So, Judy, Where Does That Leave You?

As Kevin Rudd refuses to accept that Art isn’t something he necessarily understands, and will continue to categorise as “absolutely disgusting” I think I’m slowly beginning to accept my conservative nature.

Oh dear.

So, really, I actually like Turnbull because I kind of agree with the sentiment that “police should not be invading galleries”. Does this sound like a frenzied witch hunt to anyone else? I can’t imagine that the police attempting to track down the model, and trying to reduce Henson’s photographs to nothing more than smut not being horribly embarrassed by the entire situation. I’m kind of embarrassed for them.

I can understand that you might not LIKE Henson’s work, but that doesn’t make it particularly immoral. Voltaire knows what I’m saying, “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it”.

I’d like to take a similar moral high ground, and be defending something that I have no faith in, but I actually like Henson’s work. Even more so I appreciate the sentiments of what his naked children are saying. It’s not so much about how they’re sexualised as the way that people are shocked to see them so stripped. There’s this prevailing notion that children are completely innocent creatures, but I think that society tends to forget that they’ve got to transition some time. These aren’t infants, they’re beings on the cusp of maturity and being exposed isn’t about some sexual deviance as the moralistic objectors seem to believe.

More importantly is my apparent switch to the Liberals, or whatever.

Although, I don’t think I would have ever voted to keep Howard in, despite how sorry I felt for him when he had to give his losing speech on election night (a downer on our party, even). I also don’t think I’ll ever be able to stomach voting to let Mr 17% Nelson in, but more likely I won’t even have to consciously make that decision.

My dad told me that I was a wet Liberal, or whatever. I’m not sure he knows what he’s necessarily talking about because this morsel of advice was slipped into the conversation he was having about the newspaper articles in a Maitland newspaper. In the 1800s.
He’s insane.

Apparently it’s a real phrase, although barely.
I don’t think I have to assign my political preferences anywhere, but it’s odd because I’m feeling more and more inclined to,

One day I’ll understand…

Take Her Back, Take Her Back, Take Her Back, Take Her Back To Her Place

I feel bad, like I ruined that song. Again.
Sorry!

Llamas are always right, that’s why they’re llamas.

Cruel Professor

I could spend hours trying to write a truly, openly spiteful note to you.

We both know that half of it would be lost in ambiguity and the rest in translation.

So here it is.

Think of it as conceptual anger.

I’d Rather Hang Around And Be Down With My Best Friend If She Wants Me

I read someone’s blog about people that should be sent to desert islands.

Here’s one:

Crazy Canadian girlfriends who just seem angry and threatened and think that it’s weird that a girl and boy are such close friends. It’s just that what you think obviously matters to him, because poor platonic girl friend gets left behind and it hurts just a bit more than you seem to realise.

Poor lonely platonic girl friend.

Except, then Crazy Canadian girlfriend went back to Canada, and it just seemed to snap back. Poor lonely platonic girl friend, though, shouldn’t have had to wait, really.

Chance of rescue: 5/10 (Who needs him anyway?)

You Need A Man Who’s Either Rich Or Losing A Screw

I don’t see why you think that you want my opinion on what you’re doing when I know that you know that I know that you know what we both know.

I don’t know why you think that keeping those secrets is going to make anything easier. Especially not in the end. Especially not when I already know, and I’m waiting for you to let me know too.

I’m dealing with it, do you have to see me cringe? I was keeping it behind the closed doors.

You drive me crazy, some questions are better left alone, some thoughts are better left away from me.

They’re your words, how can I begrudge you those? I just don’t know, I don’t necessarily want to know them like that, you know?

Mostly, I would have assumed you did know, maybe do know, and it kind of stings.

Jeez, Louise.
Thanks a bunch, honey.

For Listening Too Long To One Sound

So, Death Cab rumours are flying everywhere, and despite the fact that I’ve almost decided that I definitely won’t see them, I’m still absolutely craving Ben Gibbard to announce his genius IRL. Or something.

I just saw an ad for the RSPCA saying that some insane percentage of women don’t leave abusive relationships because they’re worried about their dogs. In effect, I don’t think that the ad made an incredible amount of sense beyond the mere shock of such a statistic.
Maybe it’s supposed to let you know that not all abandoned pets are unloved, or something. Or to get you to leave your abuser without fear of your dog facing retribution, or something.

