Apple to the core

As a child, I was raised to believe in the same religion as my parents. My father believed, and still does, in the deus machina that is the Windows PC.  I can't really remember a time when we didn't have a computer of sorts in our home, though I do remember that our first computer involved a tape deck and a keyboard that were hooked up to the television.  Our first cartridge console appeared not long after in the form of a John Sands Sega thanks to his job and then at a Christmas not too long after that we landed our first Nintendo. 

I was hooked.

My assignments in primary school were frequently typed up on the family PC and then duly printed line by line by our dot matrix computer. For you Gen Yers out there, this was a printer which ran a sort of ink ribbon along the page and printed the ink onto the page in the style of a typewriter, only in lines of ink which formed together to form letters and images.  The resulting bubblesque fonts and somewhat streaky dot matrix effect was possibly not quite as aesthetically pleasing as the child-like, painstakingly lettered creative projects, but I was enchanted by the greyscale page generation and the thrill of typing words and being able to delete mistakes instead having to resort to the liquid paper on the typewriter.

The computer craze similarly hit the neighbourhood kids; I remember many a winter afternoon spent with all the kids in the street patiently lining up for their turn on Safari Race. (In summer we were too busy jumping from Cubby's tree house in his pool.  I'm sure Cubby had a normal name like James, or David, I just honestly can't remember what it was...)

I was a PC girl all the way.  I mocked Apple and its Stoopid cutesy apple symbol button.  I scorned their clunky box shape.  I derided their promise of pretty fonts.  Why would I need them, now that True Type had come to PC?

When the day came for me to buy my first computer, I rebelled against my upbringing for the first time.  I defied my father's insistence that desktop was the way to go, and I bought a laptop.  It was still a PC of course, but its shiny blue shell delighted me, and I made sure it had all the bells and whistles I needed under the hood.  It had a sweet 21" screen and a remote for watching media, a good graphics processor to cope with my film and photographic projects and a goodly amount of space. I named him Sergei.

Sergei was my faithful travelling companion while I worked in country postings, and provided many an hour of entertainment when I was stuck in some ungodly middle-of-nowhere-tumbleweed town where the locals didn't much care for out-of-towners and where there were few people even remotely my own age, and where drinking beer and kicking a footy were the primary social activities. I was particularly grateful for his presence when, in Cue, I contracted one wicked ear infection which was to ear infections what Superman is to Tom Thumb. For a week I was unable to stand upright without getting dizzy, the noise of the shower so amplified in my infected ear that I needed to block it just to survive a shower without going crazy.  The nurse who inspected my ear (and gave me symptomatic treatments to tide me over until the flying doctor dropped in to prescribe real drugs) commented on how lovely and clean my auditory canal was, "no flies or eggs or anything!"

The HORROR.

Sergei and I had many good times, and he's still sitting in a corner of my desk to provide a lifeline to my PC hard drives, but my love for PC had, it turned out, an expiry date.

I blame a friend of mine who, having recently received an iPhone 3G for his birthday and fully enamoured of it, talked me into replacing my little blue "20 messages inbox full" phone for an iPhone 3GS.  "It's changed my life," he told me.

I was curious, having had a first gen iPod back in the day, the bugginess of which had not overly enamoured me, but the concept of a multi gigabyte mp3 player had opened up worlds of possibility for me.  I had upgraded to an iPod classic more recently, and was happy with the functioning of it, but the thought of my phone, email and iPod all being integrated into the one machine intrigued me and, after an afternoon playing Falling Balls on my friend's iPhone, I was hooked again.  

That was in 2009, and I haven't really looked back.  Between then and now, I've had five different refurbished iPhones, thanks to the fact that I seem to repel cellular technology.  The first iPhone had been acquired to replace a Samsung that had stopped working a year into my contract. No matter how many times it was sent away to be fixed, it just wouldn't work. Oh, how I miss my old Nokia - I dropped it down several flights of stairs and it just laughed.  And oh, the games of Snake we had together!

Last year, when my phone contract expired, I held my ground, waiting for the much-anticipated release of the iPhone 5.  I was quite disgusted when all that Apple delivered was the 4S.  I preferred the curved shaped of my 3GS, and was hoping for something new and exciting.  

