Time Well Travelled

Something that has been bothering me lately is the future; that ever present, non existent concept and reality that stimulates action and contemplation for us all at some point or another. In a few months my world that has been fairly stress free for the last three years will change and I will have to go out and do something else. The problem there however is that I don't really know what that something will be. There are lots of uncertainties around the upcoming finishing line and I have no idea as to what will be coming next. My response has been divided. Not thinking about it has not been an option, thus I have done two things, neither of which have be totally useful, a) I have looked for something else to do after, and b) I have allowed my mind to wonder over something else and I have stumbled over what is basically counter productive; time travel.

Now, I need to point out that this is not a consideration I am thinking as a response to finishing uni. Going back to the beginning, were it even possible would be the last thing I would want to do. The prospect of reading another book by Virginia Woolf is enough to push anyone in productive direction. Instead I have gotten stuck in the procrastination of inventive and imaginative thought.

The problem with time travel seems to be based around the possibility of erasing ones own future from corrupting the past, for if you were to stand between your parent's meeting point at a dance, (for that is how people always tradionally met before the invention of 'girl on the platform smile' Match.com the internet came about) you would have never been born thus causing your timeline to fade out of existence. I however think that things could be a little bit more complicated then that. If one was to time travel, wouldn't they want to jump bigger distances? Going back to you're parent's generation would only spark the realisation that our generation was not the first to invent protests, sex and men with eyeliner, a realisation not many would like to engage with. So, what are the problems with jumping bigger spans of time?

The biggest problem I think is development. Lets say for instance a Roman was to travel outside of his/her own epoch, from walking along their straight road, a trip in time would land them to being sandwiched by a lorry shunting a Smart Car down the A1. A time travelling saxon may materialise inside an insulated wall cavity. The only survivor for a time travelling ancestor would be a worker from the 19th century; he would materialise in his own home almost exactly as it was, only redecorated with upholstery and wall coverings which were available and fashionable at the time... thank you very much National Trust. But what would be there for us? If I think about myself as to where I would be in a years time, I could find myself doing much the same as I am now. Siting on an Ikea island typing on a computer in silence. Hardly worth the effort. But if I was to travel further forward, would I be in a better position? A densely populated planet with populations squatting on a fault line waiting to be swallowed up by a crack in the earth, a couple of wind turbines chopping through smog and a grumpy load of people complaining about the mistakes we made that put them in the situation they are in now. Going along those lines could be getting a little bit political for my liking, thus I tend to give up and look at jobsite for someplace to work when I finish what I am doing here.

A magic pill

What happens if you take a pill and hope that it solves all your problems? What happens if it solves them but creates a whole host of other issues? Is it ever possible to find a solution to everything, or is that just a too big a pill to swallow?

I feel that with one thing I find a cure to, another alement will follow. This is not to say that the whole world is against me or that my issues are worse then others, because they are not. But, as a very valued friend said to me, it does not matter how your problems compare to another persons, what is important is that those problems are yours and thus they are important to you.

My issue is that I feel that I'm self medicating, finding my own remedies to lifes issues, but when they work, I feel there is a whole list of side effects which I had not anticipated which suddenly need treating. I feel stuck in the oppositional area where do I reverse the original solution to remove the side effects, but in doing so, I land myself in the original problem. Is this a case of one step forward, two steps back?

I wish that things were simple and had some direction which would be a clear path to follow; an NHS yes/no chart to diagnosis. There isn't. And if there was, I would most likely be told to ask the help of my GP, for the world or good that is likely to do. Where is the cure all which will heel a broken heart, stitch close a wound and drive the body to a full recovery? Which branch of life's learning teaches us the alchemy of the pure mind, the biology of the body or the mechanics of the heart? As we all know there is no simple answer, no one area of life can teach how to solve the problems of the soul, without sounding deep. Where is my solution?

Can I take an evening class in the hearts desire, a first aid lesson in avoiding damage or an open university class in avoiding people and their baggage? At what stage does one become equiped to live a happy healthy lifestyle which is not about to be roused to conflict by petty influences whose judgment we hold higher then our self beliefs? When does everything become simple and why is the answer some great secret? Surely the answer to a life which rides an optimistic equilibrium runs on more than whole wheat, a veggi box selection, a restricted unit intake and 30mins of exercise a day! Surely if it was that simple, everyone would be doing it!

