Monday, 30 April 2007

Use your words

So what happened? Nothing and everything happened. Artboy is still on autostutter with his silences and his I don't know, I don't know. He said I'm not well. I don't know who I am, I am empty inside. He moved to the city, he moved to the city less than a kilometre from my office. I need him to be empty and aimless back where he was, back over the river and in the hills where the world can ignore him. I need him to fail at this, like he has everything else, and move back or die because I have carved a life for myself here.

Its too hard. I have to put this in the too hard basket and padlock the lid. I have to ignore this until it dies. I phoned Elliot in a panic when Artboy said he was moving to the city, today. Elliot told me I had do what needed to be done. I had to tell Artboy to fuck off once and for all because I need to feel better and he makes me feel worse. He's right. But why is it so hard to do? I need some words of wisdom.

No no no no no no

No more. No more. No more.

I don't understand what I've done wrong. I don't understand. I don't understand why I keep feeling like this. I thought. I thought. I thought. I thought he might still love me. I thought he might get better and still love me. I thought that despite everything I was ok. But I'm not. I'm broken. He broke me and now I don't know what to do. I want to run away, but I've nowhere to run to. I've no money and nowhere to run. I'm trapped.

Sunday, 29 April 2007

Learn a little from Jane Austen's Emma

What do you do if you're a Jane Austen character and you don't like the clergyman's new wife? Throw a party for her immediately or everyone will know how much you hate her. Good idea. So I invited Artboy over for a cup of tea. Bad idea.

Oh well, Jane can't get it right every time.

Launch it - Sea Coast of Bohemia

Last night I attended the launch of the second edition of The Sea Coast of Bohemia: Literary Life in Sydney's Roaring Twenties by Peter Kirkpatrick. I anticipated that I would have a mildly pleasant evening, have a free drink or two and make my way home to sit on the lounge feeling slightly lonely.

I was wrong. I don't know what happened but from the moment I lurched down the aisle of the rapidly accelerating bus to the moment I lurched through my swaying front door I had a fabulous time. I was warmly embraced by friends and strangers alike. If I happened to say anything odd then the person I was talking to just ran with it, got to love a room full of writers and academics. It is a joy to be in a room where thought and conversation were leapfrogging over me in shining arcs.

There were many men in attendance, lovely intelligent, funny and kind men. It was good to be reminded that they're out there. Maybe one day I'll meet a new one, a shiny one, one capable of carrying the good simple message 'I love her' in his heart.

Saturday, 28 April 2007

One question

Yesterday at work after hours of tedious labour I suddenly had to ask myself one question, it changed the colours of my day. I had one clear moment when I thought, I love this job, it is an honour to work here. One beautiful moment when I had to decide. Is this poetry?

Wednesday, 25 April 2007

City beat

If there's one day of the year its good to be a secret fan of marching bands its today. It echoes. The bands pass and the sound of the next band merges into the last. Unexpected syncopations emerge and we are all here. There were beautiful indie boys with all their foppish dyed hair and tight pants marching with their grandfathers, all the band nerds and the boy everyone wanted to go out with marching with his high school pipe band.

Most years I go into the heart of the city to wander through the shut down silent streets and listen to the ricochet of drum patterns. I go to watch the city fill with people more thoughtful than they usually are. It is a day of grief, for me. It started the year my Grandfather died. I went to the dawn service with a band my brother was in and as the sun rose I discovered for the first time my well of personal grief. All around me people were quietly sobbing and the band played hymns as the sun rose through the mist. Since that dawn each year today feels like the day for thinking of all who have fallen from my life, all that has fallen from me. But not this year. This year I stayed with the thrumming crowds and heard the full melodies of all of the bands. I watched the players in their fierce concentration to maintain tone, pitch, rhythm, I watched them intent on staying in step with the march, I felt their joy at being a part of something bigger.

