Dead Letter

Dear Indi-of-the-Past,

We have completed (however satisfactorily) our first year of university.

Has the way we percieve ourself changed? Has the way we percieve life changed? I don't know.

But we have gained perspective.

University is not that big a deal. It is not the end of the world, not even the unbreakable walled path to a specific, singular career.

It is frightening. But it means us no harm.

We have met people. Interesting people. We have realised it is not imperative to fit in straight away. That there is a peace and comfort in solitude. And companionship in a crowd.

We have realised there is time. We have learnt that living each moment like your last, that keen awareness of one's mortality, does not mean one must achieve all their goals NOW. To know, to see, to have, NOW. It means appreciating what one DOES have now and all those tiny, fleeting instances only your soul will truly remember. Like the colours in the sky. Like the feeling of running. Like ringing up a friend, or sitting with your dad, or making hot chocolate on the stove with your sister, late late at night, when you can't study any more.

We've learnt InDesign is a LINKING PROGRAM. That Illustrator is a VECTOR BASED PROGRAM. That we must walk before we run and it isn't about manipulating the medium to suit your purpose, but allowing the medium TO manipulate your purpose.

That patience
is
key.

That compassion
is
all.

That we are 18.

That we must be realistic and forgiving of ourselves.

So, we have learnt alot.

Dearest Indi, you were so nervous about the future. But we have come so far. And so much has changed.

Jay is happy in Canberra and we are so happy in turn. I see her becoming a brilliant architect, or at least some sort of creator. Ess-dear will heal the world. She seems to be enjoying her degree and I believe it suits her perfectly. And she recently got a job too! Opposite Tea's apartment, would you believe!
Tea is still searching for her calling. She is confused. She has been through a truly tumultous year, full of shadows, wavering incadescent light and explosions of sunshine. I feel she will be searching for a while. Like us all, I suppose. She'll find a path soon enough. And we intend to be there.

We went opshopping the other day for the first time in months. We salvaged a few cds from the messy rows, all with cloudy, smudged, plastic covers.

Mum was dubious as to their quality, of course. But I've imported them and they're all fine. Something tells me I should return them all again, for someone else to find. Maybe I'll leave a note in their covers, maybe to tell them to come here. A cycle.

But I would like to keep one, I think. It is green - nicely designed. The Rasmus' Dead Letters. I would like to keep it because I opened it up and it spoke to me. A passage of small white writing against stormy green on the jacket says that:

"A DEAD LETTER IS A

LETTER THAT HAS

NEVER BEEN

DELIVERED BECAUSE

THE PERSON TO WHOM

IT WAS WRITTEN

CANNOT BE FOUND,

AND IT ALSO CANNOT BE

RETURNED TO THE

PERSON WHO WROTE IT".

I imagine a world of dead letters, hanging in space. I imagine victims of war or devastastion. A dark limbo of dead letters.

And I suppose I fling this letter out to you, into the void, to hang there too.

All my love,

Indi.

So

I haven't blogged in a very, very long time.

(Luckily, no one really cares 'cos no one really reads this!)

BUT

I am avoiding Uni work. Specifically 9 Learning Journal Chapters, a website to be constructed using only TextEdit (or whatever it's called), technical printmaking research, conceptual printmaking research, research for a quiz, research for another quiz, my writing portfolio, drawing, and probably something else.

Mm.

I am on the third last day of my two week mid-semester break and have nothing done. Sigh.

Also, at the mo, contemplating my spirituality and the mortality of immortality.

Hm.

I can't wait for the summer holidays. I can't wait to lay with Tea, Jay and Ess on the grass and look up into the night sky and contemplate our existence and the possibility of a pineapple empire.

And I can't wait for Tatjana Jones and the Saucer Man to hit cinemas for the Christmas holiday season.

Thoughts, incoherencies

I can't wait for Persephone.

Today I was reminded that the world is not only full of black and white, but blue, green, red, yellow, orange, vermillion, magenta, marigold, silver, turquoise, amber, grey, jade, lilac, lapis luzuli, bronze, cream, brown, pink and every colour in between, and that every one is different and beautiful. How lucky we are. How lucky we are to be in a world so beautiful.

