I like this blog. I can hide here. It is my hideyhole, perhaps.
Of what to blog? It is the question I am apparently never able to answer, being somewhat of a serial nonsense blogger however I find comfort in my present ability to create longwhinded texts of virtually no substance and which upon further inspection or retrospect, would produce no valuable thoughts or contribution to intelligent discussion. As such, I proceed with no caution but instead reckless abandon for human understanding, and as Hoju so adequately declares it, genius.
I often wonder of the faceless people who have brought to me things such as television, servietters, meat trays and balloon text. I like to imagine that these amazingly brilliant people thought of something entirely on their own - so that I can wonder harbour that same success and produce something wildly effective and retro that will get the blood pumping in the veins of human improvement. I wonder of the hands who first formed pastry, the mind that first conceived the thought of displacing human theory and placing it aeons behind and in front of us, allowing us to abstract our thoughts beyond the mundane and routine, the menial and definite, and instead placing us in a vacuumn of delicious uncertainty and faithlessness. Why, when one thing can be disproved, surely can another? Yet in the case of all negatives, we manage to ignore the fact that if one thing can be proved, surely all others can too. It it still amazing to me that negatives cancel out, but positives simply add up. So in this tidal wave of insecurity and certainty that there is in fact no certainty, we rolick along imagining the impossible and convincing ourselves that while things may seem impossible, Jesus walked on water and Margaret Thatcher was married, and so of course there must be some intervening force or instead large comet of luck streaking its away around our universe, the tail end occasionally catching the less believable in its orbital race to nowhere. We, because of one faceless person who first understood that abstraction was a form of living, but in unquantifiable terms to the present, correct and three-dimensional human being, believe in belief and disbelief, impossible and possible and faith in not having the slightest titch, all at once. But for that one person, we would not have that capability as an abstracting species, and as such, a species able to speculate, plan, and prepare for what we may believe upon extrapolative inspection, to occur. Does that make us unique, supreme, or cursed beyond belief - for surely to know what is coming makes the pain ten times worse? It's like when you know someone is going to hit you and you close your eyes and the spot you think will be hit hurts, or throbs, or tingles, but the assault does not come. Or when it does, you have prepared for the pain, and emit a preordained response which is - "Oh my God, I've been hit. Painpainpainpainpain."
But is this even true? But for one person, we are set apart? What if it were merely chance that this person, this man or woman, stumbled upon this? Would someone else have stumbled upon it in much the same way? Did it initially die out? Was it like the biological principle of evolution - in which mutants occurred, and depending on the usefulness of the mutation, either bred it in or out of the species. Were the men/women who dreamed up abstracticity (ah, new word time) more attractive for their ability to predict, their ability to dream and to imagine, and move towards something instead of milling around in what they already had? Or did abstracticity somehow afford them a survival skill lacked by their unendowed counterparts, perhaps the ability to simply stay under cover in times of cloud, or keep food when they knew cold weather was coming? Did these faceless people know what they were thinking would shape our species to the degree that it has today? That in all we do - abstracticity is inherent and indeed essential to conceptual understanding of things as simple as the need to brush one's teeth to prevent rot, or to attend university in preparation for a profession.
The question here, dear reader/s, is perhaps more one of belief, as strangely it appeared to be before. Was this even, in the beginning, a human trait? Or did we, as many may argue, simply assume it from our predecessors, and make it our own, capitalise on it with our additional abilities and regurgitate it as the supreme human trait? Is it not but for the thoughts of one human, but instead, for the natural progression of evolution, a predetermined path upon which we tread, insistent of our command of fate, yet doubtful of it when it all goes wrong.
I ask you - as I seem to have been doing quite a bit - to consider this: Is there ever one person who catalyses something as natural as abstract thought, language or religion? Is it our ability to thing abstractly and subsequently act on those abstractions with reasonable faith that we are correct, that makes us uniquely human and able to command over all other species in intellectual superiority? Is there really any other expression than language that could present to you an argument, such as this, that is so abstract and conceptual that even I struggle to remember where I am at? And why on earth do we have faith in things in which we have no certainty?
I put it to you, dear reader, that these are questions we cannot nearly begin to answer.
With all due respect,
Moi.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Where's it going?
As i write this while i'm supposed to be doing french, it won't be anything to deep or profound or for that matter ecclesiastical.
This is a poem I wrote a little while back on the bus. I know, corny naming-ending relationship and a suitable rhythm, but you get that on a bus. Je pense. haha
Soul Reception
Where am I even going
at this hour
of the night
what am I even doing
out of fear
out of fright?
Am I fleeing from pursuers
at my heels
day and night
and I running from the sewers
from the dark
to the light?
So am I tired, am I worn
am I red
am I blue
what is there left to finish
now there's nothing
left to do
Am I left or am I right
do i say
just what is true
is it my fault you're unhappy
have i brought this
upon you
so as the darkness on the outer
draws in closer
to my heart
i am fearful of the end
for i can hear it
as it starts
and i see the wall approaching
pass the mall
and pass the mart
the darkness comes around me
and i
am ripped apart
and all those tiny beads of me
go up
into the sky
as laying on the pavement
i am now
about to die
and i think of what i did and laugh
then chuckle
then sigh
because nothing i remember
was worth
my goddamned time
so with mirth and wry damnation
i curse
my whole deception
that what i'd done was enough
as i head
to soul reception.
This is a poem I wrote a little while back on the bus. I know, corny naming-ending relationship and a suitable rhythm, but you get that on a bus. Je pense. haha
Soul Reception
Where am I even going
at this hour
of the night
what am I even doing
out of fear
out of fright?
Am I fleeing from pursuers
at my heels
day and night
and I running from the sewers
from the dark
to the light?
So am I tired, am I worn
am I red
am I blue
what is there left to finish
now there's nothing
left to do
Am I left or am I right
do i say
just what is true
is it my fault you're unhappy
have i brought this
upon you
so as the darkness on the outer
draws in closer
to my heart
i am fearful of the end
for i can hear it
as it starts
and i see the wall approaching
pass the mall
and pass the mart
the darkness comes around me
and i
am ripped apart
and all those tiny beads of me
go up
into the sky
as laying on the pavement
i am now
about to die
and i think of what i did and laugh
then chuckle
then sigh
because nothing i remember
was worth
my goddamned time
so with mirth and wry damnation
i curse
my whole deception
that what i'd done was enough
as i head
to soul reception.
Where's it going?
As i write this while i'm supposed to be doing french, it won't be anything to deep or profound or for that matter ecclesiastical.
This is a poem I wrote a little while back on the bus. I know, corny naming-ending relationship and a suitable rhythm, but you get that on a bus. Je pense. haha
Soul Reception
Where am I even going
at this hour
of the night
what am I even doing
out of fear
out of fright?
Am I fleeing from pursuers
at my heels
day and night
and I running from the sewers
from the dark
to the light?
So am I tired, am I worn
am I red
am I blue
what is there left to finish
now there's nothing
left to do
Am I left or am I right
do i say
just what is true
is it my fault you're unhappy
have i brought this
upon you
so as the darkness on the outer
draws in closer
to my heart
i am fearful of the end
for i can hear it
as it starts
and i see the wall approaching
pass the mall
and pass the mart
the darkness comes around me
and i
am ripped apart
and all those tiny beads of me
go up
into the sky
as laying on the pavement
i am now
about to die
and i think of what i did and laugh
then chuckle
then sigh
because nothing i remember
was worth
my goddamned time
so with mirth and wry damnation
i curse
my whole deception
that what i'd done was enough
as i head
to soul reception.
This is a poem I wrote a little while back on the bus. I know, corny naming-ending relationship and a suitable rhythm, but you get that on a bus. Je pense. haha
Soul Reception
Where am I even going
at this hour
of the night
what am I even doing
out of fear
out of fright?
Am I fleeing from pursuers
at my heels
day and night
and I running from the sewers
from the dark
to the light?
So am I tired, am I worn
am I red
am I blue
what is there left to finish
now there's nothing
left to do
Am I left or am I right
do i say
just what is true
is it my fault you're unhappy
have i brought this
upon you
so as the darkness on the outer
draws in closer
to my heart
i am fearful of the end
for i can hear it
as it starts
and i see the wall approaching
pass the mall
and pass the mart
the darkness comes around me
and i
am ripped apart
and all those tiny beads of me
go up
into the sky
as laying on the pavement
i am now
about to die
and i think of what i did and laugh
then chuckle
then sigh
because nothing i remember
was worth
my goddamned time
so with mirth and wry damnation
i curse
my whole deception
that what i'd done was enough
as i head
to soul reception.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Figures in the Dark
It's like that time when your parents yelled at you and you had this fantastic comeback and then they shut you down and you simmered for months thereafter in the bitterness and hate that was resentment - at your loss of expression, at your denial of fundamental human rights, and a lost cause to get more money.
There's nothing you can do about it, so you don't try. You just sit in the glum and you hate them more and more. And they act all the more parenty. You wanna fuckin kill something because you can't express what you need to.
It's like that 'ere, right on. Figure A, deceiving you to the best of its abilities in an effort to impress Figure A.1. You resent Figure A, because you get told you are the most important for so long, and when something better comes along, you're out. The Beta version (that's you) is out, and alpha Figure supercedes you in every way possible. You feel usurped of a power you never had, but were willing to believe for a time you did.
Figure B you have recently discovered, must to the displeasure of what you considered to be your good taste, is a nincompoop. Where you once thought lay depth and vision, one unlike any other, you realise it is just another, wearing a rabbit suit instead of a man suit. You were led astray, believing, more wanting to believe than ever having faith in your ability to judge, that you had found one different; refreshing ; deep and thoughtful, and yet you were faced, once the rabbit suit came off and you opened the door before the opportunity arose to rerobe, that below the deceivingly different exterior, a man suit lay as with all the rest, and you shut the door, disenchanted, alone, and visciously unsettled. Figure B, if possible, comes equal first with Figure A, and each sits upon the dais in a sweet, ignorant, bemusement at how they had tricked you so.
Figure C resembles the greater populus of Figures, for figures do not, for simplicity, go past C. You thing - with so much water, how do we not gain more depth? - but forget that with nothing substantial to hold the water, it flows as far as is waterly possible, to cover as much ground and to hide as much of their earthy interior as the stretch will allow. The mating call sounds like that of a cheap bird, the laughs perfunctory, the responses rehearsed and perfected, the nonchalant attitude to living as powerfully self-evident as the apathy to conform. They claim, they claim, we are, we are! But you know they are not. They are not, and they cannot help it. You would pity them, but every fibre in your body disallows you to feel remorse for those who would never dream of feeling it for you.
