Things to say yes to.

Flamboya, Viviane Sassen. 

I don't understand when people tell me they don't like this. 

A fond farewell. Well, not yet.

My sister Sophie has just been accepted on exchange to the University of Edinburgh for next year. I'm really proud of her and really happy for her, but I'm also really going to miss her. 

Grey Explains.

I love people with very specific talents like C.G.P Grey. His is explaining things, succinctly and in a way that makes me think he is probably a very nice person. I feel like if C.G.P Grey explained my own life to me I would be a much more stable person. I watch these videos when I'm stressed. 

Oh for goodness sake...

Frank and Bing. I honestly don't know what the point of Christmas would be without this. 

Art is ugly.

One of the Frank Gehry towers in Dusseldorf.

An elaborate concoction of basically anything.

My household does not do junkfood. There is absolutely never any chocolate, lollies, biscuits, ice-cream, chips, pop-corn, Easy-Mac, even yoghurt or trail-mix with a hint of chocolate substitute is conspicuously absent. The closest thing we have to a sugary snack are blueberries and raisin toast. If you want to eat something unhealthy, you have to create it out of the baking ingredients at the back of the pantry. Which is how I consistently end up with an elaborate stack of pancakes and two o'clock in the morning. 

Jesus fucking Christ...

Elizabeth Olsen is so beautiful it almost hurts me to look at her. Wonderland Magazine, November 2011. 

Memory of the week.

I really miss cool nineties TV heroines (and redheads) like Angela Chase and Caitlin Seeger. 

A collective sigh of something.

I have my staff Christmas party coming up this week. Complete with exchange of Secret Santa gifts. I really don't understand this kind of obligatory social ritual. If you're near Eagle Street this Friday night, that excessive politeness and awkward forced conversation is the sound of fifteen professional educators partying down. 

If only...

Listening

All roads lead to Jenny Lewis today because she has quite a nice mouth and reminds me not to feel guilty. 


As if I need reminding. 

Admire.

Harry is my hero for all kinds of reasons that have nothing to do with his penchant for saving the world. 

I like these.

"And Then..." - Jo Metson Scott & Nicola Yeoman. 

A few more minutes.

Best ever.

North Pole journey board game. For real. 

Drugz.

I am too serious.

Seriously. 

Blanket

Another ethical dilemma.

Yesterday at work, the lights kept flickering on and off. A group of kids in years one and two asked me what was causing it, and I said "probably ghosts." They all rebuked me, saying there's no such thing as ghosts. I asked them how they knew this, to which they replied "if there were ghosts you would be able to see them."

I asked them what they thought was causing it, because I've started making a point of trying to encourage the younger kids to use their own judgement about things. One of them said "God." So I said "so if ghosts aren't real because you can't see them, how do you know God is real?" To this she replied, "because in religion they tell us he's real."

And don't worry, for those of you who have strong opinions about these sorts of things and don't think it's my place as an educator to challenge children's religious beliefs - I didn't take the conversation any further than that. I have no desire to have kids' parents chasing me through the streets with flaming torches and pitchforks. But it really made me think about what it is and is not acceptable to tell children these days. This girl had clearly been told there was no such thing as ghosts because the idea that there might be would scare her. In accepting this information, she used the only type of logical reasoning she has at this stage in her life - her ability to see that something is or is not the case, and her ability to rely on the judgement of those older than herself. 

I understand that to believe in God is to do so through faith. It isn't about proof or logic, it is about believing something is true in your heart and that being enough for you. That's fine, I respect that. But children don't think like that. People tell their children there is a God, the children accept it unconditionally because that's what they do when an adult tells them something. But what value is there in a belief that has never been questioned, or hasn't been formed of one's own free will? As an atheist, I would never tell my children there was no God, because they don't have the ability to understand the reasons why there might or might not be one. 

I would, however, tell them that I didn't believe there was a God. I've been asked a lot of times by kids at work whether or not I believed in God, and I always tell the truth and say no. Most of the time I get told I'll go to hell. This is what we are telling our children. Believe in God, or go to hell. I don't think that's a fair choice to give them. That's like saying "do you want to clean your room or do you want to be yelled at and punished?" It's likely that some kids would not like to clean their rooms, but what choice do they really have when the alternative is worse? If we're always presenting belief in religion to our kids as the better of two things, then their understanding of religion will always be through fear and the default better option. That is not true belief, not the kind that adults have as a result of faith or experience or spiritual understanding. If I did believe in God, I wouldn't want my kids to do so as well just because I said so, I would want them to truly believe it, and for it to mean something to them as it did to me. 

