Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Because Where Else Shall We Bare Our Souls, If Not On The Internet?




So.
I have this dream.
A waking dream. A daydream. A pretty little pipe dream. An awake-again-at-three-am dream. A keep fighting through, even though it's all so hard today dream.
A dream that appears in sleep. And stays after I open my eyes.
A heart dream.


In my dream I'm in a white room.

It's just a room, but still more.

It's my room. Within my house. Home.

The walls are smooth and bare.

The floorboards are pale wood, and worn.

White cotton curtains move gently in the breeze.

The windows are open and I smell salt. And sunshine.

I sit in the centre of a white bed.

On the floor, a stack of papers, sometimes the wind scatters them.

Sometimes, I catch at one.

They are blank, always, clean and unsoiled. Untouched.

Void of meaning and full of possibility.


I never move from the bed. I never stand, never move beyond the door. Never think to search for unfamiliar objects, listen for laughter, voices, footsteps.

I might not be alone. I wonder, half hope, for another?
But I will know when I need to, and not before.


It seems a strange dream, an odd hope, a mundane fantasy.

Simply a quiet room, in a house that is my own, shared with a maybe-someone.


On the very best days, this seems all I could ever want.
On a bad day, enough, this thing to work towards.
And on the very worst days, a comfort thought, a safe place, in which I, once more the crying child, may rest a while.

A home, security, a place from which I cannot be displaced.
Less, and more than I ever thought I'd have.
This modest castle-in-the-air.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Dangerously Close To Fandom...(In which Sara Quin is proved to have much the same effect upon my sanity as a produce shelf)


Outwardly I am not a celebrity obsessed kind of a girl.
I don't have posters on my walls (I do have swatches of vintage kimono fabric, pretty). I never read teen magazines as a wee one. And people whose voices reach ultrasonic frequency whilst talking about Zac Efron scare me. A lot.

I feel that the blame for these obviously inhuman, social discrepancies lies squarely on my mother's shoulders. Never a fan of the superficial mainstream world, as a child my television viewing was closely monitored by mater matres.
One of my earliest memories is of presenting a petition as a five year old, extolling the educational and moral benefits of watching "Barney and Friends".
Of course I may not have used those exact words... more like "Its really cool and you learn things. Like sharing, and how to use your imagination. And everyone else is allowed to" .
As soon as the last sentence slipped through my baby lips, I regretted them. Even as a five year old, I realised that I had just determined my darling Barney's fate.

"Barney comes to play with us, whenever we may need him, Barney can be your friend too, if you just make believe him....sob"
Alas, Barney and I, Beth and Barney, we were never to be. No magical rainbows in the air for me.
Barney was deemed; (1)An "unhealthy influence" upon my already "overactive" imagination (fair enough really, this was only days after I had fallen backwards down a flight of stairs running, screaming, from the Giant Toucan Heads* in my playhouse).
(2)An inappropriate and irresponsible show, in which small children were left unsupervised by their parents with a middle aged purple dinosaur.
(3) A worrying indication of my desire to "fit in" through the expression of similar tastes to my peers (Baaa! baaa!)

Once burned, twice shy. I would never again openly admit to a shared enthusiasm for anyone or anything. I would be a Fan no more.

And thus began my clandestine love affair with Pop Culture. Clandestine, a deep forbidden desire, masked by outward indifference....Much like that guy in your high school calculus class, the one you'd make eyes at, but never actually admit to liking in front of your friends. You know the one...and he was definitely in your calculus class. I refused to attend math class past the age of 15, clearly abstaining from "Barney" paid off. I was an uncooperative, non-conformist teenager. I didn't want to "work together", I didn't want to "get along" and I possessed a highly developed aversion to numbers. But that's neither here nor there. My point was that you had a thing for the math nerd.


Also that I, very secretly, love all things entertainment related. In much the same way that an experienced flatter will hide their chocolate biscuits in the veggie crisper, I conceal my well worn Marie Claire and Rolling Stone collections beneath tomes bearing frightening names such as "A Complete Anthology of Feminist Literature Through The Ages". In the past I have fuelled my secret addiction by taking "Popular Media" classes, "because it's just like so interesting, the way the media impacts our society, right?". And when making small talk with a new acquaintance I'd much rather discuss the weather, or Sylvia Plath, or shoes, or kittens. At least that used to be the case...


