THOUGHTS ON TIME

Time will pass, whether you are ready for it or not.

When the sun reaches its’ lofty peak, all shadows are cast out from the earth, and light fills every corner. The pinnacle of the day is blinding, and time, for a brief moment, stands static as it basks in gleaming openness.

When the sun crawls beneath the horizon, and the shadows of the day are long and heavy, time feels slow to move. And yet, the sun will sink faster than you expect, and the world around you will plunge into darkness, and the sacred time until morning feels endless.

Some spend this time in sleep. Their minds’ no longer concerned with clarity and perception, but more with the hazy hyper-reality of dreams.

Some lie supine. They watch phosphorescent green numbers flick from 4 to 5, and think of the black surrounding them, their blinding problematic lives.

Some find the darkness of night most illuminating. Bright minds dulled by sepia drinks that unchain words from tongues and permit the yielding of writhing flesh to carnivorous desires and weightless rhapsodies.

Then the sun begins its relentless process once again, vanquishing the shadows of the sin-fuelled night. It comes too quickly, and you always think this. Even for the rested and virtuous, the sun rises too quickly.

Time moves swiftly in transitory moments. And time will pass, whether you are ready for it or not. 

TYPICAL GIRLS

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She has black eyes. They are honest, uncovered, glossy and alive. When she blinks, her eyelashes track through the air, arching like the moon. You notice that this is just a sliver of all their full, lush possibility . Her exquisite red heart is thick with visceral humanity. Here she is, all illusory perfection and 1000 assumptions. You’re so fucking emotional all the time. Why do you talk so much about nothing? You’ve got nice eyes though. You are a human too, after all. 


Every inch of her ivory skin is masking the ephemeral veins through which the purple blood of her life flows. You want every inch because you're hopeless around her. Greedy. Hungry for the curve in her neck, the plump of her lip, the darkness in her eyes. You want to feel the strands of her hair drift through your fingers. It doesn't feel like a cliche around her. It feels like the most painful bliss you could imagine. When her eyes shut, your stomach is tugged towards her by a thousand knots, each tied to an imperceptible and intangible delicacy, which hangs around her respiring body. She is a beacon of scintillating light in endless black shadow. You are illuminated by her, and it's agony.

A VERY SOBER WEEK

When your social life revolves around two main food groups - coffee and alcohol - it can come as quite a shock when, having given up the latter for a week, one might find oneself sitting around the table, craving that long forgotten entity known as bed rather than craving another gin and soda with friends. I wanted to prove that it was possible, maybe even enjoyable, to spend a night out with friends who were all satisfyingly numb, their minds floating atop the bubbles in their sparkling wine and cider, but I, straight as an arrow in the blinding light of the city, peering into my glass of squash with a rare clarity usually reserved for cinema multiplexes and Ikea. 
The first two days were strange. Working in a bar and not drinking is like working in Topshop naked. When you're the difference between a half-tipsy hipster on a monday night enjoying another $2 pot or him stumbling home to his share house in Fitzroy, it can be quite an effort not to indulge in a cheeky glass of wine post service. It is, undoubtedly, a part of our culture. Dinner? Sure, what are we drinking with these delicious fish tacos? Drink? Sure, red or white? It's just who we are, how we connect, how we relax. 
But I remember a time when tea and a tim-tam had the same sort of relaxing effect on me. When dinner meant the heady scent of bolognese wafting through the house. But we grow up. We indulge in chasing an oblivion wherein which our minds can drift. But what are we running from? Or is it merely habit? Society? In which case, please, let me not conform to this stream of mind-numbing behaviour.
After a few days, I felt cleaner, leaner. Both in mind and body. And then, I got sick. It was like my body thought it would be funny to point out just how cruel I had treated it lately. 'Hey Annie', it would say, 'screw you. Yeah. That's me, your liver. And I'm itchy'. I was forced to stay at home. Contemplate the work ahead of me with a chesty cough and enough tea to satiate Northern England. I even cooked dinner and made dessert for my boyfriend. What? This is not normal behaviour. An apron was worn, floors were cleaned. My house looked clean. My face looked clean. I felt a mixture of contentment and discontent. A weird, almost sober tipsiness induced from a clarity that I hadn't felt for a time longer than I'd like to admit. Suddenly, I noticed the kindness in my best friend's eyes, the sound of my lover's voice. I thought how incredible my mum had been to raise two girls and work full time as an editor. I was in awe of the people around me. No word of a lie. I felt that my brown eyes were suddenly browner, keener, richer for seeing the world clearer.
I am not an alcoholic. I wouldn't say that. No. The world I live in just includes wine. It includes Hendricks. IT INCLUDES REKORDELIG, and, so help me God, I will enjoy those fine drops in this short life. But I think, now, that maybe this life might be longer with a little less liquid confidence and maybe, just maybe, I will make it home before 1am. At least on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I also quite liked seeing the loves of my life in all their glorious, spectacular lucidity. And that is worth raising a glass to. Cheers.