Since the new iPhone 5 was announced, I've been looking at the various smartphones on the market, trying to decide whether to stick with iPhone and upgrade to the 5, or to seek greener pastures in the Galaxy or the HTC.

Despite my lack of luck with the iPhones, I knew I was kidding myself by shopping around.  Come 21st of September I became the happy owner of a new iPhone.

Not only is it pretty, and well-crafted, but I can copy all my contacts, texts and playlist straight across without any hitches.  Plus, I won't lose my progress on Smurf's Village.

Priorities.

First Position

When I was a child, I wanted to be a ballerina. Well, briefly, anyway. Then I wanted to be a gymnast, and then an astronaut. And then I wanted to be Rainbow Brite.

Being a child of the 80s, ballet was not quite what my mother enrolled me in when I expressed a burning desire to don a leotard and ballet flats. Instead she enrolled my sister and me in jazz ballet.

Yes. JAZZ ballet.

My rather vignetted memories from my early childhood reveal only pieces of what this dance medium entailed. From memory, it involved us running around a big room doing somersaults. I'm sure there was more to it than that, but that's the only part that stuck. I didn't last long in jazz ballet - I'd specifically wanted to do ballet, and the lack of pliés and tutus was a source of great disappointment for me. Given that I have grown to a freakishly tall 5'11" and am less than petite, it doesn't really matter - I'd never have made it as a ballerina anyway. Anyway, soon after, I moved onto netball, then basketball, then judo.  

However, my fascination with ballet lingered. 

I have been reminded of this youthful obsession in recent weeks because of two things. First, the new Amy Sherman-Palladino series, Bunheads. Not the catchiest of titles, I must say, though fairly sel-explanatory, and which was explained rather awkwardly in an early episode when one of the main characters referred to the ballerinas by this title. This may be the correct slang term, but it doesn't make for a pleasing embouchure. But I digress.

The announcement of this show was met with great excitement by my closest female friends, as we all have worshipped at the altar of Lorelai Gilmore for many years. The quips and quirky characters of Gilmore Girls delighted us in our teen years, and have continued to do so as we have grown closer to Lorelai's age than Rory's. The thought of a new series by Amy S-P excited us greatly, and Bunheads delivered not only the fast-paced, witty dialogue we craved, but even provided us with a reinvented Lorelai and Rory. Watching it has thrown me back into the world of ballet. The show itself smacks of familiarity - a small town filled with quirky characters, with many of the same actors filling the roles.  

Julia Goldani Telles plays Sasha, the most talented of the ballerinas. If Alexis Bledel (who played Rory Gilmore) had been a ballerina, this is what she would have looked like - the similarities are eery. As are the similarities between Lauren Graham (Lorelai Gilmore) and Sutton Foster (Michelle Sims in Bunheads), though no woman has yet to dethrone Lorelai Gilmore in my estimations - she remains the woman, factual or fictional, that I most idolise.

All this makes for a rather surreal viewing experience. Watching it is somewhat like a nostalgia trip on acid.

The show has, however, renewed my interest in ballet, and my favourite pair of shoes at the moment is a pair of pale pink satin TOMS which remind me of ballet shoes.

And then there's been my more recent forays into the local ballet scene.

A friend of mine has a three year old son who has recently shown an interest in ballet. I'm going to call him Bastian, after the character from Never Ending Story, for the purposes of this story. His daycare group has an activity called "Happy Feet" in which they introduce the kids to different kinds of dance. Bastian Loves Dancing. His favourite proved to be ballet, so his mother enrolled him in the local three year old ballet class. He's the only boy in that age group, as most boys tend not to come to ballet till they're a bit older; parents tend to push the footy on their boys in Australia more than ballet.  

I was invited to see his class and, curious what a ballet class for that age group would look like, I went along. Plus I was promised hot chocolate afterwards. The girls were allowed to wear pretty much whatever they want, which varied from plain leotards and tights through to floor-length princess outfits. Ah, to be three again and able to wear such things in public without anyone calling security. The boys, on the other hand, have a fairly strict uniform. As in ballet, as in life. Bastian was thus decked out in black tights, a white t-shirt, white socks and black ballet shoes.

