Inlägg
So last night I let my best friend talk me into going to one of the clubs on campus, completely disregarding the fact that I actually haven't got money to spend on such things.
Anyway, she had never been to that club while it used to be my favourite place back when I went out more frequently. So I assured her that it would be fun, and even if it wasn't the drinks are cheap there. Well, we got there about ten minutes after they'd opened for the evening. My first thought when we got in was: "What epidemic has wiped out all the slightly normal people on campus?". It was the first weekend after payday (here in Sweden we have this thing where we can take out special student loans and also get some student grant, enabling us to live... sorta... without having to work full-time too unless we want to) and usually the clubs are teeming with people these weekends.
However, last night we felt quite alone in the world with only a handful of others (who seemed quite eccentric), not counting the bartenders, in the place. So we sat there, nursing our beers and wondering what the hell was going on while talking about checking some of the other places on campus.
Long story short we remained at this place and about an hour after our arrival more people started appearing and suddenly the place was rather full (with a lot of people who seem to think that dancing is a synonym for either wobbling back and forth in one place or doing some hardcore groping). As is wont to happen in a club full of drunk and desperate people we were pretty soon joined by some guy and we spent the evening talking and drinking more than we should, as usual.
But, as always after a night at the club, I get to thinking about guys. For so long one's heard the guys complain about how girls are always trying to drag them into a relationship after having sex with them. Which is quite a silly and outdated statement.
It seems like the scale has weighed over to the other side, because far as I've noticed it's the other way around these days. Guys are the ones who seem to think that the girl will be so amazed at their fantastic skills in bed (or conversational skills... who knows?) that they'll fall to the guy's feet and jump at the slightest possibility of a relationship afterwards. And the girls, on the other hand, shake their heads, wonder why they didn't register that the guy's an idiot the night before, take a few painkillers and decide if he was good in bed or not. And then they move on.
Since when did the good old-fashioned one-night-stand become synonymous with "Sure, I was drunk and horny yesterday and you were fair enough in bed so let's start dating and live happily ever after"? Why can't a girl just want to try out a guy she met at the club and then be allowed to continue on with her life without him dogging her about meeting again and trying to sell his good points to her? Unless I've missed something really crucial it's been a long time since having sex with a guy means immediate attachment and "together ever after" here in Sweden.
And the worst thing is that guys don't seem to realise how pathetic they are in thinking that more or less nagging the girl about it the day after, and not getting the hint to get dressed and get the hell out, will clinch the relationship deal.
One of the most stupid things a guy can do the morning after is to start telling a (hungover and newly awoken) woman about how great he is and how she deserves the best... which, naturally, is him. If he's got any say in the matter that is, which of course he always has since he's God's gift to women. The fact that if he had been he probably wouldn't have to do such a pathetically desperate thing in the first place doesn't even seem to register in his mind.
In a way I can't help but feel sorry for such guys but at the same time that old mantra "Girls always think having sex once means a relationship" rings in my head and I sit back to shake my head and smile in patronising pity.
Guys often do amaze me... with their complete lack of self-reflection and insight. Which part of "don't call me, I'll call you" can't they understand? Just wondering. After all, they're the ones who claim to have invented the expression in the first place.
söndag 28 februari 2010
söndag 21 februari 2010
Håll katten inne! (rant in Swedish)
Det finns inget jag föraktar mer än folk som inte tar hand om djur på absolut bästa sätt (sett från djurets behov). Djuren kan inte rätt ut säga åt oss vad de behöver (och ärligt talat så även om de skulle haft det finns det fortfarande skitstövlar som med vett och vilje skulle skada djuren). Djur är oskyldiga. De har aldrig bett oss att tämja dem, att ha dem i våra hem och vår vardag. Det var helt människans val att göra dem till husdjur. De kan inte säga åt oss klart och tydligt när vi inte ger dem vad de behöver, när de har ont eller mår dåligt. Det är där vårt ansvar, som de som tog djurens anfäder från det vilda och började hålla dem som husdjur i våra grottor och whatnot, ligger.
Vi måste vara tillräckligt uppmärksamma för att kunna se hur våra djur mår.
Vi måste vara tillräckligt intelligenta och empatiska för att ge våra djur de absolut bästa förutsättningarna.
Vi måste inse att djuren, hur söta och gosedjursaktiga de än kan verka, är levande varelser som kan känna smärta, rädsla, lycka och allt däremellan. De kan bli hungriga, törstiga, de kan frysa, de kan få värmeslag. Ja, egentligen är väl det enda som skiljer oss från våra husdjur det faktum att vi råkar vara den art som var girigast, som tog för sig mer än vad vi kanske egentligen borde ha gjort. Vi har våra stora städer, vi har våra språk och vår teknik... Men inget av detta gör oss bättre än djuren, det ger oss inte rätt att behandla djur som mindre värda eller få för oss att de inte kan känna saker precis som vi.
Och vi har absolut ingen rätt att tro att lilla "Misse" kan klara sig helt på egen hand i en värld dominerad av människor, bilar och allt färre naturliga bytesdjur. "Misses" anfäder må ha klarat sig i det vilda, innan människorna började lägga asfalt, hugga ner skogen, bygga hus och allt möjligt annat som tog ifrån dem deras naturliga bomarker och bytesdjur. Men "Misse" är lika mycket en produkt av dagens människostyrda verklighet som ett människobarn.
"Misse" må kunna fånga möss något smidigare än en människobebis men var ska "Misse" hitta mössen nuförtiden? Och kunna äta dem utan att behöva dö en plågsam död på grund av förgiftning?
Precis som människobarn har dagens domesticerade (tama) djur liten chans att klara sig helt på egen hand i det "vilda". Och trots det verkar vi människor tar för givet att det gör ju inget om lilla "Misse" är utekatt mitt i ett bostadsområde omgivet av bilvägar, asfalterat och bebyggt både högt, lågt och brett. "Misse" klarar sig, det är ju ett djur, trots allt *tung sarkasm*.
Jag har inget emot att man har utekatter... så länge man bor så pass bra till att katten inte riskerar att bli påkörd så fort den sticker nosen utanför dörren. Så länge den har trygga skrymslen att söka skydd i när det är dåligt väder. Och framför allt så länge man är uppmärksam på när katten vill/behöver komma in, den har fräscht vatten och bra mat (en mus som den fångat räcker inte) och en varm plats inomhus när den behöver det.
Nu undrar ni kanske varför jag helt plötsligt väljer att skriva om detta? Ja, det beror på många orsaker.
Dels beror det på en av mina egan katters historia. Min lilla kisse, 3 år i år, kom till mig för ca 2 år sedan via Djurskyddet. Hon hade hittats övergiven i ett sommarstugeområde. Mest troligt var hon en av de otaliga stackars katter som hamnat hos okunniga människor som tänkte att "en liten katt för barnen att leka med i sommar är väl gulligt". Och när sommaren var över och familjen åkte hem till "verkligheten" ryckte de säkert bara på axlarna och tänkte: "Hon klarar sig själv. Hon är ju en katt". Och lilla Frida fick finna sig i att stå utelåst från en tom och mörk sommarstuga utan en aning om var hennes familj hade tagit vägen. Och hösten tog vid och sen kom vintern. Där var den lilla katten, mest troligt knappt några månader gammal, ensam, övergiven och tvingad att försöka klara sig. Hon överlevde vintern, hur vet jag inte och jag tror mitt hjärta skulle brista om jag faktiskt fick veta allt hon fått gå igenom. Hennes familj hade uppenbarligen ingen koll på katter och hon var okastrerad så, som brukar ske i naturen, den lilla katten, knappt mer än en kattunge själv, blev dräktig. Jag vet heller inte hur Djurskyddet hittade henne eller hur hon kom till dem men jag är än idag så oerhört tacksam för att de tog in henne.
