I discovered something about myself this morning…. I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song. Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!). Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but (either-way) it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new.
Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!). Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes. I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.
A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”. And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music. And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.
Everything old is new again, it seems.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Rules of Patience
I am not a patient person. And, I know there are sometimes when I operate at the other extreme. Irrationally so. I hate that I do everything at break-neck speed, from eating and speaking, to reading and writing. I just find it hard to pace myself. To plod. I occasionally find it very difficult not to finish people’s sentences, or ask if there is any point to their long-winded diatribe, but can generally force myself to demonstrate some restraint, allowing me to function in polite society. I realise too however, that some people are just dawdlers - with no inbuilt concept of time, or so laid back that they don’t worry about it anyway.
That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.
As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.
Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.
I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.
Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.
Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.
Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.
I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.
That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.
As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.
Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.
I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.
Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.
Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.
Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.
I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Grand Gesture
Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn't glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.
I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.
As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.
In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.
In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.
I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.
The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.
Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.
I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?
I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.
As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.
In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.
In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.
I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.
The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.
Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.
I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Playing with the big boys
I realise I usually write about the important stuff: television, movies and dieting, but sadly I find myself compelled to stoop to writing about politics. And this is because I have to admit to being a bit embarrassed. And though I am easily embarrassed, it is usually because of something I have said. Or done. Or worn.
This time it is not even really my fault. I am just tainted by association.
Having all-but-ignored news and current affairs for a few weeks (not sure why other than waning care factor) I have just had my parents visiting and so have been subjected to a barrage of television and radio news.
So this exposure, on top of my weekend newspaper ritual has highlighted a recent theme, which has resulted in my current state of embarrassment. I find myself wondering how on earth 'it' has come to this. And I ask, "When did we suddenly become so uncool?" And by 'we' I mean 'us'. Australia and Australians.
Okay, in all honesty we were probably never really considered (by anyone other than ourselves) to be that cool - having recently been led by Mr Magoo for what-seemed-like a millennium and by a few dodgy characters before that. But, at least we (in true Australian-style) showed a healthy disdain for what others thought of us. In that way we were too cool to be cool. Or something.
So, what has me currently shivering with distaste is how desperate we seem to have become. Like little puppies with tails wagging madly, waiting for someone to pat them; or like 50 year old women dressed like 20 year olds hanging out at a bar. We reek of desperation. To be liked. Or more specifically - we want to be liked by the right people. We wanna hang with the cool kids and play with the big boys. And by we, I mean our media and our politicians. I find myself shocked at how excited 'we' are to be seemingly moving from the kids table and invited to sit with the grown ups.
As I understand it, our Prime Minister (aka Kevvie), through his witty climate change and economic sustainability repartee has seemingly given us something to crow about on the world stage other than some acting A-listers, the occasional sporting hero and our pristine beaches. Well, so says our media. And, even the most avid of Kevvie-haters seem impressed at his recent performances which have catapulted us from southern-hemisphere-obscurity to centre stage.
But, when did we become such 'try-hards'? Such wannabes? As I pour through the weekend papers, I cannot tell if the media is truly excited that our first lady got to lunch with Michelle Obama or if the reports are indeed some tongue-in-cheek reference to our desperation to join the cool kids' table.
Sure I think Barack and Michelle Obama are pretty groovy and I suspect my mouth would drop to the floor at the sight of them, but surely other world leaders who are (on paper anyway) their equivalents should not be quite as awestruck by their presence. Shouldn't they be treating the US President as just another world leader rather than a superstar with whom they clamber to be photographed?
What does it say about us that - as a nation - we are thrilled at reports that Barack Obama seems to like our Kevvie? Assuming that we are now seen by those-that-matter as one of the big boys (when, in fact, we may fade into oblivion as the fickle international political agenda moves on). We are like a desperate singleton at home after a first date, planning the perfect wedding to the guy she has just met! I cringe when I think of how smug some of those gun-toting, homophobic, puritanical (sorry I am generalising) Americans can be, when leaders such as ours, salivate just to be in the same room as theirs.
