Thursday, August 30, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Chase the wind and touch the sky
Aaaaah! This morning I got the proof for the Venice article I wrote about Carnevale and I am so thrilled with it. I'm sort of surprised by my reaction as it's not like it's the first time I've been published, but I can't stop grinning over it. The layout looks so pretty and it's four pages of my photos! I think that's the thing that makes this different - my photography is being showcased as well. Also, as I'm not the one working on the magazine, I didn't have to do the copy edits or any of the annoying fiddly bits that go into putting an issue together. So it's all the rush and none of the annoyance!
So yes. I am very pleased. Who knows, maybe I'll manage to have a crack at being a travel writer after all.
Music: Nevermind the Buzzcocks
So yes. I am very pleased. Who knows, maybe I'll manage to have a crack at being a travel writer after all.
Music: Nevermind the Buzzcocks
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Ain’t it just like the present, to be showing up like this
Homesickness set in this month. Although I’m not entirely sure if ‘homesickness’ is the right word for it. I’ve been homesick before – when we first moved to Australia, I struggled a lot with letting go. It resulted in depressive episodes where all I wanted to do was sleep and ‘home’ was a weight, dragging me down ever further.
This feeling I have now…it’s different. It’s like a song being played in an empty auditorium, the final note hanging in the air long after playing has ceased. The echoes of home lingers in my blood, sings through my veins in a longing that is practically magnetic – pulling me back to where I belong.
That is not to say I don’t like London, I do. Especially in moments like the one I had on Tuesday night after I attended the production of Henry V at the Globe Theatre. Walking back to Waterloo station along South Bank was perfection – a balmy summer night with the city all lit up on the banks of the river, it was magical. In moments like those, moments I mostly experience here when I am near the river, I love this city. I love everything it is, its complications and contradictions. All its history and all its pride. It’s flawed and it’s beautiful.
But it was also in that moment that I realised that it wasn’t enough. I love London, but not as much as I miss home.
In comparison, Sydney may lack many things. It’s so much smaller, so much less sophisticated. Its history is negligible, its culture practically insignificant next to a force like London. We don’t have the same level of access to music, fashion, art. We are miles away from anything, no quick trip to Paris for the weekend for us.
But god how I miss it.
I miss the summer. I miss lying in my hammock in the garden, reading and slowly melting. I miss the incessant noise of the cicadas. I miss being able to go to the beach whenever I feel like it, and the feeling of sand between my toes. I miss driving. The late nights speeding along the M5 home, blasting my music way too loudly. And the bush, the smell of eucalyptus heavy in the air. I miss the blistering heat, the humidity that makes moving too much effort and how I’d spend those days on the couch with dad just watching Top Gear. Those days when you think you’ll spontaneously catch fire just by stepping outside. And though it’s kind of wrong, I miss the smell of smoke, blowing in from some bushfire somewhere.
I miss the extremity of nature. The ups and the downs. And I miss the city. I miss catching the train to Town Hall simply because I miss emerging from the tunnel at Circular Quay and seeing the harbour glittering in the sunshine - the way the sun plays across the water and the wind catches the flags on the Harbour Bridge. I miss that feeling I used to get whenever I emerged from that tunnel, that weird swell of pride because, damn, it’s a beautiful city.
And I miss my family. I miss joking around with my dad, though he often drives me insane. I miss the hours-long heart-to-hearts with my mum – Skype is just not quite the same. I miss my dog, oh so much more than I can even explain. I miss going for walks around the lake every evening. I miss just lying in bed with Oreo curled up beside me. I miss her happiness at seeing me whenever I get home. I guess I miss feeling that wanted and needed and loved all the time. And completely superficially, I miss my room, my wardrobe, my books, my dvds, my study, my graphics tablet, my theory notes.