När hon kom till mig såg hon inte ut att vara ens ett år gammal, jag hade gissat på knappt 6 månader om det inte varit för att hon uppenbarligen haft en kull ungar redan, och skyggade undan för ens hand när man ville klappa henne. Hennes beteende var som en kattunges. Hon hade inte lärt sig att tvätta sig ordentligt och hon förstod in hur hårt hon kunde bitas, jag vet än idag inte hur mycket av hennes bitande som var lek och vad som var försvar.
Idag är hon världens goaste lilla misse som älskar att hänga över min axel. Idag är hon också innekatt då jag inte bor på ett ställe där jag med gott samvete skulle våga låta henne springa lös.
En annan orsak till detta utbrott är något som hände nu inatt. Jag hade just börjat somna in då jag hör ett ynkligt litet jamande utanför fönstret. Jag kikar ut och där står en stackars katt och tittar bedjande upp på mig. Det är -20 grader och djupsnö ute, klockan är 4 på morgonen och alla sover för fullt. Det enda som står öppet där katten kan söka skydd är soprummet, som är totalt utkylt. Även om den är törstig är allt fruset, är den hungrig finns inget att äta och fryser den finns ingenstans att söka skydd. Katten har ett halsband så uppenbarligen är det nån som "äger" den. Och trots det står den här utanför mitt fönster och jamar... och jamar. Och det finns inget jag kan göra. Jag kan inte bara släppa in den till mig. Jag har två egna katter som skulle bli måttligt roade av att få gäster, milt sagt. Och utan att veta var katten egentligen hör hemma kan jag heller inte gå och knacka på ägarnas dörr och be dem att skaffa lite vett eller lämna bort katten till någon som faktiskt fattar att utomhus, mitt i natten i -20 graders kyla, inte är rätta stället för en katt.
Jag undrar bara...
Varför ska djuren behöva lida för att vi människor är själviska idioter?!
Vi måste vara tillräckligt uppmärksamma för att kunna se hur våra djur mår.
Vi måste vara tillräckligt intelligenta och empatiska för att ge våra djur de absolut bästa förutsättningarna.
Vi måste inse att djuren, hur söta och gosedjursaktiga de än kan verka, är levande varelser som kan känna smärta, rädsla, lycka och allt däremellan. De kan bli hungriga, törstiga, de kan frysa, de kan få värmeslag. Ja, egentligen är väl det enda som skiljer oss från våra husdjur det faktum att vi råkar vara den art som var girigast, som tog för sig mer än vad vi kanske egentligen borde ha gjort. Vi har våra stora städer, vi har våra språk och vår teknik... Men inget av detta gör oss bättre än djuren, det ger oss inte rätt att behandla djur som mindre värda eller få för oss att de inte kan känna saker precis som vi.
Och vi har absolut ingen rätt att tro att lilla "Misse" kan klara sig helt på egen hand i en värld dominerad av människor, bilar och allt färre naturliga bytesdjur. "Misses" anfäder må ha klarat sig i det vilda, innan människorna började lägga asfalt, hugga ner skogen, bygga hus och allt möjligt annat som tog ifrån dem deras naturliga bomarker och bytesdjur. Men "Misse" är lika mycket en produkt av dagens människostyrda verklighet som ett människobarn.
"Misse" må kunna fånga möss något smidigare än en människobebis men var ska "Misse" hitta mössen nuförtiden? Och kunna äta dem utan att behöva dö en plågsam död på grund av förgiftning?
Precis som människobarn har dagens domesticerade (tama) djur liten chans att klara sig helt på egen hand i det "vilda". Och trots det verkar vi människor tar för givet att det gör ju inget om lilla "Misse" är utekatt mitt i ett bostadsområde omgivet av bilvägar, asfalterat och bebyggt både högt, lågt och brett. "Misse" klarar sig, det är ju ett djur, trots allt *tung sarkasm*.
Jag har inget emot att man har utekatter... så länge man bor så pass bra till att katten inte riskerar att bli påkörd så fort den sticker nosen utanför dörren. Så länge den har trygga skrymslen att söka skydd i när det är dåligt väder. Och framför allt så länge man är uppmärksam på när katten vill/behöver komma in, den har fräscht vatten och bra mat (en mus som den fångat räcker inte) och en varm plats inomhus när den behöver det.
Nu undrar ni kanske varför jag helt plötsligt väljer att skriva om detta? Ja, det beror på många orsaker.
Dels beror det på en av mina egan katters historia. Min lilla kisse, 3 år i år, kom till mig för ca 2 år sedan via Djurskyddet. Hon hade hittats övergiven i ett sommarstugeområde. Mest troligt var hon en av de otaliga stackars katter som hamnat hos okunniga människor som tänkte att "en liten katt för barnen att leka med i sommar är väl gulligt". Och när sommaren var över och familjen åkte hem till "verkligheten" ryckte de säkert bara på axlarna och tänkte: "Hon klarar sig själv. Hon är ju en katt". Och lilla Frida fick finna sig i att stå utelåst från en tom och mörk sommarstuga utan en aning om var hennes familj hade tagit vägen. Och hösten tog vid och sen kom vintern. Där var den lilla katten, mest troligt knappt några månader gammal, ensam, övergiven och tvingad att försöka klara sig. Hon överlevde vintern, hur vet jag inte och jag tror mitt hjärta skulle brista om jag faktiskt fick veta allt hon fått gå igenom. Hennes familj hade uppenbarligen ingen koll på katter och hon var okastrerad så, som brukar ske i naturen, den lilla katten, knappt mer än en kattunge själv, blev dräktig. Jag vet heller inte hur Djurskyddet hittade henne eller hur hon kom till dem men jag är än idag så oerhört tacksam för att de tog in henne.
När hon kom till mig såg hon inte ut att vara ens ett år gammal, jag hade gissat på knappt 6 månader om det inte varit för att hon uppenbarligen haft en kull ungar redan, och skyggade undan för ens hand när man ville klappa henne. Hennes beteende var som en kattunges. Hon hade inte lärt sig att tvätta sig ordentligt och hon förstod in hur hårt hon kunde bitas, jag vet än idag inte hur mycket av hennes bitande som var lek och vad som var försvar.
Idag är hon världens goaste lilla misse som älskar att hänga över min axel. Idag är hon också innekatt då jag inte bor på ett ställe där jag med gott samvete skulle våga låta henne springa lös.
