Effulgent13

The International Film Festival is Happening in My Loungeroom

2012-02-17T20:02:00.005+11:00

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 ("my teenage bullshit angst 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)...

2012-02-10T15:06:00.002+11:00

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!

2012-01-28T21:55:00.005+11:00

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...

2012-01-24T15:30:00.002+11:00

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

2012-01-17T21:30:00.014+11:00

(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!

2012-01-13T15:38:00.001+11:00

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

2012-01-10T13:57:00.005+11:00

My feet shall never be uncomfortable AGAIN!

Oh, Yeah...Another Year...

2012-01-04T13:54:00.002+11:00

2011 mostly sucked. May 2012 suck less.

Meanwhile, Ms Willow Pussycat is VERY ADORABLE:

The Spinster

2012-01-01T15:45:00.004+11:00

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...

The Cheese

2011-12-25T22:17:00.001+11:00

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)

Research Fail

2011-12-18T16:37:00.004+11:00

[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)

The Blog Posts MUST Continue

2011-12-14T14:15:00.000+11:00

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.

200

2011-12-03T21:44:00.000+11:00

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)]

199

2011-12-03T21:41:00.002+11:00

...nearly there...

198

2011-12-03T21:38:00.001+11:00

...I think you can work out what I'm doing here...

197

2011-12-03T21:37:00.001+11:00

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...

The Perils of Womb Ownership

2011-11-21T10:43:00.002+11:00

[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.

It's LOOKING at Me!

2011-11-07T14:24:00.004+11:00

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!

Elsewhere Brain

2011-10-30T22:21:00.004+11:00

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...

Wild Weekend

2011-10-25T13:20:00.003+11:00

The clip below is a montage of the weekend activities of Olive Penderghast from the movie Easy A.

I can relate.

Do Not Adjust Your Screen

2011-10-13T21:44:00.005+11:00

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This blog post has been intentionally left blank.

Today's Ponderisms

2011-10-10T14:47:00.004+11:00

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.

Nerd Interlude: Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock

2011-10-07T13:45:00.003+11:00

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:

I Need a Hug, Goddamit!

2011-09-24T15:44:00.003+10:00

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.

Steel Wrapped in More Steel

2011-09-18T19:44:00.002+10:00

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)

Horizontal Advantage

2011-09-16T15:28:00.004+10:00

[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.

Thoughts From My Pillow

2011-09-08T21:02:00.004+10:00

[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*

Alchemy Fail

2011-09-04T21:05:00.003+10:00

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.

Spotty

2011-08-30T16:02:00.003+10:00

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)

Teenage Boys and Sex: WTF?

2011-08-22T16:48:00.002+10:00

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:

"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!

Struggle in the Car Park

2011-08-16T19:27:00.002+10:00

While 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.

Too Much Dream-Psychoanalysis?

2011-08-12T11:18:00.004+10:00

[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...

Musical Interlude: A Hazy Shade of Winter

2011-08-02T21:48:00.002+10:00

Hang on to your hopes, my friend,
That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away,
Simply pretend,
That you can build them again...

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:

1968 (S&G)

1987 (Bangles)

1995 (Bodyjar)

Blah...Heart Stuff...Blah...

2011-07-26T20:31:00.004+10:00

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.

What Sadistic Psychopath Invented Getting Out of Bed???

2011-07-23T09:37:00.004+10:00

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.

Bridges: Practical, Philosophical, Political

2011-07-21T14:16:00.005+10:00

(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.

Eventually I realized, by his demeanour, that it wasn't him

2011-07-12T17:11:00.006+10:00

(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:

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.

Seen on the Insides of My Eyelids

2011-07-03T21:33:00.003+10:00

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!!).

Sage advice given to me by a friend in the guise of a random comment

2011-06-27T15:14:00.002+10:00

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):

"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.

"Life-Experiences" I Haven't Experienced

2011-06-24T11:23:00.006+10:00

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 life-times.

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)

Mid-Way Formed

2011-06-17T18:51:00.007+10:00

[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.

Today's Literary Quote:

2011-06-12T19:22:00.007+10:00

From The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

"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.

Something Heart-Painful I've Never Experienced

2011-06-04T13:45:00.003+10:00

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.

200 Litres

2011-05-31T14:27:00.002+10:00

[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.

Wednesdayfulgent13

2011-05-25T16:49:00.008+10:00

I have ABSOLUTELY nothing to say (or, indeed, to blog). However, I don't want to leave the previous blog post sitting at the top of my blog. I am fearful, as any rational person would be, that due to the black puddle of melancholy emitted by Hollow Distortion, depressive karma may be attracted to this site. Obviously, by moving the blog post away from the powerful "top" position, its 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.

Hollow Distortion

2011-05-19T14:38:00.005+10:00

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.

Things I've Observed Whilst Engaging in Casual Sex

2011-05-11T14:56:00.002+10:00

pretend intimacy

a fine line between caressing and groping

amplified grunts

silence

short term memory

Actually, upon reflection, this list wouldn't be out of place in Things I've Observed Whilst Engaging in Sex With Partners.

This is What I Wrote:

2011-05-08T19:57:00.007+10:00

...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

Embraced by Heartbreak and (Some) Joy

2011-05-04T08:14:00.002+10:00

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.

The Tradition of (fictionalised) Tweenaged Girl Killers has gone Apoplectic

2011-04-27T11:46:00.003+10:00

(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).

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.

- 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 girl’s) 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.

Mindy Macready/Hit Girl (film version, played by Chloe Moretz):

Samuel Beckett Quote:

2011-04-23T14:16:00.002+10:00

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

I think I will make this my mission statement.

Generalized Abstractions and Long-Winded Sentences are giving me a Cranky

2011-04-20T15:18:00.011+10:00

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:

"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).

I Defy the Third Law of Motion

2011-04-18T22:14:00.002+10:00

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.

Feminism, by Any Other Name, is Still a Rose.

2011-04-08T21:46:00.004+10:00

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.

The Appeal of Unrestrained Id in Grown-up Fictional Characters

2011-03-26T17:12:00.005+11:00

[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:

“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.

Did Kyle Reese really have to come across time for Sarah Connor?

2011-03-15T15:49:00.004+11:00

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.

It's Lust Unbound, here at Effulgent13

2011-02-14T17:27:00.005+11:00

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 see that my blog entry, Who's 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.

Frustrated...

2011-02-08T16:15:00.002+11:00

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).

Gazing into the Distance

2011-01-27T19:08:00.003+11:00

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!

Apparently, a Picture/Photo can Paint a Thousand Words.

2011-01-12T15:26:00.005+11:00

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:

Bring it on, 2011!!!

2011-01-08T18:05:00.004+11:00

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 solice 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.

The End of the Year is Nigh!

2010-12-31T17:07:00.003+11:00

This year has been mostly calm (well, for me anyway – there’s been a lot of shit going on everywhere else…although, since I firmly believe that the rest of the world is a figment of my imagination, I guess it doesn’t matter…although it feels like it matters…what if the rest of the world IS real…this is too much to deal with right now…what was I saying?). The year…it has been pretty quiet...and safe. There were one or two moments of drama, but they were confronted, and made less dramatic. There were few extremes of high or low.

The ‘happiness’ experts say that an even flow of mood, with occasional highs and lows, is a healthy and realistic mental state. I tend to agree. I don’t expect life to be “oh happy day!!” everyday, or at all, really. Occasional elation is ok, you just gotta be careful it doesn’t become too expansive. Otherwise, the Karmic Masters, who live in an enormous purple castle, somewhere near the South Pole, will decree you’ve had TOO much joy and so must now be made to crawl agonizingly in the depths of misery. Bastards.

Physically, I’m good. I eat healthily, mostly. I could probably exercise more. I sleep a lot, which I seem to need to do, otherwise I become depressed.

I don’t have a job. An occupation. How will I know where I fit in societies’ hierarchy if I don’t have an occupational label? The occupation I had (which I had for a long time) was making me depressed. Last year, when I was working, my days were often barely bearable (not even alliteration could offer comfort). So I’m leaving occupations alone for the moment. I suspect that the occupation I’m properly suited to is something quite obscure, and, as such, may take a while to find. I’m keeping my eyes open, though, should our paths cross.

