Stephen Fry on self pity

If you're British, you'd need no introduction to Stephen Fry.

If you're not, this man is on another level of celebrity in the UK. He is famous for being a personality of television, film, theatre, comedy, etc etc though probably on equal measures, his fame resides around his health, that being his mental health. Fry is a manic-depressant.

I could rattle on about Fry for a while, though I think he is a niche subject, albeit one I am extremely interested in. He is a former juvenile delinquent, a Cambridge graduate, a brilliant man, a Jew against the state of Israel, a complete anomaly.

Instead, I just wanted to embed this one-minute opinion piece where Fry speaks of self pity. I abhor self pity, and I try to live my life avoiding it; this is turn makes me somewhat unsympathetic towards other people. Not the best trait, I hasten to add.

YouTube is refusing to allow me to embed the video, though do click here to hear it. See what you think.

“I just knew in my heart that there was more. And I don’t know what that necessarily means, maybe it was just a yearning to live outside the parameters I lived in. I knew - particularly when I was a teenager - that I wasn’t cut out to live where I was from, where I was born.”
Karen Elson

I've re-blogged this quote, originally found on Russh.

It's something that I can relate to. I thought a lot more people felt this way, until I realised they were there and I was here. I thought we all wanted to escape. I guess contentness comes in many different forms. Like Karen, I just wasn't cut out to stay put.

Karen Elson & Jack White: Vogue US June 2010
Picture credit: Fashionising.com. Click to enlarge.

Bothered.

Forgive me if I offend anyone, though is anyone else extremely bothered by the constant media presence of Cheryl Cole, (soon to be Tweedy)?

I shamefully am aware that Cole will soon revert to her maiden name, because I read an inane article last week that referred to her divorce proceedings. And why did I drag my eyes across the 80-words of drivel found in a non-descript commuter-newssheet? Because it was there. She is everywhere. The woman who was considered the talentless one in that bubblegum girl group she is part of. The one whose accent screeches in my ears, though melts the hearts of the grannies who watch her judging a production-line 'talent' show favoured by the majority in the UK. The one who married a reportedly gay footballer, to cover- up her racist tendencies, evident when she physically assualted an African bathroom attendant in a London club. The very one that now features in adverts promoting haircare, and lip colour, whilst her family deal with drug addiction and criminal records. The one who drips herself in designer goods, though is let's face it, a bit of a chav.

My point is not to belittle this woman for being something that she is not; the majority of people who have some degree of fame are acting, playing their roles on and off the stage. I just find Cole/Tweedy incredibly irritating, both to listen to and to look at. She is considered by most accounts to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, though does this also look at the type of person she is?  Of course not.

Before/after the machines got to Cole/Tweedy

Cole/Tweedy was once a foul-mouthed trollop who got into slanging matches against Lily Cole and fancied a few gyrating moves in music videos. These days, the 27-year-old has some mighty good public relations backing her, probably on the request of her boss, Mr.Simon Cowell (who incidentally, has some major secrets to hide of his own). The cosmetic endorsements, talent-show judging jobs and album releases can all come to a swift halt, I say. Please Cole/Tweedy, crawl back into the hole where you came out of and give me some peace. You're really annoying, though to assign some blame elsewhere, I would also say to the British press, please don't give coloumn inches where inches are not deserved. Who cares about this Geordie woman? She is not befitting of your national treasure.

And yes, I do understand the irony of this post.

Norwegian Wood, the aftermath

I meant to do a follow-up post a few weeks ago about Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, alas time got away from me.

I won't attempt to write a review, this isn't my aim.

Norwegian Wood suprised me. I did have reservations about Murakami, as I stopped reading another one of his novels about six years ago because of the pace. This novel was different. I took to Norwegian Wood like a child takes to icecream, jumping head first into its depth, loneliness, hedonism and tragedy.

I wasn't sure who I identified with the most, the central character of Toru, or the ghost throughout the novel, Naoko. Both had their meloncholies, both had their moments.

Naoko assumed tragedy from the onset, being the 'widowed' teen; her first love Kizuki committed suicide, and it haunted her throughout her young life. As too with Toru, his one true friend taken from him. Suicide and death runs constantly throughout the novel.

