I don’t actually have a designated thought to write, but I needed to do so. For when I write my mind is soothed and lulled by the rhythm of typing, the flow of words and the acrobatics needed to remain within the rules of words.
Despite Stephen Fry’s encouragement to bend these rules, I feel the need to cater to them, it provides more challenge.
To repeat a word is a drunken stumble to read, a sudden halt to the flow that is a almost physical pain. To misspell a word twists and jars, forgetting there is a second step before the end of a scale of stairs.
Smooth, cultured paragraphs allow me to stroll through the text, touch-tasting the blooms of prose while I observe the crisp shaped ideas cleanly trimmed to remain clearly within the topical boundaries.
A thrilling adventure hauls me through the plot, occasionally causing me to trip over unseen intrigue, gasping from the pace and shock of betrayal or tackling me out of the darkness with a stunning conclusion.
Tongue tripping tails, sibilance and sultry curls, I taste the words as they form on the page, Synesthesia at it’s best.
To describe a cold, windy day as today I need rough, wet, icy words to properly portray the setting. Visceral words, phrases that draw on experience and pain, hard to ignore and easily felt.
Today was not a day of silken breezes dancing with the warm sunlight on velvet-soft skin. This was a bone-chilling wind that cut sharply through the nose, whipping loose coats in whistling blasts and battering bared skin into numb resignation.
A light rain is forced into piercing mist, needling the face and swooping up open sleeves while gathering puddles to swamp shoes, clammy toes and squelching socks left in penance of a careless step.
A truly miserable morning that transformed grey concrete arches into balmy havens while making friends of any who shared perseverance through this gauntlet, the radio chiding anyone outside Dunedin complaining of the cold, for they are merely felling mildly brisk compared to those walking surrounded in snow down here in the CBD.
Me? I’m out to go see snow in Dunedin for the first time, hopefully joy will keep me warm.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Deductive Musing
A long scarf glitters in a shaft of sunlight, it's glitter and beige wool catching the sun yet obliviously ignored by people passing by. A female owner by my guess, most probably a lightly tanned youth of European descent. First year, as later years tend to skimp on the accessories and are more wary of the belongings. Statistics indicate a Health Science student who enjoys chatting with her girlfriends and has a few close guy friends.
The tag would help me further, although I'm guessing by the colour and shape it's from somewhere like Glassons. Flatting then, a dorm student is more likely to be from overseas and to wear a scarf of bulkier knit, furthermore a foreign student is less likely to leave the scarf scrunched in a pile like this one was. Colour suggests a blond with tied up hair, the scarf is thin and they want to make their neck look skinnier, again suggesting a girl more interested in sociality than warmth.
The location then, left behind on a bar table at the very end, she most probably had a quick bite to eat around 1 o'clock with the more comfy chairs already occupied. Stool is neatly tucked in with a partner, she had a friend and the neatness adds another tick to the 'female' column.
Altogether these indicate a young Health Sci scarfie grabbing a quick lunch between a lecture and a lab (They are 3 hours long so you want to eat beforehand but the earlier lecture cut down on time), cramming in their lab book homework before the lab starts. Realizes the time when chatting to friend and ran off to class, forgetting the scarf they took off so they could eat.
I will never actually learn if I'm correct, but it's good mental exercise. Noting these things takes so little time now it has merged into a sort of 'sense' of the owner of these abandoned belongings, I no longer work them out step by step anymore. I suppose that's what they call deductive reasoning nowadays, but I prefer to think of it as developing a instinct.
Don't sue me, but I judge.
The tag would help me further, although I'm guessing by the colour and shape it's from somewhere like Glassons. Flatting then, a dorm student is more likely to be from overseas and to wear a scarf of bulkier knit, furthermore a foreign student is less likely to leave the scarf scrunched in a pile like this one was. Colour suggests a blond with tied up hair, the scarf is thin and they want to make their neck look skinnier, again suggesting a girl more interested in sociality than warmth.
The location then, left behind on a bar table at the very end, she most probably had a quick bite to eat around 1 o'clock with the more comfy chairs already occupied. Stool is neatly tucked in with a partner, she had a friend and the neatness adds another tick to the 'female' column.