The class itself was rather well-designed - the kids were introduced to a series of games which actually taught them ballet moves without them fully being aware of it, couching them in a series of games. They pepper the activities with the correct terminology, so Bastian now knows how to stand for first position, and is learning how to plié. Jelly. That said, it IS still a class of three year olds, and everything that implies, so the highlights of the experience were somewhat incidental to the discipline of ballet.

First, there was the wand. When walking around the room in a line, learning to point their toes, the leader of the group gets to carry a metallic plastic wand with a head shaped like a star. The drawback is that whoever is designated group leader is so mesmerised by the shiny star wand that they promptly forget the rest of the world and instead gaze in rapt wonder at this idol of plastic shiny, or run off to proudly show it off to their mothers.  

Then, there was the scarves. They are given scarves to swirl in the air and practise their arm movements. Bastian took to this as keenly as he did the jumping, vigorously making windmills in the air, but one little girl was having none of this. Instead, she crouched by the box of scarves and proceeded to fold and stack the chaotic pile of leftover scarves into some semblance of order.

Lastly, there was the galloping. In pairs, the kids were instructed to gallop sideways hand in hand down the length of the hall; good practice for future steps the length of a stage when they are older. Bastian went All-Out Boy on this one, careering down the hallway at full-tilt, dragging a poor little girl with him. Their slightly differing tempos ended in the only way possible - they tripped over each other and crashed to the floor, Bastian crashing down on top of the luckless little girl.  

Unfazed, he staggered to his feet and dragged the luckless girl, still dazed, from the floor. He gave her about a fraction of a second to shake it off before hauling her off again. Somehow they managed to make it to the end, but the poor little girl just didn't seem the same after that.

Now, if that wasn't an entertaining enough image for those who know me, picture this: I've agreed to try an adult ballet class with Bastian's mother. If you don't hear from me again, you'll know how THAT turned out...

Teach me how to zombie

I used to have a hula girl jiggling her booty away on the dashboard of my car, a gift from a friend from her trip to Hawaii, but the harsh Australian sun was unkind to poor Leilani and she ultimately died a grisly death, bleached white and a little melted by the sun. Now I have a zombie.

The two are in no way related.

Recently a friend decided I needed a new commuter friend, and bought me a dashboard zombie.  I've named him Emerson.  I have no idea why, he just looked like an Emerson. I was given him at a fourth birthday party. I wasn't four, the guest of honour was.  As a grown up who hasn't really grown up, I often feel a bit like a poor man's Carrie from Sex and the City when I roll up to one of these soirées, minus the hangover and the heels.  I tend to roll in a bit late and feel distinctly out of place as proper adults discuss things like mortgages, gas bills and rates, babies and schooling systems.  I haven't owned my own house since before the property boom, and I currently live in accommodation which includes utilities, so I'm a bit vague on topics like this, and somehow chatting about my most recent trip overseas in the face of such fiscal woe just seems a bit tactless...

Anyway, the zombie. It was a source of some fascination for my friend's five year old nephew - let's call him Oscar. Because I like that name. And Sesame Street.

At the end of the party, several of us headed down the road to the car, including my friend and Oscar.  Oscar and I were discussing zombies - you know, the usual.  Like what we would do in the event of a zombie apocalypse, the most effective method to incapacitate a zombie, and what it would be like to actually BE a zombie.  While discussing the possibility of disguising ourselves as zombies, we decided to practice our zombie walks on the way down the road to the car.

We shambled along, some distance behind the rest of the group.  It's hard to walk quickly when your nerves are barely firing, your ankle is twisted into a weird angle and you have to pause every now and then to moan, "brrraaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnnnnsssss," and sniff out fresh meat. Plus, we would pause to critique each other's method - "try to hunch over a bit more," or "drag your foot a bit more" or "slower! We aren't those new zombies from Resident Evil" (not that he has seen it, of course) or "nice shambling there".  As we rounded the corner, we nearly crashed into a middle-aged man and his young son and daughter casually riding their bikes down the street.

