The Internet Issue

There are some bad people in this world. And a lot of those bad people are very clever. So clever, in fact, that they are willing to take their schemes to elaborate lengths in order to get away with murder – or worse.

Having recently watched ‘The Lovely Bones’ for the first time, I found myself quite roughly jilted out of my safe little nook and into the waking reality that it wasn’t just another fantasy story – these kinds of things do happen, more often than we’d like to realise.

And then the Beaumont case resurfaced. All the fresh horror that I felt towards the world was only reinforced.

The scary thing is that the perpetrators in these cases had the hard slogs. These days it is so much easier . . . 

The Internet has provided a great many services and conveniences to the 21^st Century, one of them being the vast array of social networking sites at our disposal. Websites such as Facebook, MySpace and Xanga are all used to share photos, personal information, statuses and to chat – with personal friends and strangers. Whilst there are privacy settings provided on the majority of these sites, they are optional and customizable, and rarely used by the younger, more naive generation.

Teens make up a huge proportion of these sites’ users. A much smaller proportion – yet still very much there – are those bad people: pedophiles, rapists, kidnappers and murderers.

All these offenders need to know in order to track down a desirable victim is a surname and a town; most teenagers provide much more information than this. Needless to say, predators don’t have it tough when it comes to finding potential victims on the web. It is all too easy.

There have been many kidnapping, rape and murder cases since the birth of the Internet in which social media sites have played a big role. Middle-aged criminals posing as teens have hidden behind a screen and played the part perfectly, slowly but surely luring youth into a net beyond the network, and then it’s too late. These kids suddenly find they’re not safe behind a monitor anymore and it’s then that they realise not everything on the Internet is as it seems.

There have been countless instances just like this, and yet teens are convinced ‘it can’t happen to them.’ But it can. And it does.

If young, inexperienced children are to be exploring the web without so much as some guidelines, then the road is open for disaster. Parents need to understand what – and who – their children are being exposed to, and then set safety nets in place.

Many a life could be saved through a little understanding and discipline and many a bad person stopped in their tracks. 

Tears, Indians and Alice: The Things Art Is Made Of.

Two posts in one day? What is happening???

I know. This may give some people a heart attack (myself included) but I suddenly got very excited about the fact that it's not only words you can post, but also pictures.

Now, anyone who knows me at all is aware that I adore art. I love paintings, drawings, sculptures, art that means things, art that doesn't, pretty art, forboding art, tiny art and ginormous art. I love going to the art gallery, surfing the internet for art, and I love creating art myself.

It struck me that this blog could be a good way for me to showcase my artistic side; a sort of online art exhibition, if you will. If there is anyone out there reading my blog, perhaps you could even leave some feedback, whether it be for my pictures or for my poetry, once I get some up.

I am always working on some form of art, so there should be some new pieces for me to put up for show on a semi-regular basis. It also depends on how busy I am, but I shall endeavour to be consistent.


First up, here's one that I did recently called Violet Tears. It is a watercolour that I painted in the late hours of Valentine's Day. 

Yes. I am single. And sometimes it just gets to me. Especially when it happens to be the day when happy couples celebrate their love together. As for me, I bunkered down in my art studio and painted away my sorrows until this emerged. I didn't know this was going to shape itself. It just sort of happened. And I'm glad it did. 

I dedicated it to all the lovely people out there who ran to the mailbox that morning only to find that it was empty. Again. It's painful. And so I gave them this.


Another one which I greatly enjoyed creating is this. It is an old American Indian chief done in pencil, which is one of my favourite mediums. I haven't named it yet. 

The inspiration came from my ancestry. Yes, I have Indian blood running through my veins. Cherokee, to be exact. I am proud of my heritage, and this is sort of in remembrance my kin of old, I suppose. 

Here's a quote which I love: 

"There is no such thing as 'part-Cherokee.' Either you're Cherokee or you’re not. It isn't the quantity of Cherokee blood in your veins that is important, but the quality of it . . . your pride in it." ~ Jim Pell, Principal Chief of the North Alabama Cherokee Tribe. 

One last one. We're All Mad Here. This was pure fun. 

