Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Where do we start? How do we begin again?
It seems impossible.
--------------
The carpeting is so dense it sponges up all the sound that reverbates around the glass and steel infrastructure. I stand there waiting, my head resting against the stairway; tilted slightly upwards and to the left. People mill into the lecture hall, I do not stir. You walk past me, and you smile, and you hesitate, but you walk on by; and I continue waiting.
It seems impossible.
--------------
The carpeting is so dense it sponges up all the sound that reverbates around the glass and steel infrastructure. I stand there waiting, my head resting against the stairway; tilted slightly upwards and to the left. People mill into the lecture hall, I do not stir. You walk past me, and you smile, and you hesitate, but you walk on by; and I continue waiting.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Toilet Boy on Thinking Seat
I had to hurry from my MnC lecture to my Critical Thinking lecture (I'm not actually enrolled in it, but I crash it for interest) nearly half the campus away. So I sprint into the waiting area outside the lecture hall, and nearly smack into Toilet Boy. We stare at each other for a few seconds. "This is getting creepy," I think to myself, "I'm seeing him everywhere. First in politics, then in creative writing, and now in philosophy."
"Hey," I pant.
"Hey," he nods his head.
We stand awkwardly. We stand a little out of each other's eyelines as he stares at the lecture hall doors, and I continue to pant on the spot, trying to catch my breath.
Finally, the hall doors burst open and we wait for the entrance/ exit to clear before he walks in, slightly in front of me. Another random guy slides in between us, but I'm determined to sit next to Toilet Boy. He sits down, then looks up at me as I squeeze into the seat next to him.
"Hi James, how are you?" I chirp brightly.
He nods his head and smiles tentatively. I think he's straining to remember my name.
"How were your holidays?" I continue, undaunted.
He breaks into a glorious smile.
"I got a job at a supermarket," he laughs.
And I laugh too, because it's the funniest thing I've heard all day. Know why? Because it's Monday. Shittiest day of the week.
-------------
MnC tute. No Jaime. No Chris. No Maddie. No Andy. No Yuan. No Marissa. No Tarryn. And worst of all, No Sheryl.
Perhaps the only bright spot - guy named Tim sitting right across me, with biceps so bulging I didn't know where else to look during the entire tute.
"Hey," I pant.
"Hey," he nods his head.
We stand awkwardly. We stand a little out of each other's eyelines as he stares at the lecture hall doors, and I continue to pant on the spot, trying to catch my breath.
Finally, the hall doors burst open and we wait for the entrance/ exit to clear before he walks in, slightly in front of me. Another random guy slides in between us, but I'm determined to sit next to Toilet Boy. He sits down, then looks up at me as I squeeze into the seat next to him.
"Hi James, how are you?" I chirp brightly.
He nods his head and smiles tentatively. I think he's straining to remember my name.
"How were your holidays?" I continue, undaunted.
He breaks into a glorious smile.
"I got a job at a supermarket," he laughs.
And I laugh too, because it's the funniest thing I've heard all day. Know why? Because it's Monday. Shittiest day of the week.
-------------
MnC tute. No Jaime. No Chris. No Maddie. No Andy. No Yuan. No Marissa. No Tarryn. And worst of all, No Sheryl.
Perhaps the only bright spot - guy named Tim sitting right across me, with biceps so bulging I didn't know where else to look during the entire tute.
Labels: University
Sunday, July 29, 2007
My time and patience are not pieces of scarbled rags used to wipe up cat vomit. When you disrespect them, you disrespect me.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Happy Birthday
It was Remy's 19th birthday on Thursday, and I met up with Al and Remy outside the Nike building along Bourke Street before we headed to Taco Bill for dinner (yes, Taco Bill, not Taco Bell, a tiny but significant difference that had Remy and I repeatedly shouting across the din of the trams to confirm.)
