The Queensland Flood Appeal

"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise." Hugo.

Queensland is currently facing its darkest hour; the worst flooding in the state's history. As of 4.30pm QLD time on January 12, 12 people have been confirmed dead and grave fears are held for over 50 who remain unaccounted for.

I have been one of the lucky ones - my apartment is at the top of one of Brisbane's highest hills. My sister hasn't been so lucky; this morning her and her partner were evacuated as the flood waters lapped at the base of the driveway, SES crews and police predicting that their entire building will be submerged come sundown. This was however, a slow inundation, giving residents plenty of time to do what they could to protect their homes and then get the hell out out of there. Brisbane, at least, has not been subjected to the cruel and unpredictable flash flooding that devastated Toowoomba, Grantham, Murrays Creek and other areas in the Lockyer Valley - incidents that are set to see the death toll rise as the waters receed and the recovery effort begins. A truly catastrophic event; the victims in the flood ravaged west didn't stand a chance. It breaks your heart.

Please donate what you can to the Premier's Disaster Relief Appeal; you'll be helping ease the pain for thousands of Queenslanders who have loss everything and witnessed horrors unspeakable. No one should have to go through this alone.

You can donate via Internet banking - here are the details:

Account Name: Premiers Disaster Relief Appeal
BSB: 064 013
Account Number: 10006800

SWIFT code for international donations: CTBAAU2S

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.