My Dad is sitting outside on the balcony in the dark, drinking cheap wine and listening to Pink Floyd on a discman really loudly. It's slightly worrying. He was doing the same thing inside earlier, and this has pretty much been the blueprint for how he spends his nights for the last week or so.
It has recently come out (officially) that he and his wife of almost a year had split up, sometime right after Christmas. I met with Scarlett, my ex-step-sister, at a tram stop by the river. She seemed nonplussed by the whole thing, even revealing that her Mom took "like fifty pills" the day after Christmas.
I worry for him.
After dinner, my brain started itching. Words started battering the inside of my skull like fireworks; they needed to go somewhere. So I wrote two poems. Here they are.
The Sea Indoors
I thrash
Mackerel in a net
Balloon on the moon
My body is tethered and rubber banded into place
Motion is fixed in a slow, furious struggle against the line that separates us
I arch
Practicing a type of pain
I am not myself
As much as I am a mere part of everyone else
Slow winds shake through the concrete wasteland
Rippling unfortunate white trousers nearby and tickling my throat
Bared for the slaughter, if you dare
I decay
Gasping desperation
Hot tulips blister behind eyelids
An agile audience only an arm-span away
But there is an ocean between us as I sink amongst the sirens
Adopt me as your sister and I will be home
I surge
Snapping back
The lofty bedlam floats above
Livid blue babies mock and speak in mature vindictiveness
Snap at my heels but you will not have me, I cry fruitlessly
For my voice will bend and dissolve, and be only for me
Traipsing Off the Cliff
Leave me in my shell a bit longer? I am only
half-baked, and chill will swoop like an eagle
should I venture from safety into your jungles.
Come and rain your love down on me
so I might benefit from the vitamins. Rouse me,
my bones lay just beneath the surface, my love
the only red thing left from my collection.
That bicycle, that hair ribbon, that insouciant mouth
could be a liability or a pleasure, if you would stop
and rouse my bones. Sometimes you whisper
my dreams back at me, so much more real than
when I entrusted them to you. Let’s make them seven
of the seventh-seven like me, red like me, then
perhaps they can live in me, my love-dream.
Hand me pane e burro any day over this, grey
patterings, frightening me away from rest.
Why such flowings now? Months and days of
drought striking without consideration; now milk
and honey twenty-four-seven. Hopes and minds
reveal their fecundity without mercy. I know it’s
disappointing, my love. Your little one is no Atlas;
her shoulders shrink and snap like glass filigree.
If only this, if only that. She doesn’t try hard enough.
Peel her and maybe a diamond? No, I’m full of coal
and all the bitterness of generations, pent up in blood and
pretension. Why so close and unyielding, yet you are so far?
When you sleep, I swoon over your eyelashes. I could pass
a whole winter alone, but not this single week without you.
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Thursday, May 10
Sunday, April 15
Fashion Zoo
I'm full of Mexican food and mocktails; quite content (see photo, right). Dinner at Montezumas on Bridge Road with Paul after a day of gallavanting? Happy ending to a day that began with a less than happy outlook. Not sure why, but this morning was not as sunny inside as it was outside. I decided I needed something to cheer me up and picked Fawkes as the likely accomplice for a trip to the Crabapple Bakery for a cupcake. Unfortunately he couldn't be swayed - I jumped on his bed, said "Please" in a million different ways, changed into a cute little red-and-denim Parisian ensemble to try to sway him. It didn't work, so he suggested I take my iPod in place of a playmate.
Disaster struck - iPod was playing dead. Nothing would revive him, so I set off feeling despondent and cursed. Paul was promptly messaged and we caught up in Prahran for some fun at the Chapel St Bazaar which I am ashamed to say I had never visited before. It was brilliant, I saw more than a few vintage red telephones that I needed, except for the price tags..
But once again my fashion-phobias were tested. I ended strutting out of the house wearing my new trenchcoat over jeans and a black petticoat (worn as a dress), with my ruby slippers, red beret and red lipstick. I was angling for 'quirky-cute-French' and did a little social experiment.
For part of the day I hunched my shoulders, frowned, looked at the ground, tugged at my clothes and exuded uncomfortable, vulnerable vibes. For the other part (when I was with Paul), I practically danced down the street, smiling, laughing, standing completely upright and basically being confident and exuding happy and pretty. The way that people reacted to me did change quite a bit - it seems that seeming vulnerability invites judgment and antipathy more than confidence does. Another thing I noticed was that the people who gave looks of approval were the ones who I would consider well-dressed, whereas girls who had obviously fallen prey to phenomenons such as the 'muffin top' were the ones who reacted with disdain. I'm not quite sure what this all means, but I realising in my crusade to understand street fashion and aethetics that you simply can't please everybody.
Too late, bedtime. Oh, and a sidenote - Demosthenes, if you read this, email me!
Saturday, April 14
Materialistic? Me? Never!
I went shopping yesterday, in a big way. It was magnificent, especially after a year and a half of doing no such thing. So, here is what I bought: a pair of cute indigo straight-leg jeans, a crayon pink swing cardigan, a creamy-beige trenchcoat with a cinched waist and full skirt, some pretty necklaces and bangles, an in-tray and an out-tray for my desk, some embroidered silk shoes and a shiny new clear umbrella alla Lost in Translation. Now I just have to buy the perfect boots and some new underwear then I'll be set. Until midyear sales...
But buying some new clothes from relatively mainstream brands comes with a problem. The last couple of years of my life my fashion sense has adhered to the 'starving artist' ideal - op-shops, vintage, hand-me-downs, and random handmade things. People have commented on my eclectic taste, but honestly I was just scraping clothes off my bedroom floor, then slapping them on along with a "I don't care what I look like" sign on my forehead.
Last night in my oh-so-cute cardigan, spiffy new jeans and a pair of gorgeous little red sparkly ballet slippers I bought last week, I felt like I was suddenly under intense scrutiny. Women do dress for other women, and with my warning label removed I was suddenly up for judgment - like a World of Warcraft character who flags themselves for player vs. player combat, I had a reasonable chance of being slain.