I stood out the front of the Town Hall with my brother and Boli in their silly scarlet band jackets and Chef and his lovely girl, in the middle of a breathing crowd. We watched the parade and drank a beer on the street and went back to my place. Spencer came over and my housemates were home. My life felt full. I felt in company. Then I got a phone call.

An old friend I have been out of touch with since Artboy pissed off contacted me. Her husband has bipolar. Her husband went mad, her husband left without warning and left her sobbing and alone with a mortgage and a phd thesis. She told me how hard it was to keep going, how hard to find a job to pay the bills and feed herself and the horses. How hard to have this hollow place where her husband should be but instead he is mad. He is mad and in Melbourne running up terrible debts and making wild accusations.

She got another job, packed up her house, moved herself and the horses, finished her thesis, battled with the university, organised the finances, started divorce proceedings so she can sell the property. I thought. You are so brave. You are so strong. Your story is breaking my heart.
I thought I could never be as good and strong and brave as you and then I remembered. Her story is my story. This happened to me. I did what she did.

I was struck by two things. The first is how spooky that we lived the same thing at the same time, the second is that until today I didn't give myself any credit for living through this the way that I have. I wonder if this day next year will be my day for strength and thinking with wonder of all the adversity each of us is capable of living through. Maybe we all need a moment now and then to reflect on our strengths and the personal battles we have won. Lest we forget.

Tuesday, 24 April 2007

This is what I get

I am trying so hard not to be angry. I am trying so hard not to break myself a new batch of grief. It all boils down to this. I loved, I lost.

Artboy told me on the phone this evening that he still cares, he misses me being part of his life but he is trying to sort himself out. He said he is still sorting himself out and he doesn't know what to do or even if he should do anything.

Well press my pause button. He doesn't know what to do. Big surprise. I don't know what to do, real actual literal surprise. He begged to be able to call me again. I said yes. I said yes even though it is the stupidest thing I could have done because he hurts me. He is all thorns and sharp-edged chains on my tender wrists. I need to work out what to do. I need to work out how to stop this hurting. I wish I never met him. I wish he'd been run over by a truck. I wish he'd suicide bombed a hole through my chest cavity and I died in pieces on my lounge room floor. I wish he never existed. I wish I'd taken one long look at him and thought, no, not you. I wish there was a way to erase love out of existence. I wish my heart would finally shrivel and die because I can't take any more love. Not one more poisonous drop.

Sunday, 22 April 2007

Anne vs Superman Part I

What’s better than writing a solidly researched piece on Anne vs Superman, I think, is writing one based on imperfect memory and half-realised impressions. At the end of the day I’m just not a research person, really big libraries are haunted.

Let’s begin with Anne. She roams free and wild in her imagination, desperately seeking to be anyone but herself, even after she ends up on the idyllic island with the flowering trees and the chance at a good life. Even though almost every girl ever has spent at least a few hours so immersed in reading and being Anne that they stare in the mirror and wish their hair was red. This isn’t going very well so far. What I mean to say is that Anne’s mind is wild and free and this is one of the things that sets her apart, one of the things that makes her determinedly Other.

Now Superman by the simple fact of being a super man and non-human is clearly Other from the start. So we have our first obvious parallel between our two competitors, they are Other. They are not who they are supposed to be. Superman was meant to be an ordinary boy who would grow into an ordinary farming man and help them with running the farm, they ordered him from heaven. Matthew and Marilla also ordered a boy from heaven to help with running the farm, but they used, in addition to praying, the more practical method of filling out forms to get one. What both families got was something unexpected, something both better and worse than what they wanted. Here is the first part of the downfall of Superman. Anne was not able to help Matthew in the fields, note here it is more to do with gender roles in society than with actual physical ability, whilst Superman was capable of doing all the farm work by himself without breaking a sweat, but didn’t. Farm work is in my eyes the pivotal part of this examination.

