Story for today: in my English tute with Andrew Lynch I made a vaguely bemused comment about the translation of Sir Launfal we were studying and hushed the class in horror - it was Andrew's translation and apparently he mentioned it in the lecture but I guess it must have been at the start of the lecture because I totally missed it. Talk about EMBARRASSING! I went red and hot and prickly. This is also not the first time I have ever made this kind of gaffe with Andrew, I did it in my first ever unit with him almost five years ago :(
Although Andrew is my favourite tutor ever because each tute he manages to make an observation about my manner of thinking that is entirely flattering. He is also convinced that I am a teacher! My tute presentation at the start of the semester prompted him to ask me if I had done teaching since he last saw me. And today when I admitted that I had been in London for two of the last three years, he again asked me if I had been teaching over there. Bless his cotton socks! :)
***
Today was also a good tute day: in the before-tute discussion I called a character a strumpet and the rest of the tute were so taken with the word that Andrew headed out to his dictionary to give us the origin of the word and the tute really bonded over the word. For the rest of the tute the presenter would deliberately use the word, the tute would start laughing and I would keep score as to how many times my word was used. Good times.
Thursday, September 26, 2019
Friday, September 20, 2019
20 September 2012
*I* don't understand the extent of what I am going through at the moment! I had some thoughts last night and today, all prompted by you being back, that were very constructive.
1. There has been no one here that can interact with my writing at the level of expertise, experience and personal knowledge as you. Joey, in theory, could, but she doesn't want to. Having you right here allows me to be calmer, because you have been doing a big writing project for longer than I have, and your project encompasses me as a character anyway, so our involvement with each other's writing is high level enough, and your experience is invaluable.
2. I have concentrated too much on the Diary Project - I thought, wrongly, that since I am doing a concerted 12-month effort with all that collation, that involving all that material in other writing such as plays etc was the logical way to use my immersion in the material. Thinking about how long you have been writing, I've realised that if I spread the Diary Project out over more years, and only do one layer at a time, I will not get so anxious about the whole thing.
3. I have also remembered that I have MANY other pieces of writing to work on, and having you back reminds me that I also have all my history essays to look at, to re-work my thesis and to go back to all my commentary and criticism. Let alone all the other creative things - the photos and the cooking etc. It is nice to be reminded that I have many strings to my creative bow and that if I stop trying to do everything at once, I will be able to get a lot more done.
So thank you for being back! :)
1. There has been no one here that can interact with my writing at the level of expertise, experience and personal knowledge as you. Joey, in theory, could, but she doesn't want to. Having you right here allows me to be calmer, because you have been doing a big writing project for longer than I have, and your project encompasses me as a character anyway, so our involvement with each other's writing is high level enough, and your experience is invaluable.
2. I have concentrated too much on the Diary Project - I thought, wrongly, that since I am doing a concerted 12-month effort with all that collation, that involving all that material in other writing such as plays etc was the logical way to use my immersion in the material. Thinking about how long you have been writing, I've realised that if I spread the Diary Project out over more years, and only do one layer at a time, I will not get so anxious about the whole thing.
3. I have also remembered that I have MANY other pieces of writing to work on, and having you back reminds me that I also have all my history essays to look at, to re-work my thesis and to go back to all my commentary and criticism. Let alone all the other creative things - the photos and the cooking etc. It is nice to be reminded that I have many strings to my creative bow and that if I stop trying to do everything at once, I will be able to get a lot more done.
So thank you for being back! :)
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
22 August 2012
Lucy Snowe: Narrator of the non-narratable
The second half of the first paragraph of Chapter Four of Villette is a clear statement for the designation of narratable and non-narratable in Lucy Snowe’s narrative. In permitting the reader to assume the beginning of a conventional female history, Lucy clearly conjures in the readers’ mind the conventions of feminine narrative, then, with her query ‘why not I with the rest?’ determines to illustrate what a woman in revolt can do. Lucy invokes the images of a woman’s life, married and single, as ‘slumbering’, ‘still’, ‘closed’, ‘buried’, ‘prayer’. Indeed, these images are the expected demeanour of the ideal Victorian lady, slumbering in the safety of her father’s or her husband’s house if not in prayer in the house of her heavenly father, to be still and passive in the world and allow herself to be looked upon, judged and then passed as a dependent from male to male, to be sexually closed to everyone except her husband, her ambitions and desires to be buried under the ambitions and desires of the males she is dependant upon.
Our heroine, Lucy Snowe, is on the margins of her society, she has not the luxury of a benevolent patriarch to be dependant upon, nor has she been judged conventionally desirable enough to be married off. Instead, Lucy, when awoken from her childhood stasis by Paulina Home, becomes an active watcher of the world and stages an outwardly passive but inwardly passionate rebellion against her nature and circumstances as prescribed by society. Lucy’s revolt against the realities she is born into as a woman are almost pornographically rendered in Villette through a filtering narrative that manages to discuss the areas of feminine experience deemed non-narratable by patriarchal society.
Lucy veils her pornographic narrative in the very essence of respectability, that of the stories of the many different, but socially acceptable stereotypes of women. Lucy, as the observer of life, therefore narrates the history of an ingénue, who marries well and is kept still and quiet; a spinster, living a solitary life after freezing her life; a coquette, who marries foolishly yet romantically; a lonely businesswoman, who can only spy on those she desires; two widows, one who lives wholly through her son and one who is supported by the goodwill of one she denied her granddaughter to; and a betrayed fiancé, fleeing to god and death rather than disgrace. These filters, by their very conformity to the expectations of society, illustrate Lucy’s lack of conformity and confirm that Lucy, with her passionate need to rebel, would be as miserable conforming as she is in the loneliness of not conforming. While the reader may find each of Lucy’s filters familiar and acceptable, Lucy has mixed reactions to the validity of the lives of her filters, for they frame her understanding and expression of the taboo experiences of feminine existence.
In the young Paulina, Lucy recognises the burial of the desires of the young girl to be replaced with the service rendered so blindly to the beloved Mr Home and adored Graham. Both girls, while in the Bretton household, are in love with Graham, and Paulina, having already lost her mother, is in need of comfort. Lucy, as a child who had been slumbering in childhood, is awakened by Paulina’s need and begins to watch her as she struggles to express her love for Graham. Lucy at this stage of her life will not admit to her desire for Graham and remains aloof from him.
As the grown Paulina and Lucy are thrown together with Graham again in Labassecour, Lucy, with her sharpened powers of observation, can see the growing adult love of Paulina for Graham and is conscious of the emotions Paulina will be going through, as she has experienced and buried them herself. Lucy neither openly shown her love for Graham nor suppressed her nature to gain his approval, so it is Paulina who is destined to marry Graham, so earning by her unselfish surrendering of herself both as a child and as an adult, the ultimate reward of an advantageous marriage to a man of status which in turn makes her almost invisible to society.
In the fact that Paulina has the social security of a marriage that merely asks in return a subservient self-distortion that renders her still and quiet in a life devoted to her husband, Paulina promises to turn into the image of her mother-in-law. Paulina’s ability to submit herself totally to the men in her life highlights Lucy’s strong independent streak, Paulina’s eligibility for marriage and high regard from society males as a result of her abasement to them proves Lucy’s ineligibility resulting from her independence and integrity. Paulina’s sub-plot identifies the essential fact that marriage, for women, was in direct opposition to their sense of self.
