Ok, if there are any internet stalkers out there with your corkboard of facts and snippets of my life in front of you, GET YOUR PENS OUT NOW AND DRAW UP A NEAT MARGIN, as I am about to offer a glimpse into my life, as I relate a tale of pain, unconsciousness, blood and wisdom teeth.
After having braces to straighten my teeth, I was later to learn that my wisdom teeth must also be removed and thrown into Mount Doom or somesuch lest they uproot (yes, the first of hopefully many dental puns to be made) the peace and happiness the braces had fostered upon my mouth. So off we trotted to see a dental surgeon to cut out my teeth. And as the date of sugery grew further, fear began to take root in my gum (yes, a terribly suBtle - yes, suBtle is a new word I am attempting to cultivate at every possible opportunity. You simply pronounce the usually silent 'b' in subtle, hence making the meaning of the word its antonym. Go forth and spread the word, for it is good - pun once more). But I was also excited, as I was going to undergo general anaesthetic, something I had never done before.
Finally the big day came, and like Christmas and Easter and your birthday and every day you ever told yourself was going to be special or different, it was a bit of a let down. The preparation was great. They took me in, explained what was going to happen, checked my heart rate, explained what was going to happen, checked my heart rate again, etc.
And then the moment came for the general anaesthetic. I followed the nurse into the operating cinema, and climbed up onto the table. Then they put a needle in my right hand, and said "we're just putting in some antibiotics", and did that....then they put some other stuff in. Then they must have slipped the anaesthetic in when I was looking the other way, and didn't tell me. And so I missed the whole "count to 10" thing. In fact, I remember none of the going to sleep. This was a disappointment when I woke up in recovery.
My whole face was numb, and I sat there for a while, feeling very light headed and funny, until the nurse gave me a paper towel and said "here, use this to keep back bleeding". And then I realised I'd been bleeding out of my mouth, all down my face and onto my hospital gown the whole time, without feeling a thing. That was fun (the other fun bleeding detail was when we were going home, we went over a speed bump, and because all the blood pools in the bottom of your mouth, it flew out of my sister's mouth all over her. You sort of had to be there...).
And they gave us a magnificent supply of painkillers, that make you feel great. In fact, it's 11.13pm right now, and I'll be getting up at 2am to take my four hourly pain killers. And I have to swill my mouth out with seawater 6 times per day, which is also very exciting. And my face has taken on an adorable hamsteresque bulging and swelling in the cheeks, where I can store grain and nuts for the cold winter months to come.
18 December, 2008
15 December, 2008
Conversation Overheard on the Bus #1
Setting: A bus
Characters:
2 young boys
1 mother
1 baby in pram (non speaking role)
1 strange boy (non speaking)
*Enter 2 young boys through bus door, who run to a window seat. The elder boy has one ear pierced (he is about 7 years old). Behind them is the mother (who has ears, nose and eyebrow piercings), pushing the pram onto the bus before validating two tickets. She makes her way to the disabled/special seating area and sits down. The boys begin to fight.*
Elder Boy: No, I'm sitting near the window, I got here first!
Younger Boy: No way, I'm...you're...mum, mum!
Mother (tiredly): Both of you stop arguing, or you'll both be in big trouble.
*pause*
Elder Boy: No, piss off (punches and kicks younger brother)
Younger Brother: No, mum-
Mother: Right. Both of you come and sit with me. Now.
*Elder boy moves*
Mother: You too.
*younger boy shakes head, a mischievous smile creeping across his face*
Mother: Now. If I have to come and get you, you'll be in big trouble.
*younger boy shakes head*
*Bus stops at lights. Mother gets up and walks over to child*
Younger Boy: No, no, no, I promise I won't-
Mother: Too late. Now you're in even more trouble. You're already in big trouble for setting off the alarm on the train.
*The bus stops and the strange boy gets off*
Review of "Conversation Overheard on the Bus #1
The latest in Gelati Gecko's "human portrait" pieces, this is perhaps one of the more disappointing additions. The scene is short, and the dialogue and action, while completely true, is cliched, failing to add anything more to the many jokes already in circulation about parenting and child discipline. The closing line, which is factually accurate, does, however, provide a neat sense of closure to the scene, though this fails to make up for other faults. The post modernistic inclusion of the narrator as an omniscient observer is pretentious and is amateurish at best. Let us hope that he turns his writing to more fruitful labours in the future.
Sorbet Snake
Characters:
2 young boys
1 mother
1 baby in pram (non speaking role)
1 strange boy (non speaking)
*Enter 2 young boys through bus door, who run to a window seat. The elder boy has one ear pierced (he is about 7 years old). Behind them is the mother (who has ears, nose and eyebrow piercings), pushing the pram onto the bus before validating two tickets. She makes her way to the disabled/special seating area and sits down. The boys begin to fight.*
Elder Boy: No, I'm sitting near the window, I got here first!
Younger Boy: No way, I'm...you're...mum, mum!
Mother (tiredly): Both of you stop arguing, or you'll both be in big trouble.
*pause*
Elder Boy: No, piss off (punches and kicks younger brother)
Younger Brother: No, mum-
Mother: Right. Both of you come and sit with me. Now.
*Elder boy moves*
Mother: You too.
*younger boy shakes head, a mischievous smile creeping across his face*
Mother: Now. If I have to come and get you, you'll be in big trouble.
*younger boy shakes head*
*Bus stops at lights. Mother gets up and walks over to child*
Younger Boy: No, no, no, I promise I won't-
Mother: Too late. Now you're in even more trouble. You're already in big trouble for setting off the alarm on the train.
*The bus stops and the strange boy gets off*
Review of "Conversation Overheard on the Bus #1
The latest in Gelati Gecko's "human portrait" pieces, this is perhaps one of the more disappointing additions. The scene is short, and the dialogue and action, while completely true, is cliched, failing to add anything more to the many jokes already in circulation about parenting and child discipline. The closing line, which is factually accurate, does, however, provide a neat sense of closure to the scene, though this fails to make up for other faults. The post modernistic inclusion of the narrator as an omniscient observer is pretentious and is amateurish at best. Let us hope that he turns his writing to more fruitful labours in the future.
Sorbet Snake
02 December, 2008
Christmas Luncheon
Unfortunately I have been sick of late, and will this time use this as an excuse for my lack of blogging since last week.
With Christmas fast approaching, it becomes time for my family to decide what we will do with ourselves this festive season. And this year, it is time once again for us to 'host', and invite all our relatives to enjoy a Christmas lunch with us come 25th December. Which I enjoy for a few reasons:
1. It's nice to see my cousins and family I wouldn't otherwise get to see too often.
2. The amount of stress and anxiety it affords some members of the family, and the resulting strains and arguments, are always highly entertaining. Sometimes there are very few, but sometimes they are plentiful and explosive, bursting throughout the day along with the bought cheeriness of the bonbons from Coles.
3. Food is plentiful and often nice.
Of course, small and entertaining spats are not limited to either my family or Christmas time. In fact, the Shadow Health Minister Julie Bishop has recently fallen under scrutiny for an apparently "cat like" action made in Parliament, directed at Julia Gillard. The full article can be accessed here:
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,24741187-421,00.html
With Christmas fast approaching, it becomes time for my family to decide what we will do with ourselves this festive season. And this year, it is time once again for us to 'host', and invite all our relatives to enjoy a Christmas lunch with us come 25th December. Which I enjoy for a few reasons:
1. It's nice to see my cousins and family I wouldn't otherwise get to see too often.
2. The amount of stress and anxiety it affords some members of the family, and the resulting strains and arguments, are always highly entertaining. Sometimes there are very few, but sometimes they are plentiful and explosive, bursting throughout the day along with the bought cheeriness of the bonbons from Coles.
3. Food is plentiful and often nice.
Of course, small and entertaining spats are not limited to either my family or Christmas time. In fact, the Shadow Health Minister Julie Bishop has recently fallen under scrutiny for an apparently "cat like" action made in Parliament, directed at Julia Gillard. The full article can be accessed here:
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,24741187-421,00.html
"Hiss!!!!!!!!!"
Julie Bishop has played down the action as "just a little thing I do", in order to get "the girls to put their claws away".
She also laughed off claims that the vicious puncture marks in her so called Julia Gillard "voodoo doll" were anything more than "just invoking some harmless ancient and powerful curses to strike her down on the spot."
She was reported to have been placated when a saucer of warm milk was brought out to the bench, purring softly throughout the rest of the session.
25 November, 2008
SWEARING WILL SEND YOU TO HELL!!
Yes, I should know, I read it on an evangelical magazine being handed out at my train station. And it detailed how swearing "disrespects the Creator of language. Imagine if you gave your friend a shirt, or a blouse, and then saw them using it as a doormat or rag. How would you feel? God feels the same way when we swear", etc. Which, to be brutally frank (and condemn myself to an eternity in Hell), shitted me just a bit.
I guess it's because I've slowly divested myself of the Christian belief I was loosely raised on, and took on seriously in later life, because I can no longer see any purpose it serves for me. And I would argue, that there are cases when swearing does add a certain "je ne sais quoi" to certain situations. I thereby present:
GELATI GECKO'S GUIDE TO SWEARING:
Swearing has a reputation as being nothing but foul, filthy and abhorrent misuse of the English language. But this fails to recognise the ways in which it can create humour in various written scenarios and serve as collective nouns.
Note the following story:
Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which to be honest, rather annoyed Billy).
If there is any humour to be found in this passage, it would lie in the contrast of the idyllic rural and natural environment, and Billy's lack of awe or appreciation. He is in fact "rather annoyed". But if we add some excellent expletives:
Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which, if Billy were to be quite candid, was a performance of nature that fucked up his morning).
The sparing use of a well placed obscenity heightens this contrast between the pleasantness of Billy's morning in his natural environment, and the actual annoyance (which has now become something much stronger) which he feels towards it. The elaborate sentence before the so called "dirty word" set the reader up to expect something a little bit open and rude, but probably not so much as that which is before them. This unexpected treasure find is most pleasing and humorous to many people.
