Friday, January 30, 2009
The Anti Kosher
Absolutely nothing seems to be right in this obscene heat. That's why I've decided to dedicate my life to taking down a bitch. I'm going to make it my mission in life to bang every boyfriend she has. There's nothing like a little personal vendetta to cool you down. If you don't have air conditioners I suggest you just start plotting some large, complicated vengeance plans.
Monday, January 26, 2009
recycle bananas
When you have nothing pressing in your life - like I don't - you come to realise that pretty much the rest of your existence is comprised of memories and nostalgia in general. And when you go to write your blog you feel helpless because you are in nostalgia's grip and it won't let you go. You can't write about anything that is PRESENTLY HAPPENING, because even if you try to, it is highly unlikely that people will read instantly. You could try to write about the thoughts that come to mind, or what you are currently doing. But why would you, because they are all going to be outdated before you can even write them down. In short, documenting anything seems to be absolutely pointless.
Each time I try to start writing a blog here - not always, but indeed this week - I want to refer to other times I have written. Other people who have written. I know I profess to being a wordlover but if this continues I imagine it could become tiresome.
The grip tonight steers us back to high school.
I found a Vans shoebox under my desk. I looked deep into the box and found myself tumbling forth into a dark abyss. I wildly flailed my arms around in an attempt to stay afloat, but try as I might, I had been ensnared by a force stronger than my limbs could resist. After the initial shock, I became used to the feeling of sinking and began to somewhat enjoy myself. Music washed over me as I was pulled in by this purgatoric spiral, haunting melodies that are still with me today.
*she cannot decide at this juncture whether to speak of the music she was actually truthfully listening to, or whether it is apt to make a funny and so nothing will be included*
Reaching the bottom, I toweled myself off from the sopping songs that had doused me on my fall and cautiously surveyed my surroundings. A young boy clad in an orange jumper and a naff cap with a flap at the back appeared swiftly, taking my towel and disappearing just as swiftly as he'd arrived. Not quite knowing what to make of this ball boy invasion in my reverie, I shrugged and slid open my phone, using it to light my way. The dim light from my phone revealed that I was in fact in what appeared to be a cage. I furrowed my brow, unsure how the ball boy had come and gone from this space so quickly. Shrugging again I noticed a small gap between one wall of the cage and another, and slid through it to what I felt was my freedom.
Outside of the cage, I noticed a few stepping stones set into sand. Seeing no other possibilities and indeed, having nothing else to do, I jumped onto the first, then the other, and another and so on. I subconsciously began counting the stones and after a spell realised that this was the list of 100 things that my friend Jacki liked about me. It was in that instant that a wave of mirth crashed over me, not only upsetting me from my position on the stone, but again rendering me completely soaked. The ball boy was not in sight this time and I knew I had no choice but to remain in this drenched state.
Shaking my head in an attempt to appear comic and also stave off some of the wetter parts of my hair, I was surprised to see a large, broken mail box. Concerned that my flashback had been mixed up with 'The Lake House', I checked under my armpits for Sandra Bullock. My findings were inconclusive, so I apprehensively approached the English-lookin' box. The box struck me as being quite rugged, well-worn and experienced with drugs. Not for the first time, I furrowed my brow and inhaled as I considered what this dilapidated postbox was doing here. Ah, I thought, nearly choking on the strong cigar stench, this is my cousin. Holding my arm over my general respiratory system, I cautiously approached the door of the box and attempted to open it. One hand seemed to be too little force to access the inside, so I grudgingly took my other arm away from my mouth to aid in the divulgence of the post box's contents.
It became increasingly difficult for me to breathe - it seemed like the cigar odour was intensifying - and the effort of pulling this door was really taking its toll. I gaped for air. My arms were aching. I could feel my knees beginning to weaken when all of a sudden, the door broke free of its hinges and I was thrust back onto the ground. I jumped back to my feet and darted to the box. Curiously, after my fall, it seemed larger, and indeed I found that I was unable to peer into the opening that I had just created. My inability to breathe forgotten, I began to search for grooves that I could use to climb the now monumentally sized post box. Due to the darkness, I found it necessary to crouch down to the base of the round, red box in order to fully inspect the situation.
