flesh and colours.

laneway festival.

2012-02-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

Laneway Festival was one of the first I ever went to. This year, the sun was out, I had close friends with me, a pocket full of cash and a belly full of overpriced water.

Laneway Festival 2012, however, was a disappointment.

The end of Laneway Festival saw me stuck in the middle of a stoned out crowd that had run from Washed Out’s set to the stage for SBTRKT. We waited an hour an a half (including 30 minutes of their 45 minute set) as roadies handled computer and set difficulties without a single explanation or a line to say they were even having problems to the people waiting. I paid my $150 festival ticket to see their perfomance, as they were one of the only headliners with a separate but completely sold-out sideshow.

Eventually I gave in, realising I couldn’t hold my friends up for a set that would only last 10 minutes before a noise curfew would see them leaving the stage. Ran to M83’s set, to literally hear the dying last note of Midnight City waning into the air before they launched into a long instrumental piece to wind up. The two things that I wanted to see and dance and fall in love with were the exact two things that I missed out on, and made my friends miss.

Laneway Festival’s continuous lack of organisation and information to its attendees and declining quality in acts vs raising ticket prices is only going to see it fall by the wayside like Big Day Out and nearly every other Australian festival.

People are beginning to wake up that a day of subpar production, expensive food and drinks (a bottle of water costs $4, a bottle of Coca Cola or any other soft drink costs the same? How does that remotely make sense?,) limited set times and non existent shelter aren’t always worth what you’re shelling out for. A sideshow provides twice the set time and tickets are normally only a third of what a festival is, and the majority of that money is going to the local venue and to the artists as well. The incentive to go to festivals is dying less and less, and I really can’t see how festivals in this country in general will be able to keep afloat without some serious changes. People, and I, are fed up. No one has that kind of money anymore.

The lineup that we ended up seeing involved The Drums, Active Child, Givers, Toro Y Moi, M83, Twin Shadow, Cults and Laura Marling. The Drums and Toro Y Moi were the standouts for the night, I am incredibly saddened that I missed The Drums' sideshow (Toro's was amazing!)

I brought a disposable camera with me, so that's why it's taken a while for these photos to come about after development. Some turned out great, the others were way too dark; I now know that they're great for daytime festivals and for portraits with flash at night, but not without. Pretty good for a $5 camera, regardless.

plus-sized fashion and body policing.

2012-02-22T15:40:00.000-08:00

Earlier on Tumblr, I was complimented by an anonymous user regarding some of the outfits that I had posted across the blog and asked me for tips about how to be comfortable within my own skin and where to purchase my clothes from. When I received the message, I was shocked- a lot of the time I struggle to be comfortable with my size and with my clothing tastes, but did not know that I was admired for it and for them. I was struggling with my weight for the past 10 years, and only within the last one I shrugged my shoulders and finally convinced myself that society's fashion trends are simply not for me. I may post about and be interested in fashion, but I also recognise that I will never be able to afford it, let alone fit into it. And I grew tired of feeling ashamed of my body because of these things, and as such, made peace with myself. Fitting into and out of clothes isn't the end of the world, as long as you're happy.

I mean that in a both ‘don’t listen to what your friends and parents say’ and ‘don’t listen to what stores tell you’ too. I don’t know where you’re from, but here in Australia, being plus-sized is generally frowned on. Anything that is over size 16 (I’m about a size 20) is separated into a tiny section of department and clothing stores. This, I would understand, but to also half the time integrate them into maternity wear is absolutely ridiculous. Fashion for people of a larger size isn’t included, it’s excluded and separated from all else. So stop thinking that you are struggling for clothes- because we all do, and it’s a deliberate marketing struggle.

And so, with that, the arguments started. With a shirt.

Now when I say a shirt, I mean this nightgown that indeed isn't a shirt. A lot of the time as far as clothes go, I have learned to be thrifty- op shops and my Mum's closet are two things that I ransack, not just for the size but for the style that they are. No one knew, and no one needed to know, but I used it as an example of how rad fashion can be when you put a little thought behind it- wearing a 20 year old nightgown to work is pretty comfortable and looks great, and most of all, I'm happy inside it.

Of course, backclash came along regarding my healthy habits and my size. Unfortunately, despite the growing acceptance of fat people and different sizes in the community, the stigma still remains regarding the relationship between health and dress size. People overweight can have the exact same good or bad health as those under and normal weighted. No one knows if they are a smoker, an alcoholic, or depressed; likewise no one knows don’t know if I visit the gym everyday, have my own personal trainer and are flexible enough to put my ankles around the back of my head. No one knows when their last trip to the doctor was, you don’t know the diagnosis, and most above all- no one knows whether any of the above and their influence in my life have anything to do with the person's weight. The act of body policing and a sense of entitlement that people feel regarding a persons weight is never due to the concern of their health- it is always because they do not find them aestethically pleasing. Always.

Being healthy and living through every day is more than what appears on your scales between your feet.

If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt in being a ‘plus sized’ person- you need to stop giving a damn what everyone else says about your body. Plus-size is something that should not exist, there is no polar opposite. ‘Small sized’ does not exist. All clothing sizes are numbers, and there is no number that is ‘plus.’ A number is a number.

The biggest piece of advice I give- the need to dress to please yourself, not society. This doesn’t just go to big babes, but to everyone of all sizes. No one should be body policing or telling you what you should or should not wear. Body shapes and how to dress for them is complete bullshit. I was once told by a group of girlfriends that I’m dressing wrongly for my shape, and that if I chose a certain cut of clothes it would be more slimming on me. Fuck that.

Why should anyone be slimmer? Why should I belt if I wnot be confident with my body just because it isn’t the perceivable beauty norm? 90% of the clothing that you wear will look great on you due to your attitude, not due to how it fits. Why should people’s advice dictate whether I want to wear an empire or boat-necked dress? Why should I pair my dress with a thickant to wear a thin one? The list goes on and on.

Plus size or otherwise, it doesn't matter. Be confident in yourself and what you wear, and you will look wonderful in it. No matter what size, that’s that you should be focusing on; your happiness.

Just to finish, here are some photos of when I last hit up a local thrift store, and the finds I found (and bought!) A lot of the time I struggle to believe how cheap a lot of the brands and clothes are, especially when you can tell by the dress that the item has been donated straight from the store. I once picked up a Diana Ferrari dress for my Mother, brand new, for $5. When I Googled, it was $155 RRP and still available in stores. A whole heap of cute dresses and skirts, and their homeware is where I will be going straight towards once I move out of home.

I capture the castle.

2012-02-19T20:21:00.000-08:00

I first came across a copy of this book when I was thirteen. I went to the school library, where a treasure trove of fantasy and coming of age novels were available in droves- back at home, the only books that I hadn't read in the local library were teen romance and non-fiction. High school opened a new door for me into the literary world- I was no longer stuck with letters replacing numbers replacing letters for math, nor forced out onto the sports field, nor forced to sit with a paintbrush in my hand. As such, a library like the one held within the campus was a strange one- to walk among older students without a single picture book around was astounding. Shelves no longer reached to my chest, but rather had grown several times my own height, the spines covered in words I could never spell and places that I had never seen.

I clearly was, and looked, out of my depth. The librarian, Mrs White, was the first to approach me. I immediately became blisteringly shy and stammered, as she was a beautiful lady with a pair of incredibly intense blue eyes that looked deep into your skin. I originally thought that she was being particular nice to me as she asking if I needed help- a young new girl in a uniform several sizes too big, shoes several sizes too small, hair a la Hermione Granger. I later realised that it was rather the case that I was looking confused, standing in the dictionary and encyclopaedic section.

I was led over to the fiction books on request, and was asked if I needed help choosing something- I politely (ie, stammered) declined and pushed myself on inside the labyrinth of shelves. In alphabetical order, the books were strange; no longer did they have stamps or library cards inside them, but were barcoded and in pristine condition. I remember feeling petrified at the thought of taking one of them home and accidentally doggy-earing a page and feeling the wrath of the blue-eyed teacher. I could feel her watching my back as I stumbled about from book to book, absent-mindedly playing with each spine until something caught my eye.

I reached the end of the D section, and saw a book that thrilled me. It was the width of my hand, pages yellow and brown; torn and disrespected beyond all belief. I immediately picked it up and flicked through- on the inside lay stamps going back to 1980, with doodles and drawings in the margins by bored procrastinators. It smelt like dust, and the whole thing looked like it needed to be thrown away. I opened up the first page, and read the first paragraph.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with out dog's blanket and the tea-cosy. I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring- I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house. Though even that wasn't a very good poem. I have decided that my poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it.

She drew me in immediately. From the age of nine I had been scrawling my day's work inside pieces of paper, books and journals, and to find a girl to be doing the same within my own hands was thrilling for my pre-teen self. I immediately snatched the book up and handed it to the scary librarian without a word- she smiled and her eyes finally lit up when she saw the cover, and said 'I know you're going to love this.'

I Capture the Castle is a story told from the point of view of Cassandra. By my second and third re-reads, I began calling her Cassie in my head, although I'm not sure why as she's only referred to as 'Cass' by her sister. It is split into several notebooks, each which she has been gifted by others or has bought for herself, and tells the tale of her family who live in a castle together. Her father, a once brilliant writer has now endured several years of writers block; her sister, a vain teenager who spends her days wishing that lived inside a beauty department; her step-mother Topaz, a nudist and an artist who attempts to inspire her husband's work every day and fails; and Stephen, the farming boy who helps run the household.

It's hard for me to explain how much I dearly loved Cassie. She was described in an earlier edition to be 'an insidious type- Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl.' I think I loved her, because she was everything I wanted to be. Her plain hand-me-downs that she was comfortable inside, her astute observations of the world and its splendour (on tasting champagne, she said that it was like very good ginger ale without the ginger) but above all- she held complete common sense and respect for the world and those around her. All she ever wished was to perform noble deeds and be kind to everyone, and had the best advice- that 'hot baths are the best cure for depression.'

Further along in the story, Simon and Neil Cotton- two American boys that provide escapism for her sister and the promise of new life for the family come to shake things up, and the father gains and loses his writing passion once again. The stories and notebooks were filled with family turmoil, and by the end of it all I could do was clutch the book close to me. The ending always provides closure for me, although some people believe otherwise- but regardless, Cassandra became my friend. She was the first idol I had ever gained in my life, a girl who was confident within herself and her own writing abilities to shut out the world's cold and to stay warm within her castle, no matter what it took.

I realised that I didn't want to be Cassie. I simply wanted her to be a permanent part of my life.

I returned the book by the due date to the librarian, only to find that I couldn't find anything else to fill the void Cassie had left me. And so I found myself, for 8 months straight, re-borrowing I Capture The Castle again and again. I could have bought a new copy, but the thought of giving up the torn-down edition that 20 years worth of people's hands had passed through simply upset me. By the end of the year, the librarian (who I had then become friends with) told me that for Christmas I could keep the book, as not one other person in the year had borrowed it once. I still have it, hardback and on my shelf, and still take it down and listen to Cassandra from time to time.

To this day, Cassandra remains my best friend. And every day, including this one, she helps me to capture my castle again.

lovers eyes.

2012-02-15T04:15:00.000-08:00

My RSS feed has been completely clogged with Valentines Day posts- from fashion, to relationships, to music, to film, everyone seems to have found a little personal niche to write about in regards to the man made date. I’m in two frames of mind when it comes to Valentines Day. One, that it is an over-priced commercial holiday wherein the only three groups of people that gain happiness from it are jewellers, florists and confectioners; two, that it provides a day to spend time with a person you enjoy romantic company with and to celebrate your affection for one another. Or something.

Regardless, St. Valentine had a really sucky life and I hope he didn’t mind that I celebrated his martyrdom with pizza and The Princess Bride with Connor.

I came across a Tumblr linking to Even Cleveland, regarding a selection of art from the 19th century. Titled Lovers Eyes, I found the post to be an incredibly haunting thing to discover on Valentines Day. While it is a normal thing to partake in the sharing of tangible affectionate tokens on Valentines Day with things such as flowers and poetry, Lovers Eyes involved the spread of jewellery depicting a person's lover or mistress's eye, for their heart to be watched and guarded.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, wealthy British and European lovers exchanged “eye miniatures” — love tokens so clandestine that even now, in the majority of cases, it is impossible to identify their recipients or the people they depict.

Experts believe that there are fewer than 1,000 “lover’s eyes” in existence today.

I hope that all those that you have watched, and those who you all care about (and yourselves) have had a happy Valentines Day.

(images and article from Salon.)

four seas.

2012-02-11T03:56:00.000-08:00

My parents have recently come back from their trip from Queensland and we haven't as yet had a family meal together. I was driver, enabling Dad to have his favourite wine, and I decided to take us to the local Chinese restaurant. While this doesn't sound particularly exciting, Four Seas restaurant in Chelsea honestly has the best food around. While it isn't particularly cheap (most mains are around $20-25) their portions are huge, meaning that a lot of the time when we order two or three mains with rice it gives us about three days of extra left overs.

Drank with a Jacob's Creek white, we ate rice paper chicken, Mongolian beef, honey and black-pepper chicken, beef and black bean sauce and fried rice. It's been a few hours since I've ate and the thought of it all has made my mouth water again. Food is amazing when it's cheap, fresh and local- half of the patrons we recognised as regulars, and I think by now we're kind of part of the Four Seas crew.

john paul gaultier S/S 2012.

2012-02-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

Okay, look. Everyone has seen the images of John Paul Gaultier's wafting around Tumblr and the fashion bloggers world, and I'm having to apologise in advance. The clothing, the models, the makeup, and the hair- all of its execution is flawless. Gaultier made Madonna's iconic bra, and has now immortalised one of my favourite female stars, so cut me some slack here.

John Paul Gaultier's S/S show saw it become a tribute to the late Amy Winehouse- iconic for her attitude, her music, and for forever rocking the beehive and winged eyeliner. As such, each model were eleborately bedazzled dresses and veils in black, green and orange hues; black corsets, fishnet stockings and tighter than tight lace- all strutting and snarling and smoking their way down the catwalk. But above all else- the hair and makeup. Neon and black hair piled and teased high, the quintessential eyeliner painted thick and long across each eyelid, a thick fake beauty spot here and there. Completely trashy, but still resoundingly put together and perfect.

Effectively, it's Back to Black.

(images from Vogue. Click read more to the right to view more photographs.)

kanye west @ sidney myer music bowl.

2012-02-01T07:33:00.000-08:00

Kanye West’s show was one of the most unique performances that I have ever witnessed.

Originally, I only used to enjoy the man’s music (both his point-blank lyrics and his clever hook and sample choices) and had disdain for the man- anyone who fancied himself as powerful and obnoxious enough to be a rapping rapture did not appeal to me in any which way. It eventually reached the point that I was so disinterested in the artist that I completely dismissed his music, sometime around the point of 808s and Heartbreak.

Then My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy came along and threw everything on its head. I remember hearing the controversy surrounding its Pitchfork popularity, the complete media blackout that West had in its lead up to it, and the way that Tumblr exploded for it in much the same way of Watch the Throne. By the end of hearing the track ‘Dark Fantasy,’ I was hooked. The choirs, bass, infinite looming synth and spread of matter among the lyrics- from lifestyles of opulence, to discovering your soul in a foreign city, to admitting your own downfalls and habits, to heartbreak, to questioning authority (both physical and religious,) and the way one leads their own life spoke insurmountable things to me. It remains to be one of my favourite three albums, and is barely now 2 years old.

When I heard news of his announced sideshow, I jumped at the chance of scoring tickets. Lauren, a highschool friend purchased a pair, and Anthony managed to snag one at the last minute yesterday from Nat. Jess and Roro were there too, but managed to get stage-side seats. Gates opened at 6- we walked in around 7:10 to hear and see Sneaky Sound System, or lack thereof. The ‘band’ has now dwindled to the lead singer and a DJ, with painful screeching (singing) from the lead girl who somehow thought that an outfit and hair overhaul would make up for the lack of talent and stage presence.

Finally at 8:30 after an hour of sitting in grassy silence, the smoke machines kicked in and West was thrown into the air with a crane right in the middle of the crowd. There were around 1000 people or so there, with tickets released extra just this morning so the swarm around us was crazy. He immediately launched into his Coachella-copied setlist, with Jesus Walks, Touch the Sky, American Boy and Runaway being my standout favourites.

