Ode to the Witty

I've always admired witty people; those who can pull out some perfectly crafted, sharp line on call. It's kind of an art-form, wit. And it's definitely not something that can be learned... To always be "on the ball" as they say, is an awesome talent. You have to be completely balanced and totally aware of what's going on around you. I can't carry a cup of tea from the kitchen to my bedroom without pouring it down my front.

I think I've developed a bit of a complex about this. I so want to be that person. And every time I realise something has slipped past me - which has happened more times than I'd like to admit - I want to kick myself in the face.

I've often listened silently as these marvellous creatures work; observed as they construct their verbal masterpieces, all the while exuding this aura of, I don't know... knowingness, I guess it must be. I stare, blank-faced, probably drooling out the corner of my unmoving mouth - in awe. I think nothing is so impressive as someone who has their wits about them.

Meet-cute

Ever had a day, or even just a moment, that felt like it was out of a movie script?

I know I've had a ton. I've had experiences that were "so Seinfeld," or right out of Sex and the City. I swear, I've even had a few days that resembled Twilight.

The other afternoon a 'friend' of mine - who i'll leave unnamed simply because this story is a little embarrassing - was coming home from uni and as she walked down the congested street, she saw four or so bright blue tee-shirts up ahead. She didn't need to read the branding on their shirts to recognise who they were. Passersby were gravitating in the opposite direction with their heads facing the ground, and would fling their phones to their ear as soon as a blue tee-shirt stepped toward them with an extended hand. They were charity workers, recruiting advocates for their cause. My friend, picked up her uni reader and glued her eyes to the text, reading one line over and over, glancing ahead only to stay aware of the human traffic rushing about her. She passed the first three tee-shirts unnoticed, but just as she went to past the last of the four, a hand was shoved in front of her chest and an English accent asked "Hi, how are you today?"

Fuck

She took the English hand. And turned to face its owner, saying a sloppy "Hhhyeah i'm good," as she tried to think of an excuse to leave. The guy asked her if she knew what the largest killer of children in Africa was. She didn't. He explained that is was diarrhoea, as a result of unclean water, and went on to tell her about the sub-standard living conditions of these children. Mid-way through his speech she looked up at his face and noticed he had these beautiful, clear blue eyes. Maybe three minutes later, she was signing up for daily donations.

Pen and Paper

I had no speech, so I wrote.

I wrote until the pen ran dry and my mind was quiet.

John's Mother

Today I saw the mother of a school-mate who passed away about three years ago. She was washing her car. This was the first time I'd seen her since John's funeral, and until today, every time I had walked past their house I'd imagined her as the broken woman I saw on that grey day in January.

Ignorant as I know I must sound, it always surprises me to see how resilient our bodies are when it comes to grief. (I say bodies because I won't even pretend to have a clue about what is going on in her head.) I'm talking about physical functionality, here. I mean, when you've lost your only son, how on earth do you get out of bed the next morning? How do you step one foot in front of the other?

In my ignorance I've always imagined that when hit with something as destructive as that, everything just stops. And so watching John's mother today, I was mesmerized.What was she thinking? It's very likely that it could have just been that the car looked like shit and needed a clean. Maybe her days are clouded with visions of John and his mess of blond curls. Or maybe not... I really don't know. I never will. But I'll always think of her as I walk down that quiet street in Burwood where a young boy with a skateboard once lived.

Places I have been.

Top Ten

I've always liked a good list.
When looking for places to see, places to eat, films to watch, music to listen to (etc.) the first thing I want is a top ten list. I want someone to say,
"Here you go. This is what the best ten ____ is. Trust me, cos I know my shit."

So I'm going to give you a top ten list: the top ten places I saw when travelling through London, Dublin, Cork, Galway, Paris, Amsterdam, Sicily and Rome. And you should listen because - well, I know my shit... (not really, but I've got some worthwhile opinions : P). I tried to steer clear of the regular touristy spots cos - well, they're so touristy.

These are in no particular order - it was impossible for me to choose one over the other. And I plan to write you a proper lil entry on each of these, so don't fret at the brevity of this list.