I guess having been out of the loop for such a long time, I am feeling a little clueless. I bought what I liked with little regard to popular fashion, and now I am wondering whether or not I have the confidence to pull it off.
I saw a man today wearing tight, white leather pants with orange swirls and an aqua canvas crotch. He also happened to look suspiciously like George Michael. But he didn't care what anybody thought and swanned around like he was gorgeous, and the charisma oozed. I'm wondering more and more how much of the way you look is based on your skin, your hair, your clothes, and how much is based on your innate style - how you 'work' it?
Right now I am supposed to be working feverishly on my Literature and Cinema essays, due on Monday, but I'm somewhat lacking in motivation. My Lit essay is practically writing itself, so I should be alright.
But woe is me - what a drag two/three impending due dates can have on a girl's weekend! Suki invited me over for a sleepover where we were going to make nachos and watch every episode of The Extra. It would have been brilliant. Perhaps the reason why I am now shirking my work a little is because I'm mad at it, for denying my fun.
Lucien visited me last night. He had a party with some of his law friends at the Belgian Beer Café and came home drunk on cherry flavoured beer. I was less than impressed and shunned him somewhat by going to sleep. In the morning I was surprised by a big bunch of white tulips - he snuck out in the morning before I woke up to go get them. It was so sweet, and unexpected.
Consequently, I was officially in a good mood, so we jetted off up Bridge Road to go hunting for some brunch. After walking past lots of beautiful, atmospheric restaurants and cafés, we settled on an incredibly cheap, tiny one with laminex tables and yellow plastic chairs. I was dubious, but we ended up having a lot of fun. Here is Lucien tucking into the greasefest he ordered - toast with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushroom and onion.
But buying some new clothes from relatively mainstream brands comes with a problem. The last couple of years of my life my fashion sense has adhered to the 'starving artist' ideal - op-shops, vintage, hand-me-downs, and random handmade things. People have commented on my eclectic taste, but honestly I was just scraping clothes off my bedroom floor, then slapping them on along with a "I don't care what I look like" sign on my forehead.
Last night in my oh-so-cute cardigan, spiffy new jeans and a pair of gorgeous little red sparkly ballet slippers I bought last week, I felt like I was suddenly under intense scrutiny. Women do dress for other women, and with my warning label removed I was suddenly up for judgment - like a World of Warcraft character who flags themselves for player vs. player combat, I had a reasonable chance of being slain.
I guess having been out of the loop for such a long time, I am feeling a little clueless. I bought what I liked with little regard to popular fashion, and now I am wondering whether or not I have the confidence to pull it off.
I saw a man today wearing tight, white leather pants with orange swirls and an aqua canvas crotch. He also happened to look suspiciously like George Michael. But he didn't care what anybody thought and swanned around like he was gorgeous, and the charisma oozed. I'm wondering more and more how much of the way you look is based on your skin, your hair, your clothes, and how much is based on your innate style - how you 'work' it?
Right now I am supposed to be working feverishly on my Literature and Cinema essays, due on Monday, but I'm somewhat lacking in motivation. My Lit essay is practically writing itself, so I should be alright.
But woe is me - what a drag two/three impending due dates can have on a girl's weekend! Suki invited me over for a sleepover where we were going to make nachos and watch every episode of The Extra. It would have been brilliant. Perhaps the reason why I am now shirking my work a little is because I'm mad at it, for denying my fun.
Lucien visited me last night. He had a party with some of his law friends at the Belgian Beer Café and came home drunk on cherry flavoured beer. I was less than impressed and shunned him somewhat by going to sleep. In the morning I was surprised by a big bunch of white tulips - he snuck out in the morning before I woke up to go get them. It was so sweet, and unexpected.
Consequently, I was officially in a good mood, so we jetted off up Bridge Road to go hunting for some brunch. After walking past lots of beautiful, atmospheric restaurants and cafés, we settled on an incredibly cheap, tiny one with laminex tables and yellow plastic chairs. I was dubious, but we ended up having a lot of fun. Here is Lucien tucking into the greasefest he ordered - toast with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushroom and onion.
There isn't an accompanying photo of me though, but I was munching on sourdough toast topped with spinach, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce... exactly what a girl needs on a Saturday morning! Note: he isn't actually fat or hunchbacked, he was just being silly - in the photo he is pulling a silly face as well.
Seeing as I am in the spirit of photos, here's one of me. Ignore the greasy hair - this was Christmas morning at 3am, and I had spent the previous 7 hours making ridiculous amounts of sushi and pork dumplings.
Sunday, April 8
Mini-Break
I’m laying in bed, sandwiched between sheets with a thread count several hundreds higher than the balance of my bank account, licking crumbs of Krispy Kreme glaze off my fingers and recovering from a Season 2 Sex and the City mini-marathon and thinking about how it is less than 24 hours until my huggle-bunny joins me and we can go frolicking and getting up to all kinds of mischief in the woods.... This is decadence.
It’s Easter, and it seems every year at this time I take a week long sojourn to the country; to eat extravagantly and constantly, put on pretty dresses and makeup everyday for nobody in particular, gossip continuously and consume unnatural amounts of chocolate. Such a description can only fit one place – Aunty Antoinette’s house.
It is nice to be spoiled sometimes. Even if it means I will return to Melbourne several pounds heavier than previously. Hopefully this will not happen – there is a treadmill here, and exercise bike and one of those jiggly things that you strap on and it ‘jiggles’ your fat away. They are all about to become my new best friends for the next three days, along with this laptop. I have been absent for a while, so here comes a big ol’ blog entry long enough to tide anybody over until I have more time and resources.
Something weird was happening here. For practically my entire existence, my Mother’s side of the family (Antoinette is my Mom’s sister) were all older than me and my siblings. We were the babies.
Now my Mom’s younger brothers have started having children, and it is hell. There were three little boys aged about 5, 4 and 3 and a 1 and a ½ year old girl. I suddenly feel a pang of guilt for having inflicted myself on my older cousins when I was between the ages of 1 and 6. It was detestable, but luckily all the children have gone now.