En annan orsak till detta utbrott är något som hände nu inatt. Jag hade just börjat somna in då jag hör ett ynkligt litet jamande utanför fönstret. Jag kikar ut och där står en stackars katt och tittar bedjande upp på mig. Det är -20 grader och djupsnö ute, klockan är 4 på morgonen och alla sover för fullt. Det enda som står öppet där katten kan söka skydd är soprummet, som är totalt utkylt. Även om den är törstig är allt fruset, är den hungrig finns inget att äta och fryser den finns ingenstans att söka skydd. Katten har ett halsband så uppenbarligen är det nån som "äger" den. Och trots det står den här utanför mitt fönster och jamar... och jamar. Och det finns inget jag kan göra. Jag kan inte bara släppa in den till mig. Jag har två egna katter som skulle bli måttligt roade av att få gäster, milt sagt. Och utan att veta var katten egentligen hör hemma kan jag heller inte gå och knacka på ägarnas dörr och be dem att skaffa lite vett eller lämna bort katten till någon som faktiskt fattar att utomhus, mitt i natten i -20 graders kyla, inte är rätta stället för en katt.
Varför ska djuren behöva lida för att vi människor är själviska idioter?!
fredag 19 februari 2010
Another day of doing nothing useful
Let me just begin with commenting on the sensational fact that my neighbour doesn't seem to have had a party tonight. So I can leisurely listen to some nice Barry McGuire, T-rex and so on (the good music in my opinion... as opposed to the noise from next door that usually accompanies my Friday nights) while doing everything but what I should be doing.
I've mostly spent my day re-reading some manga (for those unfamiliar with this word it can, although not completely accurately, be described as Japanese comics). Now, the fact is that this is probably the umpteenth time I'm re-reading these particular series. However, I smoothly explain it with it being me "organising" them... in a nifty little list. All to make it easier for me to find them again for the next time I find a good reason to explain away my method of procrastinating through re-reading of course.
As most people have probably noticed (and probably a lot sooner than I did) it's the Olympics right now. I'm not much for watching sports. I used to be back in the days before the Swedish Hockey team started to disappoint me at every turn. Nowadays I'm too cynical, always waiting for them to screw up at the last minute, to actually give a damn about the individual matches. So I just check the results when they're out and shrug my shoulder. Or there's also the comfortable option of having friends who watch sports and willingly share the results...
For example, I got a nice summary of some of the highlights (and low-lights) in today's competitions, with focus on the Swedish competitors, from one of my friends and classmates. He's posted some nice comments on today's hockey game between Sweden and Belarus, among other things, on his blog for example.
Those of you who can read Swedish, I recommend you to check his blog out: http://www.marjon.st/
And now, let's leave sports for a while (it only reminds me of the fact that I should visit the gym but probably won't). This same friend brought back to memory the ordeal we had to go through last year around this time.
I'm studying journalism. And it's more or less tradition that the freshmen of journalism at our university put together a magazine of sorts, called Inkognito. It's funded by the student association of our faculty but we, the students, are more or less given free rein as to the content and layout of the magazine. However, last year (our year) the association decided they wanted a bit more say in it. So half of the magazine contained interviews and articles connected to the university and our student association. While the other half went black... As in black as a theme.
It was wicked fun to plan for it, but also incredibly stressful since we did it parallel with our regular studies. I got to write about Film Noir, an era within the movie business that's always interested me. But the best, and I guess the worst, part of making that magazine was the last few weeks before it was off to the printer's. It was me, doing layout and cursing over the proofreading, and two others, the chief editors, sitting there trying to do layout and put all the articles together into a nice-looking magazine. And the program we used froze every other minute or so throughout the layout and editing process. I'm just incredibly grateful that the ones I was working with were so great. Because otherwise I probably would've broken down into a nervous wreck. Thanks to trouble with the settings in our editing program we had to re-do the final copy two or three times to make it printable. I still vividly remember the message I got from one of the others after he had gone to the printers for the third time.
"It's done!" was all the message said (in Swedish though) and to me those few words felt like the same sort of miracle as some might view Moses parting the Red Sea in the Bible. It was like cutting a tightly wound rope that'd been pulling at my neck.
And yet, looking back at it right now (and yes, wishing we'd had more time to go over the proof-reading, grammar and text layout) it was, despite the stress and horror and frustration, probably one of the most fun things I've ever done. And the fact that I got free hands to design the front page of the magazine... Amazing! It was such fun and it really awakened my interest in graphic design and image editing.
In the end... It was a good experience and, considering how little time we had and all the problems we encountered, I think it still turned out quite well. It helped me get closer to a realisation of what I might want to do in the future.
So, bottom line(and link I guess): GO INKOGNITO! (Do respect the copyright, please)
(It's entirely in Swedish unfortunately. But for those who don't know Swedish... The frontpage I designed is nice to look at =D )
I've mostly spent my day re-reading some manga (for those unfamiliar with this word it can, although not completely accurately, be described as Japanese comics). Now, the fact is that this is probably the umpteenth time I'm re-reading these particular series. However, I smoothly explain it with it being me "organising" them... in a nifty little list. All to make it easier for me to find them again for the next time I find a good reason to explain away my method of procrastinating through re-reading of course.
As most people have probably noticed (and probably a lot sooner than I did) it's the Olympics right now. I'm not much for watching sports. I used to be back in the days before the Swedish Hockey team started to disappoint me at every turn. Nowadays I'm too cynical, always waiting for them to screw up at the last minute, to actually give a damn about the individual matches. So I just check the results when they're out and shrug my shoulder. Or there's also the comfortable option of having friends who watch sports and willingly share the results...
For example, I got a nice summary of some of the highlights (and low-lights) in today's competitions, with focus on the Swedish competitors, from one of my friends and classmates. He's posted some nice comments on today's hockey game between Sweden and Belarus, among other things, on his blog for example.
Those of you who can read Swedish, I recommend you to check his blog out: http://www.marjon.st/
And now, let's leave sports for a while (it only reminds me of the fact that I should visit the gym but probably won't). This same friend brought back to memory the ordeal we had to go through last year around this time.
I'm studying journalism. And it's more or less tradition that the freshmen of journalism at our university put together a magazine of sorts, called Inkognito. It's funded by the student association of our faculty but we, the students, are more or less given free rein as to the content and layout of the magazine. However, last year (our year) the association decided they wanted a bit more say in it. So half of the magazine contained interviews and articles connected to the university and our student association. While the other half went black... As in black as a theme.
It was wicked fun to plan for it, but also incredibly stressful since we did it parallel with our regular studies. I got to write about Film Noir, an era within the movie business that's always interested me. But the best, and I guess the worst, part of making that magazine was the last few weeks before it was off to the printer's. It was me, doing layout and cursing over the proofreading, and two others, the chief editors, sitting there trying to do layout and put all the articles together into a nice-looking magazine. And the program we used froze every other minute or so throughout the layout and editing process. I'm just incredibly grateful that the ones I was working with were so great. Because otherwise I probably would've broken down into a nervous wreck. Thanks to trouble with the settings in our editing program we had to re-do the final copy two or three times to make it printable. I still vividly remember the message I got from one of the others after he had gone to the printers for the third time.
"It's done!" was all the message said (in Swedish though) and to me those few words felt like the same sort of miracle as some might view Moses parting the Red Sea in the Bible. It was like cutting a tightly wound rope that'd been pulling at my neck.
