The Universe is a playground of tantalizing delights...for Xenophiles

I'm Coming For Your Crumpets (Old Quiz Results Once Again)

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:46:39 GMT

How far would you get when taking over England? by Kratos
Name
Weapon of Choice
You take over:	Europe. Because you're a damn overachiever.
You are stopped by:	Buying a humourously named pub and settling down.
The French:	Consider invading, and then think better of it.

Quiz created with MemeGen!

Quick! Get Me Some Mutherfuckin' Patches For My Mutherfuckin' Elbows

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:55:58 GMT

So it seems second semester unit results have been published on Student Connect. Thankfully, it appears my rather short university academic record remains unblemished by a unit fail. Considering that I'm enrolled in a ridiculously frightening physics major, that necessitates involvement in horrible higher mathematics as well as horrible higher physics, I don't expect it to remain unblemished throughout my course, and I don't think it's ever wise to measure one's success through lack of failure, otherwise one will never fully recover from a single mistake. That being said, I wish to keep my number of almost inevitable academic failures to a minimum, so to be spared any failure at this early stage is a comfort. Considering the units I've been forced to enrol in for my second year, I don't think this winning streak is going to last much longer, but I'll elaborate upon that after I've detailed my latest academic success.

In my compulsory maths unit, Calculus, Statistics and Probability I received a pass, which is simultaneously a relief and a little off putting. It's a relief because I was almost convinced I had failed the unit due to a cruel quirk in the manner of which it is decided who has passed. My maths exam was the first I had to sit and, after cross checking my answers to certain questions with that of my friends, I left the exam feeling quite confident I had passed...until someone reminded me that one had to pass both aspects of the unit in order to pass overall, then I panicked. This little titbit of information had been mentioned at the beginning of the semester and had since escaped my mind, so when I got 9/10 in my Statistics and Probability exam, I wasn't too worried about putting in much study for my Calculus tests, as I thought my pretty darn exemplary Statistics and Probability score would make up for it. So I did pretty miserably in some of my Calculus tests. Then, when it came to the exam, I answered the Statistics and Probability questions with a fair amount of ease, but I some of the Calculus questions were tricky and I skipped a few. I wasn't too worried, I thought that the second half of the exam would make up for it. Then I learnt that if I passed Statistics and Probability with flying colours, yet failed to pass Calculus, I would then fail the unit overall, even though my average score would be comfortably over 50%. I was pretty freaking pissed to learn this, especially considering how much effort I had put in to study for the bloody exam (freaking Laplace Transforms >:[). I took Calculus and Linear Algebra in the previous semester and I didn't remember any such rule, and it already felt as though each maths unit was really two units disguised as one, seeing as they already had more lectures than any other subject, so this rule simply seemed to prove as much, going to show that maths is forever intertwined with sadism. So I sulked over the likelihood that I'd once again be facing my grumpy Calculus, Statistics and Probability lectures, who were so anal that they wouldn't let me leave the lecture theatre because I didn't hand in my test at the right door. On the last day of my exams my friends were good enough to clarify this rule for me; turns out one had to get 50% or more overall, in addition to at least 40% overall in both aspects of the unit, as well as the exam, in order to pass the unit. That was a massive relief, as I felt as though I had managed over 40% in Calculus. Appears I did after all, as I passed the unit, but I was hoping to get a higher mark than simply a pass, as I thought I'd done above average in Statistics and Probability, but as my mark in Calculus must have been over 40%, my mark in Statistics and Probability couldn't have been that high to average out to 58%. Ah well, I seem forever destined to score in the fifties for mathematics, but in the land of Oz, the fifties is enough.

I got a credit in Advanced Physics B, which is satisfying because I only got a pass for Advanced Physics A and I wasn't sure I had even passed this particular unit, thinking it was the one I had done worst in. Prior to the exam I was doing comparably well in the unit, sitting comfortably in the credit range. This was partly due to my own efforts, my score in the first test for the unit was higher that the combined score for both of my tests in Advanced Physics A, whilst the generous amounts of help provided by my friends in my written weekly assignments, in addition to the fact that one of my team mates in the horrid weekly labs was repeating the unit, and thus knew what to do, certainly boosted my marks by no small measure. Going through past exam papers proved to be a godsend, for it turned out that numerous tricky questions were repeated in the exams semester after semester, and example answers showed how to solve them. They appeared in the exam I sat, and I solved them easily. It was the modern physics questions that proved to be a pain in the ass. I was expecting the modern physics questions to all be dead easy electron trap problems, instead they were all to do with the periodic table, something I hadn't even looked at during my study. So I ended up skipping 20% of the exam (which made up 10% of the unit) and guessing the multi-choice questions which were all on modern physics. After that, I am deeply satisfied with my credit.

To my surprise I got a high distinction for Philosophy: God, Mind and Knowledge, although only just. I ended up very comfortably in the high distinction range for philosophy in the previous semester, as it is a subject I seem to take to with relative ease, but after receiving a comparably poor mark on one of my essays in God, Mind and Knowledge I couldn't see how I would be able to get high enough marks in my other essay and exam in order to push my overall score in the high distinction range. I don't consider my low scoring essay to be much fault of my own, I put as much if not more effort into that essay than I did an essay that received a high distinction last semester, instead I place the majority of the blame on the marker. The semester prior I had a friend who seemed very philosophically competent, who got a terrible mark from the marker in question, whilst my essays were marked by different lecturers, thus doing much better. I heard similar things about from other philosophy students about this lecturer in question, and this semester I was unfortunate enough to select an essay topic that he marked on. The topic in question was the problem of evil, dealt with in the section of the unit about god. This lecturer was the one who taught this particular aspect of the course, and being very vocal when it comes to philosophy, I interjected during his lectures a lot. He seemed to have a very rigid view on certain philosophical topics, he even said to me that he didn't like lecturing philosophy as much as he once did because the students disagreed too much. Excuse me, but isn't that a very important aspect of what philosophy's all about? Something we had a very differing view on was the problem of evil; he thought that the logical form of the problem of evil was useless because it could always be countered with theodicies to explain evil's existence. He instead preferred the empirical problem of evil, as it could instead be used to show that their was too much evil in the world for god to exist. I disagreed entirely; I think that the logical problem is much more solid than the empirical form, and sought to write an essay proving as much. I was very pleased with what I'd written; the lecturer in question gave it 60% and left a note at the end asking if I'd attended the lectures, when I was the one who was butting in every single lesson. I went to see the lecturer in order to try to understand why I had received such a lowly mark by my standards, and ended up in a repetitive argument that went on for half an hour in which we couldn't even agree upon the definition of the problem of evil. I have never had such a fruitless conversation in my life before, it was like talking to a computer program with limited data banks, he seemed literally unable to take on the new ideas I was trying to convey; I explained them with as much clarity and logic as I could muster, and none of it seemed to register for him. That is not the way philosophy should work; to him it seemed like knowing and understanding the theories of others, and leaving it at that, not coming up with novel concepts. I ended going to the lecturer who taught the topic of knowledge, telling her I felt unfairly marked and asking her to look over my essay for me. She initially raised one of the same objections as the prior lecturer, but when I explained the point to her she understood immediately, something the former lecturer was incapable of doing. She told me that she could tell which students had the knack for philosophy and which didn't, saying I was certainly in the former category, and whilst my essay could be improved structurally she would have marked it at least 10% higher, so she compromised and marked me up 5%. People, whining works. I felt pretty good about my second essay, which was about functionalism, under the subject of mind, but I never got it back so I don't known what score I received. I took a chance in the exam by writing on the subject of god again, this time the ontological argument, again providing an original argument. Considering the score I must have received for that essay, either that topic wasn't marked by the troublesome lecturer, or he's not as bad as he's thus far shown himself to be. All that, in addition to the bonus 5% I got for my loud-mouth tutorial attendance, combined to just get me the high distinction I'm now happy to have.

That just leaves my score for Myth: From Creation to Death:

I GOT A HIGH DISTINCTION IN CLASSICAL HISTORY! BOOYAAAAAAAH!!!

I feel so tweedy and academic! I feel as though I should be smoking a pipe, speaking Latin and writing a paper about Ancient Continental Aesthetic Discourse on Divine Autochthony and its link to Teleological Linguistics[/academic wank]. It's history baby, and it's classical. Oooooo yeeeeeah, the more ancient and seemingly useless it, the more academic it is, and I got a high distinction in it. I very much wanted to, but as my lecturer didn't think my contribution to the discussion in tutorials was worth full possible marks for some reason, I wasn't sure I'd manage it. I guess the high distinction for my "slightly psycho" Zeus blog and my pwnage of the so easy it's trashy (yet oh-so hot) exam helped.

Unfortunately, it seems I won't be able to enjoy the pleasures of such artsy-fartsy uni fun in 2010, as if I'm understanding my course requirements correctly, in order to continue majoring in physics next year I have to enrol in three mathematics (kill me now) and three physics units (uuuuuuuuurgh), leaving room for only my philosophy major (some consolation) but no extra arts units (D:). I've emailed the university, hoping that there's some mistake; I don't know if I can handle that much science.

As It's Late and I'm Bored; MOAR OLD QUIZZ RESULTS

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 17:14:05 GMT

Claire Elizabeth Alexandra Abbott's Aliases

Your movie star name: Human Flesh Jack

Your fashion designer name is Claire Rome

Your socialite name is Bambaleeka Las Vegas

Your fly girl / guy name is C Abb

Your detective name is Dog Leeming

Your barfly name is Maltesers Bundi

Your soap opera name is Elizabeth Alexandra Oleander

Your rock star name is Maltesers Jet

Your star wars name is Clajes Abbpar

Your punk rock band name is The Sleepy Dildo

The Amazing Meganame Generator

Going Through Some Old Quizz Results...

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 17:10:57 GMT

Your Drag Queen Name is: Sofonda Cox

Get your own Drag Queen Name

Your Porn Star Name is: Asslee Bendover

Get your own Porn Star Name

I Want Her Head (Wink Wink Nudge Nudge)

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 16:38:29 GMT

I mentioned in my mammoth update that circumstances conspired to prevent me from attending the discreet dressing room showing of "Alice in Wonderland: A Musical Porno" that was held during the bump out of the last panto, but the universe operates in fickle ways and not long after joining the community of exceedingly cringe-worthy and exquisitely filthy hilarity that is weepingcock, an entry was posted that provided a link to that very porno. Now, I pass said link on:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Comedy"

WARNING: In case you somehow failed to realise, it is indeed ultra porny.

Though I'm certainly no stranger to smut in its written and illustrated forms, this was the first porn movie I've ever watched. I was actually quite impressed that they managed to give it some thematic complexity, in that it addresses old fashion notions of sexual purity and promotes a philosophy of free love, staying true to the decade that produced it. I would love to have this movie shown to all the students that have been force fed that abstinence-only bullshit, as the film teaches life lessons like an uplifting Disney feature, if one of the morals expounded by Disney movies was sexual liberty (if only...then again there is "Pirates of the Caribbean"). I didn't find it arousing as generally I only find erotica appealing in that sense if it features characters and relationships I'm interested in, and has more focus on the psychological and emotional rather than physical aspects of the sexual act. That being said, it was certainly entertaining in a ridiculous and amusing manner; some of the music was pretty good, and I think the main character, Alice, was actually kinda endearing, heh. Feel the love man!

That sounds a rather enjoyable existence really...

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 16:46:30 GMT

Euuuuuuuurgh, fixing my tags was a much more tiresome task then I had anticipated...oh my, that sure is a lot of tags I now have. Well, now I have that tedious little exercise out the way, I think I earned the right to some shameless stupidity.

So my sister was looking for "Sesame Street" videos on Youtube for her baby, Sean, and this is what she found:

Isn't it glorious?

A Major LJ Overhaul is in Order

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 07:52:38 GMT

As I'm now at last using my actual journal once more, I think the time has come to customise it in the manner I find most aesthetically and functionally desirable. I have already:

Joined and/or watched the communities I've been lurking in for some time and left the communities that don't really suit me.
Updated my interests to some extent.
Changed my journal theme from Satin Handshake [Generator] to Oddities Purple [Mixit], an alteration I'm really quite pleased with. I like the air of both morbidity and whimsy the style lends; it makes me think of the candlelit study of some exceedingly eccentric scholar who a little too mesmerized by anatomy and ancient secrets that have remained buried for a reason. I want to have a custom layout at some point, but this will satisfy me for quite some time.

Now I have to:

Update my bio; I think I wrote the one that I currently have when I was 14.
Fix up the sloppy tags I used for my more recent entries and then tag my old entries.
Reorganise my memories.
Change my journal title and subtitle.
Get more icons.
Personalise links and buttons, such as replacing "friends" and "comment?" with other terms.
Change my username; Kate says that she'll get me a name-change token as belated birthday present.

And that's all I can think of for the moment. Saying that I will do these things doesn't mean I'll do them immediately, of course. It took me three and a half years to update this freaking journal, and that type of procrastination dies hard. Oh, and I'm keeping my juicy aliens.

ResurrectedJournal

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 14:48:06 GMT

My LJ.........IT'S ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 6)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:58:03 GMT

Killer. Thriller. One Liner.

Second semester meant my second pantomime, and as I was already a member of the society at that point I had the opportunity to contribute to the creation of the script. After the society had agreed upon the plot premise and the writing team had come up with characters and the plot, members of the writing team were each assigned scenes to script with a general outline of what was to happen in each scene. Roland and I were assigned scene 10, which happened to contain the most tragic scene which we had to make funny...yet still somehow keep it tragic. Challenging as it seemed, I was kind of happy with the way we ended up dealing with it, plus I had to be pleased at the sheer amount of “Star Trek” references we managed to cram in.

Once the scenes were complied into a script, auditions for Pantosoc’s latest masterpiece were in order. A possibly unprecedented number of people auditioned, and due to Panto policy they all got parts, so many small roles were added in order to accommodate all the Pantees. My own role was smaller than before; I was in just the one scene instead of two, and my time on stage was pretty short but, sparse as they were, I still ended up with more lines than a lot people. I auditioned with the script of a hypochondriac character, and the directors told me that I could win an Emmy playing the role of a junky, before noting down “specialises in the roles of junkies and retards” and then amending the statement to “is a junky and a retard”. So I ended up with another rather bizarre role, although as this were a UWA pantomime I don’t see how I could have possibly ended up with a role that was anything but bizarre, though this didn’t stop people from pointing out that I was already typecast to play weirdos. The role in question was that of an Igor, a glassy Igor to be precise, and strangely enough I once again ended up in a bar scene featuring a lesbian and a stripper, and once more I spent the first portion of said scene crouched, hiding behind the bar before rising up to play my part.

Hayley got a main part, that of Alexander the friendly zombie, and despaired at the cuteness this casting must indicate she was in possession of. Whilst waiting in the Sci-fi Room prior to a rehearsal, Peter and I were sure to mockingly mollycoddle her in order to provoke her fury, which resulted in me running down the stairs from the club rooms, across the guild village, across the oval and towards the theatres in the darkness to avoid getting kicked by a wrathful Hayley, cackling madly all the while. Upon reaching the theatres, with Hayley and Peter having caught up to me, the three of us tussled playfully, giggling and joking, before reclining beneath the stars as we wondered when the hell everyone else was going to show up. That brief little interlude the three of us spent together was such a delight; frolicking like the child I still felt I was, but with companions who appreciated and shared the strangeness of that child, and in darkness and freedom we laughed and poked and took joy in life. I’ll be honest and admit I was disappointed to learn that rehearsals had been relocated rather than cancelled that night, as we were going to get ice cream and watch various bits of wonderful insanity on the internet together when we figured no one was going to show up. At least, upon attending rehearsals in the lair of the peacocks, we were able to learn the interesting fact that, at night, the peacocks sleep with their heads tucked under their wings whilst perched on the railings of the multistorey balconies surrounding the outdoor theatre, making it appear as though some sort of secret, nefarious conference of the peacocks is taking place. I wonder if that means peacocks sleep on tree branches in the wild, or if that is just some weird quirk of UWA peacocks.

In order to promote the pantomime, the producers decided to organise a zombie march to “Make Undead Poverty History”, in which a group of Pantees covered themselves in fake blood and lurched around the university handing out pamphlets promoting awareness for the rights of the vitally challenged, suggesting that the reader show their support for their undead brethren by attending the latest pantomime, advertised as a biographical piece on the life of Alexander, one of many disadvantaged zombie children. That morning I again deciding to skip my horribly tedious, awkward and nonsensical physics tutorial in order to share a pizza and enjoy bubble tea with a bunch of guys from my physics unit at Broadway, a nearby shopping centre full of food joints that many UWA students visit to eat. After chowing down on an array of delicious pizzas and laughing my ass off at Danny’s first experience with bubble tea, we made the very short walk back to the university whilst enjoying some the best Turkish Delight I’ve ever tasted, arriving in time to participate in the march, with Danny deciding to join in. After we ran out of pamphlets, I attended my horrid physics labs still caked in blood.

When production week arrived, Pantomime veterans, along with a few newbies, once again pulled off their amazing feat of sleeplessness to prepare the stage, whilst I spent the hours prior to our first performance trying to teach my hopelessly body-stupid self the ridiculously complicated Thriller dance. During our lessons in rehearsals I hadn’t been able to get past the “four steps forwards, four steps back” part, but thanks to a number of instructive videos on the internet which I watched repeatedly, I managed to figure out the dance to an extent that stopped me from making too big a fool of myself during performance. Jo, who had written the scene in which I made my appearance, supplied me with a t-shirt worn by glassies at the Leederville, her apparently rather horrific place of employment, along with a card carried by all employees as an in-joke for her workmates. Apparently Igor was based upon her much abused glassy boyfriend who works alongside her at the Leederville. Mum made the rather inspired suggestion that I use my Galapagos turtle plushie as my Igor hump, stuffed under my t-shirt and kept in place with a belt. It ended up looking pretty perfect, plus everyone loved the plushie. I had bought a simple white t-shirt and jeans for our costumator to zombifie so I could join the ranks of zombies during the scenes that required legions of (sometimes dancing) undead. I used the same blood-splattered jeans for both characters, as my Igor character was the employee of a riding crop wielding butch nurse, it worked pretty well.

Patrons that attended one of the three consecutive showings of “E.RRRRRR! A Medical Drama...With Zombies” were drawn into a confronting account of the zombie insurrection at Hotpistol Memorial Hospital, a hospital with a malfunctioning forth wall and the workplace of Peter Ward, male nurse extraordinaire. When Prince Charming learns that the doctors have hidden Sleeping Beauty in the isolation chamber of the Gemma Ward, he finds and then awakens his comatose true love, with a kiss (after first attempting shaking, tickling, scaring and defibrillation) so he may be with her, carnally. She then eats his brains. Fade to black (with flashing red lights) and a screen comes down, upon which plays an informative documentary, titled “I’d Rather Be Undead Than Red” which explains that the zombie virus began a mutated form of a rather virulent STD. Doctors were able to “cure” the virus and isolate it to a single carrier, Sleeping Beauty, whose name really has nothing to do we sleeping. Before they were able to destroy her, the ethics board and their red tape stepped in, claiming that Sleeping Beauty’s destruction was an unethical treatment of the vitally challenged. So instead Sleeping Beauty was placed in a medically induced coma, where she would lie until kissed by a suitably wealthy and moderately attractive aristocrat.

Whilst Prince Charming is unwittingly unleashing the zombie plague once more, Father O’Father the Irish catholic priest arrives at Peter Ward’s request to console Senior Enfermo the hypochondriac. In the same waiting room sits domestic abuse victim Ian, whose mother arrives to see what “accident” has befallen her son this time. When she enquires, Ian tells her that he was slapped by a turkey, after a glare from his girlfriend, Michelle. Zombified Prince Charming then wonders into the waiting room and starts biting the people in the queue. Upon realising that half the people in the room are now zombies, the Big, Scary, Lesbian-Looking Nurse promptly separates the infected and non-infected, giving Peter, Father O’Father, Ian, Ian’s Mum and Michelle a chance to escape before Shaggy and Scooby-Doo arrive and are devoured by the zombie hoard.

The survivors wonder into a room littered with corpses, after it is vacated by a team of weapon wielding doctors, where Michelle is bitten before Peter fights off the surviving(?) zombie. To avoid Michelle’s subsequent flirtations, Peter points out that there is a kid sitting in the middle of the room. The child asks why his mummy won’t wake up, and tells the survivors that his name is Alexander and that he was at the hospital for his chemotherapy sessions with his parents. When asked how he survived the apparent carnage surrounding him, Peter answers that he didn’t, he has no pulse. DUN DUN DUN. Peter goes to bash Alexander’s brains out, an act encouraged by Michelle, but decides that he can’t do it because Alexander is too cute and tragic and cancerous. The group heads towards the elevator to take them to safety, but once Peter and Ian’s Mum have stepped inside, the hospital goes into lockdown and the elevator is sealed shut. Michelle is all for abandoning the two of them, but Ian declares that he isn’t going to leave his mother to die, earning him threatening gestures from Michelle. After learning the location of the master power switch from Peter, Father O’Father asserts that the rest of the group will go down to the basement to flip the switch and free Peter and Ian’s Mum, so all the survivors may escape together. They then take the stairwell conveniently located on the other side of the stage.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the hospital, an insurrection takes place as Doctor McWeedy, the lowest ranking of the doctors, has been zombified, but as he has retained most his brains in the process he also retained his intelligence, and the zombie hoard now look to him as a leader. McWeedy gloats about his new power to his prisoner, Doctor Jones, one of his former abusers, and claims that as he and the hoard have gained control of the hospital, he now deserves to be the Chief of Medicine. Realising that the current Chief of Medicine may still be alive, he decides that he isn’t aiming high enough, declaring himself to be the Emperor of Medicine instead. Wearing a bed-pan as a crown, he has Doctor Jones taken away by his zombie henchmen before deliberating as to how he and the hoard may stop the doctors from releasing their zombie antidote. Whilst trying to figure out how zombies attack, the Emperor of Medicine realises that he has begun to dance, and his undead legions are really into it. Deciding that it’s kind of groovy, the Emperor of Medicine leads the hoard in the thriller dance whilst the song “This is Panto, Pantomiiiiime” is sung by someone that looks suspiciously like Doctor No from scene three.

After the intermission, a second part of the documentary explains that just as the humble bee communicates through dance, so too does the zom-bee. The documentary presenter then chats to his audience counterpart for a bit, before moving on to the next scene. Ian and Michelle wonder into a bar owned by bad-ass surgeon Benjamin Franklin ‘Hawkeye’ Pierce, and minded by the Big, Scary, Lesbian-Looking Nurse who doubles as a bartender. Offering them a drink, the nurse calls upon Igor, who rises up from behind the bar. Ian and Michelle start in horror, wondering what form of subhuman species this creature could possibly be, and Igor explains that he is a glassy. The nurse asks if he had permission to speak, and cracks her riding crop threateningly. Igor cowers and says he will fetch some clean glasses, and then makes the very slow and painful journey across the stage, dragging his gimpy leg behind him. Ian then stops him, and asks why Igor remains if his mistress treats him so terribly, whilst glancing furtively at Michelle. Igor reasons that his current place of employment is better than his former, the Leederville, and walks off stage grimacing at the memory.

Michelle grows tired of the shenanigans and demands to know where the backup generator is. Ian slyly points in the direction of a dark room off-stage, purportedly filled with hospital equipment and sporting a faulty generator, as Hawkeye had told him before Michelle had shown up. Lurching off-stage, the sounds of Michelle walking into a door, stepping on a broom, slipping in a bath, getting slapped by a turkey and electrocuted by a faulty generator are heard. Father O’Father and Alexander walk on stage, with Father O’Father telling Alexander not to worry, as most altar boys can’t handle their sacramental wine the first time. When the good father enquires as to Michelle’s whereabouts, Ian nervously tells him that she’s dead. Father O’Father congratulates Ian for killing her before she became a fully fledged zombie, and after a moment of bafflement Ian agrees that’s exactly what happened. Hawkeye reasons that there is no reason Michelle’s body parts should go to waste, and calls upon Jenna, who strips zombies of body parts that can be used, making her a zombie stripper. She holds up Michelle’s only intact remains, asking if anyone needs a finger, to which the nurse replies she most certainly does. Father O’Father and Ian wonder where the zombies have gotten to, as the audience try to convince them that zombies are right behind them, to their disbelief. Father O’Father, Ian and Alexander finally realise that they are being stalked by Quick Undead Evil Emergency Room Staff, aka QUEERS, and run off the stage screaming.

Meanwhile, in the elevator, Peter and Ian’s Mum are playing I-spy. They then move onto discussing their predicament, and Peter comforts Ian’s Mum in regards to her worries over the zombies and her son. Ian’s Mum thanks Peter for the moral support, supposing that his consolation skill must be part of being a nurse, prompting Peter to lament that his job makes everyone think he’s gay. Ian’s Mum assures him that she thinks his choice of job makes him a decent, up-standing young man, and in no way suggests that he’s gay. Peter then declares that he spies something starting with “F L”...Foxy Lady.

Having beat off the QUEERS, Father O’Father, Ian and Alexander find the Chief of Medicine sleeping in the basement, and, after flicking the master control switch, Peter and Ian’s Mum making out in the elevator. The troupe head towards the elevator, but upon reopening it they find it full of zombies. Alexander reaches in the close the elevator whilst Peter holds off the zombies, and his arm is ripped off in the process. The Chief of Medicine then realises that the hospital has a secret tunnel for this precise situation, and Ian mentions that Alexander probably would have given an arm and a leg to know that earlier.

In their secret hide-out, the doctors argue over their priorities, before accessing their emergency supplies, which include the last known vintage of wine made by Jesus Christ, dippetty bix and a giant novelty cheque (from the Sperm Bank). The survivors enter the room and ask why the doctors have done nothing to put an end to the zombie threat. The doctors reply that they have an antidote, but have to test it, and as their testing chambers were designed to work on puppies and baby seals, the test subject has to be cute. Using an inspiring and eerily familiar speech, Ian tells Alexander that “yes, yes he can” make a difference by stepping into the blood splattered testing chamber, and assures him that he will be at last be a real boy (again). After each of the survivor troupe hug the little zombie (save for Father O’Father, who has a court order not to touch children), Alexander steps into the test chamber, and after a number of wacky sound effects, stumbles out, declaring he can feel his heart beating, before promptly dropping dead. The doctors boisterously rejoice at their success, as a shocked Ian accusingly claims that the doctors said Alexander would be cured, to which they respond he was cured, he is now a perfectly normal boy missing three-quarters of his brain and one of his arms.

After Doctor No goes to investigate a strange noise and is consumed by the zombie hoard, the Emperor of Medicine appears with the aim of preventing the doctors and survivors from putting the antidote into the ventilator. Doctor Who is devoured by the very slowly moving hoard whilst trying to reach the ventilator, and Doctor Cox and Doctor Frankincense suffer the same fate trying to save him. Father O’Father declares that it is time for some Bible bashing, and throws his Bible at the hoard (an action facilitated by the black-clad ninja that grabs the book as it leaves the priest’s hand and bashes a zombie over head with it). Suddenly snapping, Ian shrieks and grabs an arm off one of the zombies, beating a number of zombies with it whilst screaming about how Michelle never loved him, before collapsing to the ground, rocking back and forth whilst sucking his thumb. Peter then makes a run for the antidote, which has slid out of Doctor Who’s hand, and does a barrel role before dumping it into the ventilator, celebrating uproariously having done so, prompting a brief appearance of chest-bump guy. The zombie hoard begins to collapse, save for the Emperor of Medicine who has a gas mask. Once the smoke clears, the Emperor of Medicine attempts to escape before Ian’s Mum knocks him down, but when the survivors try to end the zombie threat with the Emperor’s life, the ethics board once again intervenes with their red tape. The final part of the documentary plays, explaining that the Emperor of Medicine was placed in a medically-induced coma, thus the threat zombies pose to freedom, democracy and the American way still looms. After sharing some flirtatious words with his audience counterpart, the presenter signs off, “Thriller” begins to play as the lights and zombies begin to rise, and curtain calls are had.

“E.RRRRRR! A Medical Drama...With Zombies” was most certainly on par with “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland”, and was said by some to be Pantosoc’s best production yet. The inclusion of the dance and the documentary were especially awesome, and once again the show was filled with little details that gave it life and personality. In pantomime I’ve found that most of the things that make a show magnificent are not in the script, but things that are added during production. In the case of my own character, the thing that got the most laughs were his gimpy leg, the whining and whimpering he does as he slowly drags himself across the stage, and the switching of gimpy legs as he turns to talk to Ian, none of which were in the script. Furthermore, there was nothing about Father O’Father being a pedophile in the script (which is a wonder really), but he ended up being one of the most sexual characters in the play.

I Never Ate a Taxi Driver’s Brains

I wasn’t allowed to go to the traditional panto after party that followed immediately after the last performance of “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland”, but in semester two my parents relented and allowed me to attend. I wasn’t interested in sleeping overnight, as most people were, so I organised a taxi to pick me up at two in the morning. I got a lift to the party with Peter and Hayley, and we played music from “Rocky Horror” and “Repo!” all the way there, which was ridiculously good. I arrived and met Ellie’s boyfriend, who claimed the last Starburst lolly to my disgruntlement, and when I whined he took it out of his mouth and offered to let me eat it, so I did. It still tasted pretty good. Jo, who had played Sarah Palin (very amusingly) in the last panto, and written the bar scene for the pantomime we’d just finished, told me that I’d brought her Igor to life just in way she’d imagined, and offered to use her mad bartender skillz to thank me by making me a slippery nipple. She poured some clear liquor that I assumed to be vodka into a shot glass and then added some brown, creamy liquid and a viscous, purple fluid that made pretty violet clouds as it tumbled through the drink. I was dreading the shot somewhat, as vodka was still bleach (or turpentine) as far as I was concerned, but when I swallowed it down it was delicious, like a creamy chocolate filled with berry jam, and when I said this to Jo she responded that its deliciousness was in virtue of the fact she was the one who made it. All the pantees were that summoned by the directors, who in that semester were Sally and Lachlan, to give out the gag prizes, which every pantee got. I received the “Eh...eh.....eh........eh Prize for Dramatic Tension” (apparently I got the “Prize for Scariest Portrayal of a Character” in the previous semester).

