Ahhhh! I just got back from a gruelling 6 hours of rehearsing in a draughty shed where it would have been lucky to be 10°C. It wasn't very nice, and it was so far away from any sort of retail strip that I couldn't just run out in the rain during our 5 minute break for food. But oh, how wonderful!
Today I got to play Hope. Hope Harcourt, the debutante is the role in Anything Goes that I have been understudying since the rehearsal period started in July. It has been ridiculously bad - travelling back and forth between Melbourne and rehearsals three times a week for practically nothing. As the understudy, that means I can't have a very good role in the rest of the show unless I have to be pulled out to play my character instead. But now suddenly, it's worth something.
I knew every line, I sang every song (even though I was gasping and coughing whenever I wasn't on stage), I even danced the entire Delovely dance without missing a step. It was great.. I was so surprised at myself, I haven't really acted in anything for a long time. University and VCE got in the way, as much as I hated it, and this is reminding me how much I adore it. Lots of people commented on how surprised they were on how much work I'd put into it and the director came up and told me I was doing a 'beautiful' job. Tremendously exciting - what was even better was seeing all the committee members watching me. They are the people who prevented me getting the actual role, because I wasn't experienced enough, and now they're seeing me doing an awesome job. So HA! Give me a role in the next show!
Sorry, I'm just so happy and excited and glad and relieved... more updates soon! I have to do the same thing again on Tuesday and Thursday!
Sunday, September 24
Saturday, September 23
The Den of Slack
Another post devoted to bemoaning the sorry state of my habitat. Sorry. I guess I'm just procrastinating about going in to university on a Saturday to photocopy a small rainforest worth of paper. But there are certain things 'going down' in Brunswick at the moment that are playing on my mind.
Karin and Clarke are moving out today. Horray, but not - this practically decimates the female population of the house. Although Karin can be a rather painful person to be around, our collective femaleness I think helps calm down the absolute testosterone that is otherwise bouncing around in here. I fear my inner-city home is about to become the ultimate den of slack - the bachelor pad.
For a week and a half, I have been either at my Dad's house or at my Mom's, generally being the annoying grown-up offspring who comes home and lives in their pajamas, makes a mess in their old room, sleeps till noon, eats everything in sight and responds in monosyllabic grunts. Needing to gather some materials for a research assignment, I had to venture back last night. On my homecoming I was greeted by a half-metre high pile of dishes and a house full of blowflies. No, I'm not talking about my housemates, I'm talking about the abnormally big, loud scary black flies that seem to be attracted by filth in it's many incarnations.
The thought of frequenting the common areas much longer was too much to bear, so I retreated to my room. The horror! Underneath my half-open window was grit and dust, which was strange. Then I noticed some grey feathers laying around near my door. A pigeon was in my room!
Of course, I couldn't bare to sleep in there. What if it was still in there, hiding somewhere? What if it hadn't been able to figure out the escape route and had crawled somewhere to die? All these thoughts were running through my head, and I felt physically uneasy just being in the room. I despise pigeons, a lot. They're so creepy and disease-ridden and weird. There are so many of them in the city, they are the worst kind of vermin. Like rats with wings.
So I was too scared to sleep in there - I had to sleep on the couch. Joy.
Upon waking up, I could see even more grossness that I wasn't able to quite discern in nighttime light. I couldn't find a clean spot on the bench to put my glass this morning as I was pouring juice. Argh!
So I'm apartment looking. And I'm looking for one cheap enough that I can afford it whether or not Lucien goes in with me.
Karin and Clarke are moving out today. Horray, but not - this practically decimates the female population of the house. Although Karin can be a rather painful person to be around, our collective femaleness I think helps calm down the absolute testosterone that is otherwise bouncing around in here. I fear my inner-city home is about to become the ultimate den of slack - the bachelor pad.
For a week and a half, I have been either at my Dad's house or at my Mom's, generally being the annoying grown-up offspring who comes home and lives in their pajamas, makes a mess in their old room, sleeps till noon, eats everything in sight and responds in monosyllabic grunts. Needing to gather some materials for a research assignment, I had to venture back last night. On my homecoming I was greeted by a half-metre high pile of dishes and a house full of blowflies. No, I'm not talking about my housemates, I'm talking about the abnormally big, loud scary black flies that seem to be attracted by filth in it's many incarnations.
The thought of frequenting the common areas much longer was too much to bear, so I retreated to my room. The horror! Underneath my half-open window was grit and dust, which was strange. Then I noticed some grey feathers laying around near my door. A pigeon was in my room!
Of course, I couldn't bare to sleep in there. What if it was still in there, hiding somewhere? What if it hadn't been able to figure out the escape route and had crawled somewhere to die? All these thoughts were running through my head, and I felt physically uneasy just being in the room. I despise pigeons, a lot. They're so creepy and disease-ridden and weird. There are so many of them in the city, they are the worst kind of vermin. Like rats with wings.
So I was too scared to sleep in there - I had to sleep on the couch. Joy.
Upon waking up, I could see even more grossness that I wasn't able to quite discern in nighttime light. I couldn't find a clean spot on the bench to put my glass this morning as I was pouring juice. Argh!
So I'm apartment looking. And I'm looking for one cheap enough that I can afford it whether or not Lucien goes in with me.
Saturday, September 16
Boys Don't Cry
As you can tell, I'm currently listening to the The Cure. Now it has changed to The Clash.
I'm in the process of deciding what music I'll put on my new 'Pod, whose name is Shibuya. Yes, I'm giving it a name - it was the 'cool' thing to do in high school, so I'll continue it. My friends had Sebastian the 4th generation iPod, Igby the 3rd generation, Donnie the 1st generation wasabi green iPod mini. Introducing, Shibuya the 2nd generation pink iPod nano. Yay!
I'm sorting my music before putting it on there because I have a lot of junk. Do I ever want to listen to I Only Wanna Be With You by Samantha Fox again? How 'bout all those fairly random clips of me singing? Do I want to listen to all that? Not a chance, so why put it on there?
I'm so excited!
Now we're onto Norah Jones. Mmm.
It's funny that when mp3 players first really hit the market, I jumped on it. Normally I'm one to wait a while until technology get better and prices go down, but for some reason I just wanted one straight away. The result is sitting in front of me right now - a Creative Nomad MuVo player, 64mb. And guess how much it cost me! $150, for what is effectively junk nowadays. It's amusing/frustrating.
I think I've given Apple sufficient time - after all, I'm getting a second gen nano, rather than those first gen ones that simply snapped as soon as you put them in your pocket.
I had a big list of observations to post here, but I lost the list. I've forgotten most of them, so I'll type what I can remember:
- I went to McDonalds yesterday afternoon, famished and needing to rest my weary lungs after being unceremoniously dumped in the city by my father. I took my little ElMaco burger upstairs to see one of the saddest collections of people ever (myself included). Let me stereotype them: there was the overweight, unattractive office clerk/secretary reading a romance novel whilst chowing down a large Big Mac meal with two burgers (ouch), a man in a suit with a briefcase and a bald spot, trying to conceal the dirty magazine he was reading by tucking it into something finance-related while he sipped his thick shake, a scraggly single mother with about 4 radically different looking children running riot everywhere as she yelled at them ("Cartier! Chanel, stop that! Come here Houston"), an elderly couple complaining about how hot their chips were, two ethnic men having a business meeting loudly in a foreign language! I was sad too, sitting by the window overlooking Elizabeth Street, coughing up various internal organs and car parts, surrounded by bags and wilting birthday roses, staring hopefully at my mobile phone. The scene was set against Coldplay and the hum of almost-peak hour traffic below. Oddly surreal, and kind of pathetic.
Maybe I'll have to go to McDonalds more often. On.. uh.. research. Yep.
We're on to Pink Floyd now.. Dark Side of the Moon. I love it.
Ahh! Another observation - I was sitting in a café in Richmond yesterday afternoon waiting to go to the Shrink. I had some lovely tea, Frutti-Tutti it was called.. so I was just sitting there, dreaming, soaking up the warmth of the day and the relaxed hum of my surroundings. I was rudely awakened by this horrible woman who came into the shop like the Queen of Sheba. I have a feeling she may be somebody from television; she looked kind of familiar. Maybe C-grade Australian celebrity, or even D-grade. She was talking loudly to the simpering pansy-man at her side who was clamouring and gushing. She marched over to the counter and I'll write the rest like a script. Let's call her Dominique (don't know her real name).
Dominique: Is your coffee decaf?
Barista: Yes, we have decaffeinated coffee available.
Dominique: And are you sure it has absolutely no caffeine in it? Because oh my God!
(to the entire cafe, loudly and obnoxiously) I drank a cup of coffee this morning and I had heart palpitations for 4 hours! Caffeine just does that to me, I'm a very sensitive person. I mean, if I don't eat a macrobiotic diet then I just feel so lethargic, you know? So can you please check with your manager, or maybe even call the supplier to make sure it has no caffeine in it, thank you! (turns from the bar, sniffing loudly and begans engaging in inane prattle with the pansy-man)
Barista: .... certainly. (she talks to the manager, then returns) Yes, the decaffeinated coffee has no caffeine in it.
Dominique: Did you check with the supplier?
Barista: I asked my manager who has worked with coffee for the last 25 years.
Dominique: Well, I want you to call the supplier and ask them, there's a good girl.
Barista: (looks visibly angry but obliges. minutes later returns to the bar. her cynicism and annoyance is showing in her voice now, but Dominique is oblivious) Alright, I spoke to the supplier and they assured me that there is no caffeine in the decaffeinated coffee.
Dominique: (looks the barista up and down, narrowing her eyes and taking off her sunglasses) Well, I'm sorry, the last time I drank decaffeinated coffee today, it obviously still had caffeine in it. I mean, I was having heart palpitations for 5 hours! It was so bad I was wondering whether I should call an ambulance or not! And to think, that somebody sold me decaffeinated coffee that still had caffeine in it, when this is what it can do to sensitive people like me!
Barista: (looks at her incredulously and sort of throws her hands up in the air)
Dominique: So I'll just get a lemon, lime and bitters.
Pansy-man: I'll get a flat white.
Dominique: Ohhh! Hold on a minute, I didn't mean one from the fridge. No, can you please make one for me? A fresh one?
Barista: Alright.. (she begins mixing one)
Dominique: (has begun loudly talking to Pansy-man once again, before she casts a glance back at the drink which has been made by now, along with the flat white) Oh my God! You didn't put lemonade in that did you?
Barista: Yes, it's lemon-lime syrup, lemonade and bitters. Is there a problem with that?
Dominique: Well yes! There is just too much sugar in that for me! Last time I had a Coke, there was just so much sugar that my blood sugar levels went through the roof! How am I supposed to work when I can't even stand up, I said to my boss. I'm just such a sensitive person! On my last cup of coffee today, I had heart palpitations for 6 hours! So, can you make one with just soda water, lemon-lime and bitters? Oh and crushed ice and a slice of lime. Oh, and can you hurry up, for God's sake - I have already been standing here for 15 minutes and I have an appointment in 10.
Pansy-man: Can you make me a new coffee? This one is cold.
I felt like strangling these two and giving the poor barista a big bunch of flowers. It was absurd.. I stuck around, sipping my tea slowly enough to watch all this unfold, but as soon Dominique and Pansy-man sat down, she noticed me glaring at her.. so I ran away.
Ahh, the stupidity of it all. I wish I had an underground magical mystery man, like Amelie has when she confronts Collignon - a person to say, "At least you'll never be a vegetable, even artichokes have hearts!" so I can repeat it. I would have loved to have said something malicious to this horrible woman..
Anyway, 'tis late and I must go breakfast-hunting.
PS: I was just trawling through Wikipedia when I chanced upon some take-away food that was a big part of my childhood, Mos Burgers! It was a Japanese fast food chain in Taipei, where they would see all kinds of awesome rice patty teriyaki burgers.. yum! I want them to come to Melbourne!
