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Crippling self doubt. Such a damn cop out. Pure funk leads to nothing in particular. Blame it on never making a difference. Cynicism leads backwards. "I've got a dozen better things to do than you but you should be grateful." Huh. Cynics make the worst lovers, all existential whinging and posing dreariness. Living isn't just existing. Boredom is just existing. Try taking a risk. Having fun. So immature the love of life. Nothing is as meaningful as meaninglessness. Nothing more sophisticated than ironic fashion, iconic cynicism and blameless boredom. Nothing more grown up and mature than lack of joy. Whatever.
Insecurity is a lack of faith, in oneself, in one's god, in life. You cannot go on, get through if you're so caught up in how little you can do. In what you aren't. In what you won't become. Someone famous, someone wise once said something like "who are you, NOT to do all you can?" Who are you to take a morally supine position of ‘nothing I do can matter' when it so obviously does, to everyone but yourself? Another writer said that there is no worth except what is reflected in others. Sometimes those reflections sting though. Painfully.
Such a waste, such a damn tragedy. When someone throws their life, their love, away to be something else. Been there done that, fuck the shirt. Its shit no matter which way you smell it. Acting a part only works when you hate yourself. Or someone else. Making someone else participate in your hate is evil. Playing a part so fully you become it is just sad. And pathetic. Convincing yourself you LIKE pain, you like drama and you like being treated like the silly whore you are is just a waste of time and space. Not to mention despicable.
This is just nothingness in disguise. Never-ending nothingness. Boredom in drag. Cynicism with a smile. This way sir, ignore the knife in my hand. Half in love with my own destruction. At least I was. Now I'm not so sure. Everything is different now. Things have changed and I'm still finding my own ground. Looking back is damned painful, but looking forward is scary. False confidence doesn't work well. But it convinces others. Looking back drags me down, looking forward drags me backwards so what's the middle ground? I can't remember. I can't remember who I am, who I was.
I never know exactly how to say it, how to show it. I miss you when you're gone, I can't wait to devour you when you're around me. I watch you move and feel slightly perverted at how much joy I find in the movement of your muscles. In the tilt of your head. In the way you walk. In that big goofy grin that's so infectious its beginning to give me smile lines. You are joy, happiness and fun in my eyes. More than that, you give me gift of being able to do it by myself. Thank you.
Fear seems integral now. A part of me, now and evermore. Something I just have to live with. I fear success almost as much as failure. In everything. Although I fear mediocrity even more than anything else. I don't want to be a face in the crowd but I don't want attention either. Its enough for me to know inside that I am not part of the crowd, that I am not upholding the idiocy of popular culture. And success breeds attention, where as failure lets me slip under the radar. Self defeat is fun for logistics. Not for me.
I have such big gaping holes in my memory. I always forget things, from my keys, to phone numbers to major life events that others swear I took part in. Some holes I made myself, I forced myself to forget. Others I'd like to forget but I force myself to hold on, to relive because otherwise the lessons might be lost too. Sometimes it won't bother me. Other times I try real hard. Even worse times I wake up wanting to cry, or something triggers and its all I can do not to scream uncontrollably to make it go away.
You know that uncontrollable joy that makes you grin until your cheeks hurt? And start laughing for no reason? And smile just because? You know how sometimes when you're so happy it feels like you might break into bits because everything is so perfect? And it doesn't even need to be perfect, just that moment. That one single moment where everything coincides for perfect unassailable joyousness. It comes and goes and when you're down deep you can't even see that pure joy, but sometimes its lurking behind your eyes at all time. Skulking in your mind. But its still good.
Frustration so strong its rage. So many people just inspire pain, anger and sadness. So many people make it hard to be happy, hard to enjoy life. Hard to enjoy being around people. Too much noise. Too many people. Not enough fun. Just things that make you keep going just on the strength of your outrage. I don't know what the hell is wrong, but damn its annoying me. Obtuse, idiotic, ignorant fools with little thought beyond their own unrefined impulses. And even then there is no introspection just expectation. Its enough to make one want to retreat into hermitage.
Once upon a time a girl found a screwdriver. It was just a normal, red-handled screwdriver, nothing important inscribed on the handle, no significant history. Just a plain red-handled screwdriver of no importance. But it felt good in her hand. Perfectly balanced, rounded and solid. Perfectly sized for her hand. It made her feel like creating to have this perfect tool in her hand. She never did though. It just sat in her room, in her kitchen, in her draw, taken out for minor jobs but nothing ever came from this perfect tool except tightened screws and opened cases. Nothing.
