A short piece I wrote as a part of a uni class exercise.
I visioned a bunch of limbs walking down a hallway, falling and then somebody catching them. I suppose it reflects a few things that have happened lately. The interesting thing about this piece is that I didn't have an idea when I started it, but simply a line which I included in the title of this post. By using several experimental writing practices I came up with some great lines and the image for the piece was created.
Great idea's come from the most absurd places, I think that no matter what image/line I came up with there were certain themes that were going to invade my writing. Enjoy
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What was that? the tiny limbs they thump and pound, clomp, clomp, clomp. Dancing through the hallway smiling eagerly at pictures of smaller years goodbye. They stumble forward in graceful balance, wrapped up in wool, yet strangely the sun was still shining.
Spotlight, look away. I can see all of you now, but blinded I am by my own reflection. It's cheeky you know, always telling the truth when all I hear are lies climbing from so-called friends mouths and tainting everything I eat.
Tiny specks, follicles pinching the skin, itching away until the limbs are so fine. Draped in cloth for the daily routine, hiding perfection so no one can see the stories it tells.
The sentimental limbs break evenly over time, over time all the heaviness of them climbs on. Clobber, clobber little hands, tiny feet, wings on the edge, falling over the edge and tripping over the weight. Slipping jaggedly through the time it takes us to fall.
The wings have limbs.
White as they fall, out like a light, all we see is white. Limbs they fall.
Clear, tiny and broken. The shadow tells all- the scant figure on the boards, spewing white in hope to return like the limbs before.
Weight, wait. The fingers of time he was waiting on the line, sitting bright in that shadow waiting for the flaws and the floors, shaping time to catch her limbs in time. Fumbles and falls just like before, but he claps hands around hands and catches the wings. Saving the limbs just in time.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
America's most LOVED family
I realise it's such a 'hipster' thing to say these days, but I was definitely a 90s kid. Slap bands, roller blades, fluro parachute-material tracksuits, grip ball, Supersoaker 3000, Gameboy and Super Nintendo. You name it and I had it. Being a kid in the 90s was a whole mess of fun, but one thing that really defined us, and what defines any generation is the television we watched.
I grew up running around riding my bike outside for hours then coming in to lay in front of the TV and watch Rocket Power do it all over again. I was best friends with the Rugrats, I despised Helga from Hey Arnold! and sketched the afternoon away with Mr Squiggle. It's become extremely fashionable lately to note that you know all the words to the Captain Planet or Pokemon theme songs (I can do both), or reminisce about how Gumby was top quality television viewing. Young adults spend hundreds of dollars trying to look 'grunge' (totally besides the point if you ask me) or on cameras with ACTUAL film in them (omg). It's like we are permanently trying to capture that time in our lives where everything was just that much simpler. When we didn't have to worry about bills, or work or uni. Being a kid is something that evades us in the blink of an eye, and we spend the rest of our years trying to get back our innocence.
One thing that has not 'escaped' us Generation Y-ers as we have gotten older is the a program that has probably been one of, if not the most successful in television history. Yes I'm talking about our four-fingered, yellow alter egos, The Simpsons.
When I think about childhood I don't usually include Homer and the gang in, and I guess it's because they have always remained with us, following us throughout our teenage years and continuing on with us today. In fact, I don't ever think I could even imagine the demise of the program because it's become almost ingrained in our everyday behaviour, it's a part of our lives and I don't think that 6:00pm could be the same without them.
My first memory of The Simpsons was when my little sister was born. I was 3 years old and being an only child my parents thought that the birth of another sibling might come as a shock for my poor, spoilt self. When I went to visit my sister in hospital I was presented with a gift that the baby had apparently brought with her when she had been dropped off by the stalk. It was a Lisa Simpson doll, complete with saxophone and all. Looking back I can safely say that it was my Dad who had brought the toy- I was 3 years old and hadn't even HEARD of The Simpsons, and I highly doubt my Mum would have ever let me watch it anyway. I loved it though and it was all the more special because my sister had brought it just for me.
When I was older my Mum finally let us watch the series. I was maybe 10 or 11 and I had never seen anything so hilarious. Let's not forget that at that age I really didn't get most of the gags, or any of the 150 million pop culture references that they make in each episode, but that is what makes this show so special- it transcends generations. For years my mother was appalled and outraged that we could sit in front of the TV for 4 hours every weekend for 'Super Simpsons weekends' only moving when the laughter got too much for us to handle (or the pancakes were ready). We watched SO much of the show that it started to interfere with my work at school.
