This year has been mostly calm (well, for me anyway – there’s been a lot of shit going on everywhere else…although, since I firmly believe that the rest of the world is a figment of my imagination, I guess it doesn’t matter…although it feels like it matters…what if the rest of the world IS real…this is too much to deal with right now…what was I saying?). The year…it has been pretty quiet...and safe. There were one or two moments of drama, but they were confronted, and made less dramatic. There were few extremes of high or low.
The ‘happiness’ experts say that an even flow of mood, with occasional highs and lows, is a healthy and realistic mental state. I tend to agree. I don’t expect life to be “oh happy day!!” everyday, or at all, really. Occasional elation is ok, you just gotta be careful it doesn’t become too expansive. Otherwise, the Karmic Masters, who live in an enormous purple castle, somewhere near the South Pole, will decree you’ve had TOO much joy and so must now be made to crawl agonizingly in the depths of misery. Bastards.
Physically, I’m good. I eat healthily, mostly. I could probably exercise more. I sleep a lot, which I seem to need to do, otherwise I become depressed.
I don’t have a job. An occupation. How will I know where I fit in societies’ hierarchy if I don’t have an occupational label? The occupation I had (which I had for a long time) was making me depressed. Last year, when I was working, my days were often barely bearable (not even alliteration could offer comfort). So I’m leaving occupations alone for the moment. I suspect that the occupation I’m properly suited to is something quite obscure, and, as such, may take a while to find. I’m keeping my eyes open, though, should our paths cross.
I probably spend a little too much time alone. Occasionally, my weird lonerness slips into loneliness.
Lurv…well…it has stoically avoided me for so long now that I’d probably need to climb on top of a meteorite and crash through Lurv’s ceiling to get it to notice me. Fucker.
Overall, I think I’m in a phase of moderate inertia, with intermittent bouts of momentum. I suspect I’ll be in this phase for a while longer, and to attempt to fight it may be detrimental: I think there’s a risk of going into a phase of total inertia with no momentum.
Friday 31 December 2010
Tuesday 28 December 2010
I Have Invented Another Reading Method
I’m calling it the Absorption method.
The Absorption Method shares some similarity with my other reading method invention, Random Reading (reading random passages at a time until one of them starts making sense; descibed in the Naked Lunch section), in that it requires a certain amount of ‘disconnectedness’ or ‘casual connectedness’ while reading a difficult text. I discovered this new method while reading Crime and Punishment (which could EASILY have been written using half the words - although, thankfully, Mr D's hypergraphia was not at the terrifying heights it reached during the writing of the Brothers K). I think the method works best with a novel which, while not being entirely incomprehensible, strongly encourages the reader’s brain to glaze over, with the possibility of subsequent unconsciousness.
The most important tenant of Absorption Reading (actually, the only tenant) is to ‘keep your eyes moving’. You need to keep your mind aware but not necessarily focused (too much focusing is a maximum danger time for brain-glaze to occur). As you move through the (seemingly endless) paragraphs, you will pick up random words. This should give you enough information to absorb the general thread of the narrative without having to read so much extraneous drivel. Periodically, you will need to go back over paragraphs/pages and read them properly – they main contain essential plot points, introductions of important characters, something interesting. As with any skill, practice brings proficiency. Don’t be discouraged if you find yourself upon the final page of your novel with no recollection of, well, the novel. Start slow; try a short but densely worded novel – maybe Heart of Darkness (which, after a couple of lacklustre attempts, I was finally able to read using the NORMAL reading method). The bookshelf is your oyster. One day, you may even find yourself holding open that most notorious of 'famous but unread' novels, Ulysses.
A word of caution, though. As effective as this reading method may seem, it is not a panacea. It will not render every intractable novel, readable. There are novels, evil novels, hidden in the deepest darkest corners of every bookstore and library, so mind boggling obscure and overwritten, that they will always be, at least for 99.9999% of humans, unreadable.
The Absorption Method shares some similarity with my other reading method invention, Random Reading (reading random passages at a time until one of them starts making sense; descibed in the Naked Lunch section), in that it requires a certain amount of ‘disconnectedness’ or ‘casual connectedness’ while reading a difficult text. I discovered this new method while reading Crime and Punishment (which could EASILY have been written using half the words - although, thankfully, Mr D's hypergraphia was not at the terrifying heights it reached during the writing of the Brothers K). I think the method works best with a novel which, while not being entirely incomprehensible, strongly encourages the reader’s brain to glaze over, with the possibility of subsequent unconsciousness.
The most important tenant of Absorption Reading (actually, the only tenant) is to ‘keep your eyes moving’. You need to keep your mind aware but not necessarily focused (too much focusing is a maximum danger time for brain-glaze to occur). As you move through the (seemingly endless) paragraphs, you will pick up random words. This should give you enough information to absorb the general thread of the narrative without having to read so much extraneous drivel. Periodically, you will need to go back over paragraphs/pages and read them properly – they main contain essential plot points, introductions of important characters, something interesting. As with any skill, practice brings proficiency. Don’t be discouraged if you find yourself upon the final page of your novel with no recollection of, well, the novel. Start slow; try a short but densely worded novel – maybe Heart of Darkness (which, after a couple of lacklustre attempts, I was finally able to read using the NORMAL reading method). The bookshelf is your oyster. One day, you may even find yourself holding open that most notorious of 'famous but unread' novels, Ulysses.
A word of caution, though. As effective as this reading method may seem, it is not a panacea. It will not render every intractable novel, readable. There are novels, evil novels, hidden in the deepest darkest corners of every bookstore and library, so mind boggling obscure and overwritten, that they will always be, at least for 99.9999% of humans, unreadable.
Monday 20 December 2010
"I walk in shadows, searching for light..."
For all of us heart-weary souls feeling "...cold and alone, no comfort in sight", here is Jimmy Ruffin to ease some of the pain:
Friday 17 December 2010
I Didn't Bleed for Nothing
Yeah!
Let me explain:
I was feeling very well on Tuesday afternoon, when I donated blood. On Tuesday night I started sneezing and felt tired (probably due to blood loss). Throughout Wednesday I continued sneezing and by Wednesday night I was knee deep in congestion, sore throat and infection by rhinovirus (common cold). Now, I'm not one to cower in the presence of a rhinovirus, terrifying though they may be (see below for illustrations), but I was feeling a little distressed. There there was the possibility that, if I had something more serious than a cold, the bloodbank would not be able to use my blood and it would have to be discarded. I was somewhat disheartened to think that I'd bled 470mL of my lovely blood for nothing. But, thankfully, when I rang the bloodbank on Thursday, the "medical person" ("I'll put you through to a Medical Person") I spoke to seemed to think my blood would be okay to use. Hurrah!!!
Background Information: After a person donates blood, they have to monitor their health for a week. To quote the bloodbank: Should you become aware of any reason why your blood should not be used for transfusion, please call us...In particular, if you develop a cough, cold, diarrhoea or other infection within a week after donating, please report it immediately. The Medical Person (I assume it was either a nurse or a doctor) I spoke to asked if I had a fever or diarrhoea and wanted to know when my symptoms had developed. It seemed as though the main issue was whether or not I had a fever and/or diarrhoea, which, I guess, could be indicative of a more serious infection that begins with cold-like symptoms. The bloodbank does routinely test donated blood for hepatitis B and C, HIV-1 and HIV-2, HTLV (I dunno what it is either), and syphilis (which I thought had been lost to time with the demise of pre-Enlightenment royalty), but I guess it's best to err on the side of caution, ie to have more people ringing the bloodbank for non-serious infections, than to have less people ringing in and potentially miss a serious infection.
Rhinovirus:
Adorable (and terrifying) Rhinovirus:
[Source: Handmade Gypsy]
Let me explain:
I was feeling very well on Tuesday afternoon, when I donated blood. On Tuesday night I started sneezing and felt tired (probably due to blood loss). Throughout Wednesday I continued sneezing and by Wednesday night I was knee deep in congestion, sore throat and infection by rhinovirus (common cold). Now, I'm not one to cower in the presence of a rhinovirus, terrifying though they may be (see below for illustrations), but I was feeling a little distressed. There there was the possibility that, if I had something more serious than a cold, the bloodbank would not be able to use my blood and it would have to be discarded. I was somewhat disheartened to think that I'd bled 470mL of my lovely blood for nothing. But, thankfully, when I rang the bloodbank on Thursday, the "medical person" ("I'll put you through to a Medical Person") I spoke to seemed to think my blood would be okay to use. Hurrah!!!
Background Information: After a person donates blood, they have to monitor their health for a week. To quote the bloodbank: Should you become aware of any reason why your blood should not be used for transfusion, please call us...In particular, if you develop a cough, cold, diarrhoea or other infection within a week after donating, please report it immediately. The Medical Person (I assume it was either a nurse or a doctor) I spoke to asked if I had a fever or diarrhoea and wanted to know when my symptoms had developed. It seemed as though the main issue was whether or not I had a fever and/or diarrhoea, which, I guess, could be indicative of a more serious infection that begins with cold-like symptoms. The bloodbank does routinely test donated blood for hepatitis B and C, HIV-1 and HIV-2, HTLV (I dunno what it is either), and syphilis (which I thought had been lost to time with the demise of pre-Enlightenment royalty), but I guess it's best to err on the side of caution, ie to have more people ringing the bloodbank for non-serious infections, than to have less people ringing in and potentially miss a serious infection.
Rhinovirus:
Adorable (and terrifying) Rhinovirus:
[Source: Handmade Gypsy]
Tuesday 7 December 2010
Nothing is Real, Everything is Permitted*
I'm thinking about being reincarnated as an Assassin Bug:
*The Assassin Bug's Creed, apparently
*The Assassin Bug's Creed, apparently
Wednesday 17 November 2010
Jean-Luc Godard...You Wacky Funster!
I’ve just finished watching the surrealist-absurdist-dystopian-scifi-noir film Alphaville (directed by avant-garde director Jean-Luc Godard). It wasn’t as off-the-charts weird as I'd expected, or indeed, as some films I’ve seen (Eat, For This Is My Body I’m looking at YOU). I found the narrative to be reasonably coherent, the characters to be only moderately bizarre, the political subversion to be a mix of text and sub-text and the dialogue to contain an even handed amount of abstraction (much like this blog). I'm not opposed to a certain amount of incomprehensibility in film or literature, but if I can't understand anything, then I get bored.
I think one of the main features of Alphaville is the dialogue; the ideas and themes contained within its exchanges are rich and textured. One such exchange is that where the alarmingly named, secret agent protagonist, Lemmy Caution, is interrogated by Alpha 5 (described as being one of the 1.4 billion nerve centres that form Alpha 60; aka a flashing light with a disturbingly croaky voice). I've transcribed the interaction below:
Alpha 5: What is your name?
Lemmy Caution: Ivan Johnson.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
LC: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
LC: I don’t know, 45?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
LC: Ford Galaxy.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
LC: Gold and women.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
LC: An article for Figaro-Pravada.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
LC: I’m not afraid. At least, not in the way you think. Besides, you wouldn’t understand.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
LC: *nods*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
LC: Go ahead.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
LC: The silence of infinite space…frightened me.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
LC: To die no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
LC: Poetry.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
LC: I believe in the spontaneity of our conscience.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
LC: I do not believe there is any mystery in love.
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
LC: I don’t understand.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
LC: I may have good reason to lie, but how do you distinguish between a lie and the truth?
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.
Afterwards, Lemmy Caution is told that his answers are “difficult, sometimes impossible, to register” and that, because of this, Lemmy is of above average intelligence.
Well, I was so impressed by Alpha 5’s ability to assess a person’s intelligence, I decided to allow myself to be interrogated. Here is the result:
Alpha 5: What is your name?
Me: Effulgent13.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
Me: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
Me: Do you mean my biological age or my mental age?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
Me: Holden Camira.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
Me: Chocolate and sleep.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
Me: Looking for love.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
Me: I’m shittin' my pants, but not in the way you think.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
Me: *looks sceptical*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
Me: Knock yourself out.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
Me: Nausea…infinite nausea.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
Me: To pay taxes no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
Me: Kittens.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
Me: I believe I am the Messiah.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
Me: Huh?
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
Me: I honestly don’t understand what the hell you’re asking me.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
Me: I’m hiding many things.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.
Me: Will there be cake?
Alpha 5: Don’t try my patience, insignificant human.
Me: *hangs head*
Clearly, I possess genius level intelligence.
I think one of the main features of Alphaville is the dialogue; the ideas and themes contained within its exchanges are rich and textured. One such exchange is that where the alarmingly named, secret agent protagonist, Lemmy Caution, is interrogated by Alpha 5 (described as being one of the 1.4 billion nerve centres that form Alpha 60; aka a flashing light with a disturbingly croaky voice). I've transcribed the interaction below:
Alpha 5: What is your name?
Lemmy Caution: Ivan Johnson.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
LC: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
LC: I don’t know, 45?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
LC: Ford Galaxy.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
LC: Gold and women.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
LC: An article for Figaro-Pravada.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
LC: I’m not afraid. At least, not in the way you think. Besides, you wouldn’t understand.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
LC: *nods*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
LC: Go ahead.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
LC: The silence of infinite space…frightened me.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
LC: To die no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
LC: Poetry.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
LC: I believe in the spontaneity of our conscience.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
LC: I do not believe there is any mystery in love.