Altogether these indicate a young Health Sci scarfie grabbing a quick lunch between a lecture and a lab (They are 3 hours long so you want to eat beforehand but the earlier lecture cut down on time), cramming in their lab book homework before the lab starts. Realizes the time when chatting to friend and ran off to class, forgetting the scarf they took off so they could eat.
I will never actually learn if I'm correct, but it's good mental exercise. Noting these things takes so little time now it has merged into a sort of 'sense' of the owner of these abandoned belongings, I no longer work them out step by step anymore. I suppose that's what they call deductive reasoning nowadays, but I prefer to think of it as developing a instinct.
Don't sue me, but I judge.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tea and Rainy Musings
A fancy tea set sits in front of me, Dilmah tea in a little white tea pot with it's own tray, a little dish for the used swanky triangular teabag and a glass cup resting on a painted ceramic saucer. For 'natural goodness' a small resin block containing three timers; herbal, weak black and strong black brewed tea. A great contrast to the plastic baggies of lollies and tattered flyers resting on the cafe's main desk. This soothing tea is greatly needed, the Atomic coffee I have so mused on too strong for my body at the moment. A sore throat, mouth from a constant wash of bile is the least of my ills but something I can cure with a couple of cups of hot tea.
Twitching my shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the cramps forming there, I turn my attention to the cloudy sky with it's milky white blur reminiscent of a cataract-covered eye. Yet rain is a doubt in my mind, the neighboring river is not rushing, awash with the trickled remains of drizzle on the towering snow-capped mountains. Perhaps tonight, when I am snug in a cloud of fluffed duvet and furry faux mink blanket the rain will come.
First a few tinkling drops will chime on the roof, followed by a thundering roar that will gradually slow to the soft drumbeat of a storm that has not intention of stopping any time soon. The tattoo of raindrops on the roof will wash away my thoughts until I am a floating being of sounds and warmth drifting off to sleep.
With a mental shake I wake my self from this meditative fantasy and drink the cooled remains of my tea. I have chores to attend to, lectures to watch and bread to bake despite my weary aching body and drowsy mind. Yet I can't but help wanting the rainy night to come that bit sooner for you don't feel anything in that comfortable oblivion.
Twitching my shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the cramps forming there, I turn my attention to the cloudy sky with it's milky white blur reminiscent of a cataract-covered eye. Yet rain is a doubt in my mind, the neighboring river is not rushing, awash with the trickled remains of drizzle on the towering snow-capped mountains. Perhaps tonight, when I am snug in a cloud of fluffed duvet and furry faux mink blanket the rain will come.
First a few tinkling drops will chime on the roof, followed by a thundering roar that will gradually slow to the soft drumbeat of a storm that has not intention of stopping any time soon. The tattoo of raindrops on the roof will wash away my thoughts until I am a floating being of sounds and warmth drifting off to sleep.
With a mental shake I wake my self from this meditative fantasy and drink the cooled remains of my tea. I have chores to attend to, lectures to watch and bread to bake despite my weary aching body and drowsy mind. Yet I can't but help wanting the rainy night to come that bit sooner for you don't feel anything in that comfortable oblivion.
Atomic Coffee Musings
The Victorian clock-tower chimes nine, tolling through the mists of rain encompassing the campus. Unaffected, I rest cozy inside a cafe with a mug of hot coffee and a heater beside me. This caffeine hit was a previously discarded idea, it’s temptations crumpled as the waste paper cups it is served in. However, when walking out from the morning lecture a beautiful, rich aroma wafted over. Turning, I hunted out where the wisps of toasted toffee in the air were the strongest, I had to follow my nose.
To my delight, and to my wallet’s dismay, the cafe neighbouring to the 8am Chemistry lecture theatre had switched from it’s usual burnt, but potent!, brand of beans to the glorious taste and tingle of Atomic Coffee roasted beans. At the first slightly sweetened sip, for I knew it’s strength, memory transports me to my earliest taste of this caramelized coffee goodness.
Driving through Kingston, in Auckland several years past, the family was heading off to a destination now forgotten, when at Mum’s sudden order the car was stopped and the parking swiftly paid, for she had spotted coffee and was going to partake, itinerary be damned. As she strode over to the traffic lights and impatiently waited for them to change, we scramble to catch up, none of us caring to complain for these side trips often turned out to be more fun than the intended main event.