We ended up going the wrong way, heading uphill towards Elizabeth and Queen street when we were supposed to head towards east towards Russell street. So we reached Taco Bill, climbing up the hollow wooden steps cold and exhausted. Sze Chien leaped out from behind the door in oversized glasses, giving Al and Remy a delightul surprise (while scaring the beejesus out of me.) The oversized glasses turned out to be the icing on the cake of Remy's expensive present, hidden away in an fcuk bag, the contents of which I was not privy too.
"Let me see," I whine.
"NO." He replied.
"Why not?"
"It's embarassing," he says.
With an accusing mock glare I faced his friends (who had collectively paid for it) and said menacingly, "Alright now, whose bright idea was it to give Remy a bag of condoms for his birthday?!" earning me a well-deserved smack on my shoulder from Remy. Heh.
Overall it was a really good dinner, and I met some new people, including two girls, one who a sweet looking commerce student, the other a more overtly and vivaciously pretty engineering student; both equally friendly and good humoured.
"So are you in your second or third year?" both asked smilingly.
I flushed and stammered a bit, recalling the last time someone had said I 'looked twenty' and had promptly lifted her hands to her face protectively with a quick interjection of "Don't be offended!"
(I am not sure if looking older than your age is meant to be a compliment or an insult. I have heard it being used on me in both ways, and have been told I look anywhere from 15 to 21. But Al rides in shiningly with his Sword of Clarity.)
I tell them I'm still in my first year.
"That means you look old, Alicia" Al says, and the laughter from the table dissipates my anxieties and insecurities.
The conversation was varied. We talked about Xiaxue and Steven Lim (turns out many of the people at the table have seen the infamous Steven Lim video, and soon the entire table was filled with loud cries of "Wad-DEvER!", "you sucks you sucks you sucks" and "COO-coo-COO-coo!" which both surprised and delighted me, seeing that I was the only Singaporean at the table.
Sue Mae and I talked about vegetarianism. Awesomely, she has given up chicken and prawns and seafood, and exists in a perfectly zen-like state of fish and veggie consumption. Sighing in admiration, I realised I was eating chicken for the first time since coming back to Melbourne. Two steps forward, one step back, eh?
The guy sitting directly across me, YK, was apparently more taciturn than usual; Al asks him quite loudly, "Why so shy, YK?"
YK shrugs.
Devilishly, Al goes on, "Is it because of Alicia?" Al now looks at me. "Alicia, it must because you're so pretty and enchanting. You've bewitched him!"
I have no idea if he's being mocking or not, but all the same I snap at him, because now YK looks dreadfuly awkward and I don't feel the least bit comfortable myself.
"Stop it, Al," I say, and underscore the point with my raised fork.
He shuts up, all right.
---------------
After dinner, we head to a sports bar at Melbourne central to play pool. Some of us part company at this point. Of the ten people at the table, only 6 of us remain. We each get a Jäger Bomb, which involves dropping a shotglass of Jägermeister into a glass of red bull, and then skulling the drink. To my embarassment, I realised that I was the slowest drinker of the lot. While the five others around me smack their lips and rub their bellies with satisfaction, my eyes strain to peer out of the bottom of the glass through swirly brown liquid.
All in all, it was a great celebration. I rarely wear dresses, but for that special occasion, I did, and paired it with heels. To my great regret, that meant tottering home from the tram station at 12.30am with the wind whipping at my thinly-stockinged legs, fearing that I would fall at any moment and snap my neck against the curb.
I made it, and I'm alive!
We ended up going the wrong way, heading uphill towards Elizabeth and Queen street when we were supposed to head towards east towards Russell street. So we reached Taco Bill, climbing up the hollow wooden steps cold and exhausted. Sze Chien leaped out from behind the door in oversized glasses, giving Al and Remy a delightul surprise (while scaring the beejesus out of me.) The oversized glasses turned out to be the icing on the cake of Remy's expensive present, hidden away in an fcuk bag, the contents of which I was not privy too.
