But on the same token you can re-tell a cake.

So, over the past couple of years I've done a fairly extensive range of writing - from essays, to short stories, to editorials, to these blogs that you may or may not read.

Many times I have received feedback, and many times I have been asked whether what I write about has happened to me, as its written.

I pondered this question in the shower today - as I ponder a great many questions.

And came to this conclusion.

To make a cake, one does not need a cake - merely the ingredients put together in a certain way.

That is all. Yes. That's right.

So now you are all thinking "What the hell Chris, what is with these short entires all of a sudden, normally you write epic blogs?"

And to that I merely say: "I've got one baking in the oven."

Only now I realise why white lies are thusly named.

White is emptiness - without character.

White is the symbol of peace - an empty gesture in a world of violence.

White is blank paper - waiting to be filled with meaning from ink or reshaping.

White is the light from LED torches - efficient, without warmth.

White is purity - an unattainable desire of humanity.

White is snow - cold and harsh.

White is sterility - clean and hygenic, safe.

White is incomprehensible noise -annoying and meaningless.

White is aging - a graceless fall from boundless youth.

White is the glitter of stars - the reminder of our unimportance.













White is lies.


"I'm the snow on your lips - the freezing taste, the silvery sip"

-Feel for You

Point of contact.

Now here's the thing. I'm a sucker for attention. Always have been. I remember back in the day when we were getting the extension done, Dad did a lot of filming (you know, the days when no one had heard of digital video cameras, and people could actually afford to buy a slightly decent video camera without having to mortgage the house and sell your first-born to afford one? Yeah.) and I would always jump into the picture. Upon this jumping I would immediately claim that the star of the movie was present, and would inform the eventual viewer of the film that said viewing was about to become a lot less tedious. As it would happen it became a lot more tedious - as I later discovered...but hey, that's what being young is all about...right?

Or something.

Now, having proved that I have always been a sucker for attention, and that it is not just a recent development, I come to today's topic.

Being the said sucker that I am, I tend to listen to the people around me. I also happen to take great joy when people say that they read my blog...even when I haven't spammed said person with links. So, when we combine these two things, we get somebody who I respect and will probably listen to if said person suggests something to blog about.

Now this girl, going by the name of Rachel, (I would link to her blog here...but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have one...) suggested many a month ago on the humanities Sydney trip that I blog about people out bus windows.

Good idea, Chris thinks to himself, mulling over the possibilities of how to tackle something like that.

I then got distracted (for a good three months) by the memory of the hilarious workman in his van who got particularly distracted by Rachel flirting with him from the bus window, and Chris (that isn't me talking about myself in third person...for once...) banging on the window rather loudly and causing this poor workman great confusion, as he examined his van for the source of the bang.

But I decided that I would eventually pick up the topic again, albeit in a way that might not have been how Rachel imagined it. But she can deal with that.

Now, having waffled on once again, I bring you today's blog. A blog about bus windows!

***

It was a cold night in the depot. A bitter wind screamed through a slight gap in the gigantic metal doors that was supposed to seal the buses in at night. The young window cowered at the sound, afraid that if the wind got any strong it might rip off the door, exposing the window to the rage of the weather. The window's imagination went wild - it could not help it, for the bedtime stories of the older windows were still fresh in its memories. Limbs blown from trees scratching the sparkling surface of once flawless glass, corrugated iron sheets shattering their way through the soul of fortified windows, and the worst of all - the pressure of the winds outside causing all the windows on a bus to shatter as it tried to remain in equilibrium with the inside of the bus. Yes. It was safe for the inexperienced window to say he was scared of the wind.

The night wore on.

Daybreak broke over the distant blue mountains - the window could see the golden rays gleefully spreading light over the world. The young window had not slept much that evening - which didn't particularly matter...being a window and all - because the wind had kept him awake. Conveniently enough, however, the wind died down just before dawn, and the window looked forward to the day ahead of him, knowing that he did not have to endure the wind just yet. The window was new to the job, having just been installed a few weeks ago. In fact, the entire bus was only a few weeks old, and they were all keen to go on their first big adventure together. Yes, today they left with a bunch of pretentious and wanky, arty-farty students - as the older windows in the depot jokingly called them - to go to Sydney. It was a three hour trip, and the window eagerly anticipated watching and listening to the people who chose to sit next to it.

