Resolve

Links to this and every other picture on my Pinterest

I've never been particularly dedicated to these things. I suppose I'm not alone. But I've always been a goal-setter; needless to say, the clash with my laissez faire attitude to execution has caused some problems. But I set them, and for once I think I'm actually going to take steps to make these happen.

I think I'm particularly motivated this year because my 2012 was not sensational. Had some excellent times (I mean, I visited London for the first time in my waking memory), but still not great. Most of the year was soaked up by constant stresses -- mostly assessment-related. Actually, on a side note, I'm thrilled to say that I got a score that was much higher than I honestly expected (no modesty, truly; just an English course structure that suited me to a t and an History of Revolutions exam that didn't ask awkward questions about the Russian Civil War) and ought to be getting some good news when university offers come out. I'll keep you posted.

What I'm trying to say is that 2012 changed me. Significantly. I'm a lot more mature than I was this time last year and I'm beginning to figure out the kind of person I want to be. I've been looking forward to 2013 for a good long time now and can honestly say that this is a year of change. And I look forward to it, although it scares unnameable things out of me.

Enough of this cheesiness. I'm going to write up my resolutions (a few days late, I admit) for all the world to see. This time next year I can look back on them and see which I kept, which I didn't and how I fared overall. Which actually brings me to my first goal...

Keep blogging over 2013. This is a big one. Writing is my passion, and it's what I want to do for a living. What's the point of having that dream if I can't keep a blog alive? (I guess we'll never know if I don't make it to a review of the year that was.) This is my way to breaking into the kind of community I want to be in; it's my portfolio and my scratchboard and my ego inflator. I get the feeling I wouldn't be thrilled with myself if I didn't continue. So, quite simply, I will.

Learn to use your lovely birthday camera. A nonsensically long time ago, a friend mentioned that I should try photography because I'd probably have a pretty decent eye. I've wanted to be a (hobbyist) photographer ever since. Writing is beautiful, and I love to take pictures with words -- I love the way you can twist them and double them back upon themselves. But my chief high school regret is not taking Photography. (It was a really popular class so I shunned it. Honestly, self of 2009.) So now that I'm in possession of what photography forums generously refer to as "a DSLR for the photographically retarded" (their words, not mine) it's time to get serious. I will know what those weird little switches do and I will figure out what bokeh actually is.

Read (and understand) the backs of packets. On a completely different tangent, I'm sick of ingesting things that bleach floors. This was brought on by a co-worker filling me charmingly in on what goes into delicious things like Hershey's Cookies and Cream bars. Not to mention the metal-infused oil of Reese's Pieces. O! to be introduced to wonders of US produce, only to have it cruelly snatched away! That said, I'm still going to treat myself; I'm hardly going to turn into one of those weird women with hair in unexpected places, burning effigies of Thickening Agent 749e. Now that shopping for myself looms on the horizon, I'm making a serious effort to avoid, you know, mercury.

Dress like your wardrobe implies you do. And now for the really scary one. Did you know, dear readers, that I own (amongst other things) an orange kimono, two 1940s skirt-suits and plum lipstick? Of course you don't, because these things are languishing in my closet. I buy them because they are lovely and then never wear them because it's hard to break a mould. And the hats! And the gloves! And the pearls! I read so many inspirational blogs and see so many fashionable ladies, but I can't bring myself to do it. No more! After a Harem of Peacocks/Bright Young Twins binge, I feel inspired. This is going to be the hardest, but I have little doubt that it will also be the most rewarding.

Enough of this emotional nonsense. Hello, 2013; may you be only good things!

 

WitW: Turku, Finland

Introducing Finland's one-time capital, Turku. In 2011, along with Tallinn, it was the European Capital of Culture and, in 1996, (sit down if you aren't already) became Finland's official Christmas city. (Actually, that's kind of a big deal since northern Finland is basically Father Christmas' stomping ground.)

