Yoowwwwlll!! My hands are all weather-cracked. Tiny little lacerations have appeared all over as though some invisible miniature goblin has been slicing away with a fencing sword throughout the day.
Poor tiggs. He's just had his teeth cleaned at the vet. For obvious reasons (to avoid slightly more painful lacerations than mine) he had to be sedated. Now he's all dopey. His lazy eye is even more lazy than usual. They're so cute like that. Drugged up.
SNIGGER OF THE DAY
Milton Jones: "I was walking along the road today, and on the pavement i saw a small, dead, baby ghost. Although, thinking about it, it might have been a handkercheif."
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Cringe
'So what do you think?'
'Mffffgrmm' i whimpered. With dismay, i realised from my expression in the glass how extraordinarly transparent i am. The face staring back at me was pallid, and bespoke of untold horrors. What vision had it been confronted with should should've made it so bloodless, so aghast? A vile serpent? A sour-skinned crone, gumless, with blood dripping from sagging lips? Had she looked into the eye of a basilisk itself?
It was as though the face of Eve had surfaced from the depths of ancestry, and wore on her descendnts face the very look that had appeared when she realised what paradise was left behind and saw instead the black mineshaft she had dropped into.(Metaphorically, mind).
Considering my first reply was somewhat lacking in eloquence (whilst nonetheless emotionally overt) i tried another on its tail.
'Yes, fine' I gibbered. No, this fringe cut doesn't look hideous. No, i don't feel like snatching your barber-ous instruments and doing a Sweeney Todd on you. No, i don't look like a toy doll with its feafully dead-straight fringe that bounces gently over its dead eyes. No, it doesn't look like this hairy waterfall is just a massive monobrow on my forehead, in grotesque ascent of its designated spot in the facial hierarchy.
'Yes?'
The unease which whined into his voice and was the anxious furrow in his brow was damning. He knew he had created a monster. In that moment, he had his own demons to face; a modern Frankenstein, who would no doubt screech as soon as the (in my mind) batwing doors had swung shut: 'WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!! Lord have mercy on my soul'. Complete with hand wringing, head-whacking and sobbing.
Cringe at the fringe.
'Mffffgrmm' i whimpered. With dismay, i realised from my expression in the glass how extraordinarly transparent i am. The face staring back at me was pallid, and bespoke of untold horrors. What vision had it been confronted with should should've made it so bloodless, so aghast? A vile serpent? A sour-skinned crone, gumless, with blood dripping from sagging lips? Had she looked into the eye of a basilisk itself?
It was as though the face of Eve had surfaced from the depths of ancestry, and wore on her descendnts face the very look that had appeared when she realised what paradise was left behind and saw instead the black mineshaft she had dropped into.(Metaphorically, mind).
Considering my first reply was somewhat lacking in eloquence (whilst nonetheless emotionally overt) i tried another on its tail.
'Yes, fine' I gibbered. No, this fringe cut doesn't look hideous. No, i don't feel like snatching your barber-ous instruments and doing a Sweeney Todd on you. No, i don't look like a toy doll with its feafully dead-straight fringe that bounces gently over its dead eyes. No, it doesn't look like this hairy waterfall is just a massive monobrow on my forehead, in grotesque ascent of its designated spot in the facial hierarchy.
'Yes?'
The unease which whined into his voice and was the anxious furrow in his brow was damning. He knew he had created a monster. In that moment, he had his own demons to face; a modern Frankenstein, who would no doubt screech as soon as the (in my mind) batwing doors had swung shut: 'WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!! Lord have mercy on my soul'. Complete with hand wringing, head-whacking and sobbing.
Cringe at the fringe.
Monday, August 9, 2010
AAAAAARRRRGGHHHH!!!!! HOW CAN THIS BE?? STPEHEN FRY WAS IN MELBOURNE AND SYDNEY AND I DID NOT KNOW?!!!
I should have been there. I should have been there. I should have been there as a presence on his periphery, always sensed, never seen, skirting the sidewalks, aggressively introducing kiddie nose to sidewalk as they can into my line of pursuit. Within a few days i would have acquired the art of the most infamous enigmatic spy ever to not be known. Even Fry, with the intellectual ability of a nation- no!- a nation is too full of morons, any wit is diluted by them- with the acumen of a, a, a, another Stephen Fry, would only be semi-aware of some thing there, but not there. And as he strolled around the eastern metropolis, admiring the sights, my inner-stalker would have been in such orgasmic revelry that when my instincts slipped in this blissful state and the police put me in irons, i wouldn't even notice.
Tragic. I don't think i will ever overcome this moment of tragic realisation.
