period drama

"Well Finn, it..pains me to say this, and I know this wont be easy news for you to hear, but Augustine has had another one of her turns. I think you ought to know - she's having a dreadfully heavy period"
"Oh Medallion..no!"
"Actually it's Madeline"
"But no, it can't be true. Oh Lord why have you chosen her? She who wouldn't pull the tail off a lamb! She who would never even spit on a choir boy! Poor girl, if only I'd known. I mean the pastor said she'd been looking pale, but oh, I just thought - I never... oh" (bites fist and looks anguished)
"Oh Finn! you weren't to know! I mean half the village is down with consumption so you'd be forgiven for thinking it was an ordinary bout of that. If I'd known, if I'd known it was this bad... I'm so terribly sorry, I would have been here sooner. But please know, I'll do anything I can to help"
"I don't know if there's anything you can do to help... if there's anything anyone can do.." (stares off winsomely into the distance)

[END]

Oh no - I'm complaining right?

I looked aghast. Call that complaining?? You're commenting, mentioning, noting. Dude you haven't even met complaining. You wouldn't know it if it came up and offered you it's services down a dark alley for RM20. In fact, now that I think about it, no one here complains very well. Not like us, we should start up an exchange program, us Sydney folk really know how to complain. We know the nuances of a good complain - we can do it in several positions, in several languages. The whiny complain, blustery complain, the on and on and on until your ears bleed complain, the sharp bark of a service related complaint, the echoing ring of a reproach, these are our friends and accessories in the bustle of daily life.

There is some strange ven diagram of complaining - or maybe a mandala, or a sliding log scale -that I can't quite work out. On the one hand there are people putting up with injustice and crap treatment who should complain, but don't, and in doing so let the selfish and greedy rule. Then there are those who live in the same system and are the ones the others should be complaining about, who in turn complain about ridiculous things, like maids talking to boys, or people taking fruit from their fruit tree (which sure happens to be on public land that daddy bought from the officials but whose counting) children acting like children, or any petty mishap that happens to affect them and theirs. And all of these people think that not complaining is a virtue, especially if it's other people not complaining, that's particularly virtuous.

And where I come from is it the same? Are the complainers better at complaining precisely because they have so little to complain about that they've recalibrated their scale from molehill to mountain and have all the time in the world to complain about little things that affect their family, their view/car parking space/tax return, their lattes? Where are the complainers who complain on other people's behalf? Who complain with a calm and dignified voice? Who complain articulately for hours across counters or let their fingers complain across a keyboard writing a letter. The complainers who on the face of it have nothing to gain from their complaint but know that they have everything to gain from adding a voice to the words that need to be spoken.

what I did in my holidays...
Remember those funny little books you used to make when you got back from school holidays? You know, when the teacher was still in denial about you all being back, and needed time to go get another mean instant coffee and gossip with the music teacher in the plah-doh smelling hallways. You know the kind, you remember the tongue biting earnestness of it all. Books made of thin white paper, with bright gaffa tape spine molding sensually over the the lumps of the regulation issue three staples. Remember the pictures? Arms sprouting wildly from grinning pumpkin heads, scribbled cars like a confusing afterthought in the corner and beaming, pin prick eyed sunshines dangling limply from skies pierced with ominous M shaped birds that never ever seemed to be getting into the foreground, always relegated to flapping their m-ee wings, no heads, just wings, a sharp, minimilist black.

Well that's what I feel like everytime I write a blog entry about being away. 'What I did on my holidays: an illustrated book in paper and gaffa: volume #317'

***

Have been drawing with my cousin these last few nights. She's almost 4, it reminds me of being that age, it's funny. Last night she had more energy than me for play (afterall she gets a nap) and I rested on her bed saying 'mmm' and 'yum' and 'uhuh' while she 'cooked' with her pots and pans and read to me. I had to go kiss her goodnight shortly after as she and Uncle were reading Red Sea Sharks on the couch and I was exhausted and ready for bed. She said goodnight to me in the same affectionate, indulgant tone that adults use with her. She is so thoroughly intersting - it's amazing to see someone learning their very first (verbal) language - and so intersting to realise that the concepts all predate the language. Often people get it wrong and think she's saying nonsense, that she's mixed up, but she's not, she's just trying to use this awkward, clumsy language of ours to approximate the complex, subtle, emotional responses she has to the world. So fascinating.