So while it's OK for school religion programs to tell children there is a God, it's not generally accepted as being OK for me, as a carer-educator (as per my Education Queensland classification) to challenge the idea. I find this ridiculous, and always have, because it makes it seem as if religion and the religious are afraid of their potential disciples being presented with an alternative view. As I said before, I would want my kids to hold a belief that meant something to them, not one that they only held because they weren't aware that there was an alternative. 

If I'd carried the conversation through with this girl, I probably would have asked her what reasons God might have for disturbing our school hall's electrical current. A question for another day, perhaps. 

We have a new grade one boy who just started coming to our center. He approached me and the group of girls during this conversation and I asked him what he thought was going on with the lights. He said "it's just a problem with the electrical circuit, or maybe the fuse." 

"You think so?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "I come from a long line of electricians."

Can't argue with a professional. 

Life after death.

Self, Sept. 2011.

Memory of the week.

Conkers.

I don't know if I can accurately describe the joy that these things brought me in my youth. Also known as horse chestnuts, conkers are collected by kids in the UK and tied to the ends of strings. The object is to pit two conkers against each other by hitting them together until one breaks. The kid with the in-tact conker at the end is the winner. 

For me though, it wasn't about the actual game. I rarely played it. For me, (and I have no doubt, for other kids too) the appeal of conkers was the search. Conkers are most commonly found at the foot of a horse chestnut tree, encased in spiky, green shells. My sisters and I used to spend hours hanging back during walks, searching under these trees for the perfect conker. The thrill of the chase was so exhilarating; splitting open the green shell and peeling it back to find a perfect, round, shiny surface beneath. 

The best conkers were the biggest, shiniest, most unmarked ones, with flawless mahogany surfaces and a smooth, almost oily texture. Discovering such a conker was so incredibly satisfying. You'd often have to go through a few duds to find a real keeper - small, uneven, rough or greenish conkers were discarded immediately. Sometimes you would find two in one shell - which was cool if they were both of an acceptable quality, because that was like having a twin pair, but useless if they were somehow flawed, because the doubling-up would compromise their roundness.

The best thing about these little trinkets was that they were so temporary. After a few weeks, even the biggest, shiniest conkers would shrivel and dry out. And so began the search again, to find another perfect conker to replace your fallen champion. 

I miss these things.

An ethical dilemma.

OK, seriously. 

Today while I was at work I became part of yet another conversation about vegetarianism (two or three of us are vegetarians and we prepare food so it tends to come up a lot). Somewhere in the course of this conversation, one of my work mates told us that she knows someone who (wait for it...) raises, kills and eats her own guinea pigs.

Yes, guinea pigs. 

Apparently the idea behind this is that she only wants to eat meat that she knows for sure has been raised and killed in a humane manner. So, since apparently buying free-range isn't good enough anymore (which I concede, it's not - it's impossible to tell if something is actually "free-range" or not) she has decided to take matters into her own hands. But the thing that really got me about this conversation, though, was the fact that I seemed to be the only person who was completely and utterly horrified by this. 

Are you joking? How does she kill them? Is that even legal?  These made up just some of the many outraged questions I asked, but everyone else seemed to think this was yes, a little weird, but not totally unacceptable. "I can see where she's coming from," said the girl who told the story. I just stood there flabbergasted. What?

OK - I get the concept behind it. Only eat something if you know where it came from so you know you're being 100% humane. But seriously, guinea pigs? If you care about your meat that much - if you're so concerned about the welfare of animals that just buying organic or free-range isn't enough - why eat meat at all? It's like she's doing it just to prove a point. "Oh yeah, I only eat meat I know has been raised and killed humanely - I mean, I live on guinea pig meat, but still, aren't I ethical?"

Surely there are laws about killing domestic animals too? It's the same as doing this with dogs or cats. Exactly the same. You would think you'd need some sort of special license to be able to kill animals to certify that you actually did do it humanely. Wouldn't you?

I wonder if she names them. I wonder if she has a guinea pig killing station somewhere in her house. I wonder what she does with the skins. Urgh. 

Could you?

Inspire admire aspire.

Eliot Paulina Sumner. Singer/songwriter, I Blame Coco.

Ben Hibon. Animator.

Hilary Duff. Phoenix and conveyor of important messages.

Judy Garland. Actress.

Al Gore. Environmentalist among other things.

Joanne Rowling. Author, genius.

The way of the future.

Anyone who has ever visited Borders' CBD store would know the tall row of shelves on level two that divides the floor in half near the information desk. That entire row is now sitting in pieces on my front verandah.

