Monday, February 28, 2011

The Origin of Love

I found another one! Actually I found it while searching for a completely different story. I'd totally forgotten that I ever wrote it.

Anyway, I don't remember the guidelines, or if there were any, but I do remember that it was inspired by a song from the off-broadway musical, Hedwig and the Angry Inch (which is, by the way, amazing. Go get the movie, now!). Anyway, feel free to listen to the song first

The Origin Of Love

Jacqueline sat up straight. The hairs on the back of her neck had suddenly stood on end, sending an eerie shiver down her spine. She looked up, halfway through rummaging for bus money, and gazed around for the source of her mental interruption. It was then that she saw him. Her Soul Mate. She couldn’t explain how, but somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew him; that he was something else. The expression on his face was just as peculiar as she assumed hers must be. She’d never been the type to believe in love at first sight, but it looked like Fate had an impressive sense of dramatic irony.

The screeching sound of a braking bus made its way to her ears and Jacqueline stood up, settling for gathering her things as she couldn’t gather her thoughts. As she made her way onto the bus, she took one last regretful look at the boy over her shoulder- her Soul Mate.

“I’m telling you! It was so bizarre, like something out of a romance novel!” Jacqueline exclaimed to her friends the following day. Most of them were giving her dubious looks, being just a sceptical about love as she normally was.
“Maybe you knew him in a past life?” Jacqueline’s beyond-superstitious friend Madeleine suggested.

This met general rejection from the group. The idea of past-lives was even more ridiculous than soul mates. The conversation quickly turned to all-things-sex as was the norm, but Jacqueline couldn’t steer her brain. She was still overcome with that unshakeable feeling that she had encountered something that could have changed her life, if only she’d acted when the opportunity was there. The cynical side of her would interject, voicing its doubt, but it was overpowered by her uncharacteristic optimism. Although, Jacqueline had to admit, no matter what it was she had or hadn’t felt, she’d never see the boy again.

Heavy bass pumped through her chest as Jacqueline walked down the hallway of yet another unfamiliar house full of friends-of-friends. The sound of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses just made its way to her ears over Britney’s latest hit. Normally she’d be buzzing with excitement, but she just wasn’t in the mood for a party tonight, she was too tired and stressed out over assessments to let herself have fun. She half-heartedly mingled, merely observing the enjoyment of others. The playful banter between boyfriends and girlfriends, the flirtatious lines of new acquaintances- she was surrounded by people, but she felt more alone than ever before. In the corner she noticed Madeleine, gesturing excitedly.

“And they actually believe, that humans started off as two people joined together, back-to-back, and we got separated by the gods, and that’s how we find our soul mate! They’re the person we were joined with. That’s the origin of love! I really like the theory because it accounts for homosexuality, I mean…” Jacqueline gave Madeleine’s victim a sympathetic look, as they stared blankly, trying to keep up with her quicksilver tongue.

Jacqueline turned into the kitchen, pondering the thought of leaving embarrassingly early. Then she saw him. Him. Her Soul Mate. She couldn’t explain how, but the feeling she’d experienced the first time she saw him was back; the expression on his face just as peculiar as it was in that fleeting moment at the bus stop. Jacqueline froze. She had no idea what to think, let alone what to do next.

“It’s you…” she winced as she heard the so-not-casual-start-to-a-conversation-with-your-future-husband sentence stumble over her tongue and break free of her lips. She felt her face redden with embarrassment. This was her Soul Mate; she couldn’t afford mistakes right now. That self-same original peculiar expression he wore, didn’t soften into undeniable-knowing as she thought it would. His eyes did not light up with happiness as he pictured his future with her, as she thought they would. And Jacqueline certainly didn’t feel as if, suddenly, all was right with the world, as she thought she would.

Her heart-rate quickened, as slowly, he crinkled his eyes into a smile, flashing his teeth at her briefly before opening his mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry. Have we met?” Jacqueline’s heart plummeted to her heels, as this boy, her Soul Mate, gazed at her in confusion. It dawned on her that perhaps she had been quick to assume, perhaps they weren’t meant to be together, as she thought they were. Perhaps, she thought, as he was turning away to talk to the girl by his side that she hadn’t even seen until now, he didn’t even recognise her.

