Girl look at that body… I work out!

Many apologies for not having posted anything in a while. I went back to school a few weeks ago, and finding time to breathe is proving difficult, let alone writing blog posts. Another thing proving difficult is finding the time – or motivation – to exercise. So I thought I’d combine the two and put my guilty conscience somewhat at ease! Here you have it.

Recently, after becoming a little discontent with my post-Christmas/New Years/Birthday figure, I acquired a gym membership. After much labouring over exorbitant amounts of paperwork – seriously, I think most politicians do less paperwork in a year – I was in. Yes! I’d done it! They’d even thrown in a free backpack, water bottle and gym towel to make me feel welcome! I was going to get super dooper fit!

And then I came to the realisation that simply having the little plastic membership tag on your keyring does not automatically shed three kilos. I’d actually have to *go* to the gym.

Now, I don’t mind exercise. It helps me clear my head, and I know that I’m doing something good for my body. It’s also probably my peak time for drinking water (which I’m actually getting better at since they put one of those fun little water filters in the study room at school!). There are certain times, however, when this “fitness club” institution feels a little creepy/disheartening/disappointing/mortifying. The following is a list of such times.

Accidental Farts. One of my favourite classes is Pilates, but I often find myself sweating out a mix of hard work and dread when I feel my stomach begin to churn. Surely I can’t be the only one that worries they’re going to rip a massive low D on the butt trumpet in the middle of the downward dog? When this happens I tend to lose focus on my cyclic Pilates breathing and place a little more focus on keeping my gas valves shut, all the while praying, “please, god of Pilates, if it’s going to happen, at least let it be a Silent-But-Deadly. Anything but a loud one!”

Music Videos. This is something that irritates me to no end. The way the music industry works is that they put all of the attractive, desirable people on the music videos in order to sell the song. Do the health clubs know this? Are they exploiting the fact the while most of us are sweating it out on the treadmill, we’re facing a television with a scantily clad, fit young man or woman – what most of us are trying to become? There is some kind of sick metaphor on the fact that when we run on a treadmill with a music video in front of us, it’s like we’re running towards something we want to become, but we never get any closer. Besides, most of the music is crap, which brings me to my next point:

Crappy covers of my favourite songs. One class in particular seems as though the fitness club stole my iPod, picked out some songs that I really really like, then took some really awful singers and made them do their own version of the song. I’m talking “Some Nights” by ‘fun’ feat. Autotune, “In For The Kill” by ‘La Roux/Skrillex’ feat. That’s Not Even Dubstep, and “I Don’t Care” by ‘Fall Out Boy’ feat. Did Patrick Stump Have A Sex Change Or Is This Justin Bieber?. I think they did it to protect their arses when the SOPA/PIPA bills threatened the world’s freedoms, but a year or so later and it still hasn’t been changed. Ugh.

Blokes in the the weights room. I feel as though this room has been put in the gym for the simple reason that the protein-shake-drinking, wrist-strap-wearing junkies who want to get “hard” need a place to grunt it out. I respect that, but I will not go in there, merely because every time I do, they turn and look at me with stares that burn a hole into my soul – just for being a female. What’s more is that they put mirrors in that room, just so those blokes can look at themselves. That’s probably more vain than the hair straighteners they supply in the female toilets. (Don’t even get me started on some of the girls who “exercise” at the gym!)

So there you have it, folks – the concise edition of things I hate about the gym. Nevertheless, I will continue to go, because Cellulite Sally doesn’t feel like leaving without a bit of a push, and everyone knows hard work never comes without results. As a Nutrigrain ad once taught me, “you only get out what you put in”!

Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

When I started this blog I didn’t really have any plans to write movie reviews on here, considering that I hardly watch enough to justify keeping it up. But in this past week I watched a movie that made a real impact on me, which is very rare for movies I hire out on a spur-of-the-moment decision. Hence, why I have decided to share it with you, dear readers.