I think I'll send them an email.
I'm in the process of deciding what music I'll put on my new 'Pod, whose name is Shibuya. Yes, I'm giving it a name - it was the 'cool' thing to do in high school, so I'll continue it. My friends had Sebastian the 4th generation iPod, Igby the 3rd generation, Donnie the 1st generation wasabi green iPod mini. Introducing, Shibuya the 2nd generation pink iPod nano. Yay!
I'm sorting my music before putting it on there because I have a lot of junk. Do I ever want to listen to I Only Wanna Be With You by Samantha Fox again? How 'bout all those fairly random clips of me singing? Do I want to listen to all that? Not a chance, so why put it on there?
I'm so excited!
Now we're onto Norah Jones. Mmm.
It's funny that when mp3 players first really hit the market, I jumped on it. Normally I'm one to wait a while until technology get better and prices go down, but for some reason I just wanted one straight away. The result is sitting in front of me right now - a Creative Nomad MuVo player, 64mb. And guess how much it cost me! $150, for what is effectively junk nowadays. It's amusing/frustrating.
I think I've given Apple sufficient time - after all, I'm getting a second gen nano, rather than those first gen ones that simply snapped as soon as you put them in your pocket.
I had a big list of observations to post here, but I lost the list. I've forgotten most of them, so I'll type what I can remember:
- I went to McDonalds yesterday afternoon, famished and needing to rest my weary lungs after being unceremoniously dumped in the city by my father. I took my little ElMaco burger upstairs to see one of the saddest collections of people ever (myself included). Let me stereotype them: there was the overweight, unattractive office clerk/secretary reading a romance novel whilst chowing down a large Big Mac meal with two burgers (ouch), a man in a suit with a briefcase and a bald spot, trying to conceal the dirty magazine he was reading by tucking it into something finance-related while he sipped his thick shake, a scraggly single mother with about 4 radically different looking children running riot everywhere as she yelled at them ("Cartier! Chanel, stop that! Come here Houston"), an elderly couple complaining about how hot their chips were, two ethnic men having a business meeting loudly in a foreign language! I was sad too, sitting by the window overlooking Elizabeth Street, coughing up various internal organs and car parts, surrounded by bags and wilting birthday roses, staring hopefully at my mobile phone. The scene was set against Coldplay and the hum of almost-peak hour traffic below. Oddly surreal, and kind of pathetic.
Maybe I'll have to go to McDonalds more often. On.. uh.. research. Yep.
We're on to Pink Floyd now.. Dark Side of the Moon. I love it.
Ahh! Another observation - I was sitting in a café in Richmond yesterday afternoon waiting to go to the Shrink. I had some lovely tea, Frutti-Tutti it was called.. so I was just sitting there, dreaming, soaking up the warmth of the day and the relaxed hum of my surroundings. I was rudely awakened by this horrible woman who came into the shop like the Queen of Sheba. I have a feeling she may be somebody from television; she looked kind of familiar. Maybe C-grade Australian celebrity, or even D-grade. She was talking loudly to the simpering pansy-man at her side who was clamouring and gushing. She marched over to the counter and I'll write the rest like a script. Let's call her Dominique (don't know her real name).
Dominique: Is your coffee decaf?
Barista: Yes, we have decaffeinated coffee available.
Dominique: And are you sure it has absolutely no caffeine in it? Because oh my God!
(to the entire cafe, loudly and obnoxiously) I drank a cup of coffee this morning and I had heart palpitations for 4 hours! Caffeine just does that to me, I'm a very sensitive person. I mean, if I don't eat a macrobiotic diet then I just feel so lethargic, you know? So can you please check with your manager, or maybe even call the supplier to make sure it has no caffeine in it, thank you! (turns from the bar, sniffing loudly and begans engaging in inane prattle with the pansy-man)
Barista: .... certainly. (she talks to the manager, then returns) Yes, the decaffeinated coffee has no caffeine in it.
Dominique: Did you check with the supplier?
Barista: I asked my manager who has worked with coffee for the last 25 years.
Dominique: Well, I want you to call the supplier and ask them, there's a good girl.
Barista: (looks visibly angry but obliges. minutes later returns to the bar. her cynicism and annoyance is showing in her voice now, but Dominique is oblivious) Alright, I spoke to the supplier and they assured me that there is no caffeine in the decaffeinated coffee.
Dominique: (looks the barista up and down, narrowing her eyes and taking off her sunglasses) Well, I'm sorry, the last time I drank decaffeinated coffee today, it obviously still had caffeine in it. I mean, I was having heart palpitations for 5 hours! It was so bad I was wondering whether I should call an ambulance or not! And to think, that somebody sold me decaffeinated coffee that still had caffeine in it, when this is what it can do to sensitive people like me!
Barista: (looks at her incredulously and sort of throws her hands up in the air)
Dominique: So I'll just get a lemon, lime and bitters.
Pansy-man: I'll get a flat white.
Dominique: Ohhh! Hold on a minute, I didn't mean one from the fridge. No, can you please make one for me? A fresh one?
Barista: Alright.. (she begins mixing one)
Dominique: (has begun loudly talking to Pansy-man once again, before she casts a glance back at the drink which has been made by now, along with the flat white) Oh my God! You didn't put lemonade in that did you?
Barista: Yes, it's lemon-lime syrup, lemonade and bitters. Is there a problem with that?
Dominique: Well yes! There is just too much sugar in that for me! Last time I had a Coke, there was just so much sugar that my blood sugar levels went through the roof! How am I supposed to work when I can't even stand up, I said to my boss. I'm just such a sensitive person! On my last cup of coffee today, I had heart palpitations for 6 hours! So, can you make one with just soda water, lemon-lime and bitters? Oh and crushed ice and a slice of lime. Oh, and can you hurry up, for God's sake - I have already been standing here for 15 minutes and I have an appointment in 10.
Pansy-man: Can you make me a new coffee? This one is cold.
I felt like strangling these two and giving the poor barista a big bunch of flowers. It was absurd.. I stuck around, sipping my tea slowly enough to watch all this unfold, but as soon Dominique and Pansy-man sat down, she noticed me glaring at her.. so I ran away.
Ahh, the stupidity of it all. I wish I had an underground magical mystery man, like Amelie has when she confronts Collignon - a person to say, "At least you'll never be a vegetable, even artichokes have hearts!" so I can repeat it. I would have loved to have said something malicious to this horrible woman..
Anyway, 'tis late and I must go breakfast-hunting.
PS: I was just trawling through Wikipedia when I chanced upon some take-away food that was a big part of my childhood, Mos Burgers! It was a Japanese fast food chain in Taipei, where they would see all kinds of awesome rice patty teriyaki burgers.. yum! I want them to come to Melbourne!
I think I'll send them an email.
Friday, September 15
Wish I Had A Window
The subject line of this post is designed to be sung to the song "If I Were a Rich Girl" or "If I Were a Rich Man" by Gwen Stefani and from Fiddler on the Roof respectively. Followed by 'lalalalalalalalalalalalalala' - yes, I counted, and it is the exact number of 'la's!
Why do I wish I had a window? My bedroom in Brunswick has the tiniest of pathetic windows, just big enough for me to fit through and it faces up at the sky. Boring. It's so tiny and exposed that I have the shutter drawn always, otherwise I just get this blinding beam of white light falling through.
When I lived in my favourite house in Caroline Street, I had a wall of windows. Literally. One entire wall was full-length windows that opened up onto a courtyard filled with roses, lavendar and a nice shady tree in the middle. It was beautiful; the wind would drift in carrying the scent of flowers and summer, lifting my sheer white curtains and just filling my room with 'happy'. Because I had so much window space, I took to using one of them as a whiteboard - I'd write and drawing over the window with red lipstick which cast the most intriguing shadows of backwards words on my bed. Unfortunately since then, I have moved twice and am now facing the worst window situation ever. Tiny window facing the morning sun and nothing else, a view of all the corrugated iron and cement roofs in Brunswick and the smell of traffic and industry wafting into my humble abode. Ick.
Right now, I'm at my Dad's apartment in Richmond, overlooking the river. It's glorious.. I feel like I'm living in a treehouse. Huge windows on every external wall, trees and birds and flowers everywhere to be seen, sunshine and fresh air streaming into the house through open windows. I feel ridiculously unwell, but it's nice to be surrounded by something so nice.
Over the next couple of months, I'm apartment-hunting. The House of Mirth is good fun to write about, but unbearable. I simply can't handle it. I can't handle the XBox being on so loud until all hours of the night. I can't handle listening to Raj having loud sex every single night. I can't handle the Neanderthal, full stop. I can't handle the fact that whenever I buy food, someone eats it or throws it out. I can't handle the lack of space. I can't handle being kicked out of my own living room whenever Karin and Clarke decide to be space-sucking lumps. I can't handle the greasy dishes that just get put back into the cupboard. I can't handle idiots who don't know how to answer the intercom or the phone, making me run from the other end of the house in my underwear for it when they were in the same room. I can't handle the way they eat like loud, obnoxious pigs.. it makes me feel ill. I can't handle being picked on for being a girl, liking pink, not being a goth, being a 'jaffie' (college freshman), etc etc.
I've had enough, so I'm moving out.
I think my Mom is giving me a white dinner set as a birthday present, and my Aunt already sent down boxes and boxes of kitchen utensils she doesn't need anymore. It's kind of funny - she's a millionaire and has far too much stuff, but did she really think that I needed 24 champagne flutes? Oh well, I'm amused but I won't complain.
Nothing has yet been written about the birthday, I'll write it up as a story/fairy tale for next time. I'm feverish and coughing up a lung right now, so I'll get back to bed. Adios amigos.
Why do I wish I had a window? My bedroom in Brunswick has the tiniest of pathetic windows, just big enough for me to fit through and it faces up at the sky. Boring. It's so tiny and exposed that I have the shutter drawn always, otherwise I just get this blinding beam of white light falling through.
When I lived in my favourite house in Caroline Street, I had a wall of windows. Literally. One entire wall was full-length windows that opened up onto a courtyard filled with roses, lavendar and a nice shady tree in the middle. It was beautiful; the wind would drift in carrying the scent of flowers and summer, lifting my sheer white curtains and just filling my room with 'happy'. Because I had so much window space, I took to using one of them as a whiteboard - I'd write and drawing over the window with red lipstick which cast the most intriguing shadows of backwards words on my bed. Unfortunately since then, I have moved twice and am now facing the worst window situation ever. Tiny window facing the morning sun and nothing else, a view of all the corrugated iron and cement roofs in Brunswick and the smell of traffic and industry wafting into my humble abode. Ick.
Right now, I'm at my Dad's apartment in Richmond, overlooking the river. It's glorious.. I feel like I'm living in a treehouse. Huge windows on every external wall, trees and birds and flowers everywhere to be seen, sunshine and fresh air streaming into the house through open windows. I feel ridiculously unwell, but it's nice to be surrounded by something so nice.
Over the next couple of months, I'm apartment-hunting. The House of Mirth is good fun to write about, but unbearable. I simply can't handle it. I can't handle the XBox being on so loud until all hours of the night. I can't handle listening to Raj having loud sex every single night. I can't handle the Neanderthal, full stop. I can't handle the fact that whenever I buy food, someone eats it or throws it out. I can't handle the lack of space. I can't handle being kicked out of my own living room whenever Karin and Clarke decide to be space-sucking lumps. I can't handle the greasy dishes that just get put back into the cupboard. I can't handle idiots who don't know how to answer the intercom or the phone, making me run from the other end of the house in my underwear for it when they were in the same room. I can't handle the way they eat like loud, obnoxious pigs.. it makes me feel ill. I can't handle being picked on for being a girl, liking pink, not being a goth, being a 'jaffie' (college freshman), etc etc.
I've had enough, so I'm moving out.