As I ducked down there, I felt a rumbling under my feet. Confused, I stood up again and looked around me. Unable to observe anything in the quarter light of my phone. Then, for the third time in my woolgathering, I was knocked off my feet by a forceful gush of liquid, only this time, it was the Dutch version of eggnog known as advokaat. Spluttering from the gluggy consistency of the latest flood, I prayed for the appearance of the speedy ball boy with my wet towel, but I was left lying in the dark, custard clad and confused.
After a few moments of disappointment in myself, I stood up and considered my options. The consideration was very fleeting as I fleetingly realised that I had no options to consider, even fleetingly. I figured though, that as long as I was doused in a tasty European dessert alcohol, I may as well have a bit of a drink. Procuring about a teaspoonful from my forearm, I realised that the custard was in fact stuck to something. I stretched out my arm and shook it around a little bit. As more of the advokaat came off, it became evident that there was paper stuck to my skin. I beamed with the realisation that if I peeled off this mysterious yet miraculous paper I would not have to continue in the reverie with a yellow sticky substance all over me.
After a spell, it was apparent that the paper was no mere paper. The paper was the leaves of my past. I watched the pile of leaves growing larger and larger, different colours, textures and sizes accumulating at my feet. Whilst peeling I mused that it would be quite pleasant to take a large leap into the pile. There appeared to be paper simply all over my body. I was utterly confused by this, seeing how the advokaat had merely gushed at me from the front. I grew tired of trying to reach for every bit of paper and, after a furtive glance around for any other torrents, jumped right into the leaves. Upon landing, I wobbled slightly, but retained my dignity. I waited. Nothing at all happened. If anything, my arms had somehow accrued more advokaat!
Growing slightly alarmed with this slow paced turn of events, I bobbed down into the pile and started patting the ground, searching for my phone. I wanted to ring anyone, anywhere, to talk about anything. My mind raced irrationally [that is to say, my mind raced though it had no reason to run. Nobody was chasing it, it wasn't training for anything in particular. In fact, it doesn't even like running that much at all]. The dark seemed to close in around me as my ideas dissipated. In fact, most things were dissipating around me. Indeed, my body was evaporating into a thick, pale yellow mist.
Appearing to have retained control of my movements, I misted above the pile of leaves for some time, only now able to actually observe what was printed or written on the paper. There were of course various inscriptions, most of which escape me now, but the most important one read:
YOU WILL WRITE A LENGTHY BLOG ABOUT YOUR TIME HERE, BUT PLEASE DON'T RUIN IT BY GOING ON TOO LONG. YOU SHOULD STOP WHEN YOU GET TO THE PART ABOUT TURNING INTO A MIST.
another semi-important message was:
GET SOME SAVLON FOR THAT WEIRD THING ON YOUR ANKLE
and finally:
LISTEN TO BORN RUFFIANS WHEN YOU DROP JACKI HOME TOMORROW BECAUSE IT'S NICE TO DRIVE AND LISTEN TO THEM
~
Folks, I did only just get back from the mist arena and I'm still not quite sure what happened there or why, but I know that I should respect the wishes of the leaves because one thing I do know is that when I go into my bedroom there's a shitload of paper. More than I peeled off my arms in the reverie. More than you could shear off a sheep. More than a sheer sheap. More than the sheer shape of things to come.
Each time I try to start writing a blog here - not always, but indeed this week - I want to refer to other times I have written. Other people who have written. I know I profess to being a wordlover but if this continues I imagine it could become tiresome.
The grip tonight steers us back to high school.
I found a Vans shoebox under my desk. I looked deep into the box and found myself tumbling forth into a dark abyss. I wildly flailed my arms around in an attempt to stay afloat, but try as I might, I had been ensnared by a force stronger than my limbs could resist. After the initial shock, I became used to the feeling of sinking and began to somewhat enjoy myself. Music washed over me as I was pulled in by this purgatoric spiral, haunting melodies that are still with me today.