I apologised, and Oscar explained that we were searching for fresh brains.

"Not at all," he replied in a crisp British accent, "I've been in your situation myself."

We did the only thing a couple of zombies could in such a situation; moan "bbbbrrrrraaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnssssss," and shamble after the group as fast as our decaying flesh would allow us.

I think of that moment whenever I'm in the car and I see Emerson quivering in anticipation of fresh human flesh as I drive.

Road ragers beware. Emerson is looking forward to meeting you.

Loving this song right now.

Takestock

I've been in the process of moving house this last week, and moving always seems to make me take stock of my life.  There's something about your entire life being reduced to a pile of boxes that really puts things in perspective.

I've just come back from a trip to Paris to study French, and I've been extremely restless since I've returned, hence the sudden move.  The move has been a much-needed change of scenery, but it's also been an opportunity to sort through and weed my possessions.  I have a bad habit of hoarding things - virtually everything I own has some memory attached to it.  Some were once very important to me but this has faded with the passage of time. Some are reminders of the good times I've had with people, some remind me of absent friends, some inspire me. And some I just think are pretty. Some wouldn't have been things I'd have chosen for myself, but which I have come to love dearly and would be devastated to lose.  A couple of minor damages incurred during the moving process thanks to my own clumsiness made that much clear.

The most visually satisfying aspect of my home for me is the collages I build on the wall of my desk.  I have one that has been evolving over the last 5 years.  Each time I've moved I've taken it down piece by piece, discarded the mementos that no longer hold much meaning and then started a new one.  This move has been no different.  This last one was developed over the last two years, so there was quite a lot of stuff that needed culling, and it was interesting to see how much was still important to me.  It's had a heavy injection of French-themed paraphernalia this time following this trip, and remains a favourite feature in my home.

I'm about halfway through constructing the desk collage in my new digs, and the memories the individual pieces evoke always makes it an interesting experience.  I have been to some truly amazing and fun places like Berlin, Paris, London, New York, Florida and Prague, and spent time with such amazing people, some of whom are past tense, some present.  Some have been weeded from the wall now, but many still remain; cards or notes people have made for me, tickets from trains in distant locations, or exhibits or shows I loved, images that have inspired me in some way. Some may seem silly to the casual observer, but each holds a meaning for me.

It's the little things that I love the most; a ticket from a walking tour in Berlin which opened my eyes to a whole different world, a cryptic card which reminds me of a crazy night of silliness via text which culminated in my being given a present containing frozen sausages wrapped in handmade paper and a card decorated with staples at work, discovered hidden messages my best friend used to leave whenever he visited, ribbons from various treasured gifts, miscellaneous free postcards from trips to see my other best friend on the east coast or random adventures around my home city, a little blue birthday card from a few years ago whose brief, simple message touched my heart, a poem written for me, business cards from various cafes and restaurants which remind me of scintillating conversations in delightful company, a note I found rolled up in a wine bottle in an alley in Erskinville during an evening adventure bearing the instruction 'read me', a cross-stitched 'bee-yatch' from my best friend, the note from the bouquet she sent me the day I completed my masters degree, tickets from favourite concerts and plays, either because of the content or the company, romantic mementos, an autographed Rocky Horror picture which reminds me, 'don't dream it, be it'. Plus many random images that I simply find inspiring in some way.

I'm glad of these memories, even the ones tinged by sadness and regret. I regret the mistakes I have made, and the losses which proved beyond my control, but I have never regretted the friendships or the experiences.  They have helped make me what I am today. I am grateful for them all, and though I miss the people and the times which are long gone, I am also buoyed by the reminder of the experiences. There are many situations I would have handled differently had I had the clarity of hindsight, but there are others which I now realise were inevitable. But, even knowing that, I'd do it all again. For all the drama and badness that I've been through, I've known some very special people, and I've had a very good and happy life so far.  Sure, there are things I wish were different, but I'm learning to accept that which I can't change and weed out the negative, and I'm continually endeavouring to improve on that which I can.

As John Lennon said, 'life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.' There's always something new and exciting around the next corner. The collage reminds me of where I've been, who I am, and who I want to be.