My mother just introduced me to Alan Bennett, by way of bequeathing me the DVD of Talking Heads. The idea behind this dinky little series is this: one well-known, middle-aged British actor sits in a chair for half an hour and tells a story. I'd actually not heard of it but apparently it's famous. My eyes are blind.
"You might like it," said Mum, "it's quite different, it's really interesting. He's very funny."
"Hmm," I said politely.
"Then again you might not," she said, "but give it a go."
I was surprised to find that I did, in fact, like it. Having studied film in various forms for the past two years, I've picked up the funny old notion that an audience likes a cut from shot to shot every now and then, and prefers seeing more than one person on screen in a half-hour episode. Good looking actors. Interesting sets. Decent lighting. But somehow the series rose above these little details and fascinated me with what it did offer - a collection of fascinating, funny, bitter, pathetic human beings (with delicious British accents) talking about the happenings of their weary lives. It seemed conversational at first - "mahy hoosband" this, "the mohnin pehper" that, but as they talked, they hinted at secrets: a pornographic filmmaker; an inter-racial affair; a sex crime. Did she just say...? Did he mean...? Surely not...? I had to keep listening. I needed clarity. It felt very much like having a conversation with someone who was so busy telling you about themselves (someone like me, perhaps, who takes The Question to heart) that asking them a clarifying question would interrupt the perfect flow of their story, besides which you'd get the answer in time - seeing as it's what they were building up to in the first place.
And today I rented The History Boys from the local Blockbuster, only to discover that this little-heard-of movie is a creation of Mr Bennett's also. It's adapted from a play that has been doing breathtakingly well in Britain, but we don't seem to have heard of so very much. I didn't know til the special features that this was Bennett's work (not being a credits watcher like certain people I know). It's the story of eight smart and smart-arse public schoolboys applying for Oxford University. Their teacher Mr Hector (Richard Griffiths), a passionate, expansive, ruddy-faced man, tries to teach them the value of knowledge, the appreciation of literature and art, stressing the importance of life itself while flippantly dismissing the "education" he is supposed to be providing. His classes are a riot of singing, reciting, performing and laughing - all in the name of cultural appreciation, of course.
The boys' headmaster desperately wants them all to get into Oxford because it'll make him look good, so he employs Mr Irwin, a young Oxford graduate, to tutor them in history, with the express intent of getting them accepted.
The characters are gorgeous. They are sharp and witty, a close-knit group who share their feelings with one another... in fact they are remarkably unrealistic. I attended a public high school just two years ago, and the boys weren't smart, communicative or artistic. But so what? These characters are better than real people. That's not to say they're gooder. Just more... compelling.
As with all stories about single-sex British schooling, there's a powerful degree of homoeroticism at work. That and, well, lots of gay boys. There's only one heterosexual partnership mentioned, and one of the players in that considers trying the other side. Even the teachers... well, won't spoil.
But what I actually got out of this film was a wonderful sense of perspective on education - what it's worth; what a university placement is worth; what a degree from a good university is worth. And then - where real education comes from. Where, and by whom, the most important things are taught.
I like Alan Bennett. He's really quite good.
Dec 13, 2007
Nov 27, 2007
Dare you ask
In the course of any study chump's retail career, the Question is bound to come up. The Question being, of course, "How are you?" A deeply considerate and caring inquiry into the health, happiness and general contentedness-of-being of another human person, this Question is typically used as a segway between greeting the customer and taking their order. The people who ask it rarely listen to the answer, and the people who answer it don't even listen to themselves. As a matter of fact, on several occasions, my customers have answered despite my not having asked.
In fact, in three solid years of customer service work, I have never asked the Question to a customer. This is on principle. I don't believe the pleasantry is worth my time, or theirs. Their answer won't be honest, and neither will my asking. I don't care. I despise "good thanks", but I don't want to hear about their recent cold, either.
Don't get me wrong. I pride myself in my level of customer service. I put genuine effort into pleasing my customers, whether it be by using the right kind of smile, a joke, or a special flourish on the plate I serve them. Hell, this week I charmed a cantankerous old woman by confiding my rare love for cream on cheesecake, which she had fussily requested.
But no personal inquiries. It's not my business. My business is cakes and shit.
My feelings about asking the Question are no doubt related to my own attitude in answering it.
Back in 2004, the year I got my first job, a friend told me she couldn't even imagine me working with customers. I was too cynical, she said.
"Just think. You'd ask how they are, and they'd go, 'okay, you?' and you'd just say, 'crap'."
She spoke the truth. I always give an honest answer to the Question, no matter who asks it. Certainly the response may be condensed if I am speaking to a person I don't know. At a supermarket checkout, this sort of exchange is typical:
By chance I was up in Elwood early this week, ordering food at a fish and chip shop. The place was run by an Asian couple. The woman took orders while the man cooked them. She greeted me: "Hi whatdoyouwant?"
When I had paid for my order, she scribbled the number 74 on a piece of receipt paper and shoved it into my hand. "Thankyoubye."
I marveled at the abruptness, the seeming rudeness of this service, and mentioned it to a co-worker the next day. My co-worker replied that she'd found - not to be racist, but she'd found - that often Asians were like that, really aprupt, or direct, in their exchanges. They were snappy and wanted to get things done in a hurry, because they generally hold the view that the customer will be happier the faster they can get what they want. Which of course makes perfect sense. Except that in Australia, and probably in most English-speaking countries, we've got this nervous desire to feel loved and nurtured by the people that serve us. We want our soup ladled with love; our clothes dry-cleaned with respect. And so we've cultivated all these pleasantries, these extra little things to say to one another to assure each other that we're important.
At work, at the moment, we are being tested on our customer service skills. "Mystery shoppers" visit the cinema, purchasing tickets and popcorn and seeing our movies, and they assess our customer service abilities. We've been given a little checklist outlining the "steps of service" that we will be assessed on. 100% is the only pass mark. Included in the checklist are "wearing name badge" and "friendly parting greeting". Apparently, it is absolutely necessary to instruct each patron to enjoy their film.
So I say that pleasantries have gone too far. I say that people need to learn to accept the cold hard facts: your checkout operator is not concerned about your wellbeing. Nobody's really "okay". The sound of your voice asking the Question doesn't even reach their brains before their mouths respond.
I say it is time to reserve the Question for when you really damn well mean it.
Do you care how I'm feeling?
Have you got time to hear about it?
What if it's bad news?
Can you handle that?
What if I need help?
What if I'm not okay?
All right then. Ask away.
"Hi there, how can I help you?"Yah-huh.
"Good thanks, just browsing..."
In fact, in three solid years of customer service work, I have never asked the Question to a customer. This is on principle. I don't believe the pleasantry is worth my time, or theirs. Their answer won't be honest, and neither will my asking. I don't care. I despise "good thanks", but I don't want to hear about their recent cold, either.
Don't get me wrong. I pride myself in my level of customer service. I put genuine effort into pleasing my customers, whether it be by using the right kind of smile, a joke, or a special flourish on the plate I serve them. Hell, this week I charmed a cantankerous old woman by confiding my rare love for cream on cheesecake, which she had fussily requested.
But no personal inquiries. It's not my business. My business is cakes and shit.
My feelings about asking the Question are no doubt related to my own attitude in answering it.
Back in 2004, the year I got my first job, a friend told me she couldn't even imagine me working with customers. I was too cynical, she said.
"Just think. You'd ask how they are, and they'd go, 'okay, you?' and you'd just say, 'crap'."
She spoke the truth. I always give an honest answer to the Question, no matter who asks it. Certainly the response may be condensed if I am speaking to a person I don't know. At a supermarket checkout, this sort of exchange is typical:
"Hi, how are you today?"By contrast, here is the answer I gave an old acquaintance the other day when he dared to inquire:
"Hungry."
"In the short term, I'm okay, could be better.He requested clarification. A mistake, perhaps.
In the medium term, quite excellent and tremendously happy.
In long term terms, I'm fucked!"
"Part One: Short TermI think the trouble is that I take the Question too literally. I know what it really means. I know it means, "I am being nice to you. See how pleasantly I speak? Let us begin to converse."
I have a cold. I'm not breathing properly because of the wall of mucus between the oxygen and my windpipe. I have headaches and weariness. Last night I had work - I work at Village now, behind the bar in Cinema Europa. The guy who was meant to work with me called in sick and they didn't replace him. I therefore had to work alone. It was busy. It was hectic. I had no help. I had to be three people at once: podium ticket-ripper, bar service, and cinema cleaner. Barely got anything done to schedule and the customers just kept coming... you know, you can't serve customers while you're cleaning, and so they come into the cinema, confused, and watch you sweeping away popcorn. Please wait outside, sir. And yeah, I was unwell. So it was exhausting work and when I got home, I was a little bit ill, but pleased to be home and relaxing.
"Part Two: Medium Term
I'm on holiday! Things are good. Keeping myself amused by exploiting my free movie privileges (anything you want to see, I'll take ya) and commenting on my Dad's blog. (I'm cool, remember? Remember how cool I am?) Spending quality time with my friends and my girlfriend, feeling wealthy and self-satisfied, and doing a good deal of snacking.
"Part Three: Long Term
I have no career prospects and I'm scared that I will move back into my father's house when I'm thirty and never leave. I still don't know what I want to be, and I've only got one year of university left... shitshitshitshitshit... and sure, I can always complete further education, hell, I'm only doing an Arts degree, but WHAT? I still have no idea.
