Archive for the ‘Crazy Imagination’ Category

Hime Gyaru & Loli Stylez

July 31, 2009

I was told by a tarot reader that I could become a president one day. President of what I don’t know, but if that day ever comes I will equip myself for the role by dressing like royalty. Because nothing prepares you for running a government/organisation like wearing a tiara. Hime Gyaru is a Japanese trend designed almost exactly for this purpose (I assume). Hime meaning princess and Gyaru being their equivalent of ‘gal’. Behold the awesomeness:






As you can see, the Hime Gyaru are all about the bows, frills and giant hair. A lot of pink and white going on. Their tans are generally lighter than the ‘normal’ Gyaru and they are apparently quite self absorbed and arrogant, I don’t know anything about that though. They have very dramatic looks, but I’ll show you how it translates to the street from the runways and magazines:





Still fairly high maintenance (I’ve heard it takes some of them over 3hrs to get ready!) but more variety and inclusion of blues and greys, and some animal prints. One of them is wearing a denim jacket too, a questionable choice even in our world. Moving on, here are some of the cooler Lolitas who can be found strolling through the Harajuku district. On the interwebs we call them loli’s and they have many different sub categories (gothic, sweet, elegant etc).








That last one is my favourite. Can you see the subtle differences? I haven’t really included a Gothic Lolita in the true sense of the term, but a simple google search will bring up thousands of examples for you to peruse. Loli’s have more of a costumey, olden time and more child-like appearance. I always look at them and wonder what they would talk about.. Would they play a character or just chill, talking bout their weekends like the rest of us? Whatever the content, I’m positive they use those cutesy anime voices.


(I don’t know any gyaru goodbyes.)


Needs Moar Gyaru

July 23, 2009

This blog has wayyy too little gyaru. I think there might be about three posts all up? Not enough, considering they are my favourite fashion inspiration and all. I’ve been toying with the idea of  maybe being paparazzi to our own Melbournian species of gyaru and posting the pics up here, but they mainly reside in the city streets and I’m going back to uni next week so I won’t get as much exposure. We’ll see how I go. Right now it’s time for some of my favourite sub categories, B-Gyaru & Kogals, who rock the streets of Shibuya.

B-Gyaru are the more urban, hip-hop, street kinda chicas.







The trouble with loving gyaru style is that it doesn’t translate well on anyone who isn’t Japanese (or Asian) in appearance. I’ve tried, trust me, but if the teased hair isn’t making me look like Effie, then the clothes aren’t loud enough, or the accessories are making me look like I’m revisiting my youth. What is kawaii on them always seems to look mismatched on me, but at least I look unique in comparison to the rest of the Melb socialites my age.

Let’s check out some Kogals, I’m a huge fan of this school girl look. Tartan skirts with tiny hemlines paired with cardigans are innocent-cute but still very hot.





Next up, I’ll be posting some of my other favs, the Hime Gyaru (princess gyaru) and some of the Harajuku Lolitas that inspired Gwen Stefani. The loli’s are a little too costumey & gothic for my tastes, but I appreciate their look nonetheless.

CiaoOoOo *^_^*

All Paths Lead To Psychos

June 17, 2009

“I live my life in chains, got my hands in chains

And I can’t stick with the cards

That I got with a deal like this

I must insist that a girl’s got more to do

Than be the way you think a woman should

I’m taking it into my own hands

In this mans land I can understand why I’m taking command

Had enough, of stuff, and now its time to think about me..”


So as we know I’m pretty into the whole divination, astrology thing. My mother suggested the other day that we go to this mind body soul festival on the weekend and I was fairly intrigued. I imagined myself strolling along the stalls, forcing gypsies to read my hand and making insightful comments that showed my immense tarotian skills during presentations. And mostly, I pictured the wealth of information that would be at my fingertips. People willing to explore and explain the meaning of their chosen field, perhaps some kind of alchemy table where I could crush wolfsbane and make a potent hand cream, or a philosophical debate of sorts between the wiccans and the scientologists.