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
LC: I don’t understand.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
LC: I may have good reason to lie, but how do you distinguish between a lie and the truth?
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.
Afterwards, Lemmy Caution is told that his answers are “difficult, sometimes impossible, to register” and that, because of this, Lemmy is of above average intelligence.
Well, I was so impressed by Alpha 5’s ability to assess a person’s intelligence, I decided to allow myself to be interrogated. Here is the result:
Alpha 5: What is your name?
Me: Effulgent13.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
Me: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
Me: Do you mean my biological age or my mental age?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
Me: Holden Camira.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
Me: Chocolate and sleep.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
Me: Looking for love.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
Me: I’m shittin' my pants, but not in the way you think.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
Me: *looks sceptical*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
Me: Knock yourself out.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
Me: Nausea…infinite nausea.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
Me: To pay taxes no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
Me: Kittens.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
Me: I believe I am the Messiah.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
Me: Huh?
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
Me: I honestly don’t understand what the hell you’re asking me.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
Me: I’m hiding many things.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.
Me: Will there be cake?
Alpha 5: Don’t try my patience, insignificant human.
Me: *hangs head*
Clearly, I possess genius level intelligence.
Thursday 11 November 2010
Empathy or Machiavellian Ingenuity?
"To indulge in deception, pretence and social manipulation you need to be able to put yourself in another's shoes; to take the other's point of view; to imagine what it would be like to be that other."Certainly "putting yourself in another's shoes" should enable some comprehension of the mind of another human being, but for what purpose? Foolishly, in trying to make the world a better place, I've been attempting to EMPATHETICALLY understand my fellow humans (ie care about them), when I could have been RULING the world using deception, pretence and social manipulation. What a pathetic, non-sociopath I turned out to be!
(page 76, The Meme Machine by Susan Blackmore)
Saturday 6 November 2010
November...You Rascally Devil
Don't think you can play your slippery tricks on me. I'm watching you. Oh yes I am. It may appear as though I'm spending all my time daydreaming or sleeping or watching 70's science fiction shows (which I am), BUT I'm also keeping an eye on you. I won't be toyed with. I have a loaded super-soaker and a strong desire to squirt at things. So don't try anything.
You have been warned.
You have been warned.
Saturday 23 October 2010
Let the RIGHT one in
I am in love with this photo of Eli:
taken from the Swedish vampire film, Let The Right One In. It reminds me of the image of Carrie (Stephen King novel) after having pig's blood poured onto her at the prom. The reason for Eli being covered in blood is quite different to that of Carrie and is an interesting variation on a standard vampire trope (which I'm not going to explain, 'cos that'd ruin the surprise).
taken from the Swedish vampire film, Let The Right One In. It reminds me of the image of Carrie (Stephen King novel) after having pig's blood poured onto her at the prom. The reason for Eli being covered in blood is quite different to that of Carrie and is an interesting variation on a standard vampire trope (which I'm not going to explain, 'cos that'd ruin the surprise).
Thursday 21 October 2010
October Update
Despite earlier indications, October is now progressing at an acceptable pace - not too fast, not too slow. I should have enough time to prepare for November.
Monday 11 October 2010
Apparently, it's October...
...what the hell happened to the end of September (and the beginning of October). Must start paying attention.
Monday 27 September 2010
The Face in the Mushroom Cloud
This picture was taken during the first full scale testing of a hydrogen bomb. The bomb was codenamed "Ivy Mike" - I think "Humanity is Fucked" would've been a more apt title. The testing took place in 1952 on the small Pacific Island, Elugelab, part of the Enewetak Atoll. The bomb yielded approximately 10 megatons of nuclear energy and destroyed Elugelab. A 1.9 km wide by 50 m deep crater is all that was left.It's a breathtaking photograph. The swirling cloud formation created by the explosion is beautiful and eerie and terrifying. Emerging from the wispy, radioactive cloud, is a human-ish looking face. The face is in profile, looking to its left. Its mouth is held in a tight, painful grimace, and its brain appears swollen, as though it is infected. The eyes are masked: Is the creature too frightened to look at what it has created or has it strategically covered its eyes so as not to give away its true purpose? Whatever the case, the eyes, the "windows to the soul", cannot be seen, and, therefore, neither can its soul. However, there does appear to be, very faintly, a pair of eyes hovering just next to, or possibly just above, the creature. The eyes are located on either side of the creature's brain and appear to be looking directly at the camera, even as they seem to hide behind the creature - are these the eyes of the satanic puppet-master?
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Song lyrics that have, over the years, persistently inhabited my brain (mostly while my brain is in the shower)
[I don't know what it all means]
"Wanting you the way I do/ I only want to be with you/ And I would go to the ends of the earth/ 'Cause, darling, to me that's what your worth..."
Where You Lead by Carole King
"You were so young/ And I was so free/ I may have been young but baby/ That's not what I wanted to be..."
Stumbling In by Chris Norman & Susie Quatro
"We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun/ But the stars we could reach/ Were just starfish on the beach..."
Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks
"And it don't matter to me/ If you take up with someone/ Who's better than me/ 'Cause your happiness is all I want..."
It don't matter to me by Bread
"Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair/ Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen..." Hair from Hair, the Musical
"You are the sun/ You are the rain/ That makes my life this foolish game..."
You are the Sun, You are the Rain by Lionel Ritchie
"Run, run, as fast as you can/ You can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man..."
The Gingerbread Man - Nursery Rhyme
"Wanting you the way I do/ I only want to be with you/ And I would go to the ends of the earth/ 'Cause, darling, to me that's what your worth..."
Where You Lead by Carole King
"You were so young/ And I was so free/ I may have been young but baby/ That's not what I wanted to be..."
Stumbling In by Chris Norman & Susie Quatro
"We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun/ But the stars we could reach/ Were just starfish on the beach..."
Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks
"And it don't matter to me/ If you take up with someone/ Who's better than me/ 'Cause your happiness is all I want..."
It don't matter to me by Bread
"Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair/ Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen..." Hair from Hair, the Musical
"You are the sun/ You are the rain/ That makes my life this foolish game..."
You are the Sun, You are the Rain by Lionel Ritchie
"Run, run, as fast as you can/ You can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man..."
The Gingerbread Man - Nursery Rhyme
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Impressions of Twilight
That's "Twilight" the brooding vampire novel by Stephenie Meyer, not "Twilight" the brooding transition into nighttime, just before the sun goes to sleep. (Not sure where"Dusk" fits into all of this - is it before or after Twilight? - ponderous).
I decided it was time I investigated the Twilight Phenomenon. I've just finished reading the first book in the series. And I now believe the Twilight Phenomenon requires no further investigation from myself. (Although I may watch the films).
I approached this important assignment from a few different angles:
1) through a "teenage filter", ie I tried to imagine how I would've reacted to the novel had I read it when I was a teenager
2) through a "sensible-adult-feminist filter", ie do I think the novel is harmful to teenagers, and especially, to girl teenagers
3) through no filter, ie what do I think of the novel as a piece of writing, no strings attached
Here are my conclusions:
1) Given that my favourite "young adult" novel when I was a teenager was Carrie by Stephen King and my second favourite "young adult" novel was The Shinning by Stephen King, I think it's quite likely that Twilight would've been a little tame for my teenaged reading tastes. However, I suspect I would've at least read, and probably found some enjoyment in, the first book. And I probably would've watched the films (peer pressure would have made watching the films mandatory). I'm not sure I would have been besotted with Edward - Edward-besottedness seems to be a large contributor to the Twilight Phenomenon. Edward's kinda bossy for my liking, and possibly a little too pretty. And I wouldn't have identified with Bella, she's a bit too perfect (bizarre clumsiness notwithstanding); she's too academically gifted and self sufficient and fragile beautied - not a pimple in sight.
2) Harmful? I found this difficult to assess. I probably wouldn't recommend Twilight to teenagers. It's not well written, it's quite bland at times, and I found the characterizations of Bella and Edward a little ridiculous. But are these things harmful? Maybe.
It's true that the Twilight Phenomenon has gotten teenagers to read (at least girl teenagers) and this is a good thing. But if it's the only book a teenager reads, then it could be harmful. Especially in regard to the Bella/Edward interaction. I don't like that Edward is given so much ownership of, and control over, Bella's lust (or 'love', as Bella thinks, fool that she is...what? Me, cynical? Never). And I think there is some danger in a romanticised portrayal of such skewed desire in young adult fiction: Being that they are people with limited life experience in the world of lust/love, they might not read it sceptically, like I did! I also think it's unrealistic that, at age 17, Bella hasn't previously experienced lust (I'd guess most people - boys and girls - would have had some dealings with lust from about age 13...ie about when puberty begins). If Bella had been familiar with the sensation of lust, she might not have been so much in Edward's thrall - she would've still been hot for him but not so ludicrously hot.
There is also something creepy about a 17-year-old getting romantically involved with a 100-year-old. That's right, Edward is just over 100 years old, but was turned into a vampire at 17, so he still looks 17. (This vast age difference thing was something I also found creepy in Buffy, ie Buffy with Angel, although Buffy did have the advantage of being able to throw Angel across the room if he threatened her). Certainly the older lover theme has it's romantic appeal to an inexperienced young person (I had a huge crush on my 35-year-old guitar teacher when I was 17). The notion that the older person will show you what it's all about, and you won't have to fumble around and work it out for yourself - a process that could take years and years! (Hint: maybe it should take years and years). But there's also a gaping power imbalance going on, one that could be easily exploited by a less-than-scrupulous operator. And I think Edward fits this description. He doesn't give Bella room to get to know herself, to become an adult, before he starts using her rampant desire for him to control her (she gets all swoony whenever he gets too close to her - Vomit!). He's incredibly selfish. And having been alive/undead for 100 years should give him some wisdom and restraint, right? Apparently not. This guy stalks Bella, listens in on her conversations, has a violent temper, will possibly kill Bella if he "loses control" around her (read: has sex with her), is very possessive of Bella AND (and this bit made me especially cranky) he instructs Bella not to go into the (dangerous) forest alone (she's only allowed "into the forest" if she's accompanied/led by Edward). Forest rant continues in next paragraph.
[Warning: Gratuitous and tenuous metaphor ensues]. Let me say, right here, right now, on this very blog, that a forest is a wondrous place, and a woman should explore "her" forest whenever, and however, she sees fit. If Bella would like to explore the forest with Edward, that's fine, but it's Bella's decision. I think it would be fantastic if Bella explored the forest by herself for awhile, so she has a thorough understanding of it - its flora and fauna, its various paths, the myriad emotions she experiences within the forest. And then, maybe, she'll have a better understanding of who she might like to accompany her into the forest - if, indeed, she even wants company.
My final rant concerns Bella's father:
Dear Bella's father,
Bella is your school-age daughter. She is NOT your domestic servant. Do your own damn dishes. Clean your own damn house. Learn to cook. AND spend some goddamn time with your daughter. Don't leave her home alone all weekend while you're out fishing. Pretty soon Bella will be off to college and you can do as much fishing as you like, but right now: BELLA NEEDS YOU. And maybe, just maybe, if you spent more time with her, she might not be hanging out with a violently-possessive, self-involved, sexually-sadistic, 100-year-old vampire.
Love, Nicole.
3) I wanna know more about vampire-Alice. Why wasn't this book about vampire-Alice? I will not be reading anymore Stephenie Meyer books unless vampire-Alice is the main character.
I decided it was time I investigated the Twilight Phenomenon. I've just finished reading the first book in the series. And I now believe the Twilight Phenomenon requires no further investigation from myself. (Although I may watch the films).
I approached this important assignment from a few different angles:
1) through a "teenage filter", ie I tried to imagine how I would've reacted to the novel had I read it when I was a teenager
2) through a "sensible-adult-feminist filter", ie do I think the novel is harmful to teenagers, and especially, to girl teenagers
3) through no filter, ie what do I think of the novel as a piece of writing, no strings attached
Here are my conclusions:
1) Given that my favourite "young adult" novel when I was a teenager was Carrie by Stephen King and my second favourite "young adult" novel was The Shinning by Stephen King, I think it's quite likely that Twilight would've been a little tame for my teenaged reading tastes. However, I suspect I would've at least read, and probably found some enjoyment in, the first book. And I probably would've watched the films (peer pressure would have made watching the films mandatory). I'm not sure I would have been besotted with Edward - Edward-besottedness seems to be a large contributor to the Twilight Phenomenon. Edward's kinda bossy for my liking, and possibly a little too pretty. And I wouldn't have identified with Bella, she's a bit too perfect (bizarre clumsiness notwithstanding); she's too academically gifted and self sufficient and fragile beautied - not a pimple in sight.
2) Harmful? I found this difficult to assess. I probably wouldn't recommend Twilight to teenagers. It's not well written, it's quite bland at times, and I found the characterizations of Bella and Edward a little ridiculous. But are these things harmful? Maybe.
It's true that the Twilight Phenomenon has gotten teenagers to read (at least girl teenagers) and this is a good thing. But if it's the only book a teenager reads, then it could be harmful. Especially in regard to the Bella/Edward interaction. I don't like that Edward is given so much ownership of, and control over, Bella's lust (or 'love', as Bella thinks, fool that she is...what? Me, cynical? Never). And I think there is some danger in a romanticised portrayal of such skewed desire in young adult fiction: Being that they are people with limited life experience in the world of lust/love, they might not read it sceptically, like I did! I also think it's unrealistic that, at age 17, Bella hasn't previously experienced lust (I'd guess most people - boys and girls - would have had some dealings with lust from about age 13...ie about when puberty begins). If Bella had been familiar with the sensation of lust, she might not have been so much in Edward's thrall - she would've still been hot for him but not so ludicrously hot.