And your figures are laid out. The voodoo kit in your hand twitches as you are startled by someone drifting in behind you, a soft breeze accompanying the opening and closing of the door.
It's figure X, and they hold you dearly. And while Figures A through C fight it out for top dog of unhappiness, you cling to X; the real world, where none who are so disturbingly, aggravatingly and infuriatingly self-obsessed, self-absorbed, dependent, poncey, whoosey, and unbearably incomplete to their gender roles, for life, for living in every other sense as is definitively human bar breathing and bodily functions, and as figures in the human sense, could ever make it like you.
There's nothing you can do about it, so you don't try. You just sit in the glum and you hate them more and more. And they act all the more parenty. You wanna fuckin kill something because you can't express what you need to.
It's like that 'ere, right on. Figure A, deceiving you to the best of its abilities in an effort to impress Figure A.1. You resent Figure A, because you get told you are the most important for so long, and when something better comes along, you're out. The Beta version (that's you) is out, and alpha Figure supercedes you in every way possible. You feel usurped of a power you never had, but were willing to believe for a time you did.
Figure B you have recently discovered, must to the displeasure of what you considered to be your good taste, is a nincompoop. Where you once thought lay depth and vision, one unlike any other, you realise it is just another, wearing a rabbit suit instead of a man suit. You were led astray, believing, more wanting to believe than ever having faith in your ability to judge, that you had found one different; refreshing ; deep and thoughtful, and yet you were faced, once the rabbit suit came off and you opened the door before the opportunity arose to rerobe, that below the deceivingly different exterior, a man suit lay as with all the rest, and you shut the door, disenchanted, alone, and visciously unsettled. Figure B, if possible, comes equal first with Figure A, and each sits upon the dais in a sweet, ignorant, bemusement at how they had tricked you so.
Figure C resembles the greater populus of Figures, for figures do not, for simplicity, go past C. You thing - with so much water, how do we not gain more depth? - but forget that with nothing substantial to hold the water, it flows as far as is waterly possible, to cover as much ground and to hide as much of their earthy interior as the stretch will allow. The mating call sounds like that of a cheap bird, the laughs perfunctory, the responses rehearsed and perfected, the nonchalant attitude to living as powerfully self-evident as the apathy to conform. They claim, they claim, we are, we are! But you know they are not. They are not, and they cannot help it. You would pity them, but every fibre in your body disallows you to feel remorse for those who would never dream of feeling it for you.
And your figures are laid out. The voodoo kit in your hand twitches as you are startled by someone drifting in behind you, a soft breeze accompanying the opening and closing of the door.
It's figure X, and they hold you dearly. And while Figures A through C fight it out for top dog of unhappiness, you cling to X; the real world, where none who are so disturbingly, aggravatingly and infuriatingly self-obsessed, self-absorbed, dependent, poncey, whoosey, and unbearably incomplete to their gender roles, for life, for living in every other sense as is definitively human bar breathing and bodily functions, and as figures in the human sense, could ever make it like you.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Where does a circle start?
Sometimes, I wonder how anyone can NOT have contempt for the world. After swinging through a maze of mood changes for no reason, coming to the conclusion that I must be a prediagnostic schizophrenic maniac, then deciding I was bi-polar, then not being sure, then deciding on bi-polar because I wasn't sure, I found that I had looked at everything in the worst possible light and that a positive light didn't seem to shine let alone be possible of being a view on the world.
After taking a step in the social pool and realising just HOW shallow it is, I have become disillusioned with all the pretence and ponce and frivolity that seems to rule the social stratum. It has come to show me just how far money can get you, how the little tred on the little to get just a few rungs higher, and how no one seems willing to change that. Rich and poor, big and little, popular or outcast, there is little camaraderie between any class or social group, and enough people competing against others who could well be colleagues to make an equalitist gag.
I have discovered that I hate passivity. I hate people who aren't happy with their lot, but are too piss-weak to take the bull by the horns and do something about it. What I hate more are people who expect others to do the bull-riding for them, and even more than that, people who then complain because either a) they want to side with the victor of the confrontation (if there was one) b) they don't like the change and want more done/ a reversal of the change c) they resent that they were too freakin' pathetic to do anything or d) they're crap friends who don't realise how much guts it takes to stand up and do something for someone else once in a while. Maybe if these fruitcakes TRIED this hands-on living for themselves, they could appreciate that.
I realise also how much I resent truly contemptuous people, which seems ironic, hypocritical and blah blah blah. People who won't give anything a chance, who won't try anything once, and/or who treat others badly because it's fun/easier/helpful to their dismal self esteem. I found it ironic that the thing I find I hate most in the world - is hate. I tried to get my head around that, tried grappling it in a flow chart, and talking it over, but it doesn't make any sense. In all hypocrisy and irony I make the statement that I hate hate. And in doing that, I perpetuate what I hate, but if I didn't hate hate, then I would love hate and then I would have to hate, but ... argh...
I've just recently started getting to terms with what I would like to sort out, change, rectify, observe, learn and disassociate from in the future - and it's looking daunting.
After taking a step in the social pool and realising just HOW shallow it is, I have become disillusioned with all the pretence and ponce and frivolity that seems to rule the social stratum. It has come to show me just how far money can get you, how the little tred on the little to get just a few rungs higher, and how no one seems willing to change that. Rich and poor, big and little, popular or outcast, there is little camaraderie between any class or social group, and enough people competing against others who could well be colleagues to make an equalitist gag.
I have discovered that I hate passivity. I hate people who aren't happy with their lot, but are too piss-weak to take the bull by the horns and do something about it. What I hate more are people who expect others to do the bull-riding for them, and even more than that, people who then complain because either a) they want to side with the victor of the confrontation (if there was one) b) they don't like the change and want more done/ a reversal of the change c) they resent that they were too freakin' pathetic to do anything or d) they're crap friends who don't realise how much guts it takes to stand up and do something for someone else once in a while. Maybe if these fruitcakes TRIED this hands-on living for themselves, they could appreciate that.
I realise also how much I resent truly contemptuous people, which seems ironic, hypocritical and blah blah blah. People who won't give anything a chance, who won't try anything once, and/or who treat others badly because it's fun/easier/helpful to their dismal self esteem. I found it ironic that the thing I find I hate most in the world - is hate. I tried to get my head around that, tried grappling it in a flow chart, and talking it over, but it doesn't make any sense. In all hypocrisy and irony I make the statement that I hate hate. And in doing that, I perpetuate what I hate, but if I didn't hate hate, then I would love hate and then I would have to hate, but ... argh...
I've just recently started getting to terms with what I would like to sort out, change, rectify, observe, learn and disassociate from in the future - and it's looking daunting.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Felling Trees
I don't understand a few things. One, I don't understand why I am always the one who gets abused, snubbed, bitched about, when it is OTHER people who do things. I am kind enough to not NAME them, or say WHAT happened, or give any details that might indicate what it is that made me upset, yet when I talk about it in the vaguest of terms (ie, my last post) I have a multitude of people who I don't know, who weren't concerned (or who were and are still too nasty to admit it is them) and for whom these instances mean nothing, come and give what they think is their two cents worth. I have read through other blogs, and there are nastier things, more political things, more controversial things - yet when I want to communicate my opinion, or in my OWN blog I want to be upset over something, other people, either too nasty or too eager to for once be the one's doing the attacking, decide it is their duty to tell me I'm wrong. In all of the anonymous comments, the same message comes through - you are wrong. They say other people are entitled to act as they wish, with little or no consequence, but I am not entitled to think my own way without being persecuted for it.
Some people decide that it is their duty to point out their hypocrisy - yet fail to acknowledge their own - that they may come on here and preach to me about how to be a better person, yet be doing something nasty themselves at the same time. None of the comments concede with me on anything - they all attack me in one way or another - and that (not wholly) surprises me, because I wouldn't have thought that asking 'people' to be nice and not judge would insight others to speak against it. The people that have commented, thank you for your comments, but I simply cannot respect your opinion because you haven't put your name to it. You find it your duty to point out my faults, but can't find it in yourself to do the right thing and put your name on your comment. I honestly don't care if you don't like me - that isn't my issue. My issue is that you are too afraid of what I may say to you in real life if you take the credit you are claiming to deserve in correcting my misguided beliefs and replacing them with your own. People have commented that I am looking down on people with putting my views out there - then telling me what to think. I'm not allowed to tell people what to think - yet you are allowed to tell me what to think - that is, not what I think.
You are pointing out my hypocrisy, but if I point out yours, you just have to say "Well, you're not listening to what I'm saying."
Then, further, I am told that I should listen to what's in the comments, not the way they are constructed. So from this:
You fucking whore, you are a fucking retard who doesn't deserve life because you're a fucked motherfucker with a fucked up family who should all be fucking shot, you childmolester. Fuck off to retardland and go and fucking die.
... I am supposed to take:
You who sleeps with many people, you are mentally disturbed, and you should not be alive because you are so disturbed, and you have a very misguided family who should also die, you paedophile. Please go away and die.
Notice how that is nigh on impossible? You can't ignore the abuse in there - similarly with me, I cannot take the 'message' from a comment, where every second sentence is a personal insult.
Secondly, I don't understand how you feel satisfied commenting on here, trying to make me feel bad. How does that enhance your life? It doesn't make you a better person. And commenting anonymously achieves nothing. If you don't like me - as your comment would suggest - then why be secretive? If you are secretive, then I may never know. You are wasting your time then, because I will obviously keep trying to be your friend in real life, which you obviously wouldn't want. If you don't like me as you suggest in your comment then don't like me outright, say who you are and you won't have to waste any more of your precious time on me, nor I you. If you are not saying who you are because you think I could be useful, then it is only a reflection on you, and not me, that you have done this. We never speak out in our society - so many friends I have seen hurt, suffer, all because they were too afraid to speak out. So go on. Do it. You might, ironically, thank me for it. Though I wouldn't expect anyone to do that, ever.
Where do you get off trying to make me miserable? Is it because by doing so, you feel more happy with yourself, that you are better than someone because you can say whatever you like about them without ever having to worry about the consequences? By felling another tree, the carpenter needs less wood and you might stay standing, right?
The carpenter always comes after those that stand alone.
