Teddy Bears

The heck is this thing? I'll give a dollar* to anyone who can explain it.
*Offer may not be sincere.

Talkative

I think I talk too much. No. I know I talk too much.

In the time I have for quiet reflection, I know this, quite forcefully. It's all I can do do remember past gaffes, with SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP in a constant loop dubbed over the dialogue. But in the real world, acting on real things? That knowledge has little effect. Must I rehearse everything I say, so as to edit it of stupidity?

It's like part of me is intelligent, but unfortunately has been placed in control of a brick. A stupid brick.

This was brought on by, uh...

I don't know what brought this on.

I'm going to go play Command & Conquer. INSTEAD OF WORKING!

On Chronic Workaholism

Happy Pi Day, Ides of March, etc. I did actually bake a pumpkin pie - recipe and photographs pending my getting it right.

A couple of hours ago, my housemate stopped on the staircase and asked me if I ever do anything but work. It's a reasonable question. I haven't been attending the cake suppers, free dinners, Quidditch matches (let's just say Muggle Quidditch involves running around with a broom between one's legs trying to catch a guy dressed in yellow, and leave it at that), gardening activities, or indeed any other social event held for residents of late. I've stayed holed up in my room, leaving only for the occasional meal (as far as my housemates know, at any rate), working away on the computer.

Obviously I haven't been working as non-stop as my housemates think (there's a lot more one can do on a computer than work, especially if connected to the Internet - look at what I'm doing now). But they are right, in the sense that I've been withdrawing socially in order to focus on my work. And they are largely right, in that I've been working as continuously and for as long hours as I've been able.

Workaholism is a curious thing. In my case at least, it's not an attraction to the work. To my mind, once work becomes fun, it is no longer classified as work - at best you're getting paid to play. Work, by definition, is unnattractive, by virtue of its tediousness or necessity. I think what workaholism is, is the compelling need to achieve something, which can only be attained, or is perceived to be only attainable, by working.

For example, one might become a workaholic out of a desire to earn a lot of money for a specific goal, such as buying a new car. One may be forced into workaholism in order to complete a large project on deadline. One may wish to provide for one's family, and thus grind well past overtime into the night, every day of the week. There are lots of rewards through work, so while work remains disliked, there is a motivation to do it.

In my case, however, the motive is a curious one. I, of course, wish to get the work done, out of responsibility for my project and knowing that I only have a limited, limited time to complete everything. But that is only the reason to do work. The slide into workaholism comes because I know if I stop, such is my inherent laziness that I would not be able to start again, for hours or even days. Therefore I push hard, never daring to stop until my fingers ache from gripping the mouse and a dull pressure forms behind my eyes. It's an addiction - not to the work, but to not stopping.

Naturally, it is not the healthiest way to proceed, but the sole psychological alternative in my case appears to be leaving everything to the last minute, in which sheer panic fuels an acute form of workaholism. Personally I prefer the go-go-never-stop version of things. At least the stress level is constant, and a lot more gets done.

Make that a LOT more. The look on my co-supervisor's face when I presented a 27 x 70-cell data table summarising the analysis of 66 proteins, completed in a mere two weeks, was absolutely priceless. Also priceless: his astonished exclamation that he didn't think there were that many proteins.

Of course, my main supervisor didn't so much as blink. Curse him and his poker face.

Hailing Taxis

"What's worse than raining cats and dogs?"

In a complete reversal of last year's weather, it's been raining over here. Profusely, in fact. A mere two days ago, we had an attack of hailstones, some as big as a golfball. The beautiful arching roof of the Southern Cross Station is in need of repairs as a result of the aforementioned.

I cannot say I regret it. Storms have something wild and attractive about them, even when it's cold and windy and there's no umbrella. The heat gives one no option but to shrivel up against oneself, drained of vitality, desperate for any sort of cooling relief. Rain gives one strength, pushing one to wrap up warmer and waterproof. Given blistering hot sun and a heavy monsoon storm, I know what I would prefer.

Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for the property damage which has occurred. Melbourne is built to deal with dry weather - heavy rain is almost unheard of. But such a sudden change in weather patterns in itself is a cause for concern.

We with our recycling bins and our Bokashi buckets and our forced vegetarian diets and our carbon offsets and our concern, think we're doing something. But it's minor - so pitifully minor. The real changes needed are things people are too frightened to do.

Meanwhile the rain pours every day.

Anonymity

The Internet does a good job of creating an illusion of anonymity. I say illusion, because while on the face of things it would seem impossible for anyone to connect what you do on the Internet to the real you, there is a connection, a very real connection, made of fibre-optic cable, sillicon chips and electrical impulses, which anyone with the knowledge can trace to the person tapping the keyboard. It doesn't help that, with an illusion of assured facelessness, people tend to be more careless with information they leave on the Web. It takes just a little carelessness spread out across various sites, and all one has to do is bring all these indiscretions together to build a picture, of the real person, their friends, and satellite photographs of their home. It's almost terrifying, when the supposed anonymity proves to be a sham.

Then again, perhaps all of us, deep down, want to be discovered. After all, there is a way to remain truly unknown, and that is to refrain from all connections. By taking pot-shots into the darkness of the Web, perhaps the intention is that, someday, someone will reach back and say, "Found you."

Until then, there is a thrill, in having a little secret which no-one knows about but which anyone could reveal with little effort, like some sort of superhero from a book.

Except this is real life, and you don't get a retcon, and the main character always dies in the end.

This Is Average

My room window faces a hill. On the plus side, it blocks out the brunt of the hot Australian summer. On the minus side, I occasionally have to use electrical lighting even in the daytime.

I can't stand Cadbury Creme Eggs. Why anyone would want to imitate raw egg using a sugary product is beyond me. Eggs are delicious as they are.

Why would anyone travel several kilometres for a pizza restaurant? This had better be some good pizza.

This morning I was talking to my supervisor in his office, when a downy gray feather slowly descended from the ceiling to the floor. I accused him of being a pigeon smuggler, a magician or possibly a werebird, which he vehemently and laughingly denied. I pretended to suspect nothing, but I knew something was amiss. Further evidence came in the form of a small black feather on the staircase, even though, once more, there were no more birds to be seen in the area, and indeed no means by which any avians might access the building. More on this issue as I investigate.

Calling is different from emailing. This I have discovered. Cone falls, on the other hand, are something else entirely.

This entire post was the product of boredom.

Pack Up, Shut Up, Go

Here it is, once again.

To cram everything into a 40 x 60 x 100 cm space. To pack away life, home, everything familiar into an unfamiliar feeling and lock it all away. To split myself into two once again and live two lives across a piece of ocean.

I used to want a life of adventure. But now I realise that the more you travel, the more places you place your mark, and the more places call back to you. It just gets easier to ignore the voices the more you do it.

I just want one place which I can truly, definitively call home. But that will have to wait for a few years.

Just a little longer now. Wait for me.