Another thing that I would expect anyone to know who claims to know me well is that I absolutely love Alice in Wonderland. The book, the movie, the characters, the merchandise -- everything! 

This little piece popped out of nowhere while I was supposed to be concentrating upon writing a short story. I suddenly had an urge to draw the Cheshire Cat . . . and so I did! I pounced upon the closest piece of paper I could find (which was my writing workbook), siezed some coloured pencils and away I went. 

(12:21. Sorry, I must always write down when I see a numerical palindrome. Someday I must write a post about this funny habit of mine. Golly, I'm getting hungry . . . ) 

Anyway, after a good few hours filled with fun and pure imagination, this little gem arose out of the page. When my dad saw it he exclaimed with some regret that had it been on proper drawing paper, he would have gladly framed it for me. Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with the lined paper. I quite like it, in fact; it adds character. 

However, the next day I did draw it again on better paper . . . but the second ones never seem to look as good, do they? This is why I chose to post the original, lined paper and all! It's the one that truly came out of spur-of-the-moment inspiration.

To finish up, here's an Alice in Wonderland quote that I simply adore: 

~ "We're all mad here," said the Cat. "I'm mad. You're mad." 

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "otherwise you wouldn't have come here." ~

Brilliant.


Well, that's all I shall post of my pictures for now. Keep a look out for more to come (if there is anyone even out there). 

Violet Quercus
xoxo

Procrastination and Poetry

Oh my stars! 

It's been nine months since I last wrote. 

 . . .

 . . .

 . . .

Well, this whole keeping-on-top-of-my-new-and-exciting-blog idea was sure shot to hell. Not that I can pretend to think that it would have been any different. Somewhere in a dark and dusty cupboard in the back of my mind I stuffed these thoughts and knowings and tried to think that it could have been otherwise. Hmm . . . perhaps not. Nature prevails every time.

Oh well, I'm here now, and even though anyone who stumbled across my blog all those months ago has probably long lost their faith in me, I am back and writing away, and it feels good. Who cares if no one is reading this? I'm writing it. 

I have had a thought: to save me time and effort (yes, I do find some enjoyment in being lazy occassionally -- who doesn't?) I could post some of my poetry every once in a while, stuff that I have already worked on. The only thing is that my poetry collection is in the possession of a friend. I absentmindedly left it at a house that was not mine a good few weeks ago, and my friend absentmindedly kept forgetting to collect it for me. No matter; she has it now. I just have to collect it from her and then, hey presto! There shall be fresh, new poetry for all to enjoy . . . hopefully. Just a word of warning: my poetry tends to arise from the depths of depression. Some of it is not very uplifting. 

But then some of it is. If I am feeling in a quirky mood (which I am very much of the time) I might decide to put on my Dr Seuss thinking cap and do some fun rhyming poetry. It very much depends on my mood. But that is what poetry is about, isn't it? Capturing a mood in a moment; a tiny trinket of life in time; a droplet of fun or despair as it comes. 

I have been told that while most forms of writing is like walking, poetry is like dancing; you capture a single event in a gilded cage of words and then twist it, turn it every which way, see what it does, what it feels like, how it glints in the sunlight. And that's it. 

The difference between poets and other forms of writers is this: the poet lifts the rock, observes the bug and then slowly replaces the rock. Basically, the poet just observes. She sees someting worth seeing and then she writes down what comes to her. 

The novelist (or other such writer that is not a poet) lifts the rock, observes the bug and then pokes it to see what will happen. She needs to see what comes after that. It's called plot. This is what novelists do. 

I am both. I am a poet and a novelist. There is joy in both forms. Sometimes I like to just see and leave it at that. Other times I whisper, 'Curiouser and curiouser,' and must find out what happens next. 

And here's the thing: there is nothing wrong with putting a little bit of dance into your walk.


To leave off, here's a pretty little quote which struck me to my heart. It talks right to me. . . 

"Listen to the mustn'ts, child, listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me . . . Anything can happen, child, anything can be." ~ Shel Silverstein

Violet Quercus

xoxo

The Beautiful Dark

There is a quiet beauty in a gentle mist poised delicately in the twilight; a curtain of glimmering beads through which glows the final retiring beams of day.
   