I think my Mom is giving me a white dinner set as a birthday present, and my Aunt already sent down boxes and boxes of kitchen utensils she doesn't need anymore. It's kind of funny - she's a millionaire and has far too much stuff, but did she really think that I needed 24 champagne flutes? Oh well, I'm amused but I won't complain.
Nothing has yet been written about the birthday, I'll write it up as a story/fairy tale for next time. I'm feverish and coughing up a lung right now, so I'll get back to bed. Adios amigos.
Wednesday, September 13
It's My Birthday
If I weren't lying in bed surrounded by a sea of used tissues, I'd be dancing.
If it weren't 3am and my head is so stuffed up that I can't see straight, I'd be eating cake.
If Lucien weren't sick too and hadn't decided not to visit me, I'd be receiving a big bunch of flowers.
If it weren't my birthday, I'd have no reason to feel disappointed for circumstances being so unfavourable.
But it is my birthday. Paul just ditched me on MSN, I suppose he can't help a used-up laptop battery. I can hear Raj and the Neanderthal snoring in their respective rooms along with traffic on Sydney Road. The city really does never sleep..
It's kind of gutting to think about it, but I just realised that never have I had a birthday before where I have been -
a) away from my family, and stuck in a horrid place full of neanderthals
b) completely isolated from my friends
c) feverish, sniffly, sore throated and generally blah
d) feeling like I'd rather be in Molvanîa
In a previous post, I outlined my 'miserable' birthday - involving a pajama party, Thai food, movies and generally relaxing and pampering myself. Even that, which I dreamed up as the most Bridget Jones thing ever, would be better than this. Lying in bed away from everybody and feeling like an utter mankfest.
Meh. This sucks. There probably won't be another post here for a few days at least.. not a happy girl.
I will leave you with my most favourite poem in the entire world. It is of a fictional poet, and it serves as the introduction of my favourite book, The Great Gatsby.
If it weren't 3am and my head is so stuffed up that I can't see straight, I'd be eating cake.
If Lucien weren't sick too and hadn't decided not to visit me, I'd be receiving a big bunch of flowers.
If it weren't my birthday, I'd have no reason to feel disappointed for circumstances being so unfavourable.
But it is my birthday. Paul just ditched me on MSN, I suppose he can't help a used-up laptop battery. I can hear Raj and the Neanderthal snoring in their respective rooms along with traffic on Sydney Road. The city really does never sleep..
It's kind of gutting to think about it, but I just realised that never have I had a birthday before where I have been -
a) away from my family, and stuck in a horrid place full of neanderthals
b) completely isolated from my friends
c) feverish, sniffly, sore throated and generally blah
d) feeling like I'd rather be in Molvanîa
In a previous post, I outlined my 'miserable' birthday - involving a pajama party, Thai food, movies and generally relaxing and pampering myself. Even that, which I dreamed up as the most Bridget Jones thing ever, would be better than this. Lying in bed away from everybody and feeling like an utter mankfest.
Meh. This sucks. There probably won't be another post here for a few days at least.. not a happy girl.
I will leave you with my most favourite poem in the entire world. It is of a fictional poet, and it serves as the introduction of my favourite book, The Great Gatsby.
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
if you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"
- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers
if you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"
- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers
Tuesday, September 12
Jai Guru Deva
That's the line from Across the Universe by the Beatles that everybody messes up. Always. They either say it vaguely and pretend they know what they're singing, skip over it entirely or invent some weird English approximation. I think it's like a chant/saying from Hare Krishna or some other Eastern religion, meaning something peaceful.That song is one of my favourites, though I will be a brat and say that I like the Fiona Apple version even better. The Beatles version has a certain rough 'unfinished' aspect to it, whereas Fiona's drifts along sleepily like the perfect pensive music. No, the lyrics don't make a great deal of sense but it's easy to listen to that song and feel even for a moment that you have all the answers in your pocket.
I spoke to Darcy Quinn yesterday.
I have always had that peculiar relationship with her. In even the smallest things between us, there would be competition.In real life, we have the same first initial and the same middle name, so we devised a monogram that managed to encompass us - and proceeded to graffiti it oh-so-subtly in tiny letter in random places throughout the school. We would bounce off each other's creativity and ingenuity, having enormous fun with each other, but then it all became more guarded. We were purposely aloof with each other, I don't even know what we were trying to prove. I would get angry when she'd sit plugged into her iPod ignoring everybody, she'd get angry when I would flit off to lunchtime rehearsals or go to the park during lunches rather than spending time with her. It was very strange, like very calculated psychological warfare between two people who actually click and know each other better than most. It wasn't even malicious, it was just tricky.
But now I have a feeling that it has changed. I spoke to Darcy yesterday after a break of about 7 months. We used to see each other everyday. We spoke of her moving to Melbourne, me studying Literature, her seeing a lovely young guy who used to work in the record store, me turning 19 in a couple of days, etc. We had a good conversation without a hint of competition, just an actual desire to see each other again and play! Maybe things will work out. I know that Darcy and I will always be competitive, but perhaps this is a sign that we are growing up enough to realise that it's better being friends than rivals.
Tomorrow everything will be changed.. I'll be 19. Nineteen. That's a year away from 20, signalling the end of being a teenager. Teen culture, throughout the eras, has always been so magical - unfortunately nowadays it's a bit manked, for lack of a better word. Stupid emo kids, they have ruined it for everybody... being an emo teenager is possibly The Worst Thing Ever. Not only are you despised for being so attention-seeking and ridiculous, you're too busy forcing yourself to be miserable and hating the world that you can't even have any fun. Plus, when every silly little brat runs around telling everybody who depressed and suicidal they are, it takes the seriousness away from people who actually have a mental illness, but I'll continue that rant later. Being a teenager used to be something magical, especially for girls. Some teens that were pretty damn cool were those such as Arlene and Betsy (left), in the movie Dick, and all the girls from The Virgin Suicides (yes, they died, but who doesn't? - there picture is above at the start of the post). They are beautiful, free and magical - they inspire a sense of wonder and intrigue in everybody they meet. I want to be like that, but alas, I only have a year and a day left to be a teenager.
Oh, another good thing about being a teenager is that you're allowed to have silly crushes. Like on this fellow to the right - Trip Fontaine, played by Josh Hartnett. *dies*I suppose he is the male equivalent - also beautiful, free and magical. Trip Fontaine, as a character is also accompanied by some pretty cool music by Heart and Air in the film, which is always good.
If I had theme music, it would change by the minute. Right now, I think I would be accompanied by Surfing on a Rocket by Air. This morning the song would have been Crazy on You by Heart. Later, I think it will be Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley. Or maybe Sweet November by Sarah Blasko. I think I need a speaker system installed somewhere on me.. like little speakers that sit on my shoulders or something, so everybody else can hear the music that should accompany me!
Getting back to where I was before, emo kids. I dislike labels and imposing them on yourself in the first place, but it makes me even more angry when people deliberately join a clique in order to express their 'individuality'. It doesn't make any sense at all.
My little sister is verging on being like that. She's trying for dreadlocks, wears a lot of black and a lot of very provocative clothes, wants everything pierced and tattooed, swears constantly, listens to 'hardcore' music constantly, smokes pot, gets drunk every weekend, sneaks out in the middle of the night, etc. I don't even want to know about the rest - she hangs around with a very sexually experienced crowd. At least she's kept her cynical, sardonic sense of humour rather than submitting to the whole 'f*ck the world', 'damn the man', 'my heart has been stepped on by society' outlook.
Bad things happen to people, I know, but I can't understand people taking such ridiculously sucky attitudes. Life hurts, people aren't nice, fate can deliver some cutting blows and bad things happen. It's definitely ok to be sad, but to let bad things translate into your entire outlook on life forever is just pathetic. It really is.
The word 'depression' and its associated terms are flung around far too much. Leave it for the people who are actually suffering from it. Maybe one day you will too and you'll realise how petty it was all those times you said you were depressed, and how it's not a patch on what you feel when you actually are.
Ok, rant over.
It's my birthday tomorrow, and I feel like junk. Nothing is going to work out the way I hoped it would - my friends aren't around, Lucien barely has enough time to see me, I'm getting a cold (again, I'm losing count of how many I've had), etc. But I'm trying. I'm cleaning my bedroom and buying flowers to make it smell nice. I have chosen one of my favourite most magical outfits to wear; antique pale aqua sundress and pink short-sleeved cardigan. Every time I see a mirror I flash a smile at myself - it's forced and my eyes don't seem to mean it, but I'm really trying. I hate being miserable, it isn't something I'd ever willingly inflict on myself - it just happens without warning. That's why I am trying so hard.. I want to smile lots on my birthday and mean it.
Sunday, September 10
Gone Through Brimstone, And I've Been Through The Fire
Today was ridiculous. By ridiculous, I don't mean ironic or strangely amusing. I mean it was downright ridiculously annoying, frustrating and an absolute waste of time. I suppose it was absurd. I'm not a happy girl.
It's funny how when you're on stage, it is possibly one of the most glamorous things ever. You're dripping in red lipstick, sparkling like a diamond and singing your heart out. Today was not glamorous. My legs and feet are killing me from teetering on stilettos ALL day. I'm covered in red marks from being poked and prodded and accidentally impaled on safety pins. I feel under-appreciated and exploited.. and it's just about to get a whole lot worse.
Today we had the costume call, makeup workshop and citzprobe for Anything Goes. Some definitions are in order:
Costume Call - putting on your various costumes in order of scenes and then standing in a long line. One at a time you are asked to step forward, do a twirl and then stand there for five minutes while the directors loudly scrutinize you. "No, it's too tight around her bust. That colour makes him look like he has jaundice. Can we find something that doesn't make her look like an elephant?" are commonly heard comments, along with being yelled at for pairing a white hat with a cream belt, black shoes with navy gloves, not wearing your pants on your waist, etc. Imagine doing that for 3 and a half hours, whilst starving, sleepy and freezing cold. Seeing so many other girls naked made me feel like a concentration camp inmate.
Makeup Workshop - being told what I already know. Sure, it's valuable for the newbies and for the dancers, but do I really need to sit on a cold, hard wooden floor for hours watching someone put on makeup and contradicting themselves whenever they are asked a question about style and the 1930's?
Citzprobe - this one isn't actually so bad; usually it's one of my favourite parts of the rehearsal period. Basically, it's a sit down and sing with the orchestra... which is usually enjoyable. Not so enjoyable when you have a gaggle of male tappers sitting behind you banging their feet on the floor whilst sitting down. I glared at them and told them off, which has now confirmed my 'bitch' status in the cast. I know it's amateur theatre, but that doesn't mean that we shouldn't behave professionally. Then Regina turned up. She's generally considered the Queen Bitch of theatre in my town, and she's not even in the show - she just came along to be a brat, smoke, drink coffee and annoy people. Grr!
So all in all, the 7 hours spent today achieved very little. My costumes are.. let's not even talk about that. The Nazi costume designers jumped on everything and now I have a completely new wardrobe for the show. My evening wear looks like an ugly mauve (least favourite colour EVER) curtain from the '70s, and the costume ladies had the gall to take my hat (one that actually belongs to me) and plonk it on somebody elses' head. It seems like they're on a mission to make me as look as ugly as possible. Oh well, I actually own a beautiful original 1930's black dress that I'm going to wear for the evening scenes, whether they like it or not.
Here is the moment where I take a deep breath. And continue!
Things were winding up when some scuffle erupted outside the sound studio - I'm not even sure what happened as I was inside talking to Annie-Mae (the girl I'm understudying), but it involved Ross running up behind Lucien and punching him in the head. Lucien swiftly brought Ross to the ground (not injuring him, but just 'apprehending' him), to which Regina said, "Well done Ross, who hasn't wanted to punch him?". It was surreal - these theatre people have previously been like a family of great friends to me. Now suddenly civil war was breaking out among the ranks.
