HAPPY RABBIT.

 

http://heyyousaycheese.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html

I started writing a blog post early this week after a particularly lonely Sunday night. It was self-induced loneliness, brought upon by an inability to voice the truth before it was too late and I was released from my cozy company into the chilly Melbourne night. However, the more I tried to write about how confusing life was (and, ohh, isn't 'honesty' tricky and, ohh, isn't 'irony' a bitch etc), the more I started to seriously dislike myself and my ridiculously magnified problems, and considered consuming a whole bottle of red wine on an emtpy stomach just to blot out my onerous voice. Lucky for you, I never published the post (and, in case you're curious, I didn't drink the whole bottle, just a glass... maybe two). Instead, I sat staring at the keyboard with a mixture of hatred and trepidation.

This week, I was given one of those 'big decision' moments that I was hoping only happened in the movies. The more I think about what to do, the more I just want to curl up into a koala-shaped ball and burrow into a large quilt where there is nothing but labrador puppies, rainbows and macaroni & cheese. Alas, this sort of fantasy is at once unattainable and un-hygenic, so it's off the table. And, instead of dwelling on it here online, I've decided to avoid the drama and write about the things that make me really happy! Hey hey! 

I'm just going to rattle off a list in no particular order at all - maybe there is something you find similar here to your own 'happy list', or maybe there is something that you already know about that I should know about too! Tell me, tell me now! Or forever shut your face.

1. The ladies and gentlemen I refer to as 'friends' and, are thus, a true, funny, loyal, supportive, enigmatic, and magical sort of human.

2.Really, really delicious chocolate. Even better when covering a strawberry.

3. My black -sequined Tesla skirt.

4. Dinner with my family - it doesn't occur that often, and when it does, I find myself staring at the small bunch (i.e. Mum, Dad, sister, sister's boyfriend) with a true sense of belonging and love.

4. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, and cheesy 90's pop music that I can dance to like a total dag.

5. Dancing.

6. Flowers. In a field, in my room, in my hair.

7. Saying 'i love you'.

8. Hearing 'i love you'.

9. Yummy coffee, banana smoothies, spaghetti bolognese, granita, prosecco.

9. Kisses and cuddles and hand-holding with someone that makes my heart all weird-like.

10. Balloons, rain on the window, rainbows, and rabbits (particularly giant rabbits).

11. Sitting on Bondi Beach on my own, on a stormy day, listening to the ocean.

12. Planning holidays to New York, Paris, London.

13. Writing. Especially on the vintage typewriter given to me by my flatmate.

14. Reading Frankie magazine in bed with a cup of Earl Grey as my company.

15. Fairy lights in trees. 

16. Jasmine trees.

17. The cucumber salad my dad makes every Christmas and the gardenias my mum collects for the day.

 

I'm aware that this blog is currently more like an online journal and I don't really expect anyone to take any interest in reading about my tiresome woes and meager thoughts. However, maybe - just maybe - by recognising a little bit of yourself in my words, you might feel less solitary and a little more connected to your fellow humanoids. And that's nice, right? 

I suggest compiling your own list - it's quite the satisfactory night-time activity.

xx

THE ART OF HANGING OUT

(posthalcyon.wordpress.com)

If there is one social activity that characterizes Generation Y, it must be 'hanging out'. Gatherings of friends occur - in cafe's, in bars, in dirty apartments - to partake in this 'hanging out' business. The term is thrown about more loosely than a gymnast on a twitchy horse. It usually involves discussing other friends, pretentious literature and/or films, sport (I guess), and sex, of course. All this is done with a coffee or whisky in hand, and a general feeling of recklessness and eternal youth. There are no rules and very little social etiquette is displayed. But what happens when hanging out with friends turns into hanging out with just one other person with whom you share a mutual attraction? The question 'do you want to hang out sometime?' is one riddled with murky undertones and vague hopes of some kind of romantic connection. Will it end up.....

(checklist+copy - ffffound.com)

?

