Jason and I had a flaming fight (harsh words said, things thrown, tempers lost) over something inconsequential last night. Now, we're not speaking to each other.

All that disagreeable anger, despair, pain, hurt - it spilled over, and little ugly things emerged. Hatred. Resentment. Jealousy. Violence. Self-righteousness. 'Woe is me, and death onto you' thoughts. Ugly, ugly thoughts. Triggered by an explosion of emotion, to be centred at a boy who meant so much to me, once.

I do not like myself very much right now.

I'm so torn up inside, I think that I need a cigarette.
I don't smoke.

Look, Mommy. See how red my blood is.
I could wish that I didn't feel so much, so I could pretend that the pain is just a figment of my imagination.
I could wish I couldn't feel.

How I resent you.
How I resent me, for resenting you, just because I am always the one to come to you.
How I hate you because of that.
How I hate you for compromising my belief in unconditional giving.

I claim my dignity.
I cut you from my life.
Don't speak to me. I hate you.
I do not ever want to see you again.
I erase every sign of you there is in my life.
Go. Go. Go!

You do not exist for me.

'Tis a great comfort to me, to be able to feel sorry for myself. For a while there, I can imagine myself the most important person in the whole world, and therefore, everyone is obligated to comfort me for fear of my wrath falling upon them. Or worse, tantrum tears.

The house is mighty tired tonight. Denning's in bed. Jason's in bed. I feel I ought to be in bed, so quiet and solemn it is.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

OooooooooOOOOoooooooooooooooooo.

Oh, shall it never cease?

There's too much homework, and I'm beginning to hate that essay with a passion.

I'll be glad when November 24 rolls up. I'm going home then to Mum and Dad and Darren, for a well deserved break.

If I complete everything that I am meant to complete by Saturday and do not even think about procastinating, I shall indulge in a Pride and Prejudice DVD fest on Sunday.

Six gorgeous episodes, a bowl of Sarawakian laksa (maybe more), a bottle of Coke, mango swirl ice cream to follow.

Oh, happy happy joy joy.

I need to get boots for work.
But I hate Doc-Martens.
Who on earth sells pretty boots this time of year?!
But then, how practical are pretty boots?

At least they're not making me get steel-capped boots and a hard hat.

Don't take it to heart, if it seems like I am ignoring your presence. Don't take it to heart, if it seems like I have grown too big for my britches. Don't take it to heart, please, if it seems like I am not seeing you. Don't take it to heart, if I seem arrogant, if I seem above you, if I seem too selfish, if I seem only to consider my own feelings, my own rights, my own space. Don't take it too much to heart.

It's definitely not you.

Someone's calling me to be greater than I am.

My mother was bubbling over with enthuasiasm and happiness when I rang her at work early this afternoon. I don't recall her ever being so bubbly before.

"Your father said that I'm a seminar junkie!"
"Omg, what did you do? Where did you go?"
"Well, on Sunday, I was at a motivational seminar."
"Motivational?"
"Yes. The presenter, oh, he was very good. He failed his LCE, and now .. "
"LCE?"
"Lower Certificate of Education. Look at him now."
"Omg, Mum, you really are a junkie! I thought you were doing some financial course thing."
"Yes, I am, I was. Unit trusts! Financial management! I want to do more."
"Good lord, Mum!"

"I wish my parents had told me of such things. I'm doing all sorts now, and I'm passing all that knowledge to you all. Did you know that writing pays pretty well?"
"Yes, Mum, I did."
"You write so well, surely you could make some money on the side as you teach. All those experiences. Go out and experience."
"Uh-huh. Yes, Mum."
"Wish I had the chance to do all these things when I was younger. Getting older you know. I'm 50 next year, did you know that?!"
"Oh really, Mum? Omg."

I was bemused. She sounded ... young. I don't remember ever hearing her so young. She has always sounded like my mother - older, serious, mature, a figure of authority, a respected elder, someone to be obeyed in an instant. If she said, "Jump", I would say, "How high?" If she said (and she did, once), "Livia, I do not think you should go out with that boy. He does not look respectable," I would grumble a lot, but I would call the boy and say, "Um, sorry, nope. Can't make it."

