I have recently seen two Sydney Theatre Company productions that included music, but were not musicals. The first, When the Rain Stops Falling, was a play that included an original score played live by a pianist on the apron of the stage. The music worked like a film soundtrack to underscore the emotional intensity of the action onstage, and I loved it. It was a very lyrical play, cleverly staged with a brilliant set and blocking to slide effortlessly between scenes and timelines. The play concerns several generations of one family, the ways that parents are cruel to children and children cruel to parents, the patterns that repeat even when you don't realise it, and the patterns that you can try to break, sometimes consciously or sometimes not. I love the way that Andrew Bovell writes intense, long speeches that are nonetheless believable; his characters are real but provide such meat for the actors. The music was almost unnecessary because the words pack all the punches, but it rounded out the atmosphere.

That being said, the play's symbolism was rather heavy at times, and the final line of the play is an absolute howler. And while there is some labouring exposition towards the end, I was left wanting to know more about the last generation, whose story was not told in full. (It may seem that I cared less for this play because I have less to say about it, but in fact it was the best piece of theatre I have seen in a very long time. To discuss it in greater depth would spoil it majorly for anyone who may see a future production.)

The second production, Poor Boy, is 'a play with songs' by Matt Cameron and Tim Finn. It too concerns fractured families, but with a supernatural theme: reincarnation. It's not spoiling much to say that a seven-year-old boy wakes up one day and says he is not himself but a man who died seven years earlier. That man is played by Matthew Newton, who shadows the boy onstage. They alternate lines and sometimes speak together, they wear the same clothes and are the same person but they move independently. I liked this doubling, although it did pull the focus in a lot of scenes, when everyone onstage would be looking at the boy but it was Matthew who was speaking, and he was somewhere else on stage entirely. The play raises more questions than it can safely answer, although it too suffered from too much exposition, especially around a crucial scene that was described twice and also re-enacted. Of course there were different details in each version, but three times is too much, especially if you're going to both show and tell.

I'm really not familiar with Tim Finn's work, which was probably to my advantage. I loved the lyrical complexity of the songs, but I don't think they were integrated as well as they could have been. Often a scene would end with a dramatic line, the lights would go down, then the lights would come up and there would be a song, which then became quite predictable. I had the sense that the songs were largely unaltered from the original pop recording, without appropriate changes to the lyrics or the musical arrangement, so the female actors often had to sing quite low and strong pop elements remained. I'm not going to lie, when Matthew Newton's character was left onstage softly singing, "C'mon c'mon c'mon", at the end of a song it was one of my favourite moments in the entire show, but it didn't have a lot to do with his character or anything else happening at the time. The boy can really sing, though. The whole cast does a wonderful job with the music. Of course, they had to wear mikes because of the singing, and I would much rather have heard their unadorned voices for the dialogue, but I guess that's unavoidable. The onstage band was also a little too loud for me, but it was only the second show after opening night so I expect the techs are still adjusting the levels.

The final problem of it being a play with songs rather than a musical was that no one ever seemed to know what to do after a song, especially if there wasn't a blackout. In a musical, characters sing when their emotions reach a certain height, and it's part of the conventions of the genre. In a play, do we pretend that the songs didn't happen? Do the characters realise that they are singing? Are they meant to hear each other? These questions aside, I'm all for experimentation with music and other elements in a performance. A play doesn't always have to be just a play -- as long as there's a reason for doing something different. I loved the musical element to When the Rain Stops Falling and feel that it wouldn't have been such a strong production without it. However, I'm not convinced that the same goes for Poor Boy.

Dear Matthew Newton,

Wow, you can sing! I mean, you can really sing. Thank goodness you never joined a boyband because then I'd be even more tragic than I already am. I mean, I thought I was kinda over you, but my goodness, you are really talented. You were awesome in Poor Boy. I think I understand you a little better now. I get why you play so many sleazy characters; it's just who you are as an actor. You're always going to have an edge, or at least, you will as long as you keep the facial hair. Even John Barton had hidden darkness. So I can run with it. You rock (aside from your personal problems, as always).

Love and adoration,
saffronlie

P.S. Who were you texting when you were standing outside the theatre with your phone before the show started, and I walked past?

Australian Idol Wes Carr!

