1989: A T-Swift Ramble Disguised As Album Review.

Slowly discovering that Taylor Swift is the best thing since sliced bread. She's like sliced bread that comes ready packed with melted butter drizzled all over it, and maybe a slick of avocado, or pesto, or heck pop a juicy, ripe tomato in there.

I didn't use to like her. Actually, initially I liked her. I thought she was a great new addition to what was then a struggling country music scene. Well, I assume it was struggling. To a country music fan it was quite possibly booming, but to the general public, also known as those whose days weren't occupied by riding horses bareback and daisy duke shopping, it was relatively quiet bordering on non-existent. Then I became tired of her heavily documented antics and seemingly endless string of 'height-of-their-fame' males. Her talent had been swept out of the picture and was replaced by her latest male arm candy (a term I'm not fond of but find appropriate in this scenario). I was being handed a way to think by the media, and it wasn't the reality.

Let's take it back to the struggling country music scene. Enter Taylor. With a swish of those bouncing curls, radiating her youthful likability and a shining smile gleaming All American wonder-talent she was the precocious teen siphoning her bullying experiences into a powerful, vocally-pleasing melody. This was a beautiful, talented teenager who wasn't the 'popular' girl, a cheerleader or a member of the high school 'in' crowd. She was like us. Relatable, authentic and with a buttery personality that suited parents' apprehension of what was consuming their children's time and energy; she created her own void that entertained and pleased an unprecedentedly large audience.

Hello, sensation.

Dominating airwaves consistently, she was making the previously high expectations placed on her by top level executives look like her preschool sandpit, she was gliding into every success story you could think of; there were no longer any 'Swift' puns left. After maxing out all country music media, she soon began to dominate the mainstream and the public consciousness. As celebrity exposure increased, focus quickly turned to her personal life and the interest was rising as speedily as her record sales.

The narrative smoothly begun to steer away from her meteoric rise in the ears of the public and turned to the famous male cohorts she's seen with. She appears on talk shows, in magazines and on radio shows promoting her music and every single interview will question her relationship status, like shameless Facebook stalking squeezing out any juice left. Her private life becoming public in order to sell CD's, but the demand never ended. Nothing was sufficient. If she mentioned a boyfriend, they wanted his name, if we got that, we weren't satisfied until we knew where he was from, or his job, or his parents ages.

The talent she possesses was replaced by entertainment fodder, "she's dating who this week?" and we forgot to appreciate that Taylor is a singer and not a character placed in trashy magazines for our Friday night reading pleasure; she is a person, but we forget to treat her like one.

This is where, almost most impressively, she hasn't been wiped out. She didn't fade into a recluse, dress in spandex and gain 20 pounds. She hasn't started replacing her studio time with visits to night clubs or pouring R-21 substances into her morning coffee before spending her entire day fighting the complex mind games that being so powerful so young can unleash; the demon of success.

Instead she triumphed. She has become articulate, confident, engaging and more upfront, raw and honest with the public, but most importantly her fans. She has kept her fans number one, and perhaps this in part has helped her sanity. She looks better than ever.

She has openly sworn she's single and focusing on keeping fit, her new home in New York and her girlfriends. I can't think of anything smarter. And this is why Taylor is such an anomaly. She seems to know what she needs, and places it in front of what she wants; both of which take precedence over anything anyone else says; not in an arrogant, A-lister way, she does it with aplomb. She is considerate of others while promoting a sense of self that remains endearing and sincere and is inspiring to every generation.

She has started answering questions thoughtfully, and has been gifted with thoughtful questions in return. She's growing up. And thankfully, she's maturing along with that; something many a teen celebrity has failed to do.

I used to be lost in the string of guys she was leaving in her wake as my eyes devoured the dating tales delivered hot from 'sources' to pages of the latest mag. I was coddled by the magazines; treated as literate but brain-less and concerned only with my latest taste of Taylor tales, placing her love life as an undercurrent of entertainment to my work-eat-sleep reality.