"So that's how I am. Oh, and update on the short term: THERE IS A FLY IN MY ROOM. IT WILL NOT STOP CIRCLING THE LIGHTBULB. OR, SQUARING WOULD BE MORE PRECISE. IT IS TURNING CORNERS IN THE AIR. I HAVE NO INSECT SPRAY."
By chance I was up in Elwood early this week, ordering food at a fish and chip shop. The place was run by an Asian couple. The woman took orders while the man cooked them. She greeted me: "Hi whatdoyouwant?"
When I had paid for my order, she scribbled the number 74 on a piece of receipt paper and shoved it into my hand. "Thankyoubye."
I marveled at the abruptness, the seeming rudeness of this service, and mentioned it to a co-worker the next day. My co-worker replied that she'd found - not to be racist, but she'd found - that often Asians were like that, really aprupt, or direct, in their exchanges. They were snappy and wanted to get things done in a hurry, because they generally hold the view that the customer will be happier the faster they can get what they want. Which of course makes perfect sense. Except that in Australia, and probably in most English-speaking countries, we've got this nervous desire to feel loved and nurtured by the people that serve us. We want our soup ladled with love; our clothes dry-cleaned with respect. And so we've cultivated all these pleasantries, these extra little things to say to one another to assure each other that we're important.
At work, at the moment, we are being tested on our customer service skills. "Mystery shoppers" visit the cinema, purchasing tickets and popcorn and seeing our movies, and they assess our customer service abilities. We've been given a little checklist outlining the "steps of service" that we will be assessed on. 100% is the only pass mark. Included in the checklist are "wearing name badge" and "friendly parting greeting". Apparently, it is absolutely necessary to instruct each patron to enjoy their film.
So I say that pleasantries have gone too far. I say that people need to learn to accept the cold hard facts: your checkout operator is not concerned about your wellbeing. Nobody's really "okay". The sound of your voice asking the Question doesn't even reach their brains before their mouths respond.
I say it is time to reserve the Question for when you really damn well mean it.
Do you care how I'm feeling?
Have you got time to hear about it?
What if it's bad news?
Can you handle that?
What if I need help?
What if I'm not okay?
All right then. Ask away.
Nov 26, 2007
Enter the Reboot
Enter my Dad's competition:
The "Reboot Day" Contest*
This fiction contest will run throughout December. The premise is this:
Pleeeeeease enter this contest. I'm dying to see what people come up with. It's such an interesting premise, and you can go almost anywhere with it. If you're a writing student, you're almost obliged to try your hand!
Good luck.
* Yes, my father's blog is called The Strange Adventures of Petunia Happenstance and her Chicken of Destiny. So you can stop wondering why I'm so... uhm, special.
The "Reboot Day" Contest*
This fiction contest will run throughout December. The premise is this:
- At 1pm, July 14, 2008, everyone on Earth is slammed back to a moment exactly two years previous. They still remember everything that has happened in those two years, but now it's as if those things never happened. People un-die. Babies are un-born. Crimes are un-committed. How do the people live the years they've had a chance to relive?
- BUT, after those two years are up, at 1pm, July 14, 2008, they are shot back to 2006. Again. And again. And again...
- BONUS POINTS: Every time the world "reboots", a handful of people disappear...
Pleeeeeease enter this contest. I'm dying to see what people come up with. It's such an interesting premise, and you can go almost anywhere with it. If you're a writing student, you're almost obliged to try your hand!
Good luck.
* Yes, my father's blog is called The Strange Adventures of Petunia Happenstance and her Chicken of Destiny. So you can stop wondering why I'm so... uhm, special.
I won't drink to that.
I'm not fun to be around.
I'm nice. I'm smart. I can be witty, odd, different, creative, confusing. I can be interesting.
But I'm not fun. Why? Because, unlike 99% of adult Australians, I'm not a drinker.
This means, essentially, that I have a social disability. It's difficult to engage me in conversation. So difficult that some don't even try. I'm just not equipped with the tools I need to cope in a social environment. I lack some vital part of the human psyche, that part of us all that recognises the glorious gift that is alcohol.
I know what it's like to be different. I was a smart girl in a state school. An atheist while all around me were being dragged to church. But this is different. I'm in uni now, and I know at least a few people there who are using their brains. My peers have finally made their own choices about faith. But I cannot foresee a time when people begin to agree with me about this.
I fail to see why drinking alcohol is so compulsory for everyone in this country over the age of fifteen. People don't seem to realise that it makes them ugly, stupid and boring.
I hear some people - designated drivers, for the most part - saying they don't mind being the only sober at the table. "It's funny," they say. Watching drunk people is funny. I beg to differ. The unwelcome physical contact? Not cool. The unselfconscious spray of saliva during speech? Not cool. The clever sexual jokes and pranks? Not hilarious. Not. I can't stand hanging around most drunk people. I prefer to stay home. I prefer to watch TV. I prefer juice.
Someone's (haha, everyone's) probably thinking right about now, "Well, that's your choice, Miriam. This is ours. When are you ever going to stop judging people? We're only having fun."
However, this becomes difficult after I have been judged myself so many times. When someone finds out that I don't drink, nine times out of ten they will respond thusly: "You just haven't found the right drink yet!" They'll follow this up by asking about what I've drunk before and constructing a list of all the drinks I must try instead.
"This one doesn't burn at all."
"No aftertaste. None."
"Guaranteed no hangover."
"Guaranteed hangover."
"You like chocolate milk, don't you?"
"Like fucking ambrosia from Mount fucking Olympus."
"Here, I'll shout you this round."
"What do you mean, you can't shoot?"
It's funny that I've had more bad reactions for being a teetotaller than from being a lesbian. Sobriety is less acceptable than almost any other differentness. That's because alcohol is part of being a human. It's a social adhesive, helping you all to stick together. I'm unstuck. It's a rite of passage for teenagers; a ritual for adults. For me, the passage didn't take. It's an escape, a memory cleanser, an excuse for the terrible things you don't have the guts to do. I'm still too afraid. You drink to those you love, in glory and in death. I won't accept this ritual. You drink together and alone. You drink to enjoy yourself. I don't want to turn myself into somebody else. I don't want to believe that this is the only way to feel joy. You drink to pickle your pain. Alcohol is the most powerful drug, the most alluring symbol, the most exquisite human creation ever to grace this planet of men. Alcohol is the drink of celebration and despair.
And without it
you
can't
cope.
I'm nice. I'm smart. I can be witty, odd, different, creative, confusing. I can be interesting.
But I'm not fun. Why? Because, unlike 99% of adult Australians, I'm not a drinker.
This means, essentially, that I have a social disability. It's difficult to engage me in conversation. So difficult that some don't even try. I'm just not equipped with the tools I need to cope in a social environment. I lack some vital part of the human psyche, that part of us all that recognises the glorious gift that is alcohol.
I know what it's like to be different. I was a smart girl in a state school. An atheist while all around me were being dragged to church. But this is different. I'm in uni now, and I know at least a few people there who are using their brains. My peers have finally made their own choices about faith. But I cannot foresee a time when people begin to agree with me about this.
I fail to see why drinking alcohol is so compulsory for everyone in this country over the age of fifteen. People don't seem to realise that it makes them ugly, stupid and boring.
I hear some people - designated drivers, for the most part - saying they don't mind being the only sober at the table. "It's funny," they say. Watching drunk people is funny. I beg to differ. The unwelcome physical contact? Not cool. The unselfconscious spray of saliva during speech? Not cool. The clever sexual jokes and pranks? Not hilarious. Not. I can't stand hanging around most drunk people. I prefer to stay home. I prefer to watch TV. I prefer juice.
Someone's (haha, everyone's) probably thinking right about now, "Well, that's your choice, Miriam. This is ours. When are you ever going to stop judging people? We're only having fun."
However, this becomes difficult after I have been judged myself so many times. When someone finds out that I don't drink, nine times out of ten they will respond thusly: "You just haven't found the right drink yet!" They'll follow this up by asking about what I've drunk before and constructing a list of all the drinks I must try instead.
"This one doesn't burn at all."
"No aftertaste. None."
"Guaranteed no hangover."
"Guaranteed hangover."
"You like chocolate milk, don't you?"
"Like fucking ambrosia from Mount fucking Olympus."
"Here, I'll shout you this round."
"What do you mean, you can't shoot?"
It's funny that I've had more bad reactions for being a teetotaller than from being a lesbian. Sobriety is less acceptable than almost any other differentness. That's because alcohol is part of being a human. It's a social adhesive, helping you all to stick together. I'm unstuck. It's a rite of passage for teenagers; a ritual for adults. For me, the passage didn't take. It's an escape, a memory cleanser, an excuse for the terrible things you don't have the guts to do. I'm still too afraid. You drink to those you love, in glory and in death. I won't accept this ritual. You drink together and alone. You drink to enjoy yourself. I don't want to turn myself into somebody else. I don't want to believe that this is the only way to feel joy. You drink to pickle your pain. Alcohol is the most powerful drug, the most alluring symbol, the most exquisite human creation ever to grace this planet of men. Alcohol is the drink of celebration and despair.
And without it
you
can't
cope.