I probably spend a little too much time alone. Occasionally, my weird lonerness slips into loneliness.

Lurv…well…it has stoically avoided me for so long now that I’d probably need to climb on top of a meteorite and crash through Lurv’s ceiling to get it to notice me. Fucker.

Overall, I think I’m in a phase of moderate inertia, with intermittent bouts of momentum. I suspect I’ll be in this phase for a while longer, and to attempt to fight it may be detrimental: I think there’s a risk of going into a phase of total inertia with no momentum.

I Have Invented Another Reading Method

2010-12-28T16:01:00.002+11:00

I’m calling it the Absorption method.

The Absorption Method shares some similarity with my other reading method invention, Random Reading (reading random passages at a time until one of them starts making sense; descibed in the Naked Lunch section), in that it requires a certain amount of ‘disconnectedness’ or ‘casual connectedness’ while reading a difficult text. I discovered this new method while reading Crime and Punishment (which could EASILY have been written using half the words - although, thankfully, Mr D's hypergraphia was not at the terrifying heights it reached during the writing of the Brothers K). I think the method works best with a novel which, while not being entirely incomprehensible, strongly encourages the reader’s brain to glaze over, with the possibility of subsequent unconsciousness.

The most important tenant of Absorption Reading (actually, the only tenant) is to ‘keep your eyes moving’. You need to keep your mind aware but not necessarily focused (too much focusing is a maximum danger time for brain-glaze to occur). As you move through the (seemingly endless) paragraphs, you will pick up random words. This should give you enough information to absorb the general thread of the narrative without having to read so much extraneous drivel. Periodically, you will need to go back over paragraphs/pages and read them properly – they main contain essential plot points, introductions of important characters, something interesting. As with any skill, practice brings proficiency. Don’t be discouraged if you find yourself upon the final page of your novel with no recollection of, well, the novel. Start slow; try a short but densely worded novel – maybe Heart of Darkness (which, after a couple of lacklustre attempts, I was finally able to read using the NORMAL reading method). The bookshelf is your oyster. One day, you may even find yourself holding open that most notorious of 'famous but unread' novels, Ulysses.

A word of caution, though. As effective as this reading method may seem, it is not a panacea. It will not render every intractable novel, readable. There are novels, evil novels, hidden in the deepest darkest corners of every bookstore and library, so mind boggling obscure and overwritten, that they will always be, at least for 99.9999% of humans, unreadable.

"I walk in shadows, searching for light..."

2010-12-20T17:26:00.003+11:00

For all of us heart-weary souls feeling "...cold and alone, no comfort in sight", here is Jimmy Ruffin to ease some of the pain:

I Didn't Bleed for Nothing

2010-12-17T19:42:00.002+11:00

Yeah!

Let me explain:

I was feeling very well on Tuesday afternoon, when I donated blood. On Tuesday night I started sneezing and felt tired (probably due to blood loss). Throughout Wednesday I continued sneezing and by Wednesday night I was knee deep in congestion, sore throat and infection by rhinovirus (common cold). Fuck! No, I'm not common cold-phobic. The reason I was so annoyed, and maybe a little depressed, was that there was the possibility that the bloodbank would not be able to use my blood and it would have to be discarded. I was somewhat disheartened to think I'd bled 470mL of my lovely blood for nothing. But, thankfully, when I rang the bloodbank on Thursday, the "medical person" ("I'll put you through to a Medical Person") I spoke to seemed to think my blood would be OK to use. Hurrah!!!

After you've donated blood, you have to monitor your health for a week. To quote the bloodbank: Should you become aware of any reason why your blood should not be used for transfusion, please call us...In particular, if you develop a cough, cold, diarrhoea or other infection within a week after donating, please report it immediately. The Medical Person (I assume it was either a doctor or a nurse) I spoke to asked if I had a fever or diarrhoea and wanted to know when my symptoms had developed. It seemed as though the main issue was whether or not I had a fever and/or diarrhoea, which, I guess, could be indicative of a more serious infection that begins with cold-like symptoms. I guess it's best to err on the side of caution - to have more people ringing the bloodbank for non-serious infections, than to have less people ringing in and potentially miss a serious infection. The bloodbank does routinely test donated blood for hepatitis B and C, HIV-1 and HIV-2, HTLV (I dunno what it is either), and syphilis (which I thought had been lost to time with the demise of pre-Enlightenment royalty).

Rhinovirus:

Adorable Rhinovirus:

[Source: Handmade Gypsy]

Nothing is Real, Everything is Permitted*

2010-12-07T18:57:00.005+11:00

I'm thinking about being reincarnated as an Assassin Bug:

*The Assassin Bug's Creed, apparently

Jean-Luc Godard...You Wacky Funster!

2010-11-17T16:43:00.012+11:00

I’ve just finished watching the surrealist-absurdist-dystopian-scifi-noir film Alphaville (directed by avant-garde director Jean-Luc Godard). It wasn’t as off-the-charts weird as I'd expected, or indeed, as some films I’ve seen (Eat, For This Is My Body I’m looking at YOU). I found the narrative to be reasonably coherent, the characters to be only moderately bizarre, the political subversion to be a mix of text and sub-text and the dialogue to contain an even handed amount of abstraction (much like this blog). I'm not opposed to a certain amount of incomprehensibility in film or literature, but if I can't understand anything, then I get bored.

I think one of the main features of Alphaville is the dialogue; the ideas and themes contained within its exchanges are rich and textured. One such exchange is that where the alarmingly named, secret agent protagonist, Lemmy Caution, is interrogated by Alpha 5 (described as being one of the 1.4 billion nerve centres that form Alpha 60; aka a flashing light with a disturbingly croaky voice). I've transcribed the interaction below:

Alpha 5: What is your name?
Lemmy Caution: Ivan Johnson.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
LC: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
LC: I don’t know, 45?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
LC: Ford Galaxy.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
LC: Gold and women.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
LC: An article for Figaro-Pravada.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
LC: I’m not afraid. At least, not in the way you think. Besides, you wouldn’t understand.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
LC: *nods*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
LC: Go ahead.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
LC: The silence of infinite space…frightened me.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
LC: To die no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
LC: Poetry.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
LC: I believe in the spontaneity of our conscience.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
LC: I do not believe there is any mystery in love.
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
LC: I don’t understand.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
LC: I may have good reason to lie, but how do you distinguish between a lie and the truth?
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.

Afterwards, Lemmy Caution is told that his answers are “difficult, sometimes impossible, to register” and that, because of this, Lemmy is of above average intelligence.

Well, I was so impressed by Alpha 5’s ability to assess a person’s intelligence, I decided to allow myself to be interrogated. Here is the result:

Alpha 5: What is your name?
Me: Effulgent13.
Alpha 5: Where were you born?
Me: In New York.
Alpha 5: How old are you?
Me: Do you mean my biological age or my mental age?
Alpha 5: What kind of car do you drive?
Me: Holden Camira.
Alpha 5: What do you love most of all?
Me: Chocolate and sleep.
Alpha 5: What are you doing in Alphaville?
Me: Looking for love.
Alpha 5: You seem to be afraid.
Me: I’m shittin' my pants, but not in the way you think.
Alpha 5: Rest assured that my decisions always keep in mind the ultimate good.
Me: *looks sceptical*
Alpha 5: I shall now ask you some test questions as a security measure.
Me: Knock yourself out.
Alpha 5: You are from the outer countries. What did you feel as you travelled through galactic space?
Me: Nausea…infinite nausea.
Alpha 5: What is the privilege of the dead?
Me: To pay taxes no more.
Alpha 5: Do you know what turns darkness into light?
Me: Kittens.
Alpha 5: What is your religion?
Me: I believe I am the Messiah.
Alpha 5: Do you draw any distinction between the mysterious principles of knowledge and those of love?
Me: Huh?
Alpha 5: You are not telling the truth.
Me: I honestly don’t understand what the hell you’re asking me.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something.
Me: I’m hiding many things.
Alpha 5: You are hiding something. But I don’t know exactly what yet. So, for the time being, you are free. I would like you to go to our control centre.
Me: Will there be cake?
Alpha 5: Don’t try my patience, insignificant human.
Me: *hangs head*

Clearly, I possess genius level intelligence.

