Kubla Khan

'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree :

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round :

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover !

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced :

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves ;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !

His flashing eyes, his floating hair !

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.'

Good old Coleridge at his opium-addicted best. Still there is some lovely imagery in this poem that explores the power of the imagination and the artist over the concrete and rational elements of the world. I love the paradoxical idea of a 'sunny dome with caves of ice', the transitory nature of such a structure is so clear. 

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MP3

For a very long time the house next door to mine was occupied by a modelling agency, the proprieter (for want of a better word) of which was a tall, gangly man with a bobbed hair cut that he wore in three ponytails on the back of his head.

My and my friends were first exposed to him in 2004 when he approached one of them and offered her, and her mother, a place on his books. 'take my card, the girls might have something for you.' From then on it was a running joke with this crazy, slightly creepy man who haunted us wherever we went. If we were out on oxford st at night we would see him, sitting cross legged outside the pub smoking. If we were in fiveways geting food he would be there also, carrying brown paper bags filled with loo paper or buying half a chicken from the corner shop.

We nicknamedh im MP3. As in, multiple pontails x3. We used to joke when we called him multiple ponytails if he was actually called that, like if his parents had called im Multiple Ponytails. And then if he was the 3rd of that name he would be Multiple Ponytails the 3rd. We all found it insanely funny in the way that teenagers often do.

he was an eccentric dresser, wearing those terrible pointy shoes that some men do, in faux snakeskin and taupe leather. They were dreadful! We would always see similar shoes in shops and talk about how they were typical MP3 shoes and always joke that we would one day buy a pair for him. One day we saw a guy in the street who dressed like him, with the three ponytails and everything, with two girls hanging onto his arms and we thought it must be his son or something. You can see how he dominated all our thoughts at this stage of our teenager-dom.

Then, yesterday, i arrived home from school to find that there was a removalist van outside my house. At first i thought it was the annoying couple that lived in the flat above us, but no, it was for him. I saw him packing boxes of his stuff into the van, couches and stacks of magazines and all sorts of tacky, tacky things that i supposed he loved. It was so sad! I called all my friends immediately to inform them of the terible news, and resigned myself to a night in my room, (which was built with an adjoining wall as his house) savouring the last few moments of him living next door to me.

The new people moving in are a family, with three boys. very boring and very uninteresting, not like MP3. I know he hasn't died, but i doubt i will see him again. So, for now, rest in Peace Mr Multiple Ponytails the 3rd.

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she's a terrible counter-Hon

The Hon. Nancy Mitford once wrote a marvellous set of books called the pursuit of love and love in a cold climate, i've just read both of them and are, i believe, (if at all possible) even more enthralled with the wonderful world of england than i was before. How i wish, deeply, fervently, with all my heart that i could have lived in that wonderful era of change and society in the 1920s and 1930s...

The story is narrated by the Hon. Frances (fanny) Logan, who is the cousin of the Hon. Linda Alconleigh and it is her life that we see in 'the pursuit of love'. The Alconleigh family is the atypical eccentric, wild english lord and lady of the manor house family, whose enjoyments include child hunting each full moon and playing grammophone records very loud in the mornings.

THe second story revolves around The Hon. Polly Montdore who was born into extreme priviledge but marries her uncle (by marriage) disgracing her family and her name for happiness.

Both stories have been criticised as dull, trash novels masquerading as literature but i find them intriguing and engaging. They are the same as Brideshead revisited, although admittedly the prose is somewhat less literary. THey chart the same kind of world and the same kind of outsider looking in.

The tale of the mitford sisters is also very interesting, and many speculate that the world of Alconleigh and Fanny is taken directly from nancy's own life. She infamously had two sisters who defected to communism and fascim (one to HItler) and another who married very well, into the royal family itself.

Lola and I sometimes joke that we would have fitted right in with the mitford sisters. The funny thing is that people can really see us swanning around in Paris with our exalted lovers, making right fools of ourselves but being very, insanely happy at the same time.

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brideshead revisited... revisited

I grew up on a healthy diet of jeremy irons, as a growing woman should and must. His chocolaty velvety voice *sigh* infected all my fantasies until i was quite unable to really rectify myself with falling love with any of the gangly pimply boys from brother schools. His voice! His face! His wonderful, marvellous self!

My mother had actually met him once, wearing his smoking jacket. I was so jealous of her.

Anyway, so as jeremy irons was party of my everyday existence so too was brideshead revisited. It was shown on the ABC in the 80s, and tuesday nights the city of melbourne shut down. You couldn't get a decent meal for 3 months as people were too busy watching the show to actually work their day (or indeed, night) jobs.

I thought this BBC version completley, amazingly, truely wonderful. It was perfect in every way. As Time said of it, 'it took a book and turned it into poetry'. It completely captured the essence of the book (which is to this day one of my favourites) and also the representation of the charles ryder/sebastian flyte and charles ryder/julia flyte relationship. People always wonder, were charles and sebastian gay?

