I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.
Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle.
"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked.
"What?"
"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."
I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
The Terrible (Forty)Twos give you a lack of will to want to do stuffs. Any stuffs. They make one want to burrow under the doona and not come out until the champagne and red velvet birthday cake with forty-three (!!!) sodding candles* on it come waving past the pillow, tempting the grey roots and panda eyes blinking into the sunshine.
““One reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.” ”
I have been busily hiding away from the world of late, mainly because I have been feeling like an immense puddle of yuckiness physically; and for all those who are/have been long term ill, you will know that along with the physical fatigue comes that even more attractive ailment - mental exhaustion.
It is tiring being a sickypuss. It wears your brain out, particularly if, like myself, you are, when healthy, one of those lunatics who has a brain which whirs a million miles an hour, particularly at three o'clock in the morning when normal people are dribbling happily into their pillows.
Feel like crud, and I guarantee you that your intellect will turn into a bowl of week old Weetbix. Which, particularly as someone who in theory writes for a living can attest to - ain't good for business.
And yes, the old woofy frenemy Black Dog tends to rear his head when one is feeling a bit on the blah side, turning from a Chihuahua into a Great Dane, and that's a depressing enough thought for everyone without actually writing about depression, so let's just say the pup has been barking his head off and leave it at that.
But back to the sleepy psyche.
I have not paid any attention to the news - with the exception of a few unavoidable big ticket items - for about a month. I'd be ashamed of this normally, because I'm a current affairs junkie (the topic, not the show - blergh), but of late? It's news, it will soon be olds, and I have been hard-pressed to take in what I should eat for breakfast let alone dealing with how many Americans have taken up a Health Care Plan (apparently it's approximately 100,000 - see, I do read more than trashy YA fiction when my brain isn't in sleep mode).
But over the weekend, as my body started to do a small software upgrade, the old grey matter started to hum again - and so I got stuck in to what has been going on in the world. After about three hours of reading, watching, and pod cast listening, I made an executive decision.
Not only is the world way more depressed than me, but the information available is so infantile that I think I would rather go back under the doona and start my own publication; HOW TO WRITE A NEWS STORY WHICH CONTAINS ACTUAL NEWS AND NO HYPERBOLE.
Apparently, whilst on my brief time out from The Daily Planet, those good old monkeys with their typewriters have taken over news reportage. For example, this morning on a certain anonymous online news site (which shall remain anonymous because they have a lot more money than me and the owner doesn't tend to take slander - um, constructive criticism well), these were the headlines:
And here I was thinking I'd missed significant international events, like whether or not Syria has blown itself to pieces and the fact that 34 people have been killed in PNG after a grenade attack. All this time I have been worried that my knowledge of world affairs has been suffering, when what I should have been concerned about was that JFK joined the mile high club before he bit the big one. That's what's important about the 50th anniversary of his assassination, of course; not the way the course of history was altered.
Seriously, when did we become quite this apathetic? Is this what people really care about? Chain smoking babies? I know I myself have the attention span of a goldfish, but sheesh.
I have always felt very fortunate in that I have friends who are interested in the world around them. Who enjoy debating politics, and religion, and pretty much everything one shouldn't discuss in polite society, which therefore means we do it as much as possible.
There are some amazing journalists around. Once upon a time they would have been given the chance to show their talent - and that's over any medium, digital, print or other. And, if you dig hard enough, you can find the 'actual' news.
But when all most of them have to work with is 'a teenager has stolen a boob job' - I'm not quite sure how that translates to the possibility of a Pulitzer.
So, beloved doona, I am returning to your fluffy folds. My brain may have re-engaged, but apparently if I want to find out what's happening out there, I need to get excited about Scientology.
And that just isn't going to happen.
I'm too scared of Tom Cruise.
