I am Ready for 2013

I have my 2013 student diary (though I am not a student - I just like the diary) and I have brand new underpants!

Nothing can stop me now.

Kitty on Rocking Chair

Subtitle: Queen Willow Rules from her Wooden Throne

Psychoanalysis of my Lust

[Warning: The word "subtext" will be used]

My lust, wanton and untamed as it is, takes many forms and is inspired by myriad sources. One such (frequent) source is that of a character from a fiction story, either a novel or film or TV series. And, if such lust is inspired by a screen-character, this lust usually extends to the actor playing the role. So, as a result of recently watching season 1 of political medieval fantasy Game of Thrones - a show replete with sources of lust - I am currently experiencing pants for actor Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, and for his Game of Thrones alter-ego, Jaime Lannister (a seemingly morally bereft bad guy whose apparent badness is informed (as should be the case with any self-respecting bad guy) by his deeply conflicted and complex character - at least that's what I'm telling myself).

As a consequence of this newfound lust, I have been compelled to search for, and gaze upon, images of Nikolaj and Jaime. And my gaze has become besotted by these two pictures (photo 1 is of Nikolaj modelling, photo 2 is Nikolaj as Jaime Lannister):

Why these two images, I asked myself. Why, why, WHY??

I suspect that there is subtext going on in these photos and that it is the same subtext in both photos. And that it is this subversive subtext to which I am attracted.

The first photo* hints at nudity, which can often be more interesting and erotic than explicit nudity, and the gentle way Nikolaj's body and face are posed is suggestive of emotional reflection, and possibly some body shyness. Mysterious nudity and broody emotion and, uh, modesty(?) are qualities attractive to my lust. But what the hell with the second photo; I'm lusting after the image of a man beaten bloody and chained? Does this make me a perverted monster? Perhaps - though this would not be the sole reason for such an accusation - but maybe my lust isn't specifically about the blood and chains. I think what appeals to me about this image is that Jaime Lannister is not only restrained, but calmly restrained - both physically and emotionally. He almost seems to exude a zen-like composure, despite the iron neck-shackle. (Or is he serene because of the neck-shackle - is it the case that Jaime Lannister requires nothing less than an iron neck-shackle in order to attain nirvana; ordinary meditation just won't quell his internal raging beast!).

So, what then exactly is the subtext contained in these photos?

Both photos display an image of a physically strong man who appears to be either unwilling, or unable, or unwilling and unable, to use his physical advantage - an advantage that could be used against a 'weaker' person to manipulate or intimidate or coerce. (I certainly wouldn't be going anywhere near the handsome evilness of Jaime Lannister unless he were securely immobilized and wielding zen-calm).

What these photos show, or suggest, is a kind of male passivity. Or, at least, a male non-aggression or a male non-assertiveness (which is not to imply that I am attracted to, or advocate, fragile submission in men - or, indeed, in anyone). In a world which often encourages and glorifies male violence - to much destructive ends - a passivity which manifests as an inaction to violence can be an obvious attraction (to me, at least). But 'passivity' isn't just about not being physically (or verbally) violent. I think it is also about not trying to dominate people and situations, and being empathic, and striving for equality. And peace, love and mung beans!

Okay, maybe it all got a bit too hippy there at the end of the previous paragraph. To bring things back into balance, here is a picture of mung beans:

*Note about One Soul - bottom left-hand of photo 1: after lusting upon this photo for awhile I eventually looked up One Soul and discovered it is a charity which helps premature babies and their families, and raises funds through selling bracelets made from Tibetan prayer beads - as featured on Nikolaj's wrist; clearly, he is a HIPPY. Weirdo.

The New POSITIVE Thinking

Increasingly, it seems imperative that I endeavour to be less cynical and negative, lest the black hole of doom swallows my soul. So, uh, I guess I'll have to focus on the positive:

• It's nice that I don't have a peanut allergy, as I love to eat peanut butter.
• Being myopic means I have to wear glasses, which protects my eyes from flying shrapnel.
• Possum poo all over the driveway means the possums are thriving.
• Something about rainbows.
• And snowflakes on kittens.

Kill me now.

Well, that didn't last long.

Hello, black hole of doom!

Actually, it's quite comfy here, in the black hole of doom.
There's plenty of room, in the black hole of doom.
It's not really a tomb, the black hole of doom.
It's more like a womb, the black hole of doom.