And then we went to the beach and there was a big dog and I had an icecream it was all yellow and I ate it it got on my jumper the end

Concubine's Foot
Miss Zucchini said she thought I sounded like a concubine's foot. And she was right, more than she guessed. Well girls and boys, this little foot is slipping out of it's slipper. And stretching it's toes. Aaaah.

Is this any better?
eeek ok I'm sorry. I was committing cyber pollution of blandness for a few days there. spots it is. the thing is I'm just so darned busy organising my second date (he he he) that I plum haven't had time to rebuild this darned thing. That and uni assignment ith the sadistically small word count (not that I'm verbose or anything). Compare the World Bank and the 4 development banks resources and....blah blah blah blah.

By the way - I have another important date - the date I come back! 13th Sept at this stage. Will be around the emerald city for just over a week before heading north. Hoping to see all you lovely peoples in either city. Inner westies dust off those bars. Eight Milers get that pool pump going. Guitar boy I'm hoping for a pre Christmas jaunt down south. Dammit I want a ride in the ute.

See you soooooooooon.

PS Found this as I was searching for movie times - ratings and what they stand for. Need I comment??

U - General Viewing for all ages
18SG - For 18+ with non-excessive violent/ horrifying scenes
18SX - For 18+ with non-excessive sex scenes
18PA - For 18+ with political/ religious/ counter-culture elements
18PL - For 18+ with a combination of two or more elements

Oops! truly ephemeral. Sorry guys I was playing with templates and all coments and links disappeared... where did they go? Are they tooling about in cyber space now looking for a blog to attach to? So, your comments have gone and my blog layout is pasty and unpersonalised.

Just as an aside, it turns out my 'tummy bug' of a month or so ago has returned. Very distinctive symptoms that made me go...hmmm, this seems to be exactly what I had before. I never thought I would be doing a poo related web search before. Lucky I did! I did some reading and it turns out (from my self diagnosis) that I have amoebic dysentry. Which can linger and linger and result in all sorts of nasty permanent damage to your internal organs. Nice! So after reading that and being almost 100% sure that the symptoms lined up perfectly with what I have, I scooted off to the 'clinic' in our building.

Well, wasn't that an experience! The dr was all excited about me being western and wanted to talk about whether I had Irish ancestry as crones disease is particularly common on the west coast of Ireland and maybe just maybe I have that. I had to politely but firmly steer him back into the land of the likely and tell him all sorts of grusome details about my ahem, movements, to convince him that perhaps a bout of travellers die-oh-rear was more likely. Idiot.

But, not wanting to be totally arrogant in my 'I read it on the internet it must be true' self diagnosis I said

"Maybe we should take a sample just to be sure?"

(thinking, especially if you think I have fucking crone's disease). To which he screwed up his face like a little kid and said

"oh no, I never really take samples. You know you have to fish some out and get it in the container. And then you have to carry it around and bring it in. It's not very nice"

Uh huh. Mmmm. OK.

I sat there a little stunned thinking 'So what you're saying is that you'd rather misdiagnose me than have me take a stool sample, is that it?' And also wondering how the fuck this guy deals with medical practice in general - 'oh you know we could operate to remove the tumour, but you know what, it's not very nice, you have to wear a silly gown and your bottom sticks out the back.It's not very flattering. I rarely do it. '

Anyway, in the end he prescribed me tablets and we agreed that if they hadn't worked their magic in 5 days we'd (screw up face again) resort to taking a sample.

When I walked out to the counter and was given a packet of tablets loose in a white zip lock plastic bag with my name and the doseage written on it, I thought 'what am I - at the vets?'. No information on the actual medication - what it does, side effects to look out for or the Doctor's name, prescription number. Hmmm very confidence inspiring*.