You needn't be able to identify with the characters or their situations to enjoy this book, though you will need to bear with the pace. The book flows like a mountain stream, though concentrates on heavier episodes with pagination indulgence. For instance, when Toru first goes to the mountains to visit Naoko, Norwegian Wood settles in its place and stays there like a dog infront of a warm fire. It sometimes made for uncomfortable reading, as I was unsure of the motivations of the newly introduced Raiko. I feel you don't get her intentions until right at the end of the novel, though even then it's not entirely clear.  

Midori, the carefree, porn-curious character forces a different side of Toru to be introduced, though I couldn't help wanting her to go away. Naoko held me entranced, even though she was so far away, suffering and enduring mental health treatments of the 1960s. Perhaps I wanted a happy ending, though Murakami was setting the story in the most obvious of directions.

Did I enjoy the novel? Thoroughly. It took me a few days to read, because I was so entranced. The character studies were so deceptively simple, that the work did inspire my own stories. Underlying the multitude of characters though, are the efforts to conjure such simplicity. And that is the irony of the novel.

Vintage! Vintage!

I can't say I stick to a particular style when I dress, more I am a slave to my emotion that day, choosing to grab whatever clones my mood.

Always one to tread the vintage clothing waters though, I do love a classic cut, a tailored jacket/dress/pant et al, and the way certain clothes envelope my body.

As I grow in age (and retain my modesty), I find dressing to my shape is imperative when I purchase anything. I can't stand people who go outside only to have the world subjected to their gut hanging over their bottom wares. Ill-fitting clothes, or just ill-fitting taste? And leggings! Oh my, why must these be around? They do not suit most people on the best of days, let alone when you're wearing them as pants (bottoms). There should be no public camel toes, something should cover your ass, and perhaps you should throw on a pair of shoes and stop pretending Uggs are for outdoor use. They're not, they're expensive slippers. For indoors only.

Having a relatively small waist, I seek out skirts, tailored trousers and dresses; vintage makes my heart sing, and over the years i've practically recorded an album. I've been so lucky to be able to find some beautiful clothes, some of which include, a gorgeous 1940s blue above-the-knee skirt, with pleated detail front and back, for £10; a collection of summer dresses with button details to the waist, then a broad flowing skirt to twirl in (ranging from £10-45); a lovely brown leather day purse, with short double straps for £15; and many, many more.

Vintage shopping has become part of my travelling repertoire, I do thorough research before I go anywhere, to try and get the best I can get. London has definately spoilt me, though I find it is so expensive here, so don't come expecting a bargain, especially where tourists lurk (like Portobello Rd).

Here are some of my favourite vintage spots in London. They're not a secret, so enjoy.

- Vintage Market
F Block T2 | 85 Brick Lane, London
Every Friday, Saturday 11am – 6pm and Sunday 10am – 5pm

Coinciding with the Up Markets, grab some lovely thai duck rolls, and head up the stairs to the top floor. Here you'll find the professional stall holders, amongst the grots and gits of East London, selling anything from the 20s, right through to late 90s. A treasure trove of one-off things that change from week to week.

- Beyond Retro
110-112 Cheshire Street, London E2 6EJ
Monday - Wednesday 10am - 7pm; Thursday 10am - 8pm; Friday & Saturday 10am - 7pm; Sunday 10am - 6pm

This is the site of the original store, now pratically a chain after its expansion to central London, Brighton and even abroad to Sweden! Situated off Brick Lane, come here for cool clothes, colour coded on the racks and sorted down the line for men and women. I picked up an awesome silk scarve from the 70s, with the entire Waltzing Matilda poem penned on it (plus illustrations). Perhaps come here first, and then head to the many thrifts along Brick Lane.

- Absolute Vintage
15 Hanbury St, London E1 6QR
Monday - Saturday 11am - 7pm; Sunday 11am - 7pm

Frequented by stylists and those who want to pay a little more for their vintage, this medium-sized shop filled to the rafters with cloth, is definately one to poke your head in. Even just to scope the amount of second-hand shoes for sale. I have an elephant foot, though one can always look...

There are so many more thoroughout London, though I suspect these should be stumbled upon by yourself. That way, you can say 'I went to London, and discovered the most amazing little shop...'

Hint: Brick Lane, Portobello Rd (under the freeway overpass, ONLY), Camden Passage parallel to Upper St, and Shoreditch will all provide you with suitable starting points.

Still looking for inspirations, click here for a reliable guide.

Defaults

I have always thought that to ask someone their favourite song, movie, band et al was rather ignorant. Considering we explore creativity through a myriad of emotions, elements and desires, the answer to the aformentioned question would change depending on any number of characterisitics.