While they were all here though, it just confirmed once again in my head why I will never be a mother. The children just grated on my nerves. They would throw sandwiches on the floor and I wanted to yell at them for being so inconsiderate. They slapped and poked at my puppy until she growled at them, then she had to go outside. They climbed all over me, they decided what movie we watched, they smelt, they put paint everywhere and smeared chocolatey fingers over everything that would stay still.
But the worst part was their parents. Their parents are quite a bit younger than my Mom and some of the other siblings, so I always considered them a bit more fun. But honestly, I am secretly wondering whether parenthood actually has the effect of converting ones brain into mere gray mush. Sitting around the table, basking in afternoon sunshine and sipping Semillon, conversations would formerly revolve around… well, interesting things. Now it’s all crèche, toilet-training, stretch marks, et cetera. It is as if their children have become the only thing they think about. And even the rare, interesting conversations are brought to screeching halts with a, “Oh my God, Tommy, stop throwing pinecones at that bull!” or “Damn, her diaper is leaking again, can you change that honey?” Formerly intelligent, engaging people have become insipid sycophants, pandering to the needs of a small, inconsiderate, self-centred, unintelligent semi-being.
Sorry to everybody with parental aspirations. I suppose I’m just not built that way. My uncle challenged me today with the usual, “Oh, you’ll change your mind. Hormones will kick in and you’ll be baby-mad.” I guess I’m just going to have to disappoint everybody. There are reasons other than my severe dislike of children and babies which contribute to my sentiments. I, coupled with anybody with even slightly iffy genes in the mental health department, would produce the most genetically doomed child ever to exist. I am also an inherently selfish, sometimes unstable person prone to being jealous and holding a grudge – making me very bad parent material. Then there is the fact that I am pursuing a career where I would never get to do those little things that are oh-so-important in raising a child, so I would end up hating the thing once it grew up. All in all, even if I wanted to have children it would still be a bad idea.
So, there is only one thing to do: I hereby declare, adamantly, that I will never, ever have children.
Now, on to things that actually deserve to be written about! (here is the point where everybody who ever read this journal subjugates me to the ‘bitch’ list)…
I am already somewhat on the bitch list with my family though. At least for this weekend. In the long and tedious car ride to the house, several things happened and limits were pushed until I accidentally slapped my younger sister in the face. I had spent 36 hours being her servant, doing everything in my power to make her happy. I let her do a whole bunch of things in my house, I let her have grilled cheese sandwiches after she had refused to eat dinner, I put very subtle caramel streaks in her hair to cheer her up and I spent $50 on doughnuts to appease her. I won’t even go into what she did to me in return, but I can say that she probably would have treated Bush with more respect. So I lashed out - I meant to just push her shoulder roughly enough for her to get the point, but it was dark and the road was bumpy. I gave my 12 year old sister a black eye. Not exactly the proudest moment of my life. I since apologized though and she’s currently reading my books, eating my chocolate and in bed with me and our puppy about to watch a film with me. So I may be a bitch, but I can say sorry.
I was unsuccessful with The Grapes of Wrath. A year ago, I would have been devastated for weeks; crying to everybody I knew and trying to rationalize it in my head with a million different scenarios resulting in them picking someone else who was obviously inferior to me.
Last Thursday came and went. I checked my email a couple of times, sighed, and moved on. Afterwards I managed to say to Lucien, “That sucks,” but didn’t really think about it after that. I was proud.
The other day, Paul and I were discussing over pizza the role of emotions in how we live our lives. He told me of how easy it was for him to practice emotional detachment, whereas I had to confess to being completely ruled by my emotions. It is so stereotypical for a woman and I detest living up to it, but I am ruled by what my heart wants, what my heart tells me to do, et cetera. I am putting in a concerted effort to be a little less affected by everything though, and I think my ‘disappointment’ in not getting Rose of Sharon reflected that. I did want the part, it was a blow not to get it, but I moved on quickly and painlessly. Never before in my life would I have been able to say that, and mean it wholeheartedly.
On to issues less… well, deep, I have discovered a place that is becoming a bit of a haunt. Boheme on Bridge Road is a café-restaurant-bar that I am growing to like a lot. It is light, bright with incredibly high ceilings. They are unpretentious and very casual (something I am very glad of when it is so close to my house – it’s a place I can be seen with no makeup and bad hair days), like an upmarket pub with an emphasis on the food and coffee rather than the drinks. Lucien and I ended up there last weekend whilst looking for dinner; predictably, he ordered a meat-and-everything type pizza in the largest size they had. He was starving and not in the mood to order something subtle or something to enjoy on a sensual level. He just wanted his stomach to be filled as quickly as possible. I ordered a pizza too, and it was divine. Layered with fresh tomato, torn basil leaves, fresh mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and cracked black pepper, it was topped with huge king prawns and scallops. I have never previously liked scallops, but these were lovely and quite edible!
I am aching to get out and experience more things; visit galleries I have never been to, drink red wine until I actually enjoy it, go to the Melbourne Museum, do things like go to random film festivals or exhibition launches, shop at the Prahran market every time I need food rather than paying three times as much at Safeway for substandard produce, actually go out with old friends for beer and buffalo wings rather than just talk about it. But there is the issue of means. I am realizing more and more that almost everybody I know has been… supported in some way. They live at home, their parents pay their rent, for their books, for their tuition, they have charge cards or trust funds, et cetera. My sometimes best friend Tasi seems to live on another planet nowadays, and is a good example of this divide. She drives a BMW and until recently lived at a $16000-a-year-plus residential college at university, which her parents paid for, of course. During her time at university, she decided she didn’t have enough time to get a job. She then whined to me, expecting real sympathy for the ‘tragedy’ that had befallen her – she had to do bourbon and cokes at her place before she went clubbing, because drinks at the clubs were just so expensive and she couldn’t afford to get drunk there. I think it was at this moment that I realized that the growing divide between us was insurmountable, unless she grew up or I went crazy.
