"Presume that everyone is a douchebag unless they prove otherwise,"

said a barrister to me, yesterday. I like her. She scares me a lot, because I feel like she has this fine-tuned BS-ometer and she can just see through everyone, and what she will see in me, I don't  know, but all fears aside, I like her. 

I should  be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.

But it's okay. I can deal.

I  have a cute story. 

The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do. 

"Are you okay?" wifey called out.

"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.

When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor. 

It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.

D'awww ♥

I have another one.

One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.

Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was  - you know how they do that -  and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."

LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing. 

I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids. 

I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.

Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us. 

We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.

But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.

 I should get my driver's licence.

I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.

I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.

I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?

Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.

Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.

Peace in,
Laila

People and their sides of wonder

I finished reading Stasiland, and I realised - or re-realised - just how much I love stories. 

I mean, you know this. You know this because you absolutely must know by now how much I love reading. I am always reading. I always have a book on my bedside table, or in my bag - I'm always in the middle of some book or another. The more stressful or busy life gets, the more I need a book. I may read in smaller increments, but I solemnly swear - I am always reading. The gap between me finishing one book and starting another is v-e-r-y narrow.

So this realisation, you may think it's a bit... well, glaringly obvious, le duh. 

But this is different. Nothing's changed, I've just evolved a little - a little in understanding about myself. Sort of.

I usually gravitate towards the fictional. I love make believe. I love it in something as outrageous as fantasy, the occasional drip in sci-fi, but I also love it in the slightly more believable, still romanticised, high school or family dramas. Even closer to reality, give me a bit of historical fiction. Or just shock me with something terrifying, something disturbing, something mysterious. I'll take it all.

There are only two things that bother me with fiction. One is, well, it's fiction. It's not real. The other, while closely related, is still a little distinct: it's not real, and it'll never be mine. No pirates or witches, no struggle through war or some other colossal disaster, no tragic romance or numbered days with impending doom - I know it's sort of terrible to wish these things, but I can't help it. When I've read it in a book, it's always romantic. It's an experience, woven together in such pretty words that I can't help wish they were describing me.

And that's just fiction.

So you can imagine how I feel when I read someone's epic story, and it's real. Like Stasiland. Oh how my heart broke for Miriam, who went and asked them every day how Charlie could have hung himself in those sparse cells she'd experienced herself, and they gave her different answers every time. And Frau Paul, who sacrificed seeing her baby boy to save a guy she barely knew in the West. She so was so brave and so selfless, and you wish that she was just that bit selfish enough to take the bait, because it's her courage and selflessness that makes her deserving of the right to see her kid.

People are so extraordinary.

This is what I've realised. I know it doesn't sound like much, it's just... It's just one of those things, those ideas or thoughts that are blasé, you just take them for granted, and then, one day, bam: it hits you. It touches your soul.

Look at that. That's Hitler with a little girl. Hitler. Do I need to iterate what this guy is responsible for? And yet, when Star showed me this, it came with a little tumblr discussion that pointed out that yes, he did many horrible things (I don't have words), but we cannot just simplify him as this creature of super-evil in order to comprehend what he did. The fact is, despite all that he did, Hitler was still a man, and there must have been a great many other things going on in that little head of his, not all of them psychotic, that we will never know.

Stalin, man. Putting aside the bigger picture of his endless cruelty, this is a guy who said "He can't even shoot straight" when his son tried to kill himself.   But when his wife died, according to Wiki (and a certain historian), he is quoted as saying: "This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity." He threw himself in her open grave at her funeral, and had to be dragged out. His gun was taken away from him because his comrades were worried about the extent of his grief.

(I mean, let's be real, grieving or not, I would never think a gun was safe in Stalin's hands.)

The point is, would you ever associate this tragic lover with the heartless dictator?

I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy for the nastier figures of history. I'm just astounded.

Isn't it just so amazing how absolutely complex people are? These gallimaufries of stupidity, courage, malice, selflessness, imagination, ridiculousness, contradiction, empathy... I mean, it goes on and on and on and we could never, ever get to the bottom of it.

And it is the stories of people that I am in love with.

And I think this is why I've found my niche in paramedics/nursing. It may sound unrelated, but really, this course has given me the best platform to discover people. Really, since I started, I've wondered why I chose the course. Yes, I like the idea of paramedics and nursing - helping people, taking care of them, etc - but there are other ways to do this, right? I mean, all careers end up doing this in some way or another ('cept politicians?). We all contribute to society, so we will all inadvertently helping each other.

Aside from that, I've never been interested in medicine or health. I've never been fascinated by biology, or anatomy and physiology. I've always been iffy about needles and blood and all that.

And I've always been a humanities kid. I love my reading (did I mention that?), my writing, my history, studying issues and discussing ideas. One does go into my course looking for this stuff.

But over the past year and a bit, within uni but mainly through a series of placements, I have made the acquaintance of so many different people, and... it fills me up. It opens my mind, it changes me, it moves me, it gives me new perspectives - I can't explain it. I just love the experience.

It's not that I only pick up amazing people in the ambulance, or that only quirky people come into hospital. These people are everyday people. Sometimes it's their medical story - the dog bite, the spider bite, the rare genetic condition - the one with the unlucky lottery of a jumble of rare conditions, for that matter. The guy with the apple piece up his butt (best ice-breaker ever).

Sometimes it's their personal stories.

