end of an era;

my oldest friend turns 18 on saturday, and it is the end of an era for us. This year (and the beginning of next) me and my friends will cross the threshold of school children and become graduates, me and my friends will stop being illegal and become, well legal... No more the thrill of buying alcohol without an ID, no more the sneaky gravelly voice put on when purchasing cigarettes. the thrill will be gone.

I know im not the only one who thinks that drinking, smoking, living, partying is most fun when its not allowed, when the police could be grabbing you any minute as you swig from a bottle in the shady areas of hyde park, when you puff away on a cigarette under the street lights of oxford street. I'm going to miss it, i really am.

Being waved into bars and clubs as you flash a (real, not fake) ID and knowing that you cannot get denied at the seveneleven or the bottle shop are things that i just dont want to feel, not yet anyway. I want more years of this youthful rebellion and illegality. I want it never to end.

But sadly, this saturday as we settle down for dinner and drinks its going to be the end. the end of an era. And although it will open itself up to new avenues of university, and living away from parents and new legal responsibilities im still going to miss it. They were some great times, really.

So, my darling D, happy birthday. So long and thanks for all the fish.

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think only this of me;

'perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.'

Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead revisited.

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if everybody knew about it, it wouldnt be a secret anymore, would it?

after the daunting (and slightly unfair) task of an exam on the first monday of holidays (and ancient history too, how dreadful), i arrived home to the joy of the midday movie. I'm not sure if every country has this, or if its something that only we australians can enjoy, but the midday movie is old (usually very bad/hilarious) movies shown at 12 noon every day. They are the saving grace of daytime television that remind you exactly why the TV is an excellent invention. Last thursday when i was sick (hence the exam in holidays) it was robin hood men in tights, and i savoured cary elwes pre-saw looks greedily.

Today is was one of the staples of my childhood and a movie i dont see hardly enough, but wish i did, the secret garden. I loved the book as a child, and it remains one of my favourites. My mum got me a lovely bound copy from the folio society for one of my birthdays, and its one of my most treasured possessions, well thumbed and very used. And this movie is a faithful, engaging, just truly lovely adaptation of it, and never fails to excite the imagination, even though i know exactly how its going to end.

The other reason i love it is that it remind me exactly why i am a kid at heart. All the thrill of finding the key to this garden, all the stubborn admittance that actually, gardening is kind of fun, all the fights with cousins and feeding lambs and all sorts of childish frivolity... The clothes. The cute little peter pan collared coats and sailor suit style jackets, the button up shirts and lace up boots with tights. I love the clothes in this movie so much, because they are the kind of cutesy outfits you can wear as an adult (teenager) and not look silly.

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Hope

I have always loved this poem by emily dickinson. She wrote the most incredible poetry, mostly because she could express so much in a few words, which took other poets of her time many hundreds of pages to eke out. She was gifted, certainly, and her poems are loved all over the world.

I have a few favourites of hers, like 'heart we will forget him, you and i tonight!' and also 'my mind is cleaved in two.' But i do love 'hope is the thing with feathers'. I do love the idea of hope having feathers that allow it to fly around, engaging and entering different people, charging them with their own winged hopes and dreams. i think thats lovely.

'Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.'

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lullaby

'Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.


Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.


Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.


Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find our mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.'

lullaby, w.h auden

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an artist has no home except in paris

one of my favourite things to do, because well, i'm cool like that, is to think abotu what eras of history i would like to live in. I always come back to the perennial favourites of mine, firstly in ancient egypt under Ptolemy I Soter or Ptolemy II in Alexandria. I think that would have been a culturally exciting place to live, especially in its heyday, with the pharos in the background and the museion filled with papyrus.

Secondly for me is in england under eleanor of aquitaine, just because i would like to meet her one day. Also the tudors (Though court would have been a dangerous place to be), versailles in the posse of marie antoinette, regency england with georgiana duchess of devonshire, byron and jane austen, possibly also (if that wasn't enough), italy or florence in the late 1800s, like lucy honeychurch in a room with a view.

But i would actually give my heart and soul to have lived in Paris in the 1930s. A hotbed of creativity, free thought, wild behaviour, crazed nights and civilised days... Mingling with F Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway and Gertrude Stein. With the jazz singers of the time, with the lovely lovely men, with the accordeon music, with cigarette holders and long gloves that go up to your elbows.

I wish. God, i wish with all my heart, fervently, completely that i could have experienced it. While i try not to care per se about what people say about me or think when they have a look at my ipod playlist and see that it is dominated by etta james, peggy lee and benny goodman, or when they look in my wardrobe and see all my attempts at recreating my favourite era, ... it is hard to ignore people sometimes though, and i wish that i wasn't considered odd because of what i love, but rather considered to be the norm.

i can dream though, and dream i do. dream a little dream of me.

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bewitched, bothered and bewildered am i

I take a lot of my fashion inspiration from eras gone by. I love thinking about what was worn by those in other times, and how i could incorporate such an outfit or piece into my own wardrobe. My clothes are very late 20s/30s look, complete with the longish high waisted skirts, tea dresses, perched hats, low heels, fur collared coats, cardigans, long socks, cloche hat, etc.

