Yep, I think I fit into that category. It’s been a little over two months since my last post here, and that is, to say the least, disgusting. However, the show must go on, and I figure since my readership is fairly small, if not nonexistent, that you will all find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Anyway, I’m going to give this another shot. Mostly I’ve been inspired because I’ve installed the Flock browser, which has an inbuilt blog-posting thing, along with some other fancy-schmancy stuff. If they integrate Bebo, I will be fifty kinds of happy, but for now the blogging is enough. It’s made by the same people who made Firefox, so you know it’s got to be good [edit: I lied. See the comments.]. I think it’s got a lot of potential.

So, that’s it from me for now, and I’m going to cross my fingers and hope this post posts, and does so smoothly.

Tags: testing, flock, browser, internet, web

I’d like to think myself mature. Wise beyond my years, et cetera, et cetera. I suppose most people my age would. There’s no denying it, of course: on some occasions I would find it difficult to match the maturity level of a two year old.

I haven’t expressly hidden my age thus far on this blog, but I don’t believe I’ve drawn too much attention to it either. So, (because if I’m going to write a post about age, it would make sense for anyone who happens upon it to KNOW my age) I’m fourteen. Gasp, shock, horror? Maybe.

I firmly believe that age and maturity are only proportional to a certain degree. As a general rule, yes, an eighty-year-old WILL be more mature than a four-year-old. But I don’t think that’s because they were born seventy two years earlier, as such. I think it’s because they’ve seen more, they’ve felt more, they’ve read more, they’ve heard more, they’ve EXPERIENCED more.

So then, is it so impossible for a fourteen year old to be mature, or is it merely in our nature for us to consider ourselves so?

((On a slightly related note, I really don’t like the word ‘mature’. There’s something about it that irks me.))

I had no plans to share any poetry or artwork here, but today I changed my mind. I’m going to let this poem speak for itself, and hope it does so.

******

“Oh What A Wonderful Day (Wasted)”

Embracing the shower with small outstretched arms,
they crane their necks, catch the droplets on their tongues,
abandon umbrellas (which the grown-ups cling to so firmly),
splash through puddles, squelch through the mud.

Watching at a distance as the raindrops drizzle, monotonous,
down the glass which keeps them safe, dry, and warm,
they grumble about time lost, days wasted, plans they’d had,
sigh and reassure themselves–”it’s good for the garden.”

Cheeks blush crimson from the chill of the wind,
fresh water soaks through a forgotten sweater, a coat,
hair sticks fast to their scalps–dripping and matted,
specks of water riddled across every nose, every eyelid.

Sitting in apartments with mugs of coffee or hot chocolate,
they feel sorry for themselves; drown in regret and self pity;
They dress in jackets too expensive to take out in this weather;
laced with frowns, narrowed eyes, and impatient scowls.

Letting the last of the downpour drip through their fingers,
they turn their eyes skyward, startled at the sight–
a stunning artwork on a magnificant scale; clouds replaced
by vivid colour, a dazzling light shining down.

Peering through curtains draped over the windows,
they see only bleary mist, still lingering near the ground,
soaked-through children (who’ve probably caught a cold)
and puddles of mud they’re sure to step in on the way out.

Their eyes agape with wonder, they gaze in awe;
pulling them away, they glimpse splendour all around–
the snail crawling slowly but surely back to the garden;
the warmth of the sun as it creeps back toward the sky.

Pulling on their coats, they snatch at their keys, rush
through doors, run to their cars; always looking down,
trying to make up for a day lost, time wasted, not realising…

…the rain isn’t the problem.

******

“Hi.”
“Hey.”

“What’s up?”
“Not much. You?”
“Same.”

***

I have no doubt that the above conversation is overwhelmingly familiar. At least, for me. IM conversations are, in my belief, the number one culprit. (Though they usually contain much more painful grammar, or a lack thereof.)

But with friends like I have, boring conversations are barely ever an issue.

A friend and I once discussed into the late hours of the night how every person we knew would react if we decided to go out. (We’re both female, by the by. And the conversation was purely speculative, but extraordinarily interesting nevertheless.)

Another friend began a conversation by asking me a scarily philosophical question, which I don’t actually remember. But that was another long, interesting conversation. We discussed all manner of things.

Some of my friends I’m still working on.

But I’m slowly but surely converting them to wacky-yet-wonderful IM conversations. (The real life discussions don’t NEED conversion. If anything, they need toning down. ^_^)

I’ve decided that I have mixed feelings toward blank pages. On the one hand, they are so full of promise and opportunity and unscathed goodness. On the other, they’re intimidating and there’s this terrible feeling of not wanting to ruin a perfectly good page.

Upon further consideration, that could apply to any number of things: friendships, years, goals…it’s so easy to tread reluctantly because you’re afraid you’ll do something wrong and mess up that metaphorical blank page.

But at the end of the day, what do you do with it? Do you sit there staring at it, gently prodding it with a pencil? I would hope not. When I have a blank page in front of me, I revel for a moment in its blankness, and then I pick up my pencil or pen or keyboard and I get started. If there is a mistake, there’s always the backspace key or the eraser. And if things get REALLY bad, it’s quite easy to take a whole new page and start over.

