You’re In My Wallet With Your Waterproof Smile

I saw the Jane Austen Book Club last night. At the worst cinema in town, because I have finally come to realise that even though Newcastle is mere hours from Sydney, it isn’t even nearly the same. The Showcase was the only place showing it. On time, at least, because it did take them two months to get Across the Universe, the Beatles muscial that I have already loved, hated, and have grown to regard as passable.
I was so disappointed with the film, though! Sometimes, I’m so sure Jane Austen writes my inner monologue, a thought that is hardly original, as she seems to create the entire heartbeat for at least half of the population whether they realise it or not. I probably expected too much out of a film that was only destined to line the empty minds of summer, but I found that it lacked the passion of the novels, that it just didn’t push itself towards anything, and just retained its complacent existence. I don’t want to ruin the plot, or anything, but surprise, surprise! The pairings are shown, broken and redeemed, everyone has their happy ending.
I realise that Austen never wrote about the perils of divorce, but the social paradigm of the 19th century would hardly have been exposed to its notion beyond shameful whispers. The point of Austen novels, at least as far as I am concerned, is that the author never made a match that wasn’t justified by true love. The marriages in the movie were truly unhappy, I feel cheated that they just fell back into place. I don’t even want to see them with other partners, I wish it had shown some kind of moral fibre, a single woman finding herself after a matrimonial tragedy, but it fell short into some ridiculous, soft ending.
I don’t like happy endings. I think that I am destined to a life of misery, because I feel like I’m being slighted when I read or see something that just ends as blissfully as it begins. I don’t know, but I think I find a grotesque beauty in the macarbe that can’t be equalled by mere happiness. The art of suffering is far more romantic than any ride through a park in a carriage. It’s probably ridiculous to say that, but I like the bleakness of tragedy, and despair. Obviously it hurts in real life, but in the end I’m probably striving for it. I want to write a book. It’s going to be the bleakest piece of prose I can imagine. That’s kind of a disturbing thought too. Like The Secret History, I don’t want anyone to end happily. I want to follow their demise, but don’t care for any retribution.

Maybe that’s why I like my coffee so bitter.

In more exciting news, I am finally home. Back in Sydney, where I feel like I belong. I’m not going to move back to Newcastle, my mum is selling her house at the end of the year anyway, so I won’t have my own room anymore. Even though no one is here, there are people I can go and see in Sydney, there are things I can do, and there is the solitude and independence that I have been craving ever since I moved back to Black Hill. It’s pouring now, but I’m rejoicing in the bleak outlook. The city looks wonderful drenched in mist, it looks ‘totally awesome wet’. I can’t wait to begin again.
I also can’t wait for sunshine. Victoria Park is calling my name.