Convention centres should have beanbags, a pile of extra seat cushions, or comfortable chairs. And footrests.
Now I’m through with complaining, onwards to Continuum 8: Craftonomicon!
My brain was twitching slightly after the first day, because the influx of information was gigantic. Sadly, I haven’t gone to every panel, partly because this is the first time I’ve been away in ten years, and faffing about reading my book(s) and generally wandering about Melbourne had a really strong pull.
The first panel I attended was “Gender and Sexuality in Speculative YA”. The panellists were Kate Eltham, Alison Goodman and Margo Lanagan.
To catch anyone up who is confused by that title, YA is young adult fiction, and if you roam about the teen/young adult fiction section in your local bookshop*, you’ll notice that a great deal of it is considered “speculative fiction” (specfic): either fantasy or science fiction or a mix of the two. Titles don’t really matter in specfic, unless you’re working in the genre. If you’re a reader, big whoop if the story is good**.
Of course, being aimed at teens and young adults, the content and themes of YA will eventually, if they’re doing their job, raise gender, sexuality and transgender issues.
The publishing industry is very conservative in YA, and the argument could be made that it is at it should be: children do not (should not?) have sex or be considering sexuality in concrete terms until they come of age. That’s an interesting viewpoint and one I think is ridiculous on its most superficial level. It’s called YA: young adults are of age.
Teen readers emerging shortly into young adulthood, or discovering questions about themselves cannot be expected to land squarely in their gender identity or sexual orientation simply by reaching young adulthood. Straightforward story, allegory and/or fable can tell us how to live (or rather, how we tell ourselves to), and provide insight on conditions that we may never encounter amongst family and friends.
Without meaning to teach my granny how to suck eggs, that’s where I was up to before I walked into the panel. The ladies of the panel have said it better, but I’m steaming ahead anyway.
The issues facing writers working in YA and trying to get published is being mindful of the conservative: while romance is romance (paranormal or not), “less common sexualities” are considered rare. While not wanting to make a really big point about it. That raises the question of “alternatives” having a value. Personally I question the inherent value judgement of the “alternative” as other, when gender and sexuality come down to essentially human. (That last is Alison Goodman’s point in describing her character in Eon, but one I agree with).
The point was also made that discussing sexuality and gender not your own (separate to it being “other”), is that there is a cultural propriety issue. Inserting yourself into a culture that you are not part of can be cheeky to say the least and can go horribly wrong. Apologies to Margo Lanagan, because I think I’ve quoted her directly without realising it.
There is also the consideration that YA is almost exclusively read by girls. Check out Hannah Moskowitz on the dearth of real male characters and boys bypassing YA and going straight to adult fiction.
Hannah Moskowitz makes a good point about the empowerment of girls, three-dimensional and often violent. That we need to empower girls so they can believe they can do anything, yes, good, but it comes down to (and here I am back in the panel) creating a false reality for young women as they go out into the world. Having read their way through awesome-girl YA, most will assume that they really can do whatever they want.
In terms of getting a job or biffing people (if that’s your style), it really comes down to skill set, and your development and dedication. Being a girl doesn’t award you with the ability to do anything, any more than it does for boys (I think this might be my rant now). While that might read like a whack against feminism, that’s not where I’m going. I deplore the view that saying men and women are equal is sometimes taken that way.
The whole point of equality is equality, not sameness. It is the availability of opportunity regardless of gender. I can do many of the same things my male counterparts can do, sometimes better, sometimes worse. I have a skill set that pays no attention to my chromosomes or my parts – it has been an accretion of skills and experience. I prefer the idea of humanity approaching equality and therefore real choice without limits other than ability, and not as a result of gender, and I’ll throw in all of the other societal limits: money, culture (where it does affect opportunity), feel free to add to the list.
That’s outside the panel, though still part of the argument; YA (most of it) is about the gaining of personal power. Not in the sense of ruling the world, but in the sense of allegory: the reader is coming of age.
The false reality of a lot of YA (and Kate Eltham described it as “Buffy-sized” heroines) is partly due to the fact that the story provides snapshots of time in a character’s life. A montage or a paragraph detailing the years of training is not the same thing as living through all of those boring bits.
*If you can find a local bookshop. Mine just closed down.
**In my opinion. Purists differ.
The next panel was “Daikaiju Go Heavenly!” and the panellists were Dirk Flinthart, David McDonald (can’t seem to find a link for him, oops) and Cat Sparks.
I’ll confess at the outset that I had no idea what Daikaiju meant or rather, are, but the blurb sounded fascinating.
“What if the gods were daikaiju? Could Buddha beat Jesus, could Loki outwit Allah? Is anyone strong enough to defeat Thor and his mighty Hammer? Jade Emperor, Kali, Ganesh. Which deity will reign supreme, or will king of the daikaiju Godzilla crush them all?”
Well after deciding that the gods on Earth would probably manifest from their giant statues, there was discussion about the giant super-Jesus statue in Brazil coming to life. Seeing as how the statue is on the cross already, he is aerodynamically fit for flying and could harry Godzilla quite a bit.
Then there is the giant Buddha in Phuket – but would Buddha fight? Well, this panel thought probably not, being against the ethos of the Buddha. I would have thought the same thing about Jesus, but by the by.
Since Australia is known for the Big everything, perhaps they qualify as daikaiju, and could gang up on super-Jesus.
Once the possibilities include statues, how about the Sphinx? One problem: Godzilla is shit at riddles. Oh well.
But for something interesting, check out the Bloop. There are many things unexplained out there. (Although I do like the idea of ice-calving).
The next panel was “Turning the Gears: Steampunk Craft”. The panellists were Nicole Canal, Paul Poulton (who has awesome facial hair), Michael Pryor (who has some awesome fashion) and Jo Spurrier.
I don’t have a lot to say about this one, although the steampunk aesthetic appeals to me in many ways, but Jo Spurrier mentioned the wood-burning USB charger. The stove really exists, and if you don’t believe that, here’s a short video. So the zombie apocalypse is looking less scary – at least I’ll be able to use my iPad.
I disappeared for a little while then so myself, small lad and husbandly could Skype. We’ve never used it before and it was lovely to see the boys’ faces.
The next panel was “You Say You Want a Revolution”, examining social networking tools in the context of protest, to wit, is it twitter or is it people causing revolutions? The panellists were Dave Cake, m1k3y , Rjurik Davidson, also of Overland magazine, Roman Orszanski and Sarah Stokely.
The springboard for this was the quote from V for Vendetta: “People should not be afraid of their governments, governments should be afraid of their people” (Alan Moore), and the meltdowns in the Middle East.
Given the tremendous power of social networking tools to provide instantaneous communications, the use of twitter and facebook in Egypt and with the Occupy movement raises some questions. If social media platforms were integral, were they the cause of revolution, or simply a tool?
Rjurik Davidson pointed out that posters can have the same effect, and that the advantages of social media are the speed of their messages.
The disadvantages of tools which rely on either corporations or licensed technology are that the corporation may (or may have to) bow to external pressures to shut down these tools, and whoever holds the licence or polices regulation of the internet can attempt to disrupt free speech by simply closing down the network. In addition, the use of monitored technology has several consequence for free speech.
The most obvious of this is surveillance and the erosion of privacy, in particular the potential for government bodies (the FBI was mentioned here) to monitor and profile groups and individuals in their exercise of free speech.
It was pointed out that the majority of usage was for trivial things (my use is often about what I’ve cooked for dinner, so I cringe slightly here), and that both facebook and twitter were primarily designed as distractions: speech and immediate response without deep thought. And how. Even working within email a great deal, the responses can come back where it is clear the recipient hasn’t read what you’ve written, and has replied to what they think you’ve said.
