I'm just a girl - standing in front of a boy - asking him to read my goddam creative writing.
// 21 / creative writing student / Melbourne, Australia / writer / photographer / hugh grant-enthusiast //
email me at : [email protected]
Taylor Swift – Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions
The entirety of this year I have been painfully aware of the absurd ratio of shit-ness to the number of days we have all lived through. No doubt, I am by far not the only one. I could list for you all of the varying ways in which twenty-twenty, the year of our Lord, has inflicted fluctuating degrees of trauma on us all, but you, my friend, have no doubt experienced some of these traumas, so I’ll spare you the depressing recap. But on July 24th, the world changed. Or mine did, at least. Because for a week thereafter, and in sporadic moments since, I’ve been allowed to forget the reality of the world going on around me. My body has stayed put in the apocalypse that is now, but an angel named Miss Taylor Swift has granted us all access to a heaven that only she has the keys to. the keys, this time around, were in the shape of an album called folklore.
Film Review: Rebecca
A few weeks ago, I tucked myself into bed with my favourite mug of tea and an over-hyped anticipation for a film I’d seen popping up everywhere as of late. Ben Wheatley’s Rebecca (2020), a suspense-drama based on the 1938 novel of the same name by Daphne du Maurier, details the story of a naïve young woman who finds herself entangled in a marriage that is haunted by the shadow of the woman who came before her. The trailer promised hot British characters (Lily James and Armie Hammer play the leads), gorgeous early-1900s European scenery and some slivers of science-fiction mystery. What I happened on instead was, just as the year of the Lord 2020 has ensured, a shit-show of boring cardboard chemistry-less bad British accents.
Babyteeth Film Review
When we’re young, our first loves tend to feel like our only. In Mila’s case, though, as a sixteen-year-old terminally ill girl, the reality of a first and only love is ferociously omnipresent.
Tenet Film Review
Old mate Christopher Nolan has yet again taken it upon himself to absolutely brain fuck unsuspecting cinemagoers (although perhaps we should all suspect it by now) by making us question everything we know about time, space and the unemotional characters that frequent his films in just a mere two and a half hours. In other words: I watched Tenet.
I heard this thing the other day that whenever you remember a memory, you’re not only remembering the contents of the memory itself, but also each previous time that memory takes a visit to the forefront of your mind. I just can’t stop thinking about this.
I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of a spoiler alert. That thing that one declares like a siren of warning, a fire alarm beeping before you can even smell the smoke. (Wait, did I say fire? Sorry, I think I spoiled the ending.)
Best of Times / Worst of Times
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Over the Indian Ocean
I should be somewhere over the Indian Ocean right now. I should be strapped into a flying death cabin that rattles so much every now and again that the thought of dying shifts lanes in my brain from fantasy to possibility. And – whoop – another rattle, one just violent enough to remind me that maybe I don’t welcome death like I always thought I would; my arms are neither open wide nor waving in long-awaited enthusiasm, but clutching the armrest I have spent the better half of the flight asserting dominance over. Maybe falling from the sky in the company of a hundred other strangers, one of which leans too far back in their seat, one of which makes the little hairs dance around the perimeter of their nose when they snore, isn’t the complete and utter essence of comfort I thought it could be. And for all the times that I’ve wished I was dead, none of them included being on my way to Europe.