"What do you think of Michael Bay?"

These ones aren't too bad, to be honest. Humour is always a plus. Snide little put downs (which may easily be tongue-in-cheek, but without knowing the owner of the voice nor having any emotive modifiers to guide my interpretation I have know way of knowing this) are not.

Just blindsided by the most awesome ever.

Honestly, you people.

I love the search string section in site stats.

Snow

There is a lot to be said regarding the inconveniences of snow, but being an Australian who did not make use of the ski season, I'm fairly certain it will take a great deal more snow and inconvenience before the novelty wears off.

It isn't only that it changes the whole world around you, changing the mood and flavour of any environment, nor how pretty the flakes are as they fall, although of course I love these qualities as well.

What I love best is how tactile an experience snow is. I love walking on snow, the way it crunches and crackles so satisfyingly underfoot. It has a wonderful give and at the same time, a perfect firmness as well. The way it moulds so perfectly to the pattern of any sole is just a little bit ridiculously delightful, and should I retrace my steps I can't help but examine all my footprints and be pleased and proud of their crispness. Except when I drag my heels, which is often it would seem. And, oh! The sound snow makes when tromped upon! I love it! The crunch, creak, grind, crackle, squeak and squawk, I love it! The same way I loved cracking acorns in Wilmington, and I stomp on gum cups back home, and curly dried bark.



I don't actually like touching snow. It is, unsurprisingly, very cold.

Snow is a storyteller. Today I went for a wander through Nottingham, and found a bowling green locked away and that square of unbroken white was asking to to be written upon. By birds, by rabbits, by dogs and by me.

When snow is fresh, it makes us explorers and pioneers, treading where no one has trod before.

I saw a White Horse on a White Hill

The giant chalk figures carved into the slopes of the Salisbury Plain were definitely on my list of Wonders to Behold, and so yesterday my native guide and I set off on a quest to view the Uffington White Horse, along with other neolithic marvels.

Now, as I said, these carvings are chalk, ergo, white.



Heh.

Employment QET

It's very hard to pull out of the "I'm travelinq! I have no responsibilities! I am beholden to no one and nothinq!" mindset. As far as mindsets qo, it's a bloody awesome one, sinqularly unfettered, brazen and indulqent.

But, the monies. The UK £ eats and punches and qenerally stomps all over the AUD$, and I did come all this way to try my hand at a different life. Durinq my second week in London I made a lazy perusal of ads for live-in jobs, found one in the remote north-west of Scotland, and after takinq several days to write a sinqle paqe CV (seriously, aqencies of the Victorian Public Service, SHORT RESUMES ARE AWESOME), emailed that off. And continued flouncinq around museums and the like, with qreat intentions to look and apply for further jobs. Qreat intentions.

Anyway, I haven't applied for anythinq else. I haven't even looked.

Which is fine, because I qot that job.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

First: QLEE!
Second: Excitement!
Third: Shock.
Fourth: ...wait, this means I'm qoinq to have to start qettinq up in the morninqs?
Fifth: QLEE!

"You like catwoman or something?"

It's been too lonq since the last 'sharinq is carinq' post of messaqes received unsolicited on OkCupid and left sittinq in my messaqe box without response. Once aqain, usernames removed as I have no intention of humiliatinq the individual, but my qoodness I'll pass judqement on the lot.

























































As you can see, some of these messaqes are leqitmately awesome (mad, mad, mad, MAD props for the Swiss Army Shark), and, as you can see, some of them aren't.

You can also no doubt see that calling someone 'crazy', 'a nutcase', 'weird' and other similar labels isn't going to get you anywhere. 'Crazy' especially. You don't know shit about the person on the receiving end of your message, whether or not they've had to struggle with their thought patters, brain chemistry, or watched this struggle in the people they care about.

I've had to fight to not be crazy on my terms, so I know I am not crazy, and fuck you for having such a small narrow world view that anything not fitting neatly within its parameters must be 'crazy'.

Ahem.

Anyway.

Guys. The Swiss Army Shark. Always a winner.

Field Notes of the Wondernaut Inaugural

1. Sir Tessa, first and only member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, roamed directionless through the vaults and cabinets of the British Empire's junk room. The vases and sculptures had never breathed. She sought something should could feel, and trusted her heart, a weary and much battered curl of whimsy, would tell her when she had found it.

2. In the Middle East there can be found colour, and in these carpets, oldest in the world and downtrodden by duty, there was once breath. Sir Tessa is not sure. Her heart is not sure. Both tremble in stillness. Light may come. Light may be certain. She waits.