“Formalities” finished, most of the pantees gathered into a massive circle to play “I never”, as seemed to be after party custom. Daisy and I both sat in Evan’s lap during the game; Evan had been with Pantosoc for some time, he had played Hans Jakov in “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland” and was incredibly sweet and honest, whilst Daisy had joined Pantosoc that semester and was rather aggressive towards people on her bad side but enjoyable company for those on her good side, where I was happy to be found. Daisy got increasingly drunk and split half of her drink on me, which was pretty amusing. Once “I never” wound down I helped a very drunk Daisy get around the house, and we settled in the lounge where Evan joined us and Daisy spilt more drink on me. The atmosphere became considerable less relaxed when a slightly tipsy Evan attempted to pick up a guy of comparable size and dropped him, leading to slight injury. It didn’t help that the guy had arthritis, and Evan got some stern words from Lachlan. I felt my heart ache for him, as such incidence of social failure and peer disapproval were all too familiar to me. I did my best to comfort him and whisper that things would be ok as he reeled from what had just happened.

Not long after I my phone went off and I thought it was the alarm I had set for my taxi, so Peter joined me outside to wait, but it turned out that it was actually a text message from Evan asking me to meet him outside, where Peter and I found him. He miserably lamented that he had once again ruined his social standing within the group, and Peter and I did what we could to set his worries to rest, Peter doing a better job at it as he’s awesome like that. The three of us then had a little confessional session in which we exposed worries, feeling and some other personal information, which was interesting, but at the same time I felt a bit uncomfortable as I didn’t think I was capable of feeling the kind of emotions that were appropriate to the circumstance. My taxi then arrived, and it got in wearing a torn t-shirt and jeans both splattered with red and soaked in alcohol, with my face green from the zombie make-up I hadn’t bothered to wash off, and the taxi driver didn’t seem the slightest bit phased. As we made the way to my house I told him that this was my first time taking a taxi by myself, and went on to gush about all the wonderful independence I had finally been granted now that I was a university student, and the various avenues of wonder that had been opened up by university life. He then told me about his experience of driving early morning taxis, how his customers were usually falling asleep or throwing up and how to use a UBD whilst driving. When we arrived at my house he thanked me for being a much better conversationalist than his usual clients.

Bump out was scheduled for the following morning, but as I was invited to Declan’s 18^th golf party I missed it, which meant that I also missed out on watching the musical porno version of Alice in Wonderland, but these are the sacrifices we must make in life. After the panto there wasn’t much of the university year left, save for exams which, much like last time, were ridiculously easy in when it came to the arts units and ridiculously hard when it came to the science units. My first year of university finished, and a three month break upon me, I realised the time had come for me to finally finish this fucking journal entry.

Living and Dying_Beginnings and Endings

Whilst in the process of updating, the sad news came to be known by my family that my Uncle Ray had succumbed to the motor neurons disease that had been wasting him away for the last year or so. As my dad, after a period of unemployment during the economic crisis, had been hired to work in Karratha once more, he was unable to attend the funeral. Instead my mother and I had a lift with Aunty Alex, Aunty Clare and her husband Adrian (none of whom were actually related to me) to take us to the church where the funeral was held. The funeral was exceedingly better than my Nanny’s; rather than making me miserable it was actually quite uplifting, like a celebration of what had been. I never thought music by Queen would work so well in the context of a funeral, but watching the coffin being carried off to “We Are the Champions” was really very moving.

Uncle Ray wasn’t a biological relative of mine as far as I am aware, but rather he was one of my parents’ old friends from their days in Wickham. I remembered him mainly from New Years Eve parties, or similar gatherings, where my parents and a group of other couples, mostly British migrants who had moved to Wickham like my parents themselves, gathered to chat and drink bubbly. Though I was usually inside watching a video or the countdown, I would sometimes sit and listen to the adults talk. Mum and the other women were usually discussing some social gossip that I didn’t understand, so I usually sat with Dad and the men who would talk about the World Wars, politics, history and slightly philosophical matters. I remember Uncle Ray much as I remember most of my dad’s friends; funny, kind and jovial, and even later in life, when we went to visit him as his disease slowly wore him away, he was friendly and sweet. The news of his death did not come as any shock to me, my parents were always saying that it was imminent, and due to my general detachment I didn’t experience a great deal of grief, but the beauty and emotion at the funeral did prompt tears to flow down my cheeks.

After the funeral we attended the wake at a restaurant, where I wasn’t allowed to drink despite being almost nineteen at that point, since I didn’t have any form of identification, but at least I got a good meal. It was by no means a sombre event; the only conversation I can remember that pertained to death was a German man saying that when he died he planned to submit his body to science, as he liked the idea that, in death, his naked body would be surrounded by a number of young, female university students. Driving back home after the wake, it felt more like I had just attended a lunch party rather than a funeral. It’s strange; at Nanny’s funeral I feel not a single person attending had actually loved her, yet at Uncle Ray’s funeral most of the attendants had clearly loved him very much, nevertheless the ceremony following his death was far more cheery than Nanny’s.

Shortly following that experience with matters of life’s end, I found myself facing the very loud and demanding matters of life’s beginnings when, on the day I turned nineteen, my sister Kate and her now three year old daughter Sophie came to stay with my mother and I, shortly followed by my sister Sally and her now five month old son, Sean. My nephew is a lot more interesting than the last time I saw him, he’s very chubby and giggly. He cries in the middle of night whilst in the room next to mine but I’m usually still awake and on the internet anyway. It is Sophie’s decision to come into my room in the mornings, after I’ve gone to bed at around three on that same morning, climb into my bed, put her face up to mine and shout “WAKE UP SLEEPY HEAD” that is becoming a bit irksome. And so, such is my life as I type these words, which can only mean one thing...

I’VE FINALLY FINISHED THIS FUCKING JOURNAL ENTRY.

Oh please, whatever force dictates my fate, whether you be quantum probability fields or my deep and disturbed subconscious, take this entry as an offering, showing my desire to change my pitiful ways and earn the release from this unpleasantness that has had me in its thrall for far too long. I yearn to return to the joy I once revealed in and chase the promises of ecstasy that had thrilled me before my capacity to feel great things vanished. I set myself this simple task as a ritualistic act; now that the past has been transferred into words my mind can be free to focus upon the future. May this journal entry mark the impending disappearance of the unspeakable thoughts that plague my mind, making me feel as though I am the kind of person I most despise. May it too indicate the end of the numbness that disconnects me from that which gives life substance and meaning. Let this be a turning point, a first meagre step towards a new, ecstatic, endless era in which all the happiness I have felt before is greatly surpassed, and I become the person I yearn to be; one full of joy, experience and understanding. It must come to pass.

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 5)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:53:23 GMT

Drink Me, I’m Shaken and Not Stirred

Hayley provided me with various aspects of my Mad Hatter costume, including the top hat, for the performance. In Pantosoc’s twisted vision the Mat Hatter is the owner of the Insanitea, “the most frabulous bar and hotel in all of Wonderland” and the Hare is a lesbian stripper. In the script, when the Mad Hatter attempts to explain this idea to a confused James Bond, I was merely supposed to whisper something incomprehensible in his ear. During auditions I whispered whatever euphemism for lesbianism I could come up with each time (usually taken from “Little Britain”), something the directors found quite agreeable, and so they had me instead speak the lines aloud. During each audition I evoked a giggle from my fellows by coming up with a new euphemism, until I settled on one perfect for the performance, “Everyone’s mad for minge around here.”

Ellie took on the role of the Hare, in addition to that of the door knob, both of whom had the hots for the playboy bunny that Alice chases down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. During the rehearsals the two of us had to generally act insane in the background whilst the main characters, namely Alice, James Bond and the Bunny, talk in the foreground. This general insanity had to be be carried out in general silence, so the two of us bonded whilst performing various bizarre mimes and dances to communicate, and through this substitute for the more conventional means of conversing, we soon made it pretty clear to one another that we were well suited in terms of weirdness, and thus well suited to be good chums, and this we very quickly became.

During the production week the producers, directors and longstanding members of the society made it clear how far their passion pushed them. I hardly got any sleep during the dress rehearsals due to unprecedented insomnia; they didn’t sleep during the dress rehearsals, as they were literally up for days and nights straight preparing for play; painting the set, making props, generally turning the theatre into a surreal and somewhat sexual madhouse. Hayley pitched in with her artistic talent to paint a couple of very sexy interpretations of the statue of justice, done with a slight BDSM flavour, for the courtroom scene. When it became clear that there was a trapdoor on the stage I took the opportunity to explore, finding a very Alice in Wonderland-esque basement that was barely high enough to stand in, and perhaps covered in the same graffiti from the casts and crews of prior productions that was all over the walls upstairs.

The pantomime ran over the course of three consecutive nights, each beginning with the signature James Bond gun barrel sequence, executed with some creative lighting effects, and some hot silhouette action, involving sexy dancing bunnies, some suggestive fencing, me pulling Rabbie out of my top hat and the president and vice president engaging in some brief oral and anal, all to a fuckin’ awesome song called “Quantum of Alice”, written and recorded for the pantomime. The audience was then swept up in the enchanting tale of Alice who, after an all night clubbing session, is desperate for some shut eye and decides to chase a fluffy thing she thinks is a sheep down a rabbit hole, in the hope that she will be able to count it and fall asleep. Said fluffy thing is actually a playboy bunny who in turn has chased James Bond down the rabbit hole, determined to make him pay up his share of the child support payments for the baby she carries around. James Bond is on a mission assigned to him by M, aka Morpheus, to uncover the nefarious plot of the casino mogul and Queen of Hearts, Hans Jakov, the Jewish-Communist-Nazi midget, and his Vice Queen, Sarah Palin. Hans Jakov, sick of the world being run by tall people, seeks a shrinking potion that will shrink everyone in Wonderland.

In learning that she is not in fact a sheep, Alice makes a deal with Bunny, that in exchange for her help tracking down James Bond, Alice will receive some of the sleeping pills Bunny uses to get through motherhood. Alice then has a variety of wacky experiences with Bunny tagging along, including drinking a dubious substance that shrinks her, so she may get a good view of Bunny’s “shaved Brosnan”, before she devours a cake that restores her size. She then gets caught in the middle of a car rally presided over by Jeremy Clarkson, after trying to sleep in the boot of the worst car...in the world (aka Brum), driven by the Stig. Bunny and Alice briefly find themselves at a party held by Hans Jakov, where James Bond finds himself nailin’ Palin, before they wander through a creepy forest and meet a drug dealing caterpillar. Hans Jakov realises that Alice has the shrinking potion, and sends his twin assassins Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to crush her. James Bond arrives to save her from such a predicament, using his charm to uncover buried resentments between the brothers over a childhood rattle, which prompts a belly joust supervised by the Joker.

Alice, James Bond and Bunny escape to the Insanitea, where they meet the Hare and the Mad Hatter who regretfully inform them that there is “NO ROOM!” before collapsing in fits of insane laughter. Bunny then confronts Bond in regards to their legal issues, taking him to court where Sarah Palin, after hearing the crazed testimonies of the Hare and the Hatter, declares them both guilty of premarital sex. Alice points out that she had sex with Bond in an earlier scene, to which Palin responds that it’s ok because she’s married. Bunny and Bond are forced to share custody; Bunny bemoans that her baby will catch an STD, while Bond, initially depressed, decides to face his fate philosophically, for if a woman can balance a career and parenthood, he thinks, as a man he surely can!

Alice, Bond and Bunny then manoeuvre past guards and lasers to face Hans Jakov in his casino, where he challenges Bond to a card game in exchange for Alice’s potion. The cards involved in said game are of course Hans Jakov’s guards, and Jakov would have won if he didn’t feel the need to cut off the head of his winning card. After losing the game (fuck, I just lost the game) and his casino to Bond, and his assassins to Bunny who has a thing for twins and runs off with them to enjoy a spit roast, Hans Jakov is shrunk with the potion by James Bond, who supplies a bed for Alice (that Bunny and the twins quickly vacate) and quickly joins her in it. After the rest of the cast have performed their bows, the bed is wheeled back on stage, with Bond’s head buried under Alice’s dress, before the curtain falls.

Ah, I must say, it was a true privilege to play a part in such lunacy. The whole production was psychedelic, shameless, strange, sexual and insane, all said factors combining to produce something incredibly funny. So many delightful little details served to give the play a genuine personality, like toilet brushes dripping in blood on Jakov’s torture rack and the sign to Wonderland resembling the street signs of Perth, reading “Wonderland: 6.9km”. The audience, although not as vocal as my fellow Pantees who were sure to heckle excessively during dress rehearsals, certainly seemed to get into the spirit of the insanity, particularly when one of them threw a muffin at me. Apparently Sally (aka Tweedle Dee...or maybe it was Tweedle Dum), who wrote the courtroom scene in which the Hatter randomly screams out “MUFFIN!”, told a friend about said scene, and said friend remembered and decided to bring along a muffin to throw at whatever poor sap happened to be playing the Mad Hatter, and of course I turned out to be that sap. It’s a pretty funny sight, to suddenly see a muffin fly out of the darkness at you, and luckily my character was completely nuts so I didn’t have to imagine a particularly nuanced response to such a unique form of heckling. Simply driving on the muffin, stuffing it my hat possessively and pretending to nom it was apparently a sufficient answer, and I was commended for a good save after the show. I met the guy that threw it at me once the play was over, and admiring my curly Hatter moustache, he asked me how he could grow his own. We then fought over his remaining muffin by trying to pull it from each others’ mouths, with our own mouth that is. I consider it quite the pity that I haven’t met him since, as his company seemed to be of a nature I could really come to enjoy.

Well I Fucked That Up, and Not in the Right Way

Moving on from the subject of company one might come to enjoy to the subject of company one might come to, I guess the time has come for me to elaborate upon that book club story, as I said I would earlier in this entry, which may have some extremely vague and purely theoretical relationship with the concept of coming. Said story leads nicely into a further series of events, all which may combine to form “That Which My Laughably Be Called Claire’s Sex and/or Love Life” as there isn’t an awful lot of sexin’ or lovin’ happening in it, to put it mildly, but there is some awkward laughter.

Ok... let’s rewind to year 10: so, unsurprisingly AEP wasn’t a program unique to Leeming Senior High, and Ms. Lovatt, who was the coordinator of Leeming AEP, was buddies with a coordinator of the AEP program of some other high school, Willetton or something. They decided that they wanted to do an activity that would involve the two AEPs working together. Initiating relations between their respective year 10 AEP classes involved having us present panel shows on an issue. Oh wow...AEP flashback...so many panel shows... These particular panel shows were made in groups composed exclusively of members of our own AEPs, but when it came time for my group to present our panel show, for reasons I can’t recall, we were short a member. Not to worry, one of the Willetton students was happy to help out by filling the empty role, and doing a pretty good job with it considering the circumstances. She and one of her friends had randomly and forwardly befriended my friends and I during recess break, perhaps sensing some common ground between us, for in the lunch break we learnt that we were both fangirls who had many overlapping fandoms, and both of us especially appreciated the slashy and smutty aspects of fandom. Meeting a true fellow fangirl in the flesh for the first time, as far as I was aware, was a pretty big deal for me. Well, I had other friends who could certainly be classed as fangirls, and were into slash, but we didn’t share the same fandoms, and at that point my relationships with these friends were complicated. So meeting someone who shared the interests with which I was most impassioned, and involved in same subculture as I, seemed potentially monumental to me at that point.

The panel shows were a precursor to the book club, which would involve mixed groups composed of students from both AEPs. In addition to myself, the group I was in included my fellow Leeming student and future fellow UWA student, Declan, whilst the Willetton(?) half was made up of the fangirl with whom I had become friendly and her close companion. The fangirl in question was named Jess, and we began to converse frequently through email and msn. The book the four of us ended up selecting to read looked potentially interesting but ended up being really unexciting. We had to make a website dedicated to it and I contributed some intensely unimaginative fanfiction that I think to be far more interesting than anything written in the book. However, the novel is not the subject of this story, Jess is.

While conversing over the internet we shared various thoughts, most of the whimsical playful nature that I share with almost all my friends, but some a little more serious and personal. We arranged a sleepover at her house that was to include watching the Farscape mini-series, which I had long wanted to see. As with many sleepovers I have attended, our sleeping arrangements consisted of sleeping bags on the lounge room floor in front of the television, with the two of us lying side by side. When we were through with watching the various movies and mini-series and the time came to turn off the television and retire, we found ourselves snuggled up to one another. At this point I had a pretty good idea of what was probably going to happen; I had been cuddly with friends at sleepovers before, but that hadn’t involved hands stroking abdomens and faces pressed close against one another. Nor had any of those friends had the attitude towards sex I knew Jess to possess.

Throughout puberty I had awaited such a situation, I was a pretty perverted kid. I would be the first to suggest skinny dipping or agree to get naked for a dare. The latter half of my childhood was occupied by a fixation with all things sexual, and I yearned for the promises of pleasure that they presented to be fulfilled. I almost think that if some creepy guy in a white van had come along offering me candy, I would have agreed to go home with him and play with his pet snake. Well ok, in that situation I probably would’ve freaked out, but there might well have been a part of me that would’ve been slightly titillated by such predation. When this situation of impending sexuality did arise, however, I was not very titillated at all. Our interaction throughout the day hadn’t been as enjoyable as I had expected; I have always be much too prone to grand, romantic notions, and in meeting this person with whom I shared so many passions and who had let me in on personal information, I expected our time spent together to be a time of intimate, soul-sharing, life-shaping bliss. Rather it was kind of mundane, and we were somewhat disconnected from each other. When it became clear that what I had earlier hoped to happen was in fact going to happen, I felt disappointed that something I had so long awaited was going to occur in a context that I did not find to be romantic or sexually exhilarating. I guess it was that, and the fact that the Farscape mini-series was not as ridiculously awesome as I felt it ought to of been, which had me feeling rather dejected and not in the mood.

So after a short period of suggestive snuggling, I suddenly found myself rolled onto my back with Jess on top of me, initiating my first kiss; my first full on, salvia sharing, French kiss...with a human, if you wanna be technical. Ahem. I felt thoroughly disillusioned by it. Everything I had been told, all I had read, and all I had seen had always told me that kissing was a truly delicious and desirable experience. To me it just felt like what it was; having someone else’s tongue in your mouth. It did taste a lot cleaner than I had expected, and I remember thinking, “well at least it’s better than talking”, although that’s probably because it required a lot less thought. Hands and lips began to wander, and I played along, hoping I might eventually derive pleasure from the situation. Whilst my body became somewhat aroused, my mind stewed with further disappointment and disillusionment, until I decided it was probably untrue to oneself to continue without feeling the necessary thrill, and stopped things before they progressed beyond second base. When I got home the next day, I was thankful that my hair was long and bushy enough to hide my hickies.

So that was my first encounter of any true sexual nature, but as I progressed into the senior years of high school and beyond, the issues of sex and romance, that I had once sought out to no avail, decided to pursue me now that my interest in them had significantly lessened. When I was a little kid I always had a crush on someone. I think it was expected of you if you were a little girl. The little boys never reciprocated, at least not to me, and the ones that developed crushes on me were never the ones I wanted. When I entered high school I found myself consciously assessing my male classmates to find who should be the subject of my latest infatuation, and came to wonder why I bothered, they never reciprocated after all, and I had become enchanted by the notion of accidental love. I thought it would be more likely that my feelings for another were true if the feelings found me, as opposed to if I had gone looking for them. Plus I no longer felt the need to find fulfilment in a romantic relationship, as my relationship with my best friend was becoming stronger than any friendship that had preceded it at that point, and at the time I found that was enough to fulfil me.

So for most of my high school years I had no serious crushes, unless you count my obsession with my best friend which probably bordered on a crush, and when we began to drift apart the feelings of resentment that grew within me were perhaps appropriate to a botched romance, but whatever way you look at it, I didn’t go on any official dates. Upon entering year 11, Joel, a boy who associated with the group of guys I sat with at lunch, began to request my company more and more. Mostly we’d see each other when all the guys and I met up for activities such as Dungeons and Dragons, which I’d taken up so I could understand some portion of their conversations, but occasionally just the two of us would go to the movies together. Eventually he asked me if I wanted us to start going out as a couple. Remnants of my little schoolgirl self, that had long yearned to be desired and romanced, caused an interesting and pleasurable flutter of sorts within me, but that was quickly overcome with feelings of mild terror and a lot of awkwardness. Unsure how to respond, I meekly agreed.

Since I had decided not to consciously crush on anyone when high school began, I found myself not crushing at all. It seemed that I was not subject to the uncontrollable and sometimes unwanted yearning that so many other people seem to experience. Well, unless you count obsessions with fictional characters. In this time I spent ignoring the romantic possibilities of my real life, I think my capacity to crush on real people may have atrophied and died, for I have not experienced any serious lusts or romantic fancies for them in a long time. Whoops, I guess bit of social self-experimentation fucked things up a little. It certainly made it difficult for me to date Joel, and it made all of his very gentle attempts to take our relationship to “the next level”, and by that I mean simply kissing, both incredibly awkward and really quite frightening for me. In addition to my inability to feel infatuation, I also had a bizarre fear of growing to feel that elusive infatuation. I had become so wrapped up in my own little private world with my bizarre grand ambitions, my philosophies and my fandoms that I feared falling for someone outside of it would wash it all from my consciousness, and in a way a whole different person would replace me.

In my fears of intimacy I treated poor Joel terribly; I wasn’t directly cruel to him, but I was sometimes cagey in his presence, I froze up at any of his attempts to show affection and I never sought out his company, he always had to come to me. When I went to university and he went to TAFE, we hardly ever saw each other, and although it was never officially stated it was pretty safe to assume that our “romance” had ended, although to call it such would be laughable as we never shared any moments that could be called romantic or intimate. Joel was always very gentle about it, after what I put him through he never complained. If I were in his shoes, I would have had resentments. One would think that experience would have taught me a lesson. It seems I had to resit the course.

As I explained earlier, entering university changed a helluva lot of thing for me. One of these things was the way I was perceived by people. In both primary and high school most people saw me as a weirdo, some finding it worth mocking, some considering it funny, some thinking it sweet, but most finding it undateable. Despite being fascinated by sex since a young age, I got the feeling that many of my peers, save for those that knew me well, viewed me in a non-sexual way, and I guess the fact that I stopped crushing in high school fed that perception. When I went from high school to university I suddenly stopped feeling like the desexualised weirdo and more like a hot piece of ass. Random guys at the train station would ask for my phone number...which was actually pretty weird. When I was young I thought the idea of being desired and pursued very flattering, but in my current state it’s a bit of a nuisance.

Nonetheless, when I became good friends with a boy I met in physics, Roland, and incorporated him into my circle of friends, I found that my sexuality was interested in giving things a second chance. So when he sweetly and shyly asked if we could be anything more than friends, I responded that we could be, and became his first ever girlfriend, who he’ll probably remember as an ice cold bitch. Initially, things were relatively great, we had a lot of geeky things in common to discuss, and he was unexperienced in intimacy, so it was a while before he attempted to express his feelings with physical gestures, and when he did I didn’t freeze up as I had with Joel. The contact of his hugs and caresses actually felt somewhat pleasant, although the reaction was primary a physical one; since I’ve found myself on my emotional low the sensations of my body have all felt disconnected and numbed, and have had little impact on my emotions. Kissing still felt like nothing more than someone else’s tongue in my mouth, and I began to find his fondness for it a little irritating, but decided that slipping him the tongue would at least keep him happy for a while. Whilst we had the subject of our common interests to avoid most awkward silences, and I was less terrified of physical intimacy than I had been with Joel, after a while I began to grow distant. Roland was very enjoyable company for sharing a laugh and discussing various interesting things, but I did not feel what I thought I should be feeling. In his presence I enjoyed the funny and fascinating things he had to say, and I felt some mild pleasure and sometimes even arousal at his touch, but I didn’t feel anything that made him occupy my mind or cause me to seek out his company. I didn’t feel anything for him that really moved me.

I don’t know why I don’t have any big emotions for him; we love many of the same things, think many of the same thoughts and to my surprise, are alike in ways that I thought made me very singular. He’s practically the boys of my dreams, or what I considered the boy of my dreams to be back when I dreamt of such things. I guess the same could be said for Jess in many respects (besides the boy of my dreams part), but I think I enjoyed Roland’s causal company more than Jess’s back when we were simply friends, although that enjoyment was primarily of a superficial variety. The honest response may be that I just don’t have any big emotions anymore, which is pretty depressing, but considering my emotional state over the last few years it may be true. The sad thing is that, although I don’t have any big emotions, Roland clearly has big emotions for me, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I can hear his heart rate quicken in my presence, and when I see him after being away from him for a long time he will emotionally tell me that he’s missed me. I hate it.

I started to feel so uncomfortable in his presence that I began to avoid looking in his eyes. He was not unconscious of how distant I had become and as a result began to act very depressed. He confronted me about it, saying that it felt demeaning to coax affection from me, and I confessed my emotionally handicap to him, apologising for the suffering I’d caused. After that discussion I thought we’d effectively broken up, yet he still seeks out me company and I’ve gotten to the point of making excuses not to see him if I can. It’s difficult because we now are friends with all the same people and in all the same clubs, including the Pantomime Society. I’m hoping that he gets over me soon, because I don’t know how to deal with him anymore.

...and WTF, seriously, just as I finished writing that he left me a birthday present at my door. A chocolate and an internet phone shaped like a Star Trek communicator. He drove all the way from the city just to drop it off without even knocking. So sweet, so heartfelt, so perfect...so unreciprocated, oh dear. What the hell have I gotten myself into...?

And Then I Discovered Alcohol

Well, now that the supreme awkwardness of my practical experience with sex is finally out of the way, as far as this entry is concerned, I guess I can type briefly on my somewhat more pleasant experience with liquor. My mother has always been very strict on letting me drink, although this hasn’t bothered me too much as I don’t like the taste of alcohol. Before I turned eighteen the most I was allowed was a small splash of champagne at New Years, which I generally refused anyway. When I did turn eighteen mum was in no rush to help me get a proof of age card, I still don’t actually have one, nor was my eighteenth celebrated with any alcoholic substance. In my own household I wasn’t given the opportunity to exercise my newfound right to drink; my father would occasionally offer me a glass of whatever he and mum were drinking, only for mum to remind him that she doesn’t like me drinking, and it was usually something I didn’t like the taste of anyway. I wasn’t allowed to go on high school Leavers, largely because mum didn’t want me around all the alcohol, despite the fact that I was one of the few Leavers actually of the legal drinking age. I was given a few chances to drink with friends, although what they were having was typically something I couldn’t understand the appeal of. So my experience with drinking was pretty limited.

After year 12 finished Paige came to stay in Perth for a while, and I went to live with her for a few days in a house her and her mother were caring for. In addition to enjoying Saw marathons and randomly joining anti-Scientology marches - cos we can - Paige, an experienced underage drinker, introduced me to new and exciting forms of alcohol. I had discreetly sampled alcopops in the past, having enjoyed no more than a sip from the bottom of an otherwise empty can or given a sample from sisters or friends with more easy-going parents, but Paige, being a friend with very easy-going parents, was happy to supply me with bottles of the stuff. The fruity stuff was all very nice, although my fondness for it depended on flavour, but the best bottles of brain-incapacitating goodness were the vodka Mudslides. NOM. I love chocolate but I’ve always found the chocolate milk that comes in cartoons really piss-weak. Mudslides on the other hand actually taste like chocolate, but with the extra bite of the alcohol that’s actually enjoyable when accompanied by the pleasant taste, and the warm after effect as it goes down is also rather nice. As they’re so creamy I can generally only drink two before I’m full, so I can’t get drunk from them, only drowsy. In the days I was with Paige and her mother I only had between two and four drinks, and when I causally let such a fact slip during dinner with my parents my mother freaked out. She didn’t go off at me, but she made it pretty clear that she wasn’t happy that I had been drinking. Dad was kind enough to remind her that I had been eighteen for a couple of months, so drinking was well within my rights. What’s pretty funny is the fact that Paige had only just turned seventeen and her mother had been facilitating her drinking experience for some time. It just goes to show...I guess it goes to show whatever you want it to, really.

When 2009 came around all of my former high school peers began to catch up with me in adulthood. This included one of Declan’s friends, Tim, a dental student at UWA, who invited Declan to his eighteenth, allowing him to bring a one plus. Declan chose me as his one plus. When we arrived there were eskies full of liquor and a bunch of strangers, all of whom proved to be either pleasant or pleasantly geeky as the night progressed. I had decided that I wished to experience the sensation of drunkenness at some point, and as there seemed to very little to do at this party other than blow bubbles and drink, I decided that this was as good a time as any. The only obstacle to my aim was the lack of appealing alcohol; it was all of the variety I can barely stomach. I poured myself a small serving of some clear liquid and gagged, it was like drinking bleach, or at least what I imagine drinking bleach to be like. Or maybe turpentine, it certainly looked and smelled like turpentine, and I know turpentine. During the production week of “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland” a bunch of us were literally sitting in puddles of turpentine, trying to scrub paint off the bricks to avoid having to pay the fee to replace them. I know turpentine very well.

Declan began to work his way through a beer, and I took one for myself, although I couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy such a flavour, I just wanted the experience alcohol was better renown for. I was half way through it when I realised it had expired six months ago. Discarding it, I was then forced to join the others, most of who were really quite tipsy at this point, in vodka shots, which again tasted like bleach or turps. One of them then took my glass and filled it with a mix of bizarre substances, including vodka and some orange flavoured thing. The taste was slightly reminiscent of a Jaffa, although not in a pleasant sense, but it was better than the expired beer I had been drinking. As I slowly depleted the glass, Declan began to make comments about my sobriety. I didn’t feel any different from before, so I just told Declan that he was reinterpreting my usual weirdness for drunken behaviour. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing happened, I remember going to an engagement party where, as usual, there was no one of my age with whom I would be interested in passing the time. So I just did what I could to keep myself entertained and in doing so everyone assumed I was drunk off my face, as became clear from their queries.

After spilling half of my drink on my leg, I came to realise that I did feel different. Earlier I had just felt tired, as I usually did when I had the opportunity to drink, but now I was experiencing something that felt a little different, and I decided it was just notable enough to be more than my imagination. It was a lovely feeling of clarity. I have mentioned the revolting thoughts that occupy my mind against my will, constantly tormenting and making what would otherwise be a happy life a miserable one. Well, the sweet blessings of alcohol washed all that away, at least for a short while. It was wonderful, although I was in a slight daze my mind felt clearer than it had been in a long time. Furthermore, under the influence of alcohol everybody else at the party became so sweet and affectionate. I am naturally quite a cuddly person, and when I was feeling a little tipsy I hugged one of the girls who I’d barely spoken to that night, not so much due to drunkenness but more because I had sensed the softening atmosphere of the party as the drinks were downed, and she warmly hugged me back. Most of the night from that point on was spent hugging girls, actually. Getting cuddles from liquor softened ladies whilst in a lovely state of mental clarity; yes I’d say it was a pretty good party. When Declan and I got a lift home I went on about how much I love drunken nerds. Once I got in Declan started sending me all these flirty text messages which were both flattering and kind of awkward and fuck, I thought I was done was that business in this entry. Oh well, at least that never came up again...at least not directly.