I knew West was an entertainer, a showman. He had the ballet dancers crawling on their knees for him, ran about the stage crazily, tried to capture and gain and hold as much attention as the audience could possibly hold for him. He was, too, a complete and utter perfectionist. The man stopped halfway through three different songs. One to tell off the roadies for fixing the wrong lighting and to make it work before he continued (he stopped a song three times,) one was to thank the roadies for fixing the lighting and congratulating them on their soundwork (in the middle of another track,) and he made the crowd restart and sing All of the Lights 7 times because he was not happy with how one line was being sung in regards to the memory of Michael Jackson.

He is a completely obsessed man- if something refused to run or work, then he would hold up his entire show. But in doing that, like he promised, he put on the best show to his ability. He sang the outro of Lost in the World twice simply because he was not happy with how he ended it for us. He made sure that the whole crowd was participating. He gave credit to musicians, and talked about how Mos Def put him on his feet. He burst into soliloquy’s throughout his set which, while it drove some drunken fans near me insane, was a really interesting aspect to him that I hadn’t heard before. He freestyled in the middle of strobelights, and nearly broke into tears during Love Lockdown as he saw people pair up and share love and understanding glances of heartbreak and failure. As per usual, he dedicated his show to his mother, in Hey Mama. I cried at the complete raw emotion he displayed and echoed throughout the bowl at Lost in the World with several hundred other people by my side.

While people treat Kanye West as a musical God, after tonight I see him as a human like us trying to take control of his own world and trying not to get lost within it.

martha cove.

2012-01-28T17:47:00.000-08:00

Adele invited several of us over to her vacation home at Martha Cove. Martha Cove is a new estate to the area, a kind of harbour town where adorable apartments and new housing are built with the intent on providing a home for people wanting a private berth for their boats and yachts. Adele's yacht, the Apres Vous (I hope I got that right!), is docked quietly at their 2 story home right in the middle of the estate- a medium to large sailing boat that fit several of us on board.

Her parents and brother took us out to sea- on a 38 degree day, swimming in the ocean was an amazing feeling for a few hours. I can't remember the last time I swam in the sea (as in, away from the main bay) and the salt content of the water pretty much meant that I could float in the one position without having to make much movement. I finally had the option to swim in my fierce old-lady-leopard-print bathers that I had for Christmas, and swam a dozen times around the boat and the surrounding water. We stayed out at Martha's head for a few hours, feasting and swimming and sunbaking until the sun started to go down.

puppy picnic.

2012-01-20T04:53:00.000-08:00

Just a quick dog-minded post! Sylvana organised a cute puppy picnic for our favourite pooches last weekend. I had to rush from a job interview to the picnic; she held it at Doncaster's Ruffey Lake Park- a massive public acreage for dogs and children to run wild and free. Several university friends came along with their adorable poochy friends and ran amuck with balls throughout the grass and wetlands.

Despite your videos and gifs, my dear internet, I'll always be a dog person. I'm sorry.

anthony's birthday.

2012-01-16T17:30:00.000-08:00

Anthony celebrated his 20th birthday last week with a family dinner and some friends. I was dragged along unknowingly- I assumed it was a family affair before I heard that my presence was expected to devour several entirely homemade pizzas from Anthony's family. My family's cooking is about as Aussie as it gets- meat and three veggies on a plate with no real diversion from it outside of it being featured in a pie or casserole. Everytime I've gone to Anthony's place, his father's cooking has been absolutely amazing- homemade lasagne, stuffed mushrooms and capsicums, all the olives you could even dream of and all completely homemade and authentically Italian. As such I think that I've developed a bit of a complex by going to Anthony's and trying not to shovel in as much of the food goodness as humanly possible, but still clearly enjoying it all far too much. His family, and himself, have always welcomed me into their household with open arms and have shown nothing but kindness. Anthony and his entire family are all very dear to me.

A lot of his extended family were there, and they were all very welcoming and accommodating. I was so happy to finally have an excuse to break out my cute dress that cost me only $1.20 at a local secondhand shop. Along with myself, PJ, his two sisters Therese and Veronica (both of whom look so much like him that it's scary!,) Katherine and Angela all helped to partake in several delicious pizzas and spent hours kicking my butt at Uno into the early morning. Later on in the week, we went to drink at Rooftop and Can't Say but no photos appeared from it. Regardless, it was a lovely dinner and I couldn't stop laughing and feeling cheerful for the whole night; I hope he had a very happy birthday, because out of all the people I know Anthony is one that really deserves it.

snakadaktal @ fed square live.

2012-01-14T02:55:00.000-08:00

I saw Snakadaktal on Thursday night as part of Federation Square’s live music season, The Push, with a small group of friends. It showcases a lot of Melbournian and Australian-wide talent, as well as independent international acts. Mainly, it encourages unsigned bands to gain more spotlight. It’s hosted by Triple J, and supports a lot of the live acts seen on Triple J Unearthed’s radio station which is ace too.

I attended several of these last year (The Bedroom Philosopher, World’s End Press, The Holidays and Oh Mercy’s performances were stellar) but the weather in Melbourne lately has been a complete bummer to sit outdoors in Fed Square. This time the crowd was possibly the largest that I have ever seen- some out to dance, others out to enjoy the sunshine. While I had heard great things about Snakadaktal’s live performances, a lot of technical difficulties (weird reverb, the camera men struggle with angles) made you wince slightly, but overall for a free concert it was very well done. Any excuse to be out with friends in the sunshine, really.

f+c: candy cane cheesecake.

2012-01-09T04:34:00.000-08:00

I detest candy canes. They're bright, fun to eat and taste like a combination of jelly babies and toothpaste but post-Christmas they are pointless. Several bags of them are scattered throughout the house like Santa's helpers gravestones, with about 20 per packet- a mouthful completely unachievable. I was stumped as to what to do with them, as year after year they get thrown out after boxing day. Googling didn't help very much, with only suggestions of crushing the canes to sprinkle on butterfrosted cupcakes and cookies.

I decided on making a cheesecake. I've done cheesecake before with strawberries, but never on its own. I followed a basic New York Baked Cheesecake recipe. It's really simple and easy- for the bottom I used about 20 crushed Marie biscuits and half a stick of butter, mushed it together, flattened it out on a tray and baked it for 10 minutes at 160 degrees (fan forced.) In the meantime, I beat a block of cream cheese, 1/3 cup of sugar, vanilla extract before slowly layering 3 eggs until it was at a smooth consistency.

From here, things got tricky. I wasn't wanting hard as rock chunks of cane throughout it, but rather a mix of that and a peppermint flavouring. A lot of 'candy cane' cakes used peppermint extract and pink food colouring to mimic the sweet, and topped it with the canes as decoration which seemed rather silly considering you had a packet of the real thing in front of you. However, I knew that the minute that I would cook the canes into a runny consistency, it would immediately turn hard. I talked to my Grandmother and she said that the trick was to try melting them at a low heat for a short period of time, and to frantically get the bubbling mass out of the bowl as quickly as possible.

I had the sense to microwave it in a bowl, and I was glad I did; the saucepans would not have been able to stand a chance. It was like a gooey chewing-gum texture at first, smelling of peppermint as I began to slowly drizzle it into the battered mix. Of course, the moment it dropped into the cream cheese it immediately hardened anyway, and it just refused to be reheated into the bowl. I resolved to breaking the candy cane into tiny speckled amounts, and hoped that the flavour would be in there.

After baking it at 160 degrees for around 40 minutes, I took it out of the oven to cook before placing it into the fridge. I ate a slice after dinner tonight, and the results were kind of mixed. It definitely tasted of candy cane, but the picture of you eating it especially in regards to the colour was lost. The specks appeared across the biscuit bottom though, so I'm thinking that if I was to repeat this I might drizzle it over the biscuit base before adding the cheesecake to the top- it would have achieved the same thing but with less disappointment, I suppose.

Now that the only leftover from Christmas that we have is ham, my fridge and I are ecstatic and relieved.

2012.

2012-01-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

This NYE was the first that I had within my own state. My parents went away on a holiday over the break, and I chose to stay at home to job hunt further and to finally share a new year celebration with my close friends, the first eve that I have had here since I was seven. I had a few invites to several parties and get togethers by friends, but when one of my closest girlfriends Alicia invited me on her family's holiday, I surprised myself by saying yes. I've known her since highschool, at 13, and she has always had a travel bug with her family and I was bemused with agreeing to go on a trip with her when I was determined to have a new years eve in the comfort of my own home with a bottle of bourbon.

I have no regrets.

She drove me up to Mt Buller, about 2-3 hours drive north from our suburbs. We stopped in Mansfield Bakery on the way (can a new years resolution be to consume more Mediterranean focaccias?) along with a cherry farm, before heading up to the village. Her family are part of a lodge, a ski club of Mt Buller that houses around 20 other snow enthusiasts inside a massive three-story sloped home. Despite my lack of snow knowledge and never visiting Mt Buller, everyone was incredibly nice and accommodating to me- none more so than Alicia's own parent,s who were determined for me to see all the sights that they could provide in the short amount of time I was there.

Following unpacking and a walk around the village, I learned that half the shops were closed and more were struggling financially. I had never considered how half of the restaurants, shops and general maintenance can run and afford to continue doing so throughout the year excluding snow season. While there were a lot of people there (mountaineers, mountain bikers, racing car drivers and 4WDrivers have a personal love for Buller and the surrounding ranges) the village was only about half full. I spent new years eve walking and reaching the top of Buller's summit- a short but drastically angled slope uphill that took me around half an hour-forty minutes or so. Following that, NYE was spent inside the lodge with champagne, political arguments and listening to the club's theme song sung drunkenly.

The next morning was 4WDriving to Bindaree Falls, a large waterfall that led you to walk underneath the rock face, consuming fresh watermelon and cherries afterwards. Compared to yesterday's semi-hike, this walk was no struggle for me and my size and fitness level, especially since my recent major sunburn damage felt like botox had been injected across my entire body. Excluding my personal pains; I'm so thankful to Alicia and her family for looking after me, everyone was so nice. It wasn't a traditional drunken city brawl of a new years, but it is definitely one of the most beautiful celebrations of the year that I've ever attended.

Happy New Year to you all!

christmas day.

2011-12-27T23:56:00.000-08:00

Pork, turkey and apple sauce. Christmas pudding and brandy custard. Far too much alcohol ontop of that, an iPad, body lotion, make up, shoes and video games; I'm been incredibly lucky this and every Christmas to be looked after so well and share it with so many people I care for.

I hope that you all had a very merry Christmas- I'll see you in the New Year!

trentham falls.

2011-12-23T18:52:00.000-08:00

About an hour and a half north of Melbourne lies a small country town of Trentham- a small town whose main shops include the local IGA, two bakeries, a shut down antiques store and several sculpted wombats. Its main attraction however is a giant waterfall- 32 metres in height, it's the longest fall in my state and so we decided to drive up there and explore.

After picking up my eastward friends, the trip from my house to Trentham ended up taking around 2 hours or so but even then I will admit that I am heavy on the accelerator. My car arrived there first- we ate lunch and then headed to the falls, where we were last to meet the group. I was in a pair of thongs at the time (flip flops for the Americans,) as we walked down to the overlooking area- we didn't realise that the falls themselves were shut off completely to visitors, with only a viewing platform available to see the waterfall. However my male pal's exploration modes kicked into gear when we noticed a tiny track leading away from the fenceline, straight into downhill shrubbery. 10 minutes later, my bare feet aching from boulder climbing and mud sliding, we reached the bottom of the fall and its little pools.

We spent the whole afternoon relatively secluded- I'm sure that people who used the lookout probably thought we were a bunch of drunken troublemakers, with people throwing rocks about and sliding into the rivers (my brother managed to completely dunk himself, luckily there were enough trees to use as washing lines.) It was just a nice time to be unbaking, coated in the all's water spray.

explosions in the sky @ the forum.

2011-12-19T16:12:00.000-08:00

Along with Alex and Neal, I saw Explosions in the Sky live at the Forum two Thursday's ago. As 5 piece instrumental outfit, I regularly listened to their songs during homework or 'working out' (ie walking the dog at a steady stroll,) but in all honesty would confuse a lot of their discography with itself. No lyrics/lead singer, a lot of the tracks in a similar key leaves me always in a lot of confusion. However in saying that, their tracklist and set was jaw dropping- cool, calm and collected, their music is clearly orchestrated on each album with concise sounds layered. Their live show was wild, reverb literally shaking the floor in copious amounts with shrill notes battling one another to be heard over the bass foundations. I have never seen anything like it- the musicians were completely immersed within their music, a lot of the show was played with their eyes closed and swaying into each crescendo. I was crying by the third song in from how emotionally breathless the music made me, it was a concert like no other.

Also, they didn't bother with an encore- something I fully endorse. Having a break mid-show I understand, but to 'surprise' the crowd by coming back after wasting half an hour of our time for one or two more songs automatically is ridiculous. You throw an encore if you dig the crowd, not if the band manager actually puts 'encore' on the setlist.

Several Twitter and Last.fm friends were in the crowd too, which was basically at full capacity. It felt amazing being in the middle of a calm and quiet crowd throughout such a stellar show. Give their music a try- listen with headphones (your laptop speakers will not give them any justice) and just take a break from what you're doing to close your eyes and try a new tune or two.

(image from Flickr.)

bite-sized baked brie.

2011-12-17T22:56:00.000-08:00

I have to credit Tumblr for the greatest foodie link in months. Outside of my favourite, Boyfriend Replacement, I've been struggling to find a lot of inspiration lately when it comes to some new food ideas, particularly that of the party kind. With Christmas now only a week away (!!!) I'm trying to come up with some alternative food for the table besides the monumental amount of meat, salad, vegetables and chocolate. Then randomly across my dash, a photoset appeared depicting what looked like puff-pastry lollipops. After clicking through, I found a blog titled Joy the Baker, and could not resist trying what turned out to be brie and cherry jam lollipops. I mean, any excuse to buy more cheese right?

In my absolute silliness I did not take a single photo of the entire process, but I followed Joy's recipe to a T. It turned out perfectly! I needed to make a lot more egg wash than I originally planned, and I used boysenberry jam instead of cheese (why that was in the fridge, I have absolutely no idea.) However, they turned out exactly how hers did! I also made little scalloped edges with a knife as a cute finishing touch. Next time I'll try for cherry, but the use of both cheese and cherry jam is going to be a blast for Christmas Day. I know it.

Here is her recipe, that even includes the most adorable step-by-step photos of the whole thing (and self-admits a large amount of cheese being consumed throughout the process.)

queen victoria night market.

2011-12-14T18:18:00.000-08:00

This year was the first time I attended the Suzuki Night Market, held under the shelter of the Queen Victoria Market in Melbourne's CBD. I went with a massive group from uni and caught the train for the first time since exams back in October, met up at Melbourne Central and took the walk up to the market in only a few blocks. Held after 6pm, the market was a mixture of international cuisine and handmade crafts mixed with an enormous amount of alcohol to the point that every third or fourth stall seemed to have been sponsored by James Boag. A lot of it were just little knickknacks, some were adorable handcrafted pieces but in all honesty it had the exact same vibe of the original market just with lights on and with security guards lumbering about. I'm glad that I came and had the experience but with the day market being a lot more lively and a lot larger, I don't think I would make the trip again.

Also, I was yelled at by a grumpy old man while taking photos of his little bird terracotta chimes. I wish people would put signs up rather than get angry, especially when the market is such a massive tourist attraction for our CBD. In saying that, the photo I snapped before I had a finger shoved in my face ending up being the best shot of the night, so take from that what you'd like.

Following that, we walked back to Pancake Parlour and had a feed on ice cream, pancakes and cider. That day I had found an entire outfit at Savers, a local second-hand clothing warehouse chain: jeans, shirt and headscarf for only $15 all up. Pairing it with red lipstick, I felt super comfortable despite the heatwave that we have going on lately. Also, thankyou to my friend Adele for stealing my camera and helping with some snaps.

I believe I can fly: flight of the frenchies.

2011-12-11T14:46:00.001-08:00

I stumbled across this video from Hearts and Stripes, a recently followed wordpresser. She posted the trailer of the movie I Believe I Can Fly, saying nothing but that it would make your jaw drop. Within 30 seconds, I had done so.

