John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (a short review)

It is indeed a feat when an author writes a narrative whose complication is cancer, but manages to not write a typical "cancer book". The Fault in Our Stars weaves reality with fiction, and therefore, both is and isn't about cancer. Nor is it specifically a love-story, despite frequent references to Shakespeare and somewhat hackneyed crossed stars. There is something so inexorably human in Green's narrative, itself an exploration of transcience and significance of nihilistic human existence. Green's prose manages to be eloquent and beautiful, but not overbearingly so; his use of metaphor is not forced, but subtle and poignant, and is inarguably crucial to the text, forming the spine on which the muscles of the narrative are built. His characters read as authentic and honest (for the most part, though the character of Kaitlyn was hard to grasp; but she is not an overly important character so it's passable), and it is illuminating to read about teenagers who possess intellect. Green's own wit is evident in the quips of his characters, and the book overall is a moving and enlightening read.

I am an individual. I am myself.

I am the smiles people give me and the things that make me

laugh. I am the pen in my grip. I am the smooth piano keys

beneath my fingertips and the music in my flesh and bones.
I am passion and I am reason. I am fighting for a cause. I am

love and heartbreak and hope and knowing that of the

seven billion people on this planet, there are still so many

I want to share myself with.
I am skepticism and irritation at misinformation. I am

knowledge, I am fair use of power. I am sunlight in the afternoon

staining old buildings golden hues.
I am the sound of rain outside the window and the smell of it

on the soil. I am warming cold legs in puddled pants

by the heater of my childhood home.
I am my mother’s daughter. I am my sister’s secret protégé.
I am stardust. I am the universe. I am batman.
I am lost, so lost. I’m searching. I am hurting and alone. But
I will be found. I will always be found. I am right here.

Cracked Polystyrene

It is becoming increasingly apparent to me just how easy it is to lose oneself - no, for the sake of avoiding cliche - to sacrifice intrinsic aspects of one's sense of identity for the sake of another human being.

There is a draft sitting in my blogger posts folder that I believe I began writing early last year, just after I moved out of home. I have no recollection of its conception. I bear no resemblance to the girl who wrote it. I have changed drastically in the past eight months, and that little bit of reason left in me is starting to hint that it wasn't for the better.

Back then, I wrote with more eloquence and clarity than I currently possess (and admittedly, some odd metaphors).

Mr. Potato Head in the 1970s.

Sometimes I just wish I were more like Mr Potato head. No, not because he was the first toy to be on TV, or because he's acted in film and been spokespotato for many different causes. Not even his removable moustache lies at the core of my wish for a plastic existence. It's because he has no confused face; he may wind up a bit all over the place at times, but he's designed to be used and thrown aside so he's okay with it.

I, on the other hand, am not. Like any other human being, I consider myself more than a play thing or a temporary method of amusement.

The relationship I have been in for the past few months has left me feeling like I can't stake a claim to those words. It's the type people tell you you'll be in if you marry the wrong man; the type you wind up in if you think you can change the person you want to share your life with. No-one ever told me that trying to help someone get out of a bad place and be a better person was the same as trying to change them, and, naive as I am, I realised it far too late.

Don't get me wrong - so much good has come from this relationship too. I learn how to love with my body and a spirit that I don't believe I have; how to forgive, how to communicate, how to work with someone. I learnt the difficulties of living with someone you're in a relationship with, that I just don't give up when I should, and I finally understand what my mother meant when she told me she stayed with my father just because she loved him.

But I don't think I can learn any more. It's almost at an end and everyone involved knows it. My potato features are worn from rough use and I can't complete my uni work because my mind is always elsewhere. My father lives alone now, and because I compromised crucial aspects of my identity due to the fact that they didn't align with those of the man I loved, I can't write. We all write who we are, create from the elements of our identities that can reflect something back into the world. And I just can't. I honestly don't have the ability to express just how much the drivel that travels from my brain to my fingertips and onto each page saddens me.

And I really don't know what to do.  I've spoken to friends who blame lack of practice, and others who tell me I'm too stressed. But I've tried, and I'm not stressed. I changed for this man (don't let anyone ever tell you you can't change anyone; it's just rarely a good thing) and I don't want my love for him to end, but I know it has to if I want to find myself again. I can write more, which I plan on doing here (in the hope few will read it till my skills return). But neither of those things are a guaranteed cure.