I’ve learnt a lot about myself these past seven months I’ve been gone. As one would expect from travelling, and from being away from home. I’ve learnt that I am a lot more self-sufficient than I anticipated, that I can cope with sharing space with other people a lot better than I thought I would. I’ve learned that I’m not a spoilt princess of an only child, that my parents have raised me well-prepared for things. I’ve learned that I can co-habit with a bunch of boys, that I can handle being completely broke, that I can go hungry and not complain, that I can deal with not getting my own way. I’ve learned that all relationships require work and communication, and that if someone can’t show you that you matter to them, they’re not worth your time. I’ve learned that some friendships are superficial and sometimes what I think is communality is really just affectation.
There are other things, of course. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. And I think, overall, I’ve done well and I am quite proud of myself, silly though it may sound.
In that sense, part of me feels like there isn’t really that much for me back home - there are moments when I don’t want to leave here at all, but in the same turn I don’t really feel like there is much for me here either. I’ve done a lot of self-reflection over the past week and it simply comes down to what I want out of life.
You’d think at almost 25 I would have sorted this out by now, but I haven’t. Though I do I feel like I have gotten closer this year. In basic terms, there are two things I want:
And people may scoff and dismiss it as nothing, but I’ve always been acutely self-aware and I know in my heart, more certain after this year than I’ve ever been before, that there will be no happiness for me in convention. And isn’t that what life is supposed to be, “the pursuit of happiness”?
It’s sort of terrifying to make the decision to follow this path, to commit to it (Fuck Plan B as Amanda Palmer would say) but I feel like I’m finally strong enough for it. And the fear, the hollow feeling in my stomach that comes from knowing that no one (except my mum) understands, is just something I need to stare down. Because fear cannot rule your life.
So having come to this realisation, I had to ask myself where I need to be…and it’s not here. As much as I enjoy London, as I enjoy being close to people who are important to me, this is not where my destiny is.
Yes, yes, I know it sounds absolutely fucking ridiculous. Destiny. Talk about sounding delusional…not to mention conceited. But bear with me here, cause it’s hard to put words to the chasing of a shadow. I know, I know, there is something out there for me, I just need to allow myself to find it. Happiness, not boredom or submission.
So it makes sense to pursue the first of my goals – a PhD. I can’t stay here, can’t put it off for a year, because the longer I put it off the less likely it is to happen. Life has a way of sweeping us along after all, and time is going alarming quickly for me these days. No, I’d like a PhD before I’m 30. That would be good. And it would be better if I could study in New Zealand because another thing I’ve learned about myself this year is that I’m not really a city girl at all, not the way I thought I was.
My life has sort of emptied out this year but in some strange way it’s also become more defined. And it’s not going to be easy, but I feel like I have to try.
Music: Blood bank - Bon Iver
This feeling I have now…it’s different. It’s like a song being played in an empty auditorium, the final note hanging in the air long after playing has ceased. The echoes of home lingers in my blood, sings through my veins in a longing that is practically magnetic – pulling me back to where I belong.
That is not to say I don’t like London, I do. Especially in moments like the one I had on Tuesday night after I attended the production of Henry V at the Globe Theatre. Walking back to Waterloo station along South Bank was perfection – a balmy summer night with the city all lit up on the banks of the river, it was magical. In moments like those, moments I mostly experience here when I am near the river, I love this city. I love everything it is, its complications and contradictions. All its history and all its pride. It’s flawed and it’s beautiful.
But it was also in that moment that I realised that it wasn’t enough. I love London, but not as much as I miss home.
In comparison, Sydney may lack many things. It’s so much smaller, so much less sophisticated. Its history is negligible, its culture practically insignificant next to a force like London. We don’t have the same level of access to music, fashion, art. We are miles away from anything, no quick trip to Paris for the weekend for us.
But god how I miss it.
