Morse Code Romance

If ten years ago someone told you you'd be meeting new friends and lovers on the internet, would you have believed them? Ten years ago, the word blogger would have sparked images of overweight thirty something year old sociopaths who still lived with their mother.

Ten years ago, I was eight, and only just started to familiarise myself with the magical world of Paint. I was thirteen when I learnt how to connect onto the internet with my high tech 56K modem. The static sound was like music to my ears, and getting disconnected was practically the end of the world.

When I die and my life flashes before my eyes, I will experience about another two deaths just seeing the hours of my life wasted alteRnaYting Betw3En uPPaH aNd Low3RR caYse AnD intent!OnaLLy mi$peLLinG th!nGs cOz iT waSZe c00Lie$.

I officially started losing my grip when people started using the word 'zor'. I still don't understand what that means!

Does the word Ringo ring any bells? If so, shameful isn't it? It was my first taste of social networking. In order to upload photos, I laboriously had to take them using a film camera, get them developed, and scan half of them onto the computer (the other half had bad lighting - probably because my finger was covering the flash). By then, my latest photos were at least two months old.

People (including myself) migrated en masse from Ringo to Hi5 to Friendster to Bebo to Myspace to Facebook. What influenced this move considering they all do the same thing? Maybe it was the super accurate quizzes on offer. Then maybe it's also because we were able to experiment with personalised fonts, backgrounds and special effects. And maybe it's because we could add moving images such as .gif files and Youtube clips. And the one that prevails is usually the one that entails all of the above.

The tabloid news will tell us that our generation is known for pill popping, binge drinking, drunken fights, promiscuity and… online relationships. But as if our parents didn't do the same thing! Whose parents were hippies and did mushrooms? Whose mum got pregnant when she was sixteen, or before she was married? Whose dad STILL gets drunk with his friends every weekend? I know parents who fit into at least one of these categories and they are all wonderful people.

During the 1800's, people were meeting and having romantic relationships through morse code. The book Wired Love is based on a female and male operator falling in love online (the telegraph line, that is).

The first telegraph wedding took place in 1876 between San Diego and Camp Grant, AZ (137). Online telegraphic romances between operators were common and coded message between lovers were as well. This predates internet dating by more than a century. - http://mlennert.wordpress.com

Take this blog. Without the hyperlinks on my Myspace page, you may have never come across this site. Without MSN, a friend of yours probably wouldn't have been bothered recommending it to you. And perhaps, without this blog, you wouldn't have any other reason to approach me in real life.

So are meeting people on the internet and getting to know them through IM really all that new? Or have we just found new ways of doing old things?

Online interaction is shedding its old stigmas. One only needs to look at the number of commercials promoting dating websites for adults. They've gotta be funded by something. Funded by the success rate.

Instead of being seen as a substitute for reality, is the virtual world the new real world?

My 14th First Day of School

This blog has been a long time coming. Not that I actually have the time to write this. I'm probably sabotaging a potential pass, credit, distinction or high distinction (I wish!). For my sake, let's hope I'm only sabotaging a credit: that way I'll at least pass.

Let me explain. I started my five year university course on 25 March, and I've been bogged down with work ever since. I'm still adjusting, and trying to find a routine that works.

Remember that dream where you're running towards a door at the end of the hallway, but the more you run towards it, the farther away it gets? Well for me it's a reality. I feel like no matter how much work I do, there's so much more ahead of me.

But don't get me wrong. I absolutely love the content! Which is a great consolation; because I think I'd pass out if I ever have to label a scientific diagram of the polypeptide chain again.

I must admit that during my high school years, the hope of productive group work was dimmed after numerous bad experiences. I was the girl who eventually gave in to doing a generous amount of contribution because I was the only who cared about grades – while everyone else took turns listing what genuinely better things they had to do.

Which is why it came as a pleasant surprise during my first week of uni. My first assignment was the infamous group presentation. It was an eye opener to finally be with people who were just as determined, just as hard working, just as motivated – if not more. It felt like a breath of fresh air after living your whole life in an underground mine shaft.