In all honesty, I'm scared shitless that I've lost the one thing I've been doing, been aspiring to do, since I was eight years old and scribbled a horrible rhyming poem about my family and a cat in a journal I was gifted for my birthday. I'm twenty-two now, and I've grown into my skin almost completely - I can talk freely to people without fear that they think I'm stupid, I hate my body far less than I used to, and my teenage obsessions are all but gone. But the ideals and things I fought for so fervently and was so passionate about when I was a year younger have fallen by the wayside. Can I just reassemble myself, grab all my pieces and slap them in place like the brave face I've become so good at? I think I might have grown into the wrong person, and I'm terrified that it's too late to go back.

Image from the Mr. Potato Head 1970s Advertisement.

Growing Up

Am I?

A phenomenal amount of things have changed since I last posted here, and I chose my words in that last clause very carefully.

I now live out of home, with an awesome person who feels like some sort of friend/quasi-sister hybrid. I work at least thirty hours a week. I don't have enough energy to write much any more, though I suspect that is just an excuse for my laziness and uncertainty and I hope I will write more soon. The last beginning of a thing I did write was something not even I thought I was capable of; though, true to the feelings of a younger me, I feel like a better writer than I should pick it up and continue writing it.

I call myself a writer now.

Perhaps it is my lethargy affecting my ability to accept that fact (you know that level of tiredness where, if you say a simple word too many times in a row, the reality of its structural, linguistic and phonetic freakin' weirdness beats itself on the forefront of your poor mind like an impatient yuppie's fist on locked brass-knobbed wooden door? Yeah, me neither), but it was never a title I felt worthy to claim until recently. I think a lot of it may be due to the acquisition of a particular curly-haired intellectual writing friend, who is more than willing and able to share and reflect on ideas belonging respectively to the both of us. His presence and kindness in helping me alter my approach to my work is something I consider invaluable and am very grateful for.

I think I'm starting to let go of the things that happened a year ago, the people I flew away from and haven't yet mustered up the courage, self-confidence, or money to return to. I think some of those people might see me again and meet someone they weren't expecting.

I still have a lot of things to learn (I dread the day I don't), a lot of bad habits and choices to let go of, and a lot of protective walls to let down. Though, I suspect quite a few that have been in place since the worst month of my life might come down soon with the aid of another. In slow motion, crashing. If there's any strength in the person I'm growing into, I'll leave them down there.






















And I promise my next post will be less cryptic. At least, a little.

An Intertextual Rant of Exam Period Insanity (A symphony of revalations in three movements)

You'd think the first few times I had no motivation to study for a philosophy exam and consequently nearly failed the subject would have taught me something. I can't work out if I'm a slow learner, or just a victim of my own stubbornness (or Melbourne University's newfound love of terminating subjects the year I wish to study them, forcing the study of crappy lesser alternatives to contribute to my minor. Oh, Melby; you used to be cool). Once I'm through tomorrow, I'm going to try harder to pretend I give a damn about stuff that will never have any relevence to my life ever again. At least until the end of my degree. That's what most of these educated academic derelicts who know shit seem to be doing.

Given my current mental state, I shouldn't let the disheartening realisation that Andrew Lloyd Webber ripped the Phantom's "Oveture" off Pink Floyd's track "Echoes" make me love his work or the world any less. Right? But it's 5 am, I can't sleep, and I have to be up in two hours to trek to uni to study for an exam I have the following day for which there is little hope. Taking my frustration out on a composer I'm never going to meet who made a sequel to a musical that should never have a sequel makes me feel a lot better. ("Love Never Dies"? "Love Never Dies"?  Would you like some fries with your cliche, Webber? I'm sorry, but in the novel your musical's based on your protagonist wasted away and died of freakin' heartbreak. Art is not for money. Way to trivialise.)

