As happy as a cupcake in frilly packaging, she wears frilly dresses and frilly smiles, and even though one would scarcely use the word frilly to describe a smile, it seems appropriate to describe Lisa's smile. It's what she was made to do. That sweet girl. With her frilly smile.
She runs about with her camera all day long taking happy snaps of happy moments on happy days where the sky is always blue and if not blue then a wonderful shade of gray.
For nothing and no day is less than wonderful for Lisa and she'll be the first to have you know it.
She poses and pouts and thinks oh how fair I am, she parades her pictures for the world to see, so proud of her eyes and her hair and her lips. A mirror and a lens is all she needs.
And perhaps a piece of paper, because writing it down is lovely too.
So pretty.
So empty.
Life is simple for her. Because she fakes a frilly smile.
Life is simple for her. Because she sees only her reflection.
May 29, 2009
May 27, 2009
A hopeful ghost
So I am a writer of the freelance variety, and right now I am writing and earning money as a, suitably named, 'ghostwriter'.
In the literary world, the one I admire so much, I am, by all intents and purposes, a ghost. The way I see it, perhaps the way I attempt to console myself, is I am gaining experience skulking about in the shadows so that when, eventually, I walk out into the light ,I'm ready.
The light; so damn daunting.
Lack of confidence stems from fear. A fear that, as one might find oneself in the wrong queue at the Department of Home Affairs, I've somehow ended up in the wrong career queue.
Everything seems stupid when it fails.
So I'm hopeful that this is clever.
In the literary world, the one I admire so much, I am, by all intents and purposes, a ghost. The way I see it, perhaps the way I attempt to console myself, is I am gaining experience skulking about in the shadows so that when, eventually, I walk out into the light ,I'm ready.
The light; so damn daunting.
Lack of confidence stems from fear. A fear that, as one might find oneself in the wrong queue at the Department of Home Affairs, I've somehow ended up in the wrong career queue.
Everything seems stupid when it fails.
So I'm hopeful that this is clever.
The Edward Delusion
He has pallid skin, an all-consuming stare, carelessly kept hair and he says all the right things in all the most paradisaical locations and he stares at the girl he has been waiting for his whole life – and that’s a long time - with those deep, intensely mysterious eyes; he is perfection personified, out-of-this-world-romantic, flawless and…
He’s not real.
Edward Cullen is a character written for the purpose of being every girl’s fantasy, every girl’s dream and I haven't met a girl yet who doesn't agree. Stephanie Meyer has certainly succeeded but in doing so, has she created irrevocably unrealistic expectations of beautiful men for young women?
We’ve seen it before, smitten tweens the world over glorifying the male stars that appear in teenage romance films, my Robert Pattinson was Leonardo Di Caprio and I remember how obsessed I was with him. My friends and I must have watched Romeo + Juliet a thousand times just for glimpses of him in the early morning light, smoking a cigarette whilst writing profound poetry of an unintelligible nature, at least unintelligible for a 12 year old, or for those adorable scenes by Juliet’s pool after the Capulet soiree.
But we’ve never encountered such a perfect character as Edward, sure, Leo was Romeo but Edward is the modern day Romeo and a vampire to boot, and vampires are oh so popular right now. Vampires of yesteryears have hardly been portrayed as gentle and loving beings, like the Cullen family are, but they are fast becoming known as just that.
We’ve been idolizing stars since the dawn of time and every so often you ask yourself why, when they are so flawed, and we can blatantly see that when we pick up Heat magazine on any given day, and we are constantly reminded that the beauties we see on the covers of fashion magazines rarely if ever look that stunning. The faces and bodies we see on those covers are all thanks to the wizardry of air brushing. The conclusion I draw is that we see their roles in film as who they are; we like to think we know the difference and we do, to some degree, but we still see them as their perfect, or perfectly imperfect roles on screen. We’ll always see Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen, the lion in a vampiric love story. Mostly, when girls speak of him, they say Edward, not Robert, which is proof enough.
Yes, Robert Pattinson has sex appeal, and he's possibly quite charming and probably a little bad and all those other characteristics that women love to love and hate in men but, as can be said for every celebrity out there, he is not the role he plays on screen. If he was, he would be a promising young wizard who died during the Triwizard Tournament, a surrealist painter who was a little left of center and died at the age of 84. The list could go on.
I've always been intrigued by celebrity culture, what's not intriguing about it? But to worshipfully gaze upon them as somehow superior, the very epitome of perfection is unhealthy, especially to young minds in their formative years.
Having said all that, I really admire the Twilight stories for their romanticism. The films themselves are shot beautifully in my favourite kind of weather; rainy. And even though I no longer crush obsessively on male celebrities, I can fathom what all the fuss is about.
He’s not real.
