Monday, October 22, 2012

In the unravelling of things once woven so tight,
is drawn straight through the heart.


Monday, February 13, 2012

Repeat after me: Chicken liberation stories do not an essay make

There's one thing I know for a fact. When I stuff up, oh ye gods, do I stuff up - Big time.

We had to do some writing in school. The topic was that keeping animals in cages is cruel. It was supposed to be an essay.. I say 'supposed to be' because that fact only occurred to me after I handed in my personal chicken experience story.

Instead of a serious essay on the right or wrongs of caged animals, I wrote all about my real life rehabilitation of four battery hens.

Ah yes, you might cringe now, but it only gets worse...

Whilst everyone else was scribbling away about the pros and cons, legalities and moral bankruptcy of keeping live animals caged up, I was waxing lyrical about my four hens and how they faced life's challenges outside the battery cages they were imprisoned in.

I even spent a few minutes wondering if I should give the reader their real names or just replace them with pseudonyms eg: chicken 1, chicken 2 etc..  At last (mercifully), I realised that I should keep it more professional and not name them at all.

Yep.. Cringe away.

I was just getting to the point in my writing about having to teach an anonymous Henny Penny to perch (these birds had NO chicken skills what-so-ever, because they'd never set claw on soil before) when the teacher announces there's only five minutes left for editing...

editing?? good god... how about a total rewrite?

I'm sure my teacher's going to think I've been smoking weed, or dropping acid, or drinking red wine out of bottles in plain paper bags during my break...

Well, on the up-side (yes I'm optimistic enough to try and find an up-side) I suppose I'm a pretty unique individual. My writing is at 3rd grade level, but it's unique.

I sometimes (OK I admit.. often..) wonder why my brain is being so uncooperative in my adult life. Is it all the years I've spent out of school (29)? So many precious synapses lost to alcohol consumption? Is it the migraine preventer medication that leaves my brain a forgetful mash? Is it just that I'm not that smart? Is it that I just don't know what they want from me (besides a tear jerking chicken story)?

Maybe it's all that.. and more.

It's hard not to be harsh on yourself when you've stuffed up so bad - but as Deb pointed out, I learned a lesson about what I should have done. I should've written an argument featuring both sides of animal treatment and kept my own chickens out of it.

Ah well. As I carry on in my job of making other people feel good about their own stuff ups in life, I'll try to remember that I'm a unique soul with a different way of looking at things...

And then I'll keep it all inside and definitely not write about it.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

My goals for today:

Keep calm. Keep breathing. Do not give into the urge to run around in a tizzy. Try to explain to others that you are actually remaining calm, because these people have never seen you in a real tizzy.

Smile when after 10 minutes of patiently explaining to the lady at the counter what you are there for, you are mistaken for the student's mother - not the student herself. Smile also when you're told that "you could do maths if you tried harder/if it was presented in a different way/even after 29 years of not using it/if "I" taught you how.. Because really what they are saying is -- even though I don't know you from Larry, I can tell at a glance that you could do maths because I can.

That last one really got me, I mean what sort of logic is that? It goes along the same lines as, "Hey if I can do a triple bypass operation, so can you - here's the scalpel." Seriously.

Smile when you're told that no one knows anything about anything. After all - why should they? They only work at the Senior** College! I think about the ironic fact that I could find out Port Kembla's postcode for someone filling out a form on the same side of the counter as me, but the people in charge on the other side have no idea I am an enrolled student; even after I've told them what I wanted to know five times, they still think I am my own mother -or maybe the lady from Centrelink who wants to get pregnant teens back to school. They even go through the Centrelink proposal with me, while I look for the hidden candid camera and tell them I'm a student. Seriously.

Calm blue oceans. Cloudless blue skies. Birds flying into a sunset. Gentle rain on mountain slopes.

'It'll be fine,' I tell myself. 'This is just all happening for some obscure and yet necessary reason that hasn't been made clear to me.'

And with that I drove home in the rain.  'Cloudless blue skies,' my arse.

** I have now come to understand that the term "Senior" is applied randomly and loosely. From what I can glean, a senior at this particular college is actually a person aged in their late teens. Old ladies like myself are automatically assumed to be the mothers of those "seniors" and not students themselves.