Re(faux)lution

Life today is terrible, apparently. Or at least so we're told on loop by the media/politicians/parents/employers/anyonewhothinkswearelistening. But lately I've been questioning, are things really 'that' bad?

Yes, obviously there's the issue of horrendous unemployment/general prospects for any type of work available to those under 35. I for one will be/am being affected by this dismal age, I'm a twenty-first-century cliché through and through, and this bothers me. But the cynical part of my humanity keeps thinking: maybe my generation deserves it. This might sound crazy, but when you look at the hardships our parents, grandparents, ancestors went through, this economic crisis or whatever you want to call it seems a little bit superficial in comparison. Perhaps, therefore, this is just part of nature's natural cycle; tough times are inevitable. In fact, we need phases like this, if only to prove to ourselves that we are still capable of surviving.

But I'm still left with the uncomfortable knowledge that I feel as though I was born in totally the wrong period. I think that's why I found it so difficult to give a rat's arse about the mini-'revolutions' that started to spring up when tuition fees rocketed skywards/nhs, arts, general life cuts were rolled out. My apathetic outlook should be condemned, obviously, but that still doesn't make me want to care enough.

Had I been conceived 60 years ago, my attitude might have been quite different.

temporary hitch; a technical glitch

Skool's out for the summer?

 Apparently not, in my case. As an MA'er, summer has officially been cancelled. Instead, I'm left with the very un-summery task of attempting to research, write, and generally give a flying poo about a suitable dissertation topic. Somewhat ironically, I preempted just how taxing this would be, by opting to focus on the idea of Stress. Haha, clever me eh.

Hmm.

The prospect sounded almost idyllic, back in a particularly bleak January, of being given the 'freedom' of undertaking such profoundly independent study during the warmer months. In theory, it should be - empty library, untapped resources, calm and quiet. In reality, it sucks. While everyone else is planning exciting getaways to hotter climes, I'm stuck trying to figure out how psychological theories of anxiety can be related to the Victorian novel as a form.

So, are the proverbial carefree days of Summer well and truly over? Probably.

it's the littlest things

it really is.

I've started to notice, at an ever increasing rate, that the small, simple things in life create the biggest difference. This year has been a lonely one. Sad, but very true. Left to continue my studies in the same small city I once shared with a wonderful, extended group of friends (but some less important acquaintances), I now feel like a claustrophobic trapped in that proverbial lift. I want out, basically.

By 'simple things' I mean the special treat of being able to rely on someone (often on a daily basis) with whom to grab an all-important coffee/cupoftea/caffeine based beverage, to alleviate the monotonous black hole that serves as a rather poignant metaphor of 'studying'. I no longer have this newly deemed luxury. I need it.

I feel like an unbelievably monstrous person for bemoaning my relatively pathetic 'woes', seeing as I have (relatively, in the grand scheme of things) good health, a rather lovely abode in which to live, and I still have friends, they just don't live within less than a hundred miles from me. The fact still remains, however, that I am overwhelmed by a sense of some void. Now I just need to figure out how to fill it.

reshuffle.

The age-old philosophy of 'you can't change the past' is embedded into our subconscious. This is nonsense, however. Of course you can re-write history, but only if you're willing to, and capable of, adapting the past to move it into the present, and subsequently the future. Perhaps your average joe finds it comforting to resign himself to the fact that what's happened, happened; there's nothing he can do about it. I refute the idea that taking solace in such resignation is constructive, or legitimate even. Instead, it encourages a lack of responsibility. If something has occurred and is now over-and-done-with, what's the use of a retrospective outlook? What's the point in 'history', if it's history? But surely, if your past can't influence your future, then why did it happen in the first place? Not that I'm a fully paid up member of the Everything Happens For A Reason fanclub. Nevetheless, a sense of purpose has its place.

Besides, retro seems to be having its day. Maybe it would do us all some good to look back a little bit more.

Cloud Nine.

I had a dream last night. A really, really good one. The kind that you try to force yourself back into the drowsy confines for.

Nightmares are not so hot. I've succumbed to a particularly lucid and recurring one of late which actually resulted in my waking up to a tear-soaked pillow the following morning. Scary stuff. But not really. More the fact that I genuinely felt this episode could finally manifest itself in reality.

And there's nothing you can do about anything that happens during the irritatingly intangible R.E.M state. Annoyingly. Otherwise I might have managed to bag myself that fantastically talented sugar-daddy-come-silver-fox I envisaged last night.

I want the fantasy, dammit.

guilty pleasures

I've started to notice that I have an extremely irrational relationship with the concept of guilt.

I'm not quite sure if I'd be classified as a worrier, but I do seem to feel the effects of stress easily. I also chastise myself for the strangest things. I set myself unorthodox 'goals', and if these are not achieved, I get upset. Sometimes I might even weep at my ineptitude.

When it comes to feeling guilty, any sense of rationality goes right out the proverbial window.

