Ugly

I caught myself concentrating intently today – my eyes squinted up and my lips pursed really hard. When I lived in Melbourne and worked in an office I used to get embarrassed when I'd catch myself with that expression, until I realised that most people look funny when they're absorbed.

I tried to take a photo of myself thinking really hard, but I couldn't work out how to do it so I didn't look posed. So instead, here's another photo of me looking unprepossessing: wearing a hat, eating a carrot and sneezing.

O

I don't do drop ins. There I've said it.

I know they're a part of living in a small community in the country, but I really haven't got the hang of them yet. People coming over, dropping in, swinging by.

I grew up on a main road in the city so we never had friends just stopping in. And now I work from home and honour the distinction between my private and public self.

There are however people who I love dropping in. My sister who lives nearby and a handful of friends who won't be alarmed if I hang out the washing while we chat, if the house is untidy or if I am still in my walking gear from that morning.

Our delightful friend, O is one such person. When he drops round he makes our day all that much better, even when it's not going badly. He recently sent me some of his latest poems that make me feel like he's just come by when I read them.

More here.

Public Concern

This is the first image that came up when I googled Private Public.

This morning I left later than usual for my walk and ran into two different parties of bush walkers in full Gore-Tex attire. At my usual hour it is just the native animals who spy me in my op shopped conglomeration of mismatched colours and layers.

I had my iPod and was in my own world as I listened to the latest This American Life podcast, so to see other human forms amongst the trees really punctured my sense of solitude.

The private made public.

Later in the morning over coffee I read the chapter of Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine entitled, 'A Corporatist State,' in which she writes:

In some ways, however, the stories about corruption and revolving doors leave a false impression. They imply that there is still a clear line between the state and the [disaster capitalist] complex, when in fact the line disappeared long ago. The innovation of the Bush years lies not in how quickly politicians move from one world to another but in how many feel entitled to occupy both worlds simultaneously.

The public made private.

And then just now I read on (Text)ure and (me)aning about artist Sophie Calle's fascination with the interface between our public lives and our private selves.

Calle's followings, recordings and wanderings are her work.

She brings the public/private space to the gallery.

To the published page.

To the archive of the extraordinary ordinary.

The private made private made public.