Well the only bit I got right was the scientologists. And frankly, what the hell are they doing there, aren’t they illegal yet? Oh there were stalls alright, all selling over priced “magical” crystal jewellery and highly questionable “artifacts”. Not to mention the readers, who all came for the low low price of no discount. Honestly, you’re sitting on a plastic chair with a little velvet table cloth thing, if I gave you a minifridge it would look like your caravan back in the park, do I really need to pay 50bucks for a palm reading?

And the place was almost silent, like a library with no children’s section.. I could hear everything everyone was saying. There was no chance of me subtly asking what I wanted to know without the whole room listening in. And they were trying pretty hard! There was only like 20 other people there besides me and my mum, and we must of looked slightly out of place because everyone was watching us shuffle uncomfortably through the maze of enchanted earrings with curious eyes.


Is this the scene? Really? I’m starting to re-think my ties to this community. I didn’t trust a thing anyone said about anything, nothing was authentic in my eyes. I heard a guy say that a normal looking book on psychic phenomena had “great powers of protection”.. get the fuck outta here! Everything came with a fee. Even the brochure to the tarot guild of Australia, which I very much wanted to join (just to be able to tell my little bro I’d joined a guild.. heh oblivion), directed me to a website which asked for a $165 annual membership fee. I mean come on, they have like 3 stupid meetings every equinox (which you also pay a fee at) and its probably the same idiots I saw in the room, and they’d probably act all elitist on me coz I’m so young and amateur.

Plus they’re sposed to be all enlightened, whats with the materialism? I thought knowledge was supposed to be free, scientology fits in fine among em at least. Goddamn hippies. I just want to meet a group of down to earth people, who can explain to me about what I want to know, without any over the top crazy talk about auras or magical unicorn rides through the Elysian planes. I’m sick of books, they take ages to read and I have to go slow to pick up the concepts, and I don’t know where to begin because there’s so many different directions and topics.

“Far away.. This ship is taking me far away

Far away from the memories

Of the people who care if I live or die

Starlight.. I will be chasing the starlight

Until the end of my life

I don’t know if its worth it anymore..”


There was this guy there though, he was in my class at school but once he became openly gay and wiccan everybody made fun of him and I think he left. I was always nice to him though and I ran into him the other day at Charcoal Chicken (which has dropped the quality of its gravied chips, let me tell you) and we had an awkward but fairly pleasant conversation about what we’d been up to. Except when I saw him at his stall he got embarrassed and looked the other way. Considering his reaction, would it be psycho to chase him up for a lead? I know where he works.

I wouldn’t be a journo if I didn’t do some groundwork ey?


March 26, 2009

“The place we used to be is still a part of me

And I’m so fortunate lady that you still need a piece of me

And I know that you’re waiting, see I’m only down town

You know I roll alone girl, I’m never with a crowd..

Take me back to the day when you made me fall

I want to go, I want to go

Make me feel like you did the very first time we ever touched

I want to go, lets just go..”


I went to stay at my great-grandmothers place these holidays, and while she passed away when I was five and the house has been renovated since, it still has her feel and her essence. You can’t escape it. Maybe it comes from knowing her, knowing what kind of woman she was and how caring and selfless she was. But how can you really know what kind of person someone is when you’re five? I knew she was loving and kind, and thats all I needed.

One of the first things we did was walk around and check everything out, see what we remembered and what was new. Touch and prod and feel and try on. Her mink coat was gone, a tribute to her classic style. She was pearls and 1940’s curls, designer chic for dinner and nautical colors as she relaxed around the house. We stared at a glamour pic of her from her youth, she must have been early twenties. “You look like her, ” my sister said. And I was surprised to find I agreed with her. We have dark hair and the same nose. I felt like family for once.

One thing really struck a chord with me as I sat down in her old torn recliner and looked at the room from a perspective she must have, day in and out, for decades. I could see the tv in front of me, to the left was the window with a view to the garden of the front yard, and to the right was a portrait of her husband who died a long time before she did. She must have looked into his eyes everyday and missed him.

“Sure as all that breathe will die

And showers fall from April skies

A heart thats pure won’t be denied

The kind of loving that will rock you

The kind of loving that will keep you

Hold you for a lifetime

Even in the hard times, even when its going down..