"Let me see," I whine.
"NO." He replied.
"Why not?"
"It's embarassing," he says.
With an accusing mock glare I faced his friends (who had collectively paid for it) and said menacingly, "Alright now, whose bright idea was it to give Remy a bag of condoms for his birthday?!" earning me a well-deserved smack on my shoulder from Remy. Heh.
Overall it was a really good dinner, and I met some new people, including two girls, one who a sweet looking commerce student, the other a more overtly and vivaciously pretty engineering student; both equally friendly and good humoured.
"So are you in your second or third year?" both asked smilingly.
I flushed and stammered a bit, recalling the last time someone had said I 'looked twenty' and had promptly lifted her hands to her face protectively with a quick interjection of "Don't be offended!"
(I am not sure if looking older than your age is meant to be a compliment or an insult. I have heard it being used on me in both ways, and have been told I look anywhere from 15 to 21. But Al rides in shiningly with his Sword of Clarity.)
I tell them I'm still in my first year.
"That means you look old, Alicia" Al says, and the laughter from the table dissipates my anxieties and insecurities.
The conversation was varied. We talked about Xiaxue and Steven Lim (turns out many of the people at the table have seen the infamous Steven Lim video, and soon the entire table was filled with loud cries of "Wad-DEvER!", "you sucks you sucks you sucks" and "COO-coo-COO-coo!" which both surprised and delighted me, seeing that I was the only Singaporean at the table.
Sue Mae and I talked about vegetarianism. Awesomely, she has given up chicken and prawns and seafood, and exists in a perfectly zen-like state of fish and veggie consumption. Sighing in admiration, I realised I was eating chicken for the first time since coming back to Melbourne. Two steps forward, one step back, eh?
The guy sitting directly across me, YK, was apparently more taciturn than usual; Al asks him quite loudly, "Why so shy, YK?"
YK shrugs.
Devilishly, Al goes on, "Is it because of Alicia?" Al now looks at me. "Alicia, it must because you're so pretty and enchanting. You've bewitched him!"
I have no idea if he's being mocking or not, but all the same I snap at him, because now YK looks dreadfuly awkward and I don't feel the least bit comfortable myself.
"Stop it, Al," I say, and underscore the point with my raised fork.
He shuts up, all right.
---------------
After dinner, we head to a sports bar at Melbourne central to play pool. Some of us part company at this point. Of the ten people at the table, only 6 of us remain. We each get a Jäger Bomb, which involves dropping a shotglass of Jägermeister into a glass of red bull, and then skulling the drink. To my embarassment, I realised that I was the slowest drinker of the lot. While the five others around me smack their lips and rub their bellies with satisfaction, my eyes strain to peer out of the bottom of the glass through swirly brown liquid.
All in all, it was a great celebration. I rarely wear dresses, but for that special occasion, I did, and paired it with heels. To my great regret, that meant tottering home from the tram station at 12.30am with the wind whipping at my thinly-stockinged legs, fearing that I would fall at any moment and snap my neck against the curb.
I made it, and I'm alive!
Labels: Friends
Friday, July 27, 2007
Royal Flush
Creative Writing tutorial, Level 2 John Medley building. I stepped into the room tentatively. A very Russian looking man sat there smiling, with a pair of large gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. There were about 10 other people in there, all ang mohs except for one Asian girl, who I later found out is also from Singapore.
"You look familiar!" the Asian girl whispered as I sat down next to her.
I squinted at her and racked my brain. "You're Kimberle, aren't you?" I say.
"No." She replies. "You're a friend of Wai Ling, right?"
"No." I shook my head. "Are you sure you're not Kimberle?"
For the next few minutes we try in vain to place each other, a conversation we are to continue after the tutorial, all the way down the stairs, all the way to the library, then all the way to Union house, across South Lawn and back to the John Medley. (Who says Singaporeans aren't persistent?)
