The Seat in the Front Corner

Quite recently, I have acquired enough confidence to sit in front of the classroom whether it be in a tutorial or in a lecture, only in the absence of air conditioning. Because of this, today I arrived in a certain class where this is constant and was surprised.

I was surprised to find my seat empty. I now deem it my seat because today proved that in that particular cohort of future English teachers, which is generally full to the extent where some students have to sit on the floor or place a spare chair on the side of a packed table, the seat where I normally sit was waiting for me. It was as though I was the Moses of the classroom, parting rows of students to get to my long-awaited chair, situated in the perfect position of the classroom where the computer is accessible considering I am my teacher's personal technician, and situated at an acute angle from the main board, allowing a pleasurable viewing experience.

It came as a shock to me. I normally arrive fifteen minutes early in order to reserve myself that seat, though I did not quite imagine that seat to be waiting for me in a packed room filled with students. Today, having been late for the first time, it came as a shock to my teacher, and I suppose it came as a shock to my peers. Nobody touched that chair. No, it is not because I have some form of germ that descends from my rear and spreads all over the chair, I think it is because my memory is to be preserved in hopes of my return, as uncanny as that sounds. The entire thing was uncanny. 

I suppose it is a good thing to have a reserved seat. It made me feel somewhat superior, that my presence is expected and that I am worthy of a seat and table space. Three girls were seated on the floor at the back, before I had arrived. Why had not one of them taken the seat I normally sit at? I wonder now, had I been terribly sick and not attended, would everyone in the room simply stay out of my chair? Have I unknowingly claimed ownership over it? Is my teacher that frightening that people prefer to hide on the floor at the back of the room? 

I like that chair now, more than ever. I like that space, that acute position, that technician position. I like that it is recognised as an area for myself, that without being told, people respect that area in respect of me. This happening is similar to that of my contemporary fiction lecture experience. The first lecture had all the students sitting on the corner chairs, none of which willing to let others pass into the middle seating areas because their things were sprawled all over the little tables that fold out in front of them. So, instead of asking, the people that came in later on began to sit on the floor besides those seated. It was not until the lecturer told the people seated on the corners to move towards the middle, that they did. Anyway, I occupied a spare table and chair on the stage and that is where I have been seated for the past six lectures. It is probably now officially my spot, too. Every week that I attend, that spare desk and chair await me. My lecturer strokes my hand as she asks me questions to ensure my comfort, and I am very sure that because I was absent from that lecture today, it was felt.

Perhaps my lecturers even respect me as much as I respect them. I acknowledge them as human beings. One lecturer was away for a week. When he returned, I was the only one to ask him if everything was okay, and it was not - his father had passed away. He smiled at me after he had answered, respecting that I had taken the liberty to ask him about himself. He is, after all a human being, and as am I, and he has a voice and opinions which I take into account for my opinions and future voice projection during my lectures, as I am an aspiring lecturer. This sense of respect, though, should be passed around from every student to every teacher, vice versa. It is a level of respect that goes without saying. We are all humans, we all have purposes.

Now, when I sit on chairs and use tables that are invisibly labeled as 'mine', I will smile and sink into the chair and sink into the feeling that I too am respected, and that my presence is felt. It is an important thing to feel seeing as we are all temporary beings.

The Importance of Grammar

I am here today to tell you all about the importance of grammar - however, as great as I am within the English language, I am afraid that I cannot tell you about the importance of grammar, because I do not know the necessary complexities of it.

Had I been taught from primary school all the way up to secondary school why I structure sentences the way I do and had there been labels put to these structuring of sentences, then by now I would have been an expert of the English language. My expertise would have been vast, and I would have been teaching at levels currently unknown, professional levels which would exceed my expectations and the expectations of others. 

But I do not know about grammar in the way that I would have loved to. Yes, I know how to correctly structure sentences, paragraphs, essays, articles and so on, and yes I know how to spell rather well without being too heavily reliant on new technologies like auto-correct, and yes I do know some grammatical devices, per se, such as metaphors and similes, however I cannot actually bring myself to explain to both another or myself the reasons as to why sentences are structured the way that they are. To my understanding, I know that the way I write is so because of rote learning. I have been brought up with dictation, with punctuation practice and because I read a lot, I know the structure of things but I cannot put labels to them.

These labels are crucial, because they are the solid base to which reasoning stands. But why? Why do I need to put that there? What's the difference with this and that? I don't get it! Neither do I, yet. I will teach myself what my English teachers failed to teach me. In fact, I promise myself from this moment on that I will not become a hired English teacher until I master the art of grammar. The education system here in Australia does not see fit the need to study grammar, because from what I am interpreting and witnessing, they just feel the need to follow the fast-paced curriculum to teach students what is necessary to passing essay writing and novel analyses, but not why. 

In my experience, students need reasons, valid reasons as to why they learn the things they learn. How then, can an English teacher offer reasons for sentence structure when they themselves are not aware of them? And across the cohort of English teachers in training with me, I can assure you that I definitely am not the only one with this experience. It is shocking, but most English teachers do not know the fundamentals of grammar. How then can we explain to students why things are the way that they are? Doctors have their terminology, nurses, tradespeople, mathematicians and scientists, yet the terminology for English has been abandoned. Ask any student, and they will be able to give you an example of a metaphor or a simile. Ask them to define a subjunctive mood, and you will lose them faster than a mother of eight would lose her children at a rock concert.

As a self-proclaimed geek, as an English enthusiast and as a lover of literacy and literature, I will acquaint myself with the one thing that most English teachers lack: a sense of grammar.

Diorama

Today I assisted a young boy in creating a diorama. And it had me thinking, our lives consist of miniature dioramas which we carry around and show strangers.

And their dioramas are also shown. Most are incomplete, most are in fact just artworks in progress, some never end up completed and some are completed but they to not fit the identity of the person holding it because they are built up of ideologies imposed upon that person, mainly by their parents or their peers or society or their culture or the media. Sometimes I wonder what my diorama looks like - is it original? Is it true to me or only semi-true? Of course, if it were semi-true then it would not be wholly true, which would mean that my identity is being imposed on by outer things that do not align with my personal beliefs. And I am afraid that that is the case. Is it interesting? Does it compel viewers to stay a little longer than the time it takes to ponder and wander?

Perhaps so. Perhaps mine is quite interesting. I have an array or artistic displays, I assume, a collection of ideas that are not ideal, per se, to whatever society or member of society I come across, because I do not think outside of the preordained box, in fact I think way beyond it, past the point of no return and those who have not passed that point do not comprehend the full complexity of that which is my diorama. It is mainly all a show, a show for others to applaud and accept, yet what is lurking behind those performance orientated cutouts is something deep, deep and sinister, sinister only to the preconceived notions of my culture, though, nothing breaking the law or nothing harming another human, which are two things that friendly dioramas cannot break otherwise they become a visual documentation of crime.

The entire concept is barbaric, I think. It truly is. How can someone bear to carry a burden along with them everywhere they go just to show others what they are capable of? And the frightening but mostly sad thing is that we all do. We all carry burdens tucked away in the deep dark corners of our dioramas. We carry sometimes burdens so heavy that our shoulders hunch, that our knees buckle and that our happiness seeps out through our chest and crawls down our legs, down and away from our bodies, not bearing the chance to return again. 

