A Feeling Unfelt

This coated tension,

And heated desire,

Will be finally set free

As we'll surrender fear and nerves,

That have tainted actions and words unspoken,

Desperate to crawl out.

You'll throw me down

And I'll stretch out

On this ground of challenged motives

Undress me,

And confidently I'll slip between the sheets

Of passion easily,

Knowing that it's me you see.

Let me wind around your body

Trace my lips across your skin,

I'll let you in;

Pressed against my hips and placing fingertips

On every inch we've wanted to explore.

Let me be endlessly sexy to you;

Oozing words of sensuality,

Draped in honesty I'm sure is too naive,

But I'm growing as I'm learning,

Leaving innocence behind,

Temptation unraveling clearly in my mind.

You've broken in;

And seen more of me I'm sure,

Regardless of the sight limited

We've shared.

It'll be damaging

But I'll want you all the more,

Thankful for this outburst of desire,

Fuelled by expression,

Of the art we hold within.

These crafted words will only

Scrape the basis

Of this tangled, challenged

Depth of beauty this beholds;

The comfort of being known to you,

The ideal of knowing you.

And endlessly I crave you,

And arrogantly perhaps,

I crave you craving me,

As I lay in bed and imagine you

Laying in my company,

Entwined in a moment,

Suspended in a feeling unfelt.

Madness Through The Ages in Literature

*First published in Grok, February 2012. 

 Literature often reflects the spirit of the times – the common discussions of topics within cultures at that particular time. Insanity, or colloquially, madness has been a recurring topic amongst all cultures and timeframes across the world since civilization. From medieval surgeons drilling holes into insane victims in an attempt to release the inner demons, to chaining victims to the deplorable walls of Bedlam (the world’s first mental institution), and to strait jackets, sedatives and everything in between – madness; its symptoms, and the terror it inflicts into all cultures is a compelling, and the act of perceiving insanity within a person manifests into a mad craze to control or destroy it. Below are some works of literature that show are changing attitudes towards madness through the ages.  

1594 (approximately) The Comedy of Errors – William Shakespeare

One of Shakespeare’s earliest plays, The Comedy of Errors places two identical brothers (Antipholus of Syracuse and Antipholus of Ephesus) and two identical servants(Dromio of Syracuse and Dromio of Ephesus) unbeknown to each other in the same city, Ephesus. The sets of twins collide with their friends and family but not each other and spend their time in Ephesus thinking they have gone mad, and are being possessed by the devil. Spanning over the two acts, the twins’ mistaken identities and confusion over the situations they’re placed within amounts to a resolution and reuniting of the sets of twins, and a realization that neither sets are mad, but rather, learn of each other’s existence.

While on the surface, The Comedy of Errors is a lighthearted play that relies heavily on farce and slapstick, the themes of madness and questioning oneself against the backdrop of a Catholic dominated society throw us back into a time where devil possession and witch hunting were a recurring discourse and genuine threat within society. *The scenes in which Antipholus is sent to the church to exorcise the demons within was and still is a comedic scene at the time of performance, but held a clear social comment on the attitude towards mental illness and how to destroy it in a country where religion was tied to the law.  

1955 - Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov

Written from a mental hospital recounting what landed him there, Humbert Humbert’s avid infatuation with his “step-daughter” Dolores (Lolita) Haze is a disturbing derail of madness at first, but unfurls into a heartbreaking story of irrational love that traps the reader into its web and leaves you questioning if Humbert’s self declared perversion is really that, or a man incapable of rational thought due to his obsession with his “nymphet.” Lolita soon learns the extent of Humbert’s burning passion for her, and once tiring from being lusted after, she soon realizes how she can use her power over him to gain whatever she wants, and as she grows older and her teenage tantrums grow worse, her brat like temper and vindictiveness ultimately leads to her rebellion, and Humbert’s demise. Humbert’s European background against Lolita’s American upbringing reflect Europe and America themselves; pre-modern customs and romantic ideals against modern morals and feminine power. Is Humbert a man gone mad, or a man in love – and how the reader consistently questions how different are those two things? Nabokov’s triumph is not in the plot’s disturbing twists but how it somehow manages to sit comfortably with the reader, enveloped by the lustrous language and Humbert’s prevailing mix of passion and pleading for his lifelong obsession, the reader just as gripped and enthralled in Lolita’s web as Humbert himself. Was it his madness that led Humbert to his love for Lolita, or was it his love for Lolita that drove him to his madness?

 *Successful Russian author Nabokov was refused publication for Lolita, his first English written novel intended for an American audience – so had it published in Paris in 1955. American publishers finally published his novel in 1958, though it still sparked controversy. Now, after two film adaptations (1962 and 1997), and being considered one of the best pieces of literature in the 20th century, Lolita’s charm lies in its age-old tale of forbidden love, regardless of the legal and moral implications that condemn it. Pacing back a few centuries, relations with such a young girl were much more common – was Lolita merely a story of madness for its time?  

1962 – One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey

 One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest places the reader in the reality of a mental institution (“Cuckoo’s Nest”) and the terror patients had to endure from the control of psychiatric staff. The Narrator, “Chief” tells the reader of rebellious patient Randle Patrick McMurphy (who feigned insanity to get a lesser conviction for rape) and his disturbance of Nurse Ratched’s routines. Ratched evokes the abuse of power in a vulnerable and controlling situation. The novel is written around the time of the distrust of authorities and rebellious free spirit of the sixties and represents a much bigger idea of freedom of speech and questioning authority. Psychiatric drugs, electroshock therapy and a McMurphy’s lobotomy feature in the novel, showing the literal practices of mental health in the 20th century. Nurse Ratched’s sociopathic nature asks the reader to question – does a mental institution make one mad, or are we locking up the wrong people? *Author Kesey used to work at a mental institution as an orderly and found himself having empathy for the mentally ill and how they are treated in hospital. The film’s adaptation in 1975 earned 5 Oscars.

1996 - Fight Club – Chuck Palahnuik

“1. You don’t talk about fight club. 2. You don’t talk about fight club.” This cult contemporary classic epitomizes a modern man’s internal wrestle between masculinity and femininity – between sane and insane, and real and fantasy. The unnamed Narrator who suffers from insomnia meets Tyler Durden, a macho and cool ideal, and the two create a secret “Fight Club.” The balance between the conscious and unconscious as the Narrator battles with his insomnia, his work, and the all consuming Tyler (and Tyler’s lover Marla), is a modern twist on madness, men’s anger over the shift between gender roles and power roles in a modern world, and the presence of mental illness within society. In its last few places the heartbreaking truth is uncovered and Tyler Durden is killed along with the Narrator – the culprit, the Narrator’s schizophrenia. Fight Club’s power is in its possessive nature of transfixing the reader amongst the chaos and hallucinations of the Narrator while perceiving it as real as he does, giving us insight into the mind of a schizophrenic person and its torment.

*Fight Club’s edgy contemporary fiction and 1999 film adaptation has achieved a cult following, sparking much discussion over the metro modern man, and the demise of masculinity in a modern world. Perhaps madness consumes all of us at times; whether it be nestled within dreams, confusion, love, family, illness or other; but here’s to hoping that through the stories that outlay the customs of the time, we are not only acknowledging our perceptions of madness at the time, but embracing the much needed empathy, knowledge and promise to help heal those who are mentally ill, and learn from the mistakes of mistreatment in the past.