I have been rock climbing before, and I enjoyed the thrill and the knowledge of the muscle strength I possessed. It gave me an adrenalin rush, one which I understand why climbers and hang gliders love the experience. But these guys are absolutely insane- they are Skyliners. Tightrope walking over canopy, freefalling after flinging themselves off cliffs; absolute insanity. It'll be a film that I'll watch with enjoyment but will more than likely leave me sitting on the couch, my nails completely decimated with my teeth chattering in horror.

twelve apostles.

2011-12-09T00:18:00.001-08:00

After about a three hour drive west of Anglesea, we took a day trip to the Twelve Apostles. They are twelve structural formations the stand upright, separated from the mainland due to erosion over the years. Right now, only seven of them remain. From what I read, I think a lot of them were made from a composition of limestone and other minerals? I cannot quite remember.

The ride was a literal pain in the ass- the Great Ocean Road was immensely fun for me to drive along, but we had to stop at multiple points to avoid anyone becoming too sick. We left the holiday house at 11 and didn't make it to the Apostles until around 3:30, and experienced a lot more car sickness and less light on the way back home. It was blustery and windy, I made the mistake of wearing a maxi dress and thongs with my hair down. It was crawling with international tourists too. Luckily enough, a Dutch man who looked like he knew what he was doing with his own DSLR equipment readily agreed to take a happy snap of the group for me.

I'm so glad I finally visited it- a lot of my friends were rather incredulous that I had never been, but it really is beautiful there.

anglesea.

2011-12-05T21:23:00.001-08:00

These weekend, I went on a little holiday. My friend Mark owns a small holiday house in Anglesea, about half an hour's drive from Bells Beach and fifteen more from Geelong in Melbourne's west. It's a small three bedroom house that was home to us over the 'schoolies' break (the period between high school ending and Christmas) and we generally visit every six months or so.

This weekend we squashed in 10 of us and had some TLC. Several of us brought sleeping bags, others brought sheets- nearly everyone brought some form of lolly or chocolate. It was a weekend filled with board games, junk food, Crash Team Racing, dog walking and one hell of a long car ride- look out for the next post to hear all about it!

PS: I would also like to thank the darling Bronny at Fat-Aus for recommending my blog to some new people. She has always been so kind, and was one of the first fashion bloggers that I began to follow a long time ago. She was one person who helped to inspire me to start regularly blogging- so to hear that you personally enjoy my blog is beyond flattering for me. Thankyou so much.

disney princesses.

2011-12-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

It's not much of a surprise to hear from anyone that they grew up on Disney movies. Everytime I call my boyfriend at home, I can always distinctly hear the voice of a character from either Disney or its Pixar family in the background. Visiting Disneyland in Tokyo a few years ago was a dream come true. But while my copies of Up, Mulan, Hercules and Wall-E never seem to gather dust inside my DVD cabinet, it doesn't really explain how badly I wanted to be a Disney princess as a child.

Now I recognise a lot of the paradoxes and hypocrisy behind the Disney empire, and that a lot of its princesses were not the best role models with a lot of their saving relying a lot on the 'strength and courage' of a man to come alive again or to be happy (looking at you, Snow White, Cinderella and Aurora.) But then there are other strong female characters under the Disney umbrella that I related to more with their personalities and acts of rebellion, and likened myself to them more, such as Meg and Mulan. It seemed that despite my age only being a single digit, I recognised that becoming Jasmine or Pocahontas was impossible- not only were their looks and clothes something that I never saw as a child, but their homes and friends were that of other worlds. I may have owned twenty thingamabobs, but I would never have a home under the sea.

Then across Tumblr's continuous uprising swell of reblogs, I found a post from a Finnish artist Jirka Vinse Jonatan Väätäinen who created photo manipulations of the Disney Princesses and their counterparts. A lot of them are eerily accurate and recognisable, others I immediately picture of other people (in this case, Jasmine seems to resemble Kim Kardashian for me slightly.) Regardless, his work to bring Disney Princesses to life is an amazing showcase and has made me ponder as to where my thingamabobs have actually disappeared to.

the black sea.

2011-11-29T16:12:00.001-08:00

The weather turned on me again! A little while ago I was over at Marks place, hanging for the day, while Neal managed to locate his father's tablet. It had a 14 day forecast, and it told us that the 30th was supposedly going to be 38 and thunderstorms- messy, crazy beach weather. I invited an enormous amount of people, the majority of which said they were coming. Of course, Melbourne being Melbourne, the 30th abruptly turned into 17 degrees and rain.

I quickly switched the days to yesterday, a Tuesday- slightly muggy, but bearable. However the storms from the previous weeks have left the shore in a mess, with longshore drift bringing seaweed and god knows what onto the beach. The amount of strange gunk in the water turned it black, and left the sand of a funky grey colour that zapped any life from out of it. However we headed down south and the colours turned out to be a lot brighter and less.. radioactive.

These following photos are from my friend Adele, who is far more photo-active than I am. Thankyou!

last dinosaurs @ the toff.

2011-11-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

On Thursday, I went to The Toff In Town to see Last Dinosaurs live. The Toff has kind of been a regular hang for a lot of my uni friends, and I had heard about their great DJ's and its cosy, comfortable venue. It was a free gig, and over 700 people had RSVP'd to attend the event so we were weary of the population. However we got there early enough, and found a comfortable enough position. I went with my friend Anthony, and his close friend (and friend of his) PJ and Nathan. They were lovely guys, and hanging both during and post party was amazing fun.

On entering, we were already confronted by a swarm of people- despite Last Dinosaurs not appearing until 10pm, it was already hectic inside. I headed to the bar, where the poor bartender was so run off his feet and stressed beyond belief that he somehow managed to accidentally charge me $42 for a lemonade and a cider. After a small argument, everything was sorted though. Even if the bar staff put me off having a drink, the following half hour after our arrival, it would have been impossible to wedge our way through to the bar.

The band were there as part of Melbourne's Music Week. It's to provide a boost to local and nation-wide musical talent and to reward the industry and show it off, particularly that of Melbourne locals. On complete accident, I bumped into my old university friend Marita whom I hadn't seen in several months. When I say accident, I mean so- I was smushed between an awkward nuzzling couple, my friends, and three of the tiniest cute Asian girls who wouldn’t stop screaming and bouncing the whole show. She handed me her brochure for the MMW, saying that they were effectively music-hopping from one bar to the next.

City Calm Down were a band who's tunes I had heard a few times from Anthony, but never gave them a real listen. I have to admit, I was surprised by what I heard. They felt like a combo between Joy Division and Washed Out, droned lyrics with pumping beats. I'll be downloading their stuff sometime soon. Following them, and a filler DJ from I Oh You who had great taste in music (Kele, Foals, Lykke Li, the list went on) Last Dinosaurs came on for an hour long set. During the band and DJ's stints, the guys from the band were simply wandering around the Toff and it was so hard not to just tap on their shoulder and not wigg out. Or propose, or something. They are all super short, too.

The last time I saw them live was a while ago when they supported Foals on their Australian tour and very few people in the crowd knew them. They played my favourite track Time and Place, and surprised me by playing their most well-known and crowd favourite track Honolulu second last. Instead they finished off with their new track Zoom, which had only been released at the start of the week. Every track had everyone bumping into one another, crying out key phrases and limbs and hair flying everywhere. They killed it, and my feet felt like they were going to drop off with my wedges by the end of the night.

There is nothing better than going to a concert and seeing a band genuinely enjoy being on stage and enjoying playing their songs. Nothing.

I brought my grandmother's old film camera for the night, so hopefully I'll get the photos developed soon enough (oh, how nice it would be to have a heavy wallet once again.) In the mean time, watch their track Time and Place, which was written about Nikola Tesla '(who has been) ripped off in the history books, so we wrote a song about him.' If it doesn't get you wiggling in your chair, nothing will.

balloons and daiquiris.

2011-11-22T15:27:00.000-08:00

Lauren celebrated her 21st birthday party on Saturday. It was held at a sporting pavilion with a large amount of her family, and of close friends and other people I remember graduating with. She was dressed up in a beautiful gold sequined tunic, and it was so much fun to let loose in the bar and on the dance floor to old tunes (even if I am not afraid to admit, Sweet Child O' Mine is a rather strange choice.) The entire function was filled with a mixture of balloons and glowsticks, all of which were pushed into our hands to let fly on the oval following the celebration after midnight.

tyabb packing house.

2011-11-19T17:30:00.001-08:00

My friend Marta's birthday was on last Sunday, and it was a family affair for her. My last (and only!) exam finished on Tuesday, and I kicked it straight in the teeth. I finished my work less than an hour into the exam, and instead of feeling worried about my performance I was relieved and happy that I had learnt and understood so much in one semester. Following that, I had an issue with some celebrations with people as exams are still on and people are picking up more shifts through work. Besides, mid-week isn't exactly the best time to celebrate, so I headed out with her to visit Tyabb on the Mornington Peninsula to do some shopping with Marta.

This is also a rather photo-heavy post, apologies.

I accidentally stumbled upon this place a few years ago with my parents, and I had no idea as to whether or not it still existed. It's a massive, massive warehouse with several stalls of vintage wares squeezed together in a maze of bookshelves, furniture and clothing. It's right across from Tyabb station, but the Stoney Point line is terrible to try and navigate with its trains being so sporadical. It took about an hour's drive from Marta's place in Mulgrave to reach it, and from the moment we got there we were lost within the vintage labyrinth.

Marta's favourite room was one that was primarily focussed on a heap of pop culture. Old film posters, such as Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz lined the walls, and priceless merchandise glittered the floor. Plus, there was an entire section dedicated to Doctor Who that she busied herself with.

We were in there for a few hours, and lost one another countless times. Following lunch at Mornington, we went for a quick drive up to Arthurs Seat and for a quick dip at Safety Beach. Summer holidays feels like they're finally starting, and with university over until March the pressure from my shoulders has lifted. I have several amazing plans happening, I can't wait to share them with you all.

sorrento.

2011-11-15T00:12:00.001-08:00

The weather is finally heating up! All I've been doing is alternating one maxi dress after another, undergarments optional of course. The weather brightening has resulted in my father becoming inspired to coat the house in fresh new licks of paint, switching out our pale green with that of coffee and caramel colours. With the fresh paint comes fresh fumes, and it's honestly leaving me feel somewhat claustrophobic. While my arms and legs hurt from the crouching and swashbuckling of painting and paintbrushes, I decided to take a day off to go on a day drive. Neal was the man for the mission- he chose to head down to Sorrento, and it was so relaxing to finally be out of the house paint-free.

We headed to Just Fine Food for a late lunch. They are famous apparently for their vanilla slices, but I've had them before, and I have to say they are rather disappointing. Neal chose bruschetta and I couldn't go past avocado on toast. After, we roamed the shops, settling on gelato and smoothies for dessert at Mubble from a kindly old lady who was incredibly enthusiastic about her job.

One thing that I forgot about Sorrento are the sheer number of small independent businesses. From art galleries to hand made funishings and florists, Sorrento seems to combine a country lifestyle with the hustle and bustle of a tourist beach haven. It felt kind of eerie to be walking the streets on such a warm day and not have large families around- come summer, the main drag will be crawling with holiday makers.

Finally on the way home we stopped into Safety Beach again. Neal was game for a dip, however he failed to completely clear a jump over a lengthy stream of dirty river water. Once again, despite the summer feeling of it all, the isolation and little to no company around saw that the whole atmosphere was somewhat drained of its cheer and fun. Things will pick up again now that the weather is warming more and more. I can't wait to have more day trips.

griffith review.

2011-11-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

Anthony invited me to attend the 34th annual Griffith REVIEW launch party being held at Readings in Lygon Street. The Griffith REVIEW is a book which annually showcases selected fiction and nonfiction books from Australian writers, and aims to acknowledge and reward those within the industry. He had heard about it through a seminar at his univeristy which was held by Tony Birch, an Australian fiction writer who has just recently released his second book titled Blood. After only a few e-mails, he was able to procure attendance for us, and I was more than willing to be dragged along with the excitement of it.

We had afternoon coffee (or in our case, vanilla milkshakes and hot chocolate) at Brunetti's, a pretty well known Italian franchise across Melbourne. I hear their macaron's are to die for, but I settled for a vanilla slice. Anthony saw the New York baked cheesecake and immediately knew his choice.

After our coffees, we took a stroll up and down Lygon. It's mainly known for its high level of Italian-Australians and their cuisine, and the majority of the shops reflected that. Nearly ever five steps we encountered another front of house who were insistent on us trying their newly marinated olives or their new red wine varieties, some of whom made us really uncomfortable in their effort to usher us inside. We finally decided on Trotters restaurant- Anthony settled for a butternut pumpkin and spinach gnocchi, while I had their delicious (but extremely salty, oh gosh!) eggplant parmigiana.

From here, we headed to Readings. It's an old bookstore, that sells decently priced stationary items, CDs and DVDs as well as books too. I didn't take many photos at the gathering, as it seemed rather inappropriate, but it was a mixture of formal and casual attired men and women amongst varying ages. The main number of the crowd huddled between the shelves were that of copywriters and those within the editing and publishing business, but the standout for the evening was a selected group of authors (Tony Birch included) reading selected passages from their own new releases. It's a really great, handy book for all new and wonderful things in Australian writing and publishing industries.

f+c: strawberry jam parfaits.

2011-11-08T03:15:00.000-08:00

This recipe was a failure. Not the best way to start out, I know, but it was. I was poking through a Philadelphia cookbook (that of the cream-cheese company) when I came across these cute little layered desserts. I am a firm believer that everything tastes better either in a jar or in a glass, rather than on a plate. The recipe was an Apricot and Ginger Nut dessert, but of course when I started doing this, I had neither of the main central ingredients outside of the cream cheese.

The recipe itself is relatively straight forward. In a bowl, whip spreadable cream cheese, around 2-350g tub or block. In this case, I used a block since I had no spreadable ones on hand. Add a quarter cup of sugar, and a lemon's zest. Place a spoonful of the mixture into a cup of your choice (the ones I used ended up being about twice the size of those shown in the book, so I had to double the recipe) and set your biscuit on top of it. I ended up substituting ginger nut biscuits with that of plain teddy bears, the result was similar even if the flavour was different. Here, you add a spoonful of drained and pureed apricots, even just from a tin- I only had nectar, and knew the only way to thicken the nectar was to turn it into jam, so I simply substituted it with strawberry jam instead. Repeat the process.

Any spills (and believe me, there was a lot) on the side of the cup I ended up covering by running the inside of my clean finger against the glass, frosting it. From here, you are directed to place them into the fridge for two-three hours. However, it was kind of a disaster. Despite the substitution of the fruit and biscuits, it wasn't a problem- the problem was that even though I had followed the guidelines for the fridge, the cream-cheese layer became ridiculously hard and thick like a cheesecake (not of the good kind,) meaning the entire dish's consistency was out of wack. You would struggle to break through the cheesecake to even reach the jam and the softened biscuits, so I think that maybe it might be recommended more to use the spreadable kind rather than melting a block of cream cheese. I think if I was to make it next time, I would use thickened cream instead.

Anyway, at least they looked pretty.

laneway fest.

2011-11-04T18:15:00.000-07:00

Laneway Festival 2011 was the first one that I had attended. Not only of the Laneway brand, but of any music festival. The lineup was like it had been chosen specifically from my iTunes top played- Foals, Two Door Cinema Club, Cut Copy, Warpaint, Yeasayer, The Holidays, Cloud Control, Beach House, Holy Fuck, Local Natives; the list went on. I attended the one-day festival with my younger brother Andrew- none of my friends were into any of the music being provided, and I was too much of a wuss to even consider going alone. So Andrew came with me (he only knew Two Door,) and we mightily enjoyed the day out despite how wet it was. I remember that when we arrived, one of the stages was still underwater due to the amount of rain the night before. But anyway.

It turns out that in the same moment I was there with my brother, my friend Anthony was there on his own. We had only met towards the start of the year through Tumblr (and me creeping on his enjoyment of Bloc Party) and found it supremely trippy that for a lot of the Laneway sets, we were nearby one another. The same thing happened for a few other gigs too, we were only seats apart from Bloc Party's last gig in 2008. The moment that we had heard the Laneway lineup be announced for 2012, we both immediately knew that we would be attending together.