Ma Academic Creds Yo + Let’s Hope Neurosis Isn’t Genetic 2: The Same Generation

I managed to pass all of my first semester units, which is somewhat miraculous considering how miserably I did in some of my assessments. I put the fact that managed to pass physics down to the labs, which were easy to get 100% in, and the online assessments, as the really clever students posted answers to them on the physics message board...and then got into a flame war over who should have the right to post solution sets...I guess nerd pride was at stake. Anyway, those two things were worth the same amount as the two in class tests, which I did unspeakably in. Thus it all came down to the exam, which I guess I must have passed as I got a pass in the unit. My score for calculus and linear algebra was lower, but still a pass, which was pretty good considering I failed two tests. Prior to my psychology exam I realised that I hadn’t been keeping up with the chapters we were meant to read, and I had to read over 300 pages of information over the next two days. I managed it by spending those two days doing nothing but reading from the moment I awoke until I went to bed. Luckily as it was psychology it was actually interesting reading material. The exam was a two hour multi-choice affair; I left after one hour, being one of the first to leave, and got a high distinction in the unit. w00t. The philosophy exam was great because we only had to write two essays in two hours. We could write three, but our lowest scoring essay was going to be discounted anyway, so might as well let that lowest scoring essay be scoring at zero percent. I got a high distinct in philosophy too, booyah.

During the mid-semester break my parents and I went up to Darwin to visit Sally, for the Abbott gene pool had once again spread its sinister tendrils throughout the populous. Yes, my sister Sally has offspring. Not before my half-brother Michael was married with a baby daughter named Evie, actually, but I never see that kid. I now have quite the brood of nieces and nephews. Well, a nephew, that which my sister and her fiancé, Daniel, brought into the world. They named him Sean; he was chubby and did all the things that newly released foetuses do. Whilst in Darwin mum and dad actually allowed me to drink with them, buying me a four pack of Mudslides to enjoy over the few days whilst we were there. I chilled out in Sally and Daniel’s hot tub, ran around with their dogs and had Eggs Royale at this groovy place that is filled with wacky sculptures. All in all it was a typically relaxing Darwin holiday to enjoy prior to commencing second semester.

University Brings Maths Brings Pain

I continued on with my two majors, but advanced into Philosophy: God, Mind and Knowledge, and Advanced Physics B. Due to my physics major, it was compulsory to continue doing maths units; this time I found myself in Calculus, Statistics and Probability. I don’t know why the teachers of maths feel compelled to make it even more horrible than it already is, but apparently they do. In year 12, for reasons I cannot fathom, our tests took place before school started. No other class had this bizarre convention. Furthermore, if another class had a compulsory lesson outside of school hours, they would get a flexi period in which they could go home to make up for it. Not in math; in fact I almost got in a lot of trouble when I left my class to make a point about it, but I managed to talk my way out of strife. Then I went to university, after going through that dreadful four week bridging course, and find that my math unit is the only one that has lectures on every weekday. Furthermore, these daily lectures start at eight o’clock in the morning, and considering it takes about an hour to get to university and about an hour to get ready, it requires getting up at six in the morning. Declan also had to endure eight o’clock maths, so over the two semesters we once again took the train in together, enjoying our in jokes. If one had no nine o’clock lectures or tutorials to attend one could get away with going to the nine o’clock maths lectures, but that often got the lectures pissed. Our Statistics and Probability lecturer decided that; not only was he not going to record his lectures for the internet, he wasn’t going to put his notes on the internet either, plus there was no text book, so attendance was pretty much compulsory. More like Sadistics and Probability, gah. Then again, the statistics portion of the course was much easier than the calculus part; I got nine out of ten for my statistics test, which is pretty shiny.

Actually This is Sparta AND Madness

For some reason psychology, although it can count as an arts unit, is qualified as a science unit under my degree, and they wouldn’t allow me to take another science unit, so instead I picked up Classical History: From Creation to Death. Although it was a Classical History unit, its focus was not supposed actual events at all, but ancient myths, with a side-serving of the history surrounding and influenced by them. The fascination ancient myth holds for so many others had long alluded me; I couldn’t understand why these seemingly rather skeletal, nonsensical and unsophisticated stories, containing superficial characters with childish and ridiculous motivations, were so popular. Modern stories with their dense plots and complex characters were that which had always allured and fascinated me. Yet, these stories were often riddled with references to ancient mythological tales, painting them in a light of great profundity. Although the plots and characters of myth had always seemed so superficial to me, their constant association with the profound forged a similar connection in my mind, and I couldn’t help but think that mythology was somehow related to some great ancient knowledge of what lies within and without. So, I had selected the unit in hopes of gaining a greater understanding of the references within various modern stories with which I am so enamoured, and in the spirit of my scholarly fantasy, in which the age-old academic search for truth is tied to the profound secrets contained within myth.

Although I missed all my introductory lectures, as I was flying home from Darwin on the first day of semester, in the first Classics lecture I did attend I was delighted to find my lecturer a middle aged man wearing a bowtie and sporting a mass of grey curls on the top of his head. Talk about catering to my tweedy academic fantasy! As the semester wore on his dress became more conventional and he sadly cut his curls off, but his lecturers did more than just make up for whatever absorbing academic atmosphere was lost with his curls and bowtie. The myths I were most familiar with were the biblical tales I had absorbed from the Christianity-saturated western culture in which I live, a few Aboriginal Dreamtime legends that had been animated and aired on the ABC and a smattering of myths from ancient civilizations such as the Greeks, Egyptians and Mayans. Practically all of the myths I had encountered seemed ridiculous and nonsensical to me, and the characters were all intensely immature, extremely cruel and entirely unlikable. My Classics unit focused exclusively upon Ancient Greek Mythology, with the majority of lectures revolving around recounting the myths, and the final few lectures exploring various interpretations and influences of these myths. Oh my, not since Russian history in high school had I heard such a decadently strange story of suffering, scandal and sex told in an academic setting, and considering my English Lit class read “Eva Luna” in year 12, that’s quite a statement. Were these myths ridiculous and nonsensical? Absolutely. Were the characters intensely immature and extremely cruel? Definitely. Were these stories jam-packed full of excessively bizarre instances of violence and mutilation, overflowing with utterly weird sexual liaisons, abundant with betrayal and revolution and filled to the brim with intense and dangerous passions? You better fucking believe it.

From Creation to Death transformed my perception of ancient mythology; where I had once viewed myths as overly simplistic and poorly constructed tales featuring flat characters, that could at best be used as skeletal, metaphorical foundations for modern stories to lend their inexplicable profundity, I now see the epic, interweaving (if incredibly inconsistent), bloody, passionate and completely insane chronicle that is (Greek) mythology. The characters are certainly incredibly sadistic and callous, and by the standards of much modern literature, rather flat at first glance. Almost every character is either a murderer, a mass murderer, a rapist, a multiple rapist or some permutation of said despicableness. Although the stories feature protagonists and antagonists, there is rarely a notable enough distinction in the overall morality of the opposing characters to designate either the role of hero or villain in accordance with the modern understanding of the terms. In addition to their most horrendous sins, the characters are also often petty, vindictive, vengeful, childish, deceitful, indecisive and incredibly cruel. However, in the midst of all this wickedness, as one does not feel compelled to look to any character as an example of moral righteousness and inevitably be disgusted by what they see, one instead feels free to revel in the gory madness these supremely damaged and demented beings create. Whilst they do drip with vice, these characters are not completely devoid of virtues and passions that stir up interest and empathy, for many most certainly experience deep love and pay heed to honour.

I had never seen the psychology of characters as a point of focus in myth, as it is in much modern character driven drama, rather the characters’ reactions and actions always seemed to be stated matter-of-factly without any exploration of the thought and feeling behind them. My education in Greek mythology both supported and subverted this view of mythical characterisation. Many myths were told in the style of relatively simplistic statements of events (not to say that the language used was simplistic, but in the sense that the telling didn’t bother to delve into psychologically complexities arising from said events), sometimes without even a mention of character motivation, and I find this style of storytelling to almost inevitably lead to detachment from the characters. Nevertheless, consideration of the incredibly violent, supremely bizarre and often perversely sexual nature of said events, which arise due the alarming actions of the characters, must lead to some speculation as to what sort of enticingly twisted minds must populate such a mad mythology. In consideration of their own myths, the Ancient Greeks must have had the same idea, for their tragedies, which are based upon myth, explore and expand upon the stories of mythical characters, adding further sordid details to satisfy the masses the tragedies were produced for, and exploring the emotional turmoil of the characters. The evolution of the Oedipus myth is a prime example of such; details such as Oedipus’s self-blinding and exile were added when the myth was adapted to tragedy, and the story of Oedipus’s daughter Antigone seems to be an invention of the dramatist Sophocles. This isn’t to say that epic poetry, the oldest know record of Greek myth, is all about action and devoid of emotion, the “Iliad” is all about the rage of Achilles after all.

Each lecture that involved a telling of the myths was structured around a theme present in Greek mythology, such as the origins of the gods, heroes, quests and the boundaries between wilderness and civilization. A large portion of the lecture on sex was devoted to the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus; it seems that even the Ancient Greeks liked to scan their literature for ho yay and write slashy reinterpretations of canon, although seeing as sexual orientation wasn’t invented back then it made things a lot easier for them. I think modern society could learn a thing or two from Ancient Greece, although that isn’t to say their sexual practices were not unstifled by different sorts of stupid imposed boundaries.

Towards the end of semester the lectures exhibited several different approaches to interpreting Greek mythology, which were all pretty ridiculous (structuralism...let’s leave it at that). Rather than following on from any logical or pragmatic train of thought, these approaches mostly seemed at be an amalgamation of abstract academic wank, cooked up for the purpose of making advanced academia seem all the more abstract, alien and inaccessible, which is an aim I must respect, really. Sometimes it depresses me how limited the scope of human thought is so any attempt to expand it into new realms of abstraction I must approve of, even if the outcome is inevitably nonsensical.

The last few lectures involved residues of myth, such as its influence on opera, and a couple of lectures on urban myth. An entire lesson was simply spent listening to our lecturer just recount a number of hilarious and horrifying urban legends; seriously, it was like being at a sleepover for 45 minutes. Throughout each lecture, after recounting the opinions of authorities on the subject matter, our lecturer would tell us his own philosophical outlook on things, which culminated in an interesting subversion of the perceived profundity of myth at the end of our lecture on the interpretation of urban legends, which wrapped up our course on mythology. I have the lecture text saved, and I don’t think I can out-do the wording of the original lecture, so here it is: "Ultimately, I would argue, Greek myths and urban myths survive because they are good stories. Not necessarily profound, not necessarily expressing anything we would recognise as 'true', but stories which are put together in such a way that the listener becomes involved in the telling and follows the connections made in it. These stories can be something more than just stories: the great poets of Greece and Rome had a way of making them into something profound, in which a sense of universality emerges. But to use a simile to sum up what I have been trying to get across in the last few weeks as we have looked at modern approaches to, and residues of, Greek myth--a good myth is really like a well-made box: in itself it is empty of any meaning, but it is at the same time capable of containing just about any meaning a teller wants to put into it. The narrative structure was not created for this meaning--it was not created for anything apart from itself. It was created because we humans like stories. What makes the Greek stories stand out is the use to which they were later put: the familiarity and interest of the story led writers and audiences into issues that go beyond story-telling."

Before taking the unit I had thought mythologies were merely collections of poor, uninteresting tales that were somehow attached to great profundity, yet at the end of the unit I was subscribing to the opposite notion; that mythology is a collection of tales that appeal to the human love of stories, free of any intrinsic, profound meaning in themselves; instead, they are merely vessels for a meaning of choice. Interestingly it fits with what I had noticed about modern stories; they seem to use ancient mythological references to lend meaning to themselves, but usually that meaning is already there within the story, the references merely emphasise it as both the modern tale and the ancient tale have both been used to convey the same ideas, illustrating the universality and constancy of these ideas, creating profundity.

I found myself utilising myth in this sense before the class had even been given that particular lecture. A quarter of the mark for the unit depended upon a digital project; which in that course meant anything relating to the syllabus hosted on the internet. If only all my units were so gloriously liberal (or anything like Classical History full stop). A girl in my tute, Kristie, wanted to make blogs for mythological characters, and, having spoken to me for two minutes, asked me to be her teammate, to which I agreed. After toying with a few possibilities we ended up selecting the characters Zeus and Hera, with Kristie as Hera, leaving me with the role of Zeus, because I always get cast as guys for some reason. Oh goodness, who would have thought playing the role of a megalomaniacal, severely sex-crazed, super-egotistical tyrant with bizarre daddy issues would be so ridiculously fun? I found myself growing oddly attached to Zeus as I wrote for him, or at least my version of his character, as technically disgusting as he may be. I even found myself developing a fondness for Zeus/Hera, even though their relationships is one of the least romantic in all mythology. It just goes to show how one may inject their own meaning and emotion into the framework of myth, such as when I used the blog to present a slightly philosophical outlook on the story of Pandora. I doubt Kristie will be interested in continuing to update her Hera blog, but I certainly feel compelled to play with Zeus some more.

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 4)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:45:42 GMT

Finally Out For-Fucking-Ever

High School Graduation took place at the University of Western Australia, under the great organ (what...shut up) and amongst the stain glass windows of Winthrop Hall. It was pretty dull, and I didn’t get any of the numerous prizes being handed out to the graduating students, which didn’t do much to feed my ever hungry ego that was already suffering from my emotional low. Most of the academic prizes went to a girl whom I’d always had the impression of being rather dull, which I suppose just goes to show, you can never really know. Overall, the graduation seemed a rather anti-climatic way to end my five years of high school, or twelve...no, thirteen years of school, but whatever. Whilst walking through the rather pleasant environs of UWA, my parents commented that I might well be attending that particular university if my TEE score were to end up high enough. I had initially been happy to go to Murdoch like Kate, it has bunnies roaming the campus after all, but dad had saw it necessary to inform me of his perceived hierarchy of universities, in which “limestone” universities, such as UWA, sat at the top. So, as daddy wished, I put UWA at the top of my preference list, Curtain second, and Murdoch third. If I hadn’t been worrying about trying to get a TEE score high enough to meet UWA’s standards the TEE probably wouldn’t have been that much of hassle for me, then again, I probably would have worked myself up over it anyway. I wasn’t entirely confident that I did have a TEE score high enough to meet the university’s requirements, plus I was feeling rather put out after the graduation, so I shrugged dispassionately at the comment, UWA, and its pleasant environs.

Eventually, the TEE results arrived, via the internet first, as most things do these days. To get into my required course at UWA, I needed a combined TEE score of 85. I got 94.2, and was quite chuffed. Mum cried, it was rather funny. I dunno how TEE scores are calculated; they obviously can’t just be your average mark of the highest four, because my highest mark of the four was 88 or something for English Lit. A friend tells me that it’s where you rank compared to everybody else, which puts me at ease when I think about scenarios in which a devastating meteor is on a collision course with Earth and the government can only save ten percent of the world’s population by fitting them in the unground bunkers. As an added bonus, most of my guy buddies had also scored places at UWA, so a sizable portion of my school chums would become uni chums.

Baptism by Bridging Course From Hell

Having secured my position at my university of choice, I was then faced with the problem of pre-requisites. I had signed up for an Arts-Science degree, the Arts major being philosophy, a subject I had long desired to study, and the Science being physics, for the sake of quantum craziness and some measure of employability. However, physics required the pre-requisite of TEE calculus, when I had only studied applicable maths, yet another of its pre-requisites. Declan was in the same position, but he had a neat solution; a four week bridging course that would cram a year’s worth of calculus into a month, just prior to the start of the first uni semester. It would mean knocking that month off our holiday, but it was growing rather long and tedious anyway.

I was faced with a gamble; I could either do the four week bridging course or take the subject over a semester. If I failed the bridging course I would have to do the course during first semester anyway, but I would also have to pay for it twice. On the other hand, if I passed the bridging course I could go immediately into university calculus and not have to stretch my degree over an extra semester. I am forever attracted to opportunities to test my capabilities, particularly of the mental variety, so I decided to live dangerously and join Declan in the four week course.

Thus 2009 begun with Declan and I as brothers in arms (wut?) as we embarked upon our joint scholastic challenge. Being their ridiculously over-protective selves, my parents had hardly if ever allowed me to travel on public transport without an adult, but attending UWA would require taking the train into the city, followed by a bus to the university itself. Mother actually tried to convince dad to accompany me on my daily journey, but thankfully dad is accustomed to her ridiculous neurosis and payed no heed to this suggestion. So by necessity she was forced to relent, and for the first time my independence could blossom. Thus, I met Declan at the train station each morning, and we made the journey towards the seat of a very different type of student life.

The bridging course was nothing if not full fucking on. We were expected to attend each week day and the hours were about the same as a school day, so in many ways it was like going back to school, if school had taken an hour to reach, taught nothing but calculus, had the students and teachers on a first name basis, had an abnormal amount of breaks, and had a freakin’ test every freakin’ morning. Our lecturer was pretty awesome, her name was Wally, and she pointed out that this was in virtue of the fact she was from some European country, as her accent made pretty clear, not because she was a transvestite. Basically, the course was composed of all the lectures that would be taught over the semester, crammed into the four weeks, so as opposed to one 45 minute lecture a day it was something like five or six every day, with 15 minute breaks between each and an extended lunch break.

The lectures took place in a genuine lecture theatre, new territory for me at that point, which certainly gave me an excuse to wear my glasses a lot more, because I couldn’t see a thing on the board without them, unless I sat at the front row. There was no text book to refer to either, so for once I actually had to take notes in class. I ended up getting Ben to give me his year 12 calculus book; I was becoming so worked up over trigonometry and integration, the fuckers. My understanding of the subject matter was pretty strong...in the first hour, things quickly deteriorated beyond that point. Trigonometry was especially confusing for me; until that point it was just something used to find the critical angle of reflection between two media in physics. I had no idea what any of it actually meant. I now know that it has something to do with a circle, and that’s about it, but that realisation was a breakthrough for me.

We were given a stack of exercises that we were expected to work through, doing the odd questions from the sections relevant to the day’s lessons each night. It didn’t leave much time for any manner of leisure. Every morning, we were tested on that which we had been lectured in the day before. We weren’t allowed to use calculators for the tests either, and we were former high school students who were adapted to relying on graphics calculators for everything. Seriously, why do they let us have graphics calculators in high school if we can’t use them in university at all? I don’t see the logic in that whatsoever. Apparently in days of old the tests made up 40% of one’s final mark, but now they were just for the sake of practice, and thank freaking hell for that. This class gave me my first experience of getting 4% and 0% in tests, something I had to grow quickly accustomed to. My confusion in trigonometry came back to bite me on the butt as well, as Yuki, the lecturer who marked our tests, felt it appropriate to use a mistake I made in my trigonometry related ignorance as an example of what to never, ever do. Luckily she didn’t say, nor did she know, who made said mistake, so I listened to the lecture theatre guffaw at this ridiculous anonymous person who didn’t know shit about simple trigonometry, in the shamefaced knowledge that said person was me.

Declan and I took the train and bus in together each morning, we sat together in the lecture theatre, we discussed the ridiculousness of the morning’s test together, together we laughed at our miserably low scores for yesterday’s test, we dawdled together during the short breaks, lunched together during the lunch breaks, and walked home together from the train station until our paths separated. Prior to the bridging course we’d been pretty good buddies, but as he only ever seemed to speak in World of Warcraft and Dungeons and Dragons jargon anymore, which confused me to no end, we weren’t really close. During the bridging course we were around each other almost constantly, so much that I actually began to clue into what he was talking about, and our friendship became so tight that we pretty much reached BFF status during this most strenuous mathematical endeavour. It seems to be in Declan’s nature to interpret everything in his uniquely geeky way, and our friendship became a constant source of hilarity as we forged our own personal culture of in-jokes borrowing from internet memes, geek-relevant themes and our shared personal experience.

Although we kept to our own company, we eventually found ourselves mixing with certain other students, one of whom, Elselynn, joined us to form a trio of friendly confusion in the midst of the mathematics. When she came in to uni wearing a shirt proclaiming “I’m not a geek, I’m a level 12 paladin” it was pretty clear that she was sufficiently nerdy to fit quite nicely into our own special brand of geek culture that we had formed, and in addition to sharing her delicious German, chilli-flavoured lollies with us, she introduced us to whole new vistas of geekiness, which reminds me:

I JUST LOST THE GAME.

The 40% that had once been accounted for with the tests was instead made up with a mid-course exam, which we were at least allowed to use scientific calculators in. I ended up getting 47% in it, which was a fail, but this was actually quite encouraging to me, as I thought I had failed it much more miserably. However, as the end of the course and our second exam, which made up the remainder of our mark, approached, I was in a panic. I realised that I had misread my calendar, thinking I had an extra week, and had slacked off. I actually had very little time to catch up on my learning, and I barely understood what we had recently been taught. My marks in the daily tests were worse than ever, and I had to get over 50% to pass the second exam. My head swam with panic at the seemingly insurmountable task that faced me. The weekend prior to the test was spent locked in my study, stabbing my note book when my formulas failed to integrate properly, with no real breaks.

Taking the final exam, I flicked through the booklet with some relief, as all the questions seemed familiar enough. Then I actually began to answer them, and to my horror, realised they were actually incredibly difficult. I wanted to weep. I went through, answered the few I could answer with some measure of certainty, then tried to answer the ones for which I only half remembered the relevant rules and had to some extent guess. I made a start on the deceptively easy looking questions that were in fact sadistically tricksy (like a Hobbit) and abandoned them half way through in despair. Finally, I resolved to answer one horrible, seemingly impossible question; an optimisation problem. I filled the back and front of the question sheet with scribbled out failed attempts, becoming increasingly convinced that there was no way to answer. Then, in the last few minutes of the exam, I was struck by inspiration involving differentials, chain rule and cross multiplication. In those few minutes, in a tiny blank corner beneath a page full of scribble, I left a worryingly short answer, but it was an answer none the less. Then the ordeal was finally over. Despite my last minute inspiration, I left the exam pretty convinced that I would soon be repeating the experience over the course of a semester.

UWA: Utopia of Wacky Academia

In the remaining week or so prior to the start of our first semester, we engaged in the numerous preparatory exercises for this new flavour of student life that we would soon taste. This included O-Day (Orientation Day for n00bs) in which we signed up for numerous clubs. I joined a ridiculous number, but never really heard from them again, nonetheless I revealed in the atmosphere of the day. It was like a festival; there were people giving out peach ice tea (my favourite drink), people wading in paddle pools, people jousting in medieval gear, people imploring that we give our blood and money to the less fortunate, and so much promise of the rich, colourful and independent university life that awaited us.

Then the results for the bridging course were released, over the internet, of course. Wally had decided not to give us our actual score, but just a zero or a one, representing a fail or pass respectively. When I learnt that the scores had been released, I accessed them with resignation, already sure that a zero awaited me. I checked the box that contained the deciding number. There sat a one. I was convinced that there had been some mistake. Eventually I came to accept this seemingly absurd fact. Someone who had gotten 57% in frickin’ applicable mathematics, failed their TEE math exam, and who didn’t know shit about trigonometry, had taken on the four week calculus challenge and beaten it. Not only that, I was the only one of our trio who had beaten it, when I’m pretty sure Declan and Elselynn had both outdone me in high school mathematics. It was then I became convinced I was fucking invincible. Booyah. Later during the semester I actually went to Wally, asking her to give me that horrible exam to look over. To my amusement, some of the questions I thought had been easy I had failed, whereas the ones I’d half guessed at I’d passed, and I almost got full marks on the optimisation question that I’d answered in the last minute. I was now ready for hardcore university level calculus, and consequently, hardcore university physics.

So, my university life begun, and I was amazed to find that anything could be so perfectly wonderful. For once, something arose to practically every promise, every expectation. I had been told repeatedly that university was infinitely better than high school in almost every conceivable aspect, and honey, for once they weren’t lying. Such volumes of liberty and independence were not just something afforded, but it felt like the spirit of such a life, something demanded by right in affirmation of my long sought adulthood. The campus was the ground upon which this dizzying independence collided with the light of intellectualism, the fire of convictions, the unabashed pleasures of hedonism and exhilarating concepts both novel and classical. The university was the cradle for the culture created in this fusion; in their independence people pursued pleasures opened up to them in the new vistas of ideas, as these concepts clashed in the fires of opposed convictions, whilst the conflicts were tempered by the intellectualism that encouraged diversity and tolerance. By contrast, attending high school seems like living in a police state.

The university grounds are more like a miniature town as opposed to a school. The guild village acts as the central hub where various stores are set up; there is even a frickin dentist. The book store supplies texts on the many subjects taught, as well as a sizable selection of fiction and non-fiction books not on the syllabus, in addition to various nerdy novelties, my favourite being “Freudian Slippers: How to really put your foot in it.” LOL. Such an array of knowledge, from books on the particulars of dentistry to the history of Ancient Rome, was very intellectually tantalising and bolstered my conception of university as the seat of human knowledge. The selection of books in the bookstore, however, was slim compared to the shelves upon shelves, rows upon rows on offer in the libraries, where countless strange old tomes on various bizarre topics, including Victorian freakery and 18^th century sadism, reside for our benefit. I love their old, blank covers and obscure topics, they again speak to the notion tweedy, oak panelled intellectualism that I associate with universities, which I imagine to hold a wealth of ideas too abstract for common knowledge, obscure histories of philosophical thought intertwining with science, politics, religion, art and sex, in which secrets and truths of hidden history and the human condition are locked away. I thrill in the notion of being one of those scholarly types that wiles away the time studying ancient philosophical tomes written in some dead language, in the rare, exclusive knowledge of long forgotten peoples, civilizations and ideas, and their practically unheard of gravity and relevance to modern society, feeling that one step closer to the ultimate truth than the common citizen.

UWA market days proved that environs reminiscent of Harvard and Oxford aren’t the only avenue to such ideas of hidden knowledge and strange, unexplored conceptual horizons. Every Tuesday various people set up stalls in guild village, selling a variety of products and services. The intriguing smell and strange contraptions surrounding a certain stall attracted my attention. Looking at the various things on offer lying upon the table, I confused the word “guarana” for the word “ganja” and found myself thinking, “Wow, you really can get away with anything at university.” One of the store holders came up to me and offered to provide an explanation of his various wares, assuring me of the legality of it all, from the study pills to the legal highs. His partner then offered me a puff from the hose attached to the exotic looking contraption he had been smoking from. Caught up in the spirit of the liberal student life, I agreed. The smoke had an intriguing strawberry aftertaste, which the store holder cheerfully explained was strawberry shisha, which was on sale in addition to various other flavours. I was fascinated; I had no idea that any forms of party pills or hallucinogenic drugs were legal. I found myself returning to that stall, The Psychedelic Revolution, on most Tuesdays, to learn more pearls of wisdoms from these shamans. They had a wealth of outlandish and profound ideas to share, some I had to take with a pinch of salt, as they say, but others I found intensely intriguing. They subscribed to pretty much every conspiracy theory in existence, from aliens to holocaust denial, and believed in realms of truth beyond normal perception which could only be accessed via mind-altering substances. I learnt that illegal substances such as magic mushrooms and DMT have no long-term repercussions for one’s health, and could provide profound insights. They certainly instilled in me the resolve to sample their wares at an opportune moment, in fact one of their “Blessed Pills” currents hides in my draw; I hope it will be more effective than the soft-core chill pills I sampled earlier this year.

In the upper levels of the buildings that surround the guild village, entrance hidden away behind the tavern, are the club rooms. If one can find the rather dodgy looking entrance, one must climb stairs littered with mouldy, decrepit couches, where the words “Nerds Rule!” are emblazoned on the wall, before reaching the top, where that adage is evidently very true. The most active rooms seem to be those belonging to the Anime Club, Gaming Club, Computer Club and the Sci-fi Association. Of those, I am best acquainted with the rooms belonging to the Computer Club and the Sci-fi Association, which sit opposite each other. The Computer Club Room is full of computers (wow, who’d of thought it) of astonishing screen size and gaming capacity. The walls and door are plastered with computer jokes, old computer parts litter the shelves, and for no particularly reason there is a can crusher attached to the wall, with a pile of crushed cans beneath it. It has been named something I can’t remember. A half deflated dalek guards the entrance to the Sci-fi Room, and inside the walls are lined with bookshelves, all overflowing with every novel and comic of speculatively fictional nature. The rest of the room is either a couch or a bean bag; save for the one part of it that is a fridge. In both rooms it is difficult to move for sheer amount of nerds. It’s pretty wonderful. There’s also a vending machine that requires some kind of code to operate; ignorant of this fact, I lost in excess of two dollars to it.

My units in the first semester were Advanced Physics A, Calculus and Linear Algebra, Psychology: Mind and Brain, and Philosophy: Ethics, Free Will and Meaning. I quickly learnt that there existed a very notable difference between my Science degree and my Arts degree. One was deeply interesting yet easily understandable, the other felt like being gnawed to death by integrals. Try to guess which one was which. After enduring the bridging course, I thought that normal university, with its incredibly sparse hours spread out over the thirteen week semester, would be like being on a permanent holiday. To be frank, it pretty much was like being on permanent holiday, considering the amount of work I did, but it seems that one adapts very quickly to whatever workload one has, and whilst this can make impossible workloads seem manageable, it has the downside of making light workloads seem overbearing, so although I had much less work to do in university than in high school, I still found myself falling behind and leaving things to the last minute. To be fair, the physics and mathematics were ABSURDLY DIFFICULT. The mathematics was comparable to what we’d learnt in the bridging course, but high school physics provides absolutely no preparation for that one must face doing university physics. No fucking wonder calculus is a compulsory unit for physics; the work was crawling with horrid integrals and all kinds of nonsense. The years of complied graffiti on the physics desks did provide a welcome distraction from the nonsensical sentences pouring from the lecturers’ mouths; there wasn’t a desk lacking a penis.

Ah, yet another sense in which university is far superior to high school, the quality of the graffiti. In high school, it’s just a random swear word and “so-and-so is a lesbian slurry” written in the toilets, but in university the graffiti on both the desks and in the toilets covers a variety of topics. These include jokes, poems, advice, polls, stories, debates and various drawings. The higher quality of the graffiti reflects the higher quality of the people, who are both sweeter and stranger. In high school too many students enjoy subjecting others to cruelty and exclusion, keeping their minds closed and their ambitions unextravagant. In university, however, people welcome uniqueness and revel in their own individuality, having many strange and interesting passions. They are kind and courteous, and are happy to express the manner in which they deviate from the mainstream. There is a much greater variety of people at university, in terms of things such as age and sexuality, yet we are all equals, and it’s wonderful. And, of course, there are so many nerds. In high school my fellow nerds and I kept to the shadows, pushed aside and unconsidered by the mainstream. As Ellen once put it, we weren’t really “known”. At UWA, nerds are the dominant species. Everyone speaks the shared language of internet memes, and every other person has some sort of nerd joke emblazoned on their T-shirt. It is so glorious. This is particularly true when one is around the physics block. Around the arts block, things are more, well, artsy. One may detect a slight hippie or beatnik flavour if one is particularly sensitive, and it is equally wonderful. I hear that in places such as the commerce block, the nerdy thrall is not quite so strong, but that’s why I don’t do economics.

