iKacy

The Twelfth Night

2010-07-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

I am not the most culturally adept of all people in that I don't often find myself engaged in literary squabbles or debates on the renaissance, I am certainly not well read enough for that. Though I can bore many with lengthy discussions about camera lenses and nurture tedium with my insights into karma, I can say that I know very little about Shakespeare. Well beyond a vague memory of something being taught to me in high school. What that something was, is not clear to me but I can safely say that I at least know who Shakespeare is. Vaguely. So when the opportunity arose to see a local production of the Shakespearian comedy, The Twelfth Night, I entered with fresh eyes and an unfettered mind.

I could not make comparisons, though I am sure the original didn't have an iPhone or boom box in it, and I laughed hard at jokes that were new to my ears. I couldn't tell if they butchered a classic, hell I don't even know if it even was a classic to begin with but what I could do was enjoy the stellar performances and dizzying cadences that, after an initial settling in period, I fell in love with. For those unfamiliar with Shakespearian language, though it may seem a little alien to begin with, it quickly engages you with it's poetry, something I am sure my English teacher spent many years trying to convince me of. And it's humour is timeless, causing me on several occasions, to cover my mouth in an attempt to contain my snorts.

For those of you who have seen it, I am sure you am familiar with it's frolicking plot line and for those of you, who like me haven't, it's a love story of sorts, peppered with a case of mistaken identity, evil plots and a man in a rubbish bin. And in the words of the man himself - "I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting. O! had I but followed the arts!" so maybe I shall and add Shakespearian quoting to my list of cultural pursuits.

In Perth? Want to see it? DO IT! Before the 8th August comes and you lose your opportunity to see the man in the bin!

365postcards

2010-03-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

I am starting a new project called 365postcards. It basically involves me sending a postcard each and every day for 365 days. If you want to get involved and receive your very own postcard, check out the details here

The Leaning Tower of Gingin

2010-01-23T07:57:00.001-08:00

Some days when you head is smashed full of the worries and busyness of city life, the only cure is a solo drive, with road tunes blaring through the speakers. I had no idea where I was headed as my car ate up the kilometres of bitumen, but the open spaces chilled me out and the tunes made me smile.

An hour into my drive to nowhere I came across a most peculiar and unexpected sign. Did that sign say Einstein? Did I just see the word Gravity? I was confused as the only other signs I had encountered were either noting the distances to various destinations or advertising the local tucker at the petrol stations.

As I continued to ponder, several kilometres down the road I passed the same sign and I now knew my destination. The gravity Centre and the Leaning Tower of Gingin.

Out in the middle of nowhere yet only about an hours drive north of Perth was a science centre set up to delight those visiting with many different scientific theories. Now since I am not much of a science buff, I will not bore you with the details of each of the displays but instead will just say it was great fun and you should check out their website.

Do it. It involves throwing water balloons off giant towers.

www.gravitycentre.com.au
Check the rest of the photos out HERE

Dizzy Lamb Park

2009-12-30T01:11:00.000-08:00

Like me, many kids who grew up in Perth would find in the darkest recesses of the closets, along with boxes of mismatched lego and Care Bears, a small plush lamb with crazy looking eyes. For the girls, a red ribbon would be perched between it's lamb ears and the boys would have a more manly version sans ribbon. Mine was uninventively called Lamby and contained, within it's furry body, fond memories of a theme park called Dizzy Lamb Park. Legend tells us that the original owners father couldn't pronounce Disneyland correctly, instead saying Dizzy Lamb. So when the time came for the family to open their own mini Australian version of Disneyland, on a sprawling property in the upper stretches of Waneroo Road, the first name that popped into their heads was, of course, Dizzy Lamb Park.

I was very young, say 4 or 5 when I last visited the park, so the extent of my memories of the place is quite limited. So I was surprised when, 21 years later, driving around the perimeter of the now run down park, I found myself recognising things and getting childishly excited. The Statue of Liberty still rose out of the murky looking lake, teeming with giant fish. The old stone benches still sat, now surrounded by bush and the castle turrets peeked over the tops of the trees. A ghostly go-kart track girt by old Streets Cornetto advertising signs graced a large corner of the park and creepy looking play equipment creaked rustily in the wind.

Although it hasn't been running as a theme park for many years now, it has now been taken over by paintballing and laser skirmish company who use the left over castle and theme park infrastructure as a unique paintballing arena. They were kind enough to let us walk around and take some shots of what was left over from the memories stored within my stuffed plush lamb.

Remember this place and want to check it out? Why not go paintballing! Check out their website here. www.castleinvasion.com.au

The Mysterious Mansion

2009-12-26T05:12:00.000-08:00

Turn off the highway , avoid the potholes as the road gets narrower and the trees more sparse and just before you hit the dirt corridor that abruptly ends the road you will find The Mysterious Mansion. A house so out of place in it's setting and unknown to even those long time local residents. A sprawling mansion, sans light fixtures and window frames, stands solidly, it's bright coloured walls clashing with the dry grass. Abandoned. Burnt. Each room revealing more, yet adding to the intrigue.

Why did the people living here have to leave?

How long ago was it?

And more importantly, how on earth did those who roamed it's empty bowels with spray cans in their hands ever manage to get the hot water system off the roof?? :)

Even though I am yet to solve the puzzle, I am happy to roam and discover some of the amazing graffiti art that graces it's walls.

Check out the rest of the series HERE

Abandoned Ascot.

2009-11-30T06:55:00.001-08:00

I remember when I was a child the coming of Summer meant one thing. Water playgrounds. Slides combined with water. What more could a child want? Oh yeah, icecreams. They had those too. And mini golf.

Alas, when the water gets taken out of a water playground it doesn't just become a playground, it becomes a creepy overgrown patch strewn with old plastic floaties and beer bottles. Not good for the kiddies, but great for those exploring with cameras.

Passion - Assignment 4

2009-11-09T19:42:00.001-08:00

Today I took a major step towards my passion. The last few days have been a manic see-saw ride, the logical and responsible side of me hollering things like "financial security" and "stick to what you know", the other side of me, desperate to work towards a future that i don't abhor, whispering comforting notions like that a life lived through my passions would leave me far more fulfilled than one lived purely for financial gain.

So today I quit my job that I hate and am hoping to move into a job that is more closely related to the things I love most. Writing and photography. Working full time in a job that doesn't delight or challenge you is a tiring experience. Every day I spent there, I wrote less and took less photos. I was tired. I was grumpy. And I was surrounded by other tired, grumpy people. I feel my time at uni has enabled me to explore further the things I love and given me the courage to follow my dreams.

So today was my follow your passion day. I read, alot. I wrote. I went through a bundle of photos I had taken over the weekend and edited them. I felt inspired. This is how I want to spend my days......

This blog is part of a competition, if you liked it please take a moment to vote for me here.

Wounds to the Face - NOW SHOWING AT MURDOCH!

2009-11-05T07:37:00.000-08:00

I am a fan of story telling in all it’s formats. Books, film, theatre, even music and art. The ability to lose one’s self in someone else's story has always delighted me. I remember when I was 10, reading Tomorrow When The War Began for the first time and after many hours fascinated by the unfolding saga I took a break to make myself a sandwich. As I rummaged through the cupboards trying to find the peanut butter, I began to rush and worry that I would miss the next part of the story. I had created such a visual world in my head, each of the characters sketched with such clarity in my mind that I could recall their faces as easily as my own, that for a brief moment I had forgotten that this story was unravelling in a book, but instead thought I was watching it on TV. My rushing, I realised, was my attempt at getting the sandwich made before the ad break was over and the story began again. Although it was only for a moment, and I subsequently stopped slapping the peanut butter on the bread with such wild abandon, that has always stuck with me. That ability to put your personal reality aside for a moment and steep yourself in someone else reality is a deeply exciting and rewarding experience. Whether we do it purely for entertainment and relaxation, or to discover and explore aspects of humanity that we don’t have personal experience of, everyone loves to indulge. So when the opportunity to see Wounds to the Face, an intriguing performance being put on by students at Murdoch University came up, I jumped at the chance.

I knew nothing about what the performance was about, my cursory research not enlightening me much, so upon arriving at the Nexus Theatre I was a clean slate, no pre conceived ideas dirtying my mind. The posters didn’t illuminate me much, but served only to intrigue me further. AH HA! They have programs! Surely that will tell me everything I need! Alas, apart from showing me the faces of the many students involved in the performance, it still didn’t give me much of an idea what I was in for, but the accordion music that jolted out of the speakers made me smile (I have always had a strange attraction to accordions) and for me that was enough to know I was in for a treat.

Upon entering we were met with an assortment of characters littering the stage, some even roaming the aisles where we sat. All in their own worlds, they mostly ignored eachother, some muttering to themselves, other merely staring. The assortment of characters was compelling, the whispers of the crowd as we settled down could be heard, trying to figure out the connection all these figures had to each other. We laughed as scantily clad ladies winked at us and showed us a little leg. The lady next to me jumped slightly as a small woman at the back screamed loudly whilst grasping a small mirror. In the centre a man stood, unmoving, his face covered completely in bandages. As the crowd settled in and the whispers subsided all but one of the characters left the stage and the story telling began, the lone figure, her back to the audience, face reflected three fold in the mirrors in front of her started our journey.

For the next hour and a half we were treated to an absorbing insight into the relationships that we have with our faces. Something that most of us wouldn’t think about, but when faced with it, it’s fascinating. The story was wound together through many small interactions between the characters, each raising new questions. Would I still be me if I had a different face? Is changing our appearance through surgery the right thing to do? Why do we place so much of who we are into our appearance? I am sure each person in the audience grasped slightly different meanings of the performance, but I think that’s where it’s really successful. Along with the beautifully rhythmical script and impeccable performances the play was open for interpretation, every person was able to leave having felt they explored a different reality from their own.

The play is still running at the Nexus Theatre on the South Street campus of Murdoch University until the 7th November and I highly recommend it to others to check out. If you are interested in going and supporting some of your fellow uni students check out the following link Wounds to the Face

This blog is part of a competition, if you liked it, please take a minute out of your day to vote for me here

10 things I like about Murdoch...

2009-10-24T22:11:00.000-07:00

...in no particular order, several being based around food.

1. Quendas.
How can your university experience not be enriched by the addition of small furry animals? On many an occasion whilst strolling the campus, iPod blocking out the warning signs that little beasties may be nearby, I have been startled by one of these fuzzy critters as they dart from underneath the scrub, my garbled girlish scream heard clearly over Billy Joel's voice singing directly into my ears. Having said that, the Quendas are just as inclined to bring screams of delight from passersby, as their cuteness, like that of a puppy, can cause even the most macho man to point and go "awwwwww!"

2. The tutors are young and cool.
These cool sneaker-wearing hipsters, often only a year or two older than I am, remind me that once I turn 30 I don't suddenly morph into a 1950's housewife with a pipe-smoking husband and 2.5 kids in tow. Most of my tutors haven't been cocooned in the academic world for most of their lives, the reality of actually working in the industry in which they teach blurred in a haze of essay marking and plaid jackets. Instead their practical experience and relate-ability bridges the gap between student and tutor, making for a far more enjoyable experience and the occasional high five.

3. Bubble O Bills
Many of my childhood summers were spent nomming on Bubble O Bill ice-creams, carefully eating each flavour of his cowboy face separately until I reached his bubble gum nose, emblazoned with a corny cowboy saying. And as I get older, the sentimentality I have towards things of my past grows and I find my house filled with Star Wars Pez dispensers, Lego and many a corny 80's movie. So when I discovered that the Ref stocked Bubble O Bills, an ice-cream I believed to exist only in my past, I rejoiced. And although his nose no longer contains witty quips, the enjoyment I get from sitting in Bush Court gobbling down half a dozen Bubble O Bills takes me back to my barefoot childhood and I smile.

4. Everything is online.
I am lazy. I know it. In fact, sometimes i almost have demented pride in the fact. My dream job would either be something where I get to read fantasy books all day or write about my achingly boring life in a blog. Well, anything I got to lie down whilst doing really. My motto is "why do something that a machine can do for you?". I mean, that's why non-lazy people studied mechanical engineering, to make my life easier. Since the invention of the internet I can now do almost everything online thus satisfying my hunger for nanna naps . I shop online, watch TV online, do research online, manage my finances online, even socialise online! Who needs to go and meet their friends down at the coffee shop when you can simply poke them on Facebook from the comfort of your own couch. No pants required! So the fact that almost all of my uni work is online delights me. Lectures are recorded and put on the web, along with unit outlines and assignments. I can sign up for everything online and get all my marks online. Wonderful!

5. It's not a fashion show.
Although I don't condone leaving the house and turning up to your lectures in your pyjamas, I can't stand when people dress up for uni how I dress for a wedding. Stilettos on campus are only good for one things and that's aerating the lawn. I've worked at and attended other universities where the girls compete for shortest dress, highest hair and most makeup, so I love it when I rock up to my classes wearing jeans, vans, and a Star Trek tshirt and I don't feel out of place.

