When I was a child I lived with my mother and my younger sister in a flat in Ballarat. My mother was attending teacher's college and she spent long hours at school and longer hours at home studying. I was often left to care for my sister and I soon discovered that if we wanted dinner before 9pm and something of edible quality I had to make it myself. I moved a stool up to the stove and did so. I was 9 years old.
The weekends that weren't spent driving 3 hours to my mother's parent's farm to stock up on food were spent in our little flat watching television. Back in thoose days Elvis films were routinely shown on Sunday afternoons and my mother and I would watch them. Usually she would be in the background doing something else, but we watched together in some capacity. It was just about the only "quality" time I spent with my mother. This began my love affair with Elvis. After less than a year of this lifestyle Elvis died. I remember listening to the news reader announcing the details, I was sitting on the floor in front of the telly and I stretched out my hand to the image of Elvis that was on the screen and felt utter grief. I felt that the loss had diminished the world somehow. My mother was totally nonchalant and insisted she was unmoved by the death. Years later she would claim no memory of having ever watched Elvis films with me at all. I didn't really care if she remembered or not, it didn't change what was. I have maintained my love of Elvis films, my adoration of the sound of his voice, his looks, his eccentric life and eventually the whole Elvis phenomenon. In fact, my first husband (may he die slowly and painfully) bore a very slight resemblance to Elvis and could almost sing like him. I have wondered if this tenuous link to a comfort zone in my childhood was what attracted me to him (fuck knows nothing else makes sense).
So I love Elvis. Elvis's voice has a quality that is soothing and sexy, his face was very sexy but in a non-conventional way that I find very appealing. I have never really gone for the Hollywood poster boy types, I like men that have character: striking and unique faces. Something interesting about them. Elvis was certainly that. As tragic and ultimately as sad as he was, his life was incredible. As a child I cried when I watched his last concert in Las Vegas, when he was fat and unhealthy and forgot the words to Unchained Melody. In hindsight, it would have been better for him to die before he got to that – like Marilyn or James. It is sad that he is remembered as a fat drugged out weirdo who died on the toilet. I prefer to remember him in that sexy leather gear he wore for his comeback special when he was young and gorgeous. Before all the drugs and deep fried peanut butter sandwiches and before the karate instructor started shagging his wife. When life was all about being glamorous and randomly philanthropic.
I used to work near the Carlton cemetery and I jogged through it on my lunch breaks. There is an Elvis memorial grave there that I would stop at, give my regards to, and then shuffle on my calorie burning way. One thing I adored about that fake grave – there were always fresh flowers on it, with cards (yes I read them) that said "I love you always". No other dead husbands or fathers inspired that sort of devotion.
Elvis was special, unique and more than a man of flesh and bones could ever be. He will never really die. I love him always.
The weekends that weren't spent driving 3 hours to my mother's parent's farm to stock up on food were spent in our little flat watching television. Back in thoose days Elvis films were routinely shown on Sunday afternoons and my mother and I would watch them. Usually she would be in the background doing something else, but we watched together in some capacity. It was just about the only "quality" time I spent with my mother. This began my love affair with Elvis. After less than a year of this lifestyle Elvis died. I remember listening to the news reader announcing the details, I was sitting on the floor in front of the telly and I stretched out my hand to the image of Elvis that was on the screen and felt utter grief. I felt that the loss had diminished the world somehow. My mother was totally nonchalant and insisted she was unmoved by the death. Years later she would claim no memory of having ever watched Elvis films with me at all. I didn't really care if she remembered or not, it didn't change what was. I have maintained my love of Elvis films, my adoration of the sound of his voice, his looks, his eccentric life and eventually the whole Elvis phenomenon. In fact, my first husband (may he die slowly and painfully) bore a very slight resemblance to Elvis and could almost sing like him. I have wondered if this tenuous link to a comfort zone in my childhood was what attracted me to him (fuck knows nothing else makes sense).
So I love Elvis. Elvis's voice has a quality that is soothing and sexy, his face was very sexy but in a non-conventional way that I find very appealing. I have never really gone for the Hollywood poster boy types, I like men that have character: striking and unique faces. Something interesting about them. Elvis was certainly that. As tragic and ultimately as sad as he was, his life was incredible. As a child I cried when I watched his last concert in Las Vegas, when he was fat and unhealthy and forgot the words to Unchained Melody. In hindsight, it would have been better for him to die before he got to that – like Marilyn or James. It is sad that he is remembered as a fat drugged out weirdo who died on the toilet. I prefer to remember him in that sexy leather gear he wore for his comeback special when he was young and gorgeous. Before all the drugs and deep fried peanut butter sandwiches and before the karate instructor started shagging his wife. When life was all about being glamorous and randomly philanthropic.
I used to work near the Carlton cemetery and I jogged through it on my lunch breaks. There is an Elvis memorial grave there that I would stop at, give my regards to, and then shuffle on my calorie burning way. One thing I adored about that fake grave – there were always fresh flowers on it, with cards (yes I read them) that said "I love you always". No other dead husbands or fathers inspired that sort of devotion.
Elvis was special, unique and more than a man of flesh and bones could ever be. He will never really die. I love him always.
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