The scariest part is that it’s probably true. I can’t even imagine what that would feel like.

The RSPCA needs you, you need the RSPCA etc etc.

I like the RSPCA, but it’s about 11pm and that kind of scared me. I guess that was the point, though.

I prefer the kind of RSPCA promotions that involves it becoming a docudrama on a random commercial network with what seems to be an obligatory, impossibly tiny kitty rescued from an obscure crevice. Sometimes the animals die, but never on camera, and never through the fault of the officers sent to rescue them.

I like that the human owners and bad and the animals are good and that everything can be clearly illustrated in black and white.
Why can’t normal things be so simple?

Life is easy. It’s those frustrating monochrome shades that are hard.

I am counting down until the end of semester.

So far I have 10 minutes of a media seminar, 3900 words of various essays and essay plans and a few more days.
Let’s see what winter is going to bring for dessert.

I’m Not Going To Say That I’m Not The Same ‘Cause I Need All Of The Friends That I Can Get

My name is Elizabeth and I am a Bad Person.

I decided to skip class because I should really spend any time that I have writing the essay that is due for it, except here I am, sitting at my desk and I’m writing this, and half watching Oprah.

This is kind of ridiculous because whereas I don’t particularly mind quoting the endless opinions that everyone seems to have about indigenous power and somehow squeezing them into an essay, I actually Do Hate Oprah. She’s so annoying.
I am glad that I’m not American because I think that I would be ostracized for having any kind of objection to their God.
If Obama wins the primaries can you really say that it had nothing to do with Oprah’s endorsement?
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around does it make a sound?

Another problem that I have with Oprah is that she seems to use her ridiculous power over the U S of A to promote Wonder Shirts that can have SIX different styles and only cost $20!
Although, I guess someone needs to warn America.
Apparently, they are too lazy to change their shirts now.

Yesterday I was aimlessly walking through Broadway, because that’s what I like to do on my stupid thirty minutes of lunch break that, essentially, I get forced to indulge in. Usually I just spend money on stupid stuff because there’s nothing else to do for thirty minutes>
Yesterday I decided to spend money stupidly on Boost Juice! Boost!

I don’t like Boost Juice so much because they make me sad that I don’t have a kitchen. They can’t make the nice Banana Smoothies just the way I like them because they use too much ice. When you get a Banana flavoured whatever you mostly are inhaling the ferocious disappointment that comes with all of the promise of Banana flavoured whatevers and their utter inability to deliver. It’s like sucking something through a straw (although, yes, I realise that it actually is that as well), and you’re so so so so close to the goodness and it just never comes, and you just keep sucking. And sucking. It sucks. Suckily.

I think I missed the point. When I was walking to Boost I walked past this guy in the brightest blue tshirt ever, and for some reason I did a double take.
This itself isn’t so weird, but the fact that when I looked up he was waving at me kind of was.
Weird, but kind of familiar.
So I realised that he was this guy that I’d met on my first day of USyd ever (MATH1002, I think) and we talked, and he was nice, and turns out that I can’t even remember his name now.
The reason I never talked to him again was because I was so scared that he didn’t recognise me, so I never really waved. I realise that this was mostly due to my irrational fear of social situations, but in the end I just look like a snob, a cat, and overall I come across as this Cold Ice Queen. Or something.
Turns out that he was to grow some fugly facial hair during the year, so the longer I didn’t say Hi the less reason and chance that I had to say Hi and the more the facial hair grew so the less it began to matter.

Not surprisingly, but I didn’t have any non-College uni friends last year.

I did wave to him once, though, during second semester when I was high on flu tablets and delirious with fever. I have no idea if he even knew who I was. Well, I guess apparently he did, because another semester or so later he was there, waving at me.

I was standing in the BOOST line and had just worked out who he was, so I turned around and he was on the escalator, staring at me. Creepy, but not really in the bad way, I think.

So now I’m thinking maybe I should pretend that I go to USyd still, and that somehow I suddenly got enrolled in Engineering classes or something because I’m really kind of bummed that I can’t remember his name. Especially since he shaved his fugly facial disfigurations off. Especially since it means that I can’t stalk him on Facebook.
Mostly, I realise that this makes me sound like a silly little high school priss or whatever. I don’t think that matters.
That was my story, and it was FINE.
It got me through the end of work yesterday, though. Haha *cough*loser*cough*.