Empathy or Machiavellian Ingenuity?

2010-11-11T13:31:00.001+11:00

"To indulge in deception, pretence and social manipulation you need to be able to put yourself in another's shoes; to take the other's point of view; to imagine what it would be like to be that other."
(page 76, The Meme Machine by Susan Blackmore)

Certainly "putting yourself in another's shoes" should enable some comprehension of the mind of another human being; but for what purpose? Foolishly, in trying to make the world a better place, I've been attempting to EMPATHETICALLY understand my fellow humans (ie care about them), when I could have been RULING the world using deception, pretence and social manipulation. What a pathetic, non-sociopath I turned out to be!

November...You Rascally Devil

2010-11-06T13:25:00.002+11:00

Don't think you can play your slippery tricks on me. I'm watching you. Oh yes I am. It may appear as though I'm spending all my time daydreaming or sleeping or watching 70's science fiction shows (which I am), BUT I'm also keeping an eye on you. I won't be toyed with. I have a loaded super-soaker and a strong desire to squirt at things. So don't try anything.

You have been warned.

Let the RIGHT one in

2010-10-23T16:20:00.006+11:00

I am in love with this photo of Eli:

taken from the Swedish vampire film, Let The Right One In. It reminds me of the image of Carrie (Stephen King novel) after having pig's blood poured onto her at the prom. The reason for Eli being covered in blood is quite different to that of Carrie and is an interesting variation on a standard vampire trope (which I'm not going to explain, 'cos that'd ruin the surprise).

October Update

2010-10-21T11:36:00.004+11:00

Despite earlier indications, October is now progressing at an acceptable pace - not too fast, not too slow. I should have enough time to prepare for November.

Apparently, it's October...

2010-10-11T15:12:00.004+11:00

...what the hell happened to the end of September (and the beginning of October). Must start paying attention.

The Face in the Mushroom Cloud

2010-09-27T13:12:00.005+10:00

This picture was taken during the first full scale testing of a hydrogen bomb. The bomb was codenamed "Ivy Mike" - I think "Humanity is Fucked" would've been a more apt title. The testing took place in 1952 on the small Pacific Island, Elugelab, part of the Enewetak Atoll. The bomb yielded approximately 10 megatons of nuclear energy and destroyed Elugelab. A 1.9 km wide by 50 m deep crater is all that was left.

It's a breathtaking photograph. The swirling cloud formation created by the explosion is beautiful and eerie and terrifying. Emerging from the wispy, radioactive cloud, is a human-ish looking face. The face is in profile, looking to its left. Its mouth is held in a tight, painful grimace, and its brain appears swollen, as though it is infected. The eyes are masked: Is the creature too frightened to look at what it has created or has it strategically covered its eyes so as not to give away its true purpose? Whatever the case, the eyes, the "windows to the soul", cannot be seen, and, therefore, neither can its soul. However, there does appear to be, very faintly, a pair of eyes hovering just next to, or possibly just above, the creature. The eyes are located on either side of the creature's brain and appear to be looking directly at the camera, even as they seem to hide behind the creature. If I were a religious person, I would say these eyes are the eyes of Satan.

Song lyrics that have, over the years, persistently inhabited my brain (mostly while my brain is in the shower)

2010-09-22T21:33:00.005+10:00

[I don't know what it all means]

"Wanting you the way I do/ I only want to be with you/ And I would go to the ends of the earth/ 'Cause, darling, to me that's what your worth..."
Where You Lead by Carole King

"You were so young/ And I was so free/ I may have been young but baby/ That's not what I wanted to be..."
Stumbling In by Chris Norman & Susie Quatro

"We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun/ But the stars we could reach/ Were just starfish on the beach..."
Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks

"And it don't matter to me/ If you take up with someone/ Who's better than me/ 'Cause your happiness is all I want..."
It don't matter to me by Bread

"Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair/ Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen..." Hair from Hair, the Musical

"You are the sun/ You are the rain/ That makes my life this foolish game..."
You are the Sun, You are the Rain by Lionel Ritchie

"Run, run, as fast as you can/ You can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man..."
The Gingerbread Man - Nursery Rhyme

Impressions of Twilight

2010-09-14T19:47:00.003+10:00

That's "Twilight" the brooding vampire novel by Stephenie Meyer, not "Twilight" the brooding transition into nighttime, just before the sun goes to sleep. (Not sure where"Dusk" fits into all of this - is it before or after Twilight? - ponderous).

I decided it was time I investigated the Twilight Phenomenon. I've just finished reading the first book in the series. And I now believe the Twilight Phenomenon requires no further investigation from myself. (Although I may watch the films).

I approached this important assignment from a few different angles:

1) through a "teenage filter", ie I tried to imagine how I would've reacted to the novel had I read it when I was a teenager

2) through a "sensible-adult-feminist filter", ie do I think the novel is harmful to teenagers, and especially, to girl teenagers

3) through no filter, ie what do I think of the novel as a piece of writing, no strings attached

Here are my conclusions:

1) Given that my favourite "young adult" novel when I was a teenager was Carrie by Stephen King and my second favourite "young adult" novel was The Shinning by Stephen King, I think it's quite likely that Twilight would've been a little tame for my teenaged reading tastes. However, I suspect I would've at least read, and probably found some enjoyment in, the first book. And I probably would've watched the films (peer pressure would have made watching the films mandatory). I'm not sure I would have been besotted with Edward - Edward-besottedness seems to be a large contributor to the Twilight Phenomenon. Edward's kinda bossy for my liking, and possibly a little too pretty. And I wouldn't have identified with Bella, she's a bit too perfect (bizarre clumsiness notwithstanding); she's too academically gifted and self sufficient and fragile beautied - not a pimple in sight.

2) Harmful? I found this difficult to assess. I probably wouldn't recommend Twilight to teenagers. It's not well written, it's quite bland at times, and I found the characterizations of Bella and Edward a little ridiculous. But are these things harmful? Maybe.

It's true that the Twilight Phenomenon has gotten teenagers to read (at least girl teenagers) and this is a good thing. But if it's the only book a teenager reads, then it could be harmful. Especially in regard to the Bella/Edward interaction. I don't like that Edward is given so much ownership of, and control over, Bella's lust (or 'love', as Bella thinks, fool that she is...what? Me, cynical? Never). And I think there is some danger in a romanticised portrayal of such skewed desire in young adult fiction: Being that they are people with limited life experience in the world of lust/love, they might not read it sceptically, like I did! I also think it's unrealistic that, at age 17, Bella hasn't previously experienced lust (I'd guess most people - boys and girls - would have had some dealings with lust from about age 13...ie about when puberty begins). If Bella had been familiar with the sensation of lust, she might not have been so much in Edward's thrall - she would've still been hot for him but not so ludicrously hot.

There is also something creepy about a 17-year-old getting romantically involved with a 100-year-old. That's right, Edward is just over 100 years old, but was turned into a vampire at 17, so he still looks 17. (This vast age difference thing was something I also found creepy in Buffy, ie Buffy with Angel, although Buffy did have the advantage of being able to throw Angel across the room if he threatened her). Certainly the older lover theme has it's romantic appeal to an inexperienced young person (I had a huge crush on my 35-year-old guitar teacher when I was 17). The notion that the older person will show you what it's all about, and you won't have to fumble around and work it out for yourself - a process that could take years and years! (Hint: maybe it should take years and years). But there's also a gaping power imbalance going on, one that could be easily exploited by a less-than-scrupulous operator. And I think Edward fits this description. He doesn't give Bella room to get to know herself, to become an adult, before he starts using her rampant desire for him to control her (she gets all swoony whenever he gets too close to her - Vomit!). He's incredibly selfish. And having been alive/undead for 100 years should give him some wisdom and restraint, right? Apparently not. This guy stalks Bella, listens in on her conversations, has a violent temper, will possibly kill Bella if he "loses control" around her (read: has sex with her), is very possessive of Bella AND (and this bit made me especially cranky) he instructs Bella not to go into the (dangerous) forest alone (she's only allowed "into the forest" if she's accompanied/led by Edward). Forest rant continues in next paragraph.

