So it's the end of the month- the end of NaBloPoMo (it is, I just checked the calendar). And I posted once for every single day. And some of you read it. I hope. So thankyou for reading it. So now, one last ramble, if you'll accompany me down the convoluted, long and winding road that is a tangent of my own derivation (and Yosh's suggestion). 

So lip gloss- if you're to believe the advertisments if you wear a particular one you can halt traffic, suddenly turn into a strutting, 6 foot four waif of a catwalk-esque supermodel and find yourself attached limpet like to a hunk of a male model type. Here's news; they're not that accurate. Advertisments lie. And, lipgloss makes your hair stick to your mouth in windy weather. Not very attractive.

Most of the time lip balm's the way to go. Body shop peachmango, vanilla or pawpaw ointment do the trick- and they smell good too. Because you know, if I have a male model type attached to me limpet like, I'd like it to have been of his own volition- not 'cos of the 'shinyliciousness' of my pout.

 

Joey Chestnut of San Jose (do YOU know the way to San Jose?) can polish off 59.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes; Lani can eat 4/5 of a fishburger in 15 minutes. That's four fifths, folks, not four or five. No that's not my actual fishburger. What's this? I hear you say. Fifteen minutes? To eat lunch? That poor dear. Yes, yes I'm afraid it's true. *Sad nod* Alas, I'm restricted to a fifteen minute scarfing of sustenance (well I can take half an hour but then I don't get paid for it- you think I'd work for free?) My theory reads thus: My boss is secretly trying to prepare me for some sort of eating contest. Yes, contain your amazement. He'll get me used to shoving food down my gullet at breakneck pace, and then unleash me on the world. The new get rich quick scheme for newsagency entreprenuers.

 

Look out Joey Chestnut, Lani's in town.

 

And she still has a fifth of a fishburger in her bag...

I think its disgusting that someone could take a fruit and deep fry it and coat it in sugar and honey, and let people believe that it really is healthy for them. You know how you know you've spelled 'believe' right? Its got the word LIE in it. I think its awful that people that were formerly confident in their excellent abilities to judge the healthiness of a fruit snack can at some point be dismayed to learn that there are so many people better at it than they are. They're called nutritionists, it's their job. I think its attrocious that banana chips still look like banana so its extra easy to forget that they're bad for you. The person can still be bloody fantastic at gauging nutritional content; just because others can do it too, doesn't make their skillz any less awesome. Banana chips are sneaky like that; deceitful, illusive. Maybe the persons banana chip judging is simply temporarily unavailable and will soon return bigger and better than before.

 

Banana chips are evil. But yummy.

 

I just took a hammer and bashed the shit out of the nails in the back porch.

So I could tell you about the saga of the almost-tutored rebels. I could even make it sound interesting. You know I could. But I wont. Up until just then I felt about as soggy (metaphorically) as an Arnotts biscuit that you've left in your tea for a fraction of a second too long, so now it's just some blobs bobbing around on the top, and you just know that when you get to the bottom of your tea there will be gross little chunky bits in that last mouthful. Then I thought of that metaphor and it perked me up a bit.

So earlier this year as part of an overall not very satisfying Literature subject, yours truly visually consumed, perused, if you will, that most bildungs of romans, Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. As luck would have it, or at least the ABC programmers, the first installment of an adaptation of the very same was on last night (as you may have guessed from my hurriedly scrawled note).

 

I rather enjoyed it. Though it was a bit different to the book. There was a lot less florid explanation of the landscape, mayhap because we could actually SEE the landscape, and we didn't get a voice-over describing it as we could have done, therefore a tremendous thankyou must go whomever in production was involved in either not thinking of that, or rejecting the notion. I didn't much care for that aspect of the book- though apparently literarily it served a purpose (to er reaffirm the connection to the feminine mother Earth as opposed to the masculine 'God' figure? Something like that anyway...). 