And yet, looking back at it right now (and yes, wishing we'd had more time to go over the proof-reading, grammar and text layout) it was, despite the stress and horror and frustration, probably one of the most fun things I've ever done. And the fact that I got free hands to design the front page of the magazine... Amazing! It was such fun and it really awakened my interest in graphic design and image editing.
In the end... It was a good experience and, considering how little time we had and all the problems we encountered, I think it still turned out quite well. It helped me get closer to a realisation of what I might want to do in the future.
So, bottom line(and link I guess): GO INKOGNITO! (Do respect the copyright, please)
(It's entirely in Swedish unfortunately. But for those who don't know Swedish... The frontpage I designed is nice to look at =D )
torsdag 18 februari 2010
I'm great at studying!
Well, at least at making others study. Being me I am quite surprised that I did manage to actually do some semblance of studying at all yesterday.
However, my presence alone helped my sister study all the better. So, while I was actively procrastinating my studies, all too busy knitting my scarf that paradoxically enough brings to mind a lovely Jamaican air, she was tapping away on her computer. I must say... I do a helluva good job motivating others.
And when she felt she had studied enough I started making her search for various music on Spotify. Before long we were listening to some weird Rastafari shit, all in honour of my scarf-knitting of course.
We amicably ended the evening with some Weird Al Yankovich while my sister was scrambling to get ready for her Funk dance session at the gym. And I was procrastinating going out in the cold in order to go to the stables. For once, though, my procrastination failed me and I found myself shivering in the stable less than an hour later. Not to mention the fact that I almost froze my face off while taking the old horse for a walk. When will this winter end?
However, my presence alone helped my sister study all the better. So, while I was actively procrastinating my studies, all too busy knitting my scarf that paradoxically enough brings to mind a lovely Jamaican air, she was tapping away on her computer. I must say... I do a helluva good job motivating others.
And when she felt she had studied enough I started making her search for various music on Spotify. Before long we were listening to some weird Rastafari shit, all in honour of my scarf-knitting of course.
We amicably ended the evening with some Weird Al Yankovich while my sister was scrambling to get ready for her Funk dance session at the gym. And I was procrastinating going out in the cold in order to go to the stables. For once, though, my procrastination failed me and I found myself shivering in the stable less than an hour later. Not to mention the fact that I almost froze my face off while taking the old horse for a walk. When will this winter end?
tisdag 16 februari 2010
A slow day
Ever had one of those days when everything, and I mean everything, seems like an insurmountable chore, an endless trek through quicksand or a moon walk loop? Where every step feels like it's weighed down by buckets and more buckets of sticky mud and you wish you hadn't gotten out of bed to begin with?
I had one of those today. I woke up at 8 am, my head feeling like it was filled with those beans that are in beanie bags and my eyes seemed to feel rebellious, only opening halfway and then getting whiny and closing again... over and over. And of course my eyedrops had gone MIA during the last cleaning I did... about two weeks ago. I consider them lousy deserters in this ongoing war and as such I fully intend to place them before the Trash-can Tribunal whenever someone next catches sight of them.
It won't be me, since my eyes are glued shut, but I'm hoping the dust rats will cave in to my negotiation skills and undertake the task. Lately we've been in a stalemate, though. They haven't fully given in to my attempts at convincing them I mean them no harm. it could be because my vacuum cleaner are still standing in the middle of the kitchen area.
Anyway, as I was saying (before launching into this completely irrelevant speech about my failures as a negotiator) I had a slow day today. Did some studying, although my work with the thesis is the perfect definition of slow at the moment. I also spent most of it half-way slouched down in my bed, knitting a scarf that will most likely be ready in perfect time for the next ice age and watching Kill Bill, Moon Child and half of Pirates of the Caribbean (strategically skipping over the parts lacking either Johnny Depp or Geoffrey Rush since anything without them just sucks). Then I found myself slowly slipping further and further down in the bed and before I knew it I was in Dreamland along with a couple of vampires and hunting after some thing I have no idea what it was. I doubt the others knew either. And then I woke up, looked over at Allan bell's lovely book "The Language of News media" and promptly decided it was way past time to go to the stables.
And here I am now, back from one of the quickest stable visits I've ever been on, having no idea what to do with myself. I guess I'll look at the cover of "Language of News media" for a while longer and then crawl into bed.
I had one of those today. I woke up at 8 am, my head feeling like it was filled with those beans that are in beanie bags and my eyes seemed to feel rebellious, only opening halfway and then getting whiny and closing again... over and over. And of course my eyedrops had gone MIA during the last cleaning I did... about two weeks ago. I consider them lousy deserters in this ongoing war and as such I fully intend to place them before the Trash-can Tribunal whenever someone next catches sight of them.
It won't be me, since my eyes are glued shut, but I'm hoping the dust rats will cave in to my negotiation skills and undertake the task. Lately we've been in a stalemate, though. They haven't fully given in to my attempts at convincing them I mean them no harm. it could be because my vacuum cleaner are still standing in the middle of the kitchen area.
Anyway, as I was saying (before launching into this completely irrelevant speech about my failures as a negotiator) I had a slow day today. Did some studying, although my work with the thesis is the perfect definition of slow at the moment. I also spent most of it half-way slouched down in my bed, knitting a scarf that will most likely be ready in perfect time for the next ice age and watching Kill Bill, Moon Child and half of Pirates of the Caribbean (strategically skipping over the parts lacking either Johnny Depp or Geoffrey Rush since anything without them just sucks). Then I found myself slowly slipping further and further down in the bed and before I knew it I was in Dreamland along with a couple of vampires and hunting after some thing I have no idea what it was. I doubt the others knew either. And then I woke up, looked over at Allan bell's lovely book "The Language of News media" and promptly decided it was way past time to go to the stables.
And here I am now, back from one of the quickest stable visits I've ever been on, having no idea what to do with myself. I guess I'll look at the cover of "Language of News media" for a while longer and then crawl into bed.
måndag 15 februari 2010
It's a pain to be beautiful
Yes, today I managed to kill my feet.
I'm not a high heels person. I prefer street shoes, as flat as possible, and comfortable, loose-fitting clothes. And yet today, a completely regular Monday when I should be busy scheduling interviews, writing on my thesis or at least reading some of the literature for it... I donned my new jeans, which were tight enough to make my poor abused knee scream in utter pain, and my high heel boots. And then I bravely strode forth (well, more like planted myself behind the wheel to abuse my car since it's hell trying to shift gears with high heels) to go shopping... with money I shouldn't be using. Procrastination for the win, right?
Anyway, the "good" news is that I didn't actually end up buying anything (if you don't count a bottle of cola and a danish... and then some carrots and toilet paper). I did find some stuff I would love to buy but all of them were above my meager finances as things are right now. I also looked really good, although my shoe-induced duck-like wobble at the end of the shopping trip might or might not have lowered my level of beauty with a point or so. But still, considering I usually run around in sweat pants and formless turtle necks (all of it beautifully adorned with hay and horse hair... as well as some stylish tufts of cat's hair) I prefer to think that my beauty level was still way above average.