I have a habit of writing lengthy blog posts or notes or poorly articulated ideas when exhausted and frustrated and then never posting them, or deleting them a day or so later. An unrivalled need to have something to say followed by the realisation that I'm really the only one who cares and the only one who has anything to say about it. God forbid I become one of those people for whom writing is an outlet for their own misery with no provision of food for thought... But hell, at least it's honest. Unlike my exam responses will be on Friday. Maybe I can put my needs to better use if I'm smarter, or if I find more things to write about that I actually care about -  which, in a world seemily composed primarily of bigots and indifference and misguidedly 'tragic' martyrdom ("hypocrite!" the hatemonger cries), are increasingly hard to come by. Eh, what can you do.

"The Heavens" photo by Javier Evertz.

Not 'til I Can Read by the Moon

I am a time-waster. A procrastinator. There is absolutely no use denying it. It's been, what, five months since my last blog post? And this is due not to the fact that I've been too busy to write, but rather, I've been too busy wasting time; and hence, haven't had anything to write about. Funny, that.


This year has been a fairly uneventful one. One would think that the year of 19 would be the most exciting year of one's youth; the last year, the year to expend the final drops of teenage irresponsibility before the big two oh creeps up and smacks you in the proverbial face with its, "What are you going to do with your life?" and, "What, haven't you got your license yet?" and, "Aren't you dying to move out?"

I don't know, no, and I haven't the money.

I suppose that's the crux of the issue at hand; life needs money. It's alright for someone to use the justification, "I can't, I'm broke," for their inability to buy pricey concert tickets or airfares to exotic places, but how many people buy a cocktail dress and a pair of shorts and have to go without lunch for the following week? I don't know, but I can empathise with them.

I'm not looking for any pity; I deserve none. I quit my waitressing job a few months ago because I was underpaid, the owner didn't speak English, management was lax and they were going broke. I have been "between jobs" ever since, and I'm surviving. I have it easy compared to some; there are people on the very streets of this beautiful city who have nothing. Indifference and the self-importance of your average middle-class individual have allowed them to become almost part of the Melbourne scenery: the beggar outside Melbourne Central; the drunkies and junkies at the Flinders/Swanston McDonalds in the early hours of the morning; the bracelet-weavers and footpath-chalkers who use the only tools they have to stay alive. It's a heartbreakingly hopeless existence - or so it would seem.

Upon my return to uni, I noticed a little coffee cart labelled "STREAT" on the first floor at Melbourne Central station. I've not had the opportunity to buy coffee there yet, but I most definitely will.  STREAT, it turns out, is "stopping homelessness the delicious way"; it is a new "social enterprise providing homeless youth with a supported pathway to long-term careers in the hospitality industry." This little coffee cart and the food cart at Fedaration square are staffed by the homeless, and used to provide them with hospitality training and certification so they may have a future in the job market. Every 10th meal and organic fair trade coffee of a loyalty card holder goes to a homeless or disadvantaged person. These carts are just the beginnings of one of the best attempts to combat homelessness in Melbourne I've come accross. It feels good to know we're not all rich thoughtless arseholes.

Perhaps, with the beginning of such grand things, this year hasn't been such a "nothing year" after all. The illness that plagued me like a blowfly trapped in a bedroom for a few months of this year is all but gone, and I seem to be slowly and sloppily overcoming my writers' block. I may not have the money for my piano lessons, but by scrimping and scrounging I've saved up three quarters of the dosh I need for the piano/keyboard I've craved for over a decade.

To be honest, the last couple of months of my existence were probably the best I've ever had.  I saw the incredible Tim Burton exhibition, was part of the crowd that sang Underground leaving Megan Washington amazed, gave up meat (and convinced myself I have to eat mushrooms), had my mind blown by indie noir cabaret, and somehow became very, very close to people who are so very far away. Thanks to the beautiful human beings in my life, I'm bridging the gaps that money made around me; in December, I'll even fly for the first time. On a plane, but you get the cheesy metaphor.

"Seals" photo by Alex Williamson;
edited by Hannah Tricker.

Time with Tim Minchin: the Transcript

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Tim Minchin (Interview) in Farrago Magazine

My February interview with the prestigious Mr Tim Minchin has been published in Edition 3 of  Melbourne University's Farrago Magazine. For the benefit of those who aren't in Melbourne, if you click the picture below, you should be able to see a hi-res photo of the article that you can read.