Resolutions and Realisations

Perhaps the attempt of creating New Year's resolutions is as important as having a brilliant New Year's Eve - and their similarities is that it nearly always disappoints us and for most, they're too difficult to retain. It's too easy to give up on dieting or exercise, or saving money, the usual kind of New Year's resolutions we strive to put in place with each year that creeps along, but by February/March or maybe even sooner we are give into temptations to break them.

Last year was difficult for my family, many of my friends and people around the world. We were gripped to the television when floods, earthquakes and other natural disasters damaged the land and lives of so many; watching on helpless and in awe.

Myself and my family shared our times of torment, my friends endured tragic times that were too much to handle. We lost Kaine Bell, forever 19 and forever remembered for his bright smile and gentle nature. Through it, however, our support for each other only strengthened our bonds.

I think we invest too much in resolutions shaping the New Year and therefore, improving the last. While to an extent we can seize control of our lives, fate sweeps in and dominates the future.

Last year I wrote that adulthood brings tragedy closer to the surface of our perception; we are no longer sheltered from the world by our parents and instead are learning to protect younger generations from sadness. In its bittersweet nature, that was my biggest lesson last year. Stripped from my plans and at times, struggling to cope with the challenges my family and friends were confronted with, we fought back.

I've decided against New Year's resolutions this year. The only one I have in mind, despite my knowledge that I have little impact on life's decisions, is that I'm going to try to make this year better than last, and with the friends and family that have continually given me their love and support, I'm sure it will be better.

Bookcase Biogprahy

It’s a popular belief that you can tell a lot about a person by the books on their bookshelf. Here’s a collection of my most loved and most influential…

1. Harry Potter Series

These books, quintessentially – are my childhood. Introduced to me when I was nine in my Year Five class in Portugal, I soon became fixated on the tales of Harry, Ron & Hermione. With only three books released at that time, the release of the next four brought great anticipation around the world that only the best of writers can muster. My own copies are tattered and have been reread umpteen times, and still hold fragments of beach sand from Portugal, America & Australia. I can remember the joys of staying up late into the night reading the books with such excitement to relive the adventures at Hogwarts.

Harry has been with me through my years of growing up, and rereading the countless adventures of the magical trio is a sense of comfort, joy and a constant reminder of my childhood. Plus, you can’t beat a bit of British banter. Jo Rowling’s imaginary world is so rich in detail, characters and magic that escaping to Hogwarts, whether as a ten year old or a twenty-one year old, will always be my favourite place to go.

2. Bill Bryson Books

Bill Bryson always finds a way to make me laugh. One of his first books opens with: “I come from Des Moines, Iowa. Somebody had to.” Whether he’s depicting the charms and quirks of the British, American and everything inbetween, or explaining science in a way that is comprehensible to even me, his books are filled with humour, facts and enough of himself that brings his tales to life. Bryson knows that to be funny, you have to poke fun of yourself, and he’s an expert.


3. To Kill A Mockingbird

“But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal- there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court.”

I was introduced to Harper Lee’s sole novel when I was 15 by my favourite English teacher, and have adored Scout Finch’s recount of racial injustice ever since. The story unravels the racism of the Deep South during the 1930’s; parallel against Scout and brother Jem’s incomprehension of Tom Robinson’s trial – depicting how children can be much more intelligent than adults. Atticus defends a man contrary to social pressure and despite taboo, and although Tom is still found guilty; it represents the stand Americans needed to overcome racial injustice. This novel, wrapped in the most basic of morals – to fight for what is right despite all social pressures not to, is a notion that will forever stay with me.


4. Poem Anthologies – (William Shakespeare’s Sonnets)

It seems I’m on of the only people left who loves to read poems. Poetry expresses a moment, harnesses a feeling and captures a fragment of somebody. Nobody writes poetry quite like Shakespeare; and his sonnets are a constant source of pleasure. No one has ever been able to piece together the English language so beautifully and memorably as Shakespeare, and four and a half centuries on, his work is still finding new ways to be told and influence newer generations of poetry lovers. Sonnet 18 is my favourite; “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day….?”


5. Crime Books – various

So many of us are eternally intrigued by the psyche of a criminal. Crimes of passion, hatred, money and jealousy are often violent and unimaginable. Fear laced with insanity is something we collectively try to understand; and the ruthlessness of killers is gripping. Perhaps it’s an interest that stems from a disturbing place or perhaps it’s an attempt to sympathise with evil; but crime seldom is committed without outside fascination, and reliving atrocities from the safety of your own bed with a titillating fear is always worthwhile.

6.Marquis de Sade – La Philosophie dans le Boudoir

The opening script reads: “Dialogues aimed at the education of young ladies; may every mother get her daughter to read this book.”
The Marquis de Sade was placed in an institution for his writings that were full of descriptions of illicit and “evil” acts of his time. His dialogues are filled with filthy frivolity and language that is corrupt and far beyond its age for appropriateness. This book is the tamest and least violent of them all, and is an interesting piece written amidst the Cultural Enlightenment. From the original sadist, to the audience of secret sadists and masochists he anticipated to excite and fill with pleasure; this certainly makes an interesting read, and is a colourful addition to my bookcase.

7. The Lovely Bones

“Inside the snow globe on my father's desk, there was a penguin wearing a red-and-white-striped scarf. When I was little my father would pull me into his lap and reach for the snow globe. He would turn it over, letting all the snow collect on the top, then quickly invert it. The two of us watched the snow fall gently around the penguin. The penguin was alone in there, I thought, and I worried for him. When I told my father this, he said, "Don't worry, Susie; he has a nice life. He's trapped in a perfect world.”

Alice Sebold’s tale of Susie Salmon (like the fish) is a heartbreaking ‘out of this world’ account of a girl who is raped and murdered, and watches in limbo between life and heaven as her family struggle with her disappearance and ultimately, death. Susie’s desperate attempt to out her murderer sees her struggling with accepting her fate, and accepting that life isn’t always good and magic as childhood leads you to believe. The poetic language juxtaposed with the horrific nature of her murder, and her parent’s demise is heartbreaking and poignant.

8. The Bride Stripped Bare

Nikki Gemmel first published this anonymously (to freely express the secret sexuality of a contemporary woman), and this contemporary piece detailing the “Good Wife”, who scratches an itch and retains her loving and good wife stature, all the while allowing her lifelong fantasies to break free and cause havoc. The book’s chapters are broken into “lessons”, and the second person narrative provides a contemporary tone and reader inclusion. A gripping and delicious derail of demeanor.


9. The Twilight Saga

It was a toss up between Jane Austen and Twilight – but then I realized Twilight is exactly that. Stephanie Meyer’s tween erotic fiction romanticises monsters of the night, and places them in a high school with a seventeen-year-old girlfriend. Bella and Edward’s unlikely love is an age old tale, with a modern, masochistic twist – propelled within a zeitgeist of post apocalyptic fascination and zombies, Twilight is the perfect dark romance that captures first love and pitches it perfectly to its target audience – teenage girls. Garbage writing and basic storylines aside, we all have guilty pleasures, and you may as well make a pleasure as tantalizingly guilty as can be.