The Laneway lineup for 2012 includes acts of Active Child, Anna Calbi, Austra, Bullion, Chairlife, Cults, DZ Deathrays, Ema, Feist, Geoffrey O'Connor, Girls, Givers, Glasser, Husky, John Talabot, Jonti, Laura Marling, M83, Oneman, Pajama Club, Portugal the Man, SBTRKT, The Drums, The Horrors, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, The Panics, Toro Y Moi, Total Control, Twin Shadow, Washed Out, Wu Lyf, and Yuck. Amazing, amazing, amazing. When I first saw the lineup I was slightly disappointed- so many of my favourite bands came last year, whereas this time around it felt like I had been shortchanged with groups and had been switched with chillwave acts. However, after a little while and downloading bits and pieces from here and there, the main acts I'm excited for are Cults, Feist, SBTRKT, The Drums, Toro Y Moi and Washed Out.

And, M83.

The new album recently released, titled Hurry Up, We're Dreaming is a musical monster. My two-disc edition means that to listen entirely to the album, it takes me around an hour and a half. I used to to help my homework motivation and use it as a bike-riding workout mix, and there are some stellar tracks like 'Steve McQueen,' 'When Will You Come Home?' and 'Reunion.' But all of these laid back, roadtrip bump styles are left completely obsolete with the first single selected, called 'Midnight City.' This review explains it all pretty concisely.

Get it in ya.

the 1950's.

2011-11-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

I have to come out and say it- I am not a theme party person. I do not enjoy in the slightest having to go out and choose a costume that is worth several hundred dollars, to spend 3 hours being dolled up through youtube hair tutorials, to have the fear driving there as to whether or not you're over or under dressed. I pull my hair out in anxiousness over it, and I know that I shouldn't, but I always do. This time however, I was invited to go to an old highschool friend's 21st birthday, in 1950's theme. Jenna, who I normally see at other year level gatherings maybe once a year, suggested things like Back to the Future and Grease. To me, all that I could think of were some of my favourite shows like Mad Men and The Hour (even if they're both within the wrong decade.) No one could pull off a Joan Halloway like Joan Holloway, c'mon now. And so the moment I heard, I really buried my head into a pillow at the thought of it all.

However, a lot of my close friends from high school were attendees too. I have to credit a lot of the positive feeling and motivation to Neal, who proposed that we should scour the local Savers in an effort to find something. I was originally going to try and be Gene from Singing in the Rain (with a blasphemous yellow coat,) but I thought that if I found something better then I would snap it up. He chose a beige jacket, in an effort to look like ye olde Biff from the first Back to the Future- only $8. I managed to find a bright blue flight attendant's dress, one that reminded me a lot of Pan Am (am I the only one who has found the new television show really disappointing?) and so snatched it up for only $10.

The party was a blast. Jenna dressed up as Marilyn Munroe, Courney donned black leggings a la Grease, Alicia managed to find the most gorgeous scalloped dress and Lauren had the cutest flouncy skirt. There was not a single boy in the room that did not come equipped with gel, a comb and a leather jacket. It was an amazing night of nostalgia, and I forgot how much I've missed hanging out with these lovely people.

Also, Jenna's Mum made a giraffe cake. It was awesome.

the beach.

2011-10-29T19:19:00.000-07:00

Following last week's declaration, it seems that Summer plans are in full swing. I have several gigs planned out (hello Explosions in the Sky, Arctic Monkeys and Laneway Festival,) a few holidays planned here and there (going to Anglesea for part of December,) and the weather has been stellar.

Living five minutes away from the beach is something that I am privileged to have, but never really make use of. I think that's generally what happens though- when you live somewhere you have wanderlust for somewhere else. I've made several amazing new friends this year alone, and I'm reminded how lucky I am to have my house in the area that it is only an hour train ride to the city and in walking distance to the beach. In the last two weeks I've gone separately with my friends Marta and Anthony.

The Thursday I went with Marta was on a whim, after she gave me the cutest shaped pancakes and fresh jam- it was a warm and sticky day, and waves were pushing us around and around. By 4 o'clock in the afternoon, thunder rolled into the bay and we had to make a getaway before we were rained on.

On a Wednesday I went with Anthony and it was a mild day, only around 22, and the water (despite the lack of waves) was bitterly cold. We had goosebumps upon our goosebumps.

A lot of the time it can be rather insufferable- windy days mean whiplash, hot days mean that the entire sand strip is overflowing, cold winters makes you feel chilled to the bone. But I forget how lovely it can be on those more mild days. The days when the sun slightly burns and calluses your winter-wrinkly feet and the water freezes several intimate parts of your anatomy, when the fresh chips are salted that little bit too much, when your cans of cold soft drink are lukewarm from being stuck in the sand too long, and when the seagulls infiltrate your towel camp with viscous chip-stealing intent. Those kinds of days.

queensbury.

2011-10-22T19:58:00.000-07:00

My last class finishes this Wednesday with an in-class exam. For the past few weeks all I have been doing is weeping into my pillow in a pit of despair and stress, and my best friends have now become a caffeinated combo of energy drinks, coffees, tea and hot chocolate. However, after I handed in my final piece on Thursday, the past week and weekend has been a social whirlpool of chilling, the beach, and parties. I have missed hanging out and seeing the beautiful faces of so many people, and in the past month I have made a few new friends that make me smile equally. For the next two or three weeks I'm being dragged all over the place, which isn't a bad thing. However, after two months of complete social hibernation, submersing myself in homework and job finding, I was wary (and in all honesty, lazy) to be going out to several gatherings but after being pushed and nudged by a few friends, I'm glad I have.

Friday night, I headed to the Queensbury Hotel for a birthday function to share between my friends Adele, Nick and Lizzie (how lucky they are to be so close to share a joint one,) and it was the nicest time out. To finally be able to wear a dress and heels and to kick back with a drink or two (and ignoring my friends trying to troll me with tomato juice) was the best feeling. A girlfriend of mine told me that this was going to be the best summer ever- and while we conceded that although we do say that every summer, this time we genuinely intend to mean it.

the secretary.

2011-10-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

I found this from Esme And The Laneway, showcasing The Secretary, from Kate Sylvester A/W 2012 Collection Show.

I absolutely adore it- the pristine fabrics and demure hairstyles palmed with work accessories and bondage, it's one of the most playful takes I've seen on the perception of a secretary in the workplace. The first time I watched it however, I was a bit ruffled by the beginning scene of one of the secretaries being bent over at her work station and being objectified, as well as a lot of the show regarding the women being placed in unprofessional situations and movements. However after a lot of thought, and after viewing it a few times I changed my ideas about the collection and the show- I somewhat perceived the postures, the state of the women, and the ropes/restricted pieces as being a metaphor for fashion and women not having to be held back within the workplace. Now, I kind of dig it.

royal melbourne show.

2011-10-16T02:26:00.000-07:00

I've been to every single Royal Melbourne Show since the age of 3. You could say that it is something of a family tradition- my mother at the age of 45 years old has only missed it three years in her life, and I suppose it's something that has also passed onto me.

It goes for about two weeks, and brings so many memories to me. In more recent years, I don't go with my family but rather my friends, and so I organised a group to attend. I made the mistake of choosing the day in which daylight savings kicks in, and so a lot of people missed the train or cancelled at the last minute, but the small group that came was still fun. Rides, animals, competitions, showbags and junkfood. All over priced of course, but how would a fair work otherwise? Besides, spring doesn't feel like it has begun without the start of the Royal Melbourne Show. It was bright and sunny (and I'm squinting in nearly every photo from it,) it was busy and crowded, but it was familiar and loving all the same. If I ever have children I hope to instill the same passion into them.

blue valentine.

2011-10-09T03:08:00.000-07:00

Before I begin, one thing straight- I am not a romantic film fan at all. And not a Gosling one either, whom I continuously get him confused with Ryan Reynolds. But most romantic films, or romantic comedies (since, let's be honest, they seem to roll into one exclusive friends-with-benefits kind of genre these days) just leave me with a souring taste in my mouth. The phoniness of them is enough to tear my hair out- let it either be a male or female protagonist, you can spot the fluff and cliche ending a mile away. I understand that for most this can be part of its charm, and it's comforting for a lot of people, but they just depress me. They fill me with idealistic thoughts of what relationships could be, and I find myself at the end of films simply shaking my head in surprise at my self-pitying swirl.

Romanticism can still exist within that of a doomed relationship, can it not? We have all experienced the dwindle of a relationship that we have poured our hearts into, only to learn that it sometimes simply cannot be. And yet romantic films normally taper to providing perfectly imperfect women and men, out of luck until they meet their Mr or Mrs Right by the last 30 minutes. Life doesn't work that way, and it's depressing to watch such a thing unfold after paying $23 dollars for a film ticket.

Money aside, a warning. If the fake facade of romantic films are depressing for you too, you should know that the truth held in Blue Valentine in comparison will break every last piece of your heart.

Essentially, we’re hard-wired to root for love. We want relationships to work out, onscreen and off. We want to believe couples make it, because we want to make it, too. We want to meet cute. We want to fall, head over heels. We want to write songs and have songs written about us. We want things to work out. We want to love and be loved. We want happily ever after, or at least to believe that it exists. Which is why a film like Blue Valentine is so tough to watch. Hollywood, long complicit in the fueling of many millions of happily-ever-after dreams, here slaps us in our collective face: it gives us the whole story. The beginning and the end (and all the highs and lows in between). It’s draining. It’s painful. It’s one of the finest relationship movies I’ve ever seen. Not because relationships are awful - some are, some aren’t - but rather because they are such hard work. And so rarely do we get to see all that hard work - the truly messy and complicated roller-coaster of a living, breathing relationship - onscreen.
The toll that a life takes. Together or alone. The way the years add up to a point where some days they outnumber the reasons to stay. The way keeping a family together takes everything you’ve got, but how you still have to find a way to somehow give even more. The way cute becomes cloying, lust wears itself out, and spontaneity gives way to endless routine. And that silly, stubborn part of you that refuses to let go. It’s like some old Carver short story writ large on the silver screen: well-intentioned people accidentally imprisoning one another, a worn-down relationship coming apart at its seams, an innocent child caught in the midst of two colliding parental orbits. Lost souls drinking a bit too much, caring for each other, but never quite seeming to get it right.

Blue Valentine traces the flow of a particular relationship, showing you its bright flickering beginnings and its sad, hollowed-out, gut-punch ending. It follows Dean and Cindy’s courtship and conclusion in non-linear fashion - sublime scenes of the honeymoon-lit first moments of a new relationship, alternating with the burdensome and claustrophobically sad scenes from that same relationship’s final days - and by doing so highlights the painful inevitability of so many of these relationship dances we all do with the partners that, in the end, are just not quite right for us, no matter how close to right they manage to be for a time, no matter how promising the relationship’s beginning. It’s a seduction and a warning all at once, doing for love what Trainspotting did for heroin: how magical and soaring that first high, how crashing and destructive the end result.

We are all trying to recapture that magic in some way. It’s a magic that moves mountains, creates art, and starts wars, a magic that allows us to go on, both (literally) helping to create new life and also making it something worth living. At its best, it’s a feeling of everything finally working out. An integration. A completion. And to lose that - to have it and know it and then to lose it - that takes something awful out of us. We are never quite the same. We recover, we go on, we heal, but we remember. We beat ourselves up with what-ifs and should-haves, trying to pin down the moment where it all went wrong, as if such a singular moment existed. We regret being so vulnerable, putting ourselves out there, and we wonder if it’s ever worth risking ourselves, our hearts, again. (It is.)

It wears us out, love. It wears us out.

(Words from Chad P.)

job hunting.

2011-10-05T06:09:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks I have been applying for Christmas positions. University is closing its doors on me and several thousand others in three weeks, and whilst that means partying for some, it means job hunting for others. High schoolers are on their way out too, and so competing against their low-income wage will be impossible in a month time, and so I have been acting fast. I've applied for a total of 53 positions in the last fortnight, nearly all of them within retail or writing.

I'm off on a good foot due to my current employment, but the swimming pool shuts down over the summer period. This means that for about 2 months of summer, I'm unemployed; no money coming in and parties rolling out. Between Christmas, my mother and brother's birthdays, general outings and festivals- come February I am completely spent. Out of the positions I have applied for, I have not as yet heard positively back from one- and even then, I have been only contacted once by a company to be informed that my application 'was decidedly not to be taken to the next level.' I wasn't sure what I was doing wrong, or whether I was expecting too much. The food and hospitality industry is not what I'm looking for- working with food and customers is already an awkward relationship to be in on this side of the counter, let alone with the till, pad or tongs in your hands. However, I've become increasingly frustrated with the retail industry's attitude- they do not hire employees without previous experience, but without hiring me, how am I to gain experience? The same goes for that of writing, without an internship or previous column writing experience, a lot of the time blogging positions available I'm rejected for due to my lack of professional experience. It isn't the quality or passion of your work, it rather feels like it is your connections within the industry that make opportunities open to you. Come December I will be willing to work over 40 hours a week, but no one has given me a chance thus far. I hope this fortune changes soon, and I hope that I'm proven wrong.

This morning, I came across an article posted by You Might Find Yourself. It is regarding the experience of Chris Dixon, an entrepreneur in numerous areas, and the article hit close to home and has made me question the way I have gone about vacation work. Whilst it mainly regards that of manufacturing inventions, I believe that the concept is the same- to push yourself harder, and if you're not being noticed even negatively, you're not doing enough. Active, not passive.

1. If you aren’t getting rejected on a daily basis, your goals aren’t ambitious enough
My most humbling and educational career experience was when I was starting out in the tech world. I applied to literally hundreds of jobs: low-level VC roles, startup jobs, and various positions at big tech companies. I had an unusual background: I was a philosophy undergrad and a self-taught programmer. I got rejected from every single job I applied to.
The reason this experience was so useful was that it helped me to develop a thick skin. I came to realize that employers weren’t really rejecting me as a person or on my potential – they were rejecting a resume. As the process became depersonalized, I became bolder in my tactics. Eventually, I landed a job that led to my first startup getting funded.
One of the great things about looking for a job is that your payoff is almost entirely a max function – the best of all outcomes – not an average. This is also generally true for lots of activities startups do: raising money, creating partnerships, hiring, marketing and so on.
So, every day – to this day – I make it a point of trying something new and ambitious and getting rejected.
2. Don’t climb the wrong hill
I spend a lot of time trying to recruit people to startups, and I’m surprised how often I see smart, ambitious people who get stuck in fields they don’t like because they sense they are making incremental, day-to-day progress.
I think a good analogy for escaping this trap can be found in computer science, in what are known as hill climbing algorithms. Imagine a landscape with hills of varying heights. You are dropped randomly somewhere on the landscape. How do you find the highest point?
The lure of the current hill is strong. There is a natural human tendency to make the next step an upward one. People fall for a common trap highlighted by behavioral economists: they tend to systematically overvalue near term over long term rewards.
This effect seems to be even stronger in more ambitious people. Their ambition seems to make it hard for them to forgo the nearby upward step.
The lesson from computer science is: meander some in your walk (especially early on), randomly drop yourself into new parts of the terrain, and when you find the highest hill, don’t waste any more time on the current hill no matter how much better the next step up might appear.
3. The next big thing will start out looking like a toy
A majority of the top internet companies a decade ago are barely in existence today. How did this happen? These companies weren’t complacent – they were run by smart executives who were constantly aware that they could lose their lead.
The reason big new things sneak by incumbents is that the next big thing always starts out being dismissed as a toy. This is one of the main insights of Clay Christensen’s “disruptive technology” theory, which has been widely studied but I think is still rarely applied because it is so counter-intuitive to conventional management practices.
Disruptive technologies are dismissed as toys because when they are first launched they “undershoot” their users’ needs. The first telephone could only carry voices a mile or two. The leading incumbent of the time, Western Union, chose not to acquire telephone technology because they didn’t see how it could be useful to businesses and railroads – their best customers. What they failed to anticipate was how rapidly telephone technology and infrastructure would improve. The same was true of how mainframe companies viewed the PC, and how modern telecom companies viewed Skype.
The list of top internet companies in 10 years will look very different than that same list does today. And the new ones on the list will be companies that snuck by the incumbents because people dismissed them as toys.
4. Predicting the future of the Internet is easy: anything it hasn’t yet dramatically transformed, it will.
The Internet has gone through fits and starts – a bubble, a crash, and now a revival. Pundits are speculating that another crash is coming. Regardless of what happens in the near term, what we do know is that every year we will continue to see more and more industries succumb to the transformational power of the Internet.
Already transformed: music, news, advertising, telecom. Being transformed: finance, commerce, TV & movies, real estate, politics & government. Soon to be transformed: healthcare, education, and energy, among others.
Thus far the US has led Internet innovation. There are things the US can do to keep this lead, including: exporting the entrepreneurial ethos of Silicon Valley to the rest of the country, and allowing talented people to go where their skills are most needed – for example by changing US immigration policies.
Most importantly, we have too many people pursuing careers in banking, law and consulting. I personally encounter this bias all the time when I go to college campuses to recruit for startups. We need to convince the upcoming generation to innovate and take risks in sectors that have a direct impact on the quality of peoples’ lives.