Nov 23, 2007
Ring ring.
I bought the coolest phone in the world, but it only rings as much as my old phone did.On the left, you can see my old phone, purchased in late 2003. The Nokia 3310. Everyone had this phone. Two years before I did, that is. It's a classic. It's old school. Fire engine red casing. Digital watch style screen. Fat black pixels. Monophonic. It calls. It texts. It doesn't do voicemail. And it's a fucking brick. Drop it fifty times on hard concrete and all you get is gravel rash. I had this phone nearly four years and the worst damage it sustained was a hairline crack in the casing, from the [*] button to the bottom edge. Look. Can't even see it. Bloody beautiful.
It would have been immortal, if it weren't for the battery. Battery started perishing late this year; phone needed charging every two days. It'd die in the middle of a call. I started complaining. My Dad said, we'll get you a new one. Christmas approaches. All I really needed was a fresh battery, actually, but hell. The phone was embarrassing. No one could believe it when I whipped the thing out. Bloody dinosaur.
So here I am, at home after work one night, and the dinosaur bleeps. "Might want to look on your doorstep," it tells me. I am Alice. I take a peek. There's a little parcel on the verandah. Letter tucked in the top. "Read me." And why ever not?
It's the Girl. She's bought me a new phone. Have a look - on the right. It's another Nokia. 2630. Shiny. Black and silver. Thin as a crisp. Every time I pick it up, I get a powerful urge to sink my teeth in, just to enjoy its crunchy slimness.
It calls. It texts. It has a camera and FM radio and video function and a game of Sudoku. Whatever Bluetooth is, it's got that. Simple, she calls it. Apparently they get a lot more fancy pantsy than this. My Luddite self is pleased. The Girl knows me. She knows I want a phone for phoning. A shiny one.
I put my SIM card in the wafer and gave her a call. "Come back here right now, bitch, so I can thank you properly." Drag her into the house. Give her a massive hug. Wave the phone around at all my relatives. "Check it OUT. I've rejoined popular society."
And as she leaves, I run out the front door to say goodbye. I'm gloriously, wildly in love; my bag swinging in my hand, zipper open and carefree. Out tumbles the wafer. Clack, it says, hitting the concrete verandah. Clackclackclackclack, it adds, bouncing across the driveway. Clup, it concludes, landing flat at her feet.
"Shit."
She bends down and picks it up. My head swims with remembered words.
"How much was it?" - "That's for me to know."
Am I going to find out now?
Her eyes rise to meet mine. The wafer lies dormant in her hand.
"It's okay," she says.
Ohthankchrist.
I have a new phone!
Nov 20, 2007
Comfort Zone
My comfort zone consists of my charming family, my girlfriend, certain friends. My father's house. The internet. My bedroom. University. Television. Movie theatres. These things make me feel safe.
I venture out of my comfort zone every time I go out. Every time I go to a pub or club, I'm out. Every time I talk to someone else, someone not in the aforementioned list - a new friend, a workmate even - I'm out. Shopping frightens me. Work is out of my comfort zone. I get anxious just walking to the staff room. I get anxious talking to customers. I don't like new things or new people.
I actually hate leaving my house. There are very few places outside my house in which I feel at ease. Most times I'm itching to move back to a place I can control.
I don't want to travel. Everyone else I know, on holiday now, has plans to venture out to Vietnam, England, Europe, Thailand. Travel is one of the most wonderful experiences a person can have; top of everyone's To Do Before Death. Not mine. I've been to various places in my own country and found them less than a thrill. I don't see the excitement that comes with staring down a sandy canyon. I don't see the breathtaking joy of standing in an art gallery, peering over tourists' heads to try and catch a glimpse of a painting I've seen a million times before (but not like this!)
Is it wrong that I don't want to travel? Will my life be limited, my perspective squashed and distorted by the narrow scope of my experience?
Apparently I should want it. Everyone wants it. Broaden your horizons! Venture into the unknown! Try new things and meet new people!
...why?
I know comfort zones exist by degrees. Some things make us comfortable. Some things make us nervous, anxious, uncomfortable. There are things in between, things that worry us a little, but which we attend to in any case. Sometimes this is rewarding. Stepping out of your comfort zone is rewarding. But I still don't want to. I've rarely found it rewarding. I rarely go to a party and feel glad that I'm there. Mostly I go, and feel out of place, and wish I was home, watching a movie about a party in which the people are attractively drunk.
I'd love to blame it all on some diagnosable disorder. Agoraphobia, perfect. Of course I don't have it. There's nothing wrong with me. Agoraphobics go far beyond nervous. They have panic attacks, refuse to move, won't see people they don't know. I've got no excuse.
Funny how I've always wished for excuses like that. I guess it's easy to be a victim. I'm depressed: I have depression. I'm moody: I have a mood disorder. I'm lonely: I'm the only gay in the village. Excuses are a comfort too.
I'm sure this isn't so unusual, this feeling of mine. Doesn't everyone get uncomfortable in a crowd? Doesn't everyone get nervous when they're talking to someone, trying not to sound so much like a social outcast?
Or not?
I venture out of my comfort zone every time I go out. Every time I go to a pub or club, I'm out. Every time I talk to someone else, someone not in the aforementioned list - a new friend, a workmate even - I'm out. Shopping frightens me. Work is out of my comfort zone. I get anxious just walking to the staff room. I get anxious talking to customers. I don't like new things or new people.
I actually hate leaving my house. There are very few places outside my house in which I feel at ease. Most times I'm itching to move back to a place I can control.
I don't want to travel. Everyone else I know, on holiday now, has plans to venture out to Vietnam, England, Europe, Thailand. Travel is one of the most wonderful experiences a person can have; top of everyone's To Do Before Death. Not mine. I've been to various places in my own country and found them less than a thrill. I don't see the excitement that comes with staring down a sandy canyon. I don't see the breathtaking joy of standing in an art gallery, peering over tourists' heads to try and catch a glimpse of a painting I've seen a million times before (but not like this!)
Is it wrong that I don't want to travel? Will my life be limited, my perspective squashed and distorted by the narrow scope of my experience?
Apparently I should want it. Everyone wants it. Broaden your horizons! Venture into the unknown! Try new things and meet new people!
...why?
I know comfort zones exist by degrees. Some things make us comfortable. Some things make us nervous, anxious, uncomfortable. There are things in between, things that worry us a little, but which we attend to in any case. Sometimes this is rewarding. Stepping out of your comfort zone is rewarding. But I still don't want to. I've rarely found it rewarding. I rarely go to a party and feel glad that I'm there. Mostly I go, and feel out of place, and wish I was home, watching a movie about a party in which the people are attractively drunk.
I'd love to blame it all on some diagnosable disorder. Agoraphobia, perfect. Of course I don't have it. There's nothing wrong with me. Agoraphobics go far beyond nervous. They have panic attacks, refuse to move, won't see people they don't know. I've got no excuse.
Funny how I've always wished for excuses like that. I guess it's easy to be a victim. I'm depressed: I have depression. I'm moody: I have a mood disorder. I'm lonely: I'm the only gay in the village. Excuses are a comfort too.
I'm sure this isn't so unusual, this feeling of mine. Doesn't everyone get uncomfortable in a crowd? Doesn't everyone get nervous when they're talking to someone, trying not to sound so much like a social outcast?
Or not?
Nov 11, 2007
Heavy with child
I scream in frustration! Want to smash and destroy! Things are not going my way. Why? I'll tell you. You're me, right?
You're a writer. You want to write fiction - maybe for the screen, maybe not. You haven't written anything you're proud of in over a year, and you blame it on university, despite the fact that you're actually studying creative writing. Studies get in the way because you have to write what they tell you to write, and you don't feel like you have complete ownership over it.
But now you're on holiday. You have no less than three almost fully-formed story ideas kicking around in your head. You're ready to go. You know?
Open up Word.
Choose a gorgeous font. Garamond... no! No! Bookman Old Style. Perfect.
Hands hover over the keyboard.
...nothing.
Okay, different approach.
Pen to paper.
It's a really nice pen. It's metallic-blue and has a velvety grip on its nose. Has your Dad's business name printed in gold on the side. Inky. Delicious.
...nothing.
Why? The idea is there. You know exactly how the story will unfold. You've done a bit of research, you know how the technical details will work. You've named all your characters; written a plan. You've written the opening paragraph to this story about five or six times, and hate every version. Why won't the story come out right?
Do you wonder, at this point, whether the story should be written at all? Maybe it's a stillbirth. Maybe it wasn't meant to live.
In a highly figurative, non-spiritual-wanker-type way, I think stories have souls. I think that once they are formed as ideas in the writer's mind, it is simply a matter of their flowing out through the fingertips. All my best stories have been written this way. I'll read back over one and wonder how I came up with it. I certainly wasn't agonising over the wording at the time, yet here it is on the paper now, and it's just exactly right. When I consciously try, it comes out wrong over and over and over again.
Being that you're not me anymore, answer me this: how do your stories form? At what point will you abandon an idea for dead?
You're a writer. You want to write fiction - maybe for the screen, maybe not. You haven't written anything you're proud of in over a year, and you blame it on university, despite the fact that you're actually studying creative writing. Studies get in the way because you have to write what they tell you to write, and you don't feel like you have complete ownership over it.