At the moment i am also loving the empire waisted dress of Regency period. I am hoping to make one myself, or get some help from my friend who is a fashion designer. I want a white one with a long satin ribbon to tie around the waist, or a deep red one. or both possibly =]

I would pair them with a leather jacket in order to try and rough it up a bit and not seem to dressed up. That or a boxy coat i bought in london when i was last there thats sort of pale purple. It adds an agreeable sense of the macabre to any delirium. That was johnny depp in POTC 3, which was a very confusing, long movie whose only real impart on me was the overwhelming shock that keith richards can still be alive today.

But back to the 30s, things were so much more fun then. The jazz beats, the cigarettes, the tea and champagne in the funny little marie antoinette saucers. The men in their suits and vests and little hats... sigh. those were the days. I love reading the biographies of the society girls of the 20s and 30s, like the mitford sisters, or a book i have called 'the rare and the beautiful.' about paris in the 1930s. Oh to have been there and experienced it all! I shall just have to content myself with dreams.

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the reason i love england

i know deep in my heart that i don't belong in sydney. the people are too loud, the weather too hot, the clothes too bright. Every year when i visit england i look out the window on the plane onto the rolling green hills and trees and i whisper to myself, 'i'm home.' I know that i will end up there, in london or Bath or cambridge, cold and wet, quite probably very broke, but insanely, totally, completely happy.

But there are other reasons too, i believe (superficially) that the boys are cuter, the accent more endearing, the culture more engaging. While there is a special place reserved in my heart for Paris where i had my first champagne and bought my first item of vintage clothing i feel that i would not fit into such a city. I love it, and it means the world to me, but the judgements and expectations would drive me crazy.

But england... i dont know, maybe it just seems a little more civilised to me. I know thats a dreadful generalisation that i cannot corroborate with any hard evidence. But the projected image is of tea and cakes and ices, of sprawling manor houses and horse riding. I dont know. I just think thats more me...

Anyway, something happened today when i was watching the Brit awards that made me realise the other reason i love england. They know how to take the piss out of themselves, and i admire them for that. At the awards ceremony (which is very serious, actually) THe arctic monkeys were up for a couple of awards and won best british band and best album.

When they were announced for best british band the camera cut to their table and they were quite clearly hammered drunk. They were dressed up in old school grandpa clothes and looked hilarious. When they finally tripped and stumbled their way to the stage this is what their acceptance speech was;

Alex; *speech slurred* We aree de arcick monnkeees. and we are fabulous.

*blows a bugle into the microphone continuously for 2 minutes flat*

*nick falls off the podium, matt crashes a beer bottle against the side of the lectern*.

i love the arctic monkeys, but what i love more is the fact that they can take the piss out of themselves, and liven up what was in all other respects a very boring awards ceremony. glorified inebriation... england really is god's country!

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beautiful, beautiful things.

despite my endless cynicism the world is filled with wondeful, marvellous, lovely, beautiful things. really breathtakingly beautiful. i need to post them, so that my eyes can have a little rest, and begin again tomorrow.

feast your eyes.











EDIT; blogger is not working exactly as i hoped, and i cant get more than these three up. hmmm. will try again later.

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epiphanies in paul and joe

i was wandering through the brightly lit avenues (which sort of defeats the purpose of the avenue, really) of the 'jungo', the yobbo name for bondi junction with my darling friend V today after the conclusion of my exam. it didn't go very well, and retail therapy (without actually buying anything, sans argent of course!) seemed to be the only cure for my awful feeling of failure. I try not to stray too much in the expensive side of BJ, as while it is not expensive by the standards of upper east side new yorkers, nor is it chic either, but it still intimidates me a little.

I prefer my clothes a little old, handmade, pre-loved and with a little history. But that's just me. We are talking about the girl who fell in love with Mr Darcy when she first read Pride and Prejudice. Will expand on that later.

Anyway. After wandering through Alannah Hill, where she finally seems to have realised that she (and her clientele) are too old for floral piled on more floral and has whole heartedly embraced the 1940s vibe, for which i salute her, and then over to Polo Ralph Lauren where i thought maybe if a men's blazer was on sale it would be... I'm sorry what? $900 DOLLARS ON SALE!

we left there quickly. A quick run round leona edminston, who i'm always glad to admit i have a soft spot for, considering that she designs not for size 0 but for the curvier. V pulled me into Paul and Joe, her favourite store. I have loved Paul and Joe for a very long time now, ever since i was about 13 and the Paul and Joe store at 5 ways near my house was closing down, and they reduced all stock to insanely small prices. I bought my first real dress for less than $200, and its a bargain that i will likely never repeat, or fit into again. Sadly i grew, but i still have the dress in my closet and i pull it out every now and then to feel the silk and sigh.

Anyway. I was enchanted by the beautiful clothes and the quality. The prices were, understandably, astronomical. Who can blame them, really? They have to make a profit somehow i suppose. And i got to thinking, wouldn't it be marvellous to have an endless credit card and the ability to purchase whatever ii wanted, whenever i wanted.