Turku doesn't have an enormous population: 170,000 people, give or take. However, thanks to its location (down at the bottom of Finland... the warm part, I guess) about a million folks pass through it to take a ferry.

In a word, Turku is adorable. It has adorable architecture, adorable boat bars (boats moored in a general vicinity that are bars; I knew you'd get it) and an adorably dorky medieval festival.

They even had a visit to their adorable music festival by Apocalyptica, who I would call adorable as well if I weren't a little bit afraid of them.



Less adorable is the public toilet re-imagined as bar. But Turku makes up for that with the bank that's been turned into a bar and is, by all accounts, quite grand. If you're looking for something in the middle, the old Swedish school -- which, needless to say, is also a bar these days -- might suit you.

Contrary to the portrait I've painted, Turku is not a fog-swamped harbour town consisting wholly of pubs. (Athough there is an ex-kindergarten bar. I'm done.) Turku Castle hosts a collection of appropriately old artefacts from Turku's glory days as capital. You know: lots of lovely rugs and goblets and things.

See what I mean? But, more than anything else, Turku seems to be a place to wander in. Let's be honest with ourselves: you don't visit this place for its (seemingly endless) stream of maritime museums. You visit to walk around and say, "UGH! So beautiful! Too beautiful! Too charming!"

Because, quite simply, it is.

All credit to my sources: TripAdvisor, Virtual Tourist, Wikipedia, Medieval Market, Turku Castle, the Guardian, FanPop, Will Go To, Get In Travel.

Where in the Wednesday is my weekly excuse to trawl through Google Images. It's a profile of the place I wish I was in and an attempt to draw my eye away from classic travel destinations. I write in the hope that you'll enjoy reading about all these places as much as I love learning and writing about them. Anywhere you think I ought to write about, from the obscure little town in your state to that place you visited in 1989? I'm at anscenicworld@gmail.com.

Where in the Wednesday: Who are you and what are you doing?

A few points of interest:

• I have some exciting news! I've had this idea for a weekly post going for a little while now, but I'm finally getting my act together and doing something about it. It won't surprise you to know that this feature is called Where in the Wednesday (or WitW, because I am lazy). Every Wednesday (more shocks!) I'll profile a place that has struck my interest. The rules: no capital/main cities; no landmarks. Sorry, Machu Pichu. **
• I saw the Hobbit! Asdfghjkl, etc. Oh, what can I say? I cried through the opening credits I was so happy.

(Yes, I'm in Instagram! anscenicworld, of course.)

Was it the best film I've ever seen in my life? No, not really. Peter Jackson is not the world's most cunning director. The 3D was iffy and the colours cartoonish and Hugo Weaving as goddamn creepy as ever. But it made me the happiest I've ever been from a film. Martin Freeman (not Morgan, not Morgan) was great as an anxious wreck, as always, and, despite Elijah cropping up like a rash that won't quit, Pete managed to stay on track and not deviate more than was expected. I'll even forgive Radagast the Brown.

Original found here

Best of all, I'm apparently not the only one uncomfortably attracted to Kili. Come on, like you weren't wondering what you were going to do without Viggo Mortensen to spy on. Oh, and this fan service happened.

As you can see, I'm just spilling over with Hobbit-related joy at the moment.

• And Christmas and New Year's and my birthday are all happening in a rush. This is the big one, you know. In nine short days I'll be eligable to vote (!!!) in next year's election! And adopt and marry and drink and get tattooed and book a flight and sign my own forms and get a library card and a boat licence. But most importantly: vote. (It's compulsory here anyway, you know. That doesn't change my excitement!)

**My full and sincere apologies to anyone out there that has, or knows of, a similar structure. If you do know somebody with a weekly Where in the Wednesday, please let me know at anscenicworld@gmail.com so I can get in touch with them on the ASAP. If I've learnt anything about the Internet, it's this: transparency is essential and people love crappy puns. So while the pun is my own, I would be surprised if I was the first to exploit its supreme cheesiness.