(Yeah, I'm slow on the uptake here, but I don't follow Idol and had to learn about Wes from Good News Week that one time I watched and he was on. I meant to post about it then, but forgot until he was on Spicks and Specks tonight. And while I'm here, may I say, Hamish Blake, you may have been on fire tonight, but I actually found Wes to be cuter. Most likely the Hanson thing, so don't take it personally.)



Check it! Is this not exactly what we thought Taylor Hanson would look like in 2009, twelve years ago? Here's Taylor circa 1997. Try and spot the difference:



I mean, Wes looks more like Taylor Hanson than Taylor Hanson himself does now! And I'm pretty sure the only reason he wears a beard is to keep the comparison from becoming too obvious.

Here's a more recent picture of Taylor to refresh your memory:( Read more... )

Alfred Lord Tennyson



Quelle Surprise! I didn't know Tennyson came in any flavour other than bearded until I saw this at the NPG in London. Here's the information at their site. He's no Yeats, of course, but he'll do.

It's more like the Love Paragraphs, because I also love to talk (type?). It's a meme from here, via palelaura, that I started working on a little while ago. There won't be much here that surprises my long-term LJ friends, but I'll probably link to it in my userinfo as a nice Introduction To Me.

This is not meant to be a 'trite' list. It's not meant to be a substitute for your favorite movies or books or fandoms. It can combine all of those things, if you truly -love- them, but the list is meant to be created with substance. It should involve not only the things that you love now, but the things you've loved since childhood, the things that have endeared themselves to you throughout your life. Things that provide structure for who you are. Try to make them as personal and relevant as possible. Really, this is the only rule.

( The List )

Not only am I seeing Streetcar in October with Cate Blanchett, but next week I am seeing Poor Boy WITH MATTHEW NEWTON! I can't tell you how much this means to me. Especially if we pretend that the last five or so years never happened.

Wil Anderson, via Twitter: "Shit. Just realised the date. I haven't bought any EOFYS presents. I haven't cooked my EOFYS dinner. I don't even have an EOFYS tree!"

(Shh, I still loathe Twitter. I just enjoy stalking the occasional celebrity on it.)

zhonghua2000 gave me some words for that last meme that I did. And when I LOLed, she gave me some more. Such a taskmaster!

1. Age: I'm very sensitive to the passage of time. I don't do well with birthdays. That aside, for a lot of my life I always end up being the youngest person in a situation, whether in a class, at a workplace, on a course. I still tend to assume that everyone is older than me, even though that's not the case right now. But I get along with people of all ages.

2. Pretentiousness: To quote Matt Preston, Oscar Wilde of Food: 'Some people call me pretentious, but I say, au contraire.' Jokes aside, and my own melodramatic mannerisms aside, I actually do share the typically Australian dislike and distrust of pretension. There's no need to be anything other than what you are. Honest aspirations are awesome, but I don't do fakeness.

3. Fringe: I have one. I never thought I'd be a girl with bits of hair hanging around her face, but now I am. Surprisingly, hair hanging in my eyes is usually only annoying when I'm studying.

4. Gloria Jean's: I used to have a major obsession with the coffee chain. I studied there a lot in uni (and put on weight from all the cake!). I don't go so much anymore because it's expensive and because the company sponsors Hillsong's anti-gay ministry.

5. Michael Jackson: Look, I'm a child of the 90s. The first I ever heard of Michael Jackson was jokes about chimpanzees and kiddie fiddling. Although, we used to sing "Heal the World" at school a lot. Like, in our church services. That was a bit weird, in retrospect, but it's a good song, and my Catholic school always had a thing for suspiciously irrelevant pop songs. We even used the theme from Friends in a liturgy in grade 7.


1. Australia: It's still where I live. I still like it.

2. Reading (every book ever known to man): <----- Sheryl said that part! She's exaggerating. I certainly haven't read every book ever known to man, but I guess I have read more of the obscure, earlier works of English literature than the average person. The other thing about my reading tastes, back when I used to have reading tastes, was that I do read widely. My favourite kind of book has gentle prose, well-formed characters, not much in the way of plot (for me, character is plot) -- literary fiction-type stuff. But I also love a good pulp novel like Michael Crichton's (I said 'good' -- so not like Dan Brown). I read all genres and age groups and everything. Well, I used to. These days I just read the TV guide, but my life is tragic that way.