The thing with high heels is that, while you look damn good while wearing them, they successively break down the defence of your feet until it feels like every last bone is screaming in indescribable agony. If you think driving a car where you have to shift gears manually is hard just because you wear high heels, just wait until you've walked around in those heels until your feet are ready to go on a suicidal rampage and then try to drive a car with manual gears... It's the perfect illustration of how everything is relative, and how everything can always get worse. However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, even though it feels like everything is crashing down around you, your feet are throbbing like the worst tooth ache you've ever had, enhanced about 10 times.
The silver lining on the dark grey cloud that is beauty in high heels is when you get home and you can finally remove those devices of torture that are too terrifying to even be measured on a medieval scale. It's almost as if you can hear your feet pull a bones deep sigh of relief as they are finally allowed to reclaim their natural shape. And then sitting down, putting those poor, abused feet up on a stool... Ah, that's heaven right there.
Although my knee is still hurting...
I'm not a high heels person. I prefer street shoes, as flat as possible, and comfortable, loose-fitting clothes. And yet today, a completely regular Monday when I should be busy scheduling interviews, writing on my thesis or at least reading some of the literature for it... I donned my new jeans, which were tight enough to make my poor abused knee scream in utter pain, and my high heel boots. And then I bravely strode forth (well, more like planted myself behind the wheel to abuse my car since it's hell trying to shift gears with high heels) to go shopping... with money I shouldn't be using. Procrastination for the win, right?
Anyway, the "good" news is that I didn't actually end up buying anything (if you don't count a bottle of cola and a danish... and then some carrots and toilet paper). I did find some stuff I would love to buy but all of them were above my meager finances as things are right now. I also looked really good, although my shoe-induced duck-like wobble at the end of the shopping trip might or might not have lowered my level of beauty with a point or so. But still, considering I usually run around in sweat pants and formless turtle necks (all of it beautifully adorned with hay and horse hair... as well as some stylish tufts of cat's hair) I prefer to think that my beauty level was still way above average.
The thing with high heels is that, while you look damn good while wearing them, they successively break down the defence of your feet until it feels like every last bone is screaming in indescribable agony. If you think driving a car where you have to shift gears manually is hard just because you wear high heels, just wait until you've walked around in those heels until your feet are ready to go on a suicidal rampage and then try to drive a car with manual gears... It's the perfect illustration of how everything is relative, and how everything can always get worse. However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, even though it feels like everything is crashing down around you, your feet are throbbing like the worst tooth ache you've ever had, enhanced about 10 times.
The silver lining on the dark grey cloud that is beauty in high heels is when you get home and you can finally remove those devices of torture that are too terrifying to even be measured on a medieval scale. It's almost as if you can hear your feet pull a bones deep sigh of relief as they are finally allowed to reclaim their natural shape. And then sitting down, putting those poor, abused feet up on a stool... Ah, that's heaven right there.
Although my knee is still hurting...
fredag 12 februari 2010
Self-destructive but happy nonetheless
Today I gallantly managed to fuck up one of my knees. I fucked the other one up last winter (and lost my precious hot dog and mashed potato dish at the same time!) when I slipped on some ice. So I guess it must be because I'm Libra and want balance in my life. I can't go around with just one lousy knee, can I now? So, after having managed to procrastinate it, as is my habit in all things concerning life, for almost a full year, today I subconsciously decided to deal with it.
Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't a conscious decision at all, it just sort of happened.
I was off to my stable to fetch some extra feed for my horse who is currently stabled at another place during the renovations. I managed to, surprisingly skilfully at that, avoid the saw bench, three huge planks, some extension cords and even a hay bag or two hiding in the deep shadows on my way into the stable. However, since I subconsciously always strive for balance, when I went to fetch the last bucket of feed I suddenly, in the semi-darkness, felt an evil chill of apprehension along my spine. I suspect it was my subconscious finally kicking in because next thing I know I'm practically ambushed by a sneaky wooden plank which ensnared my feet and me fall heedlessly forward. Now, as you all know, one's body tend to try and correct the situation on its own around that specific moment... and most often screws up royally, as in this case. I barely had time to think: "Oh fuck!" when I felt the bone-chilling, nauseating sensation of a knee hitting a concrete floor with full force, while the attached ankle and foot were still struggling with the sneaky plank. Needless to say I cursed a bit, came to my feet and limped out of there, trying to retain some small measure of my badly bruised pride.
Let's see if it's my pride or my knee that'll be the most colourful come morning. At least I now have two busted knees instead of just one. I guess that makes me greedy, eh?
Now I'm going to go and do what I do best... I'm going to wallow in self-pity.
Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't a conscious decision at all, it just sort of happened.
I was off to my stable to fetch some extra feed for my horse who is currently stabled at another place during the renovations. I managed to, surprisingly skilfully at that, avoid the saw bench, three huge planks, some extension cords and even a hay bag or two hiding in the deep shadows on my way into the stable. However, since I subconsciously always strive for balance, when I went to fetch the last bucket of feed I suddenly, in the semi-darkness, felt an evil chill of apprehension along my spine. I suspect it was my subconscious finally kicking in because next thing I know I'm practically ambushed by a sneaky wooden plank which ensnared my feet and me fall heedlessly forward. Now, as you all know, one's body tend to try and correct the situation on its own around that specific moment... and most often screws up royally, as in this case. I barely had time to think: "Oh fuck!" when I felt the bone-chilling, nauseating sensation of a knee hitting a concrete floor with full force, while the attached ankle and foot were still struggling with the sneaky plank. Needless to say I cursed a bit, came to my feet and limped out of there, trying to retain some small measure of my badly bruised pride.
Let's see if it's my pride or my knee that'll be the most colourful come morning. At least I now have two busted knees instead of just one. I guess that makes me greedy, eh?
Now I'm going to go and do what I do best... I'm going to wallow in self-pity.
torsdag 11 februari 2010
Another annoying night
Maybe I should rename this blog "The rants of an annoying Neighbour's blog".
It's 2:42 am on a Thursday night... And guess who's so graciously granting me the fine favour of lusciously adorning my, up until now, peaceful night with heavy base beats, some crappy wannabe gangster singing (well more like talking with some quite unnatural wailing in between) about the same old same old... Fast money, sexy booties and shiny cars, all slapped together to the same old beat one's heard in more songs than I care to remember if I'm to retain my sanity. Seems like the lyricists are making good money with their copying machines these days.
It's always nice to know they're not breaking their backs trying to come up with innovative and original lyrics for the volley of artists with more money and good PR people than talent or originality waiting for their mass produced chain-mails. And my my, what a delightful surprise to see that my neighbour's taste in music is consistent bordering on manic. As long as he and the likes of him are around those artists won't have to worry about people with actual quality demands on the music industry threatening to throw them out of their humble XXX room houses. And most likely they won't have to worry about their over-pimped cars being reclaimed and pitifully sold off to people with more money than taste.
It's always good to know the world stays the same if I may say so, sarcastic and caustic as I may feel at this certain point in time. Quantity wins over quality and there are always inconsiderate idiots without a sliver of regard or thought for the people who might not share their taste in certain areas of life.
And I've long ago reached a point where I honestly can't find the energy, nor respect, to actually go over and ask my neighbour to shut the hell up. I've done that enough times already, tearing my hair and having to hear that little twerp mouth back at me when I reminded him that some people actually like a bit of quiet in the wee hours of weekday nights.