Nowadays she doesn’t go to university anymore and doesn’t understand why her Mom won’t pay her credit card bills anymore. Also, despite living in a perfectly positioned and comfortable home, Tasi wants to move out and is angry that her Mom won’t pay the rent. I hope that the experience of having to work two jobs simply to pay the rent (with no money left over even for ‘pre-drinking’ let alone going out) will bring her down to earth a little and make her realize how ridiculously easy she had everything before she threw it away.
Meanwhile, I am trying to get on my feet in a way that I have never been before. I’m not sure whether I already talked about this, but I got a job. Irony of the century; I will be selling baby goods. But the pay is good for retail, I will be working three daytime shifts a week and it seems to be a quite secure working environment. I am hoping to eventually wangle my way into becoming Assistant Visual Merchandiser or something that I would actually be talented at. Simultaneously, I am halfway through the recruitment process for the cinema at the Jam Factory. Very hopeful – I volunteered myself for lots and lots of night shifts, if I’m successful.
In typing this, I was suddenly reminded by a comparison that Lucien once made. Upon watching Bridget Jones’s Diary, he laughed and said, “Oh, you two are like the same person!” This was a crushing blow; she is undoubtedly endearing, but ultimately it is not a favorable comparison.
But I see his point. For Bridget, she measured her life in pounds of lard, cigarettes smoked and alcohol consumed. I suppose I measure my life and progress too… let’s see. There is my job and how wealthy/non-impoverished it can allow me to be, being happy with my body and feeling occasionally beautiful, being academically brilliant (bah), my relationship with my darling boyfriend, my social life with friends (do I hear a death rattle?), how well I feel I am progressing with my brilliant career, et cetera.
So, in time the issue of capital will sort itself out, and I will feel better than all those people who can live at home or be supported by their parents because I will have worked harder for what I get.
Easter has been a hurdle in becoming Claudia Schiffer’s younger, thinner sister, but I will be back to my hour of exercise a day and no junk food routine tomorrow. I will go and actually get some things for my face so I don’t turn into a prune before I’m 30.
Essays are coming along, albeit slowly, but I am ahead of schedule and full of ideas. Words are flowing and I am so pleased with my brain right now.
Lucien will be here tomorrow night with bells on, and I am getting some ideas together for our little 2 ½ year anniversary weekend away.
Suki asked me to Click Click and I couldn’t make it, but I am determined to have her over for (this is sad, but we love it) a pint and trivia at the pub. Also planning on seeing about yum cha with Daniel, Lucien and Benjamin… could prove to be a stroke of brilliance. There is also a high likelihood that I will be somehow spiriting Paul away to my hometown for a trip down the coast.
As for career, well, I can’t force things. But I can try to create some luck for myself. I will continue hassling agents until they give me a go, I will continue going along to random auditions for theatre and film, and I will continue saving for the course at the Victorian College of the Arts.
I suppose measuring myself in these areas allows me a sense of achievement about myself that I couldn’t otherwise find.
This has been a huge entry… writing about myself is probably more interesting for me than it is for you to read, so I’ll try in future to either be interesting or talk about something else. Journalism/writing is my back-up career of sorts, so I guess I should try harder to be engaging. We’ll see.
But until then, I apologize in advance for writing trash.
It’s Easter, and it seems every year at this time I take a week long sojourn to the country; to eat extravagantly and constantly, put on pretty dresses and makeup everyday for nobody in particular, gossip continuously and consume unnatural amounts of chocolate. Such a description can only fit one place – Aunty Antoinette’s house.
It is nice to be spoiled sometimes. Even if it means I will return to Melbourne several pounds heavier than previously. Hopefully this will not happen – there is a treadmill here, and exercise bike and one of those jiggly things that you strap on and it ‘jiggles’ your fat away. They are all about to become my new best friends for the next three days, along with this laptop. I have been absent for a while, so here comes a big ol’ blog entry long enough to tide anybody over until I have more time and resources.
Something weird was happening here. For practically my entire existence, my Mother’s side of the family (Antoinette is my Mom’s sister) were all older than me and my siblings. We were the babies.
Now my Mom’s younger brothers have started having children, and it is hell. There were three little boys aged about 5, 4 and 3 and a 1 and a ½ year old girl. I suddenly feel a pang of guilt for having inflicted myself on my older cousins when I was between the ages of 1 and 6. It was detestable, but luckily all the children have gone now.
While they were all here though, it just confirmed once again in my head why I will never be a mother. The children just grated on my nerves. They would throw sandwiches on the floor and I wanted to yell at them for being so inconsiderate. They slapped and poked at my puppy until she growled at them, then she had to go outside. They climbed all over me, they decided what movie we watched, they smelt, they put paint everywhere and smeared chocolatey fingers over everything that would stay still.
But the worst part was their parents. Their parents are quite a bit younger than my Mom and some of the other siblings, so I always considered them a bit more fun. But honestly, I am secretly wondering whether parenthood actually has the effect of converting ones brain into mere gray mush. Sitting around the table, basking in afternoon sunshine and sipping Semillon, conversations would formerly revolve around… well, interesting things. Now it’s all crèche, toilet-training, stretch marks, et cetera. It is as if their children have become the only thing they think about. And even the rare, interesting conversations are brought to screeching halts with a, “Oh my God, Tommy, stop throwing pinecones at that bull!” or “Damn, her diaper is leaking again, can you change that honey?” Formerly intelligent, engaging people have become insipid sycophants, pandering to the needs of a small, inconsiderate, self-centred, unintelligent semi-being.
Sorry to everybody with parental aspirations. I suppose I’m just not built that way. My uncle challenged me today with the usual, “Oh, you’ll change your mind. Hormones will kick in and you’ll be baby-mad.” I guess I’m just going to have to disappoint everybody. There are reasons other than my severe dislike of children and babies which contribute to my sentiments. I, coupled with anybody with even slightly iffy genes in the mental health department, would produce the most genetically doomed child ever to exist. I am also an inherently selfish, sometimes unstable person prone to being jealous and holding a grudge – making me very bad parent material. Then there is the fact that I am pursuing a career where I would never get to do those little things that are oh-so-important in raising a child, so I would end up hating the thing once it grew up. All in all, even if I wanted to have children it would still be a bad idea.