There was the relatively elderly gentleman who spoke to me about his experience of moving from England to Australia, how he and his family may not have explored much in the former, but were prone to just packing, selling, upping and travelling around the latter in a caravan, settling in whatever state or territory took their fancy, every now and again. How  just once, he and his wife wanted to do it by themselves, so when all the kids left the nest, they did. How soon after they completed the dream, they found out she had lung cancer - though she'd never smoked in her life - and suddenly she was gone. It had been a few years, but he still had tears in his eyes as he told me, lying in bed in the recovery room.

There were a few travellers - the guy from Germany, another who travelled constantly on business... Contrary to what I thought, that you'd be left in a perpetual state of longing to take flight again, he said that no matter how wonderful it was to see the world, he never stopped wishing that he could just settle down, for a bit, and just be with his family.

And sometimes it's just who they, in general. The 42-year-old woman who ended up in the same room as another 42-year-old woman and they ended up becoming soul sisters. When one was discharged before the other, they literally wept because of the separation. In the following days, the one that was discharged would call daily to catch up - she actually wished she was back in hospital to be with the other. The one that stayed, she was my patient, and I adored her. She was in because one of her implants, following a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, became infected with cellulitis. But despite over 15 days in hospital, and many more to come; despite the constant IV medications, the drain tubes, the pain, the loneliness, the discomfort, she was such a bright spark. We talked about her daughters, my sisters, her conditions, my understanding, and just anything, and I've decided I want to be like her when I'm 42. (Divorced, 2 kids, happy). (Probably not a healthy ambition). (Whatever).

I remember my clinical educator, at my second aged-care placement last year, telling us about how when she went up to the Northern Territory for missionary work, there were these Indigenous people who, even though they'd be given housing, preferred to sleep outside at night. Just like that. In the bush. How beautiful is that? I don't think it'd be as breathtaking and liberating in the middle of suburbia, but up there, where it's remote, with the starry night sky as your blanket... They'd occasionally have an issue with people being run over, but I prefer to look at the side of wonder.

There is so much to say about people. Everyone seems amazing one way or another. They always seem to have something to share. This quote, from Death in The Book Thief: I am haunted by humans.

I imagine that when people see that as my status/whatever it's called on WhatsApp, they probably roll their eyes and see it as a wannabe attempt at depth. It's just that those words really hit home for me. When I hear peoples' stories, they stick, in my head, and I ruminate over them, I ponder them, I picture them playing out before me. I collect them.

And I know this is cliché, and I know you probably saw this coming, but I wonder: what is my story?

I feel like all I have to relate belongs to someone else. I feel like I'm always the prop in a production starring someone else, like a rock. Or a tree. It's not really that I want centre stage. I don't really do well in the spotlight. But what I would like is a story worth sharing, something I own even if no one hears it in the end. It's like... It's like life is this gift, this... Notebook. (God, how often I've been given stationary, and I love it, but I never know what to put in it). And you have to write something worthwhile in that notebook, make the words count on the page, even if no one ever reads it. 

So I want mine to be a good one. I know what I want. I have these dreams, these ideas. The problem with this metaphor - that you are the star of your own show - is that you don't get to write everyone's lines, things don't happen in accordance with the script you devised. I don't know how this is going to unfold. I don't know what the point of this post is. I just had some thoughts I wanted to get out. 

Peace in,
Laila

These Are My Favourite Things #4

So what happened between then and now is life. It goes on, as it normally does. And things get better. They put themselves back together. It all works out.

Oui, you were right Ghadeer, as was Arvie... as was everyone. I knew it then, I know it now. It's just that at the time, you're just so overwhelmed, it's not so much the worrying about whether things get better, it's more about the when will they get better, because you can't see the light at the end. Yet.

I got there.

So it's okay.

And now I'm 20. 

How completely and utterly bizarre is that? I'm the big two-oh. I'm two decades old. It's not that I feel different or anything. It's just that the idea of it is so... strange. I feel like things should be different. But I feel like I'm no different than I was at the end of high school.

I mean, I certainly know more things, I've experienced more things, I can do more things. But as a person, I don't think I've evolved much. Or I can't see it.

Anyhow, I actually haven't much to write about. I feel like my life has become a pleasant series of minute moments, only worth reiterating for a short period of time, before they become irrelevant. I say 'pleasant series' rather than 'pleasant moments', because in all due honesty, there are still the normal stressors of assignment/exam pressure, family dramas, and everyday hiccups, but that's to be expected. And  it's okay, I like it like that.

But I like keeping this blog alive, so I thought I'd do another one of these things, just because. It's kind of therapeutic, too.

Firstly, I've been re-reading Harry Potter, because, as a self-professed fan (and having been labelled as one too), I actually haven't re-read it too many times. Watched the movies a dozen times over, but not sure about reading the series. It's embarrassing. I'm not going to bother recommending it, because, well, come on. If you read books, you must have already been recommended this series jizbillion times, and I can't see why my recommendation would be the one to finally compel you. But. I wanted to show y'all this...

Okay, okay, I’m going to tell you what Hermione sees in Ron.

A trio is a balancing act, right? They’re equalizers of each other. Harry’s like the action, Hermione’s the brains, Ron’s the heart. Hermione has been assassinated in these movies, and I mean that genuinely—by giving her every single positive character trait that Ron has, they have assassinated her character in the movies. She’s been harmed by being made to be less human, because everything good Ron has, she’s been given.

So, for instance: “If you want to kill Harry, you’re going to have to kill me too”—RON, leg is broken, he’s in pain, gets up and stands in front of Harry and says this. Who gets that line in the movie? Hermione.

“Fear of a name increases the fear of the thing itself.” Hermione doesn’t say Voldemort’s name until well into the books—that’s Dumbledore’s line. When does Hermione say it in the movies? Beginning of Movie 2.