I’m inclined to think that that will change the longer these platforms are used. The majority of my email traffic has been professional, and subject to use by people that are twenty to thirty years older than me, or if they are in my age group, with less familiarity with both the written word (as communication) and the use of email, other than sending around the latest funny picture, youtube link or tiresome joke I’m sure I read first three years ago.
Back to the point and the panel, are these technologies liberational? Since they allow free speech (at least until you hear the jackboots or get a visit from some clean cut young persons), does the platform mean that we can speak freely? Well yes, and more of us can (and do). It has to be said that the vast majority of people use these platforms for simply staying in touch with their friends rather than making political points, and occasionally sharing the thought-provoking moment. (Apologies to a lot of my facebook friends here, who often post thought-provoking material – political or otherwise). (Twitter it goes without saying, since I follow a lot of journalists).
The argument in defence of the “trivial” post was this: the greatest defense of freedom (and free speech) is its exercise. Keep saying what you want to say, regardless of the content.
The most troubling part of this argument for me was the mention of anonymity. That anonymity is integral to free speech in oppressive society, but even in places like Australia. While the police aren’t about to kick open my door because of something I’ve said online, anonymity can have its uses. The troubling part of this for me is old-fashioned: if you have something to say, stand up and say it, as yourself.
There are vast numbers of voices on the net. Could it be possible that your voice is ignored, since it only has an internet profile and no other identity? As a younger woman I would have gotten out my soapbox and made speeches on exactly this thing and urged everyone to be brave. Now I have a child, I worry. I want my son to question everything he is presented with, not to challenge it for the sake of the challenge, but to make informed decisions about how to live. But am I willing to risk my freedom and his? There’s a thorny question. If we lived somewhere where arrest was the only result of protest, you bet I would be anonymous. But we don’t, and the question remains.
If I ever have an answer, I’ll be sure to post.
Check out: Tactical Technology, a website packed with tips and tools for using the internet anonymously and a great one for tracking your digital shadow (I looked at mine, and I’m very scared now, *snort*). Also check out Overland Literary Journal for your provocation.
The next panel was a Joss Whedon fest which involved a lot of back and forth about he and all his works. Enough said.
That was the end of day one, and what a day it was. Since I’m way past my usual word limit, I’m tying off here and coming back to it later.
Apologies to any of the panellists at Craftonomicon if I’ve missed them out (or gotten any wrong). On the off chance any of you have read this, email me and I’ll correct any mistakes.
Thanks for slogging through so far. Laters.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Finish, Good Lady.
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Melbourne. It has been my temporary home for the last three days while I and a couple-hundred other people attend Continuum 8: Craftonomicon, the 51st national science fiction convention. This is the first convention I’ve ever been to and it has been a hoot so far.
I also haven’t been away from home, on my own, in about ten years, since before small lad was born. I haven’t flown since 2005, either, so this has been an adventure on many levels thus far.
I haven’t posted very often this year, despite a New Year’s resolution to post more regularly, because first I ran out of things to blather about, then I didn’t particularly want to post my thoughts on the foibles of friends and ex-friends that were driving me nuts. It seemed rude. But I think I can sum it all up by saying: nothing. It isn’t worth the brain space. But the threnody lingers on.
Last Thursday, having purchased new luggage (it’s red!), I betook myself off to the train station, having dropped small lad at school with many promises to ring him that evening. After raising my eyebrows at the cost of my train ticket (to the airport is a little less than four times the cost of a ticket to the city), up and down I go with my nifty case on wheels (wheeeee!) to catch my train.
At the station I got to listen to a girl who was flying overseas for the first time and calling herself an idiot for packing too much stuff. Her Mum was with her, but she was having this conversation very loudly on her phone. (Her luggage weighed thirty-six kilos. Which was over her weight limit. Why didn’t she just pack differently?). Her plan was to weigh in and hand over anything she didn’t think she would need to her mum to be taken home again. (Why didn’t she just pack differently?)
That mystery of life got me through the waiting for the train, so I was glad. I had my book to read, a cliché I think, travelling to a speculative fiction convention reading the Fellowship of the Ring, but I fancied it, so there. I read my book. I looked out of the window. I talked to a gang of little old ladies about the weather. They were jaunting into town for something and discussing somebody’s grandkid, who was the grandkid the somebody liked.
I was starting to think by this stage I really don’t get out enough, because this was both hugely entertaining and somewhat bizarre.
At Sydney Airport I had a blonde moment and try to check-in after checking in online the day before. Why not, I say. There were some very tense people, some very relaxed people and some very confused people at check-in and bag drop-off, but little or no real worry about people pushing in, or being let in ahead of others – people at fun parks take note.
The security checkpoint was pretty blah, although I did have to go back and take off my shoes. Glad it wasn’t the underwire in my bra – taking it off under my shirt is no drama, but putting it back on (under the shirt) has a technical difficulty of 9.5. I've only ever achieved an 8.3.
There is so much food at Sydney Airport. And wine. They have wine-tasting booths in the terminals, which I didn’t partake of, despite the temptation. I wonder if it’s a type of flight insurance – the plane may crash, but you’ll be relaxed and not hurt yourself too badly.
On the plane I had another blonde moment and sat in someone else’s seat (I don’t know if all six of you who read this blog know this, but I can neither read nor count). The plane banked right just after takeoff and I goggled down the wing at the ocean below. Great view. Then I went back to reading my book. Then I’d look out the window again.
On descent, when my eardrums tried to burst themselves (the ascent didn't bother me that much, for which I was profoundly grateful), a bub at the end of the plane started crying miserably. Obviously her ears hurt too. I felt sorry for mum, who started shushing bub with ever more increasing 'be quiet!' tones than 'it's okay honey, I know it hurts" ones.
Normally I plan my travel better than this, but for some reason decided that I’d just wing it from Avalon airport. I was scared. But there was a transfer service, and the coach was very fancy – there were seatbelts – to Southern Cross station (Spencer Street for oldies like me, or at least I feel I’m an oldie). It was a pleasant ride; more looking out of the window and reading and looking and reading. Since I’d been sitting in a train, plane and bus, I decided to walk to my hotel. Plus, I couldn’t seem to catch a cab. It was only a thirty minute walk (and I’m thinking of repeating the performance on the return trip), but possibly ill-advised. I arrived at the hotel wind-blown and a bit breathy, which did nothing for the man on reception. Which was a pity, because I bought a new bra before the trip and the girls have never looked so awesome. Someone else came up to the reception counter just after me, asking a question and ReceptionMan said, “I’ll just book this person in.” Sadly, not my emphasis, and, well, rude. Meh, maybe he was having a bad day. Everyone else has been utterly nice and professional (occasionally two mutually-exclusive states).
It did underline the journey for me, though, that I’d had a physical embodiment of it being the journey that matters and not the arrival.
I went for a wander around, having looked at the mini-bar (not a thrilling collection of nibbles) and deciding I needed more fortifying fare. I discovered a second-hand bookshop just across the road, so my day was pretty much made right then and there. Then I got some olives, cheese and mineral water (and wine for the next day). The slightly mortified looks of other guests in the lobby when I returned was amusing – that look, gak!, look away!, sequence always cracks me up. I always expect it to be followed by the raising of a lady’s fan and fanning the face rapidly. But then my associative thinking is a bit weird.
Then I talked to husbandly and small lad, who for some reason asked if the nibbles and the hotel room and the second-hand bookshop taken all together was heaven. Sure, if he says so.