You’re gonna find someone’s riding with you

You don’t have to be alone, you just have to hold on

You’re gonna find true love..”


What happened to the love from back then? The one that lasted forever, long after your husband has gone. The one that left you believing you’d be with him one day soon, that he was waiting for you.. These days it seems like marriage lasts 7 years, and love lasts even less. How is it that our grandparents marriages last forever, but everyone else is divorcing? Theres some element they have, that we don’t. What is it?

Maybe its because we don’t truly appreciate the other when they are with us, what they do for us, or that it takes effort every single day to make things work. Maybe its because we’re so trained by consumerism to never be satisfied, to always want more or be looking for something better, an upgrade.. Why do people leave each other, when others can make it work forever? We raise our kids in the era of divorce, it feels like every kid has gone or will go through it. And with that kind of backdrop, how can we expect them to believe in a love that lasts more than a few years? Its no wonder everyone is always breaking up.

But when I sat in her chair it wasn’t hard for me to imagine getting a portrait of my own husband, and of days spent there warmed by the suns rays and our own affections. I hadn’t even considered marriage before that, aside from maybe eloping in Las Vegas or something equally as vague. I’d definitely never thought about the part after. But now its a big question in the back of my mind.. What has happened to everlasting love?

“When I think about it

I know that I was never there

Or even cared

The more I think about it

The less that I was able to share

With you

I try to reach you I

Can almost feel you, you’re nearly here

And then you disappear..”


Dreaming Away..

March 11, 2009


I fell asleep beneath the flowers

For a couple of hours

What a beautiful day..


I dream of you amid the flowers

For a couple of hours

Such a beautiful day..”


There is not one day that goes by, that I don’t sit and stare blankly, day dreaming some crazy fantasy that will most likely never come true. Maybe I have a childish or naive mind, maybe I’m too airy and lack discipline, but imagining worlds that are far better than the one I reside in helps me get through the day. Especially with the monotonous shit I do at work.

It usually begins with what I decide to wear. I’m always dressing in characters or themes, although very subtly. The elements I put into the outfit only hint at the persona I’m actually going for, in my head its far more extravagant and over the top. For example, some days I will wear a lot of bright colors with chunky gold and the extension of that in my head is a very street, ghetto New York look, straight out of the hood. In my head I’m wearing a bandanna and sneakers, but in reality that ain’t my style. So if I’m doing that character my speech is all of a sudden peppered with phrases like “we chillin” or “yo, b, wat up?”. The saddest thing is I’m not even lying.

One recurring theme is anytime I wear boots, I start imagining that they are elven or superhero style and picture myself an acrobatic heroine, who could do backflips and leap off buildings if she chose to. While walking around my office I’ll pretend I have some sort of elf-like grace and natural stealth, when in reality I am a clumsy and awkward fool. The other day a cute guy checked me out in the kitchen and I spilt tea all over myself instantly, so you can see how this graceful thing would appeal.

“One summer night

We ran away for a while

Laughing, we hurried beneath the sky

To an obscure place to hide

Where no one could find..

And we drifted to another state of mind

And imagined I was yours and you were mine

As we lay upon the grass there in the dark

Underneath the stars..”


Another one I think of is while I’m on the train, I imagine suddenly it comes to a stop and we look outside and see the country has been invaded. And that the train is being looted by some rogue soldiers, who are killing people at random. Suddenly, the hot guy across from me who I’ve been sneaking glances at grabs my hand and we run to the emergency exit. We jump off the train and decide we better go country, I suggest my bush holiday house, he agrees. From there we make elaborate plans to win back the world, but mostly just fall in love. That one actually has a few variations, like zombies have taken over, or we’re not on a train we’re in a shopping centre. They mostly revolve around some crazy world crisis, where somehow only I have the power to save the day and by the luck of the gods, get a super attractive guy to hang out with while doing it.

Usually if I’m walking somewhere, or doing anything with my ipod on, I’m imagining the songs to be the soundtrack to the movie I’m currently in, which is basically about the story of my life and is ongoing and endless. Except its a little bit Truman-esque in that I don’t yet know it will be a movie, just that my life is *so interesting* that they’ve been filming me forever and its keeping the nation riveted. So naturally, when I’m pissed off the angry music comes on and I stomp through the train station with a fierce scowl. Or something nice has happened, so I put on a cute song and look out a window with a thoughtful and dreamy expression. Shit like that. I never get tired of it.

