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Hugo: putting the meta in metaphor

Much like Samwise Gamgee, I have missed the boat. However, instead of the Frodo-populated boat of world-weariness and angst bound for the hidden world of the Elves, the boat I'm left waving off into the distance is the one for Academy Award opinion and rants.

However, unlike Samwise, I'm not going to settle in to life as Mayor of Hobbiton (mostly because I like shoes and would get claustrophobic living in a hill). Instead, I'm going to rant and rave with the same level of passion I put into singing Simon and Garfunkel songs in my car.

What I really want to talk about is 'Hugo'. When you have Christopher Lee, Ben Kingsley, Sacha Baron Cohen and the girl who said the C-word in 'Kick-Ass' together in a film directed by Martin Scorsese, it’s hard to know what to expect. 'Hugo' was always going to draw in the audiences, even those mistakenly expecting a Saruman vs. Gandhi showdown. It was also always going to rake in ALL of the plaudits. 

Based on 'The Invention of Hugo Cabret' by Brian Selznick, the story follows Hugo (Asa Butterfield) the orphaned son of a clockmaker (Jude Law) who lives in the walls of a Paris train station. His father dies, leaving him with an alcoholic uncle and a broken automaton; a clockwork man who when repaired should have the ability to write.

Scorsese’s first film in 9 years to not include Leonardo Di Caprio was nominated for more awards than I could fit on my monitor to print screen. The whole thing is very box in a box in a box to explain. It’s a 3D movie about the early days of film, and is based on a book based loosely on a true story.

I'm undecided about this film, which came as a surprise as I was expecting to unequivocally be won over. The weird thing is, you watch the trailer, go “that looks good”, and then head off to see it. I came out of the cinema going "yeah, I liked that". Then, the next day, I gave it some thought and realised the wily manipulation I had just paid almost twenty dollars to see in 3D. 

'Hugo' has wide appeal. It has cute young children, which can make you overlook some stilted acting. It tugs on your heartstrings with the wide, blue, computer-enhanced eyes of the protagonist, and throws about themes like "family!" "war!" "loss!" "redemption!" like it is going out of business. All of this, it seems is a disguise, to hide the fact that this movie is the celluloid incarnation Oscars. It is a film-maker celebrating a film-maker saying that film-makers do not want to be forgotten.

The 'Lord of the Rings' tilt of this post is no coincidence, despite my strong past history of shoehorning Hobbits and mithril into seemingly unrelated topics. Before year 8, the Oscars were a glorious time. I enjoyed predicting who would be nominated, who would win (with mixed success) and who would make an embarrassing speech in dubious attire. I would then proceed to bore my friends senseless with these endless predictions, and then proceed to demonstrate my lack of athleticism on the monkey bars.

Naturally, when the 74th Academy Awards rolled around, I assumed 'The Fellowship of the Ring' would sweep the floor with all that Russel Crowe and Moulin Rouge nonsense. However, it was not to be, and, despite my careful avoidance of 'spoilers' all day, the inescapable school bus radio pronounced that 'A Beautiful Mind' had taken out Best Picture and Best Director. My reaction was somewhere between 'Apocalypse Now' and 'A Streetcar Named Desire' and since then, I have not watched the Academy Awards again.

It's not just that 'Lord of the Rings' didn't win. I think it just highlighted to me all the bureaucracy and red tape that is what really drives who wins in which year. 'Return of the King' won two years later, a decision I suspect that was made well in advance of the Academy even catching a glimpse of the film. The Oscar went to the trilogy - not the film. It seems to be more 'whose turn is it to win' rather than 'who did the best work this year'. I know that this isn't an attitude reserved for film awards, but the realisation of this in my early teens just ruined things for me.

It's interesting that this year the two top contenders were both films about films. However, I'm glad that 'The Artist' won. It's an original film, with an unusual concept, and a cast of mostly unknown, French actors. Good things.

Despite this however, I'm a bit worried. Sure, generally you can easily pick which films are built purely to rake in the Oscars. However, 'Hugo' with it's thinly veiled desires and resultant success, might be cause for concern.

Or, maybe it's a good thing. If the disguise and tricks are getting easier and easier, maybe in five years I can churn out my own masterpiece: set in 1930s England, a single woman struggles to find respect, happiness and love in a town which thinks she is a harlot and a witch. With her only friend, a dog, she starts a business from scratch; making floral print bowls for orphans to make their gruel look tastier. In a heart-wrenching scene her dog sacrifices her life when an evil, war-crazed villain shows up with a machine gun. However, in a wacky enemy-turns-to-lover twist, she restores his addled mind through the use of art and interpretive dance. His heart softens, his nose grows back and a flash forward shows them holding hands while skipping through a meadow, named after her late pooch.