If I roll this idea around inside my head I keep comming back to a memory of a plastic wallet which held life's secrets, blutaced on the kitchen wall. An unlikely place to find the answers but i feel that it may be a starting point. It read:

Work like you don't need the money.
Dance like know one is watching.
Love like you have never been hurt.

I'm not so sure the answer to life's problems can be solved through tap, but I feel that if I can love like I've never been hurt, than I believe that I could be on the right track.

So, there may not be a pill to swallow, but lately, the answer may be found at the base of a bottle; a couple of wine nights have highlighted the value of many things, in the price of good bottle of wine under the cost of £5!

A house worth £94 a week

Having been infused with positivity recently I am very much aware that time is moving faster and this year is the final sprint of the known world, that is to say, my known world; come June, life as I have known it for the last three years will come to an end and I will have to find something else to whittle away my time. In the spirit of good things coming to an end, I have taken the advice where I should breath in and feel the excitement as apposed to my general view of the world where I should take a deep breath and get over it. In leu of embracing my final year, I decided that this year would not be a year where I would have to live in a petri dish of mould and damp and strove instead to live in the house where dreams are made of!

A fresh start, a new street, a fresh white - off white - house! A sturdy front door, bolted and locked three times to keep out the droughts and not an indicator of potential crime in the area. Windows, bolted closed to prevent damp. A few bricks missing out of the wall is not a structural issue but rather a method of increasing ventilation. Cracks in the walls enable a little more natural light to filter through from outside. Patchwork painted wallpaper improves the natural insulation of the walls, whist a radiator which hangs off the wall allows extra heat to escape out the back. The HotPoint Ice Diamond has been keeping food fresh from the mid eighties, some of which still lingers from the primary installation date. The garden is well overlooked to ensure maximum visibility in this neighbourhood watch area. The stairs are functional, allowing both residents to ascend whist the rungs of the banister descend in pieces on the ground floor. The bathrooms both long and short allow appropriate distance from the rest of the house allowing business to be conducted away from other housemates. The living room houses sofas which are so well made, supports which form the framework of them are so uncomfortable people choose not to sit on them, thus preventing scuff marks on the faux leather seats. The bedrooms are all of a good size. This house is perfect for it's purposes.


Im positive that this house is made with the student in mind. Magnolia throughout provides that institutional feeling which students like to experience at all times. Im also positive that this house is perfect in every single way.

And lastly for my dedicated reader, an extra note of positivity; School and education is the best time of your life. It goes down hill from here. And if this is as good as it gets, you may as well end it now.

Lost Shavings.

I feel recently not all myself. Those who know me well may know that that isn't too unexpected, but I feel that it is more so then just the obvious. I am coming to the end of my second year at university. I feel tired of this year, it has felt strained and difficult. It felt more political then I expected. Last year felt like the point of opportunity and experience. I had made changes and decided to take control of what was happening in my life, decided to take some direction. I had left home and decided to do what I wanted for a change and just sort of ran with it. I decided to do what was right for me. I remember this time last year I was getting ready to leave the city. I remember the drive away for the last time and the sadness that bought me. The sun setting as I had stayed late to clean my flat, the feeling that it was the end of something. My summer was one where I would be taking a bigger step then I would have thought I would have ever done, tried to commit myself to something, but it was something with many unforeseen's. Looking back, I wonder how I manage to put myself in such situations and get out, not just alive, but with no damage either. I had to make some hard decisions and as soon as I had, I didn't have time to think about it for I had thrown myself into another year at university.

