I Don't Understand

Here are some things I cannot comprehend:
1. Fringed boots. Quite frankly I am dubious about fringing in general, but fringing on one's leg makes one look like, to borrow a phrase, "a somewhat anorexic Clydesdale."



I mean, really, Rachel Bilson, I used to have so much faith in you. It looks like, in some particularly enthusiastic gust of wind, a flurry of tickertape or packaging stuffing has somehow permanently attached itself to an other wise perfectly acceptable pair of boots.
I get that one needs to wear boots. I am currently on the lookout for a pair myself. If anyone sees a pair that isn't fringed, isn't scrunchy, has a decent stack heel and costs less than the five hundred dollar Camper ones I'm currently having a mental affair with, let me know.






2. Leggings.
Leggings, as we all know, are not pants. Unless you are going to or coming from an exercise venue. I will admit I am wearing leggings right now. This is OK because I am wearing a DRESS that is LONGER than my anterior, and BOOTS that are not fringed and you CANNOT TELL THEY ARE LEGGINGS. They may simply be very thick stockings. They are keeping me warm. These


on the other hand, are clearly keeping no one warm. Also they are shiny. Shiny leggings are bad because they are skintight, which is unflattering enough to any general member of the populus, but on top of this they REFLECT light, making the surface which it covers seem LARGER. Now. I do not approve of the sickeningly thin form which models take, but they are THE ONLY people in the ENTIRE WORLD who look good in leggings, and even then it's only because they are on a runway and there are lots of shiny lights and beautiful makeup and music and a general atmosphere of impenetrable coolness. Thus, I do not approve of a trend which one must starve oneself for. I am very, very sorry, but if you are over a size, maybe, six, you will definitely not look good in leggings, and even if you are a size six, you're probably on Eastern Avenue, not the runways of Milan, so just do us - and yourself - a fucking favour and buy. Some. Pants.
BUT! Do not buy...
3. Harem pants
For similar reasons. Despite their loose form and outwardly forgiving nature, the harem pant is like your bitchy best friend from primary school who gives you one half of those 'Best Friends' necklackes and then turns around and laughs with everyone else about how lame you are for wearing them. For goodness sake, these are some of the most unflattering things any human can hope to wear. Unlike the legging, the harem pant does not descriminate. It strikes wantonly. It makes everyone's arse look enormous, in a very unappealing, saggy, elephantine way. They make you look as if you are wearing an incontinence device. They are NOT appropriate evening wear and they are a fucking INSULT to those Louboutin shoes.

Above all else, I do not understand these things because they are simply not very flattering. There seems to be a common misconception amongst the clothing-buying population that reading a magazine and buying the featured items is the same thing as developping a personal style. I am not the first and will not be the last to point out that this approach is foolhardly. Trends are dreamed up in a magical land far, far away from real people and the lives they live and the bodies they have. They are dreamed up for and by people who have perfected the art of looking good in some ridiculous things. They themselves make these items appealing - not the other way around.

Take, for example, Kate Moss. Kate Moss, whatever you think about her as a person, has It. She oozes cool. I am not particularly enamoured of her brand of cool (though I found myself depressingly interested in her Topshop collection) but let's face it, on her good (i.e., not crack-whored out of her mind) days, she could wear just about anything and get away with it. But I have a secret to tell you: IT'S BECAUSE SHE'S KATE MOSS. Kate Moss could wear shiny leggings AND fringed boots AND harem pants for a turban and probably still walk away with a look of smug, perfectly detached self respect on her face. Does this mean you should wear what she is wearing? NO. NO NO NO. Because you, sweetum, cherry pie, darling one, are not Kate Moss. I'm sorry, but it's true. You are beautiful. You are special. You are radiant and sexy and in all probability much, much more interesting than Madame Moss.

