Heavy thoughts to carry around.

There are things that we do not say to others, things that we tend to keep locked up inside. Hidden. Such things are not welcome to be seen by others, we barely wish to see them ourselves and yet... and yet there they are. Right there. In the part of yourself that you don't look at too closely. The part that you find uncomfortable to think about. Where you fight and object and yell to the world when confronted that you're Not Like That. You don't Do Things Like That. That, ultimately, you're a Good Person.

Many of us do not carry such doubts. Confident that we -are- right. That we -are- a good person. That the things we think in the front of our mind are the good, right or just things. But .. what if they're not?

I find myself going through my life, thinking that I'm a ... not bad person. I'm reasonably sure that I'm not a good person, simply because I have far too short a temper, a distinct lack of patience with anything and any one that expresses an extensive inability to think for oneself... in short, while we all have bad days for the grey matter, if you have more of them than not, I find myself disliking you intensely.

This goes for those who seem to buy into propaganda whole heartedly, whether it is for the government, by the government, or against it. I just wish that people would try and thing, to examine things, rather than swallow them whole and then burp up the gasses that percolate through their system.

And then I stop, and look at myself. Am I judging them? Am I judging people with a blanket assessment because of the way they are judging others with that self-same assessment? So ... I'm judging people for being judgey. This does not resolve the issue, at all, rather, it ....compounds it. A person I know is of the opinion that they've always 'known' themselves to be special. Special not in intellect or accomplishments or fitness or drive, just that they look at the world in a 'different way' to 'everyone else' and that makes them special.

My first response? Congratulations, you're a special little snowflake. This matters because....?

I do not think that is such a charitable response. That I did not really try and take -their- perspective into proper account. This is probably why I failed at being a psychologist. I just ... don't care about people, generally. People special to me? Yes, I care about them. But that is normal. The average person, I really don't care about what is going on in their life. Especially if they are struggling with it. Big whoop. Every one is struggling nowadays, you hear it all the time. From the multi-millionaire to the homeless on the street, the economy's fucked, the power balance is fucked, everything is fucked and I'm just trying to eke out a living, working towards getting a Paying Job.

Seriously. That is my life goal right now. A job that Pays Money.

And then there are these wonderful, glorious people, whining about how it's Too Hard, and how, though they cannot accomplish or do anything with or in their life, it makes them Special.

I do not really like this side of myself. It feels as though I am viewing myself as an entitled dipshit. Or viewing others from such a vantage point, and I really do not wish to do that. I want to help people, but ultimately? I want to help myself. I do not really care too much about their problems, when I have my own long term goals to accomplish. Like, a paying job, and immediately following that, putting aside money to own my own godamn home.

When I was 16 I was sure I would at least have a mortgage by the time I was 25. I turned 25 last week. I do not have a paying job, let alone a mortgage. And in the face of that ... big gaping hole where I thought my future would be?

Proclaiming greatness due to self-perceived perspective about the world?

What the fuck is going on in the world?

Adventures with an Opthomologist!

I have no idea if I spelt 'opthomologist' right, it's the specialist eye doctor that your optometrist referrs you to if you have special types of diseases that may effect your eyes. Like diabetes.

I do happen to have diabetes, so I get the referral, get an appointment and my dad takes the day off work to drive me down and back, because y'know, they're going to put drops in your eyes that relax the muscles of your iris which, in turn, dilates your pupil to its hugest diameter so that the good doctor can shine a light into it and look at the back of your eyeballs. All of the back of your eyeballs.

When you first get the drops in, it stings a little. I am not the best eyedrop patient, I blink, a lot, and half of the drop goes into my eye at the best of times, but Dr Wu (that's his name!) pulled down my lower eyelids and cheated! He put it in the little pouch and then let my eyelids relax. There was no escape! Aaaah. Okay so there's the tingly burning sensation type thing and he sends me back out to wait fifteen minutes or so for the drops to work.

First indication that they -are- working is that the outside is becoming very very painfully bright. Like the daylight outside looked sort of like ...y'know... the white paint behind a fluro light. And my dad started teasing me about being on drugs and high because clearly, my pupils were dilated.