There is also something creepy about a 17-year-old getting romantically involved with a 100-year-old. That's right, Edward is just over 100 years old, but was turned into a vampire at 17, so he still looks 17. (This vast age difference thing was something I also found creepy in Buffy, ie Buffy with Angel, although Buffy did have the advantage of being able to throw Angel across the room if he threatened her). Certainly the older lover theme has it's romantic appeal to an inexperienced young person (I had a huge crush on my 35-year-old guitar teacher when I was 17). The notion that the older person will show you what it's all about, and you won't have to fumble around and work it out for yourself - a process that could take years and years! (Hint: maybe it should take years and years). But there's also a gaping power imbalance going on, one that could be easily exploited by a less-than-scrupulous operator. And I think Edward fits this description. He doesn't give Bella room to get to know herself, to become an adult, before he starts using her rampant desire for him to control her (she gets all swoony whenever he gets too close to her - Vomit!). He's incredibly selfish. And having been alive/undead for 100 years should give him some wisdom and restraint, right? Apparently not. This guy stalks Bella, listens in on her conversations, has a violent temper, will possibly kill Bella if he "loses control" around her (read: has sex with her), is very possessive of Bella AND (and this bit made me especially cranky) he instructs Bella not to go into the (dangerous) forest alone (she's only allowed "into the forest" if she's accompanied/led by Edward). Forest rant continues in next paragraph.
[Warning: Gratuitous and tenuous metaphor ensues]. Let me say, right here, right now, on this very blog, that a forest is a wondrous place, and a woman should explore "her" forest whenever, and however, she sees fit. If Bella would like to explore the forest with Edward, that's fine, but it's Bella's decision. I think it would be fantastic if Bella explored the forest by herself for awhile, so she has a thorough understanding of it - its flora and fauna, its various paths, the myriad emotions she experiences within the forest. And then, maybe, she'll have a better understanding of who she might like to accompany her into the forest - if, indeed, she even wants company.
My final rant concerns Bella's father:
Dear Bella's father,
Bella is your school-age daughter. She is NOT your domestic servant. Do your own damn dishes. Clean your own damn house. Learn to cook. AND spend some goddamn time with your daughter. Don't leave her home alone all weekend while you're out fishing. Pretty soon Bella will be off to college and you can do as much fishing as you like, but right now: BELLA NEEDS YOU. And maybe, just maybe, if you spent more time with her, she might not be hanging out with a violently-possessive, self-involved, sexually-sadistic, 100-year-old vampire.
Love, Nicole.
3) I wanna know more about vampire-Alice. Why wasn't this book about vampire-Alice? I will not be reading anymore Stephenie Meyer books unless vampire-Alice is the main character.
Saturday 4 September 2010
Imaginary Boyfriend
I have a crush on an actual person. Let us all join hands and rejoice. I'm quite excited and positive about this recent development despite the unlikeliness of he and I ever having a thing - I don't know him very well and my interaction with him is limited. But these are minor details, especially when considering my previous crushes - Eric Northman, a 1000 year old vampire invented by Charlene Harris for her Sookie Stackhouse (Trueblood) novels, and James Hetfield, lead singer of heavy metal group Metallica. My new crush not only exists but lives in the same city as me! He is also not married and is about the same age as me (42). I mention his age because I've noticed, with my keen observational skills, that as people get older they tend to become attached - hence, there are less unattached peoples of my epoch. There is, I guess, the option of seeking out a younger person - I imagine the under 25's have a reasonable number of unattacheds - but, as I'm now old enough to have given birth to an under 25, I don't consider this age group to be a viable option.
So, why have I called this blog entry "Imaginary Boyfriend"? Well, because sometimes I find myself imagining that my crush is my boyfriend, and imagining how he would be as my boyfriend. It's a behaviour I've previously indulged in (see here for a bizarre example). Wiser people than myself (there were 3 of them, at last count) would probably say that putting favourable characteristics onto a person for whom I have hotpants, before I've gotten to know them, is a foolish endeavour. In fact it could be argued, wisely, that even just having hotpants for someone before getting to know them (let alone making up personality traits) is also not the wisest of endeavours. Whatever the case, it's something that I've done and continue to do. (And I suspect I'm not the only one.)
But is this person-imagining really a bad thing? Is my devotion to wayward winsome wanderings upon matters of the heart such a blight to wisdom? Will Wally weep when Wendy walks westward? Is it time to end this wacky W alliteration? YES!
I'm not entirely convinced that there is only badness in my imaginings - although caution is very much advised. I've noticed, over the years, that the characteristics which I've imbued upon my various crushes are mostly unchanged, and have been refined over time (and, I guess, as I've gotten to know myself better). I'm not referring to physical characteristics, eg height, hair/eye colour, shoulder width etc. And I haven't made any cheesy lists, eg:
1) must be ambitious
2) must have good sense of humour
3) must love kittens
4) must wash regularly
5) must have penis
- what defines a "good" sense of humour (point 2) anyway? It's subjective. I, for example, have a depraved sense of humour (see point 5); some would classify this as "good", others as "please leave the table and go to your room, Nicole".
My imaginings are more about how a person interacts with me and the world, and their life philosophy. For example, it would be ludicrous for me to be involved with someone who is materialistic or homophobic or racist or narrow-minded. And yet, many years ago, I had a crush on (and subsequent semi-relationship with) a person who was materialistic and homophobic and racist and narrow-minded. And I was terribly broken hearted when he ended it (whereas I should've been jumping for joy). On the plus side, however, it was the beginning of a revelation, inside my brain, that maybe I wasn't being very discerning in my choice of men - my strategy was pretty much "he's kinda cute, let's have a thing". I know, I know; it's hard to believe this could happen in these enlightened times. I should also point out, in the case of the above mentioned person, that at the time I was a little blinded by cluckiness - my estrogen wanted me to get pregnant, and estrogen can be quite Machiavellian when it has a task to complete. Evil estrogen. I have to say that now I'm very thankful I didn't procreate with this person.
My point, in all this rambling, is that, maybe, if I pay a bit more attention to the traits of my Imaginary Boyfriend, I might find myself attracted to someone with these actual traits. I know, I know; radical. (For those long-suffering readers who have made it this far: Welcome to Nicole's Dominion of Dumb). Maybe part of the reason I'm without a real boyfriend - other than that I really quite enjoy being a weird loner - is that I've been having trouble extracting, from my foggy consciousness, whatever the hell it is that I'm actually attracted to.
None of this is meant as a slur against my ex-boyfriends. Or against the many and varied and (mostly) inappropriate crushes I've had over the years (bless their miscellaneous hearts). It's about assessing and understanding the choices I've made in regards to Lurv. I know, I know; icky. But, despite the ickiness, I think it's been a positive exercise.
So, why have I called this blog entry "Imaginary Boyfriend"? Well, because sometimes I find myself imagining that my crush is my boyfriend, and imagining how he would be as my boyfriend. It's a behaviour I've previously indulged in (see here for a bizarre example). Wiser people than myself (there were 3 of them, at last count) would probably say that putting favourable characteristics onto a person for whom I have hotpants, before I've gotten to know them, is a foolish endeavour. In fact it could be argued, wisely, that even just having hotpants for someone before getting to know them (let alone making up personality traits) is also not the wisest of endeavours. Whatever the case, it's something that I've done and continue to do. (And I suspect I'm not the only one.)
But is this person-imagining really a bad thing? Is my devotion to wayward winsome wanderings upon matters of the heart such a blight to wisdom? Will Wally weep when Wendy walks westward? Is it time to end this wacky W alliteration? YES!
I'm not entirely convinced that there is only badness in my imaginings - although caution is very much advised. I've noticed, over the years, that the characteristics which I've imbued upon my various crushes are mostly unchanged, and have been refined over time (and, I guess, as I've gotten to know myself better). I'm not referring to physical characteristics, eg height, hair/eye colour, shoulder width etc. And I haven't made any cheesy lists, eg:
1) must be ambitious
2) must have good sense of humour
3) must love kittens
4) must wash regularly
5) must have penis
- what defines a "good" sense of humour (point 2) anyway? It's subjective. I, for example, have a depraved sense of humour (see point 5); some would classify this as "good", others as "please leave the table and go to your room, Nicole".
My imaginings are more about how a person interacts with me and the world, and their life philosophy. For example, it would be ludicrous for me to be involved with someone who is materialistic or homophobic or racist or narrow-minded. And yet, many years ago, I had a crush on (and subsequent semi-relationship with) a person who was materialistic and homophobic and racist and narrow-minded. And I was terribly broken hearted when he ended it (whereas I should've been jumping for joy). On the plus side, however, it was the beginning of a revelation, inside my brain, that maybe I wasn't being very discerning in my choice of men - my strategy was pretty much "he's kinda cute, let's have a thing". I know, I know; it's hard to believe this could happen in these enlightened times. I should also point out, in the case of the above mentioned person, that at the time I was a little blinded by cluckiness - my estrogen wanted me to get pregnant, and estrogen can be quite Machiavellian when it has a task to complete. Evil estrogen. I have to say that now I'm very thankful I didn't procreate with this person.
My point, in all this rambling, is that, maybe, if I pay a bit more attention to the traits of my Imaginary Boyfriend, I might find myself attracted to someone with these actual traits. I know, I know; radical. (For those long-suffering readers who have made it this far: Welcome to Nicole's Dominion of Dumb). Maybe part of the reason I'm without a real boyfriend - other than that I really quite enjoy being a weird loner - is that I've been having trouble extracting, from my foggy consciousness, whatever the hell it is that I'm actually attracted to.
None of this is meant as a slur against my ex-boyfriends. Or against the many and varied and (mostly) inappropriate crushes I've had over the years (bless their miscellaneous hearts). It's about assessing and understanding the choices I've made in regards to Lurv. I know, I know; icky. But, despite the ickiness, I think it's been a positive exercise.
Monday 30 August 2010
"a mass of glutinous coiling worms"
From the novel Solaris by Stanislaw Lem:
[The passage describes part of a dream experienced by the novel's main character, Kris Kelvin, while he is in a space station orbiting the mysterious 'ocean' planet, Solaris.]
"Our white, naked bodies dissolve into a swarm of black creeping things, and I am - we are - a mass of glutinous coiling worms, endless, and in that infinity, no, I am infinite, and I howl soundlessly, begging for death and for an end." Page 188Yep...pretty much describes me first thing in the morning. And mid-afternoon. And on Christmas Day.
[The passage describes part of a dream experienced by the novel's main character, Kris Kelvin, while he is in a space station orbiting the mysterious 'ocean' planet, Solaris.]
Friday 20 August 2010
Don't try this at Home...or in a Laboratory
There are many obvious dangers associated with working in a laboratory. For example, in a microbiology lab there is the risk of being infected with a hideous disease, in a histology lab there is the risk of losing fingers while using a microtome, in a physics lab (say the Large Hadron Collider) there is the risk of creating a black hole, in a chemistry lab there is the risk of poisoning from horribly toxic chemicals. All good fun. But a particularly sinister - and hidden - danger, and one that is common to most laboratories, is the presence of a gas cylinder, and the potential for the gas cylinder to "torpedo" if the regulator (pressure gauge) is knocked off. [I'm using the term "gas" to mean a substance in its gaseous phase, eg a gas cylinder containing nitrogen].
The theory is that if the regulator (which covers the opening of the steel cylinder) is suddenly removed from a full gas cylinder - eg if the cylinder falls over and the regulator gets knocked off during the fall - the gas, which had been under pressure, will be expelled, with great force, away from the cylinder. Due to Newton's third law of motion*, the cylinder will also be "expelled" - away from the gas - with the same amount of force, resulting in an out-of-control airbourne steel cylinder, capable of destroying most, if not all, of a laboratory, and the scientists contained within.
As someone who has worked in chemical laboratories, and has been a little sceptical about the "gas cylinder torpedo" theory, I was pleased (and a little freaked) to discover that those crazy funsters from Mythbusters have tested - and confirmed (this is what freaked me) - this theory. [The video I've embedded is a cutdown to show the actual torpedo; I haven't seen the whole episode so I don't know if they tried anything other that complete shearing of the regulator on a full cylinder; for example I don't know if they tried just loosening the regulator and/or using a partially full cylinder.]
*Newton's Third Law of Motion : To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction; or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.
The theory is that if the regulator (which covers the opening of the steel cylinder) is suddenly removed from a full gas cylinder - eg if the cylinder falls over and the regulator gets knocked off during the fall - the gas, which had been under pressure, will be expelled, with great force, away from the cylinder. Due to Newton's third law of motion*, the cylinder will also be "expelled" - away from the gas - with the same amount of force, resulting in an out-of-control airbourne steel cylinder, capable of destroying most, if not all, of a laboratory, and the scientists contained within.
As someone who has worked in chemical laboratories, and has been a little sceptical about the "gas cylinder torpedo" theory, I was pleased (and a little freaked) to discover that those crazy funsters from Mythbusters have tested - and confirmed (this is what freaked me) - this theory. [The video I've embedded is a cutdown to show the actual torpedo; I haven't seen the whole episode so I don't know if they tried anything other that complete shearing of the regulator on a full cylinder; for example I don't know if they tried just loosening the regulator and/or using a partially full cylinder.]