But first things first. Back to the CW tute. The tutor begins, launching into the regular, tedious formalities of introducing himself and describing the joys of creative writing in sentimental babble. (Which I do have an appreciation for, mind you.) He asks everyone to introduce themselves with a short explanation of why they decided to take up creative writing, and I am mid-way in my rant against the constrains of Professional Writing when Toilet Boy walks into the tute. My eyes must have popped out of my head; though certainly I had enough decorum to continue speaking while giving him a quick smile, which he returns. Toilet Boy slouches into the room in his leather jacket and stubbly stubble and sits down two seats to my left. Carrie, the other Singapore girl, separates us.
After Carrie and I finish our introductions, it's Toilet Boy's turn.
He stares ahead for a while.
"I like writing." he says, shortly.
"What kind of writing?" Russian tutor asks.
"I like writing... stuff." Toilet Boy says morosely.
Russian tutor presses him further,
"I once wrote a piece set in the desert." he mutters with a certain finality.
Russia tutor looks delighted. "And what's your name?" he sing-songs.
"James."
After about 15 minutes of dancing around the OHP and extolling the virtues of an awareness of class analysis and its relationship to Manchester and Welsh accents (aka as nothing to do with the topic at hand) Russian Tutor jumps up, gives us a writing exercise, and leaves the class. "When I'm back," he says, "you can start sharing your pieces."
Carrie and I turn to each other, blind panic on our faces, while the ang mohs, undaunted, pick up their pens and let their Juices of Creativity start flowing. After a while, we both settle down and start writing, but with great anxiety and hesitation.
Fifteen minutes pass. Russian tutor flounces back into the room. People volunteer, actually volunteer, to read their pieces. After four people have read their pieces (some of them better than others, but none of them bad) I tremble in my metaphorical boots. Carrie avoids making eye contact with the tutor. But we are saved, because class has ended.
While the third person was reading his piece out, I glanced over at Toilet Boy's book, which was covered with an untidy red scrawl. On the page I spotted a sketching of what could be a missile, a very large bullet, or possibly a piece of radish. Toilet Boy was putting the finishing touches on the ear of a rabbit face he had drawn on his book. I nearly burst out laughing, and Toilet Boy gave me an odd side look across Carrie's shoulder.
I flushed, coughed, and busied myself with concentrating very hard on the third person's story of Danger and Intrigue on the New York subway.
"God help me," I think to myself, "Creative writing has suddenly become a whole lot harder."
"You look familiar!" the Asian girl whispered as I sat down next to her.
I squinted at her and racked my brain. "You're Kimberle, aren't you?" I say.
"No." She replies. "You're a friend of Wai Ling, right?"
"No." I shook my head. "Are you sure you're not Kimberle?"
For the next few minutes we try in vain to place each other, a conversation we are to continue after the tutorial, all the way down the stairs, all the way to the library, then all the way to Union house, across South Lawn and back to the John Medley. (Who says Singaporeans aren't persistent?)
But first things first. Back to the CW tute. The tutor begins, launching into the regular, tedious formalities of introducing himself and describing the joys of creative writing in sentimental babble. (Which I do have an appreciation for, mind you.) He asks everyone to introduce themselves with a short explanation of why they decided to take up creative writing, and I am mid-way in my rant against the constrains of Professional Writing when Toilet Boy walks into the tute. My eyes must have popped out of my head; though certainly I had enough decorum to continue speaking while giving him a quick smile, which he returns. Toilet Boy slouches into the room in his leather jacket and stubbly stubble and sits down two seats to my left. Carrie, the other Singapore girl, separates us.
After Carrie and I finish our introductions, it's Toilet Boy's turn.
He stares ahead for a while.
"I like writing." he says, shortly.
"What kind of writing?" Russian tutor asks.
"I like writing... stuff." Toilet Boy says morosely.
Russian tutor presses him further,
"I once wrote a piece set in the desert." he mutters with a certain finality.