 

The adaptation skimmed over a lot of the early novel events with great rapidity; Jane was belted around by her cousin and whisked off to Lowood, Helen Burns was met and dead in the same breath and Jane went from standing on a stool with 'liar' around her neck to an adult receiving an offer of employment in the blink of an eye. One can see why they did this of course- a la Lord Of The Rings, the material needed to be cut down, and a particular focus selected, in this case being the romance side of the tale. I suppose the whole Rochester affair is more 'interesting'- though that brings me to another thing. Rochester is meant to be quite unattractive, and he just wasn't enough so. Otherwise casting seemed acceptable; Jane was sufficiently plain, Grace Poole even more so (though she was reminding me of a Harry Potter character for a reason unbeknownst) and Adele was oh-so-throttleable as the vain, appearance-obsessed French ward. At Thornfield more changes were made- a Ouija board instead of charades were played with (unless I'm forgetting something) and waaay more flirty conversation was held, though perhaps I just didn't get that vibe from the novel's character dialogue.

The next part will be when we see the most deviation from the original text, I think. They simply won't be able to cover the remaining events in the two hours they have so we'll see what's been cut, altered, or skimmed over to meet the time-limits set.

 

So in summary, I liked it, though it is rather distorted. Framed as a romance, and dang, Rochester just wasn't fugly enough.      

Jane Eyre adaptation, 8:30 tonight, ABC. More details when I have time, ie tomorrow.

And so this is the end of Howard. He's out, Rudd's in and tomorrow there'll be a new caricature to put on the satirical cartoon strips of the newspapers. At least with an increased frequency. So what does this, and the new leadership mean for Australia? We'll just have to wait and see...

There's a lot of dodgy quizzes out there. So I thought I'd make my own. Et voila:

 

How many toenails do you have? 10.

What's your lucky number? 4.

What's a word you're fond of? Superfluous. And gargantuan.

Fly or swim? Fly.

Sink or swim? Swim.

Does pineapple belong on a pizza? Contrary to Mat's opinion, yes it does, absolutely.

Do you sing when you're alone? Or even not alone? Yes and sometimes.

What's a book that's within sight right now? 'Mathematical Methods 12', 'Introduction to permaculture', 'A Child's Organic Garden'.

What's the last colour your toenails were painted? Bronze, I think.

Ever sleepwalked? Yes. It involved fridge items and claiming to need to make a poster.

Are you going to the work Christmas Party? Most probably. It involves bowling. 

 

And last but not least;

 

Are you excited about voting tomorrow? I'm interested to see how other people vote tomorrow.

 

So they reckon that if you stop oxidation, you stop death. Oxidation=Ageing=Advancement of death (unless something else kills you first). I don't think I'd want to be immortal. Yes, you'd have time enough to do everything that you wanted, and then some. But then what? Sit around and watch Neighbours from here until the sun does whatever it's threatening and then hover about in space? Forever? For someone that gets tired of things easily, I'm thinking I'd get over it after the first, say three thousand years. And you'd have no one to share it with- friends would keep dying all over the place at annoying times. Another one bites the dust, and all that. But that's  supposing that immortality was a rare gift. Consider if everyone got to be immortal. Well, it'd solve the friends problem (assuming that you have the ability to make them to start with), and that of the ageing population, but think of the population boom if people suddenly stopped dying. Then we might have to stop people having kids (nasty little terrors, some of them, anyway) and we'd end up with a static group of inhabitants. Then what could you do with the milennia? Get to know the whole world. Maybe we could make that a goal for the week. Say hello (and smile like you mean it) to a random, this week, you know you want to; and now you have the perfect explanation- you're practising for when immortality is standard.

Kelly's clock on the silo

said eleven degrees.

Mine says 1:36. alone.

Use the harsh red light

to illuminate the

comforting gloom

because what is there to see?

really?

A human inside out?

Beside herself, within;

without.

Extraneous, Intravenous

variables.

Where every man

gets left behind.

Are amazing and resilient and completely, totally incomprehensible. But would you want to comprehend? 