Ginevra Fanshawe is the coquette who, while never actually carving a place in Lucy’s heart, nevertheless becomes somewhat of a romantic heroine for the lonely, single woman resigned to a loveless existence. Ginevra uses the coy promises of her sexuality to encourage many men to pursue their suits while managing to preserve that reputation of sexual purity so important to finding her a future husband. In a world where the marriageable high-status men belonged to the young and beautiful girls with the right family connections, Ginevra quickly exposes Lucy as old, plain and a nobody, for if female power lay in the ability to attract the male gaze, then indeed Lucy was powerless by a combination of her physical attributes and her carefully cultivated shadowy existence.
Yet when Lucy begins associating with the Brettons and suddenly acquires connections and interacts socially, Ginevra, Lucy and society as a whole, are forced to re-evaluated Lucy as more than a nonentity, although Lucy’s own private views were that she was destined to surrender the self-sacrificing marital home for the self-serving classroom. Ginevra’s presence in Rue Fossette also contributes to the psychological torture of Lucy’s suppressed sexuality, for she often applied monikers of spinsterhood to Lucy, and it is Ginevra’s lover, disguised as the ghostly nun of the convent, who haunts Lucy with the spectre of eternal virginity.
Ginevra manages to live up to the stereotypical romantic ideas of love with her elopement on the night when Lucy finally has to accept that her last chance at happiness with M Paul has been dashed. Her accounts of her marriage to Lucy in her letters, however, show how the sexuality that she used to lure her suitors is shutdown completely in her marriage, a parallel with Lucy’s suppressed sexuality which would need to be unleashed to obtain a husband then fast leashed again. The fear of rampant female sexuality always surfaces when Lucy manifests her androgynous tendencies, of which her virtuoso performance with Ginevra in the fete was a most stunning moment.
Madame Beck is a lonely businesswoman engaged in enforcing the destructive modes of feminine conditioning by surveillance and is reduced to spying on the men she desires because she cannot hope to gain their regard. Lucy’s relationship with Madame Beck is based on the fact that she admires Madame’s methods while they will find nothing because Lucy not desirable and has nothing, but resents them when Lucy finally is allowed something of value and a feeling of desirability; the letters from Graham and the active regard of M Paul. Madame Beck desires both Graham and M Paul and while she cannot exert any power over Graham, M Paul, as her kinsman, can be actively thwarted in his desire for Lucy, on both selfish and religious grounds. Madame Beck is representative of the repression of a society that rules by surveillance and interference, actively repressing the ability for women to gain happiness and continuing the mores of feminine conduct, she is also a representative of the oppression of Catholic beliefs of the essential control of women’s sexuality and spiritual subordination.
Madame Walravens is similarly a representative of the myths that can constrain women when living and enshrine them along with patriarchal notions of femininity when they die. Madame Walravens lives by the earnings of the man who worships the thought of her granddaughter, who is buried a martyr for feminine stereotypes for she could neither defy her family nor betray her lover. Contrast this with the opinion that Lucy holds that she will die an old maid and it would be her fault entirely, for she will not compromise on her opinions of her self.
Lucy’s godmother, Louisa Bretton, is the perfect widowed mother. She lives through her son and accords him all the deference, service and prayers that were expected of her towards her husband. She marries her husband and is reliant on his support before his death and his foreplanning after his death, when catastrophe strikes the Bretton’s finances, Mrs Bretton will not and cannot support herself so Graham must take up a profession and prosper; prosper he does and Mrs Bretton has been saved the ignominy of gainful employment, for it is always preferable for women to be dependent than independent. Lucy is able to support herself her whole life, and even with M Paul’s generous donation of her first school, she is able, by her own hard work, improves on what she is given. Lucy, while having to accept charity from a woman who has not earned this money herself, manages to prove that independence, while hard, can be honourable.
Miss Marchmont, although a small part of the story, is a combination of all of Lucy’s filters. She was, like Paulina and Ginevra, eligible enough to be engaged to be married; but her fiancé died in an accident and she froze that moment in time and lived almost as in a slumber, closed herself off to all further thoughts towards marriage, as did Justine-Marie. If she had had a child to live and pray for as Mrs Bretton did, or a profession to enter to keep her occupied and contained as for Madame Beck, then perhaps she would have survived: she did not and she lived a life alike to being buried alive. It is Miss Marchmont that, on the eve of her death, finally spoke of the suffering of her life as a woman that moves Lucy to ponder the importance of finally speaking of one’s life. On her deathbed, Miss Marchmont embodies the best of the feminine nature, yet Lucy Snowe takes from that experience the need to narrate the taboo of the feminine nature through criticising the best of feminine nature.
Lucy Snowe is not an object to attract the male gaze nor is she a feminine robot to watch; instead, she gazes at the world, including the males in it, and observes the pain of the women conforming to the feminine mores. She is the ‘other’ that will not conform to the stereotypes of women required in her society. Yet Lucy is not punished by society nor fate for her subversive narrative of a life lived in revolt. Instead, she abases herself briefly to a man that has pursued her relentlessly and against the judgment of his peers, and is then, we presume, freed of his influence to continue her heretic ways.
Do Lucy Snowe’s systematic criticisms and rejection of the feminine mores mean she is a pretender to a masculine nature or renders her sexless? Should she be eligible, in the eyes of the society she has gone to great lengths not to conform to, to be promised marriage and given happiness, however limited? Is the ambiguous ending of the story the only one possible because a typical happy ending would not have been acceptable for the type of woman she was, yet is this ending too generous for a rebel at heart.
Villette is essentially the telling of the non-narratable, Lucy is the antithesis of acceptable womanhood observing the society that should be observing her, criticising that same and eventually moving towards an ending that is fulfilling instead of punishing her for her nonconformity. Lucy’s description of her unmentionable eight years irrevocably designates the conventional views of women as the non-narratable and the taboo as the substance of her heretic narrative. In this sense, Villette is almost pornographic in it’s addressing of the taboos of feminine awareness.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Feinburg, Monica L., “Homesick: the domestic interiors of Villette”, Novel, v26, Winter 1993, p170-91.
Fletcher, Luann McCracken, “ Manufactured marvels, heretic narratives, and the process of interpretation in Villette”, Studies in English Literature 1500-1900, v32, Autumn 1992, p723-46.
Freeman, Janet, “Looking on at life: objectivity and intimacy in Villette”, Philological Quarterly, v67, Fall 1988, p481-511.
Johnson, Patricia E., “ “This heretic narrative”: the strategy of the split narrative in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette”, Studies in English Literature 1500-1900, v30, Autumn 1990, p617-31.
Lawrence, Karen, “The cipher: disclosure and reticence in Villette”, Nineteenth-Century Literature, v42, March 1988, p467-89.
Lenta, Margaret, “The tone of protest: an interpretation of Charlotte Bronte’s Villette”, English Studies, v64, October 1983, p422-32.
Newsom, Robert, “Villette and Bleak House: authorizing women”, Nineteenth-Century Literature, v46, June 1991, p342-60.
Sandner, David, “The little puzzle: the two shipwrecks in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette”, English Language Notes, v36 no3, March 1999, p67-75.
Shaw, Margaret L., “Narrative surveillance and social control in Villette”, Studies in English Literature 1500-1900, v34, Autumn 1994, p813-33.
Warhol, Robyn R., “Double gender, double genre in Jane Eyre and Villette”, Studies in English Literature 1500-1900, v36, Autumn 1996, p857-75.