3. Cooking: I like it! I'm not very good at it. I'm a much better baker than a cook. Cakes and biscuits is where it's at for me. In a bit of a brownie phase at the moment. However, completely uninspired on the matter of real food for the next week or two, but need to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Woe.

4. SplitEndZ: I think by this she just means hair, and not an extra ironic reference to the New Zealand band. When my hair was long, I suddenly starting getting split ends, and it was very traumatic for me. I used to cut them off! Now my hair's short enough that I don't notice them. If they are there. I'm hoping they've all magically disappeared, but I know the straightening iron will bring them out.

5. Isaac Hanson: He's my favourite Hanson and I love him and we were going to get married because I saw his true beauty all along and one time at that concert when he was singing "Being Me" I yelled out "I love you, Isaac!" during a really quiet bit because "I love you, Isaac, even though you're you, so don't feel sorry for being you" was just a little too long but it's true I do and always have also he has the best most commercial voice and "A Minute Without You" still makes me smile and "Love Song" makes me frown in that delicious melancholic way the end.

In other news, I hate reality television. Would someone explain to me why I'm currently following two reality TV shows? And why I keep being surprised when the shows do stupid things like eliminate really talented contestants? Because that's what reality TV does? I'm such a sucker.

I think I kind of love Kevin Rudd.

I know, this is so unexpected! I mean, I was out of the country for the last election. I voted postally, but I had no real sense of how the election campaigns played out, and how it was in the aftermath and early days of the regime change. I watched from afar as Rudd did some pretty awesome things, like apologising to the Aboriginal community and making Julia Gillard his deputy. Then when I came back to Australia, I had this rather strange sensation: the Prime Minister's every move didn't fill me with disgust and loathing. It was amazing! After eleven years of hatred under John Howard, I was free.

But I still didn't pay him too much attention until the recent ridiculous "Utegate" "scandal" which revealed all at once both the petty stupidity of Malcolm Turnbull and the ass-faced bias of 93% of the Australian media, who have apparently never heard of the number one rule in journalism: check your sources. It also revealed our Prime Minister's dignity and strength. He didn't play the victim, he followed all the proper protocol, and he took only a minimal amount of glee in Turnbull being proven wrong. And then he went on Rove tonight and wasn't awkward, didn't try too hard, and actually made some genuinely funny jokes. And then, I checked his Twitter account and he signs his messages 'KRudd'. WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE?!

In more "I watch too much television" news:

• KFC says, "No families can't agree". Um, okay. No advertisers can't use proper grammar? But that would mean that some advertisers actually could use proper grammar! Except, they can't. I submit the KFC ad as evidence.
  
• Masterchef Australia really is a load of crap sometimes. Highlight/lowlight was watching Julia explain the concept of pizza to Chris during Friday's masterclass: "You can put anything you want on it." Entire chains of restaurants are dedicated to this concept, but we needed to be schooled.
  
• Channel Ten airing "The Life and Death of Michael Jackson" approximately twelve hours after the news about his death was the very definition of "too soon".
  
• Shane Bourne is the most irritating man on television, and needs to close his puppet-like mouth.
  
• Thank God You're Here continues to violate the number one rule of improvisation, which is "don't block your fellow actors". The ensemble has to follow a script and therefore the guest performer is never in control, even of their own character. I could deal with that if it wasn't responsible for about 70% of the humour:
  A: What's your name?
  B: Billy.
  A: No, it's Jack.
  Audience: *laughs insanely*
  
• Matt Preston is the Oscar Wilde of food. I don't know why I didn't see this before. The Oscar Wilde of food is a surprisingly hot concept.

Reply to this post and I will give you five words that I associate with you.

mothergoddamn gave me these words, none of which is "brownies" or "chocolate biscuits", a disappointment since I've made her both. Some people, I tell ya...

1. Medieval -- It's my work, it's sometimes a hobby, but it's not my life. I do consider myself the medieval mythbuster among my acquaintances, and I do not respond well to stupid questions and ignorant statements. Don't you dare utter the phrase "dark ages" around me. Also, please don't ask if I like to dress up in medieval clothing and have swordfights. Other than that, let's talk.

2. Feminist -- I decided I was one when I was 14. Then for a while I was afraid to claim it. Then I wasn't. I'm growing more militant and more active in this area, and I think it's really important not to become complacent. Women still don't have equality in a lot of areas, and we need to acknowledge this and work towards change, and support and love each other. And yes, you are a feminist. If the word "feminist" has negative connotations for you, then, as with the "medieval", forget your preconceived ideas, let it go, and learn.

