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

3.dp.blogspot.com

the lovecats blogspot

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

http://sophisticated-simplicities.tumblr.com

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...

x

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?