*Newton's Third Law of Motion : To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction; or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.
Saturday 14 August 2010
Am I Anally Retentive?
It’s a question that has plagued humanity since the beginning of time...okay, perhaps not quite that long…or maybe it is that long, I mean how do we know when time began, or indeed, if time has even yet begun…and what is “time” anyway? I say “time” is a four-letter word and should not be confused with “thyme”, which is, after all, a five-letter word…
…start again…
Am I Anally Retentive?
It’s a question that has plagued humanity for awhile. In terms of its importance, it sits right alongside the other biggies: Is there a God? Will I have children? Do I want fries with that? And it’s a question that has plagued me in recent times. Although, perhaps the word “plagued” is a little strong. It’s not like I’ve been lying awake at night pondering the existence or non-existence of anal retentiveness in my being. I haven’t lost my appetite with the overwhelming heaviness of such a metaphysical dilemma. I haven’t retreated into isolation in order to meditate on the possibility of a metaphorical non-evacuation. No. Maybe “it has crossed my mind” would be more apt. Still, this doesn’t diminish it's potential impact. Deciding whether or not one exhibits the characteristics of an “excessively orderly and fussy” person (as “anally retentive” is defined by The Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary) is life changing. And, if I am such a person, I need to decide if I’m going to try to reform my fussy ways or if I’m just going to give in and embrace my retention.
So, what behaviour have I been exhibiting to cause me to believe I may be AR. It's mainly been an accumulation of little things; doing my laundry at the same time every week, washing the dishes only on Sundays and Wednesdays, ensuring the bottom sheet is completely smooth before I get into bed, only eating chocolate on days of the week ending in 'Y'. But there was "an incident", something that I think may have pushed me from being a little fussy over into the chasm of AR. It was the Rubbish Bins. Or, more correctly, new people moving into my block of flats who not only put their rubbish into my bins (and filled them to the brim, so there was no room for my rubbish), but put stuff into my recycle bin that doesn't go in the recycle bin. IT MAKES ME CRAZY. Well, I don't take that kind of thing passively, no, not at all. I put my foot down (note to self: when putting one's foot down, make sure there are no rocks nearbye). No more. I damn well took my bins from against the front fence (where all the bins are usually kept) and moved them to a spot just to the left of my bedroom window. Pretty darn clever. Sure, the other tenants could still potentially put their rubbish into my bins, but the odds of this happening have now been significantly reduced. Anyone who has been to my flat will know what I mean, and anyone else is welcome to drop by and have a look at my new rubbish bin arrangement - it's pretty impressive.
But was the moving of the rubbish bins the final link in a chain that will now shackle me to the un-bendy steel of fussiness? Will this be the snowflake that causes an avalanche of excessive orderliness? I guess only time will tell. But there is one thing of which I am sure; moving my rubbish bins to their new location has brought me great satisfaction.
…start again…
Am I Anally Retentive?
It’s a question that has plagued humanity for awhile. In terms of its importance, it sits right alongside the other biggies: Is there a God? Will I have children? Do I want fries with that? And it’s a question that has plagued me in recent times. Although, perhaps the word “plagued” is a little strong. It’s not like I’ve been lying awake at night pondering the existence or non-existence of anal retentiveness in my being. I haven’t lost my appetite with the overwhelming heaviness of such a metaphysical dilemma. I haven’t retreated into isolation in order to meditate on the possibility of a metaphorical non-evacuation. No. Maybe “it has crossed my mind” would be more apt. Still, this doesn’t diminish it's potential impact. Deciding whether or not one exhibits the characteristics of an “excessively orderly and fussy” person (as “anally retentive” is defined by The Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary) is life changing. And, if I am such a person, I need to decide if I’m going to try to reform my fussy ways or if I’m just going to give in and embrace my retention.
So, what behaviour have I been exhibiting to cause me to believe I may be AR. It's mainly been an accumulation of little things; doing my laundry at the same time every week, washing the dishes only on Sundays and Wednesdays, ensuring the bottom sheet is completely smooth before I get into bed, only eating chocolate on days of the week ending in 'Y'. But there was "an incident", something that I think may have pushed me from being a little fussy over into the chasm of AR. It was the Rubbish Bins. Or, more correctly, new people moving into my block of flats who not only put their rubbish into my bins (and filled them to the brim, so there was no room for my rubbish), but put stuff into my recycle bin that doesn't go in the recycle bin. IT MAKES ME CRAZY. Well, I don't take that kind of thing passively, no, not at all. I put my foot down (note to self: when putting one's foot down, make sure there are no rocks nearbye). No more. I damn well took my bins from against the front fence (where all the bins are usually kept) and moved them to a spot just to the left of my bedroom window. Pretty darn clever. Sure, the other tenants could still potentially put their rubbish into my bins, but the odds of this happening have now been significantly reduced. Anyone who has been to my flat will know what I mean, and anyone else is welcome to drop by and have a look at my new rubbish bin arrangement - it's pretty impressive.
But was the moving of the rubbish bins the final link in a chain that will now shackle me to the un-bendy steel of fussiness? Will this be the snowflake that causes an avalanche of excessive orderliness? I guess only time will tell. But there is one thing of which I am sure; moving my rubbish bins to their new location has brought me great satisfaction.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Reserved
A lack of words doesn't necessarily indicate a lack of thinking. There are thoughts, occasionally. They filter sporadically through the mist, but they are mostly amorphous and incomplete. Coherent revelation has yet to make an appearance.
Saturday 24 July 2010
Winter Lethargy Has Filled Me With its Evil Naughtiness...
..., which means my brain has partially shut down in an effort to diffuse needed energy to the coldest parts of my body, ie everywhere, and I'm continually eating and sleeping and putting on extra jumpers (not all at once). Hence, I'm too distracted with keeping my body warm to write my usual, brilliant, blog entries. PLUS, I'm reading "The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism" by Naomi Klein (if Milton Friedman were still alive, I'd so kick his evil neo-liberalist ass) and "Crime and Punishment" by Mr D, which is requiring whatever's left of my brain energy.
Friday 16 July 2010
This Blog Deserves An "A"...
...however, it would probably get a B or C if it were being assessed by the killjoy teachers who marked my essays in high school - "Don't use 'I' in a formal essay" - pfft! The instructions were to DISCUSS; I often preface my discussions (formal or otherwise) with "I think" or "in my opinion" or "shut up and listen". For example: "In my opinion, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov needed a shitload of editing to give it even a modicum of readability". See. I mean, this is only my opinion, it isn't gospel - is it so wrong for me to indicate as such? There are people (strange people, living in dark, dark caves of delusion) who would stridently disagree with my opinion on The Brothers Karamazov, who may even think that the novel could use more words (God forbid!). I believe they should preface their essays with "I think" or "In my opinion, Nicole is not only wrong, but she is also a raving idiot". But I digress...back to praising my blog (which is the point of this blog entry)...
I love my blog and it loves me. My blog's love is unconditional. My blog doesn't judge me. It doesn't lecture me if I use inappropriate language. It doesn't laugh at me if I misspell a word. It doesn't make snarky comments if I use incorrect grammar. It doesn't get all elitist if I experiment with my writing style (in fact, it encourages free form expression). And, most importantly, it doesn't grade me. There are no passes or fails with my blog; no ego-enhancing "A"s or ego-deflating "F"s. There is only the freedom to say whatever I like, however I like, without the fear that my blog privileges will be taken from me because I write verb-less sentences ...(well, unless I write incredibly offensive, verb-less sentences).
I love my blog and it loves me. My blog's love is unconditional. My blog doesn't judge me. It doesn't lecture me if I use inappropriate language. It doesn't laugh at me if I misspell a word. It doesn't make snarky comments if I use incorrect grammar. It doesn't get all elitist if I experiment with my writing style (in fact, it encourages free form expression). And, most importantly, it doesn't grade me. There are no passes or fails with my blog; no ego-enhancing "A"s or ego-deflating "F"s. There is only the freedom to say whatever I like, however I like, without the fear that my blog privileges will be taken from me because I write verb-less sentences ...(well, unless I write incredibly offensive, verb-less sentences).
Sunday 11 July 2010
"There's No Verb In This Sentence!"
Recently, as I was clearing out extraneous material from the big, extraneous material containing, wooden chest in my lounge room, I came upon some of my prac reports from University. I had a bit of a peruse through them whilst remembering 'the good old days' and was ASTOUNDED to find, inscribed in the margin of one of my reports, in angry black ink, the words: There's no verb in this sentence! "Hah!", I thought. "No verb? My ass! (hahaha) I would never write a sentence without a...wait a minute...*reads sentence from prac report*...[which reads as: "Also retention of these groups in the products and decarbonylation (scheme 1)"]...*notices distinct lack of verb*..."
Okay, I admit, ONE time I wrote a verb-less sentence. Call the grammar police! Send me to command-of-the-English-language prison! Make me read "Grammar for Dummies"! I mean, it was a Science report - I got the Science right (mostly), isn't that the main thing? Is it sooooo important for Scientists to write coherent sentences? No way! Adequate, even expansive, communication skills are for the Arts; they can have their verbs and their adjectives (if they're feeling creative). But Science is all about the facts, it doesn't have time for meaningless distractions like cogent report writing.
But all of this is by-the-bye because I meant for that sentence to have no verb. Oh yeah. I was experimenting with Avant Garde Science (not to be confused with Fluffy Science), which allows for some degree of "lateral" report writing. Those Science Academics have no imagination! (Hmmm, must check the meaning of "contradiction".)
Okay, I admit, ONE time I wrote a verb-less sentence. Call the grammar police! Send me to command-of-the-English-language prison! Make me read "Grammar for Dummies"! I mean, it was a Science report - I got the Science right (mostly), isn't that the main thing? Is it sooooo important for Scientists to write coherent sentences? No way! Adequate, even expansive, communication skills are for the Arts; they can have their verbs and their adjectives (if they're feeling creative). But Science is all about the facts, it doesn't have time for meaningless distractions like cogent report writing.
But all of this is by-the-bye because I meant for that sentence to have no verb. Oh yeah. I was experimenting with Avant Garde Science (not to be confused with Fluffy Science), which allows for some degree of "lateral" report writing. Those Science Academics have no imagination! (Hmmm, must check the meaning of "contradiction".)
Tuesday 6 July 2010
Negative Thinking Will Be Corrected
Here are some thoughts I have when depression is giving me one of it's special cuddles:
I wrote down this list a few weeks ago when, obviously, I was feeling kind of down. But, after writing it, I felt a lot better. And, reading it now, I disagree with most of it (except for the part where I freak me out – but that will never change, it’s just something I’ve learned to live with). It's a list of skewed perspectives, thoughts without realistic context. Basically, there's a whole lotta "glass half empty" going on in this list.
I’m putting the list on my blog so that I can refer to it next time depressive, negative thinking tries to get it's sleazy arms around me. My belief is that, by writing down, and then reading (and, especially, mulling over), these thoughts, I can diminish their power to make me feel bad. Consider, for example, the thought: "I often believe I repel people" - is this really such a bad thing? If I repel certain people, then they'll probably avoid me, sure. But, if these are people who, conversely, I'm repelled by, then I'll be actively avoiding them. Such mutual avoidance will increase the probability that we never interact with each other! An excellent result all-round. I think my whole "do I repel people" issue is only an issue when it involves people I don't want to repel. And I have a strong suspicion that I've been quite confused for quite awhile in some of my choices of people I "don't" want to repel - ie wanting to be liked by people who I don't actually have a connection with and probably wouldn't want to spend very much time with anyway......This paragraph seems to be veering into convoluted and unwieldy territory, hence I am now going to abandon it......
......In fact, this entire blog entry is beginning to delve into a den of rambling, to wallow in a cesspool of incoherent. I can feel my grasp of the succinct and pithy (try saying that with a lisp) slipping away from me......yep, there they go......byeeeeeee......
- I feel numb
- I have no passion
- I can’t seem to get even vaguely enthusiastic about anything
- I only have enough energy for basic self-maintenance (eg. feeding and washing myself) - with the caveat that any self-maintenance occurs only AFTER I've fed Ms Willow Pussycat
- I can’t commit to an occupation
- I can't commit to anything
- I struggle to connect with people
- Often, people freak me out
- Often, I freak me out
- Sometimes, I think I was made wrong
- I feel inadequate – I wish I were more adequate
- I often believe I repel people
- I feel most comfortable being alone…but I feel lonely
I wrote down this list a few weeks ago when, obviously, I was feeling kind of down. But, after writing it, I felt a lot better. And, reading it now, I disagree with most of it (except for the part where I freak me out – but that will never change, it’s just something I’ve learned to live with). It's a list of skewed perspectives, thoughts without realistic context. Basically, there's a whole lotta "glass half empty" going on in this list.