Some people decide that it is their duty to point out their hypocrisy - yet fail to acknowledge their own - that they may come on here and preach to me about how to be a better person, yet be doing something nasty themselves at the same time. None of the comments concede with me on anything - they all attack me in one way or another - and that (not wholly) surprises me, because I wouldn't have thought that asking 'people' to be nice and not judge would insight others to speak against it. The people that have commented, thank you for your comments, but I simply cannot respect your opinion because you haven't put your name to it. You find it your duty to point out my faults, but can't find it in yourself to do the right thing and put your name on your comment. I honestly don't care if you don't like me - that isn't my issue. My issue is that you are too afraid of what I may say to you in real life if you take the credit you are claiming to deserve in correcting my misguided beliefs and replacing them with your own. People have commented that I am looking down on people with putting my views out there - then telling me what to think. I'm not allowed to tell people what to think - yet you are allowed to tell me what to think - that is, not what I think.
You are pointing out my hypocrisy, but if I point out yours, you just have to say "Well, you're not listening to what I'm saying."
Then, further, I am told that I should listen to what's in the comments, not the way they are constructed. So from this:
You fucking whore, you are a fucking retard who doesn't deserve life because you're a fucked motherfucker with a fucked up family who should all be fucking shot, you childmolester. Fuck off to retardland and go and fucking die.
... I am supposed to take:
You who sleeps with many people, you are mentally disturbed, and you should not be alive because you are so disturbed, and you have a very misguided family who should also die, you paedophile. Please go away and die.
Notice how that is nigh on impossible? You can't ignore the abuse in there - similarly with me, I cannot take the 'message' from a comment, where every second sentence is a personal insult.
Secondly, I don't understand how you feel satisfied commenting on here, trying to make me feel bad. How does that enhance your life? It doesn't make you a better person. And commenting anonymously achieves nothing. If you don't like me - as your comment would suggest - then why be secretive? If you are secretive, then I may never know. You are wasting your time then, because I will obviously keep trying to be your friend in real life, which you obviously wouldn't want. If you don't like me as you suggest in your comment then don't like me outright, say who you are and you won't have to waste any more of your precious time on me, nor I you. If you are not saying who you are because you think I could be useful, then it is only a reflection on you, and not me, that you have done this. We never speak out in our society - so many friends I have seen hurt, suffer, all because they were too afraid to speak out. So go on. Do it. You might, ironically, thank me for it. Though I wouldn't expect anyone to do that, ever.
Where do you get off trying to make me miserable? Is it because by doing so, you feel more happy with yourself, that you are better than someone because you can say whatever you like about them without ever having to worry about the consequences? By felling another tree, the carpenter needs less wood and you might stay standing, right?
The carpenter always comes after those that stand alone.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
It's no secret anymore
Ok. This is going to be one of those annoying whiny nagging piffle posts, but bear with me. I have to be inarticulate sometimes. The things I think are often unintelligible anyway.
I'm sick of ambiguity and politeness.
Welcome to The Suck.
I am so incredibly, unbelievably SICK of all of you out there who think you are BETTER than someone else for any of the following reasons:
- wealth
- socioeconomic background
- appearance
- intelligence
- any individual trait or unchangeable aspect of your life.
I am smart. So go fuck yourself. You know I am. Strangely enough, I don't use this against other people. Oh but you do, Rosie! I would like someone to demonstrate an instance in which I have used my intelligence to my advantage or to criticise someone else where they haven't used my weight as something to have a go at me about. People constantly use this reason, my weight, as a reason to look down on me. I'm seen as less of a person, ironically, because of my weight! People think it is fine to look down on someone because they are different. People assume that it is acceptable to ostracize someone for a reason that they believe outlines them as superior. People think that if you can't be them, then you don't deserve their time. They believe that money automatically assumes you as a classy subject, as well spoken, as gifted, talented or otherwise embellished with positive attributes all equalling 'better human'.
So the ideas are out there.
First of all - wealth. I would like someone to explain to me exactly what it is that established wealth as a powerbroker in what makes you better than someone. Ok, I acknowledge that wealth, monetarily, that is, allows you privilege, status and the ability to purchase the necessary commodities that see you, in the Western world, recognised as higher in the stratum than others. However, I do not see how on earth these people - you people, if you are reading - can justify this as a means of determining who is worthy, who is superior, inferior or equal to you. Money does not equal class - we learn this from the prostitutes-in-training who were at PLC, who made a porn video. Not exactly a classy move. Money does not equal brains - we learn this from the fact that only one or two schools that demand excessive fees had perfect graduation rates in 2005. Money does not equal a more charitable or compassionate person - if rich people were more charitable or compassionate, then they wouldn't be rich, would they? Go figure. Money does not mean success - success is, rather, measured by the amount of goals achieved in proportion to those set. Money can not be used as a means of gaining a foot up on those who have less than you, because in no way does it make you you as person a better human.
Socioeconomic background - mainly determined by wealth but also by other factors including but not limited to occupation/providers occupation/location of home/type and number of car/s owned/family situation and/or school/college attended (at least in this stage of our lives).
What strikes me most violently about socioeconomic background is that at this stage in our lives, we are mostly unable to determine most of the things listed above. The fact that people can judge and hence look down on others because of the reasons listed is absurd, for many reasons but mainly because for most people these material factors do not determine nor dictate their lives or choice of lifestyle. People who judge on this basis are painfully unaware of their lack of depth in fathoming a person's worth, and this is clearly demonstrated through the fact that they are willing to judge because of this! That someone can be defined by an item of clothing, a material possession or the luck of the draw for employment is ridiculous. If someone can point me in the way of understanding how exactly it may not be ridiculous, I would be most amused to listen to what you have to say.
By God I'm getting tired.
Appearance, some people believe, is something that can be helped, changed, modified, at least in the sense of weight, hairstyle, clothing, makeup, clothing accessories, manbags etc. However, to judge on appearance is to deny the presence of the more integral aspect of one's overall impact as a person, and that is personality. To judge on looks is to have little or no regard for personality. This may seem extreme to some people. You may think "Yeah, but I can look at you Rosie and even though you're fat I know you're a nice/mean/silly person." you see, the thing is, if you even THINK of me as rosie:fat, you are already warping my impact on you by associating with me, subsequently, the connotations of fat in Western society; that is, laziness, stupidness, ugliness, and basic no-hoperness. Even if you don't think THOSE exact things - they are part of your society-learnt views on fat, and you cannot ever change that. If I lose weight, you will see me as the girl who lost weight to look better/to get healthier/to be more attractive, each of which carries further meaning to HOW you get me. (I'm using myself as an example because it's easier to translate onto the page). It all boils down to the fac that if you judge on appearance, it's going to make everything else more difficult. By looking down on someone because of appearance, a hark-on from judgement, you are establishing yourself as a person with whom no one can associate depth or quality of judgement with - because looking down on someone is deciding you're better than them. Appearance is, remember, subjective. Just because you look down on me because I'm fat, in a tribe somewhere in Africa YOU could be considered the inferior person because you are thin.
Are you sticking with me? It's hard, I know.
Intelligence! Now this is hard for me to write about - because as a smart person, I find it incredibly difficult at times to not diss people based on their intelligence (or lack thereof) when all they can do is pay me out for being fat. It is hard. And I probably sound really stuck up here. But if I don't say it, who will? You must forgive lack of honesty and in exchange take a pinch of salt with my view of the world. However, I will try to be objective.
To judge someone on their intelligence is to disregard their humanity and the fact that perhaps they've just never been taught. One cannot learn, as I am constantly telling my mum while trying to cook things I've never cooked before, if one is not taught. On another blog I read, a girl who will not be named occasionally makes comments that perhaps other people would scoff at and say "pooh! I would never say something that silly! I am too smart for that!" I am guilty of it. I do apologise, yet I also use that to speak from experience. However, what we fail to recognise is that to most people, what they say makes sense to them. What they say is a reflection of what they think, and although they may not express it as eloquently as others, the fact that they are expressing it should command respect. We judge on intelligence because we believe it is a natural gift, but it is taught, it is learnt. People do not become smart by being born to gifted parents, but learn to think in a cognitively-sensitive manner that allows them to utilise skills and knowledge provided. To look down on someone because of their intelligence is to once again, as in other instances of other traits, deny the importance of a multi-faceted system - that is, the complexity of the human psyche.
Enough of my psychobabble!
The final point pertains to those above in an effort to tie each to the other and to illustrate that traits, changeable but mostly unchangealbe do not allow you to look down on someone.
This is all about respect. We seem to have lost respect for each other, for diversity and for difference. Perhaps an appreciation for such qualities would lead us to a new cycle - where we never have a need to look down on each other.
Yawn!
bed for me, at least in the next hour :D
xox
I'm sick of ambiguity and politeness.
Welcome to The Suck.
I am so incredibly, unbelievably SICK of all of you out there who think you are BETTER than someone else for any of the following reasons:
- wealth
- socioeconomic background
- appearance
- intelligence
- any individual trait or unchangeable aspect of your life.
I am smart. So go fuck yourself. You know I am. Strangely enough, I don't use this against other people. Oh but you do, Rosie! I would like someone to demonstrate an instance in which I have used my intelligence to my advantage or to criticise someone else where they haven't used my weight as something to have a go at me about. People constantly use this reason, my weight, as a reason to look down on me. I'm seen as less of a person, ironically, because of my weight! People think it is fine to look down on someone because they are different. People assume that it is acceptable to ostracize someone for a reason that they believe outlines them as superior. People think that if you can't be them, then you don't deserve their time. They believe that money automatically assumes you as a classy subject, as well spoken, as gifted, talented or otherwise embellished with positive attributes all equalling 'better human'.
So the ideas are out there.
First of all - wealth. I would like someone to explain to me exactly what it is that established wealth as a powerbroker in what makes you better than someone. Ok, I acknowledge that wealth, monetarily, that is, allows you privilege, status and the ability to purchase the necessary commodities that see you, in the Western world, recognised as higher in the stratum than others. However, I do not see how on earth these people - you people, if you are reading - can justify this as a means of determining who is worthy, who is superior, inferior or equal to you. Money does not equal class - we learn this from the prostitutes-in-training who were at PLC, who made a porn video. Not exactly a classy move. Money does not equal brains - we learn this from the fact that only one or two schools that demand excessive fees had perfect graduation rates in 2005. Money does not equal a more charitable or compassionate person - if rich people were more charitable or compassionate, then they wouldn't be rich, would they? Go figure. Money does not mean success - success is, rather, measured by the amount of goals achieved in proportion to those set. Money can not be used as a means of gaining a foot up on those who have less than you, because in no way does it make you you as person a better human.
