What the above still image neglects to convey is the ridiculous extent of effort required to get to that particular spot. When I say 'ridiculous', it is on par with the ridiculous idea that I might one day find a more fulfilling lover than McDonald's apple pies.

For the past few weeks, Hannah and I have been frequenting a small river-town, about an hour from the Sydney CBD, chasing up a story about homelessness for our television journalism final project. What makes this story interesting is that in this particular area, the residents don't view the homeless as a concern. Mutual respect is passed around like roast baby l'orange at a cannibal Christmas dinner. Overwhelmingly, the residents view the homeless as unofficial bodyguards.

Anyway, as we make reference to some of these homeless as 'cave-dwellers' in our news package, footage of the caves was crucial. Cue three hours of trekking through unpaved, unfamiliar mountainous bushland with heavy-arse HDV camera and tripod in tow. Now, Hannah and I are no typical damsel weaklings; we are both loyal body pump class veterans. We lift weights on a regular, voluntary basis, but SHIT MAN, this was some tough shit, the way I would expect shit to be tough after a month-long fibre-deficiency... Um.

But I digress. Old readers of mine would know of my incompatibility with journalism in general, but I really enjoy video journalism. Perhaps it's more to do with the 'video' part than the actual 'journalism', but I absolutely engage with this subject. This particular project has definitely challenged some of my perceptions about homeless people. And it's not that our perceptions set out to be automatically malicious, they're often just the tragic function of embracing stone-carved stereotypes. I just have to say though, that I did not expect such depth out of some of the characters we interviewed.

But that's enough blah blah, here is a still of the ever-gorgeous Hannah during her piece-to-camera:

And one of my favourite stills:


In other news, I'm slowly recovering from the flu. I managed to go to the gym thrice this week, but there is still Saturday and Sunday, so perhaps I may be able to edit this sentence to say "I managed to go to the gym five times this week". It astounds me how quickly I can lose endurance just by missing a week of exercise. Ugh. But you know, I will be astounded if in the future, I ever enter into a relationship with the male species that rivals the gym. I have a very consistent and stable relationship with fitness first, ahaha.

Sorry this post has been flat like a pre-pubescent (til-even-present day!) me. I'm just exhausted, and the week ahead looks like a certain shade of despair. Three final assignments due. Please keep an eye out for my name in next weekend's obituaries.

x

Posted in: homelessness, journalism, picturepost, television journalism, university, video on Friday, May 29, 2009 at at 8:41 PM 7 comments  

...but I have to show it regardless:

This image says, "I finally reached the gym for the first time in a week." Take that, filthy flu & lousy immune system!

You just can't fake this kind of elation. Really, you can't.

Posted in: babyporridge, elation, fitness, gym, nikki malvar, perspiratio, sweat on Saturday, May 23, 2009 at at 11:19 PM 5 comments  

I assume that being impotent would be important in societal discourse, but as it turns out, impotence has no relevance on my blog.

So it will not be discussed.

On the train this morning, I actually was brainstorming a tirade on 'why being sick sucks', as well as a meaningful self-reflection piece, as inspired by The Alchemist, which I am currently re-reading. But then I decided that I didn't want to be responsible for anyone climbing into scalding kettles or hacking at retinas with blunt spoons on account of being absolutely bored with my ramblings. I am as considerate as they come!

Instead I say, LOOK AT THIS CLOSED-EYES JERK!

Sorry, I am a little insane and a lot cranky from not having exercised at all this week. Lousy immune system.

Posted in: ailment, babyporridge, nikki malvar on Friday, May 22, 2009 at at 11:47 PM 8 comments  

My head, nose, throat & gut are all conspiring against the idea of 'wellness'. Terse words, so all you get is a contrived picture. I am diseased. MAYBE I WILL DIE TOMORROW, sweet.

