*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?

If I hear another song about angels

Regina Spektor’s new album is coming out in six days – yep, that’s right, six days! I’m not sure if it’ll be in Australia then too, but I hope so! Otherwise a download will have to suffice until I can get my hands on the real thing.

I love introducing people to Regina when I get the chance. The first time I heard her was at Emily’s place and I remember being struck by how beautiful and unusual her voice was. In first year I wrote a ‘music memoir’ piece for creative writing. Even though I don’t really like it, I’ll paste a paragraph or two in since it explains my Regina obsession:

” The Consequence of Sounds.

October, 2006.
Six weeks of high school left, and my favourite time of day is the walk home from the bus stop. Juliet, my thirteen year old sister and I, share the earphones of my ipod between us and dawdle on our way; stopping to get hot chips at the milk bar, skirting around the footy oval and weaving our way through the naked trees by the tennis courts. We are listening to Regina Spektor’s Soviet Kitsch album. On it’s cover, Regina is surrounded by Russian Babushka dolls, swigging from a bottle of vodka and looking mischeviously back at the camera. She is Russian/American, growing up in Moscow and now living in New York. Her lyrics are a minefield of pop-culture and literature references; she sings about everything from Hemingway to Oedipus to Samson and Delilah. Her songs are thoughtful and intelligent, and she is the first artist introducted to my insular musical world that makes me want to scream ‘oh my God, this is music!’ everytime I listen to her. I am an immediate convert only seconds after hearing her mix of classical piano and ecclectic punk at a friends place. Unexpectedly, Juliet my jumps on my bandwagon. When we get home, we grab out the bongo drums, instil ourselves in the lounge room by the piano and begin rapping out to one of Regina’s crazy songs, ‘Pavlov’s Daughter’ or ‘Consequence of sounds‘.

March, 2007.
I am at university and fast becoming, in the words of Regina an ‘incurable humanist’. I feel liberated from the suffocating environment of my small Christian high school. Although i had a great group of friends there, I always felt like a square peg in a round hole. At uni, everyone is different -there is no ‘right’ way to be. I no longer feel that I have to fit into a mould. I am starting to think for myself, really think, for the first time. I can behave how I want, wear what I want. Uni is a forum for self discovery. I am overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge in the world and how little of it I posess myself. But the prospect of how much there is to learn thrills me. I find myself with a ridiculous grin on my face just by being among people who are, although all so different to me, so like me. I want to jump up and down in my tutes with sheer joy at the discovery that other people think in the same way as me, have the same questions as me, appreciated the same things. I sit there and listen to people describe and bring to life thoughts and feelings that I share. I want to shout ‘Yes! I feel that too!’ It’s like someone has written‘You are not alone!’ across the sky. “

In retrospect it’s somewhat dramatic, and I think that piece was a lot more about me than the music (probably why I didn’t get the best mark for it). It’s interesting how music becomes the background of life though. Looking back, you can connect a song or artist with a certain part of your life, and all the associated feelings or emotions that were present at that time. My music taste seems to be constantly evolving. There’s some CD’s that I don’t really like to listen to anymore because they remind me of low times in life. But Regina has been one artists who has had a big effect on me in both happy and sad times. I think it comes down to the fact that she embodies the different = beautiful ideal. And I like that alot.

This is the music video for Laughing With.

wonderful month ahead

  Ah, holidays!

Now that assessment is over and I can breathe again, I plan to get a bit better at blogging regularly (or for the next six weeks, at least)….

To start off, these are some collages I made out of the 1950s film star albums I got ages ago. This one didn’t work because of the wrong type of glue which made the paper bubble (boo) but with a bit of photoshopping, I thought it was worth posting anyway. 

The next one isn’t quite as pretty (perhaps it is the absence of Grace Kelly?) but so far I haven’t destroyed it with poor lacquering attempts.