When the Devil’s Snare is curling itself around everybody, Hermione panics, and Ron is the one who keeps his head and says “Are you a witch or not?” In the movie, everybody else panics and Hermione keeps her head and does the biggest, brightest flare of sunlight spell there ever was.

So, Hermione—all her flaws were shaved away in the films. And that sounds like you’re making a kick-ass, amazing character, and what you’re doing is dehumanizing her. And it pisses me off. It really does.

In the books, they balance each other out, because where Hermione gets frazzled and maybe her rationality overtakes some of her instinct, Ron has that to back it up; Ron has a kind of emotional grounding that can keep Hermione’s hyper-rationalness in check. Sometimes Hermione’s super-logical nature grates Harry and bothers him, and isn’t the thing he needs even if it’s the right thing, like when she says “You have a saving people thing.” That is the thing that Harry needed to hear, she’s a hundred percent right, but the way she does it is wrong. That’s the classic “she’s super logical, she’s super brilliant, but she doesn’t know how to handle people emotionally,” at least Harry.

So in the books they are this balanced group, and in the movies, in the movies—hell, not even Harry is good enough for Hermione in the movies. No one’s good enough for Hermione in the movies—God isn’t good enough for Hermione in the movies! Hermione is everybody’s everything in the movies.

Harry’s idea to jump on the dragon in the books, who gets it in the movies? Hermione, who hates to fly. Hermione, who overcomes her withering fear of flying to take over Harry’s big idea to get out of the—like, why does Hermione get all these moments?

[John: Because we need to market the movie to girls.]

I think girls like the books, period. And like the Hermione in the books, and like the Hermione in the books just fine before Hollywood made her idealized and perfect. And if they would have trusted that, they would have been just fine.

Would the movies have been bad if she was as awesome as she was in the books, and as human as she was in the books? Would the movies get worse?

She IS a strong girl character. This is the thing that pisses me off. They are equating “strong” with superhuman. To me, the Hermione in the book is twelve times stronger than the completely unreachable ideal of Hermione in the movies. Give me the Hermione in the book who’s human and has flaws any single day of the week.

Here’s a classic example: When Snape in the first book yells at Hermione for being an insufferable know-it-all, do you want to know what Ron says in the book? “Well, you’re asking the questions, and she has to answer. Why ask if you don’t want to be told?” What does he say in the movie? “He’s got a point, you know.” Ron? Would never do that. Would NEVER do that, even before he liked Hermione. Ron would never do that.

 - Melissa Anelli THROWS IT DOWN about the way Ron and Hermione have been adapted in the movies on the latest episode of PotterCast. Listen here. This glorious rant starts at about 49:00. 

I saw this on CricketFreak's tumblr (I do not thank you for the distraction, but then I sort of do), and I decided it was gold. I'm not usually one to fangirl about relationships, but I've always loved how they panned out in Harry Potter, so it irks me a lot when people criticise them. Ginny is an awesome gal, and she and Harry make such a great team, as do Ron and Hermione (*squee*). But what I really love about that little rant is that it just revealed to me how important details are. I have always loved the movies for Harry Potter, no matter that they can't do the books justice, and I've always thought the cast was perfect. But I never realised how the little shifts to do with the character really impacted the bigger picture - how utterly perfect it was in the books, and how damaged it became in the movies. Poor Ron, mostly. I think I filled in the gaps when I watched the movies, but now I see that he was robbed of his noble traits to be made comedic relief, almost. What a tragedy. I still love the movies, but you know, I really appreciate the finer details of the books now. 

Okay, that was just food for thought. The real food that I recommend is sugar, of course. I don't think I've ever done this before, but I really ought to, because honestly, I love sweets, and baking to sublimate my rage has always worked for me. So now I'm going to link you to a website that I tend to covet, because it is my all time favourite dessert/sweet blog, and it is utterly divine.   

Behold: Pretty. Simple. Sweet. 

I'm telling you, this is gold. I've made a dozen recipes from here, and they have all worked out superdy well. 'Superdy well' is an understatement. I don't have words. And I love Shiran, the lady that runs this blog, I really do. This will sound creepy, but she makes my dreams come true. And she's such a sweetheart (haha, see what I did there?). Anyway. My favourites thus far are her Cinnamon Streusel Coffee Cake, Cheesecake Brownies, & Classic Peanut Butter Cookies. You do not know how hard it was for me to narrow it down to just those. Trust me. Everything is worth trying. I've made it my lifelong goal to make everything on her blog. Until then, I spend an inordinate amount of time perusing her recipes and salivating. So there you go. My secret. Take a look. She has pretty photos too :) 

What else can I recommend? Music. I have two new obsessions.  

Firstly: The Script. Most people know them, right? 'Breakeven' and 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved' were pretty big. And 'Hall of Fame'. Well, Panda gave me two of their albums, and I just found a dozen more songs that I absolutely adore. Give the Love Around, No Words, Superheroes, Never Seen Anything (Quite Like You), The Energy Never Dies, to name a few, and ...

 

(I mean, the video isn't particularly spectacular, besides the fact that he is actually on that wire so very high up... but it's the song. This song  :') ) 

Secondly: Ella Henderson. Have you heard of her? I first heard her song 'Ghost' when I was placement last year, one of my paramedic mentors kept playing it, and I did quite like it. But then Panda reintroduced me to her, and gosh, she is something else.  She's become our cruise-y singer, because she just has all these wonderful songs that you really just have to blast out and sing along to. My recommendations: Mirror Man, Glow, Give Your Heart Away, Pieces, The First Time, and...

