Quantity vs. Quality

There was a time in the life of this blog that I valued quality over quantity. When I would only blog when I truly felt the desire, when I needed to get something off my chest, when I wanted to communicate to my friends and family across the world something significant, entertaining, interesting or distressing about my experiences over here.

That time has passed.

Now, thanks to the 29 year rule, every boring, unoriginal and pointless thought that passes my brain, or action that runs through my body is recorded for all posterity (but, Jenny, most of your thoughts were unoriginal and pointless anyway! Shut up, unknown internet voices). Furthermore, the things that, back in the day, I would have analysed deeply, thoughtfully and (sometimes) elegantly, are now superficially raced over in an attempt to RECORD IT ALL, RECORD IT NOW, RECORD IT BEFORE YOU FORGET.

But I still don’t feel I can give up. Not just yet anyway. Perhaps during Edinburgh Fringe I won’t be able to keep it up. Maybe when I head home to Oz at the end of the year I’ll be so busy and happy and sunburnt I’ll stop recording things. I’ve come up with a plan and by god I’m going to stick to it. I’m like the Germans in World War One, refusing to acknowledge that the Schlieffen Plan was not ACTUALLY going to win them the West and East of Europe in a matter of weeks, but would, in fact, cause them to (literally) get bogged down in a devastating war which would leave them economically, emotionally and socially crushed, paving the way for a madman like Hitler to get in to power and get his genocidal groove on. Yeah, I just used a World War One fact taken straight out of my Year 12 history course as part of an extended analogy about my shitty writing skills, what you gonna do about it?

To clarify, I don’t actually think that the continuance of this 29-plan is going to end up with an anti-semitic meglomaniac invading my blog (but, hey, it is the interwebs and those trolls be cray cray, so best be on guard, yeah). I don’t really think anything is going to happen much beyond the fact that I might end up with a slightly less interesting and coherent blog. I don’t know why I’m refusing to give up, but it seems like a neat goal to achieve (and also, seems strangely achievable), so I’m sticking to it. Also, sometimes when I write when I don’t want to (eg tonight), I come up with random things that amuse me (eg the first three paragraphs of this post and also the Schlieffen Plan analogy. Yeah, pretty pleased with that unexpected and creative usage of HSC history facts).

But, anyway. What new things can I claim I have done this week? (PS I’m actually doing something really new and exciting tomorrow, so I promise to report on that properly).


I watched this movie:

How to Train Your Dragon

It was pretty good. Except that I was very confused as to why the vikings had Scottish accents. Well, some of them did anyway. Gerard Butler viking did, at least (I don’t know his character’s name, and frankly, I don’t care. Gerard Butler is Gerard Butler and he needs no other name because he is beautiful and perfect just as he is). I may not know much about many things, but I can tell you that vikings were, on the whole, Scandinavian. I mean, I know that they made settlements in Scotland, but that was generally AFTER raping and pillaging the Scottish people. So it seemed a slightly weird artistic choice to make. I mean, also, the character were living in a fake magical place that was right next to an un-locatable dragon-nest (rather like the Bermuda Triangle of dragon-nests, if you will)… but, yeah. My suspension of disbelief was more tested by the Scottish accents.

On a more pleasing (and less confusing) note, the main dragon in the movie (‘Toothless’) is the cutest thing ever and reminds me oh-so-vaguely of our cat. If our cat was happier, more friendly, less psychotic and much more charming, of course. Which gives you an insight into our cat’s personality.

And the cat’s and my relationship.


This was yesterday. What did I do yesterday that I can conceivably classify as new?

Ok. This is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

I went here:

ASDA Clapham Junction. Found at: http://www.zyra.org.uk/asda.htm

ASDA Clapham Junction. Found at: http://www.zyra.org.uk/asda.htm

That’s right, I am using a supermarket as my new thing for the day. I feel like I should be more upset about this, but I really couldn’t care less. ‘Just think of new things and write them down so you can go back to living your life, already, even if that life IS boring and repetitive and you’re not making the most of every single day of the last year of your twenties, for fuck’s sake, just get on with it.’

It was very large and it felt full of the promise of cheap tat from Chine when I walked in. False promise, it turned out, because this giant supermarket had none of the things that I had travelled so far for. BOO. Hey, ASDA! Where are your large children’s easels, chalkboards and whiteboards? Where are your garden trolleys? Where are your trunks on wheels? THAT’S RIGHT. NOT AT CLAPHAM JUNCTION ASDA.


That’s today. And I can tell you that I did do something interesting today. I finished this book:

Not only is this the first thing I’ve ever read by Judith Wright (which seems remarkably remiss of me as an Australian, as a woman and as a writer), but it is also one of the first books I have read (outside of an educational institution) on the contemporary conflicts and issues between Aboriginal Australians and European Australians. As we have previously established, I consider myself to be a fairly left-wing, tolerant kind of a person. Nevertheless, a lot of the ideas in this book had never entered my consciousness before. Most of them I am still processing.

A lot of  white Australians will tell you that there ‘are no issues’ anymore between Aboriginal Australians and European Australians, but I think that’s because most of them live in blissful ignorance of those issues, just as I have been living. It’s very easy to ignore something when you don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis. And white Australians are in no way forced to deal with these ideas and problems on a daily basis. It’s a different matter for Aboriginal Australians, of course. The most shocking thing about the book was the fact that much of it is still incredibly relevant, even though most of the essays were written in the ’80s.

I got the book (and a few more like it) as background reading for the play I am currently attempting to bash into shape. I originally wanted to buy some books written from an Aboriginal Australian perspective, but could only find memoirs written from an Aboriginal Australian perspective (not books of essays, political books or academic histories). At the time, this seemed less worthy and useful to me and I didn’t get any. Which means I’ve ended up with a bunch of books written by white people about Aboriginal Australians, which is just kind of silly. And also highlights my own unconscious bias towards ‘serious’ white person writing as opposed to the perceived ‘softer’ form of writing – memoir. Of course, the irony is that the most effecting essay in Wright’s book was the final one, a personal essay, only 3 pages long and about an Aboriginal Australian family she had known in Queensland. Whilst all the other essays gave me interesting food for thought, it was the personal essay and story that gave me real emotional insight into how it might feel to grow up Aboriginal Australian in the middle of a largely distrustful, unfriendly and disinterested white society.

Anyway, it was good, it was thought-provoking and I’m looking forward to reading my other 4 books from the Book Depository before  writing the shit outta ma play. Lots of things are coming up new and exciting because of just this one book, so I’m looking forward to reading more.

Blog post = DONE.


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