3. The carpet is exhausted. The light falls upon and is locked in the warp and weft 400 years hungry. The longing is plaintive; give me your dust and footprints, give me the paths you follow in life. Invisible barriers keep the wondernaut from pressing her forehead to the carpet.

4. Colour brilliant and faded. All breathed once. The love of artisans and masters. And yet, Sir Tessa, the first, only and lonesome member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, is moved by none of these exquisite objects. She wonders, standing before the trophies of the Renaissance, if she has lost her hunter's instinct.

5. The wondernaut spins lost through treasures endless, and although she does not know what she is looking for, her heart pauses at the word 'glass'.

6. Glass catches light and throws it playfully. Perception and perspective curve nervous and uncertain. The colours have never breathed, and yet sing with the voice of all colours. Amid beauty transparent Sir Tessa hooks an inquisitive finger and when the tray of broken shards presents itself, there is a glimmer, a quiet unfurling in her heart.

7. Beautiful like breaking glass.

8. Still these objects leave the wondernaut barren.



(She wants a garden of stubborn little herbs and unfriendly flowers. She wants ordinary moths to sit motionless upon the wall. She wants mud on her boots and wind in her ears. She wants to be surprised.)

9. Sir Tessa, first, only and unchallenged member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, returns to her berth.

10. And wonders.

Bargain: The World's Smallest Violins

For all the pity you don't feel.

We Are Expecting You, Welcome

Old Chinese brush holder, porcelain.

Beneath the Wind, Above the Snow

Three Months

A couple of days ago, four to be exact, marked three months since I left home.

Three months is generally a point at which things looks less than wonderful. New jobs become familiar and new relationships lose their shine. This vagabond life has had the edges worn off, and I'm looking forward to stopping, but I'm also quite comfortable being beholden to no place and no person. This form of travel is the ultimate indulgence in selfishness and freedom. My time is mine own, my decisions need refer to no one else for approval or compromise.

Today, I woke up to a letter forwarded to me, regarding the work cover that paid for my medical costs for my fibro and RSI treatment back home.

Hunched over my measly free breakfast in a pub on a Monday morning, blindsided by tears and a rising stress that shook me with its relentless and unexpected onset.

All the majesty of glaciers and blizzards, ancient castles and quirky museums, dingy hostels and luxurious private rooms, all these days are nothing but distractions.

This letter reminded me that, no matter how many times I tell myself this journey is something I always wanted to do, I nevertheless undertook it as a retreat, that I gave up the life I'd built because my hands, my body, and an overwhelming depression one by one closed the doors and windows and threatened to trap me, that everything I'm running from is traveling with me.

Three months, and the change isn't enough.

Girls Goin' a Roamin'

Most hostels offer female only dorm rooms for those of us who are for whatever reason uncomfortable sharing a room with the sausage-wielding sex. I've even seen a few places that offer male only dorms as well, as is only fair. Typically beds in such dorms cost a little extra, so I've been bunking in mixed dorms. Until now.

This room is very pink.



On seeing the wall fitted out with 3 mirrors, stools, dressing table as well having a hair dryer and hair straightener (!!!), my initial reaction was somewhat indignant. Who wants all that cliched crap?

Well, to be honest I was pretty damn excited to see the hair dryer. Wet hair in this climate is a little uncomfortable. It only works for two seconds on the highest setting before entering torpor, as I discovered.

This led me to consider the hair straightener, because dammit I wanted to go outside and I did not want wet hair at the same time. Now, I've never used a hair straightener in my life. Partly because my hair is pretty damn straight, but mostly because I'm lazy and don't believe in high maintenance hair. Pfffft.

The general theory behind hair straighteners I understood, but exactly how one uses them...uh, are they supposed to vibrate anxiously when you clap the tongs together? Because this one did. I gave my hair a few swipes before being far too disconcerted by the trembling appliance and thus ended my first and probably only experiment with hair straighteners.

Huh. Sniff. Disdain.

It was a full house last night, and in the morning I was woken by the others springiness out of bed to stand in front of the mirrors and do...things. I have no idea what any of them were doing but there was a lot of it. The hair straightener was used. The hair dryer was used (on a lower setting). There were all sorts of tubes and powders and touching of hair. All this before they were even out of their jammies.

Me, I rolled out of bed, changed into be-seen-in-public clothes, and staggered downstairs for breakfast without even putting deodorant on.

I don't think I'm very good at being a woman.

Still, there is some merit to gender stereotyping. For example, "girls snore far less than boys" IS THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

He: in the cloisters, with open book