I don't know if I blame Kevvie. After all, he doesn't seem quite as desperate as Prime Minister Magoo was with his (then) counterpart, and quite frankly Barack Obama is way cooler than President Bush (# 1 or 2) - not to mention, a million times more legitimate. Who can forget that period in Australian politics when George Jnr took Mr Magoo to his private ranch and declared him his deputy sheriff in the Asia/Pacific region? And surely the (then) government's manouvering during that time - including our role in Dubya's "War on Terror" to thwart the Axis of Evil - will remain one of our less stellar achievements.
But, this desperation to be 'accepted' still plays on my mind. "Aren't we better than that?" I ask hopefully. On one hand I feel that Kevvie is doing us proud in his own smug 'I am the smartest kid in school' Mandarin-speaking way; earning brownie points through legitimate intelligence and good policy, rather than brown-nosing and joining ill-advised wars for the hell of it.
On the other hand, Kevvie and our media are coming across as WAY too happy with our G20 performance which is why I actually find myself cringing with shame - not at our efforts to join the big boys; but at our desperation to do so. Aren't we cooler than that. Whatever happened to Aussie ambivalence? To not giving a damn what others thought of us?
Aspirations are fine and a legitimate voice in international politics is worth chasing, but I think we are walking a fine line. Hanging with the cool kids is a worthy goal, but we need to be careful that - as we have done in the past - we don't have to sell our souls to get there. If we do, perhaps we should think about focussing on our own backyard. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with being a big fish in a small pond.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Reading Jane
Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night. With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.
The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels. Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.). The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.
Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen? I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen. Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor). Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be. Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully. I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare. Nor do I want them to.
But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined. She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing. Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!).
What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs. The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit. I skim-read. I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically. As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers. This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me. I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker. I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them. I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’. (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not. I mean the next phase of the plot.)
I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here. Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work. Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like.
Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak. Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent. But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female. Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.
Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her. She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice. Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly. Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.
Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism. It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory. Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.
I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style. As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….” As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along.
Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending. As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after. This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.
Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels. Perhaps she just got bored with her characters. Who knows? What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).
The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work. Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.
I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era. Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts.
Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817. My age. And that makes me sad. For her and for me. Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely. And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?
The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels. Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.). The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.
Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen? I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen. Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor). Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be. Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully. I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare. Nor do I want them to.
But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined. She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing. Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!).
What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs. The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit. I skim-read. I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically. As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers. This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me. I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker. I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them. I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’. (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not. I mean the next phase of the plot.)
I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here. Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work. Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like.
Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak. Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent. But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female. Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.
Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her. She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice. Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly. Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.
Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism. It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory. Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.
I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style. As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….” As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along.
Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending. As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after. This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.
Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels. Perhaps she just got bored with her characters. Who knows? What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).
The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work. Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.
I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era. Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts.
Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817. My age. And that makes me sad. For her and for me. Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely. And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?
Addiction
I am, as it happens, obsessive by nature. My addictions come and go and range from the unhealthy – champagne, red wine, caramel filling, chocolate, to the healthier – watching episode upon episode of my latest favourite TV show, or reading book after book.
There are some things of which I cannot get enough. For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly. I inhaled novel after novel. Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy. (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)
The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more. Needed to know what happened next. I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.
So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week. And working fulltime. I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general. It was all about reading.
But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy. Or more specifically, TV on DVD. That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment.
I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time. Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them.
I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and Pushing Daisies this way.
Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000. Five seasons into its filming. With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend.
Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks. Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams. Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.
My latest discovery is Entourage. Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.
Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage. Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit. I have watched three seasons of the show in one week. I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted.
I already know I have to buy it. And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.
Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again. And again. Entourage I will. I already know this. Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching. Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out. Sated but ready and willing to take more.
Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself. Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA. Soon I am going to have to wait. Delay gratification. Or just find my next drug of choice…..
There are some things of which I cannot get enough. For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly. I inhaled novel after novel. Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy. (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)
The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more. Needed to know what happened next. I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.
So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week. And working fulltime. I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general. It was all about reading.
But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy. Or more specifically, TV on DVD. That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment.
I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time. Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them.