6. Flexibility.
I change my mind. Alot. In the 10 years since leaving high school I have worked in at least half a dozen different professions and studied everything from Accounting to Buddhist meditation. Whether it's just my restless nature, or am I yet to find that niche where I not only love what I do but am also good at it, I need to be able to change my mind. Since beginning at Murdoch I have changed my major twice and my entire degree once. No one yelled at me. It wasn't hard. In fact I was able to change my degree in a matter of a few clicks. Life is about enjoying what you do, so I will keep tweaking my degree until it suits me perfectly.

7. Not only does my academic knowledge increase.....so does my geekines!
Many people have the idea that university is a little dry. Long essays, even longer books and monotone lectures, cramming our heads with academia, transforming us into critical thinkers able to debate philosophy and the meaning of life with anyone willing to listen. Initially I was worried that all my geekish pursuits would have to remain on the outskirts of life, scared away by university life. That was until one morning in my first semester. I sat in the front row, on my own, laptop open and ready to capture the wisdom of the ages. Yes, it was a media unit, but I still had visions of learning about the origins of media and the cultural effects it has had on our society. The lights dimmed, the words Red Vs Blue flickered to life on the screen in front of me and the next 3 and a half minutes were filled with outrageous laughter and even a snort or two. Instead of a powerpoint presentation we were treated to an episode of the internet sensation, an animated comedy show based around the video game Halo, Red Vs Blue. This lecture led me to buy the entire 5 seasons of the show and subsequently my geek points have increased exponentially.

8. The mini kebabs are cheap and well.....mini!
As a student anything cheap is a cause for celebration. I have a terrible habit of exclaiming to anyone I pass in the street the latest bargain I managed to grab. Mention that you like my shoes? I'll heartily reply that I got them on sale. 70% off! Ask me where I got my bag from and I'll tell you that I made it myself out of old pillowcases and second hand thread. In one of my cheap moments the other day, when standing at a greasy hamburger joint, fingers grabbing hopelessly at the few coins floating in the bottom of my handbag, I discovered something else. Mini stuff is great! Not only could my measly coins afford a modest cheeseburger over a full sized, jam-packed, Humungo burger, but I didn't waste anything! Each processed morsel ended up in my belly, somewhat nourishing me enough to make it to my next meal, unlike when I eat the full sized version and half of it ends up in the bin. So the mini kebabs from the Ref are awesome! No waste and cheap enough to buy with your change.

9. Thursday's - Stall Day.
What more could I want than the opportunity to combine my studies with shopping? Wandering onto Bush Court on a Thursday you will be met with a variety of stalls hawking their wares, everything from books and DVD's to jewelry and batteries. My favourite Thursday purchase would have to be a fake old-school fob watch with a deer on the front. I spent the remainder of the day pretending I was a rich gentleman from the late 19th century.

10. They let me blog!
Every narcissist loves the glow of others caring about what they say. In the age of the interwebs everyone has the opportunity to publish their thoughts, sending their often non-sensical ideas out there into cyber space in the hope that someone else stumbles across their words and actually reads them. But with the over population of the blog sphere, many people's ruminations go unread, slowly rotting away in the blackness of space. So being given the opportunity to not only write about my day to day happenings, but being promised a following as well, knowing my words will be read by at least 4 people leaves me shining with the narcissists' glow. Thanks Murdoch!

This blog is part of a competition. If you liked it please vote for me HERE

Real Life Skills - proudly taught by your local university

2009-10-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

As well as providing us with wisdom and knowledge pertaining to the academic world, university also equips us with practical real life skills. Like the art of getting extensions and how to nap in meetings without making too much noise. But it also teaches us how to survive on very little money. Whether you are funding your university experience from your own pockets or maybe your parents, I can assure you that you will at some point in your degree find yourself eating Mi Goreng noodles and and plenty of baked beans. Now even though I am back at work for a semester, I found that these skills carry wonderfully into the real world. The more noodles I eat, the more holidays I can save for (or in reality, the more debts I can pay off)! But it doesn’t end there, university thrifts can find themselves 3 course meals, each course costing less than 90 cents!

French Onion Soup from a sachet - 86c
Mi Goreng Noodles - 49c
Anchor Toffee Apple flavoured Jelly - 90c

“What more could you want?”, I though as I tucked into my bowl of jelly. Mmm hmm. So although my tummy sometimes craves the culinary largesse bestowed upon the rich, if I ever find myself trapped on an island with only jelly to live off, I know who will be surviving.....ME!

This blog is part of a competition, if you liked it, please VOTE FOR ME HERE

How did I figure out what I wanted to study?

2009-10-06T15:46:00.000-07:00

Around exam time there are literally thousands of pieces of advice that are swirling around . Blu-tacked to a post outside the library. Jumping out from various websites. Spouting out of parents mouths. Even I indulged in my own advice giving in a previous blog post. My secret to a successful exam....check it out here

Some, like my own, are based around silly ritualistic luck games that we are all too scared of breaking....just in case. Others are based on sound realistic tips that can really help you succeed. One that has always followed my through both my high school and university life is part of the latter group.

“Always read the question carefully and answer the question THEY are asking, not the one YOU hoped they would”

It’s far too easy, surrounded by the stressful domain of the exam room, to just write what ever you feel like, or simply just write down everything you know, rather than answer the actual question in front of you.

So you would think ,when approaching this blog assignment two question, that I would do exactly that.........but instead I ignored this top-notch advice did the opposite. When there’s no marks involved, I think there can be a little room for creative movement. :) So instead my banner (check out the original photo here) has a reference. Something that you become very familiar with deciphering in the first few months of university. But since not everyone will have access to a Calvin and Hobbes comic book, here is the panel that is being referred to.

So my advice to people considering their study options is to realise that study is not always fun. Study can be hard work, our brain often yelling at us that it’s full. We see sunshine outside and suddenly Michel Fouccault, or the origins of molecules, isn’t so interesting. There are so many things in life tearing our attention away from what is actually a lot of hard work. Very rewarding hard work don’t get me wrong, but some days it’s just hard. One look at Facebook during exam week reflects that, with every students status’s swearing that the overload of knowledge being stuffed into heir brains is causing tumours. So if we are going to put ourselves through at least 3 years of learning, secretly hoping, just like Calvin, that occasionally our homework will do itself, we should study something we love. I have ranted in the past about how important it is to study what you love, because only then will we truly succeed.

I only realised the importance of this after a failed attempt at a uni degree back in 2000. I wandered onto my first university campus, my Sony Discman bulging out of the pocket of my cargo shorts, threatening to pull them down with each step, as I went to sign up for my first degree. In these days, before everything was done online, you had to actually wait for your acceptance letter to come in the mail and then make the trip over to the campus to accept and choose your units, then you had to hang around while the lecturers posted sign up sheets on the doors of the lecture halls. As I entered some room that had been transformed into the enrollment room a pile of forms was thrust in my face , each one demanding the same information as the last. Name. Date of Birth. TER. A blur of forms later I was handed my enrollment card. As I looked at it, I was momentarily confused. Next to my name was "Bachelor of Business/Bachelor of Science" and as I had little interest in both science and business, I couldn't figure out why it would be right there on my form. But then I remembered. I had enrolled in that degree for every other reason than that it would interest me.

"It will get you a good job", says Mum.

"Arts students are all hippies who go on to make a living off pot smoking and abstract paintings made with macaroni", says Dad.

"If you don't go to uni and get a good sensible degree you will never succeed in life", says the misguided Guidance Counsellor.

So that was how I found myself with a Billabong bag full of Advanced Calculus and Accounting books and a penchant for sleeping in lectures. I hated uni. I hated my Mathematics for Computer Sciences Lecturer who spoke too fast. I hated my Accounting tutor who made jokes that nobody laughed at. I hated that I was forced to study something that made me want to vomit. I hated that I was the only girl in one of my units and therefore was regarded as some kind of alien. So after one semester I left.

So fast forwarding past 7 years of travel, playing computer games and regularly changing jobs I found myself again ready to enrol in uni. This time as I sat in front of my computer enrolling in units I was excited. I eagerly read the description of each unit, bought my books early and even started reading them. I went to lectures and didn't sleep. I researched more than was necessary. I read more than was necessary. I contributed to discussions and passed my exams with flying colours.

The difference? This time I was studying something I loved. Something that I found interesting and inspiring. And although I still found myself often being the only girl, the strange staring no longer bothered me.

This blog is part of a competition. Like it? Then please vote here!

Being a Murdoch blogger gets you places. Like into The Web.

2009-09-29T10:04:00.000-07:00

The irony was not lost on me as I sat, iPhone in hand, checking my latest Facebook status updates whilst waiting for a play exploring the dangers of cyberspace to start......

I was not born in an age of technology, I am just slightly too old for that. I remember getting our first family computer when I was 14, the only things it was good for were word processing and playing the occasional game of “Where in the World is Carmen Santiago?”. My first mobile phone didn’t come until I was almost 18 when my parents realised that their youngest child was driving around in a 30 year old car, just begging to break down in the middle of the night. On a road with no lights. Opposite a creepy pine plantation. And then, of course, it was the size of a graphics calculator but far less useful. $10 credit lasted me months and a 6 word text message took at least 5 minutes to type. I enjoy the fact that my childhood was free from technology, but those who know me now would laugh at that statement. I am a bit of a technology junkie. I have two computers, an iMac and an iBook. I have 3 iPods, an iPhone and a nice new snazzy DSLR camera. I daily wander the virtual halls of Facebook, Flickr, Twitter and Blogger, leaving a wave of updates in my path. A smattering of photos. A couple of jokes. A few opinions here. Some more speculations over there. The internet is a place I share with friends and even strangers. A place I can express myself and have a little fun in the process. So when I got an email from someone who had read my blog, offering me free tickets to a play about the internet I jumped at the chance. All they asked in return was my opinion! And that’s something I definitely know how to give.

......so back to the play. As I found my way to my seat, I took in the scene in front of me. The corrugated iron set that dominated the stage contrasted strikingly with the boy band tunes that bounced off the walls. I half expected boys wearing cross colours to jump from behind the iron and begin dancing, but as I heard the word ‘digital’ jump out of the lyrics, I thought more about it, I realised that it was perfect. I picked up my iPhone and opened the Shazam app (for those who haven’t heard of Shazam it is an application that will listen to a song that is playing and then find out the name and artist who sings it. Very handy for those nasty family debates over the dinner table!), and set it into action to find out who played this catchy ditty. AH HA! I was right. It was NSYNC grooving to a track they called “Digital Get Down”. The modern song and the old fashioned set let us know, before the play even started that this was a play of contrast. A rural setting but a very modern theme. The online world, being as pervasive as it is, reaches and effects even the most distant of places, as it’s arms stretch into most houses within our country. I quickly tweeted my musical discovery from my phone before a stern voice over the speaker appealed for everyone to switch them off. The lights went down and it began........

The shock generated from the bombshell beginning was lightened by a comedic and entertaining monologue settling us all into the motion of the story. As I don’t want to give away the whole story line here, I will just give a glimpse into what this amazing play has to offer. The two main characters are opposites but both endearing in their own ways. Travis, theatrical and insightful by nature and Fred, awkward but lovable. Through these two characters we are invited to join in on an exploration of the effects and even dangers of the relationships that we develop online. By using Fred, a young person unfamiliar with the online world, they expose the dirty underside of the world dominated by :) and LOL.

The familiar MSN text sound effects and “text speak” caused the younger portion of the audience to laugh, whilst bringing about quizzical looks from the older generation. My fellow audience members gasped, laughed and sighed along with me. The virtual cyberspace theme didn’t disguise the very real life story, full of palpable emotions and real life effects as we meandered through the lives of the characters, the mystery deepening until the last moments when all is revealed.

The superb writing shines through each actors insightful performances and it’s an absolute delight to watch.

As someone who spends alot of time online it revealed to me the importance of distinguishing reality from the online world. It is here, that I am glad that I grew up without Facebook or Myspace, as to me the online world is a place of fun, somewhere to go to be entertained, but The Web showed me there is a sinister side to this, as some find the internet a place to manipulate others in a world of anonymity.

My favourite line of the play was “ A woman who blogs about sex with garden gnomes has secrets?”, and although I don’t blogs about gnomes, I do have my secrets and I intend to keep some aspects of my life completely offline.