I distinctly remember my year 9 science 'parent-teacher interview'. The teacher sat my mum down and started to explain how well I was going in class. He then mentioned that 'Rebecca seems to relate EVERYTHING we do in class to The Simpsons'... That was it, Mum cracked the shits HARD at me and said right there and then that the show was banned from viewing at our house from now on. My heart was broken, that is until my teacher explained how it was a GOOD thing! Apparently all the other kids had started to understand our science curriculum too. Thanks to my constant Simpsons references I had clearly made science a more enjoyable experience. Who woulda thunk it?
From then on I have religiously watched the series and it has brought me so much joy. It has also helped me in my academic career beyond that of high school science classes. I wrote a 2000 word essay for university on postmodernism and based the entire essay around the example of a Simpsons episode. I got a HD for that essay (one of the best marks I've ever received).
I owe a lot to the Simpsons, and it's not just because it has helped me academically, I truly believe that whilst the show can be silly and funny, it conveys many important morals and ethics to us by mirroring general society and exposing it's flaws. Every character in the Simpsons is flawed- and in the most perfect way. Even Ned Flander's has his low points, and that's what makes the show special, we can learn so much from each character as they plow their way through this harsh and often merciless world.
Even the world that they live in is horrible, society is full of drunks (Barney), drug addicts (Otto) and evil corporations (Mr. Burns), yet Homer and his family fight them all and bring a sense of good into this world (if only for one episode).
The value of love and family is so honest and beautiful. Homer and Marge's love story is real, and it is so endearing. Homer seems to treat Marge like a piece of crap but his love for her is eternal and he would do almost anything for her. Each character is so fleshed out and unique it's hard to imagine life without all of Springfield's greatest.
For 23 years of my life I have watched and loved the show. I will defend its integrity and it's value, not only as a piece of art, but as a reflection on our own society and how to improve upon it. The Simpsons is a show with a quote for EVERY moment in life, it will be something that I hope my children get to enjoy, along with music from The Beatles, and movies by Disney. They are a part of our everyday lives and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I grew up running around riding my bike outside for hours then coming in to lay in front of the TV and watch Rocket Power do it all over again. I was best friends with the Rugrats, I despised Helga from Hey Arnold! and sketched the afternoon away with Mr Squiggle. It's become extremely fashionable lately to note that you know all the words to the Captain Planet or Pokemon theme songs (I can do both), or reminisce about how Gumby was top quality television viewing. Young adults spend hundreds of dollars trying to look 'grunge' (totally besides the point if you ask me) or on cameras with ACTUAL film in them (omg). It's like we are permanently trying to capture that time in our lives where everything was just that much simpler. When we didn't have to worry about bills, or work or uni. Being a kid is something that evades us in the blink of an eye, and we spend the rest of our years trying to get back our innocence.
One thing that has not 'escaped' us Generation Y-ers as we have gotten older is the a program that has probably been one of, if not the most successful in television history. Yes I'm talking about our four-fingered, yellow alter egos, The Simpsons.
When I think about childhood I don't usually include Homer and the gang in, and I guess it's because they have always remained with us, following us throughout our teenage years and continuing on with us today. In fact, I don't ever think I could even imagine the demise of the program because it's become almost ingrained in our everyday behaviour, it's a part of our lives and I don't think that 6:00pm could be the same without them.
My first memory of The Simpsons was when my little sister was born. I was 3 years old and being an only child my parents thought that the birth of another sibling might come as a shock for my poor, spoilt self. When I went to visit my sister in hospital I was presented with a gift that the baby had apparently brought with her when she had been dropped off by the stalk. It was a Lisa Simpson doll, complete with saxophone and all. Looking back I can safely say that it was my Dad who had brought the toy- I was 3 years old and hadn't even HEARD of The Simpsons, and I highly doubt my Mum would have ever let me watch it anyway. I loved it though and it was all the more special because my sister had brought it just for me.
When I was older my Mum finally let us watch the series. I was maybe 10 or 11 and I had never seen anything so hilarious. Let's not forget that at that age I really didn't get most of the gags, or any of the 150 million pop culture references that they make in each episode, but that is what makes this show so special- it transcends generations. For years my mother was appalled and outraged that we could sit in front of the TV for 4 hours every weekend for 'Super Simpsons weekends' only moving when the laughter got too much for us to handle (or the pancakes were ready). We watched SO much of the show that it started to interfere with my work at school.
