Just Some Pretty Pictures

I've been uploading a few things to Paint Avant-Garde lately, mostly because I've been ill the past couple of days and it gives me something to do. I also thought I'd upload the pictures to here, because sharing is caring. Enjoy!

(PS- I promise there will be a proper new blog post soon.)

The Washing Machine

Yesterday, I attended the Dan Davin creative writing workshop provided through my high school. We had Helen Lowe, a fantasy and sci-fi author talk to us about writing, and take us through a few exercises to develop our skills. The first exercise was to remember back to a time when we were young and experienced fear, and to write about our experience. This is the earliest clear memory I have of being afraid, perhaps when I was three or four, and terrified of a washing machine. Also, she had us writing in stream of consciousness (where we just keep writing, do not take our pen off the page and do not edit it as we write, which is useful for getting emotions and ideas out) so I apologise for any errors or rambling.

   I don’t remember how old I was. Let’s just say, very young. I had some unusual fears- almost to the point of being ridiculously OCD about some things, like making sure I never ate the red M&Ms before any of the other colours, for instance. I wasn’t afraid of dogs or the older boys who lived down the street. I didn’t have many rational fears. However, as far as irrational fears went, well… I was deathly afraid of our washing machine.

   The thing was probably ancient, but I just remember it being gleaming and white, and when I sat my petite self at its base, it appeared to stretch up forever. Not that I’d sit anywhere near it if it was on. It was noisy and grumpy, and would thump thump thump as it cleaned our clothes.


I was 98% sure that the washing machine was put in our house with the sole purpose of murdering me. I hated it. I’d run outside and hide in my sandpit and hope that the damn thing never became capable of moving from place to place.


Its method of murder? I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but I think I believed that it would somehow intentionally fall on me and crush me, and hours later my poor mother would come into the laundry and see the murderous machine on its side, with little evidence of me but for my tiny legs sticking out from underneath. It was not a pleasant thought.


   Later on, I began to have nightmares about the washing machine. These tied in with the other nightmares I’d been having- about the monkey bars at the Fernhill Road playground (my father had encouraged me to play on them when I was very young and I fell off and decided they were also part of a plot to murder me) and of the dragonmonster that lived at the bottom of the garden. (Where it most likely still resides- although as I moved from that house a good ten years ago now, I can’t confirm this.) I used to have nightmares about sitting outside, at the other end of the garden (where the dragonmonster wasn’t) and hearing the sound of the washing machine starting. The panic would rise in my throat and I would look around for my mother or my father or some form of comfort, but I was alone. Once it got to the thump thump thump stage of the washing cycle, all chance of escape had been lost. The nightmare would always end the same way. My father would come and ask me if I wanted to go play on the monkey bars, and just as I was thinking about how ineffective his persuasive technique was, the washing machine would slowly fall out of the sky to crush us both.


   Of course, it never quite reached us by the time I awoke from this nightmare. But the horror of seeing a gigantic appliance falling out of the sky to attempt to murder you by crushing is in itself a purely horrific experience. However, the utter joy of my situation was that I had the absolute pleasure of this nightmare being a recurring dream. Night after night after night, I was nearly murdered by a piece of whiteware.

Skanks

   I strongly dislike the word “slut”- it is often misused, and I don’t like the idea of labelling someone- especially a woman, promiscuous. It is none of my business what she does with her vagina. After all, if she’s not being called a whore, she’s being called a frigid prude. Seems like you can’t win either way. However, as far as the “s-word” goes, there is one case in which I find it to be applicable: the extremely sexually active thirteen year old girl.

   Oh god. Look, I’ve grown up in Queenstown. At New Years and Winter Festival, I’ve witnessed these kids (lets not kid ourselves and call them “young ladies”) and their unusual… er… courtship rituals. The epitome of what they are all striving to be is this: the attention whore. In fact, out of the goodness of my heart, I shall now provide you with a simple guide to being a young, teenaged, (attention) whore.

1. Don’t wash for a bit. You want your multicoloured hair and cheap extensions to look really ratty and greasy and gross. This shows that you are shunning the mainstream idea of sanitation and are thus edgy, cool, and unique, just like all of your friends.


2. Clothing. Ideally, this should cover as little of you as possible. In order to reveal more skin, why not add a few strategically placed rips, tears and holes (i.e. all the way up the legs of your obnoxiously bright skinny jeans) or even forgo pants altogether and just wear an oversized t-shirt that references some social movement that you neither understand nor care about. Ripped tights are also a great way to flash more flesh- the hottest look is to have your cellulite oozing through a pair of fishnets. Keep it classy, yo.

3. Makeup. This is hugely important, as it offers a way to cover your flaws (and everything else, with a one inch thick cake of crap on your face) and also express your personality with yet more bright, obnoxious colours.
   First start with discount dollar store false lashes. Don’t worry if you fail sticking them on and get eyelash glue all over your eyelids, it will soon all be covered by makeup anyway.
   Now apply eyeshadow. I recommend a fluorescent pink- that way, its not only awfully bright, but it has the added advantage of making you look stoned, too.
   Now for eyeliner. The look you’re after is “panda.” Don’t worry, if you think you’ve overdone it, you just probably haven’t applied nearly enough. Add more.
   Now finish with some bronzer for a “healthy glow.” Except after you’ve paid $59.95 for Thin Lizzy, it better give you a lot more than a healthy glow. Your skin ought to be a good five to six shades darker than usual.
   Lipgloss is optional, but if you wear it, make sure it’s a classy shade of Barbie pink and a lovely, sticky texture like industrial strength glue.




Your makeup inspiration.


4. Accessories. The following are suitable:

• Gum. Lots of it. The louder you chew, the more attention you will receive.
• A cellphone, preferably with a camera. (For sexting.)
• Dozens of brightly coloured hair clips/bows. Wear all of these at once to show how revolutionary and original you are by breaking fashion rules.
• Jelly bracelets. Encourage others to snap them.
• Heels that you can’t quite walk in, so that when you do, you’ll be forced to wobble everywhere. This brings attention to your ass and thighs.
• Lots of tampons. Keep them in your handbag and regularly drop it in public so they spill out everywhere in full view. This will make it clear to everyone that you have a vagina.
• A poorly covered up lovebite. Or three.

   Congratulations. You now look the part of the young, teenaged, (attention) whore. Of course, you still need the attitude to match, but this shall be dealt with at a later date.
   Get whoring!