Hello dear imaginary readership,

This here's the latest article I wrote for Dreamland:

bi-carb-as-a-deodorant article

Enjoy :).

~Bon

The Dreaded Experience

Read my article on dread love and discrimination in Dreamland magazine right here
The Dreaded Experience
Also, check out Dreamland--it has a great mix of interesting articles and info about doofing events in Queensland.

Much love and excitement,
~Bon

What's your beef with genre fiction?

Here’s my response to these two articles for my Creative Writing: Genre Fiction course.

Lev Grossman for Time:

http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/23/genre-fiction-is-disruptive-technology/

Arthur Krystal for The New Yorker: 

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/10/its-genre-fiction-not-that-theres-anything-wrong-with-it.html

Considering the name of my course I am writing this post for, my stance in the debate should come as no surprise. Though I align myself more closely with Grossman’s positive appraisal of the worth of genre fiction, I do not think these two articles are diametrically opposed. In Krystal’s rather verbose way, he is trying to set a clear distinction between literary fiction and genre fiction, and thus, tends to privilege the latter over the former in terms of worth. By so vehemently maintaining that the distinction between literary and genre fiction is fundamental and a question superiority, Krystal sets himself up for defeat. My problem with this vision of the fiction divide may be closer to that expressed in Grossman’s piece, though I have my own ideas to add. As is so simply and elegantly expressed by the last line of Grossman’s article:

“They’re all just books, and good books are treasures beyond price, and vive la difference”.

I might summarise the issue even more simplistically. All books have their place. And, to be perfectly honest, I feel that the “shitty fiction” that Grossman refers to as being the real target of Krystal’s beef with genre fiction, also has its place. I confess to reading what both Krystal and Grossman would consider “shitty fiction”. If indeed difference is to be celebrated as Grossman says, why not celebrate the bad as well as the good? And who are we really to condescend to call something that people enjoy reading bad? Bad and good are such subjective concepts anyway. I can imagine many tweenage Twilight fans arguing that the “shitty fiction” they like to read is worthwhile. All things in moderation while embracing diversity. It would, after all, be disastrous to suggest assigning Twilight onto the high school English curriculum to replace Oscar Wilde or Harper Lee. Just imagine. Em dashes everywhere. Awful.

Though I disagree with how Krystal turns his nose up at genre fiction, I agree with him on the point that there needs to be a distinction between how we read it and literary fiction. Without a distinction or hierarchy--of sorts--(there I am with the em dashes! Pow!) the world of reading may be thrown into anarchy. There really should be at degree of distinction between the two, or we may have a situation like Stephenie Meyer being taught in schools on our hands. By the same token, I think the snob percentile of literary fiction puritans need to realise that what one reads does not determine intelligence or social class. As I mentioned before, even "shitty fiction" has its place. Maybe not in the classroom, unless it's a how-not-to-write tutorial example, but these books can be great for a little escapism. Kudos to both Krystal and Grossman for that idea. Aimed at Krystal: any kind of reading, books, and fiction can be escapism. Moderation in every facet of life is beneficial, reading included. Reading both literary and genre fiction helps us improve our grasp of language, our own writing skills, and our understanding of the world and other people in it.

-Bon

This is why I hated School-quick version

Disclaimer:
This is an invention, and any resemblance to individuals or places is unintentional, and/or does not reflect the opinions of the author.
Bonnie Scott

5/11/12

This is why I hated School

Get up, stand up: stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up: don't give up the fight!

(“Get Up, Stand Up” —Bob Marley)

It began with that Charon’s craft, the overcrowded, decrepit bus conveying us to our prison. As prisoners of the bus, sweltering in the sticky seats, we observed in silent horror as we approached the School gates, young hands and noses pressed to the windows forming clouds of moisture on the grimy surface. A winding snake of downtrodden seniors stretched before our dismayed eyes. The welcoming committee were garbed in blindingly white long sleaved button-up shirts and long trousers—the same for males and females. Charon squeezed his passengers out into the strange welcome. The kids were in a state of resigned panic and dull confusion, until they looked into the seniors’ eyes and saw the inevitable conclusion: the ridiculous get-up was the new uniform they had been demanding. It was plain to see—especially from the pained faces of the seniors—that everyone now longed for the return of the ugly, but permissible green and brown uniform. I however, was still caught in a state of acute horror: I was all alone among my peers, being the only senior to catch the bus with the juniors. I searched the sea of horror-drawn masks for my best friend, and found only the anonymous crush of young captives. The flow of passengers was ebbing, and I could delay no longer. In a way, it was a relief to step out of the stifling air of the bus that cooked us from the inside with every inhalation. I exited the bus, at the end, and its jaws almost caught me as they closed in a skeletal grin.