Wein, Toni, “Gothic desire in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette”, Studies in English Literature 1500-1900, v39 no4, Autumn 1999, p733-46.
18 September 2010
Hi Max,
Forgive me for the informal way of contacting you via facebook.
I'm Zach and was dating Celina the past few months before the accident. I'm not even sure if she mentioned me to you, but I assume she did. She mentioned you often and I even had some of your cookies I believe. She loved a reprieve from her peers at vet school and was very fond of you.
I'm sitting here in the US and haven't stopped thinking about her since I found out the news last Friday. I hoped so much to see her again. I don't know anybody who knew her except for my ex-flatmates in Perth and it really sucks. I miss everything about her.
How are you holding up?
Monday, September 16, 2019
16 September 2006
Max
Each Friday there is a speaker at the department giving a seminar. This week the girls were entertained by the title '... self-excited stick-slips ...' NORTY.
The guest speaker was really rather hot, and I was having a great time chatting and bantering with his two students (and because we were joking about age I knew they were younger than me) and when he left he came to me and pretended to flick a crumb off my shoulder and when I turned to look he chuckled my chin and his only words to me was 'a lovely 25'.
*goodness* it's been a long time since I was treated like that!
Today was intoxicating - I was in an almost maniacally happy mood due to the heat and the sun, too many of my favourite attractive men turning up to chat to me, it was good.
I stopped by your parents last night. I had wanted to catch Jack because yesterday morning as I was walking to the bus I saw a speckled rooster roaming Roy Street and I immediately thought of Jack. Jack was still at work but I chatted to your parents for ages.
Joey
Chin tickling is very sexy. Sometimes W tickles my ear or my cheek which I secretly love. Today I spoke to M, alone in his office and made a little slip - I teased him about how tidy his desktop was and he told me he was a very neat person. Yes, your room is very tidy, I said. And we both blushed and were quiet for a moment. Let me teach you a Jamaican word, and he said 'irie'. It's irie between us, he said, which means it's all ok.
Sometimes he is such a jerk, and then other times he does something so sweet or gentlemanly that I want to throw my arms around him. I will always wonder what would have happened between us if fate had not stepped in and broken her nose, creating a diversion for me to meet A, and I will be a little bit sad not to have M in my life even as a friend.
Did you know that I only have 7.5 working days left?
Max
It is very sexy, isn't it? I wonder if it is because touch these days is either non-existent or really full-on (think drunken snogs) and there is not much in between caressing.
People are amazing, aren't they. They can give you so much sometimes without giving you much at all. M sounds like a man who gives you a lot to think about, a lot to feel, simply by being imperfect in your eyes. He must have a strong character if you are simultaneously missing him and being frustrated by him.
I have to go to bed now, but you enjoy your last 7.5 days - the world awaits your actions in the next two months.
Each Friday there is a speaker at the department giving a seminar. This week the girls were entertained by the title '... self-excited stick-slips ...' NORTY.
The guest speaker was really rather hot, and I was having a great time chatting and bantering with his two students (and because we were joking about age I knew they were younger than me) and when he left he came to me and pretended to flick a crumb off my shoulder and when I turned to look he chuckled my chin and his only words to me was 'a lovely 25'.
*goodness* it's been a long time since I was treated like that!
Today was intoxicating - I was in an almost maniacally happy mood due to the heat and the sun, too many of my favourite attractive men turning up to chat to me, it was good.
I stopped by your parents last night. I had wanted to catch Jack because yesterday morning as I was walking to the bus I saw a speckled rooster roaming Roy Street and I immediately thought of Jack. Jack was still at work but I chatted to your parents for ages.
Joey
Chin tickling is very sexy. Sometimes W tickles my ear or my cheek which I secretly love. Today I spoke to M, alone in his office and made a little slip - I teased him about how tidy his desktop was and he told me he was a very neat person. Yes, your room is very tidy, I said. And we both blushed and were quiet for a moment. Let me teach you a Jamaican word, and he said 'irie'. It's irie between us, he said, which means it's all ok.
Sometimes he is such a jerk, and then other times he does something so sweet or gentlemanly that I want to throw my arms around him. I will always wonder what would have happened between us if fate had not stepped in and broken her nose, creating a diversion for me to meet A, and I will be a little bit sad not to have M in my life even as a friend.
Did you know that I only have 7.5 working days left?
Max
It is very sexy, isn't it? I wonder if it is because touch these days is either non-existent or really full-on (think drunken snogs) and there is not much in between caressing.
People are amazing, aren't they. They can give you so much sometimes without giving you much at all. M sounds like a man who gives you a lot to think about, a lot to feel, simply by being imperfect in your eyes. He must have a strong character if you are simultaneously missing him and being frustrated by him.
I have to go to bed now, but you enjoy your last 7.5 days - the world awaits your actions in the next two months.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
12 September 2006
Robbie (outlining Max’s favourites, with notes from Max)
Movie: Something with charming Nazi war criminals … and abled bodied Jews
(check)
TV show: Buffy the "are we really supposed to believe she can actually kick arse" Vampire Slayer
(Firefly, same man at the helm, brunettes are better)
Fictional character: hetero Xena … slutty Robbie … or 'no movies' Ash
(BRILLIANT, yes!)
'Ship: oh - she knows this one - that crazy american man blowtorching pretty young japanese girl
(you are a cruel woman, the real favourite 'ship is the one we do not mention lest Max never be allowed near adolescent boys again)
Band: something by some crazy DJ no-one listens to, that only plays at 3am at Bar Open, or at the Hyde Park Hotel
(checkish, David Holmes, who is a DJ)
Song: I'm a little teapot
(oh, that has SO many different ways I could make that good and bad)
Book: English for Dummies
(heeeee, actually The Age of Innocence)
Author: anyone who writes about vampires ...
(I have a funny story about that one, Charlotte Bronte)
Colour: Navy Blue
('orrible creature you are, black)
Animal: woodpecker - as Max likes both components of the word …
(check, laughed until I cried, in a pinch a penguin, albatross or pelican)
Food: herself - being food for a vampire
(yes! *swoon*)
Snack: Domino's meatball pizza with 3 cheese stuffed crust
(see Vampire)
Beverage: iced tea … with a shot of bourbon
(and grumpy hungover Max in the morning, Fanta)
Store: crap if I know - something with bits of fluff in it.
(not sure the Victoria & Albert Museum Shop would APPRECIATE the description, but they do have fluffy stuff in there somewhere)
Vacation spot: Any place with tall, buff, black men … short Hispanic/Mexican men … or … men ...
(so, so, so, SO true I couldn't get any sound out when I laughed)
Robbie, a masterful combination of truth and fiction!
Xena
robbie i laughed so hard i wet my pants.
there is so much truth in that little profile though :P
fave vacation spot … i would of thought Max would rather enjoy the literary wealth on the isle of lesbos *wink*
Ash
That was brilliant … and do you need a luggage carrier when you go to your vacation spot … I promise I won’t make a sound … *does best impression of Max’s bambi eyes*
What am I thinking … Max wouldn’t bring any luggage to a vacation spot like that … sorry momentary lapse in concentration Xena’s little fictional tale still playing havoc with my mind ...
Max
So, not dividing the banter from the truth, I am a raging bisexual international predator with a penchant for meat in ALL forms, obscure bands, violent sexual practices and alcohol.
8-\
Woah, and on Sunday I was reading my diary from Year 12 in which two pages were devoted to my personal reflections on the speeches for Head Girl ...