So, there is only one thing to do: I hereby declare, adamantly, that I will never, ever have children.
Now, on to things that actually deserve to be written about! (here is the point where everybody who ever read this journal subjugates me to the ‘bitch’ list)…
I am already somewhat on the bitch list with my family though. At least for this weekend. In the long and tedious car ride to the house, several things happened and limits were pushed until I accidentally slapped my younger sister in the face. I had spent 36 hours being her servant, doing everything in my power to make her happy. I let her do a whole bunch of things in my house, I let her have grilled cheese sandwiches after she had refused to eat dinner, I put very subtle caramel streaks in her hair to cheer her up and I spent $50 on doughnuts to appease her. I won’t even go into what she did to me in return, but I can say that she probably would have treated Bush with more respect. So I lashed out - I meant to just push her shoulder roughly enough for her to get the point, but it was dark and the road was bumpy. I gave my 12 year old sister a black eye. Not exactly the proudest moment of my life. I since apologized though and she’s currently reading my books, eating my chocolate and in bed with me and our puppy about to watch a film with me. So I may be a bitch, but I can say sorry.
I was unsuccessful with The Grapes of Wrath. A year ago, I would have been devastated for weeks; crying to everybody I knew and trying to rationalize it in my head with a million different scenarios resulting in them picking someone else who was obviously inferior to me.
Last Thursday came and went. I checked my email a couple of times, sighed, and moved on. Afterwards I managed to say to Lucien, “That sucks,” but didn’t really think about it after that. I was proud.
The other day, Paul and I were discussing over pizza the role of emotions in how we live our lives. He told me of how easy it was for him to practice emotional detachment, whereas I had to confess to being completely ruled by my emotions. It is so stereotypical for a woman and I detest living up to it, but I am ruled by what my heart wants, what my heart tells me to do, et cetera. I am putting in a concerted effort to be a little less affected by everything though, and I think my ‘disappointment’ in not getting Rose of Sharon reflected that. I did want the part, it was a blow not to get it, but I moved on quickly and painlessly. Never before in my life would I have been able to say that, and mean it wholeheartedly.
On to issues less… well, deep, I have discovered a place that is becoming a bit of a haunt. Boheme on Bridge Road is a café-restaurant-bar that I am growing to like a lot. It is light, bright with incredibly high ceilings. They are unpretentious and very casual (something I am very glad of when it is so close to my house – it’s a place I can be seen with no makeup and bad hair days), like an upmarket pub with an emphasis on the food and coffee rather than the drinks. Lucien and I ended up there last weekend whilst looking for dinner; predictably, he ordered a meat-and-everything type pizza in the largest size they had. He was starving and not in the mood to order something subtle or something to enjoy on a sensual level. He just wanted his stomach to be filled as quickly as possible. I ordered a pizza too, and it was divine. Layered with fresh tomato, torn basil leaves, fresh mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and cracked black pepper, it was topped with huge king prawns and scallops. I have never previously liked scallops, but these were lovely and quite edible!
I am aching to get out and experience more things; visit galleries I have never been to, drink red wine until I actually enjoy it, go to the Melbourne Museum, do things like go to random film festivals or exhibition launches, shop at the Prahran market every time I need food rather than paying three times as much at Safeway for substandard produce, actually go out with old friends for beer and buffalo wings rather than just talk about it. But there is the issue of means. I am realizing more and more that almost everybody I know has been… supported in some way. They live at home, their parents pay their rent, for their books, for their tuition, they have charge cards or trust funds, et cetera. My sometimes best friend Tasi seems to live on another planet nowadays, and is a good example of this divide. She drives a BMW and until recently lived at a $16000-a-year-plus residential college at university, which her parents paid for, of course. During her time at university, she decided she didn’t have enough time to get a job. She then whined to me, expecting real sympathy for the ‘tragedy’ that had befallen her – she had to do bourbon and cokes at her place before she went clubbing, because drinks at the clubs were just so expensive and she couldn’t afford to get drunk there. I think it was at this moment that I realized that the growing divide between us was insurmountable, unless she grew up or I went crazy.
Nowadays she doesn’t go to university anymore and doesn’t understand why her Mom won’t pay her credit card bills anymore. Also, despite living in a perfectly positioned and comfortable home, Tasi wants to move out and is angry that her Mom won’t pay the rent. I hope that the experience of having to work two jobs simply to pay the rent (with no money left over even for ‘pre-drinking’ let alone going out) will bring her down to earth a little and make her realize how ridiculously easy she had everything before she threw it away.
Meanwhile, I am trying to get on my feet in a way that I have never been before. I’m not sure whether I already talked about this, but I got a job. Irony of the century; I will be selling baby goods. But the pay is good for retail, I will be working three daytime shifts a week and it seems to be a quite secure working environment. I am hoping to eventually wangle my way into becoming Assistant Visual Merchandiser or something that I would actually be talented at. Simultaneously, I am halfway through the recruitment process for the cinema at the Jam Factory. Very hopeful – I volunteered myself for lots and lots of night shifts, if I’m successful.
In typing this, I was suddenly reminded by a comparison that Lucien once made. Upon watching Bridget Jones’s Diary, he laughed and said, “Oh, you two are like the same person!” This was a crushing blow; she is undoubtedly endearing, but ultimately it is not a favorable comparison.
But I see his point. For Bridget, she measured her life in pounds of lard, cigarettes smoked and alcohol consumed. I suppose I measure my life and progress too… let’s see. There is my job and how wealthy/non-impoverished it can allow me to be, being happy with my body and feeling occasionally beautiful, being academically brilliant (bah), my relationship with my darling boyfriend, my social life with friends (do I hear a death rattle?), how well I feel I am progressing with my brilliant career, et cetera.
So, in time the issue of capital will sort itself out, and I will feel better than all those people who can live at home or be supported by their parents because I will have worked harder for what I get.
