At the house, she liked to cook creamy mushroom pasta.
And today she cooked a feast of mushrooms, sautéed with garlic and chilli. Last night, she and friends shared a meal of mushrooms.
She loved the mushrooms. The taste, the smell, the feeling.
So did everyone else. They loved them so much that they kept on talking about it. They kept wanting to talk to her. But she'd had enough of talking. She wanted to sit, lie, stand and watch. And all the people kept on getting in her way.
She tried to escape to the mountain, the one she watched through the canvas. The river was flowing, and it was beautiful. But the people got in the way. The puppets moved to the music that didn't match, and the man's face laughed in the fire light. Laughing and laughing. Meanwhile, Philoctetes stood nearby.
She decided she'd had enough, and left. She didn't know where to go, but her feet took her to the train.
On the train, she gazed out the windows at the beautiful sights. But these other people, strangers, kept on getting in her way. Talking. Pushing. Punching...then the punch evolved into a strangle hold. The carriage went silent.
She watched a girl sitting alone, watching the fight. She had dark, sunken eyes and dry lips. It was her reflection.
She wondered why these boys were distracting her from the beautiful night and sights.
Then, the fighters dispersed. They exited the train.
The patterns on the walls returned, as did the mellow feeling of content.
But where to go? Instinct said 'nature', but the cold wind pushed her home.
Strolling through empty streets. Shadows, rain, trees.
The house was dark...and quiet. She rolled up in her bed, warm and safe.
There, she went swimming through her painting with Trentemoller. And woke up.

Like a Virgin

Sometimes it's important to say no. Especially when it's your first time. Sure, he may tell you everything he thinks you want to hear. He might think he's pushing all the right buttons. He might even try to convince you that the smaller, less 'popular' alternative isn't good enough for you. It's very tactical. One might also say he's reading it from a script. You're almost convinced...But, when caught off guard, it may all come out that even he 'tweaks' the truth sometimes.
In his defence:
"Sometimes, in the heat of discussion, you go a little bit further than you would if it was an absolutely calm, considered, prepared, scripted remark..."
Oh, Tony.

Yes, on August the 21st I will be voting for the first time. Some might say that I am a 'virgin voter'. As are 90 % of my friends. We will number our preferences at the polling booths and finally directly influence this democracy of ours. To many, 18-years-old is young and naive. Sure, I know plenty of idiots. But I've come to realise that age is not a factor when it comes to being an idiot. On the contrary, I know plenty of 18-year-olds who aren't idiots at all. And, many of my friends all take quite an interest in the upcoming federal election.

The perfect example: A few days ago, my very good friend Sophie posted a link on my Facebook wall. It was a link to a page on the Australian Greens' website about Asylum Seekers and Refugees. I commented the link, as did she. Then, a handful of my friends joined in on the discussion. By the following day there were over 60 comments from people between the ages of 18 and 20 on the link. It was a sustained and analytical discussion, with each person eager to express their opinions and learn about other things.

I've heard of a number of people who refer to Generation Y-ers as those ‘damned adolescents’ with no respect for authority or the elderly. We are the ones who quit when the going gets tough. We drink too much and neglect our responsibilities. We spend too much time on the internet.

Whether any of the above is true or not for certain individuals, it is in our interests to partake in this society. It is a responsibility that some will probably neglect, but others won't. And, sure we use the internet too much. But it enables us an outlet to talk about the important stuff.
And facebook helps us plan the election parties we're going to have, where we can drink some more.

Yesssss.

Now, consider the options before you give it up guys. You don't want a man who wears speedos and you don't want a lady who doesn't stand up for her beliefs.

I know stuff, now.

Sometimes I feel dumb.

Or, maybe not dumb exactly, but 'un-informed'.

I don't know many 'facts'. I don't know about many things in this world, why things are the way they are or how something came to be. I don't know how stuff works. I wish I did!

I wish I could partake in discussions about medicine or volcanoes or tofu. Anything!
I know bits and pieces about society and sociology and politics and people...but I don't know about other abstract stuff.

But, as usual, the internet has come to my rescue!

The other day, a friend and I were having a heated discussion about how stupid people become when they are 'in love'. Obsession, irrationality and just plain stupidity. Ditching their friends, losing their values, losing their minds! In the midst of the conversation, I declared that I would become a scientist and get to the bottom of the chemistry within our brains that can make us so fucking retarded just because of another person.

Of course, there was very little substance to this declaration. But, I thought, maybe someone's already done it!

So I went to my trusty source to learn about all things great and small, insignificant and things of catastrophic importance:
HowStuffWorks.com.

This website is no new discovery of mine, but I only recently acquired such an appreciation for it and all it can teach me!