In my humble view, asking someone of the opposite sex to 'hang out' generally means one of three things:

(a) Do you want to get to know each other while we talk about our mutual friends, throw the occasional flirtatious glance at each other, and maintain a pressure cooker like sexual tension that simmers away and keeps us both amused? (Rare. I think this only happens in American teen dramas)

(b) Go on dates at places like Mamasita and Izakaya Den, slowly imagining what our house in Fitzroy will look like when I ask you to move in? (Unicorn status rare)

(c) Do the horizontal boogie at sporadic intervals and only speak when we hang out with a bunch of mutual friends? (occurs often, leads nowhere except momentary thrill and then confusion)

It's all very nice to be asked to 'hang out' with someone else. It surely means that you get along and both have an interest in getting to know each other better (in one way or another). But it can be mighty confusing too. Just as hanging out with your friends holds no particular rules or stipulations (except maybe that you treat 'em nice - and hey, sometimes they don't even adhere to that), 'hanging out' with your tall drink of water leaves a multitude of gaping holes of doubt over the nature of the relationship. We're all bumbling through our twenties, wondering how to navigate through a maze of hipster hotties and sweet geeks, who seem nice at first but then you find out they're ditching you for Jessica Hart. It's damned gap-toothed victory, and you're left in the cold depths of an empty bed reading Sartre. 

There need to be ground rules, at least. 'Are you exclusive' being the most important one to cover. But then there's the wondering if he/she will contact you, or should you contact them? The frequency of the hang outs, the nature of them, and will you indulge in romantic activity like holding hands? Obviously it's all circumstantial, but without a little structure, your casual 'hang out' buddy will fall away like tender meat off the bone. And it'll feel just about as painful as that sounds too.

I'm not a big believer in romantically 'hanging out'. In my experience it never works. It takes a special kind of person to be able to live totally in the moment and float on top of time rather than IN it. The chance of two of those types of people coming together in some kind of cosmic collision is very slim. By nature, we're all going forward, moving onwards, looking for the next thrill. Hang out with your friends, and leave romance for something more real than coffee and small talk. 

Right?

FAUK ME.

A 21 year old boy turned to me the other night, as I was quietly sipping on my Aperol sour, and began to probe me with questions like 'have you ever fauked anyone?' and 'have you ever been fauked?'

The boy is a friend. 

Before I could reply, he must've noticed my bemused expression as he immediately cleared up the meaning of this 'fauk' word unbeknownst to me. It is a hybrid of Facebook and stalking. Fauking. No, I don't think I have ever been fauked, I replied, but honestly, how am I to know if I've fallen prey to this phenomenon? I suppose I've fauked people - though not in any sinister sort of way - in the 'I really like you and I want to know if you have a girlfriend, pet rabbit, criminal history' sort of way. Or in the 'I hate you because I think you stole my boyfriend and I want to compare myself incessantly to you' sort of way.  I always thought I was a bit of a freak in doing it, but the boy's question proved that we are (Gen Y) a generation of faukers. 

Only just this morning, I sat underneath the shade of a giant branch while having coffee with my lovely friend Kate, when she turned to me, all sparkling innocent eyes, and admitted to fauking. Her admission could've been a scene from Atonement, so full of remorse was she. I assured her that this behaviour wasn't that unusual, that we all do it. Everyone fauks. 

But, while it mightn't be abnormal, is it healthy? Facebook reminds me of the answer to that tiresome question "who would play you in the movie of your life?". You can be anyone you want to be on Facebook - that's the beauty of it. Your photos can be manipulated, your status updates can portray you as hilarious or poignant (even if you're dull and lacklustre), even your 'Places' can make you seem far more exciting and adventurous than you really are. So, hours spent fauking exes, potential romances, that girl who came after you...it all seems a bit pointless, doesn't it? You never know whether you're looking at truth or fiction. 

But I get it. It's an obsession, an addiction. I can only imagine that the cure has something to do with smashing your iPhone into the pavement and deleting your Facebook account. But, we're not going to do that now are we? So, grab a polaroid camera, a picnic basket filled with cheese and wine, and go spend time with your actual friends.