It's incredibly nice to finally be in a classroom without your prize wingers – insistently nagging things such as: 'Why the f*ck do we need this for Miss? As if I need equations to be an architect. Aren't there, like, calculators for that sh*t?' Because now there's no excuses. Most of us chose to be here.

And friends? Well, so far I've still managed to keep in contact with old classmates by meeting up before or after class, as well as weekend parties. I realised that my greatest weakness is remembering names. So let's just say I've met many interesting, new faces.

I feel like the boring, plain white bread surrounded by Apple Cinnamon Swirl, Banana Slice, Sultana and Raisin… so yeah you get the point. Everyone else is so cultured. There are foreign exchange students from Germany and France, people who've been travelling the past couple of years and prior to this, I had never known anyone who came from boarding school.

So far the only down side is how much money I spend on train tickets every week!

The Nice Girl

Sometimes I dream of a revolution, a bloody coup d'etat by the second rank - troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men – I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister's Humber – comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges – and – march – an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-hand men - storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet – stand-ins of the world, stand up! - Tom Stoppard, The Real Inspector Hound

I remember sport days in the sixth grade. They were my second worst day of the week, closely followed by those Wednesdays where we had to complete thirty random times tables in three minutes. It was the scariest one hundred and eighty seconds of every week.

Where was I? Oh yes, sport days. I was to the sporting field like a sportsperson is to the dance floor. My co ordination was so bad you could say I had two left feet, two left arms and two left eyes. By the time I got the hang of anything it was time to move on to another sport.

After a few weeks, baseball season was over, with soccer next on the agenda. I was the last person picked for a team, and my classmate's attempts of comforting me with the remark "Yeah! We've got The Brain on our team!" provided little compensation. It turned out that I was pretty good, and the following week I was picked first. Not because I was The Brain, but because I could actually kick.

I remember every year of junior high school. I thought I could continue my legacy as class prefect. I didn't realise how much of a popularity contest it was.

Instead, I was the girl the class captain copied her homework off. In a stream of second thoughts, I was the girl who people realised they should have voted for instead, a few months after the election.

Such confessions revealed to me in confidence were enough to keep me warm at night.

I remember when friendships were tested in senior high school. Large groups broke off into little, sometimes secret alliances. Throughout a time I'd like to call The Great Divide, I managed to keep the trust of each faction. Each side would openly bitch about the other to me because I was The Brains turned The Nice Girl.

I realised that regardless of how many fights a group has, no matter how many hours you spent listening to their grievances – by the time the dust has settled and friendships are reunited stronger than ever, this very neutrality keeps you tied to a string back at square one. You're still the girl who floats in between groups, whilst never really belonging to either one.

In remembrances I'd rather not indulge, I've been second to one boyfriend's social and work life. I've been second to another boyfriend's ex girlfriend. I've been second priority to my father ever since he started another family. I'm second to my best friend whenever he falls in love. I was second on my 18th birthday, when friends traded me for a party that served alcohol – friends I spent the best part of two years talking to, laughing with.

Some of you reading this might not relate at all, I hope I've increased awareness of someone you know, or will meet. Some of you reading this might relate all too well, I hope you know you're not the only one. Maybe our glory shines in a parallel universe; for this world is not kind to The Nice Girl and Guys. But we get by. That's what we're good at.

There are some things a girl should never try once

Tazos, tamagochis, digimons, pokemon cards, crazy bones. We lapped them up like a baby to its mother's teet (sorry for the image!): without thought and driven by a primordial need for sustenance.

By the time I was in high school, my needs got a little more complicated. I was one of only a few girls who came from my primary school, and for the first time I wasn't the only Filipino girl in the grade. I went from playing net ball and hand ball with friends of Australian and European descent, to bonding with people of the same cultural background.

Some people brag about their multicultural group of friends – but this was a new and exciting experience for me.

