I think the reason that many people are afraid of the dark is that when it is dark, there are many less distractions than in the daytime, or at least, fewer distractions are visible. This allows our imaginations to run wild, something that is not always pleasant. While imagination is something that is usually used for good, sometimes it can serve to remind us of unpleasant memories or dream up strange beings that can haunt us when we want nothing more than to be fast asleep. These imaginings can be sparked by nothing more than a mere thought, or a scene from a movie or television show, or even a sentence or paragraph from a book. Haunting images and words can remain at the back of our brains for a long time, and they almost always choose to return when we are lying in our beds, surrounded by a blanket of darkness, accompanied by an eerie silence. This silence is occasionally tainted by a creaking floorboard or staircase, or perhaps, if one’s imagination has been greatly sparked, even a far-off scream. These little additives, kindly supplied by our over-active brains, do little to assist us in reaching a state of sleep. They serve the purpose of hindering us, and leaving us to the mercy of our minds {which is a dangerous situation indeed}. In an effort to escape this terrible fate, we endeavour to shut out our minds, often by diverting our attention to more pleasant thoughts, perhaps by pulling out our iPod or a book, and switching on the light. The music condemns the silence, the words provide our minds with another diversion to feast on, and the light simply eliminates the possibility of some gruesome creature lurking in the shadows. One must ensure, however, that these diversions are of a cheerful nature; no eerie music, and certainly no murder mysteries. Once our mind has been sufficiently distracted, we try once again to slip into dreamland. This time we may be a little more successful, as the soothing words we read may have evoked drowsiness upon our person, making it more difficult for our brain to make the effort to imagine a scary creature beneath our bed, or a haunting scream in the distance. While reading a novel, listening to tunes or switching on the light may not always cure the insomnia that is caused by our imaginations, it will usually divert us enough to shut our eyes and not worry about what we can’t see.

{08.04.11}

Unlike a large percentage of the world’s population, I am (usually) unafraid of the dark. Indeed, it is of a strange comfort to me. It seems that most of my thinking, pondering, brainstorming and, above all, imagining, occurs when the sun is set. This does not mean that I am completely lacking in creativity in the daylight, no indeed. Simply that stories and thoughts are more likely to form in my crowded brain as I lie in bed and gaze out my window into the inky blackness. And when light taints the darkness, whether it be by way of star, moon, light bulb or lightning strike, I am momentarily distracted and fascinated by the intriguing splash of lustre.

I do not know what it is about the dark that is such a comfort to me; perhaps it is the fact that when it is dark, everything is still and quiet; you have space and room to think and feel. Everything seems to be in a momentary coma, yet everything inside is very much alive. Thoughts and feelings come splashing up from the heart to the head, where the overwhelmed brain endeavours to make sense of them. One can feel as though they are leaping about when really they are tucked neatly into their beds. One can awaken stories that have been dozing all day, lying and impatiently awaiting their arousal. And one can make sense of experiences and occurrences that were utterly confusing in daylight, but now seem easy and smooth when replayed in their minds. This is the very essence of the dark.

{20.2.11}

b.

a strange little story i composed last year.

Z was a young boy with sandy brown hair, blue and green eyes, and a very prominent nose (for which he was often teased). Z was not, of course, his real name; Zacharius Harrison Elliot Zimmerman was. But that is not the sort of thing that one calls across the playground when one want to play a game of soccer with the person the name belongs to. So to all his friends he was simply Z. I would like to think of myself as a friend of Z’s, so I shall refer to him the same way.

Z lived in a very rich and fancy neighbourhood and therefore went to a very rich and fancy school, by the name of Hillcrest Grammar School For Boys. This school was so fancy, in fact, that on the first day of year one, each student was asked by the teacher to state their full name, address, date of birth, place of birth, and three hobbies that they enjoy, in that particular order, and with no significant gaps in between, where the student was likely to ‘um’ and ‘ah’ their way through the silence. Now, you may well know that a rich school is usually a strict school, and this school was certainly no exception. For if the students failed to abide by the rules provided by the teacher, they would promptly be put on detention.

