Eighty minutes 'til the end of the month and I've one blog post to go before I complete my mission: one post for each day of May. I never formalised it exactly but I was sort of racing myself to see if I could write faster than the calendar could flip. And even though the content that's come out of it is arbitrary and topically scattered, I'm just happy I've managed to keep the lead grinding this long. Yay! I have self-discipline!
Y'know... kinda.
For anyone who's been reading with joyful anticipation, delighting in each morning's promise of new delicious content, I'm sorry to say I probably won't be writing so often after this. (Alternately, for those who've been reading and thinking, "my god, what a lot of pointless spam she comes up with every morning"... hey guys, good news!) Anyway. I'm loving the blogging but I'm also starting to yearn for something more focused. If I go ahead with the course intermission plan, who knows? Maybe I'll be a bona fide author come twothousaleven.
Shush. Maybe! Okay, probably not. But hopefully I'll have produced something to work from.
In other news, I just bought a new dictionary and all those childhood memories came flooding back. I haven't owned a dictionary since some time in high school (it's lost in the mire of my things at Mum's place - hi Mum!) and I'd forgotten how much I loved flipping through that thing, discovering exciting new words to drop into my essays and weave into my stories; words I could boast about and teach to others and horribly mispronounce.
Yeah, words rock.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Reprint: I Won't Drink To That
Originally posted on
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2007
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2007
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.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Narwhal.
Welcome to another edition of
Magnificent Beast of the Day
the narwhal
"What in blazes is a narwhal?" you ask. Well, let me show you.
"But that's just a whale with a unicorn horn," you say.
Nuh-UH. For starters, unicorns are lame and sparkly like certain recent fictional vampires we will not mention by name here.
Secondly, the narwhal's tusk can grow up to NINE FOOT LONG. That's like three metres, you guys! Think of the shish kebab potential!
And unicorns, despite their obvious personal shortcomings, are massive snobs. They will only associate with virgins.
Narwhal does not judge.
The tusk isn't just a phallus metaphor, by the way. It actually contains millions of nerve endings and can be used as an environmental sensor. The narwhal can tell when the temperature is changing (like when ice is starting to form or melt), feel particles in the water (bits of algae and dirt and stuff), detect salinity levels, and also narwhals can point like nobody's business.
And look. Let's be honest. Unicorns are total brand whores. They'll put their faces on anything, so long as it gets them some cool cash to buy that nice horn polish.
I mean, the narwhals live in the Arctic Circle. They hang out at the North Pole with Santa, and they take the elves for rides when they're on OHS breaks. But do you hear the narwhals boasting about that? Not ever. They're just cool about it.
They are so humble. But narwhals will blow your mind.
And you know what's the very best thing about narwhals?
They're real!
RUNNER-UP FOR BEASTIE OF THE DAY:
The Peter Pan of the animal kingdom. Never grow up. Never stop smiling.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Livestock.
We enjoy our morning bacon, our lunchtime ham sandwich, our roast pork dinner, through the sacrifice of lives. This is the Way of the Carnivore:
And I'm not a vegetarian. That's all fine with me.
But in the natural world, an owl won't slaughter five fieldmice when she's only going to eat one of them. That would be a waste. A waste of effort, and a waste of life.
Things shouldn't be killed for no good reason. And when meat goes rancid sitting in your fridge for too long, then something has died pointlessly. I've let this happen over and over again. It's ridiculous - meat is expensive, for one thing. But to let all those processes go to waste - breeding and feeding and living and waiting, killing and gutting and cutting and packing - it's just awful.
Wasting food makes me really sad. I remember working as a kind of waiter at the cinema-restaurant-place (er... with the not-naming of corporate entities) and scraping huge chunks of food off plates, straight into the bin. Traditionally, restaurants used to keep a "slop bucket" for food waste - stuff that would go to feed pigs, or pets, or deeply unloved children. But now it's the dumpster for all.
Likewise, the vegies and fruit in our fridge and our fruitbowl can go uneaten for weeks. As soon as they start to look saggy, nobody wants them. They sit waiting, in case someone with low-enough standards comes along. They grow beards. They get chucked.
(See here for more about Beards!)
It's a real shame. I know vegetables don't suffer the whole experience of being raised in cramped captivity glutting on growth hormones just to become food that is never eaten, but they're still a resource - a healthsome, valuable resource - that ought to be prized and treasured and consumed with gratitude. During the Great Depression, people were desperate for food so rich and nutritious as that which today we deem "puckered" and "not green enough" and even just "yucky". This is the fruit of the land... the life that grows, just to be eaten, so that its seed may spread. (Yes I know it gets flushed. Shhh, don't tell the fruit.)
The point is that food - real food - is precious. Wasting it ought to be considered worse than wasting money. It's worth so much more than money. It's worth lives.
This eats that, you eat this, I eat you.It's the cir - cle, the circle of life.
And I'm not a vegetarian. That's all fine with me.
But in the natural world, an owl won't slaughter five fieldmice when she's only going to eat one of them. That would be a waste. A waste of effort, and a waste of life.
Things shouldn't be killed for no good reason. And when meat goes rancid sitting in your fridge for too long, then something has died pointlessly. I've let this happen over and over again. It's ridiculous - meat is expensive, for one thing. But to let all those processes go to waste - breeding and feeding and living and waiting, killing and gutting and cutting and packing - it's just awful.
Wasting food makes me really sad. I remember working as a kind of waiter at the cinema-restaurant-place (er... with the not-naming of corporate entities) and scraping huge chunks of food off plates, straight into the bin. Traditionally, restaurants used to keep a "slop bucket" for food waste - stuff that would go to feed pigs, or pets, or deeply unloved children. But now it's the dumpster for all.
Likewise, the vegies and fruit in our fridge and our fruitbowl can go uneaten for weeks. As soon as they start to look saggy, nobody wants them. They sit waiting, in case someone with low-enough standards comes along. They grow beards. They get chucked.
(See here for more about Beards!)
It's a real shame. I know vegetables don't suffer the whole experience of being raised in cramped captivity glutting on growth hormones just to become food that is never eaten, but they're still a resource - a healthsome, valuable resource - that ought to be prized and treasured and consumed with gratitude. During the Great Depression, people were desperate for food so rich and nutritious as that which today we deem "puckered" and "not green enough" and even just "yucky". This is the fruit of the land... the life that grows, just to be eaten, so that its seed may spread. (Yes I know it gets flushed. Shhh, don't tell the fruit.)