[Warning: Gratuitous and tenuous metaphor ensues]. Let me say, right here, right now, on this very blog, that a forest is a wondrous place, and a woman should explore "her" forest whenever, and however, she sees fit. If Bella would like to explore the forest with Edward, that's fine, but it's Bella's decision. I think it would be fantastic if Bella explored the forest by herself for awhile, so she has a thorough understanding of it - its flora and fauna, its various paths, the myriad emotions she experiences within the forest. And then, maybe, she'll have a better understanding of who she might like to accompany her into the forest - if, indeed, she even wants company.

My final rant concerns Bella's father:
Dear Bella's father,
Bella is your school-age daughter. She is NOT your domestic servant. Do your own damn dishes. Clean your own damn house. Learn to cook. AND spend some goddamn time with your daughter. Don't leave her home alone all weekend while you're out fishing. Pretty soon Bella will be off to college and you can do as much fishing as you like, but right now: BELLA NEEDS YOU. And maybe, just maybe, if you spent more time with her, she might not be hanging out with a violently-possessive, self-involved, sexually-sadistic, 100-year-old vampire.
Love, Nicole.

3) I wanna know more about vampire-Alice. Why wasn't this book about vampire-Alice? I will not be reading anymore Stephenie Meyer books unless vampire-Alice is the main character.

Imaginary Boyfriend

2010-09-04T20:46:00.003+10:00

I have a crush on an actual person. Let us all join hands and rejoice. I'm quite excited and positive about this recent development despite the unlikeliness of he and I ever having a thing - I don't know him very well and my interaction with him is limited. But these are minor details, especially when considering my previous crushes - Eric Northman, a 1000 year old vampire invented by Charlene Harris for her Sookie Stackhouse (Trueblood) novels, and James Hetfield, lead singer of heavy metal group Metallica. My new crush not only exists but lives in the same city as me! He is also not married and is about the same age as me (42). I mention his age because I've noticed, with my keen observational skills, that as people get older they tend to become attached - hence, there are less unattached peoples of my epoch. There is, I guess, the option of seeking out a younger person - I imagine the under 25's have a reasonable number of unattacheds - but, as I'm now old enough to have given birth to an under 25, I don't consider this age group to be a viable option.

So, why have I called this blog entry "Imaginary Boyfriend"? Well, because sometimes I find myself imagining that my crush is my boyfriend, and imagining how he would be as my boyfriend. It's a behaviour I've previously indulged in (see here for a bizarre example). Wiser people than myself (there were 3 of them, at last count) would probably say that putting favourable characteristics onto a person for whom I have hotpants, before I've gotten to know them, is a foolish endeavour. In fact it could be argued, wisely, that even just having hotpants for someone before getting to know them (let alone making up personality traits) is also not the wisest of endeavours. Whatever the case, it's something that I've done and continue to do. (And I suspect I'm not the only one.)

But is this person-imagining really a bad thing? Is my devotion to wayward winsome wanderings upon matters of the heart such a blight to wisdom? Will Wally weep when Wendy walks westward? Is it time to end this wacky W alliteration? YES!

I'm not entirely convinced that there is only badness in my imaginings - although caution is very much advised. I've noticed, over the years, that the characteristics which I've imbued upon my various crushes are mostly unchanged, and have been refined over time (and, I guess, as I've gotten to know myself better). I'm not referring to physical characteristics, eg height, hair/eye colour, shoulder width etc. And I haven't made any cheesy lists:
1) must be ambitious
2) must have good sense of humour
3) must love kittens
4) must wash regularly
5) must have penis
- what defines a "good" sense of humour (point 2) anyway? It's subjective. I, for example, have a depraved sense of humour (see point 5); some would classify this as "good", others as "please leave the table and go to your room, Nicole".

My imaginings are more about how a person interacts with me and the world, and their life philosophy. For example, it would be ludicrous for me to be involved with someone who is materialistic or homophobic or racist or narrow-minded. And yet, many years ago, I had a crush on (and subsequent semi-relationship with) a person who was materialistic and homophobic and racist and narrow-minded. And I was terribly broken hearted when he ended it (whereas I should've been jumping for joy). On the plus side, however, it was the beginning of a revelation, inside my brain, that maybe I wasn't being very discerning in my choice of men - my strategy was pretty much "he's kinda cute, let's have a thing". I know, I know; it's hard to believe this could happen in these enlightened times. I should also point out, in the case of the above mentioned person, that at the time I was a little blinded by cluckiness - my estrogen wanted me to get pregnant, and estrogen can be quite Machiavellian when it has a task to complete. Evil estrogen. I have to say that now I'm very thankful I didn't procreate with this person.

My point, in all this rambling, is that, maybe, if I pay a bit more attention to the traits of my Imaginary Boyfriend, I might find myself attracted to someone with these actual traits. I know, I know; radical. (For those long-suffering readers who have made it this far: Welcome to Nicole's Dominion of Dumb). Maybe part of the reason I'm without a real boyfriend - other than that I really quite enjoy being a weird loner - is that I've been having trouble extracting, from my foggy consciousness, whatever the hell it is that I'm actually attracted to.

None of this is meant as a slur against my ex-boyfriends. Or against the many and varied and (mostly) inappropriate crushes I've had over the years (bless their miscellaneous hearts). It's about assessing and understanding the choices I've made in regards to Lurv. I know, I know; icky. But, despite the ickiness, I think it's been a positive exercise.

"a mass of glutinous coiling worms"

2010-08-30T19:49:00.009+10:00

From the novel Solaris by Stanislaw Lem:

"Our white, naked bodies dissolve into a swarm of black creeping things, and I am - we are - a mass of glutinous coiling worms, endless, and in that infinity, no, I am infinite, and I howl soundlessly, begging for death and for an end." Page 188

Yep...pretty much describes me first thing in the morning. And mid-afternoon. And on Christmas Day.

[The passage describes part of a dream experienced by the novel's main character, Kris Kelvin, while he is in a space station orbiting the mysterious 'ocean' planet, Solaris.]

Don't try this at Home...or in a Laboratory

2010-08-20T15:39:00.004+10:00

There are many obvious dangers associated with working in a laboratory. For example, in a microbiology lab there is the risk of being infected with a hideous disease, in a histology lab there is the risk of losing fingers while using a microtome, in a physics lab (say the Large Hadron Collider) there is the risk of creating a black hole, in a chemistry lab there is the risk of poisoning from horribly toxic chemicals. All good fun. But a particularly sinister - and hidden - danger, and one that is common to most laboratories, is the presence of a gas cylinder, and the potential for the gas cylinder to "torpedo" if the regulator (pressure gauge) is knocked off. [I'm using the term "gas" to mean a substance in its gaseous phase, eg a gas cylinder containing nitrogen].

The theory is that if the regulator (which covers the opening of the steel cylinder) is suddenly removed from a full gas cylinder - eg if the cylinder falls over and the regulator gets knocked off during the fall - the gas, which had been under pressure, will be expelled, with great force, away from the cylinder. Due to Newton's third law of motion*, the cylinder will also be "expelled" - away from the gas - with the same amount of force, resulting in an out-of-control airbourne steel cylinder, capable of destroying most, if not all, of a laboratory, and the scientists contained within.

As someone who has worked in chemical laboratories, and has been a little sceptical about the "gas cylinder torpedo" theory, I was pleased (and a little freaked) to discover that those crazy funsters from Mythbusters have tested - and confirmed (this is what freaked me) - this theory. [The video I've embedded is a cutdown to show the actual torpedo; I haven't seen the whole episode so I don't know if they tried anything other that complete shearing of the regulator on a full cylinder; for example I don't know if they tried just loosening the regulator and/or using a partially full cylinder.]

*Newton's Third Law of Motion : To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction; or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.

Am I Anally Retentive?

2010-08-14T20:44:00.004+10:00

It’s a question that has plagued humanity since the beginning of time...okay, perhaps not quite that long…or maybe it is that long, I mean how do we know when time began, or indeed, if time has even yet begun…and what is “time” anyway? I say “time” is a four-letter word and should not be confused with “thyme”, which is, after all, a five-letter word…

…start again…

Am I Anally Retentive?

