frankenstein's maddie

At the urging of the universe, I went back to university for my final undergrad year. I promptly fell into a term long argument with Henry James*, rediscovered my interest in Indo-Anglo writing**, managed my usual schtick of writing a history essay on something that 'not really historical' *** and fell in love with Eastern Europe****.

Before that I went to Vienna, where this happened.

And then I came home, where this happened.

And now? Well now I am Frankenstein's Maddie, a patchwork of tea consumption, historical generalisations and a marked distaste for Socialist-Christian-Marxists. I am reading too many things with too many words and I am thinking alot about silences. I also work at a place patronised by retirees who have nothing better to do than tell me about how my generation is an evolutionary cul-de-sac.

*based mainly on his hatred for Germany

**and the politics surrounding Indo-Anglo writing - should people write in English? What's magic realism got to do with it? Are we all colonialist pigs?!

***I'm writing a treatise (yes, a treatise) on the importance of American Jazz in WW2 Europe. It's awesome and going to send me to an early grave.

****not really a hardship, seeing as Berlin and Vienna, and now Prague are my three favourite places ever, and grumpy intellectuals like Kundera and Milosz are my role models.

more faux academia...

Me (thought): Do you think that perhaps reason we start to see more of an awareness of the problems inherent in Othello when we attempt to place it in a modern setting, and that maybe race isn't really the crux of it, not in ways we 21st century beings conceive of it anyway. And couldn't we argue that Iago isn't a sociopath or psychopath, that he's instead displaying some sort of repression crisis emblematic of the stifling society Shakespeare lived in?

Me (out loud): Oh god. Othello hurts my head. Oh look, I need new socks.

I wish my brain had a better connection to my mouth.

I do have an issue with people "diagnosing" Iago though. I think it's stupid. When people say "Iago's a sociopath" what they mean is "I watch SVU religiously and therefore have a deep understanding of mental illness". Iago is a nasty person, beset with jealousy and insecurity. End. Shakespeare didn't put thoughts of mental illness into his characters. I'm sure someone has written a convincing paper about how Iago is a sufferer of mental illness, but until I read that, I'm sticking with my Professor's viewpoint, which is "think not what you think of Shakespeare, but what Shakespeare thought of Shakespeare", reason being, that viewpoint lets me be a hellion during class, allowing me some sort of revenge for not originally following the viewpoint in the first test. Because apparently Shakespeare didn't have a deep understanding of mental illness, but he had a deep understanding of how important youth apprentices were in his portrayal of women.

Ugh.

#

We finally got to watch the first episode of the new Doctor Who. I'm impressed, but I'm slightly underwhelmed. More explosions would have been good. Matt Smith certainly has energy (and custard and bow ties!!), and it's a different energy to Tennant's. I'm reserving judgment until at least Episode 3, but I've got my fingers crossed that Eleven doesn't turn out to be as sentimental as Ten. I may be the only person who was irritated by Ten's last few episodes, muttering "get on with it" as my mother sniffled over his angst torn face.
I fully expect legions of Tennant fans to garrote me tomorrow morning.


#

Even after spending too much time drinking Coopers last night, talking about the politics of Lady Gaga, singing along to Bon Jovi and Joy Division (god help me), in the back of my mind I was still thinking about this essay I'm writing for History of Sexuality. Normally, if this happens, it's because I know I should be home working, but last night it was because I'm actually really excited about writing this essay. It's only a few thousand words, but I'm looking at the emergence of gay and lesbian Literary Subcultures in the early 1900s, which means looking at the Bloomsbury set (Woolfe, Isherwood, Forster) and The Americans (Stein and Radclyffe Hall). It's completely awesome that during a period when national identity was being fully shaped, literary people began to move their manuscripts out of the closet. Anyway, all that probably solves the mystery of this morning: "Why I woke up with the words check antiquity chapter and climb state library written on my hand.

For a moment there I thought I was planning a heist, but when the morning fog cleared, I realised that no, no I was drunkenly planning to visit the State Library. Because I have no consistent social life to distract me from becoming emotionally invested in my work.

backdrifts

Some people, when presented with a crisis, will stand up and take control in a calm, sensitive manner. Others act like total tits. Some people will try and centre anything on themselves, and others will cry in corners for weeks. Some people, like my dad, will be bastions of self-control and concern, up until the point where they can't resist making some sort of joke. Others, like my brother, will be charming and cheerful. And some people, like me, get quietly angry (at goodness knows what) and have the urge to knit, because goodness knows they can't do anything else to help.

I've been thinking about all of this, partly because I'm interested in trauma culture but mostly because on Saturday evening my grandparents Gill and Phil were in a terrible car accident. They're both in pretty bad shape, but should be fine (in a few months). My brother and I spent most of yesterday in RNS Hospital with Rob, our step uncle, waiting and waiting and waiting until we could see them. When we did see them, they were both pretty out of it. And because I couldn't do anything, I fidgeted. Which is where my desire to knit came from, presumably. And I thought about how we deal with trauma, and as my mind is wont to do when I think about trauma, and trauma culture and memory culture and all these things I've read about but never actually studied, I ended up at what is considered the Heart of Australian Identity, ANZAC Day, and had to go breathe into a paper bag for a bit.

Perhaps I am one of those people who makes everything about them.

I can't begin to describe how relieved our family is that they're alive. (and making rude jokes about nurses)

#

And when mum and dad got to the hospital (they'd driven for four hours from Orange) suddenly everything got a whole lot more real. Everyone looked tired and older than usual. Watching Dad was bizarre, and I think I probably haven't processed all of this, so I shouldn't really be thinking about it. Phil did lots of silly morphine talk.

#

Sunday morning saw Lottie and I going on our daily walk, wherein she drags me around for an hour and I trip over things and wonder why I'm awake at 6.30, when it's still dark. At that time of day, it's as if nothing bad has ever happened. Lottie snuffles and mumbles to herself and is just so dear that I feel we could spend all day walking.

seven hundred billion stairs

The first two weeks of term are always draining and raining. I spent the first week in a daze with "buy notebooks" on my hand, trying to remember the names of people I'm sure I've met. There are lots of orange tanned people. None of my lecturers can work the projection system. There's standing in the massive line at the bookstore to spend over $200 on textbooks, then another hour in the second hand bookstore to spend far too much on Shakespeare and books that I don't need for school, but want to read anyway. The stairs still steal my breath. The bus line gets longer every year, and they still haven't realised that they need more than one bus at midday.