 

Show me the mula

Another thing. I think I've established by now that, despite all my very best intentions, I just can't escape my innate miseryguts... ness... and all I can do is accept it and try not to be too moany. I will never have a pastel-coloured, charming blog; nor will I be deep and significant. My doom is to be flippant and jaded. I'm just too goddamn Australian.

Which is why I'm unashamed to present the pinnacle of Western literature, the meeting-place of many great minds: the indescribably sensational and regrettably literal sh*thole that is the Flinders Str Station bathrooms. Known widely as the worst in the city, they're my only option at that lolly-shop job you're acquainted with; and, since I take at least four bathroom breaks a shift to segment the monotony, they're something I've had to come to terms with. Naturally, much like Lizzie for Mr. Darcy, my hatred turned to passionate love. I want to share the enlightening things I've read there for two reasons, the first being that they deserve it. They're masterpieces. The second is that I want you to never have to go there yourselves. These bathrooms are disgusting.

Here's a selection of the best to enjoy in the comfort of your (clean, sweet-smelling) home. Fair warning: some of these are reasonably unpleasant, which you can understand given the context.

"'If high shcool's the best time of your life, I'm hanging myself with a jump-rope tonight' - Jackie-Onassis Kennedy" "Actually darling... it's 'Kennedy Onassis'." "Look closely... I added in the 'nassis Kennedy'. Her name isn't Jackie-Onassis. Darling." (Jackie-O is an Australian radio host that falls into the famous-for-being famous category.)

"You forgot the apostrofy." "Apostraphe!" "Noobs!! It's Apostrophe!!!"

"I don't hate you. I just lost all my respect for you."

"Show me the mula $$$" (My personal favourite.)

"Thank you all for the wonderful literature! you all make my purging much more entertaining and enlightening." (Despite the use of alliterated, double-superlatives, this little note is not courtesy of me. I'm engaged at the moment in a serious debate over if anyone truly cares about the various measaurements of a young man named Austin. I deemed it a little too inappropariate for here. I'm sure you'd agree.)

Unfortunately, I just realised that this is my last post before Christmas. What timing! I hope you had/are having/will have a great non-denominational, general festive period.

 

In this edition of Kinfolk...

Maybe not. Actually, this hilarity is just a segue into tonight's adventure to the Open Air Cinema with the inconquerable J. I figure, since she's the first person I told about my blog, she ought to be the first to get a mention on it.

I begin by reiterating that it's summer where I am.

The Open Air Cinema is a fairly literal business. You bring a picnic rug or rent a deck chair and then spend an hour forty or so shifting about, trying to get the feeling back into your legs.

Hard life.

Ah, but who am I kidding? This was so much fun. I had my first Subway (verdict: satisfactory; doubt those meatballs were the epitome of eatin' fresh, but they did taste good), and then we saw a bongo drum orchestra. There was some kind of hippie night market -- you could buy fisherman's pants and those weird woven hats with the ear flaps -- and a man who, clearly at the end of his pride, was trying to flog the last of his stock as "strawberries for Christmas", "stawberries for your ice-cream" and "strawberries for you, sir".

St. Kilda is such a fun place, in spite of all the murders. It's sort of seedy and a last hippie outpost, but I guess that's the charm. It even has a Coney Island-esque amusement park; C I-esque in that it had its hey-day about seventy years ago and now is only really patroned by tourists, children's birthday parties and second-daters running out of ideas. It's a shame because the place is actually pretty nice, especialy when it's all lit up. It's the kids these days, with their "electronic mail" and "skateboards".

Right. The sun set at last and we headed to the place to see...

...Emilio Estevez! What a film. We laughed; we cried; we fumbled and failed to take a picture of the opening tites and instead snapped a shot of the lead actor.