I miss the summer. I miss lying in my hammock in the garden, reading and slowly melting. I miss the incessant noise of the cicadas. I miss being able to go to the beach whenever I feel like it, and the feeling of sand between my toes. I miss driving. The late nights speeding along the M5 home, blasting my music way too loudly. And the bush, the smell of eucalyptus heavy in the air. I miss the blistering heat, the humidity that makes moving too much effort and how I’d spend those days on the couch with dad just watching Top Gear. Those days when you think you’ll spontaneously catch fire just by stepping outside. And though it’s kind of wrong, I miss the smell of smoke, blowing in from some bushfire somewhere.
I miss the extremity of nature. The ups and the downs. And I miss the city. I miss catching the train to Town Hall simply because I miss emerging from the tunnel at Circular Quay and seeing the harbour glittering in the sunshine - the way the sun plays across the water and the wind catches the flags on the Harbour Bridge. I miss that feeling I used to get whenever I emerged from that tunnel, that weird swell of pride because, damn, it’s a beautiful city.
And I miss my family. I miss joking around with my dad, though he often drives me insane. I miss the hours-long heart-to-hearts with my mum – Skype is just not quite the same. I miss my dog, oh so much more than I can even explain. I miss going for walks around the lake every evening. I miss just lying in bed with Oreo curled up beside me. I miss her happiness at seeing me whenever I get home. I guess I miss feeling that wanted and needed and loved all the time. And completely superficially, I miss my room, my wardrobe, my books, my dvds, my study, my graphics tablet, my theory notes.
I’ve learnt a lot about myself these past seven months I’ve been gone. As one would expect from travelling, and from being away from home. I’ve learnt that I am a lot more self-sufficient than I anticipated, that I can cope with sharing space with other people a lot better than I thought I would. I’ve learned that I’m not a spoilt princess of an only child, that my parents have raised me well-prepared for things. I’ve learned that I can co-habit with a bunch of boys, that I can handle being completely broke, that I can go hungry and not complain, that I can deal with not getting my own way. I’ve learned that all relationships require work and communication, and that if someone can’t show you that you matter to them, they’re not worth your time. I’ve learned that some friendships are superficial and sometimes what I think is communality is really just affectation.
There are other things, of course. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. And I think, overall, I’ve done well and I am quite proud of myself, silly though it may sound.
In that sense, part of me feels like there isn’t really that much for me back home - there are moments when I don’t want to leave here at all, but in the same turn I don’t really feel like there is much for me here either. I’ve done a lot of self-reflection over the past week and it simply comes down to what I want out of life.
You’d think at almost 25 I would have sorted this out by now, but I haven’t. Though I do I feel like I have gotten closer this year. In basic terms, there are two things I want:
1. A PhDAnd maybe somehow, somewhere along the way, I’ll finally be able to write something that matters to someone. This may seem simplistic, and perhaps that’s true, but it is what it is. You might say it’s being naively whimsical – everyone wants to travel, but it isn’t practical. And that is the crux of my ambition. So-called normality holds no appeal for me. Nothing I say or do is a reflection on anyone else’s life choices; it’s just that it isn’t the right fit for me. That’s all.
2. To travel to world
And people may scoff and dismiss it as nothing, but I’ve always been acutely self-aware and I know in my heart, more certain after this year than I’ve ever been before, that there will be no happiness for me in convention. And isn’t that what life is supposed to be, “the pursuit of happiness”?
It’s sort of terrifying to make the decision to follow this path, to commit to it (Fuck Plan B as Amanda Palmer would say) but I feel like I’m finally strong enough for it. And the fear, the hollow feeling in my stomach that comes from knowing that no one (except my mum) understands, is just something I need to stare down. Because fear cannot rule your life.
So having come to this realisation, I had to ask myself where I need to be…and it’s not here. As much as I enjoy London, as I enjoy being close to people who are important to me, this is not where my destiny is.
Yes, yes, I know it sounds absolutely fucking ridiculous. Destiny. Talk about sounding delusional…not to mention conceited. But bear with me here, cause it’s hard to put words to the chasing of a shadow. I know, I know, there is something out there for me, I just need to allow myself to find it. Happiness, not boredom or submission.