Think of it this way. This, o.o is your eyes normally. O.O that is your eyes on this dilation thing. And you can't get them back to o.o because the dilation thing has made them temporarily forget how. So he shines the light in my eyes and I see stripes for thirty seconds afterwards, but, good news! My eyes are fine (aside from needing glasses, apparently I have 20/20 vision, whatever that means) so I'll see him in 2 years time and we'll be all sweet and dandy. ...And I am progressively able to focus less and less on stuff.

And then we go OUTSIDE. Oh god. I figured, because y'know, I was managing alright without sunnies on as it stands, inside, that I'd be alright outside. Uh-huh. My eyes immediately went squinty in the sunlight and then shut completely. I could manage point fuckall glances through my eyelashes to try and make sure I didn't walk into shit, and my dad very helpfully guided me to the car, where I then put on my sunnies. And they stayed on.

We went to the shops, and I was like some crazy person with my sunnies on inside. We wandered around a bit (and the colour of the air wasn't any different to if I -weren't- wearing them, normally) did some shopping, got some lunch, and then went to go back to the car.

Hisss. Daylight. Sunlight. Hiss!

Back to the car, in the car, and driving home. I can't focus on jack so I'm just sitting there, watching the scenery go by, and periodically drop the sunnies down to be blinded. Just for kicks and giggles, clearly, to try and see how well my pupils were getting back into the undilated thing. I went to the chemist to get some medication (legit drugs man!) and had the chemist there going 'oh god' because I looked high as balls with my pupils still all bugged out. Oiye.

And now I am home! It is 4pm, I'm sitting in the loungeroom with the curtains drawn, which block out 70% of the sunlight and I am quite comfortable and capable of seeing easily (apart from where there is a gap in the curtains and the vile sunlight is leaking through) to the extent where my dad, as he left for karate, called me a freaking bat. :D

So that's the adventures for today. Oh! I got the complete works of HP Lovecraft to add to my growing collection of collected books. You know. hardcovers of classics that any good library HAS to have. Edgar Allen Poe. The Odessy, The Illiad... stuff like that. So. Glorious. My literature e-peen is growing so big.

~Think of the Possibilities.

Old Birch Road

The crackle of the fire spilled into the stillness of the tavern, one of those quaint old historical places, a slice of time, the travel brochure describes them. Some-place to go and relax, to catch up on your roots, possibly meet your ancestors and have them be none the wiser. It seemed idyllic, they all do, the perfect place for Tyrell and Hannah, newly-weds, to go for their honeymoon, rubbing elbows with old people, young people, people who actually died. Unheard of, nowadays, with the human population expanding to cover all corners of the galaxy, new life had been met centuries ago.

"Nix, they called her, Nacht, Nox, Night, the Dark Mother." The wizened old man was starting up a story, evidently, one of the local folk-tales, and evidently a well worn one judging by the groans from his surrounding listeners.

"Oh give it a rest you old geezer, every body's heard the tale and no body believes it the way you say." One grumbles, throwing a hot potato chip in his general direction.

"Oh sure Lou! You young'uns always think you know the best ways of telling things, of the knowing, but you don't know nothing, I know, I were there. I met her. And she aint like the stories say." 

Hannah turns to her new husband, a hushed squeal in her voice "This place is the best!! Folk lore, fairy tales, old geezers and drunken brawlers! It's so authentic!" Her hands grab onto his arm as the patrons turn to look at them, a frown on a few faces as though unaware of how, or when, the pair got through the door. "Shh honey, just sit and watch. You know the rules." They go over to an empty table, and order a drink. 

"Give it a rest. Nix aint what you think she is you old geezer. She's a night terror that stalks the roads at night. Woe betide you if you stop to give her a lift, you aint ever going to see the sun again, forever riding down that one road, keepin' her company for the rest of your life." Lou continues with a bored tone of voice, another chip tossed at the elderly man "She aint sweet, she aint caring, and she most certainly don't ever let you go! Once you walk beside the Dark Mother, you aint walking nowhere else."

"You kin just sit down and hush yerself Lou, you aint got nothing but prejudice and hearsay to back up your story, I was there, I saw her. Now you gonna hush yerself up so that the new'uns can hear the tale?" The wizened, wrinkled old man, with white hair sticking out of his ears, turned and looked towards the newly-weds, while waiting for one of the crowd to pipe up and offer their opinion of the situation, or commentary about the quality of his story telling. "Didn't think so." 