It's good to be back.

Although I feel a little out of place, like someone is going to tap me on the shoulder and ask me where my mummy is. Like I've been let into second year by mistake, and the computers haven't noticed yet.

The subjects I'm taking are mostly history based, so as I've been doing the readings, I've managed to forget that there's this thing called the Internet. Really. When reading about trade routes or city walls in 15th Century Europe, or sex hierarchies in Ancient Greece, I'm sort of amused and awed by the way people found something to do with their lives other than post comments on Facebook. Which is what every student with a laptop is doing during lectures.

While I'm still managing to make an idiot of myself in tutorials, my lectures are interesting (so far) - my Modern Europe; Renaissance to Revolutions lecturer managed to make city walls almost as interesting as the awful things people used to do to one another (reigniting my interest in Heloise & Abelard). My History of Sexuality class isn't so much about sex, as it is about what people think of sex, identity and the relation between the two. And the two subjects link quite nicely with one another, as does my third class (yes, I'm being lazy and doing 3 classes. I couldn't find a fourth one I liked)

I did run away from Creative Writing, but it was more of a considered retreat. I found myself sitting in the first lecture being ridiculously worried by the number of people wearing berets. I myself own two berets, but had forgotten to wear one that day. I then realised that I would spend the entire semester in a ridiculous state of self derision and judgment, which would result in much unneeded angst and bad writing. So I enrolled in Shakespeare & Renaissance Drama, and couldn't be happier. The lecturer is brilliant, and the fact that we get to study other playwrights from Shakespeare's era is awesome, because the sex-violence-nexus focus of the time is fascinatingly dangerous, scintillating and so very clever.

I don't think I really wanted to be a writer anyway - a creative writer at least. I don't like the word "creative" as it simultaneously says "what we do is better than academic writing" and "this isn't real work". The idea of there being a correct way to write is also unnerving. But what terrified me most was having to share my work every week. I don't like having to explain my choices to people, and will often attempt to blind you with library science and intertextuality if you ask me to justify myself. "If Marcel Proust did it, so can I!". Why I'm trying to justify my choice to drop Creative Writing is beyond me. I'm happier writing papers with an academic edge, working on developing my own voice in essays. Is that nerdy? I don't really care.

Back to Shakespeare. We're currently studying Romeo & Juliet. I once saw a production of R&J done by girls from my school and boys from the local private. The concept somehow involved Bruce Springsteen songs as musical interludes performed by ex-students. The masquerade scene had Lady Capulet dressed as a naughty Red Riding Hood. Having never read the play until now, I was quietly pleased that it's much much funnier and bawdier than any school production is ever allowed to be.

And while the stories Shakespeare told are old hat to us, I think it's important to remember that at the time, this was new - it was fresh. The tale of Romeo and Juliet went against all social conventions, and today still forces a judgment of the characters. Richard the 3rd (one of my dear favourite plays) is amazing political propaganda for the Tudor family, as is Henry VIII. The plays also saw the invention of phrases that are still in use "beast with two backs" and "forgone conclusion" being but two. My highschool English teacher, when asked why we had to study Hamlet, placed her hands to her expansive bosom and sighed. "Because, my darlings, are we not all, in some way, Hamlet?" What she lacked in clarity, she made up in gravitas.

I suppose I could have just said "I took Shakespeare because it fit in my timetable" instead of waxing lyrical, but waxing lyrical about things is what I'm best at, and what this blog is all about.

i think too loudly

UM. I think if you added up all the words I wrote in February and did some sort of mathematical thing with them, then you'd find that I did write about 25 words a day. Just not on every day. What happened was that real life got in the way. Insomuch as I have a life. I got sick, my computer got sick, my dog needed lots of walking and there were lots of books to read . (and my merlin series two dvd arrived, so there was lots of laughing to be done). But now I'm back at university, and thinking more than I do in the summer.

I've been thinking about misanthropy, and how it's becoming something we like in ourselves - most of our conversations are complaining, we actively deride the mainstream, nothing is ever good enough. It's beginning to worry me, but I'm counteracting it by looking at pictures of puppies, people with tattoos and making faces at babies - that's one of my favourite things to do, make a funny face at a small new person, and seeing their reaction. Most babies grin with delight at getting attention, some look confused. When I was working for CullaChange, a woman was having a very serious discussion with my coworker Dee, while I poked my tongue out at her baby. When they finished talking and the woman looked at her baby again, the baby stuck its tongue out. The mother said "Where did you learn to do that?!?". One of my more awesome moments, I think.

I've had non awesome moments recently. Sometimes I am a nasty person. I have a competitive streak that never found a sporting activity to keep it quiet. So I measure myself up against everyone else, and find myself wanting, every. single. time. It's getting boring. I also hate admitting that I'm wrong. All this leads to inarticulate stomping around. I know what's wrong, but I can't get it out, because I feel stupid. (And also, I feel like in this post-therapy culture where everyone's fucked up, we're becoming more cynical about people having bad days.) So the past few weeks saw me stomping around because I can't have what I want, but someone else can, but I don't want to get what they have the same way they did, I want to do it all on my own. Does that make any sense at all? Probably not.

This all culminates in me having to have an awkward talk with my father. My parents and I aren't talkers. It's awkward. I never got the sex talk all my friends did, my mother and I don't have heart to hearts. We talk about books or theories more than we talk about our feelings. Anyway, the awkward talk about what's wrong with me (because it is nearly always me) involves a clarinet, a hyperactive puppy and three tissues. I admit that I am not a nice person, but that I would like to be. My dad says possibly the best thing he's ever said to me (however cheesy it renders on here)

"So you aren't a nice person. But you want to be. That's the most important thing. You want to be good, and you try."

And then he compared me to Lancelot*, and things went back to being academic.




*people think Lancelot was the bravest knight. But he was always the most scared, and had to work the hardest at not running away. It doesn't seem as important when you learn that Thomas Malory based Lancelot on his perception of himself.

charmed

from here

There are some people whose guilty reading pleasure is Harlequins. But for me, re-reading the Harry Potter series will always cheer me up (like yesterday, when I spent the day reading books 1 though 5 and missed posting). Even though I know my letter from Hogwarts is never coming.

Sometimes though, I wonder what my patronus would be (and secretly want it to be a fox or a bear)- ever done that?

double-dog-dare

It has been too hot to blog. Also, my inexplicable dislike of the word "blog" sometimes turns me off. Someone fix this please, and while you're at it, do something about the words "lubricant" and "moist". Those words make my skin crawl.