I should have been there. I should have been there. I should have been there as a presence on his periphery, always sensed, never seen, skirting the sidewalks, aggressively introducing kiddie nose to sidewalk as they can into my line of pursuit. Within a few days i would have acquired the art of the most infamous enigmatic spy ever to not be known. Even Fry, with the intellectual ability of a nation- no!- a nation is too full of morons, any wit is diluted by them- with the acumen of a, a, a, another Stephen Fry, would only be semi-aware of some thing there, but not there. And as he strolled around the eastern metropolis, admiring the sights, my inner-stalker would have been in such orgasmic revelry that when my instincts slipped in this blissful state and the police put me in irons, i wouldn't even notice.
Tragic. I don't think i will ever overcome this moment of tragic realisation.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Drama on the Bus
The bus ride. The brief space in one's day where one is assured of comfy mundanity. It feels like a commuter's god-given right, that stretch of blankness inside that mobile, pocket-sized and fluid community. A bus is a place where as soon as you sit down, you assume the mental faculties of that grimy, hideously upholstered bus seat. You become one; you and the bus-seat. A joining of arse and fabric, welded together until the fatal departure, the ominous 'DING!' a falsely cheery funeral knell. It malevolently mocks that wrenching apart of a newly created organism. *DING!*
And then SNAP, your consciousness rushes in you like a poltergeist possession, and you're let loose once again into the stream of daily existence.
How many bus rides have i had over this year? How many bus rides will i have over the rest of my life? How many hours spent in such peachy vacuousness?
Well, i've had a few to date anyway. All non-descript, as you expect.
Until yesterday.
The bus was trundling down the street down the same predictable route. I was in my happy place. My fellow commuters were presumably in theirs. Then, at the corner of my eye, i saw a white flash. THe bus screeched to a halt, flinging an old biddy at the front right out of her seat. The white thing on my periphery had been a car reversing like a rocket out of a driveway across the road. I looked over the edge of the bus out the window. There was a hairs breadth between the two vehicles. After a stunned pause, the white vehicle drove away from the scene. Inside the bus, there was a stunned pause. THen two passengers leaped off their seats and rushed over to the dumped granny, who was lying on the floor, stupefied. One of the helpers took complete control of the situation, whipping out orders right and left as though she had been a sergeant in her former life. The rest of us might have been statues, staring tensely at the traumatised lady. Throughout the whole of it, the busdriver sat in his cabin. I wondered briefly whether the government had us fooled, and that they were trying to cut expenses by replacing human drivers with automatons.
I'm not too sure, but i think i overhead a mutter that the woman had broken her arm. A nosebleed at least. Poor old biddy! Luckily, we werent' far from Charles Gardner Hospital. For whatever reason, the bus didn't take her there direclty, and an ambulance was called. The passengers were directed to file off from the crisis scene and we migrated over the adjacent oval to the nearest bus stop.
For sure, poor old biddy! But the episode was- who could deny it?- exciting! Should i be whipped for finding it so?
And then SNAP, your consciousness rushes in you like a poltergeist possession, and you're let loose once again into the stream of daily existence.
How many bus rides have i had over this year? How many bus rides will i have over the rest of my life? How many hours spent in such peachy vacuousness?
Well, i've had a few to date anyway. All non-descript, as you expect.
Until yesterday.
The bus was trundling down the street down the same predictable route. I was in my happy place. My fellow commuters were presumably in theirs. Then, at the corner of my eye, i saw a white flash. THe bus screeched to a halt, flinging an old biddy at the front right out of her seat. The white thing on my periphery had been a car reversing like a rocket out of a driveway across the road. I looked over the edge of the bus out the window. There was a hairs breadth between the two vehicles. After a stunned pause, the white vehicle drove away from the scene. Inside the bus, there was a stunned pause. THen two passengers leaped off their seats and rushed over to the dumped granny, who was lying on the floor, stupefied. One of the helpers took complete control of the situation, whipping out orders right and left as though she had been a sergeant in her former life. The rest of us might have been statues, staring tensely at the traumatised lady. Throughout the whole of it, the busdriver sat in his cabin. I wondered briefly whether the government had us fooled, and that they were trying to cut expenses by replacing human drivers with automatons.
I'm not too sure, but i think i overhead a mutter that the woman had broken her arm. A nosebleed at least. Poor old biddy! Luckily, we werent' far from Charles Gardner Hospital. For whatever reason, the bus didn't take her there direclty, and an ambulance was called. The passengers were directed to file off from the crisis scene and we migrated over the adjacent oval to the nearest bus stop.