He coughs, and clears his throat, a swallow taken from the mug on the table infront of him, to clear out his throat. Even out the roughness of age and too much to drink, the singularly unique manner in which he speaks smooths out as the story rolls along, until the lilt of his hoarse words is simply the way the story is told, with dips and bends, of the corners and the hitches in the road, all there, embedded in the aged pit of his mouth and long suffering tongue. 


I was a young'un of a sparse twenty three, I'd gotten through my teen years mostly unscathed, came out the other side with an apprenticeship and a career well on the way to making me a very rich and fine grandaddy for the kids that I'd yet to find the wife to make. I had the world on my shoulders and the head to know what to do with it, all pomp and class and ceremony and ego that you young'uns wouldn't recognise, but anyone who's seen more'n three score of years would know exactly what all I'm talking 'bout. I thought I was the all that, back then, the man of mans, a somebody, an important somebody goin' places. But I weren't. She knew that, and so's she told me, one night while I were driving through a crystal clear night along the old Birch Road – you know the one, the one what that's boarded up, with 'no through road' signs peppered across the entrance and exit, where the teens and kids dare each other to run up to, to touch a sign and run off else the witch'll getcha. Or some-such silly nonsense. 

Back in the day, when no one knew of Nacht, it were a road free to travel, smooth as anything you see today, but it weren't done by the robots and the machines and everythin' done to quite close parameters, math telling each one how much to put where and how to shape it so that it fits, nope. This were a road that was made by man and with rolling pins with motors, flattening everything out. This were the road where Nacht lingered, where she walked and was first seen, not even a month after the last wheel rolled away and the first car touched rubber to surface. You aint never sure where she came from, or why she chose that one road to wander beside, stories abound, she were a bride, widowed before her marriage day, her husband comin' to a mishap on his way to the church, something to do with the buildin' of Birch. Others say she ran away from home, and Birch was the road she met her end at, hitch hikin', only to run afoul of some unsavory sorts. Another tale I heard tell, she weren't never anything, she was just a little girl who got orphaned from a crash, and she walks the road lookin' for help, or her parents, and you cain't ever leave till you've done one or the other. 

It don't really matter where she came from, or why she's where she is now. All that matters is that her bonny brown eyes hold the very fires of hell to burn any who think of scorning her. It's why you don't ever leave, not walkin' beside her, and old Birch was the fastest way from town towards the living houses for the lads who had got themselves a bit more ineberated than would be purely safe for them to drive. Course, now you got to go back around the other end of town, takin' the long way. Old Birch is closed to traffic, even foot traffic, and any'un with a sane bone in their head'll know you don't walk down Birch, not with only the night as company. No sirree, that's one sure fire fast way to get yourself a widow of a wife.

Now, as I said, I weren't walkin' down Old Birch, I had better things to do with my time than walk along some road in the middle of a crystal clear night, I was goin' places, had things to do and was in a damn fine hurry to get there. And even then, with the road only a few years old, still as sparse and shiny as the day it were laid, there were rumours. Of folks walkin' home along its smooth edges after havin' a few too many and sent home without their car, never to be seen again, though folks thought that were drunken idiots not knowin' which way was north and lacking the damn fool sense to stay on the road rather'n wander off into the scrublands and get hisself stupid lost. So there weren't no way I was goin' to be walkin' down that fool road. 

Not even halfway down did I see her, she were a damn fine beauty, skin the rich luxury of chocolate, a dress as white as snow, flutterin' in the slight breeze, long black curls of hair tangling behind her. She were a damn fine sight from the angle I saw her, it weren't the best of nights, crystal clear and as cold as the flute of a champagne glass, and she looked to be a wee bit cold, you'd be too, wearin' what she was. No shoes nor anythin' to keep the heat in, nothing at all. Against what woulda been sense if I had the mind to think it, I stopped beside her, just a little ways ahead, and opened up the passenger door of me car. 

"Hey there Miss, you headed someplace?" I leant over to ask her, the door was open, blocking her way. She stopped and turned to look at me, and somewhere in the back of my head I started screamin', something was screamin' up a storm, but I weren't listening to that, I were looking at her. With the dark pools of her eyes, the slight parting of her dark lips and the flash of white, white teeth as she hesitated.
"No place special." She eventually replied, rubbing her arms as though still chilled, walkin' against the press of the wind on this crystal cold night. 

