Quick! Something!

No idea what I wanted to say here.

It's been a few weeks free of intense nasal gazing: looking at the tip of my nose and saying "Om" (actually, I was telling myself "It could be worse, there could be...locusts", which amounts to the same thing). But now I've had some holidays and the delight of not dragging myself into work. It's nice to just have time off.

Now it's reading reading reading to keep up with uni. And cups of tea.

I would like to say more, but I'm afraid of defenestration.

This post really wasn't worth doing...

An explanation (or possibly, expiation, jokingly so).

My husband is seven years older than me. For most of my friends, that's somehow an issue. He's Portuguese (which means brown), and I'm Australian (which means white); for so many, that's still an issue.

Doctor Who shows, for my husband and I, are barely remembered truths from a distant past. (Barely remembered: we were children when we first hid behind the sofa (or rather, our hands covering our own eyes - metaphorically*). Truths, because the Doctor mostly went (and goes) (and will go) around, trying to do the right thing. That he succeeds is the magic of cinema. Or TV, if you like that better. We are children of our times: we mostly try to do the right thing.

When the Doctor came back, it was a delightful revisiting of what we knew, what we thought, and what we hoped (in our deepest hopes); also some good entertainment. Confronted with constant negative reinforcement of a democratic ideal (terrorists! everywhere!), why not escape into somewhere, someone who challenges that and asks for the deeper issue, the motivation behind someone doing an apparently wrong thing? We are all people, after all.

We follow (in the twitter- and facebook-sense of the word) the modern profiles of "the Doctor" now because we have a child of our own, and he wants to see the cool whiz-bang (or cool whoz-bang), and promotion does help with that. We know when the next trailer has been released, and we can show him. Do we show him when it's first posted? Of course not. Close to the time? You bet. Is it excessive? God, yes. It's tiresome. Watch this next thing! Get ready for it! Let's count down! Let's not: I don't want teasers, at my time of life: tell me or don't tell me, I'll live, either way.

Last night I watched a little of An Adventure in Space and Time, but I stopped when it got to the Daleks**. I wanted husbandly to see it too, because of the sheer delight when I saw them. Daleks were like us, and now hate anything that isn't them. Isn't that the catch-cry of my generation and the hope of any other? If not the latter, shouldn't it be? To see the original Daleks re-created, to see how our childhood was formed by our externals, oh, how extraordinary. These were the adventures we'd thought to see in our lives; science would mean we could fly to the moon, and beyond. Metaphorically, the Daleks are "people" we never want to be: we want to accept others, because we're all people, after all. Perhaps that's only a personal thing to husbandly and I, but I don't want to think so.

*metaphorically: we'd have to convince our parents we should watch it, so we couldn't be too scared. So we'd keep our eyes open, but refuse to let ourselves see. (A parallel in real life perhaps? Perhaps.) (But I don't think you can blame the Doctor for that.)

**Yes, that's a trailer. Sorry, kids, I couldn't find the full version: this one sums it up.

Does any of that mean you should like the Doctor, or Doctor Who? Of course not. It means something to me, to my husband, and to my son. But social media means you're going to wind up seeing things that you're not interested in. By virtue of it, I've wound up with "friends" and "followers" (in the facebook- and twitter-sense, respectively) who DO like it, and go on about it. And ones who don't, and bemoan the fact. They're not wrong. Personally, I avoid anyone too rabid about the Doctor. But I also have those who go on about the wonders of Star Trek, Dollhouse, Buffy, Dragons, Angel, Firefly/Serenity, Game of Thrones, Star Wars.

I have to confess here, that I find the stories of Star Wars the most morally bereft: not because of the internal story, but because of the investment I'm supposed to make in the Clone Wars: I should invest emotionally in characters, including their betrayer, knowing that will be betrayed? I don't THINK SO. While stories should be told, gratuitous rehashing is unnecessary. It's elaborate wanking, to my mind. Perhaps I'm inflexible.

But the moderate obsession with stories that grab us as a person? Well, der. Stories are how we tell ourselves how to live. The sum of our experiences can only tell us so much: reading of others' views (the fact that when you touch a novel, you touch a world should not be a new idea to anyone interested enough to read this post), gives us perspective and insight to other experiences. That we want them to tell us more is perfectly understandable.

But mostly, for us "oldies", the break between the "old" Doctor and the "new" one gives us that space for perspective and insight.

Why, that's amazing!