Other similar uses include juxtaposing swear words against what is otherwise the height of politeness, to the effect of seemingly oxymoronic sentences:
"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.
"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G, dumb fuck," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.
And lo, the swear word has transformed our previously bland response into a fiery and sarcastic quip.
I guess what I'm trying to say, is that swear words are not just obscene and filthy. They have long lost the meanings which were initially attached to them. They have instead become taboo words, and have great potential to transform writing, if used sparingly.
The other use with which we are frequently employing words of an offensive nature for collective nouns. For example:
"Betty collected her books and other belongings and made her way out the door."
"Betty collected her books and crap and made her way out the door."
This easily facilitated collective noun saves us a lot of unnecessary speech and time, while intimating a casual, comfortable, genuine and unpretentious tone in our writing. Other collective nouns which may be employed are "shit", e.g
"Tom got his shit together and ran from the room."
Also consider the use of swear words to express a grevious mistake made by one person. For example:
"My perfomance was well below par in that exam," sighed Megan.
"I fucked up that exam," sighed Megan.
These are just some of the versatile uses to which these words can be put.
I would end with a swear word if I wanted to be a bit of a smartarse, but I think I'll just end by patting myself on the back for raising such pertinent and vital discussion point, which hopefully will encourage you to take greater risks, and think more about how the simple choice of words can influence an entire piece of writing.
Here endeth the lesson.
I guess it's because I've slowly divested myself of the Christian belief I was loosely raised on, and took on seriously in later life, because I can no longer see any purpose it serves for me. And I would argue, that there are cases when swearing does add a certain "je ne sais quoi" to certain situations. I thereby present:
GELATI GECKO'S GUIDE TO SWEARING:
Swearing has a reputation as being nothing but foul, filthy and abhorrent misuse of the English language. But this fails to recognise the ways in which it can create humour in various written scenarios and serve as collective nouns.
Note the following story:
Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which to be honest, rather annoyed Billy).
If there is any humour to be found in this passage, it would lie in the contrast of the idyllic rural and natural environment, and Billy's lack of awe or appreciation. He is in fact "rather annoyed". But if we add some excellent expletives:
Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which, if Billy were to be quite candid, was a performance of nature that fucked up his morning).
The sparing use of a well placed obscenity heightens this contrast between the pleasantness of Billy's morning in his natural environment, and the actual annoyance (which has now become something much stronger) which he feels towards it. The elaborate sentence before the so called "dirty word" set the reader up to expect something a little bit open and rude, but probably not so much as that which is before them. This unexpected treasure find is most pleasing and humorous to many people.
Other similar uses include juxtaposing swear words against what is otherwise the height of politeness, to the effect of seemingly oxymoronic sentences:
"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.
"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G, dumb fuck," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.
And lo, the swear word has transformed our previously bland response into a fiery and sarcastic quip.
I guess what I'm trying to say, is that swear words are not just obscene and filthy. They have long lost the meanings which were initially attached to them. They have instead become taboo words, and have great potential to transform writing, if used sparingly.
The other use with which we are frequently employing words of an offensive nature for collective nouns. For example:
"Betty collected her books and other belongings and made her way out the door."
"Betty collected her books and crap and made her way out the door."
This easily facilitated collective noun saves us a lot of unnecessary speech and time, while intimating a casual, comfortable, genuine and unpretentious tone in our writing. Other collective nouns which may be employed are "shit", e.g
"Tom got his shit together and ran from the room."
Also consider the use of swear words to express a grevious mistake made by one person. For example:
"My perfomance was well below par in that exam," sighed Megan.
"I fucked up that exam," sighed Megan.
These are just some of the versatile uses to which these words can be put.
I would end with a swear word if I wanted to be a bit of a smartarse, but I think I'll just end by patting myself on the back for raising such pertinent and vital discussion point, which hopefully will encourage you to take greater risks, and think more about how the simple choice of words can influence an entire piece of writing.
Here endeth the lesson.
17 November, 2008
Dystopian Essay
Here is an essay I found from a "bored" student who was required to write an essay on the prompt:
"People's visions of the future show that those who try to beat the system invariably end up failing."
While visions of the past show us the heroes from Tale of Troy and Robin Hood, and the realm of fantasy offers hope with heroes such as Frodo Baggins, who overcomes immense hardship to overthrow the Sauron establishment through peaceful protest and lobbying, the future dystopian texts portray a world where nobody can defeat the “all seeing eye”, as in 1984.
Winston is unable to “throw the ring into the fires of Mount Doom” (so to speak) as he lacks moral fibre. Frodo, on the other hand, is much like Jesus, in that he carries a burden (the ring, or all the sins of humanity), and nearly dies (or in Jesus’ case, actually dies.) But he is not like Jesus because Frodo never says he is the son of God, nor does he turn water into wine. In fact, when they run out of lambas bread, Frodo is unable to produce more food from anywhere. Frodo is also nice to Gollum even though Gollum is a bit mean, and I think Jesus would be nice to Gollum/Smeagol too. But in 1984, Winston is unable to defeat the system. Why, I hear me ask?
Because humans are depressed about our future. We look at our children and go "oh...is that all?" and realise that the next generation will screw up the world massively. Either that, or there are key elements to human nature such as greed for power, knowledge and stability which will send society in a general direction until we reach extremes such as the society of Brave New World. And because these worlds are depressing (supposedly, although I like soma give me soma EVERYONE BELONGS TO EVERYONE ELSE), and so people try to rebel. But why do they fail so much?
Because mankind is inherently cbs. John the Savage, from Brave New World, for example, hangs himself cos he cbs trying to change the world or himself. But I think that the society in Brave New World is nice. Lenina thinks so too, because she's nice, and I'm sure Frodo would agree because we all know he liked to have a bit too much fun. But this isn't about Frodo. Or lambas bread, delicious though it may be (*mental note: buy some lambas bread*). It's because people can't change the world.
There are also technical reasons why people can't beat the world. In 1984, it's like Winston and Julia vs EVERYONE so they were never going to win. The government had too much cameras and telescreens and stuff for them to win. Technological power in the hands of authority allows complete domination through fear. Fear prevents people from acting. To go off on a tangent whose line is equal to the equation y = 4.5x + 78.9, in World War II, propaganda was used in Germany, and fear was instilled in those who didn't go with the flow. And so people didn't fight against Hitler so much. With more power, governments are so much more able to eliminate and contain risks or dangerous people wanting to destroy the establishment.
In conclusion, Frodo was very brave, but he could never defeat Sauron in a dystopian novel. Sauron would have:
a) really good army, not just stupid orcs (which are actually Elves that have been tortured, did you know that? But how do they breed...I don't know) He would have robots with silver shields and armour that shoots lasers
b) high tech surveillance equipment instead of just one massive eye. This would be more energy efficient, and slightly less conspicuous
c) a reliable tracker on his One Ring, to prevent Frodo from taking it and running all the way across Middle Earth
d) propaganda with rewards for the ring's capture, so that Faramir would definitely take the ring instead of being "noble"
e) he would also have a tracker on Gollum once he released him, or a microchip
f) he would trigger tsunamis to prevent elves from escaping to the Grey Lands
So as you can see, he would crush everyone. So that's what dystopian stories are. And why you can never beat the system.
"People's visions of the future show that those who try to beat the system invariably end up failing."
While visions of the past show us the heroes from Tale of Troy and Robin Hood, and the realm of fantasy offers hope with heroes such as Frodo Baggins, who overcomes immense hardship to overthrow the Sauron establishment through peaceful protest and lobbying, the future dystopian texts portray a world where nobody can defeat the “all seeing eye”, as in 1984.
Winston is unable to “throw the ring into the fires of Mount Doom” (so to speak) as he lacks moral fibre. Frodo, on the other hand, is much like Jesus, in that he carries a burden (the ring, or all the sins of humanity), and nearly dies (or in Jesus’ case, actually dies.) But he is not like Jesus because Frodo never says he is the son of God, nor does he turn water into wine. In fact, when they run out of lambas bread, Frodo is unable to produce more food from anywhere. Frodo is also nice to Gollum even though Gollum is a bit mean, and I think Jesus would be nice to Gollum/Smeagol too. But in 1984, Winston is unable to defeat the system. Why, I hear me ask?
Because humans are depressed about our future. We look at our children and go "oh...is that all?" and realise that the next generation will screw up the world massively. Either that, or there are key elements to human nature such as greed for power, knowledge and stability which will send society in a general direction until we reach extremes such as the society of Brave New World. And because these worlds are depressing (supposedly, although I like soma give me soma EVERYONE BELONGS TO EVERYONE ELSE), and so people try to rebel. But why do they fail so much?
Because mankind is inherently cbs. John the Savage, from Brave New World, for example, hangs himself cos he cbs trying to change the world or himself. But I think that the society in Brave New World is nice. Lenina thinks so too, because she's nice, and I'm sure Frodo would agree because we all know he liked to have a bit too much fun. But this isn't about Frodo. Or lambas bread, delicious though it may be (*mental note: buy some lambas bread*). It's because people can't change the world.
There are also technical reasons why people can't beat the world. In 1984, it's like Winston and Julia vs EVERYONE so they were never going to win. The government had too much cameras and telescreens and stuff for them to win. Technological power in the hands of authority allows complete domination through fear. Fear prevents people from acting. To go off on a tangent whose line is equal to the equation y = 4.5x + 78.9, in World War II, propaganda was used in Germany, and fear was instilled in those who didn't go with the flow. And so people didn't fight against Hitler so much. With more power, governments are so much more able to eliminate and contain risks or dangerous people wanting to destroy the establishment.
In conclusion, Frodo was very brave, but he could never defeat Sauron in a dystopian novel. Sauron would have:
a) really good army, not just stupid orcs (which are actually Elves that have been tortured, did you know that? But how do they breed...I don't know) He would have robots with silver shields and armour that shoots lasers
b) high tech surveillance equipment instead of just one massive eye. This would be more energy efficient, and slightly less conspicuous
c) a reliable tracker on his One Ring, to prevent Frodo from taking it and running all the way across Middle Earth
d) propaganda with rewards for the ring's capture, so that Faramir would definitely take the ring instead of being "noble"
e) he would also have a tracker on Gollum once he released him, or a microchip
f) he would trigger tsunamis to prevent elves from escaping to the Grey Lands
So as you can see, he would crush everyone. So that's what dystopian stories are. And why you can never beat the system.