I don't think they were. I think they were best friends, and they loved each other in the all consuming way that best friends do. women are always presented as loving in their friendships, why cannot men be portrayed this way too? I think it is inspiring for this kind of portrayal to exist so strongly in book and film. Sebastian and Charles are best friends who love and care for each other, driven apart because of Sebastian's growing alcoholism and self-destructive behaviour.

The new movie to be released later this year seems to have thrown all this on its head, focussing instead on the relationship between charles and julia, a tortuous, tumultuous relationship with the unamiguously gay Charles (in the novel and film it is much more ambiguous and never really acknowledged) on the outer, vying for the attention of the man he loves and his sister...

AAAH! What has Andrew Davies done! Why must he make every single classic book into a soap opera? Who could forget the infamous sex scene in Austen's sense and sensibility, or the controversy at the beginning of filming for Brideshead where it was revealed that Aloysius the bear would not be in this filmn version? (Thankfully he was reinstated following gross fan backlash)

I love this book, i LOVE ben whishaw, i love emma thompson... this movie seems to unite in itself all things good and great about the world, but i cant help watch the trailer and be alarmed that it has been turned into something a great deal less than what Waugh's eccentric, flowery, beautiful novel about england and times gone and catholicism...

Despite all this however, the clothes look fabulous. Perhaps i'll see it for them (i usually do).

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Seussian?

I am currently completely my english thesis for HSC Extension 2, and after much heated debate and anger (on my part) i'm doing utopia and dystopian theory in Dr Seuss' work. In fact, I'm trying to write it now, but i thought i should blog about this funny thing that just occurred to me.

What is the adjective of Seuss?

I was trying to write this is a typical ________ figure.

seussical?
seussian?
seussive?

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when god closes a door he opens a window..

The end of my career in maths and sciences came abruptly in year 10 (4th form, sophmore year etc).

I was in advanced one for maths, struggling along but by no means doing badly. My interest was waning, but classes were fun with my dearest D by my side the whole time, to explain and lend a helping hand. My teacher was funny and interesting, maths was a chore, but one that i enjoyed (sort of).

Science was another question all together. For the first semester i fought, debated, cajoled and was generally really impertinent to my science teacher. He was a good sport, fighting back the whole time, and we played this sort of tug of war that never ended. I thought he hated me, really he thought i was pretty cool. It was a really good first semester where i learnt a great deal about how to argue, but not really much about science.

Then he left at the end of the semester to be head of science at another school and i was upset, who would our new teacher be? What would happen to the fun and engaging dynamic that me, D, and some of our other friends had forged in class.

THe first day of term 3 began and we all eagerly awaited our third period science lesson. THen suddenly G grabbed me on the arm, saying that she'd seen the new science teacher. Where? I asked and she pointed to the retreating form of a man in the second floor corridor.

'Nice arse.' I said. and it was.

Things could only get better in class. HE turned out to be english, which is top of my list on priorities for a man (along with has read Jane Austen at least once) and full of brittanic charm. I swooned then and there, and spend the rest of both terms trying to become a better science student so he would notice.

But this was not at the expense of my friends, however. We used to talk all the time in science, it was our 'bludge' class, where we could tell each other of our exploits. One day he caught us out talking and asked D a question. She was a great science student, and he soon realised that he'd bitten off more than he could chew with us.

Mr B; So, seeing as you have all been listening intently, what does natural selection mean?

D; when evolution favours the 'fittest' *raises eyebrows*, like the strongest, smartest, most innovative.

Mr B; *shocked*. uuuh yes. that is correct. But next time, listen to me...

He was conceited, arrogant and so damn fine! It was like heaven every science lesson and we would unashamedly perve the whole time, giggle, muck around, and then try and get good marks every assignment and exam so he would say something nice.

At the end of the year he told us he was leaving, as he had only been put on a temporary contract, sad and distraught i vowed never to take a science class that he was not teaching, not an altogether good resolution to make as i didn't really learn much in his lessons on account of my staring at his face and not the board.

My adoration of him was well known throughout the year, and seeing as i always do this to guys, perve and make rude jokes and get obsessed quite easily they all found it very funny.

Then this year my friends who take physics bailed me up in the corridor, excited about something. I had no idea what they were talking about.

D; so we were in physics today.

Me; *bored* right.

D; and Mr F was talking about getting tutoring.

Me; *still bored* okay.

D; and he said that he'd gotten an email from Mr B who works at C School now and he used to teach here. Apparently he's willing to tutor us all for the HSC.

Me; *no longer bored*. WUOHUUUSHHGH:L? *unable to string intelligible sentence together*

D; *smirking* yeah, bet you wished you'd never dropped physics now, right?

Me; *nodding, and tryign to figure a way to get tutoring without actually doing physics*.


SO Mr B has been thrust back into my life unexpectedly, im thinking that when my friends have tutroring with him i'll just go to the library and sit very near, reading a book and watching him all the time. *sigh*. im so happy! like i said, when god closes a door... he opens a window. a damn fine english window!