Yet some of us carry positive burdens, things they do not mind holding even if it weighed double their weight and even if they had to hike up a mountain carrying it all the while. In those cases, those people have been on the pursuit of happiness and they have found it, and they want to carry the knowledge of it on their shoulders and lift it high above their heads for everyone to see, everyone to see what it is that they worked hard for and achieved. This is my diorama! Look at how spectacular it is! How spectacular is my life! Follow me and live like this and feel glorious! Yet all the burdened still lay on dirty hay in their ragged old huts in the village below these tall mountains, and curl up even tighter than they have been curled up, and deny themselves the ability to reach beyond their visions.

We all carry dioramas and we all have something to display. What does yours show?

Eat the Cake, Anna Mae

For over a month, now, I have been replaying Beyonce's new album on my way to and fro university in order to boost my level of enthusiasm which tends to be lacking in the morning time, seeing as at that time my bed is the most comfortable. But something disturbing has recently been brought to my attention, particularly coming from my favorite song in the album, Drunk in Love:

"I am Ike Turner,

baby know I don't play.

Now eat the cake, Anna Mae,

said eat the cake, Anna Mae."

A girl from my contemporary fiction class had brought those lines up in a discussion about Beyonce's succumbing to a relationship after declaring independence that was brought up by me, and I did not look into this until last night, which slightly frightened me, and slightly made me feel better. Had Beyonce and Jay Z both planned to include this little rap in Drunk in Love as a form of acceptance of male dominance, then I do not feel too bad about this because in that case Beyonce would be publicly accepting of Jay Z's dominance, withdrawing from her said ability to 'run the world' as a woman. If, however, the latter was the case, which is that Jay Z and Beyonce both accept the alleged satire in the abusing of women, then I am heavily disturbed because I now will find it difficult to peel myself away from listening to that song in particular when it is so very catchy and appropriate.

Initially, where "eat the cake, Anna Mae" came from was Ike and Tina Turner's abusive relationship, wherein, from my interpretation of this event, Ike and Tina were in a restaurant where Ike wanted to celebrate her success, so he ordered a cake, and after having given her autograph to two young boys, she was forced to eat some cake by Ike. She refused this, several times, so Ike thought it appropriate to smudge a handful of cake all over her face, screaming "eat the cake, Anna Mae!" which is Tina's real name. Her best friend who was seated with them had gotten up in defence, yelling at Ike, so Ike had acted out and hit her across the face, making the situation much worse.

This little scene is a glimpse into the relationship between Ike and Tina. If this display happened in public, then what sorts of displays happen behind closed doors, so to speak? What happens when Tina does not have her friend to defend her, when all of that aggression built up inside of Ike is released freely? It is abhorrent to think of things that would answer that. It is also abhorrent that such a reference can be made in a song about a couple being so drunk in love that they find themselves being intimate in even the kitchen, intoxicated in intimacy that they had not known how they had ended up in there. The entire song then becomes inappropriate, how can Jay Z accept to make a cruel reference of domestic abuse, and worse yet, how could Beyonce accept to put that in her song? Or did Jay Z smudge cake on her face forcing her to? Sorry, I had to. I know, contradictory and whatnot.

I just think that there could have been more appropriate things that could have been rapped by Mister Carter, without releasing implications of violent dominance over women. The guy had his clothes on in the video clip, too, whereas Beyonce was strutting around in her bikini. The least he could do was say something meaningful in the positive way about women. Not that Jay Z says much, anyway, most of his raps are made up of meaningless literal grunts, profanities and derogatory terms to races and women, so I suppose then nothing else appropriate would have befit his part in Beyonce's song. 

Perhaps one day, Beyonce will recover from her drunken state and see things for what they are, that horrible things like domestic abuse should not be publicly joked about, nor should the joke be condoned, especially on a platform so universal and widespread. How about you eat some cake, Jay Z?

Late

Yes. Late is something I always am, lately, but not to things that are due or appointments that I have made, rather late to things I have promised, such as delivering an essay a day.

I see my current lifestyle as problematic because it does not quite encompass who I want to be, entirely. I have no time to express myself creatively unless I am able to produce a powerpoint presentation, whereI fully do express myself and receive a whole lot of gratitude towards my effort in my powerpoint presentations from peers that I otherwise would never have spoken to in my entire life. That is quite beneficial, yes, but I still am not fulfilling myself entirely yet. 

I suppose tutoring people also takes a toll on me. I am getting money for giving parts of my intellect, filtered intellect actually because younger children fail to understand most of my vocabulary, and I sit there waiting for them to finish a simple task, a simple writing task or mathematical equation and they take their time sharpening their pencils or blowing their noses or refilling their plastic bottles of water and it all drains away their parents' money and I sit there wondering whether teaching really amounts to something or whether some students just want a leading figure in their lives, one that is not either one of their parents, and I think that there is the problem - I am getting paid to be a guardian.

Being a guardian has its price, though. Now the children I tutor all are too dependent on me, and I hardly put in any effort, or maybe I do and I do not recognize it as much as they do. But, what I am beginning to realise is that the schools they attend, two, one higher class and one lower class, are failing to meet their needs to the extent where I am hired to help them meet them. This should not be the case. Rather than chasing the curriculum, schools should also take the time to assist all of those children who are falling behind. Teachers, after all, are getting paid to do so. What about integration aides? This whole teaching thing is a joke. 

Last year at one of my placement schools, a young girl had a speech difficulty and the government gave her a test to do and she apparently scored 'more than average' so they would not give her school the extra funds to support her. Regardless, the integration aide had helped her out a little, and left on numerous occasions when she would get too frustrated to even bother understanding what to do with her. I could not bear to witness this, so then I took over and I boosted her creativity with a few words and a lot of smiles, and soon enough this girl began to write like never before.

Similarly, another girl who spoke no word of English was struggling because she was left in the classroom whilst waiting for an ESL school to accept her. She would literally just sit there as everyone spoke a different language. The teacher would give her books to read and things to write but she would not do either because she was not capable. I decided to use the Vietnamese girl next to her to translate things I said to her and things she said back to me, and soon enough we began communicating with pictures, and it worked. She would await another mini lesson from me every time that I had placement, and soon enough she began reciting words of her own in English just by looking at the pictures.

I have also come across autistic children who performed better with my aid than the teacher's or the integration aide's. Some teachers no longer put in that extra effort, though I am not so sure that they ever did. It pays off, not financially, but spiritually, to help a child who really needs it. Maybe the education world would be a better place if this were the case.

Little Homes

Little homes can be troubling when the people living in it are big physically and verbally. This is especially the case when one member is an artist and writer, one member likes to watch silly television shows on full blast, one member enjoys the smell of cleaning products, and one member, well, the last member never really is a problem.

The first member, myself. I never have any room to place any artworks. My easels are stashed at the back somewhere, far from my reach, and a canvas the size of a pencilcase is always too much to place anywhere - dare I place it somewhere? Not really, for then I run the risk of losing it forever. And writing, oh dear, I need complete silence in order to do so. You can imagine that because of certain household members, I never really obtain any form of decent silence, nor privacy, so my thoughts constantly roll in my mind, yearning for a peaceful time to let themselves out onto a piece of paper. They promise me fortune and fame, and I reply, one day. 