I distinctly remember my year 9 science 'parent-teacher interview'. The teacher sat my mum down and started to explain how well I was going in class. He then mentioned that 'Rebecca seems to relate EVERYTHING we do in class to The Simpsons'... That was it, Mum cracked the shits HARD at me and said right there and then that the show was banned from viewing at our house from now on. My heart was broken, that is until my teacher explained how it was a GOOD thing! Apparently all the other kids had started to understand our science curriculum too. Thanks to my constant Simpsons references I had clearly made science a more enjoyable experience. Who woulda thunk it?
From then on I have religiously watched the series and it has brought me so much joy. It has also helped me in my academic career beyond that of high school science classes. I wrote a 2000 word essay for university on postmodernism and based the entire essay around the example of a Simpsons episode. I got a HD for that essay (one of the best marks I've ever received).
I owe a lot to the Simpsons, and it's not just because it has helped me academically, I truly believe that whilst the show can be silly and funny, it conveys many important morals and ethics to us by mirroring general society and exposing it's flaws. Every character in the Simpsons is flawed- and in the most perfect way. Even Ned Flander's has his low points, and that's what makes the show special, we can learn so much from each character as they plow their way through this harsh and often merciless world.
Even the world that they live in is horrible, society is full of drunks (Barney), drug addicts (Otto) and evil corporations (Mr. Burns), yet Homer and his family fight them all and bring a sense of good into this world (if only for one episode).
The value of love and family is so honest and beautiful. Homer and Marge's love story is real, and it is so endearing. Homer seems to treat Marge like a piece of crap but his love for her is eternal and he would do almost anything for her. Each character is so fleshed out and unique it's hard to imagine life without all of Springfield's greatest.
For 23 years of my life I have watched and loved the show. I will defend its integrity and it's value, not only as a piece of art, but as a reflection on our own society and how to improve upon it. The Simpsons is a show with a quote for EVERY moment in life, it will be something that I hope my children get to enjoy, along with music from The Beatles, and movies by Disney. They are a part of our everyday lives and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Fury of the Religious Type
WARNING: ANGRY RANT BELOW, PROCEED WITH CAUTION
I am not sure wether it is because of recent horrific events (the Oslo bombing/shooting) or if I've just been watching too many documentaries, but I've started to read Richard Dawkins The God Delusion for the third time.
It might be completely missing the point to say this, but I consider this book my Bible. If ever someone was to refute the idea that I was choosing to lead my life free of supernatural faith then I would calmly refer to it as some sort of manual. 'How to be a person of reason and why religion has caused more harm then good' would have been a more appropriate title for Dawkins.
This book divides me and not in the sense you're probably expecting. It doesn't make me question wether I believe in a omnipotent God, or that Jesus rose from the dead, it only solidifies the fact that in all honestly the idea of him just does not interest me and I'm not sure that it ever has. What rips me apart whilst reading this is that at one end of the spectrum it delights me so much to be reading from someone who is so passionate and outspoken about the horrible things that religion encompasses, whilst it also angers me at the way in which people in this world will use religion as a scapegoat.
Don't get me wrong, I have total respect for those who wish to be religious- not matter WHAT religion. My problem is with the use of religion to get away with things like religious holy wars, the oppression of women, discrimination against homosexuals and pro life preachers who declare that not even those who are victim of rape can terminate a pregnancy.
Funnily enough most of these movements are run by men, with most religions being thousands of years old in Gods eye us women must be just tools for which we can (lawfully) reproduce. An all loving, all forgiving God in my opinion would allow all humans to love each other, despite their sexual orientation and have all people equal, despite their sex!
One thing that bothers me most is the political hold that religious organisations have in some countries, namely America. The idea that evangelical christians constitute one third of the total voting population in the USA is frightening to say the least. Yet the US has more states that have legalised gay marriage than our own country. Perhaps electing batshit politicians like Bob Katter kind of trump the millions of batshit Americans?
Now, not all religion is bad, and most of the things I am pointing out in this blog(rant) are but mere generalisations about certain places in which these religions practice. I d not believe that ALL christians, or any other religion are wholly evil, with the exception of maybe Scientology and Hillsong. Both 'churches' use the idea of religion as a facade because let's face it, they are not Church's but CORPORATIONS, designed to benefit from the governments tax breaks and created to reproduce thousands of God fearing, money throwing idiots that go out into the world and preach their bullshit onto reasonable people like ourselves.