Then her new album, 1989 was released; and so was I; released from the cyclic track that seems to plague women in the entertainment industry, that leads the public to believe they are our amusement. Our toys to play with; rather than heroes we can admire. People with stories; rather than personalities, with faces rather than feelings.

Taylor shows they can be our heroes with hearts. Women that work hard, are good at what they do, ambitious without arrogance and dignified. She has released a pop album, her first album straying from the genre in which she found her success. She has paved her own terrain by spreading her wings further than many ever do and in doing so, has shown her level of talent and her fearlessness (album irony not intended, but the hindsight is metaphorically delightful). In breaking out of her comfort zone she has zeroed in on the reality that society doesn't define just how far we can go, we can dictate our own borders if we want and we can break through them if we want. We arbitrate who we are, tossing societal dictations and public conventions aside; beating to the march of our own drum.

Train Life.

I am sitting on the train when an older Asian lady sits down in the seat next to me. At least she tried to sit in the vacant seat next to me, instead I found her occupying most of the right hand side of my body.

I am tempted to stay in the same position and perform a personal medical experiment to see how long it takes for me to completely lose any sensation of my limbs, but decide against it for the embarrassment bound to ensue when it comes time to disembark.

Instead I practically raise her off the seat in the process of extracting my boy from under her, shifting myself even further against the window on my left.

She is now occupying over 3/4 of my seat as well as the entirety of hers (keep in mind she is of a normal size so if my mind wasn't preoccupied with my rapidly decreasing blood circulation I might find this particularly impressive) and my legs are resting awkwardly on top of each other in their competition to evade touching her.

She tilts her head ever so slightly in my direction and a murmur of "thank you" omits from a space that was until seconds earlier occupied by my face.

I'm not sure she experienced the same situation I just did.

Um, "you're welcome?"

The Priority List.

Apparently when you find out that the many years which you had previously assumed to span out ahead of you infinitely, are suddenly brutally and terminally ripped away from you, this is the ideal time to pen a book. Or at least reflect on your life's endeavors in written form and publish for public consumption.

With ailing limbs and a mind declining so rapidly you feel like you are in the ironic reversal of your "terrible twos", it is necessary to sub in someone with less urgency to document the life they've had and aid the quest to halt your departure. David Menasche did just this.

A powerful teacher with a gift of insight and support he dedicated his life to using on his students, this book is the result of how much one can change the lives of many, in the routine of the mundane; school.

This little treasure of a book I picked up off a windowsill. It was sitting in the corner of said windowsill so fresh and pristine, yet forlorn. Oblivious to having one of the best views in Sydney, it was almost crawling off its perch to find a home with someone else who would love it and benefit from everything in it which it couldn't enjoy itself. At least temporarily, as is the optimal love of literature; a token for passing on experience and the 2D wisdom that sits hidden beneath its folds.

So I did, and four train rides home (fastest journey's yet!) later, I was closing the back cover with a perspective touched by someone who I would never know. I devoured it like I did baguette's when strolling Parisian Rue's; with only an aftertaste of wisdom, and no lasting stains or crumbs sprayed across my trousers (nor the remnants visible for weeks building around my middle.)

Like Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, I seem to be drawn to the idea of how people use their time when it suddenly becomes precious, and doesn't spread out ahead of them, as if a Yellow Brick Road of endless capacity. Perhaps an unjustified approach to life, unless we really are told the use by date for our lives, but an informative and uplifting read through the most unlikely of situations. A lesson in how to approach life, not just when you're told your end is nigh, but for everyone, everyday; a reminder of how lucky we are to be here.

I recommend the read, Blogosphere; with some lasting anecdotes that stay with me (at least this week) such as the pure, simplistic and natural beauty of a breeze on your face. It is something that I have rued before, temporarily forgetting that it is these moments which we should appreciate, not because we never know if it will be our last; we simply don't. But because they're special, and felt, and the world is an endlessly mysterious place that we're just lucky to be wholly inhabiting.

Thanks Menasche, for following your passion and your purpose, and for teaching to the very end.