They were needed on their farms because of the declining physical power of the male in the household. There were clear expectations of who they should be and how they should work. Someone was holding out shadow coats of routine, shadow straight jackets of every morning, every day, every evening. It almost cannot be explained how the Other simply cannot wear this coat in comfort. It results in soul crushing constriction. In this case by good fortune neither competitor took on the farming task. Anne’s foster family were constrained by social norms and did not send the girl to work in the fields, they were bewitched by her wild and free mind and did not ask for a refund. Supe’s earth-parents allowed him the chance of going off and becoming his own self-made man, let him go off to do what he had to in the big city. Which was an odd combination of journalism, superhero duties and Lois teasing.

The parent figures sacrificed their own needs to those of the Other figures. The result of these sacrifices is what interests me because ultimately both households paid the ultimate price. In my mind both Anne and Superman are running across fields, running as desperately fast as they can towards their collapsing father figures. Running faster and faster across bucolic scenes far from the madding crowd, running across the idyllic landscape and lifestyle craved by millions, running straight into heartbreak and tragedy caused at least in part by them. Their father figures worked themselves to death while they struggled with their inherent identity of being Other. This is the artist as areshole. This is the end of Superman vs Anne part I.

Well my whole theory has just been blown out of the water. It seems that Matthew died from shock at the bank going bust and losing all of his money then Anne gave up going back to college in order to stay home and help Marilla manage Green Gables and teach at the local school. That shadow jacket seemed to fit Anne nicely in the end. Superman is the winner. I thought that Anne would definitely kick Superman’s arse because he had to go off to his fortress of solitude and sit about going Oh no I’m Super, I wish I wasn’t Super, whereas Anne knew all along that her mind was something precious but then in the end it was her mind that saved the farm whilst sacrificing her higher ambitions. Now I am beginning to wonder if this is my problem. I am beginning to wonder if I am Anne of Green Gables.

Thursday, 19 April 2007

One more sleep

Tomorrow is Friday. Bring it on. I need this weekend. Badly. I have many things to do.

  1. Read Anne of Green Gables for my Anne vs Superman project.
  2. Go to an al-anon meeting (one for friends and family of alcoholics) I am hoping to hear some horrible things. This is for project Don't Get Too Excited.
  3. Clean things and buy food. This is for project Life Anti-Pompeii.
  4. Rest, revive, survive.
  5. Make two pirate hats. So Elliot and I can wear them when he comes over to visit, hopefully only about a month away.
  6. Try and reverse the magnetic polarity of my manuscript, the closest I can currently get to it is three metres, when its in a drawer. I may need to wear a pirate hat and a space suit for this one.
  7. Determine what is maths. Is it preexisting? Is it just things stumbled on and looked at by humans or is it an unnecessary complication made by humans? This should only take an hour or so.

Wednesday, 18 April 2007

I wrote this not too long ago

Words words words are useless
when the sobbing comes back

But I was wrong.
Those words, to me, are powerful words.

I've also been thinking alot about Aladdin. In a strange way that horrible George Bush tried to rob me of one of my favourite bedtime stories.

I'm taking it back, with words.

Has anyone seen Aladdin? It seems forty thousand years though its more likely since October or November. There was some talk of Jonah but in the end we agreed the culprit was more likely to be a whale. So I climbed the minaret to search, three tiered, not leaning. Look! The houses stand on sand. Foundations are indispensably fundamental. Scanning horizons with high hands shielding. All around a cracked cobalt Babylon. Still.

Peering out of moon-towed arches I see a square tiled perfection despite the guidebooks and the chaos. I see alchemists, astrolabes and algebra yet not a halo in sight! Those were reserved for the uniformed swarms of godarmies and the ranks and ranks of purified panzers. We were initially concerned. Would they be crack shots? But daily there are new high scores. Did you not know that there is a tradition of confusing the cobalt with an aureole of flame?

Someone offered predictions of an awesome loss of faith and a newly mosaiced people scurrying underneath a great unveiling. Of course old Azimuth maintains that it was all hoax. Burning bushes in fire-proof suits.

Five times I’ve called for Aladdin. Sitting each time til carpetstars clicked clockwise. Of course there was a rumour that the ships had already sailed. Low-slung with wisewomen and David and all of the anointing oils.