I've always held the idea that if religion brings happiness to those in need then it can't really be that bad. And the point is that it shouldn't, but like with every structure in human kind there lies a source of power for which someone will abuse. Unfortunately religion has been abused for many thousands of years, and it has aimed it's sword at a many innocent, loving people to which it promised protection. If I believed in the 'Flying Spaghetti Monster' as Dawkins likes to put it, then you would think I was crazy and probably put me into some kind of institution. But because your belief has been carried by hundreds of millions of others for millennia then that's ok, doesn't matter that the idea of it is completely insane itself or that you have absolutely NO WAY of proving it.
I don't feel a need to believe in any kind of supernatural being. I'm so content with looking out my window and marvelling at the absolute magic of this world, the idea that we have evolved from some big bang, that our universe is still making itself even bigger every second, that our chances of actually surviving to this point in time absolutely blows my mind. We are but a speck of dust in this huge universe, why can't we be content with the fact that we are here and that nature is far more complex than any kind of 'God' could dream of.
In the words of Douglas Adams:
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?”
I am not sure wether it is because of recent horrific events (the Oslo bombing/shooting) or if I've just been watching too many documentaries, but I've started to read Richard Dawkins The God Delusion for the third time.
It might be completely missing the point to say this, but I consider this book my Bible. If ever someone was to refute the idea that I was choosing to lead my life free of supernatural faith then I would calmly refer to it as some sort of manual. 'How to be a person of reason and why religion has caused more harm then good' would have been a more appropriate title for Dawkins.
This book divides me and not in the sense you're probably expecting. It doesn't make me question wether I believe in a omnipotent God, or that Jesus rose from the dead, it only solidifies the fact that in all honestly the idea of him just does not interest me and I'm not sure that it ever has. What rips me apart whilst reading this is that at one end of the spectrum it delights me so much to be reading from someone who is so passionate and outspoken about the horrible things that religion encompasses, whilst it also angers me at the way in which people in this world will use religion as a scapegoat.
Don't get me wrong, I have total respect for those who wish to be religious- not matter WHAT religion. My problem is with the use of religion to get away with things like religious holy wars, the oppression of women, discrimination against homosexuals and pro life preachers who declare that not even those who are victim of rape can terminate a pregnancy.
Funnily enough most of these movements are run by men, with most religions being thousands of years old in Gods eye us women must be just tools for which we can (lawfully) reproduce. An all loving, all forgiving God in my opinion would allow all humans to love each other, despite their sexual orientation and have all people equal, despite their sex!
One thing that bothers me most is the political hold that religious organisations have in some countries, namely America. The idea that evangelical christians constitute one third of the total voting population in the USA is frightening to say the least. Yet the US has more states that have legalised gay marriage than our own country. Perhaps electing batshit politicians like Bob Katter kind of trump the millions of batshit Americans?
Now, not all religion is bad, and most of the things I am pointing out in this blog(rant) are but mere generalisations about certain places in which these religions practice. I d not believe that ALL christians, or any other religion are wholly evil, with the exception of maybe Scientology and Hillsong. Both 'churches' use the idea of religion as a facade because let's face it, they are not Church's but CORPORATIONS, designed to benefit from the governments tax breaks and created to reproduce thousands of God fearing, money throwing idiots that go out into the world and preach their bullshit onto reasonable people like ourselves.
I've always held the idea that if religion brings happiness to those in need then it can't really be that bad. And the point is that it shouldn't, but like with every structure in human kind there lies a source of power for which someone will abuse. Unfortunately religion has been abused for many thousands of years, and it has aimed it's sword at a many innocent, loving people to which it promised protection. If I believed in the 'Flying Spaghetti Monster' as Dawkins likes to put it, then you would think I was crazy and probably put me into some kind of institution. But because your belief has been carried by hundreds of millions of others for millennia then that's ok, doesn't matter that the idea of it is completely insane itself or that you have absolutely NO WAY of proving it.
I don't feel a need to believe in any kind of supernatural being. I'm so content with looking out my window and marvelling at the absolute magic of this world, the idea that we have evolved from some big bang, that our universe is still making itself even bigger every second, that our chances of actually surviving to this point in time absolutely blows my mind. We are but a speck of dust in this huge universe, why can't we be content with the fact that we are here and that nature is far more complex than any kind of 'God' could dream of.
In the words of Douglas Adams:
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?”
