Greetings!
From everyone here at TEotA (and by 'everyone' I really mean just me, and by TEotA I just realised that I've coined a really weird acronym for my blog that sounds like an alien name from Avatar) we wish you a very Happy New Year and a fantastic 2010.
(And I'm dropping the royal 'we' now as this is just getting too confusing.)
Anyway- thank you to anyone who's perused, browsed, followed or stumbled across this blog, to anyone who's ever left a comment or even just browsed anonymously, and to those whose own blogs have given me inspiration in the past year. Your support means a lot :)
Have a safe NYE, and I'll see y'all in 2010!!!
xox
Daph
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Why My Family Is Awesome
Came home from work the other day and found that my family were celebrating my exam results :D
(For any international readers- my mother absolutely loves puns, and those little round candies around the edge are called 'Smarties'. The rest of the joke is pretty much self-explanatory :P)
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Kickstart
I'm kickstarting my blog back into action, because I tend to have a bad habit of neglecting my blog for a month or two on end- and my poor little corner of cyberspace is left to sit fallow for a bit, until a spell of I need to blog sorta moseys on over and whacks me with a little prodding stick, and my fingers hit the keys.
Oddly enough, in this case it was John Mayer who inspired this update.
Yes. John Mayer.
Okay, okay, I know he's mostly in the tabloids for his reputation as a ladies' man, and I confess that I had not purchased a single one of his albums up until last week- but I heard Who Says a few weeks ago, and something in that prompted me to buy his new album, Battle Studies. And so I did. And I have to say that it's a beautiful album- simple, yet somewhat exquisite in its crafting.
I buy albums for different reasons. I have a strange fondness for commerically crafted pop- I love the familiar four-chord progression of a predictable ballad. For me, it's like having the aural equivalent of a nice warm comfort blanket. This is why you'll find that quite a few of the CDs on my shelf are of ex-Idols (Kelly Clarkson, Jessica Mauboy, Jordin Sparks). The cornier the ballad, the better. I also love hip hop/rap. Jay-Z's The Blueprint 3 was one of my favourite albums this year.
Sometimes, however, you find albums that speak to you, the ones where you connect on some strange level. I think Battle Studies has fallen into this category, along with Anna Nalick's Wreck of the Day.
Anyway, my long and rambling point was that I got onto John Mayer's website and onto his blog (and say what you want about the guy, but he has a wicked sense of humour- there's a video of him attempting to mix some hip hop where his lyrics consist solely of "I like sex, and I'm good at it...I like sex, and I'm good at it...") and he had this post here.
In case you don't read it (and in case you're bored of what seems so far to be a John Mayer plug), he was talking about conscious composition, and the importance of it in keeping him focussed and able to keep writing. That got me thinking about how much of what can be loosely deemed as the 'creative process' is a product of conscious, focussed thought. Most people would agree that overthinking a situation can have detrimental consequences, and perhaps too much of this self-awareness can have a negative effect on creativity as well. There's no doubt that most of my planned, considered essays have failed where my last-minute, hysterically-written essays have succeeded beyond even my most optimistic expectations.
One of my university tutors, a poet, once described the creative writing process as almost being in a different state of consciousness, where you let go of all your preconceptions and inhibitions (or words to that effect). This always reminds me of Samuel Coleridge- as the story goes, Coleridge saw the course of an epic poem in a dream, and as soon as he woke up, he started to write the entire thing down before he forgot it. Unfortunately for him, a person on business from Porlock came and interrupted him, so he never got to finish it. The poem was called Kubla Khan, and if you ever hear the expression, "person from Porlock", that's where it originated from. (Hopefully you're not being described as one, as I don't think the expression is meant to be terribly flattering in its present form.)
There is also a theory that this 'dream' of Coleridge's was actually an opium-induced haze, but regardless of what it was, it was still an altered state of consciousness which seemed to spark this sudden burst of creative brilliance. And quite a few writers were high as a kite when they wrote their own works of literary genius.
Then again, writing cannot be easily read without structure, and a melody line can't just run without some semblance of rhythm, so an element of technicality and conscious thought is required. I'm just curious as to whether the creative process depends on being able to suspend reality, or alter our perception of our current reality, in order to really work.
