You know how sometimes you feel like doing something? Something which takes a bit of effort but which you enjoy doing, provided it turns out all right? And so you do it and it all turns out dandy; you're glad you made the effort and happy with with the result? Yes? But then other times you feel like you should do that same something but your heart isn't really in it? So you give it a go anyway but are glad only that you made the effort as opposed to being glad at the resultant outcome? You know, yes? And there're also the times when you really don't want to do that something? However, you make yourself do it and you dislike the outcome and you feel bitter at having wasted the time? So then you dig your heels in and don't bother with that something for a while? Still with me, yes? Oh, I'm being vague am I?
This blog is my 'something'. I haven't wanted to update it for a while - reason stated above. Every time I wrote a draft it read badly and sounded miserable and I deleted it. Chronicling my Radventures became something I dreaded. Indeed, a self-slung millstone cutting into the back of my neck. I wanted to use an albatross analogy here, especially as New Zealand is home to the globe's northernmost colonies of these weighty flyers. But I haven't read Coleridge's best-known work and was wary of missing a glaring flaw in the comparison. Anyway, in acknowledging my desire to combat the aforementioned vicious cycle I sat down an half an hour ago and tap-tap-tapped and delete-delete-deleted away until a promising start revealed itself. Feeling better already.
Recently, I must confess to having felt rather Eeyore-esque: It's winter (albeit a bit warmer now); I can't get a job (that's can't, yes. I won't be granted a Work Permit - exonerating me from the shackles of my Working Holiday Visa - unless I find an accredited employer who is willing to pay little unskilled old me way over the average wage. NZ$55,000 since you ask); I miss my friends (well, anyone under 50 actually); I'm stuck in a cultural wilderness (local am-dram and YouTube do not count) listening to my parent's "conservative" record collection; I wear overalls most days because I have precious few clothes, and also because I hold most of my conversations with a chainsaw and a selection of felling axes these days. It wouldn't do to wear a blazer and tie, they'd think I was soft.
On the plus side: It is very satisfying to cut up wood; I have taken log-stacking to levels of precision which would reduce an OCD-ridden Swiss to cold sweats; I'm learning how to make stuff out of wood; I get to drive my Pa's ute to collect more trees to cut up; I get to destroy my parents' garden under the pretext of 'clearing the weeds'; I don't have to pay for beer.
The hope is that the more regularly I update this blog, the better I'll feel and the less I'll mind about my sloppy prose- and graceless grammar-based insecurities. With a modicum of good fortune I might even feel like I'm making some progress in these disciplines. Being as I now am a gentleman of enforced, impoverished leisure I propose to sit myself down in this manner on a weekly basis. If fortuitousness abounds, I may actually feel happy with the results.
This blog is my 'something'. I haven't wanted to update it for a while - reason stated above. Every time I wrote a draft it read badly and sounded miserable and I deleted it. Chronicling my Radventures became something I dreaded. Indeed, a self-slung millstone cutting into the back of my neck. I wanted to use an albatross analogy here, especially as New Zealand is home to the globe's northernmost colonies of these weighty flyers. But I haven't read Coleridge's best-known work and was wary of missing a glaring flaw in the comparison. Anyway, in acknowledging my desire to combat the aforementioned vicious cycle I sat down an half an hour ago and tap-tap-tapped and delete-delete-deleted away until a promising start revealed itself. Feeling better already.
Recently, I must confess to having felt rather Eeyore-esque: It's winter (albeit a bit warmer now); I can't get a job (that's can't, yes. I won't be granted a Work Permit - exonerating me from the shackles of my Working Holiday Visa - unless I find an accredited employer who is willing to pay little unskilled old me way over the average wage. NZ$55,000 since you ask); I miss my friends (well, anyone under 50 actually); I'm stuck in a cultural wilderness (local am-dram and YouTube do not count) listening to my parent's "conservative" record collection; I wear overalls most days because I have precious few clothes, and also because I hold most of my conversations with a chainsaw and a selection of felling axes these days. It wouldn't do to wear a blazer and tie, they'd think I was soft.
On the plus side: It is very satisfying to cut up wood; I have taken log-stacking to levels of precision which would reduce an OCD-ridden Swiss to cold sweats; I'm learning how to make stuff out of wood; I get to drive my Pa's ute to collect more trees to cut up; I get to destroy my parents' garden under the pretext of 'clearing the weeds'; I don't have to pay for beer.
The hope is that the more regularly I update this blog, the better I'll feel and the less I'll mind about my sloppy prose- and graceless grammar-based insecurities. With a modicum of good fortune I might even feel like I'm making some progress in these disciplines. Being as I now am a gentleman of enforced, impoverished leisure I propose to sit myself down in this manner on a weekly basis. If fortuitousness abounds, I may actually feel happy with the results.