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Confessions of a Potter-holic
I do realise that in the last month or so there has been an unbelievable amount of Harry Potter garbage all over the internet. I call it garbage because I don't really know any other word to describe it, but all I do know is that I absolutely LOVE IT.
I am a self confessed Potter fan, and have been since I was about 10 years old. I spent my childhood waiting eagerly for the next book to come out and spending hour upon hour reading them until I'd finished. The last 4 books I read non-stop the day they were released (they went well into the early hours of the morning). I've probably read the entire series about 14 times over- but let's not start to brag, we all know that there are fans out there that are far more crazier than myself... and I salute them.
For me, Harry Potter was a world that whilst scary and unpredictable at times, became an escape from the unpleasant mundane normalities of everyday life. Now some people would argue that, that is simply what a story is for- to transport the audience into another world. Entertainment is not just expression or an art form but a way in which we can transport our minds (and our hearts) into a completely fictional world. For me, HP wasn't just that it was falling in love with the complete goodness that seemed to ooze out of every character and the overwhelming charming-ness of the entire magical world.
The films, however were not the same for me. They didn't harness that same connection that J.K Rowling had with you from the very minute she describe Dumbledore's eyes as he stood in the driveway of Number 4 Privet Drive. They seemed disconnected, and like many adaptations, failed to express all that was detailed in the literary version.
It wasn't until the Half-Blood Prince that I truly started to enjoy the films, and maybe that was because the first couple of films has a lot of baggage in that they had to explain to much that we (and Harry) learnt in the beginning of the series. The last few films also had an amazing style to them that had obviously over the years been cleaned up and perfected. So when the last film was released on Tuesday night it was with such immense pleasure that I felt my imagination has come to life.
The film was spectacular, in fact, I don't think I will ever be able to describe the feeling in words. The entire cinema was cheering as Bellatrix was killed, and Neville beheaded Voldemort's trusty snake Nagini. You could hear the sobs as Snape's final heroic act and long kept secret was finally revealed. It was Snape's story that really got me, and Alan Rickman's amazing portrayal of the love that he held for Lily was so spot on, I could just give him a hug.
The film took certain liberties in terms of the final battle between Voldy and Harry, and whilst this could have easily pissed off an entire world of dedicated lovers, I felt that it was just perfect in creating the much needed suspense and the catharsis that is sometimes so hard to depict on screen.
For the week leading up to the film release I spent my days watching speeches by the cast and the reflections that the entire world made on the series and how much it has changed our lives. It seems silly and cheesy to say that a book or a film has changed your life, but there is so much to gain from these books wether it be their morals about good and evil, love and family or just the idea that magic could really exist in this world.
At the beginning of this year I had the word 'imagine' tattooed on my wrist, because I believe that it is one of the most powerful tools that we have been given in this world. Harry Potter taught me to imagine, to believe in magic - of any kind, and for this I say THANK YOU.
I am a self confessed Potter fan, and have been since I was about 10 years old. I spent my childhood waiting eagerly for the next book to come out and spending hour upon hour reading them until I'd finished. The last 4 books I read non-stop the day they were released (they went well into the early hours of the morning). I've probably read the entire series about 14 times over- but let's not start to brag, we all know that there are fans out there that are far more crazier than myself... and I salute them.
For me, Harry Potter was a world that whilst scary and unpredictable at times, became an escape from the unpleasant mundane normalities of everyday life. Now some people would argue that, that is simply what a story is for- to transport the audience into another world. Entertainment is not just expression or an art form but a way in which we can transport our minds (and our hearts) into a completely fictional world. For me, HP wasn't just that it was falling in love with the complete goodness that seemed to ooze out of every character and the overwhelming charming-ness of the entire magical world.
The films, however were not the same for me. They didn't harness that same connection that J.K Rowling had with you from the very minute she describe Dumbledore's eyes as he stood in the driveway of Number 4 Privet Drive. They seemed disconnected, and like many adaptations, failed to express all that was detailed in the literary version.
It wasn't until the Half-Blood Prince that I truly started to enjoy the films, and maybe that was because the first couple of films has a lot of baggage in that they had to explain to much that we (and Harry) learnt in the beginning of the series. The last few films also had an amazing style to them that had obviously over the years been cleaned up and perfected. So when the last film was released on Tuesday night it was with such immense pleasure that I felt my imagination has come to life.