 

The Burrowing Owl (Athene cunicularia) is a small, long-legged owl (makes me imagine it sitting miniskirted on a barstool, all vixen like, trying to seduce unwitting canaries who've just had a hard day at the coal mines) found throughout open landscapes of North and South America (So that's just America in general, really, isn't it? Only in America) . Burrowing owls can be found in grasslands, rangelands, (highlands, lowlands, inbetweenlands, Finlands, Greenlands, Icelands, Adam Band(t)s) agricultural areas, deserts, or any other dry, open area with low vegetation (Lewis (woz ere) 2005). They nest and roost in burrows ( digging with tiny little shovels- "we'll get to China if it kills us! Onwards men!"), such as those abandoned by prairie dogs (or rabbits? Can't you just picture an owl army marching on a rabbit warren? "Come out with your paws up! We don't want no trouble. Hand over your homes and no one gets hurt!"). Unlike most owls, burrowing owls are often active during the day (So then it's not owls in general that come out at night then is it? IS IT?! We've been duped! Deceived I tell you!). However, most hunting is done at dusk or at night (oh yeah, sure, I believe you now; try and fix it right after you admit we've been lied to all these years!).

They are often killed by vehicles when crossing roads (why did the owl cross the road?), and have many natural enemies, including badgers, (polar bears, pink iguanas, yoda), coyotes, and snakes (can't you just picture a massive, lethargic, satiated, anaconda with an owl shaped lump protruding from its belly?). They are also killed by both feral and domestic cats and dogs (but then what native wildlife isn't?).

I am:

So I'm back to being an anti-theft detector. They don't thieve, and I detect that. While staring at a table of assorted childrens books (the books are assorted, not their child owners), while listening to shopping centre music of varying degrees of crapness, outside the newsagency of my current employment.

 

"my heart is drenched in whine...."

 

My guarding duties include manning a little cash register that I wish to call decrepit, even though I think its rather new. It is operated by a power cord which dangles from the ceiling which is lovely- allows for all kinds of situations should the shopping centre flood and I feel a sudden urge to swing from something tarzan like.

 

"Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon..."

 

While guarding/ day-dreaming/ standing around in a shopping centre being conspicuous or inconspicuous depending on your point of view, a woman (surely I can think of a better label than that...old bat, cantankerous curmudgeon. Oh codger! I heart the word 'codger') perusing the table decided to purchase some items. She didn't recognise that I was standing there to serve her evidently because she went to walk inside the shop. Me sensing danger, Will Robinson thought it would be a good idea to avert this, seeing as it's not really a clever career move to let it be known to boss man that I'm doing such a good chameleo-stealth-guard job that customers fail to notice I'm there.

 

"Desssssssssssperadooooooooo"

 

I went up to her and asked if I could help her, stopping her in mid stride. I am wearing the newsagency uniform and am clearly non threatening. She gave me a frightened, startled glance like a lemur that's just spotted a rhinoceros balancing a pint of lager on it's head, and hightailed it into the store.

 

"Your eyes have died; but you see more than I"

 

I promptly shrugged, removed the pint from my head and skolled it, while settling gracefully back into my chair.

 

I have nine minutes to do this and I have two conversations on the go. So quick, word connections, lets go.

 

Orange juice box ing gloves of silk slip of the tongue piercing stare case book club foot ball bearing strait laced up tight wad of cotton on demand attention seeker of light bringer of hope

 

So that was my word association/ stream of consciousness; make of it what you will :P

 

 

Sights, nights, the right to fight and flashing lights;

dancing, stinging, prancing, singing.

Buoyed, annoyed, you're devoid;

devotion, emotion. Commotion.

Revolution, persecution;

execution.  

I feel small, miniscule, like an ant or a bug underneath a microscope, but I am bodiless and insubstantial; a mind without a physical shell. The landscape is all black and white, and grey and shadows dominate. I can feel I am being watched, but I am also the one watching. I am trapped here and a thousand terrified thoughts race through my consciousness.