FOR WHICH I WAS A NOMINEE I REMIND YOU ALL, AND WAS SUBSEQUENTLY LITURGY PREFECT, SO HOW DID I GET TO THE SENTENCE ABOVE IN ONLY SEVEN YEARS?
*catholic schoolgirls ARE a lot more fun out of the convent aren't they?*
/-)
oi, Xena, stop winking at me when you are publishing such plot-what-plot smut for our reading pleasure. Me visiting the Greek Islands next year to see my 'wifey' get married is far more conventional than it sounds!
Ash, stop leaking my seduction tips to all and sundry or I will be making you bowl every day so you have to go to your CHIRO forever to suffer erotic purgatory! ah-HA.
Robbie, that list is yours to keep VERY silent and secret now y'hear ...
luv youse all, who else would I admit my penchant for the 'Dummies' series to I ask?
[during this exchange of emails, another email was sent to all by Xena - an amusing soft porn story about catching up with a much loved and queer mutual friend from high school]
Robbie
oh, sweet JEBUS! I almost believed u!!!! Gave me a slightly more than mild coronary- I think stuff idol - your true talent lies in writing soft porn ...
May i just say that i shall never be able to look 'dear sweet xena' in the face again ... or anywhere else for that matter.
Max
While certainly uncomfortable to read if it had been true, it is still an amusing thing to read as a window into the romantic corners of Xena's mind. Cartons of VB? Really? Xena!
/-)
Ash
Oh dear lord....!!!
I feel the need to wash my imagination out with industrial strength cleaning products ...
I feel I need a shower to cleanse myself of the horror … Ash walks off shuddering & feeling slightly dirty...
Xena
first and foremost … i would like to apologise.
a) for staining ash’s mind forever.
b) for possibly giving robbie a little too much excitement for her little heart.
c) for the cartons of VB.
admittedly i did have a fun writing that though ... *sigh* i've read WAY too much Alt FanFic about vamp willow and tara.
Movie: Something with charming Nazi war criminals … and abled bodied Jews
(check)
TV show: Buffy the "are we really supposed to believe she can actually kick arse" Vampire Slayer
(Firefly, same man at the helm, brunettes are better)
Fictional character: hetero Xena … slutty Robbie … or 'no movies' Ash
(BRILLIANT, yes!)
'Ship: oh - she knows this one - that crazy american man blowtorching pretty young japanese girl
(you are a cruel woman, the real favourite 'ship is the one we do not mention lest Max never be allowed near adolescent boys again)
Band: something by some crazy DJ no-one listens to, that only plays at 3am at Bar Open, or at the Hyde Park Hotel
(checkish, David Holmes, who is a DJ)
Song: I'm a little teapot
(oh, that has SO many different ways I could make that good and bad)
Book: English for Dummies
(heeeee, actually The Age of Innocence)
Author: anyone who writes about vampires ...
(I have a funny story about that one, Charlotte Bronte)
Colour: Navy Blue
('orrible creature you are, black)
Animal: woodpecker - as Max likes both components of the word …
(check, laughed until I cried, in a pinch a penguin, albatross or pelican)
Food: herself - being food for a vampire
(yes! *swoon*)
Snack: Domino's meatball pizza with 3 cheese stuffed crust
(see Vampire)
Beverage: iced tea … with a shot of bourbon
(and grumpy hungover Max in the morning, Fanta)
Store: crap if I know - something with bits of fluff in it.
(not sure the Victoria & Albert Museum Shop would APPRECIATE the description, but they do have fluffy stuff in there somewhere)
Vacation spot: Any place with tall, buff, black men … short Hispanic/Mexican men … or … men ...
(so, so, so, SO true I couldn't get any sound out when I laughed)
Robbie, a masterful combination of truth and fiction!
Xena
robbie i laughed so hard i wet my pants.
there is so much truth in that little profile though :P
fave vacation spot … i would of thought Max would rather enjoy the literary wealth on the isle of lesbos *wink*
Ash
That was brilliant … and do you need a luggage carrier when you go to your vacation spot … I promise I won’t make a sound … *does best impression of Max’s bambi eyes*
What am I thinking … Max wouldn’t bring any luggage to a vacation spot like that … sorry momentary lapse in concentration Xena’s little fictional tale still playing havoc with my mind ...
Max
So, not dividing the banter from the truth, I am a raging bisexual international predator with a penchant for meat in ALL forms, obscure bands, violent sexual practices and alcohol.
8-\
Woah, and on Sunday I was reading my diary from Year 12 in which two pages were devoted to my personal reflections on the speeches for Head Girl ...
FOR WHICH I WAS A NOMINEE I REMIND YOU ALL, AND WAS SUBSEQUENTLY LITURGY PREFECT, SO HOW DID I GET TO THE SENTENCE ABOVE IN ONLY SEVEN YEARS?
*catholic schoolgirls ARE a lot more fun out of the convent aren't they?*
/-)
oi, Xena, stop winking at me when you are publishing such plot-what-plot smut for our reading pleasure. Me visiting the Greek Islands next year to see my 'wifey' get married is far more conventional than it sounds!
Ash, stop leaking my seduction tips to all and sundry or I will be making you bowl every day so you have to go to your CHIRO forever to suffer erotic purgatory! ah-HA.
Robbie, that list is yours to keep VERY silent and secret now y'hear ...
luv youse all, who else would I admit my penchant for the 'Dummies' series to I ask?
[during this exchange of emails, another email was sent to all by Xena - an amusing soft porn story about catching up with a much loved and queer mutual friend from high school]
Robbie
oh, sweet JEBUS! I almost believed u!!!! Gave me a slightly more than mild coronary- I think stuff idol - your true talent lies in writing soft porn ...
May i just say that i shall never be able to look 'dear sweet xena' in the face again ... or anywhere else for that matter.
Max
While certainly uncomfortable to read if it had been true, it is still an amusing thing to read as a window into the romantic corners of Xena's mind. Cartons of VB? Really? Xena!
/-)
Ash
Oh dear lord....!!!
I feel the need to wash my imagination out with industrial strength cleaning products ...
I feel I need a shower to cleanse myself of the horror … Ash walks off shuddering & feeling slightly dirty...
Xena
first and foremost … i would like to apologise.
a) for staining ash’s mind forever.
b) for possibly giving robbie a little too much excitement for her little heart.
c) for the cartons of VB.
admittedly i did have a fun writing that though ... *sigh* i've read WAY too much Alt FanFic about vamp willow and tara.
12 September 2012 (coda)
Max is an awesome cousin: she arrives with sparkles and allows kids to eat three squares of chocolate, two Kingstons and about a million walnuts before bed
Audes: ahhh, just leave the parents to deal with that midnight tummy ache eh?
Max: It was a miracle she went to bed after being allowed to stay up with me and eat that much. But that’s me I guess, boring small children to sleep, despite the sugar rush. I hope there is no midnight tummy ache!
A: Hahaha, boring them to sleep. Never!
M: Actually, I am more of a threat - go to bed or Max will try and argue that your Barbies need to Unite against the Patriarchy that refused to manufacture them so they fit into a standard Tonka Truck Cab …
A: They do have ridiculously long legs … Oli has a baby doll and I don’t like it (not BabyDoll who I made a dress for, she’s okay, another baby doll that is freaky because it is REAL looking and when I catch sight of its creepy arms and legs in her toy drawer I get a fright), so I can’t imagine I’m going to buy her Barbie
M: hahahaha, creepy, CREEPY life-like dolls … worse than creepy, CREEPY not life-like dolls! But then, I don’t really like dolls at all. I was brought a Barbie, which was EXPENSIVE back then. She had a Princess dress and everything. I kept her naked under the cupboard and chewed her feet off until I got to the wire that makes those stupid legs bend. B’ah, dolls …
A: THAT is freaky! You CHEWED HER FEET OFF?????