10. Shantaram

Gregory David Robert’s “novel based on my life”, is a part autobiography, part story, and a fully fleshed poetic recount of the rebirth of a man who lost everything – his home, wife, daughter, respect, money, and even freedom – and gained it all back in the same way. “Shantaram”, meaning “man of God’s peace” is a Hindi word given to the protagonist. Robert’s character flees to Mumbai, and falls in love with India, its people and its heart. A novel that teaches you can turn your life around in the most unconventional ways.

“Prisons are the temples where the devils learn to pray. Every time you turn the key, you twist the knife of fate, because every time you cage a man you close him in with hate.”

If You Can't Do It Well - Don't Do It At All! On American Remakes of Britsh/Aussie Icon Shows.

One of the first nights I had the house to myself, I did what most people would do. Got naked in the spa. Rid of parents for the weekend and glimpsing to my future of my own house and lifestyle, I was having a fabulous Saturday evening. That was until I went to go back into the house. The latch on the door had somehow snapped across and locked, and I was stranded, naked and alone, with only a towel to shield any further embarrassment.

A quick dash across the road to my neighbour’s house to retrieve the spare key (I had to await her explosion of laughter to cease first) got me back into my house, relieved. Though my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, I could still see the funny side of the story. My friends thought it funny too; as did my mum, who announced it to the table of police she was dining with when she called me with her nightly “how are you coping?” check-ups. Let’s not even delve into my catastrophic cooking disasters, but I did, amazingly, pull off a Stroganoff one night.

Taking the piss out of yourself seems to be an English/Australian form of comedy. While Americans have pulled off parodying others, self-parody seems to be a foreign form of comedy to them. While British humour is dependent on mockery of oneself or satirising typical British life, Aussie humour seems to be a mix of British and American comedy traits. And with the ever-demanding market for new TV shows and hopes of television success, as well as American networks cutting the corners and adapting shows, books and films rather than creating them from other countries, can their essences ever really translate?

At a party (ironically, a pimps and whores one), I found myself immersed in a discussion over similar things. I was chatting to a guy who had recently spent some time in London, and was a die hard comedy fan. He was startled that for ten pounds he could watch a class act comedy gig that would cost triple or even more in Australia, and for less laughs. Noting these London acts would have you in stitches over silly anecdotes of their lives; it goes to show that the funniest things in life are those that can happen to anyone. He also mentioned American sit-coms, and how Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men never makes fun of himself to make jokes, but always at the expense at others. The show is funny, but it’s the kind of comedy I call “funny ha ha.” Don’t get me wrong, I love the likes of Friends and Will and Grace, but all these sit-coms share similar “funny ha ha” traits. Good for some giggles, but it doesn’t particularly stay with you. I can’t often recall or quote the jokes that made me laugh at the time I watched the show.

Basil Fawlty's slapstick charm or "don't mention the war!" quirks are funny nearly forty years on, Monty Python's "dead parrot" sketch leaves me crying with laughter every time. Good humour is that which lasts forever. We know as a culture that to be funny, your appearance, your sexual appeal and your composure are redundant. If you have to look ridiculous to be funny then it's done, it's all part of the charm. Many American shows seem too concerned with their characters being "cool" and attractive to really allow themselves to be funny.

I’ve sat watching Peter Kay (a particularly funny English comedian, in my opinion, who makes jokes of everyday British life) with people who aren’t English, and they’ve sat beside me (by this point, I have tears streaming down my face) looking bewildered. “How is it funny?” They have asked. My answer is always “maybe you have to be English to understand.” It seems British and Aussie comedy seems to go over Americans heads. They simply just don’t get it.

We’ve grown to love books like Belle de Jour, Bridget Jones’ Diary and anything by Nick Hornby, where the characters are placed in situations that are crying with laughter funny, and often downright embarrassing. Poor Bridget and her blue soup or granny knickers, or Belle’s frank and hilarious attitude to sex; and sneaky narrative-only jokes to the audience while she’s with one of her clients. These books have been adapted to the screen, whether in film or television, but the difference is they are created again for the same markets and written by British people. The humour remains on the same wavelength, and the adaptations have managed to retain the essence of the original piece.

UK made favourites that have fallen into Australian cult followings like The Inbetweeners are doomed to be made into American versions. UK website Digital Spy reported that the American television channel ABC has secured the rights to create a pilot episode. To anyone who is a fan of the sixth formers who aren’t quite cool, and aren’t total prats, but fittingly “Inbetweeners”, you will be as upset as I am. It just won’t work. These boys are iconically British; whether Will is being a pompous twat, Simon is confessing his love for Carli, Jay is doing things that should never be done in an old people’s home or Neil is simply plodding along. The American market will want the glitz and glamour of the likes of Gossip Girl and the OC, and watching rich Manhattan socialites punching fishes, getting drunk off gin or swapping shoes with a homeless man simply won’t be as funny to watch. Plus, it wouldn’t be half as believable.

Skins too. Beloved, Skins, that has definitely set the benchmark of what teenagers look for in a television show. Partly because it’s written by people our age, and partly because it doesn’t cover up nor over-dramatise the stuff teenagers get up to. This creative satire on British teenagers doesn’t make excuses for anyone, and Rosemary Newell, Channel 4’s head of scheduling says the show is popular with audiences because it doesn’t preach. “Oh, if only American shows had half its guts.” – Entertainment Weekly reviewed the British version. The show’s brutal portrayal of teenage lives is what captures the show’s authenticity, and it’s ever-daring with their storylines that still remain believable. Much of the part of this is that these characters are British people, speaking to a British audience, who are going through similar situations in their own day to day lives.

Channel 4, the UK channel that aired Skin’s head of acquisitions Jeff Ford says that NBC is planning to make an adaptation of Father Ted, and if they can do that, he couldn't see why Skins wouldn't have been successful in the States. I don’t even want to contemplate how terrible an American Father Ted would be. Perhaps luckily for us, Skins US did flop, the characters were jazzed up with terrible names and thrown into the arena of American high school politics. The token "gay" kid, the outsiders and the weirdos had lost the charm that the British version captured, and instead it felt as though they were merely placed there for merit, not reason.

Perhaps a reason Skins US did flop was that the story lines were much less confronting or “watered down” to appeal to a broadcast network. This immediately changed how audiences connected with the show and its characters - it's ability to be real; with story lines that projected the British version to its iconic status. Strip away the confronting scenes, add in a few over the top unrealistic characters, and a hell of a lot of bad writing, and you’ve got an American version, but I’m sure, a much smaller audience.

While adaptations may be successful in their own countries it can’t be denied that the essence of the original show is always lost. Consider The Office, and what happened to that. I cringed when I watched the American pilot, probably because it was a complete rip off of the British pilot and done not nearly as well. I was relieved to find out they quickly dropped the idea of mimicking the exact scripts in future episodes but still can’t enjoy it in the way I can cringe at Ricky Gervais’ heartbreakingly funny portrayal of David Brent. While the show has been wildly successful in the States, and has won Emmy awards, and has found an audience in Australia, it still doesn’t seem to quite capture the tone and the humour that was intended by Gervais’ and Merchant’s original. To me, it seems this show’s success is merely a fluke, considering the amount of adaptations that swiftly flop.