*she cannot decide at this juncture whether to speak of the music she was actually truthfully listening to, or whether it is apt to make a funny and so nothing will be included*
Reaching the bottom, I toweled myself off from the sopping songs that had doused me on my fall and cautiously surveyed my surroundings. A young boy clad in an orange jumper and a naff cap with a flap at the back appeared swiftly, taking my towel and disappearing just as swiftly as he'd arrived. Not quite knowing what to make of this ball boy invasion in my reverie, I shrugged and slid open my phone, using it to light my way. The dim light from my phone revealed that I was in fact in what appeared to be a cage. I furrowed my brow, unsure how the ball boy had come and gone from this space so quickly. Shrugging again I noticed a small gap between one wall of the cage and another, and slid through it to what I felt was my freedom.
Outside of the cage, I noticed a few stepping stones set into sand. Seeing no other possibilities and indeed, having nothing else to do, I jumped onto the first, then the other, and another and so on. I subconsciously began counting the stones and after a spell realised that this was the list of 100 things that my friend Jacki liked about me. It was in that instant that a wave of mirth crashed over me, not only upsetting me from my position on the stone, but again rendering me completely soaked. The ball boy was not in sight this time and I knew I had no choice but to remain in this drenched state.
Shaking my head in an attempt to appear comic and also stave off some of the wetter parts of my hair, I was surprised to see a large, broken mail box. Concerned that my flashback had been mixed up with 'The Lake House', I checked under my armpits for Sandra Bullock. My findings were inconclusive, so I apprehensively approached the English-lookin' box. The box struck me as being quite rugged, well-worn and experienced with drugs. Not for the first time, I furrowed my brow and inhaled as I considered what this dilapidated postbox was doing here. Ah, I thought, nearly choking on the strong cigar stench, this is my cousin. Holding my arm over my general respiratory system, I cautiously approached the door of the box and attempted to open it. One hand seemed to be too little force to access the inside, so I grudgingly took my other arm away from my mouth to aid in the divulgence of the post box's contents.
It became increasingly difficult for me to breathe - it seemed like the cigar odour was intensifying - and the effort of pulling this door was really taking its toll. I gaped for air. My arms were aching. I could feel my knees beginning to weaken when all of a sudden, the door broke free of its hinges and I was thrust back onto the ground. I jumped back to my feet and darted to the box. Curiously, after my fall, it seemed larger, and indeed I found that I was unable to peer into the opening that I had just created. My inability to breathe forgotten, I began to search for grooves that I could use to climb the now monumentally sized post box. Due to the darkness, I found it necessary to crouch down to the base of the round, red box in order to fully inspect the situation.
As I ducked down there, I felt a rumbling under my feet. Confused, I stood up again and looked around me. Unable to observe anything in the quarter light of my phone. Then, for the third time in my woolgathering, I was knocked off my feet by a forceful gush of liquid, only this time, it was the Dutch version of eggnog known as advokaat. Spluttering from the gluggy consistency of the latest flood, I prayed for the appearance of the speedy ball boy with my wet towel, but I was left lying in the dark, custard clad and confused.
After a few moments of disappointment in myself, I stood up and considered my options. The consideration was very fleeting as I fleetingly realised that I had no options to consider, even fleetingly. I figured though, that as long as I was doused in a tasty European dessert alcohol, I may as well have a bit of a drink. Procuring about a teaspoonful from my forearm, I realised that the custard was in fact stuck to something. I stretched out my arm and shook it around a little bit. As more of the advokaat came off, it became evident that there was paper stuck to my skin. I beamed with the realisation that if I peeled off this mysterious yet miraculous paper I would not have to continue in the reverie with a yellow sticky substance all over me.
After a spell, it was apparent that the paper was no mere paper. The paper was the leaves of my past. I watched the pile of leaves growing larger and larger, different colours, textures and sizes accumulating at my feet. Whilst peeling I mused that it would be quite pleasant to take a large leap into the pile. There appeared to be paper simply all over my body. I was utterly confused by this, seeing how the advokaat had merely gushed at me from the front. I grew tired of trying to reach for every bit of paper and, after a furtive glance around for any other torrents, jumped right into the leaves. Upon landing, I wobbled slightly, but retained my dignity. I waited. Nothing at all happened. If anything, my arms had somehow accrued more advokaat!