If you would like to check out The Web you can find out more info at www.bsstc.com.au or check out the Facebook page for The Web

This blog is part of a competition, if you liked it, please take a short moment to vote for me here

My Future Career Checklist

2009-09-25T05:43:00.000-07:00

As my semester break from uni lingers and I am surrounded by the reality of employment for at least 39 hours a week, I begin to ponder what I will look for in my post uni career. As with many uni students, particularly those who have returned to study after being in the workforce for several years, I have gone to uni to ensure I will never spend my days asking overweight people “Do you want fries with that?” But apart from my future career being one that doesn’t involve Happy Meals, there are a few other criteria that I have.

1. My future employer must have carnivals.
Now many of you may believe this to be the strangest of criteria to hold against someone who is offering you a job, and even more strange that I have made it number one in the list, but having experienced my first ever work carnival today, I can confidently say that job involving fairy floss, even if it’s only once a year is a must.

The day started as it always does, the whirring of my computer mixed fiendishly with the sound of phones ringing, making me sigh maybe just a little too loudly, employee X sending me a weary glance, either sympathising with me, or just wishing I would shut the hell up, I’m not quite sure. I was working a late shift and therefore left with the worst desk in the office, the one right next to the managers office. The token wobbly office chair made me feel like I was sitting on a slant, it’s bung wheel making it impossible for me to get close enough to the keyboard. I made a last attempt to pull myself closer in, and the chair shot off at a comical angle, my hands flailing wildly in an attempt to keep myself from imminent disaster but instead causing me to simultaneously humiliate myself and mess up the pile of paperwork I had just neatly stacked.

As Gloom began to leach into my brain, it’s whispery tendrils grabbing hold of motor functions, my teeth began to clench and my hands curled into fists. But moments before Gloom possessed me completely I heard a noise. A noise out of place in a hospital. Was that music? Did I hear laughing? Did someone say clown? As the noises grew louder, Gloom retreated, melting like the Wicked Witch of the West at the end of Wizard of Oz.

“You’re the Voice, try and understand it”

Oh God, I was right, there was music wafting down the corridors, along with the potent smell of cooking sausages. Yes, I will admit it was John Farnham, but when you spend all day cut off from anything musical , even the melodies of ol Johnnie Farnham is a cause for celebration. I stood up and crossed to the window not sure what would assail my eyes when I looked out....but it was good. There was sunshine, fairy floss, and yes even a clown. Today, apparently, was Carnival day. A day when the Catholic Church gives back to it’s hospital employees in the form of sugary treats and and oversized stuffed animals. My childish enthusiasm kicked in as I raced out to collect my goodies. I ate, I laughed, I ate a little more and then I tried to win a giant turtle to give to my boyfriend. Although I didn’t win the turtle, the Catholic Church didn’t want me to return to my desk empty handed. Oh no, the Catholic Church instead made sure that everyone was a winner and I was presented with a Bertie Beatle showbag, just like the ones from the Royal Show.

As a clutched my chocolate filed prize to my chest I realised that the only criteria that I would have for a future employer, is that they must have Carnivals.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99P7TTvpO1g

This blog is a part of a blogging competition. If you like it, please vote here

I'm disturbed when I find myself involved in conversations based around thermal underwear.

2009-09-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

The life of a mature aged student isn’t always straightforward. Granted, the life of ANY student doesn’t always run on a straight path, but there are unique challenges faced by those of us who were born before technology was king and obesity was the main trial encountered by children. The largest problem I faced as a child was stubbing my toe whilst running barefoot on the concrete patio at my grandmother’s house. Alas, I digress.

Along with financial independence comes many responsibilities. Mature aged students have careers, families, mortgages, mountains of bills and the pressure of finishing assignments while their attention is being pulling in at least 17 other directions. Whilst I may not have a family, I do have all those other pressures to deal with along with several plants that demand watering almost everyday. It can be hard. So this semester my pencils have been zipped tightly into their pencil case and my brain has been put on the shelf until I can earn a bit of money to get me through another semester.

Working full time when your heart desires to be plodding it’s way to the end of your degree is always difficult. Working full time in a job that oozes tedium is torture. I sit and type the same codes into the computer for 8 hours a day and I swear if I have to type 29 / 10 once more I will stand up and scream, frightening everyone around me. I constantly finding myself involved in mundane conversations about thermal underwear or why the company won’t pay for better quality pens.

Today was no exception.

I sat, blank expression clouding my usually animated features, tempted to laugh at the extent of my displeasure but too tightly wound up in it to dare. I was on hold to Medibank and I found myself tapping my foot melodically to the hold music. It was surprisingly catchy after the short repetitive ditty played several times over, grabbing hold of you with it’s silvery notes. As my body began to sway gently, I envisioned jumping up and frolicking down the corridor between the desks, humming out my own version of the beats while my wireless headset continued to fire musical inspiration into my right ear. I would clap my hands. Click my fingers. Shake my hips. And kick my legs around a bit, reminiscent of Elaine from Seinfeld. I dared to smile as I imagined the reaction of my fellow employees. Their robotic heads turning to face my antics, not knowing really how to process my outburst, so they simply turn back to their computers to once again enter in the same codes they have been for countless hours over the past decade.

I began to wonder where this hold music came from. Is there some music composer out there who brags to people at dinner parties that his/her music is being used as the hold music that is simultaneously tormenting and delighting health care professionals all around the country? Or did some branch of Medibank coerce one of their employees, who mentioned in passing one day that he owned a Mac, to jump onto Garage Band and dump a bunch of pre-made loops on top of each other to create the humdrum that was now assaulting my ears? I think of suggesting to management that I compose my own number to be sung each morning like some demented camp song. “To boost morale!” I will tell them. I will be shot down, along with my ideas for a free soft-serve machine for the office and no-pants Fridays.

As each loop of music stops and then only moments later starts again, I decide to count how long each loop is. Did they only have to pay for 23 seconds of music in the knowledge that they would simply repeat it over and over again? Cheap skates. One. Two. Three. Four. Before I even reached five I was interrupted by Doreen enquiring about how she could help me this fine morning. Typical. Now I will just have to wait till next time to find out.

Vote for me

2009-09-06T01:54:00.001-07:00

I went to Maylands

2009-09-05T01:51:00.000-07:00

The wind blew my skirt sideways scandalously exposing my calves, as I bobbed rhythmically through Maylands, encouraged by the dangerously debonair sounds of Sinatra. 'Twas windy, 'twas cold and I developed a unnatural attraction to a bridge. We approached eachother liking courting teenagers of the 1930's. We were shy, reserved, he gave me a flower. I flirted and batted my eyelids a little until he laughed. He opened up to me and allowed me to capture the small beauties of his details. As the wind picked up even more I knew we had to part. But I left with a wink and a promise to return.

Check it out

2009-09-03T23:58:00.000-07:00

Now that I am back working full time my days are filled with flourescent lights, headsets and churlish middle aged women. I don't enjoy my job, and plan to find something else as soon as my debts are paid off so I must find ways of dealing with the monotony of the long stretches of boredom. Hence on my lunchbreak, I escaped behind my beloved 450D, iPod whispering sweet notes in my ears as I walked around Subiaco.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/3886621018/

Late night with a 450D, a tripod and some weird metallic sounding stairs.

2009-08-29T08:27:00.000-07:00

The first time I walked up my staircase I noticed, as I was yelling something to Bradley in the other room, that halfway up you are privy to a gateway into another realm. A universe where everything is made of metal and jelly beans are good for you. A place where geekiness is celebrated and Landcruisers driven by city folk are not. But alas, we are only given a glimpse into this magical world, a taste of the wonder that lies many light years beyond Pluto, the poor star that lost it's planetary status. All we get on that 7th stair is an opportunity to hear what we would sound like if our body's were made of titanium. Each shiny word slivering out and clanging against our ears in an alien fashion. At first my new glossy metallic voice freaked me out, but now, each time I hear those burnished syllables I smile and think of jelly beans.

www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622051635053/

Dr Trapped in Plastic

2009-08-25T05:46:00.000-07:00

As my birthday surprises continue, I found myself with a carton of Dr Pepper, my all time favourite soft drink, straining against it's plastic prison, just screaming to be released.

Alas, as they contain more caffeine than my dreadfully caffeine sensitive body can handle at night time, they shall have to wait patiently to fulfill their destiny until the sun rises again.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/3855183727/

Today's 365

2009-08-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

You know someone is rubbing off on you when you find yourself taking photos of yourself in various articles of their clothing.

Playing around with studio lights and geeky paraphernalia

2009-08-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622094556290/

365 over a possible 10 years

2009-08-20T04:44:00.000-07:00

I started a self portrait project inspired by those I found on Flickr, where you take a photo of yourself every day for a year. Alas I have been going now for almost 2 years and still have only 161 photos. But I try.

Today's shot

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157601537478406/

What kind of issues can one have with bubblegum?

2009-08-20T03:31:00.001-07:00

Is it the taste?
No I love the taste of Hubba Bubba, especially the sweet, sweet strawberry!

Is it the artificial flavours?
Nah, it's not like I eat truckloads and that it would make a difference my health!

So then is it the whole concept of chewing gum, like a cow chews it cud?
Nope, a bit of chewing never killed anyone (I didn't research that, so don't quote me on that) and plus it is supposed to be good for digestive health.

So what is it then, that prevents me from enjoying the odd Hubba Bubba experience?
When I eat Hubba Bubba, I do just that....I eat it, not chew it. Merely seconds after the initial chews, I swallow it. It's not a choice, it's a given. I have no control over my Hubba Bubba chewing. I think the longest I have ever lasted was 70 seconds, and that was only because I made a great effort. Usually it's only 20 seconds. As soon as that opening burst of flavour begins to dissipate, it's down the hatch for the pink piece of goo. And then I have to have another piece, which also has a life of 20 seconds, and so it continues for the remainder of the packet, consumed within minutes.

I know what you are thinking. "Bubble gum stays in your throat/stomach/any part of the digestive system for 7 years!" I also had heard this from many people in my life over the years. My Dad, my school friends, the butcher, and the lollipop man outside my school, just to mention a few. Worried by their revelations but unwilling to cease my relationship with bubble gum, I set off to do some research.

After many years, several thousand dollars and a trip to India to ride on an elephant I discovered this to be a myth. No matter how many packets of Hubba Bubba I ate, I would continue to digest as normal. I was relieved, happy to be able to resume my liaison with bubble gum.

But after the first packet, I began to think, “Well what’s the point? One minute of chewing for a burst of artificial flavour. Was it worth it? Were there far more satisfying flavours out there waiting for me to try? Was there any point in eating bubble gum when you didn’t actually ever get to the bubble blowing stage? Wouldn’t it be better to just eat strawberry flavoured lollies?”

And so it ended.
Hubba Bubba was put aside in favour of those pink fluffy cloud lollies……gosh how I love them.

Celebrity Endorsements

2009-08-20T03:28:00.000-07:00

I have begun to notice that everything I buy, whether it be clothes, toothpaste, a car or toilet paper has some celebrity’s tick of approval. Retired basketball stars advertise carpet. Britney promotes Pepsi and gets herself into legal celebrity strife when spotted drinking Coke. MacGyver extols the virtues of MasterCard, all which is based purely on monetary remuneration rather than on the actual merits of the product. Do I really believe that Jackie Chan drinks Mountain Dew or that Justin Timberlake eats and enjoys McDonalds?

Even fictional characters have gotten in on the act. The Simpson’s swear by CC Lemon – a Japanese soft drink. Bugs Bunny really digs Nike shoes and USA War Bonds. And Kermit the frog, since he has the need to drive places all the time, wouldn’t go anywhere if it wasn’t in a Ford or BMW. What makes advertising executives think that I would allow the opinion of a Muppet to influence my car buying decision?

Even if they did actually believe in their products and wished to share their wonderment and awe with the rest of humanity. Even if Big Kev really did rejoice whilst using Shower Power in his spa bath, what possesses us to believe the recommendation of random famous people? Do Britney and Kate Moss have such great track records that I would want to believe what they say?

Some prominent individuals in the circle of household names have serious drug problems, anger issues or are inflicted with an addiction to one thing or another. Some celebrities get married eight times in the space of 3 and a half days. That should tell me that they may not be the greatest judge of character. And if they aren’t any good at picking their future partner, what makes us think that they would be any better at choosing a car or a skin care product? When I choose my household cleaning chemical should I trust the guidance of someone who is familiar with chemicals of the pill popping kind? I don’t wish to disparage those people who have achieved stardom, but wish to stress to people the fact that surely there is someone better than Tara Reid to plug the newest Kenwood Chef Mixmaster.

So who should the advertising companies use instead of the rich and famous? People who know their onions, I think. Someone I can trust to really know what they are talking about. Someone that I would bump into down at my local Chinese restaurant. I’d like to see my Nan advertising pasta sauce. A greasy mullet-possessing mechanic advertising my car. Somebody my size advertising my clothes. My friends Bernie and Andy advertising the latest movie. A highly-strung teenager advertising caffeinated soft drinks. A geeky IT guy advertising my iPod docking station.

