Shoe projection

In shoes, as in love, you really only have one shot at the big time. The pair you found by chance, that went on to be the pair you could always rely on, fitting in with any sartorial combination and making your legs look fabulous in the process. Sure, you might find others that you lust after, even love. Ones that walk stoicly with you through life, with which you create beautiful memories or that captivate your imagination for a fleeting moment, taking your dreamy, Summer getaway in their stride. But as balmy days and sultry night give way to ochre landscapes and cruel Autumnal winds, our passionate infatuation fades. Finding appropriate trans-seasonal footwear is a tough task.

Mine were a pair of tan leather sandals with a five inch heel, a one inch platform and a buckled sling back. I found them at humble Sportsgirl, and they were only 120 dollars. Sure, there may have been more glamorous, more comfortable, or more sensible heels out there, but somehow when I put this pair on I felt the Earth shift; they rocked me to my very core. Three years of joy, challenges and remarkable adventures later, they broke. I was so sad and angry that I threw them in a council bin in the middle of Surfers Paradise and stormed back to my hotel barefoot. I didn't even pause to consider that they might have been repairable; that with a bit of skill and understanding, just maybe the strap could be reattached to the sole and we'd continue our trek through life together.

While time heals wounds, it also creates myths and casts a fog of doubt over our reality. Were my memories of our time together the reality, or was my reality being coloured by my broken heart? After all, this wasn't the first time these shoes had broken - the buckle snapped in the first year I had them. With youthful hope I'd repaired the buckle and we were given a second chance, but from then on every time I wore them they dully rubbed at my skin. Sometimes, if I wore them for long enough I'd have a tiny cut on my ankle that would take a week to heal. So, were they even worth repairing in the first place? Was I an idiot for thinking they wouldn't break again?

While I ask the questions, do the soul searching, get angry, reminisce happily or plunge into despair, I will never shake the basis feeling I have for those shoes. Just thinking about them makes my heart flutter, and on the odd occassion when I've seen the same style on someone else's feet I can't help but smile, remembering how much joy they brought to my life, while breathing through the vague twinge of sadness that sometimes rears it's head from the pit of my stomach.

I will never know whether those tan leather sandals from Sportsgirl were broken beyond the point of repairation, and that is a regret that will cut every time I get dressed. But I believe with my entire being that there's another pair of tan leather sandals out there for me. And if by chance we find each other, it will be beautiful.

In full bloom

Fresh blooms make me smile.  I picked up these darling, blood-red carnations at the markets this morning, and oh how they've brightened my day!

The girl's got style.

I love my niece's new do-it-yourself 'do (undercut, choppy spikes on top, asymetrical fringe, big chunk missing on the left side). "I think it looks funky," she says. She's four.

I love how she's standing by her decision and is refusing to be swayed by what anyone else thinks of her style. Beautiful little girl.  Secretly, I'm super proud of her. I wish I had her courage of conviction.

I think it looks funky too, Imp. Don't let the haters stop you from doing your thing.

Hey, Smart Girl!

A Q and A that turned into a D and M, for the beautiful men of STAB magazine. It had to be subbed by half so it fitted on the page (yeah, sorry guys!) but here is the transcript in its entirety. Enjoy! x


Derek Rielly V Lara Lavers for STAB, Issue 44.


Hey Smart Girl,


Tell me...


Who are you?
I’m a Brisbane-based journalist of 24. I was a dancer once, but then my body betrayed me. 20 years old and broken, can you imagine? Now I carry a card in my wallet – a license of sorts - in case the steel plates and screws holding my left knee and hip together set off a security checkpoint. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m holding out in hope that it will someday.

I’m a few months shy of a post-grad degree in Mass Communication. In the meantime, I freelance. Depending on the day, I could be writing a news feature on the Congolese humanitarian crisis, or a magazine fluff piece exploring society’s obsession with fame. Writing makes me happy. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t be a journo. Thinking about that makes me sad.

The closest thing I have to an office is the roof of my apartment building; a wide, open slab of concrete with a few air conditioning vents and a big old brick wall that soaks up the heat. I climb up there to write and think while the soft kiss of dreamy afternoon sunlight caresses my skin.

I live in a city-fringe suburb that’s only recently been gentrified. There’s graffiti on the sidewalk and a soup kitchen next door; the kind of place where groovy, creative types discuss Kubrickian cinema over lattes and self congratulatory cool kids from the hipster suburb a few blocks over flock to accumulate some social collateral. Everyone wears Brixton hats and smoke cigarettes. When I’m not writing, I’m filling my apartment with beautiful things and covering myself in tattoos.


Do smart girls have it tougher than beautiful girls?
Being intelligent is a wonderful thing. Navigating life is much easier when you can grasp concepts quickly, negotiate tricky situations democratically and begin to understand why people are the way they are. But intelligence is pretty useless outside a purely academic setting if you’re socially inept, or you’re not empathic, or likable, or savvy enough to make use of your smarts in this crazy world.

Beauty is inspiring and captures our attention. But what’s the point of having the whole world hanging if you’re just a beautiful idiot with nothing to say? Beauty and brains aren’t mutually exclusive; not exactly a new or profound concept, but I guess some people are happy not to make that mental leap. I’d rather be extraordinarily smart than extraordinarily beautiful. If you’re smart enough you can fake the rest; beauty, charm, whatever...


Have you ever been mystified by men's behaviour toward you?
When I was a teenager I was horrified by it. Physically, I grew up fast. I had the boobs and the body but lacked the sophistication to contend with the leering and the propositions. Many a Lolita reference was made. My older sisters took great pleasure in informing grown men that I was, in fact, a girl of 12. Oh how quickly the colour would drain from their faces! As an awkward and emotionally ill-equipped child, it was mortifying.