Come on, ain't that the perfect feel good song? ^_^ 

Anyhow, I don't have anything else to recommend, except maybe getting yourself a cat, and reading. Every day. It's good therapy. 

That is all. 

Peace in, 

Laila

These Are My Favourite Things #3

When my little sisters and I form a reading club, splayed across my room, or the rumpus, heads stuck in books under the golden hues of the lamp.

The sky, because: People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. 

Being stuck in traffic with Panda. Singing like crazy to whatever song she has playing - songs I wouldn't listen to on my own, just with songs. Me singing badly, her trying to sing badly, but really, she always sounds lovely. The way she squeals when there are trucks in the vicinity, and contemplates whether or not to give someone room to overtake.

Baking. Sugar.

My older sister and I sharing clothes. We're sort of comfortable now. She has the best taste in the universe. No, I will never wear makeup like she does. Yes, I am a little bit skeptical about some of her clothes. But I know they always look good on her, and while I won't wear everything of hers, or look nearly as good, there's still something in it for me.

My Kiki, and her patience.That cat. She tolerates so much.

The way my dad gets so excited when he buys us something. Something as simple as mangoes has him calling us from our rooms, and regardless of whether we like it or not, or we're hungry or not, you have to indulge him, for the enthusiasm alone.

The way Star and I just fit. No matter that we're in completely different courses and we don't see each other nearly as much - we still have an appreciation for similar things, and our minds are still on the same wavelengths. It's real friendship, solid, unbreakable.

Public transport. Buses and trains, to university, to placement, to the city, to meet friends. Everyflippingwhere. With or without music, with or without company. Long or short. Even the wait. I love it all.

Hugging my mum. The way she always exhibits annoyance - flicking me away, squirming, making grumpy noises. It's adorable.

Castro, my whale. Yes, named after good ol' Fidel. Previously known as Whaley, before Jazz gave him to me. What kind of name is that? You may as well call me Girly. Anywho, he's a great reading buddy.

Sri Lanka. I know that within the family, people don't take that seriously from me. To them, my love for the country isn't as important as theirs, because I wasn't born there, and I don't do Skype. I can't explain it to them. I won't. But I love that country, so very deep down, it aches. I miss my family, I miss the green.

Walking. Bike riding. Just moving, especially outside. Hard work. Anything that gets my muscles straining after a while, and just that awesome feeling you get after you tire yourself out. 

Books. It seems like they're one of the few constants in my life. Of course there are intervals where I may not be reading one. Of course there are times where I'm struggling to find the time. But I always come back to them. Cliche, yes, but they offer escape, and adventures I can never have. I guess our relationship is a little bit bittersweet.

Peace in,
Laila

potentially anywhere-but-here

I'm nostalgic about things I've never experienced. Is that even possible?

I miss times I didn't exist in, and places I've never been to.

I know that it sounds like I just want to be anywhere but here, but it's not a want. Really. It feels like I've been there and then, and I want to go back. I mean it.

For example, France. I've never really harboured any desire to go there - I guess it's just so mainstream. Despite studying the language throughout high school, it was never really a passion. You guys, if you've been here a while, know how I feel about that class. But listening to Zaz has made me long to be there. Not just France in the here and now, but France... France in that time. Right after the end of WWII. Which I think was only building on the feeling Rose Under Fire left me with.

But more than France, South Africa calls me. You know one of my favourite books. Well, I read it again. And I want to go there again. Apartheid Africa. That's sort of sick, isn't it? But I long to be there, again, just to experience it, support the people who need it. I'd go to Africa now, of course, but I miss another time.

I also want to specifically go back to their childhood - Sarah and Emily's childhood. I miss childhoods. I miss mine, but also, the kind of childhood you see in old movies, you know, My Girl and Now and Then. The kinds that seem to be stuck in a perpetual summer, where the neighbourhood kids roam the vicinity, explore the woods or some kind of wild that always seems to be in the background. It's a small world, but a big one too. They grow up dramatically, but in a kind of innocent way. Not a phone or computer in sight. Even To Kill A Mockingbird has that feel.

I miss it. I don't just want it - I want to go back. It sounds the same, but it's not. But it is. But it isn't,

And I miss a certain kind of weather too. A summer tropical storm. There were just a few words in The Lovely Bones about it. Just one fleeting part, and I think I've experienced it, it's really vivid in my head. And I want it again.

Does this make sense?

Maybe it is a kind of 'anywhere-but-here' syndrome. But life doesn't feel so bad at the moment. I'm floating on top of it. Sometimes, I guess, I feel like I'm  not quite here. But not in a bad way. Just... I don't know. Do you sort of maybe get it?

Peace in,
Laila

Thus far

So I have an exam in two days - my last - and I decided to write up a blog post.

Priorities.

Did I ever comment on your blog with a whiny little plea for you to blog more often, because, you know, I totally understood that you had a life, but I really did miss you and would it really be too hard for you to write a blog every now and again to lettuce know you're alive?

...

I lied. I never understood. Now I understand.

I tried to write a post much before - I really did want to keep you guys updated. This is what it was:

There aren't enough hours in a day.