But now you're on holiday. You have no less than three almost fully-formed story ideas kicking around in your head. You're ready to go. You know?
Open up Word.
Choose a gorgeous font. Garamond... no! No! Bookman Old Style. Perfect.
Hands hover over the keyboard.
...nothing.
Okay, different approach.
Pen to paper.
It's a really nice pen. It's metallic-blue and has a velvety grip on its nose. Has your Dad's business name printed in gold on the side. Inky. Delicious.
...nothing.
Why? The idea is there. You know exactly how the story will unfold. You've done a bit of research, you know how the technical details will work. You've named all your characters; written a plan. You've written the opening paragraph to this story about five or six times, and hate every version. Why won't the story come out right?
Do you wonder, at this point, whether the story should be written at all? Maybe it's a stillbirth. Maybe it wasn't meant to live.
In a highly figurative, non-spiritual-wanker-type way, I think stories have souls. I think that once they are formed as ideas in the writer's mind, it is simply a matter of their flowing out through the fingertips. All my best stories have been written this way. I'll read back over one and wonder how I came up with it. I certainly wasn't agonising over the wording at the time, yet here it is on the paper now, and it's just exactly right. When I consciously try, it comes out wrong over and over and over again.
Being that you're not me anymore, answer me this: how do your stories form? At what point will you abandon an idea for dead?
Nov 6, 2007
Lazy Survey - Me and the Girl
I shouldn't actually be answering this - it's supposed to be for marrieds - but screw that! Marriage is for stupid-heads anyway.
Who is your partner?
A girl of some description.
How long have you been together?
Since I got hot.
How long did you date?
It started out as like a couple of hours, and then it got longer.
How old is your partner?
She’s older than me but nobody would ever assume this, because she’s so terribly youthful like a little floppy bunnyrabbit.
Who eats more?
If she has pasta for dinner, she will eat the same amount of pasta as every person in my household would. You know, together. It's sort of like a magician's trick.
"No way, man. How did you fit all that pasta into that one little girl?"
Who said "I love you" first?
In a surprise move, I did. It was pretty special. She'd heard it before. I hadn't.
Who is taller?
One time we both got stoned at a ridiculous party, and a crazy chick came up to us and started waving her hand in the air in front of us diagonally.
“Wow. You guys are like, exactly the same height. That is so cool.”
She was so thrilled at this incredible discovery that she made enough noise for other people to gather and remark. It was eventually decided that she was tallest. We sniggered to one another because I’m actually several inches higher above the ground, and then we kept sniggering, and then suddenly I couldn’t stop, and I got terribly embarrassed, and then someone sat me down and gave me a glass of water and got out a camera. Then I couldn’t remember which of us was taller anymore.
Who sings better?
I may never find out. She is excruciatingly private about seemingly trivial things such as this.
Who is smarter?
Oh my, let’s not get into this. According to Tickle.com and Facebook’s 30 question IQ test (not dubious in the least), I have a near-genius IQ of 142. She won’t do one of these, so we can’t even compare on an incredibly base level – though I think with a question sample that minuscule, your result is largely down to luck.
Anyway, my thoughts are that we are both very intelligent people and we both struggle to show it at times. She thinks I’m smarter but I think she’s wrong.
Whose temper is worse?
I rarely get angry. When I do, it’s usually a kind of cold fury that manifests itself in quiet but biting remarks. She is far more tempestuous. She’s capable of serious damage sometimes. So I suppose hers is worse.
Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?
Usually me. She takes the wall, I take the edge. It’s mainly because I’ll have set an alarm on my phone, and neither of us wants me to clamber across her peaceful body in the horrid light of the morning to turn it off. We both know if I do that, she’ll curl all her tentacles around my body and pull me in like a ravenous Kraken, and the alarm will enter a fight to the death with my phone battery.
Who cooks dinner?
I do… for some reason I tend to claim the kitchen most nights, though I’m no better a cook than she is. In fact, she’s probably better, since she's actually had some lessons with her mother. The extent of my cooking education is a short period of Home Ec taught by my high school principal.
You see, our class, the so-called nerd class, wasn’t scheduled to do Home Ec, ever. And, sure, we were booked in to be the next engineers and doctors and lawyers of our generation, but did that mean we were going to have house chefs? So we made a collective complaint and requested a term of Home Ec. They couldn't find a real Home Ec teacher so the principal stood in. She'd do anything to keep her Accelerated Learning kids happy. Awww.
Who drives when you are together?
She ain’t gots a licence. Or a car. Well, I don’t gots a car either but I like to pretend I do. Putt-putt-putt-putt. It’s blue. Brrrrrrrbrbrrrrrr.
Who pays when you go out?
See, she's poor and I'm a miser, so neither of us ever really want to pay, and it gets so terribly confusing since we're both women and neither of us are meant to pay...
It usually turns into a ginger offering from both of us before one eventually takes a step closer to the cash counter and the other shrugs and settles back down in her seat a little too readily to be convincingly disappointed.
Who is most stubborn?
We’re both damn stubborn but she’s sweeter inside than me, and she usually cracks first. With me, there's not really much strawberry soft-centre below the surface - all you get is the marshmallow on top and after that it's all hard 70% cocoa. So if I’ve decided not to give up, I rarely will.
Who is the first to admit when they are wrong?
Usually her. Same as above really. If I’ve decided I’m right, I’m fucking right, alright?
Whose parents do you see the most?
Mine. I’ve got the whole Mummy’s Girl thing going on, and I’m pretty sucky-up to my Daddy too (see that other post about my parents from before) and I feel the need to share them around. Whereas she sees less of her parents and to be frank, I’m fearful of some of them.
Who kissed who first?
Well, I’d say I did, but she says it was crap. She kissed me next, and it was much better, so she’d prefer to consider that our first kiss. But still, it was me!
Who asked who out?
I’m so not sure at all. Both? Neither. We didn’t really do that stuff. We just kept running into one another and eventually we slept together.
Who proposed?
I propose weekly. She’s just not ready for that kind of commitment. Also, I always forget to bring the ring.
Who is more sensitive?
Well, I’ll cry a fishtank most weeks, but she’s just as delicate as I am – only she’s got a pretty strong mask on it most of the time.
Who has more friends?
I do, and I constantly complain that I don’t see them enough. When I was single (oh, eternally single) I used to talk bitterly about how people in relationships neglected their friends, and would only come crawling back when the relationship started ailing.
“I wouldn’t do something like that if I ever got a girlfriend!” I said. “Well, those people can just forget it. Crawl all you want, I won’t help you back up. Deserters!”
Well, these days I spend most of my social time with her, some time working and some time studying (heh) and the rest seeking the isolation my INTP self so desperately craves. It’s a little embarrassing considering my hardline policy, and I often feel like I should spend less time with her, on principle, and do more with my other friends. I don’t, though. My fault.
Who wears the pants in the family?
She’s the man.
That's right. I said it.
Who is your partner?
A girl of some description.
How long have you been together?
Since I got hot.
How long did you date?
It started out as like a couple of hours, and then it got longer.
How old is your partner?
She’s older than me but nobody would ever assume this, because she’s so terribly youthful like a little floppy bunnyrabbit.
Who eats more?
If she has pasta for dinner, she will eat the same amount of pasta as every person in my household would. You know, together. It's sort of like a magician's trick.
"No way, man. How did you fit all that pasta into that one little girl?"
Who said "I love you" first?
In a surprise move, I did. It was pretty special. She'd heard it before. I hadn't.
Who is taller?
One time we both got stoned at a ridiculous party, and a crazy chick came up to us and started waving her hand in the air in front of us diagonally.
“Wow. You guys are like, exactly the same height. That is so cool.”
She was so thrilled at this incredible discovery that she made enough noise for other people to gather and remark. It was eventually decided that she was tallest. We sniggered to one another because I’m actually several inches higher above the ground, and then we kept sniggering, and then suddenly I couldn’t stop, and I got terribly embarrassed, and then someone sat me down and gave me a glass of water and got out a camera. Then I couldn’t remember which of us was taller anymore.
Who sings better?
I may never find out. She is excruciatingly private about seemingly trivial things such as this.
Who is smarter?
Oh my, let’s not get into this. According to Tickle.com and Facebook’s 30 question IQ test (not dubious in the least), I have a near-genius IQ of 142. She won’t do one of these, so we can’t even compare on an incredibly base level – though I think with a question sample that minuscule, your result is largely down to luck.
Anyway, my thoughts are that we are both very intelligent people and we both struggle to show it at times. She thinks I’m smarter but I think she’s wrong.
Whose temper is worse?
I rarely get angry. When I do, it’s usually a kind of cold fury that manifests itself in quiet but biting remarks. She is far more tempestuous. She’s capable of serious damage sometimes. So I suppose hers is worse.
Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?
Usually me. She takes the wall, I take the edge. It’s mainly because I’ll have set an alarm on my phone, and neither of us wants me to clamber across her peaceful body in the horrid light of the morning to turn it off. We both know if I do that, she’ll curl all her tentacles around my body and pull me in like a ravenous Kraken, and the alarm will enter a fight to the death with my phone battery.
Who cooks dinner?
I do… for some reason I tend to claim the kitchen most nights, though I’m no better a cook than she is. In fact, she’s probably better, since she's actually had some lessons with her mother. The extent of my cooking education is a short period of Home Ec taught by my high school principal.