We left quickly and I decided, spur of the moment, to go on a mini-adventure with Benjamin and Drake (Lucien couldn't come - he was too furious, so he went home). It started out alright - shooting down the highway in a cool British car with sports car suspension, listening to extremely bad quality AM radio, Drake smoking and yelling at other drivers in his carefully cultivated quasi-English queer accent, Benjamin spitting out innuendo about me and all the dancers in our itty-bitty costumes. We were following a car that had two of the tappers from the show in it; they promised us some kind of fun, so we chased the opportunity. We got to our destination and managed to sneak past the ticket desk, avoiding paying a $6 (ha!) ticket price, and I found myself at the dancing section of an Eisteddfod. Eek.
We sat through an hour and a half of amateur ballerinas doing nothing of consequence in pretty tutus. It was possibly the most boring thing on a stage that I have willingly put myself through. Don't get me wrong, I adore going to the ballet, but this was just boring. These girls had fabulous technique and they smiled a lot, and hell, they even kept dancing in time when their cds skipped, but it was just boring. Dancing isn't just about being able to do it, it's also about creating engaging choreography that tells a story and being able to act it convincingly. These were just pretty young women jumping about, occasionally pirouetting, do lots of relevés and smiling so much that their faces hurt.
The interesting part came when the tapping troupe section came on. There were two groups from the dance school which is 'home base' for a lot of the dancers in Anything Goes. I suppose that by supporting them I was at least trying to be amiable and friendly. We watched, and finally, there was some diversity and passion. We saw girls in black and white with tilted hats, scarlet showgirls, what looked like the cast of a Gap commercial, black and silver showgirls, purple showgirls, golden showgirls. Etc. You get the idea - the average female costume consisted of a leotard with several kilos of sequins, fishnet stockings, tap shoes and some sort of hat or feathery thing in their hair.
In the end it was quite good - I think the tappers thought a lot more about their choreography than the ballerinas did. I enjoyed it, but *sigh* - the rest of the day seems like the ultimate waste of time, energy, emotions. Not a happy girl.
It's funny how when you're on stage, it is possibly one of the most glamorous things ever. You're dripping in red lipstick, sparkling like a diamond and singing your heart out. Today was not glamorous. My legs and feet are killing me from teetering on stilettos ALL day. I'm covered in red marks from being poked and prodded and accidentally impaled on safety pins. I feel under-appreciated and exploited.. and it's just about to get a whole lot worse.
Today we had the costume call, makeup workshop and citzprobe for Anything Goes. Some definitions are in order:
Costume Call - putting on your various costumes in order of scenes and then standing in a long line. One at a time you are asked to step forward, do a twirl and then stand there for five minutes while the directors loudly scrutinize you. "No, it's too tight around her bust. That colour makes him look like he has jaundice. Can we find something that doesn't make her look like an elephant?" are commonly heard comments, along with being yelled at for pairing a white hat with a cream belt, black shoes with navy gloves, not wearing your pants on your waist, etc. Imagine doing that for 3 and a half hours, whilst starving, sleepy and freezing cold. Seeing so many other girls naked made me feel like a concentration camp inmate.
Makeup Workshop - being told what I already know. Sure, it's valuable for the newbies and for the dancers, but do I really need to sit on a cold, hard wooden floor for hours watching someone put on makeup and contradicting themselves whenever they are asked a question about style and the 1930's?
Citzprobe - this one isn't actually so bad; usually it's one of my favourite parts of the rehearsal period. Basically, it's a sit down and sing with the orchestra... which is usually enjoyable. Not so enjoyable when you have a gaggle of male tappers sitting behind you banging their feet on the floor whilst sitting down. I glared at them and told them off, which has now confirmed my 'bitch' status in the cast. I know it's amateur theatre, but that doesn't mean that we shouldn't behave professionally. Then Regina turned up. She's generally considered the Queen Bitch of theatre in my town, and she's not even in the show - she just came along to be a brat, smoke, drink coffee and annoy people. Grr!
So all in all, the 7 hours spent today achieved very little. My costumes are.. let's not even talk about that. The Nazi costume designers jumped on everything and now I have a completely new wardrobe for the show. My evening wear looks like an ugly mauve (least favourite colour EVER) curtain from the '70s, and the costume ladies had the gall to take my hat (one that actually belongs to me) and plonk it on somebody elses' head. It seems like they're on a mission to make me as look as ugly as possible. Oh well, I actually own a beautiful original 1930's black dress that I'm going to wear for the evening scenes, whether they like it or not.
Here is the moment where I take a deep breath. And continue!
Things were winding up when some scuffle erupted outside the sound studio - I'm not even sure what happened as I was inside talking to Annie-Mae (the girl I'm understudying), but it involved Ross running up behind Lucien and punching him in the head. Lucien swiftly brought Ross to the ground (not injuring him, but just 'apprehending' him), to which Regina said, "Well done Ross, who hasn't wanted to punch him?". It was surreal - these theatre people have previously been like a family of great friends to me. Now suddenly civil war was breaking out among the ranks.
We left quickly and I decided, spur of the moment, to go on a mini-adventure with Benjamin and Drake (Lucien couldn't come - he was too furious, so he went home). It started out alright - shooting down the highway in a cool British car with sports car suspension, listening to extremely bad quality AM radio, Drake smoking and yelling at other drivers in his carefully cultivated quasi-English queer accent, Benjamin spitting out innuendo about me and all the dancers in our itty-bitty costumes. We were following a car that had two of the tappers from the show in it; they promised us some kind of fun, so we chased the opportunity. We got to our destination and managed to sneak past the ticket desk, avoiding paying a $6 (ha!) ticket price, and I found myself at the dancing section of an Eisteddfod. Eek.
We sat through an hour and a half of amateur ballerinas doing nothing of consequence in pretty tutus. It was possibly the most boring thing on a stage that I have willingly put myself through. Don't get me wrong, I adore going to the ballet, but this was just boring. These girls had fabulous technique and they smiled a lot, and hell, they even kept dancing in time when their cds skipped, but it was just boring. Dancing isn't just about being able to do it, it's also about creating engaging choreography that tells a story and being able to act it convincingly. These were just pretty young women jumping about, occasionally pirouetting, do lots of relevés and smiling so much that their faces hurt.
The interesting part came when the tapping troupe section came on. There were two groups from the dance school which is 'home base' for a lot of the dancers in Anything Goes. I suppose that by supporting them I was at least trying to be amiable and friendly. We watched, and finally, there was some diversity and passion. We saw girls in black and white with tilted hats, scarlet showgirls, what looked like the cast of a Gap commercial, black and silver showgirls, purple showgirls, golden showgirls. Etc. You get the idea - the average female costume consisted of a leotard with several kilos of sequins, fishnet stockings, tap shoes and some sort of hat or feathery thing in their hair.
In the end it was quite good - I think the tappers thought a lot more about their choreography than the ballerinas did. I enjoyed it, but *sigh* - the rest of the day seems like the ultimate waste of time, energy, emotions. Not a happy girl.
Friday, September 8
Lost in Chinatown
It was a nice evening. The kind that puts you into a happy daze where you wish blindly that things could stay as they were forever, despite the fact that you'd eventually get bored and they wouldn't seem so wonderful if you always had them. But it was nice, especially nice to spend pleasurable time with people who recently my relationships with have been so frought with disappointment. Namely, Dad and Lucien.
Scarlett doesn't count - she was there, but she's still a brat. Oh, in case you didn't realise.. she's his step-daughter, rather than his wife. His wife, Selena, has had to fly back to HK to finish up business before she transfers down to the Melbourne office.
Dad called me in the afternoon asking if I wanted to go to a lecture. Why not? Topic - peak oil consumption and how governments and individuals should respond. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I decided it was worth sitting through it to please my Dad. Lucien and I arrived late, sneaking in and taking seats apart from each other. Instead of dozing on his shoulder, I actually had to look interested which somehow transformed itself into actual interest.
One of the experts was asked a question on how rising fuel prices in response to the burgeoning oil shortage would affect industries that rely on it (i.e. aviation, product distribution, etc) in the long run, and was wondering what solutions might be in order. The answer ran somewhere along the lines of individuals having to pay extremely exorbitant prices for these 'luxuries' and going back to grassroots production; as in growing food in their back gardens and limiting travel dramatically.
Everybody was sort of nodding their heads in agreement, but I was secretly wondering how many of them actually realised how it would affect them. Would they be willing to give up their company cars and overseas vacations, or even down to smaller things like abstaining from any non-local fruit in their smoothies? I watched the Arts Centre glittering in the background and found myself thinking about how much longer an economy such as ours could really exist on such a rapidly disappearing resource, when everybody seemingly has the right attitude but nobody wants to make sacrifices.
I will be the first to admit that I don't want to make these sacrifices - I like travelling and drinking imported tea, as well as having the freedom to be able to buy things rather than have to grow them in my backyard. It's selfish when there are people who would feel as if all their Christmasses came at once if they could grow their own food, but this is the way I have become by conditioning. We don't appreciate how great our lives and our possibilities are - nor do will we admit how difficult it would be to give them up.
Too many thoughts.. to sum up, I dislike what capitalism does to huge groups of people, but I will recognise that it does some pretty nice things for me. I wish it could do these things for everybody, but if it did, then the system would cease to function. Therefore it is up to me, being in the advantaged group, to take care of and try to help the less advantaged!
Ok, enough of that strange serious deviation from the normal fluff of this journal. After the lecture, I was kind of quietly pondering as I was whisked along to Chinatown. I adore Chinatown, it reminds me of growing up in Taiwan. The smells of strange alleyways, the neon signs, the tanks full of fish staring grimly out at potential diners, the roaming gangs and occasional harajuku girls giggling on corners. It speaks to me, and I understand it. The four of us wandered into a restaurant called Kun Ming (I think) and proceeded to devour some truly awesome Cantonese food: sweet and sour pork, black bean beef, sauteed chicken in satay sauce and prawns with ginger and shallots. I chose the last dish, which was to die for - prawns cooked just enough to make them practically 'pop' juicily as you bite into them, complemented perfectly with the sharpness of the ginger and the subtle flavour of the shallots. We drank Jasmine tea and spoke to each other in broken Chinese for half the time.
The method of conversation got quite a few stares from the people at the table next to us. They weren't my favourite type of people - the man looked like the type who would visit Thailand simply to sample the women. His enormous belly bumped dangerously against the table each time he moved, and in the first five minutes of being there he managed to: a) speak very slowly to the English-speaking Maître d' as though he was a small child, b) glance none too subtly at my breasts on several occasions, and c) come up with the grossest mispronounciations of simple psuedo-Asian words (i.e. satay). The wife reminded me of a hen or a pigeon in her mannerisms and the way she spoke; sharp, inconsequential and fussy. They were clearly an absolute joy to be seated near.
We managed to enjoy ourselves despite the ogres - luckily they arrived just as we were finishing. As we were walking out, we stopped to take a gander at the poor fish awaiting their fate. My Dad pointed at the lobsters and said, "Look, they've made a little sign saying 'Try the fish!'"
My response: I peered into the tank with wide eyes, asking very serious, "Where?". It was a very 'self-inflicted slap to the forehead' moment.
It may seem like simply a nice night out, but there is one thing I deliberately left out - any kind of animosity between the members of our party. I left it out because there was none. In the past, my Dad has been rather vicious - I suppose it's part of coming to terms with the fact that his daughter is growing up. This has ranged from calling me a disappointment, to saying that my degree-in-progress won't be worth anything so I should give up now, to saying that I might as well just be a check-out chick forever because I won't amount to anything better. I think he's Bipolar sometimes. Seriously.
Lucien has also been a prime source of criticism lately. If I had relied on him for all of my self-esteem and my entire perception of myself... it wouldn't be good. I must take some pride in being a little more sturdy than usual.
But last night, they were both lovely.