This second year at university was no where near the same as the first. As I said previously; it seemed very political, the previous year seemed simple by comparison. I felt myself get caught up with the current of things at times, but I would then drift to the edge and sink a bit, get stuck at the bottom, unable to come up for breath and in this time I would experience panic as I would realise that I simply did not know what I was doing. I wondered how I had gotten here? What direction had I been following to lead me to a point where I did not know what I wanted or what I was doing. I started to think about the future and what I was to do with myself. So I set about making a fragmented future of ideas. While I was working on where I wanted to be going, I was being told information which I, at the time, did not realise would hold such a grip over myself. I had discovered that for one reason or another I would be denied the biological normality of recreation. This caused a conflict which I could not really share with others because I had for as long as I can remember been apposed to the idea of children. I had carved such a deep impression that this was my opinion, that were I to challenge the idea, my original opposition would be put up in my face and discourage me from continuing my argument. Thus it sat around and I thought about it continuously. Daily at least. You see, it is different to choose not to do something then to be not given the choice. This was the problem. I had start to think beyond this. What would I spend my life on? The question of the future suddenly took over and I could think about little else. I realised that sooner or later I would have to choose a direction and for once, it would not be chosen for me. I suppose I had always imagined some small tributary of an idea where has my life ran dry I could invest myself in a future generation. A selfish perspective perhaps, put a possibility which, for the idea, I was not the architect. But with this door closed to me, I had the realisation that life will have to be made for me, for it will always be just me. And now I started to notice those around me, not because I have been self absorbed but with the change in me I have started to draw similarities. I have listened to many of my friends that they are apposed to having children. I thought a small spark that maybe I wont be alone in this and that while my friends move into the realm of parenthood, I wont be left at an outsider, drifting through, trying to find and fulfil my own goals and little projects, while they live out their lives through their children. But then this idea was quickly extinguished by the suggestion of what had been my thought as explained above 'Well, you know, I will probably end up having children anyway, through some mistake or another.' As if this is some finite moment which keeps people moving. This has been such a pressure on my thoughts that it feels good to be able to type it out quickly in blog.

But now there is still the problem of me. Why I feel not so clever. I keep feeling like I did in primary school, first grade, where I spent what felt like a year sharpening pencils, not to get them sharp, but for the byproduct of shavings. I seemed to spend a huge amount of time collecting wafer thin pieces of illuminated shavings. But I was thinking while I feel like I did back then, not really absorbing anything, drifting through life, I start to wonder how I got here? Did I just get lucky? I mean, as one unhelpful doctor once told me, 'why should I worry, I have an education, I am doing fine.' But, not to sound ungrateful, but I am not so sure I am. I feel directionless. As if I have stopped and stumbled and I wonder, how did I get here. What good can come of shavings? This I guess echo's that saying of making mountains out of molehills, making a connection between two things and assuming they correlate. But what I am trying to project is that I feel the same as I did thirteen years ago. And having calculated the number, to be suspicious, maybe this seems to be something rather unlucky. How did I get here, and now I am here, where do I go?

To cut this blog short, as I know it is growing and continuing with a theme of being unclear, I have concerns because I suppose my self confidence has taken a bit of a hit and I don't really know where I am going and I have no plans. I wish I had the direction of some, but instead I just meander. I am not the first person to feel like this, I know many people feel this way. But what I learnt today is that if things are going OK, then you can't complain. But if I never say anything, where will I end up?! I am contented for where I am now, but the future concerns me. I haven't got any plans, but I guess I can't do much more but hope my luck holds and something new comes up.

Thinking

I seem to have spent a lot of time thinking. I think I would say that I don't seem to remember a time in my life when I did not think. I guess that leads us to the point of 'I think therefore I am'. I also think that some people would say that I sometimes don't think at all, and others would say that I over think and often use this to play with 'a big wooden spoon'(Goldthorpe,2011,daily). I think however, very simply; I just think.

So why blog about this? Well, I was thinking, about what it is to think. I guess it was like a sort of russian doll situation, or a mirror reflecting a mirror within a mirror, or a camera filming a TV, linked to the camera, filming the TV... Yes, I have been over thinking again.

But what have I been thinking about? I think I have been thinking about what I am. 'I think, therefore, what am I?' This is what I have been getting the cogs in my mind to turn over and over. And as time has gone on, and the valves in the mind have been trying to break the code, I noticed that I was not only thinking; I was feeling also. But what did I feel?

I suddenly realised that I had been thinking about what I had been feeling. I felt very connected and at one with myself, which is lucky for I would hate to see the mess if I was torn apart, and putting ones self together is about as difficult as M C Escher's hand drawing a hand. Quite impossible, a sort of chicken or the egg situation. Anyway, I have been thinking again and going off topic. So I had been thinking about what I had been thinking and decided that it had a lot to do with what I had been feeling. Confused? Well, I was. I found it difficult to decide what I has been thinking to make me feel that I was over thinking too much about what I was feeling.

In the end I thought instead of thinking and trying to work out what I was thinking and feeling, instead I would just think and feel and live, but try hard not to analyse. This is lucky, as with most things, if you leave them be, they will come to their own natural conclusions.

I had been feeling the very same to what I had been thinking.

I have indeed fallen in love.

'Ts the season...