Every now and then I’ll come across a man who’ll make a value judgement based on what I look like, then not know how to respond when he finds I’m capable of stringing together a cohesive sentence. It used to bug me when I was younger and felt like I had something to prove, but now it’s just part of the hustle. Besides, mystery and beautiful contradiction are what make people interesting.


What is the most important book you've ever read?
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Kesey. It’s my favourite; I’ve read it more times than I can remember. I love the way Kesey questions the societal perception of “normal”, and the notion of the general consensus. It’s full of all kinds of great hippy ideology. And it sure is beautiful to read; consciousness rises from its pages.


What five books most shaped who you've become?
Apart from Cuckoo, probably On The Road by Kerouac, Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Les Mis by Hugo, A Moveable Feast by Earnest Hemmingway, and, it’s not a book but I’m including it anyway, “Frank Sinatra Has A Cold”, written by Gay Talese for Esquire in ‘66. It’s an odd mix of classic, beat and hippy literature, and literary journalism. I love how Kerouac can make simple words say profound things; how Wilde uses the most beautifully illustrative language while alluding to something much more sexy and sinister; and oh, how I’ve fantasized about riding across America with the sun on my skin and flowers in my hair, getting high and experiencing collective consciousness with Kesey and the Merry Pranksters! What a dream! Nothing moves me more than a masterfully penned work of literary art. Probably why I wanted to become a writer.


Describe a scene in a movie that has moved you to tears or to action…
I can’t remember the last time I cried in real life, but movies turn me into a blubbering mess. After I saw Blood Diamond I started doing a bit of research into humanitarian issues faced by civilians in war zones, and that’s how I became involved with Women for Women International, an organisation that provides aid to women and children who have been brutalised, tortured, macheted, mutilated, raped or displaced during periods of armed conflict. Essentially, we provide immediate aid, then education services and financial support through a micro-loan system to give these women a means of supporting themselves. We work in areas that generally fly under the media radar because, for one reason or another, they’re not on the western world’s agenda. That’s pretty difficult to deal with.


Is overt female sexuality empowerment, exploitation or a pandering to our patriarchal society?
Empowerment is about being authentic. It’s subjective, so it manifests in different ways for different people. I think women are capable of making that distinction for themselves.

For me, the hyper-sexualisation of women is boring in its basis interpretation of sex appeal. How very pedestrian, being so one dimensional.

It’s sad to see pretty young things bleaching the life out of their hair and shoving bags of saline under their skin in an attempt to conform to some outdated, myopic beauty ideal. Poor little darlings! I feel sorry for them, teetering around, reeking of ammonia peroxide. How do they not become overcome by the fumes! That’s pandering, and it’s ugly in its desperation and obtuse in its misapprehension of feminine allure.

There’s something unequivocally sexy about a woman lounging around in just her boyfriend’s shirt with bed hair and a coquettish smirk on her lips. Women are magnificent creatures by their very nature; a knowing glance, the smooth curve of a woman’s waist, the sweet smell of moisturiser and perfume, the feel of soft hands on a man’s skin - way cuter than acrylic hair and plastic tits.


What obscure words do you use to flaunt your smarts?
Capricious! Machiavellian! Facetious! Altruistic! Not only brainy, but super-fun to say!


Have you ever felt compelled to hide your smarts?
I’ve never really been drawn to people who consider being intelligent a fault. My friends are all brainy, and at school flunking a test or not handing in an assignment didn’t score you any points socially. I have come across people who’ll try to belittle anyone for even the vaguest of nods to cerebral elegance, but to me, that’s more of a reflection of their own insecurities. There is a time and a place though; wanky academic regurge for the sake of one-upmanship is just obnoxious. Sometimes it pays to come across as a little less aware, less switched on, than you actually are, especially in my line of work. Key talent are often more inclined to talk to you about sensitive subjects if they think you’re harmless hack.


If you wrote a novel, what would it be about?
Life, love, adventures, pirates, heartbreak, cheap wine, philosophical musings, sex, coffee and tattoos.


Describe your most valuable experience.
Moving to Brisbane on a whim when I honestly thought I might die of a broken heart. There’s no sting quite like that of love gone wrong, but two years and much water under the bridge later it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Ah, the warm glow of hindsight, ain’t it grand!


Why do we start life with left-leaning politics but shift right with age, with experience?
Maybe we get a little jaded and intolerant as we grow older and forget what it’s like to be young. We work hard all our lives to put down roots, accumulate wealth and acquire assets, and it becomes all too easy to resent people who in our clouded judgement drift through life wanting something for nothing, when really they're probably just trying to get by the best they can in this too-big world.


If 10 decisions shape your life, what have been yours?
I’ve never really been one to agonise over the decisions I make. Mostly, I’ve just considered what will make me happiest and done the best I can with the resources I have at the time. I’m not nearly as impulsive as I was five years ago, but I am where I am today, not because of anything that could possibly be conceived as meticulous forward planning. I probably could have done things differently, but I’m a product of my experiences and looking back I’d have missed out on some wonderful opportunities and beautiful relationships if I’d been more considered and methodical when it came to making big decisions.


What are seven ways to get ahead?
Stay single, live passionately, grow your skin thick, act with integrity, listen and remember everything you’re ever told, surround yourself with people that inspire you and pay all your good fortune forward the moment you get the chance.


What are seven reasons to drop out?
You’ve lost your inspiration, the novelty’s worn off and the reality ain’t what you thought it’d be, you can’t remember why you started in the first place, your morally questionable activities are stopping you from sleeping at night, you have a spiritual epiphany, fall face-first into a life-changing love affair or decide to go back to school. No one’s ever been worse off for having loved, and it’s no crime to seek a little further education.


If Sofia Coppola made a movie about you, how would it be played out?
It would be a subtle and sexy adventure love story about a flaxen haired, dreamy-eyed country kid who set off at 17 to find her place in the world. It’d have a cool soundtrack and beautiful scenery – probably set in France, because everything sounds better in French.