Perhaps, on that day, at that bus stop- He hadn’t even seen her.

-m xx

Saturday, February 26, 2011


I did extension English for my senior years. Year 11 was actually fun- we had 2 classes and my class had Ms. Lidman for a teacher. She was pretty fresh- young, bubbly, keen to talk about shoes instead of the syllabus. Basically she was a great teacher. In year 12, the numbers dropped, and Ms Lidman had the English ext. 2 class (yes, a 4th unit of English, involving a deathly major work) and we were stuck with Mr. Profilio and his beloved Crime Writing.

Anyway, in year 11, English ext. was great. The assignments were actually really fun and the topics were far more interesting than regular English. We did a lot of appropriation, and one of the stories we were set had to be adapted from a poem or song. I chose Evie (all three parts, might I add) by Stevie Wright. Oddly, this was my absolute favourite song when i was in preschool, simply because my best friend was named Evie. (Incidentally, my sister's favourite song was "Cream" by Prince. I'm sure that went down well amongst The Wiggles at "bring your favourite song to preschool day") More recently, I actually listened to the lyrics and learnt what the song was about. I had always assumed that part three was about them breaking up. When I found out what the song was really about, it seemed an obvious choice to turn into a short story.

Any lines that seem just plain odd- are probably references/direct quotes from the lyrics. So I would recommend you read them first.


She was just 17 when I met her. I couldn't believe my eyes. it was amazing how someone so beautiful and entrancing could be so young and shy. Evie barely ever spoke, and when she did, her words fell out of her mouth and got tangled in her shoelaces. I asked her to a concert. her cheeks grew flushed and she didn't look up from the floor, but she said yes. I felt if I could just take her out, then maybe I'd see the real her, the one she kept locked away from everyone else, too shy to let it out. When I picked Evie up, my car keys jangling in my hand, I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face.

"Ready? We're gonna hear some sounds!" I asked as she opened the door. Evie flushed bright red, bit her lip and looked down again. I chose to take that as a yes. She'd worn her hair out, tumbling around her shoulders, and once again I was taken aback by her beauty, and how unaware she was. I managed to get an approximate total of 10 words out of her on the drive to the concert hall. It wasn't much, but for Evie, it meant a lot.
"Let your hair hang down," I muttered in her ear as we swung into the parking slot, ad for the first time, she truly looked at me.

When the pain gets too much I take myself back to that memory. I try to block out the rest but it seeps into my brain and replays like the chorus to that Stevie Wright song.

The day Evie told me she was pregnant was the happiest day of my life. I was so in love with her, and the thought of her carrying my child, so much a part of us that I felt complete when I didn't even realise I hadn't before. I couldn't find the words to say the things I felt, and couldn't define what made me feel the way I did.

I was the King of the World the day I took Evie to the hospital. I was longing to meet my baby, to know it it was a boy or a girl. The feeling of pride swelled in my chest and I knew that no one could feel the way I did.

Then it all went wrong.

Without warning doctors were rushing in, barking orders at each other. time passed so slow it felt like it had grounded to a halt. Everything was slipping away from me and i couldn't comprehend what was going on. Before I knew it, I was losing her. Nurses offered me reassuring words, "there's nothing you can do." But how could it have gone wrong? Something that happens every minute; every hour; every day. So many people are lucky, so why did I have to go through this? I didn't know what to do, I could barely think, and all I knew was I was losing her. I wished I believed in a god, so I could find comfort in prayer, sure that someone would help me. I couldn't carry on, and there was no one I could turn to. I would have given anything for that to have been a dream, but this nightmare was not one I would ever wake up from. And the only person who could ever fix me was gone.
I lost them both, and at that time, I knew nothing else.

-m xx

Friday, February 25, 2011

The Veil

With the stories and any other such things from my past I decide to post, I'll try to keep them in chronological order.

It's making me want to write something new, but I'd have to think of something and actually commit to one activity for about an hour so the chances of that are pretty slim.

