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hannah park
06 February 2010 @ 07:21 pm
My Chinese Horoscope predictionsCollapse ) is alarmingly in tune with my own secret hopes for myself. even the shit about my love life isn't as wrong as it ought to be - such as it is (which is to say none-existant), my love life is very much on track right now(which is to say it is none-existant). so far in my life I've always had the greatest potential for happiness when I'm not tethered to some irksome individual who makes demands on my time and says dumb shit like 'I didn't come round to watch you do the washing up' which is thinly veiled code for 'I'm horny and you're not paying me enough attention. what's the point of having a girlfriend if not for guarunteed sex and admiration on-tap?'. What indeed? I assume that there are men out there who don't see the comfort and security of a long-term relationship as a worn out bean bag for them to sprawl all over in dirty underwear as they munch reconstituted yellow after a hard days gaming, but only in the way I assume that I am made of atoms, Africa exists and despite appearances stars are huger and hotter than anything I will ever encounter in my life. All are 'facts' of which I have no first hand certifiable proof due mainly (indeed I must assume entirely) to being unqualified in the art of their proving, but which I am certain are as true as anything can be or else how explain the world around me?
There are many people for whom their significant other plays a positive central and supporting role in their lives. Ruling out a mass diagnosis of all relationships as the pairing-off of the desperately delusional and insecure with the grandly delusional and egotistical, it must be concluded that some of these balanced, personable types of both gender are really out there, walking around and functioning...like...functional people - Golly i've the strongest sense of déja-vu so I'm off x
hannah park
22 January 2010 @ 10:33 pm
Buffing up on the end of days as you do...two minutes into my research and this bloke tells me: "we hear almost daily from people of all ages...deeply concerned, truly frightened that they will not live into their teen years or into adulthood"

Yes. But people who fear not reaching thirteen before the end of 2012 were probably born this century. Most of them have yet to reach double figures. We call them children and they may also fear ghosts, dinosaurs and not touching a particular set of railings the correct number of times. The scary thing is that in an increasingly illiterate and attention-deficient world there is a significant subset of pre-teens, among them possibly even very young children, who have been raised with the patience and presence of mind required to sit and write a letter addressing their concerns about our planet but a value system so skewed that their concerns are the all-consuming fires of a vengeful god. So far, so normal in a depressingly Bible-belt/Amish kind of way, but then rather than run with their handwritten prayers to whichever Bible-bashing kinsman brought them up so good'n'God-fearin', the adult they feel is best equipped to assuage their fears is a TV evangelist who looks like a photofit for the ageing lovechild of The Demon Headmaster and Andrew Marr. Actually, a combination of youth-orientated hypnotism and reasoned reportage might be both an apt description of the tactics of the popular religious-right and a disturbingly understandable source of succour for a frightened child. Still, I'm barely 90 seconds in and I've already found this much cud to chew. For my own sake I will watch no more. Suffice to say it was never going to change my mind, but on the offchance the world does end in 2012, bags England the Celebratory Apocalympic Games.
hannah park
17 January 2010 @ 06:45 pm
"I thought I was really funny; I mean, I thought I was Robin Williams"

Taken literally, it sounds like the kind of mental health issue the man himself might bring to our screens with touching hilarity. It's certainly conceivable that someone with delusions of being Robin Williams would find themselves hilarious, and if this statement documents a chapter in the speaker's history of mental illness I am not qualified to comment. If on the other hand the intended implication is that 'really funny' and Robin Williams are synonymous, I might have some idea where the gig went wrong.

N.B. To be fair I've never seen his stand-up. To be ignorantly bigoted (as people of my craniotype always are) I've never forgiven him Patch Adams.

N.B.Q. (Nota bene quoque) I know whenever I put pen to paper (digits to plastic; words on record) I end up sounding like a smug, second-rate, middle-aged male newspaper columnist, wherein I also sound like I think I'm a card and a half and snide to boot. This is a facet of my hypocrisy I have yet to polish to perfect transparency* but rest assured I am working on it.