And yes there is bad. There is lots and lots of bad. But bad is only a vaccum. It's just the absence of good.

Or is it?

Another thought- black is created when all the colours are absorbed. And white is when all are reflected. So if you follow the 'white is good and pure and black equates to badness' thing, then in order to be good perhaps the key is to reflect all you love and think is beautiful, rather than absorbing them and hording them away.

But who's to say black is the colour of darkness anyway? And who's to say darkness is bad? Or IS darkness bad, a word formulated to describe those frightened feelings surrounding that shrouded figure in the night. Then we mustn't confuse darkness with black, the night and shadows.



All you need take from this is that we are blessed, and all you need to remind yourself is a look at the sky.

quickie

Only fellow Illustrator novices can understand the gentle satisfaction that comes when the pen tool co-operates for the first time.

Peaceful sigh, and curtains close.

ATTENTION! ATTENZIONE!

MISSES CASHEW, SPARROW, ESS

My fellow creatives,

This is a matter of dire importance!!

Your mission: to see Henry Selick's Coraline.

Pricey but necessary.

Then you must return so we can discuss the formulation of our own independant, minature, stop motion studio.


Warning: it IS very creepy and can be VERY sinister. But it's also beautiful, so so beautiful. The music, the animation....

'At Last' (or, a micro entry for the faint hearted)

A moment for weary celebration -

I FINALLY finished downloading a trial version of Adobe Illustrator CS4 for my Visual Communication Technology assignment. It took 3 days.

And I can also almost play Clocks with my eyes closed. (!!!!!)

dead egg

This morning mum lifted the woolen blanket covering Sir Norbert's cage to find he had laid an egg. We had suspected Sir Norbert was female, but Little Sis and I had maintained she be called 'Sir Norbert' nonetheless. But now our gender-ambiguous cockatiel isn't gender-ambiguous anymore, mum's pressing for 'Norbie', or at least 'Lady Norbert', but I figure - why can't ladies be Sir anyway? And Sir Norbert had a nice ring to it.

The egg is very small and blushed with the faintest pink, and Sir Norbert seems to like playing soccer with it. We're not banking on immaculate conception; we know its a dead egg, and even if there had of been a Mr Sir Norbert, it probably would have died in the cold last night anyway.

Now we don't know what to do with it. I think I read somewhere that dead eggs can have a psychological effect on birds, because they never hatch. I want to remove it from the cage - she seems to have detached herself from it already. But I don't know if I want to touch it. It doesn't seem right.

I don't want to feel the cold alabaster of that tiny egg. It'd feel like death itself, in all its unassuming manner.

Sir Norbert seems rather bemused by this thing, both part of her and not. Thankfully she's young.



I have to work soon, so I'll make this quick:

That grey creature, anxiety, has been gnawing at my stomach ever since we came back to uni. I really must find a better way to deal with stress. I want to do yoga again.

I rescued our dusty old keyboard from the questionable, dark domain beneath Little Sis's bed. I cleaned it up and found a power pack for it, and I can almost play the opening part of Clocks. It's amazing. I haven't the longest attention span, even for things that interest me, even when watching a good film - my mind is forever inclined to wander. But I must have kneeled before that keyboard for at least half an hour, my mind completely engrossed by the keys and the sounds emanating from them, without my mind wandering at all. No matter how often I stuffed up, I just kept going. And going and going. And I didn't get frustrated once. It felt wonderful.

Ummm.....

I want Jet's new album.

I went to a Gallery with Ess.

I wrote a crummy story.

I bought a 2nd hand book called 'The Tao of Physics' which I am very excited about.

Annnndddd....

I have lots of work (uni and otherwise) to sink my reluctant teeth into.

Mucho love!

Fleet, the Fox and a Pear Tattoo

Every day we learn something new.

Today I learnt how to make an ambigram of No Pain No Glory.

Yesterday I learnt that I had hair the colour of Beatrice's.

The day before I learnt how to make pancakes.