This post, right here? It's going to be written in the gaps. In little moments that I can steal. Because this is what university life is coming down to. Fleeting conversations with would-be friends between huge chunks of lectures. Hurrying to catch the bus, hurrying to get home. On the bus, trying to fit as many songs in as I can, make that always short period of respite last forever. Those bus rides - the only moments where there isn't something I have to do, pay attention to, or go somewhere, the only place I can just be. And there are assignments that seem so far in the distant, and suddenly they loom up before you. Devoting hours to taking notes on one unit, to pass a weekly quiz that takes 15min. Brief meetings with old friends on a uni campus I don't even attend, only to discuss when we can we can next catch up for a proper conversation. Will it ever happen? I want it to happen. I don't know if they do. But I think we both have to accept that the chances are slimming down, rapidly.

Why do I always come across as depressed?

I am not depressed. I am tired. So tired, always.

How depressing, non?

And it ahbviously failed, because I absolutely could not find the time to write up all the little moments I wanted to. It's been a long, hard road, guys, but I'm happy to say I love where it took me.

So. UNIVERSITY.

I really donno how to condense this, and even though I am going to condense this, it's still not going to be so condensed. Oh well.

Let's start with the course. In summary, I FREAKING LOVE IT. SO. SO. SO. MUCH.

Paramedics and Nursing. One of the best decisions I've ever made.

So this semester, I had to do four units. One was Anatomy and Physiology, which is kinda the overlap between Paramedics and Nursing. You can imagine the grief this unit caused me; I've always been an Arts/Humanities girl - science is not my thing. The funny thing is, I think the coordinators of the unit knew what a pain their unit was, so even though it was still my hardest unit, it was the easiest to study for, and the assignment was really straightforward too - they made everything so clear cut and everything, and therefore, ironically, I ended up liking the unit.

I also had two nursing units. I call one Real Nursing, and the other one Boring Nursing, because it was stupid. Boring Nursing is something to do with 'scholarly communication', and I can see how it might have been relevant in second or third year, but as a first year, I think it was stupid to teach us about research and all that jazz when none of us knew anything anyway. The only good thing, really, was Boring Nursing had no exam, just three assignments. I had one of my First Bad Experiences with this stupid unit, and for the sake of important university memories, I'm gonna write it out for you, but I'm so over it. But feel free to call me out if I'm being bratty ^_^

Bad Experience Uno

So for this first assignment, it was only an online submission. As a typically studious, terrified first year student, I put in my all to get the assignment done on time, and went over it pedantically only a billion and one times. I have this thing where I can't submit an assignment or leave an exam early, because I would just die if I realised a second after that there was something I did wrong/could have done better. It's one thing where you had no time to fix something, but when you have plenty and you can't fix it... agajhdgkaj, you know?

So it was due on a Friday at 2pm. I uploaded my assignment on Thursday night after much fretting, and then phew, sweet relief.

Five days later, at the Boring Nursing lecture, our lecturer told us that she was concerned because about 100 of 300 students had yet to submit their assignment.

"Can you all just make sure you pressed the submit button, instead of just uploading?"

You can imagine the mini-freakout. So in that lecture, I submitted the assignment, but I wasn't really anxious, because a) the lecturer/unit coordinator didn't sound too fussed, and b) I think I just assumed if 100 students made the same mistake, they wouldn't penalize us.

But y'all know this is a Bad Experience, and hence you know there ain't no happy ending. When I got my assignment, I was initially elated to see that I had received a High Distinction. And then, right next to that, it said my mark had been halved because it was 5 days late.

And by halving my mark, it had essentially become a fail.

Like a backhanded compliment.

I didn't really break down immediately; I was just stunned, I guess. As I was with a whole bunch of friends at the time, they were all really calm and insisted that it was no big deal.

"Email her [the lecturer/unit coordinator]," every single person in the universe said. "You're just a first year, heaps of people made the same mistake, and it was just a genuine silly little mistake, she'll change it." I don't mean just other students; the people at the nursing office said it too. So I emailed her. And she basically said no.

Cue the water works. It wasn't so much the fact that she refused. It was the way her email implied I was slack. I've never been that student, so it burned. That, and the fact it was a fail. I rarely (if ever) fail. I don't always do well, but a fail?!

Moral: Uni staff have no mercy. When fretting over assignment, fret until you're 6000% sure you've submitted it.

As for Real Nursing, I love it because it's the practical side, and it was also about all those fluffy ideals I think of when I think of nurses. Love the lecturers, love the tutors. They're such stereotypes, it's adorable.

And then there's Paramedics.

Gosh. Okay. So how do I explain this?

For all my lectures, tutorials and labs, all the staff have a standard way of introducing themselves: name, qualifications, years of experience, yada yada yada. Nothing spectacular.

Jaime - the paramedics lecturer/unit coordinator - started our first lecture by pulling up a photo of a baby girl on the powerpoint.

"This is Indie," she said. "She's my world."

She went on to say all this random stuff about her, you know, like she doesn't like wearing shoes, and she loves photography, and she's a family person...

Love at first sight, people.

She's just so AWESOME. Everyone loves her. I'm not even exaggerating. For First Years, the university has this program where they have senior students call you up at certain intervals to see how you're doing. A few weeks in, this guy calls me up and asks me how things are, and I was telling him how much I love my lecturer, and he's like: "Is this Jaime?"

And I'm like why yes, who else?!

In this one lecture, she wanted us to do this quick group activity, and she told us to write our answers on a paper, make a plane, and fly it down to her. It was a fail, but still. In this other lecture, she wanted us to do a survey (andnevermindeveryonewouldclimbmountainsforher) and she felt she had to bribe us, so she brought in this massive container of chocolates, and literally strolled around the theatre throwing them at us. Mind you, that's a couple of hundred students. Just saying. Another day, she thought it was a beautiful day, so she made us all go outside to practise practical stuff. Also, she refuses to record lectures, because she says she loves us so much and she wants to be able to see our faces every week, even if she has to force us to get there.