My glorious holiday plans   include:

* Making more collages

* Attempting to alter numerous market/op-shop items on the sewing machine (hems, darts, pleats… I can totally do it!) 

 * Learning how to operate my lovely new Nikon SLR Camera (ditto)

* Getting a significant way through the epic movie list I have compiled with the help of Stuart, Jonathan, IMDB and various other recommendations. The list includes all of the films of Alfred Hitchcock and most of the films of David Lynch, plus a significant contribution from the action genre which I seem to have missed out on… much fun to be had! 

* Reading Lolita and The Sound and the Fury (I just finished A passage to India today, which I won’t comment on now because it deserves a whole post to itself…)

* The upcoming sibling holiday, which will include numerous games of Balderdash and probably much reminiscing, plus a trip to Canberra to see boyfriends friends (maybe my friends? hopefully). 

* A whole new level of domestic enquiry…  (just wait and see!)

qualms and misgivings

Ok. I have a feeling this is going to be a very long post.

Have been debating whether or not to lower this blog to the level of a journal in which I thrash out my inner moral and existential conflicts/ ruminations for the internet world to see. Apart from a few posts such as ‘and she shall be called woman’ and ‘white fear’ I’ve steered clear of this for several reasons.
1. I know that people (friends, family, acquaintances) read this blog from time to time, and I would never want to hurt or offend them by disrespecting their beliefs. But I think that there is a difference between objecting to something, contesting a point of view, and being disrespectful to a person, and I think most people know this. So, I’m going to put that worry aside….
The next two reasons, I acknowledge, are inherently narcissistic ones:

2. These kind of questions are for me the most important questions in my life – discussing them for everyone to see is kind of like bearing my soul. This is what I am pre-occupied with most of the time. This is the ‘inner me’. Also I feel completely inadequate trying to talk about ‘big grown up things’ like philosophy and religion. Sure I’m fascinated by them, but it’s not like I have anything new to say…

3. Writing is my ‘thing’. Or what I consider to be my ‘thing’. It is difficult not to let my entire self-worth depend on whether both I myself and other people perceive me to be a good writer. I know this is going to sound incredibly melodramatic, but writing becomes almost a terrifying prospect for me sometimes. If I fail at writing, I fail full stop. I feel as though I have worthwhile things to express in words – on paper. My greatest fear is that I won’t be able to ‘get them out’. It becomes almost an exhausting prospect, then, because when trying to express myself, I’m using the very medium in which my entire self-worth seems inextricably embedded in – written words. Consequently, I’m hyper-conscious when writing that whatever comes out on the page when I’m putting 100% into it, is (at least as I perceive it) the sum of myself. That knowledge, and the knowledge that someone else, someone reading my writing, could be doing it better, could be more articulate, more eloquent… well it’s almost paralyzing.

I guess the connection between 2 and 3 is obvious. Using the medium my self-worth is ingrained in to try and convey the things most dear and important to me – things I’m still figuring out, things I don’t know enough of yet to even form an opinion on – seems like the hardest thing in the world. Why? Because my pride and self-esteem are both at stake. I’m putting the extent of my skills and knowledge out there while knowing that they are insufficient.

The biggest temptation for me is to procrastinate, or even refrain from writing until I ‘know more’. In my head, there is some kind of obscure level of understanding or general knowledge I need to reach before I can legitimately attempt to write about ‘the big stuff’. But I was talking a couple of months back about this with Alice and she said something like ‘when will anyone ever be done learning?’ So I think I need to relinquish my pride on this one.

I just finished reading The Catcher in the Rye today (which was on my JANUARY summer reading list). Even though it’s soppy I’m putting in a quote that comforted me when I read it.

“You’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and sickened by human behaviour…. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them – if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer , someone will learn something from you.”

