Making a Stand on Perspective

Blogs everywhere are just angry rants at the world, including the beginning of this one. I dislike that.

I imagine it happens because of schadenfraude; someone's misfortune is another's humour. So, to entertain others, we take a negative view of life. I've been a victim of comic half-empty, and I've decided that will stop.

Driftwood is now officially a more thoughtful place. I want to post instead about what I learn and the things I see, and hopefully share an interesting point of view.

I plan to make more use of the notepad application on my phone and take note of what I learn in a day.

Wish me luck.

Look who's back in town

New Zealand is a remarkably beautiful place. Green and mountainous, with such friendly locals. There's so much to do, as well. Caving, hiking, zorbing, tours over glowing underground rivers and through infamous movie scenery, horse treks and farm experiences, snow sports, and water sports of every description are all available for the energetic tourist. I had a wonderful time, and I only visited the north island.

So why was I grumbling all the way home?

I had to get up at 1am Brisbane time to catch my flight. It was cold and dark, being 4am Wellington time. We checked out of the hotel at 4:30am and set off to return our rental car. Said hotel was only minutes away from the airport and the return depot, but by 5am, we were still driving around, squinting groggily at our maps and GPS, trying to figure out where to leave the f****** car. The address we'd been given led us to a dark, locked warehouse on the corner of the street, and the maps enformed us that this was indeed the place. It looked nothing like the description we'd been given.

We drove in circles forever - I was very glad I'd decided to take shotgun instead of driving - and honestly gave up and chose to simply leave it at the airport. By total fluke, we drove past the actual depot on our way, and followed our instructions, now running slightly late.

We checked in for our flight, which went smoothly, and attempted to find our way to the departure gate. Had a crowd of people not been walking purposefully away through the duty free shopping stalls, I would never have guessed that you have to walk through the shops rather than between them. I must be too used to roads.

Then we were stopped and asked if we'd paid the tax. What tax? The departure tax. Oh. We have to pay to leave the country, apparently. We waited in another queue, and were hit with a $NZ25 fee each before we could move on to the ritual that is customs.

I suppose at least they were friendly about it, but they stopped me and searched my bag because I forgot to declare my sunscreen. Getting in with it hadn't been a problem, but leaving with it was more of an issue. Maybe they have a shortage. I persuaded them that taking my water bottle should be enough, and they let me go. My American friend resignedly went off for the same thorough search and destroy that she'd been submitted to on the way over. Customs don't like Americans, apparently. That isn't only applicable for NZ, though; their Australian counterparts are just as paranoid. Personally, I don't think she looks anything like a terrorist, but maybe that's just me.

We did make it to the gate in time for our flight, wondering why we'd paid for the fabulous experience not just in flight tickets, but with a tax just to add insult to injury. Perhaps part of the NZ sense of humour?

Well, the joke's on them. We only paid for two of the three people in our group at every hotel we stayed in bar one. And we stole a supermarket sign.

A Strawberry on my Face

I love driving. Really love it. I own a 1998 Mazda MX-5 in bright red, and she's my pride and joy. I tend to close my eyes when the time comes to refuel and simply hand over my credit card.

And now that the weather is warming up here in Brisbane, it's time to start letting the roof down.

A deprived friend of mine had never been in a convertible with the roof down before, so we fixed that this morning. I made sure to take all of my favourite roads, and made a bit of a hoon of myself. We stayed out on the roads for an hour and a half, had lunch on the beach (best calamari I've ever eaten; I'm not kidding), and drove back. Needless to say, I'm not the same colour I was when we left. My upper arms and forehead are a brilliant shade of pink. My nose is an over-ripe strawberry. Oh, my.

Somehow, I hadn't expected this. How is it that I forget every single year? It's never a pleasant experience, and I thought for sure I wouldn't make the mistake this time. I remembered to layer on the sunscreen frequently when I went sailing only a few days ago. And yet, my holiday photographs next week in NZ are all going to feature my spectacularly peeling face-strawberry.

I've managed to avoid showing my annual sunburn to my mother for the last few seasons, but this time there'll be no getting around it. She's going to insist on seeing my holiday snaps, and I don't have a valid reason to hide them. Oh, sure, my camera died a month or so back. My friends and fellow travellers, however, own fully-functional shock- and water-proof contraptions, and this technological age ensures that copies are extraordinarily easy to obtain and distribute. So I'll be getting the skin-cancer lecture again. I really do know the risks, mother dearest. That's why I only need to be reminded once a year.

My friend may have suffered an extra shade on his tan. In case you were wondering.

Just This Once, Make No Statement

Driftwood means nothing. There's no analysis, and no interpretation. It just is, which is probably why I'm struggling so much with the creative class I'm taking this semester. My last assessment scraped a pass, and I've never cut it so fine before. I spent days on the stupid thing, and only just slid by.

Creative monologue? Sure, I can do that. Use it for critical self-analysis? Uh... What?

I have trouble understanding other people at the best of times. Apparently, I'm absolutely hopeless at understanding myself for an assignment. I would applaud anyone who actually does understand themselves. Or I'd simply not believe them.

Perhaps the analysis is what I'm having difficulty with. I don't have meaning. Why should anything else? When I like a painting, or a play, or a book, I like it because it entertains me. Not because it makes a statement about society or environmentalism. In the same way, I write to amuse people, act because it's fun, and paint to hang pretty pictures on my walls. I have enough to worry about between classes, men, girlfriends, family, politics, fuel prices, budgets, and deciding what the f*** I want in life. Once in a while, I like to find something that's just pleasant. Uncomplicated, unthinking, uncritical, and nice.

Surely, I'm not alone in this. Does anyone else want art and film to just shut up for a minute and only be entertaining?