What people don't understand is that this part of my life was not about fitting in with the majority – but a journey towards finding myself. Questions like, 'Why is my skin darker than theirs?', 'How come they don't eat rice everyday, like me?' and 'Why am I the only one with jet black hair?' were embarrassingly moved from the 'honest concerns' pile to the 'silly questions' pile.

What the new girl in the group didn't expect, especially from attending a catholic school, was the exclusion felt by not being part of a particular youth group. It was like a super exclusive club where its members regularly gathered to talk about their awesome weekend camp, how funny it was when this happened, how sad it was when that happened and how cute their camp crush was – but sorry we're not allowed to tell you because it's either a secret or it's 'too complicated' or 'you wouldn't understand anyway'.

I think what hurt the most was when you were in a group of ten people, then a camp leader would walk past, then greet and give everyone a kiss on the cheek except you, act like you weren't there at all – which is sad.

Then one day a friend of mine was in dire need of a 'participant' (someone to initiate into the youth group). After much persuasion I succumbed.

What disgusts me today is the trouble I put my family through just so I could join (I only lasted one camp and two meetings). Among other things, I cried and fought with my mother for money we simply did not have to pay for the fees, and I forced her to take a night off work just so she could drop me off at a venue in a suburb she felt uncomfortable driving to.

Only now can I swallow my pride and shamefully admit that no matter what the youth group claimed to promote: God, prayer and peace – was a complete and utter contradiction to what I was causing my family. I realised that I was no longer trying to find myself, I was stupidly trying to fit in – and pushing my family away in the process. Consequently, I spent the weekend camp feeling guilty, guilty, guilty.

Tazos, tamagochis, digimons, pokemon cards and crazy bones were innocent craze-phases. For others it may have been something as simple as taking up hip hop lessons, basketball or forcing themselves to break dance just because everyone else was. And then there are phases that last longer than they should – illegal drug intake, excessive drinking and smoking. There are some things a girl should never try once; and I should have known better than to involve God. Such youth groups have no doubt positively impacted the lives of its members – it just wasn't for me. So if by next week everyone's signing up for "How To Make Free Money" workshops, I'll have learnt my lesson and gladly give this one a pass.

Surprises are like promises

To my readership (if one still exists!):

Yes this blog is still alive, which is more than I can say for its owner (more on that later). So why the long absence? For starters, my two part time jobs have seen me occupied for up to six days week.

My days off were spent going over 18's clubbing for the first and second time, attending cotillion dance rehearsals for two of my friends' debuts, literally burning the letters and photographs of my bestfriend's ex girlfriend in my backyard, and climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge with my boyfriend on our two year anniversary.

And now, adding to my latest collection of excuses: I have the chicken pox. Sure, this would have been more convenient when I was five, but heck at least I'm not fifty.

With unprecedented fevers, headaches and backaches – I'm going to make this one short.

Most of us have been both the victim and the offender of broken promises. What was originally designed to enact as a verbally contractual agreement in theory, merely provides a false sense of security in practice. Because after all, promises are not guaranteed exempt from being
- drunkenly drawled off
- broken when the only thing that used to hold it together is no longer there i.e. a friendship and/or romance
- shared between two lovers whose first priority is not to keep any secrets from each other
- shared for the benefit of a two-faced friend
- broken under circumstances beyond the control of the promise holder

Reverse the situation and imagine if no one promised to keep anything for you, to turn up here and take you there, to buy you anything, to do something for you – but did it solely on their own accord. How much better would it feel?

This got me to thinking that maybe surprises are like promises spoken out loud. Because promises create expectations, which if aren't satisfied, create disappointment.

One man’s fantasy is another man’s nightmare.

As much as we shouldn't, we all know the gist. Boy meets Girl. Girl breaks up with boy. Girl finds Man. Boy hates Man.