13 November, 2008
Conversation Overheard on the Train #1
As I got onto the train, there was a large beefy man with tattoos, sitting with a somewhat thin woman with long hair. The train was otherwise quite empty.
Woman: And so I had to stand, and when there was a seat, I could only sit down for one bloody stop.
Man: That's not right...they have those fucking signs on the train, you know.....for the pregnant.....and elderly.....and disabled.....they should have them on the bus.
Woman: Well afterwards I was thinking, maybe I should've asked for a seat. And my legs were sore afterwards...and it's just not right.
Man: Yeah, you should ask for a seat. Tell 'em you're fucking pregnant.
Woman: Yeah, nah. It's not good for the kid if I'm tired and sick, is it...
And so then when they got off, the woman PULLED OUT A CIGARETTE AND STARTED TO SMOKE....
Woman: And so I had to stand, and when there was a seat, I could only sit down for one bloody stop.
Man: That's not right...they have those fucking signs on the train, you know.....for the pregnant.....and elderly.....and disabled.....they should have them on the bus.
Woman: Well afterwards I was thinking, maybe I should've asked for a seat. And my legs were sore afterwards...and it's just not right.
Man: Yeah, you should ask for a seat. Tell 'em you're fucking pregnant.
Woman: Yeah, nah. It's not good for the kid if I'm tired and sick, is it...
And so then when they got off, the woman PULLED OUT A CIGARETTE AND STARTED TO SMOKE....
09 November, 2008
I Have Exams, You Know
So that's why I've not been posting anything. Yet still people are asking me why the blog has been so neglected. So, in fear of losing readership, I will put something up. Conveniently (and, some may argue, offensively cheaply) I have a piece of writing I was required to do for English, and so will fob you off with this. It is a "feelie" review, based on the world from Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
Enjoy...or not.
Alpha Times
“I’m so glad I’m an Alpha!”
Savage Me offers a pertinent message for today’s society, writes Shaun Foster
Savage Me, the latest feelie to be released this year, from Alpha plus debut director Bernard Marx, has been met with praise and adulation, with some comparing it with what is generally recognised as the most popular feelie ever made, A Steamy Month of Passion, by feelie directing legend Thomas Ridshaw.
Marx based Savage Me on the events from two years ago surrounding the man known as “John the Savage”, who was brought out from a Savage Reserve, along with a woman who claimed to be his m****r. John the Savage’s bizarre and illogical attitudes towards having people, and civilisation in general, sparked a large degree of media interest in his situation, which eventually culminated in his suicide. His fascination with Beta Vaccination Worker Lenina Crowne, who afterwards would say that “He both seemed to want me, and yet felt it would be wrong to have me,” forms a focus point of this state of the art new feelie.
In Marx’s reworking of the story, the lovely Lenina (played by Fanny Crowne) is rescued from the possessive attentions of John the Savage (Steven Bates), by Marc Bernard (Harry Green), a hypnopaedia specialised psychologist. He is able to condition the Savage eventually, who finally realises the error of his ways, and has several women before the feelie comes to a close. Artistic director Sarah Brown explained their decision to rework the plot in an exclusive interview with the Alpha Times this week. “We decided in the end to provide the more fulfilling and conventional ending, which left no moral ambiguity as to the concerns and lessons to be learned from the feelie. As John the Savage was a key character, it would have been remiss if we did not correct his social abnormality – and after all, I know I wouldn’t want to go to a feelie where there’s nobody being had!” She added that “an orgy porgy ending provides the perfect climax to the feelie, while reminding the audience that everyone belongs to everyone else!”
Bernard Marx admits that there are elements of himself in his suave and sophisticated hero Marc Bernard, as “We were both quite close to John the Savage, and understood him despite the obvious social problems he faced when an integration with civilisation was attempted. Marc is a gentlemen, and has at least one new woman each week – I wanted to contrast his upright moral character against the volatile and “monogamous” traits of John the Savage.”
Key scenes to watch out for include the scene where John interacts with, and at one stage “embraces” his m****r, Linda (the first time ever in feelies history that a ‘family’ scene has been included). Special effects director Gavin Touch explained that they were required to recreate the so called “love” that John felt for Linda. “We understood it must be an uncomfortable feeling, to make someone behave so irrationally, and “love” was often spoken of in relation to the heart. We combined the sensation of a heart attack and being gored by a bull to provide what we believe is a real and unsettling first hand experience of “love” for the audience. The love making scene between Marc and Lenina underwater was also an ambitious request, as was the one in the anti gravitational chamber. But I think you’ll find the results most pleasing.”
Taking feelies to new heights...or depths...
Challenging, controversial, and more than a little bit titillating, Savage Me has all the makings of a classic feelie, and is well worth the trip.
Other news:
Mombasa reaches new record of 18, 074 individuals from single ovary – Page 2
Debate over the Civilising of more Savage Reserves continues – scientists argue “we are not finished studying” – Page 3
Enjoy...or not.
Alpha Times
“I’m so glad I’m an Alpha!”
Savage Me offers a pertinent message for today’s society, writes Shaun Foster
Savage Me, the latest feelie to be released this year, from Alpha plus debut director Bernard Marx, has been met with praise and adulation, with some comparing it with what is generally recognised as the most popular feelie ever made, A Steamy Month of Passion, by feelie directing legend Thomas Ridshaw.
Marx based Savage Me on the events from two years ago surrounding the man known as “John the Savage”, who was brought out from a Savage Reserve, along with a woman who claimed to be his m****r. John the Savage’s bizarre and illogical attitudes towards having people, and civilisation in general, sparked a large degree of media interest in his situation, which eventually culminated in his suicide. His fascination with Beta Vaccination Worker Lenina Crowne, who afterwards would say that “He both seemed to want me, and yet felt it would be wrong to have me,” forms a focus point of this state of the art new feelie.
In Marx’s reworking of the story, the lovely Lenina (played by Fanny Crowne) is rescued from the possessive attentions of John the Savage (Steven Bates), by Marc Bernard (Harry Green), a hypnopaedia specialised psychologist. He is able to condition the Savage eventually, who finally realises the error of his ways, and has several women before the feelie comes to a close. Artistic director Sarah Brown explained their decision to rework the plot in an exclusive interview with the Alpha Times this week. “We decided in the end to provide the more fulfilling and conventional ending, which left no moral ambiguity as to the concerns and lessons to be learned from the feelie. As John the Savage was a key character, it would have been remiss if we did not correct his social abnormality – and after all, I know I wouldn’t want to go to a feelie where there’s nobody being had!” She added that “an orgy porgy ending provides the perfect climax to the feelie, while reminding the audience that everyone belongs to everyone else!”
Bernard Marx admits that there are elements of himself in his suave and sophisticated hero Marc Bernard, as “We were both quite close to John the Savage, and understood him despite the obvious social problems he faced when an integration with civilisation was attempted. Marc is a gentlemen, and has at least one new woman each week – I wanted to contrast his upright moral character against the volatile and “monogamous” traits of John the Savage.”
Key scenes to watch out for include the scene where John interacts with, and at one stage “embraces” his m****r, Linda (the first time ever in feelies history that a ‘family’ scene has been included). Special effects director Gavin Touch explained that they were required to recreate the so called “love” that John felt for Linda. “We understood it must be an uncomfortable feeling, to make someone behave so irrationally, and “love” was often spoken of in relation to the heart. We combined the sensation of a heart attack and being gored by a bull to provide what we believe is a real and unsettling first hand experience of “love” for the audience. The love making scene between Marc and Lenina underwater was also an ambitious request, as was the one in the anti gravitational chamber. But I think you’ll find the results most pleasing.”
Taking feelies to new heights...or depths...Challenging, controversial, and more than a little bit titillating, Savage Me has all the makings of a classic feelie, and is well worth the trip.
Other news:
Mombasa reaches new record of 18, 074 individuals from single ovary – Page 2
Debate over the Civilising of more Savage Reserves continues – scientists argue “we are not finished studying” – Page 3
18 October, 2008
Luna Mooney's Word Game
Now for something completely stolen from Luna Mooney's blog.
Firstly go to the comments section of this post. Then, read the word written by the most recent commenter and reply with the first word that comes to your mind.
You don't have to be registered to play, and you can comment as anonymous if you wish. You can also come back and leave another word, there are no limits to how many times you can play.
It is great fun!!!
Firstly go to the comments section of this post. Then, read the word written by the most recent commenter and reply with the first word that comes to your mind.
You don't have to be registered to play, and you can comment as anonymous if you wish. You can also come back and leave another word, there are no limits to how many times you can play.
It is great fun!!!
08 October, 2008
Feeding Your Need for Stories
Since people seem to enjoy stories so much, and the blog story is not yet ready to see the world, I'm posting this. It's a gothic take on The Importance of Being Earnest.
Lady Harbury looked briefly down into her teacup. She returned her gaze to Lady Bracknell, who was still watching her intently, as if to suck information from her. Lady Harbury licked her dry lips, and Lady Bracknell’s gaze followed her small tongue as it wet her shaking lips.
“And so,” Lady Harbury continued in a small voice, “I have not seen him since.” She shifted her slight frame in the chair, tucking away a wispy strand of hair.
“Oh, no..well...” Lady Harbury rose from her chair and paced around the room, so she was standing next to Lady Bracknell. “Before Lord Harbury died...he said...he told me something...about Lord Bracknell-”
Lady Bracknell rose from her chair with astonishing speed and stood quite close to Lady Harbury, peering down at her face. “And what, pray tell, did he say?” There was no hiding her menace now. Lady Harbury looked up briefly, then, unable to meet the fury in Lady Bracknell’s eyes, returned her gaze to the polished floorboards.