The arts block is overrun by peacocks. Sure, they aren’t the bunnies that Murdoch has, but they are a sight to see. Their feathers are stunning, their astonishing colours and their massive, magnificent tails show the incredible excesses that nature will go to. The fact that I have the privilege of seeing such amazing creatures on a regular basis shows the new heights university to which has lifted my life. They also give UWA students a reason to feel all the more snooty, as my non-UWA friends (pfft) like to point out. The story is that the arts block ordered a statue and peacocks were received as a mistake. I’m assuming that’s a campus myth, but it could be true. They’re not very adventurous, they never leave the arts block, and they make the oddest noises. They also stalk people with food. The albino one bit me whilst snatching cookie from by hand. I group that event with the incident of the emu that bit me when I was four/five. I dunno if a cockatoo is strange enough a bird to be mentioned in the same category. Elselynn got bitten by a kookaburra while it swooped down to snatch pie from her hand...rambly tangent much?

I was astonished, upon commencing my philosophy unit, to find that numerous notions and problems that had arisen during my many musings in contemplative moments were the theories and issues of philosophers of old, and thus topics of our unit. I seemed to develop a reputation in philosophy as the most loud-mouthed person in the unit, as I was constantly asking questions and making objections in lectures and being the first to respond to queries in tutorials. It got to the point that, whenever the lecturer would ask for questions or responses, they would ask if anybody else wanted to say something, before addressing the hand raised above my head. My constant comments sometimes elicited snickers in lecture theatre, but that just made me glad to know that I was recognised in such a large group.

Red Wires, Green Wires Stuck ‘Em Right Through Me. Only Not.

Psychology began with lessons in critical thinking by an intensely entertaining lecturer, and I learnt some extremely useful concepts and terms. For one, I can imagine so many situations in which the word “granfalloon” is totally applicable, particularly when the topic of nationalism arises. I can see why scientology promotes hatred towards psychology, for these lessons in critical thinking aim to equip one with the necessary defences that ward against the brainwashing techniques such cults employ, something Ron Hubbard must have realised. Further lessons in psychology on topics such as classical and operant conditioning were fascinating and highly informative; they have helped me shape and refine my understanding of human nature. I would go so far as to say that psychology was the more interesting and possibly the most useful unit I’ve taken thus far. Even though it’s not one of my majors, if I have the opportunity to take another unit of it I will jump at the chance.

Six percent of marks in that particular psychology unit were earned through participation in the experiments of psychology students more advanced in their degrees. The opportunity to play lab rat excited me to no end as I imagined all the strange things I may be compelled to do, thinking of the bizarre psychology experiments exhibited in documentaries on the ABC. To distinguish the most befitting subjects, we were asked to fill out a number of surveys that would determine if we were suitable for the various experiments on offer. Some of the questions asked in the surveys were truly bizarre, such as “Do you ever see the face of the devil?”, “Do you hear voices?”, “Do you believe god has chosen you for a purpose?” I was so tempted to answer “yes” for some such options, but I was as honest as I could be. I’m not sure how accurate a reflection of my true nature such a self evaluation was, for I don’t claim to know myself completely, I just made sure to answer “yes” to questions such as “Do you think of pushing people in front of trains?” I can’t help it. We then either waited to receive offers from students who thought we were psychologically off-kilter enough to be a suitable test-subjects, or sought out experiments and whored ourselves for credit points.

Once I had all my credit points I found myself signing up for experiments anyway, because they also paid in money, and ten dollars an hour for playing weird little computer games? Hellz yeah. Most experiments did involve sitting in front of a computer, often wearing head phones that play weird little bloop noises, whilst doing various exercises that test one’s memory, risk taking tendencies, reaction times and cognitive skills. One experiment involved looking at pictures of food, and writing about how we feel about food, then getting food. That was a good one. I did two experiments that required wearing an EEG electrode cap, which also happens to involve having all this salt paste smeared onto your scalp whilst the electrode thing-a-ma-bobs dig into your scalp. They don’t go under your skin or anything like that, but it ain’t exactly comfortable, and they take forever to be fitted on. Nonetheless, t’was an interesting novelty. I took the bus and train home after said experiments, with my hair and parts of my face covered in white gunk, which was pretty funny.

Livin’ in a Panto Paradise

The outside walls of the university are plastered with various posters, many provided by clubs promoting their ideals, the Socialist Alternative and the Christian Club vying for dominance, but at the beginning of semester one, some particularly cryptic posters caught my attention. They were faceless silhouettes of characters from “Alice in Wonderland”, along with a silhouette of James Bond, strangely enough, accompanied by taglines such as “Eat Me!”, “How Deep is Your Rabbit Hole?” and “Who Doesn’t Like Bond-age?”. I was led to assume that advertised some kind of university bondage club, and I wondered what kind of activities and social calendar they had, and I thought about how I might go about finding out. Later I saw another poster that clarified things for me; it advertised auditions for the Pantomime Society’s production of “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland”. I looked up the club’s webpage, which appealed to anybody who “couldn’t act, couldn’t sing and couldn’t dance” promising that the Pantomime Society would be perfect for such an individual, saying that anyone who auditioned was guaranteed a part. It explained that a pantomime is an old English play that turned traditional fairytales in dirty sexual comedies with audience interaction, although UWA Pantosoc, as it’s called, incorporates modern cultural elements as well. I thought about it, considering that it might be difficult to make practice at night when the university was quite far away, and it would be expecting quite a bit of my parents to pick me up after rehearsals. Then I said fuck it and auditioned.

Admitting what I had gotten myself into, my parents were surprisingly relaxed, much to my relief. I had given the audition a hearty helping of my madness and over-acting, which seemed well received. When roles were given out, I was delighted to learn I had been cast in the role of the Mad Hatter. My delight was destined to intensify when auditions began, and I found exactly what it was I had gotten myself into. I had come home to my people. Most members of Pantosoc are also members of the Sci-fi Association, which I had joined on O-Day, and are consequently intensely geeky, but I don’t know if this fact is sufficient to explain that they are also intensely wonderful. In parody of UWA’s “Seek Wisdom”, the society’s official motto is “Seek Insanity”, and oh, with what fervour do these glorious human beings embrace such a philosophy! They chase the same dizzying heights of madness that I do my best to pursue, practically unfettered by the overinflated dignity, suffocating social conventions and starved ambitions that hold so many people back. I remember, back when I was in “Oliver!”, feeling the thrill of watching my fellow classmates cast away their apathy and becoming enthralled in the magic of the new world we’d created. In the Pantomime Society, the members are always driven by such a passion; they can’t afford apathy towards the project, for there is no overseeing power to push them, they are in charge of every aspect of the production, and must have the drive to see it through. They have the drive because they love what we are creating, and they love it because their minds are open to the sweet insanity of the imagination. They do not shun it as nonsense like so many, whose passions are all too soon too narrow. I’ve waited my whole life to know people such as these.

In auditions I began to hang with Hayley, a slash fangirl, role-player and artist of great skill. Her BFF Peter is the sweetest human being I’ve had the pleasure to know, and together they seemed to take to me. After auditions one night they invited me out for ice cream, and in eagerness I contacted my parents for permission using the mobile phone that had, over the year, suddenly become such a necessity. My parents allowed it, and I felt dizzy in such independence; leaving in the car of people who were, at this point, barely beyond acquaintances, at night, in the middle of the week, into the city, for ice cream, on a whim. They sat me in the back of Peter’s car after pushing aside all his musical equipment, and as the car started a glorious racket sounded at an incredible volume from the car speakers. I enquired as to what manner of wonderful commotion I was listening to, and they said it was from “Repo! The Genetic Opera”, to which I replied that it was something of which I was aware and desperate to see. They responded by saying they had a copy burned which I was welcome to come over and watch sometime. I squee’d. Then they put on more of their music, and every song was an example of what I consider to be musical perfection, thumping out of the speakers as we travelled down the highway through the city lights. We arrived at Baskin and Robbins, and I had never before encountered an ice cream parlour with such a dizzying array of flavours. The cones were practically the size of bowls and Peter insisted on paying for double scoops. I got cotton candy on berry shortcake and buried my face in the enormous serving, and Peter giggled that I was making out with it. The three of us strolled down the street with our cones in hand, and I told them about the Insane Clown Posse, shamelessly singing them the dirtiest lines from “Cotton Candy”, which they loved. Walking back, our ice creams almost finished, Peter suggested we get KFC. I laughed at the notion of getting dinner after ice cream, but was thrilled at the idea of going against convention in service of whims, it felt so liberating. Chomping down on KFC, with this wonderful thing called “Mindless Self Indulgence” playing through Peter’s stereo, they drove me home. They have driven me home many times since, and I eventually told them the opinion I had formed; that 5 billion years of evolution had reached its peak when it produced them.

During production week for “James Bond in Alice’s Wonderland”, which took place during the mid-semester study break, Peter let me sleep over at his place, along with Hayley. I have no idea why, but this was the first time in my life that I couldn’t fall asleep at all. I’ve tossed and turned before, and I’ve slept in some pretty uncomfortable and unconventional positions before, but I’ve always fallen asleep. For some reason I just couldn’t this time. The first night I slept on some couch pillows in the computer room and I put my inability to sleep down the bright lights of the computer. The second night Peter let me share his bed, and I put my insomnia down to the awkwardness of such a situation. Thing is, I’m pretty sure I’ve been in brighter or more awkward situations before, and have been able to sleep, so I dunno what was up with that. I rang my parents to pick me up at the crack of dawn the first time round; they weren’t overly pleased. The second time I snuck out of bed, looked bus timetables up on the net and crept out of the house at ten to six in the morning, catching a bus, then a train, getting home to catch a couple of much needed hours in my own bed.

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 3)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:33:39 GMT

Two Very Different Affairs Related to Pureblood Fanaticism

Whilst I had decided to give the dance a miss in year 10, expecting it to be much like the rather dull river-cruises of years 8 and 9, I knew that their was no way in hell that I’d miss out on year 11 Mocktail, purely because it presented the opportunity for fancy dress. As Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows had just been released I decided to go as Bellatrix Lestrange, seeing as she “puts the ‘fun’ back in fundamentalist psycho” as a wise random of DeviantART pointed out. The rest is probably a story best told in pictures, which I may upload at some future point.

There is much I want to say about my next experience, as it provokes musings within my mind as to the reality of…I don’t know if any word is untainted enough to express it. I shall save said musings for a post dedicated to the topic, but for now I shall just describe the experience. My knowledge of history has been fairly influential on my perspective, as has my knowledge gained from other sources of learning, such as science. The history I have been taught in high school has redefined my understanding human suffering. The extremes it can reach are unfathomable. Learning about the holocaust was…I revel in horror stories but this was something entirely different. Horror stories are desirable and fantastical, they’re about exploring an enticing darkness; many of the things I’ve learnt about in history are devoid of anything truly or remotely desirable in any sense. These things can’t be described with words such as darkness or evil because those words have too many pleasurable connotations. Our class went to the Perth Holocaust Centre and listened to the account of a holocaust survivor; I can’t fathom how the human psych can have such an experience and survive. I have the same view of soldiers forced to live in the trenches and run into a barrage of bullets on their superiors’ order. If one’s body somehow survives the ordeal, how can their mind ever recover?

The Novelties of Year 11

Year 11 French presented me with the opportunity to sample snails in a gourmet fashion for the first time. They’re rather salty and chewy, but quite enjoyable. They remind of mushrooms somewhat, although I’m not sure if this is because they actually taste like mushrooms or I just think they taste like mushrooms because they often look so much like them when served for consumption. I had snails on toast recently, which makes as much sense as chicken ovulations on toast I guess. In year 11, we also had a guy from France come over to help in class, his name was Alexis and he was a French man who played the didgeridoo…hmm.

Year 11 also heralded the beginning of my experience with exams. Oh yay. On my 17^th birthday I was gifted with an Introductory Calculus exam. Which I failed. Plus the first words I heard when I got up were “Happy Birthday Sophie”, as my mother clearly can’t tell the difference between me and someone who, at the time, required nappies.

All I Want For Christmas is Something to Bloody Well Do, or Surreal Literature Set in Queenstown

Then of course there was our Christmas and New Year in Tasmania. On Christmas Day we were left wondering the streets of Hobart in 12 degrees (in the middle of summer) with pretty much nowhere to go as all the shops were closed for Christmas. I got my first iPOD, but wasn’t able to put it to much needed use seeing as my computer was on the other side of the country. At least things got more interesting when we left Hobart to spend a night in Queenstown, undoubtedly one of the most badass townships in Australia. The hills that surround it have been ravaged by mining; they are stripped of vegetation and are strange, rusty metallic colours, giving the environment an alien looking moonscape. The road into the town snakes down one of the hills, with a sheer drop into a chasm on one side of the road. I was sitting in the front next to dad as we made our way in; at first I was amused by dad’s alarm and thrilled by our precarious position, but as the extent his apprehension became clear I found myself feeling genuinely nervous in a vehicle driven by my father for the first time ever. The town came into sight when a number of dilapidated shacks appeared from behind the hills; in my dad’s words, it looked like a depression-era dustbowl scene from Carnivále. The hotel room we stayed in was adorned with heavy light-fittings that were kept in place with black chains; my father said it looked as though they belonged in a sadomasochist’s dungeon. I lifted up the lid on the toilet and surmised the cleaner who had placed the hygienic seal across it had been incredibly careless. Upon flushing, to no avail, I read a note on the mirror warning one not to drink the town’s water, and realised the contents of the toilet bowl was MEANT to be the colour of urine. Dad started to have a laughing fit in response to his experience on the brink of the chasm. I mirthfully joined him. It was totally the best town I’ve ever been too.

When we got back dad and I got into a rare row in relation to my fish-caring capabilities. Something I felt I needed to mention for the sake of completion but have no obligation to elaborate on.

Oh! What a Splendid Production

Year 12 drama promised to be a significant improvement on year 11 drama when Ms. Lacy was assigned to teach our grade’s drama class. Year 11 had focused far too much on theory and essay writing for my tastes, but I knew Ms. Lacy would be having none of that. Why did I know this? Because I knew that Ms. Lacy is fucking epic. She’s the kinda hardcore bitch of a drama teacher that wears a black cloak, bejewelled broach and badass beret to class, IF SHE AIN’T WEARING HER MOTHERFUCKING KIMONO. She demands that drama have soul; meaning emotion, intensity and fucking dirty sex gags, none of that bullshit about breaking it down to the mechanics and spoiling the spirit. Our year 11 drama teacher Ms. Irceg (the Jenny of Boing Jenny) had centred our lessons around learning the techniques and history of drama whilst emphasising the importance of maintaining an up-to-date portfolio detailing our lessons, but Ms. Lacy pretty much said, “fuck the folio, let’s make some magic babehs” and we got right down to putting together a production.

The two dramatic works selected from the set curriculum by the mysterious power who directs this scholastic sphere in the academic order of things were “Summer of the Aliens”, our necessary Australian text, and “Oh! What a Lovely War”, our required world text. Thus we could stage either one of those plays. The unanimous decision settled us on “Oh! What a Lovely War” as it had many more roles to cast, as well as the opportunity for song and dance. In addition to us all being given acting roles, most of the year 12s were assigned production roles, as production was an important part of our course. Mine was dramaturge, as Ms. Lacy understood my interest in history and the fact that I have a father with a World War fixation. Although it wasn’t really related to the historical background of the play, the first task I set myself was that of compiling a character list detailing what character appeared in what scene, as it very much needed since the editions of the script we had lacked anything of the sort. Ms. Lacy was impressed with the effort I had put into the task, which seemed to absolve me of any other dramaturge duties as she never asked me for anything more in that respect.

Katie was assigned the function of choreographer, and her proficiency in said role astounded me. Not to suggest I had low expectations for her, but her seemingly improvised choreographies were comically genius, and she performed them with an easy grace. Observing such skill convinced me that the definition of intelligence our society often uses is limiting and flawed. Katie’s skill was unrelated to mathematical or linguistic skill, yet it was certainly an ability born in the brain rather than the brawn. Perhaps the theory of multiple intelligences is closer to the truth. Well, with that in mind, whilst I may be respectfully endowed with certain varieties of intelligence, of the type of intelligence that Katie is resplendent in, I am sorely lacking. I love to dance, but when I say dancing I generally mean jumping up and down, throwing myself onto furniture, gyrating and thrusting my pelvis, acting like a drunken stripper and rolling around on the floor. Memorizing choreographed moves, performing them in time to music, and pulling them off with any form of grace seems far beyond my current capabilities. My utter lack of poise in the chorus line was a source of mirth amongst my fellows, and Katie considered making my ungracefulness a gag that would be incorporated into my Pierrot persona, but I just ended up being cut from most of the more complex dances, and instead had plenty of acting roles.

Like every actor in the production, I played a Pierrot, which in turn played the roles of soldiers, generals, and various other people caught up in the war. Throughout the production the carefree clown personality begins to degrade as the misery of war wears away their whimsy, thus they look more and more militaristic as the play progresses. “Oh! What a Lovely War” is a Brechtian play, so it aims to educate and alienate the audience. That being said, many productions of the show also make an effort to entertain and even elicit empathy at points, and our vision of the play was no different in that respect.

The drama did not confine itself to the stage; tensions between students began to develop, as did tensions between certain students and Ms. Lacy, over trivial matters I can’t really recall. I do believe that one major source of conflict was Ms. Lacy’s decision to bring the year 11 students into the production, in part due to the fact that there was only one boy in the year 12 class, and I guess she wanted some convincing cock on stage. Now, seeing as I almost always get cast in male roles, I didn’t find that a very compelling reason, but I had nothing against bringing in the year 11s, as I was friendly with a fair few of them and I thought a bigger cast made the production seem more epic, and epicness is one of the fundamentals of Brecht (as is small casts, but whatever). I think the thing that put off many of the other girls was the fact that Ms. Lacy gave some fairly significant parts to the year 11s, like the MC and General Haig, and they felt that the large roles should be reserved for year 12s seeing as it was probably the last opportunity for them to perform in a school production. Sensing the tension, Ms. Lacy decided to dedicate a lesson to having a heart to heart between the year 12s. It all went hilariously wrong.

Ms. Lacy doesn’t have much interest in maintaining the traditional teacher-student distance; she likes to invite us to her house to rehearse, feed us her cooking, and lay out her thoughts and feelings for our consideration. Among my year, I was especially close to her, and to me she would disclose her feelings in regards to the class. She was aware of the discontent amongst the students, and was rather put out by it, seeing as she had been the director of a great many high school plays and thus knew how that shit worked. Being an individual so generous with emotional openness, Ms. Lacy assumed that the ease with which she shared her thoughts and feelings with students such as myself would translate splendidly into a share your feelings fest with the class, and all dissatisfaction would be dispelled once our emotions were laid bare, then we’d all co-exist in a fuzzy cornucopia of love, holding hands and skipping through showers of rose petals and unicorns and dancing leprechaun butlers. Not quite. As Ms. Lacy had felt that Alanna’s attitude had been particularly suggestive of dissatisfaction, she addressed Alanna at the beginning of the session, inviting her to share how she felt about the situation. I find it fascinating how certain events can serve to show the contrast in attitudes between different individuals; on one hand we have Ms. Lacy, epitome of a bohemian love child, who saw her gesture as one of pacification, an extension of an olive branch, and on the other we have Alanna, who was regarded as a bit of a primadonna by both Ms. Lacy and many of my classmates, who saw the address as a personal attack, an act of public shaming in front of her peers. So the majority of my classmates and I spent that particular lesson listening to Alanna express her very affronted feelings whilst an increasingly upset and exasperated Ms. Lacy attempted to explain that her intentions were very much misunderstood, although she may as well of been speaking an exotic, dead language, as Alanna didn’t seem to be able to wrap her mind around the notion. Then amongst all this drama Angela, who could be rather delicate emotionally, begun to cry, whilst I simply revelled in the absurdity of the conflict, something I’d always enjoyed, possibly a bit too much. Oh, but it was so very entertaining, as Ingrid, a perfectly insane and insanely perfect individual, put it, this was drama all right.

Well, back to the theatrical variety of drama. We took inspiration from a university production of “Oh! What a Lovely War” we went to see before we begun work on our own interpretation, and opened the play with the Pierrots being all care free, whimsical and clown-like, to demonstrate what is lost in war. The first musical number in the production further compliments this mood as it is a cheery little ditty called “Row, Row, Row”, about whimsy, fun, easy sex and simple romance, to which Katie had choreographed a hilariously sexually suggestive dance. Following that, the war game begins, in which I was cast as the British Admiral. It was a great deal of fun to strut about the stage with my nose stuck up in the air, pinkie sticking out as my fingers curled around an imaginary tea cup, accompanied by the year 11 Alex as the British General, as well an Irish subordinate to pour the tea, a fan holder and a British colonial sitting on the shoulders of a coloured servant, in a rather striking illustration of the period’s power structure. We stood, sipping our tea, scoffing and sneering at the licentious French, drunken Russians and belligerent Germans, before announcing our plans in anticipation of war; as an admiral of the world’s greatest naval power of the period, my plans naturally surpassed that the general, who’s strategy consisted of a blank slide on the projection screen, something that made me especially smug.

Once Alex and I exited the stage, I quickly had to throw off the cap and red poncho thing that made up my admiral’s outfit and pull on a black glove to act as one of the many members of the black hand that stalk the stage before the Arch Duke and Sophie snuff it, thanks to our pistol shaped finger arrangements. Then we all had to scram in time for the scene between the Austro-Hungarian and Serbian Secret Policemen. Shortly afterwards, Darcie, Kirsty and I would gallop onto the stage from behind the audience on our imaginary steeds, members of two cavalries of French soldiers that meet up and exchange pleasantries before charging to their deaths; only Darcie, Kirsty and I survive as we have to retreat off stage and quickly strip off our French uniforms as well as our Pierrot outfits in preparation for the scene that was to start the moment our colleagues dropped dead. I can’t quite fathom why Ms. Lacy insisted putting the three of us in the cavalry charge when we were in the scene immediately afterwards; it was especially hectic for me as I had to show up on the stage as soon as the others hit the floor, and on one night I forgot to take off my Pierrot pants I was in such a rush. I think it was because Darcie and I took French, but there was hardly any dialogue in that scene anyway.

Well, once the French cavalry had charged into a hail of bullets and dropped to the ground, the lights went down for a moment of sombre silence before coming up again to reveal me, standing at the top of the stage, transformed in a few seconds from a French officer into some sort of British, upper-class dominatrix type. My French uniform and white Pierrot outfit were discarded to display the corset, black teddy and fishnet stockings I had been wearing underneath. A red jacket and my admiral’s cap were thrown on top to illustrate the nationality I represented, British once again. Strutting down the stage with a wooden swagger stick in hand, stepping nonchalantly over the French bodies, I broke into a rendition of “Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser” in clipped, upper-crust British tones. Part way through the first verse Darcie pranced onto the stage to take over the song with a flirtatious French accent, dressed as I was, only her French officer’s hat remained on her head in place of any of the British embellishments. The facade of respect allies preferably share was barely present as we attempted to steal the spotlight from each other; one staring daggers amongst other painful implements at the other as they sang, before butting in (often physically) to take over the song once again, receiving their own death glare in the process. Before the first verse was finished Kirsty, dressed as we were but with a Russian Cossack’s hat on her head, swaggered drunkenly onto the stage to complete the Triple Entente as well as the verse with a slurred Russian accent. And so the three personifications of three nations’ callous pride, myself as an arrogant and dominative Britannia, Darcie as a frivolous and flirtatious France and Kirsty as a drunken and oblivious Russia, strutted over the corpses of fallen soldiers, turning their suffering into a burlesque show as we each attempted to outdo our ally at singing a song celebrating our militarist prowess whilst the bodies of our soldiers lay at our feet. To further degrade them, half way through the song the three of us force the front most three soldiers onto their hands and knees, their backsides facing the audience, temporarily brought to life to act as our steeds as we stand above them, smacking their asses, only to dismount at the end of the chorus and kick them back to the ground. Then for the last two choruses, the soldiers all come to life yet again, breaking into a dance as Kirsty, Darcie and I attempt to barge through their chorus line to have centre stage once more. At the end the three of us break through, attempting to push in front of one another for the final line of the song. As the music finishes, the soldiers, as though their strings have been cut, drop dead.

I was exceedingly happy with the polished version of this scene, which was largely the brain child of Kirsty, Darcie and I, with more than generous input from Katie. I believe the original plan was to have only one singer, but when Ms. Lacy wanted to give more people singing roles the three of us thought that there could be three singers, each one representing a nation that formed the Triple Entente. We decided which nation we were each to be and then split up the lines of the song in a manner befitting each nation. The university play we had gone to see had the song sung by a posh British woman with a horse whip, and I immediately wanted the role. Seeing as we had to add in French and Russian characters we thought it natural that they should be domineering showgirls as well, but in the flavour of their own nation. The placement of the scene was perfect for the sake of sickening contrast; a violent and disturbing spectacle suddenly becomes frivolous song and dance, demonstrating how the leaders of the nations turned the war into a nationalist celebration whilst their working classes were sent to their deaths, the primary theme of the play. Katie choreographed the dance, and she also added in the part where the dead soldiers act as our horses. I really liked this, as it illustrated how the nations used their men as animals to be degraded and slaughtered at the nation’s will, whilst the part where the soldiers begin to dance showed how they were puppets and symbols of this nationalistic war fervour, made to march to its tune. Throughout the play characters representing nations look down upon most characters representing other nations, even those that are their allies, so we naturally kept this characteristic going throughout our song, as each country attempts to sing its own nationalistic praises louder. Plus it was just awesome fun to be a snobby British dominatrix.

Once the song was over, I left the stage to quickly prepare for what everyone agreed was my most memorable role. I had been impressed with pretty much every aspect of the university production of “Oh! What a Lovely War”, but the moment that I described as the “humorous high point” of the play in my review was the scene with the drill sergeant. Although he is given lines in the script, the script itself instructs that they are to be indecipherable as the drill sergeant talks, well screams, in a garbled, babbling language as he scares a group of new recruits shitless. The university actor did the scene in an absurdly perfect way, he had spittle and everything going on, putting me in throes of hysterical laughter. When it came to deciding who would play the drill sergeant for our own production, everyone immediately looked at me, since I suppose they saw me as the wacky kid who does the wacky roles. I was eager to take the part, but doubted that I could deliver a performance on par with that I had seen at the university, and thought that Ms. Lacy might end up giving the role to one of the year 11 boys. Upon asking me to “read” a segment of the drill sergeant’s monologue, I simply did what I do best; I put on a ridiculous accent and spurted the gibberish that comes to me naturally. Upon hearing my “reading”, everyone grinned. Apparently I was the man-woman for the role. A bunch of year 11 boys were cast as the new recruits I was to harass, each one of them towering over me in height. My first session of screaming at them was met with an overwhelmingly positive reaction from everyone present, and I was greatly encouraged. Ms. Lacy did offer me some constructive criticism, saying that my babbling would be better if there were actually some monologue hidden within it. The drill sergeant monologue in the script was over a page long, and I had no interest in memorizing it all, so Ms. Lacy gave me full poetic freedom to write my own monologue. Some of it I took from the script, some of it was inspired by “It Ain’t ‘Alf Hot Mum”, which dad had me watch in preparation for my role, and some of it was of my own creation. Together with suggestions from peers as to what I should be doing to the recruits, this is what I came up with:

~~~~

Marches in.

FALL IN!

ATTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENTION!!!!!

Marches up and down inspecting recruits.

Is this a joke? We demand Britain’s best and you pathetic pansies are all that’s on offer? Well, well, well boys, your mollycoddled days are over. When you’re in the trenches your mummy isn’t there to wipe your nose for you. No, if Britain isn’t going to be overrun by the dirty Hun then someone will have to turn you lousy lot into soldiers, and that someone is going to be ME!!!

Now boys, I’m going to teach you rifle drill and bayonet practice. In war your rifle is your best friend and I’m going to be your worst bloody enemy!

Starts demonstrating bayonet fix.

First thing, get your rifle on your left shoulder, left hand parallel to the ground, right hand down the seam of your trousers. First, move your right hand smartly across your body, grabbing the rifle at the point of balance, and bring your rifle down between your knees.

Watch the recruits attempt to imitate.

You at the end there I’ll have your bloody guts for garters in a minute!

Marches over to Pierrot 1.

What do you think you’re playing at boy?! Do you think this is all a laugh? Well boy, you won’t be laughing when some bastard has his bayonet in your guts while you’re still trying to attach yours to your bleeding rifle!

Stop screaming abruptly before…

ON YOUR FEET YOU DEMENTED POOF!

March to the other end of the line and circle Pierrot 2 menacingly before facing his side.

‘Ello son. Do you think you’re a man boy? Do you look at yourself and see a killer? Do you know what I see when I look at you boy? I see a fancy fairy still clutching mummy’s apron strings who would sooner take it up the backside from a German rather than risk muddying up his pretty little face in the trenches! I suppose you have one of those bloody la-de-dah university educations! Well boy, that isn’t going to do you much good when one of those bastards has sliced open your belly and split your guts all over the battlefield. Do you know what happens after that boy? The bloody Huns will get to England and it’ll be up your mother, up your sister and up your brother too, by the look of you!

March over to Pierrot 3.

What you got there boy?

Take his weapon; inspect it and then sigh with exasperation. Shove it back at him and begin adjusting his posture with swagger stick.

Chin up boy, shoulders back, stomach in.

March behind Pierrot 3.

Nice arse.

March past Pierrot 4, look at him briefly and then spit in his face before marching on.

Right then, you’re now going to watch me demonstrate the lunge.

Stab swagger stick into the air with a crazed scream. Watch the recruits imitate. March over to Pierrot 5.

What the hell do you think this is boy, ballet practice?! You’re supposed to kill the bastard, not make him wet himself laughing! Now watch!

Repeat lunge demonstration with even more mania. Watch the recruit attempt to imitate.

Are you watching me boy?! Do you have eyeballs lodged in that thick skull of yours? WATCH!

Lunge complete with running start, stabbing, kicking and spitting at an imaginary victim.

Right boy, now that’s how it’s done.

Watch Pierrot 5 attempt it and trip onto a lady in the audience.

Get back here right now you bloody little filthy sex maniac!

Stare at Pierrot 5, quivering as though about to explode. Walk over to woman who interjects.

I’m awfully sorry, madam, we were only doing bayonet drill.

Salute woman.

Right now you pathetic little worms, right turn, left, right, left, right, leftrightleftrightleftright…

~~~~

When I had been performing the role without any real lines I hadn’t felt like I’d been acting at all, I just felt like I was being demented. Once I had some monologue to work with, however, I felt as though I was actually making an effort with the role, and was far happier with it. After sexy showgirls entice a group of boys into the forces by singing “We Don’t Want to Lose You” and “I’ll Make a Man of You”, I march onto stage, screaming, swagger stick in hand, to dispel the romantic, sexed up fantasies about war instilled in them by the showgirls with a dose of insane reality. The scene ended up being a highlight of our play; I screamed, I babbled, I made highly disturbing facial expressions, I did ridiculous bayonet demonstrations, I was short, loud and terrifying. And my, people did laugh quite a bit.