You see, our class, the so-called nerd class, wasn’t scheduled to do Home Ec, ever. And, sure, we were booked in to be the next engineers and doctors and lawyers of our generation, but did that mean we were going to have house chefs? So we made a collective complaint and requested a term of Home Ec. They couldn't find a real Home Ec teacher so the principal stood in. She'd do anything to keep her Accelerated Learning kids happy. Awww.
Who drives when you are together?
She ain’t gots a licence. Or a car. Well, I don’t gots a car either but I like to pretend I do. Putt-putt-putt-putt. It’s blue. Brrrrrrrbrbrrrrrr.
Who pays when you go out?
See, she's poor and I'm a miser, so neither of us ever really want to pay, and it gets so terribly confusing since we're both women and neither of us are meant to pay...
It usually turns into a ginger offering from both of us before one eventually takes a step closer to the cash counter and the other shrugs and settles back down in her seat a little too readily to be convincingly disappointed.
Who is most stubborn?
We’re both damn stubborn but she’s sweeter inside than me, and she usually cracks first. With me, there's not really much strawberry soft-centre below the surface - all you get is the marshmallow on top and after that it's all hard 70% cocoa. So if I’ve decided not to give up, I rarely will.
Who is the first to admit when they are wrong?
Usually her. Same as above really. If I’ve decided I’m right, I’m fucking right, alright?
Whose parents do you see the most?
Mine. I’ve got the whole Mummy’s Girl thing going on, and I’m pretty sucky-up to my Daddy too (see that other post about my parents from before) and I feel the need to share them around. Whereas she sees less of her parents and to be frank, I’m fearful of some of them.
Who kissed who first?
Well, I’d say I did, but she says it was crap. She kissed me next, and it was much better, so she’d prefer to consider that our first kiss. But still, it was me!
Who asked who out?
I’m so not sure at all. Both? Neither. We didn’t really do that stuff. We just kept running into one another and eventually we slept together.
Who proposed?
I propose weekly. She’s just not ready for that kind of commitment. Also, I always forget to bring the ring.
Who is more sensitive?
Well, I’ll cry a fishtank most weeks, but she’s just as delicate as I am – only she’s got a pretty strong mask on it most of the time.
Who has more friends?
I do, and I constantly complain that I don’t see them enough. When I was single (oh, eternally single) I used to talk bitterly about how people in relationships neglected their friends, and would only come crawling back when the relationship started ailing.
“I wouldn’t do something like that if I ever got a girlfriend!” I said. “Well, those people can just forget it. Crawl all you want, I won’t help you back up. Deserters!”
Well, these days I spend most of my social time with her, some time working and some time studying (heh) and the rest seeking the isolation my INTP self so desperately craves. It’s a little embarrassing considering my hardline policy, and I often feel like I should spend less time with her, on principle, and do more with my other friends. I don’t, though. My fault.
Who wears the pants in the family?
She’s the man.
That's right. I said it.
Nov 4, 2007
Little Legs
Posted as an entry for Kate Rothwell's UNTIL THE RETURN OF BAM Writing Contest.
Conventions: 400 words or less; reveal a secret without stating it outright.
Little Miss Muffet capers all the way to bed, little wicket-post legs launching from the carpet and leaping swiftly into the crisp blue sheets. Nine years old, no she isn’t sleepy but she wants to be up early tomorrow for the game. She snuggle-snuggle-snuggles her wriggly legs into the blankets, restless and trying not to be.
Then the legs SPASM and she’s out again, shrieking on the carpet. Me and Mummy and Daddy rush to the scene in time to spy an eight-legged thing darting back to the safety of the covers.
Miss Muffet eases her chair up to the coffee table and reaches out to the platter. I get in before her, seizing a slice of cake and pushing it into her hand.
“Did you want more tea as well?” I pour quickly.
“Bill, will you stop that? I’m not helpless, you know.”
“I know…”
“I can get my own fucking tea off the table.”
It’s mid-semester and I’ve come to stay with my family for the break. Mum is fussy because she hasn’t seen me for so long; she’s laid out the lounge like a tea party.
“Tina, he’s just trying to be nice.”
My sister says she’s sorry. “But please stop grabbing everything for me. I’ve still got both my arms, you know.”
She’s twenty-five, got her degree, looking for a job. Everyone’s equal opportunity these days but it’s still difficult.
“What happened? You used to be a little twit, don’t you remember? And suddenly you got all weird and helpful after the bite. You stopped playing practical jokes, too.”
I watch her sip her tea. She wears a red football jersey and a pair of loose jeans all rolled up on one side. They had to cut above the knee, so she can’t wear a prosthetic. I try to check the surge of pity, but it’s too late.
“Remember the time you put all the salt in my toothbrush? And that time you glued my baseball into the mitt?”
All I can think of is that spider, scuttling back into the sheets. Dad caught it in a jar to show them in Emergency. It had just looked like a huntsman. Harmless. Hilarious. Except for the two little pointed spinnerets on its tail. I didn’t notice those till they pointed them out at the hospital.
My stomach twists again. Tina smiles, remembering something different.
“Sneaky little bastard.”
Conventions: 400 words or less; reveal a secret without stating it outright.
Little Miss Muffet capers all the way to bed, little wicket-post legs launching from the carpet and leaping swiftly into the crisp blue sheets. Nine years old, no she isn’t sleepy but she wants to be up early tomorrow for the game. She snuggle-snuggle-snuggles her wriggly legs into the blankets, restless and trying not to be.
Then the legs SPASM and she’s out again, shrieking on the carpet. Me and Mummy and Daddy rush to the scene in time to spy an eight-legged thing darting back to the safety of the covers.
Miss Muffet eases her chair up to the coffee table and reaches out to the platter. I get in before her, seizing a slice of cake and pushing it into her hand.
“Did you want more tea as well?” I pour quickly.
“Bill, will you stop that? I’m not helpless, you know.”
“I know…”
“I can get my own fucking tea off the table.”
It’s mid-semester and I’ve come to stay with my family for the break. Mum is fussy because she hasn’t seen me for so long; she’s laid out the lounge like a tea party.
“Tina, he’s just trying to be nice.”
My sister says she’s sorry. “But please stop grabbing everything for me. I’ve still got both my arms, you know.”
She’s twenty-five, got her degree, looking for a job. Everyone’s equal opportunity these days but it’s still difficult.
“What happened? You used to be a little twit, don’t you remember? And suddenly you got all weird and helpful after the bite. You stopped playing practical jokes, too.”
I watch her sip her tea. She wears a red football jersey and a pair of loose jeans all rolled up on one side. They had to cut above the knee, so she can’t wear a prosthetic. I try to check the surge of pity, but it’s too late.
“Remember the time you put all the salt in my toothbrush? And that time you glued my baseball into the mitt?”
All I can think of is that spider, scuttling back into the sheets. Dad caught it in a jar to show them in Emergency. It had just looked like a huntsman. Harmless. Hilarious. Except for the two little pointed spinnerets on its tail. I didn’t notice those till they pointed them out at the hospital.
My stomach twists again. Tina smiles, remembering something different.
“Sneaky little bastard.”
Nov 1, 2007
Sharing
Something about my girlfriend's house makes me wonder.
It's the way we'll come through the gate and there's a mangy little Pomeranian in a jumper yarping hoarsely at us. It's the way we pass the creepy old rainchair on the way to the door, and there'll be a plastic bag full of children's toys on it. She lives above an op shop and there's always something lying around on the doorstep. She has an awful plastic wind-up Transformer that she fished out of one of these bags. It'll lie dormant on the carpet wherever she's dropped it, but if you pick it up between your thumb and forefinger, it struggles feebly in midair, not quite out of zizz.
You come through the front door and there's an etch-a-sketch propped up on the kitchen table, bearing last night's message from her housemate. It usually says something about food, either "I stole your eggs to make dinner, WILL REPLACE" or "Free wine left over from work, help yourself". The kitchen shelves are divided by the owners of the goods, but "ownership" is never strict.
She used to have a housemate who would draw a line on the side of the milk bottle to monitor illegal use. It's hard to get comfortable living with someone who does that. Quietly, gently, without a single word exchanged, a little green marker message in your fridge: "I don't like you and I don't trust you."
She's got a new housemate now. I like this one better. She has a much better DVD collection.
We came in the other night to find a post-it note plastered to the television. Her housemate had booked the set to watch something awful. They almost never see each other, so they run a system of note-based communcation. Post-its are a staple of the household.
It must be a delicate operation, getting along with your housemates. I still live with my father, and my father (a) loves me, (b) is obliged to provide for me, and (c) is allowed to exercise absolute authority over the household, since I don't pay rent. But when you split rent with two other people you didn't know til after you moved in with them - people who aren't friends or drinking buddies - your entire relationship is based upon tiny little domestic details.
Who bought the last dishwashing sponge?
Who left the toilet seat up?
Who hasn't paid their share of the phone bill yet?
All of the rules seem unspoken.
Should I ask before I use her new nonstick frying pan?
Am I allowed to borrow a capful of vegetable oil to cook my lamb chops?
Is anyone going to get uppity if I smoke weed in here?
Oh hey, I'm just watching your Buffy season four, is that cool? Oh, hey, I'm taking care of my friend's cat for the day, is that all right? Keep your drawers shut, he likes socks.
