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It comes in various forms - percolated, instant, espresso, milked up. Provided there is an environment for coffee beans to grow, people all over the earth will be consuming the black drink in which a whole civilization could be based on.
Maybe, instead of could be, I should say is.
Nicotine also comes in many shapes and sizes - lozenges, gum, patches, cigars and cigarettes. And it could be argued that one substance would not be so popular without the other. But then that will be mixing popular theory with the truth that most of us who use them are addicted to one and not the other.
My source of inspiration for most things I have written, I almost regret to admit, have formed over a coffee and a cigarette. Or to put it in more abstract terms, while I have been smoking my coffee.
It is only natural to assume that nicotine replacement therapy really does 'replace' smoking. In my experience, this assumption has been proven true. Sucking or chomping out the nicotine in a lozenge is definitely beginning to become a habit, albeit not as addictive as smoking in itself. Therefore, one could say it is not the nicotine that is the addictive element in cigarettes. But at the same time no-one would be caught dead saying they smoke for the cockroach repellant (RE: homegrown hydroponic marijuana) or rat poison.
It all comes down to the method in which we take in our chemical of choice. Lozenges go straight to the brain, while smoking tends to get soaked up in the bloodstream through the lungs. I guess the method of consumption mirrors one's level of yuppy-ness: straight to the top, or mingle around with lower elements.
Smoking coffee is a social lubricant, just like imbibing alcohol and caking one's teeth with coca leaves. Just in a more socially acceptable manner.
Hold up, it is still socially acceptable, right? Sure Australia has its "Sin tax" on it as if it were a legalised form of street-priced opium. But like alcohol, it has a history with us that will not be erased with a few fell swoops of the governmental guillotine.
Now excuse me, my dad has just called me up for company with his afternoon coffee. "To the cafe, batboy"
It all happens so fast. One week you are functioning perfectly without the need for excess, the next you are at odds with yourself - unsure why such a strong craving has developed over such a small period of time.
As it was with myself and this years Italian Film Festival. One simply cannot get enough of such refined cinema. The final film, for me, was the one to bring about the greatest insight about the Mediterranean boot-shaped country. Vincere (Win) is about Mussolini, the fascist leader who dragged Italy through the two world wars. Parallels with the current leader Silvio Berlusconi were obvious - wanted by women all over the country and maintaining a stronghold on most media sources.
It has been said that Berlusconi's one weak point in the country's media is film. And one can be very thankful that he hasn't extended the hand of tastelessness from his TV channels to the cinema. Even the mafia films seem untainted by local forces - strangely more so than its Hollywood counterpart. Whereby gangster films from the USA tend to glorify the criminals, Italian movies of the same genre break its characters down to their more vulnerable side - which must provide a sense of hope for those living under the oppressive hand rather than a sense of pride for those applying such pointless social pressures.
Brave Men is a mafia movie shedding light on the role of the female organised crime leader. It is a film so absolutely timeless and original, maybe slightly more so in theory than practised here, that it should have a wider distribution and promotional machine in which to sell it to a wider market. Basically, its a movie I would recommend to everyone (over a certain age) - whether they are interested in the genre or not.
I began this years soujourn into Italian film before the aformentioned pieces of perfection with the critically acclaimed Giovanna's Father. The unfolding of the story and the execution of the actors in the respective roles made it obvious why this film comes so highly recommended. A young woman who becomes obsessed with a man to the point of mental illness is no easy topic, and it is handled here with precision and a point to prove. The point being that loyalty is more important in such a situation than a pledge to the mafia - if you dissect the films into their pieces, this would be one way of looking at it.
And finally there is the quintessential Monica Bellucci movie, this year being The Man Who Loves. I feel I would be better positioned to comment on this film if I knew whatever poetic coo follows the words of the title. Can anyone here finish this sentence?
The man who loves...
September 27th 2009 05:32
Being a student can be a real pain for those of us who feel the need for more education but don't really have the time for it.
I have spent the greater part of the past two years writing 1000-2000 word essays for my college studies, all up about twenty of them. It was also during this time that I was working, volunteering, writing for a magazine which I'm not sure still exists, writing music which has not yet been recorded (so you could say that doesn't exist either), and travelling with what spare money and time I had.
The travel was a very important part of maintaining the creative streak, for without that there would not have been enough breathing space in which to keep up with everything I had dedicated myself to. And you can bet the 'creative streak' was used as much as possible in the essays I had to write.