Easter has been a hurdle in becoming Claudia Schiffer’s younger, thinner sister, but I will be back to my hour of exercise a day and no junk food routine tomorrow. I will go and actually get some things for my face so I don’t turn into a prune before I’m 30.
Essays are coming along, albeit slowly, but I am ahead of schedule and full of ideas. Words are flowing and I am so pleased with my brain right now.
Lucien will be here tomorrow night with bells on, and I am getting some ideas together for our little 2 ½ year anniversary weekend away.
Suki asked me to Click Click and I couldn’t make it, but I am determined to have her over for (this is sad, but we love it) a pint and trivia at the pub. Also planning on seeing about yum cha with Daniel, Lucien and Benjamin… could prove to be a stroke of brilliance. There is also a high likelihood that I will be somehow spiriting Paul away to my hometown for a trip down the coast.
As for career, well, I can’t force things. But I can try to create some luck for myself. I will continue hassling agents until they give me a go, I will continue going along to random auditions for theatre and film, and I will continue saving for the course at the Victorian College of the Arts.
I suppose measuring myself in these areas allows me a sense of achievement about myself that I couldn’t otherwise find.
This has been a huge entry… writing about myself is probably more interesting for me than it is for you to read, so I’ll try in future to either be interesting or talk about something else. Journalism/writing is my back-up career of sorts, so I guess I should try harder to be engaging. We’ll see.
But until then, I apologize in advance for writing trash.
Wednesday, April 4
Dial-up!
It's so amusing.. I haven't had dial-up internet since 1999. I realised my Dad actually still had a dial-up account that he accessed on his laptop, so now the phone line is plugged into my laptop. Brilliant! Now I can type, check email, et cetera. Life is sweet, but I am still incredibly amused by the fact that I am using dial-up.
Spent a day of gallavanting with Paul yesterday.. very fun. We watched one of my new favourite films, Hot Fuzz, and wandered and ate pizza. A gorgeous way to spend a day when one is meant to be at classes! Oh well - some classes as just meant to be missed. Especially when they will be spent discussing the differences between pictures, symbols, propositions, signs, logic, unlogic, reality.. et cetera. I'm really not sure why I chose to study an entire semester of the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein. His work is set out numerically in very short sentences, which I am thankful for, but it is still a lot to grasp. The worst part is that I have to write an essay on it soon.. but I have three other essays to worry about first.
I also auditioned for The Grapes of Wrath, for the character Rose of Sharon. I walked in and read the scene where Rose dreams out loud about her new life with Connie in the city. The director said, "Great, that was great, can you read it one more time and try to make it a bit more ... earthy? I mean, don't make her dumb, but just make it a bit clearer that she's not educated." So, I was louder, a littler coarser, scratched my elbow and put a little bit more of a boyish twang in my voice. The director said, "Fantastic, that was perfect. You can go."
So, I have absolutely no idea how I went! Then a younger man took my photo, and I commented that I had just had the shortest audition of my life. He said that the longer auditions were usually the ones where the actors were having the most trouble. I thought about the woman who was directly before me, auditioning for Ma... she was in there for 15 minutes.
We'll see how it goes, I'll know by tomorrow.
Something very exciting is happening though. Later this year around October, there will be a federal election - the first one I can vote on. And unlike most people my age, I am actually incredibly excited about that. John Howard has stirred my ire for a long time. Certainly I will admit that he is a formidable force in politics, but I am far from trusting him. In his later years, he has come across more and more as sneaky, cunning, hypocritical, nasty and self-interested, mostly as he has tried to cover scandal after scandal. Unfortunately for us, the opposition usually wasn't much better - Kim Beazley and Mark Latham were hardly model citizens.
Now there is someone I actually like and trust, who I hope will be the Prime Minister by the end of the year. But more about him and how I met him next time!....
Spent a day of gallavanting with Paul yesterday.. very fun. We watched one of my new favourite films, Hot Fuzz, and wandered and ate pizza. A gorgeous way to spend a day when one is meant to be at classes! Oh well - some classes as just meant to be missed. Especially when they will be spent discussing the differences between pictures, symbols, propositions, signs, logic, unlogic, reality.. et cetera. I'm really not sure why I chose to study an entire semester of the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein. His work is set out numerically in very short sentences, which I am thankful for, but it is still a lot to grasp. The worst part is that I have to write an essay on it soon.. but I have three other essays to worry about first.
I also auditioned for The Grapes of Wrath, for the character Rose of Sharon. I walked in and read the scene where Rose dreams out loud about her new life with Connie in the city. The director said, "Great, that was great, can you read it one more time and try to make it a bit more ... earthy? I mean, don't make her dumb, but just make it a bit clearer that she's not educated." So, I was louder, a littler coarser, scratched my elbow and put a little bit more of a boyish twang in my voice. The director said, "Fantastic, that was perfect. You can go."
So, I have absolutely no idea how I went! Then a younger man took my photo, and I commented that I had just had the shortest audition of my life. He said that the longer auditions were usually the ones where the actors were having the most trouble. I thought about the woman who was directly before me, auditioning for Ma... she was in there for 15 minutes.
We'll see how it goes, I'll know by tomorrow.
Something very exciting is happening though. Later this year around October, there will be a federal election - the first one I can vote on. And unlike most people my age, I am actually incredibly excited about that. John Howard has stirred my ire for a long time. Certainly I will admit that he is a formidable force in politics, but I am far from trusting him. In his later years, he has come across more and more as sneaky, cunning, hypocritical, nasty and self-interested, mostly as he has tried to cover scandal after scandal. Unfortunately for us, the opposition usually wasn't much better - Kim Beazley and Mark Latham were hardly model citizens.
Now there is someone I actually like and trust, who I hope will be the Prime Minister by the end of the year. But more about him and how I met him next time!....
Wednesday, March 14
She Strikes Again
Today was oh-so-productive. I rescheduled a job interview for Friday morning, I went to an interview with a talent agent who liked me and wants to get photos done asap, then I headed off to university to do a three-week acting workshop I signed up for.