The film was spectacular, in fact, I don't think I will ever be able to describe the feeling in words. The entire cinema was cheering as Bellatrix was killed, and Neville beheaded Voldemort's trusty snake Nagini. You could hear the sobs as Snape's final heroic act and long kept secret was finally revealed. It was Snape's story that really got me, and Alan Rickman's amazing portrayal of the love that he held for Lily was so spot on, I could just give him a hug.
The film took certain liberties in terms of the final battle between Voldy and Harry, and whilst this could have easily pissed off an entire world of dedicated lovers, I felt that it was just perfect in creating the much needed suspense and the catharsis that is sometimes so hard to depict on screen.
For the week leading up to the film release I spent my days watching speeches by the cast and the reflections that the entire world made on the series and how much it has changed our lives. It seems silly and cheesy to say that a book or a film has changed your life, but there is so much to gain from these books wether it be their morals about good and evil, love and family or just the idea that magic could really exist in this world.
At the beginning of this year I had the word 'imagine' tattooed on my wrist, because I believe that it is one of the most powerful tools that we have been given in this world. Harry Potter taught me to imagine, to believe in magic - of any kind, and for this I say THANK YOU.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
It's not a gang, it's a family.
This year for uni I have to make a short video. The brief is pretty open, in fact I do believe that you can do whatever the hell you want. I chose to try and challenge myself by doing something I've never done before- Documentary.
I am quite interested in youth subcultures so I thought it was a good place to start. I originally wanted to cover my friends band as they toured and built up their ever-growing fan base. Unfortunately the band broke up earlier this year. I'm absolutely KICKING myself I didn't document the break up because it probably would have made for great viewing.
Through a few friends I started to learn a little more about the Sydney 'scene'- that is the hardcore/metal scene (it's a little hard to define and you'll understand more once you've seen the video). After interviewing a few people I soon become more interested in the straight edge scene in Sydney.
Straight edge is a sub culture that prides itself on living a 'clean' lifestyle. That is no drinking, no smoking no drugs. This can even extend to promiscuous sex, prescription drugs and vegetarianism. After speaking to and filming a few hardcore straight edge guys I knew I learnt of a gang of guys called 9lc.
9lc aren't really a gang, they are a group of guys from all different stereotypes- metal, hardcore, lad, straight edge and even skinhead. Despite conflicting morals and opposing lifestyles, these boys view each other as a family and would quite literally do anything for those who are involved in the group.
The video below is a Trailer for what will be a short documentary focusing on how this group functions together in what can at times be a very fickle and judgemental scene.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
On the Road.
Last weekend I took a trip down to a little town called Deniliquin in southern NSW. My Mum's side of the family is from 'Deni' (as the locals call it), and we took the trip down to celebrate my Great Grandmother's 100th birthday!
It had been 15 years or so since I had been to Deni and I never remembered it being such a beautiful place. To be honest I was really dreading the drive down (8 hours), with the majority of it through bumpy road on what is called the Riverine Plain- the longest stretch of flat land on earth! Despite this, the drive was actually pleasant, as I drove with my Aunt and sister blasting the likes of Lil' Jon, Kanye and other such filthy songs. As we drove we joked about passing through Dunt and screamed as I drove over a rat (at first I thought it was a bird :S). Driving into Deni was something else, seeing the old buildings and pubs juxtaposed next to the gigantic Macdonalds was almost hilarious to look at. But once we got into the center of the town and were faced with the gorgeous old Federal Hotel I really felt a sense of home.
It's kind of odd how we connect ourselves to a place we never lived, let alone only set foot in a couple of times in our life. I guess over the years and as I've grown older I've yearned for a sense of family history. Growing up in a multicultural society I suppose I always felt a little detached to my own culture. My first day of high school the first question I got asked by the other students wasn't what my name was but 'what nationality are you?'. Answering 'Australian' wasn't good enough, because everyone had links to some kind of fancy ethnicity. Since then I've always bugged my family for traces of our origin (which I believe date back to the convicts!) and constantly lied to people about being German, or French or Macedonian.
It wasn't surprising then, when at 15 I decided to christen myself with the middle name 'Matilda', because at least that had some connection with my homeland. When I was about 19 I rang my Nan to ask her of a few family names to add to my ever growing title. I soon discovered that my Great Grandmother who I had always known as Sylvie, was in fact Agnes Sylvester White. What a name! So naturally I stole the Sylvester officially becoming Rebecca Matilda-Rose Sylvester Cassel.