1. Monmarte Hill, Paris.
- Not only for the reasons listed in my last entry, but because EVERY SINGLE patisserie was a god-send. Pain au chocolat had a crust that broke to pieces under your teeth and a centre that although was golden with butter, was fluffy and light. And the chocolat, oh that chocolat - it was dark, rich and gooey. You didn't even care that after eating one you were left with golden flakes of pastry on your shirt and clinging to the corners of your mouth - you'd probaly go and pick every last flake and cram in into your mouth. To quote Peter Mayle, 'It was like eating the sun'. It was warm and rich and light with a smooth, dark centre of creamy chocolat. It was gooooooooooooodomgIcoulddroolnowonthetable.

2. Isola Bella, Taormina - Sicily.
- Because Sicily is the most beautiful place in the world (yes I'm going to make that gutsy statement). And Taormina is the most beautiful part of Sicily that I've seen SO FAR.
This place makes you believe in a higher power.

3. Brick Lane/Spitalfields Markets, London.
- This place is the essence of cool. As uncool as it is to say that, it is so true. There are small boutiques with vintage clothes and one-of-a-kind handbags, there are grungy bars that look like abandoned warehouses, there are original market stalls with organic/spice-infused/gluten-free (trendy) foodstuffs...and of course, there are those 'wicked cool', 'troubled' characters with purple hair, army boots and bull nose-ring piercings to go with it all.

4. Red-Light District, Amsterdam.
- An eye-opener. A must. And places actually have red lights.

5. Il Colosseo, Roma.
- This was the most profound historical sight for me. And although it's an obvious one, it is so for a damn good reason. I looked up at this place, and just felt the history seeping out of its travertine walls.

6. Brighton Beach, Sussex.
- Imagine crashing waves a la the opening scene of Grease and a long-stretching pier with milkshake stalls, toffee apples, fairy floss and claw vending machines aplenty.

7. Chateau de Versailles, Versailles.
- Marie Antoinette lived here. As if that doesn't catch your attention? If not, it is the epitome of grandeur in architecture and design - the hall of mirrors will make even the most avid hater of consumer fetishism wish she/he was of 'noble birth'.

8. Aran Islands, Galway.
- Hire a bike and get lost here. You will never want to be found.

9. Blarney Castle, Cork.
- It's beautiful. It has a great story to it. And it comes with that Irish humour.

10.  Notting Hill, London.
- If I had to live anywhere else in the world, it would be here. Notting Hill - Portobello Road especially - is a charming, colourful (literally and figuratively) and lively area. Plus, you can visit the Travel Book Store and Hugh Grant's blue-now-painted-black door from the movie.

So there you go. My top ten. I'm actually pained that I have to stop at ten cos I have at least another ten I could rave on about...but I won't. Top twenty just doesn't sound as good.

Monmarte Hill

I have always wanted to see Paris. Not unlike most people who have been enamoured with the sight of Le Tour Eiffel lighting up the night sky.

But now having seen Paris; having walked its streets, tasted its food, smelt its scents and encountered its people, (not the nicest...) I have to say it is not the romantic scene out of classic Hollywood that most imagine. Yes, the architecture is spotted with sculpture so detailed you can see the veins bulging out of the arms of France's most revered. Yes, the croissants melt in your mouth like butter in a frying pan. And yes, the sight of the Eiffel Tower is almost an hypnotic vision - just try not to squeal when it sneaks up on you from behind the buildings surrounding it. But, I think that this French city has been so romanticised by Hollywood, and maybe even by our own naive assumptions, that the place itself simply cannot live up to its reputation.

When I stepped off the plane I half-expected to hear Nature Boy sounding in the background, while Parisian youths, wearing striped t-shirts and black berets, cycled along tiny streets with fresh baguettes sitting in the small woven baskets at the rear of of their push-bikes. Instead, I was met by a sea of Algerian men shouting out in French while waving fluorescent Eiffel Tower figurines in my face. Across the road from the Moulin Rouge was a Starbuck's store. And the only berets to be seen were those, often brightly coloured ones, worn by Aussies sporting I heart Paris t-shirts.

I did not fall in love with a tall, dark and handsome man with a strong jaw-line, a thick head of hair and a love of cooking. I did not 'discover' myself or experience a cultural revelation... but that is not to say that there was no magical allure to the City of Love. I just did not find it in the city centre with an eclair in hand; I found it in the red light district.