We parted ways after that - Dad and Scarlett went back to their house Lucien and I wandering back home through arcades of Asian teens playing video games and munching on things on sticks. We walked silently, holding hands, and I felt as though I was walking alone. Not in a bad way, but in the type of way where you just take everything in and don't have share it with the person you are with. We just drifted receptively, I suppose.
Lovely, nice, great - such boring adjectives. But what else can you say? What other words really signifies that kind of contentedness? I imagine a kitten, dozing on a rug in front of a fire, sleepily batting a ball of yarn around - possibly the definition of this nice, lovely, great, contented feeling that seemed to permeate every aspect of that enchanted night.
Scarlett doesn't count - she was there, but she's still a brat. Oh, in case you didn't realise.. she's his step-daughter, rather than his wife. His wife, Selena, has had to fly back to HK to finish up business before she transfers down to the Melbourne office.
Dad called me in the afternoon asking if I wanted to go to a lecture. Why not? Topic - peak oil consumption and how governments and individuals should respond. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I decided it was worth sitting through it to please my Dad. Lucien and I arrived late, sneaking in and taking seats apart from each other. Instead of dozing on his shoulder, I actually had to look interested which somehow transformed itself into actual interest.
One of the experts was asked a question on how rising fuel prices in response to the burgeoning oil shortage would affect industries that rely on it (i.e. aviation, product distribution, etc) in the long run, and was wondering what solutions might be in order. The answer ran somewhere along the lines of individuals having to pay extremely exorbitant prices for these 'luxuries' and going back to grassroots production; as in growing food in their back gardens and limiting travel dramatically.
Everybody was sort of nodding their heads in agreement, but I was secretly wondering how many of them actually realised how it would affect them. Would they be willing to give up their company cars and overseas vacations, or even down to smaller things like abstaining from any non-local fruit in their smoothies? I watched the Arts Centre glittering in the background and found myself thinking about how much longer an economy such as ours could really exist on such a rapidly disappearing resource, when everybody seemingly has the right attitude but nobody wants to make sacrifices.
I will be the first to admit that I don't want to make these sacrifices - I like travelling and drinking imported tea, as well as having the freedom to be able to buy things rather than have to grow them in my backyard. It's selfish when there are people who would feel as if all their Christmasses came at once if they could grow their own food, but this is the way I have become by conditioning. We don't appreciate how great our lives and our possibilities are - nor do will we admit how difficult it would be to give them up.
Too many thoughts.. to sum up, I dislike what capitalism does to huge groups of people, but I will recognise that it does some pretty nice things for me. I wish it could do these things for everybody, but if it did, then the system would cease to function. Therefore it is up to me, being in the advantaged group, to take care of and try to help the less advantaged!
Ok, enough of that strange serious deviation from the normal fluff of this journal. After the lecture, I was kind of quietly pondering as I was whisked along to Chinatown. I adore Chinatown, it reminds me of growing up in Taiwan. The smells of strange alleyways, the neon signs, the tanks full of fish staring grimly out at potential diners, the roaming gangs and occasional harajuku girls giggling on corners. It speaks to me, and I understand it. The four of us wandered into a restaurant called Kun Ming (I think) and proceeded to devour some truly awesome Cantonese food: sweet and sour pork, black bean beef, sauteed chicken in satay sauce and prawns with ginger and shallots. I chose the last dish, which was to die for - prawns cooked just enough to make them practically 'pop' juicily as you bite into them, complemented perfectly with the sharpness of the ginger and the subtle flavour of the shallots. We drank Jasmine tea and spoke to each other in broken Chinese for half the time.
The method of conversation got quite a few stares from the people at the table next to us. They weren't my favourite type of people - the man looked like the type who would visit Thailand simply to sample the women. His enormous belly bumped dangerously against the table each time he moved, and in the first five minutes of being there he managed to: a) speak very slowly to the English-speaking Maître d' as though he was a small child, b) glance none too subtly at my breasts on several occasions, and c) come up with the grossest mispronounciations of simple psuedo-Asian words (i.e. satay). The wife reminded me of a hen or a pigeon in her mannerisms and the way she spoke; sharp, inconsequential and fussy. They were clearly an absolute joy to be seated near.
We managed to enjoy ourselves despite the ogres - luckily they arrived just as we were finishing. As we were walking out, we stopped to take a gander at the poor fish awaiting their fate. My Dad pointed at the lobsters and said, "Look, they've made a little sign saying 'Try the fish!'"
My response: I peered into the tank with wide eyes, asking very serious, "Where?". It was a very 'self-inflicted slap to the forehead' moment.
It may seem like simply a nice night out, but there is one thing I deliberately left out - any kind of animosity between the members of our party. I left it out because there was none. In the past, my Dad has been rather vicious - I suppose it's part of coming to terms with the fact that his daughter is growing up. This has ranged from calling me a disappointment, to saying that my degree-in-progress won't be worth anything so I should give up now, to saying that I might as well just be a check-out chick forever because I won't amount to anything better. I think he's Bipolar sometimes. Seriously.
Lucien has also been a prime source of criticism lately. If I had relied on him for all of my self-esteem and my entire perception of myself... it wouldn't be good. I must take some pride in being a little more sturdy than usual.
But last night, they were both lovely.
We parted ways after that - Dad and Scarlett went back to their house Lucien and I wandering back home through arcades of Asian teens playing video games and munching on things on sticks. We walked silently, holding hands, and I felt as though I was walking alone. Not in a bad way, but in the type of way where you just take everything in and don't have share it with the person you are with. We just drifted receptively, I suppose.
Lovely, nice, great - such boring adjectives. But what else can you say? What other words really signifies that kind of contentedness? I imagine a kitten, dozing on a rug in front of a fire, sleepily batting a ball of yarn around - possibly the definition of this nice, lovely, great, contented feeling that seemed to permeate every aspect of that enchanted night.
Tuesday, September 5
Casting Call
I was wandering around IMDB when the thought occurred to me - Who would play my housemates if they ever made a film about it? So here are the headshots and character biographies for each of them! Rose's House of Mirth - the motion picture! Keep in mind that my actual housemates aren't half as attractive as the people playing them.
Anya - A talented and bright young woman, achieving great things despite the many obstacles that befall her. Anya is a psychologist working with some of the city's more marginalised population as a drug and alcohol counsellor. She pairs her emotionally draining job with a rigorous martial arts training schedule. She has travelled all over the world for karate competitions, winning most of them. Despite her superwoman attitude, Anya is unfortunately plagued by health issues brought on by years of turning to rather radical means to keep her weight category down for karate competitions. She isn't there much.
Clark - His photo shows a rare light-hearted moment, as most things for Clark are doom and gloom. He has no qualms about inflicting his 'gothicness' on everybody and everything, dissing everything mainstream regardless of its actual value and often taking a 'gother-than-thou' attitude. Clark's hobbies are playing bad music on an unplugged electric guitar, painting his fingernails black on weekends and ranting about world religions he knows little about. His sense of humour seems directed entirely towards dissing 'emos', despite the fact that he in fact is one. His girlfriend Karin rules over him with an iron fist, and he is often seen running from one end of the house to the other as soon as she calls.
Karin - This photo was actually taken 12 months ago before the astonishing weight gain that now has Karin needing a size 16. Her appearance suggests that she works in the adult industry, and why yes, she does! Karin works in administration for a pornography company, often having trouble separating her occupational and personal life. She can be domineering and bossy, ordering her boyfriend Clark around and treating him like a combination between a servant and a small child. Despite her proportions, she fancies herself a dancer and often lectures Rose about proper technique (despite the fact that Rose is a dancer).
Raj - A serial polygamist from provincial India who somehow manages to juggle: a) a full-time job as a chef, b) a full-time IT degree, and c) at least three different girls who all think they are his one and only girlfriend. Raj is best known for antics such as putting a container of cream into his cupboard and finding it by smell, and leaving seafood mix in a colander on the bench. When he is not creating health hazards in the kitchen, Raj likes to talk loudly on his phone at 3am and sing along with Indian pop music. Another variation on the theme of 'loud', Raj also likes to keep Rose awake with the sounds of loud sex.
Will - The stereotypical country boy, and my favourite housemate. He owns more hair products than all the girls in the house put together and has a 30 minute beautification routine. Studying first year aeronautical engineering at RMIT, he moonlights as a dishwasher for the restaurant where Raj works. Will is famous for getting drunk, smashing a light bulb with his crotch and falling from the mezzanine in his first week living here. He has been unanimously voted the most sexually frustrated housemate by all living here, over his sad attempts to pick up 16 year old girls - "Hey, they're only 2 years younger than me!"
Steven - Often described as a "vulgar hobbit", Steven has more hair on his feet than the average armpit. Fond of sausages with mashed potatoes and gravy, he makes this dish approximately 4 or 5 times a week on average. Steven works in telecommunications when he is not completing his PhD, which is his third or fourth degree. One of his favourite pastimes, when he is not having violent relations with unattractive goth girls, is using big words - his current favourite is 'parsimonious'. Steven has shown a softer side in recent times, becoming an uncle for the first time to a beautiful baby girl. The stench of his feet could kill an elephant.
Toby - Only lives here a couple of nights a week, but is a welcome presence in the House of Mirth. Reportedly once stole a teaspoon from a $2 shop. He does approximately 5 loads of washing every week due to his rather physical job that makes him smelly (I don't know what it is, other than that it involves a ladder). Articulate, but has a bad habit of talking down to people younger than himself (namely me) as if they were stupid. Toby gives incredible massages and has put Anya and Rose to sleep several times with his magic fingers. Can sometimes be apathetic to the point of infuriating others around him, but definitely one of the better housemates.
And finally.. The Neanderthal - Unfortunately this picture is not a true representation of the true horror that lurks in Room 6. This creature is crass, rude and scarily interested in child pornography. Somehow he managed to get a blonde Swedish nymphette girlfriend, too bad she lives in Sweden - don't they have men over there? The most commonly used words in his vocabulary are expletives, save for "Eh, choice mate. It's f-cken choice, buddy" which is injected after every single sentence. He also listens to psuedo-rap r&b techno music which he feels the need to play on the DVD player every single day, loud enough to let everybody in Brunswick know what shoddy taste he has. I hate him - he's the reason why I need a meat cleaver. Right now.
After compiling the cast of character, it occurred to me.. who should play me? Here is my shortlist:
I think I'm leaning towards Scarlett Johansson - she'd have to go brunette though. Winona Ryder looks a bit too angsty, and Audrey Tautou is just too sassy and cool to play me.
Mm, so the film has been cast, but alas - we haven't got a real story yet. I wonder which studio is going to back me! Hahaha..
Anya - A talented and bright young woman, achieving great things despite the many obstacles that befall her. Anya is a psychologist working with some of the city's more marginalised population as a drug and alcohol counsellor. She pairs her emotionally draining job with a rigorous martial arts training schedule. She has travelled all over the world for karate competitions, winning most of them. Despite her superwoman attitude, Anya is unfortunately plagued by health issues brought on by years of turning to rather radical means to keep her weight category down for karate competitions. She isn't there much.
Clark - His photo shows a rare light-hearted moment, as most things for Clark are doom and gloom. He has no qualms about inflicting his 'gothicness' on everybody and everything, dissing everything mainstream regardless of its actual value and often taking a 'gother-than-thou' attitude. Clark's hobbies are playing bad music on an unplugged electric guitar, painting his fingernails black on weekends and ranting about world religions he knows little about. His sense of humour seems directed entirely towards dissing 'emos', despite the fact that he in fact is one. His girlfriend Karin rules over him with an iron fist, and he is often seen running from one end of the house to the other as soon as she calls.
Karin - This photo was actually taken 12 months ago before the astonishing weight gain that now has Karin needing a size 16. Her appearance suggests that she works in the adult industry, and why yes, she does! Karin works in administration for a pornography company, often having trouble separating her occupational and personal life. She can be domineering and bossy, ordering her boyfriend Clark around and treating him like a combination between a servant and a small child. Despite her proportions, she fancies herself a dancer and often lectures Rose about proper technique (despite the fact that Rose is a dancer).