And at first he told me to take 2 tablets, 4 times a day, 8 hourly. I tried to work out at what times of day that would be and then looked at him, frowning, thinking 'there are only 24 hours in a day.. 4 lots of 8 is 32..??'. He must have reached the same conclusion, so wisked the bag back from me saying "oh, 8 hourly, aaah, must be 3 times a day, let me change that for you"

I left with my lolly bag of horsetablets, shaking my head.

*I'm only taking them because what he prescribed me matched what I read about online.

Fancy a flick?

A discussion over lunch the other day about the actor Owen Wilson lead me to ask if anyone had seen Zoolander. Someone casually replied that it was banned in Malaysia. I almost choked on my noodles. "Banned? Why?". I was thinking, god was there some outrageously violent scenes that I had somehow forgotten? "It was banned because the story has something about an assassination of a Malaysian Prime Minister". I thought for a minute and then remembered, yes, it did. Some tiny little farcical reference framed in the context of the main characters being in involved in helping to prevent it (if I remember rightly). This led to a broader discussion as I incredulously asked what other recent movies had been banned.

Here is the list I have cobbled together based on hearsay and web research of media articles (it might look like a pisstake but I assure you, it's for real).
---------------

So, without further ado, the movies that have been banned in Malaysia recently (drum roll), oops can someone help me with this little brown envelope, my sequined dress is getting in the way, ok here we have it, the winners are:
- Zoolander (no, not for crimes against fashion [flash colgate smile and sweep hair out of eyes] but because it could incite political violence...ooooh)
- Underworld (ooh no one knows why, this one is a bit of a dark horse)
- Babe 1 and 2 (aaah, this is cute and off-beat, because eating pork is haram, therefore a movie about talking pigs is no go)
- The Hours (oh yes a classic favourite with censors, women kissing!)
- Daredevil (too violent, and it has the word devil in the title, terribly subversive, oh yes that's a clear winner)
- Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me (too much sexual innuendo...)
- Steven Spielberg's animated epic the Prince of Egypt (tackles religion, bless it)
- two episode of US sitcom Friends (ah, a very strong contender, the judges awarded this one obn three counts: premarital sex, promiscuity and having children out of wedlock)


Here are some quotes from the judges now:

Malaysia's Deputy Prime Minister (now PM) said in 2003 that films were only banned if they contained "excessive violence and sexual material or elements which can create chaos in the community".

"In order for us to instill good morals and values in our people, we have to stop importing films that are not appropriate for our country," Board chairman Shaari Mohamad Noor comment.

"It might spark off some religious disagreement in this country," Film Censorship Board spokeswoman Kathy Kok said, explaining the board's decision to bar a general release (of the Passion of Christ)

A scene in "Ally McBeal" which depicts a man sucking the big toe of a woman in an office was considered by the board to show "unnatural sexual acts: the licking of toes and wrists," the Associated Press reports the censors said.

And the prizewinners get:
Possession, distribution or the sale of banned titles in any form in Malaysia is punishable by a maximum 30,000 ringgit (£5,200) fine and three years in jail.

----------------------

And yes censorship is a prickly issue, and yes any censorship is by nature subjective and based on some (supposedly representative and obviously relative) view of moral standards. So if I accept any system of artistic and literary censorship I am accepting the possibility that the system could be used to reinforce beliefs and uphold 'moral standards' that I don't hold. As the majority wishes it so it shall be. Right?

You'll be amazed to hear that despite all this proliferation of wholesome asian values and the forcible stemming of the evil tide of western sex and violence and general moral decriptitude, that crime of all sorts still happens in Malaysia. All the time, in bloody, desperate, deliberate acts of brutality. The fear of violence is a constant whir, keeping our doors barred, our car doors locked, our suburbs gated and our allegiances with powerful people well tended. Eat or be eaten.

calm & usefulness
Went to the art gallery on the weekend and saw a great exhibition of religions of the world - B&W photographs by a German artist. It was beautiful, touching, inspiring. Some of the photos were so amazing, these close ups of smiling faces that just shon with humour and patience and humility. I almost cried. There were quotes too, from the subjects. I'll leave you with these two, two of my favourites:

'Vanish! Cease to exist! Love is finding your path' - whirling dervish, Turkey

'Breathe in calm, breathe out usefulness' - Buddhist nun, India

Jazz hand part 3

Yes it's another installment in the world's most boring series!