Edward Cullen is a character written for the purpose of being every girl’s fantasy, every girl’s dream and I haven't met a girl yet who doesn't agree. Stephanie Meyer has certainly succeeded but in doing so, has she created irrevocably unrealistic expectations of beautiful men for young women?
We’ve seen it before, smitten tweens the world over glorifying the male stars that appear in teenage romance films, my Robert Pattinson was Leonardo Di Caprio and I remember how obsessed I was with him. My friends and I must have watched Romeo + Juliet a thousand times just for glimpses of him in the early morning light, smoking a cigarette whilst writing profound poetry of an unintelligible nature, at least unintelligible for a 12 year old, or for those adorable scenes by Juliet’s pool after the Capulet soiree.
But we’ve never encountered such a perfect character as Edward, sure, Leo was Romeo but Edward is the modern day Romeo and a vampire to boot, and vampires are oh so popular right now. Vampires of yesteryears have hardly been portrayed as gentle and loving beings, like the Cullen family are, but they are fast becoming known as just that.
We’ve been idolizing stars since the dawn of time and every so often you ask yourself why, when they are so flawed, and we can blatantly see that when we pick up Heat magazine on any given day, and we are constantly reminded that the beauties we see on the covers of fashion magazines rarely if ever look that stunning. The faces and bodies we see on those covers are all thanks to the wizardry of air brushing. The conclusion I draw is that we see their roles in film as who they are; we like to think we know the difference and we do, to some degree, but we still see them as their perfect, or perfectly imperfect roles on screen. We’ll always see Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen, the lion in a vampiric love story. Mostly, when girls speak of him, they say Edward, not Robert, which is proof enough.
Yes, Robert Pattinson has sex appeal, and he's possibly quite charming and probably a little bad and all those other characteristics that women love to love and hate in men but, as can be said for every celebrity out there, he is not the role he plays on screen. If he was, he would be a promising young wizard who died during the Triwizard Tournament, a surrealist painter who was a little left of center and died at the age of 84. The list could go on.
I've always been intrigued by celebrity culture, what's not intriguing about it? But to worshipfully gaze upon them as somehow superior, the very epitome of perfection is unhealthy, especially to young minds in their formative years.
Having said all that, I really admire the Twilight stories for their romanticism. The films themselves are shot beautifully in my favourite kind of weather; rainy. And even though I no longer crush obsessively on male celebrities, I can fathom what all the fuss is about.
May 26, 2009
Just ordinary Friday night screams
She sits on her bed chatting carelessly to a friend
Cushions supporting her back supporting the life perfectly formed in her stomach.
They creep and crawl in the sticky night canyon warmth
Cutting the telephone lines, trudging up the hill, over the fence and down the driveway
There's a Porsche, a yellow Firebird and a Camaro.
He sits on the side of the bed next to his pregnant friend
They're talking and laughing and happy.
He's drinking beer. He's probably high.
Bang. There's a boy in a car and one kills him.
She too is in bed, the brunette. She's reading. She's comfortable.
She's safe. She's content.
One goes to the electric gate to keep guard
She spies the dead boy in the car.
The three others go around the back and break in.
He's laying on the big beige sofa in a mescaline daze
He too is safe, he too is content.
One enters and sees a man on a big beige sofa, seemingly asleep.
Another one checks the bedrooms and sees the beautiful mother-to-be in bed chatting to her friend who is probably high sitting on the side. And she sees the brunette in another bed in another room, immersed in a book yet she looks up and waves. The another one goes back and informs the other two that there are three others in the house.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howls. The only sound for miles.
The one holds a gun to the head of the man dozing on the big beige sofa.
Who are you?
I'm the devil and I'm here to do the devil's business.
The neighbours will recall hearing screams.
Just ordinary Friday night screams.
Cushions supporting her back supporting the life perfectly formed in her stomach.
They creep and crawl in the sticky night canyon warmth
Cutting the telephone lines, trudging up the hill, over the fence and down the driveway
There's a Porsche, a yellow Firebird and a Camaro.
He sits on the side of the bed next to his pregnant friend
They're talking and laughing and happy.
He's drinking beer. He's probably high.
Bang. There's a boy in a car and one kills him.
She too is in bed, the brunette. She's reading. She's comfortable.
She's safe. She's content.
One goes to the electric gate to keep guard
She spies the dead boy in the car.
The three others go around the back and break in.
He's laying on the big beige sofa in a mescaline daze
He too is safe, he too is content.
One enters and sees a man on a big beige sofa, seemingly asleep.
Another one checks the bedrooms and sees the beautiful mother-to-be in bed chatting to her friend who is probably high sitting on the side. And she sees the brunette in another bed in another room, immersed in a book yet she looks up and waves. The another one goes back and informs the other two that there are three others in the house.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howls. The only sound for miles.
The one holds a gun to the head of the man dozing on the big beige sofa.
Who are you?