Russia tutor looks delighted. "And what's your name?" he sing-songs.
"James."
After about 15 minutes of dancing around the OHP and extolling the virtues of an awareness of class analysis and its relationship to Manchester and Welsh accents (aka as nothing to do with the topic at hand) Russian Tutor jumps up, gives us a writing exercise, and leaves the class. "When I'm back," he says, "you can start sharing your pieces."
Carrie and I turn to each other, blind panic on our faces, while the ang mohs, undaunted, pick up their pens and let their Juices of Creativity start flowing. After a while, we both settle down and start writing, but with great anxiety and hesitation.
Fifteen minutes pass. Russian tutor flounces back into the room. People volunteer, actually volunteer, to read their pieces. After four people have read their pieces (some of them better than others, but none of them bad) I tremble in my metaphorical boots. Carrie avoids making eye contact with the tutor. But we are saved, because class has ended.
While the third person was reading his piece out, I glanced over at Toilet Boy's book, which was covered with an untidy red scrawl. On the page I spotted a sketching of what could be a missile, a very large bullet, or possibly a piece of radish. Toilet Boy was putting the finishing touches on the ear of a rabbit face he had drawn on his book. I nearly burst out laughing, and Toilet Boy gave me an odd side look across Carrie's shoulder.
I flushed, coughed, and busied myself with concentrating very hard on the third person's story of Danger and Intrigue on the New York subway.
"God help me," I think to myself, "Creative writing has suddenly become a whole lot harder."
Labels: Boys, University
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Daily Roundup
My feminist education began today.
I've identified a potentially radical feminist in our midst. She's got steely determination, sardonic humour, biting wit, a wry smile and a no nonsense brown trench coat.
After class, as we were walking out of our classroom, I asked her, "Are you a feminist?"
She hesitated for a while. I understood that hesitation immediately. Feminists, and feminism, have been so much maligned that it seems to be even more taboo than the other 'F' word. Fuck.
"Yes, I am," she said after a while, giving me a slightly defiant look.
And I break out into a wide smile and say, "God, you're amazing."
She smiles back at me, then drops her voice conspirationally, "I really hate it when people say 'I'm not a feminist, but..."
"I know exactly what you mean!" I said fervently. "It's just an excuse, really."
So I am deeply comforted. But also a bit worried. I've identified a frou-frou feminist, as well as a men apologist. I hope I do not end up snapping at them in the heat of debate. But in general I'm not overly confrontational, and to be honest I'm not free of patriarchal hangups like make up and shopping for way more clothes than I need. So no, I'm not more feminist than thou.
-------------
As I was taking the lift up the John Medley building, I ran into Kiki, who informed me that the uni will no longer be offering Publishing as a subject from next year onwards. I nearly wept with anger and frustration while in the lift. Assholes, assholes, assholes who degrade the Arts degree, throw it around flippantly, and basically treat the discipline like shit. They're sacking 130 staff from the arts faculty and cutting all but 8 general arts subjects. Boiling down a varied range of over a 100 Arts subjects into 8 broad fields? Jesus Christ, this ain't high school any longer. University students (generally) want to specialise, not spend an average of 10k a year sampling subjects in which to specialise in in postgrad education. Money suckers.
------------
The Amnesty picnic at South Lawn during lunchtime was forlorn. Asher was there, and I met a really nice person on exchange from Canada, but the group was so small and I felt so out of place, not having attended their meetings regularly in semester 1. Poor sad 'activists on campus' we were, nibbling on our nachos and talking about... well, nothing.
-----------
I met up with Jiawei before going for our film screening. Selfish me was panicking at running late, and so kept pushing ahead, even though Jiawei's foot was injured. Evantually we reached on time, and the hall wasn't too full. I expect it's because fewer students are taking the subject after Introduction to Hollywood. Quite understandable, really. At times I nearly wanted to drop out myself. It's not easy to get a handle on film theory.