The day before that I learnt that I looked like a girl name Emma.

The day before that I learnt that JK Rowling can write.

The day before that I learnt that buying new jeans feels really, really good.

And ever on.

I am listening to Fleet Foxes, and I think I'd like their album.
I recently ate a pear, and learnt I really like them.
And now I'm getting tattoos out of the way.

Haiku poetry
has five syllables and then
seven and then five.

Uni tomorrow. Just thought I'd blog some nonsense, because Ess did, and I feel like this is a reply.

Red Alice

When you are 18 the world is very small and your are very selfish.

You also feel infinitely old.

This I have recently discerned. At least, it's a true summation of me.

I feel like I must know what-who-how-why-where I am, and anxiety grows from the uncertainty. I am absorbed in myself. Who I want to be, what I want to do with my life, the necessity of knowing now against the imagined peril of un-knowing.

I want to write-draw-direct-sleep-illustrate-love-venture-discover-settle-fall. I want this and I want that.

My world, myself, me and I.

30 seems close and ancient and the very last oppurtunity for living and dreaming. Even though, with a little perspective, one can be reassured that it truly isn't.

I am 18 years old, and in another 18 I will be 36. And in another 36, I will be 74. And that's (touch wood) a long way away.

And 74 isn't even that old.

I have started to believe that it is only in thinking-rushing-scrabbling for success and direction that one can truly age the soul, and that this is why, at the moment, I am so topsy-turvy and frazzled around the edges. I am trying to shine like a burning flame, forgetting that in burning the foundations of a fire quickly smoulder and float away on the breeze, lost and fragmented.

We must learn to flow like water. We must learn to breathe and let the current take us, us fervent, frightened, fiery 18 year olds. We are infinitely young. We must make mistakes and learn from them. We must be open to change and possibility.

Graphic Designer, Writer, Director, Nomad, whatever. Let's just see what happens.

Things aren't what they seem through the looking glass.






{{The Author wants to caution the reader that for all her idealism and attempts at philosophy and peace, she is only 18 after all, and a very noob-y 18 year old at that.


She is also a hypocrite, and will continue to moan and fuss and worry about her future and the loss of time for a while yet.... maybe until she turns 19.}}

Tall Jan is Malicious.

My family are a pack of hyenas. (Or, at least, can be.)

And I am a black sheep among them.

Or, at least, can be.

Tango. Oscar. November. India.

Green peas, aquired.


I have to say... it is amusing, watching my licence photos get gradually more horrendous. And it must be terribly boring, being an RTA supervisor. I swear, I must have only briefly sucked my lips in for the barest of seconds in response to the awkwardness of the situation, in between a good minute of fully acceptable teeth-baring. I can imagine E. Merry with her finger on the photo trigger, waiting with weary amusement for that perfect, candid moment - moments we just don't want to see on anything remotely legal.

Conversely, though, my frozen features are perfect for a moustache - is it very illegal to deface driver's licences?

black dog fire child. smile alice smile

people just don't blog anymore. perhaps being shot at by millions of points of light just doesn't compare to breathing one's whispers onto the silent pages of a secret book.

..

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

that is all.

par avion

It came it came it came!!

It came par avion!

Now I just hope it isn't infected by swine flu...

for book moles

bookdespository.com

Current Exchange Rate:

1 English Pound = 2.01850373 Australian Dollars.

Free Shipping.

Moleskine journals.

You do the maths.

God Speed.

time. temps. tempo.

I am perhaps the most disorganised person on the planet.

Words cannot describe just how unorganised I am. But inevitably I will try.

Time, at the moment, probably bored with its conservative existence, has fixed its mischevious attention on me. I am probably only the ten billionth of billions, but it's irritating all the same.

It jumps in bounds. It shifts itself subtly around me so I don't even notice I'm moving till the clock reads five minutes past the deadline. This morning was particularly shocking. I swear it doesn't take me ten minutes to brush my teeth.