I love her so much. I want to be just like her. She's such a hippy... such a pocketful of sunshine. I'm just a little obsessed with her. We all are.

And that's just her. The Paramedic aspect in itself is just...everythingIthoughtitwouldbeandmore. The practicals, the jumpsuit, the placements - I've had four so far - it's just... amazing.

I'm gonna end this on a picture of the promised jumpsuit photo, and my precious kitties who have, alas, since left the nest... but I've still much to add, so To Be Continued...

ROUND #1:

Kiko

Doughnut

Socks

Princess Fluffy

Salem

ROUND #2:

Fred & George

Odette

Sylvie

Rafaella

Peace in,
Laila

When one asks for a life...

... One ends up the emergency ward of a hospital, amongst lots of other things.

So I started having the semblance of a life, since my last post. I have a casual job - Star's aunty hired us to be office hands every now and again - and I've got two clients to tutor. I went to a couple of friends' houses. On the Friday - I think it was last Friday, I finally got to get together with Lindy-lou. We've been trying to hang out for ayyyges, but she's the polar opposite of me - she has this crazy life that's packed with... lifey stuff. So on the Friday, she had this one break, and BAM, we decided to chill.

We watched Lars and the Real Girl. I think it's a good movie, but we were in the mood to just take the mickey out of everything, so we couldn't take it seriously. Also, she has this adorable kitty who was just so distracting... and yeah. The movie became a background feature. Then we played games - this block tower-y one, Uno, and some brain teasers on her laptop. Her grandmother made us pizza, and I got to introduce her to the wonderful world of Fear of a Brown Planet. It was nice and relaxing and fun, but the whole time, my feet were just freezing. I had my good ol' purple tinged fingernail/toenail thing going on, and no matter how much I tried to tuck them away, I couldn't get the cold out of them. Also, Lindy just giving me cold Coke, and I drank it because I felt obligated to, and it was so hard to swallow... and I knew I was coming down with something.

When I walked home, I sat down, and it was just a downward spiral. My voice was all stuffy, my head was all hot, but the rest of me was freezing, and although I made it through one tutoring session, I missed out on class because I tried to go to sleep - I use 'tried', because it was just this awful haze of tossing and turning, freezing and sweating, and... gosh, it was terrible.

But I think it looked a lot worse, because when my mother was getting me to go to my own bed (I'd settled into hers), I had tears running down my face. I was not crying; it was more like the hay-fever kind of tears, uncontrollable, but not like you're actually sobbing and weeping. But I couldn't tell her it was okay, because, as I said, my voice was stuffy.

So I was forced to go to the doctor the next day, and he said it was tonsillitis. He didn't explain much, like how you get it or anything, he just prescribed some tablets that I was supposed to take for ten days. I thought 'cool', although I had a slight worry here:

A week ago, on the Wednesday, my Islamic teacher asked me if I'd do a speech for the Jewish Christian Muslim Association (JCMA) Women's Conference. I was figuring out the most polite way to decline, because honestly, speeches, though I can do them, if I have a choice, I prefer not to. Also, I need time, and a certain mood to build up some passion for the topic, you know? (The topic was how I (in a religious context) help 'repair the world'). But before I could say no, my charming older sister said YESOFCOURSESHE'LLDOIT, and my mother heard and insisted that there was no point asking me about such things, the key is just to order me to do it. (To be fair, she's right. But still.) So I was roped into doing this speech, and although I sent my teacher a rough draft, the day before the speech she still hadn't sent me the edited version, and I had some nasty tonsillitis.

So it had to get worse, right? At night (my teacher still hadn't sent me the speech), my ... illness... just exploded. I donno, I couldn't breathe, basically - like my nose was stuffed up, breathing through my mouth (i.e. tonsils) just killed, and so as I heaved and choked and those tears just kept pouring (I was not crying), my mother called my daddy and said I had to go to the emergency ward.

First time for everything.

Uhm... basically, it was a lot of waiting. Waiting at the receptionist, so she could fill out details and stuff. Waiting in the emergency ward for the nurse, and then for the doctor. The hours just ticked by. They asked me the same questions, I gave them the same answers, and honestly, between all the waiting, the can't-breathe sensation just died. I could've gone home, but the doctor said I should hang around for the night just in case. I wanted to be all grown up - and okay, I was a little embarrassed, too - so I told my dad he could just go home. It was really hard to sleep, because the hospital was just ... always alive, I guess. I mean, it makes sense. But the lights were on and people were constantly pacing and it felt like day time, and I don't really sleep during the day. This nurse was also constantly checking my blood pressure, and the cannula they had jabbed into my arm was irritating, and... and the lady in the bed next to me - I couldn't see her - but throughout the night, at various intervals, this nurse kept asking her to pee... "Scarlett, I need you to do a wee for me. Scarlett, hon, please get up and wee. Scarlett, you have to wee for me, in this cup. No - Scarlett, you have to wee, you can wee after I get you the drink then. Scarlett, WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Not the perfect soundtrack to fall asleep to.

Anyhow, at 6am, they jabbed some kind of medicine into me (after giving me a lemony icy pole), and kind of fast tracked the tonsillitis curing process, so that I was good to go after. I mean, my voice was still weird, and I think I had a cold still, but the tonsillitis was gone, for sure.

So about 9am, I get home. I had to tutor my other client at 10am. In between, I had to get ready to leave about 11am (though we ended up leaving at like 11:30am.) And I had about two or three chances to read my speech and try to learn what I could.