On the footpath, the embarrassed seniors’ eyes were dull with dismay and some wept quietly. They stood in a faux-welcome, someone’s sick performance of “School pride”, and I knew just whose it was: the Doc’s. That’s what we called her: the head teacher. She surveyed the albino student snake with a disciplinarian’s enjoyment, hair in a severe black crop and penetrating eyes taking in her handiwork. The Doc stood there for a moment more, savouring the horrified expressions then started spouting some rubbish about how we will be so pleased to see our request for a new, more professional uniform has been obliged, and that we should start wearing it immediately. She then stalked away through the tall gates, no doubt to return to haunting the senior’s designated district, formally known as “I Block”. At the exit of Her Ominence (yes, I did just make up that word), some of the more tear-stained seniors tugged at their uniforms, muttering about how all they needed to do now was dye them orange, and the effect would be complete. The two groups of students began to meld and commiserate about their shared fate. My peers seemed to be recovering from their initial horror, donning an additional layer of resignation. This new defeat was an iron ball and chain that made them drag their feet as they filed into the School grounds as the warning bell rang. “Bring out your dead,” it said to me.

I could not follow the group this time, aware of the wrath I would incur as punishment for tardiness. Panic had again risen in my chest at the thought of facing this new situation without my ally. A moment later, mingling with the echo of the bell was the distinct sound of her van’s motor pulling into the car park. She bounded up to me in a flurry of nervous energy, and a sliver of fear slid away at the sight of her. Breathy greetings were chased hurriedly aside as I relayed to her the ghastly new situation. She gave me a curt, grim nod of solidarity and we sped into the grounds. I was exulting that the new uniforms were “horrible, just horrible. Worse than the last-“ when sirens went off, too loud and too close. Appearing among the flashes of red and blue lights was a girl from our year. She was a stocky girl, with a serious face and humourless grey eyes. She had always been a kind girl, until Doc had caught her for some minor offence, taking her under her wing and had returned one of them. She read mechanically from the printed sheet of paper in her hands.

“Classmate 44218, you are charged with crimes against the institution for your debasement of the new uniform. You, and classmate 44351 here are also in violation of the Uniform proclamation as of four minutes, thirty-two seconds ago that states all students must wear Uniform 3.0, the white upgrade,” (upon which, she handed us a set of the white atrocities each and ensured we donned them on the spot) “furthermore, you are now…two hundred and thirty-…eight seconds late for class. You will await your punishment at the final School bell.”

She turned on her heel and marched toward our classroom with the knowledge that the both of us would surely follow. My ally exchanged a fearful glance with me, wondering what cruel and bizarre punishment awaited us once all the other students had escaped for home.

“Keep up!” our authoritative classmate barked, without turning to look at us at her heels.

Along our hurried march to the classroom, some of my fear turned to anger: anger at this place that was supposed to be a place of learning, where young minds collaborated to seek and education about all possibilities of things imaginable. Where has the dream gone to die? The only things we saw here were fear, obedience, punishment, and the unquestionable power of authority. This totalitarian prison took the world’s most promising hopes for the future, young minds, and turned them into cowardly, detestable vermin, which resorted to scrapping and bullying amongst themselves to vent their frustration with the dominance of an authority they could not rebel against. That was how the authorities did it, the teaching and administration staff; they kept the cohorts separated so the student body could not unite and rise against them, in a unified whole. It made me want to shout “Look what you’ve done!” at the top of my voice. It was a miracle when anything positive like friendship formed out of this, like it had with me. If only we could unite! Maybe then our goals might be achieved.

From somewhere far off, I knew that with a little time, age would give us the power to break the curse of suppression and enable us to forge our own identities. We would become responsible for our own actions, when we left the totalitarian School-state in our memories and our nightmares. No matter how much we think we could do things better, if we could do it over again, we can be eternally grateful that we don’t have to return because it’s over now.

Catch-up television on the web

"Be gentle, it's my first time,"

Being the age I am without ever having watched missed TV show episodes on the web previously, may seem a little strange. But truly, up until last night, whenever I missed crucial episodes I would think to myself: That's it, I'll just have to fill-in the blanks or go buy the series. It is a sign that I am a full convert that I now cringe at that primitive seeming mentality. So yes, those websites that offer reruns of the latest episodes do seem to serve their purpose for catch-ups, but I am still an old-fashioned TV girl at heart. The crappy quality of my computer screen, a couple of mishaps with the progress-bar-thingy (you can tell I've definitely not done this before), and the loading times, make me only willing to resort to telly on the computer as the back-up for missing the shows. There is no way in hell I could watch whole series on the computer. I don't know how people can! Not unless their computer equipment actually bests their entertainment systems (though, I suppose there are people who don't have a TV at all, so the computer is their only option).