“Happiness like this it never lasts

Turns into the memories of the past

Here today and gone just as fast

And I can’t feel the ground

Someone let me down

I said I’ve never been so high

As I am now..”


Oh, and I re-do conversations constantly. After the actual one is over, all the calls I should have made come floating into my brain and I start kicking myself, wishing I was more quick witted. Like once this girl came over to my desk and had a sook that I didn’t put something in a work document, and being passive and neutral Luli I just said “Sure, whatever.” Then later I was like, ‘Who the fuck does that bitch think she is, getting all up in my face like that? I should knock her block off!’ Gradually it got more and more heated in my mind, and the conversation evolved from what actually happened to some kind of crazy girl fight slap-down. Naturally I’m the winner because that girl isn’t tough enough and doesn’t have my Westside edge, but you knew that already. Anyway it took a lot of soothing thoughts and DeMello-style ‘letting go’ before I could forget that daydream. Still to now, everytime I walk past her, the face jabs come creeping back into my thoughts.

And my favourite one, that sends me off to sleep when I’m feeling like an insomniac, is my dream life played out before me. The life where I didn’t make any mistakes, and I never got with my ex, and I was never best friends with that bitch, and I never fucked up my VCE.. The one where I got straight into my course without doing TAFE first, where I actually gave my number to that newspaper editor when he asked for it instead of telling him I was too young to apply. Where I’m already overseas, in the trenches, with my trusty cameraman and guide. Man that life is so awesome.

What do you daydream about?


“And I see

Heaven when he looks at me

In his smile is the most amazing dream

And in his eyes I fall asleep

And I hope

Hope that he can see through the smoke

Of my imperfections into my soul

And my heart where he has control..”

All I Want For Xmas Is…

December 9, 2008


Its time for one of my favourite blog activities, the elusive and informative meme, passed on through generations of friends and always showing up at exactly the right moment! TDW both invented and challenged me to this one, and I think we all know that I was taking up the meme whether he formally asked to or not, so its irrelevant if I was specifically propositioned. I don’t need to be, I live this shit yo! Meme’s are my love! (No, he didn’t ask me, of course I took it upon myself, true to Luli form).

Regardless, I do actually want to see what you mofos have been wishing for all year, so consider this your very own invitation. That means you Marty, Gully, Domino, Wendy, Den, J, Insanity540, Kezza (perhaps with a santa hat photoshoot?), Andy if your holiday down here is boring you, Ray, Wah, Bron, Rayedish, Reuben (your very own tram service maybe?) and any other lurkers hiding in the darkness, reading me with hatred and venomous spite!

So my friends, feel free to get me any of these things:


My old laptop back with all the best upgrades money can buy. I had a mouse that was a round little ball thing in the middle of the keyboard and it was the best thing I’ve ever used. I can’t work these fancy touchpad things, they freak me out and the pressure points are all off. Plus I’m a pro with the red ball thing, I can draw the most amazing MS paint cartoons freehand! Also, the keyboard needed a bit of a clean, I coulda done with about 2000 more gig, something to make it work faster, louder speakers, a built in radio modem router thingy, unlimited broadband in the true meaning of the term and some kind of sparkly sticker decor to spice it up a little.

An interesting and hot car that is rare to come across. Preferrably in a crazy bright color, like a hot pink rx7 s6, or a kingfisher blue hotted up old valiant. Something that you would look at and think ‘Thats so crazy, it just might work!’ but be too afraid to drive yourself. I’m no car expert, so feel free to brainstorm and think of something better. Don’t worry, I can drive manual. If it was booked in for a ritual cleaning with a professional, that would be awesome too. Personalised plates are a no thanks, you keep em.


A genuine gyaru girl for my own personal stylist, hair and make up artist. Imagine waking up every day to find Xiaoyu has already laid out several choices of what you might wear today, completely accessorised and correlated to the weather, current (Shibuya) trends and your own personal tastes. Never again would I have to feel the panic of standing before my wardrobe 20mins before my train departs with no idea of what to wear. Plus having someone to fix my mane and apply my mascara for me would be heaven. Ahh celebrities are so lucky.