Growing slightly alarmed with this slow paced turn of events, I bobbed down into the pile and started patting the ground, searching for my phone. I wanted to ring anyone, anywhere, to talk about anything. My mind raced irrationally [that is to say, my mind raced though it had no reason to run. Nobody was chasing it, it wasn't training for anything in particular. In fact, it doesn't even like running that much at all]. The dark seemed to close in around me as my ideas dissipated. In fact, most things were dissipating around me. Indeed, my body was evaporating into a thick, pale yellow mist.
Appearing to have retained control of my movements, I misted above the pile of leaves for some time, only now able to actually observe what was printed or written on the paper. There were of course various inscriptions, most of which escape me now, but the most important one read:
YOU WILL WRITE A LENGTHY BLOG ABOUT YOUR TIME HERE, BUT PLEASE DON'T RUIN IT BY GOING ON TOO LONG. YOU SHOULD STOP WHEN YOU GET TO THE PART ABOUT TURNING INTO A MIST.
another semi-important message was:
GET SOME SAVLON FOR THAT WEIRD THING ON YOUR ANKLE
and finally:
LISTEN TO BORN RUFFIANS WHEN YOU DROP JACKI HOME TOMORROW BECAUSE IT'S NICE TO DRIVE AND LISTEN TO THEM
~
Folks, I did only just get back from the mist arena and I'm still not quite sure what happened there or why, but I know that I should respect the wishes of the leaves because one thing I do know is that when I go into my bedroom there's a shitload of paper. More than I peeled off my arms in the reverie. More than you could shear off a sheep. More than a sheer sheap. More than the sheer shape of things to come.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
antiques
Lately I have been feeling swamped by the amount of things that I feel I must write about. The only way I think I can fix this up is by completely purging myself of every little thing that has crossed my mind (possibly Kerouac style, but let's not get our hopes up).
I guess the most monumental thing that has happened recently, in the realm of the real - actually it's funny that 'realm' has the word 'real' in it. Has everyone else noticed that? Anyway I found this old diary of my mum's. Mum and my sisters are at the Open in Melbourne, leaving me at home with my friend, free to put mattresses in any room of the house and go looking through whatever bookcase we want. This diary is so amazing to look at. It reminds me of Riddle's diary in Harry Potter because it's clearly been submerged in water at some point and has indents in the cover from where string has been tied around it. The pages are crispy and watermarked. Some of the writing is illegible because the ink has smudged. I guess it's a terrible thing of me to have done, snooping into my mother's private, deepest thoughts. But to me it's like reading a story and in some way I feel that my mother's 19-23 year old self/ves wouldn't mind someone else reading her thoughts. i myself have blithely daydreamed about passing on my various journals to my children one day. Anyway I guess it hardly matters what the content is all about, more that now I guess I feel that I am not alone in some way. To illustrate what I am talking about, here is a selection for you:
"talking to him on the phone it was like 'playing the game'. I didn't know him. In fact I've never known him. It was (and is) all A GAME. Me living, me acting a passing of time, me playing a game. This book is the only truth, it's what I think but never say. It's really who I am. I MUST LIVE IT"
Of course there are disturbing parts about sex and stuff but I somehow find it comforting because my mum has been alone for so long in my life, it makes me happy to know once she had fellows pursuing her. Also there are certain criticisms that I have about the writing - it's not really how I write (any more), but who can say what happens to one's style! Actually there's some very morbid, suicidal, depressing themes that surface quite a bit which alarms me because I had thought my mum was only depressed after my dad died. Although it quite explains something mum told me in year eleven: that I wasn't allowed to kill myself because she didn't (note: at the time we were talking about Sylvia Plath but why does one read Ms Plath? I think we all know why). Regardless of all this melancholy, I tell you I find quite a bit of comfort in the whole affair. Actually my newer readers should take care to note that I am not a novice in the "snooping-into-parent-texts" game: last year I found a notebook of my dad's and carried it around with me for some time as I found it to be a generally beautiful collection of observations culminating in the engagement of my parents. Also it contains vivid descriptions of Scotland, Norway and America - I didn't even know my dad went to America. For the interest of those reading, he totally went illegally but got caught out by the polizei and was asked to leave.