Early today I was bemoaning lack of call back right? Well blow me down with a feather he emailed. Now I feel silly for writing about it. See before it was a silly story of hope dashed but now I've gone and blogged about someone who is still around. That's weird and stalkery right?

PS he emailed! yah!
PPS see earlier disclaimer, teenager, yadda yadda

The light
I'm getting better at seeing that light that shines from people when they are interested in you. You know the one? The one where they radiate 'yes', and they smile a lot. It's an animal thing and I am notoriously bad at seeing it. Aunty B could tell you. I am the kind of person who will rationalise away and deny all signs of interest, doggedly, peversely, until they have long moved on, and then, one rainy day years later I will have a dawning realisation: 'oh....No? You don't think..?'. If I was Juliet it would have been a different story. It would have been 'there's this Romeo fellow, I don't know, I think he likes my sister, he seems to be hanging around the house a lot. I think next time he comes I'll go work on my needlepoint so they can get some time alone..."
This new found insight has in part sprung from my time in Jakarta where my observation of 'he must be gay, he's such a sweet boy and patiently follows me while I'm clothes shopping' was reinterpreted by G as 'no dude, he has a crush on you'. Which I was flabbergasted by. And then slowly realised might be true.

This has opened up new realms of possibility. I even spotted it straight away with a tall French man at lunch the other day. oooh la la. It's really quite simple isn't it?

I don't mind Mondays
Good morning all. On reflection I realise that my recent blogs have been a little scatty and or a wee bit on the whiny side (noooo?) so I am now endeavoring to stop writing about belly button fluff and how terribly tiring it is living in the tropics and coping with these infernal what nots and tell you some nice stories instead, lest you get the impression it's all essays and despair here...

Jazz hands part 1
Last week I went and saw some live music. Jazz quartet in a tapas bar. It was a nice, narrow, dark, groovy venue and I soaked up the ambience like a po-faced Sydneysider finally returning to a comfortable monochrome nest after the unsettling abundance of florals out in the real world. I sat on a couch and drank beer and did jazz nodding and was as happy as a little warm piglet squirming in the wet dark squish of the field. The band were young guys, earnest keyboardist with jiggly shoulders and an intense frown, cute bass player (what is it with bass players) with jaw length rock hair, still in that skinny, paws too big for him phase, and a hidden drummer with a penchant for the cymbols. The singer was in a league of her own (or a fashion universe of her own at the very least - youch, who said that?). Orange cowl neck flouro number and blurred phoenetic renditions and YTT smile. My po-face set in a grimace as I ordered another beer (for purely medicinal purposes).

Jazz hands part 2

(or, 'it wasn't just about the sax')

Here is my beat poetry about what ensued:

oh you, there, squeaking and sqwarking like a trilling beige panted bird you go there and there and there you, man, you do not see, beyond the c sharp of your polished beast one hand on it and one hand on your pocket, fingers clutching your hopes for the future holding both your trilling fantasies of ascending, and my eyes catch gold and you catch me your ride on lonely notes you play you look, you!

Yes girls and boys I sidled up to the sax player (who was cunningly not mentioned in jazz hands part 1 - do you see how I keep the plot twisting, oh the literary panache of it all) and we chatted and it was nice and we did numbers and eyes and all that. But? But? I hear you ask... Yes well. Talk about an anticlimax, a peversely built up nothing at all. I blame the answering machine at home which accepts messages but wont let you hear them. Surely there's a sea of plaintive messages waiting for me in lost message space, increasingly despondant, spiralling into worldess jazz squeaks.