M: Yeah. But she fit into the Cab of the Tonka Truck with that small modification … she loves driving trucks Audes, LOVES IT! :)
A: Pffft. How the hell did she reach the pedals?
M: I spot welded the leg wire to the pedals. She LOVES driving trucks …
A: Poor Barbie. You really weren’t lying that you don’t like dolls.
M: I was hell to entertain until I could read … then everything was FINE! I stopped torturing small and unrealistic representations of women and began to do real things, like read Fantasy and make stories up! :)
A: Phew! I had this idea that you were chewing up Barbie at age 9 …
M: hehehe, n’ah, maybe 4 or 5? Well, that is what I think. Mum may have to be consulted. Maybe it WAS when I was 9, and I am just suppressing my psychopathic tendencies …
A: I hope not. I’m going to watch my feet around you from now on.
Audes: ahhh, just leave the parents to deal with that midnight tummy ache eh?
Max: It was a miracle she went to bed after being allowed to stay up with me and eat that much. But that’s me I guess, boring small children to sleep, despite the sugar rush. I hope there is no midnight tummy ache!
A: Hahaha, boring them to sleep. Never!
M: Actually, I am more of a threat - go to bed or Max will try and argue that your Barbies need to Unite against the Patriarchy that refused to manufacture them so they fit into a standard Tonka Truck Cab …
A: They do have ridiculously long legs … Oli has a baby doll and I don’t like it (not BabyDoll who I made a dress for, she’s okay, another baby doll that is freaky because it is REAL looking and when I catch sight of its creepy arms and legs in her toy drawer I get a fright), so I can’t imagine I’m going to buy her Barbie
M: hahahaha, creepy, CREEPY life-like dolls … worse than creepy, CREEPY not life-like dolls! But then, I don’t really like dolls at all. I was brought a Barbie, which was EXPENSIVE back then. She had a Princess dress and everything. I kept her naked under the cupboard and chewed her feet off until I got to the wire that makes those stupid legs bend. B’ah, dolls …
A: THAT is freaky! You CHEWED HER FEET OFF?????
M: Yeah. But she fit into the Cab of the Tonka Truck with that small modification … she loves driving trucks Audes, LOVES IT! :)
A: Pffft. How the hell did she reach the pedals?
M: I spot welded the leg wire to the pedals. She LOVES driving trucks …
A: Poor Barbie. You really weren’t lying that you don’t like dolls.
M: I was hell to entertain until I could read … then everything was FINE! I stopped torturing small and unrealistic representations of women and began to do real things, like read Fantasy and make stories up! :)
A: Phew! I had this idea that you were chewing up Barbie at age 9 …
M: hehehe, n’ah, maybe 4 or 5? Well, that is what I think. Mum may have to be consulted. Maybe it WAS when I was 9, and I am just suppressing my psychopathic tendencies …
A: I hope not. I’m going to watch my feet around you from now on.
12 September 2012
Max is wearing shoes she bought in the Nineties; they are singing 'Waterfalls' for her at the moment
Ben: Not Pony
Cam: TLC?
Max: Now it’s ‘Whatta Man’, Salt-n-Pepa Power!
Jay: Sketchers
Max: I WISH I STILL HAD MY SPICE GIRL PLATFORM SKETCHERS! Robbie still has hers I reckon … Mine were so much better than these! Oh man, what shoes ...
Max would like to issue a warning to Ben: Don't Corrupt my Innocent Nineties Shoes! They were singing TLC and Salt-N-Pepa in the morning, then you mentioned a certain favourite tune and now they have started on Coolio ... Ooh La La ...
Ben: suuuuuuure they are innocent … I don’t corrupt the incorruptible you know!
Cam: next it’ll be peter andre mysterious girl!
Max: Stop slandering my Nineties Shoes Ben, steady on girl! That news about Ryan has discombobulated you. Cam! Uncalled For Musical Mention, you should be ashamed ...
Max will never know how Mysterious Girl goes, because she has never heard it, and intends for that to remain her state until her death
Cam: its not really anything about the song, its the video clip. Andre in thigh-deep water (tropical paradise), giving come hither … And those ABS!
Max: NO. Nothing about that sounds awesome. I am glad of my Mysterious Girl Virginity. I am going back to Coolio and Snoop …
Digby: Are you for real? Deep down everyone loves that song. You love it too, you don’t know it yet :)
FFS: it’s that one Peter Andre song that everyone knows, and still gets played in the clubs!
Max: Right! I respect all you girls and your love of the Nineties and Music in general. I just don’t know, do I want to preserve my innocence. What Would Cher Do?
FFS: She’d Believe, and Turn Back Time … Are You Strong Enough?
Max: *lol* I am inspired. But I was thinking of Cher from Clueless. What Would SHE Do? Would she watch the Mysterious Girl Videoclip?
FFS: ahhhhh hahahaha She’d listen to it with the homies :)
Cam: She prob be in the clip …
Max: Okay, one day, when I am Rollin’ with the Homies, I will watch Mysterious Girl
Max now has this Peter-Andre's-Abs thing to look forward to …
oh.
no.
oh no.
oooooooooooh noooooooooooo that was not good.
I had to stop watching
Max didn't go all the way. With Peter Andre. Okay?
Moses: Did your shoes not like him?
Max: The Nineties Shoes were NOT feeling Peter. Not in the slightest. There were no Rhonda and Ketut feelings between my Nineties Shoes and Young Mr Andre
Ben: Not Pony
Cam: TLC?
Max: Now it’s ‘Whatta Man’, Salt-n-Pepa Power!
Jay: Sketchers
Max: I WISH I STILL HAD MY SPICE GIRL PLATFORM SKETCHERS! Robbie still has hers I reckon … Mine were so much better than these! Oh man, what shoes ...
Max would like to issue a warning to Ben: Don't Corrupt my Innocent Nineties Shoes! They were singing TLC and Salt-N-Pepa in the morning, then you mentioned a certain favourite tune and now they have started on Coolio ... Ooh La La ...
Ben: suuuuuuure they are innocent … I don’t corrupt the incorruptible you know!
Cam: next it’ll be peter andre mysterious girl!
Max: Stop slandering my Nineties Shoes Ben, steady on girl! That news about Ryan has discombobulated you. Cam! Uncalled For Musical Mention, you should be ashamed ...
Max will never know how Mysterious Girl goes, because she has never heard it, and intends for that to remain her state until her death
Cam: its not really anything about the song, its the video clip. Andre in thigh-deep water (tropical paradise), giving come hither … And those ABS!
Max: NO. Nothing about that sounds awesome. I am glad of my Mysterious Girl Virginity. I am going back to Coolio and Snoop …
Digby: Are you for real? Deep down everyone loves that song. You love it too, you don’t know it yet :)
FFS: it’s that one Peter Andre song that everyone knows, and still gets played in the clubs!
Max: Right! I respect all you girls and your love of the Nineties and Music in general. I just don’t know, do I want to preserve my innocence. What Would Cher Do?
FFS: She’d Believe, and Turn Back Time … Are You Strong Enough?