This newer discovery leads me to ponder - what some would call - 'deeeeep' stuff. I mean, what happened to my neurotic, paranoid, overly emotional mother? Where did she go? I've come up with this new theory that you are alive when you finish your teens up until the point where you get married and/or have kids. Because then you have to stop being so selfish, give yourself up to another person's life. You are effectively dead. While you have your children you watch them have their own lives, recall your own. I mean even now I long for the days when I could just roll around in the grass and worry whether my doll has had enough to eat. That's probably why you have kids, just so you can see that happening again. I guess in some ways that Marian lives on in me and my sisters. I mean combined, my sisters and I are pretty much just all mum. It is a bit crushing to feel like you aren't yourself. I want to make this whole affair about me and be selfish - because I am at the proper age for it - so I probably will, even though I KNOW I shouldn't. I feel like I am no longer a me, and that I'm just part of this never ending line of the same type of woman/girl (feels odd calling myself a woman). I don't know, I feel like a part of something good but I also feel like I have lost something. Individuality perhaps. I am pretty much certain though that kids just go on to be either exactly or nearly the same as their parents, as much as they are loathe to admit it.
*BREAK*
I want to address Dave again but I feel like I am not doing it in the right way, even though I actually have no other way to do it. I guess because i am not cool or enigmatic I can't think of a good way to pretend that I'm not actually speaking to him. For those who don't know what is going on, you really suck and should just get your stalking on and go check it out. But to Dave, cool, thanks. I actually don't know anything about you and am unsure how you know that I am from Horsham, but I'm glad that you don't mind that I stumbled upon your blog realm. And also, to other people's blogs who I follow, I doubt that you'll have continued reading this saga, but I think you should read Dave's blog (also I hope your name is ACTUALLY Dave, but Murray told me that so I'm going to keep on doing it) about the nature of blog followery. Although I imagine that you are probably down with that if you're reading and not leaving comments. Does that make sense? Hardly matters now, does it? I like that it doesn't matter if you don't really REALLY know the people whose blogs you read and I guess if you read them for long enough you will.
I hate it when I write and reuse the same sort of words over and over again. It becomes quite difficult to make sense of something.
Because I talk about dreams a lot in this blog, an excerpt from last night:
The house was on fire.
I guess the most monumental thing that has happened recently, in the realm of the real - actually it's funny that 'realm' has the word 'real' in it. Has everyone else noticed that? Anyway I found this old diary of my mum's. Mum and my sisters are at the Open in Melbourne, leaving me at home with my friend, free to put mattresses in any room of the house and go looking through whatever bookcase we want. This diary is so amazing to look at. It reminds me of Riddle's diary in Harry Potter because it's clearly been submerged in water at some point and has indents in the cover from where string has been tied around it. The pages are crispy and watermarked. Some of the writing is illegible because the ink has smudged. I guess it's a terrible thing of me to have done, snooping into my mother's private, deepest thoughts. But to me it's like reading a story and in some way I feel that my mother's 19-23 year old self/ves wouldn't mind someone else reading her thoughts. i myself have blithely daydreamed about passing on my various journals to my children one day. Anyway I guess it hardly matters what the content is all about, more that now I guess I feel that I am not alone in some way. To illustrate what I am talking about, here is a selection for you:
"talking to him on the phone it was like 'playing the game'. I didn't know him. In fact I've never known him. It was (and is) all A GAME. Me living, me acting a passing of time, me playing a game. This book is the only truth, it's what I think but never say. It's really who I am. I MUST LIVE IT"
Of course there are disturbing parts about sex and stuff but I somehow find it comforting because my mum has been alone for so long in my life, it makes me happy to know once she had fellows pursuing her. Also there are certain criticisms that I have about the writing - it's not really how I write (any more), but who can say what happens to one's style! Actually there's some very morbid, suicidal, depressing themes that surface quite a bit which alarms me because I had thought my mum was only depressed after my dad died. Although it quite explains something mum told me in year eleven: that I wasn't allowed to kill myself because she didn't (note: at the time we were talking about Sylvia Plath but why does one read Ms Plath? I think we all know why). Regardless of all this melancholy, I tell you I find quite a bit of comfort in the whole affair. Actually my newer readers should take care to note that I am not a novice in the "snooping-into-parent-texts" game: last year I found a notebook of my dad's and carried it around with me for some time as I found it to be a generally beautiful collection of observations culminating in the engagement of my parents. Also it contains vivid descriptions of Scotland, Norway and America - I didn't even know my dad went to America. For the interest of those reading, he totally went illegally but got caught out by the polizei and was asked to leave.