I've long since given up on fretting over the fact that he just cranks up the volume at weekends. That's the fine part of living in a student-infested area. Weekends are parties all over, although most of them actually have the good sense and inventiveness to relocate to more suitable locations before the clock strikes midnight. I wonder if a casual mention of the clubs around town would bring about an at least moderately favourable response. I doubt it though but, even as sanity and good nature flees more for each night I hear that shit, one cannot help but hold a slight sliver of hope for mankind. Even in the face of the chilling realisation that mankind has been going to hell in a hand basket for years.
And now I shall cease my depressing rant. I sound like a 90 y/o hag in her rocking chair scowling at the youth of today.
It's 2:42 am on a Thursday night... And guess who's so graciously granting me the fine favour of lusciously adorning my, up until now, peaceful night with heavy base beats, some crappy wannabe gangster singing (well more like talking with some quite unnatural wailing in between) about the same old same old... Fast money, sexy booties and shiny cars, all slapped together to the same old beat one's heard in more songs than I care to remember if I'm to retain my sanity. Seems like the lyricists are making good money with their copying machines these days.
It's always nice to know they're not breaking their backs trying to come up with innovative and original lyrics for the volley of artists with more money and good PR people than talent or originality waiting for their mass produced chain-mails. And my my, what a delightful surprise to see that my neighbour's taste in music is consistent bordering on manic. As long as he and the likes of him are around those artists won't have to worry about people with actual quality demands on the music industry threatening to throw them out of their humble XXX room houses. And most likely they won't have to worry about their over-pimped cars being reclaimed and pitifully sold off to people with more money than taste.
It's always good to know the world stays the same if I may say so, sarcastic and caustic as I may feel at this certain point in time. Quantity wins over quality and there are always inconsiderate idiots without a sliver of regard or thought for the people who might not share their taste in certain areas of life.
And I've long ago reached a point where I honestly can't find the energy, nor respect, to actually go over and ask my neighbour to shut the hell up. I've done that enough times already, tearing my hair and having to hear that little twerp mouth back at me when I reminded him that some people actually like a bit of quiet in the wee hours of weekday nights.
I've long since given up on fretting over the fact that he just cranks up the volume at weekends. That's the fine part of living in a student-infested area. Weekends are parties all over, although most of them actually have the good sense and inventiveness to relocate to more suitable locations before the clock strikes midnight. I wonder if a casual mention of the clubs around town would bring about an at least moderately favourable response. I doubt it though but, even as sanity and good nature flees more for each night I hear that shit, one cannot help but hold a slight sliver of hope for mankind. Even in the face of the chilling realisation that mankind has been going to hell in a hand basket for years.
And now I shall cease my depressing rant. I sound like a 90 y/o hag in her rocking chair scowling at the youth of today.
tisdag 9 februari 2010
Pets
Why do we keep pets? Even though we know there will be a time, always too soon, when we will have to say goodbye to them?
Today my mother took one of their cats to the vet since he'd been sluggish and weak. I've had my fair share of visits to the vet myself lately, what with the older cat having problems with her thyroid gland (she's going to have to eat medicine every other day for the rest of her life) and the little one have chronic renal failure, most likely caused by unfortunate genes, which means we have no idea for how long she will live. So I know all too painfully well how one's mind works in situations like those. And of course, one always holds on to that tiny sliver of hope that maybe it's not something incurable. One checks the pet all the time, flitting back and forth, worrying, thinking: "Oh, he/she drank a bit of water" or "He/she is at least eating" and hopes that that means they're not beyond help. One lays awake every night, listening tensely for any kind of sound that might be out of the ordinary.
But in the end, the problem with cats is that they're not usually ones to show when they feel ill. Not until things have become so serious it'll almost take a miracle to cure it. And... miracles are hard to come by, despite increasingly skilful vets and better methods and research.
In the case of my parents' cat... It turns out he had a huge tumour in the liver. It can be treated, much alike how one treats tumours in humans. But the treatment is often painful and hard for the cat. Sometimes one has to weigh the well-being of the pet against one's own desires. If you really love a pet you have to be prepared to do what's best for the pet, not what will make you feel best. And for an 8 years old cat, already weakened by the illness itself, the best decision for the cat might not be to put it through the pain of chemotherapy and medicines in absurdum. Sometimes the cure can be worse than the disease. My mother chose to do what she thought would be best for the cat, she let it move on. He won't have to feel any pain, won't be weak or ill any longer. He'll be better off wherever he is now.
It's us humans who are left with the pain of losing him. But at least, hopefully, we can find some comfort in thinking that we did what was best for our beloved pet. It's hard to lose them, even when we know we will someday. But still, even if losing them makes you feel like your heart is being ripped to pieces, you know that for what it's worth you were strong enough to make the best decision and not selfishly cling to the need to keep them by your side. Instead of cursing the fact that you have lost them, you have to be grateful for the time you had with them, no matter how long or short that time is.
Animals give unselfishly of themselves and love us unconditionally. The least we can do is to give back what we get, give them the same amount that they give us and always keep their happiness and well-being in mind.
And here, too far away for me to be able to hug my mother tightly and tell her these things, a candle is burning for the cat we all loved and whose life we will cry for losing. But most of all, that candle is burning for the ones of us who are left behind.
I hope you're having fun at the Rainbow Bridge, baby!
http://www.indigo.org/rainbow/
EDIT: I noticed Rufus's birth date is wrong. He was born in 2002, not 2001 as the picture above says.
Today my mother took one of their cats to the vet since he'd been sluggish and weak. I've had my fair share of visits to the vet myself lately, what with the older cat having problems with her thyroid gland (she's going to have to eat medicine every other day for the rest of her life) and the little one have chronic renal failure, most likely caused by unfortunate genes, which means we have no idea for how long she will live. So I know all too painfully well how one's mind works in situations like those. And of course, one always holds on to that tiny sliver of hope that maybe it's not something incurable. One checks the pet all the time, flitting back and forth, worrying, thinking: "Oh, he/she drank a bit of water" or "He/she is at least eating" and hopes that that means they're not beyond help. One lays awake every night, listening tensely for any kind of sound that might be out of the ordinary.
But in the end, the problem with cats is that they're not usually ones to show when they feel ill. Not until things have become so serious it'll almost take a miracle to cure it. And... miracles are hard to come by, despite increasingly skilful vets and better methods and research.
In the case of my parents' cat... It turns out he had a huge tumour in the liver. It can be treated, much alike how one treats tumours in humans. But the treatment is often painful and hard for the cat. Sometimes one has to weigh the well-being of the pet against one's own desires. If you really love a pet you have to be prepared to do what's best for the pet, not what will make you feel best. And for an 8 years old cat, already weakened by the illness itself, the best decision for the cat might not be to put it through the pain of chemotherapy and medicines in absurdum. Sometimes the cure can be worse than the disease. My mother chose to do what she thought would be best for the cat, she let it move on. He won't have to feel any pain, won't be weak or ill any longer. He'll be better off wherever he is now.