Key word: BOY noun

1. a male CHILD, especially one LESS than 18 years of age
2. a young man who lacks MATURITY and JUDGEMENT

BOYS are too immature to accept the fact that she's moved on. BOYS are too stubborn to accept that she's happier with someone else. BOYS are selfish enough to interfere with her new relationship. BOYS are barbaric enough to think that forging violence against her new Man will win Girl back.

According to American Scientist Online – The Lions Mane, male lions will 'jealously guard her and prevent her from mating with his companions'. They even go so far as to kill the offspring of another male – accounting for 25% of all cub deaths. Before you start getting any ideas, let me remind you that we're human. So save your violence for your reincarnation.

If you'd rather her be unhappy and with you, than happy with someone else – was it ever really love in the first place? Even if you succeeded in scaring off her new Man, how could you admit to yourself that she's only with you because you made her? Wouldn't your relationship be more reassuring knowing that she returned to you on her own accord? You wouldn't want someone reigning in on your parade; so in the spirit of Australian mateship, give the other guy a fair go.

And I know it's easier said than done. I've discovered that when you love someone, it's hard to imagine that anyone, even her boyfriend, can love her more than you already do. Remember that it's hard on her part too. No sane person relishes being fought over. She has to live with the guilt that she couldn't please everyone.

And it's in such spirits that I hereby propose a fifth Geneva Convention (noun. a series of international agreements... establishing rules for the humane treatment of prisoners of war and of the sick, the wounded, and the dead in battle). That no physical violence be forged between parties on the grounds of fighting over a girl. It might take two to tango, but it takes three to rumble. Prior to such altercations, both males must have been given a reason to fight, and the incentive of reaping a reward ie. the Girl, who must have led both on.

Sometimes, I think the world would be a better place if there were no such thing as love. But then I think to myself that used the right way, the happiness it brings makes life just that little bit more worth living – and when lost, worth searching for again.

As children we're taught that one girl falls in love with one boy once in their lifetime. Drawing from both personal and indirect experiences, I've learnt that life's not like that, at least not anymore.

Love is a tangled network more messed up than our country's current rail system. People don't just fall in love once anymore, they fall in and out of it, sometimes with the same person, sometimes with more. Like peak hour trains, sometimes they love too late, eventually arriving only to find the other person at someone else's platform. And as much as you want her, you keep from derailing for the sake of your passengers – the friends and family you hurt and drag with you.

Leave Britney Alone!

Who's your biggest celebrity idol? Jessica Alba? Justin Timberlake?

Now picture them suddenly associated with more scandals in a week than the pairs of undies you go through per year:
Wild parties.
Wardrobe malfunctions.
Drug addictions.
Drunken behaviour.
Nervous breakdowns.
Unexpected pregnancies.
Marriage breakdowns.
Depression.
Weight gain.
Oh, and on top of that, they're now homosexual.

Still their biggest fan? It's funny how human weaknesses most prevalent in western society can alter our perception of public figures. Is that to say, that we only look up to people when they're at their best? Some fair weather fans we are.

But is the aforementioned list any different to what happens to your neighbours, to your friends, to your family members, to your work mates… even to your own self?

Add a shaven head to the equation and you get my biggest celebrity idol: Britney Spears. Over the past few years, it became something like mission impossible to pick up a magazine that didn't splash her across their pages.

Flicking through, I glimpse the trashy pictures and skim the infamous headlines. I see an artist who became a victim of her own success. I am reminded of friends who became mothers and fathers in their teens. I am reminded of my own parent's divorce. And whether or not Britney is really lesbian, I am reminded of my homosexual friends and their constant struggle for respect. I am reminded of my friends who take every opportunity to party hard and drink harder. But most of all, I am reminded that all of these could easily be me.

I believe that every human being is entitled to as many downfalls required for them to make and learn from their own mistakes – even if it's doing them the longest, hardest, most dangerous way possible.