More importantly, I may be up to something tonight, and I’m kind of hoping it is something. Or something. I don’t know. I just want to do something. I hope it works out, and that something gets done.

If this doesn’t make sense, I don’t care, I’ll still die happy.
Cello?! I mean Vampire Weekend, and then Band of Horses, and then the Fratellis at the Metro? Yes please.

Death Cab rumours seem strong, but I’m scared that they’ll come and I’ll be too broke to notice :(.

In other news, I look like a librarian right now.
I’d complain, or something, but just between us, you know I love it.

<3

Is Your Bed Made? Is Your Sweater On?

One more thing.

STOCKING FOX.
I don’t know why.

I’m naming her Isobel.

Look Outside The Raincoats Are Coming, Say “Oh!”

A-Punk.
Fond memories of pseudo-drunken boys rocking out, unfortunately lacking in fish finger gloves, however.

Also without actual drums, but this is immaterial. It may have even ended up ruining the whole thing. I mean, pfft, who needs reality?

Instead of uttering sweet nothings about the aboriginal subjects of my essay I have been obsessing over the perfect movie night. Who knows why?
I have like…seven weeks of holidays when no one will be in Sydney, and so I figured if I can offer some semblance of perfect in entertainment, maybe someone would come to see me :P.

I think a movie night requires three. Not only because three is an accepted marathon type number, but also because three is the BEST number.
I have always wondered why, but it’s impossible to explain.

It needs three layers, because a movie night is like an ogre like an onion and layers are also fun.
Layer one is comedic, layer two is dramatic, and layer three is slowly bringing you to the realisation of perfection.

I’m not sure how to divide them up, though.
I was trying to work out the number ones from the number twos and the number threes from my favourite movies, so maybe I’d just list them, or something.

ONES.
Election, High Fidelity, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Ten Things I Hate About You, Reality Bites, and something…I don’t know. This Is Spinal Tap? (HIS AMP GOES UP TO 11.)

TWOS.
Donnie Darko, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Control, The Virgin Suicides, Atonement, Top Gun even? I’m not sure. I just think it needs to build tension, TENSION.

THREES.
Garden State, Lars and the Real Girl, Juno, The Royal Tenenbaums. Something perfect.

So, I’m thinking that I’d really like to watch Election, then Donnie Darko, and then Garden State.
I think so.
I have to work on this.

More importantly, I got woken up this morning by the frantic text message that told me Vampire Weekend were going to be at the Metro (awesome).
I assume it was announced on Triple J because it’s not on the internet. I also am going to assume that it’s true or I will be crying later.

So looks like my first week of August will exist as one of the most musically delightful experiences of the year.
VAMPIRE WEEKEND >> BAND OF HORSES >> THE FRATELLIS

Awesome.

xxxx

He Likes To Read The Books Written For Girls

Do you ever feel like you’re in between your head and reality?

That sounds weird, maybe, but I was walking around today with my social barrier of tiny white headphones, and suddenly I realised that I was really anxious. I don’t know what it was, I felt claustrophobic, or something, I’m not sure that I can even articulate it.

iPods are funny things. They make old people angry because whenever they say something to you and you can’t hear them they think that you’re just some of the insolent youth that are ultimately what’s wrong with the world today.
Old people don’t like me because I realise that they’ve said something, so I just stare at them awkwardly until they scowl and the lights finally change. Crossing the road then becomes an uncomfortable experience.
At the same time as people glaring at you because you’re ignoring the world, and are creating your own little bubble I think that mp3 players actually make walking, busing, catching a train, or just sitting a more involved experience, albeit kind of exclusive.
How can you seriously think that you’re not taking more in when you’re listening to music? You’re walking with someone singing into your ears, and it feels like you’ve got your own soundtrack.
I think that it’s the most delightful sensation, really.

You know how you stare at the stars to make you feel so small? Melodies that colour your movements make you feel like a star.

I’m in a weird, indescribable mood.
I’m finding Camera Obscura to be so blissfully indulgent.

I’m hiding from the world, clutching Astrid with soft Scottish musings and everything seems pretty nice, really.