You see, referencing was an artform completely lost on me. I had been taught how to do it, but refused to do so. I didn't want someone else's ideas riddled throughout my paper, with credit to their names, as if one didn't have the cognitive capacity in which to figure out their own answers to the issues arising in the essays. At best, I would only reference the class notes. And I think I even did that wrong.
Still, I managed to get through my Community Services Certificate in the credit grade. One way I managed to do so was through expressing to the facilitators the fact that I am a writer, or at least write alot, and these writing are my own ideas on topics relevant to whatever situation arises. Some were warm and reciprocating, looking forward to what I had to offer. Others considered me some kind of crazy genius who thought a college diploma was equivalent to a doctorate.
There was also those who thought I'd be lucky to pass with such a brazen attitude.
Still, not willing to let myself down, I pushed on. Its a good thing that academics can recognise and be appreciative of any new ideas brought forward, but of course I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It really would have been worthwhile to continue on into university and hold onto my ideas until post graduate studies, but unfortunately I do not have such patience. The future could not wait.
Or should that be I could not wait for the future? I might put some of these essays up here on the net sometime soon, considering it was all done on what is now a reconstructed course with different criteria. We'll see 
So much time, so little space. Such is the dilemma for those of us stuck in middle management roles, with the realisation that the contract did not give us the world but gave us the right amount of money to purchase it. And time, as for all workers, equals money.
Anxiety abounds as we begin to take heed of our limits - who we are capable of displaying authority over, and who we have actually been designated authority over. It is often the case that one is moreso than the other, and one may self criticize and analyze when pondering the fact that we have been given so much, or so little, power
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Yet another whole that fell into pieces over time. A half has managed to pick itself up off the floor and begin as new. "Independence!" cried the whole, in its parts. And the half, being a part of the whole, had to agree and learn to survive and strive without what once was.
The half a heart will go far, compared to how far it had gone as a whole. The lack of baggage and excess of accommodating space has allowed for many experiences to be lived and re-lived, re-thought, re-conceived and properly understood. The future is as bright as the past, both of which memory claims as something well worth living
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Beyond everything generation after generation afflicts upon the world, and what the world afflicts upon them, there is a common ground of neutrality where all external forces can be nullified. Between the age of 21 to 35, everyone will find themselves a trend setter and trail blazer - if only for 15 minutes out of those 15 years.
Being middle-youthed means one is at a time in life where it doesn't matter what has happened in the past, and it barely matters what will happen in the future. Everything is here, right now. After two decades of wanting to be at the centre of the universe, it can be noticed that you now ARE the centre of the universe. You have reached the point in life where everything you hold dear is always close at hand, from hobbies and interests to studies and work
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It takes time, I understand that.
Struggling artists are born with the forces of nature against them, blessed with the inspiration to never give up, yet cursed with the alignment of the stars forever wreaking havoc on their royalty cheques
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I suppose it all comes down to knowing that point where what you're writing is no longer built for the movies. Maybe the author simply cannot see any actors taking up the characters in what's written. Maybe there is so much depth on the page that there is no need for another medium to be used to express the story. Maybe the thought of it is messing up the writer's voice and getting in the way of the final product.
Julian Fellowes is an Oscar winner, for his screenplay of Gosford Park, and his novel 'Past Imperfect' proves to provide enough articulation of the scenes so that it works quite well as a novel written by a scriptwriter. There's no getting past it - the wit and banter between characters makes for entertaining and attention-grabbing pieces of a story that is surprisingly warm, yet sentimentally traditional in its own way
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Opening up this album is 2 or three songs about refusing to be a victim, where "my only defence is a burning cigarette." It sets the mood for a blissful winter album that shouldn't be taken lightly, and manages to redefine what 'alternative' means for Australians today.
Bertie Blackman, daughter of artist Charles, has been hovering around the Sydney music scene for a while, living "in my own darkness, with giant birds of prey" and prefering the underground for the fact that "this city's hungry, too hungry for me
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Good news people of the earth! My music (under my pseudonym, Alex Mewton) is finally available on itunes for the world to download and do with it whatever they choose. Its just the Smoke My Piano single for now, but the more financially viable it is the further we shall go...
But I refuse to celebrate with some showcasing of music to come. Instead, I have decided to display music that deserves the airplay far more than the radio lets on. Sure that may include me, but anyway
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Comments (3)
Comment by Optomistic Opportunism
on My Poor Mum's Heart
Bohemian Hiphop
Japanese Jazz Funk
Optomystic Opportunism
and in my opinion?
so does red bull. i'm a converted coffee and cigarettes fan myself, in minimal doses as it isn't worth the hangover.
hope yr mum's survivin alright.