Every monday it's the same. Sunday nights I find myself detoriated into a quivering chaos, waking before the dawning of the monday exhausted with my frazzled, unorganised inclinations, throwing myself through a blur of trains or cars, doubling back because I've forgotten that USB, that foam core board, that craft knife, that analysis, trying to breathe deeply through the drive to the station, stubbornly avoiding the digital clock on my dash which I KNOW is accelerating but not even to a pace close to the speed my mind's running..... Hoping I don't miss the train.

I fall into Uni, and a vacant euphoria settles over me. I feel like air, my bones hollow, my blood light as cloud-bound rain. (Is that light? I hope so. Or else I just sounded like a noob.) And with this a clarity - a clarity in which I conceive another set of organisation methods, more procedures to implement, and I feel reborn and capable again.

I come home, I tidy my room, stick notes on the wall, gather myself together, make lists.

And then the rewound ball of twine of my existence slowly unravels again as the days come, one after the other.

And sunday comes again.

I realise books have something to do with this. Books, I think, might ultimately be my downfall. I rally at Dan Brown at the moment, even while I gobble up his pages.

Ess once verbalised to me something which I'd always suspected of myself. My room reflects how I feel inside. At the moment I will paint you a picture, for it might more easily convey the Indi of the moment (one who just missed her train and has decided in resignation to stay home today. PN: I need to find somewhere I can work. Uni doesn't seem to be suitable, neither does home with all its distractions.... or is it more a mind frame I have to find, rather that a real dimension? Or a combination of both? I wish I had a studio. I always tell myself to turn my room into a studio, with a bed adjacent, but that never seems to work either. I feel like I'm too big for it. I need a giant table and Goliath's shelves, scuffed wooden floors, a bay window covered in cushions with a green, leafy expanse beyond.... but now I'm fantasising.)

I have very little floor because a double mattress consumes most of it. A mattress that has no right to be there, no matter how comfortable it is. I have a double bed which I adore beside it, currently a twisted disaster zone of blankets, tissues, jackets and vests, and a hastily thrust-aside copy of Angels and Demons; and a set of drawers next to that laden with relatively few objects - my iPod Sirius, my red headphones, The Da Vinci Code, cds which I never use, a few books; and next to that, a wooden cupboard filled with paper, art pads (sketch, canvas, watercolour, bank) and other arty-things clustered together in what little space there is. I have on the opposite wall a desk covered in paper and assorted mark-makers, the walls covered in notes and pictures of tattoos I'm meant to have done for people, roiling my stomach with each glance, heavy with guilt and procrastination; I have shelves rising above my desk, tottering with cups full of pens, textas, pencils and gathered bits and pieces (buttons, a badge, a tiny teapot, an anklet made of tiny silver cogs) and books (journals never filled, drawings, language books, dictionaries. Propped up by a snowglobe). The carved wooden box at the foot of my bed is piled high with blankets, my own and my sisters, a silver handbag (a foreign article, my sisters, atop a Spiderman blanket), cloth bags full of books, and shoes scatter what little floor space there is around it.

The floor not covered by mattress is occupied by paper and dog toys. Nearly all available door knobs are strung with bags.

It looks like someone has detonated an Indi inside.



But it is Tuesday, not so detached from Monday, so I will breathe and tidy, and I will start again. If Time is testing me, I will pass.

Abigail Weary, privateer

Indi went to a Steam-punk quasi Apocalypse cabaret thing in Newcastle!!

So much to write about, really, most concerning the feelings growing inside me, like birds straining from a cage.

Freedom. Adventure. The unknown. I adore it all.


I need to travel. I need to get out of here and experience the world and all it's wonders.

I want to fly and soar.

The steampunk thing was freakishly, wonderfully bizzare; a troupe of eccentric and unique people just doing what they want to do, and being utterly themselves. There were sober moments, pertaining to the apocalypse, performed by drama-types quite wonderfully (I have decided I love amateur theatre) and a multitude of hilarities I almost cried over.

AND THERE WERE TWO BROTHERS, HILARIOUS JUGGLERS, WHO I QUITE BELIVE STOLE MY HEART. I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO DO WHAT THEY DID.