HYPOTHETICALLY, should I ever smoke marijuana throughout my pregnancy and call my child Weed-Girl (even if it's a boy), put on an extra 150 kg yet wear the same size 6/8 clothes, claim to be a witch doctor and start my own cult, try to perform liposuction on myself using a butter knife and vacuum cleaner and shave my head before being admitted into a rehabilitation centre…

In the same way that I anticipate the day Britney Spears comes clean, I'd like to hope that there's at least one blog reader with enough faith in me to know that I'll pull through, and anticipate the blog entry where I can again speak with clarity and wisdom from the traumatic experiences that plagued my troubled years.

The Silent Requital

ENGLISH EXTENSION
CRIME FICTION - GENRE

It was the worst painting Bryan had ever seen: Pierre Swarofski's impressionist painting of the human heart. He always thought artists were a bit deluded. No wonder the left ventricle was unproportioned.

'For the fraction of you who will graduate, success will come from following your gut instinct. There are some things a good doctor can detect that a good pulse oximeter cannot. And like Swarofski, you too might end up making millions of dollars… or at least save millions of lives' bellowed his favourite professor.

The eager students, few of whom were dedicated to saving lives, and the rest of whom were dedicated to making money, were suddenly beckoned to use the right side of their brain, when it was the left that got them there.

--

'Three operations… aortic coarctation…'
Bryan raved about himself for the same amount of time it took the waitress to take their order, allot her number to a flirting customer and retrieve a bottle of red wine for the newly engaged couple on table nine.

'At least someone's getting married tonight. Hasn't this guy ever heard of open ended questions?' she wondered.

A long pause ensued. She forced a smile before excusing herself to the bathroom. They both knew she wasn't coming back.

--

Ted was Vernfield's most highly acclaimed psychologist. Marriage breakdowns, mid life crises, depression – Ted had seen them all.

'Dr Bryan Kobe'. Ted turned the name over and over in his head, rubbing his cleft chin as he often did when deep in thought. The receding hairline and the slightly hunched back that accentuated his slim build all struck a chord of familiarity.

'Oh yes, that's right!' The newspaper image of Dr Bryan Kobe lurched its way into his memory. The article read something about a new clinical trial. In a follow up story, Ted was certain the baby did not live long. The see-saw-ing of guilt and bliss at losing and saving a patient often took its toll on doctors.

'How can I get a woman to marry me?'
A long pause ensued. He felt like he was on a date again.
'This is Ted's office, right?'

Most clients liked to introduce themselves, talk about their friends, family and pets before delving into why they were there. Taken aback by Bryan's straightforwardness, Ted concluded he was 43, a medical surgeon, and believed himself overdue to start a family. STAT.

--

The Stanbourg University which Bryan attended was absorbed in racist upheaval. Not a day was he spared racial insults. 'Low life Nigger' 'Black Bastard'

'Study now. Revenge later' was his mantra. Peers and lecturers would catch him mumbling incoherently down the hallway, and laugh. He always seemed a social outcast anyway.

Like a star shining against a polluted western sky, Professor Cromblin was proof that the dream of a black man making something respectable out of himself was possible.

In his final year of study, Professor Cromblin was shot dead. Three of Bryan's white peers were charged with murder a week later.

The events above were delivered to Ted methodically and in sparing detail.

--

Ted lay flicking channels, as his wife romped into the bedroom sporting new lace underwear. She began kissing at his neck. He could feel himself go hard.

'Next in breaking news, Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Harppe dies due to a drug overdose. Dr Bryan Kobe said there was little hope by the time he arrived…'

'Hold on honey'
'But-'
'Shh!'

By the end of the report Ted had lost his erection. Patients died all the time, but this was the second headline in the past month featuring the death of one of Dr Bryan Kobe's patients. Ted started rubbing his cleft chin.

--

Bryan met with Ted for their usual 5:00 Friday appointment. The real Bryan came out on their last session.

'So, tell me about your childhood'
'CHILDHOOD? I'm paying you good money to help me find a wife, not talk about my bloody childhood. Any bet you're just out to pump money out of me. Typical white bastard. You're all the same. BETTER OFF DEAD, I SAY!' shouted Bryan vexedly and stormed out.

