So Pleased With Ourselves For Using So Many Verbs And Nouns

Pleasantville! The little town that time forgot.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt a pretty strong attraction to this 1998 film.
Maybe it’s just always kind of felt important, or maybe I just crave the presence of poodle skirts and sweater sets in my own life.

It’s rife with symbolism, that’s pretty much obvious. If you miss the infection of technicolour then you’re probably not really watching the right film. It’s a nice analogy of the racism that consumed the 1950s America. It’s hard to miss with store signs declaring that “No Coloreds” are allowed.

When two unlikely (but not the worst ever, since they don’t kiss) twins are thrust into the utopian, monochrome suburbs they try and exist in the oppression of perfection, of being ‘pleasant’. It’s just that the sexual revolution that began in the hands of one displaced teenager led to the spread of colours, you know, real colours.

The thing I like best about it is the final courtroom scene that harps back to Atticus Finch’s stint in To Kill A Mockingbird. There’s something visually arresting about the division of greys and colours that forces you to pay attention. The parallels between the concepts of utopia and dystopia are revealed in fairly simple terms.

I don’t know, I guess that the right to knowledge is a fundamental concept in Western culture, and that’s basically what changes the population of Pleasantville into a more contemporary version of itself. It’s just that it all changed at the hands of intruders.
These intruders didn’t particularly force the hand of these unknowing subjects, but at the same time they changed a world that they shouldn’t have even had control over. I guess the question here is why did the TV Repairman even want them in Pleasantville in the first place?

I just think that the imposition of Western ideologies on places that aren’t, and shouldn’t necessarily be under the control of Western idealists is a fundamentally disturbing practice. Democracy, and freedoms that work in a society in the West don’t automatically become applicable to other areas.

I think that Keating was right about the elitist media coverage of the Beijing Olympics. Who are we as a country to decide that we’re better than someone else? It’s just a little bit petty, or something.

I don’t know why this is bugging me now. First it was Just Cause, and now Pleasantville.

I think that I will lay the blame firmly on my degree. Except I don’t want to blame anyone. I kind of just like having such idealistic concerns, if only because I’ll be involved in more interesting arguments. Kind of shallow, but I guess that that is kind of me.

A Nice Day For A Walk In The Park

Today I decided that it’s time.

It’s time to make that admission that’s been hanging over me for just the longest time.
You probably already know, how could you not? It colours and shades most everything I do, say, or even am.
It’s ridiculous, you’d probably know that too, but today, you see, is the day.

I’ll admit it: I am a worrier.

The Elizabeth Street Blood Donation Centre was open for business, so I ambled in and offered up my humble veins.
I’ve given blood before, and I know it’s no big deal, but there I was, shaking all over in my well-worn boots. Ridiculous.

“The needle! The needle!” exclaims my frantic mind, but who am I to hush my conscious fears?
It’s just, you know, after you’re strapped into the chair, it’s a bit late to change your mind (and to save face at the same time.
I could feel a nervous blush spread over my chest in blotches, and the nurse (lovely Caroline) told me to calm down, relax my arm, it’s all going to be okay, honey.
(Incidentally, she also told me that I looked like Kate Winslet. What? Except that’s another ridiculous story.)

Then, eyes wide shut, the needle was in while I was left waiting for the pain.
“Darling, you didn’t even flinch.”

Ha! Of course I didn’t flinch!
What is pain to me? I’m a McNaughton! (Well, kind of, it seemed the only appropriate refrain.)

Less than ten minutes later I was slightly more woozy, and had one less shiny metal object stuck in my forearm.

What the frick was I worried abou?
But, you see, like I said before, now I’m going to admit it.
I worry too fricking much.

I think it’s to the point of insanity sometimes.
I know, maybe, that I drove a few people crazy over the summer with my frantic fears, and ever present, unquenchable thirst for reassurance.
I shudder to look back, especially now when it’s so very apparent that my fears were so unfounded.
(Sorry about that, and stuff..)

So I’m going to introduce you to my new mantra: “Things Just Work Out.”

Why shouldn’t I think that? What hasn’t, in my life so far at least, just worked itself out?