Perfect monochrome vision. A world in blue. Darkened leaves in sharp relief against the grey blue of the sky. Murky blue of the cloud in the distance, Amongst it all a soft yellow light. Inviting. Yellow spells home in your mind. Yellow warm light beckoning you home. Beckoning you into the warmth of the hearth fires we never have. But home is where the heart fires burn for eternity. Home is done in shades of yellow and brown, comforting, staid, common. Blue is the outside, blue is the seductive lure of air, night and coolness. Which will you choose tonight?
The beat thrums through my body. Its one of those perfect moments where your soul encompasses the world. Its night, its hot and sweaty and the smells of the night invade my senses. I move and sway and the music is part of me. I mouth the words and feel them roll across my tongue and rip from my lips. My arms above my head and my hips moving in time. A single teardrop of sweat beads in the small of my back and trails down my spine, through the soft downy hair to evaporate in the sweat filled atmosphere.
Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, Sport, fuckit.
On the way home I saw a little girl, standing at her gate, talking to a friend. She was dressed in blue pyjamas with a bright pink dressing gown. At four in the afternoon. Why would she be in her pyjamas this early? And outside at her gate? Maybe it's the cold. Maybe she needs the comfort that comes from being in well worn clothes. I don't know why that image is still burnt into my mind even now. My faulty mind that leaks like a sieve has retained this image of a girl in her bright pink dressing gown.
I need to get in there and write this damn thing. Its like an albatross around my neck, a monkey on my back, a crow on my shoulder. My own personal Victory. Harping on at me at every turn. Everything I do is coloured by it. Everything I do will have some taint of my research. Which is why I chose what I chose. Although it would've been cool to say "I did my thesis on James Ellroy". You know, the King of anti-culture. The guy who speaks truth through fiction, and gruesomely at that. Would have been damn cool.
The Simpsons is like Shakespeare for the multitude of TV fed idiots that make up my generation. Kinda sad but not really. I once read somewhere that the chief value of Shakespeare was that a quote from his work could cover any conceivable situation. Same with The Simpsons, particularly those of us who are hardcore fans. Like I said, its kinda sad but lets face it, the number of people who can quote ANYTHING from Shakespeare is rapidly dwindling. People who can quote any type of literature are dwindling dammit. Something has to fill the gap. Pity its advertising though.
I get sick of cynicism as a fashion statement. I really do. Its so wearing. When it gets to the point where soapie kids are pontificating on their ‘ironic' actions its lost all meaning. I'm so sick of all these fucks acting out that same old shit and thinking they're the first. Misogynist little fucks who think they're all anti-PC when they are just fucking bring. That what I don't get. Surely they realise that these ‘unpopular' views they hold mirror the views of those in power? That these ‘missions' of ‘freedom' are just their fathers words from their mouth?
Reclamation means shit. Means nothing. Its currying favour by becoming something you aren't. Thirteen year old girls wearing shirts that say ‘bitch' are not reclaiming that word. They are not making a statement. They are fulfilling the same old hateful shit, just in a ‘cute' way. Desensitisation to ones oppression does not mean it isn't there. It just means you're accepting it. It just means you can't notice it until its your face rubbed in it. It isn't until you realise that no glitter, no cutesyness will turn bitch into a compliment roaring from some fucks mouth. Then you realise.
Its so easy to internalise. So easy to believe you're the only one, that you're wrong and everyone else is right. Its so easy to believe that having ever felt like giving up means you've lost all right to keep going. Fuck that. It hurts to get back up. It hurts to be the one with the sheepish grin saying you were wrong. Its hard to eat that humble pie. Its harder when some fuck will rub it in, somehow thinking that it will help. People just don't let shit go. Its like apology isn't what they are looking for.
Cuthbert stood at the edge of the wave and looked out. The sea looked almost black against the burnished golds and reds of the sunset. He stood and stared as the colours changed, as the reds and golds changed to pinks and yellows, to blues and purples, finally to shades of black and silver. Not a move he made while watching. His eyes filled with tears as he watched and rolled silently down his face until he could stand it no more. A torrent of noise, of sound, of words poured forth. Begging, pleading, demanding relief from this endless beauty.
Family and Community. Boring, staid, ever so safe. But damnably boring. I like words like damnably, and whatnot, slightly old fashioned and quaint. Quaint is another nice one. Admittedly family and community are important, but I'm starting to wish I'd done something exciting, and scary for this dissertation. Something that grabs you by the throat and makes you think. Instead I'm dribbling on about the importance of family and community in Kingsolver's writing, and how we need people like her to write about it like that. We need people to write about other forms of kinship. We really do. Honest.