The bus was on the highway, and the window was excited as the slip steam roared past. The students were inside, not bothered by the rush of air next to them - the window proudly performed its duty to keep the air out, but the light and view in. It was fascinated by the conversations of the students - they talked about everything. They bitched and complained, praised and laughed, sang and cheered, watched and listened. The window was enjoying itself immensely, and couldn't wait to see what Sydney - the city that so many of the other windows excitedly whispered about - was really like.

Sydney is amazing, the bus thought to itself, taking in the sleek arches of the bridge reflected in the glittering blue water, and the billowing sails of the opera house. There were millions of windows - everywhere it looked, it saw its brethren. The noise from them was astounding - some moaned about how the recent rain had streaked its coat, others giggled as drivers squirted water over them, and others still sat in earnest philosophical debate about functionality - stained verses bullet proof glass. The students were equally as dazzled, there were thousands of their brethren littering the streets, making an awful cacophony of noise that the window found incredibly distracting. It was glad that it was doing its job to protect the students - he didn't want them getting headaches - as humans are prone to do - and not enjoying themselves.

It was a three day trip - and as the day headed toward the second evening, the window began to realise that it was nearly time for the its adventure to be over. So too did the students, and they began to get sillier, and much more entertaining for the window. The window laughed as the students took crazy photos of each other. It gazed longingly as they became flirtatious with each other, constantly pushing the boundaries of connection. The window then became startled as the students turned to it. They waved cheerfully through the protective glass, seeing right through the intrigued window.

Fascinated, the window studied the reactions of the people on the street. Mostly they ignored the students, preferring to adopt a facade of busy disinterest as their eyes glazed over after an initial focus. Others let a small smile of nostalgia invade their faces, a reminder of times past. Many walked in bubbles of self-sufficiency, ignoring the crowded street that surrounded them, withdrawing into busy thought. The window's favourite, however, were those that responded with genuine pleasure. In the slowly sinking sunlight, their faces would light up when confronted by the students' contagious sense of fun. They drew to their full height, proudly wearing a smile, returning their waves in generous proportions. These moments always surprised the happy students, who would immediately double their efforts to please the anonymous person on the street. Then there would be an awkward moment, as the person on the street realised they were receiving odd looks from the people around them. The students would continue waving, though their original energy had left them. Then with a hiss of air, the bus would take off its brakes, and slip through the green light. But as the students pulled away, they put in a final effort, leaving the person on the street to watch the youths disappeared down the road.

The window would always look back and see the person on the street cross the road, a smile playing on their lips.

It was then that the young window realised that it did not serve just to provide protection from the elements to those inside the bus - a physical window. The memories of the waving encounters filled its memory.

No, it thought, it was more than that. It was a metaphorical window - a window to human reactions, exposing emotions and feelings, personalities and prejudices.

A point of contact between strangers that would never meet again.

“The person whose problems are all behind them is probably a school bus driver”

-Anonymous

Yeah...what was the point to that Chris?

You know how people do those things on the internet, where people write a list of their friends and then proceed to inform all the poor souls who read said list why they love their friends so very much?

These lists generally bore me, because, well, they are boring. These people who are supposedly best friends can't seem to think of anything interesting about each other to inform the world about.

Example (quoted from a facebook group that shall go unnamed):

i love her because she is the love of my life. shes my best friend and my cousin. we know everything about each other and we have talked about everything in the world. she is everything to me and i would take 129837 bullets for her. she's the greatest person i know.

I love her because she is the love of my life

Well. I guess that is correct enough...

But it doesn't tell one much, does it?

Greatest person I know

Again, the sentiment, but why? Why is she the greatest?

Now. Perchance you all think I am nit picking here. And hell, I think I am nit picking.