So where in the hell is Aladdin? Don’t tell me he’s too sand weary. Hidden under dusts and secrets. Crossing his arms and screaming until his knight visions vanish and the bloody stone rolls away.

Beautiful review

A German reviewer wrote this about an Australian performance artist.

With her childish honesty and her difficult art she honours the poets of the street.

Tuesday, 17 April 2007

Random hellos to

New York

Sending out an SOS

Got a letter from Elliot today. He sounds scared, really scared. He's coming back soon and if I was him I'd be scared too. There's just no room to fuck this up anymore, if he starts drinking again he's going to die. I'm glad he's scared because it means he's taking this very seriously indeed. I think its time to start sending out the good vibes. You can do this Elliot, you sure can. He said he was lonely and tragic me noted the date and time on the letter, it was in perfect sync with my bout of loneliness, I'm getting too old for this cosmic stuff.

Australian Arts: Where the bloody hell are you is a shit title

This evening I went to a book launch for Australian Arts: Where the bloody hell are you?

Peter Garrett and the Minister for Arts both had an opportunity to speak. The Minister was at first professional and eloquent until his insides coiled and his words darted backwards and forwards through himself until he was so tightly bound that the man vanished and a vote for John Howard pamphlet hovered where once a man stood. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. He took cheap shots at Peter Garrett and so angered the audience that people were actually hissing. I've never heard a crowd hiss before. Peter Garrett had his turn and was polite, sophisticated and wonderfully human, he's still got his eyes turned outwards, for now.

Ambling out with the crowd of academics and arts workers I for a moment felt part of something, a small cog in the Sydney arts machine. But only for a moment, then I started to think.

The arts obviously benefits from government support and needs more of it but. But I've had enough pleading with politicians. Its about time the arts community got off its wanky arse and did something for itself. Stop being so cliquey, stop being so elitist, stop being too great to share. Stand up and take your art out of the house with you. Stop hiding and being tragic, stop inviting only the hippest of hipsters to anything, stop only going to things done by your friends, stop only reading one kind of book and going to one kind of event, just stop being so fucking wanky. Its time to seriously ask yourself if you really do want Australia to be more open minded and cultural or if you just like feeling like special?

Help am being attacked by invisible micro enemies

Bad bad case of brain fog. Am at work, valiant effort just to get here really but now I am being faced by the even greater challenges of not only staying here all day but actually doing work, all day. Then after work I am going to some arts policy forum thing for work. Potentially very boring apart from  Peter Garrett who is one of the speakers. Maybe he'll marry me. I think he might be a bit old and possibly already married. Maybe he'll ask me to marry him and then I will say no.

The phone keeps ringing with people asking my advice, this unfortunately is part of my job, but I am struggling to find words for them today. I feel like saying just give up, there's no point being a creative person in Australia today, no point at all, go to TAFE and learn bookkeeping, then get a job putting numbers in columns and we'll all be just fine. If brain fog does not lift soon then I have no choice but to order a replacement brain posthaste.

Monday, 16 April 2007

Anne and the Supe update

It really might be best if I reread Anne of Green Gables and watch Superman before I finish writing the piece on the inextricable link between Superman and Anne of Green Gables. I'm think I'm going to need about a week.


Go the fuck to sleep Slamma. Its a school night.

Sunday, 15 April 2007

Instincts people instincts

I should listened when my body knew something wasn't quite right today. I got out of bed and walked up the hall into the bathroom, after that I had a choice, turn left and into the rest of the house to start the day or turn right and back down the hall to my room. I turned right. Three more times I turned right. It took me six goes to work up the momentum to make a cup of coffee, then I took it back to bed with me. There is honeyed inertia in the air today. I can extend my arm and trail my fingers through layers of existence. It took forty minutes to work up the effort to make a sandwich for lunch, it took two hours to write a text message to Spencer to say I didn't want to go up King St with him on some performance mission or other but it only took three minutes to decide to phone Artboy.