“He said..there was...a reason..” Lady Harbury looked up at Lady Bracknell for a moment and let out a small cry. Her teacup dropped from her small hand, and smashed into a thousand pieces of china. Lady Bracknell stood, a small smile, a slash of red, across her face. And she reached down into the front of her dress, and from her ample cleavage drew a small, but very sharp knife, which glinted in the stream of afternoon sun spilling through the window. Lady Harbury stepped backwards, breaking more china with a loud crunch.
“Well,” said Lady Bracknell quietly. “It would be prudent, I think, if we ensure such damaging rumours that your husband may have inadvertently, I am sure, spread, are nipped in the bud, as it were.”
* * *
“Rotten lot of weather we’re having, eh Algy?” said Jack as he watched the rain dribble down the outside of the window.
“Yes, indeed. One could almost find it reason to get out of London,” replied Algernon with a smirk.
“Whatever do you mean, dear Algy?” replied Jack, turning around.
“Oh, I think you know just what I mean. Where have you been, Jack? You’ve not been in town all week. I suspect you’ve been off Bunburying again.” Algernon took a blood plum from a dish and bit savagely into it, red juice running down his chin in small rivers, staining his white Victorian collar crimson. “I must say, I am curious as to what you get up to on your little outings.” Algernon looked over at Jack.
“Oh, I daresay it’s none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what adventures you’ve experienced during your small wanderings, Algy?” countered Jack, raising his eyebrows.
“Well,” began Algernon, his mouth twitching into a smile, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever read the works of a French philosopher of sorts, by the name of Marquis de Sade?”
The doors of the small living room opened and a servant entered. “Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax are waiting outside. Shall I send them in?” He kept his eyes towards the floor.
“Yes, thank you Lane,” Algernon replied lazily. Lane turned and left.
“Algy, you didn’t tell me you were expecting Gwendolen!” exclaimed Jack indignantly. “How do I look, Algy?” He tried vainly to check his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, the very picture of youth and respectability,” replied Algernon, watching Jack in a bemused manner. “It can at least be said you have good taste, Jack, whatever else you may be. Gwendolen is indeed a wonderful girl – she is much like a ripe peach, full of sweet juice as yet not enjoyed, skin soft enough to slice-”
At that moment Lady Bracknell entered the room, a tall imposing figure in black, her comparatively small and petite daughter Gwendolen hidden behind her. Gwendolen wore a white dress, with her golden hair freely falling across her small, fragile face, perfect and white as a porcelain doll.
“You must forgive my lateness, Algernon,” said Lady Bracknell. “I was obliged to call on Lady Harbury after her husband’s disappearance.” She paused to dab at her mouth with a handkerchief. “I was not aware that you would be here,” she said curtly, directing this last comment at Jack.
“Then I am sorry to have surprised you, Lady Bracknell,” replied Jack obediently.
“Oh, I am very rarely surprised, Mr Worthing. I have been on this earth longer than I may look, and I have indeed seen many things. Very few things could surprise me now. However,” she paused, a smile playing across her face. “I must say that Lady Harbury did surprise me somewhat. When I last left her she seemed remarkably unmoved by her husband’s death. Indeed, she did not even see me out of her house. But I suppose that is what one must come to expect from a widow, as grief can affect us all in different ways.” She paused then turned to Algernon. “My nephew, I wish to offer a suggestion in regards to choosing an appropriate wife. I have recently discovered the young Sarah Abbey, daughter of the Earl of Caversham. She is quite a fitting wife; obedient, simple, pretty and well connected.” Lady Bracknell gave a small nod of her head at each desirable characteristic. Jack looked desperately at Gwendolen, who briefly glanced coyly back, giving the tiniest smile, which seemed to make her face glow. The sun came out from a cloud and bathed the room in warm light, as the rain continued to drum on the roof. Jack looked down, took a deep breath and faced Lady Bracknell squarely, although he had to look up to look her in the eye.
“Lady Bracknell,” he began, then continued in a rush. “I love dearly your daughter Gwendolen, and would like to ask her hand in marriage.” He managed to keep eye contact with Lady Bracknell, her white face blanching even further. The room suddenly felt cold, and the sun disappeared. Though she did not raise her voice, the room seemed to grow darker as she spoke, each word saturated in anger.
“Gwendolen, you will stay and hear me tell this man; he is never to marry you. I shall not permit it. If your father were able to be here, he would take the same stance. Sadly, he is still suffering his bouts of illness.” At the mention of her father, a brief look of revulsion passed over Gwendolen’s face, before it was smoothed back into that of a docile daughter. “Gwendolen, we will go down to the carriage now, and leave without further words. I regret I was not able to stay longer, Algernon. Perhaps when we are not in the presence of gentlemen of such unsavoury character we can speak at greater length. Gwendolen, we leave now. Do I make myself clear.” It was a command, and with that she turned on heel, and walked stiffly to the door, followed by Gwendolen, who glanced back once at Jack before leaving.
There was a pause as Jack walked over to the window and watched the carriage in the street begin to move with a jingle and clip clop of horses.
“Hard luck, eh, Jack?” said Algernon, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No,” said Jack. “I refuse to give up. Algernon, kindly get your servant to fetch me a carriage at once.”
Jack stepped past the large iron gate, peering up through the fog to the large mansion on the hill. He cursed the driver for taking so long to find it, for he was sure Gwendolen would have arrived home much earlier. He straightened himself up, adjusted his collar and coat, and marched down the path to the looming mansion, gravel crunching underfoot. He was panting slightly when he reached the large double doors at the front of the house. He hesitated, then knocked briskly. He waited and listened. There was no sound, except for a raven in a nearby tree that cawed loudly, as if to alert the house to his presence. He waited. There was still no sound from inside. He paused, yet it was cold outside, so he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.
He found himself in an entrance hall. There was only cold pale light from outside, which failed to reach most corners of the room. He paused. Then he heard something. A movement up the set of stairs on the left of the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was home. He started up the solid staircase, stepping lightly on the luxurious pale carpet which covered the floor. He placed a hand on the wrought iron stair rail. It was cold and metallic. He continued, and had almost reached the top when he gasped. Just ahead of him, the carpet was wet and sticky, a deep red. He knew somehow that it could only be blood. He looked down the corridor, and saw it continued, pooling up in some areas, and leaving a dark streak running further down in other areas. He continued down the narrow corridor, noticing that the blood became more and more as he walked. At the end of the corridor was a closed door. He crept up closer to it and heard a voice.
“I know it’s been ever so long, darling, you must be famished. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy this old withered handbag almost as much as you did her husband,” said a familiar voice, a ring of cold humour in her voice. She laughed as if sharing a private joke with someone. Jack looked back down the corridor, then opened the door.
“Lady Bracknell, I don’t know what you think-” Jack stopped and stared in pure horror, before dropping to his knees. Before him he saw Lady Bracknell, kneeling before a woman lying on the floor. The woman was dead, and her wispy hair was stained with her own blood. Her dress had been removed, and she lay in her undergarments, her white corset soaked with more blood. Her throat was cut, the slice quite oddly visible, a gaping cut against her white neck. It was then Jack realised Lady Bracknell was sponging her, as if cleaning her wounds.
The room was completely dark, with the exception of a small slice of sunlight escaping through a gap in a curtain. He vomited onto the carpet, then wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet.
“What?” Jack stammered feebly, clutching at a table for support.
“I thought I made it quite clear you weren’t welcome here, Mr Worthing,” Lady Bracknell said, calmly getting to her feet. “Darling, could you please close the door,” she said, looking over Jack’s shoulder. Jack spun around. He saw a man walk out from the shadows behind him and begin to close the door. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of white down the dark corridor, and saw Gwendolen standing at the end. She began to run towards him.
“Gwendolen!” cried Jack. The door slammed shut, and the man bolted it, then turned to face Jack. He was tall and thin, like Lady Bracknell, but there was something different about him that Jack couldn’t place. His eyes seemed to gleam red with hunger and passion which ignited his emaciated face. Jack heard something bang into the door on the other side.
“Papa, no! No! Stop! No, Papa!” Gwendolen was screaming hysterically, hurling herself against the bolted door in desperation.
“Oh, how rude of me,” laughed Lady Bracknell casually. “Mr Worthing, this is my husband, Lord Bracknell.” Lord Bracknell smiled, and Jack realised his teeth were white and sharp, and almost glowing in the darkened room.
“Please, Papa, please! Mama!” Gwendolen continued to plead, tears choking her cries, still attacking the door with all her force.
Lord Bracknell began to walk slowly towards Jack, a smile stretching his thin white lips. Jack stepped back, running into a chair. Lord Bracknell grabbed hold of him with a thin, but surprisingly strong arm. Jack tried to wrestle free. He tried to speak, but his mouth was completely dry. Fear had incapacitated him. He just saw his own reflected terror through Lord Bracknell’s searching eyes. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his lower back. “I told you that I would never allow you to marry my daughter. But I’m glad you made the effort to come out here, Mr Worthing,” whispered Lady Bracknell in his ear from behind him. Jack felt everything was blurred, his hearing slowed down, everything slowed down. He fell forward, and collapsed onto the floor, landing with a loud thud. There was silence in the room, and on the other side of the door, Gwendolen burst into tears, moaning softly.
“Well,” began Lady Bracknell, “that’s dealt with that. I must say I am rather glad we are rid of him. He would never have been an ideal husband for Gwendolen. Yet whatever his faults were, he should make a good feast for you. He is a healthy enough young man.” She looked down at Jack’s body. “Well, was, anyway. And it would be a shame to waste him. Shall I prepare him for you darling?” She looked at Lord Bracknell, then knelt down and began to prepare Jack for feasting, while the last rays of the red sun crept through the dusty curtains.
23/08/1875
Dear Diary,
I have finally done it. I left Mama and Papa. I ran away the day they killed Jack. Having barely known Jack, it has naturally been a serious shock to me, yet I find I have worked through my grief remarkably quickly. And though there are serious doubts on my social prospects without parents, I have for the time being found refuge with the sweet and good natured though somewhat common (although in all honesty she cannot help it) Cecily Cardew, whom I have found was Jack’s ward, and now call my sister. I am having to learn new skills away from my city life, and yesterday I learnt how to use a spade for the first time. With dearest love to you my diary, who has always been with me,
Gwendolen Cardew
Lady Harbury looked briefly down into her teacup. She returned her gaze to Lady Bracknell, who was still watching her intently, as if to suck information from her. Lady Harbury licked her dry lips, and Lady Bracknell’s gaze followed her small tongue as it wet her shaking lips.
