When Minnie was six years old, she wore her monster costume to her first day of school. Her mother had begged with her to take it off and wear the clothes she had laid out for her, to act like a nice, normal little girl who wore pink and white lace skirts and bows in her hair and collected My Little Ponies, but Minnie just sat in the front seat of the old red rusted station wagon with a calm, too solemn look on her face, waiting, until her mother finally gave in and drove her to school. She did not like lace skirts, or bows, and the acrid smell of the plastic ponies her mother was always buying her reminded her of the dentist. Minnie did not like the dentist; he was tall, with big broad shoulders and no neck, a too white too straight yet still unpleasant smile and an ugly bald spot, he smelled like burning plastic ponies and spearmint and Dettol, and he would curse at Minnie and call her ‘Little Monster’ for biting him when was pulling her teeth out. He was always pulling out Minnie’s little monster teeth.
At the gates of the primary school, Minnie’s mother leant across the gearbox to kiss her daughter goodbye. All the other children were walking up the steps hand in hand with a parent; most of them were mothers, but some of them were fathers. Minnie looked from them back at her mother, her big brown eyes asking “Are you coming too?” but her mother hurriedly tripped over an excuse about having to do a double shift, and patted Minnie on her purple furry head. “Go on now,” she said gently, “And please, please, be good Minnie.” But even at her tender age, Minnie knew as she got out of the car that what her mother had meant to say was “please please, be normal Minnie,”, and that these two things were not mutually exclusive. Still, she nodded to her mother, even flashed her a little smile, swung her Batman and Robin backpack onto one furry shoulder and made her way up those concrete steps to the schoolroom, a lone little monster swallowed by a sea of children and parents.
The day that she got her monster costume, Minnie’s mother had taken her to the costume shop to buy her a fairy dress for Halloween. Minnie had only agreed to go if her mother also bought her a Batman and Robin backpack. Her mother begrudgingly accepted Minnie’s demands, yet she could not help but to remind her that she should be playing with Barbie and not Batman. Minnie said that she liked Batman because he had special powers, and that he could do cool things with them. He could protect her from the bad men (“why were the villains always men?” she wondered later. Except for Catwoman, but Minnie liked her anyway). Minnie’s mother just smiled and said “Sweetheart, Barbie has superpowers too! She has the power of beauty. There is nothing more powerful in the world than being beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful mummy” Minnie replied, and Minnie’s mother beamed down at her daughter, full of pride for herself “Why don’t you use your powers to bring Daddy back?” This time, Minnie’s mother flinched, the pride drained from her face, and she pushed Minnie through the door into the costume shop with a little more force than she would have otherwise intended. “Because Daddy found someone else with stronger powers,” she said coldly.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The People's Key
THEY'RE BACK!!!!!! With synth keyboards and everything!!! If this means tour I might die. After I've seen them of course. Then I will die of happiness.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Kings of Convenience
So I had had these guys on my itunes for a long time, but I didn't really start listening to them until I was away in South America. At first it was just background music for when I was trying to fall asleep on the overnight buses; the perfect intertwining harmony of their voices wrapped around me like a warm blanket and carried me off into uncomfortable fragmented sleep. But once I listened to the lyrics in a more concious state of mind, I realised how perfectly constructed the songs were. I imagined them in my travels to have big beards, wear fedoras and no shoes, but now that I have seen what they look like, I am pleasently surprised by the scruffy awkward cuteness. And they sing with Feist. There are so many pros.
This must be what heaven is like
I love his dancing so much. It matches the orange tracksuit top perfectly.
This must be what heaven is like
I love his dancing so much. It matches the orange tracksuit top perfectly.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Chicken's Ribbon Monster
Chicken lived inside a box of matches. She liked to set the matches alight, one by one, let them burn down to her fat little finger tips, and then turn them into charcoal pencils. She would draw maps on the inside of the matchbox lid, to far off places she dreamed up in the dark. She would travel over mountain ranges, along the rivers in the valley, cross lowland forest and baron desert and swim the length of oceans for no other reason than that was what she could draw, because that was what she dreamed of when she slept. She longed to draw people with her black match pencils, but she had never seen her own face, nor dreamt of any others, so she had no frame of reference. And Chicken was too afraid to open the matchbox.
Ribbon wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on for. Her stomach was all tied in knots, and the more she tried to untie them, the tighter they became, like a Chinese finger-trap. She wished that she were somewhere warmer, somewhere where the sun stayed out past three in the afternoon. Somewhere with sand. Ribbon knew she would feel better if she went somewhere that was different, even if it was bad different. Otherwise, she felt like she was unravelling from the inside outward, and fraying at the ends, with all the little tender threads of herself exposed to the dangers of the outside world; she wanted to set them on fire, and watch them melt together into something hard. But what Ribbon did not want, was to spend day after day, hitting her face against a pane of glass. Glass breaks. Sand was already broken, and it cannot slice you in half with the pieces.