I stood at the bottom of our garden last night, taking in this pretty scene. The silence was so striking. The birds had since quieted their chatter, retiring to their cosy nooks to bury their beaks beneath their feathery wings. All rumbling cars had been hidden behind garage doors, or settled under a dripping tree for the night. There were no dogs sending forlorn messages over the tumbling countryside to one another. Peace reigned throughout the hills.


As I wandered through this beautiful ruggedness that was my home, I felt a sense of freedom pulling at my soul, to be let free. So I followed the call, as I continued to walk along the road, the darkness falling all around me, the mist silently settling upon my thick, woollen cardigan which I clutched around me. The dogs scurried past my feet, excited for this novel night adventure.


The crisp air was exhilirating in my lungs and I breathed deeply this new flavour of oxygen - the night seemed to tinge it with a sweet sharpness which ran through my veins with a cold rush. My whole body, touched by the bitter cold, seemed to extend a connection to nature that was absent when the warm sunshine heated my skin.


I could vaguely perceive the murky puddles that passed around my croc-clad feet . . . little did I care about fashion-sense in that moment. Indeed, it was a moment of impulsion, a crazy calling from something beyond the cold night, and I responded to it. I had departed from my cosy nook in front of the toasty fire, still dressed in my Sunday best, and thrown on the nearest footware I could grab hold of: Mum's old, grimy pair of gardening crocs.


So there I was, trudging down the muddy dirt lane. Across the valley glowed warm, golden windows, ablaze and intensely inviting. But I stood there, soaking in the pure night concoction: the breeze which chilled my bones, the mist which dangled before my eyes and settled upon my hair, and the melancholy drips from trees above. I held my arms out, threw back my head, spun around, and simply loved it.


Further down the lane, where mud met concrete at the complex intersection of my country town, the single streetlamp cast an almost eerie, yet magical, icy light across the shining street, illuminating my path. I walked towards it, my eyes fixed firmly upon its steady, unwavering light, until I stood beneath it, my head craned back, my eyes crinkled before the brilliant glow.


Praying a silent prayer, I lowered my eyes to meet my watch; 5:35. My precious numerical palendrome gift. Everything was fine, He said.


Focusing forward, eyes adjusting to the darkness before me, I saw a long, black road that twisted around a corner, and down into the valley. Not ominous, as it should have been - as it would have been before He captured me again. He was there, and I wasn't afriad. So I danced forward, the dark's cloak offering me a freedom of secrecy and invisibility to express hidden emotions and a new character that could not be shown in light of day . . . at least not yet. But there I didn't care. Because He didn't. So on I skipped, a smile on my frozen lips, my hands outstretched.

Reaching a curve in the long and winding road, I paused for a moment. Before me a warm stretch of light was cast across the road from a house perched above me on a dark hill. Creeping slowly forwards, I approached this mesmirizing, golden streak. However, it was always one step ahead of me; no matter how far I progressed, it was constantly out of my reach.

So I stood there, bathed in the cool darkness that shrouded me, contemplating how very often those things in life that we most desire are always just beyond our grasp. Yet, we can learn to accept this truth, and appreciate where we are. As I did then. Soaking in the silvery moonlight that can only be seen in the darkness. It was beautiful. Dark and pure and sparklingly cold.


And then I went home.


So there ended my night adventure, but I took something away from it which I will undoubtedly remember. I hope that you will be left with something after reading this, as well. After all, it's what writing is all about: conveying a message to the world. I hope I have achieved something of this wish through my art.

Violet Quercus
xoxo

Dreary Days

My brain is absolutely fried from far too much time in front of a screen,I am emotionally drained from all the drama in my life, and I am struggling over completing four TAFE assignments in 9 days. Oh help.


I do apologise, and I regret not keeping on top of this blog, but it would make sense if people understood what has been going on in my life recently. But that can remain unsaid. Needless to say anything else, it has been a tough time.

And now I have writer's block. Right when I need to be able to write like crazy for TAFE. So I thought that it might be a good idea to just write a free-minded post on my blog, to help release my thoughts, and get my fingers at least typing SOMETHING.