We watched Rear Window by Alfred Hitchcock. It's pretty suspenseful, and exciting and humorous (with a heavy dose of misogyny). But nothing beats Pyscho or The Birds for truly masterful Hitchcockian horror. I met Chris and Alex, who were in my Professional Writing class and USA Today class in sem 1 respectively. They both look great and well-rested, particularly Chris. Alex has let his hair grow out a bit, though he still looks as good as ever. Chris has got an odd course plan, since his Introduction to Media and Communications subject clashes with his French, meaning he has to let go of MnC. What a pity. He's a great writer and tute mate, and I really hope he's in my Creative Writing tute.
And no, I am not a boot-licker, why do you ask?
-------------
After the screening, I went to the bookshop to buy my readers. Who did I see... but Video-Ezy? It's been exactly a year since I first met him. Standing tall with his friends near the entrance. There was no acknowledgement of each other's presence on both our parts. None at all. He suddenly looked a lot less worth the heartbreak. My heart did not yammer and I did not tremble as I walked past him. If I were to never see him again, I don't think I'll be too fazed. It's a nice last image of him anyway, him dressed in All Black (heh), with a baseball cap jammed on his hair, backpack casually slung over his shoulder, breath condensing in the frosty air as he laughs and chats with his mates.
I've identified a potentially radical feminist in our midst. She's got steely determination, sardonic humour, biting wit, a wry smile and a no nonsense brown trench coat.
After class, as we were walking out of our classroom, I asked her, "Are you a feminist?"
She hesitated for a while. I understood that hesitation immediately. Feminists, and feminism, have been so much maligned that it seems to be even more taboo than the other 'F' word. Fuck.
"Yes, I am," she said after a while, giving me a slightly defiant look.
And I break out into a wide smile and say, "God, you're amazing."
She smiles back at me, then drops her voice conspirationally, "I really hate it when people say 'I'm not a feminist, but..."
"I know exactly what you mean!" I said fervently. "It's just an excuse, really."
So I am deeply comforted. But also a bit worried. I've identified a frou-frou feminist, as well as a men apologist. I hope I do not end up snapping at them in the heat of debate. But in general I'm not overly confrontational, and to be honest I'm not free of patriarchal hangups like make up and shopping for way more clothes than I need. So no, I'm not more feminist than thou.
-------------
As I was taking the lift up the John Medley building, I ran into Kiki, who informed me that the uni will no longer be offering Publishing as a subject from next year onwards. I nearly wept with anger and frustration while in the lift. Assholes, assholes, assholes who degrade the Arts degree, throw it around flippantly, and basically treat the discipline like shit. They're sacking 130 staff from the arts faculty and cutting all but 8 general arts subjects. Boiling down a varied range of over a 100 Arts subjects into 8 broad fields? Jesus Christ, this ain't high school any longer. University students (generally) want to specialise, not spend an average of 10k a year sampling subjects in which to specialise in in postgrad education. Money suckers.
------------
The Amnesty picnic at South Lawn during lunchtime was forlorn. Asher was there, and I met a really nice person on exchange from Canada, but the group was so small and I felt so out of place, not having attended their meetings regularly in semester 1. Poor sad 'activists on campus' we were, nibbling on our nachos and talking about... well, nothing.
-----------
I met up with Jiawei before going for our film screening. Selfish me was panicking at running late, and so kept pushing ahead, even though Jiawei's foot was injured. Evantually we reached on time, and the hall wasn't too full. I expect it's because fewer students are taking the subject after Introduction to Hollywood. Quite understandable, really. At times I nearly wanted to drop out myself. It's not easy to get a handle on film theory.
