It's 7:30pm. I'm sitting on my bed, which isn't made, listening to the sound of rain and researching Olives.
It has suddenly occurred to me that I am very mild. I'm the type of person that has nothing but butter on their toast, and doesn't like the toast to be too well-toasted. One time, I nearly ran over someone at a zebra crossing. They gave me a foul look and I almost cried. I felt like running out of the car and onto the road, while screaming "I'M A PERFECTLY RESPECTABLE PERSON I WAS JUST ABSENT MINDED I'M SO SORRY PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME".
So there we have it. I'm a perfectly respectable person, who is also absent-minded, and currently listening to the sound of rain while researching olives. I think I'm a lot more mild than Mild Salsa, and possibly on par, in mildness, with Lightly Sparkling Mineral Water.
Although, that stuff is thrilling in my opinion. I accidentally bought a bottle of super-organic local sparkling mineral water instead of the no frills boring water normal shops sell. I didn't seem to think anything of it when I heard the cashier say "sparkling", but when the water hit my tongue, boy did I feel the sparkling!
So I was overwhelmed the first time I had Sparkling Mineral Water. OVERWHELMED. Mind you, it was Surprise Sparkling Mineral Water. And while surprises are romantic in theory, in practice they're usually awful. Surprise Sex is uncomfortable and crosses some lines, Surprise Dates fuck with your timetable and put your whole day out of whack, Surprise Surcharges do nothing but piss you off.
Surprises can be fun, sometimes. Once I bit into a quiche and swore I tasted wine. I enjoy quiche and I very much enjoy wine, so naturally this event embodied the fabled pleasant surprise. After a lot of screaming and glee I discovered that the source of the surprise wine flavouring was the olives embedded within the quiche. And at that point I decided to pursue an interest in and love for olives, because, in my own absurd words, "THEY TASTE LIKE WINE!"
And we're back to olives. Move over Rome, all roads now lead to Olives.
I find it really fucking odd when people say something is olive-coloured. Olives start off a shade of green, and then become a purple-ish black when they're ripe... or may be when they've rotted. Anyway, I have never met anyone with green or "purplish" skin, so I understand the term, "olive-skin".
This annoys me as much as the term "redhead". The term "redhead" refers to a person with orange hair, not red hair. And their head is certainly not red either.
The list goes on. When people tell me about the "miserable weather" outside, I always wish to inform them that "The weather is rainy; you are miserable". I don't know why people feel the need to drag the weather down when they're feeling bad. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a rainy day, or a cloudy day. Just because you're annoyed that the washing won't dry for a week now thanks to this constant rain, doesn't give you the right to drag the weather down with you in your parade of self-pity in some twisted attempt at pathetic fallacy.
There are some things I like, as unusual as that might sound given that all I've down so far is ramble about bothersome circumstances and my sarcastic approach to them. I like olives, as I've already mentioned, twice. I actually like the rain, as detrimental as it is to my attempts to wash things. I like the company of good friends. I like when boys make me giggle.
I'm actually super excited to be moving house. I am only moving a few streets away, but this will be the first house I have ever lived in without my family. It has a nice backyard and plenty of space for herbs and vegetables, so naturally I'm excited.
I think that just about sums up the extent of my mildness. The fact that I am excited by the prospect of growing herbs and vegetables (and fruits!); more than I seem to be excited about moving in with a best friend.
I think it's time to go. So I will, go that is. And so I leave you bewildered and annoyed by the pointless crap I just discussed, with myself. Enjoy some olives.
Sunday 27 April 2014
Saturday 12 April 2014
Note to future self
Dear Future Self,
Well done on still being alive. I'm assuming you must have started sleeping or eating properly, or taking so much crack that it has somehow preserved your body in an eternal state of fucked. I really hope you don't take crack.
I hope you're happy in whatever you're doing. Because I know you will be doing something, and you will be doing it at 100 kilometres an hour, and giving it every ounce of yourself, because that is in your blood. I assume you're probably having sporadic breakdowns adjusting with constant changes and obstacles. You'll get over them. The shit times will pass and there is always friends/drinking/music/nature/crack. But again I hope you don't resort to taking crack. That shit is expensive and you're meant to be saving up to go somewhere sometime.
I hope you've learnt to see the good in everything, and to appreciate things a little more. I hope you're at least a tiny bit less narcissistic, and that you've stopped being so terrible with money. I really wonder about things. Do you still have an undercut? What colour is your hair? Are you seeing anyone? Have you left your hometown yet?