Cruising Lessons.

Recently, I went on a cruise. 

Yes, truly. I finally succumbed to the promotional emails that flooded my inbox, deciding that the best way to get rid of them was to enter my credit card details at their demands and choose a week where dry land no longer tempted me. 

I bragged at work that I was “taking my boat for a spin” and would come back relaxed on ocean views and seeping the smell of sun screen and salt water from my freshly tanned pores. As a cruising virgin, I was going off the TV adverts that almost carried UV through the screen between my Housewives marathons. They also told me I would spend the whole time in a bikini, carrying a pina colada and when I wasn't in the pool, I’d be dancing under the sea-reflecting moonlight to a live band who eye flirted in time with my sashaying hips. 

I know this is a collective belief, who could see those adverts and think otherwise? It’s an inherent truth, and why would they lie? There is nothing more glamorous than being able to tell people that you didn't see land for days at a time and only disembarked to feel golden sand beneath your toes and sit on a texture other than your sun lounger. Despite this, the motion of the ship and the mid-ocean air would actually contribute to your weight loss plan, and your bikini would perfectly complement your rock hard abs.   

You’re with me still, right? Days confined to rolling buffet leads to sculpted bod? Yes. 

Now, I don’t mean to crash your party, but this is not so accurate. From the moment I boarded my personal (plus 2000) luxury floating home, it was clear my stay would revolve around something else entirely. 

Food.

It followed me. It harassed me. It would not leave me alone. Even when it wasn't time for food (e.g. somewhere between 10-15 minutes after my last meal and 5 before my next), not only would I think about it, it would find me. Soft serve machines popped up, sweet treats were handed out; bars with eye-watering (that’s how powerful they are) cocktails would interrupt my path and force my presence into them. Just like a tornado, there was no way around, but through. 

I would close my eyes and attempt to block out the barrage of edible visual splendour but the delicious cacophony of smells attacked my other sense. The only logical way to deal with this dilemma was to give in to it entirely; to wave the white flag while strolling through the buffet and piling ridiculous mounds of food onto the plate and ascertain how on earth so much food could legitimately and consistently appear in the middle of the ocean without the mid-air wave of Harry Potter’s wand or the earnest, muggle hands of a dozen house elves. 

As the days floated by (that pun took a long time to come up with) I found that the women on my TV screen who flaunted their picture perfect bodies with a cocktail in hand and a stream of well-oiled, topless men behind them, were beginning to feel further from the truth and more like the myth; like when I found out that the guy who landed on the moon wasn't the same guy that cheated his way to a number of Tour de France cycle race wins. 

My waist band was ever expanding but I couldn’t say no to the smorgasbord of cheesecakes, or the pudding that featured at every meal. Damn these people for knowing that my willpower is lowest when I’m fresh out of bed and with an energetic night’s sleeping to fuel my appetite. Plus, I've heard the horror stories of cruise food wastage and I wasn't about to be an accomplice in that. I would reduce the wastage if it was the last thing I did before the boat literally sunk under the gulf of my wake. People may think this is counter-productive but I have a public duty and I understand that it has repercussions. This is what selfless people do, and I am not about to be consumed by the rise of vapid entitlement. 

In writing this I hope to prepare you and to warn you, but certainly not dissuade you out of doing a cruise, that is not in the least my intention. Rather when you do cruise (it’s a when not an if with the abundance of mega-sales they have and the inability to unsubscribe from their emails without hopping aboard), consider it a task. Go into it as if you’re on a mission and the only way out is making the number on the scales climb higher. 

Post Camp America Thoughts.

“The BEST experience of my LIFE!” is often shouted loudly in your direction when you ask how their camp counsellor experience in America was. More often than not, it’s followed with tales of hilarity, inside jokes with campers and counsellors not present, and is bound to finish with a “I wish I was there now” or an “I miss it SO much”, with little consideration for the human that asked the question, and who time is currently being spent with. It’s a one sided conversation that ends in double-sided misery. 