(I'm watching my sister organise my books into alphabetical order. It's kind of bizarre, and vaguely slave-labour-esque. Still, she was the one who wanted to do it. I now have two bookcases, one for fiction and one for non-fiction. I was pleasantly surprised by how much non-fiction I own, although most of it is travel and music related. Or educational. At any rate, this is the most organised my books (and I) have ever been. Claudia predicts it will last a month before I knock something over.)

As it's February now, and my summer is slipping away, university looming closer like a big scary thing, I feel I should try and get back into blogging. As much as the word disgusts me. So I apologise in advance, but I've challenged myself to write a twenty five word minimum entry per day for the entirety of this month. I'm an over-talker by nature, so this should be easy. I'm apologising in case its boring. I think the problem with my blogging is that I've never been sure exactly what to write about - and when I do find something, it never comes out right.

Someone very drunk once told me that you can't ever be right, you just have to be consistent. Which makes absolutely no sense, but you know, drunk people don't have to make sense. I think perhaps what he meant is that you just have to be doing something, and that sometimes repetition is kind of helpful.

The same person also asked me to try to be more cultured.
So I've made some Bircher museli, and am waiting for the culture to set in.

No, no, seriously, some real culture for you: I'm reading A Very Long Engagement by Sebastien Japrisot, which is the novel the movie was based on. As is often the case with these things, the book is almost completely unrecognisable to the movie. The main characters, Mathilde and Manech are dealt a much harder hand than they are in the movie. You get a sense though of how World War One left no one untouched, from the stories Mathilde collects as she tries to find Manech. I haven't finished it yet, but I'm hoping the ending is similar (or better) than the movie.

I dragged Claudia to see The Princess and the Frog on Friday. Best Disney movie in years. Really. Better than Mulan and Aladdin, on par with Beauty and the Beast. There's a fully formed world, with awesome jazz and blues music, jokes on every level for everyone, a decent story line and characters who do more than wait around for fate to be nice to them. The Alligator, Louis, is awesome. And the food! I think I've talked about how much I love Southern USA food. I was drooling, and this is a cartoon. I have to convince my family we need a deep fryer so I can make beignets. Go and see it. I'll come, and bring pecan pie.


Um, all that was way more than 25 words.

all the walls in your house (a very boring entry)

The past few weeks have been utterly mad, in that way that isn't really mad, but feels so. And the list of things to do is still not done!!! It keeps getting longer!!! Yet again I'm reminded of my tendency to be a total sook and a complete quitter. Fortunately my mother is Iron Woman who threatens me with early mornings if I don't do what she says immediately. When I point out that I am twenty one and therefore not a child, she gently points out that I am twenty one, still living at home and once again unemployed. And then I do as she says, whilst scouting the job ads.

All this is vaguely humiliating and made worse that it all happened whilst I was wearing an unflattering pair of short shorts, an old shirt three sizes too big and several layers of paint.

We've repainted my room. I wish I had photos to share, but my camera is packed away in a box somewhere, as is my usual computer. It was a mammoth undertaking that began about six months ago, when my mother pointed out (as she does every time she enters my room) that it was a bit of a swamp, with manky walls. I responded that maybe we should paint it, she agreed and then we probably had an argument about my tendency to leave everything everywhere. I should perhaps note that this tendency spawned as a result of my wardrobe door breaking about 8 years ago when I hid in it, for reasons forgotten.

Then I decided (probably drunkenly) that 2010 would be "the year that I did all the things I say I'll do but never get around to doing" starting with revamping my room from its pink and green with white rose trim little girliness. My mother also must have been intoxicated, because we got the ball rolling quite quickly. We had an inspiration trip to Ikea, where I bought the LameLamp and lamented that I couldn't have a sled bed. We traipsed to our local hardware store to pick paint colours, and I decided I wanted barely there colours.

This was a mistake.

Barely there colours used to be the bane of my existence when I worked for Culla Change . North Shore dwellers with their expensive silk shirts would appear at my desk and say "I'm after a colour that's sort of eggshell, but y'know, lighter." or the woman who demanded "Latte" and told me "No, that's not Latte, that's Cappuccino." I thought I had sworn never to become one of those women, until I found myself looking at paint samples. All of the whites had too much yellow in them, the creams were just gross, the pinks looked like pigs innards, red "wouldn't fit with the house" (Nippan do an awesome red called Redcoat that I am going to use one day.) and I knew I didn't want purple. I am not a purple person.

That left me with blue and green. Green was vetoed, because when we moved in here (15 years ago) the walls were sickly green. So that left blue.

I picked Taubmans' Orchid Dew and City Lights. Last Monday Mum and I undercoated my room, which was a giant hassle because I am 147cm and my room is nearly 3500cm high. I sort of had to charge the walls with my paint roller. Then we put the samples on the wall. Orchid Dew looks like a faded purple bruise and City Lights is the colour of London sky when it can't decide if it wants to rain. But you wouldn't think that if you looked at the little cards you get at the paint shop.

Annoyed, we trudged back to the paint shop on Tuesday, where we spent nearly TWO HOURS trying to pick a colour. Most of my choices were made in frustration and shot down, as apparently our 170year old house has a tone that needs to be maintained or the people from the historical society will come beat us with spoons. Curse my parents. Finally I grabbed what looked like a nice pale blue called Chalkdust. As I was charging to the counter, I noticed something called Angora Blue. (I want to be one of the people who names paint colours) which looked like a sort of washed out sky blue. My mother bought me a Mars bar to stop me grizzling, and we went home.

The Chalkdust looked like the London sky does when its just decided to rain because it knows you didn't bring your umbrella. Gross. Angora blue however, would do. It's crisp and fresh and not sodding purple. Mum threw her hands up in relief and went back to the paint shop. I had a nap on the sofa, where I'd slept the past two nights.

I hate sleeping on sofas. People assume I don't mind sofas, because I'm little. But I am, as previously explained, a weird sleeper. I need a little bit of space. Our sofa is kind of narrow. And the back of it curves out slightly. I don't know, its fine for naps during the day, but a whole night is a bit much.