The point is that food - real food - is precious. Wasting it ought to be considered worse than wasting money. It's worth so much more than money. It's worth lives.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Question.
I fancy myself a bit of a philosopher. In the laziest way possible, of course. I've not read any of the great old names - or the great new ones (sorry Peter Singer). I don't know the lingo and I couldn't tell you the difference between Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. But that's not the point of philosophy, anyway.
You are a philosopher - in my view - if you question what others take as given. Or, in street-speak:
But we mustn't take everything as a granted fact. If nobody asked any questions, humanity wouldn't have gotten very far. We're not all Galileo or Germaine Greer, but our lives and beliefs and choices are still shaping the future. What causes are we supporting? Whose careers are we furthering? How are we treating our peers? What are we teaching our kids?
I try to follow this principle. As I say, it'd be impossible (and really irritating for everyone) to ask "why?" of everything I encounter. But I try to recognise things that shouldn't be taken for granted. My mum always encouraged me to view the world with scepticism. Not in a negative rejectorilla way, but in a way that promotes the search for better answers.
My favourite Socrates one-liner is this:
Sometimes I can't help but question. Some things seem wrong to me. Wrong, or pointless, or damaging. There's religion, of course - I cannot reconcile my sense of reason with "divine truths" granted anonymously thousands of years ago.
And then there's the more pertinent issue of morality. I think an understanding of goodness should be discovered - not through the unquestioning acceptance of religious codes or current law, but through conscious thought and analysis. So much hurt is done when people fail to examine the reasoning behind their values.
You might also have noticed I've got a bit of beef with gender politics. I hate when people make assumptions. I hate when people subscribe to the conventions so deeply that they end sentences with "because I'm a girl". For reference? When I say, "Urrrgh, WOMEN", I'm being facetious. There is no good reason why men and women should be regarded differently within society. Yes, physical differences. Yes, psychological differences. But we're too intelligent and too self-conscious to blame all our actions on biology. People are people. Gruff, vapid, slobby, thoughtful, promiscuous, vain and desperate for attention.
Grrrr.
Plenty more, of course, but I'll shush up now. What about you? Anything you think people take for granted - anything you see differently? Please share. Expand my little mind.
You are a philosopher - in my view - if you question what others take as given. Or, in street-speak:
"Is that a fact?"True, if you questioned every possible thing that passed your way, you'd never even make it to work in the mornings. We've got to trust some stuff in the everyday. Gravity, clothing, red lights. It's not easy to be sceptical about those without getting yourself into the poo.
But we mustn't take everything as a granted fact. If nobody asked any questions, humanity wouldn't have gotten very far. We're not all Galileo or Germaine Greer, but our lives and beliefs and choices are still shaping the future. What causes are we supporting? Whose careers are we furthering? How are we treating our peers? What are we teaching our kids?
I try to follow this principle. As I say, it'd be impossible (and really irritating for everyone) to ask "why?" of everything I encounter. But I try to recognise things that shouldn't be taken for granted. My mum always encouraged me to view the world with scepticism. Not in a negative rejectorilla way, but in a way that promotes the search for better answers.
My favourite Socrates one-liner is this:
"The unexamined life is not worth living."Really says it all. Because sure, you might have a whale-o-time sliding through life with all you've been granted. It's easy - mostly. But without questions, there is no learning. And without learning, you make no progress. Do you want your epitaph to read, "here lies So-and-So; he always did what he was told"?
Sometimes I can't help but question. Some things seem wrong to me. Wrong, or pointless, or damaging. There's religion, of course - I cannot reconcile my sense of reason with "divine truths" granted anonymously thousands of years ago.
And then there's the more pertinent issue of morality. I think an understanding of goodness should be discovered - not through the unquestioning acceptance of religious codes or current law, but through conscious thought and analysis. So much hurt is done when people fail to examine the reasoning behind their values.
You might also have noticed I've got a bit of beef with gender politics. I hate when people make assumptions. I hate when people subscribe to the conventions so deeply that they end sentences with "because I'm a girl". For reference? When I say, "Urrrgh, WOMEN", I'm being facetious. There is no good reason why men and women should be regarded differently within society. Yes, physical differences. Yes, psychological differences. But we're too intelligent and too self-conscious to blame all our actions on biology. People are people. Gruff, vapid, slobby, thoughtful, promiscuous, vain and desperate for attention.
Grrrr.
Plenty more, of course, but I'll shush up now. What about you? Anything you think people take for granted - anything you see differently? Please share. Expand my little mind.
Breather.
Please help! I'm trying to decide whether I should take intermission next semester. Here's basically why:
Semester's almost over. I have to decide soon. Please - any suggestions, tales from experience, opinions, animal noises are welcome. Help me!
- I've started skipping classes way too much when I feel unstable and I'm worried it'll get worse before it gets better.
- I was going to do an internship, but I didn't apply for any and I'm not sure if it's too late to do that now. I don't really feel I have the headspace to plan it yet.
- I was going to do a unit that I now realise is only available in first semester.
- I feel really great doing all this writing every day and I'm starting to feel intensely creative and productive (whether or not it's any good is irrelevant at this point - I know it can be good). I'd like to start working on something bigger than blogging, and I feel like study would be a barrier to that.
- Cousin Penny (hi Penny!) keeps poking me to come visit her in Queensland. If I didn't have classes/internship to go to, I could totally rock up at her place and eat her food and go to her work and see all the badass animals.
- After finishing my undergrad, I spent a semester working and trying to figure out what next. And I got so lost and confused that I tipped over the edge into full-on depressive behaviour. I'm afraid that will happen again.
- What if I lose the creative feeling? It's not guaranteed to stick around. If it passes, then what will I have? My little cinema job? Which I kinda don't want to stay in for too much longer, frankly.
- What if I get bored?
- What if I never bother to go back and finish my course?
- It's only one more semester 'til I finish the course. Couldn't I hold out? Just get the Masters, finish that chapter, and then I'd be free to pursue any project, and I'd have an impressive-sounding qualification to back me up.
- Will it look bad? Who takes intermission this late in their education? Will people question it on my CV?
Semester's almost over. I have to decide soon. Please - any suggestions, tales from experience, opinions, animal noises are welcome. Help me!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Blogrolling.