Historically, Monmarte Hill was home to the majority of Paris' many artists as it was cheap and boasted broad-spanning views of the city. Today, it is much the same. The top of the hill is filled with Parisian artists offering to paint the portraits of passing tourists... I discovered this place on a warm afternoon in July. It was crowded; so packed that I couldn't stand still for thirty seconds without feeling hot flesh rubbing up against me. I sat on a vacant piece of sidewalk and watched on as one particular artist tried to charm passersby. 'Bonjour! Shalom! Hello!' He'd jump out in front of unassuming tourists and tell them they 'had a great face for characature'. He proudly wore a rounded belly and his white Santa-Clause beard covered most of his creased face. I watched him for a good twenty minutes. When I stood to leave the artist market he was still searching for a subject...

I walked along one of the hill-top's narrow streets, toward Sacre Coeur. There I found myself a comfortable piece of grass, planted myself on it, and stared out onto the panorama of Pari. And that, was pure magic.

Making the trek to London-town: It ain't all tea and scones...

So for those thinking flying is no biggie, to you I must say: think again. Having just spent 23 hours sitting upright with knees rigid and the air, stale I can honestly tell you that flying half-way across the world is not the awesome adventure some may believe it to be.

Our first leg was from Sydney to Dubai. We sat for 14 hours cramped in our economy class seats, eating our single-serve economy-class meals and staring, with heavy eyes, at the small screen in front of us. A three-year-old kicked at my chair and wailed in discomfort as his ears popped - a cliche I'm oh so glad to have realised. Relly had made the wise decision to brave a foreign breed of chilli-sauce the previous night, and had been battling to keep the dragon in the pit of her belly at bay ever since... Needless to say, her face had turned a pleasant shade of grey and she was not exactly up for a game of I-spy. My head felt like a dead weight and my eyes stung from exhaustion, but my body simply would not let me sleep, and the wide choice of new-release movies on the ICE Entertainment System did nothing to make up for the crappy feeling of being stuck, groggy, stiff and bored, in the same place for an entire day.

I tried to watch Alice in Wonderland and avoided eye contact with the over-confident Roman guy named Flavio to my right. Relly slept.

When we arrived in Dubai, Relly and I did our best to lose the Roman as quickly as possible.We were excited to wash up and stretch our legs. Instead, we stepped out into 45 degree heat, in a desert, and without any time to even was our faces. We were hurried into boarding straight-away. Then had the pleasure of sitting and waiting as air-traffic cleared for one and a half hours. But the time did pass, slow as it was, and once those nine long, long hours were over, and we finally stepped out into the sweet London air (which was freezing), the sting of tired eyes and the cramps from uncomfortable seating were forgotten.

I walked out of King's Cross Station, looked ahead, and there it was: London. We were on the other side of the world. And no amount of sleep-deprivation could have sedated the buzz I was feeling.

Kissing My Bed Good-Bye

This is the second-last night I will have in my bed for almost two months.

It feels really strange.

I've never really liked my bed. It's too small, my feet poke through from underneath the bottom of the blankets and it screeches everytime I move. But tonight, I'm looking at it, nervously anticipating what it will be like not to sleep in this bed I've slept in almost every night of the past ten years.

The whole idea of not being in the house every night, while exciting as hell, is still a little scary. And although I've been planning this trip for months, it kinda feels like it's crept up on me. It seems as though a couple days ago there were thirty days to go, and now there are only two. I'm sitting at my desk writing a list of all the things I need to pack, trying to decipher whether I should bring five tops or six, or if one cardigan is enough. Man, I'm unorganised.

I think when planning these kinds of things a lot of us tend to get over-excited about what we may, or most-probably will not need. I catch myself thinking, 'Should I bring floss and tissues?' Or something equally lame - and then I have to remind myself, 'Frankie, you do know they have toiletries in England; if you forget to pack your panty-liners, you won't have to resort to tearing up old t-shirts.'

It's funny, really. I'm sitting here, knowingly freaking myself out over frivolous crap like my travel-sized GHD and not even thinking about what's going to happen when I step off that plane. 'So...this is London, Heathrow. Cool. Where do we go now?' Maybe a part of me doesn't believe I'm actually leaving. Who knows. Let's just hope when I wake up Tuesday morning, BEFORE the crack of dawn, to make my way to the airport, that this little part of me get's a clue and starts to pay attention.

