The cheese is giving me some trouble these days (see cheese mission statement at the top of this blog, which is courtesy of The Cheeseman - from Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Restless). I think the cheese is beginning to wear me. I know I am stronger than curdled milk but sometimes those cheese slices can weigh heavy upon brittle bones. Perhaps I need more calcium in my diet, which can be obtained from eating...cheese! Well, there's a revelation; should I try eating the cheese instead of wearing it?? I'll have to ponder on this, not least to ascertain what eating the cheese entails (I suspect it will partly require me to leave my flat more often and interact with the world - sorry, world). In the meantime, I think it would be helpful to revisit The Cheeseman and his wise aphorisms:
"I've made a little space for the cheese slices." (Willow's dream)
"These will not protect you." (Xander's dream)
"I wear the cheese. It does not wear me." (Giles' dream)
*Shakes the cheese slices* (Buffy's dream)
Sunday 25 December 2011
Sunday 18 December 2011
Research Fail
[Subheading: Glaring Omission]
Dear Sam Harris,
When you were writing your anti-Religion polemic The End of Reason: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason - a book which, in part, explores and philosophizes upon, the nature of human belief, contrasting the irrational aspects of religious beliefs with the rational aspects of most other beliefs - did it ever occur to you to speak with (even interview) a person with religious beliefs and, you know, ask them how they came to have these beliefs. You could've spoken to sample groups from various religions; isn't this the kind of thing researchers do, especially researchers researching people - I think it's called primary data. You're extra harshly critical of Islam; given that Islam is the second most populous of all the religions, surely you could've found some people of this faith and asked them about their beliefs (Hint: hang outside a mosque on Friday afternoon, you're bound to find some Islamic peoples). You've written a book critiquing religion and yet you don't appear to have consulted with any theologians - either an academic or a cleric (eg a priest, a rabbi, an imam). I'm afraid I'm going to have to give this book an F.
Effulgent13
(PS: I'm not religious - lapsed Catholicism notwithstanding)
Dear Sam Harris,
When you were writing your anti-Religion polemic The End of Reason: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason - a book which, in part, explores and philosophizes upon, the nature of human belief, contrasting the irrational aspects of religious beliefs with the rational aspects of most other beliefs - did it ever occur to you to speak with (even interview) a person with religious beliefs and, you know, ask them how they came to have these beliefs. You could've spoken to sample groups from various religions; isn't this the kind of thing researchers do, especially researchers researching people - I think it's called primary data. You're extra harshly critical of Islam; given that Islam is the second most populous of all the religions, surely you could've found some people of this faith and asked them about their beliefs (Hint: hang outside a mosque on Friday afternoon, you're bound to find some Islamic peoples). You've written a book critiquing religion and yet you don't appear to have consulted with any theologians - either an academic or a cleric (eg a priest, a rabbi, an imam). I'm afraid I'm going to have to give this book an F.
Effulgent13
(PS: I'm not religious - lapsed Catholicism notwithstanding)
Wednesday 14 December 2011
The Blog Posts MUST Continue
This blog seems to have gotten stuck at post number 200. I fear that if I don't move beyond post number 200 soon, there will be no more posting. Ever. This would be a tragedy. I can't let Effulgent13 die. So, in order to alleviate any potential post-less karma which might occur if I don't pass post 200, I am posting this post-less prevention post, pronto! Peace.
Saturday 3 December 2011
200
Hurrah!!!
I have reached blog post number 200. I am fantastic. In honour of this momentous and celebratory occasion, I will now pour myself a whiskey (and drink it). This has been a very exciting and extraordinarily productive Saturday night.
[For those of you playing at home, please feel free to join in the fun and pour yourself a beverage of your choosing (and drink it)]
I have reached blog post number 200. I am fantastic. In honour of this momentous and celebratory occasion, I will now pour myself a whiskey (and drink it). This has been a very exciting and extraordinarily productive Saturday night.
[For those of you playing at home, please feel free to join in the fun and pour yourself a beverage of your choosing (and drink it)]
197
According to the 'Edit Posts' page on this here blog, I have ONLY to write 2 more blog posts (not including this one) before I can reach blog post number 200! I am quite excited, but very impatient, about this impending and monumental occurrence. In fact, I am so impatient that I'm going to get to Blog Post 200 right now...
Monday 21 November 2011
The Perils of Womb Ownership
[Warning: Blog post mentions Menstruation, Masturbation and Twilight (the Stephanie Meyer vampire series). Also, blog post is long.]
Don’t get me wrong, there are also joys of womb ownership – though, really, apart from the making of the (wanted) babies and the being a conduit for supernatural powers (re: Buffy), the having of a womb is a mostly fraught experience. It can be especially fraught for the younger owners, and even more so for those aged around 11 to 15 – the age when their wombs are ‘activated’ (ie the onset of puberty, and its partner in crime, menstruation). What this activation means is that the (very) young woman is now in possession of a human-making body. As my mother said to me, on the day I first began to menstruate, “You can become a mother, now”. Obviously, I ran screaming from the room, but I knew what she meant. She wasn’t telling me to go out and get pregnant (I must have grandchildren!). She was making sure I understood that my body had transformed into something very powerful, and, as the wisdom of Spiderman teaches, “With great power comes great responsibility”. Which is a whole lotta scary for a nearly 13 year old. (There is similar scary for boy-teenagers – “You can become a father, now” – but, since human-making doesn’t occur inside men’s bodies, I think the level of jeopardy is greater for women than for men).
Of course, some parents are loathe to scare the crap out of their children, and some want to protect their children from the realities of the adult world. But their children are on an inexorable trajectory into a precarious and hormonal adulthood. A candid (and caring) conversation/s between parent and child goes a long way towards arming a teenager against the negative external (and internal) forces which they will encounter.
So, what does any of this have to do with the Twilight phenomenon? Well, I’m glad you asked. While there are many criticisms levelled at Twilight – its insipid female lead, its insipid prose, its insipid (conservative) gender politics, the ludicrousness of vampires that sparkle in the sunlight – the books and movies are very popular. And the main demographic for this popularity is young women, especially women teenagers. Why, why, why? Of course, the main character, Bella, is also a teenager (17 years old), but there are other stories with young female protagonists. Why are so many drawn to Twilight? What is the nature of this attractive energy, which seethes between the pages/celluloid of Twilight, and lures the unsuspecting girl/woman into its lair? (Hint: the perils of womb ownership).
Here are my (probably overreaching) theories:
Theory 1: Fear of sexual desire.
[Not that sexual desire is a bad thing, or inherently frightening.]
What I mean is that sexual desire can be a powerful and consuming experience. And, for newly hormonal teenagers, sexual desire is a new (and possibly scary) experience. It can take time to acclimatize to the new sensations, and to acquire some authority over them – to feel in control. For women - who, in many cultures and societies, are indoctrinated to believe that sexual desire in women is evil or that it isn’t real - the onset of lust can be incredibly confusing, if not terrifying. In the Twilight series, vampire Edward won’t have sex with human Bella, lest his passion gets out of control and he accidentally kills her. I wonder if Edward’s fear of uncontrollable, and possibly violent, passion mirrors a fear that women (especially younger women, who are newer to lust) may have about the power of their own sexual desire - what terror may ensue if the beast is unleashed (mwahahaha). Which leads to my next theory…
Theory 2: Vampire Edward as ‘safe’ boyfriend.
Whilst it’s all very thrilling being stalked, with fierce broodiness, by a tall-pale-undead-100-year-old man, such seemingly innocent blood pumping excitement can lead a person (eg Bella) to barely restrained lust. And if the person isn’t completely sure about getting wild with their lust, but still enjoys experiencing lust, having a partner who doesn’t ‘push’ for sexual contact can be a practical and unthreatening solution. Which leads to…masturbation! Masturbation – which is often considered normal for men but an aberration for women (bite me!) - is another way in which a person can experience blood pumping lust (and bonus orgasm) without having to negotiate with a partner. So, really, vampire Edward is a metaphor for (female) masturbation…
Theory 3: SEX can lead to PREGNANCY which can lead to DEATH.
[Twilight Spoiler: In the 4th instalment of the series, titled Breaking Dawn – although it should have been titled Breaking Bella – Bella and Edward do have sex, which leads to Bella’s pregnancy, which leads to Bella’s ‘death’ (she nearly dies giving birth to a human/vampire but Edward saves her by turning her into a vampire). Lordy!]
This theory follows on from the first paragraph of this blog post – the fear of unwanted pregnancy. Sure, people can use contraception, but it’s not always 100% effective, and contraceptive choices can be limited – eg some women will develop (potentially life-threatening) blood clots if they take the contraceptive pill. Contraception isn’t always made readily available (unhelpful!). Or, sometimes, contraception is ignored in the heat of passion. So, a young woman may find herself with an unwanted pregnancy, and suddenly faced with having to make a massive and inescapable decision. None of the choices are easy: termination, adoption, young (possibly single) motherhood, or, in some circumstances, suicide. There is also the possibility of things going wrong (even fatally – for the mother or baby) during pregnancy or childbirth. It can be pretty fucking dire! Once a girl hits puberty, the possibility of pregnancy is ever present (at least until menopause), and in the early years of womanhood this can be a little overwhelming. So, I wonder if the heightened intensity of Bella and Edward’s relationship - enhanced by his vampiric thrall and the looming fear that he may get crazy and cause Bella’s death - provides an oddly comforting emotional catharsis to over-burdened (and a little freaked-out) young shoulders.
In conclusion (to this somewhat unwieldy blog post), if societies and cultures over this blue and green planet could just stop being so anally retentive and judgemental about women’s sexuality, and instead be open and nurturing, then the story of Bella and Edward wouldn’t need to be so damn popular. Or something like that.
Don’t get me wrong, there are also joys of womb ownership – though, really, apart from the making of the (wanted) babies and the being a conduit for supernatural powers (re: Buffy), the having of a womb is a mostly fraught experience. It can be especially fraught for the younger owners, and even more so for those aged around 11 to 15 – the age when their wombs are ‘activated’ (ie the onset of puberty, and its partner in crime, menstruation). What this activation means is that the (very) young woman is now in possession of a human-making body. As my mother said to me, on the day I first began to menstruate, “You can become a mother, now”. Obviously, I ran screaming from the room, but I knew what she meant. She wasn’t telling me to go out and get pregnant (I must have grandchildren!). She was making sure I understood that my body had transformed into something very powerful, and, as the wisdom of Spiderman teaches, “With great power comes great responsibility”. Which is a whole lotta scary for a nearly 13 year old. (There is similar scary for boy-teenagers – “You can become a father, now” – but, since human-making doesn’t occur inside men’s bodies, I think the level of jeopardy is greater for women than for men).
Of course, some parents are loathe to scare the crap out of their children, and some want to protect their children from the realities of the adult world. But their children are on an inexorable trajectory into a precarious and hormonal adulthood. A candid (and caring) conversation/s between parent and child goes a long way towards arming a teenager against the negative external (and internal) forces which they will encounter.
So, what does any of this have to do with the Twilight phenomenon? Well, I’m glad you asked. While there are many criticisms levelled at Twilight – its insipid female lead, its insipid prose, its insipid (conservative) gender politics, the ludicrousness of vampires that sparkle in the sunlight – the books and movies are very popular. And the main demographic for this popularity is young women, especially women teenagers. Why, why, why? Of course, the main character, Bella, is also a teenager (17 years old), but there are other stories with young female protagonists. Why are so many drawn to Twilight? What is the nature of this attractive energy, which seethes between the pages/celluloid of Twilight, and lures the unsuspecting girl/woman into its lair? (Hint: the perils of womb ownership).
Here are my (probably overreaching) theories:
Theory 1: Fear of sexual desire.
[Not that sexual desire is a bad thing, or inherently frightening.]
What I mean is that sexual desire can be a powerful and consuming experience. And, for newly hormonal teenagers, sexual desire is a new (and possibly scary) experience. It can take time to acclimatize to the new sensations, and to acquire some authority over them – to feel in control. For women - who, in many cultures and societies, are indoctrinated to believe that sexual desire in women is evil or that it isn’t real - the onset of lust can be incredibly confusing, if not terrifying. In the Twilight series, vampire Edward won’t have sex with human Bella, lest his passion gets out of control and he accidentally kills her. I wonder if Edward’s fear of uncontrollable, and possibly violent, passion mirrors a fear that women (especially younger women, who are newer to lust) may have about the power of their own sexual desire - what terror may ensue if the beast is unleashed (mwahahaha). Which leads to my next theory…
Theory 2: Vampire Edward as ‘safe’ boyfriend.