See that link list on the right - "Blogs I Like To Read"? That would be my blogroll. You see blogrolls on many blogs. Probably the majority of blogs, in fact. They're funny little things. See, they're supposed to be a you-scratch-my-back sort of device: you put me on yours, I put you on mine, we drive traffic to each other's sites, everybody wins.
Typically the linked blogs will be owned by your "internet friends" - those people you don't physically know, but who perhaps write in a similar vein, and who you've become acquainted with by reading and commenting on their work.
Or you link simply because you're a fan of somebody's site. Or you link because you're a fan, they're way more popular than you, and you're really hoping they'll notice you've linked to them and reciprocate and then you can bask in the glorious popularity they've extended your way.
Well, at present, just one of the blogs on my list has me on its blogroll. (Thanks Penny!) I'm not harnessing the power of the internet too successfully, am I? But as I've said before, I'm not good with the whole putting-in-effort thing. I don't belong to any online communities; I don't have many blog-writing friends.
So why have a blogroll at all? I originally put it up because I figured I had to have one... one of those unwritten rules, y'know. But I like having it there. Does anyone ever click through to any of the sites? If not, let me tell you a little bit about them. I don't keep them up for no reason.
This is a site I stumbled across while searching for depression-themed blog journals. It's written by a fortyish guy in England called Andre Jordan (I didn't believe it at first either). He writes tiny love stories and draws lots of simple comic drawings like the one above. Some of them are laugh-out-loud funny, but more often they are the kind of thing that makes you smile kinda sideways and shake your head because it's silly but it's sweet.
I've already spruiked this one a bunch of times because it's gorgeous, but here, again, is the blomic (or clog?) of Allie Brosh, some spazzed-out blonde chick from Montana. Her blogs are a mix of writing and really goofy drawings made in Paintbrush on her Mac. She's hilarious and very endearing and I have to fight off the urge to just totally copy everything she does.
Rabia's blog is a mix of ambitions, brainwaves, plans and reflections. This one is most clearly a journal: the story of a girl finding her place and her purpose. I identify with her like crazy - she's my age, still chugging through uni, dreaming of the future and drafting ideas and bursting with the desire to create.
Also, one time her piggybank fell on the floor and all his coins came out and she felt sorry for him - but not sorry enough to stop herself from taking photos of his humiliating ordeal and posting them on the internet. Poor little piggy.
Here be the disturbingly talented Matilda Lunken. She's a lover of fine theatre and well-chosen words, and her blog consists mostly of theatre and book reviews, poetry and little crafty things. She's new to blogging so the content flows sporadically, but I'm curious to see where it goes. She's one of those irritatingly prolific types and she always finds a way to think different. This is a girl we oughta be watching.
My Queensland cousin Penny, who works as a wildlife education officer and has a dream to branch out into writing children's books. She's got some terrific stories to tell. You know kids will love them, because hey, animals are rad, my friend - but she's still got plenty more for the grown folk to enjoy. Check out her latest about Exhibitionist Echidna!
A classmate of mine who I facebook-stalked and found her LiveJournal. She's a seasoned journal-writer and updates almost every day which makes me so happy! She's also a writer of fanfiction - mainly based around Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Now, I've never been into fanfiction before. I've seen some; I've read some. It was all painful sex fantasy junk. But Mez's work is something else. She gets character voices just exactly right; she explores concepts within the buffyverse that are fascinating and full of possibilities. In short: superb. This one comes highly recommended for anyone with a little bit of Buffy geek in them.
This would be my dad. He's kind of weird but I like him a lot. Unfortunately, though he has outlined the characters and plot of his epic novel Petunia Happenstance, a full draft has not yet been forthcoming.
He's been hang-gliding for thirty-odd years, riding recumbent bicycles for... iunno, four years or so, and reading science fiction novels since he was a tiny little ginger kid on a farm somewhere. So by my calculations he has read approximately eight billion SF novels by now.
He laughs at The Big Bang Theory, not because the characters are nerdy, but because he totally understands where they're coming from.
Typically the linked blogs will be owned by your "internet friends" - those people you don't physically know, but who perhaps write in a similar vein, and who you've become acquainted with by reading and commenting on their work.
Or you link simply because you're a fan of somebody's site. Or you link because you're a fan, they're way more popular than you, and you're really hoping they'll notice you've linked to them and reciprocate and then you can bask in the glorious popularity they've extended your way.
Well, at present, just one of the blogs on my list has me on its blogroll. (Thanks Penny!) I'm not harnessing the power of the internet too successfully, am I? But as I've said before, I'm not good with the whole putting-in-effort thing. I don't belong to any online communities; I don't have many blog-writing friends.
So why have a blogroll at all? I originally put it up because I figured I had to have one... one of those unwritten rules, y'know. But I like having it there. Does anyone ever click through to any of the sites? If not, let me tell you a little bit about them. I don't keep them up for no reason.
This is a site I stumbled across while searching for depression-themed blog journals. It's written by a fortyish guy in England called Andre Jordan (I didn't believe it at first either). He writes tiny love stories and draws lots of simple comic drawings like the one above. Some of them are laugh-out-loud funny, but more often they are the kind of thing that makes you smile kinda sideways and shake your head because it's silly but it's sweet.
I've already spruiked this one a bunch of times because it's gorgeous, but here, again, is the blomic (or clog?) of Allie Brosh, some spazzed-out blonde chick from Montana. Her blogs are a mix of writing and really goofy drawings made in Paintbrush on her Mac. She's hilarious and very endearing and I have to fight off the urge to just totally copy everything she does.Rabia's blog is a mix of ambitions, brainwaves, plans and reflections. This one is most clearly a journal: the story of a girl finding her place and her purpose. I identify with her like crazy - she's my age, still chugging through uni, dreaming of the future and drafting ideas and bursting with the desire to create.Also, one time her piggybank fell on the floor and all his coins came out and she felt sorry for him - but not sorry enough to stop herself from taking photos of his humiliating ordeal and posting them on the internet. Poor little piggy.
Here be the disturbingly talented Matilda Lunken. She's a lover of fine theatre and well-chosen words, and her blog consists mostly of theatre and book reviews, poetry and little crafty things. She's new to blogging so the content flows sporadically, but I'm curious to see where it goes. She's one of those irritatingly prolific types and she always finds a way to think different. This is a girl we oughta be watching.My Queensland cousin Penny, who works as a wildlife education officer and has a dream to branch out into writing children's books. She's got some terrific stories to tell. You know kids will love them, because hey, animals are rad, my friend - but she's still got plenty more for the grown folk to enjoy. Check out her latest about Exhibitionist Echidna!