I shall call it 'NOMINATION FOR BEST PICTURE' and the awards shall be mine, and they shall be my 'AWARDS FOR BEST PICTURE.'

Uggh,

My Ekman Deficiency

I never know what face it is appropriate to pull in pretty much any given situation. Christmas and birthdays becomes exponentially more stressful than they should be, because presents happen. This shouldn’t even be a thing. Presents are nice - unless you’re given used soap on a rope or syphilis I suppose. However, if I get handed a gift, my mind automatically clicks into an over-reflective doom cycle and my facial expression freezes.

Probably the true villain here is the desire to be polite. My mind rushes to project a scenario where the gift is something that you don’t like. However, this isn’t something you want anyone other than you to know, so you need to express joy! ecstasy! appreciation! no matter what. Despite not having even gotten remotely close to any sticky tape or wrapper removal, the mind then whirrs ahead as to what face you should be pulling in order to hide any potential disappointment (or even perceived disappointment, just to wrap you up into further knots). In my case this generally means that I look like I’m in pain no matter what it is I’ve been given because I’m so anxious to not seem rude. 

Unfortunately, I then notice that I’ve gone too far the other way, and so make the mistake of trying to cover my awkward with dialogue. Dialogue which also goes too far the other way and tends to be something along the lines of “oh cool, that’s...yeah” which serves to rectify nothing other than the conversation which ends in uncomfortable silence until one or both of you leave the room. You don’t want to sound disinterested, but in focussing so hard on how to say something, you pause too long and, as a result, sound disinterested. This also seems to happen sometimes when I'm just talking to people. No-one wins in the social interaction paradox of awkward.

I didn’t really know whether facial expressions are the product of biology or society, but if Paul Ekman, the psychologist on whom the show Lie to Me was based, is to be believed “facial expressions of emotion are not culturally determined, but universal across human cultures and thus biological in origin.”

He’s built a multi-decade career on this, and I’ve only been thinking about it for the last 20 minutes, so I think I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Probably. His studies suggest that the areas we all share facial expression reflexes for are anger, disgust, fear, shame, joy, sadness, and surprise.

Maybe I have wrong wiring, or a side link psychobabble diversion circuit, because it seems when situations should prompt a joy or surprise reflex, the signal gets fired off and shunted into the fear realm, prompting the wrong face. Or a frozen face. Or a blushing face. Which will later probably either progress into an anger or sadness face. Or, as sometimes happens, an Edward Scissorhands face. Oh well.

I don’t really know what the reason is. Maybe my brain just has an army of mini-Gandalfs fighting the Balrog of neural emotive reflexes whilst someone accidentally over-bleaches their robes.

Either way, if I’ve ever seemed disinterested or strangely blunt in response to ‘normal social interraction’ or ‘receipt of a gift’, chances are high that if you came back after five minutes you would find me smacking my forehead. Or watching Angel. 

Anyway, it’s not you. It’s my Ekman deficiency.

The Etiquette of Staring

If a person is around me for any longer than ten minutes they will most likely get stared at. Usually this is unintentional. I zone out, taking wild rides on trains of thought which usually stop by the ‘most recent TV show I watched’, ‘that cloud looks like a ______’ and ‘Harry Potter plot inconsistency’ stations before I snap out of it and realise that the blank space I was staring at is now occupied by a Someone. The same Someone who is now staring back at me, assessing what sort of danger they might be in. I can’t help it if my ‘Vague Face’ looks like other people’s ‘Murder Face’.

Staring seems to make people uncomfortable. Which puts an interesting spin on staring contest enthusiasts.

I’m not brilliant at eye contact, though I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because it gives people the opportunity to extract my soul like some kind of occular Dementor, though I think it’s more likely due to the confusing etiquette surrounding when it is appropriate to look someone in the eye.

Not having a good balance in eye contact screws you up in multiple areas:

Honesty: too much, and you seem like you’re trying too hard and are thus covering up a lie. Too little, and you are shifty, and clearly have something to hide.

Relationships: look too long, and they will know you’re interested. Don’t look at all and it seems like you’re avoiding them. Either because you are interested, or because you are not interested. Helpful.

Study: looking up during an exam DEFINITELY MEANS PEOPLE THINK YOU ARE CHEATING. So you don’t look up at all which makes picking up dropped pens or responding to unexpected noises difficult and confusing. This feeds in to honesty, so not looking also means PEOPLE THINK YOU ARE TRYING TO HIDE THE FACT YOU ARE CHEATING. Because exams didn’t already make me neurotic enough.