So it makes sense to pursue the first of my goals – a PhD. I can’t stay here, can’t put it off for a year, because the longer I put it off the less likely it is to happen. Life has a way of sweeping us along after all, and time is going alarming quickly for me these days. No, I’d like a PhD before I’m 30. That would be good. And it would be better if I could study in New Zealand because another thing I’ve learned about myself this year is that I’m not really a city girl at all, not the way I thought I was.
My life has sort of emptied out this year but in some strange way it’s also become more defined. And it’s not going to be easy, but I feel like I have to try.
Music: Blood bank - Bon Iver
Monday, August 13, 2012
Making promises you can't keep
Too much momentum
This room feels like it's going to explode
Too many angles
Too many factors to cover
Waiting for signal
Just searching for a network
You have to fight to stay in control of the situation
Music: Borne on the FM waves of the heart - Against Me! feat Tegan Quin
This room feels like it's going to explode
Too many angles
Too many factors to cover
Waiting for signal
Just searching for a network
You have to fight to stay in control of the situation
Music: Borne on the FM waves of the heart - Against Me! feat Tegan Quin
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
You want nothing to do with me
It’s been a bazillion years since I last went to a gig…in fact, I think my last gig was the trial in patience that was We The Kings/You Me At Six at the Roundhouse. So needless to say I was quite looking forward to getting to see some live music again. Or I was, when Abbi reminded me that we did actually have a gig to go to, since I had entirely forgotten. Ah, life.
Anyway, point is, we went to see Head Automatica at The Garage last night. I was thrilled to finally be going to a gig in London that wasn’t in a stadium. Living the life, people! Apparently The Garage isn’t classed as a small venue here, but I thought it was by Sydney standards – imagine a Metro Theatre if you stitched the floor and the bar together, and took out the tiers. That was pretty much the size.
Ab’s had been researching the opening act prior to our arrival and we were not filled with confidence – they were called Worship and was classified as Doom Metal. We were afraid. Very afraid.
Completely needlessly however because it turned out Worship is rather brilliant. And really not doom metal-y at all. Their sound is quite different, definitely, but riveting. The lead singer has a voice reminiscent of Ville Valo, but entirely his own. The overall effect is heavy and melodic, with lots of electronic touches weaved throughout (according to the band's Facebook page the Guardian described it as "a sonic cathedral", so you know, there's that.) I think it’s actually the closest I’ve ever come to identifying the sound of our fictional band Evil Spacemonkey – the way we described their sound really sort of resembles what happened on stage last night. I'd recommend checking them out.
So, enthused by a decent opening act, we were looking forward to getting our upbeat dancing on with Head Automatica. Ha. Hahaha. What actually happened was the strangest gig I’ve ever been to. Mainly because they insisted on playing material no one had never heard of, and which sounded like it had been written under the careful supervision of the Spirit of Jazz, but also because Daryl Palumbo seemed to take offence that the audience wasn’t 'participating' enough. I’d go so far as to say he resented having to play old material. Except to us it’s not old material cause they haven’t released an album since 2006’s Popganda. So Daryl, while you may have written and recorded an album three years ago, it was never released, so you can’t expect us to know it, okay? You may also want to consider actually facing your audience a bit more while you’re performing. Just a thought.
People left the gig in droves. I’ve never quite seen anything like it. And then while some folks were diligently waiting it out, hoping that some old material may surface from beneath the unknown noise (not that the new stuff was bad, it’s just hard to engage with something live when you have no idea what’s going on and while new material at a gig can be brilliant, you don’t want the whole set to consist of it), they decided not to come back out for an encore. I imagine they were having some sort of band dispute backstage… that’s what I would have done (and let’s be thankful I am not in a band.)