Monster did not want to live up to his name’s reputation. He did not think he could, even if he wanted to. He was too skinny, and too small, his body barely cast a shadow on the wall. There was no such thing as skinny monsters, except maybe for spiders. But they had poison in their fangs; Monster had no poison in him, at least none that he could use against another. Monster didn’t even think that spiders were monsters, that it was only because humans were afraid of them that they had named them so. To Monster, they were fellow animals, maybe even friends. He thought about the power of names, and how his name was even more powerful than he was. In his comic books, the monsters were big and loud and full of confidence; there was no room for insecurities. So he thought about maybe trying to become a Hero instead, but that presented the same challenges. Not Big. Not Loud. Not Brave. Not Confident. Sometimes it seemed that Monster’s life was one big collection of nots that he could not escape from, because he was always carrying them around within himself.
Suppose that Ribbon takes Monster’s nots and weaves them into a friendship bracelet, one that reads like a real map for Chicken to follow. Then they could all escape their sorrow.
It is a pity that they will never meet; Chicken cannot travel, Ribbon will never unravel. And Monster, he is still ashamed of his own shadow.
Chicken Legs
Of Ribbons and Bows
Wildfox Coture
Monster
Ribbon wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on for. Her stomach was all tied in knots, and the more she tried to untie them, the tighter they became, like a Chinese finger-trap. She wished that she were somewhere warmer, somewhere where the sun stayed out past three in the afternoon. Somewhere with sand. Ribbon knew she would feel better if she went somewhere that was different, even if it was bad different. Otherwise, she felt like she was unravelling from the inside outward, and fraying at the ends, with all the little tender threads of herself exposed to the dangers of the outside world; she wanted to set them on fire, and watch them melt together into something hard. But what Ribbon did not want, was to spend day after day, hitting her face against a pane of glass. Glass breaks. Sand was already broken, and it cannot slice you in half with the pieces.
Monster did not want to live up to his name’s reputation. He did not think he could, even if he wanted to. He was too skinny, and too small, his body barely cast a shadow on the wall. There was no such thing as skinny monsters, except maybe for spiders. But they had poison in their fangs; Monster had no poison in him, at least none that he could use against another. Monster didn’t even think that spiders were monsters, that it was only because humans were afraid of them that they had named them so. To Monster, they were fellow animals, maybe even friends. He thought about the power of names, and how his name was even more powerful than he was. In his comic books, the monsters were big and loud and full of confidence; there was no room for insecurities. So he thought about maybe trying to become a Hero instead, but that presented the same challenges. Not Big. Not Loud. Not Brave. Not Confident. Sometimes it seemed that Monster’s life was one big collection of nots that he could not escape from, because he was always carrying them around within himself.
Suppose that Ribbon takes Monster’s nots and weaves them into a friendship bracelet, one that reads like a real map for Chicken to follow. Then they could all escape their sorrow.
It is a pity that they will never meet; Chicken cannot travel, Ribbon will never unravel. And Monster, he is still ashamed of his own shadow.
Chicken Legs
Of Ribbons and Bows
Wildfox Coture
Monster
Monday, February 21, 2011
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N
Here's a newish Noah and the Whale song for treats. Its nice to see them being a little optomistic for a change :)looks like someone is finally getting over Laura!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Suburbs
My world began in Suburbia; in the beginning it was a warm and comfortable little piece of isolated existence, with the houses all lined up in rows like a regiment and the sun pouring through the streets like a toppling jar of golden honey. I remember my childhood only in images and scents, like photographs soaked in the faded brown hues of nostalgia; the smell of sunscreen and insect repellent in the heat of summer, the pink and orange colour of the sky splashed against the terracotta roof tiles in the afternoons, the taste of chlorine, the smell of the tomato plants at my grandmothers house, the sound of my neighbours squealing and screeching like squabbling magpies, trying to drown each other in their backyard pool. Even then, I was more of an observer.
I used to chase rabbits and catch lady bugs in jars, I used to climb trees, when I could find them, and envelope myself in the gentle caress of the greenery. I did not have many friends, for I was homeschooled for my primary education, so I used to make friends with the animals; I used to sing with the birds, lay in the sun with the neighbourhood cats, and imagine all kinds of scenarios of which I was the main protagonist, revelling in both my keen imagination and wild animal spirit. I was an explorer, an actress, a writer of modern literature, a dancer, a wild thing.
And for all of those who are still wondering, THIS is Arcade Fire.
I used to chase rabbits and catch lady bugs in jars, I used to climb trees, when I could find them, and envelope myself in the gentle caress of the greenery. I did not have many friends, for I was homeschooled for my primary education, so I used to make friends with the animals; I used to sing with the birds, lay in the sun with the neighbourhood cats, and imagine all kinds of scenarios of which I was the main protagonist, revelling in both my keen imagination and wild animal spirit. I was an explorer, an actress, a writer of modern literature, a dancer, a wild thing.