I have a confession to make. I am a Tegan and Sara F..Fff..Ffffa..Fffffttt. I'm sorry, I can't say it.


But you get the idea. These two adorable, talented women have come close to breaking my snobbish crunchy outer layer. I own all of their music. I know things about them, their taste in literature, allergies, even their birthday. So big deal, they're twins, it's one date right? wrong... I'm that bitch friend who forgets everyones' birthdays... I forgot my own mother's birthday this year (Yes, I know, I'm a bad person, I felt awful though). When I "run out" of things to draw, I sketch them. If I was ever to met say, Sara, I would most definitely have an anxiety attack (which actually isn't saying that much, the more "stressful" sections of supermarkets are currently provoking the same). When I meet people for the first time these days, I manage to work T&S into the first few minutes of conversation..and lose interest when they say "uh, who?"

It began with the music...with a mix cd, to be exact. On the 21st of December, 2007(?) ** , one Francesca handed me a cd; included in her selection of "music I should be listening to", three Tegan and Sara songs. It was like she'd poured me my first drink, delivered my first hit, introduced me to a previously unwatched Australian soap opera***. I listened to it twice and in due time, lost it. Because that's what I do, I lose things. So really it was a bit like she'd handed me my first drink, I'd taken a sip and spilled the rest down my front. End of. Not an exciting story really, I just wanted to use the drink simile. I thought it was funny.

Assignment time rolled around at Uni and being the conscientious wonderful student that I am, and possessor of a fantabulous work ethic, I was hard at work, reorganising my Media Player.
When Lo A Shining Light Appeared...
Fran had infiltrated my computer and added the same three songs. Because that's what best friends do...they beat you round the head (metaphorically....mostly) until you wearily agree to submit to their superior taste in music. Anxious to avoid doing anything remotely productive, I gave the songs a listen, and then again. And again.

Four days later I had finished my assignment and felt incredibly calm, I had travelled to a musical happy place. My flatmates however were irritable...and sick of hearing the same three songs on repeat. And so humbly, with a heart hungry for music (much like Oliver Twist) I went to Fran, with my little bowl held out in my hands and said "Please sir, can I have some more?"
A new world opened it's doors to me, a world filled with music and wonder, a fifth dimension inhabited by inked up twin elves and various other magical creatures...
It's comforting, knowing that if I'm having an urghish day I can use up my share of the internet on youtube, giggling my face off...have I mentioned how OhmyGod funny these girls are? They make beautiful music, are politically active (but not to an irritating degree), inspire laughter and actually pull off strange indie mullet hair, what's not to love?

(In' they cute? Everyone say awww on the count of three..)


(....one, two, three...Awww!)

This week I nearly spent my rent money on a pair of Sara shoes. The fact that I refrained from doing so is by no means indicative of my admirable self control. I just couldn't find them online.
Dangerously close to outright fandom. I would almost put up posters.


* Giant Toucan Heads, fairly self explanitory; oversized toucan heads borne on human shoulders. Social structuring similar to that of the notorious"Three Bears Organisation", most commonly found in threefold packs- "Papa" Toucan Head. "Mama" Toucan Head and "Baby" Toucan Head. Partial to porridge and five year old girls.

**ok making shit up, don't remember the date. or the year.

***O.M.G who watched home and away last night?...embarrassingly but undeniably addicted.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Note To Self. Never Use "Visualising" Or "Chakra" In Conversation Again..


So I stayed home last night, watched Project Runway and cut up bits of paper...yup, home on a Friday night...by choice. My flatmates laughed at me.


In retrospect I probably should have said something like "I'm tired and just want to sleep" instead of "Oh I have to be up at 7 tomorrow. Venus goes direct at 7:25 , so I really want to spend some time clearing out my creative spaces, cleaning, visualising...it's really the best time to do it, you know?" ...um, yeah "I'm sleepy" would have definitely been better.