The other part about sleeping on the sofa is Lottie. Little Lottie is not that little anymore, at 18kgs. And every morning, when she's let in, she tears around the kitchen to the lounge room and jumps on the sofa. This is bad. It's also bloody painful when you're fast asleep and a canine cannonball jumps on you and tries to lick your face off. After two mornings like that, I was a bit tired. So naturally, I fell asleep on the sofa. And Lottie jumped on me. And licked my face.

Once we got painting though, it wasn't too bad. Idlewild turns out to be the best music to paint to, even if I had a bit of an embarrassing moment during The Space Between All Things because Roddy Woomble always sounds a bit sneery when he sings "all the walls in your house were painted in deep blue/you're at that indecisive age to choose colours that reflect you." but Mum dripped paint on my head and I got over it.

On Wednesday morning while Lottie was busy sleeping on my stomach, Mum painted my floorboards. Then we went to the theatre, which I've written a post about, but it needs rethinking as I'm probably being too rude about religion. I spent Wednesday night on the sofa again.

Thursday morning we went to Ikea. I'd done my research, and thought we could just pop in and pick up the new wardrobe, table, chair and underbedthingforshoes that I wanted. I reckoned without my mother, who is like a small puppy when presented with stores like Ikea. We left with the things I had wanted, but also a cutlery holder (that is now a pen holder), a wooden plate thing, two packets of napkins, a door mat, two new garbage bins, two storage boxes, a standing mirror and a stuffed toy mouse. I have no idea how that happened.

My silly thinking continued - I was under the impression Ikea furniture would be easy to put together. Mum and Jeremy made jokes about losing the Allen key whilst hauling the stuff upstairs. I tackled the chair, and got half way before cursing the Swedes. Turns out Ikea furniture is not made with Left handed people in mind. By the time we got to putting the table together, I was sent away and told I was useless. The Right Handed people continued without me.

It took until Saturday to get everything together. I'm back in my own bed now, and all that's left to do is paint my bookcases from pink to white and then reorganise my books. There was a lot of shouting, and my room smells a bit like paint. My mother claims I'm going to have to keep everything tidy, and I'm thinking that as good as mother-daughter bonding is, we've had enough to last us the rest of 2010.

And for all my siblings jokes about not losing the Allen key, I have to admit I've got no clue where it is now.

the great bathers quest

The last pair of bathers I owned were gleefully tossed into a dumpster in Reykjavik at 4 am one rainy September morning. I remember this because I was so sick of these bathers, I'd had them for 4 years. I then avoided buying a new pair until last Sunday. I'm not big on swimming, mostly in some sort of Freudian reaction to my mother, who adores swimming. She petitioned, campaigned, downright whined for about 7 years until we relented and said, yes, OK, you can have a pool. Stop pouting. When summer hits, my mother goes out and buys herself new swimsuits. Gleefully. I have never met a woman who loves swimwear shopping as much as my mum. She's a wonder.

Part of the reason I think most women (women that I know, anyway) hate swimwear shopping is because its just so revealing - and that's just in the change room. When I went bathers shopping on Sunday (the hottest day EVER. UGH), I tried on TWELVE pairs of swimmers. I had to remind myself that they're supposed to be tight.

I didn't go near any of the bikinis. They're dangerous. For several reasons

1. There's just not enough fabric to protect me from skin cancer. I am PALE. I am Snow Maddie. I am not about to put my skin in danger. In fact, if I go swimming during the hottest period of the day (11am-3pm) then I am in rash shirt and boardies and 9L of 30+ sunscreen. Having grown up with a cancer specialist for a father, I cannot impress upon people how dangerous over exposure is in the sun. I am the girl who got sunburned in the Cotswold's DURING A FIVE MINUTE BREAK IN A THUNDERSTORM.
   
2. There's just not enough fabric to protect me from over exposing myself. Look, I get that the human body is a wonderful thing, but unfortunately, I (like alot of other lovely ladies) have very poor self esteem, as I am not all that thin. I don't have limbs you can snap. Also, I am very flaily with my limbs - expressive is a nicer word, I guess. Put me in something that is held together with two knots and is roughly the size of a tea saucer and we might run into some problems. You might see more than you wanted. And then I would run away and never come back.
3. They're boring. Like, really. All the patterns are boring. This season.
4. Why should I pay the same price for a bikini as I do a one piece???? That's just stupid

So with all that in mind, I decided on a one piece - yes, I know, you can get tankinis, but I don't like the word tank. Or that my tummy tends to escape. I trekked into DJ's and moseyed around the swimwear section. And found 12 one pieces to try on. Out of the twelve I tried

ONE of them had a neckline that perhaps should have been called A BELLYBUTTON LINE.
ONE of them I couldn't work out how to get into for a good 10 minutes.
ONE of them had a very unflattering red flower that emerged from ones rear.
TWO of them had weird cutout bits that I hadn't noticed when they were on the hanger
THREE of them had this sort of skirt thing that in theory was great, but in reality made me look five (the pink one) or eighty (the blue and navy ones)
FOUR of them were too high cut in the thigh.

I was beginning to think that I would just go and make myself a pair of swimmers that looked like this
from here

And then I tried on the last one piece I had found. To be honest, when I saw these on the rack, I'd sort of decided that they'd be the ones. Cut nicely on the thigh, with a little retro look to them. They looked swish, as long as I didn't look at my pasty thighs or belly. They weren't in danger of falling off. They would do, if only to ensure that I could go into the pool in the 40 degree heat that was Sunday.

from here

Obviously I look nothing like the girl in the picture. Which is the problem with swimsuits, and most fashion. They only cater for the beautiful. The rest of us have to work hard, the rest of us try stupid diets, or worry that perhaps they can't go out in public. It's sad. I mean, good on the beautiful women that meet the grade, but speaking as someone who rarely meets the grade when it comes to clothing size (because I am petite, but I am chubby! Who knew!) it can be very demoralising. The lights in change rooms don't help, nor all the mirrors. What does help is that all my friends are lovely, and when we were splashing about in the pool, trying to recover from the disgusting 40degree heat, they told me my bathers were nice. And then splashed me.


x


It was disgusting yesterday. So I of course, made a sort of invented pecan pie. Which was awesome. Sometimes my desire to vist the Americas is purely food based. Except for Tex-Mex. Ew.

arrivée de toujours, qui t'en iras partout

from here

One of my heroes - no, one of my kin is the French poet/anti-poet Arthur Rimbaud. I say kin because he would have hated being a hero. I discovered him when I was about 12, absolutely friendless in highschool, and devoured his Saison d'Enfer. He joined other French loves of mine - Alexandre Dumas and his d'Artangan, Victor Hugo and Quasimodo, Dumal, Foucault, Francoise Sagan, and the Americans in Paris - Fitzgerald, Stein, Hemingway. It's possible that I should have spent more of my teenage years outside instead of reading. When we (by we I mean me, my books and occasionally my friend Jason) used to smoke too much and drink even more, Rimbaud was always on my mind, as a sort of decadent god who watched us, both dearly and depreciatingly.