Christmas for me started 25th November. My housemates, suddenly feeling very festive decided that they would start to spread christmas 'cheer' all over the house, smothering it in red felt, eco plastic leaves and sparkly gold miniatures. I should have known the lame plastic tree with its cardboard prosthetic third limb was sure to be a metaphor of the month to come:

The end of term had me returning to my roots. Such a regression isn't a healthy experience. Arriving back home to a cold room, left in a state of gross disrepair from the rush to leave it several months before further dragged me down. An intense need to clean and and restore came over me, thankfully occupying me for a day or so. Then the wait set in. The week or so of waiting for christmas to finally drag its sad rag over the country, with its' intoxicating veil woven from biscuits with cheese, Quality Street wrappers and other unnecessary foods, foods where gluten free is replaced with lead. A sudden urge grips us, tells us not to leave the house, to stay inside and eat until one is so heavy, should they want to leave, they couldn't. Pinned down by one last toffee penny a sleepless night awaits them only to have a rude awakening earlier then the milk man is familiar with.

The excitement of presents in reality is just pent up disappointment. The wrapped gift containing any possibility is generally more exciting then what it really holds. What could be a slate of chocolate turns out to be a pin board. A large box turns out to be mainly foam quaver curls and an assortment of charity shop (give away) finds. With the 'its not what I expected' finished, the true scale of what is about to happen occurs, for one looking for a small bottle of milk to spice up a bowl of cornflakes; there, in the fridge, threatening to collapse on the person who dares remove the Lurpak from the Jenga tower of christmas destined-for-the-bin dinner. Cludo's who killed Big Bird challenge now narrows to the occupants of the house, as a brail covered raw slump of turkey frowns down from the top shelf. Baby carrots, potatoes; all varieties, sprouts, jars, cold meats, bottles and even that lump of mould that should have been better forgotten stands to be scooped up in the rush to the roasting dish. Hours are spent in the preparation of Christmas dinner. Many layers of goose fat, is lathered into the meat, the result being one very relaxed roast. Balls of stuffing; the foodie equivalent of the russian doll is pulled out of the bird, along with a slice of lemon and and a bay leaf. The masking gravy turns all things white and fluffy into the hue of the day; brown. An increased desire to play with mild explosives is well within reach at the table. For crackers, costing the equivalent of a deposit of a static caravan are balanced on the desert spoon. An enthusiastic pull, requiring a referee of fair pulling boils down to a disappointing 'pop' and a smashed class as stainless steel business card holder propels to the table. The rustling of a paper hat against ones ear is the white noise distraction from the dishwater conversation available. The end result is a group of people all looking like the red attired santa clause who turns out to be an unlikely role model. The table, once cleared, but not washed, is later to be adorned with frozen christmas deserts. No longer do we get the fun of burning brandy over an antique spotted dick pudding. Only at the last crunch of mint chocolate Vienetta do everybody admit defeat and experience the Herculean effort of moving oneself to the sofa, where one must lounge and be blasted with 'comfort telly'.

At about 8pm, when everyone is sick of each others company, and NHS direct are diagnosing cabin fever, everyone decides that it is time they go to bed as they are all very tired. At this point Christmas should be over.

Instead however, it drags on into new year until finally the cut off period seems to fall about the 5th of January. Christmas is over. Just about.

Christmas for me seems to have taken a long time to get over. One day on a calendar has managed to consume a whole season, and yet it is not over me yet; "You will get your christmas present emailed to you" I have been told. If this is an Elf Yourself experience, I would have to inform them that the closing date of that has gone. Now I just wait and see with anticipation. I suppose the good thing about an email is, you don't expect much of one, thus, what ever is inside, you cant be disappointed.

Twenty

Birthdays have always been fairly brief, somber occasions for me; it is the time where I feel most down for I do that bad thing which isnlooking back over time and seeing what I have or have not managed to do since my last birthday. I feel the problem stems from the idea where one should live each day as if it's their last for you only live once, paired with my general laziness, for I am the guy who would much rather travel further from home on the tram, if only it means that I can walk down the hill rather then struggle up it. I suppose this should be obvious if I were to think back and feel I have not done all that I could. This year however I didn't feel that at all.

I did an equally as bad thing when I realised that this year was not so bad after all. I tried to think of things which should have been bad, looking for details which were not really there before as regrets in my mind, but still that could not get me down. I was thus forced to be positive about my last year, I could not be sinicle or negative or even pessimistic about nineteen, I had to be positive.