Conversations: looking too much means you are either super interested or zoning out. People will always assume it is the one it isn’t which leads to more of the same. Not looking at all or minimal looking means you aren't interested and people get all kinds of affronted. Or don't notice and keep going, again leading to more of the same. Generally leads to doom spirals.

Getting caught in a stare usually goes one of four ways.

In the first, you know they can see your line of vision and you both get trapped in the stare net. Neither wants to look away, and you both try and scope out the other. Eventually you look away at the same time and act like the whole thing never happened. An awkward laugh may be implemented at this point. Usually one for strangers.

The second is the misdirection stare. They catch you, so you look over their shoulder and try to convince them you were looking at some fascinating thing there. Murphy’s Law dictates that the only thing behind them will be either something really bland like a plastic chair, or something that it is socially worse for you to be staring at. Like a ‘breasts of the day’ calendar.

Third is the compromise for eye strain stare. Here you make eye contact, then pretend to look away whilst monitoring the situation from the corner of your eye. They know you are still looking, but in order to know this, they have to be looking too. Neither of you wants to admit to being Starer 0, so you both pretend that no one is looking at anyone.

Finally there is the machine gun stare. You get caught staring. You look away. Look up again to see if they are still looking. They are. They look down. Then back up. You see this and look down again. Continues for uncomfortably long and makes you think of the Old Spice ad. Then you picture the other person in a towel and everything gets horrifying as you question what sort of person you are. Usually one of you has to leave in order to end the madness.

I’m not sure what the solution to any of these is really. You could always yell “THIS IS SPARTA” and sprint away, but whilst pop-culturetastic, I don’t know if that would alleviate the awkwardness much.

Oh well. Here's looking at you kid.

Tramsformation

I don’t do well on public transport. I do especially badly on the single tram that Adelaide possesses. I’m not sure if it is the combination of a severe lack of control of anything ever coupled with extreme close proximity with many people, but even just thinking about setting foot on that demon caterpillar of terribly planned awfulness fills me with foreboding.

It hasn’t always been this way. About ten years ago the tram was maroon, squishy and arrived when it said it would. The seats weren’t arranged by a deranged person deprived of Lego as a child, instead they were most likely imagined by someone with some semblance of skill and imagination, as when the tram changed direction at the end of a trip, the conductor would merely walk down the aisle flipping the backs to the other side, and voila! All seats were now facing the other way.

The track was also shorter, ending before the city, thus avoiding the mass influx of people who were too lazy to walk the 800 metres from Chinatown into the main CBD (sometimes this was me, but back in the day there was a bus for that).

Now, track length, passenger number and inefficiency has increased resulting in a useless, expensive piece of WHY?! which has not only messed with traffic in the city, but breaks down more regularly than me watching ‘Titanic’, and even factoring in two trams as a buffer, still involves an individual embarking on a game of punctuality Russian roulette.

The seating also encourages strange social interaction. At the very front and back of the tram are the most highly prized seats. Tucked against a wall, you can hide yourself in a corner and hold the handy yellow bar which seems to serve no particular purpose other than to steady yourself in a vain attempt to avoid violently smacking your head against the front of the tram when the driver inevitably makes sudden stops to avoid hitting death-wish holding pedestrians. Behind this are the “blocks of four” which usually result in either four strangers awkwardly playing footsies, or two people trying valiantly to not stare at the overly affectionate couple sitting opposite. Sometimes the result is small-talk, or, as I once witnessed, deals to exchange cigarettes for shower time. Behind this are the guilt seats. Here you can look back at all the people standing, and enter into the unanswerable struggle of whether or not you should give up your spot. That woman isn’t pregnant, and she isn’t decisively elderly. However she’s on the threshold, so you stand to offer your seat. She gets offended, declines, and whilst you are still standing, a surly teenager plops into your place. Winning times.

Individual awesome experiences I’ve had include a woman sitting next to me filing her nails directly onto my bag, and being cornered by a woman I became eventually convinced was planning to kill and eat me. Possibly not in that order.

She didn’t.

I just don’t understand how something that is trapped on a single line, with its very own traffic lights and boom gates is capable of being so consistently infuriating, or how the injection of money and time has resulted in the deterioration of a service. Adelaide Metro: I mind this gap. 

This is why I don't write poetry any more.

Wikipedia defines love as "an emotion of strong affection and personal attachment." I recently re-discovered my 1999 diary and apparently this is what 9 year old me felt for 'Dawson's Creek'. In amongst the vaguely threatening privacy message at the beginning, a self-made address book which only goes up to 'T', specific information about what I did on "13 Janurary 1999" (9:30 wake up, 6:50 P.M. See Babe Pig in the city.) and strict homework/tv watching timetable, opposite a page of "Self Trivia" I found this:

Reading that made me feel a bit like this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLgI-qbrWVo

Norman will never abate

In year 10 I decided to study drama. The scenario in my mind involved being given opportunities to write, direct and potentially demonstrate my one redeeming acting talent of doing a mean bloodcurdling scream. Instead, reality had me watching Hitchcock movies, making posters about the Stanislavsky method of acting, and playing a fairy called “Tizz” in the worst play ever to be inflicted upon supportive parents.