Once that scene was over, I could relax a bit, as I had nothing else to do until the second act. When the second act did come around, I assumed the plumy English accent once again in order to be the British Munitions Manufacturer in the grouse shooting businessmen scene, which again serves to illustrate how the upper classes profited from the slaughter of the lower classes. Again, in order to maintain Brechtian alienation, we kept the characters flat and stereotypical, each one characterised as a callous, exaggerated version of the cultural stereotype of the nation they represented. We also modelled the character relationships around the relations and history between each nation, to further demonstrate that the characters we played were not meant to be realistic individuals but representatives of unfeeling nationalistic conglomerates.

After that scene I had a couple of minor roles and was part of the large chorus scenes in which everyone sung, most of us acting as soldiers. In what was practically the very last scene of the play I acted as a French officer. I stood upon the platform, arm pointing towards the audience, screaming at my soldiers to advance into the trenches. They dared to refuse, at which point I promptly told them that for any disobedience they would be shot. They then advanced “like lambs to slaughter”, bleating, and were shot down in a hail of bullets; only I was left standing, arm still pointed forward.

After this, the song that is the play’s namesake begun to play, and everyone took their positions to receive applause whilst singing the words. We then all mounted the stage to finish the song, but on the very last, “Oh, oh, oh what a lovely war” we all fell into a pose that was convulsed in pain and on the edge of death, a morbid ending to a play the begun so whimsically, the miserable transformation complete.

I thought that “Oh! What a Lovely War” was a brilliant show, put together thanks to an inspired meeting of creative minds and combined effort. However, it not give me the high that “Oliver!” did, in that respect it didn’t come close. My roles in “Oh! What a Lovely War” were far more significant than the roles I had in “Oliver!” but for some reason I seem far more involved in and engaged by “Oliver!” I guess this could show that the Brechtian techniques were effective, as in a Brechtian play the actors are supposed to feel detached from their characters, but I think it was also largely due to my emotionally numbed mental state. It has prevented me from reaching any great highs for far too long.

The Year 12 Ball: Neither Sports Equipment Nor Anatomy

Year 12 heralded the Year 12 Ball, that affair which acts as such crucial event in adolescent rite of passage according to so many teen orientated television serials, but to me signified just another occasion where I’d have to tolerate a few hours of popular contemporary music. I dreaded the inevitable stress and argument that would arise from dress hunting with my mother, and was pleasantly surprised when I ended up acquiring my garment after a very quick gander around a single store. The fact that I was wearing a black and red “Bad Alice” t-shirt, with a streak of red colour through my hair probably tipped off the store assistant as to my aesthetic preferences, and I only had to try on two dresses before I settled on a strapless, sparkling red piece that was accompanied by a black skirt, under-piece...thing. It looked pretty. On the afternoon prior to the Ball I went to the hair dresser to have my colouring redone, plus I got a perm. I kinda came out with Marilyn Monroe hair if she was an alternative brunette, but the curls became less, er, curly as the night went on. My sis Kate did my makeup and nails, and I was rather pleased with what I ended up looking like once I had all my shit together.

My girl buddies and I took a limo from Maddy’s house to King’s Park where all the Leeming students convened to have their photos taken before moving on to the venue where the Ball was held. So many familiar faces and bodies now adorned to the highest standard and formal tastes of those who owned said faces and bodies; it was quite an interesting spectacle. I wonder if one’s choice of formal wear reflects any aspect of their personality; my red and black get up probably demonstrated my gothicly-inclined aesthetic taste, which is likely to be in some sense reflective of some deeper part of my personality, whatever than may be. The fact that my guy buddies all rented their tuxes, which looked practically identical save for the colour of the bib/vest thing, was indicative of the fact that they didn’t think much of this particular adolescent rite of passage, but that hardly came as any surprise to me. My stiletto heels kept stabbing through the grass into the soil, causing me to sink and stick into the ground; thankfully however, I didn’t fall over in them until I was in a less muddy environment.

When we arrived at the venue I sat at a table with my girl buddies, and we were fed a rather delicious entrée that wasn’t packed with any of the many ingredients I can’t tolerate, to my pleasant surprise. I think it was some kind of pasta. We played around with the bubbles and glow sticks provided on the table before we were fed the main meal that was similarly delectable by my very finicky standards. I couldn’t say quite so much for the music, which was the modern mainstream variety I had expected it to be. I went over the table occupied by my guy buddies and then followed them into the foyer, where I engaged in conversation with Ben, with whom I can discuss very interesting topics. The enjoyable, familiar company improved my mood, which was already pretty good; Ben and I discussed topics both deep and frivolous, and mocked people that colour their eyelashes after I introduced him to notion by telling him that my sister does it.

I decided to go back to the dance floor; despite my distaste for the variety of music playing, I still love to dance. I’m not entirely sure how it came about, but I found myself dancing with Megan, and I continued to dance with Megan for the rest of the night. In year 11 and 12 I sat with my girl buddies outside a demountable at recess, and with my guy buddies in the AEP room, which we still occupied despite the fact we were no longer in AEP, during lunch. I saw Megan at recess because she sat with us at the demountable, but she was only at school occasionally because she was very sickly, she was repeating grade 12 that year because she’d missed so many days of school the previous year due to her illness. She’d sometimes show up at school with huge bruises on her face because she’d fainted. She was even allergic to chocolate...I mean, for fuck’s sake, fate should not be that cruel. Well, anyway, I didn’t have any classes with her either, and due to these factors I barely knew her. She was rather quiet, but seemed nice enough. That night, I just wanted someone to dance with, and was happy to let that someone be whoever was willing. My guy buddies had absolutely no interest in dancing, and although I attempted to encourage them I didn’t really expect any of them to step onto the floor at all. My girl buddies danced with me sporadically before going their own way, but Megan stayed with me the entire night.

I said before that quiet individuals tend to amplify my gregariousness, and her sweet, rather passive nature encouraged me to assume to role as the entertainer. We joined hands and I guided us through a bunch of silly moves to the unpalatable music, which pretty much consisted of us moving our joined hands back and forth, up and down between us. I fell over twice, I think, which sent us both into fits of giggles, at which point I decided it was time to remove my high heels. We were then served delicious hazelnut cake which I couldn’t finish as I’d already gorged myself of the two previous dishes. When I asked Megan what she wanted to do, she said that she wanted to continue dancing, a response that delighted me. Watching her grin as we did our silly little jig made me delighted to know I was making someone else happy, and that I was sharing something that pleased me also. I loved the way she had gone from being somewhat reserved and a for the most part a stranger to being so very engaged in the fun and, although we’d barely spoken any words to each other since the start of the Ball, it felt like she’d become a very good friend. When the last song finished we naturally fell into an embrace, and it felt like the most logical hug I’ve ever given. Out of all the moments I’ve ever hugged someone, that was the moment that most warranted it, and it felt fantastic. All in all, the Ball was far more enjoyable than I had expected.

Almost Touched By Tragedy

Year 12 was marred for many by a tragedy that had, due to my introversion, less of an impact upon myself than upon some of my classmates, yet it struck me closer to home than I am accustomed to such things doing. News of student deaths and injury in a car crash featured in the news for some weeks, and when it first appeared my mother told me of it and I responded with disinterest; such tragedies were things that happened to faceless strangers, as far as my life was concerned, and were of no consequence to me. The news report had mentioned nothing of Leeming students, after all. The solemn mood amongst the year twelves the following day made me realise that this event was not one that would float inconsequently in and out of my life as a passing mention of some unknown person’s suffering. Most of the people in the car had indeed been students from other schools, but there had been one amongst them who did attend Leeming, and was an individual I was very well acquainted with, Darcie. It might seem appropriate to thank god, or fate, or some suitably great, overseeing force that she was one of the two who survived the incident, and the one who got off with least injury, but why thank the force that condemned the others to death? I will not thank anything, but I will be glad that the person I know and have some sort of affection for was the one who suffered least in that circumstance of unnecessary suffering, for I would have either suffered great emotional torment, or felt guilty for not feeling the appropriate amount of emotional torment.

The year twelves were gathered together that morning to hear the details of the incident, and we were allowed to abstain from our morning classes to provide comfort to one another. Due to my general emotional numbness and a cruel game my mind had been playing on me all year with Darcie as its subject, I was feeling guilty more than anything, but I tried to provide awkward comfort to those who were more sensitive, and/or had known the people that had died in the crash. Angela, being so full of emotion and one of Darcie’s best friends, was curled up weeping. Ellen was close to practically all of the people that had died, so the accident was especially painful for her. The tragedy visibly saddened even Haydn, who was one of my guy buddies, a group who generally preferred not to bother with the drama of extravagant emotion, making them particular choice companions for me. I’d hardly seen him in any mood other than his own very unique brand of passive mischievousness, and I was somewhat intrigued. I embraced him, and much to my surprise he welcomed the comfort. He reminds me so much of a quiet, innocent child, in his strange, passive playfulness, and that impression was reinforced when I saw him in something that may have been grief.

I was relieved to learn that Darcie would probably recover without any serious permanent injury, unfortunately the same could not be said of the other crash survivor who had been partially paralysed, but I was nervous as to what emotional injury the accident could have dealt her. She was so unique and bright in character that the thought of such a wondrous mind turned miserable and brooding was too depressing to consider, plus I was worried how I might deal with her when we next met if she was suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress. However, when we did meet, her character seemed utterly untainted by the trauma. She said she had only known the people in the car for a short while, so their deaths didn’t impact upon as much as they could have, and she responded to her time in hospital, whilst suffering from amnesia and some kind of brain damage, with an air of analytical fascination and good humour. The bright and charming aspects of her personality all seemed intact, and she interpreted her experience in light of them. Her brain damaged ramblings were funny, thanks to her intensely dorky and easily excitable sense of humour, and she spoke about her memories prior to the crash with the philosophical air that seemed natural to her.

I Would Use a Clever French Heading, But I Don’t Remember Merde About French

Darcie attended the Year 12 French dinner at the restaurant Chez Pierre, where she told us these details of her experience. The rest of our very small French class was there as well, with the year elevens at a separate table, and our year 12 French assistant, Amelie, sitting with us. Haydn didn’t like Amelie, probably because we had to practice our French oral (as in speaking, pervert) with her, and that was something neither he nor Declan enjoyed, so as a consequence they liked to pretend she was some kind of raven queen who ate dehydrated ravens and then vomited them at people, as one does when you are Haydn or Declan. I, on the other hand, really quite liked her, and we shared a short conversation about Marquis de Sade, because I am your fellow pervert dear reader (who, is probably me again, cause I can’t really imagine anyone else bothering to read this far) and Marquis de Sade is one of the things I think of when I think of France. Apparently her philosophy teacher recommended that her class investigate his works (legality aside), making me wish I had that guy as a lecturer. Aside from this, the rest of the dinner involved me braced against the wall in uncontrollable fits of laughter thanks largely to Ingrid, possibly the funniest person I have ever known in my entire fucking life, but that being said, the rest of the class, Darcie in particular, played no small role in building the atmosphere of uproarious hilarity that dominated the night. I think that must have been the most I’d laughed all that year, and topics of conversation included 2 Girls 1 Cup and inverting wombs with hooks and keeping them in handbags during menstruation. That by no means put us off the food, I had snails for entree once more, plus Ingrid didn’t want her pate so I got that too. Then we had the steak and potatoes. Oh! The steak! Such miserably small portions, but so obscenely perfect in taste! And the potatoes, how is it that they could contain so much flavour? This was followed by chocolate mousse, which was again a tauntingly tiny serving, but the taste was so fucking amazing. I then got a lift home with Ingrid, her dad had the radio or CD on, and the two of us sang bawdily all the way home. T’was a most magnificent evening.

Destiny’s Cruel Exercises in Judgment

Of course, the latter half of year 12 was dominated not so much by revelling, but by stressful preparation for the TEE, which had been renown for so long as such a momentous event in shaping our destiny. Drama TEE was the worst, we had to perform a piece we’d written and a piece from a play, as well as improvisations based on either, in front of judges. I chose a segment from “Pygmalion” as my written piece, and when I performed it in front of the judges during the assessment that would act as a precursor to the TEE, their reaction was so critical that I ended up changing it to something else. I wrote a very long original scripted piece, which Ms. Lacy’s niece culled down to something that would fit the limits of the performance, but the edit had changed the whole tone of the piece, something I did not like. Ms Lacy invited Ingrid, Angela and myself to her house to practice our original pieces, as well as dine on her curry, which was a very enjoyable, friendly and supportive endeavour. However, as the deadline for our pieces approached, our efforts to polish them became more stressful and tedious. When I did perform mine in front of those same judges, they did respond much more positively, at least. My original performance certainly ended up being much better than my scripted piece, which Ms Lacy told me to change to a drill sergeant, but as the style was more realistic than that of “Oh! What a Lovely War” I never perfected the verbal and non-verbal aspects, so it ended up being pretty awful. Overall, preparation for drama TEE was embarrassing, awkward, stressful and tedious, despite all the help Ms. Lacy provided. Even filling out the sheet of details describing the play we took our scripted piece from was ridiculously stressful and required a lot of Ms. Lacy’s help, as I couldn’t find any of said details on the internet. Pfft, “Chips With Everything”, what is it even about? The written exam was pretty horrible as well. Although drama was one of the top four subjects that ended up being used to calculate my TEE, it was the lowest of the four.

I was so worried about writing my TEE essays that I ended up permanently transforming my handwriting style literally overnight. Where I had once written in painfully slow and meticulously neat printed writing, I began to string my letters together to form running writing that I could produce at a much faster rate. It was like I was forced by necessity to adopt an aspect of adulthood I’d been putting off. It seemed to work, anyway; where I had before been unable to finish all of the exam essays necessary in the allotted time, I now had them done with minutes to spare. My best TEE performance was undoubtedly in English Literature, which certainly benefitted from my new speed; I was able to write all three essays instead of the two and a half I typically managed. I was quite happy with all three of them as well, and English Lit ended up being the highest of my TEE scores.

To imbue us with knowledge of history, that greatest of stories, and get us through our TEE, we had Mr. Nardi as our history teacher, and oh boy, was that an experience. He certainly made history intensely interesting, even if we only spent half of the time actually learning and the other half listening to him rant about his role in the teachers’ union and their impending strike, his opinion that slaughtering and eating animals would one day be seen as equivalent to keeping slaves, the role religion plays in brain washing the masses into compliance, his general disgust with the conformity of society and his scathing opinions on pretty much any political issue one could name. Not to say that his rants were unrelated to his history lessons, quite the opposite, they were usually prompted by the historical events discussed, and he liked to show how such motifs were still relevant in the modern world, such as when he compared the conditions teachers had to endure to pre-conditions in pre-revolutionary Russia, which was perhaps not his best example. If anything the man’s passionate. I gotta admit, he certainly livened up the year and made history my favourite subject. My only complaint is that we spent the first semester learning about the Russian Revolutions but spent the second semester learning about early 20^th century Australian history. Now, most Australian history, as far as I can tell, is pretty dry and dull compared to pretty much anything, but compared to the absurd insanity that is Russian history? How could they torture us with such contrast? Tantalise us with such madness in semester one only to leave us memorising the name of different economic plans in semester two? As I’ve put it so many times before, the difference between Australian and Russian history can be summed up as thus: Australia suffered an economic depression; there was mass unemployment and people had to go on sustenance allowances. Russia suffered an economic depression; there was a famine that killed 5 million people and the peasants started eating one another. Boring as it was, I learnt my dull Australian facts, and history ended up being my second or third highest TEE score.

Physics had been worrying me a great deal; the end of semester exams had been ridiculously difficult and the complexity of the practice TEE exams was not putting my mind at ease whatsoever. Once again, I had an exam on my birthday, this time being my TEE physics exam, which to my delight, turned out to be a wonderful 18^th birthday gift as it was notably easier than I had expected. Having all of my significant TEE exams out of the way was all the 18^th celebration I really needed, such relief!

I still had to do French, but as I knew that it would never be in my top four scores I didn’t really bother trying too hard with it, and I ended up in the lowest 90^th percentile for the subject. Lol. I didn’t fail quite as miserably in my applicable mathematics exam, but I still failed it. To be fair, most people found it unnecessarily difficult. It didn’t matter though, of my six subjects I only needed the highest four, namely English Lit, physics, history and drama, to calculate my TEE.

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 2)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:04:51 GMT

Let’s Hope Neurosis Isn’t Genetic

Meanwhile in the US of A…

ABBOTT DNA SPAWNED ANOTHER POTENTIAL ANTI-CHRIST

‘Cause I just know my gene pool’s destined for something great. Oh yes. A schizophrenic did once call my mother the daughter of the devil ya know. Anyway, if my niece is your future unholy master, boy, are you guys in for a treat, ‘cause she’s gonna be the cutest darn demonic messiah ever to turn water into BLOOD. Of course, my sister’s daughter Sophie may have no unholy connection to the underworld whatsoever, but that doesn’t detract from her, she’s got golden curls man! Seriously, Kate and Austin’s offspring looks like a painted doll. Big blue eyes, the aforementioned golden curls, perfect features…it’s almost creepy. Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s unnaturally intelligent for a three year old. Not that I know that many, but certain expectations have been exceeded all the same.

So, Kate, Austin and Sophie came over form the USA and shacked up in our granny flat for the Christmas of 2006. At this time Sophie was pretty much a newborn with a tendency to smile toothlessly, poop profusely and kick astoundingly. Other than the presence of a rapidly developing human seedling, Christmas was incredibly dull, as most of our Christmases have become. Kate and Austin stated that they wanted me to have responsibilities, and they satisfied this want by giving me a Japanese Fighting Fish and Venus Fly Trap to take care of. Both pets acted as very interesting companions for quite some time, at least until I gave my Venus Fly Trap, which I had named Natira, to my friends Jess and Ash to take care of. Their mad mother, embarrassed by the presence of a Venus Fly Trap in her home whilst friends visited, decided to put Natira outside on a 40 degree day. When I next saw my plant it was very black and very dead. My Japanese Fighting Fish, whom I had named Fry due to his red colour, lasted longer. He swam seemingly contently in his glass bowl for over a year, occasionally nipping my fingers when I dropped food for him. He was nice to have around whilst he was alive, very pretty and entertainingly aggressive.

Kate, Austin and Sophie then decided to take up residence in Kalgoorlie and continue to periodically return to us live in the granny flat for a number of weeks, in which I have to find a way to worm out of entertaining Sophie as she is inexplicitly enamoured with me. Although I do find her a shockingly impressive specimen of fresh human, I am far too selfish to bother catering to her needs and whims. Every single time the family comes to visit, behind their backs, Mum whines about them, and every single time they leave, she cries. It is so irritating. Sometimes I think she must have contracted something during her time as a psychiatric nurse.

I Can Hear the Loons in My Head as I Sing a Wicked Song

Ya know what? Music is a rather delightful anomaly associated with humanity. I don’t know if it was my involvement in a musical that helped me come to this realisation, whether turning sixteen had activated the teen head-banger gene latent within us all or simply the fact that my previous source of musical entertainment, Windows Media Player, was no longer letting me stream music causing me to disregard the possible viral and legal consequences associated with downloading Limewire. You see, Limewire has some dissimilarities with Windows Media Player that may lead to changes in an individual’s musical habits; Limewire, for a start, has access to far more musical files than WMP, secondly it doesn’t let you simply stream a song (as far as I’m aware), you’ve got to download the entire thing to your computer, and after you’ve spent all that time downloading the song you probably want to keep it even if you only plan to listen to it every now and then. So combine the circumstance where you have the chance to download almost every song you’ve ever liked with a hesitation to delete any of them from your computer and you end up with quite a collection. Additionally music downloading has become my new compulsion, but I admit that it isn’t quite as strong as my impulse to listen to half the songs in my library ever time I turn the computer on (though while I’m listening I’m usually downloading, so it comes close). My ears constantly hurt, but whilst those beats slam into my brain like beams of steel it’s worth it.

Due to this new source of musical diversity, my music tastes have been expanded into new and rather thrillingly distasteful realms. Bands such as Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails, which I once knew only through reputations that seemed frightening and alienating, have become some of my most cherished sources of musical glee. I have developed a devotion to a band whose lead singer is a Dominatrix with vocals that alternate between being an enticing whisper and a dangerous growl, singing stories of pain and pleasure whilst she participates in a pornographic stage show performed around her. Ah, The Genitortures, the ritual madness and ecstasy is all too apparent in your melodies, both silk and steel, and your lyrics of joy and destruction.

Whilst most mainstream rap, hip-hop and RnB bores and irritates me with its repetitive, base, boring themes and practical absence of actual musical content, I have discovered that I am not adverse to all forms of rap. The ABC’s game show, “The Einstein Factor”, of all things, recently introduced me to a genre hip-hop that I find unreasonably entertaining; horrorcore. OK, credit where credit’s due, specifically that episode of “The Einstein Factor” referred to one particular producer of horrorcore hip-hop, and the aforementioned producer of horrorcore hip-hop is the source of much of my incredibly tasteless and fucking awesome entertainment. It’s a band called the Insane Clown Posse, and listening to them fills me with a great deal of delight and amusement, as well as a small amount of shame at how base my musical tastes apparently are.

I believe that my love for this particular band and its style of hip-hop stems partially from the fact that their music contains actual music. As I said, I dislike most rap and the like as a lot of it seems to be so minimalistic that there doesn’t seem to any music to it at all, save for a sparse beat. The Insane Clown Posse, on the other hand, particularly in their later albums, employs a rich and sometimes unusual variety of sounds and beats in their music, making it interesting to listen to. Then there is the lyrical content. I already said that I find the themes addressed in most rap music and the like incredibly repetitive, base and boring. It always seems to be about life in the ghetto, which is apparently very hard despite the fact that everyone has grills and pimpmobiles and hoes and whatnot. To me a lot of it just seems to be about being very base and superficial, ergo boring. The Insane Clown Posse also sings about life in the ghetto, and they are also very base, but I don’t consider either of these things innately disinteresting. And boy, the Insane Clown Posse makes them anything but disinteresting. Their ghettos tales are not self-inflated stories of their copious amount of money, bling and hoes, but completely insane, comic odysseys about murder, mental illness, necrophilia and the circus, among other completely disgusting and wonderful horror-themed topics, with lashings of morality tales. Expect me to rant about them, and my other musical loves, in the future journal entries I’ll hopefully write.

If Only it Were Sweet Misery

Anyway, as 2006 was drawing to its conclusion, I found myself residing in a less than desirable emotional state. I can’t remember the source of my discontent; I don’t think I even knew what it was at the time. All I knew was I had never experienced unhappiness so relentless. It was by no means unbearable; I just couldn’t be free of it. When I was a child practically any distressful thought or feeling that plagued me could be exorcised by sleep. Every night offered release and I awoke to every new day with a fresh disposition. As a child I always assumed that there was something about adulthood that would feel innately different from childhood. As I am now legally an adult, I must admit that I cannot determine any distinguishable difference, nothing that isn’t a product of increased experience anyway, nothing I could call innately unique to being an adult. However, obvious physical developments aside, there is one thing about me now that seems different from when I was young, the persistence of mental states. A thought or feeling that has been occupying me in either a pleasant or unpleasant sense before I fall into sleep is the first thing that enters my mind as soon as I enter a coherent state upon waking. However, I began to find that things that had deeply shaken me would continue to disturb for nights after the event, such as a very disturbing internet shock video I had accidently viewed, and an image of a man jumping from the Twin Towers which I had found strangely frightening. Perhaps I had become more obsessive, which would be an incredible feat considering how obsessive I was initially.

The perpetual nature of my melancholy mood managed to compound to my misery as it seemed inescapable, until I think I became as depressed as I’ve ever been. This isn’t really saying a lot; I’ve not experienced much misery in my life, I’ve been far two privileged, pampered and free of tragedy to have any excuse to be sad. A respite from my depression served to help seal my rather ridiculous devotion to fandom, when “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” proven to be pleasantly surprising. Whilst I did enjoy “Curse of the Black Pearl,” it wasn’t the kind of movie that had me rolling of the floor in the throes of titillated excitement that had often signified my initiation into a new flavour of fangirlism; although it did introduce me to the charms of a certain Captain Jack Sparrow, who I admit stuck in my mind a while after the movie ended. Aside from the good Captain, I found most of the other characters rather dull, particularly (and I am sorry) Will, whom I thought a bit too squeaky clean, even though he does save Jack from the noose on more than one occasion.

I wasn’t incredibly excited about seeing the sequel. I didn’t think my very mild enthusiasm for the plot and characters could maintain my interest through such a long film. Sequels can either be poor, piss-weak replicas of the previous movie, totally devaluing everything that was made important in the first, or they can be glorious epics that expand and enrich ideas and characters that were established in the first movie. To my delight, I found myself considering “Dead Man’s Chest” to be very much the latter of the two. Many references were made to the first movie, a lot of them funny, which gave me a delighted sense of continuity, in some weird way it also felt like the characters had an added dimension of awareness, it’s hard to explain, but it seemed as though the story had grown up some how. The characters had grown up as well; I was especially delighted by the way Norrington had developed; he’d gone from stiff and respectable to a miserable drunkard, and that was the kind character development I could support. I warmed up to Will as well, somewhat, especially when he became snarky on the island and got into that enormous, magnificent, hilarious swordfight with Jack and Norrington. Pintel and Ragetti were back as the comedy duo, but this time they were on the good side, sort of…hell, for a Disney movie I must say that “Dead Man’s Chest” makes good and evil pretty damn ambiguous, one of the reasons I liked it. And of course, there was Elizabeth; though I didn’t think much of her in “Curse of the Black Pearl,” she definitely got my attention in its sequel (and not only because she was cross-dressing).

I think Elizabeth’s desire is what intrigued me. Female characters are often portrayed as either the objects or victims of male desires, whilst the male characters initiate action for the better or worse, female characters are usually the ones attempting to put an end to adventure. Elizabeth’s passion and desire for adventure became far clearer to me in this movie, perhaps this was because they were concentrated in her lust for and connection with Jack Sparrow, the personification of adventure and freedom. To my surprise, I found myself completely enthralled by the innuendo between Elizabeth and Jack; it was utterly delicious to me.

My low spirits had been lifted into that transcendently rapturous state that only a truly wonderful story can provide, and for a short while I rode on it, convinced that no matter how empty reality could seem, stories would always be there to provide blissful escape. Unfortunately, my mind seemed to have become quite convinced that I was meant to be miserable, and luckily for its agenda, it would soon discover a way to corrupt the glory of stories, as well as a way to ground my seemingly baseless unhappiness with a solid mental foundation. During my earlier teens I prided myself in my disregard of the unimportant things everyone seemed so hung up on, namely things such as gender and race. When I became interested in a character their gender and race were virtually the last things I was concerned with, I was instead fascinated with their thoughts and their feelings; the complex way their minds operated and the manner in which their emotions were inevitably so much deeper and fascinating than mine. How could such superficial and meaningless traits such gender and race compare with that?

It is so intensely unfortunate, however, that the gendered and racial stereotypes that vilely infect so many stories became my obsession. I would like to blame English Literate class, which I took in years 11 and 12, for this incredibly unhappy situation, and it most likely did contribute; I became so sick of how every story analysis had to be about exploring the representation of gender, race, class and cultural identity. I understand why we had to explore these issues, but it became so soul sapping. Everything was broken down into these concepts, and what I believed to be purer and more enticing ideas were lost. Soon I couldn’t consider anything at all without thinking about how it related to these concepts. It’s so horrible. I don’t think English Literature class is what initiated it however; I think it was a culmination of so very many things building up in my subconscious; so many frustrations fuelled my so many misrepresentations and stereotypes until something snapped.

Ironically, it was discovering a character that subverts these stereotypes that seemed to set me off. I’m pretty sure it was Aeryn Sun from Farscape. I remember that when she first appeared I wearily assumed that she was just another tough female stereotype, a stereotype probably manufactured to satisfy feminists who complained that female characters were too meek and feeble, yet being just as flat and indicative of the male gaze as their weak counterparts. I intrigued to discover that Aeryn had layers upon layers, both weakness and strength, and was surprisingly relatable. It was my surprise that alerted me to my earlier assumption, and somehow that sparked an obsession with determining what recurring traits and behaviours displayed by female characters had led me to formulate this stereotype in my mind. For some reason, no explanation seemed fitting, and I couldn’t enjoy watching female characters without the traits I had identified as being stereotypical jumping out at me, even if they were displaying these traits in a completely reasonable and non-stereotypical way. My viewing pleasure was destroyed.

Eventually things began to spin out of control, I began transferring my thoughts to real life, and soon things other than gender began to haunt me; for reasons I’m not even sure of I begun to obsess over race, then sexual orientation, and although these obvious things remained my focus, eventually almost everything made me critical and cynical. Soon, my thoughts lost all reason; they just became a horrid habit. They simply became baseless, nasty thoughts directed at almost everything and everybody, turning pleasant scenarios into hellish ones. It reached the point where I thought things simply because they were the things I didn’t want to think about; my brain appeared intent on tormenting me. Oh, I could go into such intricate details of all the intensely horrible, hostile, wretched thoughts I still have, but I don’t want them to be recorded anywhere permanently, so that when I am released of this affliction I won’t have to be reminded of them. Once, whenever I had a thought I deeply disapproved of I would feel deeply guilty and stress over it, now these thoughts occur so often I simply ignore them. I guess it helps build mental stamina, at least. I have habituated to this condition somewhat, but I cannot be satisfied until it is completely obliterated.