A long, detailed, private reading with a tarot expert who has honed their intuitive abilities. What can I say, I buy into all of that shit. I take my horoscopes to heart and they come true for me. I get back the karma I put out, I believe in fate and I read for myself. But it would be awesome to have someone profesh actually read for me for once. I would hang on their every word and even though it might be wrong, I’d enjoy every single minute of it. Call me a fool if you will, at least I am a happy one!


My little Indian model sister and my good natured philosophical father home for Christmas dinner. I miss their heads. They are truly independent and free spirited, but I know they are both dealing with upsetting issues right now. Little model is trying to pretend her man didn’t cheat on her only 4weeks after her 6mth mth long departure and Daddy-O has lost his hard earnt job security for the first time in his life due to the financial atmosphere. They left with their lives concrete and certain, and are now on unsure and shaky grounds. And well, you all know my sentimental face. I miss em.

So thats about it, thats all I need. Those things would make me oh so happy, way more than money or fame or silly little emotions like love. Or world peace, pffft! This is the consumerist Luli talking, take your peace loving hippie shit back to your lefty, altruistic, well written blogs! Christmas isn’t about some kind of global goodwill, its about buying apple products for the majestic approval of the first hipster, the bearded, elitist (convert or you out baby!), sandal and kuffiyeh scarf wearing, anti-authoritarian, wine connoisseur and jobless mofo, Jesus Hail Mary himself.

Merry X-Mas everyone!


October 10, 2008

I have a theory that you are who you are in primary school and that once you reach high school it gets beaten out of you, and replaced with the never ending chase for the cool. Of course, cool is a concept that reaches you even in the younger years, but it doesn’t become priority till adolescence. In primary school you define your world, and your sense of self. The person you are is never again as simple as it was back then. You know yourself, your own character, and thinking is pure and untouched by society’s misgivings. The world is colorful, beautiful and limitless. If you can somehow keep the primary school you as a part of yourself, then you can remain satisfied that you know who you are, and this makes life concrete.

I have a shocking memory, and I’m prone to blocking things out that don’t agree with my happiness. My brain likes to suppress things, and forget them, so as not to remind myself that I’m not actually as perfect as I like to think. So by the time I started to struggle with my identity and with life’s problems, I had no sense of my primary school self. That girl was gone. I never realised why I was so lost, but it was because I’d lost my central narrative. You can’t move forward into the future if you don’t have a past to build on.

I’ve done E twice in my life. The second time I did it was with my sister and her boyfriend, on a particularly boring night, in the lounge room of my dad’s house while he was out. Anyone who’s done it before will recognise this atmosphere as perhaps not the best for a bickie. When you’re out, you feel the rush and its all about the experience, feeling the music or whatever, its focused externally. But when you stay in, with minimal distractions, the focus goes on the internal and you start to pick apart your brain. In the beginning its in a positive light, and in the end it turns on you, as you come down.

My defense mechanism of never digging too deep and letting sleeping dogs lie was deactivated. At the start I didn’t realise, but later on it frightened me. I’m always afraid of going too deep, in conversations or thought, in case I reach a place I can never come back from, where everything changes for good. But I couldn’t stop pulling myself apart, thinking and dissecting who I was, what made me.. Was I a fuck up? What was I? And then suddenly, one word was on the tip of my tongue, a word that summed up everything: Clystrombreddie.

So I laid in bed unable to sleep, out-of-my-mind smashed, with this word in my head. It seemed to mean nothing, I didn’t understand it, why was I remembering it? What did it mean? Clystrom-Breddie. It came from cly-stromboni, which I thought may have been some kind of instrument, but google has since disproved that theory. I associate it with a cittern, which is a medieval guitar, which I remember from Sleeping Beauty, a movie I used to watch over and over.