"THERE'S NOBODY LEFT! I'M ALL ALONE!"

The song 29/31 (see clip below) - which contrasts the experiences of the same woman at two different ages, 29 & 31 - by legendary musical duo, Garfunkel and Oates, speaks to my inner hysterical childless spinster. And she, in turn, is hysterically amused.

Certainly, at times, in my murky clucky younger days (somewhere under 40), I would fret about my 'shrinking ovaries' and lack of partner, and wonder if, maybe, I should, like, do something about it. Until, suddenly, or more correctly, eventually, I turned 40 and any pre-existing cluckiness quickly dissipated. But there were definitely moments of screaming anguish, especially as those around me continued to partner up and fall pregnant. And in recent times, despite being a mostly comfortably solitary person, I have had yearnings for companionship. So, occasionally, much like Garfunkel (31), I have felt an almost overwhelming urge to yowl into the existential void: THERE'S NOBODY LEFT! I'M ALL ALONE!

Someone's Always Watching...

The backyard appears innocuous (sinister washing notwithstanding), and most importantly, safe from psycho cats:

But on closer inspection:

Furry Lurker!

Interestingly, Oscar (aka psycho cat) seemed a little agitated when I took his photo, and shortly afterwards, he ran away. Perhaps he was worried I was going to capture his soul using my enchanted, soul-sucking camera - which I was, in fact, attempting to do.

Will the Wonders of Masking Tape Never Cease?

I have repaired my computer mouse using the very latest high-tech specialist equipment:

[PS: This blog post was brought to you by I'm too cheap to buy a new mouse]

Mysteries of the Laundry-Feline Connection

Dilemma: Is it okay to wash the blue towel with the tortoiseshell kitty, or will the colours run?

Serenity amongst the dirty laundry: Willow attains harmonious inner calm when she luxuriates in the white-blue Zen-tunnel.

Acrobatics: The (very wobbly) laundry-airer allows Willow to strengthen both her mental and physical agility.

Current Psyche...Jack Torrance

I am attempting to channel the essence of Jack Torrance - the father from Stephen King's novel The Shining, who becomes possessed by the evil Overlook Hotel.


This photo - from Stanley Kubrick's film version - shows the beginning of the transformation of Jack (Jack Nicholson) from a non psychotic, non axe-wielding man, who is NOT trying to kill his family, into a psychotic, axe-wielding, passionately trying to murder his family, kinda guy. It's quite a transformation.

Okay, I'm not actually seeking to find the right psyche which would allow me to murder the peoples but I am obsessed with the above photo: the manic glare, the unkempt facade, the turtleneck sweater. It's like looking into a mirror (except for the sweater - turtlenecks irritate my sensitive neck skin). I think everyone should spend some time in the thrall of a manic glare and unkempt facade, it nourishes the soul (before the devil takes it)

Also, it's possible this most recent psyche was influenced by the events which occurred about a month ago, documented in the previous blog post.

The Curiosity of a Dexterous Kitty or Something even MORE sinister?

(see below for photographic evidence of the strange and disturbing incident which recently occurred in my home - and is the topic of this blog post)

I was in the kitchen when I heard a thud emanate from the lounge room. Upon entering the lounge room I discovered that my copy of Stephen King's Treatise on the Evils of The Internal Combustion Engine (aka Christine) was no longer in its usual home (aka The Bookshelf) and had, in fact, been relocated to the floor. Spooky! My feline flatmate, the legendary Ms Willow Pussycat, was sitting on the coffee table next to the bookshelf, her face displaying ernest innocence. Since I did not witness this book relocation I cannot, with certainty, explain how it happened. I do, however, have some theories (basically it was either a supernatural occurrence or it was a Ms Willow's paw occurrence):

A Poltergeist has infiltrated my flat. The unexplained relocation of a book (or other household item) certainly bears the hallmark of poltergeist agency. And the choice of a Stephen King novel lends even more credence to this theory - perhaps an attempt, by the entity, to increase the likelihood of my being freaked out.

A sinister presence is trying to communicate with me via horror novel. Isn't this always happening in scary movies, some kind of message or warning is located in a specific book, a book which just happens to move out of the bookshelf as the protagonist is walking by. And of all the books on all my bookshelves, it was a Stephen King which mysteriously 'fell' to the floor. So should I infer that this presence is likely to be iniquitous, given that the book is a horror novel?