The American adaptation of Australia’s iconic Kath and Kim flopped. The show couldn’t capture the ocker attitudes of the women that Australians love to watch so much. And why should it? It’s an Aussie show, with Aussie characters, written for an Aussie audience. Selma Blair and Molly Shannon may be extremely talented comediennes but this stream of humour was inevitably, never going to translate to an American adaptation. Tim Goodman, a reviewer for the San Francisco Chronicle agreed and said Americans had to apologise to Australia, and the NBC version was “jaw-droppingly” awful.

It’s all down to context. These shows are designed to appeal to a particular culture, with similar sense of humours and characters that are common to these places. Taking a clearly British or Australian show and throwing it into an American setting is beyond difficult to do. The characters, jokes and situations just won’t translate – and in my opinion, when you strip away all of that, the soul of the show has gone. If you can’t do it well, don’t do it at all.

Perhaps it’s because there’s something less glamorous about British and Australian comedy and something much more genuine, but I don’t believe that kind of humour can ever properly translate to America. Their parodies are often of celebrities and particular stereotypes, where our favourite TV shows, films and books showcase everyday people and lives.

The only way I know to be funny is to give up myself, and to be vulnerable for a few laughs on the account of myself and my friends. It’s how I was brought up, and it’s the extreme vulnerability and sillyness that makes British people British, and funny, according to travel writer Bill Bryson (who, ironically is American, but has spent most of his adult life living in and loving the UK) .

It’s not making a fool of yourself, but simply embracing who you are and being proud of that. And parodying someone else is just as acceptable if you can do it well.
Maybe it’s best that Americans leave our favourites for us to have, rather than ruining them with their remakes and ultimately leaving distaste in our mouths of the American entertainment spectacle.

Whether it’s when the first time I shaved my legs I concentrated my efforts only to the front of my shins, leaving the backs natural as ever, or my police officer father spotted me (on duty) in my car parked at a secluded part of the beach with my then boyfriend, or my damn luck with pens at work resulted in a completely saturated ink stained thigh for over a week, it’s all part of life, and living, and really, laughing.

Life is too short to not take the piss out of yourself, and perhaps while we’ll cringe at the American half arsed attempts to do so, we can cherish our Brit and Aussie shows that are so close to our hearts, and so close to the real people in our lives.

Ya bellends.

"Look At All The Lonely People..."

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
in the church where the wedding has been,
Lives in a dream.
Waits by the window, wearing a face that
she keeps in a jar by the door,
Who is it for?


Just finished watching an interesting documentary detailing the lives of working girls in an American brothel. Most of the girls are comfortable with their jobs there, or find it better than working in the streets. Money is also often a huge factor for choosing to work in a brothel, with husbands and partners sometimes encouraging their wives to take the job.

Literary tales such as Belle du Jour romanticise and paint the picture of a sophisticated and elegant lifestyle, where clients are dashing and intimate moments are warmed with a touch of British banter and intellectual wit. The acts of sex aren't awkward but acceptable and charming in their quirky requests. The glamourous outfits, lacy lingerie and high class hotel rooms divide the line between "working girl" and "whore."

It's the oldest profession in the world, but it's easy to detach feelings to prostitutes and people who pay for their services. It's easy to separate yourself from completely understanding what possesses their reasons for their professions; simple to wrap them up in social taboos and place them under the label of people we will never know or be associated with. In reality, we've all probably met someone who has paid for sex or took money for sex. Ins some ways, one night stands and some forms of dating are surely that. Perhaps fine dining someone is an implication of what they expect later in the evening. Perhaps we should value those who are upfront about their requests; what they are willing to do in order to get a service.

These documentaries make prostitutes seem lonely and women who have left dangerous marriages and broken homes. None of these women are depicted as glamorous girls like Belle. After running from their lives and using all they have left - their bodies, they are held captive in a world where men still have the upper hand, and the dollars dictate the days.

I think we want to believe we're more complex to perceive sex as purely a physical act, and those that dare to detach feelings are destroying the complexity of it. Who are we to say what sex can mean to each and every individual?

Often I think loneliness, not sex, is the prime factor for wanting to visit a call girl, or wanting to romanticise your time with a client. We all need to be loved and to love; we all need to have faith someone will be there with us.

Perhaps we all show ourselves the way we want to be shown; imagine our alter ego's in forms we act out on a daily basis, or need that to survive in our lives. Perhaps we detach our conscience and moral obligations when we believe we're doing something wrong, as our way to cope with our actions. Perhaps we all have smiled when we didn't want to, put on our game face and thought it is better to have company than to be alone.

Perhaps we've all sold a part of ourselves to someone; whether it be our bodies, our minds, or our lies.

"So You Went To School To Relearn How To Smile..."

I've now finished all of my classes this semester, and had the relief of dropping off my last assignment today. It's been a tough twelve weeks, and I've still got five weeks of prac to go but I'm really excited. From what I've been told, you don't learn anything until you go onto prac, but I still feel like I've come a long way since the beginning of semester.

I truly adore university and I'm really happy I went back to study. While there are moments where you quite literally want to cry, or you're up into the early hours of the morning trying to piece together an essay that seems an impossible mountain to climb, it is worth it in the end.





It was my best friend's birthday on the weekend. We had the most beautiful day, starting off with an amazing three course meal at a restaurant on the river, followed on with a great night at her house. It was lovely to be with some of our uni friends again and to have a party.

These last few months have given me exactly what I've needed to get back on my feet and move forward. Without a doubt I know becoming a teacher is the right decision for me, and although it has been an unfortunate twist of fate that has gotten me to this, at least something good has come of it. I've met some amazing people,

I once wrote that becoming an adult brings sadness closer to the surface and our ability to bounce back from it seems harder than when we were children. I still believe that, but I think that being an adult also provides choices. We have the power to change our course and steer our lives in the right direction for us; we have the ability to create our own happiness. Going back to uni has given this to me. Every assignment handed in, coffee shared with some friends, good grades back far outweigh the pressure of assignments and stress. Every day I am paving my future, sealing my happiness and ridding myself from the past.

A Plea.

There are many crimes that go unpunished. Many victims are simply too afraid to report crimes, or feel too traumatised to relive their experience through the beady eyes of the jury. Too many criminals walk free; without a conscience and with the arrogant confidence they can do it again, and walk free once more.

In this world, justice requires more than conviction, but cold hard evidence. Evidence can be trampled on, witnesses can be tainted by moral obligations. We live in a world dominated by money, policies and structured control as to how to handle situations. Time and honesty is crucial to uncovering the truth. More crimes would be solved if people were not bound by love and loyalty; more criminals would be locked away should their lovers and friends not protect them.

This is not to say that those who do not report crimes are not brave. Living with a crime is like living with an illness; it seeps into your well being, distorts your thoughts and blocks you from sleeping. Like an illness, you have to fight its effects and hope it will fade away to a distant memory. It has the everlasting fear that it will creep back up to attack once more.

Crimes so often lack the evidence needed for punishment. The state doesn't want to waste money on only the chance of a favourable verdict. Victim's bravery can seem redundant at times, but every crime reported holds value.