"I figure that I'm heading someplace special, or even a little bit more ordinary than that, if you'd like to get a lift, so your no place is a little closer?" She was captivating, sweet and fascinating, I couldn't get enough of lookin' at her, and not in the way you'd all be thinkin', there weren't any leerin' involved, like the young lads are wont to do when facin' a pretty fine slice of lady. She were almost precious, I could no more refuse her a lift than I could refuse to breathe. 

"Sure." She said to me, still hesitating, her hands stop the endless rubbing of her slender arms, to tuck her long skirt underneath her, to slip into my car and pull the door shut behind her. I admit I sat staring at her, damn fool that I was, mouth open, stunned and amazed beyond all ken or even thinkin' that she actually took up my offer. A pretty thing like her, no, more than pretty, perfect. Beautiful. Not in the way that the actors and models are, with the high cheekbones and slender bodies and rail thin frames, no, she were beautiful in a more earthy way, not an angel, not somethin' unknowable, in just a way where you could get to thinkin' mighty indecent things about her, all bundled up in a near nothin' bit of white cloth, thinkin' that maybe, if I played my cards right, I might get a little kiss at the end of the road, where I left her, and maybe a way to contact this beauty of the night. That ought to've warned me, a little, but course, I were ignoring such common sense things, like the screaming warnin' crawling up the nape of my neck. 

I put the car in gear, finally managin' to stop staring at her, to drive down old Birch, which was just Birch then. "You come from somewhere? It's a bit of a cold night, for a girl like you to be walking down the road a ways on their own." Strikin' up conversation I was, just to get her talkin', distracted from bein' in a car with a stranger, and maybe she'd get distracted enough to relax, so I didn't feel like I had a damn jumpin' jack in the passenger seat, rather'n an ebony beauty of such lush perfection. 

Again she looked at me, it were almost like she was lookin' into me, knowin' and hearing the screaming that I ignored, listenin' to each and every little part of me, to see who I was, who I thought I was, and just how safe she is to be in a car with me. "Some place a distance away. Just felt like walking." That's what she said to me, that's all she ever said regardin' where she came from, it weren't some story, it weren't some tragedy, she just took to the road one night, feeling like a walk, and here she is, going no where special, in no particular hurry, just walking along the road for the walk. Course, now I figure she aint limited to just walkin' old Birch, but all roads, all nights, have felt the press of the bare soles of her feet, but Birch is just one of many places, lucky or otherwise, where she could meet folks, get a bit of company along in her walk. Perhaps a ride to the nowhere, making the distance a little closer, just for that one night. 

Now time had passed, and I were noticin', in amongst our talk about nothin' special, that Birch weren't ending. It was a short road, five minutes at most, end to end, and I should've come up onto the end of it by now, twice over in fact, yet from the land marks, I couldn't have gone more than thirty yards from the start of it. Just as I started noticin' this she started starin' at me, watchin' me like a hawk, or a predator about to take the silly little rabbit in its jaws and crack the life out. As though waitin' for me to make the connection, and demand that she get out again, and walk along the damn fool road on her own, to be so rude. I nearly did too, nearly made comment about it, but my fuel weren't goin' nowhere, and she weren't such unpleasant company that it were any bother to me. 

By and by, with the road growing no shorter, and nothin' changing but my awareness of the passage of time, and her watching me so close like, as though almost impatient for... well, I'm sure you can figure it. Finally, I made a comment "I've noticed something odd here, no matter how far I take you, the road doesn't seem to be getting any shorter."

"Its the way things are, when you're going nowhere special." She replies, almost instantly, as though she had the answer prepared hours, days in advance, knowin' what I'd say. 

"You in any particular rush to get there?" The passage of time felt as though it were days, hours, long enough for my wearisome lookin' forward to my home and warm bed, had turned into a burnin' ache behind my eyes, a headache in my head and a tremble findin' its way down my fingers. She shook her head, still watching me closely, her eyes widening as I slowed down, and pulled the car over to the side. "You have my apologies, but I fear I haven't gotten you any closer to where you were going, it's been a very, very long day. This road is endless and I'll be needing to get myself some sleep, though I would love to take you the distance, just for your company, I fear if I drive any longer, I'll forget where the road is."