Max: *lol* I am inspired. But I was thinking of Cher from Clueless. What Would SHE Do? Would she watch the Mysterious Girl Videoclip?
FFS: ahhhhh hahahaha She’d listen to it with the homies :)
Cam: She prob be in the clip …
Max: Okay, one day, when I am Rollin’ with the Homies, I will watch Mysterious Girl
Max now has this Peter-Andre's-Abs thing to look forward to …
oh.
no.
oh no.
oooooooooooh noooooooooooo that was not good.
I had to stop watching
Max didn't go all the way. With Peter Andre. Okay?
Moses: Did your shoes not like him?
Max: The Nineties Shoes were NOT feeling Peter. Not in the slightest. There were no Rhonda and Ketut feelings between my Nineties Shoes and Young Mr Andre
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
11 September 2012
Max
I handed in my final script last night for my course. it nearly killed me.
I wrote all weekend until 9pm Sunday. then hated it.
so I started another piece, and didn't have the ending by the time I went to sleep.
dreamt all night of lines and ideas.
woke up, still with no ending.
had real work to do all day, no writing.
drove a workmate home to Perth, chatted all the way about the piece, found the ending.
handed it in. re-read it at home, I still like the piece. four typos.
like you, I was on the beach on Saturday around noon, trying to write. trying. failing.
Joey
Of course, writing at the beach didn’t work ... sand gets into the typewriter keys and messes up the ink ribbon. All the effort of lugging your Underwood through the sand dunes for not much reward ...
Max
ahahahaha, I would like to point out that that delightful reply would only work if I had said I was typing on the beach.
as it was, there was enough sand to blot my parchment, more than enough, it's just that I never really put quill to parchment because I was not inspired. also, the parchment kept rolling up when it wasn't flapping, the quill seemed to want to fly out of my hands and soar with the seagulls and the ink yearned to sink into the sand and run to the sea, to paint the waves with my words.
so I realised that the seasons only really describe the big changes in our lives, and the waves illustrate more closely the daily heartbeat of our lives, so I went and stood in the wash to absorb some heartbeats to put into my writing. then I went home and typed ... :)
the coda to the thought about the waves is that we are also never really at the tip of the wave, nor on the break nor at the base - we are always tumbling along in the middle. Nothing is ever smooth. But there is a beat. And that is what makes us feel at home even in the tumble of the daily waves.
I handed in my final script last night for my course. it nearly killed me.
I wrote all weekend until 9pm Sunday. then hated it.
so I started another piece, and didn't have the ending by the time I went to sleep.
dreamt all night of lines and ideas.
woke up, still with no ending.
had real work to do all day, no writing.
drove a workmate home to Perth, chatted all the way about the piece, found the ending.
handed it in. re-read it at home, I still like the piece. four typos.
like you, I was on the beach on Saturday around noon, trying to write. trying. failing.
Joey
Of course, writing at the beach didn’t work ... sand gets into the typewriter keys and messes up the ink ribbon. All the effort of lugging your Underwood through the sand dunes for not much reward ...
Max
ahahahaha, I would like to point out that that delightful reply would only work if I had said I was typing on the beach.
as it was, there was enough sand to blot my parchment, more than enough, it's just that I never really put quill to parchment because I was not inspired. also, the parchment kept rolling up when it wasn't flapping, the quill seemed to want to fly out of my hands and soar with the seagulls and the ink yearned to sink into the sand and run to the sea, to paint the waves with my words.
so I realised that the seasons only really describe the big changes in our lives, and the waves illustrate more closely the daily heartbeat of our lives, so I went and stood in the wash to absorb some heartbeats to put into my writing. then I went home and typed ... :)
the coda to the thought about the waves is that we are also never really at the tip of the wave, nor on the break nor at the base - we are always tumbling along in the middle. Nothing is ever smooth. But there is a beat. And that is what makes us feel at home even in the tumble of the daily waves.
21 August 2013
Real World Commandments
Thou shalt not worry about previous partners, current crushes or possible future complications. Thou shalt accept that adults are the guardians of their own morals.
Thou shalt not worry about previous, current or future orientation. Thou shalt accept all advances from any and all gender identities.
Thou shalt not worry about previous, current or future 'physical types' - yours or others. Thou shalt acknowledge that attractiveness and proficiency is not and has never been reliant on looks.
Thou shalt not talk to excess. Thou shalt flirt and snog and allow all further liberties taken to come to their natural conclusion.
Thou shalt not expect anything other than respect and discretion in the interaction. Thou shalt accept that you are starting your human interactions again with no expectations.
Thou shalt engage in what humans do best every calendar week, running from Thursday to Thursday. Thou shalt not fudge the averages or totals.
Thou shalt relax during the real world sourcing of the human involved. Thou shalt ask for what you want, and allow others to do the same.
Thou shalt be safe during the virtual world sourcing of the human involvement. Thou shalt not neglect your health.
Thou shalt be kind and respectful of the health and reputation of the human involved, and ask the same of them. Thou shalt not neglect your wellbeing.
Thou shalt drink until you make bad decisions every calendar week, wherever is safest and most comfortable. Thou shalt not attend an occasion that involves drinking without having one drink.
Thou shalt enjoy the journey. Thou shalt not retreat from your fears.
Thou shalt not worry about previous partners, current crushes or possible future complications. Thou shalt accept that adults are the guardians of their own morals.
Thou shalt not worry about previous, current or future orientation. Thou shalt accept all advances from any and all gender identities.
Thou shalt not worry about previous, current or future 'physical types' - yours or others. Thou shalt acknowledge that attractiveness and proficiency is not and has never been reliant on looks.
Thou shalt not talk to excess. Thou shalt flirt and snog and allow all further liberties taken to come to their natural conclusion.
Thou shalt not expect anything other than respect and discretion in the interaction. Thou shalt accept that you are starting your human interactions again with no expectations.
Thou shalt engage in what humans do best every calendar week, running from Thursday to Thursday. Thou shalt not fudge the averages or totals.
Thou shalt relax during the real world sourcing of the human involved. Thou shalt ask for what you want, and allow others to do the same.
Thou shalt be safe during the virtual world sourcing of the human involvement. Thou shalt not neglect your health.
Thou shalt be kind and respectful of the health and reputation of the human involved, and ask the same of them. Thou shalt not neglect your wellbeing.
Thou shalt drink until you make bad decisions every calendar week, wherever is safest and most comfortable. Thou shalt not attend an occasion that involves drinking without having one drink.
Thou shalt enjoy the journey. Thou shalt not retreat from your fears.
Saturday, September 07, 2019
7 September 2005
The suspicion that the parents would want to marry me off as soon as I got home and landed a real career was my biggest nightmare. I thought I was safe until the parents started a rather subtle campaign; Mum taking me shopping for flirty, girlie clothes while holding forth on the advantages of arranged marriages and being a wife that supports a husband in his job; my dad, once so proud of my studies and my travel, questioning me closely as to how I was going to support myself until my marriage, steadily ignoring my flippant remarks about not getting married. It seems that my time to myself is finished, that my time to pay my parents back for my creation and upbringing is at hand.
It was this hammering in of their expectations that came to mind as, primped and curled, I stood outside the church as Romeo's best friend got married, as the beaming bride and groom greeted their guests and watched Mum and Dad cooing at one of my brother's classmates.