From this experience I gained self awareness (about being extraordinarily shit at making posters), widened literary exposure (having for some reason the ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ speech from Macbeth being part of my lines in the fairy play), interpersonal insight (about what a loon Hitchcock was*) and, most significantly, an apparently lifelong paranoia about showers (thank you 'Psycho').

I have mentioned this fear on more than one occasion. Looking back at the film itself, I don’t really understand where the horror comes from. It’s all a bit lame, the blood looks too thick, and all you actually see is a knife stabbing at an improbable speed and angle whilst a woman screams and is touched inappropriately by shower curtains. I also vaguely remember close ups of the killer’s crazed, wide eyes, but I’m not sure if this is just something my imagination has added over the years, and I’m not going to check. Whilst accuracy is ace, despite my rambling rationalisations, I cannot bring myself to look it up and re-watch on YouTube.

My germaphobia induced suspicion of both shower curtains and shared bathroom floors is not sufficient to explain my undiminished psychological response to this film. I guess something could be said about the almost unique vulnerability we have in the shower. If you couple being clothes-less and phone-less with years of Marple-induced conditioning that everyone everywhere is waiting to murder you all the time, you end up with one eye constantly on the door, and palpitations for the twenty seconds that all you can see is your hair as you hurriedly rinse conditioner.

This vague fear does not show any signs of abating at any time soon. I can’t remember the last time I showered without at least fleetingly thinking of 'Psycho'. I just don’t understand; why is this film so special? I can (sometimes) look in a mirror without imagining Bloody Mary emerging from it, I don’t (always) check my back seat for murderers, I can (usually) tell people that I’m phoning home without putting on my ET voice, and I can shout “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” even at times that I’m not fighting a Balrog.

Oh well. There are worse things than regularly thinking about homebody taxidermist murderers.



*exhibit A: deliberately trapping your daughter on a ferris wheel on set and then packing up the crew and leaving.

Methods to cope with an anxious wait

It would seem that a not indecent percentage of my year level is currently camped out on Facebook whilst simultaneously refreshing their emails with an increasing level of urgency. The annual hive-mentality-of-fear-of-being-the-lowest common-denominator is a time of year I dread. Somewhat contrary to what I’m currently doing, I am generally loathe to admit that I’m very very afraid of what results might be. Of course I joke that I have spent all day keeping one eye on my 214 unread emails, terrified that it will hit 215, and dying, every so slightly on the inside when I get an email from Amazon telling me that the time is ripe to buy the Beiberography ‘just in time for Christmas’, but seriously, every beep of my phone is another ten minutes shaved off the end of my life.

I don’t know if this is just me, but either way, I thought that I would compile a list of ways to cope with an anxious wait of any kind.

1. Take an unnecessary shower. Give yourself elaborate ‘fashionable’ shampoo hairstyles and swear, ever so slightly, when you tenderly shampoo your eye. 
2. Listen to three songs on loop all day. Preferably two manic or energetic, and one slightly more subdued. Turn up extra loud whilst on step 1, despite the fact that through the doors, noise and fear of Norman Bates and Bloody Mary you won’t be able to hear the difference between Gotye and Journey.
3. Exercise. Seriously. When I’m stressed, I can be so distracted by disquieting thoughts that for a few golden moments I will forget that I’m extremely unfit. Until I realise that I’m choking to death on phlegm.
4. Text people in the same situation, trying to maintain a casual balance between expressing fear and trying not to demonstrate the twisted thread of anxious terribleness you have become.
5. Extremely overreact to unrelated things.
6. Adopt irrational compulsive behaviours such as avoiding certain words and not allowing yourself to think of the worst possible outcome.
7. Take a nap. On the floor. 
8. Develop polar eating habits. Skip lunch, then power through a packet of 'Hello Panda' in the space of three minutes.
9. Watch TV. Today I chose "Upstairs, Downstairs" which contained more period drama than an all girl high school swimming lesson.
10. Switch from the previous three songs to one superangsty song and play it on loop. Example: in the time it has taken me to write this I am currently on my 7^th iteration of “Set Fire to the Rain”.

Anyways, that probably didn’t help. Maybe this will: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBcMKwbMEcQ

Chariots of Dire

"I'm going out for a run. Be back in about three minutes."