It's all about manners, but home shouldn't be about manners. If I had to call a place home, I'd want to be able to fart without excusing myself. I'd want to sing in the shower and spread whatever condiments I could find onto my toast when I stumbled into the kitchen for a five am snack. Is a sharehouse a home? Or is it just a place to sleep between your pubs and your classes?
I wonder.
It's the way we'll come through the gate and there's a mangy little Pomeranian in a jumper yarping hoarsely at us. It's the way we pass the creepy old rainchair on the way to the door, and there'll be a plastic bag full of children's toys on it. She lives above an op shop and there's always something lying around on the doorstep. She has an awful plastic wind-up Transformer that she fished out of one of these bags. It'll lie dormant on the carpet wherever she's dropped it, but if you pick it up between your thumb and forefinger, it struggles feebly in midair, not quite out of zizz.
You come through the front door and there's an etch-a-sketch propped up on the kitchen table, bearing last night's message from her housemate. It usually says something about food, either "I stole your eggs to make dinner, WILL REPLACE" or "Free wine left over from work, help yourself". The kitchen shelves are divided by the owners of the goods, but "ownership" is never strict.
She used to have a housemate who would draw a line on the side of the milk bottle to monitor illegal use. It's hard to get comfortable living with someone who does that. Quietly, gently, without a single word exchanged, a little green marker message in your fridge: "I don't like you and I don't trust you."
She's got a new housemate now. I like this one better. She has a much better DVD collection.
We came in the other night to find a post-it note plastered to the television. Her housemate had booked the set to watch something awful. They almost never see each other, so they run a system of note-based communcation. Post-its are a staple of the household.
It must be a delicate operation, getting along with your housemates. I still live with my father, and my father (a) loves me, (b) is obliged to provide for me, and (c) is allowed to exercise absolute authority over the household, since I don't pay rent. But when you split rent with two other people you didn't know til after you moved in with them - people who aren't friends or drinking buddies - your entire relationship is based upon tiny little domestic details.
Who bought the last dishwashing sponge?
Who left the toilet seat up?
Who hasn't paid their share of the phone bill yet?
All of the rules seem unspoken.
Should I ask before I use her new nonstick frying pan?
Am I allowed to borrow a capful of vegetable oil to cook my lamb chops?
Is anyone going to get uppity if I smoke weed in here?
Oh hey, I'm just watching your Buffy season four, is that cool? Oh, hey, I'm taking care of my friend's cat for the day, is that all right? Keep your drawers shut, he likes socks.
It's all about manners, but home shouldn't be about manners. If I had to call a place home, I'd want to be able to fart without excusing myself. I'd want to sing in the shower and spread whatever condiments I could find onto my toast when I stumbled into the kitchen for a five am snack. Is a sharehouse a home? Or is it just a place to sleep between your pubs and your classes?
I wonder.
Rather
Rather than write a blog, I can spend fifteen minutes fiddling with my necklace.
Rather than write a story, I can wash all the dishes in the house and vacuum my room.
Rather than write an essay, I can run around my backyard eight times while the ferrets watch me go.
Rather than write a script, I can wander into my dad's shed and shout about popular culture over the sound of a heavy-duty drill.
Rather than sketch a drawing, I can spend three-quarters of an hour playing solitaire.
Rather than paint a picture, I can take a whimsical tour of Wikipedia in my pyjamas.
I don't need paper.
I don't need thoughts.
I don't need Microsoft Office.
This is what my life is made of.
Rather than write a story, I can wash all the dishes in the house and vacuum my room.
Rather than write an essay, I can run around my backyard eight times while the ferrets watch me go.
Rather than write a script, I can wander into my dad's shed and shout about popular culture over the sound of a heavy-duty drill.
Rather than sketch a drawing, I can spend three-quarters of an hour playing solitaire.
Rather than paint a picture, I can take a whimsical tour of Wikipedia in my pyjamas.
I don't need paper.
I don't need thoughts.
I don't need Microsoft Office.
This is what my life is made of.
Oct 28, 2007
Mild Profanity
Fucking party arsehole neighbours stealing my sleep
12am 1am 1:35 1:45 1:55 3am 4am
I turn on my computer
Surrendering slumber
Computer says it's 5am
What happened?
It was 4am
Just a moment ago
I swear
Oh.
Fucking
Daylight savings.
Sing us a song
Mister Fucking Piano Man
Sing us a song tonight
I'm tired and I'm sore and I'm fucking furious
Oooh, ooh ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Honey came in and she caught me red-handed
Creepin' with the girl next door
Girls just wanna have fun. That's all they really waaaaa-aa-aaa-aaa-aaa
Earplugs
Where are the earplugs?
...WAIT.
It's stopped
It's over
No sound
No fucking
Thank
God
Vishnu
Buddha
Allah
Yahweh
Fucking
Thank you all
So much
No
No
NO
NO
A beat begins
A man charged with drink
Roars
Backstreet Boys
As long as you fucking love me
I don't care...
12am 1am 1:35 1:45 1:55 3am 4am
I turn on my computer
Surrendering slumber
Computer says it's 5am
What happened?
It was 4am
Just a moment ago
I swear
Oh.
Fucking
Daylight savings.
Sing us a song
Mister Fucking Piano Man
Sing us a song tonight
I'm tired and I'm sore and I'm fucking furious
Oooh, ooh ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Honey came in and she caught me red-handed
Creepin' with the girl next door
Girls just wanna have fun. That's all they really waaaaa-aa-aaa-aaa-aaa
Earplugs
Where are the earplugs?
...WAIT.
It's stopped
It's over
No sound
No fucking
Thank
God
Vishnu
Buddha
Allah
Yahweh
Fucking
Thank you all
So much
No
No
NO
NO
A beat begins
A man charged with drink
Roars
Backstreet Boys
As long as you fucking love me
I don't care...
Oct 12, 2007
Facebook WAARGH
Facebook Consumer Strategies: Customer Retention Strategies
So I registered with Facebook under the sizzling alias "Wanda Wells" in order to peek surreptitiously at my friends' accounts and ask myself, "wherefore?". This I did, and a delightful ten minutes was spent. Immediately afterward, I located the "Deactivate Account" button. Click and it's all gone! No evidence I was ever there! Yarp?
Narp. Quoth Facebook:
"Please let us know why you are deactivating."
So I replied, by way of clicking the succinct little bullet option:
I nodded. All well and good. But I still wasn't interested. I searched the bullet list for a more compelling reason to leave the site. Maybe Facebook would listen if I selected:
Yet Facebook had an answer. "You can alter your privacy settings to make sure you are more protected."
Oh. Er, thank you. Good to know, I suppose. But still,
Facebook really cared about me. It was so generous, offering me this network of support as I was lost, confused and alone in the webly wilderness. But still I didn't want to learn to use the site. I wanted to leave. How about if I just promised:
Yet my email is still in the system? How could I ever escape? I needed my email address back. And so I told Facebook a lie. This isn't a betrayal. I'm not leaving. It's just that...
I clicked "deactivate". Wanda Wells was no more.
Sitting at my monitor, silently exhaling, in the moments that followed, I felt somehow empty. I had escaped, hadn't I? I had no more responsibility to Facebook. And yet I felt as though I had done wrong. I had turned my back on someone that cared for me.
Facebook's farewell page shone upon my downcast face. "Remember," it said, "to reactivate your account, simply log in with your email address and password."
My email address was still in there somewhere! All could be forgiven! All I had to do was enter my details... all I had to do was repent.
Facebook, I am still out here. Facebook, I am sorry.
Wanda Wells shall return.
So I registered with Facebook under the sizzling alias "Wanda Wells" in order to peek surreptitiously at my friends' accounts and ask myself, "wherefore?". This I did, and a delightful ten minutes was spent. Immediately afterward, I located the "Deactivate Account" button. Click and it's all gone! No evidence I was ever there! Yarp?
Narp. Quoth Facebook:
"Please let us know why you are deactivating."
So I replied, by way of clicking the succinct little bullet option:
- I don't find Facebook useful.
I nodded. All well and good. But I still wasn't interested. I searched the bullet list for a more compelling reason to leave the site. Maybe Facebook would listen if I selected:
- I don't feel safe on the site.
Yet Facebook had an answer. "You can alter your privacy settings to make sure you are more protected."
Oh. Er, thank you. Good to know, I suppose. But still,
- I don't understand how to use the site.
Facebook really cared about me. It was so generous, offering me this network of support as I was lost, confused and alone in the webly wilderness. But still I didn't want to learn to use the site. I wanted to leave. How about if I just promised:
- This is temporary. I'll be back.
Yet my email is still in the system? How could I ever escape? I needed my email address back. And so I told Facebook a lie. This isn't a betrayal. I'm not leaving. It's just that...
- I have another Facebook account.
I clicked "deactivate". Wanda Wells was no more.
Sitting at my monitor, silently exhaling, in the moments that followed, I felt somehow empty. I had escaped, hadn't I? I had no more responsibility to Facebook. And yet I felt as though I had done wrong. I had turned my back on someone that cared for me.
Facebook's farewell page shone upon my downcast face. "Remember," it said, "to reactivate your account, simply log in with your email address and password."
My email address was still in there somewhere! All could be forgiven! All I had to do was enter my details... all I had to do was repent.