Mum now sounds like a dearly loved friend.

How about that?

Wow.

There are times when a voice isn't enough. There are times when only movement will suffice. There is something precious and loving about soft arms, quiet steps and barely there presence.

Then again, don't you see that anyway with a voice?

Why do you look at me strangely when I break into spontaneous dance as soon as I hear Grease at Blockbuster? Why do you look disconcerted when I shed open tears at the beauty of Faure's Requiem or Josh Groban's voice? Why do you look at me disapprovingly when I break into song whenever the mood strikes me? Why do you frown at my laughter? Why do you shy away from me whenever I reach out to give you a hug? Why do you not understand my need to move to music that touches me? Why do you close up? Why do you not give? Why do you laugh in that embarassed manner? Why do you constantly change the subject? Why do you keep silent? Why are you angry?

Why, is it wrong to show deep emotion? Is it wrong to care?

I am no longer satisfied with dancing by myself. Why could you not understand that?

Do not speak to me tonight, for I cannot speak to you. My mouth is dry, my mind a whirl of noise and my heart ...

I know not where my heart is, or where it has gone. So, I have no words for you tonight.

I shall not speak. I cannot speak. I will not speak.

Come, let Silence sit with us for a while.

One day, one day soon, I shall dig a hole so big with my flirtatious ways I can never, ever, scramble my way out again. I shall be trapped, with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, bound to the half-promises I never intended to fulfill.

Oh, get thee away from me!

*stare*
I have homework.
I shouldn't be here.

Blue skies. Warm sunshine. Gentle cooling breezes.
One of those beautiful, beautiful spring days.
How does your garden grow, Liv, Livy, my love?

Oh, the gods are not kind.
I shouldn't have procastinated.

Bye.

I am very, very, very tired.

Dear, dear, dear, dearest you,

I am blue today. I am blue and tired. I am grey and shattered. How are you, dearest you, though? How was your day? Did you have a warm, sunshiney day? Did you smile at the world? Did you lift your face and felt the sun's love, and through him, mine?

When I left home, the sun was smiling weakly, and so I smiled weakly. By the time I got to where I was meant to be, though, the sun had given up and gone home to bed. I walked through the gentle weeping rain, all the way to where I was meant to be. I walked all that way, hurrying because I was almost late, and lost my weak weak smile. I stopped awhile, on my way, to gather the leaves of Everyday, and heard from them, talk of lost indifferent souls. There, I lost a little heart, and with the loss, the sugar coated walls began to melt from the inside.

The rain is still weeping, the wind a gentle melancholy sigh. I lift my face and feel no warmth, only the cool cool sweep of indifference and the burden of tasks. The tears are clogging my throat again, choking the words I know that are there. But of course, I may not cry, and thus, the words shall never be spoken.

I never did, never could, bare my soul to you in any way. In a way, I thought I never had to. Shhh now. Don't speak, don't say a word. I don't need you to offer me words. I just need only you. You never quite understood that need. I don't, either.

I miss your presence, dear dear dearest you. I miss the very essence of you, the softness that you sometimes disguise with embarrased laughter, and pretended hardness. I miss everything that I remember about you. I miss even your biting cynicism and the simmering anger. But never mind that now. Half of what I remember, anyway, are rose coloured visions of you.

What are your news, dear dearest you? It's been so long since we spoke, since we shared, since we laughed together. How does your garden grow? Have you grown a little pudgy, a little wise, a little carefree? Have you loved, have you lived, have you told your mother you loved, appreciated her? Did you laugh, did you forgive, did you let yourself be human?

I am tremendously busy being busy. My days are are packed from sun up, to sun down. I laugh a great deal, I make people laugh a great deal. But I have not cried in a while. I am living in every way that I can, experiencing everything that I could possibly experience with the days that have been given me. I fear I am getting a little pudgy, and I am constantly wondering where my money has gone. I am a little wiser now than I was, a little more carefree, I hope. But I have not cried in a while.

Oh, the sun has come out, dear dearest you. I must go and play with him for a while. Then, I shall go and meet some souls for a Greek dinner and perhaps, I shall feel canary yellow again.