Just to be clear, I am not critising the person who wrote this, and I do have a point. I think its great that she is letting the world know how much she loves her friends. And I'm sure her friends appreciate being told that too. I know I would appreciate being told how great I am every so often. (Please refrain from doing that, btw. My ego is already large enough).

No. My point is very simplistic.

STOP WRITING BORING TRASH ON THE PARTS OF THE INTERNET THAT EVERYONE CAN SEE.

Hypocritical? Probably. Deal with it.

But if one is going to inform the world why they think their friends are so great, do it in a way that arouses interest. You do justice to your ability to understand yourself, and you do justice to the people who surround you, and you do justice to your audience.

And the ACTUAL point for me writing this? Well, I just wanted to see if I could actually write something substantial and interesting about why I think my friends are great.

*******

Morgan.

I have known Morgan since year seven. He happens to be one of the first actual friends I made at high school. And he got me into the nerd group (achievement much?).

Morgan had a square head, rosy cheeks, and flat feet. Now he has long sexy hair, and a voice that makes people wonder how his pants contain his testicles.

If I had to sum him up in one word, I would say loyal, though its up there with trustworthy. I'm not entirely sure I have come across a more loyal person. He is one of those people who keeps his closest friends close, and distances himself from the rest. I can't see him stabbing me in the back. If he were going to stab me, it would be right out there in the open, for everyone to see. And I would most definitely have deserved it.

Adam.

Adam is very simple. This makes him a great friend. There is no crap with Adam. He tells it like it is. If you went to Adam with a problem, he would laugh at you. He also is incredibly hilarious. More so when he is angry.

Adam is my misanthropic comic relief.

*******

I would keep going.

But I am not too proud to admit that I think I have failed. Feel free to inform me otherwise, but I think if you ask yourself honestly you will find that nothing there was particularly interesting for you. Unless you are Adam or Morgan.

Apparently it is a lot harder to write something interesting and substantial about one's friends than I thought.

See, I think the main problem here is that if you don't know the people, none of it really means anything to you. Thus the audience will not be engaged with anything that you are writing.

Thus I have a new point.

Tell your friends personally, whether through email, text, msn, phone, or face to face, why they are so great. They will appreciate you for it, I assure you.

The world is never as interested in you as you want it to be.

Faces in a crowd

People fascinate me. Which I suppose is a good thing, considering I don't have much choice but to interact with them.

Now that, my friends, is a rather boring introduction...I once wrote an entire "seminar" on introductions, and how to make them work.

Turns out the "seminar" either sucked, or I just failed to listen to myself.

And judging by the huge amount that I love myself, I doubt it was the latter.

But this tangent is also boring.

Or is it?

Did you see what I did there. I started saying something, and the first three lines grabbed you, and asked "yeah, what's your point?" and you are all still hanging on my every word until I get to said point.

Now that I have mentioned the first three words again, you are all thinking, "so he hasn't forgotten, so really...what IS his point".

My point thus far? Well, its that I actually did listen to myself in that "seminar" and I have now drawn you into this entry like a juicy steak on a free buffet.

Yes. I just analogised (go figure! that's actually a word!) myself with juicy steak.

But yes, people fascinate me. (*sigh* oh here he goes)...

***

When I am feeling particularly melancholic (for that word is the flavour of the month), I start thinking about people, networks, the whole six degrees of separation thing. Actually I don't, because that theory is far too organised for my mind.

No, I tend to think about it on a more personal level.

Lets pick something mundane, something that you do everyday, when you meet someone you have never met before.

The shops.

Did you know the name of the last person who served you? What colour was their hair? What did they look like? Did you speak to them? Did they speak to you?

I know that the last time I was at a shop was the petrol station. A friendly old bloke served me, but I didnt speak to him, except to say "pump one" and "have a good evening". I don't know his name. I don't know anything about him. Except that he works in a place that charges me lots of money for dinosaur remains.

What about at school? You get to school, and you see a group of your friends. Automatically you know their name, you speak to them and they speak to you. And you know them well enough to even notice that they are wearing their hair differently, or its a different colour.