Raj - A serial polygamist from provincial India who somehow manages to juggle: a) a full-time job as a chef, b) a full-time IT degree, and c) at least three different girls who all think they are his one and only girlfriend. Raj is best known for antics such as putting a container of cream into his cupboard and finding it by smell, and leaving seafood mix in a colander on the bench. When he is not creating health hazards in the kitchen, Raj likes to talk loudly on his phone at 3am and sing along with Indian pop music. Another variation on the theme of 'loud', Raj also likes to keep Rose awake with the sounds of loud sex.
Will - The stereotypical country boy, and my favourite housemate. He owns more hair products than all the girls in the house put together and has a 30 minute beautification routine. Studying first year aeronautical engineering at RMIT, he moonlights as a dishwasher for the restaurant where Raj works. Will is famous for getting drunk, smashing a light bulb with his crotch and falling from the mezzanine in his first week living here. He has been unanimously voted the most sexually frustrated housemate by all living here, over his sad attempts to pick up 16 year old girls - "Hey, they're only 2 years younger than me!"
Steven - Often described as a "vulgar hobbit", Steven has more hair on his feet than the average armpit. Fond of sausages with mashed potatoes and gravy, he makes this dish approximately 4 or 5 times a week on average. Steven works in telecommunications when he is not completing his PhD, which is his third or fourth degree. One of his favourite pastimes, when he is not having violent relations with unattractive goth girls, is using big words - his current favourite is 'parsimonious'. Steven has shown a softer side in recent times, becoming an uncle for the first time to a beautiful baby girl. The stench of his feet could kill an elephant.
Toby - Only lives here a couple of nights a week, but is a welcome presence in the House of Mirth. Reportedly once stole a teaspoon from a $2 shop. He does approximately 5 loads of washing every week due to his rather physical job that makes him smelly (I don't know what it is, other than that it involves a ladder). Articulate, but has a bad habit of talking down to people younger than himself (namely me) as if they were stupid. Toby gives incredible massages and has put Anya and Rose to sleep several times with his magic fingers. Can sometimes be apathetic to the point of infuriating others around him, but definitely one of the better housemates.
And finally.. The Neanderthal - Unfortunately this picture is not a true representation of the true horror that lurks in Room 6. This creature is crass, rude and scarily interested in child pornography. Somehow he managed to get a blonde Swedish nymphette girlfriend, too bad she lives in Sweden - don't they have men over there? The most commonly used words in his vocabulary are expletives, save for "Eh, choice mate. It's f-cken choice, buddy" which is injected after every single sentence. He also listens to psuedo-rap r&b techno music which he feels the need to play on the DVD player every single day, loud enough to let everybody in Brunswick know what shoddy taste he has. I hate him - he's the reason why I need a meat cleaver. Right now.After compiling the cast of character, it occurred to me.. who should play me? Here is my shortlist:
I think I'm leaning towards Scarlett Johansson - she'd have to go brunette though. Winona Ryder looks a bit too angsty, and Audrey Tautou is just too sassy and cool to play me.Mm, so the film has been cast, but alas - we haven't got a real story yet. I wonder which studio is going to back me! Hahaha..
Monday, September 4
If You Pop That Gum One More Time...
That's it - breaking point. My housemate is a twat.
This we already knew, but today The Neanderthal revealed himself to be the malicious, hate-mongering inbred halfwit that I have suspected all along. He picked a fight with me. In my right mind, I would have delivered some retort so razor sharp that his ego would have been sliced, diced, filleted and arranged artistically on a plate then served up to him with some kind of exotic sauce. Alas, today was not one of those days.
He went to buy cigarettes from the supermarket without any ID, and came home raving about the "idiot girl" who wouldn't give them to him, then gave us an account of how he yelled at and belittled her. Me, sitting on the floor with coloured pencils and sketch book looking as innocent and innocuous as a lamb in my little blue floral dress.. well, I piped up. "It's not her fault you know. The supermarket and the government make those policies, they have to ask everyone who looks under 30. You only had to walk a block to come back and get your ID anyway. Get over it." Big mistake. I ended up being yelled at by a 120kg, muscle-bound 6'5" man, who called me various expletives and stormed away. I seriously thought he was going to get physical for a second.. he was so riled that somebody actually talked back for once, his shoulders twitched a bit and his fists and jaw were clenched, but he just took a deep breath. When he came back with his cigarettes, he made a big point of ignoring me, yet talking about "little Miss Bitch" in front of me like I wasn't there. Everybody else in the house has, so far, put up with his loudness, rudeness, messiness, vileness, etc etc. But I fear that now it's war, and he has me firmly targetted as 'the enemy'.
It's not nice. I want to go home to my Mom's house now, but I have class tomorrow. I'll admit it - I'm a bit scared about the prospect of being alone in the house with him. He is the kind of man who could kill me with his bare hands if he wanted to - not suggesting that he will, but I barely know him and I have become the object of his ire. I have to get out of here.
Some alrightish things have happened today though. I've had a bit of a cooking day - I'm penniless until tomorrow, so I had to let the limited things in my cupboard and freezer inspire me. For lunch, I made some spinach, pecorino and pea risotto. It was actually rather nice, but alas.. I was sort of guessing measurements and I ended up with so little it was barely worth all the time and effort. For dinner, I cooked for Will and I (feeling charitable to the poor undomesticated male!) - I made a sort of thrown together fried rice with rather random ingredients in it.
My stint as a chef was not without drama though - as I was trying to sautee some onion and garlic, Will managed to drop an entire full bottle of Coke on the floor. On my feet. As I was cooking! He went scrambling for a mop, so I had to endure having my feet mopped by a gross, cold and possibly mouldy mop. As soon as the Coke was cleaned up, I ran off to rinse my feet in the shower.. but I left the heat on! The smoke alarm went off (I'm good at that) and it ended up being the tiniest bit burnt. Still edible, fortunately.
Suki isn't talking to me and I have no idea why. It hurts.
Nothing about me is working. My hair is .. well, manked. My skin is bad. My brain doesn't seem to be working properly. My boyfriend is being distant, in all sorts of ways. My friends are further away from me than ever. My bedroom is a cesspool of indifference. Almost nothing seems to be of joy at the moment, everything is grey. It is weird how things can flip so rapidly in just a matter of hours... after getting home last night, I pretty much retired to my room without doing much or talking to anyone. It was just too much - I had nothing left for anybody.
Sometimes I feel as though I only exist for other people. People call me things like "sparkly" and "vivacious", but those aren't really things that I can be by myself - I have to be sparkly or vivacious for other people. When they run away, what's left? An empty shell with the ability to be sparkly or vivacious, but nothing of substance? In Anne of Green Gables, Anne has an imaginary friend in a mirror who she talks to and calls a kindred spirit. Her name was Katie, I think. The bit that strikes me is that Katie is a reflection; one and the same person as Anne, and she can be a kindred spirit and a best friend. When I look in the mirror, I often see someone I detest or barely recognise. How could I want to be friends with this person, let alone consider them a kindred spirit? It makes me wonder why I do have any friends in the first place, then feel sorry for them for being landed with me.
How does one go about becoming friends with themself? In the past, I've always made an effort to change the girl in the mirror into someone I could admire. But it doesn't work. Lucien always accuses me of having a 'two steps forward, three steps back' approach to life - I'll achieve something, some little goal, then go back on my hard work by throwing my hands in the air and retreating at the first thing that cuts me down. My prospective imaginary friend (read - myself) is becoming less and less likeable every day, but it seems that becoming friends with her would be the only thing that could get her out of this horrible cycle. What an unfortunate situation.
I think too much.
YouTube of the Day: Actually I have two for you - one was recommended by Benjamin. The Blindfolded Pianist plays ALL of the Super Mario Bros themes. I love it!
This was recommended by Paul - Little Kids doing the Wassup thing. I'm not usually a big wrap for things featuring small children.. usually the only reason they are 'cute' is because they have small children in it, which doesn't really wash with me (don't like them). But this is kind of cool - "having a milk, watching the game".
So, I'll get back to the height of SAD - I took my old school edition The Merchant of Venice out of a box and started colouring in the black and white pictures with coloured pencils. It's ridiculous - Portia's all done up in a sea green gown, Bassanio is dressed in a similar colour scheme, and I'm trying to make Solanio and Salerio colour-coordinated. It really is sad. Not as sad as this is ironic though:
This we already knew, but today The Neanderthal revealed himself to be the malicious, hate-mongering inbred halfwit that I have suspected all along. He picked a fight with me. In my right mind, I would have delivered some retort so razor sharp that his ego would have been sliced, diced, filleted and arranged artistically on a plate then served up to him with some kind of exotic sauce. Alas, today was not one of those days.
He went to buy cigarettes from the supermarket without any ID, and came home raving about the "idiot girl" who wouldn't give them to him, then gave us an account of how he yelled at and belittled her. Me, sitting on the floor with coloured pencils and sketch book looking as innocent and innocuous as a lamb in my little blue floral dress.. well, I piped up. "It's not her fault you know. The supermarket and the government make those policies, they have to ask everyone who looks under 30. You only had to walk a block to come back and get your ID anyway. Get over it." Big mistake. I ended up being yelled at by a 120kg, muscle-bound 6'5" man, who called me various expletives and stormed away. I seriously thought he was going to get physical for a second.. he was so riled that somebody actually talked back for once, his shoulders twitched a bit and his fists and jaw were clenched, but he just took a deep breath. When he came back with his cigarettes, he made a big point of ignoring me, yet talking about "little Miss Bitch" in front of me like I wasn't there. Everybody else in the house has, so far, put up with his loudness, rudeness, messiness, vileness, etc etc. But I fear that now it's war, and he has me firmly targetted as 'the enemy'.
It's not nice. I want to go home to my Mom's house now, but I have class tomorrow. I'll admit it - I'm a bit scared about the prospect of being alone in the house with him. He is the kind of man who could kill me with his bare hands if he wanted to - not suggesting that he will, but I barely know him and I have become the object of his ire. I have to get out of here.
Some alrightish things have happened today though. I've had a bit of a cooking day - I'm penniless until tomorrow, so I had to let the limited things in my cupboard and freezer inspire me. For lunch, I made some spinach, pecorino and pea risotto. It was actually rather nice, but alas.. I was sort of guessing measurements and I ended up with so little it was barely worth all the time and effort. For dinner, I cooked for Will and I (feeling charitable to the poor undomesticated male!) - I made a sort of thrown together fried rice with rather random ingredients in it.
My stint as a chef was not without drama though - as I was trying to sautee some onion and garlic, Will managed to drop an entire full bottle of Coke on the floor. On my feet. As I was cooking! He went scrambling for a mop, so I had to endure having my feet mopped by a gross, cold and possibly mouldy mop. As soon as the Coke was cleaned up, I ran off to rinse my feet in the shower.. but I left the heat on! The smoke alarm went off (I'm good at that) and it ended up being the tiniest bit burnt. Still edible, fortunately.
Suki isn't talking to me and I have no idea why. It hurts.
Nothing about me is working. My hair is .. well, manked. My skin is bad. My brain doesn't seem to be working properly. My boyfriend is being distant, in all sorts of ways. My friends are further away from me than ever. My bedroom is a cesspool of indifference. Almost nothing seems to be of joy at the moment, everything is grey. It is weird how things can flip so rapidly in just a matter of hours... after getting home last night, I pretty much retired to my room without doing much or talking to anyone. It was just too much - I had nothing left for anybody.