It's the strangest thing that I (that is me, who I am right this second) will never be able to know the answers to these questions. Even though I will be the one who decides their answers, I won't really be me any more when they have an answer. This is too deep and illogical for me to articulate in my haphazard writing style. So I'll do something completely unoriginal and use an example from a play I recently did some backstage for.
The play was called "Quartet" - and yes it had four characters and yes it was about music. The four characters were all great opera singers in their time, but now find themselves in an upmarket nursing home devoid of artistic stimulation, or stimulation of any description. Like any good work of art, the play is not simply about music, or about being old people in a nursing home; it's two most obvious themes. The play is about the very concept of art, the pains and joys of living and aging, and lastly the invisibility and inevitability of change.
Three of the musicians in the home decide that they should like to perform the "Rigoletto" at a concert held annually by the home in celebration of the birthday of Giuseppe Verdi. This is particularly interesting as the three musicians recorded the song together along with Jean Horton years ago in the prime of their operatic careers. However, when they suggest that Jean should need to join them and render them the complete quartet again, she refuses.
For the majority of the play's opening it appears that Jean's refusal is solely due to stubbornness, and as such the rest of the quartet are angered with her for what they perceive to be selfishness. However, later in the play she reveals the truth.
You'll have to forgive me because I don't have a copy of Quartet and can't find it anywhere online, so I have no actual quotes to use here. But the big reveal Jean makes is that thirty years ago, when she abruptly ended her operatic career and stopped singing, it wasn't a choice she made. It was assumed by the other members of the Quartet and any strange members of the public interested in the personal lives of Opera singers that she ended her career to focus solely on being a wife and mother, as it was after the birth of her daughter that it happenned. However, she reveals to the rest of her Quartet that after the birth of her daughter, she tried to sing for a much coveted role, but simply couldn't. She tried and tried, but alas no sound would come out. And so she had no choice but to end her career as an opera singer.
While the other members of the Quartet lament Jean's loss of her own ability to sing, Jean herself laments something much darker - the loss of herself. She claims that "the Jean Horton that was" was brilliant and "shone bright in the firmament", but that she is literally a different person now, who just happens to inhabit the same body as "the Jean Horton that was".
The concept initially appears to be nothing more than a hyperbolic statement used to heighten the significance of the loss of Jean's vocal ability. However, as it is explored and expanded upon within the confines of the play, the audience come to realise that the statement Jean is making is not an exaggeration, but a profound philosophical statement.
The concept is essentially that we change throughout our lives - moving from role to role, from place to place, changing things as small as hairstyles or as large as professions and goals. We lose friends and make new ones, end relationships and start new ones. As we journey through our lives, aspects of our personality change, and we ourselves change too. The underlying claim made by Jean Horton in Quartet is that we literally become different people throughout our lives as we change.
The concept is terrifying yet thought-provoking. If I look back on my own life, while I do feel as though aspects have remained the same in my life - such as the fact that I still live in my hometown - almost as many things have changed.
At five, I could not properly or completely articulate myself. The concept of sexuality or intellect were hardly present in my mind - I did not consider the notions of sex, or of intellect.
At twelve, I was articulate. Not yet fully developed, but articulate. At this point, I began to notice I was same-sex attracted - but denied acknowledgement of this due to my beliefs. My intellect was certainly developed, but again, not yet to it's full extent. I enjoyed study, and learning.
At eighteen, I am able to well articulate myself. I enjoy intellectual stimulation, and have now fully accepted my homosexual inclination.
It is clear that at these three ages, I was and am drastically different. Almost no remnants of my five year old self remain. In light of this, I am left to consider. Do we literally become different people throughout our life? Does my former self no longer exist in any form, or does he remain at least partially?
I am not apologetic for bombarding you, my future self, with all of this. Above all, I hope you always think. I hope you wonder, and search for answers, and question, and explore. Change is inevitable, and though so much changes, I hope this remains.
I do hope you don't do crack.
George.
Well done on still being alive. I'm assuming you must have started sleeping or eating properly, or taking so much crack that it has somehow preserved your body in an eternal state of fucked. I really hope you don't take crack.