MFW: prada.

2011-10-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

The only thing I've taken in at Milan's 2012 Fashion week- these insane rocket heels from Prada. So tacky, so perfect.

safety beach.

2011-10-01T05:41:00.000-07:00

I have to admit, I felt slightly ludicrous as I touched up these photos on the couch. These photos have been from last weekend- between now and then, it's been pouring down with rain all day long. The backyard has been half flooded with it all, but tomorrow is supposed to be funny once again. Last week was the first day that was bathed in sunshine, and my last work shift for two weeks- school holidays see's the pool closed and so I can finally have a Friday night out for once. Saturday we were invited to stay at a friend's holiday home down safety beach, however my parents were in Hong Kong and so I had to be home to house sit.

Neal and I stepped into Alicia's place for a bit of lunch and convinced her to come out on our mini roadtrip, and our first stop was at Mornington. I kid you not, Tutti Frutti is beyond the best gelato and ice creamery in the entire state. I've never ever had a bad flavour, and the 40 minute drive is always worth it. I chose blood orange on a whim (it tastes like sherbet surprisingly, so I suppose I now know one of the key ingredients for it), Neal chose 'Kinder' (which is like a Kinder Surprise) and Alicia chose a basic strawberry. They have about 40 flavours, from regulars to strange choices of baileys and Red Bull!

After we met up with the group down at the beach and took a long walk down the beach- the water was freezing cold and the sand was burning hot. The beach was basically desolate though, it was strange to see such a nice warm place be emptied of people.

I can't wait for this rain to stop and the sun to shine again.

f+c: cheesecake-stuffed strawberries.

2011-09-22T03:20:00.000-07:00

Today's the last day of university before mid-semester break, and it also coincides with my parents absence as they go on a holiday. I'm a terrible cook, and so I'm having to cook for me and my younger brother (tonight's menu is satay chicken skewers on rice) but I wanted to do something for myself now that I have the free time. So, here's my attempt of the recipe that I blogged previously, cheesecake-stuffed strawberries.

Ingredients that I used-

2x 250g Strawberry punnets (the result was 24 strawberries all up)
250g of cream cheese
Vanilla Extract
Sweet biscuits
2 tablespoons of pure icing sugar

I washed all the strawberries and laid them out on a chopping board. Using a clean knife, one that I could easily maneuver, I cut through the tops of the strawberries in a cone-like shape, making sure not to pierce through too deeply to the other sides. This part probably took the longest, I'm rather clumsy and grow easily impatient with flimsy things.

In a mixing bowl, I whipped the cream cheese, vanilla extract and icing sugar together. As far as the extract went, I used about a cap to a cap and a half, and a few spoonfuls of icing sugar- it was a general estimate since icing sugar isn't on the original recipe. I didn't use a whisk, just a wooden spoon- it took a while to get to the consistency that I liked, but I get a better feel for things with a spoon rather than a whisk.

I used a teaspoon, just the ones that you use to stir your tea or coffee, to fill them. A single heaped spoonful is all that it took- the original recipe called for a piped bag, but I neither have the skills nor the patience to be fiddly like that.

Next comes dipping the biscuit topping. I didn't bother trying to find something brand new- I raided the biscuit barrel for the ones that were boring and left untouched, and grabbed out about 5 plain Arnotts Arrowroot biscuits. Placed them in a plastic bowl, and chose to use a potato masher to break those suckers down. To cover the 24 strawberries, each of different sizes, I only ended up using three biscuits.

Voila! All finished. Just placed them in the fridge for a little while to harden up the filling, but the moment that you dip them into the biscuits they immediately harden and are no longer as runny or of a wiggling consistency that they were when filling them. I probably won't make them for a little while as it isn't berry season and so the strawberries were on the slight expensive side, but it's definitely something I will return to.

the gentlewoman: lovely.

2011-09-18T18:16:00.000-07:00

I had been inroduced to The Gentlewoman magazine through Adele. Everyone knows the shot- her face slightly withdrawn, hair pulled back, cigarette absentmindedly dangling from her fingers as she gazes off camera pondering whatever she should be thinking. I've always been a fan of her and it excited me to have her featured so prominently in a magazine that didn't have to use any forms of gossip, sexually-fuelled advertisement or articles to bring in the readership. It's based around the foundations of strong willed, inspirational women. Published bi-annually, The Gentlewoman is a magazine that so greatly inspires me with its writing style and fashion, it's everything that I want in a magazine and has helped to wrap my thoughts around some ideas for a zine.

Coincidentally, I've found that Olivia Williams adorned in Prada's 2012 resort has made the cover and I can't help but be enraptured. I remember her prominent appearance in An Education, and she has such a striking face, figure and personality. As I was searching across some blogs, I had found that Capture The Castle, a personal favourite fashion blog of mine that is updated nearly daily, wrote a piece on this edition titled Lovely. Hannah-Rose writes beautifully, and I'm filled with envy to read her original pieces in certain magazines and quoted across numerous blogs because her style and flair with words captures my attention almost immediately in the most pure and equally abstract manner. She's wonderful, and I highly recommend that you visit her blog every once in a while- she is definitely not a blogger, but a writer.

There is nothing sweeter to the ears of a 15 year old girl than to be told that you are lovely. Lovely is about having rosy lips and cheeks and shiny hair and being as bright as a star. It's about being fresh-faced and, well, beautiful. But it's more than that too. It's about things that make you smile and warm your heart and make you inescapably happy. When I was 15 I longed, no - I yearned - to be lovely. I wanted to be one of those girls in Teen Vogue editorials in a sweetheart dress and heels (oh, to have a pair of heels!), with a boyfriend who kissed my cheek and held my hand, because that's all I thought it took to be in love and that's how I thought it always would be. Remember this was the time of Luella, and the heart-faced loveliness of Kirsten Dunst, and Lost in Translation. I used to take photos at parties and run them through an aging filter on iphoto. I covered my walls in magazine cut-outs and furiously read stella gibbons and bonjour tristesse and breakfast at tiffany's because those girls were lovely and I needed to learn their secrets. I tried out new words and phrases. Thankfully, "love you, mean it later" was lost to the ether. My friends and I were glued at the lips to our Smith's rosebud salve and we applied it with religious, almost sacred deference every hour, on the hour. I wore flippy skirts and lace shirts and ballet flats and I smelled like soap. I didn't own foundation. I still don't, actually.

When I met a boy, and he liked me, we went on what was my first solo date. We saw John Tucker Must Die and sat awkwardly side by side in a darkened movie theatre. All I wanted, all I desperately, desperately wanted was for him to put his arm around me. That's what you did with girls that were lovely. You hugged them close to you and kissed the top of their foreheads. We had hot chocolate (oh! hot chocolate!) afterwards and I waited for him to say something to me, only me. We talked in ebbs and flows, periods of silence punctuated by rambling dialogue that went unchecked. We were speaking to cover emptiness. I didn't know what to say. I knew what I wanted to hear - I wanted him to ask me out proper, to say "do you want to be my girlfriend", and I would nod shyly and then we would go to the formal together. The year 10 formal was the end point, see. My mum had promised to buy me my first pair of heels and there was going to be an after party and my parents had conceded that I would be allowed out till 12. I barely touched my drink and I smiled a lot. He didn't say what I wanted him to say. We parted awkwardly as teenagers do - him to be picked up by his mother, me to get on the 380 bus home. I bit my lip the whole ride as I listened to the arctic monkeys and wondered what I'd done wrong.

I'm not sure I was lovely, not that day. I was trying too hard. Loveliness isn't something you can manufacture, no matter how many Sofia Coppola films you watch or how many Jane Austen heroines you admire or how many Luella dresses you own (if any). I didn't know then that I didn't have to actually do anything to be lovely. I was 15. I was lovely. I had rosy lips and cheeks and shiny hair and I was bright as a star. I was really young, and even if I wasn't naive I had a simple way of looking at the world. I knew that I would be a writer and live in a cottage in Bath with the same dogged certainty that I knew that I would spend all my babysitting money on a pair of sass and bide jeans the next week. Sometimes, somewhere, amidst the piles of uni readings and tax returns and phone bills and used-up bus tickets I wonder what happened to that girl. I think I'd have to work harder at being lovely now. There's too much on my plate - between uni and interning and work and family and friends and life it's a constant juggling act that I'm only vaguely coping with. And the worst thing is, effort and lovely don't really go hand in hand. I was lovely once, I was 15. I think all 15 year old girls are lovely. And they don't even have to try.

- Lovely.

croatia.

2011-09-18T04:29:00.000-07:00

I've been having a lot of family orientated dreams lately. Not of my own, but externally- either being a part of another strange family, of an old couple or young newlyweds or a single guy who looks nice in the shower. But really, a lot of these homes have an earthly feel and although there's strangers inside, I feel like I kind of connect with them. Last night I had another one of these strange dreams in a beautiful home, and then today whilst procrastinating on my ethics essay plan, I found the house. The exact same house I dreamt about. In Croatia.

Desire To Inspire wrote a piece up on a beautiful twin-bedroom home created by Rees Roberts + Partners, and the house is absolutely impeccible. From the furnishings to the wall textures, to the flowers to the setting, the entire house is, well, like a dream.

mr. little jeans.

2011-09-14T06:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to pretend that I've been a massive fan of Arcade Fire. I've only kind of dug some tracks here and there, downloaded their most recent album The Suburbs through a friend's recommendation. Following that was their award fiasco wherein half the industry thought the band name was The Suburbs, rather than their album, and so on it goes.
And then, Mr. Little Jeans came along.

From Norway, Mr. Little Jeans is best described as 'a cross between Kylie and Lykke Li', her covers are stellar. She's also done a cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies, and the way that she warps high-fuelled tracks into slowed down chillwave leaves me enraptured.

cheesecake-stuffed strawberries.

2011-09-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

The title speaks for itself. My Mum has brought home several punnets of strawberries from her grocery shopping on the weekend, and despite the thought of it, you can indeed get sick of fresh strawberries and ice cream. I was trying to think of a way of using them up, but I didn't want to use them in cakes or desserts, or simply as toppings- I wanted them to be showcased and fresh to eat. And then, from one of my favourite tumblrs, Boyfriend Replacement (best title for a foodie blog in history, isn't it?) provided me with the answer. Cheesecake-stuffed strawberries.

Ingredients:
-1 lb large strawberries
-8 oz. cream cheese, softened (can use 1/3 less fat)
-3-4 tbsp powdered sugar (4 tsp for a sweeter filling)
-1 tsp vanilla extract
-Marie biscuit crumbs

Directions:
1. Rinse strawberries and cut around the top of the strawberry. Remove the top and clean out with a paring knife, if necessary (some may already be hollow inside). Prep all strawberries and set aside.
2. In a mixing bowl, beat cream cheese, powdered sugar, and vanilla until creamy. Add cream cheese mix to a piping bag or ziploc with the corner snipped off. Fill strawberries with cheesecake mixture. Once strawberries are filled, dip the top in Marie biscuit crumbs. If not serving immediately, refrigerate until serving.

Easy and so, so good looking! I'm going to attempt them this weekend, will report back on the results.

ulyana sergeenko.

2011-09-09T19:30:00.000-07:00

Introduced by Tumblr, I couldn't help but investigate Ulyana Sergeenko Fall/Winter Lookbook 2011-12 collection in closer detail. I'm weeping at the home feel combined with that of modernity, the draping, the texture and detail, and especially the colours (the orange, the glorious orange!) caught my eye immediately. Ulyana Sergeenko's work (and this is her first collection!) vaguely reminds me of Dita Von Teese, just a lot more subtle and familiar. Even when I looked her up, she has a similar resemblance to her. She describes it as an Illustration of the Soviet Vogue 1950 and it's rather strange but comforting. It feels both foreign to me, and yet feels like home. Paradoxical, really.

father's day.

2011-09-09T04:26:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend with my family, Sunday involving my Father for Father's Day. I spent the day with my Grandparents, eating numerous cheese-filled pastries and drinking too-strong coffee, and spent the night at a Hotel down and hour away with a warm smile.

His presents were a culmination of bits and bobs by the family. I'm not to bad with choosing gifts for birthdays or Christmases, but Fathers and Mothers day always leaves me in a slump. We ended up choosing a few shirts from RM Williams- a brand that sells a lot of horse-riding gear and farmhouse things, but are always of the best quality and have excellent sizes despite being pricey, well worth it. Also, I picked up an Explore Australia atlas through work, a handy Australia-wide guide of stopping places on your journey rather than being a direct how-to. Along with that, we chose The One from Dolce + Gabbana, a really light aftershave that isn't overbearing but leaves a lingering aroma instead. It's now one of my favourite male scents.

I drove the family down to Mornington, to a local pub there. Large meals, friendly atmosphere- nothing too expensive or formal, but at he same time it was special because it was different to our local hideouts for dinner. Dad enjoyed his day thoroughly, and Andrew enjoyed his mud cake just as much.

window shopping.

2011-09-06T06:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, now look. Colour blocking is by no means new, and I will fully admit that the sheer amount of editorials based on its formula is becoming more and more frustrating with originality. However, I will openly admit- for the everyday consumer, colour blocking is, excuse the phrasing, bloody brilliant. This is probably the first time in years that spring clothing has not just been focussed on a rehash of past seasons dresses and printed with a floral number. There's colour, there's passion, there's structure, there's fashion intrigue! Colour blocking, whilst slowly becoming tiring, is seeing me becoming more and more enthusiastic about wearing colours outside of the neutral and earthy spectrum that I'm used to- there's no way you'll be finding me in pastals though (for now.)

Here's one existential to colour blocking, but I have to lament my disappointment. Of all the colours available, I adore mustard the most in spring- it's refreshing, lively, spots you out a mile away. However, of course it has to clash horribly with my skin tone. As such I've been lusting after so many things that range from a burnt orange to a mahogany brown, all tied together with gold, and it seems I can cope without the yellow brightness whilst still standing out. The colour is no big invention, but oh how it's nice to vary from flowers.

Pussybow Tunic from ASOS, Flare Coat from ASOS, Yale Wedge from Novo, Wool Trouser-Shorts from Forever21, Jewellery designed by House of Harlow for ASOS.

With the craze of colour blocking going on, I find that there are still some awful colour pallets that are being thrown out. I do not care who says what- scarlet red and fuschia pink will never, ever go together. However, one thing I appreciate is the blues- like the royal being brought back from '07, and peacock shades making an appearance. With minimal makeup and clear colour blocking, 9/10 times shows that if you put two shades of ludicrous blue together, it just works. Plus, I haven't as yet worked up the confidence to rock a bib.

Tassell clutch from DP, Scoopneck Dress from DP, Bib necklace from ASOS, Bodycon Belt from ASOS, Platform heel from ASOS.

Something more casual, but a colour block combination of the two above. Everything here comes from ASOS. (In case you didn't know by now, I really love ASOS.)

Necklace, Ring, Ring, Shoes, Belt, Shorts, and Shirt.

One day I will afford to buy all this with a lottery win. One day.

you + i.

2011-09-05T04:45:00.000-07:00

I'm hot and cold when it comes to Lady Gaga. I'm not particularly enamored by her fashion and her stage theatrics, but I also respect her for finally beginning to transform pop music away from its tasteless auto-tuned deaths. Her first album didn't leave much of a mark on me- all I really remember is a girl in my high-school biology class, proudly proclaiming that Just Dance was her personal anthem and played it continuously in class on her static-speaker phone. I downloaded her on a whim after Paparazzi broke out onto the scene, figuring it was about time for me to try and attempt to listen to her non-singles. I was pleasantly surprised with some tracks, and so followed her to The Fame Monster, where she blew me away. It was such a shame that her company didn't release.. well, everything that she didn't release. Monster remains to be one of my favourites from her.