It’s a question that has plagued humanity for awhile. In terms of its importance, it sits right alongside the other biggies: Is there a God? Will I have children? Do I want fries with that? And it’s a question that has plagued me in recent times. Although, perhaps the word “plagued” is a little strong. It’s not like I’ve been lying awake at night pondering the existence or non-existence of anal retentiveness in my being. I haven’t lost my appetite with the overwhelming heaviness of such a metaphysical dilemma. I haven’t retreated into isolation in order to meditate on the possibility of a metaphorical non-evacuation. No. Maybe “it has crossed my mind” would be more apt. Still, this doesn’t diminish it's potential impact. Deciding whether or not one exhibits the characteristics of an “excessively orderly and fussy” person (as “anally retentive” is defined by The Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary) is life changing. And, if I am such a person, I need to decide if I’m going to try to reform my fussy ways or if I’m just going to give in and embrace my retention.

So, what behaviour have I been exhibiting to cause me to believe I may be AR. It's mainly been an accumulation of little things; doing my laundry at the same time every week, washing the dishes only on Sundays and Wednesdays, ensuring the bottom sheet is completely smooth before I get into bed, only eating chocolate on days of the week ending in 'Y'. But there was "an incident", something that I think may have pushed me from being a little fussy over into the chasm of AR. It was the Rubbish Bins. Or, more correctly, new people moving into my block of flats who not only put their rubbish into my bins (and filled them to the brim, so there was no room for my rubbish), but put stuff into my recycle bin that doesn't go in the recycle bin. IT MAKES ME CRAZY. Well, I don't take that kind of thing passively, no, not at all. I put my foot down (note to self: when putting one's foot down, make sure there are no rocks nearbye). No more. I damn well took my bins from against the front fence (where all the bins are usually kept) and moved them to a spot just to the left of my bedroom window. Pretty darn clever. Sure, the other tenants could still potentially put their rubbish into my bins, but the odds of this happening have now been significantly reduced. Anyone who has been to my flat will know what I mean, and anyone else is welcome to drop by and have a look at my new rubbish bin arrangement - it's pretty impressive.

But was the moving of the rubbish bins the final link in a chain that will now shackle me to the un-bendy steel of fussiness? Will this be the snowflake that causes an avalanche of excessive orderliness? I guess only time will tell. But there is one thing of which I am sure; moving my rubbish bins to their new location has brought me great satisfaction.

Reserved

2010-08-03T18:03:00.005+10:00

A lack of words doesn't necessarily indicate a lack of thinking. There are thoughts, occasionally. They filter sporadically through the mist, but they are mostly amorphous and incomplete. Coherent revelation has yet to make an appearance.

Winter lethargy has filled me with it's evil naughtiness,

2010-07-24T17:03:00.006+10:00

which means my brain has partially shut down in an effort to diffuse needed energy to the coldest parts of my body, ie everywhere, and I'm continually eating and sleeping and putting on extra jumpers (not all at once). Hence, I'm too distracted with keeping my body warm to write my usual, brilliant, blog entries. PLUS, I'm reading "The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism" by Naomi Klein (if Milton Friedman were still alive, I'd so kick his evil neo-liberalist ass) and "Crime and Punishment" by Mr D, which is requiring whatever's left of my brain energy.

This Blog Deserves An "A"...

2010-07-16T15:46:00.001+10:00

...however, it would probably get a B or C if it were being assessed by the killjoy teachers who marked my essays in high school - "Don't use 'I' in a formal essay" - pfft! The instructions were to DISCUSS; I often preface my discussions (formal or otherwise) with "I think" or "in my opinion" or "shut up and listen". For example: "In my opinion, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov needed a shitload of editing to give it even a modicum of readability". See. I mean, this is only my opinion, it isn't gospel - is it so wrong for me to indicate as such? There are people (strange people, living in dark, dark caves of delusion) who would stridently disagree with my opinion on The Brothers Karamazov, who may even think that the novel could use more words (God forbid!). I believe they should preface their essays with "I think" or "In my opinion, Nicole is not only wrong, but she is also a raving idiot". But I digress...back to praising my blog (which is the point of this blog entry)...

I love my blog and it loves me. My blog's love is unconditional. My blog doesn't judge me. It doesn't lecture me if I use inappropriate language. It doesn't laugh at me if I misspell a word. It doesn't make snarky comments if I use incorrect grammar. It doesn't get all elitist if I experiment with my writing style (in fact, it encourages free form expression). And, most importantly, it doesn't grade me. There are no passes or fails with my blog; no ego-enhancing "A"s or ego-deflating "F"s. There is only the freedom to say whatever I like, however I like, without the fear that my blog privileges will be taken from me because I write verb-less sentences ...(well, unless I write incredibly offensive verb-less sentences).

"There's No Verb In This Sentence!"

2010-07-11T15:16:00.003+10:00

Recently, as I was clearing out extraneous material from the big, extraneous material containing, wooden chest in my lounge room, I came upon some of my prac reports from University. I had a bit of a peruse through them whilst remembering 'the good old days' and was ASTOUNDED to find, inscribed in the margin of one of my reports, in angry black ink, the words: There's no verb in this sentence! "Hah!", I thought. "No verb? My ass! (hahaha) I would never write a sentence without a...wait a minute...*reads sentence from prac report*...[which reads as: "Also retention of these groups in the products and decarbonylation (scheme 1)"]...*notices distinct lack of verb*..."

Okay, I admit, ONE time I wrote a verb-less sentence. Call the grammar police! Send me to command-of-the-English-language prison! Make me read "Grammar for Dummies"! I mean, it was a Science report - I got the Science right (mostly), isn't that the main thing? Is it sooooo important for Scientists to write coherent sentences? No way! Adequate, even expansive, communication skills are for the Arts; they can have their verbs and their adjectives (if they're feeling creative). But Science is all about the facts, it doesn't have time for meaningless distractions like cogent report writing.

But all of this is by-the-bye because I meant for that sentence to have no verb. Oh yeah. I was experimenting with Avant Garde Science (not to be confused with Fluffy Science), which allows for some degree of "lateral" report writing. Those Science Academics have no imagination! (Hmmm, must check the meaning of "contradiction".)

Negative Thinking Will Be Corrected

2010-07-06T15:06:00.004+10:00

Here are some thoughts I have when depression is giving me one of it's special cuddles:

I feel numb

I have no passion

I can’t seem to get even vaguely enthusiastic about anything

I only have enough energy for basic self-maintenance (eg. feeding and washing myself) - with the caveat that any self-maintenance occurs only AFTER I've fed Ms Willow Pussycat

I can’t commit to an occupation

I can't commit to anything

I struggle to connect with people

Often, people freak me out

Often, I freak me out

Sometimes, I think I was made wrong

I feel inadequate – I wish I were more adequate

I often believe I repel people

I feel most comfortable being alone…but I feel lonely

I wrote down this list a few weeks ago when, obviously, I was feeling kind of down. But, after writing it, I felt a lot better. And, reading it now, I disagree with most of it (except for the part where I freak me out – but that will never change, it’s just something I’ve learned to live with). It's a list of skewed perspectives, thoughts without realistic context. Basically, there's a whole lotta "glass half empty" going on in this list.

I’m putting the list on my blog so that I can refer to it next time depressive, negative thinking tries to get it's sleazy arms around me. My belief is that, by writing down, and then reading (and, especially, mulling over), these thoughts, I can diminish their power to make me feel bad. Consider, for example, the thought: "I often believe I repel people" - is this really such a bad thing? If I repel certain people, then they'll probably avoid me, sure. But, if these are people who, conversely, I'm repelled by, then I'll be actively avoiding them. Such mutual avoidance will increase the probability that we never interact with each other! An excellent result all-round. I think my whole "do I repel people" issue is only an issue when it involves people I don't want to repel. And I have a strong suspicion that I've been quite confused for quite awhile in some of my choices of people I "don't" want to repel - ie wanting to be liked by people who I don't actually have a connection with and probably wouldn't want to spend very much time with anyway......This paragraph seems to be veering into convoluted and unwieldy territory, hence I am now going to abandon it......