Walking into the tiny store, barely bigger than a standard living room the dark wooden walls and chromed accents are absently noted, for the giant black knob-studded iron roaster dominated the room. It’s heat radiated out past the safety glass barrier, behind it the process of drying, roasting, weighing and packaging of the beans clear for all patrons to observe. Such open development was so unique at the time that we were all instantly riveted.
But alas, time waits for no one and we had to leave this alchemic lab of sweet scents and bitter tastes with takeaway coffees in hand. At the first magical sip of the slightly sweetened milky (for I was very inexperienced in black coffee at the time) elixir the pupils dilated, muscles jolted and I literally skipped along the crossing back to the car with a cheerful litany of “Java java java java java”.
That small shop has now become a major franchise, nevertheless, every time I see that black and white logo I take the time to reminisce on that brief moment of familial joy. For me, even if the beans were mortar ground and filter dripped, I would happily drink the resulting brew. For that cup would hold not only coffee, but happy memories as well.
To my delight, and to my wallet’s dismay, the cafe neighbouring to the 8am Chemistry lecture theatre had switched from it’s usual burnt, but potent!, brand of beans to the glorious taste and tingle of Atomic Coffee roasted beans. At the first slightly sweetened sip, for I knew it’s strength, memory transports me to my earliest taste of this caramelized coffee goodness.
Driving through Kingston, in Auckland several years past, the family was heading off to a destination now forgotten, when at Mum’s sudden order the car was stopped and the parking swiftly paid, for she had spotted coffee and was going to partake, itinerary be damned. As she strode over to the traffic lights and impatiently waited for them to change, we scramble to catch up, none of us caring to complain for these side trips often turned out to be more fun than the intended main event.
Walking into the tiny store, barely bigger than a standard living room the dark wooden walls and chromed accents are absently noted, for the giant black knob-studded iron roaster dominated the room. It’s heat radiated out past the safety glass barrier, behind it the process of drying, roasting, weighing and packaging of the beans clear for all patrons to observe. Such open development was so unique at the time that we were all instantly riveted.
But alas, time waits for no one and we had to leave this alchemic lab of sweet scents and bitter tastes with takeaway coffees in hand. At the first magical sip of the slightly sweetened milky (for I was very inexperienced in black coffee at the time) elixir the pupils dilated, muscles jolted and I literally skipped along the crossing back to the car with a cheerful litany of “Java java java java java”.
That small shop has now become a major franchise, nevertheless, every time I see that black and white logo I take the time to reminisce on that brief moment of familial joy. For me, even if the beans were mortar ground and filter dripped, I would happily drink the resulting brew. For that cup would hold not only coffee, but happy memories as well.
Morning Lecture Musings
Drips, dabs and niggles of wind-kissed students stagger into the lecture theatre with pokes, shoves and snipes to awaken their lethargic friends for they need to claim a seat. Baleful glances and exclamations of “I'm up!” meld into the burbling sounds of a 8am Friday Chemistry lecture.
Minutes pass and nightly escapades are shared with drunken affairs, rushed assignments and quests for sleep are the main topics. The occasional wish for coffee and fear of a upcoming test waft above the noise. Amongst the chattering youths are those who have succumbed to the tempting comfort found in a cool desk and folded arms.
A bang reverberates through the lecture theatre, the lecturer striding in. His dark clothes and still slightly sheet-rumpled face belaying another early start to the day. Couples hush each other, the vocal susurruses cuts off, sleepers are roused while the newly arrived rustle out their pens and paper, it was time to revise.
Minutes pass and nightly escapades are shared with drunken affairs, rushed assignments and quests for sleep are the main topics. The occasional wish for coffee and fear of a upcoming test waft above the noise. Amongst the chattering youths are those who have succumbed to the tempting comfort found in a cool desk and folded arms.
A bang reverberates through the lecture theatre, the lecturer striding in. His dark clothes and still slightly sheet-rumpled face belaying another early start to the day. Couples hush each other, the vocal susurruses cuts off, sleepers are roused while the newly arrived rustle out their pens and paper, it was time to revise.
