Sunday, March 06, 2016

Good Morning Insomnia

and what a wonderful example of 1:45 in the morning this is.

Isn't it such a modern, first-world luxury?  Shame, I should be REVELLING in the ability to be unable to sleep.

Some people are apparently too darned tired to have such problems.  Hmph.  That just shows how ignorant some people are on the underlying cause of insomnia.

Having too many freaking problems.

Sure, they may not be the world-leading problems that should be keeping me awake, granted.

But thinking that I have failed my child - that is one that can be both indefineable and internationally shared - is a great one to worry you into the hours of the morning.

Then I worry that I will not be up and up to par for the day's tasks ahead, and that one is great for weaving into the insomniac narrative.

I can do an awesome number on not following dreams through being too scared.  Or up myself.  Or a bit of both.  Self-flagellation works from whatever angle you try on that lovely little mess.

The sudden memory of a missed bill - or message - or phone call - or task.  Sorting out the miscommunications of the past forty years.  Peering at the next 10 - years, months, days - with trepidation because I might have missed something.

"Don't worry Worry" - were you ever told that as a child?

To my mind, Worry must be a particularly scary fairy, alternatively unkempt and over-dressed, the manifestation of all my worst fears slumbering in the dusty shed of my psyche.

I tipitoe around Worry, so scared to wake it - because this anxiety that I have bouts of - about nothing, everything and whatever in between - is pretty harsh.

Imagine if I made it worse by worrying Worry about it all?

I warm some milk.  Who decided warmed milk was meant to be a cure?  I can imagine that the author of that information must have been rich, for refrigeration options would have to be paramount in the decision to push dairy products.  And then how to warm it?

While warming milk, the cat decides that it is time to demand a bit of attention - and by attention he means food.

He fixes me with that "and don't try to fob me off with that canned crap that is leftover in the fridge" glare.  You would think that this may be a comment on the quality of food available and the class of cat we are talking, but in fact it is just this particular varmint being as indeciferably fussy as possible.  I no longer have a "go to guarantee" with him.  Some days, the cheap stuff is all he will deign to eat, but the moment you lull yourself into a false sense of security, he will decide that no, in fact he is the cat who wants only fresh.  Or high-faluting stuff.

Paris is about to stir to claim her half of our bed.  I just heard the future rustle and my insomnia suddenly is pretending to be tired.

No comment required.

Saturday, March 05, 2016

In which Jeanie entered the local council domain - and may not have emerged quite sane...

Over the last week, there has been an increase of council activity in the area.  Large pipes.  Dongas.  Trucks and cranes.  Signs.

In search of what could be the root cause of such, I used my initiative and looked at the council website.  Oh foolish, foolish me.

I like to flatter myself that I have a handle on technology.  I mean, fair enough, I do have my luddite areas - who doesn't- but the basics I think I can grasp.

However when their website, my laptop, the navigational system limitations and my impatience all combined tonight?  The axis of my world tilted - and not in a good way.

Its like the powers that be gave the industry the brief: "Test this site on a laptop and if it a frustrating enough process for people to go stark raving loony give up rather than finding anything at all worthwhile, you are shortlisted".

A tough competition, given the calibre of the resultant outcome.  This website is, no doubt, a masterpiece in its deliverance of mediocrity.

It looks good, but they have crafted a high fashion model. I mean, you hope and believe there is some flicker of intelligence available when interacted with, but the amazingly ugly "fashion" that is draped around them - or in this instance, "drop-down menued" - somehow dances the chance of grasping the grail just out of reach.

Yes, Virginia, there are no Sense of Clues. Nor any way of discovering the answer to the question posed.
Who are those council men and what are they doing across the road from our house?

Local councilor, can you please illuminate to this poor resident on what is going on that would cause so many objects de council - including blokes - to be haunting my street? 

And why is it so secretive that a search term "my street" * yields a grand total 0% success rate.

It did come to mind that I might actually be living in the current Roswell.  (Yes folks, that is how much this website affected me.  From perusing the streetscape to high fashion straight to an episode of Twilight Zone.  If only it had taken me to the answer as quickly)

Is it possible that the yellow and black diagonally striped signs are indicating landing zones, and maybe it’s not frogs I hear tunefully singing on moist evenings but intergalactic communication?

I digress - are we getting a highway, local councilor?

It would certain bring the tourists in quicker, but it may cause a headache for the boffins who have steadfastly refused to pave the edges of our road despite escalating costs in caravan-caused edge-degradation. 

They would be thrust under a sword of damocles, their potent power over the few witnessed by the many…  What price their pride - and what gain the masses?

Okay, indulge me, maybe its not such a cesspit of petty fiefdoms and political intrigues as I would imagine, this council that my street has become the puppet of. 

You, as our elected official may wield your powers with as much gravity as you wish, but can YOU navigate this website? 

I think that would take more that the power of the people, local councillor, but magic.  Real magic.

Perhaps it is whimsy that the website will not divulge the secrets. 

Perhaps it is personal. 

Perhaps the power of the internet really is in big brother’s little brother’s grasp, and some secret agent in a bunker at the local council call centre has zeroed in on our address and declared “NO.  NO, they shall NOT discover what we are doing in there neighbourhood.  Never.  Ever ever ever” screeching the last word so high that several calls are cut of as a result of the interference, and then chuckling evil little secret agent chuckles as he manoeuvres the inadequacies of the website specifically for my experience.

Or not.

 So, lets make it up.  What is going on in our street?  If they aren't going to tell us, beggar them.  They can RISE to our expectations based on rumour and gossip.

(NB - no councils were intentionally harmed in the making of this blog post.  The site, on the other hand, has its own issues to deal with.  I ain't going there no more.)

Tuesday, March 01, 2016

Fiesta Fairy Floss

I watched them whisking fairy floss
       At the fiesta today.

Bulbs of lime green spun sugar
     around and around
     until gorged.

The fairy floss I remember from my childhood
     was bigger and fatter
And now I am, and all my childhood memories
     seem minimised.

A child near to me was attempting
To negotiate her knob of mollten sweetness
     Between the boundaries of
          What her mother may allow;
          What her mouth may accommodate.
     She overestimated on both counts.

And the fairy floss's lime green
     Exactly matched
The elastics in her hair.

(Written around the time of a West End Fiesta I would say - possibly 1998 or 1999?)