In bits and pieces we unfold.
Been a while, again.
Still in Sydney, still freelancing. The situation is a bit more developed but nothing resolved. An offer was made, but due to the department's budget constraints, the boss admitted it's an embarrassingly low offer and we agreed I ought to be getting more to join them full-time. They will have a new budget to work with next year, so we're going to try to keep me around till next year. Which is complicated by the company freezing all freelancers because everyone is knee-jerking to the bad financial forecast.
I'm almost moved into the new place; I'm lacking a mattress which arrives tomorrow, and a coffee table which I have yet to purchase. I'm looking for something affordable and nice, which is typically a paradox.
I've never been a homebody when I was in Australia. The first place I lived in in Melbourne was a tiny studio with a bed, a bedside table, and a tiny computer desk. My text books were piled on the floor. I had a clothes stand for some stuff, the rest were stacked up ... on the floor or on the suitcases. I owned ... maybe one pot, for instant noodles. And a kettle probably. It was beyond minimal, and it didn't bother me at all.
The second place I had a book shelf, a mattress, and the same bedside table and computer desk. These pretty much followed me everywhere I stayed.
And now when I don't even feel comfortable crashing at someone else's place, nor do I loiter as much, not that I know any people to loiter with, nor do I party as much; I find myself wanting to set up a home I can conceivably ride out a bomb raid in. I might not survive long, but I want to be comfortable. Strange how I only became like this now. Like Tekkie (Penny's dog) who pulls and tugs and twists to wrap his blanket around himself before settling down, I feel like I'm making a den to wear around myself.
Aimee gave me her venerable washer which, besides the grime and dirt, turned on fine, and filled up with water fine. I've never had to set up a washer before, so this was a wow moment, like, wow it just works. I set it to a wash cycle hoping the process will wash away and drain the accruement of what looked like soil, lint, and 3 laundry bags.
I guess that was too much to hope for because after filling up with water and going through the motions of agitation, at where the light says 'rinse,' it didn't. I can hear a humming, but nothing else. So now I have a washer filled to the brim with brackish water.
The manual didn't give a hint about draining it. Apparently there's no way to drain it besides manually. I know because I came home to Google it, because it bugged the hell out of me. Apparently there is a code you key into the control panel to get it into diagnostic mode, just like the iPod. Don't you love these things? I do, I love these codes. Does anyone remember 'up, up, down, down, a-b, a-b?' Those were the codes for unlimited life on Nintendo's Contra.
So I'm going to try those code and try to work out what is wrong. It is more than likely the drain pump or diverting valve. Either of which requires me to drain the elbow-deep (and guess how I found that out) dark water, tip the washer down on its front so I can look at the panel behind and work out which is the drain pump or valve, so I might remove either, shake it around, hope to dislodge whatever's blocking it, and do my laundry next week.
I have a Wustof micro block knives and scissors. I'm inordinately proud of myself for owning them. I don't profess to be a chef or the best cook, but I do cook and I do like to try out new things, and now I know I can safely and cleanly slice off my fingertips.
The internet should be connected by this Friday. I have my modem and router waiting. A 40" TV is coming, as is the entertainment unit it will sit on. That's most of what I need at the moment, the rest will take its own time. A rug at some point would be nice, as would a reading armchair.
Set up the huge bookshelf, it took two of us, and a lot of huffing, puffing, and banging. We were making a downright racket because it required these wooden shafts to be knocked into holes to hold the shelves. There were 40 of them, and all we had was a screwdriver and a heavy tape measure to knock with. Due to the high ceiling, concrete wall and floor, and the metal shutters, the sound reverberated throughout the whole apartment. I had my teeth unconsciously gritted throughout.
With the bookshelf up, I unpacked my books from their boxes. It was so nice to see and touch and smell them, even though they smelt faintly odd from travelling and being packed in so long. There is probably nothing weird about this, but it still caught me by surprise: As I lifted each volume and placed it on the shelf, I felt a sense of completeness or full circle, knowing these books were in my room in Singapore, I had packed them, and now they're in my room here, and I had unpacked them for their new stay.
Same with my shoes (7 pairs and that's only half the lot, wtf ... I never knew I had so many shoes) and clothes. It was like unfolding a knapsack and seeing these forgotten trinkets glint. I've moaned about living out of a suitcase these past 5 months, but to some extent, the suckiness becomes a background static you never get rid off, and which you become accustomed to. The relief hit me when I unpacked my life today.
And at the back of my mind, I was scared, afraid that this will all come crashing down. It would've been more bearable if I was still in suitcases and things came crashing down. Suitcases are portable after all, and they tend to float somewhat in the deluge.
But I do like Sydney, I continue to like it in my own way as alone as I am here. Sydney unfolds to me like my life in boxes. In bits and pieces, she doesn't wantonly reveal herself, but only when prodded or tentatively invited. I am sure it is the continuing of my foreigner's novelty, but why begrudge it, when I am enjoying the process of discovery.
