Ripped Off

I felt ripped off when I watched the 2003 version of Peter Pan for the first time. The trailer for the movie featured the intoxicating song "Clocks" by Coldplay. It was (and still is) my all-time favourite song. As a result, I had high expectations for the movie. There is one scene in particular where Peter and Wendy are dancing in the dream-like forest, floating up and up from the forest floor. The song in the trailer sings sweetly to make this the most perfect scene I've ever laid my eyes on. I felt ripped off, because not once did the song make an appearance in the actual film.

Disappointment aside, the feeling that this snippet in the trailer evoked in me has stayed for many years. It is the reason behind one particular instance in Evelyn's journey. I just don't know how to portray the magic that "Clocks" does. I hope Seasons gets made into a movie one day to truly do this moment in Evelyn's journey justice.

Now, I couldn't source the trailer with the Peter Pan clip in question, however here's a taste of that magical feeling that I'm talking about:

Nostalgia

The music of the 1940's has been working at my heart. It's finally won me over, but let's be honest- it didn't take very long. The music just has this amazingly romantic feel about it. I never stood a chance. Now it's got me thinking about investing in a record player...

It's funny how nostalgia can grab ahold of us. It's funny how this nostalgia can grab a hold of me, considering I was not around in the 1940's.

The haven that Evelyn has found elicits these same nostalgic feelings; thoughts of another era. It makes me think of several words: vintage, charm, rustic...

Past days,

Better days-

The grass was greener

Far before us.

That era,

Never dearer-

To have lived your time

That'd've been nice.

Swing and sway,

Dance and play-

Life was simpler

In your era.

Dream,

Oh! Dream-

I live in my mind

Conjuring the enchantment of a time gone by.

One Perfect Moment

It's not often in life that we encounter perfect moments. You know the ones- the ones that couldn't last long enough. The ones that bring you speechless, breathless, unable to consume their perfection. They're the ones that you recall later, that you ache to live again, and the memories never suffice.

Evelyn has found herself in a seemingly timeless perfect moment. It's clouding her vision, her rationality, her ability to think of others. Perfect moments are about one self, after all.

Oh blessed dream

Don't ever go away.

Last through this night

then through another day.

Oh blessed existence

In all your perfection,

Grant me another memory

To add to the collection.

Love Is

Love is always patient and kind; love is never jealous; love is not boastful or conceited, it is never rude and never seeks its own advantage, it does not take offence or store up grievances. Love does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but finds its joy in the truth. It is always ready to make allowances, to trust, to hope and to endure whatever comes. Love never comes to an end. (1 Cor 13:4-8)

I'm a big believer in what it truly means to love someone. In its purest form, love means to act out of the best interests of another.

Being IN-LOVE on the other hand, that is a whole 'nother story. It is a feeling- the gushy thing that goes away after a couple of years (or months) of marriage. Being in-love is excruciatingly painful. It is boisterous. It is unthinking and uncalculating, it is irrational and untimely. Being in-love is one of the best and worst feelings a human can experience. In my opinion.

Oh Evelyn, we feel your pain.

There's no point holding on anymore

It's lost, forgotten, never to be found.

The result is as expected;

Disappointment rains down.

The silence rings out deafeningly.

The bread sits there going stale,

Just like the taste you left in my mouth.

You appear ignorant to my love for you.

My heart laments.

You do not reciprocate,

And I transgress.

Why do you have to be so damn wonderful?

My love is strong.

I cannot control it.

Oh how am I to survive this

As the mold attacks my allergy?

We've Stepped Into Autumn

It's interesting: I was writing the other day in Seasons how autumn seemed picky in the weather it wanted to portray. Some days it was hot and humid like the summer past, others it was crisp and cool like the winter to come. It seemed unable to make up its mind. What I find interesting about it is how accurate my writing was to the autumn we have just stepped into here in sunny Queensland. One moment the sweat is dripping off, the next I'm tempted by a doona and hot chocolate- or at very least a cardigan.

Fickle. I thinks that's the best way to describe autumn- it is neither here nor there. Perhaps it likes to keep us on our toes and not get too comfortable. It gets attention by its unpredictability- unkind attention, but attention nonetheless.

Umbrella and gumboots

Or hand-held fan?

Jumper and stockings

Or shall I tan?

Give me a clue

About what will I wear

Share me a secret

I won't tell, I swear.

But now I am fickle

Cause I don't want you to cheat

Don't tell me, I'll survive-

Your mystery is a feat.

Autumn keep me guessing

I'll love you anyway.

Autumn who makes the leaves change

Go 'til the last day of May.

Believe

Evelyn does not believe her existence to be important. She lives in the denial of her self-worth. She does her best to stop herself from believing it, whilst those around her fight for the opposite.

Does this sound familiar? Like, have you ever heard those matter-of-fact statements from a friend, a colleague, your mother: "you're amazing", "you're wonderful", "you're so worth it"? They can see it, even if you refuse to. You respond by shying away, bashful by the statement, or lash out in disagreement.

I want to challenge you to believe it. When you hear those statements, agree with them. Go "yeah, yeah I am brilliant, aren't I?" (in your head of course- no one gains from a big head). Then let it sink in- let it sink in until you believe it.

Because:
Great things are accomplished by people of great confidence.

The Joy Of Reading

I spent a large chunk of my primary school years reading books. They absorbed me until the wee hours of the morning until I would choose rationally, guiltily, and regretfully to put the book down. At school I can recall spending far too long browsing the shelves of the library desperately hoping I would find something interesting. Alas, I was often dissatisfied and disheartened with the quality of the stories I read. Because of this I read and re-read my favourite authors: Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, John Marsden to name a few.

It's no doubt they've influenced my writing, but in recent years I stopped reading novels, feeling I was wasting precious time that could be used being productive. It's such a sad way to live, I realised this week, when the joy of reading returned. On Tuesday I felt compelled to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I'd seen the movies, but fared from the books, acting upon the rumour I had heard that she wasn't very good at writing. But the story took me immediately- and I lost myself in it, forgetting where I was, not even realising I was reading, turning pages, living someone else's concoction. I've missed that feeling. I think I will make it my priority to read more. My English teacher long ago said I would be a better writer if I did.

Don't judge a book by its cover,

Its dull pages, or cramped fontsize.

Don't open its pages with expectations,

preconceptions, or limitations.

Don't hurry through to know the last line,

It's about the journey not the destination.

Don't close it in grief for its ending come,

Be glad for the life that was lived then done.