Disaster struck. I was ten minutes late to class due to some trams breaking down, and as I ran up to the closed door I heard them doing an exercise inside. A name-learning exercise. I heard names like Oscar and Leah, and then the dreaded one. The name of my absolute rival. My stomach turned and I suddenly found myself physically unable to go inside. My spirits fell a million kilometers and I skulked off to console myself with a bubble tea.
I simply cannot live in the same city as her and go to the same university as her.
We were in high school together for a year, and this is what really cemented my opinion of her. She came into our drama class, appearing fun and bubbly. She wanted to hug everybody as soon as she met them and was incredibly friendly. Then I noticed that when I was working with her, she would bitch about everybody else. From others in the class, I found out that she did exactly the same with them. She was two-faced, conceited and nasty, but we let it slide and continued being nice and civil to her.
It got worse though, and she started making comments continually implying that she was somehow 'above' the rest of the class. She was/is a good, if rather limited, actress but it was uncalled for.. especially in a learning environment.
Finally, everything came to a head when we were preparing our Year 12 Drama solos. These were an incredibly big deal... we had to think up and write a 7 minute piece to adhere to a very strict and detailed structure, then perform it for a panel of three judges. Very difficult. It was the day before our exam and we were having final individual run-throughs with our teacher; tensions were running high and everybody was on edge, but what she said was uncalled for.
Our teacher, Kath, had been incredibly supportive of us and had gone beyond what she was expected to do as our teacher. She had donated her lunchtimes, hours after school and numerous spares in between classes to help us prepare for the exam. Especially for my rival, who asked for more help than any of us and received it without a hint of gratitude.
Prior to her run-through, she began a whiny outpouring to everybody else in the rehearsal room. "This is so annoying, I knew I should have gone to (random private school in my town). The quality of teaching here is so bad, especially in Drama. Well, I'm sure that you will all understand if you get C's and D's, because that's just your standard.. but my work is really deserving of an A+ and I just know that I'm not going to get it because she didn't help me enough. I just know that I am going to fail because Ms. C didn't help me enough. It's like she doesn't even care..." Et cetera, ad nauseum. Everybody was ready to punch her - we were silently and diligently rehearsing while she raved about our quite extraordinary Drama teacher.
So I yelled at her. I told her that she was full of herself, she wasn't nearly as talented as she thought she was and that we were all sick to death of her backstabbing and bitchiness. I told her that she got more help than anybody and should be thankful.
I don't yell at people very often, and this overwhelming need to yell at her made me quite upset.. so I ran away and hid in a tree at the park until the rest of the girls in the class came to find me and give me high-fives.
What did my rival do after I yelled at her? She looked around the room and said, "Oh.. was that directed at me?"
Gah. I can't handle her encroaching on every dramatic pursuit I try for in this place.
Disaster struck. I was ten minutes late to class due to some trams breaking down, and as I ran up to the closed door I heard them doing an exercise inside. A name-learning exercise. I heard names like Oscar and Leah, and then the dreaded one. The name of my absolute rival. My stomach turned and I suddenly found myself physically unable to go inside. My spirits fell a million kilometers and I skulked off to console myself with a bubble tea.
I simply cannot live in the same city as her and go to the same university as her.
We were in high school together for a year, and this is what really cemented my opinion of her. She came into our drama class, appearing fun and bubbly. She wanted to hug everybody as soon as she met them and was incredibly friendly. Then I noticed that when I was working with her, she would bitch about everybody else. From others in the class, I found out that she did exactly the same with them. She was two-faced, conceited and nasty, but we let it slide and continued being nice and civil to her.
It got worse though, and she started making comments continually implying that she was somehow 'above' the rest of the class. She was/is a good, if rather limited, actress but it was uncalled for.. especially in a learning environment.
Finally, everything came to a head when we were preparing our Year 12 Drama solos. These were an incredibly big deal... we had to think up and write a 7 minute piece to adhere to a very strict and detailed structure, then perform it for a panel of three judges. Very difficult. It was the day before our exam and we were having final individual run-throughs with our teacher; tensions were running high and everybody was on edge, but what she said was uncalled for.
Our teacher, Kath, had been incredibly supportive of us and had gone beyond what she was expected to do as our teacher. She had donated her lunchtimes, hours after school and numerous spares in between classes to help us prepare for the exam. Especially for my rival, who asked for more help than any of us and received it without a hint of gratitude.
Prior to her run-through, she began a whiny outpouring to everybody else in the rehearsal room. "This is so annoying, I knew I should have gone to (random private school in my town). The quality of teaching here is so bad, especially in Drama. Well, I'm sure that you will all understand if you get C's and D's, because that's just your standard.. but my work is really deserving of an A+ and I just know that I'm not going to get it because she didn't help me enough. I just know that I am going to fail because Ms. C didn't help me enough. It's like she doesn't even care..." Et cetera, ad nauseum. Everybody was ready to punch her - we were silently and diligently rehearsing while she raved about our quite extraordinary Drama teacher.
So I yelled at her. I told her that she was full of herself, she wasn't nearly as talented as she thought she was and that we were all sick to death of her backstabbing and bitchiness. I told her that she got more help than anybody and should be thankful.
I don't yell at people very often, and this overwhelming need to yell at her made me quite upset.. so I ran away and hid in a tree at the park until the rest of the girls in the class came to find me and give me high-fives.
What did my rival do after I yelled at her? She looked around the room and said, "Oh.. was that directed at me?"
Gah. I can't handle her encroaching on every dramatic pursuit I try for in this place.
Tuesday, March 13
Wide Academic Sea
Just had a very lonely day. I caught the tram to uni, went to a lecture, went to another lecture, sat in the hallway reading, got a non-fat hot chocolate that burnt my tongue, sent emails, ate my lunch on the lawn behind the Asia Centre and shared crumbs with a very cute bird. I was alone all day, despite being surrounded by thousands of people with all their friends. University is an incredbly isolated place, and there isn't much scope for reserved, inhibited people who aren't gay, Christian, feminists, socialists or sci-fi addicts to make friends. I did meet somebody though. In my literature class, I started talking to a girl called Georgiana. We have practically nothing in common other than our shyness and inability to make instant friends, but we're clinging to each other so we don't drown. Luckily she is in my Shakespeare class as well.