3. Hanson -- Yes, well. A brief refreshment of history: I am a Hanson fan. Yes, that Hanson. Yes, the MMMBop kids. Yes, from 1997. They grew up and they got some cred and shut up I don't care what you think I still like them so there.

4. Austrralia -- It's where I live. It only has one r. I am constantly irritated by mispronunciations of the name, which Aussies do all the damn time. There's no 'sh' sound, and the 'l' is not optional! Anyway, I kind of like it here. We are indeed the lucky country, in a lot of ways.

5. MexyHair -- I have it! On the weekend I gave in and bought a hair straightener. Please welcome me to life as a modern woman. I only use it for my fringe, because it's too much effort to do the rest of my hair and so damaging, too. And I don't want to look like all the other girls, with the super-straight hair.

So, this was a cranky, and ranty, post, huh? I'm distracted by a big piece of schoolwork due soon.

(Please don't yell at me because I don't discuss Blake or Southey or Your Other Favourite Romantic Poet. Wax lyrical in the comments instead.)

---
When I first started studying the Romantic poets, in speech and drama as a teen, Coleridge was my favourite. Hard to believe, I know. I guess I was attracted to his mad intensity, and how he had all these grand ideas but could never quite follow through. I loved these lines from "Dejection":

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

I would also read over and over "Human Life: On the Denial of Immortality", trying to trace the thought processes and understand what it all meant. I guess this was basically a teenage angst thing for me. Coleridge was angsty and so was I. Voila, perfect match!

However, while I have formed a clear visual of each of the Romantics in my head over the years, Coleridge is the one whose image remains fuzzy. I mostly picture him as Taylor Hanson circa 1999, with long unwashed hair, semi-Regency clothes, and a crackpipe.

Even at the time I knew Wordsworth wasn't all that, that he was holding something back in his poems, espousing ideals that he didn't actually believe in. I liked "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways" and felt kind of sorry for him for that whole being-in-love-with-his-sister-thing, but at university I read more of the poems where he really gets in there and condescends to the peasantry, and I realised what a boring sod he truly was. He had the follow-through that Coleridge lacked, but he in turn lacked that grand passion. Nonetheless, I thought of his poem at every single bloody daffodil that I saw in England.

Byron, I didn't mind. I still don't mind him, although his reputation far eclipses his poetry. I loved loved loved "When We Two Parted" (again, it's a teenage angst thing), but I chose "She Walks in Beauty" to recite for my exam, because it allowed for a little more vocal variation. I still know both poems by heart. And Byron gets my vote for Hottest Romantic, Physically Speaking:



Come on! The dude's a fox.

I was, and am, ambivalent towards Shelley. The one poem of his that I have loved from the beginning is "When the Lamp is Shattered":

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead -
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

Check out the other verses, too, that is some quality angst right there.

However, in the last few years it is Keats who has emerged as my favourite: Keats, who died young, who really had something to complain about, who wrote with unexpected wisdom. I love "The Eve of St Agnes", with its beautiful, dreamlike quality, and those sonnets of fear and love. I went to his house in Hampstead and saw the bed where he lay when he coughed blood and knew his end was near. Even Oscar Wilde was moved by "The Grave of Keats".

---

To be honest, though, these days Romanticism in general seems like a bit of a wank to me. It's like a bunch of men saying, well, now that we're rich enough not to work the land but to pay others to work it for us, now we can really appreciate the outdoors. As if pastoral poetry was anything new. As if they were the first men in all of Britain to ever have a feeling and write it down, like, oh, I'm so deep, my angst, let me show it to you. Writing the poetry of man in everyday language is an ideal I can get behind, but I also see the particular beauty and value in using a poetic vocabulary that is somewhat removed from everyday life.

I suppose that just as Wordsworth became more conservative as he aged, so have I. If you'll excuse me, I must retire to my lake.

I don't know what this world is coming to when comedians known for outrageous stunts pull outrageous stunts, or when 'celebrity chefs' known for being foul-mouthed go off on a foul-mouthed tirade. Which is not to excuse The Chaser Team or Gordon Ramsay for some A+ idiotic behaviour, but the respective furores have been ridiculous.