Now, the principal of this school, who was the mastermind behind these hideous rules that placed so many feeble-minded youngsters in detention, was called Miss Agnes Bartholomew. She was twenty-seven years of age, five foot six inches, always wore grey pleated skirts with a white blouse and matching grey woollen cardigan, and her favourite hobby was writing rules which would someday ruin the lives of all boys who attended her school. One of the worst rules was as follows:

RULE TWENTY-THREE:

All students attending Hillcrest Grammar School For Boys must wear the appropriate socks (grey with two black stripes at the top) in the appropriate way (pulled up to approximately four centimetres below the knee) at the appropriate time (everyday excluding PE days when the appropriate PE socks must be worn). Any boy who fails to abide by any or all of these rules at any given time must be given the appropriate punishment ie detention for at least one hour on the day or the day following the infringement of the rules.

A record of the faults of this student must be kept by his teacher in the category of ‘UNIFORM’ in the student record folder. If the student’s faults in this particular category exceeds the mark of 10 they must be sent to Miss Bartholomew immediately and will receive the appropriate punishment.

I might add at this point that Miss Bartholomew’s favourite word was ‘appropriate’ (it featured at least once in almost every sentence ever spoken or written by her) and her favourite colour was grey (it featured in every one of her outfits).

Z so far seems an unlikely hero for any sort of story, but, as the saying goes; you can’t judge a book by its cover, or perhaps more suited to this story; you can’t judge a boy by his very prominent nose…

The day on which Z experienced being a hero was not on any particular day but just a normal, regular Tuesday in the middle of August. On this particular day, there was an assembly for the whole school, to re-iterate all the rules and to publicly disgrace any boy who had dared to break one of them. At approximately 9:00 am all the students from years 1 through 12 filed into the assembly hall and took their seats silently with Miss Bartholomew’s grim eyes upon them. She began the assembly, reading out rules twenty through thirty, with particular emphasis on number twenty-three, when several boys in the hall quietly pulled up their socks, hoping no-one would notice. As Miss Bartholomew was in the middle of rule twenty-eight (something about the appropriate way to act in detention, but no-one was really listening) something truly remarkable happened. When Z took a particularly deep breath he smelt something which did not smell at all pleasant. He suddenly recognised it as smoke! This was not the usual smell of smoke like the pleasant burning of a wood fire in one’s lounge room on a cold winter’s day, but real smoke, like the building was on fire! Z shuffled in his seat and looked around him. Miss Bartholomew was droning on about detentions and all the other teachers were listening attentively (well, they looked like they were-Z guessed most of them probably weren’t) and all of his peers were sitting still. Z knew he had to act fast. Without really thinking about it, he jumped up and stood in front of his seat. Immediately every head in the hall turned to face him. Miss Bartholomew barely gaped at him. She was no doubt planning a dreadful punishment for such an infringement.

“If you please ma’am,” he said quietly, “I think the building is on fire.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the hall. Miss Bartholomew continued gaping. The only movement was made by a teacher by the name of Mr Jeoffrey Spath, who ran out of the hall to search for the so-called fire. He soon found it, for the whole hall kitchen was ablaze! He raced back to the hall and yelled;

“EVERYONE OUT!!!”

And indeed everyone was in a matter of seconds.

So you see, Z became a true hero, and all because of his prominent nose, for if he hadn’t had it, he would have been burnt to a crisp and should not have lived to tell the tale. Which all goes to show that what might at first seem like a curse, may end up saving your life.

{The End}

b.

{08.09.10}

Procrastination: to put off doing things, leave things undone as long as possible.

Procrastination is a habit that I am ashamedly quite familiar with. The idea is appealing though; for one to put down their rather boring chore or task and instead partake in an activity of a much higher interest. This activity shall be exercised until time has simply whittled away, and the chore-whatever it may be-is due to be completed. The rapid endeavours to correct the situation and complete the task at this point are often in vain; for the teacher, parent, or whoever else the recipient may be are unlikely to accept a rushed and unfinished task. It would be better for the situation to simply confess that the distraction of a television program or new novel was too much to bear and humbly apologise. But no, we foolish humans simply must try to salvage the situation ourselves, although in doing this we are far more likely to ruin it. I fear that this lesson I have somewhat failed to learn and the saying “practise what you preach” is not in action in this particular case. Being somewhat of a hypocrite, even now I am going against what I have stated in the above lines: at this very moment I should be off completing a task (several in fact) which I have tried to convince myself are of more importance than this, informing the world that I am in fact a hypocritical being who knows not of what she speaks. But no, I simply must sit on my bed clicking away on my typewriter, informing others of things in which I truly have no specific knowledge. And as the impending due date of the above mentioned tasks approaches, I remain oblivious to the doom that is awaiting me. And when this doom reaches me (or rather, I reach it) there is one thought that will repeatedly pound through my head like the heartbeat of one who is fearing the inevitable: “Oh foolish me.”