I’m putting the list on my blog so that I can refer to it next time depressive, negative thinking tries to get it's sleazy arms around me. My belief is that, by writing down, and then reading (and, especially, mulling over), these thoughts, I can diminish their power to make me feel bad. Consider, for example, the thought: "I often believe I repel people" - is this really such a bad thing? If I repel certain people, then they'll probably avoid me, sure. But, if these are people who, conversely, I'm repelled by, then I'll be actively avoiding them. Such mutual avoidance will increase the probability that we never interact with each other! An excellent result all-round. I think my whole "do I repel people" issue is only an issue when it involves people I don't want to repel. And I have a strong suspicion that I've been quite confused for quite awhile in some of my choices of people I "don't" want to repel - ie wanting to be liked by people who I don't actually have a connection with and probably wouldn't want to spend very much time with anyway......This paragraph seems to be veering into convoluted and unwieldy territory, hence I am now going to abandon it......
......In fact, this entire blog entry is beginning to delve into a den of rambling, to wallow in a cesspool of incoherent. I can feel my grasp of the succinct and pithy (try saying that with a lisp) slipping away from me......yep, there they go......byeeeeeee......
Thursday 1 July 2010
Radical Tax Plan
Here at Effulgent13, we (actually, I, but "we" sounds more impressive) aim to make this world a much better place, such that everyone has stuff they need and, even, stuff they want. I abhor greed (greed is NOT good, Gordon Fucking Gecko, greed is a big giant pain in the ass of humanity). A couple of weeks ago, I attacked greed in one of its most evil incarnations, that of Mining Bosses (aka "Greedy Fuckers" - see here). Well, this week, I'm extending that rant to all corporate bosses and other rich people. And, since I'm also a practical ranter, I'm proposing a new Tax Plan to deal with greed gone wild (I have a degree in Organic Chemistry, goddammit, I'm completely qualified to propose changes to the tax system). I'm hoping this Tax Plan will accomplish 2 main goals:
1) Redistribute wealth from the coffers of rich bastards into the coffers of poor bastards
2) Annoy the hell out of rich bastards
I think that once an individual accumulates personal wealth of a billion dollars, they should NOT be allowed to accumulate anymore. They should be cut off. And, if they continue to accumulate wealth (in whatever form: cash, assets, equity, dodgy businesses, larceny, vice, grand theft auto etc), they should be taxed at 100% for every dollar they earn above the one billion dollar mark. That money should then be given to the lowest income earners as a low income offset tax bonus. Obviously, and most importantly, this new tax will need a catchy title and acronym, which, thankfully, I've already thought of:
BIllionaires Tax: Equality for Misplaced Equity ( or BITE ME).
1) Redistribute wealth from the coffers of rich bastards into the coffers of poor bastards
2) Annoy the hell out of rich bastards
I think that once an individual accumulates personal wealth of a billion dollars, they should NOT be allowed to accumulate anymore. They should be cut off. And, if they continue to accumulate wealth (in whatever form: cash, assets, equity, dodgy businesses, larceny, vice, grand theft auto etc), they should be taxed at 100% for every dollar they earn above the one billion dollar mark. That money should then be given to the lowest income earners as a low income offset tax bonus. Obviously, and most importantly, this new tax will need a catchy title and acronym, which, thankfully, I've already thought of:
BIllionaires Tax: Equality for Misplaced Equity ( or BITE ME).
Saturday 26 June 2010
Magic Mountain Count: Page 300
I'm struggling with The Magic Mountain. These last 100 pages have been something of a chore and I haven't maintained my reading schedule - weeks have gone by with barely 10 to 15 pages being read. I think it's time for, um, "hard decisions", or, at the very least, a change.
Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:
1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it
2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me
3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".
However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.
And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:
I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".
Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:
1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it
2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me
3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".
However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.
And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:
"What was life, really? It was warmth, the warmth produced by instability attempting to preserve form, a fever of matter that accompanies the ceaseless dissolution and renewal of protein molecules, themselves transient in their complex and intricate construction. It was the existence of what, in actuality, has no inherent ability to exist, but only balances with sweet, painful precariousness on one point of existence in the midst of this feverish, interwoven process of decay and repair." (pg 271)
I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".
Monday 21 June 2010
Café du Nuit
(English translation: The Night Café)
Last night I watched the Dr Who episode titled "Vincent and the Doctor", in which the Doctor visits Dutch post-impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh, shortly before Vincent committed suicide, and when he was at his most artistically prolific. It was an excellent (and emotional) episode. The writer of the episode (Richard Curtis) and the actor playing Vincent (Tony Curran) didn't hold back in showing the effects of mental illness on Vincent; his extreme visions of the universe, both terrifying and exultant. In terms of exploring both the pain and joy of being human, I would put the episode on a par with "Father's Day", from season 1 of the new Dr Who. Both episodes made me cry, or, at the very least, get a little weepy.
On one of the walls in my flat, I have a slightly tattered print of a Van Gogh painting, Café du Nuit (which I acquired from a person who was going to throw it away!!!):
I've never studied art or art history, so, when I'm looking at works of art, I'm usually interpreting a little blind. What I mean is, that I don't always know the context in which the painting/sculpture/photograph was created. My initial interpretations may be nowhere near what the artist had in mind. (Although, I would argue that wild interpretations are part of the fun of art, as well as being something artists need to accept if they want to open their art to others).
So, in regards to Café du Nuit, I thought it was about isolation, being an outsider. When I look at the painting I feel left out; I'm gazing at the warm, orangy-glowing cafe from the cold street but I'm not allowed inside, where "acceptable" people congregate (because I'm not acceptable).
However, now that I've found out some background information about the painting, I think I'm going to have to re-interpret my interpretation.
The painting is actually one of a series of paintings, set both outside and inside the night cafe (actually cafés, there were quite a few). The night cafés, where Van Gogh sometimes stayed when he was living in Arles (in France), were places where "night-prowlers" could go if they couldn't find other lodgings (eg if they were short of cash or too "under the weather" - drunk - to be taken into more respectable establishments). Here's one of the paintings set inside one of the night café where Van Gogh stayed:
The inside of the café actually looks pretty warm and inviting, even cosy, despite being a "low-life" establishment, and despite Van Gogh wanting his painting to give the impression of the café as being a place where "one can ruin oneself, go mad, or commit a crime". I suspect it would be okay for weird loner types (such as myself) to have a drink there, and possibly, go mad - but a cosy kind of mad.
I think my original interpretation of Café du Nuit is a reflection of my own anxieties about going into places where there are gatherings of peoples, who I haven't established strong comfort levels with, which is pretty much the entire planet, with the exception of about 10 people.
[NB: The painting that I have on my wall has been given the title "Café du Nuit" by whoever made the print, hence this is why I have referred to it as such. In Wikipedia, this same painting is referred to as "Café Terrace at Night", which is actually a more accurate description. Also, in Wikipedia, "Café du Nuit", is the name given to the painting of the inside of one of the cafés (ie the second picture I posted). But when I googled "Café du Nuit", both paintings came up. So, in conclusion, I have no idea what the correct title is, of either painting.]
Last night I watched the Dr Who episode titled "Vincent and the Doctor", in which the Doctor visits Dutch post-impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh, shortly before Vincent committed suicide, and when he was at his most artistically prolific. It was an excellent (and emotional) episode. The writer of the episode (Richard Curtis) and the actor playing Vincent (Tony Curran) didn't hold back in showing the effects of mental illness on Vincent; his extreme visions of the universe, both terrifying and exultant. In terms of exploring both the pain and joy of being human, I would put the episode on a par with "Father's Day", from season 1 of the new Dr Who. Both episodes made me cry, or, at the very least, get a little weepy.
On one of the walls in my flat, I have a slightly tattered print of a Van Gogh painting, Café du Nuit (which I acquired from a person who was going to throw it away!!!):
I've never studied art or art history, so, when I'm looking at works of art, I'm usually interpreting a little blind. What I mean is, that I don't always know the context in which the painting/sculpture/photograph was created. My initial interpretations may be nowhere near what the artist had in mind. (Although, I would argue that wild interpretations are part of the fun of art, as well as being something artists need to accept if they want to open their art to others).
So, in regards to Café du Nuit, I thought it was about isolation, being an outsider. When I look at the painting I feel left out; I'm gazing at the warm, orangy-glowing cafe from the cold street but I'm not allowed inside, where "acceptable" people congregate (because I'm not acceptable).
However, now that I've found out some background information about the painting, I think I'm going to have to re-interpret my interpretation.
The painting is actually one of a series of paintings, set both outside and inside the night cafe (actually cafés, there were quite a few). The night cafés, where Van Gogh sometimes stayed when he was living in Arles (in France), were places where "night-prowlers" could go if they couldn't find other lodgings (eg if they were short of cash or too "under the weather" - drunk - to be taken into more respectable establishments). Here's one of the paintings set inside one of the night café where Van Gogh stayed:
The inside of the café actually looks pretty warm and inviting, even cosy, despite being a "low-life" establishment, and despite Van Gogh wanting his painting to give the impression of the café as being a place where "one can ruin oneself, go mad, or commit a crime". I suspect it would be okay for weird loner types (such as myself) to have a drink there, and possibly, go mad - but a cosy kind of mad.
I think my original interpretation of Café du Nuit is a reflection of my own anxieties about going into places where there are gatherings of peoples, who I haven't established strong comfort levels with, which is pretty much the entire planet, with the exception of about 10 people.
[NB: The painting that I have on my wall has been given the title "Café du Nuit" by whoever made the print, hence this is why I have referred to it as such. In Wikipedia, this same painting is referred to as "Café Terrace at Night", which is actually a more accurate description. Also, in Wikipedia, "Café du Nuit", is the name given to the painting of the inside of one of the cafés (ie the second picture I posted). But when I googled "Café du Nuit", both paintings came up. So, in conclusion, I have no idea what the correct title is, of either painting.]
Monday 14 June 2010
The Blob
The blob lies dormant. It is encased in a thick film of cotton and polyester and inertia. Its stillness is a cunning strategy. The blob knows that to move, or even, God forbid, to get up, is tantamount to living; a fate too horrible to contemplate.
Tuesday 8 June 2010
A Billion Dollars is Barely Enough!!!
I'm thinking of writing an open letter to Australian Mining Bosses. (Not really). But if I did, below are 2 versions of my letter:
Long Version:
Short Version:
Long Version:
Dear Mining Bosses,
So, when you made your first BILLION dollars, did
you not think: "Wow, that's alot of money. Surely that's enough money to - feed/clothe/house/educate/entertain/bribe etc - me and my family and my extended family and all my friends and their families and their extended families etc..." (I think you get my point). Apparently, it would seem, you did not think these thoughts. Apparently, having enough money to live VERY comfortably, and then some, was/is not enough. So why is it not enough. Maybe there's competition between you: "his equity is bigger than my equity, I feel so inadequate". Or is there a philosophical issue? Is this about happiness? Do you equate happiness with wealth? If so, surely you'd be incredibly happy by now? So why are you not happy? Is the black hole of your unhappiness an eternal, unfillable quarry (pun intended) that will never be sated by any amount of material wealth? Whatever the problem, get over it. Read some philosophy, go out and talk to people - real people (not other rich people) - go for a walkabout in the desert (but be careful not to fall into an open cut mine and injure yourselves), pull your heads out of your - not insubstantial - bottoms. Get some perspective. I've heard it said that giving to others can bring fulfilment - do that.
Love, Nicole
Short Version:
Dear Greedy Fuckers,
Give the rest of us some money, you selfish,
arrogant poop-heads.
Bite me, Nicole
Wednesday 2 June 2010
THIS IS NOT A BLOG POST
This is a reminder that Effulgent13 is currently not posting on Wednesdays (due to the inane predictability of posting on the same day of the week - see here for explanation). My apologies to those who came here expecting the usual Wednesday blog post.
I repeat: "This is NOT a blog post".
I repeat: "This is NOT a blog post".
Monday 31 May 2010
The Wednesday-Blog Cycle Must Be Broken
5 of my last 6 blog entries have been published on a Wednesday. This is unacceptable. I'm becoming predictable. If someone wanted to blog-stalk me, it would be too easy. History will remember Effulgent13 as "that Wednesday blog". I can't let this happen. I blog according to whimsy, not according to the days of the week.
I accept that I require some level of predictability in my life; I am, after all, strongly introvert with obsessive-compulsive tendencies and a slight retentiveness in the anal region. But I still need some spontaneous recklessness in my life. For example, yesterday I didn't eat any vegetables and had a bowl of cereal for dinner (don't tell my mother). It was a wild ride. "Nutritional balance be damned!", I screamed (I was feeling a little on edge by the end of the day). I want to continue this edgy behaviour - I'm even thinking about having a fruit-free day next month - and having 5 out of 6 (that's 83.3333333333333333333333333...% ) blog entries published on a Wednesday is not helping. I may as well re-name this blog, Wednesdayfulgent13.
So, in order to counter this Wednesday blogging depravity, I am publishing this post on a MONDAY.
I accept that I require some level of predictability in my life; I am, after all, strongly introvert with obsessive-compulsive tendencies and a slight retentiveness in the anal region. But I still need some spontaneous recklessness in my life. For example, yesterday I didn't eat any vegetables and had a bowl of cereal for dinner (don't tell my mother). It was a wild ride. "Nutritional balance be damned!", I screamed (I was feeling a little on edge by the end of the day). I want to continue this edgy behaviour - I'm even thinking about having a fruit-free day next month - and having 5 out of 6 (that's 83.3333333333333333333333333...% ) blog entries published on a Wednesday is not helping. I may as well re-name this blog, Wednesdayfulgent13.
So, in order to counter this Wednesday blogging depravity, I am publishing this post on a MONDAY.