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and i got to thinking...

i love sex and the city, and its one of those odd things. it sits there piled up with movies like gosford park, perfume, the history boys, amelie... and sex and the city. people always comment that i have the oddest taste in movies and tv, and i think this proves them irrevocably right. i don't know what it is, but i love it so much. obviously i was too young to 'grow up' with it, as it were, but i watch it religiously on dvd now, watching, rewatching, revisiting, remembering..

i read an article the other day about whether or not sex and the city could really be considered feminist and it really intrigued me. it was a contentious question, as the opinino on SATC is notoriously divided. One camp says that it encourages women to be comfortable with sexuality and friendship and work and being a woman. The second camp says that ultimately it conforms to the idea of women as playthigns for men, running around frantically for 'The One'.

I think that SATC was an important stepping stone for me from hopeless romantic (which i was, and partially still am) to independent woman. Now i know that friends are so important, especially the ones that love you for who you are not anything else, and that men are seond to that. Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them.

But SATC is, i think, a feminist text in that, for the first time on TV, it was show about women, for women. Yeah men watched it, and enjoyed it, but the themes, values, concerns and issues were all regarding women. Dealing with illness, change, moving, letting go, starting anew.... There had never been a TV show like it that spoke about unashamedly and unabashedly about women and their lives. So they may have been slightly stereotypical and slightly above-average, but they were still women.

Besides, as the article concluded, SATC thinks women are funny, and clever and fashionable and beautiful and important. And that is the ultimate point of the showl. Women are important. (they really are!)

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parting is such sweet sorrow.

one last thing before i go to bed, tired, a little sick, and not looking forward to more school tomorrow.

I AM GOING TO PARIS IN JANUARY AND FEBRUARY!
it is to be my 'mini gap year' before starting university in march, provided that i work my ace off, do well on the HSC and not do anything too stupid on schoolies (a week in the drug capital of australia byron bay where school students who have just finished their HSC congregate to drink and generally make a lot of ruckus. sounds like fun, right?)

Mater and Pater will contribute some, i shall put in the vast majority of it from savings (not enough now, but hopefully as the year rolls by and tutoring keeps up...) I can't believe it?! paris and london in january and february! my dream come true! I'm going to go with lola, of course, and we'll be generally quite silly and terrible the whole time, spending all our money on drinks and jewels. But we shall have a marvellous time, i already know it. how could we not?

i am glad to go, as well. it will be a taste of freedom as an adult that i may not have with the strict mother when i return. At least this way i can have a little sampling of no curfew, endless nights of fun and no questions about the lastest outfit and purchase or where did the money come from. i can be free! free at last!

oh how i want to shout it from the rooftops!

FREEDOM!

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anonymity and the face?

i am anonymous on this blog. i havent said my name, and though i am sure that no-one actually reads it anyway, i still don't want my name and identity out for everyone to see, coupled with dark and deep musings about my life. but i haven't really given any other details away either, so i thought i should give a few now.

This blog is for writing. i just want to write. I scribble away in notebooks all day, but it is not enough. Those books usually record snippets of poetry or gobbets i find intriguing, not thoughts like this. When i want to get a thought out of my head and stop it buzzing around angrily then i put it down here. Sometimes i put poetry too. But of course, had you read it, then you would know this.

1. name. ? double barelled first name. asian last name.

2. age. ? 17

3. school. ? posh upper class private school in the eastern suburbs that i hate with a passion. i am on their on scholarship, and many girls never let me forget it. i am lucky to have wonderful friends and a few caring and understanding teachers that make everyday bearable. I only have about 119 left (thank god).

4. interests. ? obvious by now. books, fashion, movies, music, history, society and culture (ahaha).

5. subjects. ? lots of history, lots of english, french, philosophy, religion. no maths or sciences please.

6. dreams. ? london for life. bath for love. cambridge for later. paris forever.

7. one thing you'd love to do that you have never done before. ? alexandria. i really want to go there after studying it last year in ancient history.

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letting go

i am not bitter, nor do i bruise easily. I have a rather thick skin, really. but one wound i have found it impossible to heal, though time, and the literature, and songs and my mother tell me otherwise, is my broken heart. Every mention of his name, though we are drawing on the one year mark from the end soon, brings about a fresh wave of sadness that cuts at the scars on the my heart until i feel like the colour black.

I don't know if it was just because it was my first love, that heady cocktail of passion and youth and stars and dreams... or if it is anything more. i've moved on, but then i haven't. there was no closure to the relationship, and i can't bring myself to see him, even now. is that wrong of me? Should i be the bigger person? What am i even doing?

not many of my friends know the depths of my despair about this. when the end was fresh, tears would fall freely at night and it would not be unheard of for me to be heard abusing his very name throughout the drafty corridors of school. But now, almost a year later, i think these thoughts to myself. no-one will listen anymore. I should have moved on by now.

But i can't. i don't know why. i just can't. It's terrible. i want to, so much. i really do. but i can't.

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