*to date any attempt simply to remove particular flaws in pursuit of self-improvement has failed at best, and more often than not backfired completely. In light of this I have ceded their place in my constitution and am focusing instead on refining them to the point at which they can no longer be seen.
hannah park
15 January 2010 @ 02:59 pm
You are driving through a tunnel. There has been a collision and the car in front is on fire and blocking the road. What should you do?

Not a difficult question to answer when the arbiter of 'should'is the dsa and the only code of conduct to apply is the highway code. On these terms I should switch on hazard warning lights.

Because obviously the driver in the car behind me will have no other way of knowing he* is heading down a low-lit tunnel towards a petrol-fuelled inferno than by my timely application of my hazard lights. Lucky for him I know my highway code. Not so lucky for me though - of the three examples of what you 'shouldn't' do, I lean towards 'Overtake and continue as quickly as you can', although obviously these things are contextual and I am more than willing to 'Stop, then reverse out of the tunnel' if it seems possible. It's not that I won't put my hazard lights on first, it's just that personally I don't feel that this is provision enough for my own preservation in the circumstances. I would be very grateful if, as well as the textbook answer and the implication that any obvious attempts to save my own as-yet-unsinged skin would be ill-advised, the dsa or any sufficiently qualified motoring body would provide me with a few real suggestions for what to do when I find myself at the head of a queue of gas-tanks on wheels forming a sheltered yet well-ventilated line behind a flaming roadblock.
Jack Bauer would know, which seems as good a reason as any to abandon theory practice for today and revisit the better seasons of 24***. au revoir, or, for a continental sendoff more appropriate to the flaming-wreckage/action-hero mash-up herein, hasta la vista.

*I imagine that the dsa imagine, thought they are well-trained enough not to say so, that any arbitrarilly selected, anonymous 'driver' will be male. As Quango lackeys** this is not something they necessarily believe actively, if only because as quackeys active belief is often beyond them, rather it is something they can't help but assume innately.

**new word: Quackeys. Conveys also the distinct wiff of charlatanism that emanates from any thriving hive of bureaucracy.
N.B. Quackey refers generally to one among the mid or upper echelons of a hive; that is to say a lackey to the very ethos of the organisation rather than an innocent wage slave. Hence they have the power to make executive decisions outside protocol based on their own common sense if necessary, but evidently what passes for common sense among them is in total accordance with protocol anyway. To revisit an old theme, if the underlings are caged and pinioned birds who dream of flight, they are the free range chickens outside scratching beedily around on the ground (for salt to rub in the wound, if you want the full melodramatically mixed metaphor)

***although actually not; that is how sad I am - I pretend I spend my days rewatching trashy tv on the internet. In reality I enjoy theory practice; its facile predictability provides both instant gratification to my inner swot and succour to my compulsive tendencies. Furthermore any deviation from this will be in the direction of pesticide-auditing or the cross-trainer. As an agnostic I don't hold firm beliefs on the constitution of Hell, but Life is undoubtedly Other People.
hannah park
08 January 2010 @ 04:27 pm
Good old iplayer is keeping me company as I work. I will make a proper new year's foray into LJ at some point - take a look at my friends page for a start - in the meantime I apologise for posting so much, I don't mean to make a habit of it but having been ill, then snowed in, then ill again from going out in the snow and now snowed in again and not stupid enough to drag myself four miles into town for the slim chance of a cup of coffee and a chat with someone who may or may not be around* knowing that all I am likely to get from the exertion is another cold or worse: earache. Anyway, in the meantime I'm listening to radio plays and firing sporadic bursts of 'contemplation' into the ether. This particular reading, though not necessarily the best of the bunch, ended on a really satisfying note for pun-lovers - the hitherto doubt-filled protagonist, upon finally deciding what he wants to do and being equally certain only of his imminent apprehension, states that he is filled with 'the happiness of conviction'.
I can only surmise that the adolescent glow of smartypants pleasure I derive from such obvious, matchy-matchy use of double-entendre to convey depth of meaning is symptomatic of arrested development caused by my traumatic fall from academic grace circa AS-level. It's about the kind of thing you might get a pat on the back for pointing out at that age, properly contextualised and nicely presented. Not so relevant now, but as long as I'm failing to move on I might as well note small pleasures for personal posterity.