You can check Facebook when you get home.

A VERY KINKY GIG

The Grace Darling is home to many life-affirming activities: eating chunky chips and a decent roast, drinking Rekorderlig cider or a generous glass of wine,  visiting the Hello Sailor Vintage Fair merchants to pick up a fancy brooch or polka-dot dress. And then, of course, there are the gigs. This Hallowe'en, the Grace was host to Tessa And The Typecast's launch of their new EP 'Painter'. 

They look like such a cute bunch don't they? That's Tessa down front in her mustard coat. When Tessa isn't providing you with all your colourful, winsome threads at Melbourne fashion institute Kinky Gerlinki, she is crooning in dulcet tones, creating a sound that has been described as a cross between Mumford & Sons and Washington. 

I like to think that Melbourne does the whole collaborative thing pretty well. Tessa's gig proved me a big resounding RIGHT as the ladies of the Typecast took to the stage dressed in vintage inspired frocks lovingly stitched by another Kinky Gerlinki lady, Amy Dickinson, of Blonde Moss label. 

Blonde Moss is unlike any other label, with bright and playful garments created from vintage fabrics often sourced from the tucked away shelves of Lost + Found and various other Melbourne fabric purveyors. 

This is just one of many winning dresses from Blonde Moss. Visit her online store here.

x

LUCID MEMORIES

Flickr//ValeriaDadDetta.

My mum smells like a combination of Dolce & Gabbana perfume and gardenias. Whenever the year approaches it's summery, floral end (northern hemispherites, this is when you plunge your face in the snow), I often think of my mother wafting through our old house on balmy afternoons in a haze of delicate scent. When I was just a girl smearing my mouth with Lip Smackers, and blindly attempting to channel Alicia Silverstone in Clueless with  knee high socks and tweed two pieces, my mother was spritzing herself with Issey Miyake and draping silk kimonos around her shoulders. My favourite past time was sneaking into my parents bedroom, opening the big blue doors to her wardrobe, and feasting my eyes on the treasures within. Swathes of chiffon, Ferragamo sandals, giant belts, shoulder pads, boxy bags with red lining - the multitude of possible outfits was at once overwhelming and exciting. I never left that room without donning her red velvet hat, clumsily applying deep maroon lipstick, and dancing around the bed pretending I was a movie star from the 1920's. On the afternoons my older sister was out with her gang of cool friends and I was stuck at home writing in my journal and pretending to be Pocahontas, I would make the trip up to her room, the attic, and play dress ups (Lucy, if you're reading this, I apologise). Her clothes, encased in a wardrobe with big shutter doors, represented the best of the 90's. Doc Martens, Hypercolour t-shirts, chains and crosses, black lace tops and tartan mini-dresses, all smelling like Impulse deodorant and rebellion. I would return to my small room, slide the mirrored door to my modest wardrobe open and hope that, one day, I would own my own set of garments that would elicit sneaky dress up sessions and doe-eyed admiration, and smell like something more glamorous and sexy than soap and the school yard. 

I was never the cool kid. I always asked my sister to pick out my outfits (I bribed her with dollar coins and chores). I wanted to be just as aloof and cool as her. Yet I was always torn between looking like a Nirvana worshipping teen, all black lipstick and denim cut off jackets, or a product of my beautiful mother - peachy keen, tied together, ready for ballet class. It hasn't changed, even now. I can never settle on being the girly girl in creamy box pleated skirts, or the goth in a long black silhouette. I guess my memories of clothes and scent have shaped my own idea of what happens when you wake up each day and decide what to wear. I'm still playing dress ups, but this time with my own clothes, in my own big wardrobe, with my own perfume. And not a Lip Smacker or Impulse bottle in sight.

THE OTHER PLACE

(Chloe Aftel for Contributor Magazine)

For a long time I wandered aimlessly. It felt like a long time. It didn’t feel aimless, however, or not in any carefree way: I was being driven by necessity, by fate, like the characters in the more melodramatic novels I’d read in high school, who would rush out into thunderstorms and lurk around on moors. Like them I had to keep moving. I couldn’t help it.