Breddie is a word I added onto everything, it was my secret word, that related to my steady-eddie, which was one of those things you use to eat on in bed. I used it to draw on, pictures of princesses and my sisters in houses full of chocolate and lollies. ‘Steady-eddie Steven Breddie’ is some kind of phrase that got me in trouble once. I think my sisters friend had a crush on that Steven Breddie guy, and I liked how it rhymed so I tacked it onto the end of steady-eddie, but then when I said it at school the girl flipped it. I was banned from saying it, so I shortened it to ‘breddie’ and only whispered it, but it was always on my mind.

When I was younger I was all about words, stories, books, rhymes. This was what I created my world with. I used to make up words with special meanings for me and my sisters, codes we used in primary school, they sounded like gibberish but held very precise ideas and definitions. I can’t remember them all, but some float back to me since that night, like Clam Broodie. When my youngest sister was a baby, she was so beautiful, with blonde ringlets. Everyone in my family called her Dan Beauty. I altered this to Clam Broodie, which became our word for the epitome of beauty in the purest way, like baby Dannielle. It was the highest compliment in our eyes.

This shit is wiggety wack, but its me. Clystrombreddie made me remember all this and more, it was the key to my primary school self, to who I was. I am a medieval guitar filled with booze, and the clock from Beauty and the Beast, bay horses with stars on their noses, biro marks on my fingers from drawing on a steady-eddie, the color green (dark, not tropical) and gumboots, ballet, some kind of Enid Blighton adventurous ‘British’ mentality, fairies and elves, brown hair in ponytails, squirrels and owls, oranges and apples, books, sugar dandies (wtf?), rabbits and princess dresses.

That girl was smart and kinda outgoing, and she fucked up too, even way back then. She was head of the class and very competitive, tried to be the fastest runner and the quickest reader. If you can picture that, you’ve seen my primary school self, the purest me. I can’t believe some crazy ass trip gone wrong pulled this all out of me, with that one word, Clystrombreddie. I still don’t understand what it means, but I think it was my word for myself.

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

I know you, that gleam in your eye is so familiar to me

And I know its true that visions are rarely all they seem

But if I know you, I know what you do

You’ll love me at once, the way you did once

Upon a dream..”

Umm, this is an example of one of those posts you’re allowed to ignore, so if you think I’m crazy right now just pretend you never read this, you don’t know what Clystrombreddie is and I’m the same old Luli as before (except now you’re more inclined to avoid me). Sorry for going too deep, but sometimes I guess you just have to.

What Really Goes On At A Bucks?

September 9, 2008

“I know you wanna get laid tonight

But I’m trying to get paid tonight

We ain’t even gotta fuss and fight

Just hit me right, its on all night

I know you wanna get in bed with me

But you’ve gotta come correctly

Nothing in life is free, especially not me..”

The alleged rape of the best man by the stripper at a bucks party is currently headlining on The Age website. As far as I can tell, it’s his word against hers and it’s pretty doubtful that we’re ever going to get the full story. She alleges he pushed back into her while she was playing around with a sex toy, and that it was an accident. She also says the men were using speed and cocaine and were offering it to her.

The best man apparently punched her in the back of the head but he denies it and all the guys at the party back up his story. Which is to be expected. They say the rape went on for about one second. I’m not sure why this is important, one second of rape is obviously going to be just as traumatic as sixty.

I’m not really going to comment on it, it seems fucked up all around, which is fitting for a bucks party. I thought strippers didn’t touch guys? But then, that makes me think of the other secret I’ve been told, about the secret men’s rule of bucks parties.

Apparently ladies, all men cheat on their buck’s night, and there is a secret code of honour amongst men not to tell anyone about it, so that on their own bucks night nobody tells on them either. The men who told me about this were adamant that it was true, that even my dear brother would have done the dirty before he married my sister in law last year. And of course any guy I have spoken to after has denied it as false, which just seems to fit perfectly with their code.

Everybody knows that a bucks night is a way for all the friends of the buck to have their final chance at stopping the wedding, and preventing their friend being lost to them through marriage. Back in the day, the end result of a bucks was to leave the buck tied up somewhere, miles away from where the wedding would take place, possibly covered in fish oil and shaving cream.