It wasn''t until I was in Paris last year that I got my hands on a biography of Rimbaud, by Graham Robb. I devoured this book by the Seine, and then again on various trains. It wasn't that Rimbaud was a shining light, but rather that he was so very clever, so very cunning and so very orchestrated. Rimbaud constructed himself, deconstructed and reconstructed in ways that weren't very common back in the 1800s. He wanted to be a celebrity, a god. He wanted adventure. His poems are the beginnings of punk rock, a reaction against the mathematics of poetry - but they are also an exploitation of the same.

The feverish anger in Saison d'Enfer is tempered by the beauty of Illuminations, the music in Drunken Boat, the depravity in First Communion. There's godlessness, there's sunlit mornings. Often excused as the squealing brat of French poetry, Rimbaud's lyricism is something very special.

And that he stopped writing completely at 21, became a traveler, a trader, an explorer in Africa, makes me feel slightly more hopeful about days when the words don't come out right.

from Illuminations:

To A Version Of Reason

One tap of your finger on the drum releases every timbre
and founds the new harmony.
You take a step and new men materialize; they march out.
You turn your head away: the new love! You turn back: the
new love!
'Alter our destiny' you hear the children sing. 'Stamp out
plagues! Stamp out Time, for a start!' Everyone begs you: 'Raise
the substance of our fortunes, our desires, wherever you can.'
You - fresh out of forever. Making for everywhere.










-
i needed cheering up this monday morning, so excuse the entirely wanky self induglence of this post.

we are ACHIEVERS

My brother, sister and I started our exams this week - hers to get her in training for her School Certificate, mine to finally catapult me out of first year university, his to catapult him into first year. It is incredibly bizarre to watch this little boy, who I remember visiting in the hospital when he was a few days old, talk about chemistry and Spartacus and Maestro - he writes beautifully, and wrote a story about a man and his books that I'm trying to convince him to let me "publish" on here. The NSW Higher School Certificate is, in some ways deeply problematic in that it tends to try to be too modern, and leaves gaps within one's education (which is presumably having an effect on the quality of university level english courses, but then everything is having an effect on that) It's been difficult for him this year, what with the emphasis on ranking and the exhaustion that the final two years of school bring. Still, Jeremy has plodded through it with his usual puppyish charm and humour, and I am deeply proud of him, and feel that I should say something like "he's matured into a deeply sensitive sweet intelligent young man" except about fifteen minutes ago he rang past me, stark naked and giggling. He does that alot. He also dances as badly as me, and encourages me to dance often.

I'm also quite proud of my other sibling, Claudia. About this time last year she decided she wanted to go on her school's Classics tour, to Itlay and Greece. Instead of demanding that our parents pay for the entire thing, she got herself a job at MacDonalds and paid for a large portion of the trip. She went for three weeks this October, and I gave her all my leftover spare change from when I was in Europe. I'm proud of her for being so independent and determined, as well as far more interested in her education that she is in boys - she's resisted private school culture (in a more positive way than I did.) Claudia is by far the most intelligent of the three of us, and certainly the most ambitious. So I was surprised to hear that she had returned from Europe without conquering it and declaring herself Supreme Dictator for life. I should point out that upon hearing that it took Hitler 7 hours to invade and conquer Belgium, Claudia remarked "that's a bit inefficient." Unlike Hitler though, Claudia has a sense of humor. Most days. Well. For a part of most days. Around dinner time.

And as for me? I HAVE SURVIVED THIS SEMESTER. There is one more exam left, but that's November 11, so I have a few weeks to revise. My American History exam may have ended in me accusing the question of being stupid, but really. You can't talk about The Americas as a single entity - there are too many social, economical, cultural, geographical and political differences for any of it to be homogeneous. Hah. I totally learned something. I thought my killer final sentence of "what about CANADA!?!" was a winner. And then in Gender History today I had a small meltdown because none of the essay questions had any real focus, so I decided to accuse the Medieval Christian Church of using Binary Thinking to inform their Gender Constructs, because they're all dead and can't subject me to their bizarre maternally fixed exectuations anymore. Seeing as that was all about 500 years ago. There were probably too many capitals in my essay, but its DONE.

Ugh, I'm exhausted.



x

Culture News: Mum and I went to see Bright Star which is a movie about John Keats' and his lover Franny Braun. I had to pretend to be an English teacher for some reason, the movie was abit too long and there was little or no soundtrack which was unnerving. I didn't really like it that much as I was tired and grumpy, and also I'm a cynic, but I thought Ben Whishlaw was perfect as Keats. The cinematography was divine, and I wanted the cat, Topper.

I'm reading The Pornographer of Vienna, which is a fictionalised account of one of my favourite artists, Egon Schiele. It's kinda tough going, but beautifully imagined. Chaucer was great, but the Olde Englishe got to me after a while. Next up is a book with a very long name about a Russian Gambler. I'm determined to read over 100 books by March 1 2010. (which is when uni goes back)

Also, I have a job for Christmas! I'll be working with Emma at Virgin Records. I'm excited, and can't wait to get started - I'm already fantasizing about what I'll spend my first pay on.

Oh, and that super super exciting news I mentioned might be happening?
It's definitley happening....on Sunday.
I can barely keep my mouth shut, but I promised I would.
It's going to be brilliant.

365

(photo taken in Berlin, by me)

I have been back in Sydney for a year.
My hair's a different colour.
My book shelf is near collapse.
It's as windy here as it was in Reykjavik.
I'm still unemployed.
And I still don't know if I believe in posterity.

(street art in downtown Reykjavik, taken by me)

But I felt I ought to mark the date anyway.

wait, is that a ninja hook?