All I did was type in 'Love' to the search bar, and it came up with many clickable titles. Including one, 'How Love Works'.

Here is what it had to say:

If you've ever been in love, you've probably at least considered classifying the feeling as an addiction. And guess what: You were right. As it turns out, scientists are discovering that the same chemical process that takes place with addiction takes place when we fall in love.

Yes! Someone had already done the handiwork for me.

The article then went on to numerous subheadings: What is Love?, What Makes us Fall in Love?, Aphrodisiacs, Lust and Attraction, Attachment, The Chemistry of Love, Chemical Bonding, The Long Haul?, Are We Alone in Love?

Amazing. All questions answered. From here, the opportunities seemed endless: photos, light, talent, singing, pain, laughter.

Thank you 'HowStuffWorks' for giving me knowledge. Next, I'll be getting on to Bill Bryson's 'A Short History of Nearly Everything'. Then I'll just drop out of uni and become a wise gypsy in Scandinavia. Yes.

Go on, ask me anything.

No more talk

“If I’d learnt one thing from travelling, it was that the way to get things done was to go ahead and do them. Don’t talk about going to Borneo. Book a ticket, get a visa, pack a bag, and it just happens.” - The Beach, Alex Garland.

Thailand, Cambodia, Laos I’m coming for you. Vietnam, I’m coming back for you.

Or maybe I'll go to Europe. I just need to buy a god damn ticket. Blagggh!

Revelations over a Chai

Last night, while enjoying a chai and chocolate-chip cookie with my dear friend Amelia, I had a revelation. And, it wasn't even that I should put down the cookie or give the poor barista a break from brewing those wretched chai lattes.

Rather, I realised I have a serious problem with drafting. I don't mean the sort of drafting that dear Lucinda Strahan encourages all good Professional Writing students to undertake, either. I mean, I rarely send a text message without exiting, erasing and redrafting dozens of times. The 'Drafts' folder of my beloved HTC hit a startling 200 + messages.
Why is this so?
Well, apparently I think too much.
Many people close to me have tried to convince me of such at times, but I usually dispute their claims: I don't think too much, I just think before I act, speak and write. That is responsible, I argue. Unlike you silly boys that are tactless and stupid and silly and really should empathise more with others. (Hmph)
Well, after coming across my overloaded Draft section I realised that maybe their claims were something I should keep in mind (like there aren't already enough things floating around my mind, right?).
But, how do you think about not thinking so much? Doesn't that just defeat the purpose?
So, my solution: I will express all these 'thoughts' in writing. Perhaps then, I will get to 'know' my thoughts. Then, once recognising these thoughts I can redistribute these thoughts: I can throw away the silly ones, keep the ones I like and recycle the rest so that maybe they can return as something a little better in the future.
But, this posed another problem. Where to write about it? I thought well and hard, as usual, and came up with two possible outlets for my expression, in order of preference: diary or blog. As the diary is universally regarded as the place in which one may express one's deepest and most intimate 'thoughts' and feelings, this was the obvious choice. I scrounged around my bookshelf for a home-brand Moleskin that I'd purchased earlier this year and flipped open the first few pages. There was an entry! A full one at that. Pats on the back for Josie. Oh... wait. Why is there writing beneath the writing, in a grey yet faded shade? I snapped the book shut. Apparently I can't even express my 'deepest and most intimate thoughts and feelings' in pen. Instead, I wrote it in a trusty 2B grey-lead. And I rubbed most of it out. Disgraceful!
Furious at the fact that I apparently lack any sense of creativity or value for my own expression, I grabbed my laptop in search of the other alternative. And then I remembered that I'd already started a blog. As I should, considering I'm studying media and journalism (and PR, but we don't like to dwell on that).
But I couldn't remember what website it was with, nor any usernames or passwords or anything else worthwhile. Then, as I searched my history, it started coming back to me that I've started a number of blogs. The compulsory one for Professional Writing (Pebble Pad sucks, that's all), a Tumblr, and this one. Wow, great initiative Jose. Well done, starting your own blog. Practice writing, find your voice, gain a following, woooo. Pity nobody knows about any of them. And, pity that there are FIVE UN-POSTED, HALF WRITTEN DRAFTS!!!
So, now I'm going to bite the bullet. I hereby declare that this blog will be my blog. Yes it will yes it will. And I'm going to punish my past-self by publishing some unpublished 'drafts' from either my Tumblr or my drafts section of this blog.
Back to the subject of Chai lattés and revelations, Amelia and I also discovered that not only does the Chai serves as a delicious metaphor for many things. I hereby declare, again, that I will discuss this matter in a future post. And no, I will not draft. Even though Lucinda says that I should draft. I will not. Okay, maybe I will. Purely for the sakes of my 'readers' (ha), and to uphold the proper use of the English language. But I will publish! Because I need to stop thinking and start doing stuff. Yeah.