I had an image of myself trudging along a dusty or lumpy or ice-covered road, carrying a little bundle on a stick, like the hobos in comic books. But that was much too droll. More like a mysterious traveller, striding inexorably forward, entering each new town like a portent, then vanishing without a trace, mission accomplished.

…. I would welcome each new dislocation, unpack my few belongings with alacrity and even joy, then set out to explore the neighbourhood or district or city and learn its ways; but soon enough I’d begin to imagine what I’d become if I stayed in that place forever. Here, a stringy-haired intellectual, pasty-faced, humourless, and morbid; there, a self-satisfied matron, shut up in a cage of a house that would not be recognised as a cage until it is too late.

Too late for what? To get out, to move on. Yet at the same time I longed for security. It was a similar story with men. Each one was a possibility that quickly become an impossibility. As soon as there were two toothbrushes, side by side on the bathroom counter in trapped stagnant, limp-bristled companionship – I would have to leave.

…. Set against my desire for fecklessness was an opposite and more shameful desire. I’d never got over the Grade Two reader, the one featuring a father who went to a job every day and drove a car, a mother who wore an apron and did baking, two children – boy and girl – and a cat and a dog, all living in a white house with frilly window curtains. Though no house I’d ever lived in possessed such curtains, they seemed foreordained. They weren’t a goal, they weren’t something I’d have to strive for: these curtains would simply materialise in my life because they were destined. My future would not be complete – no, it would not be normal – unless it contained window curtains like these, and everything that went with them. This image was tucked away in a corner of my suitcase, like an emergency wardrobe item: nothing I wanted to wear at the moment, but worse come to worse, I could take it out, shake out the wrinkles, and step into it.

I couldn’t keep up my transient existence forever. I would have to end up with someone, sometime, someplace. Wouldn’t I?

But what if I missed a turn somewhere – missed my own future? That would be frighteningly easy to do. I’d make one hesitation or one departure too many and then I’d have run out of choices; I’d be standing all alone, like the cheese in the children’s song about the farmer taking a wife. Hi-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone, they used to sing about this cheese, and everyone would clap hands over its head and make fun of it.

…. In my more rebellious moments I asked myself why I would care about being shut out of the Noah’s ark of coupledom – in effect a glorified zoo, with locks on the bars and fodder dished out at set intervals. I wouldn’t allow myself to be tempted; I’d keep my distance; I’d stay lean and wolflike, and skirt the edges. I would be a creature of the night, in a trench coat with the collar turned up, pacing between streetlights, my heels making an impressively hollow and echoing sound, casting a long shadow before me, having serious thoughts about topics of importance.

…. At the time I’d set out, all women were expected to get married, and many of my friends had already done so. But by the end of this period – it was only eight years, not so long after all – a wave had swept through, changing the landscape immediately. Miniskirts and bell-bottoms had made a brief appearance, to be replaced immediately by sandals and tie-dyed T-shirts. Beards had sprouted, communes had sprung up, thin girls with long straight hair and no brassieres were everywhere. Sexual jealousy was like using the wrong fork, marriage was a joke, and those already married found their once-solid unions crumbling like defective stucco. You were supposed to hang loose, to collect experiences, to be a rolling stone.

Isn’t that what I’d been doing, years before the widespread advent of facial hair and roach clips? But I felt myself too old, or possibly too solemn, for the love beads and pothead crowd. They lacked gravity. They wanted to live in the moment, but like frogs, not like wolves. They wanted to sit in the sun and blink. But I was raised in the age of strenuousness. Relaxation bored me. I thought I should be making my way in the world, wherever that was. I thought I should be getting somewhere – in my case, as things so often were, somewhere else.

~ Excerpts from “The Other Place” by Margaret Atwood

Love this extract so much. I wish I could write like this.

x

PESKY MEMORIES

'Reminisce: To indulge in enjoyable recollection of past events.'