We talked for quite a while. He kept saying I'm sorry for turning your life upside down. I said You didn't turn it upside down you smashed it with a hammer. He said Can you forgive me. I said. No. He said I want to make things ok. We spent so long together. I asked him what he meant but he clammed up and went on auto-mantra I don't know I don't know I don't know.

There is change in the air but I don't know what or how or why or when. Is it possible that there is still love here? How can love possibly have survived all of this?

Anne of Green Gables vs Superman

In my mind Anne of Green Gables and Superman are inextricably linked. I'll explain how really soon.

Socks of loneliness

I am beginning to suspect that I have a brain fever. A fever that is reaching breaking point. I am either going to explode spectacularly in a tv special with lights, music and dancing boys on roller skates or the fever is going to break and I will step forwards calmly with a glow of new health. I am wearing fuzzy bedsocks, they remind me of Elliott, the songs in a film I watched last night reminded me of Elliot. The perfume I wore yesterday reminded me of Elliott, the organic food shop up the road reminds me of Elliot. The coffee I am drinking, the cigarette I am smoking, the shirt hanging in my wardrobe, the angle of the cat in the window sill, the food I am going to cook for dinner, the car parked across the street, the pedestal fan in the corner of my bedroom, the soap in my shower, the water on the bathroom floor, the pen on my desk. Everything everything reminds me of Elliot and I don't know why. I'm going with the brain fever theory for now cause at the end of the day he's just a friend, just a friend in rehab and he's nothing I can hang my hat on.

Friday, 13 April 2007

He's been right before

When I told my good friend Boli that Elliot was being just as sweet as Elliot pie he said Be careful. He's an addict, he's manipulative. Its going to take a while before he casts off all those addict behaviours if he ever does at all. Now I know that Boli wants only the best for me but my first reaction was to kick him in the head, hard. I'm going to need to think about this.

All the livelong day

I can't believe I keep coming back here day after day after day. Send urgent troop of machine gun grenade people to blow me up and end this once and for all. At the AGM the Chair of the Board described me as pleasant and always helpful on the phone. My first thought was Fuck you. Second thought Fuck you very much. Third thought Fuck you bitch. Fourth thought why the fuck did I spend all those years at university if at the end of it all I was going to be described as pleasant? Why the fuck do I bother to be hardworking, creative, professional (as possible) and resourceful. Why the fuck do I bother with anything in the office if at the end of the day all they want is some smiling dickhead they can describe as being pleasant and helpful?

I am making a new sign to put on my desk. Do I look like Martha fucking Stewart?

Wednesday, 11 April 2007

Serious impending doom

Mostly I like to think of myself as being sensible, until like today I looked at my bank statements and added everything up three times. No matter which way I look at things it equals serious impending doom. Very serious impending doom. Not quite at red alert I need to borrow money from my mother but not too far off it either. I have no buffer between me and the mean streets. If shit blew up tomorrow I would not be able to fix it. I got to get a better job and a better head with which to do the better job and better clothes to wear to the better job and a suit to wear to the better job interview and a better haircut. Oh dear. Maybe I should just take my lunch to work and not go out for a bit?

Tuesday, 10 April 2007

Elm Street?

Woke up this morning with a kind of dread horror silhouette of myself floating around. I keep dreaming and dreaming nightmare versions of reality. I find myself writhing in horror desperate to shake off sleep and wake clear eyed into a rational morning. This morning I dreamt that everybody I know was laughing at me and talking at me and laughing. They were all shaking their heads at me and asking how could I have possibly expected it to turn any other way, didn't I know that everyone thought that Artboy was too good for me? Didn't I already know that?

It took four determined hours this morning to walk forwards and leave that dream behind. Yesterday morning I woke in a silent scream dreaming that he had lost his mind and gone screaming into the night never to return. I had both my arms stretched out, reaching for him, searching for traces of his body heat in the sheets and pillows.