......In fact, this entire blog entry is beginning to delve into a den of rambling, to wallow in a cesspool of incoherent. I can feel my grasp of the succinct and pithy (try saying that with a lisp) slipping away from me......yep, there they go......byeeeeeee......

Radical Tax Plan

2010-07-01T16:49:00.003+10:00

Here at Effulgent13, we (actually, I, but "we" sounds more impressive) aim to make this world a much better place, such that everyone has stuff they need and, even, stuff they want. I abhor greed (greed is NOT good, Gordon Fucking Gecko, greed is a big giant pain in the ass of humanity). A couple of weeks ago, I attacked greed in one of its most evil incarnations, that of Mining Bosses (aka "Greedy Fuckers" - see here). Well, this week, I'm extending that rant to all corporate bosses and other rich people. And, since I'm also a practical ranter, I'm proposing a new Tax Plan to deal with greed gone wild (I have a degree in Organic Chemistry, goddammit, I'm completely qualified to propose changes to the tax system). I'm hoping this Tax Plan will accomplish 2 main goals:

1) Redistribute wealth from the coffers of rich bastards into the coffers of poor bastards

2) Annoy the hell out of rich bastards

I think that once an individual accumulates personal wealth of a billion dollars, they should NOT be allowed to accumulate anymore. They should be cut off. And, if they continue to accumulate wealth (in whatever form: cash, assets, equity, dodgy businesses, larceny, vice, grand theft auto etc), they should be taxed at 100% for every dollar they earn above the one billion dollar mark. That money should then be given to the lowest income earners as a low income offset tax bonus. Obviously, and most importantly, this new tax will need a catchy title and acronym, which, thankfully, I've already thought of:

BIllionaires Tax: Equality for Misplaced Equity ( or BITE ME).

Magic Mountain Count: Page 300

2010-06-26T22:02:00.004+10:00

I'm struggling with The Magic Mountain. These last 100 pages have been something of a chore and I haven't maintained my reading schedule - weeks have gone by with barely 10 to 15 pages being read. I think it's time for, um, "hard decisions", or, at the very least, a change.

Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:

1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it

2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me

3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".

However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.

And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:

"What was life, really? It was warmth, the warmth produced by instability attempting to preserve form, a fever of matter that accompanies the ceaseless dissolution and renewal of protein molecules, themselves transient in their complex and intricate construction. It was the existence of what, in actuality, has no inherent ability to exist, but only balances with sweet, painful precariousness on one point of existence in the midst of this feverish, interwoven process of decay and repair." (pg 271)

I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".

Café du Nuit

2010-06-21T15:19:00.004+10:00

(English translation: The Night Café)

Last night I watched the Dr Who episode titled "Vincent and the Doctor", in which the Doctor visits Dutch post-impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh, shortly before Vincent committed suicide, and when he was at his most artistically prolific. It was an excellent (and emotional) episode. The writer of the episode (Richard Curtis) and the actor playing Vincent (Tony Curran) didn't hold back in showing the effects of mental illness on Vincent; his extreme visions of the universe, both terrifying and exultant. In terms of exploring both the pain and joy of being human, I would put the episode on a par with "Father's Day", from season 1 of the new Dr Who. Both episodes made me cry, or, at the very least, get a little weepy.

On one of the walls in my flat, I have a slightly tattered print of a Van Gogh painting, Café du Nuit (which I acquired from a person who was going to throw it away!!!):

I've never studied art or art history, so, when I'm looking at works of art, I'm usually interpreting a little blind. What I mean is, that I don't always know the context in which the painting/sculpture/photograph was created. My initial interpretations may be nowhere near what the artist had in mind. (Although, I would argue that wild interpretations are part of the fun of art, as well as being something artists need to accept if they want to open their art to others).

So, in regards to Café du Nuit, I thought it was about isolation, being an outsider. When I look at the painting I feel left out; I'm gazing at the warm, orangy-glowing cafe from the cold street but I'm not allowed inside, where "acceptable" people congregate (because I'm not acceptable).

However, now that I've found out some background information about the painting, I think I'm going to have to re-interpret my interpretation.

The painting is actually one of a series of paintings, set both outside and inside the night cafe (actually cafés, there were quite a few). The night cafés, where Van Gogh sometimes stayed when he was living in Arles (in France), were places where "night-prowlers" could go if they couldn't find other lodgings (eg if they were short of cash or too "under the weather" - drunk - to be taken into more respectable establishments). Here's one of the paintings set inside one of the night café where Van Gogh stayed:

The inside of the café actually looks pretty warm and inviting, even cosy, despite being a "low-life" establishment, and despite Van Gogh wanting his painting to give the impression of the café as being a place where "one can ruin oneself, go mad, or commit a crime". I suspect it would be okay for weird loner types (such as myself) to have a drink there, and possibly, go mad - but a cosy kind of mad.

I think my original interpretation of Café du Nuit is a reflection of my own anxieties about going into places where there are gatherings of peoples with whom I haven't established a strong comfort level, which is pretty much the entire planet, with the exception of about 10 people.

[NB: The painting that I have on my wall has been given the title "Café du Nuit" by whoever made the print, hence this is why I have referred to it as such. In Wikipedia, this same painting is referred to as "Café Terrace at Night", which is actually a more accurate description. Also, in Wikipedia, "Café du Nuit", is the name given to the painting of the inside of one of the cafés (ie the second picture I posted). But when I googled "Café du Nuit", both paintings came up. So, in conclusion, I have no idea what the correct title is, of either painting.]

The Blob

2010-06-14T17:30:00.002+10:00

The blob lies dormant. It is encased in a thick film of cotton and polyester and inertia. It's stillness is a cunning strategy. The blob knows that to move, or even, God forbid, to get up, is tantamount to living; a fate too horrible to contemplate.

A Billion Dollars is Barely Enough!!!

2010-06-08T20:48:00.005+10:00

I'm thinking of writing an open letter to Australian Mining Bosses. (Not really). But if I did, below are 2 versions of my letter:

Long Version:

Dear Mining Bosses,

So, when you made your first BILLION dollars, did
you not think: "Wow, that's alot of money. Surely that's enough money to - feed/clothe/house/educate/entertain/bribe etc - me and my family and my extended family and all my friends and their families and their extended families etc..." (I think you get my point). Apparently, it would seem, you did not think these thoughts. Apparently, having enough money to live VERY comfortably, and then some, was/is not enough. So why is it not enough. Maybe there's competition between you: "his equity is bigger than my equity, I feel so inadequate". Or is there a philosophical issue? Is this about happiness? Do you equate happiness with wealth? If so, surely you'd be incredibly happy by now? So why are you not happy? Is the black hole of your unhappiness an eternal, unfillable quarry (pun intended) that will never be sated by any amount of material wealth? Whatever the problem, get over it. Read some philosophy, go out and talk to people - real people (not other rich people) - go for a walkabout in the desert (but be careful not to fall into an open cut mine and injure yourselves), pull your heads out of your - not insubstantial - bottoms. Get some perspective. I've heard it said that giving to others can bring fulfilment - do that.

Love, Nicole

Short Version:

Dear Greedy Fuckers,

Give the rest of us some money, you selfish,
arrogant poop-heads.

Bite me, Nicole

THIS IS NOT A BLOG POST

2010-06-02T15:43:00.001+10:00

This is a reminder that Effulgent13 is currently not posting on Wednesdays (due to the inane predictability of posting on the same day of the week - see here for explanation). My apologies to those who came here expecting the usual Wednesday blog post.

I repeat: "This is NOT a blog post".

The Wednesday-Blog Cycle Must Be Broken

2010-05-31T18:16:00.013+10:00

5 of my last 6 blog entries have been published on a Wednesday. This is unacceptable. I'm becoming predictable. If someone wanted to blog-stalk me, it would be too easy. History will remember Effulgent13 as "that Wednesday blog". I can't let this happen. I blog according to whimsy, not to the days of the week.