And perhaps that is why so many artists are crazy.
And that's my random thought of the evening :)
Oddly enough, in this case it was John Mayer who inspired this update.
Yes. John Mayer.
Okay, okay, I know he's mostly in the tabloids for his reputation as a ladies' man, and I confess that I had not purchased a single one of his albums up until last week- but I heard Who Says a few weeks ago, and something in that prompted me to buy his new album, Battle Studies. And so I did. And I have to say that it's a beautiful album- simple, yet somewhat exquisite in its crafting.
I buy albums for different reasons. I have a strange fondness for commerically crafted pop- I love the familiar four-chord progression of a predictable ballad. For me, it's like having the aural equivalent of a nice warm comfort blanket. This is why you'll find that quite a few of the CDs on my shelf are of ex-Idols (Kelly Clarkson, Jessica Mauboy, Jordin Sparks). The cornier the ballad, the better. I also love hip hop/rap. Jay-Z's The Blueprint 3 was one of my favourite albums this year.
Sometimes, however, you find albums that speak to you, the ones where you connect on some strange level. I think Battle Studies has fallen into this category, along with Anna Nalick's Wreck of the Day.
Anyway, my long and rambling point was that I got onto John Mayer's website and onto his blog (and say what you want about the guy, but he has a wicked sense of humour- there's a video of him attempting to mix some hip hop where his lyrics consist solely of "I like sex, and I'm good at it...I like sex, and I'm good at it...") and he had this post here.
In case you don't read it (and in case you're bored of what seems so far to be a John Mayer plug), he was talking about conscious composition, and the importance of it in keeping him focussed and able to keep writing. That got me thinking about how much of what can be loosely deemed as the 'creative process' is a product of conscious, focussed thought. Most people would agree that overthinking a situation can have detrimental consequences, and perhaps too much of this self-awareness can have a negative effect on creativity as well. There's no doubt that most of my planned, considered essays have failed where my last-minute, hysterically-written essays have succeeded beyond even my most optimistic expectations.
One of my university tutors, a poet, once described the creative writing process as almost being in a different state of consciousness, where you let go of all your preconceptions and inhibitions (or words to that effect). This always reminds me of Samuel Coleridge- as the story goes, Coleridge saw the course of an epic poem in a dream, and as soon as he woke up, he started to write the entire thing down before he forgot it. Unfortunately for him, a person on business from Porlock came and interrupted him, so he never got to finish it. The poem was called Kubla Khan, and if you ever hear the expression, "person from Porlock", that's where it originated from. (Hopefully you're not being described as one, as I don't think the expression is meant to be terribly flattering in its present form.)
There is also a theory that this 'dream' of Coleridge's was actually an opium-induced haze, but regardless of what it was, it was still an altered state of consciousness which seemed to spark this sudden burst of creative brilliance. And quite a few writers were high as a kite when they wrote their own works of literary genius.
Then again, writing cannot be easily read without structure, and a melody line can't just run without some semblance of rhythm, so an element of technicality and conscious thought is required. I'm just curious as to whether the creative process depends on being able to suspend reality, or alter our perception of our current reality, in order to really work.
And perhaps that is why so many artists are crazy.
And that's my random thought of the evening :)
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Waiting Game Sucks
Earlier this evening, my Arts tutor sent out a group e-mail explaining that by midnight tonight, we would all get an e-mail with our marks and feedback for the subject.
It is now 11:51 p.m, and if you think that I'm sad enough to sit by the computer hitting F5 on my browser for 20 minutes while blogging about the whole sorry experience...
...then you're right.
*twiddles thumbs*
It is now 11:51 p.m, and if you think that I'm sad enough to sit by the computer hitting F5 on my browser for 20 minutes while blogging about the whole sorry experience...
...then you're right.
*twiddles thumbs*
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Devil's Marsupial
I hate possums.
Most people look at their tiny little faces, their cute furry noses, and think aww.
I look at them, and think THIS:
Look at his demonic eyes. The pink, twitchy nose. The cold, calculating expression of a KILLER. (Feel free to click on that picture and view it in its full horror.)