This kind of prompted me to reconsider my reservations about expressing my thoughts. Sure, I’m not a theologian or a scientist or a philosopher or even a phD student. If any one of the above took me to task I’m pretty sure they’d annihilate me. But that’s not the point, is it? I have no delusions that my writing is pure poetry or that any of my ideas are original or that I comprehend the obscure thoughts of philosophical genuis’ . But I want to learn, to improve, to understand, so there’s no reason for me to be ‘ashamed’ of where I’m at now. And if people read this and think “god, that person’s stupid, they have no idea what the fuck they’re on about” well, they’re probably right! But I’m choosing not to care (or at least to try to not care ) Because I don’t think I’m going to find the answers I’m looking for if I avoid questioning and formulating and expressing my thoughts. I think actually that for me, that’s exactly the way in which I might find a way to make sense of things. (That and alot of reading, of course…)

all good things come from iceland

not limited to but including:

 

   Björk. 

 Whose name has become    synonymous with ‘Iceland+  singer’….Or the obvious choice when playing the name game and presented with those clues. 

  I cannot listen to cocoon without    getting shivers . 

 And she wears pretty  face paint    during performances…

 [and lots of other crazy stuff]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emiliana Torrini.

First heard her magical voice while driving through a windy forest in NZ, sun filtering through the leaves of the trees and all such associated cliches…. lovely. 

Then nearly threw up when she was being played in Sportsgirl the other day. But I guess I wouldn’t have known that unless I myself had been in Sportsgirl. So, can’t complain. But when my favourite singers are played in shopping centres it just seems to break the spell

Oh yes, she also does an awesome cover of White Rabbit by  Jefferson Airplane. You should totally download it (I don’t know how else to get it) … 

 

Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir.

The world’s first openly lesbian prime minister.  OH YES!!! 

Now, I admit that I know very little about her politics and could be getting prematurely excited. But as far as I’m concerned this is a “fucking awesome until proven not so” situation. Down with patriarchy and all that. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feel free to add to the list of reasons why we should all visit iceland!

take two

New revised extended draft! Thanks for the helpful comments guys.

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It happened again today. You caught yourself remembering. It is her again; hands plunged into the kitchen sink, her fingers flicking the soapsuds. She is laughing, splashing tiny drops of water onto the bench, the floor, onto you. You can hear her laugh distinctly. It’s tinkly, like the sound of the dishes clinking in the sink. Her hands flutter when she laughs. Long and graceful and light, they skitter effortlessly across the water like they do the black and white keys. They tap lightly against the window pane or her cigarette. Flick, splash, flutter, skitter, tap. The memories come sharp and quick, like a slideshow on a projector, shuttling through your mind, getting faster, mixing themselves up, absent of any sense of order.

It was Martin who introduced you to her. The Martin you used to work with at the factory, who had long hair and who was always drunk and looking for his next kick. You were at one of his parties. The one’s that you used to go to only when you were sure you had nothing better to do. They were all the same; dim lighting, sweaty faces, heavy metal in the background. You’d seen her earlier, a slim figure clad in black across the other side of the room, her features animated in the midst of conversation. ‘She’s a painter,’ Martin said in your ear when he’d noticed the direction of your gaze. ‘Pictures, not walls.’ Several beers later, he’d propelled you over to her and disappeared, giving you an encouraging thump on the back. The painter was small and delicate, with angular features and an air of quiet unselfconsciousness. A painter, you would later discover, who favoured impressionism over realism, yoga over pilates, and Katherine over Audrey Hepburn. She held out her left hand instead of her right and when she articulated a slow hello a puff of smoke escaped her lips.

Perhaps it was her slightly smudged red lipstick, or her gentle enigmatic smile, but something about her put you at ease. Loosened by the beers you’d drunk, you began to talk. You were overcome, for some reason, by this skinny child-like woman with her smattering of freckles and clear, intelligent grey eyes. Overcome with an urge to try and convey something to her. Something meaningful and specific, although you weren’t sure what. You paused, haltingly, at the sound of your own disjointed sentences, suddenly feeling like a fool. But she was attentive and encouraging. In the end you stopped teetering around the edge and dived headlong into a conversation largely made up of isms and wild gesticulations. When you finally surfaced, you realised that you really had no idea what you were talking about. But she didn’t seem to mind. That night, you left feeling inspired, soaked with some sense of change. You felt as though a little something inside of you had opened up, something you hadn’t quite known was there before.