But before you don a pair of pegged jeans or trilby hat in attempt to acquire aforementioned aura of impermeability, think a minute. What does this actually make you look like? What does this actually look like full stop? Kate's self assuredness comes not from the clothes she wears but from an innane and unshakeable inner love for herself that allows her to believe it's OK to do stupid things like take cocaine when you have several million dollar contracts and a young daughter to look out for, or wear ripped jeans and a boyfriend's T-shirt out and about in one of London's richest areas on a freezing cold day. She wears clothes. She imbues them with enviability. She flaunts them and deceives you into thinking that if you wear the same things as her, you will also be as cool. But it simply, simply, is not true. You will be cool if you take five minutes to look in the mirror before you leave the house and realise, "Hm. Fair point. These tiny shorts over stockings paired with shiny gladiator heels and an incredibly see through white T-shirt do not, in fact, make me look like the splendiferous human being that I am, nor am I the least bit comfortable with having this much of my buttock-cheek on display at a venue that is not a beach or public bathing house. On the contrary, it makes me feel like a two-dime whore. Jeeves, fetch me my favourite jeans."

Loyalty - outdated or time to bring it back?

Anyone unfortunate to have been saddled with my company in the last twelve months will surely have been regaled with colourful and expletive-ridden anecdotes about my time working for the Society of St Vincent de Paul - Vinnies to you trendy, bargain-hunting whores. As amusing and often rewarding as that time of employment was (see: wardrobe; bank balance) I finally came to the end of my time there when my Area Manager and I engaged in some mutually passive aggressive conversation regarding my rather lax attitude towards attendance. Luckily for me, I can smell the end of any relationship miles off and had been making preparations for this parting of the ways for a few weeks, and had luckily succeeded in securing myself a job with embryo (intenional lack of capitals) designs, a couture bridal and evening wear business on South King St, not two shopfronts from the building in which I spent six years of school life (NHSPA) and the building in which I spent two years avoiding Legal Studies/English Advanced (Lou Jacks Cafe).



I feel no guilt over the way things went with Vinnies; they had strung me along many a time and they really should not have been surprised when I, in the end, showed them no real loyalty. My time with Vinnies has taught me that a great job is more than an excellent pay packet and baskets of free clothes: if the people you work with/for are mentally deranged drug addicts, you won't last long - and that's before you even have to start dealing with the customers. I am responsible for the fact that things ended in the manner that they did, but frankly they - or more specifcally, my Area Manager, is responsible for the fact that things had to end at all.



So today I tossed off my scummy jeans and natty blue apron and donned my sophisticated blacks for my first day at the other end of the retail spectrum. This job offers an even better pay packet (let's all hear it for commission) and is in a clean, quiet, pleasant smelling environment. The woman who is my boss owns the business and designs all the dresses herself, and I can safely say that I am going to be able to earn that tasty commission totally honestly - I think her designs are beautiful. I also have had the chance to talk with her fairly extensively about her design principles - admirable; her plans for the business - ambitious; and her personal history - unsual and inspiring (and I am not a person who approves of the use of that word.) As I left the store at 5:10pm this afternoon, I found myself thinking that this was a company I could happily see myself staying with, in one capacity or another, for some time yet.



There's just one hitch: my employment with embryo is Saturdays only - which would have suited me great during the semester. But the semester is drawing to a close, and with my plans to move out of home next year and the recent ransacking my savings account has taken, I need to work at least three or four days a week over the summer to get some cash together and finally meet that elusive* Youth Allowance target. embryo are not looking to expand my role and quite frankly I'm happy for it to stay that way; it means not having to let them down when uni goes back in March.



No, what I need is quick, fast cash, from someone (by which I mean a company or business) I neither like, respect nor frequent, so that when I fuck them over by disappearing just after the Christmas rush, I don't have to feel guilty/give up my favourite coffee haunt for leaving them in the lurch. A CBD cafe, I thought to myself, or maybe a Country Road Christmas Casual. I'd probably be fucking miserable and want to kill myself/the customers (HOW MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF CARGO PANT CAN YOU TRY ON???) but the money, right?