And why, I put to you, wouldn't you want to do that? Seems like a lovely way to wile away the time. There is nothing like sitting with a group of friends with whom you have a history, and poring over past events with a few bottles of wine and whisky (to help spark the old memory jolter, of course). It only really becomes dangerous when you begin to live in your past - holding on to your memories so firmly that you fail to let them go and allow yourself a moment in the present. But, before I get too philosophical and Zen/Taoist on you guys, I need to admit to something: I LOVE to live in the past. Ok yes, the female race may be predisposed to indulge in nostalgic thought; I love to remember days gone by - even the really, really bad ones (especially the really, really bad ones). I sit for hours thinking about moments when I acted with passionate abandon, and about the times I held back in fear. I try not to analyse too closely and I certainly don't regret - I merely enjoy the pleasure of remembering. 

In Albert Camus' masterpiece 'The Outsider', Meursault is condemned to a pretty horrid existence in his small prison cell. He finds that he can pass the time by remembering the physical details of his bedroom. The process of remembering every single detail distracts Meursault sufficiently. Memory is a wonderful tool our brains are equipped with, however with it comes a certain level of attachment and burden. And, just as the future doesn't exist, neither does the past (it exists only in our memory) - so what can be done when you feel like you're living with your past, in your past. How do we let go, but not forget? The truth is, peeps, I have no idea. I sometimes wonder how I'm meant to know the difference between comfort and clarity - should I even try?! Comfort is sought out by us in many ways - through past relationships, photographs, the smell of dad's infallible bolognese, that CD you always listened to when you first fell in love....the list goes on. Clarity, however, is a little harder to pin down. At least for me. And she's always so fleeting too. So, what am I trying to say here? Clarity=present. Comfort=past. 

Maybe if you can find clarity in your past, you can find comfort in your present?

I'm hungry - planning on pancakes for sunday morning treats. 

x

DREAMING OF BERLIN

I can't stop thinking about Berlin. I've never been, but for some reason, these images make me think of Berlin - beautiful people, subtle and evocative, hardy yet playful. I'm planning on going in January, so here's hoping I will return with my own images.

Image Credits: Top - Mara Corsino. 2nd - Fashionising.com (Toni Maticevski). 3rd - Francois Visser (contributor.com). 5th - Model 'Imagen'. 6th - Francois Visser.

xx

THE CHANGE.

Sssh. Hear that? I think you just heard a cider bottle opening. I'm trying not to get too excited - but I'm pretty sure that cider+sunshine = summer is on it's merry way to Melbourne! Yes, it's been a long winter. Possibly the longest I've known this fair city to endure. But, we are emerging from the darkness towards brighter, sun-drenched skies. Now, quick - before it gets so roasting that you can't step outside without feeling like Bear Grylls in the Sahara, get out of the house and onto the cities laneways. I had a little ramble around the city today, and found the clement air perfectly complemented the shady alleys and surreptitious street art.

xx

JOHN LENNON WAS RIGHT

The Beatles claimed that 'all you need is love'. I often wonder if George, Ringo, Paul and John were together today, would they pen the same lyrics? It often seems to me, in our post-modern world, 'love' has sold it's soul. Now, 15 year old girls sign off their conversations with the charming phrase 'love ya, bitch', and Hallmark makes easy what should be stomach-flipping - telling someone you love them, be it the first time, or the fiftieth. 

Of course, there is unconditional love which manifests itself in the deep, unwavering roots of a family, but I want to talk about 'love' in it's most stirring form - romantic love.

It seems to me that today's version of 'love' causes little but anxiety, Facebook stalking and a general sense of trepidation that one day, it will all just come to an end. The post-modern philosopher, Baudrillard, had a theory as to why it seems love always ends up ugly. His theory relayed a sense that we are all being manipulated by seduction, constantly lured away from stagnant reality towards an enigmatic and inexplicable truth. Thus, consciously or not, we are in a constant state of search and attracted to the 'game' that the first stages of love are built upon. Today, contentment is fleeting as there is a never-ending supply of the 'new', the constant suggestion of an upgrade to a better version - the newer software, the shinier model, the latest app. 