She looked surprised at that. More surprised than you'd think, I made no move to get out of the car, nor to ask her to leave, just undid my seatbelt and laid my seat back, flattening it as far back as it could go. "I am mighty sorry, I can't keep my eyes open." 

Silence, she was just watching me, staring, I could feel her eyes on me, watchin',starin'. It was a long, long night, for both of us I like to think. When I finally fell asleep, it were a sleep of angels, as though I were on the softest down, held in the warm, lovin' arms of the wife I'd yet to find, and she were the sweetest thing on this side of the moon. "Nacht." I heard whispered in my ear, a soft, warm palm stroking over my head, the sensations weaving through my dreams, sweetness and sound and it was so very warm. "You can call me Nacht."

The dream faded, as it is normal for them to do, and I found myself in my car, condensation on the windshield, and a still warm passenger seat as the sun rose and warmed the cold chill on the metal. I weren't on Birch road, I were a mere stones throw away from my house, parked out front of my drive way. It were three days after I picked up Nacht, on old Birch road, judgin' by the number of calls on my phone, missed messages of folks bein' worried about why I hadn't done my projects that were due, in danger of bein' fired, which were a great worry when you're young, not havin' a job and no way to pay things. But I couldn't find it in my heart to be worried about it, course, I was still flushed with the sweet memory of Nacht. So mayhap I weren't in my right mind, but I couldn't much care.

Used to be, before they closed the road, from folk's disappearin' far too often for it to be coincidence, nigh on one a week, I'd go drivin' down there. Sometimes I found myself a sweet dark thing to keep me company on the long dark road, till I had to sleep, sometimes I didn't. She seemed to remember me, time came about that when I stopped and opened the door, she'd run up to it, to me, and I'd get that sweet kiss I dreamt of on that long ago first trip. Sometime, a little bit more. Nights we didn't really go anywhere, just sit in that one little patch of road, talkin' till my eyes grew heavy and I couldn't keep them up no more. Yup, Natch, Nox, the Night Mistress, she's one sweet lady, warm and soft and willing and oh so very beautiful. Never seen her like before, nor have I since, do her a disservice, tryin' to express with my old words, just how lovely she were, though I gave it a fair try.



There was silence for a few minutes in the tavern in the space following a story before a loud laugh from Lou spoils the atmosphere "He tells that story once a week, at least. Old timer doesn't know it." Another laugh, and the usual tavern noise resumes, and the newly-weds stand to filter out, subdued, just a little, and excited. "Oh my god did you see his face?" A few hushed whispers, sweet love words whispered, before the husband hushes, and points. The old geezer is starting to walk down the road, leaving the tavern. A walking cane under one hand, limping, towards the Old Birch Road, a pat to one of the many signs barring entrance, warning against it. 

A dark skinned beauty in a long white dress steps on the edge of the road, one hand extended towards the old, hobbling man. Though his words cannot be heard, hers travel clearly through the night. "You have come back to me."

A pause as he makes his reply, still limping towards the lush figure waiting for him.

"You forgot your car this time." The closer the geezer gets, the straighter he walks, until he is a young man with snow white hair, the cane hooked over his elbow, the ebony lady slipping her arm through his other "Walk with me?"

For the first time, as he nods, does his voice carry as easily through the night as hers. "Always and forever my dear Nacht." He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, affection rich in the tone of his voice as they start to walk into the distance, fading from the vision of the newly weds, as though swallowed up, or a part of the night. 

"Tell me a story. You always had such wonderful tales to tell..."

Pokemon White 2: Review so far

So! About a week or two ago I bought pokemon white 2, while very very patiently waiting for White and Black 2 -- that is, the first Pokemon White and the Black sequel, no I didn't buy the same game twice.

Having gotten through the majority of Black before the grinding got to be a bit too monotonous for too little gain (Levelling up to try and take on Cynthia and the elite 4 for a second time) I know the main story line, it's just the little final details of finding the last of the sages, capturing Tornadus, and so on. So! I was waiting, most impatiently, for the sequels to arrive. (Okay, not really, I had other things to do as well) But, eventually I received the game! Whoo hoo. (A pox on assignments needing to  be done in the same time frame, but, priorities)

Spoilers below the break!