The second member, my father, who blares Arabic television shows the entire time that he is not working, and blasts the radio the entire time he is working, and blasts his snoring when he is doing neither, which leaves me no serenity despite where I sit and despite all of the doors I close. There simply is no escape. Had I a sound-proof room, I still would have to put up with the crap he listens to. Not to mention 'the footy show'. I am not even going to bother capitalising any part of its name because the show is that pathetic, it is lucky it gets a mere mention in one of my posts. Barbaric old Australian men giggling about nonsense, to an audience who giggles back and my father who giggles louder. Then the applause, for no apparent reason most of the time. And I have to put up with all of this despite my utter hatred of football. It is either this, or Arabs. My God.

The third, my mother, who like a fairy with a bottle of bleach, waves nasty chemicals all over the kitchen which is embedded in the lounge room, sprinkling over all hopes of ever drinking a fresh cup of water without getting chemically poisoned. That is not to say that I always drink water all day, but once the sink is sprinkled, the wretched smell shifts from the sink and stains the entire house, depleting all hopes of ever being able to healthily breathe anymore. This is problematic because I always run away from whatever I am doing, gagging for any source of fresh air.

Which leads me to another problem, that fact that I live next door to an Indian Restaurant. We now have mice running around in our garage thanks to the garbage deposit they have placed on the land between our shop and their restaurant, and the smells, I cannot describe the smells we encounter other than they range from vomit to charred socks. I stare in awe at the flocks of customers they have walking in hungry and out full, and I wonder if they make it to the next day without dying from food poisoning. 

And the shop, let me not forget the fact that we live behind a shop with a customer as loud as a jackhammer, and another customer as smelly as a passing garbage truck, and other customers who are visitors of the medical clinic next door, who enjoy dropping off at our shop whatever they are infected with, right before they make their way to their appointments. It is a splendid experience, my reader, having to experience this. Living in a convenience store, where one must promise always convenience. Just yesterday I had my body almost decapitated by an arrogant man wearing headphones who thought the door must have been made out of an oak tree, slamming it hard enough to behead Anne Boleyn. Surely, I told him off, yelling Oh wow, I am lucky I wasn't behind that door, otherwise I'd have been killed! And today, he opened it ever so silently. So I guess this convenience thing is not all that bad.

But all these factors, my dear reader, do contribute to my inability to write a novel. One day, most of these factors will be eliminated and I will have the peace that I deserve.

Disciplinary Forms of Behaviour

Right at this very moment, I am absolutely bursting to tend to my needs by excreting some waste in the toilet. But I am holding it in as a form of discipline. Momentary discipline, that is. Because soon enough, I will need to be able to visit the bathroom, no matter what tasks I have to fulfil.

So, my daily task, other than survive on this planet, is to write an essay. Limited to no amount of words, and no particular style. Daily, I have been fulfilling this, despite the recent outcry of my university work. Do me! they cry. Do me! Do me now! You know you have to! So, yes, I obey them, and I do them, and then I am left with my daily mind-sprawling, mind-sharing, whatever you wish to categorize it as. It is, nonetheless, disciplinary for me. I know that if I do not run myself to the ground with some tasks, and just leave them on the side only to watch them compile, grow, and unleash itself from my desk like a kraken, then I will be attacked by procrastination and never get anything done.

But no. I have recently chosen a disciplinary lifestyle, as of around one hundred and twenty-one essays ago. And it has been working out okay. I am tired, but not overly tired. I am now more capable of organising myself, of remembering things, and my vocabulary has been growing without me knowing. I come to write words most of the time, and I find myself having to look up their meanings just in case I am on the wrong track, yet I find that I am on the exact path that I should be on, surprisingly. So I ask myself, then, how is it that I can do this? Reading, my friend. Reading.

I have been drawing only for my art class, and reading both necessarily and unnecessarily. I have been a voluntary and involuntary reader, only because reading also keeps me at the top of my game. All of these things accumulate and form me, but most importantly, they ensure my survival. I know that because of the amount of things I read, I am able to learn things quickly, to categorise things and rapidly sort them through my mind, summarising chunks from what I come across, making it easier for me to both comprehend and recall.

I have three art pieces due soon. I have three sets of art preparations for those artworks. I have a few essays coming up, for uni. I have a presentation. I have a couple of students to tutor. I have high school placement which requires me to teach next Tuesday. I have long chapters to read from a reader as well as a novel and another two novels lined up out of interest, and another two for that subject, and another fifteen or so for my creation of a flawless, or so I hope, English syllabus. 

My days are hectic, yet I am enjoying myself. It feels good to feel and be busy, because being busy implies that you count for something. I am accountable, and if I fail to do things it matters. By looking at the world that way, I seek to define myself.

Sherbet Bombs

A flavoursome imploding in one's mouth, a bomb-shaped cylinder made of melted sugar and colour splitting in half to release its serving of white fizz which coats one's tongue and sizzles like carbonated water, dissolves, and retracts into one's oesophagus where it momentarily burns one's throat, but one feels no sense of pain because one receives pleasure from the flavour experienced.

Sherbet Bombs, possibly originating in Australia, are the best form of confectionary known to all hard-working students. The fizz somehow allows one to concentrate even more on the task at hand, in the same way that the fizz concentrates on burning one's inner mouth. They are the very epitome of the word 'sweet', for they are sweet in every way imaginable. One simply cannot ever dare to imagine thinking without having a sherbet bomb in their mouth, for thoughts in that event are uneventful and overly mellow. Overly mellow thoughts cannot contribute to tasks, thus they are redundant.

When one merely rattles a bag of Sherbet Bombs in the vicinity of others, all others prowl towards the owner of the packet, sneaking closer and closer until they are close enough to kindly ask for one, but only accept a minimum of at least four. The owner cannot refuse otherwise they may risk losing the entire bag of these delicious goods. They must then choose, lose around four per person or lose the entire bag? So they offer their confectionary bounty and enjoy the lucky last one.

You see, Sherbet Bombs are simply divine. They are perfectly shaped in that any holder of a tongue, no matter its width, can comfortably hold a Sherbet Bomb in it and accommodate it as it melts into a heavenly sugary syrup for the consumer to enjoy. It does not disturb the teeth of the consumer, either, it is as though it was engineered by a professional architect of confectionary, perhaps even Willy Wonka himself, so that it may be eaten flawlessly. 

Its wrapper, a simple white piece of plastic with minimal line decorations and the words SHERBET BOMB sprawled on it, in the colour of the flavour it represents. This is to avoid future consumers from picking the wrong flavour, which has never been noted to happen. The reproducers of Sherbet Bombs know how much worth goes into them to place a wrapper that does not match to the Sherbet Bomb. They simply will not stoop so low as to hide the true colour beneath, in fear of losing customers, though with that said, customers would never stop consuming Sherbet Bombs even on the off chance of finding a Sherbet Bomb wrapped in the wrong wrapping. It will, in the event of this, simply be marked off as an accidental mistake, and the consumer will nonetheless enjoy the flavour that they did not anticipate. After all, a Sherbet Bomb is a Sherbet Bomb, regardless of the colour and flavour. Plus, each flavour is equally as awesome.

If you reside in a country where you feel there is an absence of Sherbet Bombs, then I strongly urge you to move countries. If you do not wish to take that option, then you must find a company online that can deliver some to you. Pay whatever price needed, just know that every scent will be worth it, for you will never have had experienced such an experience as having a Sherbet Bomb in your mouth.

Black Paint

As I was painting the background of my canvas today, I thought a little too deep about black paint and how we all have a background of black paint that foreshadows us. We all carry it around with us yet most people cannot see that it is part of us.