Wednesday 26 May 2010
The synaptic impulses lumber through my head like something really slow and... LUMBERING
Am experiencing brain fuzzy at present. Can't form thoughts. Can't make words. Can't make grammatically correct sentences. The rain falls but the trees still weep. Can't make coherent sentences. When I was six, pink was my favourite colour. Appear to be experiencing non-sequitur-itis. Normal services will resume eventually. Probably. Don't trust the elephant, it's the caterpillar who dances at sunset. Can't make coherent paragraphs.
Wednesday 19 May 2010
Multitasking is Not an Option
As someone who tries to fit the least amount of activity into her life, I was very excited to discover I'm not the only person who likes to just hang out. I've discovered The International Institute of Not Doing Much - a website devoted (when they can be bothered) to slowing down. They live by the "slow manifesto":
"...Some are born to slowness - others have it thrust upon them..."
I have to confess, I used to be a busy(ish) person. I was a skilled, and motivated, multitasker. In fact, I often enjoyed seeing how much I could get done in the shortest amount of time. Apparently, being that I am of the female persuasion, this is quite normal, even expected. There is some thinking, out there in the 'thinking ether', that women are better equipped for the task of multitasking - something to do with their (our) brain structure; blah, blah, blah. I'm not convinced. I've seen men get crazy (ie accomplish) doing many tasks and I've seen women barely able to complete the one task in an allocated time (currently, I would fall into this latter category :). I believe the human brain is reasonably malleable; we can train it to do a thing we really want it to do, and, conversely, not allow it to be trained to do something we really don't want it to do. (Obviously within reason - I mean, sometimes I would like to move heavy objects using only my brain or connect with people telepathically...which doesn't mean someone would want to return my telepathic connection...I'd also like to control people, so that they want to connect with me telepathically!...I don't care how immoral that sounds or, indeed, is...okay, I care a little bit...OKAY, controlling the world to my liking is really, really evil).
I will admit that I've probably taken the "slow down" decree very seriously in recent months, occasionally a little too seriously, but I'm okay with that - it's a lifestyle I'm comfortable embracing right now. But it's not for everyone. For some, too much down time might actually be stressful; extroverty and/or high energy people usually need some degree of tasking to keep them calm, even if they've decided to take things slower. And, to be honest, I also need some activity, if only so I, and others, don't think I've died.
Note: This blog post was written without haste, as are all my blog posts, even if sometimes they read as though they have been.
"...Some are born to slowness - others have it thrust upon them..."
I have to confess, I used to be a busy(ish) person. I was a skilled, and motivated, multitasker. In fact, I often enjoyed seeing how much I could get done in the shortest amount of time. Apparently, being that I am of the female persuasion, this is quite normal, even expected. There is some thinking, out there in the 'thinking ether', that women are better equipped for the task of multitasking - something to do with their (our) brain structure; blah, blah, blah. I'm not convinced. I've seen men get crazy (ie accomplish) doing many tasks and I've seen women barely able to complete the one task in an allocated time (currently, I would fall into this latter category :). I believe the human brain is reasonably malleable; we can train it to do a thing we really want it to do, and, conversely, not allow it to be trained to do something we really don't want it to do. (Obviously within reason - I mean, sometimes I would like to move heavy objects using only my brain or connect with people telepathically...which doesn't mean someone would want to return my telepathic connection...I'd also like to control people, so that they want to connect with me telepathically!...I don't care how immoral that sounds or, indeed, is...okay, I care a little bit...OKAY, controlling the world to my liking is really, really evil).
I will admit that I've probably taken the "slow down" decree very seriously in recent months, occasionally a little too seriously, but I'm okay with that - it's a lifestyle I'm comfortable embracing right now. But it's not for everyone. For some, too much down time might actually be stressful; extroverty and/or high energy people usually need some degree of tasking to keep them calm, even if they've decided to take things slower. And, to be honest, I also need some activity, if only so I, and others, don't think I've died.
Note: This blog post was written without haste, as are all my blog posts, even if sometimes they read as though they have been.
Wednesday 12 May 2010
We Have Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself
CRAP!!!
I don't know who came up with this ridiculous statement/axiom/maxim - whatever - but it's a load of shi...untruth. For years now I've been wanting to get my anger about this saying out of my system and today is the day this happens. And I'm not even going to look it up on the internet to find out in what context it was used, instead, I'm just going to mouth off - blog off? - about something of which I may not have complete understanding.
I do not accept that I have nothing to fear but fear itself. There are numerous things on this here planet earth for which to be fearful. And my fear makes me wary of them, such that I might elect to get out of, or not get into, a situation in which I fear something bad will happen to me. And, thus, I remain healthy and intact. For example, if a man with an axe starts chasing me down the street I AM GOING TO BE FULL OF FEAR and probably RUN LIKE HELL. And I think my fear is going to make me run faster. I think this is a good response. It could be the difference between an out-of-breathe me or a maimed and/or dead me. I guess I could ignore my fear and stop running and talk to the axe-wielding man. It might be the case that he's not actually chasing me in an effort to maim and/or kill me. Perhaps he wants to maim and/or kill someone else, someone who lives in the same street, and maybe he was running after me (with an axe) because he wanted to ask me if I knew which house this other person lives in. Maybe if I can direct him to the correct house he'll give me $5000. If only I'd just feared fear, and then ignored fear, instead of fearing a rampant, axe wielding man, I might be $5000 richer, and an accessory to a crime. Perhaps, perhaps, maybe, perhaps. I'm not convinced.
So I am going to continue to believe in, and listen to, my fear. And act accordingly. My fear has been good to me so far. It has always offered me wise counsel and has kept me from doing things I really shouldn't be doing, like jumping into the lion enclosure at the zoo (to play with the beautiful kitty-kats) or speaking in public (to tell all the people my beautiful thoughts).
I don't know who came up with this ridiculous statement/axiom/maxim - whatever - but it's a load of shi...untruth. For years now I've been wanting to get my anger about this saying out of my system and today is the day this happens. And I'm not even going to look it up on the internet to find out in what context it was used, instead, I'm just going to mouth off - blog off? - about something of which I may not have complete understanding.
I do not accept that I have nothing to fear but fear itself. There are numerous things on this here planet earth for which to be fearful. And my fear makes me wary of them, such that I might elect to get out of, or not get into, a situation in which I fear something bad will happen to me. And, thus, I remain healthy and intact. For example, if a man with an axe starts chasing me down the street I AM GOING TO BE FULL OF FEAR and probably RUN LIKE HELL. And I think my fear is going to make me run faster. I think this is a good response. It could be the difference between an out-of-breathe me or a maimed and/or dead me. I guess I could ignore my fear and stop running and talk to the axe-wielding man. It might be the case that he's not actually chasing me in an effort to maim and/or kill me. Perhaps he wants to maim and/or kill someone else, someone who lives in the same street, and maybe he was running after me (with an axe) because he wanted to ask me if I knew which house this other person lives in. Maybe if I can direct him to the correct house he'll give me $5000. If only I'd just feared fear, and then ignored fear, instead of fearing a rampant, axe wielding man, I might be $5000 richer, and an accessory to a crime. Perhaps, perhaps, maybe, perhaps. I'm not convinced.
So I am going to continue to believe in, and listen to, my fear. And act accordingly. My fear has been good to me so far. It has always offered me wise counsel and has kept me from doing things I really shouldn't be doing, like jumping into the lion enclosure at the zoo (to play with the beautiful kitty-kats) or speaking in public (to tell all the people my beautiful thoughts).
Monday 3 May 2010
Magic Mountain Count: Page 200
I'm having trouble deciding how to write this blog post - well, you could use the keyboard and type in some words - yes, THANKYOU, annoying and sarcastic voice in my head. What I mean is, I'm not sure how to capture the essence of pages 100 to 200 of The Magic Mountain. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what "the essence" is but I think that's okay since the book is 700 pages long and would probably be classified - to an extent - as a novel of ideas, which means it's unlikely to be easily accessed. Okay, what I really mean is: I don't know what the hell this novel is on about. Yet. I suspect I'll need to read at least another 100 pages, or even the entire novel, before it starts to reveal its true intentions.
Nevertheless, I will summarize what I have discovered so far. The events in the novel take place in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, in the years before World War I. The main character is Hans Castorp, a young man about to begin his career as a ship designer, who has taken himself to the sanatorium for a 3 week holiday/rest, and to visit his cousin, Joachim, who has tuberculosis. During this time Hans takes part in the daily routines of the sanatorium; walks in the alpine air, resting times ("rest cures"), lectures, music concerts (weekly) and numerous, and generous, meals. Hans begins to become acquainted with some of the other residents (mostly patients) as well as spending time with his cousin. He also begins to notice unusual aspects of his own physicality; his cheeks are frequently flushed, his cigars have lost their taste. Towards the end of his stay he senses that he's developing a cold. He takes his temperature - an activity the other residents conduct with great regularity and devotion - and discovers it is alarmingly high. A visit to one of the sanatoriums doctors reveals that Hans has a "wet area" on one of his lungs. Hans is ordered to stay at the sanatorium for another 3 weeks.
I think I've inadvertently chosen a very apt novel for myself to be reading at this point in my life - "for myself to be reading at this point in my life"; the essence of this sentence is grammatical violation. I'm kind of living the life of a confined person, although, thankfully, I'm not sick (especially with a life-threatening illness like tuberculosis) and I have the option of not being "confined". What I mean by "confined" is that I spend alot of time in my flat. A large reason for this is that I'm not employed, but also I choose not to "go out" very often. Most of the activities I enjoy doing I can do in my flat, eg reading (although I do sometimes "go out" to the library or the bookstore), sleeping, eating (occasionally I'll "go out" to eat), surfing the internet, watching dvd's (which means I have to "go out" to the dvd rentals store or the dvd shop), contemplating, exercising (sometimes I "go out" for a walk), studying my cat, writing this blog, staying in touch with friends (via email or phone - most of my friends don't live nearbye or have time-constrained lives, but I do enjoy "going out" to catch up with them when it's possible). I have to admit, though, that having the internet is a huge contributor to my being able to spend so much time by myself in my flat. I always look forward to logging on and finding out what's going on with the world - big and small. I think, despite my introverted and non-social ways, I'm not an island.
I've slightly veered away from comparing my current life to the lives of the residents of the sanatorium in The Magic Mountain. I think the similarities lie in both the reflective, retreat-like quality of our lives and the being outside of "conventional" life. In the novel, the residents refer to the towns below the Alps as "the flatlands" and speak of the flatlands as though they were a different, and, perhaps, less privileged, world. The "slowness" and "boredom" of life in the sanatorium provide a unique perspective. For myself, at the moment, this is something I really enjoy about not having a job. But I also enjoy not having work responsibilities, ie having to be at work on the required days and at the required time, having to present in a work-mode frame of mind (whatever the hell that means, maybe not being in a psychotic state - which is A LOT to ask of your average human being), being able to do the required work and continue to do the required work until the required time has elapsed, even though my every human fibre longs to be somewhere else and mortal life is short. (Yes, me and work are not affable companions at this time).
So, in conclusion...actually, there won't be a conclusion, more of a: I've waffled on enough and would like to end this blog post before my brain implodes.
Nevertheless, I will summarize what I have discovered so far. The events in the novel take place in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, in the years before World War I. The main character is Hans Castorp, a young man about to begin his career as a ship designer, who has taken himself to the sanatorium for a 3 week holiday/rest, and to visit his cousin, Joachim, who has tuberculosis. During this time Hans takes part in the daily routines of the sanatorium; walks in the alpine air, resting times ("rest cures"), lectures, music concerts (weekly) and numerous, and generous, meals. Hans begins to become acquainted with some of the other residents (mostly patients) as well as spending time with his cousin. He also begins to notice unusual aspects of his own physicality; his cheeks are frequently flushed, his cigars have lost their taste. Towards the end of his stay he senses that he's developing a cold. He takes his temperature - an activity the other residents conduct with great regularity and devotion - and discovers it is alarmingly high. A visit to one of the sanatoriums doctors reveals that Hans has a "wet area" on one of his lungs. Hans is ordered to stay at the sanatorium for another 3 weeks.
I think I've inadvertently chosen a very apt novel for myself to be reading at this point in my life - "for myself to be reading at this point in my life"; the essence of this sentence is grammatical violation. I'm kind of living the life of a confined person, although, thankfully, I'm not sick (especially with a life-threatening illness like tuberculosis) and I have the option of not being "confined". What I mean by "confined" is that I spend alot of time in my flat. A large reason for this is that I'm not employed, but also I choose not to "go out" very often. Most of the activities I enjoy doing I can do in my flat, eg reading (although I do sometimes "go out" to the library or the bookstore), sleeping, eating (occasionally I'll "go out" to eat), surfing the internet, watching dvd's (which means I have to "go out" to the dvd rentals store or the dvd shop), contemplating, exercising (sometimes I "go out" for a walk), studying my cat, writing this blog, staying in touch with friends (via email or phone - most of my friends don't live nearbye or have time-constrained lives, but I do enjoy "going out" to catch up with them when it's possible). I have to admit, though, that having the internet is a huge contributor to my being able to spend so much time by myself in my flat. I always look forward to logging on and finding out what's going on with the world - big and small. I think, despite my introverted and non-social ways, I'm not an island.