Farrago sometimes publish in e-mag form in addition to their regular paper mag, but their website has not been updated to announce its printing as of yet. Rest assured, I will let you know if and when it is. I have a much, much longer transcript of the interview (conducted by my friend Jacqui D and myself), which will grace the digital pages of this blog very soon if all goes to plan.

If any Melbourne Uni kids stumble accross this blog (the probability of which, I must admit, is low), I suggest you pick up a copy of Farrago. It's a brilliant little publication with some satisfyingly witty content; and it's printed using vegetable-based inks on an elemental chlorine-free paper, sourced using sustainable forestry practices, etc. So you're not doing the world any damage if you do so. Go on, folks.

Farrago Edition 3 Cover Art by Diego Patiño.

Commitment's Lurking in the Shadows

I never really was one for goal setting. The notion of committing to an action to be achieved in a specific time period always struck me as pointless, and so many opportunities I've been presented with in my little life seem to have arisen spontaneously, attributable only to what one could call luck. I've always been of the mind that living life with every detail planned year to year doesn't leave enough room for pleasant surprises. Living in the moment always seemed the most appealing way to live. Carpe Diem, and all that jazz.

It recently occurred to me that what I believed to be my (admittedly underdeveloped) philosophy of life was perhaps at least partly a compromise; an excuse to justify my apparent fear of commitment.  Not the whole life-screwing relationship-destroying commitment phobia that's relatively common, but more like something that would stem from fear of failure. When handed one of those "What I'd like to achieve" sheets in high school Personal Development classes, I only ever scribbled down something trivial that I could easily achieve, or that I planned to do anyway; and the habit has continued. My inability to choose a career path was not due to the fact that I couldn't choose between the options available to me (nor solely due to the lack of of help from my school's careers advisors, who were adamant that I became a teacher despite no desire of my own to be one), but rather that I didn't want to commit to any one of them.

Being noncommittal about one's future in this way seems almost clever. Preventing failure by not trying, cowardly though it is, is undoubtedly an act of social self-preservation; and would just about be acceptable for a person of little ambition. Unfortunately, people I've met in recent years have inspired ambition in me (damn you, amazing friends), and at my present state of self-deception and self-preservation, I'm not at all content. This still, stuck state of existence with its ephemeral joys cannot fully satisfy the human desire for growth, expression and understanding, and I'm tired of having no answer when people ask me what I want to be when I "grow up".

But how does one make a shift from such a subconsciously-ingrained way of thinking? I'm hardly one to resort to sycophancy to achieve things, nor can I ever draw on the ecclesiastical inspiration that others find so easily. It would be a lot easier to overcome such problems were there a few more people facing their own demons alongside me.

Thankfully, such a scenario has been created and will progress through the means of the internet (why hello, 21st century). UK comedian Mark Watson recently started a new project entitled the Ten Year Self-Improvement Challenge (TYSIC), for which readers of his blog nominate a personal resolution or something they'd like to accomplish in the next ten years. Every week, Mark encourages readers to make a step towards achieving their goal, and post it on his blog. The indefatigable webmistress Linzy is even developing an online community in which "challengers" can log in, describe their progress, and support others. With over 200 people participating, there'll be enough mutual encouragement to make this a potentially life-changing opportunity.

The 10 year period commenced on the 4th of March, and I've already made a commitment to the project by commenting on the first blog post (you can read Mark's blogs and the comments here).

I turn 19 on monday the 1st, so in a decade I’ll be 29. The one thing I truly want to accomplish is to learn to play piano properly – starting with jazz. I suppose my goal could be successfully completing a music degree at a university somewhere. That’s as brave as I’m willing to be, for now.

So, there's no backing out. But I can be braver than that. Let's say that by 2020, I want to be playing gigs on keys, or have played gigs in that period of time.

My philosophy of life may be flawed, but perhaps it's time to formulate a new one. In accordance with the more "philosophical" goals set by the challengers, I'm going to aim to be more self-confident, and try new things, regardless of whether or not the outcome might be failure.