The conference... was full of old people. I expected more younger girls, so I had an informal kind of speech, with a lot of colloquialisms thrown in. But I think I was the youngest there... and it was awkward. Apparently I did okay (they kind of sold me as some kind of hero, like, oh my, did you know she was in hospital last night and she just got out this morning?), which is fun, I guess, but I hate it when they do it when you're around, you know? I don't do compliments really well, so it was just a whole lot of 'yeah, uhm, thanks'. 

Oh, we met out first Jewish person, this girl called Moriya, and she was so sweet and smiley and she had beautiful eyes. I know that's a bit random, and I feel like I just objectified Jews, but... seriously. I have never personally met Jews before the conference. It was kinda cool :)

So Sunday simmered down and ended well, and on Monday, I had my medical/fitness test. Lemme just say I killed it well and good. I was a little iffy because I didn't feel at the prime of my health, and I always have that typical worry that OMGI'mprobablyoverweightI'msooofat. I, uhm, don't share that with a lot of people, but when the scales come out, it's always at the back of my mind. But when I hopped on the scales, turns out I've actually lost weight since the last time I checked, and regardless, I was fine. Heck, the fitness dude, who was explaining to me when I have to go through this again when I officially start the job, as long as I maintain my 'slender figure', I'll be fine. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's an exaggeration, but I'll take it. I passed the medical stuff fine. The fitness stuff turned out to be okay too - a variety of different sit ups, and push ups, a stretch thing, and - the best part - cycling. Cycling. I do it every morning. 

Basically, for each task, you earn a point, and there are 24 points up for grabs, but 13 is all you need to pass. I got 22, and he said I was one of the highest (it was either I was one of the highest of all, or just between the girls, or officially the highest of the girls. I'm not entirely sure). So that was one off my checklist.

Then... Thursday. University orientation.

I screwed up pretty darn bad. See, I'm going to the Peninsula campus of Monash, but my sister and my cousin and basically everyone goes to the Clayton campus. Hence, when I was on the Orientation planner thing, my automatic inclination was to click 'Clayton', and hence, I ended up getting the wrong date for the general welcome. Thank God I didn't actually miss anything important, but it did mean that on Thursday, I spent a good two hours alone and cold at the Peninsula campus, pretty darn early in the morning (I had to get up at 5:50am). When I did get the one part I did right, it was only a half hour talk by one lady, and she was funny and fun and I like her and she got me all excited all over again. I mean, I still have screwed up some other stuff, which is just thumping on the back of my mind, but I won't write about that because I've come to the stage where I know that talking and whinging or even thinking about it isn't going to change anything -_-'

 I also kind of made a friend. Between all the tall, beautiful white people, I spotted an ethnic and introduced myself, and yep, she's from good ol' Dandenong, where I live. Perfect, right? ^_^ 

Then I took a bus back to Clayton, where my sister and my cousin were hanging about for the club day I think (where all the uni clubs are basically put on show as they try to recruit you). I made another kind of friend - well, she made friends with me. She basically introduced herself, and eventually figured out that we have a whole lot of mutual friends, and I was just like how the heck did you know it was me? because I have never met her before. But she was really vibrant and cute, so yeah, I can put aside the creepyness of our meeting. I got some henna done, got my face painted (brought out my inner fairy, it did), and... it was another nice day.

And throughout, I've made cookies, I've read books, and life is looking up. Things are getting busy again, and I feel like I can stop singing this

 

 AND. My cat had kittens again :') Five more. I WILL POST PHOTOS, of the last litter and the new ones, I'm just waiting on my new laptop, which I'll get sometime in March...

That is all.

Peace in,

Laila

These are the things that Laila misses

Stones and bones;
snow and frost;
seeds and beans and polliwogs.
Paths and twigs, assorted kisses,
We all know who Susie misses...

- The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold

I miss having a purpose. I don't really miss school as it is - I wouldn't go back to the classes, the stress of SACs and exams, the pressure of expectations, not only because others want you to do well but because you want to do well, and 'well' had to be an exceptional score. But I miss the routine, the going, the knowing what I had to do in order to achieve something. I miss the nudges to stick to the path, I miss the short-term goals that led up to the long-term one, and there was always that impending feeling... it's coming... closer and closer... we're almost there. My routine now is wake up around 8am, feed my cats, go for a bike ride, and... a question mark. Nothing. A wait. I read a bit, I talk to my cousins and sister, we go a-walking, we go places, or we don't, and it just feels like circles. 

It's not that I don't have anything to do. I already mentioned that to-do list that I'm sort of working my way through. University stuff... cat stuff (still have to find two homes, prepare for the second litter, and then organise the desexing :/ )... bank/work stuff... learning to drive... artsy stuff... But there's no drive. It's gone. It's not that I don't want to go to university, or I'm not that excited. I'm just... distracted by the Nothing that's going on.

I miss the effect of prayer. Back in the day, when I had things to do, and prayer was neatly fitted into my timetable, it had an effect. Sure, as the average human, I'd get distracted every now and then. Despite that, having these goals, having a purpose, knowing what I wanted specifically, I had this need to concentrate. I know that sounds so superficial - you want something from God, you pay attention, but when you don't, you forget Him - but I was motivated, and I'd put in everything into concentrating, into knowing what I was saying rather than mindlessly rambling away in Arabic, and there was always this feeling of fulfillment afters. Of satisfaction. Maybe the feeling of being purified or something. But in this weird haze that I'm living in, as I said... I'm distracted by the nothing. I forget to concentrate, and only when I'm finished I curl up in a ball and pray to have it back. 