We are too quick to make judgements about people. We are too quick to jump to conclusions, conclusions that are not always true, nor met. We are too harsh. We see with our eyes and not with our hearts, and that there lies the problem, for if we saw with our eyes then we would see everyone else's black backgrounds. We would see the struggle, the trouble that they stand out in front of and we would appreciate their ability to still be standing despite all of the black in their lives. Instead, we judge, we hate, we conspire. 

'Love is our resistance', Muse sings. And that is true. But love is absent, it is slowly fading away with the notion of placing sexual intimacy first. Human connection mentally and emotionally comes before the physical connection. This is why so many relationships falter, the people in them fail to see and feel the love that exists. Instead they look only with their eyes and see things for what they look like, not for what they truly are. Inside, despite the blackness, is a lot of white. We are made up of ying and yang yet people see only either the ying or the yang, when it is both elements that make up who we are. Only some blessed people see both sides.

The white part of us consists of our successes, our achievements, our morality and ethics, our sense of pride, our sense of freedom, our beliefs, our inner selves. Imagine all that is left behind if only the black is focussed on, or imagine all that is left behind if all the white is focussed on. It is crucial to our existence that we see both, that we see with our hearts, that we blind all preconceived notions and we create our own based on our ying and yang.

I have too much of both colours, and not enough people to see it all. It is problematic because they are important aspects which define me. My suffering shapes my identity, my physical form is lesser than my inner form, yet the media forces you to believe otherwise. Do not be brainwashed by society. Do not let magazines and companies dictate your thoughts and your beliefs simply for their continuous income of money, wealth and fame. Do not let their lies poison your minds. Think for yourselves. Exist, thrive, be. You are special because you are you, your suffering, your pride, it is all a part of who you are, do not hide any of it and when you find another revealing individual, cling to them like they are the last human on earth, because they very well might be, as far as your ability to connect with them goes.

Carry your black and white paint with pride. Wear your identity, be your identity, pave your own path and thrive. Create, inspire, enjoy, live. Do not hide any more. Dictate your own life, and think for yourself. Then watch how life gains its worth.

Orphan

One innocent day, a group of seemingly innocent people attended a cinema viewing of the movie Orphan, its mysterious movie poster beckoning this moment, luring in this particular group and many seemingly innocent others.

The groups in the movie theatre were unsuspecting of what sort of movie to expect, besides the fact that it is a horror movie - how scary will it be? Will my popcorn fly? Will I spend the movie laughing at others in fear or feel fear myself? There was only one way to find out, so the groups purchased their overpriced snacks and drinks, and progressed into the theatre and found their perfect viewing seats.

The movie poster showed a young girl, wearing old gothic style clothing, and on the bottom it said, "what is wrong with Esther?"Most people who were exposed to that poster wished to find out, even if it meant having to spend half of their life earnings to do so. Fools. I was one of those fools, and as I sit here years later watching Orphan on the television, I still am scarred from the viewing of it. I am reminiscing on my first viewing and how my very notions of possibly adopting a child in the future died off.

I never have grown out of fearing adoption due to Orphan. I still fear that if I bring an adopted child into my home, that they will secretly be a short adult, wearing false teeth to hide their eroded ones, and attempt to rape my spouse as a form of sexual pleasure, and to fulfil their strange fetish. I would be lucky to come home to my house still standing, seeing as they also might burn my house down. As unrealistic as this may seem, every movie idea is mainly based on some occurrence, it cannot just be entirely made up unless they are depicting world peace.

Yet I still am watching the movie, to this day. The twists contained within are so powerful, powerful enough to have me keep coming back wanting more and more. In fact, I have viewed the movie enough to recite most quotes, or note all scenes in order. And my fear has also grown, because nowadays we meet and befriend people without quite knowing everything about them. That is not to say that every person is Esther, rather they might be some strange form of a person, a beacon of utter disturbance. This is also not to say that you should not trust anybody. Just keep your distance, especially if they are named Esther.

I have Orphan to blame for my need for fertility. I will never again consider adoption, even if it means that I will expand even more than I am expanded now just to squeeze a melon out of my nostril. A living, breathing melon that is not Esther.

Pumpkin Soup

There is nothing better to come home to in the cold after a long day of overworking your already exhausted body than coming home to a nice, warm bowl of fresh pumpkin soup. Not the packet type that you find in your supermarket, but the kind made from scratch by your mother, in the very hearth of your home.

Pumpkin soup is the most delicious type of its kind. It is just divine, its creamy texture separates in your mouth, spreading all over each tastebud, blanketing them, and then gathers together in the back of your throat where it slides down your oesophagus like a lump of heaven, gliding through to your stomach where it rests like a tired toddler, calmly and sweetly. Best eaten with a deep spoon from a round bowl, it enhances life after each spoonful, no matter the situation of the person consuming it. It evens out all thoughts and places the consumer in a haze of serenity, whereby no troubles can ever be thought of, until the soup is finished.

I just came home to pumpkin soup in all its glory, having been cooked by my mother, a professional chef who is not professionally trained according to contemporary society, rather she has inherited ounces of tradition and culture from every unimaginable corner of life and has combined them into varied recipes, allowing the consumer to feel from different parts of the world, through their hunger. Despite having tutored a child for four consecutive hours, and having to come home to a crowded house, crowded with the loud sound of the football blaring on the television and having to hear a commentary louder than my breathing about semi-nude men chasing a piece of rubber on a field, and despite making a nice toast only to have it fall apart and get thrown away, I am now soothed because I am consuming my pumpkin soup.

I am nearing the end of it, though, and when I reach the end I know that all my anger from the instances listed above will crawl back into my mind to replace the warm gap that the thoughts of the pumpkin soup had left behind, and I will be infuriated again. Life is simply bettered with pumpkin soup, especially if you have mild anger issues. It simply dispels them. Looking down at every spoonful, I notice that it is so flavoursome that it looks as though it has pores, just like if it were a living, breathing, being thing. It fascinates me so much so I almost cry every time I have to part with the vision of it in order to consume that spoonful. I am always left only on the verge of tears though because soon enough I have another spoonful to admire.

Maybe I am too obsessive about this perfect concoction, but one thing is for certain, my mother knows how to cook foods that transport me to places I will never actually experience. This is why I chose tonight, too, to come home to this soup rather than bring home a brown paper bag filled with fast foods that have been sitting around in a machine all day, waiting for some radiation from fast powerful microwaves to roast them enough to look appealing for both their low price and their low-paying customers. I admit, okay, I am obsessive over my mother's food. I will challenge you, though, I challenge you to come over one day and consume some of my mother's food, even her pumpkin soup, and dare to tell me any different. 

That challenge is real, I am not writing it for the sake of concluding this essay. I mean it. Come and try her food. Chances are, you can fit through the door on your way in but you will never fit on your way out.

Art: A Sense of Regret

Sometimes, I regret the fact that I have an artistic side to me, apart from my literary side. I regret also the fact that these two aspects make me, me. Apart from giving me a sense of identity, though, art takes a slice of myself away, and returns it when it is withered and useless.

Today I have spent over seven hours working on three varied art projects which are due in soon. I have, for two weeks, had no idea what to do for these three projects. I have bounced from idea to idea, and just when I thought I got the hang of what exactly a still life art project is, I have not. It is quite a challenging task, which requires effort, energy, attention and all thoughts.