I sat up in my hotel bed with nibbles and watched mindless television. All in all, small lad was right.
However, I discovered our beautiful bathroom with the entirely pool-like bath has spoiled me for all other bathtubs, particularly those that only hold a small bucket’s-worth of water. The view out of my window is a dark brown brick wall*, some beige window boxes with scraggly plants and next to them, air conditioning fans. Ew. And why is the linen in my room white? I keep checking it repeatedly to see if I’ve spoiled it.
I do need to get out more.
*I've been very careful to close the curtains when I'm getting ready to have a shower, because I don't wnat anyone to see me naked through the window. Oh wait...
I woke up early the next morning to a lovely greasy breakfast (bacon and eggs!), then went back to bed for a few hours. Then I went walking, on my way to shopping. Strangely in my head there’s some guilt-reversal happening there: rather than walking off the breakfast, I was walking off the shopping.
It was a burgundy leather coat. Mmmmm, graaaarrr, leather. And shiny things. For hair.
Then the convention started, and more of that anon, anon, Sir!
I also haven’t been away from home, on my own, in about ten years, since before small lad was born. I haven’t flown since 2005, either, so this has been an adventure on many levels thus far.
I haven’t posted very often this year, despite a New Year’s resolution to post more regularly, because first I ran out of things to blather about, then I didn’t particularly want to post my thoughts on the foibles of friends and ex-friends that were driving me nuts. It seemed rude. But I think I can sum it all up by saying: nothing. It isn’t worth the brain space. But the threnody lingers on.
Last Thursday, having purchased new luggage (it’s red!), I betook myself off to the train station, having dropped small lad at school with many promises to ring him that evening. After raising my eyebrows at the cost of my train ticket (to the airport is a little less than four times the cost of a ticket to the city), up and down I go with my nifty case on wheels (wheeeee!) to catch my train.
At the station I got to listen to a girl who was flying overseas for the first time and calling herself an idiot for packing too much stuff. Her Mum was with her, but she was having this conversation very loudly on her phone. (Her luggage weighed thirty-six kilos. Which was over her weight limit. Why didn’t she just pack differently?). Her plan was to weigh in and hand over anything she didn’t think she would need to her mum to be taken home again. (Why didn’t she just pack differently?)
That mystery of life got me through the waiting for the train, so I was glad. I had my book to read, a cliché I think, travelling to a speculative fiction convention reading the Fellowship of the Ring, but I fancied it, so there. I read my book. I looked out of the window. I talked to a gang of little old ladies about the weather. They were jaunting into town for something and discussing somebody’s grandkid, who was the grandkid the somebody liked.
I was starting to think by this stage I really don’t get out enough, because this was both hugely entertaining and somewhat bizarre.
At Sydney Airport I had a blonde moment and try to check-in after checking in online the day before. Why not, I say. There were some very tense people, some very relaxed people and some very confused people at check-in and bag drop-off, but little or no real worry about people pushing in, or being let in ahead of others – people at fun parks take note.
The security checkpoint was pretty blah, although I did have to go back and take off my shoes. Glad it wasn’t the underwire in my bra – taking it off under my shirt is no drama, but putting it back on (under the shirt) has a technical difficulty of 9.5. I've only ever achieved an 8.3.
There is so much food at Sydney Airport. And wine. They have wine-tasting booths in the terminals, which I didn’t partake of, despite the temptation. I wonder if it’s a type of flight insurance – the plane may crash, but you’ll be relaxed and not hurt yourself too badly.
On the plane I had another blonde moment and sat in someone else’s seat (I don’t know if all six of you who read this blog know this, but I can neither read nor count). The plane banked right just after takeoff and I goggled down the wing at the ocean below. Great view. Then I went back to reading my book. Then I’d look out the window again.
On descent, when my eardrums tried to burst themselves (the ascent didn't bother me that much, for which I was profoundly grateful), a bub at the end of the plane started crying miserably. Obviously her ears hurt too. I felt sorry for mum, who started shushing bub with ever more increasing 'be quiet!' tones than 'it's okay honey, I know it hurts" ones.
Normally I plan my travel better than this, but for some reason decided that I’d just wing it from Avalon airport. I was scared. But there was a transfer service, and the coach was very fancy – there were seatbelts – to Southern Cross station (Spencer Street for oldies like me, or at least I feel I’m an oldie). It was a pleasant ride; more looking out of the window and reading and looking and reading. Since I’d been sitting in a train, plane and bus, I decided to walk to my hotel. Plus, I couldn’t seem to catch a cab. It was only a thirty minute walk (and I’m thinking of repeating the performance on the return trip), but possibly ill-advised. I arrived at the hotel wind-blown and a bit breathy, which did nothing for the man on reception. Which was a pity, because I bought a new bra before the trip and the girls have never looked so awesome. Someone else came up to the reception counter just after me, asking a question and ReceptionMan said, “I’ll just book this person in.” Sadly, not my emphasis, and, well, rude. Meh, maybe he was having a bad day. Everyone else has been utterly nice and professional (occasionally two mutually-exclusive states).
It did underline the journey for me, though, that I’d had a physical embodiment of it being the journey that matters and not the arrival.
I went for a wander around, having looked at the mini-bar (not a thrilling collection of nibbles) and deciding I needed more fortifying fare. I discovered a second-hand bookshop just across the road, so my day was pretty much made right then and there. Then I got some olives, cheese and mineral water (and wine for the next day). The slightly mortified looks of other guests in the lobby when I returned was amusing – that look, gak!, look away!, sequence always cracks me up. I always expect it to be followed by the raising of a lady’s fan and fanning the face rapidly. But then my associative thinking is a bit weird.
Then I talked to husbandly and small lad, who for some reason asked if the nibbles and the hotel room and the second-hand bookshop taken all together was heaven. Sure, if he says so.
I sat up in my hotel bed with nibbles and watched mindless television. All in all, small lad was right.
However, I discovered our beautiful bathroom with the entirely pool-like bath has spoiled me for all other bathtubs, particularly those that only hold a small bucket’s-worth of water. The view out of my window is a dark brown brick wall*, some beige window boxes with scraggly plants and next to them, air conditioning fans. Ew. And why is the linen in my room white? I keep checking it repeatedly to see if I’ve spoiled it.
I do need to get out more.
*I've been very careful to close the curtains when I'm getting ready to have a shower, because I don't wnat anyone to see me naked through the window. Oh wait...
I woke up early the next morning to a lovely greasy breakfast (bacon and eggs!), then went back to bed for a few hours. Then I went walking, on my way to shopping. Strangely in my head there’s some guilt-reversal happening there: rather than walking off the breakfast, I was walking off the shopping.
It was a burgundy leather coat. Mmmmm, graaaarrr, leather. And shiny things. For hair.
Then the convention started, and more of that anon, anon, Sir!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Eyes Of Cyclone, Newt and Frog.
Good morning. Today I would like to talk to you about the best laid plans of mice and men. I'm in the wrong gender, but that's never bothered me before, so why worry about it now? At least this time I'm not holding my metaphorical penis* in my hand with nowhere to put it or nothing to do with it. Tonight's biggest plan was to be reading a book and managing a blog entry. I'm a hospital scientist and this is my lunch hour.
*I'm more often accused of having a pair of testicles, but what's the point of metaphor if you can't usea bit of (poetic) license?**
Bollocks***. Phone again.
**That sentence sounded way better in my head. Way.
***More metaphor! If you want real ones, you'll have to either go for your own lap (and if it is your own lap, you don't need directions from me), or find a willing participant in your bollock-yearning.