Gordon Ramsay maybe deserves to cop it worse, at least from a feminist standpoint. But from that standpoint, The Chaser's stunt of the week before involving throwing a dummy of Quentin Bryce over a wall was pretty awful, too. I may as well have been watching The Footy Show.

I tell ya, I am so sick of biased reporting. I can't watch the news on any channel or read an article in any paper without hearing some inappropriately subjective language. For example, Channel Nine's story after the Chasers apologised began something like, "Well, it took them 48 hours, but the Chaser Team finally issued an apology..." There is no 'finally' about it. That's not your call to make, journalist. That's my call. You give me the facts, I make up my own mind. Of course, I perhaps should expect that kind of mental babysitting from a commercial network. I certainly don't expect it from the ABC. I can't believe they fired the head of comedy for letting the sketch go through.

Also, an anonymous comment on an internet forum doesn't count as a source. Many journalists seem to think an article is not complete without quoting several Dumb Things People Said Online. The internet is not your personal lazy vox pop library.

I can't believe our federal politicians keep weighing in on these oh-so-weighty issues, although of course I also realise that if you're doing a press conference on an unrelated matter and someone asks for your opinion, you need to say something, and you can't help it if that becomes the main headline instead of your original story.

Everyone's hating on The Chaser now, but I do agree that their wit is not as sharp as it once was. But then, back in the days of CNNNN, they used to do Fungry's ads where sick kids in a hospital were showered in French fries. Maybe it's because they weren't as well-known then that they got away with it. It probably wasn't as bad as the sketch they got in trouble for. I don't know, I didn't see that particular sketch, but since it's been censored I won't be able to now. Doesn't stop me and fifteen million other Australians being outraged about what we didn't see but know automatically was wrong. Because Channel Nine told us it was.

I have some Dove caramel-filled chocolates and the wrapper quotes are particularly stupid in this bag. The most recent one says, 'Give me chocolate right now or I will sing'.

If a person or group wants to court controversy, and deliberately set out to do so, and then get a ton of media attention, controversy, and uproar, then... why are we all acting so surprised?

Australia, there are more important things happening in the country and in the world right now. When did we get so uptight about everything? Dudes need to chill.

I am (almost) freed from the tyranny of Latin, which is a huge relief. I am enrolled for the sequel subject for next semester, but at this point I've had about as much Latin as I can take, and surely as much as I could ever need, so I hope to be able to get out of it. I mean, it was self-inflicted to begin with, but I was just pre-empting the inevitable. I need it for my work but I think I've now got a good enough grounding in the language that I can teach myself anything more difficult.

With the end of semester also comes the end of most of my extra-curriculars and I can settle down to my real work, which is what I have been trying to do this afternoon, on the first day of sunshine and clear skies that Sydney has had for a very long time. I walked out in it this morning, to buy groceries and meet a friend for 10,000 calories of juice (although said friend swears there's not as much sugar in fruit as I think), and I've got the shades up on our big window and have been facing the outside all afternoon, so that will have to do. The sun's setting now, which upsets me. I do not enjoy the early darkness in Sydney any more than I did in England.

I've had several domestic goddess successes since my last disaster, and am really enjoying the new flat and its upkeep. I have bought a bed, too, which used up all my government bonus funds, and hasn't yet arrived, but I am choosing to see the purchase of a bed as proof that I am a real grown-up. A grown-up who eats brownies for dinner, but a grown-up nonetheless.

I really enjoyed Liane Moriarty's What Alice Forgot, despite the copyediting mistakes that persisted all the way through to the final sentence. It's a really interesting novel about the way people change (or don't change) over time, and the difficulties of making a relationship work, and really working for that and working with each other. There's also a subplot in which one of the characters keeps a blog, and the blog posts are reproduced along with the comments. These posts didn't feel too contrived, and the comments were a hilariously accurate reflection of the variety you usually get: well-meaning but misunderstanding, irritating one-track minds, unnecessary criticism, warm support, spam, etc.

As a post-exam treat I am rereading The Mists of Avalon. It may take me a while as I have to force myself to make time for leisurely reading these days, especially as one cannot (to my dismay) read and knit at the same time. The knitting is going well, I am making endless scarves for practice and dreaming of projects for when I have more skills and money.