I'm not entirely sure that I know any adults, or that any of the people I know are truly capable of being considered adults. I'm including myself in this sweeping statement, by the way. And by adult, I mean I can't ever imagine not laughing at inappropriate jokes or Freudian slips. Paying bills before the final notice. Writing essays a decent time before the due date. Not eating chocolate for dinner, or beer for breakfast. Not wearing shoes that I know will make me cry the next day, but are beautiful nonetheless. Not having pointless crushes on people I'll never meet. Being resigned instead of outraged. These are all things that I equate with the maturity that I don't have at present. And don't really want to have. I take myself too seriously, far too seriously. You might have noticed. But in the past three weeks, life went a bit odd and I ran out of effort. Sod being an adult.

One of the odd things was that I received an HD for an essay that I wrote the day after it was due. I was very embarrassed about this, as it encourages bad habits and also makes me really confused - the essay was rambling, had no point and insulted the French. But my professor liked it, and I'm not really in a position to argue with him. This lead to me considering French history for next semester, as it seems I've picked up a History sequence by accident. And that means I should probably make an attempt at the French language at some point. I'm still an English major, it just means that eventually I'll be proficient (hopefully) in English & French Literature. Knowing me, it'll be obscure medieval literature written by goatherds, and I'll have to learn Olde Englishe.

I was pondering all this, along with my usual pondering about why academics get such little respect when suddenly I was on holidays. Which really didn't make that great a change to my life as I've had an essay on Revolutions & Women hanging over my head all week. It's nearly done, I swear. Keeping with the trend, most of it is me accidentally insulting the French, I think. I like the French, honest. They believe their own hype, which is something I wish I could learn how to do. Anyway, my head was going at a million miles an hour, and then Emma rang.

This was a Big Deal, because Emma had just arrived back from Edinburgh. Where she'd been for a year. Without me. I last saw her in September, when I had arrived back from Iceland at midday, caught an overnight bus that stopped in Birmingham for 5 hours for no reason and dumped me in Edinburgh very early in the morning. Where Emma was. It was awesome and windy and if we'd had more time, we could have taken over the city. I love Edinburgh, its my kind of city. So I'd left Emma there (reluctantly) and set about annoying the beejezus out of poor Lizzle for a year.

And then Emma came back, and we had to celebrate. We did this by taking over the back room at Badde Manors - we being Emma, Lizzle, Beard, Libby, myself, and some wine. There was much laughing and shouting and more laughing and I remember thinking at some point that these guys are family, that part of growing up is making a new family for yourself. And that possibly, this is one of the few good things about growing up. It's being able to have people there who will tell you when you've got falafel stuck between your teeth (although they're laughing hysterically). It's not telling someone that they've managed to throw ice cream into their wine glass. It's drinking rose shiraz out of tumblers and not feeling pretentious. It's trying new things (like vegetarian food for Beard) and knowing that if you don't like it, the people you're with will be ok with that, even though they'll tease you good naturedly about it forever. It's wandering up and down George Street eating gelato and shouting about politics. It's seeing a hole in the station wall and wondering "wait, is that a ninja hook" and going on a flight of fancy. It's standing on a traffic island while everyone in the restaurant has to listen to you shouting your own reworked version of the classic "I'm on a Boat". It's finding the people who don't mind that you're you, and that you have a tendency to refer to your disagreements as "states of cold war". It's realising that you don't have to be out on a Saturday night, you just need a Doctor Who DVD and a bag of clinkers and each other to have a good time.

So in the midst of all the noise on the drive home, with Brandon Flowers singing in the back ground and Libby realising that she had driven past my house, I felt that perhaps growing up is overrated, that adult maturity is a concept I'll always be chasing, and I decided I didn't really care. I'm just relieved that there are a bunch of nutters with me, telling me to stop thinking and open the next bottle.

Libby, wondering why Beard is taking so long, Me in the midst of laughing, Emma being suave and Lizzle clinging to the pole for balance. We're on a traffic island.

and with that somewhat soppy post, i hope i've captured the promise spring is bringing. we're all feeling full of potent potential, and if i ever get this wretched essay about Revolutions and Women finished, you might see some of my sewing potential documented on here.

um, is the new header ok?

empirically, progressively, eventually

You know when suddenly four days of your life have disappeared, and you have no idea where they went because the whole thing is a blur of mistakes missed phone calls missed chances Mozart procrastination Foucault Roland Barthes angst etc, and you still haven't done that thing that you were supposed to do??? Except you can't really remember what it was that you were supposed to do - but you remember at the time, maybe midnight or Sunday morning in the sun, whenever, right before everything fell through and went totally crazy, you knew for about thirty seconds exactly what to say.

Thirty seconds.

What a rip off.

x

In attempting to write 700 words that "identify the way the chosen document problematises the effects or use of media forms and technologies within that territory" I have come quite close to chucking in my degree and never going back. I wouldn't blame that assignment (although it is due tomorrow and at present I have approx. 0 words), but I would blame that subject, and I would blame the absolute apathy, disinterest and disrespect displayed by my fellow students. And I know, I know, I know that I shouldn't be bothered by other people's attitudes towards things, but it does have an effect on the environment I find myself in - tutorials where nobody says anything, lectures where nobody asks questions, group work where nobody does anything. It's depressing. University is supposed to facilitate the growth of knowledge, instead we all just sneer at the word 'facilitate'. Is this what I want to do with my life? I had vague notions of taking up a post in Literature somewhere, which would keep me quietly entertained for the rest of my days. Now, I'm having doubts. I don't know if I want to go through the blank stares of students, or feel like a neanderthal being washed away by the technology march (what is wrong with books in books format in a library?). There must be some benefit - in fact I know there's a benefit. Not to blow my own trumpet, but according to my English tutor last semester, it's people like me who do the reading, do the extra reading, who ask questions and care about their subjects that make teaching worth it (how sappy but wonderful). Granted, I'm slightly more likely to do this for English (which I'm not taking this semester) than I am for Media. But still. People told me that I'd find my niche at university. It's been three very long and wonky years, and I still feel like perhaps I should have been at university during the 1940s, that perhaps I am the outdated one who should get with the program. There's a lack of respect for knowledge and learning that confuses me, and I don't know if its what I want anymore. Maybe I'd be better off joining the rat race and making millions.


(and all the jokes about doing a "farts degree"? they got very boring a long time ago. not that they were ever funny.)
x


Things don't make sense very often, that was my starting point for this post. Some days I feel very very very old, and some moments I feel very very very young. Alot of the time I'm hungry and tired, and that makes me wonder if there's a point to all this, which some days feels like the 15yearoldblackjeanswearing me, and other days feels like the James Joyce brandishing87 yrold woman I might eventually turn into. I don't know why we do these things to ourselves - my father does a job that has given him both an Order of Australia Medal and terrible migraines. When I asked him why he kept it all up, he pointed at the stereo set up blaring The Rolling Stones and told me it was the material benefits. And that instilled in me a realisation that material objects aren't that bad. I think I went and bought a dress to celebrate.