Look at that butt. Look at that massive possum ass. Look at Mr and Mrs Psycho Killer, lurking behind the door. You want to know why I hate possums?
Look at the picture. Those are my boots. Those are my black MG boots right before their retirement, and those are my friend's runners being held hostage by the little blighters. And those were the two huge monostrosities, the devil's marsupials, who were holding us under siege in our teepee in Tasmania when all I wanted to do was BRUSH MY TEETH.
IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, YOU ACCURSED ANIMAL? CAN I NOT PRACTISE NORMAL DENTAL HYGIENE IN THE MIDDLE OF A BUSH RETREAT WITHOUT YOU STALKING AT MY HEELS?!
Do you remember me, demon possum spawn? My (braver) friend Kris tried clapping her runners at you. She almost threw a shoe at you. She hollered. And yelled. And you stood your ground, anchored by some kind of evil spirit force.
And I was so traumatised that I was forced to revert to one of my most basic and favoured coping mechanisms.
(Photography Credit: my friend Kris. I still cop flak from her every time the 'P' word is mentioned.)
(And yes, that is actually me. Behold the brave and valiant author of this noble blog.)
More proof of demonic possession, again FROM THE SAME TRIP. ON THE SAME NIGHT.
ALL YOUR PANS ARE BELONG TO US.
So as you can see, friends, I am not exactly a fan of trichosurus vulpecula. Or as I prefer, demonicus furrecula.
Possums just enjoy making my life miserable. Because why else would they start MATING IN THE CEILING OF MY HOUSE DURING EXAM TIME?
Exam time is stressful. Law school is stressful. All of this is stressful enough without having THUMP THUMP THUMP HISS SQUAWK THUMP THUMP *RABID POSSUM NOISE* THUMP THUMP SNARL HISS HISS HISS THUMP THWACK echoing in the roof.
Earlier today, my father conceded that perhaps it was time he called in someone to get rid of the possums before they caused any structural damage to the house, or caused insomnia.
Unfortunately, in the temporal space between 2 p.m and 7 p.m, he got on Google and discovered that there are entire forum threads devoted to the best methods of flushing out possums. My father enjoys a challenge. Possibly even more than that, he also enjoys saving money. The very concept of DIY Possum Extraction proved to be almost irresistible in combining two of his favourite things. This is why he was quite happy to spend half the afternoon bashing at the walls, climbing up on the roof, checking for possum holes and trawling the 'net for tips. Apparently one such tip on flushing possums out involves using moth balls, or any kinds of incense.
And this is why the downstairs guest bathroom now has a saucer of burning incense perched atop the shower, with the the ceiling fan plate removed and the exhaust turned on, with incense wafting up into the roof cavity.
And this is why the downstairs guest bathroom currently smells like a Chinese temple.
My father thinks he has won this battle. But we shall not underestimate our enemy.
The war has only just begun.
Most people look at their tiny little faces, their cute furry noses, and think aww.
I look at them, and think THIS:
Look at his demonic eyes. The pink, twitchy nose. The cold, calculating expression of a KILLER. (Feel free to click on that picture and view it in its full horror.)
Look at that butt. Look at that massive possum ass. Look at Mr and Mrs Psycho Killer, lurking behind the door. You want to know why I hate possums?
Look at the picture. Those are my boots. Those are my black MG boots right before their retirement, and those are my friend's runners being held hostage by the little blighters. And those were the two huge monostrosities, the devil's marsupials, who were holding us under siege in our teepee in Tasmania when all I wanted to do was BRUSH MY TEETH.
IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, YOU ACCURSED ANIMAL? CAN I NOT PRACTISE NORMAL DENTAL HYGIENE IN THE MIDDLE OF A BUSH RETREAT WITHOUT YOU STALKING AT MY HEELS?!
Do you remember me, demon possum spawn? My (braver) friend Kris tried clapping her runners at you. She almost threw a shoe at you. She hollered. And yelled. And you stood your ground, anchored by some kind of evil spirit force.
And I was so traumatised that I was forced to revert to one of my most basic and favoured coping mechanisms.
(Photography Credit: my friend Kris. I still cop flak from her every time the 'P' word is mentioned.)
(And yes, that is actually me. Behold the brave and valiant author of this noble blog.)