I want no more good looking, rich, famous or skinny people with fake teeth trying to sell me stuff. If you were on a billboard I would smile and probably purchase whatever it was you were peddling. That’s because you are like me. I can relate to you. You are just like my brother, my mother, my aunty or my best friend. You have probably never been married more than 3 times and have probably even used Shower Power or Easy Off Bam. Even if you were selling tuna, I, as a vegetarian, in all probability would still acquire my fair share of “Chicken of the Sea”…but if Jessica Simpson were the spokesperson, it would be a completely different story.

I forgot my own mobile number today!

2009-08-18T03:32:00.000-07:00

I have had my mobile phone number for the past 3478 days and about 3475 days ago I had my number memorised. So great is my freakingly good memory that even whilst drunk or recovering from the dramatic effects of a general anesthetic my mobile number slips off my tongue as if I had been born with it as an inbuilt piece of genetic information.

So to my great surprise and sickening shock, today whilst leaving a message on somebody's message bank, I had a mental blank and for the life of me could not remember this blasted number. I ended up leaving what I thought was my number all the while knowing in my heart of hearts that, that number was not mine.

To further disturb my otherwise cruisy day, involving not much more than sleep, food, Timezone and Ricky Gervais, I discovered that due to my decade of perfect remembrance of my number that I had no record anywhere of what my number actually is. It wasn't in my phone, it wasn't in my computer address book, it wasn't written on a tiny scrap of paper that was shoved at the back of a drawer along with my primary school graduation photo and half used tubes of hand cream. No, my trust in my memory to serve me to my death, was absolute and to write down my number anywhere was simply an insult to it.

I decided that my only option was to message a friend, admit to having a less than perfect memory and get my number off her. But before I did that I decided that I must record this monumental occasion on facebook. As I logged in and went to my profile, I was suddenly faced with my phone number. Plain as day it sat there on my profile and I realised that my sub conscious must have realised that somehow that I wasn't perfect and that there was a chance that one day I would forget my number. I guess my trust in my memory wasn't as absolute as I first suggested.

I took note of my number. I had given the wrong one to the person who I had called earlier. I am a failure.

South Street Vet

2009-08-17T03:33:00.000-07:00

I was driving along South Street yesterday, and whilst concentrating dilligently on the road ahead I saw a sign. Not the spiritual awakening kind of sign, but a billboard for South Street Vet. I don't know what caught my attention, maybe my subconscious was looking for things to include in my blog, or maybe I just wasn't concentrating as dillegently on the road as I first suggested.

The sign had the simple words 'South St Vet' on it. No surprises there considering it was the South St Vet. But now, what kind of picture would you expect to be on said sign? A dog, cat, rabbit, maybe even something as exotic as a ferret or guinea pig, some kind of animal that you would normally see frequenting the local vet.

But the South St Vet decided to use as their mascot and billboard hero, a dolphin! Yes, a dolphin! I didn't know that many people owned dolphins! Or that they even made cages big enough to secure the family 'mammal of the sea'. Even if I owned a dolphin and poor Flicka got sick, would I take him to the local vet clinic? Would South St Vet have the facilities to treat my poor ailing aquatic creature?? I just hope that one day someone doesn't take their dolphin to South St Vet, only to find out that they don't actually treat dolphins, or any other sea life for that matter, and find themselves swiftly running out of options.

"We used a dolphin on our sign because they are cute and his tail curled nicely around the lettering" I can hear the manager saying whilst little Timmy is heard crying in the background "Don't die Flicka, you complete me!"

It's a law suit and many broken kiddy hearts waiting to happen.

I think I might open my own vet, "Kacy's Kreatures" and on my sign will be beaver, as I have heard that beavers are increasing in population in Fremantle pet owning society. Or maybe a goat. I haven't decided.

Gym? What's a gym? ......... Oh, a gym!

2009-03-08T08:14:00.000-07:00

(Yes, to all you Simpson's fans out there, I realise that without hearing it, that title makes no sense and for those who have no idea why the title is, in fact hilarious, please check out this video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4i8SpNgzA4)

It all became clear one unseasonably rainy summer afternoon. Dressed in my usual summer attire of shorts and a singlet, I lounged sluggardly, being efficient only in my tactics to avoid my uni readings. Yes, it was only Week One, hardly enough time to manage to fall behind but I knew the minute I pushed aside “America Since 1900” in favour of something a little lighter and more fantasy based, that I would end up in Week 14 with only a knowledge of Elven High Magic practices and nothing else in the slightest that would be helpful come exams. Visions of essays containing intriguing propositions such as “Although the United States was, until the turn of the 20th Century, mainly a rural nation, it was not seen in any of the scenes in Lord Of The Rings. Rather the location of Middle Earth was deemed to be far more appropriate to support the ‘hero’s journey’.” Although I am sure that it would be found to be highly amusing by both lecturers and the guy’s who run the “Stupid Essays Written By Unfocussed Students” website, I knew that it would not give me the HD that I sought.

Alas, I digress. This one afternoon, wind whipping violently against my windows, thoughts akin to those above yet to surface in my mind, I lay downstairs on the couch watching a DVD. Red Vs Blue to be exact, as ever since a part of it got played in one of my lectures last year, I have quite easily been able to convince my wayward mind, that not only is watching it helpful to my education, but that it is sure to make me more attractive to the opposite sex as well. As the wind picked up and the sky became muddied by cloud, the temperature began to drop. Indiscernible at first but as Church revealed that Tex was not only female, but also his former girlfriend, I found myself in the foetal position, muscles twitching in an attempt to keep me warm. As I live in a house that not only contains blankets of varying sizes but also electric heating devices, a plethora of solutions to my chilling problem presented themselves. It was when I decided to take none of these choices but instead remain cold, shivering on the couch, lest I have to actually get up and walk up a flight of stairs, that I knew I had a problem.

I was unfit.

So unfit that not only did I choose to freeze as opposed to getting off the couch and doing something about it, but walking up the gentle incline from the car park to the Hill Lecture Theatre, left me puffing and red in the face. I had many excuses for my lackadaisical nature. “I am too intelligent to concern myself with the worries of the physical realm. I shall overcome all obstacles using my superior power of mind alone,” was a common one. “I’m too poor to have a gym membership and fresh air is bad for my constitution,” was another. But the signs for the Murdoch University Gym not only showed pictures of happy skinny people, visually promising me that if I join I would be popular and have straight teeth, but also showed a price that I could afford. So I joined.

To be continued.....(once I finish those readings that I still haven’t done from Week One)

I'm still here, I'm still alive, I'm still writing. Welcome to Second Year.

2009-03-01T01:07:00.000-08:00

So I passed first year. I wasn't turned off by the lengthy essays or the expensive food in the ref. I felt somewhat more knowledgeable when I enrolled in units that didn't begin with "Introduction to...". I saw people who looked more lost than I did. I knew then that second year had begun and with it comes a whole new year of posts from me.

Will I pass?

Will I make new friends?

Will I learn anything at all besides the price of Bubble O Bills?

To be cliched, only time will tell.

Pearl of Advice No. 1 - Study something you are actually interested in.

2009-01-19T00:27:00.000-08:00

**DODLEDOTDOODLEDORT (time travelling noises)**

The year is 2000. We had just conquered Y2K with little more than a few bumps and bruises brought on by hiding under a makeshift shelter (a tarp thrown carefully over the Hills Hoist) to protect ourselves from planes that were sure to fall out of the sky on the stroke of midnight. We were yet to experience the devestation of the SARS outbreak in 2003 and we were still a year away from discovering the wonders of the iPod.

I wandered onto my first university campus, my Sony Discman bulging out of the pocket of my cargo shorts, threatening to pull them down with each step, as I went to sign up for my first degree. In these days, before everything was done online, you had to actually wait for your acceptance letter to come in the mail and then make the trip over to the campus to accept and choose your units, then you had to hang around while the lecturers posted sign up sheets on the doors of the lecture halls. As I entered some room that had been transformed into the enrollment room a pile of forms was thrust in my face , each one demanding the same information as the last. Name. Date of Birth. TER. A blur of forms later I was handed my enrollment card. As I looked at it, I was momentarily confused. Next to my name was "Bachelor of Business/Bachelor of Science" and as I had little interest in both science and business, I couldn't figure out why it would be right there on my form. But then I remembered. I had enrolled in that degree for every other reason than that it would interest me.

"It will get you a good job", says Mum.

"Arts students are all hippies who go on to make a living off pot smoking and abstact paintings made with macaroni", says Dad.

"If you don't go to uni and get a good sensible degree you will never succeed in life", says the misguided Guidance Counsellor.

So that was how I found myself with a Billabong bag full of Advanced Calculus and Accounting books and a penchant for sleeping in lectures. I hated uni. I hated my Mathematics for Computer Sciences Lecturer who spoke too fast. I hated my Accounting tutor who made jokes that nobody laughed at. I hated that I was forced to study something that made me want to vomit. I hated that I was the only girl in one of my units and therefore was regarded as some kind of alien. So after one semester I left.

**DODLEDOTDOODLEDORT (time travelling noises)**

So fast forwarding past 7 years of travel, playing computer games and regularly changing jobs I found myself again ready to enrol in uni. This time as I sat in front of my computer enrolling in units I was excited. I eagerly read the description of each unit, bought my books early and even started reading them. I went to lectures and didn't sleep. I researched more than was neccessary. I read more than was neccessary. I contributed to discussions and passed my exams with flying colours.

The difference? This time I was studying something I loved. Something that I found interesting and inspiring. And although I still found myself often being the only girl, the strange staring no longer bothered me.

Pearl of Advice No. 1
Study something that won't make you want to vomit because in the end, regardless of the pressures you have to study something else, if you love what you study, your uni life will not only be much easier, it will also be enjoyable.

I'll see you anon.

2008-11-16T06:10:00.000-08:00

End of the year.
It came as it always does, but the difference this year is that I can say that I am a third of the way through a degree. Most years, the later months brought about the realisation that although I am a year older, approaching thirty far more quickly that I ever thought possible, I still laugh at people when they trip over. I hoped a partially completed degree would get me respect and admiration from all those I passed, but it mostly got me addicted to 2 minute noodles and the phrase "I'll do it after I watch this episode of Star Trek".

There have been many changes. Mostly I find myself using words like sedulous, contumacious and even dude, whilst taking out pretentious books from the library. I've contemplated the idea of smoking a pipe on campus and searched for tweed jackets on eBay. I've spent a great portion of time sitting in the sun on Bush Court, eating Bubble O Bill's and laughing at my own jokes. I've received a decent amount of inquiring stares from the multitude of 18 year olds in my tutorials, who never thought that 25 year olds would ever wear bright yellow M&M's t-shirts.

Although I enjoyed my year, there are things that I would have liked to have changed, and maybe some stuff that I would have done. I would have spent more time in the library. I would have talked to many more people. I would have listened to my iPod less and smiled more. I would be more prepared but less worried. I would sleep more and be nicer. I guess that's why they give you three or so years to figure it out. 2010 will bring with it a smiling, studying, successful uber graduate. That's me.

Although this year is over and this blog was started with the intention to give others thinking of returning to study an idea of one person's first year experience, I shall continue on until I feel I am no longer humorous (and yes that means I think I am damn funny right now).

Writing is like free therapy. I get to be less insane and you get to laugh at me. It's a symbiotic relationship.

Okay. I know. I'm terrible.

2008-11-04T00:25:00.000-08:00

So you would think I would have some great excuse for my recent blog absence. "Maybe she has been training to be a brain surgeon in her spare time", some of you may have been thinking but the truth is far less exciting. I went a little blank. Everything I wrote ended up being more like a Christmas shopping list, or an uninspired note that you write on the fridge to let your housemates know that the light upstairs in the hallway has blown. So instead of subjecting you all (Mum and Ben) to drivel while I am out there in the real world living it up with my red parking permit that I received as a prize for doing this blog, I kept silent. And you know silence can be good. Silence is when I get my good ideas. And silence can bring about order and even a little peace. So while I am brewing up something tasty for next week, here is my latest assignment that I submitted for my Creative Writing unit.

Enjoy.

I demand you to.

First Impressions

Her neon dress clutched desperately to her robust frame, slightly transparent in parts where the material struggled to contain what was inside. A chubby hand, rows of rings, sometimes two a finger, pulled at her hem. She exposed her white knickers to the waiting traffic at the crossroad, whether or not it was intentional or by accident wasn’t clear as she sat on the bench behind her, legs crossed, one animal print boot bobbing nervously in the air. Her tortoise shell glasses were pushed awkwardly forward, barely clinging to the tip of her nose, as she peered back and forth over the top of the lenses. They obviously spoiled her vision but I guess they were part of her look. Her long straw-like blond hair was held off her face with a multitude of plastic butterfly clips, some covered in glitter. Bangles, bent into slightly oblong shapes filled her wrists, while strings of brightly coloured beads slowly choked her as they wound tighter and tighter around the rolls of her neck. The contents of her bag had begun to leak out, but she didn’t seem to care. It was like her life was on offer to any who bothered to snatch it up. She knew they wouldn’t.