Sometimes though, when that song comes on, or when my fingers hit the right notes on my cello, or when the pastabake turns out right, or the front page of the newspaper inspires a rant, or when someone smiles at me, I think that maybe not understanding is ok. Because I'm a learner, and I'm trying to understand. Unlike alot of people, I'm making an effort.

Hiding Under My Sofa

At present, if I make the mistake of turning the television on, I'm greeted with this:



Which, granted, is a major step up in that it doesn't seem to feature any of those people (y'know, the ones who I keep insisting are trying to kill me, and you all keep rolling your eyes about.) However. It does make me want to hide under the sofa and chew on the television cables.


Unlike my mother, who once famously proclaimed "I understand hip hop" (which left the rest of us wondering if anyone understood her) I don't. I just don't get it. I have tried, believe me. I have tried very hard, to the point of standing near the Black Eyed Peas when they played the Sydney Big Day Out in 2005. And yes, I understand that they probably aren't really hip hop 9there's always a purist) , but I also once had a very bizarre experience of watching Kanye West support U2 whilst drinking beer with a frenchperson who knew every lyric of Kanye's but in french. I like Kanye, though. He seems like a laugh, in that he clearly embodies hiphoprnb but knows its a bit of a joke. Anyway. Sidetracked. Again. I don't get what I am being told is "modern r'n'b/hiphop".

Mostly because it looks very very aggressive, seems to involve gratuitous abuse of the English language, uses exactly the same bass beat for every single song, spawned the popularity of those stupid stupid grillz (who needs diamonds on their teeth? are you a Terry Pratchett troll?) and just. The dancing is terrifying. If Ciara isn't slapping at all her flesh whilst prancing around in shoes that were made in order to paralyse, then the Pussy Cat Dolls are doing some sort of obscene gyration thing that involves knee pads and me wishing that i hadn't decided to be interested in music video culture. And if its not a female, then its Eminem telling me that he thinks he's Hannibal Lecter and that its 3am when it's clearly not. Or that guy who wears Top Hats and is always on a boat. Or Beyonce, who has clearly taken a trip on the Ego Train and never wants to get off. And so on, and so forth.

I just don't understand how people can be attracted to what appears to be a very shallow lifestyle. Like, don't you want to talk to the girl before she's knocked up and you're off shooting things? Or would that throw out your day? I don't know. Perhaps my life would have been different if 50 Cent had got to me long before BRMC did (although, perhaps not. BRMC have legendary rescuing capabilities and I highly recommend them for any musical interventions you may be planning). The other thing is that it all seems so faceless - and perhaps you could argue that all my beloved indie bands would look that way to a hiphop fan - but the song material is either a bass-ed up version of "its a hard knock life" or an x-rated version of "Pour some sugar on me" (if that song could be x-rated?).

I could just turn it off I suppose. I'm sure there's some Top Gear episode on (its always on) that I haven't seen that I could watch instead. I could even make a start on my reading for next year. But the thing is that I love music videos, and I love pulling them apart. I wrote 3000 words about the clip for "I'm Not Ok (I Promise)" by My Chemical Romance and then spent the next two weeks wondering why every time I saw Gerard Way I wanted to ask him to do my homework. Patrick Wolf's offering for "Vulture" had me jumping about wondering if perhaps, we were seeing the acceptance of pornification of MEN instead of women in a leather-istic way, and if so, could Patrick possibly rope in William Beckett (I'm sorry. Objectification. I'm no better than Hugh Hefner, really). The National's 'anti -video' for "Mistaken for Strangers" has my heart swelling every time as much because of the 'anti video' as the song. I've loved every single video Lily Allen's done, and I could possibly write a treatise akin to Lord Of The Rings on how I think it's very unfair that there aren't more music videos by female artists that I like in which they don't have to gyrate/wear something skimpy in order to get attention. So you get it. I like music videos. Possibly a little too much. (My excuse is that I don't have the attention span for film, which is a lie)
The first music video I ever remember seeing was Blur's Song #2, in which the band kick up such a storm that the room they're in goes nuts and they get flung against the wall. Great storyline, obviously, and very reflective of the song. (pfft.) And ever since then, I've thought that music videos should be viewed and analysed the way we view film and television. There's probably a whole bunch of accredited people who study this and use big words about what this means as a society, but I've always been interested in gut reactions as opposed to academia (which is why I keep ballsing up my academic life. probably).

And then Ciara started entreating me to "shake that thing like a donkey" and I lost my train of thought, because I became enraged at the silliness of EVERYTHING. What, pray tell, am I supposed to be shaking? And can you provide evidence of how a donkey shakes, because I like to get things right. And if you are not referring to an actual donkey, I expect a detailed analysis of your metaphor, including why you chose to use it, on my desk double spaced by 4pm tomorrow.

Clearly though, the silliest thing is that I am letting myself get weirded out by people who think wearing PVC on a hot day is a good thing.

i used to be your biggest fan

(a post that started with me eavesdropping and ends with me talking about boys)

When I was in high school, a girl I knew kept a list of the celebrities that she was determined to engage in conjugal relations with. As far as I remember, these ranged from Orlando Bloom to one of the Backstreet Boys to Chris Martin of Coldplay. This list got updated, I think, depending on who was on the cover of that month's Cosmo magazine.

I, on the other hand, was determined to snag Quidditch player Oliver Wood. Even if it meant that I had to trick actor Sean Biggerstaff into permanently pretending- sorry, acting as said Quidditch player. It wasn't even really how good he looked in bastardised leather cricket pads and maroon gold stripes (what a strange fetish that would be). It was mostly his accent. Which was Scottish and adorable and slightly incoherent. Like most Scottish people that I've met or encountered via mediums of entertainment. Roddy Woomble particularly. I went through a phase where I was sure the answer to life would be having Woomble as a next door neighbour to pester (sometimes I still think that). And the guy who played Pippin in Lord of The Rings. In full hobbit garb, he looked like an awesome guy to take to the pub.