While procrastination may be enjoyable in the first stages of action, the result is not worth the trouble. So if you are reading these jumbled thoughts when you should be writing an essay, finishing a painting, or buying a birthday present, go, for I would rather you hear no more of my foolish actions than fall to a fate which I so often fall to myself.

b.

{25.01.11}

To me, compositions are like people. When you first hear a song, it is like meeting a person for the first time. The period of time where you listen to a song over and over, trying to decipher every lyric and memorise every chord sequence is the period where you slowly endeavour to develop a friendship, spend more time with that person and try to ascertain their character. Sometimes you assume or wish one thing and find another to be true: perhaps you expect there to be a pause in the music between the chorus and the second verse, when actually the transition is rapid. Or maybe there there is a certain part in a song which you just can’t stand, and you desperately want it to be different, but it remains unchanging. Frustration sets in, but we impatient and selfish humans must learn that although there are many things we can change, the character of another person is one of the hardest things to alter. Every person has their flaws, some can be improved, others not. But if we learn to embrace the ‘bad bits’ along with that line at the start of the chorus that we love, we will appreciate the struggle that composers and musicians endure to reach the point in time when they can throw their pencils or instruments down and say of their work: “it is done”.

Once you have listened to a song many a time, you know every word and every note, and it remains familiar even when you are not listening to it. This is the time in a friendship when you are so familiar with eachother that even when you are apart you know what the other would say in a situation; you can envision their opinion on a subject even in their absence. This is the ultimate familiarity. This is the part where you can sing every line to the song and hear every note in the instrumental. This is the part where, even though there are lyrics and notes you do not appreciate all the time, you love it in spite of the differences you share.

Even when you have listened to a song many a time, you can still stumble upon a note that you never noticed before, or a lyric that you swear was different the last time you heard it. This is the essense of a good composition; even after years of being played over and over, they can still be full of surprises.

Although I can definitely tell you some compositions that I thoroughly enjoy, to choose a song that is a perfect expression of my character would be an impossible task (but if I happen to stumble upon one, against all odds, I will surely let you know). Perhaps if I listened to less music it would be an easy task, but I fear that music is one thing that I am exceedingly grateful for and immerse myself in almost constantly. Perhaps one might call it a musical overdose, but I call it the ultimate pleasure. The diversity of music is something that I will always enjoy.

If songs were people, I would surely be tremendously good friends with…

*Who Are We Fooling? By Brooke Fraser

*Just a Dream (Cover) By Sam Tsui & Christina Grimmie

*Scarlet By Brooke Fraser

*Honey Bee By Zee Avi

*Two Birds By Regina Spektor

*Forever and Always (Piano Version) By Taylor Swift

b.

{24.01.11}

The weather never ceases to amaze me. The idea of water falling from the heavens like teardrops is slightly unusual when you think about it, but nontheless incredible. Different weather can often represent or spur different moods; for instance, when a sad song comes on in a movie, you expect there to be a crying girl and a depressing drizzle from the clouds accompanying it. But the thunderstorm that is currently raging on the other side of my bedroom window is not putting me in a mood where I am inclined to do nothing but mope around like the petulant mourner of a deceased lover. Indeed, quite the opposite. For the wind and water accompanying the glaring thunder have provided me with a perfect opportunity to make use of my sunshine-coloured raincoat while fetching the washing in from the impending hail. While I was not particularly successful in my endeavour to save the clothes from dampness (I think that they could have possibly gotten more wet only if I had thrown them into a pond), I did enjoy the experience (strange girl that I am), although my floral dress is ever-so-slightly soaked (I think it usually helps to button up all the buttons on your mac before stepping out into the rain).

So as I sit in my bedroom sipping perfectly-proportioned tea and nibbling a delectable chocolate chip cookie while drying off, I watch the rain receding and the sun begin to show itself once again, highlighting every teardrop left on every leaf, and slowly shrinking every puddle that has formed along an obliging driveway. The brisk change in the countenance of the sky reminds me of the ever-changing moods of human beings. Someone may have been deeply distressed by that particular storm of recent occurrence, as it may have served as a prevention of a planned walk in the park with their lover. I am sure they breathed a deep sigh of relief when the rain was so kind as to recede, and then returned to the painstaking decision of what shoes to wear on their outing.