She looked vague, like she had switched off, feeling life was just too hard. She’d probably been brought up in a family with lots of other children. Quiet. Shy. Her only way of standing out was the outlandish clothes she wore. Her stamp of individuality. Life, in all likelihood, wouldn’t have gotten easier for her as she grew. Finding herself in and out of lover’s arms collecting addictions as she went. Alcohol would have been her drug of choice. Cheap and legal but still powerful enough to blur the hours of nothing into passing seconds. Like sleep, allowing escape and offering protection from stretching loneliness. She most probably spoke seldom, a lacking self-confidence convincing her she had nothing of interest to say.

I sat down on the bench beside her, giving her an encouraging smile, letting her know that there was someone out there who saw her and possibly even cared. Despite her strange appearance I could tell she was a good woman, just starved of the right conditions to thrive. Given the fortunate opportunities that I had, I was sure she would have turned out just like my Nanna.

I liked her.

“You a lesbian?”
My hand automatically flew up and felt my closely cropped hair and I laughed nervously at her bluntness.
“No”
“Short hair. No Makeup. Little bit chubby round the middle. You sure you ain't a lesbian?”
“Yep, pretty sure thanks.”
“Well I guess we can’t all be the pretty ones right? You know Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all. Ugly’s just natures way of separating us all so eventually the good lookin’ ones will survive.”

I was shocked that my Nanna-like creature could actually be so obnoxious. I couldn’t believe how wrong I was about her, but I nodded politely, actually hoping my silence would discourage her from continuing.

She spied my Coles green bag.
“It’s all about saving the fuckin environment these days”
“I know, that fucking environment. What’s it done for us lately?”
My sarcasm was lost on her and I realised that I had just fuelled her anger. I berated myself for attempting to be witty.
“Exactly! It’s getting hotter, which means I had to invest in a brand new wardrobe this summer. The environment gonna pay for that? Nah. And then I can’t even get a cleaning guy to come and clean the gunge off my pool so I can cool me’ self down. You wanna save the environment? Come round and clean me pool, that’s an environmental hazard I’d like to see cleaned. I’d donate to a guy rattling a tin for the freaking “Clean Our Pools Foundation”.

She elbowed me in the ribs, laughter shaking the Lycra covered rolls that tumbled down her midsection.

“Now just don’t get me started on those dole bludgers. I mean I have always…”
I jumped up, waving at an imaginary friend across the road, excusing myself before things could get worse.

I hated her.

Have the Vet Students lost their Bunnies?

2008-09-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

There are bunnies.
Loose at Murdoch.

Spotted with my own eyes several times now. They aren't your regular 'curse Thomas Austin and his yearning for plentiful hunting sport' type rabbits, infested with mexamatosis, but your cuddly type rabbit, long floppy ears and sporting neat little blue jackets, straight out Beatrix Potter. Okay so I was lying about the jackets, but my point being is that if one of them came up to me and introduced itself as Peter Rabbit, I wouldn't be that surprised. They are obviously pet rabbits because on my second spotting I almost stood on one. It didn't flinch, just looked up at me lazily and then continued to chew away at a dying patch of grass.

I was captivated by this phenomenon. Who owned these rabbits? Had they escaped from being tortured with lipstick and blush by the Vet Students? (I forwardly apologise to any vet students reading. Please do not send me angry emails, because I am only kidding. Unless of course that is what you do down there in your secret section of the campus, which I am yet to explore, then I say "Shame on you". :)) Or had someone been followed to school one day, by not a lamb, as in Mary's case, but by a mob of random rabbits?

I enjoy my weekly rabbit spotting, each time adding a different bunny face to my mental collection of the Murdoch Rabbits. In fact I should consider creating a photographic account of these furry wonders. A double whammy, because I could then hand it is as my Photography portfolio due in a mere few weeks.

I only hope this Bunny Invasion doesn't get out of control and we end up with something like this.

If that happens, I may have to become an external student.

So if anyone has either spotted these bunnies, or has an explanation to why they are there, then please contact me. I must know.

I shall never call a cold ‘the flu’ again.

2008-09-09T18:56:00.000-07:00

Growing up I always referred to a cold as ‘the flu’ knowing fully well that with it came far more pity and flat lemonade to soothe my ailing self. A cold seemed to be something that you could just work through. A cough here, a sniffle there. As long as you kept your bodily fluids to yourself people expected you to carry on as normal. The flu however involved sweating, soup and sympathy. Something that is far more desirable not only to a 10 year old trying to get out of the swimming carnival, where the only event they would compete in was the compulsory 25 metre doggy paddle, but to many an adult alike. Many an occasion in my working life have I called in sick, upgrading my cold to the flu simply to avoid the interrogation that comes when they think you’re faking it. Now I am not condoning calling in with a fake sickness, just simply to elevate your simple sickness to one that sounds far more worthy of a day in bed.

This being said, I, in my 25 years of life, have somehow managed to avoid the actual body aching, head exploding, elderly killing flu. So proud I was of this fact that I had considered making a t-shirt exclaiming this achievement, like some kind of demented expression of my resilience, reminiscent of a particular species of baboon that proudly displays a red splendour on it’s chest to suggest, to potential mates, his virility. Whether or not this would work for me was never determined as my t-shirt plans were recently dispelled by my first ever experience of The Flu.

It came quick, swiftly knocking me down while I was still convincing myself that I had just a cold. My head, thick and slow, shot pain behind my eyes and down my spine. Complete stillness brought no relief as bright lights filled my vision and tested my constitution. Chills plagued my body as I lay in trackies, a jumper and ugg boots, in front of the heater wrapped in a blanket, while thirst tormented me, as my stomach rejected water.

Nine days passed in a blur of tissues, vomit, self-pity and stacks of weekly DVD’s collected diligently by my housemate. After shlumping through the haze and beginning to come out the other side, drastically weakened, but well informed about the early years of Baywatch, my thoughts returned to assignments. Though The Flu had stopped my life for 9 days, it had unfortunately left uni life to continue on without me. A glance at my colour-coded timetables immediately informed me to the fact that I had 3 assignments due anon, each demanding my attention and intelligent thought immediately. I staggered at the idea of catching up, a seemingly impossible task that time would simply not permit me to complete. Falling behind was always a fear of mine, one extension granted would simply cut into the time I had allocated for the next assignment, pushing each one back until I found myself collecting shopping trolleys for a living.

I re-scheduled, I planned, I drew up even more colour coded tables hoping that their organisation would magically create more time. Each table spoke worse than the last, their conclusions all the same. I would have to put aside my fear and ask for a couple of extensions. As I typed the emails, instead of increasing my anxiety and causing me to research Ockey Straps and the Idiot’s Guide to Trolley Steering, I found myself relaxing, smiling oddly at my computer, whilst whistling nasally to myself, bringing on a post flu coughing fit. Once my extensions were granted and plausible timetables for their completion were drawn up I realised that perhaps extensions weren’t as scary as I had made them out to be. Just like Return to Oz, which I had rented out during The Flu, a movie that tormented and disturbed me as a child. Scenes of Wheelers and Queen Mombi with the 30 heads had spent 20 years polluting my mind and tainting my soul all because I had thought it was going to be just like the Wizard of Oz, with it’s dancing munchkins and shiny brick road, each turn celebrated with a catchy tune. How wrong I was. After so long of allowing Return to Oz to be placed in my mind along side horror flicks and deranged art works, I decided to give it a chance, after all I was a fully grown adult now. The first 20 minutes filled me with dread as each twist and turn in the plot brought back strong memories of fear, like certain smells or sounds can do. But as it progressed, although it was far darker than the original Wizard, it wasn’t as scary as my 5-year-old brain had thought it was. The experience that I had thought would be painful ended up being…well enjoyable. So although I may not find my assignments, complete with extensions, enjoyable, I no longer fear that falling a little behind and asking for help will necessarily end up with me asking “Do you want fries with that?”

Lecture substantiates hate for Aussie Idol

2008-08-11T06:57:00.000-07:00

Now I don't have anything against music. Nor do I look down upon young people trying to transform their talent into a money filled lifestyle. Hell, if there was a show called "So You Think You Can Recite All The Words To The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy" I would be right there in front of the Burswood Dome at 4 in the morning, fully made up and dressed as an Elf from the Woodland Realm, ready to audition and praying to make it big. Yet Australian Idol makes me want to run way, become Amish and live out my days tending to wheat in Pennsylvania and wearing a cotton pinafore, simply to avoid ever having to watch this show. Why? Because it drains creativity from the souls of the heedless. They go in there to audition and, amongst all the people in weird costumes (some probably mistaking it for the auditions of my LOTR show) their singing reminiscent of either a jet plane taking off or the monotone strangulation of George W choking on a pretzel, they stand out because they can actually sing. Some quite well in fact. Some even play musical instruments which suggest they may have more then just a passing interest in music. You think to yourself maybe this year will be different? These people really seem like intelligent, talented individuals surely capable of producing music that doesn't fade into the background along with The Pussycat Dolls and all those folks who think putting a drum beat to an old song constitutes song writing. But alas, as the weeks continue and they are forced to sing other people's songs, dance around the stage in sometimes hideous and embarrassing outfits, their individual creative talents begin to trickle out of them. Firstly it's indistinguishable, but becomes blatantly obvious when the winner finally produces an album, so far removed from who they used to be but reflecting only who the show has made them. Which is whatever the record company thinks will market well to an audience made up mostly of teenage girls.

Now, today as I sat in a darkened lecture theatre, it's dim lighting and slight stuffy warmness far more conducive to sleep then learning, my hatred for Aussie Idol was justified. Last semester, when tackling a particularly tricky essay I was told by a tutor that you can really argue what ever point you desire as long as you can find someone credible to agree with you and reference them. So just like the moment when you finally come across an obscure book on the bottom shelf of the mustiest corner of the library, written completely in German, but once translated contains the gem of wisdom that supports your argument, which before that was completely unsubstantiated and your argument consisted of "because I think so", my lecturer provided me with the research material I needed to geekify my Aussie Idol argument. No longer did I have to just yell "but I don't like it" louder than those yelling "but I do like it". I had proof. I had someone who agreed with me. I had street cred. Or lounge room debate cred. Whatever you like to call it. He was talking about Post Modernism and in particular the notion of pastiche - the stealing, copying, borrowing of artistic works without any regard to it's meaning or cultural significance. The example was given of Aussie Idol where we watch them sing other people's songs, often without knowing or caring what it's about. Even the judges will say that they aren't engaging with the song. They are not creating. They are not trying to put across a message. They are simply imitating and we just don't care. Well I do, and I am sure others do as well. But now I have the proof. I knew I went to uni for a reason. To win arguments.

Aussie Idol has ruined my life in other ways too. I used to love Michael Jackson's "Can You Feel It", often alarming other drivers with my frantic car dancing, getting so worked up that I am sure other motorists thought I was perhaps having some kind of seizure and just in case, they changed lanes to avoid me. Along with strange looks, this song brought me joy. It's upbeat and makes you want to dance. I guess that's why Aussie Idol decided to use it on their advert. Either that or they have a secret and unfounded hate for me and decided to do it purely out of spite and are currently sitting behind their big mahogany desks, laughing their little asses of at my misery.

You decide.

We're Not Going To Make It

2008-08-05T01:27:00.000-07:00

I live a 2 minute drive from uni. And though you would think that this may in fact encourage me to walk the mere 1.4 kilometers every day, my laziness prevails and I continue to pollute the environment by driving my car whilst putting all my vegetarian, recycling, 4-minute showing taking efforts to shame. I should be penitent but that's what 2 solid months of Star Trek watching will do to one's fitness levels. While I was training to climb to Mt Everest base camp, a fellow loon (aka those who wake up at 6 in the morning, put on a pair of hiking boots, fill a backpack full of water bottles and various other heavy stuff to then proceed to Jacob's ladder in Kings Park and scamper up and down a concrete stair case until it's time to go to work) told me that you can lose your fitness in a measly two weeks. It took me almost a year of training to get fit for Everest and after I conquering that mountain all it took for my newly found fitness to fail me was a couple of weeks eating Nepalese food with my hands, spending most of my time in a taxi/rickshaw/any mode of transport not involving my own personal movement and eating more Nepalese food with my hands. In fact I think that was the only time I moved. Hand from plate to mouth. All the while I was thinking that I would return to Perth a wonder woman and everyone would want to date me as I ran past them, my high altitude-trained lungs working at only half steam propelling me forward like a super hero. When I arrived home I found myself puffed as I struggled to pull my suitcase, visions of Super hero-dom vanishing swiftly like of those plates of food I had consumed only days before. I have never regained that fitness, there's nothing quite like the tallest mountain on earth to get you motivated and funnily enough running the city to surf really didn't cut it for me, so I remain teetering between exceptional laziness and a more moderate laziness. And getting back to the point, Star Trek marathons, involving superfluous snacks, encourage the former kind. Hence the driving.