“And so,” Lady Harbury continued in a small voice, “I have not seen him since.” She shifted her slight frame in the chair, tucking away a wispy strand of hair.
“I am sorry for your loss, Virginia,” said Lady Bracknell coldly. “Perhaps your manservant could fetch us some more of those crumpets?”
“Oh, I am sorry,” stammered Lady Harbury. “He has left for the market. I expect he shan’t return for a good two hours at least.”
“Hmm,” frowned Lady Bracknell. “I always believe that the efficiency of one’s servants is indicative of that of their master or mistress, as the case may be.”
“Hmm,” frowned Lady Bracknell. “I always believe that the efficiency of one’s servants is indicative of that of their master or mistress, as the case may be.”
She replaced her cup of tea and sat her unusually tall and slender body into the chair. She pursed her lips, a splash of red against her otherwise pale face. Her black hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, daring not to rebel against its mistress. Black glittering eyes remained focused on Lady Harbury. There was a pause as Lady Harbury looked down, then glanced over at the grandfather clock by the door. “You are pressed for time, Virginia?” demanded Lady Bracknell lightly, yet with steel behind her voice.
“Oh, no..well...” Lady Harbury rose from her chair and paced around the room, so she was standing next to Lady Bracknell. “Before Lord Harbury died...he said...he told me something...about Lord Bracknell-”
Lady Bracknell rose from her chair with astonishing speed and stood quite close to Lady Harbury, peering down at her face. “And what, pray tell, did he say?” There was no hiding her menace now. Lady Harbury looked up briefly, then, unable to meet the fury in Lady Bracknell’s eyes, returned her gaze to the polished floorboards.
“He said..there was...a reason..” Lady Harbury looked up at Lady Bracknell for a moment and let out a small cry. Her teacup dropped from her small hand, and smashed into a thousand pieces of china. Lady Bracknell stood, a small smile, a slash of red, across her face. And she reached down into the front of her dress, and from her ample cleavage drew a small, but very sharp knife, which glinted in the stream of afternoon sun spilling through the window. Lady Harbury stepped backwards, breaking more china with a loud crunch.
“Well,” said Lady Bracknell quietly. “It would be prudent, I think, if we ensure such damaging rumours that your husband may have inadvertently, I am sure, spread, are nipped in the bud, as it were.”
* * *
“Rotten lot of weather we’re having, eh Algy?” said Jack as he watched the rain dribble down the outside of the window.
“Yes, indeed. One could almost find it reason to get out of London,” replied Algernon with a smirk.
“Whatever do you mean, dear Algy?” replied Jack, turning around.
“Oh, I think you know just what I mean. Where have you been, Jack? You’ve not been in town all week. I suspect you’ve been off Bunburying again.” Algernon took a blood plum from a dish and bit savagely into it, red juice running down his chin in small rivers, staining his white Victorian collar crimson. “I must say, I am curious as to what you get up to on your little outings.” Algernon looked over at Jack.
“Oh, I daresay it’s none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what adventures you’ve experienced during your small wanderings, Algy?” countered Jack, raising his eyebrows.
“Well,” began Algernon, his mouth twitching into a smile, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever read the works of a French philosopher of sorts, by the name of Marquis de Sade?”
The doors of the small living room opened and a servant entered. “Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax are waiting outside. Shall I send them in?” He kept his eyes towards the floor.
“Yes, thank you Lane,” Algernon replied lazily. Lane turned and left.
“Algy, you didn’t tell me you were expecting Gwendolen!” exclaimed Jack indignantly. “How do I look, Algy?” He tried vainly to check his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, the very picture of youth and respectability,” replied Algernon, watching Jack in a bemused manner. “It can at least be said you have good taste, Jack, whatever else you may be. Gwendolen is indeed a wonderful girl – she is much like a ripe peach, full of sweet juice as yet not enjoyed, skin soft enough to slice-”
At that moment Lady Bracknell entered the room, a tall imposing figure in black, her comparatively small and petite daughter Gwendolen hidden behind her. Gwendolen wore a white dress, with her golden hair freely falling across her small, fragile face, perfect and white as a porcelain doll.
“You must forgive my lateness, Algernon,” said Lady Bracknell. “I was obliged to call on Lady Harbury after her husband’s disappearance.” She paused to dab at her mouth with a handkerchief. “I was not aware that you would be here,” she said curtly, directing this last comment at Jack.
“Then I am sorry to have surprised you, Lady Bracknell,” replied Jack obediently.
“Oh, I am very rarely surprised, Mr Worthing. I have been on this earth longer than I may look, and I have indeed seen many things. Very few things could surprise me now. However,” she paused, a smile playing across her face. “I must say that Lady Harbury did surprise me somewhat. When I last left her she seemed remarkably unmoved by her husband’s death. Indeed, she did not even see me out of her house. But I suppose that is what one must come to expect from a widow, as grief can affect us all in different ways.” She paused then turned to Algernon. “My nephew, I wish to offer a suggestion in regards to choosing an appropriate wife. I have recently discovered the young Sarah Abbey, daughter of the Earl of Caversham. She is quite a fitting wife; obedient, simple, pretty and well connected.” Lady Bracknell gave a small nod of her head at each desirable characteristic. Jack looked desperately at Gwendolen, who briefly glanced coyly back, giving the tiniest smile, which seemed to make her face glow. The sun came out from a cloud and bathed the room in warm light, as the rain continued to drum on the roof. Jack looked down, took a deep breath and faced Lady Bracknell squarely, although he had to look up to look her in the eye.
“Lady Bracknell,” he began, then continued in a rush. “I love dearly your daughter Gwendolen, and would like to ask her hand in marriage.” He managed to keep eye contact with Lady Bracknell, her white face blanching even further. The room suddenly felt cold, and the sun disappeared. Though she did not raise her voice, the room seemed to grow darker as she spoke, each word saturated in anger.
“Gwendolen, you will stay and hear me tell this man; he is never to marry you. I shall not permit it. If your father were able to be here, he would take the same stance. Sadly, he is still suffering his bouts of illness.” At the mention of her father, a brief look of revulsion passed over Gwendolen’s face, before it was smoothed back into that of a docile daughter. “Gwendolen, we will go down to the carriage now, and leave without further words. I regret I was not able to stay longer, Algernon. Perhaps when we are not in the presence of gentlemen of such unsavoury character we can speak at greater length. Gwendolen, we leave now. Do I make myself clear.” It was a command, and with that she turned on heel, and walked stiffly to the door, followed by Gwendolen, who glanced back once at Jack before leaving.
There was a pause as Jack walked over to the window and watched the carriage in the street begin to move with a jingle and clip clop of horses.
“Hard luck, eh, Jack?” said Algernon, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No,” said Jack. “I refuse to give up. Algernon, kindly get your servant to fetch me a carriage at once.”
***
Jack stepped past the large iron gate, peering up through the fog to the large mansion on the hill. He cursed the driver for taking so long to find it, for he was sure Gwendolen would have arrived home much earlier. He straightened himself up, adjusted his collar and coat, and marched down the path to the looming mansion, gravel crunching underfoot. He was panting slightly when he reached the large double doors at the front of the house. He hesitated, then knocked briskly. He waited and listened. There was no sound, except for a raven in a nearby tree that cawed loudly, as if to alert the house to his presence. He waited. There was still no sound from inside. He paused, yet it was cold outside, so he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.
He found himself in an entrance hall. There was only cold pale light from outside, which failed to reach most corners of the room. He paused. Then he heard something. A movement up the set of stairs on the left of the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was home. He started up the solid staircase, stepping lightly on the luxurious pale carpet which covered the floor. He placed a hand on the wrought iron stair rail. It was cold and metallic. He continued, and had almost reached the top when he gasped. Just ahead of him, the carpet was wet and sticky, a deep red. He knew somehow that it could only be blood. He looked down the corridor, and saw it continued, pooling up in some areas, and leaving a dark streak running further down in other areas. He continued down the narrow corridor, noticing that the blood became more and more as he walked. At the end of the corridor was a closed door. He crept up closer to it and heard a voice.
“I know it’s been ever so long, darling, you must be famished. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy this old withered handbag almost as much as you did her husband,” said a familiar voice, a ring of cold humour in her voice. She laughed as if sharing a private joke with someone. Jack looked back down the corridor, then opened the door.
“Lady Bracknell, I don’t know what you think-” Jack stopped and stared in pure horror, before dropping to his knees. Before him he saw Lady Bracknell, kneeling before a woman lying on the floor. The woman was dead, and her wispy hair was stained with her own blood. Her dress had been removed, and she lay in her undergarments, her white corset soaked with more blood. Her throat was cut, the slice quite oddly visible, a gaping cut against her white neck. It was then Jack realised Lady Bracknell was sponging her, as if cleaning her wounds.
The room was completely dark, with the exception of a small slice of sunlight escaping through a gap in a curtain. He vomited onto the carpet, then wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet.
“What?” Jack stammered feebly, clutching at a table for support.
“I thought I made it quite clear you weren’t welcome here, Mr Worthing,” Lady Bracknell said, calmly getting to her feet. “Darling, could you please close the door,” she said, looking over Jack’s shoulder. Jack spun around. He saw a man walk out from the shadows behind him and begin to close the door. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of white down the dark corridor, and saw Gwendolen standing at the end. She began to run towards him.
“Gwendolen!” cried Jack. The door slammed shut, and the man bolted it, then turned to face Jack. He was tall and thin, like Lady Bracknell, but there was something different about him that Jack couldn’t place. His eyes seemed to gleam red with hunger and passion which ignited his emaciated face. Jack heard something bang into the door on the other side.
“Papa, no! No! Stop! No, Papa!” Gwendolen was screaming hysterically, hurling herself against the bolted door in desperation.