So off I trotted to seek.com.au, my go-to guide for all things employment related. (Truth told, it has only ever rendered me one, very undesireable job, but I figured for these purposes it was perfect.) Hospitality yielded little - I don't want to work in a hotel. Retail was a little more promising and I had saved myself ads for kikki.K, Marcs and Jigsaw (remember what I said about cold hard cash), when I came across an advertisement for a Sales Assistant with Australian lable Katie Pye.

Katie Pye was a kickass designer back in the eighties, doing lots of wacky and wonderful stuff with handpainting and flowers and Mondrian-style prints - totally the kind of thing my mother wore back in the day, which is why there is a bright aquamarine coat dress with floral hand painting lurking at the back of my wardrobe, just waiting for me to be brave enough to wear it in real life. (I wore it once to an eighties party. Its shoulders could have their own postcode.) Suffice to say, it's funky stuff and I like funky stuff and I obviously like working in jobs where I get to tell people what to wear.

In the end, I decided not to think about applying for this one - in Surry Hills, it would be a hassle for me to get to by public transport and I think they were probably looking for someone with more administrative/stock management skills than I have. But the fact that I was thinking about going for it raised some interesting questions for me.

What if I had liked it alot? What if, at the end of working there for three months, I maybe decided I liked it better than embryo? Would I quit embryo then, just because I found something better? Is it worth even applying for a new job, not because you specifically want to get out of your old job, but because it might be that "something better"?

Finding something better is kind of a recurring theme with me, at least when it comes to things like jobs. From year nine to the begining of university I had (including a gap year) six different employers. My two best friends had one. I don't think the concept of "company loyalty" rates very highly with me, which is why I always found it so hard to understand why these two friends insisted on staying in jobs that were boring, badly paid and poorly managed. While they both had different reasons for doing so, for one it was certainly a factor that she had worked there so long and established a relationship with her bosses. I have to say that kind of thing has never meant very much to me. If I think I can get better pay and better conditions - and in an industry that better suits my needs and interests - somewhere else, I will drop whatever employer I have like a hot potato, because my theory is that while I have no rights as a casual employee, I also have no responsibility.

And it's an attitude that extends into other areas of my life too. I don't like to be a settler. I don't buy clothes that "almost fit." (Unless they're vintage and beautiful and worth altering.) (Also note clothing that "almost fits" and comes FOR FREE does not count.) I don't buy what's on special just because it's cheap. I certainly never buy the first version of an item that I come across, if I think I can get it somewhere else cheaper or prettier or both. I was taught to always get at least three quotes for a job. (Came in handy that time the brick got thrown through Jenna's window in year 11...) No, I'm a person who prides themselves on making informed and positive choices, hopefully unhindered and uninhibited by notions of loyalty or convenience. This is good because sometimes I save money and often feel like I've avoided being sucked like the tragic consumer I am into whatever trend-vacuum is exerting its influence over me. This is bad because I often feel like I'm on tenterhooks, I can't get settled, I'm always looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next great offer to come along. I think what it comes down to is that I kind of hate the concept of work so much that what I'm REALLY waiting for is someone to pay me to sit around and read books, or study. Or act. That would be the ideal, quite frankly.

But maybe I am learning to settle, a little - or at least recognise what's good for me. Because while I'm happy to fuck over big, anonymous multinationals like Marcs or Jigsaw, another big part of holding off on the Katie Pye application was that, should anything eventuate, it would eventually mean letting down one of two spectacular independent Australian designers. After what I learnt about the embryo story and where she's planning to take it, I just wouldn't feel right about appraising my role there in purely fiscal terms. This is a relationship I hope will mean more than just my pay packet and tax-deductible black clothing; if I behave myself and think less of what they can offer me and more of what I can offer them I could wind up with something more akin to a career than a job. (Note I have no intention or desire to go into designing wedding dresses.) Yeah, I make me sick too. But that's my informed and positive choice to make.





*PLEASE NOTE the spelling of this word, elusive. It means (according to dictionary.com)
1.eluding clear perception or complete mental grasp; hard to express or define: an elusive concept. 2. cleverly or skillfully evasive: a fish too elusive to catch. IT IS NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH allusive (having reference to something implied or inferred; containing, abounding in, or characterized by allusions) or illusive (based on or having the nature of an illusion). STUDENT JOURNALISTS OF SYDNEY, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

A failure of vision?