It's us humans who are left with the pain of losing him. But at least, hopefully, we can find some comfort in thinking that we did what was best for our beloved pet. It's hard to lose them, even when we know we will someday. But still, even if losing them makes you feel like your heart is being ripped to pieces, you know that for what it's worth you were strong enough to make the best decision and not selfishly cling to the need to keep them by your side. Instead of cursing the fact that you have lost them, you have to be grateful for the time you had with them, no matter how long or short that time is.
Animals give unselfishly of themselves and love us unconditionally. The least we can do is to give back what we get, give them the same amount that they give us and always keep their happiness and well-being in mind.
And here, too far away for me to be able to hug my mother tightly and tell her these things, a candle is burning for the cat we all loved and whose life we will cry for losing. But most of all, that candle is burning for the ones of us who are left behind.
Rest in peace, Rufus
I hope you're having fun at the Rainbow Bridge, baby!
http://www.indigo.org/rainbow/
EDIT: I noticed Rufus's birth date is wrong. He was born in 2002, not 2001 as the picture above says.
måndag 8 februari 2010
On the subject of service
Today I met what might possibly be one of the rudest cashiers ever. He should've been forced to attend Boot Camp for people in the service industry. Not only did he glare at me as if he'd caught me stealing when I came up to the register, he then proceeded to yawn, angrily punch in the codes for the things I was buying (hard enough so that I started to wonder if cash registers could file a complaint of physical abuse), sighing so heavily I had to wonder if he was actually having an asthma attack and never once looked me in the eye. When he handed me my things he just stared emptily into the air above my shoulder, almost throwing the things I'd bought at me. And then he immediately turned away from me and started studying the cigarettes while talking to his co-worker. not even as much as a "have a nice day" or "Thank you". If I ever act like that during my part time job as a cashier... please someone drag me out back and shoot me. That is no way to behave in front of customers.
And now on to another aspect of service. Today I visited the stable my horse will temporarily move to while our stable is undergoing the facelift from Hell (seen from the stable's point of view and in regards to what it will have to suffer through before the renovation is done). Not only is the other stable practically just across the road from our stable, but my horse will also get a huge stall that could've easily fitted two of him in it. He will spend his days in a nice enclosure surrounded by mares and won't be disturbed by the others at night since the only stall neighbouring his is only inhabited by two small rabbits. And from the human point of view... They've got feeding machines that you just load up with the concentrated feeding. And then at a set time of day those machines open, neatly disposing the correct amount of feed into the horse's food crib. As for the hay, they just load it onto a wagon and feed the horses. They've also got a really nice rest area for the humans and a WC just outside the rest area (toilets are otherwise scarce in stables). It seems to be a very nice stable and I'm sure my horse will like it there, self-proclaimed Casanova and King of the Hill as he is. Still, despite all this, it's going to be really nice to get back to our renovated stable afterwards. Because, after all, our stable is our stable, our home. And you know what they say "There's no place like home".
Additional Update:
I've always thought hating was a waste of energy... but my neighbour is doing a good job of making me reconsider. It's midnight, on a friggin' Monday... and the shithead is playing his shitty crap music high enough to make it feel like even my walls are vibrating. God, if only I had an axe right now... *slams head against wall*
And now on to another aspect of service. Today I visited the stable my horse will temporarily move to while our stable is undergoing the facelift from Hell (seen from the stable's point of view and in regards to what it will have to suffer through before the renovation is done). Not only is the other stable practically just across the road from our stable, but my horse will also get a huge stall that could've easily fitted two of him in it. He will spend his days in a nice enclosure surrounded by mares and won't be disturbed by the others at night since the only stall neighbouring his is only inhabited by two small rabbits. And from the human point of view... They've got feeding machines that you just load up with the concentrated feeding. And then at a set time of day those machines open, neatly disposing the correct amount of feed into the horse's food crib. As for the hay, they just load it onto a wagon and feed the horses. They've also got a really nice rest area for the humans and a WC just outside the rest area (toilets are otherwise scarce in stables). It seems to be a very nice stable and I'm sure my horse will like it there, self-proclaimed Casanova and King of the Hill as he is. Still, despite all this, it's going to be really nice to get back to our renovated stable afterwards. Because, after all, our stable is our stable, our home. And you know what they say "There's no place like home".
Additional Update:
I've always thought hating was a waste of energy... but my neighbour is doing a good job of making me reconsider. It's midnight, on a friggin' Monday... and the shithead is playing his shitty crap music high enough to make it feel like even my walls are vibrating. God, if only I had an axe right now... *slams head against wall*
söndag 7 februari 2010
Procrastination level going up
And so we begin a new week... A week when I hopefully will get around to doing the stuff I should've been doing last week.
I've got the introduction for my thesis to work on, I need to burrow down in the archives and read a load of articles. I also need to go through the 15+ books lying at the floor by my desk, resembling a bag of angry rattlesnakes more and more for every day. And I also need to hunt down those elusive and mystical journalists that I need for my interviews on the journalistic language.
Why is it that I can never do anything useful unless I'm under incredible stress (as in 4 hrs before deadline of a 40 page thesis-type of stress)? I guess it's human nature to want to procrastinate. Don't do today what you can do tomorrow, even if doing it tomorrow will give you a nervous breakdown because it's too late.
I really envy those people who can set up a schedule for what they have to do and when to do it... and then actually manages to follow that schedule. I'm the stereotypical messy, creative personality. I'm always flitting about doing nothing of any use until reality comes to bite my ass and I manage to pull through in the last second (kinda like how Hollywood heroes always manages to find the right wire to disarm the bomb a fraction of a second before it's going to blow up). I'll probably end up chewing Valium before I turn 30. Then again, chocolate is a much nicer way to handle stress. However, then the added stress of exercise rears its ugly head, grins madly at me and waves a medical pamphlet about clogged up veins and heart attacks in my face. It seems life wasn't designed to be easy for the lazy...
And yet humanity continues to try and find the next wonder-product that'll allow us to be even more lazy. And then they air the commercial about how you can work from home with computers, never having to leave your house if you want to, right in between commercials for various training exercises and diets. Is that irony or what?
In any case, this lazy Swede will have to get a grip soon enough. After all, my thesis allows me to legitimately play the language fascist. Which I am so pathetically good at.
I've got the introduction for my thesis to work on, I need to burrow down in the archives and read a load of articles. I also need to go through the 15+ books lying at the floor by my desk, resembling a bag of angry rattlesnakes more and more for every day. And I also need to hunt down those elusive and mystical journalists that I need for my interviews on the journalistic language.
Why is it that I can never do anything useful unless I'm under incredible stress (as in 4 hrs before deadline of a 40 page thesis-type of stress)? I guess it's human nature to want to procrastinate. Don't do today what you can do tomorrow, even if doing it tomorrow will give you a nervous breakdown because it's too late.
I really envy those people who can set up a schedule for what they have to do and when to do it... and then actually manages to follow that schedule. I'm the stereotypical messy, creative personality. I'm always flitting about doing nothing of any use until reality comes to bite my ass and I manage to pull through in the last second (kinda like how Hollywood heroes always manages to find the right wire to disarm the bomb a fraction of a second before it's going to blow up). I'll probably end up chewing Valium before I turn 30. Then again, chocolate is a much nicer way to handle stress. However, then the added stress of exercise rears its ugly head, grins madly at me and waves a medical pamphlet about clogged up veins and heart attacks in my face. It seems life wasn't designed to be easy for the lazy...
