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Lounging in my Spanish bath, counting the town bells chime. Well well well, the eleventh hour. Fittingly some decisions made themselves today, and things clicked unfathomably into place. Explore Spain for a month before returning the chariot (stinky rental car) to mothership in Paris. Fly to London - make some pounds. Get to Cesky - taste the snow. Find some work - do my own. Hit Sienna - learn Italian. Fade out - script incomplete. Well, thats the menu of the day anyway. This morning heard my dad's accent for the first time in 26 years. I wonder how much of people I make up.
Drove halfway across spain today with reelingly surreal interlude involving still more haemorraging of the cash. why is that man standing in the middle of the road? is that a uniform? we seem to be pulling over, but I don't think I'm here anymore. he seems to want something. he's handing me small piece of paper reading, "sorry I dont speak your language, please comply with the law." mmmm. beggars do similar. scammer? ohhhhhh. limit 50. speed 117. pay 364. on the spot or we impound your car. fuck. call the cops. we are the cops. highway robbery spanish style.
Just spent nightly hours in the plaza mayor, salamanca, on the very cement of bullfight blood and cheers. but tonight - a time warp band of musicians, belting out songs i couldn't understand for dances i couldn't do. one regal looking guy in particular, with his spanish collar, singing like it was in his bones. intense, concentrated, gleefully possessed. and just like that, the open-ended life feels liberating again after a couple of weeks of rootlessness. now for that balance between participant and voyeur. actor and cynic. child and weary-ass overly serious fuck. I wanna dance. literaphorical. i wanna make music.
"We are not disputing our recorded speed and do not require a photograph. We arrived in Spain the day before receiving this fine. We are from Australia and do not speak Spanish. Our guidebook states the motorway speed as 120kph. On the N611 we experienced pressure from other drivers (light-flashing, agressive over-taking) for driving too slowly. We therefore followed another car to keep pace with traffic. When stopped by the police we were unable to explain our situation in Spanish. We hope that you will consider revoking the fine and refunding the 364 euros, owing to our extenuating circumstances."
Got my paper fix today.Zimbabwe is eating toilet paper. Indian hindus now fined for slippin a coin to a beggar. Fuck redemtion in this world and the next. Bush is Bush and still, predictably, incapable of speech. The great buffoon summit 2002 ended in buffoonery. (secretly pleased with this natural outcome.)
And here i sit. Sippin coffee like some cultural bandito distraction junky. The kind of I'm-alright-Jack of my year ago curses. fuck. fuck. fuck.
Now. where on EARTH did i leave those FABULOUS actions that go with my favorite conviction earrings?
In the self-importance conflation drawer of course.
Driving time - that swirling dream thoughts void, impossible to track. If I could pin-point what it is that I think should make me feel accomplishment, I reckon I could probably get it done. The luck of being born in the right country. But I'd still feel a failure. Time waster.
Gotta be just as wary of distractions from the in as the outside world. Hoping this latest period of bumbling confusion will subside soon. Pass like the huge fog clouds we've watched floating over the valley of our swiss paradise. Leaving a crisper, more real clarity than before they arrived.
Keep thinking we're lost when in fact, everythings cool. mmm. could be onto something here. Woke up in beaming sun and drove through coincidental fog-filled mountains. That windy driving - surrounded by whiteness, along too deep to look down falls. Puts me in a kind of trance. Can't help thinking how arbitrary it all is. If it weren't so absurd (and life threateningly scary) I'd call it meditative.
Why are words so goddamn hard to count? Maybe cos they're not meant to be counted. TRUTH REVEALED - Donna Has Love/Hate Relationship With 100-Words. (but she loves those.)
Oh yeh - I'm in Portugal.
Totally wet paper, pen, hand, hair, butt, backpack, so now chair. And yet I still inexplicably refuse to buy an umbrella; some well buried nutbag part of my brain insisting that you should get wet when it rains. I'm sure this deluded little cross-section will meet its doom in sunny London town.
Trying to put the clothes back on my life long distance is proving a little tricky. So easy to strip it bare, but when the money runs out. well. I just can't decide what to wear.
I'm cold. Symbolic and otherwise. And these words look like a watercolor.
oops. what was yesterday? apart from the day I forgot my 100-words? A new city, an old self, and some long awaited beach lounging. all through the insomniac tramp eyes of someone who should not read in bed. ohoh. sounds alot like today. my life is becoming static and inert. 2 whole days in the same country. similar surrounds. similar events. its clearly all over. must move. run in fact. must run in circles so large they cannot be recognised as circles. must constantly feast on new sights. new people. new lives. new new new.
I want a home goddamit.
