The Mean Girls movie taught us that “on Wednesdays we wear pink” and taught me that I related the most to that girl who cried and wanted to bake a cake made of “smiles and rainbows” because I too have a lot of feelings.
don’t think any of us can say that we aren’t aware of the trend that is the “remake”. We have Rebecca on Netflix, The Boys in the Band from my previous piece, the fan favourite Disney’s Mulan retold, and a new version of the Little Mermaid is in the works. I’m not going to say that the movie industry is running out of ideas, because new ideas, plots and films are constantly being released; personally, I just feel less excited.
Who says that not doing readings for class is a bad thing? It’s an action (or inaction I guess) that’s given me my main coping mechanism for the year’s turmoil, so I’m inclined to think that maybe skipping readings is, in fact, a healthy choice.
With over 50 writers festivals in Victoria alone, it can seem an overwhelming prospect to choose which ones to invest time in. For people outside of the industry, it can also sometimes feel intimidating to attend such events in the first place. Last year, I went to the opening night of the Melbourne Writers Festival with a couple of friends.
You thought this day was going to mark the beginning of your journey into self-sufficiency. Whether you memorised every road rule or forged your entire logbook, no amount of driving lessons could have prepared you for the emotional rollercoaster that is failing a driving test.
Amidst this year’s seemingly endless cycle of bad news, there are moments when quite simply, it all gets a bit much. The need for pure, unadulterated comfort strikes, and it’s moments like these when I slip into my pyjamas, pull up the covers, and type into Netflix the very key to instant, delicious escapism…
The girl I love thinks belonging looks like blank walls re-envisioned. Bedrooms of low-sheen warm white have become her cross-cultural companion, a familiar stalker and a friendly face, the constant same hue amongst the apartments in her growing inventory. Several taped photographs offer small windows to past lives of different values: friendships with those she hasn’t seen in two years, a family portrait from graduation, and a Caravaggio reprint of Bacchus—these images are staples on her plain canvas, family and art, the enduring forces in her resettling. Though the act of taping photographs speaks to the momentary ownership of a space, a personalisation of the generic in temporary life, she doesn’t mind. These white walls speak of the possibility for new photographs, waiting to be taken beyond the door’s threshold.
When I was 15, I wrote 11,000 words of Merlin fanfiction. To this day, it is the most successful thing I’ve ever written – I still get emails every time someone reads it and clicks the fanfic equivalent of the ‘like’ button. I was a virgin, I didn’t know how sex works, but apparently, I’d read enough smut to be able to write it convincingly.
In 1994, Jay Farrar left the alt-country band Uncle Tupelo. Its remaining members, led by their frontman Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco. In the early 2000s, during Wilco’s critical renaissance, it seemed pretty likely that Jeff Tweedy would die.
Welcome to Canon in She, a column that celebrates the beautiful music of composers who identify as women. In this edition, we have a violist who wrote for a variety of instruments, a resourceful African American pianist who wrote a Christmas cantata, and an Australian pianist who writes lyrical and quirky music for various instruments.