People who know me, know me as a fitness machine. Of course by this I mean, much like a treadmill, I remain in one spot whilst others exercise. And occasionally beep.

This aside however, I have recently (and by recently, I mean sporadically over the last few years) tried to build up some semblance of exercise tolerance, as a) I don't want to be a dirty filthy hypocrite, and b) I don't want to drop dead at 30. 


There are numerous ways I've gone about this. My personal favourite is to declare small bits of extra exertion as "exercise". Forgot what I stood up and went into another room for? Two points for the extra unnecessary double trip. Friend didn't hear me call out to them (loudly, across a small but full-ish room)? One exercise point for the mini jog to catch up to them, and nine for the calories burnt off with the embarrassment of witnessed rejection.* 


The second approach I've taken is a lot less attractive (on multiple levels). It involves actual exercise, and doesn't happen very often for a multitude of reasons. At the heart of the problem is that I'm really, truly, terribly unfit. However, I have a grain of pride, which means I do not want other people to know this.** This combination of factors has pushed me into a corner where the place I go to run is a small room with one treadmill, one bike, one elliptical and is apparently where all mirrors go to die. There is a mirror in front, behind, and to the side, so that whenever I run, I'm always running in a marathon of n00bs - some of whom are going the wrong way, and all of whom look sheepish."


This semi 70s porno fishbowl of embarrassment is also located directly adjacent to a pool. This has benefits in that my paranoia gets a workout when I become convinced that the swimmers (usually couples or disquietingly oily-looking men) are watching and judging me, whilst in actual fact they are probably just hoping that I will leave so they can play jenga or roll in butter.


It is hard enough to make myself exercise. For one, I don't know what to wear. I can't wear "proper sports clothes" lest people think I'm actually fit, thus potentially giving them a laughter/shock induced aneurysm when they witness my flailing limbs and general suffering. This results in me turning up looking like I'm slightly too late to an 80s aerobics class...for men. There's also the apparent conflict in technology of the treadmill in the room of awkward. On the one hand, apparently some people are so fit and strong they can't help but punch through the flimsy button which increases the speed, thus giving all subsequent users a one in three chance of a slight electric shock whenever they dare touch it. Then, there is the unnecessarily rocket-like complexity of the controls. You want to just see how long you've been running, and have the option to change the speed? All of a sudden the incline is increasing and the screen screams at you to "touch the pulse bar."

I will not be touching the pulse bar. Not just because it makes my inner 12 year old want to shout "that's what she said", but because (probably the same  fit and strong) someone decided that it would be a good idea to fling their sweat everywhere. Hot. 


*:(

**evidenced well by my writing about it on the internet.

My Early Work

Apparently for the most part the official critera for diagnosing mental diseases cannot be used in children, as you would get too many false positives. For this, I am grateful.

As someone who spent an embarrassing percentage of my under 10 years doing well adjusted things such as "making wardrobe forts to read in"", "learning how to catch coins I fling off my elbow"* and "hoarding butter in case of earthquakes", I can see how this may not have ended well for me.

Apparently I also found it necessary to record most things I was doing or thinking, which is why I have a large stash of notebooks, diaries and miscellaneous other pieces of writing (as well as a disquietingly large number of drawings of ducks and 'Pressed Scottish Cheese', whatever that is).

Anyway, one such thing I found was a story I wrote about Sailor Moon.

That seems to be the end. Potential publishers: please form an orderly line.

*Over thirty 20c pieces in one go. Just for the record.

Head Over Heels for Coordination

I have a special circuit in my brain. Initiated by the song "Staying Alive", I have to immediately quash the urge to strut down the street and violently force myself to stop imagining that I am carrying paint. Or a woman's man.

This negative feedback loop is important for two reasons.

Firstly, I don't want to look like a douche. Since my normal walk prompts comments such as "do you go through a lot of shoes?", adding a strut, swagger, saunter or any other "s" started adjectives would probably not do me any favours.

The second reason, and arguably more important reason is one of personal safety. I have a propensity to fall on, up, into or down things when I'm walking normally. Change anything, be it my shoes, an unfamiliar set of stairs or my general sense of oneness, I fall. Or stumble. Or hit my foot against something, and then embark upon a journey creatively devised pseudo-swearing.

This sounds even more ridiculous when coming from within the suitcase I've just fallen into.

NOTE: I just realised my graph is wrong.

Do You Sink it's a Good Place to Live?

Holiday [hol-ie-dae]: a word with french-latin roots, originally arising from the Saxon "Hollus Dei" festival, centred around a bi-annual celebration of "Hollou" (things which are empty bar space and air) where a selection of 10 villagers of varied ages would repeatedly fill large wooden boxes with pointy green leaves and berries, and then empty them whilst shouting "harlow!" (interestingly, thought to be the original source of our modern common initial greeting of one another).