Posted in: ailment, babyporridge, disease, nikki malvar, picturepost, webcam on Monday, May 18, 2009 at at 11:57 PM 6 comments  

I love autumn. I also love the occasional epiphany of having narrowly missed death, and cycling. Yes, cycling. If cycling was conveniently a man, I would write songs about it because it is much less ridiculous to write cheesy musical-odes to a breathing, musk-smelling specimen than to a piece of machinery.

I tried it out about a week ago. Resisted at first, but like any foolish damsel, quietly succumbed to the understated seduction methods of glute pain. But yes, I danced with my new love yesterday and today, and managed to do 21+kms on both occasions. (I should add though that it is a stationary bike, and undoubtedly a mockery of the real deal, but still, I am exerting effort, which the machines have generously totalled as 21kms worth!)

I should also add that sometimes I get embarrassed about discussing these things with you, kind blog-readers. I feel like you are all silently judging me in your heads with comments like "WHY do you still look like the love-child of rosie o'donnel and an asian bakery despite your exercise?" I'm sorry! My appetite is obnoxiously large! KFC only started serving their family-size buckets when they heard I was in town!

And here, a snapshot of Daniel belittling me, much like you all are:


Today, I was pleasantly minding my own business in the labs, digitising tapes and transcribing interviews, when the very attractive guy next to me struck up conversation. He resembled Johnny Depp in 'What's eating Gilbert Grape?, was well-spoken, and he was nice enough but I felt like he slipped into an air of pretentiousness from time to time. Then I was reminded of how I loathe attractive people and their accompanying mentality of being above everyone else (slight generalisation, yes). I think I am just brandishing stereotypes here like unnecessary cold cuts. But really, have you had run-ins with holier-than-thou attractive people? And if you are of the attractive variety, do you use your sleek noses and perfect jaws to get away with treason, murder and occasional bird-theft? I'd be interested to know.

This is where I sign off. I have noble intentions of catching the 6am cycling class tomorrow before rest of the day of the day and subsequent academic displeasure hits! Goodnight, potatoes.

Posted in: autumn, babyporridge, cycling, fitness, gym, johnny depp, nikki malvar on Thursday, May 14, 2009 at at 8:26 PM 9 comments  

Apparently it is nearing two weeks since my last blog post, for which I owe an incredibly large thank-you. You are all darlings; I am absolutely appreciative & overwhelmed by your generosity in the comments. I feel like a bald man narrowly escaping root-canal! Like a sticky-date pudding devoured by Natalie Portman herself! Simply put, I am chuffed. Thank you.

Now, I have a few things to get off my chest, much like one might like to get a car off her chest in the event of being pinned under one after a collision. Without further delay, here are some scintillating dot points:

* I don't quite know how else to put this, but I may or may not be a little bit partial to bestiality. My first recollection of lusting after an animal was upon watching Remus Lupin's werewolf form in Harry Potter 3 (it was the werewolf-biceps & muscular hind-legs, I swear).

I dismissed this as an erratic, newly-pubescent fancy. Nearing the finality of adolescence, however, I don't think I can claim my insatiable lust for Wolverine on those same terms.

Whatever the case though, I don't think I'm very discriminant of prospective life partners. I am the freaking McDonalds of equal opportunity!

* I SAW KATE MILLER-HEIDKE LIVE & IF I HAD IT MY WAY, I'D USE HER LIKE I DO SHAMPOO - rinse, lather & repeat! I'm incapable of doing anything else other than gushing when epic songwriting meets phenomenal stage presence meets precise delivery meets effortless operock. (Yes, I absolutely made that awkward term up right now.) Also at one point, husband & guitarist - Keir snapped a crowd shot for her twitter. Um. I may not have trampled a few babies & elbowed a few undeserving pelvises to make myself immortalised in her digital camera.


* I am sore in the places that count. I managed to exercise six out of seven days in the past week. I'm talking cycling class, pump class, combat class, jogs, core-strengtheners & weights, you mudcrabs! However, I also managed to null & void all my hearty efforts in yesterday's (& today's) Marsbar-cheesecake & White+Dark chocolate mousse rampage. DELICIOUUUUUS. Have I mentioned I'm hopeless? Add to that, predictable. I binge on terrible things & invariably feel an overwhelming sense of guilt & the need to e-complain about how the scales are being stubborn. I am the best vicious-cycle evaaar!