These days it seems to have taken more of a sexual deviant road, a stripper is mandatory, as with crazy drunkenness. And at my older brothers own bucks night, my little brother had some kind of crazy experience with the stripper, that no one will comment on that’s driving me mad! I really want to know what went on, especially considering he was only sixteen.. But this goddamn code of men’s buck night silence shit is seemingly impenetrable (nice choice of words eh?) and quite frankly I’m also kinda scared to know. I do want to be able to look him in the face without blushing.

“I’m in love with a stripper

She poppin, she rollin, she rollin

She climbin that pole and

I’m in love with a stripper

She trippin, she playin, she playin

I’m not goin nowhere girl I’m stayin..”

Do strippers, in your experience, ever cross the line with the no touching rule? Or the no sexual favours rule? Or whatever rules they have, have you witnessed anything you thought to be a little bit crazy at a private viewing in a home, or at a party? I was under the impression that there was no touching apart from a little bit of caressing and so forth, although I do remember as a young girl when a stripper came to a party next door, and the kids were locked up inside, that one man came out with some lipstick on the crotch of his jeans.

So, I want to know.. What secret stuff goes on at a bucks night? Does the buck always or *ever* have sex with another woman, as I was told? I don’t want reassurance here, I want brutal honesty! Comment under an alias or be anonymous if you wish, this is your one chance to break the code without fear of reprisal.

Jabreel’s Inferno

August 20, 2008

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,

Per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

Per me si va tra la perduta gente.

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:

Fecemi la divina podestate,

La somma sapienza e ‘l primo amore.

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create

Se non etterne, e io etterno duro.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate!”*

Lately I have been reading Dante’s Inferno and while usually I can dismiss religious texts, it has inspired me to ponder on the (debated) reality of heaven and hell. I’ve never been a ‘Christian’ girl to the dismay of my Catholic grandmother, although in my youth I entertained the possibility and attended a couple of masses with her, and even wore a beautiful silver cross encrusted with shining azure coloured topaz. Although, I admit I wore it more for the beauty of it than the meanings attached.

My parents both rejected the Christian ways of their parents as they grew older, my father once walked in on my Nanna telling us what to say in prayer and cried in exasperation “Don’t teach them that bullshit!”. I was always told that I didn’t have to participate in Religious Education in Primary School, and while I did go in the beginning, I soon tired of singing ridiculous hymns and remembering verses, and arranged to be removed from the class. I’ve never cared for Christianity.

But I can’t shake the belief in Fate, that destiny controls my path and that I’m lead to come across certain things for my own benefit. I’ve never had an inclination to read the Inferno, but a friend of my sisters lent me a big stack of books and it was in there, along with the other two parts to the trilogy. Even then, I wasn’t too keen, but one of my lecturers mentioned it in class and said that no-one could ever reach the last text, because it was too boring. And so with such a challenge issued to me, how could I refuse?

So I’ve been reading it, and with each circle of Hell Dante passes through I wonder is that where I will be? Is this the torture I will suffer? Then I think, you don’t believe in this fairy tale bullshit do you? That death is followed by another life in a magical realm? Such things couldn’t exist. But then, why have I been influenced to read this book? I never wanted to. And it has planted a seed of doubt in my mind, a seed that may have been destined to fall into place to make me question what the world is about.

Not that I would apply that belief in Heaven and Hell to Christian beliefs, I would think of it as something that would push me back to an Islamic path. Otherwise, why would I have made so many strong Muslim friendships and fallen into their culture and beliefs so easily? In Islam, there is the notion that everyone has the chance to revert and it is up to them to take that chance. It seems to me that I’ve been given so much in the way of Islamic influence, so much information, so many connections, but my feelings towards it being truth are unfounded.

If I was meant to be a Muslim, then why was I born with such strong feelings against organised religion, and an unwillingness to believe anything that was not provable through science? I used to tell my Muslim friends, back when I was still on the path of reverting, that they were lucky to be born in Muslim families, because they never felt the conflict of reason versus faith. They used to tell me that the reasoning and signs that pointed towards Islam were all there, but I was allowing myself to be blind to them.