Are men essentially slaves to their testosterone cocktails?
No! Men are perfectly capable of logical, considered behaviour. Then again, I’m not a man, neither real nor imagined, and that somewhat diminishes my credibility as a commentator.


What's your favourite virtue?
Eccentricity. Beautiful kooks are the best kinds of people. The ones who never stay angry, or yawn, or succumb to boredom but flit through life chasing their bliss; who smile when it’s raining, laugh loudly, plan grand adventures, wink at the stars and live in awe of all the breathtaking beauty in the world.


What are your favourite names?
Hunter, Flynn, and Harper for girls, and Emmett, Finn and Caius for guys. I’ve never really liked girly names, and the odd literary reference is unintentional. I’m just a massive nerd.


For what fault do you have most toleration?
Absent-mindedness is so sweet and endearing. I think behind those dreamy eyes are brains so full of profound thought there’s not enough room to consider such mundane things as wallets or phones.


What military event do you admire the most?
Anzac Day services always make me a little sad of eye. Regardless of your opinion about the justification and politics of war, diggers deserve our respect.

A voice for The Wretched Ones.

I've recently rekindled an old love affair that began when I was thirteen, the embers of which have been glowing inside my heart for a decade.  Victor Hugo, I love you.

A master of profound simplicity, here are some of my favourite passages from his book Les Miserables - a book so beautiful and so poignant it damn near breaks your heart.

‎"He pondered on the sublime conjunction of atoms that gives matter its substance; that reveals forces in discovering them, creates the separate within the whole, proportion within immensity, countless numbers within infinity; and through light gives birth to beauty. This conjunction, this ceaseless joining and disjoining, is life and death."

"A former turnkey at the prison, now aged nearly ninety, perfectly recalls the unhappy wretch who was chained at the end of the fourth row in the north corner of the prison yard.  He was seated with the rest on the ground and seemed to understand nothing about his situation except that it was hideous.  No doubt there was also a vague notion in his ignorant and untutored peasant mind that it was excessive.  While heavy hammer-blows riveted the iron collar round his neck, he wept so bitterly that he could not speak except to mumble from time to time, 'I was a tree-pruner in Faverolles.'  Still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it in stages as though he were laying it upon seven heads of unequal height, a gesture designed to indicate that what he had done had been for the sake of seven children...everything of his life was blotted out, even to his name.  He was no longer Jean Valjean, but No. 24601.  As to what became of his sister and children, who knew or cared? What becomes of the leaves of a tree, sawed down at the root."

"He had asked himself whether human society had the right to impose upon its members, on the one hand its mindless improvidence and, on the other hand, its merciless providence; to grind a poor man between the millstones of need and excess - need of work and excess of punishment.  Was it not monstrous that society should treat in this fashion precisely those least favoured in the distribution of wealth, which is a matter of chance, and therefore those most needing indulgence?"

"The question seems almost justified when one considers the shadows looming ahead, the sombre confrontation of egoists and outcasts.  On the side of the egoists, prejudice - that darkness of a rich education - appetite that grows with intoxication, the bemusement of prosperity which blunts the sense, the fear of suffering which in some cases goes so far as to hate all sufferers, and unshakeable complacency, the ego so inflated that it stifles the soul; and on the side of the outcasts, greed and envy, resentment at the happiness of others, the turmoil of the human animal in search of personal fulfilment, hearts filled with fog, misery, needs and fatalism, and simple, impure ignorance."

and finally...

"Should we continue to look upwards?  Is the light we can see in the sky one of those which will presently be extinguished?  The ideal is terrifying to behold, lost as it is in the depths, small, isolated, a pin-point, brilliant but threatened on all sides by the dark forces that surround it: nevertheless, no more in danger than a star in the jaws of the clouds."

The Punctuation Pedant

"Let's eat Grandma!", or "Let's eat, Grandma!". Don't kid yourself. Punctuation saves lives.

The Hidden War

In the village of Walungu, 24-year-old Lucienne M’Maroyhi was home with her two children and younger brother when six rebel soldiers broke in, bound her wrists and ankles and raped her. One after the other.

“When the first one finished, they washed me out with water so the next man could rape me,” she said.

Then they turned to her brother.

“They wanted him to rape me, but he refused.”

So the soldiers stabbed him to death in front of her and her children.

Ms M’Maroyhi was then dragged to a forest camp, where was held captive as the rebel groups’ sex slave.  She was raped repeatedly, every day, for eight months.

Make no mistake.  This was not an isolated attack committed at the hands of a few rogue soldiers.  It was just one part of a systematic campaign of sexual terrorism being waged in a country widely regarded as the worst place in the world to be a woman.

There is a hidden war being fought, and the most frequent targets of this war are women.  In the Democratic Republic of Congo, rape is used as a weapon of war.

Yet no humanitarian crisis generates so little attention per million bloody and battered victims, or such a pathetic international response.

Since the Hutu-Tutsi genocide that claimed nearly a million lives in neighbouring Rwanda spilled over into the Congo more than a decade ago, the Congolese army and local militia groups have been fighting over the land – home to some of the world’s richest mineral deposits.

And while the western world may not be directly financing this war, thanks to our obsession with sparkly jewels and technological gadgets we are inadvertently creating an environment where it pays to have it continue.  Senior Congo researcher for Human Rights Watch Annneka Van Woudenberg explains.

“The armed groups here fight over the natural resources,” Ms Woudenberg said.

“This is how you buy your guns; this is how you get power.  A lot of what goes on in Congo is about the fact it has just about every natural resource under the sun, and people want it.”

The Congo is situated in the west-central portion of sub-Saharan Africa, bounded by Angola, the Republic of Congo, the Central African Republic, the Sudan, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Tanzania, Zambia and the South Atlantic Ocean – a bigger area than Spain, France, Germany, Sweden and Norway combined.