Socioeconomic background - mainly determined by wealth but also by other factors including but not limited to occupation/providers occupation/location of home/type and number of car/s owned/family situation and/or school/college attended (at least in this stage of our lives).
What strikes me most violently about socioeconomic background is that at this stage in our lives, we are mostly unable to determine most of the things listed above. The fact that people can judge and hence look down on others because of the reasons listed is absurd, for many reasons but mainly because for most people these material factors do not determine nor dictate their lives or choice of lifestyle. People who judge on this basis are painfully unaware of their lack of depth in fathoming a person's worth, and this is clearly demonstrated through the fact that they are willing to judge because of this! That someone can be defined by an item of clothing, a material possession or the luck of the draw for employment is ridiculous. If someone can point me in the way of understanding how exactly it may not be ridiculous, I would be most amused to listen to what you have to say.
By God I'm getting tired.
Appearance, some people believe, is something that can be helped, changed, modified, at least in the sense of weight, hairstyle, clothing, makeup, clothing accessories, manbags etc. However, to judge on appearance is to deny the presence of the more integral aspect of one's overall impact as a person, and that is personality. To judge on looks is to have little or no regard for personality. This may seem extreme to some people. You may think "Yeah, but I can look at you Rosie and even though you're fat I know you're a nice/mean/silly person." you see, the thing is, if you even THINK of me as rosie:fat, you are already warping my impact on you by associating with me, subsequently, the connotations of fat in Western society; that is, laziness, stupidness, ugliness, and basic no-hoperness. Even if you don't think THOSE exact things - they are part of your society-learnt views on fat, and you cannot ever change that. If I lose weight, you will see me as the girl who lost weight to look better/to get healthier/to be more attractive, each of which carries further meaning to HOW you get me. (I'm using myself as an example because it's easier to translate onto the page). It all boils down to the fac that if you judge on appearance, it's going to make everything else more difficult. By looking down on someone because of appearance, a hark-on from judgement, you are establishing yourself as a person with whom no one can associate depth or quality of judgement with - because looking down on someone is deciding you're better than them. Appearance is, remember, subjective. Just because you look down on me because I'm fat, in a tribe somewhere in Africa YOU could be considered the inferior person because you are thin.
Are you sticking with me? It's hard, I know.
Intelligence! Now this is hard for me to write about - because as a smart person, I find it incredibly difficult at times to not diss people based on their intelligence (or lack thereof) when all they can do is pay me out for being fat. It is hard. And I probably sound really stuck up here. But if I don't say it, who will? You must forgive lack of honesty and in exchange take a pinch of salt with my view of the world. However, I will try to be objective.
To judge someone on their intelligence is to disregard their humanity and the fact that perhaps they've just never been taught. One cannot learn, as I am constantly telling my mum while trying to cook things I've never cooked before, if one is not taught. On another blog I read, a girl who will not be named occasionally makes comments that perhaps other people would scoff at and say "pooh! I would never say something that silly! I am too smart for that!" I am guilty of it. I do apologise, yet I also use that to speak from experience. However, what we fail to recognise is that to most people, what they say makes sense to them. What they say is a reflection of what they think, and although they may not express it as eloquently as others, the fact that they are expressing it should command respect. We judge on intelligence because we believe it is a natural gift, but it is taught, it is learnt. People do not become smart by being born to gifted parents, but learn to think in a cognitively-sensitive manner that allows them to utilise skills and knowledge provided. To look down on someone because of their intelligence is to once again, as in other instances of other traits, deny the importance of a multi-faceted system - that is, the complexity of the human psyche.
Enough of my psychobabble!
The final point pertains to those above in an effort to tie each to the other and to illustrate that traits, changeable but mostly unchangealbe do not allow you to look down on someone.
This is all about respect. We seem to have lost respect for each other, for diversity and for difference. Perhaps an appreciation for such qualities would lead us to a new cycle - where we never have a need to look down on each other.
Yawn!
bed for me, at least in the next hour :D
xox
Sunday, January 08, 2006
sally has been thought; a doctor d exclusive
There was once this thought that crossed my mind. She was, amongst other things, an interestingly feisty thought. I called her Sally. Through mines and battlefields, five-lane freeways and thickets full of nasties she had never seen before she battled. She came upon adversaries and enemies and faced scarier things than one may face trekking the darker realms of the underworld, but never did she forgo what it was she set out to do - enlighten. She had been called recondite by her other thoughts, those she had presumed her friends. But she had never let them drag her down. Not once. Not ever. She had worked all her short life to make it out of the blur and into the conscious, to emerge from the crowd, and through the exegete of clarity brought about by quite moments of self-reflection, make it as a thought; unforgotten and unforgettable. Her sine qua non was not her indispensability, but her presence, like a lightning bolt across a velvet sky - simply unforgettable. She had a vim unlike any other thought, and that perhaps is why I have to tell her story. She asked not for any perquisite or gratitude, but only for time. She waited, bode and wasted her time, just waiting for her moment. Her quiddity was not that she was a fantastic thought, but an intense and striking thought. She had time of day for only one thing - and that was making sure she was immortal. She became the cynosure of every thought in my mind. She never warranted their envy. She was apposite to every other thought, and each felt usurped of importance and worth. She was wonderful. She occupied the centre of the my cranial firmament and I loved it.
Her moment came. And she couldn't be happier. As she streaked out, past every encumberment that had held her to my mortal conscious since she had formed, she left behind her only one remnant. The satisfaction that Sally had been thought.
Her moment came. And she couldn't be happier. As she streaked out, past every encumberment that had held her to my mortal conscious since she had formed, she left behind her only one remnant. The satisfaction that Sally had been thought.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Yellow Roses at Christmas
With a sadness in her eyes that threatened tears, Mrs. Mink turned away from her students. They all looked up at her, everyday, with what she felt were eyes that conversed directly with their impressionable minds. What they saw in her, their minds translated as appropriate for them. And for students to learn that it was ok to cry in front of others was simply an abomination for Mrs. Mink. She would never allow such a traversty of her impeccable teaching record to occur. No matter how much the tears stinging in her eyes threatened, nor how much the splitting of her stone heart distracted her from her teaching. She reasoned that she must maintain the façade, so that she may maintain the respect from her students.
Not one of the twenty-three students sitting in Mrs. Mink's classroom that day failed to see how she avoided displaying the slightest emotion at any time. They felt this a little extreme, but then everything about Mrs. Mink was extreme. She was, it was only fair to say, extremely strict, and expected only the very best from each and every one of her students. It was this tenacity and inspiring-cum-frightening spirit that had earned Mrs. Mink mythical status and that had glorified her in the eyes of her pupils, no matter how much they had despised her at any one time. Although they had all felt raped of any energy or ability to give after her tutelage, each found that she had impacted their lives far beyond punishment for incomplete homework. She had been an inspiration in many forms, mostly good but occasionally bad, for all twenty-one years of her teaching career. Now, however, as she stood bereaved in front of her class, they saw beyond her starkly polished image. They began to see that behind the thick-framed glasses, the tightly pinned and slightly greying hair, the drawn eyebrows and rouge, pencil-thin lips; hidden by the conservatively worn white blouse and black knee length skirt, honey stockings and sensible black heels, was a human being. Her humanity had never been as apparent as it was on this day; but no student would comfort her, because each knew the wrath to be incurred should any of them recognise and comment on this humanity.
Mrs. Mink herself had never considered herself extraordinary. Born Laura Mink and, as she had pledged, remaining Laura Mink until death do attain her, she was a self-confessed 'woman with substance.' She had never believed teaching to be 'just a job', but something for which her purpose was inextricably linked to. She took teaching as seriously as one may take living or breathing itself. She took interest in her students, but only ever from the sidelines; she never entangled a student in their own politics. She prided herself on being fair; often, to the detriment of student favour, but always to the benefit of their education. She never favoured students - at least, not openly. As with every teacher, she had her special students - students who had captured her mind with their brilliance, or heart with compassion. None had so much as Pat Joyeux. Though Mrs. Mink had sworn not to take a shining to one student over others, she could not help herself with Pat. Pat (who had asked never to be called Patrick) was what she would call a wonder-child. He was smart - both naturally and by his own hard work - he was kind, generous, loving and charming and was a stickler for rules and regulation, adhering with ease to every rule imposed on students. Above all, he dedicated to giving everything his all, all of the time. Mrs. Mink did not think it possible to find such a student - one whom she considered the closest to perfection she would probably ever find. However, perfection had embodied itself in Pat and had watched her, learnt from her and taught her for one full year. It was the most wondrous of all years Mrs. Mink had spent in teaching. Apart from his intelligence and learning capacity, Pat had come into his own in Mrs. Mink's class. He had been, by previous descriptions, as wondrous as he had been in her class in all his previous classes, albeit a little shy. However, as the year progressed and Mrs. Mink went out of her way to make him feel comfortable with his peers, he had grown and become the charming young man she would remember him as.
In third term, Mrs. Mink set the class project, following on the theme of plant-life. Each student was to select a flower, detailing its origins and all subsequent particulars. Pat had chosen the yellow rose, a slightly odd if not intriguing choice. As Mrs. Mink had marked the class projects, she had not been able to draw herself away from Pat's, which was by no means less than exquisite for a 10 year-old boy. He had photographed yellow roses, had been to several nurseries, collected samples and had written extensively on the plant as a whole. Mrs. Mink had quickly given it the top mark of the class. Pat was never a braggart for his achievements, however he had been most pleased with his mark and had displayed the project on his desk. A jealous classmate, most likely, had taken the project. Pat, not to mention Mrs. Mink, was devastated. He did not anger himself at anyone - simply sat sobered for the rest of the day, sketching roses. Mrs. Mink was, once again, touched by his maturity.
As the end of the year had approached, and gifts from parents had crossed from her desk to her drawer, Pat, whose parents Mrs. Mink had never met, brought her a single yellow rose from his garden, telling her that his mum had sent it, and told him to say thank you. It was, by far, the most touching gift she had ever received, and the rose remained, to this day, pressed inside the 1987 edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica "P".
Years had passed. Many of her ex-students visited, many more wrote letters, emails, postcards, each detailing successes they were eager for Mrs. Mink to acknowledge. Pat only ever contacted her once a year - a single yellow rose at Christmas - but it was all Mrs. Mink needed to know he was still alive and well. She wondered, often, how he was doing. His notes were never extensive, only ever saying "Thank you for teaching me how to learn", and although this was always pleasant for Mrs. Mink, never satisfied her desire to learn of his undoubted successes.