As it takes me only minutes to drive to uni I often go home in the breaks between classes to make myself a sandwich that costs me only $1.40, instead of spending $7.95 for a funny tasting salad, a big tray of chips, or the world's most expensive apple. I have to save money to fund my eBay habit somehow. And today was one of those days in which I had drove to and from uni a couple of times. After my last class, iPod in, and with a swagger in my walk I strolled in the direction of the car park. Singing along to Marilyn Manson, wondering if it would be possible, like in the movies, to have a soundtrack to my day to day happenings. Cursing the hills as my calf muscles ached reminding me of the cringe you feel as a opera singer hits that high note. Uncomfortable and wondering if an injury will ensue. As I closed in on the car park I realised that I had no idea where I had parked. I had parked in two different areas that day and my surroundings were looking vague and unhelpful. Was it the first or second time that I parked illegally on the median strip? A red Saab caught my eye and I thought maybe I had parked next to it, subconsciously remembering it to avoid such a calamity. Alas, no. There was no car graced with an Apple sticker in sight. I began to worry that I would be forever traipsing the university car park, begging for extensions from passing tutors trying to get to their own cars, because I had never made it home and I didn't have all my books on me. Each row of cars looking identical to the next, I began to jog. Marilyn Manson began to fade in my ears and the strains of a new song began to emerge. I was hoping for something inspiring like "Your Car Is Just Round That Next Corner", you know, that country song by Ima Fullo Shit instead I got "We're Not Going To Make It" by the President's of the USA. My only response at this time was to sit down were I stood and refuse to move, oddly childish of me, but somehow cathartic. I felt my strength returning and as I lifted my head, and leaned on the nearest car for support I realised that that car was mine. I wiped away a tear, gave the tyre a small kick and went home.

The moral of the story....be childish. It works.

School's out for Summer....okay well winter actually, but no one wrote a song about winter.

2008-06-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

Assignments delivered. Exams attended and hopefully completed with success. Old books put away and new ones taken their place, primed for the next semester along with a new timetable, it's colour coding matching the dividers in the pristine notebook sitting on my shelf. It's newness indicative of the new slate that the beginning of new units brings. The semester 1 information that I had fought so bravely to contain within my grey matter, begins slowly to leak out, leaving only remnants of that information, deemed important to remember for future reference. With one semester finished and seemingly never ending weeks till the new one begins, one begins to consider options for the "Hooray, I have finished my exams and have an awfully long time till I have to pick up another book that is not related to either Elves or Wizards and contort my brain into remembering things that it really wishes to forget, all the while creating plenteous excuses not to study" celebration. Some call it simply the "End of Semester" celebration, but I believe the former is a far more vivid and lively description.

Celebrations surrounded me, like geeks surrounding the newest release of World of Warcraft. Logging onto Facebook I saw multitudes of students preparing for the post semester wind up. Parties to the left and trips to Northbridge to the right. If I so desired I could have visited all the great party spots of Perth in, what was described on one event's pages, "the most awesome 10 hours of your life." As I didn't desire anything of the sort I began to consider what I could do in 10 hours that would blow these parties out of the water. It was easy. It was a given. There was no choice really. If anyone has a spare 10 hours and reason to celebrate, I could recommend only one thing. One thing to delight. To maximise those 10 hours in the most worthwhile way possible.

My post exam celebration was to be a Lord of the Rings Marathon. Who needs parties, loud music and alcohol when you could have 10 blissful hours crammed with Gandalf, Aragorn, several Hobbits and a convoluted story about the one ring to rule them all, one to to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them? I say no one. Lord of the Rings provides you with all the sustenance one needs for a post exam repose. It's full of iron, protein, Vitamin B12 and zinc, and so much more that it could be mistaken for Centrum. The only thing it's missing is artificial colourings and flavourings, saturated fat and a shitload of sugar, so being the responsible adult I am, I went shopping to ensure all my nutritional needs would be met......

With a belly full of Pineapple Hunks (okay I am sure they used to be called Chunks, not Hunks), and visions of far away lands enveloping me, creating warmth like a great pair of ugg boots, the next 10 hours of sheer delight were like a pat on the back for all the hard work I had put in over the previous 14 weeks, emptying my mind just enough to allow some room for next semester.

Frodo: "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened."
Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

Earth, Fire, Wind, Water.....Banana?

2008-06-15T04:01:00.000-07:00

By your powers combined I am Captain Exam!

I have discovered the secret to a successful exam. No it's not copious amounts of studying or having the answers written up the inside of your left arm. Neither is it a proficient understanding of the topics covered in every unit. Although knowledge is of course a handy thing to have during exam week, if you want to really succeed, the secret is in pre exam sustenance. We've all heard the term 'brain food' spouted by our mothers and in the old Channel 9 Community Service announcement ads (for those too young to remember these TV wonders, please feel free to check out the You Tube video and be amazed http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-bRi1qHPVY) Food that makes you clever, witty and far more attractive to the opposite sex. Food that would transform a credit into a high distinction. Along with omega 3 packed fish and lycopene filled tomatoes, banana's are a brain boosting marvel and my preferred lifeboat in brain challenging times of need.

I guess they have almost become a bit of a superstition for me. Ever since I was in Year 10, when exams started to become more important then playing elastics in the playground, I have had a ritual of consuming a banana before each exam. The only time I remember not having a Potassium vessel prior to an exam, was a time I would rather forget. The experience was punctuated with memory loss, pencil biting and a unfortunate bout of snoring during reading time. Yes, I had discovered that bananas gives you sprightliness rivaling that of a cheerleading on the night of the big game, first rate memory like that that of an elephant (apparently they never forget) and intelligence so great as to attract the interest of Mensa.

This knowledge in hand I ensured that my fridge was stocked high with bananas and on the morning of my exam, as I crawled out of bed cursing the fact that my exam wasn't in the afternoon instead, I made myself a protein filled, instant smartness-inducing banana smoothie. Considering that my normal waking time was in fact 2 hours after this exam started, and I had only fallen asleep a mere 3 hours earlier, thanks to by banana brekkie I was surprisingly jovial and bright eyed as I approached the Gym. I wizzed through my exam in a banana induced euphoria, stopping only once to be lead to the bathroom like a prisoner. So strange it was to have someone standing outside the cubicle as you peed that I felt compelled to make a break for freedom, Shawshank style, by crawling through the sewerage system and make my way to Mexico. Alas, I allowed my 'prison' guard to lead my back to my table so I could finish my rant on Virtual Reality.

Post exam, as I reflected on my performance I realised that bananas, so great, yet so humble, could be a replacement for one of Captain Planet's Planeteer's powers. I mean all those who watched the show, along with being able to annoy many by singing the theme song, knew that Ma-ti's lame power of Heart did in fact suck. He was the brunt of so many Planet fans jokes and I believe that his power could quite easily be replaced by banana to the satisfaction of even the greatest of Captain Planet fansters. Who needs heart when you have the power of banana to increase your memory, intelligence and of course coolness?

By your powers combined, I am Captain Exam.

The sleeping patterns of uni life

2008-05-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

Since beginning uni, I have slowly been sliding into a new sleeping pattern. No longer am I a slave to the conventions of full time working life. No longer do i follow a schedule set down by the 'man'. Each night staying up a little later and consequently each morning staying in bed that little bit longer, has led me to a consistent bed at 2am, waking at 10am kind of life. Which I adore. I have always abhorred mornings and found myself at my best and most humorous, thus productive, in the wee hours of the night. Now the only emerging problem I have stumbled across with my new found life is that shortly, once exams are over, I will be going back to full time work during the holidays, so I can fund my semester 2 study. Although my part time hours consist of lovely shifts that start at midday, alas my full time hours consist of heart-wrenching, nausea-inducing 6am shifts. YES 6AM!! As the inevitability of these horror shifts get closer and closer, I take a moment to reflect on the last time I had to do one of these murderous shifts.

The irritating and incessant beeping of my alarm startled my early morning dreams of table racing in an Egyptian restaurant, and the moonlight streaming through my vertical blinds reminded me that, for all intensive purposes, that it was technically still night time. The piercing LED’s of my alarm clock shouted out that it was in fact 4.30. This notion confused me as I was sure 4.30 only existed during the afternoon and I feared that if i stepped outside my house that I would be terrorised by the Langoliers, wanting to eat my flesh for being trapped in the time that doesn’t belong. These obviously logical and completely justified thoughts ran through my mind as I stumbled to my iBook to attempt to hack into ‘Michael’ the stupidly unprotected wireless network to check my email.

In between dry retching and sobbing sporadically I managed to shower, dress and jump onto my scooter. As I meandered through the dark and deserted streets, reminiscent of scenes from a horror movie depicting the world after a nuclear holocaust, a cluster of stars began to taunt me with their iridescence. “Look at us”, they gleefully shouted, “If we are still shining brightly, it must nighttime. bwaahahaha”. I looked away, tears glistening in my eyes and thoughts of “why me?” floating through my head. As I picked up speed, the early morning chill descended on my body. My thick wooley jacket, fit for the most arduous and wicked conditions as claimed by the young, fit, blond haired wonder employed by my local Kathmandu store, failed to live up to it’s description as my body began convulsing with the cold. Streams of air attacked at me from every direction. It snuck in under my collar and straight up my sleeves to then encircle my torso, almost creating some kind of bizarre wearable refrigerator. I begin to lose control of my body and the sound of my chattering teeth was magnified and echoed hauntingly throughout the confines of my helmet, while my hot breath steamed up the visor, making the passing cars mere blobs of shining light. My misery was palpable as I wandered into the empty bowels of the hospital, wondering whether the doctors who schedule such early appointments realise the effect they are having on my mental health.

And as I sit here now at my desk, full of red Bull but unfortunately not vodka, it takes all my strength and buddhist training not to start yelling, “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts like cancer!!!”

Art vs. Science – the Battle for Middle Earth, I mean Bush Court.

2008-05-10T11:50:00.000-07:00

Those studying either art or science are like different species. So detached are they, that I, as an artsy kind of student, had to even look up the word species on Wikipedia to ensure my biological classification of both Art and Science students was technically correct. Even the definition I found “A species is often defined as a group of organisms capable of interbreeding and producing fertile offspring” suggested to me that I should stick to accepting dates only from those on ‘my’ side of Bush Court. Now coming from a household where all disciplines are well represented (Business, Pharmacy, Multimedia, Asian Studies, Nano-Science and Philosophy) you would think that I would be all into the ‘hand-holding, we are all the same on the inside’ hoohaa but my weekly foray to the dark side, otherwise known as the Science and Computing Building, starkly illustrates the differences that set us apart.

Each week I cross from the lush, pagoda-filled Social Science and Humanities side of the campus, with it familiar grassy knolls dotted with students lazily perusing their readers whilst sipping frappes, to the funny smelling building filled Science side of the campus, for one of my Foundation tutorials. As I step into the dark, cool and silent building, my anxiety levels rise as I worry that my lack of graphics calculator would distinguish me as an outsider. Whiteboards filled with equations line my passage to my class. The occasional open door reveals desks with sinks and people wearing lab coats, or a geeky master’s student, complete with pocket protector, busily preparing to teach a Physics class. I quicken my pace, eyes down, worried that at any moment, someone wearing safety goggles will pounce at me from one of these doors and demand that I must tell them the atomic weight of Bohrium, if I wish to proceed. This perverted version of Billy Goats Gruff has lead to me writing the periodic table on my left arm. You know, just in case.

I wonder if these science students feel the same way when they venture to ‘my’ side? Do they get worried that someone may ask them to name 4 influential artists of the 20th Century? Can there be love between Art and Science? Can an understanding that we all fear the other bridge the gulf that is Bush Court?

I say yes.

Jiminy Cricket

2008-04-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

What is it like going back to study after quite a few years off? Apart from the drastic change in disposable income and the painful reintroduction to essay writing, I have had noticed an old friend slowly infiltrating my life. It began with dulcet whisperings, familiar to my ears yet strangely unknown, like a voice on the wind. Slowly this voice became louder, my friend announcing his presence with far more verbosity, traipsing through my mind wearing Doc Martins to bruise my very soul.

It was then I had to acknowledge that Jiminy Cricket had returned.

Now for those who have never heard of Pinocchio, he was a little wooden puppet brought to life, who had some issues with lying. He also had an acquaintance, Jiminy Cricket, who was his conscience, telling him what is right and what is wrong. I too, had my own Jiminy Cricket, specifically he was my conscience relating to study. Throughout high school he made appearances when I would play hacky sack instead of study, or write letters (yes, letters! The things that people used to communicate before email was around) decorated with fanciful multicoloured texta concoctions, instead of listening to the teacher talking about Oedipus.