More proof of demonic possession, again FROM THE SAME TRIP. ON THE SAME NIGHT.
ALL YOUR PANS ARE BELONG TO US.
So as you can see, friends, I am not exactly a fan of trichosurus vulpecula. Or as I prefer, demonicus furrecula.
Possums just enjoy making my life miserable. Because why else would they start MATING IN THE CEILING OF MY HOUSE DURING EXAM TIME?
Exam time is stressful. Law school is stressful. All of this is stressful enough without having THUMP THUMP THUMP HISS SQUAWK THUMP THUMP *RABID POSSUM NOISE* THUMP THUMP SNARL HISS HISS HISS THUMP THWACK echoing in the roof.
Earlier today, my father conceded that perhaps it was time he called in someone to get rid of the possums before they caused any structural damage to the house, or caused insomnia.
Unfortunately, in the temporal space between 2 p.m and 7 p.m, he got on Google and discovered that there are entire forum threads devoted to the best methods of flushing out possums. My father enjoys a challenge. Possibly even more than that, he also enjoys saving money. The very concept of DIY Possum Extraction proved to be almost irresistible in combining two of his favourite things. This is why he was quite happy to spend half the afternoon bashing at the walls, climbing up on the roof, checking for possum holes and trawling the 'net for tips. Apparently one such tip on flushing possums out involves using moth balls, or any kinds of incense.
And this is why the downstairs guest bathroom now has a saucer of burning incense perched atop the shower, with the the ceiling fan plate removed and the exhaust turned on, with incense wafting up into the roof cavity.
And this is why the downstairs guest bathroom currently smells like a Chinese temple.
My father thinks he has won this battle. But we shall not underestimate our enemy.
The war has only just begun.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Culinary Disasters #1
Twenty minutes ago, I thought I detected a rather unpleasant burning smell.
It took a few seconds of bemused deliberation until the colloquial penny dropped...and I bolted downstairs to find out exactly what happens when you leave a pot of homebrand pasta boiling for forty-five minutes in a small pot.
The answer = half a centimetre of charcoal.
So I'm timing myself as I write this post, because it's already 1 a.m and that pasta was actually meant to be for my lunch tomorrow- well, today I suppose- so it's going to be an even later night than per usual, and now I can't make fun of my Dad's Great Pudding Explosion so much anymore.
Cooking FAIL.
I partially blame my sister. She initiated a spontaneous game of charades at midnight and so whilst I was earnestly pretending to be a house, then pretending to be an arsonist burning down the house (it was 'song names') my own flame-related disaster was merrily boiling away downstairs.
Irony FOR THE WIN.
And this is why being a crazy cat lady will be so much easier when I'm older. All you need to do is get a spoon and scoop out some jellied fish into a bowl (or one large feeding platter for my one hundred and twenty-six feline friends) and that's it. No preparation required.
Although knowing me, I'll probably end up snapping the pull ring off or something and then the cats will all turn on me and it'll be me fighting against a swarm of 126 cats and I'll run out screaming into the street clutching a can of Snappy Tom with cats clinging to my cardigan as I scream incoherently with several sets of claws in my face.
*coughs*
Righto, down to check on Pasta V2.0...
It took a few seconds of bemused deliberation until the colloquial penny dropped...and I bolted downstairs to find out exactly what happens when you leave a pot of homebrand pasta boiling for forty-five minutes in a small pot.
The answer = half a centimetre of charcoal.
So I'm timing myself as I write this post, because it's already 1 a.m and that pasta was actually meant to be for my lunch tomorrow- well, today I suppose- so it's going to be an even later night than per usual, and now I can't make fun of my Dad's Great Pudding Explosion so much anymore.
Cooking FAIL.
I partially blame my sister. She initiated a spontaneous game of charades at midnight and so whilst I was earnestly pretending to be a house, then pretending to be an arsonist burning down the house (it was 'song names') my own flame-related disaster was merrily boiling away downstairs.
Irony FOR THE WIN.
And this is why being a crazy cat lady will be so much easier when I'm older. All you need to do is get a spoon and scoop out some jellied fish into a bowl (or one large feeding platter for my one hundred and twenty-six feline friends) and that's it. No preparation required.