I myself am not so inclined to be disturbed by a shower from the heavens, unless it serves as a banishment to my home when I would rather be elsewhere. Although, even in an unfortunate circumstance such as that, I can usually amuse myself with activities such as those of a musical nature, or a food-related creation, or perhaps I could even compose a manuscript such as this one for others to decipher and (hopefully) enjoy.

So you see, thunderstorms are not so bad after all.

b.

{20.01.11}

It occurred to me that conformity is something that I, as well as many others, I’m sure, struggle with almost daily. The worries of being examined and then labelled ‘normal’ or ‘different’ and therefore ‘bad’ plague my choices; whether it be what I wear, say, or do. I have always liked to fit in, that is, be a ‘normal’ person, not the kind of person that engages in questionable behaviour which is often criticised. Although, I must say that wearing an outfit that I consider to be unique often excites me; I like the idea of being noticed for being a little unusual, but not too unusual. It has always been my opinion that by crossing the ‘unusual line’, you automatically become a social outcast, spending your days mumbling to yourself and having people give you slight frowns as they hurriedly walk by. For such naïve thoughts I am sure to be reprimanded, but they blatantly reveal the sad lies that the world tells us: if you can’t be ‘normal’ (i.e. like everybody else) then consider yourself weird. Never mind the fact that everyone else might be utterly lost and their lives without direction. Just make sure that you don’t stand out in a crowd.

As I was riding my bike around a quiet campsite, I stumbled across a gentle reminder that not everyone has my ‘worldly’ way of thinking: just past the family looking at an unusual bird in a tree, there was a tall boy, carrying a unicycle. I thought this was positively quaint: all around him, people were riding bikes and scooters: he was probably the only person in the whole campsite who owned a one-wheeled bicycle. As I watched him out of the corner of my eye, he proceeded to ride it, and quite well I must say, around the block. I admired the way he rode it with a kind of effortless casualness. As I watched him with envious awe, I realised that he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who was especially popular, or who even had a whole heap of friends. This already placed him in the ‘uncool’ category by worldly standards, and yet, he still chose to do something that would make him even more unusual. I pondered this with excessive fascination. As his tall, somewhat lanky frame wobbled around a corner, he seemed quite oblivious to the fact that people were probably watching him and wondering when he had escaped from the circus. I admired him for it, but I was still wondering how he had mustered up the courage to do it; he seemed like a ‘blend into the background’ kind of guy. I decided then that in 2011, while embarking on my journey of self-discovery, I will work on being ‘unusual’. I was already on my way there; my outfit at the time of the sighting was, shall we say, original: plain, dark indigo denim shorts, rolled up at the bottom, teamed with an old button-up collared blue and white pinstripe shirt, with some sort of emblem on the pocket, bought from an op shop for $4. (I think it may have possibly once belonged to an old man, but unusual people don’t care about that sort of thing). Fashion is perhaps the thing I find hardest to be unusual at, so this was quite a large-ish step for me. As was the outfit I had worn only 4 days before: a high-waisted mock denim skirt and an old ‘college’ t shirt that I was then using as a sleep shirt. The idea of wearing pyjamas down town did daunt me, but my best friend, the brains behind the outfit, persuaded me to, and I’m awfully glad she did. Being ‘different’ is something I greatly admire in people, but can never seem to do myself. Hopefully this year I will gain some courage. Some people that are unusual but never seem to care that I greatly admire are…

*Regina Spektor—her music is in every way peculiar (in a very good way) , from the sometimes contrary piano accompaniments and unique vocals to the interesting and somewhat ‘random’ lyrics.

*My best friend (http://thetroublewithaudrey.tumblr.com) – perhaps the most stylish person of my acquaintance, her outfits and her outlook on life are certainly quirky.

*My darling mummy dearest—one of those ‘I’m weird and I don’t care even though my children do’ kind of mums, she can tell jokes in a variety of accents (whether correct or not) without so much as a faint blush of embarrassment. And while it is not something I myself am particularly keen on doing in front of large crowds, I think it is perhaps a good trait to have. Humour is, after all, something that I always look for and appreciate in people. And if her jokes get laughs then I don’t think I should be complaining about my own worldly concerns.

And of course…

*the boy on the unicycle—a seemingly quiet soul who turned out to be a perfect example of why you can’t judge a book by its cover.

b.

{07.01.11}