It’s now about as late as late May gets without drifting into June. This is the time Territorians call the Dry Season; imaginatively named to contrast it with the Wet Season. Basically they’re the same except one of them is humid and rainy and the other one isn’t.
Or isn’t it? In the most meteorologically unseasonable display for some time, Darwin’s skies are still full of grey cumulo-nimbus clouds, and the daytime routine refuses to settle into the more familiar 31 degrees, 40% humidity and see you in September. Apparently it’s been the hottest May since the seventies. However, local news teams assure us that the climate will be resuming regular services from Monday onwards. And about time too.
There are other indications that a change in season is on the way.
I really don’t know how, but I got a part in the Midsummer Night’s Dream production I auditioned for on a whim a few weeks back. I’m playing a mechanical flute, or something like that. I don’t know, it’s all a bit modern and bizarre for me. Shakespeare, eh?
And I’m now appearing semi-regularly in the worship band for a local church. I was on keys and vocals this morning, despite not having heard any of the songs before. As is ever my way, I’m not sure I’d ever call this congregation home, but it’s serving as a perfectly functional metaphorical portable tabernacle for the moment.
Tonight I managed to do laundry and cook a reasonably palatable insta-parmy at the same time. Even six months ago, there’s no way I would ever have even contemplated cooking and doing anything else at the same time.
Yes… I know. Shut up. It’s an achievement, okay?
I once again managed not get clean bowled at my cricket game today. True, I spooned a long-hop back to the bowler for a duck, but that’s beside the point. As with so many other facets of my life, I am now finding new and creative ways to go about my day-to-day and week-to-week operations. Next weekend, I plan to experiment with LBW.
Oh yeah, and for some reason I seem to have a beard at the moment. As far as portents that something weird is up go, that's got to count for something, right?
Okay, I’m not good with cricket bats or with omens, and I have an infamous proficiency for missing things that are right in front of me. But I can’t shake the feeling that a cool change is coming. I just don’t know what it is.
Give me your hands if we be friends
And Robin shall restore amends
Garry with 2 Rs
30 May 2010
14 May 2010
The Eleventh Garry
I’ve been doing some critical introspection just recently; re-evaluating who I am and what direction my life is taking. It all came to a head the other night as I was …
The next phrase is supposed to be something like ‘glancing over some old photos from college’ or ‘speaking to an old friend who has just returned from a soul cleansing pilgrimage to South America’ or ‘reading from the book of Jeremiah’, but it isn’t. Sorry for the confusion.
… watching Doctor Who. I was watching David Tennant regenerate into Matt Smith and reflecting on the unfair advantages the Doctor has.
If I want to reinvent myself, I have to have money and a new job and some way of keeping myself afloat while I readjust. It’s not enough to just say “I want to be an opthamologist now" and go do it. There’s always some stupid practical consideration in the way, usually in the form of dollar signs or obstinate people. It would be so much easier if I could just stand in the middle of my spaceship, strike a dramatic pose and wait for my head to catch on fire.
If I were a newly regenerated Time Lord, I think this would be the part of the episode where I double over, grab my stomach, wince, cough up some sparkly orange light and say “Oh no… my regeneration… it’s… going wrong,” before passing out to let the other characters squirm for a while, returning to full health at the last minute to save the day with a quick flick of the sonic screwdriver.
When I got back from Europe all full of vision and enthusiasm, I had huge ideas about finally having the stable base of operations I would need to do all the things left on my to-do list that had been taking second place to “travel through Europe.” But then I bunged up my car, discovered that my job was less than salubrious, came face to face with the harsh reality of how much credit cards suck and failed miserably to assign myself to a worship band. I’ve been home in Darwin since November, but I haven’t played a single Sunday morning service since leaving Adelaide. That might sound like a petty or self important complaint, but given that “worship musician” is one of the only terms by which I ever feel comfortable defining my own personality, it’s clear that somewhere in the last seven months or so something has gone horribly wrong.
So I’ve decided it’s time to start doing things a little differently. Tonight I’m joining some church friends in a battle of the bands at Palmerston markets. It’s time to let the old rock star version of Garry out of the cage again, not to mention giving Samantha a chance to cut loose. I’ve also auditioned for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. God only knows what will happen if I get to be in that. I have plans to co-write and possibly appear in a short film to be shot in July and a renewed enthusiasm for finally getting my first novel finished.
And at Woodroffe oval last Tuesday, for the first time in recorded history, I batted for a full 15 minutes in the nets and didn’t get bowled once. I have a thumping great bruise on my stomach to show for it, and another one on the back of my leg. Things are looking up, as long as I don’t take my shirt off.
Actually, I could probably just take that last sentence and assign it to a folder marked ‘general wisdom’.
I’m going to be travelling to remote communities with work again for the next couple of weeks, so the next post might be a while coming. But it will totally be worth the wait.
That’s all folks.
Garry with 2 Rs
The next phrase is supposed to be something like ‘glancing over some old photos from college’ or ‘speaking to an old friend who has just returned from a soul cleansing pilgrimage to South America’ or ‘reading from the book of Jeremiah’, but it isn’t. Sorry for the confusion.