Having said that, there always seems to be defaults that we fall back on, not necessarily classing them as our favourites, though we're happy to oblige them over and over again in our short lives.

I couldn't tell you what my favourite film was, though I can divulge that I have seen Sound of Music more times than I have counted. I first saw it when I was a little girl; we had taped it from the TV on our 1980s VCR- I was 4 years old. I went to Salzburg, just to see some of the film set. Sound of Music delivers everything I covet- song, romance, secrets, history, freedom.

I also seem to have a couple of default songs, that I listen to over and over again. One is for nostalgic reasons and the other, well perhaps it's the meloncholic melody uprising that I love to bear.

My mum used to sing 'Little Ray of Sunshine' to me, well for as long as I can remember really. It's from Axiom, an Australian band and was released in 1970. Even now, it features heavily on my playlists. It's a beautiful song, take a listen.



The second song is by Regina Spektor, called 'Samson'. I've blogged the lyrics before, though I thought I'd give you the clip. It's stunningly beautiful, passionate though whimsical. I had the good fortune is see Regina play this live, then fuck up the lyrics, then stop suddenly to say 'fuck', then start all over again. So I have heard the beauty 1.5 times. I could play this song on the hour, every hour and not tire of it.



Care to share your defaults?

Arshile Gorky

One Year the Milkweed, 1944

Golden Brown, 1944

The Liver is the Cocks Comb, 1944

Agony, 1947

I look at Arshile Gorky's magnificent body of work and I get lost in the chasms of colour...and the chasms of disturbance. I am by no means an expert in any facet of art (except in the sense of what I like and don't like), so all my comments must be taken with a grain of salt.

 

Gorky's work is recognisable by its wild lashings of colour and patterns, throwing tradition to the side and replacing it with abstract freedom. I saw some of his work earlier this year at MOMA in New York; it delivered such a sense of wonderment and delight which is ironic, given the pain in his lifetime.

 

Gorky hanged himself at the age of 44, after considerable misfortune. I seem to be drawn to untimely deaths and the sorrow that surround people's lives. I could have almost predicted that I would like the work of someone with such a fate; perhaps you never choose what you like, perhaps it chooses you. 

 

I am in a less than sparkly mood today, so I am reaching for the beauty of Gorky to uplift me. Even writing about this, his expression, will me to concentrate on what I deem to be important. Arguring over trivial matters with work colleagues, not so important. Be gone stress, Gorky is present.

Perception

It's funny how people perceive you, or how hard you desperately try for them to perceive you. You would say one thing, and mean another. You can smile through gritted teeth and be told you were the nicest thing on earth. You could go out of your way, only to be told you've wasted your time and that isn't the way things are done. Is it as easy as Descartes put it in the 17th century, 'I think, therefore I am'?

I know I am here, as Descartes asserts, therefore I must exist...though as I am, or as other people perceive me? Why are there so many faces, do we mould our existence to each person we come across? Are we kind to the friendly neighbour we hardly know, then moody to the partner we're angry at for not putting away the milk? Does this make us several different people in one, or one person with several different personalities? And there is the fine line between sanity and schizophrenia.

How many people actually are true to their own feelings and moods when they interact? If one wakes up in a mood, do they reply when asked how they are, 'I'm feeling horrible today, though thanks for your concern'? Rarely, it's too much effort, and who the hell cares. Interestingly, do we call those people who are dictated by their feelings mentally ill, because they live by their lows, and ride the highs when they come by? It seems so.

So to the issue of perception, coupled with existence. Existing is all about perception. Privately we live as well as we can cope, some better than others. It's when people judge that existence that we want to manipulate their perception and begin to act in a way that may not be true to our feelings.

Twenty-Ten

It seems almost irrelevant, though hoping all had a lovely Christmas and New Year. I'm not huge on this time of year, my family is small and divorced and I tend to see it as lovely, though very minimal. I go to midnight mass, I thank the Big-G for my blessings and I wake up to a lovely meal.

Again with New Year's, it's never been on my radar. I suppose the aforementioned makes me somewhat different, in which I am, though I've never minded, I've never felt like I'm missing out on anything.

I spent Christmas in the North of England; it was exceedingly cold, though exceedingly beautiful. Alas, it was one of our parties first Christmases, so I suppose it was what Christmas should feel like: magical and childlike. I was thoroughly spoilt this year, and I certainly was not expecting to be. DVD boxsets, money, cookbooks and facials at dayspa's, what else could I need?