There is a cutout on my wall of balenciaga brooches a few season ago, they are little boys with swarovski crystals, and they wer eabout 200 euros. I thought to myself every night as i looked at them, they're not bad, i like them, i could afford them. 200 euros is not a lot of money, i could save up for that.

THen i suddenly listened to myself talking. I'm rationalising the purchase of one teensy tiny little brooche! Someone, somewhere (MK&A, peut-etre!) has the ability to buy 30 of those brooches and not have it mean anything to them.

That's the one thing i have over them, i suppose. I have an understanding of the money, the sweat and tears, the distress and work and saving up and the hours spent going into buying things. Like saving up for a paul and joe dress, like saving up for my first pair of louboutins, flats (I couldn't afford the heels) and the cheap, small things too, like the stacks of vogues in my room, or books, or liquid eyeliner.

I get it. V gets it. my friends get it. Money isn't everywhere, and it's not everlasting. Im happy that i don't have the ability to buy thousands miu miu skirts and christian lacroix couture, as much as i would have liked. Im happy that when i shop designer, i window shop, and i rarely leave with a shopping bag. Im happy that the happiness of fashion can be experienced by me with just the touch of one of Albert Elbaz' heavenly lanvin velvet dresses, or the soft leather in a 2.55 bag in Chanel.

I don't need to own it, not now, and not just because i can. If i ever get my own chanel bag it will be because i put money away every month from my pay cheques, sweated it out, ran to the store when i had enough money and then savour every judgemental glance of the salespersons and the quick once overs on my outfit. They make it all worthwhile.

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i have known them all already, known them all.

afternoon tea is my favourite meal of the day. I like it better than breakfast, much more than dinner, and certainly more than lunch. I'm not sure what it is about it, perhaps its the sophistication of the thing, the idea of sipping tea and sampling cakes and chatting about frivolous frippery and lengths of pink satin ribbons.

I dont actually eat it that much, which is probably the best way to have it. If you have a think too much i think you get accustomed to it, and then it no longer has the novelty, the wow factor, the intense wide eyed feeling i get when the lovely waiter in chic monochrome brings the basket to the table, or when my mother calls out from the kitchen that the water is boiling.

I run from my room gleefully, knowing that all manner of sugary goodness is waiting for me. I used to be the only one who liked this meal, and the only one who willingly handed over large amounts of money for it with friends. But now all those near and dear to me are having it for parties, for birthdays and for catching up. I remember the days when saying 'i'll meet you for high tea in the observatory' were seldom heard, now i can barely catch a breath (and a break, pastry in large amounts is NOT good for you).

Maybe its the civilised aspect of it, like thinking back to the days when afternoon tea symbolised wealth and status and power. Maybe its the (not so secret) anglophile in me yearning out for a steaming cup of russian caravan in the afternoon. Maybe its just my sweet tooth. Or a combination of all of the above. I just love it with all my heart.

If hell was having to eat cucumber sandwiches and macaroons all day, then i'd gladly enter the arms of satan.

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oh, it's lonely at the top.

there once was a girl who dreamed of something more. Something more than just endless notetaking and staring out the window in class. When her mind wanders in studies of religion, or french, or english extension it travels to world she never dreamed she could be a part of, where people swan around in a million layers of fine tulle like meringue, where the colours are muted by the feelings are bright. It's always a little chilly, the leaves always seem to be just about to fall.

Sometimes i sit at my desk and i wonder what exactly i'm doing. I go through each day of my existence and never really question it, i try and needle my mother into letting me stay out an extra hour, i blackmail my father into an extra pair of shoes. I close the doors to my teensy tiny little garotte room and let the magazine cutouts that cover the walls whisper to me tales of shoes that cost 10 000 pounds and a dress with diamond fasteners.

I'm a simple girl at heart though. I've always been happy with pink macaroons, with freshly brewed tea and newspapers and poppies and daisies. I never wanted (nor will i ever get) that million dollar apartment, the car that celebrities drive, the wardrobe the size of a house filled with couture and designer labels. I just want love, real love, real all consuming, breath slowing, drives you crazy love.

I'm coming off an awful sap, but it just hit me, sitting here at my desk, looking out my window onto the street. It's autumn, a little cold, and the leaves look like they're just about to fall. I want to call my darling friend lola up and share a glass of red wine with her, watching it all. But i can't, it's a school night.

I think the thing that makes me most happy in the world is that i can dream. I would be nothing if i didn't have my imagination.

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hell hath no fury...

i am well aware, sad as it is, that tomorrow i have an exam. a nice big exam, and i am not half as prepared as i should be. Having not picking up a book for it last week, proclaiming that english was far more important than religion i now find myself plagued with the possibility of actually, actually failing this exam. I'm not entirely sure what to do. I'm attempting to cram, but i cant find it in my to take in anything that i've been reading. i read it over and over again and it still means nothing to me.

I know i should have studied and done work, but i couldn't focus. It always happens like this, and i end up the night before the exam panicing about whether i know my jurisprudence from my juniper berries. And then i have French on friday, which is hardly going to be a walk in the park. hopefully i shall just dazzle them with my wits.

wish me luck, for never from this abyss has anyone returned alive.

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