I'm the devil and I'm here to do the devil's business.
The neighbours will recall hearing screams.
Just ordinary Friday night screams.
May 19, 2009
Sanity, gone with the wind
Kahil Gibran had it right when he said, “For what is it to die, but to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?” Only, I don't think he meant it in quite the same way I mean it.
It's windy and I'm moody. Why?
Bob Dylan thinks the answer is blowing in the wind, I beg to differ. It's all quite scientific actually. There is a logical albeit completely unsatisfying reason for the madness in the wind. Ions. Or atoms. Or charged molecules. Now without getting too much into the science of it, and by too much I mean not really at all, it has something to do with the friction of these ions, negative and positive (which as it happens, is not so positive a word in this case). Essentially, it messes with our bodies and our moods.
The Santa Ana winds for example, which blow through the desert like the devil, are extremely dry and powerful, violent and unpredictable. According to Joan Didion, it's the wind that shows us how close to the edge we are.
I've never experienced this legendary wind, though I've read about it in literature, old and new, and I've heard it referred to in music and film, and as dangerously damaging as it sounds, I'd like to, at least once, experience the sheer force of it.
It kindles fires; burning hills, burning passions.
The wind encircles you, entwines itself around and through you, enveloping you. Merciless in it's scorching speed, it weaves around shop corners and parks.
Tempestuous, boisterous, wild and bombastic. Meandering.
It has to be said that I truly, truly detest the wind. Messing up perfectly good hair is not the only thing which disturbs and agitates me, although, yes, it is a definite factor.
I once knew a girl who would refuse to go to school if it was windy. I was never that extreme, but I get it.
I'd rather be a-soaking in the rain or dancing in the gentle pearly snow; wind is the element that would keep me indoors.
Myth has it that suicide and homicide rates reach all time highs during the Santa Ana winds, which reminds me of something else my favourite journalist, Joan Didion, wrote. “The season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.”
Wind is quite literally my worst nightmare, what hell would be like if hell existed.
Bad winds cause a plethora of physical torments such as headaches (give me Chinese water torture before a headache any day!), nausea (see previous bracketed comment), fatigue (see also: lazy, like a ceiling fan slowly, lethargically turning), asthma, water retention and a slower reaction time. And that's just the physical aspects...
Emotional, nervous, irritated, listless, insecure? Apathetic, anxious, depressed? Blame it on the wind.
Wind provokes me, it jeers as it wisps past in a hurry. I claim temporary insanity. All bets are off.
Pablo Picasso once said that the older you get the stronger the wind gets, and that it's always in your face. Now that I believe.
It's windy and I'm moody. Why?
Bob Dylan thinks the answer is blowing in the wind, I beg to differ. It's all quite scientific actually. There is a logical albeit completely unsatisfying reason for the madness in the wind. Ions. Or atoms. Or charged molecules. Now without getting too much into the science of it, and by too much I mean not really at all, it has something to do with the friction of these ions, negative and positive (which as it happens, is not so positive a word in this case). Essentially, it messes with our bodies and our moods.
The Santa Ana winds for example, which blow through the desert like the devil, are extremely dry and powerful, violent and unpredictable. According to Joan Didion, it's the wind that shows us how close to the edge we are.
I've never experienced this legendary wind, though I've read about it in literature, old and new, and I've heard it referred to in music and film, and as dangerously damaging as it sounds, I'd like to, at least once, experience the sheer force of it.
It kindles fires; burning hills, burning passions.
The wind encircles you, entwines itself around and through you, enveloping you. Merciless in it's scorching speed, it weaves around shop corners and parks.
Tempestuous, boisterous, wild and bombastic. Meandering.
It has to be said that I truly, truly detest the wind. Messing up perfectly good hair is not the only thing which disturbs and agitates me, although, yes, it is a definite factor.
I once knew a girl who would refuse to go to school if it was windy. I was never that extreme, but I get it.
I'd rather be a-soaking in the rain or dancing in the gentle pearly snow; wind is the element that would keep me indoors.
Myth has it that suicide and homicide rates reach all time highs during the Santa Ana winds, which reminds me of something else my favourite journalist, Joan Didion, wrote. “The season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.”
Wind is quite literally my worst nightmare, what hell would be like if hell existed.
Bad winds cause a plethora of physical torments such as headaches (give me Chinese water torture before a headache any day!), nausea (see previous bracketed comment), fatigue (see also: lazy, like a ceiling fan slowly, lethargically turning), asthma, water retention and a slower reaction time. And that's just the physical aspects...
Emotional, nervous, irritated, listless, insecure? Apathetic, anxious, depressed? Blame it on the wind.
Wind provokes me, it jeers as it wisps past in a hurry. I claim temporary insanity. All bets are off.
Pablo Picasso once said that the older you get the stronger the wind gets, and that it's always in your face. Now that I believe.
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