This movie is called “Seeking a Friend for the End of the World”, and stars Steve Carell and Keira Knightley. Here’s a short, non-spoilery summary:

The movie opens to Dodge and Linda Petersen (Steve Carell and his real-life wife Nancy) sitting in their car, with the radio informing them that the last effort to save humanity from a 70-mile wide asteroid named Matilda has failed, and it will undoubtedly collide with earth in three weeks time. Panicked, Linda runs from the car “as fast as any human woman could”, leaving Dodge to face the end of the world completely alone. After an end-of-the-world party where his friends try in vain to set him up with someone new, Dodge returns to his flat, where he finds a young British woman named Penny Lockhart (Keira Knightley) crying on the fire escape, after just having broken up with her boyfriend (Adam Brody). He lets her in, and together they dive head-first into the end of humanity. Through riots, wild parties, an abandoned dog named “Sorry”, arrests, and pre-arranged “murders”, they help each other along with their respective journeys to complete their final wishes – Dodge wants to meet up with his High School Sweetheart, and Penny wants to see her family in England again. What happens along the way, however, is altogether unexpected, and the ending… well, I don’t want to give too much away.

Carell and Knightley are a pair who I never expected to be sharing the screen, yet they play off each other so well as a leading man and lady – despite the difference in age – and I think the fact that they are an unexpected pair is what adds to the charm. The seemingly mismatched couple was what drew me to pick out the movie, along with the DVD cover – it’s a kind of shambled mix of optimism and pessimism, with a good dash of irony and black humour thrown in. I have to say that the cover is a perfect representation of most of the movie, but the card it keeps close to its chest is the incredible, bittersweet emotion that is woven throughout the movie.

Keira Knightley plays her role fantastically (as always), and seems comfortable in the shoes of Penny – a really quirky, artsy sort of girl with a fiery tongue but very real obvious emotional issues, which add depth. Most of the time, she is the driving force in the adventures of the pair – for instance, taking the adventure to the overly enthusiastic Friendsy’s (“the restaurant where everyone’s your friend!”). However she also shares some nuggets of wisdom and perspective on what life, love and friendship could be like at the end of the world. The way the character of Penny is written and the way Knightley plays her makes her a delight to watch and a strong, relatable female lead.

When I saw Steve Carell on the cover, I expected him to be playing his usual, goofy, comic-relief sort of character – the typical Michael-Scott-from-The-Office, or Brick-from-Anchorman kind of guy. But he really proved his stripes in “Seeking a Friend for the End of the World”. Sure, the comedy aspect of his perfomance was alive and kicking, but Carell wowed me with how well he could pull off the lonely and desperate, but caring and kind-hearted character of Dodge Petersen. He seems comfortable for once to step aside and leave most of the comedy to the ensemble characters, who do a fantastic job of it themselves without Carell’s high-profile funnyman status to push them along. Carell brings a sense of reality to Dodge, and he somehow encompasses the fears and hopes of every viewer simultaneously.

The story itself is an excellent re-imagining of what life could be like at the end of the world for everyday people. Writer and Director Lorene Scafaria has done a great job of moving away from the typical survival-of-the-fittest, rehashed apocalypse nonsense that is so present in Hollywood, and has explored the jarring reality of what Armageddon would be like for people who can’t afford underground bunkers or state-of-the-art equipment. It is refreshing to see an interpretation that is relatable for once, and seems closer to the truth than the other nonsense churned out by some movies.

“Seeking a Friend for the End of the World” is a movie that will give you more than you bargained for. It will make you laugh, cry, raise your eyebrows in shock, shout at your telly a bit, and then keep you coming back for more. But be warned: keep a box of tissues handy and wear waterproof mascara.

Metaphorically Speaking.

Ever since I was 7 and allowed to watch the PG rated Jim Carrey film “The Mask” all by myself (which was a big deal), one line in particular has stuck with me. It is spoken in the scene where Jim Carrey’s character is flicking through channels on the telly, only to stumble across a self-help talk show. The host says – in one of those voices deliberately made to sound excessively soothing – “Well Wendy, we all wear masks… metaphorically speaking”. Back then I didn’t really understand what that all meant, I just liked the funny voice and the way Jim Carrey mocked the guy. But now, as I have grown up, I realise what metaphors are, and more importantly, that some people really really like them.

Apart from people on self help talk shows, I have come across people who excessively use or analyse metaphor in everyday life. Here is a short list for your enjoyment:

1. Pilates instructors.

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Pilates to tone up my flabbier bits, but the other day I went into a class only to find that we had a new instructor filling in for our regular teacher. She was a lovely girl, but my goodness, I think I counted over fifteen different metaphors throughout the one hour class. There was the “tiny baby pigeon egg” under my back, the “tray of hot chocolate” on my belly, the “circus tightrope” on the floor, and the “gold chain” that was my spine to name a few. By the end of the class I wasn’t sure if I had just done pilates or read and acted out some very strange poetry.