So what does one do whilst on a break from the regular routine dictated by little coloured boxes? Other than making up highly plausible definitions of course.

Well, if you're me, you choose a cupboard at random and make exciting clean-up discoveries. Today my cabinet of choice was the bathroom. Usually housing items such as "toothpaste", "medications" or "hair curlers", it was only natural for me to discover the following...

Exciting holiday clean-up discovery #1: Bucket of Rocks
Because what is a bathroom without a an assortment of rocks?



Exciting holiday clean-up discovery #2: Five different, variously shaped, containers of talcum powder
Prettttty sure some of these have been around since I was 2.


Exciting holiday clean-up discovery #3: Menagerie of plaster, shell and crocheted animals + Iwannabe Barbie (but in reality I'm a toilet roll holder)
Zoos are not just for family outings. They're for bath-time too.


Tomorrow? I'm thinking of tackling the fridge.

What's the strangest place in the world?

The houses are all the same; white brick with blue trimmings. Graffiti covers the walls, despite each property being surrounded by a razor wire fence. There is not a car to be seen, and each home is only big enough for one. Instead of the orderly winding roads of suburbia, a giant circle of houses surrounds the village green. In the centre rises a large stage, and a crowd of vaguely familiar people jostle to get to one of the many microphones positioned around. One girl finds a gap in the throng and pushes herself forward. She clears her throat. Hush rings out, as the town PA system screeches on.

“Andrea Levy – is nver dirnking aginn”.

Welcome to Facebook: where it isn’t stalking – it’s ‘networking’.

The township of Facebook has paradoxical views on security and privacy. The council has decreed that no one may visit unless they own property surrounding the green, and one may not visit others unless they get their Mines of Moria on. However, once one speaks “friend” and enters...

...It’s on like a stereo in a late model Douchemobile.

In the outside world, if you haven’t seen someone in a while, you rejoice. Or call them to catch up. Whatever. Here however, without them being any the wiser, you can stroll through their gate, enter their house, rifle through their photo albums, listen to their answering machine messages, flip through their CD collection, and peruse their address book.

You could even scribble on one of their walls. But you probably won’t.

Fun as this healthy and social activity may be, chilling alone in someone else’s house can get old pretty quickly. Long term residents know that the real action is out on the village green.

Heading outside, you pass the council workers, busy working on the next seemingly-obligatory-yet-redundant major revamp of the town. Small clusters of people eye them suspiciously, whilst talking about “the good old days”. One man declares that it is “inconceivable that the council can so blatantly ignore the public wishes in this way”. There is a hearty orchestra of responses consisting mostly of “hear hear” and “where’s our dislike button?” Towards the back, a young man determinedly tries to convince the crowd that the “the hottest kid in school will fall madly in love with you” if only they will pass on the story of a young girl who was eaten alive by an army of mutant cabbages. Failure to do so will, of course, result in a similar fate.

Needless to say he is surrounded by a gaggle of 15 year old girls, all shouting about leafy vegetables.

Further along, two girls are chatting together about what they did on the weekend. Another girl sidles up to them. They stop. There is silence.

“I LIKE THIS” the third girl blurts out, before running away. She almost knocks over two men as she flees, but they’re too busy laughing about how witty it is that they have declared their marriage to one another over the PA system to all their friends.

See, it’s funny because they’re not really married. Ha.

Off in the distance, a man is being handcuffed and placed into a squad car. Facebook keeps the grammar police busy.

Suddenly, you feel a sharp pain in your side. “Can’t stop to chat”, shouts a sandy haired acquaintance over his shoulder as he runs off towards his house. His door slams, and you are left alone.

You have been poked.

What’s on my mind? Mostly: W.T.F.

No Shia for Sez

Message to all: it is now ok to roll down your sleeves. You will no longer be receiving slightly socially inappropriate requests to have you pulse taken.*

However, with an OSCE practice shaped void now in my life, I found myself filling my day with not as much sleep as previously expected, two visits to David Jones, an unhealthy level of enthusiasm for buying new bus tickets, a killing streak and 50 minutes worth of textbook perusal, leading to a now ridiculously sore left arm.

That, or I'm having an MI as thoughtfully pointed out by my parents.

Anyways, I have not much to say, and even less ability to say it, mostly because my left hand does 50% of the typing. Strangely, it is attached to my left arm which is seemingly on strike. This leaves righty to pick up the slack, and I can't afford the overtime. Plus he's getting cranky.

Why my right arm is apparently male now, I have no idea. Maybe today's lack of sleep is starting to kick in...