And for all of those who are still wondering, THIS is Arcade Fire.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Teenage Crime
I've had this song in my head all day. It's quite grown on me actually. And I find real housewives rather curious, but not in a "Real Housewives of Orange County" kind of way. That just grosses me out. But this doesn't. Enjoy!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
"Colour My Life with the Chaos of Trouble"
So I wrote an article about the Favelas that I visited in Rio a couple of weeks ago, because I thought people should know about what an interesting place it is, and well, it got published on an online magazine. They publish thousands of peoples work on there, from news stories to how to make bonnets for your kittens, but I still thought it was pretty cool. If you would like to read it, please do :) The link is below.
http://www.suite101.com/content/rios-labyrinth-a-look-at-the-favelas-of-rio-de-janeiro-a344211
I think I'll write a how to on creating your own suggestive garden gnomes next. What do you think?
These photos were taken by my good friend Vickie Maer :) she's currently teaching children from the favelas english! And shes lovely :)
http://www.suite101.com/content/rios-labyrinth-a-look-at-the-favelas-of-rio-de-janeiro-a344211
I think I'll write a how to on creating your own suggestive garden gnomes next. What do you think?
These photos were taken by my good friend Vickie Maer :) she's currently teaching children from the favelas english! And shes lovely :)
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Eyes Wide Open
Lovely and I saw him at Laneway on Saturday. He was, is and always will be an amazing muscian. I think this song also has a great message, as well as being musically brilliant.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Spoiled
A broken heart is a pomegranate squashed underfoot, ruin by people who did not take care enough to look where they were walking. At first the juice spurts out sickly, thickly like red blood, oozing onto the pavement. The torn flesh becomes exposed, open and raw, with its seeds, its little ovaries of new life just tumbling out. But after a while, as the sun gets hotter and the time passes, it loses the beauty of freshly inflicted pain, and it begins to rot away; the skin becomes dull and translucent, the juice dries up and all that is left is the sickly sweet smell of decay.
There will be no spring this year, Demeter. Your daughter will continue to live underground, until you come down to see her. It is your choice to whether this meeting will be in the flesh, or under more permanent circumstances, for even the lives of Gods can be spoiled by love like pieces of fruit.
Photo by oprisco
There will be no spring this year, Demeter. Your daughter will continue to live underground, until you come down to see her. It is your choice to whether this meeting will be in the flesh, or under more permanent circumstances, for even the lives of Gods can be spoiled by love like pieces of fruit.
Photo by oprisco
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Pins in the Map of the World
So I'm home again.
It has been an unbelievable three months, I have had my eyes and my mind opened to a whole new perspective of the world, of people and of myself. I met so many interesting souls, most poor in terms of money yet rich in other aspects such as colour, knowledge, wisdom, stories, laughter, and love. I discovered D.H Lawrence,rediscovered Oscar Wilde and learnt how to dance the tango. I went swimming in oceans in lakes in volcanic thermal springs and the Amazon River, and I tried my best to speak Spanish. I slept in the jungle and saw wild animals and learnt how to live like the locals. I read One Hundred Years of Solitude and drank black coffee. I wrote and wrote and wrote so much about all the places I visited, not just about what I saw, but how I felt when I saw them; I look back at the photos and these feelings begin to make themselves known again, like little people tapping me gently on my shoulder.
But the most important thing I learnt was how to be free again, how to be the self I somehow lost when I turned 16; she has grown up and out like the lanky limbs of a tree, and she is a lot wiser now, the date rings on her trunk have mulitplied, but the difference is that the fear is no longer holding her back. I want to stay that person forever, but real life already seems to be pushing me down.
We come here every one of us drifting in and out like little lost souls in limbo, unsure of where we belong yet reveling in our freedom until life takes us by the arm and pushes our shoulders down into our places of communal solitude, like pins in the map of the world.
It has been an unbelievable three months, I have had my eyes and my mind opened to a whole new perspective of the world, of people and of myself. I met so many interesting souls, most poor in terms of money yet rich in other aspects such as colour, knowledge, wisdom, stories, laughter, and love. I discovered D.H Lawrence,rediscovered Oscar Wilde and learnt how to dance the tango. I went swimming in oceans in lakes in volcanic thermal springs and the Amazon River, and I tried my best to speak Spanish. I slept in the jungle and saw wild animals and learnt how to live like the locals. I read One Hundred Years of Solitude and drank black coffee. I wrote and wrote and wrote so much about all the places I visited, not just about what I saw, but how I felt when I saw them; I look back at the photos and these feelings begin to make themselves known again, like little people tapping me gently on my shoulder.
But the most important thing I learnt was how to be free again, how to be the self I somehow lost when I turned 16; she has grown up and out like the lanky limbs of a tree, and she is a lot wiser now, the date rings on her trunk have mulitplied, but the difference is that the fear is no longer holding her back. I want to stay that person forever, but real life already seems to be pushing me down.
We come here every one of us drifting in and out like little lost souls in limbo, unsure of where we belong yet reveling in our freedom until life takes us by the arm and pushes our shoulders down into our places of communal solitude, like pins in the map of the world.
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