Whilst it’s all very thrilling being stalked, with fierce broodiness, by a tall-pale-undead-100-year-old man, such seemingly innocent blood pumping excitement can lead a person (eg Bella) to barely restrained lust. And if the person isn’t completely sure about getting wild with their lust, but still enjoys experiencing lust, having a partner who doesn’t ‘push’ for sexual contact can be a practical and unthreatening solution. Which leads to…masturbation! Masturbation – which is often considered normal for men but an aberration for women (bite me!) - is another way in which a person can experience blood pumping lust (and bonus orgasm) without having to negotiate with a partner. So, really, vampire Edward is a metaphor for (female) masturbation…
Theory 3: SEX can lead to PREGNANCY which can lead to DEATH.
[Twilight Spoiler: In the 4th instalment of the series, titled Breaking Dawn – although it should have been titled Breaking Bella – Bella and Edward do have sex, which leads to Bella’s pregnancy, which leads to Bella’s ‘death’ (she nearly dies giving birth to a human/vampire but Edward saves her by turning her into a vampire). Lordy!]
This theory follows on from the first paragraph of this blog post – the fear of unwanted pregnancy. Sure, people can use contraception, but it’s not always 100% effective, and contraceptive choices can be limited – eg some women will develop (potentially life-threatening) blood clots if they take the contraceptive pill. Contraception isn’t always made readily available (unhelpful!). Or, sometimes, contraception is ignored in the heat of passion. So, a young woman may find herself with an unwanted pregnancy, and suddenly faced with having to make a massive and inescapable decision. None of the choices are easy: termination, adoption, young (possibly single) motherhood, or, in some circumstances, suicide. There is also the possibility of things going wrong (even fatally – for the mother or baby) during pregnancy or childbirth. It can be pretty fucking dire! Once a girl hits puberty, the possibility of pregnancy is ever present (at least until menopause), and in the early years of womanhood this can be a little overwhelming. So, I wonder if the heightened intensity of Bella and Edward’s relationship - enhanced by his vampiric thrall and the looming fear that he may get crazy and cause Bella’s death - provides an oddly comforting emotional catharsis to over-burdened (and a little freaked-out) young shoulders.
In conclusion (to this somewhat unwieldy blog post), if societies and cultures over this blue and green planet could just stop being so anally retentive and judgemental about women’s sexuality, and instead be open and nurturing, then the story of Bella and Edward wouldn’t need to be so damn popular. Or something like that.
Monday 7 November 2011
It's LOOKING at Me!
The cat-tooth wound on my left hand (courtesy of Oscar, the neighbourhood psycho cat) bears a surrealist resemblance to an eye. If I lived in a horror movie, the wound would indeed transform into an eye. A diabolical wound-eye, which would torment me, day and night, until I carried out its evil bidding - probably murder, or maybe tax evasion. The eye would then seemingly disappear, until the next time it required the transpiration of an evil deed, which I would be compelled to undertake, lest I go mad from the constant surveillance and intimidation of the re-emerged wound-eye. Eventually, my conscience would no longer be able to endure such depravity and, in a paroxysm of moral outrage, I would bloodily hack off my left hand using an old, unsharpened axe, which I would find in the back shed (alongside a partially buried human skeleton).
I love horror movies!
I love horror movies!
Sunday 30 October 2011
Elsewhere Brain
This brain of mine (bless her cotton grey matter) seems unable to drag herself away from absorbing and terribly complex considerations of...stuff...which is thus rendering her incapable of writing anything resembling coherency. Regular blog posting may not be wise at this time. Operation of heavy machinery could be lethal. Alchemy experimentation would be catastrophic...
Tuesday 25 October 2011
Wild Weekend
The clip below is a montage of the weekend activities of Olive Penderghast from the movie Easy A.
I can relate.
Thursday 13 October 2011
Do Not Adjust Your Screen
This blog post has been intentionally left blank.
This blog post has been intentionally left blank.
This blog post has been intentionally left blank.
Monday 10 October 2011
Today's Ponderisms
I wonder if the type of dream experienced by a person is dependant upon which side of their head rests on the pillow. Since the blood flow to the brain will be increased to the pillow-side (right or left) of the brain, maybe people can have 'right' or 'left' type dreams, eg an art-house dream from the right-brain or a realism dream from the left-brain.
How does a person judge if their (seemingly) eccentric thinking is actually wildly progressive or, indeed, wildly ludicrous.
As with most terribly meaningful things in life, there's an aphorism (which I just invented) to accompany the previous ponderism: Is it that I'm too crazy or that others are too sane?
Will I have a piece of dark chocolate or milk chocolate with this coffee?
My life is very privileged - that I have a choice between dark chocolate and milk chocolate.
How does a person judge if their (seemingly) eccentric thinking is actually wildly progressive or, indeed, wildly ludicrous.
As with most terribly meaningful things in life, there's an aphorism (which I just invented) to accompany the previous ponderism: Is it that I'm too crazy or that others are too sane?
Will I have a piece of dark chocolate or milk chocolate with this coffee?
My life is very privileged - that I have a choice between dark chocolate and milk chocolate.
Friday 7 October 2011
Nerd Interlude: Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
From the mind of Dr Sheldon Cooper in The Big Bang Theory:
Scissors cuts paper
Paper covers rock
Rock crushes lizard
Lizard poisons Spock
Spock smashes scissors
Scissors decapitates lizard
Lizard eats paper
Paper disproves Spock
Spock vapourizes rock
Rock crushes scissors
Here it is in action:
Scissors cuts paper
Paper covers rock
Rock crushes lizard
Lizard poisons Spock
Spock smashes scissors
Scissors decapitates lizard
Lizard eats paper
Paper disproves Spock
Spock vapourizes rock
Rock crushes scissors
Here it is in action:
Saturday 24 September 2011
I Need a Hug, Goddamit!
Yesterday I watched 2 films (I did other things as well - my life is very full). The films were: The Killer Inside Me and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Both films contain strong sexual violence. Just watching one of these films would be pretty disturbing, so perhaps watching one after the other wasn't the smartest move.
In both films the sexual violence is perpetrated against women. It all felt a little misogynistic to me. I don't jump to accusations of misogyny or sexism based on the inclusion of violence (especially sexual violence) against women in a film or a novel. If the narrative allows a context for such violence then it should be included - eg showing how rape is used as a tool of war. But I had issues with the portrayals of violence in these two films.
In The Killer Inside Me, the main (male) character is a violently sadistic psychopath, so certainly his violence is not out of place. What bothered and annoyed me was the portrayal of the women he abuses. There was very little development of their characters - which is annoying in of itself (so often female characters are poorly drawn) - but more information about the women could have given some insight into their disturbing (in my opinion) reactions to the violence perpetrated against them. Without a context for their apparent acceptance of the violence, it's difficult not to see the (quite graphic) scenes in which they are beaten as an expression of hatred (against women).
In The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, the main female character (Lisbeth Salander) is violently raped. I don't believe this needed to happen. The events which lead to her violation are very contrived. It almost seemed as though the writer (the film is based on a novel, as is The Killer Inside Me) wanted to include a graphic rape - it felt exploitative. In my opinion, Lisbeth, who is fiercely intelligent and wildly brave, would've found a way around her circumstances to prevent herself being raped. Interestingly, the English translation of the novel's Swedish title is: Men Who Hate Women.
Thankfully, tonight I'll be watching Dr Who.
In both films the sexual violence is perpetrated against women. It all felt a little misogynistic to me. I don't jump to accusations of misogyny or sexism based on the inclusion of violence (especially sexual violence) against women in a film or a novel. If the narrative allows a context for such violence then it should be included - eg showing how rape is used as a tool of war. But I had issues with the portrayals of violence in these two films.
In The Killer Inside Me, the main (male) character is a violently sadistic psychopath, so certainly his violence is not out of place. What bothered and annoyed me was the portrayal of the women he abuses. There was very little development of their characters - which is annoying in of itself (so often female characters are poorly drawn) - but more information about the women could have given some insight into their disturbing (in my opinion) reactions to the violence perpetrated against them. Without a context for their apparent acceptance of the violence, it's difficult not to see the (quite graphic) scenes in which they are beaten as an expression of hatred (against women).
In The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, the main female character (Lisbeth Salander) is violently raped. I don't believe this needed to happen. The events which lead to her violation are very contrived. It almost seemed as though the writer (the film is based on a novel, as is The Killer Inside Me) wanted to include a graphic rape - it felt exploitative. In my opinion, Lisbeth, who is fiercely intelligent and wildly brave, would've found a way around her circumstances to prevent herself being raped. Interestingly, the English translation of the novel's Swedish title is: Men Who Hate Women.
Thankfully, tonight I'll be watching Dr Who.
Sunday 18 September 2011
Steel Wrapped in More Steel
As I creep further and further into the iniquitous den of middle-age, I have begun to realize that the only thing which can shelter me from this interminable, collagen-sapping horror, is an extreme makeover. After much consideration, I have chosen my new look:
(note the metallic grin and glowing eyes - clearly this is a happy terminator)
(note the metallic grin and glowing eyes - clearly this is a happy terminator)
Friday 16 September 2011
Horizontal Advantage
[related to previous post]
[not rude]
Ruminatory, and often necessary, thinking can be effectively achieved when a body and its brain are in a horizontal position. The increased flow of blood to the brain will likely enhance lateral and abstract mind distortions.
There is always the threat of the ruminating brain/body organism being overtaken by sleep. This threat isn't always a negative, though, since sleep is an 'activity' most human organisms tend to under do. If the foggy head of sleep rears its somnolence whilst a human is engaged in horizontal rumination, submission may be for the best. However, sleep rarely makes an appearance during late night or early morning ruminations, and usually appears in the hour prior to the designated 'time to get up'.
Which takes us, inexorably, to insomnia.
I suspect that the need for lateral and abstract mind distortion is why insomnia is so rabid amongst humans: Not enough time is spent lying down. Hence, lateral and abstract mind distortion isn't adequately met, and rumination is forced to occur whenever it finds an opportunistic horizontal moment, often when a person is trying to sleep.
PS: This blog post was brought to you by half-baked theories and I seem to be doing a lot of lying down these days.
[not rude]
Ruminatory, and often necessary, thinking can be effectively achieved when a body and its brain are in a horizontal position. The increased flow of blood to the brain will likely enhance lateral and abstract mind distortions.
There is always the threat of the ruminating brain/body organism being overtaken by sleep. This threat isn't always a negative, though, since sleep is an 'activity' most human organisms tend to under do. If the foggy head of sleep rears its somnolence whilst a human is engaged in horizontal rumination, submission may be for the best. However, sleep rarely makes an appearance during late night or early morning ruminations, and usually appears in the hour prior to the designated 'time to get up'.
Which takes us, inexorably, to insomnia.
I suspect that the need for lateral and abstract mind distortion is why insomnia is so rabid amongst humans: Not enough time is spent lying down. Hence, lateral and abstract mind distortion isn't adequately met, and rumination is forced to occur whenever it finds an opportunistic horizontal moment, often when a person is trying to sleep.
PS: This blog post was brought to you by half-baked theories and I seem to be doing a lot of lying down these days.
Thursday 8 September 2011
Thoughts From My Pillow
[Some of my most profound ruminations occur whenst I'm in a non-vertical, pyjama-clad posture - one from which I have great difficulty extricating myself - ie I can't get out of bed!]
- my bed is way too comfy
- sanctuary
- the world will just have to go on without me
- sorry, Willow, I shouldn't move my leg, thus disturbing your infinite slumber
- can I delay my participation in this day indefinitely
- I've read about (fictional) people taking to their beds for long periods of time - presumably to escape the evil world
- there are tasks to which I could be attending, if only I could shift my ass! (and the rest of me)
- hunger will eventually smoke me out, such that I'll have to get up and eat something...
- ...unless I eat Willow...
- ...mwahahahaha...
- ...Ow! *smacked by angry claw*
Sunday 4 September 2011
Alchemy Fail
It would appear that when I touch (or just stand within close proximity to) gold, it transforms into lead. I have the anti-Midas touch. I am the King of Lead.
On the positive side, though, lead will come in handy when there's a radiation leak. Or when I need bullets.
PS: This blog post was brought to you by Sparkles and Sunshine.
On the positive side, though, lead will come in handy when there's a radiation leak. Or when I need bullets.
PS: This blog post was brought to you by Sparkles and Sunshine.