I've slightly veered away from comparing my current life to the lives of the residents of the sanatorium in The Magic Mountain. I think the similarities lie in both the reflective, retreat-like quality of our lives and the being outside of "conventional" life. In the novel, the residents refer to the towns below the Alps as "the flatlands" and speak of the flatlands as though they were a different, and, perhaps, less privileged, world. The "slowness" and "boredom" of life in the sanatorium provide a unique perspective. For myself, at the moment, this is something I really enjoy about not having a job. But I also enjoy not having work responsibilities, ie having to be at work on the required days and at the required time, having to present in a work-mode frame of mind (whatever the hell that means, maybe not being in a psychotic state - which is A LOT to ask of your average human being), being able to do the required work and continue to do the required work until the required time has elapsed, even though my every human fibre longs to be somewhere else and mortal life is short. (Yes, me and work are not affable companions at this time).
So, in conclusion...actually, there won't be a conclusion, more of a: I've waffled on enough and would like to end this blog post before my brain implodes.
Wednesday 28 April 2010
To be honest, I don't know if I'm really all that keen to ACTUALLY have sex with a vampire
(Warning: I have a tendency to over think things)
Sure, they're portrayed all attractive and sexy in the movies and in novels, but would you actually want to get jiggy with one. I mean, they're corpses. They're stone cold, all over. And, at some point during the proceedings, they are going to sink their over formed canine teeth into your sensitive flesh. And that is going to hurt. Seriously. As someone who has experienced the sinking of canine teeth into her sensitive flesh (courtesy of a friendly neighbourhood psycho cat), let me tell you, it bloody hurts. And vampire canines are considerably larger that those of felines.
Still, if viking-vampire Eric Northman wants to get cuddly with me, I'd find it very difficult to say no, although I'd probably ask him to "glamour" me into believing that his skin is warm and his fangs are gentle.
Sure, they're portrayed all attractive and sexy in the movies and in novels, but would you actually want to get jiggy with one. I mean, they're corpses. They're stone cold, all over. And, at some point during the proceedings, they are going to sink their over formed canine teeth into your sensitive flesh. And that is going to hurt. Seriously. As someone who has experienced the sinking of canine teeth into her sensitive flesh (courtesy of a friendly neighbourhood psycho cat), let me tell you, it bloody hurts. And vampire canines are considerably larger that those of felines.
Still, if viking-vampire Eric Northman wants to get cuddly with me, I'd find it very difficult to say no, although I'd probably ask him to "glamour" me into believing that his skin is warm and his fangs are gentle.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Deconstructing Daniel
Daniel is in the backyard of our block of flats. He is hanging clothes on the clothesline. He is also yelling at his girlfriend, Natalie, through their open window. He is using 'colourful' language and poor grammar. Natalie yells at him to "shut up and stop talking like a westie, the neighbours will hear". Daniel mumbles something and then is silent. He finishes hanging the clothes on the line and goes inside.
I have been overhearing Daniel's enraged outbursts for the last 3-4 years. The potential for his angry young man persona to get out of hand is always looming, but, so far, he has always managed to reign himself in. Apparently, one of his strongest motivations for curbing his anti-social behaviour is his fear that people will think he's a westie.
I have been overhearing Daniel's enraged outbursts for the last 3-4 years. The potential for his angry young man persona to get out of hand is always looming, but, so far, he has always managed to reign himself in. Apparently, one of his strongest motivations for curbing his anti-social behaviour is his fear that people will think he's a westie.
Friday 16 April 2010
Michel Foucault Can Kiss My Aneurism
[Sub-Heading: Intellectualism Rage Quit]
I've decided to try to improve the intellectualness of my brain. I know, I know, my IQ (self-assessed) is so high already that this would seem to be a pointless endeavour. But I'm a humble genius and live by the adage "it is possible, though very unlikely, that there are things in this world of which I do not have knowledge" (and quite a catchy adage I think, maybe one day someone will turn it into a rap song). So I've been attempting to read some books by French intellectual Michel Foucault (who decides that a person is an intellectual anyway? is there a vote?). I have 3 of his books on loan from the library - which I've listed in order of "started to read and then abandoned":
1) The Will To Knowledge: The history of sexuality, Vol. 1
2) Discipline And Punishment: The birth of the prison
3) The Archaeology Of Knowledge
Sex, discipline and knowledge – bring it on! Or not. Here are 3 seemingly interesting topics, surely riveting discussion would transpire. Alas, no. Or maybe it did, just not in any language I can understand (note: the books have been translated into English before anyone says: “they’re written in French, idiot. Merde.”).
Perhaps I’m being disrespectful. Academics may say: “you’re just an uneducated pleb, Nicole, you shouldn’t be reading such literature. These books were not written for you”. Then who the fuck were these books written for ??? Sorry – Then for whom the fuck were these books written??? The blurb on the back cover of The Archaeology Of Knowledge informs that “…Foucault was a man whose passion and reason were at the service of nearly every progressive cause of his time…he spearheaded public awareness of the dynamics that hold us all in thrall to a few powerful ideologies and interests.” How on earth did he spearhead public awareness if nobody could understand anything he’d written? What are these powerful ideologies and interests to which we are held in thrall? If it’s not explained to me in language I can follow (and let me remind the internet that I have read The Brothers Karamazov – I can handle the incomprehensible, up to a point, ie just before my brain explodes), then how will I be able to spot an evil ideology when I meet one? Maybe I should just trust intellectuals and leave progress in their incomprehensible hands? Perhaps important ideas shouldn’t be “dumbed down” for the stinky masses? Maybe we should let the intellectuals sort it out and then explain it to us in simpler terms? And why does the word ‘elitist’ keep fluttering through my brain?
I want to be able to think it out for myself. And intellectuals writing in incomprehensible jargon and monopolizing ideas makes this difficult. And makes me cranky. I should be able to go to an original paper, read it for myself and make my own conclusions. Even if that paper is written in French (for which I do not speak). (Although I think it’s perfectly acceptable to read the translated version).
But let me get back to the concept of “dumbing down”. Is there a fear in Academic Land that if a piece of writing is coherent it isn't worthy? Is it necessary to over-intellectualize to the point of inanity to ensure that "common" people can't understand it. I think a comprehensive intellectual piece of writing will require, on the part of the reader, a degree of concentration, occasional consultation with a dictionary, sobriety and rumination. But these things don’t render it unreadable. I found Michel Foucault to be (mostly) unreadable. And annoying. Here are some thoughts that meandered though my mind whilst I was attempting to read his writings:
I've decided to try to improve the intellectualness of my brain. I know, I know, my IQ (self-assessed) is so high already that this would seem to be a pointless endeavour. But I'm a humble genius and live by the adage "it is possible, though very unlikely, that there are things in this world of which I do not have knowledge" (and quite a catchy adage I think, maybe one day someone will turn it into a rap song). So I've been attempting to read some books by French intellectual Michel Foucault (who decides that a person is an intellectual anyway? is there a vote?). I have 3 of his books on loan from the library - which I've listed in order of "started to read and then abandoned":
1) The Will To Knowledge: The history of sexuality, Vol. 1
2) Discipline And Punishment: The birth of the prison
3) The Archaeology Of Knowledge
Sex, discipline and knowledge – bring it on! Or not. Here are 3 seemingly interesting topics, surely riveting discussion would transpire. Alas, no. Or maybe it did, just not in any language I can understand (note: the books have been translated into English before anyone says: “they’re written in French, idiot. Merde.”).
Perhaps I’m being disrespectful. Academics may say: “you’re just an uneducated pleb, Nicole, you shouldn’t be reading such literature. These books were not written for you”. Then who the fuck were these books written for ??? Sorry – Then for whom the fuck were these books written??? The blurb on the back cover of The Archaeology Of Knowledge informs that “…Foucault was a man whose passion and reason were at the service of nearly every progressive cause of his time…he spearheaded public awareness of the dynamics that hold us all in thrall to a few powerful ideologies and interests.” How on earth did he spearhead public awareness if nobody could understand anything he’d written? What are these powerful ideologies and interests to which we are held in thrall? If it’s not explained to me in language I can follow (and let me remind the internet that I have read The Brothers Karamazov – I can handle the incomprehensible, up to a point, ie just before my brain explodes), then how will I be able to spot an evil ideology when I meet one? Maybe I should just trust intellectuals and leave progress in their incomprehensible hands? Perhaps important ideas shouldn’t be “dumbed down” for the stinky masses? Maybe we should let the intellectuals sort it out and then explain it to us in simpler terms? And why does the word ‘elitist’ keep fluttering through my brain?
I want to be able to think it out for myself. And intellectuals writing in incomprehensible jargon and monopolizing ideas makes this difficult. And makes me cranky. I should be able to go to an original paper, read it for myself and make my own conclusions. Even if that paper is written in French (for which I do not speak). (Although I think it’s perfectly acceptable to read the translated version).
But let me get back to the concept of “dumbing down”. Is there a fear in Academic Land that if a piece of writing is coherent it isn't worthy? Is it necessary to over-intellectualize to the point of inanity to ensure that "common" people can't understand it. I think a comprehensive intellectual piece of writing will require, on the part of the reader, a degree of concentration, occasional consultation with a dictionary, sobriety and rumination. But these things don’t render it unreadable. I found Michel Foucault to be (mostly) unreadable. And annoying. Here are some thoughts that meandered though my mind whilst I was attempting to read his writings:
- this is overly abstract
- this doesn’t make sense
- this is very obscure
- get your claws out of my leg, Willow
- I disagree with this generalization
- are you going to back up this generalization with some evidence?
- Willow is so cute when she sleeping – she’s gone all twitchy
- I strongly disagree with this generalization even though I don’t understand it
- this sentence is too long...
- ...and poorly worded...
- ...and contains too many ideas...
- ...and conveys no meaning
- I wish season 2 of True Blood was already available on DVD
- oh my god! I can’t remember the last 20 minutes
- this cryptic generalization is very sweeping
- this paragraph is imbued with a specific vagueness
- how long has it been since my last cup of tea?
- has this been written in some kind of code?
- get to the point already! Jesus…
- ..Mary and Joseph
- I think Alexander Skarsgård would be impressed that I’m reading Foucault and, because of this, become completely besotted with me, and, as a consequence, would find it necessary to get wild with me…
- …[this thought requires an “adult content” warning]
- dammit, I’m going to make another cup of tea even though I haven’t finished my current one
Thursday 8 April 2010
Whose Body Is It???
My lust for vampire Eric Northman continues (a lust that has crossed over, unsurprisingly, into a lust for the Swedish actor who plays him, Alexander Skarsgård). I'm patiently (mostly) waiting for season 2 of True Blood to be released on DVD. In the meantime, I've been watching videos of season 2 Eric on YouTube, as well as watching videos of Alexander in Swedish productions. I've also been doing some undirected research on the internet to find out miscellaneous stuff about Alexander (I was shocked to discover that I'm not the only person who has hotpants for him - imagine that!). Anyways, my point in all this (and the reason for the title of this blog entry) is that it appears the photo of Eric lying naked in white sheets (which I put up on my previous post) is a FAKE! Holy Toledo, Batman! Apparently, Alexander Skarsgård has said that it isn't him in the photo because "he doesn't shave his underarms".
So, being of an inquisitive nature (and having lots of free time), I looked into this pressing issue. And I've come to the conclusion that the photo is, indeed, a FAKE. Some enterprising fan has photoshopped the head of Eric Northman from a True Blood promotional photo:
So, being of an inquisitive nature (and having lots of free time), I looked into this pressing issue. And I've come to the conclusion that the photo is, indeed, a FAKE. Some enterprising fan has photoshopped the head of Eric Northman from a True Blood promotional photo:
onto the body of a naked-white-sheet-enmeshed man, who DOES shave his underarms:
Shifty. (Check out the matching facial expressions and, especially, the hair!).
Of course, now I need to have an authentic photo of the authentic naked chest of Alexander Skarsgård for my blog, and here it is:
(this is a screenshot from the HBO mini-series Generation Kill, in which Alexander plays Sgt. Brad "Iceman" Colbert).
I chose this picture (from amongst a number of pictures of shirtless Alexander) as Alexander's head-neck connection is clearly visible, which, I believe, provides a strong indication that the picture is unlikely to have been doctored. Unfortunately, however, since his underarms are not visible, absolute proof of the authenticity of Alexander's chest in this photo cannot be confirmed.
Sunday 4 April 2010
Distracted!
Can't think of anything to blog about, too busy watching True Blood. And obsessing about vampire Eric. So, instead, here are some photos of, um, well, vampire Eric.
This is Eric as a viking, prior to being turned into a vampire:
Here he is as a bad-ass vampire:
And, finally, this last photo shows that Eric looks after his body; he works out and he only drinks low-fat blood. And he makes sure he gets plenty of rest:
This is Eric as a viking, prior to being turned into a vampire:
Here he is as a bad-ass vampire:
And, finally, this last photo shows that Eric looks after his body; he works out and he only drinks low-fat blood. And he makes sure he gets plenty of rest:
Sunday 28 March 2010
Magic Mountain Count: Page 100
"A great many false ideas have been spread about the nature of boredom"
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, pg 102
Don't be fooled by this quote, I'm not bored by this book. In fact, as someone who is very interested in 'the nature of boredom', I'm quite enjoying this slow-paced novel (though it is light speed compared to Karamazov). The sentence I've quoted is part of a wordier section discussing the passage of time - the quickness or slowness of it, depending on the type of activity or task being conducted. I think it's an apt quote for a novel set in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. Quoting from the back cover "To this hermetic yet intrigue-ridden world comes Hans Castorp, a 'perfectly ordinary' young man who arrives for a short visit and ends up staying seven years". Ain't that the truth.