We watched Rear Window by Alfred Hitchcock. It's pretty suspenseful, and exciting and humorous (with a heavy dose of misogyny). But nothing beats Pyscho or The Birds for truly masterful Hitchcockian horror. I met Chris and Alex, who were in my Professional Writing class and USA Today class in sem 1 respectively. They both look great and well-rested, particularly Chris. Alex has let his hair grow out a bit, though he still looks as good as ever. Chris has got an odd course plan, since his Introduction to Media and Communications subject clashes with his French, meaning he has to let go of MnC. What a pity. He's a great writer and tute mate, and I really hope he's in my Creative Writing tute.
And no, I am not a boot-licker, why do you ask?
-------------
After the screening, I went to the bookshop to buy my readers. Who did I see... but Video-Ezy? It's been exactly a year since I first met him. Standing tall with his friends near the entrance. There was no acknowledgement of each other's presence on both our parts. None at all. He suddenly looked a lot less worth the heartbreak. My heart did not yammer and I did not tremble as I walked past him. If I were to never see him again, I don't think I'll be too fazed. It's a nice last image of him anyway, him dressed in All Black (heh), with a baseball cap jammed on his hair, backpack casually slung over his shoulder, breath condensing in the frosty air as he laughs and chats with his mates.
Labels: Boys, Feminism, Friends, Gender studies, Movies, Univeristy
Monday, July 23, 2007
First Day Back.
Boy oh boy, am I glad to be back! I've had so much fun in Singapore catching up with people and enjoying the nice sunny weather, but my dire financial situation, coupled with a few unpleasant potshots aimed at me (regarding my weight) by my pot-bellied, round-cheeked uncle made me wish for Melbourne again.
What can I say? It's gorgeous. Beautiful city with sandstone buildings. Horses trotting merrily along the grid of the CBD. It's so cold that a near invisble white mist permeates the crisp air, which gently obscures the trees. Branches so bare they reach into the air like skeletal fingers. Trams changing along. People bundled up like bao.
Yes, I think I do love Melbourne.
First day of uni, and I was nearly late for my first lecture! Our Introduction to Media and Communications lecturer is one formidable looking lady, with a deep dulcet-y voice, piercing eyes, a mane of red hair and a 'take-no-shit' attitude. I think I'm scared of her.
But it was fantastic meeting up with the gang again. Gare Bear looked surprised to see me. "You look different, he said, after a while.
"Yes, I cut my hair."
"Yeah, and there's something else different about you too."
"I lost a bit of weight." (Thanks to my late night one and a half hour jogs, 2 litres of water a day diet, and many, many fruit dinners.)
"Hmm yeah," he says, "You look healthy. You're glowing."
I think I must have laughed so hard he went, "What's with that cheeky smile?"
Sheryl (who's got a new job at the curry house at union house) was also at the lecture, as was Remy, (who's got a swanky new hair colour) and Eunice, whom I'm not really close to. Jaime was there too *blushes*. There's also quite a few new people. I'm ashamed to say I felt great relief at being able to sit down with people I know, and not feel lonely and lost, and not exude that general aura of unfamiliarity and tentativeness a new person does. I'm not going to just stick with my old friends, though. Part of my plan (for world domination, heh) is to really try my best to go all out and make new friends, expand my social circle, and make connections. (which Media Comm people should be doing right?)
God, that last sentence makes me feel like a chirpy cheery cherry-flavoured cheerleader.
After lectures, I went with the Gare Bear, Asher, Gare's friends Michael and Andrew to have coffee at Chichilata (spelling?) cafe before catching Lucky Miles at Cinema Nova. It's such a hilarious movie, with so much heart and humour, it's impossible not to like it. The cinematography is blazingly brilliant, the editing is very sharp, and the acting is on the dot. Normally one wouldn't think that the story of boat people landing in the unforgiving deserts of Western Australia, struggling to seek asylum in a refugee-unfriendly country would make for great comical fodder. Surprisingly, it does! Most of the humour comes from the guileless innocence of the three main characters, alongside the cultural and communicative clashes arising from their different backgrounds. But mainly it's the humour from the absurdity of the whole situation that makes this film so enjoyable.