For sure, poor old biddy! But the episode was- who could deny it?- exciting! Should i be whipped for finding it so?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
I am so sick of wading through the molasses of perverse prose. I feel like i'm grinding through the words, having to call up every fibre of determination that is holding my being together just to make it through one bloody sentence. My eye sights a full stop, a blessed relief, a respite at the end of a laborious journey. My heart rejoices! My lips begin to peel back into a smile of epic proportion; - then they transform instead into an O of despair when i realise i haven't understood a single thing.
Why do they do it, these so-called 'academics', knighting themselves with the titles of Connoisseur's of Knowledge? Why do they insist on encrypting sometimes the most simple of messages into some obscure, esoteric package, where meanings swarm, cheek by jowel, jostling and crowding? WHy-hy-hyyyy? I get so sick of these scholarly words that are scraped off their dry tongues and pasted to the paper; words like 'intersect' and 'continuum' and 'fabric' and 'discourse'. Yes yes yes, all bloody important, all bloody useful in discussing topics 'laden with ideas'. But, just, you know, shut up. Shut so very up and go so very much away. I want to keep to my little, lovely nook of syntaxical simplicity. Is that so bad? Is that so sneer-worthy? And what's so wrong anyway with chucking in a word like 'chucking'? Is such a stoop to the vernacular beyond them?
Even polit-talk isn't so stodgy to digest as the academic article. However, i must say, if either Gillard or that moron Abbott says 'fair dinkum' again i will personally push them off a cliff.
Why do they do it, these so-called 'academics', knighting themselves with the titles of Connoisseur's of Knowledge? Why do they insist on encrypting sometimes the most simple of messages into some obscure, esoteric package, where meanings swarm, cheek by jowel, jostling and crowding? WHy-hy-hyyyy? I get so sick of these scholarly words that are scraped off their dry tongues and pasted to the paper; words like 'intersect' and 'continuum' and 'fabric' and 'discourse'. Yes yes yes, all bloody important, all bloody useful in discussing topics 'laden with ideas'. But, just, you know, shut up. Shut so very up and go so very much away. I want to keep to my little, lovely nook of syntaxical simplicity. Is that so bad? Is that so sneer-worthy? And what's so wrong anyway with chucking in a word like 'chucking'? Is such a stoop to the vernacular beyond them?
Even polit-talk isn't so stodgy to digest as the academic article. However, i must say, if either Gillard or that moron Abbott says 'fair dinkum' again i will personally push them off a cliff.
Monday, August 2, 2010
animo-pomorphic
She pokes her head out from beneath the long-term cone of silence. Elongates her neck warily. Her lips compress and her eyes assume a shrewd, narrow expression until she looks like a constipated turtle. Tentatively, she beings to type.
Or continues, rather. Whatever man. Stop suffocating my poetic licence.
Is my long-term absence in order of an explanation? Probably not. Reasons:
a) i don't exactly have a swelling fan base
b) who gives a shit
c) unnecessary and tedious preamble
d) i am Kate, Lady of the 673th realm. I need explain my presence or absence to none!
But i nonetheless feel compelled to, in part anyway.
At first, like a debutante into society, i thrust myself into the blogosphere. Young, fresh and fervent, i gushed out text like the oil that gushed out of the Gulf of Mexico Oil Spill. After a while though, i became suspicious, then horrified, then dismayed, then apathetic, then horrified again that, like the oil spill, it was all a horrid effluence and a gross mistake. The following posts became more and more self-referential, until they resounded with a pathetic plea of justification. Disgusted with my lack of topic expansion and imagination, my committment to my adolescent blog weakened. I grew disenchanted, and capped the spillage. And then forgot about it entirely.
...
Then it reappeared in my mind. I considered a reunion. But as the neglect deepended, i became more convinced that i was/am no longer up to the task. That over that long period of silence my cyber tongue has grown heavy and musty in my cyber mouth. That boorish seriousness has set in, etc.
But here i am! My pledge: to keep the tortuous tremor out of my voice.
Hem.
*finds amusement for a while in trying to squish a miniature surfboard across the computer screen and into the net. When venture fails, tries a spider.
That one failed too.
Wipes screen.*
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The world has transmogrified. Nothing is as it seems. I'm seeing strange creatures peering out behind the veil of humanity. Small mammals, actually. I'd idled into two separate lectures, slumped down on my seat, and looked up to see small marsupials wrapped in the deceptively pink and hairless skins of my lecturers.
I've decided against mentioning which units they teach. Some forms of paranoia are wise paranoias, i think.
One lecturer had an uncanny resemblance to a possum. A soft, brown and curly fuzz covered her head, and i found myself redesigning the drab screened background into a dark and leafy tree hollow within which she could tuck her round body. I didn't get so far as add a tail though.