That nameless old bloke who served me has a network exactly like that. He has people that would come in and be like "Oh g'day Frank! What a surprise to see you. Are you dealing with it all okay, mate?".

Frank, as he has now been dubbed, has an entire network of people who know him, and know the details about his life. Maybe Frank's wife of 25 years just died, maybe his dog is in surgery, maybe he is working to pay off a gambling debt.

Who knows.

But it makes you think.

Well, it makes me think anyway.

You walk down the street, and every person that you see out in their gardens, driving their cars, tiling their roofs. All those children playing on the streets, the lone teen walking headdown with earphones jammed in, the elderly couple relaxing on their front verandah taking stock of the world around them.

Each one of those people is unique. They know where the weeds grow in the garden, they know the story behind the ripped car seat cover, they know what caused the tiles to break. The kids know the intricate details about the game they are playing, the lone teen knows the source of his sadness, and the elderly couple have decades of history they know about each other.

Each one of these individuals, people you have never met, people you may never see again in your lives, have a network. A mindbogglingly complex network. These people all have their own problems, their own personal adversity. They have an intricate knowledge of their history - the people that have shaped them, the people that mean the most to them, the events that stick clearly in their minds.

Just think about that the next time you go through a checkout.

And thats just for one person.

Apply that to your family. Your brother. Your sister. Your cat's crazy social life.

Apply it to the people in your street. The hundreds of screamy little kids next door. The couple who live a few houses up that are forever looking for their dog (stupid yappy little thing...).

Apply it to the people in your suburb. That overly friendly political candidate vying for community support at the local shops.

Apply it to your region.

Your city.

Your state.

Australia.

Bangladesh.

The Middle East.

The world.

Earth eh?

Its a pretty big place. For such a tiny spec in the universe.

"Space is big. You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mind- bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist's, but that's just peanuts to space."

-Douglas Adams - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Dihydrogen monoxide...

Everyday I wake up and stumble my way in the cold darkness that fills a winter morning. My first objective is to become warm and so I make my way to the panel that controls the central heating. I then stumble my way to the water-closet and urinate. Upon completion of the necessary human task, I sanitise my hands and return to my primary objective. Turning in the small room that the sanitisation of hands takes place, I notice in a small brown rectangular prism in the corner. The interior is tiled and hollow, and the exterior is frosted and in a 70's shade of brown. It's just big enough to fit perhaps two people. Though granted I have only ever seen one person in it at a time.

Abandoning my shivering physical form, curiosity takes hold. I carefully open a door leading into the tiled chamber, taking in the grey hose, the colourful plastic bottles, and the perfumed odour of the air. Placed one above the other were two knobs, one with a blue sticker, one with red. Very similar to those found on the sanitation sink. Curious I twisted the red-stickered knob. A gush of freezing water raced out of a tap-like device connected to the aforementioned hose. It splashed onto the base of the prism, rebounding off the tiled floor and haphazardly wetting me. I was freezing, and began to reach for the knob to turn it off. But suddenly the water became warmer, as if by magic. I began to enjoy the gentle caress of the warmed particles on my skin. Then, just as suddenly as it became warm, the water became deadly hot. Reacting by instinct I twist the other knob, and the amount of water gushing out the tap like device increased violently. I was soaked, but the water had now become pleasantly warm.

I was overcome, at this point, by a feeling. It was a strange feeling that I don't often have - but the warmth of the water was so inviting. I wanted to strip off my pyjamas, and throw myself into the vicious flow of water coming from the tap. So I did. Naked, I flung myself through the gap in the sliding frosted side of the prism, ever so desperate for the pounding embrace of the warm water on my now goose-pimpled skin. I slid the frosted glass closed.

Steam rose from the cascade of water, thickening the air with its warm vapour. I became completely relaxed and comfortable in the noisy pelting of water - it was like a cleansing dance in tropical rain. My mind began to wander from the brown-lit cubical and into the vast expanses of the fields in my mind. They traveled from my latest work in biology, to the cute girl in maths, to the current affairs of the world. Decisions were made, solutions were found and problems seemed lesser as I lathered myself with the exotic aromas from the colourful bottles. Nothing was too sacred to think about in the secluded confines of the watery box.