Tuesday 30 August 2011
Spotty
This blog is currently experiencing some spottiness.
Spottiness is a fact of blog-life, a condition that even the most rambling of blogs will, most likely, have to contend with at some point. It is not life-threatening and, often, a full recovery is possible. However, some caution is advisable during its early stages, as spottiness can transform into the more severe lineyness, if left unchecked. Plenty of fluids, rest, and strange smelling broths should keep the spots to a minimum. Still, some spottiness is not always a bad thing and, in fact, there are creatures who positively thrive in a spot-infested skin:
(Photo from Wild Leopards of Beijing)
Spottiness is a fact of blog-life, a condition that even the most rambling of blogs will, most likely, have to contend with at some point. It is not life-threatening and, often, a full recovery is possible. However, some caution is advisable during its early stages, as spottiness can transform into the more severe lineyness, if left unchecked. Plenty of fluids, rest, and strange smelling broths should keep the spots to a minimum. Still, some spottiness is not always a bad thing and, in fact, there are creatures who positively thrive in a spot-infested skin:
(Photo from Wild Leopards of Beijing)
Monday 22 August 2011
Teenage Boys and Sex: WTF?
I have just started reading a completely ludicrous book titled "Why Gender Matters" by Leonard Sax. I have read one chapter only and have based my assessment of the book on this one chapter (chapter 6: Sex), indeed on one passage:
Also, on behalf of my teenage sisters, I would like to point out that the having of sexual desire - and the wanting to satisfy sexual desire as a motivation for sex - is very much a part of we XX humans. It is completely healthy and normal to be interested in sex while being female. AND, as proof of the link between being imbued with lust and (mostly) imbued with estrogen, astute readers will notice that I, a womb-bearing member of humanity, opened the ludicrous book at the chapter on Sex. Baby!
"The motivation for sex is fundamentally different for most teenage boys compared with teenage girls. Teenage boys want to have sex to satisfy sexual desire. It's a gut-level, base-of-the-brain impulse, not far removed from the need to have a bowel movement when you feel the urge." (Page 125)Ah, sex and poo, quite the erotic combination - thankfully (especially for teenage boys, or so it would seem), there's a whole subsection of porn devoted to fecal lust. (OK, I'm done now).
Also, on behalf of my teenage sisters, I would like to point out that the having of sexual desire - and the wanting to satisfy sexual desire as a motivation for sex - is very much a part of we XX humans. It is completely healthy and normal to be interested in sex while being female. AND, as proof of the link between being imbued with lust and (mostly) imbued with estrogen, astute readers will notice that I, a womb-bearing member of humanity, opened the ludicrous book at the chapter on Sex. Baby!
Tuesday 16 August 2011
Struggle in the Car Park
Whilst walking through the car park, on my way to get food, I passed an almost fallen tree branch. The attempt at branch-tree separation was not proceeding smoothly; the branch was refusing to disengage. Its bent and splintered bough clung tenaciously to the trunk, while its leafy head lay prone against the bitumen, plotting. I wanted to shout, "You go, branch!", but decorum, and the eyes of strangers, prevented me.
Friday 12 August 2011
Too Much Dream-Psychoanalysis?
[NEVER!!!]
So, last night I had series of involved and rollicking dreams - yee-hah! I was a little worn out upon awakening. I won't go into lurid detail of the dreams, for there may be children watching, and, quite frankly, the lurid detail of a person's dreams is mostly only interesting to that person. Nevertheless, there are 2 details from my dreams on which I feel I must comment:
1. the crumbling doorway of the house I lived in (with my family) from age 8 to 18 - this house often appears in my dreams (interestingly - to no one but me - the house I lived in before I was 8 never appears in my dreams).
2. the meandering presence of the person I like (sometimes with his girlfriend, and what appeared to be her entourage) - but there was a specific detail that struck me; he poured himself a drink of frothy pink bubblegum (it's okay to drink bubblegum in a dream), then poured some of it into a second glass and offered this to me. I refused the liquid bubblegum as I was already drinking a beer but he insisted (in a friendly way) that I take it, so I did, which seemed to make him happy.
The psychoanalytic interpretation of detail 1 is quite clear - obviously myself and my family need to stop letting evil into our lives, and we need to check that our front doors have sturdy locks (and, possibly, call in a termite inspector).
Detail 2 is a little more free-form. Clearly, the frothy pink bubblegum drink holds great meaning - but what is that meaning? Most likely it's sexual - Freud would see much phallic symbolism in the offering of a frothy pink bubblegum drink by a man I find attractive - but I see this explanation as being too easy (or, duh!). No, I'd like to believe there's something quite esoteric hidden in the pink bubblegum: Do I need more decorative polymer in my life? And, by extension, do I need to find a man who will understand and accept my need for decorative polymer? Ponderous...
So, last night I had series of involved and rollicking dreams - yee-hah! I was a little worn out upon awakening. I won't go into lurid detail of the dreams, for there may be children watching, and, quite frankly, the lurid detail of a person's dreams is mostly only interesting to that person. Nevertheless, there are 2 details from my dreams on which I feel I must comment:
1. the crumbling doorway of the house I lived in (with my family) from age 8 to 18 - this house often appears in my dreams (interestingly - to no one but me - the house I lived in before I was 8 never appears in my dreams).
2. the meandering presence of the person I like (sometimes with his girlfriend, and what appeared to be her entourage) - but there was a specific detail that struck me; he poured himself a drink of frothy pink bubblegum (it's okay to drink bubblegum in a dream), then poured some of it into a second glass and offered this to me. I refused the liquid bubblegum as I was already drinking a beer but he insisted (in a friendly way) that I take it, so I did, which seemed to make him happy.
The psychoanalytic interpretation of detail 1 is quite clear - obviously myself and my family need to stop letting evil into our lives, and we need to check that our front doors have sturdy locks (and, possibly, call in a termite inspector).
Detail 2 is a little more free-form. Clearly, the frothy pink bubblegum drink holds great meaning - but what is that meaning? Most likely it's sexual - Freud would see much phallic symbolism in the offering of a frothy pink bubblegum drink by a man I find attractive - but I see this explanation as being too easy (or, duh!). No, I'd like to believe there's something quite esoteric hidden in the pink bubblegum: Do I need more decorative polymer in my life? And, by extension, do I need to find a man who will understand and accept my need for decorative polymer? Ponderous...
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Musical Interlude: A Hazy Shade of Winter
Hang on to your hopes, my friend,The song A Hazy Shade of Winter (by Simon & Garfunkel), with its plaintive but sanguine melody and lyrics, has been covered a number of times by various musicians. Below are 3 versions which I like. I think my favourite is by Bodyjar - raw and angry (like me!), though I have some nostalgia for the pop-rock Bangles version, being that it's the first version I ever heard (back in mid-80's teenageland). And I like the gentle harmonizing of the S&G original. The versions are listed in order of chronology and intensity:
That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away,
Simply pretend,
That you can build them again...
1968 (S&G)
1987 (Bangles)
1995 (Bodyjar)
Tuesday 26 July 2011
Blah...Heart Stuff...Blah...
Still, I think about him, and want to be with him. I don’t know a whole lot about him; only what he allows to people in general, but there is enough in this to attract me to him, so that I want to know more. But he is with someone else, and it is she who he allows in. The time he spends with her is the loneliest time for me. I theorize ways in which they are incompatible, such that they will eventually breakup. And maybe they will breakup, with or without my theories, but when? In 2 weeks, 2 months, 2 years? And even if they were to break-up, there’s nothing to indicate that he would want to spend time with me. But – and, yes, I’m being less than gracious – being able to know that he is also alone would bring me some solace.
A solution to my predicament - at least one that doesn’t involve alchemist love potions - is to fall for someone else. Which, of course, is easier said than done. But I’m reasonably confident that this can happen (my history of lurv concurs), though it may not happen for a while. It usually takes sometime for me to let go of, and replace, my infatuations. And finding someone else is problematic. I’m not overly sociable, so I don’t generally meet lots of new people in the course of my days – plus, when I do meet new people, I need time to see how I feel about them. There is also the issue that there aren’t so many available people my age. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, it’s possible that my ways (endearingly eccentric!) are a little out of the range of normal – at least for the society of which I am a part – and so your more normal people aren’t so inclined towards the lovely me.
But, whatever, ‘cos I still really like him.
A solution to my predicament - at least one that doesn’t involve alchemist love potions - is to fall for someone else. Which, of course, is easier said than done. But I’m reasonably confident that this can happen (my history of lurv concurs), though it may not happen for a while. It usually takes sometime for me to let go of, and replace, my infatuations. And finding someone else is problematic. I’m not overly sociable, so I don’t generally meet lots of new people in the course of my days – plus, when I do meet new people, I need time to see how I feel about them. There is also the issue that there aren’t so many available people my age. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, it’s possible that my ways (endearingly eccentric!) are a little out of the range of normal – at least for the society of which I am a part – and so your more normal people aren’t so inclined towards the lovely me.
But, whatever, ‘cos I still really like him.
Saturday 23 July 2011
What Sadistic Psychopath Invented Getting Out of Bed???
My head has melted into the pillow, while my body and limbs have infused into the mattress and doona. Blood has filled my brain, encasing it in a thick, comfy fog. Through the open window I can hear the birds calling out to each other, and people - some of them also calling out to each other - walking past my driveway on their way to work or school. I know what all of this means - it means it's time to go back to sleep.
Thursday 21 July 2011
Bridges: Practical, Philosophical, Political
(also, pretty)
If it is imperative that a body of water or steep valley be crossed, than a bridge is a fine way to traverse such obstacles.
Spread across uneven topography, and connecting disjointed lands, bridges have infiltrated the earth. We don't know when bridges first appeared, but we are fairly sure that, much like fences and mailboxes, they were brought here by other worldly beings - bless their green tentacles and numerous heads. Little did the aliens realise just how influential and innate bridges would become in the lives of humans. Thriving civilizations have evolved around unintentionally strategically placed bridges. But, more importantly, their enchanting loftiness has infused bridges with metaphysical qualities, which, in turn, have given rise to Bridge Philosophy.
You know what I'm talking about - "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it", "Don't burn your bridges", "Building bridges", "Too many bridges spoil the river" etc. It would be a pointless endeavour trying to find a dilemma unable to be wisely guided by Bridge Philosophy.
I think the bridge philosophy which I strive most to have embody and enrich my life is: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. As a slightly anally retentive introvert, I have a tendency to overthink situations, to ruminate upon every single possible outcome (good and bad, but mostly bad) that could possibly happen were I to go ahead with, say, walking to the shops to get some milk (or maybe catfood, or maybe milk AND catfood). Which can make getting things done - indeed, living - a little prohibitive. So, to combat my ponderous inertia, and maybe even infuse a tranquil sensibility into my being, I've amended the bridge philosophy: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, or, if it turns out there is no bridge - but I still need to cross the river - I'll see if I can find a canoe, or maybe a raft, or, worst-case scenario, I can always continue along the riverbank until I find a shallow section and wade across...PLUS, it may turn out that I don't need to cross that darn river anyway.
Bridges also offer a symbolic representation of societies' inequalities, in terms of unequal distribution of wealth (ie wages) and status. Earth engineers, having thoroughly studied many alien bridge structures, have been able to reverse-engineer and, thus, construct design blueprints for the building of new, terrestrial-made bridges. Then, Earth construction workers, using these design blueprints, have toiled for countless hours, at great personal risk - some have been seriously injured and some have died - to build the bridges. Both the engineers and the construction workers have worked hard. They've employed different skills and abilities - all necessary - to ensure that a safe and usable bridge has been built. But each group is valued differently, engineers are paid more and have a higher social status than construction workers. The mental dexterity required to understand complex maths and physics is placed above the physical (and mental) dexterity required to put together a complex structure, when neither ability is inherently "better" than the other. It makes me cranky.
So, next time you find yourself moseying across a bridge, don't think of it as just a conduit to get you from point A to point B, for a bridge is so much more.
If it is imperative that a body of water or steep valley be crossed, than a bridge is a fine way to traverse such obstacles.
Spread across uneven topography, and connecting disjointed lands, bridges have infiltrated the earth. We don't know when bridges first appeared, but we are fairly sure that, much like fences and mailboxes, they were brought here by other worldly beings - bless their green tentacles and numerous heads. Little did the aliens realise just how influential and innate bridges would become in the lives of humans. Thriving civilizations have evolved around unintentionally strategically placed bridges. But, more importantly, their enchanting loftiness has infused bridges with metaphysical qualities, which, in turn, have given rise to Bridge Philosophy.