I am going to be the Little Engine that Could. I'm nineteen, and ten years is plenty of time to become all I want to be. In my earlier years when I was procrastinating, I'd look up motivational quotes on the internet; a pursuit I'd highly recommend if you're the sentimental type and you're feeling down. I believe it was Buddha who said, "What you think is what you become."

I think I can. I think I can.

"Trust Me" photo by Javier Evertz.

Lucy In The Sky with Tim Minchin

It is perhaps a sad happening that the discovery of the majority of great artists I whom I enjoy seeing live is attributable to the undeniable allure of the guest musicians.  This was definitely the case on the fifteenth of February, when, having missed Tim Minchin's promotion of the event on his twitter page, he told me of his cousin Lucy Fisher's album launch, which would be taking place the following night. Knowing little about her work other than the fact that she's a violinist and singer-songwriter, I told a few friends and we tottered along to the Toff in Town for what we were hoping would be a good night out.

We were not disappointed. Support act Lee Rosser kicked off the night with some catchy tunes and impressive acoustic guitar skills, perfectly complimented by his vocals. With a drummer who gave the vibe of both knowing and truly feeling what he was doing (I believe it was Nicky Bomba), there was some major foot-tapping and shoulder-shaking going on at our table at the Toff.

Lucy herself was a sight to behold. Opening her set with a haunting violin cadenza that held the room as though entranced, her beautifully gutsy vocals lend a sense of honesty to her edgy rock.  There's no denying it; this chick has spunk, and seeing her live is something I'd thoroughly recommend if the opportunity ever arises.  Would that I could remember the name of the backing vocalist, who brought guitar influences from the West Indies to the performance and sang perfectly fitting harmonies to Lucy's melodies.

Later in the show, Tim Minchin hopped on the keys and played with the band for a few songs, including a cover of the Fleetwood Mac song, "Dreams". Perhaps one of my favourite parts of the show (besides Lucy's solo performance of her song, "Connection", with naught but her and her guitar) was a duet between Tim and Lucy, covering the song "I Feel Like Going Home", originally by the Notting Hillbillies. As if Tim's sweet vocals and the warm support of the piano weren't enough, Lucy's strings really makes this simple cover something special.

I managed to get some footage of it, as well as "Dreams". There's a bit of noise in the picture because my camera couldn't cope with the reflections of the disco ball, but the audio's fairly good.

Enjoy.

Dreams (Fleetwood Mac Cover)

I Feel Like Going Home (Notting Hillbillies Cover)

Wild Things: I Just Wanted to Say...

Spike Jonze's version of “Where the Wild Things Are” was one of the most adorable, heart-warming movies I’ve seen in a long time. It totally encapsulated the sheer bliss of childhood, while maintaining an underlying air of maturity and insight into more complex, darker aspects of existence. The simplicity of the plot allowed for focus to be drawn to other aspects, and combined with stunning cinematography, rang true to Maurice Sendak's beautifully illustrated original text.

Target audience of the film is unclear; this film is by no means a work created for children, nor is the plot an intricately woven string of stories designed to satisfy an adult mind alone. Rather, it is a unique work of art embodying the little part of everyone that we never truly grow out of.

Wild creatures and unrestrained expression of freedom all through the heart of a little boy (with brilliant casting of boisterous Max Records in this role) create a genuine warm fuzzy feeling. And with an energetic soundtrack by Karen O and Carter Burwell to boot. Truly a fabulous adaptation of a small but significant story deeply embedded within my memory.

Advance Australia Fair?

Apparently, Australia is a racist country. Last time I checked, I had nothing against anyone of any ethnicity different to mine. No - wait, that was a lie; I've never felt the need to check, to pause and think: was that a little bit racist? I'll admit to making stereotype-based comments of all kinds in a vain attempt at humour (if it's funny, it's not offensive. Right?), but I don't believe I've ever genuinely felt negative thoughts stemming from physical or cultural differences between myself and another person.

And then a reunion of an old television show came around, and brought back elements of the past that are not supposed to reoccur in history. The skit I'm referring to (and I use that term loosely) is up on YouTube, God help us, and the offense was taken at the "blacking up" of 5 white Australians with professions in the medical stream in order to convey the members of the Jackson 5. A judge on the red faces panel, Harry Connick Jr was beyond displeased at the airing of this act, and negotiated an apology during the ad break.

