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Carolyn Fraser 

✨Good morning✨

I am starting a new job soon that will, in part, include curating a new gallery space at the library. Thinking about this has led me to reflect on my very first curatorial effort, aged 12, which was an unsolicited addition to a science project. Each member of the class was required to research and prepare a brief written report about a type of rock or mineral. I was assigned quartz, and quickly discovered that there are a million types of quartz, that modern technology would not exist without quartz and that it is impossible to write about quartz in anything less than encyclopaedic fashion. What the project really required, it became clear to me, was a curated display. At that time, my Dad wore business shirts that were purchased in plastic box sleeves, and one of these boxes, taped to a piece of Masonite cut to fit by Mum or Dad, made a perfect display case. My parents then drove me to Geelong so I could meet a rock collecting acquaintance of my great-aunt and this man generously gave me samples of various types of quartz that I arranged in tissue paper nests and identified with typewritten labels. This was the first of many obsessively produced school projects that tried the patience of parents and teachers alike, but in it, I see everything I love about my work now: that falling-down-the-rabbit hole sensation that finding out about new things brings, the interesting people you meet along the way, the urgency to tell everyone, hey! quartz* really is great. *Insert interesting thing here.

From way back in 2014, me with a teeny tiny Winifred and Levi, in what is undoubtedly the best canine photobomb ever.

Patrick Pound and Maggie Finch discussed the great Georges Perec's Things at the @ngvmelbourne book club yesterday, and I was reminded of two unrelated things: that GP and I share a birthday (Ivan Lendl too) and of this ace wall of photographs found tucked in books at the now gone, much missed, IRL @bookhousestkilda.

Solstice bonfire, from the magic spot.

There was a moment tonight at the live taping of the Slate Culture Gabfest when Steve Metcalf, thinking there might be a couple of members of The Lucksmiths in the audience, thanked the band "from the bottom of his heart" for their music, and it made me think about how great is it to tell each other about the stuff we love, and how equally great it is to thank the people who made it. Thanks @wheelercentre for tonight, and thanks Jim Henson, for always.

Tosca was defamed in the Age today. #parlourgigs

❤️

Very proud to have my essay 'The Man of the House' included in the last print issue of @kyd_magazine. It's about the time I lived in a share house in San Francisco that was reputedly built by "Sunny Jim" Rolph, mayor of San Francisco 1912-1931, for his mistress, the silent film star Anita Page. One of my housemates and I bonded over our mutual fascination with, and love for, the house. If you buy a copy (there's a tall stack just by the front door in @readingsbooks Carlton), you'll find out what happened...

The astonishingly talented Sophia Exiner and Joshua Teicher (@listentophia) playing a sold-out @parlourgigs show in my living room last night. If you have a friend willing to help you move your very heavy couch (thank you @thornodc8) I highly recommend hosting a house concert. #parlourgigs

What Would Patti Do? This is a question @lisaabend and I have asked ourselves for years, and last night, finding myself right at Patti's feet at the front of the stage, I had cause to ask myself again. Just as Patti appeared, a girl in boots and a body con dress squeezed right in front of me and started jumping and throwing her arms about. My fellow mosh pit neighbours and I bristled: silently, over nearly three hours waiting for Patti, we'd come to a kind of peace about the geographic territory we'd claimed for ourselves, even though it was all men right at the barricade, and one of them, ponytail maybe or Hawaiian shirt, was regularly letting rip with farts so nearly unendurable that I could only imagine I was paying some kind of tax for such valuable real estate. A second song, and still the flailing right in my face, and the (disproportionate) screaming, so I suggested, hey, why don't you push in right to the front, you are really annoying. A split-second assessment of her options, then, no, she told me, she won't. Alright, I thought, fair enough, I'm seeing Patti Smith! And she's about two metres in front of me, so close that when she pauses to tie her bootlace, one of my neighbours lets her know that her fly's undone, which I'd noticed but wouldn't have had the guts to say. But body con girl is a real pain, and I'm not sure if it's before Patti yelled LOVE ONE ANOTHER, MOTHERFUCKERS! or after, but I shoved body con girl in the back, hard, and there were some words, including her screaming POWER TO THE PEOPLE in my face during that number, which I'm not sure is what Patti had in mind when she was writing it, and it occurred to me that I really didn't want Patti, who was RIGHT THERE, to stop the concert and make an example of me and body con girl, both clearly not getting her message even though we were within spitting range, and fuck, lucky enough to see Patti Smith, seventy years old, rocking out and telling us how it should be. #pattismith

As is the wont of members of my particular demographic, I prize the idea of an edible garden. For ten years, my persimmon tree has produced one fruit per year. This year productivity is up 100%.

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