You know what I'm talking about - "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it", "Don't burn your bridges", "Building bridges", "Too many bridges spoil the river" etc. It would be a pointless endeavour trying to find a dilemma unable to be wisely guided by Bridge Philosophy.
I think the bridge philosophy which I strive most to have embody and enrich my life is: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. As a slightly anally retentive introvert, I have a tendency to overthink situations, to ruminate upon every single possible outcome (good and bad, but mostly bad) that could possibly happen were I to go ahead with, say, walking to the shops to get some milk (or maybe catfood, or maybe milk AND catfood). Which can make getting things done - indeed, living - a little prohibitive. So, to combat my ponderous inertia, and maybe even infuse a tranquil sensibility into my being, I've amended the bridge philosophy: I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, or, if it turns out there is no bridge - but I still need to cross the river - I'll see if I can find a canoe, or maybe a raft, or, worst-case scenario, I can always continue along the riverbank until I find a shallow section and wade across...PLUS, it may turn out that I don't need to cross that darn river anyway.
Bridges also offer a symbolic representation of societies' inequalities, in terms of unequal distribution of wealth (ie wages) and status. Earth engineers, having thoroughly studied many alien bridge structures, have been able to reverse-engineer and, thus, construct design blueprints for the building of new, terrestrial-made bridges. Then, Earth construction workers, using these design blueprints, have toiled for countless hours, at great personal risk - some have been seriously injured and some have died - to build the bridges. Both the engineers and the construction workers have worked hard. They've employed different skills and abilities - all necessary - to ensure that a safe and usable bridge has been built. But each group is valued differently, engineers are paid more and have a higher social status than construction workers. The mental dexterity required to understand complex maths and physics is placed above the physical (and mental) dexterity required to put together a complex structure, when neither ability is inherently "better" than the other. It makes me cranky.
So, next time you find yourself moseying across a bridge, don't think of it as just a conduit to get you from point A to point B, for a bridge is so much more.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
Eventually I realized, by his demeanour, that it wasn't him
(though, I'm still not 100% sure)
The man, who entered the train-carriage I was in on Saturday, was not my ex-boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend being someone I would not want to encounter again. But the man, who placed himself just a few feet from where I was standing, looked a hell of a lot like him. There was enough of a resemblance to cause some adrenaline to flow into existence. With my back to him, and with some degree of sun-glasses enhanced anonymity, I was able to study his reflection in the glass of the train door. Visually and methodically, I assessed the man's exterior, then I searched my memory for my ex's salient features and attempted to age them 12 years. I compared my imaginary photofit with the train-man:
So I kept the man in my sight. Until either he or I alighted from the train, he would be subject to my surveillance. Thankfully, he didn't notice me. Like many train travellers, he had entered the 'zone-out' mode - identifiable by the 'absent gaze' - wherein the person is either day-dreaming, engaged in gentle thinking, or semi-conscious. I couldn't tell which was applicable in the case of the train-man, but the more I studied him, the more it became apparent that he seemed pretty chilled. Chilled???
Hmm...'chilled' doesn't easily fit with how I'd imagined my ex would be 12 years after we broke up. At age 33 he was paranoid, controlling, and fairly angry and cynical at the world. As much as I had empathy for why he was the way he was - a pretty rough childhood - I couldn't be his partner; he was too dangerous. I thought that by his mid-40s he would either be in gaol or dead. I would've found it hard, back then, to believe that 12 years later he could have such a relaxed gaze, as well as such healthy-looking skin (he was a heavy-ish smoker whose skin had already begun to look a little sallow). And an internal calm. I was beginning to doubt that the train-man was my ex.
Finally, the train arrived at Flinders Street Station, where both the man and myself exited, along with almost everyone else on the train. The man was in front of me, so I was able to observe him as he headed east, towards the Flinders Street exit. I headed west, towards the Elizabeth Street exit. With some relief, my surveillance had ended.
I'm mostly convinced, now, upon reflection, that the man wasn't my ex. If it was him, it was an incredible transformation. I want to believe that it was him, though - to know that he was able to get himself together after all this time would be cause for some happiness. I think this is why I don't want to say for sure that it wasn't him, for that would still leave open the possiblity that my ex is either in gaol or dead.
The man, who entered the train-carriage I was in on Saturday, was not my ex-boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend being someone I would not want to encounter again. But the man, who placed himself just a few feet from where I was standing, looked a hell of a lot like him. There was enough of a resemblance to cause some adrenaline to flow into existence. With my back to him, and with some degree of sun-glasses enhanced anonymity, I was able to study his reflection in the glass of the train door. Visually and methodically, I assessed the man's exterior, then I searched my memory for my ex's salient features and attempted to age them 12 years. I compared my imaginary photofit with the train-man:
The train-man is somewhat heavier and grey-haired than my ex was the last time I saw him, but time and mid-4os will allow for such changes. Apart from some extra lines, his face seems almost unchanged. Perhaps his mouth is shaped a little differently, his nose slightly longer, and he seems taller than I remember - but these alterations are not so great that they can't be explained by the inconsistencies and subjectivity of memory. But it is his eyes which raise my dread (it's always the eyes!). My ex's eyes - which, at times, emitted warmth, and at other times, menace - were pale blue-grey, with distinctive, slightly hooded eye-lids. Train-man has the same eyes!
So I kept the man in my sight. Until either he or I alighted from the train, he would be subject to my surveillance. Thankfully, he didn't notice me. Like many train travellers, he had entered the 'zone-out' mode - identifiable by the 'absent gaze' - wherein the person is either day-dreaming, engaged in gentle thinking, or semi-conscious. I couldn't tell which was applicable in the case of the train-man, but the more I studied him, the more it became apparent that he seemed pretty chilled. Chilled???
Hmm...'chilled' doesn't easily fit with how I'd imagined my ex would be 12 years after we broke up. At age 33 he was paranoid, controlling, and fairly angry and cynical at the world. As much as I had empathy for why he was the way he was - a pretty rough childhood - I couldn't be his partner; he was too dangerous. I thought that by his mid-40s he would either be in gaol or dead. I would've found it hard, back then, to believe that 12 years later he could have such a relaxed gaze, as well as such healthy-looking skin (he was a heavy-ish smoker whose skin had already begun to look a little sallow). And an internal calm. I was beginning to doubt that the train-man was my ex.
Finally, the train arrived at Flinders Street Station, where both the man and myself exited, along with almost everyone else on the train. The man was in front of me, so I was able to observe him as he headed east, towards the Flinders Street exit. I headed west, towards the Elizabeth Street exit. With some relief, my surveillance had ended.
I'm mostly convinced, now, upon reflection, that the man wasn't my ex. If it was him, it was an incredible transformation. I want to believe that it was him, though - to know that he was able to get himself together after all this time would be cause for some happiness. I think this is why I don't want to say for sure that it wasn't him, for that would still leave open the possiblity that my ex is either in gaol or dead.
Sunday 3 July 2011
Seen on the Insides of My Eyelids
My journey into the Land of Nod (where dreams reside) requires a robust mattress, unbroken darkness, sensible pyjamas, and eyes that are completely covered by eyelids. As my somnolent safari (seriously!!) begins, I am guided by the nebulous shapes and shadows which appear in the black, and by the tunnel of sparkles. I cannot be fully subsumed by my passage, and thus, by my destination, until I have seen the transient faces - sometimes familiar, sometimes frightening, mostly gentle. It is these fading facades which signal that I'm ready to acquiesce, to submit to subconscious sanity (hurrah!!).
Monday 27 June 2011
Sage advice given to me by a friend in the guise of a random comment
Prior to my first encounter with 'the wild thing' (ie sex!), one of my friends, who had already partaken of the wild thing, made a comment to me about the wild thing (and I'm paraphrasing, for the comment was made quite some time ago):
I was very grateful for the comment/advice, which ensured that my first time wild thing expectations were drastically lowered - but in a good way - so that I wasn't anticipating fireworks, and thus was not disappointed whenst fireworks did not ensue.
"It's not like in the movies, it's more down to earth, and things can go wrong."She was mainly referring to the first time, or at the beginning (not that things can't go wrong after the beginning!), but I think she was also commenting on the romanticizing and airbrushing of sex - in films and novels (at least, mainstream films/novels), and in society in general.
I was very grateful for the comment/advice, which ensured that my first time wild thing expectations were drastically lowered - but in a good way - so that I wasn't anticipating fireworks, and thus was not disappointed whenst fireworks did not ensue.
Friday 24 June 2011
"Life-Experiences" I Haven't Experienced
Life-Experiences: Obviously, there are, like, a gazillion experiences to be had, so my list is just of the more general things of which most earth-born peoples can expect to experience during their lifetimes.
Here is my 'un-experienced' list:
So, having made this list, my task now is to decide which, if any, I would like to experience:
Here is my 'un-experienced' list:
- death (ie mine - admittedly, it would probably be a little tricky to type out this list had I experienced death, but you never know)
- being pregnant
- giving birth
- extra-terrestrial encounter
- being in love (ie proper, thoughtful, standing-the-test-of-time love...not the more random, lust-driven thing I usually go with)
- heroically sacrificing my safety to save someone else
- raising children
- committing to a relationship (eg. getting married or agreeing to be a de facto)
- attending an orgy
So, having made this list, my task now is to decide which, if any, I would like to experience:
- NO! - though it may be difficult to avoid
- was interested for awhile but not now (would've liked to experience being 'kicked' from inside :-)
- was interested for awhile but not now (was interested to see how much pain I could tolerate)
- YES!
- YES!
- bite me
- was interested for awhile but not now (would've liked to experience breast-feeding, and, of course, being able to say, 'because I said so!')
- hmm, maybe, would be highly dependent on point no.5 - wouldn't get married, though
- No. I know, I know, only a crazy person would pass on the opportunity to eat peeled grapes and wear a toga...and, uh, have lots of sex with lots of people at once. But, as a committed introvert, I find it very difficult to focus my attention on more than one person at a time (I suspect this may be a disadvantage at an orgy)
Friday 17 June 2011
Mid-Way Formed
[And some (related) rambling]
Assuming I live to be between 80-90 years old, then, being that I’m in my forties, I’m halfway to ‘complete’ formation. Only forty or so more years until I know everything, and thus, can die. (Maybe I shouldn’t joke about dying, lest the karmic forces of nature read this blog post and decide to ‘teach me a lesson’).
So, what does this ‘mid-way formed’ mean? Possibly that I now have twice the wisdom and maturity I did when I was in my twenties? Well, in theory – maybe. In practice – I definitely possess more wisdom and maturity than I did in my twenties, but I don’t know how well these things can be measured quantitatively. And, if I actually had very little wisdom and maturity in my twenties, then having twice that amount now doesn’t make me so very wise or mature.
But certainly my perspective has drastically changed from my twenties. When I turned forty, I realized that I’d experienced twenty years as an adult – twenty years which had gone by reasonably fast. So now I’m very aware of what the passage of twenty years feels like, and that it won’t be so long until I’m sixty (and then eighty!!). Lordy. I want my ‘remaining’ years to go slowly.
Getting back to wisdom and maturity (if only I could), people ‘grow’ at different rates (physically and mentally) and are exposed to varying degrees of life as they grow. I think the aphorism that it’s the failures and challenging experiences which shape character (and formation) is very apt. So that people who have seen more life and experienced more challenges at a younger age, may form more rapidly than others of the same age – or too rapidly, in a damaging way. But, in general (I think), adults aged within 5 - even up to 10 - years of each other are at about the same amount of formation (for younger adults, 18 to 25, the age gap is probably closer, more like 2 to 3 years of each other). Which is a contributing factor as to why people of about the same age group tend to gravitate towards each other, and become close friends or partners. And especially seek each other out as life grows older and gets harder; there’s comfort in being with people who have experienced the same passage – and pain - of time.
Of course, people of all ages can be friends, and I think it’s enriching to have older and younger friends. All friendships contribute to a better understanding and tolerance of other people, but a ‘transgenerational’ friendship has unique qualities. With an older friend, there can be a ‘window’ into the future, as well as the receiving of (mostly) sage advice. Then, with a younger friend, there is the giving of advice, and maybe a kind of mentoring, as well as ‘experiencing’ that younger time again (but with older eyes).