“Oh, how rude of me,” laughed Lady Bracknell casually. “Mr Worthing, this is my husband, Lord Bracknell.” Lord Bracknell smiled, and Jack realised his teeth were white and sharp, and almost glowing in the darkened room.
“Please, Papa, please! Mama!” Gwendolen continued to plead, tears choking her cries, still attacking the door with all her force.
Lord Bracknell began to walk slowly towards Jack, a smile stretching his thin white lips. Jack stepped back, running into a chair. Lord Bracknell grabbed hold of him with a thin, but surprisingly strong arm. Jack tried to wrestle free. He tried to speak, but his mouth was completely dry. Fear had incapacitated him. He just saw his own reflected terror through Lord Bracknell’s searching eyes. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his lower back. “I told you that I would never allow you to marry my daughter. But I’m glad you made the effort to come out here, Mr Worthing,” whispered Lady Bracknell in his ear from behind him. Jack felt everything was blurred, his hearing slowed down, everything slowed down. He fell forward, and collapsed onto the floor, landing with a loud thud. There was silence in the room, and on the other side of the door, Gwendolen burst into tears, moaning softly.
“Well,” began Lady Bracknell, “that’s dealt with that. I must say I am rather glad we are rid of him. He would never have been an ideal husband for Gwendolen. Yet whatever his faults were, he should make a good feast for you. He is a healthy enough young man.” She looked down at Jack’s body. “Well, was, anyway. And it would be a shame to waste him. Shall I prepare him for you darling?” She looked at Lord Bracknell, then knelt down and began to prepare Jack for feasting, while the last rays of the red sun crept through the dusty curtains.
23/08/1875
Dear Diary,
I have finally done it. I left Mama and Papa. I ran away the day they killed Jack. Having barely known Jack, it has naturally been a serious shock to me, yet I find I have worked through my grief remarkably quickly. And though there are serious doubts on my social prospects without parents, I have for the time being found refuge with the sweet and good natured though somewhat common (although in all honesty she cannot help it) Cecily Cardew, whom I have found was Jack’s ward, and now call my sister. I am having to learn new skills away from my city life, and yesterday I learnt how to use a spade for the first time. With dearest love to you my diary, who has always been with me,
Gwendolen Cardew
05 October, 2008
End of Holidays
I have been neglecting this blog of late, as holidays have taken up the large part of my attention. And for this I am sorry. I can only hope you have been enjoying your holidays so much that the absence of my blog has not left you dejected and miserable.
I also am well aware that the story installment is late, and will be posted sometime this week. Yesterday I was required to dress up as Harry Potter and deadlock doors against naked drunk men as part of a birthday obligation.
Thank you in advance for your understanding and cooperation.
I also am well aware that the story installment is late, and will be posted sometime this week. Yesterday I was required to dress up as Harry Potter and deadlock doors against naked drunk men as part of a birthday obligation.
Thank you in advance for your understanding and cooperation.
24 September, 2008
SMACK
Is it ok to smack children?
Three children, who were taken from their mother as she could no longer care for them, and were living with their grandparents when the grandmother smacked the boy for playing in a drain.
The Department of Community Services then removed the children from the grandparents, and, unable to find a suitable place for them, separated them into different homes.
Full story here: http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,23177403-5001021,00.html
And then the Community Services Minister himself, Kevin Greene, admitted of his own parenting that "There were times when our judgement has been that it was appropriate to smack the children. But we've moved past those days of toddler tantrums and disobedient kids." Just a tad hypocritical. Of course, this raises the question, did the DOCS (Department of Community Services) do the right thing?
Certainly there have been cases in the last year where children have died, after authorities being unaware of child abuse. So perhaps this could explain the hastiness to do something. Yet was it useful at all to SEPARATE the children from one another? No doubt this will only teach the children that they shouldn't tell people the truth (for the child said, when asked whether their grandmother smacked them, 'Yes, she smacked me last week.')
And of course it raises the old debate about whether or not it is ok to smack children. Often parents do it out of sudden anger and fear about their child's behaviour, and this is justified by that.
But its the holidays and I really wrote this post simply because I don't want you all to run away to other blogs, as the waning poll votes would indicate.
Three children, who were taken from their mother as she could no longer care for them, and were living with their grandparents when the grandmother smacked the boy for playing in a drain.
The Department of Community Services then removed the children from the grandparents, and, unable to find a suitable place for them, separated them into different homes.
Full story here: http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,23177403-5001021,00.html
And then the Community Services Minister himself, Kevin Greene, admitted of his own parenting that "There were times when our judgement has been that it was appropriate to smack the children. But we've moved past those days of toddler tantrums and disobedient kids." Just a tad hypocritical. Of course, this raises the question, did the DOCS (Department of Community Services) do the right thing?
Certainly there have been cases in the last year where children have died, after authorities being unaware of child abuse. So perhaps this could explain the hastiness to do something. Yet was it useful at all to SEPARATE the children from one another? No doubt this will only teach the children that they shouldn't tell people the truth (for the child said, when asked whether their grandmother smacked them, 'Yes, she smacked me last week.')
And of course it raises the old debate about whether or not it is ok to smack children. Often parents do it out of sudden anger and fear about their child's behaviour, and this is justified by that.
But its the holidays and I really wrote this post simply because I don't want you all to run away to other blogs, as the waning poll votes would indicate.
18 September, 2008
"I Was Raped By My Exam"
Well, its almost the end of the week, the end of the term, and a temporary end to school. And of course the school knew we'd want a trial exam for our VCE subjects (they really do think of everything). And of course, after the trial exam, there was the obligatory conversations:
"OMG, DID YOU SEE QUESTION 12? WAS IT C, WITH THE HAPLOID CELLS..."
"Was it just me, or was there hardly any "d" answers for the start of the multiple choice? I don't want to have gotten them wrong"
and then you get
"I WAS TOTALLY RAPED BY THAT EXAM!"
"It was worse than a touchy feely groping Santa with a sackful of Rohpynol"
"The exam paper just held me down and sexually violated me"
Which raises the question, (apart from the rhetorical one, "can an exam paper actually do that?") is it ok to take a word with such strong and horrific meaning as rape and use it to describe someone's disappointment with their performance in a TRIAL exam?
Sure, we do it all the time with murder - "I'd kill for an ice cream", and its generally accepted to be "a figure of speech". So then it would logically follow that flippant asides such as "lol, I raped that exam" will become accepted in the same vein. But does that make it ok?
I don't think so.
Firstly, its just stupid. Exams do not have any sort of autonomous will of their own. They can neither initiate nor object or respond to any sort of sexual activity.
Secondly, to connect a strong performance in an exam to one of the most evil and degrading acts a human being can commit on another is a gross trivialisation of the trauma, feeling of victimisation, and long term psychological issues which surround rape.
And by trivialising the issue, we create a subconscious acceptance of the term "rape", and we are desensitised to it - as many of us already are to hearing about murder and suicide.
So if you hear someone say it, just tell them they're idiots. And if they don't listen to you, just give them a jolly good rogering for their own benefit.
"OMG, DID YOU SEE QUESTION 12? WAS IT C, WITH THE HAPLOID CELLS..."
"Was it just me, or was there hardly any "d" answers for the start of the multiple choice? I don't want to have gotten them wrong"
and then you get
"I WAS TOTALLY RAPED BY THAT EXAM!"
"It was worse than a touchy feely groping Santa with a sackful of Rohpynol"
"The exam paper just held me down and sexually violated me"
Which raises the question, (apart from the rhetorical one, "can an exam paper actually do that?") is it ok to take a word with such strong and horrific meaning as rape and use it to describe someone's disappointment with their performance in a TRIAL exam?
Sure, we do it all the time with murder - "I'd kill for an ice cream", and its generally accepted to be "a figure of speech". So then it would logically follow that flippant asides such as "lol, I raped that exam" will become accepted in the same vein. But does that make it ok?
I don't think so.
Firstly, its just stupid. Exams do not have any sort of autonomous will of their own. They can neither initiate nor object or respond to any sort of sexual activity.
Secondly, to connect a strong performance in an exam to one of the most evil and degrading acts a human being can commit on another is a gross trivialisation of the trauma, feeling of victimisation, and long term psychological issues which surround rape.
And by trivialising the issue, we create a subconscious acceptance of the term "rape", and we are desensitised to it - as many of us already are to hearing about murder and suicide.
So if you hear someone say it, just tell them they're idiots. And if they don't listen to you, just give them a jolly good rogering for their own benefit.
17 September, 2008
Awwww
Did anyone else catch the front page of The Age this morning? For those of you who missed the photo which went with a story about Malcolm Turnbull's leadership:
Malcolm Turnbull: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA, FROM THE DARKNESS I HAVE COME TO TAKE WHAT IS MINE!!!
RISE, MY MIDNIGHT MINIONS WHO HAVE RESURRECTED THEIR MASTER INTO SWEET LIFE GIVING FLESH AND BLOOD!!!!!!!!!
Oh, and did I mention that I'm a salt of the earth Aussie battler - we even RENTED a house at times, you know.
Nelson: .......*stoically sheds a tear...........
Well anyway, I thought it was quite a funny picture, and that Malcolm looked like a vampire, but maybe its just me...
Malcolm Turnbull: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA, FROM THE DARKNESS I HAVE COME TO TAKE WHAT IS MINE!!!
RISE, MY MIDNIGHT MINIONS WHO HAVE RESURRECTED THEIR MASTER INTO SWEET LIFE GIVING FLESH AND BLOOD!!!!!!!!!
Oh, and did I mention that I'm a salt of the earth Aussie battler - we even RENTED a house at times, you know.
Nelson: .......*stoically sheds a tear...........
Well anyway, I thought it was quite a funny picture, and that Malcolm looked like a vampire, but maybe its just me...
13 September, 2008
A Meandering Ramble, or Meamble
Firstly, an update on the last post. "anonymous" eloquently made an excellent point in commenting that as Sydney is so urbanised, it is in the outer suburbs such as Camden that a large school would have to be built, serving as a central Muslim school for all of Sydney.
