Fuck You, Grace!

[Special note to person's named Grace; I don't mean you...unless you are an asshole!]

"Grace" - from the (Australian Concise Oxford, 4th edition, 2004) dictionary -

• attractiveness, especially in elegance of proportion or manner or movement
• courteous good will (had the grace to apologize)
• an attractive feature; an accomplishment (social graces)
• in Christian belief - the unmerited favour of God/the state of receiving this
• goodwill
• delay granted as a favour (a year's grace)
• a short thanksgiving before or after a meal
• (Grace) (in Greek mythology) each of three beautiful sister goddesses, bestowers of beauty and charm
• (Grace) (preceded by His, Her, Your) forms of description or address for a duke, duchess, or archbishop

[For the purpose of the rest of this blog, I'm pretty much using grace to mean 'being nice to people' or 'not being a jackass'.]

Once upon a time, I believed that to strive for grace in all my actions and attitudes was a proper and noble endeavour, that being gracious (kindhearted, benevolent, civil, obliging, considerate, merciful, magnanimous, charitable) was the pinnacle of human humanity. Indecorousness; this is a word that never rolled off the tongues of my well-meaning mentors when I was growing up, as they tried to instill a sense of proper conduct into my existence. Well, the times they are a changing, and, quite frankly, I've had it with grace (though, not really) and I wonder if incorporating some elements of gracelessness (uncouth, coarse, crude, boorish, ill-mannered, unsophisticated, shameless, tactless) into my persona would be a sensible, if not liberating, path.

Can too much graciousness be stultifying? Unhealthy? Would a little more obnoxiousness pave the way to enlightenment? A socially inappropriate, expletive ridden, tantrum-fuelled rant might exorcise even the most tightly imbedded of demons; either those of a personal nature or the ones that emanate directly from Hell. If only such outbursts didn't upset proximate people; but there might be a way around this unpleasant side effect. Perhaps all people could have a screaming rant at exactly the same time, then no-one would have to listen other people's offensive diatribes but, instead, everyone would be able to simultaneously get things off their collective chests. A Universal Unburdening. We, as a society, could schedule regular therapeutic yelling - just like the people did in that wacky Orwellian novel...although it wasn't framed as therapeutic yelling so much as it was framed as The Two Minutes Hate:

"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 17]

If an organized 'hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness' can contribute to a productive and accommodating society in a (so-called) dystopian novel, surely it can work in real life. After all, the novel does end on a happy note:

"But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 256]

And surely to love is the greatest state to which humans can aspire, so to love Big Brother surely must be super-duper. And if we can achieve this state (of grace)(see what I did), then we can know that War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength. And why has my seeming aversion to Grace led me to George Orwell? Maybe Grace is Vulgar. Or Grace is Obscene. Or Grace is Evil Incarnate. Or This Blog Post is Making Me Crazy...

Fragments of Conversations as Spoken by 2 Obnoxious People in a Bad Relationship

[Sub-Heading: Listening to the couple next door yelling at each other - extended edition]

Sometimes their conversations are mundane. Sometimes their conversations are abusive. Sometimes their conversations betray painful truths about the fragile vulnerability of human interactions. Frequently their conversations are loud (such that I can often hear them through the shared wall). Occasionally their conversations take place in our shared driveway (making it even easier for me to eavesdrop on them). One time it sounded like things were escalating to a dangerous place and I considered ringing the police. They are both in their early 30s and there are some difficult decisions ahead for them. In the meantime, they continue shouting at each other:

(NB: the order of fragments is mostly random; some fragments are from the same conversation; some fragments are direct quotes, some fragments are paraphrased; I've grouped fragments into sections of five, with each section being either her or him only; I've tried to balance more toxic fragments with less toxic ones; capital letters indicate screaming rather than yelling)

her: you're acting like a 5 year old
her: it's never going to happen!
her: watch yourself!
her: I'M NOT ACTING LIKE A BABY!!!
her: what about the future?

him: you're fucking nuts!
him: I don't know what I want
him: you say you have revealing dreams about me
him: FUCK OFF!!!
him: I love you

her: unfuckingbelievable!
her: this is as good as it gets!
her: when are we having a baby???
her: I'm your chauffeur
her: GET AWAY FROM ME!!!

him: you keep talking about your biological clock
him: I would never cheat on a woman
him: YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!
him: I want to have a baby
him: how many cigarettes have you had?

her: I love you
her: this isn't 5 years ago
her: I wouldn't not want you to be happy
her: you're following 900 women on instagram
her: FUCK OFF!!!

him: I'm happy in this job
him: SHUT UP!!!
him: I want the mother of my baby to be healthy
him: how many steps have you done today?
him: it was just for fun, it doesn't mean anything

her: why are we still fighting about this?
her: there better not be any teenagers
her: stop touching me!
her: I'm just trying to make suggestions to help you
her: I'm going to talk about this

him: today, I'm not your boyfriend
him: I know how to wash dishes!
him: I will kill your cat
him: what about my happiness?
him: I don't want to talk about this

"I'm an Asshole...