A classmate of mine who I facebook-stalked and found her LiveJournal. She's a seasoned journal-writer and updates almost every day which makes me so happy! She's also a writer of fanfiction - mainly based around Buffy the Vampire Slayer.Now, I've never been into fanfiction before. I've seen some; I've read some. It was all painful sex fantasy junk. But Mez's work is something else. She gets character voices just exactly right; she explores concepts within the buffyverse that are fascinating and full of possibilities. In short: superb. This one comes highly recommended for anyone with a little bit of Buffy geek in them.
This would be my dad. He's kind of weird but I like him a lot. Unfortunately, though he has outlined the characters and plot of his epic novel Petunia Happenstance, a full draft has not yet been forthcoming.He's been hang-gliding for thirty-odd years, riding recumbent bicycles for... iunno, four years or so, and reading science fiction novels since he was a tiny little ginger kid on a farm somewhere. So by my calculations he has read approximately eight billion SF novels by now.
He laughs at The Big Bang Theory, not because the characters are nerdy, but because he totally understands where they're coming from.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Backgammon.
There's a basic little game installed on my dad's computer, a man-vs-machine backgammon program called JellyFish. He plays it often but wins it rarely; he can't go for too long without quitting in frustration. Now, my dad's no dummy, and backgammon is not a complex or difficult game. But nevertheless, after a few rounds of gammon he'll shut down the program, stump out of the room and mutter something about the damn computer cheating again.
It claims the dice results are randomly generated, but I've played the game too (over and over and over) and I swear the computer gives itself all the bloody sixes. And all the doubles! Rude, I call it.
I was curious so I had a look online and I found out that people have been complaining for years about backgammon programs "cheating". Here's an archive of complaints to game authors, written by angry players who reckon the odds are stacked. They say things like "I've had enough" and "your game should be banned!" Every letter is matched by a response from the game author, explaining how the dice are programmed or telling the gamers how they can test, for themselves, that the program doesn't cheat.
So if JellyFish really doesn't cheat, then how does it always manage to get exactly the die-rolls it needs to knock all my vulnerable counters off the board? I suppose it makes the game a little more enthralling. You're certain it's loading the dice in its favour, so you're even more determined to beat the bugger.
If you want to try your hand at the mighty sport of computer-opponent backgammon, you can download the game here:
JellyFish Backgammon
I think the version on my dad's computer is JellyFish Light 3.5. Tell us how you go!
It claims the dice results are randomly generated, but I've played the game too (over and over and over) and I swear the computer gives itself all the bloody sixes. And all the doubles! Rude, I call it.
I was curious so I had a look online and I found out that people have been complaining for years about backgammon programs "cheating". Here's an archive of complaints to game authors, written by angry players who reckon the odds are stacked. They say things like "I've had enough" and "your game should be banned!" Every letter is matched by a response from the game author, explaining how the dice are programmed or telling the gamers how they can test, for themselves, that the program doesn't cheat.
So if JellyFish really doesn't cheat, then how does it always manage to get exactly the die-rolls it needs to knock all my vulnerable counters off the board? I suppose it makes the game a little more enthralling. You're certain it's loading the dice in its favour, so you're even more determined to beat the bugger.
If you want to try your hand at the mighty sport of computer-opponent backgammon, you can download the game here:
JellyFish Backgammon
I think the version on my dad's computer is JellyFish Light 3.5. Tell us how you go!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Withdraw.
It was a couple of days ago now but I thought I should wait before writing anything. Perspective and so forth. But it's important... and kinda scary... so I at least want to record it, if only to make sure I don't screw up so bad again.
On Tuesday I ran out of meds. I had a script with repeats, and there is a chemist two blocks from my home, and yet I ran out and I didn't refill that day and I didn't refill the next day. By mid-Wednesday I started feeling a little shaky - couple of dizzy dips, nothing much - and I assumed it was a result of a double shot latte entering my bloodstream. Bit of a tummy tightness as well, you know. But as the hours passed and the caffeine faded, the feeling only got worse. It was happening whenever I turned my head; then it was happening whenever I moved the focus of my eyes.
This isn't a great description but it was basically like: say my brain was a big brain-shaped chunk of jelly. And then, the brandy snap upon which it was perched suddenly gave way, causing the jelly-brain to drop several inches and impact upon the surface below.
Or, from the jelly's perspective:
Whaaooim falling...
Pwckk-bowwwwoowoooow-oowowoooow-ooo.
Right, I give up. Here is a visual aid.
So if you can imagine your brain doing that every twenty seconds, you can get a basic idea of how I was feeling by Wednesday night. I was alone in the house, exhausted and frightened; probably worked myself up unnecessarily, googled withdrawal symptoms for the meds I'm on, and read horror stories about how agonisingly difficult it is to come off this drug.
Eyes pulsing with screen-strain and tears, I went to bed early (yes, fine, Dad, "early") but I struggled to sleep, and kept waking up shivering, clutching desperately to my doona and soggy with cold sweat. When I finally got up, my eyes were swollen and aching like I hadn't slept at all, and I looked bloodshot and matted as though I'd been crying. Nevertheless, I went straight out to fill my script, first thing, took the dose and waited.
I say waited. I lay down on the carpet, hopelessly dizzy from the effort of actually leaving the house and driving a car and looking a pharmacist in the eye. After a few minutes I tried to move and promptly sunk back down, moaning. I gave it a good fifteen or twenty minutes and then started to cry, feeling pathetic. I won't go into it but the thoughts I thought then were not good thoughts, and that day was not a good day. I let the demons twist and torture every thing that passed through my mind and never bothered to try to smooth and soothe. The world was a pit of maggots.
I spent several hours draped across the living room with a cruel headache before crawling back into bed, despairing of ever feeling human again. I slept.
The next time I opened my eyes, things were better. Not allll better. I was still exhausted and felt like I'd had negative three hours sleep, but my brain was made of brain again. Another early night and somehow, an early morning. And a beautiful day.