I love you, dear dearest you. Good night.

Bleh. I've been writing pompous emails all day. I'm all written out, not to mention heartily sick of writing about myself.

Incidentally, I may have gotten that job. Unofficially, at least. I got a call at lunch time that told me so.

"Congratulations," the lady said. "They were really pleased with the shortlist."

Then, Vanessa protested and insisted on some snooze time.

2 more sleeps to 5 weeks of bliss.

Written on a piece of butcher's paper (ie large piece of paper - I adore them and use them every chance I get when I teach) and stuck on the bulletin board in my Business Studies room was the following statement.

Don't send your kids to Mars to learn about Earth.

Now, my brain has gone South for the winter and I cannot bear to think another deep and insightful thought. So, will someone articulate that statement to me? In plain English? In words of two syllables or less?

Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top? Pretty please with chocolate fudge topping?

I'm doing my impression of a Neantherdal man this week.

"So, how are you today?" Rita asked.

I grunted, and dragged my feet along the corridor. I created an exaggerated hunch with my backpack. I looked at her with a disgruntled air.

"That bad?"

"I'm so hanging out for the holidays. I need a break," I said.

Five weeks, y'll. No formal classes for five weeks! Oh, bliss - to a certain extent.

Spag bol night! For the past 6 weeks, Mondays have been spag bol night!

Wonder why the boys haven't said anything about the same-ness of Monday nights yet.

I feel awful.

Oh, my kingdom for some sleep! That'll teach me to stay up late the night before a 9am interview.

Did you ever see such winds?! Insomniac and I were at a park yesterday enjoying the warm sunshine, only to be blown all over the place. Still, that didn't stop me from ringing Guyfriend and rubbing our wonderful weather into his chilly, hail-storming, weather beaten face. He wasn't too pleased with me.

"You woke me up! You, you, you ...." he bit the words off.

"It's 4 o'clock in the afternoon! You're still in bed at this hour?!" I laughed merrily at him and hung up on him.

Said I to my soul, "What do you mean, you're bored?!!"

uncommonly tired of living
peace be with you
restless beyond relief
and also with you
wanting the comfort of home
may the Almighty Father
realising I am torn between the two
bless you, the Father
longing for the familiarity of their strength
the Son, and the Holy Spirit
stuck with the idealistic ambitions of one
sing onto us Amen.

Pictures, for all those visual people.

Joyce's other half, Andy, took this one Chinese New Year some years ago. It's one of my favourites. It's just a tad unfortunate I don't have the actual printed photograph any longer.

This is one of my favourite pictures of the the boys and I. Taken just before Jason's graduation ceremony earlier this year, and one of the few good (ie, without Darren sulking because Jason had just teased him horribly) pictures of the four of us.

Livy, who rather enjoys wearing dresses.

If one more person said, "Omg, Livy! You're wearing a dress!!" I am so going to deck them.

It's a beautifully warm spring day. Ergo, I wear a light chiffony dress. It's perfectly logical. What's wrong with a dress?!!

It's election week at uni this week. Election week. Hah, remember those?! An entire week of being harassed by politically minded people.

"Have you voted yet?"
"Vote. Make a difference to student union."
"Have you voted yet?"
"Vote today! There are tables set up all around campus!"

An entire week of having leaflets and brochures shoved into your face.

"Have you voted yet?"

For five years, I was a non-voter. Not an easy thing to do, since for five years, I went there, where the main entry point into the uni was this little small arcade with no quick exits. Anywhere. Once you're cornered by a over-zealous Fine Arts student, you're done for. No one, in their right minds, would rescue you. No, sirree. In the end, just to get them off your back, you just went and voted.

For five years, I put my head down to avoid eye contact and just plowed on through the masses. For five years, I successfully ignored the cry to vote. For five years, I said, "Yes, yes, I've voted," or "Heh? No speak English."

Today, I voted.

Why?

Because if I did, they'd give me an $8 food voucher.

So I did.