* in case that sounds like a veiled reference with overtones of nark to you hel it most certainly is not :) rather I've had lots of vague invites to meet friends of friends maybe which come to nowt or at least not enough to merit making myself ill again.
hannah park
Because I am a little obsessive about where the things I actually buy come from I just watched this video. Interesting and reassuring to a degree that depends on how concerned you were in the first place, but its overall effect in my case was to make me consider the possibility that in fact the fate of any chicken is heartrending when contemplated. I hesitate to add the qualifier 'from a human perspective' since it is not our humanity that renders their chickenhood so sad, simply our ability to contemplate that finds their uncontemplated lives empty...(Urgh, if syntax were an abattoir mine would be about the least humane I know - every sentiment I try to express today is dying a torturously tortuous death by linguistic contortion. As for the chickens:) It's not that battery farming isn't cruel, rather that the fact that better-treated birds live their whole lives in the same pen or barn just pecking around their allotted above-industry-standard portion of a square metre until at some point in their prime they are lead to the slaughter still makes me a little melancholy. But when I ask myself how this compares with the life of a 'wild' chicken, wherever one may find such a thing, the freedom denied to its cooped-up cousins is wasted on it since it cannot fly and probably doesn't remember whether it is pecking about the same spot it was yesterday, let alone care. On the other hand, if it is not run over, shot or savaged by an even wilder animal it will eventually die of old age, an experience which must be wholly unpleasant once one removes the tempting human caveats of greater wisdom, the authority to say whatever you like in spite of it and hopefully the time and money to finally pursue a plethora of dusty longlife dreams. The true tragedy* of any chicken, from a human perspective, is that it is a chicken. The true tragedy of this particular human is that she is vaguely aware of the imbalances between her potential, purpose and focus but (symptomatic of an extreme deficit of the latter) stubbornly refuses to apply herself in any productive way to redressing this balance. Instead she prefers to write about the lives of chickens, referring to her own only in third person in the hope not of sounding more rock and roll but merely of preserving her long-sustained distance from reality. Seems to be working pretty well actually Tim. Tara for hopefully the final time since, unlike even a free-range Waitrose chicken, I'm off to meet some mates at the pub x

*arguably a more appropriate use of the word than is commonly found these days, even if it's pushing it a bit to suggest that aimlessness, defencelessness and succulence are tragic flaws. They do sound a bit like characters from a parable though, possibly the hitherto undiscovered Paedo's Progress. Anyway, luckily by our national combination of common sense, indifference are ignorance we refuse to infer from every report of a 'tragic' death that the event was brought about by an inherently flawed victim. Otherwise it would be quite insulting really...
hannah park
note to hypothetical essay-writing self: American writing of the early nineteenth century and/or English writing of the late nineteenth/early twentieth century is candid and stylish in perfect measures. Read more.

corroborative points off the top of my sleepy-hollow-addled head:
washington irving
thomas hardy
edgar allan poe
katherine mansfield
henry james
presumably wilkie collins, haven't read im can't spell his name
and on foreign fronts: karen blixen
jean cocteau
colette maybe, it's been a while...I'm not grasping so much as culling from such a broad field that for all it is blooming my scattered approach gleans a fairly disparate bunch, but that is beside the point...