We have to have faith that the more crimes reported, the more criminals are given what they deserve. We have to hope that our bravery prevents further acts of crime that are so damaging and destructing.

So this is a plea. If you are a victim of crime, or know of a crime, report it.

Mirrored Heartbeats

Week One

I am here. I don’t know where I am, but I know that I am here. This place is big, but I can see all of it. I peer around and see the edges, the corners of this place, but it is round, and glowing red. I know that I am trapped. This fluid I am wrapped within presses down hard on me. I feel it smother me, I am suffocated by intense warmth. I yawn, and roll onto my back, floating along. I do not know why I am here.

Week Four


This place never changes. The glow remains bright. I want a difference.
But I can’t see anything else. Instead, I sleep.

Week Eight


The corners of this place feel closer. I want to reach and touch what’s keeping me here. I think I am growing. I think I am growing in this place, and that is why I am here. I look down and I see that those lumps are extending away from my body, and becoming smaller. There are many of them. I stare at them.
I hear a voice, it echoes in the distance but I know it is close. I can’t make it out. I want to know what it is.

Week Nine

I hear a beating. Lub dub. Lub dub. Over and over. It never stops. It’s growing louder. I feel it move over me, shaking me with each beat. This sound mirrors a louder one; that echoes ferociously around me.
Suddenly, I am tipped upside down. I hear her retch, and I feel her muffled sounds and cries.
This place, it is within her. I am sure.
I fall into a heavy, long sleep.

Week Ten

Where I am has gone darker. Even when I am awake, I feel asleep. I roll into my favourite spot again, nestled in the fluid that rocks me slowly. My mouth forms a yawn, it escapes triumphantly from me.
I think of her. I try to, at least. She traps me, and she shields me in this blanket. She is loud now. I hear crashing and silence. I wait, but no sounds come. I bring my knees closer to me.
I sleep through my life.

Week Eleven

I am startled and suddenly awake. Voices rattle just above me, I am eager to listen.
“What do you want to do about this?”
I cower, but I know I have no-where to go.
“I don’t know,” I can hear her saying. I feel her hand glide across her stomach, edging closer to me.
“Well, you need to know.”
“It doesn’t feel right to get rid of it.”
“Why? You don’t want it. I don’t want it. We definitely don’t need it.”
Who is it?

Week Thirteen


I bring my thumb to my mouth and I suck on it. I wriggle through this space, and my hands reach through this place of warmth. Soon I will be able to touch the wall, I hope. I bring my hands to my face, and they glide over it all. I can feel how it changes as my hands travel over it. It is soft, but firm, like this fluid I am laying in. I distract myself all day. I finally let go.
Then I squeeze my palms together. Over and over again. It is all I can do. For now.

Week Fourteen

I hear them again. His voice echoes around me, while hers is soft and makes me drowsy. It grows warmer in here again, her arms are covering her stomach, wrapping around me.
“Make a decision! Or I’ll make it for you. We don’t want it.” He roars through the distance.
“Get out!” She protests.
It is me.

Week Seventeen

She is lying in something that is warm. When she moves, I feel my body sway effortlessly. I press my toes to reach her, longing to feel her touch. The warmth keeps growing, as I feel something trickle above me. It tickles.
I know where I am now. I know why I am here, too. I am here to grow for her.

Week Nineteen

I know she can feel me moving now, because when I touch her, her warmth finds me. I move quickly, and press against her.
But she is shaking now, and her hands don’t find her stomach like they usually do. I am rolled over as she shakes. I hear his voice again, but it is as though he is speaking into his hands. I cannot hear what he is saying. I do not want to hear.


Week Twenty

The shaking has started again. I feel her move quickly and my body bobs up and down in here. I move my legs and arms too, with as much force as I can muster. I press hard against the surface of the wall. I move as though I never have before. Her hands trace where mine are. I feel her, and I know she feels me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers to me.

*

I am here. I don’t know where I am, but I know that I am here.

Fight or Flight.

"How do you remember something that didn't happen?"
"Fondly."



I haven't written in a while. I've spent my time consumed with cramming in assignments, working and seeing friends. I've also gotten an SLR and a Mac, and have been becoming up to date with newer technologies. I've got a long way to go, but I'm starting to get my head around how to use my camera especially. I'm in week 7 of uni already, and as relieved as I am that I'm over the halfway mark of semester, my prac is drawing uneasily close. I'm excited for it, though a little nervous of the prospect of running classes.

I attended my first funeral a few weeks ago. Never in a million years would I have guessed I'd have gone to Kaine Bell's funeral first. It was devastating, but I was astounded with the strength of Kody, his family and Kaine's friends. They are doing tremendously well. The ceremony was beautiful, poignant, and a fitting tribute to Kaine's spirit. At one point a few days earlier, Kody and my brother kissed my cheeks and cuddled me from either side as we raised our glasses for Kaine. Death sadly promotes the significance of life, and therefore, love. It's a shame those life seizing moments don't last forever.





I would have been flying to London two weeks ago, having had my leaving party that was already booked. Adulthood seems to get derailed, but it doesn't mean I won't get back on track. There's times when I still get sad and tears fall, but I let them come and then move on. I've managed to make something spectacular from the rubble that collapsed around me; I fought back.

With sadness, comes longing. My dreams are splashed across my walls and nestled deep in my heart, carried out in my fantasies and waiting patiently to manifest. One day. I am sure there will be further distractions and detours, and perhaps I'll stumble upon a few more discoveries of my fate along the way.

Adulthood brings sadness closer to our eyes. It weighs us down with responsibility, accountability and conflicts with finances, work, study, friendships, family and romance. At the ripe age of 21, there are stupid purchases to be made, terrible jobs to be had, hearts to be broken, and friends to disappear. There are horrible mistakes to be made.

But we will grow from it. I will learn and live and laugh. And love.

And in the times when hurt swoops in and strangles our hope, we have to remember our dreams, that are just tucked away safely for another day yet to be had. We have to smile from the sunshine warming our shoulders, songs that soothe the airwaves and flowers blooming in the gardens.

Those little moments of beauty will carry us through.

10 Things

I saw Dylan Moran live last week, and he pointed out something that's stuck with me. You have bakers and shakers in the world - those that show their feelings and those that keep them locked away. It's something you can't change, something engrained in your heritage, cultural imperatives and employed to all situations in your life.

If this week has taught me anything, it's reinforced the importance of telling those I love how much I care, and focusing on what is fantastic in my life rather than the negatives.

10 Things I Love About My Mum.

1. She is incredibly kind.
2. She is a natural mother - she's always nurturing us and making sure we're fed.
3. She will do anything for me and my brother.
4. She is creative - a born artist, and colours our house with her art and warmth.
5. She has good first impressions and is a great judge of character.
6. She takes pride in the way she looks.
7. We are both bubbly, chatty people.
8. She is well loved by everyone.
9. She does my hair.
10. I can always talk to her and she's always there when I need a cuddle.