Facebook, I am still out here. Facebook, I am sorry.
Wanda Wells shall return.
Happy family
So I really admire my big dad.
When I was small, he told me many things. One that I remember is:
Well he was wrong, but then, that's kinda okay with me.
He also said:
Not yet. Maybe one day. The brother sometimes is, though more toward my mother. But big dad, never. My friends think my parents are cool. Hell, I advertise. Guess what? My dad's an inventor. Guess what? He built his own custom-designed tandem recumbent bicycle. And a hang-glider. He can pretty much do anything. He welds, he designs electronic circuit-boards, he rummages around in industrial waste bins and brings the spoils home to his shed for whatever dark purpose he has assigned to his upcoming weekend. He has his own blog which is part of a small ring of diverse and quirky friends - unlike my own (the address of which I have still not shared with anyone except ma femme).
My mother sells herself, really. It's the humble force of her personality that suctions onto people's hearts. She's a brilliant woman and a great achiever, creative and innovative in the fifty-odd fields she's traversed in her lifetime. But it's her love that overpowers us. She didn't realise she wanted to be a parent til her thirties, but it's hard to believe this when I consider the amount of thought she put into the raising of us. She has encouraged our natural abilities and shown us that the smallest person can make a difference in the world. She has a powerful talent for drawing out the best in people, and I swear I don't see her this way purely because she's Mum. She works in age-care, and the greatest pleasure of her existence is discovering new facets of a person, buried but not lost beneath the crust of dementia that has overtaken them.
As someone who dreams of an artistic career, I have despaired of my stable upbringing. But I think I need to review this theory. Does an artist require a tumultuous childhood? Does an artist have to suffer to create? Not everyone was molested. Not everyone has witnessed a murder or grown up in a traveling gypsy van or lost part of their leg in a tussle with a bloodthirsty stray. A lot of people grew up just like I did. And good art reflects life, does it not? The sweetest note is the ring of truth, so I'm told.
Maybe I still have a chance.
When I was small, he told me many things. One that I remember is:
"You'll have all the boys after you in a few years."
Well he was wrong, but then, that's kinda okay with me.
He also said:
"One day you'll be ashamed to be seen with us."
Not yet. Maybe one day. The brother sometimes is, though more toward my mother. But big dad, never. My friends think my parents are cool. Hell, I advertise. Guess what? My dad's an inventor. Guess what? He built his own custom-designed tandem recumbent bicycle. And a hang-glider. He can pretty much do anything. He welds, he designs electronic circuit-boards, he rummages around in industrial waste bins and brings the spoils home to his shed for whatever dark purpose he has assigned to his upcoming weekend. He has his own blog which is part of a small ring of diverse and quirky friends - unlike my own (the address of which I have still not shared with anyone except ma femme).
My mother sells herself, really. It's the humble force of her personality that suctions onto people's hearts. She's a brilliant woman and a great achiever, creative and innovative in the fifty-odd fields she's traversed in her lifetime. But it's her love that overpowers us. She didn't realise she wanted to be a parent til her thirties, but it's hard to believe this when I consider the amount of thought she put into the raising of us. She has encouraged our natural abilities and shown us that the smallest person can make a difference in the world. She has a powerful talent for drawing out the best in people, and I swear I don't see her this way purely because she's Mum. She works in age-care, and the greatest pleasure of her existence is discovering new facets of a person, buried but not lost beneath the crust of dementia that has overtaken them.
As someone who dreams of an artistic career, I have despaired of my stable upbringing. But I think I need to review this theory. Does an artist require a tumultuous childhood? Does an artist have to suffer to create? Not everyone was molested. Not everyone has witnessed a murder or grown up in a traveling gypsy van or lost part of their leg in a tussle with a bloodthirsty stray. A lot of people grew up just like I did. And good art reflects life, does it not? The sweetest note is the ring of truth, so I'm told.
Maybe I still have a chance.
The state of my subconscious on the night of my first anniversary.
We burst into the bathroom and she is crouched in a pathetic little space at the back of the shower, back and shoulders and elbows pressed together and glistening like a frog. Water pours from the shower hose to her forehead and down her nose and gathers at the point of her chin, streaming like a liquid beard to splash on the tiles at her feet. Her skin is blotchy white and purple with broken red blood vessels and thick blue marker lines where all of her veins are bound beneath her skin.
She cries.
We shout STOP, but she's not doing anything. There's not much blood at all, a few unhealthy brown dribbles swirling over the tiles. She was never really going to do it. She just wanted to be found.
So the six of us go to the beach, but even in the car we know we are foolish. Grey wisps pass across the sky swift as smoke from candle you have just blown out. Every cloud is darker than the last. We climb out of the car and march down to the shore, slipping on thongs and loose T-shirts to protect us from the rays of the sun. The sand is grey and barren, but there are dozens of people splayed across it and splashing in the sapphire-sparkling water. As we walk toward the water, a thick mass of black begins to seep from the horizon and into the sky. It spreads like an ink spill, first blushing and then consuming its medium. Below the blanket of pitch, beachgoers flee the water like extras in a zombie movie. Hard rain plummets from the sky.
We turn and return to the car.
My car is parked in a basement carpark. I emerge from the lift with a handful of others and step into the concrete cavern where the cute little girly-blue vehicle awaits me. I suddenly realise that although I am not alone, my car is the only one parked down here, and too late I turn around with a question and find myself facing a grinning man with a Number Two cut. He reaches out. There are others. Even a woman. Blonde, solid. I am pushed against a fat concrete pillar and I scream as my clothes are rejected from my body.
She cries.
We shout STOP, but she's not doing anything. There's not much blood at all, a few unhealthy brown dribbles swirling over the tiles. She was never really going to do it. She just wanted to be found.
So the six of us go to the beach, but even in the car we know we are foolish. Grey wisps pass across the sky swift as smoke from candle you have just blown out. Every cloud is darker than the last. We climb out of the car and march down to the shore, slipping on thongs and loose T-shirts to protect us from the rays of the sun. The sand is grey and barren, but there are dozens of people splayed across it and splashing in the sapphire-sparkling water. As we walk toward the water, a thick mass of black begins to seep from the horizon and into the sky. It spreads like an ink spill, first blushing and then consuming its medium. Below the blanket of pitch, beachgoers flee the water like extras in a zombie movie. Hard rain plummets from the sky.
We turn and return to the car.
My car is parked in a basement carpark. I emerge from the lift with a handful of others and step into the concrete cavern where the cute little girly-blue vehicle awaits me. I suddenly realise that although I am not alone, my car is the only one parked down here, and too late I turn around with a question and find myself facing a grinning man with a Number Two cut. He reaches out. There are others. Even a woman. Blonde, solid. I am pushed against a fat concrete pillar and I scream as my clothes are rejected from my body.
Sep 29, 2007
Study Break
Watched Taxi Driver. Watched Hairspray. Later found the original in the video store. Didn't know it was Ricki Lake. Interesting. Didn't rent it though. Watched 28 Days Later. Disc scratched to hell. Took it back, got it cleaned. They put it in a little machine that melts the outer layer of plastic on the DVD. Then the scratches disappear. Anyway, got the disc back, put it in the machine. No dice. Scratched too deep, looks like. Watched Stardust at the movies. Watched Superbad. Everything blends together. Watched Friends With Money. Star-studded character actress cast. Wonder if anyone I know ever saw that movie. Got five stars from Margaret Pomeranz and they put her quote on the back of the DVD cover. Wonder if that's the same as the US edition. Stuff isn't funny. Stuff isn't moving. I don't get it. Stuff doesn't end. Stuff isn't romantic. Stuff isn't scary. My girlfriend never caught the end of that zombie movie because the disc was too messed up. Wonder if she cares. Does fiction need an end? Does it need a beginning? Does it need closure, and character types and all that? Life doesn't have those things does it? Maybe it does. Seen evil? Seen an evil person? I think I have now. Never thought that stuff was true. Go[/o]d and [d]evil - all pretend like the Easter Bunny. Well I've seen a bad guy now. If I was a good person, would I want so badly to make him suffer? Is Robert De Niro a bad guy in Taxi Driver? Is Michelle Pfeiffer a bad guy? She's always so skinny and mean. Who's the good guy? How do you tell? Are they better looking, and do they never get divorced? I think I watch too many movies to ever write a good screenplay. Writers write stuff they did and saw and they translate it into movie language. I never did the first part. I just know the language. I know the language but I got nothing to say.
Sep 16, 2007
Sep 7, 2007
Disappointment
I am being slowly fired.
Each week, I ascend to the staff room to stare at the great Casuals Roster, where I am identified by first name and last initial. I tilt my head to find my name, I pan across the columns of days, and I note down what I discover.
I have never yet had an empty roster. Never yet. But slowly, week by week, my roster diminishes. A month ago, I was working about twenty-five hours a week. Steady. Two weeks ago, I worked twenty. The week before this one, I had eight hours. This week? Five.
They have every reason not to like me. I'm a terrible worker. I'm slow. I stammer when I speak to customers and co-workers alike. The coffees I make are hit and miss, and I take my time to make 'em.
Despite knowing these things, I cannot improve. I'd love to be better, but somehow whenever I resolve to build my confidence, I stumble and fall.