* I have finally reached a plateau in my life that combines an unparalleled sense of achievement with some simultaneous directional clarity. All from this comment:

There IS light at the end of my proverbial tunnel of eternal celibacy! If I work really hard on toning down my unsuccessful wit and obnoxious charm, generous men on the internet are willing to overlook the rest of my flaws for my own personal gratification! Karma is obviously kind to me; I didn't realise life could be so fulfilling!

* I had about four more dot-points to throw in your general direction, but luck is on your side, dear readers. This entry terminates prematurely! Now.

Posted in: achievement, babyporridge, bestiality, exercise, fitness, hugh jackman, kate miller-heidke, nikki malvar, picturepost, wolverine on Sunday, May 3, 2009 at at 5:58 PM 11 comments  

This living thing – this breathing, excreting, making-someone-else’s-dinner-thing – I want to play my cards right and have an emotion for every occasion. I want to be good at this game and not just go through the motions; I want to learn all the strokes like it’s synchronised swimming.

I want to be different names to different people. I want to be Madeleine, Ingrid, Kate and Regina. To my mother, I want to be Darling; to the history teacher I won’t admit to lusting after, Dollface. Like I said, I want to be different names to different people because it means a thousand and seven adjectives to grow into, like disarming or steadfast, and I need these ambitions because I don’t ever want to become complacent.

I want to know everything there is to know about physics, so I can hate it with a basis. I don’t want to hate inertia and The Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy just because I’m a blind man in sheep’s clothing and every pretty girl in my generation claims to hate physics.

And on the topic of being blind, I want to date a blind man and kiss his eyelids in the park. I want to describe the children’s expressions to him in terms of feeling, like the little girl chasing after the duck has the face you get when you first turn on the shower and the water spews out in a cold fury.

I want to hold my fourteen-year-old-self by the wrists and apologise for ever thinking that self-worth could only be attained through being with someone, as if wearing the suffix of ‘girlfriend’ was the only job title worthy of mention. I want to apologise to her for refusing to know better and for thinking that conviction and the occasional wit weren’t enough to define me.

I want to make eye-contact with a pale red-haired girl at the station to ask for the time just because I want to hear her accent. She’ll say, “It’s five twenty-three forever,” because her watch is actually dead and her grandfather smashed this very watch on a rock the moment he died. I wont ask about the circumstance even though I want to, so instead I might tell her that I was born out of wedlock. And we’ll plough on for the rest of the day, keeping someone else’s secret as if to take a break from our own.

For only a night, I want to be the wife of a man who comes home with someone else’s lipstick stains on his collar and someone else’s scent on his skin because I want to know what being a martyr feels like. I want to know what it’s like to make a perfect roast dinner with buttered potatoes while the world crumbles and the children think that their biggest concern is that Rochelle is having an ice-skating party and they are not invited. I want to learn how to suffer gracefully, only giving myself three minutes in the shower everyday to cry.

I want to cut my hair really short and move to Spain and live in a small apartment in a small town with a name I can’t pronounce. I want to wear dresses for everything, from grocery shopping to watching bulls run around in a ring with a matador. I want to stop in the street and say, “Marry me, guapo,” to all the handsome dark-haired strangers even though I don’t mean it, just because it’s careless. And at least once, I’d have the liberty of knowing what it’s like to be reckless with my youth.

Ultimately, when I read excerpts of my unfinished, auto-biographical manuscript to my grandchildren, I want them to say it sounds like fiction. I want to call myself an artist with no-one else’s consent. I want to be proud of all the loose ends I’ve left untied because yeah, everyone wants to fulfill their prophecy, but who really wants to finish a path laid out by the stars?

I will surpass the stars.

Posted in: babyporridge, creative writing, desire, nikki malvar, prose, want, writing exercise on Tuesday, April 28, 2009 at at 10:44 PM 33 comments