For Mother’s Day, of course, because I generally get up six hours after Mum’s left for work so that kind of kills the possibility of a breakfast in bed cliche/kodak moment. And when I’m overseas Mum will no doubt need a Gameboy soft toy to remind her of me and my noisy video games, right? See, my logic is infallible.
On a related note: Adam Hills reckoned “low fat cat food” was possibly the most wrong phrase in use today. My own suggestion, care of Mother’s Day propaganda at Northcote Plaza, is “pamper hamper”. *shivers*
When did this happen? And why didn’t anyone tell me? Oh well, now I only have one month to finish my manuscript and my TESOL course and start applying for jobs in Shanghai. Thankfully I can check number two off my list as of today and focus on mashing out the epilogue and some swift re-edits of the ms. before I send Camille off into the world *tears of pride*. Unfortunately I keep getting extremely fantastically excellent ideas for my next book which, because it’s taboo until I finish this one, seems all the more extremely fantastically excellent. No doubt when I finally get to it it’ll seem as much of a drag as projects always do when you’re supposed to be writing them. Stupid perversity.
In other news, I have decided that I cannot possibly leave the country without some sleek new portable telecommunications device with wifi internet access. At the moment I’m thinking of a Nintendo DS of some variety, because I think my eyes will bleed from the sinfulness of a buying an iPhone. My wallet certainly will, anyway. But no! I must work. I must ignore the twinging of my neck from days hunched over this increasingly obsolete laptop and stop dreaming of its spontaneous transformation into a MacBook Air. I must.
I guess one good thing about our sudden entrance into May is that my favourite band is about to release a new album based on the concept of Spring in the Taiwanese city of Taidong. Unfortunately their “Vivaldi Plan” (is it just me or does this sound like a particularly bad secret operation from The Man From U.N.C.L.E?) which encompasses three other cities and three other seasons does not include Melbourne, which means no concerts in Australia *tears of sorrow*. This hurts even more because they’ve decided to go to London for Summer. London. OK, maybe it’s just my memories of gloomy dark streets and succumbing to hypothermia, but London does not make me think of Summer. Hawaii, yes, Brisbane, yes, Guam, kind of, but LONDON??? They can have their ruddy Olympics but they can’t have Sodagreen! *tears of righteous fury*
*tears of joy upon catching sight of large block of cheese*
*lack of tears upon tear ducts collapsing*.
May. Bring it on.
Care of the Rose Street Artists’ Market off Brunswick Street, because there’s nothing like retail therapy to get you through what feels like (but probably isn’t) sub zero temperatures when a scarf and a 30-year-old fan heater that consumes enough power to run Anguilla for a couple of months can’t.
That’s right: one year ago today I was so desperate to get out of doing my homework that I started a blog. Originally entitled Self Portrait With Cheese, then Aviva Kidd: Online and Opsomaniacal, then Aviva Kidd: Online and Overwrought, and now the less specific but equally eponymous Aviva Kidd (dot) com, my blog has been both a pain to update frequently during my lazy patches, and a joyous safe haven in which to post about the inane things that cross my mind and anything else I think readers might enjoy without damaging the integrity of their noses by falling forward in a bored stupor.
In the past year I have turned 18 (yay for adult status! nay for mountains of paperwork!), graduated high school, watched a ridiculous amount of TV, possibly read about 15 books (up on the year before), and have written 60,000 words of my new book. More local stats include 85 blog posts, 382 comments (half of which are mine, admittedly), and 7,225 hits on this website. My most popular post is my essay on Peter Booth (which says a lot more about people’s interest in this fantastic artist than my ability to write about him), followed by last year’s Bio, a rather prolonged study of my mother’s TV-viewing habits, my report on the terrors of my Mandarin Oral exam (the kids are scared), and the mini-travelogue on my adventures in Guangzhou, Guangzhou: Toilets and All (proving that toilets are popular, and maybe the capital of Guangdong Province is as well). Also rating a mention is my very first post, which, as it involved Pokémon, was destined to get out of control in the comments.
