain, like waves, like breath, the leaves:
spiralling onward
outlasting death]

Seeya sweetcheeks

Hey, you.

A few things have come up. I may not be around as much. But don't think I've forgotten you.

Alida

Linkety link-link

Remember the "user experience"? I know—what with FaceBook verily screaming up the popularity charts, it's easy to forget that these kinds of off-the-wall notions still matter.

Contrary to popular misconception, text also contributes to the user experience. Text can, for example, be "usable" or "unusable" (often it's just plain "useless").

Case in point: imagine that, in writing a text link to your website, you exclude the site's domain name in favour of the category keywords, like so:

"Visit PetBlog.com pet and animal blog."

Why would you do such a thing? Why, search rankings, of course.

Of course! Why else would anyone do something so clearly, obviously, unconscionably counter-intuitive? Why would anyone purposely reduce the usability of their content like this? Why would they obfuscate their own message?

Nope, I can't think of another reason.

Come on, Internet. Think! Think: scanning. Think: common sense. Think: human decency.

Maybe you don't care whether or not people to remember your domain. Maybe you don't care if they can scan the article for it or not. Maybe you think we're all chumps and all that matters is fickle, fickle search rank. Well, fine, moron. Good luck to you.

...and yes, if you like, you can tell me I'm being overly pedantic and taking this a little too personally in the comments. Whatever. I'm off to write some half-decent link text.

New-concept reality television

I can't think why I didn't come up with this astonishing new, blockbuster-worthy reality TV idea the last time I got on this bandwagon, but suffice it to say I didn't.

The new concept takes Masterchef and turns it on its head:

Master Leftovers-Chef

Anyone can make something decent from a nice loin of pork, some pear, pomegranate, balsamic vinegar, good olive oil and rocket. Anyone. If you fuck that up, you don't deserve a kitchen.

But who could make something decent from the ingredients with which I was faced this evening?

• cold mashed potato
• cold cooked linguini
• dried broccoli (yes, that made you sit up, didn't it?)*
• leftover salad
• a shriveled capsicum
• approximately half a cup of the green tomato chutney I'd just made but couldn't fit in the jar
• boring table cheese (although to be honest, interesting cheese would probably only have made matters worse)
  
• wilted beet tops**
  

I know what you're thinking: why didn't you thaw some frozen eggs*** and make a meal of it, sister?

I don't know why I didn't. Really, I don't. I would love to see George Colombaris and Gary Whoever-he-is make something edible from that lot. I dare them to. On Master Leftovers-Chef. Just try and tell me that doesn't have arse-on-seat appeal. Everyday cooks the country over would cheer. Cheer. I promise you.

And yes, dinner was actually pretty good, thank you for asking.

*In case you're wondering, I'm not kidding about any of this.
**Still not kidding.
***See above.

Subtext

Today I received this email:

Hi,

If I interview [web superstar], [internet rockstar], and [technology bigwig], will you accept these as guest posts?

Best,
[name]

I replied with charm and patience: that would depend on what you asked and what you wrote, etc. The subtext to my reply appears below.

Dear [name],

You call that a pitch? Even if I knew you personally, there's no way in hell I could give you an answer about the suitability of these would-be articles from what you've told me.

Big names aren't what I need here, see? They won't get you over the line. I need content, man, real material that says something. An interview with [technology bigwig] about his love of skinks (or whatever it is you have in mind -- clearly I have no idea what that might be) won't cut it.

Surely you realise this. So what's really going on here? Hmm? Are you trying to drive me to self-inflicted harm by sending inane emails masked as "article pitches"? Please, stop torturing me. I mean it. And I beg you.
Alida

Recently, in the backstory

Scene:* int. taxi, late at night. The Indian driver's eyes reflect rain and the dash lights as we discuss the state of the nation and the future that lies before us...

Taxi driver: [mournfully] ...but my spoken English isn't good enough. I will fail the residency test.

Alida: [with growing outrage] What? What?! That's crazy! What are you talking about???!?!

Taxi driver: I'm saying MY ENGLISH ISN'T SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED FOR ME TO PASS THE TEST.

Alida: [gasping] I just don't believe this! What's wrong with the world?! I don't understand!!

Taxi driver: It's my SPOKEN ENGLISH...

...etc. etc.

[curtain]

*Okay, I may have taken some poetic license with this particular event. Actual results may vary.

Happiness

A tweeted chart, hence the smallness. But when a content site's traffic graph looks like this, and you've managed content on that content site for the last 7 months, it's not the size of the graph that matters—it's the size of the happiness.

[between breaths]

[and silence. But for once, patience and silence took no effort at all. They had, overnight, become second nature. They had become home.

There was, clearly, a need to stop and take it in. He'd learnt very early to accept things at face value. It would take time to understand that there was more than this, and to know what that more was.

He'd always thought that what could be relied upon were things that could be seen. There were facts—indisputable facts. When you saw them, you knew what to do, and you did it. Simple.

He'd hinged his life on that understanding, and it had worked. Nothing concrete was so overwhelming that it would keep you from your bed that night, keep the sun from rising the next day. Keep your heart from beating. Keep you from toast and Vegemite and scanning the headlines while the kettle boiled.

Now, it was as if the space between his breaths had been extended—like he'd exhaled, fully and finally, some time ago, but hadn't yet taken in more air.

A certain tide had rushed out, revealing the pure, empty beach where he found himself alone. Now he was waiting for the next tide. The next wave. Waiting patiently, silently, for the next breath]

Minor crisis

Damn you, Jees-vis.

Coming as it does hot on the heels of a spark (actually, more like a jet-propelled space-rocket) of hope ignited by having a pitch accepted for an article on a social issue dear to my heart, and then finding out that the basis of said article pitch was naught but smoke and mirrors, this news from Advertising's ex-Jesus/Elvis has plunged me into minor crisis.

I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not a very good writer. I can put a sentence together, and I can write prettymuch anything you like (from tagline to 375-page book) within a spectrum, given a half-decent brief. Yes. But these things do not an actual writer make.

For no little time I have been writing to briefs. But recently (okay, not that recently) I began to wonder if I could use my powers for real, undeniable good, rather than evil or evil-veiled-as-not-badness or even okayness-but-nothing-specialness.

I began to wonder if I could say something important, rather than merely prattling.

And now? Now art's buying mass media, which is, frankly, a dream we all (come on, admit it) must have had for as long as we've been sentient and subjected to advertising.

Which raises the question: what the fuck am I doing?

I was hoping to appease that sentiment while simultaneously earning an income. No, I am hoping to do this. But perhaps now, along with the ESL qualification and philosophy and those two novels I started (oh, and work), I should commit myself to actually doing something that actually achieves that appeasement.

Yeah, don't worry, this is totally cool. All I need is Google calendar, a scotch, and a little quiet.

The people have spoken

...and what they said was, "Sweet Jesus, it's lying down, for Christ's sakes! What the fuck is wrong with you people? For the love of God..." etc. etc. etc.

That old chestnut

Last night I dreamt I'd set a chemical bomb to blow up the upper stories of a skyscraper. The combined chemicals gave me a certain amount of time to escape, but there was a party on the top floor and I couldn't leave because there were so many people I wanted to talk to. The bomb, the time, the conversational possibilities. How could I choose between life and life?

But then I woke up, and it was all a dream.