Whilst nineteen I took part in something I was interested in, I successfully lived with 8 people that were knew to me, I passed my first year at university, I had successfully driven my car without crashing it and allowed it to roll on to another good home. Ok, I may not have been living each day as if it was my last however I don't think I did too bad.

Things have been going well with the man I went on a date with all those months ago. It feels like a long time but it hasn't, even been a year. With our birthdays separated by just ten days (and several years) we decide that we would go away to celebrate. I wasn't in the know as to where we were going, until we got there. It was a surprise for me, which he took great pleasure in watching me form an opinion about a destination only for me to change it to being indifferent when I realised he could have planned something which I had said something against. I'm sure he thought it was fun watching me decide how it better not be something, however if it was to be that it wouldn't be too bad and actually I think I would quite enjoy it. Needless to say, after a few hours at the airport, we boarded a plane to Glasgow.

This was the first time I had flown internally, within the UK. It was interesting only passing snow covered homes and crops which primely cultivated snow. The 45 minuite flight felt as if the plane just took off and landed. It was faster and cheaper then the train.

I had never been this far up north before. Friends of mine would think that I understood England up to Sheffield, everything after that was just North. therefore, finding myself up north, I couldn't really pin where a bouts I was. To further disorientate me, we took a taxi to our destination where the driver was shown rather then told where we were going. The car ride took about half an hour and when we arrived I was anticipating Best Western, or well, the Northern equivalent. What stood instead may as well have been Scotlands school of witchcraft and wizardry. Cameron House cut through the snowy highland landscape, leaning towards lock Lammond. He had chosaen well.

I always find old houses are a little sad when someone like the national trust gets their hands on it. Quite why they are so insistent on letting a house hang about in the past, representing how the room was like when a late royalty had had to crash there, I shall never understand. Luckily Cameron house had been saved from that fate and had been kept very modern. It was like looking inside a house based on a Ted Baker shoe, modern and tastefully decorated. The right shades of gray to feel warm and enough puple to hint regal rather then Barney. The smell of smoke and old polish gave an atmosphere Ambi Pure just can't quite recreate.

Lush rooms, spa, treatment rooms, gym, restaurants, a pool... I asked my partner if this was basically just grown up Centre Parks. In a sence it was. It was a themed retreat, couldn't live there forever, but great to holiday in and take a break.

So my birthday present. I had an afternoon in the spa. It was great, having never had a massage like that before. Homedics chair dies nit quite compare to the hands of a woman with an NVQ in skin. Needless to say, both mine and my partners skin was branded a car crash of dead skin cells and blocked pores which should be rectified with £500 of products avalible at the spa shop. So that was lucky.

That weekend was very relaxing. I don't think we actually did anything other then eat, drink, relax and drink. We stayed long enough to enjoy our stay but not long enough to get a taste for whisky, tartan and crave the sound of the pipes.

It was a great surprise. Lastly, before we were to leave he surprised me with one last gift: an iPad.

I am now complete.

TWENTY

Short Cuts

Along with my second year at university commencing soon, living in a new house with new people I decided that I should get my hair cut. It had grown far too long to control, resembling a secret garden; To comb back ones fringe one could see a small gate and a disabled boy learning to walk with assistance from a rather pushy girl. It was high time to get my hair cut. I have always tended to get my hair cut when I wanted a change. I sometimes feel that something has to give and it is only then when I decide that I should let someone else loose on my curls and square me up a new look.

This morning bought me to Johnny, a tattooed guy in blue shirt working in a three year old, retro barber store. The store looked nice, he was not too bad so I thought things should go ahead ok.

I sat there while he quizzed me on English, assuming I take an active interest in my degree to the point where I am well versed in all literature, hair fell over my face and to my lap and Johnny learnt nothing he didn't already know. When conversation dried up I found myself falling into a horrible trap. Yet again I have some how managed to structure a question where there was no way I could stop asking it or not offend him. "Have you ever started cutting someone's hair and feel that nothing is going right, the more you cut the worse it goes." Could I have offended him more? The whole time I was asking I was just thinking more and more that I was possibly talking about what he was doing to my hair. I extended the question, including lines like "In you whole time as a hair dresser" and "that you may have had done to yourself" However he was near the completion of my hair and I kept looking at mine. I feared that he would be thinking that I was projecting that question in the case of me thinking that his cutting skills were not up to much.

Admittedly, I was thinking that I was looking a little bit too much like Dr Spock for comfort, I was two pointy ears away from being from a galaxy far far away. I just didn't want him to think that I was talking about his skills.

Having defended himself whilst looking a little more the offended, the conversation hit a sticky point. I tried to more it on talking about my own hair experiences. Most of which in hindsight I wish I had had the confidence to turn around and tell these hair dressers that I looked like a dick.

This got me thinking. I started to wheel back through the distressed faces found commonly in Jehovah's witness promotional leaflets depicting people looking for answers. The faces that looked back at me in the mirror, unable to comprehend what had materialised on my head.

I think back to when I was at secondary school and I had gone to a hair dressers in the city that seemed to look all hot and was always busy. I had recently gotten an earring put in my ear to make me look a little alternative, however I had long curly hair down to my shoulders. The woman who cut my hair must have only ever experienced cutting women's hair, women who are, well, lets say, no longer thirty. I left that hair dressers at a pace, having parted with twenty two pounds sterling in exchange for a bob. It curled neatly round at the ends to just below my chin. Very pretty for a girl at bible class, but for me, it looked like I was suffering some sort of gender identity crisis.

I often found that hairdressers are often a good prediction for how the hair they cut will turn out. Take last year for example. Lulled in by the 12% student discount I found myself looking at the mirrored image of a fatty muscled tattooed beast of a man, whom at some point had had to breath through a tube through his neck. I kept having visions that the hole would open up to blow the hair away from my ears as he trimmed round them. The resulting hair cut is what was branded as the new look for hedgerowsexual monthly, I looked like I had had myself taylor made to look like I had been dragged through a hedge row backwards. Minus a few twigs and greenfly, I looked a treat.

As a kid, I waited over an hour in the barber store, waiting to have my hair cut. The bloke to have his hair cut before me has the most horrible scaly flakey scalp which could be seen dusting a trail behind him. Hair seemed to break through the skin like a weed through poured concrete, leaving that trademark destruction in the upper demis. Having seen this destruction aggravated by a comb and a pair of scissors followed my clippers, I felt very sure that I really did not want to have my hair cut there. Only when I had the hair catch-cloth draped around me, sitting on the highchair, looking like a hobbit, did I say 'I don't really want to have it done'. Distress from my farther. Disappointment from a lost sale from the barber. I allowed my hair to grow out nicely down my back and refused to have it cut for three years.

The difficult thing about getting ones hair cut is that you have to get it done at some point, unless you are terrified of loosing your strength. It is a task you can not do yourself and the result is something you have to live with for at least a month. Its putting your life and reputation in someone else's hands and one misguided comment can lend itself to you looking outlandish. There are some things in life where you wish you could just cut it out.

Moving On

It is commonly shared that moving house is one of the most stressful moments in someone's life, somewhere under divorce and the death of someone we love. I suppose however I could scale down my situation, moving from one room to another, 100 miles away, I suppose I did not find it all that stressful.

Well, thats the thing, moving, I am not so sure if that is that stressful, no more so then moving food from the supermarket to your home or delivering a house plant to a new neighbour (not that I received one). I did however find being in a new house, alone, at night the most stressful. The house makes strange noises and the space is something that I am unfamiliar with. There were also strange smells, shut in behind the front door and left to linger for several months since the last tenants departed.

Then there is the whole fear that the mind plays on you. Not that these are totally irrational. I mean, there is a whole world of the unknown surrounding the area that one now finds themselves living in. Is it safe? Is the house likely to be broken into? The high police presence is hardly reassuring considering they returned several times in one day.

After the first night, I think that the morning brings something good, where the natural lights suggests that things are going to be ok. I suppose, like stated in novels, surviving the night is the key point, when the sun rises then the balance of threats seem to move out of favour. Light also spills out onto the rest of the world, and the aim digest the surrounding area becomes more then desirable. Bringing something from the outside into the house I feel gives some control because not only do you take one thing from the outside and control it, also by allowing it into ones home, a level of acceptance occurs and things feel yet again in balance.

So I don't think moving is the stressful event, I think the concept of change to be the most challenging to an individual. Putting this into consideration, I would think Dorothy should have appeared more distressed for her change of situation however our circumstances are a little different. I have however befriended a lion, so I can't be accused of being inconsistent.