Today again. Life's grand. Send money. The perfect sun of Portugal beaming down. sand and icily cold sea - numbing and reviving like only the ocean can be. Thinking more and more of moving back to Vanuatu. But not sure if you get second chances. Or if you should take them up. Learning slowly that you have to wring every last drop out of moments as they happen. I was 19 before I realised that things ended. I'm still catchin up with the mortality of things. And soon the number of these words will be up so i better decide what
Some part of me wants to smash the most beautiful of castles, even as I admire them. Can't totally admire them - eternal doubter that I am. How'd you pay for this Portugal? Whose blood is on that exceptional flying butress? Maybe im just a destructive git. but i can bramble about bullshit if necessary. Great - self righteous destructive git. sign me up for the black army. lets fuck shit up. cept my house but.
I'm in the toilet. only place with any fucking light. fucking dorms. dorm you. no dorm you. I'm drunk. with ahh, anger issues re: Lagos.
I am in Seville.
I sleep in a rented bed everynight.
I never cook my own food.
I am the grand master of guilt creation.
Most convoluted of recent acquisitions: feelin guilty about feelin guilty cos a black man feels guilty cos he's just been an ass to me.
Other news: I love flamenco. (but I still hate high heels). ((has been historical guilt re sexual fantasies involving said "detested" item)) (((I am also quite fond of brackets))) ((((working on beratable reason for this)))) (((((unwillingness to take firm stand - liberate opinions from parenthetal safety)))))
I LIKE MAKING UP WORDS GODDAMIT!
Another homeworthy city and another life required. Ive lost count. Some places, without clear reason, just feel instantly familiar. Even if I dont know how to catch a tram or buy my lunch. And The Indecisor strikes back. Watch her ricochet from the same questions to the answers back to the questions at lightening speed. Oh the stamina. I want a new super hero persona. One who knows what she wants and gets it and moves on. One who doesnt have a running monologue of maybes and unfinished ideas and circular plans.
But I probably wouldn't like her.
4am in Grenada and this is how I know. The mumblings and shufflings and flute playing outside my window. I've gotten so used to living in a world where I speak a different language. Not sure I want to know what people are saying anymore. I've learned to love the bubble and the endless possibilities of its outside. I'm even losing the language of my thoughts. Becoming more formless as the months roll on. Incommunicado. So the getting out there prediction fell through. But in here's OK too. If this dream life can just go on forever I'll be fine.
I don't wanna lose this illusion of movement. Driving 170kph between the mountains and the sea. You've gotta be going somewhere. Surely. What with all the cliches; wind through your hair, distorting the music you use as a guide. Distorting your own voice as you sing. Louder than you've ever sung before. And half of you dancing like a freak while the other carries on with its work - a mind of its own. Surely I'm going somewhere. 17,000k's. Theres gotta be a bit of growth in there.
Fuck. Ive got a lot of trees to plant when this gigs up.
Lost my identity last night so spent the morning workin out the details. Well, actually it was stolen. Along with my wallet, a ridiculous sum of money, and all those little cards with me on them.
Apart from the general fucked-upness of Spain swallowing all my money, and that panic moment when you realise somethings gone, and the pinnacle of voice recognition madness on telephone emergeny lines, and forms forms forms and...
Apart from all that - it's kinda good to not have to worry about losing something because its already gone. Aahhhh, deranged twisted logic, how I love you so.
Poverty causes disease explorer oral histories of make-up recorder story receiver meeting convener photo collector trauma convector drama researcher money procurer punctuation abandoner wankerdom actor more stuff scribbler someone elses radio helper bum in the gutter birds cum on my pants gonna get it together but fall into the overwhelm ever lookin at the path thrown atcha gotta lose the comfort to homegrow that your quaintly interesting safely activisting. time to look your naked self in the mirror and say what is it exactly you wanna say, not long on the stage and all that. so dont press it - play.
So we're all human sculptors. Or was that sculptures. A day in a gallery, ugly or not, another formless thought-giving swoon. Sexiest places ever. Of course, no getting to close to the work though. Don't breath on the art there chica, no sleeping in the park now either.
Pan to a man. Unwashed. Worn. With slammed doors, disinterested yawns and too many let downs to mention. Rocking his dying dog like a newborn baby. Fanning his sick with a torn peice of discardboard. Sight to be seen to be sure to be sure. Never met a guy like you before.
Phoned home today like an extra-terrestrial, and forevermore had Michael Frante echoing through my head. "No. nothing. mmm. nothing changes, its all the same. mmm. no. nothing" AAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH. Also got word that maybe someone will pay me to do exactly what I want to do, so long as I remember that, and what it is, and how to work. So. decisions decisions. which way will she go. Got the world wide mission under control. But will she ever think to stop and squirt the flowers in her own backyard. Watch out for the enthusiastic in spring, but ultimately neglectful gardener.
I haven't spoken today. Well, hardly. There's been no vow of silence but Ive deliberately kept speech to a minimum. Beats the endless repetition of hostel chit chat. I'm such a snob. And yet here I am. Somehow. In that hive of surface sociability and strangers snores....The Dormitory. "Where you from? how long? wow. where to? ooohhh. til when? yeh. I know. D'ya like my knickers?" I guess youve gotta have a starting point. But really. I'd rather bark like a dog and piss on the furniture. Ohhh earwig. I miss your madness. Closest to 'IT?' but most lost.