On a night close to Christmas break, Mrs. Mink was, like all dedicated school teachers, browsing through boxes of work and worksheets left from years gone by. She was sifting through a miscellaneous box that had yielded very little and was headed for immediate disposal when, lo and behold, Pat's project surfaced. She had gasped, amazed that she had somehow come into possession of this treasure. As she leafed through the carefully drawn pages, the depth of knowledge contained for one so small, a tear had formed involuntarily in her eye. She felt a feeling that is like the elixir for teachers - the one that reminds them why they teach. She remembered now, what it was to feel passion for teaching, and that for all her dispassionate deliveries to mindless students intent only on the lunch bell or each other, there was always one that would render them all ineffective in dampening her love for the profession. She had wept, then and then, for the way Pat had touched her life.
Invigorated, she had taken to the phone book. She reasoned that 'Joyeux' would be a particularly uncommon name, and was delighted when this proved correct. The only 'Joyeux' listed were the initials of Pat's parents, I M and J T, and empassioned by this discovery, wrote down the address on a post-it, stuck it to the project and resolved to visit after school the next day.
At 4pm, Mrs. Mink rang the bell on the residence of I M and J T, excited to see how they would react, and, if he was home, how Pat would remember her. She had changed drastically over the 16 years since she had seen him. He would be a man now, of 26. She felt suddenly silly, and had almost turned to leave when the door opened.
"Hello?" a man's voice inquired through the dark steel mesh.
"Hello, I'm Laura Mink. I'm not sure if you remember me, but..."
"Mrs. Mink? I know who you are... May I ask why you're here?"
"I have something of Pat's that he may appreciate." Mrs. Mink felt silly again.
"Oh. Righto. Well... you'd better come in, I suppose. Jen's in the kitchen, I think." There was a slight pause.
"Jen! Come here a moment, love." he yelled. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Mrs. Mink could make out the outline of a second person.
"Hello, Mrs. Mink, I'm Jennifer, Pat's mother. You... you had better come inside."
The door opened, and Mrs. Mink stepped inside. The warm summer day outside had not permeated the cool hallway. Jennifer led her into the lounge.
"Would you like a drink? A coffee, some water, perhaps?" Mrs. Mink shook her head.
"No, no, I'm really only her to drop something off. Is Pat home, at all?"
Jennifer looked at her husband. He shifted uncomfortably, and gave a slight nod to his wife. She looked back at Mrs. Mink.
"Mrs..."
"Laura, please."
"Laura... I don't know how else to say this, but... Pat was killed in February."
Mrs. Mink opened her mouth. She closed it again.
His mother continued. "Pat was serving in Sudan. He worked with UNICEF... he was over there for a couple of months, to help orphaned and lost children. He was shot by a man who thought he was trying to take his daughter away. It was.... is, awful. I..." she began to sniff, sighed loudly, and wiped the corners of her eyes, apparently not giving in to crying.
"There was no worse time for it. He and his fiancèe, Sian, were due to be married in June...I just... I knew he wrote to you occasionally, but I couldn't find your address anywhere, and we'd heard you moved schools... I'm sorry, Mrs. Mink."
Mrs. Mink, galvanised by the 20 seconds she had had to steel herself from crying, shook her head. "There's no need to apologise, Mrs. Joyeux, I completely understand. I... I don't know what to say to you, other than I'm sorry." She looked down at the project she held in her hands.
"Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to have this. It's a project he did in my class. On yellow roses."
Mr. Joyeux, who had been sitting silently next to his wife, stifled what sounded like a cry out. Mrs. Mink looked down at her hands again. She was obviously reviving pain for these people.
Jennifer looked over. "His project on yellow roses? He was so proud of that project. I don't think I've ever seen him so eager to please as he was on that. I think he did more work than play that term. No... you keep it Mrs. Mink. We have enough to remind us of Pat here. You... you keep it. Please."
As Mrs. Mink emerged into the baking summer sunshine, she felt colder than she had inside the house. She felt as if a blanket had been laid over her, and all happiness drained from every inch of her body. The project in her hands felt like a death sentence, and she cast it sadly into the passenger seat as she collapsed over the steering wheel in grief.
She had to continue at school, there was no question. Everyday to the end of the year, she drew a rose in the corner of her blackboard, and in the centre wrote the initials "PJ". Her students never asked why, and she never told.
As the last day of term approached, Mrs. Mink thought sadly of the summer holidays she would have to endure now. She could not understand why she felt so alone; after all, she had not spoken to Pat properly in over 16 years. Yet, for some reason, she felt like the loneliest person alive. Presents of perfume and chocolates, candles and drawings, were not enough to console her sense of loss, and her realisation that she would not receive a yellow rose this year.
At 7am, on the last day of term, Mrs. Mink arrived to prepare the classroom for the class party to be held that day. With no one else around, she opened the door to her classroom, and flicked on the lights. Her eye was immediately drawn to her desk, on which sat a bunch of yellow roses. Tears welled in her eyes as she walked over to the mass of yellow flowers, their perfume charming her senses until she could not smell it for her blocked nose. She sat down, and picked up an envelope, and, sobbing with happiness, sadness and pride, she opened it. Inside was a picture of Pat, age 10, standing in his garden with a yellow rose and his project. She turned it over, and felt as if she would explode, as she read his last message to her:
" Thank you for teaching me how to learn."
Not one of the twenty-three students sitting in Mrs. Mink's classroom that day failed to see how she avoided displaying the slightest emotion at any time. They felt this a little extreme, but then everything about Mrs. Mink was extreme. She was, it was only fair to say, extremely strict, and expected only the very best from each and every one of her students. It was this tenacity and inspiring-cum-frightening spirit that had earned Mrs. Mink mythical status and that had glorified her in the eyes of her pupils, no matter how much they had despised her at any one time. Although they had all felt raped of any energy or ability to give after her tutelage, each found that she had impacted their lives far beyond punishment for incomplete homework. She had been an inspiration in many forms, mostly good but occasionally bad, for all twenty-one years of her teaching career. Now, however, as she stood bereaved in front of her class, they saw beyond her starkly polished image. They began to see that behind the thick-framed glasses, the tightly pinned and slightly greying hair, the drawn eyebrows and rouge, pencil-thin lips; hidden by the conservatively worn white blouse and black knee length skirt, honey stockings and sensible black heels, was a human being. Her humanity had never been as apparent as it was on this day; but no student would comfort her, because each knew the wrath to be incurred should any of them recognise and comment on this humanity.
Mrs. Mink herself had never considered herself extraordinary. Born Laura Mink and, as she had pledged, remaining Laura Mink until death do attain her, she was a self-confessed 'woman with substance.' She had never believed teaching to be 'just a job', but something for which her purpose was inextricably linked to. She took teaching as seriously as one may take living or breathing itself. She took interest in her students, but only ever from the sidelines; she never entangled a student in their own politics. She prided herself on being fair; often, to the detriment of student favour, but always to the benefit of their education. She never favoured students - at least, not openly. As with every teacher, she had her special students - students who had captured her mind with their brilliance, or heart with compassion. None had so much as Pat Joyeux. Though Mrs. Mink had sworn not to take a shining to one student over others, she could not help herself with Pat. Pat (who had asked never to be called Patrick) was what she would call a wonder-child. He was smart - both naturally and by his own hard work - he was kind, generous, loving and charming and was a stickler for rules and regulation, adhering with ease to every rule imposed on students. Above all, he dedicated to giving everything his all, all of the time. Mrs. Mink did not think it possible to find such a student - one whom she considered the closest to perfection she would probably ever find. However, perfection had embodied itself in Pat and had watched her, learnt from her and taught her for one full year. It was the most wondrous of all years Mrs. Mink had spent in teaching. Apart from his intelligence and learning capacity, Pat had come into his own in Mrs. Mink's class. He had been, by previous descriptions, as wondrous as he had been in her class in all his previous classes, albeit a little shy. However, as the year progressed and Mrs. Mink went out of her way to make him feel comfortable with his peers, he had grown and become the charming young man she would remember him as.
In third term, Mrs. Mink set the class project, following on the theme of plant-life. Each student was to select a flower, detailing its origins and all subsequent particulars. Pat had chosen the yellow rose, a slightly odd if not intriguing choice. As Mrs. Mink had marked the class projects, she had not been able to draw herself away from Pat's, which was by no means less than exquisite for a 10 year-old boy. He had photographed yellow roses, had been to several nurseries, collected samples and had written extensively on the plant as a whole. Mrs. Mink had quickly given it the top mark of the class. Pat was never a braggart for his achievements, however he had been most pleased with his mark and had displayed the project on his desk. A jealous classmate, most likely, had taken the project. Pat, not to mention Mrs. Mink, was devastated. He did not anger himself at anyone - simply sat sobered for the rest of the day, sketching roses. Mrs. Mink was, once again, touched by his maturity.
As the end of the year had approached, and gifts from parents had crossed from her desk to her drawer, Pat, whose parents Mrs. Mink had never met, brought her a single yellow rose from his garden, telling her that his mum had sent it, and told him to say thank you. It was, by far, the most touching gift she had ever received, and the rose remained, to this day, pressed inside the 1987 edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica "P".
Years had passed. Many of her ex-students visited, many more wrote letters, emails, postcards, each detailing successes they were eager for Mrs. Mink to acknowledge. Pat only ever contacted her once a year - a single yellow rose at Christmas - but it was all Mrs. Mink needed to know he was still alive and well. She wondered, often, how he was doing. His notes were never extensive, only ever saying "Thank you for teaching me how to learn", and although this was always pleasant for Mrs. Mink, never satisfied her desire to learn of his undoubted successes.
On a night close to Christmas break, Mrs. Mink was, like all dedicated school teachers, browsing through boxes of work and worksheets left from years gone by. She was sifting through a miscellaneous box that had yielded very little and was headed for immediate disposal when, lo and behold, Pat's project surfaced. She had gasped, amazed that she had somehow come into possession of this treasure. As she leafed through the carefully drawn pages, the depth of knowledge contained for one so small, a tear had formed involuntarily in her eye. She felt a feeling that is like the elixir for teachers - the one that reminds them why they teach. She remembered now, what it was to feel passion for teaching, and that for all her dispassionate deliveries to mindless students intent only on the lunch bell or each other, there was always one that would render them all ineffective in dampening her love for the profession. She had wept, then and then, for the way Pat had touched her life.