Which really makes a lot of sense and makes me feel that I should have done that Town Planning elective in Year 10. So there we go, no excuse for not building the school. Camden is just messed up.
And I know I keep mentioning it, but I promise this will be the last time (until we get to 50 votes) that I mention the poll. We did get past the 20 votes mark, so well done to you all for voting. I'm posting the story a bit earlier today, since I'm looking forward to seeing a school play tonight.
And I finally got around to seeing "Hole in the Wall", the Channel 9 game show that has been torn apart by generally everyone for being astoundingly crap - so naturally I had to see it. And I can verify that it is really bad. Not even in a "its so bad its good". Just bad. And boring.
Which really makes a lot of sense and makes me feel that I should have done that Town Planning elective in Year 10. So there we go, no excuse for not building the school. Camden is just messed up.
And I know I keep mentioning it, but I promise this will be the last time (until we get to 50 votes) that I mention the poll. We did get past the 20 votes mark, so well done to you all for voting. I'm posting the story a bit earlier today, since I'm looking forward to seeing a school play tonight.
And I finally got around to seeing "Hole in the Wall", the Channel 9 game show that has been torn apart by generally everyone for being astoundingly crap - so naturally I had to see it. And I can verify that it is really bad. Not even in a "its so bad its good". Just bad. And boring.
06 September, 2008
More Stories
It was nice to see some politeness restored to the shoutbox today, and I am beginning to wonder how I ever misjudged "Guest"'s integrity of character. Now that order and peace has been restored, here is the next installment in the epic saga of Margaret and Mittens. And thank you everyone for your voting and contributions.
For those of you who might not have read the story so far (and can't be bothered, though I assure you its well worth the effort), Margaret tried to make a milkshake, but the power went out. She and her cat Mittens subsequently fleed a strange man, finding refuge with Emily, a Harry Potter fanatic who speaks using dialogue from the novels, and tries to live in the world of Harry Potter. Margaret was seeking an escape from this situation when we last left her...
For those of you who might not have read the story so far (and can't be bothered, though I assure you its well worth the effort), Margaret tried to make a milkshake, but the power went out. She and her cat Mittens subsequently fleed a strange man, finding refuge with Emily, a Harry Potter fanatic who speaks using dialogue from the novels, and tries to live in the world of Harry Potter. Margaret was seeking an escape from this situation when we last left her...
03 September, 2008
It's Spring
Yep, the title pretty much says it. One month of blogging and we've already reached Spring. For the record, my birthday is on the 23rd of September, and I like hand made cards and picnics.
We have 10 votes on the poll, which isn't too much - but I'm anticipating a last minute "HAVE TO VOTE ON GELATI GECKO'S BLOG" rush which will no doubt crash my server through the 2 or 3 people clicking away frantically. So please vote, you don't need to have an account or anything. And in other news, we will no doubt be a little saddened to hear that boooo, or mk, has decided to stop posting in an attempt to bring some balance by challenging my incoherent babbles. I don't think mk will actually stop, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
We are always hearing about the joy that Spring brings, giving birth to new life, starting nature's cycle anew, rejuvinating the fields, etc. And it does make you wonder what the other seasons must think when it comes around to Spring...
Winter (seeing Spring skipping gaily along, approaching from a distance): Oh look, its Spring come to take my place.... clearly the favourite....why do I even bother...
Spring: Hello, Winter! Been a cold and wet one?
Winter: No, its been dry and hot. What the fuck do you think?
Spring: .....well, I'm sure its been great weather-
Winter: You know what people say?
Spring: No, I expect they-
Winter: "What shitty cold, rainy weather. At least its something for the farmers."
*awkward pause
Spring: Oh, come on, I'm sure they're just joking arou-
Winter: Just shut up. You're pathetic. I hate you. Go die. Seriously. Go. Fucking. Die.
*Autumn enters
Autumn: Oh...its you, Spring. (melancholically) I will never compare to your splendor....
*Autumn trudges away sadly, scuffing dead leaves.
Winter (under breath): Autumn's just as pathetic. Go die. Go. Die.
*Winter leaves. Spring shrugs, and cartwheels into place with a beaming smile.
I know, I know, I have far too much time on my hands. Actually, that's not true. I have very little time on my hands - I simply waste it on this. There, don't you feel priveleged?
*Note: I'll probably regret this post later...but I've written it now so, as Macbeth would say "to go back were as tedious as to go o'er"...
We have 10 votes on the poll, which isn't too much - but I'm anticipating a last minute "HAVE TO VOTE ON GELATI GECKO'S BLOG" rush which will no doubt crash my server through the 2 or 3 people clicking away frantically. So please vote, you don't need to have an account or anything. And in other news, we will no doubt be a little saddened to hear that boooo, or mk, has decided to stop posting in an attempt to bring some balance by challenging my incoherent babbles. I don't think mk will actually stop, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
We are always hearing about the joy that Spring brings, giving birth to new life, starting nature's cycle anew, rejuvinating the fields, etc. And it does make you wonder what the other seasons must think when it comes around to Spring...
Winter (seeing Spring skipping gaily along, approaching from a distance): Oh look, its Spring come to take my place.... clearly the favourite....why do I even bother...
Spring: Hello, Winter! Been a cold and wet one?
Winter: No, its been dry and hot. What the fuck do you think?
Spring: .....well, I'm sure its been great weather-
Winter: You know what people say?
Spring: No, I expect they-
Winter: "What shitty cold, rainy weather. At least its something for the farmers."
*awkward pause
Spring: Oh, come on, I'm sure they're just joking arou-
Winter: Just shut up. You're pathetic. I hate you. Go die. Seriously. Go. Fucking. Die.
*Autumn enters
Autumn: Oh...its you, Spring. (melancholically) I will never compare to your splendor....
*Autumn trudges away sadly, scuffing dead leaves.
Winter (under breath): Autumn's just as pathetic. Go die. Go. Die.
*Winter leaves. Spring shrugs, and cartwheels into place with a beaming smile.
I know, I know, I have far too much time on my hands. Actually, that's not true. I have very little time on my hands - I simply waste it on this. There, don't you feel priveleged?
*Note: I'll probably regret this post later...but I've written it now so, as Macbeth would say "to go back were as tedious as to go o'er"...
02 September, 2008
Perspective
The other day we had some grandparents visiting because someone in the family had passed away and there was a funeral (seems about the only time they DO come down and stay with us, which is a bit sad...). And it reminded me how elder people seem to have such a strange sense of perspective. It's like this:
Things concerning babies: Breathing, walking, eating
Things concerning toddlers: Thomas the Tank Engine sets, sandpits, hand paintings
Things concerning teenagers: School, relationships, their own self centred sense of disillusionment with the world
Things concerning adults: Jobs, money, families, responsibilities
Things concerning elderly: How to make the perfect flourless chocolate cake (use less egg yolks apparently), whether the begonias are flourishing as well as they should (or should we use extra rainwater collected in the new rainwater tank?), the name of the new presenter from Better Homes and Gardens that was doing the Japanese style pagodas.
Can we see a trend?
Older people can often get bogged down in the smallest details. It can be quite funny when your grandparents are insisting they couldn't eat more of the green beans at dinner (which were probably a tad overcooked anyway), or asking if it might be possible for the television is free at 7.30 so we can watch the episode of Jamie Durie's makeover show where they put the pizza oven in.
And funnier still when they tell you about how they went to someone's house and they were served up some muffins/cake/miscellaneous foodlike comestibles, and they were incredibly tough/tasteless/dry, and so then they didn't want to offend the friends so they ate it, but "oh, it was tasteless as anything, I tell you!"
Or the latest expedition to ALDI, the cheaper supermarket store that stocks only one brand of each product. A good 10 mins was spent discussing the 'adventure' and thrill of ALDI. And then you have the conversations like this around the family dinner table (I changed names, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental):
Mabel: "We went to ALDIs, didn't we George?"
George: "Yep."
Mabel: "Oh, and they have SUCH a selection, didn't they? No, they really do. I honestly and truly believe they are really, really, good, high quality, good value..."
*ticking each off her fingers as she speaks
*obliging nods from people round table
Mabel: "We told the McPattons to go there as well, didn't we? And what did she say to us? What did Mary say to us?"
*blank looks
Mabel: "She said "MABEL, I can't believe it! I bought all this" and she had all these tins of tuna, didn't she, and it was tuna with good quality olive oil - you can't get that in other supermarkets now-"
*everyone thinks "Yes you can" but doesn't say it
Mabel: "And she said to me, "Mabel, that is the best buy I've had in YEARS!" Didn't she?
George: "Yep, she was pretty happy."
Mabel: "And we were there just the other day.....oooh....what did we buy....we got those lamingtons, didn't we? They were nice lamingtons. About this big" *shows us how big with hands. And we got some of those Italian biscuits, didn't we?"
George: "Yeah, they're big biscuits" *shows with hands
Mabel: "Oh, and they had ice cream - not lite ice cream, proper vanilla ice cream - we didn't get any though because you're not meant to eat ice cream, are you George? Remember what the doctor said? What did he say..."
and so on for ninety billion years.
I suppose its the gift of living for so long and putting up with life. It must be nice to wake up and only have to wonder whether or not they still stock your favourite Assorted Biscuits at Coles.
Things concerning babies: Breathing, walking, eating
Things concerning toddlers: Thomas the Tank Engine sets, sandpits, hand paintings
Things concerning teenagers: School, relationships, their own self centred sense of disillusionment with the world
Things concerning adults: Jobs, money, families, responsibilities
Things concerning elderly: How to make the perfect flourless chocolate cake (use less egg yolks apparently), whether the begonias are flourishing as well as they should (or should we use extra rainwater collected in the new rainwater tank?), the name of the new presenter from Better Homes and Gardens that was doing the Japanese style pagodas.
Can we see a trend?
Older people can often get bogged down in the smallest details. It can be quite funny when your grandparents are insisting they couldn't eat more of the green beans at dinner (which were probably a tad overcooked anyway), or asking if it might be possible for the television is free at 7.30 so we can watch the episode of Jamie Durie's makeover show where they put the pizza oven in.