Crazy.
Actually, I tried this little affirmation out a few weeks ago when I just couldn’t handle stressing about everything anymore, and all sorts of wonderful things happened.
I’m not exactly about to go out and buy a copy of the Oprah endorsed Secret (at least, we all hope not), but hello power of positive thinking! Maybe.

Now, here I am.
A little woozy, a little sleepy, and all held together by a bandaged arm and the enduring spirit of charity.
My name is Elizabeth, and I am going to try oh so gosh darn hard not to worry about simply everything anymore.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

Anyway, so this little episode also reconfirmed another thought that I tend to come across often.
I am a generic looking person. Oh my gosh.

The whole ‘Kate Winslet’ suggestion (oh yes, I realise how ridiculous it is) was followed by interregation about which blood band I usually use, surely Crown Street? Except I haven’t been to any in Sydney.
It was simply the effects of my over familiar face. My common features. My complete lack of aesthetic originality.

Next thing you know, she’ll be telling me I have some sort of accent.
Gosh.

I Like Your Sundress

I fear short people.
It’s not because I’m convinced that they have some mythical powers, because oh yeah, that’s kind of stupid.
It’s just that…when I am standing next to them I feel so ugly.

Or, in a more socially acceptable word, ungainly. Or at least, publicly.
(I know that when any girl professes to be unattractive she’s met with the chorus of obligatory “oh no”s. The faster they come, though, the more of a lie they inevitably are. They make me feel grimy, and I don’t much care for their false promises.)

I’m, what? Five foot nine? Not particularly tall, not at all short.
I was shocked just last December when I found out that I wasn’t actually the five foot seven I’d been when I graduated high school. Afterwards, however, I’ve learned to be grateful. I was starting to get kind of worried that my dear Mum Dog was shrinking.

It’s just that standing next to someone that’s vertically challenged (and I mean ACTUALLY vertically challenged. Abby is short, yes, but adorably so. She is not under five feet tall. She does not make me want to hide for a while until the normal sized people come back) makes me feel ginourmous.

I was just walking home from uni today, when suddenly a whole wave of awkwardness took me over. Usually, though, I like the awkwardness of situations. Not today. It almost made me shiver (ick ick ick).
There she was, someone that I’d imagine to be barely five feet tall.
There I was, a lumbering giant, hoofing it down the road next to her.

Is the problem that I’m so jealous?

That’s kind of weird. I really used to be terribly jealous of so many things that I saw as being the feminine ideal. I always felt like the bulky one at the back, the awkward emphasis to any gaggle of girls in high school. I don’t know why things changed, but I think I just got bored with it.
I was sick of feeling inferior, and that lady Roosevelt told me (or at least someone, and I guess I got it 213786th hand) that people really needed my consent before doing that.

Mum was glad.
“Oh, I am so glad that you’ve finally stopped idolising that Joanna girl. She’s so boring.”
(My sentiments exactly. The problem is that it’s just another stage of me becoming my mother.)

It’s just that the short people thing still gets me sometimes.

I had this gorgeous teacher in High School for French. She was so sweet, and I loved her.
She was, you know, like four feet eleven.
In class you don’t notice, you’re sitting the whole time, it’s just that in the playground I felt so ridiculous that I found it hard to talk to her.
I couldn’t look her in the eyes, although this wasn’t so much a symptom as an aggravator. (Her eye line was directly in line with my chest, and while I have grown two inches taller since I graduated, I haven’t very much grown anywhere else.)
Ugh, awkwardness.

So please don’t judge my for my irrational fear of short people, because I need all the friends I can get. Dah dah dah dah.

I Need You So Much Closer

I Need You So Much Closer etc. etc. etc.

Death Cab was pretty nice. They had a little too much colour, maybe.
Some guy handed me a ticket for standing, so I was full of options. I kind of opted for the obvious.

I want to dance like Ben Gibbard. He dances awkward, but I love awkward.

I ran into someone I knew on the way out. It was a shock, but a nice shock.
Nice shocks are kind of the point, right?

People aren’t supposed to look above their eye level. I mean, it’s not like they’re not allowed to, but most of them don’t seem to try it out very often.
That’s why if you’re redecorating a room and you just don’t get a chance to finish it for some or other little reason, you just have to do it high enough to be just above someone’s eye level.