… watching Doctor Who. I was watching David Tennant regenerate into Matt Smith and reflecting on the unfair advantages the Doctor has.
If I want to reinvent myself, I have to have money and a new job and some way of keeping myself afloat while I readjust. It’s not enough to just say “I want to be an opthamologist now" and go do it. There’s always some stupid practical consideration in the way, usually in the form of dollar signs or obstinate people. It would be so much easier if I could just stand in the middle of my spaceship, strike a dramatic pose and wait for my head to catch on fire.
If I were a newly regenerated Time Lord, I think this would be the part of the episode where I double over, grab my stomach, wince, cough up some sparkly orange light and say “Oh no… my regeneration… it’s… going wrong,” before passing out to let the other characters squirm for a while, returning to full health at the last minute to save the day with a quick flick of the sonic screwdriver.
When I got back from Europe all full of vision and enthusiasm, I had huge ideas about finally having the stable base of operations I would need to do all the things left on my to-do list that had been taking second place to “travel through Europe.” But then I bunged up my car, discovered that my job was less than salubrious, came face to face with the harsh reality of how much credit cards suck and failed miserably to assign myself to a worship band. I’ve been home in Darwin since November, but I haven’t played a single Sunday morning service since leaving Adelaide. That might sound like a petty or self important complaint, but given that “worship musician” is one of the only terms by which I ever feel comfortable defining my own personality, it’s clear that somewhere in the last seven months or so something has gone horribly wrong.
So I’ve decided it’s time to start doing things a little differently. Tonight I’m joining some church friends in a battle of the bands at Palmerston markets. It’s time to let the old rock star version of Garry out of the cage again, not to mention giving Samantha a chance to cut loose. I’ve also auditioned for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. God only knows what will happen if I get to be in that. I have plans to co-write and possibly appear in a short film to be shot in July and a renewed enthusiasm for finally getting my first novel finished.
And at Woodroffe oval last Tuesday, for the first time in recorded history, I batted for a full 15 minutes in the nets and didn’t get bowled once. I have a thumping great bruise on my stomach to show for it, and another one on the back of my leg. Things are looking up, as long as I don’t take my shirt off.
Actually, I could probably just take that last sentence and assign it to a folder marked ‘general wisdom’.
I’m going to be travelling to remote communities with work again for the next couple of weeks, so the next post might be a while coming. But it will totally be worth the wait.
That’s all folks.
Garry with 2 Rs
04 May 2010
Games People Play
If there’s one thing single guys hate more than having unsolicited baby seats installed in their cars, it’s having people ask whether or not we have our eyes on any particular young lady. I mean, it’s alright when it’s someone you haven’t spoken to for years, and they’re legitimately updating all the information they have about you. But when it’s people you catch up with all the time, either in three dimensions or in cyber space, such as family or close friends, it just seems like such a stupid query to have to respond to, mainly because there are only a few possible responses, each as dumb as the last.
1) No. I’m still all alone. Thanks for asking.
2) Yes. I’ve been engaged for six weeks now. You just didn’t notice, you useless unobservant jerk.
3) Yes. Target acquired, and I’m figuring out the best angle of approach (this objectifies women far less than it seems. Guys just like to use military or sporting terms of reference because they are more familiar, precise and less terrifying than emotional ones) and what I really need is for you to try to help me, spread the information around and generally make things more difficult.
Obviously none of those answers ever result in anything other than an awkward silence. As a counter measure, experienced single guys such as myself have developed cunning if unsophisticated ways of responding to the query without actually answering it. It involves answering questions far more literally than is usually a good idea in a social setting, but it can be a great experiment to see how far you get before your friend swears at you and gives up.
Mate: So… any girls on the radar?
Gw2Rs: The radar?
Mate: You know what I mean.
Gw2Rs: I don’t have a radar.
Mate: I mean are there any girls on the horizon?
Gw2Rs: How would I know?
Mate: No, I mean, are there any special ladies in your life?
Gw2Rs: There are lots of special ladies in my life.
Mate: Yeah, but any really special?
Gw2Rs: Everyone is special. I don’t go around assigning people a specialness quotient to record in some book somewhere. What kind of sociopath do you take me for?
Mate: Are you currently interested in someone?
Gw2Rs: I’m interested in a lot of things; cricket, music, quantum physics, linguistics, ending world poverty, chess, relig…
Mate: God damn it, Garry, you’re impossible.
Yes, yes I am. My married and pregnant friends are constantly looking at me sideways, trying to figure out why I’m so stubbornly opposed to the whole romance phenomenon.
Actually I’m not opposed to it at all. Up until now I’ve just I’ve made a habit of never staying in any one place long enough. And I’ve coupled this with a complete disinclination towards the stupid games people expect single men to play. First dates, appropriate phone call etiquette, the ability to retain an air of masculinity whilst dressing like a freaking fairy; it’s complete rubbish. I am firmly of the opinion that ‘dating’ in the sense in which we interpret it through American sitcoms and blogs written by empowered and modern (yet still, notably, single) women is a stupid idea, and I have a fairly low opinion of the media through which society (not to mention well intentioned Christian pop-literature) tells me I’m supposed to communicate affection.