Ballet Shoes is on television tomorrow night. I loved that book as a child (when I desperately wanted to be on the stage myself) and I watched the movie when it premiered in England on Boxing Day 2007, but I don't think it's aired here before. I was talking with an English expat recently about the curious time delay of so many television programs here, caused by odd scheduling choices and the ABC buying content that they sit on for inordinately long periods of time. I have been back in Australia for nearly a year but I'm still not up to speed with some of the shows here -- I didn't realise that Thank God You're Here had changed channels, or that The Gruen Transfer was in its second season and not a new show ths year. The episodes of Kath & Kim on at the moment are repeats, but I hadn't seen them. Etc. This makes me seem like I watch too much television, and while at the moment I do watch more than I used to, I just find it odd that I still feel out of touch with the airwaves.

I saw Chicago the other night, with Caroline O'Connor as Velma, whom I've long wanted to see in the role. What can I say? The show was amazing. It always is and will be. I love it. So slick, smart, and well-designed, with the most fabulous choreography. My resolution for between-semesters is to see more theatre, and to see more of Sydney. I'm not making the most of living here.

You know that stupid advertisement for an end-of-financial-year-sale only they say "Happy EOFYS" instead of spelling it out, and there's lots of singing and dancing (that bit I like)? I always think they're singing the lyric "Happy Oedipus". And then I get confused.

The end.

Yes, I have them. (Not infrequently.)

Obviously my new place could not be called home until I had christened the (tiny) kitchen with some baking, and a friend is hosting an Australia's Biggest Morning Tea on Friday so I had a good excuse. I decided to make caramel slice, because it is really not as much effort as it seems, and it's always worth the pain. I have used a couple of recipes over the years, and this time I decided to try this one from Bill Granger. So I made the base, and it turns out that my new fan-forced oven heats very unevenly. Okay, lesson learned -- rotate the pan. Then of course I burnt the caramel, and was mystified because it had never even come to the boil but suddenly had burnt bits. Also, my new gas stove is incredibly touchy. Naturally I had bought two tins of condensed milk because I nearly always burn the caramel first go, but in the middle of my strop I decided to check the internet before I chucked it all out. Somewhere I found an ingenious piece of advice: just sieve the caramel. Of course! Sieve out the burnt bits! I put the caramel back on, got it to a boil, got it thicker although it still seemed too thin, and then sieved it onto the base where it came out luscious and thick. And even though I knew it was a bad idea to stick my finger into a spoonful of cooked sugar, I did it anyway. OH MY GOODNESS. This caramel was absolute heaven! It is the extra butter that does it. Anyway, the slice is back in the oven, and oops, I forgot to rotate the pan! The caramel got very brown. Then, and this is the really stupid bit, I used Lindt 70% dark chocolate for the topping, because I buy it on special especially for baking with so that's what I had. But I forgot that the chocolate would be naked here, not mixed in anything. Result: a thin layer of bitterness that completely overwhelms the rich caramel beneath. Oh well, at least the biscuit base isn't bad. I'll take it to the morning tea but shan't own up to its creation.

In happier news, I have almost finished knitting my first scarf! Dreading having to cast off, though.

In the end I managed to move, of course, and things worked out. I quite like my new place, a swish apartment in a building with a lift, sharing with a music producer who keeps long hours but is good company when he's around. So far, so good. I feel much happier and settled here, even though I haven't got a proper bed yet and the flat as a whole needs more furniture and decoration and life. Still, the bathroom is like one in a hotel, so I'm happy. I'm an odd sort. Expect discontent to set in soon.

I watched an episode of BBC's Merlin last night. (Actually, I watched five hours of television last night and the only reason I'm not more embarrassed is because I knitted all the way, therefore it was not a complete waste of time -- right?) It just started here a couple of weeks ago, and I've watched two episodes now. It's not must-see for me because it's really not my version of King Arthur. I'm down with the many and varied versions of the Arthurian legend, both medieval and modern, and I know there is no one way to tell the story, no right way, no truth. Nonetheless, I have my preferences. I don't really understand what this show is doing, and I don't think it's as clever as it thinks it is. But it's silly and fun and just a little bit gay, so I like it. I also like how the language of magic is apparently Garbled Old English, but the language of manuscripts is conveniently Modern English In Vaguely Gothic Script.