However...this morning, they all have hangovers. And I have a lovely tidy desk and a handful of pretty paper words for my wall.


Sometimes ridiculous New Ageism really pays off.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

What I Wish I Had Worn Today, Instead of Pajamas.

What I wish I was Wearing Today.
What I wish I was Wearing Today. by molly-the-insomniac featuring Carolina Amato Gloves gloves

Happy Easter Love Ducks.
And yes, my Polyvore username sucks. I'd had very little sleep. And was going through a "wish my name was Molly" phase. It happens.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Conversations With Crazy People...Indulge Me...I Miss Them.


Oh, nice, make fun of the short girl...
Mum- "Wake up Thumbelina."
Me- "What?...why am I Thumbelina?"
Mum-" She slept a lot."
Me- "No. She was the tiny one."
Mum- "Oh. Get up Thumbelina."


So proud...
Baby Sis- "Last week at school we told everyone that Nicole has severe anger management issues...Well, I may have told everyone....She maybe doesn't know....but it's awesome! Everyone's scared of her. Yesterday Bailey (who is like, so mean, Beth) was like "you can't sit there, I'm saving these seats" and I just wiggled my eyebrows and said "Sure about that?" "


Um, what?!
Brother Boy- "Hey Beth, what are the symptoms of heroin withdrawal?...It's for school, drama, we're playing drug addicts. We want to be as realistic as possible. So I told everyone I'd ask you."

Friday, April 10, 2009

The Architecture Of Sound, And Some Other Significant Things.





I think this picture is beautiful.




Perennial is one of my favourite words.


As are Maudlin. Melancholy. Macabre.




I like purple and turquoise and orange and red.

Especially together.




Listening to music with my eyes closed, I can see it.
Not in notes.
Or words.
Or moving lips.
More like seeing, and sort of feeling and being at the same time.
It's like the music is building walls. And houses and ladders and stairs.
A landscape full of multidimensional geometric shapes.
Unfinished building sites. Lyrical floorplans. Lines.
And I'm moving between them. Falling towards them, saved by the bass line.
I should point out that this is not a lame attempt at poetry. Just the way I hear things.




I like people, and talking.

Words, I love words.

But some days I don't want to talk, at all. So I don't. I swallow my thoughts and leave white spaces in the air.





I love ellipses...I frequently use them...and abuse them...and misuse them.





I'll tell anyone, anything. Anything, anything. All they have to do is ask. If they don't ask I won't tell them anything. Not even my name.




Yesterday I started to feel pale and insignificant. And like the rain might wash me away if I didn't hold on to myself tight enough.

I put on some raspberry lipgloss. It helped.


Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Why Public Transport Is Awesome. (alternate title- why I shouldn't be allowed out unsupervised...)


Forget saving the planet, yadda yadda, blah blah...Public Transport isn't just eco-friendly and socially responsible. It's Super Fun.


Four Fun Facts For Fun-loving Fellows?.....Fffff ff, I give up...stuff about buses.
In four parts.


Part One.
Bus Drivers.
Some are good, some are great, the greatest of the great, is "Fred".
I named him myself. "Fred" is marvellous, from the moment I stepped onto his bus, from the moment I heard his gruff voice say " 'Ello love, 'ow's yer day bin?" I knew that he was the one.
The one that I would name Fred.
I had already named several bus drivers; "Ernie", "Harrison Ford", "He Who Drives Like A Bloody Maniac", but I'd been saving Fred for a someone special.
And "Fred" is Special. He sort of reminds me of that old guy on Coronation Street. I like to think that when he's not Busing he gives out emphatic advice and cheerfully chops up meat.


Part Two,
Passengers.
Okay, may need several subcategories...
"Characters"... larger than life, wondrous specimens of humanity, entertaining, sometimes even inspiring. Providers of fodder for the regalement (funny voices and arm waving vital) of flatmates.
My current favourite...Miss Margery.
Every Monday I sit on the bus, impatiently waiting for Miss Margery's stop. Every Monday, without fail, she bounces her surprisingly sprightly, 70+ form, up the steps of the bus and greets "Fred" with a cry of "How low can you go?!"
...to which he, without fail, somberly replies "Mornin' Miss Margery, 'ow was yer weekend?"
and, without fail, she responds with a dance step, a (rather raunchy) shimmy and a glee filled giggle.
When I grow up, I want to be Miss Margery.