I hope you're happy in whatever you're doing. Because I know you will be doing something, and you will be doing it at 100 kilometres an hour, and giving it every ounce of yourself, because that is in your blood. I assume you're probably having sporadic breakdowns adjusting with constant changes and obstacles. You'll get over them. The shit times will pass and there is always friends/drinking/music/nature/crack. But again I hope you don't resort to taking crack. That shit is expensive and you're meant to be saving up to go somewhere sometime.
I hope you've learnt to see the good in everything, and to appreciate things a little more. I hope you're at least a tiny bit less narcissistic, and that you've stopped being so terrible with money. I really wonder about things. Do you still have an undercut? What colour is your hair? Are you seeing anyone? Have you left your hometown yet?
It's the strangest thing that I (that is me, who I am right this second) will never be able to know the answers to these questions. Even though I will be the one who decides their answers, I won't really be me any more when they have an answer. This is too deep and illogical for me to articulate in my haphazard writing style. So I'll do something completely unoriginal and use an example from a play I recently did some backstage for.
The play was called "Quartet" - and yes it had four characters and yes it was about music. The four characters were all great opera singers in their time, but now find themselves in an upmarket nursing home devoid of artistic stimulation, or stimulation of any description. Like any good work of art, the play is not simply about music, or about being old people in a nursing home; it's two most obvious themes. The play is about the very concept of art, the pains and joys of living and aging, and lastly the invisibility and inevitability of change.
Three of the musicians in the home decide that they should like to perform the "Rigoletto" at a concert held annually by the home in celebration of the birthday of Giuseppe Verdi. This is particularly interesting as the three musicians recorded the song together along with Jean Horton years ago in the prime of their operatic careers. However, when they suggest that Jean should need to join them and render them the complete quartet again, she refuses.
For the majority of the play's opening it appears that Jean's refusal is solely due to stubbornness, and as such the rest of the quartet are angered with her for what they perceive to be selfishness. However, later in the play she reveals the truth.
You'll have to forgive me because I don't have a copy of Quartet and can't find it anywhere online, so I have no actual quotes to use here. But the big reveal Jean makes is that thirty years ago, when she abruptly ended her operatic career and stopped singing, it wasn't a choice she made. It was assumed by the other members of the Quartet and any strange members of the public interested in the personal lives of Opera singers that she ended her career to focus solely on being a wife and mother, as it was after the birth of her daughter that it happenned. However, she reveals to the rest of her Quartet that after the birth of her daughter, she tried to sing for a much coveted role, but simply couldn't. She tried and tried, but alas no sound would come out. And so she had no choice but to end her career as an opera singer.
While the other members of the Quartet lament Jean's loss of her own ability to sing, Jean herself laments something much darker - the loss of herself. She claims that "the Jean Horton that was" was brilliant and "shone bright in the firmament", but that she is literally a different person now, who just happens to inhabit the same body as "the Jean Horton that was".
The concept initially appears to be nothing more than a hyperbolic statement used to heighten the significance of the loss of Jean's vocal ability. However, as it is explored and expanded upon within the confines of the play, the audience come to realise that the statement Jean is making is not an exaggeration, but a profound philosophical statement.
The concept is essentially that we change throughout our lives - moving from role to role, from place to place, changing things as small as hairstyles or as large as professions and goals. We lose friends and make new ones, end relationships and start new ones. As we journey through our lives, aspects of our personality change, and we ourselves change too. The underlying claim made by Jean Horton in Quartet is that we literally become different people throughout our lives as we change.
The concept is terrifying yet thought-provoking. If I look back on my own life, while I do feel as though aspects have remained the same in my life - such as the fact that I still live in my hometown - almost as many things have changed.
At five, I could not properly or completely articulate myself. The concept of sexuality or intellect were hardly present in my mind - I did not consider the notions of sex, or of intellect.
At twelve, I was articulate. Not yet fully developed, but articulate. At this point, I began to notice I was same-sex attracted - but denied acknowledgement of this due to my beliefs. My intellect was certainly developed, but again, not yet to it's full extent. I enjoyed study, and learning.
At eighteen, I am able to well articulate myself. I enjoy intellectual stimulation, and have now fully accepted my homosexual inclination.
It is clear that at these three ages, I was and am drastically different. Almost no remnants of my five year old self remain. In light of this, I am left to consider. Do we literally become different people throughout our life? Does my former self no longer exist in any form, or does he remain at least partially?