I accept that I require some level of predictability in my life; I am, after all, strongly introvert with obsessive-compulsive tendencies and a slight retentiveness in the anal region. But I still need some spontaneous recklessness in my life. For example, yesterday I didn't eat any vegetables and had a bowl of cereal for dinner (don't tell my mother). It was a wild ride. "Nutritional balance be damned!", I said. I want to continue this edgy behaviour - I'm even thinking about having a fruit-free day next month - and having 5 out of 6 (that's 83.3333333333333333333333333...% ) blog entries published on a Wednesday is not helping. I may as well re-name this blog: Wednesdayfulgent13.

So, in order to counter this Wednesday blogging depravity, I am publishing this post on a MONDAY, even though I have nothing to say (at least, more nothing than my usual nothing to say).

The synaptic impulses lumber through my head like something really slow and... LUMBERING

2010-05-26T20:23:00.010+10:00

Am experiencing brain fuzzy at present. Can't form thoughts. Can't make words. Can't make grammatically correct sentences. The rain falls but the trees still weep. Can't make coherent sentences. When I was six, pink was my favourite colour. Appear to be experiencing non-sequitur-itis. Normal services will resume eventually. Probably. Don't trust the elephant, it's the caterpillar who dances at sunset. Can't make coherent paragraphs.

Multitasking is Not an Option

2010-05-19T22:34:00.009+10:00

As someone who tries to fit the least amount of activity into her life, I was very excited to discover I'm not the only person who likes to just hang out. I've discovered The International Institute of Not Doing Much - a website devoted (when they can be bothered) to slowing down. They live by the "slow manifesto":

"...Some are born to slowness - others have it thrust upon them..."

I have to confess, I used to be a busy(ish) person. I was a skilled, and motivated, multitasker. In fact, I often enjoyed seeing how much I could get done in the shortest amount of time. Apparently, being that I am of the female persuasion, this is quite normal, even expected. There is some thinking, out there in the thinking ether, that women are better equipped for the task of multitasking - something to do with their (our) brain structure; blah, blah, blah. I'm not convinced. I've seen men get crazy (ie accomplish) doing many tasks and I've seen women barely able to complete the one task in an allocated time (currently, I would fall into this latter category :). I believe the human brain is reasonably malleable; we can train it to do a thing we really want it to do, and, conversely, not allow it to be trained to do something we really don't want it to do. (Obviously within reason - I mean, sometimes I would like to move heavy objects using only my brain or connect with people telepathically...which doesn't mean someone would want to return my telepathic connection...I'd also like to control people, so that they want to connect with me telepathically!...I don't care how immoral that sounds or, indeed, is...okay, I care a little bit...OKAY, controlling the world to my liking is really, really evil).

I will admit that I've probably taken the "slow down" decree very seriously in recent months, occasionally a little too seriously, but I'm okay with that - it's a lifestyle I'm comfortable embracing right now. But it's not for everyone. For some, too much down time might actually be stressful; extroverty and/or high energy people usually need some degree of tasking to keep them calm, even if they've decided to take things slower. And, to be honest, I also need some activity, if only so I, and others, don't think I've died.

Note: This blog post was written without haste, as are all my blog posts, even if sometimes they read as though they have been.

We Have Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

2010-05-12T16:52:00.005+10:00

CRAP!!!

I don't know who came up with this ridiculous statement/axiom/maxim - whatever - but it's a load of shi...untruth. For years now I've been wanting to get my anger about this saying out of my system and today is the day this happens. And I'm not even going to look it up on the internet to find out in what context it was used, instead, I'm just going to mouth off - blog off? - about something of which I may not have complete understanding.

I do not accept that I have nothing to fear but fear itself. There are numerous things on this here planet earth for which to be fearful. And my fear makes me wary of them, such that I might elect to get out of, or not get into, a situation in which I fear something bad will happen to me. And, thus, I remain healthy and intact. For example, if a man with an axe starts chasing me down the street I AM GOING TO BE FULL OF FEAR and probably RUN LIKE HELL. And I think my fear is going to make me run faster. I think this is a good response. It could be the difference between an out-of-breathe me or a maimed and/or dead me. I guess I could ignore my fear and stop running and talk to the axe-wielding man. It might be the case that he's not actually chasing me in an effort to maim and/or kill me. Perhaps he wants to maim and/or kill someone else, someone who lives in the same street, and maybe he was running after me (with an axe) because he wanted to ask me if I knew which house this other person lives in. Maybe if I can direct him to the correct house he'll give me $5000. If only I'd just feared fear, and then ignored fear, instead of fearing a rampant, axe wielding man, I might be $5000 richer, and an accessory to a crime. Perhaps, perhaps, maybe, perhaps. I'm not convinced.

So I am going to continue to believe in, and listen to, my fear. And act accordingly. My fear has been good to me so far. It has always offered me wise counsel and has kept me from doing things I really shouldn't be doing, like jumping into the lion enclosure at the zoo (to play with the beautiful kitty-kats) or speaking in public (to tell all the people my beautiful thoughts).

Magic Mountain Count: Page 200

2010-05-03T12:30:00.005+10:00

I'm having trouble deciding how to write this blog post - well, you could use the keyboard and type in some words - yes, THANKYOU, annoying and sarcastic voice in my head. What I mean is, I'm not sure how to capture the essence of pages 100 to 200 of The Magic Mountain. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what "the essence" is. But I think that's okay since the book is 700 pages long and would probably be classified, to an extent, as a novel of ideas, which means it's unlikely to be easily accessed. Okay, what I really mean is: I don't know what the hell this novel is on about. Yet. I suspect I'll need to read at least another 100 pages, or even the entire novel, before it starts to reveal its true intentions.

Nevertheless, I will summarize what I have discovered so far. The events in the novel take place in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, in the years before World War I. The main character is Hans Castorp, a young man about to begin his career as a ship designer, who has taken himself to the sanatorium for a 3 week holiday/rest, and to visit his cousin, Joachim, who has tuberculosis. During this time Hans takes part in the daily routines of the sanatorium; walks in the alpine air, resting times ("rest cures"), lectures, music concerts (weekly) and numerous, and generous, meals. Hans begins to become acquainted with some of the other residents (mostly patients) as well as spending time with his cousin. He also begins to notice unusual aspects of his own physicality; his cheeks are frequently flushed, his cigars have lost their taste. Towards the end of his stay he senses that he's developing a cold. He takes his temperature - an activity the other residents conduct with great regularity and devotion - and discovers it is alarmingly high. A visit to one of the sanatoriums doctors reveals that Hans has a "wet area" on one of his lungs. Hans is ordered to stay at the sanatorium for another 3 weeks.

I think I've inadvertently chosen a very apt novel for myself to be reading at this point in my life - "for myself to be reading at this point in my life"; the essence of this sentence is grammatical violation. I'm kind of living the life of a confined person, although, thankfully, I'm not sick (especially with a life-threatening illness like tuberculosis) and I have the option of not being "confined". What I mean by "confined" is that I spend alot of time in my flat. A large reason for this is that I'm not employed, but also I choose not to "go out" very often. Most of the activities I enjoy doing I can do in my flat, eg reading (although I do sometimes "go out" to the library or the bookstore), sleeping, eating (occasionally I'll "go out" to eat), surfing the internet, watching dvd's (which means I have to "go out" to the dvd rentals store or the dvd shop), contemplating, exercising (sometimes I "go out" for a walk), studying my cat, writing this blog, staying in touch with friends (via email or phone - most of my friends don't live nearbye or have time-constrained lives, but I do enjoy "going out" to catch up with them when it's possible). I have to admit, though, that having the internet is a huge contributor to my being able to spend so much time by myself in my flat. I always look forward to logging on and finding out what's going on with the world - big and small. I think, despite my introverted and non-social ways, I'm not an island.

I've slightly veered away from comparing my current life to the lives of the residents of the sanatorium in The Magic Mountain. I think the similarities lie in both the reflective, retreat-like quality of our lives and the being outside of "conventional" life. In the novel, the residents refer to the towns below the Alps as "the flatlands" and speak of the flatlands as though they were a different, and, perhaps, less privileged, world. The "slowness" and "boredom" of life in the sanatorium provide a unique perspective. For myself, at the moment, this is something I really enjoy about not having a job. But I also enjoy not having work responsibilities, ie having to be at work on the required days and at the required time, having to present in a work-mode frame of mind (whatever the hell that means, maybe not being in a psychotic state - which is ALOT to ask of your average human being), being able to do the required work and continue to do the required work until the required time has elapsed, even though my every human fibre longs to be somewhere else and mortal life is short. (Yes, me and work are not affable companions at this time).