The Girl with the Draggin Poo

I was sitting on the 45-minute train ride from home to uni, perusing through my readings, pink highlighter in hand. The muffled voice of the train driver announced that our next stop will be Wynyard. I looked out my lower-level window and watched the suits file out onto the platform to my right. This was when it hit. An aggressive blow of urgency pressed onto my bladder. I squeezed my thighs together and bounced up and down on my seat, trying hard to convince myself that 'I don't really need to go that badly...'

The train-trip crawled along, and after what felt like an eon, we pulled up at my stop. I barged through the crowd of fellow commuters and burst into the first free cubicle I laid my eyes on, sliding my uni reader atop the bathroom's hand-dryer before unbuttoning. As I went to squat down, I ran my eyes over the toilet bowl and saw a wet turd the size of a small hamster, clinging to the side of the bowl. I began to dry-gag, but it was far too late, my pants were already on their way down, and my bladder had sensed imminent release - there was no way back. 

Two minutes later, and 1kg lighter, I stepped out of the cubicle...power-walking away from the scene. Maybe twenty-metres away from the cubicle, I noticed my hands were a lot freer than earlier on. I looked in my bag, checking to see if I had put anything I may have previously been holding in there. 

Nothing. Then I realised. And a pang struck the pit of my stomach. 

The hand-dryer.

I turned back around, retracing my speedy steps to that damned cubicle. I prayed it would be empty. It wasn't. 

In the minute or so I waited for whoever occupied the loo, I ran a long list of lines through my head. 'Hey, was there a book in that bathroom? It was gross in there hey?'

'Were you just in that disgusting bathroom? Yuck ay? Um, was there a book in there?'

Eventually a petite asian girl walked out. She saw me waiting outside and approached me saying, 'Was that your book in there?' 

I laughed, too loudly, 'Oh yeah! I thought I'd left it on the train!'

She just looked at me, straight-faced. 

I could feel her judging me, thinking, 'You are fucking foul.'

I desperately wanted to justify the situation to her. But there was no use; there was no way I could change her mind. To her, I will forever be the girl with the draggin' poo. 

 

He Ain't all that and a Bag of Coffee Beans.

Cafe owner: Didn't you like my soup? You didn't finish it.

Frankie: No, I did. It was great, just really filling.

Cafe owner: What? You should be able to handle that (looks Frankie up and down) You're a good eater.

Frankie mentally punches cafe owner in the face.

***

I've been thinking about all the different things I could say about my little encounter with Mr. Cafe owner over there. I could go on a rant about how offensive his words were. I could talk about how upset he made me, and how a couple hours later I was at the gym counting the calories I'd burnt. I could say stuff him, I'm fabulous and curves are in fact the new black. I could talk about how he vaugely resembles Mr. Mole in Thumbelina, and how he ain't exactly a 30-inch waist himself.

But none of that really makes a difference to my afternoon. 

Or to whoever may be reading this.

 ...So, I won't

 

Let's try this one more time.

Hello...

Is there anybody out there?

*blows dust off from blog*

Yes, I have once again been consumed by the evil thing that is third year university. And as a result, my poor, poor blog has suffered immensly. I'm sure it has looked around at all the other blogs that have been filled with witty prose and brightly coloured images, wondering, 'why can't I have all that?'
'Why must I sit here, alone, unnoticed and unchanging?' Before letting out a deep and lenghty sigh.

But cheer up ol' blogzy, you're faithful friend is back!

And you can hopefully find solace in my decision to give you a little bit of a face-lift. Well, not so much a face-lift... more a botox injection (i'm not snipping off anything, just ironing out the crinkles).

Some how it is now June and my trip over the the Motherland is fast approaching. And i've decided that I will try, if internet-cafe's permit, to document as much of it as I can on here. Frankie Speak is going travel.

I'm going to be travelling about the UK, as well as popping into a handful of European cities, with my fabulous, feline-loving friend *Relly Rose.

We're going to be running amuck for 7 weeks, trying to do as much as we can without running out of money. So, expect this space to be crammed with stories on two 20-something year old girls getting lost (both figuratively, and literally, i'm sure) in the loaded streets of Europa in summer.

Everything is sexier when it's foreign.