Ms Willow is displaying an interest in reading by knocking books to the floor. Only a few days prior to this incident, Ms Willow pushed a stack of books off the back of the couch. I had assumed this was her angered response to my not letting her sit on my lap, but maybe I misjudged the situation. Perhaps Ms Willow would like to partake in the reading of the words, and knocking books to the floor is her very own special way of indicating this desire. Hence, relocating the Stephen King novel to the floor was just a continuation of this new method of communicating her interest in reading.

Ms Willow is displaying an interest in getting attention by knocking books to the floor. [Again referencing the 'pushing a stack of books off the back of the couch' incident (see previous theory)]. Given that the Stephen King novel incident occurred without an obvious reason for Ms Willow to be annoyed with me, perhaps both book relocations are just the beginning of a cascade of 'relocations' Ms Willow intends to perpetrate in order to enable a lot more Willow-noticing, goddammit!

Ms Willow has been overtaken by an evil spirit, and thus is knocking books to the floor. [And again referencing the 'pushing a stack of books off the back of the couch' incident (see previous previous theory)]. It was bound to happen, eventually - Ms Willow is the 4th cat I've 'parented'. Felines are notorious for their magical/otherworldly/creepy capabilities, so a kitty-based haunting is always going to be a possibility. Also, Ms Willow is "moving along" in years (she'll be 14 in December) and is now the oldest cat I've had - my theorizing here is that the closer a kitty is to karcking it, the easier it is for ethereal thingies to mingle with fur and whiskers.


Some things to notice in the photos -
the 45 degree angle between the novel on the floor and the bookshelf - does 45 signify something eery,
the order in which I placed the Stephen King novels in my bookshelf*,
that I own 11 Stephen King novels - does 11 signify something eery,
the presence of all Harry Potter novels in bottom right of bookshelf (I swear I didn't buy - or read - ANY of them),
that Ms Willow hides her face in almost every photo she's in, and when her face is visible it is blurred.


Observing the aftermath. (PS: The coffee table is usually parallel, and closer, to the bookshelf - I moved it so as to get a better look at the damage).

It wasn't me! (Then why won't you let your face be photographed??)

Looking for clues.

Bored now.

Eat my dust!

Conduit for demonic depravity or innocuous horror novel?

Will the remaining Stephen King novels eventually make their way to the floor? And will something horrific manifest if this occurs? Perhaps the Buffy Chess Set - protector of the bookshelf - will slay the unknown evil.

*'Tis a little tricky to read the titles from the photo, so here they are (left-to-right):
Christine (prior to floor relocation)
Salem's Lot
Firestarter
The Dead Zone
Thinner
Cujo
Carrie
The Running Man (writing as Richard Bachman)
The Shinning
Night Shift
The Dark Half

(yes, I'm old skool Stephen King)

Goal Settings

Here is my current plan:

Wander, with meandering intent, aimlessly through life; do some things, interact with some people, admire fauna, be happy, be sad, be neither happy nor sad, avoid pain. If something resembling a goal happens, then so be it.

Worshipping the Red-Glowy Altar Thingy

Willow LOVVVVVVVVVVVVES the bar heater:

Paranoid Party Goer

At the gathering, amongst the sociable throng , I attempt to make (polite) conversation with…the Others.

The Others: They have inscrutable minds, which harbour myriad manifestations, possibly unfathomable, and most likely, evil.

Everybody is positioned too close and at jarring angles. The milling, radiant flesh renders me grotesque, and I am made larger and more conspicuous than normal. My limbs and mouth, in strategic self-defence, relocate into an alternate universe - a relocation that can be aided by alcohol, though this is often not necessary.

The Loved Ones

Whom are these magical ‘loved’ people, the ones that have earned the right to be adored - and therefore, if they so choose, are rarely or never without romantic companionship? Perhaps they have been gifted with special powers of attraction. Or maybe their existence is more valid than the non-adored. Or the non-adored have committed karmic, adoration-based, transgressions – possibly in a previous life. Or, possibly, the non-adored are so rampantly adept at self-comfort and independence that they don't require adoration.