The enormous amount of mineral wealth throughout the Congo makes it desirable land for mining. Cobalt, copper, cadmium, diamonds, gold, silver, zinc, manganese, tin, germanium, uranium, bauxite, iron ore, coal and coltan are found there in abundance.  However, despite having some of the richest mineral deposits in the world, people in the Congo are among the poorest, second only to the people of Zimbabwe.

“Whether you have a gold ring on your finger, or you’ve bought a diamond or you have a mobile phone that has coltan in it, or you have copper wiring in your house, chances are that somewhere in your life, you’ve got something that comes from Congo,” Ms Woudenberg said.

Congo is home to 80 per cent of the world’s coltan reserves, a mineral that has become a crucial part of this hidden war in recent years.  Used to manufacture pinpoint capacitors used in consumer electronics like mobile phones and computers, coltan is being exported from the Congo at an ever-increasing rate to satisfy the western world’s insatiable lust for the latest in technological gadgetry.

Helen Veperini of BBC News reported coltan exports from the Congo to western markets are directly fuelling the Congolese civil war which broke out in 1998, and continues to wage in the east, despite the signing of peace accords in 2003, and a UN led peace keeping operation that began in 2005.

An estimated 6.9 million people have died since 1998 in the Congo, making it the deadliest conflict since World War II.  In eastern Congo, the prevalence of rape and other sexual violence is described as the worst in the world. The United Nations estimates that more than 200,000 women and girls have been raped during the war, some as young as three years.

In brazen contravention of International Humanitarian Law, and in addition to the widespread sexual violence, there have been frequent reports of weapons bearers murdering civilians and destroying property.  It is estimated millions are now dead as a direct or indirect result of the fighting, and many hundreds of thousands more have been displaced.

The United Nations estimates Congolese civilians are now dying at a rate of about 45,000 per month due to widespread disease and famine.  The same reports indicate that almost half of those who have died are children under the age of 5.  This death rate has prevailed despite UN efforts to rebuild the nation.

Philip Alston, a senior United Nations investigator concluded that “from a human rights perspective, the operation has been catastrophic,” as reported by Nicholas Kristof for the New York Times.

According to Kristof, who spent time interviewing rape victims in the African nation earlier this year, the Congolese war is a conflict driven by warlords, greed, ethnic tensions and impunity and has spun out of control.

“While there is plenty of fault to go around, Rwanda has long played a particularly troubling role in many ways, including support for one of the militias,” he wrote in his January 30 column.

Human Rights Watch reports that for every Hutu rebel sent back to Rwanda in 2009, at least seven women were raped and 900 people forced to flee for their lives.

Last year, the United Nations Security Council took a huge step by voting unanimously for a resolution denouncing rape as a tactic of war and a threat to international security.

In the resolution, the Security Council noted that “women and girls are particularly targeted by the use of sexual violence, including as a tactic of war to humiliate, dominate, instil fear in, disperse and/or forcibly relocate civilian members of a community or ethnic group.”  The resolution demanded the “immediate and complete cessation by all parties to armed conflict of all acts of sexual violence against civilians.”

However the response of the international community has been described by Human Rights Watch as “incommensurate with the scale of the disaster”.

“Its support for political and diplomatic efforts to end the war has been relatively consistent, but it has taken no effective steps to abide by repeated pledges to demand accountability for the war crimes and crimes against humanity that were routinely committed in Congo,” the organisation claimed in a August 20 report.

According to Ms Woudenberg, the systematic nature in which these attacks on women are carried out makes the conflict situation in the Congo unique from other war zones.

“This is not rape because soldiers have got bored and have nothing to do.  It is a way to ensure that communities accept the power and authority of that particular armed group,” she said.

“This is about using it as a weapon of war.”

These rapes are often so brutal that women have died of internal injuries sustained during their attacks.  Those who survive are shunned out of fear they’ve contracted HIV or because their attacks were so violent they can no longer control their bodily functions.  Almost all are abandoned by their husbands and families who believe their attacks will bring shame to the community.

When asked in January whether he would still marry his girlfriend if she were raped, young Congolese man Saleh Bulondo replied “Never,” reported Nicholas Kristof for the New York Times. “I will abandon her.”

Judith Registre from Women for Women International explains.

“When they take a woman to rape her, they’ll line up the family and other members of the community to witness it,” she said.

“They make them watch.  What that means for that woman when it’s all over is total shame, to have been witnessed by so many people as she’s being violated.”

Owing to the difficulty of distinguishing legitimate from illegitimate mining operations, several electronics manufacturers have begun to take responsibility for the role they have played in this ongoing and brutal conflict by forgoing central African sourced coltan entirely.  These small steps will begin to draw public attention to the war, but experts stress the onus is still largely on consumers to ask the right questions.

“How many people go into a shop when they’re buying a gold ring and ask, “Where does this come from?  How do I know a woman hasn’t been raped in order to get this small grain of gold to a shop?,” said Ms Woudenberg.

“We don’t ask the questions, but we are a part of it.  We’re all a part of it.”

Right now, there’s no way of truly knowing whether your new mobile phone or diamond engagement ring is dripping in the blood of a Congolese woman or child, but experts agree consumer demand for legitimate gems and minerals will force industries to act, and then we can begin to work towards peace in the Congo – a task that has proven too difficult for the country to undertake alone.

As for Lucienne M’Mayorhi, she escaped her jungle captors and has taken on the brave task of spreading her story.   Let’s hope the fortitude of survivors like Lucienne can inspire world leaders to step up and intervene in this desperate and despicable tragedy against human kind.

- Lara Lavers for WFWI.

This week I...