Another thing that haunts me is a dream I had, back when I was still ‘Islamic’, on the eve of Ramadan. The Ramadan before that I had been fasting only every second day, which was a stark comparison to the Ramadans I’d fasted before, when I would only miss out on a few days. And so, I began to wonder whether this was truly the path for me and said to myself if I couldn’t fast a whole Ramadan, I could never be Muslim.

Anyway, the eve of that Ramadan (I think it was 2005 or 2006) I had a dream that the angel Jabreel (or Gabriel) came to me and told me that I must fast, and that I had to look after a young majnun (Arabic for a crazy person, or mentally retarded person) or all would be lost. He didn’t exactly say those words, and in all honesty I can’t remember any exact words or even remember his lips moving, I just remember the message. And in my dream he was shining with a bright golden light around him, he had golden hair and bright, intense, scary blue eyes and he was so powerful that I was overwhelmed with fear, I was completely freaked out by him in a way that I can’t even properly explain.

I woke up straight away and then immediately thought, it wasn’t real, it was just a dream and turned to my side and closed my eyes. The moment my eyelids shut I saw the vision of him again, just as frightening as before, and I quickly opened them with a gasp. It was 6am, or something close to it, and the sun was shining into my room. I was pretty cut that I’d woken up so early because it meant I’d be awake and so, fasting longer, but I was too afraid to close my eyes. It would have been a good start to a Ramadan, being up so early and having a lot of time to listen to Islamic lectures and learn to pray, but that Ramadan I barely fasted at all. I ignored the message.

When I told my Muslim friends of the dream they were astounded. My best friends mother interpreted it and said that it was a very good dream, that it was extremely rare that one would be blessed to receive an angel in their dream and that the majnun was myself. They all could not believe that even after such a powerful and scary dream I was still holding back from reverting. Sometimes, neither can I. But then I think of the world through eyes of logic and reason, and Islam seems once again like a strange fantasy.

I still feel the guilt though, and I can’t shake it, especially after drinking. Even now, I feel bad for every sin and I try to stay ‘pure’. I wonder where I got it from, I was never enough of a Catholic to begin the guilt process. Its so weird being stuck in the middle. But I can’t get past the parts of the religion that I feel are wrong, even though it feels like Fate leads me towards it so often.

So I let it go.

*Translation: Through me is the way into the woeful city; through me is the way into eternal woe; through me is the way among the lost people. Justice moved my lofty maker: the divine Power, the supreme Wisdom and the primal Love made me. Before me were no things created, unless eternal, and I eternal last. Leave every hope, ye who enter!

A Perfect Day

June 12, 2008

“If this was my last day here on earth

Would you remember me?

Never really thought about it

So carefree

Young and just doing my own thing..”

My last day would begin with me being woken up by my kitten who sleeps on my bed. He would come over to rub his face against mine like he always does and I would give him some hugs then get up and feed him. The shadows would be dancing on my walls and it would be a mostly cloudy day, with warm winds. I love those kind of days.

My sisters and I would go to Starbucks and get a frappe. On the way back we would pick up some Lebanese pizzas and take them to the park for an early lunch. We would sit on the branches of our favourite tree, like we did when we were younger and enjoy the breeze. I would tell them where my diaries are, and how to find this blog, so that they could read them when I was gone.

After that we would meet up with the girls and go shopping for dresses to wear that night. I would find some beautiful jade green party dress for only 20cents, and we’d go get our hair blow dried and teased. We’d get gelati and walk past Luna Park to the beach, and flirt with cute guys while dipping our feet in the ocean. Then we’d go home to have pre-drinks of vodka with cranberry juice, and start getting ready to go out for dinner.

For dinner we’d meet up with the rest of my family and everyones partners, and all my mates. We’d eat creamy garlic prawns with hot chips and get wasted together, shotting Jager bombs. Everyone would be dancing to Beyonce who would sing on stage, right in front of us. We’d play pool and I’d actually be good at it for once, instead of my usual hack ways.

In the end I’d fall onto my bed, exhausted, and have pleasant dreams forever.

“Sure as all that breathe will die

And showers fall from April skies

A heart thats pure won’t be denied

The kind of loving that will rock you

The kind of loving that will keep you

Hold you for a lifetime..

Even in the sad times.”