My whole "use of blog as cultural recorder" thing has totally failed, I can see, which is unfortunate, because I've engaged in a lot of culture this past ten month period that I would have liked recorded and am now afraid I will forget at a crucial moment. What lies behind this failure to realise such a simple vision?
Crippling fear of how bad my writing is when I'm not being flippant, petty or pedantic is one part; concern that I will have to further justify my opinions to others is another; having better things to do with my time is probably also a factor (or at least makes me sound good.) But having spent a good eight hours today doing nothing I know I should feel it's time to engage my mind in something mildly productive.
Well, a hearty fuck that, I say. When I say I did nothing today, I mean that quite literally; my list of activities today reads as follows: 1. Wake up at 10:30. 2. Get out of bed at 11:16. 3. Go to the bakery and buy sourdough. 4. Eat sourdough and read the (wanky) magazine. 5. Facebook. 6. Bed, again: engage in some hardcore ceiling staring; cannot even bring self to read. 7. Shower. 8. Cancel afternoon tea. 9. Walk to brother's school in searing heat to drop off forgotten items. 10. Return home to eat, finish reading the (wanky) magazine, [non]essential and The Inner West Courier. 11. Watch five episodes of Seinfeld; loaf of sourdough almost finished.
And dear god, it was one of the bed days I've had in weeks. Not for me the alarm clock. Not for me the list of twenty five things to be accomplished and another twenty five looming like shadows just around the corner. Not for me conversations about anything. (I think I have uttered about ten words all day, the most commonly repeated being, "Hello, Rebecca speaking." Sometimes I think I should just quit my job and become my mother's PA.) Not for me getting dressed. (Though I did, eventually, because of adventure into searing heat.) Not for me interactions with human beings.
I can understand why reading that might make someone think I had suddenly contracted a tropical disease or else morphed into somebody far less sociable and alive than my sweet self, the fact is that sometimes your brain just needs to crash. After weeks and weeks and weeks of looking down the barrel of my diary and finding nothing but cordoned off sections of time devoted to this or that worthy endevour (academic acheivement, financial enrichment, cultural engagement, attempted artistic fulfilment) I found myself feeling trapped upon an ever turning wheel that I didn't seem to be controlling. As it's now Novemeber, the wheel will soon slow to a more leisurely pace - the kind of pace one might move at walking alone a picturesque beach, rather than madly sprinting from Eastern Avenue (lecture ran overtime to 12:58) to Woolley (mad lecturer insists on starting at 13:00 precisely.) With three exams still to go, however, I'm still moving at a brisk pace, but I figured if I was going to give myself any chance of getting to the end without a collapsed lung, it was time to take a breather round.
I generally find the world a very interesting place. I think my problem is that sometimes I find it too interesting. So many things to do, and see, and people to meet and spend time with, and events to keep up with, and conversations to be had, and knowledge to be attained, and results to be achieved! And while each of these things is fabulous and entertaining and enriching in isolation, en masse it's just like standing in the middle of a large space while people throw brightly coloured and pleasant smelling objects at you: totally overwhelming and eventually a little repulsive - not to mention totally not conducive to sleep.
And so I find that every now and then I have to take myself off and do a little bit of hibernation - burrow myself away somewhere and give myself permission to do just nothing, to make no lists, to achieve no objectives, to think no thoughts. I have to let myself stare at the ceiling for hours, almost to the point of boredom, to soothe my often overactive mind of the crowd of voices and commands and thoughts that tend to cram in there most of the time. And when I've done that - when I've emptied everything in my head out and let it float around above me, and looked at it a little - I can start to appreciate what a truly dull thing life can get without it. So I start to pack it back in, bit by bit, maybe ordering it better or leaving out anything that was making me truly unhappy - and I get back on the wheel, happier, healthier, and much more likely to make it to the end of the race.