...experienced first uncomfortable flight. Wiggled butt down Chapel Street. Fell in love with Melbourne...again. Planted long-time-coming kisses on girlfriends' faces. Drank Moscato. Drank champagne. Drank beer. Toasted love and the institution of marriage. Danced like a hoochy. Had my shoes stolen. Drank champagne again. Fell asleep in the middle of a party. Laughed with friends about it later. Regretted the champagne. Wallowed in self-inflicted pain. Jumped back on the wagon. Played tour guide. Bought retro alarm clock. Bought huge watch for $25. Realised two of the dials on said bargain watch painted on the face. Laughed about it. Wrote a column story about "faking it".  Was reminded about how beautiful my friends are. Felt sad when they jumped on a plane back to Cairns. Wrote feature about chick love. Sat in an airport for five hours. Hugged sister. Cried watching Les Mis 25th anniversay concert. Ranted to bestie about Joe Jonas casting. Went to sleep singing "Castle on a Cloud". Got a surprise call from ex. Secretly smiled about it. Wrote a column about my mean streak. Sang "Who am I?" in shower. Realised object of lust is married. Realised object of lust has kids. Laughed at myself. Wrote a column about it. Got attacked by a magpie...again. Dressed wound. Nursed ego. Laughed with my housemate about it later. Was reminded how lucky I am to have such gorgeous flatmate. Wrote story about sharehouse horrors. Finished final uni assignment. Clicked heels together on handing it in. Bad knee gave way and I fell. Laughed. Wrote story about shame. Let that old seductress in the sky kiss my skin. Danced with the devil. Ate a kebab.

Where else but Queensland?

Though we protest the sniping and snobbery of our southern friends, there’s no denying Queenslanders have always relished their inherent underdog status. From Cape York to Coolangatta, maroon blood flow througheth our veins. Unsurprisingly, Queensland is better known for its cauliflower-eared State of Origin behemoths than its world leading creative industries princincts and unique emerging cultural scene.

To quote columnist Michael Hodges of Time Out, grey old inner London "is a perfect place for the miserable … [but] it's being miserable that gets things done. No one comes to the capital to be happy. They come here to do stuff."

This idea is reinforced by psychology Professor Joe Forgas's recent work at the University of NSW, which suggests not only that grumpiness can enhance cognition but also that grey, rainy weather improves memory and acuity, while sunny weather encourages forgetfulness.

In other words, there's what feels nice, and there's what gets stuff done.

This may help explain why Melbournian culture is traditionally more fertile than that, shall we say, of sunnier climes. It may also explain why a modicum of repression seems historically to act as a creativity enhancer. Take that, self-congratulatory southern cities!

Queensland is considered one of the world’s most beautiful tourism destinations and it isn’t difficult to understand why. Unfathomable stretches of mysterious, untouched tropical wilderness lie just beyond our back fences and the Pacific Ocean softly caresses our feet while we dig our toes into creamy-white sand and bask in the dreamy kiss of that old seductress in the sky, 300 days a year.

It’s ironic then, that the root of the “banana bending bogan” stereotype we so vehemently deny lies in the very things that make the Sunshine State such a desirable holiday destination today.

Let’s be honest. Only here would an 18-year-old university student be infamously bashed by police, hospitalised, then charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest only to go on to become one of the state’s best loved and longest serving premiers. Even the genetic mastery demonstrated by our own Miss Universe Rachel Finch wasn’t enough to distract Australia’s media from the beauty’s distinctly nasal northern twang - enough to make even the cheese-eating pageant circle cringe. Where else but Queensland, ay?

- snippet from Metropolis Metamorphosis (Lara Lavers for FROCK PAPER SCISSORS 2010/11)

STAB mag, Issue 44.

Richie Freeman for STAB mag

People die of common sense, one lost moment at a time.

Laws of the Universe, volume 1.

I get my good karma back in the form of really fast growing nails and hair and awesome car park-finding luck. 'Tis grand.

Sing it, Springfield!

I don't know what it is that makes me love you so, I only know I never wanna let you go. 'Cause you've started something, can't you see that every since you left you've had a hold on me. It's crazy but it's true, I only wanna be with you!

Last Lecture

A lot of professors give talks titled 'The Last Lecture'. Professors are asked to consider their demise and to ruminate on what matters most to them. And while they speak, audiences can’t help but mull the same question: What wisdom would we impart to the world if we knew it was our last chance? If we had to vanish tomorrow, what would we want as our legacy?

We can rebuild you, we have the technology...

I was a dancer once, but then my body betrayed me. I was 20 years old and broken - can you imagine? Now I carry a card in my wallet – a license of sorts - in case the steel plates and screws holding my left knee and hip together set off a security checkpoint. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m holding out in hope that it will someday.

Hotel Hangout. The most relaxed I've been all year. I heart Melbourne.

The self congratulatory capital of Australia.

I'm an east coast girl. I grew on the east coast of Queensland; transitioned to adulthood on the east coast of New South Wales; fell in love on the east coast of America...

For some reason though I've never really gotten to know Melbourne. I'd acquired the impression that it was a wanky, pompous kind of place - 'til now. I spent the weekend there and now I am in love. The galleries! The old architecture! The deciduous trees! The offbeat allyways where you get coffee, not stabbed! People grow magnolias in their front yards and you can buy peonies and rununculi at the markets like, whatevs. Magnolias! Rununculi!

Melbourne's my kind of place; chilly and gloomy. The city made it ok for me to prance about in a high-culture induced euphoria, swathed in a neoprene and leather jacket, harem pants slung low, pale throat wrapped in an exhorbitantly expensive silk contraption (a bitter-sweet reminder of east coast American love gone wrong), rich pigment on lips and flowers in hair, no quizzical stares from homely Queenslanders, nor cruel snickers of City Beach clad teens. What a lark! What a dream!

Most of all though, I got to hang out with my wonderful parents, who flew in a few days before I did. They're the greatest 'rents a gal like me could have been born of, and it was lovely being able to wander the streets with them in their low-key, dorky kind of way, recharge, even regress for a moment.

It's true.

"If God created us all in his image, and some of us are gay, then that must mean that God is a little bit gay. Makes sense, how else would you explain flamigoes?"