...(he's a real fucking asshole)". I'm An Asshole, Denis Leary.

(Just to clarify, I'm not saying that Denis Leary is an asshole, though he may well be, I'm referring to the title of his catchy and inspiring 1994 song).

"I'm an Asshole" is the song that 'plays' in my head whenever I think about my neighbour (my neighbour being the asshole of the song title) with whom I have to share a driveway. (See here for other blog posts relating to this asshole-neighbour phenomena). I've codenamed my neighbour, Cruella, or Planet Cruella (as she seems to believe she is inhabiting her very own planet).

However, the intention of this blog post is not to snark vitriolically about Cruella - as much as I would derive much pleasure from such a task ('cos maybe there's a bit of asshole in me, too). In fact, and conversely, living next door to Cruella has forced me to consider the implications and tribulations of the expectation to "love thy neighbour". Gah!

[Obviously, I can try to avoid and ignore Cruella, which I am mostly able to do, but as we live in the same driveway (it's just our two flats) and our front doors are 4.5 meters apart (I measured), and she and her partner are VERY LOUD people, complete avoidance/ignoring isn't always possible.]

So, given that she is in my 'sphere', and at times, has aggressively protruded herself into my sphere, I feel compelled to form a judgement about her. But what judgement? Is it really necessary (morally, practically) to try to see the good in people? How much latitude is reasonable when focusing on a person's positives and overlooking their negatives, before giving in and screaming: Asshole!?

Planet C has certainly presented me with a challenge. I want to be someone who is sympathetic and empathic, who sees the beauty in others, but I also want to smack Planet C in the head (not always, but often enough).

I feel some degree of 'motherly' concern for her - I don't know why, possibly because I'm somewhat older than her and I don't have children of my own to worry about - and I can see that her attitudes and actions are more likely to get her into trouble than to get her what she wants (or thinks she wants). But, equally, she's not a (petulant) teenager anymore, despite behaving like one (she's actually in her early thirties).

I know some things about her (which I know because she talks VERY LOUDLY on her phone while she's having a cigarette in the driveway, right next to my flat). I know she grew up in a large family - maybe her siblings were boisterous and competitive, and she always felt overlooked, so she developed a toxically self-centered and hostile persona as a way to cope. I know she very much wants to get married and have children but, so far, her partner seems to be resisting these commitments, which is making her even more volatile. But plenty of people want children and marriage (or some kind of romantic security) who don't get these things; there's no guarantee, there's no human right. And, realistically, I worry how Planet C would cope if she did have a baby; it could make or break her. She can't be having one of her tantrums when it's 3am and her baby is hungry and sick (and probably covered in sick) and its diaper seriously needs to be changed, and this is the 5th night in a row of this; she'll need to harden up and deal with it. I think someone as entitled and immature as Planet C might struggle with the challenges of motherhood.

I accept that there are myriad life circumstances, unknown to others, that may explain some asshole behaviour - though not necessarily justify it. And I try to believe that everyone has a likable side - not only because society says I should. But I don't think, for the foreseeable future, Planet Cruella is someone that I'll be able to like; if she has redeeming qualities, she keeps them very well hidden. I don't wish ill upon her; if she were having a medical emergency, I would call an ambulance - though I probably wouldn't inquire afterwards as to how she was doing. And while I can't bring myself to wish that she has happiness in her life - Planet C doesn't seem to give a flying damn about other people's happiness - I don't wish that she doesn't have happiness. She's not evil, but she is frequently annoying, sometimes obnoxious, and it doesn't help in the quest to like her that she has a (VERY LOUD) laugh that possesses the essence of a cackle.

Move Your Car!!!