So this is it. Yes. And so inspirational it is, I must say. Please note the sarcasm. Oh well. I suppose this is probably a lot more help to me that anyone else at this point. Just to get something down. I am just rambling now. See what happens when I have been under too much pressure, or in front of my computer for too long? Yes, this. What fun it all is, eh? It's a funny little life, I must say. But soon it'll all be over. I'll have gotten through this week. Either dead or alive. I'll be on holidays. Either on earth or in Heaven. I can't pick which I'd rather more, actually. Heaven does sound so deliciously peaceful to me, at the moment, I must say...

*Sigh*

Soon I must be off to the realm of mirrors and sliding glass doors to shower myself with cleanliness, as I prepare to depart for my cello lesson. I do hope it goes well. It would be so dreary if it didn't. Scratchy tone. Inconsistent intonation. Screeching dynamics. But I wouldn't be surprised if it were so. On top of that, my fingers are cold. Not very promising, indeed.

Well, I do beg your pardon for this depressingly uninspiring post, but this is what's going on in my mind, I am afraid.

Farewell readers, and I do hope I can address you shortly on a much lighter note.

Violet Quercus
xoxo

Granny Hen

Well. Two days later...

But it was the weekend, and I was very busy! First of all, I had to be up all the earlier in order to get to my orchestra rehearsal (lugging a cello down a windy, corkscrew staircase when you've just woken up in the morning is not something I recommend!) by 9am, and then I rushed back home so I could skype interview my American grandmother about her mother, my great-grandmother, for a TAFE assignment on life/biographical writing. And that took us up to about 4pm...but, my goodness, was my great-grandmother a crazy lady! She was FANTASTIC!

I have about 4 pages of dot-points concerning her life - 'Granny Hen', we used to call her, a name that began when my own mother was small. She and her siblings found it difficult to pronounce her real last name (which will remain unsaid for anonymity's sake) as, yes, it was quite a mouthful!

Granny Hen was unique in the truest sense. Her confidence, shamelessness, and, true, indifference to what anyone else though of her (although she believed that everyone must love her!), made her one of the most inspirational people I have ever known, and it makes me proud to say that she and I are of the same flesh and blood.

It has been said of her, by her own family, that she was "wildly impractical", that "if she ever went senile, you wouldn't know the difference", that she "lived in the now, that anything past was well and truly in the past", that she "loved to have fun, and was always making up new tricks", and that she "drove like hell!", according to her husband, when they finally purchased a car. My Grandma also said that she was always, always optimistic, that she "never had a depressed day in her life". But she also said that Granny Hen was terribly impulsive, being very highly ADD, and Grandma says she spent a good deal of her time "watching the back of her head go away from me at a high speed in the wrong direction!".

Granny Hen, like the majority of my Mum's side, was very artistic. She loved to paint. She painted toes and petunias on her sneakers, a sunflower on the top of her hat, and a naked woman's figure on the front of her bathing suit, to make her 'appear slimmer', in her old age! Grandma also told me that Granny Hen wanted an oriental rug, and since she didn't have one, she did the next best thing, as far as she was concerned - put a piece of cardboard on the veranda and painted it to look like an oriental rug!

She also was fiercely dedicated to her family (HER family, not her husband's, as she argued that his German relatives were too boring while the Scottish were too violent!), and this was expressed through an ongoing mural of her family that she painted in her house - and she never finished it, as she was constantly changing it, repainting people as they grew, never satisfied to leave it as it was.

Her imagination was boundless, and one of pure wonder and brilliance, as she painted her grandchildren hugging unicorns, and holding tamed birds. I would have loved to have seen the mural. Now the house has been sold, and the mural painted over, the new residents clueless as to its great significance to our family. It's a quiet tragedy we must bear alone.

My grandmother also recalls a common scene she saw as a child: Granny Hen, with her little baby on one hip, a paintbrush in the other hand, and a cat getting into her paint pallet! I can picture that quite perfectly, and a marvelous scene it is!

