Saturday, 25 February 2012

Unceremonious First Post

I feel like as this is my first post I should discuss my views on life, or the reason for me doing this, or why the earth is like it is. Instead I'm simply going to ignore that crap and give you all (yeah, so many readers Sophia haha) this, which i wrote today on my balcony. It's the best place to write. The sun is delicious and I can see the harbour and life is just generally good out there. So you would think that what I wrote was all light hearted and passive. WELL, SORRY GUYS. It's social activism crap. I need to stop getting so worked up about this things. Or do I? Well someone has to be interested in change! Otherwise we will never get anywhere I will go crazy.

WOW. I mean, i know this is here for me to write on, but wow, i just talk way to much.
I'll shut up now.
Sorry everyone :)

btw this is copied straight from Word and I can't be bothered to fix formatting errors. GOOD BLOG SOPHIA. SORRY.

ANYWAY tell me what you think. I think it's a tad wanky. But i think most things are wanky. okaybye


A modern day tale of tolerance, pop culture and the absence of personal pronouns

Once upon a tolerant time, in a land far away from the inconsistencies of reality, there lived and breathed a young person by the name of Cinderella. Our young subject was the child of an upper-middle-class white gentleman, who inherently suffered from the plight of Western privilege. Out of this frustratingly pleasant lifestyle was born mediocrity, a bother Cinderella had been battling since childhood. Every morning [she] would awake, look out [her] window at the beggar children on the pavements of the appropriately named Easy Street below, and sigh (rather intentionally wistfully), longing to face such poetic hardship. By the age of nine Cinderella had bemoaned [her] completely average and uninspiring life so much that on one quiet Sunday morning [her] Father slammed his good book down on the table at which he read and [she] drolly sewed, giving a shout of exasperation.
“Cinderella my child, what is it you want from life? Like a shepard I have tried to lead you down the good and honest path of life. I have tried to bring you simple joys on platters of affluence, and yet you derive more glee from refusing them, hitting them away till they fall and break. Why must you live like this?”
“My Father, I have tried to follow you but in this flock i feel ostracised! The proverbial black sheep and I are akin! I should rather live, and TRUELY live a tragedy, then pantomime a comedy for only the pleasure of others. The beauty of persecution is lovelier than all the fake smiles and niceties you could ever offer me give or take this platter of privilege. I TELL YOU, I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THAT.”
The Father listened to her quietly. When [she] had finished, the scales of judgement fell from his eyes and in measured breaths said, “Then this is how it shall be. From this day on, this kitchen shall be your home. This stove, your purpose, and this hearth your bed. May you adore it and all its harsh realities as much as i have fought to protect you from them.”
Thus from that day forward Cinderella would wake every morning while even the sun still dozed to slave away at the chores in wait for [her]. [She] washed up after all [her] father’s tea parties  - always a messy affair when the Mad Hatter was invited – polished the new Will’s and Kate silver, and trimmed the garden hedges into eccentric shapes after taking inspiration from Edward Scissorhands. One afternoon while lighting a fire and singing the theme to Les Mis, The Father announced his entry into his child’s domain with thundering footsteps and delivered the following without pause or emotion:
“Cinderella, heed these words child. Mardi Gras is to be held in this Desert-City we call home, tonight, and naturally Queen Priscilla has invited me to attend. While I am gone observing the frivolity of too much senseless joy you shall remain here in the cinders and behave. Feel free to bake or clean, but if you read a book or gain any unconventional views you shall be punished.”
Cinderella sighed (wistfully as always), acquiesced, and watched the Father’s Honda speed off into the dust-ridden distance. Determined to at least enjoy [her] night, [she] put on [her] taped reading of A Female Eunuch and began to scrutinise herself in the mirror as all teenage girls do, without releasing the irony in [her] actions and the words of lamentation drifting through the air around [her]. While scrutinising [her] complete lack of a tan, [she] realised [she] was not alone. Behind [her] stood Elton John wearing a fabulous outfit and a grin.
“Hey there Hun! Just thought I’d pop by.”
“...Hello. Who are you sorry?”
“I’m the Godfather.”
“Oh. I was sure that was Marlon Brando...”
“Well of course it was! And wasn’t he fabulous? But as I was saying,  I am your FAIRY godfather. I should have mentioned that first. But anyway, we can’t waste time on this banter; I’m here for a reason my girl. Would you like to go to the ball tonight...or not?”
Cinderella turned back to the mirror and considered [her]self. [She] certainly wasn’t the fairest of them all and [her] skin no where near sun kissed, but [her] eyes were bright and eagre, and [her] jawbone was accentuated with a nice little smear of cinders [she] fancied looked like a fashionable five o’clock shadow. [She] turned back to Elton; any concerns about his sudden appearance now dissolved, looked down at [her] Nike’s and said “Just do it.”

