Merry Christmas from Richard Nixon

Here is a (ye olde) Christmas card given (with love) to members of the press gallery in Washington DC from President Nixon (and his missus):

A reminder of a time when American Presidents still had respect for journalists...even diligent, investigative journalists who bring about their downfall.

Unreliable Narrator

There is a small cafe, located along a dark alleyway, which itself is located off a one-way laneway. The laneway can only be reached by pedestrian access due to an enormous crater - the result of an enormous meteorite - located in the middle of the adjoining main road. Inside the small cafe is a barista of indeterminate species who serves never-ending lattes and plates of cherry coconut slice. Also inside this cafe is a shape-shifting dangerous goods storage cabinet where I keep most of my truths. I rarely visit this cafe, despite my fondness for never-ending lattes and cherry coconut slice. And when I do visit, I tend to sit not entirely in one of the chairs closest to the door. I steer well clear of the shape-shifting dangerous goods storage cabinet and only ever look at it with peripheral vision; I'm not sure how wise it is to get too close to truths kept in shape-shifting cabinets.

It has taken many years for me to mutate into a being with whom I can be comfortable spending time. It's a mostly amicable relationship, and we have a lot in common; we have the same values, we like the same food, we write the same blog, we have the same relatives, we share the same body. But, occasionally, I wouldn't mind some time apart. I don't want to cut ties completely, but a little more space, and maybe a little less intimacy and co-dependency, might be beneficial.

Sometimes I like to believe that I am flawless or that I have superpowers or that I don't exist.

Some years ago, during a break in transmission, I stopped breathing and became a suspended animation. I thought this would kill me but, conversely, it made me more alive. Due to this transition, I am now able to slow time.

Lady Parts Alliteration

Wayward Womb.
Ostentatious Ovary.
Complicit Clitoris.
Frantic Fallopian.
Bombastic Breast.
Lascivious Labia.
Cantankerous Cervix.

The Fevered Creativity of Phone Scammers

A couple of days ago, my answering machine recorded this:

“Message from the ATO. My name is Jason O’Connell calling you from the Australian Taxation Office, and the nature and the purpose of this call is just to inform you that there has been a lawsuit filed against your name concerning tax evasion, and this case is about to get executed into the common delt(?) code house(?) of your territory. So, before things go wrong against you but before the police officer from the local police department will approach you at your doorstep and issue a warrant for your arrest, kindly call me back on the call back number, which is (02) 61528629. I repeat my number again, which is (02) 61528629. Again, this is Jason O’Connell from the Australian Taxation Office, the ATO. Thank you and ….” (call abruptly cuts off)

I think what I love most about this message from the "Australian Taxation Office" is that while they seem quite confident filing a lawsuit against me, they don't appear to know who I am - at no stage does "Jason" state my actual name. And, since my income has been below the tax-free threshold for the last few years - meaning that I haven't had to pay any tax in the last few years - I suspect it would be highly unlikely, if not impossible, for me to have committed tax evasion on tax which I didn't have to pay. Also, the phone number given by Mr O'Connell (which I didn't ring) bears no resemblance at all to the phone numbers of the actual Australian Taxation Office. So I have concluded, in my infinite wisdom, that this phone message is actually an enormous pile of horsecrap.

Still, a part of me hopes that I am wrong and that the police officer from my local police department does 'approach [me] at [my] doorstep' (actually, doorsteps - there are 3 steps to my door) with a warrant for my arrest (because arresting someone is the very first thing the Tax Office does when trying to recoup unpaid taxes) as being arrested is an exciting experience I've never tried and, as a bonus, my arrest might freak out my annoying neighbour.

Note: I did check the ATO website and, surprise surprise, this is actually a scam - if I had rung the phone number, the scammers would've instructed me to send them a money order for some amount of money (which would presumably pay off my "tax debt") and if I didn't send them this money, the POLICE OFFICER would come and arrest me, straight away, right on my doorstep!

Manizer (fictional)

Manizer is, of course, the accepted term for the female version of womanizer. Yes? No. Obviously, having 'manizer' as part of everyday vocabulary would give too much moral elevation to the concept. Instead, the accepted iniquity and malignancy of a woman slutting from man to man is encapsulated in terms such as harlot, floozy, strumpet - all of which are kinda cute words, despite the massive double standard they embody (emwordy?).