[Subtitle: I'm using this blog post to snark indirectly at my neighbour instead of snarking directly at her as that may be too confrontational and possibly lead to violence and I really would (mostly) prefer to solve this issue in a peaceful manner]


Dear Annoying Neighbour (front flat),

The problem with your firm belief in your 'entitlement' to park behind me in the driveway such that I cannot get my car out, is that you actually have NO entitlement to do this. And, more importantly, I actually have a legal right to move my car in and out of my parking space whenever the hell I like. I also have a legal right to get both you and your car booted off the property if you keep blocking my car (which I'm currently in the process of doing). So, you might want to start parking in your allocated parking space - to the side of the driveway - if you don't want to get evicted (surely not being able to park in the driveway is a somewhat minor inconvenience compared to being evicted).

You seem to think that it's perfectly reasonably for me to have to knock on your door every time I want to take my car out and that I'm being mean by not agreeing to such an arrangement. Would you agree to it, if you lived in the back flat?

Your strategies to try to get me to swap parking spaces with you have not been without some measure of creativity. Your appeal to my 'compassionate' side ('my life is harder than your life, so I deserve to park in the driveway/under the carport', or something like that) whilst not being original (or true) was executed with some flair. Your attempts to passively-aggressively bully me by being slow to come to the door when I knocked and then being hostile about moving your car (in effect, trying to make it so difficult for me to get my car out that I give up and start parking in your spot) were unexpected and initially unsettled me, but now I'm battle ready and prepared for the onslaught. Your self appointed role of being gate-keeper to my life is making my angry and defiant, not submissive (your understanding of human nature seems a little misguided here). But you really are wasting your energy because there ain't no way I'm giving up my (allocated) parking space (which I've grown quite fond of over the years).

I accept that my parking space is a little nicer than yours. I park under a carport (though I do have to park right in front of my doorway, which some people might not like), whereas you park under a tree (but the area in front of your flat is clear). But your argument that you have a right to a carport is pretty wild. You, as a human being, have a right to shelter, your car does not. Unfortunately (for you), when I moved in (many years ago), the flat with the carport was vacant so I took it (not because of the carport, that was just a bonus). Maybe one day I'll die an untimely death and you can move into my flat and park under the carport. (Warning: if I am murdered, I will be exercising my right as a spirit-in-limbo to haunt the hell out of my flat). But, for the present, you'll have to park in the side spot or find somewhere else with a carport and move there.

You are being immature and illogical and a bully, and something you need to realise is that the tactics you are using on me to try to get your way may have worked when you were in high school or living at home, but in the real world they are likely to get you evicted from a tenancy or fired from a job. But I think the most important thing you need to realise, the thing that you are foolishly failing to appreciate, is that I'm just as big a cotton candy ass as you!

Bite me,

Effulgent13 (back flat)


[UPDATE/EDIT (6/8/2014): The driveway/parking situation is now under control! The front neighbour is now parking in the spot to the side of the driveway (and has gotten the tree cut down, making that spot a much better parking space). All is now (seemingly) calm in our driveway.]

The 49 cents is OURS!!!

"Unfortunately your electricity account has been undercharged due to an incorrect Meter Reading."

Look, I probably would have just spent the 49 cents that my electricity company undercharged me on alcohol and drugs and psychics. So, really, it's a good thing that they followed up on collecting this missing money. And, sure, the 49 cents probably won't even cover the cost of postage, paper, ink and personnel required to mail out the amended electricity bill, but this is a minor drawback compared to the ecstatic anal retentiveness of making damn sure that every single kilowatt of power is PAID FOR. No freebies. Good day, Sir!

Political Art

Art lovers, rejoice!
I have made a highly artistic and politically charged collage of all the pre-election campaign material I have received for tomorrow's glorious election:

Willow added her own interpretation:

The New POSITIVE Thinking

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

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

Kill me now.

Well, that didn't last long.

Hello, black hole of doom!

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

Current Psyche...Jack Torrance

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


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

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

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

Oh, Yeah...Another Year...

2011 mostly sucked. May 2012 suck less.


Meanwhile, Ms Willow Pussycat is VERY ADORABLE:

It's LOOKING at Me!

The cat-tooth wound on my left hand (courtesy of Oscar, the neighbourhood psycho cat) bears a surrealist resemblance to an eye. If I lived in a horror movie, the wound would indeed transform into an eye. A diabolical wound-eye, which would torment me, day and night, until I carried out its evil bidding - probably murder, or maybe tax evasion. The eye would then seemingly disappear, until the next time it required the transpiration of an evil deed, which I would be compelled to undertake, lest I go mad from the constant surveillance and intimidation of the re-emerged wound-eye. Eventually, my conscience would no longer be able to endure such depravity and, in a paroxysm of moral outrage, I would bloodily hack off my left hand using an old, unsharpened axe, which I would find in the back shed (alongside a partially buried human skeleton).