In terms of a partner (for me, at least), I don’t think a relationship with a much older or a much younger person would work – more than about 10 years. We wouldn’t be equal. Our amounts of formation would be too different. If my partner was a lot older, I think I would feel as though I had to age too quickly so as to be able to intimately understand and connect with him. And why would I want to age quickly?? I want those years to pass slowly, they’re my years, not his. If my partner was a lot younger, I think I would feel that I needed to slow down my growth, stagnate my formation, so that he had time to catch up. And why should he have to catch up?? I think it would be selfish of me to impose my older-ness – my extra years - onto someone younger. As the older (and, in theory, wiser) person, maybe I should know better.
So, what if the only people available for a relationship are a lot older or younger - then I’ll just have to be alone. Or build a time machine.
Assuming I live to be between 80-90 years old, then, being that I’m in my forties, I’m halfway to ‘complete’ formation. Only forty or so more years until I know everything, and thus, can die. (Maybe I shouldn’t joke about dying, lest the karmic forces of nature read this blog post and decide to ‘teach me a lesson’).
So, what does this ‘mid-way formed’ mean? Possibly that I now have twice the wisdom and maturity I did when I was in my twenties? Well, in theory – maybe. In practice – I definitely possess more wisdom and maturity than I did in my twenties, but I don’t know how well these things can be measured quantitatively. And, if I actually had very little wisdom and maturity in my twenties, then having twice that amount now doesn’t make me so very wise or mature.
But certainly my perspective has drastically changed from my twenties. When I turned forty, I realized that I’d experienced twenty years as an adult – twenty years which had gone by reasonably fast. So now I’m very aware of what the passage of twenty years feels like, and that it won’t be so long until I’m sixty (and then eighty!!). Lordy. I want my ‘remaining’ years to go slowly.
Getting back to wisdom and maturity (if only I could), people ‘grow’ at different rates (physically and mentally) and are exposed to varying degrees of life as they grow. I think the aphorism that it’s the failures and challenging experiences which shape character (and formation) is very apt. So that people who have seen more life and experienced more challenges at a younger age, may form more rapidly than others of the same age – or too rapidly, in a damaging way. But, in general (I think), adults aged within 5 - even up to 10 - years of each other are at about the same amount of formation (for younger adults, 18 to 25, the age gap is probably closer, more like 2 to 3 years of each other). Which is a contributing factor as to why people of about the same age group tend to gravitate towards each other, and become close friends or partners. And especially seek each other out as life grows older and gets harder; there’s comfort in being with people who have experienced the same passage – and pain - of time.
Of course, people of all ages can be friends, and I think it’s enriching to have older and younger friends. All friendships contribute to a better understanding and tolerance of other people, but a ‘transgenerational’ friendship has unique qualities. With an older friend, there can be a ‘window’ into the future, as well as the receiving of (mostly) sage advice. Then, with a younger friend, there is the giving of advice, and maybe a kind of mentoring, as well as ‘experiencing’ that younger time again (but with older eyes).
In terms of a partner (for me, at least), I don’t think a relationship with a much older or a much younger person would work – more than about 10 years. We wouldn’t be equal. Our amounts of formation would be too different. If my partner was a lot older, I think I would feel as though I had to age too quickly so as to be able to intimately understand and connect with him. And why would I want to age quickly?? I want those years to pass slowly, they’re my years, not his. If my partner was a lot younger, I think I would feel that I needed to slow down my growth, stagnate my formation, so that he had time to catch up. And why should he have to catch up?? I think it would be selfish of me to impose my older-ness – my extra years - onto someone younger. As the older (and, in theory, wiser) person, maybe I should know better.
So, what if the only people available for a relationship are a lot older or younger - then I’ll just have to be alone. Or build a time machine.
Sunday 12 June 2011
Today's Literary Quote:
From The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:
I have to confess that, once upon a time, like Dorian, I too kept a transferable demonic self-portrait in a 'locked room at the top of the house' - actually, the rusting boot of my old corolla, underneath the spare tyre. It did serve me well, though, for awhile. The portrait would absorb all my verbal faux pas and my ludicrous vociferations (including when I would use words like 'vociferations'). The painting's transference manifested itself as ridiculous facial expressions, and gibberish would emanate from its tainted canvas.
Eventually the noise from the portrait grew so loud that it could not be contained within the confines of my corolla's boot. Its hideous tones seeped into the car's carriage. I was unable to concentrate on my driving. Family and friends refused lifts from me. I became quite lonely and despondent. One time, I had a vision of a 'foul puppet' upon my dashboard, and I nearly crashed my car. It all became too much and I realized I was going to have to destroy the portrait. Once I had made this decision, I felt as though a great weight was no longer squashing me. It was very liberating.
Of course, once I'd destroyed the portrait - by cutting it into tiny pieces, which I then scattered across an abandoned sewerage processing plant - my ludicrous vociferations came flooding back. Years of inappropriate comments and wild streams-of-consciousness poured from lips, day and night, for many months. It was hell. I couldn't be around people, I couldn't even be around animals (who are notoriously tolerant of lunatic rantings).
Finally, the rantings began to ease. And I started to realize that I actually had some control over my mouth; I didn't HAVE to vocalize every random thought. I could, in fact, veto myself. It was a life-changing revelation. And, thankfully, I didn't need to murder anyone to come to this epiphany, unlike the tragic Dorian Gray.
"The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand, and grinned through moving masks." (pg 159)
I have to confess that, once upon a time, like Dorian, I too kept a transferable demonic self-portrait in a 'locked room at the top of the house' - actually, the rusting boot of my old corolla, underneath the spare tyre. It did serve me well, though, for awhile. The portrait would absorb all my verbal faux pas and my ludicrous vociferations (including when I would use words like 'vociferations'). The painting's transference manifested itself as ridiculous facial expressions, and gibberish would emanate from its tainted canvas.
Eventually the noise from the portrait grew so loud that it could not be contained within the confines of my corolla's boot. Its hideous tones seeped into the car's carriage. I was unable to concentrate on my driving. Family and friends refused lifts from me. I became quite lonely and despondent. One time, I had a vision of a 'foul puppet' upon my dashboard, and I nearly crashed my car. It all became too much and I realized I was going to have to destroy the portrait. Once I had made this decision, I felt as though a great weight was no longer squashing me. It was very liberating.
Of course, once I'd destroyed the portrait - by cutting it into tiny pieces, which I then scattered across an abandoned sewerage processing plant - my ludicrous vociferations came flooding back. Years of inappropriate comments and wild streams-of-consciousness poured from lips, day and night, for many months. It was hell. I couldn't be around people, I couldn't even be around animals (who are notoriously tolerant of lunatic rantings).
Finally, the rantings began to ease. And I started to realize that I actually had some control over my mouth; I didn't HAVE to vocalize every random thought. I could, in fact, veto myself. It was a life-changing revelation. And, thankfully, I didn't need to murder anyone to come to this epiphany, unlike the tragic Dorian Gray.
Saturday 4 June 2011
Something Heart-Painful I've Never Experienced
There are, of course, many, many painful things that can happen in this world which I've never experienced - eg homelessness, war, hunger, death of (my) child, prolonged and incapacitating illness - and I'm thankful that I haven't had to experience these things. And, mostly, when I'm being depressive and negative and self-pitying, I can still appreciate how much my life is NOT a struggle, compared to the lives of so many others. The last month, however, has not been one of those times. There's been some high level depressive and negative and self-pitying inhabiting my brain, catalyzed by an intense bout of loneliness. An infection of loneliness, and its consequent pathology; sleeplessness, distractedness, brain vomit.
I tend to 'catch' loneliness when I've experienced unrequited affection (at least, when I become aware of unrequited affection - most likely the affection was unrequited for some time, but my delusional state would not allow realization of such realities).
Discovering you've been unrequited is always, to varying degrees, heart-painful. But so is being in a long-term relationship which ends when you didn't want it to end. This is a heart-pain I've never experienced. The relationships I've had have usually been around 12 months long, and mostly I ended them. The most painful breakup was with a boyfriend who was abusive, and the breakup was painful because he wouldn't 'allow' me to breakup with him.
I imagine it could be devastating to have a long-term relationship end; a sudden, massive emptiness, and a loss of control over one of the main conditions of life. I don't know how I'd react in this situation. For me, at the moment, I have a large degree of control over my life. Discovering that someone doesn't want to have a relationship with me pretty much means that my life 'changes' from me being on my own, to me continuing to be on my own - albeit with an enhanced sense of loneliness. And I can always rely on cups of tea to make me feel better (and, occasionally, cups/shots of something a little stronger).
I tend to 'catch' loneliness when I've experienced unrequited affection (at least, when I become aware of unrequited affection - most likely the affection was unrequited for some time, but my delusional state would not allow realization of such realities).
Discovering you've been unrequited is always, to varying degrees, heart-painful. But so is being in a long-term relationship which ends when you didn't want it to end. This is a heart-pain I've never experienced. The relationships I've had have usually been around 12 months long, and mostly I ended them. The most painful breakup was with a boyfriend who was abusive, and the breakup was painful because he wouldn't 'allow' me to breakup with him.
I imagine it could be devastating to have a long-term relationship end; a sudden, massive emptiness, and a loss of control over one of the main conditions of life. I don't know how I'd react in this situation. For me, at the moment, I have a large degree of control over my life. Discovering that someone doesn't want to have a relationship with me pretty much means that my life 'changes' from me being on my own, to me continuing to be on my own - albeit with an enhanced sense of loneliness. And I can always rely on cups of tea to make me feel better (and, occasionally, cups/shots of something a little stronger).
Tuesday 31 May 2011
200 Litres
[Subtitle: Stay away from the solvent storeroom!]
[Also, the following account is COMPLETELY TRUE]
The methanol is staring at me: 200 litres of flammable liquid, encased in a steel drum. Through the uncapped opening I can see an eye; it’s eye. Floating in the metallic black liquid it seems to coalesce, then disperse, coalesce, then disperse. I can’t quite keep my focus on it. The light in the solvent storeroom is dim, and the room is full of shadows. An emergency siren sits on a near bye shelf, just out of reach. I am wedged into a crowded corner, surrounded by other drums of methanol; but they are capped and inert, I don’t need to open them.
Any moment my rational brain will calm me with it’s rational thoughts: the eye is only your reflection, when you blink, it blinks; see. The methanol is not sentient. It doesn’t think. Or know. Or want. Or manipulate.
Inside the drum, billions of molecules are vibrating. They are made from life-creating atoms - carbon, oxygen and hydrogen - but they cannot create life on their own.
But what if another atom had gotten inside? A radical. A wanderer. A nomadic particle travelling freely through the unexamined ether. An element maintaining its atomic integrity, despite massive dimensional distortions. Could it be a unique isomer of nitrogen? Maybe it became trapped between interstices, nestled into a polar channel, and forced to bond. What if a new amino acid has been created? A strange amine formed from mutated wood alcohol and incubated in a cavernous, metallic womb.
I know it’s there; I can’t deny it now. It glides easily through the cold fluid, finding gaps and dislocations, increasing the vibrational energy of the surrounding molecules.
And I can hear it. It calls to me. The liquid warble seeps into air and creeps closer, reaching into my ear. It weaves insidiously through my auditory canal, brushing against the fine hairs lining the inner membrane, giving them a gentle motion, a slow beat. The movement of the hair generates a beat of electrical impulses. From the structured calm of my inner ear, they move into the spongy chaos of my cerebral cortex. I am confused.
My confusion generates a clarity: The methanol is sentient. And it does want. It wants…it wants me to…no! (Matches). I turn my head away, but I can still hear it’s insistent voice. I need to move, to run. I try to shift my body but my hips won’t move, they’re jammed against the solid, metal drums. The drums are blocking me, holding me tight. I need help. I stretch out my arm; I can almost reach…the emergency…siren…no. I will have to scream…
But I don’t scream. I feel calm. (Flame). I can still hear the voice, the voice of the methanol. It is soft and fluid. My brain is soft and fluid. (Heat). My skin is buzzing. My epidermis is moving, undulating; a gentle motion, a slow beat. My bones have become soft; I am fluid.
[Also, the following account is COMPLETELY TRUE]
The methanol is staring at me: 200 litres of flammable liquid, encased in a steel drum. Through the uncapped opening I can see an eye; it’s eye. Floating in the metallic black liquid it seems to coalesce, then disperse, coalesce, then disperse. I can’t quite keep my focus on it. The light in the solvent storeroom is dim, and the room is full of shadows. An emergency siren sits on a near bye shelf, just out of reach. I am wedged into a crowded corner, surrounded by other drums of methanol; but they are capped and inert, I don’t need to open them.
