'...She shall have music wherever she goes.'

I'm not sure what really triggered my musicality. I've always had a penchant for the synchronisation of airwaves to produce an audibly pleasing mix.
Maybe Facebook's omnipotence came to fruition when some quiz churned out 'clairaudient' after I asked it what my sixth sense was. Not really. But I enjoy playing along with the theory that an algorithm can know you inside and out. To an extent.

I find it ironic. Maybe.

Anyhow. My daily life has regularly involved music from the start to the finish - I wake up to whatever is on my alarm - sometimes it's Paramore, sometimes it's Anberlin. At the moment it's my Jpop collection.
I'll make the twenty-minute sojourn to my learning centre, usually listening to music of some kind.
Since we started doing mostly individual stuff at TAFE, I have taken most firmly to the wearing of headphones. Simply put, my classroom consists of all-females. They talk. They whine. They bitch. I'm not innocent of these things, but hearing them for six hours straight will usually send most people batty. Headphones in, conversations out.

I didn't listen to radio or Ipod on the way home, but now that I am in interaction space with younger siblings, their music comes into play.

As a result, 'Dynamite' by Taio Cruize was on its fourth repetition. And nobody was turning it off.

........

Problem fixed.

It just seems to me that a lot of my life seems to revolve around those synchronised sound waves.
When one song stops, another starts. If the battery goes flat, we turn on the radio, or listen to someone else's music for a change. There seems to be almost no escape.

Is that a good thing?

Identity issues

As far as blog purpose and subjects go, I'm still finding my feet. What will probably arise is a mash-up of everyday stories, 'how to''s, bits of philosophy and rants.

Just finished drawing up an avatar-ish thing. Sort of. MS Paint skills leave some to be desired.

Yeah....no. Looks distant and terrifying at the same time.

umm...there's something really wrong going on here.

I'm sure there's some kind of secret to this that lies beneath the difficulties of scratchpad and colour palette...something fundamental. I liked this one, but it will take too long to draw.

Okay, that's it. Hey everybody, My name is Brooke. This is almost what I look like. Those are my fisherman pants.

Gone Aerial.

It seems that none of my ideas with which to begin blogging are sticking. I was so excited to give it a shot, not having attempted a blog since the livejournal years. But everyone knows that when you're fifteen and you have a livejournal, all one can expect from the individual is possibly whinging and whining. Maybe some lyrics or a poem or two about angst and depression.

Don't get me wrong. Because I did all that. It felt nice to have something to rant on. And there are some pretty funny entries in it.

But I need a fresh start.

Hey everyone. My name is Brooke and I know the likelihood of picking up readers straight away is, um, not much. But I'm keen to give it a burl.

Now, I just need to know how to progress from the angsty writings of the nether years to something that people want to read. How do I do that?

Um. Um. Um. Okay.

As a kid, I used to play outdoors sports a lot more. One of my favourites was soccer.
Back in the days when it was called soccer, all the kids from my Sunday School would congregate in the grassed yard after church. There was usually a soccer ball nearby, and all the tact of under 10's soccer, en masse. That is, there would be roughly thirty kids ranging in ages from about seven to twelve, all running after the soccer ball. Forget positioning - the only guy that held his post was the goalie, standing between the goals marked by shoes of a willing donor. There was no half-time, start or finish. Or distinguished teams for that matter. I'd run up to someone and say "who needs more teammates?"

As with all these things, they usually seem more glamorous than they really were. But churchyard soccer was awesome. There was just one factor that played into my eventual denial of the sport.

Any game you played as a child, usually involved projectiles, because that was the only way it could be fun. This had the occasional casualty - a ball to the arm, butt, leg, gut, head.
I was that kid.

Sure, soccer can be awesome, but there was always an element of fear in it, as though any minute I would receive a ball to the eye, usually from an unperceived angle.

This is where my blog name comes from, since the stage when the ball was the most dangerous was when it had 'Gone Aerial'. For those brief seconds, I would cower, certain that I would receive the brunt force of the soccer ball, and along with it the mob that follows unstructured soccer.

I don't play soccer nowadays, but my fear of airborne projectiles of any size remains pretty steadfast.

So yeah.

How do you write a blog, anyway?