Jackie Chan - I'll Make a Man Out Of You

Oh. My. Goodness.

You know, when you think of Chan, you think of comedic action, kung fu and jujitsu, Rush Hour and Shanghai Knights, Snake in Eagle's Shadow, you compare him to other oriental action stars like Bruce Lee (I believe he was, at one time, being groomed to replace Bruce Lee, but Chan was more fond of having the combat being entertaining not just awe inspiring) and if you look out for his movies, you think of old school chinese films, or the blooper reels for his later movies like the Tuxedo, or instances where he's broken his leg or nose or arm, in the middle of shooting a movie because he does all his own stunts. One thing, however, that you are near guaranteed -not- to think of when Jackie Chan is mentioned is ....music.

Driving! And sharks :(

I passed my last driving test yesterday. If you do not know, I am in australia and we have a VERY in depth drivers education system to get permission to roam around on four wheels.

I'll also be talking about our sharks after the break, so please read through, it's important!

When you're 15/16 you get to take a 'keys to life' test, which is a written test to make sure you know the basics of road rules, who to give way to and so on.

Then when you're 16/17 you can go to your local licencing centre to get your first learners permit. This allows you to be out on the road around other cars ...with an instructor in the passengers side. During this time you are to learn how to drive, park, turn in a circle, not crash and all that sort of thing. Then you can go for your Logbook. Which is ANOTHER test, with an accredited driving examiner, where you'll drive around, following their directions and obeying road rules and so on. If you pass this one (and it'll take you at least 2 attempts, on average, due to nerves or various other reasons) then you get your log book. Dun na da na! You now get to drive around (with L plates and a licenced driver in the passenger seat) and have your hours of driving logged. You have to drive for more than 10 minutes at a time or it doesn't count. I needed to get 25 hours in at least 6 months, but the number has gone up recently in laws, to 50 or 100 or something. Now, supposing you do aaaall this, are you allowed to drive on your own? NOPE!

Re: Your Brains

You know, I think I love Jonathan Coulton's songs....they're awesome. And these clips are pretty good too. Yay for spiffworld!

Also; Downloading illegally is bad. Please hunt out and buy his songs as they are cool! Here are some more for sampling :D

Happy feel-good

After a week where not one, not two but THREE things have had happy-sad endings -- Reading the Hunger Games trilogy, Episode 5, Season 7 of Doctor Who, and the season finale of the Dollhouse written/directed by Will Wheaton, I have been in need of some happy feelgood. Arugments are unpleasant, and ontop of -that- trio of a bomb shell I haven't been handling it very well. Thus! We have some happy feel-good that I wish to share with the pineapple and fruit bowl that actually check in on this.

Education

This is one of my 'identity journals' for my sociology unit, as I'm studying Psychology with a minor in criminology. I love sociology, it is rather interesting. Sort of like economics, but with less numbers :D. This topic was 'education', and how I felt that the education system reflected on me and so on, using sociological theories that I had just read about as part of that weeks lecture.

