self, in oz, 2005, non-academic silly hat

I did a little genealogy research some time ago, and found a distant ancestor named Tore Tinghatt. He apparently acquired the name by turning up at an assembly (Thing) with something peculiar on his head. Challenge accepted.

Right now I am off-line at 30.000 feet, en-route to Australia again, to acquire a silly hat. It will take a while, but if all goes to plan, I will post-grad from RMIT with a few years of research on information architecture and four dimensions, some aussie wine under my vest and a silly hat on my head.

Wish me luck.

I worked briefly at the National Archives as an apprentice bookbinder yonder, and I remember the genealogists that came trundling up the path from the metro every day, carrying heavy bags of notes. They would request church registres, dusty tomes, old newspapers and microfilm from the six floors below ground. A systematic, gargantuan, taxonomic task. I always thought I would never bother with it, because: back then you needed serious discipline and a keen sense of priority. You would only have a few sources of information available at one time, and flitting to and fro by fancy was not a good idea. Enter scene: the internet!

I started out with the names of my great grandmother, for the simple reason that they are unusual, and therefore easy to follow. The first name, Schjoldager, goes to Trondheim, and I find a small street there named after my great-great-great-grandfather or so. I thought that was rather swell, actually. He was a chimney- and chimney sweeper-inspector. Trondheim burned several times, so I guess this was a reasonably important job. At least not one they would give to the town drunk. Then Schjoldager morphs into Wolner/Wølner, and goes to about 1590, to Jacob Wølner who came to Norway from Freiberg, Germany to work as Overstiger at Kongsberg Silver Mines. Schjoldager stops there – or at least, I have not tried to find the rest of the Wølmers of Freiberg.

So, back to great grand-mamas second name, Figenschou. It goes to northern Norway, then to Bergen. There, a fellow by the name Elias Fiigenschow (b. ab. 1599, in Copenhagen), was apparently one of the best portrait painters in the country. His grandfather, Mathias Fugenshuh (1540) was a royal saddlemaker from Hindelang, Germany, and he had a coat of arms. I was chuffed. Hurrah, I thought. A proper, swirly family crest complete with animals, acantus and shields.

Elias married a Bloch, and to make a long story short, she hails from the old Norwegian noble families. Apart from having hilarious names such as Benkestokk, Smør (Butter), Smørhatt (Butterhat), Krukow, Bratt til Tomb, Ku til Tomb, Stangjarfylja, the crowning beauty is a governor on Iceland, Tore Bjørnsson Tinghatt (Tinghatt = thing (as in assembly) & hat). The source considers that the name Þinghottr may be because he “came to a thing (assembly) wearing a peculiar hat“. This strikes me as wild speculation, but hey – I love the thought, so I am sticking with the story:

Some time in the early 1200, one of my ancestors came to the assembly meeting wearing something amusing on his head. 

From another path of the Figenschou line, I find the unassuming name Hage. The line goes to Danefær, to not-so-unassuming Holstein, to von Reventlow, to Rantzau, Buchwald, Breide, and further to the positively pompous von Ahlefeldt, Limbek, Gyllenstierne, von Rugen. This may not say very much, but they are all nobility, knights, members of Council of the Realm. Wherever that may be. I was at this point swimming in more crests and coat of arms than I cared to, and it was clearly steering towards Scandinavian royalty. And if you get mixed into that, there is no way out. To cut a very very long story very short, I end up at various kings and queens of Sweden, Denmark; princesses from England, Poland, Italy and Russia. Some saints too. This is around year 1000, and if things are a little shady after the black death, it certainly gets foggy around 1000.

Of course, genealogy is not an exact science, and I am no professional. I am good at digging around on the internet though. Of course I may have gotten something wrong, but I would be in good company, among those hobby genealogists that came to the National Archives. I have tried to find at least two sources and confirmation of the lines, particularly the high royalty. They often had multiple wives, husbands, children out of wedlock left right and centre. The men might die early in war, the women in childbirth. I am learning much about “NN”, and the politics of marrying off your daughters for political reasons. And after all, we are all related, more or less. At least in Scandinavia it was not uncommon to send a child to a neighbouring lord or a relative to be brought up there. This was to ensure connections and peace, but it might also leave the origin of the child uncertain. At some point in history, the idea of “parent” may be biological, or may be whoever raised the child. See the confusion?

From Figenschou, I find three distinct lines that I have not followed through. One point to the old kings of Norway, and the two others both point to Charlemagne. I mean, what do you do then? Behind him is the Byzantine empire.

Once you have hitched your family tree to a royal line, there is little point in following it through: others have done that. The royal connections are amusing, but I do not feel any relation to them. My initial interest was to find amusing anecdotes such as the guy with the peculiar headgear, and the guy that “in a fit of anger did away with himself with a rope” (Johan Reinertsen Wormhuus, 1686, Bergen).

I have three more family lines to look at. They will not be so easy, but they might have good stories. And yes, I made a family tree. A work in progress.