Watch this space ;)


xx Frankie

Sweet Treats

At the close of the night I find little more comforting than to sit, warm and complacent, with a Mint Slice in one hand and a Jam Fancy in the other. An indulgence such as this can seldom be compared.

Baby Geniuses

I couldn't face this Monday. I was totally unprepared for its arrival, and so decided to turn my back, and avoid it all together. So now, I am staring at the screen of my laptop, listening to Eric Clapton's Running on Faith, while trying to convince my brain to tell my hand to push the keys on the keyboard, and write the essay I have due tomorrow. Instead, my brain told my hand to click on the internet shortcut and log into blogger. 


I'll just treat this as my warm up for what I'm actually meant to be doing. 


So, for a uni assessment (no, not the one due tomorrow) I'm writing an article on being a kid in the digital age. It's something I'm pretty interested in, having worked in a daycare centre for the past 2 years. I've spent some time observing the young kids I encounter and have noticed quite a significant difference in how they act compared to how my sister/cousins/friends and I acted at the same age. Now maybe I'm basing this on a biased opinion on 90s kids compared to millennium bubs, but I really don't think I am. 


Kids today are smarter, they break down information faster - but they also grow tired of things quicker. They're exposed to things earlier - sometimes too early - and consequential to this explosion of stimulation and knowledge, their patience is close to non-existent, and their ability to entertain themselves with a simple game of Mummies and Daddies is lacking. 


I was taught how to use a Nintendo DS last weekend by a 5 year old. She let me play on her brother's console. He is three. This little girl was putting together puzzles on the little interactive, LCD screen. When I asked her if she liked playing with real puzzles, she said, "Nah, I like playing with them on here."


Tell me you don't think something is not right here.

Auburn afternoons

I have to say, I feel bad for not having written on here in a little while. I feel badly for robbing myself of my weekly therapy session, and so, do believe I deserve a slap to the wrist.

So, autumn has crept up on us, and I've just decided that it is my favourite season. It's just so pretty - yes my decision will be solely based on aesthetics. I find autumn distracts me; I get drawn in by its charm and begin envisioning romantic scenes. The colours of autumn are seductive; they make me want to stop and lie under some huge deciduous tree, forever. Possibly with a book in hand and Bloc Party's Blue Light playing softly in the background, or something...

Love is...on the train?

I witnessed a reunion the other day. And it was probably one of the most effecting moments i've seen.

I had just stepped off a train and was walking out of the station onto the street. There was a girl walking ahead of me, heading down the steps at the station's exit. She would have been close to me in age - somewhere between 21 and 24. She was fairly short, and she was wearing a loosely-fitted black dress. As she stepped off the last step and onto level ground, a tall, thin man donning green cargo pants, a backpack and a full beard ran to her side and reached out to touch her arm. The girl was startled by the touch felt; she gasped and jumped to face him. Her face changed as she recognised who he was - she was trying to hold back tears. Then she burried her face into his chest, and stayed there a long while. He spoke no words, but just held her tight and ran his fingers through the back of her hair. He then took her hand, and walked her home.

Although a relatively insignificant happening, seeing this seems to have (momentarily) dissolved all my cynicisms about love. There it was: plain, real, and beautiful. And there, standing amongst the other nameless commuters, I was comforted by the realisation that this is what it's all about - finding someone we know will run to our side, hold our hand, and bring us home.

Want a piece of PIE?

PIE zine's first issue is out now - I got mine in the mail last week (yay!).
And I think it is quite awesome, with a load of pretty photography, amazing illustrations, and a great list of contributors (cough, me, cough, page 31, coughhhhhhhhhh).

It's three bucks on Etsy. And certain cool stores are selling them, too.
So lovely people in blog-land, I suggest you take a minute to check it out :).

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=43217495&ref=cat1_gallery_11

Mmmm, PIE... nom nom nom

The Screech of Grinding Teeth.

I've developed a new habit.

I've been waking in the morning with this terrible, paralysing feeling of stress. Every morning. And I can't figure out why. I wake, tense and un-rested, with the urge to cry out - about what, I'm unsure. But it's an overwhelming feeling, as if I've ruined something that cannot be fixed.

I wish I could tell you my new habit was some pleasurably naughty addiction like coffee or cracking my knuckles. Instead, i'm giving myself stomach ulcers over imaginary dilemmas.