All through Chemistry, I was singing,

Oh, they say when you marry in June
you're a bride all your life,
and the bride groom who marries in June
gets a sweet-heart for a wife.
- June Bride, Johnny Mercer

All through "magic" experiments with invisible ink and oscillating colours in beakers and conical flasks, I was singing that verse under my breath. As I got up to do my "magic" experiment which I based on the story of Moses turning the Nile into blood to intimidate the Pharoah into letting "my people go", I was still singing it. It was in my head as I did the experiment, and I nearly broke into a waltz with that tune into my head.

I came down from Chemistry and practically waltzed into the computer lab, singing (pretty loudly) Oh, they say when you marry in June, you're a bride all your life and doing the whole Bollywood arms outstreched, chest puffed up stance thing.

Mac gave me a look as I stopped by his computer to say (or sing) hello. I grinned at him sheepishly.

"Guess I better stop singing."

It has been a beautiful spring day. I just had to sing.

Why were there camels, honest to goodness camels with humps and eyelashes a girl could kill for, in front of the State Library today?!

The MCP, whom I last saw a few days after my birthday last month, cautioned me, "Don't take on too much. Make sure you get enough rest and stuff."

I assured him I would, then went off and added more activities onto my schedule.

I think I'm compensating for the time I wasted the last five years. I keep thinking if I don't take all the opportunities that are coming my way now, I will never find myself, I will not reach anywhere near my full potential. I haven't experienced enough, I haven't developed enough, I don't know enough. I won't be able to relate, I won't be able to evolve, I won't be able to write.

I'm being driven to do everything that I can possibly squeeze into my schedule within two years, by my own stubborn will, up to the point where my own personal spiritual development has lapsed somewhat. I won't even mention the relationships that I am allowing to fall by the wayside because I'm so focused on the things I have to do, have to accomplish by the end of the two years. I'm on some kind of fatalistic run, "Do it, or else. If you want to get ahead, you must do this and this and that and this," and I can't seem to stop.

I'm leaving a lot of people behind as I rush towards something. They can't keep up, but I can't wait for them. It kills me to realise that I may lose some of them, but I can't stop, not even for them. It feels like this is my only window of opportunity, that there wouldn't be a window like this for years to come. Logic insists that I grab the chances as they come my way, but Instinct cautions me to take care lest I burn myself out.

So what can I do? Try to achieve some kind of balance?

At the end of the day lies this fundamental need to write. But what do I write if I have not lived? What do I write if my eyes are not opened? How do I share, how do I relate, how do I touch, how do I speak, if I have not walked in your shoes?

There is some method in all the madness, some reason to all the frivolities. I see it, even if you don't.

This arrived in my Inbox half an hour ago.

Dear Olivia,

My name is Carina and I'm a *bleep*. Currently I am organising a project called *bleep*. The aim of our program is to take uni students
out to disadvantaged primary schools to talk to the kids about uni, what it can for them and the fun it is. We are trying to help these kids realise their potential by planting the seeds of tertiary education early.

So far we have 2 schools keen on the program, so I'm currently trying to get *bleep* on board to make the school visits. Rita suggested that you would be a fantastic candidate.

Et tu, Rita?

I can just see it now. Need someone to organise something? Need someone to run and do presentations? Need someone to be free labour? No problems, just give Olivia a yell. She'll do it.

That's what you get when you are the only active Education student in the program. Me and my activism.

*bleep* to protect identities

Alithiel of Portrait of a girl is ... weighty. Dense. Heavy.

Where Imogen reminds me of fluffy clouds on a beautiful blue day, refreshing and life giving, Alithiel is rather like a dark lake of unknown depths, scary and mysterious.

Each in her own way, beautiful. Quite unsettling.

"Um ... I'm going to be away in December and some of January, but I'm really interested in this. How is that going to impact me?" I asked.

Standing in a corner, Rita muttered, "Just don't it then."

Methinks Rita thinks I'm taking on too much. Methinks Rita thinks I'm being a pain in the butt. Methinks Rita is sick of seeing me in her office. Methinks Rita is sick of hearing my raised voice in the meeting room down the hall from hers where the website planning team meets.

Perhaps I am doing too much.