I am not apologetic for bombarding you, my future self, with all of this. Above all, I hope you always think. I hope you wonder, and search for answers, and question, and explore. Change is inevitable, and though so much changes, I hope this remains.
I do hope you don't do crack.
George.
Wednesday 9 April 2014
One must always leave a trail
Sitting in front of me is a packet of loose leaf Organic Lemon Myrtle Tea. It's expiry date is on my 21st birthday. Next to that is some random notes I took at a work meeting, brown eyeshadow, a gloriously large cup of coffee and a CD player.
Last night an old friend of mine returned home from his mysterious and somewhat prolonged adventure to Gulgong. As is almost necessary for people aged under 21, we had a party. On a Tuesday night.
I had work on Tuesday, and I have work today soon actually. I was planning to just meet them for dinner beforehand, extend my regards and then fuck off home again. Of course I turned up so late to dinner that I actually missed the dinner part, and arrived precisely when everyone was leaving.
Despite having said I would not, under any circumstances, attend a party on a Tuesday night, I did precisely that. I deliberately remained sober so that I could drive home at any point. But then I found myself amongst a group of close friends, in the dark, in the distance, getting in touch with Mary Jane.
I thought it would be best to wait a while before driving home, being then rendered completely off of my tits. So then I found myself lying on a trampoline, gazing at the cloudy night sky, slightly disillusioned by the lack of any visible stars. I remained stationary for a very fucking long time. Groups of people came and went; I remember lively discussions happenning around me that I was apparently physical unable to contribute to. Lola and I made nonsense at each other, understanding each other as intrinsically as babies.
I eventually made my way indoors. At the start of the night, my hair had been perfectly (or rather imperfectly) styled. I had pinned most of it back in an elegant style - something bohemian and a little bit flapper - and arranged tarragon flowers somewhat haphazardly in my hair.
The flowers from my hair, along with most of the bobby pins, laid on the trampoline and across the property, as I laid on a red lounge covered in cushions and everybody's things. There wasn't really any space to lie down but I think I made it work. Of course I then fell swiftly asleep in amongst all the things, blissfully unaware of how ridicudously high and absolutely freezing I was.
At 5:40 this morning I awoke startled and completely disoriented. The sun had begun to rise, which for some reason beckoned me to the bathroom. I grabbed most of my things (one must always leave a trail behind when they leave), and ran to the car, which for some reason I parked really far up the street. And then I headed home in a hurry, despite the fact I didn't (and don't) have to be at work until nine o'clock. I hope.
Last night an old friend of mine returned home from his mysterious and somewhat prolonged adventure to Gulgong. As is almost necessary for people aged under 21, we had a party. On a Tuesday night.
I had work on Tuesday, and I have work today soon actually. I was planning to just meet them for dinner beforehand, extend my regards and then fuck off home again. Of course I turned up so late to dinner that I actually missed the dinner part, and arrived precisely when everyone was leaving.
Despite having said I would not, under any circumstances, attend a party on a Tuesday night, I did precisely that. I deliberately remained sober so that I could drive home at any point. But then I found myself amongst a group of close friends, in the dark, in the distance, getting in touch with Mary Jane.
I thought it would be best to wait a while before driving home, being then rendered completely off of my tits. So then I found myself lying on a trampoline, gazing at the cloudy night sky, slightly disillusioned by the lack of any visible stars. I remained stationary for a very fucking long time. Groups of people came and went; I remember lively discussions happenning around me that I was apparently physical unable to contribute to. Lola and I made nonsense at each other, understanding each other as intrinsically as babies.
I eventually made my way indoors. At the start of the night, my hair had been perfectly (or rather imperfectly) styled. I had pinned most of it back in an elegant style - something bohemian and a little bit flapper - and arranged tarragon flowers somewhat haphazardly in my hair.
The flowers from my hair, along with most of the bobby pins, laid on the trampoline and across the property, as I laid on a red lounge covered in cushions and everybody's things. There wasn't really any space to lie down but I think I made it work. Of course I then fell swiftly asleep in amongst all the things, blissfully unaware of how ridicudously high and absolutely freezing I was.
At 5:40 this morning I awoke startled and completely disoriented. The sun had begun to rise, which for some reason beckoned me to the bathroom. I grabbed most of my things (one must always leave a trail behind when they leave), and ran to the car, which for some reason I parked really far up the street. And then I headed home in a hurry, despite the fact I didn't (and don't) have to be at work until nine o'clock. I hope.
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