Fail-blog

F my life.

I failed.

I failed, not just once, but twice.

Then, in my fury, I stormed home and slammed my bedroom door. It fell off its hinges. So, now, I have a lopsided door incapable of closing, parents who are incredibly disappointed in me, a broken phone, a bicycle with no brakes and I still don’t have my driver’s licence.

Love my life, right? Wrong.

I went to VicRoads this morning for the second time in two weeks. Actually, I think I commented in my last blog how I was getting my licence in the near future, “should all go to plan”. Well, I am sorry to say that ‘all’ did not ‘go to plan’. I think it is safe to say that nothing went to ‘plan’ at all.

My first encounter with the Driving Supervisors at the esteemed Carlton office was rather unpleasant, and not only because I failed. As quite a happy-go-lucky, friendly person, upon my name being called I approached the woman with enthusiasm and said, with a big smile on my face, “Hi, how are you?”. Now, I’m no expert on social conduct, but I am pretty sure that the norm is to reply with an “I’m well thanks” or even a “Fine”, “Not bad” or “I’ve been better”. Instead I was met with a blank stare and a blatant recount of the rules for the test. “…I will direct you left or right at each intersection…You must follow all of my instructions or the test will me terminated…You are not permitted to speak in the test.”

Alright-y then. If it’s going to be that way, cool. You treat me like a dummy, I treat you like a GPS system. That’s totally fine, let’s just get this over with.

Needless to say, the experience did not improve.

My test went for a total of 37 minutes, most of which passed with barely a hiccup. In fact, I would say they consisted of some pretty damn good driving in the great scheme of things. But, as it turns out, one has to actually stop at stop signs. Who would have thought? Apparently it’s a ‘critical error’ if you ‘slow and pause but do not stop your car completely at a stop sign but other road users or pedestrians are not endangered’ (feel free to press the hyperlink for more info on that beautiful road rule). So despite the fact that my driving was ‘perfect, really’ and that I am a ‘very capable driver’, the robot was ‘sorry to say’ that I was unsuccessful on this attempt.

BUT, luckily for me, somebody had just cancelled their appointment and a test time had opened up for Thursday the 18th of March, less than two weeks away! Hoorah! I’ll show them. Then I’ll do a drive by all my friends who doubted me, they’ll be sorry. It’ll be a surprise, too, cause I won’t tell anybody I’m going for it again. Chyeah.

As the day drew nearer, I became more and more eager to just do the test and move on. Learning to drive has seriously hampered my relationship with my parents, so the sooner I don’t have to drive with them again, the better. And of course, the morning of the test began with a big row with my mother. I swear, if she ever advises me to put my hair up, roll my sleeves up, stay out of the bike lane or slow down over the speed bumps again it will be the end of me.

My experience was different this time, and it really did seem promising at the start. The man was nice, old, friendly. We commenced the test and everything was going swell. About five minutes in, the supervisor told me to turn right at the roundabout. Sure, easy. After indicating I began the turn. And then, I mounted the curb. Oh-to-the-No. Big mistake. The poor old man then turned to me and said “unfortunately…”. I told him to say no more. There was no need. We then drove carefully back to the carpark, I did the shittiest park of my life, and the supervisor got out, my mother got in, and I climbed to the passenger seat. We did not speak the entire trip home.

And then, as I said, my anger burst from its bottle and my poor bedroom door copped the flak of it.

This whole series of events has led me to a number of conclusions. The stubborn, adolescent side of me thinks the whole system is stupid and unparallel to real-life driving expectations. The completely irrational and stupid side of me thinks it’s my mum’s fault cos she’s a horrible driver anyway, why should she teach me? There’s another side of me that is thinking I’ll just follow the footsteps of a couple of friends who had failed by going to Leongatha VicRoads instead of Carlton (it’s much easier apparently). But, when it comes down to it, I am really quite afraid of failure, I’ve realised. I can’t handle it. And because I’ve failed twice, surely that just means I’m not ready to get my license yet, or that I’m just bad at life. Either way, right now, in my current state of mind, I’m thinking: fuck it, I’ll just buy a helmet, fix my bike and become one of those ‘damned cyclists’.

Driving is bad for the environment anyway.

Kick start

It may be a little premature, but I am in the midst of attempting to give my writing career some sort of kick start, without turning into a wanker. I just sent this review into an online music mag called The AU Review in a bid to become a regular contributor to the site. I probably should have proof read, but oh well. Will see how I go. If anybody has an ounce of wit in them, something I lack, please provide me with an appropriate title for this!!!

***UPDATE: Article now up on website. Officially a published writer now, yes! Go here!!