So am I a convert? Not really...

Don't get me wrong: improvements in technology and our greater reliance on it, which in turn, fuels society to be more web-based, has made many activities simpler, faster, and sometimes cheaper. But I don't believe that technology in society is at the stage yet, were television has become redundant. I, personally, would still much prefer to watch every piece of audio-visual media on the TV, because the quality is a lot higher for a lot less money. Our tiny little family flat screen was one of the smallest digital enabled TVs that you could  buy at the time, and when compared to the (similar quality bracket) laptop, the TV wins hands down for comfort of experience. I think relying on our computers for almost everything is going a bit overboard. Sure, I  always wanted a device that could do everything, (think of all the pocket space I'll save!!!), but I've realised through this experience, that when you intend to use something for a good experience, it's better to go with the experts. And this relates back to many devices: sure you can go on the internet on your phone, but you would prefer to do  it on your computer because the tiny phone is not designed for hardcore browsing. Sure you could listen to music on your computer, with it's teeny-tiny built in speakers-but who would dance to the tinny racket if they could be pumping their fists to the ground shaking bass of a legitimate sound system?

A further reason why I will be trying to catch my shows on the TV rather than the internet at my leisure: I missed crucial elements of plot because I could not read the pixelated computer and phone screens from my grainy internet video. Not cool. Not cool at all. For anyone who has watched the Benedict Cumberbach Sherlock on a tiny, blurry screen, you will share my frustration and confusion. It's not worth it.

I hope you've enjoyed my rant, and please feel free to leave me your comments,

-Bon

Twitter talks on TV

I saw a share worthy episode of the ABC's Big Ideas program on Twitter. Below is a link to the iview video, but it is going to expire on that site in a few days, so for reference, it was series five, episode thirty-eight aired on the twentieth of June, 2012.

http://www.abc.net.au/iview/#/view/23200

One of the speakers, Catherine Deveny (a comedian and columnist for the Age for nine years, among other things) said something to the effect of that she uses Twitter because there are too many wankers on Facebook. I quite like that, as I prefer Facebook to Twitter, and I agree that, yes, it is mostly fluff and there are a few wankers. : P

And on another note, I have to congratulate myself, and a lot of others out there, that they have finished the first semester of Uni. Hurray! Bring on the holidays! I plan to keep writing my creative piece and NOT do any Uni. I do so love the artist of the photo below-please find him in my earlier post: you will recognise his distinctive work, I am sure.

Take care all,

-Bon

Evaluation of JOUR1111: Goodbye Journalism, hello Writing

So JOUR1111 is almost over: there are no more lectures or tutes, just some little pieces of assessment to do here and there. It was with an air of finality that I left the final tute, as it will not only be the last of the course I will attend, but likely the last of any journalism subject. After having said that I'm not continuing with the journalism major, it may seem strange when I say that I thoroughly enjoyed this subject. The lectures were informative and engaging-the lecturers both knowledgeable and helpful. It all sounds very cliche as I write this, but it has honestly been a really enjoyable subject.

Since I've cleared that up, you will probably be wondering why, exactly, I'm not continuing journalism study when I like it so much. Here's the rub: in the attempt to become a journalist, I realised why I will not do well as one. I lack passion for this pursuit. We were always taught, in this course to take an interest in what is happening around us, seek the stories, and make the effort to create quality journalism. When I tried to do all these things, I felt very false, because the interest I did take had to be forced out of me, and I could not shake my lazy attitude.

Though I was initially disappointed that my first choice of study hasn't worked out, it has made me decide to follow my passions instead of engaging in wishful thinking. I will be changing my major to writing (ironically, since this blog has been riddled with errors and for the draft stage, ineffectively written).I thought The Beatles would cheer up the tone of this post.

The tutes were amazing, probably the most enjoyable I've had so far with my uni study. They inspired all to learn and appreciate the merits of journalism, its function in our society, and its relevance to many aspects of daily life. So I would like to say a huge thank you to all those involved in the course: especially Bruce and Ali Rae. I hope that none of the staff involved in the course take my lack of success as a journalist as a failure on their part. 

My last message on this blog as part of this course is to say that I plan to continue adding content, but there will be a greater focus on English-hopefully with more effective writing... ;) And who knows? Maybe there will be a little more journalism too.

It has been an absolute pleasure,

-Bon.