The moments when they played songs we actually knew, it was pretty epic. The version of The Razor was fantastic, and while Beating Heart Baby was a bit different, it was still more listenable than most of the other stuff. That’s why it’s so disappointing that we couldn’t have more of that to balance out the new stuff. I really think the crowd would have been more engaged if it didn’t feel like such a spectacular act of self-indulgence.
Bizarre. That is really all that can be said about.
In other news, London crowds are much more respectful than Sydney crowds. No one shoved into me once without apologising. This is unheard of! But poor Abbi did get a shoe full of beer… I guess you can’t have it all.
Hey, that seems like a good way to sum up the Head Automatica performance – it was like getting a shoe full of beer. One moment, you’re blissfully unaware of any impending doom, the next you’re uncomfortable and just want to escape.
Perhaps not the best imagery anyone’s ever come up with, but I am tired, so it’ll have to do.
Music: Olympics, of course.
Anyway, point is, we went to see Head Automatica at The Garage last night. I was thrilled to finally be going to a gig in London that wasn’t in a stadium. Living the life, people! Apparently The Garage isn’t classed as a small venue here, but I thought it was by Sydney standards – imagine a Metro Theatre if you stitched the floor and the bar together, and took out the tiers. That was pretty much the size.
Ab’s had been researching the opening act prior to our arrival and we were not filled with confidence – they were called Worship and was classified as Doom Metal. We were afraid. Very afraid.
Completely needlessly however because it turned out Worship is rather brilliant. And really not doom metal-y at all. Their sound is quite different, definitely, but riveting. The lead singer has a voice reminiscent of Ville Valo, but entirely his own. The overall effect is heavy and melodic, with lots of electronic touches weaved throughout (according to the band's Facebook page the Guardian described it as "a sonic cathedral", so you know, there's that.) I think it’s actually the closest I’ve ever come to identifying the sound of our fictional band Evil Spacemonkey – the way we described their sound really sort of resembles what happened on stage last night. I'd recommend checking them out.
So, enthused by a decent opening act, we were looking forward to getting our upbeat dancing on with Head Automatica. Ha. Hahaha. What actually happened was the strangest gig I’ve ever been to. Mainly because they insisted on playing material no one had never heard of, and which sounded like it had been written under the careful supervision of the Spirit of Jazz, but also because Daryl Palumbo seemed to take offence that the audience wasn’t 'participating' enough. I’d go so far as to say he resented having to play old material. Except to us it’s not old material cause they haven’t released an album since 2006’s Popganda. So Daryl, while you may have written and recorded an album three years ago, it was never released, so you can’t expect us to know it, okay? You may also want to consider actually facing your audience a bit more while you’re performing. Just a thought.
People left the gig in droves. I’ve never quite seen anything like it. And then while some folks were diligently waiting it out, hoping that some old material may surface from beneath the unknown noise (not that the new stuff was bad, it’s just hard to engage with something live when you have no idea what’s going on and while new material at a gig can be brilliant, you don’t want the whole set to consist of it), they decided not to come back out for an encore. I imagine they were having some sort of band dispute backstage… that’s what I would have done (and let’s be thankful I am not in a band.)
The moments when they played songs we actually knew, it was pretty epic. The version of The Razor was fantastic, and while Beating Heart Baby was a bit different, it was still more listenable than most of the other stuff. That’s why it’s so disappointing that we couldn’t have more of that to balance out the new stuff. I really think the crowd would have been more engaged if it didn’t feel like such a spectacular act of self-indulgence.
Bizarre. That is really all that can be said about.
In other news, London crowds are much more respectful than Sydney crowds. No one shoved into me once without apologising. This is unheard of! But poor Abbi did get a shoe full of beer… I guess you can’t have it all.
Hey, that seems like a good way to sum up the Head Automatica performance – it was like getting a shoe full of beer. One moment, you’re blissfully unaware of any impending doom, the next you’re uncomfortable and just want to escape.
Perhaps not the best imagery anyone’s ever come up with, but I am tired, so it’ll have to do.
Music: Olympics, of course.
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