Long term couples are often celebrated if they stay together for lengthy milestone numbers of years; couplehood time-frames that society has seemingly deemed as worthy achievements. But societies don’t celebrate milestone time-frames for being uncoupled. How rude! In a couple (no pun intended) of years, I’ll be reaching my 15 year anniversary of being uncoupled – not counting the very early years, though I did have some (torrid) primary school romances – and assuming that, in this time, Eric Northman doesn’t transform from fictional vampire to actual living vampire and hunt me down (for romantic purposes…or whatever). I think someone should throw me a 15 year uncoupled anniversary party! (Not really).

I like to think that the reason I’m ‘unloved’, is that I’m an aberrant freak of nature (as opposed to an acceptable freak of nature). I realise this makes me sound a little egotistical (obviously, most people aspire to being aberrant freaks of nature), but I’m okay with this, for I take great pride in my ego and all its attendant self-glorifications.

Cockatoo Tree

Tree bearing the white-feathered cockatoo fruit:


White-feathered cockatoo fruit 'disembarking':


Back to normal:



[Edit Update: The cockatoos may be corellas - birds confound me! The important thing to note is that they are loud and white and travel in packs and wouldn't be out of place in an Alfred Hitchcock movie starring Tippi Hedren]

Who Knows What Manner of Depraved Inanity May Spew Forth from my Brain...

...so it's probably for the best that I don't write a blog post. Instead, in honour of Good Friday, here is a religious photo:

My Nerada Tea Shelf Overflow-ith

The peppermint and chamomile teas were on special, so I stocked up. I have no (money saving) excuse for stocking up on the regular tea - 200 tea bags per box, oh yeah! - but, clearly, it would be a disaster for me (or any sensible person) to run out of tea, so it's best not to tempt fate (as Toby Ziegler would say).

Bow Before the Giant Kitty God

"Bring me food, insignificant humans!"

Face Stealer

I get a dislocating sense when I look in the mirror and see parts of my mother's face attached to my face. I feel as though I've misappropriated aspects of her visage for my nefarious purposes. My face is not really my own. I'm misrepresenting my mother by being me, in her face. This mostly started happening from around the time I turned 40. I suspect some ego-id-superego/Freudian/Jungian psychological wackiness is at work here - given that when my mother was in her forties, I was a teenager, hence I'm now at the age my mother was when I wanted to assert my own (radical!) identity - separate from the parents. I'm probably getting teenage identity angst flashbacks when I spend too long gazing at my (quite alluring) reflection.

Horror Movie Stupid #458

When the intended victim walks into a room and the killer is waiting for her/him, quiet and still, and probably in a shadowy corner. But the killer doesn't attack until the victim has looked around the room and spotted the killer, and thus the victim has time to run away - or, at least, has time to defend herself. So, the element of surprise is lost AND the killer then has to expend extra (potential killing) energy chasing the quick-footed victim - usually through a darkened building. As a result of this stupid, the victim sometimes gets away! And lives long enough to be in the sequel! Madness!

The International Film Festival is Happening in My Loungeroom

The films chosen for my latest batch of 5 weekly dvds for $10 (it used to be 6 weekly dvds - economic hardship must have caused the rental store to make some drastic changes) are from all over the globe:

Korea - Princess Aurora
Iran - My Tehran For Sale
Pakistan - Son of a Lion

and, well, 2 from the US

The Runaways
Heathers ("dear diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count")

Had I realized, prior to leaving the rental store, how close I was to choosing 5 films from 5 different countries, I would've chosen more wisely - or, more globally. In fact, I WAS considering a Japanese film until I saw that Heathers had shifted itself from 3-day hire to weekly, and I've been waiting (and waiting) for that dark classic of seething high school society to go weekly. My life is very complex.

Waiting...(with music)...

I seem to be trapped in a lengthy, and slightly excruciating, interlude. Apparently, though, 'hope springs eternal'. I'm not entirely convinced.

Thankfully, during this interim (or is this my permanent state??), I have The Butterfly Effect to quell my hoping angst - which is not to be confused with my hopping angst, a painful and treacherous affliction for which I require much therapy.

Am I holding on in vain
Am I praying for a change
All the wounds set deep within
Cold the walls you set around me
Am I holding on in vain
Am I praying for a change
That's never coming

Cats LOVE Tennis!