I think what jars most for me is the character of Arthur. Who is this arrogant, handsome teen, who knows his father and knows his inheritance? I like my Arthurs humble and without knowledge of their ancestry. So often in Malory, and in T. H. White (my favourite Arthuriad), Arthur fades into the background as the story progresses, a retreating presence as the world changes. How can such a headstrong Arthur as this ever fade away? And if he grew up at court always knowing that Uther was his father, then how can he understand his people? How can he unite them, and build Camelot upon noble ideals? In this show Camelot already exists, so how will it be a big deal if it falls? And if it always existed and never falls, then where is the story?

Also, Merlin is such a very masculine show, all focused on the meant-to-be-ness of Arthur and Merlin. If we must reinvent Arthurian legend ad infinitum, could we get a female-heavy version, please? I mean, aside from The Mists of Avalon? I mean, I love Mists of Avalon in all its trashy, feminist glory, and in fact am going to reread it soon, but Gwenhwyfar is a bitch and the TV miniseries was awful. I would love to see a Guenevere who isn't just a love object, or a whining bitch, or a two-timing slut, or a blue Pict with belted breasts. Again, T. H. White's Guenever is perhaps my favourite because she is so real, but she suffers from White's close use of Malory, and, she lacks power. I don't understand what Merlin is doing with Guenevere at all. Sadly, she seems quite boring, and I don't trust the show to give her a personality any time soon. Guenevere is always problematic, but Merlin deals with that by not dealing with it.

Basically, I don't think that "putting a different spin on King Arthur" is a good enough reason to put a different spin on King Arthur (and that goes double for Robin Hood, although Robin Hood bores me stupid -- yes, I am a failure as a medievalist). I feel like Merlin just wants to be different to all the other versions, without the creators having thought about why they are doing things differently.

So I found a place to live and I'm moving tomorrow. Yay! NO, NOT YAY. I had to book removalists because I don't know anyone with a car and I have a giant desk to move anyway that can't go in a car plus all my friends are busy at short notice. Removalists are expensive but I booked a relatively cheap one online. They suggested I get cartons from their affiliate company, which provides packing cartons for free. Sorry, for "free". They're "free" because you have to pay an admin fee and a delivery fee plus pay for the boxes. Then once you've used them you can pay a collection fee and get a refund on the boxes themselves. Whatever, says I, I need boxes, let's get boxes.

ONLY THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO DELIVER TODAY, AND DIDN'T.

And they only have a website. No phone number. I know, I know, smells like a scam. I've sent a strongly worded email and will be doing everything possible to get a refund. In the meantime, WTF, I AM MOVING TOMORROW AND HAVE NOTHING TO PUT MY STUFF IN.

I call some friends. One has a couple of suitcases I can borrow. So I go to get the train out to her place, and the rain starts. Special, psychic rain, that knows when I'm about to go outside and adjusts accordingly so as to shower me with the maximum amount of love. My umbrella, of course, is useless, as all umbrellas are, or at least every umbrella I've ever owned. But I persevere, and she gives me pizza along with the suitcases, and I give her my emergency chocolate and promise to buy her dinner another time. And now it's 10pm and I'm wet and freezing and have to fit everything into three suitcases and then when it doesn't fit I need to panic and figure out who else to call not that anyone can do anything anyway and then I have to hate my life some more.

Also, I don't have a bed yet and will be sleeping on an air mattress at my new place until I can get one. Joy.

This is the most exciting thing to happen to me since I moved to Sydney (aside from the time I thought I saw Matthew Newton on a bus but it turned out to be just a guy with a large forehead)! I never see anyone famous, but tonight I saw Julian Morrow from The Chaser in a pub. He was eating pasta and reading a book. Unfortunately I did not see what book. We considered asking him to join our trivia team but didn't want to intrude, so instead we named our team after him. Unfortunately he had left by the time team names and scores were read out. We came third, breaking our two-week second-place streak, and dishonouring the name of Julian Morrow. Sorry, Julian.

I went home to Townsville this weekend, a trip I'd booked months ago which was perhaps unfortunately timed in terms of my Sydney life crises, but timed very well in terms of me being long overdue for some familial affection, not to mention a bit of sunshine and warmth. I had a wonderful time, but had to be careful not to get too upset at my parents' well-meant opinion-giving about My Life. Mainly the topic was my current househunt. I know that they want what's best for me, but at the moment they don't actually know what's best for me. How can you have an opinion on my housing prospects if you've never lived in Sydney, never done the sharehousing thing, and haven't seen any accommodation down here or met any potential housemates? I know my options much better than my parents do. I trust myself to make the decision that's right for me, so why don't they trust me to do that?