So far there hasn't been any magic (well it is called The Magic Mountain). I was hoping for some wizards or fairies, maybe even a troll. So far there's just been tuberculosis, although I guess this could be considered a kind of troll. There is sex, alluded to, rather than graphically described: "...and beyond any doubt, the game had turned bestial" pg 38 - BESTIAL! there's a word I've never used in polite conversation, or ever. But the first 100 pages of The Magic Mountain has not disappointed, it has been both literary and weird, qualities I look for in the novels I choose for my "special reading project".
Note: The edition I'm reading has been translated by John E. Woods.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Felony: Breaking and Entering OR Nicole has an Adventure
Last night, at approximately 12:15am (which, technically, was earlier today, but you know what I mean), I broke into the empty flat next door - through a partly open window (hence I didn't do any property damage). It was pretty darn exciting. Now I'm a felon! I'm BAD. Don't mess with me :-). Hmmm, maybe felons don't do smiley faces : # (that's me using profane language).
OK, OK, I'm not a convicted felon - yet. I wasn't arrested and I wasn't accosted by the fuzz - although I was kind of hoping the police would see me 'cos I was in my pyjamas and my reason for breaking in was fairly reasonable: I thought the empty flat might catch on fire. There were 2 lights on in the lounge room even though the flat has been vacant for a couple of weeks. The owners are going to do some maintenance before they rent it out again, so I guess they had the electricity reconnected. I noticed that the lights were on a few nights ago and became a little concerned that they, or the roof, or the wiring, might overheat and catch on fire. I was debating whether or not to ring the landlord and tell him, but hesitated due to a concern that I was being ridiculous. (I still think it was a reasonable fear, you hear about electrical fires that "started in the roof").
It all came to a head just before midnight last night as I lay awake in bed trying to decide if I could smell something burning. I told myself I was just imagining it, but, of course, it doesn't matter what I tell myself because I never listen. So I got up, put a jumper on over my nightie, pulled on my tracky-daks, put on my runners, tied up my hair, got a torch and headed out into the still night, fulling expecting to find a blazing fire in the lounge room of the flat next door. I peered into the window, no fire. There was definitely a burning smell in the air. I couldn't locate the source of the smell, but decided it wasn't connected with the flat. Still, I wasn't happy. This lack of fire didn't preclude the flat from catching fire at 4am, whenst I would be sound asleep. Or, indeed, wide awake, still worrying about a possible fire. Alas, only one thing was going to enable me to sleep: the bloody lights were going to HAVE to be switched off. Thankfully, one of the windows hadn't been latched properly and I was able to pull it open enough to get my hand inside and wind the lever to open the window (had this not been the case I may well have broken a window or rung my landlord right then, at 12:15am!). I was able to hoist myself in through the window ('cos I'm such a badass) and, MERCIFULLY, switch off the lights!!! Yeah! Although, before I switched off the lights, I has a quick look around the flat (which is a mirror image of my flat, or, for those who've studied Organic Chemistry, an enantiomer).
Then I climbed back out of the window, closed it as best I could and bolted back inside my flat, noting the bemused expression on the face of Ms Willow Pussycat who was perched on the windowsill watching my antics. It was all very exciting. If I were a drinking woman, I would've poured myself a whiskey to celebrate, but, since I'm on the wagon, I poured myself a glass of milk (and drank it) and ate a mint slice. Then I went to bed. And fell asleep. Being an outlaw is tiring.
OK, OK, I'm not a convicted felon - yet. I wasn't arrested and I wasn't accosted by the fuzz - although I was kind of hoping the police would see me 'cos I was in my pyjamas and my reason for breaking in was fairly reasonable: I thought the empty flat might catch on fire. There were 2 lights on in the lounge room even though the flat has been vacant for a couple of weeks. The owners are going to do some maintenance before they rent it out again, so I guess they had the electricity reconnected. I noticed that the lights were on a few nights ago and became a little concerned that they, or the roof, or the wiring, might overheat and catch on fire. I was debating whether or not to ring the landlord and tell him, but hesitated due to a concern that I was being ridiculous. (I still think it was a reasonable fear, you hear about electrical fires that "started in the roof").
It all came to a head just before midnight last night as I lay awake in bed trying to decide if I could smell something burning. I told myself I was just imagining it, but, of course, it doesn't matter what I tell myself because I never listen. So I got up, put a jumper on over my nightie, pulled on my tracky-daks, put on my runners, tied up my hair, got a torch and headed out into the still night, fulling expecting to find a blazing fire in the lounge room of the flat next door. I peered into the window, no fire. There was definitely a burning smell in the air. I couldn't locate the source of the smell, but decided it wasn't connected with the flat. Still, I wasn't happy. This lack of fire didn't preclude the flat from catching fire at 4am, whenst I would be sound asleep. Or, indeed, wide awake, still worrying about a possible fire. Alas, only one thing was going to enable me to sleep: the bloody lights were going to HAVE to be switched off. Thankfully, one of the windows hadn't been latched properly and I was able to pull it open enough to get my hand inside and wind the lever to open the window (had this not been the case I may well have broken a window or rung my landlord right then, at 12:15am!). I was able to hoist myself in through the window ('cos I'm such a badass) and, MERCIFULLY, switch off the lights!!! Yeah! Although, before I switched off the lights, I has a quick look around the flat (which is a mirror image of my flat, or, for those who've studied Organic Chemistry, an enantiomer).
Then I climbed back out of the window, closed it as best I could and bolted back inside my flat, noting the bemused expression on the face of Ms Willow Pussycat who was perched on the windowsill watching my antics. It was all very exciting. If I were a drinking woman, I would've poured myself a whiskey to celebrate, but, since I'm on the wagon, I poured myself a glass of milk (and drank it) and ate a mint slice. Then I went to bed. And fell asleep. Being an outlaw is tiring.
Thursday 18 March 2010
How I Have Happy and Safe Relationships
I invent a boyfriend. He's either completely made up or based on someone "real", maybe a character from a film or a television show or a novel. I've found it's safest not to base him on someone I actually know; therein lies confusion and heartbreak. Or it can be a real person, but someone I'm VERY unlikely to encounter in actual life and who (whom?), if I did encounter, probably wouldn't be as appealing to moi as he was prior to the encounter. (Jesus, that was a sentence you don't want to be reading everyday). I then attribute character/personality qualities to this person - qualities that I would find appealing in a boyfriend. For example, my current "boyfriend" is James from Metallica (see here for an example of my delusion). In reality, James is married with 3 children and lives in San Francisco (I live in Australia), he owns way too many cars and goes hunting (2 things I'm not so keen on), he also seems to have a Darwinian/Capitalist approach to life. In my fantasy I am able to completely overlook his Darwinian/Capitalist views, he has given up hunting due to the bad karma, he still owns too many cars but he doesn't drive them as often as he used to, and he still has 3 children but one of them is mine (WTF??). And I'm living in San Francisco, which is kind of fun.
Interesting, I seem to have incorporated quite a bit of real life into this imaginary relationship. Perhaps my mind is gradually moving towards a more reality based existence. Hmmm...not sure if this is a direction I want my mind to take.
One of the really great things about imaginary relationships is that if things start to go badly or we become bored with each other, there's no messy break-up. I can just stop fantasizing about him. Though, if I want to, I can imagine a break-up. It could be a "good" break-up, where no-one gets hurt; maybe we both meet other people at exactly the same time or, perhaps, we both want time alone. Or, if I'm feeling a little bitter and vindictive, I might imagine that he's miserable without me, even though he broke it off! Bastard! But it's all okay since no-one is actually hurt due to no-one actually existing (well, yes, I do exist but imaginary me exists only in my imagination - I think - and is usually a little altered from real me - whoever that is!). And, after the break-up, no-one gets stalked or harassed or runs into each other at parties (although I rarely go to parties) or weddings (sometimes I go to weddings) or the supermarket (I'm frequently at the supermarket).
I wonder if I my Imaginary Relationship technique could be incorporated into an Imaginary Workplace protocol and, by corollary, an Imaginary Income scheme.
Interesting, I seem to have incorporated quite a bit of real life into this imaginary relationship. Perhaps my mind is gradually moving towards a more reality based existence. Hmmm...not sure if this is a direction I want my mind to take.
One of the really great things about imaginary relationships is that if things start to go badly or we become bored with each other, there's no messy break-up. I can just stop fantasizing about him. Though, if I want to, I can imagine a break-up. It could be a "good" break-up, where no-one gets hurt; maybe we both meet other people at exactly the same time or, perhaps, we both want time alone. Or, if I'm feeling a little bitter and vindictive, I might imagine that he's miserable without me, even though he broke it off! Bastard! But it's all okay since no-one is actually hurt due to no-one actually existing (well, yes, I do exist but imaginary me exists only in my imagination - I think - and is usually a little altered from real me - whoever that is!). And, after the break-up, no-one gets stalked or harassed or runs into each other at parties (although I rarely go to parties) or weddings (sometimes I go to weddings) or the supermarket (I'm frequently at the supermarket).
I wonder if I my Imaginary Relationship technique could be incorporated into an Imaginary Workplace protocol and, by corollary, an Imaginary Income scheme.
Friday 12 March 2010
One Year Since We Talked
For 29 years we talked.
One year ago strange things were said.
An impasse was reached.
Now there's silence.
Maybe it's for the best. At least for now. There was some tension, I'm not entirely sure why. In many ways we are very different people but this has always been the case. Did something change? Maybe we were 'holding each other back' somehow and our friendship needed to be re-assessed, and then altered. Well it's definitely been altered. In the extreme.
I've thought about trying to make contact, to have another discussion. But I don't think I will. I have this strong sense that it will get us nowhere, and possibly make things worse.
One year ago strange things were said.
An impasse was reached.
Now there's silence.
Maybe it's for the best. At least for now. There was some tension, I'm not entirely sure why. In many ways we are very different people but this has always been the case. Did something change? Maybe we were 'holding each other back' somehow and our friendship needed to be re-assessed, and then altered. Well it's definitely been altered. In the extreme.
I've thought about trying to make contact, to have another discussion. But I don't think I will. I have this strong sense that it will get us nowhere, and possibly make things worse.
Monday 8 March 2010
You Can Shove Your Shit Into My Rubbish Bin But You Can't TAKE My Rubbish Bin!
(Warning: blog post is overly petty - there are bigger things going on in the world than my rubbish bin issues.)
As it turns out, there are some things you CANNOT shove into my rubbish bin - eg human body parts, explosives, vacuum cleaner parts. You could, of course, physically, shove these things into my rubbish bin but I would be very very unhappy about it. I would be forced to protest. And, in fact, I have, in a non-verbal kind of way. (It's ok, I haven't found body parts or explosives in my bin...yet).
Let me explain. Our bins are numbered with our flat numbers on them. Duh. A seemingly easy system to follow. Some residents create more rubbish than others. I don't create very much rubbish and, mostly, I'm ok with the others putting their excess rubbish into my bin (although, for the record, no-one has ever asked me if it's ok to use my bin). But today, when I went out to collect my bin from the road (today is bin-day), a series of things put my otherwise calm and generous demeanour into crankiness:
As it turns out, there are some things you CANNOT shove into my rubbish bin - eg human body parts, explosives, vacuum cleaner parts. You could, of course, physically, shove these things into my rubbish bin but I would be very very unhappy about it. I would be forced to protest. And, in fact, I have, in a non-verbal kind of way. (It's ok, I haven't found body parts or explosives in my bin...yet).
Let me explain. Our bins are numbered with our flat numbers on them. Duh. A seemingly easy system to follow. Some residents create more rubbish than others. I don't create very much rubbish and, mostly, I'm ok with the others putting their excess rubbish into my bin (although, for the record, no-one has ever asked me if it's ok to use my bin). But today, when I went out to collect my bin from the road (today is bin-day), a series of things put my otherwise calm and generous demeanour into crankiness:
- Someone had put out my recycle bin despite it not being recycle collection week (recycle is collected fortnightly). So I had to bring the bin back in. Ok. A fair enough mistake.
- The recycle bin, which had been barely a quarter full yesterday, is now nearly full. Shit. It's hard to move when it's this full.
- So now I've moved my recycle bin back into its spot next to my ordinary rubbish bin. Except the ordinary bin isn't there. Hmmm. Looking. Aha. It is with flat #3's bins - this is NOT where it belongs! So I go over and start moving it back. Then I realise it has stuff in it. I open the lid to find the bin half full with mostly recyclable stuff AND vacuum cleaner parts. Vacuum cleaner parts are for the hard rubbish collection (and this is not the first time hard rubbish items have been put into my bin). I'm concerned that the garbage collectors might get cranky with my bin and refuse to collect it. At this point I have the option of knocking on the door of flat #3 and sorting this out. Um...let me also point out that it's raining and windy and cold. I can sense my capacity for neighbourly verbal negotiation abandoning me...yep...there it goes...
- I dump the contents of the bin on the ground next to the other bins of flat #3
- I vigorously move my bin back to its rightful position, accidentally banging it into a rock
- I go into my flat feeling justified
- Sometime later (ie now) I ponder my actions and feel mild regret...
- ...very very mild
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