Anyway I also wrote this in year 10. It was during an exam, probably a practice School Certificate exam. If my memory serves me correctly, we had to pick a "stimulus" out of three or four as our inspiration/starting point and mine was a painting of a woman wearing a veil. The story seems like it comes from a bad place but I can assure you it's entirely creative. I think I just started and went wherever my ideas lead me, which has always been my style. So long as it gets me that A, who cares? Please note that I'm leaving these unedited, save for spelling and punctuation. This one would have been written in about half an hour, so I'm sorry for anything obviously crap. You will also notice I was going through a one-word-sentences stage.

The Veil

Juliet stared at the painting hanging on the otherwise bare wall. The haunting image captivated her senses, leaving her with the suspicion that she was being sucked right into its depths.

I am part of the painting. I am the painting itself.

The still image moved her. It echoed her innermost feelings, as if her very being wa slaid out on the canvas. The paint formed an imprint of her thoughts and she was lost in them. her sensations filled her with a cold sense of dread. what she felt and saw was breaking down the tiny sliver of spirit that she had been left with. Slowly. Meticulously. Leaving her with nothing but her past.

Desperately, she had clung to her denial, in an attempt to shield herself. But nothing can shield you from the truth when its life goal is to make itself known to you, and Juliet had suddenly found herself alone.

Images from the past flashed before her eyes. Betrayel. Anger. Regret. Emotions that hung over her like a dark cloud; trailing her every move. Waiting. They plagued her min further still as she stared at the image before her, drawn into her own despair. Swallowed whole. Every part of her was forced to relive the events that she has so determinedly pushed back into the dark recesses of her mind; and every part of her was screaming in silent agony.

Betrayel. Anger. Regret. Waves of repressed emotions that crashed down upon her frail, battered figure. they lowered her defences, and reduced her to nothing.

A final emotion pulsed through her, spreading like a fatal infection. The one that she had tried so fervently to avoid. With a cry of triumph, it finally pushed through her barriers, and her knees buckled with the weight of it.


Juliet has always told herself that she was the real victim of what had happened, but without hesitation, or guilt of its own, the Guilt snagged the veil she had been blanketing herself in, and ripped it off her tear-stained face. In her clarity, she sae what she had always know deep down; she saw what she had done. How she has hurt. How she had betrayed. Not only others, but herself.

Betrayel, Anger and Regret. The Guilt whittled down all her other emotions, and drove away all her excuses- her attempts at reasons- untill she was left with a single question.


-m xx

Thursday, February 24, 2011

In the spirit of Mardi Gras

I went rummaging through my top drawer last night (OK get your mind out of the gutter, I keep lots of things in my top drawer, right next to my condoms) and uncovered a few short stories from highschool that I'd kept. Well, I figure since they're pretty decent, especially considering how they're all about 3-4 years old, I may as well publish them here.

Now I know you're thinking "what in the name of Guy Pearce in drag does this have to do with Mardi Gras?" Well, the first story that I'm going to publish was written around the time of Mardi Gras, 2007, when I was in year 10 (holy shit I am so old...). OK so I guess that's a bit of a stretch and I got you all excited for Mardi Gras related stuff so if you're really good and read my story, I'll give you some pictures! OK?

Actually, just quickly I need to explain the assignment. We were set homework for the Monday after Mardi Gras. The assignment was to write a short story in the style of Jane Austen. So me, being a little bit insolent and a lot obnoxious, wrote this- a story about getting homework for the weekend of Mardi Gras.

Note: Mardi Gras is referred to as "The Taylorfield Ball"- Taylor Square? Geddit?

Jane Austen Gets Homework

"My dear Mrs. Long," said her student to her one day. "Have you not heard that Taylorfield Ball is to be held this Saturday night? It is sure to be a most festive occasion, and your students cannot be expected to complete such a task as you have set us, in light of our previous engagements. Indeed, one might assume, given the complexity of your wishes, that we would never find ourselves able of completion!"

Mrs. Long replied that she had not heard such a thing, and was quite surprised that one could take such an attitude to a compulsory task. Unless of course, one was hoping to be detained later than her teachings would generally allow.

The student abruptly ceased her protest, decided to herself that Mrs. Long was far to proud, and she wanted nothing more to do with a person of such intolerable character.