I don't know, maybe I need to take up Tai Chi or meditation or something...

Look what I made!

Since returning to uni, I decided that instead of storming about the house red-faced and all crazy-like due to a lack of space to study, I would make myself a place to study. And that I did.

So, after a day throwing dog food, soccer balls, old slippers and building tools out of my family's 'junk room', and a day scrubbing the floor clean, AND another day re-furnishing the room - with the help of Ikea - I was left with a study all to myself.

: ) <- me

I've got a plant and all.
Haha, it's nothing flash. The desk is some faded blue-grey, it's cracked and people have carved their names into the paint, the blinds are stained and teal - enough said, and the sun tends to hit the window I face when sitting so I can't really see the computer screen. BUT it still has a homely feel to it, it's quiet and private, and did I mention I have a plant?

All stops to Hornsby

You were sitting in the seat across from mine, to my left. Dressed in black, tight black pants and brown suede boots cut the the knee - the kind with a pointed front and stiletto heel. You sat with one foot folded underneath you and the other stretched out to the floor. You sat slovenly, leaning onto your bag that sat to your side so no-one could occupy the seat it took.  I hate when people do that.

You punched numbers into your phone, calling the people you spoke to by 'darl' or 'babe' or 'hun'. There was a harsh undertone to your voice, behind all the artificial name-calling. It made the word 'babe' sound like a threat.

I heard you. The whole carriage heard you.

You crowed into that phone, and let out, or pushed rather, a laugh onto all those within earshot. That laugh was pushed out onto us like a justification.

I judged you. I'm sorry. I heard you and thought to myself, 'Far out, I do not want to be that'. I was not expecting it. This feeling just snuck up and slapped my across the face. You spoke about sex, and people you don't care about, and your period... I felt a little embarrassed for you. Understand that I'm not questioning your right to commitment-free sex, nor am I insinuating a lack of class here. I am not the type to get all worked up because someone says the word 'boob' in public. But a merely a care-free woman, you are not. The way you showboated to the entire carriage made me a little sad for you. For that too, I'm sorry. 

You know, as a boarded the train I was given the impression that you hated whomever 'love' and 'honey' were, because of that harsh edge to your voice. But as I stepped off, near the end of the line, I realized that maybe it was you you weren't so fond of. Maybe you envied 'babe' and 'darling'...

And that was about the only thing you didn't mention.

Littlest of fish.

I booked a plane ticket yesterday.
And today I was confronted by the realization that you will not be there to hold my hand.
I feel a little like an eight-year-old girl shuffling about her parent's bedroom in her mother's black, patent leather stiletto heels. And once wearing the shoes, she has to learn how to keep her balance.
It's daunting; like nothing else i've ever done... and I'm incredibly scared about getting it wrong. I can picture it now: me standing by my friend in the airport thinking, 'okay... what do i do now?'
And I think, that's why I need to go.
This is like nothing else i've done.
But there no way to learn how to balance in stiletto heels other than taking the time to walk around. Even if you have a few stumbles in the process.

Dear Diary

I woke up on the wrong side of the day today.

Have you ever done that? Woken up after a mid-afternoon cat nap to find the sky has darkened. You don't know what time it is, and you roam around with a clumsy shuffle of the feet thinking, 'how bloody long was I asleep?'

I feel as though I've been robbed of a day. I'm sitting here now, unsure about what what I want to do.

Maybe I should just climb back into bed and sleep away the rest of this backward evening.

Quarter-life Crises.

I have often questioned why someone chose to name the age of twenty-one a momentous feat, and disregard twenty-five as a mere bump on this 'hill' we are tumbling down with such un-relenting pace. It is afterall a quarter of a century. Twenty-one is of no significance to us, really. We're just mimicing the tendencies of big-brother USA. And if fifty is going to be named a significant event, twenty-five should be considered no less important. Is that not logical? Or am I simply going on a rant about nothing?

Anyway, I've started off by trailing onto a tangent. That is not what I sat down to write about today.

Of late I have felt, as I quickly approach that age bracket of 21-25, an anxiety pressing down on my chest, hard. I'm about to have my fingers pried from the childhood to which I desperately cling, and be flung, face-first, into that dark realm of faceless suits, closeted alcholism and looming deadlines. I want to run into the warm embrace of my mum and have her send away this ugly world that's coming out to get me. I'm not ready. Please mum, I don't wanna go.