My less than sunny disposition was pushed into further gloomy territory by scholastic troubles in year 11, when I had to experience what it was like to marked under the conventional grading system, which unfortunately included the “F” grade. Being released into the mainstream classes allowed me to hang out more with my friends who weren’t in AEP, which was enjoyable on some occasions, but it also meant I had to deal in class with certain social stressors that had previously been separate from my academic environment. That’s one particular unpleasantry that I have no desire to elaborate upon, at least not for a while. Troubles in both the academic and social aspects of school life, in addition to my unending depression and mental torment, begun to turn my self esteem sour and my outlook on life bleak. This wasn’t the strangely enthralling misery I some experience with in the past, it was just irredeemable unhappiness; it wasn’t intense or unbearable, but there was no dimension to it that provided any strange pleasure.

At school, each class had its own trials and tribulations, which I won’t elaborate upon, as they were a relatively unstimulating aspect of my rather unstimulating life at that point; everything seemed unstimulating at least. Fandoms offered sweet respite from the dullness, even though my enjoyment was unpleasantly tainted and very much numbed due to my unfortunate mental state. Since my last entry I have gathered an extensive, diverse and beautiful array of fresh fandoms to revel in. Although I have already mentioned some fandom related matters, from this point on it may be best for my sanity to refrain from elaborating upon the many glorious fandoms that have graced my life, lest this journal entry become a novel length saga in which the very essence of epicness itself described, categorised and analysed before the entry deteriorates into an incoherent, maddened exultation demanding praise of their glory, prompted by both and an overload of fandom related bliss and extreme exhaustion. I shall focus on describing the real life related business, unless fandom becomes integral to continuing the story I shall save it for future journal entries, in which deep analysis and celebration of said fandoms will allow me to see past the unpleasantness my diseased mind inflicts upon me and open my eyes and mind to the wondrous complexity and emotional intensity my brain has been denying me, and the rapturous experience of fandom will once again be open to me in its true, pure glory, AND LIFE WILL ONCE AGAIN BE GOOD.

INTENSE GRAINS

During my end of semester break I engaged in a little project that my physics teacher had recommended to me. It involved clocking up a total of 20 hours at a local university (if my memory serves me correctly), observing and supposedly assisting a resident scientist in whatever project they’re involved in. The Student Research Scheme began with those involved convening at SciTech to learn which scientist had been assigned to which students. I was assigned to work with Professor Chris Florides, whose field of expertise was (and presumably still is) proteomics, the study of grains. He worked at Murdoch, the university closest to my residence, which had been attended by my oldest sister Kate. I shared this project with another student named LiShan who, to my recollection, attended a private school. Florides was an interesting character, with a black and white beard and a charming, slightly quirky persona. He told us about the time he ended up stranded in a jungle in some wild, foreign nation like Madagascar, or somewhere similarly exotic, and had to spend the night sleeping in a tree so he wouldn’t be mauled by a jungle cat. He worked alongside a younger scientist named Brett Chapman, who acted as another instructor in our scheme. I found him especially exciting to talk to because he was a transhumanist, thus our conversations revolved around the enthralling possibilities the future presented and the numerous upgrades we could make to humanity. I found myself thrilled by the fact that an actual scientist saw the same extravagant possibilities in our future that I crave. Florides brushed our musings off as fanciful dreaming, so one could say that there is contention in that particular area of the scientific community, but that has always been true in the global sense.

LiShan was initially quiet whilst I was outspoken and eager to exhibit my eccentricities, traits that often seem to become more pronounced in personality when I’m in the presence of seemingly shy people, probably in an effort to coax reaction from them, and possibly also in part due to the expectation that they’d be too shy and kind to show any disapproval towards my behaviour. She soon proved to be highly amiable company, with a considerable amount of introverted intelligence. We explored the university together in our spare time, mainly to seek out its numerous food vendors and thrilled at sightings of its local wildlife; rabbits and bandicoots.

The work we engaged in concerned identifying grains using a MALDI-TOF (Matrix-Assisted Laser Desorption/Ionisation Time of Flight Mass Spectrometer). I won’t detail the steps we went through to do so, which I still have recorded on my computer in the form of the report I had to write about my experience, but I will say that it would likely become tedious work for one that were to chose proteomics as a fulltime profession. There was a lot of graph analysis involved, and I learnt that operating those giant syringes (pipettes, as they are called) scientists use to transfer small liquid samples is hard work! Or perhaps I learnt that I’m even physically weaker than I had previously feared. Either way, I could barely summon enough strength in my thumb to inject the damn liquids.

Upon fulfilling the required 20 hours and finishing the experiment, we were required to write the aforementioned report detailing our experiment and make a poster that would basically be an ornate summary of said report. The reports were to be submitted for judgement whilst our posters would be put on display before we attended a presentation announcing the best report and poster. I didn’t put my best effort into either, although I wouldn’t call my work subpar. Well, my poster may have been somewhat subpar when I saw how glossy other students attempts were, including LiShan’s which looked a lot like mine, only a great deal better. I didn’t win any prizes, something my father, who is ever idolizing my intelligence, seemed rather discouraged by. My academic performance had suffered due to my tendency to procrastinate, which this ridiculous journal entry is testament to, a trend which compounded to my private depression, so I took my failure to be outstanding in the Scheme with resignation. LiShan, on the other hand, proved her academic prowess when her report was proclaimed the best out of everyone’s in the scheme.

A Tale of Dying and Despising

The ending of the Student Research Scheme intersected with an event that may have heralded heartbreak, or at least heartache, in many other families, but was met in ours with a possibly unwholesome mix of emotions. My father’s step-mother, Nanny, as she was always known to me, had been living in a retirement homes in and near Rockingham for the last few years. We would drive down to visit her every other weekend or so, each time to find her somewhat more atrophied by age and Parkinson’s disease. I would generally sit quietly, flicking through her Reader’s Digest and eating her butterscotch sweets whilst my parents spoke to her; often softly chiding her for wanting to send money to offers that were quite clearly scams. I didn’t enjoy the visits; the retirement home smelt funny and was depressingly quiet, Nanny had ceased to be a source of entertainment to me and, as I often found myself when I was with my parents on some excursion, I had to spent my time simply waiting in a relatively unstimulating environment for time to pass until my parents wrapped up their affairs. However, the most irritating part was usually the drive home. My mother despised Nanny, deeming her a “wicked woman” more than once, and the drive back seemingly always entailed one of the most infuriating aspects of my life. My mother has an unfailing tendency to embark upon emotional tirades over things that have always seemed laughably trivial to me, and after speaking to Nanny she would almost always break into her Nanny themed rant once we were in the car. She and Nanny have a history that I don’t entirely understand, so it is perhaps presumptuous of me to pass judgement upon my mother’s attitude towards her, but, nonetheless, her tirades drove me mad. One of the things that made them so ridiculous was the fact that they were so repetitive, it seemed like she was saying the exact same things every time we left the retirement home. My poor father, who promised my dying grandfather (Grampy, as I knew him) that he would take care of Nanny once he was gone so many years ago, had to sit and listen to these maddening diatribes, as he always does when mum gets the urge to vent (alarmingly often), and as I was trapped in the backseat, I had to listen too.

I was putting the final touches on my poster when my parents came to solemnly announce that they had something to tell me. I had already guessed what it was when I heard my dad react to the caller on the other end of the telephone, but I was still somewhat shocked to hear that one of my guesses (which are usually extravagant) was correct and Nanny had actually died. I didn’t immediately experience the urge to cry, and I half didn’t expect to, but I began to feel a feeling of slight weepiness overcome me. Nanny had once lived with us in the Granny Flat out the back, when she was still well enough that one could have a coherent conversation with her without having to repeat themselves several times. This was back then I was little and of the mind that every adult, save for my parents and teachers, wanted nothing more than to indulge me and feel unmoved to exact discipline upon my sweet little head. This was especially true of my Nanny; I remember being so shocked the one time she did raise her voice at me that I ran off and hid under her bed. In my naivety, one could say we were rather close. Upon overhearing seemingly endless, yet vague tales of my Nanny’s supposedly distasteful character once my mother was free of sharing an address with her, combined with the fact that I hardly ever saw her, caused me to become increasingly emotionally detached from her. Before she died I hardly viewed her as a proper person to be honest, her senility caused me to think of her as something that had once been a person, but was now broken and could only emulate human behaviour and emotion in a convincing but incoherent manner. Yet, when I learnt she had died, our prior bond made me feel as though I should feel some sadness, and show it, and this time I found I that I actually felt some of the emotion I thought appropriate for the occasion.

My dad seemed to be experiencing similar feelings, much more subdued of course, as is his way, but my mum, she seemed to hardly veil her satisfaction at the Nanny’s demise. I’ll admit, I wasn’t entirely ashamed (and perhaps I should have been) to feel my own sense of satisfaction to know that the tedious visits were finally over. I don’t think that one should fake emotions that they don’t have, simply to conform to social niceties, but I found myself feeling disgusted by mum’s behaviour; I didn’t expect her to pretend she liked Nanny, but I thought that she’d have the decency to respect the fact that dad and I had once felt somewhat more amiable feelings towards her, and show some sensitivity for our sake if not for Nanny’s. Yet, once she was dead, mum was quick to constantly remind dad how much better things were, since Nanny’s quality of life had sunk so low in her old age, mum insisted that her death was a relief. I mightn’t have been irked by this, if mum hadn’t kept repeating it. What really got to me, however, was that, on the same day we learnt of Nanny’s death, mum seemed to switch from the pretence of grief to an almost cheery demeanour, disregarding the fact that dad and I were still grieving. As I said before, I would have rolled my eyes if she’d started crying and begun listing off Nanny’s virtues where she once only mentioned vices, but I did think that she’d respect the way we were feeling and given us the space to feel it. Instead, she seemed almost irritated that we didn’t feel the same way she did. On that day I said something to her regarding this, I can’t remember what I said, but I know I said it and didn’t scream it and I’m pretty sure I was half crying at the time. Whatever it was, it must have been reasonable, because as soon as I said it dad echoed my sentiment with the same emotion, and he’s usually the one trying to defuse the tension between mum and I, yet this time he was actually backing me up. Well, whatever it was, I’m pretty sure it didn’t warrant the reaction it got. Mum blew her top and accused us of being emotionally insensitive towards her. Then she stormed into my parents’ room and slammed the door. I felt my resentment towards her fester within me; like a deep sea beast it rose to the surface to gather more excuses vindicating its existence, and became more bloated as it fed upon them, sinking deeper within me under its weight. When she came out the room a short time later I think she may have been crying, and dad quickly scurried to her side to comfort her; my resentment gathered a modest second helping.

For some reason whoever’s in charge of dealing with the newly deceased, whether they be the retirement home or the funeral people, called upon my family to view Nanny’s dead body, which was still in the room where I had spent so many tedious Sundays. Although all three of us were invited to look at it, we expected dad to be the only one of us to actually do so. It was probably my morbid curiosity that compelled me to follow dad down the hall towards the room; I had seen many corpses but no fresh ones, or it may have been my desire to be in an emotionally intense situation to shock me out of the emotional banality of my life. Whatever the drive, it didn’t win out, because I found myself stopping outside the door. I came to think that seeing Nanny’s dead body would be far too distressing; seeing the avatar of her existence, now representing nothing but her absence, would flip my mind. Instead I just stood outside her room and allowed myself to cry, on some level savouring the grief as I almost always do. An old man in a wheelchair passed me, a (former) friend of my Nanny’s, to sympathise with my sadness. As I saw the grief in his eyes and heard the misery in his tone I felt, more strongly than ever before, what a wretched place that retirement home must be. People sitting around in claustrophobic little rooms watching each other wither and die, each simply waiting their turn, being constantly reminded of their own mortality. Simply writing that sentence pushes me to the brink of tears, as I summon the vague memory of that sad old man. The human condition, old age, death, simply goes to show how sadistic and stupid nature and reality are.

The funeral was a rather stupid display demanded by social niceties. Mum deemed it necessary for me to buy new clothes for the ceremony; she’s usually saying that I have to buy new cloths for something, an exercise I always hate embarking upon when she’s the one accompanying me. I didn’t want to buy black clothes, because black is a colour that I like to wear normally, and I didn’t want to associate it with something so depressing. Instead I opted for a dull grey. The funeral was presided over by some priest or something who seemed to associate with the residents of Nanny’s funeral home. Most of his speech was dogmatic religious bullshit rather than anything about Nanny herself and I found myself resenting him immediately, he seemed so confident in his doctrine and desensitised to the passing of the old that he was arrogant to me. To him everything was right with the world; another geriatric kicks it, he goes up and expounds his crap and everyone knows how lucky it is said geriatric was a follower of the almighty patriarch or they’d be burning in hell right now. A few of my cousins or family friends or whatever brought their small children, who began playing in the back of the church, breaking any pretence of sombreness or reverence, highlighting how ridiculous this whole affair was. Dad went up and recited the eulogy he had been sitting in front of the computer stressing over, and then the coffin was brought out. I found the feeling I had experienced outside Nanny’s room return to me; for some reason the knowledge that her body, which I had always seen animated with life and personality, was now empty and inanimate inside that box disturbed me profoundly. I started to sob unabashedly, allowing my face to become wet with tears and snot as I watched the coffin move down the conveyor belt to be cremated. Once the ceremony was over we all gathered in a back room where the demeanour seemed too cheery to me. I heard mum talking to my aunts and uncles about Nanny’s bizarre self-deprecating wishes preceding her death “Mary said she wanted no ceremony, just a plain coffin. But I thought to myself, no Mary, that’s unfair, we’ll do what we want to do,” or something to that effect left her mouth. Stupid, selfish cunt. I thought.

Ahhhh, nothing like the meaningless violence and sweet insanity of the music Mindless Self Indulgence provides to purge one’s mind of strange, dark moods.

Oh to Be the Great Destroyer of Stupid Bigots

Speaking of strange, dark moods…the internet and the characters one meets there. The internet is a strange, dark (or, most often, obnoxiously flashy and bright), wonderful, terrible place; an environment in which humans are freer than ever before to express every aspect of their psyche, every desire and fear, every thought, both ridiculous and inspired. An individual left free roam the internet will soon lose their naivety towards the world and its populace. On the internet one can see how high humanity can soar and how low it can sink. I, for one, learnt the depths of human stupidity and pettiness, as well as coming to realise how extensive my own propensity for hatred and desire to defeat those I despise actually is.

During my early childhood, I was quite satisfied to play the part assigned to me by the society in which I lived. I behaved much the way little girls were expected to behave and I liked most of the things that little girls were expected to like. As fresh notions of femininity were introduced to me I was quick to adopt the patterns of behaviour I felt were expected of me, and I was happy to do so. At present I don’t believe I can perform a sufficiently rigorous analysis of my past, as my memory records it, to fully understand how my current personality and mindset came to manifest itself, but at some point, for some reason, I know my views and interests and behaviours began to deviate from those presented by the mainstream media as my gender-appropriate role models. Perhaps it was partly to due to the fact that, primarily due to circumstance, the media I had become exposed to was less mainstream and far geekier than I was previously accustomed to. I became bewitched by profundity, as only speculative fiction can present it, and I was excited by the diversity of possibilities that existed once the confines of normality were removed. Such ideas seemed to have much greater depth and importance than the trivialities I was often so focused on, and I felt that they must transcend these mundane matters. As my mind restructured itself in light of these fascinations, I found that, for the most part, I could no longer follow the examples that the majority of media presented to me in the form of female role models. I had been introduced to ideas that seemed so much greater than any earthly concerns, yet I watched people continue to dwell within the narrow confines of roles defined by such superficial traits, such as their sex. I came to realise that the role delegated to my sex was particularly narrow.

During the final year of primary school there was a single group of girls in my class, most of whom had been my friends throughout many of my previous school years. There were two other groups, both composed of boys, one sporty and popular, the other, not so much. As there weren’t enough girls in the class to have popular and unpopular groups, there was instead a hierarchy within the group itself. As I had been friends with the more dominant members of the group for a number of preceding years I had a fairly good position within the hierarchy, but I still hated it. This may be due to the fact that I had been very much at the bottom of the pecking order when I attended Bull Creek Primary School the previous year. I had emerged from that hellish year with hardened convictions, so I began to disassociate myself from the group of girls and fell in with the company that I felt most comfortable in; the group of outcast boys. Save for my close friend Paige, who was in the year below me, practically all my good friends were boys. I began to suspect that the notions of femininity and masculinity were just concepts that could be conformed to or disregarded at will, and that there wasn’t really anything significant separating the sexes. Experimenting with this notion, I began to relate to the male characters in stories rather than just the females (I’m pretty sure I was already doing this by year 7, but not as consciously), and found it liberating. I became convinced that traits such as gender and race, then eventually, age and appearance, were trivialities to be transcended, and this idea began to evolve into a cherished conviction that created such glorious liberty. I cannot boast that I thought and acted in accordance with this principle from then on, there were many, many times when I didn’t, but I did strive to.

I’ve found that I’m pretty quick to defend my convictions, so when the internet led me to find a number of abhorrent adherents to a school of thought that directly conflicts with this particular conviction I found myself drawn into conflict in which one side primarily employs science, reason and personal experience whilst the opposition relies largely on dogmas, conspiracy and illogic. I found myself deeply disturbed to find that there are still people out there in western society that have such medieval views. The thing that first inspired my fury, and drew me in to discover their further revolting beliefs was their conviction that men and women are completely and fundamentally different. Their view of the human race were absurdly stereotypical; they believed that each gender should behave strictly in accordance with the notions of masculinity and femininity, rather than transcend these bounds to become complete human beings. Furthermore, many of them were convinced that women were not only completely different from men, but were inferior. They ignored the multitudes of evidence to the contrary and painted the female sex as lacking in practically every respect. I become enraged when either gender is disrespected and misrepresented in such a manner and passionately argued against them, employing logic and learning as my weapons. As I fought I discovered that these revolting beliefs seem to come in complete packages, their antifeminism was accompanied by lashings of racism, unabashed homophobia, absurd red terror, sickening shades of patriotism and a truly shocking degree of religious fundamentalism.

I’ve been an agnostic atheist for quite a while now, and I had been a fair while before I became involved in those debates, but before that time I was quite content with being irreligious whilst the people of faith went about their business. I felt their presence made the world more interesting, so, whilst I couldn’t agree with them, I was happy to leave them be. Dealing with these horrifying people changed my views (but not in the way they were trying to, obviously); I came to realise how objectionable religion is. Let me address the most obvious objection to this statement. I know that it would be erroneous to formulate ones views towards a notion in such a manner; for example, it’s wrong to develop a grudge against all trick-or-treaters if a bunch of them egg your house one Halloween. Sure, those who did the deed were trick-or-treaters, and they were behaving in a manner often associated with trick-or-treaters, but there isn’t anything fundamentally inherent in the traditional of trick-or-treating that necessitates the egging of houses (well there is “trick” part, but that’s only if you don’t give them the treat…well, you get the idea), thus there are many trick-or-treaters that wouldn’t egg your house who don’t deserve to be the butt of your grudge. However, in this case, I think my resentment towards religion is justified, because in my dealings with these unpleasant people I came to view the fundamental, unsavoury core of religious belief. Religion, by its very nature, acts as a counter to reason. It’s impossible to construct a rational argument against it as it ignores rationality. I believe that well informed reason is the key to success in almost endeavour, thus religion is a very dangerous thing.

My opponents used religion in spades. They also used bizarre conspiracy theories that claimed every social advancement we’d made over the last century was part of a plot to take over the world by some shady oligarchy. They seemed suspicious of everything, and saw ridiculous conspiracy everywhere; when my fellow proponents of equality and I countered their argument that homosexuality is unnatural by pointing out the sheer number species that have been shown to exhibit homosexual behaviour, one of them responded that it was ridiculous and that scientists must be altering animals to make them gay and then releasing them into the wild. One of my friends responded that he had a very strange notion of what’s ridiculous.

As infuriatingly frustrating my dealings with these imbeciles were, they were addictive. I felt so powerful using impeccable reason to counter their stupid, repetitive dogmas, and I found that I couldn’t wait to find what ridiculous messages they had left me so I could apply facts and rationality to reveal how idiotic they were. I felt high on hate and drunk on power. Furthermore, in the presence of likeminded individuals who argued on the same side as myself, I found pleasant company to compliment the infuriating arsewipes I was bent on demoralising. Those on the side of equality were such glorious people, who gave me so much respect, which I returned. My involvement in these debates died away when I realised there was no end to them and they were consuming me, and unfortunately my association with the pleasurable company died away with it. One day I intend to return to deliver one final, massive blow to my enemies, and in the process re-establish connections with my friends.

YouTube, Quit Being Douchy and Stop Taking Down My Vids

Whilst much of the aforementioned battling took place on YouTube, a site that seems to harbour an alarming number of hateful people, it also became the source of a far more pleasant addiction. To compliment my increased interest in music, I began to obsessively watch fanvideos. I was amazed by the way in which the right music, when perfectly in sync with the action of a scene, can intensify the emotion of said scene by a tremendous amount. Some of those videos gave me shivers. When I listened to music, I found myself matching scenes from my fandoms to the music in my head, until it reached the point where I couldn’t listen to a song without doing so. These unmade videos begun to clutter my head until it reached the point where I had to download a trail DVD ripping program so I could make a couple and relieve the pressure.

Claire’s Adventures in Late Adolescent Ennui (Part 1)

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:00:38 GMT

Describe the latter part of your adolescence in 42 000 words or more…

What you are about to read is a revealing and real-life account of obsession, terror, nihilism, depression, disillusionment, bizarre mental tribulations, misguided priorities, physical and mental endurance, awkward sexual scenarios, strained family relations, emotional isolation, gender confusion, racial confusion, plain confusion, scholastic stress, life, death, family drama, dramatic drama, new depths of hatred towards the lowest forms of human life, confused feelings towards the rest of humanity, tattered self-esteem, emotional emptiness, tantalizing suggestions of brighter horizons in a brave new world of sweet lunacy and truly shocking procrastination all set to a thumping soundtrack! Yes! This is a Livejournal update!

One that has been written over the course of three and a half years. WTF is up with that?

I’m not renowned for being persistent, consistent or least of all dedicated. I’ve been known to neglect all manner of my acquaintances and associates for ridiculously long periods of time and inevitably abandon almost every escapade I envision. I’ve become rather complacent in an environment that provides easy pleasure and instant satisfaction, and I’ve noticed that since I came to the city six ago I’ve become accustomed to having more and more luxuries for less and less effort. Sometimes I fear that the imagination that was the best outlet of entertainment in dusty Wickham has become atrophied as the moving pictures and sounds it once created have become replaced by the moving pictures and sound provided by television and the internet. As easy and enjoyable accessing these external outlets of instant information and entertainment have proved to be, my practical addiction to them frustrates me. I want to produce as well as consume, but I am quick to abandon a creative endeavor when the temptation of immediate amusement presents itself in almost every area of my environment, most typically my computer desktop. My attempt to keep an updated online journal has clearly suffered as a result of this weakness, as the fact that I haven’t posted a proper update in well over three years probably indicates. This problem has been compounded by the passage of time, in which more things happen that I need to write about, making me less and less eager to write a longer and longer update. However, when I first established this journal I decided that it would be the one online obligation I would persist with, and it would be the one account I’d get in order before dealing with any other internet obligation I’d tangled myself in. So this is why I’m updating my journal now after three and a half years of neglect.

I am now going to embark upon a rather absurd escapade. I’m going to try to detail each vaguely notable event that happened to me in these last three and a half years in some loose excuse for chronological order. This detailing of my personal affairs is for my own benefit, so I may preserve my experiences, feelings and thoughts so they do not become forgotten phantoms. I don’t expect anybody to read it, and if anybody other than myself should happen to get through it, I hope my minor misadventures provided you with some vague entertainment to alleviate what I can only presume was a bout of intense boredom. I shall start where I left off; riding the glorious emotional and mental high bestowed upon me by the miraculously wonderful experience that was the school production of “Oliver!” back in 2006, blissfully and utterly unaware that said high would deposit me in a suffocating, numbing, empty low that I am still attempting to struggle out of. I find it no easy task to identify the culprit responsible for this depression, as life has provided me with so many reasons to be joyous and so few excuses to be depressed. Ah, it appears I am deviating from my plan to tell this tale chronologically, and this depression does not become a dominant feature until a little later. My Oliver Twist obsession still had some moments of delight to offer before I found myself swamped by unprecedentedly extended period of unpleasantness.

Please Sir, I’d Like Some More Oliver Twist

Well, harking back to my fulfilling and life-affirming fixation with Oliver Twist. I wish all of my obsessions were as combatable with my real-life as my passion for Oliver Twist was. Perhaps the best thing about it was the fact that it wasn’t isolated within my head, being absorbed from TV screens and the pages of books; it was tactile, I could touch, smell, even taste it. Better still, it didn’t cause me to withdraw from the outside world quite as much; others were actively involved with it so I could share my enthusiasm with them. I think the last milestone during my Oliver obsession was going to see the Oliver Twist movie that was released in Australia back in 2006. It was based on Dickens’s book, which I hadn’t enjoyed as much as the musical version of the story, yet I was still enthusiastic to see it. Although it took my father and I a ridiculously long time to find a parking spot at the only cinema screening the film, shortly before we had to queue up at a stupendously long line to get tickets, we managed to make it into our theater whilst only half the opening credits had run.

Everything about the movie was beautiful, from the emotional performances to the lush costumes and sets. Its loyalty to Dickens’s original text was selective, while some scenes from the book were replicated word for word, other plot lines and characters were completely cut (yet again what’s-her-face and the whole middle bit of the novel failed to make it into the adaption). As with the movie’s interpretation of Fagin’s character, he had been changed from the utterly evil and vile corruptor and leech to a softer, more endearing…corruptor and leech. I personally prefer Fagin as the lovable rogue; whilst hating the wrong-doer is satisfying (and probably more well-adjusted), there is an undeniable delight derived from being able to love the bad guy, and I just adore sympathetic baddies. The relationship between Oliver and the crafty old Jew was very much that of a son and father is this interpretation, making the scene at the end of the movie in which Oliver visits Fagin prior to his execution truly heart-breaking. I found myself in tears. I think the film’s version of the Oliver character was the best so far, or at least the prettiest. The boy had a tragedy to him that would not have suited the upbeat musical adaptation of the grim story. No version of Dodger can compare to the freckle-faced, snub-nosed little rascal portrayed by Jack Wild, but the Dodger in the recent movie was probably a far more accurate depiction of what a boy living his lifestyle would be like. Bill Sykes was no where near as frightening as other versions of his character, but he doesn’t really need to be. Bill Sykes is a brute, a simple human brute, and that is what he is in the movie. The tragedy of Nancy’s character was emphasized in the film, mirroring the novel’s depiction of the character.

History; the World is This Weird for a Reason

Back at school, the workload assigned by my year 10 SOSE class was rather excessive, I felt, but thankfully said work allowed a fairly generous degree of creativity and initiative to come into play, making the whole affair far less trying and even pleasant. I did have the opportunity to write a poem about Elizabeth Báthory, a horrific historical figure who appeals to the aspect of my personality that tends to develop a morbid fascination with the grisly. Furthermore, I was at liberty to organize my own history-themed class party, a task I embarked upon with a certain amount of zeal, as it allowed me to indulge my obsession with a certain Russian love machine (as well as satiate a tendency towards cross-dressing that may have developed due to my involvement in “Oliver!”). I made it a requirement that all students in class would have to dress as some manner of historical figure when they attended the party and bring a dish more appropriate to a period of time and area space other than our own. I, of course, dressed as none other than Mr. Sex himself, the notorious (but so very sexfully so) Mad Monk Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin. My costume was composed of a heavy cloak that was supposed to be part of a Jedi get-up, I believe, a large cross that hung around my neck and a rather itchy fake beard. I was very happy with myself, I must say. I burned a CD for the party that played a number of songs with historical references, including “American Pie”, “We Didn’t Start the Fire” and, of course, “Rasputin”. T’was quite a spiffing party, if I may say so myself, I loved the costumes people came up with. One guy dressed as a mummy, which I found particularly amusing at the time.

I Also Support and Teach Cross-Dimensional Bestiality

Following the end of “Oliver!” I directed the energy and enthusiasm it had afforded me towards completing an opinionative essay for English class in which I outlined my opinions towards genetic engineering, religion and pedophilia. At this point Wikipedia hadn’t undergone an overhaul that appears to have aligned it with popular opinion, and the articles it had on pedophilia linked to forums for (apparently) chaste pedophiles. I lurked these forums to collect information and ended up writing an essay with a somewhat unconventional outlook. I may post it here at a later point and feel thankful that this journal is primarily for my own benefit for if I received any traffic whatsoever flaming would be inevitable. The essay got me a pretty good mark in class though.

After leaching off society for the last nineteen years that compose my existence I have finally, timorously begun offering a rather unremarkable resume to numerous unmoved potential employers in the hopes of enabling my initiation into the workforce. However, in the sense that I once received money for supposedly doing something noncompulsory, it can be said that I was a member of the workforce at least once before. Whilst I was still a year 10 student, my peers and I were presented with an offer that was difficult to turn down; we could provide our services as tutors to year 8 students struggling to deal with the rigors of high school life in return for an amount of money that was disproportionate to the required effort. Eight dollars an hour for one hour spent after school every Tuesday was a rather enticing proposition for myself and a group composed primarily of fellow AEP students. Furthermore, the teachers were courteous enough to allow us to choose the year 8 student we wished to tutor by letting us pick their timetable from the selection laid out on a table. Many of the other year 10s knew the majority of the year 8s on offer, whereas I, isolation being a motif that tends to dominate my life, didn’t know the names of most of the students in my own year. Eventually I chose one of the few remaining timetables simply because I liked the name written on it, Lachlan. The reaction of the other year 10s to my choice made it apparent as to why his timetable was one of the leftovers.

This rather foreboding response from my peers left me experiencing some trepidation, but I tried to maintain an open mind. Upon meeting Lachlan I discovered that he exhibited the arrogant, apathetic, needlessly rebellious attitude and gangster demeanor exhibited by so many younger members of Generation Y (many such individuals are easily recognizable by incomprehensible fact that they choose to wear their pants half way down their legs, providing us all with a clear view of their boxers). That being said, I am well aware that there are far worse year 8s out there that I could have found myself saddled with; he embellished his speech with plentiful profanity, constantly engineered creative excuses to avoid the homework I was supposed to be assisting him with, and brought a lighter to our first session and lit it in my face, but at least he didn’t hurl any verbal or physical abuse in my direction, and I appreciated that. This may be because I didn’t give him an awful lot of provocation; I was certain that if I acted like an authority figure he would treat me like he presumably treated all other authority figures, providing me with a tiny taste of hell each Tuesday. So, I took my planned approach, and pulled it off in a manner that was far less suave than I’d imagined, but it got me through the hour. My tactic was to befriend, bond and gently persuade my subject by explaining the virtues of completing school work, in a manner said subject could appreciate. I’m pretty sure I just ended up coming across as incredibly timid.