The student turned to the young lady next to her, with whom she was rather intimate, to discuss in hushed voices, how insufferable it was to have such an alarmingly large amount of work to complete over the coming weekend. Especially as it was to be the weekend of the Taylorfield Ball! Such an occasion only came once in a twelve-month, and there were sure to be many considerable male prospects attending. Even if enough time were attainable, surely the girls' brains would be far too addled from that consumed the night before? Most unfortunately, the task was unavoidable, and the girls would have to work tirelessly until it was completed.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that on a weekend that is to be particularly eventful, one's teacher finds it neccesary to set homework.


See? Such a snot! Oddly enough this teacher LOVED me. In year 11 she actually took one of my storied to read to her year 12 class, promising to photo copy it and give it back. She never gave it back. She still reads it to her senior classes.

So, I guess I promised it:

iOTA in Hedwig and The Angry Inch.

He also played Frankenfurter in the Aussie stage show of Rocky Horror.

(Yeah I'm pretty much in love with this man...)

Guy Pearce may be even hotter as a girl?

The above are three reasons why you should come to Sydney next weekend. And to think, I WORK on Oxford St.

-m xx

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

I have a history of being a flake.

I found my old diary the other day. It's one of the main reasons I avoid cleaning my room, aside from sheer complacency of course. I always find it and settle down for a good read. An hour or two later, it's suddenly dark, my room is no cleaner that it was and I'm no longer filled with the motivation I'd miraculously mustered to clean my room in the first place. Mostly, at this point, I leave my room.

(In fact I still can’t see my carpet.)

Often, I decide to start writing in my diary again. It happens almost every time, and I set to it with great enthusiasm for a couple of weeks at most. Slowly, the entries dry out. Then, inexplicably, they stop. Sometime down the track I clean my room and the cycle continues.
The worst bit is, I know I'm going to go back and read my diary in the future. Past experience has shown that if I have something to encourage my procrastination, I sure as hell am going to. Because of this, every time I start writing again my first entry is always of the "what's happened since the last time I wrote, that incredibly long, yet fast gone 6 months/2 years ago" variety.

So, this time, as per usual, I started writing again. In fact, I had to find a new, empty notebook because my original leather bound diary that my sister brought back to me from Italy, that I wrote in, on and off for three and a half years (or three boyfriends in love-life chronology) is completely out of blank pages. In fact, the last few entries are on loose pages. I wrote every night when I went to bed, for three days. I had so much updating to focus on, that I didn’t really write. You know? I wrote, and I recounted but I was sort of clutching at straws to find something actually bothering me. Now, I haven’t written in a few days and of course now I have TOO MUCH to write about so by the time I finish covering one thing I’ll forget the next thing I wanted to write about.

So that is why I am really bad at keeping diaries. If you been here a few times you’ll know that I can also be really bad a keeping a blog. Like my diary, I can post every day for a week then remain silent for two. But that’s just how I work. I can’t write on a schedule, as much as I would love to. I mean- who doesn’t love schedules? Especially the kind you can colour code with scented highlighters from Smiggle!

But my creative side doesn’t work that way. So be it.

-m xx

Monday, February 21, 2011

Reasons why...

I love working on Oxford St:
Who doesn't love a brave gay couple? Or impossibly orange hair? Or the fact that he's carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. And the writing on that bag is the same colour as his hair- I think I'm in love!

I love living in Ryde.

Great views of the city and Homebush from the areas around my house. That and, being the highest point between Sydney's two CBDs, I never have to worry about flash flooding! Win.

Yes, the photos are a bit shitty but they're iPhone pics so the files are small. Look close and you'll actually see the buildings in the city scape.

-m xx

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Europe Photos: Amsterdam, Frankfurt & Hamburg; Autumn 2010

Here it is, the very last installment

I like Frankfurt- it reminds me of Sydney.

Bondi Beach

Yes, we left him there- Asleep at the bar. But he was creepy.

and then I remembered I don't like Jaeger bombs...

Just a fashion shoot going down on the streets of Amsterdam

The last photo.
So that's all of them. Finally.
-m xx