This must be good, this must be good, this must be good. I am processing this. I am processing this so that I can shift it all slightly to the left and get the fuck on with my life. I just need to grit my teeth and keep walking straight through it.

Monday, 9 April 2007

What do fifteen men in rehab do on a Sunday night?

Watch Grease and sing along.

With a little help from my friends

I watched a bad movie this evening. A bad movie where the woman's lover died suddenly and she was sobbing alone on the ground in agony. I thought someone has to go to that woman, surely someone will go to her, she can't be left alone with all that pain, its not right. And then I remembered like a flashback in a bad movie the days and nights I spent sobbing on the ground in agony. Nobody came. Not one person came to my house. Not when I couldn't breathe through the pain, not when I couldn't stop vomiting, not when I sat comatose shivering all night willing my heart to either stop beating or to blow up entirely because my racing pulse was sending me mad. Not one person came to me and now I am wondering why.

Oh and how

I'm grinning like a goof. I sent Elliot a letter in pieces, a kind of reverse cut-up letter that he could arrange and rearrange to his liking. He said each time he rearranged he always started with the piece that says I miss you. And now I'm grinning like a goof because one of the first things he said to me was I miss you. Not I miss you too, just I miss you.

I'm trying to be careful, I'm trying not to be excited to see him again. I'm trying to pretend that he doesn't matter, but he does because he gets me, all of me. He even gets my strange love hate relationship with the appalling musical Chess, he gets my annoying habit of never knowing how I want to have my tea until after the water is in the cup, he gets my need to dance badly in private to Paul Simon and most importantly he understands my need to connect verbally in a way that he calls relaxed dialogue. I've got about a month til he comes back, I'm going to need to work on the not getting excited.

Sunday, 8 April 2007

Send urgent helicopter help

My housemates are watching Grease and SINGING ALONG.

How to fell a six foot woman

One gentle finger
A calm look of love
Or words, words, words.
Gao Xingjian might be on to something but I'm not quite sure what yet.

Yesterday I went to my mother's house in the mountains. I drove with my brother through layers and layers of air and heat and rain until we reached the point where Sydney ceases to matter and the horizon leaps and drops with astonishing sandstoned agility. Henry Kendall sprang unwillingly to mind with his puzzling clumsy ode to the Blue Mountains.

thy feet are set
Where evermore, through all the days and years,
There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.

His poems grate my teeth and I was frustrated that he of all people should invade my calming self on a day when my main focus should have been shall I have the yorkshire gold or the kwazulu tea with my lindt bunny. Even I wandered lonely as a cloud would have been a preferable thought.

There was an American woman staying at my mother's house, she comes to stay from time to time, occasionally for Christmas. I used to despise her. I used to see only her blonde lacquered exterior and hear only her relentless American chanting of I am great, I am great underpinning every sentence but yesterday for the first time I cast off my petty judgements and sat comfortably side by side in a mountain room drinking scottish tea with an American woman. I thought for the first time, here is a woman who has travelled to the other side of the world by herself, maybe she just needs someone to pass her the sugar with a kind hand.

When I finally made it back to the Inner West I was tired and lonely and unsure all over again about how to press forward in my new solo life. My housemates are both staying with their parents and I found myself alone. It is so tempting to begin rattle walking empty down the hall of an empty house scooping solitude and emptiness into my heart, so tempting to sit finally in relief and let the black wave break over me.

Necessary Dorothy Porter interlude:

fun fun fun
I'm a mono Beach Boys record
my heart breaks

like surf.

But instead instead I was purposeful and drew a hot bath, lit candles, put music on. If this is all it is, if this is all that life holds for me right now then it is enough. I will not fold flattened foetal under the dread dead weight of sorrow. I will train my muscles, I will grow strong enough to cast it aside. And jump on the fucking thing til it breaks.

Friday, 6 April 2007

I am still a dickhead

Artboy said he wanted to keep in touch and know if I was ok. I said Is that because you feel guilty and he said Its more than that. There is retrospective meaning in today's meeting with Artboy but I don't know how to grasp at it and make it mine.