Any moment my rational brain will calm me with it’s rational thoughts: the eye is only your reflection, when you blink, it blinks; see. The methanol is not sentient. It doesn’t think. Or know. Or want. Or manipulate.
Inside the drum, billions of molecules are vibrating. They are made from life-creating atoms - carbon, oxygen and hydrogen - but they cannot create life on their own.
But what if another atom had gotten inside? A radical. A wanderer. A nomadic particle travelling freely through the unexamined ether. An element maintaining its atomic integrity, despite massive dimensional distortions. Could it be a unique isomer of nitrogen? Maybe it became trapped between interstices, nestled into a polar channel, and forced to bond. What if a new amino acid has been created? A strange amine formed from mutated wood alcohol and incubated in a cavernous, metallic womb.
I know it’s there; I can’t deny it now. It glides easily through the cold fluid, finding gaps and dislocations, increasing the vibrational energy of the surrounding molecules.
And I can hear it. It calls to me. The liquid warble seeps into air and creeps closer, reaching into my ear. It weaves insidiously through my auditory canal, brushing against the fine hairs lining the inner membrane, giving them a gentle motion, a slow beat. The movement of the hair generates a beat of electrical impulses. From the structured calm of my inner ear, they move into the spongy chaos of my cerebral cortex. I am confused.
My confusion generates a clarity: The methanol is sentient. And it does want. It wants…it wants me to…no! (Matches). I turn my head away, but I can still hear it’s insistent voice. I need to move, to run. I try to shift my body but my hips won’t move, they’re jammed against the solid, metal drums. The drums are blocking me, holding me tight. I need help. I stretch out my arm; I can almost reach…the emergency…siren…no. I will have to scream…
But I don’t scream. I feel calm. (Flame). I can still hear the voice, the voice of the methanol. It is soft and fluid. My brain is soft and fluid. (Heat). My skin is buzzing. My epidermis is moving, undulating; a gentle motion, a slow beat. My bones have become soft; I am fluid.
Wednesday 25 May 2011
Wednesdayfulgent13
I have ABSOLUTELY nothing to say (or, indeed, to blog). However, I don't want to leave the previous, 'black hole of doom' blog post sitting at the top of my blog. I am fearful, as any rational person would be, that due to the dark puddle of melancholy emitted by Hollow Distortion, depressive karma may be attracted to this site. Obviously, by moving this blog post away from the powerful "top" position, its negative karmic influence is greatly reduced. And, because of the gravity of the situation, I am willing to post this blog entry on a Wednesday, despite my commitment to cutting back on Wednesday blogging.
Thursday 19 May 2011
Hollow Distortion
I've been waving my arms around, lighting fires, and sending up flares, but I'm not on his radar. I haven't been on "his" radar for more than a decade. My true love remains elusive.
I am weary from this endeavour. This endeavour seems to have a grudge against me. I've tried different paths, time after time and full of hope, but these paths always end. Something always barricades the way - thick scrub and fallen branches, mostly, occasionally snakes. Hope hasn't ended, though, not quite. But it also grows weary.
Each year without a companion is getting harder. The clichés amass; empty spaces, absent embraces, soundless conversation, untouched flesh. The aching loneliness is paralysing and inescapable. I feel as though I am being slowly dissolved by a caustic substance, one which I can neither neutralize nor remove. I'm beginning to die.
I've sometimes thought, if I had magic powers, would I use them to influence a situation. And I've always thought 'no' - don't mess with nature. But, as the years grow longer, I'm edging closer and closer to 'yes' - let nature be damned.
I know that finding a partner is not a panacea. All my sufferings will not miraculously disappear with a kiss. There are other things complicit in creating the caustic substance, including ex-partners. I don't know if existence without caustic substance is possible. My belief (hope) is that there are ways of containing, even diminishing, the substance, and lessening its damage, and that one of these ways is companionship.
I am weary from this endeavour. This endeavour seems to have a grudge against me. I've tried different paths, time after time and full of hope, but these paths always end. Something always barricades the way - thick scrub and fallen branches, mostly, occasionally snakes. Hope hasn't ended, though, not quite. But it also grows weary.
Each year without a companion is getting harder. The clichés amass; empty spaces, absent embraces, soundless conversation, untouched flesh. The aching loneliness is paralysing and inescapable. I feel as though I am being slowly dissolved by a caustic substance, one which I can neither neutralize nor remove. I'm beginning to die.
I've sometimes thought, if I had magic powers, would I use them to influence a situation. And I've always thought 'no' - don't mess with nature. But, as the years grow longer, I'm edging closer and closer to 'yes' - let nature be damned.
I know that finding a partner is not a panacea. All my sufferings will not miraculously disappear with a kiss. There are other things complicit in creating the caustic substance, including ex-partners. I don't know if existence without caustic substance is possible. My belief (hope) is that there are ways of containing, even diminishing, the substance, and lessening its damage, and that one of these ways is companionship.
Thursday 12 May 2011
Younger Love
Attractions of a younger partner:
- Less lines and blemishes, both externally and internally
- a conduit for a younger you
- heightened adoration
- power differential
- reduced complications
- easier to hide flaws
Wednesday 11 May 2011
Things I've Observed Whilst Engaging in Casual Sex
- pretend intimacy
- a fine line between caressing and groping
- amplified grunts
- silence
- short term memory
Sunday 8 May 2011
This is What I Wrote:
...I will keep your phone number. I don't want to make any promises about keeping in touch, so I'll just leave it at maybe. The last few years I've often felt like I'm just coping, so I don't know to what extent I can take on someone else's burden. I hope good karma comes your way. Nicole
Wednesday 4 May 2011
Embraced by Heartbreak and (Some) Joy
I make my way through the clamouring night. My eyes are misshapen and they hurt when I try to focus. I enter the building and find that I am safe. There is no need for vigilance, I am not under attack.
He is here. He is my crush, but only from a distance. She is here, too. She walks to him and fills his vision. He caresses her hip and kisses her mouth. I remain remarkably calm while my heart breaks.
They laugh and banter, and see only each other. I walk past them. I am mist. Outside affords me some space, and the cool night is gentle. I decide not to leave.
I pass them again on my way to my seat. They are as I left them.
She is in her twenties. He and I are in our forties. I don't like this maths. I'm reasonably sure they've not been a couple for very long. If I could steal him away from her, I would. I have no ethical quandary here.
He is alone. I walk to him and fill his vision. His face exudes a multitude of expressions, mostly confusion. He doesn't seem to want to run away, though, like my crushes usually do (!) - maybe I'm getting less freaky with age. I don't want this moment to end, it may never happen again. But I don't want my presence to become oppressive, and I want to be gone before she returns. So we talk only briefly, then I leave.
I make my way home, through the open night. My vision is clear and my eyes are alive. Pieces of me, seemingly irreversibly melted, are reforming and rejoining. My structure is becoming less amorphous. There is some joy to be had from this.
He is here. He is my crush, but only from a distance. She is here, too. She walks to him and fills his vision. He caresses her hip and kisses her mouth. I remain remarkably calm while my heart breaks.
They laugh and banter, and see only each other. I walk past them. I am mist. Outside affords me some space, and the cool night is gentle. I decide not to leave.
I pass them again on my way to my seat. They are as I left them.
She is in her twenties. He and I are in our forties. I don't like this maths. I'm reasonably sure they've not been a couple for very long. If I could steal him away from her, I would. I have no ethical quandary here.
He is alone. I walk to him and fill his vision. His face exudes a multitude of expressions, mostly confusion. He doesn't seem to want to run away, though, like my crushes usually do (!) - maybe I'm getting less freaky with age. I don't want this moment to end, it may never happen again. But I don't want my presence to become oppressive, and I want to be gone before she returns. So we talk only briefly, then I leave.
I make my way home, through the open night. My vision is clear and my eyes are alive. Pieces of me, seemingly irreversibly melted, are reforming and rejoining. My structure is becoming less amorphous. There is some joy to be had from this.
Wednesday 27 April 2011
The Tradition of (fictionalised) Tweenaged Girl Killers has gone Apoplectic
(Tweenaged girl killers = girls aged 9 to 12 who kill)
I am, of course, referring to the epic, ballistic (literally) and inimitable, 11 year old murderess, Mindy Macready, aka Hit Girl (from the extremely violent and slightly surreal, comic/film Kick-Ass).
Mindy Macready/Hit Girl (film version, played by Chloe Moretz):
I can’t help but to be in awe of such ruthless and accomplished murder in one so adorable. It’s wrong, I know, very, very wrong. Murder, and the glorification of it, is wrong. And it’s even wronger when the glorified murder is committed by a ponytailed waif. So why am I so besotted? A few possibilities come to mind:
- I like to see portrayals of strong female characters in fiction; and this pre-pubescent, gun-toting, ninja assassin, is certainly that.
- I’m psychotic.
Other tweenaged girl killers I admire:
12 year old Mathilda Lando (from the film Leon: The Professional).
M.O: Firearms.
Admittedly, Mathilda didn’t actually kill anyone, but she had murderous intent, and she knew how to clean a gun! I suspect that it was only an unnaturally instilled abhorrence to murder (I blame society) which kept her from becoming a successful “cleaner”.
13 year old Rynn Jacobs (from the novel/film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane).
M.O: Poison.
Admittedly, Rynn is one year too old to be a tween, but…bite me, she’s still very young!
12 year old Regan MacNeil (from the novel/film The Exorcist).
M.O: Inducing heart failure in priests/throwing people (preferably priests) down long flights of stairs.
Admittedly, Regan is portrayed as being possessed by a demon, but I think the whole “demon” thing is just an allegory for Regan’s (and all girls') natural transformation into homicidal puberty.
12 year old (kind of) Eli (from the novel/film Let the Right One In).
M.O: Persuading others to kill people for her/doing it herself using her (very strong) hands and her (very pointy) teeth.
Admittedly, Eli is actually a centuries old vampire, as well as being a castrated male, but since she ‘lives’ as a 12 year old girl (albeit one who drinks human blood and shuns daylight), I’m including Eli in the list.
I am, of course, referring to the epic, ballistic (literally) and inimitable, 11 year old murderess, Mindy Macready, aka Hit Girl (from the extremely violent and slightly surreal, comic/film Kick-Ass).
Mindy Macready/Hit Girl (film version, played by Chloe Moretz):
I can’t help but to be in awe of such ruthless and accomplished murder in one so adorable. It’s wrong, I know, very, very wrong. Murder, and the glorification of it, is wrong. And it’s even wronger when the glorified murder is committed by a ponytailed waif. So why am I so besotted? A few possibilities come to mind:
- I like to see portrayals of strong female characters in fiction; and this pre-pubescent, gun-toting, ninja assassin, is certainly that.
- Watching Hit Girl’s ultra-violent takedown of the bad guys gives me a kind of catharsis, tinged with vengeance, for remembered childhood feelings of disempowerment and fear.
Other tweenaged girl killers I admire:
12 year old Mathilda Lando (from the film Leon: The Professional).
M.O: Firearms.
Admittedly, Mathilda didn’t actually kill anyone, but she had murderous intent, and she knew how to clean a gun! I suspect that it was only an unnaturally instilled abhorrence to murder (I blame society) which kept her from becoming a successful “cleaner”.
13 year old Rynn Jacobs (from the novel/film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane).
M.O: Poison.
Admittedly, Rynn is one year too old to be a tween, but…bite me, she’s still very young!
12 year old Regan MacNeil (from the novel/film The Exorcist).
M.O: Inducing heart failure in priests/throwing people (preferably priests) down long flights of stairs.
Admittedly, Regan is portrayed as being possessed by a demon, but I think the whole “demon” thing is just an allegory for Regan’s (and all girls') natural transformation into homicidal puberty.
12 year old (kind of) Eli (from the novel/film Let the Right One In).
M.O: Persuading others to kill people for her/doing it herself using her (very strong) hands and her (very pointy) teeth.
Admittedly, Eli is actually a centuries old vampire, as well as being a castrated male, but since she ‘lives’ as a 12 year old girl (albeit one who drinks human blood and shuns daylight), I’m including Eli in the list.
Saturday 23 April 2011
Samuel Beckett Quote:
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
I think I will make this my mission statement.
I think I will make this my mission statement.