II.

It was a house you knew you would belong in right away. Open-plan, with polished boards, high ceilings and lots of north-facing windows. And it was cluttered, not in a stifling way but in a comfortable, familiar way. This house was lived in, it seemed to say. In the kitchen a row of colourful teapots and faded china sat on display, the kind with hand painted roses on it, so thin that the edges of the cups and saucers were almost translucent. They reminded you of the ones your grandmother used to use and of hot Anzac biscuits straight out of the oven that she always served with tea. Through the hallway framed portraits lined the walls, impressionistic ones that you hadn’t seen before. No, they weren’t hers, the painter answered with that same smile as she led you to the spare room. It was raining the day that you moved in. You arrived dripping wet, garbage bags stuffed with clothes, your back bent with the heavier weight of all you were trying to leave behind. The painter opened the door. ‘Welcome home,’ she said. And as soon as you stepped inside, you knew you were.

On Saturday mornings, the painter sat in the armchair beside the window, flipping meditatively through an art book. Monet, Renoir, Van Gough. You watched her sometimes from the stairwell, safely hidden by the angle of the door way. Her blonde head would always be highlighted in the sunlight that filtered through the window, a cup of tea in her hand, her eyes sometimes closed. It was the mornings when her mind was the clearest, serene and pure, waiting to be filled with the images conspiring in her unconscious. You wondered what colours were forming, blotting onto her mental canvas, tentatively at first, then faster and faster; an explosion of joyful enthusiasm. She would tell you later that on those morning’s she was certain of some kind of supernatural presence that pervaded the room. Did you know what she meant? No, you had said. You didn’t believe in the supernatural. She had touched your arm with soft fingertips and you had flinched slightly. It’s there, she said, you just need to sit very still to feel it.

Drafts Drafts Drafts.

I’m posting some of my half-assed creative writing on here and anyone, friend or foe, is welcome to tell me what they think.  I have a draft due next week for Uni and I’m thinking of using this as the start.  

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It happened again today. You caught yourself remembering. It was her again, in that black and white checked dress. The knee-length one with the cinched waist, her favourite. It was a party, one of Martin’s. You aren’t sure which, they were all the same: dim lighting, non-descript metal reduced to a dull roar in the background, red faces bright with perspiration and excitement. You see her from a distance across the room, speaking to Martin earnestly. A puff of smoke escapes her lips. Red lipstick is smudged on her glass. Martin is drunk, his hair long and unruly, his eyes ablaze. They are eighteen and nineteen, it is the youth of the nineties, backed with a century of teenage rebellion. And they are no different, the boy with the Nirvana t-shirt and the girl on the couch beside him. Tomorrow she will probably be doubled-over in the bathroom all morning. But tonight she is embarking on a new phase of enlightenment, inspired by the clarity only alcohol brings.

Now you are remembering something else. Her hands. Dancing. Her fingers flicking the soapsuds, splashing tiny drops of water on you from the kitchen sink. Her laugh. It’s tinkly, like the sound of the dishes clinking in the sink. Her hands flutter wildly when she laughs. Long and graceful and light, they skitter effortlessly across the black and white keys. They tap lightly against the window pane or her cigarette. Flick, splash, flutter, skitter, tap. The memories come sharp and quick, like a slideshow on a projector, shuttling through your mind, getting faster, mixing themselves up, devoid of any sense of order.

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 I’ve spent about two hours staring at these two paragraphs and rewriting them til I’m fairly sure I’ve eviscerated them completely. New eyes are needed.