It was also at this time that I would go and visit my Nan and get her to tell me stories about growing up, and the places that she lived. So driving into Deniliquin brought all those stories to life for me, as I imagined my Nan walking down the streets getting up to all sorts of trouble. The history of the town is, in itself, interesting but for me it's the heritage that it brings to my family, and the journey they made from a small country town to the big city so many years ago. It's also the mystery of my ancestors, the missing links I've tried so hard to fill with fantasy along the years. Some people will think I'm just being over dramatic or emotional, but for me, Deniliquin definitely feels like home.
It had been 15 years or so since I had been to Deni and I never remembered it being such a beautiful place. To be honest I was really dreading the drive down (8 hours), with the majority of it through bumpy road on what is called the Riverine Plain- the longest stretch of flat land on earth! Despite this, the drive was actually pleasant, as I drove with my Aunt and sister blasting the likes of Lil' Jon, Kanye and other such filthy songs. As we drove we joked about passing through Dunt and screamed as I drove over a rat (at first I thought it was a bird :S). Driving into Deni was something else, seeing the old buildings and pubs juxtaposed next to the gigantic Macdonalds was almost hilarious to look at. But once we got into the center of the town and were faced with the gorgeous old Federal Hotel I really felt a sense of home.
It's kind of odd how we connect ourselves to a place we never lived, let alone only set foot in a couple of times in our life. I guess over the years and as I've grown older I've yearned for a sense of family history. Growing up in a multicultural society I suppose I always felt a little detached to my own culture. My first day of high school the first question I got asked by the other students wasn't what my name was but 'what nationality are you?'. Answering 'Australian' wasn't good enough, because everyone had links to some kind of fancy ethnicity. Since then I've always bugged my family for traces of our origin (which I believe date back to the convicts!) and constantly lied to people about being German, or French or Macedonian.
It wasn't surprising then, when at 15 I decided to christen myself with the middle name 'Matilda', because at least that had some connection with my homeland. When I was about 19 I rang my Nan to ask her of a few family names to add to my ever growing title. I soon discovered that my Great Grandmother who I had always known as Sylvie, was in fact Agnes Sylvester White. What a name! So naturally I stole the Sylvester officially becoming Rebecca Matilda-Rose Sylvester Cassel.
It was also at this time that I would go and visit my Nan and get her to tell me stories about growing up, and the places that she lived. So driving into Deniliquin brought all those stories to life for me, as I imagined my Nan walking down the streets getting up to all sorts of trouble. The history of the town is, in itself, interesting but for me it's the heritage that it brings to my family, and the journey they made from a small country town to the big city so many years ago. It's also the mystery of my ancestors, the missing links I've tried so hard to fill with fantasy along the years. Some people will think I'm just being over dramatic or emotional, but for me, Deniliquin definitely feels like home.
Our view from the Motel of the Edward River
Not only did I discover a home I never knew, but I got to learn a lot more about my family.
I've always known the women in my family to be strong willed (and extremely out-spoken), but I found a new inspiration of strength as well. My Great nan Sylvie as I mentioned above, turned 100 on July 4th 2011. Not only did she receive a letter from the Queen, and flowers from the Mayor, but she also spent the day in hospital having surgery for a broken hip.
It was hard to see her poor body in such pain, and on such a milestone. We didn't get to celebrate like we had planned but Sylvie did not let that get to her. She still had a wonderful cake- her favourite food in the whole entire world, and her cup of tea. We went to visit her in the hospital, and whilst she didn't remember us too well, she seemed so happy to see us all. When asked how she was feeling she laughed and replied 'Oh I'm fine just this bung leg, how are your kids?'. She even waved us goodbye promising to see us 'next 100th birthday'.
This woman was 100, not only that but she was probably in huge amount of pain and discomfort and she still managed to have us all laughing and even sung Happy Birthday to herself. She is a woman so tough I doubt many things could bring her down. I hope that I can be half the woman she is, strong and determined. Happy Birthday Great Nan, I hope she has many more happy years filled with cake and tea- the secret to longevity!
My nan, with her mother Sylvie.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Moonlight Sonata
This is a piece of writing I did in high school. It's always been a favourite piece of mine. It's based on the Beethoven piece Moonlight Sonata (Piano Sonata no. 14). This song has always been one of my favourites, not only because of its intense beauty and melody, but the rumours that surround its inspiration.
The three movements portray the three main rumours about why Beethoven wrote the piece. Enjoy...