Still in Sydney, still freelancing. The situation is a bit more developed but nothing resolved. An offer was made, but due to the department's budget constraints, the boss admitted it's an embarrassingly low offer and we agreed I ought to be getting more to join them full-time. They will have a new budget to work with next year, so we're going to try to keep me around till next year. Which is complicated by the company freezing all freelancers because everyone is knee-jerking to the bad financial forecast.
I'm almost moved into the new place; I'm lacking a mattress which arrives tomorrow, and a coffee table which I have yet to purchase. I'm looking for something affordable and nice, which is typically a paradox.
I've never been a homebody when I was in Australia. The first place I lived in in Melbourne was a tiny studio with a bed, a bedside table, and a tiny computer desk. My text books were piled on the floor. I had a clothes stand for some stuff, the rest were stacked up ... on the floor or on the suitcases. I owned ... maybe one pot, for instant noodles. And a kettle probably. It was beyond minimal, and it didn't bother me at all.
The second place I had a book shelf, a mattress, and the same bedside table and computer desk. These pretty much followed me everywhere I stayed.
And now when I don't even feel comfortable crashing at someone else's place, nor do I loiter as much, not that I know any people to loiter with, nor do I party as much; I find myself wanting to set up a home I can conceivably ride out a bomb raid in. I might not survive long, but I want to be comfortable. Strange how I only became like this now. Like Tekkie (Penny's dog) who pulls and tugs and twists to wrap his blanket around himself before settling down, I feel like I'm making a den to wear around myself.
Aimee gave me her venerable washer which, besides the grime and dirt, turned on fine, and filled up with water fine. I've never had to set up a washer before, so this was a wow moment, like, wow it just works. I set it to a wash cycle hoping the process will wash away and drain the accruement of what looked like soil, lint, and 3 laundry bags.
I guess that was too much to hope for because after filling up with water and going through the motions of agitation, at where the light says 'rinse,' it didn't. I can hear a humming, but nothing else. So now I have a washer filled to the brim with brackish water.
The manual didn't give a hint about draining it. Apparently there's no way to drain it besides manually. I know because I came home to Google it, because it bugged the hell out of me. Apparently there is a code you key into the control panel to get it into diagnostic mode, just like the iPod. Don't you love these things? I do, I love these codes. Does anyone remember 'up, up, down, down, a-b, a-b?' Those were the codes for unlimited life on Nintendo's Contra.
So I'm going to try those code and try to work out what is wrong. It is more than likely the drain pump or diverting valve. Either of which requires me to drain the elbow-deep (and guess how I found that out) dark water, tip the washer down on its front so I can look at the panel behind and work out which is the drain pump or valve, so I might remove either, shake it around, hope to dislodge whatever's blocking it, and do my laundry next week.
I have a Wustof micro block knives and scissors. I'm inordinately proud of myself for owning them. I don't profess to be a chef or the best cook, but I do cook and I do like to try out new things, and now I know I can safely and cleanly slice off my fingertips.
The internet should be connected by this Friday. I have my modem and router waiting. A 40" TV is coming, as is the entertainment unit it will sit on. That's most of what I need at the moment, the rest will take its own time. A rug at some point would be nice, as would a reading armchair.
Set up the huge bookshelf, it took two of us, and a lot of huffing, puffing, and banging. We were making a downright racket because it required these wooden shafts to be knocked into holes to hold the shelves. There were 40 of them, and all we had was a screwdriver and a heavy tape measure to knock with. Due to the high ceiling, concrete wall and floor, and the metal shutters, the sound reverberated throughout the whole apartment. I had my teeth unconsciously gritted throughout.
With the bookshelf up, I unpacked my books from their boxes. It was so nice to see and touch and smell them, even though they smelt faintly odd from travelling and being packed in so long. There is probably nothing weird about this, but it still caught me by surprise: As I lifted each volume and placed it on the shelf, I felt a sense of completeness or full circle, knowing these books were in my room in Singapore, I had packed them, and now they're in my room here, and I had unpacked them for their new stay.
Same with my shoes (7 pairs and that's only half the lot, wtf ... I never knew I had so many shoes) and clothes. It was like unfolding a knapsack and seeing these forgotten trinkets glint. I've moaned about living out of a suitcase these past 5 months, but to some extent, the suckiness becomes a background static you never get rid off, and which you become accustomed to. The relief hit me when I unpacked my life today.
And at the back of my mind, I was scared, afraid that this will all come crashing down. It would've been more bearable if I was still in suitcases and things came crashing down. Suitcases are portable after all, and they tend to float somewhat in the deluge.
But I do like Sydney, I continue to like it in my own way as alone as I am here. Sydney unfolds to me like my life in boxes. In bits and pieces, she doesn't wantonly reveal herself, but only when prodded or tentatively invited. I am sure it is the continuing of my foreigner's novelty, but why begrudge it, when I am enjoying the process of discovery.