What irks me most about this is not that it was aired. Networks screw up, "entertainment" crosses the line, and the public thrive on it. God forbid life should be perfect and boring and the whingers not have anything to whinge about. The thing that perplexes and shocks me is the immense difference in responses between Australian and American audiences. According to the polls floating around everywhere, it seems a whopping three quarters of our population did not find this skit racist.

Once again, I must admit, upon watching this skit when it was aired and seeing the headlines in the paper, I could not figure out what about it was racist. Sure, they painted their faces black, but they're white men trying to fill a role. Surely actors can do that; white men have played characters of African-American decent before. Sadly, like most of the 75% who didn't brand the act racist (I assume), I was ignorant to the history behind such acts. American History was an elective subject all those years ago at school, but not one that I chose; and I've never felt the need to wiki or google "racism" or topics related to it.

Does such ignorance make one racist? I understand that this was a racist act, now that I know the history behind it (for a brief explanation, see Justin Hamilton's blog, 4th paragraph http://justinhamilton.com.au/node/55) but I feel there's a difference between those who have negative attitudes towards people of different ethnicity, and those who simply haven't been properly educated. Is it fair to call us a racist nation? Personally, I'd say Australians are more stupid than racist, blunt though that statement is. For a country that's supposed to be multicultural and okay with it, it seems 75% of the population lack the intelligence to judge such things. The men who took part in the Jackson Jive act claim that their intentions did not lean towards racism, and they are respected men of the community with highly important professions. And yet, these people so pivotal to society manage to unintentionally offend like this. Maybe it's time to make study of such elements of American history a compulsory part of the high school curriculum - at least then the younger generations would have some idea.

I can see how wrong the act was. Having a "bit of fun" is no justification for such things, and I do strongly regret that this was allowed to air on a show broadcast so widely.

However, I do not think we, as a nation, are racist. Generalisation, after all, is a cause and product of the problem. If to be Australian really is to fit that stereotype, then it's not where I want to be. Though, there are worse first world nations in which one could exist. 18 percent of Americans believe the sun revolves around the Earth (http://www.politico.com/blogs/bensmith/0508/Things_Americans_believe.html). Further reading of polls of the American people reveals 10% of Americans think Obama is the Anti-christ (http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/archives/fringe_views_not_so_fringe/), a slim majority believe military action is the way to achieve peace, 28% believe school boards should have the right to fire gay teachers, and 65% of Americans don't think blacks and other minorities should get preferential treatment to improve their position, though 87% believe all Americans should have an equal opportunity to succeed (http://www.realclearpolitics.com/lists/8-american-beliefs). Yet all the people I’ve ever met originating from that land have shown me nothing more than absolute kindness.

No one person I've ever asked can define what it is to be Australian. With current affairs programs stamping "Un-Australian" in big red letters over every incriminating article of media they can find and put on television, it's understandable. I can't speak on behalf of Australia - why other people view things they way they do is beyond me. Blacking up aside, that skit really was less entertaining than the burping act before it. Also, if you were to look at the comments on the video on YouTube, you'd notice there’s even a small percentage of Americans (not necessarily fair-skinned) who found the Jackson Jive act funny.

Go figure.

Review - "Ready For This?" Album, Tim Minchin, 2009.

(Because I don't want to start uni work yet.)

Whether you're looking for a laugh, ready to rock, or searching for a soulful song to sing along to, this album will not fail to impress.

Minchin has done it again, his new album replete with intricate piano backing, an array of musical styles, and soaring vocals that have only improved since his last album. While maintaining the high standard of his prior works, Minchin has enhanced his recordings here with vocal harmonies, a four-piece band and string quartet to make this album a thoroughly satisfying musical experience. His comedy is top-notch, with elaborate word-play in Confessions, irony in I Love Jesus and The Good Book, climactic rhythm in the beat-poem Storm (whose resolution leaves a listener in momentary awe), and the often socially-aware silliness of Confessions and Youtube Lament; making this the must-have musical comedy album of 2009.