I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and Pushing Daisies this way.
Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000. Five seasons into its filming. With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend.
Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks. Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams. Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.
My latest discovery is Entourage. Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.
Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage. Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit. I have watched three seasons of the show in one week. I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted.
I already know I have to buy it. And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.
Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again. And again. Entourage I will. I already know this. Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching. Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out. Sated but ready and willing to take more.
Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself. Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA. Soon I am going to have to wait. Delay gratification. Or just find my next drug of choice…..
Friday, September 4, 2009
PDAs: How far is too far?
I have recently had cause to ponder the concept of PDAs. More specifically, my contemplation has focused on that point at which a PDA is no longer cute or nice, but is in fact cringe-worthy or distasteful; something that you need to draw your eyes from but can’t - akin to a train wreck.
I recall having conversations with friends about PDAs, or (as known by the less-erudite) public displays of affection, and we thought we may, in fact, have been jealous. At that time, my friends and I were all single and so wondered if our disdain of open displays was some sort of defense mechanism. Easier to scoff at, than admit that we wanted to be the ones smooching in public.
I must, however, admit to my own prejudice against PDAs. In fact, what I remember most about my first love (well, first boyfriend – as defined at 16 years of age!) was becoming aware of my antipathy to PDAs. The boy lived in a nearby town and we met through sport. He was very sweet and our relationship very innocent (I was a very naïve 16 yr old). While I was the one who pursued him relentlessly but once snagged, he was the one who wanted to put our relationship on display. Though a great deal of organisation went into our holiday and weekend meetings, I recall balking at his eagerness to walk around my hometown holding hands. Needless to say, after succumbing to my wiles, his public enthusiasm for me meant that he didn’t last long (much to my later regret!).
My neuroses aside, I must admit that PDAs can sometimes be quite charming. An elderly couple wandering along the beach holding hands; a peck on the cheek from one partner to another as they separate at a busy street corner in the city. All very sweet.
So then I wonder, at what point exactly does a cute PDA become something that causes one to shudder distastefully?
We have all seen them. From my own very extensive research (aka everyday life), they usually seem to involve either: a) teenagers; or b) very drunk people in a pub at the end of the night. Though both can make me gag, I find I can usually forgive these transgressors.
But it is those others that make me cringe – and judge. I have been stuck on a bus with them. Behind them. Near them. Constant kissing; with lots of noise. While some allowances can be made for the smitten few in a new relationship, there must be a limit to what the rest of us should be subjected to.
The PDA issues has been on my mind because once a week I catch a late bus into work and more often than not there is a young woman also waiting at the bus stop. She is usually there with her partner / boyfriend / male-friend of some sort. He doesn’t actually catch the bus himself. It appears as if he merely walks the 20 metres there with her and then returns home after we have left.
They stand or sit tightly wrapped around each other. There is much smooching. Much cuddling. Much adoration. They straddle each other on the bus shelter seat, or entwine their legs. It is impossible to join them on the seat at the bus shelter without feeling like some sort of voyeur. I find myself scowling as I try to look anywhere-but-at-them; and in true me-fashion, I analyse these feelings of scorn. Assessing if I am jealous that I don’t have someone coming to wave me off to work for the day, or even wistful at the idea that someone could care enough about my comings or goings. But, no. Condescension wins out. Sweet, I wonder? No weird, I decide!
If she was going off to war it would be one thing; if the journey into the city was perilous rather than bloody long and tedious, that would be another thing.
So, given the unlikelihood of either of these scenarios I wonder then, why this guy feels compelled to accompany his partner the short distance to the bus stop and make out with her in front of an unsuspecting public, before releasing her for the day. And why does she feel the need to cling to this guy before stepping onto the bus.
The suspicious and cynical side of me wonders if he is in fact emotionally and physically controlling and the farewell is his way of marking his territory, akin to a dog peeing around his neighbourhood. If so, it is kinda wasted cos neither myself nor Joanie (the 65yr old tea lady who also catches that bus) weren’t really looking to make a move on his honey…though perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Joanie?!