Awwww, but it's fun! It's apparently so fun, I got 'picked up'. Seriously!! I was never so surprised when this person tapped me on the shoulder as I was hurrying to class with the application forms in front of me.

"Are you going to do that?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm thinking about it. It all depends on my schedule," I answered.

"Do it. Seriously, do it!" he said, very keen on it.

"Oh? You did it then?" I said.

"Yeah. I did it last year, well, early this year. It's heaps of fun. You meet loads of people. Great fun! I enjoyed it tremendously. Great experience," he said.

"Yeah? Hmmm."

"I got a lot out of it. Let's put this way, I was shy. It really forced me out of my shell."

I laughed and thought, "And here you are, chatting me up, huh?"

However, I forgot to get his name when we went our separate ways. How silly was that?!

I'm chasing after Time, who is gleefully running away from me.

"Mommy!!! Make him stop!!!!!"

From Neuroscience for Kids:
What question can you never truthfully answer "Yes"?

Go on, have a stab! Don't cheat!

I got my call for a second interview after all. But now, there's a time kerfuffle.

Sigh.

Chocolate milk time.

Ever noticed Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and The Alphabet Song have the same melody?

Mozart's Twelve Variations on 'Ah vous dirais-je, Maman', K265 ('Ah I would say to you, Mother'), is on repeat on my cd player.

Pretty.

What with the anniversary of 9/11 and the rumblings of war (the boys are watching Black Hawk Down), things were getting a little too dark for comfort for me. So I hied me to Comedy Zone for a giggle.

"When I eventually met Mr Right I had no idea that his first name was Always." Rita Rudner.

Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest is always good for a giggle. Remember this precious line?

To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.

Fiddler on the Roof! How could I have forgotten that?!

Tzeitel: But Mama, the men she brings. The last one was so old, he was bald.
Golde: You want hair? Marry a monkey!

Perchik: I'm a very good teacher.
Hodel: I once heard that a rabbi that must praise himself has a congregration of one.
Perchik: Your daughter has a quick and witty tongue.
Tevye: The wit she gets from me, and as the Good Book says ...
Golde: The Good Book can wait! Go and wash up!
Tevye: The tongue, the tongue she gets from her mother.

Yes, for laughs, Fiddler on the Roof is excellent.

The papers and tv programs are focusing heavily on 9/11 this weekend.

The shock, the horror and the shared grief that were missing as I sat watching the events unfold before my eyes at 11pm on that night a year ago, finally emerged when Jason thrusted yesterday's paper at me and said, "Here. Read."

I want to forget - the implications of the event, past, present and future, are ones that I do not want to dwell on. But I don't suppose anyone would let us forget. Not America, anyhow. America will never forget.

Is there a need for compulsory sex education in schools? Discuss.

I so hate having to be at uni on a Friday.

Fridays are for sleeping in, reading in bed, window shopping till I drop, catching up on the news of the world, answering personal mails, writing, dreaming dreams, thinking what-ifs, playing and just being.

Being at uni on a Friday sucks, especially when you have no classes scheduled.

I'm getting everything out of my system first. Then, and only then, do I think about going home.

One
I said, "Whooooeeee. Boy, is it gusty outside. Such strong winds."
"Uh huh. Very strong winds," agreed Beth.
"Strong winds? Not necessarily," scoffed Mac.
"No?" said I. "I walked from Redmond Barry Building (that might give Melbournians a clue to which uni I go to, haha) to here. No, not walked. I didn't have to walk. I was pushed along by the wind."
"Exactly what I said. That doesn't mean the winds are 'strong'," said Mac.

I looked at Mac. I blinked.

"Huh?!" I said.
"Look at you. You're tiny. A piffle wind would sweep you off in an instant." Mac said. "Can you imagine what really strong winds would do to you?" He roared with laughter.

Heh.

Two
"Hey Wan!" I called out.
"Wan!" said Ivan. "And I'm two."

Three
I love the i-Macs. I want one.

The sun has gone to bed
and so must I

Time to go home.

From Steve, who makes me laugh, to a person I shall dub Imogen because she (or he) creates beauty with words in Reclaiming Imogen.