But I digress.

I think I may be a manizer. At least of imaginary men. A fictional manizer. I just can't settle on one (made up) man. I usually last a few months in love (lust) with one of my figments of my imagination, but then another one forms in my mind and I forget all about the previous one. It's like I have ADHD of the invented love (lust).

I worry about the trail of imaginary broken hearts left in my wake. I struggle with the notion that I've transformed into some kind of Dr Frankenstein of the mind, creating thought-lovers to satisfy my own nefarious desires, then tossing them aside when I've finished with them, leaving them to roam - alone and untethered, innocent and childlike - in the brain fiction realm. It's terribly immoral, but as I'm evil - being a woman and all - it's inherent in my nature to do naughty things. So don't ask me to stop, because I can't (won't).

Unfortunately though, brain creating is potentially quite dangerous, given that, under the right circumstances, brain creations have been known to take corporeal form. It's possible one of my creations may become flesh, hunt me down and seek vengeance upon me for my transgressions. Though, it's also possible one of my creations may become flesh, hunt me down and seek to explore new transgressions with me. Or previous transgressions. Or both previous and new transgressions. Or no transgressions, and instead we'll have a cup of tea and a chat. Maybe some cake. (All my brain creations like cake).

Contemplative Kitty Lounging on Wooden Chair

Due to the rampant (and entirely justified) popularity of black and white photos of cats (start here, also here), this blog finds it necessary to include such a photo (see below). Note the masterful use of sunlight and shadow and chair (and cat). The unused power socket symbolizes disconnection.

[Model: Ms Willow]

Mountain of Video Tape

As The Age of the Video Tape Cassette is increasingly consigned to the annals of history, I find myself burdened with, well, video tape cassettes. And with the perplexing issue of what to do with my old video tape cassettes, and especially with the ones that I recorded my favourite shows/movies onto as I now, mostly, have these on dvd. They're not readily recyclable, nor are they overly biodegradable. And second hand shops are not so interested in video tapes anymore, particularly ones with shows/movies recorded from the television.

It's a challenge that must be tackled, and one that is ripe for intelligent and innovative problem solving. But as it is me who is in charge, the solving will happen not only in defiance of intelligence or innovation but with some measure of bumbling.

After hardly any consideration, I decided to go with blithely pulling apart the video tape cassettes, discarding the plastic casings into the recycle bin (hopefully they are recyclable), and unwinding the magnetic tape and dumping it onto my coffee table - and thus creating a majestic (and mysterious) video tape mountain.

Behold the mountain (side view):

from above:

closer and more blob-like (using creepifying special effects):

The video tape mountain is really quite awesome and adds a unique ambiance to my flat. At times, I wonder if there is a hidden message contained within the mountain; perhaps someone/something is trying to communicate with me via my subconscious and has guided me to create the mountain (like in that movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind). At other times, I worry that the mountain is actually sentient and possibly mobile (like in that movie The Blob), and then I don't sleep so well. And then there are times when I don't know where to put down my cup of coffee (like in that movie I Don't Know Where to Put Down My Cup of Coffee*).

*I cannot provide a link since this is a made up movie

Evaporative Cooler as Art

Now that the planet is on fire, due to global warming, I've had to obtain a cooling device more powerful than a fan. I've chosen an evaporative cooler:

Unfortunately, the evaporative cooler takes up some degree of space in my modestly sized flat, and it's not the most inspiring entity. Also, it's really only in use for about 2 weeks per year (though this time span may increase as global temperatures increase). So, rather than allowing the evaporative cooler to become an ongoing and intrusive eyesore in my living space, I've decided to turn it into an evocative and aesthetically pleasing art piece (note the chain-link feature, constructed from unused hair pins, which symbolically expresses the eternal existential angst of existence):

Ms Willow is quite moved:

Clash of the Titans (aka Home Appliances)

The history of White Goods is, of course, also the history of epic battles. Since the dawn of the first refrigerators and stoves, there have been long and bloody mechanized white plastic conflicts. The Great War of the Washing Machines, which lasted nearly a decade, saw massive destruction both to the machines themselves and to the households that had become so reliant on these extraordinary creatures.

In recent times, some modicum of civility has infiltrated the ongoing frays, and White Goods interactions have witnessed less violence and more diplomatic methods of negotiation.