So, in conclusion...actually, there won't be a conclusion, more of a: I've waffled on enough and would like to end this blog post before my brain implodes.

To be honest, I don't know if I'm really all that keen to ACTUALLY have sex with a vampire

2010-04-28T15:15:00.003+10:00

(Warning: I have a tendency to over think things)

Sure, they're portrayed all attractive and sexy in the movies and in novels, but would you actually want to get jiggy with one. I mean, they're corpses. They're stone cold, all over. And, at some point during the proceedings, they are going to sink their well formed canine teeth into your sensitive flesh. And that is going to hurt. Seriously. As someone who has experienced the sinking of canine teeth into her sensitive flesh (courtesy of a friendly neighbourhood psycho cat), let me tell you, it bloody hurts. And vampire canines are considerably larger that those of felines.
Still, if viking-vampire Eric Northman wants to get cuddly with me, I'd find it very difficult to say no, although I'd probably ask him to "glamour" me into believing that his skin is warm and his fangs are gentle.

Deconstructing Daniel

2010-04-21T16:06:00.002+10:00

Daniel is in the backyard of our block of flats. He is hanging clothes on the line. He is also yelling at his girlfriend, Natalie, through their open window. He is using 'colourful' language and poor grammar. Natalie yells at him to "shut up and stop talking like a westie, the neighbours will hear". Daniel mumbles something and then is silent. He finishes hanging the clothes on the line and goes inside.

I have been overhearing Daniel's enraged outbursts for the last 3-4 years. The potential for his angry young man persona to get out of hand is always looming, but, so far, he has always managed to reign himself in. Apparently, one of his strongest motivations for curbing his anti-social behaviour is his fear that people will think he's a westie.

Michel Foucault Can Kiss My Aneurism

2010-04-16T16:13:00.010+10:00

I've decided to try to improve the intellectualness of my brain. I know, I know, my IQ (self-assessed) is so high already that this would seem to be a pointless endeavour. But I'm a humble genius and live by the adage "it is possible, though very unlikely, that there are things in this world of which I do not have knowledge" (and quite a catchy adage I think, maybe one day someone will turn it into a rap song). So I've been attempting to read some books by French intellectual Michel Foucault (who decides that a person is an intellectual anyway? is there a vote?). I have 3 of his books on loan from the library - which I've listed in order of "started to read and then abandoned":

1) The Will To Knowledge: The history of sexuality, Vol. 1
2) Discipline And Punishment: The birth of the prison
3) The Archaeology Of Knowledge

Sex, discipline and knowledge – bring it on! Or not. Here are 3 seemingly interesting topics, surely riveting discussion would transpire. Alas, no. Or maybe it did, just not in any language I can understand (note: the books have been translated into English before anyone says: “they’re written in French, idiot. Merde.”).

Perhaps I’m being disrespectful. Academics may say: “you’re just an uneducated pleb, Nicole, you shouldn’t be reading such literature. These books were not written for you”. Then who the fuck were these books written for ??? Sorry – Then for whom the fuck were these books written??? The blurb on the back cover of The Archaeology Of Knowledge informs that “…Foucault was a man whose passion and reason were at the service of nearly every progressive cause of his time…he spearheaded public awareness of the dynamics that hold us all in thrall to a few powerful ideologies and interests.” How on earth did he spearhead public awareness if nobody could understand anything he’d written? What are these powerful ideologies and interests to which we are held in thrall? If it’s not explained to me in language I can follow (and let me remind the internet that I have read The Brothers Karamazov – I can handle the incomprehensible, up to a point, ie just before my brain explodes), then how will I be able to spot an evil ideology when I meet one? Maybe I should just trust intellectuals and leave progress in their incomprehensible hands? Perhaps important ideas shouldn’t be “dumbed down” for the stinky masses? Maybe we should let the intellectuals sort it out and then explain it to us in simpler terms? And why does the word ‘elitist’ keep fluttering through my brain?

I want to be able to think it out for myself. And intellectuals writing in incomprehensible jargon and monopolizing ideas makes this difficult. And makes me cranky. I should be able to go to an original paper, read it for myself and make my own conclusions. Even if that paper is written in French (for which I do not speak). (Although I think it’s perfectly acceptable to read the translated version).

But let me get back to the concept of “dumbing down”. Is there a fear in Academic Land that if a piece of writing is coherent it isn't worthy? Is it necessary to over-intellectualize to the point of inanity to ensure that "common" people can't understand it. I think a comprehensive intellectual piece of writing will require, on the part of the reader, a degree of concentration, occasional consultation with a dictionary, sobriety and rumination. But these things don’t render it unreadable. I found Michel Foucault to be (mostly) unreadable. And annoying. Here are some thoughts that meandered though my mind whilst I was attempting to read his writings:

this is overly abstract

this doesn’t make sense

this is very obscure

get your claws out of my leg, Willow

I disagree with this generalization

are you going to back up this generalization with some evidence?

Willow is so cute when she sleeping – she’s gone all twitchy

I strongly disagree with this generalization even though I don’t understand it

this sentence is too long...

...and poorly worded...

...and contains too many ideas...

...and conveys no meaning

I wish season 2 of True Blood was already available on DVD

oh my god! I can’t remember the last 20 minutes

this cryptic generalization is very sweeping

this paragraph is imbued with a specific vagueness

how long has it been since my last cup of tea?

has this been written in some kind of code?

get to the point already! Jesus…

..Mary and Joseph

I think Alexander Skarsgård would be impressed that I’m reading Foucault and, because of this, become completely besotted with me, and, as a consequence, would find it necessary to get wild with me…

…[this thought requires an “adult content” warning]

dammit, I’m going to make another cup of tea even though I haven’t finished my current one

Whose Body Is It???

2010-04-08T21:21:00.005+10:00

My lust for vampire Eric Northman continues (a lust that has crossed over, unsurprisingly, into a lust for the Swedish actor who plays him, Alexander Skarsgård). I'm patiently (mostly) waiting for season 2 of True Blood to be released on DVD. In the meantime, I've been watching videos of season 2 Eric on YouTube, as well as watching videos of Alexander in Swedish productions. I've also been doing some undirected research on the internet to find out miscellaneous stuff about Alexander (I was shocked to discover that I'm not the only person who has hotpants for him - imagine that!). Anyways, my point in all this (and the reason for the title of this blog entry) is that it appears the photo of Eric lying naked in white sheets (which I put up on my previous post) is a FAKE! Holy Toledo, Batman! Apparently, Alexander Skarsgård has said that it isn't him in the photo because "he doesn't shave his underarms".

So, being of an inquisitive nature (and having lots of free time), I looked into this pressing issue. And I've come to the conclusion that the photo is, indeed, a FAKE. Some enterprising fan has photoshopped the head of Eric Northman from a True Blood promotional photo:

onto the body of a naked-white-sheet-enmeshed man, who DOES shave his underarms:

Shifty. (Check out the matching facial expressions and, especially, the hair!).

Of course, now I need to have an authentic photo of the authentic naked chest of Alexander Skarsgård for my blog, and here it is:

(this is a screenshot from the HBO mini-series Generation Kill, in which Alexander plays Sgt. Brad "Iceman" Colbert).

I chose this picture (from amongst a number of pictures of shirtless Alexander) as Alexander's head-neck connection is clearly visible, which, I believe, provides a strong indication that the picture is unlikely to have been doctored. Unfortunately, however, since his underarms are not visible, absolute proof of the authenticity of Alexander's chest in this photo cannot be confirmed.

Distracted!

2010-04-04T19:13:00.004+10:00

Can't think of anything to blog about, too busy watching True Blood. And obsessing about vampire Eric. So, instead, here are some photos of, um, well, vampire Eric.

This is Eric as a viking, prior to being turned into a vampire:

Here he is as a bad-ass vampire:

And, finally, this last photo shows that Eric looks after his body; he works out and he only drinks low-fat blood. And he makes sure he gets plenty of rest: