It’s kind of a shame (cos I did like that dress)

new clothes and old roads

Spring has brought with it the call to life that has slumbered deep inside us since the end of march. Everyone in Melbourne has felt it in the last week; something slowly unfurling inside of them, stretching, drawing the curtains, taking its first tentaive steps towars the front door. The light skies and new greenery have called for tea parties, kite-flying, morning jaunts to the market and fast-driving with the windows down. Maybe this has something to do with the life drive; that calling to health and and equilibrium that balances out the destructive forces within all of us. Because new things make us all feel a little more sane. New leaves and new sun brought shoppers out in force yesterday, in search of things to make themselves feel a little newer too. I wasn’t immune—I bought new clothes last week for the first time in months. My overwhelmingly black wardrobe, which I had mentally penned as “classic and elegant” suddenly took on the characteristics of “dowdy and morbid” in the light that blasted through my bedroom window. I came home with new blue jeans, a red checkered shirt and a white t-shirt with an old film print on it. I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time in months too. Undeniably, the had weather awoken some innate urge within me to rejuvenate. And suprisingly, instead of the usual retail therapy guilts that go with any significant spending, I felt nothing but lighthearted as I emptied my bank account down to the remaining $4.49 that I’ll have to make do with until payday. Not that I need the Bible to justify my spendings, but if the lilies of the field get colourful new dresses for spring, why shouldn’t I?

I’ve always been a little skeptical of the idea that the weather acts as a mirror of ones interior state, but in the last week it seems foolish to deny it. Breathing in the spring air seems to have cleared away the cobwebs of stress and depression better than Zoloft ever could. Not that I don’t love a good gloomy day, in fact I rather enjoy reveling in the melancholy for a day or two. But after five months of it, warm yellow light and a fresh breeze proved to be exactly what was missing. It makes me wonder whether people that live in warmer climates really are significantly more mentally healthy and happy than the ones in the arctic.

But spring isn’t only a call to embrace the new; for me it seems fundamentally linked to a turn back towards the past. Towards other times, other things that happened under the same sun and the same weather a year or ten years before. Of course this can happen at anytime of the year, but spring seems to be the time to call up old friends, listen to old music, visit places you haven’t been to in months or years. During spring two years ago I got my drivers lisence. I met the season soaring along the bumpy back roads between Coldstream and Chirnside Park to work and back, past farms and bushland with the windows down so that within a week my dashboard was littered with hay-fever inducing grass seeds. I listened to Imogen Heap and Liz Phair incessantly, and even though it was a brand new era of my life, I remember feeling that it was as though the last eighteen years of my life had compacted together to deliver me into that one moment. Spring weather constantly calls me back to childhood, to the cyclical nature of life, and thus at the same time as it celebrates newness, the strongest feeling that I get from spring is one of wholeness. Wholeness is one of those words I hate, like purity and stability. But the “wholeness” feeling I get from Spring hasn’t anything to do with that, it’s a wholeness that seems to come from seeing life (past, present, future) as one; an intangible yet real thing working together to construct and order life.

Maybe I’m analysing Spring far too much. Maybe my all too visceral body is respondly purely and simply to its seasonal body clock, caveman style. Perhaps Spring only triggers a bout of nostalgia, serving to remind me of my provincial origins and the fact that deep down I’ll never escape a primal love of pop music. Either way, crawling out of the cave sure feels good.

Photography is fun

I haven’t had much of a chance to experiment with the Nikon D40 I bought from Marita yet, but today I got inspired and here are a couple of the results….

Photoshop and fun

Ava Gardner collage I had some fun making for Bron’s 17th Birthday. Bless photoshop.

So. Here’s an excerpt from a blog I wrote a month ago but decided not to post:

“Only two more semester now. Approximately 30 more hours of sitting, self-loathing, in tute’s full of wankers telling me exactly how not to write like a cliche, until everyone is writing in the same unique way.

When will the end come? Months of finding myself in Readings or Borders, compelled every time to march straight to the new journals and anthologies, opening them to the contents page in order to scan it for names that I recognise. Yes, I know that name. Had a tute with him last semester. She was at that seminar last month. That guy won that competition recently.

Then it’s  over to the classics stand, eyes scrutinizing the spines with their famous names. Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Flaubert, Forster. Time to inject myself with some more 20^th century fiction. Stuff myself with it till I’m suffocating with words, sentences, clauses, possessive nouns, cliches and idioms.

I write less and less. I sit down once a week at the most, with laptop or pen and paper. It makes no difference; the weight of the entire literary world bears down on my shoulders, heavier and heavier each time. Instinctively, the pen freezes. The words are wrong. They are all wrong. I haven’t used enough of the five senses. My adjectives are overdone, the sentiments that should be there haven’t come out right. I am not clear, not precise. I didn’t put the reader there. They were not with me. They were not there. That metaphor was over used, that entire sentence over worked. Fuck. I say it silently under my breath several times. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

So. Self-indulgent, yes. But my little *creative writing crisis* reached it’s frenzied  summit about a month ago, when I realised that I had actually started to hate the one thing that I’ve always loved.  Nothing about it was fun anymore. It was all academic. All about failure, criticism, insecurity, bogus academia, prestige (or lack of it), some ridiculous idea of what it means to be “a writer”.

Worst of all I couldn’t tell whether it was outside forces (Melbourne Uni, Creative Writing tutorials etc) that were doing this to me, or whether in fact I was doing it to myself. Putting myself in this world, this literary, academic world has truly taken all the joy out of writing for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Melbourne Uni. Subjects like Sex and Gender have fundamentally changed the way I see the world. Today I walked home contemplating the ideas that I had this time four or five years ago, thinking about the person I was then, and I found that I couldn’t recognize myself. I pitied that person, that person trapped in a confining belief system that was destroying them. By some kind of grace I’ve been allowed to go to Uni and do a degree that has literally opened me up from the inside out.  Why let anything destroy that?

I know that I can write. I can write fiction when I want to, but I can also write damn good essays. I can think critically and put those thoughts down on paper with clarity. Feeling unworthy because I throw a few too many adjectives in now and then is ludicrous.

When I was fourteen or fifteen my brother and I spent our school holidays making up stories together. One he started he called the “Island Series” was about a community of families that lived on this little imaginary farming island. We drew maps and pictures of all the characters and the way that they all related to each-other (cousins, best friends, lovers, etc). Then we’d each pick a character and start writing from their perspective. We’d make up plots and each take on the parts of different characters. We planned for these things to be novels, and I think they often got to about ten or fifteen thousand words or so before we got tired of them and started something else.

Writing those stories was one of my absolute favorite things to do on winter school holidays. Getting lost in an imaginary world which I could create and explore through writing had to be about the greatest way I could think to spend my time. From primary school til late high school writing these long, novel-esque narratives about familys and relationships and adventures was all I did.

At uni that all went away. Instead of writing more, I wrote less. Each semester I’ve painstakingly churned out 3,000 words for assessment, something I wouldn’t have thought twice about as a kid. Sure, perhaps the quality was considerably better. After all,  I had to think about language and sentence structure and originality in a way I never had before. At first, although it was hugely challenging, it was invigorating. I learned about different styles of writing, different avenues I could take. But somewhere in the last three years the love of creating things with language fell by the wayside, got lost in the angst of making sure I was writing the “right” way.

One of my saviors in the last few weeks was reading Mr Paul’s self-published book “Trippa”. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. It didn’t always get the grammar right. But it was fun. Clever, honest, page-turning. It reminded me of how much fun writing is. It was enough to make me realise that there’s a fundamental joy in writing that I want back.  Like, if I could somehow shed this infected skin of academia and all the insecurities that have slowly grown all over it,  if I could get back to that pure, raw excitement and love of writing I had when Chris and I wrote the Island stories, then something great could happen. I could do this, for real. Take the stuff I’ve learned and mix it in with the fun. Leave all the other stuff behind.

I’ve decided that I won’t be doing honours next year. And in all likelihood it won’t be in creative writing if I ever do. For now, all that pressure has to go. I’m not going to worry about publishing, about any of that shit. But over the semester break I’m going to spend some rainy days drawing up character profiles and dreaming up fantastical plots. And maybe then the words will start coming back.

outside, something was happening to her tricycle!

Well, I’ve passed nearly seven weeks weeks of study-less winter, with a meagre income and sporadic employment. I have to say, it’s been an interesting time of self-reflection. I found that if I have a competent ability to commit to a task and complete it, and that I can go crazy within 48 hours of being house-bound.

I’m going to take a moment to revel in my “J-ness”, and since I set out a list of things I planned to accomplish at the beginning of my break, I’ll now share with the internet world the fruits of my labour.

The first two weeks of break were spent with early grey tea, a blanket and a weekly cheap-tuesday trip to Video Ezy. Some of the films that I ticked off my list included (in alphabetical order and with my out of five star rating)

American Beauty * * *

All about Eve * * *

Being John Malcovitch * *

The Breakfast Club * * * *

The Birds * * * * *

Children of men * * *

Crash * * *

Edward Scissorhands * * *

Fight Club * * * * *

Lost in Translation * * *

Notes on a scandal * * * *

Terminator * * *

Terminator II * * * *

After reaching saturation point, I turned to books as my source of entertainment, and completed:

A Passage To India by E.M Forster, Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, On Beauty by Zadie Smith, and am currently halfway through Monkey Grip by Helen Garner. I’ve also invested in Goodreads, which I highly recommend since it gave me hours of boredom-free pleasure: adding books, writing reviews and perusing other people’s bookshelves.

As for writing, I feel happy with the fact that I spent several days writing without being under duress. I also sent a couple of things to competitions and publishers which was a big psychological leap.

But it was other creative endeavours that turned out to be my saviour from insanity. Jumping up in the deacoupaging league, I collaged a coffee table!

I also got even more crafty with Orsh and on an unexpected spotlight trip bought the materials to make this little baby!

As promised, gardening, sewing and cooking were also undertaken. I took up two hems, cleared our courtyard (two days of raking) and Stu planted some corriander in pots, which will hopefully be the beginning of a flourishing herb garden (or at least… a semi-productive herb garden).

During the much awaited Sibling holiday, which was every bit as fun as anticipated, I also had some amazing op-shop buys which I have to share! I believe this notched up my vintageness by about 25 percent. Even better, it’s given me an idea on an article I plan to write about Vintage fashion, Nostalgia in Postmodern theory (yes, it sounds uber-wanky, but I figure at the very least my obsession with the retro must have some explanation waiting to be uncovered).

Tomorrow I leave for four days to the nation’s capital, where I’ll be attending a Deep Sea themed party (costume yet to be configured) and going skiing at Threadbo, my first ever trip to the slopes. Following that, Uni commences bright and early 1pm Monday afternoon, with a Film Noir introductory lecture. Joy!

Boum

“But suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, poor little talkative Christianity, and she knew that all its divine words from ‘Let there be light’ to ‘It is finished’ only amounted to ‘boum.’” – E.M Forster, A Passage to India.

I suppose love was there once. In amongst the politics and the prejudices and the rules of admission. Love had pride of place once, actually—in the middle the mantelpiece, in the centre of the table, at the head of the bed. But love didn’t quite answer all of the questions, you see. Love was quiet, unassuming. In the end it headed into a corner to wait silently until it was noticed. I think love was eventually swept under the carpet.

It’s still there waiting, actually. There’s a few people who know where it’s hiding. They drag it out every now and then, put it on parade, throw it a party, put some of it to good use. Those who aren’t quite sure where it went try to recreate it—paint a portrait, make a sculpture. They grind it into a powder and put it on their faces, in their hair. They sprinkle it on their skin, they ingest it.

I heard that love can be found in a book, in black ink on white pages. Yes, love lies dormant in print. Edited, compiled, reworded, translated. But love has never mixed very well with black and white. It’s too colorful, takes some getting used to. If love was a fruit, it might be an apple (versatile: green, yellow, a hundred shades of red). But the black print says the apple was loves downfall. The man says it was the woman.

Ah, the woman. She is the virgin or the whore; Mary or Delilah. She is sexless or sex; the white veil or black heart. But I am blue in the cold and pink in the heat. I brown under the sun and when I’m sick I am green. Who can tie me up in a neat little box now? My paper is torn and my string unravelled.

(I’m afraid I’ve lost the end, and I can’t quite remember where it began.)

“Oh! That’s right.” It began with the man. The man on a Monday, in a suburb not a few blocks from here. The man who promises to take all my pain away with some hefty books, a few hard talks and a mustard seed of faith. He’s always there—in the street, near the cafe’s. Felt bible in hand, bony skull as hard-set as the thoughts inside; “do you know where you’re going?”

The man’s at the podium, shaking hands, weilding words. On Wednesday he’s a black suit, a white shirt (you know the one I mean). He fits into the squares like words fit into verses. On friday it’s the gym; pumping iron, sweat like drops of blood.Strength of muscle and bone, peppered with arrogance, salted with power.

But there’s only one man, you say to me. One man—one love. Yes, against remarkable odds. Love exists only in one culture’s history. One man who came at one time to one place. For those already dead? For those across the world who could not know it? To those of another race, another tongue, to those of anotherGod?

Oh, I’ve tried to argue. But you are a file-o-fax of every inadequate Sunday School answer I’ve ever heard. Your without choice and without room for grey. You are a veritable cathedral of right. There are no chinks in the armour. Your boundaries are established and your cases closed.

And you only tell me I’m not quite right in the head. I am not quite right; my hair is too short and clothes too tight and the devil’s face is too close to my pillow. I use words that don’t exist in your dictionary and my eyes cannot see right from wrong. Oh, I can’t make it easy for you. I am outside the parameters. I am outside your mythical garden and your nuclear family. Outside your binaries, and generally out of order.

I suppose love existed once. But it was not in that mythical garden or that black and white text. It was not without colour or choice or valid opinion. It was not without women or gays or Muslims or atheists. And it did not come from the father.

*Ladies* of *Cambridge*

Your week is filled with factory-fresh Mercedes and traffic lights routinely set fifty feet apart. Silky wet tram tracks, clamouring children, a bevvy of hurried umbrellas. But today is quiet, you’re half asleep—lacy shop fronts and flourishing billboards curtsying to a nonexistent audience on the footpaths below. You might see somebody different here today; a shabbily dressed musician busking on the street, a beat-poet girl writing in the park, a few joggers blasting indie from their ipods. But in all likelihood, there’ll still be the women.

“What do you want with those shopping bags, Carmen?”  (paper, cardboard, plastic.) “I use biodegradable ones now.” Because, at last, being environmentally friendly has caught up with the upper-middle class, who don’t start trends; (far too busy, they merely follow.) Except for perhaps, those recurring slate grey fisherman’s pants and crocodile print boots;

“Well like Jean said, you simply can’t get them anywhere further east than Camberwell.”

But you’re not impressing us one little bit, Jean darling—with your handmade jewellery and vintage designer purse. Postmodern fashion died in the arse in the nineties and you’re nothing more than the wealthy dregs of its remnants. Today it’s especially prominent;

“Size thirty-three point five, thankyou.” Like we’re in Paris or Denmark; “forgive me, sometimes I forget what country I’m in!” Arctic white teeth flashing.

“Oh! That some of us should be so lucky.” (Tongue clamped between your own teeth as you mentally subtract that sum into English.)

And at the counter; “Are you sure that’s the final price?” All bargaining and batering like we’re in Malaysia or Singapore and she’s struggling to feed her sobbing malnourished offspring wasting away at home.

“In this economic climate you have to watch every cent you spend.” Insurance banker husband, hefty paternal inheritance, crown jewels aside; “No, we really can’t afford that today.”

“Well, better keep those credit cards in their wallet then, darling. Those shoes simply don’t fit and I really don’t have the time.”  (You have till five, actually.)

Five more robotic hours, to think about tonights frozen food, Penelope’s childhood and how, five years ago, you would have given anything to live here.

“But now she’d much rather be north, or north-west. It’s this suburb, see. It’s just no good anymore.”

It never was going to suit you anyway. You’d be much better off in the North. Yes, in the shabby cafe’s with ochre crockery and wooden utensils off Sydney road, or in the musty shops on Smith street, damp like you’re grandmother’s closet. You always were a a sucker for nostalgia, for it’s fleeting back dissapearing around a street corner, it’s fading footsteps on a grey footpath leading to nowhere. Nostalgia grows so much better in the North.

“It’s just the right climate, and besides, out here we really don’t have the time.”

You’d be much better off to take that vinyl suitcase and you’re fluffy beret and sit yourself down on the 96 tram (if you can find room).

“We don’t have much space here, as you can see, our schools are full to the overflow.” Spoken as though her precious antique tea-cups might spill and break if another Hawthorn barrister impregnates his russet-haired, slim-thighed secretary. Disaster!

“Xavier wouldn’t know what to do with itself!”

It’s amusing, really—the thing’s that scandalise here. Take heed of the thing’s you simply can’t get away with. No midnight visits to safeway—floppy moccasins and cloud-print pajamas, just for some tim-tam’s and a carton of milk.

“They don’t bat an eyelid at that in the North, can you believe?” But here, like Enid said, it’s simply not done.

So traipse back up through that glorious mecca of cautious consumption to your hatchback parked in the no-standing zone, pay that tiresome ticket and be on your way.

Four weeks and now The Birds

Dear June,

Well it’s been four weeks since you rolled around and I’ve become nothing but a consumer. No purchases (I’m broke), living off rice and veggies (and the charity of friends and family). But still I consume. I’m all input and no output these days.  Day after day I sit (the stool, the bed, the sagging purple couch). I sit and I stare and I listen (words, images, noises). These are my life now – I am nothing but a sponge, soaking it in. Oh, I know it’s wrong, (but what else is there to do, darling?) And the words and the pictures are so pretty, so delightful. And the wind and the rain so cold outside this time of year. So much better to stay in.

And, oh! Did I tell you about The Birds? I ate Pizza in the dark and watched them attack again and again – the crows and the sparrows and the seagulls. And all the people running, in their pretty clothes. And the sets catching fire, the children with the blood on their faces. I drank it all in, yes, I did.

I almost forgot to tell you about her, Melanie Daniels (her real name’s Tippi Hedren, or maybe it’s not since the ‘Tippi’ was in quotations). All polished and bronzed, with those cornflower blue eyes and batting lashes. That’s the spectacle really, you see darling. Oh I know what Laura Mulvey says (don’t I know!), but how I wish sometimes I didn’t (because it’s so lovely just to look, darling). To watch her preen and strut and flutter, and to watch the man that watches her.

The last scene – (I must tell you!) I was breathless and waiting, waiting for Hitchcock’s parting blow. There always is one, you see (a death, a revelation, a murder). And there it was – the blood again (this time her blood), and the pain and distress and horror. There was gasping and crying, as her hair came loose. Her face (oh yes!) that half-orgasm look of agony and ecstasy as they pecked at her flesh and flapped and thundered and scratched at her face. And those close-up shots (the lips parted, face tilted, her eyes half closed and half opening), my god, it was almost too much. Oh I know it’s nothing but pure sadism, darling – but (even if he is a misogynist), he really is a genius, isn’t he?

- Your faithful Hitchcock fan.

Christy Miller and problems with Christian Fairy tales

Have spent the last day mucking around on Goodreads, and ended writing a feminist rant-review about the Christy Miller Series. It’s something that’s been brewing for a couple of years I think – which I only had the clarity to write about now. For me these books are all tied up in my larger issue with Christian marriage and sexual morality. If this is totally boring for everyone but myself I’m not too offended – hashing out my thoughts on this was good – it got me all worked up and I haven’t felt like that in a while!

After growing up in a Christian community where The Christy Miller Series and other Christian Teen Fiction were read, swapped, borrowed and believed in, it’s only in the last few years that I have a strong critique to make of these books. Robin Jones Gunn’s Christy Miller and Sierra Jensen series are of the same ilk as earlier novels such as the Elizabeth Gail series – teen stories about a girl growing up and struggling with adolescent issues just like ‘everyone else’, only at the same time discovering a faith in God. It is this journey of faith that influences the decisions the protagonist makes regarding friendships, relationships with boys and dating – learning to trust her ‘father God’ becomes the most important learning curve in life, with His laws and ways becoming the moral compass that guides her decisions. As a teenager I gobbled up these stories with delight, trying to make them fit with my own life, only to find that they didn’t, for a number of reasons.

My biggest problem is that these books are the modern Christian reincarnation of the Cinderella Story; the homely girl blossoms into a pure young woman and gets the Christian boy of her dreams at the end of the story – as long as she follows the rules and stays chaste. Christy, Elizabeth and Sierra are modeled on patriarchal heroines – despite having career aspirations, their overriding desire is to be married, and they wait longingly for the boy their Father God has picked out for them. Further, it is the male (both God and their future Husband) that must take the action. In these moral tales, as long as the girls flee the temptations of sexual experimentation with non-christian boys or *going too far* before marriage, everything turns out okay. Christy even writes letters to her future husband, the one that God has picked out for her, and constantly prays to God for His guidance in helping her wait for him.

My emphasis on these issues may seem an over the top, since alot of the earlier Christy books are lighthearted teenage fun. However the last three Christy books (The College Years) become far more serious in their themes. Despite the author never explicitly discussing sex, or even using the word (and this fact is also problematic), the entire narrative works towards Christy and Todd’s wedding, when (I don’t have the book here so I can’t quote) the Bride will “give herself” to her husband on her wedding day (or night). (I’m not even going to go into the whole “woman as object” problem with this since that’s another whole topic altogether.) The very last few pages of the Christy series culminate in a conversation with Christy’s Dad, in which he tells her how proud he is to be giving her away knowing that she *waited*, that she is pure on her wedding day. I can’t quite remember… but I think some metaphor is evoked about the wind in the trees applauding her on this as she walks towards Todd – the ‘Man of faith’ that God planned for her (arguably since before she was born, or at least, since the first book when Christy meets Todd at aged fourteen). While this idealistic ending might seem like a simple happily-ever-after romance that bears no further examination, I actually feel that Christian Teen Fiction has alot to answer for in its perpetuation of such a narrative. While fairytales are myths which re-inscribe values regarding marriage and monogamy which are often shared by both Christianity and patriarchal society, the narratives of these Christian novels also stand as products of the Faith itself. This being, I feel they warrant a critique outside of ordinary fairytale or fiction. For me, applying the patriarchal fairytale to modern Christian teen fiction is problematic for a number of reasons:

1. The ‘Christian’ novel is changed from a narrative centered around a faith journey with the goal being a closer experience or understanding of God, to a romance infused with religious values, with the goal being the attainment of a God-ordained Prince Charming.
2. Fate and Destiny of romance novels and fairytales are replaced by God – who plans and ordains events and the ultimate happiness of the protagonists. Further, God becomes like a genie who grants the wishes of those who trust him.
3. The books perpetuate unrealistic expectations for Christians regarding romance. In reality, most of us are not going to get married at aged nineteen to the first boy that we kiss or meet at fourteen. While this might seem an erroneous point that applies to all fairytales and romance novels (the ‘that’s why their fantasy’ argument) it is problematic for the Christian in that a force that they attribute as real in their lives (God) is also a present and powerful force in the book. Sure, you might argue, Christians aren’t dumb – they can tell the difference between the ‘real’ God and the God in the Christy Miller Series. But from personal experience, the myths perpetuated in the Christy Miller series (that of God planning the ‘one’ for you) are alive and well in real life. Which brings me to my next point…
4. The books are damaging to young Christians faith. I know this sounds extreme and I’m not usually one for making extreme claims akin to the ones in the ‘letters’ section of The Age, but this time I’ll stand by it. I don’t know how many Christian girls I know who are waiting patiently hoping that they meet their Prince Charming; the Christian boy who God has planned for them. This happily-ever-after marriage belongs to the package of marketable Christianity of the ‘prosperity doctrine’ brand. Bible verses such as the good ol’ Jeremiah 29:11 are happily isolated to prop up this idea: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.” This verse is applied out of context to just about anything in pop-Christianity. For Christian girls in western patriarchal society, those plans include the fairytale ending with the husband of their dreams. But sadly, it’s not what all of them get. Just like in the secular world, some miss out. What happens then? For non-Christian’s, I guess it’s bad luck and a Bridget Jones (before Mr Darcy) life of one night stands and cigarettes. But for Christian’s, who have a “loving God” calling the shots instead of “luck” – well, it can be faith shattering. Now, I have alot of other reasons for no longer following Christianity, but I think this need not be one. The Christy Miller series, which ascribes its happily-ever-after to God instead of luck, encourages the problematic, counter-gospel message of pop-Christianity; that if you follow God, all your dreams will come true. When they don’t, faith rapidly declines. In this respect, the Christy Miller Series set teenage girls up for a fall.
5. Changing tacts, the books encourage a glorified view of sex, and perpetuates purity myths through fear. One of the things that bothers me the most about Christian marriage is the use of the metaphor of the Church as a Bride and Jesus as a Groom. Sure, this is in the Bible, but it’s used as a metaphor to describe the Return of Christ as being like a marriage, not as a metaphor to describe marriage as being like humanity’s union with Christ. In its inversion, which is constantly used at just about every Christian wedding I’ve been to, this metaphor makes marriage out to be a spiritual union through which the couple attains a closer likening to Jesus. This has to be the most ridiculous myth about Christian marriage. The Christy Miller series, which of course uses this metaphor in ‘I Promise’, is a clear example of the way that Christian romance, marriage, and sexual union are glorified through association with God, who makes the union a holy sacrament. The fact that sex is never actually discussed but only vaguely implied works to create an even more unrealistic and fantastical view of sex – it becomes the culmination of the couples spiritual union – a vision far from the awkward, clumsy and painful experience that the couple’s first time is likely to be.

In conjunction with this glorification of marriage (and sex), the Christy Miller Series, like much popular Christian myth, perpetuates sexual abstinence before marriage through fear. No, it’s not the fire and brimstone fear of judgement, death or eternal punishment belonging to an older, more conservative brand of Christianity, but it’s watered-down equivalent for modern women – fear of missing out on ‘the one’. The Christy Miller series supports a popular idea that sexual morality is the scale on which God’s favour in this area of marriage is measured. Sure, it never explicitly says that the slut will never find a good man, but this is implied in the realization of the opposite – the chaste girl being rewarded. Christy is rewarded with Todd because of her trust in God and her resistance of temptation when opportunities arise. The series skirts around discussion of sex – again quoting the Bible for its explanation – “do not awaken love until it so desires” (Song of Songs 2:7). Sexual experimentation, ‘dating’ (especially of non-Christians) is discouraged lest this interfere with the delivery of God’s ‘chosen one’. Thus, the series encourages sexual morality through a threat specific to its target audience – you won’t get the guy if you sleep around.

Well, I realise this has turned into a considerable rant raising alot of problems I have with religion that extend far beyond Christy Miller. But these books have certainly been an influence on plenty of girls including myself and embody alot of issues that I find very problematic in popular Christianity. The disillusionment I’ve experienced firsthand when God doesn’t work like He does in Christy Miller has contributed significantly to my own exploration and discovery of the patriarchal myths that continue as dominant forces behind pop-Christianity.

a drop in the stitch

Yesterday, in accordance with my productive intentions for the holidays, I decided to drag out my housemate Leah’s old sewing machine. I was planning to attempt hemming and altering various pieces of ill-fitting clothing I’ve bought at markets and op-shops over the last couple of months. I envisoned myself transforming these drab granny frocks into fabulous vintage pieces with a few raised hemlines, pleats and darts. The first thing to do was to thread the sewing machine, which was different from the one my Nan taught me to use several years ago when lived with us. After flipping the machine around and around again to try and figure out exactly which way the thread should go, Tamsin came downstairs and noticed me googling “how to thread Bernina 730 sewing machine”. With the careless ease that only Tamsin has, she looped my thread through the appropriate metal protrusions in about three seconds and went on her merry way.

With that done, I realised I had no idea how to go about taking up a hem. Overlocking? Invisible thread? Blind-hem stitch? In search of an easy answer I took off down to the Cambwerwell sewing centre on Burke Road. I must have walked past hundreds of times and never given it a second glance, but it was a beacon of light waiting to receive me in yesterdays bleak winter fog. Well, not quite actually. It was clear from the second I walked in that this was a place for serious sewers. The whole shop screamed “hardcore”, from the dozens of digital new-fangled machines blinking and purring at me to the stern middle aged assistant in a cable knit jumper that approached me upon entry.
“Can I help you?” The mandatory greeting.
“Yes, hi. I’m wanting to alter a couple of dresses and take up some hem’s on my old sewing machine and I was just wondering how to – er – go about that.”
A knowing sigh emanated from the man I addressed. Tall, slightly stooped with white hair—he was probably in his late sixties with a lifetime of tailoring and dressmaking experience, and little patience for clueless teenagers who thought stiching up material would be as easy as breathing.
“What kind of machine do you have?”
“It’s uh, a B…
“Bernina?”
“Yes. Bernina 730.” I said with releif.
He laughed. “God. That certainly is an old one.”
“It has about twenty different stich settings, I’m not sure if there’s a blind hemming one.”
Another sigh. “Do you know how to take up a hem?” He looked at me with the patronizing expression I sometimes use on mother’s who insist on buying their children shoes three sizes too big. Do you have any idea what on earth you’re doing? Was the unmistakable subtext.
“Er- well, not exactly, I haven’t sewn in a while.” That was certainly clear enough.
He proceeded to demonstrate with a scrap of material how to go about doing a blind hem.
“It’s all in the fold.” Another tired glance. “You need to have a bit of experience though. It’s not something you can just do in five seconds.”
I nodded. “Ok, well, maybe I can just do an ordinary hem with invisible stiching. Do you have that transparent thread stuff?”
“We do, but it’s not invisible. You can still see it on dark colours. And as you can see, it’s a bit of money.” He held up the product, a reel of thread that looked to me exactly like fishing line, with a price sticker reading $13.99. I balked.
“Maybe I’ll just get coloured thread to match the clothes instead.” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, but you’ll need the material to match the colours up.”
“Oh, I’ve got the colours in my head,” I answered confidently.
The old man laughed again. “You must have a pretty good head.”
I stumbled over some rolls of material and frantically scanned the rows of brightly coloured poly-cotton, quickly realising my head definitely wasn’t good enough to pick the right shade of grey for the tunic I had planned to start with.
“It’s best to get a shade darker than the garment, so it blends in.” A voice offered helpfully from behind me. The woman at the counter, glasses hanging from a yellowing gold chain, peered over at me.
“Thanks.” I snatched at a couple of charcoal reels. Turning to pay, I realised I had no cash and that this place would probably have a ten dollar eftpos minimum. At the counter, I spied some vintage-looking tins about the size of a deck of playing cards.
“These are gorgeous!” I opened one up. “Wow, they’ve got everything inside.” A tiny pair of scissors, a thimble, tape measure, pins, a stich ripper, needles and thread fit neatly inside.
“Oh, they’re just little emergency kits.” The woman commented, “to keep in your handbag.
“Oh. So they’re not for proper sewing.”
She chuckled. “Definitely not. You certainly need something more substantial than that.”
I put the tin down, deciding the twenty dollar investment for an insubstantial emergency kit wasn’t what I was there for. I settled on a five dollar pin-cushion that looked like a tomato to make up the rest of the money.
“Thanks a lot.” I nodded at the man who has assisted me, who was now deep in conversation with another customer discussing the merits of the new Singer machine, and hurried out into the cold street.

Back at home, I stuck a few odd pins sitting on my windowsill into the tomato and put it next to my corkboard. The reels of cotton I bought are still in the bottom of my bag somewhere. Who needs shorter hems in winter anyway?