This newer discovery leads me to ponder - what some would call - 'deeeeep' stuff. I mean, what happened to my neurotic, paranoid, overly emotional mother? Where did she go? I've come up with this new theory that you are alive when you finish your teens up until the point where you get married and/or have kids. Because then you have to stop being so selfish, give yourself up to another person's life. You are effectively dead. While you have your children you watch them have their own lives, recall your own. I mean even now I long for the days when I could just roll around in the grass and worry whether my doll has had enough to eat. That's probably why you have kids, just so you can see that happening again. I guess in some ways that Marian lives on in me and my sisters. I mean combined, my sisters and I are pretty much just all mum. It is a bit crushing to feel like you aren't yourself. I want to make this whole affair about me and be selfish - because I am at the proper age for it - so I probably will, even though I KNOW I shouldn't. I feel like I am no longer a me, and that I'm just part of this never ending line of the same type of woman/girl (feels odd calling myself a woman). I don't know, I feel like a part of something good but I also feel like I have lost something. Individuality perhaps. I am pretty much certain though that kids just go on to be either exactly or nearly the same as their parents, as much as they are loathe to admit it.
*BREAK*
I want to address Dave again but I feel like I am not doing it in the right way, even though I actually have no other way to do it. I guess because i am not cool or enigmatic I can't think of a good way to pretend that I'm not actually speaking to him. For those who don't know what is going on, you really suck and should just get your stalking on and go check it out. But to Dave, cool, thanks. I actually don't know anything about you and am unsure how you know that I am from Horsham, but I'm glad that you don't mind that I stumbled upon your blog realm. And also, to other people's blogs who I follow, I doubt that you'll have continued reading this saga, but I think you should read Dave's blog (also I hope your name is ACTUALLY Dave, but Murray told me that so I'm going to keep on doing it) about the nature of blog followery. Although I imagine that you are probably down with that if you're reading and not leaving comments. Does that make sense? Hardly matters now, does it? I like that it doesn't matter if you don't really REALLY know the people whose blogs you read and I guess if you read them for long enough you will.
I hate it when I write and reuse the same sort of words over and over again. It becomes quite difficult to make sense of something.
Because I talk about dreams a lot in this blog, an excerpt from last night:
The house was on fire.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
not for the first time
Dear Speed Grapes
I like the cut of your jib. But why can't I comment on your blog to tell you that? I don't mind & assume you have some decent reasons, but that doesn't make me any less perplexed [mostly cause I am not privvy to the reasons]. All bracketed things aside, what I mean to tell you is that I downloaded the album that you uploaded and guess what? In about twenty minutes that little fellow is going to be at home on my iPod, in amongst the other fellows that are already at home on my little white device. And that's about all really.
Sincerely,
Susie
I like the cut of your jib. But why can't I comment on your blog to tell you that? I don't mind & assume you have some decent reasons, but that doesn't make me any less perplexed [mostly cause I am not privvy to the reasons]. All bracketed things aside, what I mean to tell you is that I downloaded the album that you uploaded and guess what? In about twenty minutes that little fellow is going to be at home on my iPod, in amongst the other fellows that are already at home on my little white device. And that's about all really.
Sincerely,
Susie
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
realm of trickery
when I eventually slept last night I dreamt about Andrew Bird and a really deep dam.
jasmine stalker
Today I sat in the park watching a little girl playing. She was rolling down a hill. First, for her parents. Second, to show off her skills to the little boy who was on the hill with his mum.
I nearly cried because I just wanted to be able to roll down the hill and for that to make me so joyous. But my life has long ceased being so simple and even if I had rolled down a hill for a little while, it wouldn't last and then I'd have to pick myself up and go do something that I'm meant to.
In general, I feel like I'm a marionette, suspended above my life, and someone else usually makes me move and do things but they've gone away for a little while so all I can do is lie limply in my tiny room. All I feel is anger that they've left me here without any means of fixing my situation.