I love horror movies!

Steel Wrapped in More Steel

As I creep further and further into the iniquitous den of middle-age, I have begun to realize that the only thing which can shelter me from this interminable, collagen-sapping horror, is an extreme makeover. After much consideration, I have chosen my new look:

(note the metallic grin and glowing eyes - clearly this is a happy terminator)

Alchemy Fail

It would appear that when I touch (or just stand within close proximity to) gold, it transforms into lead. I have the anti-Midas touch. I am the King of Lead.

On the positive side, though, lead will come in handy when there's a radiation leak. Or when I need bullets.


PS: This blog post was brought to you by Sparkles and Sunshine.

200 Litres

[Subtitle: Stay away from the solvent storeroom!]

[Also, the following account is COMPLETELY TRUE]

The methanol is staring at me: 200 litres of flammable liquid, encased in a steel drum. Through the uncapped opening I can see an eye; it’s eye. Floating in the metallic black liquid it seems to coalesce, then disperse, coalesce, then disperse. I can’t quite keep my focus on it. The light in the solvent storeroom is dim, and the room is full of shadows. An emergency siren sits on a near bye shelf, just out of reach. I am wedged into a crowded corner, surrounded by other drums of methanol; but they are capped and inert, I don’t need to open them.

Any moment my rational brain will calm me with it’s rational thoughts: the eye is only your reflection, when you blink, it blinks; see. The methanol is not sentient. It doesn’t think. Or know. Or want. Or manipulate.

Inside the drum, billions of molecules are vibrating. They are made from life-creating atoms - carbon, oxygen and hydrogen - but they cannot create life on their own.

But what if another atom had gotten inside? A radical. A wanderer. A nomadic particle travelling freely through the unexamined ether. An element maintaining its atomic integrity, despite massive dimensional distortions. Could it be a unique isomer of nitrogen? Maybe it became trapped between interstices, nestled into a polar channel, and forced to bond. What if a new amino acid has been created? A strange amine formed from mutated wood alcohol and incubated in a cavernous, metallic womb.

I know it’s there; I can’t deny it now. It glides easily through the cold fluid, finding gaps and dislocations, increasing the vibrational energy of the surrounding molecules.

And I can hear it. It calls to me. The liquid warble seeps into air and creeps closer, reaching into my ear. It weaves insidiously through my auditory canal, brushing against the fine hairs lining the inner membrane, giving them a gentle motion, a slow beat. The movement of the hair generates a beat of electrical impulses. From the structured calm of my inner ear, they move into the spongy chaos of my cerebral cortex. I am confused.

My confusion generates a clarity: The methanol is sentient. And it does want. It wants…it wants me to…no! (Matches). I turn my head away, but I can still hear it’s insistent voice. I need to move, to run. I try to shift my body but my hips won’t move, they’re jammed against the solid, metal drums. The drums are blocking me, holding me tight. I need help. I stretch out my arm; I can almost reach…the emergency…siren…no. I will have to scream…

But I don’t scream. I feel calm. (Flame). I can still hear the voice, the voice of the methanol. It is soft and fluid. My brain is soft and fluid. (Heat). My skin is buzzing. My epidermis is moving, undulating; a gentle motion, a slow beat. My bones have become soft; I am fluid.

Willow Rosenberg

It is necessary that I do a homage to my favourite character from"Buffy the Vampire Slayer". Here are a series of photos and screen shots of Willow (played by Alyson Hannigan) in her various incarnations:


High School

"...the softer side of Sears"



Superbrain and member of the Scooby Gang




Wishverse

"That's right puppy, Willow's gonna make you bark." (vamp-Willow)



"I believe these chicken feet are mine!"



"Who do you work for?" (vamp-Willow)



"Well look at me, I'm all fuzzy." (vamp-Willow)



"Would a human do this?"




College/Wiccan-Willow

Spurty Knowledge?



Willow and Tara do a spell




Power

"We've got maybe seconds before Darth Rosenberg grinds everybody into jawa burgers, and not one of you bunch has the midiclorians to stop her." (dark-Willow)



Goddess

"Heeere's Johnny!!!" *

Here is a visual representation of my psyche from earlier today:



But after some hot chocolate and a chat with Mum (and driving over my neighbour's shoes**, which were left in the middle of the driveway), my psyche looks like this:



I'd say there's a definite "Tiger/Lamb" paradox going on today. (I've put this pretentious sentence in so I can use the enigmatic "Tiger/Lamb" label).