Finding a wife became the least of his problems, Ted made note to help Bryan through his racial issues. But something about the way he said 'BETTER OFF DEAD!' unsettled Ted. The words clung to him like a foul stench.

In his hurried exit, Bryan left his folder behind. Picking it up, Bryan's Stanbourg Yearbook fell onto the floor. Flipping quickly through the black and white pages, hints of red caught Ted's eye. Fingering back through the pages, Ted found that Bryan had violently crossed the faces of three individuals. He started rubbing his cleft chin.

--

'Thank God it's Friday'
Bryan had one more operation to perform. He skimmed the patient profile: John O'Timmons. 64. Caucasian. Fatal condition. Requires cardiomyopathy.

'Perfect, easy as pi' chuckled Bryan to himself. He made note to share the pun on his next date. After all, Ted said that women were attracted to humour.

Within minutes John O'Timmons was declared dead. In theory his body had rejected the donated heart. But in practice Bryan had left a 3mm gap in reconnecting the aorta.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and under the façade of a good willed doctor, Bryan was a cold blooded murderer.

Every white patient that died on his operating table resembled someone who called him a 'Low Life Nigger' a 'Black Bastard', or someone who murdered Professor Cromblin. Only the black patients died from genuine medical conditions.

'Shit' Bryan almost forgot his appointment with Ted, as he reached his pocket for the car keys.

'DR KOBE! EMERGENCY!' From the rear view mirror, Bryan could see one of the interns running short breathed after him.

--

Ted suffered a stroke while at work. He could not move, but could see and hear everything around him. The secretary. The ambulance. The hospital. The nurse. The Doctor.

'Not to worry Ted, it's me, Dr Bryan Kobe'. As the morphine kicked in, Bryan's wink was anything but reassuring. ©

Halfway to K.J.

A few hours ago I was at my high school graduation ceremony. It was meant to be a 'magical moment.'

Yet, I was not overcome with emotion like many of my teary eyed peers. With all the screaming and jumping around, you'd think we were a geeky uniform clad mosh pit… And I was the one who accidentally bought tickets to the wrong concert.

For my own reasons, the fact that I will never see most of these people again delivered me relief rather than dismay. There was a time when, and place where I felt a sense of belonging with my immediate friends and the school body as a whole –which was lost somewhere between the transition from an all girls school to a co-ed (combined education) one.

And it's not that the thought of graduation hasn't 'fully sunk in', because I've been feeling like this for a while now.

I just don't think high school was my scene. Hello world.

Third Eye Blind - Jumper
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
The angry boy a bit too insane
Icing over a secret pain
You know you don't belong
Youre the first to fight
Youre way too loud
Youre the flash of light on a burial shroud
I know somethings wrong
Well everyone I know has got a reason
To say put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies that youve been living in
And if you do not want to see me again I would understand
I would understand
Well hes on the table and hes gone to code
And I do not think anyone knows
What theyre doing here
And your friends have left you
Youve been dismissed
I never thought it would come to this
And I, I want you to know
Everyones got to face down the demons
Maybe today
You could put the past away

When I was 8 I wanted to be a paleontologist.

Like that life defining moment when you can turn the lights on without standing on your tip toes. Like that life defining moment when you first did your own shoelaces.

I have recently experienced another one of these life defining moments. The one where friendships are put to the test and the people you most expected to be there for you, were the first ones to bolt.

I don't know what hurts more. The fact that they didn't mean to hurt me. Or the fact that it came naturally to them.

And yet, I still have the strength to say "It's okay". Because like the paleontologist sifting through dirt, this experience has revealed to me the friendships actually worth their weight in gold, or should I say skeletal remains, or is that fossil traces? … you know what I mean!

So to all the people who supported me over the past few days: THANKYOU! THANKYOU! THANKYOU! You all know who you are.