Some people are wracked with unquantifiable amounts of self-reproach if they cheat on their partner; others when they've 'somehow' managed to devour a family-sized chocolate bar in its entirety, in one sitting.

Alcohol consumption has become a recent source of shame on my part. Not because I should be attending AA sessions or anything. But, rather than being innocently rose-tinted, my beer goggles have developed an increasingly green hue. This means that I turn into a jealous, paranoid, generally-not-oh-so-nice individual, with the subsequent effect of feeling like a complete turd the day after the night before.

Finance is also a major source of remorse: those strings can always be tighter on that purse. So much so, that I impose ridiculous spending regulations on myself that are, on occasions, completely unwarranted. And then I'll go and splurge fifty quid on utter crap in some online 'flash sale'. Go figure.

And so it continues. Until I find that spider spinning its web.

BRANDED.

 
I have a rather turbulent relationship with the idea of tattooing. Some days I covet the courage to let that needle make its mark. Others, I shudder at the very thought. I know deep down that I'll never actually end up in the artist's chair, I'm just too sensible.

I'm also a believer that (in an ultimately sexist way that I should probably be ashamed of) tattoos 'suit' men far better than women. It definitely takes a certain 'type' of lady to pull off the indelible ink, however subtle or outrageous a design might be.

Mossy manages it, obviously.

WLTM: aka: Wondrously Lovely Tattooed Male

trust, anyone?

I simply have no idea why I was contemplating this particular topic whilst being rocked gently (or not) by the high-speed train on my latest London-Liverpool return, but trust is an issue, right? I mean, the age old question of 'can anyone really be trusted?' is ultimately rhetorical in nature. I'm not an ultra-optimistic person or anything, but I guess I do like to hold onto the idea that, yes, some individuals can safeguard your privacy/hopes/dreams/life, even? Not everyone, however. And, in fact, how can you ever know? Hence it becomes a 'thing'; the big fat proverbial elephant-in-the-room thing.

Some people choose to go through life refusing to empower any fellow human with the notion that they might be close enough to them to merit the title of trustee. No doubt, it is often one of those unspoken concepts, and yet, therein lies the very danger. What if you don't realise that you have been entrusted? Confusion ensues.

But, there remains those other cretinous creatures who simply waste their days raping innocently trusting victims; like the child-catcher, only worse. Sounds shockingly ott? I'm putting it mildly, 'mate'.

The Descent of [Wo]man.

Although I do subscribe to the theory of evolution as an inevitable part of being human, I am not a huge fan of this whole inheriting genes thing. Not that I'm all for genetic engineering or anything. I find the idea that one day we might be able to pick and choose what hair and eye colour our babies end up squeezing their way out of our nether regions with, terrifying. I do not, however, appreciate having no say whatsoever in the 'dud' characteristics of my genetic make-up that I've been dealt. Seeing as I am a female, and therefore exempt from the line of male pattern baldness, the onus falls on my mother dearest for her hand-me-downs.
Indeed, following a bout of rather aggressive travel sickness on, what should have been, a relatively pain-free train journey yesterday, I realised that this was just one in a long line of examples of miserable genetic traits.

Along with the Herpes virus (aka horrible bubbling sores of cold on my lips/up my nose/thank god nowhere else), here's a few of the wonderful prospects that await me as the aging process takes its toll:

> Varacose veins
> A strong aversion to coffee/spicy food/anything generally fun of the food/drink ilk. (Although, having said that my matriarch does still enjoy rather-a-lot-of champagne.)
> Motion Sickness brought on by fairground/theme park rides (or anything that moves for that matter, hence my already highly developed lack of sea legs.)
> High blood pressure/cholesterol
> A knack of being riled up by pretty much anything/anyone, to the point where you can't even remember what/who you were angered/irritated by in the first place.
> General irrationality/lack of direction/map-reading skills/notknowingleftfromright

I'm almost certain there's more. Oh joy.

a whole lotta lady love.

So, today marks the centenary of International Women's Day; big deal? Well, yes, actually. Despite the opinion of some nagging, dried-up feminists, us girls have come rather a long way in the last hundred years. Equality is still regarded as somewhat of a dirty word in many spheres, both public and private, but no one can deny the fact that WE ARE HERE. Yes, we might not be proportionally represented in politics, and receive significantly less pay than our counter-sex doing exactly the same job, and yet, the mere fact that people are aware of these issues is demonstratively positive.

I am proud to be female, I do not suffer from "penis-envy", as Freud would have it. No. Plus, if the odds are still stacked against us, this makes any sense of "plight" even more poignant, surely?
I'm not a man-hater-eater-beater either. Having said that, I did not appreciate this latest attempt at male empathy, or whatever, and I think less of Dame Judy for having been involved in such trite. Quite frankly.

 

And there you have it. I've had my say, as I can, as a woman, in this day and age. So yeah, cheers Mary, I'll raise my pancake to you for that.

tickety tock.