Wednesday 20 April 2011
Generalized Abstractions and Long-Winded Sentences are giving me a Cranky
In my quest to understand the theories of Karl Marx, it might be better if I read Marx for Dummies, instead of The Cambridge Companion to Marx. By this, I don't mean to debase the For Dummies collection, of which I've read a few and found to be an informative and helpful introduction to various subjects, unlike the Cambridge Companion, of which I am meaning to debase.
I've read about a third of the 'Companion' and found that it uses A LOT of words to say a small amount of stuff. Such verbosity can be OK, if it flows with coherence. Unfortunately, the Companion's verbosity flows like a river of congealed lard. I've just finished the 4th chapter and, since each chapter is written by a different person, I was hoping for some improvement. But, alas, so far, each writer has chosen to write in the style I've named "Obfuscatory Academic"; a style I am being very much frustrated with!
Here is an example from the chapter titled Science: Realism, criticism, history by James Farr:
I've read about a third of the 'Companion' and found that it uses A LOT of words to say a small amount of stuff. Such verbosity can be OK, if it flows with coherence. Unfortunately, the Companion's verbosity flows like a river of congealed lard. I've just finished the 4th chapter and, since each chapter is written by a different person, I was hoping for some improvement. But, alas, so far, each writer has chosen to write in the style I've named "Obfuscatory Academic"; a style I am being very much frustrated with!
Here is an example from the chapter titled Science: Realism, criticism, history by James Farr:
"The philosophy of science, in Marx's terms, should reflect on and reconstruct the practices of the social sciences in such a way as to help prescribe the development of theories that are rigorously and self-consciously historical, both about the past and the future, and whose subject terms refer to the powers that individuals or classes have or do not have in certain social relations." (pg 122)My best interpretation of this sentence/paragraph is that Marx believed that the study/development/progress of Science should be directed by...uh...what a society needs to ensure it is fair...??? (I'm struggling greatly with understanding what the hell 'rigorously and self-consciously historical' means). Whatever the case, I was disappointed to discover that Marx had NOT, in fact, dabbled in science, as I was led to believe by the chapter heading. Sadly, he did not partake in a little bit of Alchemy, nor did he discover an exotic plant or animal. Perhaps it was for the best, though, that he stayed out of the laboratory. Had Marx, with his ingenious mind, been obsessed with the transformation of lead into gold, well, he might not have been so inclined to turn his energies to the plight of the proletariat (which, incidentally, would be a great title for an adventure series).
Monday 18 April 2011
I Defy the Third Law of Motion
I have no mass. I have no momentum. When I collide with other bodies, they feel no impact. There is no distortion in their integrity. I act upon them with neither equal, nor opposite, force. I am a void.
Friday 8 April 2011
Feminism, by Any Other Name, is Still a Rose.
There are some who believe that, since Feminism is meant to benefit all peoples, its name is sexist, as it appears to privilege one group of people, ie females. Some have suggested it should be named so as to reflect its broader range, eg humanism or peopleism (ok, I just made that up). Well, my answer is this; if we're gonna change Feminism to Peopleism, we're gonna have to change Mankind to Peoplekind.
I rest my case.
PS: And if we change Mankind to Peoplekind, somebody's gonna have to re-record the whole moonlanding - "one small step for..." - though, this shouldn't be too big a stretch if the moonlanding hoax theory is to be believed.
I rest my case.
PS: And if we change Mankind to Peoplekind, somebody's gonna have to re-record the whole moonlanding - "one small step for..." - though, this shouldn't be too big a stretch if the moonlanding hoax theory is to be believed.
Saturday 26 March 2011
The Appeal of Unrestrained Id in Grown-up Fictional Characters
[I'm using the qualifier 'grown-up' instead of 'adult' so as not to give the impression this blog entry is about porn - that discussion is for another day]
[Also, "id" as in id, ego and superego, from Freud's model of the psyche]
And when I say, fictional characters, I'm only referring to 2: Dr Sheldon Cooper from TV show The Big Bang Theory and Ignatius Reilly from the novel A Confederacy of Dunces. (I'm sure there are many other such id unrestrained characters in fiction - indeed in real life - but these are the 2 I've encountered most recently, so they're what I'm going with). I haven't studied psychology, or specifically, Freudian psychology, so I'm probably being a little free (unrestrained?) with my interpretation of unrestrained id. I'm defining the id as being that part of the brain/mind that wants what it wants - now! - and won't be told, especially by any other part of the brain/mind, to modify its wants and the behaviours which result from these wants. It's a perfectly acceptable condition in a baby, not so much in a 30-year-old.
The behaviours manifested by the unrestrained ids of Sheldon Cooper and Ignatius Reilly, and the reactions to these behaviours by their friends and family, are both disturbing and amusing. For Sheldon, the epitome of his behaviour is his overwhelming "need" to have his own spot on the couch:
A possible explanation of the unrestrained ids of these characters could include an analysis of their 'arrested development'. In Sheldon's case, his accelerated intellectual development and scholastic achievements were acquired in the absence of normal childhood developments, with the reult that he's experiencing his childhood in his late 20's. With Ignatius it's harder to pin down, perhaps an over-pandering mother and an absent father - at some point someone really needed to give him a firm kick in the ass.
While I enjoy watching/reading these characters I wouldn't want to spend much time with them in real life. They're both verbose, egotistical, elitist snobs, and Ignatius is constantly belching and farting. So why are they popular fiction archetypes. I think, partly, it's a case of living vicariously through them. Inside all of us is a self-absorbed baby, wanting its own spot on the couch and to eat as much junk food as it can shovel into its mouth. But we wouldn't last long in the real world behaving in this way; people wouldn't want to share a couch with us and our arteries would eventually clog up and we'd die.
[Also, "id" as in id, ego and superego, from Freud's model of the psyche]
And when I say, fictional characters, I'm only referring to 2: Dr Sheldon Cooper from TV show The Big Bang Theory and Ignatius Reilly from the novel A Confederacy of Dunces. (I'm sure there are many other such id unrestrained characters in fiction - indeed in real life - but these are the 2 I've encountered most recently, so they're what I'm going with). I haven't studied psychology, or specifically, Freudian psychology, so I'm probably being a little free (unrestrained?) with my interpretation of unrestrained id. I'm defining the id as being that part of the brain/mind that wants what it wants - now! - and won't be told, especially by any other part of the brain/mind, to modify its wants and the behaviours which result from these wants. It's a perfectly acceptable condition in a baby, not so much in a 30-year-old.
The behaviours manifested by the unrestrained ids of Sheldon Cooper and Ignatius Reilly, and the reactions to these behaviours by their friends and family, are both disturbing and amusing. For Sheldon, the epitome of his behaviour is his overwhelming "need" to have his own spot on the couch:
“In the winter, that seat is close enough to the radiator to remain warm yet not so close as to cause perspiration. In the summer, it’s directly in the path of a cross breeze created by opening windows there and there. It faces the television at an angle that is neither direct, thus discouraging conversation, nor so far wide as to create a parallax distortion.”For Ignatius, it's his compulsive eating, especially of the hot dogs he's meant to be selling in his capacity as a hot dog vendor. Another pivotal, and disturbing and amusing, trait of both characters is their narcissistic enjoyment of their intelligence. Sheldon's IQ is at genius level, and Ignatius believes himself to be a genius, though he does most likely have a high IQ (as well as some culinary skills):
"I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labours, I make an occasional cheese dip."
A possible explanation of the unrestrained ids of these characters could include an analysis of their 'arrested development'. In Sheldon's case, his accelerated intellectual development and scholastic achievements were acquired in the absence of normal childhood developments, with the reult that he's experiencing his childhood in his late 20's. With Ignatius it's harder to pin down, perhaps an over-pandering mother and an absent father - at some point someone really needed to give him a firm kick in the ass.
While I enjoy watching/reading these characters I wouldn't want to spend much time with them in real life. They're both verbose, egotistical, elitist snobs, and Ignatius is constantly belching and farting. So why are they popular fiction archetypes. I think, partly, it's a case of living vicariously through them. Inside all of us is a self-absorbed baby, wanting its own spot on the couch and to eat as much junk food as it can shovel into its mouth. But we wouldn't last long in the real world behaving in this way; people wouldn't want to share a couch with us and our arteries would eventually clog up and we'd die.
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Did Kyle Reese really have to come across time for Sarah Connor?
YES!
And thus ends this blog entry.
No, wait, there’s more…(a lot more)…
As a fan of the “time travel” subgenre of Science Fiction (eg Dr Who, Terminator series), I was interested in this Physics research. The article is a little heavy going, but, basically, the scientists are using a wacky quantum mechanics set-up in an attempt to subvert the Grandfather Paradox of time travel – ie that if you travel back in time and kill your grandfather (or your grandmother), you will no longer exist. Such an event would generate a series of convoluted time/existence paradoxes, which is never a good thing. [NB: Somebody who’s mean enough and/or stupid enough to travel back in time and kill a grandparent deserves to be caught in a convoluted time/existence paradox!!].
Something I found especially interesting in the article was the idea that slightly altered histories (or timelines) are created each time a person travels back in time (I’m not sure how/if this would work for forward time travel). So, in theory, you could go back in time and kill a grandparent, without disappearing, because another timeline would be created, and the (your) original timeline would still exist. However, this series of time events still posses a conundrum: If the grandfather is killed in the second timeline by his grandchild, the grandchild who doesn’t exist in this timeline, how can the grandchild be there? My guess is that there are “vertexes/intersections" between timelines, where things (people, events) in one timeline can affect another timeline. I suspect these vertexes would be very unstable and potentially catastrophic. I know it sounds a bit wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey but it does make sense. And I’m COMPLETELY serious. Time travel is not to be taken lightly – which is why it’s best left to the professionals, eg Timelords.
In regards to explaining the myriad time travel paradoxes created in the Terminator series, this theory of ‘time travel generated altered timelines’ works well. It’s especially helpful in The Sarah Connor Chronicles, where people and cyborgs are being sent back through time with alarming regularity. During season 2, a time-travelled character asks (with a degree of suspicion) another time-travelled character, “In what year did your apocalypse occur?”. The second character refuses to answer but the question has suggested the possibility of more than one timeline existing. This apparently contradicts the theory in the second Terminator film that only one timeline exists, but that it can be changed. Hence, at the end of the second film, Sarah and John Connor have (seemingly) destroyed every last piece of terminator metal and believe they have prevented the future rise of the machines – which they haven’t, ‘cos those metalfuckers re-appear in the aptly named, third Terminator film, The Rise of the Machines!
And, of course, there is always a kind of reverse Grandfather Paradox hanging over the very existence of John Connor. If the machines don’t rise, they won’t build a time travel thingy, which means Kyle Reese won’t be able to travel back through time and get it on with Sarah, which would result in the non-existence of John Connor. However, this paradox can be fixed if someone else, maybe John Connor himself, is able to build a time machine. In fact, there is probably a timeline where John drives himself to complete mental and physical exhaustion building a time travel thingy so that he can send his father back through time and allow himself to exist. Lordy.
By the time we get to The Sarah Connor Chronicles (when John is about 16-years-old), it’s fairly clear that there will always be “metal”. Sarah and John continue their valiant, and, at times, morally ambiguous, struggle to rid the world of any computers/machines/metal that might evolve into Skynet (or a variation thereof) and thus bring forth the apocalypse. But it’s a matter of constant vigilance rather than any conclusive victory. There’s an unspoken acknowledgement that the machines will never be eliminated; the fight will only ever be about containment. There is also the charged issue of possible alliance with the cyborgs, as the existence of the cyborgs becomes increasingly inevitable. John from the future again sends back a reprogrammed “protector” terminator (as he did in the second film – in which the terminator also acted as a father figure to John). The relationship between John and the terminator of TSCC is extremely complex. The exterior of this terminator (named Cameron) is that of a young female - about John's age. She and future John had a very close and secretive relationship, one which caused some concern to the humans working with John. This strange (and fraught) relationship continues with present day John.
It’s a shame TSCC only lasted for 2 seasons. The first season was cut short due to the scriptwriters strike, and the second season set up a number of interesting and complex themes and storylines (presumably with an eye to future seasons), only to be axed. Argh! Though, the ending of season 2 was BRILLIANT, AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL. Sigh.
So, in answer to the question posed by the blog title (I know I already answered it but I’m going to re-answer it), perhaps, in the space-time continuum, timelines can be changed, but certain events always need to occur in order for a timeline to exist. For John Connor to exist, Kyle Reese absolutely has to come across time (for Sarah). This also concurs with the laws of time as stated in Dr Who, that there are fixed events in time which are so deeply embedded in history that they cannot be changed.