It really was a wonderful day. I haven't had such an easy day in months. When I say easy, I mean it was a day without dread. Dread is a feeling I have become accustomed to. Rationally, I know there is nothing to fear, but every new action and every responsibility takes twice the effort because I don't know if I'll be able to handle it. I don't think I'd call it anxiety, because it's a slow and sloppy feeling, devoid of energy or pulse. It merely says, "No - don't."
But not this day. This day I had a doctor's appointment, a shift at work, a party to go to, and I managed them all without foreboding. I felt positive, I was full of ideas, and effortlessly I lopped away the demons' claws as I realised the positive truths they had been hiding from me yesterday.
The problem with all this is that I'm still not sure whether the medication is working. The physical withdrawal symptoms would occur regardless of whether or not the drugs had been having an emotional effect. While taking them as prescribed, I got into a state where I just couldn't be bothered to go pick up more. I was not doing well. I didn't care. I didn't know what I was in for, but still, I didn't care.
So where is this good mood coming from? Is it the drugs, working and making me feel positive? Or is it merely a sense of stability because the withdrawal symptoms have gone? I don't know where to place my faith. I really don't want to have to taper off this medication, just to start again with something else new. It's been almost a year already. I can't wait forever to be better. So I really want it to be working; I really, really do.
I hope time will give me an answer, because I'm tired of feeling unclear. It's so damn hard to quantify happiness.
"Better? Worse? The same?"
"All?"
On Tuesday I ran out of meds. I had a script with repeats, and there is a chemist two blocks from my home, and yet I ran out and I didn't refill that day and I didn't refill the next day. By mid-Wednesday I started feeling a little shaky - couple of dizzy dips, nothing much - and I assumed it was a result of a double shot latte entering my bloodstream. Bit of a tummy tightness as well, you know. But as the hours passed and the caffeine faded, the feeling only got worse. It was happening whenever I turned my head; then it was happening whenever I moved the focus of my eyes.
This isn't a great description but it was basically like: say my brain was a big brain-shaped chunk of jelly. And then, the brandy snap upon which it was perched suddenly gave way, causing the jelly-brain to drop several inches and impact upon the surface below.
Or, from the jelly's perspective:
Whaaooim falling...
Pwckk-bowwwwoowoooow-oowowoooow-ooo.
Right, I give up. Here is a visual aid.
So if you can imagine your brain doing that every twenty seconds, you can get a basic idea of how I was feeling by Wednesday night. I was alone in the house, exhausted and frightened; probably worked myself up unnecessarily, googled withdrawal symptoms for the meds I'm on, and read horror stories about how agonisingly difficult it is to come off this drug.
Eyes pulsing with screen-strain and tears, I went to bed early (yes, fine, Dad, "early") but I struggled to sleep, and kept waking up shivering, clutching desperately to my doona and soggy with cold sweat. When I finally got up, my eyes were swollen and aching like I hadn't slept at all, and I looked bloodshot and matted as though I'd been crying. Nevertheless, I went straight out to fill my script, first thing, took the dose and waited.
I say waited. I lay down on the carpet, hopelessly dizzy from the effort of actually leaving the house and driving a car and looking a pharmacist in the eye. After a few minutes I tried to move and promptly sunk back down, moaning. I gave it a good fifteen or twenty minutes and then started to cry, feeling pathetic. I won't go into it but the thoughts I thought then were not good thoughts, and that day was not a good day. I let the demons twist and torture every thing that passed through my mind and never bothered to try to smooth and soothe. The world was a pit of maggots.
I spent several hours draped across the living room with a cruel headache before crawling back into bed, despairing of ever feeling human again. I slept.
The next time I opened my eyes, things were better. Not allll better. I was still exhausted and felt like I'd had negative three hours sleep, but my brain was made of brain again. Another early night and somehow, an early morning. And a beautiful day.
It really was a wonderful day. I haven't had such an easy day in months. When I say easy, I mean it was a day without dread. Dread is a feeling I have become accustomed to. Rationally, I know there is nothing to fear, but every new action and every responsibility takes twice the effort because I don't know if I'll be able to handle it. I don't think I'd call it anxiety, because it's a slow and sloppy feeling, devoid of energy or pulse. It merely says, "No - don't."
But not this day. This day I had a doctor's appointment, a shift at work, a party to go to, and I managed them all without foreboding. I felt positive, I was full of ideas, and effortlessly I lopped away the demons' claws as I realised the positive truths they had been hiding from me yesterday.
The problem with all this is that I'm still not sure whether the medication is working. The physical withdrawal symptoms would occur regardless of whether or not the drugs had been having an emotional effect. While taking them as prescribed, I got into a state where I just couldn't be bothered to go pick up more. I was not doing well. I didn't care. I didn't know what I was in for, but still, I didn't care.
So where is this good mood coming from? Is it the drugs, working and making me feel positive? Or is it merely a sense of stability because the withdrawal symptoms have gone? I don't know where to place my faith. I really don't want to have to taper off this medication, just to start again with something else new. It's been almost a year already. I can't wait forever to be better. So I really want it to be working; I really, really do.
I hope time will give me an answer, because I'm tired of feeling unclear. It's so damn hard to quantify happiness.
"Better? Worse? The same?"
"All?"
[To the person who was there for me that day: I've said it already, but thank you. It meant the world to me.]
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Waste.
We throw so much away.Some things rot. Some things break. Some stop being useful and some are just trashed to make way for the newer, shinier, cuter model.
It'a understandable that we don't want our homes to fill up with this and that crappy bit of whatever-the-hell. We don't want to keep things we don't like, don't use, don't need. But is the bin the place?
When you chuck something in the bin, it takes a one-way trip to landfill. There it stays, mashed up against the next thing you chucked in after it. It might rot. But probably not. Do you know how long plastic takes to disintegrate?
Obviously if it's recyclable, you should recycle it. But putting it in the blue bin still means putting it in a bin. And then it's someone else's problem. I wrote about this vaguely a couple of months ago (see Salvage) - I just think maybe we shouldn't need to recycle so much anyway. I don't mean, "yahh, just chuck it in the gaahbage". I mean stop using so much. We don't need to use so much. And if we have to use something, isn't there any way we can reuse it ourselves? Easy stuff is newspapers in the rabbit hutch, vegie waste in the garden, chinese food containers for saving leftovers and as a rudimentary lunchbox.
I still get plastic bags when I go grocery shopping, because I need them for wrapping up ferret litter when I replace it (okay but check out what this woman does with them, holy bejeezus). And I use printed paper for scrap (making notes, sketches, etc.) if it's only printed on one side. But otherwise I can't think of anything I do.