Thing is, though, that looking upwards is what I like to do best.
I think it’s just one of those things that I tend to do that doesn’t ever make sense.
Like my nervous head shake, like my cold hands, like my awkward eating, like my insistence on standing up on the bus, like my staring into the distance thinking because I forget to talk.

I like walking through the city at night with my eyes trained to the tops of skyscrapers.

I like to think that by looking up maybe it’s just because I’m not the same.

Good Times Never Felt So Good

Just a thought:

Little Red / Vampire Weekend >> Band Of Horses (surprise!) >> The Fratellis (I still loved them).

Je suis tres fatiguee.

I Rejoice Because The Hurting Is So Painless

Everytime that I come back to Black Hill, it seems like that it’s just to remind me of a few home truths (haha did you like what I did there?).

One of them is invariably my love of Slow Hands by Interpol. Oh My Gosh. Everytime I listen to it again somewhere along the empty highway I am forced to wonder how it ever left my conscious thoughts. Can’t you see what it’s done to my heart and soul?

Last night I went into Newcastle’s entertainment quarter, more ambiguously referred to as ‘in town’.
My darling Ray turned 20, and it was enough of an excuse to venture out into the hideous nightlife that Novocastrians have to offer.
Simply put, I am not a fan.

I was running late, and unfortunately this led to me running in heels through the streets to make it to the restaurant in ample time. Furthermore, this led to something that I would like to refer to as The Bogan Incident.

It leads to an odd dilemma. Does getting wolf whistled and cat called by a car load of hoons end up being a positive or negative experience?
Certainly when it happens it’s met with nose scrunching disdain, and a certain level of the snobbishness that I have always been accused of, but generally attempt to feverishly deny. My only question is, though, what would happen if they didn’t screech at you from their undoubtedly sticker laden car windows?

Would that mean that you’re not good enough for even the bogans?
Is it better to be appreciated by someone that you’d socially despise, or to not be appreciated at all?
It’s very Groucho Marx, in essence, and I guess that the answer is simply that I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would want to have me as a member.
Or something. 

I drove into the city, but then somehow ended up with someone to drive me home, and ended up ever so slightly inebriated. It was a strategic move, however, and provided the necessary beer coat with which to survive the biting cold.

Basically, Ray was drunk after the slightest tipple, and Lord knows that I love her, but she had others to entertain. I spent alot of the time speaking with my brother, which was fun, because HE’s fun. It’s just…I can do that at home.

I love his friends, and they keep telling me I’m the more adorable, less creepy version of my brother. Then we move on, undoubtedly, to our almost identical appearances.

JoFro: You know it’s good, though, you look like your brother, but you still look like a girl. I mean, Lizzie, you’re not very manly or anything. You know what I mean? You look like him but you’re still kind of pretty.

Thanks Jo! I think…
She tried to tell me that I was random. I think it went over her head sometimes. Oops.

It was nicely rebutted later, however, when Nathan was shocked to learn that we were, in fact, siblings.
He leaned over and sneakily whispered “Ohh, I thought that he was your boyfriend.”

Thank you, from the only straight boy that I know who owns a GHD. Oh, darling (Hey, that’s the name of the show).

Anyway, in short, with an abundance of people, and a lack of any prior knowledge of them I made my leave rather early.
Then I snuck into bed with Daisy (Astrid is just not much of a substitute), and we lived happily ever after.

Hurrah!

I Really See You Upside Down But My Brain Knows Better

I am so deliciously tired.
It’s good because I get to catch the train, and sleep away the actual reality of hard green seats, suspicious coughing, and the obligatory childlike questions.

So, the end of first week back?
Lord, I am so glad.
Almost everyone that I’ve been missing for months has been returned to me.
Except you, Abby! Soon, soon…

I spent $107.48 on text books, and I was kind of bummed. Then again, just a year ago that was what I spent buying just ONE of my required texts. At least they’re interesting this time (almost).

So last night I didn’t go to bed until 3am. Oh my gosh.
So, that was kind of awesome, because just a few months ago that would have meant that I wouldn’t be home until like 4am or something.

Also, hooray for Little Red. And Monday, which, despite contrary opinions, is really soon. Just because it’s only Friday doesn’t mean that it’s not just around the corner.

We all know what Monday brings… Hurrah!