It was completely casual and unpredictable and deliciously weird, with people all in bizzare costumes and doing bizzare things.

Walking back to the car, with my spring monocled-hat and vest and striped bandido-scarf, back through the rising and falling streets of Newcastle, the old, time worn buildings bathed in golden street lights, with the stars above, sighing down their cool air.... I felt a wonderous sense of happiness, and a yearning for foreign places and fire-dancers.

So glad I did it.

I will pass on the departing message given to us as we left:

Love people, be bizzarre, have fun.

blessed

I feel infinitely blessed to have acquired so early in my life friends with whom my very soul resonates with. I love them as I love my family, and I marvel in the complexity and wonder of our existence, of love, of its many shapes and forms.

For your own complexities, for your spirit and eccentricities; for your openness and opinions, for your giving natures, I love you all. I really don't believe I deserve all you guys, but I feel blessed all the same.

Thankyou. For keeping me grounded especially.

Joyeuses Paques, Buona Paqua

Just a quick question: What is it about easter that makes us think that chocolate will have no adverse effect on us?

Curse you, shiny-foiled Easter Bunny. I thought I'd get my own back by decapitating you, but darn it, you foiled me again! (Excuse the pun, it was completely unintentional)

You wily woodland-creature impersonator! You're always one step ahead!!

I have no self control.

Ahwell. Wallow in the chocolate induced bliss.

In other news: I've had a rather nice day!

it's hip to be a square

I WENT TO A MEDIEVAL GATHERING YESTERDAY.

It was held in the small, green, tree-bordered courtyard of an old highschool. Forty or so people were there, ranging from two to what I imagine was early fifties, in a variety of medieval garb, much of it clumsily made. I walked up with much trepidation to meet a friend there who was a member of the society, and everyone was very approachable. I hadn't any garb myself, but there was a pile of dresses and tunics and things, most very simple, on a picnic table to rummage through and loan for the day. I had much fun trying these on, and women came up to me a few times; plump mothers, girls my own age, etc, clucking and saying: see, this looks lovely, now, that looks nice. I went through a few changes, starting off with a very plain grey-green dress with a quite charming little vest looped protectively over my arm, only to be gently told that it was a bodice and bodices don't go with that style of dress.
I discovered a light purple dress and leapt upon it. Drifitng about the piles was a long, rich purple velvet over dress with {gate?} sleeves and gold and red embroidery, and I slipped this on over the top, feeling very regal indeed. "That's actually out of period," Gee said, coming up to me and straightening it around my shoulders, "But it looks prreeettyy..."
An old woman with fly-away grey hair, in a brown over dress and whitish skirt and brown leather boots, the maker of many of the clothes, came over to me and appraised me, picking out a red dress from the pile: She told me that the red had originally been made to go under the dress, bringing out as it did the red and gold embroidery, and so I changed. The dress combo looked very nice indeed, my red hair complimenting it, but alas it was all too long and rather hot, and I found myself flinging it all off again and slipping back into the green dress.

I met a girl there, Arr. She was a newbie too, and we seemed to become immediate friends through our shared circumstance. We stuck together the entire time, playing with the littlies. Barefoot, with my hair unbound and the dress cinched at my waist, spinning on the grass and chasing the littlies with medieval people around me, I felt very much like I'd fallen into the Inkworld.

If I join this society, I'll need a dress.

There was only one girl in the sword fighting, and while Arr and I's main assailant, a little boy with a gnawed foam sword and a cloak, granted us a brief respite while he looked for food (biscuits, from the grey-haired dressmaker) and we lounged on the grass, watching the tourney, I fantasised about being a mysterious and uber-skilled fighter in mail and armour, half the size of those giant metal men, beating them all with deftness and speed. It's the Fox! they'd all murmur, while off the sparring pitch I'd be Lady Indi, juggler extrodinaire, tamer of little ones.

It was all good fun, and I loved how all these people were gathered here for that purpose only: to have fun, and not take it seriously to the excess.

These people have lives beyond this escape world. That is good.

So, Arr and I are thinking we might actually join! We'll see, shall we?

Autumn makes all possible.