A young lady of my acquaintance, the lovely Rabia, tells me she's learning how to sew because she'd love to be able to make new things out of recycled fabric. Which is such a brilliant idea. I mean, we go through so many clothes and what happens when we're done with them?
Donate? Not if they've got holes or rips or stains. Pass on? If they're last year's fashion, no one's going to want them. Chuck out? A waste, especially if you only wore them a couple of times.
Besides which, it's so painful to say goodbye to a gorgeous skirt that doesn't fit, or got torn, when it's made of such pretty pretty fabric. So how wonderful to be able to reincarnate that skirt by using its cloth for a shoulder bag?
Anyway I'm thinking about this a lot lately. I like the idea of simpler, less consumer-driven living, and I really believe people should consider the choices they make for every action they take. I'd almost forgotten I planned to write more about this, when I stumbled upon the blogs of a couple of members of the Compact, which is a group of people who aim to cut waste out of their lives. It's about saving money and resources; it's about reducing their impact on the environment; it's about cutting the crap out of life.
I don't know if I've got the discipline to live so strictly, but I like the concept and I'd like to incorporate some of the ideas.
For instance, Angela at My Year Without Spending introduced me to Meatless Mondays (self-explanatory, I think), Thrifty Threads (readers present their favourite secondhand outfits), and even has a Friday ritual of owning up to all her food waste for the week. Not completely extreme.Any waste-savin' strategies of your own? Do share!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Fame.
I want to be an insanely successful artist of some description. Probably a writer but iunno for sure. I want to create hilarious, deeply moving, earth-judderingly profound work. I want to make people gasp with delight and then tell everyone they know how great my work is.
Except I don't want to be famous. Like, I don't really want to be this bigshot type of person who promotes herself all over the place and gets photographed for the paper and receives worryingly intimate fan mail. Not that it's likely as such, but with success in the creative sphere, so comes renown. If I actually managed to make a name for myself... well then, uh... lots of people would know my name.
Let's put this in the context of blogging. It's awkward. I really do want a lot of people to read this blog. I would swoon with joy to see my hit counter climb into the double-digit thousands. But I guess I'm kind of embarrassed to take the steps to make that happen. I've put it on Facebook; I've given the address to my dad. (And I think he's the one who gave it to my grandma... hi Grandma!) I occasionally make comments on other blogs using my Blogger ID.
But to make it really explode with readers? I kind of understand what I'd need to do.
- I'd have to build a web presence. Twitter and Digg and Reddit and Delicious, whatever they are. Bookmark everything everywhere. "Ping" all my posts. (Huh?) Comment like mad on other bloggers' posts, in the hope that their readers will get hooked on my words and click through to my blog.
- I'd have to create more "searchable" content, which means using phrases that people will type into search engines - especially in my post titles. And that's not gonna happen, 'cause I use one-word titles and I like it that way.
I read you're supposed to encourage your readers to promote your site (share this on Facebook!) and to subscribe to your feed. (That orange thing on the right is the international symbol for "subscribe to my RSS feed... pleeeeeeease?") - Tell everyone to "be my follower!" I currently have four official followers. The blog is, of course, read by more people than that, but I think you need a Google account to "follow" a blog... or something like that, I don't know.
Ah, screw it...
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| Follow me? |
Reprint: Elves
Originally posted on
SUNDAY, SEMPTEMBER 16, 2007
SUNDAY, SEMPTEMBER 16, 2007
Pulling my room apart
trying to find
those little things
that you have put away.
[I miss you.]
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Reprint: Not Coming Back
Originally posted on
WEDNESDAY, SEMPTEMBER 5, 2007
WEDNESDAY, SEMPTEMBER 5, 2007
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?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Uh-oh.
Brain shivers.
Not good.
I've missed two days of meds because I just didn't go refill my prescription.
Why would I do something like that?
Only I don't want to go drive anywhere.
I don't like this.
Not good.
I've missed two days of meds because I just didn't go refill my prescription.
Why would I do something like that?
Only I don't want to go drive anywhere.
I don't like this.
Shine.
Six Things You Can Do To Fight Depression: shine
Time was, someone would say to me, "Nice day!" and I would respond with a grumble: "I don't like nice days."
I've never been a fan of sunny, or bright, or warm. I've never much liked being outside. Kinda goes hand-in-hand with my dislike of sports. It's a shame I feel this way, though, because being outside is really very good for me.
Sunny skies give us Vitamin D and invite our brains to produce serotonin, which is a chemical that helps pass messages through the brain. So serotonin has an influence on pretty much all our psychological functions, including mood regulation.
Being in the sun also switches off our melatonin factory (see my post about Sleep), tells us it's daytime, and gets us all jazzed for the day.
If you've got a pet, all the better. A hairy little buddy can just make your day. You can cuddle it; you can have unlimited free kisses (as long as you don't mind a bit of tongue); and godDAMMIT those darling little eyes. Have a scuffle with your doggy; build a little cottage out of bark for your rat.
Take your goldfish for a walk. < click me!
What's also outside? Pretty nature. Flowers. Flowers make us smile, according to this study, and they are colourful and they smell nice. And honestly... it's nice to see a part of the universe that wasn't completely manufactured by humans. Trees just grow. Can't tell them what to do. Trees don't worry about stuff. In fact, the whole natural world doesn't worry about stuff. If you step out into it, just long enough to absorb its attitude - the gulls on the wind, the leaves in the sun, the scuttling beetles and humming bees - then you can share for a moment in the simple contentment of being alive.
Time was, someone would say to me, "Nice day!" and I would respond with a grumble: "I don't like nice days."
I've never been a fan of sunny, or bright, or warm. I've never much liked being outside. Kinda goes hand-in-hand with my dislike of sports. It's a shame I feel this way, though, because being outside is really very good for me.
Being in the sun also switches off our melatonin factory (see my post about Sleep), tells us it's daytime, and gets us all jazzed for the day.
If you've got a pet, all the better. A hairy little buddy can just make your day. You can cuddle it; you can have unlimited free kisses (as long as you don't mind a bit of tongue); and godDAMMIT those darling little eyes. Have a scuffle with your doggy; build a little cottage out of bark for your rat.
Take your goldfish for a walk. < click me!