Sometimes I feel as though I only exist for other people. People call me things like "sparkly" and "vivacious", but those aren't really things that I can be by myself - I have to be sparkly or vivacious for other people. When they run away, what's left? An empty shell with the ability to be sparkly or vivacious, but nothing of substance? In Anne of Green Gables, Anne has an imaginary friend in a mirror who she talks to and calls a kindred spirit. Her name was Katie, I think. The bit that strikes me is that Katie is a reflection; one and the same person as Anne, and she can be a kindred spirit and a best friend. When I look in the mirror, I often see someone I detest or barely recognise. How could I want to be friends with this person, let alone consider them a kindred spirit? It makes me wonder why I do have any friends in the first place, then feel sorry for them for being landed with me.
How does one go about becoming friends with themself? In the past, I've always made an effort to change the girl in the mirror into someone I could admire. But it doesn't work. Lucien always accuses me of having a 'two steps forward, three steps back' approach to life - I'll achieve something, some little goal, then go back on my hard work by throwing my hands in the air and retreating at the first thing that cuts me down. My prospective imaginary friend (read - myself) is becoming less and less likeable every day, but it seems that becoming friends with her would be the only thing that could get her out of this horrible cycle. What an unfortunate situation.
I think too much.
YouTube of the Day: Actually I have two for you - one was recommended by Benjamin. The Blindfolded Pianist plays ALL of the Super Mario Bros themes. I love it!
This was recommended by Paul - Little Kids doing the Wassup thing. I'm not usually a big wrap for things featuring small children.. usually the only reason they are 'cute' is because they have small children in it, which doesn't really wash with me (don't like them). But this is kind of cool - "having a milk, watching the game".
So, I'll get back to the height of SAD - I took my old school edition The Merchant of Venice out of a box and started colouring in the black and white pictures with coloured pencils. It's ridiculous - Portia's all done up in a sea green gown, Bassanio is dressed in a similar colour scheme, and I'm trying to make Solanio and Salerio colour-coordinated. It really is sad. Not as sad as this is ironic though:
Sunday, September 3
Memory Lane
Another big day today, completing the fullest weekend I've had in a long time. It's definitely satisfying, but I'm so tired and needing that contemplation-reflection-imagination time that I usually take for granted. I wish I had a bath at my apartment, because taking a long, hot bath seems like it would be just the thing.
Ergh, my housemate just came home; singing loudly out of key, shouting, now going to the bathroom with the door open, swearing loudly and snarfling and snorting and spreading his filth and vibes of disgustingness everywhere. Horrible. Great, now he's making racist jokes. It's definitely time to move. I'm looking mostly at inner-city apartments and townhouses, but alas! I have nobody to share with. Last time I almost went into a share house with a friend ended in disaster, so there is the tiniest bit of worry tingeing what is otherwise a usually unwavering trust in the good in all people.
Grr.. now I have moved into my bedroom and I can hear him making fun of me and telling yet more racist jokes and tales of his various sexual encounters with prostitutes. Now, where is a bazooka that shoots poisonous nails and AIDS-infested broken glass when you need it?
Today was a family affair, which is strange considering my parents are divorced. We all went to see my little sister Ellen perform with her orchestra at the Royal South Street competitions in Ballarat. It was alright, but who won seemed to be completely arbitrary - the ensemble who won were definitely not the best. We saw a particularly awesome viola soloist, and heard the same piece (Intermezzo by von Chrysler - yes, I agree, what a name) about three times.
The original plan was to hit a delicatessen and go for a picnic, but we left out that one important detail - in Ballarat, it's always either stinking hot or freezing. Today it was the latter, and the first suggestion was McDonalds, so off we went. I protested. I lost!
After that, we split into two groups - my Mum, sisters and brother went home, and I went with my Dad, my grandmother (her name is Rose too) and Scarlett. I thought we were just driving back to Melbourne, but we definitely took the scenic route. We drove through Ballarat where she pointed out landmarks of her youth; the town hall where she made her debut at the Victory Ball, held when the war finally finished in 1945. She told me of people dancing in the streets and one young man who grabbed her and kissed her because he was so overcome with joy.
We then drove to Learmonth, where we visited the house she grew up in and saw magnolia trees bigger than I have ever seen before. Grandma told stories about her childhood, about summers spent swimming at Lake Learmonth (picture left, in the 'good old days') - we went to visit it, and were shocked to find that it had all but dried up. There were a couple of puddles in it not much bigger than tennis courts, but the entire lake was dry. It was so sad to behold; the abandoned Lake Learmonth yacht club stood like an orphan, overlooking the dry lake bed that stretched almost to the horizon. Dad reassured me that it might fill up again one day, but it would take years of above average rainfall which is unfortunately unlikely.
We visited Creswick and then Daylesford to lay flowers on my great-grandmother's grave, and then my Grandma's best friend's grave. Wattles were blooming everywhere, like trees that had burst into riotous yellow fire, and daffodils were smiling up along the road the whole way. In our travels, we went back past the Ballarat Botanical Gardens and Grandma told me of the first time I went there. Picnics on the banks of Lake Wendouree are something that I remember distinctly from my childhood, and today I found out about my first ever time. I was only a few months old, and it was the height of summer - we had a heat wave that year, so it was unbearably hot. I was all dressed up in a pink sundress, pink bonnet and little pink cotton shoes. I was unanimously voted 'Princess of the Lake' by my aunts and uncles. Apparently that nickname stuck for years.. funny, I just don't remember it.
Eventually we made our way back to Grandma's house, building up a nice, cosy fire and sitting around munching on homemade yo-yo biscuits and drinking tea. Lovely. My Mum often urges me to see my grandmother, because she is quite old - she'll be 80 years old in January. It pains me to think that she is going to die one day, and not a far-off unimaginably distant day... but it makes me feel better to think that I do make effort to see her and make sure that she realises how much her family love her.
I have vowed never ever to have children, ever since I was about 5 years old. Lots of people say that, but believe me, I'm deadly serious: nothing ever could change my mind. I have possibly the worst genes in terms of certain health issues that anybody could give to a child - I don't want that responsibility of having created someone who is genetically doomed from day one. Also, I suppose I take a similar view of children as I do to .. well, dogs: why create one from scratch when there are so many needing love and attention out there already? I would never buy a puppy that had been specifically bred to be sold, I'd rather go to the pound and find one who was more in need. Likewise with kids, I'd rather adopt one than make one - why bring yet another child into the world when there are enough that need love and care already? Having said that, I'm far too selfish for children, so there!
But seeing my Grandmother, and the joy she gets from her 7 children and (counting..) 17 grandchildren.. maybe being old and alone is quite a disturbing reality. Maybe children are really like .. leaving a legacy. Maina Gielgud said something along the lines of this: Anybody can get married and have children, but very few people are able to find absolute fulfillment in other ways. (No quotation marks, because I can't remember the exact quote).
But I think that I will find another way to leave my mark, rather than getting married and having babies. Something that will help lots of people, rather than just a select group of brats who happened to belong to me for the first eighteen years of their lives.
Because I would rather adopt children than have children, and to be frank, I would rather adopt puppies than adopt children!
Ergh, my housemate just came home; singing loudly out of key, shouting, now going to the bathroom with the door open, swearing loudly and snarfling and snorting and spreading his filth and vibes of disgustingness everywhere. Horrible. Great, now he's making racist jokes. It's definitely time to move. I'm looking mostly at inner-city apartments and townhouses, but alas! I have nobody to share with. Last time I almost went into a share house with a friend ended in disaster, so there is the tiniest bit of worry tingeing what is otherwise a usually unwavering trust in the good in all people.
Grr.. now I have moved into my bedroom and I can hear him making fun of me and telling yet more racist jokes and tales of his various sexual encounters with prostitutes. Now, where is a bazooka that shoots poisonous nails and AIDS-infested broken glass when you need it?
Today was a family affair, which is strange considering my parents are divorced. We all went to see my little sister Ellen perform with her orchestra at the Royal South Street competitions in Ballarat. It was alright, but who won seemed to be completely arbitrary - the ensemble who won were definitely not the best. We saw a particularly awesome viola soloist, and heard the same piece (Intermezzo by von Chrysler - yes, I agree, what a name) about three times.
The original plan was to hit a delicatessen and go for a picnic, but we left out that one important detail - in Ballarat, it's always either stinking hot or freezing. Today it was the latter, and the first suggestion was McDonalds, so off we went. I protested. I lost!
After that, we split into two groups - my Mum, sisters and brother went home, and I went with my Dad, my grandmother (her name is Rose too) and Scarlett. I thought we were just driving back to Melbourne, but we definitely took the scenic route. We drove through Ballarat where she pointed out landmarks of her youth; the town hall where she made her debut at the Victory Ball, held when the war finally finished in 1945. She told me of people dancing in the streets and one young man who grabbed her and kissed her because he was so overcome with joy.
We then drove to Learmonth, where we visited the house she grew up in and saw magnolia trees bigger than I have ever seen before. Grandma told stories about her childhood, about summers spent swimming at Lake Learmonth (picture left, in the 'good old days') - we went to visit it, and were shocked to find that it had all but dried up. There were a couple of puddles in it not much bigger than tennis courts, but the entire lake was dry. It was so sad to behold; the abandoned Lake Learmonth yacht club stood like an orphan, overlooking the dry lake bed that stretched almost to the horizon. Dad reassured me that it might fill up again one day, but it would take years of above average rainfall which is unfortunately unlikely.We visited Creswick and then Daylesford to lay flowers on my great-grandmother's grave, and then my Grandma's best friend's grave. Wattles were blooming everywhere, like trees that had burst into riotous yellow fire, and daffodils were smiling up along the road the whole way. In our travels, we went back past the Ballarat Botanical Gardens and Grandma told me of the first time I went there. Picnics on the banks of Lake Wendouree are something that I remember distinctly from my childhood, and today I found out about my first ever time. I was only a few months old, and it was the height of summer - we had a heat wave that year, so it was unbearably hot. I was all dressed up in a pink sundress, pink bonnet and little pink cotton shoes. I was unanimously voted 'Princess of the Lake' by my aunts and uncles. Apparently that nickname stuck for years.. funny, I just don't remember it.
Eventually we made our way back to Grandma's house, building up a nice, cosy fire and sitting around munching on homemade yo-yo biscuits and drinking tea. Lovely. My Mum often urges me to see my grandmother, because she is quite old - she'll be 80 years old in January. It pains me to think that she is going to die one day, and not a far-off unimaginably distant day... but it makes me feel better to think that I do make effort to see her and make sure that she realises how much her family love her.
I have vowed never ever to have children, ever since I was about 5 years old. Lots of people say that, but believe me, I'm deadly serious: nothing ever could change my mind. I have possibly the worst genes in terms of certain health issues that anybody could give to a child - I don't want that responsibility of having created someone who is genetically doomed from day one. Also, I suppose I take a similar view of children as I do to .. well, dogs: why create one from scratch when there are so many needing love and attention out there already? I would never buy a puppy that had been specifically bred to be sold, I'd rather go to the pound and find one who was more in need. Likewise with kids, I'd rather adopt one than make one - why bring yet another child into the world when there are enough that need love and care already? Having said that, I'm far too selfish for children, so there!
But seeing my Grandmother, and the joy she gets from her 7 children and (counting..) 17 grandchildren.. maybe being old and alone is quite a disturbing reality. Maybe children are really like .. leaving a legacy. Maina Gielgud said something along the lines of this: Anybody can get married and have children, but very few people are able to find absolute fulfillment in other ways. (No quotation marks, because I can't remember the exact quote).
But I think that I will find another way to leave my mark, rather than getting married and having babies. Something that will help lots of people, rather than just a select group of brats who happened to belong to me for the first eighteen years of their lives.
Because I would rather adopt children than have children, and to be frank, I would rather adopt puppies than adopt children!
Adventures in Suburbia
The last 30 or so hours have been a rollercoaster of non-stop fun.. I should be feeling guilty right now (for the amount of time I have spent not doing homework, for the calories consumed, for the missed phone calls, for the ridiculous amounts of money spent) but no - I just feel content. It's nice! This post will read like a blow-by-blow account, rather than anything fancy. Too much happened to elaborate on it.