Half an hour later as Cinderella moulded herself onto the back of Elton’s speeding Harley Davidson [she] reflected that this transformation wasn’t quite what [she] expected. When Elton had kindly offered [her] any of his garments to wear to the Ball, [she] was less than overjoyed to discover his surprising lack of women’s clothing. Settling at last for a pink crocodile skin suit, [she] was not altogether unhappy about this new look, indeed, surprisingly interested by it and pleased with it’s comfort factor that men’s imposition – high heels, corsets and mini skirts – denied [her]. As they pulled into the turning circle outside the grandiose castle, Cinderella felt the first inkling of social insecurity, the first time in [her] young and inexperienced life such a phobia had swept through [her]. Elton, sensing this, leant in with arms outstretched and radiating confidence. Returning the hug, Cinderella forgot any feelings of concern and walked towards the castle, working the crocodile suit the entire way.
[She] laughed yet again, surely the hundredth time that night, all in his company.
“And still, hours after we have met, your name is still to be a mystery? That seems rather unchivalrous.”
“I fear you would dislike the answer, and the merriment of our conversation would be lost thereafter.”
“How could a name of any nature, apart from a cad or villain, instigate such a reaction from me? Nay sir! I name i demand!” [she] said laughing, laughing, an arm upon his, drink in hand, smile on face, hair falling over [her] shoulders.
“If i tell you my name, will you tell me why you are wearing a suit?” Gleaming eyes and grins searched.
[She] paused, considering.
“What if my reason, and my only reason, is that I do not see why i cannot wear this suit?”
The man saw that this enigma had won more of his than just his name.
A deep pause and a quiet moment here.
A reply there. “Cinderella...I am the prince. Son of Priscilla. Owner of this castle. All this and more! There is only one thing I lack. The hand of a beautiful woman. Cinderella...would you be that woman for me?”
Silence humming with questions and thoughts unsaid. 
“I couldn’t be that beautiful person. I could be a beautiful person though...”

More silence, but not a quiet one.  A loud, strong silence with ticking, whirring, changing, moving concepts of thought and destiny and possibilty.
And then Cinderella heard [her] name from behind [her].
As The Father called [her] name from above, [she] felt fear and loss rise from below. [her] champagne flute and future fell from [her] hands in less than a second.
Two days later Cinderella was locked in [her] wardrobe,  [her] mind with the Prince as [her] body hunched in the dark alone. The Father had taken [her] home. He had snapped [her] musical theatre CD’s, shoved an apron over [her] head and nailed [her] suit to the wall on perpendicular pine wood – forbidden fruit close enough to see but too far to touch. All was quiet but [her] soul. Suddenly, a great comotion could be heard in the house outside [her] confinement, just audible,
“I am your sovereign! And, as Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, your house, and indeed YOU mister, I demand to see every young [person] in this land till I find the one who holds my son’s heart hostage, whether it suits you or not!”

A joy came over [her] as sun floods the grass at dawn, racing and leaping with no thought to when and where it might stop. A horizon is nothing but a goal, but beyond it there is always more, always another sight to see, emotion to comprehend, another smile to smile for no ones pleasure but for one’s own. Relentless, useless, all-encompassing joy.  To the awakening soul, how can a closet provide anything more than a momentary deterrent? Cinderella sprung up, beating [her] palms against [her] prison, shouting
“I’m here! I’m here! I’m alive! And not just my body! I have a soul, oh Prince, and a mind! And I no longer linger in black and white but all the shades of life now confuse me! Proud purple beats behind my temples, and green without envy rises from within me. Oh let me out my love, for surely i will die or worse sacrifice myself to convention if i stay within another moment! Why should the fear of another man, born in another time, vice itself onto me like a life-leeching disease? Why does society pull and push harder than the waves of more tangible entities like water and wind? What life is that? Let me be free, I say, or let me die!
Also, while we’re on the topic, you guys know Pinocchio right? Yeah. Well. Let me tell you something, he is NOT a real boy no matter what he says.”
After a moment of rather stunned silence, the Father said,
“I think we ought to let [her] out.”
A key, held for too long, too tightly, was unleashed from the vicelike grasp, and the door was flung open. As Cinderfella came out of the closet, [she] looked to [her] Prince and found a true love more real than any Disney recreation. Priscilla sighed (wistfully) and the Father, tears of remorse in his eyes, took down the suit from its place of shame. As the young lovers smiled at one another, the Prince whispered “I always knew I would find you, you know. My little Cinderfella.”

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