Adah Price. Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan. Ludmilla Droushkanovi. Ekaterin Nile Vorsoisson. Taura. The Lily's. Mrs Dalloway. Gillian Forester. Princess Julia - Isabelle Fisher the one and same. Sarah Purfoy. Codi and Halimeda Noline. Deanna Wolfe. Nannie Rawley. Lusa Landowski. Mary Magdalene. Lyndall Osborne. Vicky Baker. Irene Thompson. Polly Jean Harvey. Skin. Katie Noonan. Susan. Alys Vorpatril. Mistress Weatherwax. Sojourner Truth. Orleanna Price. Marilyn Monroe. Norma Jeane Baker. Virginia Woolf. Lois McMaster Bujold. Hilda Doolittle HD. Gertrude Stein. Marie Curie. Rachel Carson. Natasha Stott-Despoja. Mary Shelley. Mary Wollstonecraft. Princess Buttercup. Dawn. Anne Sudworth. Maria Mies. Ani DiFranco. Nina Simone. Who are yours?
I hate spiders. But I love webs. I love looking at the shining silver webs that span in the morning dew across trees. I live the delicate fine lace shrouding corners in a grey mist. The sheer strength of some webs inspires me. The interconnectedness of others informs my work, my life. We are all connected. Fuck that stupid six degrees of separation shit, look to the myths of Grandmother Spider. We are all points in a web beyond our understanding, and it will go on and on and on without us. But we need in on a basic level.
Image is fun to play with, but hard to play against. My sister loves to play with her image, retaining one constant through all her incarnations, that of her femaleness. Not femininity. Not girlish pride. The dark side of Kali. The fertility and power behind that fertility. No matter how she dresses its all her. Its hard when you realise your little sister has grown into a woman without your help. It hard to realise that she's got her image, and her identity down pat, and won't allow them to control each other, while you still struggle with the basics.
I feel like I've been born with something missing. People talk about jealousy like its an integral part of life, but I just don't get it. If my partner cheated on me, I'd be upset that there was a problem that they hadn't talked to me about. I'd be VERY upset they had exposed me to diseases and infections (condoms don't stop everything people). I'd be upset that they didn't respect and honour me enough to tell me. But is that jealousy? I'm not all that possessive about people, space and privacy yes, but people, no. I think. Not sure.
Its slightly disconcerting when things are viewed from a different vantage point. I travelled home on the bus today sitting backwards and I was struck by how different everything was. Some similarities in general architecture but so many small things otherwise hidden. Like the flash of a bright red car in an immaculate garage. Two blokes doing something blokey next to a ute. Everything went by too fast to really tell to be honest. But those little flashes were enough to reveal a whole strata of things I'd missed in the past year I've been taking that route. Disconcerting no?
Sometimes its relieving to know others face the same fear, the same blue funks you do. Like sharing optimistic fantasies and pessimistic worries about the future over pasta and a burger for lunch. But sometimes it isn't, like when people lose opportunities because they're afraid it will be too hard. Or have this vastly over-inflated idea of their own talent. I really try to make an effort to listen to those who have been there before. Those who have or are experiencing things I haven't. So when someone ignores my advice out of their own sense of omnipotence its dismaying.
I got told last night that one of the reasons I am so impatient with others is that I refuse to believe in my own intelligence. But it took me a while to work out. You won't get anywhere if you don't try. A relationship will not work if you subsume yourself into the other person or if you refuse to share with the other person. Dynamics of dominance and control will not make a relationship work. If you want to get better, the easy path is learning not just doing it, even though the two overlap. Clichés are sometime-truths.
Food is one of the great universal passions. Some people have this adversary relationship, play battle in their mind with marching rows of caloric intake and fat content. Others for a relationship that spans the world, indulging everything and enjoying everything. Some make it into a statement of class, they never eat at McD's, they wouldn't dream of using tomato sauce. There are others that follow the trends, like chilli being a 'sophisticated' ingredient. For some its just a means to live. Others use cooking shows and books like porn. Some need to be coaxed from their little shelters. Yum.
Advertising is such a lark. Until you realise how insidious it is. Like people who can remember jingles from ads that haven't been played for a decade, but cannot remember the last thing they said to their mother. But its hard to see how people fall for it though. How people ever believe it. Maybe I am smarter than your average bear, but its so obvious. Sometimes advertisement are smart, or quirky, or funny. Mostly they're offensive and offensively stupid. How can people not see that ads are a thinly disguised attempt to play upon our basest desires and fears.
So the month is up. What have I done? A lot of self-referential whining. Lots and lots of poseur type post-modern prose. Well what tries to be prose. Some snippets of stories, lives, things that have caught my fleeting fancy. I've gotten fairly good at judging one hundred words by eye. Which I guess is valuable. And pushing myself to write when I don't want to. Oh and a bit of discipline. Some procrastination from my dissertation. But mostly discipline and pushing myself to write. Sometimes I think that means I shouldn't be one. Mostly I think its just funk.
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