Instead tonight's shift has been a little busy. Check that understatement. Awesome, yes?
To which you must say, "yes awesome", and keep any eye rolling, sneering or giggling at my expense to a discreet minimum or behind discreet camouflage. Such as a pot plant. Not very discreet, I suppose, but right now I would like a pot plant. A big one. I want to hug a tree and a pot plant would do in lieu.
My head is strange this morning (could you tell?). This is the eye in the cyclone and the wind is making noises outside. Any minute now one of the lovely lads from theatre will appear at the door and a house will fly past the window - and me without my Toto*. Since I'm also on the ground floor, I don't want to still be here if the building gets picked up and dropped - a Biochemistry department falling on my head would be no fun at all (Special Chems or not). Also the resulting cacophony from the alarms as the power failed would be very off-putting. Although I might get the satisfaction of ripping the most annoying one out of the wall. Perhaps I should hope for a trip to Oz. Then again, Microbiology is on top of Chemistry and they smell, so maybe not.
*Unless I name that cockroach from a few months ago.
Or no-one is coming. Perhaps no-one will come until the day staff arrive and I will have worried for nothing. It isn't fear, exactly; I've been doing this for too long to be afraid of what might come next*. It's bouncy feet. Being on the balls of your feet, ready to go. With nowhere to go.
* Although I can, without fail, make the blood drain out of my face by thinking of the phone call I hope I never receive: "Hi Blood Bank, I'm calling to notify you we have multiple casualties inbound; we need to activate the Disaster Protocol." Or simply: "Code Brown". Get your spare trousers out, kids!
Strange that a code brown (external) scares me a lot more than our lovely other colour-coded codes. I'll see your code brown with a code black (personal injury*), raise you a purple (bomb**) and a yellow (internal).
Yellow (grab your other spare trousers, kids!) is supposedly for internal emergencies, which may include:
By whom? The feral cats hiding next to the car park?
*Presumably without a lawyer. I was thinking this whole riff on code black actually being about compensation claims, but it just fell apart.
**Kaboom. Kaboom-boom-boom.
*** And, as it says in the flip-chart, in the event of a chemical, biological or radiation incident, the first thing you must do is cover your mouth.
Time for me to start up machines and whatever else. Probably a good thing, because I seem to have broken the circuit between my mouth and my brain - or at least what passes for taste in my head. Someone asked me a few minutes ago what what placenta accreta is - and according to me it's a quick trip to a hysterectomy, thanks for coming.
Since I'm being offensive, I may as well say I always thought the cabbage patch in hospitals was not a coma ward, but a slightly more inventive name for CABG patients (coronary artery bypass graft).
Time to faff. And tidy. Night.
*I'm more often accused of having a pair of testicles, but what's the point of metaphor if you can't usea bit of (poetic) license?**
Bollocks***. Phone again.
**That sentence sounded way better in my head. Way.
***More metaphor! If you want real ones, you'll have to either go for your own lap (and if it is your own lap, you don't need directions from me), or find a willing participant in your bollock-yearning.
Instead tonight's shift has been a little busy. Check that understatement. Awesome, yes?
To which you must say, "yes awesome", and keep any eye rolling, sneering or giggling at my expense to a discreet minimum or behind discreet camouflage. Such as a pot plant. Not very discreet, I suppose, but right now I would like a pot plant. A big one. I want to hug a tree and a pot plant would do in lieu.
My head is strange this morning (could you tell?). This is the eye in the cyclone and the wind is making noises outside. Any minute now one of the lovely lads from theatre will appear at the door and a house will fly past the window - and me without my Toto*. Since I'm also on the ground floor, I don't want to still be here if the building gets picked up and dropped - a Biochemistry department falling on my head would be no fun at all (Special Chems or not). Also the resulting cacophony from the alarms as the power failed would be very off-putting. Although I might get the satisfaction of ripping the most annoying one out of the wall. Perhaps I should hope for a trip to Oz. Then again, Microbiology is on top of Chemistry and they smell, so maybe not.
*Unless I name that cockroach from a few months ago.
Or no-one is coming. Perhaps no-one will come until the day staff arrive and I will have worried for nothing. It isn't fear, exactly; I've been doing this for too long to be afraid of what might come next*. It's bouncy feet. Being on the balls of your feet, ready to go. With nowhere to go.
* Although I can, without fail, make the blood drain out of my face by thinking of the phone call I hope I never receive: "Hi Blood Bank, I'm calling to notify you we have multiple casualties inbound; we need to activate the Disaster Protocol." Or simply: "Code Brown". Get your spare trousers out, kids!
Strange that a code brown (external) scares me a lot more than our lovely other colour-coded codes. I'll see your code brown with a code black (personal injury*), raise you a purple (bomb**) and a yellow (internal).
Yellow (grab your other spare trousers, kids!) is supposedly for internal emergencies, which may include:
- gas leaks,
- chemical and/or biological spills***
- failure of emergency power supply
- blah blah more obvious things
- illegal occupancy
By whom? The feral cats hiding next to the car park?
*Presumably without a lawyer. I was thinking this whole riff on code black actually being about compensation claims, but it just fell apart.
**Kaboom. Kaboom-boom-boom.
*** And, as it says in the flip-chart, in the event of a chemical, biological or radiation incident, the first thing you must do is cover your mouth.
Time for me to start up machines and whatever else. Probably a good thing, because I seem to have broken the circuit between my mouth and my brain - or at least what passes for taste in my head. Someone asked me a few minutes ago what what placenta accreta is - and according to me it's a quick trip to a hysterectomy, thanks for coming.
Since I'm being offensive, I may as well say I always thought the cabbage patch in hospitals was not a coma ward, but a slightly more inventive name for CABG patients (coronary artery bypass graft).
Time to faff. And tidy. Night.
Friday, January 6, 2012
It's a Bit...Squinky.
Over New Year's our household had no hot water. It was only for a few days, and fixed quickly. I married Tim the Toolman, you see - although this time around there wasn't a mad dash for a new element in a shop - husbandly had a spare stashed away. Of course, you probably don't care about this, but I mention it because it was so little a drama. No waiting for a serviceman (with a big bill just for the call), no what-will-we-do-without-hot-water, just a lot of getting on with it.
SPOILER.
We watched the Doctor Who Christmas special (of course we did), The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe and it was one of the best episodes I've ever seen. Don't read any further if you haven't seen it and want to (because I hate knowing even part of a plot - fair warning).
The Doctor helps a lady who has just lost her husband, but being the run up to Christmas, she hasn't told her children. She says, "...because then Christmas is the thing that took their father away." Husbandly looked over at me at this line, waiting for my head to start revolving, since my (foster) mother died on a Christmas morning. Quite some time ago now, but Christmas has been a bit like a semi-rotted chocolate box since. Sometimes it's a nice choccy and other times it's only fit for the bin. The only thing I could think was how nice it is to have a parent who protects you (and have a tear or two roll down my cheek). It would be entirely unfair to say I didn't feel protected as a kid, but true nonetheless. So it goes. (A violin starts playing somewhere, snort.)
SPOILER END.
I've had two days off this time, which really boils down to one since I spent the first day asleep. We have clean things! There is more ironing to do than ever before. Gak!
Today, or what's left of it, will be spent ironing and washing and possibly some more sweeping. It's a hard life.
Small lad is once again playing with the (actual) Lego, having put some away and then pulled the some back out again. I can hear a running dialogue in different voices of the good guys and bad guys having at each other, although sometimes there is only the tone with no words. Yesterday and the day before there was a lot of "nee-nor, nee-nor" as the police chased down bad guys on the plethora of vehicles that came with the kit. It's a hard life.