But vestiges of the brutal old ways still remain in the polymeric cross-linking (ie "DNA") of the appliances, and flare-ups, though increasingly rare, continue to be a feature of these modern conveniences. Recently, I was privy to such an altercation between two kettles in my kitchen:

The new kettle (on the right) was brought into the kitchen to replace the old kettle (on the left) which had been experiencing difficulties with its water-boiling functions. Foolishly, I placed the new kettle onto the bench without first removing the old kettle. I wandered off for a brief interlude and when I returned I encountered a savage display. Lids were raised in fierce rage, pouring spouts glowered with fiery fury, water boiled angrily from inside the kettles despite neither kettle being connected to an electricity outlet (nor having been filled with water). It was a bestial scene.

The teapot and the coffee-maker, kitchenware known for their enduring pacifism, huddled together in apprehensive anticipation of the outcome. The toaster (to the far right) sat in the corner with Zen-like stoicism, not giving a damn.

Denouement: There wasn't a true victor for this battle, mainly because I broke up the fight before it got too gory (not that I abhor violence, it's just that I prefer for it not to occur in my kitchen). The new kettle is now my everyday kettle, a position it has earned by its consistency in both heating water to boiling point and switching itself off when reaching this point. The old kettle received a thorough soaking in diluted vinegar, which removed all the gunk from its element, thus allowing it to regain its ability to boil water, but it is unable to switch itself off and so it is now relegated to being my emergency kettle. The old kettle now lives in the cupboard under the sink, an arrangement which should hopefully deter it from interacting with the new kettle and thus prevent any more kitchen brawls.

Mystical Dome of Impenetrability

It is not understood, either by Scientists or Engineers or, indeed, Mystics, how the Mystical Dome's scaffolding is constructed or from what materials it is made. What is known, however, is that in order for such a contraption to assemble and to function, an urgent and rampant need for isolation from danger, real or perceived, is required.

When activated, the dome (or, in some cases, capsule) (or bubble) will completely surround a person (or, in some cases, an animal) (not that humans aren't also animals) (you know what I mean) (clarification: we are ALL animals!). The dome (I'm just gonna call it a 'dome' cos I like the word) (though its shape is probably quite indefinable, even abstract) (also, it's transparent) (so who the hell knows what its freaking shape is anyway)...The dome seems to act as a shield or barrier to proximate unpleasantness. Its capabilities appear to be almost exhaustive; it can prevent sunburn on high-UV days or keep out lightening and rain during a storm, it can block a speeding vehicle and prevent squishing or deflect a meteorite shower from performing a skull re-sculpture. Furthermore, the dome allows the 'wearer' to continue breathing unaided for extended periods; this may be due to either the dome being able to produce oxygen via some unexplained mechanism or that the dome's substance is selectively permeable (making the dome not entirely impenetrable).

Possibly even more astonishing than the dome's physical abilities, are its so-called 'psychological' abilities. As well as possessing a faculty for material shelter, the dome also displays a kind of ethereal empathy. The Obscure-Translucent-Shelter-Psyche-Phenomenon, as it is known in academic circles, manifests as a capacity for the dome to latch onto, and sync with, the mental state of the sentient being (or, in some cases, bean) which the dome has enshrouded. This serves both to provide a generalized solace for the sentient being (SB), as well as to isolate the SB from any volatile emotional vagaries (VEV) to which the SB may be subjected (unless the SB has willingly chosen to be under the thrall of VEV). Experimental data has shown that an SB experiencing the influence of a mystical dome will display a biochemistry profile consistent with a state of tranquillity.

Until the discovery of the mystical dome, conventional wisdom had generally dictated that a suit of armour and a heart of stone were necessary to protect an SB from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but now it seems that this is not strictly the case. Certainly it is true that "armour and stonehearts" (as the saying goes) have proven to be very effective protection, but this method has been associated with some negative side effects: limited mobility, chaffing, and elevated levels of social disconnection. Moreover, anecdotal evidence indicates that this method may have a tendency to attract more slings and arrows than would normally be expected from ordinary outrageous fortune (perhaps the slings and arrows are attracted to the shiny of the metal armour).

So, if a requirement for shelter becomes apparent, and a mystical dome is potentially manifestable, then evidence suggests that the mystical dome method, with its many advantages, is the way to go.