Complicated

Not a rumination on that dreadful but nonetheless era-defining Avril Lavigne song, this is rather in reference to the concept, as articulated by Facebook, of the "Complicated Relationship."

Seriously, I log on to Facestalk this afternoon and the first item on my Stalkerfeed (I hope that by appearing cognisant of the bizarre power this technology affords everyone even vaguely in my life to know my every movement and me to know theirs, I become less of a sucker for using it) is that Old High School Aquaintance That I Never Really Liked In High School Anyway And Only Accepted On Facebook To Make Sure She Wasn't Doing Better Than Me In Life (let's just call her Ohsatinrlihsaaoaftmsswdbtmil, or Ohsa for super convenience) is apparently in a Complicated Relationship.

This begs several questions.

The Facebook option of being in a Complicated Relationship (or, as it is indicated in your relationship status, "It's Complicated [with XYZ if you so choose]") is obviously an acknowledgement of the situation that many of us have found ourselves in over time whereby you are seeing someone on a semi-regular basis, you're doing the kissing and maybe even the sexing, but they or you are, for one reason or another, emotionally incapacitated to the extent whereby they still refuse to call this a relationship. Now, you're not single - because you're having the sex, as it was so eloquently put by Paolo in Friends - but you're not in a relationship, because labels ruin things, and being a girlfriend/boyfriend is subjugation and entrapment, and you don't see why it's anyone else's business, which seems to be a favourite line. So It's Complicated. Seems logical enough. Except if that the whole reason It's Complicated is because you Don't Want People To Know ... doesn't putting it up on Facebook - that is, the most public arena the world currently offers us - doesn't that COMPLETELY DEFEAT THE BLOODY CONCEPT AND IS REALLY JUST YOU PUBLICLY DECLARING TO ALL AND BLOODY SUNDRY THAT YOU'RE HAVING SEX WITHOUT HOLDING HANDS OR HOLDING HANDS WITHOUT HAVING SEX?

The second question, more just a matter of me being semantically finicky, arises from the sentence itself: "Ohsa is now in a complicated relationship." Well, excuse me, but what the hell what Ohsa doing before with everyone else in her life? Clearly delineating them into easy categories where each person serves a single, simple purpose which they performed every time they meet without fail? That's the relationship you have with baristas and bus drivers maybe, but not, you know, people who actually have an influence on you. (Not that baristas and bus drivers don't influence you. They influence me greatly. Just in uncomplicated ways.) I have complicated relationships with lots of people but that doesn't mean that we're engaged in intense negotiations over sexual politics. Now I know this isn't really Facebook's fault (or even Ohsa's - but she's pretty annoying so I like to snigger at her nonetheless) but still. I thought it interesting, because I'm into things like that.

Interesting unplanned third point: between writing my last paragraph, I logged onto Facebook once more, only to be informed that Girl I Have Met Once or Twice At University and Yet Again Do Not Particularly Like (henceforth known as Gihmootauayadnpl, or rather Gihmoot) is "no longer in a complicated relationship." This, like the information in Ohsa's update, is displayed with an accompanying little love heart - not the broken one you see when people break up, but the nice whole one you see when people get together.

How do these two seemingly contradictory events work together? By Facebook's logic, being in a Complicated Relationship is worthy of a heart, therefore it must be a good thing for the people involved. But getting OUT of a Complicated Relationship - and, Facebook presumes, In A Relationship - is also worthy of a heart, and therefore must also be a good thing.

Well, what if being in a Complicated Relationship isn't good? What if being in a Complicated Relationship is leaving Ohsa with unanswered questions and doubts about her self-worth and the worthiness of her emotional investment? What if being in a Complicated Relationship makes Ohsa feel like she is giving everything to a person who can never commit meaningfully and is simply stringing her along for her sexual and/or emotional benefits without taking on any of the responsibility that comes with being In A Relationship - the responsibility to prioritise the needs of that person, the responsibility not to be infidelitous (assuming that they are not In An Open Relationship, another of the myriad of relationship options Facebook affords us, politically correct souls that they are), the responsibility to openly and happily acknowledge the relationship? What if Ohsa is going through that thing that happens when long term couples break up and then still sleep together and hang out together and have keys to each others houses but aren't actually together because for whatever reason, a simple question of naming leads to a total change in behaviour? What if Ohsa's status as Being In A Complicated Relationship is simply her way of trying to reassure herself that she's in a Relationship at all? And, as I think I pointed out earlier, doesn't that just defeat the purpose of this particular kind of Complicated Relationship?