Camp America is a popular experience for teenagers and young adults (18+!) to do during an American summer. Living in America and experiencing the various traditions, cultures, food and people is almost a growth right for young Kiwi’s, and it seemingly splits the young population down the middle, those who have been and those haven’t. The camp t-shirts, many transformed with tie-dye, are a giveaway, as are watch tans, hair braids and a longing look in the eye that can only be daytime dreaming about returning next summer. 

Late night skinny dipping, off-day craziness, food fights, secret hook-ups and free green cards, camp is not. It’s not where you find your long-lost twin that your parents failed to mention, it’s not a summer long party designed for counsellors to unleash and unwind. It is not ‘Wet, Hot American Summer’. 

The one reason I would warn you not to become a counsellor at a camp in America, and one I urge you to consider with great thought before applying, is that you HAVE to leave. And leaving is the worst part. Those friends you just lived with and almost on top of (but not like that) for 9 weeks are not hopping in your suitcase and coming home with you. They are going to be on the other side of the world. The friendships you make at camp are almost tailor-made. You are hand picked for camp and for this reason the other individuals you meet at camp are bound to be awesome people that will contribute to the summer of your life. Camp directors want individuals that they think will have a positive impact on the campers and match the style of camp they have, for this reason the counsellors you meet are literally designed to get along with you. It is like a strange form of safe internet dating done by someone else for you. Counsellors are often selected from around the world and the connections you make are instant. You are in a foreign place with foreign people and foreign food (”what are s’mores?!”) and this displacement and unique experience only lends itself to stronger, deeper bonds. The necessity to be a united front for hundreds of children has a way of creating understanding (much like marriage, supposedly), not to mention the fact that everyone volunteered their summer (or winter, depending on their hemisphere) to spend at camp. Joint desires go a long way in building friendships, not to mention physical isolation from the outside world. 

You’ll miss, intensely, the other counsellors you “work” with. You’ll feel a gaping hole of absence at bed time when you don’t have a multitude of children hanging off you and jumping on your bed in attempt to avoid sleeping. You will miss the constant hugs, smiles and the fact that no matter where you go, when you see someone, you will know their name. You will miss the traditions that form a routine and which in tiny parts will contribute to your wider understanding of life in America. You will miss the people. Every single one. It is a certain type of person who signs themselves up for a whole summer with children in a secluded location and it becomes impossible to imagine life without these individuals in your life. They may be far away, in another country and with different priorities and responsibilities on “the outside”, but you will always share camp. It is not only a life-changing experience, but it changes you as an individual in other ways, giving you a wider understanding of others and the delight of life that children can impart. Yes it is about responsibility and independence and teaching what you’ve been assigned to, but it’s also being a role model, a mentor, appreciating the unique outlook that children have on life. 

9 weeks of your life seems like a small fragment of your time, and while at camp it flies by; mixed in with daily activities, numerous sports, arts and crafts, performances, music nights, camp fires and cabin nights. What you don’t realise as it happens, are all the little lessons, the daily moments that make the deeper memories. We talk about camp incessantly, unfailingly, con-stant-ly, because those 9 weeks had a bigger impact on us than we can easily move on from. It’s like it was a summer of adrenaline and it’s still coursing through our body. It’s not a Contiki tour or a sail Croatia, it’s not an OE in London or a semester abroad; it’s a summer of unbelievable friendships built on a shared 24/7, laced with gathered memories and inspiration. It’s where people go in as one person, and come out another; a fabric of invisible, sacred network beneath.  

"We never forget the things that scare us." Me, musing.

13.03.14

Today is the day.

The day I spend the most money I ever have in such a swift, easy transaction. I even walk out the door with nothing notably new or improved.

But the invisible reward? One perfect pair of 'better than' 20/20 eyes.

Un-priceable.

I am so excited.

A hefty price tag, but no threat of it staying in the back of my closet, of it becoming too small, old or rusty.

A unique, personally tailored set of purchasable perfection.

And a full day listening my way through the 'Hamish and Andy' set of podcasts.