ABSENTEE

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I know I've been absent lately. I really have no excuse other than my head being under the water for two months. Now that I am back at uni, I think it might stoke some tiny coal that is still warm in the back of my brain, and inspire me to write about life again. In the meantime, I have started a new blog to keep me occupied. I won't leave this one behind, but Issue 23 is more of a sustainable outlet for me right now.

Forgive me, for I forgave you a long time ago.

x

PURE WHITE PERFECTION.

(Natalie Portman in 'Black Swan')

To dance ballet is to pursue perfection. Each movement is measured, grounded in rules, and technique is critical. While limbs are drastically contorted and hips are pulverized from years of rotating against the way nature intended, it is perhaps the obsessiveness of the dancer that is the most destructive element of ballet. In Darren Aronofsky's latest film 'Black Swan', Nina Sayers, played by Natalie Portman, is the epitome of purity. A virginal, sweet, and submissive creature, she is driven to madness while trying to reach the summit of perfection - the ability to portray both good and evil, sweet and sexy, white and black. 

The film itself is a glossy thriller, as much a fairy tale as a horror melodrama that lends itself generously to Portman's portrayal of Nina's psychological unravelling. I felt uneasy and, at times, queasy as I watched Portman delicately peel the skin from her finger, crack her toenails into a bloody mess, and vomit up her grapefruit portion all in the name of her art. I am sure others felt similarly uncomfortable, however it was a particularly disturbing experience for me as I have experienced elements of Nina's self-destructiveness during my own pursuit of perfection in ballet. 

What 'Black Swan' achieved well was demonstrating the focus and commitment required to succeed in a ballet career. The film was realistic in portraying the incredible effort and hard work that is needed, as well as showing the life of a dancer, trapped in the claustrophobic and dungeon-like hallways of a theatre, totally obsessed with her art form. During my perfectionist peak, around 16 year old, I too would wake early in the morning only to begin stretching, carefully portioning my fruit into breakfast and lunch (one apple for each), and staying late after rehearsals to practice moves that I thought needed improvement, after which I would go home to make tea for my parents, relishing watching them dunk their chocolate biscuits into the milky brew. I spent much of my dancing life in front of a mirror, sometimes seeing what I wanted to see, but most of the time, not. The mirror was as much a comfort as it was a menace. It determined my day. Wake up and see ribs jutting out - good day, wake up a different morning and see a millimeter more of flesh - awful day. Aronofsky's ample use of reflection and mirroring in 'Black Swan' conveys the truth in many dancer's lives - in the mind of the ballerina, you are only as perfect as you see yourself to be. In the end, Nina's reflection literally kills her. A shard of glass in which she sees her evil alter-ego is what becomes her downfall.  She, like many dancers, can vaguely see the sort of dancer she wishes to be, but cannot let go of the dancer she thinks she should be. 

Beauty, in the mind of Nina, is all about purity. The darkness that dwells within her has been squashed for so long that it has had to find its way out in the form of an eating disorder and self-harm. This is all too familiar in the lives of many young dancers as they strive for ultimate perfection. Not only in the studio but throughout their lives. They wish to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect student, the perfect face, body, mind. Pure white perfection, untainted by the hard truth that in fact, life is not perfect, and this is what truly makes it beautiful.

More to come on Aronofsky's latest film and its moments of truth, and its moments of exaggeration...

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