He is stumbling confusion.
I am marching determination. Destination anywhere.

Reasons 12 & 13

He does not say what he means.

After seven years he still had to ask if I had sugar in my coffee.

Don't get excited

Elliot is coming back. Elliot is coming back at the end of April and I am all anticipation. I don't know why. He'll be living in some sort of rehab run halfway house for a while. Any time I spend with him will be measured, regulated, governed by the overlord that is his Recovery. Artboy described himself as being in recovery today, I might be getting the fuck sick of all these men walking around using the R word to justify any and all action they take. Elliot really is in recovery but Artboy is just being an artboy, he is all zeitgeist and emptiness. There is a hollowness that he refuses to fill, this is how he sucks the life out of me.

What I need is a hug. Elliot knows how to hug, he is a man that can stop time with only a hug.

I went for coffe and left the cube at home

I went for coffee with Artboy half an hour ago. He said I want to know how you are and keep up with what you are doing. He said I'm still sorting myself out. I really care about you, I know you think that is bullshit but I do. I don't know what I mean. How do you feel about that? I said What? How do I feel about what?

He is all mystery, long strange looks and endless pauses. He is not brave enough to say what he means. Spencer told me never to trust a conversation filled with pregnant pauses but Spencer also told me the way to cure a broken heart is to buy an expensive hat.

I am. I am. I am ok. I don't know what he means or what he wants but this is ok. I am immersed in learning how to navigate myself through days and days and weeks and months. I am immersed in reinforcing my own heartbeat. I am singing In the jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight.

Thursday, 5 April 2007

Weary weary weary

I am the kind of tired that climbs from bone to bone. I am the kind of tired that feels incurable. I begin to demand oblivion.

I had forgotten

I have been so wrapped up in my miseries that I had forgotten some things. I had forgotten all the battles I have already fought and won, all the problems I have solved and all the progress I have made. I think its time I started to remember who I really am and how I got here.

Wednesday, 4 April 2007

Once I saw a movie

Once I saw a movie and as soon as it finished I went to the bathroom and cut my hair just like the girl's in the film. Once I heard a song and it lifted my heart and made extra space and light between my head and my feet. Once I read a book and a cloud descended raining hard and cold in my mind for a week while I turned every person I saw into a simile. I think I need a brain suit of space armour.

Tuesday, 3 April 2007

Oscillate wildly

I want a tattoo
no I don't
I want a stupid affair with someone I don't care about
no I don't
I want to quit my job
no I don't
I want to walk up King St right now and get five cocktails and a shandy
no I don't
I want to practice the guitar
no I don't
I want to get an early night
no I don't
I want to phone Artboy
no I don't
I want to eat icecream even though it will make me sick
no I don't
I want to spend the time to write something good
no I don't
I want twelve steaks raw
no I don't
I want to go on a murder spree
no I don't
I want to go on a holiday by myself
no I don't
I want to go back to uni and do post grad
no I don't
I want a piece of chocolate
yes, I do, but I don't have any
I want to cut my own hair
no I don't
I want to stop writing this stupid list
no I don't

The instant no list part I

David Hasslehoff
brussel sprouts
leatherwood honey
blonde hair
rum & coke
a man who doesn't really love me

Monday, 2 April 2007

Let's all believe in the tiger

I leant my copy of Life of Pi to a friend. When she returned it she sat in front of me with wide blue eyes and nervous fingers on her teacup, she said I need to believe in the tiger. I don't need to believe in the tiger, it would be nice but I had my suspicions about the whole tiger situation.

Usually when offered the choice, I don't believe in the tiger. I don't believe that the person standing in front of me didn't mean to insult me, hurt me, rip off my leg and eat it. I don't believe that this blind universe doesn't have an evil radar set to smash Dale Slamma hard and often but maybe, just for today. Just for one heartbeat, I need to drum my nervous fingers on a teacup and believe in the tiger.

Sunday, 1 April 2007