10 Things I Love About My Dad.

1. He is very kind and generous.
2. He has his own way in showing he loves me - little things like bringing me home chocolate, taking me for a drive so I can take photos and asking me to watch movies he know I'll like.
3. He always makes me food even when I didn't ask for it.
4. He does so much for our family - whether it's living in a country town or going on long postings at sea he's done it for us and our lifestyle.
5. We share the same sense of humour.
6. We both love to read.
7. He wants the best for me. He's always supported my decisions in what I wanted to study and jobs I've applied for. He wants me to go far and helps me achieve that.
8. He's very proud of me.
9. My dad will always be a sailor, he is a gentleman and my anchor tattoo represents the journey his profession has steered our family - 3 countries and counting.
10. He makes me laugh.

10 Things I Love About My Brother.

1. We have this special laugh that we only do with each other.
2. We have the same sense of humour.
3. He would give anyone his last penny.
4. He's very kind and loving, it shows in his eyes.
5. He raps in the shower. It's hillarious.
6. He always wants to show me funny shows and clips, and things that he knows will make me laugh. He considers what he knows I'll like.
7. He is the double of dad - they have the same looks and even gestures.
8. He is a very talented drawer and is good with his hands - he gets his artistic side from mum.
9. He is quick witted and cheeky.
10. He is bright and creative.

Death And All His Friends.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

William Shakespeare, King John. 1596.

There are acts in this world that strip our senses, starve us of faith and leave us questioning the impossible forever.

My friend lost his 19-year-old brother yesterday.

Life and death is vicious. Unfair. Incomprehensible.

I can’t begin to imagine the day this family has had; how the ropes of their family have been severed, the loss harbouring each moment of their existence, infesting each thought ever forward.

The dead do not leave us; yet sometimes the dead leave us too soon. If there is a controller of mortality, then what good has come from snatching a much beloved son and brother from our world? These are the acts that are unnatural and never able to be forgiven. These are the facts of life that snatch away our hope and project an uncontrollable anger and sorrow to the skies above.

Just a few years ago, death and other tragedies seemed beyond the scope of our perception. We were children; our life’s were sheltered by our parents love and lived within the protection of schoolyard laughter and friends. We were invincible. Infinite.

Though at times we had burdens, they were solved with a reassuring hug from our parents and a good day at school. Life was light and easy, it bounced off the walls around us, wrapped us up in its love.

Now, with each year that we age, each degree we receive, job we take, relationship we embark upon, we’re greeted not just with joy, but also with warning. It could all vanish one day. Adulthood has only brought tragedy closer to our attention; we are learning to become protectors to the new waves of children in the world, as our parents did for us.

There are days when life is beautiful and coherent, when joy rushes in and brightens even the darkest aspects of our lives, yet there are days when the darkness is simply too endless to comprehend. Sometimes clichés are redundant and nothing can console those left living. Death strips us of ourselves; grief floods our very purpose of living and controls us.

For this we have our family and friends.

Yesterday, today, and forever more, we remember Kaine Bell.

"Tortured Souls."

In an article about Amy Winehouse's death, a comment noted that alongside the string of rock and roll stars who died at the age of 27, "it's not their age, but their substance abuse that killed them."

I've spent the evening with a friend considering the depths of self-destruction within relationships. She is having to deal with the substance abuse of her partner on top of dealing with first love - which is overwhelming enough. Being burdened with another person's problems is a natural part of relationships. We care about people we are close to, so naturally their problems become our own. However, when these problems are revolved around self harm, destruction and suicide, their illness is selfishly placing people under immense pressure. You become the pinnacle of their existence and happiness, and no one should ever have to be so depended on.

I believe it to be selfish to threaten your partner, family and friends with self harm if they threaten to leave or try to address your problems. While I believe it may be the illness that is dominating your perception of the world, you still have some control over your actions, and dragging over people into it.

While I believe you should reach out and heal your hurting, there are certain ways to go about it. Pulling someone into your problems with harm threats and desperate attempts to cling onto relationships only create bigger distances between people. If you admit your problems and project the kind of help you need, support and love will flow from those around you. If you drink or hurt yourself to stop temporarily feeling, the pain you averted will creep back stronger than ever before, and force itself to those you need to help you.

I don't believe that you can love to your capacity when you have a mental illness. You don't have the freedom from your emotions to love as much as others, and you use love in cruel ways. Love is not something to be used to make others feel guilty, or to be dictated when only your emotions see fit. It either is there or it is not. You cannot suppress it. You cannot use your illness to manipulate others into the blame of it, or your actions.

I suppose it all comes down to fight or flight when you attempt to deal with mental illness. Do you flee from the scene, and let your illness consume and control your emotions, actions and relationships? Or do you stand up, confront your problems, and fight like hell to kill the demons of your destruction?

That's up to you.

"Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure."

When I was in my final year of school, we went on trips to the various uni's in our state. I remember going to Curtin in Year 12 and telling my friends and teachers that I was going to go there. It felt right. I was accepted to attend there the following year. I've always loved my uni, and can't imagine going to another one.

I'm officially back at Curtin. I can't express how thankful I am to be back wandering around the campus with a genuine feeling of inspiration and idealisation within me once more. Full time work, specifically full time work in a job I know I don't want to pursue is draining. It's as though I'm back on track once more, and I can already see my destination.

I'm still adjusting to the notion of studying for a profession, as opposed to an area. While I was studying my degree in writing, the scope for well paid careers to struggling authors to using the degree as purely a hobby was huge. It seems all discussions on furthering our studies into the workforce were never specific, whereas now the whole class are aiming for the same job. I like that.

Uni will be difficult at times, especially when I'm on prac but I'm excited for the challenge. While I know I'll grow to resent the self inflicted all nighter assignment cramming sessions, bitching at the parking and whinging about the uni's nightmare of a server, I couldn't be happier.

We did some exercises to determine if we have a brain that is more right or left hemisphere, also to appreciate when we become teachers, we have to see other learning perspectives of our students. Although I already knew it, I use a lot more of the right side of my brain, which is essentially creative and not as focused on logic and structure. It's interesting how different we can all be; though I suppose it's the mix of people that bring it all together.

A classmate said something along the lines today of: "art is so technical, yet it's based entirely on your dreams." I love that sentiment. We are infinite. Our dreams and our beliefs are only limited by ourselves. We have the power to conjure the world into the version we render suitable and inspirational enough. Thoughts manifest into ideas. And if you're artistic enough to create the impossible, we have planted the vision into those who are logical enough to create it.

With every good book I finish, poem I write, person I make smile and class I go to, I know that not only am I getting my life back, I'm on my way to making it even better than before.

My Smile.

I'm fed up of the guy in my department at work walking around as though he believes the world is out to get him, and only him. I told him, in frank terms, to cheer the fuck up. Every time I make a sale or am thanked by a customer his face betrays him. Every time he wanders into work a cloak of resentment and dismay follows him. In all honesty, it seems childish, and his misogynistic facade is offended when I tell him what to do. I don't think it stems however, from genuine feelings of depression.

I'm not making a critique on people with depression. It is a real illness, friends and family are suffering from it, and I have utmost respect for those brave enough to accept their illness and fight it. I am frustrated with those that act this way to gain pity, or to attempt to gain a shower of compliments, especially in the workplace. While he's made it abundantly clear my success of making friends easily with people at work in comparison to him, along with my fairly decent sales have angered him, by acting like his fate is forever doomed is really beginning to piss me off.