From that, Born This Way was released and I didn't know what to make of it. It felt like half the songs were flat- the only ones that resonated with me (looking at you, Government Hooker) were clearly never going to be released on the radio, and her slower tracks like You and I that resembled the tone of her first album would never make the airwaves. Or so I thought. I suppose this album has had a lot of pressure on it to live up to the expectations of its predecessors, but this Gaga era leaves me so conflicted as to whether I'm one of her Little Monsters or if I'm keeping away and remaining cynical of this strange musical persona. Regardless, I've enjoyed her singles for Born This Way, even if You and I felt like it could've been so much more.

And then, through tumblr I found what made You and I breathe. Metronomy, a band that I had known from Triple J years beforehand ( their track On The Motorway remains to be one of my favourite, even if non-official, released videos ever), had released a chillwave version of her track that just brought it down to her voice's foundations. No theatrics, no effects, just Gaga's skeleton polished by the hands and genius of Metronomy. I've had it on repeat for literally over two hours now doing homework; I'm still dumbfounded. I don't think I'm going to be sick of it anytime soon.

izmir.

2011-09-04T22:00:00.000-07:00

I had been asked a little while ago from my older relatives to scan several copies of photographs that had been stuck and melted within hardened album pages from over thirty years ago. My father's side of the family is originally from Turkey (he became an Australian citizen at around the age of 20, his family didn't permanently move here until about seven years ago) and so to see all of these unfamiliar faces and landscapes and learning that they helped shape my gene pool is several kinds of crazy.

My Nan and my two aunts. I smile/laugh and looked so similar to Nil (the one on the lefthanded side on the daisy dress) when I was a child, I had to double check that it wasn't me.

My Dad had the best afro.

And the best style, too.

My Nan will always be beautiful to me, I can only hope my eyes remain as lively as hers have throughout the years. It's a crazy thought that all these (and around 100 photos more) have traveled all the way to my computer from Izmir, and that they might hold the key to what my own children would look like if they were to eventuate, and what my parents and I will turn into by the end of our lives. Kind of wack, when you think about it.

lamington jelly sponge.

2011-09-03T01:27:00.000-07:00

I will be the first to admit that one of my biggest flaws is my lack of ability to cook. From my grandmother to my mother, my family has brought down one Australian recipe to another in a hope of creating a feeding frenzy to last more generations. And then I became the next female in line, and I definitely cannot step up to the plate. Between my two higher generations, I can barely cook anything that isn't ready made or simply toastable (and even then I manage to get it very, very wrong.) However the one thing I'm able to get my hands and mind over, are sweets and desserts.

Now this doesn't sound like such a bad thing. I mean, not everyone is well acquainted with trifle and scones, mousses and cakes, and that's all good and well, but as for the actual harnessing of stews and roasts and.. anything savory, I am completely and utterly lost. My parents tonight are having to go to a party (the demographic is aged over 40+, so I happily said I was predisposed), but Mum asked me to help step in and bake with her. She chose chocolate and white chocolate mudcakes- I chose lamington sponge cake. Pink, lamington sponge cake.

Lamingtons, for those who don't know, are really these. Square sponge cakes, sometimes filled with jam and cream, but coated in cocoa and coconut flakes. However, even better- making it is actually really easy. Even if you're not certain or feel comfortable about cooking sponge cakes, a simple pre-bought one does just as fine. However, I've found that I enjoy 'jelly' cakes more- lamingtons which, instead of having a chocolate coating, have one of pink jelly flavour.

Before you start anything, make sure that you are properly attired- besides the fact that jelly crystal syrup can stain, apparently it's a ritual that your brother is to mark you with 'warflour' before you begin a cooking bout.

All you have to do- take one to two packets of jelly. The quantities for this don't really require a recipe, as it will depend on what sized sponge you use- whatever syrup is left over, pour into two small glasses, and you now have coconut jelly for dessert for dinner. As for the flavour, it doesn't have to be raspberry, it can be port, or whichever that you prefer. Empty the crystals out into a large plate, fill a kettle of boiling water, and melt the crystals down. Wait for it to reach room temperature (or anything that won't involve burning your hands) and sit your sponge cake inside the plate and let it soak up all the jelly syrup.

And I mean, soak. Let it soak in each side (particularly the rounded edge!) so it infiltrates the entire thing. You want the cake entirely soaked, both for flavour and for enough wetness of your coconut flakes. Let it rest for a little while out of the plate though, because you don't want the entire thing soggy. As for the flakes, I'm not too sure the amount required- maybe one or two cups of shredded coconut flakes into a plate, and repeat the process, sticking them all the way over. Coat it all the way through.

Pop it into the fridge for about half an hour, and then make sure that the syrup isn't wet anymore. You can then slice the cake in half and fill it with jam- ridiculously easy. Make sure that you guard yourself, because outside of family members, dogs apparently like dropped coconut and jelly syrup too. Presto!

to the boy under the stairs.

2011-08-31T05:59:00.000-07:00

I found myself this afternoon staring at my bookshelf in dismay. There was not a single book that called for me to pick it up- toying spine to spine, my fingers explored around but couldn't find what they were looking for. Something fresh, but familiar.

I rarely get time to myself these days to read. Read recreationally, that is. As I write this, I have my Witches and Depravity reader in my lap, telling me that I have another 16 pages to read about sexual relationships with the Devil; beyond that, Just and Unjust Wars, Alexander The Great and several transcripts of speeches by Pope Urban II. Each time I make to pick up a new book, I am immediately overcome with guilt that I could be spending my time on a different task that was overdue or needed working on- and to my utmost regret, I cannot even recall the last book I've read for myself.

My hands reached the back of the bookshelf and pulled out one, wedged in a corner, edges creased and frayed, bent and broken beyond belief but not forgotten. I flipped to the inside cover, and smiling, immediately plopped onto the couch, all other things forgotten. I reached chapter fourteen and sighed at the memories that the few hours reading had brought me, and flipped back to the cover, to see a little boy with circle glasses and a lightning shaped scar looking back at me with a funny smile.

Harry Potter first visited me in grade three. I was never a mathematic child- the simplest additions and subtractions perturbed me, division used to give me nightmares in the night. As I reached the ages of seven, eight, nine and ten, multiplication became harder and more advanced. Between sitting on the toilet seat, staring at the massive poster on the back of the bathroom door, lamenting myself to sticking post-it notes around my room to wake up to roman numerals, I was constantly frustrated by it. All I wanted was to hide, and bury myself away. My parents at the time couldn't understand how a girl could fly through so many fantasy novels within a few days, and yet struggled with four-times tables.

My salvation came in the form of Harry. My mother, on a cold August morning, came up to my room as I sat crosslegged in bed pouring over my little workbook, and presented me with The Philosopher's Stone. On the inside, she wrote in bright-pink highlighter that she'd bought it for my hard work at times-tables. She said that she would buy me each book, one after the next, for every A I got inside my test. I know that JK Rowling is accredited with helping the literary involvement and learning of millions across the world- but for me, she and Harry taught me basic maths.

As much as I hear the sorrow of hundreds of fans who grew up with Harry, I don't understand their sadness. I have a Pottermore account, and own each film, and have read the books backwards and forwards, but I am not a fan of Harry. I am a friend.

Harry Potter was a friend of mine throughout my childhood and teenage years, and continues to grow as I read each book and watch each movie. The only person who was able to put it into words was a tumblr user, cuethefire: that Harry and my journey isn't over, and that he will live on through everyone.

We met when we were both a little crooked; you were tall, too many limbs for the cupboard underneath the stairs, and my feet dangled from the edge of the bed when I slept. I was eleven and wide eyed when I hung a picture of you across my wall. You were brave – it was in the curve of your eyebrows, in your eyes, “your mother’s eyes,” – and I was still mapping out the mountains of my backbone, seeing how well courage fit to the puzzle of my spine. It never did fit very well, but I am still trying. Tell Neville, brave Neville that I’m still trying.

When you were facing dementors and trying to keep strong about Sirius I was trying to carry my own torch, too. I moved to a different continent. Did you notice at all? You were the only constant – your name was still pronounced the same, Harry Potter, the same way I had said it those early years, in my native tongue. You were still brave and reckless and stubborn despite everything else. I learned the language. Strangers sounded like music; when I spoke I sounded like static, harsh and rough edged and out of place. Everything was so much colder. Winter kissed our bones frozen and stuck us together. I was shivering, my teeth sang – it was so cold, but the snow reminded me of Hogwarts. If anyone understands, Harry, I know it’s you. Somehow, you always understood.

When I was too tall and too many curves you had a silly scar and untamable hair. When I was not good at making friends, you were lonely and broken and longing, and when I was a little lost you solemnly swore that you were up to no good, but you were, you were, and you found me. It’s true. It will never be anything less than true. When the doctor said mom had cancer, when her hair started to fall, when dad sat by the table and shaved it like it was normal, ordinary, when grandpa bled from his brain and dad had not seem him in ten years, and when things didn’t seem to work out for any of us for a long time, you were there, with that silly scar on your forehead and all of the other scars and bruises you kept hidden from a world that had been nothing but cruel, you were there, you held out your hand and let me feel the injustice and cruelty of the world mapped across your palm, and you understood. You understood, and even after everything you held my hand like we were still wide eyed and young and the world had not yet tainted us, like you knew that everything would be alright. And I think that, somehow, everything will be.

I'm still waiting for a character and a book to draw my hand in on the bookshelf and lead me into their lives for several years more. Until then, I'm always happy to have shared Harry in my life.

Always.

we love colors.

2011-08-29T22:47:00.000-07:00

About two months ago, I won myself a pair of tights and socks through a We Love Colors giveaway, conducted by the lovely Bronny from Fat-Aus. Normally I get lucky here and there, but to win clothes that were essential to me made it even better. Whilst pantyhose are slowly making a comeback, tights are a complete necessity- with short-hemmed skirts and dresses constantly being 'in', the only thing that makes me comfortable wearing them are paired with a pair of strong, black, solid opaque tights.

Previous to winning these, the only thing I could come across were RazzMatazz's Curvaceous line, and I would always hit a snag. Whilst they were a 70 denier, I would always find that they snagged ridiculously easy and had very little support for thighs and bottoms in the stitching, and their weight measurements would only reach a maximum of about 120kg's. Along with that, their sizings were confusing- Size 1 and Size 2 aren't exactly comforting things to be addressed with. I would always however, despite my dislike for them, be stuck with them because I didn't know of any other brand that catered for a woman with a larger weight, height and proportioned legs.

Until We Love Colors came around, that is.

Made in the USA and hand-dyed in Miami FL, the team at We Love Colors were absolutely wonderful from the get-go. I was contacted by a lady from the company called Cara, informing me that I had won a pair of socks and regular tights- I asked her if it was possible to include the 'plus-sized' pair, and she immediately said I could. I chose a pair of the Plus-Sized Nylon Lycra Tights (style #1008) in Black, Sized E, and a pair of Solid Color Nylon Socks (style #1151) in Dusty Green, size 9-11.

I couldn't believe the size and range that was available. From plain tights to the insane splash tights (how amazing are they!), they had everything I needed. The sizings were equally as surprising to me- from having to accept up to the previous kilogram mark, We Love Colors goes up to a total of 170 kilograms and the length matches those girls who are up to six feet tall! Cara informed me that the size that I chose (up to 140 kilograms, a 'Size E') was currently out of stock but would be freshly dyed for me. I had been anxiously awaiting my package to arrive, and my only issue was that it took just over a month to be shipped for me- but in saying that, Cara kept close contact with me and my query about it, and it turns out that it was rather the Australian Post's fault for holding it away from my post-box for so long. I've never been so looked after as a customer, let alone online- she was absolutely wonderful and never made a fuss about any question I had regarding them. I felt well and truly looked after, and I will definitely be returning to their website for all of my hosiery needs.

These were the pair of black tights. I was too excited to pull them on that I didn't change from my maxi dress (the Melbourne weather is finally getting brighter) so I just rolled it up to an average short-length dress. It's one of the dresses from Target's MODA line.. back before they became extremely disappointing, removing their variety and quality of larger sized clothes.
I was so surprised to see the supportive snag-protective lines along the side so low without my legs crying out for help- I literally could hoist the waistband these up to my chest without a single overly-tight feeling, and yet they stretched and fitted my thighs perfectly fine. I switched to a short dress afterwards just to be safe, and the protective lines were easily hidden (rolling maxi dresses is hard.) It just felt so good to finally have a pair of tights that didn't roll down to my hips within three steps.
(I couldn't resist not keeping Professor in the photo, photobombing at the side.)

The socks were comfortable and the cutest dusty-blue hue. I'm quite sure that they were meant to be a lot greener in colour, but I'm sure that the colouring differs from dye to dye- I'm still marvelously happy with them. . I paired them with a pair of old Target leather heels that had only cost me $6 in a clearance- they're not easy to walk around in, but boy do they look cute.

All in all, I'd like to thank both Bronny and We Love Colors. My thighs, ankles and I are extremely excited for our next purchase. (Colour Spash, I'm coming for you.)

embraced.

2011-08-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Bliss Lau's Fall/Winter 2011 'Embraced' campaign is absolutely glorious. Feminine shapes, soft undertones and masculine foundations paired with draping harsh spires, chains and leather body suits- after originally finding these through Noir Facade (they are always on top for the fastest editorials at a high quality), I've created an entire file to use as my desktop background for them. Photographed by Eric Guillemain; I'm in love.

scienceworks.

2011-08-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

I hadn't met up with my best-friend Neal in a while. With awkward uni timetabling, different social needs and work, it's hard to find time to hang with anyone these days but it felt worst of all about him. We've grown up together (and known eachother for.. 17 years) and live only a few blocks away. We were both free on a Sunday, and so I decided to take us for a drive out, and ended up at Scienceworks.

Scienceworks is a science museum on the other side of Melbourne, past the West Gate Bridge, and is in the middle of a sea of warehouses and factories that are completely desolate and just looming. It's a normal tradition of primary schools to take children there- there's hundreds of interactive exhibits that keep children busy and their minds whirling. Being students, our entry was completely free (that may explain the yearly excursions there) too. It was weird remembering certain parts and competing against kids a quarter of our age with kinetic movements.

These have to be the cutest kids lunchboxes ever, I was so tempted to purchase one.

Our actual meal ended up being a range of junk food, overpriced, of course. I promise that there was a salad sandwich at one point. Really.

Neal regretted his choice of choosing to season it with so much black pepper.

Melbourne Zoo in Lego!

On top of this, we headed down to St. Kilda beach. My favourite bakery, Le Bon on Ackland Street, has the world's greatest vanilla slices, and eating it by the sand was wonderful. It was the first sunny and warm day in months- winter finally feels like it's ending.

fatshion.

2011-08-25T03:10:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Sydney played host to the fashion parade Big is Beautiful- a fashion runway event spanning over a weekend that displayed the country's biggest (no pun intended) and best upcoming 'plus' sized fashion. I've always held an extreme dislike to the phrase plus-sized, not because of being pushed into the category, but because of what it insinuates. A size is a size: a roman number that spreads across clothes hangers- there is no under-sized for those who are seen to be underweight and non-average, but yet there is plus-sized. It's a way for society to brand a category of people (who are in no way a minority) that are displaced within daily lives, the main example being within the fashion industry.

Then, however, I discovered across several blogs a piece written by Damien Woolnough in regards to the festival. Titled Smoke and Mirrors fail to hide the reality, the article opens with 'Big can be beautiful but fat should not be in fashion.'

The models were gorgeous, the clothes were unremarkable and the message about health was dangerous. Professional models, including plus-size pin-up Robyn Lawley, strutted and pouted alongside 10 winners of a competition run by Myer and The Australian Women's Weekly. Most of the models looked healthy but some looked obese. While most fashion festivals ban models for being too skinny, why is it OK to see fat women on the runway?

It's attitudes such as these that are immensely frustrating. How is it not okay to see larger and smaller women on the runway? Forgetting the ridiculous comparison between underweight models to this particular festival's runway, Woolnough goes so far as to say that obesity shouldn't be accepted within fashion and is making the wrong impact on the attendees and viewers. Like my sizing definition frustration, I also find his use of the word big and obese as distasteful- a woman being over or under weight does not mean that they are not healthy. Their fitness, lifestyle, diet and mental health of models on the runway could rank higher than that of the man sitting behind his computer writing, of all things, on a fashion festival. It's clear that he has not understood the real meaning behind Big is Beautiful- that finally acceptance, quality and choice is being given to all, not discriminating against their size.