I should be asleep, but I've instead spent the morning cruising around Upworthy, a spectacularly interesting site, with the worst titles for uplifting and important videos and images ever. There is a lot of talk on there about America and its budget/government/social woes (pick one! There's still more!), which I've found, as time has gone on, I'm less and less interested in. I'm not uninterested, it just isn't relevant except as information or update on another country. And yet.

And yet.

There's this.

I've never heard of Shane Koyczan before, but now I have, I'm a poem freak again. Technically, he's a spoken word artist, but I read To This Day before listening to it, and it grabbed me written, not spoken. GRABBED me, tears and everything.

So after this week of unbroken hedonism in the form of buying a new iPad, the next will be some poetry.

The iPad arrives tomorrow, but the case came yesterday, which is hilariously odd. I keep picking it up and looking at it. And flipping it open. And carefully closing it. I don't think I expect the iPad to magically be in there.

I went to the Mind! Body! Spirit! festival last week (somehow I think there should be Y!M!C!A!-like movements in there) and came home with artwork, olives and more olives. I'd have bought more olives, but I didn't want to be greedy. (We're already a jar-and-a-half down, and that's only because we know how fast the last four jars went. Otherwise they'd be gone already.) I ran into two old friends, completely unexpectedly, one an old festival standby (we used to go together, even), and another a lady I haven't seen much since leaving the dreaded St. George*. Yay! Good times**. I got the artwork home (prints from the lovely Sofan Chan), and one I'd picked out as a part of a triptych has now been appropriated by small lad. (Just as well - look at them, that Lilium is a standout.) It surprises me really. Her style with figures doesn't really speak to me, but her flowers grab me nearly every time, and it's the lotus small lad likes. Once it's framed, it's to go in his room near the door.

*I did hope to get through an entry without it. **Last Thursday, not- you know what I mean.

Running away now to begin the chopping of vegetables and fussing about for dinner. If I'm not going to sleep, I may as well fuss, and it's less fiddly than typing all of these HTML tags by hand. My stars, that was a whinge! I could have just used the toolbox, right? You totally got me!

Did not.

Why that's amazing.

I can never decided whether to correctly punctuate my post titles. I also can never decide what to talk about.

I did put up, and subsequently delete, a real downer of a post about not getting past my past, which has passed. (Couldn't help myself there, snort.)

That post started:

It occurred to me recently that I haven't gotten over the betrayal from my friends at St. George. The question I ask myself is whether I can: someone lied and my "friends" believed the lie. The answer is I think that I have to, otherwise I will always be less than I am.

And pontificated a bit. I took it down after a couple of days, because I just couldn't bear it being out there for the world to see. Then something wonderful happened. (Oh dear, I suddenly sound like an Upworthy post.) I read Doctor Sleep, by Stephen King, almost by accident one night. It is the sequel to the Shining, and was a brilliant confluence of events: money in my iTunes account, bored with movies and finished the Night Circus. I had to put it down and turn off the iPad so many times, because I did have work to do...dammit. I couldn't finish it on my shift, so I was going to get in my car and read it there before I drove home. But a lady wanted my parking spot (right outside the hospital doors at eight am, who could blame her?), so I sucked it up and started driving home. I remembered to change gears (unlike watching I am Legend, after which I drove the whole way home in third - and vaguely wondered why the engine sounded weird).

I don't like giving spoilers, and I will confess to the delightfully creepy fear that one of the antagonists was climbing my leg as I sat at my bench at two in the morning, but I'm not telling you anything else. The wonderful part was not what the book was about (although it was pretty damn good), it was what the book made me remember about how I was when I read the Shining. I read that one when I was about twelve or so, and didn't really like it. Danny is only five after all, and I already knew what horror means to a five year old. I didn't want the reminder of what happens when the grown-ups are the monsters instead of the shields. Or just not shields.

At twelve, though, I was free from that. I still had and would have things to deal with, but the shadows were departing, and I was as bulletproof as you can get when you know you aren't. When you may as well do what you want, because nothing can be worse than what you've seen. I'm giggling madly as I say that, because while it's true, it didn't stop me from being angst-ridden and unsure, but never mind.

So there I am driving home, and a car pulls out in front of me with the fuel cap cover sticking out, open. I pulled up beside and slightly behind him (good timing, red light!), and wondered how I could let him know. Then I thought, "Old me would just get out and shut it." So I did. And the thought process before, during, and after took a lot less time than it's taking to describe it. I was pleased with myself and with the universe in general. Shutting someone's fuel cap cover isn't the stuff of great humanitarianism, but it's a lot better than noticing something wrong and wondering if you should or shouldn't because someone is going to make a big deal about it. ("You only did that to look good.", blah, blah, can't be bothered coming up with/remembering more.)