When I was a child, I was always top of my class. Throughout primary and secondary schooling, I received top grades and adulation from peers and teachers. I was good. Hell, I was even the best. I never really thought to worry about those who received the Cs... those who failed and struggled and hated themselves. As a girl of thoughts and ideals, I'd like to say all of us were equal. But we aren't. Some people can't write so well, and some can't kick a footy so far. I can't kick a footy. I can't dance. I can't beat out a rhythm on a drum.
But I didn't care about any of those things, because I was smart. I was proud and I simply didn't notice that I was incapable of doing anything except thinking.
Now, however, I am losing all that made me proud of myself. Finishing the second year of my degree, I am losing momentum. I have stopped learning; I have stopped trying. I hardly read. I shrug off average marks. And I feel like I'm losing another job.
Those kids that failed English class - and the ones that passed, but never really made it past average - those kids are now my managers. How did they get there? Surely they were crushed by failure and mediocrity. Surely they resigned themselves to a life in accordance with such. And then - perhaps they built themselves up. Perhaps they found their strengths and learned to succeed. Perhaps, as I cling to achievements of seasons past, they climb to reach higher ones.
I'm not nearly as clever as I once believed.
Each week, I ascend to the staff room to stare at the great Casuals Roster, where I am identified by first name and last initial. I tilt my head to find my name, I pan across the columns of days, and I note down what I discover.
I have never yet had an empty roster. Never yet. But slowly, week by week, my roster diminishes. A month ago, I was working about twenty-five hours a week. Steady. Two weeks ago, I worked twenty. The week before this one, I had eight hours. This week? Five.
They have every reason not to like me. I'm a terrible worker. I'm slow. I stammer when I speak to customers and co-workers alike. The coffees I make are hit and miss, and I take my time to make 'em.
Despite knowing these things, I cannot improve. I'd love to be better, but somehow whenever I resolve to build my confidence, I stumble and fall.
When I was a child, I was always top of my class. Throughout primary and secondary schooling, I received top grades and adulation from peers and teachers. I was good. Hell, I was even the best. I never really thought to worry about those who received the Cs... those who failed and struggled and hated themselves. As a girl of thoughts and ideals, I'd like to say all of us were equal. But we aren't. Some people can't write so well, and some can't kick a footy so far. I can't kick a footy. I can't dance. I can't beat out a rhythm on a drum.
But I didn't care about any of those things, because I was smart. I was proud and I simply didn't notice that I was incapable of doing anything except thinking.
Now, however, I am losing all that made me proud of myself. Finishing the second year of my degree, I am losing momentum. I have stopped learning; I have stopped trying. I hardly read. I shrug off average marks. And I feel like I'm losing another job.
Those kids that failed English class - and the ones that passed, but never really made it past average - those kids are now my managers. How did they get there? Surely they were crushed by failure and mediocrity. Surely they resigned themselves to a life in accordance with such. And then - perhaps they built themselves up. Perhaps they found their strengths and learned to succeed. Perhaps, as I cling to achievements of seasons past, they climb to reach higher ones.
I'm not nearly as clever as I once believed.
Sep 6, 2007
The update
I've barely spent a half-hour with her since last semester. Hell, I haven't spent real time with her since the year began. Our clashing timetables cut us off from one another. Sure, we tried to arrange things away from uni, but things get strained when you're not an organic part of someone's life. I don't really know what's going on in her world, so many lightyears away from my own. When someone has to check whether you're still with "your girl", you know you're not so close any more.
Today I found her down at Einsteins, swinging a pot of beer with a collection of friends I didn't recognise. She told me she was "liberated". Her life was on a completely new track. "I can finally concentrate on being really single again," she said.
Hey?
She leaned closer and murmured, "I'll explain later." Following her own gaze, I glanced around at her merry assortment of friends. Half-past-one-pee-em and the lot of them were tiddly and giggly and quoting Bill Bailey. Fair enough - DMC later.
Now she leapt from her seat, heralding the next round and disappearing inside. I sat at the corner of the table, still anonymous. Laugh at the jokes. Enjoy the atmosphere. You don't need to be involved to appreciate the vibe. I absorbed the faces of her new friends: a loud, cackling, drunken blonde. A skinny guy with glasses and an admirable devotion to British comedy. An intellectual-looking, fair-haired older man with jumbled teeth and a nose that ended before it I felt it rightly should.
The intellectual handed out birthday invitations - I didn't merit one, but then, who was I, anyway? The invitations read, "You are invited to an un-birthday. To celebrate nothing in particular."
"He's turning thirty. I'm gonna get 'im a walking frame," shouted the blonde. "Mug an old lady on my way in."
He smirked. I smiled, charmed somehow by their language, so different from mine.
Her smile seemed almost twice the width of her face as she swaggered back to the table wielding a jug of glorious amber piss. The requisite cheer went out, and the jug was almost instantly empty. I was a bit disappointed to see it go. I don't drink beer and have rare occasion to observe those tiny bubbles that flow constantly upward from the base of the jug: quite a mesmerising alternative to actual conversation. As the beer vanished, I remembered I was an outsider. The culture of this group revolved around drinking and smoking between classes, skipping class and playfully attacking one another. I am Sandra Dee.
Finally it was two o'clock. "We've got class," I said.
After a few ta-ta cuddles round the table, the two of us were up and marching for B building.
"Oh," she said. "So I was going to tell you."
Today I found her down at Einsteins, swinging a pot of beer with a collection of friends I didn't recognise. She told me she was "liberated". Her life was on a completely new track. "I can finally concentrate on being really single again," she said.
Hey?
She leaned closer and murmured, "I'll explain later." Following her own gaze, I glanced around at her merry assortment of friends. Half-past-one-pee-em and the lot of them were tiddly and giggly and quoting Bill Bailey. Fair enough - DMC later.
Now she leapt from her seat, heralding the next round and disappearing inside. I sat at the corner of the table, still anonymous. Laugh at the jokes. Enjoy the atmosphere. You don't need to be involved to appreciate the vibe. I absorbed the faces of her new friends: a loud, cackling, drunken blonde. A skinny guy with glasses and an admirable devotion to British comedy. An intellectual-looking, fair-haired older man with jumbled teeth and a nose that ended before it I felt it rightly should.
The intellectual handed out birthday invitations - I didn't merit one, but then, who was I, anyway? The invitations read, "You are invited to an un-birthday. To celebrate nothing in particular."
"He's turning thirty. I'm gonna get 'im a walking frame," shouted the blonde. "Mug an old lady on my way in."
He smirked. I smiled, charmed somehow by their language, so different from mine.
Her smile seemed almost twice the width of her face as she swaggered back to the table wielding a jug of glorious amber piss. The requisite cheer went out, and the jug was almost instantly empty. I was a bit disappointed to see it go. I don't drink beer and have rare occasion to observe those tiny bubbles that flow constantly upward from the base of the jug: quite a mesmerising alternative to actual conversation. As the beer vanished, I remembered I was an outsider. The culture of this group revolved around drinking and smoking between classes, skipping class and playfully attacking one another. I am Sandra Dee.
Finally it was two o'clock. "We've got class," I said.
After a few ta-ta cuddles round the table, the two of us were up and marching for B building.
"Oh," she said. "So I was going to tell you."
Sep 5, 2007
Not coming back
Two weeks ago, I killed myself. It felt good. At the time, at least, I had a comfortable sense of righteousness about the whole affair. I'm not coming back, and you'll all see what you've done to me, I thought as I pulled the trigger. I'll show you.
Of course, I absolutely meant it at the time. And I don't regret it. Not at all. But it's the damnest thing - I keep peeking back. I have to see how they've remembered me, you know. I hang around, scanning conversations for mentions of myself. Some message, some plea. We miss you! You meant so much to us. Well, I have heard snippets. One or two moments of sentimentality. But it just doesn't seem enough. Surely they're still in shock. I have to wait a little longer, see what becomes of this. Perhaps there will be more. Who knows? Perhaps, without me, things will simply begin to crumble. But I have to give it time; and wait and see what happens.
I dearly long to prompt someone: Hey, guys - remember Miriam? I'd say. Wasn't she funny! Didn't she have a brilliant mind? Wasn't it sad...
But they have to see for themselves, now. And after all, I've severed my vocal chords. I remain silent. I have no choice. But I have to stay, I have to wait and watch and hold my lifeless breath - til they realise how much they care.
Funny, I've forgotten... why was it that I left?
Of course, I absolutely meant it at the time. And I don't regret it. Not at all. But it's the damnest thing - I keep peeking back. I have to see how they've remembered me, you know. I hang around, scanning conversations for mentions of myself. Some message, some plea. We miss you! You meant so much to us. Well, I have heard snippets. One or two moments of sentimentality. But it just doesn't seem enough. Surely they're still in shock. I have to wait a little longer, see what becomes of this. Perhaps there will be more. Who knows? Perhaps, without me, things will simply begin to crumble. But I have to give it time; and wait and see what happens.
I dearly long to prompt someone: Hey, guys - remember Miriam? I'd say. Wasn't she funny! Didn't she have a brilliant mind? Wasn't it sad...
But they have to see for themselves, now. And after all, I've severed my vocal chords. I remain silent. I have no choice. But I have to stay, I have to wait and watch and hold my lifeless breath - til they realise how much they care.
Funny, I've forgotten... why was it that I left?
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