What's also outside? Pretty nature. Flowers. Flowers make us smile, according to this study, and they are colourful and they smell nice. And honestly... it's nice to see a part of the universe that wasn't completely manufactured by humans. Trees just grow. Can't tell them what to do. Trees don't worry about stuff. In fact, the whole natural world doesn't worry about stuff. If you step out into it, just long enough to absorb its attitude - the gulls on the wind, the leaves in the sun, the scuttling beetles and humming bees - then you can share for a moment in the simple contentment of being alive.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Apostrophe.
Apostrophe, darling, I love you possessivelyYou twinkle and wink on the line
You just fit so neatly 'twixt my name and "s"
To tell all the world that you're mine.
Some people don't see why I love you so much
They'd be perfectly happy to lose you
They put you in places you just shouldn't go
I would never so cruelly abuse you.
It near breaks my heart when I see you with plurals
It gets me unbearably tense
And I look for you always when letters are missing
If you're not there, "you're" makes no sense.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Blueprint.
There's already a lot of music that describes this experience, but I never much cared for music... it's hard to get swept up in the emotion of the lyrics when they're set to a funky beat with layered vocal tracks. So I guess I was unprepared.
I am not bleeding from the eyes, but I'm not dealing very well with this.
Yesterday I went to visit the flat that two of my friends have just started renting. There are boxes everywhere still, but there's also a new red couch and a washer and dryer and a coffee table and a long, wonderful list of little things they need and still don't have.
I used to write lists like that.
I had so many plans. But they aren't going to work with just me. There were spaniels, and a cat I was planning to hate, and a little house with a garden and Sunday mornings reading The Age. The house was taking shape in my mind, slowly, growing from parts of places I knew and knocking away parts that I learned she didn't like, gradually becoming a home. Our home.
And there were certain things we might do next... certain things we might discuss. Possibilities. Scary, big, intimidating... but if I were to do those things with anyone, she was the one it had to be.
I don't know what I've got left. I try to remember which parts of the plans were mine. Which parts I'd wanted, to set them apart, to take them back. Can I still have my plans? Can I still achieve them? It's hard to see how. The future was sketchy, of couse; plans are rough-scratched in chalk, not carved into granite. But the future now is dust. Somehow it all got smudged together and now - now I don't know what I ever wanted.
I'm sorry I'm clinging to my bad metaphor. I have a weakness for making up metaphors. To be honest, though, I don't think I could be any more specific. I can't describe what all these plans entailed. They're not clear any more. They all just seem silly, and vague, and far away.
I am not bleeding from the eyes, but I'm not dealing very well with this.
Yesterday I went to visit the flat that two of my friends have just started renting. There are boxes everywhere still, but there's also a new red couch and a washer and dryer and a coffee table and a long, wonderful list of little things they need and still don't have.
I used to write lists like that.
I had so many plans. But they aren't going to work with just me. There were spaniels, and a cat I was planning to hate, and a little house with a garden and Sunday mornings reading The Age. The house was taking shape in my mind, slowly, growing from parts of places I knew and knocking away parts that I learned she didn't like, gradually becoming a home. Our home.
And there were certain things we might do next... certain things we might discuss. Possibilities. Scary, big, intimidating... but if I were to do those things with anyone, she was the one it had to be.
I don't know what I've got left. I try to remember which parts of the plans were mine. Which parts I'd wanted, to set them apart, to take them back. Can I still have my plans? Can I still achieve them? It's hard to see how. The future was sketchy, of couse; plans are rough-scratched in chalk, not carved into granite. But the future now is dust. Somehow it all got smudged together and now - now I don't know what I ever wanted.
I'm sorry I'm clinging to my bad metaphor. I have a weakness for making up metaphors. To be honest, though, I don't think I could be any more specific. I can't describe what all these plans entailed. They're not clear any more. They all just seem silly, and vague, and far away.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Pumpkin.
Pumpkin. The most excellent vegetable ever.
Oh reeeeally?
Yes, yes it is. Don't believe me? Let me show you.
The culinary possibilities are astounding. Look! Here we have barbequed mushroom and pumpkin salad a simply gorgeous summer lunch.
Next up is Moroccan pumpkin soup, as warm on a winter night as a cuddle from your favourite mum.
And here, a scrumptious sweet pumpkin pie - delicious with maple syrup and cream. That's right, pumpkin makes wonderful desserts.
Pumpkin scones are a nutritious alternative to traditional scones. Add the seeds for a little extra crunch.
If you're not impressed yet, try some pumpkin caramel cheesecake turtle bread. I know. Holy crap. I just moaned audibly too. I couldn't even stop myself.
You can collect the seeds to make toasted pumpkin seeds, a cute little nibbly treat for party guests... or, you know, for yourself while you're sitting alone reading my blog.
I don't know. Maybe you're not convinced yet. Maybe you don't like the taste of that sweet, melty buttery pumpkin flesh.
Well, how about THIS, little brother?
Pumpkin. The most excellent vegetable ever.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Mask.
I have always had a sordid fascination with deformity, mutilation, scarring, the mementos of ill fate and damage. I suppose many people must share this feeling, or circus freak shows would never have been so nastily popular. It's a powerful element in horror. Human becomes monster.
I always loved The Phantom of the Opera. My parents owned the stage soundtrack (with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman) and used to play it for us on long car trips. I never saw the show myself but I used to recreate it in my head as I listened.
But the mask-wearer never has a chance. The secret beneath the mask is always too monstrous. You might suggest that their disfigurement is a metaphor for a twisted heart, a distorted soul. I don't think so. The ugliness gives them no choice.
It was the Phantom's hideous deformities that forced his life into dark places. And, in Les Yeux Sans Visage, it is Christiane's fleshless face that makes her a monster: drawn into hiding; voiceless, wraithlike; accepting that other women must die to give her back the face she has lost.
Christiane's face is destroyed in a car accident caused by her father. The father is a brilliant plastic surgeon; his guilt convinces him he must find a girl whose face he can steal and transplant over Christiane's ruined features. He fakes his daughter's death to allay suspicion, but this makes her a non-person - a ghost wandering the halls of her empty home. Her eyes stare out through a perfect white mask which retraces the contours of her once-beautiful face. She phones her former fiance just to listen to his voice, though unable to speak in reply. She is waiting for her life to begin again - as though, without her face, she does not exist.