(By extension, dance teachers also love metaphor. In their school slogans, and in their explanations of the choreography.)

2. English teachers.

English teachers, from my experience, thrive on metaphors. It’s like they are a car and they need them for fuel so that they can speed on down that freeway of teaching and learning. (Yes I am aware I just used a metaphor, I was making a point). I think that English teachers go a little far with their metaphor appreciation though, and if there is no obvious double connotation to a phrase of text, they have to invent something. It’s the age old teacher/student debate of “The curtains are blue to represent his deep sorrow and pain over the loss of his wife” vs “maybe the curtains are just blue because that was the only colour left at Spotlight!” I’m fairly sure English teachers just sit around in the staffroom and pick out texts that they can create double meanings out of. Their Christmas parties are probably full of drinking games to see who can come up with the greatest metaphor. Anyway, I digress.

3. Michael Leunig.

On the subject of English, Michael Leunig’s “The Lot” is my first English text for the year. It is, at best, a book full of the Australian cartoonist’s ideas and opinions on the world, without any decent narrative whatsoever. He seems to be worse than Jehovah’s Witnesses with trying to push his reality onto his readers, and he does so with excessive use of metaphor. For instance, he talks about modern art institutions as being like “formal religions” with their “art priests” (curators) and “Cathedral galleries and pilgrimage sites”. Hm. Also featured are “pillows of forgiveness” and “the dictators” – attractive models. I guarantee you won’t read a page of his book without stumbling across a metaphor.

4. Filmmakers.

I was watching “Sucker Punch” the other night, for the second time, and after it ended I was still trying to make sense of it. I decided that the best way to view the movie was to take everything that was a little weird or didn’t make much sense, and chuck it in the “metaphor and symbolism” basket. Then, I could decode what those parts of the film were suggesting, and how it tied in with the storyline. Although this sounds like a great deal of hoo-hah just to watch a movie, I actually didn’t mind it. It was sort of like solving a puzzle. This use of metaphor extends right out to the choice of lighting, setting, costuming and music, and can also be seen in my favourite medium, theatre.

I think that, although metaphor is often overused, it can be extremely helpful in arts to set a scene or make some delicate poetry. But here is my plea to the people of the world (that’s you): stop overusing metaphor. It has a time and a place. It’s like a new brightly coloured lipstick – it should only be used when necessary – on special occasions to set a mood or make a point – and if it’s overused, it becomes common and loses its shine. By all means, use it to embellish – but in small amounts – and don’t smear it all over your face.

chelseainspace@hotmail.com

Everything I know, I learnt from theatre.

I was introduced to the wonderful world of musical and community theatre when I was seven years old, by my mother. She was performing in a local company’s production of “The Pirates of Penzance”, by Gilbert and Sullivan. Usually, Gilbert and Sullivan evokes imagery of a cheery, cheesy rendition of women singing lovely sopranos in lovely dresses and men having a good old time dancing away. This was no such production. The Pirate King wore a black leather jacket and a mesh top. There were leather-clad policewomen with whips, and a very saucy make-out scene. It was all a bit over my head at the time, but in retrospect, there were some things that I won’t forget. The time when I saw a cast member “flip the bird” at a friend. The time when I walked in as someone was being called a certain name, only to have it converted to the less explicit word “slug” at the last second. And of course, the time when I was being tucked cosily into bed by mum for the night after watching one of the performances, and when she asked me if I liked the show, I responded with a particular line that had stuck with me: “S*** yeah!”

I suppose that many children go through this sort of phase whilst growing up, it’s only natural. They repeat the things that they hear, innocently enough, only to be told that they must never say it again. For some, it’s influenced by school friends; others by television; others by books they’ve stumbled across. For me, it was theatre. I grew up just fine.

The theatre experience hasn’t been all a loss-of-innocence, coming-of-age sort of journey for me. In fact, majority of it has been healthy, educational sort of stuff. I was sitting backstage on the set of Pirates of Penzance (naturally I was so enthusiastic that I wanted to do all I could to help out) when I offered my lolly bag around to the rest of the crew. One man immediately started having a seizure, and me in my naivety, thought that he might’ve been allergic to lollies. I think at that point I cried and hid somewhere, only to be found later by my mother and had it explained that he was epileptic, and the seizure was brought on my the strobe lights that had coincidentally started as I had passed the lollies around.