Rainy Morning Musings
The masses swarm to and from morning lectures, some singly drawn by the need for coffee they can’t afford. The slow movement of dark-clad attendees remind me of raindrops traversing a window, the occasional fast droplet wiggling past a student on a skateboard. I see the pairs of puff-jacketed cocooned girls in tights and wonder: have they consciously chosen fashion over warmth, or did they think such a style up as a group of primates share a new nut-cracking technique? A derogatory comparison, perhaps, but make no mistake I do admire and envy these girls for their seeming ease at adapting such styles.
For even if I did style myself in such a manner, I would, and do, still stand out. My facial structure, body language and method of speaking differs in such a way that I would be a proverbial goat among the sheep. As it is my short hair, it’s lengths creeping towards a quiff-mullet mutation, is far removed from the messy topknots and carefully coiffed and hair-dried lengths of the university’s female population. My floor length coat seems ungainly compared to thin cardigans paired with slivers of scarves draped across tanned necks.
Posture is the main divider between the throng, the less confident fashionistas of both genders hug their arms close, sometimes clasping textbooks and shoulder bags close as if a mob will suddenly descend and wrench their valuables from their grasp. First years hunch past, apology in every angle for intruding on this cultured domain. While staff are obvious to the eye, the office workers are distinguished from the lecturers in their distinct business wear and complete oblivion to any chance of someone wanting to actually communicate to them. In comparison, students look around constantly, searching for a common peer to bond and lament homework amounts too. Such little clues seem vast to me, while most seem to ignore them much as they do the raindrops rolling down their windows.
And is it surprising, when we are constantly bombarded by messages to ignore others? Don’t talk to strangers, it’s rude to stare, the opposite sex only wants to use you, eye contact for more than a second or even simply sitting next to another is considered a sign of mental retardation. When smiling at my fellow pedestrians I watch the frantic jumble of conclusions being studied and discarded, ‘What do they want?/Are they selling something?/Do I know them?/Are they a threat?’ Some automatically smile back, a trait I share, others grimace while the majority just walk by, blank-faced, for if we ignore them surely they will go away?
So I observe and judge others as time continues on, the stream drying up to a occasional trickle as latecomers and the sleep deprived shuffle past my window. Staff, staff, recent immigrant, first year, American exchange student, skateboarder, caffeine zombie, geek. It only takes a glance, but one which most prefer to slide their gaze past, for they are only droplets after all.
For even if I did style myself in such a manner, I would, and do, still stand out. My facial structure, body language and method of speaking differs in such a way that I would be a proverbial goat among the sheep. As it is my short hair, it’s lengths creeping towards a quiff-mullet mutation, is far removed from the messy topknots and carefully coiffed and hair-dried lengths of the university’s female population. My floor length coat seems ungainly compared to thin cardigans paired with slivers of scarves draped across tanned necks.
Posture is the main divider between the throng, the less confident fashionistas of both genders hug their arms close, sometimes clasping textbooks and shoulder bags close as if a mob will suddenly descend and wrench their valuables from their grasp. First years hunch past, apology in every angle for intruding on this cultured domain. While staff are obvious to the eye, the office workers are distinguished from the lecturers in their distinct business wear and complete oblivion to any chance of someone wanting to actually communicate to them. In comparison, students look around constantly, searching for a common peer to bond and lament homework amounts too. Such little clues seem vast to me, while most seem to ignore them much as they do the raindrops rolling down their windows.
And is it surprising, when we are constantly bombarded by messages to ignore others? Don’t talk to strangers, it’s rude to stare, the opposite sex only wants to use you, eye contact for more than a second or even simply sitting next to another is considered a sign of mental retardation. When smiling at my fellow pedestrians I watch the frantic jumble of conclusions being studied and discarded, ‘What do they want?/Are they selling something?/Do I know them?/Are they a threat?’ Some automatically smile back, a trait I share, others grimace while the majority just walk by, blank-faced, for if we ignore them surely they will go away?
So I observe and judge others as time continues on, the stream drying up to a occasional trickle as latecomers and the sleep deprived shuffle past my window. Staff, staff, recent immigrant, first year, American exchange student, skateboarder, caffeine zombie, geek. It only takes a glance, but one which most prefer to slide their gaze past, for they are only droplets after all.
Musings
I've been writing and posting on my Facebook account and have decided to start posting them here as well, so to all those non-existent lurkers, expect some catch-up posts.
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