Tuesday, December 31, 2013
I considered posting a picture of the rather large mug I intend to consume vodka out of this evening, combining it with a simple HNY (that’s happy new year for the uninitiated) and pretending it was an actual form of communication and expression. But I’m not sure promoting the ingestion of a large amount of liquid of the Russian variety is in the spirit of what I’m doing here. Plus I just like the sound of my own words too much.
Then, despite the fact that I've historically been steadfastly the non-resolution type, I considered posting a list of resolutions. I actually wrote out a few before it occurred to me that resolving to not make resolutions seemed counter-productive. The remainder of them included buying an Acne denim shirt, and saying yes more - unless the answer was no or I really didn’t want to say yes. See counter-productive.
Having exhausted these quality ideas, here, instead, is what I learnt this year...
Everything looks better on Instagram
Figuring it out as you go along is a perfect substitute for a plan
Peanut M&M’s are infinitely better than regular M&M’s
And often, people will make assumptions about you that belittle who you are and what you want to do, the trick is to not give a fuck about what they think
That’s it. See you on the flip-side...
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
My legs are so pale that you could conceivably be standing kilometres away from me, and still make out the spindly blue veins that creep under my skin. A combination of my English heritage and a childhood spent with my nose stuffed between the pages of a book and not outside in the blistering Australian sun, means my legs, and in fact all of me, are a lovely pale shade of white.
For a lot of years now, I’ve conformed to the idea that a tan makes you look better. A golden glow makes you look thinner, healthier, happier etc. etc. etc. And all that time spent in spray tan booths, slathering on foams and creams and lotions, and smelling like some kind of weird chemical coconut is worth it. Just to achieve the skin of a bronzed goddess, albeit a short one - with red hair.
But this year, I quit.
This year I’m throwing out all the fake tan crap that has accumulated in my bathroom, I’m leaving the golden glows and bronze goddesses behind. I’m embracing my ghostly shade.
I’m white baby, real white and I’m ok with it.
Just think, this summer I’ll have so much free time. Time I would have spent faking it. Imagine how normal my palms will look? How stain free my linen will be? Imagine a bathroom that doesn’t smell like drug lab run by coconuts?
This year, I’m going to learn to love the skin I was born with, freckles, visible veins and so pale it blinds your eyes. Because, who the fuck decided pale white kids with red hair weren’t cool?
Thursday, December 12, 2013
I'm heading off the grid this weekend - it's back to Meredith I go.
My quasi spiritual home.
My musical oasis.
Where great people, even better tunes and the magical forces of Aunty Meredith combine to create a level of awesomeness not yet matched by anything anywhere.
It's been seven years and I'm still not tired of her.
See you on the flip side...
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Every artistic how-to and every piece of advice from artists anywhere talks about how inspiration is not the key to success; perspiration has a little something to do with it too. And that grit is far more important than a notion of artistic sensibility.
Which is great. But when you’re feeling particularly uninspired, as I have been of late, you begin to question not only your ability to be inspired - but your ability full stop. Which is a level of heartbreak reserved only for those that put their life in such intangible things as words.
I’m not sure if my inspiration has been lost or simply misplaced. Perhaps it got sideswiped by those dastardly exams I had to sit last week, that seemingly wiped me of any thoughts outside of is the answer a, b or c. Maybe I should look for it outside blowing in the wind, under my car or in the dirty washing.
Maybe I’ll find it at the end of this sentence...
Nope, not there.
I considered making up one of those lost posters; but I’m not sure how to accurately describe something so indescribable. I can’t tell you what colour hair my inspiration has, or if it’s tall or short. I can’t tell you if my inspiration has an accent (if it did I’m sure it'd be Scottish), or what it was wearing the last time I saw it. I can’t tell you its name, or where it likes to hang out. I can’t tell you anything really.
I searched for inspirational quotes, because words are the way to my heart and I thought maybe my inspiration was hiding somewhere amongst my internal organs. I learned that the quieter you become, the more you can hear, which makes sense. I discovered that all the good stuff is outside our comfort zones, and that there are seven steps to happiness, which seems just a little too easy, right?
I Googled where to find inspiration, because the internet is always the answer. But the internet told me that exercise boosts creativity, which feels like a not so subtle dig at me for not going to the gym in like, forever.
So now I’m just going to sit here and wait for my inspiration to come back. In the meantime, I’ll write a whole lot of words that can best be described as perspiration and grit and maybe inspiration will just stumble through the door, find me working and join in.