Navel gazing

There is a certain amount of self-absorption required to write a blog, it seems - and yes, this is going to be another post about a foray into the blogosphere. It's not just that you seem required to give more thought than most people wuld contemplate to tiny details of your life to create a post (well, not so much HAVE to as choose to, if regular posts are needed. OK, wanted), it's also the fact that, in all honesty, inputting your thoughts, feelings, actions, reactions, whatever out there, there's a kind of expectation that someone will care enough to read it. Yes, I started this particular blog out of sheer boredom and, admittedly, that's part of the reason why I keep posting so regularly, but part of the attraction of the idea is the thought that, somewhere, out there, someone (other than you Ralphie, sorry) will find this blog and decide that it's worth reading - not just once, but worth coming back to. Of course, if that person happens to be a publisher willing to take a punt on a person who can barely write a sentence without typos, let alone have an attention span long enough to write anything longer, even better - anything to get me out of my current task of designing a car park layout for a soccer field.

So, with that knowledge, be prepared for something of a bombshell.

Yes, my life is being put out there to a certain extent, even if it is a bit anonymous. And there has been a fairly large amount of navel gazing involved in putting those posts together, mulling over the advantages of writing about my love of all things red, as against my anger at some injustice in the world (the red won, of course. Far more interesting than the fact that the world is in a complete mess - everyone knows that! Ooh, and incidentally, Nad, you remember the night I predicted that red was going to be huge a few months back, and how much I wanted a pair of red shoes, and you laughed at me? Well, the pair of gleaming shiny red patent leather peep toe wedges I saw in Myer on the weekend says I was right...). None of that is terribly surprising though, and certainly not worthy of the title of bombshell. No, my confession is much darker than that.

Not everything on this blog is the entire truth.

There, it's out there. There are lashings of truth in here, yes. My Mum did get an 80 cent tax cut from the last federal budget. Yes, I do, really, REALLY like red at the moment. But while it is mostly true, I also use that old tool, exaggeration. For example, I like to make out like I lead an exciting, party-going lifestyle. Sorry, to disillusion anyone here, but unfortunately, my life is not that exciting. Why else do you think I wrote about the morning routine of train girl? Equally sadly, I don't hate my job as much as I sometimes claim - I think I would have fallen asleep long ago if I really did hate it that much. That's not to say that I like exchanging emails four times a day with a guy working for the council because I foolishly left a couple of trees showing in the car park layout I'm working on right now - or rather, supposed to be working - but there are moments when being in architecture - and I hate to say this, but there's nothing else for it - it rocks. To see something built that you had a hand in might seem boring and mundane, but trust me, it's a bit of a buzz. On the flip side though, to see something that you designed, that looked delicate and beautiful when you handed the design over the council hacked and turned into something that looks like a children's carousel is a soul destroying experience. So yes, I do engage with my work far more than it would seem from what I write about it. That said, if someone was to offer me a bt of casht o do something else, just try and stop me. Studying architecture has already done its bit for changing how I view the world. I think it's time I was able to go on holidays without coming back with hundreds of photos of buildings, or construction details - visiting the cathedral being built in Barcelona (La Sagrada Famiglia, sorry about the spelling issues, I can never get it right) was a revelation worthy of the entire 8 weeks living on a shoestring by itself. But enough already.

So no, not everything I say is the exact truth, if I decide to be perfectly honest for once. It's a stab in the vague direction of true but really, who would want to read the thoughts of the person who spent last weekend curled up on the couch at her parents couch (because yes, she is in her mid-twenties, but has yet to leave home for many reasons)? Not me, that's for sure...