dead egg

This morning mum lifted the woolen blanket covering Sir Norbert's cage to find he had laid an egg. We had suspected Sir Norbert was female, but Little Sis and I had maintained she be called 'Sir Norbert' nonetheless. But now our gender-ambiguous cockatiel isn't gender-ambiguous anymore, mum's pressing for 'Norbie', or at least 'Lady Norbert', but I figure - why can't ladies be Sir anyway? And Sir Norbert had a nice ring to it.

The egg is very small and blushed with the faintest pink, and Sir Norbert seems to like playing soccer with it. We're not banking on immaculate conception; we know its a dead egg, and even if there had of been a Mr Sir Norbert, it probably would have died in the cold last night anyway.

Now we don't know what to do with it. I think I read somewhere that dead eggs can have a psychological effect on birds, because they never hatch. I want to remove it from the cage - she seems to have detached herself from it already. But I don't know if I want to touch it. It doesn't seem right.

I don't want to feel the cold alabaster of that tiny egg. It'd feel like death itself, in all its unassuming manner.

Sir Norbert seems rather bemused by this thing, both part of her and not. Thankfully she's young.



I have to work soon, so I'll make this quick:

That grey creature, anxiety, has been gnawing at my stomach ever since we came back to uni. I really must find a better way to deal with stress. I want to do yoga again.

I rescued our dusty old keyboard from the questionable, dark domain beneath Little Sis's bed. I cleaned it up and found a power pack for it, and I can almost play the opening part of Clocks. It's amazing. I haven't the longest attention span, even for things that interest me, even when watching a good film - my mind is forever inclined to wander. But I must have kneeled before that keyboard for at least half an hour, my mind completely engrossed by the keys and the sounds emanating from them, without my mind wandering at all. No matter how often I stuffed up, I just kept going. And going and going. And I didn't get frustrated once. It felt wonderful.

Ummm.....

I want Jet's new album.

I went to a Gallery with Ess.

I wrote a crummy story.

I bought a 2nd hand book called 'The Tao of Physics' which I am very excited about.

Annnndddd....

I have lots of work (uni and otherwise) to sink my reluctant teeth into.

Mucho love!

Fleet, the Fox and a Pear Tattoo

Every day we learn something new.

Today I learnt how to make an ambigram of No Pain No Glory.

Yesterday I learnt that I had hair the colour of Beatrice's.

The day before I learnt how to make pancakes.

The day before that I learnt that I looked like a girl name Emma.

The day before that I learnt that JK Rowling can write.

The day before that I learnt that buying new jeans feels really, really good.

And ever on.

I am listening to Fleet Foxes, and I think I'd like their album.
I recently ate a pear, and learnt I really like them.
And now I'm getting tattoos out of the way.

Haiku poetry
has five syllables and then
seven and then five.

Uni tomorrow. Just thought I'd blog some nonsense, because Ess did, and I feel like this is a reply.

Red Alice

When you are 18 the world is very small and your are very selfish.

You also feel infinitely old.

This I have recently discerned. At least, it's a true summation of me.

I feel like I must know what-who-how-why-where I am, and anxiety grows from the uncertainty. I am absorbed in myself. Who I want to be, what I want to do with my life, the necessity of knowing now against the imagined peril of un-knowing.

I want to write-draw-direct-sleep-illustrate-love-venture-discover-settle-fall. I want this and I want that.

My world, myself, me and I.

30 seems close and ancient and the very last oppurtunity for living and dreaming. Even though, with a little perspective, one can be reassured that it truly isn't.

I am 18 years old, and in another 18 I will be 36. And in another 36, I will be 74. And that's (touch wood) a long way away.

And 74 isn't even that old.

I have started to believe that it is only in thinking-rushing-scrabbling for success and direction that one can truly age the soul, and that this is why, at the moment, I am so topsy-turvy and frazzled around the edges. I am trying to shine like a burning flame, forgetting that in burning the foundations of a fire quickly smoulder and float away on the breeze, lost and fragmented.

We must learn to flow like water. We must learn to breathe and let the current take us, us fervent, frightened, fiery 18 year olds. We are infinitely young. We must make mistakes and learn from them. We must be open to change and possibility.

Graphic Designer, Writer, Director, Nomad, whatever. Let's just see what happens.

Things aren't what they seem through the looking glass.






{{The Author wants to caution the reader that for all her idealism and attempts at philosophy and peace, she is only 18 after all, and a very noob-y 18 year old at that.


She is also a hypocrite, and will continue to moan and fuss and worry about her future and the loss of time for a while yet.... maybe until she turns 19.}}

Tall Jan is Malicious.

My family are a pack of hyenas. (Or, at least, can be.)

And I am a black sheep among them.

Or, at least, can be.

Tango. Oscar. November. India.

Green peas, aquired.


I have to say... it is amusing, watching my licence photos get gradually more horrendous. And it must be terribly boring, being an RTA supervisor. I swear, I must have only briefly sucked my lips in for the barest of seconds in response to the awkwardness of the situation, in between a good minute of fully acceptable teeth-baring. I can imagine E. Merry with her finger on the photo trigger, waiting with weary amusement for that perfect, candid moment - moments we just don't want to see on anything remotely legal.

Conversely, though, my frozen features are perfect for a moustache - is it very illegal to deface driver's licences?

black dog fire child. smile alice smile

people just don't blog anymore. perhaps being shot at by millions of points of light just doesn't compare to breathing one's whispers onto the silent pages of a secret book.

..

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

that is all.