I foraged through the garage, and mind you it was not an easy job, trying to find any sort of objects that I could use in artworks, which depict me. Because every object was out of reach, and far from the possibility of me ever coming near them without encountering potentially life-endangering spiders or scary looking rats or a web of sticky spider web. So I grabbed the nearest long object next to me, a pitchfork, and successfully pulled a bmx bike out of a large bike heap, and slid a large canvas on the top shelf of the shelves off the other canvases, bringing down with it dust and spider legs. Though both tasks were seemingly awful, I am quite proud of the outcome because now my art projects have taken flight.

I will not yet directly reveal what my three art projects revolve around, simply because of copyright reasons to avoid myself looking like I have plagiarised from some other source who, in reality, copied me, as doubtful as that hypothetical situation may be. What I will reveal, though, is that the three projects consist of toy dinosaurs, a bmx bike, statue heads, bananas and three-dimensional effects, all ultimately resorting towards one theme: urban decay.

What I am trying to illustrate though, is the toll this process is taking on both my body and my mind. It has not been easy creating these three ideas. One may think that three ideas are minor, but one has to take into consideration that the objects located within the artworks also have to contain elements of self in it, the self of the artist, me. This in itself becomes a difficult task when all that I have been focussing on for the past three years is pedagogy and praxis and teaching and learning. All of the sudden, I have to move away from theories and move towards the freedom of expression, and that throws me right off any plan that I feel comfortable with because while there are plans behind art, most of it is improvised.

Balancing both art and English is a difficult task. I have to split my mind into two states of thinking in order to accomplish both, simultaneously, otherwise I am incapable of performing well in either sector. If I have one phrase of advice for you, it is that do not follow the creative path if you have two elements of creation which you wish to cover, otherwise you may run the risk of, well, not being able to run at all. It is all a slow process and you have to abide by each task, each essay, each artwork, until they are completed in a fashionable manner.

Another problem arises with this. I am unable to create art when I am under the pressure of having to create it. Art to me comes naturally, the need to draw comes when I come across a certain muse, and only then will I produce something that is spectacular, meaningful and displays my full potential. I am forced now, though. I have due dates, I have a teacher who regularly checks on my progress even when he promised not to, and I simply cannot cope the way that I would prefer to. With that said however, I still am coping. Just not easily.

I am veering more further away from freedom by following a path which I initially thought was built on freedom. Yes, I reap what I sow, maybe I should have sowed something more tolerable, manageable and easier to maintain.

The Perplexing Stare of the Vulpes Vulpes

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The Vulpes Vulpes, also known, in the unsystematic sphere, as the red fox, is quite a mysterious creature. With its cunning movability, and its perplexing stare, it lurks in the nighttime and when caught in the beams of a car's headlights, leers at the driver with eyes the colour of fluorescent green marbles.

It stuns me each time I come across one. I admirably stare at its eyes, its face, its slender body, and its vivacious tail, often fluffy, and flirty to the eyes in the way that it twirls. I cannot help but wonder that maybe there is something sinister, but not too evil about these mice consumers, these pest hunters that lurk our streets when we are tucked into our beds. Its eyes, they too are windows to its soul and I see something deeper than a mere soul in that creature. 

Each time I spot one as I am driving back home from a long day of both teaching and learning, I am caught in a state of awe and I am inspired to write, draw, read, observe, research, to do everything that it is that I do when I come across a muse. The Vulpes Vulpes is my muse, it is the very thing which inclines me to allow my creativity to wander, to explore, to happen. Otherwise, my creativity is lodged in a realm where nothing productive is done, and I struggle to break myself free from this realm so as to produce and thrive. The Vulpes Vulpes immediately, without fault, pulls me from this realm and throws me into a state where I cannot stop my creativity. 

I wish to capture one, to hold it captive as my sole muse, so that whenever I want to dive back into that creative state I can simply go to the device in which it is entrapped and I may observe it for as long as I please. But I feel as though it is a crime to nature, that in robbing it of my muse, I am robbing it of its muse too, and robbing to fox, in doing so, of its freedom. For my selfish endeavours, I steal nature's muse, and the Vulpes Vulpes' ability to roam the world for delicious pests. Shall I steal from both the Vulpes Vulpes and nature, and dip my mind into a state of musing? Or shall I continue living a bland life until I spot another Vulpes Vulpes, stripping myself of a strong form of musing? 

It is a struggle I come across at each sighting of this elusive creature, and its stare haunts me as I attempt to think morally and ethically. Though these creatures have reportedly been known to attack humans, I wish to attack one with love, with thanks, with acknowledgement. Because of this creature, I am able to embark on mystifying mental travels, taking me places I otherwise would not reach had it not been for this sighting. I simply owe this Vulpes Vulpes creature my life, for it is from this creature than my longevity is ensured, that my reason for writing is prolonged, and that my mind is nourished.

Its wavy red-brown coat, its petite figure and equally as petite toes, its ombré hazel eyes, its perplexing stare, it compels me to feel inspired, and for a reason I do not know, and possibly will never know. Frankly, it is just the case, and though I hold no explanation, I am thankful.

Nanna Naps

There is an extreme lack of control, an inability to maintain any sense of control or any chance of regaining control once a young adult is lounged on a comfortable leather sofa after a long, tiring day, for once one does so, they fall into a peace that no monster can destroy.

'Nanna Nap', the fault in every young person where if they work a little too hard in their day, they will fall asleep at a spontaneous morning before the dark evening sets in, a powerful sleep wherein they nod off, wake up, and nod off again, continuing the cycle until they fall into the mental realm of all elderly, the point of no return, the inverted peak of inactivity. No young person is safe from this, it is a fault in their wiring because they are wired to initially explore and experience, not conform and comply - when they do end up conforming and complying, they tire themselves to an extent where they fall into a mental state that is inevitable to all those wrinkly occupants at nursing homes.

Young adults who are affected by these Nanna Naps usually are tertiary students who cannot afford to be anything but productive. These naps eliminate the possibility of productivity, and when waken, these  victimised young adults are faced with the daunting possibility of momentarily forgetting the time, day, month, or year that it is. Be it that these Nanna Naps are short, but they are long enough to destroy the young adult's sense of time, their sense of spatial cognition, and their hopes and dreams. These futile naps can destroy every potential of a future, whilst masking themselves with needs, wants and desires. Soon enough, at one point in their difficult day, the young adult would need some sleep, they would want to nap, and have the desire of rest, and the only thing that can give them all three is the Nanna Nap.

Nanna Naps have illusory benefits, in fact they mostly have no benefits at all. At the time they are initiated, young adults fall into the myth that they need it, that it will help them in getting through the rest of the day, when the truth is that the Nanna Nap cunningly steals away the rest of the young adult's day, and abolishes their ability to fall asleep later that evening, when insomnia crawls in and takes over. The young adult then finds themselves in a situation where they cannot prepare their bodies for the demands of the following day, and struggle throughout it when they finally wake after their alarms ring thirteen or fifteen times. They drag their bodies in a lifeless manner, involuntarily duplicating the movements of the walking dead, and have to rely on energy drinks or caffeine or both to keep their eyelids from caving in for the rest of the day, until, of course, they find the urge to, once home, partake in a Nanna Nap again.

Victims of both the vicious cycle and of capitalism, young adults have no means of escaping their daily fates. They must commence their lives, napping at strange hours and waking up years, or so it seems, later. Though they have no sense of control of Nanna Naps, Nanna Naps, as cunning as they seem, actually exist for the welfare of the young adult's mentality. They briefly calm the young adult so that they do not derail themselves from the track of life, and offer them a period of repose, wherein there is no essay nor exam nor experience awaiting to trouble them, where a fleeting utopia calms them, and provides them with the opportunity to release their thoughts. 