Similarly, who makes the decision that for Gihmoot, not being In A Complicated Relationship is suddenly a move up in the world? I stalked her down just to make sure I wasn't going to misrepresent her here in an arena she will never encounter. Her relationship status no longer exists - you know, that tricky thing people do when they take it away completely because they're so utterly confused or depressed by whatever their Actual Status is that they can't bear the thought of other people looking at it every day. So Gihmoot is no longer In A Complicated Relationship - but according to her profile, she's also not in a Relationship at all. Maybe she has completely ceased all interaction with other human beings around her, I don't know. This does not necessarily warrant a perfectly formed pink heart in my mind. Why does Facebook - who said Being In A Complicated Relationship was a good thing now say that getting out of one is equally good? What if Gihmoot's Complicated Relationship was nonetheless mutually satisfying and rewarding for both parties? What if neither of them wanted, for whatever reasons, to subscribe to approved-of avenues or definitions for their interactions with each other? What if they cared deeply for one another but lived in different cities or states or countries and for that reason could not commit to being In A Relationship as it is commonly conceived of in our limited vision of said? What if Gihmoot is crying into her pillow tonight over the loss of her Complicated Relationship? What if Ohsa is crying into her pillow tonight over the existence of hers?

What, then, of all our other relationships? If only Facebook would allow me to define the relationship I had with each of my 237 "Friends"(please note very deliberate use of inverted commas there.) Why is this one relationship, instantly understood to be romantic in nature, priveleged above all the rest? I restate: I am in a lot of relationships in my life, many of them complicated, or in the very least complex, and some of them are with people for whom I have, or have had, or may one day have, romantic feelings but generally they are not. Can I set my Relationship Status to Multifaceted?

Finally, what are we to make of the mere fact that I can know any of this at all? What are we to make of the fact that last week, when a friend of mine who knows almost none of my other friends (he can be Fomwkanomof...OK, Fom) broke up with his girlfriend, I was confronted by three of our vaguely mutual friends (that is, mutual friends on Facebook), not on as close terms to him as myself, who had heard of this development within hours of its eventuation because the couple in question, you guessed it, changed their status on Facebook? What are we to make of the fact that if I were to change my currently Single status to It's Complicated or In A Relationship or even if I were simply to remove it at all, at least 237 people (in fact far more, seeing as I am too much of an internet whore to ever set my profile to private) would have access to that information. 150 of them might notice it. 100 of them would mentally notice it and discuss it amongst our mutual friends the next time they met. 50 of that 100 might even go so far as to send me a message about it, and there would be at least ten people inconsiderate enough to post on my wall about it, and the fact is that in that 237 people there are maybe only 20 anyway who I think would have any selfless interest in my love life as something other than fodder for gossip, and I probably would have told them in person anyway.

This is not: a rail against Facebook, or against the concept of Complicated Relationships, or against the concept for Relationships. Mainly I was just perturbed that Ohsa was obviously getting some, and she's a total pain in the ass.

Some Things On My Mind At The Moment

1. Looming exams and lack of preparation for said
2. Increasing expansion of waistline and lack of activity to counteract said.
3. Exploding wardrobe
4. Disappearing bank balance due to exploding wardrobe
5. What to do during the summer holidays
6. Moving out - yay or nay?
7. The fact that the ability to predict the future would greatly resolve much of this anxiety
8. The fact that predicting the future is impossinle, thusly leaving me to my own devices --> increased change of fucking up and making Wrong Choices.