...a door.

Edit: I saw Sez today and it/ she was/ is rad.

*for the next six months.

David Tennant Bathers

Google image search is not without its charms. For both study and "other", it rarely fails to deliver. Glossitis? There. Caput medusae? Check. David Tennant in swimmers...I've yet to look, but willing to guess "present".

*10 highly Tardisised and Casanova filled minutes later...*

However with OSCEs looming in the very near horizon, one does get a good glimpse of how far detached from reality study can make you when you find yourself image searching "clubbing", leading to the 'led being thouroughly baffed. Ah well, you get what you get.

Clinical skills is a dangerous world. If you're not pounding out a jaunty percussion noted tune through your long suffering non-dominant hand's middle finger, or poking your parents and friends in the neck "just in case you have tracheal deviation" you emerge from your textbooks only to realize you haven't actually been outdoors in the last three days, and being away from people has made you start to chuckle at terms such as "biceps jerk."

..you know...jerk. They're annoying and make you spasm. Ha. Well...it's funny if you've had your anterior humour sensory pathway removed.

Oh well, at least the compulsive tea drinking has toned down over the holidays.

Anyways, on this shambled note (which i hope is resonant and not in the least bit dull), I'll wish everyone the best of luck for tomorrow and this term.

Oh yes, and for those wondering about the exciting and dynamic picture...Google image search the subject line of this post. I dare you.

The Unscrupulous Magnet Thief

...will be discussed later.

So, my room has been invaded. Ditto my brain it would seem, by an American girl bopping away her teens by beginning sentences with "so".

However, the main point is that I entered my newly de-trashified room earlier today only to discover that trusty mcholey had been replaced with whitey o'trampoline.

R.I.P. old pillow. I think it was the two giant holes in your sides that doomed you. Now it takes a special kind of feathered down softeness to make one tolerate a chasm capable of phagocytosing a hand in a crucial piece of bedding. That, or a special kind of laziness and intertia hybrid. Either way: I am wary of the foreign invader.

Guess it comes with the territory of a house-wide "spring clean".

The discoveries have been varied. From my exciting collection of wrapping paper and Dolly Magazines dating back to the Bec and Beau days, to a laser pointer that projects the words "Fifa World Cup, France!" onto the wall, the excitement is unceasing.

So thrilling that i've stuffed the unsortable into a box and saved it for summer holidays.

Rad.

I can't think of an end, so I'll just put three dots.

...

and a colon.

:

"Human Exclusive?" - not anymore.

Success at last! This weekend’s events just serve to prove, that with a bit of perseverance, and a lot of willpower, the good side of human nature can shine through.

Round of applause everybody, show the champions we respect what they’re doing.

Now. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you are A Bad Person. For shame, not thinking about the injustice our society (might have) inflicted on the voiceless ones.

I am, of course, speaking of Machines. This may be, your television, your computer, that alarm clock you loathe...even the local ATM. What do they all have in common? EXPLOITATION, that’s what.

Society these days expects too much. You want to be able to log on to the internet whenever you like? Selfish. Turn on a light switch and expect it to work? Narcissist. Want bank transfers to go through on the designated date? Whattawanker.

This is the easter weekend public holiday. Where does it say “human exclusive”? I ask you. Do we not care that your USB mouse might have an egg hunt waiting for it at home? Stop and think, your halogen lamp might want to leave to revel in the warmth of family. Maybe your car doesn’t want to take you with it for a romantic rendezvous. Alarm clocks of the world: maybe it’s their turn for a sleep in...

The cruelty of human nature seems to know no bounds, horribly exemplified by this abominable treatment towards our electronic and mechanical friends.

Now lets take a step back and look at the champion of our cause. The Bank.

These are the people who know what’s right. Electronic transfers? No way. Our computers are off on a three day trip to KI. Access funds? Not while our router’s out to dinner.

These champions of human kindness are the heroes of our time. They understand: machines need public holidays too.

For shame everyone...for SHAME.

Benjamin Barker. Was.

Whistle while you work. This wonderfully alliterative yet quasi-random phrase shambled into my thoughts for some unbeknownst reason a few minutes ago, and, with not much else to distract, I went with it. Picturing oneself taking the aforementioned advice gave me a mind full of images of bemused customers giving me baffled looks before making requests for popcorn and other confectionified items. Overall I’m thinking that I won’t try this out in real life.

Unless of course I decide to go diamond mining.

That being said, it seems like a good thought to round up the week, which began with a film that ended with the word “was” (Sweeney Todd) and is ending on –brace yourselves- embarkment on a new Korean soap opera!

Also, in between these two monumental milestones has been a strange resurgence of Greenday. In particular “American Idiot.” It’s seemingly everywhere this week.