I've seen it happen to older friends. I'm being pulled into that spiral of irrational panic where you fleet halfway across the world, drop out of uni, end relationships, dye your hair blue - anything to side-step that transition from carefree youth to overworked drone. And of course i'm exaggerating...there are adults who are inspired and full of life, but I fear the reverse like I once feared the dark stare of the drooling monster under my bed.

It is often overlooked, the quarter-life crisis; it is hidden by the great, black shadow of the dire straits of the fourty-something year olds of the world. Are the fancy cars and lurid affairs of the middle-aged so different to our tattoos and trashy parties? We are both but trying, with no real hope for success, to halt an unstoppable force. We're clutching onto tufts of grass, scrambling for something secure to hold - for none of us are ready to meet this hill's end.

The Art of Selling Oneself.

I have an interview tomorrow for a prospective internship at a very broadly-read travel magazine - well it's as broadly read as travel magazines get - and I'm just a liiiittllee bit terrified. The whole concept of an interview just makes me uncomfortable... all that subtle ass-kissing and self-glorification; it makes me want to bail.

Right now, I'm going through the 'prepping' process; making sure my resume is in order, putting together a portfolio of my work, doing some reseach on the publication...practicing my handshake. I feel as though a lot rides on a well excecuted handshake, and I really have no idea why, but it's something I have had drummed into me since childhood...that, and don't talk to strangers. I can remember hearing things like: 'the handshake must be firm, but not overpowering, it should not be drawn out for too much time and always look the owner of the opposing hand in the eye during a shake. A weak handshake implies a lack of self-assurance and in the business world is a major no-no.'

This is where my problem with interviews lies: you are being judged from the moment you meet; even on the way you touch the interviewers hand. What the hell? That just freakssss me out. You see, me, i'm the kind of person who walks into desks and stutters when nervous, i'm the person you see who spills coffee on their shirt or beetroot on their jeans (true story), i'm the sort of person who somehow manages to screw up a handshake...

Even when it is a 'casual' interview...it never actually is. There is this totally manufactured relaxed vibe that everyone knows is bullshit, coz you're still there to try and get the job and they're still there to scrutinize you. I usually sit there willing the time to pass, waiting for the formalities to end and wishing I could skip to the part when I call a friend and complain about how I went. It's pretty funny reliving the course of the interview once it's over (well, most of the time) ...going over whatever crap you scrambled together in order to make yourself seem a whole lot better than you really are. 'Sure I can speak fluent Italian' (I can construct basic sentences), 'I have an extremely high wpm average' (I use facebook a lot), 'I really really love kids, or the clothing at cotton on, or tupperware' (I want the money).

Luckily, or maybe unluckily, I actually do enjoy the magazine I'm prepping for; I don't have to lie about a great love of some product I don't give a damn about, which really adds to the nerves. I know these things are almost always less scary than we mentally build them up to be, but having a panel of strangers judge whether of not they would like to pick you for their team is pretty damn unnerving. Who knows though, maybe if watch where I step, speak slowly, keep away from coloured foods or drinks and hold a steady hand, mayybbeee it just might go okay.

Memory Hoarding

So, I recently went through and cleaned out my entire room. And I don't just mean I put away the mound of clothing enveloping what once was my chair... I went through all my drawers, my shelves, boxes, even the arbitrary 'stuff' taking up the space beneath my bed. I filled about four garbage bags, mostly with things I didn't even know I had.


As I went through the piles of what I now could only call rubbish, I was a litlle saddened by the idea that I had failed to hold on to those select reasons why I had chosen to pack away that stick figure cartoon, movie ticket, or dried flower. These were once meaningful symbols that took me back to a stupid joke made in drama class, a kiss shared on a park bench, or a night spent cavorting around the city when meant to be sharing popcorn and Tim Tams at a movie night in Hurlstone Park...now, they are just a bunch of faded notes and discoloured petals. How heatbreaking is that? 

Well, I guess the only way you can make space for new memories is by letting go of a few older ones.