"Crushes"... Chances are, that at least a third of the people on your bus/train/oversized rickshaw are cute.
I am a serial bus crusher. I am quite capable of developing an irrational infatuation (the best kind) over the space of 40 minutes. As a result of this, I frequently miss my stops, spill the contents of my bag down the aisle and (probably) disturb the thoughts of any nearby psychics with my internal yelps of "No, no! Don't get off yet, don't leave me....byeee....I love you".
Its fun, with a capital F.
(Dear bus girl, oh yes, I saw you smile today...I will win you over yet)


"Corporates"...neither crush-worthy or inspiring...feel free to think of these folk as giant pieces in your Game of Life. There are many, many games you can play. Be creative, use your imagination. My personal favourites?
"Smiling Sweetly At The Shy One"...watch him start, stare and hide behind his newspaper (extra points if he changes colour)
And "Grinning/Winking At The Suspicious One"...much the same as above, but watch him fret over "the dangerous youth of today"(you), the threat they pose to society and their unpredictability (bonus round, eye up his iPod).
People are lovely. I however, am a bit evil.


Part Three.
Music.
In my opinion bus trips are the perfect time to listen to music.
And (there's always an and) if you turn the volume on your headphones up loud enough, you can share your music with the entire bus! They'll love you for it! Music Game!
Why not introduce the impeccably coiffed businesswoman sitting across from you, to the musical stylings of Amanda Fucking Palmer...or brighten the sad Emo's day with a Flight of the Concords singalong....give Blokey(staring at your chest)Bloke a taste of Peaches...
Even better (um if you're me), play Tegan and Sara (or adored band of choice)...watch for smiles or nods...if someone actually hums along, pounce!
They are your newest friend. They just don't know it yet.

Finally, and I consider this to be the most compelling part yet,
Part Four.
Yellow.
The (Wellington) buses are yellow! Apart from when they're orange and purple...or lime green, or occasionally bright pink. And who wouldn't want to ride around in a brightly coloured rectangle?
It's almost like sitting in a giant shoebox...there, another fun game...
Pretend to be a shoe. What kind of shoe are you? Are you pointy and dangerous? Or cute and uber-comfy?
Something to think about...while you sit inside your shoebox, singing loudly, making friends with All and Sundry....um actually, maybe not Sundry, he is a bit scared of you.

The Infamous Underwear Incident Of 2007



Whilst talking about my family to friends, I often receive looks.
Looks that say quite clearly "whatever Beth, you are exaggerating" (Peoples' eyes are generally a lot less polite than their voices)
(With the exception, that is, of the lovely Francesca. Her eyes usually say something like "Hahahaha! Tell your cousin I said Hi". Fran, having met most of my family members, knows the TRUTH.
She also, incidentally,witnessed the following Event ...or at least I think she did? Did you Fran? Did you?)


My grandparents like to travel. For as long as I can remember, they have packed up their little yellow caravan and hop.hop.hopped all over the country (it only takes about three hops, this is New Zealand). Sometimes they bring back gifts...Awesome, right? Right.

Their last "big" trip was to the South Island...
On their return we were subjected to two hours of "and look there's another lake..." photos.
I dutifully sat still and "Ooohed", because I am sweet. Um, or because I am a mercenary little soul and love presents...and I'd been promised a Very Special Present.
After an eternity (metaphorical of course, ha), present time had arrived.
Giddy with anticipation, heartbeat racing into overdrive, I tore open my package...and made a noise that went something like this

" Ooohooumer-squeak-yaycool-thanksum?"

and bared my teeth in a terrible rictus of a smile.
Eager to display the Very Special Present, my nana swooped down and grabbed the unisex Yfronts from my (confused) fingers.
Holding them aloft in all their androgynous glory, she proceeded to explain their Special status...

"Now Bethy Buttons, these are Very Special Pants. I bought them in Queenstown, at the ski resort.." pauses to beam "They are very fashionable! All the Japanese girls are wearing them...and even some Americans!"