The Charming Italian is everything my parents adore; worldly, brilliant, charming, well connected and soon to finish medicine. I only ever attended my school Formals and Balls with boys like the Charming Italian because they were the boys sanctioned by my parents while they still had a say. Men like The Charming Italian command my respect and my admiration, but I have no inclination to play house with someone who will keep me in Perth.
I muttered out of the corner of my mouth to my brothers that the parents would LOVE the Charming Italian for a son-in-law and Elbow was nowhere near clever enough for him, so I guessed I was the lucky girl. Then, with true Hollywood timing, his mother caught my eye and summoned me. The dance began, his mother complimented and admired, I was coy and bashful. She asked me how the last two years had been; I said all the right things about finding myself and achieving goals. I admired her strapping son's sartorial elegance and she minutely detailed his impressive record since I last saw him - overseas scholarships, a year living in Rome and Sweden, travelling with his parents and beloved sister around the world.
I was steered across to meet this paragon of a man himself as he talked to my brother and the Charming Italian leant down to flash long-lashed dark eyes at me while I peeped out from under my mascara and tried not to make faces at Romeo. He accused Mrs B of matchmaking as she hustled him off so the Charming Italian and I were left to swap travel stories and try and make the best of an unusual situation. Though, him being a good Italian son, I guess it was only me that was truly in an unusual situation!
As the Charming Italian charmed me into a simpering heap I remembered other boys. S catching the eye of Sarah Harvey at the Formal, and although she barely acknowledged my existence, she crossed the hall to flirt with him in front of me. His cool reception of her endears him to me to this day. And of course, P at the Ball, a better partner could not have been found for me!
Admired, clever, happy and confident, these boys are the ones who will be running Perth in 30 years, their elegant and beautiful girlfriends becoming trim wives presiding over big houses and a select brood of uniformed children. Their fathers are lawyers and doctors, own the family business and expect great things of them. They have years to prove their worth and live up to their promise, while their future wives have a bare few years to catch them.
I think I have just realised that my parents had brought up their daughters to catch one of these men, and since my sister had abdicated her right to a city boy by aiming for farming, I was the daughter that had to bring in a good husband. They had moved to the right suburb to live and had sent us to the right schools and university so our classmates were respectable. They had let me wander off to be 'finished' overseas and had cultivated the right parents in my absence. Now that I was home to stay it was time for me to get myself into gear and ensnare one of the good boys so I could be propelled to the heady heights of a BMW, a 4WD and a house in Peppermint Grove.
The Charming Italian and I greeted the bride and groom as a couple, the four of us chatting away, the parents watching with calculating eyes. The next day at the reception we danced around each other through the crowd under parental eyes again. When the Charming Italian and his mother had gone all his classmates teased me, reminding me of my remarks many years ago that the Charming Italian was the best of their year. I await the next move with anticipation. The Charming Italian mentioned we had to continue our conversation about travel; I said he knew where to find me, my brother grinned and his friends smirked.
I was actually lucky enough to see almost every young man I grew up within two days – I got to see all my brothers' friends at both the wedding and the reception the next day. These boys have always been high achievers, gregarious, fascinating and charming. They were still growing up though when I left, and I come back to find them men. We were at the first wedding from their group and at such an adult occasion I was able to talk to them on a new and mature level, as an old friend just home from travelling, not just Romeo's older sister.
From a group of young university students had emerged gruff mining engineers, successful entrepreneurs, heedless playboys, spotlight-stealing comedians and tortured artists. I swapped bawdy stories with the playboys, I discussed politics with the engineer and his glamorous and lovely girlfriend, the artist and I retreated to a corner to discuss working within the confines of the expectations of those around us and I had a joke off with the comedian.
Driving home Romeo told me that each one had complimented me to him during the course of the two days, and he glanced at me with pride. The four of us are so close-knit that we have always expected to get along with each other's friends, and it was clear to him that I have still had it. And it was clear to me that the next year and a bit was going to be a great adventure as I started meeting the same people in a new mindset.
On Saturday night I saw my FSO and all his friends as well as a startling array of men from the past. At one stage on Saturday night I was standing with Nik in The Queens fearing to move because in each corner of the pub were groups of men gossiping with each other about my return and they were not making me feel comfortable!
I've said it once and I will say it again – Perth is too small to breathe in sometimes. The party I was at The Queens for held some guests that made me squirm with discomfort as each face brought years of intertwined love affairs and feuds wriggling back into my consciousness. There was:
#1 FSO who was spectacularly late. I had to leave the party frequently to talk to others in the pub as his friends were watching me speculatively and hinting that I was waiting around just for him. When he finally did arrive, the shock of seeing him had me almost tongue-tired – I went out with him?
#3 Three of his friends are friends of mine in their own right, long before I met FSO. They were reassuringly welcoming and constant and I was there to wish my favourite the best of luck for his move to London.
#4 The other three ranged from one who despised me from the first day I started going out with FSO one of the two who had tried to go out with me after FSO and I broke up and were swiftly discouraged by the rest of the group, and one that went out with my best friend and was her partner at my 21st. Needless to say these three looked straight through me that night.
#5 A friend from first-year uni with an ego directly proportional to his attractiveness who is constantly hinting that Che and I are gagging to go out with his smelly, fat little self. G'ah!
Thankfully Nik and I were spared having to be too polite to rude boys by the plethora of other familiar faces we were able to distract ourselves with. Generally, it was posing, eyeballing the talent and being impressed. And a few of the men on this top-shelf talent were a blast from our past.
Six years ago, in first-year university, Nik and I were the back row bandits in Politics 101, spending our halcyon first semester ignoring the lecturer and gazing, entranced, at two tall gorgeous boys in the next row. One was Peter, the blue-eyed white-blond son of the Headmaster of Wesley, and the other his equally gorgeous brunet mate. Nik went on to have a crush of many years on Peter as he went over to Law when she did and was in many of her classes and he became her perfect man.
Two years out of University had moved Peter out of her everyday life, and she does not frequent the places his crowd of rich kids play, so seeing him on our turf was a bit of a shock. What was even more of a shock was that even after six years we were remembered. As we became aware of them and Nik walked away to the bar, they saw me and nudged each other. I was mortified, suddenly realising that since I had NEVER talked to them and had only seen them in class six years ago, the fact that they knew my face did not mean good things. We made like a tree and left, but not before Nik realised Peter was no longer the only man worth mooning over.
Walking home after a night of negotiating the social shoals, Nik and I were glad of one thing – each of us had finally realised that it wasn't all about the boy anymore. Nik was over her epic crush, and I no longer cared if Matt still loved me or not, nor what his friends thought of me. We had grown up.
I love Perth, I love my family, I love my friends. But there is no freedom in this town unless you cut yourself off from all you knew before. The weekend brought out the Perth society hunter in me. I had to fight against the habits of five years learning who to chase in Perth and I have only had two years of freedom to preserve my sanity. Now that I have been in the situation, I realise that much as I love Jane Austen, I do not want to be in a Regency-type marriage market presided over by dynastic parents.
It's kind of funny, but I wish I could just tell them that trying to keep me here by throwing me in the way of eligible men is not going to do it, although Mum mentioned the bloody 'Max has to meet this man' topic again tonight. My dentist's son for Christ's sake! Sure he has been in London for the same two years as me, but why would that make him inclined to want to do anything with me? G'ah.
Holding Out For A Hero - The Charming Italian, Again
It was this hammering in of their expectations that came to mind as, primped and curled, I stood outside the church as Romeo's best friend got married, as the beaming bride and groom greeted their guests and watched Mum and Dad cooing at one of my brother's classmates.