On the weekend my parents and I visited Borders' Brisbane CBD store for the last time. Along with most of the other Borders stores in Australia, the CBD store is closing down as part of a "more sustainable business model," as worded by Borders themselves. Basically meaning, as everyone knows, that they've gone bust and need to close the majority of their stores in order to compete with the growing online book sale market. 

It was a sorry sight. "70-90% off" posters everywhere, "for sale" stickers on absolutely everything from bookshelves to filing cabinets to broken desk chairs. We pulled shelves out of the bookcases and loaded them onto a flat-tyred trolley (which was also for sale for an ambitious $60) right in the middle of the open store while bewildered customers wandered around unable to believe that an entire rack of Mills and Boone novels could actually be $15. I can't imagine what motivated the staff to even be there, because it certainly wasn't loyalty to a company which, according to the employee we spoke to, was trying to do them out of the rest of their annual pay. 

I remember when Borders opened in Brisbane. It was a big deal - giant American company opens and people worry they'll send smaller, independent bookstores out of business. And yet we all still shopped there, of course, because Borders was big, had a good range of books and stationery and smelled pretty good. And now it's gone.

General opinion blames a surge in online book-shopping for companies like Borders and Angus and Robertson going out of business. People would rather buy from Amazon, eBay or online versions of the aforementioned stores for a cheaper price without having to actually go shopping. Apparently.

I would not. I love going to bookstores. The smell of books, the ability to flip through them and touch them; the impulse buys of stationery and mugs and Harry Potter bookmarks you end up making - it's a whole experience, and while I don't enjoy shopping as a general activity, book-shopping has always been one of my favourite things to do. 

I buy almost all my clothes online, I download music, pre-book movie tickets and use eBay. So I'm by no means a strictly old-school shopper who doesn't buy anything online. But there is something about books that is just so tactile, and something about being in a room full of people who enjoy books as much as I do makes me feel safe and happy. None of which can be derived from this:

It's so sterile, so impersonal. And yes, it's quicker and easier, and probably cheaper, but it's not as rich an experience.

It's just not the same.

Memory of the week.

When I was in year 9 my mum signed me up for acting classes. I had no actual interest in the dramatic arts at all - I suppose I was good at public speaking, but the thought of being thrown into a group of self-obsessed idiots all competing for the roles of lead caveman and woman in a pre-historic adaptation of Romeo and Juliet pretty much horrified me consistently throughout my adolescence. I think she signed me up because I was shy and needed not to be, although the reasoning isn't entirely clear eight or so years down the track. Maybe my parents just wanted me to be famous so I could look after them in their old-age. 

Needless to say I did not enjoy acting class. They made us do activities like staring into the eyes of a random partner non-stop for a whole minute and making videos to our "future selves" with messages of encouragement and inspiration. They went on a lot about individuality, celebrating being "you" and wanted to know an awful lot about us in order to make us feel special and included.

The thing I found really weird about the classes, therefore, was that we all had to wear the same ugly embroidered polo shirt every week. I didn't take this too seriously at first, so one week I showed up wearing my "Big Red Bus" London t-shirt instead. Apparently my surly, non-joiner attitude coupled with a blatant refusal to conform to hideous shirt-wearing was too much for my perky acting coach, who proceeded to approach me and ask if I was "okay." 

As I looked into her face up close for the first time, I remember thinking how different she looked than the way she presented herself to everyone. There were lines around her eyes that made her appear much older than she did from afar, and she wore a searching, almost desperate expression on her face as if she really believed that she could change my life by singling me out in acting class and asking me what was wrong. I wondered in that moment how much effort it took every day to be this person. I wondered if anyone really knew her. I wondered what she'd had for breakfast this morning. She seemed like the kind of person who didn't like to be alone. 

I watched my "past self" video a few years later. Fourteen-year-old me looked nervous, lost and weird. I talked about stupid things like hoping my future self was taller than I was then. There was nothing really indicative of who I was at the time in the video at all, except perhaps the fact that I was wearing a pair of giant purple rave pants. I was trying so hard to complete a task that I did not want to do, in front of people who thought it was the best idea ever, that I ended up sounding like a watered down version of one of them. I was unable to fully commit to inspiring and encouraging my future self and saying shit like "I hope you're following your dreams and going to lots of auditions and not worrying about what the haters say," but equally unable to say what I really wanted to say, which was probably something like "I hope you're not going to this fucking acting class anymore you idiot, what on earth were you thinking?" 

Sidenote.

As may have been obvious from the visual addition to my last post, I really dig the work of German Romantic landscape painter Caspar David Friedrich.