I asked the devil for a light and he obliged. Saw a little girl take her first introduction to fire - squealing with fear and delight. The procession of devils and dragons, Barcelona. He has a mullet. Lucifer. He's 40 she's 50 he's 15. He picks up other peoples garbage for the good of all.
When his light goes out the crowd is teemed with water and cheers louder than ever. There can be no apathy. No absent observation. Everyone feels something - fear, pain, delight, awe, desire, disgust, anticipation. Everyones HERE. Alive. On fire.
And again im soaking wet. But revelling.
'Do it, sing it, scream it, beleive in it. There is no wrong.'
Man I miss your advice. I might have scoffed at the obvious, but fuck I still forget it too often. Live what you know. Love what you have. Use your priviledge instead of whipping yourself for it. Appreciate it. Drink people in. Get out of your skin. Remember you're light. Weightless and illuminating. Sure things are fucked. But big bang, ape man, purse fluff. Laugh at it. Whistle. Its all over at twelve.
Hello operator? Id like to make an emergency collect(ive) call to my subconscious please.
My life is on speed and I'm scared of the comedown. But goddamn it I want more. More of everything. From the mundane to the extraordinary - Barcelona has shown me it's best and I'm addicted.
Danced with an old man by the beach. Lost myself in the moving mass of a Herbaliser gig. Found myself smiling to people on the street. Sincerity everywhere, and the right kind of fire in the belly of everyone you meet. Outsiders euphoria? Surely. But let me in to see the grit, i wanna taste that too. "genuine authentic. certified pure." I want more.
I have a local already. What a wanker. I can do the same things in an endless number of places. I can write home about everyday. It's nothing. I can question. Myself and others. A riddler. A riddle. I can push myself up against the wall - no need for you. I can create needlessness where there was one. I bounce pretty good. Tights climb up tights fall down. And so damn good at makin things up. Like a metaphor. that takes over.
'It all boils down to having a thumb,' I say, staring at it. Its just a fucking thumb.
So here I am on the pavement - wondering whether I should be attempting telepathy. I'm so bad at waiting. Sadly leaving barcelona today and in less than a week I'll be sitting in my very own loungeroom in London, with a nonplussed look on my face and a vague recollection that something really major just happened. ahhh barcelona i miss you already. even the crazed noise that keeps me up at 5 in the morning - wakes me up laughing. yesterday i seriously considered whether the blood splattered on the ATM machine could conceivably be chocalate ice-cream. It must be love.
bzzzzz. tired. cold. moussey. i want a baked bean toastie and a curly up in bed with big soft pillows and someone stroking my hair. that man better fucking speak english. why have they got that goddamn mass-scale vomit painting in here. why is there a red dot on the door. why am i in a police station in the middle of france at 2oclock in the morning. could this be karma kickin in already? rolando rolando, wheres that fucking midget when you need him? every whim server, bath drawer and expert masseusse. your late goddamn it your late. bzzzzz.
This batch is for you bud, may it ever be april. now we've really seen the man in the mirror, the reason to live, the best and the worst of eachother. we're maybe a bit more different than we thought. but the soils the same, and i'd wither without you around. hope you'll forgive my madness and multiple flaws. especially judgement, and companion, cow. work in progress. and you're one of the main and most esteemed artists. known you more than half my life and still wanna watch you bloom. so thanks. lets do it again when the paints dry.
Allora. So the circle eats itself. Back in paris. Tired as all fuck. With so much more shit than i can carry. 'For the love of jesus, somethings biting me somethings biting me, merci bonjour, in fact you cant hide, if it wasnt for prince paul and the automator id still have the truth, grandma tilly promised me poems, drinking bittersweet, is this the trick or the treat, my pictures all over the world, kiss the future cos now is the only this thats real. achtung kinder, ausfhart winter'.
Bursting seams and lived out dreams.
Pleeeeeaaase dont drop the beat.
Lying in the bed of an apparant giant who I've never met. This London stint could be well weird. Not sure I can live in a place where it matters if you get ink on the pillow. Flew from one world to another today. Paris - London. Window seat. I was too busy reading the paper to take most of it in. Large analogies and self flagellation required. The world looked like a canvas from up there, but I've forgotten the name of the artist. On a large enough scale all order is chaos.
It's too late now but im scared.
I live in Brixton. Woke up. Had shower. Went to tescoes. Came home. Ate. Read the paper. Walked. Got keys cut. Checked mail. Applied for job. Felt odd. Stared into accidental familiar eyes of Melbournite in Clapham for 2 minutes and wondered by what bizarre logic this show operates. Was unable to speak. Spoke. Came home. Made dinner. Ate. Spoke. Drank. Picked up new credit card from freind's brother's wive's second cousin's house. Ate. Walked. Came home. Spoke. Unpacked current life from backpack. Felt odd. Spoke. Wondered how many third-person days i could handle. Read. Wrote: I live in Brixton.
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