Invigorated, she had taken to the phone book. She reasoned that 'Joyeux' would be a particularly uncommon name, and was delighted when this proved correct. The only 'Joyeux' listed were the initials of Pat's parents, I M and J T, and empassioned by this discovery, wrote down the address on a post-it, stuck it to the project and resolved to visit after school the next day.
At 4pm, Mrs. Mink rang the bell on the residence of I M and J T, excited to see how they would react, and, if he was home, how Pat would remember her. She had changed drastically over the 16 years since she had seen him. He would be a man now, of 26. She felt suddenly silly, and had almost turned to leave when the door opened.
"Hello?" a man's voice inquired through the dark steel mesh.
"Hello, I'm Laura Mink. I'm not sure if you remember me, but..."
"Mrs. Mink? I know who you are... May I ask why you're here?"
"I have something of Pat's that he may appreciate." Mrs. Mink felt silly again.
"Oh. Righto. Well... you'd better come in, I suppose. Jen's in the kitchen, I think." There was a slight pause.
"Jen! Come here a moment, love." he yelled. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Mrs. Mink could make out the outline of a second person.
"Hello, Mrs. Mink, I'm Jennifer, Pat's mother. You... you had better come inside."
The door opened, and Mrs. Mink stepped inside. The warm summer day outside had not permeated the cool hallway. Jennifer led her into the lounge.
"Would you like a drink? A coffee, some water, perhaps?" Mrs. Mink shook her head.
"No, no, I'm really only her to drop something off. Is Pat home, at all?"
Jennifer looked at her husband. He shifted uncomfortably, and gave a slight nod to his wife. She looked back at Mrs. Mink.
"Mrs..."
"Laura, please."
"Laura... I don't know how else to say this, but... Pat was killed in February."
Mrs. Mink opened her mouth. She closed it again.
His mother continued. "Pat was serving in Sudan. He worked with UNICEF... he was over there for a couple of months, to help orphaned and lost children. He was shot by a man who thought he was trying to take his daughter away. It was.... is, awful. I..." she began to sniff, sighed loudly, and wiped the corners of her eyes, apparently not giving in to crying.
"There was no worse time for it. He and his fiancèe, Sian, were due to be married in June...I just... I knew he wrote to you occasionally, but I couldn't find your address anywhere, and we'd heard you moved schools... I'm sorry, Mrs. Mink."
Mrs. Mink, galvanised by the 20 seconds she had had to steel herself from crying, shook her head. "There's no need to apologise, Mrs. Joyeux, I completely understand. I... I don't know what to say to you, other than I'm sorry." She looked down at the project she held in her hands.
"Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to have this. It's a project he did in my class. On yellow roses."
Mr. Joyeux, who had been sitting silently next to his wife, stifled what sounded like a cry out. Mrs. Mink looked down at her hands again. She was obviously reviving pain for these people.
Jennifer looked over. "His project on yellow roses? He was so proud of that project. I don't think I've ever seen him so eager to please as he was on that. I think he did more work than play that term. No... you keep it Mrs. Mink. We have enough to remind us of Pat here. You... you keep it. Please."
As Mrs. Mink emerged into the baking summer sunshine, she felt colder than she had inside the house. She felt as if a blanket had been laid over her, and all happiness drained from every inch of her body. The project in her hands felt like a death sentence, and she cast it sadly into the passenger seat as she collapsed over the steering wheel in grief.
She had to continue at school, there was no question. Everyday to the end of the year, she drew a rose in the corner of her blackboard, and in the centre wrote the initials "PJ". Her students never asked why, and she never told.
As the last day of term approached, Mrs. Mink thought sadly of the summer holidays she would have to endure now. She could not understand why she felt so alone; after all, she had not spoken to Pat properly in over 16 years. Yet, for some reason, she felt like the loneliest person alive. Presents of perfume and chocolates, candles and drawings, were not enough to console her sense of loss, and her realisation that she would not receive a yellow rose this year.
At 7am, on the last day of term, Mrs. Mink arrived to prepare the classroom for the class party to be held that day. With no one else around, she opened the door to her classroom, and flicked on the lights. Her eye was immediately drawn to her desk, on which sat a bunch of yellow roses. Tears welled in her eyes as she walked over to the mass of yellow flowers, their perfume charming her senses until she could not smell it for her blocked nose. She sat down, and picked up an envelope, and, sobbing with happiness, sadness and pride, she opened it. Inside was a picture of Pat, age 10, standing in his garden with a yellow rose and his project. She turned it over, and felt as if she would explode, as she read his last message to her:
" Thank you for teaching me how to learn."
Friday, December 23, 2005
These old bones
It had been fourteen years since Maureen had died. Fourteen years to the day; perhaps even the hour, if the clocks were still going as they had been fourteen years ago. Barty felt no different today than he had at thirteen years, at ten years, or even the day after she had died. He felt a sense of loneliness. A loneliness he reasoned could never be filled, and which he was reminded of with each empty sigh that caught him off guard.
As he looked out, his eyes crinkling into slits as he surveyed his now parched land, he felt a twinge of sadness that he had not kept up the property that he and Maureen had built together, like he had promised her he would. "Keep it like it is, Barty. Don't let's ever change it. Just like it is; and just like we are. Keep it as our place, my darling." They had been her words. They had echoed in his thoughts every day since she had said them, yet he never felt guilty enough to do them justice. This was no longer his place. He didn't know where his place was, anymore. He longed for it, searched for it. He had searched in towns, in women, in bars in remote postings into the early hours. Yet he had not found his place again. So, the porch-swing now stood rusted and unused, except by resident spiders and cocooned flies. The front steps creaked under every step, threatening him with a broken hip every time he ventured from the house. Each night was a new venture. Each night, the gears cranked his old car into life, and he began his search anew to find his place, his Maureen, the one he had lost. Now however, the sun still shone. The landscape was browned and dusty. No propertier had ever bothered him; there was nothing to value here. An empty sadness shifted in him as the wind changed and the cooler breeze flecked dust off his fingers. He felt he was missing something. He could feel it, sparkling and spittling away from his fingertips, barely tangible in the mist floating over his eyes, but definitely there. He felt urgency, he felt panic, along with calm and reassurance. Perhaps, he thought, I am to find my place tonight. A nervous flow of blood began through his tired body.
As the sun set slowly over the hills at the furthest expanse of the property, a flicker crossed Barty's tired old face; an eagle, coming to rest nearby. Barty did not see the eagle. He had found it. It had come; albeit fourteen years too late, but it had come. The emptiness he had felt, and the loneliness that had consumed him in place of his wife were both fulfilled. As the last rays of light descended over the hills, darkness fell over his tired old bones. Now, they were only bones. At last, death had come, and had taken him to Maureen, to his place.
As he looked out, his eyes crinkling into slits as he surveyed his now parched land, he felt a twinge of sadness that he had not kept up the property that he and Maureen had built together, like he had promised her he would. "Keep it like it is, Barty. Don't let's ever change it. Just like it is; and just like we are. Keep it as our place, my darling." They had been her words. They had echoed in his thoughts every day since she had said them, yet he never felt guilty enough to do them justice. This was no longer his place. He didn't know where his place was, anymore. He longed for it, searched for it. He had searched in towns, in women, in bars in remote postings into the early hours. Yet he had not found his place again. So, the porch-swing now stood rusted and unused, except by resident spiders and cocooned flies. The front steps creaked under every step, threatening him with a broken hip every time he ventured from the house. Each night was a new venture. Each night, the gears cranked his old car into life, and he began his search anew to find his place, his Maureen, the one he had lost. Now however, the sun still shone. The landscape was browned and dusty. No propertier had ever bothered him; there was nothing to value here. An empty sadness shifted in him as the wind changed and the cooler breeze flecked dust off his fingers. He felt he was missing something. He could feel it, sparkling and spittling away from his fingertips, barely tangible in the mist floating over his eyes, but definitely there. He felt urgency, he felt panic, along with calm and reassurance. Perhaps, he thought, I am to find my place tonight. A nervous flow of blood began through his tired body.
As the sun set slowly over the hills at the furthest expanse of the property, a flicker crossed Barty's tired old face; an eagle, coming to rest nearby. Barty did not see the eagle. He had found it. It had come; albeit fourteen years too late, but it had come. The emptiness he had felt, and the loneliness that had consumed him in place of his wife were both fulfilled. As the last rays of light descended over the hills, darkness fell over his tired old bones. Now, they were only bones. At last, death had come, and had taken him to Maureen, to his place.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
No thanks!
I seem to say this to a lot of people, so I might as well just post it here to save myself the annoying trouble.
If you are my friend, I have a friendy-obligation to you. This entails listening to you if you have something you need to talk about, seeing you once in a while, keeping in contact, respecting your opinion and respecting you. Now, if you have a problem and I offer to help you, or you talk about it and I listen, PLEASE DON'T THANK ME. It's all part of this friendship deal. I would expect you to do the same for me. I don't want thanks, that's not what I'm in it for. So, please accept my help/ear/whatever without thanks. It's just an insult to what I like to think of as my good nature.
Ta loves!
xox
If you are my friend, I have a friendy-obligation to you. This entails listening to you if you have something you need to talk about, seeing you once in a while, keeping in contact, respecting your opinion and respecting you. Now, if you have a problem and I offer to help you, or you talk about it and I listen, PLEASE DON'T THANK ME. It's all part of this friendship deal. I would expect you to do the same for me. I don't want thanks, that's not what I'm in it for. So, please accept my help/ear/whatever without thanks. It's just an insult to what I like to think of as my good nature.
Ta loves!
xox
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Don't feel like it
There are times when i just don't feel like blogging, and do you know what , this is one of these times. I'm tired and annoyed and it's crap. Annoyed at alan for saying crap, annoyed at weird friends of people i don't know hassing one of my friends, annoyed that i am annoyed! i was in a bloody good mood about 5 minutes ago. to hell with you all, im going.
Friday, December 16, 2005
The ups and downs of an airborne submarine
Yeah... so I really just felt like writing something silly like that.
I wish more of us could understand what is going on in war zones. There are so many wars going on every day - so many people going on everyday, that we just either don't think about or aren't forced to think about, and so we simply don't. No one thinks about children living in the still-ravaged Dafur region in Sudan. None of us surfs sites, looking for ways to help. None of us look to refugees in perth, extending the hand of friendship, of normality. No one seeks to find out more about why Lebanese people are seeking to live in this country. How many, look to why it is that not only the president (president? or other eg pm) of lebanon was killed and why a reporter heavily involved in the saga was killed only recently, and how this is linked to syrian intervention and why this has caused unrest in the region. No one seeks to understand the problems outside our own shores. It would do us - and all those who come to this country - a great deal to simply try and put ourselves in those places. Even though we watch the news, live 8, world vision adverts, and cry, feel bad, give money - we do not try to achieve the easiest, the most difficult, and similarly the most vital part of the entire process of helping people - understanding.
