October 2004 Archives

When things tend to go wrong for myself and those I love, I feel so hopeless. Next year is such a frightening prospect; four years down the line I've still stuck to the plan, so much so that staying in SA isn't even an option anymore.

To be totally fucking honest, too, I hate driving. I wanted to love it, really I did. And I do enjoy cruising around Grahamstown because it's so quiet and I know it, and I have officially NAILED the reverse parallels outside the department. But selling (I'm trying not to phrase it 'getting rid of') Sparky when I go home isn't sounding too bad. I'm going to have to rely on lifts from my mom and dad once again, and I'm sure Charlie won't mind lifting me to go out in his new Corsa - lord, I hope he hasn't had another accident while I've been away - but my dad was right: you become dependant on the car. It's a beautiful day outside today, and Sparky sits in all her faded redness waiting to take me home after what amounts to my last official tut EVER. I could've walked. I didn't.

I think I complain too much - it's a character flaw. Maybe with the lack of blogging I'm not getting it out as much as before and the people I live with now suffer! Either way, it's something I want to change.

For someone who isn't going to vote, why am I so invested in Kerry beating Bush? I guess it impacts me somewhere along the line.

Heard this the other day: the height of stupidity would be really believing you're related to Joshua Doore.

When I give you a lift in my car, I don't ask for much. I don't care that you don't look me in the eye, or even seem pleased when I see you walking and offer to take you where you need to go. I don't ask that you take a tone lighter than cement when you ask me to go off my intended route to the place you intended to go. I even don't mind that much (though this is pushing it) if you don't say thank you as you get out the car.

But dude, you'd BETTER fucking WIND UP THE WINDOW and LOCK YOUR DOOR or I will follow you inside and clip you one.

Handwriting is interesting stuff - I think that at least part of the reason for the existence of so many handwriting typefaces is that we are all (to some degree) invested in how our own handwriting looks.

My mother has quite indecipherable writing; I love to read it though. It suits her: curly, sweet, fluid, consistent. I often wonder what my own writing says about me.

If it wasn't for typing, or having a set view of how an 'A' or an 'S' looks, I think that, like accent and meaning of words, the shapes of our letters and ways of reading and writing would have changed dramatically over time, instead of remaining in the constant it has. Sure, we all need the same frame of reference to make this whole 'understanding each other' baloney work, but hey - I think it would have made things a hell of a lot more interesting.

A girl in my class mentioned that she's doing some research on how, especially with regard to typography, designers and consumers seem to be moving away from the whole DTP, computer generated feel, and going for a rougher, scrappier look.

This made me smile today.

And this.

After an extreme lack of blogging, here comes the second post in a day... okay, it's been a while since I did this.

Awards evening was a total and utter blast. What a Friday - filled with dancing to fantastic music... or rather, marvelling at Jenni's amazing dancing style - she has such confidence, it makes it so much fun to dance with her to 80s inspired shit and Armand van Helden.
Saturday was swelteringly hot, just gorgeous, so I grabbed my bikini, a tennis ball and a German girl and we hit the pool with lunch in between; playing catch and dodging the waterpolo guys, talking to people we never sosch with and regretting being so cliquey this year. Then home, a movie, and an extremely competitive game of Pictionary, wherein the most reserved guy I know drew a very descriptive picture of a stick girl having her period. Sunday was work-catch-up day; we finished the Truro raffle and played ping pong.

I was going to include a brief list of what's left to do, but have deleted it; too depressing.

Tony Pierce is now required daily reading. Thank you.

Until my final portfolio is due. One month. The scariness of this timeframe isn't really hitting home right now. But that could be due to other factors.

I can't really talk about what happened last night, but suffice it to say, I have lost all faith on men. I'm not directly involved in what happened, and it could have been far worse - I just feel hopeless at the thought that a man can entertain the delusion that he can infringe upon a woman's life in whichever way he wants.