But to Hell with it. If playing Hollywood style games is what it takes to keep my dearest and best satisfied, then bring it on. I quite like games. I have an international chess rating of 1305 and I can kick my friends’ butts at Risk. But don’t go thinking I’m going to just start playing fleeting-yet-knowing glance chicken with the woman across from me on the train. If I’m going to play, I’m joining the premier league (Palmerston Cricket club can shove it). No soft targets for me. Here goes…
1: d4
------------------------------------------------------------------
I, Garry with 2 Rs, address the universal and sub-spatial powers of Ironic Karma under the terms of the Shadow Proclamation. In the presence of God and this… internet and being of sound mind and body (well…) I do hereby affront you with the following assertions.
1) There is no such thing as romantic love – it’s all just a bunch of emotional nonsense and
2) There’s no way it could happen to me.
3) What could possibly go wrong?
4) You won’t get me, because you can’t, because
5) I’m too smart and too tough.
Love from Garry
------------------------------------------------------------------
Your move, Universe.
I’ll keep you posted on the results, so please don’t feel like you need to come and ask me about it. And yes, on reflection that was more BBC than Hollywood, but the point still stands.
So until next week, and then again too, I imagine, this is me, David McGahn, reminding you that the world really is a David McGahn’s world. Sort of.
Garry with 2 Rs
1) No. I’m still all alone. Thanks for asking.
2) Yes. I’ve been engaged for six weeks now. You just didn’t notice, you useless unobservant jerk.
3) Yes. Target acquired, and I’m figuring out the best angle of approach (this objectifies women far less than it seems. Guys just like to use military or sporting terms of reference because they are more familiar, precise and less terrifying than emotional ones) and what I really need is for you to try to help me, spread the information around and generally make things more difficult.
Obviously none of those answers ever result in anything other than an awkward silence. As a counter measure, experienced single guys such as myself have developed cunning if unsophisticated ways of responding to the query without actually answering it. It involves answering questions far more literally than is usually a good idea in a social setting, but it can be a great experiment to see how far you get before your friend swears at you and gives up.
Mate: So… any girls on the radar?
Gw2Rs: The radar?
Mate: You know what I mean.
Gw2Rs: I don’t have a radar.
Mate: I mean are there any girls on the horizon?
Gw2Rs: How would I know?
Mate: No, I mean, are there any special ladies in your life?
Gw2Rs: There are lots of special ladies in my life.
Mate: Yeah, but any really special?
Gw2Rs: Everyone is special. I don’t go around assigning people a specialness quotient to record in some book somewhere. What kind of sociopath do you take me for?
Mate: Are you currently interested in someone?
Gw2Rs: I’m interested in a lot of things; cricket, music, quantum physics, linguistics, ending world poverty, chess, relig…
Mate: God damn it, Garry, you’re impossible.
Yes, yes I am. My married and pregnant friends are constantly looking at me sideways, trying to figure out why I’m so stubbornly opposed to the whole romance phenomenon.
Actually I’m not opposed to it at all. Up until now I’ve just I’ve made a habit of never staying in any one place long enough. And I’ve coupled this with a complete disinclination towards the stupid games people expect single men to play. First dates, appropriate phone call etiquette, the ability to retain an air of masculinity whilst dressing like a freaking fairy; it’s complete rubbish. I am firmly of the opinion that ‘dating’ in the sense in which we interpret it through American sitcoms and blogs written by empowered and modern (yet still, notably, single) women is a stupid idea, and I have a fairly low opinion of the media through which society (not to mention well intentioned Christian pop-literature) tells me I’m supposed to communicate affection.
But to Hell with it. If playing Hollywood style games is what it takes to keep my dearest and best satisfied, then bring it on. I quite like games. I have an international chess rating of 1305 and I can kick my friends’ butts at Risk. But don’t go thinking I’m going to just start playing fleeting-yet-knowing glance chicken with the woman across from me on the train. If I’m going to play, I’m joining the premier league (Palmerston Cricket club can shove it). No soft targets for me. Here goes…
1: d4
------------------------------------------------------------------
I, Garry with 2 Rs, address the universal and sub-spatial powers of Ironic Karma under the terms of the Shadow Proclamation. In the presence of God and this… internet and being of sound mind and body (well…) I do hereby affront you with the following assertions.
1) There is no such thing as romantic love – it’s all just a bunch of emotional nonsense and
2) There’s no way it could happen to me.
3) What could possibly go wrong?
4) You won’t get me, because you can’t, because
5) I’m too smart and too tough.
Love from Garry
------------------------------------------------------------------
Your move, Universe.
I’ll keep you posted on the results, so please don’t feel like you need to come and ask me about it. And yes, on reflection that was more BBC than Hollywood, but the point still stands.
So until next week, and then again too, I imagine, this is me, David McGahn, reminding you that the world really is a David McGahn’s world. Sort of.
Garry with 2 Rs
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