Or maybe they are so madly in love they cannot bear to be apart one more moment than necessary. (Pause here for obligatory dry-retching!) Whatever the reason, there is surely no justification for the extent of the farewell. I cannot help but think it is immature and extremely inconsiderate to those around who find anything more than a quick peck and cuddle to be over the top. And I think there are many who do. Surely one of the things about an intimate relationship is just that. Intimacy. You share it with each other. Not everyone else!
I recall having conversations with friends about PDAs, or (as known by the less-erudite) public displays of affection, and we thought we may, in fact, have been jealous. At that time, my friends and I were all single and so wondered if our disdain of open displays was some sort of defense mechanism. Easier to scoff at, than admit that we wanted to be the ones smooching in public.
I must, however, admit to my own prejudice against PDAs. In fact, what I remember most about my first love (well, first boyfriend – as defined at 16 years of age!) was becoming aware of my antipathy to PDAs. The boy lived in a nearby town and we met through sport. He was very sweet and our relationship very innocent (I was a very naïve 16 yr old). While I was the one who pursued him relentlessly but once snagged, he was the one who wanted to put our relationship on display. Though a great deal of organisation went into our holiday and weekend meetings, I recall balking at his eagerness to walk around my hometown holding hands. Needless to say, after succumbing to my wiles, his public enthusiasm for me meant that he didn’t last long (much to my later regret!).
My neuroses aside, I must admit that PDAs can sometimes be quite charming. An elderly couple wandering along the beach holding hands; a peck on the cheek from one partner to another as they separate at a busy street corner in the city. All very sweet.
So then I wonder, at what point exactly does a cute PDA become something that causes one to shudder distastefully?
We have all seen them. From my own very extensive research (aka everyday life), they usually seem to involve either: a) teenagers; or b) very drunk people in a pub at the end of the night. Though both can make me gag, I find I can usually forgive these transgressors.
But it is those others that make me cringe – and judge. I have been stuck on a bus with them. Behind them. Near them. Constant kissing; with lots of noise. While some allowances can be made for the smitten few in a new relationship, there must be a limit to what the rest of us should be subjected to.
The PDA issues has been on my mind because once a week I catch a late bus into work and more often than not there is a young woman also waiting at the bus stop. She is usually there with her partner / boyfriend / male-friend of some sort. He doesn’t actually catch the bus himself. It appears as if he merely walks the 20 metres there with her and then returns home after we have left.
They stand or sit tightly wrapped around each other. There is much smooching. Much cuddling. Much adoration. They straddle each other on the bus shelter seat, or entwine their legs. It is impossible to join them on the seat at the bus shelter without feeling like some sort of voyeur. I find myself scowling as I try to look anywhere-but-at-them; and in true me-fashion, I analyse these feelings of scorn. Assessing if I am jealous that I don’t have someone coming to wave me off to work for the day, or even wistful at the idea that someone could care enough about my comings or goings. But, no. Condescension wins out. Sweet, I wonder? No weird, I decide!
If she was going off to war it would be one thing; if the journey into the city was perilous rather than bloody long and tedious, that would be another thing.
So, given the unlikelihood of either of these scenarios I wonder then, why this guy feels compelled to accompany his partner the short distance to the bus stop and make out with her in front of an unsuspecting public, before releasing her for the day. And why does she feel the need to cling to this guy before stepping onto the bus.
The suspicious and cynical side of me wonders if he is in fact emotionally and physically controlling and the farewell is his way of marking his territory, akin to a dog peeing around his neighbourhood. If so, it is kinda wasted cos neither myself nor Joanie (the 65yr old tea lady who also catches that bus) weren’t really looking to make a move on his honey…though perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Joanie?!
Or maybe they are so madly in love they cannot bear to be apart one more moment than necessary. (Pause here for obligatory dry-retching!) Whatever the reason, there is surely no justification for the extent of the farewell. I cannot help but think it is immature and extremely inconsiderate to those around who find anything more than a quick peck and cuddle to be over the top. And I think there are many who do. Surely one of the things about an intimate relationship is just that. Intimacy. You share it with each other. Not everyone else!
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