This all has a point, I swear. I'm not doing a gratuitous eye candy post. Actually, there really isn't a point. I heard a couple of girls talking about their lists and was struck by how a) the list was basically identical to the list that the girl in my grade was keeping 4 years ago and b) the dominating nationality were Americans. I find that odd, and then had to have a think about which Americans I would put on my list.

And I came up with three obvious ones, and one that I was a bit in denial about.

So. Obviously Johnny Depp. Because you have to appreciate a chameleon like him, and also when I was bored I could force him to take me swing dancing. We could talk about France and possibly learn how to make cheese. He seems like a guy who does stuff.
Obviously Brandon Flowers. I have to admit that my appreciation and admiration for this man really only started when his band released their second album "Sam's Town" and Flowers turned up to the party with the most hilarious moustache ever. He looked like the villain in a Western film, and he totally knew it. He comes off as slightly conceited, but I think that's just confidence - he knows his music is insane and a guilty pleasure for just about everyone (except me. I will be dancing to Joy Ride until the day I die of laughing at Joy Ride) and he knows how to dress. But then he shaved off the moustache, and I stopped talking to him. I think this is why he's seemed a bit gloomy recently. A lack of Maddie in your life will do that to you, trust.
Third Obvious is William Beckett. I don't know how to explain this one, except for the fact that the video for "We've Got A Big Mess On Our Hands" had me drunkenly contemplating if the universe would render itself in two if there really were two Beckett's. He has lovely hips and seems like a total geek. And appears to have actually read Ayn Rand's Fountainhead, so would be useful when I do Modernist Literature next year.

The American that I was in total denial about until I sat down to think about this is Paul Banks. The lead singer of Interpol has disappointed me twice live, but I wouldn't be averse to sitting down with a bottle of red wine and talking about obscure albums that he's heard and I haven't, obscure books that I've thrown across the room and he's finished, and how I really can't be bothered making an effort to be 'obscure' anymore. I was in denial about Banks because he seems way out of my league (because y'know, I'm having dinner with Depp and Flowers won't stop sending fucking bouquets.) and also because he kind of looks like all those really annoying art school boys who spend three hours doing their hair (I am sure Beckett does that. However, someone who uses the word 'existential' in the wrong way in one of his songs can be forgiven. Clearly art school didn't suit him the way it didn't suit me)

So. Yes. A list of males I would engage in conjugal relations with. Or would I? What I was thinking about when I was eavesdropping on those schoolgirls today (who should have been in school, not on the 14.27 train) was that they were talking exclusively about the physical aspects of their to-be conquests. Whereas I was thinking (far too seriously) about how long it would take me before I threw red wine all over Paul Banks for suggesting that perhaps "Paper Soldiers" was a good movie. (I concluded it would depend on the quality of the red). And really, do I want to be drinking wine with Paul Banks when I could dancing and talking all night with Paul Smith, who probably is the musician for me (remind me to post the zine thing I did on Maximo Park, please)? Is it because I'm older and realise that looks aren't everything and that sex is inevitably not what Hollywood frames it as? Or is it because I have too much time on my hands and would rather be thinking about boys than Colonial Latin America? Is it because I'm a natural conversationalist who isn't really ever satisfied? I'm inclined to think so.

I think celebrity attraction starts out as a sort of physical thing (those hips! one thinks) and then as you slowly realise that the odds of that person ever showing reciprocated interest is very very small, and that you only really know a quarter teaspoon of information about them, it becomes kind of boring. Perhaps this is why Pete Wentz is the object of affection for so many girls and boys - he's constantly blogging and tweeting, and there's a sense that one really knows him (even though I'm sure alot of it is just conjecture). But I don't know Oliver/Sean's favourite coffee blend, or Roddy Woomble's favourite thing to do on a Sunday, or if Johnny Depp likes vacuuming, or if Brandon Flowers has ever played pub trivia or if William Beckett hates tomatoes or if Paul Banks secretly loves the Harry Potter series. I don't really know anything about them, and that's what puts me off thinking too much about them. They aren't real to me, and I'm much rather someone real.


I'm sure all this had a point. Maybe I'm trying to say that I think objectifying celebrities is a little cruel, not only to them, but to ourselves as well. I was so sure my first relationship was going to be perfect. It wasn't. It was messy and awkward and hysterical. We were expecting Hollywood and we got something closer to a Monty Python sketch. And with all the maturity that 21 years gives me, I think that was better. And when I look at my friends relationships, which are quiet lovely little things that have their hysterical moments (Beard thinks yams grow underwater. Liz rolls her eyes), I feel that sort of warm feeling that Romantic Comedies are always trying to inspire within me, which makes me feel queasy. I'm not saying you shouldn't settle for less than the Grand Narrative of Love, but you should realise that the little moments, the little people, are far more real than whatever simplified thing the magazines and novels and movies have taught you. Sometimes I feel like our idea of love and relationships are being ruined by all that.

All that said, I'm sure I'll end up in Scotland again sometime soon. Sean Biggerstaff should be on the look out.

xx


I did something today that I haven't done since the 6th Harry Potter book had me in tears. I threw a book across my room and nearly broke my window. I have shitty aim. The book was Marion Bradley's "The Mists Of Avalon", a title that sounds more like a face cream. It's (yet another) book about the Legend Of King Arthur, except told from the perspective of the women. Which would be totally great, if it wasn't so bloody rubbish. It's medieval Mills and Boon. I can't work out who I want to kill more - Gwenhwyfar, who is the wettest wet blanket christian I have ever met or Lancelet, who is like medieval Paul Banks, Morgraine who gets angry and sulks alot, the Merlin, who is nowhere near as amusing or wise as the Disney/TH White Merlin (or the recent BBC Merlin), Irgraine who magically went from being a loyal pagan to obsessed with Uther, Christianity and being a bad mum or Mordred, who hasn't turned up yet but I'm sure will be very annoying. My favourite character is six year old Gareth, who has two lines. And I kind of want to take Marion Bradley's Arthur and give him a hug and tell him that yes, I understand its all very upsetting, but he is the greatest king Albion has ever seen, and as such should not have married such a bloody wet blanket, and he should get more angry more often. Ugh. I think it might turn out to be worse than Beloved, if I ever bother finishing it. I have to go watch the Disney version again to remind myself that the Arthurian legend is about chivalry and friendship and battles, not bloody moaning about snake tattoos and babies and Saxons.

Oh, for the record. I did end up doing the Colonial Latin America Reading. Much more interesting than anticipated.