I spent a blissfully blank Friday morning and afternoon - no class. I planned to donate blood on Bourke St, but they didn't have any appointments left (that's a job for next week). So I just lounged around in my underwear, chatting to Paul and listening to lovely music. Around 5pm I got dressed and sauntered down to Richmond for an appointment with the shrink - while I was waiting, I drew a picture of a rose garden for a man in the waiting room. He loved it, and it made me smile.
I was met by Lucien after the appointment who whisked me away to Chapel St, Prahran.
The tram ride was eventful - it was one of those old W6-Class ones (see right) and it ended up breaking down for 15 minutes. A rude lout sitting near us spent the entire wait complaining loudly about the government and Connex, spouting rubbish like that they should pay for him to get a taxi because the tram broke down. I felt like slapping him. He just went on and on and on until I was seriously considering stabbing him in the head with my parasol.
We finally got to the Jam Factory where we were met by Benjamin (Lucien's best friend) and another friend, Ted. We ran to Friday's where we had cocktails - such fun! I had a Long Island Iced Tea and a Cosmopolitan; Lucien had a B-52 and a White Russian. Trés exciting, and enough to make me go silly.
Soon enough we were met by about.. 7 other friends. We had pancakes and then went to the cinema. Benjamin and I got into trouble for walking down the 'up' escalator. The stupid ticket girl came and said to us, "Either go up or down, but you can't just stand still," which made us laugh even harder. We finally got into the film, Snakes on a Plane, which I deemed to be brilliant fun. Sure, it was no intellectual masterpiece.. but it was the kind of film that appealed to my me-when-tipsy self. Benjamin, on the other hand, was mortally wounded by the fact that he had just paid $11 to see what he proclaimed to be "enough to make me want to die on the spot". We all responded in wildly varying ways, continuing to bicker for a long time afterwards.
By this time, it was 1am and we realised that public transport had ceased for the night. Everybody was in a bit of a state before they realised that Hawthorn (where most of them live) wasn't actually such a far walk from Chapel St. So they set off, leaving Lucien, Ted, Mark and I. Luckily, Mark had brought his car and was sober (red and fast!) so we piled in with the crazy idea of driving out to Narre Warren to hunt for Krispy Kreme doughnuts. We managed to get lost a number of times along the way, but it was all in good fun.
As we neared the fabled Krispy Kreme store, we noticed that there were lots of other cars that seemed to be going exactly the same way as we were. Then we saw it - 2:30am, and there would have been maybe 20 cars of people there. We got out to stretch our legs and managed to be approached by a gaggle of drugged-out emo teenagers. Dripping eyeliner and practically having sex with each other in the parking lot, they seemed to love me. I was wearing bright colours I suppose. They all wanted to hug me, so I doled out the hugs and then we ran away.
Between four people, we bought four dozen doughnuts. Forty-eight doughnuts. We carried the tower of boxes to a grassy hill where we sat and devoured about twenty of them. As fate would have it, there was a lone shopping trolley in the carpark. Lucien put me inside it (forcibly! - he grabbed me around the waist and flipped me over his shoulder, plonking me inside the steel contraption completely without my will, as I was screaming and probably waking up EVERYBODY in the Eastern suburbs) and took me for a 'spin', literally. He pushed me fast, then would stop suddenly, then spun me around in fast circles and managed to let the trolley almost fall over at one point. It was too much - the height of dignity came when I had to stumble away to be sick behind some bushes.
Delightful.
Lucien and I returned to my apartment where there was much hearty sleeping to be done. Alas, tragedy struck in the morning when ... the sun shone through my bedroom window directly onto my sleeping head! I wasn't a happy girl, especially when I woke up to see that I had terrible panda eyes and a hangover (oh the shame of getting a hangover after two cocktails..). I managed to grin and bear it, though I stayed in bed until 12 when my Dad called and adventures started all over again.
We met Dad and Scarlett at the Queen Victoria Market, where we enjoyed some awesome bratwurst. Saturated fat in a bun with onions on top was exactly what I needed, and everything seemed to get a bit brighter. It was a beautiful day with not-too-harsh sunshine and a lovely breeze.. I was wondering around in a tank top, flip-flops and a short skirt all day. My last post said something about the breeze feeling like it was kissing you, and today was the same. Too bad tomorrow will be cooler and I'll be stuck in bloody Ballarat (hear about it next time!).
We bid farewell to my Dad and then wandered into the city. We grabbed some old-fashioned lemonade from the Food Hall at Myer and then headed for the State Library, where we basked on the grass for almost an hour. Then came some more hunting of sorts - Lucien's mother called him with a request from his father about what he wanted for Father's Day (tomorrow, in Australia). Liquorice. So of course we had to find a Darrell Lea store, quick. We walked around for hours trying to find a store to no avail (despite the fact that there is one on Swanston as well as one on Elizabeth). After asking about four different people for directions and going to the post office to look them up in the Yellow Pages, we finally found them. Lucien bought his liquorice and we made our way back to my apartment as quick as we could.
A late-afternoon siesta was in order, which we embraced with much gusto. Laying around in the afternoon sun, listening the The Virgin Suicides soundtracks, wearing very little and just basking in stillness, silence and each other's company was a fabulous way to spend the next two hours. I was suddenly overcome by tiredness, so I gave Lucien permission to run away and had a cat-nap. When I woke, I found that Lucien had run down the street to the Green Refractory Café (on Sydney Road). We ended up having dinner there, sitting in a gorgeous little alleyway lit by the moon with the smell of grass and spring in the air, before heading home to our parents for the rest of the weekend.
Ahhhh.. there you go. That will probably be the most boring entry ever for anybody to read, but I just had to chronicle the craziness and jam-packed nature of this half-a-weekend. I'm the kind of girl who might feel overwhelmed if I had scheduled events on both days of the weekend, yet I managed to fit in enough adventure for a month. It's kind of nice; making the weekend interesting and full enough to make up for the weekly slog through school/work/whatever your nine-to-five.
Bring on next weekend!.. after a week-long recovery period!
I spent a blissfully blank Friday morning and afternoon - no class. I planned to donate blood on Bourke St, but they didn't have any appointments left (that's a job for next week). So I just lounged around in my underwear, chatting to Paul and listening to lovely music. Around 5pm I got dressed and sauntered down to Richmond for an appointment with the shrink - while I was waiting, I drew a picture of a rose garden for a man in the waiting room. He loved it, and it made me smile.
I was met by Lucien after the appointment who whisked me away to Chapel St, Prahran.
The tram ride was eventful - it was one of those old W6-Class ones (see right) and it ended up breaking down for 15 minutes. A rude lout sitting near us spent the entire wait complaining loudly about the government and Connex, spouting rubbish like that they should pay for him to get a taxi because the tram broke down. I felt like slapping him. He just went on and on and on until I was seriously considering stabbing him in the head with my parasol.We finally got to the Jam Factory where we were met by Benjamin (Lucien's best friend) and another friend, Ted. We ran to Friday's where we had cocktails - such fun! I had a Long Island Iced Tea and a Cosmopolitan; Lucien had a B-52 and a White Russian. Trés exciting, and enough to make me go silly.
Soon enough we were met by about.. 7 other friends. We had pancakes and then went to the cinema. Benjamin and I got into trouble for walking down the 'up' escalator. The stupid ticket girl came and said to us, "Either go up or down, but you can't just stand still," which made us laugh even harder. We finally got into the film, Snakes on a Plane, which I deemed to be brilliant fun. Sure, it was no intellectual masterpiece.. but it was the kind of film that appealed to my me-when-tipsy self. Benjamin, on the other hand, was mortally wounded by the fact that he had just paid $11 to see what he proclaimed to be "enough to make me want to die on the spot". We all responded in wildly varying ways, continuing to bicker for a long time afterwards.
By this time, it was 1am and we realised that public transport had ceased for the night. Everybody was in a bit of a state before they realised that Hawthorn (where most of them live) wasn't actually such a far walk from Chapel St. So they set off, leaving Lucien, Ted, Mark and I. Luckily, Mark had brought his car and was sober (red and fast!) so we piled in with the crazy idea of driving out to Narre Warren to hunt for Krispy Kreme doughnuts. We managed to get lost a number of times along the way, but it was all in good fun.
As we neared the fabled Krispy Kreme store, we noticed that there were lots of other cars that seemed to be going exactly the same way as we were. Then we saw it - 2:30am, and there would have been maybe 20 cars of people there. We got out to stretch our legs and managed to be approached by a gaggle of drugged-out emo teenagers. Dripping eyeliner and practically having sex with each other in the parking lot, they seemed to love me. I was wearing bright colours I suppose. They all wanted to hug me, so I doled out the hugs and then we ran away.
Between four people, we bought four dozen doughnuts. Forty-eight doughnuts. We carried the tower of boxes to a grassy hill where we sat and devoured about twenty of them. As fate would have it, there was a lone shopping trolley in the carpark. Lucien put me inside it (forcibly! - he grabbed me around the waist and flipped me over his shoulder, plonking me inside the steel contraption completely without my will, as I was screaming and probably waking up EVERYBODY in the Eastern suburbs) and took me for a 'spin', literally. He pushed me fast, then would stop suddenly, then spun me around in fast circles and managed to let the trolley almost fall over at one point. It was too much - the height of dignity came when I had to stumble away to be sick behind some bushes.
Delightful.
Lucien and I returned to my apartment where there was much hearty sleeping to be done. Alas, tragedy struck in the morning when ... the sun shone through my bedroom window directly onto my sleeping head! I wasn't a happy girl, especially when I woke up to see that I had terrible panda eyes and a hangover (oh the shame of getting a hangover after two cocktails..). I managed to grin and bear it, though I stayed in bed until 12 when my Dad called and adventures started all over again.
We met Dad and Scarlett at the Queen Victoria Market, where we enjoyed some awesome bratwurst. Saturated fat in a bun with onions on top was exactly what I needed, and everything seemed to get a bit brighter. It was a beautiful day with not-too-harsh sunshine and a lovely breeze.. I was wondering around in a tank top, flip-flops and a short skirt all day. My last post said something about the breeze feeling like it was kissing you, and today was the same. Too bad tomorrow will be cooler and I'll be stuck in bloody Ballarat (hear about it next time!).
We bid farewell to my Dad and then wandered into the city. We grabbed some old-fashioned lemonade from the Food Hall at Myer and then headed for the State Library, where we basked on the grass for almost an hour. Then came some more hunting of sorts - Lucien's mother called him with a request from his father about what he wanted for Father's Day (tomorrow, in Australia). Liquorice. So of course we had to find a Darrell Lea store, quick. We walked around for hours trying to find a store to no avail (despite the fact that there is one on Swanston as well as one on Elizabeth). After asking about four different people for directions and going to the post office to look them up in the Yellow Pages, we finally found them. Lucien bought his liquorice and we made our way back to my apartment as quick as we could.
A late-afternoon siesta was in order, which we embraced with much gusto. Laying around in the afternoon sun, listening the The Virgin Suicides soundtracks, wearing very little and just basking in stillness, silence and each other's company was a fabulous way to spend the next two hours. I was suddenly overcome by tiredness, so I gave Lucien permission to run away and had a cat-nap. When I woke, I found that Lucien had run down the street to the Green Refractory Café (on Sydney Road). We ended up having dinner there, sitting in a gorgeous little alleyway lit by the moon with the smell of grass and spring in the air, before heading home to our parents for the rest of the weekend.
Ahhhh.. there you go. That will probably be the most boring entry ever for anybody to read, but I just had to chronicle the craziness and jam-packed nature of this half-a-weekend. I'm the kind of girl who might feel overwhelmed if I had scheduled events on both days of the weekend, yet I managed to fit in enough adventure for a month. It's kind of nice; making the weekend interesting and full enough to make up for the weekly slog through school/work/whatever your nine-to-five.
Bring on next weekend!.. after a week-long recovery period!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