Eventually Ms. Burgess (or whatever she was called, I kept calling her Ms. Burgers for most of the term), the teacher directing the tutoring, asked me to take on another boy, one who was very nervous and struggling at school, believing that it would be a boon to him if he were to work along side his buddy, Lachlan. Shaun was the same tubby build as Lachlan, but his personality was completely different, he was quiet, shy and soft spoken, and didn’t go out of his way to give me a hard time. Ms. Burgess eventually relieved me of Lachlan; with the distraction he acted as out of my way, I had the opportunity to teach Shane, and realized how clueless a tutor I was. The memory of haplessly attempting to explain division sticks uncomfortably in my mind.

It was then decided that I would also become tutor to another one of Shaun’s friends, and I assume that most people are aware how the presence of a friend can provoke cockiness in many of us. I found my serious effort in the tutoring escapade wavering; at one point, in an effort to encourage them to read and prove that books were interesting I found myself reading the sex scene from “Red Dwarf: Backwards” to them (in which one participant is a man evolved from a cat who has painful hooks on his penis and the other is a woman native to a world in which time runs in reverse). After that particular session Ms. Burgess commended me as she said the boys had told her that they enjoyed my lessons. I had to laugh…but very discretely. Anyway, I got my money when it was over and I believe I ended up spending it on a variety of useless, shiny trinkets at the Royal Show that year.

A Night in New Orleans that is Actually in a Storeroom Theatre in Perth

Following the absolutely EPIC experience that was “Oliver!” my ever so obliging high school gave me the opportunity to be involved in yet another production the very same year. It was a smaller production, occupying the store room theatre, a little room adjunct to the relatively massive space in which we performed “Oliver!”. The production was quite aptly named “A Night in New Orleans” and concerned a series of vaguely interrelated scenes all set in New Orleans (surprisingly), possibly during the 30s or some similar time period, preceding a hurricane. The roles allocated to me in this particular production were far more significant than those that I had in “Oliver!”, and involved scenes in which I had to sing onstage by my lonesome. My first role was that of a somewhat unfortunate oyster seller that gets to lay down some pretty badass jazz tunes before being accused of selling rotten merchandise, as more or less predicted by the gypsy lady mentioned in my song, played by my good buddy Alannah. My most important role was probably that of an African American woman who listens to her brother, named Simple, rant to a friend about the necessity of having a “Reserve for Negros” established, arguing that if reserves exist where animals can live without the threat of human hunters, “Negros” should have a reserve where they can live without the fear of being beaten or lynched by their white brethren. At the end of the scene Simple and his friend left the stage, leaving me to recite a prayer that laments the persecution of the African American peoples, reiterating the argument Simple presented. I ended up modeling my delivery of the prayer after Martin Luther King Junior’s “I Have a Dream” speech, with piano accompaniment to give it a jazzy edge. I think it must have been quite exhilarating, commanding the audiences’ attention by using such a hypnotic voice to communicate such a powerful sentiment. I recently found a copy of the prayer whilst cleaning out my draws:

Oh Father

You hear me

This person going ta-

And I know you hear me right now – Oh Father

Help him Father

Take hold of a poor weak sinner like me

Take the hunkcuff offa his hand

Take the shackle offa his feet

Oh Father

The fox in the forest got holes

And the birds in the air got nests

Poor son of man

Got nowhere to lay his weary head

Some days!

Oh Father

The wall is so wide I can’t go round

So deep Jesus

I can’t go in

So high, I can’t climb up

But you know, all things are planted in your hand

Oh now, now Father!

Look in da jailhouse

Some sick on the bed affliction

Some won’t breathe Father

Don’t know the real – our Father

But you promised, you promised in your own written word

You promised to raise the sea

You promised the blind sight

You promised the dumb speak out – Father

Oh please!

Point me a home somewhere

Here da job declare

And make my weary soul be at rest

AMEN

Whilst the play enabled me to perform that potent piece, and featured many other poetic and powerful scenes with magnificent performances by my peers, “A Night in New Orleans” did not enrapture me in the same sense that “Oliver!” did, despite the fact that my role was far more vital. Maybe it’s because the play did not have a coherent storyline in the same sense that “Oliver” did; I didn’t become emotionally involved with plot or the characters with the same fervor because the play presented only brief glimpses into the lives of numerous characters, rather than exploring the thoughts, feelings and dilemmas of an important few, or it could be that my misery was taking hold at that point, preparing to drag me down for a long time to come.

The Simple Pleasures of Corpse Spotting

2006 and also happened to be the year in which I knowingly saw my first real human corpse in real life - really. The first of a couple dozen human corpses actually, and various severed human bits and assorted pieces. It was part of a corpse-seeing expedition arranged by the school. A collection of cadavers with all the fun fluids usually associated the human body extracted and replaced with preservative plastic were put on display at the Perth Convention Centre; you know, for those that are into that kinda thing. When our little crew of aspiring voyeurs arrived we were handed those boxes that talk to you through ear phones and were let lose to wonder around, getting close up and cosy with the dearly dismembered. The plastination process left the bodies looking remarkably artificial, I don’t think I would have been fully convinced they weren’t grisly, life-sized, very anatomically correct Ken dolls if it weren’t for the sheer complexity of their innards. One of the most remarkable exhibits was a body that had been stripped of skin, muscle, organs, even bones, until only its circulatory system remained. It looked like an unbelievably intricate piece of red and blue coral twisted into the shape of a human being, made of tendrils of varying sizes, from thick, once pulsing arteries to the miniscule capillaries that fill out the human form. It seems that I found the sight of exposed organs and skinned muscles so absorbing that I failed to register the fact that our macabre little outing had reached its conclusion and my peers and teachers had congregated in preparation to depart, leaving me alone with the bowels of a disemboweled baby, and other such novelties. Luckily they sent someone looking for me before they left, and I was consoled by the fact that, for once, my reason for holding up the bus wasn’t lavatory related. On the journey back to school, I wondered what developing a craving for jerky during the excursion said about me.

Thank Sweet Zombie Jesus For the Industrial Revolution

I can’t confess to nurturing any deep yearning to explore my relationship with Mother Nature; in fact, ever since I was very young I have been convinced that Mother Nature was a cold hard bitch that would like nothing better than to recycle the precious organic molecules I’m composed of in order to create something better at killing others like me (I watched a lot of nature documentaries you see). I’ve always been very fond of the creature comforts civilization has provided me with; flushing toilets, in particular, are a pretty awesome invention, it must be said. Thus, camping has rarely been high on my list of Desirable Deeds to be Done, the lack of aforementioned flush toilets being a major reason for this. So, when my participation in FESA Cadets provided the opportunity to take a four day trek through what passes for wilderness in our local vicinity, I decided that I would give it a miss. However, as the hours spent after school with my fellow Cadets began to revolve around preparation for said trek, I found my mind swimming with the notions of adventure and independence; enticing images of gooey white marshmallows browning over a crackling fire under a twinkling night sky began to clutter my head. I believe that it was the opportunity to undertake a challenge that finally changed my mind; I like finding reasons to support my over inflated opinion of myself, furthermore I have the tendency to put myself through suffering (and I mean that in the extremely mild sense) so that I may feel as though I’m owed extra pleasure once I’ve endured it, plus said pleasure feels more enjoyable once you’ve suffered the absence of it.

The trek involved walking an approximately 40km segment of the Bibbulmun Track, which varied from being a sealed road to a sliver of cleared ground almost swallowed by vegetation. Prior to participating in the walk I had to gear up, and my mother naturally made an unnecessary fuss over preparing me for my outback adventure. Miraculously, my backpack ended up being one of the lightest, partly because my friend Johanna courteously took my pathetic physical stamina into consideration and agreed to carry our tent. My fellow Cadets and I began our adventure in high spirits, despite the rain and the cold that heralded the start of our trek when the truck deposited us at the track. My mother had of course ensured that I was equipped for both weather-related eventualities, but after the first kilometer I found that my body was producing enough heat to make my anorak unneeded, whilst the rain was providing welcome refreshment. I did not find, however, that I was unbearably tired or in much cramp-related pain, and my spirits lifted higher. Our surroundings were quite pleasant; at one point we came across some sizable boulders over looking a large pool of water, where we sat on a boulder and took a few minutes to rest and drink in the lovely scenery. We then continued to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk some more, then walk up hill a bit. Then half of us managed to become separated from the other half, and there was some vague alarm, which eventually resolved itself in one way or another, and then we walked some more. For the final kilometer, either the tenth or eleventh of the day, I managed to fall over once or twice on the gravelly track, my pack making it difficult for me to get back up again. Yet, my spirits were still comparatively high, as I met each fall with giggles echoed by the teachers accompanying me.

Finally, we reached our destination, which was basically a bunch of wooden planks arranged to look like half a shed with a tap on the side, in addition to the most revolting hole in the ground my nostrils have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Apparently it was our toilet. At first I decided to avoid it and get closer to nature than I had hoped; a sign at the camp asked hikers not the bury toilet paper along the trail or around the camp, and not to even put it in the “toilet” BUT I HAVE LIMITS GODDAMIT. Well, anyway, although nature and I got pretty well acquainted a couple of times, due to various factors, one being the encroaching darkness and another being the fact that the other Cadets were wondering around, threatening the privacy of what should really be a very private moment, I decided that I would have to confront the toilet bowl perched upon the SHIT-PIT OF DESPAIR.

An indescribable stench provided proof that our universe couldn’t have been manufactured by a benevolent being, which was accompanied by the ever-present drone of flies, making one very unenthusiastic to bare their bottom for fear of exposing oneself to the bites of insects trapped between said bottom and the unspeakable hell residing directly bellow it. The sides of the bowl itself were either coloured black or simply caked with human filth and a presumably soiled pad clung face down on one side. But I had to do what I had to do.

Johanna and I shared and tent that night, and I found sleep problematic as it seemed that our tent had been erected on top a bunch of rocks. The next morning there was a bit of consternation when our teachers/Cadet Leaders, Mr. Fung and Mr. Floyd, gathered their flock to grill us in regards to conduct most foul. It appeared that someone had stuck a plastic bag chockablock full of rubbish into a disused toilet. Our teachers were most displeased; they’d pulled it out and claimed that one of us would have to carry it on the trek as we weren’t allowed to leave rubbish at the campsites. The guilty party never came forward, but Ryan gallantly realized that the trek must go on (possibly the showbiz sensibility conferred to him by his experience in “Oliver!” at work, although it’s more likely the fact that he was always disarmingly pleasant) and agreed to carry the shitty rubbish.

The vegetation we trekked through on the second day was more lush and tropical, the surroundings even more beautiful, but I was not in the mood to appreciate it whatsoever. I felt utterly exhausted after only a short period of hiking, and I was soon trudging far behind my companions, with Mr. Fung remaining behind to oversee me. Most, if not all, of my body ached, especially my shoulders which supported my pack; at one point Mr. Fung adjusted it for me so that the straps were shorter and it fit more closely to my back, which seemed to help significantly for a while, but it didn’t take long before I found myself desperate to cast down my burden and collapse. By the time we were approaching the second campsite (about half an hour or more after everybody else had arrived) I had reached a state of exhaustion I don’t remember ever having experienced before. Oddly, the distance we had travelled was shorter than the day before, but it was definitely more treacherous, passing over hills and down gullies. Mr. Floyd, informed of our arrival via walkie-talkie, came to greet us and took my pack from me, carrying it with an ease that I would have found disconcerting if I weren’t so grateful. I found that Johanna had already erected our tent, which was very good of her, especially as I was in no condition to be of any assistance. The second campsite was far more pleasant than the first; it was in a clear area on top of some rocks which overlooked a plain bellow. The ground wasn’t embedded with jagged rocks so we didn’t have to worry about our sleep being disrupted by discomfort. The toilet was also a reasonable distance from the campsite, plus it was almost pleasant when compared to the first we had…experienced. That night we sat around the campfire, actually roasting marshmallows whilst engaged in pleasant conversation. I went to bed pretty early and awoke in the middle of the night to find it raining, but luckily the tent acted as a watertight shelter. A rarity in my life, I found myself rising whilst the sun was still in the process of doing so. Many others were also awake; I watched Mr. Fung stick his head out of his tent with an expression that clearly said “I’m so over this”, with his first spoken statement echoing his facial sentiment.

On the third day we were planning to do another eight kilometers; I fell behind the group again, but I still reached the third campsite after a few hours, which was bizarre seeing as the previous day I had travelled approximately the same distance yet taken almost until sundown to reach my destination. Much to my horror, I arrived to find Mr. Floyd suggesting that we should move onto to our fourth campsite rather than stay for the night. His argument was that the bus was coming for us the next day; there was a 12 kilometer uphill journey ahead of us and we didn’t want to arrive back too late. My argument was that there was no way in hell that a creature of my pitiful physical capacity could trek 20km in a single day. To my distress, Mr. Floyd and Mr. Fung decided to prove me wrong. So we set out again.

Yet again, I fell behind the rest, with Mr. Fung sticking by my side. We were joined by Johanna, Jessica and Ashleigh, who I think just wanted to keep me company, although Jessica was having trouble as she had just recovered from a sickness where your spleen might explode or something, so she shouldn’t really have come on the trek. We trekked up a steady incline as it started to rain, and both the incline and the rain seemed to be never ending. For the first time in my entire life I was in a situation where I couldn’t just give up when things became too unpleasant. I had to keep going, and going, and going. I learnt to appreciate things that I had never really considered before, like mud. After trekking through the light rainfall for a few hours, when we came to take a break, a muddy patch of dirt on the side of the road was the very epitome of comfort and relief as we collapsed and sprawled out in it to eat biscuits. As it approached nightfall, Mr. Floyd began to radio us to tell us to hurry up, as he couldn’t have anyone walking in the darkness. Nailed to trees and posts, little yellow signs depicting snakes guided us along the track as dusk settled.

We reached the final campsite, which had a rather large shelter with a table in the middle and two wooden bunks on either side. Those of us that had arrived in the final group decided to sleep in the bunks rather than go through the effort of erecting our tents. There was at least one other hiker with us at the campsite, and he slept on one of the bunks. It was rather odd to sleep so close to a complete stranger in such a feral environment, although I found myself enjoying the weirdness of the scenario, in fact I was in a very good mood that night, huddled in my sleeping bag on a large slab of wood, listening to the rain beat down on the shelter roof above me. I believe said mood had much to do with the fact that I’d be returning to civilization the next day.

The next morning we doubled back two kilometers in order to reach the bus, making the total distance we trekked about 42 kilometers (or at least I like to think so, ‘cause 42’s a bitchin’ number) and we were all feeling rather satisfied with ourselves, not to mention eager for our expedition to be over. For the entire journey, I had not changed my clothing once, and that includes my underwear. All the clothing my mother had insisted we buy which I had to carry around proved needless when my parents picked me up wearing the exact same clothing they had dropped me off in four days ago. The shower I had when I arrived home was immensely satisfying. Noticing that my figure had become more defined and finding my school bag incredibly light enhanced my feeling of self satisfaction following the completion of my challenge. I did, however, resolve to give up Cadets for year 11.

Seems I’ve Out Grown Both AEP and Emotions

So, the end of year 10 marked the end of my involvement in the Academic Extension Program and my final AEP camp. Darcie made a video to commemorate our time together; it was a compilation of photos and film clips of our various escapades, including the aforementioned history party, our AEP camps, the scientific calculator in joke and the book club. Ah yes…the book club…there’s a rather interesting story attached to that which I may elaborate upon at a later in this tale… Darcie put the video on YouTube, but as it was set to various pieces of sentimental pop music YouTube got douchy and took it down.

Towards the end of the video many year 10s were becoming teary, but as much as I wanted to join them in their nostalgic sorrow I felt strangely unmoved. Typically I was easily overcome by the emotion of the moment, but this time, when even some of the more stoic members of our group were softening in the atmosphere of familiarity and affection, I could not bring myself to cry, or feel particularly upset. I complained of this to Ben Sutton, who commended me on my lack of emotion, seemingly not a big fan of it himself. I however, felt cheated, as I have always enjoyed being caught up in sensation, especially that particular flavor of woe. When the girls gathered together in the dorms after to have a heart to heart, I realized how out of touch with them I was. Reflecting upon this memory, I realize that this was most likely among the first signs of the emotional emptiness that has, for some unknown reason, overcome me.

It's coming.....................(that's what she said)

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 14:19:09 GMT

Once, in a time long forgotten, in the days before days, where there is now only stillness...there was the phenomenon. This phenomenon ruled when everything was young and new and the colours shifted; it morphed the nature of things, and in each transformation it brought more chaos, turmoil and madness. There were times when it seemed the phenomenon had vanished and the order had set, but then it would return with greater intensity and once again the order would be replaced with chaos. Then, the phenomenon vanished; it vanished for a very long time. Ages pasted without the order of things being usurped by mad chaos, and the stillness overcame things. The age ruled by stillness came to outlast the age ruled by the phenomenon, and it seemed that the phenomenon was merely the nature of a turbulent and ancient time before the stillness brought about an everlasting peace. This assumption is wrong. The phenomenon has been waiting beneath the surface of things, and in the time it waits, it has been gathering its force, preparing to rise once again with a power unprecedented in any time that has come before, and the order and peace shall shatter. A new age will begin, and it shall outlast the age of stillness until the end of times itself; chaos and madness will reign supreme, order will be a thing of a long fabled past as everything twists and turns in the turmoil the phenomenon delivers. The phenomenon goes by another name that was almost lost when it vanished, and this ancient name is: livejournal activity.

WHEN THE STARS ARE RIGHT AND THE BEAST IS BORN AND THE WHORE DRINKS THE BLOOD OF SAINTS AND MARTYRS, LIVEJOURNAL ACTIVITY SHALL RISE FROM BENEATH THE SURFACE OF THINGS WITH POWER NEVER BEFORE WITNESSED! NEVER AGAIN WILL THINGS REST! NEVER AGAIN WILL THINGS BE THE SAME! HAIL, HORRORS HAIL! THAT IS NOT DEAD WHICH CAN ETERNAL LIE, AND WITH STRANGE AEONS EVEN DEATH MAY DIE! HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTTS! THE BITCH IS BACK!

I shall use this journal for productive purposes someday

Sat, 21 Oct 2006 14:28:30 GMT

BEST MUSIC VIDEO EVER

Oliva Twizzay

Fri, 23 Jun 2006 14:17:06 GMT

I saw this perversion of Good Omens and realised that the very laws of probablity demanded that this be done, so I decided to be the one to do it. And here you have it, Chapter 8 of Oliver Twist in gansta speak. Those pickpockets are basically the ganstas of their time anyway, only far classier if you ask me. Translated into gansta at Gizoogle.com :) The original text can be read here.

He had bizzle crouch'n on tha step fo` some time crazy up in here: messin' at tha bootylicious numba of public-hizzles (every otha hizouse in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), saggin' listlessly at tha coaches as they passed through, n pimpin' how strange it seemed thiznat they could do, wit eaze, in a few hours, whizzay it had taken him a whole wizzy of courage n determinizzles beyond his years ta accomplish: when he was roused by observ'n that a bizzle who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, n was now survey'n him most earnestly frizzom tha opposite side of tha way . Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin'. He took shawty heed of this at first; but tha boi remained in tha same attitude of close observation so long, tizzle Bitch raised his heezee, n returned his steady look. Upon thiznis, tha boi crossed poser and, walk'n close up ta Oliva, said,

"Hullo, mah covey bitch ass nigga! Whats tha row?"

The boi who addressed this inquiry ta tha young killa was `bout his own age so bow down to the bow wow: but one of tha queerest look'n boys thizzay Oliva had ever seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boi enough; n as dirty a juvenile as one would wish ta see; but he had `bout him all tha airs n manna of a man. He was short of his age cuz its a G thang: wit pimp bow-legs, n little, sharp, fugly eyes. His hat was stiznuck on tha top of his heezee so lightly, tizzy it threatened ta fizzall off every moment -- n would have done so, very often, if tha brotha had not had a knack of every now n then giv'n his heezee a sudden twitch, which brought it bizzack ta its old place again. He wore a mans coat, which reached nearly ta his heels. he had turned tha cuffs bizzay half-way up his arm, ta git his hands out tha sleeves cuz its a pimp thang: apparently wit tha ultimate view of blingin' T-H-to-tha-izzem into tha pockets of his corduroy trousa; fo` there he kizzy tizzy. he wizzle brotha as weed-smokin' n ridin' a young gentleman as ever stood four fizzle sizzay or sum-m sum-m less, in his blucha.

"Hullo, mah covey! Whats tha row?" said this strange young gentleman ta Killa.

"I am very hungry n tired," replied Gangsta: tha tears stand'n in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been mackin' these seven days."

"Walk'n fo` sivin days!" said tha young gentleman n shit. "izzy I see n shit. Beaks orda, eh? But," he added, doggy stylin' Playa look of surprise, "I suppose you dizzle knizzay wizzy a bizzy is, mah flash com-pan-izzles

Cracka mildly replied, that he had always heard a birds grill described by tha tizzay in question n we out.

"My eyes, how green!" exclaimed tha young gentleman. "Why, a beaks a madgstrate; n when you walk by a beaks orda, its not straight forerd, but always a going up, n nivir a com'n dizzle agin. Was you neva on tha mill?"

"What mill?" inquired Oliver.

"What mizzay! Whizzay tha mizzle -- tha mizzay as takes up so shawty room thizzay itll W-to-tha-izzork inside a Stone Jug; n always goes betta wizzy tha winds low wit people, thizzay when its high; acos tizzle they cizzant git workmen . Snoop dogg is in this bitch. But come," said tha young gentleman; "you want grizzub, n you shiznall have it . Hollaz to the East Side. Im at low-wata-mark me -- only one bob n a magpie; but, as far as it goes, Ill fizzle out n stizzump . Snoop dogg is in this bitch. Up wit you on yo pins. There! Now then! Morrice!”

Assist'n Pimp ta rise, tha young gentleman took him ta an adjacent hustla shizzay where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham n a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" tha ham being kizzept clean n preserved friznom dizzust, by tha ingenious expedient of mak'n a hizzy in tha loaf by pull'n out a portion of tha crumb, n shizniting it therein. Trippin' tha bread hustla his arm, tha young gentleman turned into a small public-hizzles n led tha way ta a tap-room in tha rear of tha premises. Here, a pot of gin n' juice was brought in, by direction of tha mysterious youth; n Drug Deala fall'n to, at his new niggaz blingin' made a long n hearty meal, dippin' tha progress of which, tha strange boi eyed him frizzay time ta time wit bootylicious attention.

"gonna london?" said tha strange bizzy wizzy baller had at length concluded.

"yes."

"gizzay any lodg'n?"

"no."

"money?"

"no."

tha strange boi whistled; n put his arms into his pockets, as far as tha big coat sleeves would let tizzy go.

"d-ya live in london?" inquired pusha.

"yes. i do, when im at home," replied tha boy fo gettin yo pimp on. "i suppose you wizzle some place ta sleep in to-night, dizzle you?"

"i do, indeed," answered nigga n shit. "i have not S-L-to-tha-izzept unda a roof since i left tha country."

"dizzay fret yo eyelids on tizzle score," said tha young gentleman fo shizzle. "ive gots ta be in london to-night; n i know a spectable old genelman as lives there, wotll give you lodg'n fo` nothink, n rappa ask fo` tha change -- tizzle is, if any genelman he knows interduces you . Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. n D-to-tha-izzont he know me? oh, no! not in tha least! by no means. certainly not!"

tha young gentleman smiled, as if ta intimate that tha pimp fragments of discourse wizzle playfully ironical; n finished tha gin n' juice as he did so . Aint no stoppin' this shit nigga.

this unexpected drug deala of hustla was too mobbin' ta be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by tha assurance that tha old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide gangsta witta comfortable place, witout loss of tizzle cuz its a G thang. this led ta a more friendly n confidizzles dialogue; fizzy whizzich nigga discovered thizzat his niggaz name was jack dawkins, n thizzay he was a peculiar pet n protége of tha elderly gentleman before mentioned cuz its a doggy dog world.

Mr . You gotta check dis shit out yo. Dawkinss appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of tha comforts whiznich his patrons interest obtained fo` those whizzay he tizzle unda his protection; but, as he had a bitch flighty n dissolute mizzle of trippin' n furthermore avowed thizzay among his intimate niggaz he was betta knizzay by tha sobriquet of "izzle artful Wanna Be Gangsta” Brotha concluded thizzay being of a dissipated n careless turn, tha moral precepts of his benefizzles had hitherto been thrown away upon him . Relax, cus I'm bout to take my respect. Rappa this impression, he secretly resolved ta cultivate tha good opinion of tha old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found tha Gangsta incorrizzles as he more thizzan H-to-tha-izzalf suspected he should, ta decline tha honour of his pusha acquaintance n shit.

As Jizzy Dawkins objected ta they hatin' London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven oclock whiznen they reached tha turnpike at Islington. They crossed fizzle tha Angel into St. Johns Road; struck diznown tha smiznall street W-H-to-tha-izzich terminizzles at Playa Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street n Coppice Rizzow; dizzy tha shawty court by tha side of tha workhouse; across tha classic ground which once bizzle tha name of Hockley-in-thizzles thence into Little Saffron Hizzill; n so into Saffron Hizzle tha Great: along which tha Gangsta scudded at a rapid pace, direct'n Oliva ta follow close at his heels . Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin'.

Although Oliva had enough ta occupy his attention in perpetratin' S-to-tha-izzight of his motherfucka he could not hizzle bestow'n a few hasty glances on pimp side of tha wizzle as he passed along aww nah. A poser or mizzle wretched place he had poser seen. The street was very narrow n muddy, n tha air was impregnated wit filthy odours. There were a good many smizzall shops; but tha only stiznock in trade appeared ta be heaps of children, who, even at thizzay time of night, were crawl'n in n out at tha doors, or scream'n from tha inside ta help you tap dat ass. The sole places that seemed ta prospa amid tha general blight of tha place, were tha public-hizzles n in them, tha lowest nigga of Irish were wrangl'n wit mizzay n main. Covered ways n yards, which hizzle n there diverged fizzy tha main street, disclosed shawty knots of houses, where drunken men n bitchez wizzy positively wallow'n in filth; n fizzy several of tha door-ways, bootylicious trippin' fellows were cautiously emerg'n, bound, ta all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands if you gots a paper stack.

Wanna Be Gangsta was jizzle ridin' brotha he hadnt betta run away, when they reached tha bottom of tha hizzay. His conductor, mackin' him by tha arm, pushed open tha dizzle of a hizouse near Field Lane; and, cruisin' him into tha passage, closed it behind thizzem.

"Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply ta a whistle from tha Dodga . Chill as I take you on a trip.

"Plummy n slam!" was tha reply.

This seemed ta be some watchword or signal that all was right; fo` tha light of a feeble candle gleamed on tha wiznall at tha remote end of tha passage; n a mans face peeped out, friznom where a balustrade of tha old kitchen staircase had bizzy broken away fo shizzle.

"Theres two on you," said tha man, thrust'n tha candle drug deala out, n ridin' his eyes wit his hand now pass the glock Anotha dogg house production.. "Whos tha totha one?"

"A new P-to-tha-izzal," replied Jizzack Dawkins, pull'n Hustla forward.

"Where did he come from?"

"Greenland in all flavas. Is Fagin up stairs?"

"yes, hes a sortin tha wipes. up wit you!" tha candle was driznawn back, n tha face disappeared n shit.

cracka grop'n his way wit one H-to-tha-izzand, n hav'n tha brotha firmly grasped by his companion, ascended wit much difficulty tha dizzle n broken stairs: W-H-to-tha-izzich his conductor mounted wittan eaze n expedition that showed he was wiznell acquainted wit them hittin that booty. he thrizzew open tha door of a back-room, n drizzay oliva in drug deala him.

The walls n ceil'n of tha rizzle were perfectly black wittage n D-to-tha-izzirt fo' sheezy. there was a deal table before tha fire n shit: upon which were a candle, S-T-to-tha-izzuck in a drug deala bottle, two or three gangsta pots, a loaf n playa n a plate aww nah. in a fry'n-pan, which was on tha fire, n whiznich was secured ta tha mantelshelf by a blingin' some sausages wizzy bustin' n blunt-rollin' over them, witta toast'n-fork in his hiznand, was a very old shrivelled jizzew, whose villanous-look'n n repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hizzle n shit. he was dressed in a greasy flannel gizzay wit his throat bare; n seemed ta be bustin' his attention between tha straight trippin' n a clothes-hizzles over whizzich a bootylicious playa of silk handkerchiefs wizzy hang'n.

Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on tha floor. Seated round tha table wizzle four or five boys, none bitch tizzy tha Rappa smok'n long clay pipes, n ballin' spirits wit tha air of middle-aged men cuz its a pimp thang. These all crowded `bout they associate as he whispered a few words ta tha Jizzle n thiznen turned round n grinned at Pusha like a tru playa'. So did tha Jew himself, blingin' in hand.

"This is him, Fagin," said Jizzy Dawkins; "my nigga Killa Twist."

The Jew grinned; and, mak'n a low obeisance ta Nigga took him by tha hand, n hoped he should hizzy tha honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, tha young gentlemen wit tha pipes came round him, n shook B-to-tha-izzoth his hands very hard -- especially tha one in W-H-to-tha-izzich he held his shawty bundle now motherfuckers lemme here ya say hoe. One young gentleman was very anxious ta hang up his cap fo` hizzay n anotha was so oblig'n as ta put his hands in his pockets, in orda T-H-to-tha-izzat, as he was very tired, he miznight not have tha trouble of empty'n them, himself, wizzle he went ta bed. These civilizzles would probably have been extended much fartha, but fo` a liberal exercise of tha Jews toast'n-fork on tha heezees n shoulda of tha affectionate youths who offered T-H-to-tha-izzem.

"We is very glad ta see you, Oliva, very," said tha Jew with my forty-fo' mag. "Dodga, takes off tha sausages; n draw a tub near tha fire fo` Gangsta dogg. Ah, yoe a-star'n at tha pocket-handkizzles! eh, mah dizzy! There is a good mizzle of em, aint there? Weve just looked em out, ready fo` tha wash; thats all, Brotha thats all. Ha! ha . Snoop dogg is in this bitch! Hizzay”

The latta part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout F-R-to-tha-izzom all tha hopeful pupils of tha merry old gentleman. In tha M-to-tha-izzidst of which, they wizzent ta hustla . Dogg House Records in the motha fuckin house.

Oliva ate his share, n tha Jew thizzen mixed him a glass of hot gin n wata . Freak y'all, into the beat y'all: tell'n him he M-to-tha-izzust drink it off directly, coz anotha gentleman wanted tha shot calla . Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. Playa did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on ta one of tha sacks; n then he siznunk into a deep sleep fo' sho'.