I know I'm being vague here, but bear with me... we all know what quick and irresponsible reporting can do.

In the meantime, I ask of you - please, provide me with some news/information to help me remember that there are good men out there? I need it right now.

Bob sent me this link - I think it's a nice attempt (interesting to see one of my ex-classmates on there), but in the context of The Onion it seems a bit tryhard. Still, worth a read, and the Isidingo story had me laughing.

Res awards this Friday, and photos will be taken.

So Thursday was another PE day, this time sans accident. We went to Sappi (dirty, some dodgy paper guys eyeing us out, got free paper) and Cadar (saw R13 million printer, wondered if it ever had a paper jam in its life) and had choc-vanilla twirl soft serve in the rain. It was a good day, mostly because I got to sosch with the members of my class who aren't in the New Media intensive; we all talked about the violent fights we had with our siblings as children, and all dissed the same girl in another class who was heard dissing a Design girl. We're toit.

The money for the UK thing is turning out to cost a hell of a lot more than I expected, in interest and in patience. After lengthy discussions, I came to an agreement with my father about the way this shit would go down; I come back to Grahamstown and he changes his mind - he doesn't want me to sell Sparky.
I cannot understand the logic of this - he's the one who taught me to not get into debt, to have cash before you spend it. While I'll miss Sparky, and there are these AWESOME internships in Cape Town I've passed up for future lack of car, I have a plan. All he had to do was stick to it.
Anyway, I'll win. This is my step out, my choice.

Peace out.

After doing work on my latest New Media update I have had to resolve myself to the fact that I'm not going to make the 8 o' clock movie. Well, let me blog instead.

New Media has been usurping my blogging time, and I apologise. I've missed writing.

On Saturday my classmates (well, most of them) and I went to PE on a 'paper-buying' attempt. We hopped in the car, gorgeous sunny day, and came upon a road block as the officials were attending to the most horrific accident I've ever seen.

The dead body on the side of the road before Colchester, the dead motorcyclist on the side of the road in Joburg with Vern, the two dead bodies on the side of the road on Saturday - all horrific, but not the worst, for one simple reason: the blue cloth covering their bodies and the bridge of cloth that rests on air between where it touches the peak of the nose and comes to rest on the unmoving chest, which lands on my eyes and tells them the body is completely underneath a clinical piece of blue.
The most horrific was the third body. I glanced for 2 seconds, knowing that more accidents occur at the scene of an old accident than anywhere else. I looked in the 'right' place. The car was still on its roof in what used to be my lane as I drove on the right. They were cutting away metal as they tried to free his body, but I knew he was dead. The slow pace at which they were cutting; the men standing back with their hands on their hips; and the brain matter that lay where his head had dragged on what used to be the top of his car (my memory tells me that there was an impossible amount of this, it was everywhere, everywhere); these told me he was dead.
The rest of the trip was long; I didn't want to be driving anymore. The girl in my class in another car who thought she was ahead of us sms'd us too late not to look at the scene. I could feel everyone else in the car tense up and wonder if I was a good driver. I really didn't want to be driving anymore. We were quiet and I switched the radio on and slowed my speed to 110 even though we were on an empty open road.
I really really didn't want to be driving anymore, but I kept it so so quiet.
PE was good, hot, sunny, ice cream day. But we all felt sad and tired and hopeless for the three people who rounded the corner at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. I don't know how many of the deceased were in the red Golf that might likely have been slowing down as it approached the corner, driving so legally and so well and living their lives out like good people, eagerly awaiting their morning trip to PE, when they came upon the white Merc going way, way too fast.
We didn't get the paper, the shop didn't have what I wanted.

It is pretty shit to be reminded of your mortality on a hot Saturday morning, when you wish you could go back to just feeling happy to have a break.
I hate the thought that I'll be under one of those blue blankets one day, whether it be through my poor judgement of speed or by no fault of my own.

Few things are more frustrating than standing over someone's shoulder as they double-click on single-clickable buttons.