*My thanks to the lovely Jack Nicholson and the lovely Stanley Kubrick for their lovely film creation of my second favourite Stephen King (who is also lovely) novel, The Shinning. My favourite Stephen King novel is Carrie; who is a GODDESS! - and also lovely.

**the shoes were not wrecked, just a little misshapen, and I frequently have to move shoes left in the driveway when I want to drive in or out; still, now that I'm a rose-bearing child-angel I feel a little regretful for my driveway rage.

Banalities from my Life: Home, Work, Love and Karamazov

I hope my new neighbours in the front flat stay for awhile. The last tenants/ssssss kept changing every few months, eventually numbering about 15 people over a year. They were nice an’ all, but I found it unsettling not knowing who was living right next door to me (our front doors are very close – they’re practically married).

I’m inappropriately lusting after my married neighbour (speaking of married), who lives (with his wife!) in one of the flats on the other side of the building. My bouts of lust are sporadic. I only get to see him if I catch him putting clothes on the line or when he takes his bike out for a ride.

I live in a square block of 4 flats, 2 facing north and 2 facing south. I don’t see the people on the south side very often, but I can hear the people with whom I share a corridor wall. They are a family consisting of: one 40-something mother, one 20-something daughter, occasionally her identical twin sister, often the 20-something’s passionate, but obnoxious, boyfriend and another, pre-teen, daughter. And a pug-dog. In a compact 2-bedroom flat. And they fight a lot. All of them. Loudly and with bad words. Even the dog. I haven’t watched the Australian show “Packed to the Rafters”, but a much better and more realistic show would be one based on my neighbours.

The pre-teen daughter (I think she’s 10 or 11) tries to play with my cat. It would be nice if my cat would play with her, instead of running away – my cat is a little neurotic (much like her owner).

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I feel claustrophobic and experience a strong desire to run away.

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I’m bored shitless and feel a strong desire to run away and find something meaningful.

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I enjoy being bored and not having to run away or to think about meaningful things.

I keep finding myself attracted to men with idealistic views of romantic love

I keep finding myself attracted to men who won’t get involved in romantic love because they don’t want their idealism shattered.

I’m comfortable being on my own – this doesn’t make me evil – it does, however, make me a weird loner.

My maniacal plans for the destruction of planet earth are what make me evil.

I used to be sad that I didn’t have children. Now I’m slightly relieved:
-I don’t have the HUGE responsibility,
-I don’t have to worry that I’ve brought children into a world that seems to be racing into destruction (even without my maniacal plans),
-I don’t have to follow societies' “rules” quite so much,
-My attitude to this world is radically different, and much more comfortable, to what it was when I wanted children (although this may have alienated me from some people/friends)
-I have more time to work on my maniacal plans

My internal flame isn’t warming me the way it used to, it’s beginning to flicker and fade. I think it needs a new wick.

Karamazov count: page 16 - ahead of schedule - bonus.

All Night Long

No, not that lilting melody by the lovely Lionel Ritchie. And no, sadly, not that other thing.

The title of this blog post refers to the length of time spent, by my neighbour, playing heavily bass-laden music. Normally I love the bass. I'm totally "addicted to bass" - I too hunger for the beast below. But not at 3am, two nights in a row. And there have been other nights - sometimes I fall asleep despite the noise, I'm usually a good sleeper. But not at the moment. And last night, as I lay in bed, my head pounding, I imagined myself breaking down my neighbour's door and smashing the speaker over her head. Which isn't very nice, and I quite like her. She's in her early twenties and I think she has a good heart and I like her music the rest of the time. I suspect she doesn't realise how well bass-laden music travels in the stillness of the night.

So I wrote her a polite but firm note explaining how her musical-joy is detracting from my sleep-joy. I don't know if it will have any effect and I feel like a grumpy old woman, but she needs to be warned; as sleep-deprived Nicole might morph into psychotic-speaker-smashing-over-the-head Nicole.

I actually know quite a bit about her life as we share a wall and she's fond of speaking at a yelling volume. It's always interesting when her boyfriend comes over. He's a very passionate young man. Sometimes he stands outside her bedroom window (I assume this is because she won't let him inside) calling out his love to her (or something like that). It's all very Romeo and Juliet. Just last week I happened to glance out the back window and noticed he was standing in the backyard without his shirt on, I guessed he was sunbaking - I checked a few more times, just to be sure.