The Three Golden Threads

There were once two lovers; the daughter of a shepherd who lived in a small cottage on a hill, and a young man who was said to be of divine parentage. In a time where Gods and mortals alike would walk the earth, the boy’s immortal father had sent him to a small village to live with his mortal mother. His father believed that here he would learn hard work and sacrifice, and though he toiled ceaselessly and cared for his mother, from the moment he saw his true love, his heart was devoted only to her.

The lovers spent their days walking in the woods together, and their nights sleeping in each other’s arms. If ever the fates chose to separate them, they would write long letters to one another, letters filled with passion and promises of a shared future.

The young man wanted desperately to marry his love, but as he was only half-mortal, he knew he must seek permission from the Gods to marry a mortal woman. And so he began a long journey to the land of his fathers in hopes of securing their blessing.

When he arrived, he found his father delighted with the news of his intention to marry his true love. The old and wise God believed his son had learned the value of hardship and poverty, and had overcome them to find love in a sometimes cruel mortal world. The young man hastened to return to his lover, and marry her as soon as he did so.

On the night he planned to begin his return journey, the young man was approached by his father’s brother, the God of the Underworld and death. The God offered his congratulations to his young nephew, wishing him luck in his imminent marriage. As a token of this congratulatory spirit, the wily God offered his nephew a gift. The young man was told to choose from three glittering lengths of golden thread, to give to his true love to wear on their wedding day. Blinded by happiness, the young man readily accepted the gift, taking the first golden thread gratefully from his uncle’s hand.

But the God of the Underworld was jealous and cunning, and all was not as it seemed. As soon as his hand closed around the golden thread, the young man knew he had been tricked. The three threads offered to him had in fact been the Three Legendary Stories, disguised by his uncle. These three stories, passed between the Gods since the beginning of time, were known to be so beautiful, that they could only be heard by divine ears. If a mortal heard any of the three tales, he or she would surely die. As soon as the golden thread had touched his skin, the young man had been infused with the knowledge of the story, and wept at its staggering beauty.

Being only half-mortal, the young man could survive hearing the story, but he knew the same would not be true of the woman he hoped to marry. At first, the young man believed that his uncle had meant for him to gift the thread to his true love, which would have killed her, and was relieved that he had known of the Legendary Stories and was able to prevent this. But as he quitted the land of the Gods in anger and made his way back to his village, he realised with horror and dread, the true intention of the God of the Underworld.

The young man knew all at once that he could never marry one who had not heard the beautiful story. Just the thought of not sharing it with his lover filled his heart with sadness and despair. He knew that he could not return to the young woman, for he could not trust himself to keep the story from her if he did. He had no choice but to remain in the land of the Gods, doomed to watch over his true love from afar.

The young woman waited in nervous excitement for the return of her beloved. But as day sunk into night, and rose out of it once more, he still had not returned.

The young woman never lost hope that her true love would one day return to her. She never married, or loved again, believing that if she did not see him in this life, they would surely meet in the next. And the young man watched in sadness, as his lover grew old, and finally died, never knowing why he had not returned. 

Rh. April 2011.

[I dreamed this story a couple of weeks ago and wrote it up properly upon the request of someone who liked it. I think I've been taking my Greek Myths class a little too seriously]. 

Fresh.

Ten things in life that are good:

1. Re-reading Harry Potter.
2. Having Harry Potter read to you as you fall asleep.
3. Bollywood Ishtyle Indian Restaurant in Buranda. I'm slowly working my way through their vegetarian menu and I have yet to order something that isn't absolutely ridiculous. In a good way.
4. Taking photos.
5. Saving money you don't actually need. There is something nice about knowing you have it, but not needing to use it yet. Like something exciting is coming but you don't know what it is yet.
6. Waiting for packages in the mail.
7. Falling asleep when you're actually tired. I rarely experience this. I was so bad at sleeping when I was a kid that my Nana sent me a Walkman and some relaxation tapes to listen to at night. This was when I was about seven. So I really cherish tiredness when it happens to me.
8. Owning a ghd. I need not justify this to anyone who also owns one. 
9. Having a part-time job you actually enjoy. I work in childcare and even though it can be stressful, scary, exhausting and infuriating, it's also incredibly rewarding and challenging. I don't know many uni students with casual jobs that pay well, are relevant to their studies, run by great people and don't produce that vague sense of dread on days one has to work.
10. Larry. My cat. He's like, cool. 
11. Rain. OK, I know the title says ten good things, but it just started raining and it sounds and smells amazing. 

Self.