I'd probably win the "worst things you've gone through" competition with him if there were such a thing. I'm not one to usually use that sort of thing to rank what kind of character that would make me, or to test my strength. I know I am strong, I am proud of that, and I also believe that people handle situations in different severity's than others.

Not everyone is optimistic and can't help but cling to darkness. But darkness carries a bitterness you'll never rid yourself of if you don't seek help. For those who stress the tiny things in life, what does the tragedies steal from you? For the things we can shake off, move on, and forget about it.

If I don't like something, I change it. I was unhappy in a job so I quickly got a new one. I decided I wanted to further my studies so I applied immediately. The same has applied with family and friends. I've confronted people if I've had problems with them and resolved things. Too many people allow themselves to live in "okay" situations because they can't be bothered, or deem themselves unworthy of something better. So, ask yourself next time you whinge about it, why am I still doing this? If you're going to remain like that, remind yourself you chose that.

Though, value the pro's of your life before highlighting the con's. Most situations have good qualities, most people are worth fighting for. I'm happy with the people who are in my life; I've been able to lean on them especially in the last few months.

I have found through talking to family, friends, doctors and writing I have escaped from how I felt, and what it could have led me to become. For those who lock away feelings they'll never release them.

My doctor told me she thought I looked really well, and that I was doing fantastically. Through all of this, I've come to a few conclusions:

- This will not, and has not defeated me.
- I will not be ashamed of something that is not my fault.
- I will not lock away my feelings.
- I will get my life back on track.

Beneath my smile there is sadness. A sadness that is greater than you'd imagine from the girl that stands before you. But those who have tried to break my smile are not worthy of that; it is mine to keep and to share with those I wish to. For those who have caused me pain, I will defy you with my smile while you bound me, hit me, use me and discard me like you have done before, and you will be left tortured, with the image of my demented, defiant smile etched upon your mind.

Miss Hutchinson.

It's been an exciting few days. First and foremost, I've been accepted to study my post graduate diploma of education, so I can be a secondary teacher. I suppose deep down, I've always wanted to be a teacher, and it will be good to have this qualification for my future travels. Teachers can also earn reasonably good money, so it's a win win. I want to teach English, and perhaps drama, media and history, and maybe even dance.

I'm so looking forward to going back to uni. Since I graduated I've been working full time and while the money is the motivator to work, I find myself endlessly drained by it all. It's not to do with the hours of the day, it's more so that I'm spending so much of my time in something I don't have a passion for. I can't wait to be back at uni and working towards something I know I want to do. I couldn't deal with working in a job I didn't want for the rest of my life.

Now I just have to tell my boss; and since I've been there I've been given responsibility of the "supervisor", "manager" if you like of our department, so he won't want me to drop to part time. But I can't let guilt prevent me from doing what I want to do.

I'm typing this from my new Macbook Pro - a no doubt perk of my job and it's staff discounts. I have wanted a new laptop for so long and now I'm going back to uni it was time to upgrade.

I started pole dancing again yesterday. I used to do it before I went to Europe and it's so good for fitness. I've woken up covered in bruises but love it. It was fantastic to start up a dance class again and put on some heels. I'm going to resume burlesque classes again.

Things are looking up. :)

"Throw Some Glitter On And Go Dancing." - Stee Andrews.

I adore my friends. Truly, I do. I also adore the fact that I can go months without speaking/seeing friends, not even know them extremely well, or not have to be constantly updated on their recent events to remain friends. I've caught up with a few friends over my long weekend, and it's been lovely to spend time with people I haven't in so long.

I suppose, to indulge in some arrogance, I have a lot of friends. I am the kind of person who will get along with a lot of people and I try hard to maintain friendships. Whether it's meeting for coffee once in a while or even just sending a text I think it's important to let people know you're still thinking of them. So many friendships seem to dissolve because people simply don't take a moment every so often to remind each other they still care. I've seen how easily we get carried away with our lives and ourselves as we get older; relationships, work, money all seem to pollute the simplicity of having good friendships.

What I adore about my friends is that they're all from different groups of people, whether I've met them at school, uni, work, or in passing. It's inspiring when I catch up with people who love to write as I do and have similar opinions on things, but just as enjoyable when I chat over a guilty pleasure like a TV show with others. I firmly believe we can't get everything in life from one person, and those who are real friends understand that. My best friend and I have an amazing friendship. We talk daily in some form, although she lives two hours away and we don't feel jealous if the other is seeing another friend.

I've had friends slip away, and as I'm growing up and have lost a few people that were once monumental parts of my late teens I'm really not phased like I used to be. People who are meant to be will stick around, and for my part I'll be myself, and that should be all that's needed for the right people for me.

If you can laugh, cry, drink, dance, lay around doing nothing and every inbetween with someone, I think that makes a good friendship. I think catch ups with friends whether they be occasional or frequent are what keeps us from drowning in problems. We all have rough periods, sometimes ones that will test our ability to go on, and it's the strength your friends remind you that you possess that carries you through. My friends have all managed to pull out my smile when I've needed to smile the most, made me laugh in the hardest of times. I love you all.

Friendships don't always have to be daily routines of contact, but remembering to reserve a moment of kindness when you see someone you know about, and giving each other something to smile about.

Travel Bug.

"The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark." - Kahlil Gibran.

"Bless not only the road but the bumps on the road. They are all part of the higher journey." - Julia Cameron.

"He who never leaves his country is full of prejudices." - Carlo Goldoni.

"The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are." - Samuel Johnson.


It was this time last year that I was back in my hometown, Sunderland, for the first time in seven years. My "seven year itch" trip back to the Motherland and exploration of Europe was a trip that I'd been planning for over a year, and provided two months of fun, exploration and inspiration that only traveling can give you.

Myself and my friend Ashleigh planned a trip around Europe and Morocco together although we hadn't seen each other since I'd moved to Australia, and remained in contact via online chat, emails and phone calls. I suppose that in itself is impressive, and when I did get back to England it wasn't weird to see her.

I stumbled upon a notebook I'd taken with me on our "Suitcasing and Cultural Absorbing" trip of 2010, where Ashleigh had written down the funny situations and characters we met over our four week trip. From nearly giving away her brand new car to an elderly couple in Manchester (she posted the keys through the wrong letterbox), to being followed down a creepy Moroccan alleyway, to being serenaded by American teenagers on Independence Day in a Santorini restaurant that Green Day and Jennifer Aniston have dined in, we had an amazing time.

I loved Paris. I love its attitude, its cosmopolitan chic and Bourgeoisie culture clinging to the city's very walls and statues. I love the arrogance of the French, the prominent sex appeal and the romance; from couples literally drinking wine and eating bread beneath the Tour D'Eiffel to being pressed against a bistro wall on tiny two seat tables watching the world go by, while you inhale the smoke from the next table that seems sexy in France. I love the idea of eating croissant and writing poetry and being truly arty, wanky and deep - but it being entirely acceptable in Paris. Love fills the air in Paris in every way, from the padlocks on the gates overlooking the Seine to the couples canoodling everywhere. I love the optimism of Paris.