Husbandly is off somewhere still working on the solar heating things, honestly I just nod my head and smile (or shake my head and ask why). It seems to make him happy.
Tonight there will be roast lamb. Laaaamb. Mmmmmm, graaarrr.
One of the things I used to hate, and possibly still do, though not with the same passion, was being characterised. I loathe explaining something I think or mean and have the person say "so you mean 'X'", only they've got it wrong. It's another way of labelling - encapsulating the complex into a small, easily identifiable box. I know a group of people who do this, all to almost the same degree of certainty, and it's the certainty of the capsule definition that chaps me. It's a kind of first impression, where the meaning received is imposed over the meaning transmitted. Changing someone's mind about what they think you said or meant is more difficult than you would think.
Can you really know another person? Or is your knowing filtered through your own perception of yourself? Or is it a product of a categorisation according to what you think of them by their age, station, whatever?
I'm inclined to think mostly not (although spouses and children, you'd probably come close); yes - but if your knowledge about yourself is limited, you can't really know another; and yes, definitely yes - because we only have so much brain space and unless you're good friends with everyone, you're probably not going to invest the time in actually knowing someone.
Most of us conform to social mores - with more or less idiosyncracies - so categories can work. Of course, as I've said before, I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid (sure), so being stuck in a metaphorical box with a metaphorical label really burns me. For the most part it really doesn't matter, I guess, unless it's your nearest and dearest who have you wrong, but doesn't everyone want to be known? Not in the famous sense, but understood as a person? Isn't that why we have friends and loved ones?
Well, that got a bit ranty towards the end. Ah well. Small lad is getting a bit fractious (I've been typing for a while), so I'd better sign off.
I'm in the mood for coffee. You could join me if you were here, but since you're not, I'll raise my cup to you in your absence. Take care.
SPOILER.
We watched the Doctor Who Christmas special (of course we did), The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe and it was one of the best episodes I've ever seen. Don't read any further if you haven't seen it and want to (because I hate knowing even part of a plot - fair warning).
The Doctor helps a lady who has just lost her husband, but being the run up to Christmas, she hasn't told her children. She says, "...because then Christmas is the thing that took their father away." Husbandly looked over at me at this line, waiting for my head to start revolving, since my (foster) mother died on a Christmas morning. Quite some time ago now, but Christmas has been a bit like a semi-rotted chocolate box since. Sometimes it's a nice choccy and other times it's only fit for the bin. The only thing I could think was how nice it is to have a parent who protects you (and have a tear or two roll down my cheek). It would be entirely unfair to say I didn't feel protected as a kid, but true nonetheless. So it goes. (A violin starts playing somewhere, snort.)
SPOILER END.
I've had two days off this time, which really boils down to one since I spent the first day asleep. We have clean things! There is more ironing to do than ever before. Gak!
Today, or what's left of it, will be spent ironing and washing and possibly some more sweeping. It's a hard life.
Small lad is once again playing with the (actual) Lego, having put some away and then pulled the some back out again. I can hear a running dialogue in different voices of the good guys and bad guys having at each other, although sometimes there is only the tone with no words. Yesterday and the day before there was a lot of "nee-nor, nee-nor" as the police chased down bad guys on the plethora of vehicles that came with the kit. It's a hard life.
Husbandly is off somewhere still working on the solar heating things, honestly I just nod my head and smile (or shake my head and ask why). It seems to make him happy.
Tonight there will be roast lamb. Laaaamb. Mmmmmm, graaarrr.
One of the things I used to hate, and possibly still do, though not with the same passion, was being characterised. I loathe explaining something I think or mean and have the person say "so you mean 'X'", only they've got it wrong. It's another way of labelling - encapsulating the complex into a small, easily identifiable box. I know a group of people who do this, all to almost the same degree of certainty, and it's the certainty of the capsule definition that chaps me. It's a kind of first impression, where the meaning received is imposed over the meaning transmitted. Changing someone's mind about what they think you said or meant is more difficult than you would think.
Can you really know another person? Or is your knowing filtered through your own perception of yourself? Or is it a product of a categorisation according to what you think of them by their age, station, whatever?
I'm inclined to think mostly not (although spouses and children, you'd probably come close); yes - but if your knowledge about yourself is limited, you can't really know another; and yes, definitely yes - because we only have so much brain space and unless you're good friends with everyone, you're probably not going to invest the time in actually knowing someone.
Most of us conform to social mores - with more or less idiosyncracies - so categories can work. Of course, as I've said before, I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid (sure), so being stuck in a metaphorical box with a metaphorical label really burns me. For the most part it really doesn't matter, I guess, unless it's your nearest and dearest who have you wrong, but doesn't everyone want to be known? Not in the famous sense, but understood as a person? Isn't that why we have friends and loved ones?
Well, that got a bit ranty towards the end. Ah well. Small lad is getting a bit fractious (I've been typing for a while), so I'd better sign off.
I'm in the mood for coffee. You could join me if you were here, but since you're not, I'll raise my cup to you in your absence. Take care.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Stocking Filler (Late, or Very, Very Early)
I should complain about the weather more often: yesterday the mercury rose to summer-like levels.
It's 5:00 am and an anaesthetist is waiting in a small room. A cockroach observes from an air vent, waiting for the doctor to leave: there is a crumb on the floor with the cockroach's name on it. Or would be if the names of cockroaches could fit on the surface of a crumb.
Yesterday small lad was playing his new Lego Star Wars III game - this was his best Christmas ever, or he was imagining it (I paraphrase). Since Christmas, if it isn't the DS, it's the (actual) Lego. It's so nice to get Christmas presents right! Onya Santa! Earlier in the morning he rescued me from my 2am sleeplessness - he doesn't remember what happened, but he appeared around three, bleary eyed and looking for a cuddle, so I escorted him back to bed and lay down with him for a bit. It's the quickest way to get the light off, believe me. Aside from the back pain from sleeping on the edge of the bed, I had a lovely sleep. So did he, which works out nicely for everyone.
It's 5:02 am: Doctor Darling holds Gemma close in his manly arms as her tears dry prettily on her cheeks. They move apart and look deeply into each other's eyes, finally acknowledging their feelings for one another. Gemma tilts her head up, lips parted softly, and the breathless sexual tension is marred by the man in the front row eating popcorn with more noise than an industrial grader breaking up a road.
I surfaced somewhere around seven, but husbandly was sprawled in our bed, so it was off to the lounge with me. Sometimes I have trouble re-adjusting my sleep pattern. Meh. So it goes.
It's 5:10 am. There are cats. They are all thin. They sit in rows. They look alert. They do not shuffle. They watch us silently, us people hiding behind a gate. I expect Alfred Hitchcock to appear any minute. I hope he is walking some dogs.
Tonight I'm in the glory of Blood Bank, forever, amen, whatever. Whatever is, for the third year running, the most annoying word in the English language. Lucky it.
It's 5:20 am. Inside the room we watch the rain rill prettily down the windows, four girls in armchairs. By turns we feel: romantic, intellectual, consumptive or restless. It depends on how the light strikes us. Or perhaps it's the whalebone in our corsets.
Who reads this blog? Somebody must be, or I would have no stats (unless Google really is mucked up), but who are you? Not that I'm complaining, it's much nicer to have an audience rather than shooting these missives into the ether. But the country stats are weird (I'm geographically limited - I don't have many overseas friends). Please email me, go on, you know you want to....