Other than that, I am madly trying to audition for things. Nervewracking to say the least, I have an audition for The Importance of Being Earnest this Saturday. I'm gunning for Cecily - she suits me physically, I think. I have a rather open, innocent and almost childlike face, I am short and I have a rather high-pitched sweet sort of voice. And as much fun as playing Gwendolen would be, I am simply too young.
Other than that, The Grapes of Wrath is coming up soon, as are an absurdist production and a Shakespearean production. Anything is good.
Oh! I applied for an agency. Hopefully (VERY HOPEFULLY) they will grant me an audition in April. Then I have to wow their pants off and they will get me jobs! As a sort of back-up, I have an interview with some people at another agency tomorrow. These people are less 'dramatic actors' type representation, and more just people for television commercials and extras for movies and television shows. Not my thing, but I suppose saying "Also has appeared in various TVCs" on my resume is better than nothing.
Something I was thinking about a lot today has absolutely nothing to do with the proceeding paragraphs, but I thought I should include it nonetheless. I even wrote a sort of mock-up in my exercise book of what I would write on this subject, but I'm ad-libbing here.
Last year, I had a tutor who I would consider a kindred spirit. I suddenly remembered him today as I walked past where his office used to be and wondered whether or not I'd ever see him again, and again when I was sitting in the hall, wondering whether he would pass, wondering whether he would even acknowledge me. He tutored me in my philosophy subject and was practically one of the only things that could get a smile out of me for the entirety of last year. He encouraged his students to email him some thoughts and questions each week so he could tell we were actually thinking about things. My pieces eventually turned into mammoth efforts asking questions about every facet of philosophical enquiry that we would bat back and forth like tennis.
There was one event that was the only time that somebody at university really reached out to me, and I was thinking about it today. I had an essay on Soren Kierkegaard that was already overdue by days and I had done very little. I came to his office shaking like a leaf with eyes red from crying, and he whisked me away to one of the brilliant staff lounges overlooking the beautiful avenue on South Lawn. He offered nearly two hours of his time, tissues, tea, and words of advice, wisdom and genuine warmth... enough to lift me out of the depths of despair. I finished the essay the next day and handed it in to receive a high distinction, unfortunately marred by the late penalty.
When that semester was over, I continued to email him but was.. 'shrugged'. To him, tutoring was just a job and I was just a student. That is obviously the way that it works and I really shouldn't have expected any more, but I didn't realise that it would be like that. So, my friendship was cut-off, I was underestimated and undervalued and I lost somebody who could have been an incredibly friend and verbal sparring partner. Anybody reading this would think that I was in love with him, but that wasn't the case - he was somebody who I connected with more than all my annoying pretentious peers, and he was the first and only person to really reach out to me when I needed a friend. So now, I don't even know whether the mysterious Zach Weber is even still at the university, let alone in the country. So I guess this will be one of those people whose presence, albeit brief, makes all the difference in my life.
Other than that, I am madly trying to audition for things. Nervewracking to say the least, I have an audition for The Importance of Being Earnest this Saturday. I'm gunning for Cecily - she suits me physically, I think. I have a rather open, innocent and almost childlike face, I am short and I have a rather high-pitched sweet sort of voice. And as much fun as playing Gwendolen would be, I am simply too young.
Other than that, The Grapes of Wrath is coming up soon, as are an absurdist production and a Shakespearean production. Anything is good.
Oh! I applied for an agency. Hopefully (VERY HOPEFULLY) they will grant me an audition in April. Then I have to wow their pants off and they will get me jobs! As a sort of back-up, I have an interview with some people at another agency tomorrow. These people are less 'dramatic actors' type representation, and more just people for television commercials and extras for movies and television shows. Not my thing, but I suppose saying "Also has appeared in various TVCs" on my resume is better than nothing.
Something I was thinking about a lot today has absolutely nothing to do with the proceeding paragraphs, but I thought I should include it nonetheless. I even wrote a sort of mock-up in my exercise book of what I would write on this subject, but I'm ad-libbing here.
Last year, I had a tutor who I would consider a kindred spirit. I suddenly remembered him today as I walked past where his office used to be and wondered whether or not I'd ever see him again, and again when I was sitting in the hall, wondering whether he would pass, wondering whether he would even acknowledge me. He tutored me in my philosophy subject and was practically one of the only things that could get a smile out of me for the entirety of last year. He encouraged his students to email him some thoughts and questions each week so he could tell we were actually thinking about things. My pieces eventually turned into mammoth efforts asking questions about every facet of philosophical enquiry that we would bat back and forth like tennis.
There was one event that was the only time that somebody at university really reached out to me, and I was thinking about it today. I had an essay on Soren Kierkegaard that was already overdue by days and I had done very little. I came to his office shaking like a leaf with eyes red from crying, and he whisked me away to one of the brilliant staff lounges overlooking the beautiful avenue on South Lawn. He offered nearly two hours of his time, tissues, tea, and words of advice, wisdom and genuine warmth... enough to lift me out of the depths of despair. I finished the essay the next day and handed it in to receive a high distinction, unfortunately marred by the late penalty.
When that semester was over, I continued to email him but was.. 'shrugged'. To him, tutoring was just a job and I was just a student. That is obviously the way that it works and I really shouldn't have expected any more, but I didn't realise that it would be like that. So, my friendship was cut-off, I was underestimated and undervalued and I lost somebody who could have been an incredibly friend and verbal sparring partner. Anybody reading this would think that I was in love with him, but that wasn't the case - he was somebody who I connected with more than all my annoying pretentious peers, and he was the first and only person to really reach out to me when I needed a friend. So now, I don't even know whether the mysterious Zach Weber is even still at the university, let alone in the country. So I guess this will be one of those people whose presence, albeit brief, makes all the difference in my life.
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