The quality drink their champagne and mockingly toasts the great unwashed people below. Do you not know what a large group of ticked off people can do? You do not even have to read history. You do not even have to leave the timespan of this week. The snowball does not care about what is fair, correct or who is or was responsible. I believe you call it critical mass.

I heard an “expert” say that the protest would never achieve anything, because it is too vague, there is no clear message, they are not united under a common banner. The expert went on to say that the protesters could not achieve anything, because it is like the messy anti-war protest in the sixties.

Come again?! ..and what happened in the sixties, children? Yes, the anti-war protests and the hippies were not exactly homogenous. But things changed.

BBC radio 4 friday night comedy; one of my favourite podcasts. Last fridays NewsQuiz edition was brilliant. Sandi Toksvig, Jeremy Hardy, Andy Hamilton and Fred MacAulay are my best friends on fridays. Pointing out that usually when there is a protest, experts say “this is a few, extremists people”. Except that this time that is not the case. Jeremy Hardy quotes various media having nothing else to say that these are “well educated reasonable people”. How to you deal with that? Funny man.

One of my favourite pictures from Wall St. is one of librarians. Yes, you know things are messed up when librarians starts marching  (I will add the image here later, if the photographer gives me permission). There are guerilla libraries. How can you not love that?

The world is off its trolley, undoubtedly. Winter is coming though, and New York gets cold. Who will continue, and who does not have a choice anymore?

Many of them say they are proud to be Americans. They should not be. They should rant, rave and create change. And then be proud.

These are well behaved people. Maybe they shouldn’t be.

edit:

I will let someone more eloquent than me sketch out some very valid points. Smile or die, from Barbara Ehrenreich, courtesy of th RSA.

I do have a fondness for the museum of natural history though. It is one of the lesser decorated buildings. Maybe it is just because I have worked there, and seen the ramshackle insides. Endearing, chaotic, confusing, frustrating.

(I said bones. I didn’t lie.)

The lists in the elevators are rarely right. they may be right in one wing, and wrong in the other. They may be wrong in one lift, and right in the one two meters away. The anthropology department is worthy of anthropology studies itself. It is a maze of crates, drawers, boxes and shelves. You could very easily get lost here, and I suspect there could be cases of people that got lost and haven’t left the building for 24 years. The notes in the elevators are wondrously obscure. There are regular talks on various subjects, and sometimes I cannot understand a single word, never mind having the faintest idea of what the talk is about. It means I can make it up in my head, and create pictures of mad scientists doing wild field work. It is all natural history though. I am sure about that.

Downstairs is a zoo. Downstairs is the exhibitions. I dislike it more and more, and avoid it if I can. Turns out, you can probably live and work in this building for decades, without actually mingling with the drooling public or go near the exhibits. Some of them are definitely worth seeing though, so early morning is the only real option.

A friend of mine here, R, was attempted robbed of her mobile phone in the metro, the interesting tin-foil-hat-reaction of said friend was to run like the wind and catch the culprit. Basically thinking “my data! my information! my life!” rather than “my phone!” (I love her for that reaction, though it may not be wise to hunt feral kids) The culprit was duly caught, arrested and all, a tiny girl of 16. Kids sometimes roams the city centre in feral packs.

I took the metro home this evening, and walked home through the little town outside DC where I currently live. I passed two parked cars with their windows open. The town has a intellectual-hippy-feel, community-minded, responsible,  friendly and are delightfully slow-moving. This country has the best and the worst, and sometimes both on the same day.

DC photos

So now. Here i am with my little wheely luggage, impractical, probably not water tight in the snow, wheels too small for the rubble and construction. Stacks of paper. Printouts. Staples. Excel sheets. Ballpoint pens with the names of hotels on them. Cool technology.
On the screens around, stock market news, ties.

i see the ones more like myself and smile. This is where i am, that is where i am going.

To hold two thoughts at the same time.

more pictures here

melbourne, australia

I am too old; I have had too many jobs, seen too many ways of doing things, and besides, every day is new and different. Questions should be taken seriously, and answered according to Right Now.

So when someone asks “what would you say are your weak points”, I have a hard time not snort derisively. I know what you want me to say. I know what I am supposed to say: “well, I admit I can maybe be a bit of a perfectionist”. Or somesuch.
It would be true, but it is also a terrible, terrible cliché. I have a hard time uttering words along these lines.
I think: look at my work, see what I do, make, create. With whom I work. Read the references. I will answer truthfully, I will consider questions carefully; I just cannot deal with The Game.

So freelance! Scary, busy, fun. Thin ice, deep water.

Yet, so far it seems to be going well, surprise!

The idea is that I will do it until march, when we go to DC to work; me and wee L.

There is, as the saying goes, no rest for the wicked. The car is sick, I work 7 days a week. Paperwork piles up; paperwork for working in the US is not trivial. I need a place to live, here and there, I juggle three-four jobs and projects.

Triage means sort according to quality and importance. A precious ability.