Although knowing me, I'll probably end up snapping the pull ring off or something and then the cats will all turn on me and it'll be me fighting against a swarm of 126 cats and I'll run out screaming into the street clutching a can of Snappy Tom with cats clinging to my cardigan as I scream incoherently with several sets of claws in my face.
*coughs*
Righto, down to check on Pasta V2.0...
Friday, August 7, 2009
Don't Phunk With My Heart
Yesterday I went to see my GP over a few minor concerns with what Captain Jack Sparrow would fondly refer to as his "thump thump."
My thump-thump has been...well, thumping rather erratically recently so I figured it was better to veer on the side of caution and see a doctor. However, I couldn't help but feel like a bit of hypochondriac when I was sitting in the office trying to explain exactly what was freaking me out.
In layman's terms, I believe I garbled out, "It sometimes it goes thump...thump...thump...paaaause...gurgle.....thump thump...."
And all credit to my doctor, I think he managed to decipher this (including my lame tapping demonstration on his desk). He said it could be a combination of factors, including lack of sleep, caffeine, stress, thyroid problems, or heart defects (tick tick tick for the first three) and then followed it up with the cheerful question, "Has anyone in your family ever dropped dead for no apparent reason?"
To which I said that there was no history of Long QT or anything like that, which made him ask me if I'd been Googling. To this, I indignantly replied that no, I was not one of those people who print out a whole list of their symptoms off Ask Jeeves and take them into their doctor....but I sort of left off the fact that I learnt about Long QT Syndrome from a storyline on Neighbours.
Anyway, he then ordered a blood test and an electrocardiogram (ECG) and I toddled off next door to get all the Pathology stuff done.
And then as I was sitting there holding my waiting line number, I realised that this was my first ever blood test.
Eep.
I'm not good with blood. I don't dissolve into hysterics, I don't scream, and I don't faint, but I dislike needles immensely. I can normally sit there quite calmly but there is generally a lot of panicking beforehand. Fortunately, I only had seven minutes of panicking before the nurse was passing me vials.
Vials.
Vials in which to hold my blood.
Oh, God.
See, there's just something about the thought of blood being drawn from my body which makes me very very uneasy. When the nurse actually stuck the needle into my skin I was fine, but then I heard this gurgling as my blood was being drawn up the syringe and all I could think of was AAARRRRGGH! AAARGGGGGH! AAARGGGGGHH! AARGGGGH! AAARGGGGGH! AARRGGGGH!!!!!
I tried to toughen myself up my doing Work Experience seven years ago at a veterinary clinic. And I found out that I'm okay with operations, and blood, and seeing a dog's innards on the operating table, and having the vet chat happily about his new Lord of the Rings DVD with collectible Gollum figure while his scalpel was poking at an infected doggy spleen in front of him...but when it comes to things like papercuts or needles on humans it's something different altogether.
What I did do was concentrate very very hard on the radio that was playing some kind of obnoxious ad for Harvey Norman. So I sat there and focussed on the fact that Harvey Norman were having some kind of sale, and this sale was offering 24 months interest-free....that's right, 24 months interest-free and that this had nothing to do with the gurgling...OMG PLEASE STOP THE GURGLING...of my blood being drawn up into a needle.
It was over quicker than I expected, so then I had to lie down while the nurse ran SANDPAPER over my skin and stuck electrodes to it. Then she began clipping leads to all these electrodes, so I felt like one big human component switch as she plugged me into the ECG machine thingy.
So now I'm waiting on the test results. On the upside, my doctor didn't tell me to lay off caffeine or anything like that, which was quite a relief, so I had two very large cups of coffee in the afternoon. The nurse sternly told me that I wasn't allowed to lift anything heavy with my left arm for the rest of the day (where the blood had been drawn) and as I rose to shove my tote bag over my left shoulder she squawked at me "I hope you're not going to put that on that arm! Put it on the other one!"
This made things quite irritating when I had to go to work in the afternoon...I ended up dragging out a 700VA uninterruptible power supply out using only my right arm, and that was all kinds of not-fun. And because I am physically uncoordinated and have issues wearing things over my right arm, I accidentally smashed into the toy keyboard stand at work on my way out and knocked the entire thing over with my handbag.