A year later, I embarked on another life-changing experience. I auditioned for my first show, The Wizard of Oz. I got in, as a munchkin and a lullaby girl, and I loved it. I was in a cast of about fifty other kids, and it was during this show that I learned how rude some kids can be, and about how very different the home lives of other children are. Because I was also in a cast with teenagers and adults, I was exposed to a whole new social circle, and it helped my maturity a great deal more than some children who are confined solely to their school friends. I also got to experience a “second family” and a “second home” – somewhere I felt comfortable and free from judgement, which pursuits like dancing or swimming never provided me with.

Most importantly, however, I learned early about people who were gay. I’m not trying to perpetuate the gay-people-in-musical-theatre stereotype here, but it’s true; there are gay people in musical theatre. As an eight year old, I never knew specifics, but I knew that some men didn’t marry women, and some ladies didn’t fall in love with men. It was a vital lesson for me to learn, and I think that growing up around gay people has helped me to be more understanding about the issues that arise in the media or in social situations.

I also have theatre to thank for my relationship with my sister. Out of the 13 musicals I have performed in, she has been a fellow cast member of 10. It has brought us so much closer – not just because we share a common interest and have so much more to talk about, but through attending cast parties together, rehearsing lines and dances and scenes together, and sharing the same friendship groups. She’s a few years younger than me, but she’s my best friend.

Now, as a teenager about to embark into adulthood, I’m still in theatre, and loving every lesson that it brings. Sure, there have been fairly insignificant (but still somewhat helpful) lessons learnt: how to untangle a sequinned unitard from fishnet stockings; that brushing out a teased head of hair is HARD; that certain swear words shouldn’t be said; or how to paint realistic-looking bricks onto a flat set panel. Along with these lessons, however, I’ve learnt some that will stay with me for my whole life, and I will be forever thankful towards community theatre for teaching me them.

Disclaimer: I realise this may have made my family sound like a travelling pack of gypsies who live off theatrical pursuits and love. This is not true at all. We actually have proper jobs and stuff.

Next Stop: 2013

Someone wise one told me that life is like a train ride. You hop on at a particular station, and from that moment, you are on an extraordinary journey. Many things will occur during this journey, and some of these things will inevitably be out of your control as a passenger. There may be times where your train breaks down, or has to stop for repairs (and if you’re on Metro that’s highly likely). Although these events can’t be helped, or are not your fault, it’s okay. You can choose how you cope: you could scream and shout angrily and blame the driver; you could curl up in the corner and feel sorry for yourself; you could stress and tear your hair out – but just how much is that going to help you? Yet a better way to cope is to turn the situation into a positive by pulling out a magazine or a book, and waiting patiently for the train to start up again. You’ll be much calmer than the red-faced, frizzy-haired woman in the aisle muttering about how “the minister for transport will be getting a letter about this, mark my words!”

Although some things will be out of your hands, there will also be some events during your journey that you can control. You can choose if you’d like to get off at a particular station, and have a wonderful time frolicking at the beach or picnicking in the park or doing a spot of shopping in the city. You can get back on the train at any time and resume your journey full of ups and downs. The important thing is, that as soon as those electronically operated, partially graffitied doors slide open to the place that you want to be, you don’t let anything hold you back. Take that opportunity when it presents itself! Oh, and don’t forget to mind the gap and watch that the doors don’t close on you on your way out.

One of the real beauties of the train ride is the people that you meet along your way. As soon as you hop on the train, you can take a seat next to whoever you choose. You might make the wrong decision at first, and sit next to the guy who just won’t shut up about his six cats and ten fish, or the teenager who is smoking a very suspicious smelling cigarette. The great thing is, however, that you can change seats if it all gets too much, even if you have to stand up in the aisle by yourself for a bit. You might eventually sit back down next to someone extraordinary – someone who shares your interests, or who opens your mind to some great new ones. The unfortunate truth of the train ride is that, while some amazing people will share your journey for a time – some for a long period, some for only a short – eventually, they will have to continue on their own journey. They might have to leave in the middle of a great conversation about something you both love very dearly, and it might leave you heartbroken. They might decide that they want to move seats, or that those electronic doors have opened and presented an opportunity that they just can’t pass up. Some people reach their final stop, and you may never see them again, but others will come back to you; they’ll hop back on your carriage and may ride with you until the end of your journey. The important thing is to realise that the people you meet, like you, are on a train ride of their own. You must accept the choices that they make, and let them go freely.