Nom nom nom

So today I went a little crazy in the kitchen with my new fave veggie: pumpkin (well my favourite for this month at least). I spent close to five hours straight in the kitchen, and thought i'd document a few things to share with all of you in blogger-land.

As Martha Stewart-esque as this may sound, a day in the kitchen seems to relax me (at least when all turns out well it does). Whenever I'm bored and looking for something to pass the time, this is where I seem to end up. Those who know me well, know that I am a lover of food. A foodie through and through, little excites me more than the prospect of a good meal (creating and enjoying it alike). So it can be assumed, I am sure, that today was a whole lot of fun for me - as sad as that may sound :).

The first, and most time-consuming, thing I made was pumpkin soup. I have tasted loads of different types of pumpkin soup over the years - some awesome, others not so great. I cannot stand lumpy and watery pumpkin soup... the consistency grosses me out. For it to be a great pumpkin soup, it needs to be smooth, creamy, and well-seasoned.  I have found a recipe that really delivers in all these areas. I am not afraid to brag a little here; the soup I made was pretty damn delicious. I found it on www.taste.com, take a look: http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/5175/pumpkin+soup

I got a little bored while waiting for the soup to cook so I used some left over pumpkin to make pumpkin scones: which can be incredible if made properly. I found a recipe on one of those old-school tea towels with equally as old-school recipes printed across their fronts. I'm not so sure what happened to these scones, but instead of becoming fat, golden, lumpy and heavenly, they turned out more like deflated car tyres. That was pretty disappointing, but they were tasty all the same.

The Scent of Rain

There is something poetic about the beach on a rainy day.

There is grey mist that laces over the point where the sky meets the sea. The whole beach gives off an almost ethereal impression. I could lie on the sand, under the drops of rain, for hours on end.

Music is my Aeroplane

I have two albums I'd like to credit today: The Cinematic Orchestra's Ma Fleur and Radiohead's In Rainbows. I'd suggest each of them to absolutely anybody, the two compilations are made up of soothing, emotive, beautiful, and original pieces of music. I can rarely listen to an entire album from beginning through to end, but with these albums, sitting and listening to them through is effortless. Every emotion I have ever been encompassed by is present in the two albums, listening to them is a personal and soulful experience. 


Ma Fleur

1. To Build a Home
2. Familiar Ground
3. Child Song
4. Music Box
5. Prelude
6. As the Stars Fall
7. Into You
8. Ma Fleur
9. Breathe
10. That Home
11. Time and Space

Fontella Bass features on about three songs on this album. If there is one voice you must listen to this year, it is that of this angel.

In Rainbows

1. 15 Step
2. Bodysnatchers
3. Nude
4. Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
5. All I Need (This is my absolute favourite song on the album)
6. Faust Arp
7. Reckoner
8. House of Cards
9. Jigsaw Falling into Place
10. Videotape

Twenty Ten

I have never been much of a new-years-resolution-maker, but I do see the 'new' as invaluable and exciting, and miss the chance to experience it I will not - there is much i'd like to learn, and try, and see this following year.

Yes i'd like to believe that I will eat well, exercise more, apply myself fully at uni, retain a postive energy, donate to charity, listen to my mum, and become concordant with the universe - but from past experience, I can tell you that such sworn promises are usually brushed aside casually by about the third week of February.

So rather than attempt to prove my absolute resolve in becoming a 'new me', rather than vowing to make this year better than the last, i'm just collecting ideas on a few new activites, or ideas, or goals that I can play around with.

One thing i've always been kind of interested in is learning is how to make jam - this may sound extremely old school and boring to some, but I just have this idea of making individual jars of jam, wrapping them up all pretty-like and giving them as gifts for loved ones. And as sad as it may sound, I am totally excited by this idea :).

http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/other-recipes/raspberry-jam

I also really want to get surfing lessons. I've never been the surfing type really, but since childhood I've loved the beach...i've always been drawn by all that adrenaline; it's something I would be really proud to conquer. Even if I only stand on a board momentarily.

I'd like to get through at least ten different books this year. Because, well I love to read, and ten books is not really many - If I can't get through ten books in twelve months, I am in the wrong degree.

And lastly, (I must admit, this is quite an unoriginal want) but I wish to travel overseas. I don't care when, I don't really even care where, I just want to pack up and go someplace 'new' amid this freshly new year of 2010.


Fairly achievable, no?