We all require Nanna Naps, as devious as they sometimes are. They are the student's guardian angels, the student's alternative to a getaway, and a student's nightmare. They are both beneficial and detrimental, but there is no escaping them. Nobody can escape a Nanna Nap.

Glenn McDuffie and Edith Shain's Perpetual Peck

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Large hands, laughing onlookers, a loving embrace locked with a kiss, all of which can be both seen and felt in Alfred Eisenstaedt's 'V-J Day in Times Square'. With Edith Shain, the alleged nurse scoring the lucky kiss in the photograph, having passed away in 2010, and Glenn McDuffie, the alleged young Navy veteran to ignite this raunchy kiss having passed away just three days ago, I wonder if the recreation of such spontaneous affection will ever again occur.

Nowadays, had someone grabbed a female the way McDuffie did Shain, it would be a large case of sexual assault, followed by court hearings, news articles, news reports and possible jail time and compensation. There is nothing as large as celebrating Victory over Japan in present times, though anything war-like should not be celebrated or initiated to begin with, thus there would be no reason for spontaneous kissing. Imagine, though, that most people had celebrated this way, that just like in some American movies, happiness was celebrated through grabbing the nearest seemingly attractive stranger and locking lips with them long enough for a passing photographer to stop in their path and quickly snap a good shot of it all, and send it in to Time magazine.

The entire thing just about frightens me. Had I been a nurse back in the war, the last thing that I would want would be a random man, jumping about in excitement to come up to me out of nowhere and suck out my oxygen supply. It would just terrify me. Look at the size of his hands, fourteen of his hands make up her entire height, let alone just one for her waistline. Her body is bent at an awkward position, and while Princess Diaries tries to imply romanticism with the nurse's leg kicking up in the air, I am implying that the poor nurse was fighting for air. Her hand on her dress shows that she was wildly unprepared, hence the blurriness, and the way his other arm is hooked around her neck and locks her face onto his like velcro surely indicates no mercy. This man wanted a kiss and this woman had to comply.

Imagine, then, had Shain been a hostile feminist, the great picture Eisenstaedt would have taken had she kicked McDuffie right in the groin. The way his face would have wrinkled, the way onlookers' faces would have just dropped, it would have been downright perfect. Shain's arms would then be formed in fists behind her, her face growling with anger and her foot lodged right between McDuffie's ability to be fertile. Would this picture, if this was the way I just depicted, be this famous? Perhaps it would be infamous, perhaps it would have been titled 'V-J Day Leaves Veteran Infertile after Nurse Shows Him Who is Boss.' Perhaps it would be the new symbol of feminism, rather than Geraldine Hoff Doyle  posing in a 'We Can Do It!' poster. 

Perspective, and point of view are two elements that can add another sphere to this photograph. Take for example the point of view of the giggling chap in the black outfit on the left, in the foreground, smirking away as he passes McDuffie and Sheen. "Oh, boy is she caught in his meat hooks! This is the best day of my life!" Or the point of view of the man behind him, in the white uniform, "Is he? Bushwa! No, oh he is! Boy the things I would do to that dame!" Or the point of view of the older woman behind the victim of amour, "Oh young man, you slay me with your display of affection! I wish old George would kiss me like that..."

It is all quite strange, how our world allows some things and denies others, and it is strange that this seemingly innocent photograph is so truly terrifying to someone with a large imagination. Perhaps this is an adorable display of affection, one I always tend to write about when all other thoughts tend to flail and come to a dead-end, and perhaps my imagination is too sinister and must stay out of lovely photographs as such. Perhaps I am a sociopath, used to isolation to the extent where spontaneous human affection as such frightens me. Either way, swoon at this display, marvel at it with delight, for it probably will not happen ever again.


                                                                                                                                                                                         

References:

WW2 Civilian Slang:
http://www.oocities.org/faskew/WW2/Glossary/WW2-Civilian.htm

'Navy Vet in 'V-J Day in Times Square' Photo Dies' article:
http://time.com/25853/navy-vet-in-v-j-day-in-times-square-photo-dies/

'Sailor who kissed a nurse in famous WWII photograph dies aged 86' article:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/sailor-who-kissed-a-nurse-in-famous-wwii-photograph-dies-aged-86-9193528.html

How Do You Like Your Eggs in the Morning?

The most important question in showing love or affection in the form of food is "How do you like your eggs in the morning?" When somebody asks you that, it technically means that they are so enamoured with you that they are not willing to risk even the lack of scrambling of your eggs to possibly bring forth the chance of a briefly upset stomach.

On the subject of upset stomachs, however, I must say that I personally, after having consumed eggs of any form, scrambled, boiled or whatnot, begin to release flatulence. And a lot of it. There definitely is nothing romantic about that at all. Eggs make me fart, and if somebody were to purposely make me fart by partaking in a breakfast with me which they direct, wherein they ask me how I want my eggs, thus forcing upon me the forthcoming of flatulence, I do not see that as a romantic gesture, rather a romantic disaster - mostly on that somebody's part, because they have now turned the lock to Pandora's Box, and will have to block their source of oxygen supply before they inhale what I just digested.

I suppose it is a natural thing, though. I know that members of my family have the same thing, yet I dare not ask others because it is not quite a conversation topic to have with other humans, rather I assume that it is normal because of society's satire revolving around 'eggy farts'. And another thing I know is that nobody quite puts themselves to shame, in my family, by asking how the latter wants their eggs, if the latter was lucky enough to have the former cook for them. The eggs are just fried, or boiled, rarely scrambled, and whatever form the former decides is what the latter cooks if the latter did not have the former cook for them. It is already assumed, and that is the way it remains.

I must say, though, that the only way that this scenario would be romantic is if the person asking the latter how they would like their eggs cooked truly did not mind the smell of the latter's fart. That, then, would prove that the former truly loves the latter, even if the latter's smelly flatulence has the potential to call for an air raid wherein planes fly into Australia just to spray the entire country with a nice scent strong enough to cover the latter's fart smell, so as to avoid other people in the country's untimely deaths. Thus, if somebody does have the decency to ask you which method of cooking you prefer your eggs to undertake, consider it a kind and brave gesture, the level of which depends on how bad your flatulence smells. Please note that this does not count if the former has not yet smelt the latter's fart, in which case the former would not know what they are in for.

So, when I hear people ask others about how they would like their eggs in the morning, I automatically assume that they know the smell of the fart of the person they are asking, thus they are brave enough to initiate the question, or even consider cooking eggs for breakfast, rather than something which does not cause flatulence, like pancakes. Pancakes are a good alternative breakfast for those of you who are the formers, and who do not, or secretly do not like the smell of the latter's flatulence after their consumption of eggs. Add a side of fresh strawberries, and eggs would forever be forgotten from this romantic gesture, this romantic concoction. And also consider this the saving of a potential chicken's embryo. That way, you will not feel bad about not enjoying the latter's flatulence and you will not feel bad about mutilating an embryo in a frying pan.

Eggs - the food of lovers who do not mind flatulence, or the food to be avoided at all time if you would like to retain your ability to breathe. Whichever it is that you consider eggs to be, please do not allow yourself to be the latter which brings home the former and nods when the former asks you for eggs in the morning, if the former knows not of your wicked flatulence after the consumption of eggs. 