The Charming Italian is everything my parents adore; worldly, brilliant, charming, well connected and soon to finish medicine. I only ever attended my school Formals and Balls with boys like the Charming Italian because they were the boys sanctioned by my parents while they still had a say. Men like The Charming Italian command my respect and my admiration, but I have no inclination to play house with someone who will keep me in Perth.
I muttered out of the corner of my mouth to my brothers that the parents would LOVE the Charming Italian for a son-in-law and Elbow was nowhere near clever enough for him, so I guessed I was the lucky girl. Then, with true Hollywood timing, his mother caught my eye and summoned me. The dance began, his mother complimented and admired, I was coy and bashful. She asked me how the last two years had been; I said all the right things about finding myself and achieving goals. I admired her strapping son's sartorial elegance and she minutely detailed his impressive record since I last saw him - overseas scholarships, a year living in Rome and Sweden, travelling with his parents and beloved sister around the world.
I was steered across to meet this paragon of a man himself as he talked to my brother and the Charming Italian leant down to flash long-lashed dark eyes at me while I peeped out from under my mascara and tried not to make faces at Romeo. He accused Mrs B of matchmaking as she hustled him off so the Charming Italian and I were left to swap travel stories and try and make the best of an unusual situation. Though, him being a good Italian son, I guess it was only me that was truly in an unusual situation!
As the Charming Italian charmed me into a simpering heap I remembered other boys. S catching the eye of Sarah Harvey at the Formal, and although she barely acknowledged my existence, she crossed the hall to flirt with him in front of me. His cool reception of her endears him to me to this day. And of course, P at the Ball, a better partner could not have been found for me!
Admired, clever, happy and confident, these boys are the ones who will be running Perth in 30 years, their elegant and beautiful girlfriends becoming trim wives presiding over big houses and a select brood of uniformed children. Their fathers are lawyers and doctors, own the family business and expect great things of them. They have years to prove their worth and live up to their promise, while their future wives have a bare few years to catch them.
I think I have just realised that my parents had brought up their daughters to catch one of these men, and since my sister had abdicated her right to a city boy by aiming for farming, I was the daughter that had to bring in a good husband. They had moved to the right suburb to live and had sent us to the right schools and university so our classmates were respectable. They had let me wander off to be 'finished' overseas and had cultivated the right parents in my absence. Now that I was home to stay it was time for me to get myself into gear and ensnare one of the good boys so I could be propelled to the heady heights of a BMW, a 4WD and a house in Peppermint Grove.
The Charming Italian and I greeted the bride and groom as a couple, the four of us chatting away, the parents watching with calculating eyes. The next day at the reception we danced around each other through the crowd under parental eyes again. When the Charming Italian and his mother had gone all his classmates teased me, reminding me of my remarks many years ago that the Charming Italian was the best of their year. I await the next move with anticipation. The Charming Italian mentioned we had to continue our conversation about travel; I said he knew where to find me, my brother grinned and his friends smirked.
I was actually lucky enough to see almost every young man I grew up within two days – I got to see all my brothers' friends at both the wedding and the reception the next day. These boys have always been high achievers, gregarious, fascinating and charming. They were still growing up though when I left, and I come back to find them men. We were at the first wedding from their group and at such an adult occasion I was able to talk to them on a new and mature level, as an old friend just home from travelling, not just Romeo's older sister.
From a group of young university students had emerged gruff mining engineers, successful entrepreneurs, heedless playboys, spotlight-stealing comedians and tortured artists. I swapped bawdy stories with the playboys, I discussed politics with the engineer and his glamorous and lovely girlfriend, the artist and I retreated to a corner to discuss working within the confines of the expectations of those around us and I had a joke off with the comedian.
Driving home Romeo told me that each one had complimented me to him during the course of the two days, and he glanced at me with pride. The four of us are so close-knit that we have always expected to get along with each other's friends, and it was clear to him that I have still had it. And it was clear to me that the next year and a bit was going to be a great adventure as I started meeting the same people in a new mindset.
On Saturday night I saw my FSO and all his friends as well as a startling array of men from the past. At one stage on Saturday night I was standing with Nik in The Queens fearing to move because in each corner of the pub were groups of men gossiping with each other about my return and they were not making me feel comfortable!
I've said it once and I will say it again – Perth is too small to breathe in sometimes. The party I was at The Queens for held some guests that made me squirm with discomfort as each face brought years of intertwined love affairs and feuds wriggling back into my consciousness. There was:
#1 FSO who was spectacularly late. I had to leave the party frequently to talk to others in the pub as his friends were watching me speculatively and hinting that I was waiting around just for him. When he finally did arrive, the shock of seeing him had me almost tongue-tired – I went out with him?
#3 Three of his friends are friends of mine in their own right, long before I met FSO. They were reassuringly welcoming and constant and I was there to wish my favourite the best of luck for his move to London.
#4 The other three ranged from one who despised me from the first day I started going out with FSO one of the two who had tried to go out with me after FSO and I broke up and were swiftly discouraged by the rest of the group, and one that went out with my best friend and was her partner at my 21st. Needless to say these three looked straight through me that night.
#5 A friend from first-year uni with an ego directly proportional to his attractiveness who is constantly hinting that Che and I are gagging to go out with his smelly, fat little self. G'ah!
Thankfully Nik and I were spared having to be too polite to rude boys by the plethora of other familiar faces we were able to distract ourselves with. Generally, it was posing, eyeballing the talent and being impressed. And a few of the men on this top-shelf talent were a blast from our past.
Six years ago, in first-year university, Nik and I were the back row bandits in Politics 101, spending our halcyon first semester ignoring the lecturer and gazing, entranced, at two tall gorgeous boys in the next row. One was Peter, the blue-eyed white-blond son of the Headmaster of Wesley, and the other his equally gorgeous brunet mate. Nik went on to have a crush of many years on Peter as he went over to Law when she did and was in many of her classes and he became her perfect man.
Two years out of University had moved Peter out of her everyday life, and she does not frequent the places his crowd of rich kids play, so seeing him on our turf was a bit of a shock. What was even more of a shock was that even after six years we were remembered. As we became aware of them and Nik walked away to the bar, they saw me and nudged each other. I was mortified, suddenly realising that since I had NEVER talked to them and had only seen them in class six years ago, the fact that they knew my face did not mean good things. We made like a tree and left, but not before Nik realised Peter was no longer the only man worth mooning over.
Walking home after a night of negotiating the social shoals, Nik and I were glad of one thing – each of us had finally realised that it wasn't all about the boy anymore. Nik was over her epic crush, and I no longer cared if Matt still loved me or not, nor what his friends thought of me. We had grown up.
I love Perth, I love my family, I love my friends. But there is no freedom in this town unless you cut yourself off from all you knew before. The weekend brought out the Perth society hunter in me. I had to fight against the habits of five years learning who to chase in Perth and I have only had two years of freedom to preserve my sanity. Now that I have been in the situation, I realise that much as I love Jane Austen, I do not want to be in a Regency-type marriage market presided over by dynastic parents.
It's kind of funny, but I wish I could just tell them that trying to keep me here by throwing me in the way of eligible men is not going to do it, although Mum mentioned the bloody 'Max has to meet this man' topic again tonight. My dentist's son for Christ's sake! Sure he has been in London for the same two years as me, but why would that make him inclined to want to do anything with me? G'ah.
Holding Out For A Hero - The Charming Italian, Again
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