When I left school and began my working life, this presence began to fade, so slowly I did not even notice he was gone. I worked in jobs where you simply did your eight hours of work and the rest of the day was yours to do with what you will. No homework, no study, no constant realisation that there was some kind of work that you could be doing.

But now I am back at uni, every time I do anything unrelated to my education, I am left with a guilty feeling, knowing that I could be using my time more appropriately. That spending 12 hours one day trying to finish the 1989 Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Bros. all the while telling myself that is in fact related to my uni work, as I had a debate on the significance of computer games in society coming up, was in fact a highly enjoyable way of avoiding researching 2 major essays that I have due in the next fortnight.

Jiminy Cricket and I, although we have many differences and some days I feel like attacking him with a can of fly spray, are slowly learning to work together. He's always there, making sure that I don't waste too much of my time with my Nintendo and although I hate him for it, the feeling I get when my assignments are handed in on time is worth it.

The Mecca of Space Food Enthusiasts

2008-04-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this blog is not specifically related to uni, but as a student, high energy snack food is crucial in effective study and I was just far too excited about my discovery not to include this here..........

On my latest grocery shopping escapade to Woollies I made a momentous discovery.

Now I am a bit of a wanderer when it comes to grocery shopping, I like to take my time, saunter down each aisle, perusing the shelves carefully to see what is on offer. I think this is born from the fact that I don't actually get out that much, and that a trip to the local co-op is in fact a highlight of my week.

Now, as I am a fairly healthy person I normally skip the chocolate/biscuits aisle, but on this occasion I threw caution to the wind and hesitantly stepped foot into the brightly coloured wizz-bang passageway of junk food. What possessed me? Was it a gnawing curiosity of what lay inside these multitudes of shelves containing pretty boxes and packets? Or was it simply low blood sugar? Whatever it was, I soon found myself surrounded by a variety of advertising ploys aimed at everyone, from white-trash toddlers, to upper-class baby boomers. Because when it comes to junk food, there is no discrimination based upon race, religion, age or class. Everyone loves a bit of sugar and fat rolled into a great tasting and euphoria-inducing snack. Jumping out at me were psychedelic cartoon characters and neon animals to entice the kiddies. At the other end of the scale were seductive images, rich colours and expensive looking packaging to beguile even the most aloof of adults

So as I wandered slowly, my senses heightened by the sheer excitement, taking in the Old Gold, the Chicos, the Oreo’s of various flavours and the more expensive boxed gift chocolates on the fringes, I spotted something I never would have expected. Something, that if you told me that morning still existed, I wouldn’t have believed you. I would have called you a liar, a cheat, and promptly thrown you from my home. Something I believed to exist only in my past along with Slap Bands, War Heads and Hyper colour t-shirts. I spotted on a bottom shelf, underneath the Savings Brand jelly beans, tucked away, almost hoping to remain unseen, several boxes of Space Food Sticks in their somehow familiar red boxes, with a BMX bike rider on the front.

My reaction was dramatic. My pulse quickened, my mouth became dry and my hands sweaty. I looked around furtively, hoping no one appeared to break the spell that had been cast on me. Was it real? Was I dreaming? Were they really playing “Everything I do, I do it for you” by Bryan Adams over the PA system or had I actually travelled back in time to 1991 when the love affair with space food began? I approached the small red boxes carefully, like you would a mirage, or the end of a rainbow desperately hoping that they wouldn’t disappear when you got close. Only when my fingers closed around the cardboard edges did I return to 2007 and the fluorescent glare of the supermarket aisle, with an over-whelming sense of fulfilment coursing through my veins.

My excitement was palpable, in my wildest dreams I never would have even dared to imagine a return of the beloved Space Food Stick. I thought I was just going to have to continue living a half-life, never feeling content with the snack food available to me. But Lady Luck had sparkled in my direction and brought back my favourite childhood treat.

I finished my shopping in a daze, frequently averting my gaze to the spot in my trolley where my Space Food Sticks lay, seemingly giving off a soft glowing aura. As I approached the checkout and reached for my purse, it’s lightness jolted me back to reality and the memory of my limited shopping budget returned to me. I had arrived at the moment of truth. Do I forsake the holy grail of snack foods, or the nutritious foods that will sustain me throughout my days? My decision was instinctive, my movements swift, as I hid a head of lettuce, some potatoes and an ear of corn behind the chilling drinks that preceded the checkout.

I held my breath as each electronic beep of the scanner brought me closer to my monetary limit, each time fearing it would be the end of my dream. I let out a gasp when she finished, so loud that I startled several of the checkout team and with a huge, slightly frightening smile, I handed over my money and took into my possession the Mecca of space food enthusiasts.

Now, some of you may have never had the great honour of eating food that has been especially designed for consumption by astronauts. Astronauts don’t just get your average Joe Bloe kinda of snack food. They get highly engineered, extensively researched and packed-full-of-flavour kind of treats. They are not like your ordinary human, who has to be a slave to gravity or who extols the virtues of ‘life on earth’. They have experienced life beyond earth and for that they treated like Gods, with their dehydrated Neapolitan ice cream and nutrient-dense food in stick form.

When you eat space food you wonder why you have spent your entire life eating food of the plebs when you could have been living the high life. It’s like drinking Moet when all you have had in the past is Passion Pop, or Heinz baked beans when you have been filling up on Home brand. Horizons are expanded, and a brighter future rears its head. Where you previously saw bad you now see good. Where you saw traffic lights, you now see trees. Wandering teenagers turn magically into frolicking antelopes. Airplanes into heavenly maidens playing celestial tunes on their harps. The world you thought existed was merely an appearance to a mind lacking knowledge and experience of space food. For connoisseurs of the space food genre, the sky’s the limit.

When I left the shop, I headed towards my car, clutching my prize to my chest and hissing at passing shoppers, who in no doubt in my mind, were coveting my discovery and plotting to kill me. I slid into the car, hastily locking the doors and disentangled myself from the green bag that contained my loot. As I removed the box, with the BMX rider smiling knowingly at me, I heard strains of the celestial music and I knew at once that my moment had come. I eased out the first stick and removed it from it’s wrapping. The first stick was always the greatest because you knew there were still five left, just waiting to be consumed. I took my first bite and I knew that my memory had not fooled me. The sweet chocolaty flavour and chewy texture brought me to the verge of tears, so much so, that I almost reversed into the trolley return. My return trip back from the shops was exceptional, each Space Food Stick providing even more pleasure then the last. Sadness only came when my hand reached the bottom of the box, but I reminded myself that greatness must not abused and space food was not to be trifled with.

No one person has the power to possess all the space food in the world and we must be grateful for what small allowances we are given.

As for why there is a BMX rider on the front of a Space Food Stick box? It is a mystery that many great sages have spent their entire life trying to answer. Maybe when we can answer that we will attain enlightenment and live permanently in the bliss of the space food variety.

Meet my fellow Murdoch Bloggers... I insist

2008-04-15T01:20:00.000-07:00

I am not the only one ranting about my first year at Murdoch. For more hilarity and interesting insights into Murdoch life, please check out the following link.

http://www.murdoch.edu.au/News/Meet-our-1st-year-bloggers/

Statistics made me do it

2008-04-14T01:54:00.000-07:00

Statistics show that those who do not make friends within the first few weeks of university are far more likely to drop out, not finish their degree, and most probably continue to lack essential social skills throughout the rest of their lives, relegating them to solitary careers, such as Night Filler at Coles, or Web Designers. Since I do in fact want to become a web designer one day, I was torn between which road to follow, leaning slightly towards staying friendless as it seemed to add to the mystique that I have been working so hard on attaining. I mean, I already have friends don’t I? Friends that know what my favourite drink is, how many tattoos I have, whether I am a morning or night person. Friends who have shared many a hilarious moment, who at the mere mention of the word ‘snowpea’ fall into peals of laughter recalling a shared experience. Friends who aren’t fazed by my tendency to over dramatise everything, and to tell stories with many unnecessary flourishes of the hands, as if I am an old Italian man, hawking his wares on the streets of Sicily. Why would I want to make new friends who wouldn’t appreciate the intricacies that make me….well me? Because if I was to one day become a successful web designer, I would need a degree. And to get a degree, according to statistics, I would need uni friends.

So begins the hunt. Each person I passed now was a potential friend. Although I had many people in my classes who I would give a cursory wave to as we passed each other, there was no one who I would have invited over to my grandmothers house for her famous Chicken Schnitzel (as I have now been vegetarian for five years, I would be served the famous frozen fake chicken nuggets, made from soy, instead, of course). I felt like a hunter stalking its prey, considering each person and deciding whether or not to take the shot. Those I considered ‘good meat’, I would stalk, placing myself in their path so they had no choice but to say hello to me and realise in that instant that I was a great friend to have and would bring much humour and chocolate into any relationship. Those who were ‘bad meat’ were swiftly avoided allowing them to continue on with their herd, unknown to my presence.

One day, as I was scouting Bush Court for potential friends, I heard a call.

“Kacy” it yelled, rattling me, as I knew that it wasn’t a common name and therefore was most likely to be referring to me. I turned and saw in the distance, herded into a neat circle, basking in the sun and sharing the kill they called ‘lunch’, a group of people from one of my tutorials. I was unsure, as I turned to walk towards them, to whether their call was one of mocking my loner status, or a genuine offering of friendship. I felt like I had now become the hunted, my body tense, like a deer startled by a hunter, ready to bound away at the first sign of danger. Nose to the air, sniffing out anything to indicate friend or foe. Wariness clung to my steps even though a smile graced my face. As I greeted those I knew and waved broadly to those I didn’t, I began to worry that I had in fact misheard their call and had just plonked myself, uninvited into their circle, demanding friendship. Their smiles and joking manner, however, put me at ease and I even began to speak with subdued hand gestures, not wanted to scare them off this early, but giving them a taste of what it was like to be friends with me.

Even though they didn’t know my favourite brand of soy milk, or that I was learning to play the piano, these people were genuine, kind and funny. And I realised that all friendships start small and eventually, as well as keeping me on track with my degree, these people that I was sitting with could very well, one day know everything there is to know about me.

You know you're a student when....

2008-04-02T02:39:00.000-07:00

Today I came into some money.

As dodgy as that sounds, it involved no pick-pocketing, swindling or even gambling. I simply got a refund and found myself with the dizzying amount of $65 at my complete disposal. Now in the past, when my income far surpassed my daily expenses, a windfall of $65 would go unnoticed, taken for granted, slipped into my wallet to be left unthought of between some old Supa Value receipts and shopping lists. Or it would be spent on a new season of Quantum Leap on DVD. Or a set of Superman pyjamas that I had been lusting over on eBay. Or a Nintendo character stuffed toy from Fremantle, most probably Yoshi, to add to my collection. In fact, pretty much anything non-essential. But now as a newly poor student, still reeling from my first pay slip since going part time, I clutched my unexpected $65 desperately to my chest, hissing and snarling at passers-by, as I was convinced they were out to rob me. The idea of spending my money on anything remotely exciting and fun didn't even cross my mind, as I ran out straight to the supermarket to buy food. Now it's not like I have been without any kind of food for weeks or anything, but the pleasure I felt at buying chocolate flavoured soy milk, capsicum and a really big box of Nutri Grain was possibly more appropriate for say, the birth of one's first child.

I'll be eating well tonight.

Essays and Family Guy

2008-03-25T22:16:00.000-07:00

8 years have passed since I last wrote an essay. A lot has happened over the past 8 years and although my essay writing skills have laid dormant in the depths of my mind for this time, I assumed all it would take is a quick dust and polish and they would be as good as new. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been using language and writing for these erstwhile years. Surely essay writing will be just like writing an email, or my shopping list. And surely quoting and referencing will be just like when I hear a really funny line off Family Guy and rush to find a pencil and some paper so I can later refer to it and experience the humour all over again, carefully noting the ‘author’ of the line so as not to misquote them or to be accused of plagiarism by a friend far more educated in all things Family Guy then I.

“I never knew Biscuit as a dog, but I did know her as a table. She was sturdy, all four legs the same length…”
(Griffin, Stewie, 2000, The Road to Rhode Island, In Family Guy, USA)

How wrong I was. As I sit here and write my first essay in years, each word painfully flowing from my fingers into the keyboard, face screwed up in literary agony, I breath heavily with exertion and the end of each sentence is celebrated with a nice lean back in the chair and a jatz cracker. As I watch the word count creep closer and closer to the magic number which I know will put an end to my painful reintroduction to essay writing, I find less things to distract me, as the promise of liberation becomes more reality than a mere dream of freedom.