I nearly cried because I just wanted to be able to roll down the hill and for that to make me so joyous. But my life has long ceased being so simple and even if I had rolled down a hill for a little while, it wouldn't last and then I'd have to pick myself up and go do something that I'm meant to.
In general, I feel like I'm a marionette, suspended above my life, and someone else usually makes me move and do things but they've gone away for a little while so all I can do is lie limply in my tiny room. All I feel is anger that they've left me here without any means of fixing my situation.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
why isn't facebook purple?
Something I find stupid - or not even stupid, just bizarre - is how there is an ever growing bunch of people who use their cameras to take photos of themselves. Obviously it doesn't sound like a dumb observation in my head. But those people who like get their camera and hold it in front of them and their best friend (as you're trying to walk down Lygon street) and then post it all over facebook really kinda suck. Now usually I don't really care about this, and I see how it can obviously be a quick and effective way to take a photo with someone else. But what if there are other people around? Can't they ask someone else to take it? Don't people with cameras know that they are usually never meant to be in the picture? Those who are self important enough to want to be in every picture that they take should not have been given a camera in the first place.
Actually come to think of it, I don't really know what I think except that I just have ill feelings about too much of said activity. It can only lead to bad things.
There's a picture because I like exercising my memory for the screenshot shortcut and I just downloaded a fun paint program. Also I am sorry it's so small but who really cares, I've lost all energy and enthusiasm for this cause.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
while the war wages loudly
the dream that I had about Josh Thomas is silly and maybe a bit annoying because I actually have a large crush on his friend, Thomas Ward
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
did you just ring the doorbell?
oh hey everyone, so the summer is well and truly underway (finally, am I right?). Me and my peeps have been maxing out hardcore in this little town, playing dressups with deerstalkers and making sure we take as many photos of phat cats and phences as possible. and doing films on bikes.I did want to do an entry
about whether I think sexuality is a choice, but I really can't be bothered. And then I figured that perhaps that is bad because it possibly means I am ambivalent/do not think/challenge/analyse, but I was reading my year eleven notebook and I think that I did an alarming amount of that then so I am by default allowed to be stupid and wear snorkels instead of helm
ets.
Once when I was in New Zealand my friend was playing a CD of songs in her car as we were driving home after a session and she asked me if I liked Bittles and I, confused, said "what?". She repeated "do you like Bittles?" and I said, "huh?".. "BITTLES".. "OHHH, BATTLES!" and I said yes.
Once when I was in my computer room I was watching some nice videos that someone recommended to me and I said yes too.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
hubris
The internet is making me hate people I love in real life. Or at the very least, making me question whether I really like them in real life. But then that throws into doubt my scruples regarding friendship.
I don't know how to coherently explain what is going on. I am not referring to the 2 blogs that I follow on here - I should make that clear I suppose - but a friend through a friend's.
Of course blogging is in general a selfish act: a medium through which we can express what we see in the real or online worlds. Yet perhaps the online world is more real these days? or at least a very real portent of the world. Anyway, I fear that blogging is a self important exercise and I just happened to stumble across a disgustingly intense example of this.
Now I best disclaim and allow that I am decently audacious myself, having several million blogs, myspaces, facebooks and all those things. I'm really in no position to criticise.
I guess the tasty thing about blogs is that you can just say whatever the hell you want about most other people - because technically there's no practicable way to police defamation - and be as hypocritical as you want.
I don't know how to coherently explain what is going on. I am not referring to the 2 blogs that I follow on here - I should make that clear I suppose - but a friend through a friend's.
Of course blogging is in general a selfish act: a medium through which we can express what we see in the real or online worlds. Yet perhaps the online world is more real these days? or at least a very real portent of the world. Anyway, I fear that blogging is a self important exercise and I just happened to stumble across a disgustingly intense example of this.
Now I best disclaim and allow that I am decently audacious myself, having several million blogs, myspaces, facebooks and all those things. I'm really in no position to criticise.
I guess the tasty thing about blogs is that you can just say whatever the hell you want about most other people - because technically there's no practicable way to police defamation - and be as hypocritical as you want.
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