It's 5:30 am. My alarm has gone off; the power is out and it is pitch dark. I have barked my shins on very piece of furniture in the house. I am trying to get to my phone, because the alarm is going off for a minute every five. It is annoying, but it will do as a torch. As I finally reach it (face down, I'm navigating by sound, not light), the alarm cuts off and out of the speaker comes James Earl Jones' voice reciting "The Raven". My hand stops, a foot, two feet - how can I tell? - above it. Well I'm not picking it up now. I've just stepped into a horror movie.
The sun is coming up. The mornings always look grey here. Our ground-floor windows face another five-storey building, and south, and haven't been cleaned in a very long while. Will you sleep better tonight, knowing that? You probably will. Unless your fevered brain is tortured trying to imagine finely-gritted windows imparting a grey tinge to the morning sky. Imparting. Tinge. Dig it.
It's 5:50 am in the airport and four security guards are running away from the terminal. They pelt across the tarmac as though the proverbial hounds have been released. Big Matty just took his shoes off at the check-in desk and the smell is terrific.
Is facebook a bad idea if friends read your entries, but never post any of their own? I had a friend comment (verbally, with mouths and everything) on something I'd posted, and then a guilty moment, because I thought I hadn't read my feed properly. I hadn't seen anything from my friend for, like, you know, ever. But when I got home, I hadn't missed any posts. So I wonder, is it a bit like watching someone through a window, to see if you can get a glimpse of them in their undies? Or picking their nose? (I suppose that depends on the friend). I don't really worry about twitter, so colour me contradictory on concerns.
It's 6:05 am. A man lurks in a rhododendron bush just outside a door. As people walk out he intones "You'll be baaack" in a deep voice. As they enter he squeaks.
In five minutes time I will get up and shut down machines. Then I'll start them back up again. It sounds rather futile, doesn't it? Then I'll put things away. Or not, because probably the phone will ring. And I will answer it. And I will have to do something because of the person who has rung me. I want a big red button in this lab. An emergency stop like we have at TAFE. I never cared about the big stop buttons when I was at TAFE, but now I don't have one, I'd like one. I'd like to hit the emergency stop button because it is all big and red and funky. But of course, I'd then have to explain why I hit it (because we have to call in an electrician to start everything up again), and I don't think a goofy grin and an "I felt like it, because the button is big and red and funky" would cover me.
It's 6:20 am. Heavens, is that the time?
It's time for me to stop fooling around in bits and pieces and start fooling around in earnest. (Not Ernest, I don't know where he's been aside from the squeaking as I came in to work tonight). Take care of yourselves, all ten peoples.
It's 5:00 am and an anaesthetist is waiting in a small room. A cockroach observes from an air vent, waiting for the doctor to leave: there is a crumb on the floor with the cockroach's name on it. Or would be if the names of cockroaches could fit on the surface of a crumb.
Yesterday small lad was playing his new Lego Star Wars III game - this was his best Christmas ever, or he was imagining it (I paraphrase). Since Christmas, if it isn't the DS, it's the (actual) Lego. It's so nice to get Christmas presents right! Onya Santa! Earlier in the morning he rescued me from my 2am sleeplessness - he doesn't remember what happened, but he appeared around three, bleary eyed and looking for a cuddle, so I escorted him back to bed and lay down with him for a bit. It's the quickest way to get the light off, believe me. Aside from the back pain from sleeping on the edge of the bed, I had a lovely sleep. So did he, which works out nicely for everyone.
It's 5:02 am: Doctor Darling holds Gemma close in his manly arms as her tears dry prettily on her cheeks. They move apart and look deeply into each other's eyes, finally acknowledging their feelings for one another. Gemma tilts her head up, lips parted softly, and the breathless sexual tension is marred by the man in the front row eating popcorn with more noise than an industrial grader breaking up a road.
I surfaced somewhere around seven, but husbandly was sprawled in our bed, so it was off to the lounge with me. Sometimes I have trouble re-adjusting my sleep pattern. Meh. So it goes.
It's 5:10 am. There are cats. They are all thin. They sit in rows. They look alert. They do not shuffle. They watch us silently, us people hiding behind a gate. I expect Alfred Hitchcock to appear any minute. I hope he is walking some dogs.
Tonight I'm in the glory of Blood Bank, forever, amen, whatever. Whatever is, for the third year running, the most annoying word in the English language. Lucky it.
It's 5:20 am. Inside the room we watch the rain rill prettily down the windows, four girls in armchairs. By turns we feel: romantic, intellectual, consumptive or restless. It depends on how the light strikes us. Or perhaps it's the whalebone in our corsets.
Who reads this blog? Somebody must be, or I would have no stats (unless Google really is mucked up), but who are you? Not that I'm complaining, it's much nicer to have an audience rather than shooting these missives into the ether. But the country stats are weird (I'm geographically limited - I don't have many overseas friends). Please email me, go on, you know you want to....
It's 5:30 am. My alarm has gone off; the power is out and it is pitch dark. I have barked my shins on very piece of furniture in the house. I am trying to get to my phone, because the alarm is going off for a minute every five. It is annoying, but it will do as a torch. As I finally reach it (face down, I'm navigating by sound, not light), the alarm cuts off and out of the speaker comes James Earl Jones' voice reciting "The Raven". My hand stops, a foot, two feet - how can I tell? - above it. Well I'm not picking it up now. I've just stepped into a horror movie.
The sun is coming up. The mornings always look grey here. Our ground-floor windows face another five-storey building, and south, and haven't been cleaned in a very long while. Will you sleep better tonight, knowing that? You probably will. Unless your fevered brain is tortured trying to imagine finely-gritted windows imparting a grey tinge to the morning sky. Imparting. Tinge. Dig it.
It's 5:50 am in the airport and four security guards are running away from the terminal. They pelt across the tarmac as though the proverbial hounds have been released. Big Matty just took his shoes off at the check-in desk and the smell is terrific.
Is facebook a bad idea if friends read your entries, but never post any of their own? I had a friend comment (verbally, with mouths and everything) on something I'd posted, and then a guilty moment, because I thought I hadn't read my feed properly. I hadn't seen anything from my friend for, like, you know, ever. But when I got home, I hadn't missed any posts. So I wonder, is it a bit like watching someone through a window, to see if you can get a glimpse of them in their undies? Or picking their nose? (I suppose that depends on the friend). I don't really worry about twitter, so colour me contradictory on concerns.
It's 6:05 am. A man lurks in a rhododendron bush just outside a door. As people walk out he intones "You'll be baaack" in a deep voice. As they enter he squeaks.
In five minutes time I will get up and shut down machines. Then I'll start them back up again. It sounds rather futile, doesn't it? Then I'll put things away. Or not, because probably the phone will ring. And I will answer it. And I will have to do something because of the person who has rung me. I want a big red button in this lab. An emergency stop like we have at TAFE. I never cared about the big stop buttons when I was at TAFE, but now I don't have one, I'd like one. I'd like to hit the emergency stop button because it is all big and red and funky. But of course, I'd then have to explain why I hit it (because we have to call in an electrician to start everything up again), and I don't think a goofy grin and an "I felt like it, because the button is big and red and funky" would cover me.
It's 6:20 am. Heavens, is that the time?
It's time for me to stop fooling around in bits and pieces and start fooling around in earnest. (Not Ernest, I don't know where he's been aside from the squeaking as I came in to work tonight). Take care of yourselves, all ten peoples.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Ah! The Clock is Always Slow; It is Later Than You Think.