- Adam Hills

How come there weren't guys like Danny Zuko when I was in high school?

An artistic education

Life is messy. Gloriously messy. Like fingerpainting.

Love hustle

I was your mistress. Then you wrote me love letters and taught me how to drive. We played soulmates and self-destruction, painted a story on walls of our own, interlaced our fingers and traced our names in the sky. You called me LuLu and I stayed a while, now we go 'round with smiles on our lips 'cause the ride is still fun and fine. We were never that good at goodbye; Baby's got me by the hand and by the heart.

Kitten and Ink

A little shy, and sad of eye, but very wise was he.

Mooie kleine Nederlandse kinderen

Hey Mumma

I love this shot of my mum rocking a magazine shoot in the 60's.  I found it in a box of old photos when I was little and fell in love with it.  Isn't she a glamour!  Dad says whenever she walked into a room, all you'd hear was the dull thud of jaws hitting the floor.  

As a six year old I'd never really considered my parents having a life before I was born.  Finding this, I discovered not only that mum was this stunning creature, but that my parents lived exciting, remarkable lives before the concept of my siblings and me even existed.  I like that.  Growing up, Mum made sure we understood the importance of maintaining your own identity; that no matter the roles you play throughout your life - daughter, wife, mother - you're a person first and foremost and a powerful entity on your own.  This photo helps me to remember that when I feel like I'm losing myself.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost; the master of making simple words say profound things.

Sometimes when I meet new people, I worry I'll mention something they haven't told me but that I've discovered through some light Internet stalking.

Cursing at the Moon

Sometimes, a loud, resounding, "fuck you" is the best answer.

But not always, sadly.

Sexy Virgin Girls

"My life is easy. My skin is thick. I have no agendas and no unshakable beliefs. I hate no one and my hot eyes admire many. I have a temper, but that is a family curse. When I'm not writing I lie on my back and imagine sexy virgin girls calling my telephone."

- Crazy-talented Derek Rielly, editor of STAB mag. Sigh!

A circus, a sailer, and me.

Sometimes I dream of running away and joining a travelling circus; I'll spend my days reading Hugo and Tolstoy and exploring the night with an ex-naval officer from France called Olivier. He'll watch me dance across the tightrope, perched in the back with a carnation in his lapel and stars in his eyes. We'll slink into the shadows of a crowded bar and he'll regale me with stories of piratic adventures and swashbuckling on the high seas. He'll name his sailing ship LuLu and as I leave to chase my next horizon, I'll be forever tattooed across his heart...

Fiscal Policy

Exchange your self loathing for cash. Turn it into something you can use.

Sing to me Bruno Mars...

The Ugly

It's ok to be angry. Just don't let it masquarade as anything other than what it is. Don't sprout your vitriole on the Internet. Don't let it change who you are. Nothing is more repugnant than bitterness and passive-agression. You have no control over anything anyone else does. But you have the right and the responsibility to make choices about where you go from here. Ownership is powerful. Don't let your hurt consume you. Let it go.

Is there a word for that?

We aussies have a remarkable knack for stealing phrases from other languages and shoe-horning them into our vernacular, often murdering the meaning or pronounciation in the process. "Par-don-em-waahh?" I hear you interject in defiance, "Say-imp-poss-see-blah!"

Here's a few I've come across that I intend to steal in the near future.

L'esprit de l'escalier
Literally means "the spirit of the staircase". It's a French term used to describe those moments when you think of the most intelligent, witty, ego-deflating retort, five hours after the opportunity to deliver said brilliance has passed.

Backpfeifengesich
A German word (yes, that's a single word) that means, "A face crying out for a fist in it"

Tingo
A Pascuense word that means "To borrow things from your friend's house one by one until there's nothing left"

Kummerspeck
Literally "grief bacon". German for weight gain caused by eating your feelings.

Schadenfreude
Again, German for "Happiness at the misfortune of others". How Germanic is that?!

Je ne parle pas français

I like to pretend I'm hell french, and most of the time I pull it off. The reality is I can only speak the absolute basics of conversational Francais; like the shit you learn from watching Madeline.

Legs and the Bunny

If I could still get away with scribbling your initals on my wrist in texta, I totally would.

Loving...

Cold watermelon, thunderstorms, Hydromask, unpretentious intelligence, dance-offs and soul trains, green eyes, penguins and pirates, New York, grace and integrity, cleverness and wit, back tickles, sea turtles, stupid laughs, fabulous men, adventures, home, long lunches, family, bright smiles, uninhibited friendship, hot legs, midnight blue, airports, sisterly-speculation, movie nights, consistency, journalists, five inch heels, wine-time, Redskins, lipstick-feminists and educated activists, talking fast and dancing slowly, fat lashes, collarbones, inappropriate conversations, happy-snaps, notoriety, serenity, reading, writing, and rocking the world!

The Consolations of Philosophy

We feel guilty because we are guilty.

Let it go. Let it out.
Let it all unravel.
Let it be free and it can be
A path on which to travel.

-Michael Leunig

Salty Days and Starry Nights

For years we've flitted about this sweet flirtation. Nothing too dramatic, just the type of crush that never evolves; exchanging furtive smiles across crowed rooms, and slinking away for steamy kisses on sultry nights after too much sangria; away from the judgemental stares of lifelong friends who'll complicate things with too many questions...

Just to mix things up a bit...

See ya later blondey, nice knowing you xx

Nerd alert!

Never, ever study Mass Communication if you ever want to be a normal person again any time in the future. Years ago, I'd go to sleep with a notepad and pen next to me because I often wake up with these great ideas for essays or stories in the middle of the night. Last night, I was having a nocturnal stroke of genius, and as I typed my idea into a note on my BlackBerry, then emailed that note to myself so I could pick it on my lappy in the morning, I actually said to myself, and I believe this is verbatim, "That, my friends, is digitial convergence theory in practice. Oh yeah!" What?! Am I some kind of power-nerd?! Oh my god make it stop!