I've posted a picture of ice in the garden, just before we left on the 22nd. That evening it started to snow quite heavily; it was such a beautiful train ride with what felt like the whole of England coated in snow.

New Year brings about silly and what is most likely, half-hearted endeavours to do/be/act/love something new. For this reason, I don't do resolutions. Instead I choose to see everyday as a new opportunity and change something then and there if need be. Of course, thinking is easier than doing.

The latter half of 2010 will see me leave England and unpack my suitcase in the city I called home until I was 23. February sees me head to New York City. Other plans include Iceland and Morocco. I'm learning to pace myself though, Europe will always be here, I can come back.

My first White Christmas!

Happy Christmas!



I'm off to midnight mass, in the freezing cold.

TED

Have you discovered TED yet??

Yes I do.

Real models take the catwalk

A stylist walking out because of a designer's decision to use a figure that resembles more than 50% of the population, rather than an idealistic, child-like female form thought up by a market run by mainly gay men.

What world are we living in?

How is a size 12-14 size model threatening, apart from force the guilty-conscious to look at what they are promoting?

Careful, the bodies will become a bigger focal point than the clothes. And yes, this is a massive PR coup, though who is actually talking about Mark Fast' frocks?

What is interesting is that the use of these models makes you place yourself in the knits that Fast has created. Instead of seeing the clothes from a aesthetic side and deconstructing them, one can image themselves at a dinner party et al, purely because three of his models have a body like yours. Perhaps that is what is threatening- no longer will clothes be elitist.

Side note: the models were hot shiz. Let's see more Joan Holloway's up on the catwalk.

The sea, the sea

As a Piscean, I've always been attracted to the sea.

That's possibly an ambiguous statement, as when I was a little girl I was more fascinated, then attracted.

I remember large waves, going over my heart and splashing into my eyes. I couldn't hold onto my dad's neck tight enough. Then one Summer I learnt to swim. I remember my nana standing at the other side of the pool, as I free styled (a 5 year olds version that more resembled dog-paddle) across. I was so proud, as was she.

Because of this pull, it's fortunate that I grew up in Australia. The pool in the small country town where I lived from aged 5-11, was my hub. I spent weekends there, met friends there after school and celebrated Christmas parties there. In Winter when it closed, it looked like a sad clown, covered and stripped of its sunshine. The Summer was a season where it reapplied it's makeup and made the children laugh.

Having the beach accessible is a blessing to someone like me. Feeling the body of water flow over your skin, the salty sea waves crashing on your belly, feeling the bubbles that were created burst at your feet, are all feelings I now crave.

Living in London, I have not seen the sea in months. I have not been in the sea since last Christmas. I miss it and the peace of which it creates; it is medicinal, the Victorians (not the state, but the period) agree with me.

With Winter approaching I seem fixated on the idea of sinking my toes into the wet sand and slowly letting my body be enveloped in the flowing waters. The sad thing is, I have no idea when I will see the ocean again, or feel it's touch.

Sad

Watching the news seemed once like a place to be informed, a place to keep up with current events and affairs. Partly this is true now, though sadly as the world become more hostile (toward one another) and externally displays rage, the news has become somewhat of a spoiled side salad to my dinner.

I get home around 7pm, cook my meal and naturally switch on Ch4 news. I like to see John's wacky ties, though I also like his journalistic capabilities as well.

As I was preparing my meal tonight, a very sad and disturbing story caught my attention- it was the South Yorkshire case of the two little boys (who are brothers), essentially torturing two other little boys, aged just 9 and 11.

The torturers were known to police, they've had a criminal record since they were ten. Living in foster care and under social workers guard, they'd seemingly slipped through the cracks when they led the two boys away into a field. They stamped on them repeatedly, threw bricks at them, then forced them to perform sexual acts on one another. They then left them for dead.

The youngest lad eventually managed to leave the field to raise help.

The trial begins for the torturers who are now aged 12 and 10, under the adult judicial system.

Of course with this level of controversy, a case like this breeds opinions far and wide. Why weren't the boys properly supervised? Why weren't they in gaol, considering their previous convictions? Why weren't they closer assessed, and why weren't their obviously perverse backgrounds noticed before?