I came to understand Baudrillards theory through reading about it. But I never really accepted it until I experienced exactly what the old chap was going on about. The modern love 'game' endorses many responsibilities and often it is the desire for freedom and lack of liability that can lead people from the person with whom they are romantically tied to. It is always the mystery and fleeting glances that appeal. 

So, what happens? How can love ever last? Baudrillard purports that before one can love another human being wholly, there must first be a holistic love of the world, a love for the way one cannot control another and a love of life's unforeseeable future. Love has no formula, no structure. It is as unpredictable as hatred or fear, yet supersedes both these emotions with it's sheer force. I'm pretty sure that when John Lennon sang the words 'all you need is love', he wasn't talking about the procedural love that modern society shoves in our blindly accepting faces. He was talking about free love, love that isn't controlling or manipulatory. It's true that all we need is love... as long as that love is unique, adaptable and free. 

SENSE

BUT

AND THEN

Photos courtesy of Darren Mcdonald. Genius.

LIGHT + DARK + GOOD + BAD

So much light and dark, good and bad in my life at the moment. 

The confusing bit is when you can't tell what is light and what is shade. When they mesh. And everything is just grey...

BUNNY RINGS + BREAKFAST CLUBS + BABING FRIENDS

August was a tricky month. Cold, and loaded with deadlines; stress and chilly wind gusts aren't the best of friends. However, as the month drew to a close and my early September birthday drew near, I began to feel strangely euphoric. The sun began to peel itself off of it's day bed, my spirits lifting with every ray that indulged my wintry skin.

It's been a long, tiring week. Some of this exhaustion was self-induced (a little too much celebrating of my 23rd year, me thinks), and some was due to masses of work that kept tugging at my time and energy. Sunday, however, was the perfect antidote to a week of late nights and hours in front of a computer screen. The day began by slipping on my new Rabbit In A Hat ring, admiring my new vintage 70's typewriter (both perfect presents!), and trotting off to meet some very lovely friends for eggs and coffee. Many cupcakes, a flea market, a movie and some much needed vegetables later, I am able to sit down and breathe a big sigh of relief that it's over.

Sweet dreams, pretty people.

x

GET YOUR FREAK ON

VINTAGE MARKETPLACE LAUNCHES! 

Isn't that girl in the feather head-dress pretty? That's my friend, Kate. She has gone and done what so many of us dream of doing, yet don't for whatever reason (lack of money, time, or just a feeling of trepidation). She and her business partner, Jai, have followed their dream and launched an Australian first - Vintage Marketplace - an online purveyor of vintage threads. 

On Thursday, 9th September, Vintage Marketplace launched its business at the very befitting 1000 Pound Bend ( see my own very thoughts on the cafe here ). The party was filled with supportive friends, general Melbourne types (there's a paradox, right there - 'general' Melbourne types!), and fancy fashionable folks. I spent the evening sipping on apple juice from a marmalade jar and admiring the pretty dresses that adorned the walls. 

There aren't many things that make you as proud as seeing a good friend reach a goal that they have been working towards relentlessly. Unless you have also been a part of the process, seeing them go through all the shit that comes along with starting one's own business. I was always happy to help, in my little way by posing for a few of Kate's magnificent finds. In fact, the black velvet dress that she sourced for the pictures in this link was so wonderfully alluring it was said to have stopped all sense of public order when worn. 

I can almost guarantee that slipping on one of Vintage Marketplace's frocks will have you saying 'peace' and threading daisies through your hair in no time at all. And you can't really say no to that, can you?Don't miss out. 

xx

T-SHIRTS+TRENDIES+JAMESON=BLOOD.