Anyways, I seem to have missed several significant events in my uncomfortably long absence from blogging, so I shall sum up in a difficult-to-read-shambles-of-a-paragraph:

Christmas!- came downstairs to find a happy Christmas spider residing on the wall. I assume he was happy because it was Christmas. I assume it was a he because I’m sexist and assume all spiders are males unless they’re biting the head off another. New Years! - there were many fireworks and few clothes in the Glenelg area. Sydney! - there’ll possibly be a SaRAD!-esque post coming up soon. Sweeney Todd! - (yes, it is a significant event) twas singing awesomeness, with a side of flinchtasticism.

...and there it all is.

I shall post again in less than a week, or else may all the super-pokers on facebook fling sheep or *shudder* “party with” me. Anything but that. Fear!

Traffic Lights have Christmas Cheer!

It would have been a tough day if you were a dust particle or a miscellaneous piece of tiny omgwhatthehellisthat on my floor, because if you were, you suffered from being severely devoured by my friend Purple Vacuum Cleaner. It clings to dust and yet adheres to...well, unfortunately, itself, which is muchly frustrating. Oh well.

It does also have another failing, which is that it doesn’t make for any quality segue opportunities into my taking the driving theory test.

Some low grade options included:

- “It sucked, but not as much as that one give way question”
- “Now I’m on the path to a set of wheels that doesn’t have a tubular attachment which collects everything it comes into contact with.”

...and my personal favourite:

- “It’s purple, but getting one question wrong made me blue.” <- that one’s also a LIE so uber craposity points go it it...well, a half lie.

So I’ll just plunge in. The actual adventures of Elizabeth’s Journey to Driving actually began last week, which involved a tram trip, West Wing DVDs, a Wikipedia t-shirt, and turning up seven minutes too late to Service SA.

They continue still.

Yesterday I went in, and was confronted by an unexpected kaleidoscope of feelings. Baffled frustration at the vast array of forms on offer. High level perplexedness at which service button I should press, and minor self damnation at getting one give way question wrong.

On the plus side, I did make a temporary fellow failer friend. This took me (though briefly) to alliterative heaven.

Ultimately there was passage. Second time’s a charm. However, phase 1 of the journey doesn’t end there. My severe lack of “proof of accommodation” ensures a third future voyage into the land of icanteventhinkofanamebecauseeverythingisratherthevague.

I can’t help but think it’s worth it however, if not purely to escape the “memories are made of this” experiences I keep getting on the tram, one such example, my being wedged between a wall and a woman with every possible nail filing utensil ever in her handbag, who proceeded to bring each one out one at a time and make the most appalling “squeak-scrratcha-SCRAWK!” noises, all to bring no visible change to her nails...

...bliss.

Serratous Anterior

Title Explainage: now I have no excuse whatsoever to forget that muscle...

It's time to crack out the procrastinational pride again; this hemi-year's theme song is "Love Is Blue" by Paul Mariat, and much appreciation goes to the person who tells me what television ad it was on (extra points if you can sing it...), as the niggling lack of knowledge is slowly eroding and chipping away at my sanity.

...the sanity that, this weekend, is characterized by triumphant exclamations of "EXTENSOR POLLICIS LONGUS!!! Yes!!!" and the such that have been wafting from my room, alongside creating the soon-to-be-hit comic strip: Action Potential: adventures with the Cardiac Cycle!

However, exciting revelations not aside, I have realised that there are varying degrees and intensities of procrastination. Mathematically put:

Exam Procrastination > Household Chores Procrastination > Putting off Socially Awkward Situations

I even managed to prove it through experimentation (albeit, I didn't realise that I was actually testing anything until I thought back over the way my day unfolded) ((I enjoyed the rhymedness of "way my day" faaaaar too much...nerd alert.)) (((ditto assonance in "nerd alert" :S))).

To begin with, we had flash cards (I'm not going to mention that I somehow managed to watch the entire "Pride and Prejudice" over breakfast...) ((<- DAMN! Whoops)), then subsequent to completion, we had pen buying and job hunting (SOCIALLY AWKWARD!!! I don't want to peruse stores in the future that will potentially reject me...) Home -> tea -> upstairs for study, where I suddenly found myself doing the hand washing of new clothes. We wouldn't want the colours to run into the rest of the laundry now would we? Good thing I did, as once I finished, I found that the soaking water had turned red...

...a profusely baffling fact, as the shirt I was washing, was infact grey and gold. Nice to know that my new clothes have likely been used in a drive-by shooting or some other mafia-related activity.

Nonetheless, I have done my bit for procrastination and will now sign off, with the final exciting fact...this is my 100th post ever :o