And yet humanity continues to try and find the next wonder-product that'll allow us to be even more lazy. And then they air the commercial about how you can work from home with computers, never having to leave your house if you want to, right in between commercials for various training exercises and diets. Is that irony or what?
In any case, this lazy Swede will have to get a grip soon enough. After all, my thesis allows me to legitimately play the language fascist. Which I am so pathetically good at.
lördag 6 februari 2010
Dreams
It's coming close to the time when I have to face the world head on. I'm on my last semester at the university and after that it's all a blank slate.
To me it seems that journalists are about the only working category that never retires. Rather it's more like the older you get the more interesting you become, since you have experience, you're an "old fox" of journalism. Which kind of puts us young ones in the cold. I read somewhere that here in Sweden there are way more students of journalism graduating from their studies than the various sources of media (newspapers, TV, radio and so on) can ever employ. Somehow that's a rather sobering thought.
Don't get me wrong, I don't regret even for one moment that I chose to study journalism. Writing is what I like to do and what I hope I'm good at, but it's still scary to not know where my future will take me. When I started my studies in cultural journalism our teachers made sure to point out that we had to expect to do only freelance work for at least three years after graduating. And then comes the thought: "What if I can't do it? What if I simply can't manage to claw my way in as a freelance writer? What if my writing's not good enough, my senses and instincts too weak?". But at the same time I know those are the things I cannot think about. It won't do me any good to stress out over it. Rather it's like that NIKE-commercial: "Just do it!".
Either way, all of this has made me really think about dreams. What do I really want to do with my life? What do I wish to make of myself and how should I go about it?
And I've come to a few, albeit rather frustrating, realisations.
Firstly, I'm not even sure I want to work with cultural journalism. I much prefer the variation of regular news journalism. Secondly, I feel myself leaning more and more towards more graphically challenging areas, like editor, art director or even within marketing. And lastly, I want to travel abroad. I don't want to remain here in Sweden for the rest of my life. But... if it's hard finding work for a Swedish Journalism student here in Sweden I can only imagine what it would be like to try and wrestle myself into the media of other countries.
It's a tough world out there and though it is a good thing to have dreams, sometimes it's just frustrating the hell out of me not knowing when or if I can ever realise even a part of those dreams.
To me it seems that journalists are about the only working category that never retires. Rather it's more like the older you get the more interesting you become, since you have experience, you're an "old fox" of journalism. Which kind of puts us young ones in the cold. I read somewhere that here in Sweden there are way more students of journalism graduating from their studies than the various sources of media (newspapers, TV, radio and so on) can ever employ. Somehow that's a rather sobering thought.
Don't get me wrong, I don't regret even for one moment that I chose to study journalism. Writing is what I like to do and what I hope I'm good at, but it's still scary to not know where my future will take me. When I started my studies in cultural journalism our teachers made sure to point out that we had to expect to do only freelance work for at least three years after graduating. And then comes the thought: "What if I can't do it? What if I simply can't manage to claw my way in as a freelance writer? What if my writing's not good enough, my senses and instincts too weak?". But at the same time I know those are the things I cannot think about. It won't do me any good to stress out over it. Rather it's like that NIKE-commercial: "Just do it!".
Either way, all of this has made me really think about dreams. What do I really want to do with my life? What do I wish to make of myself and how should I go about it?
And I've come to a few, albeit rather frustrating, realisations.
Firstly, I'm not even sure I want to work with cultural journalism. I much prefer the variation of regular news journalism. Secondly, I feel myself leaning more and more towards more graphically challenging areas, like editor, art director or even within marketing. And lastly, I want to travel abroad. I don't want to remain here in Sweden for the rest of my life. But... if it's hard finding work for a Swedish Journalism student here in Sweden I can only imagine what it would be like to try and wrestle myself into the media of other countries.
It's a tough world out there and though it is a good thing to have dreams, sometimes it's just frustrating the hell out of me not knowing when or if I can ever realise even a part of those dreams.
fredag 5 februari 2010
Group pressure vs Cat 1-0
Everybody seems to be blogging these days. So who am I to play the rebel? Even though I have no idea what to write, how to write, which language to write in or even if I should spread my words where unsuspecting souls might stumble upon them...
"I blog therefore I am" or something such seems to be the theme of our generation.
Today we had another one of those oh so lovely winter days here in northern Sweden. I'm talking about snow dust and so much ice the Swedish national hockey league would've been able to practise comfortably. And, of course, idiots in expensive tin cans thinking that absolutely everyone drives cars with anti-spin and ABS-breaks. It was moderately amusing to drive along the E4 highway surrounded by people whose lives are so important that they happily risk everything and everyone just to get home half a minute earlier than they would've if they'd driven sensibly. Apparently it's crucial to spare that half of a minute on Fridays.
Anyway, I managed to drive home from the stables physically, if not mentally, unharmed. I guess I can view that as a small victory in a very large war.
As most of you probably have noticed way before I did it's Friday today, at least here in Sweden. And poor student that I am I will spend yet another Friday night mooching off the alcohol fumes that, like a dark menacing cloud on the horizon of my mental peace, are leaking out from my neighbour's apartment. I've said it before and will most likely say it again...
Once upon a time I used to dislike R'n'B. Then came my neighbour. And now, whenever I hear that specific brand of music, I am overcome with a desperate urge to grab the closest axe, rush outside and swing it mindlessly at anything and anyone in my vicinity. Preferably that anyone would be my neighbour but I'm not picky. Once I'd tired myself out with this quite counter-productive activity I would then crawl into a dark corner and rock back and forth, sobbing pathetically while muttering that 50 Cent told me to do it.
It'll be quite interesting to see where tomorrow finds me.
"I blog therefore I am" or something such seems to be the theme of our generation.
Today we had another one of those oh so lovely winter days here in northern Sweden. I'm talking about snow dust and so much ice the Swedish national hockey league would've been able to practise comfortably. And, of course, idiots in expensive tin cans thinking that absolutely everyone drives cars with anti-spin and ABS-breaks. It was moderately amusing to drive along the E4 highway surrounded by people whose lives are so important that they happily risk everything and everyone just to get home half a minute earlier than they would've if they'd driven sensibly. Apparently it's crucial to spare that half of a minute on Fridays.
Anyway, I managed to drive home from the stables physically, if not mentally, unharmed. I guess I can view that as a small victory in a very large war.
As most of you probably have noticed way before I did it's Friday today, at least here in Sweden. And poor student that I am I will spend yet another Friday night mooching off the alcohol fumes that, like a dark menacing cloud on the horizon of my mental peace, are leaking out from my neighbour's apartment. I've said it before and will most likely say it again...
Once upon a time I used to dislike R'n'B. Then came my neighbour. And now, whenever I hear that specific brand of music, I am overcome with a desperate urge to grab the closest axe, rush outside and swing it mindlessly at anything and anyone in my vicinity. Preferably that anyone would be my neighbour but I'm not picky. Once I'd tired myself out with this quite counter-productive activity I would then crawl into a dark corner and rock back and forth, sobbing pathetically while muttering that 50 Cent told me to do it.
It'll be quite interesting to see where tomorrow finds me.
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