 

Walls surrounding me do not ease my sense of size, reaching up forever, as high as I can see and reducing me comparatively to miniscule proportions. It strikes me as eerily symbolic of the world and my place in it. Suddenly the walls collapse in on themselves they flicker like the picture in an old grainy black and white television show, the rubble never touches the ground, but disappears as quickly as the walls disintegrate, leaving a barren desert landscape so bleak and empty that not even the wind is there to keep me company. It is a monochromatic plain that stretches out before me as far as I can see in any direction. Out of the corner of my eyes I can see glimmers of images like mirages; I try to turn my head to capture the image over and over but the elusive picture is gone.

 

 My peripheral vision is playing me a video. It is a string of images; some I recognize, and some I know that I have seen before but cannot place. All I somehow cannot name. They are all different but linked; not in any sequence but as I watch the continuous loop of them I know that their chronological order is not in the slightest significant. It is now that I realize that I can hear my own voice; I have been narrating this whole experience, in a low hum just loud enough to reverberate into the distant horizon in a steady monologue. My stream of consciousness is being broadcast from me, to me. As I think this I realize that I am listening to myself listen to myself think, and me the narrator laughs.

 

The images I have seen are mine and me; fragments, and they all have their own equal, unique importance. Their steady swinging movement provokes a sense of perpetual motion that has been nagging at my consciousness as I have been pondering my surrounds. I have been drifting; one might call it wandering had I had a body, but it was not quite the gliding type of movement one might expect. I realize suddenly that somehow I have ‘wandered’ back to where I had started, when was it? An hour, a day, a week ago? Time is not relevant here in this place.

 

I dreamily ponder the walls around me again and they seem solid as if they had never disappeared. My stream of soft murmurings is there as it has always been keeping me company, ceaselessly. Instead of the loneliness and fear I was trapped by before I feel safe and reassured. Everything to this point and from this point was and will be cyclical; everything returns to a point. I have seen the world and it has seen me. Instead of feeling contained by these walls, I am protected.

Psych went alright, a damn sight better than math. Prog, I'm scared about, just quietly. Tomorrow- 2:30 pm, think of me...

 

This is a damn cool coat of arms. I'm thinking that the plant grew from his nostrils. It is a much cooler interpretation than that just being a ring and the plant's on his horns. Its not just any angry animal that can do that, you know. He has to have been exposed to exactly the right amount of limestone- you can't grow healthy savage bonsai-master bulls without calcium! Also detecting a resemblance with the Chicago Bulls logo/emblem. Do we think Pasvalys has a strong enough legal grounds for copyright? Are national coats of arms even subject to copyright?

 

In other news, I wouldn't feed smoked cheese to either of the fine fellows below, and that's not even to mention what can happen if you allow a robot infant to partake of some. Still worse things happen if you let the cheese eat the robot baby. Three words; Edam. Magnesium. Reflux. All details shall be revealed aaaaaaaaaaafter the breeeaaaaak! You're watching Pie-eyed Ostrich on Toast- don't go anywhere, uh, world!

 Pasvalys, Lithuania gets        Chicky bulls do likewise,

all intimidatin' on yo' ass        minus the attractive nostril flora.

"Intelligence is what intelligence tests measure" proclaimeth a slide in my psych notes, presented as a view of (duh) what intelligence is or could be seen to be. It is, I think, supposed to represent the scientific stance on the issue- portraying it as something that can be compared and measured all statistic-y like. I, however see a fundamental flaw in the definition. How can you define something with itsself? Take 'life is the state of living'. It doesn't tell you what life is, or capture its essence. Basically because it can't, just as we can't say intelligence is 'how smart someone is' or that death is where you cease to be. How much of you ceases to be? Any? Now I'm getting off track. I disagree with the definition, mostly because of the circular reasoning. And because it's a fallacy. But mostly because of the circular reasoning. Defining things by way of themselves is something that I've been told not to do since primary school, and to have it all served up nice and purty on a power point slide as a university lecture note is something of a curiosity to me. Yes, it's only one of the options, and I suppose it is what intelligence tests are supposed to measure, but it is a damn feeble, half explanation, just like 'the sky is blue' - yeah, not really sweetheart, and the content of chicken nuggets (well, its partly chicken, I guess)....

 

The exam is tomorrow. And it's multiple choice, so no room for argument.

 

 

And there was significance in the blog title.