That's what humour should be like, in my opinion. It should not be punishing, nor malicious, nor cruel, the way it is when it is used as a weapon against the oppressed and the disadvantaged.
Humour should be gentle. When it is biting it should be used for satirical purposes as a tool by the oppressed against the oppressor. Humour should elevate the soul. Stephen King once talked about that blissful, wonderful feeling when you have such a good laugh that your belly aches, and tears are streaming down your cheeks, and you're gasping for breath and you just want to die from happiness?
That's the best kind of humour there is.
What can I say? It's gorgeous. Beautiful city with sandstone buildings. Horses trotting merrily along the grid of the CBD. It's so cold that a near invisble white mist permeates the crisp air, which gently obscures the trees. Branches so bare they reach into the air like skeletal fingers. Trams changing along. People bundled up like bao.
Yes, I think I do love Melbourne.
First day of uni, and I was nearly late for my first lecture! Our Introduction to Media and Communications lecturer is one formidable looking lady, with a deep dulcet-y voice, piercing eyes, a mane of red hair and a 'take-no-shit' attitude. I think I'm scared of her.
But it was fantastic meeting up with the gang again. Gare Bear looked surprised to see me. "You look different, he said, after a while.
"Yes, I cut my hair."
"Yeah, and there's something else different about you too."
"I lost a bit of weight." (Thanks to my late night one and a half hour jogs, 2 litres of water a day diet, and many, many fruit dinners.)
"Hmm yeah," he says, "You look healthy. You're glowing."
I think I must have laughed so hard he went, "What's with that cheeky smile?"
Sheryl (who's got a new job at the curry house at union house) was also at the lecture, as was Remy, (who's got a swanky new hair colour) and Eunice, whom I'm not really close to. Jaime was there too *blushes*. There's also quite a few new people. I'm ashamed to say I felt great relief at being able to sit down with people I know, and not feel lonely and lost, and not exude that general aura of unfamiliarity and tentativeness a new person does. I'm not going to just stick with my old friends, though. Part of my plan (for world domination, heh) is to really try my best to go all out and make new friends, expand my social circle, and make connections. (which Media Comm people should be doing right?)
God, that last sentence makes me feel like a chirpy cheery cherry-flavoured cheerleader.
After lectures, I went with the Gare Bear, Asher, Gare's friends Michael and Andrew to have coffee at Chichilata (spelling?) cafe before catching Lucky Miles at Cinema Nova. It's such a hilarious movie, with so much heart and humour, it's impossible not to like it. The cinematography is blazingly brilliant, the editing is very sharp, and the acting is on the dot. Normally one wouldn't think that the story of boat people landing in the unforgiving deserts of Western Australia, struggling to seek asylum in a refugee-unfriendly country would make for great comical fodder. Surprisingly, it does! Most of the humour comes from the guileless innocence of the three main characters, alongside the cultural and communicative clashes arising from their different backgrounds. But mainly it's the humour from the absurdity of the whole situation that makes this film so enjoyable.
That's what humour should be like, in my opinion. It should not be punishing, nor malicious, nor cruel, the way it is when it is used as a weapon against the oppressed and the disadvantaged.
Humour should be gentle. When it is biting it should be used for satirical purposes as a tool by the oppressed against the oppressor. Humour should elevate the soul. Stephen King once talked about that blissful, wonderful feeling when you have such a good laugh that your belly aches, and tears are streaming down your cheeks, and you're gasping for breath and you just want to die from happiness?
That's the best kind of humour there is.
Labels: University
Sunday, July 15, 2007
I wanted to weep when I first saw this clip. Look how frustrated the female journalist is. Look how unhelpful, how condescending, how smug her male co-hosts are.
Everyday I inch closer to the conclusion that men hate us.
Just dropping by to let everyone know that I'll update soon, though I am a bit busy now.
Also to inform everyone that yes, I am still alive.
Also to inform everyone that yes, I am still alive.