And thus ends this blog entry.
No, wait, there’s more…(a lot more)…
As a fan of the “time travel” subgenre of Science Fiction (eg Dr Who, Terminator series), I was interested in this Physics research. The article is a little heavy going, but, basically, the scientists are using a wacky quantum mechanics set-up in an attempt to subvert the Grandfather Paradox of time travel – ie that if you travel back in time and kill your grandfather (or your grandmother), you will no longer exist. Such an event would generate a series of convoluted time/existence paradoxes, which is never a good thing. [NB: Somebody who’s mean enough and/or stupid enough to travel back in time and kill a grandparent deserves to be caught in a convoluted time/existence paradox!!].
Something I found especially interesting in the article was the idea that slightly altered histories (or timelines) are created each time a person travels back in time (I’m not sure how/if this would work for forward time travel). So, in theory, you could go back in time and kill a grandparent, without disappearing, because another timeline would be created, and the (your) original timeline would still exist. However, this series of time events still posses a conundrum: If the grandfather is killed in the second timeline by his grandchild, the grandchild who doesn’t exist in this timeline, how can the grandchild be there? My guess is that there are “vertexes/intersections" between timelines, where things (people, events) in one timeline can affect another timeline. I suspect these vertexes would be very unstable and potentially catastrophic. I know it sounds a bit wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey but it does make sense. And I’m COMPLETELY serious. Time travel is not to be taken lightly – which is why it’s best left to the professionals, eg Timelords.
In regards to explaining the myriad time travel paradoxes created in the Terminator series, this theory of ‘time travel generated altered timelines’ works well. It’s especially helpful in The Sarah Connor Chronicles, where people and cyborgs are being sent back through time with alarming regularity. During season 2, a time-travelled character asks (with a degree of suspicion) another time-travelled character, “In what year did your apocalypse occur?”. The second character refuses to answer but the question has suggested the possibility of more than one timeline existing. This apparently contradicts the theory in the second Terminator film that only one timeline exists, but that it can be changed. Hence, at the end of the second film, Sarah and John Connor have (seemingly) destroyed every last piece of terminator metal and believe they have prevented the future rise of the machines – which they haven’t, ‘cos those metalfuckers re-appear in the aptly named, third Terminator film, The Rise of the Machines!
And, of course, there is always a kind of reverse Grandfather Paradox hanging over the very existence of John Connor. If the machines don’t rise, they won’t build a time travel thingy, which means Kyle Reese won’t be able to travel back through time and get it on with Sarah, which would result in the non-existence of John Connor. However, this paradox can be fixed if someone else, maybe John Connor himself, is able to build a time machine. In fact, there is probably a timeline where John drives himself to complete mental and physical exhaustion building a time travel thingy so that he can send his father back through time and allow himself to exist. Lordy.
By the time we get to The Sarah Connor Chronicles (when John is about 16-years-old), it’s fairly clear that there will always be “metal”. Sarah and John continue their valiant, and, at times, morally ambiguous, struggle to rid the world of any computers/machines/metal that might evolve into Skynet (or a variation thereof) and thus bring forth the apocalypse. But it’s a matter of constant vigilance rather than any conclusive victory. There’s an unspoken acknowledgement that the machines will never be eliminated; the fight will only ever be about containment. There is also the charged issue of possible alliance with the cyborgs, as the existence of the cyborgs becomes increasingly inevitable. John from the future again sends back a reprogrammed “protector” terminator (as he did in the second film – in which the terminator also acted as a father figure to John). The relationship between John and the terminator of TSCC is extremely complex. The exterior of this terminator (named Cameron) is that of a young female - about John's age. She and future John had a very close and secretive relationship, one which caused some concern to the humans working with John. This strange (and fraught) relationship continues with present day John.
It’s a shame TSCC only lasted for 2 seasons. The first season was cut short due to the scriptwriters strike, and the second season set up a number of interesting and complex themes and storylines (presumably with an eye to future seasons), only to be axed. Argh! Though, the ending of season 2 was BRILLIANT, AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL. Sigh.
So, in answer to the question posed by the blog title (I know I already answered it but I’m going to re-answer it), perhaps, in the space-time continuum, timelines can be changed, but certain events always need to occur in order for a timeline to exist. For John Connor to exist, Kyle Reese absolutely has to come across time (for Sarah). This also concurs with the laws of time as stated in Dr Who, that there are fixed events in time which are so deeply embedded in history that they cannot be changed.
Monday 14 February 2011
It's Lust Unbound, here at Effulgent13
I've just discovered that blogger has a 'Stats' function (on my dashboard - only I can see it), which shows the traffic to this site (eg how many pageviews for a blog entry, which countries the traffic is coming from). So I had a bit of a look and was not at all surprised to discover that the blog post, Whose Body is it??? - which features semi-naked pictures of Swedish actor, Alexander Skarsgård (though, technically, one of the photos is a fake) - had the most number of pageviews (by quite a margin). It's comforting to know that I'm not alone in my lasciviousness.
Tuesday 8 February 2011
Frustrated...
is my current mental state. And disappointed. I try...I get nowhere. I try again...I get nowhere, again. Don't know what to do now. Maybe there's nothing to be done. Maybe I'll just have to live with constant frustration and disappointment. Some would say this is what it is to be human. Hmmm...
(Apologies for the vague).
(Apologies for the vague).
Thursday 27 January 2011
Gazing into the Distance
I mean this literally; I've been gazing into the distance, with my eyes. Or, more accurately, my myopic eyes. This is being done in an effort to reduce my myopia, or, at the very least, to attenuate increasing myopia. I accept that 20/20 vision will only ever be a distant memory for me now, having being moderately myopic (dioptres -3 to -6) for 25 years. But I would like to have "better" vision, if possible. I want to be able to remove my glasses and be less blurry. My distance vision is totally fucked, but my near vision is pretty shoddy as well. I'd like to get back some semblance of near vision clarity.
Eye enthusiasts (optometrists/opthamologists etc) have differing views on what causes myopia. Some say it is caused by too much eye accommodation (contracting the eye muscles) - during reading, writing, looking at computers and television, playing video games. Some say it is caused by not enough usage of distance vision (when the eye muscles relax) - our 'western' lifestyle means that we don't spend much time looking into the distance (probably because we're spending so much time reading, watching television etc, as well as living/working in confined spaces). I suspect both these things contribute to loss of distance vision.
What is known, is that, in the majority of myopics, the eyeball has elongated. Which means, as light is refracted through the eye's lens, it comes into focus in front of the retina (which sits along the back perimeter of the eye) and blurry ensues:
So, the problem is: What causes the eye to elongate. The most common theories pretty much follow those from the 2nd paragraph; that too much eye accommodation causes the eye to 'lock' into an elongated shape, or that not enough eye 'relaxing' (looking into the distance) reshapes the eye. Again, I suspect it's a combination.
If this is the case, what can be done?
There are numerous books around extolling the virtues of eye exercises as a means to better vision. I think it's all bollocks. When I was 18 I tried eye exercises for awhile, only to find that my glasses prescription had increased!
If it was possible (and not incredibly creepy), I would pull my eyes out of their sockets and squish them back into shape. But, alas, I cannot. So, instead, I'm trying to "exercise" my distance vision (in the hope of un-elongating my eyes and thus, improving my nearer vision) by spending time looking into the distance. I've organized myself to spend at least an hour everyday gazing into the distance - usually out the window, and with my glasses on (there is some thinking that 'seeing' with un-corrected or under-corrected vision can worsen myopia). There are some nice trees and clouds on which I focus. My eyes feel good when I do this, as does the rest of me. It's very calming, like meditation. I guess if distance gazing doesn't improve my eyes, it may improve other parts of me. I usually listen to music or to the radio while gazing, otherwise I get a little restless.
My grand plan is to 'distance gaze' for a year (I've been doing it for 4 months now), then go to the optometrist and see if there's been any improvement. I'm hoping my Distance Gazing Method will revolutionize myopia. If it does, I intend to patent it and become incredibly rich. People will no longer be able to gaze into the distance without paying me large sums of money! Mwahahaha!
Eye enthusiasts (optometrists/opthamologists etc) have differing views on what causes myopia. Some say it is caused by too much eye accommodation (contracting the eye muscles) - during reading, writing, looking at computers and television, playing video games. Some say it is caused by not enough usage of distance vision (when the eye muscles relax) - our 'western' lifestyle means that we don't spend much time looking into the distance (probably because we're spending so much time reading, watching television etc, as well as living/working in confined spaces). I suspect both these things contribute to loss of distance vision.
What is known, is that, in the majority of myopics, the eyeball has elongated. Which means, as light is refracted through the eye's lens, it comes into focus in front of the retina (which sits along the back perimeter of the eye) and blurry ensues:
So, the problem is: What causes the eye to elongate. The most common theories pretty much follow those from the 2nd paragraph; that too much eye accommodation causes the eye to 'lock' into an elongated shape, or that not enough eye 'relaxing' (looking into the distance) reshapes the eye. Again, I suspect it's a combination.
If this is the case, what can be done?
There are numerous books around extolling the virtues of eye exercises as a means to better vision. I think it's all bollocks. When I was 18 I tried eye exercises for awhile, only to find that my glasses prescription had increased!
If it was possible (and not incredibly creepy), I would pull my eyes out of their sockets and squish them back into shape. But, alas, I cannot. So, instead, I'm trying to "exercise" my distance vision (in the hope of un-elongating my eyes and thus, improving my nearer vision) by spending time looking into the distance. I've organized myself to spend at least an hour everyday gazing into the distance - usually out the window, and with my glasses on (there is some thinking that 'seeing' with un-corrected or under-corrected vision can worsen myopia). There are some nice trees and clouds on which I focus. My eyes feel good when I do this, as does the rest of me. It's very calming, like meditation. I guess if distance gazing doesn't improve my eyes, it may improve other parts of me. I usually listen to music or to the radio while gazing, otherwise I get a little restless.
My grand plan is to 'distance gaze' for a year (I've been doing it for 4 months now), then go to the optometrist and see if there's been any improvement. I'm hoping my Distance Gazing Method will revolutionize myopia. If it does, I intend to patent it and become incredibly rich. People will no longer be able to gaze into the distance without paying me large sums of money! Mwahahaha!
Wednesday 12 January 2011
Apparently, a Picture/Photo can Paint a Thousand Words.
Here are some photos which, I think, will explain everything.
The Little People - They gave me many adventures during my childhood (even the snooty King and Queen). The two at the front - in green - were my favourites and the only ones which I named (Penny and Christopher):
Doing some Alchemy - I like to get up close and personal with all of my reagents and equipment, even the solvent cabinet:
Willow versus The Mobile Unit - Willow was not at all phased by the toy soldier onslaught. In fact, she was somewhat amused. Eventually, she got up, turned 180 degrees and, with one swish of her giant tail, they all fell down:
The Little People - They gave me many adventures during my childhood (even the snooty King and Queen). The two at the front - in green - were my favourites and the only ones which I named (Penny and Christopher):
Doing some Alchemy - I like to get up close and personal with all of my reagents and equipment, even the solvent cabinet:
Willow versus The Mobile Unit - Willow was not at all phased by the toy soldier onslaught. In fact, she was somewhat amused. Eventually, she got up, turned 180 degrees and, with one swish of her giant tail, they all fell down:
Saturday 8 January 2011
Bring it on, 2011!!!
Whatever you're going to throw at me, I'm ready. Although, I would take it as a kindness if you only throw nice things at me. And, if possible, not so much throw them at me as gently pass them to me :-).
But, if you insist on being a complete and utter BASTARD, I will rise gallantly to your malevolent whimsy. Or, I will curl up into a fetal position until your whimsy buggers off. Either way, I will be able to seek solace in Lounge Room Disco*. And when it's time for Lounge Room Disco, I put on my fake fur stole, my cowboy hat and get crazy with Alcazar:
*Actual Disco is longer an option as I don't want to frighten the youngsters, and my left knee has a habit of locking when my disco-ing gets too unhinged, which it often does.
But, if you insist on being a complete and utter BASTARD, I will rise gallantly to your malevolent whimsy. Or, I will curl up into a fetal position until your whimsy buggers off. Either way, I will be able to seek solace in Lounge Room Disco*. And when it's time for Lounge Room Disco, I put on my fake fur stole, my cowboy hat and get crazy with Alcazar:
*Actual Disco is longer an option as I don't want to frighten the youngsters, and my left knee has a habit of locking when my disco-ing gets too unhinged, which it often does.
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