I smiled, hugged her, said thank you properly (because I'm a polite brat) and excused myself.
I spent five minutes hiding in a linen closet, in hysterics.
Once I had sufficiently recovered, I plastered a beatific smile on my dial and re-entered the room, clasping the treasured article to my chest in a (rather convincing) display of enamoured appreciation.

My grandmother then succeeded in destroying my composure (and caused me to once more take flight) by remarking briskly "So glad you like them m'dear, now remember, these are nice pants. They're for good, not for everyday! And they're just for you. So don't you go sharing them around!"


I have never been able to ascertain exactly how my grandmother determined the undergarment preferences of her fellow tourists..

Or for that matter, work out what she imagined my extracurricular activities to be...Underwear swappage? Orgification? Some mysterious activity/ ritual involving the removal of underpants from my body...to be placed on someone elses?


Why you may ask, am I recounting this sordid tale of bizarre benefactory and ungrateful granddaughters? Dredging up the past? Ahem, er, airing dirty laundry?


My grandparents get back from Christchurch in a week. Ima' gonna start practisin' my happy face...








An Admission Of Undying Love.







Dear bus girl.
You are cute.
Run away with me? We will live in a gingerbread house, by the sea.
And raise angora rabbits...love cures all ills, even allergies.
Please met me on the number 18 bus tomorrow.
(I'm the girl who blushes lots and drops things)



B.






Tuesday, April 07, 2009

My Life Is A Veritable Soap Opera.






Bags are like children, if they're ugly they need even more love.

This is my bag...
This is my story.

Bag's attention seeking ways are ruining my life.

Today he broke.

We exchanged words.

I cried.

I think he has seen the error of his ways.

Who, What, Where, When, Why and Something Else.


The story of my bloggery; Part One, The Beginning.

(Shhh, Story Time)

"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth". Um, or so they say.
Um anyways, blah blah trees...blah blah let there be light... blah blah evolution.... and then an apple fell on someone's head...BAM the Internet was born (And the townsfolk rejoiced for they were saved, and the feasting, and dancing went on for many days and many nights...)
So anyway, last night I was on the Internet, Twitter to be precise
(I'm all about precision, obviously, as evidenced above, a completely accurate, condensed history of the WORLD).
Um but Twitter, I was on Twitter, not writing my Gend. essay and Em was like "Hey Beth, start a blog already". Being the impressionable, easily led, little lamb that I am, I said O.K...
"Bethany Michelle! If [insert name here] told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?!"
Yes Mum. Yes, I probably would.
I would hurl my (by this time) pierced, tattooed, alcohol soaked, drug addled, promiscuous little body out into the air.

And that, my friends, is how it began.
In closing, I would like to point out that this is Emma's fault...Or Sir Issac Newton's...Or God's.
I forget.

I'm Happiest When Music Is Spinning Through My Brain.

Grass to my knees
Give them hope
And new joints
Bend and lean
On me when
You feel that
Strange dream fill
My back with cold night air through my lungs
Limping on two legs again

Don't you think that I've been giving up.
Don't you think that I've been giving up.
Change.
I'll take the blame.
I'll take the blame.
I'll move away.

Space
In my life
Give me yours
Room to grow
Pull my ears
Back with words
Heartbeats hurt
You have my
Chest full
Of cold night air in my lungs
Limping on two legs again

Don't you think that I've been giving up.
Don't you think that I've been giving up.
Change.
I'll take the blame.
I'll take the blame.
I'll move.
Change.
I'll take the blame.
I'll take the blame.
I'll move.

- I Take All The Blame
Tegan and Sara

I've been listening to this on repeat for an hour now.

And A Blog Is Born.





reality
noun
1.
all of your experiences that determine how things appear to you; "her world was shattered"; "we live in different worlds"; "for them demons were as much a part of reality as trees were" [syn: word]
2.
the state of being actual or real; "the reality of the situation slowly dawned on her" [ant: irreality]
3.
the state of the world as it really is rather than as you might want it to be; "dream-smiths have to face harsh realities"
4.
the quality possessed by something that is real [ant: unreality]