What I find most disappointing of all is the shame of a wasted opportunity when articles such as those of Woolnough's come about. With such high profiles, they fail to address the real issues when they have a power to do so. Regardless of a person's size, big or small, they deserve to be clothed and be provided with choice. Consumers need to have choice.

Editorials such as those from the June Vogue Italia (which depicted size 3 girls, the largest size on the cover, for nearly 16 years) show that fashion is putting a right step forward to being inclusive of all females.

The lack of clothing availability within society previously, however, saw me grow up feeling an outcast in my childhood and teenage years. As a naturally tallish girl (I'm 5'10"') who has been fat the majority of her life, the available brands on hand for me were catered towards older-elderly women, with the assumption that it was only those who were requiring such higher sizes. For children and teenagers, however, we would all have to make do. Whilst my friends would be constantly dressed up in hundreds of dollars worth of brands (jeans, dresses, jackets, swimsuits) from department stores to boutiques, I would be feebly running through my mothers closet or shopping in the same stores as my grandmother. I learnt how to pick out items from these shops, and pair them with the few regular reliable things I had- tracksuit pants, oversized sweaters, converse shoes (holla wide feet) and ponytails were my niche. I used to get sweaty palms when it came to casual dress days; once graduating highschool, I discovered that op shops were my godsend. Normally a 20 in clothes, I could easily slip into a pair of 14 jeans that would've been produced around 20-30 years ago: and that's when I started thinking about fashion.

It reached a point in my life, 2009, where I was growing weary of even clothing myself day-to-day. With a lack of range, any thought of fitting in was pushed to the back of my mind. However, with the internet fashion bloggers gaining a steady momentum, I stumbled across several blogs that refused to be discriminated against simply because of their large size. I was introduced to fatshion- a way of reclaiming the word fat, a word so frequently used against people of a large size, and using it proudly. I would gather hundreds of photos and advice in my mind- from wearing bike shorts under dresses to stop chaffing, to purchase things online, to utilise thrifting resources that we have here, and above all else to say 'fuck it' to society's standard of sizing. The discrimination became something that I took with me shopping- it became a power for me to use against those who would add negative connotations to a person's weight. Beautiful ladies that spread both the word of expanded sizes of fashion and of weight empowerment include such as those of Fathionable, Fat-Aus, Le Blog de Big Beauty, An Olive A Day,, Fashion Haley, Gabifresh, Corpulent, Nadia Aboulhosn and The Full Nilson. I have to add that it is incredibly important to note here that these women may or may not categorise themselves with fatshion or as being a part of the fact acceptance movement, and I do not wish to categorise them as such- it's more that their positive attitudes towards fashion and killer style has helped shaped my own personal acceptance of my similar size and clothing taste.

Whilst I am still uncomfortable with my weight, with the growth of societal acceptance, the range of clothing available, and my personal ever growing courage to say 'fuck it' and enjoy what I see in the mirror is all due to these ladies powerful fashion and passion for it. I don't wear being fat as as a badge of pride, but I do recognise that it's a part of who I am, just not my body or soul's definition. And I'm becoming more comfortable and happy with that.

People big and small deserve to have fashion. Big and small, and everything in between, is beautiful.

bruchetta and puttanesca.

2011-08-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

Last night was one of the first Saturday nights that I've had free in a while. With the onslaught of 21st soon to be over (how is it already August?), and weather turning more and more wet, it means I can now have a lot more nights in bed being best friends with my laptop. Well, closer friends than we already are.

As such, it was a celebration to be had. My brother Andrew is eighteen so it's rare for him not to have a party, and likewise for me- so my parents decided to go out for a family dinner somewhere. Dad chose Lygon Street as a starting spot, and we began to rome across the packed streets, restaurants and vendours. For those who aren't Victorian, it's a prominent restaurant-packed strip that's mainly Italian, and I chose Borsari Ristorante.

The meals were tending to be on the medium-expensive side. Mains were between $25-45 and were not particularly large servings, but you could tell from both the clientele, the furnishings and the staff's attentiveness that they had carved their way through the main street stereotype and were making good money.
Unlike its neighbours, supporting red and white checkered tablecloths and Ferrari memorabilia, the place was quite and reserved- it didn't demand your patronage (does anyone else intensely dislike it when the head of staff/door try to harass you into their dwellings on their booming voices and intrusions alone) but rather appealed to people with a soft white colour palette, modernised menu's, an extensive wine list that provided both Australian and Italian variations, and a welcoming atmosphere.

My Father is the main wine drinker of the house. One time, he specially hid his favourite bottle of red in the back of the pantry so that no one would drink it- over its maturity, it had increased its value to that of hundreds of dollars. My Mother one day discovered it, thinking it was a cheap wine from the supermarket, and used it to create the best spaghetti bolognaise I have ever eaten in my entire life. Dad still curses to the day that she used that bottle.

His choice was an Italian suggestion made from our chef, John, who Dad persisted to call George the entire night in a semi-drunken stupor. John brought a bottle of 2009 Cecchi Chianti to the table, along with bruchetta. Bruchetta is one of my most favourite pleasurable foods, I wish I could live off it for days.

For entree, I was adventurous. Normally I am not a calamari (or squid lover) at all, except for that of the fried type. And even then, there's always a 99% likelihood that the calamari ring you're given in the butcher's paper is as hard as rubber. However, up for trying something different, I chose Calamari Piccante- Calamari on a bed of salad, with char-grilled zucchini, black olives and cherry tomatos that were non-existant. After eating it, I can get behind char-grilled calamari. It was delicious.

If you went to an Italian restaurant, you would normally assume that the people attending would choose Italian. My brother chose whole flounder, my mother chicken catchattorie, my father a T-bone. I was the only one to eat pasta, and chose my favourite- puttanesca. The first thing that ever made me try puttanesca was the books, A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket, of all things. It's also known as whore's pasta, as there's relatively so little ingredients in it and is relatively 'cheap;' tomatoes, basil, olives, a touch of chilli and a few anchovies are all that's used in the sauce. It was probably one of the best dishes of puttanesca I've ever had, despite being used to it in penne form, and I think that was mainly due to the high-quality olive oil that they used.

The most important meal: dessert. My weapon of choice was, despite the waiter's objections and suggestion of chocolate mousse (my Dad went with it and it was indeed delicious) apple strudel. I know what you're thinking, plain old apple strudel. nfortunately, ever since the dinner scene from the film Inglorious Basterds I'm unable to see anything but Soshanna sitting in her chair horrified at having to wait for cream for her strudel. This strudel was made with homemade ice cream, and whilst I'm not a lover of cinnamon, this strudel had the perfect amount and had the lightest crumbly pastry I've ever eaten. It was a large portion too, probably that of a kebab, so I ended up having to share it around with everyone.

There was nothing left on the plate by the end of it, as was there for the rest of the meal. We all went home with full, satisfied bellies. Despite Lygon sometimes being hit and miss, Borsari is a restaurant that I would definitely go back to again (note to self- remember to ask if they can serve the strudel with cream next time.)

pala.

2011-08-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

The second sideshow that I saw for Splendor in the Grass was from Friendly Fires. Like the last time that I had seen Warpaint, I had taken my friend Anthony with me, a massive FF fan. It surprises me that I haven't known him for longer- I originally talked to him through seeing a poster on his bedroom wall in one of tumblr's classic GPOY shots, recognising the Bloc Party gig from 2008. We hit off immediately but have only 'met' within the past two months, and I'm saddened that I haven't met him or been his friend longer. He's a great guy with great music taste.

I had kept their debut album on continuous repeat inside my stereo to cleaning my room and waking up in the morning. Despite Skeleton Boy being this blog's namesake, I had kept my eye on this band for a long time- there were very few tracks that I would skip from the album. Pala, their second album, was the exact same, a similar sound but it just captured so many feelings for me and whenever a track comes on shuffle, I'm unable to do anything but jig in my chair.

I'm not going to waste your time posting too many individual tracks from the album, because it would be a complete injustice to them. They hit the stage at around 10:15 (Cut Off Your Hands was their supporting act and they did a stellar job), and for the next hour and a half, I danced my ass off.

The trio put on the best performance at Billboards that I have ever seen. Every single one of their tracks sounded and felt a hundred times better then the flat album, and the crowd was equally excited as they were. The one thing that makes or breaks a concert for me is if the band is having fun, or if you can tell thaat they are simply obligated to be on stage. They wanted to party and dance like the rest of us, and the atmosphere made it the best live gig that I've ever gone to. Plus, Ed's hips are just as fabulous live as they are in their videos.

The video below is their track Hawaiian Air, from Pala, recorded live. To put it in perspective- it was Anthony's least favourite track on the album, and now it's one of his favourite FF track. If you compare it to the studio version, you can see how talented these boys are and what an injustice the studio has been for it. Their sound is so reflective on my emotions, that I can't help but laugh or cry at their tunes. All in all, I can't stop dancing.

loneliness.

2011-08-18T00:12:00.000-07:00

Tilda Swinton has always been like a double edged sword. She's both sent me shaking in fear and applauded with rapture- from her numerous film roles (I'm impatiently waiting to see I Am Love) to her continuously startling yet ethereal editorials (speaking of love, her spread for W Magazine with Tim Walker has blown my mind) has made me both admire and fear her throughout the years. Then, reading this piece through ORGANIZATION on Tumblr, I am just overwhelmed as to how articulate and fascinating this woman continues to be.

“Thinking about loneliness, thinking about beauty, I am wondering now if it isn’t the intrinsic loneliness in things, in fact, that render them beautiful, if it isn’t the space around them carved out of a free and pure lonesome soul that brings them alive to our solo heart in recognition.

The wild healthy island state of independent beauty. The unwatched, inspiring, rhythm of the concentrated path.

Look at the boy on the rock. Look at his hair. His chest. His eyes. He is wild as a hawk. He is free. He is lonely. He is unimaginably beautiful in his lonely quest. He is looking for a shrimp in a rockpool where there are none. (In a minute he is going to catch a bit of seaweed and insist is is moving its tail, in all its bright greenness, its eyelessness, its whiserklessness. He will make it a shrimp in his mind’s eye.) He is the resolute hunter. It’s between him and him. It is his project: the hunting of his every day. He is open to company. But he bears his own weight. His heels are flat on the rock like a Masai, like an Arab.

When I talk about loneliness like this, people most often correct me: ‘Alone’, they say, ‘not lonely. You mean alone, not lonely.’ They are incorrect. Lonely is exactly what I mean. Lonely is the description of aloneness, its flavour, its decor and its architectural underpinings. Lonely is the spirit within. Lonely describes the boy on the rock, although he is not alone. I am there, standing on the same rock. I watch him, though he remains unwatched. Lonely is his commitment, his creed, his savage delight. Lonely in the flight of his own private fantasy. Unreachably private and divinely independent, uniquely solitary, the sea of all else crashed unnoticed round all his shores.

How does the hair split? How is it that divine, lucid, compassionate loneliness ever frightened us off? The market is designed to break it down, of course. Know and be known: your insatiable desire to fend off your loneliness drives the great industrial wheel. Your chase after material moonbeams in the rockpools of commerce. We are lured into the cage by the child catcher, tamed, bound, drugged with sugar and fly-by-night folly. To know and to love our loneliness renders us free: satiable, in fact. No shrimp on earth can quench the quest. The journey alone- all one- can meet us. Know it, digest it: buy less stuff…

The great socialist thinker Raymond Williams reminds us ‘We all die alone’. It is one of the few things we will ever know. When pressed, we freely admit it, albeit perhaps through clenched teeth. But the possibility that we all, or even any of us, die- or, more to the point, live- lonely cannot be spoken. Cannot- somehow- be faced, true though it is. Yet it may be the salvation of all that’s holy, all that’s free on earth.

Look at that person we love. Don’t we know their path to be their own? Don’t we long to walk side by side with them, elbow to elbow, and know them to be free to choose our company? Isn’t it the privilege of love to watch the beloved’s path unfurl, like a carpet, before them and watch them confidently step forward in their own rhythm? Isn’t it their loneliness we treasure, the eager pull of their independent destiny that miracle! chooses us as comrade in arms: fellow lonely spirit, whose separation brings us close as a steeply, makes us thick as thieves?

I suggest that an acceptance and celebration of loneliness may be the last primal taboo in modern secular society. I suggest that the antithetical position of the self-sufficiency of embraced loneliness proposes to the insatiable capitalist machine makes it so. I suggest that true love, as opposed to the misleading romantic ideal of oneness between two, is built on the mutual witness of the beloved’s loneliness by another and the shared agreement not to attempt to distract from or to fuck with it, but to cherish and honour another solitary soul and to keep company with it in solidarity, heels flat, side by side, on cool rock, bent over the same pool.”

harley-davidson

2011-08-13T22:23:00.001-07:00

I'm always a struggler when it comes to giving out birthday gifts. My family brought me up with the belief that you cannot simply give money as a present- as a giftcard or voucher, it was acceptable, but if the person was a close enough friend then you should be able to find something that they would like.

My friend, Alex, turns 21 tomorrow. He absolutely hates giftcards.

Two weeks ago, three other mutual friends messaged me to input ideas and money for his birthday. Facebook's messaging function has been the biggest help on saving txting money in the past year and a half or so, I swear. We brainstormed ideas- I was up for purchasing him an Arctic Monkeys ticket for their January gig, but then I wasn't sure if I was going to be in the state for summer holidays. Mark listed a few Amazon items that Alex 'subtly' asked for and declared his sizes with, and we decided on purchasing a pair of Harley-Davidson boots.

The pair of Harley-Davidson Hustin Boots came up to be around $140 online excluding postage, but with the four of us chipping in, it didn't come off as hard. A lot of the people from highschool that my old friendship group is mutually friends with have been crazed about motorbikes for the past few years or so, and with licenses being so easy to gain in this state, a lot of them are already fully licensed.

Alex slid them on once unwrapped and they seemingly fit him perfectly. For his own birthday, he's received a sum of money, a number of which shall go towards his already pre-purchased motorbike lessons (that the parents had only found out about yesterday.) I'm normally fearful of buying clothes in case they're the wrong fit, let alone if they've been purchased online (they only got here on Friday, thank goodness) but it seems like these boots have been the perfect present for him.

this modern love.

2011-08-11T18:55:00.000-07:00

Being in such a long-distance relationship, I'm used to hearing the question (or really, demand) of how our relationship works. With 14,000 miles between Connor and I, things are kind of tough when a lot of a relationship seemingly depends on intimacy. We get by, but not without bumps and hiccups- technology brought us together and continues holding the pair of us. But in saying that, whenever I explain that for our monthly anniversaries we Skype together watching films, or play on the Playstation Network, and send messages and love letters and e-mails several scrolls long, people seem to debate on the validity of our relationship. Granted we've only been together just over 10 months, but people seem to have a hard time understanding that I call him and identify him as my boyfriend or partner, no more and no less. Only within the last month, my mother has stopped calling Connor my penpal and calls him my boyfriend. My father, on the other hand, jokingly refers to him as his future son-in-law. Perturbing.

The following article written by Marguerite Fields for the New York Times (and found from You Might Find Yourself) reminded me of something else. Despite my constant feelings of struggling to find acceptance for the two of us and the frustration that for whatever reason, I feel that people have to understand, tolerate and accept us for what we are- I realised that it doesn't really matter in the end. We didn't have to be exclusive or open, nor have to declare what we were to the outside world. We just had to be ourselves. We are both healthy and happy and comfortable with one another's company, and that's all that our relationship wants to be. And I'm okay with that.