Obviously I'm not an ambi-wearer.
But since I have no restrictions on my caffeine intake as yet, I'm going to go and have a nice afternoon coffee :)
Mmmm. Coffee. How I thump thump thee.
My thump-thump has been...well, thumping rather erratically recently so I figured it was better to veer on the side of caution and see a doctor. However, I couldn't help but feel like a bit of hypochondriac when I was sitting in the office trying to explain exactly what was freaking me out.
In layman's terms, I believe I garbled out, "It sometimes it goes thump...thump...thump...paaaause...gurgle.....thump thump...."
And all credit to my doctor, I think he managed to decipher this (including my lame tapping demonstration on his desk). He said it could be a combination of factors, including lack of sleep, caffeine, stress, thyroid problems, or heart defects (tick tick tick for the first three) and then followed it up with the cheerful question, "Has anyone in your family ever dropped dead for no apparent reason?"
To which I said that there was no history of Long QT or anything like that, which made him ask me if I'd been Googling. To this, I indignantly replied that no, I was not one of those people who print out a whole list of their symptoms off Ask Jeeves and take them into their doctor....but I sort of left off the fact that I learnt about Long QT Syndrome from a storyline on Neighbours.
Anyway, he then ordered a blood test and an electrocardiogram (ECG) and I toddled off next door to get all the Pathology stuff done.
And then as I was sitting there holding my waiting line number, I realised that this was my first ever blood test.
Eep.
I'm not good with blood. I don't dissolve into hysterics, I don't scream, and I don't faint, but I dislike needles immensely. I can normally sit there quite calmly but there is generally a lot of panicking beforehand. Fortunately, I only had seven minutes of panicking before the nurse was passing me vials.
Vials.
Vials in which to hold my blood.
Oh, God.
See, there's just something about the thought of blood being drawn from my body which makes me very very uneasy. When the nurse actually stuck the needle into my skin I was fine, but then I heard this gurgling as my blood was being drawn up the syringe and all I could think of was AAARRRRGGH! AAARGGGGGH! AAARGGGGGHH! AARGGGGH! AAARGGGGGH! AARRGGGGH!!!!!
I tried to toughen myself up my doing Work Experience seven years ago at a veterinary clinic. And I found out that I'm okay with operations, and blood, and seeing a dog's innards on the operating table, and having the vet chat happily about his new Lord of the Rings DVD with collectible Gollum figure while his scalpel was poking at an infected doggy spleen in front of him...but when it comes to things like papercuts or needles on humans it's something different altogether.
What I did do was concentrate very very hard on the radio that was playing some kind of obnoxious ad for Harvey Norman. So I sat there and focussed on the fact that Harvey Norman were having some kind of sale, and this sale was offering 24 months interest-free....that's right, 24 months interest-free and that this had nothing to do with the gurgling...OMG PLEASE STOP THE GURGLING...of my blood being drawn up into a needle.
It was over quicker than I expected, so then I had to lie down while the nurse ran SANDPAPER over my skin and stuck electrodes to it. Then she began clipping leads to all these electrodes, so I felt like one big human component switch as she plugged me into the ECG machine thingy.
So now I'm waiting on the test results. On the upside, my doctor didn't tell me to lay off caffeine or anything like that, which was quite a relief, so I had two very large cups of coffee in the afternoon. The nurse sternly told me that I wasn't allowed to lift anything heavy with my left arm for the rest of the day (where the blood had been drawn) and as I rose to shove my tote bag over my left shoulder she squawked at me "I hope you're not going to put that on that arm! Put it on the other one!"
This made things quite irritating when I had to go to work in the afternoon...I ended up dragging out a 700VA uninterruptible power supply out using only my right arm, and that was all kinds of not-fun. And because I am physically uncoordinated and have issues wearing things over my right arm, I accidentally smashed into the toy keyboard stand at work on my way out and knocked the entire thing over with my handbag.
Obviously I'm not an ambi-wearer.
But since I have no restrictions on my caffeine intake as yet, I'm going to go and have a nice afternoon coffee :)
Mmmm. Coffee. How I thump thump thee.
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