(non-corroborative points: Shakespeare. The choicer literary output of antiquity, Chaucer, etc but arguably to the modern reader these are rather more impenetrable on the page, the point of this list being writers whos work is both great and accessible. I'm not a fan of dickens but only on some long-forgotten principle or other like 'he's a smug twat and I don't like him'. The schoolgirl bookworm's equivalent of 'he's hot but he knows it'. In short I held him to be congratulating himself on every rave review to come for the next century and a half as he wrote. Not fair and probably not true, so stick him in the ayes as well why not)

by the time of the bloomsbury set it's splitting off into the inaccessiblly vs the facile and though I think we've pulled it back pretty well, we've never quite regained our ease with the polysyllabic vernacular or the necessarily convoluted senctence. Indeed, the very fact that the word 'convoluted' when it pertains to syntax is pejorative demonstrates our continued disdain for such prose. I might say that one of those little mindfuck bottles was marvellously, magically convoluted, but in saying so and in continuing into a second or even thrid clause I run the risk of being accused of writing in a convoluted style. True and in my case truly a crime, but I'm sure there are still members of our species capable of what writiers in previous centuries achieved at ease if not necessarily with it.
Will self comes to mind. Funny voice, bit serious, but he's not afraid to run the gamut of english prose potential. Anyway, I'm going back to sleepy-hollow; it's marvellous. Sorry for the interruption and b'bye again x
hannah park
05 January 2010 @ 10:47 am
Somebody needs to make a set of low-budget un-PC schlock zom-coms to the tune of Carrion Sergant, Carrion Nurse, Carrion Camping, Carrion up the Khyber...ad nauseam, or in this case post nauseam et usque ad extremum scientiae titulorum 'carry on'. Punful to the extent of being painful, nevertheless Carrion Don't Lose You're Head is practically Carrion Screaming to be realised in all its grainy, wooden, paint-splattered glory. Admittedly Carrion follow that Camel might be a touch anticlimacitc (or perhaps not if the success of 'the story of the weeping camel' is a mark of our capacity for empathising with even-toed ungulates) and then Carrion Loving and Carrion Dick might sound specialist in their appeal, but given a cheesey british comoeey coating (and now resembling in my mind a kind of cultural cannibal fondue) even necrophilia has its place in the mainstream market. And that, for the sake of my own sanity *, must be my final word on the matter for the time being. Happy New Year :)

*re my compulsion to pun rather than to comit necrophilia - that's a wagon I've no need of, argh there I go again, necrophilia wagon, no corpse sex for me thanks, I'm back on the hearse. Shuddup bitch that doesn't even make sense. Unless in fact it is the corpse that's going cold turkey. Should be pretty easy - it's already halfway there....I'M SORRY I WILL STOP NOW.

p.s. said the relapsed zombie rapist, climbing back onto the plague cart (a conveyance roughly equivalent here to the semi-mythical sally army temperance wagons)

P.P.S. Best line from this Yuletide's cinematic fare: "I have had it with these motherfucking zombies in this motherfucking stripjoint!"
hannah park
17 December 2009 @ 02:44 pm
Hier matin je me suis reveillée en retard en dépit des meilleures intentions. ayant trouvé que théoriquement ma séance a la clinique a déja mis en train, j'ai téléphoné à ma thérapeute pour que je pusse dire au moins 'Joyeux Noël' etc. De fait, on a conduit toute une séance au téléphone. Elle pense qu'il me faut déménager. ou au moins y sérieusement réfléchir. Pour moi, je ne peut pas dire si mes réticences sont résultant du besoin familial de mon faible revenu ou si en réalité mes responsabilités financières envers la famille ne sont que la bonne chance pour une fille qui devrait autrement faire face a ses responsabilités envers son propr'avenir. Est-ce que je suis responsable ou irresponsable? quelqu'un s'en fiche? ne découvr'aucunes réponses, la prochaine fois que je poste ici!
hannah park
15 December 2009 @ 10:54 am
mot a moi: Apprends a dire 'non'.