Recently my mother asked me to clarify what I meant when I said I was dating someone, versus when I was hooking up with someone, versus when I was seeing someone. And I had trouble answering her because the many options overlap and blur in my mind. But at one point, four years ago, I had a boyfriend. And I know he was my boyfriend because he said, “I want you to be my girlfriend,” and I said, “O.K.”
He and I dated for over a year, and when we broke up I thought my angsty heart was going to spit itself right up out of my sore throat. Afterward, I moved out of my mother’s house in Brooklyn and into an apartment in the East Village, and from there it becomes confusing.
So, a few days after the chat with my mom, when I found myself downtown drinking tea with my friend Steven, I asked him what he thought about dating. He has a long-term girlfriend, and I was curious how he viewed their relationship.
“The main thing,” he said, “is I don’t mind if she sleeps with other people. I mean, she’s not my property, right? I’m just glad I get to hang out with her. Spend time with her. Because that’s all we really have, you know? I don’t want her to be mine, and I don’t want to be anybody’s.”
I sucked my teeth and looked over at the next table, where two men sat opposite each other. One looked over his shoulder and gave me a closed-mouth grin.
Steven explained that it’s not a question of faithfulness but of expectation. He can’t be expected not to want to sleep with other people, so he can’t expect her to think differently. They are both young and living in New York, and as everyone in New York knows, there’s the possibility of meeting anyone, everywhere, all the time.
For the sake of brevity and clarity, I’ll say I’ve dated a lot of guys. It’s not that I’ve gone out anywhere with a lot of these guys, or been physical with most of them, or even seen them more than once. But there have been many, many encounters.
I’ve met guys in the park, at the deli, at galleries, at parties and on the Internet. The Internet idea came from thinking that if I could sift through people’s profiles, like applications, I could eliminate the obvious lunatics.
And that didn’t work out very well. One leaned across the table an hour into dinner and screamed: “You love me! I know you do!” Another stood outside my apartment with one finger on the buzzer and another covering the peephole, occasionally banging his fist, until he finally exhausted himself and left.
As for the guys I first met in person, there was the construction worker I ran into on the train twice before saying anything, kissed the third time, kissed the fourth time, got stood up by the fifth time and never saw again. Then there was the guy with tattooed knuckles, the young Republican, the Irishman on vacation and the guy who stole $300 from me to buy drugs. There was the activist, the actor, the librarian, the waiter and the bond trader.
So when my friends and I started having a conversation about the nature of monogamy, I thought I knew something about monogamy. Because, despite the fleeting nature of most of my encounters, and despite my own role in their short duration, I think what I have been seeking in some form from all of these men is permanence.
Sometimes I don’t like them, or am scared of them, and a lot of times I’m just bored by them. But my fear or dislike or boredom never seems to diminish my underlying desire for a guy to stay, or at least to say he is going to stay, for a very long time.
And even when I don’t want him to stay — even when he and I find each other as strangers and remain strangers until we stop doing whatever it is we are doing — I still want to believe that two people can meet and like each other well enough to stay together exclusively, without the introduction of some 1960s rhetoric about free love or other noncommittal slogans.
But noncommittal is what we’re all about.
There was the guy with red hair and big steaklike hands that walked with me arm in arm through Washington Square Park, kissed me on the stoop of my mother’s brownstone and said he wanted to be my boyfriend. Until our next walk, when he kept his hands to himself and said he meant boyfriend “in the theoretical sense of the word.”
Then there was the installer of soy insulation who cooked soggy pasta and made me watch football and whimpered and kicked in his sleep. In the spring there was the guy 12 years older than me who shared an apartment overlooking Tompkins Square Park with an antediluvian man who walked around in graying long underwear.
There was the guy who wore more makeup than I did, and the one who waxed his eyebrows clean off his face. And the one who slept with a guy when he was drunk, then with another when he was sober. (But he insisted he wasn’t gay, just curious, and since when was I so uptight anyway?)
Over the summer there was the Jesuit taking a break from the seminary who stopped calling after I said I wouldn’t sleep with him on our third date. In the fall, back at school, there was the banjo player from the woods of New England who took me home to meet his family, then moved away and told me to wait for him. And I did, for months, until he called to say he was falling in love with me, and oh, man, I had to come see him right away (“Buy your ticket tonight!”), before he called again to say it was moving too fast and he wasn’t ready.
And on, and on, and on.
Then this winter I met a guy while waiting to have my computer fixed. He had big blue eyes and a wide red mouth and delicate hands and greasy brown hair. He sat down and asked what I was reading and did I have a boyfriend because he was asking me out. He smelled like incense and clean linen, and I was overwhelmingly and instantaneously smitten. Among other things, I liked his indifference, confidence and knowledge of foreign film directors.
On our first date he explained his theory of exclusive relationships, which was that they shouldn’t exist. We talked about our (and all of our friends’) divorced parents, about how marriage was nothing but a pragmatic financial venture, and about the last time we cheated on someone. He said that his disregard for monogamy wasn’t a chauvinistic throwback, but quite the opposite: the ultimate nod to feminism.
On our second date we watched coverage of the Iowa caucus, and later, after listening to jazz at his apartment, he crawled onto his bed, leaned against the headboard and said he didn’t burn artificial light after dark. I sighed and edged into bed next to him.
During the night he kicked and snored, grabbing greedily at me with his well-moisturized hands like a child snatching at free candy.
We overslept. In the morning I watched him dress frantically, the way a drifter would (gray pants and shirt tucked in and tie and vest and brown wingtip shoes and gray sweater and red scarf and jacket: it was lovely). He looked up occasionally from his scrambling to give a big toothy smile. I made the bed and drank the orange juice he bought for me the night before. We left his apartment and tried to find a cab.
As we crossed Hudson Street, we waded through a passing stream of preschool children walking in pairs, holding hands. I watched their teachers — one at the front of the line, one in the middle, one at the back — while he hailed a taxi.
A week passed before I saw him again. I was about to go back to school in Vermont, and he was headed to Jamaica on vacation. When I entered the restaurant, he said: “The nice part about having a shoddy memory is I forget how pretty some people are. You look beautiful.”
As we ate, we theorized about the effects of pornography on romantic relationships. Dinner ended; he had to go pack for his trip. I asked casually when I was going to see him again.
He sighed. “That’s a loaded question.”
I asked what he meant, because I thought the question was fairly straightforward.
Then it came. The story. The long, boring, aggravatingly rehearsed and condescending story. It spewed, overflowed and dripped off our table and onto the floor and underneath the shoes of the other patrons and into the street.
He said he had just gotten out of a long relationship, and now he was single and didn’t really know how this whole dating thing works, but he was seeing a lot of other people, and he liked me; he thought I was special. Cross my heart, he actually called me special.
WHEN he was done, he asked: “That’s what you were talking about, right? Seeing me again and the nature of our relationship? Like, what are we to each other?”
I said I just meant to ask when we were going to see each other again, because I thought that was the polite thing to do after a few dates, and I wondered if he wanted to make time for me to come back to New York to see him. And he said no, that was “too much, too soon,” but if I’m ever in town I should call him. He would love to see me.
We left. It was raining, he hailed a cab for me, and we hugged without looking at each other. I got into the cab and rode away.
And tried to process it. And tried to remind myself that when we first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man. I tried to think about my conversation with Steven. I tried to remember that I was actively seeking to practice some Zenlike form of nonattachment. I tried to remember that no one is my property and neither am I theirs, and so I should just enjoy the time we spend together, because in the end it’s our collected experiences that add up to a rich and fulfilling life. I tried to tell myself that I’m young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and fun; don’t ruin it.

two minutes later.

2011-08-11T00:42:00.000-07:00

I need to get one thing straight- I love fashion fads. Jelly shoes, skinny jeans, rubber wrist bands, jeggings, fake fur, converse, denim minis, acid wash, shemeghs, ugg boots. The works. The perceivable good, the bad, and the worse. I've watched people my age, older and younger wear these trends to the bone and see the stores clone the same item, replications from store to store. The horrific nostalgia of it is what I crave, and it's what makes it memorable. However, of those that I've listed and more, I've never participated in. Granted, a lot of that is due to my clothing size and also my common sense (how were jeggings ever a thing, really,) but I have a confession to make.

I'm now a part of it.

Ponchos. As a child, I recognised it as a wintery mummification device that was forced on me by Mum, as I had an aversion to raincoats. I never knew anyone outside of Loony Tunes cartoons (particularly those that were Mexican themed) that would wear them. The change began around my teenage years, when after being introduced to the show The Mighty Boosh, ponchos became a tangible joke between me and my friend. You can never be unhappy in a poncho.

Now, I covet them. They're like an acceptable snuggie, a blanket with sleeves, a fashionable caped avenger. I had been searching for one for the past three years, desperately seeking one that wasn't burnt orange in colour or scratchy in texture- the majority of the vintage ones that I found were both of these things. If I ever came across them in stores, it would be from department store brands that would wipe away half of my bank account for one of these beauties.

Then today, I went out shopping with my Mum for the first time in weeks. Normally I struggle with shopping with her, different tastes and sizes cause a lot of fights between us while out and about in the shops. I went into Jeanswest to find her a new cardigan (they always have fantastic sales) and lo, behold, I found my brand new knitted baby. As a large/L, it's a little body-forming across my chest and shoulders, but with the piece going down from $120 to only $30, I was not going to let the chance pass up.
It's impossible to be unhappy in a poncho.

locomotive.

2011-08-09T04:19:00.001-07:00

I'm still terribly, terribly sick. Only within the last few hours I've been able to strike up some words. I've spent the day in bed catching up on university work with lemon and honey tea and ticktock biscuits, frantically reading about Macedonian timber and the involvement of patriotic and realism within a just war. I'm behind and it's only week two, the stress is getting to me and I'm feeling out of my depth. This shouldn't be happening, these feelings shouldn't persist, so I hope that by next week things will be under control again.

Lately it feels like I’m being subjected to a ton good music and creativity and art. I don’t know how to part of it. I know there are communities and groups of people that burst at the seams with talent that few of us could dream of, and yet I wouldn’t know how to fit in with my own thoughts and feelings. It feels like lately I’ve been struggling to attain an outlet in which I can abuse and love so that it becomes a reflection of myself- and it baffles me, in an awe-inspiring way, that people can make a living from it.

I am in awe of anything that a person can commit to. I can’t believe the length of the trials and tribulations that people go through to achieve their goals. If anything, I’m just looking for a goal. Tired of looking, but looking just the same. There are a lot of opportunities out there, but as far as expanding goes-beyond this screen, in particular-I have no idea where to begin. But I suppose that’s part of self discovery- never a single, but a multitude of starting points, and learning curves. Hope is such a tiny idea and yet can branch out of so many things- pain embraced, love intertwined, challenges confronted and passed. I just struggle to understand how people are comfortable in fresh seas of faces, and can involve themselves in new bright things that make my palms sweat at the thought. How?

I need to find myself a new outlet.

saints and freo.

2011-08-06T23:44:00.000-07:00

If anyone was at Etihad Stadium Friday night around section twelve, you would've been overwhelmed by the smell of chlorine. The past couple of days I've been terribly sick- both run and worn down from the start of uni, and from the remaining Splendor in the Grass sideshows. I woke up to attend school on Thursday morning at 5:30am, three hours sleep since I had gotten home from a show, and literally couldn't speak. After checking my e-mail, I learnt that my class for that morning had been cancelled- instead of needing to be on a train at 7 to reach my Witches and Depravity class, I could sleep in. It was lucky that Mum wasn't up to talk to, I could barely open my mouth without pain and scratching around my throat.

After using the majority of Thursday to sleep-in, my only plans on Friday were to go to work. I was feeling horrible still, but after two weeks off with no pay cheque, my bank account was feeling the pinch and the feeling of a light wallet is awful. It wouldn't be too bad, but working at a swimming pool as a teacher means that because of the environment and children, it means that you're legally required to work in short shifts (no longer then three hours in the water at a time) before your concentration lapses. After having some awful experiences of children exploring places that they can't reach with the teacher unaware, it's a rule I both understand and bemoan as a job.

However, I had forgotten. I organised a football outing with a few friends in previous weeks and had forgotten all about it (thank goodness for facebook event notifications) and despite feeling under the weather still, being host of the night meant I was obliged to go. It also meant I was in a pickle; the match started at 7:40 and my shift finished at 5:30, meaning that I had just enough time to get changed from work, picked up, and arrive there with minutes left to go. Of course, the plan didn't work out too great-the shower at work broke down, the till closed as I collected my pay, the traffic was a nightmare, I managed to choose the worst bra that I owned to wear for the night-but the game and night was a terrific success and fun.

We parked at Crown Casino, about a 15 minute walk from the event. I had absolutely no idea what to wear- coming out of a 34 degree pool and walking into a 15 degree stadium isn't the best combination of events for fashionable practicality. Ended up grabbing my 'uniform', a $4 thrifted dress, the hem of which I constantly have to re-adjust (I am no seamstress), along with a jacket and tights. Stapels, really. Along with Eu De Chlorine.

We won the match only through a couple of our star players charging through the last quarter, but a win is a win. Sausage rolls, grossly unsalted chips, fried fish that looked suspiciously like chicken ('Lionel, did you just put tartare sauce on that chicken strip?) and lovely company. I went out with some new faces, and the old boys were just as jovial and loutish as ever. It's the company and atmosphere that make the game fun for me- the match is just a bonus.

open house.

2011-07-31T18:59:00.000-07:00

This weekend marked Melbourne's Open House 2011 festival. It is effectively the development of an entire city's open day- buildings from around the CBD opened up their insides for tourists and locals to explore what was beneath the city that we all only knew from a glance, and did we all pour in.

There were around 75 buildings freely available for the public to use- of them, about 5 or 6 required pre-booked tourspots. I was invited via facebook only a week beforehand, and people were only freely available for one half of the weekend. We were originally wanting to search St Pauls Cathedral firstly, but with Sunday service being held, we made alternate exploration plans.

my partners in crime, Alex and Neal.

We first stopped at Origin Roof Garden- placed on an old energy business's administrative building, the garden combined different architectural elements to create a homely environmental space. The timber was entirely recycled, the 'grass' was artificial, and is utilised daily by the public as a place for yoga and tai chi. The grass fooled me- walking along it barefoot showed me that technology had changed; fake grass is not the same as the stuff I trudged along in soccer 10 years ago. When I had placed some of these photos onto my facebook, a friend told me that it felt like a dream. Having a little hideaway like this in the middle of high-rises really opened my eyes, as I had no idea of its location.

We then walked to the Melbourne Town Hall and its offices. The well known tower is in the French Renaissance style and has had several additions to it over its birth, the last being in 1925 following a fire. I was unable to take a lot of photographs unfortunately; 'no photography' signs were plastered every few steps of the way. It was a beautiful hall that showed the splendour and served as a prototype for public offices of the time, and it is most known for being the location for the venue of meetings regarding our country's federation. The symbolism of the engravings across the roofs, the floor, the walls and the portraits of the mayors (oh how I miss you, John So) showed both patriotism of the country and respect of our white Australian history and its ties to the British monarchy. It really was quite a shame that they didn't let visitors take as many photos, but instead openly invited them to join tours where they would be given access for a small fee.

After lunch, we headed over to the Myer Mural Hall. Located on Level 6 of Myer, one of our largest department stores, it was originally a dining hall for around 550 people and was completed in 1933. The halls murals, decorated and painted by Napier Waller, depict famous women throughout history and its seasons. The women are a part of numerous different important industries in history, including art, history, opera, literature, dance and (of course) fashion.

Following that, we tried to get into three other places. The Manchester Unity building was only open to private tours (frustrating!) and the Russell Place Substation and Royal Hospital Tunnels had reached maximum capacity and shut early (doubly frustrating!)

All in all, it's a wonderful event to be a part of. I'll have to remind myself next year to come along for the full weekend, and make sure that everything's planned properly. It was just great to be reminded that despite being in the same city for so many years, I can still be overwhelmed at the world available to me inside this small city.

skeleton boy.

2011-07-30T03:18:00.001-07:00

So in a moment of Saturday-night spontaneity (and, in retrospect, one too many glasses of ciders) I decided to start a new history afresh. I've kept both online and offline journals before, but nothing recently has kept me inspired. To look back on an old history by creating a new history.

I'm Jessica. I'm twenty, born and harbouring in Melbourne, Australia. I'm in my second year at Monash University- another fickle arts kid with her head in the clouds with studying Ancient and Medieval history. I work at a local swimming school, teaching young children how to float and parents how to do doggy paddle. In my spare time I like creating tunes on my grandmother's old piano, hoarding old hardbacks, and being broke on gigs.

As for what this blog will be, who knows. The URL was one that I struggled with for awhile until I came across Friendly Fire's track, Skeleton Boy. It was the first track I had ever heard from the group, and one that I was addicted to- until I realised that I had learnt the lyrics wrong. Mondegreen. Flesh and Colours were flashing colours. However, it just felt more right; 'I lose myself in flesh and colours, I've gotta see it through.'

Fingers crossed- I'll see the blog through.