Is there a tactful way to allow my parents to feel a part of my life while at the same time making it clear that I'm still doing things my way? Aside from just ignoring their well-meant but useless advice? I still listen to them on a lot of things, but I didn't actually ask for their involvement in this situation at all.

Anyway, another thing that happened was that I started learning to knit at the instigation of my godmother. I am very bad at it but apparently practice makes perfect. This is good because I always need an outlet for my mediocre creative talents. My godmother previously tried to get me into crocheting but I found it difficult, mainly I think because of being left-handed and not particularly dextrous (the two things are linked in my mind and I always blame my clumsiness on being left-handed -- after all, the Latin word for the right hand is 'dextra' while the left hand is 'sinistra', a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever I saw one). I picked up knitting much more quickly, maybe because I am doing it like a right-hander, or at least I just copied the way my mother does it. We watched Mamma Mia! and by the end of the movie I had knitted some passable practice rows.

Another interesting thing is the different ways that my parents talk to me about my research. All my mother said was that she had put one of my old textbooks by the side of her bed and would one day get around to reading it so that she could learn a bit about what I'm working on. That particular book won't be much use but since she didn't ask for suggestions I didn't offer any. I don't mind that she doesn't really know what my work is about, I know it's not a sign that she doesn't care. My father, on the other hand, asked what I was working at the moment so I told him all about the text I'm looking at and what I'm doing with it, and then he did a Google search and informed me that the internet substantiated my claims. Thanks, Dad.

At the moment I'm reading What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty, which is a bit chicklitty but has a very intriguing premise. However, my enjoyment has been marred a bit by several glaring copyediting errors and also one small plothole in the first one hundred pages. It's not the first new book that I've read in recent months with a higher amount of errors than I would usually expect. Is it a sign of global recession and a lack of time or money for proper line editing, or just bad luck?

The Blurb:

For years, Grace has watched the wolves in the woods behind her house. One yellow-eyed wolf--her wolf--is a chilling presence she can't seem to live without. Meanwhile, Sam has lived two lives: In winter, the frozen woods, the protection of the pack, and the silent company of a fearless girl. In summer, a few precious months of being human . . . until the cold makes him shift back again.

Now, Grace meets a yellow-eyed boy whose familiarity takes her breath away. It's her wolf. It has to be. But as winter nears, Sam must fight to stay human--or risk losing himself, and Grace, forever.

The Prizes:

1. One signed ARC of SHIVER
   
2. Four signed copies of LAMENT
   
3. And for each of the friends that you got to comment, Maggie will critique the first 5 pages of any of their manuscripts!

The Rules:

1. Link to the pre-order page (see below)
   
2. Post these rules on your blog and let them know who sent you (Team AM! And YOUR friends will say YOU and it's like an awesome pyramid scheme where there's no scheme and everyone wins!)
   
3. Leave a comment on Maggie's entry here. If the click doesn't work, cut and paste from here: http://m-stiefvater.livejournal.com/105279.html Let her know I sent you. ;)
   
4. If any one person gets 50 friends to post, Maggie will make it THREE copies of SHIVER and EIGHT copies of LAMENT! Plus that awesome part about the first 5 page critiques.
   
5. You must get at least five friends (THAT'S YOU!) to post this on their blogs to be entered.
   
6. Contest runs from May 8-15 at 8PM EST.

PRE-ORDER THE BOOK HERE!

I'm still sick but the days of lying about are over, because I got shit to do. Went back to the doctor and came away empty-handed, so whatever.

Received today the distressing but not entirely unexpected news that I have to move out of my current abode ASAP. It's nothing I did, just that a change in my landlady/housemate's health necessitates a change in her living situation, and I have to go. Ultimately this is a good thing as I wasn't entirely happy here, but moving is the last thing I want to do right now. I don't even know how to move. My last house hunt was lengthy and depressing and it took forever to find this place, so I am not looking forward to going through that again. And then there's the matter of expense -- I have newly qualified for the Teaching and Learning Bonus, but now I'll probably have to use all that money for moving expenses. So what I'm saying is, hold your mail.