I admit to you now that this was my first ever viewing of the Breakfast Club. What can I say? I'm impressed, both by the film itself and by Estevez's cold, dead shark eyes. Apart from moments of frustration (ie: "Oh my God, leave Claire alone already, it's not her fault she's a ginger") it was sensational. I'm always in awe of a film that takes such hilariously rigid stereotypes and makes a decent picture. Plus! it had a montage (a dance montage!!) and a makeover and those are just my favourite things in a film.

And a highly unflattering selfie to end a sensational evening.

 

Flashback harp and Vaseline on the lens

How meta is this?

It's been a month since I started this blog (and about ten days since I decided to write a review of how things have been going, took a picture, wrote 'How meta is this?' and subsequently forgot all about it). I assure you I won't be writing these every month I pass here, but I think now's as good a time as any to have a think about how things are going.

Reading over my things, I realise I've strayed from my original idea, and, in essence, the purpose of my blog. I'm writing about a (or an, I suppose) scenic world, not an near-unemployment or an questionable/attention-seeking grammar. And now that I'm sort of in the habit of blogging, I'm going to try to drag myself back into that vein. I was talking with my endlessly wonderful aunt about blogging, and something she said really struck true: no-one wants to read about the cupcakes I'm baking. (Unless I provide a recipe and/or beautiful photographs -- look, hey, I'm not a food blogger and anyway, this is just an analogy.) Whatever I do, I have to offer you all something they can't get anyplace else. Anyone can pull haphazard, wonky cupcakes together; that's not what I'm here to write about. I'm going to pull myself back to my intended route, kicking and screaming. I'm going to have less incidental posts; I'm going to actually do something, then write about it. In honesty, I've been kind of lazy.

At this point, I'd like to put it out there that any constructive criticism, feedback and tips on any element of my blogging is a thousand times welcome. I need all the help I can get!

That said, more than anything else I'm just proud I've survived a month actually blogging. And that I actually started! How can I describe how good it felt to reach out to some bloggers I really admire and to hear lovely things back; to read comments, however few; and -- this one really set my heart racing -- to finally finally see my Bloglovin' followers rise from one (me) to two. My readers may only number in the teens at this point, but I've started; I'm breaking into this beautiful blogging community at long last. And it feels so good.

 

20/20

For reasons too tragic to disclose (I'm learning to be responsible and senior at my once-a-week lolly shop job) I was up at five today. I'm not really a morning person, as evidenced by the fact that once, still drunk with sleep, I took a swing at a friend and made her lip bleed. Wonderful, wonderful me.

But I pulled myself out of bed at the prospect of those three sweet minimum wage hours (remember from the last post how desperate I am?) and off I went. In a way, it was nice; there was a sense of community in the mutual hatred of that ungodly hour. It was mostly weary tradies (do other countries use that word?) and shocked-looking businesspeople... and me, poor little lolly girl. You might feel like I'm getting a bit off-topic in a moment, but stay with me. One thing was different on this trip, and it wasn't the number of folks fumbling with broadsheets. I had new contact lenses.

For the right sighted, contacts and glasses and complicated surgery all seem like such a hassle. Let me level with you: for a vast majority of the time, they are. Apart from the cred you earn from having prescription glass in those frames and being able to terrify eight year-olds by sticking fingers in your eye, it's not much joy. But when you have your script updated; that's when I pity the optically sound.

How can I describe what it's like to relive the novelty of first sight? Over time, as your eyes wither, you don't notice that details fade. But when your -2.75 script jumps to a -3.50, you abruptly realise that you've been missing out. Everything is suddenly clear-cut and beautiful. The first thing I do is look at leaves; what grows to be a blurred green mess becomes thousands of individual shapes, all crisply edged with individual shadows. Then everything comes in a rush: power lines and eaves on houses and the deliberate lines of a skyscraper. The morning helped: I managed, through dumb luck, to time my departure so that my ten-minute walk fell in that golden half hour, when everything is dripping with light and you feel like the air is thick with it. (Naturally, I was too busy gawping at No Parking signs to take any proper pictures; just these blurry hot air balloons from the train.)

Sometimes it's the small things, I suppose.a