The annual FAT Limited T-shirt Exhibition turned ugly this year when a bearded man lost some vital fluids. Maybe it was just another irreverent gesture to trendy kids everywhere - (take that! - Some broken glass and a dollop of blood on the floor, that is). Prior to the gore and glass, it was all posing and peering, naturally. On the 2nd of September at Block Projects on Flinders Lane, swigs were taken from Bulmers and Brothers Cider bottles, and tall glasses of Jameson and Dry were putting the pretty faces in good, um, spirits. So many people to speak to, so many people to ignore - it could have been easy to forget that we were there to support the Australian designers who created one off T-shirts for the 'Apple Of My Eye' exhibition. The t-shirts from the clever kids behind labels Bassike, Beat Poet, The Collectif and Ffixxed (among others) ranged from the cheeky and disparaging to the deft and charming, each one adorning a green or yellow velvet mannequin (how patriotic!). The exhibition was accompanied by music from Roman Wafers + Wilham. It didn't take long before the mannequins were being violated and the cute girls started an impromptu dance floor. 

I left, disappearing into the dark night with a belly full of free cider, wondering if the bearded man received any medical attention. I was also left wondering if we were all too focused on weaving our way through the crowd instead of looking at the t-shirts. Unless that was the point of the thing? I don't know - but I was definitely glad to be leaving cut-free and surrounded by real friends, not mannequins. 

LEAPING LEATHER!

(ACNE)

Before I begin to wax lyrical about the joys of supple animal skin, a disclaimer: I used to be a vegetarian. Not the hemp wearing, vegan worshipping type - but I was definitely anti-animal food. When I finally caved in to my inner cave-woman, I could no longer shun the soft leather jackets and lofty suede lace-up boots that beckoned to me in all their ebony goodness. So, to all of you who prefer their food without a face, I apologise.

But the truth is, I know several vegetarians who turn their noses up at a delicious bolognese, but will happily indulge in a brand new Yves Saint Laurent leather bag without a second thought. What's that about, peeps? Sure, I understand the repulsion you get when you think about the origin of your meaty meal, and with PJ Harvey, Prince, Barry White and even Plato as your animal loving buddies, it's easy to see why you'd want to be in such esteemed vegetable-smelling company. But, seriously, stop with the falsity and omit the animal skin from your wardrobe . Trot on over to Stella McCartney (she'll sort you out with some non-creature derived threads).  

As for the small bunch of us who still enjoy satisfying our carnivorous desires, we also have the added benefit of being able to enjoy this spring's tricky trend - leather shorts. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the Acne people and Alexander Wang bucked the trend for the ubiquitous leather jacket and headed southwards to the pant region. Being the proud owner of a spiffy leather skirt myself, I understand the appeal of donning a leather piece. Buttoning up the high-waisted skirt, I feel confident, irresistible, and, well, tough. Melbourne can be a bit of a mine-field - sometimes all a girl needs is a bit of a thicker skin to battle the elements. The leather short might conjure up notions of homosexual fetishism - but I suggest you abandon those ideas at once and allow yourself to brave the trend. I think the key is to keep it loose and relaxed - wear with a slouchy tee and a smile and watch the world flock to your feet. What do you think of the leather short? And the vegetarians who might be wearing them?

THE SLEEPY SPELL

Personally, I always preferred inspiration to information. What about you? Sundays make me want to smell clean white sheets, read books in the park, braid my hair and crawl out windows. Getting ready for another week - expect more reviews of the city's hidden haunts and musings on the intrepid trend of leather shorts. Ooh, also, Frankie magazine's latest issue is out - the only publication that I adore whole heartedly. Expect a run down right here, on The Future Doesn't Exist. 

Until then

xx

THE VIEW FROM RIGHT HERE

Being the product of many English, Scottish and Irish ancestors, I have a natural affinity with the rain. It comforts me like no sunny day could. The dizzying heights of a Melbourne summer bear no comparison to the cozy darkness of a Melbourne winter. I woke up this morning unsurprised by the drizzle outside my window. I was so taken with my rainy day mood (and, really, was just finding excuses not to sit down and type my essay on networked society theories...can you blame me?) that I decided to show you the pockets of inspiration on my walls. I don't know about you, but I cannot stand blank walls or unfilled spaces. At least my unhealthy magazine habit gets put to some use when I butcher the publication for the sake of decoration. White walls get lonely too you know. So go on, rip out a page from that editorial that makes you grin and stick it on your wall. We all need beautiful things to look at. Especially when it stops raining.