Next, it was a mouse that blinked timidly up at me. He had a grey parcel of hair flopping neatly over a think face. Perched ona turned up nose were rectangular, metal rimed glasses, which he would push up with both hands at hte edges every now and again. A small mouth was drawn uder an enlongated upper lip, and on the sides two largish ears protruded with perfect semi-circular form. When he was speaking, his thin frame perched over the podium, he had an endearing pattern of looking down at his notes then dipping his head up and looking around at his audience imploringly.
Twas uncanny.
Anyhoo, such were my observational preliminaries to semester two.
Or continues, rather. Whatever man. Stop suffocating my poetic licence.
Is my long-term absence in order of an explanation? Probably not. Reasons:
a) i don't exactly have a swelling fan base
b) who gives a shit
c) unnecessary and tedious preamble
d) i am Kate, Lady of the 673th realm. I need explain my presence or absence to none!
But i nonetheless feel compelled to, in part anyway.
At first, like a debutante into society, i thrust myself into the blogosphere. Young, fresh and fervent, i gushed out text like the oil that gushed out of the Gulf of Mexico Oil Spill. After a while though, i became suspicious, then horrified, then dismayed, then apathetic, then horrified again that, like the oil spill, it was all a horrid effluence and a gross mistake. The following posts became more and more self-referential, until they resounded with a pathetic plea of justification. Disgusted with my lack of topic expansion and imagination, my committment to my adolescent blog weakened. I grew disenchanted, and capped the spillage. And then forgot about it entirely.
...
Then it reappeared in my mind. I considered a reunion. But as the neglect deepended, i became more convinced that i was/am no longer up to the task. That over that long period of silence my cyber tongue has grown heavy and musty in my cyber mouth. That boorish seriousness has set in, etc.
But here i am! My pledge: to keep the tortuous tremor out of my voice.
Hem.
*finds amusement for a while in trying to squish a miniature surfboard across the computer screen and into the net. When venture fails, tries a spider.
That one failed too.
Wipes screen.*
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The world has transmogrified. Nothing is as it seems. I'm seeing strange creatures peering out behind the veil of humanity. Small mammals, actually. I'd idled into two separate lectures, slumped down on my seat, and looked up to see small marsupials wrapped in the deceptively pink and hairless skins of my lecturers.
I've decided against mentioning which units they teach. Some forms of paranoia are wise paranoias, i think.
One lecturer had an uncanny resemblance to a possum. A soft, brown and curly fuzz covered her head, and i found myself redesigning the drab screened background into a dark and leafy tree hollow within which she could tuck her round body. I didn't get so far as add a tail though.
Next, it was a mouse that blinked timidly up at me. He had a grey parcel of hair flopping neatly over a think face. Perched ona turned up nose were rectangular, metal rimed glasses, which he would push up with both hands at hte edges every now and again. A small mouth was drawn uder an enlongated upper lip, and on the sides two largish ears protruded with perfect semi-circular form. When he was speaking, his thin frame perched over the podium, he had an endearing pattern of looking down at his notes then dipping his head up and looking around at his audience imploringly.
Twas uncanny.
Anyhoo, such were my observational preliminaries to semester two.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
In this time of trial, i find myself capitulating to every bizarre whim that doesn't compromise my study. I get very pernickety over the thickness of the paper i'm writing on, the colour and inkiness of the pens i'm using. It's this OCD fear that emerges during these times, where i get paranoid that if everything isn't just right, I won't, well, trust whatever it is i'm scribbling down. I'd instead get distracted by the unsuitableness of some trivial detail, and hence deflate the effectiveness of revision. So i give in to these weaknesses- perhaps also in compensation for the many other vices which i usually indulge that i am struggling to abstain from, i.e. staring into space for about half an hour a sponge for Crowded House, examining my finger nails, pondering what awaits me on the Other Side...of exams, not life that is.
Unfortunately, the TV in the lounge still manages to exert its gravity over me in the evenings.
Sunday: The Bourne Ultimatum
Monday: Good News Week
Tuesday: 20 to 1: Pranks and Practical Jokes
Eeeeuuughurgleurglesputsput
Trudges off dejectedly, arms trailing along the floor after her consiousness slaps her on the face to [quote] 'get a bloody move on'.
Unfortunately, the TV in the lounge still manages to exert its gravity over me in the evenings.
Sunday: The Bourne Ultimatum
Monday: Good News Week
Tuesday: 20 to 1: Pranks and Practical Jokes
Eeeeuuughurgleurglesputsput
Trudges off dejectedly, arms trailing along the floor after her consiousness slaps her on the face to [quote] 'get a bloody move on'.
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