I was also over-joyed to discover some very interesting similarities that I share with Granny Hen. She, like I, absolutely adored dark chocolate! I found this quite fascinating, as no one else is particularly fond of dark chocolate in my family, outside of my Dad, but he's from a completely different side!

Granny Hen also loved to read, as do I, and apparently she would get so involved in the stories that she read, that she could actually experience them! I love that about her.

Favourite colours also...blue, purple and red. All my favourites. Apparently a lot of people on my mother's side have cherished these colours as well, especially red towards the end of their lives. Consequently, my Grandma explained that red happens to be the colour of life.

I also discovered that, back in the day, Granny Hen actually used to work for a newspaper called the 'News Republican' as the society editor, which was the perfect job for her, according to my Grandma, as she loved to gossip! Every day she would make her way into town, despite the fact that she didn't own a car and it was several miles to get there, even if it was only to collect a single head of lettuce - and then spend an enjoyable afternoon with her good friend Martha swapping juicy tidbits of gossip about who did what!

Grandma said that once she herself hit the teen years, Granny Hen thought it would be appropriate to start including her in her gossip, and found great amusement in using Grandma's friends and classmates as targets. "Oh, did you hear what Susie Marshall got up to last night with Samuel Brown in that car? And we all thought she was such a nice girl." My grandmother , not being a judgemental person, would then retort back with some defensive reply, "Mother, how do you even know that? Were you in the back seat?!".

Granny Hen was also a terrible cook, although she preferred to call herself an "imaginative cook". She never had the foresight to check to see whether she actually possessed the right ingredients for a recipe, and being very impulsive and ADD, she very often could not wait until she had gotten them! So, if she wanted to make a cake which called for vanilla essence, she'd use peppermint instead - resulting in some very strange tasting dishes!

Granny Hen could also not stand to be alone while she drove (when they finally bought a car, after many long trips to town on foot), so she stuffed a scarecrow and put him in the passenger seat to keep her company, naming him 'Burt Reynolds' after her favourite movie star! Her creativity never ceases to astound me!

The second and last time I ever saw Granny Hen was when I was about 5 years old. I can still feel the night, remember the atmosphere...

It was dark, and we were all sitting on the porch, listening to Dad softly picking at the guitar the way he does. My sister and I were lying on the couch, tucked up to our chins under a leopard-skin blanket, Granny Hen's favourite pattern, our toes sticking out the bottom. You could almost taste the warm, Summer air. Everyone else - cousins, aunts, uncles, mum and dad - were congregated on the porch, nabbing a chair, or a bit of the balcony railing. The sense of family was sublime.

Granny Hen swung silently in the white, wicker chair that dangled from the ceiling, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

I don't remember what was said or if anything was said. All I remember is just lying there, listening to the music, and the quiet creak as Granny Hen swung gently back and forth.

We have a photo of this night, but I don't need it to remember the scene. Granny Hen's face is fixed firmly in my mind.

And I'll only see her in my mind from now on. She passed away several years back, at the triumphant age of 91. And even though I only met her a few meagre times, I feel an inexplicable connection to her. I can see her up there now, painting to her heart's content, using a paint pallet splashed with far more colours than she could ever have dreamed of down here.

Ah, there is so much more that I could write about her, so many stories to tell! But I am afraid that no number of stories that I recall will be enough to capture the personality of my beloved Granny Hen. She was an incredibly inspirational woman, in all her insanity, and I only wish I could have met her a few more times before she departed this earth. She was a woman who was not one lick ashamed to be exactly who she was, and, three generations down, we still have moments of fond reminiscence, seasoned with many good laughs, of my beloved Granny Hen.

Violet Quercus

xoxo

The Change and Herbal Tea

Well, my stomach's grumbling, the kitchen's to my left, but I'm determined to write this post before I do anything else!

Ah, the things that winter days bring...a roaring fire, a hot cup of herbal tea, and good dig through my past papers and notebooks - resulting in the discovery of quite a few forgotten, yet cherished pieces of writing. How exciting!

It's amazing to note how much you can change in such a short amount of time. This can be made all the more evident when you read back through something you've written, perhaps not even 6 months ago. I can see now how different my world-view was back then, as opposed to now, as a lot of my pieces tended to be fairly melancholy in tone, although they all seemed to end in a more positive, hopeful voice.