The three movements portray the three main rumours about why Beethoven wrote the piece. Enjoy...
Slowly and elegantly, the notes echoe through the dark hall. They seem to move gracefully, magically, dancing through the sheer curtains looking out to soft rolling hills. Each note skipping off every wall, swirling about and filling every part of my body. I sit at the old grand piano, delicately translating the notes on the fraying pages into sound emotion. Each key I play, evoking mystery, suspense, shivers down my spine. The melody haunts me with dark whispering secrets from hundreds of years before.
The people who once played the same song, the notes rasping that familiar haunting melody, dancing and gliding softly through the air. What was it that they felt? Helplessness? Those deep chords piercing every inch of my body, invading the very heart of my soul. The sweetness of the higher notes longing for love, yearning for that touch. Yet the stormy fierce sforzandos are powerful and angry, inciting a fury I’ve never felt before.
Each movement of Beethoven’s piano Sonata no. 14 telling another story, another journey of emotion. I turn the simple notes and symbols on a stave into tales of love, loss and anger, magnificently interlaced, running deep within me.
1801, a young man sits at the same grand piano. Delicately but skilfully pressing on the keys, evicting the harmonious chords from within the wooden instrument. He sits at the piano, in his white-laced bedroom; his eyes softly raise and glance up at the lake outside the window. Small goose bumps are raised on his skin as he then continues playing. Images of the lake and the night before are etched in his mind. He plays the piece with such passion and emotion; just as he had to the women he has written the piece for.
The first movement depicting a Romeo and Juliet romance. “Moonlight Sonata”, lifting and floating through the air. Each note evoking the same passion and love. The woman sits on a bed several feet away, soaking up the music, swaying her head slightly to the side. Human emotion cannot qualify this poem. Words did not describe what music had to the woman. Each key individually speaking, telling its part of the story. The young mans fingers are strong yet so gentle, flitting across the piano with such ease and such care. Magnificently interlaced, running deep within her.
1950, another young man sits at the same piano. This time, there is no story of love or romance, no moonlit lake. Instead as he sits down to play the second movement of the piece; a different image is displayed before him.
A moment of relative calm, a change in key. The notes sound almost discordant as an uncomfortable but stilling movement sweeps across the church. It is large and shows its age; it has seen this arrangement many times before. The notes now echoe, dancing once more through the room, rolling over every seat and statue.
A hundred eyes all fixed on one little box, moving in time don the long dark isle to the young man's song. An overwhelming feeling of loss fills the church. Each key plagued with grief. Even with the empty feeling touching every inch of skin in the room, the keys are played delicately, finally settling into Dflat. The young man is struggling, stricken with grief, the weight of every note banging down on him. Remembering what once was of that little box.
A friend. A friend who had prematurely left the world of living. His song was not a love song but rather a solemn funeral hymn.
Today the piece had a grave mediative effect. The movement, denser in consistency than the first. The notes fade, as if preparing for what must come- the goodbye. Each key is touched once again with such delicacy, each fingertip shaking, but determined to play through. Tears roll, like the thundering last notes, shivering and echoing throughout the church. All eyes on that little box.
I begin the third and final movement, Beethoven’s weightiest, leaving he best for last. A stormy final movement, loud and powerful, full of passion and hunger. As I sit in that room again, overlooking the hills I see a storm brewing. Dark clouds advancing, swelling up and lifting through the magnificent old curtains. The gusts of wind sweep the pages off my stand, flying them about my room like puppets on a string.
The rapid progressions from note to note invigorating. Many fast arpeggios and strongly accented notes, only complementing mother natures own performance.
Requiring skill and precision, flamboyant playing, the piece is no longer delicate and smooth. Instead it is ferocious as I stamp down on the keys, the lower notes impetus for the rest of the piece. The storm was sweeping across the hills fast now, the thunder now rolling just as hard as the notes I played. The trickling high notes played like rain pelting down upon the windows, cooling the air. Presto agitato, pushing and moving and sweeping across every inch of me. The notes on the page once more being evicted into the air. Raising the hair on my arms, was it the cool storm or the passion of playing?
Pushing and playing, the finality in the tone as slowly the notes become more lyrical and my body begins to relax once more. The storm was settling and coming to an end.
The previous movements of Beethoven’s Sonata sweeping before me. Love, lust, anger, loss, ferocity and power. How music had lent me its storytelling. Told me more than words ever could; strongly yet carefully my fingers touched the final notes. So magnificently interlaced.
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