The comparison made between students and OAPs is relatively overused, but appropriate nevertheless. I have noticed the similarities with increasing intensity in recent months, and it's scary stuff. In fact, my ridiculous amount of 'free time' is becoming a bit of a curse.

Take, for example, an average day in the life of this particular MA student:
I wake up, typically around 9am. I eventually shimmy out of bed. I make a bowl of cereal. I retreat back to bed to eat said Bran Flakes (possibly with some banana on top, if i'm feeling particularly crAzy that morning). I browse various websites (mainly the Guardian, standard) and 'check' my Facebook, you know, to make sure it's still there/someone has commented on some witty link i've posted on their wall.
I finally get up, dressed, and head to the gym (if I can be arsed).

I come back after sweating like a pig for an hour (max). I take a shower. I have some lunch (these days it seems I even find the time to make a big batch of my own soup to last the week, Christ). And then, I begin fretting about the fact that I have

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING PLANNED FOR THE REST OF THE DAY.

Sometimes I might have work, but even then it's yet more dread at the prospect of having to smile politely at the general public and touch those disgusting metal objects of Satan (hangers, see older post for reference).

The average day of someone of the elderly population seems strikingly similar, but instead of the gym, they probably get to sit around drinking tea and eating biscuits all morning. ('Elevenses' would inevitably morph into 'Morningses' in my world)

Like a lady of the blue rinse clan, I too can go to the cinema in the middle of the afternoon (except on 'Silver Screen' showings, goddamn them), but I do not relish this fact, I bemoan it.

Why? Because I'm super-motivated and always need to be busy doing something, anything? Perhaps. Or maybe I just want to look forward to the days when I can while away the hours, minutes, seconds, NOT worrying about the fact that I'm NOT doing something, anything.

the inimitable Sally Field

I love this woman. From parts in childhood classics such as Mrs. Doubtfire (a personal all-time favourite) to mesmerising matriarch of the Walker household in Brothers & Sisters, she remains one of the most underrated of American actresses.
Plus, she looks FANBLOODYTASTIC for her 64 years, without even the slightest sign of the tiniest bit of botox. If only there were more Sally's in the Field.

Domestic Goddess? probably not.

Following a mega cleaning blitz on my flat, I feel both mentally and physically cleansed. The floors are sparkling, the surfaces gleaming with anti-bacterial goodness, and there's not a dust ball in sight. It is a satisfying experience throughout, despite taking a great deal of time and psychological preparation to commence the undertaking. The thing is, as I just explained to my flatmate, I either ignore the growing dirt or feel it necessary to remove all signs of filth, as in every single last remaining speck, until it is certifiably 'clean'. I like to think of it as part-time OCD. Maybe.

The latest resurgence in female domesticity has been well documented by the media. Indeed, women across the country are no longer burning their bras, but instead, donning their aprons. The Women's Institute is no longer scorned by pretty young things, in fact, their membership numbers have sky rocketed. Baking cute cupcakes and spending painstaking hours on elaborate embroidery pieces are tres en vogue, dontyaknow.

I haven't managed to watch any of the acclaimed 1960s set Mad Men, but I hear the glamorous appeal of domestic bliss is quite spectacular. If scrubbing hobs and beating out carpets means I get to look anything close to as gorgeous as January Jones, just tell me where I can sign up.

hang on,

Ever since I decided to sell my soul to the Devil, and start working in the hellish world of retail, I have developed a phobia of hangers. I literally detest the metallic sound, smell, and touch. This poses obvious problems when handling the blasted things is an instrumental part of my job. Darn it.

Apparently, I am not alone, however. According to many online showbiz blogs, these seemingly harmless objects also give the likes of Kylie Minogue the heebie jeebies. In an interview with Elle magazine, Kylie speaks about how she has to have a wardrobe specially designed for her clothes, as she refuses to hang them up: "The problem is I hate putting things on hangers. I don’t like the way they sound when you put them in the wardrobe."

Amen to that.

the boss

Most people revere Bob Dylan as the master raconteur of the twentieth-century. Personally, my loyalties lie with Brucie. After all, he did proclaim:

War, 

What is it good for, 

Absolutely nothing.

Legend.

in search of perfection.

i am a perfectionist. i know this. i am (almost) at peace with it. others, it seems, are not. in fact, from a very early age it was not only commented on, but seen as detrimental to the formation of my personality. teachers would write in my school reports that i was 'performing extremely well', but, was often upset when i could not achieve something, albeit to the best of my ability. in their eyes, this was, ultimately, a bad thing. i am still unsure of why.
these days, my quest for perfect is most applicable to the work i am producing for my Masters. so much so, however, that instead of spending hours painstakingly attempting to create 'masterpieces' of literary criticism, i end up thinking 'fuck it', i'll never achieve greatness, this essay will never be anything beyond satisfactory for me. and thus, i am not at peace as such with my imperfections, i merely understand now that they are inescapable. kind of.