The picture above is a rough representation of a drawing I made in high school (dunno where it is anymore). The idea was that girls learn to wear womanhood. Once they reach a certain age, they are taught that "being a woman" (or being female, full stop) has nothing to do with what they are already. Being a woman is a costume they must learn to wear, and that costume is typically constructed from cosmetics, pushup bras, heels, and clothes worn not to cover but to advertise what is being covered.
(I know men deal with the same endless bullshit about "being a man", but I've not experienced that form of pressure and I couldn't describe it if I tried.)
It infuriates me to see people perpetuate these idiotic ideas. People, female people, will openly announce their disgust for the realities of the female body. Hairy legs, hairy armpits? Repulsive. Thigh fat? She should lose some fuckin' weight. Stretch marks, acne scars, rough skin, clogged pores, wrinkles, creases, blotching? Cover it up girl. God didn't invent foundation so you could go out in public looking like that. Even the female genitals are a hideous secret, a bloody "gash" whose inner workings we DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THANK YOU. Don't look at it, just stab.
Women are a mystery because everyone wants it that way. Women are ashamed of themselves and men are terrified of the truth. But it's stupid. Consider both of the horror stories I described above. Why are they frightening? The monstrosity is hidden. The warped flesh is not seen until the moment the mask is whipped away, and with SHOCK you see the FREAK.
With fear pulsing through your veins, you cover your eyes - but it's okay. The mask has already been replaced. You wouldn't want to see the horrors again. You might get used to them.
And then you'd probably stop caring.
* Er. This went somewhere angry...
 |
| The Phantom of the Opera is there - inside my mind. |
The Angel of Music sings songs in my head...I felt incredible pity for this man, who was forced into hiding because of his disfigurement. The Phantom was a creative genius with the face of a ghoul. His body was mocked and reviled; his love perceived as shadowy obsession. I always wished that Christine would dispose of wishy-washy old Raoul and choose instead the dark, romantic Phantom.
But the mask-wearer never has a chance. The secret beneath the mask is always too monstrous. You might suggest that their disfigurement is a metaphor for a twisted heart, a distorted soul. I don't think so. The ugliness gives them no choice.
It was the Phantom's hideous deformities that forced his life into dark places. And, in Les Yeux Sans Visage, it is Christiane's fleshless face that makes her a monster: drawn into hiding; voiceless, wraithlike; accepting that other women must die to give her back the face she has lost.
 |
| Les Yeux Sans Visage, a 1960 film about a surgeon who will go to any lengths to restore the beauty of his disfigured daughter |
My face frightens me -
my mask terrifies me even more.
 |
| Girls learn early how to wear their masks. |
(I know men deal with the same endless bullshit about "being a man", but I've not experienced that form of pressure and I couldn't describe it if I tried.)
Christiane, your mask! You must get in the habit of wearing it.
It infuriates me to see people perpetuate these idiotic ideas. People, female people, will openly announce their disgust for the realities of the female body. Hairy legs, hairy armpits? Repulsive. Thigh fat? She should lose some fuckin' weight. Stretch marks, acne scars, rough skin, clogged pores, wrinkles, creases, blotching? Cover it up girl. God didn't invent foundation so you could go out in public looking like that. Even the female genitals are a hideous secret, a bloody "gash" whose inner workings we DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THANK YOU. Don't look at it, just stab.
Women are a mystery because everyone wants it that way. Women are ashamed of themselves and men are terrified of the truth. But it's stupid. Consider both of the horror stories I described above. Why are they frightening? The monstrosity is hidden. The warped flesh is not seen until the moment the mask is whipped away, and with SHOCK you see the FREAK.
With fear pulsing through your veins, you cover your eyes - but it's okay. The mask has already been replaced. You wouldn't want to see the horrors again. You might get used to them.
And then you'd probably stop caring.
* Er. This went somewhere angry...
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Moody.
Riddle me this...
This morning I slept an extra half hour by accident, resulting in a full eight-hour cycle... mmm. I had good luck with traffic on the way to work, I found a park right away, and I got to work on time (all of the above are increasingly rare these days). All the customers were good-natured old ladies and everyone was very nice and I felt like sinking to the floor and crying, I felt so goddamned awful.
This evening as I was leaving work, I found I'd left my headlights on all day and the battery was drained. I had no credit so I phoned the only person I get free calls to - my ex-girlfriend. I had to have RACV called for me. I got a parking fine for being parked in the spot for too long. RACV told me I would need my car battery replaced immediately - costing more than a hundred and fifty dollars.
So why do I feel just fine?
Brain, you make no bloody sense.
This morning I slept an extra half hour by accident, resulting in a full eight-hour cycle... mmm. I had good luck with traffic on the way to work, I found a park right away, and I got to work on time (all of the above are increasingly rare these days). All the customers were good-natured old ladies and everyone was very nice and I felt like sinking to the floor and crying, I felt so goddamned awful.
This evening as I was leaving work, I found I'd left my headlights on all day and the battery was drained. I had no credit so I phoned the only person I get free calls to - my ex-girlfriend. I had to have RACV called for me. I got a parking fine for being parked in the spot for too long. RACV told me I would need my car battery replaced immediately - costing more than a hundred and fifty dollars.
So why do I feel just fine?
Brain, you make no bloody sense.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Octopus.
Magnificent Beast of the Day
the blanket octopus
This fine lady is a blanket octopus.
She is one hundred times bigger than her boyfriend.
(Like, two metres versus two centimetres.)
He's a little insecure about his size, so he likes to pull out his big billowy cape, which makes him look pretty badass. It's actually this freaky membrane that spreads across the tentacles to make the octopus look way bigger than it actually is.
"Don't mess with me, I am quite large!"
Only thing is, she can do it too.
Oh no! Here comes a big, scary Portugese man o' war - it will sting the lovers with its deadly poisonous tendrils!
What?! He's swimming into the epicentre! Run, you fool!
Astounding! He wraps his tentacles around the stingers, tears them loose, and...
"CONQUEROR!"
Now it is time for him to declare his love.
So he fills one of his tentacles with sperm...
...rips it off...
...and gives it to his lady love.
She's overwhelmed. What a treat!
She takes it home to enjoy in private.
He floats away politely to die.
Thus is the life of the blanket octopus.
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RUNNER-UP FOR BEASTIE OF THE DAY:
the blue sea slug. Click to view this breaktaking creature!
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