-
I wish more of us could understand what is going on in war zones. There are so many wars going on every day - so many people going on everyday, that we just either don't think about or aren't forced to think about, and so we simply don't. No one thinks about children living in the still-ravaged Dafur region in Sudan. None of us surfs sites, looking for ways to help. None of us look to refugees in perth, extending the hand of friendship, of normality. No one seeks to find out more about why Lebanese people are seeking to live in this country. How many, look to why it is that not only the president (president? or other eg pm) of lebanon was killed and why a reporter heavily involved in the saga was killed only recently, and how this is linked to syrian intervention and why this has caused unrest in the region. No one seeks to understand the problems outside our own shores. It would do us - and all those who come to this country - a great deal to simply try and put ourselves in those places. Even though we watch the news, live 8, world vision adverts, and cry, feel bad, give money - we do not try to achieve the easiest, the most difficult, and similarly the most vital part of the entire process of helping people - understanding.
-
Friday, December 09, 2005
I am a title
N is for never, will I have to go back to school!
O is for ooooh yeah, I am so cool
M is for med, which marky will so get
O is for ocular, the lens i will now forget
R is for really good, that we have finished class
E is for english lit, that I hope I will pass
S is for sucky, for those who have to go back
C is for cool (that's us, who are slack)
H is for hooray! Uni here we come
O is for orrsome, 2.5 months to bum!
O is for OK, how it feels to leave school
L is for LEAVERS, now THAT was cool!
Yay acrostic.
xXrosie
O is for ooooh yeah, I am so cool
M is for med, which marky will so get
O is for ocular, the lens i will now forget
R is for really good, that we have finished class
E is for english lit, that I hope I will pass
S is for sucky, for those who have to go back
C is for cool (that's us, who are slack)
H is for hooray! Uni here we come
O is for orrsome, 2.5 months to bum!
O is for OK, how it feels to leave school
L is for LEAVERS, now THAT was cool!
Yay acrostic.
xXrosie
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Postie
It's just a OH ALWAYS GREENER IS ON! Ok, i'm back. Hehe, i left at 2:10 and it's now 2:44. I sorta went to the shop down the road and bought sour cream cos i randomly felt like nachos. I didn't eat that much but now i feel sick. Mango frûche will fix that.
Yeah... so. I've been browsing quite a few blogs lately and it seems everybody is into posting on deep things, posting on deep thoughts. I'm appreciating how articulate everybody is and how much everyone thinks about... well, everything. I suppose I can't articulate what im trying to say - which is kind of ironic, but it just blows me away how intelligent the people i know are. I suppose this is just a big compliment to anyone who reads this. And although I am severely lacking, at this point in time, in what appears to be any skill in wielding the english language to my advantage, i just want to say - y'all keep posting now, 'cos you got some real good thoughts goin' on.
xxrosie
ps because i was *sniff* accused of 'starting to do something that someone else was doing' i will, in a couple of days, be changing my signoff. hrmph.
Yeah... so. I've been browsing quite a few blogs lately and it seems everybody is into posting on deep things, posting on deep thoughts. I'm appreciating how articulate everybody is and how much everyone thinks about... well, everything. I suppose I can't articulate what im trying to say - which is kind of ironic, but it just blows me away how intelligent the people i know are. I suppose this is just a big compliment to anyone who reads this. And although I am severely lacking, at this point in time, in what appears to be any skill in wielding the english language to my advantage, i just want to say - y'all keep posting now, 'cos you got some real good thoughts goin' on.
xxrosie
ps because i was *sniff* accused of 'starting to do something that someone else was doing' i will, in a couple of days, be changing my signoff. hrmph.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
I CAN NOW DO TITLES!
Well, apart from being superbly talented in a variety of fields including being cool and wearing hats to a frighteningly super-good degree, i am now also a master of this, this being posting and posting with the ultimately classy addition of a TITLE!! :D
So, what changes now that i can do titles. Well... lets see!
It is true that:
So, what changes now that i can do titles. Well... lets see!
It is true that:
- You will now have a conveniently simple way of establishing which posts you desire to read and which you will steer clear of for hygiene/faith-incurred reasons
- My blog is now really, really classy
- Titles mean that I am cool
It is not true that:
- My blog will now start flashing upon voice command
- I have moved to Tuvalu and am performing these incredible acts as a result of supernatural intervention
- The Tripitake was my inspiration for this blog
- Interpolation is now my last name by deed poll.
After not posting on this site for a really really long time, i now feel obliged to do a little update. After indulging in many many after party glasses of apple and kiwi cordial, school finished. Leavers happened, occured and is now a faint memory, barring my outstanding warrant for arrest for assault occasioning bodily harm. Many people also happened, and in this controversial update i may just have to name a few things/people that DID occur...
- Anna got with Tim
- Lana got with Glen
- Chelsea got with Alex
- Rhiannon cheated on Jon with approximately 406.34 men and then grew another foot.
- Jess got with Lepsie (if you didn't know, you haven't been alive for the past two weeks)
- In a getting-with marathon, Jess also got with a guy called Nick
- Leon got with ______ (this really is a little too controversial to be actually documented)
- David got with Tiana
- Rosie got with NO ONE! woot ($20 richer)
- Rosie's 400 year old tent leaked
- Annas glasses were stolen. Or misappropriated in such away that led Anna to believe that the guy who picked them up had done so with the intention of not returning them
- Lana got roaring drunk and interrupted songs by Hoju, Lawrence and Tim while Mark was barely alive on the bed
- James managed to NOT abuse anyone under severe inebriation
- Emma didn't come to leavers
- Nor did Steph
- Alex Tempone was resented by a large proportion of the Scotch house for seducing all their women-folk
- We left David at a bakery
- Adrian Khoo got sloshed on two beers and projectile vomited (of his own claiming) all over the Scotch kitchen.
- Adrian also stole Malibu so he could feel that 'floaty, dizzy feeling' faster
- Mark consumed in excess of 10 standard drinks in as many minutes and succumbed to unconsciousness in a similar time span.
- My leavers jumper was spewed on
- Toolies were EVERYWHERE
- There was a significant UNabundance of hot boys available for spying on with misappropriated binoculars
- A huge bonfire on the beach incurred with arrival of a fire engine and police who 'shut that shit down'.
- Daytimes were boring
- An aptly named Scat tried to seduce Rhiannon to no avail. She had had her share earlier in the day with the 406.34 men
- The pancakes - sorry ladies - were gross
- It rained and it sucked
- An airhorn was the main source of amusement on Saturday night
- Friday night ROCKED OUT (go man)
- Man was seduced by a joolie/julie (junior schoolie)
- No one with anything immoral! or did they...
- Jeremy and Richard thought that a 440mL solo was good value.. yeah... right...
- The Scotch house cooked linguini and crèpes with lemon juice and sugar while we had sausage rolls and pies and mee goreng. (that's the asian spelling, btw)
- Many, many people tried to crash the scotch house, and i have discovered in a number of blogs references to their wistful stares and longings for entry. HA.
- Scotchies were awesome in opening their house (and their minds, i think) to us
- Lana and I met double bass guy from phil and his name is TIM and he was cool! and i got his number... even though i dont actually remember getting it
- Everyone bar me walked into busselton... aaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
- Dunsborough SUCKED while busso ROCKED OUR WORLD
- I... MAY have got a message
- The bouncy pillow gave me whiplash. Honestly.
- Heaps of guys were ultra sleazy
- So much alcohol was consumed that it was no unusual for people to get hangovers in the middle of the next day, subsequently crashing and burning
- When we came back, the oft heard word to describe the phenomenon was 'weird'.
It was an interesting time. And i mean that in that way you use when you have someone asking you if you like their crappy jumper, or if the sex was good and you're like "it's.........interesting". But it was also a wicked (ladsy trash, if you're tim and its still your msn name) time and a sad time, in that many of the people i will never see again... actually, let me take that back (figuratively, because if i deleted it, you wouldn't really understand) and say THAT MAKES ME REALLY HAPPY. Well, some people anyway.
To all the friends I will lose over time, I hope you got something from our friendship (although, if it's my ipod, i'd appreciate a cheque in the mail) and that you make something worthwhile of the life you have to live, because if you don't, it will suck, look bad that i was your friend, and basically be bad for all of us. Do good stuff, and good stuff shall follow.
To the friends I made, it was awesome to meet you. I hope you go into the following category, and not the prior. I hope i get to know more about you and that we can explore the future (BEING 18 OH YEAH) in a way that is good (if you're hot) and educational (if you're not).
To the friends I will keep, thank you.
xxrosie
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Sigh!
Well now that excitement has abated a little...
I'm going to have a talk with myself! Lol. I'm sorry, but I have to lament. Why, oh why, do I ALWAYS have to like people that don't like... omg... that Hugh Laurie guy has an English accent! weird...
oops... sidetracked...
yeah. So why? I know it's EVERYone's lament and EVERYONE gets it yadiyadiya... but sigh. I am afraid i'm sick of people telling me how "it's all just waiting for you in the future" or "you'll find the right person one day" or "there's someone out there for you" or "people who don't like you are just stupid." WELL I'm sorry, but whoever says that , unless you're female, IT MEANS YOU'RE STUPID TOO! What i want to know is
If you're reading this and thinking "what a desperado", please find a pistol and insert it into your mouth an depress the trigger. I am not a desperado. What i am is a choleric! (angry, for those of you not versed in the ways of choleric, sanguine, melancholy and phlegmatic) It is so annoying. Maybe, just maybe, i haven't cared about being single. In fact, it's quite nice and i think i'd have a hard time changing (not that i wouldnt! don't take that as a nada!) but it's just ALL those people with all their sympathy and kind words and crappy mccraptastic that just rubs it in that little bit more. If there is such a general concensus that I'm some sort of dish ready to be served, i wanna know why i'm about to become salmonella'd, infected with e coli and chucked out. (i like the metaphors... the analogies, if you will). Maybe i'm too confronting? I don't know. I don't disillusion myself into thinking that i could be physically attractive, although it would be nice to think that at least SOMEONE could be enchanted by my personality! If my personality is bland, then whatever. Oh - and any smart alec who wants to comment on here about my personality being crap or i'm a crap person or whatever - go to hell, i'm not talking to you. This post is for my friends, and in no way are you welcome on this blog, or any blog of mine for that matter.