Perhaps we should apply that philosophy to those friendships, to those years, to those goals. The thought of failure is far too paralysing. Maybe we should just do it already.

And that magic backspace key? I’m still looking, but I think apologies and the ability to forgive yourself are both fairly good beginnings.

(Warning: rant-like post ahead.)

Carrying along the ‘I-am-bitter’ theme, I’d like to discuss a vaguely related topic. I’ve mentioned already that my mother is a (Type #1) smoker. I believe I also made perfectly clear the fact that I don’t approve. At all.

Nor does the rest of our family, which is completely understandable. Especially her brother, my uncle. We knew that. He had been nagging her for what seemed like forever, even going so far as to enlist the help of his six-year-old daughter.

That was unbelievably irritating, but understandable.

Then one day (once upon a time)…Mum came to speak to me. She said, “Kaitlin, I was speaking to Uncle Greg, and he said that you told Trina [my aunt...she'd been giving me a lift to choir] that people at school wouldn’t play with you because they said you smelled like smoke.” I laughed and cursed him under my breath. In case you haven’t figured it out, it was a complete lie. I’d never said anything of the kind. (For the record, that year people at school DIDN’T hang around me much, but that was because I didn’t let most of them. Due mostly to a fault of the school’s, I hadn’t been around them for three years and didn’t really want to be. Groups were already formed, and year 6 girls are no fun at ALL to hang out with. One group I overheard talking about how they were going to become vegetarian and how they couldn’t eat chicken salt because it was made from baby chickens…no joke. But I hadn’t told Trina that, and it didn’t bother me anyway.)

My like for my uncle had been slowly, slowly dying away, but I think that was the one thing that pushed it over the edge. I never told him I knew; I was, however, ranting about it to my Nan, who promptly informed me that he’d told her the same thing.

I don’t care how well-meaning it was. If Mum didn’t have the brains (and the decency) to come and speak to me first, I could have ended up at counselling or god knows what. [I. Strongly Dislike. Seeing. Counsellors.]

End of rant! (Have a nice day!) :-)

The other day, I realised a shocking truth: I think I’m love with my iPod. Hardly surprising, I suppose, given my combined loves of all things musical, all things technological, and (perhaps most importantly), all things shiny.

It’s so pretty! I love that the battery lasts such a ridiculously long period of time. It’s wonderful for forgetful types like me who can never remember to charge the silly things up. (My mobile phone often suffers from periods of neglect for this very reason.)

Our family went up to the mountains on Saturday (thus the sunburn I have already complained about) and I was able to listen to it all the way up, most of the day while we were there, and then most of the way home again. Except for the last part of the journey where I memorised the phonetic alphabet. (I wasn’t being antisocial, promise–my brother and Mum’s boyfriend both spent the entire time fishing. Boooorrrring. I even did some excercise, god forbid. We took canoes! I was so proud; my muscles didn’t even hurt the next day. Woot!)

We also saw a goanna. Well, I saw a goanna and felt obligated to tell Mum so that she could go chasing after it with a camera. (And when I say chasing, I MEAN chasing…those things move fast!)

We all know by now that I have rather a lot to say on most topics. On sunburn, though, there is only this: Owie owie owie owie owie!

So, several family Monopoly championships over the holidays have got me thinking. I adore Monopoly; it has to be right up there among my favourite board games. (I’m also a fan of Cluedo, and at a friend’s house the other night we played a game by the name of ‘Mid-Life Crisis’. They bought it at a school fete, I’m told. It was (and still is, one would imagine) quite bizarre.)

Anyway, the ‘Free Parking’ rule interests me. It was always something I used to think was unique to our family, but further investigation proved otherwise. So where, then, did it develop? If I were more knowledgable, this would be where I’d tell you, but to be perfectly honest I wouldn’t have a clue.

Regardless, I’m curious: what are you favourite properties, and do you have a Monopoly strategy?

I’ve  always been rather fond of the two properties closest to ‘Go’ (Old Kent Rd and Whitechapel Rd in the UK edition) and the light blue properties along the same row. Lately, though, I seem to have developed a fascination for the orange properties. Odd. The four stations, though, are always winners in my book.

On a slightly random note, the Wikipedia page for Monopoly is an interesting read.

So, I was sorting out my music the other day and I came across Kasey Chambers’ “If I Were You”. I very nearly deleted it, but then I thought to myself that I could make a blog post out of the verses. That redeemed it, so now it’s still sitting in my playlist. So, without further ado, MY “if I were…”

If I was good… I would help out around the house.
If I was free… I would probably stay where I was anyway.
If I was wrong… there’s no way I’d admit it.
If I was smart… I would have much more to say.

If I was broken… I would smile and tell you I was fine.
If I was dying… I would live life normally.
If I was lost… I would have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
If I was honest… there’d be so much more I’d do.

If I was rich… I would donate at least some of it to a worthy charity.
If I was dignified… I would care about how I looked.
If I was dark… everything would have been so different.
If I was chosen… I would think myself better than everybody else.

((Feel free to steal…but leave a link if you do. I might like to read it. ;)))