As I floated through the depths of my mind the water began to age my skin. A series of wrinkles, which I poetically began to examine on my hand. A landscape of ridges....a pock-marked plain...a frenzied....

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? YOU HAVE BEEN IN THERE FOREVER! WHAT'S TAKING YOU SO LONG?!"

The spell was shattered by the harsh tones of my mother's raised voice. Thoughts gushed out of my ears like water that was flowing around me. Just like that I was merely standing beneath an outlet of warm dihydrogen monoxide molecules, in the confines of an ugly brown room, staring at bottles of chemicals and the deflated suds of once proud shampoo. I twisted off the taps, the pleasant rattling of water on water replaced by the lonely drip of the metal drain.

Christopher.

"Everyone who's ever taken a shower has an idea."

Nolan Bushnell

Growing old(er)

I like writing. Many, if not all of you, will know this. Writing is, perhaps, my favourite past time, though of late it has seemed almost chore-ish. I put this down to being in a writing class at school, and being expected to meet many creative deadlines to produce a final portfolio for assessment. This is both a stimulating and stifling environment, one that I both thrive and drown in. This, however, is not what I wish to bore you all with this evening. What I wish to bore you with is one of the pieces that I completed for the previously mentioned final portfolio.

The piece in question is one that I am particularly proud of - even though I forgot that I wrote it and re-discovered it on my hard-drive a couple of weeks before the submission was due.

Now, I'm not going to post the whole thing (though it is available upon request), but the piece follows an old man exploring parallels between a human's aging and a footpath's aging. It concludes with the following lines:

New life through the gaps of broken memories – the details he was missing. The details that seem so insignificant with time, but so significant with youth.

The final sentence is what I will be focusing on.

Speaking as a teenager - I think many teenagers dramatise their lives (relative to adults). And I think this is perfectly acceptable. I'm young, I'm not going to pretend otherwise. Though I have been around for eighteen years these days, there is still so much for me to discover - other cultures, natural wonders, Australian adult life, human interactions...

Everything is exciting. Everything is new. Everything is significant.

The girl that gave you a smile on the bus.
The boy that hugged you for just that second longer.
The whisper of breeze on a silent summer night.
The claustrophobia of a heavy fog.
The rhythmic tick of a cooling engine after your first road trip.
The sense of anticipation during a plane's safety announcement.

The details that seem so significant with youth.

I think as one experiences these things more and more often as they grown older, they begin to attach much less meaning to them.

She was just being friendly.
He was just being comforting.
I really want to be in bed.
Damn. This is going to make me late for work.
Finally, I can stretch my legs.
God, I'm so sick of this, can't we just get there already.

The details that seem so insignificant with time.

I'm afraid I must admit that many experiences which once meant so much to me, I have begun to just take for granted, I'm not going to be specific (I'm sure many of you can think of some). In some ways, I think this is a good thing. I don't stress every little thing. I am beginning to appreciate the differences between taking something at face value, and analysing beneath the surface - and when to apply each of these measures to ensure the best outcome.

But on the same token, I also think its a bad thing. Life is much less exciting if you think you already know everything. The latter of the examples were bland, hurried, and careless. The former of the examples were anticipatory, romantic, and genuine.

I know which I prefer.

In my humble internet blogging opinion - a lone voice in a sea of opinionated writers - there is a mindset that should be achieved in regards to my current rambling. Life is not all romantic and genuine - the human condition doesn't allow for that, and I accept that. But if life isn't romantic and genuine in some senses - it becomes bland, monotonous, and careless.

Accept those moments that seem romantic and genuine at face value.

Those moments that don't seem entirely genuine or romantic have the potential to be. See past the face value, analyse beneath the surface, and discover a hidden story.

One can always take for granted the footpath that runs along their nature strip - that harms no one.

But that path has a story, just below the surface, just as each and everyone one of us has a past just below the surface.


Christopher.

"Starting today - I'm not gonna worry about tomorrow..."

Starting Today - Natalie Imbruglia