It’s New Year’s Day! Happy New Year! For some reason small lad is swanning around rugged up like the middle of winter – this summer is not so much a summer as slightly warm with daylight saving. Disappointing.
Today I’m fighting the battle of the gorge after the champagne and amounts of nibble food partaken of last night (the heartburn today is teeeee-riffic!). One of my ears is a bit spinny as well, so I’d better not lean down too fast or I’ll topple over like a Terry Gilliam animation in Monty Python.
After my last entry I had some lovely silence in my head, where I wasn’t telling myself anything. Nothing. Zip. Tranquillity. It was a nice place to be in, but the world will rush in, as it does, so that lasted about a month. Then it was a case of telling myself far too much and beating myself up rather a lot. Sigh.
It would be nice to give my brain a holiday, especially the parts monitoring just how badly I’m screwing something up. It gets tiresome.
Since I’m now a recluse (I’m thinking of getting a membership badge) big groups of people freak me out a little. So Christmas shopping was approached with a contradictory mix of “eek!” and “grrarr!”, but it all worked out in the end. I must be doing something right, because I got asked in shops where “x” might be as if I was staff and everything.
There was a Christmas event I didn’t attend, which made some waves of an interesting stripe. One of the guests opined that I hadn’t shown up because of her. Since we're all friends there, way to put people on the spot. Way. Go you. (Actually she asked if, not opined that, but I wanted to use "opined" in a sentence. Opined. Dig it.)
Guesty then went on to say that nothing was her fault; it was the fault of someone else (I’m going to call that one Else).
Else, Guesty and I worked together in my old job. Else was having rather large issues at the time – bad divorce, almost no visitation, previous breakdown under her belt – and having trouble with the job. Since I’m big and mean and tough I report it. Cue about eight months later, I’m frustrated beyond belief and I blow up. Else tells me I should “take it up with management”*, to which I reply that I have…big mistake. For the next year after this I have Guesty and another, let me call her Quitty**, telling me how I don’t understand how bad it all is, I’m unhelpful, blah blah blah. And blah. It takes me a while to figure out just how much is being said behind my back, because prior to this Guesty and I, at least, seemed to have been pretty close friends***.
So Else is using me as a scapegoat. That was no surprise really; working with her was always a foray into being questioned over everything I did. Mostly I flicked it off (to which Else would be saying, “really?” “are you sure?” ad infinitum – so you either flick it off or become a mass of neuroses – and I have enough neuroses). Even at its worst though, I felt pretty sorry for Else – because she couldn’t seem to take any responsibility. In the finish, to make the long story short, she leaves for greener pastures. Guesty and I have a conversation about the things Guesty has said over the last twelve months or so – to which she replies “I never said that. If I’ve ever given you that impression, I am very sorry – you’ve always been…” blah blah, I can’t go on with it, I really might vomit. That was the last lie I was willing to listen to. (Yeah baby, there were more, yeah baby yeah). I haven’t been in touch since.
*If there’s one phrase used by the barely competent I can’t stand, it’s “take it up with management”. As if that’s got anything to do with the discussion: yes, congratulations, you’ve said the threatening thing so now I’ll back down, soooo not, you’ve just effed up good and proper and I have to fix your mess. Grrrraaarrr I want to smash.
**”Quitty” because during all of this she made a point of telling me I should quit my job because a) the system had screwed me (different pay grade by qualification – I was in the lower grade with the higher qualification) and b) I would never get anywhere here. On separate occasions. Strangely, because professionally I’d been part of something really big and good and quite successful and I’d gotten into the higher grade, just before this little shit nugget was dropped.
***I suspect that the pleasantries in the middle of the backstabbing had to do with husbandly and his amazing fix-it prowess, but maybe I’m far too cynical for my own good.
Anyway, sheesh, even having left stuff out it’s a bloody long spiel. I wasn’t perfect in here either; temper, temper, I’ve got a temper, but never mind all that. This distance on I still feel pretty sorry for Else: I don’t think she’s capable of better, which means she’ll constantly have enemies and nothing will ever be her fault. On the other hand, I have nothing but contempt for Guesty and Quitty – friends of Else or not, it was all pretty crap.
That contempt hit a new low after the event I didn’t attend. Guesty was trying to blame Else for showing up at my farewell*. Some friend; blame the incapable one for something you did. I know some of that is unfair – Guesty likes a bit of drama and didn’t (doesn’t?) always think of ramifications, but tough noogies, she made me miserable – Guesty. Not Else, credit where credit’s due.
*Else showed up. I knnoooooww!. For pure gall, I stand in admiration.
I’ve also had a few events to go to where other attendees looked rather unhappy I was there. In one case it was assumed (why?) I wasn’t showing up at all and the dirty look I got will keep me going for a few months. Snort. Maybe I should stick with the recluse thing...except I'd miss out on:
1.Driving behind a car with the number plate MUM-291. Is there a MUM-666 out there? Is her other name Rosemary? Or has the Devil gone for a daughter (who has since reproduced)?
2. Fruit pots, brought to me by Woollies, awesome last minute snack when I've been lazy in the food-to-take-to-work department.
3. A rather loud phone conversation where a lady (?) was telling her last date that she thought he (or she) hadn't been on many dates. She moved away before I could hear any more. She had nice legs, just to enter into the reportage.
4. The Harry Potter Exhibition. Awesome. I want the clothes.
5. They make CC's corn chips with guarana now. Why, oh why?
6. Sitting on a train going past people's backyards: one has a pool with no ladder, and two doors down is a pool ladder with no pool. A feud in progress or a coincidence?
7. Watching a Mum train her child (over a period of years) to wait for the toast instead of trying new foods. Just give the kid the damn toast. Or not. Don't hold off for hours and then give in; the kid will just keep doing the same thing, and while parent-etiquette prevents eye-rolls, said rolls are happening, believe me.
I finished reading Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy (just to keep some narrative in this overly-spaced-apart thing) and I love that book. Hilarious, well paced and full of little nuggets to give one to thought*.
"The ultimate consequence of denying reality is always failure. Scratch a worthless bum and you'll discover an irrational man." - Ayn Rand, the hologram. Very certain is our Ayn.
* As opposed to giving one to drink, to the earth, to be married or to the blood-brain border patrol**.
Is it bad to sidebar a sidebar?***
** Try saying that three times fast. While drunk.
*** Well it isn't a footnote. Much as I like them, i don't have the little horizontal line and smaller-print below said line.
I had my grammar corrected by Google. And Google was right (technically - I stand by my use of tense, since I was watching the movie at the time, it was in the present). How mortifying.
My shifts generally go quiet in the depths of the night (can you tell?), when little is stirring except rogue cockroaches scurrying past the tea room*. Sounds great, doesn't it? Work goes quiet, there's nothing to do, how too, too marvellous. What it really means is I'm struggling to stay awake. To the extent where I think: "Hmm, I feel a bit sleepy eyes, oh my head's going down (a submarine klaxon sounds) 'we're going down, Captain!' head going for bench, what bench, that bench, clunk." and out like a light. I surface when the chute system goes (I'm sitting right next to it) or if the phone rings. Bleary-eyed and probably puffy, I'll get up and work or speak on the phone. It must be hilarious to watch, from passed out to "HELLO, Blood Bank! Lateonenite** speaking!" I've probably alarmed a few people that way.
*I've only seen one in the whole year-and-a-bit I've been here, but allow me the poetic license, okay?
**of course I don't say Lateonenite, but perhaps I should. My name gets mangled into Stacey, Tracey, Therese, Vanessa, and on several memorable occasions, Elizabeth. Or I could give up and call myself Barry.