Well, at least one cat (Ms Willow) does, to which these following photos bear witness:

Watching the 2012 Australian Open Ladies' Final (Victoria Azarenka versus Maria Sharapova)



C'mon, Azarenka!



C'mon, Sharapova!


I don't think Ms Willow really minded who won, she just wanted to see a good match. Unfortunately, the match was pretty much an Azarenka stampede (6/3, 6/0), but there was some quality grunting from both players.

One Ring to Rule Them All...

Wedding rings are a little creepy. Weddings are a little creepy. Marriage is a little creepy. Yes, I am quite the romantic. And my 20-years-ago self agrees (agreed?) with me, as evidenced by the (possibly paranoid) poem about wedding rings/weddings/marriage I wrote 20 years ago:

An unholy promise,
with your kiss on my skin,
through to my bone,
seeps bitter poison,
this crushing metal bond.
Forever is our acquaintance,
forever leaves me screaming and gasping for air...

Oh, happy day. Or at least it's meant to be happy, your wedding day, and perfect, and you're expected to vow to love another person for the rest of your life (or else!) - I wouldn't even vow to love myself for the rest of my life, even as lovable as I am. It's too much pressure. I need to take things one day at a time, reassess as I go. A promise is just an enticement to breakage.

Now We Are Forty

(Actually, now we are closer to mid-forties, but my point is that we are no longer eight and nine years old - damn!)

What do you say to your childhood/early teenagehood friend when being re-acquainted with him 25-30 years later? I, for one, had no idea when this recently happened (though, admittedly, I often have no idea what to say to people, in general). An extra degree of difficulty was added by the looming possibility that my friend - now high achieving and highly respected in his field – would be dragged away by an over zealous colleague wanting to ‘have a word’. I had to think fast (not my greatest skill), and so I went with the (seemingly) easy and accepted topics: children, partners, career. There wasn’t space in which to find out who/where he is now; what had his first twenty-five years of adulthood given him?

I didn’t know how appropriate it would have been to recount with him tales of unhinged childhood, given the propriety of the venue and of the crowd, or if he even wanted to remember. But if it had been possible, some of my memories of us, which I would have recounted, are:

• watching The Goodies
• swimming in his neighbours’ pool (usually at my insistence)
• playing Charades in his backyard (usually at my insistence)
• his introducing me to the joy of eating Milo from the tin (which, quite frankly, I still do)
• playing Battleship (and my cheating, and his catching me)
• founding new territory in my backyard
• trying to come up with a title for his spy novel
• sailing with him and his father, on his father’s boat
• his drawing up and signing a Statutory Declaration (complete with “official” wax seal) indicating that he would come with me to my next school disco. (NB: As I have never ‘collected’ on this document, I assume the offer is still valid).

The January Digital Camera Madness Continues!

I have been borrowed a digital camera with which to play, and so, MORE PHOTOS. Yeah!

[Warning: Some photos contain images of moi]


Practising maniacal grin (left cheek):



Practising maniacal grin (right cheek):



With (a somewhat photo-shy) Ms Willow Pussycat:



The face of evil (AKA Oscar The Psycho Cat):



Cat-tooth wound, courtesy of Oscar the Psycho Cat:

Moccasin Love

My feet shall never be uncomfortable AGAIN!

Oh, Yeah...Another Year...

2011 mostly sucked. May 2012 suck less.


Meanwhile, Ms Willow Pussycat is VERY ADORABLE:

The Spinster

Since I am single, childless, and have never been married, I'm thinking about re-inventing myself as an elusive and seemingly nefarious anti-superhero called The Spinster - (The Godfather can eat my knitted cardigans and sensible shoes). My supernatural powers would stem from my not having a husband or children. I would walk within shadows, for I am quite susceptible to sunburn. I would fight crime and injustice, when I could be bothered, otherwise I would ignore it. People would speak about me in hushed and reverent, even fearful, tones. I would often be covered in cat fur. Neighbourhood children would mock me, never knowing that I'm actually...mwahaahaa...keeping an eye on them (in case they get into trouble). I would get to work on that magic quilt I've been meaning to crochet - the one which can be used both as an invisibility cloak or as a lovely, warm blanket. I would have a motley assortment of conjugal companions; well, I don't have a husband to whom I have to remain faithful, so...mwahaahaa...