I miss being a kid. Cheesy, I know. The other day we went to my cousins' house, and I took the littlies to the park. I don't think I ever stopped swinging, but since I've 'grown up', I haven't done the monkey bars. I had a go at them that afternoon, and owwww, it killed, but damn it felt good. I did them twice over, because for once they were high enough so that my feet couldn't touch the ground anyway. I remember in the early years of primary school, how agile we were, how flexible, how much energy we had, as we fearlessly climbed onto the top, flipped over, shamelessly showing off our cute little potbellies. I remember running my fingers over the hardened ridge of blisters on the underside of our hands. We were so tough. And now my hands feel so soft, and it makes me sad. 

I miss singing at the top of my lungs. When I use the word 'singing', of course, I'm using it rather loosely based on what I intend to do, because you know, realistically I can't actually sing. At the beach the other day, I encouraged my little sister to sing 'Let it Go' from Frozen as loudly as she could from the bathroom, and I joined in of course, because I was shielded from the 'audience' in my little shower stall. We ended up starting a sing-a-long with some random little girls that I never got to meet, because they left by the time we got out. But it was a great feeling, until my cousin mentioned that they could hear us outside the bathroom. I used to do it at home, vacuuming, as I once mentioned before, but apparently people can hear me when I do. I'm embarrassed to do it around my cousins, or maybe I just want to spare them the agony, and so I can't do it anymore. But the urge to just let it rip, let it go (see what I did there?), is always there. Just waiting.

I miss the way my family used to be, before the financial crisis. Sure, we weren't exactly Full House warm and fuzzy, but the fights used to be the exception, and it wasn't always so dismal. It goes like this: my father, when we're driving, or just chilling at home, will start lecturing on something to do with using too much electricity or water or just the cost of living in general, and how everything is very bad right now, we need to be careful. When I need something to be bought, I'll mention it to my mother. She'll ask my why I don't ask my dad, and I'll say that I don't want to stress him out. So, because she loves us, she'll go tell him to tone down the lectures because clearly they stress all of us out. Lo and behold: explosion. Tears. My dad will turn on us and start on the appreciation/gratitude speech: Don't I buy everything you need? Have I ever denied you anything? Are you stressed? Why is she saying you're stressed? We're okay, okay? I'm just reminding you not to be wasteful. Nobody is grateful in this house, blah, blah, blah... We robotically agree with him. Finit.

What makes me sad is that for so long we have wanted extended family. For so. Damn. Long. And after all the years of prayer, God, as He does, grants our dua like a backhanded compliment. Sure, you can have your cousins, but I'm going to send them over at the worst possible time, when you're in the deepest of ditches. Because Allah tests those He loves the most, and He never gives you a burden you can't bear. Without those two bits of gold... so help me, I don't know where I'd be.

But my cousins will eventually move out, and I'm stuck because I selfishly want them to stay, but I know it's hard for them to stay because they have to deal with a lot of crap in our house, and so even I think they should go, but then I don't want them to because I want them here and I want it to be Full House.

I miss writing stories. I miss the brief glimpses of ideas that'd flit through my mind, that I'd latch onto, and think and think and think, and come up with something that I'd love for a while and hate later. The many empty notebooks that pervade my desk mock me.

And I miss people. I miss the people at school that I never really spoke to, that I don't even really want to speak to, that I probably never will speak to. I miss their presence, their predictability, their familiarity. Until university starts, I have no established social life, and it feels... lonely. I miss seeing my friends regularly at school, and somehow we always had things to talk about, but now, in all the nothing, even though Star doesn't live so far away, I can't bear to always see her, because sometimes I just don't know what to say. And I don't like texting people. I'm sick of texting my other friends. I want to see them in person, and I want to do things, but everyone's so busy or they have strict families or it's just too hard so all we have is texting and I hate it. I miss my extended family. I haven't Skyped with my favourite cousin or aunt in ages, and I know they're busy, they have kids, my cousin's brother is joining her in Dubai, they too have lives, but I wish I was a part of their lives too. I've upgraded to Whatsapp, because a few more of my cousins and nieces have that, and it's great because they spam me with their photos, but I miss the conversations, where we actually exchange meaningful words and sentences, but they just don't do that over text, and they're so far away, and they're growing up, and there's more of them, and I'm not there and once again, I'm not a part of their lives, and I don't know how to be. I miss my online friends, our superdy long conversations, always random and funny, but also with a lot of soul. My soul, anyhow. I miss Sam, I miss Arvie... I worry for Arvie, because I haven't heard from her since the typhoon in the Philippines, and I'm only taking solace in that it's a question mark too. I miss Meli, I miss Ali, I miss that world.

I realise I may have come across as depressed, but honestly, I'm not really. A lot of this is just whinging, isn't it? I mentioned I have things to do, and some other stuff is just cliché and nostalgia that makes an appearance every now and then. So if you feel the need to console, don't worry about it ^_^ It's what happens when you have too much time. C'est la vie, this too shall pass, life goes on.

This song breaks my heart. I love it so much, I play it on repeat, and I don't know why, because it's not like I've ever experienced 'love'. But I wonder, when it comes to a relationship, whether I'd be the giving tree, or the person who cuts it down to a stump. I don't want to be a stump, nor do I want to be the person who sits on it. 

I wonder if it has to be that way. But then I think of good ol' Jodi Picoult's quote about a relationship never being 50-50, how there's always someone who loves the person a leetle bit more. I wonder...

... too much time -_-'

Peace in,
Laila