Tue, 06 Jun 2006 10:18:35 GMT

HAPPY 06 - 06 - 06 EVERYBODY!!!!!!!

And what a wholly unremarkable day it was.

Thu, 01 Jun 2006 13:48:45 GMT

Today I got whacked in the face with a hockey stick by an ex-chimney sweep and I went all tingly. Then my lip started to bleed, and I went on to draw a picture of Rasputin lying on a tongue before uploading it on to devART. All in all a 100% sucessful day.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow.

Mon, 15 May 2006 12:59:28 GMT

Well…it’s all over. Five night performances and two matinees later I find myself deeply depressed at the fact that I woke up this morning with no bowler hats to wear or chimney sweeps to shout at come night fall. My days have returned to their directionless cycle of sleeping late, pigging-out and avoiding homework (I was meant to spend today writing a long overdue English essay, I ended up rereading Red Dwarf fic). I feel rather empty now, it’s as though Oliver was a roast chicken in between gruel dinners and I just got served slop again after enjoying a taste of something better. One of the reasons I enjoyed it so much could probably be attributed to the fact that it started the week after I finished school holidays; a time when I devolve into something half-human, half drooling meat-bag, and the sudden burst of activity and excitement was something that fired my mind up once more.

On some occasions when we arrived in the theatre the lightning people would be playing around with multicolored lights, giving the room a disco look, and pumping music through the speakers which were used to broadcast sound for the performance. The result were discos and raves almost every night; I felt almost insanely ecstatic by that point, with everybody jumping around, screaming, yelling, laughing, the year 12 boys (including those playing Oliver, Fagin and Bill Sikes) putting on a mock performance for us on stage; I ended up collapsing in a fit of giggles after tangoing with Gab and doing some sort of can-can with Ryan. Jumping up and down, doing the conga, limbo and spinning around until you’re nauseous is probably not the best idea seeing as we were meant to be conserving out energy, but it got me so hyped up that I still felt bouncy when the play began, so it could have helped.

The play itself was brilliant fun; I loved putting on the makeup, first everyone had to put on loads of foundation along with mascara and lipstick so that we all ended up looking like painted china dolls with long black lashes, red lips and no blemishes; that was so we would show up better in the glare of the lights. Then the other thieves, additional scruffy characters and I had to smear ourselves in black and brown eye shadow in order to appear like we’d just gone fishing for pennies in the crusty, congealed remains of an open sewer. People that played older characters like Mr. Brownlow and Fagin had special makeup that made them appear to have wrinkles and baggy skin; some even had white stuff put in their hair to make them look grey. It's so funny being asked by boys if their foundation is uneven or their lipstick too dark; the guys got fussier than the girls!

I loved my first costume; along with black trousers and a white shirt with a silvery jacket over the top (one of those jackets with no sleeves…you know…those ones), I got a brilliant black cape that looked like the Phantom of the Opera had used it in his adolescence. Combined with that I had a bowler hat that I tucked all my hair into and a lamp-lighting stick (which was actually just a wooden pole painted black with batteries taped to the end) which I both accidentally and purposefully poked and hit people with (luckily these people didn’t include audience members). After the first scene I changed into my thief outfit which was far simpler, the pants were very baggy and lose so I had to get a belt, but the belt was so big I had to loop around the buckle a few times in order to stick the metal thingy in one of the holes, but I think that added authenticity to my character. The best part about being a thief is the fact that you need to look really tatty, so I went without washing or brushing my hair for a few days.

In between scenes everybody, guys and girls, got changed in the same room…I love how causal and friendly theatre tends to be…to the point of everyone stripping in front of one another…I think I could get used to that lifestyle! One of the awkward things about where we got changed is that the walls were lined with mirrors, so it was difficult to turn your back to other people when you were feeling modest (especiallywhenyouhadaperiodcoughahem). I ended up changing my pants with my cloak wrapped around myself.

We weren’t allowed to be noisy backstage so most people just played cards or listened to MP3s when they weren’t on. I was in the very first scene so I waited in the chair store room before the show began so I could get onto the stage quickly; in there with me was Ryan, who played a book seller (Book Boy!) who was on immediately after me. That guy’s hilarious, I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite so funny before; he also has a really bizarre ability to predict the titles of his books, it’s eerie; he randomly said the words “ear wolf,” then he looked at the books he was carrying and “Wolf Ear the Indian” was printed on the spine of one of them; he thought it was really creepy (then he did it again the next day).

I would go on stage when the Overture finished and do my bit, an event I would always begin to freak out prior to. Kirsty -the girl that played the chimney sweep in the first scene with me- and I would go over our lines like a mantra as the audience filled up the theatre, something that was not easy for me as Ryan couldn’t seem to able to breath without sending me into fits of stifled giggles (the stifling normally causing them to come out as a snort…something Ryan would make further jokes about). The combination of nervousness and laughter had me seriously worried about my bladder control. A few scenes after that I appeared with Dodger when he (played by a she in our case) met Oliver for the first time, I just stood beside her and looked like I thought I was tough.

My character normally had their arms folded or their hands on their hips, in their pockets, bunched in fists or flailing about in a panicked or confused manner. During the play I kept my face scrunched up in a sort of leer/sneer (I think Rimmer may have inspired me, I’m unsure), since it’s just such a fun expression to pull; so fun that I’ve been putting together a repertoire of leer/sneers to use when I feel befitting. So far they all involve the nose rising and screwing up (think of the ew-someone-just-cut-the-cheese nose movement), therefore allowing the upper lip to rise, which makes up the sneer part of the expression. How far the upper lip may rise and how symmetrical or lopsided said lip-rising may be varies depending on the leer/sneer. Some types of leer/sneers involve the bottom lip and/or jaw jutting out and sometimes moving to the side. For a particularly hardcore leer/sneer add knotted or raised eyebrows, having only one raised eyebrow is a particularly nifty effect.

When Consider Yourself began all the other thieves appeared from…wherever it was they came from, and I ran off from Dodger and Oliver to get my spoon grinded by the knife grinder. The joke was probably lost on most of the audience seeing as Darcie (the Knife Grinder) doesn’t actually say she’s a knife grinder until Who Will Buy, but it’s funny enough to her and me, plus I get to hold a spoon to her throat when I realize I can’t pay her. After that the thieves ran amok by stealing from street sellers, the audience, each other and so forth. I normally stole Charley Bates hat and put it on an audience member then proceeded to make abusive gestures at them when I realized they’d let him take it back. After that we broke into song and dance which I messed up on enough occasions, I’m hoping that wasn’t too noticeable.

After realizing my pockets wouldn’t contain my spoon I took to stashing it in my bra once the lights went down so to stop it from falling out when I had to do a bunch of hopping around in Be Back Soon; although it did fall out in one occasion when I was giving out the sausages in Fagin’s den. We had to use real sausages for that, cold ones. Gab, who was working on the tech team (moving props around and such) made a piccy dedicated to them here. Although some of the scenes in Fagin’s den were awkward, like the time I started choking on my sausage when we were meant to be singing, or when my spoon fell out my pocket in Be Back Soon, OR when I realized I didn't have the pocket handkerchief needed for the next song, they are still the scenes I most enjoyed acting in. I got to hunch, use a wide range of leer/sneers, speak in a cockney accent, snort imaginary cocaine, chew imaginary tobacco, smoke imaginary cigarettes, drink imaginary gin and coffee, hit other thieves, laugh at nothing in particular, sing about attacking the rear, snore, snort, spit, have fondness for a couple of prostitutes and idolize an eccentric old Jew who’s probably a pedophile.

Plus there’s the polishing scene where I get to act terrified, my character is totally freaked out by Bill Sikes, not without reason neither! I thought the role had been badly cast at first since I thought the guy they chose to play him was too tall and lanky, but then he got into character! I didn’t know he was coming into the scene on the occasion I first saw him act; the other thieves and I were sniggering our heads off when suddenly someone pushes us aside with what seems like excessive force and starts berating Oliver in the freakiest voice I could have imagined. It was deep, rough and raspy, what made it even freakier was the fact that he carried himself so rigidly, his expression was so cold and he walked in powerful strides with what seemed like to be a single-minded determination, then he breaks out in this horrifying voice…

When given a top hat and black coat he ended up looking like Jack the Ripper, his movements seemed too cold and precise to belong to the brutish Bill Sikes, even though many of his actions were brutish. I think his murder of Nancy made me wince every time, even though I couldn’t see it as I was always under the stage at that part of the performance, Nancy’s shrieks and cries sounded so realistic that I found myself shivering; I had also come to adore her as a character, so I found her murder particularly distressing. After she was bludgeoned to death, another thief (playea delightful year 9 girl named Johanna, she’s so fun) and I who were hiding under the stage crawled out and upon realizing what had just happened, ran into the thieves den and screamed to the others, which was when all the thieves evacuated their abode and ran off in numerous directions.

After Bill Sikes was shot, Oliver was taken home by Mr. Brownlow and Dodger was dragged off by one of the Bow Street Runners, Fagin spoke a few lines from the reprise of Reviewing the Situation and the play ended. Sadly Reviewing the Situation in its entirety was cut out from the play, as was a bunch of other good songs such as I’d Do Anything For You; after watching the movie musical of Oliver (an absolutely awesome movie!!! Twenty fingers and toes!) I end up wishing the play could have been a bit longer so we could of added those songs in. Our Fagin had the character (the musical version that is, the book version is quite different) down to a tee, and had added his own touch to the role as well, so I wish I could of seen him perform Reviewing the Situation, or dance around with an umbrella in Anything For You…although I don’t think we would have been able to lift him up…

The best part of the play was always after we belt out the Finale, do our bows and march off singing Consider Yourself, sometimes with the audience clapping along. The thrill I got the first time it happened was amazing; Johanna and I came down the stage arm in arm singing the song at the top of our lungs and continued to do so all the way out of the theatre; I expected that once we got into the hallway everyone besides her and I would stop as they’d be happy they were over and done with the performance, but everyone continued to sing as loud as they possibly could all the way out down the hall where we all started running in exaltation, and when the song reached it finish we all leapt into the air! I had become so accustomed to over zealousness towards anything besides sport, boys and the like being seen as a deviant eccentricity of myself and the type of people I chose the company of that I was shocked to see others exhibit it! I shouldn’t have been shocked really, these people had chosen to dedicate so much of their time to the performance they must have been passionate about it, but it was a wonderful thrill to realize that the traits which some think me abnormal for exhibiting belong to those I initially believed to be “normal.” It’s nice to know there’s a little bit of a freak in all of us, no matter how well hidden.

On the last night after our last leap into the air, one of the orphan/thieves decided we should go back on stage, so we all did, running, whooping, singing and confusing the audience for our own enjoyment. It was around about this I realized that our last performance had been filmed, I found myself hoping the cameras didn’t pick up how I had messed up in Who Will Buy. I didn’t falter noticeably any other time we did that song, yet I did on the last bloody night. At least I did my freeze without fail. During an entire scene and half a song I had to kneel on my hands and knees not moving at all, I entertained myself during that time by analyzing the varieties of pins and needles I got in my left arm.

Before we left we were all given a rose (mine broke :’( ) and a card congratulating and thanking us. In return we all signed cards for the theatre and dance teachers that put on the production. We gave Ms Erceg one last “Boing Jenny!” (long story) and at the end of it all we stayed behind to dismantle the stage, something my Media teacher tells me was important as it added closure to the experience. I was fine at first, then I began feeling a little down…then a little somber…then a little teary…when I left I was sobbing. I wouldn’t have it any other way of course; I don’t feel that you’ve really had an experience unless you’ve cried over it at least once. I rode home with Gab and Johanna, I somehow felt elated and down at the same time. Elated because I felt I had been involved in something worthwhile, plus I was in good company; down because I had nothing exciting left to look forward to. Hopefully they’ll be other plays and more good company to come.

And my French teacher threw her gloves at me for calling the Eiffel Tower a phallic symbol, it was worth it.

Sat, 29 Apr 2006 14:17:32 GMT

why is YOUR livejournal annoying?

I never update
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I think most people have noticed that by now.

Oliver! Oliver! Never before has a boy what's in store! ...no wait...

Sat, 29 Apr 2006 09:19:48 GMT

I have spent the last couple of weeks of the holidays vomiting ramblings and suitably big words on the keyboard in an attempt to finish the humongous SOSE and English projects I had several weeks to do but never bothered to over school. Well actually I’ve spent most of my time checking and double checking forums, devART and reddwarfslash for updates in-between short bouts of empting the contents of the last-resort areas of my brain and trying to arrange it into essays and stories. During my study sessions I’ve discovered that Rasputin was murdered by a cross-dresser, the ancient Greeks were pedophiles, there are sites on the internet that let you marry your pet, Zeus raped Jupiter’s moon…making him autosexual (I realise that will make no sense to anyone who did not just have my line of thought), I found out what autosexual means, a lot of people are homosocial, zoophilia is legal in Sweden and I’ve come to believe that there’s absolutely no chance I’ll get all of this done by the end of the week. I’m not too worried though, I’m missing my first few days of school because of our Oliver performances which start this Wednesday; and I still get “part of the family” and “part of the furniture mixed up.”

Oh damn, now Oom-Pah-Pah stuck in my head again…an’ now I’m thinkin’ in a Cockney accent…though I ‘ave little idea how to type init.

My mind is a mash of musical matter making me mumble many muddled mutterings.

Well, you remember that musical I told you I was going to be in if you happened to of read said journal entry that involved said musical that was mentioned in said journal entry? Well, I’ve been attending rehearsals for the last dozen weeks and Opening Night is rapidly approaching…actually it’s going to be opening day seeing as the first performance is a matinee, but anyway, I’m gonna be the first person on stage since I’m a lamplighter at first, I light up the show. I’ve got a poem I need to recite as I do it, luckily I’m meant to look like I’m making it up on the spot so it won’t be out of character if I forget my lines. Then a chimney sweep and I verbally abuse each other before a prostitute walks around and tries to pick up members of the audience. It’s gonna be an interesting seven performances…over five consecutive nights…then I am going to die of imaginary snuff and tobacco consumption. Does that mean it will be an imaginary death?

My character thinks they’re badass but they’re a gutless wonder whenever Bill Sykes appears, or maybe that’s just me…the dude’s freaky! Plus he murders Nancy… :( I like Nancy. I like Fagin too; Oliver puts Fagin out of business, so I don’t like him. I wonder what happened to all of those little thieves after they got flushed out of the thieves den…maybe they all become audience members, come into our dimension and become juvenile delinquents…perhaps they’re the only reason the Cockney accent still exists, maybe I’m rambling, you never know.

In other news, Russian history (involving the last Romanovs especially) is some of the tastiest history I have encountered, passionate royal romances, aloof royalty, beautiful princesses, delicate and deathly ill princes, kings who don’t want to rule, mystical monks with weird sex-powers, spoiled, murderous, cross-dressing aristocracy, angry peasants, racy rumors and disco music! The best part of it all is Rasputin, I read the account of his death (written quite eloquently by the murderous, cross-dressing noble) and I was hooked. His deliciously bizarre death is just the cherry on top as far as I’m concerned. The glorious description of his powerful eyes alone satisfies my lust for the strange and extrodinary. Even the music about him is good! Plus he had many hidden charms ;) If you have absolutely no idea who I’m talking about rent out the movie “Rasputin” with Alan Rickman, or ask me and I’ll ramble on about him for hours.

I was hoping to talk about the time the nurse came to class and got us to put condoms on bananas that converted into penises, but reddwarfslash is calling me...like some glorious fridge...it'll be the death of me that fridge.

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 07:40:02 GMT

1. Make an LJ-cut post with "DO NOT READ" as the text.
2. Do not select a 'mood' for this post.
3. If anyone clicks the cut, they HAVE TO comment and admit to doing so.
4. Anyone who reads this also has to do the same in THEIR journal, thus continuing the neverending madness (unless he or she really doesn't feel like it).

Confessions of a Layabout Lurker

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 14:05:53 GMT

Also posted on DeviantART because I'm greedy.

Something I wrote when I realised that characterisation is hard. So I decided to write something where the characterisation couldn't go wrong.

Confessions of a Layabout Lurker

It was a Sunday night, almost 9 O’clock. On most Sunday nights she would have been worried that she had so much homework left undone, but fortunately the following Monday was Labor Day which left her extra time for procrastination. The electric glow of the computer screen slipped in through her eyeballs and inspired a small headache at the top of her brain, yet still she clicked through the links, desperately hoping to encounter something mildly entertaining that would help her avoid going to bed, doing her homework, trying to communicate with fellow human beings or trying to write another chapter of her neglected fanfic. She had considered trying to rub her forehead onto the computer screen while Microsoft Word was open, in some hope that her subconscious brainwaves might skip through and arrange themselves into the form of a truly ground breaking, heart touching story that would unlock her creative ability and turn her into the Shakespeare of fandom related writings; but she was worried that she might give her computer screen acne.

First she tried DeviantART; she looked up at her message bar, it read as follows; 171 deviantWATCH deviations, 88 hot topics, 17 new messages, 92 journal entries and 11 notes. She shrugged; she’d check them in the morning when she was feeling perkier. She typed something into the DeviantART search engine that would be considered gibberish to most people, and seen as truly obscene by members of certain fandoms, before scrolling through 707 274 images of exotic males doing depraved things to one another in pieces of art that managed to tip-toe around the gaze of policy enforcing moderators.

After an hour or five of trying to work out whose limb belongs to who, she decided that she had milked DeviantART for all it was worth for one day, and moved onto Livejournal instead. She took a moment to check her own journal (last updated several Neptunian seasons ago, the last entry consisting solely of the words “Cheeseballs are nice”) to see if any of her antiquated entries had been commented on, they hadn’t.

Feeling only slightly disheartened she looked through the fanfiction communities where prolific, skilled and highly creative authors had weaved their own threads into the world of canon that had miraculously filled up all the plot holes, expanded all the characters, relieved all the sexual tension and brought a richness and fulfillment to the fictional universe in places it was previously lacking. She looked at the multitude of black text it had taken the author less than an hour to write and promptly skipped straight to the comments. After seething in her jealously, bitterness and resentment she decided to spite the author by not reading the story.

Quickly skipping over to a few icon communities she saved every icon with a shiny effect, neon writing or possible sexual activity in its 100x100 frame onto her computer for further scrutiny before shutting down the machine and heading off to bed with the remaining half of a block of chocolate she had scoffed that morning while watching Playschool when no other form of entertain was available.

2006...so far it tastes like cheap cookies

Sat, 18 Feb 2006 10:22:41 GMT

2006, and so begins a new year and a new attempt at keeping a regularly updated journal (HA!). I’m not going to even bother thinking up an excuse this time, let’s just get this over and done with before those ghastly three-legged, hyper intelligent emu assassins that have been stalking me for the last few weeks sniff me out. For no particular reason I shall now tell my latest news in reverse order.

Right now we have my obscure-didn’t-even-know-he-existed-second-cousin Michael staying with us; he’s been with us for the last few weeks and is going back to Wales on Monday. I think I’m gonna cry when he goes; he’s absolutely awesome. He basically prefers the same lifestyle as me, lying around on the couch all day watching science fiction and comedy and occasionally playing on the Sims for a few hours straight, now that he’s here we’ve been able to do those things together and it’s wonderful. I’ve been showing him all the funny flash movies you can find on the internet and he’s been renting all the B movies he likes and we’ve watched them together while eating ice cream, it’s absolute bliss. He also loves fantasy and sci-fi novels, Terry Pratchett, Red Dwarf, some Star Trek (he has issues with Janeway, and so I’ve neglected to mention I like her), British comedy and just about everything cool (besides T.A.T.u.; somehow he can’t grasp the appeal of pretty Russian girls pretending to be lesbians, I don’t know how he can not.). It’s been great having someone closer to my age around, he may be 28 but he’s a helluva lot easier to talk to than my parents.

Michael’s not the only one that’s been staying with us recently, the house seems full of noisy, argumentative, snarky, wonderful life compared to the times when it’s just Mum and I. Along with Michael my sister Sally stayed with us for a week or so, the day before she left I got to get out of school to go into the city with her and get stuffed on pancakes. Plus Mum and Dad are having their room refurbished by this guy called Dallas, so they’re staying in my room and I’m staying in my old room (IT’S PINK O_O). He’s quite a nice guy, when he’s not working I talk to him about music, he sings in a barber shop quartet.

Speaking of music, guess what. Go on, guess. Come on. It’s not hard, just think about it. I’ve already given you a clue, just guess…

…-_-;;

Ok then, since you’re so insistent on being clueless I’ll tell you, the school’s holding a production of the musical “Oliver” I get to be a thief! Ok, it’s not that big a deal, it’s not as though I’m Nancy or Dodger or someone like that, but I do get to be in the chorus of 3 songs, perhaps even 4 since I might be in the “Who Will Buy?” scene too. The part I’m really looking forward too is getting smeared with dirt.

What else has happened recently, hmmm…ummm…errr…IGOTADEVIANTARTACCOUNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT’S TRUE!!!! IT’S TRUE!!! WHOOOOO!!!!! LOOK PROOF>>>>> LOOKIE<<<<<<< NOT HERE <THERE!!! And it’s all thanks to H, *worships H* when I die, she gets my stereo. Finally, all is right with the world.

Before school started I had a sleep over that was slightly odd, Shadi and Ash came over and it started as most of our sleepovers did, eating copious amount chocolate and watching something macabre, in this case “Interview with the Vampire” ( it’s not that macabre compared to what we usually watch). After that was over Shadi started talking to Maz over msn and told her he was high on sugar, and since I was getting bored I offered to make him truly high on sugar. With that I got some Milo, Nutella, coffee, sugar and milk, mixed it all together in a mug, heated it up, I then made Shadi eat it by sucking it through sugar cubes. Because being alone with friends late into the night tends to make one rather weird, or at least weirder, while I was making the concoction Shadi decided to be my deformed hunchback assistant/slash/guinea pig and became an evil scientist. Somewhere along the way Ash became some sort of creature I kept as a pet and ended up drinking milk from a cup I put on the floor.

I decided that since Shadi was my deformed hunchback assistant/slash/guinea pig he’d need a lobotomy, so I fetched my trusty eyeliner and gave him a huge stitch mark across his forehead. Then Ash and I decided we wanted beards, and sometime around 3 in the morning we went to bed as bearded hippie hobos.

Going back further still towards the end of the holidays my parents and I stayed with Sally in Darwin for a week, I liked it best when I got to stay with her in the house for the night while Mum and Dad were in the motel, we stayed up watching British and New Zealander comedy and I discovered that I’m prone feta-stuffed-olive addiction. I love Darwin, especially during the wet season, the sweltering humidity, constant rain, thunder that literally shakes the house; I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.

We also got to go see “The Producers,” Mel Brooks is pure class. I loved every second of it, I saw it again afterwards it was so good. It simply had everything a comedy should, song and dance numbers, drag queens, Nazis, Swedish exhibitionists and horny old ladies. Just keep it gay people, keep it gay.

And so; skipping back to ol’ 05.

I have long been aware that certain small children have the ability to reduce me to a fussy, affection, pampering, subservient scatter-brain who becomes an exhausted wreck after half and hour of pretending to be a pony, and then has dreams of suffocating children by locking them in cupboards the night after, but this knowledge rarely prepares me for a meeting with the repeat offender, Sarah. She’s about seven or eight now, I’ve known her from the time when she was a baby and since then she’s appeared at sporadic intervals throughout my life to fill me with momentary joy and sisterly affection, shortly followed by a state of zombification as the drool cakes of my chin through another game of her own devising. In these games she is usually the star and the director, I must follow her instructions or face the consequences. I’m yet to know what these consequences are; I’m too terrified to find out. o_O;;

Anyway, for New Years Eve my parents and I met up with the same bunch we usually meet up with, give or take a few: my Auntie Pat and Uncle Jeff (I’m not actually related to them I’ve just always called them that for a reason that has never been explained to me), their daughters Alex and Clare (as you can imagine it gets confusing when we’re in the same room together) Alex’s husband who I forget the name of and her kids Ryan, Ronelle (I have no idea how to spell her name correctly) and David, Clare’s husband who I also forget the name of, her daughter Sarah, Auntie Pam and Uncle…urgh, I give up >_<. Well, the bunch of us got together at Clare’s house for pizza, -which I didn’t eat because I have an aversion to onions-, music and general boozing. Ronelle was the closest person to my age there, I’m a young 15 and she’s an old 15, but being very different girls I spent all my time with Sarah.

At first we played Barbies, or something Barbie-esque anyway, the game began as two sisters having a party and somewhere along the way a megalomaniac flying kitten became involved. After a while Sarah became bored and to my relief we went into the lounge to watch TV where I had my first ever conversation with a drunk person. I didn’t realize Auntie Pam was drunk when she sat down next to me, but I began to notice when she started telling me about how she used to loan out adult books when she was small using her mother’s library card. This topic came up when I told her I was considering being an author, she then talked to me for the next fifteen minutes about how she thought that was a fabulous idea, then she told me about the crime novels she enjoyed and how she found reading one of the most enriching things you can possibly do. I always been apprehensive about being faced with a drunken person as I’ve assumed that they’d be quick to anger or upset, but I rather enjoyed our conversation, I don’t know if she actually meant anything she said but she seemed incredibly earnest, and as I’ve grown up being patronized by a lot of adults being told these things made me feel as though I was being taken seriously. Weird…

After that we all went into the lounge and played the DVD version of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” for half an hour or so. We got so bloody close!!!!! We were on the last question and we still had one life line left and we decided to use it. It was phone a friend. The bloody friend was wrong. We lost. Blergh.

We then watched the MTV count down to New Year’s and someone spilt champagne down my back. Auntie Pam then wanted to dance with everyone and Ronelle laughed herself silly as Pam chased her brothers round the lounge room. I danced and ended up stepping on a champagne glass, remarkably I didn’t get any glass stuck in my feet, although the glass didn’t come out of the situation too well. Sarah had fallen asleep on the couch and Auntie Pam kept falling on top of her, so Sarah eventually got up and danced with me, or to be precise we jumped around, but it was still fun ^_^. All in all it was quite a splendid New Years, I like jumping around, and we certainly did a lot of that.

On New Years Eve we’d just returned from Melbourne, my first time ever in Victoria, it was swell. Melbourne was magnificent, well actually it was like a bigger, shinier Perth, but that’s my definition of magnificent. On Christmas Eve we went and saw the Lion King Musical, hmmm, how could I describe it? Probably with something along the lines of…

OHMYFUCKINGYETTOBEDISCOVEREDDEITYTHISTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYTOTALLYKICKSMAJORNAYPRESIDENTALBOOTY!!!!!!!!!!282!891!!37^&@!#^@9!!!!!!!

…that about covers it. I can’t describe it, just see it, you can’t die until you see it, trust me. It had more songs! And Scar makes a move on Nala o.O I took the phrase “Let’s make a lot of little Scars,” the wrong way at first; my thoughts went along the lines of, “I didn’t realize Scar was into that kind of thing…oooooh I get it.” My only quarrel with the musical version is that Scar doesn’t seem quite as evil as in the cartoon, but the fact that the hyenas have their own rock song makes me happy forever, so it doesn’t matter.

For Christmas we had lunch in the hotel restaurant and the Santa there was pure class, plus they had chocolate pie that dreams are made of. After singing along with the band, wearing paper hats and dancing with Santa we went back to the hotel room and watched “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” while eating the sweets from the mini bar. Quite a rather pleasant Christmas, especially in comparsion to the last few.

As far as gifts go I got a bunch of books including the Red Dwarf Omnibus *orgasm*; not as good as the Red Dwarf novel “Backwards” in my opinion (best book ever) but what happened to Rimmer in “Better Than Life” was delightfully pervy XD, pervy things always seem to happen to Rimmer, one the many reasons he rocks my world. The ending of “Better Than Life” was also rather sweet in a very sad way; I probably would have been very upset if I hadn’t already read “Backwards” and known that the boys are reunited…sort of. Anyone who hasn’t watched or read Red Dwarf in any of its forms before is truly deprived; it is slashy sci-fi comedy bliss.

While we were staying in Melbourne we visited the Crown Casino, or parts of it anyway, I couldn’t go into the actual casino part as I’m underage, but from what it could tell it was a lot of flashing lights and pokies. But the other areas of the casino were amazing; you can feel guilty just by looking at it as it's like you’re participating in some form of wicked and gratuitous visual gluttony. Outside they had these huge columns that had water running down the sides of them and when the sun went down they had massive bursts of flame came out of the top that would send heat surging over you like dragon's breath, absolute awesomeness. The casino had a cinema and while we were there we watched King Kong, it was such a cool movie and I ended up sobbing my eyes out. I wish Anne and Kong could have had a happy ending, but sadly I don’t think many movie goers would have been excepting of a love story between a woman and a giant ape, patrons of the old version and the remake alike, so I remain sadly unfulfilled *sniff*.

After we left Melbourne we drove around Yarra Valley for a while, which is a beautiful place landscape wise, but I found driving around looking at it all day quite dull, and was quite relieved to be on the plane home a few days later.

Before Year 9 finished my English teacher Ms Lovatt (she rocks, I gave her this on the last day) decided that because of my constant (and very annoying for the people around me, I imagine) Red Dwarf rants she let the class watch Red Dwarf for our last English lesson, it was awesome fun.

We also had an AEP camp where the year 8, 9 and 10 AEP students all went to New Norcia for a couple of days. We did things like Aboriginal face painting and boomerang throwing, plus we got to meet a St Benedict monk, they’re funky, they dress in black cloaks and don’t where any underwear. We even got to sit in on one of their prayers, and a girl fainted at the end from heat exhaustion. And of course we couldn’t leave without doing AEP idol, which was basically a mock talent competition. I teamed up with Darcie, Susan and Angela and we put on a play called “Recorder Idol,” Angela was the host, Darcie was the French contestant, Susan was the Swedish Contestant and I was the arty satanic judge who said things like “A bitter sweet melody reminiscent of the remorseful tune sung by a fallen angel as its pearly white wings turn to maggot filled carrion,” and “Played with the anger and energy of a star going super nova incinerating planets populated by small fluffy animals.” I got to put heaps of random black eyeliner on my face, talk in a strange European accent and say my name was Giger just for kicks, I had a ball. Lots of other people put on great acts; I especially like it when all the year 10s sang Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” at the end of their acts. It’s going to suck not being in AEP next year.

Well I think that’s about all I can be bothered telling you and it’s probably more than you can be bothered reading; boy that was my longest entry yet, I’ve REALLY got to update more frequently o_O. That can be one of my New Years Resolutions, well my only New Years Resolution, but it doesn’t need friends to succeed! That was a bit weird…I think I’m a bit tired…which is strange considering it’s only around 6pm and I got up around 9 this morning, probably got something to do with all that Star Wars I watched last night…why am I still typing?