Planet Earth! You Rock! (as well as being MADE of rock)

An observation (mine) has been made that the previous 3 posts of this blog have contained Planet Earth; as in, some kind of mention of or reference to, Planet Earth. Obviously (or not), it would be ludicrous to suggest that Planet Earth itself has existed within these blog posts, for that would be quite an extraordinary manipulation of the physics of the physical realm - I suspect even the most nimble Time Lord would experience some difficulty with such a space-time continuum defying manoeuvre.

However, it's not entirely illogical/crazy to say that some of the Earth resides in the blog posts. The screens upon which the blog posts appear contain material ripped from the Earth's body. Ouch! The server that stores the blog posts is made from Earth. The brains of people that see the blog posts (and hence, the blog posts are then contained within their brains) are made from, as Joni Mitchell says, "billion year old carbon" - though, actually from "stardust", but by the time the carbon gets to being brain, it's been 'Earth-carbon' for quite awhile. So, really, blog posts and Earth are an intricately intertwined, cross-linked, woveny basket (case) tapestry.

As is often the case with my blog posts, I have no idea what the point is, and this post is a prime example of this phenomenon. All I can really deduce is that Planet Earth is a part of all of us, and of this blog, and as such, at times, it will seep into our sub-concious and make itself heard. Also, the Earth kindly allows us to ride upon its 'back' as it travels through space, which is great for us because, without the Earth, we would most likely spiral wildly out of control and die.

So, in honour of the awesomeness of Planet Earth, and as a way to fill up more blog space, here are some pictures of Earth:

Normal Earth:

Rorschach Earth:

Post Modern Earth:

Maniacal Laughing Earth:

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:

Comfort Creature

A Comfort Creature can only be conjured into existence in the time of a full moon, and will continue such existence at least until the time of the subsequent full moon.

A Comfort Creature should not be confused with a creature comfort, though they are similar in that they both provide extra cosy beyond the basic necessities. But they are quite different in that a Comfort Creature is much less placidly innocuous and inanimate and controllable, and much more actively taloned and tentacled and tenacious. A Comfort Creature offers such solace and protection as could not be obtained from an ordinary creature.

A Comfort Creature's external manifestation will be as the mood takes it, but talons and tentacles will always be apparent. Its size can be enormous or small or minuscule; wide or narrow or infinite.

The internal manifestation of a Comfort Creature, much like its external manifestation, is subject to its mood (though unrestrained whimsy may be more accurate). Its interior convolutions are chaotically complex and untethered from rational logic. It does not seek glory or fame or wealth, but it does strive for harmonious inter-dimensional connection.

The power inhabited by a Comfort Creature is immense; it should never be squandered wastefully or used for corrupt purposes. One should always proceed with caution when creating, and interacting with, such a being. Much responsibility is required when dealing with a Comfort Creature, but it is always a worthwhile, if not transcendent, experience.

Also, I appear to have lost my mind. Perhaps a Comfort Creature will know where I can find it.

Caught in a Dream Weaver Loop

The recurring dream-mares (they're more disconcerting dreams than actual nightmares) always place me in an educational institution, either secondary school or university. Mostly the dreams occur at university, where I seem to be doing a Science degree, even though I already have a Science degree - both in the logic of the dream and in real life. Sometimes I show up to lectures, sometimes I don't. Rarely do I do any study or homework. Practical experience - laboratory, field work - isn't required. Occasionally I attend a lecture that isn't part of my syllabus. In one particularly frustrating variation of the dream-mare, I adamantly refuse to attend any mathematics lectures/tutorials, but I do take the final exam which - surprise, surprise - I completely fail. My most recent educational dream-mare incarnation placed me in a lecture in which I not only had a notebook with no blank pages left (making it very hard to take lecture notes) BUT the lecture made no sense. It was all words, words, blah, blah, incoherency, more words, something cryptic, blah. Blah.

That Dream Weaver is one sick, sad, sadistic weaver.

Mars as Grimacing Face

Look what I did to Mars! (Or, more correctly, look what HP Photosmart Premier - special effects; lithograph - did to Mars!)

Exhibit A - Ordinary red planet:

Exhibit B - Freaky white face:

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.

Oh, Yeah...Another Year...

2011 mostly sucked. May 2012 suck less.


Meanwhile, Ms Willow Pussycat is VERY ADORABLE:

The Spinster

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

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!

Today's Literary Quote:

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.