There's also hwae yee, who writes like a train. Really, really long. Really, really quickly. She reminds me of ex-classmates from secondary school in Malaysia. [Joy, come on, quick guesses!].

No call, no second interview.

I'm going to drown my sorrows in chocolate milk.

I am furious. I have a lump in my throat. I am tempted to cry.

It's probably because I am tensed with the waiting. It's probably because I had unsettling dreams last night. It's probably because I am anxious, again waiting for a call. It's probably because the sun, the moon and the stars are all perfectly aligned to influence my moods negatively. It's probably because it's that time of the month again. Yes, it's probably all that.

After weeks of silence, after I had promised myself all sorts of promises to preserve my sanity, he pops up, assuming that everything is fine. He expects me to be around. He expects me to be always there. He assumes that I will always understand. He thinks me always placid, always calm, always cheerful. So, it comes to a huge surprise to him when I send back a simmering message. But does he sit down and work it all out with me? Noooo, he says, "I got up early today. I need a nap. I'm going to bed."

How he avoids uncomfortable issues. How he hates conflict. How he hates it whenever he has to go beyond his comfort zone. How he turns a blind eye to whatever that is unpleasant.

How I hate that about him.

How I still think he's the most beautiful boy in the world for me.

Spineless fool.

It's probably because it's that time of the month again. Yes, it's probably that.

The woman at the other end of the line said, "I'll be contacting people this afternoon to set up further interviews. So make sure your phone's on."

That was 10.45am. It's 2.21pm now.

The wait is killing me.

The use of roleplay in the classroom, be it secondary or primary, is very much advocated here at uni. We're all for learning by doing, and what better way is there than to roleplay the body system or an electric circuit. (I tried roleplaying electric circuits at my last placement - the girls absolutely loved it.)

Because the use of roleplay is so encouraged these days in all areas of the curriculum, one does tend to think, "Oh, this is very creative. It must be a new technique. How original. Oh, super. That's a definite change from the chalk and talk method so common in the past."

Until one reads Emily of New Moon by L.M. Montgomery, published in 1923.

His methods of teaching were so different from Miss Brownell's that the Blair Water pupils at first felt as if he had stood them on their heads. Miss Brownell had been a martinent for order. Mr Carpenter never tried to keep order apparently. But somehow he kept the children so busy that they had no time to do mischief. He taught history tempetously for a month, making his pupils play the different characters and enact the incidents. He never bothered any one to learn dates - but the dates stuck in the memory just the same. If, as Mary, Queen of Scots, you were beheaded by the school axe, kneeling blindfolded at the doorstep, with Perry Miller, wearing a mask made out of a piece of Aunt Laura's old black silk, for executioner, wondering what would happen if he brought the axe down too hard, you did not forget the year it all happened; and if you fought the battle of Waterloo all over the school playground, and heard Teddy Kent shouting, "Up, Guards and at 'em" as he led the last furious charge you remembered 1815 without half trying to.

Gee. 1923, did you say? My goodness. Roleplay is not so original then. Awwww, shucks.

Please, please, please do not send hate mail to my Inbox. Pleeeaaaaassssseeeeeeee.

I'm awfully sorry. Truly, I am.

I got up. I showered. I got dressed. I dumped books and things into my bag. I did my face. I grabbed my keys. I got in the car. I drove to the station. I parked the car. I walked to the platform. My feet got a little tired because I was wearing heels, so I sat down on a bench. I looked down to admire my shoes.

Behold.

One blue sock. One black sock.

Why didn't I notice that before I left the house?

No, procastination is not a good thing.

Is procastination a good thing?

Sure enough, my dear papa txt'ed me last night.

"DADDY HERE. MUM IN **** WITH ME HOW ARE YOU GETTING ON I UNDERSTAND YOU ENJOY YOUR LIFE"

I had this image of my father clutching his Nokia in his beefy hands, his face a deep study of concentration on the small keypad in front of him, slowly picking out the letters for the message. My father who was, until a few years ago, the most uncommunicative and sternest of men, sending me a txt message.

My father loves me.