Also, I HATE spelling 'bourgeoisie' I can never, EVER remember how it's spelt off the top of my head and it is very vexing.
~~~~

Education...hmm. This is a bit of a tricky topic. The notes taken for this weeks lecture would have me put squarely in the 'bad guy' category, of the bourgeoisie, as I went to a private school for the majority of my education. I spent hrm, the first 4 years of my educating life in a public school, and that was found to be a little 'lacklusture' by my parents, even if I did adore one of my teachers specifically. My year 2 teacher, Mrs Ketelle. We all called her Mrs Kettle, the poor dear, but she was brilliant.

And then for year three I had a Mrs Finlay or something and I think she was not quite as clever as she thought she was. If you are a teacher and do not know how to spell 'spaghetti' when asked, and another student tells you -how- to spell the word, do not argue with that child until they get the mother loving dictionary and open it to the page and point out the word and how to freaking spell it, as how THEY were SAYING IT. Argh. Yeah. I was that kid.

Year 4 had me going to a private school, which was both better, and worse. See, better education, but slightly worse with the social interaction thing, as the classmates were no longer people from wherever, but the 'upper class' of that particular town, and the majority of them were rather hmm... clique-y. Didn't help that I wasn't part of the fashionable crowd and far too fond of books but... eh. No matter.

I enjoy learning. I am happiest when I am learning something new, -and- when I have something physical to balance it out, however, this isn't always the case and I do end up rather tired at the end of the day without much time for the whole, rest and relaxation thing that isn't sleep. I am also the first and only member of my family (including cousins and extended family) that has gone to university, so there is that. There was a lot of pressure from my parents (particularly my mother) all through my schooling years to get good grades and go to University. I start -going- to university and my mothers pressure turns to 'get a job! Just start working! Get a job and don't worry about the education it's a waste of time what you're doing'. Go figure. So, I drop out (she convinces my dad to stop paying for my tuition, and won't let me get a HECS debt) and then she turns on a dime and pushes for me to go to TAFE instead of uni (It's cheaper and does the same thing!) which... yeah. Bleh. My dad encouraged my learning, my mother forced it down my throat and nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Hrm. But none of this really relates to the specifics of the topic.

I -can- see the difference between the public school systems and the private schools, not so much between suburbs as I was a country kid and it was, you know, two towns. One only had a public school, the other had one of each. Not exactly spoilt for choice. But I attribute the major difference to the fact that public schools have a what, $60 per term tuition fee, while the private schools had around a $2000 per year tuition fee. Sure, it's a little bit more -- plus the cost of the books and uniform -- but it enabled the school to give a better quality of teaching. Class sizes were 15-25 or there about, rather than the 30+ from the public classroom. Less students = greater individual attention from the educator and more emphasis on the parents getting the most out of the school because of how much they are investing in their childrens education. Compared to the public schools, where most parents nowadays are not so interested in their childs welfare, or education especially, because it is 'boring' and 'difficult'.

But, eh, there isn't really all that much, that I can see, that can be done about it. Oh, and the school education trend where kids 'can't fail'? Utter balony. If you give no consequences to not paying attention, and no real reward for them to excell then the point of it is lost to the children and the value of the education reduces. Drastically. In my opinion, at least, as I went through school going from getting letter grades, like B+ and A, to getting 7E and a paragraph to explain what it meant. -_-

In university sure, that sort of thing is helpful, as you can see where you're going wrong and where you need to improve and you still get a 'letter' mark at the end of it, rather than 'halfway between 7M and 7E' what does that meaaaaaane?!!?@!?@ Gyah.

I worry about the education system, when teachers are valued less than a babysitter and they do so much more.

Clean and tidy vs clean and messy vs dirty and messy.

This is just to get the definitions out there for folk who seem to have issues with it.

Clean and Tidy

Clean and tidy people are people that have everything tucked away into cupboards, all the surfaces in the house are completely dust and ornament free, the floors are kept meticulously dirt free, carpets either new or vaccuumed/steamed so often that you don't dare set foot on them because odds are, your feet'll be dirtier than the carpet. Even fresh out of the shower. And it's some pale colour that would show up that dirt really easily and with malicious glee. Everything is cleaned two or three times a week to keep it in that sparkling 'zomg new house' state. Personal hygeine is up in the lists of 'must do', along with ironing every little piece of clothing from the $400 suit to the underwear.

Obviously, I am not one of these peoples.

Clean but messy

These are your more 'common' types of middle-classish individuals, where they keep things clean but have more crap than cupboards and end up festooning surfaces with said crap. These types of individuals clean the bathroom, floors or whatever once a month or so, when they have the time, or inclination, unless something epically dirty happened -- like an entire plate of nachos landing nachos' down on the floor. *sigh* and then it's all guns blazing to remove the mess before it dries and becomes a bigger problem. Personal hygeine is up in the lists, but having perfectly ironed clothes from the shirt to the underwear ... not that big of a deal.

Voila, this is me.

Dirty and Messy

These are the people that have a more 'laid back' attitude towards hygeine and cleanliness, the sorts that have last weeks take away leftovers sitting on the table getting eaten by the ants sort of 'laid back'. Everything is everywhere and there is not just dust on the surfaces but greasy grime and muck and ickness. The spilled drink staining a sticky patch on the floor two days after it was dropped and so on.

Not me either!

(Also, I found this post unpublished from all the way the hell in the -past- and I have no idea where I was going with this o.o but, here we are! Enjoy)

~Think of the Possibilities.