(Here's an example...Heaven knows what I was going through when I wrote this one!)

"Staring into the abyss before me, a draught, cold as ice, whistled through my hair. I was back where I vowed I’d never return. The memories of past failures crept back into my mind through back doors I thought I had closed. With each new, painful thought, the gaping crack before me grew, shifting the unsteady ground under my weary feet. Soon I’d be back down there, among the cold bones of past victims; held down by the crushing weight of my pain; trapped. My burden grew, pressing me down towards the consuming darkness. My knees failed me and my fragile frame collapsed – but, somehow, I did not fall. No, instead my shoulders grew lighter as my burden was gently removed. Opening my eyes, a glorious light engulfed me, consuming all the darkness. The dismal blacks and greys of my attire faded, becoming blinding white, shining with the radiance of a million stars."

It's also good to note that this change in my thinking has been noted itself, as it means that I have developed away from this frame of mind, and am recognising the positive changes that have occurred. I can see that I have developed emotionally, and have emerged from this slightly anxious and dark state of mind as a happier, more optimistic person, although I do still have the same philosophical tendencies of questioning nearly every aspect of life to the nth degree...'Why? Why? Why?' It seems to be my favourite passtime! Which can be a good or a bad thing, I suppose. I just need to be sure that I am using this element of my character to better who I am as a person; pulling apart a question regarding some obscure aspect of humanity that most people would not have even considered before, until it becomes some raving obsession in my mind to know the answer, is not a healthy way to be living! And yes, I have been there. I think I need to submit to the understanding that if I can't answer a question, well, then I can just accept that with a shrug and move on with life. No one has all the answers in life, do they? So why should I?

As well as developing emotionally, I can also see the great deal I have developed as far as my technical writing skills are concerned...oh gosh! Some of the stuff I wrote, I just want to bury under 6 feet of earth and forget it ever existed! But again, I think that upon reflection, it can be encouraging (if you can get past the embarrassment of it all!) to recognise how far you have come. So I have spent the last few hours in front of the warm fire, ignoring that cup of herbal tea, while I typed up all my handwritten notes of woe...and some of happiness, yes - I was not all that far gone! But just to see what I thought back then, compared to what I think now can be quite incredible...and indeed encouraging.

Some of the pieces I quite liked, however, and they seemed to be sound enough in construction, so I quite happily left them how they were. Some others I found had potential, although they lacked good composition, and, after drafting and redrafting, I had created some lovely little bits of writing, all to do with different aspects of life.

They had all been done at around the same time, I realised, during a writing workshop I had undertaken, but before I had begun on my TAFE course in Professional Writing. So not many were of the standard of which I possess now, although they were probably significantly better than that which I would have written before doing the workshop.

Here's a short piece I wrote on the very first session of the workshop. It speaks for itself...

"An empty coffee mug signalled the closing of the session. There were quiet scratches of pen across paper as minds expanded with the atmosphere of acceptance. It was nearly time to end, and they’d only just begun. Perhaps next week they would experience it again. Perhaps it was the start of something new and wonderful…"

I believe it was something new and wonderful. For here I am now, nearly halfway through my first year in TAFE. And at 17, I am the youngest person to ever be accepted into the course. It was definitely a daunting prospect. But here I am, working my way towards the dream that up until now had been just that - a far-fetched, imagined, glimmer of a dream. And looking back upon those early years of my childhood, I can't believe now I am actually doing it! For as far back as I can remember, I have always responded to that over-asked question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with, "I want to be an author!"

And certainly, I tried. So many stories have been started, and never finished. Just sitting in the hardly-opened computer folder, collecting metaphorical dust. It's a sad thought. But now, perhaps, I have the opportunity to finish what I started. To finally be able to put a triumphant 'THE END' on a completed story. Ah, what a feeling that would be!

Well, I am well and truly famished now, as I was yesterday (after struggling my way through darned technology for so long!) and so I shall sign off now, and hope that this post wasn't completely in vain, that someone might enjoy reading my ramblings! Farewell, readers!

Violet Quercus

xoxo