Libraries, the Home of Luring Books

There has never been a time where I walk through my university library and walk out empty-handed. Always at the last minute of m stay, as I am walking towards the exit, I find a book on a shelf that calls to me.

The books do not literally call my name, they just sit there, and with the bold writing on their spines catch my eyes - it would prove rather creepy if these books could physically call my name, in which case I would not approach them, I would rather run as fast as I possibly can in the opposite direction until it is physically impossible to hear them calling my name. How would they know my name? And why me? I am the last person any talking book would seek to fulfil their legacy or prophecy. I am far too lazy and when I do move, I move at a pace a turtle would find uncomfortable.

Honestly, though, just when I think I have finished from the gravitational pull of a library and its many uses, I am pulled towards at least one random book which happens to fit my liking. The first time that this occurred, and note that it is the first because I usually tend to avoid bookshelves in the library when I am there to study for this sole reason, is a book about the Third Reich. It was short, stubby and worn out, and without hesitation I pulled it off the cold, hardly visited shelf, and took it to the librarian to scan. I never got around to reading the entire book, I did not even get half way. In fact, I probably read around three pages and on the third, I came across a long sentence. After counting the amount of words in that particular sentence, I had a miniature freak-out. One hundred and twenty-three words. I was so astounded, so amazed, in fact so in awe that I could not pass that page to read on.

Eventually, I had to return the book, so upon my arrival at home the week after it was borrowed, I opened up eBay and bought my very own copy - unfortunately it did not come with the exact cover of that which I fell in love, but it was still the same book, and to this day I am yet to pass the third page. What is important, though, is the fact that I now own this amazing book, and what is more important is that I came to know it by walking pat and walking back to a shelf on which it sat. Had someone placed it their prior to my arrival, in order to tempt me? Perhaps I am getting too carried away, but judging by all the crazy movie ideas I have come across I am failing to view things realistically.

I do not know, now, what scares me more - the prospect of someone having placed that particular book on the shelf for me because they knew I was coming and they knew that I had more than a mild interest in the Third Reich or books with sentences over one hundred words long, or the prospect of a book being able to firstly identify me and secondly call out my name. Anyway, the other day, I picked up a total of around ten books which I had firstly thought were relevant to my research topic, and had miserably left them on the side of the computer desk I was sitting at because they turned out irrelevant. The eleventh book I came across was one about Wittgenstein. The cover looked complicated, and it promised a complex but easy look at this man's life. So I picked it up with the intention of borrowing it.

Then, in the sociology section, a book titled, So You Think You're Human? It had a sophisticatedly dressed monkey on the cover, surrounded by books. I mean, how much more interesting does a book need to get before I feel like borrowing it? So I picked that up too. I asked a companion about the maximum amount of books that I could borrow at one time and was told five. That was the maximum amount I could carry, too, because of how heavy they all were, and coincidentally I only needed three other research relevant books to borrow, so it all worked out fine.

Now, apart from these five books, I have around seven other pieces of reading material and no time because I spend too much of my time procrastinating whilst sitting down rather than actually doing anything. One of these days, one of these days I shall have my life a little more organised. Now, it is three in the morning, so I must log off to go and read a set class text and fall asleep to how boring it is.

Visual Display of Affection

One thing that I have noticed about the human race in the twenty-first century is that we have shied away from displaying affection, we have been hiding behind our inhibitions too much lately, that we only watch them from afar, or from movies.

It upsets me so. We have the amazing ability to feel, to want, yet we use neither. We allow capitalism to hold us as its captives, we work from nine to five to earn enough money to spend on material objects, where we are meant to be striving for things money can never buy, like requited affection. Nothing feels better than to be emotionally understood, and to have affection stroking one's emotion. People are losing touch with their emotions and people are forgetting to feel.

One thing that liberates us from robots is our ability to feel. We have taken this ability for granted, and traded it in for money, for rushing aspects of life and forgetting to sit down for a couple of hours and enjoy the world as a blur with a pinky hue. Our lives are becoming too repetitive and predictable rather than spontaneous and atmospheric. We allow our fears to control us to an extent where our true selves are hidden deep within us, far from our surface and far from anyone's reach. 

Life is enjoyed with things capitalism has not created. Do not let those colourful bills control your thinking. There is much more to existing than purchasing things to regulate your economy. Cavemen survived without an economy, so we can too. Be loving cavewomen and cavemen. Love, and thus live. A life lived in pinky hue is bette than a life lived in a capitalist hue.

I want for just an hour to spend a conversation with someone who regulates their feelings, so that I may expose mine and share mine with that someone, so that our inhibitions can disperse and float away with old waves. The art of conversation is also dying away because of the lack of the pinky hue in life. In the loss of these two aspects, we lose our humanity, the one thing that, apart from intellectualism and common sense, allows us to be liberated from any other form of species. 

If we lose the things that we have been wired to have, then we lose our essence. To live a life without essence is to not live at all. People who 'live fast and die young' do exactly so. They harm themselves and utterly deplete the possibility of a rebuild, a repair, or a life. Imagine watching your favorite film on fast-forward - it would be too irritating to watch, it will soon become unappealing as you cannot stop to enjoy each scene as it unfolds. This is the same with your life. Do not live your life on fast-forward, nor on repeat. Keep it on play, at a steady pace, and move. The important thing is movement, for you can make a move and reveal your emotions.

If you want to live a humanly life, then exist as a human. Love. Feel. Do not be afraid. Fear is a time-waster.

The Power of Procrastination

Procrastination is more powerful than we humans expect it to be. We deem it a phase, a phase of rest, of reflection, of evaluation. However what we do not associate with procrastination is disaster.

Right at this very moment, I have a week to complete two Powerpoint presentations. Having completed more than half of each, my brain automatically has assumed, despite my large amount of reading material consisting of around twelve books and seven research essays, that it is time for a long break, and it has thus decided to write this essay in the duration of its break, so I am now unsure that 'break' is the appropriate word.

Unbeknownst to mankind, procrastination is a powerful force that is feeding on us. We are its bait, its food, its very nutrients and it keeps growing and growing because we are simply allowing it to. We brush it off like it is a normal aspect of university study, like saying "I'll do it later" or "it can wait!" are very non-lazy things to say, like not washing the car when it is dirty because the thought of the process tires the owner out is normal. Like having reading material but choosing to write something fairly relevant yet irrelevant at the same time is a good idea.

Procrastination is quite deviant. It waits for us, lurking in the shadows, until we tire of whatever important activity it is that we are occupied in. All of the sudden, we feel ourselves drawing away, being sucked out of our worries, and into a silent utopia where thinking about our worries as distant things and being unproductive are two vital aspects. And we allow procrastination to do this to us because, to be quite frank, being lazy is rather exciting. At least you do not have to spend any of your energy, well built up from all the nasty food consumed due to lengthy study periods and not enough time to eat a proper meal. No, with procrastination, all one does is sits and thinks.

Thoughts are dangerous. They veer one away from actions, and that is the very epitome of procrastination - it does not want you to think. It wants to rid you of all cognition so that it may grow even more powerful yet. It plans to one day rule our world, and it is already doing so by attacking each one of us individually at varied times. It is quite intelligent, for when it strikes it does not remain long enough to make itself seem problematic, otherwise humans would begin to look for a cure to fight it with. Procrastination simply calls your body its quick destination, invades your mode of thinking, and momentarily pauses any importance that is situated in your life in order for it to thrive for that moment, then it moves on to its other victim.