I also adored Rome, and being in a city built around its ruins and histories. The Italians have such a charming passion for food: nothing is more important than lunch (though maybe your Mama), and I could happily live on pasta every single day. I love how laid back yet chaotic Rome is. An afternoon can be devoured by a meal, as the Italians work their way through three or four dishes, but in the blink of a second the roads are crazy, the train stations are hectic and the espresso bars are full. Italians know they are sexy and proclaim it in every "Ciao Bella" they scream to every woman as she walks along the street.

Santorini is one of my most favourite places in the world. The most Southern Cyclade island of Greece, it's views of the sunset in Oia are phenomenal and compete with those of Fiji. The caldera is astonishing and every inch of the island is picturesque. The laid back island lifestyle accompanied with friendly Greeks and the always delicious meals doused in feta and olive oil is one I could happily spend more time in. We rested here as our last stop and spent five glorious days reading by the pool, walking along the calm streets of Oia and Thira and drinking Sangria as the sun set over this tiny island. I can imagine Santorini becomes a ghost town in winter, as the tourists go away for the season and the shops close down - the clusters of white buildings and empty pebbled streets would be haunting and old world like.

I loved being home, and returning to friends and family that hadn't changed. We've grown up, but we still get along and it was amazing that 12,000 miles, 7 years and little contact had carried our friendships regardless. I felt accepted and had an amazing time catching up with friends I'd known since I was in nursery school. We'd lived in Portugal for a few years when I was 9, and when I came back at 12 I was once again nestled back into the group of friends without any distance.

It was eerie walking through the neighbourhood's of my childhood and bar a minor detail here and there, not much had really changed. It was all how I'd had it pictured in my mind from when I'd left, when I'd cried for months wishing we hadn't moved away again. The first few months in Melbourne were our family's hardest; I was at an awkward age and moving to Australia was forever, while we always knew Portugal had an expiry date.

I suppose while I walked the streets of my hometown and caught the same buses I had when I was 13, I wondered if I'd have turned out different if I'd never moved away from home. Despite a few differences in interests and hobbies and the change in my accent I think I'd be the same girl regardless, and getting along with my friends so easily was the proof of that.

I finished my two month trip with a few days in London. I hadn't been to London since I was 13 and I was instantly hooked. I love every aspect of England's capital: the anonymity, the rush, the nonshalance. No one cares about you there - no one has time to. I find that oddly accepting. There is no judgment there; every unusual outfit, hairstyle or character becomes a brickwork in the appeal of London. I read an opinion on the city that went along the lines of: "you could be stark naked with fluro pink hair in the middle of a street and no one would bat an eyelid in the city that's seen it all already." I love the shops, the tube, the weather, the Britishness mixed with city cool, the hours I could happily spend wandering through the boroughs will all their different flavours, the shows, gigs and bars that are endlessly available. I want to move there, even if it's not forever. I want to be at least a temporary fixture of London, just another face amongst the ever evolving crowds. I want to lose myself in the big city to find out who I really am.

Simply put, I want to travel.

Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum.

I've been trying to write some poetry, and while I have phrases sscribbled over loose sheets of paper while I've felt momentarily inspired I can't quite seem to piece together everything I want to say. When there are no words to describe how I'm feeling, I suppose I can only write and say what comes to mind at the time, and hope that the verses will naturally render themselves together along the way.

It's not as though I'm an emotional wreck; I think considering I'm doing really well. I also accept that what has happened to me is not the worst in the world, but it doesn't make it acceptable either. I'm learning that I can't be hurt by everyone who renders the events in a different light, and I can't be discouraged by life giving us detours to our grand plans and dreams.

I suppose the philosophy I'm living by is simple and effective, and one that many choose to live by: take each day as it comes. Life is built on a series of highs and lows, and dealing with the past month has been another trial for me.

I do believe talking about it with people I care about, writing here, and trying to put some words of clarity into my poetry are all helping me unravel how I feel. I am thankful that I am a strong person and have been able to be honest about this. I've been praised by my friends that I am brave, and I am proud of myself for facing the demons, and not letting them slip through the ropes of justice. I will not let another person be affected.

Yesterday was a bad day in a bittersweet way; I heard from someone with a really sweet message of support to me, and while it upset me it also made me feel uplifted and better about what's going on. There will be days when I want to cry and I'm afraid of what may happen, but anyone can feel like that without going through what I am. As time passes and things move on, I'm hoping this will eventually all fade away into a closed chapter of my story.

I'm enjoying my new job, and feel a sense of accomplishment every time I put some more money back into my savings, and am considering going back to uni for one more year. Whether my future leads me to London, or leads me to somewhere I've not even considered yet, I know I'll be going full of prospects and determination to live a successful and happy life. It is my right to dream big, and my attitude that will lead me there.

And for the bad days, and the many more I expect for all of us to come, we have to remember: Don't let the batards grind you down.

Elisabeth Fritzl's Story.

I've just finished reading about Josef Fritzl, the Austrian Nazi supporting sadist who kidnapped his 18 year old daughter, raped her over 3000 times and locked her in a cellar under his home for 24 years, in which time she bore 7 of his incest children.

While the book was written in a sensationalised manner and the facts were apparent before I'd even read the book, they didn't seem to sink in until I gave myself more than a minute to think about it. For 24 long, tedious, repetitive, inhumane, torturous years this woman was bound to a cellar without even a window, fresh air or sunlight. It's easy for us to skim over the facts and not feel the weight of the life she's been forced to waste, while the rest of the world and her family unknowingly carried on with their lives literally above her head.

Elisabeth bore 7 children, and one of them died within 3 days of his birth. Her father burned the child in the furnace and buried his remains. Perhaps while no second of her life in the cellar would have been in any way enjoyable, I think the first 5 years would have been the worst, before she had the company of a child.

The torture, rape, inhumane treatment of his cellar family, malnutrition, physical and verbal abuse and barbaric act of absolute sadistic control stretches to levels as evil as the Holocaust and more primitive eras. To think this woman, and her 3 remaining children in the cellar (the other 3 were released earlier and Fritzl forged a lie to his life his daughter had left them there to be raised by his wife) was only released from her cellar 3 years ago is appalling.

Other bizarre tales of abduction, abuse and sexual deviation have emerged from Austria. It's a chilling thought to consider we may be faced with another news headline that will grip the world and penetrate our perception of evil to a even greater level we'd never even anticipated.

I read that every human is capable of murder, torture and any other evil acts, but it's social convention, rational and logical thinking that prevent the majority of people from ever committing such terrible crimes.

When it comes to blaming previous mistreatment and abuse on you as a justifying reason for your retaliation, I can only agree to a certain extent. We may not differentiate between right and wrong having been amongst an environment of abuse that you have become accustomed to, but as an adult who is fully aware of the consequences of their actions every time you think or commit a crime, you are leaving your human conscience behind.

Fritzl explains he suffered from abuse from his stern mother who beat him and was abandoned by his alcoholic father, but his Oedipus fixations that stemmed from his childhood had no place to be manifested into his adult rituals, fantasies and control over his cultivated and secretive cellar family.

Perhaps this is an example of sadistic obsession at its finest; perhaps it's simply a story too horrifying to ever forget, but I hope that all victims of abuse in any way, and in any severity have been released from their cellars of control and repulsion, and are able to close the door on that past life they never should have lived.