Hats off to foster carers, they are one of the silent hero's who deserve honorary medals (not celebrities, politicians and the like), though tell me, who is raising these children? Their parents, the very people who bought them into this world, where are they? Obviously not fit to raise children, I refuse to believe these two brothers had anything less then a hellish childhood, the result being them taking it out on the world. Were they abused as children? It's likely. Sexually abused? More than likely, given how cyclical abuse is.

It breaks my heart that children, so fresh and innocent, can be broken so young and left to suffer the consequences for their inevitable actions when all goes wrong.

I'm not blaming the 'system'. Too many people point the finger at social services, but there must be thousands of cases similar. Under paid and over worked as the saying goes. Under staffed is the outcome.

I know there are good people in this world. Equally, there are bad people. I'm an optimistic person and I really want to believe that with love and guidance, these boys can perhaps make amends in their young lives- though it would take time.

The random

Don't you love picking up snippets of conversation as you pass people on the street?

Creating a story around the sentence that I pick up, I imagine what sort of person said it, what sort of people they're around, the context of their conversation and normally, how naughty they've been!

Strolling down a very busy Columbia Rd last Sunday, this sentence hasn't left my head:

'It's not lying, it's being creative with the truth'

This certainly sits in the grey gardens, though I like the words attributed to her cause.

Do you?

Achtung

Absorbed in a highly relevant magazine yesterday, I stumbled across a quote that I thought needed repeating:

'Slow is beautiful.'

How poignant.

It comes off the back of a global movement which is progressing in not only essential things like food, but in thinking, acting, absorbing. Without delving into philosophical thought, our lives average 75-85 years (in the Western world), of which I'd say 70% of those years are functional. Why do we use this time running to our next appointment, role, relationship only for them to be a past memory a second later?

I think related to this issue is a degree of passion, and how much we have for the lives we lead. Are we moving so fast to forget, to create our next issue or ideal? Somebody seemingly whispered into my ear during my teen years that the secret to happiness was to do what you love; if we are creating our lives around our passion, I think that surely needs to be a focus, therefore celebrated and shared.

Putting things into perspective is something I love to do every now and then. Whenever I feel hard done by and create a self pity hole, it seems something is put in front of me to remind me how lucky I actually am. It happened today on a crowded street in London- a small little girl in pigtails, clutching her father's hand. Her little face, surrounded by her blondness, was covered in burns. My heart internally gulped, and I wondered in the flash that we passed each other, if she knew how she made people re-evaluate by the injustice of her predicament?

The little girl made me slow down.

My view is that the deciding principle of slowing down is to reflect, resign and if you're lucky, re-new.

A + B

Focusing on the things that are most important can be lost when things are emotionally difficult. The negativity and excuses set like glue and before there is a chance to look up, one is stuck and seemingly struggles to unleash. I say seemingly because there are always solutions- you either remain complacent or you make a break for it.

Like most people, I have visions and dreams and get pulled back when negative forces flow into my world. That's a choice though, so why does it feel like I choose it? I want to think that there is good in people and tend to make excuses for behaviour that is less than satisfactory. Perhaps I should learn to take things at face value instead of interpreting them and reasoning.

On a brighter note, the Australian Fashion Week has started in Sydney!

I'll just skip over Wayne Cooper because not only do I not like his clothes (he seems to be stuck in his heyday), but I wouldn't support him as a person.

Camilla and Marc seem to be nodding towards the edgy, Balmain-inspired ware. I like their casual pieces, though their more formal look is dominated by too many angles and not enough flow. That's just my opinion simply because my body can't wear it. Having said that, I would look at any lass who chose to wear the below dresses and think either she was a model and can get away with it, or is fooling herself.

Bec and Bridge were impressive- I enjoyed their silhouettes and high-waisted zipped skirts. However, what was going on with their models? Half of them looked a little malnourished to me and the other half looked a bit 'blah'. Sexy detailing though B +B.

Ginger and Smart were the day one winners for me. Surprisingly so, as their show was a mix of sorts between Versace and Chloe (when Stella was behind the wheel). Kaftan-style dresses with killer shoulder detail, hot pink high-waisted pants, body suits and Willow-inspired necks! Oh my!

(Pictures courtesy of SMH)

mood

Give me a wand and I shall produce a fairy

I still have the mark on the end of my nose,
Footprints from the fairy’s toes,
I think they’re speckled,
But some say they’re freckled.
There was a fairy on my nose!

- Joannda Riche