So this is Barry, signing off – I’ll try on the next entry to talk less about myself.
Today I’m fighting the battle of the gorge after the champagne and amounts of nibble food partaken of last night (the heartburn today is teeeee-riffic!). One of my ears is a bit spinny as well, so I’d better not lean down too fast or I’ll topple over like a Terry Gilliam animation in Monty Python.
After my last entry I had some lovely silence in my head, where I wasn’t telling myself anything. Nothing. Zip. Tranquillity. It was a nice place to be in, but the world will rush in, as it does, so that lasted about a month. Then it was a case of telling myself far too much and beating myself up rather a lot. Sigh.
It would be nice to give my brain a holiday, especially the parts monitoring just how badly I’m screwing something up. It gets tiresome.
Since I’m now a recluse (I’m thinking of getting a membership badge) big groups of people freak me out a little. So Christmas shopping was approached with a contradictory mix of “eek!” and “grrarr!”, but it all worked out in the end. I must be doing something right, because I got asked in shops where “x” might be as if I was staff and everything.
There was a Christmas event I didn’t attend, which made some waves of an interesting stripe. One of the guests opined that I hadn’t shown up because of her. Since we're all friends there, way to put people on the spot. Way. Go you. (Actually she asked if, not opined that, but I wanted to use "opined" in a sentence. Opined. Dig it.)
Guesty then went on to say that nothing was her fault; it was the fault of someone else (I’m going to call that one Else).
Else, Guesty and I worked together in my old job. Else was having rather large issues at the time – bad divorce, almost no visitation, previous breakdown under her belt – and having trouble with the job. Since I’m big and mean and tough I report it. Cue about eight months later, I’m frustrated beyond belief and I blow up. Else tells me I should “take it up with management”*, to which I reply that I have…big mistake. For the next year after this I have Guesty and another, let me call her Quitty**, telling me how I don’t understand how bad it all is, I’m unhelpful, blah blah blah. And blah. It takes me a while to figure out just how much is being said behind my back, because prior to this Guesty and I, at least, seemed to have been pretty close friends***.
So Else is using me as a scapegoat. That was no surprise really; working with her was always a foray into being questioned over everything I did. Mostly I flicked it off (to which Else would be saying, “really?” “are you sure?” ad infinitum – so you either flick it off or become a mass of neuroses – and I have enough neuroses). Even at its worst though, I felt pretty sorry for Else – because she couldn’t seem to take any responsibility. In the finish, to make the long story short, she leaves for greener pastures. Guesty and I have a conversation about the things Guesty has said over the last twelve months or so – to which she replies “I never said that. If I’ve ever given you that impression, I am very sorry – you’ve always been…” blah blah, I can’t go on with it, I really might vomit. That was the last lie I was willing to listen to. (Yeah baby, there were more, yeah baby yeah). I haven’t been in touch since.
*If there’s one phrase used by the barely competent I can’t stand, it’s “take it up with management”. As if that’s got anything to do with the discussion: yes, congratulations, you’ve said the threatening thing so now I’ll back down, soooo not, you’ve just effed up good and proper and I have to fix your mess. Grrrraaarrr I want to smash.
**”Quitty” because during all of this she made a point of telling me I should quit my job because a) the system had screwed me (different pay grade by qualification – I was in the lower grade with the higher qualification) and b) I would never get anywhere here. On separate occasions. Strangely, because professionally I’d been part of something really big and good and quite successful and I’d gotten into the higher grade, just before this little shit nugget was dropped.
***I suspect that the pleasantries in the middle of the backstabbing had to do with husbandly and his amazing fix-it prowess, but maybe I’m far too cynical for my own good.
Anyway, sheesh, even having left stuff out it’s a bloody long spiel. I wasn’t perfect in here either; temper, temper, I’ve got a temper, but never mind all that. This distance on I still feel pretty sorry for Else: I don’t think she’s capable of better, which means she’ll constantly have enemies and nothing will ever be her fault. On the other hand, I have nothing but contempt for Guesty and Quitty – friends of Else or not, it was all pretty crap.
That contempt hit a new low after the event I didn’t attend. Guesty was trying to blame Else for showing up at my farewell*. Some friend; blame the incapable one for something you did. I know some of that is unfair – Guesty likes a bit of drama and didn’t (doesn’t?) always think of ramifications, but tough noogies, she made me miserable – Guesty. Not Else, credit where credit’s due.
*Else showed up. I knnoooooww!. For pure gall, I stand in admiration.
I’ve also had a few events to go to where other attendees looked rather unhappy I was there. In one case it was assumed (why?) I wasn’t showing up at all and the dirty look I got will keep me going for a few months. Snort. Maybe I should stick with the recluse thing...except I'd miss out on:
1.Driving behind a car with the number plate MUM-291. Is there a MUM-666 out there? Is her other name Rosemary? Or has the Devil gone for a daughter (who has since reproduced)?
2. Fruit pots, brought to me by Woollies, awesome last minute snack when I've been lazy in the food-to-take-to-work department.
3. A rather loud phone conversation where a lady (?) was telling her last date that she thought he (or she) hadn't been on many dates. She moved away before I could hear any more. She had nice legs, just to enter into the reportage.
4. The Harry Potter Exhibition. Awesome. I want the clothes.
5. They make CC's corn chips with guarana now. Why, oh why?
6. Sitting on a train going past people's backyards: one has a pool with no ladder, and two doors down is a pool ladder with no pool. A feud in progress or a coincidence?
7. Watching a Mum train her child (over a period of years) to wait for the toast instead of trying new foods. Just give the kid the damn toast. Or not. Don't hold off for hours and then give in; the kid will just keep doing the same thing, and while parent-etiquette prevents eye-rolls, said rolls are happening, believe me.
I finished reading Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy (just to keep some narrative in this overly-spaced-apart thing) and I love that book. Hilarious, well paced and full of little nuggets to give one to thought*.
"The ultimate consequence of denying reality is always failure. Scratch a worthless bum and you'll discover an irrational man." - Ayn Rand, the hologram. Very certain is our Ayn.
* As opposed to giving one to drink, to the earth, to be married or to the blood-brain border patrol**.
Is it bad to sidebar a sidebar?***
** Try saying that three times fast. While drunk.
*** Well it isn't a footnote. Much as I like them, i don't have the little horizontal line and smaller-print below said line.
I had my grammar corrected by Google. And Google was right (technically - I stand by my use of tense, since I was watching the movie at the time, it was in the present). How mortifying.
My shifts generally go quiet in the depths of the night (can you tell?), when little is stirring except rogue cockroaches scurrying past the tea room*. Sounds great, doesn't it? Work goes quiet, there's nothing to do, how too, too marvellous. What it really means is I'm struggling to stay awake. To the extent where I think: "Hmm, I feel a bit sleepy eyes, oh my head's going down (a submarine klaxon sounds) 'we're going down, Captain!' head going for bench, what bench, that bench, clunk." and out like a light. I surface when the chute system goes (I'm sitting right next to it) or if the phone rings. Bleary-eyed and probably puffy, I'll get up and work or speak on the phone. It must be hilarious to watch, from passed out to "HELLO, Blood Bank! Lateonenite** speaking!" I've probably alarmed a few people that way.
*I've only seen one in the whole year-and-a-bit I've been here, but allow me the poetic license, okay?
**of course I don't say Lateonenite, but perhaps I should. My name gets mangled into Stacey, Tracey, Therese, Vanessa, and on several memorable occasions, Elizabeth. Or I could give up and call myself Barry.
So this is Barry, signing off – I’ll try on the next entry to talk less about myself.
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