No, I couldn't finish the book when I got home, my eyes kept slamming shut. Bummers of night shift. But I did finish it that afternoon, and while very glad I did (and still feeling the lingering creepy), I was more excited to remember the girl I was.

Later that week small lad and I were off to the bookshop to get Fortunately the Milk for his nibs and anything I could find for me. Personally I was hoping for a copy of Doctor Sleep (I like turning pages), but instead found Carry a Big Stick, the memoir of Tim Ferguson.

Tim, Paul and Richard, as the Doug Anthony Allstars, were the first group I loved in company. In high school, we'd watch the Big Gig on Tuesday nights and come in raving like loons the next day. One of us re-wrote MacBeth to the accompanying "tunes" of David Williamson's The Club and Anthony Ackroyd's character, Sergeant 'en Smith. But DAAS were our favourites. The first concert I went to (also in the same company) was Kids & Animals, and at sixteen, it was heady, liberating, and somehow, something to aim for. They could sing, as well; always good to have something you like to sing along to (and isn't the latest dull love song). To read about the other side of it, and to hear, finally what all of the "other things" they were doing was great fun. (This was before cable TV or "decent" internet, and our chances of getting hold of overseas shows were non-existent.)

I'm not going to spoil that one, either: please read it, it's a hoot without being a fan of the Allstars. But it was another reminder of what, how and who I was even at sixteen. Still mostly bulletproof (see above), and thinking the world was probably a great place. With corners of absolute and utter shit.

I think this will be a constant battle for me: to remember that I may as well be bulletproof and to recover when bullets come along. I can live with that.

And now for the word count

Yes, once again it has been a long time. I have been busy, I promise.

Somewhere on my laptop is the rest of the Continuum 8 stuff, but it’s been so long now, why bother?

Not long after June last year, a job came up that should have been something I wanted. The job was training officer for the entire area, and a second-in-charge into the bargain. Given all of the terribly exciting palaver of the Cerner project, it’s the kind of job I would have thought I’d leap at.

Instead, I found myself checking my pulse as I read the ad (strategically left on the boss’ desk). Hmm.

So now I’m doing an arts degree instead. Technically, it’s a bachelor of communications, but a rose by any other name; as you were.

I’m only a few subjects in now, and it has been terribly interesting. I’m learning all sorts of new things. Unfortunately I’ve rediscovered the less-than-lovely feeling of impatience with the “why do we have to write it this way/to this word count/in this format” brigade.

Sigh. Because that’s the job, or will be if you get far enough in. Please just do the work and spray your displeasure on facebook. Or twitter. Or not.

I’m surprised at how much I’m enjoying it, but I’m more surprised at how gosh-darn organised I’ve been. For my diploma and science degree, it was night-before-chocks-away all-nighters to hand in assignments. I’ve either grown up (naaaaah), or have too many other things to do these days. Funny that.

I have a few friends studying as well (at our advanced ages of late thirties or so), mostly because we can now or just want to; why not if we can fit it all in? What I find amazing is these ladies manage it around multiple children, jobs, and gym visits. I only have one child, a night job (that means I can read if my eyes don’t slam shut), and I don’t go to the gym. Small lad isn’t interested in sport, either, so there are no weekend commitments for us at all. I have it pretty easy.

I’m not terribly disciplined about the other things I want to be doing, but I’ll get there in the end. The one drawback about the uni work is that sometimes my brainpower is tied up in the uni work, and I don’t have leftovers for this blog, or very much other writing.

My current subject is semiotics, and I’ve never thought about any of these things before in quite this way. The first week did my head in, and to my chagrin I found myself doing the recommended chestnut: housework. Let my brain chew it over. Oh good.

A lot of writing guides will suggest housework as the kind of thing to do when you’re stuck. I discovered last week that it’s true, as far as it goes, but it doesn’t work for me in writing. Only writing does that. Stuck on a concept, though? I can testify, sisters (and brothers), mindless busywork works. Much better than playing games on my phone. A pity with all the hours I’ve wasted doing that.

This is one of my more boring entries, friends, Romans, internet-heads; I promise to be no more interesting next time. Although if I had my gigantic dictionary handy, I’d give you some good words to go out on. I have some more reading about the male gaze in advertising and some arm-waving horror from fellow students about a pro-feminist article written in 1972. The language sounds uncomplimentary to us girls, but I found it diplomatic (for the lads) once I’d read the publication date. Instead, let me leave you with D.H. Lawrence.