Back to mein story, mein rant, mein lament, mein bemusement with the state of my psyche :) I have summed up that, although it would be nice to be noticed - i like to lament. I like it a lot. Let's face it, friends of the girl variety - isn't it more fun to sit around and complain about guys, and your love life, and everything else like that - than have to be with a guy? They're only short term after all! :p One for all Rosie's single ladeez (now how hardKore is that) out there. Peace out. I'm rambling, i'm bored. I'M IN LOVE!!
xxrosie
Well now that excitement has abated a little...
I'm going to have a talk with myself! Lol. I'm sorry, but I have to lament. Why, oh why, do I ALWAYS have to like people that don't like... omg... that Hugh Laurie guy has an English accent! weird...
oops... sidetracked...
yeah. So why? I know it's EVERYone's lament and EVERYONE gets it yadiyadiya... but sigh. I am afraid i'm sick of people telling me how "it's all just waiting for you in the future" or "you'll find the right person one day" or "there's someone out there for you" or "people who don't like you are just stupid." WELL I'm sorry, but whoever says that , unless you're female, IT MEANS YOU'RE STUPID TOO! What i want to know is
- why can't i find mr. not-so-right-but-close-enough-to-right-now-he'll-do
- why subtle hints seem to fall on deaf ears... if you get it, just say that you're not interested!
- why guys let you waste your time on them when you could be over that hill in two shakes of a whatchamacallit and onto the next
- why guys are stupid
If you're reading this and thinking "what a desperado", please find a pistol and insert it into your mouth an depress the trigger. I am not a desperado. What i am is a choleric! (angry, for those of you not versed in the ways of choleric, sanguine, melancholy and phlegmatic) It is so annoying. Maybe, just maybe, i haven't cared about being single. In fact, it's quite nice and i think i'd have a hard time changing (not that i wouldnt! don't take that as a nada!) but it's just ALL those people with all their sympathy and kind words and crappy mccraptastic that just rubs it in that little bit more. If there is such a general concensus that I'm some sort of dish ready to be served, i wanna know why i'm about to become salmonella'd, infected with e coli and chucked out. (i like the metaphors... the analogies, if you will). Maybe i'm too confronting? I don't know. I don't disillusion myself into thinking that i could be physically attractive, although it would be nice to think that at least SOMEONE could be enchanted by my personality! If my personality is bland, then whatever. Oh - and any smart alec who wants to comment on here about my personality being crap or i'm a crap person or whatever - go to hell, i'm not talking to you. This post is for my friends, and in no way are you welcome on this blog, or any blog of mine for that matter.
Back to mein story, mein rant, mein lament, mein bemusement with the state of my psyche :) I have summed up that, although it would be nice to be noticed - i like to lament. I like it a lot. Let's face it, friends of the girl variety - isn't it more fun to sit around and complain about guys, and your love life, and everything else like that - than have to be with a guy? They're only short term after all! :p One for all Rosie's single ladeez (now how hardKore is that) out there. Peace out. I'm rambling, i'm bored. I'M IN LOVE!!
xxrosie
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Hello all!
Well, I will probably make a few entries on this tonight.. just cos I'm avoiding lit study.
Ok, because I just discovered the thing up the top of this where I can make lists, I'm going to make a list. Yes, i know. My lists are hard to top. So far on my msn space I've made the Lana's blunders and 41. t hings about being a viola lists, and they are going to be hard to beat. So, I won't try. I'm going to make a list now.
Things I love about:
Well, I will probably make a few entries on this tonight.. just cos I'm avoiding lit study.
Ok, because I just discovered the thing up the top of this where I can make lists, I'm going to make a list. Yes, i know. My lists are hard to top. So far on my msn space I've made the Lana's blunders and 41. t hings about being a viola lists, and they are going to be hard to beat. So, I won't try. I'm going to make a list now.
Things I love about:
- My Friends
- They are always there at the exact moment you realise you haven't got enough money to buy whatever it is you're trying to buy
- ... and they have money
- They know what you're thinking about (although this isn't ALWAYS a good thing)
- they do funny dances at parties with you when everyone else is asleep
- you can make the worst joke in the world yet they'll still find it funny, or manage to make it funny by saying "now, imagine if you said that instead of laughing..."
- they pretend to like the music you like, even when you play it to them on the phone ALL the time and they really hate it.
- they read your blog, even when you know it's a heap of crap
- politics just never enters the equation (that is you+me=friends... it's never you+me=friends, given that you are inclined to my political beliefs, also written as (friendsyour beliefs = my beliefs) yeah that's right APPLIED KNOWLEDGE i should have done applic
- you can laugh at them, not just with them, and it doesn't matter
- they put up with me constantly talking... that applies to lana
- if you don't have an inside voice, like lana, they still love you
- it doesn't matter if you're wearing the daggiest thing in the world... the worst comment you'll get is "where'd you get those clothes the... toilet store"
- we all like the same movies... to a degree... thinking about labyrinth here...
- no one dates each other
- we can all pretty much be slobbish or at least not poserish... and they don't care
- we're all musical to some degree
- we share common hates
- no one does drugs... and if they do i'll kill them
- if you want to be crazy.... on most occasions, they'll join you
2. The world
- The sun rises
- the moon rises
- there is dew on the grass on a cool morning
- there are beautiful things
- there is such a delicate balance in which everything hangs
- there are too many things to write here
- people are alive
- animals are alive
- i can watch something as simple as my dog lift her head and sniff and feel happy for the rest of the night
- tears are as salty as the sea
- an amoeba is one celled... unicellular
- we all evolved from a unicellular bacterium
- thousands of bacteria can live in any one place and you would never know there were there... millions even
- language is as diverse as life
- sound travels in waves, and so does water
- the amount of any one thing on earth never changes, unless it's disposed of in space
- bubbles are round
- you can touch things and feel them
- something like the internet can exist
Well, I'm listed out for a while now.
l&r
xxrosie
Sunday, November 06, 2005
I cannot workout how to put a title on this thing. It's probably really easy... but i simply am not that able. If someone would like to enlighten me, then please do. Well, i know i said i wouldnt write here until after tee but i am so bored. and i have half an hour to kill before i am going to make myself go to bed, and because neither david nor mark are entertaining me so much that i cannot type for being entertained - i have come here. I have been inspired in the past few days to study. I have sat here, for just hours, and, coupled with brief intervals of out-of-window staring, have studied like i have not before. Yet, that feeling of satisfaction has failed to come. Why not?! It's so damn annoying! I finally do what i thought would stop those guilt pangs that i interpreted as hunger pangs, but no! They have not! I have stepped into the abyss - and realised how much i actually haven't done in the past. And it's awful. If possible, i feel like i have done less in the study i have now done than i did before when i frolicked in the sun like the ectotherms i have spent the past two days explaining to the thirteen past-tee exams for biology. But enough about study. It's still sitting here in front of me and i still feel like an imbecile with all those history pages just gawking at me and threatening to sel destruct if i do not avidly update my knowledge on gorbachev and perestroika. I want to ask - what do we do now? After five - nay - twelve years, even thirteen years, of babying, we are stepping into the world of adults and big people. So, we've always been told we are too young to know anything, to feel love, to know (i'll tell you when you're older") or to understand. We've been in teenage-induced limbo for a couple of years now, too old to be children (damn transperth!) and too young to be adults. Now, we're pushed into it. I don't want to go - i dont know about some of my friends, but im satisfied at being refused alcohol, entry to clubs, with being protected and looked after. I simply cannot understand how, in 112 days, i will be fit to vote, drink, party, do adultish things and see X-rated movies, when i still want to yell "statutory rape!" when someone remotely suggests anything lewd. It doesn't make sense. There should be an adjustment period - and many of my peers will disagree, but there should be. From say, 16-18, where you can do somethings and you cant others. Ok, so you can drive and have sex, but they have to be the two most irresponsible things you can give as legal rights to teenagers. Just as michelle roberts and her "i want to raise the number of hours you have to drive as a 2nd phase L plater from 25 to 120 hours" rhetoric (i mean, come on, petrol prices woman!) will tell you. Why can't we be allowed to buy say, 4 standard drinks of alcohol per day, per week, per month, whatever, to give us a taste, so that on our 18th we don't end up sloshed and maybe even dead, or we end up sloshed or dead -even worse- illegally, under 18. It doesn't seem right. Correct me if im wrong, but you can also buy scratchies at 16. To me, that says "OK KIDS! YOU CAN HANDLE A LETHAL WEAPON, GAMBLE AWAY WHAT POTENTIALLY COULD BE A LOT OF MONEY IF YOU GET ADDICTED, AND TRY AND MAKE BABIES, BEFORE YOU ARE 18 AND ALLOWED FULL ADULT RIGHTS!" Apart from not making sense, it makes people like John Howard look boring, because he's had those rights for years and he still hasn't got a bigman voice. That had nothing to do with anything.
Alas, now we must leave. We are finished. We have been stamped, dated and booted out of existence. We have been wiped from school records (well, not really) and if we want to go back, we have to sign in as visitors. After 5 years of trekking the school yard with my uniform on, my schoolbad lagging behind me, and knowing the place back to front, it has been drawn from underneath me. For those of you not there yet, you will understand when you get here. Its a weird thing - awesome, yet terrifying. I can't explain it. To me, the weirdest thing will just be the loss of routine. The loss of a way of life, the last time i will ever sit in biol chairs, go to the toilet there, sit in history and not do work, spend lunchtimes playing murder in the dark in the storeroom. A whole lot of 'lasts' - and no idea as of yet where the firsts will begin.
Adios, estudiantes + amigos.
xxrosie
Alas, now we must leave. We are finished. We have been stamped, dated and booted out of existence. We have been wiped from school records (well, not really) and if we want to go back, we have to sign in as visitors. After 5 years of trekking the school yard with my uniform on, my schoolbad lagging behind me, and knowing the place back to front, it has been drawn from underneath me. For those of you not there yet, you will understand when you get here. Its a weird thing - awesome, yet terrifying. I can't explain it. To me, the weirdest thing will just be the loss of routine. The loss of a way of life, the last time i will ever sit in biol chairs, go to the toilet there, sit in history and not do work, spend lunchtimes playing murder in the dark in the storeroom. A whole lot of 'lasts' - and no idea as of yet where the firsts will begin.
Adios, estudiantes + amigos.
xxrosie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