A Robert Palmer girl with fangs...

...simply exsanguinable.

Advance Australia Fair Hair

Ironically, the same Aussie kids who threw rocks at my then 8-year-old mother on the streets of Brisbane and Melbourne while their parents stood by doing nothing to stop them, spitting at her as she passed cause she was a filthy "wog" (apparently wog used to mean anyone from Europe in the 50's) now stop me on the street to coo and gush about how nice it is to see a "real" Australian-looking girl, "for a change", they add with a sneer. What does that even mean? Sometimes people disappoint me.

"Did I vote on your marriage?"

Until 1984, sex between consenting adult men was punishable in New South Wales by up to 14 years in jail. One day we'll see the way society has treated gay people with the same kind of shame we do slavery, apartheid, Jim Crow, the abhorent treatment of aborigines and the oppression of women. There's no legal or moral justification for withholding the civil rights of any person.

...and the teeth of a tiger!

The day that was...

In the end that day was a deadly mix of never ending shit-fight and the proverbial Doldrums. But somewhere in the middle, I was kissed by a beautiful man, and Rupert Murdoch bought me a piece of cheesecake. And all was well.

“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” - Dr. Seuss

Love Letters

I just found a box of old notes from a man I once loved, once upon a previous life.

We'd grown up together. Then a few years ago we realised we wanted completely different things. Our big love is over, but reading these beautifully hand-written notes, two and a half years and much water under the bridge later, still makes me smile.

It's not Shakespeare, but it was us. In amongst them, gems like "You're the best deckie I've ever had", and, "I miss you jumping out from behind corners like a five-year-old and scaring the living shit out of me"

They made me laugh. I love how he loved the stupid things I do and how he thought I made his life brighter.

It's funny how it's not the grand gestures or declarations of undying love you remember, it's the small acts of unprompted kindness that stick, like a handprint on your heart.

Now I'll say that despite being completely wrong for each other, you'd never have met two people who were more in love than me and this guy. Our bond was unparalleled, which is probably why we spent the better part of a decade killing ourselves wondering desperately why this just wasn't working. In the midst of all of this, he did things that broke through the frustration and crippling sadness to show me the man that he was. And he was good man.

I remember, whenever he used to pass our local shops, he'd stop and buy me a Redskin and a loveheart lollypop because he knew how much I loved them. It wasn't a big deal, and it probably only cost him a few dollars in all the years we were together, but it always made my heart sing, and it was his way of showing me he was thinking about me even when I wasn't there.

Never underestimate the unshakable power of a little token of kindness.

Hello Sunshine

Crossing Dallas

Over the Summer, I spent a few weeks at my parents' place in Cairns recovering from a badly broken leg, and ended up doing some writing for CairnsEYE magazine - a sweet little lifestyle glossy published by The Cairns Post, the first paper I ever worked for back when I was a bright-eyed and baby-faced graduate.

My first assignment was to write a profile on local league cutie Mark Dalle Cort. I ended up spending a bit of time with him because, ah, I had to write this piece, which is my way of justifying having a totally innappropriate summer romance with a guy I'd just met.

The day this was published, I got a message from Dalla saying it was the nicest thing anyone had ever written about him. I may have been drugged up to the eyeballs on some serious painkillers when I wrote it, but he made my recovery just that little bit sunnier.

After a year plagued by reports of rugby league player debauchery, I begin to think all could be forgiven after a chat over coffee with the Northern Pride’s newest recruit Mark Dalle Cort.

You can’t help but like this ex-Super League centre. Mark has an irresistibly dangerous appeal; he looks like a rockstar, has a pair of blue eyes that would melt the heart of an ice-queen and the type of body only gifted to those who dedicate their lives to sport. But behind the 105kg frame and tattoos, Mark is a kind hearted, roguishly charming man who loves his mum and is adored by anyone who has the pleasure of counting him a friend.

Growing up on the Gold Coast, Mark – or “Dalla” he corrects me with a cheeky smile – first picked up a footy as a six-year-old.

“Dad used to play and I loved watching him when I was little,” he explains.

Fresh out of high school, the Burleigh Bears junior was signed to the St. George Illawarra Dragons in 2000. After heading north to the Cowboys in 2004, Mark was recruited by UK Super League team the Celtic Crusaders and made the move to Wales in 2007.

After a VISA mix-up last year saw him and five of his Crusaders teammates deported from the UK, Mark is now busy enjoying all Cairns has to offer.

“For the last two years I’ve been playing on icy pitches in Wales, so the tropics might take some getting used to but I’m loving the outdoor lifestyle again.”

If he’s not out on the water fishing, Mark is busy planning his next overseas adventure. The self-confessed travel addict has touched down in nearly every continent of the world.

“My favourite place would have to be New York, or Cinque Terra in Italy – too tough to decide! I’d love to see South America next, or Cambodia,” he says.

“I love how travel broadens your experience, and it’s great having friends from different countries and from all different walks of life.”

Return to Grace

My old university roommate recently made his debut for the Queensland Reds, so I found myself in the unlikely role of crazed rugby fan at the opening game of the 2010 Super 14’s season.

I don’t know much about rugby union, but a Saturday night swilling beer with the boys and screaming myself hoarse while toothless, cauliflower-eared behemoths crashed headlong into each other seemed like an exciting relief from Brisbane’s style-o-philic bar scene.

The evening panned out a little differently to how I’d imagined. Not only did the male contingent of the group gallantly brave the bar queue to bring the girls our fruity cocktails, I hadn’t seen so many skin-tight jerseys and pompadour haircuts on a footy field since, well, State of Origin (we all know how those rugby league pretty-boys love a faux-hawk).