During high school I think I struggled with decisions less. Maybe I knew what I wanted more. Actually I think I was just less aware of my options. These days I see options spread around me in every aspect of my life, from what to wear in the morning to what cleanser to use to what to do on my holidays to what to do with my life. It might seem like a quantum leap from fashion to life-path but I think it's the same attitude both equally stressful. It's a lack of ability to distinguish combined with a plethora of choice. It's the inability to prioritise combined with the impatience of youth. It's the desire to experience combined with the desire to get it right the first time round.

I seem to labour under the delusion that I have limited time. I mean, I do. We all do. We are mortal. But what I mean is, my life, my choices, my chances, my options, my development physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, professionally, sartorially - it doesn't stop at 23 or 25 or 30. But then I don't want to get to those ages and feel I've missed out on doing something important.

I think this choice anxiety is couple with the knowledge - or perhaps the misguided belief, who can say - that to make it as an actor - as a female actor - you have to get in there young. And I don't want to me that person who sits around for how many years talking about a dream without actually going out to do something about it.

I guess the scariest part is that it's usually not until you've made it that you can see that the choice was the wrong one. I think I am congenitally afraid of failure. But not doing something because you might fail is but a short step away from not doing anything at all. I believe the Chinese say we must not be afraid of growing slowly, only of standing still. I agree with that in sentiment but I think in practicality I probably often choose to stand still for fear of getting chopped down altogether. It's that old attitude that I used to have such disdain for - that trying nothing and therefore going nowhere feels less damaging than trying to move and moving slowly; because at least if you're not trying you can futilely cling to the belief that you could be going somewhere, you're just choosing not to - thereby allowing yourself to believe you're still in control.

This attitude really only holds up until everyone else around you gets their act together enough to start moving, leaving little old you feeling drastically and embarassingly left behind.

Books

I love books. I always have done. I am not cool enough to love lots of obscure bands and have them on vinyl - for this I blame my classical violinist father - but the sheer ecstasy of shelf full of brandspankingnew books, oldleatherbound books, mediumbatteredpaperback books - now that's something I can get worked up over (and for that, I suppose I should blame my writer mother.) So I have always done lots of reading. When I was younger I could start a book after a Saturday afternoon trip to Dymocks and have it finished in time to talk about it at school on Monday (not that anyone wanted to hear.) But - and I'm sure I'm not alone here - I found this a harder feat to accomplish as I got older. For one thing, the books I wanted to read stopped being The Babysitter's Club (don't ever let anyone say I am a literary snob) and started being more along the lines of Dickens or Tom Wolfe - hardly a quick read over Sunday lunch. Also - and this is the more annoying part - life just kind of took over. Jobs and assessments and rehearsals suddenly meant I could no longer lie in bed all day on Sunday to get lost in my little printed world - especially if it wasn't on a reading list for a course. I think it was around the middle of year 12 that I woke up one day and realised I hadn't read a book of my choosing in about two years. That was tragic. I have to say one of the best things about taking the gap year was choosing my own reading material. Then I started uni and was forced to consume Australian literature in quantities I would never do of my own volition...and it's back to wracking my brains for the last book I read that was actually a matter of choice.
But now holidays loom - actually need better word than loom; loom implies, by onomatapaeic association, doom - and I am determined not to waste them staring idly into space for the entire time. Somewhere between rehearsals and theatre outings and shopping, oh god, so much shopping - I'd like to read lots of books. So I'm making a list. I won't get through the list this holidays, or next, but I'm going to carry this list with me forever and every time for the rest of my life I get bored I will look at the list and think, now there's a book I still haven't read, boredom be gone!
So if you know a book I haven't read and you think I should, leave me a comment and let me know. As I always say, suggestions welcome, if not necessarily taken.

Old Flames Never Die, They Just...

...get to that stage like where you've blown out the candle but the wick still has that little glowing bit on it that you have to lick your fingers and pinch to get it to go away. It's totally useless, it produces no heat, it can't even spontaneously reignite or anything, but they're always there, and I, poor sucker that I am, haven't quite figured out how to pinch these babies out of my life.