The Week Five Phenomenon

2008-03-24T20:42:00.000-07:00

A strange and unfamiliar feeling invaded my body as I set out for uni. Was it the tofu casserole that I had eaten last night? Or maybe it was the realisation that I had four assessments due already that week? You know, the one that normally resides, sitting comfortably, in the background of your mind, never quite leaving you alone, shouting, mostly unheard, every time you do something else besides study. I was convinced that it somehow had stolen its way to the forefront of my mind and was currently fighting for control of my body, thus causing this unexplained feeling. But as I strolled confidently from my car across Bush Court to the seemingly hidden and out of the way room to which I visit once a week for one of my tutorials, I was hit with a blinding realisation of what that unfamiliar feeling actually was. For lack of a better description, I labelled it the Week Five Phenomenon.

I suddenly realised that I no longer felt lost.

No longer did I walk slowly, meticulously scanning each sign as I passed, hopelessly praying to find one that matched the room number on my print out off Myinfo.

No longer did I have to try to maintain a cool demeanour when I realised I was walking in the complete wrong direction and had to do an obvious about-face, trying to avoid the eyes of the other students who could tell that I was lost and were either secretly laughing at me or feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.

No longer did I linger after a lecture hoping to catch someone who looked like they may be heading off to the same tutorial as me, so I could follow them, all the while trying to act like I am not in fact stalking them and about to steal their small change and their iPod.

No longer did I find out that I was in fact following someone who was heading off to the Ref and not my next class, thus finding my genius plan thwarted and then having to anxiously scan the crowds to find someone else who looks like they too may be going to my next class.

No longer did I have to plan my day with half hour time frames slotted before each class to give myself time to wander the deserted halls of the EH building, convinced that I have somehow sashayed into a restricted zone and would promptly be told off, left to scurry red faced from the teachers lounge, just so I would have time to find my room.

No longer did I turn up to my classes 20 minutes early to be faced with at least half a dozen others who had obviously also scheduled ‘getting lost’ time into their timetables. Faces plastered with shock, that they hadn’t indeed gotten lost.

In the erstwhile weeks I had managed not only to find all of my lecture halls and tutorial rooms, but even all my assignments boxes. And throughout my wanderings I had even discovered the offices of a unit coordinator or two. I had traipsed newly familiar paths and sought out multiple other ways to get where I needed to be.

I felt a disproportionate amount of pleasure at my discovery, more suited to say, the discovery of gravity, or a cure for cancer. But although I didn’t conceive a grand solution to any of the greater problems of the human race, I had achieved what seemed impossible merely a few weeks earlier. To be able to stroll the campus, stop and chat with friends, enjoy the sunshine, all the while knowing exactly where I was headed.

The many things that become severely important when trying to study!

2008-03-20T05:47:00.000-07:00

As I sat at my desk, trying desperately to convince my wayward mind that I in fact really did want to be doing my assignment, my eyes came to rest on a picture of an iMac that hung from my cork board reminding me of the sweet days that would soon be upon me, and any chances of concentrating on something that was not an iMac, were dashed.

My visions of 24” screens, Quad Core 3.2GHz Intel Xeon Processors and sleek packaging that draws me close to weeping with anticipation, were blinded by a startling solution. Not only could I get out of my hot box of a room, and the guilt that follows me around the house whispering softly in my ear every time I sit down to watch an episode of the Amazing Race, but I could also be doing something directly related to my education thus silencing my guilt completely. I jumped onto the Internet with a speed that normally accompanies the arrival of a new DVD in the mail, and found that there was a free Art Show in Fremantle, on which I could base my shortly due Critical Analysis on. I felt a sense of accomplishment usually reserved for after I finish cleaning the house, and proceeded to rifle through my closet trying to find an outfit most closely resembling that of a young, funky yet slightly nerdy art critic.

Putting aside my disappointment at finding a closet full of jeans and t-shirts, I headed towards Fremantle with a smile on my face and Traveling Wilbury’s in my ears.

As my first 30 minutes at the Art Centre passed with only displays of old Merry-go-Round horses and examples of the cells in the old insane asylum in sight, I began to wonder if I had in fact come to the wrong place. The plethora of old people wandering the grounds seemed to confirm my concerns as I expected to be girt by appropriately dressed, young, arty, Fremantlians. Although I was pleased to be the best looking person there, the lack of an art show ate at me like a flesh eating bug. I wandered the grounds trying wretchedly to look like I belonged and wasn’t in fact lost and finally stumbled upon the exhibit I was looking for, that was tucked away right at the back, unsigned and so vague in it’s actual location that I thought they must have done it on purpose to make it more creative. Or to drive off the stupid people, as their displays were so mind blowingly interesting that it was only safe for intelligent people to view. As I found the majority neither mind-blowing or particularly that interesting, my thoughts were filled with worry that I wasn’t as smart as I professed to be, as I sauntered back to the car, finding the outside surrounds far more engaging than the exhibit itself.

My thoughts swiftly turned to food, as I realised how hungry I was. As my blood sugar dropped, my thoughts turned more often to orange juice, jellybeans and hash browns and before I knew it, I was indicating and pulling into my old favourite hangout, the local organic store. Now when one is working full time and earning a decent wage they can be forgiven for indulging in expensive organic produce, but the knowledge that I am now a poor student loomed over me as I tentatively entered the store, wondering if I would set off the ‘poor people’ alarm. The silence and lack of security guards tackling me to the ground shouting, “Can you afford to be here Miss!!” set me at ease and a comforting fondness palliated my tense demeanor. After completing my initial circuit of the store I reviewed my purchases and calculated roughly that to pay for what I had stashed in my basket, I would have to somehow get pregnant, give birth and sell my child on the black market, all in the next 5 minutes, before the old Nonna in front of me finished unloading her San Pellegrino and Pasta Lensi. I again used my superior math’s skills to calculate the odds of accomplishing that feat and my answer caused me to return all but three essential items in my basket. I progressed through the checkout with my drastically desolate purchases and was surprised that I found myself cringing at the exorbitant total as I was quite aware when I entered that I would be using up a weeks worth of icy pole money.

I traveled home, munching on my bio-organic licorice rope and sipping my organic fat-free choc milk, whilst Rod Stewarts voice skipped from the back to the front speakers every time I went over a bump in the road. I opened the window and with my mouth full of licorice, exclaimed to the world “Bring over some of your old Motown records”

O-Week - giving students the chance to run screaming, "What have I done?"

2008-03-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

An insistent and irritating beeping was infiltrating my early morning dreaming and no amount of burrowing into my doona would make it stop. As I reluctantly lurched out of bed to switch off my alarm, the realisation that it was the beginning of O-week brought with it a mix of excitement and anxiety, causing me to somehow both rush enthusiastically and dawdle at the same time. One part of me was yelling, in a high-pitched, responsible and financially aware voice, "Why are you leaving a good paying, secure, full-time job to go back to full time university study at 24 years of age? Just think of all the lovely things that you could buy with all the money that you soon won't be earning! If you stay working full-time, you could buy a wide-screen TV....or a house...or even that original retro Transformer that you had your eye on in eBay." Then, of course, the other part of me realised that I didn't actually like that job that I was doing, that uni would get me a job that I adored and that, in fact, I don't actually even want a large screen TV, a house or even expensive Transformers.......well, okay, maybe I do want the Transformer.

Putting aside my desire to own a large variety of childhood-memory inducing paraphernalia, I allowed my excitement to grow. On arrival at campus, I was met with many new faces, all trying desperately to look like they belonged and wondering if it was cool or not to be wearing your coloured lanyard. I was delighted to see people both younger and older that I. which put to rest my fears that I would be taunted for being 'matured aged' and relegated to the outskirts of university society for the duration of my degree.

Nervous smiles, beautiful surroundings, the dawning promise of a new outlook on life and knowledge. This was the place for me.

New Years Eve 2008

2008-01-20T03:25:00.000-08:00

Remember the days back before slap bands had been banned and when push pops made your fingers sticky. When Uno was king and Super Mario an obsession. Those were the days I remember running down to the local deli to buy 'joker' icecreams and fluffy pink sugary clouds in the middle of a hot summery day. Barefoot as I always was (and usually still am) I would have to scout ahead for the next shady place shaded by a car parked along the roadside, or a rubbish can on the footpath. I would tackle each section of hot bitumen with skill, finesse and as much speed as my little legs could muster. If my next chosen resting place was further than I had judged, and the hot tar of the road began to burn my tootsies, I would progress to the tip toe hoppy jump walk, which is known well to those skilled in hot bitumen crossings. As the summer progressed, as well as developing protective calluses on the soles of my feet, my skill had progressed to the point where no deli was too much of a task for me to get to. Even the one surrounded my a huge carpark with no trees and absolute miles of burning concrete.

Now fast forward to the last day of 2008. Although my habit of wearing no shoes continues, the amount of time I get to spend on bitumen has decreased to almost nothing. Work, friends, spending too much time with my computer. All these factors have contributed to my now woosy feet with no heat protecting calluses anywhere to be seen. I hadn't realised the extent of the woosification of my feet until today.

I had been borrowing a car for a few days and the time had come for me to return the car and jump back on my scooter to continue my reign as Scooter Queen. I jumped into the car and drove off, realising only once I had reached my destination, that I had forgotten to wear shoes. Now under normal circumstances a lack of shoes is no big deal to me. I frequent the shops with no shoes, friends and family's houses, movie theatres and at my most boganish even the occasional pub. But when it comes to having to ride my scooter for 40 minutes on major highways, my shoes are almost like a security blanket and visions of bloodied feet flashed in front of my eyes. Unable to do anything to solve my predicament short of killing a roaming cat to make myself some make-shift pussy boots, I jumped onto my scooter barefoot and fancy free and began the journey home.

Once on my scooter, another problem had arisen. I was wearing a pair of fairly short demin shorts and once straddling the seat my shorts were hitched up so high to the point where I was unsure if I still wore shorts or if i had forgotten to actually dress myself this morning and was currently in public wearing only my knickers. Nice. At least i would give people something to talk about tonight over glasses of New Year's champagne "Now you should have seen this crazy lass scooting down leach highway in a pair of knickers and no shoes!" I was heartened by my ability to bring smiles to random people's faces.

So here I was scooting away, legs, feet and toes getting a damn good tan, when I proceeded to get every single bloody red light. I slowed at each set of lights, praying that they would turn green before I would have to come to a stand still and put my poor little toes on the hot hot road, but alas at every set I had to place my feet on the ground or find myself lying on the road with a 100kg scooter lying on top me and and me most probably crying and swearing.....in a foreign language....most probably elvish. As my weakened feet touched the ground I again was forced to play games to save myself from 3rd degree burns. All my time spent running to the deli as a child was now coming in handy. Who would have thought. I bounced from right toe to left toe, having to quicken my bouncing as the road became hotter and the layers of skin on my feet thinner. The sheer craziness of my situation brought a smile to my face, but the images of what my legs and feet would look like it I fell onto the bitumen at 70km/hr quickly dissolved any humour I was feeling.

To top things off I swear that I was being followed by a white van. I came to the conclusion that the man in the van was following me to check if I really was wearing only knickers on my scooter, as from behind I can only imagine what it would have looked like everytime I brought my legs down and no pants or shorts could be seen from behind.

I somehow managed to make it home and my invincibility coursed through my veins like a drug. I decided that next time I would ride naked....on the freeway.....with a blindfold

The Superhero that is me

2007-09-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

Today i discovered one of the 'adult playgrounds' in my local park. For the uninitiated, this is basically a bunch of logs, poles and bars of varying shapes and sizes that together form a kind of fitness area. I think they were created in the 90's to when they realised that as a whole we were all getting fatter and lazier and thought that we needed some encouragment to shape up. This particualr fitness area was in disarray I guess after the realisation that no number of wooden poles in the local park was going to make us a fit and healthy society set in.   Luckily through the peeling paint on the signs I was able to make out 4 different sets of exercises. I then proceeded with stage one - stretching. I powered through, even though I have the flexibility of a 97 year old elephant who has never been given the opportunity to move what so ever in it's entire lifetime. It was after I moved onto stage 2 that I had to begin to check that no one was watching before I began each exercise. My instinct was right as I attempted the vault jump, and not having jumped in any way or form for at least the past 5 years, my feet didn't reach quite high enough, they clipped the pole and I fell into the sand. After a furtive look around to check if my pride should be bruised as much as my ankles were, I went onto the next exercise, only to discover that my arms had become like those of a indian swami who has been sitting under a tree meditating for 50 years, and they would no longer hold my body weight.   I was excited by the discovery that i no longer had any physical prowess left at all and I was relegated to a life of sitting in front of a computer, eating canned pie apple and sipping coola cordial.   I left the fitness area, after being defeated by almost everyone of those pices of wood and occasional bars of metal with the determination to return tomoro and attempt another chin up.