Some journeys have malfunctions or breakdowns at some point. Some present marvellous opportunities to the passenger. Some are filled with other passengers – some extraordinary, others not so much – all of whom will come and go. My new year’s resolution for 2013 is to accept the malfunctions and overcome them; to take the wonderful opportunities as they present themselves; to enjoy the time I have with my fellow passengers, and to accept that sometimes, they will choose to get off at a different stop to me.

I hope all of my readers have a very happy and safe new year.

chelseainspace@hotmail.com

What is happening to the world of the geeks?

Back when I still sported buck teeth, plaits and a Tamagotchi worn on a lanyard around my neck, I was a little bit geeky – the Tamagotchi being a case-in-point. By the time I was seven I, thanks to Neopets.com, had discovered the wonderful world of html coding and had created my own internet pages complete with flashing animated stars, pictures of cute puppy dogs and the not-annoying-at-all music that automatically played when the site opened. By the time I was eight, I had my sister convinced we were spies, and we would build and buy – often from the book club catalogue – geeky gadgets to help us defeat the very evil, and very imaginary, “Dr Eliv” (from memory, he spoke with a Russian accent and was regularly ‘responsible’ for anything that went missing, got eaten, or was broken around the house). My other hobbies included plug-and-play games, Neopets, Beyblades and Yu-Gi-Oh cards, and I was always making dioramas, looking for something to fix or engineering flying foxes in trees. Between all this, I had definitely laid the foundations for my teenage geekdom.

In all honesty, I did become a bit of a geek, but not a gadgets or games geek. I regularly enjoy a good episode of Doctor Who or other BBC life-ruiner, but primarily I am a theatre geek. Yes, I obsesses over what lighting/set/prop/costume would look perfect in Bye Bye Birdie/Beauty and the Beast/Rocky Horror/Avenue Q. Often, I mentally cast plays and sometimes I even compare my dark under-eye circles with thespian friends after long nights of performing and rehearsing. So, as I found out, not all geeks are thin, spotty teenage boys with glasses and an LCD tan. Not all geeks clutch the latest edition of a Superman comic in one sweaty palm, and an original Gameboy color locked and loaded with Pokémon Red in the other. There are the Trekkies, the net wizards, the steampunk fashionistas, the cosplayers, and the anime and manga fans. There are the Sherlockians, the comic fanboys, the gamers, the sci-fi and fantasy geeks and the literary nerds (zine lovers included). If I were to list them all, we’d both be here longer than a group of sleep-deprived teenagers having a Harry Potter marathon (and trust me, I’ve been there and done that. It involved Snuggies and a lot of junk food.)

Why is it, though, that we geeks, who are essentially a minority group of our own, have to categorize each other like that scene in Mean Girls where the band geeks have to eat lunch separately to the jocks? Maybe it’s the universe turning all Monica-Gellar-From-Friends and being super-organised, dividing the population into groups and then sub-groups and then sub-sub-groups and slapping Dymo labels on us all. This weird phenomenon of organisation leaves me with a bigger question; do geeks only have to belong to one genre of geekery?

As someone who struggles with this, I vote no. Sure, I’m a theatre geek, but I also read for hours on end when I find a good book. I watch episodes upon episodes of Doctor Who and yes, in my spare time, sometimes I do like to dress up in various Victorian Era outfits embellished with cogs and gears and aviator goggles. Oh, and – shock horror! – I occasionally hang out with people who play Dungeons & Dragons and MineCraft all day long. Hell, I have a friend who is such a gamer geek that he had to make up his own rules for Pokémon because it was too easy for him. Does it make me such a terrible geek that I don’t conform to, and hang out with, only one particular group? Is it too much to ask that I can be a Thespian, Whovian, Sherlockian, Steampunk-er, literary geek, Potterhead and Obi-Wan-Kenobi knows what else, all at once? Will I be considered a leper at pop-culture conventions if I’m known as “that girl” who doesn’t fit a category? To the geeks of the world, I make this plea; we’re all in this together (shut up with the High School Musical, brain!). We’re all the “uncool” kids who are really actually cool because we don’t care what other people think. Let’s fight this growing trend of categorisation and segregation and just get along! After all, if we don’t stick together, when the time comes to take the One Ring to Mordor, to defeat Moriarty or to battle the Sith, who else will we turn to?