As I sipped my vodka soda and pondered the all-pervasive nature of fashion, line-outs, rolling mauls and a fairly magnificent try attempt on field competed for my attention with the presence of some very stylish punters in the stands. Checked shirts teamed with black skinny jeans and vintage Converse kicks patiently explained penalty decisions to well-heeled female companions; distressed denim and simple white tees paired back with bohemian man-jewellery and perfectly stubbled jawlines sipped lattes and nursed toddlers; and up on the corporate balconies, Hugo Boss suits lent steadying hands to women in teetering stilettos. Brixton fedoras perched atop effortlessly cool curls, asymmetrical hairstyles played up chiselled features and a tightly clipped profile highlighted the sun-soaked complexion and blue-eyed twinkle of a modern day Adonis. It was like sitting in on a GQ casting, only these weren’t models. They were real men.

It seems the days of the two dimensional male stereotype are over. You used to either be a blokey “man’s man”, or “…one of those honky, metro peacocks”, as one of my more rugged male friends once put it.

And while women were breathing a sigh of relief as “SNAG-ism” lost it’s appeal and the death of the “metrosexual” saw GHD straighteners and fake tan returned to the “hers” side of the vanity unit, men were left scratching their heads as to whether the pink shirt was still an acceptable wardrobe choice, or if picking up the dinner cheque would get him a second date or a slap.

According to Karen McIlveen and Madeene Brooks, co-founders of Grace Academy - a local finishing school which caters to men as well as women - the charm of yesteryear is making a comeback. Old-school etiquette and a gentile pride in the way we look and behave have been reinterpreted for the modern world, empowering women and making well-mannered, stylish men more desirable than ever.

“A man with polished manners and who knows how to dress, walk and talk, is perceived as being more appealing and confident, and is therefore more successful in his relationships,” says Ms Brooks.

This is a welcome relief for the men who tempted ridicule for even a remotely chivalrous gesture or a vague nod to sartorial elegance.

So how do men today navigate these unchartered waters without rocking the boat? Luckily there are some basics.

Ms McIlveen explains that a well-groomed, considerate man stands out in our post-grunge, hyper-casual society.

“Manners make all the difference,” she says, “Chivalry is about knowing how to make women feel at ease and appreciated.”

Gentlemanly manners on a date can range from simply holding a door open or insisting she have the last yummy bite of dessert, to escorting her down the street curbside, thus shielding her from such unthinkable calamities as bus-sprayed puddles. However, when it comes to the female view of male chivalry, one size doesn’t fit all.

“The modern man is all about striking a balance between being a gentleman and respecting a woman’s independence,” explains Ms Brooks.

As modern women, we work hard and are more than capable of paying our own way. Even so, at some point during a date, someone, somewhere, is going to hand over some cash, and the subject of payment can get a little awkward. To circumvent a snatch-and-grab for the cheque, or that painful, “oh no, I insist!” tug of war, conventional wisdom dictates that he - or she - who asks for the date, pays. However, experts agree it never diminishes a man's character to at least offer to pick up the tab.

"When people don't know each other very well, it's OK to revert to traditional gender roles,” says Melissa Kirsch, author of The Girl's Guide to Absolutely Everything. Although, “Once dating has been continuing apace for a while, there should be no awkwardness about the woman paying,” she adds.

Embracing man-style is far less complex, though not without its own set of unique challenges.

While women have had their tastes, style and personalities on show for the world in the clothes they wear, men have long been protected by the cloak and mask of unified dress regulations.

Today, there is a far broader range of fashion for men to choose from. This gives them an opportunity to inject a bit of personality into their wardrobes, and to interpret trends in their own way.

“I like a man who is aware of his own style and what looks good on him, without being consumed by it,” says 27-year-old Kylie from Kewarra Beach. “It can give you a bit of an idea about his personality, and says to me that he’s attentive, which is important in a relationship.”

“It has to come from him though,” adds 23-year-old Chelsea from North Cairns. I’ll give advice, but I’m not his mother and you can tell when a man is uncomfortable in what he’s wearing. Confidence is just as important.”

Professional surfer, 2010 Quicksilver Pro champion, iconic “man’s man” and unlikely fashion commentator Taj Burrow has also noticed the shift in how society views style and men.

“Put in too much effort and you’re labelled a princess. Too little and you’re out of your league,” he says.

Taj’s style tips include learning to tie your own tie, enlisting the help of a tailor to custom fit an off-the-rack suit, the importance of hydrated skin, good grooming and a signature scent, and keeping it simple in dark colours when in doubt.

“Plain gear is better most of the time, anyway. Dressing in black can make even a crook country kid like me look borderline sophisticated,” he jokes.

When it comes to being stylish with grace, subtlety reigns supreme. Keep it understated; prattling on about the designer he’s wearing, or the awesome deal he got on Ebay bespeaks a man of little class who’s trying way too hard to be impressive. Feign ignorance - true style is effortless.

Likewise, overdoing the chivalry routine — half-bowing as he holds the door or offering his arm with a flamboyant flourish — will at best make a man seem like a pitiful, slightly ridiculous fraud, better suited to chirping “Yes, ma’lady” at a jousting tournament.

As for me, the stoically single gal, I’m busy studying the intricacies of rugby union. Hey, after a week of editorial meetings, wardrobe malfunctions, parking tickets, university cramming, rude neighbors, fat days, road rage, deadline-induced deliria, a monsoonal deluge and the resulting frizzy hair emergency, what woman would say no to a little male pampering, a vodka and soda and a whole lot of eye candy.

- Lara Lavers for CairnsEYE Magazine, a little glossy published in sunny FNQ. xx

Down in Mexico

"We're looking at a live skycam shot of Melbourne; the cultural, sporting, fashion, coffee drinking, self-congratulatory capital of Australia." - Andrew O'Keefe.

Brilliant.

Oh hello Jessica Rabbit!

My beautiful friend Katie Jansen. Another Cairns product.

Repped by Dally's in Brisbane
Photos by Thom Kerr