Sometimes, procrastination gangs up on groups of people at the same time, particularly groups working on a group project that becomes seemingly difficult to complete. It strikes, and none of the members have to, for around an hour or so, worry about the group work at all. In fact, most of the time they are happy laughing at useless nothings while procrastination is at work, so again, procrastination is not seen as problematic. 

We must win this battle against procrastination. We must stand up for our energy and use it within us, rather than let a strange source in to invade and conquer our hard-earned energy supply and use it for its own merits. We must use our energy to accomplish things waiting on our to-do lists, or even bucket lists. We need to fight for our right to be. Procrastination no longer should hold a place in the finest minds of our nation. With that said, though, I am procrastinating right this very minute...

Mysterious Money

A long, three hours of tutoring and two hours of conversing with two sets of varied people later, and I found myself at home, scavenging through my purse, counting my week's takings when I noticed something out of the ordinary - I had sixty extra dollars laying in the between the creases of bankcards and IDs.

A crispy golden fifty dollar note, crunched up along a rustic blue ten dollar note, both sitting tightly in one compartment of my purse. I closed my purse, zipping it tightly, then unzipped it, expecting some sort of hallucination from the inhalation of too much nail-polish smell after my shower in the early hours of the day. The two notes sat there. I touched them - yes, they were real. I had thought this was strange because they certainly were not my notes, seeing as the ten dollar note was creased in a corner - I normally put my money, however low the value, immaculately into my purse. These notes appeared that they had been left there by somebody who has been hearing my constant petrol price complaints.

Rationally, I left my purse on my desk and headed to the bedroom and asked my sister, who, after showing a rather confused look on her face, answered, "no, I have not been home all day." So then I headed for the bathroom where my mother was seated, excuse the imagery you may or may not have just gotten from reading that, and I asked her, to which she responded "no, I didn't put it there." As soon as I turned my back, both of them pleaded otherwise jokingly, in hopes of scoring an additional sixty dollars.

Then it occurred to me. I received that amount in the first half of my evening, from my first student's mother. How could I have forgotten? Perhaps that amount of money was pressed so tightly to her left breast, yes, that is where my wages for teaching her son comes from, that it was permanently creased to a point where I would refuse to think that such a state belonged in my purse at all, despite the fact that I was tiresome for teaching him for two whole hours. 

Then I began to wonder, if I ever have the chance to travel to America and exchanged my Australian money into American money, paper-like and easy to crease, would I forget that I was in America and completely freak out thinking I had stolen someone's wallet when I look down at my money? I probably would, even if I had a mini-freak-out, inside my mind. I easily freak out about things, like today when I mistook my rollerball pen for my fountain pen, both of which are the exact size, colour and build on the outside. 

And had not I remembered that I taught a student for two hours today and received money, I wonder who I would have given that sixty dollars to - my mother or my sister?

Humans Caught in Dishwashers

It is not every day that I, or any other person, for that matter, come across a human stuck in a dishwasher. In fact, the very sight of it is quite staggering. Today I found not just any human, but a particular human, my mother, fallen into the dishwasher, struggling to regain her balance.

It happened in a peculiar set of events, though the events contained were fairly normal to my household. After hours of his squawking and screaming and screeching and nagging, I decided to tend to my parrot's needs, and release him from his vast aviary which implies no entrapment compared to smaller aviaries, and place my shoulder at the entrance so as to provide a ladder to my otherwise difficult to climb body. Surely enough, he climbed up, and within seconds, was content. 

I, along with my parrot now seated on my shoulder, headed over from the backyard to the shop, to the ice-cream freezers where my father was re-stocking the Drumstick ice-creams. My parrot and I conversed with him for a while, watching him as he swiftly replaced the sold Drumsticks, and closed the freezer. I soon realised that the conversation had to come to an end, and decided to take my parrot on the fifth tour of the house today. I expected him to behave as he always had, however expectations are not always met.

Listening to his pleasant chirps, I had not anticipated what was to come next, nor did my poor mother who has a proliferating phobia of all animals, great or small, which has clung to her since childhood, instead of dwindling away like her hatred of food. She stood there, back faced to the entrance to my home which is connected to the shop, washing the dishes, unbeknownst of what was to cling to her back. As swift as a large butterfly, my parrot suddenly took flight like one of the first aeroplanes whose flight was anticipated but not quite expected, and landed right in the middle of her back.

Mid-flight, I screamed, warning my mother "look out, Dory's coming!" Just before my parrot landed on her back, she yawped in fear and the second she felt her shirt get a millimetre tighter from the strong grasp of my parrot, she fell backwards, straight into the dishwasher. Had he been awkwardly perched a little lower on her back, I would have been reporting on a rather morose story.

Her hands, covered in bright magenta coloured gloves covered with soap waved in the air after slipping from the kitchen bench, providing no assistance in the fall - my instincts immediately cried, get Dory away from there! And that, I did. I hurried him back to his cage, where he sat for the rest of the evening, singing in a quiet voice so as to not be bothersome.

Now, my mother hates animals even more, and I will not be surprised if I find my parrot fifty grams lighter tomorrow. It is not every day one comes across their mother caught in a dishwasher, with a parrot clinging for its life on her back. 

Story Time: Why Barbecues Smell

Barbecues taint one's clothing with the smell of burnt coal. No matter the distance between one and the barbecue, the barbecue will always win the battle of the tainting because of the strength of the partnerships it holds with things around it.

The official clothes tainting seals one as lucky, though. It presents to the world the fact that one will soon be fortunate enough to indulge oneself in a scrumptious meal as soon as the meat is well and truly cooked. One thus becomes too interested in the food itself to care that they now smell as though they were caught in a farmhouse as it was lit aflame, burning every animal in its wake. One is now the living, breathing envy of all those in one's vicinity who are yet to have eaten, or have cooked a meal as decent enough as that cooked on the barbecue.

That of burnt coal is a ghastly smell. It enjoys to enforce its existence upon those close-by, so that when one spends their time cooking their food over the burning coal, the burning coal spreads itself and snuggles into one's clothing. It disperses itself into ones threads and becomes their very essence, their aroma. When this happens, it becomes difficult for one to separate their clothing items from the powerful stench of burnt coal, and one has no other option than to once again crave another barbecued meal - thus it can be stated that burnt coal works with the secret land of food sales and marketing.

The rate that food is sold is determined on the success of the smell of the coal - the deepness in which it instils itself in the clothing of one, the strength of the aroma and the contents of the aroma. If one enjoys consuming barbecued sausages and onions, then the burnt coal has to be sure to immerse itself into that very aroma, and then proceed to sink itself in that particular one's clothing. If the burnt coal fails to do so, then its partnership with the marketing of food does not conclude to be as successful as if it did not fail.

The barbecue, in the same way that the coal is partnered with food marketing, is partnered with the coal. The coal demands its insertion into the barbecue, promising a share if it succeeds in tainting the chef's clothing. The barbecue thus chooses to agree with the partnership, allowing the coal into it and protecting it as it burns. The coal has to then convince the fire-starter to touch it, so that the burnt coal can firstly burn, and then burn even more. The one coal then has to battle the other coals so as to be the one and only successor to keep one coming back for more.

The partnerships of every day objects allow objects to secretly gang up on humans, per se. Humans should be careful not to endorse every day objects that tend to partner up with one another - yet how can a human reject the barbecue?