And funnier still when they tell you about how they went to someone's house and they were served up some muffins/cake/miscellaneous foodlike comestibles, and they were incredibly tough/tasteless/dry, and so then they didn't want to offend the friends so they ate it, but "oh, it was tasteless as anything, I tell you!"
Or the latest expedition to ALDI, the cheaper supermarket store that stocks only one brand of each product. A good 10 mins was spent discussing the 'adventure' and thrill of ALDI. And then you have the conversations like this around the family dinner table (I changed names, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental):
Mabel: "We went to ALDIs, didn't we George?"
George: "Yep."
Mabel: "Oh, and they have SUCH a selection, didn't they? No, they really do. I honestly and truly believe they are really, really, good, high quality, good value..."
*ticking each off her fingers as she speaks
*obliging nods from people round table
Mabel: "We told the McPattons to go there as well, didn't we? And what did she say to us? What did Mary say to us?"
*blank looks
Mabel: "She said "MABEL, I can't believe it! I bought all this" and she had all these tins of tuna, didn't she, and it was tuna with good quality olive oil - you can't get that in other supermarkets now-"
*everyone thinks "Yes you can" but doesn't say it
Mabel: "And she said to me, "Mabel, that is the best buy I've had in YEARS!" Didn't she?
George: "Yep, she was pretty happy."
Mabel: "And we were there just the other day.....oooh....what did we buy....we got those lamingtons, didn't we? They were nice lamingtons. About this big" *shows us how big with hands. And we got some of those Italian biscuits, didn't we?"
George: "Yeah, they're big biscuits" *shows with hands
Mabel: "Oh, and they had ice cream - not lite ice cream, proper vanilla ice cream - we didn't get any though because you're not meant to eat ice cream, are you George? Remember what the doctor said? What did he say..."
and so on for ninety billion years.
I suppose its the gift of living for so long and putting up with life. It must be nice to wake up and only have to wonder whether or not they still stock your favourite Assorted Biscuits at Coles.
25 August, 2008
Colourful Comments
As you can see, I've changed the colours of my blog yet again to accomodate for some of you (one of you) who voiced distaste for the previous scheme in the shoutbox. Speaking of which, reader participation has never been higher, so thanks to everyone for contributing their own little bits. It warms my heart on these cold winter nights when I sit down to write here.
Olympics are over. Its sort of funny that China won the Olympics. Seems a bit like inviting a large group of friends over to your house, beating them at a series of board games, hiding all the rubbish in cupboards around your house until you wave them away with a smile - and "wasn't that good fun everyone?"
Almost as much fun as nude and naughty nuns in the beauty pageant planned by Reverend Antonio Rungi. This priest wants to give nuns a chance to prove they're not all "old and dour". The "Miss Sister 2008 Pageant" plans to allow Catholic nuns to enter themselves in an online voting competition. Of course, while "being ugly is not a requirement for becoming a nun. External beauty is a gift from God, and we mustn't hide it", they will remain in God's favourite attire for Brides of Christ, the humble habit....
Olympics are over. Its sort of funny that China won the Olympics. Seems a bit like inviting a large group of friends over to your house, beating them at a series of board games, hiding all the rubbish in cupboards around your house until you wave them away with a smile - and "wasn't that good fun everyone?"
Almost as much fun as nude and naughty nuns in the beauty pageant planned by Reverend Antonio Rungi. This priest wants to give nuns a chance to prove they're not all "old and dour". The "Miss Sister 2008 Pageant" plans to allow Catholic nuns to enter themselves in an online voting competition. Of course, while "being ugly is not a requirement for becoming a nun. External beauty is a gift from God, and we mustn't hide it", they will remain in God's favourite attire for Brides of Christ, the humble habit....
23 August, 2008
Radical and Crazy New Idea
Ok.
I am about to suggest something so crazy, so...absolutely life changing for each and every one of you...that....well, just prepare yourself.
Because I am constantly seeking for new ways to interact with you, my band of faithful occassional readers, I thought we could play a little game. Yes, a game. So here's my idea. Because on Saturdays I have an illusion of more spare time, I thought I could begin writing a story. So I write the first entry, and then...wait for it....I CREATE A POLL SO YOU CAN SELECT WHERE THE STORY GOES THE NEXT SATURDAY. Think of the possibilities. YOu can also suggest through comments if you have a particular idea. Then, the next Saturday, much like Big Brother, the most selected suggestion will be written out. So its sort of like a choose your own way adventure.
The poll I have now would have to be closed, so I think I should sum up in a blog entry the closing results. By a large lead, it would seem most people deem it appropriate to give up your seat if the train is crowded and there are elderly/disabled people needing a seat, on 13 votes. 5 votes for giving up your seat because it just makes you happy (and good for you!). 4 of you object to giving up your seat based on the "concession ticket holder" status, and lastly, 3 of you would wait for someone to ask (on the logical assumption that if they want a seat that badly, they'll ask). So thank you to everyone for voting.
Ok. I'll have each story entry as a separate post to avoid confusion. And its up to you to see where it goes!
I am about to suggest something so crazy, so...absolutely life changing for each and every one of you...that....well, just prepare yourself.
Because I am constantly seeking for new ways to interact with you, my band of faithful occassional readers, I thought we could play a little game. Yes, a game. So here's my idea. Because on Saturdays I have an illusion of more spare time, I thought I could begin writing a story. So I write the first entry, and then...wait for it....I CREATE A POLL SO YOU CAN SELECT WHERE THE STORY GOES THE NEXT SATURDAY. Think of the possibilities. YOu can also suggest through comments if you have a particular idea. Then, the next Saturday, much like Big Brother, the most selected suggestion will be written out. So its sort of like a choose your own way adventure.
The poll I have now would have to be closed, so I think I should sum up in a blog entry the closing results. By a large lead, it would seem most people deem it appropriate to give up your seat if the train is crowded and there are elderly/disabled people needing a seat, on 13 votes. 5 votes for giving up your seat because it just makes you happy (and good for you!). 4 of you object to giving up your seat based on the "concession ticket holder" status, and lastly, 3 of you would wait for someone to ask (on the logical assumption that if they want a seat that badly, they'll ask). So thank you to everyone for voting.
Ok. I'll have each story entry as a separate post to avoid confusion. And its up to you to see where it goes!
19 August, 2008
What We Learn in School
Firstly, I would like to say thanks to everyone that has commented in the shoutbox. Now I have more joy in my heart as I sit down to waste time writing. But enough about the wasting time. I'll assume we all know that by now.
During my usual meander through the back pages of "The Age", I came upon an article which discussed the comments made by Mark Lopez, a teacher in the English system who recently stated that the English texts chosen were biased towards the left wing "politically correct" ideologies (wonder what he'd say about the "culture" films we get exposed to in French...)
He also made the proposal that half the books should be chosen by "right wing" thinkers, and half by "left wing" thinkers. Surely books cannot be summed up as "right wing" or "left wing". Authors of books often deal with many complex themes, and to simply summarise an entire work as "right" or "left" seems ridiculous to me. This battle of ideologies would only cause conflict, and encourage the opposing sides to propose more and more comprehensive books illustrating their "political bias", until educational value is overlooked entirely.
Brave New World, for example, is a book which paints a portrait of communism, where there is one society, where everyone fits into the larger part. While the right might hail this as a challenge to the apparent bias in schools, I think that Brave New World does not attempt to pass judgement on the world, it simply shows. We see John the Savage does not fit in at all with the values of this society, but he is not glorified into a conservative valued hero. (I, for one, would gladly live in the society of Brave New World - after all, I'd be conditioned to...)
We can use books to demonstrate anything. It is often quite easy to staple meaning to books that were completely unintended by the author, yet plausible. And to attempt to classify literature into "barracking" for different ends of the political spectrum seems to me very wrong.
In Catcher in the Rye, for example, did anyone else notice Holden wore a RED cap? Or that clearly Algernon and Jack's Bunburying in The Importance of Being Earnest was a thinly veiled metaphor for satisfying the individual, and rebelling against authority (as was no doubt the highly organised political agenda of Oscar Wilde?)
Ok, so WE SHOULDN'T USE ALL LITERATURE AS MASCOTS OF DIFFERING POLITICAL FIELDS. Wow, these rants are really addictive. But probably pretty boring for you..."just shut up and give us links gelati gecko".
During my usual meander through the back pages of "The Age", I came upon an article which discussed the comments made by Mark Lopez, a teacher in the English system who recently stated that the English texts chosen were biased towards the left wing "politically correct" ideologies (wonder what he'd say about the "culture" films we get exposed to in French...)
He also made the proposal that half the books should be chosen by "right wing" thinkers, and half by "left wing" thinkers. Surely books cannot be summed up as "right wing" or "left wing". Authors of books often deal with many complex themes, and to simply summarise an entire work as "right" or "left" seems ridiculous to me. This battle of ideologies would only cause conflict, and encourage the opposing sides to propose more and more comprehensive books illustrating their "political bias", until educational value is overlooked entirely.
Brave New World, for example, is a book which paints a portrait of communism, where there is one society, where everyone fits into the larger part. While the right might hail this as a challenge to the apparent bias in schools, I think that Brave New World does not attempt to pass judgement on the world, it simply shows. We see John the Savage does not fit in at all with the values of this society, but he is not glorified into a conservative valued hero. (I, for one, would gladly live in the society of Brave New World - after all, I'd be conditioned to...)
We can use books to demonstrate anything. It is often quite easy to staple meaning to books that were completely unintended by the author, yet plausible. And to attempt to classify literature into "barracking" for different ends of the political spectrum seems to me very wrong.
In Catcher in the Rye, for example, did anyone else notice Holden wore a RED cap? Or that clearly Algernon and Jack's Bunburying in The Importance of Being Earnest was a thinly veiled metaphor for satisfying the individual, and rebelling against authority (as was no doubt the highly organised political agenda of Oscar Wilde?)
Ok, so WE SHOULDN'T USE ALL LITERATURE AS MASCOTS OF DIFFERING POLITICAL FIELDS. Wow, these rants are really addictive. But probably pretty boring for you..."just shut up and give us links gelati gecko".
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