And, of course, who could f0rget the banners? (this in intended as a rhetorical question).
Here’s to another fruitful year of blogging and bludgery. :D
[credit to Carma Da Silva as the photographer for the first two and second-last banner].
Went to Westgarth Cinema last night to see Mary & Max with some friends. As usual, we were hopelessly bored watching the pre-movie advertisements, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of my friends pointed out the redeveloped heritage cinema building’s lighting and its resemblance to Pacman sprites.
Now there’s an architect after my own heart.
Anyone who has been out to a cafe or restaurant with me more than once will probably be aware of my slavish loyalty to Orange Juice as the Nectar of the Gods and Preferred Beverage Over All Alcoholic and Non-Intoxicating Substances on this Increasingly Un-Green Earth. So imagine my dismay when a waiter at a Carlton Pizzeria told me last night that they did not stock Orange Juice, as if this were normal business practice! :o I was just about to commit myself to water for the entire night when the aforementioned waiter suggested I try apricot juice. Desperate for a sugar high to relieve my shopping fatigue, I relented.
It tasted like apricot (a good sign). But, like, juiced. Still, it was no substitute for my beloved oranges, and I consoled myself later at Brunetti’s with a paltry glass of their nonethless excellently tart orange juice. And then I had a vanilla milkshake, which was less consoling and more illness-inducing. Oh well, after I’ve written my scene for the day I can loll about in bed groaning to my heart’s content, which would certainly be more difficult in a lecutre theatre seat.
The Current Score
Gap Year: 1
University: 0
After spending many months in bed watching TV shows and mindlessly surfing the internet on my laptop in an attempt to regain my humanity after Year 12, I’ve inadvertently returned to my pre-graduation days of living in Mum’s office, typing away for hours until I can’t feel my soul anymore. Well, not quite so melodramatic — but I do feel wasted after every session. Unlike Year 12, though, I’m writing by choice and doing something that I’m convinced is worthwhile, rather than being told it is so.
Another Year 12 cramming habit I’ve returned to is going for shortish walks around the ‘hood most days, often going down streets I’ve lived virutally next to my entire life but have never had the need (or bothered) to explore. As ridiculous as it sounds, it feels like I’m overseas, with landscape that is familiar yet foreign in its layout and details. The laneways (so long as it’s not night) are also endlessly interesting to walk through, and always seem more industrial or detached from the aesthetics of the rest of the street. This, coupled with some fantastic vigilante graffiti and my camera phone, make for an alternative album of Northcote and its surrounding suburbs.
Here’s to many more walks and keeping Melbourne awesome.
Am much engrossed in writing lately, being so close to the end of Le Book and wanting to go to Shangers (i.e. Shanghai, not some evil tasting meat delicacy) before Melbourne Uni starts sending me threatening correspondence about enrolling. So either as a result of over-labouring my brain (ha) or because of plot contrivance, I have managed to break a cardinal rule of writing lore in my most recent scene: too many characters whose names start with the same letter in a contained space. So when Camille opens the door to find Cassius, Cyrus and Collagen Boy on his doorstep, the readers’ brains shalt ooze from their ears. Or not. I honestly don’t see too much problem with unusual or alliterated names in books, particularly for anyone who has had to contend with tomes of fantasy before — but I’ve probably lost all perspective by now and can’t be trusted to make judgements like that anyway. So if in several years you turn to Episode 7 Scene 1 of the book only to find Cameron opening the door to find John, Gary and Danny Boy, you’ll know the editors have won and your brains are safe from any unwanted spillage.
I see that Google have added helpful autofill suggestions whenever you start typing something into their search engine. So when I set out to find out exactly how long a particular book was, this appeared:
My favourite suggestion is care of all those junkies planning to travel overseas (and at the same time wondering how long it will take to get the proper documentation) or participate in competitive sport and are worried that wee line of ecstasy could get in the way. And as for how long twilight goes for, well, I guess that depends what time of year it is and where you are in the world. Or to answer the hordes of tween fangirls that are the more likely cause of this autofill’s inclusion: too long, much too long.
